Voice for Princess (v1.1) Read online

  Moments later, Spot careened into the chamber on great slapping feet, announcing its arrival with cries of “Yah! Yah!”

  “You’re getting faster, Spot. That’s very good,” said Kedrigern with an approving smile.

  “Yah! Yah!” Spot responded proudly.

  “Fetch me a nice cold mug of ale, Spot. One of the larger mugs.”

  “Yah?”

  “No, just the ale. Be quick about it, but mind you don’t spill any.”

  “Yah! Yah!” Spot cried with great enthusiasm, and reeled out of the chamber like a top-heavy galleon under full sail.

  Kedrigern pulled up a chair, settled down comfortably, and licked his lips in anticipation. Even here, in the shadowed cool of his study, the warmth of the summer afternoon was beginning to penetrate. He looked again at the medallion, lying in a patch of sunlight on the table, and on an impulse, he snatched it up and hung it around his neck.

  An instant later, with a cry of dismay, he tore it off and dropped it back on the table. It had weighed around him like an anchor, and the slender chain had been like a toothed garrote against his flesh. No more of that, he told himself, rubbing his nape gingerly. Clearly, wearing the medallion along with his own was not the solution to his dilemma.

  What, then, was? A medallion of the guild was meant to be worn by a wizard, and Kedrigern was the only wizard for leagues around. It was not meant to be buried, or hidden away. It could not be destroyed. Most certainly, it was not to be left lying about where anyone might chance upon it.

  The medallion had great virtue, and conferred a certain amount of power even on the uninitiated. If Buroc had been just a bit smarter… Kedrigern shook his head to drive away the dark thought.

  It was a problem, and right now he had a much more pressing problem, that of restoring Princess’s proper speech.

  He wished that the second medallion had never come into his possession.

  Spot came flapping in with a frost-coated stone mug of cold ale on a wooden salver, and wheeled off again to be about its household duties. Kedrigern took a deep draft of the ale, sighed with comfortable satisfaction, and cocking his feet up on the edge of the table, he tipped his chair back and stared with aimless gaze into the cobwebby comer of the room.

  Dust was thick everywhere. Since Rupert’s depredations it had settled deeply on the mess left behind, on the books hastily reshelved and on the freestanding heaps and mounds about the room. Spot had done little to clear it away.

  That was the trouble with Spot. Anything within the troll’s reach was kept relentlessly scrubbed and dusted, but its range was limited. The upper shelves were blanketed with thick gray dust, like beds of dead ash, and the corners were all rounded by the cobwebs of Manny’s numerous and sizeable progeny.

  Kedrigern pondered the jumble for a time, then, taking another pull at the mug, he rose to inspect his shelves more closely. They were very dusty indeed. It was shameful. As his eyes darted back and forth over the disorder, they fell on a small black book, passed it, returned, and held. A glow of triumph lit the wizard’s face. He had found his solution.

  Plucking down the book and blowing the dust from its upper surfaces, he leafed methodically through its pages until he came to the desired rubric: “To Summon Up An Unidentified Essence, Either Dead, Distant, Or Sleeping, For Informational Purposes.” With a quiet little chuckle of pleasure, he withdrew to his table, pausing on his way to bolt the study door.

  A few hours later, just at sundown, all was in readiness. The ring was drawn, the candles placed and lit, the medallion in proper position. Kedrigern cleared his throat it was dry, but there was no time to remedy that now and began to recite the spell.

  For a time, nothing happened. But when Kedrigern intoned a certain phrase, the candles wavered, and then steadied and burned evenly once more. He came to the end of the spell, and waited in silence. In the center of the ring, hovering over the medallion, was a shimmering wisp of smoke, no greater than the dying breath of a snuffed candle. It moved, and it grew, and as Kedrigern looked on it filed out to the shadowy likeness of a bald old man, white-bearded, untidily dressed, with an expression of puzzlement on his vague and insubstantial features and an ugly gash in his naked scalp.

  “Who are you who wore the medallion?” Kedrigern asked with solemn intonation.

  “Devil a bit I know about that,” said the apparition in a far, holow voice.

