Voice for Princess (v1.1) Read online

  On the first dry morning he awoke early, to blessed quiet. For a time, not even a bird peeped. Kedrigern drank in the sweet silence, knowing that it would end all too soon.

  He raised himself slowly, stealthily, and leaning on one elbow he looked down on Princess. Her dark hair lay like a pool of night around her fair face. Her coral lips were barely parted, and her breath was slow and regular. She was absolutely silent. Princess looked especially lovely this morning, and Kedrigern, forgetful of all else, reached out to take her in his arms.

  But he hesitated, his fingertips a scant handbreadth from her shoulder. He wanted to embrace her, to make love with no more speech than was necessary or fitting, as they had always done before—and he feared that instead of the sweet sighs of past days he would hear still another tale of mighty-thewed heroes and long-suffering damsels, reckless oaths and base treachery, related in a manner more suited to a maundering old sagaman than to the fair lips of Princess.

  As he held his hand poised over her shoulder, she stirred, opened her eyes, and looked directly at him. Startled, he drew back his hand.

  “Troubled were my dreams last night, Kedrigern my husband, and troubled my sleep as the sleep of Draigen of the Bloodshot Eyes in the Black Bed of Goome,” she said. She yawned and went on, “For ten distinct dreams did I have, and all of them filled with omens that would make the hairs of your head to stand up like thorns and your blood to run as cold as the brook of Kilfillin in the springtime, when the melting snows run down the stony flanks of the hills of Musheele. And tremble I did, and cry out, and try to flee, but my voice was taken from me and my feet as still as the Stone Dog of Moycashel.”

  “Probably something you ate, my dear,” said Kedrigern, slipping from the bed. “I noticed an odd tang to the gravy last night. Perhaps Spot—”

  “It is not gravy that filled my sleep with the horrors of Hell, and I would think the better of you if you did not flee like the hinds of Sliabh Luachra at the sight of Finn Quick-Spear every time I open my mouth to speak,” Princess broke in coldly.

  Kedrigern bit his lip and said nothing. Princess looked at him darkly and disapprovingly for a time, then drew a deep breath preparatory to resuming her account of the night’s dreams. At that moment a loud knock at the front door echoed through the house.

  “It’s probably for me,” said Kedrigern, grabbing for his clothes.

  “You will sit and hear me, husband. Spot it is who answers the door in this house.”

  The knock resounded again, accompanied by indistinct but angry-sounding words from below, just under the window.

  “I will go. There are some pretty undesirable types around, my dear, and with the ghosts gone from the wood, they’re liable to turn up on our doorstep anytime. Remember Buroc. That was not a friendly knock,” said Kedrigern as he tugged on his boot.

  Working a quick temporary spell against bodily injury, he stalked to the door, threw the bolts, and flung it wide. At the sight of a familiar figure, he gasped and started back. Before him stood a bald old man covered with the dust of the road, white-bearded, untidily dressed, a dirty bloodstained rag binding his pate and an expression of great anger on his face.

  “Conhoon! You’re alive!” Kedrigern cried.

  “I am, and I want my medallion,” said the visitor, brandishing his staff in a menacing gesture.

  “Ah, yes, your medallion. Come in, Conhoon. We were just about to have breakfast. My house-troll makes wonderful pancakes. Why don’t you—”

  “I want my medallion, and no bloody foolishness from anyone in this house.”

  “Of course you do. Come in, and we’ll break bread, and talk about the guild. I’d love to have a good long chat about the guild. We’ll discuss the whole question of the medallion and come to an amicable solution.”

  “To hell with an amicable solution! I want my medallion!” howled Conhoon.

  At that moment, Princess appeared. She wore a gown of deep dark green. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, and the medallion glistened like a star on her breast. When he saw it, Conhoon’s eyes widened and he began to sputter. Kedrigern quickly made introductions.

  “My dear, this is Conhoon of the Three Gifts. Conhoon, this is my wife, Princess. Conhoon is a colleague of mine, my dear, and we—”

  “And would you leave the dear man standing out in the morning chill, and him with a bandage to his head and no food at all in his poor stomach? Come in, my fine Conhoon, come in to a chair and a good dish of porridge.”

