Before he got far, the vision flung her arms wide with a bellow of astonishing volume. The cloud, still erupting from the bottle, boiled angrily beneath her.
“A curse upon you, Rolfe de Viandin!” she cried, pointing a finger directly at him. The fury of her gaze made him tremble in his boots, despite all he had faced in the past few years. “A mortal man is at the root of my woes and you shall pay the price of the faithlessness of your kind!”
That did not sound promising, but Rolfe had little time to reflect upon her words.
The dark cloud began to swirl like a tempest, picking up dirt and leaves, gathering them in a spinning column. Rolfe’s cloak whipped around him, its hem snapping across Mephistopheles’ side, and his hair blew across his brow, obscuring his vision.
He snatched at the cloak, closed his eyes, and lifted his arm over his face to protect himself from the unexpected assault. He leaned his face against his destrier, who snorted indignantly and lowered his head. Rolfe was halfway certain that every scrap of clothing he wore would be ripped apart. He did not dare to consider how cheese could manage such a feat.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the raging wind fell silent.
Inexplicably, Rolfe heard a bird sing.
His garments seemed suddenly too warm and he felt the heat of the sun upon his head. Rolfe lifted his head and blinked in shock at the sight that greeted his eyes.
He stood in a garden surrounded by lushly fragrant and exotic blooms, although that seemed decidedly against the odds. Was this an illusion, as well? He stared in disbelief. Golden sunlight poured on the blossoms around him and the air was alive with the hum of insects. The bleak forest where he had ridden just moments past was nowhere to be seen.
Truly, the cheese had outdone itself.
Surrounding the garden was a high wall made of an unfamiliar white stone, artfully fitted and gleaming so brightly in the sunlight that it might have been made of silver. A low palace stretched out behind him. A long pool lined with blue tiles guided the eye directly to its doorway, and the scent of Eastern cooking teased his nostrils.
Rolfe blinked, but the illusion stubbornly remained.
As did the specter before him. She folded her arms across her chest, dissatisfaction clear in the harsh line of her lips.
Rolfe licked his lips. He had hoped for a home and now he stood in a palace. She had said she would surrender it to him. He had been cold and yearned for warmth.
Was this vessel trying to make his dreams come true?
That was beyond belief.
It had to be an illusion or a jest. Rolfe braced his booted feet on the ground and faced the vision. “What manner of trickery is this?” he demanded. “I insist that you return me to the forest and restore my palfrey.”
She arched a brow. “Make no mistake, mortal, my palace is as real as you are.”
Rolfe eyed his surroundings. He shed his gloves, sniffed a bloom, fingered the leaves of a shrub, and found nothing amiss. A type of insect he did not recognize ambled along the shrub’s leaves and he touched it.
It stung him. Rolfe cursed and leaped backward, shaking the creature from his hand.
He eyed the specter. “Where are we? What have you done?”
“You are precisely where you were before,” she replied. “It is my palace that has moved here, to satisfy the curse laid upon me.” Her eyes narrowed to fierce slits and her voice dropped low. “Now it is yours. I hope that you are satisfied.” There was no denying her bitterness, which made Rolfe wonder if she told the truth.
Wolves bayed in the distance, their howls carrying over the walls in support of her claim.
There were no wolves in the East, from whence this palace seemed to have sprung. And he had heard wolves in the forest just before opening the bottle.
This must be a deception, and he had only to figure out how it had been accomplished.
“I do not understand,” Rolfe said, although he thought he might. “What have I done? If this is your palace, take it where you will. It is not my fault that it is here.”
The spirit granted him a chilling glance. “Of course, it is your doing!” she replied. “Do you imagine that I would choose such a dismal locale?” She shuddered and eyed him with accusation. “It was you who opened the bottle and you to whom I am indebted for my release.”
“You seem less than pleased,” he replied. “Surely to be released from confinement is no small thing?”
“Perhaps it would be a relief if I did not have to pay such a heavy price! Who would be pleased to give their greatest treasure to a mere mortal?”