  “Has your identity been taken from you by enchantment?”

  “Hard to say, that is.”

  “What befell you, then?”

  “All that is known to me is a bloody great bash on the head that has left me with the mother and father of all headaches and set me to blowing about the between-worlds like a puff of smoke.”

  “A ghost cannot have a headache.”

  “Easy for you to say, Mister Flesh-and-Bones,” said the apparition peevishly. “For all your cocksureness, I have a head on me throbbing like the Black Drum of Dun na Gal when it summoned home at evening the nine thousand and six red cows that were the wealth and glory of Robtach of the Silver Elbows, Robtach who dwelt in the high hall of—”

  “Conhoon!” Kedrigern cried happily.

  “He did not dwell in Conhoon, that much I know, and I would appreciate your keeping your bloody voice to a whisper.”

  Lowering his voice, Kedrigern said, “You’re Conhoon. Conhoon of the Three Gifts. Conhoon the wizard.”

  “That may be,” said the other cautiously.

  “It very definitely is. You belonged to a guild of wizards. I’m Kedrigern. I used to be a member, too, until… until I resigned. Each of us wore a silver medallion like the one I have around my neck. You seem to have lost yours, and it’s come into my possession. Do you remember anything about it?”

  “I do not.”

  “Do you remember any of our brothers and sisters in the guild? Perhaps you recall Axpad, or Tristaver.”

  “I do not.”

  “Or Krillicane? Or Belsheer?”

  “Not one.”

  “Surely you remember Hithernils. He was the treasurer. Everyone met Hithernils at one time or another.”

  “I do not remember your Hithernils or any of the others, and for the love of God, will you shut your gob and give me a cold cloth to put on my head before I faint with the pain? Cruel enough you are to drag me here from the blessed quiet of between-worlds, but to torture me with questions is inhuman.”

  “Ghosts do not have headaches.”

  “This ghost could kick the eyes out of your head if he ever got loose from his spell, and we would see about headaches then,” said the apparition grimly.

  Kedrigern bit back his instinctive angry response and said mildly, “Conhoon, don’t you remember anything? Don’t you remember your three gifts?”

  “The only gifts I require now are a cold cloth for my head, wool to plug my ears, and a stone the size of a healthy baby to throw at you.”

  “Your first gift was sweetness of the tongue.” Kedrigern paused for a moment, then went on. “The second gift was keenness of memory.” He paused again, longer, and his expression grew thoughtful. “I cannot now recall the third gift of Conhoon, but I begin to wonder whether you are really he.”

  “Do you say so now? Well, Mister Flesh-and-Bones, you will be pleased to know that your nagging has given a push to my memory, and I now recall—”

  A knock came at the door. Kedrigern turned, and in the moment of his distraction, the apparition in the circle began to fade. It dwindled quickly, like smoke blowing through a crack, as Kedrigern looked helplessly on. The spell was completely shattered now, and there was no short way to mend it. Muttering angrily, he went to the door, unbolted it, and pulled it wide.

  “Well?” he snapped.

  “Brereep?” came a voice, gently, from the shadows.

  At once his manner softened. “Ah, Princess, I’m sorry. I was working, and I forgot dinner completely. I hope it isn’t spoiled.”

  “Brereep,” she assured him.

>   “Good. I’d feel terrible if it were. Come inside. I’ll just put a few things away, and we’ll go to dinner directly,” Kedrigern said, waving her into his sanctum.

  The soft candleglow struck highlights from Princess’s ebony hair and the golden coronet on her brow.

  Kedrigern gazed at her lovingly—she was wearing the dark green gown, one of his favorites—and squeezed her hand before turning to his cluttered table.

  “Brereep?” she asked, looking curiously at the circle on the floor.

  “Nothing much, really. Just a small magic to find out who owned the medallion we took from Buroc.” He turned to join her. Wetting his thumb, he rubbed a break in the circle to neutralize it. This done, he removed the candles to the table and then took up the medallion. “It belonged to Conhoon of the Three Gifts, I think. He was one of our Irish members. Kept pretty much to himself.”