  “I thank you, lady, but it’s for the medallion I come, and if you’ll just be giving it to me, I’ll be on my way,” said Conhoon, his tone subdued but still firm.

  “It is a fine medallion,” said Princess thoughtfully.

  “It is, and sorry I am to be without it.”

  “How did you come to lose it?” Kedrigern inquired.

  “Devil a thing I know about that. One minute I’m dozing off in my garden, weak and exhausted from a spell to rid three counties of mice and moles, and the next thing I know I have a gash in my scalp and a headache to make the eyes hop around in my skul and my house is all torn to pieces and my medallion gone. Lucky I am to be Conhoon of the Three Gifts, and my three gifts sweetness of the tongue, keenness of the memory, and hardness of the head. And if I find the evil bugger who laid me out, he will need a harder head than mine or we will hear no more from him,” Conhoon replied.

  “He already has a harder head. I turned him to stone.”

  “That was good of you,” said Conhoon, almost graciously. “And now I will take my medallion and go.”

  “Fond have I grown of this medallion,” said Princess softly, touching the smooth silver disk with her fingertips.

  “And I think that if I wished to keep it, my brave Kedrigern would come to my aid against any sorcerer or wizard or fellowship thereof…”

  “Oh dear me,” said Kedrigern under his breath.

  “… But I would not cause such bitter conflict in his soul,” Princess went on. “My Kedrigern, my beautiful one, my beloved,” she crooned. “Fair he was in his youth, by the look of him. Fair the hair and the brows of him, and smooth the skin of him, and long and slender the hands of him and clean the fingers and the fingernails thereof. Like blood on the breast of the white dove was the redness of his lips. Like red gold after the burnishing was his hair, and like cornflowers the blue of his eyes. Straight the shins of him, and long the legs, and round and hard the knees of him as two wave-washed sea-shells.”

  “Very nice of you to say so, my dear,” Kedrigern said, smiling and much relieved at this new turn to her speech.

  “But the years are quickly passing, and heavy will be their burden on my Kedrigern, the wise, the kindly, the once-fair. Gray as the dust bunnies under our sagging bed will soon be the hair of him, and the lines in his face as deep as the furrowed gullies in the hillsides of Musheele after the torrents of spring have dropped from the skies. Around his eyes the tiny lines are already as numerous as the hairs on the heads of all the warriors who faced—”

  “You needn’t go on, my dear. Conhoon has the idea.”

  “I will go on,” said Princess implacably. “The warriors who faced—”

  “For the love of God, woman, will you give me my medallion?!” cried Conhoon in an agony of impatient longing.

  Princess paused. She looked fondly at Kedrigern, then she took the medallion in both hands. “Loath am I to lose this lovely and useful ornament and the rich abundance of speech it has bestowed upon me, and saddened by the thought of once more being forced to croak like a toad in response to intelligent and subtle questions. And I am saddened in nineteen distinct ways. But I will keep them to myself.” And lifting the gleaming silver disk from around her neck, she placed it in Conhoon’s outstretched hands.

  That evening, Princess and Kedrigern dined in the shade of the great oak. When Spot had cleared away, Kedrigern reached over and took Princess’s hand.

  “That was a fine and decent thing you did this morning, m
y dear. And a wise thing, too. A battle of wizards can be a terrible ordeal. Devastate the landscape, and do all sorts of odd things to innocent bystanders. It was good of you to avoid bringing one about,” he said.

  She smiled at him. He squeezed her hand and went on, “I promise you, from this moment on I will devote all my efforts to completing the reversal of your spell. It’s my absolute top priority.” He looked away, off to the far end of the field, and rather awkwardly and uncomfortably said, “And, my dear… something you mentioned this morning… I was wondering… oh, it’s really nothing… but still, I…” He looked at her hopefully.

  She raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “Well, you mentioned something to Conhoon about my appearance… what you thought I’d look like in a few more decades. Do I really… ? I mean, I’m scarcely more than a hundred and sixty. For a wizard, I’m practically a tot. Surely I’m not starting to show signs… to look… Am I?”

