Magic Three of Solatia (5 page)

When Blaggard became king—by his own magic, so he liked to claim—he quickly put aside all whom he believed were more powerful than he. The wisest men he imprisoned. The wizards who had taught him he had cast from the castle cliff into the sea.

Blaggard had been eighteen years old when he ascended the throne, part boy and part man, “the worst parts of each,” as the old Solatian saying goes. But now it was the seventh year of his reign, and it was seven years almost to the day when a great wave had carried away the old king of Solatia and broken his seven cousins upon the strand. A great week-long celebration was ordered for The Seven, as Blaggard named it. All the oracles agreed that it was, indeed, a magical time.

Even the Solatian farmers were eager to celebrate. It was not often that they would leave their crops thus. But the harvest had been full for the first time in seven years, and there would be more than enough for all the long Solatian winter. If the farmers did not like the king, celebrating his seventh year did not overly disturb them. They felt his hard hand when they paid their land tax and their crop levy, their seed tax and their gleaning. But for the most part they did not trouble themselves with affairs of the kingdom.

In the village, where Sianna and her father Sian the button maker lived, preparations for The Seven were already underway. By royal decree, ribbons hung from every door and bright banners flew from window poles.

Each house was decorated with the sign of a man’s trade. The baker hung a basket of twisted buns on his front door for passersby. On long hooks outside the dyer’s shop, skeins of colored yarns swung gaily in the breeze. The weaver had woven colorful headbands for the children and tacked them upon her door. And even Sian, who was usually too busy for celebrations and too cynical for ceremony, had placed upon the door jamb a pouch of free buttons made from the iridescent Solatian shells.

Sianna had been busy all day and half the night for a week before The Seven making simples and herbal teas for the villagers who had become sick from the excitement of the coming feast. Unlike her father, she enjoyed the company and was glad to help where she could.

“Bless you, Sianna,” was the constant payment she received as she went from house to house with her remedies. Sianna would take naught for her healing except a song. And so it was she learned all the songs of the kingdom, which she wrote down in a great book. It was a task she had set for herself when she was thirteen years old.

“If we do not write them down, they will be lost,” she explained to any who would listen. “And that would be the loss of our past. Of our fathers and our grandfathers and their fathers before them.”

So the people blessed her wisdom and her generosity, her warmth and her love. They blessed her even as they feared her, too. For Sianna had spent a year with the witch of the Outermost Isle when she was twelve. And she had learned all the witch’s secrets for a single song.

At least, that was what the people believed. And Sianna said naught about it to change their minds.

I
N THE CHEERY KITCHEN
of Sian’s house was an enormous fireplace high as a man and as wide as the wall. Around its edges hung all the black pots and small cauldrons that Sian used to make their meals. For Sian was the cook of the house, though many of the neighbors laughed and called it “woman’s work.” Still Sian would say, “Food is for my pleasure as well as my belly. And it is no pleasure to eat what my daughter cooks.”

But it was the only complaint he had of her.

Often when Sian got down the pots and pans and began to cook them a meal, Sianna would join him at the hearth. Then in her light, clear voice, she would accompany his stirrings with a song.

They were a happy pair. And though many a village woman had set her cap for the cynical widower, he pretended not to notice. And if Sianna had taken note, she never said a word.

But Sianna was already twenty years old, and it was long past time for her to be wed. Yet such was the fear of the Solatians that she was more witch than woman, only one lad had dared ask for her hand. He was a fisherlad named Flan, with more heart than head.

“It is no matter,” she said to Sian one day when they talked of it. “For there is not a lad in Solatia who makes me turn my head. Not even Flan. For though he is a good lad, he will never be older than a boy.”

“Still,” her father said, “I would love a grandchild to carry on my blood. You know I am a proud man. Proud of my line.”

Sianna laughed then and Sian joined her. They both knew that his pride was not in the greatness of his line. They were farmers all. But there was pride in the fact that Sian and his father and his father’s father before him were known for their true tongues. “Their aye is aye, their nay nay,” the villagers said of the family. And it had always been so.

