Igraine the Brave (18 page)

“Well, there you are!” Albert shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes big brothers know best, little sister. Now, get down that tunnel of our great-grandfather’s. And oh, yes — I almost forgot the most important thing.” He took a small gold container and a box out of his coat pocket. “Take this with you, Igraine. Dust the point of the enchanted lance with the powder from this container. Then set it alight with a taper from this box, and murmur the Red Chant — which I hope you still know by heart! That will break the strongest victory spell.”

Igraine’s hand came out of nowhere, pinched his nose — and stowed the little container and the box away under the dragon skin.

“Watch out for the wind, for branches, for anything that could pluck the dragon skin off your head, understand?” called Albert as the door of the armory was opened by what might have been a ghostly hand. “And remember, you must hurry! If the Hedgehog gets his hands on you, even I can’t help you.”

“Don’t worry, big brother, we’ll do it!” Igraine’s voice came back. “And feed Sisyphus, will you? I shut him up in my room.”

Then the armory door closed again.

22

I
graine liked being invisible. She enjoyed seeing the foolish expressions on the faces of Osmund’s men as she jostled them, and luckily there was such a crowd among the tents that they forgot about it the next minute. None of them suspected that the daughter of the magicians they were besieging was walking around their camp, unseen. No one stopped Igraine and Bertram. No one swept the dragon skins off their heads and made the invisible spies visible again. And finally they reached Rowan Heartless’s red tent. Only a little way off, four knights stood on guard outside Osmund’s tent, but the castellan’s tent was unguarded.

Igraine glanced back at the castle. She could see no one but Albert standing on the battlements. The gargoyles on the walls were swallowing and chewing, making faces and spitting flames over the moat, while the lions struck out with their paws and roared, making the ground shake all the way to the Spiky Knight’s tent.

“Are you there, Bertram?” whispered Igraine. The one drawback to invisibility was that while other people couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see each other, either.

“Right in front of you,” Bertram’s voice whispered in her ear. “Let’s go in.”

Igraine looked around her one last time, pulled aside the heavy fabric of the tent flap, and slipped underneath.

It was dark and stuffy inside. Through the sides of the tent red light fell on a narrow bed, a table, and richly covered chairs embroidered with the Heartless Knight’s coat of arms. Four falcons were chained to a golden perch beside the stand that held his swords. They wore leather hoods covering their eyes, and moved their heads restlessly as Igraine came close to them.

“Hunting falcons!” she whispered. “The Hedgehog takes his falcons with him even on a siege. But where’s his lance?” She looked around for it. The smallest of the birds croaked excitedly and stepped restlessly back and forth on its perch. “Shhh!” hissed Igraine. “It’s all right.”

“There! Look behind the birds!” whispered Bertram.

“Oh, no!” whispered Igraine. “He has five lances, Bertram — five!” The smallest falcon spread its wings and opened its hooked beak, but Igraine bravely pushed her way past it. Not even a hundred hairy spiders with their sticky webs could have kept her from the lances now (or so she hoped, anyway).

“Oh, Bertram, how could we have been so stupid?” she whispered as they stood looking at the lances. “Of course he has several. Now what? Albert’s powder will never be enough for them all!”

“It’s the middle one!” whispered Bertram. “Don’t you see its point glowing green? Just as Albert said.”

He was right!

Igraine carefully drew the lance out of its holder, carried it past the squawking, flapping falcon, and put it on the table. If you looked closely, you could see the faint green glow quite clearly.

“What a cheat!” she whispered. “He really does use an enchanted lance.”

She listened for sounds outside. The noises of the camp came through the sides of the tent, but there was nothing unusual to be heard. No footsteps approached, no horse snorted outside the tent entrance. Reassured, Igraine took the dragon skin off her head and opened the little container with Albert’s powder inside.

“What are you doing?” whispered Bertram uneasily. “I can see you.”

Igraine went up to the table and ran her finger over the length of the lance. It was a beautiful weapon, with costly decoration and a wooden shaft as hard as iron. “I can’t disenchant this thing if I can’t see my own fingers,” she hissed as she carefully trickled Albert’s powder out of the container and over the point of the lance. It clung to the metal like hoarfrost clinging to a damp leaf. Next Igraine took out Albert’s tapers and rubbed one between her fingers. It burst into flame with a sharp hiss. Igraine let the white flame lick up the powder and began to whisper the Red Chant — one of the ninety-nine magic spells that every magician’s child must learn (even if she wants to be a knight):

Be you gone, you magic shimmer,
May your light grow ever dimmer.
Lance thrown by a wicked arm …

She rubbed her forehead. How did it go next?

“Igraine?” Bertram’s voice sounded very anxious.

“Don’t worry. I’ll remember in a minute!” Igraine whispered. “Lance thrown by a wicked arm … oh, yes!” She raised her hands, and heard Bertram heave a sigh of relief:

Doing honest knights such harm,
Now forever be you free
Of magic and of treachery.

She had hardly spoken the last word when the white flame went out — and took the green glow with it.

