The Fairy Godmother (31 page)

So the whole outre procession went flying off into the morning sky, heading for Kohlstania and the Royal Palace; she driving the splendid chariot, Octavian riding beside her on his winged mount, the whole of it buoyed on swirling clouds of magic that would have enveloped them in a thick, pea-soup fog except that only she could see it. It was practically thick enough to cut; she had stored as much of it away in wand and staff, whatever talismans she had on her person and could put together last night, and in her own reserves, and
still
it was like this. And
that
was after she insisted that Arachnia divide the power with her! The Tradition was making certain that the Kingdom of Kohlstania got its Godmother with a vengeance!

Or perhaps it was trying to bribe her into being more cooperative and conciliatory.

Well, it wasn't going to work. On the other hand, there was no harm in taking the bounty that was given.

Naturally—since she insisted on flying at a little above tree-height, to ensure being seen—they attracted a great deal of attention, and even with her cosmetic changes, they excited a good deal of fear. For every face upturned to watch them pass, there was someone running for concealment down below. So by the time they landed in the courtyard of the Royal Palace, all of the Royal Guard had turned out, armed to the teeth, and she suspected that most of the Army was on its way from the Royal Barracks on the outskirts of the city.

The dragons pulled the vehicle around to stand as near
to the door as the Guards would allow. She remained in her chariot; Octavian, however, dismounted from his dragon, and took his place between her and the Guard; with his visor down, he looked very formidable indeed. She surveyed them all haughtily as the dragons tossed their heads.

“Is
this
any way to greet me?” she demanded “One woman, with a single escort-knight? Where is your King?”

She suppressed a smile at her own words, though—
Oh yes, one “mere” woman, clearly some sort of extremely powerful magician, three dragons, and a fellow whose face no one can see! You're right to be nervous, my lads!

“He is here, lady,” said a weary, wary voice, and the Guard reluctantly parted to let King Henrick through. “What is it you would have of me?”

The King was armed as well, though he'd only had time to buckle on a breastplate over his velvet doublet, and replace his crown with an open-face helm. Still, he was brave, she had to give him that. He wasn't hiding in his throne room, depending on his Guards to protect him; he had his sword in his hand, and he looked as if he was prepared to use it.

“You have three sons, King Henrick,” she said, sternly. “Where are they? Answer me true, for I am a magician of no little power, and I will know falsehood if I hear it. And the cost of falsehood may be more than you can ever dream.”

Of course, the cost of falsehood would be that she would
not
allow Octavian to reveal himself. Not that she expected to hear anything but truth out of Henrick; if everything Randolf had shown her was true, he had spent a very long
time learning a great deal about himself since his sons had vanished, and he did not much care for what he had learned.

He reeled as if she had struck him a blow, and yet, from the expression on his face, it was a blow he had, in part, expected. It did not break him—but in that moment, she saw him look at her and admit his own defeat and his own failures.

“I know only what has befallen my son Julian, lady,” he replied, bitterly. “In my folly, in my greed, I sent them out, all three of them, to answer my neighbor's Quest and win his daughter, thinking to add his Kingdom to my own. And it is true that of the three, I sent Julian out expecting that he would fail and rid me of the one son I did not understand and could not care for. My cold-heartedness was well-repaid; it is Julian who has won the maid and the throne for himself, and not for me, and my other sons are lost. And in a sense, all three are lost to me, for I fear that Julian knew my heart only too well, and will never forgive me. So here I am—surrounded by wealth that I care nothing for, facing my own declining years with neither friend nor son at my side.” He straightened, then, and looked her in the eyes. “So work your will on me, Witch. I am already living in the worst I can dream, and I brought it all upon myself!”

She caught Octavian's eye, and nodded slightly. He needed no further encouragement.

“Father!”
he cried, pulling off his helm, and flinging himself to King Henrick's feet. “Father, I am here! I am home again!”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the King fell upon his son, weeping, and embracing him, as the Royal
Guard erupted into a cheer. And after that—well, that was when things got very interesting indeed.

