Fairest (15 page)

I'd had more luck in my adoption than I'd had in my birth. No king or queen could have been kinder than an innkeeper and his wife had been. They'd taken me in, an ugly baby and an added expense. Yet I hadn't been merely a charity. They'd loved me.

I put the letters in the top drawer of my bureau and dressed in yet another of Dame Ethele's horrors. This one had so much draped cloth in the sleeves that they would have been useful on a sailing ship. The headdress, too, was cursed with excess cloth, which culminated in flaps that fell on each side of my face like the long droopy ears of an Ayorthaian hare.

Ivi's gown was as different from mine as ornamental cabbage is from a rose. The cut was simplicity itself—a round neckline and a gently flaring skirt. Eighteen tiny silver buttons ran from neck to hem, and the cloth was deep purple silk embroidered in silver thread with tiny fleurs-de-lis.

As I buttoned the eighteen buttons, she said, “I fear the prince may not be speaking to me at dinner.” She stood. “He's vexed because I won't send anything south.”

There was a drought in southern Ayortha, and the peasants needed food and supplies desperately.

“Their lords can help them,” she added. “I will not deplete my husband's coffers just because of the weather.”

I thought even Ivi would sympathize with starving peasants, and I thought the king's coffers were meant to be used for droughts and floods and the like.

She looked around. “Where is my brooch?”

We couldn't find it, although we looked under everything and behind everything and rifled her drawers twice over. I didn't care if she found the brooch or not, but I had my eye out for vials that might hold potions.

No vials, and no brooch.

In the end she found it, an amethyst-and-jade pin, on the dressing table, in the shadow of the golden flute, next to Skulni. I pinned it on and returned to what was important. “The drought—”

“You are not my advisor.”

I was her lark.

“Aza, I am acting on good counsel.”

I decided she was corresponding with a friend in Kyrria, who knew nothing of us. Still, only an enemy of Ayortha would recommend ignoring a drought.

I opened the door and we stepped into the corridor. A guard fell in beside each of us as we began to walk. I'd never been so close to swordsmen before. They wore breastplates and helmets, and their swords clinked with each step. For a moment I thought they were going to escort me to prison.

“Why are the guards here?” I asked.

“A powerful queen should look powerful. She should seem mighty. And people may have heard my decision about the drought.”

No Ayorthaian ruler had ever before needed protection from her own subjects.

Before dinner was served, I illused her part in the Song of Ayortha. Tonight, as was often the case, Sir Uellu's eyes rested frequently on me. I ached to know what his sharp ears were detecting. I was particularly nervous during the choral portions. I couldn't sing at full strength for both of us. I gave most of my voice to Ivi, reserving just enough for myself to keep my neighbors from wondering.

When we finished, he said, “Your Majesty, the court has been waiting for your duet with Lady Aza. If you perform together at the coming Sing, you'll have two weeks to prepare. Give us the pleasure of hearing your voices mingle.”

I thought my heart was going to fly out of my mouth. I had explained to Ivi that I couldn't illuse a duet. She'd told me not to worry—she was queen and Sir Uellu was merely a subject. But he wasn't. She had no idea of his importance.

She wet her lips. “Perhaps we will.”

Dinner was brought in with unusual ceremony, each plate concealed under a domed silver cover. When all had been set down, serving maids and scullery maids and even Frying Pan herself stationed themselves between the diners. Frying Pan's bracelets jingled lightly.

Ivi clapped her hands. “A surprise!” She smiled around the table. “What do you think it might be?”

At a signal from Frying Pan, the covers were removed with a flourish. Everyone's plate was piled with glistening roast hare, barley, mushrooms, onion pie. Everyone's plate except Ivi's, Ijori's, and mine. We each had a mound of leavings—potato peel, picked-over bones, bread crusts, eggshells, fruit rinds.

I gasped.

Ivi shrieked.

Lady Arona laughed.

Ivi rose. Her chair fell over behind her.

What would Ivi do to Frying Pan and anyone else involved, and to Lady Arona for laughing?

Ijori laughed too, as if at a prank. He was so quick-witted! I joined in and made my laughter hearty. Lady Arona's laughter had been genuine. I could tell Ijori's was forced. A singer would know the difference, but Ivi might not.

The courtiers understood and laughed too. The servants began to laugh. As we made ourselves laugh, true mirth flowed in. Frying Pan had done something defiant and dangerous, and we were turning it into a jest to save her and Lady Arona.

Frying Pan looked startled. Then she laughed too, belly bellowed with laughter, her cheeks shaking, her bracelets chiming. Lady Arona sobered and then laughed again, her eyes on Ijori. She knew how clever he'd been.

Ivi finally laughed too, but her laughter was uncertain.