  She patted his hand, gave an enigmatic smile, and very slowly, she winked. “Brereep,” she said.

  Seven

  cogito, ergo sam

  Kedrigern at last dug Isbashoori’s Guide To Countering Complex Curses, Subtle Spells, And Multiple Maledictions out of the chaos left behind by Rupert and Eleanor upon their banishment, and located nearly every book referred to in the section on postcounterspell complications. But instead of raising his hopes, further knowledge had confirmed his darkest fears. The basic spell on Princess was capable of so many twists and turns and elegant sly involutions that he might work at undoing it for the rest of his days with no assurance of success.

  There was one bright spot: Princess was in no mortal danger. A failed attempt to restore her speech would not cause her to burst into flame, or dissolve, or turn to stone. It would not even cause minor embarrassments like the sprouting of horns or instantaneous obesity. But it would drag on and on, draining Kedrigern’s magic without result, and eroding Princess’s patience and her faith in him.

  The more he brooded on the situation, the more annoyed Kedrigern became at his own haste and carelessness. At their very first meeting back in the Dismal Bog, he should have taken the time to learn every detail of Princess’s enchantment.

  Ideally, he should have brought her home, ensconced her in a comfortable puddle, and done his research in a methodical fashion before undertaking the counterspell. But he had rushed ahead like an eager apprentice, with only the most perfunctory inquiry into the facts. Worse still, when she had her speech completely restored he had not taken the opportunity to quiz her closely.

  Considering the rhetorical style induced by Conhoon’s medallion, her answer might have lasted several days, but under all the oratory there might have been the clue he needed to direct him to the proper remedy. Now it was too late, and there was nothing for it but trial and error. He dreaded telling this to Princess.

  Actually, Kedrigern could understand Princess fairly well by this time; quite well enough for all domestic purposes, at any rate.

  Princess could communicate far more effectively with her croaking than Spot with its one-word vocabulary. Of course, Spot was a troll and Princess was a princess, capable of vivid gestures and a wide range of facial expression. That did make a difference. But even the most delicately nuanced “brereep” was an inadequate medium for explaining the finer points of a transformational enchantment, particularly when they were the work of a malicious bog-fairy who had taken time and care to weave an ingenious spell bristling with pitfalls for the incautious disenchanter.

  There were questions to which one could not accept “brereep” for an answer. But with Conhoon’s medallion restored to its proper wearer, Princess was unlikely to give any other answer for a long time to come.

  These thoughts troubled Kedrigern on an otherwise perfect day in summer, as he loitered in the garden after breakfast, reluctant to confine himself indoors on such a lovely morning. He knew that he had a long series of days in the workroom ahead of him, and it was all his own fault. Despite blue skies, warm sun, and melodious birdsong, he scowled.

  “Brereep?” Princess inquired with instant solicitude.

  “Nothing at all my dear. I’m just thinking of how hot and stuffy it’s going to be inside on a day like this.” He stood by the gate and looked out over the slope of the long meadow to the misty valley far below. “It’s a shame I can’t work outdoors. It would be nice to set up my things out here. Or maybe under the oak.”

  “Brereep,” she suggested.

  “It wouldn’t do. Most of my materials can’t take fresh air and sunlight. Half my books would crumble into dust.”

  She came to the gate and took his arm, laying her head against his shoulder in a silent gesture of sympathy. They stood for a time looking over the meadow, then Kedrigern raised a hand to shade his eyes.

  “Is that someone approaching, my dear?” he asked.

  “Brereep?”

  “Over that way. See?” he said, reaching into his tunic for his medallion, muttering as he did so, “This place is becoming a madhouse. Buroc, then Conhoon, now somebody else… might as well have built an inn on the high road… crowds, and noise… never a minute’s peace…” As he peered through the Aperture of True Vision, his mood brightened. “I recognize that livery. It’s a messenger from Vosconu.”

  “Brereep?”

