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Authors: Mette Ivie Harrison
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He was, on the one hand, admiring of the man who refused to deny his magic and, on the other hand, angry and resentful of him. Why would he not live in silence and not make trouble for others of his kind, including George?
I am prince, thought George. I must do something here. Something right.
Everyone was waiting for him to say something. His father expected George somehow to make both parties leave here satisfied. It was what his father was knownfor. It was why he was such a beloved king.
“I don’t care what you say,” said the man with animal magic, his eyes turning from the king to George. “You’re no king of mine, nor prince either. Not if you’ve no magic to your name.”
George knew then that this was impossible. There was no right judgment. And yet he must do something.
Finally, it was the man with the broken teeth who spoke. “Burn him. That’s the only way to deal with animal magic, the only way to make sure it does not spread.”
George gasped, remembering his mother’s pyre, then looked down, to gather control of himself once more.
George looked to his father at last, silently begging for help. And he saw cold terror on his father’s face, the same pale, stricken, stiff expression that he had shown the night George’s mother had died. The king saw the danger here. He had known of it all along and had never spoken of it.
George, terrified, trembled violently. Then his father, wiping all expression from his face so that he looked like the king once more, stepped forward. He turned to those who stood before him, waiting for judgment, and gave them something else instead.
“Go your way, all of you,” he said. “Make your own peace with one another. As king of Kendel, I claim authority over land and animals, water, and even family.But I claim no authority over magic.”
What?
George jerked forward in astonishment. His father refused to make any judgment at all? George could not think of any judgment that would not have been wrong. Not to judge, though, that was more wrong. Surely it was.
“Unbind him,” commanded King Davit, waving to his guards.
The man with animal magic cursed at the guards as they undid the ropes. Then he made a terrible sound, like a charging ram, and ran out of the long hall.
The other farmers ran after him.
George sat the rest of the day at his father’s feet in that same hall, curled up with his arms wrapped around his legs. He had never felt so small in all his life, or so wrong. He was wrong because he had not made a judgment. He was wrong because he had made his father look weak. He was wrong because he too had the animal magic. And he had not even had the courage to admit it.
That night, long after the line of judgment seekers had departed and George had gone at last to his own chamber, he stood at his window and stared out. Despite the lack of sleep the night before, he was not at all tired.
The dark sky was lit with a terrible red column of flames. It came not from the forest or from the grounds around the castle but from the village. And from that direction came the sounds of shrieking.
A man was dying. A man with animal magic whom George should have saved.
The man was calling out in every tongue he knew. He called to doves, to owls, to sparrows and robins, to jays and hawks. He called to foxes and deer, to wolves and hounds and foxes, to moles and rabbits and bears.
He called for vengeance. Bring down this village. Bring down this castle. Bring down this kingdom, he demanded.
George could see animals here and there stop and listen. But they did not move to respond. They did not go to the man to save him or do what he wished. Because he had only the same animal magic that George did, the magic of speaking. And it would not save his life.
He was alone at the end, as alone as George was, part of two worlds yet part of neither.
At last the man’s shrieking stopped. Even then George could not look away from his window. He stood watch until the last
I am prince, thought George. I must do something here. Something right.
Everyone was waiting for him to say something. His father expected George somehow to make both parties leave here satisfied. It was what his father was knownfor. It was why he was such a beloved king.
“I don’t care what you say,” said the man with animal magic, his eyes turning from the king to George. “You’re no king of mine, nor prince either. Not if you’ve no magic to your name.”
George knew then that this was impossible. There was no right judgment. And yet he must do something.
Finally, it was the man with the broken teeth who spoke. “Burn him. That’s the only way to deal with animal magic, the only way to make sure it does not spread.”
George gasped, remembering his mother’s pyre, then looked down, to gather control of himself once more.
George looked to his father at last, silently begging for help. And he saw cold terror on his father’s face, the same pale, stricken, stiff expression that he had shown the night George’s mother had died. The king saw the danger here. He had known of it all along and had never spoken of it.
George, terrified, trembled violently. Then his father, wiping all expression from his face so that he looked like the king once more, stepped forward. He turned to those who stood before him, waiting for judgment, and gave them something else instead.
“Go your way, all of you,” he said. “Make your own peace with one another. As king of Kendel, I claim authority over land and animals, water, and even family.But I claim no authority over magic.”
What?
George jerked forward in astonishment. His father refused to make any judgment at all? George could not think of any judgment that would not have been wrong. Not to judge, though, that was more wrong. Surely it was.
“Unbind him,” commanded King Davit, waving to his guards.
The man with animal magic cursed at the guards as they undid the ropes. Then he made a terrible sound, like a charging ram, and ran out of the long hall.
The other farmers ran after him.
George sat the rest of the day at his father’s feet in that same hall, curled up with his arms wrapped around his legs. He had never felt so small in all his life, or so wrong. He was wrong because he had not made a judgment. He was wrong because he had made his father look weak. He was wrong because he too had the animal magic. And he had not even had the courage to admit it.
That night, long after the line of judgment seekers had departed and George had gone at last to his own chamber, he stood at his window and stared out. Despite the lack of sleep the night before, he was not at all tired.
The dark sky was lit with a terrible red column of flames. It came not from the forest or from the grounds around the castle but from the village. And from that direction came the sounds of shrieking.
A man was dying. A man with animal magic whom George should have saved.
The man was calling out in every tongue he knew. He called to doves, to owls, to sparrows and robins, to jays and hawks. He called to foxes and deer, to wolves and hounds and foxes, to moles and rabbits and bears.
He called for vengeance. Bring down this village. Bring down this castle. Bring down this kingdom, he demanded.
George could see animals here and there stop and listen. But they did not move to respond. They did not go to the man to save him or do what he wished. Because he had only the same animal magic that George did, the magic of speaking. And it would not save his life.
He was alone at the end, as alone as George was, part of two worlds yet part of neither.
At last the man’s shrieking stopped. Even then George could not look away from his window. He stood watch until the last
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