Thornspell

by Helen Lowe

  And in all the noise and excitement, it had been some time before he realized that Balisan had disappeared.

  It made sense, Sigismund supposed. There had been more than enough uproar without those in the newly awakened palace having to try and come to terms with the presence of a dragon in their grounds. But sensible or not, he couldn’t help feeling doubly abandoned, given what had happened with Rue.

  How like Balisan, he thought, to turn up, reveal that he’s a dragon, and then depart again without a word. But his feelings were definitely mixed, because there was awe as well as pride that a dragon had been protecting him all these years. Sigismund grinned and shook his head. “And I used to think that my life in the West Castle was completely ordinary.”

  He would, he supposed, have to go down soon. The King and Queen had ordered that the old feast be cleared away and a new celebration prepared for that night. Sigismund and his friends, they said, would be the guests of honor, and there would be music and dancing as well as feasting. But then they had taken Rue away, and although the courtiers treated Sigismund with every courtesy, he felt very much the stranger and rather in the way of all the preparations. He had also begun to feel extremely tired, which was not surprising, given that he had begun the crossing of the Wood the previous night, and the day itself had been filled with magic and violence.

  As soon as Sigismund mentioned feeling weary, he, Adrian, and Wenceslas had been taken to rooms where there was food and drink on trays, clean clothes and soft beds, and hot water for bathing in. Sigismund even slept for a while, in a shaft of warm sunshine stretched across the bed, but woke filled with restlessness and the desire to keep away from other people for as long as possible. In the end he had found himself here, in a narrow tower with a curved balcony near the top, and a clear view over the palace grounds to the deepening shadow of the Wood. Sigismund suspected that the tower might have been built as a folly, simply for people to enjoy the view, since the few rooms it contained were small, and no one had come there to disturb him.

  The sunset was coral and fire along the western horizon, but the sky overhead was already dark blue and there were a hundred lights streaming out across the lawns and terraces below. The air was mild and Sigismund could hear the first strains of music from the hall. It floated out the open windows with the lantern light, the notes mingling with laughter and the clamor of children playing hide-and-seek along the terraces.

  “So this is where you’re hiding,” said Balisan, stepping out onto the balcony so quietly that Sigismund jumped. Balisan leaned against the balustrade beside him, and Sigismund relaxed as he recognized his usual quizzical smile. It was hard, he thought, to see the immense firedrake in the man—unless it was in the eyes: not just their slanting shape and the flared brows, but something in their unfathomable expression and the way they shone like molten metal, even in the dark.

  “I thought you’d gone,” he said.

  Balisan’s brows rose, and Sigismund was surprised at just how good it felt to see that familiar expression. “Without saying good-bye?” The voice too was exactly as he remembered, the tone mild beneath the faint sibilance. “I would not do that.”

  “I’m glad,” Sigismund said. He studied the dark cloud of the forest, thinking that soon it too would be filled with sound again. The roads would open up and traders like Martin and Bror would begin to come further west—and no doubt there would be negotiations and treaties to establish a clear boundary between his father’s realm and the Kingdom of the Wood. There was, Sigismund reflected, going to be a great deal to do. “But I suppose you’ll be going soon, now this business with the Margravine is done?”

  “In time,” Balisan replied. “But I do not have to go straightaway.”

  “I would like that,” Sigismund said. He let his breath out on the tiniest of sighs. “I’ve just realized how different everything is going to be.”

  Balisan nodded, slanting him a sideways look. “More than you know perhaps. Your father is on his way here from the south.”

  Sigismund straightened, all the confusion and lethargy of the day’s aftermath falling away. “Why? How far away is he? When does he arrive?”

