His Highness the bear, Maggie found, made the perfect traveling companion. While strong enough and bearlike enough to barge through the woods with no fear of interference from griffins or lions or much of anything else, he was nevertheless cultured, erudite, witty, and considerate. Ever courteous, he was mindful of her comfort and courtly in his manners, yet not too dignified to use his claws to dig for edible roots she could cook for supper.
The first night they had spent getting out of the wood, and had in the morning camped on the banks of a river which neither of them could name, Maggie never having been so far from home before, and the bear being a foreigner. Of course, he told her, he had been all over a great many countries with the gypsy band, he was sure, but his own mind then was dominated by the bear’s, and he had only a bear’s perceptions of where he had been.
The worst part of the spell Xenobia had caused to be cast upon him was that he was not only a bear in appearance, but a bear in thought and deed as well. His own mind was imprisoned by the bear’s, and he had only the control a bear normally had over his actions and treatment. There had been other times, he admitted remorsefully, when enemies of Xenobia not so well connected with magical cats had been put in the cage with him. Maggie shuddered, but so did the enchanted prince.
It had been a terrible thing to watch the body he occupied murder helpless people. It was somehow not at all the same as leading troops in a border skirmish, bashing heads and laying into one another in good clean soldierly fun. That was, after all, a prince’s duty.
Well into the afternoon they had a dinner of berries and bird’s eggs. The bear had them raw as he found them, but Maggie made an omelet of her share, after she had first prudently expanded both foods to satisfy their appetites and have a few days’ supply in reserve. There were enough eggs left over to return to the bird’s nest, if the bird would have them after they’d been juggled about by bears and magical spells.
As His Highness regally licked in the last of the blue stain from his muzzle, Maggie reached into her pocket and produced the silver mirror. “I suppose,” she said, “we ought to find out where we’re going.”
“Good idea, gurrrl. How?”
Maggie showed him Aunt Sybil’s mirror and explained its powers and restrictions. “Only trouble is, this type of gift magic limits itself to three visions only. Then it’s useless unless it’s recharged.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I think we’ve used two already, if the one that misfired at the castle counts. Colin and I saw Winnie in Queenston the second time we tried it. And I was thinking. If we’re up against such a powerful sorcerer, maybe we should try to enlist the help of my uncle.”
The bear waited courteously for her to continue. “My aunt said her brother lives in these parts somewhere, and by now he may be very powerful himself. Aunt Sybil and Gran are. Unfortunately, I’m not. Making a superb soufflé hardly qualifies me for rescuing people from the clutches of mighty sorcerers. There’s also that little matter of your son’s heart he might advise us on. No,” she concluded, having convinced herself, “we need first-class help.”
“So you’re thinkin’ to find your uncle in the glass instead of Lady Rowan?”
“It’s an idea. Probably Uncle Fearchar knows this sorcerer, what with both of them living on the coast and all. Possibly they even play chess together once in a while—though neither of us have any reason to be fond of him, to another sorcerer like Uncle Fearchar he might not be such a bad fellow.”
His Highness grumbled deep in his throat, but only said, “If your sister is with the peddler and you think he’s dangerous, shouldn’t we fetch her with all speed? If we delay, she and her babe may come to harm that no powerful help can remedy.”
Maggie automatically started to open her mouth to argue her point of view further, then considered. Without knowing Hugo’s plans, she had no way of knowing how much danger Winnie could be in. Had she hit on the idea of locating her uncle to be of the most possible help to her sister, or merely to bolster her own confidence, which had taken a sharp drop once they were dealing with sorcerers rather than a few gypsies and a gossipy peddler?
“You’re right, of course,” she finally agreed. She tried to concentrate on Amberwine then, as they peered expectantly into the rainbow lights that began gathering in the silver, and she hoped the vision would be of Amberwine in better straits than before.
Again she got a double image. “I’m sorry,” she told the bear. “I’m not nearly so good at this as Aunt Sybil. I keep bunching them together.” The bear stared over her shoulder as the blurry vision of Amberwine’s face gradually faded. “At least her hair seemed to be combed this time,” Maggie remarked hopefully.
“Maybe this is where she is,” said the bear, indicating the second picture, which was sharpening now that Amberwine’s face had disappeared. In the mirror was the interior of an inn, as seen in front of, around, and behind a man whom both Maggie and the bear thought they recognized, but were equally sure they had never met. His appearance was strikingly unusual, not that of a person one would easily forget, Maggie thought.
