by Helen Lowe
“Time to get up, slug a bed!” she cried, then dodged his well-aimed cushion, giggling. “No, truly—Sir Andreas says to come downstairs at once, because our new master-at-arms is here. He just rode in with the dawn.”
Balisan
There was a red horse standing in the courtyard. Sigismund could see it from his window as he dressed, and he peered out at it again from the landing above the main hall. The red mare looked taller, seen close up, with a flowing mane and tail, and was more finely built than the destriers ridden by Sir Andreas. There were golden tassels on her bridle, and the leather on her saddle was embossed in scarlet and gold. Sigismund stared, for usually only warhorses were given such lavish harness. The mare lifted her head as if sensing his gaze and stamped one foot against the cobbles, a small, emphatic sound.
The hall was dark, despite a few shafts of sunlight that turned the dragon banner of Sigismund’s family to fire. The banner hung down from the ceiling, and Sigismund could see the remains of breakfast set out on the long table beneath it. Sir Andreas was standing on one side of the wide stone fireplace, facing a slightly built man of middle height who had his back to Sigismund; Master Griff sat at the table, his expression thoughtful. Sigismund hesitated in the doorway, trying to gauge the mood of the room and to take in as much detail as possible before the newcomer became aware of his presence.
Sir Andreas, Sigismund thought, seemed uncertain. He was frowning down at a paper in his hand, and he had run a hand through his dark, gray-flecked hair so that it stood on end. “It’s unusual,” the steward said, “for the King not to have sent word ahead to tell us you were coming.”
The newcomer was wearing a long, mail shirt that caught the scanty light as he shrugged, gleaming red one way and gold another, the metal scales rippling like a serpent’s skin. “He said the matter was urgent,” the man replied, “and he knew I would travel faster than any courier.”
“Urgent,” Sir Andreas began, looking up from the paper, then he saw Sigismund. “Ah, Sigismund,” he said. “This is Balisan, whom your father has sent to be master-at-arms here—both for you and for the castle garrison.”
Sigismund advanced into the room as the newcomer turned and bowed, pressing both hands together before his heart in a gesture that Sigismund had never seen before. His eyes widened as he saw a round helmet, with a mail coif and spiked crown, resting on the table beside Sir Andreas. “Sir Balisan?” he inquired, bowing.
“We do not use such titles where I come from,” the master-at-arms replied. “Balisan will do.”
Was it the same voice? Sigismund wondered. It was an even tenor, with a sibilant emphasis on each word but without the resonance of his dream, and he could not be sure. He studied the newcomer’s face instead, noting the smooth golden skin and high cheekbones beneath long, almond-shaped eyes. The right cheekbone was flattened by a white scar and the man’s eyebrows flared upward, giving his expression a sardonic cast. Sigismund found it hard to decide on the color of his eyes—tawny as a cat’s was his first thought, but he amended it to bronze after a second glance. They were almost the same color as his hair, and the whole impression was of a figure cast in rich metal, except that this Balisan was alive.
Sigismund had never seen anyone like him before and he looked at Sir Andreas for guidance.
“He has your father’s writ,” the steward said, and held out the paper. Sigismund took it, but continued to study Balisan.
“You don’t look like one of my father’s men,” he said.
Balisan smiled. “I am from the Paladinates, which lie to the east of your father’s kingdom.”
Sigismund’s eyes widened, for those lands were famous for their hero-knights. There were even reports that some of the knights were sorcerers as well as warriors, although Master Griff scoffed at this.
“Are you a paladin then?” Sigismund demanded eagerly. What he wanted to do was ask whether or not it had been Balisan he met in his dream, but he dared not, especially with Sir Andreas listening.
“Sigismund—” Master Griff began, but Balisan checked him with a gesture.
“Some have called me that,” he said, “although it is not a word I would use to describe myself. But I have some knowledge of arms, and of the forces and powers that contend in this world, and your father believes that I may be of use to you.”