  “Vosconu the Openhanded, my dear. One of my favorite clients. His problems are usually straightforward and uncomplicated. It’s always a pleasure to do a job for Vosconu.” He waved an arm, and the distant figure returned his greeting. Leaving Princess at the gate, Kedrigern took up the silver bell from the table and rang for his house-troll. When Spot burst into view, he ordered light refreshments for his visitor, then returned to Princess’s side to await the messenger’s arrival. “I think you’ll be impressed by the calibre of Vosconu’s servants, my dear. He’s extremely generous to them, and they in turn are fiercely loyal. I’ll probably have to force this fellow to take a few minutes to refresh himself, he’ll be that eager to get back and put his master’s mind at rest,” he said.

  She turned to him thoughtfully and said, “Brereep.”

  “Are you certain, my dear?” he replied with mild surprise. “The fellow might have some news that would interest you. Vosconu’s court is a busy place. Always someone interesting passing through.”

  She shook her head resolutely. “Brereep.”

  “I understand. You go on inside, and I’ll talk to him out here. There’s no reason for you to see anyone if you prefer not to. I’ll tell you the whole story over lunch.”

  Kedrigern brushed the crumbs of bread and cheese from his fingertips, sipped his ale, and smiled contentedly. “It appears to be a very simple curse, the work of a rank amateur. It should give me no trouble at all. And Vosconu always pays promptly and generously. If we should have to resort to purchasing a counterspell, we’ll need the money. The only hitch is that my presence is required, and that means a trip to Vosconu’s lands. I do hate to travel, but I can’t let an old client down.” He was silent for a moment, then he said, “Why don’t you come with me, my dear? It wouldn’t be at all like our excursion with Buroc. The accommodations at Vosconu’s palace are magnificent. We could turn it into a little vacation.”

  “Brereep,” she said firmly.

  “It’s no trouble at all. Spot can watch things. I’ll put a protective spell on the house and grounds to help out. I’m sure you—”

  “Brereep,” she repeated.

  “But you wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. You could remain mysteriously silent.” She looked at him as if he were raving. He shrugged and said, “Or I could tell everyone you had laryngitis.” When her expression did not change, he nodded in acquiescence. “Ah. Well. No need to come if you don’t wish to, my dear. I’ll get there, get it over with, and get back as quickly as I can. There shouldn’t be any complications. In fact, there may not even be a curse. Vosconu tends to worry about things. A regular fussbudget.” He laughed softly and held out for her insp
ection the long letter, in tight script on both sides of six sheets, that the messenger had delivered. “Just look at that, my dear. In Vosconu’s own hand, no less. Have you ever seen anything so methodical, such attention to detail?”

  “Brereep,” she marveled.

  “Nor have I.” Kedrigern looked over the missive and sighed. “Now, if we had something like this to describe the exact circumstances of your spell, it would be a matter of…”

  He stopped in midsentence. He and Princess stared at each other with a wild surmise, and then Kedrigern sprang up and raced inside, to emerge moments later with a pen, an inkhorn, and a sheet of clean parchment. Placing the materials before Princess, he stood back expectantly, beaming in anticipation.

  Princess took up the pen, dipped it in the ink, and readied herself to write. She sat poised for a full minute, then rested her chin in her hand and looked thoughtfully into the distance, a faint frown creasing her brow. An artist fond of cliche might have done a quick sketch of her and entitled it “Poet Awaiting the Muse.” At last she put down the pen and looked up at Kedrigern with tears glistening in her eyes.

  “Brereep” she said in a barely audible voice.

  “Nothing at all, my dear? Not a single detail?”

  “Brereep.”

  “Oh dear me.” Kedrigern rushed to her side and took her up in his arms, the better to comfort her. “Everything will be all right. We’ve lost a bit of time, nothing more. No need to be upset. I’ll keep looking, and before you know it you’ll be speaking as eloquently as you could wish.”

  “Brereep” she sobbed.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your memory, my dear. It will return. It’s shock, that’s all. You’ve been subjected to so much magic in so short a span that your system hasn’t had time to adjust. You’ve blanked out the cause of it all. I’ve seen this sort of thing before.”