At that, Rolfe was insulted. Mere mortal? “I asked you for nothing!”
The specter bent down, her eyes flashing with fury. “And what you want is of no consequence! Trust me, mortal, if I could betray my obligation, I most surely would, for no being ever deserved such a gift less than a mortal man!” She folded her arms across her chest once more. “But a curse required me to grant possession of my palace to whoever freed me from my prison. Even a djinn must adhere to some code of honor.”
A djinn? Rolfe had heard of those beings but had never believed they existed.
She glanced about herself, her displeasure more than clear. “Though nothing was said of doing so with grace.”
But no one would surrender such a palace willingly. A tale too fair was seldom true. This had to be a trick, a trick designed to rid him of his possessions. The palfrey was already gone, and with it a goodly quantity of his supplies.
Rolfe glared at the inexplicable being before him. He had heard of such deceptions. Bayard had been cheated of his coin upon arrival in Outremer, having been convinced to pay for a saddle for a steed that he could have free of charge. He had paid for the saddle, then both steed and saddle had vanished in the night, leaving him penniless and without a mount.
Rolfe’s grip tightened on Mephistopheles’ reins. No one would take from him what was his.
“You grant nothing to me,” Rolfe argued. “This is merely a trick.”
The djinn’s eyes blazed. “A trick? You spurn my glorious gift?”
“I have no need of your spells and sorcery,” he retorted. “Return my palfrey and let me continue on my way.”
“No need?” the djinn echoed. Another wolf howled beyond the walls and a glint lit her eye. Dread trickled down Rolfe’s spine, and he took a step back before he could stop himself.
The djinn pursued him with terrifying speed. Her face filled Rolfe’s vision, and when she smiled, he saw that her teeth were not just sharp, but points of brass.
“Perhaps you will soon see the need of spells and sorcery,” she hissed. “I reserve the right to reward ingratitude.” She drew herself up taller and flung her hands skyward, her growing size making both Rolfe and his black destrier ease toward the gates.
Rolfe wondered if they could flee while her attention was averted.
“Rolfe de Viandin,” she roared, and the ground trembled at her words.
“Ingratitude for my gift has earned you this strife:
as a wolf, you will live out your life!”
A wolf!
Despite his conviction that this was nonsense, Rolfe waited for a moment, holding his breath. When nothing changed, he dared to feel relief. His relief was quickly followed by scorn.
Spells and sorcery were fables.
“A wolf?” he repeated, his tone skeptical.
“You do not believe me?”
Rolfe shrugged. “I believe in what I see, as well as what I can hold in my hands. I see that nothing has changed. I suspect that you and this—” he gestured to the palace “—are a reminder that the cheese I ate at midday was past its prime.”
“Cheese?” the djinn echoed. Rolfe jumped at the volume of her voice and even Mephistopheles’ eyes widened. “You dare to attribute my presence to cheese?”
Her eyes flashed as the clear sky was abruptly obscured by dark clouds. Thunder rumbled overhead. Lightning crackled and the ground stirred beneath Rolfe’s feet. The black
destrier stepped sideways with a skittishness more typical of the lost palfrey.
“I am more than mere cheese and you will see the truth!”
“Perhaps I should have been more tactful,” Rolfe murmured. Mephistopheles flicked one ear, as if to agree. The djinn grew to the height of a mountain before them and Rolfe could not help but dread her pronouncement.
Cheese. Rolfe repeated the word like a litany, but as he watched the ominous cloud grow, his conviction faded.
When the djinn spoke again, her voice made the ground shake. The trees quivered from the tumult of her breath. The flowers abruptly closed against the storm.
“Powers vested beneath the earth,
Hear my words and attend my curse.
Teach this one to respect my powers;
Leave him trapped outside these towers.
Condemn him to howl and prowl near,
This place a reminder of all he held dear.
Mortal ways he shall pursue no more,
Doomed to remember forevermore.
