The Fairy Godmother (19 page)

For the compass needle was spinning merrily, with no sign that it intended to stop.

Magic!

 

Elena waited, sitting on a rock in the concealment of a dense clump of birch-saplings, just before the crossroads. She had the advantage that the crossroads itself was on the far side of a relatively cleared space in the forest; she was able to get a good long look at the Questers as they emerged from the denser growth. The first Prince, Octavian, approached on a great bay warhorse looking rather the worse for two nights spent in the forest. He was wearing light armor, but he didn't seem to have a great deal of kit about him, and it showed in his appearance. From the look of him—moving stiffly, dark circles under his eyes, twigs in his hair—he'd spent both nights on the ground, under the stars, with his saddle for a pillow. All three boys had reminded her of animals, actually—Julian an amiable hound and Alexander an arrogant and rather sleek fox. This one was the gruff wolf, and the resemblance was only heightened by his state.

She waited on her rock, quietly, to see if he'd notice her. She saw his eyes flicker towards her, then saw, just as clearly, that he dismissed her as unimportant.

Oh, yes, do that.
She waited until he was just passing her before speaking up.

“Have ye a crust of bread, milord?” she whined. “They've turned me out as too old to work, and I'm perishing of hunger.”

He ignored her. She raised her voice. “Please? Milord? Please, good sir?”

Nothing.

Now, at this point, he
could
have stopped, offered her something, and asked for directions. She would have given
them to him. She would
not
have told him the keys to the puzzles that the Sorcerer was going to set him, but at least he would have gotten to the Glass Mountain.

He did neither; he rode on as if she was of no more importance than a beetle.

Fine,
she thought, and touched her staff to the path again as he rode out of sight under the trees.

There, that would take care of him. He'd stumble along in Phaelin's Wood—and possibly several others, if Karelina decided to invoke the “All Forests Are One” spell against him when she got back—and he'd do so while his provisions ran out, spring thunderstorms deluged him, and every possible minor disaster that could would arise to plague him. After a month and a day of this, if he'd learned his lesson, he'd finally come out of the Wood right where he went in. If he was smart, he would go home again. If he wasn't—well, Karelina would have to decide what to do with him. Hopefully, he would come out a humbler and wiser man than he'd been when he went in
a mere month, because otherwise he'd be stumbling around for the next year.

Smiling to herself, she touched her staff to the path again, on the knot representing the tanglefoot spell. “Alexander,” she told it, and the spark of power leaped from the wand and raced down the tangled skein of the spell.

It was not more than an hour later that she heard hoof-beats on the road, and saw her quarry approaching. And she had to give him a few points for preparation, anyway. Unlike his brother, he not only was fully armed but he had a packhorse laden with armor and apparently quite a bit of other luggage as well. From the look of things,
he
had not been spending his last two nights huddled next to a pathetic little fire. She hid behind her sapling screen and waited to get a good look at him before he could see her.

Elena parted the branches of the birches and peered through them as the sound of hooves on the path stopped. And there he was, framed by two of the saplings, looking exactly as he had when she'd seen him in the book. He had stopped at the edge of the clearing that held the crossroads, frowning.

Truth to tell, she hadn't paid a lot of attention to his appearance, other than to make sure she wouldn't mistake him for some other Prince-errant, or one of his two brothers. Now, as he paused staring at the crossroads, his frown turning into a scowl as he tried to make up his mind which way to go, she studied him.

And she didn't much care for what she saw. Not that he wasn't handsome enough; he was all of that. His wavy brown hair, thick and shining, fell down past his shoulders,
giving him a very romantic appearance, especially combined with the rakish tilt of his cap, and the fact that he was much better groomed than his older brother. Of course, part of that was due to the fact that he hadn't been sleeping in the open, but still….

Vain,
she thought to herself, cynically.
I've never yet seen a long-haired man who wasn't a popinjay. And clean-shaven, too. He must spend as much time in his valet's hands as any primping girl.

As for his face—square chin, chiseled cheekbones, broad brow—well, it was shapely enough, even if his nose was entirely too aquiline to suit her.

