Princess of the Silver Woods

by Jessica Day George

  “Oh! What were you doing?”

  “Getting my yarn,” Petunia said meaningfully, tilting her head slightly at the bed.

  “Oh. Oh!” Pansy appeared to catch her hint at last. “And did you find it?”

  “Here.” She held up the ball. “And the bed is very clean underneath,” she said.

  “I shall tell the chambermaid that you approve,” Olga said, her voice flat. “Are you not excited to spend the day with Prince Grigori?”

  “Of course we are,” said Petunia brightly. She tossed the yarn into the basket. “Aren’t we, Pansy?”

  But Pansy’s face was creased. “Is it safe? Aren’t there bandits? And wild animals?”

  “Prince Grigori is the greatest hunter in Ionia,” the maid snapped. “If he says that you will be safe with him, then you will be safe with him!” And she swept out of the room.

  “Well,” Pansy said, her eyes wide. “I guess we’ll be dressing ourselves, then.”

  “She’s in love with Grigori,” Petunia said slowly.

  “I think she made that very plain,” Pansy said, going to the wardrobe. “Are you sure Oliver isn’t in here?”

  “He’s not under the bed,” Petunia said. She went to the wardrobe and rustled the gowns about. “Oliver?” When no answer came, she pulled out her riding dress and threw it on the bed. “I don’t know where he is,” she said. “Or if he’s coming back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pansy said, putting a hand on Petunia’s arm. “But with things as they are, he’s probably better off. I mean, we’re dealing with the King Under Stone and his brothers, and the grand duchess might be—” Pansy stopped with a gasp, her eyes wide. “What if she’s Rionin’s mother?” Pansy’s eyes got even wider, if that were possible. “Or worse—the mother of one of the princes we killed? She must loathe us!”

  “The grand duchess is a rather strange old lady,” Petunia admitted, remembering their conversation from the night before. “But I can’t imagine she would have anything to do with this. She doesn’t have any contact with her … firstborn … I’m sure. How could she?”

  This gave Pansy pause. “Well,” she said at last. “I still think we need to be wary.”

  Petunia busied herself getting dressed, not wanting to start an argument. Olga soon returned and helped them finish dressing, doing their hair in simple styles that wouldn’t interfere with their riding hats. Not that Petunia planned to wear hers. It was very stiff and the veil itched, and she never wore it unless one of her sisters fussed.

  As soon as breakfast was over, they assembled in front of the manor. The presence of Prince Grigori and the grand duchess at breakfast had meant that Petunia had not been able to ask if anyone knew what had become of Oliver. She hoped that he had been able to speak with Galen, but Galen gave no sign at all.

  All thoughts of Oliver were chased from her head when she saw the horse that Grigori wanted her to ride. Nearly the twin of his own enormous mount, it was a coal-black beast that towered above Petunia.

  “Er,” she said when the groom led it over to her. She looked at the other horses being brought forward for her sisters. They all seemed much gentler, and she watched with envy as Lilac reached for the reins of the smallest, oldest-looking horse.

  “Oh, but you must try her,” Prince Grigori enthused about the black mare. “She is one of the finest in my stables. The full sister of my own favorite.” He patted the nose of his horse, which looked like it was going to bite him.

  “Er,” Petunia said again.

  “I would love to ride her,” Poppy said with genuine admiration. “I’m afraid that I’m the horse woman in the family.”

  “I can assure you, Petunia, she is as gentle as a lamb,” Grigori said. The mare stamped her foot, and the groom took a step back. “And for you, dear Princess Poppy, I have an equally worthy mount.” He gestured to a fiery-eyed bay.

  “Ooh, lovely,” Poppy said. She snugged on her leather riding gloves, an eager expression on her face.

  “Poppy,” Petunia whimpered.

  Poppy looked from the bay to the black mare, then shrugged. “You’ll be fine, Pet, just keep a firm grip on the reins.” And she happily followed the groom to the mounting block.