When the glee subsided, Ijori said to his server, “Enough merriment. Bring our dinner.”

A serving maid picked up Ivi's chair. She sat. Our plates were whisked away and proper ones brought back from the kitchen. A more relaxed dinner followed than any since the wedding. Conversation was easier. Songs were sung between courses, and five or six were sung after dessert. We were all giddy from relief.

As we ate, I considered each older courtier, seeking resemblances to myself. This one had a pale complexion. That one had fat cheeks. This one was oversize. None looked much like me, but any one was possible.

Were any hard-hearted enough to forsake a babe? I couldn't tell.

That night I couldn't sleep. Mother and Father thought I belonged in the castle, but—except for Ijori—I would a thousand times rather have been at the Featherbed. Here I was essential to the queen's misrule. I was an instrument of every step she took. I thought of running away, but her vengeance on Mother and Father would be swift, and she'd send her guards after me.

If only the king were well. If he were, I'd throw myself on his mercy. I didn't think he'd send me to prison.

Since I couldn't sleep, I would put my wakefulness to use. I'd had no daytime opportunity to return to the library, but I could go now.

I dressed hurriedly, lit a candle, and took a spare, plenty to last until dawn.

As I traversed the halls, my excitement mounted. If I found a potion recipe or a spell, my every moment would be transformed along with my appearance. Eating would be transformed, because I'd no longer picture my broad cheeks stuffed with food. Walking down a corridor would be transformed, because I'd no longer feel my lumbering gait. Dressing would be transformed, because every ensemble would become me.

After my metamorphosis, I'd tell Ijori what I'd done, and I'd face down everyone else. I'd faced people down over my ugliness all my life. It would be easy to face them down over my beauty.

Except Ivi. I didn't know what she'd do to me.

But I wouldn't be frightened out of taking this chance. She could hardly imprison me. I couldn't sing for her from a dungeon.

In the library the birds were asleep, except for a talkative whippoorwill. I went directly to the shelves that held the spells and pulled out a book called
Secret Spells for Secret Uses
. I sang, “A good title, but I don't know if it's overused.”

I made room for my candle on a shelf at eye level. The book had an entire chapter of beauty potions and spells! I turned to it and discovered why more than one spell or potion was needed—and why everyone in the castle wasn't beautiful. The first spell had to be chanted when three comets were in the sky at the same time. The second was written in a runic language I couldn't read. The first potion recipe required an ogre's bloody knuckle! The second called for the fur of a six-legged cat.

I remembered a book I'd seen before,
No Harm Done: Safe and Simple Spells
. That seemed the book for me.

I used up half the first candle to find it. When I finally had it, my trembling hands made turning the pages difficult. It had no potions, but the table of contents referred me to three beauty spells, on pages 138, 187, and 363. The first spell could be done, but it involved boiling a long list of ingredients. I didn't think Frying Pan would like me preparing a spell in her kitchen.

The spell on page 187 needed only to be sung. The words were in a language I didn't know, but the letters were Ayorthaian. I hoped it wouldn't matter if I botched the pronunciation here and there. The spell was merely a single stanza, repeated thrice.

The instructions were to start loud and finish soft. They promised the effect would be immediate.

I smoothed out my skirts and patted down my hair, as though making myself presentable to the spell. I wanted to remember the date, May the twenty-third. I was fifteen, but this would be my true beginning.

I sang, loud as I could.

I stopped reading. The words came as if I'd memorized them. I didn't sing softer deliberately. The spell was taking over.

My singing was reduced to a mutter. I could barely move my jaws.

I took a breath, although I almost couldn't make my chest expand. But I had to finish the spell.

Was I beautiful?

I couldn't move. I was frozen in place. The spell book was about to fall out of my hands, but I couldn't clasp it tighter.

I couldn't swallow. I didn't know if I was breathing or not. I couldn't feel air enter or leave my nose. My chest certainly didn't move, couldn't move.

The book fell. My right thumb broke off and fell with it. I felt a moment of pure pain and then nothing. I had been turned to stone.

I
COULD STILL HEAR
the whippoorwill. I could still see, but I couldn't move my eyes or blink. I was staring at a shelf of books.
Hocus-pocus and Other Rhyming Incantations
;
Enemy Spells: Revenge Made Easy
;
Love Potions for Reluctant Lovers
;
Hex
;
The Complete Book of Wart Removal
;
Mistress Omonero's Remedies for Everything
.

Oh, how I wanted the next book on the shelf—
Spell Begone! A Thousand Release Spells
.

But who knew what a release spell would really do? It could turn me into a deer or a toad. A breathing, hopping toad might be an improvement.

I wondered if I was a beautiful statue or an ugly one. If I was beautiful and bore no resemblance to myself, no one would know what had become of me.