A flash of red caught the corner of Oliver’s eye. He turned his head toward the palace once again, thinking that he had only conjured the color out of his memories.
But no.
Someone in a red cloak was emerging from the palace doors, a tall figure in black on either side. Oliver knew it was Petunia in the red cloak. It had to be. The smallness of the figure, the sweep of the cloak … he would know her no matter the distance.
“That’s Pet,” breathed Heinrich, standing close by Oliver. “But where are they taking her?” Every line in the prince’s body was taut.
There was a row of small boats beached on the shore. One of the tall black figures helped Petunia into the bow of a boat, and then sat in the middle seat with a hand on each oar. The other tall figure pushed the boat out and leaped into the stern. The rower pulled them toward the wooded shore with firm strokes, and Oliver and the others drew back into the trees.
“We have to move farther away,” said Galen in a barely audible whisper. “We can’t risk them seeing us now.”
“But we could rescue her,” Oliver insisted in a harsh whisper of his own.
“She doesn’t need rescuing right this very moment,” Galen said, taking Oliver’s upper arm in a tight grip. “And if we killed those two and took Petunia with us, the king would soon miss his brothers, and he would come looking for them. We would never be able to get the other girls out then.”
The other girls. Beautiful, queenly Rose. Poppy with her mischievous smile. She and Princess Daisy were to be married in the spring. Oliver had seen Princes Ricard and Christian in Bruch. He had seen the way they smiled at their princesses. Did they know what had happened, or were they still going about their ordinary duties, oblivious to the danger their brides were in? Oliver swallowed, his throat dry. Suddenly, getting all twelve princesses safely out of the black palace seemed insurmountable.
He watched Petunia climb out of the boat without any assistance, his eyes searching her for any sign of pain or fear. She moved easily, but her hood hid her face. The swirls of silver embroidery around the edges of the hood matched the silver of the trees, and the scarlet velvet stood out against the black soil. When she started toward the trees with her escort, Oliver allowed himself to be drawn back into the thick of the woods.
They found a small clear space some ways away, and Walter Vogel set them each to a task. Oliver’s was to cut the silver twigs to a certain length, and then to notch them in a pattern that looked like a line of fence posts.
“Well! What did you think they were?” The crone whacked him over the head with one gnarled hand. “New fence posts to hold them all in, the awful old things.”
Oliver used great restraint to avoid sidling away from the crone. He didn’t care if she was a revered sorceress; his head smarted where she had hit him. But he supposed being several centuries old would make your moods unpredictable.
The two princes busied themselves with the small bags of soil and the leaves, and Bishop Schelker cut marks into the ends of the larger branches that Oliver had chopped. Their preparations weren’t taking very long, and Oliver was hopeful that they would be able to finish refreshing Under Stone’s prison before nightfall. Then he supposed they would just have to worry about actually fetching the princesses, and they could finally leave.
And it seemed that Walter and Galen had a plan to get the princesses out of the palace as well.
“We’ll need to sneak inside the palace, and there’s only one invisibility cloak,” Galen said when they had finished preparing the wood and soil. “Although I do have this.” He reached into the satchel that Bishop Schelker had brought and removed a lightweight shawl of gray wool. “Which should work just as well.”
“It’s not as stylish as my cloak,” sniffed the good frau.
“I wouldn’t think to upstage your fine cloak,” said Galen with a little bow.
“I stole that off a Romisch cavalry officer when I was a young lass,” she told Galen with a twinkle in her eye. “Of course, it had no magic then. I just liked the color.”
“It was always a very good color on you,” Walter Vogel said.
Oliver thought about asking them how long they had known each other, but decided he didn’t want any of the details that the good frau might actually offer about their relationship.
“Two of us will be invisible,” Galen continued. “But unfortunately only two of us. Another reason why I sent Frederick to the estate with Oliver’s men: he would have tried to come with us, and there isn’t a third cloak.