  Balisan held up a hand, smiling. “Why?” he echoed. “That is easy enough. No one could have held him back once he knew that you intended to venture the Wood on your own. And I did not try.” The sibilant voice was soft. “He loves you, Sigismund, although he is not the kind of man to show such emotion easily and will probably never say the words. The resistance in the south collapsed as soon as he occupied the Varana citadel, and he realized that this must be because the Margravine was no longer there to fan the flames—that you were right, in other words. So he left matters in the hands of General Langrafon—although with strict instructions, I believe, not to put all the zu Malvolin to the sword—and came north with the royal bodyguard. He has been pressing hard and should reach the West Castle in the next few days.”

  I had better return there before that, Sigismund thought. He suspected that the reunion was going to be awkward, because Balisan was right and his father’s personality wasn’t going to change. “Well, at least we should have plenty to talk about. Not just what happened with the Margravine, but formally lifting the interdict and establishing relations with the King and the Queen of the Wood.” He frowned, thinking. “And there’s still the south. Even if the rebellion there has died out, we still need to reestablish a tradition of peace.”

  Balisan nodded. “There will be a great deal to do. Your father will need your help, and be glad to have it.”

  “Even if he doesn’t say so.” Sigismund straightened and peered down at the terrace below. A lone flautist had come out and was playing a sweet merry air that had drawn the children like moths to a candle. Sigismund could see their attentive half circle and feel the joy expressed in the music, a joy that was reflected throughout the castle. But he felt outside it all, like the knights-errant in the stories, who having achieved their quest, accept the thanks of those they have helped…and leave.

  But I don’t want to leave, thought Sigismund. He turned his head and found Balisan watching him. “I hope,” he said, “that this means an end to Ban Valensar wearing the likeness of my face.”

  The bronze eyes gleamed. “As far as the world is concerned, Ban Valensar has never left the West Castle, and you have been at your father’s side throughout this past winter and spring.” Balisan shrugged. “It will not be difficult to make the switch without anyone being the wiser. It is a very small glamour to manage.”

  “For a dragon,” Sigismund said, and Balisan raised an eyebrow.

  “Does that trouble you?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Sigismund pushed a hand through his hair, trying to decide what he felt. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s just that I didn’t know, although I suppose that my father must have.” A memory flashed, the boyhood vision of his father in a lantern-lit campaign tent and Balisan entering on a gust of wind.

  “He knew the old story, of course, but only as one of the legends of your House.” Balisan’s tone was thoughtful. “I do not think he believed it was anything more than that, until he sent into the Paladinates for a champion and I answered his call.”

  Sigismund felt a shiver creep across his skin. He wondered how his father would have felt, hearing Balisan speak of that long-forgotten kinship and offer help that might level the odds against the Margravine.

  “At first,” Balisan said, as if reading his thoughts, “he thought he was dreaming, fallen asleep over the war reports. More than a thousand years had passed, after all, since we made the sword for Parsifal.”

  Sigismund shivered outright then, and his hand closed around Quickthorn’s hilt. The sword was quiet again, except for a tiny answering flicker. “A thousand years,” he said. “No wonder the Margravine was surprised when you appeared today.”

  “What are a thousand years to a dragon?” Balisan’s tone was reflective. “She should have known better than to discount our interest. And
your father is not the man to refuse a bargain when it is offered to him.”

  The flautist had changed to another tune, a plaintive melody that spoke of regret, of love lost and roads not taken. Sigismund shifted, tracing the pattern of the stones set into the balustrade. “But you never told me,” he said quietly, and caught his companion’s headshake from the corner of his eye.

  “I dared not,” Balisan replied, “in case doing so upset the balance of magic in the hundred-year spell. I knew that Syrica’s influence over the Margravine’s original working was delicately poised, and if I intruded too far…” He shrugged. “And the magic was specific—the chosen prince alone must lift the spell. I needed to teach you how to access your own power in order to do that. If you had known that I was a dragon, then you might, even at a subconscious level, have relied on me.”

  “Yet in a way,” said Sigismund, thinking it through, “I had already drawn you into the spell, because I was the chosen prince and you had a kinship link to me.”

  “It is possible that I could have intervened further than I did.” Balisan shrugged again. “But it seemed best to leave you free to find your own path.”

