"If his son be the mate we select," sniffed the queen. "Regardless, their presumption serves us well, and so shall we hold them at bay until we identify a spouse for Benevolence."
This time I gasped audibly. How dim I was! It was not the queen; it was I whom they intended to marry off as a brainless brood mare.
The queen stepped closer to the portal. She glared—unknowingly, though this was small comfort at the moment—into my face and ran her hand along the very space through which I peered, my lips pursed to silence any betraying breath.
"Are you quite certain we are alone?" she asked, never taking her eyes from the wall.
"I have taken every precaution, Your Majesty."
Finally the queen turned away as I panted in relief. "As we were saying..."
"She is young, Your Majesty."
"Not so young," the queen sniffed. "We have seen girls of ten used to avert crises smaller than this. With a decent ally, our country may yet be preserved."
She continued to speak, but I had heard enough. I stumbled back to my room, all interest in exploration snuffed. I was to be married—joined in union forever with as much thought to my feelings as a cook gives the carrots she drops into a pot. Every man of rank in six days' ride: that was the population from which they intended to choose? I had met many of these men through my father. Several, indeed, my mother would scarce allow in our home, and now I was expected to wed one of them—possibly even the prince of the nation that forever sought to conquer Montagne!
Eavesdroppers punish themselves indeed. Too despondent even to weep, I huddled under my quilts, wishing more than ever for my father. He alone could save me from a fate verily worse than death into which I was about to be so indifferently plunged.
TEN
In the months that followed, all castle activity centered on the ball. Few other topics crossed the queen's lips, and Lady Beatrix regularly worked herself into such a state over the arrangements, every detail of which she considered her fundamental responsibility, that Hildebert took to keeping smelling salts on her person at all times.
Though I regarded Chateau de Montagne, my secret places notwithstanding, as an adequate model of domestic hygiene, I appeared to be alone in this opinion. The staff, augmented by relatives and a scurrying crew of day laborers, laundered curtains, beat rugs, washed walls, scrubbed floors, and polished windows to such a gleam that one could scarce see through them, so reflective their surface. Even I, a princess and heir to the throne, which I could not help but point out in a rare flaunting of my rank that served me no benefit whatsoever, was drafted into the effort.
"Are the guests truly going to be examining this?"I demanded, kneeling inside a chest in an obscure hallway far from the ballroom and guest chambers.
"Just keep to your scrubbing," Hildebert ordered.
Lady Beatrix fluttered past in a cloud of fabric swatches. "Remember, Princess, the ball is in your honor. Perhaps you will catch the eye of an eligible young prince and thus free yourself forever from such drudgery."
There is a chance—a paltry one, I concede—that such a tactic might have appealed to me had I been ignorant of the ball's true purpose. Surely the promise that marriage would relieve me of housework (a promise that every sane woman knows as falsehood) had appeal. As it was, however, I simply glowered and renewed my secret vow to remain unwed.
Now could I understand Queen Sophia's constant harpings on my figure. She cared little about my appearance per se, but she required me presentable to snare herself an ally. She had taken protection of her adopted country to heart and appeared ready to defend it with the zeal of a lioness. It caused her no end of frustration that however minuscule my meals, my waist did not shrink, and my cheeks retained a cherubic plumpness more common to well-fed babies than marriageable royalty. Although the news of my impending betrothal broke my appetite as well as my heart, the former soon returned in force, and every night I applied myself with unprecedented gusto to the castle's larders, pantries, and storerooms. It soon took the efforts of two grunting handmaids and a straining corset to provide any hint that my solid form was in fact female. My strangled discomfort at these constrictions was eased somewhat, however, by my satisfaction at the despair my expansion caused my tormentors.