He had coppery skin, lined deeply around his intensely dark brown eyes, and grooved on either side of his hawkish nose down to a thin-lipped mouth that held a faint suggestion of a smile. His cheekbones were high, and his brown hair, distinctively striped with gray at the temples, waved handsomely back from his forehead. In his hand was a wine glass and at his elbow the innkeeper’s wife, pouring him a refill.
“It’s such an honor to have you stay with us here at Bayshore Inn, Master Brown,” the woman simpered, setting down the wine crock. “Will you be staying with us long?”
“Only ’til the second loading is done, Goodwife,” the man replied.
“It’s Uncle Fearchar!” said Maggie, now that the reason for his familiar appearance was clear.
“Of course, that’s why I thought I’d seen him,” the bear said, “the fellow’s the spittin’ image of you, gurrrl.”
Maggie blushed guiltily. “I’m afraid the magic mirror must show what I want to see, not what I think I ought to see. But I wish we could get Winnie back—maybe—” she returned her eyes to the mirror but the image was already gone. She shook her head. “Too bad. That was the last one, too.”
The bear sat back down by the fire, and Maggie put the mirror away. “I propose that we use the non-magical clues we have. All roads seem to lead to Dragon Bay. Let’s get over there so I can get the boy’s heart and tear out of that smiling sorcerer what he’s done with your sister.”
It was easier to talk of getting to Dragon Bay than to do it, for the way led into the foothills and over a high passage that crossed the Mountains of Mourn. The mountains had been named, said the bear, who had studied wars foreign and domestic as Crown Prince of Ablemarle, after a battle involving giant soldiers who landed on the shores of Argonia, wreaking destruction in the coastal villages. They were repulsed finally, at the cost of many lives, from crossing into interior Argonia when the loyal home guard defended their home from the towering slopes. It was reported to have been a terrible battle, with even the Argonian dragons aiding in the defense. Maggie said she’d heard of it too, except she had heard that the dragons only helped the Argonians because the enemy tasted better and were larger. The dragons had been concerning themselves more with their plates than their patriotism.
Although there was a footpath, perhaps left from the days of old before the Argonian Navy became strong enough that the mountains did not need to be foot-patrolled, the going was by no means easy. Road-hardened as Maggie’s feet had become, her lungs were entirely unconvinced they were able to breathe the rarified mountain air, and the bear often had to wait while she caught her breath.
It was cold up there, too, and the snow was deeper than her riding boots, which were growing thinner and thinner with each magical patching. She shivered even in her woolen cloak, which was not, unfortunately, her winter-weight cloak. If she had only brought her hand spindle from the pack she might have woven some of the bear’s fur into a coat, but it was too late for that now.
When they finally came down out of the mountains it had been a full seven days since they’d left the river. By noon of that day they stood on a hill overlooking Dragon Bay and the little town that lay along its shore.
From where they stood, the Bay was silver and white, smooth as glass in long flat curves offset by choppy glittering expanses of water. Beyond the Bay was the open sea, but behind it was another mountain range, craggier and even more forbidding than the one they had just crossed.
Studding the waters were a number of small islands, some no more than rocks for the waves to break against, and others fairly large and green and covered with vegetation. The largest of the islands was crowned by a castle. Even from their vantage point it appeared crude and ancient, two enormous stone houses, one taller than the other, with towers stuck at each corner and surrounded by a high wall.
The town was situated on what was the only possible site for it, having been built on a beach that was backed by the hill on which they stood. Fierce rocky cliffs brooded over the water on either side of the town, their grimness somewhat softened by the sparkling falls of spring water cascading down their faces and by the wildflowers growing in the deep cracks that scored them.
“I’ll wager,” said the bear, “that that’s where the dragons of Dragon Bay lurk.” Maggie shaded her eyes, straining to see. “In those caves in yon cliffs, gurrrl. Just the thing for dragons. Bears too, matter of fact.”
“I was getting ready to speak to you about that, your Highness,” she said, turning back to him. “I’m really afraid that the sight of you will cause undue panic in the town. Perhaps I’d better go find out, if I can, where the sorcerer dwells.”
“No, gurrrl,” he replied. “You’re a good gurrrl to offer to take my chances for me. But sorcerers are tricky, and you might be trapped with no way to send for me. I think if you enlarge that cloak of yours to fit me, and put a hood on it, I can pass for a foreign pilgrim, and none’ll be the wiser.”
Maggie had been almost afraid he wouldn’t object to her suggestion, for she felt safe in his company, if not from dangers sorcerous and arcane, at least from those physical ones like ogres and goblins which were well within the competence of a bear’s strength.
