Still, wouldn't the leading men of this village feel some obligation of honor and arrange to get her to the nearest city? She had helped defenseless boys escape slavery, hadn't she?
"They owe me. Four brothers with hammers against one nasty, loud-mouthed uncle who might not even be their uncle? They should have stood up for themselves long ago. Their father died under mysterious circumstances. Shouldn't someone have been suspicious about the convenient timing? Idiots like that don't deserve any help. Especially from someone like me, who certainly needs far more help." With a snort and a sharp nod for punctuation, Merrigan set off down the road, back the way she came.
Dizziness washed over her. For several unpleasant moments, she felt as if she had been turned toes-over-nose. The sunlit road around her vanished in a haze of gray, with silvery sparkles at the edges. The bread and cheese she had eaten turned into hard lumps that bounced around in her stomach.
Drat and double drat!
Too late, Merrigan remembered Clara's confounding and contradictory words.
She went to her knees in the grassy verge along the side of the road. Merrigan knelt there, gasping, until the ground steadied underneath her. When she raised her head, the oaks that had lined the road had changed to pines. The sunshine of early afternoon had faded to evening, with low-slanting rays and that bluish tint in the air that always promised a refreshing chill. Or at least, a refreshing chill when there was a palace to retreat to, and servants who brought warm shawls without being told.
Merrigan struggled to her feet and took several steps up the road. A much nicer road than the one she had been on two minutes ago. No deep ruts from wagons traveling in rainy weather, churning up mud. This road had large quantities of gravel ground into it, creating a sturdy surface. Amazing how much she had learned about road construction just from trudging down one road or cow path or trail or mislabeled king's highway after another.
It just isn't fair!
The momentary urge to weep made Merrigan realize how thirsty she was. She fumbled in the bag that bobbed and bumped against her bony hip with every step and pulled out the apple the boy had given her. The sweet-tart juice filled her mouth and she paused, stunned to discover she had a full set of teeth. All the gaps and loose teeth that threatened to snap if she bit into anything harder than week-old bread—fixed. For all she knew, Merrigan had her own good, firm, white teeth back.
"Well, what do I make of this?" she murmured, after chewing the mouthful of apple and thoroughly enjoying it. In fact, she hadn't enjoyed a fresh, firm, juicy apple in far longer than she could remember. The problem with Leffisand's rebellious magical apple tree had quite put her off apples. What had she been missing? "Is this a reward, or just another nasty trick?"
Merrigan gnawed on the puzzle of what had happened, why, and the implications for her as she trudged down the road. After all, evening was coming and she had no intention of spending the night in this unknown forest with nothing but the remains of this apple, the extra clothes in her bag, and her walking stick. She had to find a town. Surely this visibly better road meant a good-size town of some wealth or standing had to be nearby.
This had better not be just another aspect of her totally undeserved punishment. Did Clara honestly think she, Merrigan, Queen of Carlion, would be grateful to have her own teeth back? Or consider being able to eat an apple a reward? Who would be so foolish and gullible to think that dropping her on an unknown road was helping her? Perhaps some foolishly honorable kingdom-less prince would consider the change an improvement, but not Merrigan, Queen of Carlion. Reward? Hah!
She fumed over the unfairness of her situation as she moved from one town to another in the days that followed, always trying to find one larger and more aware of the kingdoms of the world. Why did she have to depend on the kindness of the little people for food, for a bed by the fire on rainy nights, for a ride in their cart? She was a queen—surely justice decreed that wealthy merchants and town officials should be sent to help her along the way. Didn't the leaders of the community deserve a chance to be rewarded for helping her? Why didn't majjian folk hereabouts give them a chance to better themselves by helping Queen Merrigan?
No, it was entirely unfair that enchantresses and faeries always sided with the undeserving. The too-sweet-for-her-own-good twit who couldn't recognize that people were trying to steal the magic key left to her by her dying mother. Or in the case of an impoverished-but-noble young man, the map to a hidden kingdom where a princess lived under an enchantment, just waiting for a good-but-simple youth to break the spell.
