The Fairy Godmother (21 page)

If she was not specific in
how
she wanted something done, it also tended to happen much more efficiently and faster than if she had been. The Tradition would bring whatever help she requested that was nearest and best suited to the task, and in the process of doing so, laid down a trace to follow at some other time, in some other place. She was, in effect, using The Tradition itself to build new paths. The more paths The Tradition had to choose from, the easier it would be to keep it to one she and other good magicians preferred.

So she released another thread of power, and sent it
seeking
, saying only, “I need some help in getting the pair of us to my home quickly, please,” to the twilight air.

She saw the little wisp of glowing light waver uncertainly, like a thin stream of smoke from a pipe, for a moment. Then, suddenly, it compacted itself into a tight ball, and shot off into the east at tremendous speed.

So! That suggested that there would be an answer to her request very soon—

There was; so soon that she barely had time to finish that thought before she heard something large,
very
large, crashing and crunching its way through the forest towards them. It wasn't just twigs that were snapping out there, it was large branches.

And she had no idea what could be
that
big.

But she didn't go anywhere beyond the walls of her cottage without at least one talisman that would react to the presence of
anything
evil—really wicked, not merely “bad” as Octavian and Alexander had been—and whatever was coming was not making her talismans the least uneasy. So she waited with anticipation, but no trepidation, to see what her magic had called to her side.

Now, Phaelin's Wood was a very old forest, and the trees were enormous, much taller than the tallest building that Elena had ever seen, and since becoming an Apprentice she had seen quite a bit. So she wasn't at all surprised that she couldn't actually see what was coming. What
did
surprise her was that when it stepped into the clearing, it—he—certainly stood
as
tall as, say, the average Town Hall.

He was a giant, the first one that Elena had ever set eyes on.

I didn't know there were any giants in this Kingdom!

A very civilized giant he was, and clearly visible in the twilight, nicely clothed in a patchwork leather jerkin which had probably taken the hides of six or eight cattle to make, a canvas shirt which had probably been sewn from ships' sails, a good pair of woolen breeches likely made from blankets, and in place of boots—which obviously would have been very difficult to have made for one so large—heavy felt shoes with wooden soles. He was bearded, but his beard was neatly trimmed, and though his hair was a little wild, it did look as if he made an effort to keep it tended.

He looked around the clearing for a moment, and she helped him out by stepping out where he could see her. His gaze fell on her, and his face lit up with a smile.

“Ah, our Godmother! I wondered why I'd felt a summoning!” he said in a voice like a flood of warm, dark velvet. She smiled with delight in return; you couldn't
not
like someone who sounded like that. “How can I serve you, Godmother?”

“An exchange of services is in order, I think,” she replied. “I've changed a fool into an ass, and I don't think he's going to cooperate in coming home with me, so I need a bit of help in bringing him along.”

The giant laced his fingers together and pushed his hands outwards, cracking the joints, with a laugh. “Well, I'm your man for that! And if it's an exchange you're offering—well, I could use a new ram.”

For some reason completely unfathomable to Elena—or any of the chroniclers of The Tradition that she had ever
read—sheepherding was a Traditional occupation for giants, along with woodcutting. And as it happened, although this was not normally the case, Elena
had
a ram penned up in the old donkey paddock, given her by one of the women she'd made haying charms for. It was completely useless to her, and she'd been searching for something she could barter it for.

This was not unlikely coincidence; this was how, given free rein and the nudge of a little magical power, The Tradition worked for a Godmother who knew how to manipulate it. She needed a way to get Alexander home, he needed a ram, she had a ram, and a touch of magic and The Tradition put them together. It could have been a farmer passing through with an animal cart; it could have been one of the Fair Folk who could whisk them home in a breath. Anything would serve so long as she had something that the other wanted. This time, it was a giant who was nearest and fit the bill.

“Done!” she said, and to the giant's delight, spit in her hand to seal the bargain in the country way.

“They told me the Godmother who'd Apprenticed for our Bella was a right lass,” he said, with that broad grin spreading across his face again. “And so you are, Godmother Elena. I'm Titch. Howler Titchfen, in full, but mostly they call me Titch.”

