Page 24

War

We ate, drank, and slept, and I awoke to find washing water and new clothes awaiting me.

I marvelled at the softness of the fabric of my new gown.

It was the colour of bluebells and shimmered as I turned it, shifting between lilac and blue.

The cloak was grey, the colour of a summer storm cloud.

The boots were light, yet strong as the thickest leather.

“The queen is expecting you,” said Mother, coming into the chamber where I had slept. “And it does not do to keep her waiting.”

She examined my appearance and must have been satisfied, for the only adjustment she made was to take up my depleted wreath and snap off the one remaining white rose, tucking the stem into my hair above my ear.

I had braided my freshly washed hair into a thick plait and secured it with a length of silvery ribbon.

“How is Jory?” I asked.

“Making a good recovery. There was poison in his wound. If you had not bound the queen’s roses onto his leg as a poultice, he would not have survived. ”

This was a sobering thought. “What a powerful creature that monster was,” I said. “If a mere graze of its teeth is enough to kill a man.”

“I doubt it will get the chance to bite anyone else,” said Mother.

“How so?”

“The queen will have to deal with it now it has attacked one under her aegis.”

“I did not realise we were under her aegis.”

“You would not have succeeded in your quest otherwise. Faerie is a dangerous place for mortals.” She tucked a stray tendril that had sprung from my braid back into place. “You are ready.”

I glanced over my scant possessions laid out on the table by the bed and saw that my wishing lamp was unlit.

“Come,” urged Mother as I picked up the lamp.

“How was this put out?” I wondered aloud. “I thought it took a wish. But I suppose the fae can wish as much as they choose.”

“It does not take a wish to put out a faerie lamp,” said Mother, a little impatiently. “It takes three taps.” She tapped it three times, and it began to shine. She tapped it again three times, and the light went out. She plucked it from me, saying, “We must go.”

“Remember,” said Mother as we neared the pavilion.

“Do not place yourself in the queen’s debt or power.

All that she has done for you is due to the oath she made to the Council to help protect the Rose Daughters.

Do not let her put you under any confession of obligation, or you could fall into servitude and never be free.

Answer her questions without guile, and say no more than you are asked.

Words are important when speaking with the fae.

I have warned Sir Oswain and young Jack to be careful and let you do the talking. ”

“Why am I a Rose Daughter?” I asked. “I am no princess.”

“It was at my request. The Council granted it, and the queen was obliged to keep her oath.”

“Why should this Council listen to you? Who are you, Mother?”

“Later, Lily. There is no time now.”

Sir Oswain and Jack awaited us at the entrance to the queen’s bower.

“Don’t we look dandy?” said Jack, stroking the beautiful tunic and cloak he wore over leather breeches. Sir Oswain was likewise finely dressed. “Look!” said Jack, lifting his right foot to show off his new boots. “Did you ever see the like? The king himself don’t have a pair as fine as this!”

Jack’s face looked improved already, and I told him so.

“They said I’d always have these scars,” said Jack, touching his cheek tenderly.

“Not many can boast of scars from a mermaid’s talons,” I said.

“Not as good as a scar from a poisonous sea monster, but ’tis still a good tale.”

“A good tale to tell your children and grandchildren,” said Sir Oswain, giving Jack’s shoulder a brotherly pat.

The queen’s bower was very beautiful. Fountains sparkled, spraying drops over flowers the size of platters.

The queen reclined on a silver daybed, eating pink berries and whipped cream and fluffy white cakes.

Beside her couch sat a grey-blue, dragon-like creature being hand-fed pieces of cake.

It hopped over, wings fluttering, to rub its leathery head against me .

“You found a margool,” said the queen when we had made our bows.

“A margool?” I said. “What is that?”

“A margool is a margool,” said the queen, licking cream from her fingers. “Now tell me what befell you since leaving my stables.”

I told her all that had happened, taking great care with my words, as Mother had counselled. The queen continued eating steadily until I got to the part where I described our setting fire to the house of Amara as we made our escape.

“You set Amara’s hall ablaze?” said the queen, her eyes gleaming.

“Yes, for we wished to delay her coming after us. In truth, I was amazed that we saw nothing of her and were able to escape unhindered.”

The queen laughed. It was not as cold a laugh as that of the mermaids, but there was a sharpness to it.

