PRIDE AND PUPPETRY

Part 2 of 2

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright © 1995

 

Cairn looked up with a thrill of fear—but with it came the knight’s savage delight in a fight fully justified.  “I have no gold.”

“Silver, then!  There must be a lot of that, for we saw all those rich merchants around your stage!  Give it here!”

A fighting grin tugged at Cairn’s lips.  “Come and take it.”

“You heard him, boys,” the thug said, and footsteps sounded behind Cairn.  Adrenaline rushed through his veins; he pivoted aside and caught up a stick of firewood lying beside a food vendor’s stall.  As the first thug bore down on him, Cairn feinted at the man’s head, then shoved the club into his stomach.  The man doubled over with pain, but his mate came in low and swinging hard, left-right-left.  Cairn met the first two blows with his club, trying to pivot aside, cursing his heavy and cumbersome pack—and the third blow caught him square in the chest.  Breathless for a moment, he swung his club high anyway—and felt hands on his back, felt the straps abruptly give way and the pack’s weight vanish.  He spun about, shouting in anger—a double shout, for the unseen prince inside howled, too.  Cairn leaped after the third thug, seeing the whetted knife, the cleanly cut straps—and a mallet seemed to hit him from behind.  He clutched at the nearest stall, trying to do nothing but hold himself upright while the world swam around him.  Confused shouting filtered through the pain with the sound of running feet, and another blow doubled him over with pain.

Then a fireball exploded, clearing his head amazingly.  He saw the thugs fleeing and started after them, knowing he could never catch them when he was still hobbled by pain—but they suddenly stopped to swat at something unseen, howling with agony and pressing hands to their faces, their bellies, their buttocks.

“Bees!”

“Draw their stingers!  Kill them!”

“I can’t see them!  They’re not there!”

Invisible bees?

Never mind!  Cairn sprinted, caught up with them, and wrenched the pack out of the hands of the biggest thug.  The man turned to him in a rage, then arched backward with a howl of pain.  “My feet!  What’s wrong with my feet?”  He fell, and his two comrades followed him, holding their feet and bellowing.

Cairn stared in amazement, leaning against the pack and heaving deep breaths.

“Kick them!  Club them!” Prince Orlin raged.  “Hurt them while you can, for what they would have done to me!”

Cairn only shook his head, still gasping.

“Can’t you protect me any better than that, idiot?” the prince raged.

“With all… due respect, Your Highness,” Cairn panted, “you can drop…”

“Now, now!  Is that any way to thank me?”

Cairn turned, staring.  A chubby, graying man stood at his elbow, nodding toward the thugs.  “Their feet are full of the jabbing of pins and needles, puppeteer.  It might be a good time for you to make your escape.”

“Good idea!”  Cairn hefted the pack by the remains of its straps and hurried off into the night—or at least, hurried as much as a man can with a pack that’s both large and heavy.  Cursing under his breath, he reminded himself to invest in a barrow.

When he was sure he had put enough space between himself and the thugs, he dropped the stage and leaned on it to regain his wind and tell the chubby graying man, “I can’t thank you enough.  You are the one who saved us?”

“The same,” the man said, with a slight bow.  “I am Yakob.  My young friend Lira told me that you were in need of magical assistance.”  He chuckled.  “I see that she was right.”

“Yes, well, I hadn’t been thinking of those three baboons when I told her that,” Cairn said.  “Thank you from the depths of my heart, Master Yakob.”

Yakob waved away the thanks.  “It was nothing—or at least, very little.  Lira tells me you have a far more challenging task for me, eh?”

“I do,” Cairn admitted, “if you’re willing to undertake it.”

“Ah!  So I had hoped!”  Yakob nodded briskly, his eyes gleaming.  “Therefore I came looking for you, and seem to have found you at the right time.”

“Right time indeed,” Cairn agreed fervently, “and very grateful I am, too.”  He reached for his purse.  “May I show you gratitude in more tangible form, Master Yakob?”

Yakob laughed and pressed his hand away.  “It is little enough, Master Cairn.  I will include it in the price of whatever more exotic spell you need, for it’s sure to be far more costly—if it works.  If it does not, then I will charge you for this minor bit of warding.  But come, let us discuss it at my house!”  He clapped Cairn on the shoulder and led him away.