“And I'm pleased to meet you, Titch,” she replied, almost giggling at the notion that anyone with so mellow a voice as this giant's would be called “Howler.” “How do you propose to help me?”

“Let's see your wee donkey,” he replied, and she led him in the gathering gloom to where Alexander was tied up.

The ass was petrified with fear. All four legs were rigid, and his eyes practically bulged out of his head. His ears were flat down against his back, and he shook so hard it was almost comical.

Evidently Alexander had never seen a giant before, either.

“I don't think this one's likely to give me much trouble, Godmother,” Titch said, with a chuckle like thunder in the distance. “I reckon the easiest is to carry the two of you—him 'neath my arm, and you on my shoulder.”

And so it was; Titch knelt down and offered her his hand to step up onto; from there she got into a comfortable sitting position on his shoulder and took a good hold of his hair. He seized the trembling ass with both hands and tucked Alexander under his arm, and away they went, back down the path to her cottage. Each one of Titch's strides covered a good thirty feet, so Elena reckoned that was probably how tall he was, since a man can usually stride the length of his own height when he's in a hurry. It was a very good thing that she no longer had any difficulties with heights, though.

The giant's hair was like strands of yarn, so it was easy to hold onto, and his broad shoulder made a surprisingly comfortable seat. He kept up a lively conversation with her as they walked, modulating his voice so as not to deafen her. She suspected that he must spend a reasonable amount of time around humans to be that sensitive about their needs, and a moment later, he confirmed that.

“And the wife says to me, ‘Titch,' she says, ‘Your old mam's getting creaky in her bones, and I'm not so young anymore. Can you find me a couple of human lasses and lads to help with the cleaning? They can get where I can't.' And
Godmother Bella, she set us up with some lively folk that don't mind living off in the beyond. Said they was tenant farmers turned out by the lord for havin' sauce. ‘Sauce away,' says I, ‘I like a man who'll tell me what he thinks to me face!' and we get on as right as rain.”

She hoped that Alexander was listening to this. It was the sort of thing he needed to hear. For here was a giant, a monster, giving help to humans who'd been dismissed, not because they hadn't done their work and done it well, but for speaking their minds. And furthermore, this same giant
approved
of men speaking their minds.

Then again, at this point, he had probably passed out from fear.

Before they were home, Elena learned all about Titch, his half-deaf old mother, his wife of thirty years, the four humans who helped them tend house and the herds and the sheep themselves.

Now, sheep don't live in forests, they live in grasslands, and Elena finally asked Titch what had brought him down into Phaelin's Wood.

“Oh,” he replied, “That's no secret. Got a bargain with the Elves; when there's a storm I clear deadfall and leave it in four special places. Humans around about know where I leave it, and they go there for their firewood and stay out of the deep woods. So no trees get cut, and there's no one trampin' around where they shouldn't be. And I get deer when I get tired of mutton. When I felt that tuggin', I thought 'twas maybe one of the Elves that wanted something.”

By this time, the lights of the cottage were gleaming
warmly through the trees, and Elena felt her stomach whisper a complaint that it had been too long since breakfast. And that made her offer—though not without trepidation, since she wasn't sure they had enough food to feed a giant—“Look, we're here! Would you care to stay for supper?”

Titch laughed. “Ah, no, thankee, Godmother. I'll be taking my ram and be on my way. The wee wife'll be in a taking if I spoil her meal by coming home late!”

And it appeared that Titch was no stranger to the cottage, for once he'd set Elena down at her door and the House-Elves came out to see who was there, there was a round of friendly greetings and banter before Alexander was put down in the stable with strong charms about him to keep him from running away. Then Titch collected his ram, tucked it under his arm, and was off, striding away under the stars.

“So,” Lily said, hands on hips, looking at the ass, who was still shaking. The lantern in the stable shone down on him, and she had to admit that he made a very good ass; strong, well-muscled. “What's the tale behind this one?”

Elena told her, and Lily raised her eyebrows. “Well,” she said judiciously, “I hope you know what you're getting into.”