He could plow a field with that nose.

But the regular features were spoiled entirely by the unpleasant frown, and the furrowed brow, and the air of un-bending rigidity about him that, together with a tunic that managed to suggest a military uniform without actually being one, made her think that this was a man for whom there was, always and for everything, One Right Way from which he would never deviate. Even when it was wrong.

Well, this isn't going to be much fun,
she thought with resignation. And with a sigh, steeling herself for unpleasantness, she stepped out onto the path. If The Tradition held true to form, the first Prince had been merely rude and haughty—this one would be haughty and rude
and
arrogant
and
aggressive.

His frown deepened the moment he saw her, if that was possible. What was more, he added suspicion to the emotions of irritation and arrogance on his face.

Suspicion!
What could he possibly suspect her of?

“Have ye a crust of bread to spare, good milord?” she quavered, holding empty hands out towards him. “They've—”

“I have nought to spare,” he interrupted. “Get from my path, old hag.”

Well!
Not that she'd expected politeness, but that really was more than a bit much. Still, she kept hold of her temper, reminding herself that she
was
the Tester here, and she could make sure he got sent down an even longer path to wander than his brother. “But, milord,” she whined pathetically. “They've turned me off as too old to work, and I'm—”

“Then find work or die,” he said, now turning his frown away from her and looking about, as if trying to find something that might be hidden. “Those who cannot work, will not be fed. We'll have no beggars here.”

You wretched little—
Once again she caught hold of her temper. But something like this could not go unpunished, and wandering around for a month or even a year was not going to teach this arrogant lad what he needed to learn. No, this was something that needed a more imaginative punishment.

Still, she would give him one more chance. But if he failed this time, she was going to take his lessoning into her own hands. “But can you—”

He ignored her, as his brother had. Instead he touched the spur to his horse's flank, and rode straight at her at a canter, so she had to scramble out of his way or be run down.

Now she was angry. What if she
had
been a poor old
woman? She could have been hurt, or even killed! What right had he to run people over as if they were nothing?

Oh, that tore it. As he passed, she whirled, and took her staff in both hands.
“You!”
she cried out in her own voice, pointing it at him.

Startled by the change in her voice, he pulled up his horse and turned in his saddle to stare at her.

She did not bother with a rhyme this time; the force of her anger was more than enough to shape the power. She aimed her staff at him, like an accusation.
“You are as ill-mannered, as stubborn, and as stupid as an ass!”
she shouted,
“So
BE
one!”

The power exploded out of her, coursed down her arm, and shot from her staff in a stream of red-gold light. If he'd had eyes to see it, he'd have been terrified. It hit him full on, covered him, enveloped him in a single moment, hiding him from sight inside a great globe of light that held him and the horse he was riding on.

He cried out in fear, though, as he
felt
it take him. And in the next moment, the cries changed, deepened, and hoarsened. The globe pulsed; once, twice, and on the third time, there was another flash of light.

There were three beasts on the path now, not two. A great bewildered warhorse, the packhorse tied to its saddle, and—

—and a donkey, standing petrified, all four hooves splayed, still trying to wheeze out a terrified bray.

“Hah,” she said, looking at him with satisfaction. “I need a donkey. You'll do.”

He was clearly in a great deal of shock, too much so to
move—though likely if he had tried, he'd have fallen to the ground, for he was not used to moving on four feet instead of two. She had plenty of time to rummage through his packs, find the rope she was sure was in there, and fashion a crude nose-pinch halter and choke-rope, and get it on him before he even began to react to his much-changed situation.

And by the time he did, she had him right where she wanted him. If he tried to rear, she could choke him at the neck. If he tried to bite, she could pinch off his nose and choke his breathing from that end.

He tried both, not once, but several times, until she finally picked up her staff and pointed it at him again.

He froze.

“You
will
behave,” she told him, “Or I'll take your horse instead of you, and turn
you
into a frog.”