  “Brereep.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. He was a surly fellow. And it was all a waste of good magic, anyway. I still don’t know what to do with this thing.” He held it up, and it turned slowly, flashing mirrorlike in the multiple candlelight. Princess looked at it admiringly and reached out to touch it. He placed it in her hand.

  “Lovely thing, isn’t it? It would look magnificent against that dress. I always thought that silver looked best on dark-haired women. Something about the way the light…”

  Their eyes met. She held the medallion against her dress and with a faint smile said, “Brereep?”

  “Oh, no. That’s only supposed to be worn by a wizard, and you… well…” He faltered, and paused to weigh the possibilities.

  The consequences of magic were never predictable, even to a wizard. Unauthorized wearing of the medallion might cause Princess to turn back into a toad, or into something worse. Still, Buroc had not been harmed. And Princess had already been enchanted once, and was related by marriage to a guild member; she might qualify, however marginaly, as a wizard.

  He looked at her, beautiful in the soft candleglow, and thought how nice it would be if she had her full power of human speech. They communicated fairly well now, but there were times when he longed to hear a soft voice whisper his name. A croak did tend to undermine romantic moods. The sound of sweet song would be a welcome addition to the household… conversations by the fireside on cold winter nights… reading aloud from the fine old tales… And then it came to him that Conhoon’s first gift was sweetness of the tongue. Clearly, the gift did not reside in Conhoon’s person; it might be in the working of the medallion; if so, it might be transmissable to a suitable wearer.

  Kedrigern took the medallion from Princess’s hands and held it up before her. “There’ll be a bit of a risk, my dear. Perhaps a big risk,” he said.

  “Brereep, “ she replied staunchly.

  “Brave girl! Here goes, then.”

  He placed the silver chain around her neck, and she reached back to draw her hair free. She took a deep breath, swallowed, and looked at him, wide-eyed but not fearful.

  “How do you feel? Different? Better? Sick?”

  She wet her lips, and in a low and mournful voice she said, “It is odd that I feel, and in three ways do I feel it, and it does me small good in body, mind, or heart to feel as I do, and less good to know that there is devil a thing you or I or anyone can do about it. First, I feel like the grain of sand in the eye of Cialglind that caused him to run mad and screaming in pain stark naked the length and breadth of Ireland for twelve years, day and night, regardless of the weather. Second, I feel like the splinter of pine in the ball of the thumb of Goiste that festered and grew red and pus-filled and caused his arm to swel up to the thickness of Kathleen MacRossa’s leg, and him sworn to do battle singlehanded against the sons of Nish at break of day. Third, I feel like the flea in the ear of Seisclend that caused him to forget wife and children and home, and forsake the gift of honeyed song and the making of golden sound on the harp, and live for sixteen years filthy grunting ragged and stinking among the pigs of his own yard. And that is how I feel, and not pleasant is it, my husband, to feel this way.”

  “I should think not,” said Kedrigern.

  “There is more to say, and say it I will in good time, but now a hunger is on me greater than the hunger of the sons of Eogan after doing battle four days and nights, without stopping once for breath or refreshment, against the followers of Goll Black-Tooth to save the honor of the fair Fithir. Lead me to dinner,” said Princess.

  “By all means, my dear,” said Kedrigern, taking her arm.

  She spoke not a word during the meal. Kedrigern observed her closely, but could see no side effects brought on by her wearing of the medallion. As far as he could tell, it had given her back her speech, and nothing more.

  Of course, it had given her back a considerably greater amount of speech than she might reasonably be expected to have lost. Kedrigern was fairly certain that Princess, before her enchantment, had not gone on like a superannuated Hibernian chronicler. But this spate of talk, he assured himself, was probably a natural reaction to a long period during which she was unable to do anything but croak, and the manner of speech was the aftereffect of Conhoon’s long possession of the medallion. Things would surely improve.

  “A delightful dinner,” he said, patting his lips with his napkin.

  “Grand it was, and great is my satisfaction thereat,” said Princess. Kedrigern smiled and nodded politely, and she went on, “I am pleased and comforted by this meal in five distinct ways, and I shall now expatiate upon my satisfaction under these five headings at length, in prose of an incantatory nature.”

