Kedrigern raised a hand to his breast in an aggrieved gesture. “Indeed not, Your Majesty. I am in fact on a quest to undo another of his foul enchantments. I must ask you not to judge all wizards by the likes of Vorvas.”
The king grunted noncommittally. He kept his eyes on Kedrigern for a time, then he turned to Dyrax and gruffly asked, “Is he all right, son? Tell me the truth, now.”
“I can vouch for him, Your Majesty. On our travels together he has served me loyally and well,” said Dyrax.
Kedrigern’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. That’s royalty for you, he thought. They’ll use anyone, then spit him out like a cherrypit. Only people they’re polite to are each other, and that ends pretty quickly when there’s a chance to snip off a bit of territory and a few thousand tax-paying subjects. I should’ve expected this.
“I like you, son,” said the king, laying a hand on Dyrax’s shoulder. “You come right out and speak straight.”
The queen frowned. “But can we be
sure
he’s a prince?”
“I know a prince when I see one. Would our daughter want to marry a commoner? Be sensible. He’s a prince.” The king turned to face the crowd. Raising his voice to a tone of regal command, he said, “All right, now, everybody back to work. This place has been neglected for a hundred years, and there’s a lot to be done. We’ll be holding a grand ball here three nights hence, to celebrate our awakening and Blamarde’s betrothal. I want to see this palace sparkle, do you hear? Hop to it!” As the room emptied, the crowd dispersing with markedly less buoyant spirits than they had displayed upon entering, the king took Dyrax’s arm and said, “We have things to talk about, son. I want to know more about your family, and how you came here, and how well you can use that sword.”
The queen took his other arm, saying, “It will be nice to see Blamarde settled down. Having a beautiful unmarried daughter can be an awful trial. You wouldn’t
believe
the sort of people who come here seeking her hand, Dyrax dear.”
As they left the room, arms cozily linked, the king was asking Dyrax whether he had ever led an army. Blamarde and Kedrigern looked after them, then turned to one another.
“At least they get along,” Blamarde said. “Quite well, it appears.”
“Are you really a good wizard, wizard?”
“I’m one of the best, especially at counterspells.”
“No, I mean are you a
nice
wizard. You aren’t going to make something awful happen to us on our wedding day, are you? Like changing Dyrax into a toad or something?”
“My dear princess Blamarde, I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing. You have my word on it,” said Kedrigern with his most reassuring smile.
“Good. That other wizard was
nasty.
He hadn’t changed his robe for about three hundred years. There were things moving around in his beard. And he was really mean, besides.
He
would’ve done something like that.” Blamarde pouted fetchingly and gave a delicate shudder at the prospect of Vorvas’s maleficence.
“I’m sure he would, but he can do such things no longer. Vorvas the Vindictive imprudently turned himself into Vorvas the Vole and was eaten by his familiar.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” said the princess brightly.
“Can you tell me anything more about him?”
“I only saw him that one time, and I didn’t look at him closely. He was too repulsive.” Blamarde made a wry face and paused for a time, thinking, then added, “Quode might know something. He’s a scribe. He lives in the castle someplace.”
She excused the wizard willingly, being eager to dress and join her parents and Dyrax. Kedrigern hurried downstairs and went directly to the little chamber in the wall. The scribe sat where Kedrigern had left him, staring dazedly at the pen in his fingers.
“Are you Quode, the scribe?” Kedrigern asked.
“I am,” said the aged man softly, with a touch of uncertainty in his voice. “You find me somewhat confused, sir. I seem to have dozed off in the middle of a sentence, something I have never done before.”
“Actually, you’ve spent a hundred years in an enchanted sleep, just like everyone else in the castle.”
Quode looked at him blankly, then set down his pen and rubbed his eyes. He blinked and said, “I see. Yes. I believe I do recall something about a spell.”
“It’s all there on the page you were writing.”
“Ah. Yes. Yes,” the scribe murmured, bending down to read the careful letters, punctuating his reading with little puffs of breath and
hmphing
sounds and such whispered interjections as “So!” and “Aba!” At the point where he had left off writing he looked to Kedrigern. “Has all turned out well, good sir?”
