Read Online Princess Ben by Catherine Gilbert Murdock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Gilbert Murdock
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binding, was as clean as the queen's own throne. Thick dust draped every adjoining surface, and bird droppings as well (I was revolted to note), but the book itself lay pristine.
With effort, I calmed myself. There were no footprints in the room, no evidence of occupancy for a century or more. The book itself must have some mysterious power. Inadvertently I proved this when, in reaching to touch the binding, a thick clump of dust dropped from my sleeve. The dust drifted downward as dust is wont to do, but as it neared the book, it purely and simply vanished. How clever! I scooped up a large handful of dust to test this again but at the last moment refrained, sensing (and I shall forever look upon this moment as a great leap in my maturity) that perhaps a volume of such antiquity and obvious capability should not be put to use for parlor tricks.
Those childhood tales of the founding of Montagne, the legendary couple who cured the mountain giants' chilblains and through magic protected their new country from harm ... those fictions, I suddenly realized, must have some foundation in fact. Magic alone could explain my passage through a solid masonry wall, and magic alone explained the presence, and certainly the contents, of this secret room. Why I of all people would stumble upon this lost and forgotten chamber at this particular moment in time; that I could not explain. Except—and this realization sent me gasping so deeply that I spent several minutes coughing dust from my lungs—except for the fact that I, as granddaughter of the king, had descended directly from Montagne's founders. However many generations later, their blood flowed in my veins. This marvelous adventure was, in some manner, my birthright.
Again I peered at the spotless open book. After wiping one aching hand on my gown (which, sadly, was already far more soiled than brocade should ever be), I reached out a trembling finger and touched it.
I did not disappear. That was a blessing. The book felt clean to my touch, of course, but otherwise booklike. When I tried to turn the page, however, my eyes grew wide, for however papery the pages felt and appeared, with their tiny words and inked drawings, the book remained as solid and immovable as a block of granite.
If I had not yet come to the conclusion that this tome was a force of magic, the title words—difficult to discern, for the room though illuminated by the moon had not light for scholarship—left no doubt. "The Elemental Spells," they proclaimed, in a flowing, archaic script I would discover soon enough was not the easiest to decipher. A dense paragraph followed, too challenging to read in the weak light, and then a series of precise illustrations and captions, with arrows highlighting specific elements, much as a cookery book might demonstrate the proper way to trim a roast, or an engineering manual the ideal configuration of a gristmill.
The pictures greatly intrigued me. Each showed a pair of hands gesturing in a most specific manner. A sketch of a hand with snapping fingers, for example, emphasized that the snap should be off the third, or ring, finger. I attempted this. My own fingers were so swollen that I could scarce manipulate them, yet, consumed with curiosity, I forced them to bend.
With great effort I produced a small sound, nothing akin to the well-known snap with which we are all of us familiar, but noise nonetheless in that silent room. Beneath this drawing was a series of words in a tongue I did not recognize; it looked wild, foreign, and unpronounceable. Helpfully, a second line of text sounded the words out syllable by syllable. With great focus I whispered the words, though I had not a clue in the world what such gibberish would produce.
Again I spoke, uttering the words with more confidence now, and at the same time forcing my fingers into their snap. At once a minuscule puff of flame appeared in my palms. I shrieked—well would anyone, I should say, under such tension—and
With effort, I calmed myself. There were no footprints in the room, no evidence of occupancy for a century or more. The book itself must have some mysterious power. Inadvertently I proved this when, in reaching to touch the binding, a thick clump of dust dropped from my sleeve. The dust drifted downward as dust is wont to do, but as it neared the book, it purely and simply vanished. How clever! I scooped up a large handful of dust to test this again but at the last moment refrained, sensing (and I shall forever look upon this moment as a great leap in my maturity) that perhaps a volume of such antiquity and obvious capability should not be put to use for parlor tricks.
Those childhood tales of the founding of Montagne, the legendary couple who cured the mountain giants' chilblains and through magic protected their new country from harm ... those fictions, I suddenly realized, must have some foundation in fact. Magic alone could explain my passage through a solid masonry wall, and magic alone explained the presence, and certainly the contents, of this secret room. Why I of all people would stumble upon this lost and forgotten chamber at this particular moment in time; that I could not explain. Except—and this realization sent me gasping so deeply that I spent several minutes coughing dust from my lungs—except for the fact that I, as granddaughter of the king, had descended directly from Montagne's founders. However many generations later, their blood flowed in my veins. This marvelous adventure was, in some manner, my birthright.
Again I peered at the spotless open book. After wiping one aching hand on my gown (which, sadly, was already far more soiled than brocade should ever be), I reached out a trembling finger and touched it.
I did not disappear. That was a blessing. The book felt clean to my touch, of course, but otherwise booklike. When I tried to turn the page, however, my eyes grew wide, for however papery the pages felt and appeared, with their tiny words and inked drawings, the book remained as solid and immovable as a block of granite.
If I had not yet come to the conclusion that this tome was a force of magic, the title words—difficult to discern, for the room though illuminated by the moon had not light for scholarship—left no doubt. "The Elemental Spells," they proclaimed, in a flowing, archaic script I would discover soon enough was not the easiest to decipher. A dense paragraph followed, too challenging to read in the weak light, and then a series of precise illustrations and captions, with arrows highlighting specific elements, much as a cookery book might demonstrate the proper way to trim a roast, or an engineering manual the ideal configuration of a gristmill.
The pictures greatly intrigued me. Each showed a pair of hands gesturing in a most specific manner. A sketch of a hand with snapping fingers, for example, emphasized that the snap should be off the third, or ring, finger. I attempted this. My own fingers were so swollen that I could scarce manipulate them, yet, consumed with curiosity, I forced them to bend.
With great effort I produced a small sound, nothing akin to the well-known snap with which we are all of us familiar, but noise nonetheless in that silent room. Beneath this drawing was a series of words in a tongue I did not recognize; it looked wild, foreign, and unpronounceable. Helpfully, a second line of text sounded the words out syllable by syllable. With great focus I whispered the words, though I had not a clue in the world what such gibberish would produce.
Again I spoke, uttering the words with more confidence now, and at the same time forcing my fingers into their snap. At once a minuscule puff of flame appeared in my palms. I shrieked—well would anyone, I should say, under such tension—and
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