At that, his ears flattened against his head, but it was clear he didn't doubt either her ability or her willingness to do so. Instead he allowed her to lead him, stumbling, into the cover of some bushes and tether him there, the horses beside him. She wasn't going to take any chances, though; she used more of the rope for hobbles, and tethered all four feet.

She waited until she was back on the road before she took a deep breath, paused, and steadied herself. She was still angry with him, and that was no mood to be in to Test the last of the Princes. She counted to ten twice, took another deep breath, and let the anger run out of her. When she was sure she was steady again, she shook herself all over, and took her staff in hand.

Besides, this would be the easy one.

“Right,” she said aloud, to the empty air, and touched the staff to the knot of the tanglefoot spell.
“Julian.”

And for the third time, the spark of light sped away.

A
lexander suspected that the appearance of the old woman was some sort of trick; how had she gotten out here, anyway? She didn't look as if she could travel six feet, much less limp her way into the middle of the wood! She might be the bait for a trap, or something in disguise, and if he stopped for her, the trap would be sprung. All he could think of was that if he charged her, she'd get out of his way, and whatever magic the Sorcerer had been hexing him with might be broken. Then she'd shouted
“You!”
and he'd been stupid enough to stop and turn to look back at her. Then he knew, the moment that he saw the old hag pointing a stick at him, that he had been right. Someone
had
been working magic against him—but it had been
her
, not some Sorcerer working for King Stancia! But he didn't even have a chance
to duck, much less do anything about her, before she shouted out something else.

Something about being as arrogant and rude as an ass—

And in the next moment, he was engulfed in more pain than he had ever felt in his entire life put together. It felt as if his bones were melting and his insides turning to water; he tried to cry out, but his very voice changed, and he felt himself falling off his horse and hitting the ground on all fours, and—

Well, he really didn't know
what
it felt like then, for there were no words to describe how it seemed as if he was made of warm wax, and a pair of giant hands was remolding him. Remolding even his head. His eyes felt as if they were going to pop out of their sockets, his mouth like something had hold of his teeth and lips and was stretching his face, and his ears—well, they burned and hurt past all reason. Then as if that wasn't enough, he began to
itch
.

Finally, as quickly as it had come upon him, the pain left him. But it left him dazed and very confused, because now, although he could see exceedingly well to either side, and somehow actually see
behind
his head, he couldn't see much of anything that was straight ahead of him. And when he tried to stand up—he couldn't.

And when he looked down at his feet, he saw four hooves.

Four hooves?

The old hag! What she'd said!
“You are as stubborn as an ass! So
BE
one!”

He blinked. He stared. The sight did not change. Four
hooves—and if he craned his head around, he saw a round, barrel-shaped body covered with grey hair, and a tufted tail.

If his legs hadn't been locked at the knees, he'd have fallen to the ground. If his throat hadn't been choked with despair, he'd have howled.

She'd done more than confuse his path. She'd turned him into an animal.

He scarcely noticed that the old hag had come up to him, until it was too late, and she had some sort of fiendish torture device made of his own rope around his neck and nose. Too late, he tried to fight her, and finally, when after the third time she choked off his breathing until he began to black out, he gave up.

He allowed her to drag him into the shelter of some bushes, and watched with even greater despair as she hobbled him so he couldn't move. Then she went back to the crossroads.

So this is what happened to Octavian?
he thought, dully. He could not imagine why; what enemy had managed to set a Witch on his family? Had the business with Stancia and the Glass Mountain all been a ruse to lure them into this cursed forest and her clutches?
I wonder what she turned Octavian into….

Oh, bloody hell! What if she'd turned him into a bug, or a frog! What if he'd
trampled
his own brother? He tried to fight the hobbles, and all he did was nearly fall over; his horses stared at him down their long noses with astonishment, as if they couldn't imagine what he was doing or why he was there. He tried to fight the ropes around his neck, but the Witch had tied them cunningly; if he fought them,
they choked him and only when he hung his head in resignation did they relax and let him breathe.

I have to warn Julian—
That was his thought, but it came too late, for Julian rode into the clearing on his handsome black palfrey just as he realized the danger, and Alexander couldn't get the breath even to bray a warning.