How, with all the odds stacked against them, could any of those sugar-coated, cockeyed optimists continue to help old ladies and drowning puppies and enchanters in disguise who needed a pure soul to fetch some magical item? Merrigan just didn't understand. To make matters worse, several times she turned away with a loaf of fresh bread or climbed down out of a farm wagon and saw some majjian swooping down to reward whoever had just helped her. It wasn't fair. Couldn't they see her, standing there bold as life, desperately in need of help?
Finally, she had to have an answer. Certainly four moons of living under Clara's entirely unfair curse had earned her a few answers? Especially with winter approaching. Her chance came when a boy gave her a ride on a decrepit old donkey and helped her down at the intersection of five roads. The nearest town was called Smilpotz. He apologized profusely and explained that the man who had taken the mill that belonged to his family for ten generations had convinced the local judge to forbid him to come any closer to town than the crossroads.
The boy gave Merrigan a loaf of bread, three copper coins, and the names of several people in town who would help her for his sake. He wished her well. She thanked him—it was only polite, after all—and headed down the gravel-packed road wide enough for three carts. At the point where it turned to enter the trees, she glanced back, and saw him heading back the way he had come.
She wondered why, despite her habit of trying not to think about anyone she had left behind. Most especially not someone who had all the earmarks of downtrodden-and-deserving like this boy, on the brink of manhood.
Merrigan's next step faltered. She understood. He had retraced his steps for the last two miles to give her a ride to Smilpotz. His decrepit little donkey certainly hadn't needed her negligible weight on its back. From the deflated condition of his food sack and the lack of jingle when he gave her the coins, the boy certainly hadn't been able to spare either food or money, yet he had given them to her. What was wrong with him?
She froze as a faerie appeared, not thirty steps away. At least, she assumed the coldly handsome man with a face carved from black diamonds, with sapphires for eyes and silver for hair, was one of the Fae. He watched the young former-miller take the time to check his donkey, adjusting the few sacks tied to its back. The boy pulled out a bowl and spilled water from a water skin into the bowl, then held it for the decrepit creature to drink.
"He could have offered me some of that water," Merrigan muttered.
The Fae turned and stared at her, freezing her with the blue fire in his eyes. She shivered, feeling as if her crone disguise had been stripped away. He could see her, Merrigan of Avylyn. Even more chilling, she had the distinct impression he didn't like what he saw.
Then the Fae smiled, bright and glacial-cold. Merrigan cried out. She tried to, but the sound caught in her throat. He turned into her. The crone she was now. He called out with a creaky, frail voice, and hobbled down the road after the boy. Her voice didn't sound that bad, did it? Oh, the injustice!
The imposter commended the boy for being willing to help people, even though the mill that had belonged to his family for so long had been stolen by a cheat with false documents and a lying judge in his back pocket. The imposter then consoled him for endangering the health of his donkey, who was lame in one leg and shouldn't have taken even the weight of a shriveled old woman.
"I could have told you one leg was off, just from the bumpy ride," Merrigan muttered
. Stunned that she could speak now, she tried to move. No luck. All she could do was watch and listen. She was probably invisible, too.
Oddly, she felt a tiny flicker of some discomfort that wasn't related to the ache in her bottom from sitting on the bony spine.
Still, I could have walked this far on my own. It's not like I couldn't make it. Who did he think he was, making an old woman ride that awful, knobby old thing? Maybe trying to win a reward?
As much as she tried to make herself believe that, Merrigan couldn't. The young man had been entirely too kind, too considerate of her, to be faking it. She knew from long experience how to tell the difference between true gentility and false manners. The ones who stooped down to help a threadbare old woman, with expansive gestures and loud voices, only did so when they had an audience. The food they gave her, even if it was higher quality, didn't taste nearly as good as the simple fare shared by someone who couldn't afford to share.