When the cloak had been altered as he requested and he stood before her on his hind legs, paws concealed in the folds of the garment, she smiled with satisfaction at her handiwork and pulled the hood a little lower over his snout. “There. If you just keep your voice down and your claws hidden, your Highness, this might do the trick.”
“You’d better make out that I’m fasting, as well, then,” replied His Highness, “I’m not much for knives or forks these days.”
* * *
It was odd coming into a town again after being in the woods and mountains for so long. There seemed to be too many buildings and too many people moving too quickly. The self-preoccupied looks on the faces of the townspeople as they brushed past the travelers forced Maggie to keep reminding herself that their own business was just as important and they needn’t keep giving way before people. Though Dragon Bay was small, it was still much larger than a gypsy camp, where the bear had spent his last few years, or Maggie’s home at Fort Iceworm. Many of the hurrying people were driving geese, ducks, cows, and pigs through the streets, so that the noises of those animals were mixed with the cries of their drivers and the general conversation of day-to-day commerce.
Careful to keep the bear as far as possible from the larger animals, Maggie looked around for a point of reference. “I’m not sure how to do this, now that we’re here,” she told the bear. “I feel so silly just walking up to someone and saying, ‘Excuse me, sir or madam, would you be so kind as to point the way to the nearest evil sorcerer?’ I mean, how could they admit knowing someone like that? It would show they kept bad company.” The bear nodded, but had no suggestions to offer.
Most of the structures along the shore street were fishermen’s huts with boats docked at the front doors and nets set out to dry and mend. Several landings down from Maggie and the bear, some of the animals were being loaded onto a barge While they stood staring at the activity, a cow being driven down the street behind them came too close to His Highness’s wild-smelling person and bolted, causing several other animals to engage in a miniature stampede.
The Prince pulled Maggie away before she could be run down by a flock of frantically bleating sheep, and the two of them fled up a narrow side street to avoid being trampled. When they had put another street between themselves and the bustling dock, Maggie collapsed against a building to catch her breath.
Regaining her composure, she slowly opened her eyes again and found herself staring into the open door of the establishment on the opposite side of the street. Her hand went to the bear’s shoulder. “Your Highness, isn’t that the inn from the vision?”
“Hmph?” asked His Highness, allowing his snout to protrude slightly as he stood more erect. “I can’t tell for sure. Haven’t seen many inns lately, and, to tell the truth, we bears are a trifle near-sighted, but I’d say it is.”
Maggie took a deep breath and held up crossed fingers to the bear before they entered the common room of the inn.
“Good day, good folk,” said the same woman who had been so polite to Uncle Fearchar, sounding as though neither they nor the day actually met her specifications. She cast a critical eye over the scruffy girl and the great, hairy pilgrim, sniffed, and continued in a businesslike manner to set the table for her lodgers’ evening meal. When she had finished and they still stood there, she said, “If you’re looking for a place to stay, I’d think the Lorelei would be more to your liking. It’s cheaper, and anyway, we’re full up.”
That was a fine way to talk to an enchanted prince and a semi-powerful witch, Maggie thought. She certainly hoped the woman would display more courtesy to other peculiar-looking travelers, or in this country she might find out how difficult it was for a toad to polish cutlery. At least she had been polite to Uncle Fearchar, which reminded Maggie of why they were there. “Thank you for your counsel, ma’am,” she said with all the mildness she could muster, “but actually we were looking for a relative of mine.”
“Oh?” said the woman. “We have few strangers here. Who is this relative?” She set down the rag and pitcher she had been using to clean the table and placed a fist on each ample hip, devoting her full steely-eyed attention to the bothersome intruders.
“My uncle, Fearchar Brown. I—er—was told he had been stopping here.”
“Master Brown is a relative of yours?” The woman’s lower jaw dropped as recognition of the common familial characteristics between niece and uncle began to redden her face. “Oh, do pardon me, Miss. As I say, we get so few strangers!” She hurried around the table to pull out a bench. “Pray, seat yourself and rest. I’ll bring you a mug of tea and a bit of bread I baked this morning and send my boy around for Master Brown.”
She called to the boy, who came running with much show of adolescent knees and elbows, and sent him on the errand, then turned anxiously back to Maggie and the bear, saying, “I’m sorry there’s no butter today. Like all else in this town it goes bad very quickly. It’s a pity the food we have to waste! There was a good catch this year, too, but how we’ll get through the winter I don’t know, I’m sure…”
“Doesn’t salting and drying keep it well enough?” Maggie asked, more to stop the woman’s babbling than because she was really interested.
“Salt!” snorted the wife, whose stare regained its former piercing severity. “I wouldn’t poison my family and customers with that! It wrecks one’s health, didn’t you know that? And it has that horrid aftertaste, besides.”