 

It was long after dark that Elena finally headed back home to her cottage, and she was just about ready to drop with exhaustion. First, there had been the whole Reconciliation scene to play out, then
some
(by no means all) of the explanation of what had happened to Octavian and why, then (this time, in private) Elena had delivered herself of a bit of a lecture to King and Prince. Not
much
of a lecture, but she had made it very clear that their first act must be to reconcile with Julian by delivering the one thing that the King had not been able to bring himself to send—

—an apology, a long one, for a long list of wrongs and neglect going back into his childhood.

It was the newly-humbled Octavian who'd had no difficulty with this rather obvious necessity, and in the euphoria of having his favorite son back, Henrick had agreed.

As for the rest—well, that would mostly be in Octavian's hands, but his Redemption had been very real, and she didn't think he was going to backslide. There would be some gradual improvement in the lot of the common people of Kohlstania, and it would begin with being accorded the common courtesies that had heretofore been honored more in the breech than the observance. She had left, flying off into the sunset, with the third dragon harnessed with the other two, and had returned the whole rig to Arachnia by the time darkness fell. And by the time she had left, there was one very interesting change already visible in Kohlstania. Out in the marketplace, there were stalls and shops hung with the
signs of various sorts of magicians.
Those
hadn't been there when she flew over that morning. So, magic and magicians were already been accorded a great deal more respect by the “sophisticated” city folk.

Well, it only took looking up and seeing a dragon flying overhead to make a believer out of you, she supposed.

That was yet another change that had been badly needed here; from what Elena had learned from Alexander and her own readings, Kohlstania had been rapidly on its way to banishing magic altogether. And that would have had a very serious effect on the very soul of the country, for a country whose people ceased to believe in magic soon lost much of their ability to imagine and dream, and before long, they ceased to believe—or hope—for anything. This was one of the fundamental truths of the Five Hundred Kingdoms. Even the lowest of swineherds could believe that he, or his son, or his son's son could one day be a Prince—because all it took was magic, and being the right person in the right place. And the highest of Kings could know that at any moment, an act of dishonor or cruelty could send him tumbling out of his throne—because all it took was magic, and doing the wrong thing to the wrong person. In this way, The Tradition could be a blessing, and the magic by which it operated certainly was. “The carrot and the stick,” Madame Bella had once said dryly, when explaining it all to Elena. “The carrot for the lowly, the stick for the mighty. It is quite astonishing how effective these things are when applied in that particular order.”

Elena left the dragons and their chariot with Arachnia's troll, and enjoyed a fortifying and amusing dinner with the Dark Lady and her Lord.

At least, it had been amusing right up until the moment that they said their farewells and she drove off into the forest—alone. At that point, she was overcome by a spasm of envy so powerful it felt akin to pain.

She clutched at the reins, and slapped them over the donkey's back to make him hurry his pace. Wise little fellow that he was, he ignored her; he was going no faster than a walk, for he could not see the road well in the darkness. She had evoked the “All Forests Are One” spell, of course, and he might even be
in
her home forest even now, but it had never taken less than an hour to traverse the distance between
where she was
and
where she was going,
and she very much doubted that was going to change tonight, just because she was feeling miserable and wanted to be home.

She stared into the darkness, and felt tears dripping down her cheeks.

Arachnia hadn't meant to hurt her, of course. In fact, she had no idea that her words had left Elena feeling as if she had been stabbed. She'd only meant to explain why she had no intention of being the Godmother to Kohlstania, or any other Kingdom. And she had meant it as a compliment.

“I could never be as strong as you, Elena,”
she had said, earnestly.
“You Godmothers, living all alone as you do, I don't know how you can bear it. You completely amaze me. Now that I've found it, I could never stand to be alone the way you are, to live my life without love.”

If she could see Elena now, she would be horrified, for she could have no way of knowing how bitter those words had been, and how they had made Elena's heart ache with pain.
Not just because of what they meant
now,
but what they meant for the future.

