Dipping her finger in the pot, she got all the remaining lip balm out and rubbed it on her lips. Though she didn’t try to taste it, a little did get to her tongue, and though the flavor was quite nice there was something kind of waxy and unpleasant about the texture.
“Ugh,” she said, picking up the frog. He kicked violently but she held him up to her mouth and planted a kiss on his head, immediately wiping her mouth afterwards. “Bleagh! Disgusting!”
The frog swelled in her hand. Anya put him down; there was a bright flash of rather orangey-yellow light and the smell of swamp gas. A moment later the frog exploded, and in its place stood a blond young man dressed in the rotten, sodden remnants of princely raiment in last year’s fashion.
“You took your time,” he said bitterly. “Do you know how long I was in that disgusting moat?”
Everyone stared at him, because he wasn’t Denholm.
“Who are you?” barked Ardent.
Anya looked the young man up and down, working through her memory.
“You’re Prince Adalbert,” she said slowly. “From last year. I think you were Morven’s November prince.”
“Don’t remind me,” snapped Adalbert. He smoothed back his long blond hair and strode towards the door. “Thanks for undoing the spell and all, but the sooner I get away from this cursed castle, your mad stepstepfather, and your faithless sister, the better!”
“Wait!” cried Anya. “My dowsing rod found you. Why aren’t you Denholm? And why did you resist being kissed?”
Adalbert turned around at the door.
“I have no idea why I’m not ‘Denholm,’ whoever he is, but part of the spell made me resist efforts to get turned back. Very thorough, the Duke. That’s why I’m leaving right now before he shows up.”
“Too late,” a deep, sepulchral voice intoned. A tall figure slid out of the shadow in the corner, a theatrical trick that scared the life out of Adalbert while making Anya roll her eyes. She knew there was a narrow, unlit staircase there.
The recently frog-shaped prince made a kind of bleating noise and ran away. The evil stepstepfather turned back to Anya, swinging his rich velvet cloak wide like a raven’s wing and then wrapping it around himself. Rikard always felt cold, even in midsummer. It was a side effect of doing too much evil magic. He would never be warm again.
Ardent closed up to Anya’s knee, the hair all along his back raised in a ridge and his lip curled to snarl. The princess let her hand rest lightly on his collar, taking strength from his presence. The Duke somehow made her feel even younger and smaller than she was, and Anya could feel her heart racing in fear. He would transform her one day, she knew. He was just waiting, gaining magical strength, building up his power in the kingdom, replacing loyal servants with his own people. It was only a matter of time.
“I felt someone tamper with one of my spells.” The Duke’s voice was cold and piercing, and made Anya’s ears ache. “Really, child, you mustn’t interfere with my magic. A horrible accident might occur.”
“I understand,” said Anya. It was always best to simply agree with the Duke.
“In fact this tendency of yours has reminded me that it is well past time you were sent away,” said Rikard.
“Sent away?” This was a new and horrifying development. “You can’t send me away.”
“To school,” said the Duke smoothly. “I have one in mind. A very good school. It is some distance away, and the journey there is perhaps a trifle dangerous, but that is the only drawback.”
“Does my stepmother know about this?” asked Anya. “You know she promised my father I would be educated at home. A deathbed promise!”
A deathbed promise was a powerful thing. There was a good chance that the ghost of the person to whom the promise had been made would return to haunt the promiser if it was broken. But there was an even better chance that the Duke wouldn’t care about that. He was very familiar with ghosts, revenants, and evil spirits of all kinds. Besides, the ghost wouldn’t be haunting him, but his wife, who was rarely at home.
“I am sure my dear Yselde would agree with me, should she be here,” said Rikard. “Alas, her search for the infant form of the Golden Sapsmirch Tree has proved more difficult than expected, and she will not be home for many months.”
“I’m not going!”
“You will,” said the Duke. “One way or another. I am your father after all.”
“Stepstepfather,” muttered Anya.
“It is sufficient to give me authority over you. As you well know. And who can argue with sending a child to school? Even your dogs know about the necessity of school.”
