I had come this far. I began to climb.
Within a half-dozen steps, the sparse moonlight dissipated so completely that I was ascending in total darkness. Timidly I probed and tested each step and riser before settling my weight. Swollen and aching though my fingers were, still they swept the jagged stones, verifying the solidity of my surroundings. Ever higher I mounted. Then my vision, overwhelmed with strain, began to mislead me, for steps and walls, ghostly in a pale white light, appeared. I turned my head upward, and my heart froze, for light—ever stronger and whiter—drifted down from above.
Though I stood as a statue for some time, my ears ringing with the effort of my concentrated listening, I could discern no footstep or rustle, no indication that the space above was occupied by a human ... or other presence. Again gathering my scanty resolve, I resumed my creeping journey.
Mounting the last steps, I could now make out a tiny chamber, as neatly designed as a cut gem, tucked beneath the conical roof of the tower. Strong moonlight poured through four diminutive dormer windows, as though the round panes of glass had magnified the faint beams tenfold. Just as a lighthouse via mirrors and lenses transforms the flame of a single candle into a powerful beam, so, too, apparently, did these windows work with moonlight: a lighthouse turned in upon itself.
In this enchanted light I perceived a space such as I had never known. Odd cabinets with peculiar locks lined the walls. A cobwebbed mirror hung above a workbench blanketed in a jumble of unidentifiable objects. A lectern displaying an open book, an unlit candelabra to one side, stood in the room's center. Every item—I cannot emphasize this strongly enough—was shrouded in dust more than a finger width deep, accented by bird droppings powdery with age; bird nests crumbled in the turret's peak. Mice had left an otherworldly maze of trails on the floor, which was so thick with dust that it felt as soft as carpet.
I stole toward the lectern, small eddies of dust rising about my ankles. Once arrived, I had another fright, for the mighty tome resting there, though obviously ancient with its yellowed pages and aged leather binding, was as clean as the queen's own throne. Thick dust draped every adjoining surface, and bird droppings as well (I was revolted to note), but the book itself lay pristine.
With effort, I calmed myself. There were no footprints in the room, no evidence of occupancy for a century or more. The book itself must have some mysterious power. Inadvertently I proved this when, in reaching to touch the binding, a thick clump of dust dropped from my sleeve. The dust drifted downward as dust is wont to do, but as it neared the book, it purely and simply vanished. How clever! I scooped up a large handful of dust to test this again but at the last moment refrained, sensing (and I shall forever look upon this moment as a great leap in my maturity) that perhaps a volume of such antiquity and obvious capability should not be put to use for parlor tricks.
Those childhood tales of the founding of Montagne, the legendary couple who cured the mountain giants' chilblains and through magic protected their new country from harm ... those fictions, I suddenly realized, must have some foundation in fact. Magic alone could explain my passage through a solid masonry wall, and magic alone explained the presence, and certainly the contents, of this secret room. Why I of all people would stumble upon this lost and forgotten chamber at this particular moment in time; that I could not explain. Except—and this realization sent me gasping so deeply that I spent several minutes coughing dust from my lungs—except for the fact that I, as granddaughter of the king, had descended directly from Montagne's founders. However many generations later, their blood flowed in my veins. This marvelous adventure was, in some manner, my birthright.
Again I peered at the spotless open book. After wiping one aching hand on my gown (which, sadly, was already far more soiled than brocade should ever be), I reached out a trembling finger and touched it.
I did not disappear. That was a blessing. The book felt clean to my touch, of course, but otherwise booklike. When I tried to turn the page, however, my eyes grew wide, for however papery the pages felt and appeared, with their tiny words and inked drawings, the book remained as solid and immovable as a block of granite.
If I had not yet come to the conclusion that this tome was a force of magic, the title words—difficult to discern, for the room though illuminated by the moon had not light for scholarship—left no doubt. "The Elemental Spells," they proclaimed, in a flowing, archaic script I would discover soon enough was not the easiest to decipher. A dense paragraph followed, too challenging to read in the weak light, and then a series of precise illustrations and captions, with arrows highlighting specific elements, much as a cookery book might demonstrate the proper way to trim a roast, or an engineering manual the ideal configuration of a gristmill.