“It does?” Maggie’s opinion that the woman was extremely peculiar and changeable and generally not much worth bothering about was confirmed. Even the bread she baked was absolutely tasteless, no doubt due to the woman’s prejudice against salt, and with no butter to put on it Maggie thought she might have as well eaten a piece of the table instead. “You wouldn’t happen to have a place where my companion and I could wash, would you?”
The woman’s grimace of distaste said that no number of celebrated kinfolk could make up for the mess they would leave her washing all the grime from themselves. Of herself Maggie thought that that was probably correct, but it was unfair in the bear’s case, since none of him was visible outside his cloak. “I’d have to charge you, Mistress,” the woman said finally, “as that would require the use of one of my rooms.”
“I’ll trade you a preservative spell for it then,” Maggie offered with exaggerated patience, “to keep your dismal fish fresh.”
Making sure that Maggie kept her end of the bargain first, the woman supplied her with a bowl, pitcher, towel, and a scrap of homemade soap. She did not offer to heat a kettle of water, so Maggie had a wash no warmer than those she’d had since Castle Rowan.
She realized she had given the innkeeper’s wife far more than fair value for her facilities, but she felt better when she came down the steps and saw the boy escorting a man into the room. The bear joined her silently at the foot of the steps and together they stepped forward to meet Fearchar Brown. Like Granny Brown and Sybil and Maggie herself, Fearchar was clothed in brown, but with a difference.
His britches and jacket were of the finest cocoa-colored velvet, lavishly trimmed with gold embroideries of intertwined and elongated animals and intricately interwoven knots and lacings. His shirt was a shining cinnamon silk. Maggie and the innkeeper’s wife curtsied. The bear pulled at the hood of his garment as though he were tipping a cap.
“The boy said a lady was inquiring for me, claiming to be some relation of mine,” began Uncle Fearchar, speaking to the innkeeper’s wife. She nodded at Maggie. Fearchar crossed to meet her, a smile lighting his face as he took her hands in his own well-kept and lavishly jeweled ones. “She is most certainly kin of mine! You must be the baby Bronwyn was about to have before I left!” he cried. Maggie thought she saw pleasure in his preliminary survey of her.
“Yes, Uncle. Maggie, sir.”
“I gave them my best bread and tea,” chirped the proprietress, “and they’re all washed and rested and comfy.”
Fearchar turned to her coldly. “You may leave us now, madam. But a bottle of wine to celebrate our reunion would not be amiss.”
They sat sipping the wine while they talked. His Highness drank nothing, but did join them at the table, slumping somewhat, as his bear’s anatomy was not well suited to formal dining. As Fearchar began to talk, Maggie had been surprised to hear the beginnings of a growl rumble within the cloaked figure.
“Now then, dear girl, what brings you so far from Fort Iceworm? Your—ah—your mother and father are well, I trust.”
“My mother is dead, Uncle.”
“I’m so sorry to hear it. Your Grandmother? How is dear Maudie?”
“She’s fine, Uncle. Actually, what we came for I mean—I—” she was distracted and forgot what she was going to say as the growl from the bear built to the point that Uncle Fearchar tried to peer into the cowl.
“Excuse me, good pilgrim. I didn’t quite catch that?” he said.
The prince threw back his hood and jumped up on the bench, grabbing Fearchar by the jacket with his great front paws, “Prepare to die, varlet, or hand over my boy’s heart! For eight long years your hateful voice has been ringing in my ears.”
Maggie tried to drag the bear off her uncle by pulling on the cloak the bear wore, but it came off as she pulled, and she fell backwards.
Uncle Fearchar seemed to have regained control of the situation, though the bear still had him in hand, or paw. “I beg your pardon, my dear bear,” he said into His Highness’s snarling maw. “Would you perhaps be the Prince of Ablemarle come after the remedy for your enchantment?”
Maggie thought that even His Highness felt the strong, compassionate sincerity in her uncle’s voice, for he was lowering him to his seat even as he growled, “Come to you for one last drink of the marrow of men’s bones if you’re not quick enough about doing as I say, sorcerous scum.”
Unruffled, other than his clothing, Uncle Fearchar smoothed his lapels and clucked over a wine stain where his coattails had dragged in his cup when he was hoisted aloft. He returned his attention to the bear. His expression was one of mingled martyrdom and pity.
