“A history, moldy with age, that told the story of Under Stone and how he was cast down. And a diary of Maude’s, detailing her dealings with him. They were hidden in the library. I only found them because I dropped a pencil, and it rolled behind one of the bookcases. The books were wedged there.”
“What were you able to read?”
“Only that Maude made two bargains with him: one for her children, and one to end the war with Analousia. And something in the history, about the magicians who survived the imprisoning spell. They’re not dead.” She shook her head. “I didn’t have enough time to make sense of it,” she said, frustrated.
“Where are the books now?”
“In Angier’s chambers, as far as I know,” Anne said. “But how will you get to them?”
“Easily.” Galen refastened his cloak and turned invisible. He felt a smile spreading across his face. The answers were waiting; all he had to do was snatch them. “Easily.”
He went to the window and swung himself out and down the drainpipe. “Good luck to you,” he called softly back to Anne.
“And to you,” she answered, but there was still great doubt in her voice.
Third Night
Hurrying through the palace corridors, still invisible, Galen knew what the crone had been cackling about when she said that the cloak was dangerous. Dodging the maids was bad enough, but one of the footmen pulled a rug right out from under his feet, taking it up to be aired. A door was nearly slammed on his hand, and he had to pause and compose himself outside Angier’s door.
Galen listened at the keyhole but didn’t hear anything, so he picked the lock with a penknife and entered the rooms. A quick search showed that the sitting room and adjoining bedchamber were indeed empty, and Galen turned his attention to finding the books Anne had described.
It didn’t take long to locate them.
Bishop Angier, confident that no one would dare to rifle through his things, had simply left them on a table. There were other books: a notebook in Analousian that Galen guessed was the bishop’s, a book on the history of witchcraft, and a beautifully illustrated Bible.
Galen pushed these other books aside, picking up the tattered history book and the small blue diary that also littered the table. He started to put them in his satchel, but then realized that when their absence was discovered, it might raise a hue and cry.
Galen set them back on the table and began hastily leafing through the history, to see what he could find before Angier returned. Halfway through the book, he found a pansy pressed between two pages. Maude had used the flower to mark the chapter on Under Stone.
Galen sank onto the edge of the table and read about the King Under Stone, whose name had once been Wolfram von Aue, when he was an adviser to King Ranulf of Westfalin in the fifth century. When he killed Ranulf and made himself king, Under Stone had decreed that his name must never be spoken again, lest it be used against him as part of a spell. Every record, every piece of paper that contained his name had been destroyed, and the very memory of it had been wiped from the minds of his subjects. The magicians who imprisoned him had spent years trying to recover that name, which was the key to their spell of entrapment. It had also involved silver, blessed by a bishop, and wool from a lamb that had never before been sheared.
Galen reached into his satchel and stroked the woolen chain. He felt sure that this wool had come from a similar source. Who had that old woman been?
The answer was found at the end of the chapter. Twelve magicians had imprisoned the King Under Stone, as he was now called. Eight of them had died, but four remained alive, and more than that.
Never certain if a being so powerful and so wicked could truly be defeated, the four living magicians took upon themselves immortality, to walk the world until the end of time. Though diminished in strength, they are ever guarding against the dark king and those like him, lest they return to the world and cause more mischief.
Those like him? Galen shuddered at the thought that there might be other creatures like Under Stone out there.
He turned to Maude’s diary, feeling a bit embarrassed at perusing the private thoughts of a queen. Here Angier helped him: a bookmark of purple satin with the bishop’s seal embroidered on it had been placed in the pertinent part of the book. Maude had learned of Under Stone not only from the old history she found, but from one of the magicians she had consulted in her hunger to have a baby.
The “goodwife,” as Maude called her, had told the queen how Under Stone had managed to summon mortal princesses to him in order to father his twelve sons, which is where Maude got the idea that he might help her as well. The good-wife, though Galen wouldn’t have called her that, told Maude how to call to the king by placing a drop of blood on a white silk handkerchief, pressing it to the ground under a new moon, and calling his true name. Maude had done it at the far end of the garden, near an old oak tree that was one of the few original trees that had been left standing when King Gregor remade the garden for his bride. Galen wondered if that was also where Rionin and his brothers had entered the gardens.
She had made the bargain with the King Under Stone, only wanting one child, but the king had “graciously” promised her a dozen. Her original entries about her dealings with him had been elated; she had only to come to his palace and dance when the moon was full. Then Rose was born the day of the full moon, and Maude had not gone to dance. When next she went down the golden staircase, the King Under Stone had raged at her and told her to come twice a month. With every missed ball, he increased the number, until she was dancing every third night until the week she died. By the end her handwriting was jagged with despair, and tears had made the ink run. She hadn’t really wanted to make the bargain to end the war, but she could think of no other way to help her beloved Gregor, and Under Stone had been kinder of late….
Galen read it all in horror, able to see what Maude could not, that Under Stone had manipulated and used her, playing off her dreams of children, of peace, promising her everything and asking so very little.
Only that she dance for him, to give him power.
Only that she bear twelve daughters, who would one day marry his sons.