“Kind sir?” whined the old hag, both hands outstretched. “They've turned me out as too old to work, kind sir, and—”

And Julian, soft, foolish Julian, was out of his saddle in a moment, helping the old witch to her rock, fussing over her as if she was his own grandmother. He ran to get water for her, then rummaged through his saddlebags.

She's going to kill him! Or worse than kill him!
He tried and tried, but he couldn't get free, his balance wasn't right and he kept falling to his knees—he kept blacking out from lack of air!

“Here, old mother,” Julian said, gently putting half a loaf of bread in her hands and closing her hands around it. “It's all I have—I wish I had more, but if you'll bide just a bit, I'll see what I can hunt for you—”

“Ah, nay, good sir—you're too kind, too kind—” the old woman said, sounding absolutely delighted, and of course, she
would
, she'd just gotten all of Julian's provisions off him, and he was a
terrible
hunter—

Oh, Julian, Julian!
he thought in despair, waiting for that stick to come out, for Julian to be turned into something horrid. It was a plot, that was what it was. It was all a plot by Stancia or that Sorcerer or both, to strip Kohlstania of
its heirs and send their father into despair. There probably wasn't a Quest—there never had been a Quest—

“Now, then, old mother, just you wait,” Julian was saying, with that good-natured grin on his face that drove his father mad. “You'll have a good meal, and I'll put you up on Morgana here, and we'll all go on into Fleurberg together.”

Now he froze, eyes bulging with fear, but unable to understand what was going on. She hadn't done anything to him. Why hadn't she turned him into something? Nothing was happening as he'd thought! He stared at them through the underbrush, feeling his upside-down world flipping for a second time.

The old hag was hiding her face in her hands, and for a moment, Alexander hoped again. Was her conscience overcoming her? Was she going to let Julian go?

But then something—odd—happened. She seemed to shimmer all over, as if she was caught in a heat-haze, and then—

Then she changed.

Her clothing was what he saw first; it—
un-aged
. Somehow, all in a moment, it got newer. The fading, the frayed bits, they all went away, and as her clothing changed, she began to stand straighter, that old-lady hump on her back vanished, her hair went from straggling and grey to golden and curling and her face—

Well, she
certainly
wasn't an old hag anymore!

Julian stared, too, gape-mouthed, as the handsome young woman lifted her head and looked him over boldly with a twinkle in her eye. “You are certainly an improvement over your brothers,” she said.

She lifted the stick and made a tiny gesture, and the peasant's clothing she was wearing transformed again, this time into something pink and satiny and shining, a gown his own mother would not have been ashamed to wear, and there were diamonds at her throat and wrists and ears, and the stick in her hand was now a long, slender, ivory-white wand.

Alexander stared and stared, blinking in disbelief. So, too, did Julian.

What's going on here?

There was something about the way the woman looked—it tickled the back of his mind, something he remembered from a long time ago. From a distant part of his memory, he heard a voice he'd thought he'd forgotten, a woman's voice, speaking softly.
“Once upon a time, there was a lovely princess who was guarded by her Fairy Godmother….”

Julian, poor fool, stood there with his mouth dropping open. Not that Alexander was in much better case.

She's got to be an Elven Queen. But why ambush us? Why go through all of this to intercept us?

Finally— “Are you—one of the—” Julian stumbled over the words, not surprisingly, as they didn't come readily to one from Kohlstania “—one of the Fair Folk?”

She laughed; there she did
not
resemble a fine lady of a lofty court at all. It was a hearty laugh, and rang around the clearing; it didn't tinkle like a tiny silver bell, nor did she hide her mouth behind her hand when she laughed.

“No, Julian, but I
am
a Fairy Godmother. And your kindness and courtesy to an old woman shall have its reward. I am here to help you on your Quest.”

She's here to help us?
Alexander could hardly believe his ears.
Fine help she's been to me! And what did she do with Octavian?

