The Catswold Portal (14 page)

When she stopped to rest beside the stream, half of her wanted to join with Efil, while the other half wanted to avoid him. And there was within her, as well, a fierce, painful hunger to turn back again to the inexplicable world above.

But whatever she did, she must tell Efil that Vrech had found a changeling boy. No matter what she felt about Efil, no matter how he had deceived her, she must do this for him.

 

When long hours later she began to smell the deep green scent of pine she ran, bursting out from the tunnel into the
familiar Netherworld night. She crossed the stream, and knelt, and snatched up Netherworld earth in her hands. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

She looked for Vrech's stallion, but it was gone. She wondered if Vrech, returning, had seen the pony behind the bushes. When she reached the pony she laughed at his impatient pawing. Quickly she swung onto his back, released him from the binding spell, and gave him his head. He flattened his ears and bolted for the palace.

Near the palace she slid down and loosed the pony in his pasture. Approaching the palace wall and slipping in through a side gate, she could see lamps burning in the scullery. And though it seemed to be very late, the big dining hall was brightly lit, and she could hear voices and laughter. She moved to the back of the palace, looking up at Efil's vine-choked balcony.

S
he climbed the vine and swung onto Efil's balcony. She thought as she moved to the window to look in that maybe she would regret her return. Yet she must do this; she felt compelled to bring news of the changeling boy to Efil. She could see through the partially open draperies that the room was dark. She turned the latch and gently pushed the door open—it was jerked from her hand, and someone grabbed her arm, pulling her in. A spell-light shone in her face.

“Melissa!” Efil laughed drunkenly and pulled her into his arms. He stank of wine. “Where have you been? This is wonderful. Where did you go yesterday? I woke and you were gone.” He began kissing her and fondling her.

She pulled away and moved to the mantel. “I have something to tell you, Efil. Something important. You weren't asleep?” She glanced toward the bed, then watched him light a lamp by snapping his fingers in a showy spell. He was really very drunk.

He said, “I just came in. Supper was endless. She's all worked up about the damned dwarfs in the north and their silver.” He moved the lamp to a table; its light leaped up across his face to form unfamiliar contours. “She can't get the dwarf nation to settle on a king elect without turning it into a battle over silver taxes. What difference? She takes what she wants anyway.” Again, eagerly, he reached for her.

She moved away and sat down on the bench before the cold hearth. “Please listen. This is important.”

He sat down close beside her, smiling indulgently, and began kissing her neck. She pushed him away, prying his fingers loose. “You
must
listen, Efil. Vrech has found a changeling boy. He has found a boy to be changed for Wylles.”

He stared at her, frowning. “There hasn't been time. She only—you're not serious? But of course, you're mistaken.”

She shook her head. “There is a boy in the upperworld who looks exactly like Wylles. I have been there. I saw him.”

He laughed, reaching for her. “You wouldn't go there…not alone, my love.”

He was exasperating; she wanted to slap him. “That is where I went yesterday. I followed Vrech. He has brought the boy to live in the garden by the portal. Six houses,” she said, trying to hold his attention. “Six houses surrounding a hillside garden. There is a door opening into the hill—a portal. Vrech has the boy living there, the child is the same age as Wylles. He looks exactly like Wylles only fatter, healthy, and strong.” She wished Efil was sober. “Don't you understand? I followed Vrech up. I saw the boy. I talked with him myself.”

Efil rose and moved irritably to the mantel. He stood looking at the row of dusty wine bottles, seeming not to see them. Absently he lifted one, wrapped a spell around the cork, and drew it forth.

“Oloroso,” he said, seeming surprised that he held the
bottle. “Worth a fortune—brought down from Spain generations ago.” He filled two goblets, holding the bottle carefully, not using a spell, as if with drunkenness his spells, too, were shaky. “In the upperworld they bid fortunes against fortunes for such wine.” His eyes, when he turned to look at her, seemed caught between drunkenness and fear stirred by her words.

He handed her a glass. “Tonight you drink a fortune, my love. And tomorrow,” he said, lifting his goblet unsteadily, “tomorrow we banish the queen.”

“How can you banish her? You don't know yet if I'm with child.”

“Tomorrow we will know.” He smiled, regaining his composure. “This morning I sent a page to Ebenth to fetch an old woman who is a master at the spells of prediction. She will tell us if we have started a son.” He watched her, laughing.