His house was quite modest, but it was close to the temple and the marketplace, and radiated a feeling of warmth and security even as he closed the door behind them.  He led Cairn into the big central room, then laid out bread, cheese, and wine.  “Dine, young fellow!  For surely, youth has keen appetites, and you have the look of one who has not fed well in some time.”

“Thank you, Master Yakob!”  Cairn set down the puppet stage and fell to.  Yakob sat by, sipping wine and watching him eat with a pleased smile.  When Cairn sat back with a sigh, Yakob said, “Now, about this spell you are needing…”

“Yes, the spell.”  Cairn got up, went to the pack, and opened it.  “It’s a rather unusual situation, Master Yakob.”  He took out the puppet Pyramus and brought him back to the table.  “Your Highness, somewhere we must trust someone, and you’ll just have to take the risk of trusting Master Yakob.”

“Well, if I must, I must,” Orlin’s voice grumbled.  The puppet sat up, slipped the bracelets that were attached to the strings off its ankles and wrists, and stood up, hands on hips, to face Yakob, giving him an imperious glare.

“You see, Master Yakob,” Cairn said, “we need to break a spell that shrank a tall man down to a height of a foot and a half.”

Yakob simply stared.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” the diminutive Prince Orlin commanded.

“I assure you that I never laugh at magic,” Yakob said, recovering from his surprise.  “May I ask your name?”

“Master Yakob,” said Cairn, “may I present His Highness, Prince Orlin of Vagratin, Knight of the Anklet and heir to the throne.”

Yakob went back to staring.  Finally, he said, “A prince under so doughty a spell!  This will be a weighty business indeed!”

“He does weigh considerably more than most puppets,” Cairn admitted, “though nowhere nearly as much as a grown man, thank heaven!”

Getting down to cases seemed to revive Yakob a bit.  “Are you stronger than your size would lead you to expect, Your Highness?  Do you seem to have boundless energy?”

“Oh, yes!”  Prince Orlin balled a diminutive fist.  “And my muscles have never been so hard!”

“It is to be expected.”  Yakob nodded.  “When you cram all the mass of a grown man into a body the size of an infant’s, the flesh will be compacted, growing much harder.  Even then most of it will evaporate, though, and take the form of energy.  I take it there was pain?”

“Pain?  It was sheer agony!”  The prince shuddered at the memory.

Yakob nodded.  “He may weigh only a fifth as much as he used to, Master Cairn, but I dare say he could carry his own weight, and the whole stage, too!”

“Sir Cairn,” Prince Orlin corrected, just to be difficult.

“Sir?”  Master Yakob looked up at Cairn.  “Well, well!  A prince and a knight both!  I am honored!”

“We will be more honored,” Cairn told him, “if you can break the spell that binds His Highness.”

“Well.  As to that, I must know more about it.”  Suddenly Yakob became all business again.  “You must tell me how you came to this predicament, Your Highness, for I cannot treat you if I do not know all I can about the spell, and the conditions under which it was cast.”

“Must I really?” Orlin demanded pettishly.  He looked up at Cairn.  “It’s bad enough having you know about it, but a stranger?”

“I don’t see how he can possibly help if he doesn’t know the whole story,” Cairn sighed.  “We had better tell him, Your Highness.”

“Well, if I must, I must.”  Prince Orlin turned back to the magician.  “You see, I made overtures to Lord Thraik’s daughter—”

“Lord Thraik!”  Yakob’s eyebrows tried to climb into his vanished hairline.  “The most powerful magician in the kingdom?  He whose power is so great that he defended the realm from an attacking navy all by himself?  He who was born the son of a knight but ennobled because of his services to the Crown?  He who has become the most powerful lord in the land, whom none dare defy?”

“Yes, that Lord Thraik,” Prince Orlin admitted.  He actually had the grace to look embarrassed.

“You’re very right,” Cairn told him.  “None dare defy him.”

“So I see!  And what form did this defiance take?  Surely not mere overtures!”

“I’m afraid my prince went well beyond the overture,” Cairn said.  “He was past the intermission and almost to the finale when Lord Thraik walked in.”

Prince Orlin grumbled.  “I should have expected a wizard to put some sort of watchdog spell on his daughter!  I’ll wager that when I touched her knee, it started alarms clanging inside Lord Thraik’s head.  He came on the run and waved his hand, changing me to the size of a doll just as I was about to make a woman of her!”

