Thornspell

by Helen Lowe

  She was very close to him now, her perfume delicate yet dizzying, and Sigismund could feel the weave of illusion and magic. He blinked hard, trying to clear his mind. “Then ask it,” he said, his voice hard, and something dangerous flared in the hollowed eyes—but was as quickly gone.

  “In the west, where you grew up,” the Margravine said, the timbre of her voice deepening, “there is another Wood, as you know, of which many tales are told. Mystery surrounds it, and fear, the fear that led your ancestor to place it under an interdict, forbidding any of his subjects to go there.”

  Sigismund’s stomach muscles tightened as he met her eyes briefly and then shifted his gaze away, frightened of the wild ancient darkness he saw there. Her voice whispered close to his ear, like the wind in a midnight forest. “But there is a castle at the heart of that Wood, and in it a princess lies sleeping, imprisoned by magic for a hundred years.” Her voice dropped lower still, a murmur on the surface of the night. “You think me your enemy, Prince Sigismund, and my purposes evil, but my sole desire is to release the princess from her long sleep. For me, that is worth as much as the peace of your father’s kingdom.”

  Sigismund drew a ragged breath and forced himself to step back so he could see her face through the dim light. “And where do I come into all this?” he asked, wanting to hear her answer. “What have I to do with hidden castles and magic spells?”

  The Margravine smiled. “Only one of your blood can lift the interdict that your ancestor placed on the western Wood. And only a trueborn prince may break the spell that holds the princess in sleep.”

  Sigismund’s eyes narrowed, but he thought it wisest to pretend ignorance still. “So what is this princess to you? Why does breaking the spell matter so much?”

  The Margravine’s eyes opened a little wider. “Why,” she said softly, “I thought you knew. The princess is my goddaughter, and the spell was cast upon her by another faie who is my deadly enemy. She does not care who is harmed, so long as her plotting hurts me. By the time I found out what she intended, it was too late to save my goddaughter.”

  She turned her face away from Sigismund, her voice sad. “And then your forefather took my enemy’s part, closing the Wood and shutting out any who might have undone the spell. Your family have persisted in their enmity ever since, attacking my human kin and those known to be my friends, while my goddaughter remains trapped. Now you, Prince Sigismund, accuse me of taking you prisoner, when you know that I would never be allowed to speak with you openly.” She paused, looking at him again, and shook her golden head. “Yet you are the last of your bloodline, so what choice had I but to resort to desperate means?”

  There was a buzzing in Sigismund’s head, like flies caught against a summer window, and he swallowed, shaken. It could be true, he thought. What actual proof do I have, other than Syrica’s word, that it is she who is the good faie and the Margravine who is evil? But then he remembered Balisan and the buzzing cleared a little. He found it impossible to believe that Balisan would lie to him. And why, if the Margravine was acting in good faith, had Flor turned into his enemy?

  He hesitated, not quite able to dismiss the Margravine’s plea, and she reached out her hand to him. “You would be righting a great wrong, Prince Sigismund,” she said.

  Sigismund frowned at her, undecided, but it was hard not to be moved by her beauty and soft-voiced appeal, or the sweetness and distress in her expression. His head felt muzzy, and his tongue was thick, his speech clumsy when he spoke. “If I do help you and lift this spell, what then? What happens to the princess when she wakes?”

  The Margravine looked puzzled. “What should happen,” she asked, “except that my goddaughter will be free, and there will be peace in your father’s kingdom?”

  “And your enemy?” asked Sigismund. “Will she just let this happen?”

  The Margravine smiled. “If you are with me, she will have little choice. But I won’t let you go into the Wood unguarded, or leave my goddaughter open to her influence again.” She drew the blue ring from her finger and held it out to him. “This will repel any spells that my enemy may cast. And as soon as my goddaugther wakes you must place it on her finger, so that she is protected against any more ill-wishing.” The ring gleamed against the whiteness of her hand. “Take it,” she said, “as a token of my good faith and evidence of our bargain.”