Novice that I was, I considered myself the model of stealth, and I soon expanded my thievery beyond food. Creeping through the servants' quarters, I pilfered a rough pair of trousers, heavy woolen tunic with jerkin, and thick boots and socks, for my black cloak offered no winter protection to my lower limbs, and not nearly enough to the rest of my body. As my days continued to pass in a fog of exhaustion and catnaps, I paid scant notice to the rumors and minor scandals that forever season the human experience. So it transpired that I, ironically enough, was perhaps the last citizen of Montagne, and certainly the last castle resident, to hear of the malevolent powers that now haunted Chateau de Montagne, forcing guards to tread the battlements in uneasy pairs and quaking maids to sleep with charms grasped in their damp little fists.
My eyes were first opened to this crisis one evening at dinner as I picked genteelly at a meat pie, knowing I would soon sate myself in the larder. Indeed, I would dine better than the queen herself, for while the filling was quite savory, the golden crust bore a close resemblance to shoe leather. I knew the location of the pot that held the filling and could scarcely wait to make it mine.
"Dear Princess," Lord Frederick began, startling me to attention, "I could not help but notice you lingering in the north salon ex-room this afternoon."
My cheeks flushed. Whenever I could travel the castle corridors unescorted—a rare event, and thus doubly cherished—I delighted in pausing in every ex-room to plunge my arms through the hedgehogs.
I stuttered through an explanation. My powers of reasoning—of fibbing, if truth be told—were creaky with disuse.
To my great relief, the queen interjected. "Was she perhaps eating something?" she queried the lord, with a suspicious glower in my direction.
Frederick chuckled. "There is little of sustenance in an ex-room,Your Majesty. Though perhaps she conjured some up, it being a witch room, after all."
My fork clattered from my nerveless hand.
" 'Tis one of those trifles of Montagne history—I should not be surprised you do not know it. When the castle was first constructed, the ex-rooms were known as Hexeraumen, or witch rooms. One can see easily how 'hex room' would evolve to our own vernacular 'ex-room.' Quite fascinating, really, though of course no one today knows the origin of the term." He swirled his wine contemplatively.
I gulped. The witch rooms. Extraordinary.
Lady Beatrix gazed transfixed at the old man beside her. Her heavy powder could not hide her pallor, and her hands gripped the table's edge with white-knuckled force. "Witches, you say?" she squeaked.
"How interesting," the queen inserted. "Of course, there are no witches in the castle presently, if there ever were, and we would all be wise to silence any discussion indicating otherwise." This last comment she aimed at her lady in waiting.
Lord Frederick only smiled. "I shall do my best, Your Majesty, though surely the gossip will fade as a more rational explanation is found."
"Explanation for what?" I had heard nothing, and now I burned to know.
Lord Frederick laughed. " 'Tis only prattle. I would attribute it to indolence, but the staff clearly toils with heroic effort. Tell me, dear lady, how go the preparations?" So the wise ambassador parried his way from an awkward corner, in the process drawing Lady Beatrix from her panic to her passion.
I seethed, again left ignorant. Enlightenment came swiftly, however. The next morning, I sat as usual in my breakfast nook, awaiting a meal for which I had no appetite. The pleasant serving maid today nigh quivered in fear.
"Doyou believe, Princess Ben," she whispered, her eyes darting about, "that spirits fill this castle?"
"I have not seen any," I answered truthfully and, I hope, calmly.
"But lights burn in the Wi
zard Tower! Directly above your room!"
My hand jerked, spilling hot chocolate. "What is this you say? What tower?"
The girl's eyes grew even wider. "The tallest tower. It's called Wizard Tower—didn't you know that?"
"I am afraid I did not," I answered, buttering my roll with a trembling hand. "And lights burn in it? Doubtless it be only moonlight. You know what tricks moonlight plays."
"Might be. I've seen it myself, and it's hard to tell..."
Her reassurance faded. "No one can get to that tower, you know. There's no staircase or nothing—even a ladder won't reach. Do you ever hear anything?" She shivered, uttering these words.
"No, of course not. Besides, if no one can get to it, there couldn't be a light inside."
"But it's magic, don't you see? And what about the food missing from the kitchen—the cooks are in a state about it. They say it's a witch.'"