  The flute music was still melancholy, and Sigismund felt a great deal older than he had that morning. He didn’t want to think about the Margravine anymore, or to go down into the great hall and see Rue again—but only at a remote and glittering distance. Now the quest that had driven him for so long was over with and done, all the paths ahead of him seemed flat and gray.

  If only, Sigismund thought, I could stay here forever, talking with Balisan in the old way, and delay taking the first inevitable step into that future. He sighed, watching the western sky fade from apricot to a clear pale lemon. “You said it was a thousand years since you made the sword. Is that when the blood of the dragon came into our line? And are the dragons where our power comes from?”

  Balisan reached out and clasped his shoulder, a brief touch but oddly comforting. “Yes to your last question,” he said, “although your family already had a deep connection to the land. Adding in the power of the dragon was like a successful graft onto the original stock. But how and why it came about is an old story, older by far than Parsifal.” He paused, smiling faintly. “Do you remember the tale that you told Master Griff you liked, the one about the princess who spun stories to the dragon to stop it from eating her?”

  Sigismund nodded. “Was that you?” he asked, his interest quickening. “Were you going to eat her?”

  To his surprise, Balisan laughed. “It was not me. I have a brother who is much fonder of hunting than I am, but of a solitary disposition. He was hunting in the northern regions of what is now this kingdom, and news of his presence came to the people who dwelt there. They were ignorant and thought that a dragon must be appeased lest it prey on them, and the princess had enemies amongst the king’s councilors. It turned out later that some of them were already in the pay of their kingdom’s enemies, and the princess was old enough to be a threat. So she was taken and chained in my brother’s cave when the watchers saw that he had flown out. And no,” he added, reading the question in Sigismund’s face, “he would not have eaten her. But he was annoyed because his solitude had been disturbed, so he thought he would let everyone suffer a bit longer before he let her go and then departed the region himself.”

  Balisan paused, the slight smile on his lips reflected in his eyes. “He has never been entirely sure whether the princess guessed that he was intelligent and not just a brute beast, or whether she began telling the stories just to keep her spirits up. But like you, Sigismund, he loves stories, and the princess quickly realized that he was listening and began to offer more storytelling in exchange for her life.”

  Sigismund was smiling now too. “Wenceslas was sure that there must have been a kiss in the mix somewhere.”

  “I think there were many kisses,” Balisan observed dryly, “and considerably more than that, since he ended up taking his human form for her sake, and their children were the ones that brought the blood of the dragon into your family line. Their son,” he added softly, “was the first to be known as the Young Dragon.”

  “And the sword?” asked Sigismund. “Where does Parsifal come into this?” He raised his own brows at Balisan’s look. “What?”

  “You know the story well,” the dragon said. “You should be able to work it out.”

  Sigismund shook his head, thinking that he was too tired to work anything out. The evening star was out and the moon rising, its crescent a little fuller than it had been the previous night. If you looked at it from a certain angle, Sigismund thought, it could almost be a question mark. He felt the ache of the flute’s last song, like an answering question in his throat.

  “I think he has worked enough things out for one day.” Rue’s voice spoke from the darkened room behind them, and then she too stepped out onto the balcony, looking from one to the other. “The Parsifal story has many variants, but all have threads in common: the lady who is both loathly and fair, the presence of a sorceress and also of a woman who acts as a wise counselor. Perhaps it is my faie inheritance, but I have always understood this to mean that the knight Parsifal was loved by a dragon, who at times took human form.”

  Balisan pressed his hands together and inclined his head gracefully. “You are right, Princess,” he said, “and the sword Quickthorn was her gift to him. There is much of our power in it, which means that it has a will of its own and is an ally to the one who holds it, not a servant. It did not come to Sigismund at my request, but of its own free will.”

  “So you see, it is exactly like one of those old stories,” Rue said, smiling at Sigismund. “Only better, because you are in it.”