“My dear bear, it is true that I cast a spell upon you and procured for Xenobia the spell to remove young David’s heart, but let’s be gentlemen about this, shall we? You must realize that even a sorcerer of my stature has a living to earn.” The bear’s growl had died down to a grumble again but he didn’t appear particularly impressed. The sorcerer continued. “It was for your own character development that you had to be transformed; surely you can see that now? In abusing the faith of poor Xenobia, you transgressed, betraying not only a woman who loved you, but your own principles. In your feckless fickle state you would hardly have made a good ruler for your country or a decent father to your son. I simply aided the lady in providing you with an object lesson. The removal of Davey’s heart was part of the plan. Through the whole procedure we were only thinking of the ultimate personal growth you would achieve by the time you got to this point. We felt that in observing Davey relating to others with no regard for their emotional safety, you would come to understand how reckless and unworthy such behavior is. Obviously we were correct, or you would not be here now, waiting for me to institute the last of my remedial conditions to the spell.”
To Maggie’s surprise, the bear had by now ceased growling, and after listening quietly for a moment or two had begun nodding happily. “Yes, yes, I see it all now. How stupid of me to think that there was anything wicked in such a valuable lesson. Are you sure I’m quite worthy now to regain my human form?”
Fearchar nodded gravely. “You can be helped, yes. If you and my lovely niece will be so kind as to accompany me…”
The bear brushed his snout with a front paw. Maggie recognized the gesture as one of embarrassment. “Of course. Whatever you say. Hope I didn’t hurt you there, sir,” he added sheepishly, for a bear.
“Wait a moment,” Maggie said, bewildered at all the revelations and sudden attitude changes taking place. “Maybe both of you understand all of this, but…” Her uncle turned a look of deep concern and interest on her, mingled with avuncular pride, and she stumbled through the rest of her phrase. “If you’re the sorcerer who has caused all of his problems, then you must be the one who’s caused mine too, and you must know where Winnie is, and…”
He patted her hand and looked deeply into her eyes, smiling reassuringly. “Of course I know where she is, dear child. She is at my home, an honored guest. She will be so thrilled to know you’re coming to see her. When my trusted servant, known to you as Hugo the Peddler, found the poor girl in her sad state, he naturally brought her to me.
“Although Lord Rowan and I are, as you may or may not know, both contenders for the throne, Lady Amberwine is, after all, related to my family. I wished to spare her further pain and humiliation, and let her have her baby far from those who would chastise her for her girlish folly. Hugo feared if she knew he represented me, she would not come with him, so he instead allowed her to believe he came from your father. I hope we were in time. Hers is a delicate nature, and I fear her recent experiences may have caused her lasting harm.” He tapped his head with a forefinger.
Maggie found herself nodding agreement and promising to do whatever she could to help. She could see now that Fearchar had only been trying to save her sister, and a lucky thing it was, too. “That was so kind of you, Uncle. When is she to return to Lord Rowan?”
“To Rowan? Oh, Maggie, surely you must realize by now that while I bear him no malice, I do feel that Rowan is a dangerous and unpredictable man. I had hoped you would help me persuade your sister to accept the hospitality of my castle until her babe is born and they are in condition to travel with you to your father’s home again. Perhaps you, too, would grace my castle for a while? To keep His Highness company?” His Highness bowed, and Maggie nodded her head.
Uncle Fearchar had told them the trip from Dragon Bay to his castle on Evil Island would be novel, as it was. His boat was not propelled by means of the wind, but was elegantly pulled by three giant swans, black as the pupil of an eye, the same that Maggie had seen flying over the Northern Woods.
Hugo had met them at the dock and helped them aboard and made them comfortable, but in spite of what she now knew, that the peddler was her Uncle’s major-domo and confidante, she still disliked him. There was the mysterious matter of the rabbit and the arrow he saw being fired at her father that hadn’t yet been explained to her satisfaction… perhaps she’d have an opportunity to talk to Uncle Fearchar about it privately. Twice the peddler touched her, once in helping her to climb into the boat and another time in settling a soft velvet robe over her shoulders to keep off the chill from the Bay. Both times she failed to suppress an involuntary shudder.
As the swans pulled them noiselessly through the water, Uncle Fearchar pointed out the barge load of animals making its way across the Bay in a course that was at an oblique angle to their own. “Ah,” said Fearchar. “There’s a colorful local sight for you. Our beast barge on its way to the feeding grounds.”
“Why’s that?” the bear asked. “Do you take it upon yourself to feed the beasts the stockmen have no food for?”
“Hardly that,” he laughed. “The animals are part of my Dragon Days program.” He waited modestly for them to ask about it, but when they didn’t, continued. “Dragon Days is a little project of mine, you see, to rid the area of the marauding of the monster. All it took was having a heart-to-heart chat with him.”
