Igraine the Brave (6 page)

Birthday breakfasts were always in the workshop, because the Books of Magic liked to watch presents being unwrapped.

“Happy birthday, Igraine, happy birthday to you!” they all chanted as she opened the door. Igraine was fond of the books, though they thought rather too highly of their magic powers and insisted on being dusted every Wednesday and Saturday. They really could work wonderful magic if an experienced magician used them, one who had the necessary ingredients, could decipher the mysterious writing on their pages, and had passed at least Grade Seven of the magic exams. It was said that almost a hundred years ago, two of Igraine’s great-great-uncles had exploded when they tried using the books after passing only Grade Three!

Albert was wearing his golden magic coat, as he always did on special occasions, and he had cast a spell to give his mice red spots on their gray fur. Sisyphus looked hungrily at them, but of course he wouldn’t touch so much as the tip of a tail for fear of Albert. Igraine’s parents wore necklaces of sugar hearts around their piggy necks, and the books sat on their shelves, threw confetti down on Igraine, and sang in high voices:

Happy birthday, dear Igraine.
Waiting was a dreadful pain.
Everything today’s for you,
Birthday cake and presents, too.

“Oh, thank you!” cried Igraine. “Thank you, books!”

A wonderful birthday breakfast was laid out on the carpet, with a birthday cake, pancakes, waffles, scrambled eggs, and cat biscuits for Sisyphus.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” said Sir Lamorak, trotting over to his daughter on his pink piggy legs. “Pigs aren’t good at sitting on chairs. Your mother and I tried it this morning, and it just doesn’t work. So I’m afraid we must have your birthday breakfast on the carpet this year.”

“Oh, I like it there,” said Igraine, kneeling down on the floor.

Albert bowed to her and put a big parcel into her arms. “Here you are, sister dear. From Father, Mother, me, and the Singing Books.”

The parcel weighed very little for its size, and the red wrapping paper smelled of roses when she undid it. Her parents poked their snouts expectantly over her shoulders, and the Books of Magic leaned so far forward that one of them fell off its shelf and landed in the cat biscuits.

Inside the parcel there was a suit of armor — a wonderful, shimmering silver suit of armor, with a helmet that had a white bird spreading its wings on the crest. Its long tail was made of peacock feathers, and when Igraine carefully put the helmet on, she was amazed to find that it was hardly any heavier than the plumed tail itself. The whole suit of armor weighed so little that it seemed to be made of nothing but light and air. And when Igraine climbed cautiously into it, the metal fit her like a second skin.

“Well, do you like it?” asked her mother, who still had a few blades of straw stuck among her bristles from her night in the stables.

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” breathed Igraine. “Truly, truly, truly wonderful.”

The Books of Magic chuckled and applauded each other.

“And it will grow with you,” said Sir Lamorak, scratching his ear with his back trotter. He did it very elegantly now, although he’d been a pig for just one night.

“That’s right,” said Albert happily. “We cast spells so that it will still fit you if you ever get to be tall and fat.”

Igraine stroked the shining suit and smiled.

“And nothing can get through it,” said her father proudly. “Nothing at all. Even lances will bounce back from this armor. It’s supposed to be waterproof, too … at least, the books say so.”

“And then we wanted to give it a pink glow.” Melisande sighed, and wrinkled her black piggy nose. “We thought that would be really pretty. So I said:

Silver be this armor fine,
With a pink and rosy …!

“…
swine
,” said Albert. “Mama went and said ‘swine’ instead of ‘shine.’ And then it happened. Father turned into a pink pig. But why Mother turned into a pig, too, and a black one at that, while nothing happened to me, is more than we can explain.”

“That’s magic for you,” said Igraine, striding up and down in her birthday present. Nothing about it clinked, nothing squeaked. Magic did have its advantages. “I’ll wear it tomorrow when I ride off to find the giant,” she said. “Or do you think I’d better set out today?”

“No, no!” cried her parents. “Definitely not. Today we’re celebrating your birthday.”

“And anyway,” added Sir Lamorak, “your mother and I are still wondering whether it isn’t too dangerous a task for you. Perhaps we ought to go ourselves.”