Because, of course, Godmothers did live alone. Who had ever heard of a Godmother's Consort, or a Fairy Godfather? It was one thing to manipulate The Tradition; it was quite another to forge a new one that would create such a monumental change as that.

In the back of her mind, she had been planning on having Alexander with her all winter—had been looking forward to his company during the days when snow would confine them all within doors. She had not been thinking at all, or at least, she had not been thinking like a Godmother. If anything, she had been thinking like an ordinary woman.

Which, of course, she was not.

That was what Arachnia's words had made her realize. That she would have to put more effort into Alexander's redemption, so that he could be back in Kohlstania himself by the time the snows came.

That she was going to be spending another long winter alone.

As she would, for the rest of her life.

“I
don't know why you're letting him watch this,” Rose complained aloud for the fourth or fifth time, as Alexander stared intently into the depths of the magic mirror and the scene that was playing out there. It would have been fascinating enough to watch just about
anything
there, and know that he was seeing a reflection of something that was going on elsewhere, far away. But to be able to see his own father and brother—well, he simply could not tear himself away. It was a pity that he could not hear as well as see, but Randolf was giving a fairly good precis of what was going on.

Rose, however, was speaking, not to Alexander, who probably would not have answered, but to Lily.

“Because, oh impossibly obdurate one,
I told her to bring him here
,” replied the mirror-spirit Randolf, in a bored tone.
“And to repeat myself one more time, I told her to bring him here this morning, because I
am
something of a predictive Mirror-Slave, and it seemed imperative to me, and important to the lad's Redemption, that the Prince see and understand what was happening to his father and brother today. The Godmother has given me fairly broad scope for me to use my own judgment in such matters, and this is how I choose to use it.” The spirit of the mirror paused. “You
do
want the boy redeemed, don't you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Alexander saw Rose glare at the mirror, but she said nothing.

Instead of going out to work in the orchard today, directly after breakfast Lily had insisted on bringing him into the house, right up to this rather feminine chamber, where she had placed him on a hassock in front of a mirror that was not silvered, but black.

He thought he had gotten used to magic and the idea of it, but when a face appeared in the mirror that was clearly not a reflection of anyone in the room—and then, when it spoke to him!—he had nearly jumped up and gone looking for a weapon.

His self-control had the upper hand, however, and quite honestly it was impossible to listen to Randolf without being amused and forgetting that he was basically a disembodied head. And before too long, he was talking with Randolf almost as if the spirit was an ordinary person rather than something that only lived in a mirror.

Then Randolf began showing him what had taken the Godmother away from home—and that it had to do entirely with his brother Octavian.

Now, the Godmother had been keeping him fairly, if sketchily, up-to-date on the rest of his family, but it was one thing to hear about it, and quite another to see it. Octavian just astonished him; his brother had never been a weakling, but the amount of muscle that he had put on was matched only by the changed look of his face. There was thoughtfulness there, and intelligence; Octavian had once seemed a bit imitative, reflecting what others thought rather than thinking for himself.

Alexander scarcely left the mirror for anything; Lily brought him a ploughman's lunch and he ate it without even tasting it. It was not only that he was half-starved for the sight of familiar faces, and anxious to know the welfare of his father and brother. It was that, if
Octavian
had managed to win his freedom, how had it been done? And could he manage, as well?

At least, that was how he had begun his vigil. But as he watched his father and brother together, and heard from Randolf what they were all saying, he had realized something quite profound.

They did not need him.

Oh, they wanted to know that he was all right, and when Elena had assured them, in rather vague terms, that he was, they clearly dismissed him and his current situation with some relief. But it had been Octavian who had been brought up at their father's side; it had been Octavian who was the Crown Prince. The problem that had occurred with Julian had, in a lesser fashion, been going on between Alexander and his father. He'd been raised by nurses and tutors, educated by the Academy, and although he idolized his father,
he realized that before his return on graduation, he had probably spent less than a month in his father's presence, all told. Realistically he was the Spare. And with Octavian hale and hearty and as like to their father as if they'd been hatched from the same egg, there was no place at the Kohlstanian court for Alexander except as a perpetual Prince-in-Waiting. Even that promised position as Octavian's Commander-in-Chief would probably have been in name only. The Commanders of Kohlstania's army were practiced and competent, and he was unblooded. Exceptionally well-trained, but unblooded.