“To break her heart, you mean!”  Cairn couldn’t keep his tongue still any longer.  “Just as you were about to finalize your seduction of her, you told her that this would be all there would be to your romance!”

Yakob stared, aghast.  “Why?”

Prince Orlin shrugged impatiently.  “It is the final sauce to the banquet of seduction.”

“A sauce of great cruelty!  Can you have pleasure only by another’s pain?”

“Pain?  What mattered her pain?  She was being honored by a prince!”

Yakob’s face settled into stern, forbidding lines.  “I doubt that she thought of it as an honor.”

“The maiden burst into tears,” Cairn said grimly.

Yakob nodded.  “Tears which were the alarm that brought her father, I doubt not.”  He looked up at Cairn.  “How do you know such details?’

Prince Orlin grumbled, “I was rattled enough right after the event to tell it all, and Cairn was the one to talk to, since he is a knight by rank, and paid to be my drinking companion besides.”

Yakob nodded, eyes still on Carin’s.  “If I were you, I would consider a change of occupation.”

“So I shall, when this is ended—but I cannot leave my charge in such a predicament.”

“Even if it is the consequence of his own crimes?”

“It was not I who did it, but Lord Thraik!” Prince Orlin shouted.

Yakob fixed him with a penetrating stare.  “I know Lord Thraik by reputation, at least.  The man is said to be hard, but fair.  Has he set no term to your punishment?”

“Well—yes,” the prince admitted.  “I am to stay this size until I marry one of the women I have seduced—and I would rather die than wed!”

“But not stay small?” Yakob asked.

“Well—no,” Prince Orlin admitted.  “Marriage can’t be worse than this!”

Yakob looked up at Cairn.  “Is there no alternative?”

“Oh, yes,” Cairn said.  “He can stay a mannikin until he has learned enough of the pain of the weak and lowly so that Thraik can be sure he won’t commit so calloused a crime again!”

“From which pain you seek to shield him,” Yakob pointed out.

“Well… yes.  But I don’t succeed completely.”

Yakob gave him a bleak smile, then transferred his gaze to the puppet prince again.  “I’m surprised that your father the king has not commanded Lord Thraik to undo the spell.”

“Well—he hasn’t,” Orlin grumbled.  Yakob raised a questioning glance to Cairn, who admitted, “His Majesty hasn’t been told; my prince feared that his father too would insist his son marry.”

“Yes, I had thought the king was just,” Yakob said, with a grim nod.  “So that is why you have no bodyguards, no other royal train, and are going about in disguise?”

“Yes,” Cairn confirmed.  “It was a stroke of great good fortune to find an old puppeteer who was seeking to sell his show—it’s the ideal hiding place for a man of Prince Orlin’s new size, especially since his flesh has become as hard as wood.  Can you help us, Master Yakob?  Or must my prince suffer humiliation and poverty to earn his proper size again?”

“I should say that he must,” Yakob growled, “for I am most inclined to agree with Lord Thraik.  But I told Lira that I would help if I could, so I will try—though why she would wish to aid such a reprobate as this is more than I can understand!”

Cairn’s pulse quickened as he remembered that it was he whom the lady had wished to help, not the prince of whom she knew nothing—but under the circumstances, he didn’t think it politic to mention it.

Yakob stood up and beckoned, leading the way into a back room—but what a room!  It was easily as large as the rest of the ground floor put together, and the walls were filled with shelves crowded with jars and bottles of liquids and powders in all manners of colors and textures.  A long workbench stood at one side of the room, filled with bowls of metal and stone, mortars and pestles, and other items of metal and glass of which Cairn couldn’t possibly have guessed the purposes.  The floor, surprisingly, was sand, except for a narrow wooden walkway around the edges.

Yakob took a staff and began to pace around the large open area in the middle, jabbing the foot of the pole into the sand.  “If my magic were based on inborn gifts alone, Your Highness, a very ordinary, middling magus like me would never be able to dream of breaking a spell cast by a master like Lord Thraik.”

“But your magic is of another kind?”  Cairn remembered what Lira had told him.

“A very different kind,” Yakob confirmed.  “A little bit of talent, but a great deal of knowledge—yes, I have studied all my life—knowledge of numbers and figures, geometrical figures, of the harmony underlying all of creation and the ways of expressing that harmony in sums and differences… well, there is a chance.  If your diminutive size is out of harmony with the rest of the universe, Your Highness, then perhaps I can restore you to your true size.  If not, well…”

“You mean if my present size is my proper size?” Prince Orlin cried, outraged.

