The Thinking Woman's Guide to Real Magic

by Emily Croy Barker

  “I imagine he is still occupied, Your Highness.” There was something constrained in Aruendiel’s voice, as though he were searching hard for the right words and the right tone.

  “A pity. Nurse is bringing the baby into the garden after his nap, and we’re going to see the new plantings around the oval basin. Will you tell the king, when you go back? He might want to join us.” The portrait of Tulivie gave a frown. “It is too bad that he will probably have to leave again on campaign so soon. The prince has barely had a chance to know his papa.”

  “It will be a short campaign, ma’am.”

  “You sound so sure! Does your magic tell you this?”

  Gathering up her skirts, the image of Tulivie started forward as if to hear more, stepping lightly onto the floor of the banquet hall. She bore herself confidently, apparently unaware that she had left her canvas garden behind or that a roomful of people were staring at her.

  It was impossible not to stare. She was so obviously not flesh and blood—Nora could see the brushstrokes on her skirt—and yet she was not a paper doll. Her body was solid-seeming; she moved through space like any living creature. She also looked brighter, more vivid than any of the people around her. Like a cartoon, Nora thought. Everything a little simplified or exaggerated, closer to the ideal than we ever see in real life.

  Aruendiel took a step forward, too, moving into the shadow of the column beside him. “I am no fortune-teller,” he said. “But I know this to be true. The Orvetians are ill-prepared for war, and your husband will beat them soundly. So you must put your mind at ease, Your Highness.”

  “Thank you, I will try.” She added, a little wistfully: “Are you sure you cannot tell what is to come? There are a few things that I would like to know.”

  “Such as?” he asked warily.

  “Such as—will it rain soon? I am worried about my new plantings. It has been so dry lately. If the king were not so occupied with these stubborn Orvetians, I would ask him to lend me his chief magician to ensure that we have some favorable weather.”

  “Your Highness, I am always happy to be of service to you.”

  “Then perhaps you could arrange a little rain sometime after midnight, after my dinner guests have gone home? Enough to give the ground a good soaking. And then, of course, another clear day tomorrow.”

  Up until this point, she and Aruendiel had been conversing as though it were only the two of them, both standing in the garden where she was posing for her portrait. (Presumably the painter was waiting at a respectful distance nearby.) The watching court was absolutely silent.

  But now there came a minor commotion in the crowd, the sound of sobbing. At the edge of the crowd, Nora glimpsed a bent white head. An old woman crying, racked with untidy grief.

  The painted queen turned with concern on her smooth, uncanny face. For the first time she seemed to notice someone else in the room besides the magician. “Oh, the poor thing,” she said. “What is the matter? My dear old grandma’am, what’s the matter?”

  The old woman held out a skinny hand toward the queen. It took her a minute to restrain her sobs. “Dear lady, it is so good to see you,” she said, gulping. “It has been so many years. You are just the way I remembered you.”

  “Am I? That’s good. Now, we must get you looked after.” She glanced over at Aruendiel. “She’s confused, poor thing. Someone must have left her here; I don’t think she could have wandered far by herself. What is your name, grandma’am?”

  “I’m Lady Marisiek Uliveran,” the old woman said with a hint of pride.

  “Oh,” the portrait said, puzzled. “One of the ladies of my bedchamber is Lady Marisiek. Are you one of her relations? I will summon her at once.”

  “No, that’s me, Your Highness. Surely you know me. I was one of your ladies before I married. I used to help you dress the little princes. You gave me a pendant, a gold peacock with emeralds. Look, I am still wearing it,” she said, fumbling in her dress. “I remember that day so clearly, clearer than yesterday. Well, I am old, you know, but you are just the same. I don’t quite understand it. I thought you were gone, how many years ago? It rained at the funeral; they could hardly get the pyre to burn. Oh, that was a sad day. How is it that you are here again, as beautiful as ever?”