That was never mentioned in the bargain, of course. Galen closed the diary with an oath. He replaced the book carefully where he had found it—on top of the history, at an angle—and went quickly across the sitting room to the door. But when he put a hand on the knob, he heard voices in the corridor and stepped back.
The door swung open, and Angier entered with his assistant, Father Michel. And Petunia.
Rather than slipping out before the junior priest could close the door, Galen remained, pressed up against the wall. Petunia looked frightened, and the bishop was holding her tightly by the upper arm. He sat her down in a chair and stood over her. Galen hardly dared to breathe.
The bishop didn’t engage in any pleasantries but got straight to the important question: “Where do you and your sisters go every night?”
Petunia didn’t say anything; she just shook her head.
“You won’t tell me, or you don’t know?”
Another head shake.
“Do you want to be put in a dungeon, and your sisters, too?” Angier’s question made Galen grit his teeth.
“N-no,” came Petunia’s piping voice. “We want to stay here with Papa.”
“Then tell me where you go every night!”
“I can’t,” the child wailed.
“You can and you will. Who is responsible for the princes’ deaths? The Bretoner woman? Your father? Your older sisters? Tell me!”
Galen clenched his hands into fists. Had King Gregor really given permission for his youngest daughter to be interrogated like a criminal?
Looking frantically around the room, Galen tried to think of something, anything he could do to stop this, as the bishop’s questions went on and on and Petunia began to sob. He couldn’t attack a bishop, and if he opened the door and went to see King Gregor, they would notice
.
Just as Galen was thinking the risk was worth it, and hoping that they would only think the palace haunted when the door swung open, someone came stomping down the hallway and pounded on the door. The other priest opened it to reveal a red-faced King Gregor with Rose, Lily, and Bishop Schelker standing behind him.
Petunia leaped to her feet and raced across the room to bury her face in Rose’s skirt.
“Your Excellency,” the king said with barely controlled rage. “I gave permission for my older daughters to be questioned, but not the younger set. And none of them were to be questioned alone, without even a maid there to provide support.”
“I need to get to the bottom of this, Gregor,” the bishop said, his voice cold. “The governess and your older daughters will not talk; I thought perhaps the younger ones would be innocent enough not to lie.”
“My daughters are not liars,” King Gregor said through clenched teeth. “If there is witchcraft afoot, then they are its victims, and you should show them compassion.”
“This is very much against policy, Brother Angier,” Bishop Schelker added.
Behind Rose, the door was still open, and as Galen knew that Petunia had more protection than he could rightly offer, he slipped out. Rose looked around, startled, as he accidentally brushed against her, and he held his breath for a moment as she peered right through him.
“You may continue to question her, however,” King Gregor was saying as he shut the door. “You may question us all, in fact. Together.”
Out in the hallway, Galen breathed a sigh of relief. He took off his cloak and pushed it into his satchel, tired of creeping around and nearly being stepped on. Turning over in his mind all the information he had just read, Galen’s thoughts strayed to the governess, sitting on her bed and fingering the flimsy wool chain, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
The blanket had been dark green boiled wool, something Galen was very familiar with. Army blankets were made of the same stuff, and in a pinch you could use them to make a lean-to, or to line the inside of a boot that was wearing out. Boiled wool was itchy and stiff, and soldiers joked that it was bulletproof, so that no one could shoot you in your sleep.
Bulletproof? Perhaps not. But stronger than regular wool? Yes.
He went to the kitchens and asked to speak to the head cook. She was a large woman, with the air of someone usually good-tempered who was having a bad day. She shouted at the staff, but halfheartedly, and they all spooked and scrambled whenever she did, as though uneasy themselves.
“My dear goodfrau,” Galen said warmly. “I am Galen Werner; I’ve been a guest here the past two nights. Please let me compliment you on your cooking.”
“You’re the young gardener,” she grunted. Then she flipped two cookies off a tray with a spatula and waved at Galen to take them.
“I am. And so I assume you know why I’m now a guest in the palace?” He glanced around, not wanting to let the entire kitchen in on his plan.
“I do,” the cook said in a low voice. “I’m guessing you want some help?”
“If you would be so kind …?”
“Not sure what I can do,” she said with a shrug.
“Something very simple.” He fished out the black wool chain. “I’d like you to boil this. With this, and this.” He took the basil from his pocket and the nightshade from under his lapel and laid all three items on the table.
The plump cook’s mouth fell open. “You want me to boil these? Together?”
“Yes, if you would be so kind.”
“But why?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” Galen said. “But if you could just keep it all in a pot, covered and boiling, tonight, I would pay you.” He thought of his meager collection of coins, and figured that it would be enough for so simple a task.
“And this will help the princesses?”
“I hope so.”
“All right,” the woman said doubtfully. “I’ll do it. But you don’t need to pay me.”
“Thank you.”
Feeling like he was gaining an advantage at last, Galen picked more basil and nightshade for his pockets, and was in almost buoyant good spirits during Bishop Angier’s evening sermon. Supported by her father and eldest sisters, Petunia had emerged from the bishop’s chambers with a tear-stained face but her exuberant nature only slightly dampened.