“I did not say that,” Yakob hedged, “and certainly the size of a person’s body very rarely has anything to do with the size of his soul.  Still, there is a chance, however slight—but mind you, it is only slight in any case, for Lord Thraik is a magician of formidable power.”  He strode out into the center of the floor and inscribed a circle with the foot of his staff.  “Now!  Stand there, Your Highness, while I light the brazier.”

“What for?’ the prince asked, taking his place with trepidation.

“To establish the proper mood, the ambiance that will render the fluidity of the dynamics of the universe more apparent, more open to adjustment…  You said there was pain when you shrank to your present size, Your Highness?”

“Pain?  Agony!  Agony unbearable!  I would have gone mad from it, if it had endured much longer!”

Yakob nodded, seeming satisfied somehow.  “Then be prepared for such pain again, for as you shrank, so must you grow…  Now!”

Flame sprang up from the brazier with a whoosh, and the room seemed to darken.  Yakob held up his hands, the staff level between them, and began to recite an incantation, one that went on and on in a language that seemed to be spoken straight from his throat, filled with l’s and gutturals.  The room continued to darken, and Cairn held tight to the nearest bookshelf.  Surely it was only his imagination that a feeling of tension was building in the room, building and growing; surely it was his imagination that Yakob seemed to be having greater and greater difficulty holding that staff above his head, as though it were growing heavier and heavier…

Sparks jumped from the sand all about the room and met above the prince’s head in a soundless explosion—but Cairn felt the impact of their meeting even though he didn’t hear it: a crack like the breaking of a staff, but Yakob’s pole remained intact.  He staggered under the sudden release of weight, though, as light returned to the room and the flames in the brazier died.

The magician leaned on his staff, panting and trembling.  Cairn rushed to his side, but Yakob waved him away.  “Not me—him!  Be sure the prince is well!”

Cairn whirled and rushed out into the sand.  Prince Orlin still stood, but was shaking so hard that Cairn thought he might come apart.  The knight dropped to his knees.  “Highness!  Are you well?”

Orlin moved trembling lips, but no sound came out.  Cairn felt panic surge, but Yakob’s weary voice stilled it.  “He is badly shaken, but nothing more—as any of us would be, with an implosion like that right over our heads.”

Cairn turned slowly.  “The universe likes him this size?”

“No,” Yakob sighed.  “A larger prince would be more harmonious, though I can’t think why.  It is simply that Lord Thraik’s spell is too strong.  Even approaching it from the different orientation of my numerology, I have succeeded only in disrupting the fringe of the spell—for which, praise heaven!  If that was the power unleashed by the edge, spare me from thinking what the center would be!”

“It is hopeless, then?”  Oddly, Cairn felt a sense of relief—a relief that died as the magician said, “No.  It is only that my magic is not strong enough.  There is one magician who might help us, however—a senior cleric in the temple, who has been studying magic for a lifetime.  I will take you there—but I promise nothing.  The cleric may not choose to help you—or may not be able to.  Lord Thraik is, after all, a most powerful adversary indeed!”

“Nonetheless, we are grateful,” Cairn assured him.  “Especially after you have worn yourself out for us already!  However can I thank you, Master Yakob?”

“You cannot.”  The magician mustered hidden reserves and straightened, pointing at the miniature prince.  “He can!”

The trembling lips moved; a sort of cawing came out, that modulated into words.  “I… I thank… you, Master… Yakob.”

The magician nodded slowly, a gleam of approval in his eye.  “And you are welcome, Your Highness.  However, the senior cleric will choose thanks that must be expressed in deeds, not words alone.  Come, to the temple!”

 

* * * * *

 

Yakob led them to the temple, the prince in a large pouch that Cairn slung over his shoulder; Orlin complained about the bumping, but it was certainly a load off Cairn’s back.  They joined the line of worshippers who were filing in for evening prayers—but once inside, Yakob split off from the stream and moved toward a small stairway that led downward.  A bald-headed guard who wore a breastplate over his monk’s robe came alert and raised his spear, frowning, but Yakob only smiled and waved at the man, and he lowered his weapon, though he still looked unsure as Cairn went past him.

