Part Seven

Ormand carefully guided his horse up the grassy hill, then paused and looked up at the moon.

It was a full moon, bright and large in the clear starry sky. Almost directly overhead; it was maybe a little before midnight.

Ormand turned and looked over his shoulder. The hill was not a high one, but the ground gradually sloped away behind him, revealing in the bright moonlight the tall grass he had ridden through, and beyond that the thick woods that ringed the meadow he was in. Far beyond that, shimmering in the distance, the seaside kingdom and the ocean. He knew if he squinted, he could just make out the bright golden lights of the summer castle.

He did not squint. He frowned, turned, and rode on.

He had not ridden so far inland in a long time, certainly not since the previous winter. The landscape looked different now, green and blue, the trees with their waxy leaves glimmering in the moonlight where the last time he had seen them they had been gray and stiff and dead. Somehow seeing them this way was more unsettling. Why, he was not sure, only he knew he did not like them. Before he could ponder this mystery further, however, he reached the edge of the meadow and spotted the dovecote.

The dovecote, he remembered, although not in its current state. It had not been used in years, not since the palace had decided to stop spending money on falcons and doves for sporting and had the place closed up. Once the dovecote and the land surrounding it had been meticulously groomed and kept up; now it was wild and abandoned, the grasses long and unkempt and the dovecote decayed and crumbling.

It's certainly not the grand place it was, Ormand thought bitterly as he slowly urged his horse forward. How well he remembered these meadows in their glory days! The royal treasury was full, the queen had just given birth to a second son, everyone in the palace was in a joyous mood and every summer morning it seemed the word came: we will go falconing today!

Ormand was head steward at the king's palace then; the summer palace had not yet been built. So he had the pleasant duty of attending to the arrangements of all the local nobles, riding out to announce the hunt and being rewarded for it with offers of sweet rolls and apple cider and, occasionally, a coin or two. He never turned down anything.

The king could ride then, and he very much enjoyed doing it and showing off. He was in the prime of his manhood, out of the callowness of youth but not yet near the fragility of sickness and old age. He would dress in his best hunting clothes, rich dark leathers and sturdy light wools dyed a green so deep it looked black. He was always in a jovial mood, and with his waving gray-brown hair sweeping back from his handsome face he would happily mount his festively appointed horse and call out for all of the kingdom to join him.

Almost everyone did. Queen Cecelia, the king's first wife, did not like riding and had at that point been rolling her eyes for years at the King's unabashed vanity. The Queen was not a fool and knew very well why her husband always arranged for a carriage for any nobleman's wife or daughter who wished to attend but did not wish to ride. Yes, she knew; it was no secret, and no scandal either, for the king was handsome and charming and powerful, and more than one nobleman actually encouraged such dalliances. And Ormand – who frequently had to tidy up the carriage afterwards – could not recall any of the wives protesting, either.

Yes, Ormand sighed to himself as he nudged his horse closer to the now-derelict structure glowering in the moonlight before him, those were certainly wonderful days. There was more than enough gold to pay off the results of the king's affairs, that was never a concern. Only the summer's day and the ride and the hunt, and once all the noblemen were standing in the meadow on their horses, their falcons setting on their arms hooded and ready, the king would shout in his hearty loud voice, and the bird keeper in the dovecote would ring a loud bell to scare the doves out through the holes; and the falconing would begin.

It was a messy, bloody, brutal sport. Of course the doves never had a chance, not against two dozen or so hungry falcons. The birds sprang from their masters' arms the moment their hoods were lifted off, and before long a large pile of dead and dying doves would be laying in the meadow, their torn bodies half-hidden by the morning mist rising from the grass.

There would be drinking, and games, and songs, and about midmorning the king would disappear, and no one would ask questions. The entire day would go that way, and only when the sun began to set would the pages begin gathering the dead birds into bags – they were no good for eating so they would be burned in a bonfire that evening – and the hunting party would make its way back to the palace. Everyone was happy, young, and content.

But it didn't last, Ormand thought gloomily as he halted his horse and gazed gloomily across the deserted meadow.

No, it didn't. The last falconing was a quarter-century ago. That autumn, the queen died. The king's health had begun deteriorating even then, and her death left him short-tempered and angry, for he had two young princes to raise and all the ladies of the household came from his wife's kingdom. They left the day after the queen's funeral, and it was no secret that they did not like the way he had treated his wife. The king cursed their names loudly and often, and began drinking.