  As Marisiek spoke, Tulivie’s image stared at the tiny gold bird that the old woman had pulled from under her shawl, and then looked hard at her gnarled face. “Marisiek?” she said finally. “Marisiek? Merciful gods, what has happened to you? Impossible!” She looked to Aruendiel again, her hand gripping Marisiek’s shoulder protectively. “This is some wicked enchantment. Lord Aruendiel, you must do something.”

  Aruendiel said nothing. After a moment, he shook his head gently.

  “What do you mean? Someone has put a spell on this girl and turned her into an old woman. I command you to undo this evil magic.”

  “It is not magic. It is only time.” His voice was slow, as though the words were heavy.

  “Time? What do you mean? I saw Marisiek only this morning. Of course this is magic, and we must find the magician who has cast such a terrible spell.”

  “Madame!” It was the king who had spoken. “Madame, there is no need to fear,” he called from the dais. “We would like to welcome you to the court of Semr—welcome you back, that is. We are greatly honored by your presence.”

  “Who is this man?” Tulivie’s portrait asked with open bewilderment. “Welcome me back to the court of Semr, when I am already here? What is he talking about?”

  “I am privileged to follow your husband on the throne of Semr.” When she still looked blank—and a little angry—the king added, “I am Abele the Fourth, King of Greater Semr. My father was your son, Abele the Third. I am your grandson.”

  “My grandson!” Now she looked as though she would like to laugh. “My boy Abele is a baby. He is just learning to walk. This is absurd.”

  “Nonetheless, I am your grandson,” the king said with a trace of starchiness. He rose and bowed. “Grandmother, this is a rare and remarkable meeting. I used to hear my father speak of you. I have admired your beauty in your portraits here in the palace. I never thought that I would one day greet you face-to-face.”

  “How could you be my grandson? You are a man of middle age. You are at least twenty years older than I am!”

  (“At least,” Nora murmured. The man in the gray cloak caught her eye and smiled.)

  “This is strange to me, too, Grandmother. Lord Aruendiel has brought you out of the past to visit us tonight, that much I understand.”

  “Lord Aruendiel, what is he talking about?” The portrait of Tulivie turned back to the magician. “What kind of magic have you done? Who is this man—and who are all these people?” She glanced around with an air of disquiet; she had just noticed that she was surrounded by strangers. “What have you done?”

  “He is right. There is no need to fear—” Aruendiel began.

  “But what have you done?”

  “I have opened up a window, in a manner of speaking, between one day and another,” he said carefully, and then paused as though to observe her reaction.

  “You are speaking in riddles.”

  “It is not a real window,” he continued. “But it allows you, Your Majesty, to look forward at these people, as it allows them to look back at you.” When she shook her head in incomprehension, he added: “Forward in time. Into future years.”

  “I am looking forward in time?” Her gaze fell upon the aged woman with horrified understanding. “You mean, this is Marisiek, and she is old because—she is old?”

  “Yes,” Aruendiel said, bowing his head a fraction.

  “And this man here?” she asked, gesturing at the king.

  “He spoke the truth. He is your grandson.”

  “My grandson. And he sits on the throne of Semr?”

  Her confusion and distress were painful to watch; the painted face registered emotions with a heightened intensity. One could almost read the thoughts cascadi
ng behind it like falling dominoes: “If this man is king of Semr, then my husband is dead, and if this king is my grandson, then my son is dead, too. And as for me—” The image from the portrait glanced around the room, as though dreading to find a superannuated version of herself.

  But not to see yourself, Nora thought, that would be worse.

  “No!” the portrait said, shuddering.

  “Grandmother, are you not pleased to see that your line continues and that your descendants still rule Semr?” the king asked. “I wish that my second daughter were here tonight. She resembles you closely, although her hair is darker.”

  “Why would you do such a terrible spell?” the portrait said to Aruendiel.

  “Tulivie—” He made a gesture as though to calm her, but he did not leave the shadow where he stood.

  “Why would you show me such wicked lies? My son is a baby, asleep in his nursery. My husband is king. I am queen. Marisiek is a girl of seventeen. I know these things are true.”

  After a long moment, Aruendiel said quietly, “Yes, they are true.”