  Sigismund watched his hand reach for the ring. There was something familiar about the whole scene, as though he had experienced it before. He hesitated, thinking he saw something move in the darkness behind the Margravine’s head. Could it be the wind, he wondered, playing in the tangled vines, or had he glimpsed a pale face?

  “Take it, Prince Sigismund,” the Margravine urged him, sweet and low, “for my goddaughter’s sake.”

  There was someone behind her, Sigismund was sure of it now. He could make out a figure, bound about by thick cables of vine, and a pale face lifting, the dark eyes fixed on his above a gag of thorns. He stared as the face moved slowly from side to side, just as it had in his dream, warning him, warning…. He heard the faintest of whispers, an echo of the Margravine’s voice, speaking in his dream of the Faerie hall: I will not let some grubby whelp, sired of the beggars this world calls kings, stand between me and my right.

  Sigismund shuddered, and knocked the Margravine’s hand aside.

  The ring spun toward the ground in a shimmer of interrupted magic, disappearing before it reached the floor. The faint nimbus that clung to the Margravine contracted, and the shadow on either side of her grew until it had wrapped huge batwings around the belvedere. The Margravine’s form frayed with it, transforming into something primeval, raw with power. Dangerous too, thought Sigismund, his throat so dry that it was difficult to swallow. There was nothing human about what confronted him now: it was ancient, elemental, and fey.

  “Shall I kill him for you now, Grandmother?” asked Flor, light-voiced, from behind him.

  Sigismund shifted, trying not to turn his back on the Margravine, and saw that Flor had materialized on the topmost step, with a wedge of black-clad warriors behind him. The golden youth was smiling and a sword gleamed in his hand. The warriors behind him held drawn swords as well, but theirs were of glass and razor-sharp bone rather than metal.

  “Really,” said the Margravine, her voice sighing around them, “I almost think you should.”

  The moment hung in the balance, and Sigismund’s mind cleared as though a wind had blown through it. He felt a familiar shift in the balance of energy around him—and recognized what it meant a moment before the belvedere shook beneath him.

  “Jump!” said Balisan’s voice in his mind.

  Sigismund jumped, vaulting over the side of the belvedere as the floor rose up and buckled in two. He just had time to think that there must be something huge coming up beneath it, before he was falling and crashing down through a tangle of dirt, tree branches, and leaves, while the wind howled behind him. He clutched frantically at the branches, trying to slow his fall, but hit the ground hard anyway—only to have it give way beneath him. He tumbled and bounced down a long slope of dirt and pebbles to sprawl flat at the bottom.

  Afterward, Sigismund could not say how long he lay there, but it seemed like a long time. He knew he was breathing, but his body felt like one great, aching bruise and he hesitated to try and sit up, in case he couldn’t. The wind had died away again and there was no sound of pursuit, only the silence of stone and the soft steady drip of water. Sigismund groaned and rolled onto his hands and knees, then rose, still cautiously, to his feet. There must, he thought, be light coming from somewhere, because he could make out rough-hewn walls and a low rocky roof, but the origin of the light was unclear.

  There was a hole where he had fallen through the ceiling, which seemed to be made of lathe and plaster rather than rock like the rest of the cavern. A mound of dirt was piled high beneath it, and Sigismund decided that he must have hit this first and then rolled to the bottom. “This place can’t be a natur
al cave at all,” he muttered. “It must have been dug out and some of the dirt left behind. Luckily for me.”

  He peered up but could only see darkness through the opening in the roof. “So where’s the light coming from?” Sigismund murmured, and looked around the cavern again. He realized then that he had seen drawings of places like this before, in books that described the burial places of ancient rulers and heroes. If he was right, there should be an opening on the far side of this cavern, leading to a smaller cave where the dead had been laid to rest. “But am I back on the mortal plane,” he wondered aloud, “or is this place still part of the Margravine’s house in some way, or somewhere else entirely?”

  Sigismund extended his inner awareness and decided that there was still much here that was of the faie, although with elements of the mortal plane—and possibly others—woven through it. But who, he wondered, would lie buried in a place that was of the human world but not of it at the same time? He swallowed, his throat tightening with a mix of anticipation and fear.