It was terrifying, the uncertainty of those days. Ormand knew, as they all did, that a drunk king meant a kingdom ripe for invasion. He attempted to talk to the king but it was useless, for a crippling disease had taken hold of the king's body and mind and he only roamed the palace smashing things and raving about what loathsome bitches all women were. The crown prince, Maximilian, was six; Prince Robriand was barely two. And the kingdom was in desperate peril.

"I should have moved to take the throne then," Ormand muttered, to no one in particular. He shook his head at his own stupidity. The situation was perfect. If he had only planned ahead, gathered an army, secured some support from a few witches perhaps. The king was powerful but nobody liked him. The queen was dead, and the princes were mere babes, easy enough to dispatch. It would have been effortless.

But Ormand cursed his own shortsightedness, he had not been prepared. By the time he realized what could be achieved and began preparing word had already gone out that the king was seeking a marriage of alliance. And it was too late.

The word had not gone out from the king; he was in a stupor at that time and couldn't even say one word, let alone construct a sentence. No, it was Seyfolt, the palace physician, who unknown to Ormand had drafted several letters, put the palace seal on them and placed them in the hands of couriers with instructions to take them to every kingdom that could be an ally. Even a potential ally. There was not a moment to lose.

Oh, Ormand had been furious! He still remembered that night, when he found out, bellowing and cursing Seyfolt out as Seyfolt's young son and apprentice, Durwin, had looked on.

Furious! How dare Seyfolt go behind his back. He was the palace steward and by God -

"Steward of what?" Seyfolt had hollered, right back. He was not a small man and had a big set of lungs. "We haven't a king, in case you didn't notice. You don't know the state he's in, I do. We have to act now!"

"Without consulting me!" Ormand's face hurt with anger, he remembered that too. "What are you afraid of, that you did this without my knowledge? Answer me!"

"Look, we're both men here," Seyfolt replied, his voice quieter but no less firm; his words were made of solid rock. "Stewards are not unambitious, and I go into the woods to get my herbs and flowers. I know what you've been up to, and I'm going to make sure it doesn't work."

Ormand cursed that memory, cursed his younger self and his stupidity. He hadn't been careful. He had gone into the woods looking for warlocks and witches to help him, had asked around a few taverns and he hadn't been careful. Seyfolt had found out.

There was nothing to do at that moment but try to save his hide; denying it would only make him look foolish. So he had squared his shoulders and looked Seyfolt right in the eye.

"My ambitions are only for the kingdom," he had claimed, although of course that wasn't true. "There are powers there who could be great allies if we join them. Unlike you I am not afraid to seek them out."

But Seyfolt only shook his head. "I've known many good witches and warlocks in my time, but none of them live in the darkness of the woods. There is only evil there and you don't know what you're dealing with."

"There we disagree," Ormand had said, and tapped his silver-headed cane on the ground. "In any case, you cannot stop me. You're only the court physician, I can put you in the dungeon in a moment and have you completely gone in two."

At that moment young Durwin, who was twelve at the time, stepped out of the shadows and said, "Then I'll stop you!"

Ormand laughed at that remark. Durwin was small and thin, and his voice was high like a girl's. He shook his head and with a smile said, "Child, you hardly cut a threatening figure. Be certain to let me know when you strike me for I'm sure I won't feel it."

"Leave Durwin out of this," Seyfolt said, stepping between his son and Ormand and fixing him with an earnest look. "You're right, Ormand, I have no power to stop what you're doing but those letters have gone out and I beg you to save this kingdom by some means other than sorcery. I know what I'm talking about when I say you have no idea what's in those woods. There are creatures there who will feed on your arrogance and spit out your bones before you've even died."

"Really," Ormand said drily.

"Yes."

Ormand had let it drop then, because it was late and he was becoming increasingly aware that Durwin was watching him very closely. The child was nothing, but he did have large ears and who knew what remarks he would pass along to the king should that monarch ever regain consciousness?

So – kicking himself for his ill-preparedness – Ormand had retreated, attended to the duties of the kingdom and waited for word regarding which empty-headed ninny from which worthless surrounding kingdom would be putting herself forward as a suitable wife for the widowed king.