Strange. Why hadn't she noticed that before? Maybe she was losing her mind, under the weight of this dratted curse.
Merrigan's grumbles halted when the look-alike resumed his otherworldly, cold good looks. His chuckle was entirely too warm and pleasant to be real, when the miller's son dropped to his knees, stunned with wonder. At least the boy had the sense to be frightened. He might not be quite as much an imbecile as others who didn't deserve magical help. However, when the boy stood up, wearing fine clothes, and climbed onto the donkey that had been turned into a massive white stallion, that was the last straw.
"Excuse me?" Freed from magic once the boy rode away, Merrigan stumbled forward, through a berry bush. "What about helping someone who really needs it? Or do you have some awful grudge against old women?" She stomped down the road toward the Fae, who simply stood there, hands clasped behind his back, getting a little taller with every step she took. By the time she reached him, his head was even with the treetops. "Maybe our time has passed, and we don't have a right to help? Don't trust to appearances—isn't that something you're always—"
"I know exactly who you are, Merrigan of Avylyn," the Fae said, his voice deep enough to shake the ground.
"Don't I need help too?"
"You need even more help than that good-hearted young lad, but there's the pump principle involved here." His smile was a glacial smirk. "You probably don't know what a pump is, do you?"
"Of course I know," she snapped. "I've had to pump my own water when I'm thirsty. The rudeness of some people, filling troughs and buckets for themselves, but when I step up and need some water, suddenly I'm invisible."
"No, you're just as visible as all your servants ever were. Your fellow travelers are in a hurry, and since they're used to having to fend for themselves, they think everyone else can do the same. Have you ever heard of asking—not ordering, but asking?"
Merrigan knew better than to snarl that she was a queen, she shouldn't have to ask, she shouldn't even have to order. People should just be on the alert, watching for her slightest need. She didn't look like a queen, after all. She didn't sound like a queen.
"I ask plenty of times." Her hands shook just at the memory. The memories of the times she had to lower herself to beg for a piece of bread, for some cheese, scalded her soul.
"At least now you know you have a soul," the Fae man said.
She trembled. The cold running through her had nothing to do with her usual fury when some majjian saw into her thoughts.
"Back to what I was saying." He chuckled and bent down so his eyes were even with hers. They burned bright. "The pump principle. It's called priming the pump. When a pump has sat idle for some time, you must put water in before you can get water out. All your life, you've been taking from the pump. You're as dry as some pumps that haven't given water in years." He stood up, his smile even colder. "You're a smart girl, Merrigan. So smart, you've been very stupid. Think about it. What would Nanny Starling say about the predicament you've gotten yourself into?"
"Nanny—How dare you!" She shuddered hard enough she nearly went to her knees.
"Think about what you just heard." He gestured down the road to the spot where he had rewarded the miller's son.
Then he vanished in a haze like hoarfrost that fell down on the road and dusted Merrigan's black dress with white. She shivered. Any other time, she might have welcomed the chill. Black clothes were hot, and it was an unusually warm, pleasant fall day.
"Pumps," she muttered. For a moment, she wished the boy had offered her a ride on his big, strong horse, but she had too much sense to take a chance on a beast that had been magically transformed. "Just where am I supposed to find a pump? And where am I to find water to prime the pump if the pump is dry?"
She shuddered and looked down the direction the miller's son had gone, then slowly turned to look at the intersection of five roads where she stood. The stone pillars standing between the roads indicated the towns each road led to, and how far away they were. The boy had to leave the closest town, Smilpotz. If he had told her his name, she couldn't remember. Smilpotz was just beyond the woods, according to the markers chiseled into the stone pillar. The town where his ancestors had run the mill that now belonged to a cheater with a dishonest judge in his back pocket.
"I know what it's like to be cheated out of what belongs to me," Merrigan muttered. "Will it make you happy if I do something about it?" she said, just a little louder, to the now-vanished Fae. That didn't mean he was gone. Someone who meddled in the lives of others likely remained nearby to see what she did with his unwanted advice.