Sigismund looked at the paper, which was written in his father’s hand and bore his seal. “You are welcome then,” he said slowly. “Although I hope you won’t find it too dull here.”
Balisan shrugged, as if to say that the dullness or otherwise of life was not something that concerned him. He spent the rest of the morning speaking with Sir Andreas and Master Griff about the daily round of castle life, then rode the circumference of the park on his red mare. Sigismund could see them from his aerie on the high tower, circling the length of the wall, and he wondered again about the resemblance between this new master-at-arms and the horseman in his dream. It seemed too close to be coincidence, especially when the rider had said that they would meet again soon.
It’s uncanny, thought Sigismund. He’s uncanny.
He brooded over this conclusion for some time, then must have slept as the heat grew, for he woke with a start to find the shadows lengthening and the trapdoor creaking open. He sat up, staring as Balisan’s head and shoulders emerged from below. It was unusual for anyone to follow him up here, but given the dream he was not entirely surprised that the new master-at-arms would seek him out sooner rather than later.
“So this is where you hide,” Balisan said. He swung himself the rest of the way up and walked to the parapet, looking out. “And this is the great Wood.”
There was something in the way he spoke that imbued the Wood with power and mystery, and Sigismund shivered. “It’s under the interdict,” he said. “No one’s allowed to go there.”
“No,” agreed Balisan. “That time has not yet come.” He looked around, the tawny eyes studying Sigismund. “Do you want to go there?”
Sigismund hesitated. “It would be an adventure. And it would be good to know the truth of all those stories, and whether there really is a castle, and who lives there.”
Balisan looked out over the green sea that was the Wood. “Truth,” he murmured. “Now that would be a powerful quest. But perhaps you would like to show me this castle first?”
Sigismund hesitated again. “Why not Sir Andreas?” he asked. “He’s the steward.”
“But you are the prince,” said Balisan. “It is your castle, and in that sense I am your guest.”
“That’s true,” Sigismund agreed, and decided that he quite liked the idea of showing Balisan the castle. The man seemed friendly, and so far he had not roared and cursed like the captain of the castle guard. His manner, like his speech, was mild, and this realization made Sigismund bold. “Was it you in my dream?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Balisan. He said nothing more, just continued to look at Sigismund, who swallowed.
“Is that why my father sent you?” he asked. “To protect me from dreams?”
Balisan nodded. “Amongst other things. Sir Andreas was worried, and your father thought that my abilities might be useful here. But I will also teach you the arts of war.”
“Amongst other things,” Sigismund said, holding his look.
Balisan met it without any change of expression. “Given the dreams,” he replied, “yes.”
Balisan, Sigismund found, wanted to see everything, from the topmost tower where they stood, to the cellars and armory in the castle foundations. Sir Andreas came with them into the cellars and showed them the little-used chambers on the upper levels as well, where doors had to be unlocked and then locked again behind them.
The steward left them when they went outside, and at first Sigismund enjoyed showing off the stables and barracks on his own, but it was harder to understand Balisan’s interest in the herb garden, or the little orchard between the kitchen and outer walls. He studied the grille across the culvert and the trees that had bee
n felled to keep the wall clear, but he made no comment until they reached the sunken garden. There was a lilac walk there and the leaves provided a green fretted shade, although the flowers were long since done.
“Who planted this?” asked Balisan, looking around.
Sigismund frowned, trying to remember. “This was the first moat once, when the castle was just a single tower. But Sir Andreas says that most of the garden was laid out by my great-grandmother, and I think she planted the lilac walk as well.”
“Ah,” said Balisan. He seemed amused, for some reason that Sigismund could not fathom. “A farsighted lady. That would have been around the time of the interdict?”
“I suppose,” said Sigismund, not seeing that it mattered. “There’s a mosaic in the middle, which is quite nice. I’ve always liked it anyway.”
The mosaic formed part of the bricked circle that was the center of the lilac walk and depicted a girl dancing, with lilac blossoms falling from her upraised fingers and strewn beneath her lilting feet. There were lilacs twined through and around her white gown as well, and crowning the dark fall of her hair, although her face was turned away. Sigismund thought there was a joyful feeling to it, like the return of spring after a long, cold winter, and Balisan seemed to like it too. He squatted on his heels and studied it for some time.