  Prince Grigori cupped his hands to help Petunia mount. She felt like she was preparing to be tossed over the moon as she put her knee into his hands. He lifted her into the saddle with a smile, and she scrabbled to adjust her cloak and get the reins in the right position. The horse shifted beneath her, and she broke out in a cold sweat. Her leather riding gloves felt thick and awkward, and she couldn’t remember how to hold her hands, suddenly. Olga was probably watching her through a window, sick with jealousy, and at that moment Petunia wished she could trade places with the maid.

  “Isn’t she magnificent?”

  Prince Grigori’s face was alight with plea sure. Petunia wondered if he wanted her to fall to her death. Before she could say anything, however, Violet’s husband, Frederick, started asking the prince questions about his horses’ bloodlines. Petunia just sat there like a lump with the reins wrapped around her hands, worrying about whether she would even make it through the front gates without falling.

  “Here, you,” Poppy said, drawing up alongside her. Her horse was smaller, but that just meant that Poppy and Petunia were now the same height. She took the reins from Petunia, untangled them, and showed her how to hold them correctly. Fortunately, Prince Grigori was busy assigning horses to the others. Petunia refused to let him see how frightened she was. And not just of the horse.

  “This seems like a terrible idea,” Petunia said to Poppy in an undertone.

  “Yes,” Poppy said cheerfully. “That’s why we’re going to do it. He’s clearly up to something, and the only way to find out what is to go along.”

  “And what if he … attacks … us?”

  “Have you got your pistol?” Poppy looked scandalized at the very idea that Petunia might have left her bedroom unarmed.

  “Of course I do,” Petunia said, off ended.

  “Well then!” Poppy grinned. “We outnumber him and his little band of hunters, who can’t be very impressive since Oliver and his men have kept right on thieving under their very noses.”

  Petunia looked around and realized that Poppy was right. Prince Grigori’s hunters were a sullen-looking group of no more than six men. They were on very large horses, and armed, but as Poppy said, they had tried and failed for months to bring in a single one of Oliver’s men.

  And what were they going to do? Try to abduct the sisters on behalf of the King Under Stone? Did they even have a gate to the Kingdom Under Stone?

  Petunia shook her head at her own fears and tried to concentrate on not falling off her horse instead. They left the estate and went into the forest, and Petunia discovered that if her horse kept moving it wasn’t half so alarming. It helped that it was a beautiful day, with the sun shining brightly through the bare tree branches, and those birds that had not fled for warmer climes calling out to each other.

  They ambled down a trail that led east, away from the Analousian border and deeper into the Westfalian Woods, which Petunia found reassuring. But as they rode, Petunia’s relief at staying on Westfalian soil began to be replaced by a growing uneasiness. She knew that she had never been in this part of the forest before, yet it began to look increasingly familiar. She knew that there would be a small stream just ahead, and an elm that had been split apart by lightning, both halves of its divided trunk still reaching toward the sun.

  Inside her gloves, Petunia’s hands grew slick with sweat. The pins that held her hat in place stabbed into her head, and she reached up with one hand and pulled them out, jabbing them inelegantly into the crown before removing it entirely. Violet was looking at her with concern, so Petunia didn’t discard the hat but set it in her lap, taking up the reins with both hands again. The horse’s ears flickered, as though sensing her uneasiness, and she prayed that it wouldn’t take the opportunity to throw her off.

  W
hen they passed a rock fringed with moss in a way that made it look a balding man, Petunia knew how she knew this part of the forest. It was the forest she had seen in her dream the night before. There were no roses, of course, and she was with Prince Grigori and not Oliver, but this was without a doubt the place she had seen.

  Violet drew her horse alongside Petunia’s.

  “Are you all right, Pet? You’re very pale.”

  “I will be fine,” Petunia said, taking pains to keep her voice even. “I am just worried that this horse is very tall and I … there are yellow roses! There really are!”

  Her horse jogged sideways as she shouted this, and Petunia sawed at the reins to make it stop. It bumped into Violet’s horse, which threw up its head in protest. Everyone halted as Petunia leaped from her own mount, even though it was still dancing around ner vous ly. She narrowly avoided being stepped on, first by her horse and then by Rose’s, as she bounded across the trail and off into the forest.