So, by the time that Randolf showed them Elena, in her little donkey-cart, on her way home again, the question had been significantly altered in Alexander's mind. It was no longer
How can I get home,
but
Do I want to go home?

What would he do, when he got home again? Oh, he could take command of the Army, he supposed, but to what purpose? To watch them drill, and take them out on parades, and make some effort at keeping them sharp? The current commanders would be better at that than he was. He didn't know a great deal about anything other than military matters, and to put it bluntly, he doubted that seasoned Commanders would give more than lip service to his leadership. He had no practice, and no real experience, and they had no reason to trust his judgment. So what would he do when he got back? He had a taste of real work and real
life
now, and while he wouldn't miss the blisters and the sweat and the dead-stupid physical labor, the artificial surroundings of the Court did not seem particularly attractive anymore. Watching the intrigues going on, playing politics, sitting in
on the Council sessions and pretending he was actually contributing to the discussions seemed an utter waste of time. And a day “filled” with games, hunting, flirting, wenching, and the like wasn't particularly attractive, either.

Well, perhaps the wenching. But a man could only rise to the occasion so many times in a day. You couldn't actually fill a day with wenching.

As a grumbling Rose made certain that he was
out
of the house and heading back to the stables, he was no longer sure that he belonged in Kohlstania anymore.

He'd had more of those dreams, of purple sands and a lovely lady. He was not altogether certain of her identity, but by now, he had a shrewd guess.

Oh, yes indeed, he could guess. The strange light had given an odd color to her hair, but under proper sun, he reckoned it would be golden. And while he'd never seen Elena in quite so
little
clothing, well, that could just be chalked up to the fact that his imagination was very good at creating a picture from a small amount of information.

Not that he was under any illusions that the dreams meant anything, except that
he
had stopped thinking of Madame Elena as an enemy and someone to blame all of his troubles upon. No, he was not
about
to make any overtures in that direction. He had no particular wish to go back to being a donkey most of the time. Not that she wasn't a tasty little thing, and not that she wasn't exactly to his particular taste, but—no. And not that she still couldn't make his groin ache if he thought about her in that way, but—definitely no. Even if she didn't turn him back into a don
key, it wasn't worth finding himself flat on his back with
that
sort of headache for a second time.

It was enough that as he had become less of an ass, in both senses, she had become friendlier. If she didn't yet treat him as an equal—well, maybe he didn't yet deserve to be treated like an equal. A Godmother was both above birth-rank and apart from it—

So, if you want respect from a Godmother, you have to earn it, I suppose.

He climbed the ladder to his loft-room slowly, and as he poked his head through the hole in the floor, he realized that tonight he was disinclined to read anything. He didn't even light his lamp; he merely blew out the one he had brought with him and stripped down in the darkness. Instead of reading, he climbed into his bed, and lay there with his hands clasped behind his head, thinking.

No, I don't think I want to go home. Not unless something horrible happens to Octavian; Father would need me then. But as long as they know that I'm all right, I suppose it wouldn't matter to them where I am. So where should I go, and what could I do?

Julian might be able to use him; he'd always gotten along reasonably well with Julian. Truth to tell, though his brother was probably handling the civilians in his new land well enough, where the military was concerned, Julian wouldn't have a clue. According to Alexander's instructors, it was usually better all the way around for a ruler's Commander-in-Chief to be someone he trusted and knew, personally.

He could probably talk Julian into giving him the position. The real question was how Julian's new people would
feel about it. And there were other things to consider; what the shape of Julian's army was, if he even
had
an army. If he didn't—well, in that case there was no doubt; there
was
a place for him at Julian's side. Building an army up from nothing, or back up from decay—yes, he knew how to do that, in theory at least.