  The aperture between the larger and smaller caves was so tight that Sigismund had to squeeze through sideways, before stooping to fit beneath an even lower roof. But he saw that he was right about this being a burial place: there was a sarcophagus, with light streaming up from it in a single beam. The light was so clear that it was almost white, but there was a ruddy glow along the outer edge of the beam. Sigismund approached with caution. One could never be certain what powers or talismans had been buried in the tombs of old, or how they might respond to being disturbed.

  He had thought, at first sight, that the sarcophagus was made of crystal, but now he decided that it was diamond, hard and cold. There was a body sealed in its center, the traditional figure of an armored knight with hands folded in prayer. The body shone with a faint radiance, similar to the way the Margravine had glowed in the belvedere, but the beam of light was coming from a sword resting on top of the diamond tomb.

  Sigismund stood very still and for a moment almost forgot to breathe. He felt dizzy, but it was not the confusing muzziness that had filled his head in the belvedere. This was amazement mixed with excitement because he had seen this sword before, when he dreamed of the storm-darkened Wood. He remembered the white gleam along the blade’s edge and the blood-red stone in the pommel. He recalled the sense of power too, like holding lightning in his closed fist.

  The same power crackled in the air now, and Sigismund could see the fine red and white enamelwork around the guard and the dragon that rippled down the length of the blade. He wondered who the knight was and what would happen if he took the sword for his own. It had been his in the dream, and he needed a weapon now, but he didn’t want to rob the dead.

  “Please,” he whispered. “I need a sword badly right now, even a borrowed one.” He extended his hand and grapsed the hilt. “I promise that I’ll return it, if it isn’t meant for me.”

  Shock jarred Sigismund’s arm to the elbow, but the hilt felt made for his hand and he lifted the sword clear of the tomb. A quick sighting showed him that the blade was true and he turned it this way and that, assessing weight and balance. It was a superb weapon. “The work of a master,” Sigismund murmured, and wondered again who the knight had been, to bear such a sword.

  There was a scabbard set into the tomb beneath the blade, with a broad sword belt wound around it. The belt was plain, but the scabbard was of crimson leather with a pattern of fine gold wires and white enamel flowers across its surface—and another dragon, cunningly entwined amongst the thorns and flowers. The scabbard was as fine in its way as the craftsmanship of the sword, like the richly worked casket that houses a priceless jewel.

  Sigismund buckled the sword belt on. “Thank you,” he whispered to the diamond tomb.

  There was no answer but the feel of the sword in his hand, no reply but the way the belt curled around his waist and the scabbard sat on his hip as though born to it. Sigismund felt sure now that he had been meant to find this sword, despite the circumstances that had led him to the tomb.

  There was a soft thud from the larger cave and a grunt, as if someone had jumped down onto the same pile of dirt that had cushioned Sigismund’s fall. It was followed almost immediately by a whisper of cold air and the scrape of a sword being drawn. Sigismund crept back to the opening, peering through. The cave was filled with a chill light that showed him Flor sidestepping down the dirt mound, the black-clad faie floating at his side. They still held their bone and glass weapons ready, but unlike Flor, who remained corporeal, their forms had begun to fray. They were only half substance now, half crackling energy and shadow, like the dancers in the Faerie hall. Their eyes, as they searched the cavern, were cold licks of flame.

  Flor kicked at something with his foot. “Well, he can’t be far away. He was carrying these saddlebags in the belvedere.”

  “Perhaps we should have remained there.” The voice was cold as the light that filled the cavern, but Sigismund could not tell which of the faie warriors had spoken. “It was not wise to leave while the intruder remained undefeated, and we could have caught this princeling later. No human can elude us for long on this plane.”

  “My grandmother will deal with the intruder.” Flor kicked the saddlebags aside. “And she wants this human caught and subdued, so that she can bind him to her will.”

  “Dead is safer.” The faie voice was little more than a whisper.