“You’re known here,” the knight commented.

Yakob nodded.  “As I say, my magic is different from that which the clerics know, and I come to discuss meta­physics with them from time to time.”

He led his charges though an inconspicuous passageway to a chamber whose door stood ajar.  Nonetheless, Yakob knocked, and a female voice called, “Who is it?”

“Yakob, lady,” the magician answered, but Cairn’s blood was already thrilling at the sound of her voice.

“Enter,” she called, and Yakob pushed the door open, leading him into a small room lighted by several tiny win­dows and lined with books.  Under a lamp sat Lira with a volume in front of her.

Cairn’s heart leaped, but he man­aged to keep his smile from growing too broad and said only, “I thank you, lady, for sending your friend to my aid.”

“Cairn!  How delightful to see you again!”  Lira laid down her book and rose, almost seeming to float as she went to meet him, hand outstretched.  He caught it; he couldn’t help himself, he had to kiss it, and the skin was marvelously soft.  So was her laughter.  “You are quite the courtier, sir.”

Cairn released her hand and couldn’t keep the grin from growing.  “I think you know more about me than I would like, lady.”

“Do I indeed!  And what would you want me not to know?”

Prince Orlin saved Cairn from answering by clearing his throat loudly.

Lira frowned.  “Your pouch seems to have a touch of catarrh, Sir Cairn.”

How had she known he was a knight?  “I fear it holds a burden of impatience, lady.”

“Burden of impatience indeed!” Orlin snapped.  “Will you cease your blithering and let me out of this lightless hole?”

“Yes, do release him, whatever he is.”  Lira was frowning as she resumed her seat.  “What have you brought me, puppetman?”

“I would not thrust my burdens upon you, lady,” Cairn began, but she cut him off with a gesture.  “Would or not, you have.  Let him out.”

Cairn sighed, set his pouch on the desktop, and opened the flap.  Prince Orlin leaped out and stood glowering at Lira, hands on his hips, nodding at her start of surprise.  “Aye, Prince Orlin himself, the victim of a villainous spell!  Be so good as to summon your master, girl, for I have im­portant matters to discuss with him.”

Anger flashed in Lira’s eyes, but only for an instant be­fore she became all puzzled innocence.  “My master?  But why would a prince want to speak to the Chief Priest?  Are you thinking of making a huge donation?  If you aren’t, surely he would be as likely to auction you off as a curiosity as to talk with you!”

“Girl, you speak to the Prince of Vagratin!” Orlin thun­dered.

“Of Vagratin, perhaps,” Lira responded coolly, “but not of myself, or of my city.”

Orlin began to swell with rage, but Yakob interrupted quickly.  “The Lady Lira is herself one of the senior clerics, Your Highness.”

“A senior cleric?”  Orlin stared.  “This slip of a girl?”

Lira smiled at his discomfiture.  “This ‘slip of a girl,’ Prince, could turn you to a toad in an instant—aye, and conjure up a snake to eat you, too.”

Prince Orlin paled.  “You wouldn’t dare!”

Again, Yakob interrupted smoothly.  “Lady Lira was raised in the temple precincts, due to her piety—and her dying father’s huge donation.  She began serious study of magic before she was twelve.  Accordingly, she has been learning for fifteen years, and has gained so much knowledge, and controls so much power, that the senior clerics were forced to count her among their number.”

Cairn suspected that Lira had also inherited her father’s wealth when she turned twenty-one—but surely that could have had no bearing on the clerics’ decision!

Prince Orlin stared, quite taken aback and, for a wonder, silenced—but Lira demanded, “Why have you come to me, Prince?”

Cairn started to explain, but she silenced him with a raised hand.  “No.  He must tell me himself, or I’ll not aid him in any way.”

Anger brought Orlin out of his trance, but he needed Lira’s help, so he throttled the emotion and began to explain.  She held his gaze with her own, and as the tale progressed, Cairn could see that the prince began to try to glance away, but somehow couldn’t—he had to look straight into the lady’s eyes even as he told her what he had done to Lord Thraik’s daughter.  Then, somehow, he was telling her what he had done to other women before the lord’s daughter, and others, and others, until his tale began to take on much more the tone of a shamed confession than a history.  Lira only listened, asking a question from time to time—but at the end of it all, demanding, “And are these deeds to boast of, Prince?”