“Interesting,” he said after a while. “Do you know who this is meant to be?”
“Master Griff says that she’s the spirit of spring,” Sigismund replied, “but no one knows for certain.”
“No?” said Balisan, his tone making it a query rather than agreement. He moved on without asking further questions, but Sigismund overheard him later that evening, talking with Sir Andreas in the garden beneath the library window. Their voices floated up clearly to where he was sitting in the window seat, reading a book.
“The King said you were worried by something the boy told you, about a woman who came to him when he was ill?” That was Balisan, with the slight sibilance to his speech, while Sir Andreas’s reply sounded troubled.
“It might have been a fever dream, but if not, then she must have passed every ward between here and the park gates to get in. And they are powerful protections.”
“Perhaps.” Balisan’s tone was thoughtful. “But neither ward nor wall will keep out what is already in.”
Sir Andreas was silent. “What are you suggesting?” he asked at last. “Whoever the woman was, she did not belong to either castle or village, and it is four generations now since the wards were established. No one could hide themselves for that long and remain undetected.”
Sigismund sensed Balisan’s shrug. “You may be right,” he said. “And if she did cure the boy, there may be no cause for worry.”
“Anyone approaching him like that, without our knowledge, worries me.” Sir Andreas sounded unhappy, and his voice sank to a murmur. Sigismund, openly listening now, thought he caught the words his mother, but could not be sure.
“I agree.” Balisan’s voice remained clear. “Particularly since we know that one luring spell has already slipped through and retained enough potency to draw the boy to the gate.”
Their voices moved away then, and although the word lucky drifted back, Sigismund heard nothing more. He sat as though turned to stone, his book forgotten, unable to think of anything but the words wards and luring spells. Sir Andreas had already hinted once that magic was at work, and Balisan had openly admitted that he had first met Sigismund in his dream, but this—
“It’s real,” Sigismund whispered, “which means that the story of the sleeping castle is probably true as well.” His heart was beating like a marching drum, but when he tried to remember events at the gate his head became filled with buzzing, like flies trapped in a hot window. There were a few fragmented images, of blue eyes and a tinkling voice and a point of light like a blue star, sparkling into the dust, but the buzzing grew louder when he tried to pursue them, and pain lanced behind his eyes.
He pressed his hands against his lids and heard a harsh whisper out of his childhood in the Southern Palace: “They say it was poison that killed her, although no one knows how, or why.”
“I heard it was a curse that withered her soul.” The second voice was a man’s, speaking low.
Sigismund shook his head, trying to clear it, but that only made the pain and the buzzing worse. He groaned, rocking forward, and the book slipped to the ground.
A lean hand reached down and picked it up, while the other rested on his bent head, and both the pain and the buzzing subsided. “This is a consequence of your dreams,” said Balisan. “Dreams allow you to explore other planes, but they can also let others work their will against you—and your enemy is powerful.” He handed back the book.
Sigismund took it, blinking up at him. “No one’s ever told me that I have an enemy,” he said, indignation warring with his disorientation. “Is it the same person who killed my mother?”
Balisan squatted on his heels so that they were eye to eye, and the curved tip of his scabbard clinked softly against the floor. “You are not supposed to know about that,” he said. “Your father forbade it, because he wanted you to have the chance of a normal childhood once he brought you here.”
“I didn’t know until just now,” Sigismund replied. “There was a buzzing in my head, and then pain, but through it I heard voices, courtiers whispering in the Southern Palace when my mother died.” He looked away, out to the pink and bronze of the sunset sky, with darkness gathering behind it. “I must have overheard them at the time, but didn’t remember until now.”
“That may be a consequence of the dreams as well, bringing old fears to the surface.” Balisan stood up, his eyes thoughtful as they rested on Sigismund. “I know you will have questions, about your enemy and your mother’s death. But first we need to return to the lilac garden.”