If she had learned anything from Leffisand's mistakes, it was that majjian folk had to be treated with far more respect than her peers. Much as she admired Leffisand and understood why he took such pains to protect the treasures of Carlion, she had to admit that her late husband had made rather large blunders. For instance, the Gifting of his great-uncle. He should have ingratiated himself with the old healer, and played on their family connection. The doddering, idealistic fool should never have Gifted his healing magic to that milk-and-water, goody-goody farmer princess.
"Enough." Merrigan shook herself for good measure. Wasting time nattering over things she couldn't change and people she couldn't bring to justice only drained her.
Very well, she would go to the town that had cheated the miller's son and set the balances right. Maybe that would please the Fae and earn some help in the future. Maybe all she had to do was help someone, to earn a champion who would perform some magical quest to rescue her. She tried to ignore that totally unreasonable sense of guilt at not knowing the miller lad's name.
Merrigan straightened her shoulders as much as she could and set off down the road to Smilpotz. At least there was enough gravel packed into the road that the mud wasn't too awful, and she had shoes she didn't mind getting muddy. Not like they were satin slippers, or her favorite dancing shoes with the blue crystals. Leffisand had said it was like she danced on water when the light glistened on them. He would be horrified to see her walk through the mud in those particular slippers.
Then again, if he were here, she wouldn't be in this mess.
"Leffisand," she said with a sigh, as she trudged down the road. "For such a clever man, you were rather an idiot, weren't you?"
An odd twinge threatened a headache. Honesty compelled her to admit the true idiot ... was her. If she had just held her ground and not depended on so many panicky lies, she wouldn't have had to run to Clara for help. What fools ever got the idea that a woman who stared into pools of water could give them useful advice?
"You made this mess, Merrigan," she said as she reached the crest of the small hill and could see down the slope to the decent-sized town of Smilpotz. "Now it's up to you to fix it."
JUDGE BRIMBLE'S LARGE, recent inheritance was the talk of Smilpotz. Merrigan sat on the steps of the bakery, enjoying a freshly baked roll and a lovely, cold cup of milk, and listened to the gossips who had gathered on the steps of the apothecary next door. The people discussing the same subject on the
steps of the millinery across the street were even louder. Being turned into an old woman had taught her the joys of being nearly invisible, and the wealth of information that came from listening to people who talked far too freely for their own good. Merrigan had observed that some people proved the reliability of their information or opinions by raising their volume. She wasn't sure if she should be comforted or worried that it was the same among peasants as it was among courtiers.
The louder voices across the street informed her that Judge Brimble wasn't happy with the tailor who ran the best of the two fabric shops in town. His apprentice had gone home to tend to his dying father, so it was just the tailor, his wife and daughter to handle all the orders. The mayor's daughter was getting married in a fortnight, and the tailor was halfway through a large order of clothes for the bride, and for the wedding party. No matter how much the judge offered to pay him, he couldn't put aside the order because then he wouldn't finish on time.
The gossipy old women on the steps of the apothecary changed their chatter, in competition with the millinery gossips. The judge was far too talented at making people miserable if he didn't get what he wanted. He had already hinted the tailor's young daughter was just the sort of confection he liked. After money, fine clothes, and food, of course. Brimble would find some way to threaten the tailor's family until they either turned over their daughter to placate his injured pride or abandoned the wedding clothes.
"Poor child," one silver-haired, hawk-nosed old gossip said with a sigh. "Someone should do something. Judge Brimble is getting too big for his britches. In more than one sense!"
That set off a chorus of giggles among them.
Merrigan gritted her teeth. When she was younger, she had lost several serving maids to the predations of nasty old courtiers who insisted on having sweet young serving maids for their wives. Even worse, her father never believed her when she insisted the girls were going into dangerous situations. He always accused her of being selfish, and five serving maids just to attend to her needs were far too many.
The Kindness Curse Page 3