Orlin admitted, “No.  I see now that in every case, I preyed upon one far weaker than myself, who was really within my power, and could scarcely say ‘nay’ even if she wanted to.”

Lira nodded slowly.  “Is this the way a monarch protects his people?”

“No.”  Finally, Prince Orlin hung his head.  “I see that now—that these were not conquests, but exploitations.  There is nothing to be proud of in this.”  His mouth twisted, and Cairn realized with a shock that the prince was filled with self-contempt.  The lady really did have powerful magic!

“You should indeed be ashamed,” Lira agreed, “and Lord Thraik’s punishment is just.  Why should I help you escape it?”

“Because I am a prince?”  But it was a very half-hearted attempt at an excuse.

“Because you shall someday inherit the crown of Vagratin?  But your conduct thus far makes me doubt that your people will be well governed by so selfish a prince.  Still, I shall try to help you for Cairn’s sake, and Yakob’s.”

“Will you truly?”  The prince looked up, amazed, then glanced at Cairn and Yakob as though wondering what magic they possessed.

“As to Lord Thraik’s daughter,” Lira went on, “and the other women you have debauched, I suspect they are prob­ably better off free of you.  They may know anguish for a few months, but if you wed any one of them, I am sure you would give her far more grief in the rest of her life than pleasure or even relief now.”

Prince Orlin winced.

“Yes, I will try to break Lord Thraik’s spell after all,” Lira sighed, “but there is grave risk in it.  Even if I succeed, you will feel great pain—and if I fail, the magic may kill you.  Do you still want me to try?”

Orlin’s face showed inner turmoil as he debated the matter briefly within himself.  Finally, he said slowly, “All I have ever wanted from life is pleasure, and there is a great deal of it even for one who is only eighteen inches high.”

“There is some truth in that,” Lira said, her voice color­less.  “A prince does, after all, have many privileges.”

“But pleasured or not, I would always be at other men’s mercy,” the prince went on.  “My words, my commands, would never be taken seriously even if I did inherit the throne.  My courtiers would fight for possession of me, then terrorize me into ruling as they wished…”  He shuddered.  “Death is surely better than being a slave king!”

“And?” Lira said inexorably.

“And…” Orlin continued reluctantly, “besides… I now begin to feel that there might be something more to life than pleasure—or, rather, pleasures other than those of the flesh.”

“Such as the satisfaction of a wise decision, or of governing well?”  Lira nodded, satisfied.  “Yes, I will try to break Lord Thraik’s spell.  Come, I shall lead you to the inner sanctum.”

She rose—and above them, they heard a sudden, tre­mendous groaning.  In the distance, voices shouted in alarm and terror; huge piles of masonry crashed.  Prince Orlin screamed as his puppet costume ripped asunder, torn by ballooning muscles as he swelled, growing fantastically right before their eyes.  He howled, he bellowed, “Make it stop!  Please make it stop!”

Yakob and Lira were both sawing the air with their hands, shouting incantations, but Cairn couldn’t hear them over the prince’s wailing.

“My finest spell for easing pain!” Yakob shouted.  “It doesn’t work!”

“Nor mine!” Lira cried.  “The magic has gone away!  I feel it!  There is no longer any power for me to draw on!  Quick, massage him!  Lessen his pain!  I must go to see what I can do to help protect the temple!”

She ran from the room; Yakob and Cairn set themselves to massaging.  “You are whole; you are not injured!” Yakob cried.  “The pain is only the soreness of muscles suddenly grown!”  He kept exhorting and reassuring as he kneaded limbs shuddering with spasms, and the prince’s screams began to lessen, finally ceasing, until he was able to tell them to stop.  “You can do no more!  Your pummeling hurts now!”  They stopped, and the prince lay inert, groaning.

Yakob rose and went to a little worktable at the side of Lira’s chamber, where he gathered up herbs and mixed them with water.  He brought it back to the moaning prince.  “Drink!”

“What good will it do?” Orlin groaned.  “There’s no more magic to ease my pain!”

“This doesn’t require magic!” Yakob snapped.  “Only knowledge of herbs!  Drink!”

Any chance was worth taking.  Orlin drank, and began to relax as the potion soaked into him.  He was almost able to sit up when Lira finally came back, disheveled and exhausted—but she held out her hands, making passes over the prince’s inert body and muttering a brief incantation before she collapsed into her chair.

