by Jane Yolen
“Well, please speak freely,” Aspen said. “And quickly. We are all tired.”
Despite that instruction, the soldier paused, possibly collecting his thoughts. He pursed his lips as if to spit, then remembered he was in the presence of royalty and swallowed awkwardly.
“Um,” he finally said. Another pause, though no pursed lips this time. “Your Majesty said a strong watch earlier?”
Aspen had the feeling this was rather a large amount of words for the soldier to string together all at once. The Toad Clan was not an overly talkative group. “Yes?”
“Might I suggest five and five for three apiece? We’ll ring the hill and still be good as gold on the morrow.” He got it all out in a rush, sitting his horse stiffly, his cheeks noticeably red even in the moonlight.
Aspen had very little idea what any of that meant. “An excellent idea,” he said anyway. “Set the watch!” he called. “Five and five for three apiece!” He thought he sounded properly military with that last bit.
The soldiers conferred quickly, a knot of twenty. They must have agreed easily, for almost immediately, they saluted Aspen smartly and dismounted in unison. Their horses were hobbled in an instant, and then five of them were off, spreading themselves out along the hillside’s perimeter at equal distances apart, three of them easy to spot and the other two well hidden. Another five plopped onto the ground, wrapped their cloaks around themselves, and were asleep at once. The remaining ten fanned out to set up their meager camp.
Five and five for three apiece? Aspen thought. Must be five to watch and five to sleep. I bet they go three hours each watch, and we will travel again after six hours. He looked at the sleeping soldiers. I suppose when you only get three hours to sleep in, you learn to make the most of them.
Aspen thought he should follow their example, but first he helped the civilians hobble their horses and bed down for the night. They took longer, most being unaccustomed to caring for horses on the road or sleeping rough. Except for the moat troll. He had no horse and bedded down on the most uncomfortable-looking boulder on the hilltop. He was soon asleep and snoring loudly, almost as quickly as the soldiers. Being a day troll, he would sleep through the night and be ready to travel again in the morning.
Aspen had slept rough often since escaping the Unseelie Court—and most times without the luxury of being guarded by soldiers. He was also exhausted from travel and worry. But even after he lay down in the softest grass on the hilltop, where the queen’s lady had made him a bed with straw from the wagon and her own embroidered cloak, sleep still eluded him. He tossed about, feeling every pebble beneath him as if there were no straw or cloak between him and the ground.
In fact he felt like a princess from a story his nanny had told him in the long ago. Escaping from an enemy, the princess had slept in a dragon’s cave atop a treasure. After a sleepless night, she had said a miser could figure out the creature’s fortune by counting her bruises. “Counting her bruises!” The nanny always said it twice. He remembered how they had both howled with laughter, but he was not howling now.
After a long hour listening to the troll snore and watching the stars dance around in the sky, Aspen arose and went to check in with the sentries.
He exchanged soldier’s talk with them.
“Any sign of the enemy?”
“No, sire.”
“Have any family at home?”
“My mother.”
“My sister.”
“My wife and a newborn babe.”
“You will return to them soon,” Aspen assured them, hoping it was not a lie.
He learned their names and their clans: Fortuna, her hair dyed the green of House Clover; Snarl and Bite, brothers of Clan Wolf; young Alicanson of the House of the Poppy, who had brought the news of the Unseelie approach that afternoon; and Fading Crocus of the Toad Clan who had been the one who suggested a five and five watch for three apiece.
“You gave me good advice, Fading Crocus,” he said to the fey warrior. “I will not forget it. Kings always need good advisors not afraid to speak their minds.”
“Croak, sire.”
“Pardon?”
“They call me Croak,” Fading Crocus said. Then quickly added, “Your Majesty!”
“I will not forget, Croak,” Aspen said.
Finally he looked each of the soldiers in the eye and thanked them for watching over him and his company throughout the night.
Only then did he feel ready for sleep.
I will learn the rest of my companions’ names in the morning, he thought, nestled in his makeshift bed. It was his last conscious thought of the evening, and a fine notion to fall asleep on.
Much better than pebbles.
Sunrise came too early, as it always does for those who march to war. They were up and away with the light still slanting hard across the land. One of the girls had milked the goats so their complaints wouldn’t give away the small army, and the milk was shared amongst the whole company. Eating oats from their leather pockets and berries gathered from the high hilltop bushes by the moat troll satisfied all their bellies.
In fact, the troll had not just gathered the berries, but ripped the bushes from the ground, shaking them roughly until all the fruit fell off for the others to pick up. Then he stuffed the bush whole into his wide, wide mouth.
So moat trolls are vegetarians, Aspen thought, happy to know that neither the horses nor the small company would become troll dinner.
Mishrath looked a little better after sleeping so long.
Well, not exactly better, Aspen concluded, but when he closes his eyes, I actually expect he will manage to open them again. Aspen hoped the wizard would have the strength they needed come the morrow.
True to his promise to himself, Aspen passed the morning riding up and down the line, first learning the names and clans of the other soldiers, and then interviewing the civilians. Most were a bit awed to speak with a king but warmed up quickly to his honest interest and earnest smile.