“Just as it was supposed to. But tell me, Quode, do you know anything more about Vorvas?”
“The malodorous necromancer?”
“That’s Vorvas. I’m trying to break a spell he cast on a family from a neighboring kingdom about a hundred and
well, about thirty years before you all went to sleep. Can you help me? It’s rather urgent.”
The scribe’s pale brow wrinkled in deep thought. “I do seem to recall
. . .
yes, there was mention
. . .
was a young lady turned into a sword, by any chance?”
“That’s the spell, Quode! Princess Louise was her name. Her sister Alice became a golden crown, and their brother William—”
“Became a shield! Yes, of course. Why, that took place in our neighbor kingdom!”
“Is it close?”
“At moderate speed, one can ride there, enjoy a leisurely lunch, and be back here before sundown the same day. At least, so I have been told. I never travel, myself.”
“You’re a wise man, Quode. Which direction?”
“Turn left at the end of the bridge and go straight until you cross the Moaning River, then left again along the road to the Singing Wood. The castle is in the wood.”
“Thank you, Quode. One thing more: there’s an enchantment on the woods all around this castle. Is that Vorvas’s doing, too?”
Again the old man frowned in deep concentration. At last he said, “Vorvas spoke of a partnership formed on his way here. I remember that distinctly. He gloated over it in a most offensive manner. The woods are in the power of his partner, but who the partner is, or what sort of partnership they formed, I know not, wizard.”
Kedrigern sighed. “I had hoped that breaking the spell on Blamarde might have freed the wood from enchantment, too, but now it seems less likely to work out that way. Well, at least I’m prepared.”
“Prepared for what?” Quode asked.
“Something very bad.”
“I think you will find it. I wish you well.”
“Thank you, Quode. And could you do me one favor?”
“Anything I can, good wizard.”
“When things settle down, will you ask Dyrax to send a messenger back to King Ezrammis? He’ll know what you mean.”
“I will do so,” promised the scribe.
Kedrigern left the castle through the kitchen door. He crossed the courtyard to the stables, where a crowd of grooms and stable boys and servants had gathered in a roomy ring around his great black steed. The horned horse was unfazed by the attention. He munched idly on the hay before him, raising his head now and then to roll his red eyes and give an unsettling toss of his silver horn, but he did not appear displeased. Kedrigern worked his way through the crowd to the horse’s side, laid a gentle hand on the beast’s muzzle, and fed it a few sprigs of haemony, which it ate with great pleasure.
“Is that your
. . .
your creature, sir?” a groom asked.
“It is. Thank you for feeding him.”
“He found for himself, sir. There’s not a man here who’d get within reach of that horn, and those hooves,” said the groom, eliciting a general murmur of assent from the crowd.
“He’s actually very gentle. Remarkably intelligent and
well behaved. Aren’t you, old fellow?” said Kedrigern fondly, stroking the velvety black muzzle.
“If you say so, sir. What’s his name?”
Kedrigern turned to the questioner with an expression of disbelief. “Do you think I’d presume to give
him
a name? What if I picked out one he didn’t like?”
The groom and the others looked at him, the horse, and at one another with wide astonished eyes, and all drew back a step. Kedrigern saddled and mounted, and they shrank back still farther, breaking the circle. With an amiable wave of his hand, Kedrigern urged the black steed forward. Silver hooves struck sparks from the stone of the courtyard and the horn gleamed like a bright blade in the light of early afternoon as they rode at a brisk gait to the bridge.
What lay ahead, Kedrigern could not imagine. The castle, freed now from Vorvas’s enchantment, was a pleasant oasis, but he had no desire to stay there. Even if he had been smothered in thanks—as he deserved to be—and feted as an honored liberator, he would have been anxious to find Princess. He nibbled on a bit of sausage—remarkably tasty, considering its age—that he had appropriated while passing through the kitchen, and reviewed his knowledge of enchanted woods and forests. It was not an encouraging exercise. They were bad places all, with bad reputations.
He turned left at the end of the bridge and hoped for the best.
