The Last Changeling (18 page)

“They will not have done any such thing.”

Bonfires flared to life on both sides of the stage, and the light of the new flames illuminated a trio of giant metal spiders that had marched up behind the wagon in the darkness.

Snail saw small figures riding in each carapace. After a moment, she realized they were the dwarfs, though their faces were disguised by hoods.

Suddenly, there was a thundering of hooves, and a large cart drawn by two horses and driven by two more dwarfs forced the onlookers into two separate columns. The horses galloped into the middle of the crowd, but with such skill, no one was hurt.

Snail recognized Annar as he leapt from the driver's seat into the back of the cart, flipping three times like an acrobat. She looked again at the dwarfs riding on the spiders and realized that they were nothing more than made things, not real at all but puppets of sticks and cloth.

There was a tremendous noise, and she turned to see that Annar had already kicked the back of the cart open, and a huge store of metal objects spilled out onto the grass. Swords, pikes, armor, shields—enough gear to outfit a small army.

Which,
Snail thought as she looked around the crowded camp,
is what Odds has created.

As if echoing her thoughts, Odds said, “There is a third army. An army of Free Ones. You, my brothers and sisters, my friends! And once the two fey armies have fought, when their warriors are exhausted and their magicks spent, when their dead litter the field in the thousands . . .” His grin was wide and toothy now, his teeth reflecting red in the fire's light. “Then the army nobody has suspected exists shall fall upon them, and harvest them like autumn wheat. We shall slaughter every last one of them and they will taste our thousand-year vengeance!”

The crowd roared at this and surged forward, grabbing up arms and armor. Snail was about to join them when Odds spoke again.

“But we will not stop there! With the fey armies defeated, even the weak humans, the ones who were born into Faerie, the halflings, the quarterlings, will join us. We will have numbers, then, and we will invade the weakened kingdoms. We will kill the strong, enslave the weak. Their women and children will serve us. And there will never be war or slavery again!”

The crowd was roaring along with Odds now, but something had suddenly made Snail's stomach queasy. She needed to think quietly, to figure out what was wrong.

But there was no quiet here, no time for thinking. Only time for action, response.

Someone pressed a sword into her hand and she looked up to see the girl who'd first called her “physician” and welcomed her into camp. The girl's eyes were wide and gleaming, and Snail thought that if Odds asked her right now to go stab a family member, the girl would do it and thank him for the order.

That's when Snail remembered something Mistress Softhands had told her a long time ago: “Pain begets pain. Every pain you cause outside the birthing chamber will eventually find its way
into
the birthing chamber. You are a healer now, so cause as little pain as possible.”

Pain begets pain,
she thought.

“Excuse me!” she shouted. “I have to ask something.” It was hard to be heard over the excited crowd. But Snail knew that Odds had heard because he turned toward her, frowning. Then he looked away.

“Hey!” Snail shouted. “I want to ask something, professor!”

Odds studiously ignored her, but the girl who'd given her the sword shouted, “The physician wants to speak!”

Others joined her. “Physician! Let the physician speak.”

Their shouts quickly became a chant that the crowd took up. “Physician! Physician! Physician!”

Snail looked around and saw that many who were shouting for her to be heard had been her patients. There was the farmer whose leg she'd sewn up. There, the girl she'd taken an arrow out of. A broken nose she'd set, a shoulder put back in the socket, a long gash down the side bandaged.

These people,
she thought,
might respect Odds, might be ready to follow him into danger and death, but they'd not felt his healing hands on them in their darkest hours
.

The crowd finally stopped its chant and waited for Snail to speak. Even Odds waited, though his face was stormy.

“How will more war and slavery put an end to war and slavery?” she asked.

Odds smiled at that, as if at a small child, but it was not a nice smile.

And I'm not a child
, Snail thought.

“It ends for us when they can't force us for their ends,” Odds said, off his script and sounding like himself again. “We are not they, and fey are not we, though some are wee in stature, at least.
We
have restraint,
they
only restrain. We do not steal children!” He paused and pointed at her, drawing her into his argument, making her a part of his counterpoint. “We
heal
them. We only punish the punishers. Enslave only those who enslaved us.”

Snail saw many in the crowd were now nodding in agreement. She
almost
agreed herself. But still, there had to be another way. She tried again.