A week passed; two. Then three, and no word came. The palace council held meetings, worried, argued and discussed the threat of invasion. The leader of the palace forces at that time was a rather heavyset fellow named Bardo, and he tried to assure the council that his men were prepared and had been patrolling the kingdom to keep out trouble. But Bardo was not very good at leading, and everyone in the council had seen the palace horses grazing beside every brothel in the kingdom. No one was reassured.

A rotating bevy of noblewomen appeared to look after the two young princes, and Ormand was relieved that at least he didn't have to worry about such a ... female thing. The two boys cried for their mother and were swiftly and constantly coddled by their caretakers, which horribly spoiled them both.

In the moments when Ormand deigned to pay attention he noticed that one young nobleman's wife, Terese, delighted in taking care of the young princes and showered them with gifts and affection. She praised Prince Maxim's looks and skills constantly, and didn't seem to mind when little Robriand preferred racing up and down the servants' stairs naked to taking his bath. Ormand suspected she had been one of the king's mistresses once; and he certainly did not dissuade her from looking after the children. But she was a minor nobleman's wife, and of no use to the kingdom, so a marriage was out of the question.

Another month passed, and Ormand began contemplating making a move to take the throne. He had heard some of the guards and noblemen talking and pondered that perhaps, with the right promises, he could get enough support to march on the castle and kill the king. Everyone was anxious, the king was constantly drunk and calling for whores, the young princes were unguarded, and the peasants were growing desperate for leadership. And Ormand very much wanted to rule. More than that, he wanted to be noticed.

He began talking to a few of the more disgruntled guards and horsemen, had in fact gotten words of support from some of the tavern keepers, and was walking the gardens one morning pondering what to do next when a messenger arrived from a kingdom he'd never heard of, with a letter for the council. An offer of marriage.

The council met in their chamber at once, and the meeting was a raucous affair. The messenger, who introduced himself as Kendil, was an odd-looking young man with silver-blond hair down to his waist, skin that shimmered green-blue in the daylight and eyes that did not seem to have pupils. He had legs, but claimed to be from under the water somewhere. From under the sea.

"Under the sea? Where?" Ormand demanded. He knew of a sea to the east, but that shoreline was rocky and cold, no one lived there except some miserable soldiers forced to keep the solitary outpost built on the shoreline. The king – who detested both water and foreigners – refused to go near it.

"About forty leagues from your shores," the young man said in a weirdly musical voice that sounded like water bubbling up from a spring. "The name of our kingdom is difficult to translate into your tongue, but you may call it Symdalis."

"We don't have to call it anything," one of the councilmen snapped, rather too rudely but everyone in the kingdom was on edge in those days. "Why would our king want to marry a girl who can't even live above water?"

"All of our people can live above water, as you see," Kendil indicated the legs he obviously had, even though they were covered from the knees up by the silver tunic he wore. "It is a simple matter of adjusting our bodies to breathe your air. As for why your king would want to marry our princess, it's all contained in King Daenas' reply."

And so it was. Ormand and the council read the reply, a detailed account of several kingdoms across the sea that Ormand didn't even know existed, and the benefits of trading with those kingdoms facilitated by the sea-king's protection.

"That sounds like a threat," Ormand stated flatly, glaring at Kendil. "If we don't take your princess as the king's wife he'll sink our ships. Is that it?"

"No!" Kendil's expression suggested he was shocked at such an idea; but Ormand was still suspicious, thinking perhaps the Symdalin was just a very good liar. "Not at all. Our understanding of your world is limited, and our king is hoping an alliance will lead to an exchange of ideas, a way for your world and ours to help each other, and our allies could provide protection for your eastern gate. Perhaps if your king met with the princess I could introduce you to our allies as well..."

Ormand didn't like it. There was no question that an alliance would help the two kingdoms and make the king even richer than before. But a new wife meant probably at least one child, more obstacles between himself and the throne. But the rest of the council was desperate for some stability in the kingdom, and in the end Ormand could only go along with the rest of the council to meet with King Daenas and his daughter, and hope that she was too ugly for the king to want to marry.

"Well, of course that didn't happen..." Ormand grumbled to himself as he slowly led his horse through the moonlight toward the silent, ghostly dovecote.

Of course when they all reached that godforsaken windswept shore and the sea-king and his daughter rose out of the waves to meet them, the girl was beautiful.

