The Sleeping Beauty (22 page)

Rosa nodded. “Witches would be good at setting them and taking them off, too?” she hazarded.

Lily gave her an approving glance. “Better at setting than taking them off, but yes. It’s The Tradition, again. Wizards and sorcerers of all sorts are very poor at it, followed by sorceresses. Those with
the most success are witches, and if you
really
want to make things skewed in your favor, it’s best to make the witch look as ancient, gnarled and warty as possible.”

“That’s rather hard on pretty witches.” Rosa giggled.

“I must admit, I’m glad that particular part of The Tradition doesn’t apply to Godmothers.” Lily smoothed the hair back from the side of her ageless face with an unconscious gesture. “When I get these things away from people, I can store them in a place that’s shielded, where they can’t hurt anyone. Sometimes they’re useful to have around in case I need to teach someone a lesson, but mostly they gather dust in safe bins in the cellar of my Castle, because I either don’t know or can’t tell what it was they did. I have not only the ones that I collected down there, I have the ones that my predecessors gathered, and not all of them left careful notes.” She walked over to join Rosa at the window. “Frankly, I wasn’t going to give the Princes a choice, but I did have a modicum of pity for the adventurers. I told them what they were going to get, and that they could decline and leave. We lost a goodly swath of them, as you might imagine.”

It was easy to tell some of the curses from up here. There was one poor fellow that seemed to be cursed with clumsiness; he couldn’t pick up a glass without spilling it or an object without dropping it. People were giving him a wide berth. “What if a Prince just can’t get Sharpstone to take his wretched object?” Rosa asked after a while.

“In a week or so I’ll offer the ones who are still left the option to take their chances with Sharpstone or admit defeat and allow me—the Godmother version of me—to take their object and curse away and forfeit the trials.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not entirely unfair or without pity.”

They both watched the Princes below. Lily had not been trying to bluff them into hurrying their plans when she’d told them that time
was fleeting. Besides the Curse of Clumsiness, several curses were already manifesting…

Boils, mostly; it seemed to be a very common curse. There were faces dotted in soothing salve, and necks and hands covered in bandages. Rosa felt very, very sorry for the poor fellows, because not only were none of these curses going to go away, until they finally decided to dare the dragon, it was only going to get worse.

Leopold and Siegfried stared glumly at one another. By nightfall, their curses had manifested. Siegfried’s was the most…obvious. “Well,” said Siegfried. “I can say this much. It’s unique. And it’s not as painful as boils.”

Two toads and a frog fell from his lips.

That is, they
appeared
to fall from his lips; they actually manifested two inches away from his mouth and fell. He caught them expertly—he’d had a lot of practice by now—and tossed them in a bucket.

Anytime he spoke, frogs and toads fell from his mouth. Real, live frogs and toads. He had no idea where they were coming from.

It didn’t happen when he ate, breathed or yawned, only when he spoke, and the curse didn’t seem to care if he shouted or whispered. The moment a word passed his lips, he got an amphibian. Sometimes more than one. He
really
did not want to approach the Princess with this happening. He didn’t think she was the kind to squeal at a frog, but it wasn’t pleasant to try to talk to someone and have slimy things raining down on your shoes.

“I’ll trade you,” Leopold replied glumly. His curse apparently had been bad luck—but only at gambling. This had him in deep despair, for gambling was not a trivial pursuit for him. “I don’t have a father feeding me great stacks of money, Siegfried! I make my living gambling! Technically
this,
going after the Princess, is a gamble! If I don’t get this thing off me, I won’t have a chance of winning her!”
Obsessively he threw a pair of dice over and over again, and each time they came up ones.

“I’m pretty certain trading doesn’t work, Leo,” Siegfried replied, catching the toads as they fell. “Two of the others tried it and they ended up with both curses. And their original objects returned to them anyway. I think they have this tied up pretty neatly to prevent us from doing anything but face the dragon or give up.” He took the bucket to the window and turned the toads out onto the lawn, where they hopped indignantly away.