“You may thank Mother Hazel for the delay of Amara,” said the queen.

“Mother Hazel?” I said, glancing at Mother questioningly.

“She fought the sorceress for three days and nights to keep her from the island so you could make your rescue.”

I stared at Mother, but she would not look at me. Now I had many more questions. No mere cottager could restrain a sorceress for three days and nights.

The queen made a sweeping gesture, and servants glided forth to whisk away the food and table from before her. Two handmaidens appeared on either side to each take a royal hand, and the queen arose from her couch.

She was surprisingly tall, and she seemed to grow taller as she gave an order for her robes of war to be brought. We watched in fascination as the indulgent, feasting queen transformed before us into a fearsome faerie in armour so bright, it dazzled our eyes.

Gone was the languid expression, now she wore a fierce expression, and a silvery sword with a wicked point was buckled at her side. Even her voice was different, deeper and louder, as she said—“Amara shall be reduced to a hedge-witch by the time I have served her for her treachery!”

“I daresay she will have fled her island by this time,” said Mother.

“Then she shall return no more to her stolen land. And her poisonous water snake shall be fed to the hunting dogs of the king of the south!”

“What of the dwarf lord?” asked Mother.

“He shall learn his place. I have let him roam on a long leash, but I am weary of the game now.”

She turned to me, and I took a step backward as a wave of the power she had kept latent now flashed out, striking me like a northeast gale.

“Go home, Rose Daughter,” she commanded. “Take your margool as a prize, for a margool will never leave the one who has saved its life.”

She did not even glance at Sir Oswain or Jack. I was impressed with Sir Oswain’s courage as he spoke up, his voice a little shaky and his face pale, for the magic in the air was thick now that the queen had risen and was ready to advance upon those who displeased her.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” said Sir Oswain, bowing low. “Permit me to go with you to the dwarf lord, that I might recover the crown for my king.”

She barely flicked a glance over him, saying, “All spoils belong to me,” and she swept from the pavilion, calling for her war horse and for her army to ride out.

“We had best keep out of the way,” said Mother, beckoning us to follow her.

We sat in an arbour on a gentle hill, watching below as faerie mounts clad in silvery armour, and faerie soldiers, taller and more fearsome than any mortal knights, assembled before their commanders and began riding away in companies.

“This day has been a long time coming,” said Mother, who was packing a bowl of a faerie-crafted pipe with fragrant dried leaves.

“Here,” she said, passing the pipe to Sir Oswain.

He took it, regarding it with some mistrust. Mother filled another and offered it to Jack, who looked pleased to be invited to partake.

“Don’t have a light,” said Jack.

Mother broke off a twig from a climbing plant and made a snapping movement with her fingers; a flame flickered at the end of the twig.

I stared. “You do have magic,” I said, a little reproachfully.

“It is easy enough with faerie wood,” said Mother dismissively. She passed the twig to Sir Oswain, who took it reluctantly.

“Will it do strange things to me?” he asked, eyeing the pipe. “I have found the juice of the grass of Faerie to be most unpleasant.”

“It will help you think clearly,” said Mother, taking her own pipe from her pocket to fill. “It may keep you from any harebrained schemes, such as riding off unarmed and alone to face a dwarf lord who will be seething with rage on finding his plots have failed. ”

Sir Oswain passed the lit twig to Jack without lighting his own pipe.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Rose?” I asked, unable to keep the note of grievance from my voice.

Mother took a while to answer, lighting her pipe in a leisurely manner, leaning back to draw meditatively on it.

She regarded me with narrowed eyes, like a sleepy cat, and blew out a stream of smoke.

Jack was trying to blow smoke rings but swallowed one and coughed violently.

Abandoning his pipe, he announced in a raspy voice that he was going down the hill to drink from one of the garden fountains.

She finally began to unravel some of the mysteries, beginning with the day Rose was taken. She had been checking the borders that morning, she said, and had heard a troublemaker was prowling about.

“Who told you?” I asked.

She shrugged. “A little bird.”

“Did you know that the troublemaker was a powerful sorceress?”

“Hah,” said Mother scornfully. “Sorceress, indeed. She’s certainly been dabbling in dark magic this past half-century, more fool her, but I knew Amara when she was no more than a proud, disagreeable girl.”

I stared at her. “A girl? You knew her? More than half a century ago? But you cannot be so old!”