“It seems to me, heart-to-heart chats with dragons could be a little risky,” commented His Highness.
“I am fortunate enough to be exceedingly brave,” admitted Fearchar, “and just happened to have along at the time a powerful sleeping powder, in case he proved nasty.”
“So how does this Dragon Days business work?” Maggie asked.
“It’s a simple arrangement. I persuaded the dragon that it would be less trouble all around if we, the citizens of Dragon Bay, supplied him with a diet filling and nutritious enough to meet a dragon’s requirements, to be delivered to a certain place every month in time for his feedings. That way, he ceases snatching children and prize livestock, and we are no longer subject to his depredations. He also doesn’t have to risk getting skewered by some knight errant abnormally strong and abysmally stupid enough to try to beard him in his den, as it were.”
“Brilliant,” agreed Maggie and the bear in unison, watching both Fearchar and the disappearing barge with such avid new interest that they failed to notice when the boat landed.
“You must get a lot of exercise climbing up and down this path just to get to your own front door,” observed Maggie. Although she was used to the rigors of travel, or so she told herself before undertaking new ones, she found the almost perpendicular trail from landing to castle gate severely taxing.
“As I recall, “said the bear, who had shed the pilgrim’s robe and dropped to all fours for more comfortable climbing, “that’s the way of castles. You must keep in mind, gurrrl, one usually wants to keep one’s own folk in, while discouraging the rowdy element without. Wouldn’t do to make it easy, would it?”
“I seldom use this route, actually,” said Fearchar. “Generally one of my familiars,” he indicated the swans, now unharnessed from the boat and gracing the Bay, “flies me wherever I wish to go. Since Dragon Days takes place so close to home, however, I feel that when I go to the village to act on its behalf as the event’s sponsor, it is incumbent on me to travel more or less in the mode of the local people.”
The bear nodded gravely. “The common touch. Very wise of you. My father used to tell me that was a very important asset to a king.”
Maggie murmured between labored breaths that it must be lovely to fly through the air like that, though she recalled the similar flight she and Colin had taken on Grizel’s back with something less than relish.
The path went up even more steeply at that point, and their breath was required for climbing.
The front gate was surrounded by carved stone, and its wood was embellished with carvings as well. Fearsome creatures scowled down at them, goblin guardians frozen in stone, permanently, Maggie hoped. She was considerably taken aback by its ugliness, but the bear sniffed appreciatively the work on the door, a pictorial panel dramatizing the exploits of several of the horrific creatures.
“Hmm, interesting. I say, Brown, this is quite old, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Uncle Fearchar with a put-upon sigh. Hugo opened the door, and they started up a flight of stone steps that led through myriad carved archways. The shadows in these arched passages seemed to harbor chill and gloom. “It was built before Argonia was properly settled, I believe, as an outpost for the ancient Drumclog civilization. That’s all I can get out of it.”
“All you can get out of it?” Maggie asked, continually astounded by the sheer breadth and miscellany of what proved to be her uncle’s magic. “You mean you can talk to the walls?”
He led them through a dank gray hallway and to another carved door. “No,” he said, “but there are these runes, as you see here.” He indicated the characters on the carving. “Shortly after I took up residence here I noticed them and, as soon as I was able, secured wax impressions. The princess was able to—er—enlighten me regarding their meaning.” Their steps made hardly a patter on the bare stone floor of the great, high-ceilinged entrance hall.
Maggie looked up, turning on her heel to catch the last rays of sunlight shining on the walls high above them. The windows were set high and narrow, a wonderful source of light for the dust motes and any possible bats, not much use for people. At least she couldn’t see any bats in the plasterwork.
“You know the princess?” she asked, belatedly tagging after them.
“My goodness, yes, child.” He ushered them ceremoniously through a hall, a sharp left turn, and at last they found themselves in a room the size of Maggie’s village.
“My study,” said Fearchar. “Drafty at times, but it has enough space for my projects.” His projects, the ones they could see displayed, included a complete dragon’s skeleton, maps of every imaginable place made into tapestries and hung from the walls, a model of the capitol city and the palace, complete with pull away walls to display the rooms’ interiors (“I’ve been planning how to decorate—just in case”). Another entire wall was composed of pigeonholes containing scrolls and parchments, presents from the princess, “all beautifully illuminated, of course.” High above the scholarly materials, metal cases shaped like men caught the bear’s attention and Fearchar explained. “Those were given to me by the wizard who originated the spell for turning you into a bear, Highness. Met him at the World-Wide Wizard’s conference right after I moved south. We’ve corresponded since, and I’ve visited him swanback once or twice. Those cases are used to protect the bodies of the soldiers in his country from their enemies.”