“Oh yes, my love. She will tell us. She has a solid reputation among the peasants. Whether her prediction is true or not, the peasants will believe her.”

She set her glass down. “No one can know so soon.”

“This woman can. And if Siddonie
has
found a changeling as you say, then we must have proof at once. The old woman can give us that proof. A son, Melissa—a new prince of Affandar.” He reached to pull her up from the chair, to hold her. She pushed him away.

He said, “Once the news is public, Siddonie wouldn't dare to harm you.” He snatched up her glass, spilling wine. “Drink, Melissa—drink to our child—to a healthy new prince for Affandar.”

She rose, took the glass, and set it on the mantel. “What about Wylles?” she said quietly. “
Wylles
is the true prince of Affandar.”

“Everyone knows Wylles will die. Whether he dies here or in the upperworld makes little difference. It would be more convenient, though, if he died before any switch was attempted.”

“You can't kill him.” She watched Efil, shocked. “The Primal Law…”

“No one spoke of killing.” He lifted her chin. “But poor Wylles knows pain. He could know more pain. Wylles knows fear, and that could turn to terror. Perhaps Wylles will find a way to ease his own hurts.” He pulled her close, kissing her, open-mouthed and ardent, forcing her toward the bed. Fear and repugnance filled her.

“We daren't, Efil. Not here.”

“There's no danger. Siddonie is occupied with a tinsmith from Cressteane, a hulking boar—as if size could assure her a breeding.” Crudely he pulled at her dress, pinning her against the headboard, forcing her, seeming possessed. She fought him, stiff and clenched, hitting him. But even drunk he was stronger. His weight was on her, his hands invading her; this was not lovemaking, it was cruel. She was terrified she would cry out and be heard beyond this room. She bit him, twisting away, and heard the door crash open.

Light filled the room, blinding her, shattering across Siddonie's face twisted with rage. The queen lunged at her, grabbing her, wrenching her away, jerking her off the bed, shaking and slapping her, her nails biting into Melissa's shoulder. She hit back at Siddonie and broke free. She tried to run, but something unseen jerked her down; a power held her unmoving and helpless.

“On the taint of Catswold blood…” Siddonie hissed.

“No!” Efil shouted. “She bears my son! She bears the prince of Affandar!”

“To Catswold cleave…”

“The peasants already know,” Efil yelled. “The news has been spread—they will rise against you…”

Melissa struggled, twisting at Siddonie's feet; above her Siddonie's voice echoed, “To cat do I command you…”

Her body constricted. She couldn't breathe.

“To cat I commit you. To cat you will cleave, to no other spirit yield.” Siddonie had grown so tall, so huge. Melissa stared up at her, then stared at her own shaking hands. And her hands were changing into paws.

The queen glared down at her, her eyes filled with loathing. “To cat you are returning. Cat you will remain and
never more than cat. You will
remember
no more than cat…”

Her body hurt, her legs were twisted with pain. She saw the disgust on Efil's face, saw him turn away. Siddonie's shouts deafened her. “Bring the guards!” Running feet pounded down the hall, and the queen's voice blurred, lost all meaning. The room was immense around her. She tried to rise, and fell panting. She stared in terror at her white paws scrabbling at the carpet as men pounded into the room, surrounding her. She spun around, facing one then another, torn with fear. “Get the creature out of here! Put it in a cage!”

 

The calico cat crouched, her eyes blazing, then leaped at the queen, clinging to Siddonie's thigh, slashing so brutally the queen screamed and knocked her away into a tangle of booted legs. The room seemed filled with boots, soldiers towered, spraddle-legged, blocking her, grabbing at her. She faced them spitting, raking their reaching hands, then dashed through between their legs and fled into blackness under the bed.

Two soldiers crawled in after her. When she lashed out at them they hit her. One grabbed her front legs, guarding his face, another jerked her up by the tail. They dragged her out, hurting her, and thrust a leather coat over her. She fought the coat. They held it closed like a bag, lifting her. For an instant something of Melissa surfaced, wild with terror, fighting so fiercely that the queen repeated the spell. Then she was simply cat again, raking at the leather. A blow made her sprawl, panting. The noise of loud voices pained her too. She was carried. Her captors' footsteps echoed down the corridors. A door banged open. She smelled fresh air. She heard leaves rustle under the marching feet.