  “Petunia! Where are you going?” Rose called after her. Petunia could hear their horses crunching through the dead leaves after her, but she didn’t look back.

  Just there, just ahead, where she had dreamed that Oliver put roses in her hair, was an enormous rosebush. Despite the season, its leaves were a healthy dark green tinged with red, and it was covered with fat yellow blooms. They were precisely the glowing primrose yellow that Petunia and her father had been looking for.

  “Petunia!” Galen’s voice was sharp. “Don’t touch those roses!”

  But Prince Grigori just laughed. His enormous horse was between her and her sisters, and he leaned down and offered her a small dagger. “Take all you like, princess. It seems that they were meant for you.”

  “Thank you,” Petunia said, taking the dagger without even looking at him.

  She was studying the bush to find the best place to make a cutting. It was a pity that the bush was too big to transport whole. She wondered if they could come back later with better tools, to prune and uproot it. For now, though, a few slips would be sufficient.

  She heard Galen’s voice again as she separated out a thick stem crowned with blooms and began to slice through it.

  “Petunia, stop,” Galen said. “Roses don’t bloom in winter; they can’t be natural.”

  Petunia heard harnesses jingling as several of the others dismounted to come after her.

  “Who cares?” she called out. “Father will be ecstat—”

  Just as she heard Lily and Heinrich shouting almost in unison for her to wait, the ground opened up beneath her feet. The thorns of the stem she was holding went right through her leather glove and into the palm of her hand, but she just gripped it tighter.

  A heartbeat later, she landed with a thump on all fours on black soil that glittered faintly. She looked up through the silver branches that swayed over her head, but all was darkness above them, with no sign of the hole she had fallen through. She stood and shook the glittering dirt from her cloak and gown, leaning against one of the silver trees for a moment to get her bearings.

  After a time, when no one else arrived, she made her way to the shore of the black lake. Across the lake, the jagged black spires of the Palace Under Stone cut the murky air, as familiar as her own home.

  Kestilan was waiting on the shore with a single silver boat.

  “Hello, beloved,” he purred. “Welcome home.”

  Petunia didn’t reply. What was there for her to say? Still holding the yellow roses in one hand and Grigori’s dagger in the other, she stepped into the boat.

  Tested

  Oliver was nervous about knocking on the door of Bishop Schelker’s modest home next to the palace. But he should have reckoned that the bishop, having been so long the advisor and confidante of the royal family, would have seen stranger sights than a wanted fugitive appearing out of thin air on his doorstep one morning.

  “Come in,” the bishop said as soon as he saw Oliver. He took Oliver’s arm and pulled him into the cottage.

  The bishop locked the door before he ushered Oliver into a small study. The windows faced the palace, and the bishop quickly closed the curtains. Then he breathed a large sigh and sat down behind his desk.

  “Please have a seat,” he said, indicating a comfortable chair across from his desk. “I would offer you something … but my house keeper is in the kitchen just now, and I don’t think she should see you.”

  “That’s all right,” Oliver croaked, sinking down into the chair.

  He’d been walking for three days without stopping for more than a few minutes, and he was exhausted. Almost too exhausted to eat, though he wouldn’t turn down a drink. His throat was so dry his thanks had come out as a croak. He’d thought about stealing a horse, but the only horses to be stolen in the forest had been the grand duchess’s, and the risk of being captured was too great. What food he’d had had run out that morning, and once he’d reached the gates of Bruch, he’d rushed straight to the bishop’s house without even stopping at a public well to drink.

  The bishop noticed his dusty-sounding voice and poured him a glass of water from a decanter on the desk. “That I can help with,” he said with a small smile. “It’s what else you need that worries me.”

  Oliver downed the water before answering. “Well, Your Grace,” he said when he could speak clearly. “I can assure you that I’m not here on my own behalf, to beg you to petition the king for my release.”