“We’ll try to get in at the end of the ball and bring the girls out when everyone is dispersing for the night,” Galen went on. “Someone will need to wait by the gate to make certain they all get through, and then we’ll close the prison.”
“I want to go into the palace,” Oliver said.
At the same time, Heinrich reached for the gray shawl.
But Galen was shaking his head. He pulled the gray shawl away from his cousin. “I’m sorry, Heinrich. I’m giving the cloak to Oliver, and taking this myself.”
“But Lily,” began Heinrich.
“Heinrich, how fast can you run?” Galen looked as if asking the question pained him, but his eyes never wavered from his cousin’s face.
“Damn Analousians,” Heinrich said, and let go of the shawl. He pounded the thigh of his bad leg with a fist and winced.
“Heinrich, after you help to place the new fence posts, you’ll wait at the gate,” Galen said. “And get all the girls out. And yourself.”
“I thought you needed my help with the spell,” Heinrich protested.
“We could use you,” Walter Vogel admitted. “But we can also do it without you.”
“And I would rather that you made sure that Rose didn’t try to come back,” Galen said. “It will be easier for me knowing that you and the girls are all safe. And alive.”
Oliver looked down at his hands. He knew there was a chance he wouldn’t survive this. Especially if he helped to seal the Kingdom Under Stone. That had been another reason why Prince Frederick had been sent away, for some of their husbands would need to survive this. But if Petunia and her sisters could be free, it would be worth it, Oliver decided.
To his surprise, the good frau put one hand over his in a comforting gesture. He looked at her, but just as she opened her nearly toothless mouth to speak, there was the sound of shouts and then the crack of a pistol firing.
“That wasn’t the palace,” Heinrich said, struggling to his feet.
“It came from over there,” Bishop Schelker said, pointing through the trees where they had last seen Petunia.
Out of habit, Oliver pulled his wolf mask over his face and fastened it. He grabbed his pistol, shifting it to his left hand. He hefted Karl’s ax with his right. “I hope this doesn’t ruin your plans too much,” he said to the crown prince, and then he raced off through the woods.
Prize
Petunia was having quite an enjoyable time pretending that Kestilan and Telinros didn’t exist. Telinros was returning the favor, but it frustrated Kestilan and he kept trying to make conversation, or at the very least make her look at him.
She went a little way along the path that wound from the black shore through the silver wood. It was the same path that she and her sisters had always used, a path she hadn’t walked in ten years.
“Petunia, come back here!” Kestilan called.
That decided her. She went along the path to its end, with the princes trailing behind. Kestilan continued to plead with her to turn back, but Telinros just looked angry when she peeked at him. She straightened her cloak and kept going.
At the end of the path she found the silver gate, set with pearls, that even after all these years was as familiar to her as her own bedposts. Wrapped around the gate was the chain of boiled wool links that Galen had used to seal it shut, the knot pinned by a silver knitting needle.
She reached out and fingered the scratchy, boiled wool of the chain. She remembered watching Gal
en knit it at dinner, the night before the old king had forced them to stay Under Stone. At the time she’d thought he was only amusing her and her sisters, the way he had earlier by giving Pansy a red yarn puffball when she was crying. It wasn’t until later that she understood what he was doing, his calloused fingers working away with the yarn that was so much more than just wool.
Petunia’s mouth went dry. She whirled, grateful that her sweeping cloak hid the chain from the two princes. Their faces were white and strained, as though it hurt them to be so close to the gate, and she felt a small surge of triumph even as she brushed past them, hurrying back along the path and hoping that they would follow. She snapped her fingers to speed them along.
The chain was knotted and pinned on the inside of the gate now.
Halfway down the path she noticed something else that she did not want the princes to see. Someone had chopped a branch off one of the trees. The scar on the trunk was plain to her eyes, glittering slightly. The shimmering black soil was swirled and scuffed as though several people had been there. She immediately went to the other side of the path and began testing the branches, moving with light steps.