Of course the sea-king was accompanied by huge sea serpents, their scales glistening silver in the sun, who were introduced as the allies who would protect the kingdom's ship from attack. All kings adored power, and those monsters looked very powerful.

Of course the king agreed to marry her, even decreed that a town be started and a castle built right on the spot.

And, of course they ended up having a brat who was just one more reminder that despite all his intelligence and breeding Ormand was going to die a lowly and forgotten steward, and he was never going to get what he wished for…

But that would not stop him from wishing for it. Not when reminders existed in the world that there was more than one road for the truly ambitious, more than one way to get what one desired. Ormand had not stopped thinking of that possibility all day, and now the reminder stood before him, dark and shrouded in nighttime mist but there, just out of his reach. Clinging to the ancient stones of the dovecote.

Ormand took a deep breath and looked about himself, suddenly conscious of the fact he'd been sitting in that field for what felt like an hour, just thinking. The moon was already past its crest, the time after midnight. Soon someone at the palace would wonder why he was out there so late alone, someone would ask questions. Best to see what answers he could find, and head back to that godforsaken castle.

Cautiously Ormand nudged his horse closer to the dovecote, puzzling over what he was looking at as the moonlight waxed and waned with the clouds. What had happened there? Even when the moon was bright and every detail was outlined, all he could see was a puzzle.

The roof of the dovecote was partially gone, half of it ripped and caved in, not from age or neglect as the tear was fresh and crisp-edged. There were no rotting pieces of wood jutting out, no cracked or broken roof tiles marking the edges of the hole. Ormand already knew what had happened there, the story was all over the palace: Prince Jasen had broken a hole in the ceiling to let the birds out.

But why? Ormand glanced over the outside of the structure, urged his horse forward. The story was there were birds in there and they wanted out, desperately, but the way was blocked by gigantic vines of thorns.

And there they were, climbing up the sides of the dovecote and towering over it by five or more feet. Huge, thick vines of thorns, the nettles so big and long Ormand could see them from twenty feet away. The dovecote was wrapped in them, consumed by them, in no natural configuration he had ever seen.

Thorns. Where there should not have been thorns growing at all.

They were magic, Ormand reasoned as he rode his horse closer. They had to be. Someone – a witch or warlock, probably – had made those thorns grow, very fast and very tall. And very sharp.

A very powerful being wanted very much for those birds to not escape. Why?

Ormand sighed at this question, and as he sighed he caught sight of the dovecote door, barely visible behind the thick forest of vines in front of it. The part of it that was visible was only so because a hole had been hacked into the vines. By the royal axmen, Ormand knew, because Prince Jasen and Rapunzel had been in there. In there, and trapped. Then freed because of a mysterious message delivered to the palace.

None of it made sense. Ormand didn't care where the prince bedded his dalliances, but what a confounded coincidence that the one place the prince might have been trapped and killed by an evil magic influence, he had been just as magically saved. In a perfect world he and his doxie would have been doomed, no one ventured by that dovecote anymore and there was no way out.

Yet they had been found. Somehow news that they were trapped reached the palace, but who even knew they were there except those blasted birds? Unless there was someone in the kingdom who could talk to birds…

Shaking his head at that absurd notion, Ormand steered his horse to the side of the dovecote and studied the thick, gnarled thorn vines that covered nearly every inch of the stones. The thorns spiked out in all directions, long and jagged and lethally sharp, like an explosion suspended in time.

Those nettles have to be six inches long, Ormand thought in admiration, and removing his glove very carefully reached out and touched his fingertip to the longest spike.

Instantly a bright stab of pain shot up his arm and Ormand drew his hand back, marveling at the drop of blood now blooming on the end of his finger. He lifted his eyes to the thorns again, let his gaze travel up the sides to the top, impossibly tall and lethal.

Magic had created that. Strong, powerful, malevolent magic.

And he wanted it.

"Excuse me – are you lost?"

Ormand turned in his saddle, his gloved hand immediately flying to the hilt of his sword at the voice coming from behind him.

Then he relaxed. Standing in the meadow about ten feet away was a hooded figure holding a lantern and carrying a large basket. The figure had long dark hair and was wearing a rustic-looking patched skirt. A woman.

"No," Ormand answered, seeing no need to be polite. He turned his horse around and prepared to ride past the woman before she recognized him as being from the palace.