Molintien, the queen’s lady, was surprisingly tongue-tied in his presence, and Aspen realized that she was much younger than he had thought at first. Her hair had fallen down in the night and she had not pinned it up again, and her face was now clear of the kinds of paints a woman at court usually applied.
Why, she is no more than a child herself! Then he smiled ruefully, for Molintien was probably just his age—and Snail’s.
The moat troll grunted unintelligibly and pulled a sapling up by its roots, offering it to Aspen like a bouquet of flowers. Through one-syllable words and simple hand gestures, Aspen managed to convey that he was indeed honored by the gift but had nowhere to keep it at the moment, thank you very much.
The troll nodded, and made the sound of wind whistling through his unevenly spaced teeth, which Aspen took as a troll thank-you. They bobbed heads at one another for a moment more, and then Aspen trotted back to the head of the column, riding on in silence for a while as the troll ate the tree just like the berry bushes, in one big gulp.
BY MIDMORNING, ASPEN realized they were going to have to move faster. It will do us no good to hold up Jack Daw while still so close to the palace.
“Croak!” he shouted, and the old soldier spurred his horse forward.
“Yes, sire?”
“Pick the two ablest civilians to take turns driving and guarding Mishrath’s wagon. The rest of us must ride hard till nightfall, and the oxen cannot keep up.”
Croak gave what for him was a positively enthusiastic nod—his chin moved nearly a full inch! Then he rode back to pull Molintien and one of the old men out of the line.
Fal is his name. Retired woodsman. Aspen was glad to have learned it. Fal was very old, but his chest was still broad and powerful and looked plenty capable of pulling the well-worn bow he carried. There was a newly sharpened ax at his waist.
“Press on in darkness till you reach
us,” Aspen told them. “The trail we leave will be easy to follow. If it gets too hard, I will send back soldiers to guide you.”
Then turning to Mishrath, he said, “Rest up, wizard. I shall need your strength in the morning.”
Standing high in the stirrups, he addressed the others. “Come, my good warriors! It is speed we need now!” Heels to horse, and he was off at a gallop, his companions kicking their own steeds to follow.
For the first time, Aspen felt like a soldier. And a king.
THEY COULDN’T GALLOP all day, of course. Even Aspen knew that. But he pushed both warriors and horses as hard as he could.
With the sun setting, he finally let the tired horses stop.
“Croak,” he said, no longer needing to shout for him. Croak now rode next to him at all times. “What do you think of this spot?”
Ahead of them was a wide plain, sloping gently down to a swiftly running stream. There was thick forest off to their right, and rockier, broken ground to their left. Hills in the distance concealed any sign of the Unseelie host that must lie just beyond them.
“No good,” Croak muttered. He offered no further explanation.
Aspen explained it for him. “Because if we are going to stop Jack Daw and his army, we would need someplace confined, a ravine, perhaps, or a mountain pass. Something to funnel them into a small space so their numbers will not count against us so badly.”
Croak nodded.
“Even then, Croak, could we possibly stand against them for more than a few moments?”
Croak looked sour. Then shook his head.
“I agree,” Aspen said. Then he looked out over the plain. “But what if we had an army? An army big enough to give the Unseelie a fight.”
He looked over at Croak and could see him eyeing the field anew, this time placing soldiers in strategic spots, calling up imaginary units to defend this location or attack that one.
“What then, Croak?”
Croak paused, then spoke quietly. “’Tis good.” He nodded toward the stream. “Skirmishers attack their crossing.” His gaze traveled back up the slope. “Make ’em attack uphill.” He glanced left, then right. “Flanks protected.” Then back at Aspen. “’Tis a good spot, sire.”
“Yes, it is.” Aspen dismounted and called for the rest of the party to do the same. He waited, but Croak said nothing more. “Go ahead and say it, Croak.”
“We’ve got no army, Your Majesty.”
Aspen laughed. “Do we not?”
Then he sent everyone back into the woods to gather firewood.
“We’re to have fire tonight, sire?” Croak asked, sounding completely confused.
“Oh, yes,” Aspen replied, enjoying the bit of mystery. “We’re to have fire tonight. Lots of fire. I want them to know we are here.” He chuckled, then jogged off into the woods to gather wood with the rest.
I hope Mishrath is resting well in the wagon, for he will get none tomorrow. And the rest of us will get none tonight.
16
SNAIL LAYS OUT THE PLAN
Odds’s room hadn’t changed as much as he had. He seemed to have aged badly since she last saw him, his hair like cloth left out too long in the sun, his face more weathered than it had been only days before.
But the room was still recognizably his. The desk piled with oddments and ends of things, half-made manikins, glass balls that swirled in the light, two puzzles like the one she’d taken apart that had so engaged her attention. The bell pull hanging motionless by the desk’s side, waiting for his hand.
Odds sat down heavily in his big chair and motioned for her to take a seat as well, but as there was only the bed to sit on, she continued standing.
“I have a plan,” she said, quickly amending it. “We have a plan. The Seelie king and I . . .”