After dinner Galen played cards with Violet, Iris, and Orchid. He forced himself to yawn several times but didn’t pretend to fall asleep until after Violet had defeated them all.
Sand
Back on the sofa where Galen had “slept” the night before, he snored his best while the girls prepared themselves for the ball. At one point, he caught himself starting to fall asleep in truth. Fishing a knitting needle from his satchel with one hand, he jabbed himself in the leg with it every time he began to doze. Then, concealed by the back of the sofa, he slipped on his purple cape and was hard on Rose’s heels as soon as the staircase began to lower.
As they descended the golden stair, the white shawl slipped from Rose’s shoulders and without thinking he gently lifted it back into place.
“Thank you,” she said. Then she stopped dead and looked over her shoulder with a half-fearful, half-hopeful expression. “Galen?”
“Rose? What is it?” Pansy came and took her eldest sister’s hand as the others continued on down the steps.
“Nothing.” Rose shook her head as though to clear it. “I keep thinking— Never mind.” Leading Pansy by the hand, Rose continued on down the stairs.
“Was it the good spirit?”
This made Rose stop again. “What did you say?”
“I’ve been talking to a good spirit at the ball the last two nights,” Pansy confided, her little face turned up adoringly to her sister’s. “He’s very kind. He cheers me up when I am tired and sad.”
“He—he does?”
“Rose! Pansy!” Jonquil, standing with the other princesses at the foot of the staircase, looked up with an irritated expression. “Why are you two dawdling up there?”
“We’re coming.” Rose hurried Pansy down the rest of the stairs. “Who does the spirit sound like?” she whispered as they went.
“A spirit,” Pansy said; then she clapped a hand to her mouth. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” she said from between her fingers. “It’s a secret.”
To Galen’s relief, they reached the silver and pearl gate before Rose could convince Pansy to tell her any more. He rode in the boat with Jonquil and her prince, who was not as stoic as his brothers.
“What did you eat for dinner?” the dark prince huffed.
“What do you mean?” Jonquil frowned at her escort as he rowed.
“You’re so heavy, it’s like you’re wearing iron underthings,” he panted.
“Oh!” Jonquil whacked her prince on the shoulder with her fan. “How rude!”
When their boat reached the island and the black palace, Jonquil leaped out without waiting for assistance. She stalked into the palace ahead of everyone else, with her prince scuttling at her heels, apologizing every step of the way. Laughing to himself, Galen lagged behind to scoop up some of the coarse black sand. He tied it into his handkerchief and then stuffed the bundle into his belt pouch.
Thirsty, Galen helped himself to a goblet when they reached the ballroom. He noticed that Rose was still on the alert, searching the corners of the room for any sign of something unusual. Prince Illiken tried to regain her attention by holding even more tightly to her narrow waist, which made Galen reach for another goblet, and another. Finally Illiken grew so impatient with her distracted air that he stalked off to get his own drink, leaving Rose near the chairs where Galen played “good spirit” with Pansy.
Galen stowed the goblets behind a curtain and walked up to twitch the hem of Rose’s shawl. She gasped and looked around.
“Hello,” Galen said in a low voice. “Would you like to dance?”
“So you’re Pansy’s good spirit?”
/> “I am.”
“Your voice sounds familiar.” Her eyes sparkled. “Could you pretend to snore, so that I could make sure?”
Galen didn’t answer. He caught Rose around the waist and spun her out onto the dance floor. She held her arms wide and laughed, letting Galen lead her in circles around the other dancers. They stared at the princess as she danced wildly across the gleaming floor. They could not see Galen, and as they passed Lily he heard her gasp that Rose was acting mad. Rose heard too, and laughed harder.
Galen leaned close to her ear. “Could the king come aboveground?”
The question sobered Rose but couldn’t keep the sparkle out of her eyes. “No. The king cannot leave here, ever.”
“I can seal the gate in the morning,” Galen told her. “You will never have to dance again!”
“The stairs will not work until midnight,” Rose said, shaking her head as he spun her around. Pins flew from her elaborate coiffure and clattered across the floor.
“Don’t worry, I will set you free,” Galen said, becoming bold. “Rose, I—”
“What is this?” Unannounced, the pale King Under Stone slammed into the ballroom and stood glaring at the giddy Rose. Belatedly the trumpeters began to blow a fanfare, but the king cut them off with a sharp gesture.
Rose stepped away from Galen and curtsied unsteadily. “Please forgive me, Your Majesty. I … became intoxicated with the music.”
Prince Illiken arrived at her side, his pale face scarlet with embarrassment. Rose pretended to lean against him as though exhausted, and Galen strangled his jealousy.
“I see.” But now the king frowned around the room suspiciously. As his eyes passed over the place where Galen stood, they hesitated for the barest instant, and Galen felt sweat roll down his cheeks and back. “Come here, dear Rose,” the king said, beckoning to her. “The rest of you, continue dancing.”
The musicians took up their instruments again, and the other dancers once more moved across the floor. Prince Illiken at her elbow, Rose stood at the foot of the dais and faced the king.