So far, only three of the Princes had left for the mountain, which was something of a surprise to him. Curses were nothing to be sneezed at, and he wanted his taken off as soon as it could happen. The irritating fact was, if Leopold hadn’t been obsessing over the loss of his gambling luck rather than figuring out what to do about the dragon, they themselves would have been halfway there by now.

He began to wonder if the bad-gambling-luck was the actual curse, or just a kind of side symptom of what was really afflicting his friend. This wasn’t like Leopold at all. He was usually overflowing with optimism, not moping.

Looking at Leopold’s tragic face, Siegfried made up his mind. This was ridiculous. He couldn’t go on like this—not because having toads and frogs raining out of him with every word was all that bad, but because if he had to listen to Leopold moaning anymore, he was going to kill the man. It was time for him to take charge of the situation.

He put down the bucket, advanced on his friend and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet. Holding him by the collar, he shook Leopold vigorously and set him down again. “Enough!” he said. “It won’t be the end of the world as long as we go do something about it!” Five more toads landed on the floor.

Leopold sagged back down onto the chair, and looked up at Siegfried in dazed shock. The Northerner stalked over to the arms rack,
grabbed his sword and belt, and Leopold’s, and threw Leopold’s at him. Reflexively, Leopold caught it. With a jerk of his head and a grunt—which only produced a hapless little tree frog—he stalked out the door.

Leopold caught up with him at the door of the stables. Siegfried thankfully didn’t have to say anything when he got there; the grooms were already waiting to saddle up horses for whoever turned up. It didn’t look as if they were getting mouse-horses this time; what the grooms pulled out for the two of them were plain, sturdy brown beasts of the sort you might see pulling a farm cart. There evidently was a standard kit ready and waiting: saddlebags with provisions and a map to Sharpstone Pass. A glance at the map gave Siegfried one bit of good news; the Pass wasn’t more than two days away.

Wordlessly, they mounted up and headed down the road on the map. It was easy enough to follow, and they spent an entire day in unwonted silence. It actually wasn’t bad at first, if he didn’t look back at his friend; Siegfried was used to traveling alone, and with Leopold hunched morosely in the saddle, obstinately refusing to do anything other than sigh, he might as well have been alone.

Still, having that giant lump of gloom trailing behind him began to wear on him after a while. Siegfried managed to keep from having to say anything until they found a spot to camp for the night—which was near enough to a stream that the poor creatures he was producing would be able to get to water easily. Only then did he open his mouth.

“Are you done whining like a sulky brat?” he asked, producing a veritable flood of amphibians. It caught him by surprise; had the curse saved up an entire day’s worth of toads to spill out as soon as he spoke?

“I think it’s more than just losing my gambling luck,” Leopold finally said, sounding—well, not at all like himself. Strained, but with something more under his voice. Panic, maybe? “I have this horrible urge to write poetry and learn to play the lute….”

Siegfried stopped catching frogs and chucking them in the direction of the water to turn to stare at his friend in absolute horror. Write poetry? Learn the lute? The Queen had warned them that there might be some curses that changed you—but—this could be bad. This could be very bad. “Please don’t tell me you want to dress all in black,” he said, aghast, as a couple more frogs dropped to his feet.

Leopold nodded, a haggard wariness coming over his expression. “Black…of course I want to dress in black. It suits the deep night of my soul. What rhymes with shadow?” he asked, then looked appalled. “I don’t believe I just said that….”

In the back of Siegfried’s mind, a tiny treacherous thought arose. It was obvious that Leopold was turning into one of those morose poet-princes, the sort that slouched around their Castles by night, slept by day and spent all their time trying to be Artistic and do what bards did, only do it half as well, if that.

If I don’t do anything, if I just leave in the morning without waking him, he’d never get there himself. He’d either go back to the Palace or just sit here moping. I’d get rid of him without ever actually doing anything to him—

Immediately, though, he stepped on that nasty thought and pounded it into submission. That was wrong; it was completely wrong. He and Leopold had promised to help each other, and he was not going back on that promise. Besides, Leopold as a poet? He wouldn’t inflict that on the world; it was too cruel.

No matter how tempting it was.