  Sigismund felt his heart quicken and was almost certain that Balisan was smiling too, somewhere behind his enigmatic expression. Rue looked from one to the other through the dusk.

  “You do look alike,” she said slowly. “It’s something about the shape and color of your eyes. But,” she added, speaking to Balisan, “you told me that you would not keep him long.”

  Balisan’s smile reflected the moon’s curve. “He had a lot of questions, despite having worked out so many answers today. But I will leave you both now and pay my respects to the King and Queen.”

  “I have told them you are here,” Rue said, “and in what form. They are expecting you.” She sank in a curtsy, answering his bow, and then came to stand beside Sigismund. She had changed her clothes, he saw, and was wearing something even richer and more formal than the dress in the belvedere. It had a velvet surcoat and cobweb sleeves, and a brocade skirt crumbed with jewels. Her hair curled and twisted down her back beneath a coronal of golden flowers.

  Sigismund thought she looked very beautiful and every inch a great princess, not at all like his ragged Rue. He could smell the familiar elusive rose of her perfume and was trying not to remember kissing her in the belvedere, for that brief dizzy time when they thought they had already won against the Margravine.

  Perhaps that was all the kisses had been, he thought now, just part of the excitement of thinking the spell had been lifted.

  Rue rested her arms on the balustrade. “I am sorry,” she said, “for leaving you like that. But there was so much happening, such a jumble of people, and my parents—”

  “You had to be with them, I know,” Sigismund said, determined to be reasonable despite the tightness in his throat. “And I don’t want you to think that you owe me anything for undoing the spell, chosen prince or not.” He kept his eyes fixed on the evening star, trying to focus on that and not her warm presence so close beside him. “The truth is that I always wanted to be the one to lift the spell, ever since Syrica first told me the story. It was my free choice,” he added, thinking about his conversation with Annie.

  “So I don’t owe you anything. I do see that.” Rue’s tone was so thoughtful that it took Sigismund a moment to realize that she was laughing at him. She put her hand out and rested it on top of his. “Oh, Sigismund
, don’t you see that I owe you everything? We all do. But that”—she put the fingertips of her other hand against his mouth before he could say anything—“isn’t why I love you.”

  After that, neither of them said anything for quite some time. Drowning, thought Sigismund, and sank further into the deep water that was his mouth on hers, her arms twisted close around his neck and his twined beneath the fall of her hair. When he finally raised his head, Sigismund thought the moon looked considerably less like a question mark. The music from the palace below was louder now, viol and harp joining merrily with flute and horn and drifting into the night.

  “We’ll be missed at the feast,” Sigismund said, but he did not step back or make any move to let her go. He caught the ghost of her smile.

  “My parents will not be there yet,” she said. “They wished for private speech with Lord Balisan, and said that they would wait afterward for me to bring you to them.”

  “Ah.” Sigismund let her hair run through his fingers like water. “I suppose,” he added after a moment, “that I had better call you Aurora now, since that’s your real name.”

  “Aura,” said Rue. “I could never manage Aurora when I was small, so I called myself Aura instead, and the name stuck.”

  “Aura then,” Sigismund murmured. “But I’ll miss Rue.”

  She leaned back a little, her hands still linked behind his neck, considering this. “I think I will too, a little. But I have to learn to be Aura again now and live in the waking world.”

  Sigismund nodded, recognizing the truth in this. “Aura,” he said again, letting her name hang on the night air. “It suits you.” But he knew that she would always be Rue in his heart. He paused, struck by a sudden thought. “So did Balisan know about you? Did he put the rue in that treatise on boar hunting, or was it someone else?”

  The slim straight line was back between Aura’s brows. “I don’t know. I took the herb as my personal emblem when I was old enough to understand the Margravine’s curse. That’s why Syrica took rue from the gardens here to be one of my anchors in the world.” She shrugged. “But I have no reason to believe that Lord Balisan knew that, or about my limited ability to move and act within the boundaries of the spell.”