“Why can't we just go home? Why fight a battle we may not win? Or if we do win, will turn us into what we hate: murderers and slavers. We were taken here, as you rightly point out. Surely we are strong enough and free enough to take ourselves home?”

“Oh, my children,” Odds said, sounding like the father Snail had never known, “you know so little. Time moves differently in our two worlds. If we were to step through the gate, we would all crumble to dust before we ever set foot in our former home.”

There was a sudden and horrible hush in the crowd as they thought about what Odds had just said.

“You don't know that,” Snail cried out. As she said it, she saw in his eyes that he didn't. “You
think
that, but you don't know for sure. It's just one of many possibilities, isn't it?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but Snail shouted him down. “And what about the gate? And where is it? Shouldn't we find it and try to go home through it, instead of fighting and killing and dying just to become what we most despise?”

The crowd all turned to Odds for the answer, and Snail saw that this time his face held not a subtle storm but a towering rage. For a moment. Only a moment. Then the peaceful, paternal smile was back.

“Let me explain my Trans-World Gate Theory and why we cannot return. It's a simple thing, really, where F equals the rate of time flow and Y equals the amount of time spent in Faerie. There is a random factor as well, something to do with the amount of magic expended during the moment of entry. It is represented by X and can never be known with any certainty . . .”

He droned on, but Snail was never to know the full theory. For as soon as the crowd had all turned to hear the professor speak, a rag was suddenly shoved over her nose and mouth. It smelled of pine and honey and made her immediately and immensely tired.

The last thing she heard before passing out was Maggie Light's voice in her ear.

“Alas, dear child. I was made to do as I am told.”

ASPEN'S BEST-LAID PLANS

A
spen spent nearly the whole night thinking and plotting and going round in circles to try to discover a way to stop the battle that would surely come with the dawn.

Part of the reason he had hardly slept was that he was cold. Especially his ears.

Fey ears
, he thought,
always blue-up first. If I were a drow or a Red Cap or . . .
Even the cloak around his head had done little to keep his ears warm.

Finally, as the sun was just edging over the horizon, he sat hunched over, clutching his knees. Giving up on sleep, he gave thought to the war.

There is nothing I can do.

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

Unmanly,
he thought.
Ignoble
.
Here I am
,
young and alone and faced with the legendary stubbornness of my father on one side, the evil cunning of Old Jack Daw on the other side. If only I were smart like Professor Odds or old Jaunty.

He let go of his knees and sat straight up. The sun's rays struck him as hard as that last thought had.

Jaunty! He's a king's counselor. Not a high one, but certainly ranked high enough to travel with the court to the greatest battle Faerie had seen in a thousand years. That is, if he hasn't been executed for teaching me treason.

Aspen stood, stretching out his cramped legs.
I will sneak into camp and find him. Surely if I explain what has happened he will think of something.

It was not much of a plan, but having any plan at all filled him with a rapturous joy. He chomped two bits of waybread and wrapped himself again in his cloak. Figuring that no one would be watching for him magically while preparing for the coming battle, he cast a few minor spells of concealment.

The horns were already calling the troops to battle and the sound quickened his steps. Before the sun had fully breached the horizon, he was down the hill and sneaking up on the Unseelie camp.

Because he wore the cloak of a spy, he knew he would be fairly invisible in the woods. The small spells would complete his disguise. Still, he dreaded running into sentries. A wrong word, a misstep, and he could be unmasked. He was not well schooled in concealment.

His real hope lay in the fact that most Unseelie creatures were uncomfortable in the daylight, sun-blinded. Except for the Border Lords. But they—always eager for battle, crazy for it—would already be out on the field, making up the front lines.

Briefly, he wondered why King Obs was allowing the fight to take place in the day, and not riding out upon the Seelie forces in the middle of the night.

Possibly so he can force my father to attack with his smaller force.

He shook his head.
More probably so the Seelie folk can watch in complete horror as they are cut down.
Aspen had no doubt who the winner of today's battle was going to be.

He could see the camp banners, now dark and tattered, flying over grey tents. He found the king's tent first, bigger than the rest with a large black banner overhead that featured a red splotch for the blood of Obs's enemies. A crow emblem on a grey flag flew on the tent next door. That would be Old Jack Daw's flag. Aspen shuddered.