“A grandchild you shall have, that I promise you. But who the father and when the wedding, that I cannot say,” said Sianna. She kissed her father’s cheek fondly and went out to gather the herbs of the sea.

It was while Sianna was out harvesting her ocean crop that a messenger arrived from Blaggard the king. He was dressed all in reds and golds with a feathery hat and buckled boots. Never had Sian seen such a sight in his own home, for he was a poor man withal, and a messenger direct from the king is rarely sent to the poor.

The messenger did not so much knock at the door as plunge in. If he was taken aback by the sight of the tall, white-haired man dressed in a leather cooking apron, stirring the soup, it did not show on his face. For a man who serves such a king as Blaggard learns quickly not to show what he feels.

“Are you Sian the button maker, father to the maiden known as Sianna of the Song? The maiden who spent a year with the witch of the sea?”

Sian merely grunted.

“Then,” said the messenger, making as much ceremony as he could out of a simple task, “I am ordered to deliver this letter unto your hands in the name of King Blaggard.”

“Well, man,” said Sian “give it here.” He had no patience with ceremony or wasted words.

The messenger handed the letter to Sian, who looked quickly at the red-and-gold seal. Then, sticking a cooking knife into the envelope, Sian slit it open.

The message said:

I shall marry your daughter Sianna at The Seven. You shall attend me on the morrow to be instructed in the wedding plans. Your promptness shall be rewarded by a dukedom. Your tardiness by the dungeon. The choice is yours.

HRH Blaggard

Sian continued to stare at the message long after he had read its contents. His daughter? His Sianna? He looked at the message again. Then he turned to the messenger, saying with bitter sarcasm, “And does he wait to hear my choice?”

But the messenger was no longer there.

W
HEN SIANNA RETURNED AT
sundown from gathering herbs, she found the soup cold. Her father sat in the chimney corner, his head in his hands. His face in the shadows seemed long, and hollows were in his cheeks.

“Father, what has happened? What is the matter?” cried Sianna the moment she saw him.

Silently he handed her the letter. She could scarcely make it out in the gloom. Sian attempted stoking the fire, and warmth and light began to enter the dark kitchen.

“It is a great honor to wed a king,” said Sian slowly.

Sianna looked at her father. “You know full well it is no honor to wed this king, this blackguard. He is a hard man with more power than wisdom. He has rid himself of all who might challenge him. I see he would silence me, too, though I am far from the counsels of the rich.”

“I do not understand,” Sian said. “What do you mean,
silence you
? And why should he want to marry you? There are many marriageable maidens among the families of wealth.”

“I think he has heard tales of me in his great hall, as you have heard tales of him in our poor village. There are no wise men left and there are no wizards left but Blaggard and me. I fear he fears my powers.”

“Is there aught in your powers to fear?” asked Sian. “Herbs and simples…what have you ever done with them that could cause fear?”

Sianna looked down at her strong hands and flexed her fingers. She thought of the two magic buttons she had sewn to her linen petticoats, magic buttons that granted the wearer a single wish—but with consequences. She had never told her father of their power, though she had known of it for seven years. It was the one secret she had kept from him.

“With magic, it is not always what you do, but what you
can
do that makes men fear,” she replied.

“Could you not change this king?” asked Sian. “Wed him and change him?”

“I dare not wed him, Father. By wedding me, he would also wed my powers to his. His years of learning were longer than mine. His teachers many, mine but one. And so his powers are necessarily greater than mine. As his wife, I could only be changed, not change. That is the way of magic, the greater eats up the lesser, drains it when touching day to day. Whatever else takes place, I
must not wed Blaggard.
It is not only for myself that I say this. It is for all of Solatia.”

“What is there to do?” asked Sian. “For I would gladly go to the dungeon for you—if not for Solatia.”

“Going to the dungeon, my Father, would not help. The king would merely take what he wanted without your blessing. No, I have a plan. But it will take much talking between us this night if it is to succeed.”

Sian nodded.