  “Oh, there’s no need—” Kedrigern began, but she spoke on.

  “The first way I am pleased is in my eyes, by the sight of the clean napery and the shining silver, and the gleaming of candlelight on the wine glasses and the pleasant view of the deepening twilight on the hills that rise like the hills of Musheele beyond the farther window, and especially pleased am I because there have many a time been greasy fingermarks on my dish and I unable to articulate my displeasure thereat. These cleanly sights are as pleasing to me as the sight of the small white foot of Saraid of the Three Twins was to King Rory the Much-bathed.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear—”

  “And the second way I am pleased is in my nostrils, by the smell of the roasted duck and the tang of the wine and the clean scent of these fine wax candles. As pleasing to me are these mingled aromas as the fragrance of his stable was to Tuatha of the Black Bull. And the third way I am pleased is in my ears, by—”

  “You must excuse me, my dear,” said Kedrigern, starting up. “I just remembered that I left a candle burning in my study, and if—”

  “You did not,” she said. “Sit down and listen in full to my account of my satisfaction if you are any kind of a gentleman.”

  Kedrigern returned to his seat. He remained seated, fidgeting discreetly, while Princess went on to explain, with the help of illustrative examples, how the dinner had given her pleasure, satisfaction, and delight of the ears, taste buds, and fingertips. Having exhausted her sensory inventory, she paused for a breath and concluded, “And that is how am satisfied by this lovely dinner.”

  “I’m glad,” said Kedrigern warily, fearful that any words might bring on another monologue but too polite to remain churlishly silent.

  Princess smiled, but spoke no more. For the rest of the evening she sat at her loom, and for a time, she sang softly, to herself, in a low sweet voice that Kedrigern found utterly entrancing. He could not distinguish the words, but the melody was of a beauty that needed no adornment and he could not bring himself to interrupt her. He listened, eyes closed, while the evening breeze cooled his brow, and he relished his good fortune. Here was a pleasant domesticity unknown to his fellow wizards. He was a fortunate man indeed, and if Princess chose to ramble on now and then, well, he could put up with it in exchange for moments like this. She had listened to him often enough; now she could talk and he would listen. Nothing so terrible ab
out that, he thought.

  The next day, he began to doubt his power of endurance. Before breakfast, Princess spoke for the better part of an hour on the nine joys of a good night’s sleep and the sixteen beauties of the dawn. He spent the morning in his study, but at lunchtime she was ready with an extended recitation on the four goodnesses of bread in which a woman named Dairne of the Plump Hands figured repeatedly in a way that never became clear to him. He returned quickly to his study, his stomach protesting the haste with which he had dined, and emerged for dinner with great, and justifiable, trepidation. Dinner was eaten in blessed silence, but was preceded and followed by a two-part soliloquy on the thirty-three proper seasonings for a midsummer repast. Kedrigern heavily over-salted his meat, drank an inordinate amount of wine to assuage his thirst, and fell asleep grumpily just after sundown, to the strains of an elegiac song.

  The next day he spent in the wood, stocking up on necessaries of the profession. He left early and returned late, well past dinner time, and thus was audience only to a long lament concerning the tribulations of one Barach of the Tiny Foot, which consumed the entire evening. It was sufficient to give him a mild headache. He noticed that Spot had taken to tucking in its ears and entering rooms cautiously, lest it blunder into Princess and be forced to hear out one of her monologues. Trolls, he recalled, were noted for their powers of endurance.

  For the next three days it rained, hard. Confined to the house, unable to remain long in his study, where the humidity was practically subaqueous, Kedrigern was talked at all day, each day. He longed for the sound of a sweet “brereep.” He began to have thoughts of counterenchantments to neutralize Princess’s medallion; even of outright stealing it, as she slept. But these were dangerous courses, both to himself and to her. He had placed the medallion around her neck, and that was a deed not lightly undone. To complicate matters, she seemed quite content with her newfound multiloquence, and Kedrigern knew that he could not, in the end, bring himself to deprive her of her evident pleasure. Talky she might be, but she was Princess, and he loved her.