Ardent growled, but very softly. School was important, he knew, and so he couldn’t protest about that. He had been to school himself, for three whole months. In addition to reading he had learned a great many things about when to sniff, what not to sniff, how not to gulp food, how to gulp food while pretending not to, and much more.
“You can’t just send me to any old school,” said Anya. “I am a princess after all.”
“That is why I am going to send you to the Most Select Royal Academy of Tarwicce,” said the Duke. There was the trace of a smirk on his face.
“Tarwicce! But that’s … that’s almost half the world away!” protested Anya. “Six months’ travel, or more, by land and sea.”
“As I said, the journey there is slightly perilous. But it is the best school in the world for princes and princesses, or so I am reliably informed.”
“How can something be ‘slightly perilous’? I mean either it is … or … ahem … not,” Gotfried began to say, before quailing under the Duke’s stare. The white of Rikard’s eyes were in fact not white, but a kind of ugly gray and his pupils were the deep red of shriveled cranberries.
“I see,” said Anya quietly. “What about Morven?”
“Morven is too old to go to school,” said the Duke. “She will continue in her ambassadorial duties, receiving princes from other lands, with the possibility of marriage. In fact I have high hopes a match can be arranged with her current suitor, Prince … ah … Maggers. The one with the lovely singing voice.”
“Prince Maggers?” asked Anya suspiciously. “Where does he hail from?”
The Duke waved his hand vaguely. “Some kingdom in the west. Small, of course, but rich in … er … jewels and the like. He is eminently suitable.”
“You’ve never encouraged anyone before,” said Anya. “Why transform Prince Denholm into a frog, for example? He was extremely eligible—he said his father’s kingdom is four times the size of ours.”
“Maggers is even more eligible,” replied the Duke with a small smile he imagined could only be felt by himself, and not seen. Anya, however, caught the tiny quirk of his left lip. It put her instantly on guard.
“Maggers is an unusual name,” she said. The prince’s singing had reminded her of something, some familiar sound.
“Not where he comes from,” said the Duke … and there was that supposedly secret smile again. “It’s a very common name there. Not just for princes.”
Maggers. That singing, with the liquid trills … thoughts swirled through Anya’s very sharp mind and came together in a sudden conclusion.
Prince Maggers must be a transformed magpie. The Duke was planning to marry off Morven to a magpie … so she would have no help from her husband, or allies from her husband’s family.
“Morven will be crowned queen quite soon, in any case,” said Anya, wishing that by saying this it could be true. “She can choose a husband for herself. Or not.”
“Soon is such an imperfect term,” said the Duke. “A coronation can hardly happen before your mother returns.”
“Stepmother,” said Anya.
“And of course, we couldn’t possibly have a coronation without you, Anya. Taking into account travel time and the paucity of holidays at the school, I expect you won’t be home for several years, if at—”
He stopped himself, his lips twitching. Anya knew he’d been about
to say, “if at all.” He just couldn’t help himself. The next thing, he’d be wringing his hands together and cackling. This was yet another side effect of too much evil magic. Being cold, talking too much about plans, and eyeteeth that grew ridiculously long and sharp were all side effects. In the final stages, evil sorcerers even forgot to breathe, but sadly this didn’t stop them from thinking they were still alive and carrying on as if they were.
“You can’t have Morven’s wedding either, in that case,” said Anya. “A formal wedding would need me there too, and our stepmother.”
“Oh, a formal wedding would, no doubt,” Rikard retorted. “But one hears so often about runaway matches, a chance meeting with a well-meaning priest or a tipsy druid, happy to celebrate any wedding. It could happen tomorrow … ”
“I won’t let you marry Morven off to suit yourself,” said Anya through gritted teeth.
“You won’t be here. In fact, you will depart for school tomorrow morning at dawn,” said Rikard, once again smiling his not-so-secret smile. “It is going to rain, so it will be suitably miserable. Do you understand?”