For nearly an hour, Kedrigern rode steadily on, with not a disquieting sight or sound or the slightest warning tingle. He relaxed without letting his guard down, and allowed himself the comforting thought that the enchantment was weakening, or at least diminishing in malignancy; or, best of all—though least likely—that he had somehow escaped the region of enchantment unawares.
He noticed, far ahead, what he took to be a post in the middle of the road. A few paces farther on, he saw a glint of gold. Curious now, he drew out his medallion and
sighted in on the object. It was no post but a monk, clad in rough brown robes, his head bowed and concealed by his cowl, hands tucked into his sleeves. A golden staff rested against his chest and shoulders, clutched in one arm.
There was no sign of life anywhere around. The monk was obviously some kind of effigy—a warning, a signpost, a shrine, perhaps. But as Kedrigern came closer he felt eyes upon him, digging deep and seeing things no eyes can hope to see. And yet the air carried no warning.
He halted a dozen paces from the figure, and the monk’s head went up. The cowl fell back, revealing a bleached skull. A bony hand rose to signal the wizard to a halt, and the great black steed obeyed with Kedrigern’s direction. Kedrigern could feel the penetrating gaze of that eyeless thing and hear words coming from the lipless, tongueless mouth: “Bear this against the Enemy.”
Kedrigern cleared his throat and asked politely, “What Enemy awaits me, good monk? And how shall I wield that staff against him?”
“Beware his promises. Fear his gifts.”
“I will, I promise you. But who is the Enemy?”
The gaunt hands closed on the staff and held it out. “Take it, and ride on. The Enemy awaits.”
Kedrigern dismounted and approached the grisly figure, halting a couple of paces before it. He reached out hesitantly. The monk gave the staff an urgent little shake, and Kedrigern took a step forward and reached out to grasp it. To his surprise it was not cold or clammy, but warm as living flesh.
“Confront the Enemy without fear. Resist his blandishments and you will vanquish him. We are with you,” said the monk. He tucked his bony hands into his sleeves and bowed to Kedrigern, then turned and walked into the wood, striding resolutely over dry leaves and twigs without the slightest sound.
Kedrigern remounted and rode on deep in thought. One expected this sort of thing to happen in an enchanted wood, but one found it perplexing all the same. An Enemy
lay in wait somewhere ahead; that much was clear, and hardly came as a surprise. And this staff would somehow help Kedrigern to overcome him. It was a good staff, a bit more than a tall man’s height, capped with silver at both ends, with a broad ribbon of gold winding around it from top to bottom. In a bout at quarterstaves it would be a telling weapon. But why should a wizard bother with a quarterstaff at all? And was this Enemy the one who had caused the enchantment, or just another piece of it? And who was the monk? And why had there been no prickling of the air when he appeared? Here was a puzzle indeed.
Not until his mount gave a low snort and slackened his pace did Kedrigern look up and see that they had emerged from the wooded way into a circular clearing filled with stones of all sizes, most of them standing erect, some tilted at precarious angles, a few lying full-length on the ground. On one of the fallen stones sat a chubby, moon-faced man with bright red cheeks, dressed in the simplest and plainest of garments. He was alone in this dreary place, and yet his wave of welcome was cheerful and his voice merry as he called out, “Well met, traveler! Forgive an old man for not rising. These ways are rough and my feet are tender.”
Kedrigern noticed then that the man’s feet were calf-deep in a puddle of muddy water. There was no sign of a staff or any other weapon within reach; the fellow was not of a threatening appearance; this could hardly be the fearsome adversary he was to face; it might, in fact, be a helpless traveler in need of his protection. Kedrigern dismounted and joined the round little man on the fallen stone.
“That is a fine creature you ride upon,” said the chubby man. “Very fine it is, indeed, sir.”
“Yes, he’s a good horse,” said Kedrigern socially.
“Sir, you understate! A king could ask no nobler steed—an emperor would be honored to ride him! You must be very proud.”
Kedrigern waved the compliment aside. “I’m grateful, but I don’t have much call to be proud. I didn’t make the