He interrupted, “That venal fool? What do you have to do with him? I thought you were too bright for that one. The only good thing he ever did was marry the commoner.”
“He married a commoner?” When had Aspen had time? She’d just been gone a few days. And he’d never said . . . She realized with a start that she was about to cry. Turning her back to Odds for a moment to get control of herself, she bit her lip. Hard. So hard she almost drew blood. Pain would help her keep her feelings under control.
When she turned toward him again, she concentrated on her lip and the thought that at least Aspen had married someone interesting and thwarted convention. Even if he hadn’t said a thing to me. Even if he’d kept a secret, and why did he marry so young anyway? And moments away from a war? There had to be something to be gained by it. Maybe his mother had wanted it, or the wizards or . . . And then she thought—and it made her miserable all over again—No wonder he wanted to send me off on a mission.
She glared at Odds. You never thought much of Aspen! And of course she herself had always believed that the royal bloodlines had to be pure. Certainly in the Unseelie Court the toffs always made a huge fuss about that.
“So the king married a commoner, had sons with her, and then he never listened to her again,” Odds added.
Had sons? Never listened to her again?
Finally Snail realized what Odds was saying. He was talking about the old king, Aspen’s father. And then she thought of the queen, that strong, elegant woman who had braved her husband’s wrath and the laws of the land to save Aspen, her son—and Snail as well. The queen a commoner? Hardly. If people like her were common, there’d be a lot less trouble in the world.
“No, no,” she said, raising her hands for emphasis, “that king is dead. A new king is on the throne.”
“One fey king is much like another.” He looked at his fingers, and she saw that he was somehow making a coin move under and over each finger as if the coin were dancing. For a moment she was mesmerized by it. Then she shook her head to wake herself up.
“People change, you just now said.” Her voice sounded tight to her, even overeager. She carefully lowered it again. “And no one has changed more than this king.”
He looked up at her with renewed interest, simultaneously palming the coin. Then, folding his hands, he sat like a statue, giving nothing away. “The old king had two sons,” he said carefully, “grown tall and handsome as all full fey do. Sons of the first wife. But you say that the one now king—has changed? I find that unlikely.”
And then the coin was back dancing along Odds’s fingers.
Snail became mesmerized again, had to push herself to look away in case it was some kind of magic that would force from her more than she meant to say.
“No,” she replied. “Not them. The older brothers may be dead as well. Or not. We don’t know. But the land has chosen a different king.”
Odds closed his eyes, stuck the coin in a pocket, folded his hands over his belly, leaned back in his chair. He ignored her, pretending sleep, but she knew he was thinking. She could see the shadow of movement beneath his eyelids.
She decided to outwait him.
It didn’t take long. His eyes flicked open, and they were not sleepy eyes at all, boring into her as if he could read her entire life with that one glance. He no longer looked old, bleached out. He looked . . . ready . . . the way a wolf or fox would look when ready to pounce.
“Not the minstrel prince?” he said. Less a question than a statement.
This time, despite the pain in her lip, Snail smiled broadly. “The very one.”
“People change,” he said, “but not always for the better. He’s glowing gold, I suppose.”
“He sees that as a burden.”
“Hmmmm. I suppose he would. He got that from his mother. And the years in the Unseelie Court. A rough wooing that, with no wedding promised at the end but to death.” Odds brought the coin out of his pocket again, this time flicking it into the air, where it spun over and over. When it hit his open palm, he slapped it onto the back of hi
s other hand. “I’ll listen if you can guess the coin’s face. Odds or evens.”
“A game, Professor? You’d chance the fate of your people on the flip of a coin?”
“Not a game. A puzzle!” Odds grinned at her and raised his hands closer to her face.
She didn’t hesitate then. “With you it’s always odds. But you may have charmed it to evens as a trick, But no, you are too full of yourself, of the professor, of Odds. And that’s what we want.”
“We?”
“The new king, the new kingdom.” She drew in a deep breath. “And me.” She said the final bit with ease because the speaking of it sat easily on her bruised lip.
He showed her the coin. It was, indeed, odds.
“Tell me the plan. But don’t think you guessed right by chance.” He turned the coin over, and she saw it had odds on the other side as well.
“A trick . . .”
“It’s the only way you are going to win this war,” he said. “With a trick. You have too few soldiers, and my people are not an army.”
Her voice rose again, and this time she let it. Best he hear excitement, not caution, from her. “And that’s what I came to tell you. The king has a plan.” At any rate, she hoped he had. “But he needs you and your people to make the plan work. He will give much in return if you help him accomplish it.”
He leaned forward in the chair. “How much of a much?”
She told him about the rise in status, the payment of land, of gold.
He laughed. “We need no status if we are the only ones alive at battle’s end. And faerie gold is nothing but dried leaves in the wind.”
“He will help those who wish to leave as well.”
“And how could he stop us?”
Snail had only one last card in her small deck, and she played it now. “Only Aspen and his small band of fey stand between you and the Unseelie horde. He is willing to die with his people. Are you willing to die with yours?”
His first hesitation was a rapid blinking of his eyes. “We have our own magic. The iron spiders . . .”