The lilac garden? Sigismund wondered, bemused. He wanted to demand why, but the disorientation from the headache made it easier to go along with the master-at-arms for now. And it was pleasant in the evening garden, with the day’s warmth lingering in the bricks and the first moths dancing in the shadows.
Balisan paced the length of the lilac walk, and then back again, while the twilight deepened and a half-moon glowed yellow above the garden wall. He stopped on the edge of the brick circle and studied the shadows of tree and flower, while Sigismund shifted from foot to foot beside him and wondered what the master-at-arms found so fascinating about this place. It was just a garden, after all, where Sigismund had run and played a hundred times. He could hear frogs calling from the pond, and soon the crickets would start their nighttime chorus.
He straightened, determined to ask what they were doing here, but at the same moment Balisan turned his head. There was a glimpse of white further down the walk and a flutter of movement, soft as the beat of a moth’s wing. Sigismund stared, and thought the white might be the sweep of a skirt or a mantle trailing across the bricks, but he couldn’t think of anyone in the castle who would come here at this hour. A moment later, a spray of overhanging green was lifted back and a woman in a white dress stepped out onto the circle of bricks.
It was the woman from his illness, Sigismund was sure of that, although she seemed younger, with dark curls piled on top of her head and falling in a cascade down her back. There was a pattern of leaves and flowers sprigged lightly across her white skirt, just as in the mosaic, but her expression was grave, her eyes dark as she looked at Balisan. The master-at-arms bowed low, pressing his palms together before his breast.
“I felt your coming,” she said. Her voice dropped, clear as silver, into the stillness of the dusk. “And you use both eyes to see with. I have dwelt here for close to one hundred years now, but you are the first to suspect my presence.”
“I see the lines and threads of power,” Balisan replied, “whether hidden in nature or the works of human beings. But I was also looking for you, since you revealed your presence when you cured the prince.”
The la
dy turned, a glimmering through the dusk, and smiled at Sigismund. “And you are quite well now, I think?”
There were no great ladies in the castle, and no other women as beautiful and graceful as this one. Sigismund felt shy and intensely curious at the same time. He bowed, a little clumsily compared with Balisan. “I am,” he said. “Thank you. But who, or what, are you?”
The lady’s smile had a great deal of sweetness in it, but the gravity returned swiftly. “I am called Syrica,” she said. “I wait and I watch—over those who dwell in this castle and the Wood that is your neighbor. My purpose is to thwart the lady you met on the road.”
“The Margravine zu Malvolin?” Sigismund asked. The name slipped from his tongue as easily as if he had never forgotten it, and this time he remembered her blue eyes smiling at him and the tinkle of her laughter.
“Yes,” said Syrica. “She is my enemy, as she is yours. She will do you harm, if she can.”
“She has already tried,” said Balisan. The hum that Sigismund remembered from the dream was back in his voice.
Syrica looked at him and nodded. “The wards held her out—just. But I did not think she would act so openly. She took me by surprise.”
“Not only you,” said Balisan. “She has been clever, stirring up trouble in the south and keeping all eyes focused there, on the strife against the King.”
Sigismund looked from one to the other through the half night. “But who is this Margravine?” he asked them. “What does she want?”
“She is of the faie, as I am,” Syrica told him. “But she desires power and dominion in this mortal world and has set her heart on the Kingdom of the Wood, since the palace there is built on a place of great power.”
Sigismund drew in his breath. “So she must be the faie in that story you told me when I was ill?”
“She is,” Syrica replied. It had grown so dark that she was little more than a cloud of white on the far side of the brick circle. “And I am the one who thwarted her, converting the spell of death into the enchanted sleep. I have waited here and watched since then, hidden out of sight and mind for the hundred years to end. For the one you call the Margravine will never accept the undoing of her spell or let the magic run its course undisturbed. She will try and turn events to her purpose again, either by ensuring that the princess never wakes, or that the chosen prince will be a puppet serving her will.”