Thursdays with the Crown (12 page)

“To the tower,” she told him, pointing alongside his head so he could see where she meant. “The other tower. Quick, now!”

Rufus didn't even have to flap his wings. He just glided over the courtyard to the tower and perched on the
windowsill. Celie didn't bother to dismount; she pulled the crown out of her bag and tapped it against the window frame. It made a tinking sound, but nothing else. There was no echoing clang, no shudder that ran through the mortar of the tower. She did it again, a little more firmly this time, and winced at the sound that told her she had dented the crown. But it still wasn't the sound she had been waiting for, and the tower still didn't respond.

Rufus climbed through the window and Celie hopped off his back. She slipped the ring on her right thumb before she crouched on the floor and tapped the crown against the flagstones, but there was still nothing. She looked around nervously in the dim tower, tucked the crown under one arm, and wiped her grimy palms on her equally grimy skirt. Then she took the crown and tossed it across the room.

It made a satisfying clatter hitting the floor. But the tower didn't wake up.

“What are we going to do?” Celie said aloud.

Unlike the crown, her voice echoed in the empty tower, which made her angry. She stomped across the floor, found the crown, shook the ring off her thumb, and threw them both across the room for good measure. The ring pinged off the wall and fell to the floor. The crown hit the floor with a hollow thud and rolled against the wall.

Rufus cocked his head to the side at the thud the crown made. Celie did, too, then remembered the trapdoor in the floor. The hatching towers that were attached to the Castle now had wide low doors in the wall, but the doors
in the two dead towers were bricked over and a rough trapdoor in the floor of each led to a spiral staircase. Celie walked over and stomped on the trapdoor a few times, her brain whirling.

Someone had altered these towers since the Castle had left them behind. Someone had been living in them, or using them, but the Arkower had said that they didn't live in the ruins; they only provided things for the feasts. Was that why this tower wouldn't wake up? Who had made the trapdoor? She stomped on the door again as she thought.

From below, someone knocked back.

Celie screamed and leaped backward. Rufus lunged, clawing at the door and shrieking his battle cry. From beneath the floor came the sound of shouts and pounding, and then someone tried to open the trapdoor. It didn't work very well because Rufus was standing on top of the door, but they kept trying and shouting in a language that Celie didn't know.

Finally her curiosity got the better of her fear, and she grabbed Rufus by the harness and hauled him back. Rufus protested loudly but he moved, and then the door flew open. Celie was temporarily blinded by the lantern that the person carried, and so was Rufus, judging by the way he cried out and buried his head in her skirts.

When her vision cleared she found herself looking down at a wizened little man. He was standing a few steps down from the tower room and holding a globular brass lantern.
His eyes were so faded that Celie couldn't tell what color they were, and the robe he wore was much the same. His beard was so long that it actually disappeared down into the stairway, by which Celie judged it to fall at least to his knees.

“Hello?” Celie said. “Do you live here?”

“A girl!” He gaped at her. “What is a girl doing in this old tower?” His eyes flicked to Rufus, but he seemed to be talking mostly to himself.

“You speak Sleynth, too?” Celie asked, even though it was a rather silly question. She could hear him speaking Sleynth, though he had a heavy accent.

“She speaks to me, and in the language I am speaking,” the old man said, appearing to address the wall. “Shall I answer? Perhaps. And in that way I could ask more questions of her.”

“Yes,” Celie said. “I'll tell you whatever I can if you'll answer my questions, too.” She took a tiny step toward the old man. He was a little senile, certainly, but he didn't seem to mean any harm.

“She's talking to me first. I suppose it's impolite now to ask her name,” the old man said.

“My name is Princess Cecelia of Sleyne,” Celie said in the bright voice she used with Lulath's dogs. “What's yours?”

“Sleyne? That place where the Castle has taken itself?” Now the old man was truly talking to her. Though the color of his eyes had faded to a nondescript shade, when
they focused on her, Celie found that his gaze was very sharp indeed.

“Yes, that's right,” Celie said. “I grew up in Castle Glower. My father is the king of Sleyne.”