Old Jack Daw. Whom he'd once thought was his friend. His
only
friend.

Well, I have no friends now.

Other councilors' flags fluttered over slightly smaller tents, with the emblems of boars and beasts and bloody heads dancing in the light breeze.

Aspen searched for Jaunty's symbol, a quill pen dipped in blood, and finally saw it off on the edges, almost among the common soldiers' tents. Other councilors would have been insulted by such placement, but Aspen knew that Jaunty didn't concern himself with those things.

“As long as there is knowledge, monarchs will desire it,” Jaunty had told Aspen once. “And thus I will always have a place at court, no matter how humble. I advise you to learn your lessons well. For even a Hostage Prince can become an advisor.”

Good advice for then
, Aspen thought bitterly,
useless now
.

• • •

O
NCE
PAST
THE
sentries, Aspen had a clear path to Jaunty's tent. He guessed that most of the army was lined up on the plain and ready for battle, and what reserves had been left behind looked to be wholly concentrating on sharpening their weapons and making sure their armor had no blemishes.

Sudden cries from afar made him look around.
Skirmishers
, he thought
, restarting their hostilities
.
If I am to stop this war, I had better do it soon.

With more speed than secrecy, he made for Jaunty's tent, hoping that if his concealment spells faltered, he would look like a spy heading to report.

As he neared the soldiers' area, he saw that most of those held back in reserve were Red Caps.

That makes sense,
Aspen thought. Notoriously nearsighted, Red Caps would be fairly useless until dusk. But if the battle went long, an evening charge by the vicious little creatures could very well turn the tide.

Luckily, he reached the entrance to Jaunty's tent without incident. He had never known Jaunty to be on time for anything and hoped he was still running late.

If he is already with the rest of the councilors, I am finished.

Aspen listened at the tent flap for just a moment but heard nothing. Then he pushed the flap aside and went in.

The interior of the tent looked as if Jaunty had merely packed up his home chambers and moved everything he owned into the tent: his scarred old desk with the miniature pendulum on it, the crooked chair, the massive chest that housed his book collection and took an ogre's strength to open. As well as four of them to carry it the two times Jaunty had changed quarters to be nearer the king. A few of those books sat out on the desk:
Agarusk on Daylight Defense,
King Forund III's
Supplying the Horde,
and
Maneuvers
by the leader of the ancient Council of Koronog, whose name cannot be written as it is a very powerful rune that curses the viewer to a lifetime of hiccupping.

And there was Jaunty's warped old cot in the corner covered by a ratty woolen blanket with just a hint of white hair poking out from under it.

“Jaunty,” Aspen hissed. There was no movement of the blanket, so he said louder, “Jaunty!”

This time the blanket flew off, and his former tutor sat up. He had always been old—Aspen had never known how old—but now he finally looked it. His dark skin was wrinkled, his back crooked, his two front teeth—fangs really—yellowed. With a wide grin, he whispered, “Prince Aspen! I am overjoyed that the reports of your death had been exaggerated.”

The mere thought of someone being overjoyed to see him brought a tear to Aspen's eye. He lowered his tone to match Jaunty's whisper. “And I am happy to see you, too, Jaunty.”

“What?”

“I said, I am happy to see you, too, Jaunty.” Aspen spoke this time in a more normal tone.

“Quiet!” Jaunty hissed. “You are still a wanted prince, you know.”

Aspen sighed. “Yes, I know. That's why I came. I know who is behind this war.”

Jaunty sat up. Wiped a mottled claw through his thin hair. “Tell me.”

So Aspen did. He told him about Old Jack Daw's plan to trick him into running away, and thus start a war. He told him about Snail and her bravery. He told him about Odds and his players and the battle at Bogsborough.

Jaunty sat silent, listening intently. “And I am supposed to take this to Obs? Tell him his most trusted advisor has betrayed him and misled him into war?” He snorted. “A war he is winning.”

“Well . . .” Aspen hesitated.

Jaunty snorted again. “And quite enjoying, I might add.”

When he puts it that way, my coming here does not sound like a very good plan.
“I was hoping—”

“Hope,” Jaunty said, “has dismal feathers and rarely flies.” He looked at Aspen in that old familiar way. “Who wrote that?”