But then, from somewhere deep inside, perhaps the same place as that memory, came another set of thoughts.
When you thought she was nothing but an old peasant woman, you would have dismissed her as something less than the dirt in your path. And you tried to run her down the moment you thought she
might
be a threat, without waiting to see what she would do or answering her cry for aid. You seem to have forgotten all those knightly vows you took, and you haven't exactly proved yourself worthy of help. Have you?

He felt his ears flattening against his head, and he gritted his teeth.
I am a Prince of the blood! Why should I care about some stupid old base born woman? Julian bleats about the peasantry all the time, and this is where his concern leads him! Let her family take care of her, or let her go to the poorhouse where decent people won't be bothered by such as her! Isn't that why we built the things?

The voice in the back of his head—snickered. Nastily.
Ah. I see. So long as you don't have to look at “such as her,” you needn't concern yourself. Is that it?

Of course it was—but somehow, that felt like exactly the wrong answer. And he didn't know why.

The woman who was calling herself a Fairy Godmother made a tiny gesture with the wand. As Alexander watched her with his ears still flattened against his skull, beside him in the bushes something moved, snakelike.

His attention was distracted, away from the woman, to
the horses. And as he stared, the reins of both horses came unknotted from where they'd been tied.

They moved as if they were alive, or as if there was someone actually undoing the knots.

But that wasn't the least of it, oh no. Before his very eyes, they changed color. The bay became a grey, and the packhorse a dapple; the armor packed onto the latter simply vanished altogether, and the shield with it.

She gestured again, and the two horses tossed their heads to free the reins and ambled out into the clearing as if she had called them.

And then, as calmly as if the horses and their burdens were
her
property to give away, she handed the reins over to Julian. “Here is all you will need for the physical tests you will face,” she said, as Alexander nearly choked, his fear for his brother turning to outrage at her high-handed behavior. “But it will take more than strength to win the Princess. It will take cunning.”

Julian bent his head to her, as humbly as if she was some sort of Queen, instead of a thief and a trickster. “Tell me,” he begged. “What must I do?”

The next half hour was the worst period in all of Alexander's life, as he watched and listened, unable to move, speak, or interfere in any way, while that infernal woman coached his younger brother through
everything
he needed to win through the trials and get King Stancia's daughter and throne. Not that some of it made any real sense—some babble about freeing trapped foxes, rescuing baby hawks, feeding ants—

But that didn't matter. She was
cheating
, helping Julian,
and why? Because he'd stopped to help a worthless old woman! Where was the sense in that?

She'd stolen
his
gear too, and given it to an idiot who didn't have the sense not to leave without the proper equipment! The more he watched and listened, the angrier he got, until he was nearly faint with rage and trembling in every limb.

 

Of all the Questers that Elena had ever tested, this one was probably the best. He was even better-looking in person, with the animation of a good intellect in his eyes, and a ready smile on his lips. Like his brother, Alexander, he was clean-shaven and long-haired, but somehow (and perhaps it was the faint air of untidiness about him, the
lack
of perfection in his dress) she got the impression that Julian was not given to much thought about how he looked. To tell the truth, his horse was better groomed than he was; his brown doublet was just a bit faded, and someone else probably would have given it to a servant by now. His linen was clean, but it was clear that he hadn't changed his shirt before he left. And his breeches, of soft doeskin, were made for use, not for looks.

Everything he said was intelligent and to the point. Prince Julian was a fine, considerate young man—but more than that, he was much cleverer than his brothers and father gave him credit for. That was borne out in his conversation.

“Have you done something with Octavian and Alexander?” he asked, quietly, when he accepted the reins of the two horses that Prince Alexander had brought with him. By the tone of his voice, it wasn't exactly a question; he knew,
he just wanted it confirmed. “I can't imagine them getting past you, you see—”

He didn't quite accuse her, but he clearly remembered the sorts of things that Godmothers did. Which was more than his brothers had.

She raised an eyebrow. “I'll tell you that they're as safe as I could make them,” she said, finally, “but that they won't be competing with you for Stancia's daughter, and neither of them will be seeing Kohlstania for a while.”