“I understand all right.” Anya eyed one of Gotfried’s paper knives on the desk. But there was no point physically attacking the Duke. He was protected by his magic from all normal weapons. The way Rikard’s power was growing, she was afraid that even Moatie’s great teeth might not be able to harm him now, and so their ultimate defense against him might no longer be effective.
Rikard nodded and turned to Gotfried.
“Librarian. I require a copy of the second volume of Tench and Watkins on the transmogrification of birds. You might recall when I spoke to you yesterday I wanted both volumes, not just the first?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’m very sorry, Your Grace. It won’t happen again, Your Grace.” Gotfried was terrified of the Duke but also somewhat admiring of him, because Rikard had become the powerful sorcerer he had once wanted to be himself. “I will fetch the second volume for you.”
“Bring it to my study,” instructed the Duke. He turned, swirled his black cloak around behind him, and vanished into the shadowed stair.
Anya took in a shuddering breath and looked at her hands, willing them to stop shaking. She always told herself that the next time she saw the Duke would be different. That she wouldn’t feel the fear.
But she always did.
Anya checked the staircase after the Duke had departed to make sure he wasn’t simply crouched down on the tenth step under his cloak, as he had been known to do so he could listen to what people said about him. But the staircase was empty, and the door at the top locked shut.
When she came back down, Gotfried had gone owl. He was perched on top of one of the bookcases with his head tucked under his wing.
“Oh, Gotfried!” exclaimed Anya. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Can’t,” said Gotfried, his voice muffled by feathers. “Have to find a book for the Duke. Have to take it to his … his study.”
The Duke’s study was a frightening place. It was impossibly tidy and the walls were very brightly whitewashed, the surface so smooth people thought all kinds of ghastly things must be hidden away behind secret doors. Anya wasn’t sure there were any secret doors or horrible things hidden away; it was possible that the Duke was just extremely orderly. But Gotfried imagined the walls could turn on pivots to reveal a dungeon, or a laboratory so evil it would turn him into an owl forever, or perhaps turn him into an owl and then kill him on the spot, stripping the feathers and flesh from his bones to make him another skeleton in the Duke’s collection.
If the Duke had a skeleton collection. Gotfried was sure he did, behind those white walls.
“Hiding your head under your wing isn’t going to help,” said Anya sternly.
“I’m just taking a moment to gather myself,” said Gotfried. “Before I deliver the book.”
Anya waited for a minute or two, but Gotfried’s head did not emerge from under his wing.
“Gotfried!”
“I’m still gathering myself,” mumbled the owl. “Then I’m going to get the bird transmogrification book and take it to the Duke, and then if I don’t end up as a skeleton I’m going to gather myself some more.”
“I need to ask you things,” said Anya. “I don’t know what to do! I’m going to be sent away tomorrow. At dawn! And I promised Morven I would find Denholm! A sister promise!”
Gotfried didn’t answer. He shivered on his bookshelf, feathers trembling.
A soft, wet nose touched the back of Anya’s hand.
“You should talk to Tanitha,” said Ardent.
Relief flooded through Anya. She had panicked for a moment, losing her normal self-possession.
“Of course,” she said.
Unlike normal dogs, the royal breed lived as long as humans, or even longer. No one knew how old Tanitha was exactly, but she was by far the castle’s oldest inhabitant, and remembered people and dogs long since dead.
Tanitha did not move much now from her place by the vast fire in the castle’s Great Hall, but a constant stream of dogs and people came by to keep her informed. Her word was law to all the dogs and other animals in the castle and beyond. Even the castle cats, a semi-independent band that primarily roved the roofs and attics, gave their allegiance to Tanitha, even if they sometimes pretended otherwise.
With the relief of knowing she could talk to someone wise, Anya’s swift-thinking brain began to work properly again.
“The hair!” she exclaimed. “Morven must just add each new prince’s hair to her locket. No wonder there was so much, and I got Adalbert’s instead of Denholm’s. Ardent, can you go to Denholm’s room and find his hairbrush? And maybe you’d better get one of his socks as well. I’ll have to make a new dowsing rod. Oh, I do hope he’s all right in the moat. I’ll go and talk to Tanitha.”