The bird was perched on a dead branch he’d driven into the ground near the fire where he could keep an eye on her. He hadn’t spoken to her since he’d started this frogs-and-toads nonsense, but if anyone would have advice, it was likely she would. She was drowsing, having eaten some cake crumbs and a few insects she’d caught. He tapped gently on her branch, and she opened one eye.

Before he could ask for advice, she was already giving it to him.
“Try talking to him. The dragon, I mean,” she said, and closed her eye again, settling back into her drowse.

Try talking to him? What kind of advice is that? It’s a dragon!
he thought indignantly. He was actually reaching for the branch to shake it, when he stopped himself.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea.

After all, the Godmother’d had to talk to the beast herself to get him to agree to this—though why a dragon would want cursed gold in its hoard—

Wait, of course it would. If people think the dragon is sitting on a lot of cursed objects, they won’t try stealing anything.

All right then. They’d try talking to it. What was the worst that would happen?

The worst that would happen would be we’re stuck with these curses. No. No, I refuse to let that happen. I absolutely refuse to let that happen.

He glanced over at Leopold, who was hunting through their saddlebags.

“What are you looking for?” he asked with irritation, producing two toads and a big bullfrog.

“Paper. And something to write with. I thought of a rhyme for
shadow.
”

It was going to be a long night.

The next day, Leopold was in the depths of despair because he didn’t have anything black to wear, and there was no rhyme for
ensanguined.
Siegfried had to push him to do anything, he lost his temper multiple times, and another flood of toads marked every word.

That was when he got more avian advice. “You might not have noticed,” the bird observed, “but the angrier you get, the more hoppers you produce. Maybe if you concentrate on feeling sorry for Leopold, you’ll be able to take two steps without squashing a frog.”

Siegfried stared at his bird blankly, then slowly nodded. He couldn’t imagine how he had missed that simple fact, but there it was. He concentrated very hard on feeling grateful to the bird, and sorry for losing his temper. “Thank you. I’m sorry,” he said humbly, and was rewarded by dropping a baby toad scarcely the size of a beetle.

“You should be,” the bird said smugly. Siegfried’s temper flared again, but he reined it in and managed to get Leopold to saddle and bridle his horse and swing up into that saddle without having to say another word. Now his best hope was that he could just get them to the pass and the cave without Leopold deciding to start composing sad songs instead of poems. He wasn’t sure he would survive songs.

So far there were only seven Princes on the way to the pass. Desmond was in the lead—he’d gotten the rather common curse of boils, and they’d broken out all over his face. Almost as soon as the affliction had occurred, he’d gotten his horse and ridden out.

With the collusion of Jimson, Rosa was watching him, and Siegfried and Leopold, in Jimson’s mirror. Normally it was a good week of hard riding to Sharpstone Pass, but Lily had taken pity on the poor fellows, and she’d cast the “All Paths Are One” spell to shorten their journey. Their map routed them all over an obscure little trail that almost no one ever used, which they would encounter early on their second day. It was drawn to look like a shortcut, which would guarantee that they would use it. That was where the spell had been placed.

Prince Desmond, however, had been so desperate to rid himself of his affliction that he had pressed his horse onto that path late in the evening of the first day. As a consequence, at this very moment, with a pack on his back, he was climbing up one of the mountains at the pass—

Not the mountain that the dragon’s cave was in, but one opposite it, which puzzled her more than a little.

“What do you think he’s doing?” she asked Jimson.

“I confess myself baffled,” the Mirror Servant replied, as the mirror showed Desmond making his way up a narrow goat track. “Utterly baffled. I thought maybe he was going to talk to Gina and ask her to deliver the object, which is perfectly within the rules, but no. Wait, look, he’s settling down—”

And so he was. He removed the pack and pulled out a crossbow and a handful of blunted bolts, arrows that had a round ball-like head. With practiced ease, he cocked the bow, inserted a bolt and took aim at the entrance to Sharpstone’s cave.

“Oh, of course!” Rosa exclaimed as the bolt fell short. “Oh, that’s clever. As soon as it’s in the cave, it’s part of the hoard, of course. And with the head blunted, those bolts wouldn’t do more than bruise a man at the distance he’s shooting. If they hit Sharpstone, he probably wouldn’t even feel it.”