Let the one who crosses this threshold first,
Be condemned to wed him despite his curse.
And let the one in whom he confides,
Lead a killer to his side.”
The wind ripped at Rolfe’s cloak again as her voice fell silent. When the wind stilled and he opened his eyes, he was outside the smooth white walls. The silent forest surrounded him again, and snow fell thickly around him. There was no sign of the djinn, although winter had fallen with a sudden vengeance. At least Mephistopheles was still by his side, perhaps because he still clutched the reins tightly.
“May you be as miserable as I have been, mortal!” The djinn’s voice came from every side, though she was not within view.
Rolfe spun around, but he could not see her.
Or the bottle for Adalbert.
Much less his palfrey.
“Look for your change by nightfall.” Her laughter filled the forest, coming from everywhere and nowhere at all.
Rolfe shivered, telling himself it was only the unexpected change of temperature he felt. The sky was darkening, though he refused to let himself dread the night.
“Cheese,” he said to Mephistopheles. Although he spoke to the destrier, he knew his words were meant to reassure himself as much as any.
“The vision is clearly over,” he continued with a resolve he was far from feeling. “We are in the forest, just as we were before and, undoubtedly, just as we have been all along. It is not surprising in the least that I did not see this palace wall, for it is as white as the falling snow.”
Rolfe waved his hand, deliberately ignoring the fact that it had not been snowing earlier. “Perfectly logical,” he concluded. “We will seek the palfrey and continue our journey home. Perhaps Adalbert will be indulgent even though I have lost his gift.”
Mephistopheles gave his knight a glance that might have been skeptical, had it come from a man instead of a beast. Then the horse’s gaze fell pointedly on the space behind Rolfe. Mephistopheles snorted and tossed his head, backing away from his knight.
A curious tickling sensation made Rolfe dread what he might see. He turned and caught a glimpse of a silver-gray tail.
Rolfe twisted, and the tail danced merrily out of sight as he turned in ever tighter circles, trying to get a better look at it.
He grabbed at it, his eyes widening in shock at the answering tug he felt. The tail trapped within his grip was long and quite firmly affixed to him. It was graced with thick silver hair that shaded to white at the tip.
Precisely like that of a wolf.
Before he could utter another sound, Mephistopheles nickered a warning.
Rolfe swiveled to see the bottle rolling across the ground, seemingly of its own volition. Where had it come from? What would spill from its mouth now? More trouble, to be sure, but Rolfe could not see the cork anywhere.
He knew he should flee, but he could not tear his gaze away from the bottle. It rolled first this way and then the other, leaving a trail in the thickly falling snow. He was struck by the conviction that something was trying to get out of it.
Where was the cork?
He had seized a fistful of snow, hoping to jam it into the vessel, when a voice spoke from its interior. He dropped the decanter in surprise.
“A curse upon this bottle! In all truth, one would think that to be free of her company would be blessing indeed, but no! This wretched bottle has to hamper my departure in a most uncomfortable way. Too many centuries waiting for rescue has a way of going to one’s hips, I suppose, but truly...”
Rolfe’s eyes widened. Mephistopheles stamped his hooves when the feminine voice squeaked.
“Oh! I never thought I had indulged that much. Certainly, she consumed twice what I did, if not more, but perhaps malice is better for the figure in the long run. Would that not be a sad statement on the world, if such were the case! I cannot imagine it, but certainly, it would appear to be so.”
It was another djinn.
Rolfe had had enough of djinns and their interference for this day.
“Away with you!” he shouted. “Trouble another if you must, but leave me be! I have had my share of djinns and their curses to last a lifetime!”
The voice fell silent, but Rolfe intended to put as much distance between himself and the vessel as possible. He flung the bottle through the air, no longer wanting to take it home. It did not travel as far as Rolfe might have hoped before bouncing in the snow. Another muffled squeak had Rolfe reaching for his saddle, tail or no.
He had no intention of waiting like a fool to see what this djinn’s response might be.