“Don’t go into the trees,” Kestilan said.
“Stop her,” Telinros ordered his brother.
Petunia looked back and saw them both standing at the edge of the path, their faces twisted with pain. Kestilan took one step off the path, between two arching silver trees, and hissed. He glared at Petunia.
“Come here.”
“No,” she said. “I’ll come when I’ve finished gathering twigs.”
“Gather them from the path,” he snarled.
“No.”
She kept walking deeper into the woods. She heard slow steps behind her: Kestilan braving the blessed silver. She hoped the pain was excruciating.
“Petunia, come back here!”
“No!”
“Haven’t you learned not to wander into the woods?”
That brought her up short.
It was true that she was in the Kingdom Under Stone because she had been picking flowers that any sane person would have known signaled a trap. But how could she get into any more trouble? And now she was walking in her mother’s silver wood, perhaps the safest place in this realm.
She went forward and came through the trees into a clearing. In the middle of the clearing was a beautiful little house, like an Analousian chalet with a sloping roof and ornately carved wooden balconies. It was all in black, and there was none of the traditional paintings on the walls, but otherwise it looked precisely like a chalet from the southeastern mountains.
“Petunia! Come back at once!”
She stepped into the clearing with Kestilan’s voice growing fainter behind her. Despite her reasoning, she still wished she had her pistol or a silver dagger or something. She gave the top of her bodice a little pat, feeling the matches there. At least she had them.
The door of the chalet swung open and someone strolled out onto the porch. Someone tall and slim, dressed in black, and Petunia froze, thinking it was Rionin. How had he gotten through the wood?
“My Petal! Welcome!”
It was Prince Grigori. Petunia felt as though a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head, and she nearly did run right back to Kestilan then. But anger got the better of her.
“You! What are you doing here?” Petunia demanded. “What is all this?”
He gave her a broad smile of delight. “Have you come to see my grandmother? She has been pining to see you!”
“Your … grandmother?” Petunia’s knees went weak. The grand duchess was here? In the prison of the Kingdom Under Stone?
“She came right after you did,” Grigori said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He came down the steps, holding out his hand. “I am sorry that I tricked you into coming here,” he said. “But it was necessary. Here is where you belong, and so do my grandmother and I. In order to get us here, I had to send you first.”
Petunia wanted to slap him. How could he bring the grand duchess to this place? She would be trapped here in the middle of the woods forever!
“Your poor grandmother! Take me to her at once,” Petunia ordered, even as her stomach tied itself in a knot. Escaping had just gotten even more complicated. She pushed past him and started up the steps.
Looking startled at her vehemence, but nevertheless pleased, Prince Grigori hurried forward to lead her into the chalet. It was all silver and black with violet upholstery, not unlike the Palace Under Stone, but without the seediness and rot that crept around the corners. Prince Grigori led her down the hall and knocked on a tall door inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“Grandmother? Our Petunia is here,” he called through the door.
“Bring her in, bring her in,” came the grand duchess’s reply before Petunia could protest that she was not his Petunia.
Grigori opened the door on a beautifully appointed bedroom. The black furniture was draped in lacy white. There were white curtains over the windows, a white-canopied bed piled with white cushions, and white lace shawls and antimacassars on every surface.
The grand duchess, sitting up in a froth of lace and pillows on the bed, was also completely in white. She wore a white lace cap over her white hair, and a ruffled white bed jacket. She looked older, and yet strangely more alert than usual, and Petunia wondered wildly if this were the real grand duchess. But who else could she be?
Petunia covered her distraction by dropping a curtsy. “Your Grace, it’s such a surprise to see you here!”
“But why shouldn’t I be here? Here is where I belong!” The grand duchess smiled at her, and Petunia felt a chill run down her spine. The old lady fingered the coverlet with evident satisfaction.
