sharp frown lines around his mouth: nothing else. He moved like a young man, and if people grew milder or kinder with age, he certainly hadn’t. But for a moment now, his eyes were purely old, and very strange. “No,” he said, and I believed him.
Then he shook it off and pointed: turning, I found the prince pushing himself up onto his elbow, and blinking at us both: still dazed and unknowing, but even as I looked, the spark of recognition came back into his face, remembering me. I whispered,
“Kalikual.”
The power rushed out of me. Prince Marek sank back downagainst the pillows, eyes closing back into sleep. I staggered over to the wall and slid down it to the floor. The butcher knife was still there lying on the ground where it had fallen down. I picked it up and at last used it: to cut through the dress and the laces of my stays. My dress gaped open all along my side, but at least I could breathe.
I lay back against the wall with my eyes shut for a moment. Then I looked up at the Dragon, who had turned away in impatience from my fatigue: he was looking down at the prince with irritation. “Won’t his men ask for him in the morning?” I said.
“Did you imagine you were going to keep Prince Marek locked up fast asleep in my tower indefinitely?” the Dragon said over his shoulder.
“But then, when he wakes,” I said, then stopped and asked, “Could you—can you make him forget?”
“Oh, certainly,” the Dragon said. “He won’t at all notice anything peculiar if he wakes up with a splitting headache and an enormous gap in his memory to go with it.”
“What if—” I struggled back up to my feet, still clutching the knife, “—what if he remembered something else? Just going to bed in his own room—”
“Try not to be stupid,” the Dragon said. “You said you didn’t seduce him, so he came up here of his own intention. When was that intention formed? Merely tonight as he already lay in his bed? Or was he thinking of it along the road—a warm bed, welcoming arms—yes, I realize yours weren’t; you’ve provided sufficient evidence to the contrary,” he snapped, when I would have protested. “For all we know, he meant to do it even before he set out—a calculated sort of insult.”
I remembered the prince speaking of the Dragon’s “usual line”—as though he had thought of it beforehand, as though he’d planned it almost. “To insult you?” I said.
“He supposes I take women to force them to whore for me,” the Dragon said. “Most of those courtiers do: they’d do as muchthemselves if they had the chance. So I imagine he thought of it as cuckolding me. He would have been delighted to spread it around the court, I’m sure. It’s the sort of thing the Magnati waste their time caring about.”
He spoke disdainfully, but he’d certainly been angry enough when he came storming into the room. “Why would he want to insult you?” I timidly asked. “Didn’t he come to—to ask you for some magic?”
“No, he came to enjoy the view of the Wood,” the Dragon said. “Of course he came for magic, and I sent him about his business, which is hacking at enemy knights and not meddling in things he scarcely understands.” He snorted. “He’s begun to believe his own troubadours: he wanted to try and get back the queen.”
“But the queen is dead,” I said, confused. That had been the start of the wars. Crown Prince Vasily of Rosya had come to visit Polnya on an embassy, nearly twenty years ago now. He’d fallen in love with Queen Hanna and they’d run away together, and when the king’s soldiers had drawn near on their trail they’d fled into the Wood.
That was the end of the story: no one went into the Wood and came out again, at least not whole and themselves. Sometimes they came out blind and screaming, sometimes they came out twisted and so misshapen they couldn’t be recognized; and worst of all sometimes they came out with their own faces but murder behind
Then he shook it off and pointed: turning, I found the prince pushing himself up onto his elbow, and blinking at us both: still dazed and unknowing, but even as I looked, the spark of recognition came back into his face, remembering me. I whispered,
“Kalikual.”
The power rushed out of me. Prince Marek sank back downagainst the pillows, eyes closing back into sleep. I staggered over to the wall and slid down it to the floor. The butcher knife was still there lying on the ground where it had fallen down. I picked it up and at last used it: to cut through the dress and the laces of my stays. My dress gaped open all along my side, but at least I could breathe.
I lay back against the wall with my eyes shut for a moment. Then I looked up at the Dragon, who had turned away in impatience from my fatigue: he was looking down at the prince with irritation. “Won’t his men ask for him in the morning?” I said.
“Did you imagine you were going to keep Prince Marek locked up fast asleep in my tower indefinitely?” the Dragon said over his shoulder.
“But then, when he wakes,” I said, then stopped and asked, “Could you—can you make him forget?”
“Oh, certainly,” the Dragon said. “He won’t at all notice anything peculiar if he wakes up with a splitting headache and an enormous gap in his memory to go with it.”
“What if—” I struggled back up to my feet, still clutching the knife, “—what if he remembered something else? Just going to bed in his own room—”
“Try not to be stupid,” the Dragon said. “You said you didn’t seduce him, so he came up here of his own intention. When was that intention formed? Merely tonight as he already lay in his bed? Or was he thinking of it along the road—a warm bed, welcoming arms—yes, I realize yours weren’t; you’ve provided sufficient evidence to the contrary,” he snapped, when I would have protested. “For all we know, he meant to do it even before he set out—a calculated sort of insult.”
I remembered the prince speaking of the Dragon’s “usual line”—as though he had thought of it beforehand, as though he’d planned it almost. “To insult you?” I said.
“He supposes I take women to force them to whore for me,” the Dragon said. “Most of those courtiers do: they’d do as muchthemselves if they had the chance. So I imagine he thought of it as cuckolding me. He would have been delighted to spread it around the court, I’m sure. It’s the sort of thing the Magnati waste their time caring about.”
He spoke disdainfully, but he’d certainly been angry enough when he came storming into the room. “Why would he want to insult you?” I timidly asked. “Didn’t he come to—to ask you for some magic?”
“No, he came to enjoy the view of the Wood,” the Dragon said. “Of course he came for magic, and I sent him about his business, which is hacking at enemy knights and not meddling in things he scarcely understands.” He snorted. “He’s begun to believe his own troubadours: he wanted to try and get back the queen.”
“But the queen is dead,” I said, confused. That had been the start of the wars. Crown Prince Vasily of Rosya had come to visit Polnya on an embassy, nearly twenty years ago now. He’d fallen in love with Queen Hanna and they’d run away together, and when the king’s soldiers had drawn near on their trail they’d fled into the Wood.
That was the end of the story: no one went into the Wood and came out again, at least not whole and themselves. Sometimes they came out blind and screaming, sometimes they came out twisted and so misshapen they couldn’t be recognized; and worst of all sometimes they came out with their own faces but murder behind
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