The old man made a gesture as though brushing aside her words. “There is no Castle Glower. There is only the Castle.”

“Yes,” Celie said, nodding broadly. “It is the best castle,” she offered, not sure what to say.

“It is
the
Castle,” he told her sharply. “Nothing else matters.” He studied her. “And your father guards it?”

“Er. Yes …?”

The man made a rude noise, as though he doubted King Glower's ability to keep the Castle safe. He pointed to the crown that Celie was still holding.

“He can't do much without that,” he said.

Offended, Celie drew herself up to her full height. With the old man on the stairs, she was taller than him, which she felt gave her the advantage. She put her hands on her hips, which was rather spoiled by the awkward way the crown was now sticking out over her wrist.

“My father is King Glower the Seventy-ninth, and he is a very good king! The Castle loves him — it loves our entire family! My father is the tenth of our family to be king.”

The old man shook his head as though her words were flies buzzing around his ears. “You must take him the crown,” the old man said a moment later. “And the ring.”

He pointed to Celie's tightly clenched left fist, and she
blushed. She'd been trying to hide the ring, but she was clearly holding
something
, since she'd had to loop the handle of Rufus's harness over her forearm to keep him back. Her knuckles were slowly turning white from holding the ring. “It was a mistake for them to be kept back.” He shook his head again. As if speaking to himself, he said, “She could have taken the Eye if it had not been lost. They must suffer, he must pay.”

So the crown and the ring really could help … or so it seemed. Had the Arkower kept them back along with the Eye? Why?

Celie blinked a few times, not sure what to do or say. “Who are you?” she finally remembered to ask.

“I? I am an old man. I used to be a wizard. I used to be a lot of things …” He turned his attention to Rufus. “That is a fine griffin. Not full grown, of course.”

“He's four months old,” Celie said.

“Very large for his age, then,” the old man said. He pursed his lips. “He's of the king's line.” He nodded. “I thought that they had an egg. They hid it so well.” His head bobbed up and down. “And why not? I am too old to take care of it. Though you are perhaps too young.”

“Did you say the king's line? What king?” Celie's heart was fluttering, and she thought she knew that answer already.

“The king of the griffins, who roosts even now in the stables that once housed his army,” the old man said, rocking back and forth and speaking in a singsong. The lantern
light flickered across the walls. “With his beautiful, beautiful queen. Who has not gifted the world with an egg in long, so long, because who is there to raise it up and train it to battle? Only I, I and my ancient enemy, that monster in the mountain, and him they will not give an egg to.”

“The monster in the … do you mean the Arkower?” Celie wanted to shake her head, her thoughts were buzzing around so crazily that it felt as though there were flies in
her
ears now.

“The Arkower!” The old man wheezed with laughter. “The
Arkower
! Oh, the drama of it all! It is better than a pantomime for the winter feast!” The lantern shook so much that Celie hurried to stow the crown so that she might take the lantern from him. But he lifted it out of her reach, still chortling. “I'm not so far gone I cannot hold my own lantern,” he told her. “The Arkower! His name is Nathanal,” the old man said. “A plain name, but an honest one. Fitting that he got rid of it, the dishonest
balagaha
.” He shook his head, and then rocked a little as though the motion had made him dizzy.

“Balagaha?”

“Don't use such foul language,” the old man clucked. “It's unbecoming to a young lady, and a princess besides!”

Celie mentally stored the word away for later use.

“The Arkower's name is Nathanal?” She brought her mind back to the more important information.

“Indeed,” the old man said. “It means ‘of the soil' in Arkish, but if he has ever worked an honest day in his life,
I will eat that griffin.” He hooted with laughter, startling Rufus.

Celie tugged Rufus back to her side, putting the ring in the pouch beside the crown so that she could keep a better grip on him. “And what is
your
name?”

The old man looked almost as startled as Rufus had. “My name? I … No one has asked my name in centuries,” he said, and Celie saw that his mind had retreated again.