The pictures greatly intrigued me. Each showed a pair of hands gesturing in a most specific manner. A sketch of a hand with snapping fingers, for example, emphasized that the snap should be off the third, or ring, finger. I attempted this. My own fingers were so swollen that I could scarce manipulate them, yet, consumed with curiosity, I forced them to bend.
With great effort I produced a small sound, nothing akin to the well-known snap with which we are all of us familiar, but noise nonetheless in that silent room. Beneath this drawing was a series of words in a tongue I did not recognize; it looked wild, foreign, and unpronounceable. Helpfully, a second line of text sounded the words out syllable by syllable. With great focus I whispered the words, though I had not a clue in the world what such gibberish would produce.
Again I spoke, uttering the words with more confidence now, and at the same time forcing my fingers into their snap. At once a minuscule puff of flame appeared in my palms. I shrieked—well would anyone, I should say, under such tension—and leapt backwards. Breathless with alarm, I rubbed my hands, searching out a burn. There was none, naught beyond the welts and grime already present.
However unscathed I was for now, caution dictated I attend more closely. I returned to the book. The next illustration was of two hands cupped; another sequence showed the hands working in unison through an elaborate snap and fluttering move. Once burned, as it were, I now doubled my vigilance, and practiced the nonsensical words with my arms held straight out from my sides, fingers stiff and wide to avoid any possible misunderstanding.
Across the two pages, I could see now, every chain of pictures ended with cupped hands, and each set of hands held a different substance. One clutched a lump resembling soil, another water with rippling surface. The third pair held what could only have been fire, sans a single indication of discomfort. The last hands I puzzled over, for they appeared to harbor a puff of mist, much like the clouds forever swirling about the base of our waterfall. These pictures meant something, I knew, but what?
Suddenly, as I scanned the pages' title, it struck me. The elemental spells these were, and such they produced: the four elements of earth, water, fire, and air.
What good such spells would accomplish I had not a clue. The ability to make dirt, or air, seemed rather a waste of magic. Fire, however, particularly a flame one could hold without danger—that was a different situation altogether. I made another attempt at the hand gestures, enunciating as clearly as possible and struggling to align properly my words and movements. Finishing, I gripped my two hands together, determined to cup the flame for a moment at least.
My palms filled with a brilliant glow as flames lapped upward. Reflexively I jerked back my head, afraid my curls might catch fire. But I felt not a hint of pain. The fire, in fact, soothed my inflamed skin. Hardly daring to breathe, I lifted this magical fire to my face. I blew on it. The flames danced as flames will, burning more brightly still. Marveling at this miracle, I noticed the dust-caked candelabra and the drooping, mouse-gnawed candles. Careful to hold my fire out of harm's way, I blew dust from the curled wicks. This could not work—and yet, when I held my flame close, the first wick caught with ease. The room brightened as the candle flame grew. Thrilled beyond measure, I lit the remaining candle
s, and this warm yellow glow mingled with the pure white moonlight to suffuse the room with brightness. The page before me now read clearly, and, emboldened by my success, I set to work deciphering the tight prose.
This, too, took time, as the writer's spelling was creative at best, his phrasing archaic, and his penmanship, lovely though it appeared, lacked that crucial element of legibility. Halfway through the first sentence, I was already cursing him—or her, I should say in fairness, for the script, with its elaborate flourishes and illuminations, did have a feminine quality. With the greatest effort, I made my way through the first paragraph, which consisted of a series of warnings, the most important being that the spells could not be used for profit, that the manufacture of ice presented unique challenges and might result in frostbite, and that attempts at flight would require additional spell work. The warning against profiteering included a most disturbing sketch of a man fabricating a large crystal, only to lose his hands. It had never occurred to me that "earth" might include gems and metals. Even so, wealth held little appeal. Far more interested was I in the concept of flight. Is that what the warning meant, that one produced the element of air in order to fly? To fly like a ... like a witch, on a broom? My mind reeled.