I don't, actually,
she thought, but she wasn't going to admit that. “It's within The Tradition,” she pointed out. “Oh, I know, it's a little grey to haul him home with me and make him work for a while, but I could hardly have left him out in the forest. He'd probably have gotten eaten by something. And it's not as if I've put some impossible conditions for him to meet on his state.”

“Hmm,” Lily replied, as they walked back towards the house. “That wasn't what I was thinking. I'm more thinking what's going to happen when you give him his days as a man. You'll have to do that, you know.”

She nodded; she'd given thought to that herself. Only the most powerful of Sorcerers and Sorceresses—good
or
evil—could do a transformation on someone without the risk that the person transformed would lose himself in the creature. For anyone else, there was the need to allow the person time as himself, in human form, on a regular basis. “I'll have him hedged around, believe me,” she replied as they stepped into the warm, fragrant kitchen. “He won't be able to even think about violence, or about running off—”

“That wasn't what I meant—ah, never mind,” Lily replied, somewhat to Elena's puzzlement. “We'll see what happens the first time he gets his day as a man.”

“And in the meanwhile, we have an ass again,” Robin said with
great
satisfaction. “Poor Dobbin was so old I was afraid to work him as much as we needed. I have plans for a great gathering of firewood tomorrow.”

And Elena hid her smile behind a spoonful of soup. Tonight, the Prince of the Blood would be eating dry hay and drinking water. His only companions would be three cows. And in the morning, he would find himself roused at dawn and working harder than he ever had in his life until sunset.

She could hardly wait.

A
lexander woke slowly to the sound of roosters crowing. He'd always come awake slowly, for as long as he could remember, no matter how much racket anyone made. In his days at the military academy he might have gotten into trouble over that, if he hadn't been the Prince.

As it was, some—adjustments—were made to the usual procedures for cadets. Not to allow him to lie abed longer, good God, no—King Henrick would never have countenanced that. No, another arrangement was made. While the officers did
not
allow him to lie abed at reveille until he was actually awake, they
did
allow his batman to come in and begin the waking process for him alone, specially, a half hour early. He had a batman, of course, though the other
cadets did not. And he had his own room, though the other cadets shared a dormitory. He was a Prince of the Blood, after all. While he was expected to abide by discipline and study as hard as the rest, he could scarcely be expected to shine his own boots or make his own bed. It was thanks to the batman that by the time the bugle sounded, he was awake and ready to fall out with the rest of the class.

As thoughts began to form with glacial slowness, he gradually realized that something wasn't right. He didn't feel right, and there was something different about his surroundings. He was lying all wrong, and he wasn't in a bed.

A new thought oozed to the surface; of course, he wasn't in his bed at home, he was on his way to win Stancia's daughter. He couldn't be in an inn, though, or he would be in a bed.

No, of course he wasn't in an inn. He'd been wandering around for days in the wilderness. He should have been in the forest, but there weren't any roosters in the forest. So something was still wrong.

He managed to move a little, and a foreign aroma—not unpleasant, but foreign—came to his nose, along with the crackle of something underneath him. From the scent, he seemed to be lying in straw.

He managed to move again, although he could not get his eyes open. His foot hit a wooden wall. He was lying against another. He got one eye open, got a hazy impression through sleep-fog and predawn light, of a narrow space hemmed in by crude wooden walls.

He was in a stable, in a stall. He was lying in a very odd
position; he should have felt cramped, but he wasn't. He looked down at himself.

He had four legs. Four stubby, hairy legs, ending in hooves.

He had in his life, on a very few memorable occasions, come awake in a single moment. This was not the first time such a thing had happened, but it was certainly the worst.

He
remembered
everything, all in a rush. That horrible woman. The curse. Julian. The giant.

The memory sent a cold shock through him, jolting him into movement fueled by anger. All four hooves scrambling, he heaved himself up, braying at the top of his lungs, full of rage and despair.

And knocked himself senseless on the manger he'd somehow wedged himself underneath in the night.

The second time he awoke that morning, it was with a head that pounded as if five men were playing bass drums inside it, and a pain behind his eyes that stabbed all the way through his brain with every beat of his heart. And this time, he couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing there; he gazed around at what was clearly a stall in a stable without any idea of how he had gotten there. Before he could get his thoughts clear, he realized that there was someone standing over him.