“What good can your spell do,” Cairn asked, “if magic no longer works?”

“We don’t know why it stopped—so it might come back at any moment,” Lira told him.  She raised her head at the distant clash of arms.  “Robbers seek to loot the temple, but the guards are stopping them.  Let us hope the magic comes back before the robbers triumph!”

“I don’t,” Prince Orlin groaned.

“Oh, don’t worry, Your Highness,” Lira said, with a flash of anger.  “Even if the magic comes back, the spell I cast should hold you in your present form.”

“Should?” Orlin asked in a hollow tone.

“Should,” Lira repeated firmly.  “There is no certainty—but when the magic went away, it broke Lord Thraik’s spell, and he will probably have to recast it… if he deems you worth the trouble.”

Prince Orlin looked up indignantly, but above them, the clash of arms suddenly stopped and even more distant shouts and cries began.  Lira stiffened, staring, then ran from the room without a word.

“What’s the matter with her?” Prince Orlin groaned.

“I think the magic has come back,” Cairn answered.

The prince stiffened, braced against pain, then stared in amazement.  “It’s true, even as she said!  The spell’s broken!”

“Let’s hope Lord Thraik doesn’t remember you,” Cairn said.

Lira came back, her smile radiant through her exhaus­tion.  “The magic has begun again!  There has been much damage and many lives lost, but the city will return to its normal self!”

“I hope that’s good,” Orlin said with apprehension.

“If it weren’t, your father would have no power; his rank depends on the strength of the city.”  Lira looked him over as though just noticing him, and the prince, unclothed, blushed and turned away.  “My spell is holding,” Lira said, “which means that the purpose of Lord Thraik’s spell is ful­filled.  Yakob, will you assist the prince out to find some sort of clothing?  I must have a few words with his com­panion.”

Against all logic, Cairn’s heartbeat increased.  He knew she only wished to discuss the prince, but a man could hope…

Lira saw the prince go out the door and nodded with sat­isfaction, then turned to Cairn.  “Do you think he has learned anything?”

“Something,” Cairn said slowly—more slowly still, due to disappointment, “but respect for the poor, or for women?  No, lady, I cannot be sure of that.”

“He has gained a little,” she told him, “by feeling the pain he used to cause others, and by experiencing their humiliation.  He has gained that much at least, or Lord Thraik’s spell would have returned.”

She spoke with the authority of one who knows magic, but Cairn knew his prince.  “I hope you are right,” he said slowly, “but I doubt Orlin can ever be anything but self-centered, even with the example of your compassion and selflessness before him.”

Her smile was radiant, but she assured him, “I want things for myself, too, Sir Cairn.”

Her eyelids drooped, and the way her gaze seemed to pierce through to his core made Cairn’s pulse quicken with hope again.  “Then you are human after all, lady—but surely a mere knight should not aspire to the hand of a lady who is so powerful that she could obliterate him with a word and a gesture.”

“Very true,” Lira said, her voice low and husky, “but a knight who has kept a prince safe through such misadventures as Orlin has had, and even found a way to save him from the revenge of Lord Thraik, must surely be raised to the nobility.  Come back to me when you have been given your nobleman’s coronet, Sir Cairn.”

Cairn felt her gaze almost physically; suddenly her pres­ence overwhelmed his senses, and he knew she was doing it by magic.  His mind whirled, his brain was in turmoil, but he dared to reach out toward her hand…

And was saved by Prince Orlin’s limping appearance, cloaked in the rough robe of a novice and attended by Yakob.

“Have you recovered, Prince?”  Lira’s voice was suddenly severe again.

“I will live, at least,” Orlin groaned, “which may be painful, but is very satisfying.”  Then, with massive reluc­tance, “I thank you, lady.”

“Well.  That is quite pleasant,” Lira said with a curt nod.  “But the thanks I wish, Prince, is for you to treat every woman you meet with respect, from this day forth—every woman, no matter how high or low her station.”

The prince stared at her for a long minute, then said, “Well, I can do that much.”

“Can you indeed?” she said, with icy sarcasm.

“Oh, yes.”  Prince Orlin grinned wickedly.  “After all, I still have the great satisfaction of knowing that I have thwarted Lord Thraik’s plans for me.”

“Really?” Lira said, with a smile of amusement.  “I thought they had succeeded remarkably well.”

 

THE END