A rosy cloud unfurled from the bottle’s mouth this time, making the air around Rolfe and his destrier glow like the first light of dawn.
It was not unpleasant.
Rolfe found himself glancing back over his shoulder in curiosity, one foot in the stirrup.
“Much better, oh yes, much better indeed,” that feminine voice declared. “What a relief it is to have room to stretch.”
The glow grew high and wide, stretching out to encompass all of the surrounding woods, before rolling back into a tight orb. That sphere radiated an opalescent light, but beyond its periphery, the sky grew steadily darker. It was as if the moon floated before Rolfe, or a small version of it.
Rolfe leaned closer then there was a loud crack that made him jump.
A plump woman of indeterminate age sat on the upturned bottle. She smiled at Rolfe and propped her chin on her hand to study him, as if there was nothing unusual about her sudden appearance at all.
Rolfe blinked and she smiled at him.
She wore the sheer trousers and upturned leather shoes like those he had seen in Outremer, topped by a high-necked, heavily embroidered tunic. Her hair was dark and hung on either side of her face in thick braids. She wore a round fur hat with red woolen balls dangling from its rim, and those balls danced as she moved her head. A broadsword much like Rolfe’s own hung by her side.
She returned his regard intently for a moment then suddenly stared down at herself.
“Oh, my,” she whispered and one hand rose to her lips.
A shimmer of light blinded Rolfe for a moment. He blinked, and incredibly, in that short interval, the woman’s garb changed.
She wore a fitted blue kirtle over an undyed chemise and a fur-lined cloak that fell all the way to her boots. She looked like any noblewoman Rolfe might have seen before, with the exception of her strange hat which remained.
She touched it and smiled at Rolfe’s glance. “It is warm,” she informed him. She had a certain girlish charm, but he would not be swayed from his suspicions.
“Are you another djinn?” he asked, realizing that his tone was hostile.
“Yes, that I am.” She drew herself taller. “I must say your manner is decidedly forward, if not rude.”
“My manner is nothing compared to that of the last djinn I met,” Rolfe declared. “How many of you are in there?”
She looked startled by his question. “Only two, mercifully, for she was company enough for me.” She sighed. “I can tell you that centuries take considerably longer to pass than one might think when the company is less than ideal.”
Rolfe had no idea how to reply, but she continued as if not expecting him to do so.
“I am so relieved to be released. I should even grant you a wish.” She frowned and tapped one finger on her lip. “Was that how it worked?” she mused to herself. “One wish? Three wishes?” She flicked a glance at Rolfe. “One must follow the rules, you know.”
The last djinn had spoken similarly just before she had taken her vengeance upon Rolfe.
Clearly, it was time to leave.
“It does not matter,” he said hastily. “I thank you, but have no need of any favors from djinns.” He took several quick steps backward and reached for his saddle once more. Could he mount and ride away without her stopping him? It was certainly worth a try.
“Oh, but I must insist—”
“No, it is best saved for another. If you will excuse me?” Rolfe pivoted and had one foot in a stirrup before she clicked her tongue.
“Oh, she is good,” she said.
Rolfe knew this djinn had spotted his tail and he felt his neck heat in embarrassment. Something tingled at his fingertips before he could speak, and he glanced down to find his nails had turned dark.
Like claws. Panic made him spin back to face the djinn, for lack of other alternatives.
He was changing to a wolf!
Right before his own eyes.
Perhaps spells and sorcery had their uses, after all.
“You said you could grant me a wish?” he asked. The djinn nodded. “Can you undo her spell?”
“Undo?” The djinn shook her head. “No one can undo anything. That is not the way.”
“Then you cannot help me?”
The djinn sat up straight. “I did not say that,” she replied. “I will help you, despite your manner, because I think she was ungracious in cursing her liberator. We had hopes, you know, that time would cure her of her malicious tendencies, but it seems she has only become more vengeful.” The djinn fired a glance at Rolfe. “And I was always taught that there was no excuse for rudeness, under any circumstance.”
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