I stiffened. "I prefer the term sorceress. Witch is so common."
At once, a barrier dropped between us.
I had not realized I could sound so much like Sophia. "Yes, Your Highness," the girl replied frostily. She curtsied and withdrew, and would speak no further about the subject, no matter how I probed.
Of course my indiscretions had not gone unnoticed! Now that I had sense enough to listen, I heard whispered conversations everywhere, fantastic tales that spread as mushrooms upon each repeating. That the castle had been built by wizards may well have been a source of pride, but it did naught to assuage present fears. Lady Beatrix and Monsieur Grosbouche muttered horror stories throughout my lessons. As one might imagine, Hildebert stolidly ignored all talk, but she was unique in her skepticism. The queen made pronouncement after pronouncement against such chatter, to little effect, and at times the woman appeared just as anxious as Lady Beatrix herself. Not about witches, mind you, but about loss of control, for rumor is as destabilizing to authority as sorcery, if not more so.
***
Given the great challenges of my life at the moment—my nightly pilfering, my imminent marriage to some unknown specimen of imbecilic manhood, my endless quest for sleep, and now the risk of exposure as every castle resident sought that mysterious culprit—one would be right to express surprise at my growing passion for flying. Nevertheless, fly I did.
The spell was not easy. (Would any of them be?) True, my long hours practicing elemental air now worked to my benefit, but elemental air made up only one small part of the process. The broom's long solitude had faded its enchantment, which needed to be repeated from scratch. Again the wizard room aided me as cabinets unlocked to reveal desiccated bits of eagle's egg in a cloisonné tinderbox; a jar of powdered bat wings; bottled cloud mist (which looked suspiciously like water, though I did my best not to question). Finally the broom pulsated with the slight tingle I had expected when first touching it.
At last came that fateful night when, trembling with excitement, I brought the broom into my cell; small as it was, it had more space than the wizard room. I chanted the nonsensical words, proud my memory served so well. With great precision, mimicking to the very best of my ability the diagrams in the book, I gestured the prescribed movements and poured elemental air across the broom's surface. I finished the ultimate flourish and dropped my hands to my sides. For a breathless moment, naught happened; then the broom rose into the air and hovered at seat height before me.
I shrieked in euphoria. Unable to contain my enthusiasm, I leapt aboard, grasping the handle so vigorously that the broom shot upward, smacking me against the ceiling with a crack that I was certain could be heard throughout the castle. Dizzy with pain, I fell forward, and the broom hurtled to the floor, depositing me in an ungainly mass of limbs, bruises, and tears. After a not inconsiderable time, I managed to gather my wits and dry my eyes, and noticed with relief that broom was far less damaged than rider.
I spent the rest of the night and several more introducing myself to this unique transport. The key to navigation, I established, was to focus my sights on my destination. Of course, as I practiced only in my cell, my destinations were always quite close: the window, the door, the portal. I became quite adept at turning, as this constituted the entirety of my flight time. My rough men's clothing now proved even more essential, for I needed to sit astride, and in my nightdress the winter air chilled my exposed legs.
Oh, how I longed to soar through the sky! Past the stars, across the moon, over sleeping Montagne and its flag-adorned turrets. Even as I dreamt of this rapture, my wiser side spoke against it. Rumors of witchcraft now burned across the country. Sheep on Ancienne had gone astray; a shepherd boy had not been seen in weeks; spirits with cloven feet tracked ash across the ballroom floor. As far as the truth went, I had seen the ballroom myself, and the prints (well should I know) were only mice. Sheep had been disappearing from the mountain since time immemorial; rational men in rational times agreed the creatures must be tumbling into an unmarked ravine. As for the shepherd boy, I had no insights beyond the knowledge that I was in no way responsible.
Yet tempers were raw, and the castle's populace, tense over the impending ball and doubtless sensing in some intangible way the threat from Drachensbett, promised violence against anyone suspected of sorcery. Better to dart about my cell like a beetle trapped in a jar, and to enter the pantries only when my howling belly could bear hunger no more.