I spent the rest of the night in practice. Lucky I was that my first attempt had been so successful, else I would have forsaken the effort entirely. Try as I might, I could not construct air, not even a puff. My attempts at earth were equally futile. Perhaps I managed a dozen grains of soil, but my hands by this point were so filthy that I could not separate old dirt from new. Furious at my imbecility, I returned to my one success and produced a flame so powerful that it singed my hair. With a yelp I dropped the fire, snuffing it, and studied again the minuscule printing, only to learn that emotion played as strong a role in these spells as speech or gesture. I could control the volume, and to a certain extent the contents (specifying the type of earth, say, or that dangerous ice), with my mind. The writer further explained, as if reading my thoughts, that self-control was the very foundation of spell work. I could not resist a heartfelt snort. At the moment I had far too many critics of my self-control; I did not need another.
Nonetheless, I paid close attention to my mood, ignoring the stench of burnt hair. If I could not manage earth or air, perhaps I might at least produce water. This, too, required great concentration. At one point my hands grew damp, which I considered a great victory. Reinvigorated, I wiped my palms on my dress, leaving two long black smears across my middle. My swollen fingers ached, growing stiffer with every movement I forced from them. Finally, after what must have been the twentieth attempt, I again clasped my cupped hands together and to my astonishment found them brimming.
"Oh!" I cried out, clapping with joy. Water sprayed everywhere, further marking my gown. I raced to wipe the book, but of course it rested dry and unmarred. Again, and again, and again I created water, using the first two handfuls to clean my hands, scouring them with my undergarments, which I am sorry to report never fully recovered from this abuse. The third handful I drank. Doubtless I should have wondered whether magical water might be less than potable, potentially even poisonous. But after hours in that room, dust caked my throat, and however poisonous the water may have been, it tasted sweet as a mountain spring.
Now I noticed the first beams of morning glowing through those delightful gemlike windows. I must depart this room, ere my empty cell be discovered! Hastily I scanned the chamber. Was there anything I had left, any single item or object of importance I should note? But for my footprints and the drops of water surrounding the lectern, the room looked as it had for years untold.
I snuffed the candles and raced down the stairs, now panicked as well that the magic doorway might be sealed. To my heartfelt relief, however, the portal presented the same tangible doorjamb, with only the faintest hint of a filmy barrier. No one had yet arrived; that was one fear eased. I took the last steps two at a time and then, with the overwhelming sensation that my life would never again be the same, I stepped through the veil. Oh, how I now loved this wretched little room! How powerful my gratitude to the queen for imprisoning me within this cell!
Filthy though I was, I threw myself down on the mattress, my mind racing with a great storm of ideas, plans, and notions. I had so, so much to consider.
SEVEN
Half an hour later, deep in dreamless sleep, I found myself being shaken awake in the rudest possible manner.
When Queen Sophia relegated me to this tower cell, she instructed Lady Beatrix to tend to my attire that I be clothed appropriately for classes, dance lessons, riding, meals, and the formal dinners I so abhorred. Utilizing the ever-growing wardrobe in my Peach Rooms, Lady Beatrix would select a seemly ensemble. Yet the lady discovered soon enough that the climb to my cell taxed her greatly. Moreover, I believe she suffered from claustrophobia, so profound was her reaction to that dark and narrow staircase. Thus, with the queen's blessing, she delegated the actual task of dressing me to Hildebert, a formidable handmaid who had little interest in my rank or susceptibility to bribes and was not above the application of brute force. I would emerge from my cell perspiring but dominated, to present myself, should she be available, for Sophia's inspection.
At the moment, however, it took all Hildebert's efforts to awaken me. "What have you done to yourself?" she grunted. "You're covered in filth, you are!"