“Ingenious,” exclaimed the bear. “What won’t they think of next?”
Maggie was running from one table to another, picking up things and putting them down again, turning them over and examining them. It was the most exciting room she’d ever been in.
“We’ll spend lots of time here together, you and I, my dear,” said Fearchar indulgently. “Right now, come along and see the rest of my diggings, and greet your sister.”
A second door led them to a dining hall, which was cozier than the study, but still enormous. “This was formerly a foyer leading from the great hall to the kitchen and the tower,” Fearchar explained, “but I needed the space in the great hall for my study, and the food arrives here much warmer without having to travel the extra distance.” For a foyer, it was an elegant dining hall, Maggie thought. The table was made of a massive slab of mirror-like wood, red as wine, and the legs were great beams of the same wood intricately carved and polished. Tapestries covered the walls and upholstered the matching chairs, which looked more like thrones with their high backs and arm rests. A heating stove, lavishly decorated with black and gold tiles, wrapped around one corner of the room and provided extra seating space beside itself, comfortably tiled to bring the warmth of the stove to the lounger on chilly days.
“The stove is my own addition. A suggestion of the wizard I was telling you of. Now then, Your Highness, Hugo will have a nice den prepared for you in the room next to my own, upstairs, where it’s warmer.” He indicated a flight of steps that led to a long, narrow landing forming a balcony high above them. “Maggie, dear, I presumed you would wish to share Lady Amberwine’s tower chamber. We live simply,” his sweeping arm took in the lavish room carpeted not with reeds but with the pelts of many different varieties of fur-bearing animals, “but I trust you’ll be comfortable here.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” she said, turning toward the staircase.
A clatter from the room beyond and Hugo came bustling out, carrying a tray full of candles. “I hadn’t time to put these in the rooms, master. Perhaps the prince and Miss Maggie would be so kind as to carry them up with them?”
Climbing the staircase, Maggie looked back down once to see her uncle waving her to go on up and Hugo lighting the first of the serpent-oil lamps in the huge fixture that hung from the lofty arched ceiling above the dining table. She set the bear’s candle in his chamber for him, as it was awkward for him to carry it in his front paws, and walked back down the landing to the doorway set into the rounded stonework, the tower entrance at the top of the staircase. There was another stairwell within the tower, and as Maggie climbed she lit the lamps that studded the wall to light the way.
She looked forward eagerly to seeing Winnie, and found her lying fully-dressed on top of the uncurtained bed, her hands clasped above the hillock of her abdomen.
Calling to her as she crossed the room, and eliciting no response, Maggie sat on the edge of the bed and shook her. “Winnie, do wake up. It’s Maggie. I’m here. I’ve come all this way to find you, the least you can do is postpone your nap.”
Lady Amberwine opened the startling long-lashed green eyes that matched the deep emerald of her gown. Her confusion changed to fright and she shrank from her sister’s touch. “Oh, Maggie. please don’t slay me! I know I’ve disgraced you all, and you’ve no reason to spare me or this gypsy child I bear, but for the sake of…”
“For the sake of sanity, what are you talking about?” asked Maggie, sitting sharply back. “Slay you? Box your ears, maybe, for talking such nonsense but—oh, no, now, stop that. Please stop being a goose and come back here. Of course I won’t box your ears, or slay you either. Why should I do that?”
“I—I don’t know, but I know that’s why you’re here.” Winnie’s hands twisted and pulled at the bedcovering as she clawed her way as far from Maggie as possible.
“Winnie, it’s me, your sister. I’ve ridden and walked a very long way, and risked great danger and more inconvenience to bring you home to Fort Iceworm, if you’ll come. If I wanted to be rid of you I’d hardly have gone to all that trouble, would I?”
Winnie looked at her skeptically, but edged a bit closer. “I suppose not. Still…”
Maggie reached forward to touch her again and Amberwine sprang back, whimpering no as though she’d slapped her.
Maggie sat back up, folding her hands deliberately in her lap as she searched her sister’s face for some clue to explain the meaning of her strange behavior. Had her difficulties, as Uncle Fearchar suggested, succeeded in unhinging her reason? Could faery people even go insane? Maggie looked at herself in the mirror opposite the foot of the bed. No, she had not changed into some ogress or ravening beast. What, then, could make the sister for whom she had forsaken unicorns and braved dragons, floods, ravishment, and starvation treat her like the proverbial wicked stepsister? A tear trickled down each cheek. Maggie continued to stare at the cowering Amberwine, brushing the tears away impatiently until they soon were too many for a casual wipe and she had to give in to clutching her face in her hands to try to stem the flow.