But of course, if Julian happened to have a perfectly good army, and a Commander-in-Chief that suited him, then even if Alexander talked him into the job, there would be a colossal amount of resentment. No, he wouldn't walk into that particular tiger-pit…not without a lot of forethought and planning, anyway.

It might be worth it. Especially if he'd actually be able to accomplish something.

He tried to think of all of the possible ramifications and repercussions, and found himself drifting off to sleep. And as he relaxed and his concentration faded away, one final, very odd thought floated up through the formless, shapeless stuff of his dreams.

I wish—it's a pity the Godmothers don't need an army….

 

It was probably a good thing, after all, that it
had
taken Elena the better part of two hours to get home again. By the time she drove up to her door, she had managed to cry herself out, find a stream, wash her face, and get herself looking no worse than tired.

Hob was waiting for her, ready to take the donkey and cart, but surprisingly, Rose was right at the door. And she hadn't even gotten across the threshold before Rose made it very clear
why
she'd been waiting—or rather, lying in
wait—in order to get a very particular complaint lodged before anyone else could say anything. She started at the front entry and continued her complaint all the way up the stairs and on into the suite.

“—in your rooms, if you please, the whole day. Not a jot of work done, and that Randolf acting like the lord of the manor—”

“I did
not
act like the lord of the manor,” came Randolf's voice, muffled by the velvet drapes that had been drawn across the face of the mirror. “I merely told Lily that in
my
opinion, and based on
my
presentiment, the young man needed to be here to see what you were doing with his brother.”

Elena went to the mirror and pulled back the drapes. Randolf was ensconced squarely in the center of the mirror, looking seriously miffed. “I do not often have premonitory feelings, Godmother,” he said stiffly, “but when I do, I am not accustomed to having them questioned.” He looked down his long nose at Rose, who sniffed scornfully. “
Really,
Godmother. Particularly from a creature with no experience at predictive magic, and no—”

“Thank you, Randolf,” Elena said, interrupting him by holding up her hand. “I do understand your feelings, but it is Rose's duty to act in a manner that protects my interests.” Rose looked smug for a moment, but Elena continued. “However, you are entirely correct; your previous owners
did
use you to foretell the future in a very limited way as we both know, and although you lost some of that ability when Bella gave you more freedom, when you do feel a prescient impulse, it is wise for us to act upon it. If this hap
pens again in my absence, I would wish you to speak with the others first, and let them know your reasons before you act, just so that everyone knows what is happening and why.”

Now
both
of them gave a derisive sniff, which—since it probably meant that neither of them felt the victor in the disagreement—was the best she was going to manage.

Silly geese. Randolf took the attitude that since he was
entirely
a magical entity, and had served only Queens and Kings among Dark Sorcerers, he was somehow higher up in the Faerie ranks than a mere House-Elf. He was, in his nonexistent bones, a snob. While Rose, who had served Godmothers for hundreds of years here, believed in her heart of hearts that any decision
she
made in a Godmother's absence should take precedence; in her own way, she was just as much of a snob as Randolf, which meant that they were doomed to clash. Robin and Hob either humored her or ignored her when she was in this mood, but Lily enjoyed slyly tweaking her skirts, and it was clear to Elena that this time Randolf and Lily had conspired together to take Rose down a peg.

Well, here was the one valuable piece of advice that Madame Klovis had ever given regarding the staff—
When the servants begin quarreling, stay out of it.
The rest of the advice,
All you will do is inflate their already bloated opinions of themselves,
was utter nonsense, but the first part was right enough.

“I would have told the Prince everything anyway,” Elena continued, ignoring the sniffs, “but I don't think anything but good can come of his actually
seeing
it all unfold. It will
probably give him extra motivation to prove that he has reformed and is ready to go back to his family himself.”

That last cost her a pang; she ignored it. Rose looked a little more mollified, but Randolf frowned. “But, Godmother, that's—” he began, but once again Elena cut him off. “Rose, I am wearied to death. Could the rest of this wait until morning?”