Aspen sighed. They had no time for this, but he said automatically, “The Border poet Malacom in his poem ‘Hope Is a Feathered Thing.'”

“And you hold what dismal feathered hope, lad? That I would risk my life for you? You do not live to be my age by sticking your neck out for rash young princes.” Jaunty stood. He had slept in his clothes and his armor, a strange combination of carapace and wood. He grabbed his walking stick. It was gnarled oak, twice his size. “But I will do it regardless.”

“That is . . . um . . . great.”

Jaunty smiled at him. If he meant it to be comforting, it missed by about six teeth's worth.

“You have truly never understood what being a scholar means, my dear boy.” He shambled toward the tent flaps. “It means finding the truth and speaking it, no matter the consequences.” He slid halfway through the flaps, then turned back. “Stay hidden, Prince Aspen Leaf. I shall return anon.” And then he was gone.

Jaunty had ever called Aspen that when he was particularly pleased with him as a student. Somehow Aspen found it comforting that Jaunty, at least, had not changed. But he was suddenly exhausted beyond reckoning. He sat down on the cot and tried to remember the last time he'd slept. The camp was quieting as the Red Caps had obviously finished their preparations and had begun waiting. He wondered how long before they were called forth for their part in the coming battle.

According to his brother, waiting was the most common soldier's weapon. He recalled how fidgety he had been before being collected as the Hostage Prince. Not quite seven years old. His brother had come into his room and said, “Think of yourself as a Seelie soldier.”

Aspen had whined, “I have no weapon. I am just waiting.”

And his brother had said offhandedly—and it was the last thing he had said to Aspen before the delegates taking him to the Unseelie Court had arrived—“Soldiers learn how to wait. It is their most effective weapon, and their most dangerous.”

So I wait
, Aspen thought.
What else
can
I do?
Besides,
if Jaunty reaches the king, perhaps there will be no battle at all.

Imagining
that
outcome, Aspen permitted himself a small smile. He thought about lying down and resting, but perhaps that was what his brother had meant about the danger.

If Jaunty settled things with Obs, he would once again be the Hostage Prince and could sleep in relative peace for the rest of his life, be it short or long.

It was the first time he actually realized that stopping the war would most likely come at the price of him returning to Obs's keep.

I am not ready to lose my freedom,
he thought, suddenly afraid, even desperate. For a moment he imagined leaving the tent, heading back into the forest, though it would mean remaining on the run. And it would compromise Jaunty's life as well. So, he quickly quashed that coward's thought.

I pledged to do whatever it takes to stop the war. I cannot go back on that pledge.

As soon as he thought the word war, it sounded as if one started right outside the tent. Scampering to the flaps, he pulled one aside the tiniest bit and peered out. A large contingent of wolf-riders flying the red-splotch banner of King Obs was rushing into camp and heading for the king's tent.

The king's personal guards! I wonder what they are doing here.

The Red Caps clambered around, blocking Aspen's view, but he thought he saw the guards carrying a body into the king's tent.

Moments later Jaunty shuffled into his own tent, looking even more stooped than when he'd left.

“Did you speak to the king?” Aspen asked. “What has happened?”

Jaunty shook his head. “An assassin's arrow. In the back. The skin around the wound was blue, reeked of cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon?” Aspen was confused. “And that means . . . ?”

“For Mab's sake, boy, did you not listen the days we discussed poisons? It was Witch Apple. There will be no recovery.”

“Poison!”
His head roiled with memories.
The dungeon master dead, the two assassins chasing him through the dungeons dead, the merman who tried to drag Snail out of the boat dead. All dead of poison
.

“King Obs dead?” he whispered.

That huge, overbearing presence that had ruled his life for the past six years gone? The king with the platter-sized right hand who swatted lesser fey dead as others would a fly?
So quickly. Without fanfare. Without hand-to-hand battle. Without the noble gesture.
He tried to believe it, failed, tried again.

Jaunty nodded.

“But . . . but . . . but . . .” Aspen sputtered. Suddenly he knew why he could barely speak. Obs had been his captor, but he had also been his only father for years. A father he largely hated and feared, but a father nonetheless. Aspen felt a hole open in his chest, and he wasn't sure how to fill it.