“All right with you, lad,” said the voice above him. “Time for you to go to work.”

Work? But—

Then it hit him all over again. For a second time the memories came back to him in a rush, but this time he was feeling too sick and his head hurt too much to sustain the rage.
He lifted his head from the straw and looked blearily at his captor.

It took him a moment to realize that it wasn't a human, although it was a male.

The—man?—couldn't have been taller than three feet, but he was as weather-beaten and wizened as an old man. He had overlarge ears that came to hairy points, and wore clothing that Alexander associated with common laborers or peasants; homespun shirt, leather breeks, canvas tunic. His clothing looked new and clean, though, and the creature had a bridle in his hands.

A bridle?
He wouldn't! The man wouldn't dare!

Alexander opened his mouth. He was
going
to say, “I am a Prince of Kohlstania, and I demand to be restored!” except that what he started to say came out in a bray, and anyway, as soon as he opened his mouth, the creature jammed a bit into it. And the next thing he knew, his head had been trussed up in the bridle, and the creature had the reins firmly in his hand.

“
Up
with you!” the creature said, and he must have been immensely strong, because somehow he hauled Alexander to his feet by main force. The Prince swayed there a moment, torn between rage and fear. He'd always thought of himself as a brave man, but this time it was the fear that won, and he tried to bolt, only to find himself brought up short by the reins that were now tied to the manger. He reared and fought the bridle, kicking not at the man, but wildly, at random, trying desperately to break free.

“Hold
still
ye daft bugger!” said the little man, who then brought his fist down on Alexander's nose.

Hitting the manger with the top of his head had been bad. This was infinitely worse. Alexander went nearly cross-eyed with the pain. His knees buckled, and he almost fell. Darkness speckled with little dancing sparks covered his vision, and when he could see again, there was a harness on his back as well as the bridle on his head.

The little man came around to the front of him and seized both sides of the bridle, pulling Alexander's head level with his. “Now you
listen
to me, my fine young Prince,” said the man, staring into Alexander's eyes with an expression that was perfectly readable. Alexander had seen that expression on his father's face many a time; it meant,
cross me and you'll pay for it.
“We know who you are, and we know how you come to be
what
you are, and we don't give a toss. You're not in Kohlstania now. You're in Godmother Elena's house, and what
she
says is law. You stepped over the line, my buck, and you'll take what's coming to ye like a man, or ye'll be treated like the brat she says ye are. You understand me?”

He was seething with every passionate emotion in the book, and they all tangled up with one another and got in each other's way.
Run!
said fear, and
fight!
said anger, and
lie down and die
said despair. He was trapped, trapped in the web of a Witch and even if he could
get
free, where could he go? He didn't know how to get home again, he didn't know where he was, and even if he did, how could he
tell
anyone what he was?

“There's no use you trying to run,” the little man went on remorselessly. “Any peasant that sees you running loose is going to grab you to work his land and bear his burdens. Half of them can't read nor write, so it's no use thinking you
can scratch out what you are in the dirt. And anyway, the ones that
are
literate around here are all beholden to Godmother Elena and before you can say ‘knife' they'll bring you right back here. So. Until you mend your ways,
I'm
your master. You do what I say, and do it honestly, and we'll get along all right. You try to cross me up or give less than your best, and you'll find out that I'm no bad hand at fitting the punishment to the crime myself.”

He
believed
the little man. He believed every word. They had that ring of truth about them that he used to hear in his instructors' voices at the military academy. Despair won out over every other emotion, and his knees went weak.
Oh, God, help me!
he prayed.
Deliver me from the hands of my enemies!
He wanted to weep, and he was denied even that, for he was trapped in the body of an ass and animals could not cry. And God did not seem to be answering him today.

“I see we understand one another,” the little man said, with immense satisfaction. Then he looked up, and when Alexander in turn raised
his
head to see what the man was looking at, he found himself gazing into the knowing eyes of that terrible woman….

“No beating him, Hob,” said the woman.