  “Of course they are true!” She drew herself up. “I do not understand what sort of magic you employed to trick me just now, Lord Aruendiel, but I do not appreciate it.”

  “I apologize, Your Majesty.”

  “You have played a very bad joke on me.”

  “I could not agree more.”

  “The king would be displeased if he learned of how you have been tormenting me today,” she said.

  “Yes, he would.”

  She smiled suddenly. “I will forgive you, though, and not tell him, if you promise not to frighten me again like that.”

  “I promise.” Meeting her gaze, he added, “You know I wish nothing but Your Majesty’s continued happiness.” There was something rough and raw in Aruendiel’s voice, under the polite formula.

  “Thank you, that is very kind of you! And now I must let the painter finish for the day. Although he can come back tomorrow—if it doesn’t rain.”

  “It will not rain,” he said. “I promise.”

  She laughed. “I will hold you to that promise, too.” With a rustle of painted skirts, she walked swiftly back to the tenantless painting. Stepping into the frame, she took up her pose again, one hand on the gate, the other holding her hat. “Tell my husband not to dally too long with the Orvetians,” she called out. “I will declare war on them myself if they keep him much longer.”

  The ribbon on her hat rippled gently in an unseen breeze and then stopped moving. The surface of the canvas darkened slightly, as her face and body took on a hard, flat sheen. She smiled out at the room, blindly young and happy.

  There was no sound in the room, except for the soft, querulous voice of the old woman muttering something that no one could make out.

  Chapter 18

  Oh, if I ever had a doubt, now I know the rumors were true—you bedded Tulivie,” Hirizjahkinis said.

  “Of course,” Aruendiel replied matter-of-factly. “But not until many years later. She was older then. She had had many disappointments. Tonight it was strange to see her so—so untouched.”

  Nora, coming up behind them, stopped in her tracks. She slipped behind a statue of a bare-chested man with a bull’s head and fixed her eyes innocently on the dancing. Fortunately, with two dozen male courtiers stamping and leaping in the middle of the room, the magicians seemed to feel no need to lower their voices.

  “Yes, she seemed very young, a baby herself. But what on earth were you thinking of, raking up that old scandal?” Hirizjahkinis asked. “You could have performed that spell on any of the portraits in this room—although I am grateful that you did not pick the king’s grandfather, that old scorpion,” she said, looking at the painting nearest them. “Why throw it in the king’s face that his grandmother might have been your mistress?”

  Aruendiel gave this a few moments’ consideration. “Do you think he believes that he might be my grandson?” he asked gravely. “Does he expect me to acknowledge him?”

  Hirizjahkinis waved his answer away with a flip of her hand. “Be serious. What possessed you? It was an impressive spell, I grant you that.”

  “It’s from a manuscript of Duisi Tortor’s. I reworked it slightly.” He glanced at the other side of the hall, where Tulivie’s portrait hung, but the painting was hidden by the angle of the wall. “Of course, that wasn’t really her,” he added.

  “She seemed real enough. Obviously not a living creature, but the voice, the mannerisms—I recognized them.”

  “It was only a sort of echo. Why did I do the spell? I don’t know. I was out of temper, I saw her portrait, and I thought, Why not? She was infinitely more pleasant company than her grandson. It was a fool thing to do,” he added with a grimace.

  “I’m surprised to hear you admit that.”

  “Oh, not because it gives idiots something to gossip about. No, it was cruel to bring her back, even her shadow.” He frowned at the floor.

  “Well, it is quite dangerous to raise old ghosts, Aruendiel, especially when a person has lived as long as you or I. You are no better than that silly queen over there who wants to find out what happened to her dead aunt. Although that is not such a silly idea, now that I think about it. Perhaps I will try to find an answer for her, while I am here. And you? What are you going to do now? I hope you will not head back to your drafty castle right away. Abele will want your advice as he chooses his new chief magician.”

  With a shake of his head, Aruendiel said, “I leave tomorrow morning, following Ilissa, to make sure that she and Raclin cause no further trouble on the way home. Dorneng will accompany me.”