“Won’t he notice?” Bertram, too, had taken the dragon skin off his head, which made him invisible only from the shoulders down — quite a strange sight, but it was terribly stuffy under those skins.

Igraine shrugged and took the lance back to its place. Once again the fourth falcon spread its wings, but the others perched there as if they were asleep.

“I hope not,” said Igraine, carefully putting the weapon back in its holder. “But even if he does notice, a victory spell like that can’t be worked again in a hurry. At least this evening he can’t use a magic lance, that’s for sure.”

She quickly drew the dragon skin over her head again and tiptoed to the entrance of the tent. Cautiously, she peered past the flap, looked left, then right — and saw Rowan Heartless riding straight toward her.

He was kicking out of his way anyone who came too close to him. Then he reined in his horse outside Osmund’s tent and dismounted with a clink of armor. One of Osmund’s servants hurried up and took the reins of the sweating beast.

“Bertram, quick, pull that dragon skin over your head!” hissed Igraine over her shoulder. “The Hedgehog’s back!” Then she peered out again. The Spiky Knight looked around, and disappeared into Osmund’s tent.

“Do we have time to escape?” whispered Bertram.

“Yes, he’s gone into Osmund’s tent,” Igraine whispered back. “Quick!” She felt Bertram hurry past her into the open air, and was just about to follow him when something occurred to her. In alarm, she looked around. Yes, there was Albert’s container still lying on the table, open and empty.

She quickly ran back, hiding under the dragon skin. “The lid!” she murmured. “Where’s the lid?” She knelt down, looked under the table — and heard footsteps. Clinking footsteps coming closer. A horse neighed.

“What the devil’s got into the horse?” she heard Rowan Heartless ask in his cold voice.

“I don’t know, sir!” someone anxiously replied. “He’s shying as if he’d seen a ghost.”

The horse neighed again.

Bertram,
thought Igraine.
The horse can sense Bertram. Let’s hope it doesn’t kick him in the head.
She leaped to her feet and ran for the entrance to the tent. But before she could slip out, the Spiky Knight put back the tent flap. Igraine felt his breath on her face, but he looked straight through her. Soundlessly, feeling weak in the knees, she stepped aside, thankful to Albert and her parents for using their magic to make her a suit of armor that didn’t clink. Rowan Heartless strode past her and dropped into a chair, stretching his legs out stiffly. “Squire!” he bellowed.

A weedy boy scurried into the tent, head hunched between his shoulders.

“Take my greaves off and polish them!” growled Heartless. “And better than you did last time, or I’ll have you thrown into that enchanted moat, understand?”

“Yes, sir!” breathed the boy, and set to work.

Igraine began to creep toward the tent’s entrance yet again.

“And where’s my dinner?” Heartless pounded the table with his fist. Igraine jumped, not daring to move. Three more squires hurried into the tent with dishes and plates, barring her way. She felt like cursing out loud. The horse outside had calmed down. Was Bertram back in the castle yet? Would he be able to open the stone lion’s mouth by himself? She had told him what to do and say, but the Master of Horse had never worked magic before. The servants brought the Spiky Knight something to drink. Soldiers complained that they were running out of arrows. A knight reported the loss of the great battering ram to one of Albert’s diabolical spells. And as Igraine stood there, waiting for an opportunity to slip out of the tent, she suddenly saw the lid of the powder container. It was lying right underneath the falcons’ perch, where anyone could see it clearly. Should she creep over and retrieve it? She was still invisible. But just as she was about to try, Rowan the Heartless called for his squire again.

“Did you feed the falcons?” he snapped.

“They wouldn’t eat those mice,” replied the squire, not daring to look at his master.

“What did you say?” The Spiky Knight angrily got to his feet and went over to the birds. The tip of his shoe nudged the golden lid aside. In her fright, Igraine bit her lips until they were almost bleeding.

“You haven’t been giving them fruit and vegetables again, have you?” growled Rowan the Heartless.

The squire’s head bent even lower.

“Those falcons are carnivores,” said his master in a menacingly quiet voice. “Meat eaters, hunters, birds of prey. If you feed them anything but mice once more,” he said, treading right on the lid, “I’ll tell Osmund to turn you into a mouse, and perhaps the falcons will like
you.
Understood?”

“Understood, sir!” breathed the squire.

“Then go and get … what the devil’s this?” Heartless raised his foot and picked up the shining lid. “Feeding the birds out of golden boxes now, are you?”

“I … I don’t know, sir,” stammered the squire. “No, sir, no, I really haven’t. I was just …”

Rowan Heartless examined the lid. He even smelled it. “Strange,” he murmured suspiciously.

It was high time to get out of there — more than high time. Quietly as a cat, Igraine was tiptoeing toward the tent flap when there was a strange noise outside. It sounded like a hoarse trumpet.

“Go and find out what’s up!” Rowan Heartless snapped at his squire. The boy shot past Igraine and out of the tent like lightning.

“Sir, there — there — there’s a strange knight on the castle battlements!” he stammered when he stumbled back in again.