  Bishop Schelker looked at him with amusement. “The question of your release is rather moot, since you can come and go as you please with that particular item.” His gaze sharpened on the dull purple cloak, which Oliver had laid over the arm of his chair. “Which belongs to Crown Prince Galen, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Oliver said. “I wear it at his insistence, I promise.”

  The bishop relaxed. “I’m inclined to believe you. It’s the sort of thing Galen would do. I suppose you were instructed to stay out of harm’s way while Kelling and I soothed the king?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And yet you are here.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Oliver said again. “Prince Galen sent me. He needs help.”

  The bishop sat forward. “What sort of help?”

  Oliver rolled the glass between his hands, not sure why he was ner vous. The bishop hadn’t been surprised by his sudden appearance. He had readily believed Galen would loan Oliver the invisibility cloak. This seemed like one thing too many to ask a man of the Church to believe, however.

  But it was for Petunia …

  “Galen said that it’s time, and that you were to come with me. He also needs all the silver bullets you have. Also daggers. And there is a list of herbs.…” Oliver trailed off.

  The bishop was looking at him with his face completely blank. Not confused, not alarmed, just blank. Oliver wondered if the bishop had any idea what he was saying. Oliver didn’t know where to find the herbs, let alone bullets made from silver, so he’d been hoping that the bishop would understand everything that the crown prince had asked for. But the way the bishop was looking at Oliver made him wonder if he was about to ring for help in restraining a madman.

  “Anything else?” Bishop Schelker’s voice was as carefully blank as his face.

  “He said that you were to … summon … the others.”

  “The others?”

  “The others,” Oliver said firmly.

  “Why are you doing this?” The bishop folded his hands on the desk blotter and looked at Oliver. “The palace is right there. His Majesty has just returned from the fortress, which calmed him only slightly. If I choose to raise the alarm, you will be executed tomorrow morning. Why did you come all this way to carry this very cryptic message? One which, might I add, Galen could have sent in a letter.”

  “I—I— Well, you see—” Oliver stammered for a moment. He looked at the bishop’s earnest face. He remembered that the bishop had been the one to take his side that day in the council room. Oliver’s heart tr
ied to pound its way out of his ribcage, but he ignored it. “I’m in love with Petunia,” he announced. “And I want to help her.”

  Bishop Schelker got to his feet. Oliver scrambled to follow, and his tired legs nearly buckled and dumped him on the floor. He steadied himself on the edge of the bishop’s desk, but Schelker didn’t seem to notice.

  The bishop took a key from his pocket and opened a cabinet behind his desk. Oliver wondered if he was going to pull out a weapon or perhaps restraints. Instead the older man took out several small knitted bags on long cords, some dried herbs, and a stack of pasteboard boxes and laid them carefully on the desk.

  Schelker leaned his hands on either side of the strange pile he had made and looked sternly at Oliver for a long time. Oliver sank back down in his seat, tired and uncomfortable and not sure which was worse.

  “I have known Petunia a long time,” the bishop said. “All her life, in fact. I have known all the princesses since birth. They are as close to me as my own daughters would have been, had I married.

  “I was a young priest when Queen Maude came from Breton with her bevy of attendants, of which your mother was one.” He merely nodded at Oliver’s surprise. “Lady Emily Ellsworth, a lovely girl. They were beautiful, and rather silly, and everyone loved them, myself included. We Westfalians can be a grim people, but they brought life and joy to the court. I was there when your father and mother defied their parents and eloped.

  “I would have helped your mother after your father’s death, if she had only come to me. We were all devastated by the loss of Maude, and by the effects of the war. But still, if she had come to me I would have tried.”

  “I’m … sorry,” Oliver said.

  He didn’t really know what he was. Confused, mostly. But anger and anxiety warred inside him as well. What was the bishop getting at?

  “It isn’t your fault,” said Bishop Schelker, as though surprised that Oliver would feel the need to apologize. “We each make our own choices. That’s what I’m trying to say. Your parents chose their path, and Gregor has chosen his. And you, born an earl, trapped by the choices of others, chose not to flee, not to give up, but to take care of your people the only way you could. But now you are making new choices, to confess of your crimes, though apparently not to take the punishment for them—”