  Flor shrugged. “Will you explain a dead body to my grandmother when she wants him alive?” He grinned at the silence that greeted these words, but without mirth. “Spread out and search the cave, and look for ways out.”

  A way out, thought Sigismund, looking around for one as he retreated from the narrow opening. He could see no physical escape from the smaller cave and frowned, one hand on the sword’s hilt as his ears strained toward the outer cavern. A shadow stirred in the corner of the room and he turned, knowing that time was running out. A voice called sharply from the main cave and the shadow became a hand, beckoning. Sigismund could make out a dim form behind it and he took a step forward, drawing the red and white sword in case of treachery.

  Light blazed from the blade and the shadow figure stepped away. Sigismund followed, the light from the sword showing him a line of energy curving through stone and earth: there were nodes of power strung along it, like planets or stepping-stones. Sigismund could see the shadow ahead of him leaping from one to the other, and there was a shout from behind as he sprang to follow.

  It was like being caught in a flood, with currents of light and substance streaming past, and Sigismund was swept along like a leaf. Only the nodes were solid, islands in the main channel of the river, and he could feel the sword pulling him from one to the other, following a thread of mortal earth. The shadow figure darted ahead, but with every node they passed the shadow became a little more definite, until Sigismund could make out bare feet and a ragged skirt. Rue, it seemed, had found him again.

  How did she do it this time? he wondered, before a roar from behind drove everything else from his mind. He saw Rue’s head turn, saw her look of horror although she made no sound, and looked back himself. He could see earth and energy streaming away behind them, with layers of substance and shadow overlapping each other. The house in Thorn forest lay on top of the Faerie hall where elemental beings with firefly eyes had danced, and he could see the cupola of the belvedere as well, overlying trees that were tossing in a great wind. But the most substantial layer was the cavern tomb they had just fled and the thickening darkness within it.

  There was something enormous moving in that darkness, heaving itself out of rock and dirt to pursue them. Sigismund could make out a flat head rising on an immense sinuous neck, then plunging down again as a first, huge loop of body uncurled from the earth behind it. It was a serpent, Sigismund realized, too shocked to move, except that its scales were of rippling stone, its eyes rock. The sword in his hand blazed brighter as he tried to lift it, but his body was frozen, disconnected from his will by the serpent
’s stare.

  A hand closed over his left wrist from behind and jerked him off balance, breaking the contact with the serpent’s eye and whirling him back into the torrent of power. Rue was no shadow this time; Sigismund could feel the warmth and substance of her grip as he regained his balance and ran. She was terrified, he could feel that too as the earth serpent roared again. The energy river began to slow and Rue’s hand tugged again, pulling him forward—but the flow beneath their feet was already sluggish, the serpent gaining on them.

  Rue pointed ahead, to a break that had appeared in the energy pattern. Scarlet and gold flames circled the opening, shifting into a pattern of dragons flying on the wind. Sigismund blinked but followed the pull of Rue’s hand toward the opening. Moving forward was hard work now, like wading through mud, and he felt sure that at any moment the current would reverse completely, dragging them back toward their pursuer.

  Sigismund pulled his wrist out of Rue’s grasp and stopped, turning to face the serpent. He made himself ignore how close it was now, and the looming immensity of its stone maw. Instead he concentrated on the sword in his hand and a memory of Balisan’s voice, naming the heavenly conjunctions that opened the paths between different realms of existence—except that what Sigismund intended now was to close them.

  He raised the sword and felt his own power answer as he turned his face away from the serpent’s mesmerizing stare and cut into the energy current between them. As he cut, Sigismund named the last of the necessary conjunctions that Balisan had taught him, the one that would normally complete an invocation of opening—only the cut he made was against the flow of power. He did not look to see what effect it had on the serpent, he just raised the sword and cut again, continuing to name the conjunction of planets and powers in their reverse order. At the fourth cut he felt the node beneath his feet shudder, and the flow of energy back toward the earth serpent began to slow. Soon it was their pursuer that was struggling, fighting to make its way through disintegrating layers of reality.