“I— I don’t understand,” Petunia stammered. “This is the prison of the King Under Stone! None of us should be here.”
“Prison? Only temporarily,” the grand duchess said as if it were no great matter. “My only regret is that I was not able to join my beloved years ago, to be his queen before he was cruelly murdered.”
“What?” Petunia blinked stupidly at the grand duchess. Was she really saying that the first King Under Stone would have been … was her … Petunia just shuddered, remembering that horrible, bone-white creature on his throne.
Petunia drew her cloak around herself and studied the old woman in the bed. Was this the grand duchess or had Rionin found some woman of the court to disguise? But to what purpose?
“Now, my Petunia,” the grand duchess teased. “Why do you look at me so? Come here and sit on the bed with me, and Grigori will bring us something hot to drink.”
“Have your eyes always been green?” Petunia could not remember.
“Of course they have! What other color would they have been? There have been sonnets written about my emerald green eyes! And they remain as sharp today as they were in my youth—I can see farther than many a young girl!” The grand duchess laughed, showing two rows of very fine white teeth.
Had they always been so fine and white? Petunia could not remember that either, and could not shake the feeling that she was looking at something … other … something that did indeed belong here in the Kingdom Under Stone and not the world above.
“Come, sit here by me, my dear Petunia!” the grand duchess urged her, patting a small space on the cushion-covered bed beside her. “Let me explain it all to you. It’s not quite as horrible as you’ve been led to believe.”
Petunia didn’t move.
“Oh, come now!” The grand duchess laughed again. “Do you think I bite? Come here, girl, and let me talk to you comfortably!”
The Grand Duchess Volenskaya had shown her nothing but kindness in the past, Petunia reminded herself, had treated her as one of her own granddaughters, in fact. It was not the old lady’s fault that her grandson was evil, and he had clearly tricked her into coming here, just as he had tricked Petunia.
Petunia crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed next to
the grand duchess, arranging her cloak around her.
“Don’t you want to take the cloak off? You must be warm,” the grand duchess said, reaching one hand out for the ties of the cloak.
“No, thank you.” Petunia drew back a little.
“Suit yourself, child,” said the grand duchess. “Now let me explain.
“When I was a very young girl, younger than you are now, my father shut my eight sisters and me in a high tower. He was afraid that we would be taken advantage of by fortune seekers, or fall in love with unsuitable men, and so he decided to lock us away until he could find worthy husbands for all of us. I spent ten years in that tower,” the grand duchess said, her tone bitter, “but toward the end of that time, something happened.”
Despite herself, Petunia was leaning closer to the grand duchess. So it was true, after all. This poor woman had been one of the Nine Daughters of Russaka, seduced by the King Under Stone during her captivity.
“A man began to appear to us,” the grand duchess continued. “He was made all of shadows, but he was kind and wonderful. He told us of his kingdom, and how he wanted to take us all away from that horrible tower. He taught us how to make a door in our tower to go to his palace to dance. We spent so many happy nights there.” She sighed, smiling at the memory. “It was a gift from heaven, to be able to escape that small tower room!
“And soon I knew an ever greater joy, when I realized that I would be presenting my beloved king with a child. I thought that he would marry me then, and make me his queen. But to my anger, my sisters were all also with child! I determined to have my child first, but Tanya and Daniela’s sons were born minutes before mine.” Her lips twisted, bitterly, and Petunia recoiled a little at the expression. But the grand duchess did not appear to notice.
“We had our children all in the same horrible night,” the grand duchess continued, “while a storm raged outside that kept any help from coming. We had a bell outside our window we could ring when we needed supplies or aid, and though we rang it through the night, the wind howled and none could hear it. When the storm cleared, all nine of us had had our babies, sons all. My parents arrived and looked on us in anguish, but before anyone could speak, a shadow covered the room, and my babe was taken from my arms.”
Princess of the Silver Woods (Twelve Dancing Princesses) Page 20