  “Dorneng? Really? He could become the king’s new chief magician, if he wants to be. But not if he leaves the capital right now.”

  “He says he is interested in the Faitoren,” Aruendiel said, shrugging.

  “I am surprised,” said Hirizjahkinis, with an arch of her eyebrows. “He seemed to me tonight to be in zealous pursuit of the court position. That singing tree! I believe even Abele was embarrassed.”

  Aruendiel’s mouth curled into an arid smile. “Do you expect anything better of such performances? Dorneng at least understands that he will learn more magic dealing with the Faitoren than conjuring singing trees at court. I have a mind to get Lukl to hire him. There should be a magician up there, keeping watch on Ilissa.”

  “Lukl? Oh, yes, the one-eyed knight who lives next to Ilissa. What a terrible idea! His castle is even more isolated than yours. You would convince poor Dorneng to give up a chance at being chief royal magician to help a backwoods peer keep track of his sheep!”

  “Dorneng asked to go with me. And he was Micher Samle’s apprentice; he had to live in a cave for ten years. Lukl’s castle could only be an improvement.”

  Hirizjahkinis laughed and then gave Aruendiel an appraising look. “Well, if someone must keep an eye on Ilissa, better Dorneng than you or me. Especially you.”

  “What do you mean?” His voice was suspicious.

  “I mean that you enjoy hating her too much. She is not worth half the trouble you take over her.”

  “You can say that after today?” he asked, incredulous. “After she kidnapped Bouragonr, bamboozled the king, and came within a fingernail of making Semr hers?”

  “Well, we stopped her, Aruendiel! Let me be clear. You have good reason to hate her. But you should not let that hatred govern you. It will hollow you out; it will devour your heart.”

  “My heart?” He gave a quick, contemptuous bark of laughter.

  “Or whatever serves you for that purpose.” When he did not answer, she added, “Well, perhaps it is too late for you anyway. Look at you tonight, conjuring up poor Tulivie’s shade. Do you have nothing better to do than moon over a dead woman?”

  “Tulivie? I was not mooning over her.”

  “No? I saw the way you kept to the shadows, so modestly, so she could not see you clearly. You were afraid she would find you changed.”

  “Well, sh
e would have found me changed,” he said angrily. “Greatly changed. I tell you, Hiriz, I was not mooning after her, as you put it, but would it be such a bad match, for me to take up with a dead woman? Under the circumstances.”

  Hirizjahkinis sighed and shook her head with a dramatic sweep, the way a parent might do when reprimanding a small child. “Ah, Aruendiel, be sensible. What can I say? Is it so hard to enjoy the life that you’ve been given?”

  Aruendiel wheeled and looked away, toward the center of the hall, where the dancers were now swinging at one another with painted wooden swords. He noticed that the girl Nora was also watching the dancing, half-hidden behind a statue of the god Reob, and wondered irritably whether she had overheard anything of the conversation. She turned as though she sensed his eyes on her, and flushed slightly.

  “How did you do that spell?” Nora asked him. “It was remarkable. It was—um—powerful.”

  Heartbreaking, Nora meant, but she’d decided not to use that word, not after listening to Aruendiel just now. There was something terrible about Tulivie’s innocence, the innocence of the unknowing past; no wonder the magician sounded pained as he spoke to Hirizjahkinis.

  As though the girl could possibly understand any kind of magic, Aruendiel thought—let alone a spell as complex as this. Nevertheless, he was pleased that she could at least recognize good magic when she saw it. “Thank you,” he said, more graciously than he usually spoke to her. “But I could not begin to explain it to you.”

  She was not satisfied. “Would it work with any kind of painting, even a portrait that was not so realistic?”

  Nora was thinking of Picasso, but was not sure how to explain, say, Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.

  Intrigued, Aruendiel tilted his head reflectively. He had not considered the question before. “Like the pictures they make in Tfara, where they like to show their emperor with wings and the claws of a lion? It should work, as long as the painting was done from life.”