I blinked, struggling to gather my wits.
"And what are you doing in your gown yet? You never even donned your nightdress!"
"No one undressed me," I answered peevishly but with undeniable truth.
"Milady will have to see this herself!" So saying, Hildebert tossed me aside and stomped away, pausing just long enough to lock me in.
I remained sprawled, laboring to recall the past hours. My hands, swollen and stiff, brought back Sophia's beating. And the tower room ... had I dreamt it? My gown was irreparably soiled; that was one reassurance. And my curls still reeked with that unmistakable stench of burnt hair.
Leaping off my pallet, I rushed to the wall. In daylight the stones appeared doubly solid, absolutely impregnable. And yet, as I reached out, my hand slipped into them as though into water.
Why did I now suddenly have this power? But, I realized, I had never touched this particular wall before. No one traipses about a castle fondling every rock and bit of mortar. It was a plain, dull expanse of masonry, the likes of which I'd seen for hours on end every day of my life. Perhaps, indeed, the portal opened for everyone.
Soon as this thought sprang into my head, I heard Hildebert's stomping return. I remained in place, startling her as she opened the door.
"We're going to see her," she announced with a scowl.
"Who?" I demanded, with a petulance that before this day had come automatically to my lips; now I had to force the performance.
"Lady Beatrix, of course it be! I'd take you to the queen, but Her Majesty's suffering from a touch of headache."
That was interesting news, or would be when I had time to dwell on it. At the moment, however, I simply stamped my foot. "I'm not going."
As a red cape enrages a bull, so did this capture Hildebert's attention. "Oh, you're not, are you?" She advanced, arms wide.
As she closed in, I leapt forward and caught her formidable middle. The woman staggered back.
Anticipating that she would fall through the secret portal, I intended to snatch her away, and distract her through tantrums until the incident slipped her mind. To my surprise and great relief, I was spared this, for her head hit the rock—the very rock into which I had just plunged my hand—with a crack that resounded like a whip snap.
Raging, the woman lunged at me and delivered a great cuff that even at the time I knew I deserved. Our balance of power thus restored, she led me to Lady Beatrix.
***
Hildebert had had no sensation of the doorway! To be honest, if one were to rank the castle's occupants on their potential for magical powers, Hildebert without question w
ould appear near the bottom of the list. Nonetheless, I now had proof that my abilities were unusual if not unique. Perhaps 'twas my ancestors' blood after all.
As I scurried to match Hildebert's quick pace, footmen stiffened with unusual crispness; maids who had rarely acknowledged my presence now curtsied low. Had I considered the matter, I would have attributed it to my preposterously filthy appearance. Lost in my thoughts, however, I scarce noticed the reception.
Lady Beatrix, when we arrived at her chambers, puffed in horror. "Princess! What have you done?" Apparently we had interrupted her in the middle of her toilette, for she lacked rouge on one cheek.
I repeated, not having another answer, "No one undressed me."
"And so you ended up like this! Did you roll about on the floor? I cannot believe it."
Neither could I. How would anyone who had seen my sterile cell suppose for one moment that it held dust enough to soil a handkerchief, let alone my voluminous and many-layered gown? But I overestimated the opinion in which I was held. Lady Beatrix apparently believed me slovenly enough to manufacture my own dirt. (The fact that I potentially could manufacture dirt was beside the point.) With a dramatic sigh, she released me to my bath.
The combination of hot water, my warm breakfast rolls, and a virtually sleepless night worked as an inexorable soporific. Arriving at the ballroom for my dance lessons, I dropped at once onto a divan.
"Her Highness must stand for the first step," chided plump little Monsieur Grosbouche.
"No," I answered, too exhausted to wheedle. "I won't."
Lady Beatrix examined me. "Very well, then." And she flounced away, settling with Monsieur Grosbouche on the far side of the ballroom. With a last glare in my direction, the two began to discuss the latest fashions in wigs and how these prizes might best be acquired.