Soon she smelled chicken coops. A latch clicked. The coat was tossed onto a hard surface and jerked open, and she was prodded out with sticks. She streaked out, ramming into the iron bars of a chicken cage.

Her back to the bars, she crouched facing the five soldiers.
They slammed the door and locked it, and began poking her with sticks, shouting and laughing. She fought their thrusting jabs for a long time, until she was so weak she began to shiver and salivate.

“It's going to have a fit.”

“Let's get out of here. The queen said leave it alive.”

They left, smirking.

The cat lay panting and shivering.

The cage was strong enough to keep small dragons and bears from the chickens. The floor was mucky with chicken droppings. Around her in other cages chickens flapped and squawked with fear of her. When she had revived somewhat, she watched the chickens with rising interest, her tail twitching. But soon she began to lick herself; she hurt in so many places that she worked frantically back and forth from one painful, tender area to another.

She was kept in the cage for five days. Darkness followed light. She had little to eat, and only a small bowl of dirty water that she avoided until she could bear her thirst no longer. On the fourth morning an apple-faced old woman came to look in at her, reaching her fingers through the close-set bars. The calico cat came to her mewling, rubbing her orange-and-black cheek against the old woman's hand.

 

Mag stood for a long time beside the cage, trying every spell she knew to open it. She was sick with despair for Melissa, wiping back tears. No spell she tried would work—Siddonie's powers were too strong. She could not slip the cat out between the bars; they were only inches apart. She could barely reach through to stroke the scrawny cat.

She found an iron stake in a pile of rubbish and tried to pry the bars apart, but the stake flew away, deflected by the queen's protective magic. And the cage was too small to turn the cat into Melissa, even if she could have breached the queen's power. Anyway, what would the girl do cramped in a chicken cage?

She thought that Siddonie wouldn't kill the little cat. She
thought that not even the queen would go against the Primal Law.

She rubbed the little cat's ears. Then, whispering, glancing around to be sure she was still alone, she repeated the most powerful strengthening spell she knew. If nothing else, she might give the child a measure of added endurance. The little cat pressed against the bars, staring up at her forlornly, but when the long, complicated spell was completed, something came into the calico cat's eyes that cheered Mag. She read it as heightened courage. She had barely finished when three guards came around the corner, saw her, and shouted and grabbed her.

She fought them; with hurting spells she made one back off, another double up with pain; but the three together were too strong. They forced her into the palace and through the scullery and storeroom, and down two flights. There, in the dungeons, they locked her in the cell vacated by the Toad.

For a long time after Mag disappeared the little cat watched for her, warmed by her caring. But Mag did not return. On the morning of the sixth day the calico was hauled out by a gloved hand and shoved into a leather bag. The man who held the bag smelled of sour sweat. She knew his smell; she hissed and spit through the leather at him, and clawed the bag until he hit her.

Panting, hurt again, she was hoisted and carried. She smelled horse. The pinprick of green light she could see through the tie hole of the bag changed as they moved, and the horse's movement jarred her. The light changed. The movement changed as the man got off the horse and began to walk.

Soon the green light disappeared, the hole in the bag went black. Then the tiny hole was pierced by a yellow light moving as the man moved. She could smell oil burning, and some part of her below the conscious level knew it was the smell of an oil lamp.

She could smell damp earth and stone, too, and could hear water rushing. She could feel the man climbing. The smell
of water soon had her wild with thirst. But some sense told her it would be a long time before she drank.

Long after they entered the tunnel she had sensed a heightened awareness from deep inside herself. Frightened, she tried to back away from it. When she moved, shaking the bag, he hit her. And as they rose higher away from the Netherworld, the awareness seemed to diminish.

After many hours, the exhausted cat slept.

She woke when the smells changed again. The man had stopped climbing. He startled her by speaking; his voice made a guttural rhythm. Then came the soft, sucking sound of stone moving across stone, and something new stirred within the little cat. Some hidden part of her was trying desperately to wake. The sound of the moving wall brought a sense of promise. She crouched, tensed and listening. She could hear the wind. She could smell greenness. Weakly she lifted one paw, and her heartbeat quickened.