Ardent barked happily, spun about on the spot, and leaped away, eager as always to carry out a job, particularly if it involved herding or fetching.
Anya followed Ardent out rather slowly, with a wistful glance back at Gotfried. The librarian was her closest ally, but he was not very dependable whenever the Duke was involved. He would be too frightened now to give her any useful advice.
“I’m not going to school,” Anya whispered to herself. That one thing was certain. But how could she avoid it? The Duke had cleverly hit on a way to get rid of her. No one could object to a princess being sent to school. Even if it was very likely she would never even get there.
Many different plans went through Anya’s mind as she left the library, wandered along the covered walkway through the small west courtyard, took a shortcut via the still room and its racks of drying herbs and flowers, emerged smelling of rosemary, climbed the stair to the west wall, went along it and then down another stair to the inner bailey, crossed that large courtyard, and climbed a set of stairs again to go into the keep and the Great Hall beyond the keep’s iron-studded gate.
Tanitha was asleep on her personal carpet in front of the biggest of the hall’s four enormous fireplaces, though as it was still summer, there was only a small fire lit. Like all the royal dogs, Tanitha was basically golden-colored with a blackish snout and back, though on her the black was shot with silver. Several other royal dogs lay around her, their heads rising and ears going up as Anya walked between the long trestle tables towards them. When the princess was several feet away, the three younger dogs got up, stiff-legged. They stretched and then bowed gracefully, lowering their heads onto their forepaws and wagging their tails.
“Thank you, Frosty, Surefoot, Gripper,” said Anya, briefly scratching under collars and between ears, being sure to give the three dogs equal attention. “I want to talk to Tanitha, if I may.”
“I’m awake,” said Tanitha, opening one eye and emitting a minor snort. “I might not look it, but I’m awake. Sit down by me, Anya. You others, go and make yourselves useful somewhere.”
The other dogs padded away as Anya collapsed gratefully by the side of the old d
og and reached out to hug her around the neck. Tanitha put up with that for a minute or so, then turned her head and delivered some comforting licks to Anya’s face, taking away the few small tears that had somehow leaked out despite the girl’s best intentions.
“Now, now,” said Tanitha. “So the Duke plans to send you away, and you’re worried about Morven and this Prince Maggers, and finding Denholm the frog.”
Anya nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She very rarely cried, but being brave all the time took an enormous amount of effort. Sometimes she just got tired of keeping everything together.
“We had better go for a walk,” said Tanitha. She struggled to her feet, Anya subsiding off her like a dropped cloak. The dog’s huge tail wagged, gently slapping the girl across the head as she got up. “Everything is always better for a walk. And we will talk.”
“I haven’t got time for a walk,” said Anya fretfully. “I have to find Denholm before he gets eaten by a stork.”
“There’s always time for a walk,” said Tanitha comfortably. “We will walk by the moat, and you can look for Denholm.”
“I suppose I can remake the dowsing rod there,” said Anya. “If Ardent brings me Denholm’s hairbrush. But I’ll need a new hazel stick to dip in the moat.”
“Gripper will fetch one.” Tanitha barked a command to the dogs who’d settled over by the door. Gripper answered with a short woof and circled away.
Anya and Tanitha went out via the dogs’ secret tunnel, Anya bending down to follow Tanitha down the ramp that was hidden behind a hanging tapestry on the south wall. Several royal dogs on guard duty wuffled Anya’s hands as she passed by, and she scratched their heads. The tunnel went deep under the keep, ran along under the kennels that were built against the inner bailey wall, then continued till it came out in the main gatehouse, the exit there hidden under a false windlass for the drawbridge. Tanitha nosed the catch and the large hatch lifted up, windlass and all, allowing the dog and girl to emerge. There were two royal dogs on guard here as well, and one of the castle cats, who held a rather strange balding mouse in his mouth.