“I'm sorry,” Celie said politely. “If you'd rather not tell me, that's all right.”

“Pffft,” he said, flapping a hand. “I'm not keeping my name from you to make more of myself than I am, like some wizards! I just haven't … haven't spoken to anyone in
yeonks
of time.”

Celie stored that away as well. Yeonks of time. She liked the sound of it.

“Bratsch,” the old man blurted out.

“I beg your pardon?” Celie caught her mind wandering almost as badly as the old man's. “I mean, bless you!”

“That's my name,” he said, looking annoyed. “Bratsch.”

Celie turned red to the roots of her hair. “I'm sorry, it's … a very nice name.”

“It means ‘musician' in Hathelocke,” Bratsch said with a shrug. “A foolish name for one marked as a wizard from birth.”

Celie slumped against Rufus, trying to catch these buzzing thought-flies. “You … you're a wizard … and a Hathelocke?”

“What did you think I was, a green horse? In these robes?” He snorted and gestured at his dust-colored, patched garments.

“I — I —” Celie stammered. The old man's rags bore about as much resemblance to her brother Bran's robes as Rufus the griffin did to Rufus the stuffed lion.

“It doesn't matter,” Bratsch said, waving a hand at her. “What matters is what a little girl from Sleyne is doing here in the ruins of the Castle …?”

“That
is
what matters!” Celie leaped on this moment of sanity. “Yes! You are correct, sir! I need to get back to Sleyne, but with my friends and siblings who are here with me. There are six of us, and we all must get back to Sleyne as soon as we can!”

“Of course you must, you don't want to get the plague!”

“No,” Celie agreed. “We certainly don't! Is it true that it comes from the lake?”

“Oh, yes!” Bratsch said, and spat to the side as though he'd tasted something foul. “Nathanal's pride and joy: the curse of the lake! One dip of your tiniest toe, and you'll be dead within a week.” He wiped his mouth with a dingy sleeve.

“He
created
it?” Celie rocked back against Rufus. The Arkower had created the plague on purpose? “But why … why? And how is it possible to keep it cursed all these years?” Celie asked.

“Renews it every year, doesn't he? Vicious
bolugur
,” Bratsch snarled.

“He … what?” A curse … and he renewed it every year? But who was left for it to kill, except his own people?

“Why?” Her voice quavered. “Why would he do such a thing?”

Bratsch shook his head, his lined face even more creased with sorrow. “If Nathanal and his people can't have control of the Castle, then it is better if they all die.” He spat again. “Or so he says.”

Celie was now all but sitting on Rufus, her legs trembling so badly that they could hardly hold her up. She didn't even know what to say, what question to ask next. It was all too much. After all, it had been less than three days since she'd even found out about the plague and the Glorious Arkower, and now this strange old wizard was telling her that most of what she'd thought she'd learned was wrong.

“But they do control the Castle … they sent it to Sleyne,” Celie said. “Didn't they? You need to … tell me everything,” she finally gasped out.

“I think I need to get you a drink of something strong and a warm blanket,” Bratsch said, giving her a pragmatic look that reminded her very much of Bran.

“I'm not allowed to have wine or spirits,” Celie replied, wishing she didn't sound quite so prim, but knowing that her mother would confine her to her room for years if she did drink.

“A warm blanket and a drink of something without wine or spirits, then,” the wizard agreed. “Come this way.” He started down the rickety stairs. “Will she follow me?
Do I want her to?” Wizard Bratsch started muttering to himself as he went.

“I — I can't,” Celie called after him, barely stopping herself from saying that she
wouldn't
. She supposed that it wasn't his fault he'd become senile, but still … “Rufus doesn't fit,” she explained, and stiffened her resolve.

“Fly him down to the base of the tower,” Bratsch called back, irritated, and kept on stumping down the stairs.

Celie and Rufus looked at each other. She fingered the pouch at her waist for a moment, wondering if she should try to wake the tower again, but decided against it. For now. Bratsch had answers that she needed, and they had at least one live tower to work with. She mounted Rufus, and he flew out the window without any urging.