***
As the festivities drew closer, my days grew ever more oppressive. The ball had emerged as the social event of the winter. Overtaxed though Lady Beatrix might be, it was clear she took the greatest delight in her responsibilities, and were she to perish on the dance floor as the orchestra played its last notes, she would certainly consider her life more than complete.
I, on the other hand, felt precisely the opposite. I spent hours perched like a straw target while dressmakers pinned up fabrics and bemoaned my stature, Sophia snapping that I should stand straighter, as though posture alone caused my apple-shaped silhouette. All subterfuge surrounding the event had disappeared. My mate would be chosen whether I wished it or no; any small effect I might have on the decision would be determined solely by my abilities to charm the man I favored. Sophia spelled this out in grim detail, and it is a testament to her faith in tradition that she, despite all evidence to the contrary and three-quarters of a year in my company, yet believed me capable of such wiles. Better I would have been at pulling parsnips out of my nose than charming any man, even if I so desired it, even if I quadrupled my studies in her unique curriculum.
However, as the saying goes, a clever chicken can escape the crock. I had my wits, my magic, such as it was, and, perhaps my greatest asset, my current reputation. If necessary, I would sleep through the event. More than once in my earshot the queen herself expressed fear of this outcome. Or, heeding the ceaseless warnings that rained upon me, I might simply play the glutton. If my greed had half the effect on the guests that Beatrix predicted, my task would be an easy one.
Kind Lord Frederick, employing the same remarkable intuition that had served him so many decades in service of the Montagne court, must have sensed my scheming, for one afternoon I found myself under his thoughtful eye as I struggled across the ballroom with Monsieur Grosbouche.
"How wonderfully you dance together," the lord said, choosing the high road of flattery over the boulevard of truth. "If Her Highness so consents, I should be delighted to escort her in the next movement."
I blinked, for rarely did I encounter formality put to such gratifying effect. Regaining my composure, I agreed to his request as Monsieur Grosbouche waddled to the nearest chair, grateful to retie his laces and free himself momentarily from his obstreperous student.
Never had I danced with a partner about whom I felt such consideration, and this unprecedented circumstance required all my concentration. Lord Frederick was a most thoughtful dance partner, and he refrained from grunting the time into my ear. The experience was so altogether foreign as to constitute another activity entirely. It was, dare I say, ple
asant.
"My dear Princess," Lord Frederick began.
I stepped on his toes, then apologized most profusely.
"Do not give it another thought. A dancer should be so enthralled with his partner that he pays no notice to such trivialities."
To my great embarrassment, I blushed. That I might be a partner who enthralled had never before suggested itself.
Lord Frederick beamed. "What a joy it is to see you looking girlish. You pass so much of the day somber."
"The ball is quite demanding of us all."
"Ah, yes, the ball ... it seems the most trivial of undertakings, does it not?"
I nodded, grateful for the opportunity to express myself.
"And yet the fate of our kingdom may very well hinge on it. Did you not know that?"
"The queen implied so—she seems to care a great deal about it..."
"Indeed she does. She cares a great deal about you, Ben."
This statement caught me so off-guard that I nearly sent us sprawling. "She doesn't in the least!"
"She most certainly does. Remember, she has no experience with children."
"I am not a child!"
"Of course you are not ... But she, like you, is making the best effort she can."
I scowled. I did not appreciate the notion that she was making an effort. Nor did I want to dwell on whether I was.
"I speak to you as an equal, Ben. Nations larger than ours desire to claim us. If we are to survive, we must build alliances."
"I don't want to marry!"
"Nor do I wish it, not in circumstances such as these. But, odd as it must doubtless seem, a ball is as critical a display of strength as a marching army. Surely you desire to demonstrate our strength to the world?"
I nodded. I did want to display Montagne's strength; I was patriot enough for this.
"Your father would be quite proud of his little soldier. You are a soldier now; I hope you recognize that."