“For, you see, dearest Father, you must do something that is difficult to do. You must tell a lie. And because your name is well known for truth, you will be believed in this lie.”

Sian looked at the ground. He was not happy. He could not pretend that he was. But for his daughter, he would tell a single lie.

Early in the morning, Sian dressed carefully. He put on a clean linen shirt, freshly cleaned trews, and a leather jerkin held fast with leather buttons. He packed himself a half-loaf of brown bread, some goat cheese, and a flask of berry wine for his trip to the castle. Not that it was so far, but they neither of them knew when he would be home again.

They kissed swiftly and parted. Sianna could not walk with Sian to the castle because a woman in the village was about to bear a child, and as it looked to be a hard labor, the midwife had asked her to attend.

Thankful that Sianna did not watch him go, Sian went along the strand. At the foot of the one hundred stone steps that were carved in the cliff’s edge from the beach to the castle, he stopped. Hand on his heart, he lifted his face to the sky and prayed. It was the first time in many years he had addressed himself to his god.

“I pray you guard my tongue as I would guard my daughter’s life.”

Then he went slowly up the stairs.

At last he reached the castle door. Seeing his letter from the king, the soldiers passed him in without a word. Silently he went through the many doors until he paused at the one to the throne room. Through the open door came the high sinuous piping of a flute. The melody was strange, compelling, and dark. Suddenly the flute broke off in the middle of a phrase.

“Don’t stand there like a gawking bear,” came a voice that for all its youth was unpleasant and oily. “I trust that your tatters and tears signify that you are Sian, my father-in-law to be.”

And Sian walked in the door.

“W
HY, HE IS BUT
a boy,” thought Sian, and his fears began to fade. Sianna must be wrong. For Blaggard was barely five-and-twenty years old. His face was beardless and comely; his gold hair hung down to his shoulders in well-brushed ringlets. In his right hand he held a flute carved from bone. He looked to be the perfect prince, and Sian was soothed by those looks.

There was a carefulness about Blaggard’s entire person: the silken clothes just so, the legs crossed precisely in the middle. Almost as though he was afraid to be less than perfect.

“I assume,” said Blaggard again, leaning carefully forward on his throne, “that your answer to my marriage proposal is
yes,
Duke.”

“My answer,” said Sian, remembering his rehearsal with Sianna through the long night, “is a question. Four questions, to be sure.”

“Four questions? What do you mean?” Blaggard made a swift motion with the flute to the guards at the door. They entered and stood silently at Sian’s side.

Sian was frightened, but not by the guards. He was afraid his voice would betray the lie, for he had never told one before.

“My daughter follows the Old Way,” he said. “And in the Old Way, the Elemental Questions must be answered satisfactorily or the wedding will never take place. Fire and flood and disasters more terrible than these have attended weddings where the Four Questions were not properly asked and not properly answered.”

“What nonsense is this?” Blaggard said angrily. He turned to the counselor on his right, while his hand fidgeted a silent tune on the bone flute.

“It is true, your Majesty,” replied the man hesitantly. “Some of the villagers used to practice what is known as the Old Way. Perhaps, since you were brought up beyond the mountains, you never heard of it. There are tales of great waves and shaking earth swallowing up false brides and bridegrooms, those who did not ask or could not answer the Four Questions. But such tales, perhaps, are not altogether true. The Elemental Questions, though, are purely ritual riddles, riddles about the four elements that make up the world—earth, air, fire, water.”

“And what are the riddles and their answers?” asked the king.

“That I do not know, sire. They were part of the secret ceremony known only to the followers of the Old Way. I never followed it. Indeed, the Old Way was stamped out by your gracious grandsire years ago.” The counselor bowed as if to signify the end to his knowledge.

Blaggard turned to the button maker. “Tell me the riddles, man.”

Sian stared into the king’s eyes, for only thus, Sianna had cautioned him, would he be believed in his lies. “That I do not know, your Majesty. I am not a follower of the Old Way. Only my daughter in all of Solatia holds to it. She learned it from the seawitch, Dread Mary, when she was but a child.”