He spurred his horse forward, in fact was halfway past the woman when she said, "Quite a work of art those thorns, eh? Now there's power."

Something in the way she said those words made Ormand rein his horse in and glance back. The hood of the woman's cape had fallen back from her face somewhat and revealed a wide face, large dark eyes, and graying brown hair braided away from her high cheekbones. She had lowered her lantern and was looking at Ormand very intently.

Still, he had no idea who she was and decided it was best to end the conversation and go home. He shrugged. "They're thorns. What are you doing on royal grounds in the middle of the night?"

The woman tilted her head. "The same as you, looking for things I need." she held up the basket, and Ormand saw that it was heaped with what looked like plain weeds and wildflowers.

"Those don't belong to you," Ormand threatened, angry at how unsettled this woman made him feel. "I could have you arrested for thievery for even picking them."

"Oh, please," the woman answered in a bored way, rolling her eyes. "I've been doing it for years, before an inch of this was even royal land. Arrest me and you'll be laughed at by the whole kingdom. But then, you're probably used to that. Being laughed at, I mean."

Ormand straightened in his saddle. "What do you mean by that remark?"

"Nothing," the woman waved her hand and walked past Ormand into the darkness. "You may go."

"Now see here!" Ormand seethed, turning his horse once again and following the woman – or rather her lantern – at a brisk walk. "Do you know who I am? I should have you imprisoned for your insolence!"

The woman shrugged again, as if Ormand wasn't the fourth-most powerful man in the kingdom.

"Imprisoning an old woman won't get you anything" she suggested idly, "but if you escort me to my cottage I may be able to help you get everything you want. Maybe even more."

Ormand frowned and studied the woods now ahead of them. Dark woods with tangled branches and thick black shadows.

He scowled, "Madam, if you have some of your ruffian friends hiding in there to waylay me, I can promise you you'll be sorry for the attempt. I am - "

"You," the woman halted and turned suddenly, looking at Ormand with eyes that glittered with knowing and contempt. "are the steward Ormand from the king's palace. And I am not trying to waylay you. I want to help you gain the throne."

Ormand stared at the woman open-mouthed. "I'm not – how dare you - "

The woman's smile was infuriating as she looked him up and down.

"You don't remember coming to my door twenty-five years ago looking for a witch powerful enough to help you kill the king," she purred. "But I remember you. You're older and fatter, of course, but...oh yes. I remember you. I never forget an ambition."

Ormand's blood froze. Panicking, he glanced around, suddenly worried about ears that could be hiding in those dark woods. Then he leaned forward in the saddle and whispered, "Damn your eyes, woman! How much to buy your silence?"

The woman smiled wider. "My price? An escort home and conversation. I have a feeling it's a price you're going to be very willing to pay."

Ormand straightened in the saddle, very slowly. He stared at this woman as hard as he could, her form wavering dark and light in the moonlight as it sifted through the clouds high overhead. He tried to remember her, couldn't. Those days were long behind him and mostly forgotten, his dreams so unattainable he had nearly stopped looking at them. They were locked away but still festered until he was mad with the pain, but knew what he wanted he could never have. Never…

He glanced over his shoulder. The dovecote stood pale in the moonlight, gripped in a gruesome wreath of jagged thorns, their black vines twisting toward the sky like a silent scream.

If those vines tightened, the dovecote would break, he thought, and did not know where that thought came from. If the vines tightened, the prince would die.

"His mistress, too," the woman said.

Ormand's head whipped around and he stared at her. Not frightened; intrigued. "Did you make those thorns?"

The woman smiled. "Walk with me," she said, and turned away.

Ormand followed, part of him wary and not entirely trusting of this strange woman who gathered herbs in the moonlight of the woods.

But another part – the louder, stronger part – urged him to clear his throat and ask, "So, who is having the honor of being escorted home by the king's steward? And why after all these years are you still living so far out here in the woods?"

"My name is Morrine," the woman said quietly over her shoulder, "And I enjoy the solitude of the woods. My daughter lived in the village, next door to a baker and his wife. They were horrible people."

"Is that so?" Ormand replied, already becoming bored. "Why?"

"They were thieves," Morrine replied, and there was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice. "And murderers. Because of them my daughter died, and one day the whole kingdom will pay for that."

Ormand frowned. "Oh? How?"

"With your help," Morrine answered sweetly. "Now, walk with me."