The man frowned. “But, Godmother—”

“I'm not saying not to give him a sharp stripe or two if you have to get his attention, but no
beating
. If you beat him, all he'll learn is the old lesson he already knows, that the strong have the right to enslave the weak. If he's
ever
going to warrant getting his old shape back, he has to learn better than that.” The way she was talking about him as if he wasn't there or couldn't understand her made him mad all
over again. But the little man was still holding his bridle, and the memory of that blow to his nose was a powerful incentive to him to stand quietly.

“Now, my lad,” said the little man, “it's time for you to earn your keep and get to work.”

Well, maybe he wasn't going to fight where he couldn't win, but he would be
damned
if he was going to be this woman's slave!

He set all four hooves and refused to move, staring at her and her minion defiantly.

“Ah. So that's how it's going to be,” said the woman, when all of the man's hauling could not make him move an inch. “Good enough, then. Hob, tie him up and make sure there isn't a scrap of hay or a grain of corn about. But do put fresh water within reach; I want to teach him a lesson, not kill him or drive him mad.” She put both her hands on her hips and matched his defiant glare. “If you won't work, you don't eat.”

He snorted angrily at her.

“Very well, have it your own way,” she replied. The little man tied his reins short, and left a bucket of water hung within reach. Then he, too, left, and Alexander was alone in the stable.

It didn't take long for him to get bored; there wasn't much to look at. The high walls of the stall cut off his view of anything outside, so he was left with the rough wooden walls, the old bucket on a peg, the manger, and the straw-strewn dirt floor to stare at. The view palled pretty quickly.

He closed his eyes, and listened. Roosters crowed occasionally or
a
rooster did; he didn't know enough about
chickens to tell if there was more than one. Hens clucked, and beyond that, he could hear several sorts of birdsong and jackdaws calling. And someone humming, someone female. He couldn't imagine a Witch humming under her breath, so it must be yet another servant.

His stomach growled. It had been a long time since yesterday's lunch. He buried his nose in the water bucket, and then snorted and choked as the water went up his nose.

It took several tries before he figured out how to drink as a donkey.

The water eased his hunger temporarily, but what began to creep in on him was another sense, so much sharper that it might have been an entirely new one. He could
smell
everything!

The straw under his feet, for instance, strong and strangely appetizing. The damp earth under the straw. Green growing things, a smell which began to tease him mercilessly with need. Baking bread, which drove him
mad
with wanting it. The scent of roasting meat which, oddly, was faintly nauseating. A whiff of honey, which made his mouth water.

He'd never actually missed a meal in his life before this. He was behind by two, now.

Could you eat straw, if you were a donkey? He strained at the rope and reins holding his head to the manger, but they were tight, and so were the knots. The straw was just out of reach.

Damn them!

Could he bite through the bonds holding him?

He gave it a try, but the leather was tough and wouldn't
yield to his teeth. And the additional lead-rope was thick; even if he could get through the reins, he didn't think he could chew through the rope.

He almost gave up, but the thought of the Witch's smirk galvanized him. He started in on the rope. At least it was something to chew.

 

Elena heard Randolf laugh, and looked up from her writing. “What's so funny?” she asked.

“He's chewing on the ever-renewing rope,” Randolf replied, with unconcealed glee. “Oh, I know it's not
that
funny, but I can't wait for the moment when he figures out that however many strands he breaks, they always get replaced.”

Sometimes Randolf shows his origins a little too clearly to be comfortable,
she thought.
And the personality traits he picked up from his previous owners.
It was like the wicked Sorceress to whom he had belonged to take delight in the pain of others.

She kept her tone light, however; there was no point in rebuking Randolf, as he wouldn't understand why he was being chided. “I think it will be more interesting to see how many meals he misses before he gives in,” she replied.

“You ought to let me give him a good hiding,” Hob said from the door. She turned her head to see him standing there with his arms full of clean linens. She wondered how long he had been there.

“I'm not going to kill him with kindness; he's already had much too much spoiling in his life, and I've no desire to reinforce that. But I told you before, and I will repeat it, there
will be no beatings,” she said adamantly. “It will just make him feel martyred and justified. Think, Hob—if you beat him, he'll be
certain
that he is in the right. Can't you see that? No, we have to do this the hard way. Nothing to make him feel that we are worse than he is.
Everything
to make him see that our way is the better way.”