“Nonsense,” said Igraine. “Running around in the wilderness is much more dangerous for pigs. Someone might catch and eat you! No, I’m going, and that’s that. Which giant should I ask for some of his hairs? As far as I know, there’s one in the hills in the west, and another who lives beyond the Whispering Woods.”

“Garleff is the friendliest; he’s the giant in the west,” replied Sir Lamorak, trying to get his pink snout into the milk jug. “The giant beyond the forest is too fond of catching humans and giving them to his children to play with. Anyway, his hair is more brown than red.”

“Yes, if you do go, ride to Garleff,” agreed the Fair Melisande. “Your father charmed away a nasty rash he had a few years ago. Giants don’t forget that kind of thing, not for ages. They’re very grateful creatures.”

“What about me?” Albert passed his curly-tailed parents the birthday cake. He sounded rather injured. “I’m older than Igraine, and I’m a considerably better magician. Why can’t I go and get the hairs?”

Igraine was greatly tempted to stick her tongue out at him.

“Because your sister rides considerably better than you do,” replied the Fair Melisande. “I’m afraid you take after your great-grandfather Pelleas. And as we all know, he always fell off his horse at the wrong time.”

“And in addition to that,” said Sir Lamorak, smacking his lips — obviously the cake tasted good to pigs as well as to people — “in addition to that, my boy, we may need your magic arts here in the near future.”

Albert looked at his father in surprise. “Why?”

“For the same reason that forces us to let Igraine go on this mission alone,” replied Sir Lamorak. “I confess that under these slightly changed circumstances the news our dear friend Bertram brought makes me a little anxious. Suppose this Osmund really does turn up here soon? To be sure, Pimpernel Castle can defend itself. The lions will roar, the gargoyles will swallow any missiles. And the magic of the moat will certainly work, too. None of that, however, will be enough if Osmund attacks the castle with a large army.”

“But you can simply magic the army away!” cried Albert. “You can turn all the soldiers into ants or wood lice if you want to.”

The two pigs exchanged gloomy glances.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” said Sir Lamorak. “Your mother and I have found out that, now we’re pigs, we can’t work magic at all.”

“What?” Now it was Igraine and Albert who looked anxious.

“Not the least little scrap of magic,” said the Fair Melisande. “That’s why we need those giant’s hairs as soon as possible, and you, Albert, will have to defend the castle until we can cast spells again.”

Up on their shelves, the Singing Books groaned.

“Luckily we’d made the birthday breakfast in advance, or else …” Sir Lamorak fell silent, but Igraine ended his sentence for him.

“Or else breakfast would have been blue eggs and dry biscuits this morning.”

Albert went as red as a beetroot. “All right, all right, little sister, I’m working on it!”

“You’d better,” said Igraine, standing up. “But anyway, that settles one thing. I must set off today. In fact, at once.”

“No, no, no!” grunted her father, shaking his pink ears energetically. “Out of the question. We’re celebrating your birthday today. Tomorrow’s soon enough to decide whether you really do go to find the giant. I still don’t like the idea. You’d most likely be back within four days on your pony, but then again it probably wouldn’t take your mother and me more than a week. At least, so I assume,” he added, looking doubtfully at his pink trotters. “I don’t have the faintest idea how good pigs are at hiking. But in any case, it would be the devil’s own luck if Osmund arrived with his men before we’re rid of our curly tails.”

Sometimes, however, the devil does have all the luck. Then it’s just one thing after another. And troubles seldom come alone.

7

O
smund came the very next morning.

Mist still hung over the meadows, and Igraine was saddling her pony while Sisyphus rubbed uneasily around her legs. Albert was sitting astride one of the stone lions, cleaning dove droppings out of its eyes. He almost fell off its back when it roared in alarm.

“Oh, hang it!” he said angrily. “Are you up to your old tricks again? There’s no excuse this time!”

Igraine raced up the flight of steps as fast as she could, but Sisyphus slipped between her legs and was up on the wall first.

“Albert, get off that lion!” called Igraine once she had looked over the battlements, but her brother was already hiding behind them.

Horsemen emerged from the mist in the east. Horsemen in gray armor. They were riding toward Pimpernel Castle.