For all that, she feared her sister for what she believed was good reason, Winnie loved her, too, and seeing her cry wrenched loose tears of Amberwine’s own. Now—long after she believed she had cried her life’s supply of them, the salty liquid flooded her eyes, nose, and mouth, and she gathered Maggie to her, both of them rocking and weeping copiously until at last Winnie dragged forth her handkerchief. She always had been the one who had the clean handkerchief and she applied one corner to Maggie’s face and one corner to her own, saying, “Do stop crying now. Come on, everything is all right and we’re together. Stop now. I really can’t bear it. If you don’t cease this minute I shall go right back to sleep.”
“It—it’s just,” Maggie began, her own teary purge slowly subsiding, “it’s just that I can’t stand it if you hate me. You’ve always been my best friend. How c-can you have changed so?”
“Hate you? Changed? Rubbish! Whatever are you going on about?” She recalled being startled on waking to see Maggie for some reason, the nerves of pregnancy probably. But she could hardly recall saying anything like that. “Of course I don’t hate you, Magpie. You’re my very own dear brave big sister and I love you, of course. I’m ever so glad you’ve come to fetch me away from here.”
“You are?”
Winnie nodded and jumped from the bed to a beautifully embroidered screen close to the door, thrust the screen aside and pulled out a dress. “We really must be changing for dinner now.” Maggie could see what Winnie, who never liked tears, was up to, but refused to be distracted.
“Winnie, if you’re so glad to see me, then whatever was all that stuff about slaying you?”
“Slay me? What stuff? I must have had a nightmare or something. I haven’t slept at all well since I left the castle, you know. I’ve been feeling so awful about what I said to Roari. I don’t know why I said that. Roari must be very put out with me for being so pert when he asked me not to ride off with that gypsy. He was right, of course, as usual. Davey was a dreadful person, and that mother of his! I can’t think why I went with him—something about that song—oh, well, I’m sure Roari won’t stay upset with me after the baby’s born, do you think?” She dragged from behind the screen a flame-colored dress. “Now this would look lovely on you. Try it on. We have to do our own toilette here. Hugo’s the only servant, and I’d hardly want him to help, would you?” she giggled.
Maggie was staring at her with a mixture of annoyance and perplexity, trying to make some sense of her babbling. Her manner now was more the one Maggie had expected, but her contradictory behavior was weird in the extreme. “Just a moment, Win. You distinctly said that the reason I was going to slay you was because you had disgraced us all and that your baby was going to be a gypsy.”
Amberwine had hung the flame-colored gown back behind the screen and extracted a pale gold one. “Not your color, I think. It would look better on me.” She patted her abdomen. “Fortunately, these gowns were tailored by a brownie seamstress, and alter themselves to fit even me.
“Still—now then, I said—what did you say? Oh, yes? Now that’s astounding. I should hardly think I’d say that, Maggie. Really, dear, how could my baby be a gypsy? Unless something happened as I slept, and as I distinctly recall I was already becoming extremely plump around the middle and doing unladylike things in the morning before I left Castle Rowan. I just was on my way to consult Cook about it when I heard Davey singing. Lovely voice for such a slimy sort of boy. Don’t know what put me up to it, I’m sure.”
“You are being inconsistent, you know.” Maggie was beginning to feel disoriented.
“Part of my charm, so I’ve been told. Oh, Magpie, I’m so very glad to see you. Do please stop being dreary about my silly nightmares and try on this topaz gown. I’ll fix your hair, and you fix mine, and there are even jewels to match—darling, I tell you, this is the first time. I’ve felt cheerful in MONTHS, and I’m absolutely giddy!”
“I can tell.”
“Master Brown is quite the gay blade, you know, really. There’s a siren who comes to visit—I’ve seen him talking to her from the battlements when I take my walks. Also, I have been informed by Hugo that we are privileged to be sharing the wardrobe your uncle provides Princess Pegeen when she comes to call. She brings her own entourage, of course, but she has them carrying so many scrolls and inkpots they don’t have room for dresses. Awfully careless of her appearance, I’ve been told, but frightfully clever.”
“I suspect she wouldn’t find it very grand here after the palace,” Maggie said, reluctantly allowing herself to be diverted.
“As long as she has her runes, she’s fine, so they say. She doesn’t live at the palace anymore. She has the best-attended hermitage in Argonia, from what I hear. Do you like your hair up like this, or with a little hanging down? Softer that way, do you think?
“I don’t care…” Certain that she was losing her mind, Maggie allowed her sister to help her prepare for dinner.