reexamined all those nasty
fears about the disappearance of the king and queen before her—her faery parents. Perhaps they had not been murdered or killed
in an accident, but had good reasons of their own for disappearing. They would have known that, after the six-week period
decreed for their people to wait for their return, the throne would pass to their daughter. Perhaps they even had reasons
for wanting her to take the throne at nine years of age, though she couldn’t imagine what those reasons might be. A nine-year-old
girl is a poor ruler, a fifteen-year-old one even worse. She shuddered as she remembered some of her mistakes.
A leaf descended and brushed her shoulder. Footsteps alerted her to Eisengrimm’s presence.
“So there you are,” she said, turning her head to see him nearby, his jaw wrapped tight around a glowing object. “What do
you have for me?”
He loped over and stood above her. She could see now that his mouth was full of spells. He released them so that they bounced
over her. She sat up and gathered them.
“Sorry,” he said, “you know I can’t talk and carry at the same time.”
Three spells. She nursed them in her lap, tiny glowing balls of woven magic from the well. Two were the usual general-purpose
spells that Mayfridh could use as she wished. The third had a strand of brown hair threaded through it. “What’s this one?”
she said, holding it up.
“I had Hexebart weave a special introduction to Christine’s world. To prepare yourself.”
“I need not prepare myself. I remember it.”
“Things change quickly in the Real World. It’s not like here, where things don’t change at all. Twenty-five years is a long
time.”
“I see.”
“The other two are to use as you wish. To conjure the passage, to contact me back here, to protect yourself against emergencies.”
Emergencies? Her heart jumped. “So you think I’ll go?”
“I know not, Mayfridh. Do you think you’ll go?”
She fiddled with the spells in her lap. They were smooth and warm, feather-light. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps, my Queen?”
Mayfridh narrowed her eyes. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You know wolves can neither laugh nor cry.”
“But if you could laugh, would you be laughing now?”
Eisengrimm nudged one of the spells with his nose. “Go on, Mayfridh. Try it.”
She collected the spells in her left hand and stood. “Fine, then. We shall go to the spell chamber, and I shall reacquaint
myself with the Real World.”
The Autumn Castle’s spell chamber was under the ground, above the crypt and the dungeons. No light permeated the gloom except
for the brass lantern Mayfridh brought with her, and the soft daylight from a tiny high window that opened onto the grass
outside. The room was cold, the rough-hewn stone bare of tapestries or hangings or anything else that might absorb magic.
Laid out around the chamber were mirrors and bowls and burners and ladles and mortars and pestles and bottles. Once, before
her faery parents had departed for the Real World, all magic in the realm had been spun and woven in here, rather than in
Hexebart’s well. Mayfridh always looked around the room with a sense of sadness. Its ghostly emptiness was a reminder of her
inadequacies as a ruler.
“One day, Eisengrimm—” she started.
“Be kind to yourself, my Queen. You are still young, and if you are patient and strong, this difficulty with Hexebart will
be overcome.”
Mayfridh had brought wine from the kitchen. She slumped on an unsteady stool in front of the long wooden table that ran almost
the length of the room and stood the bottle in front of her. Eisengrimm transformed to Crow and joined her. He used his beak
to uncork the bottle.
“I wish you would be Bear and use your hands. Why do you never change to Bear?” she asked him.
“You know it hurts my joints. Bear is so heavy. I’m bruised for weeks afterwards.”
“I don’t like you as Crow. I know you
fears about the disappearance of the king and queen before her—her faery parents. Perhaps they had not been murdered or killed
in an accident, but had good reasons of their own for disappearing. They would have known that, after the six-week period
decreed for their people to wait for their return, the throne would pass to their daughter. Perhaps they even had reasons
for wanting her to take the throne at nine years of age, though she couldn’t imagine what those reasons might be. A nine-year-old
girl is a poor ruler, a fifteen-year-old one even worse. She shuddered as she remembered some of her mistakes.
A leaf descended and brushed her shoulder. Footsteps alerted her to Eisengrimm’s presence.
“So there you are,” she said, turning her head to see him nearby, his jaw wrapped tight around a glowing object. “What do
you have for me?”
He loped over and stood above her. She could see now that his mouth was full of spells. He released them so that they bounced
over her. She sat up and gathered them.
“Sorry,” he said, “you know I can’t talk and carry at the same time.”
Three spells. She nursed them in her lap, tiny glowing balls of woven magic from the well. Two were the usual general-purpose
spells that Mayfridh could use as she wished. The third had a strand of brown hair threaded through it. “What’s this one?”
she said, holding it up.
“I had Hexebart weave a special introduction to Christine’s world. To prepare yourself.”
“I need not prepare myself. I remember it.”
“Things change quickly in the Real World. It’s not like here, where things don’t change at all. Twenty-five years is a long
time.”
“I see.”
“The other two are to use as you wish. To conjure the passage, to contact me back here, to protect yourself against emergencies.”
Emergencies? Her heart jumped. “So you think I’ll go?”
“I know not, Mayfridh. Do you think you’ll go?”
She fiddled with the spells in her lap. They were smooth and warm, feather-light. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps, my Queen?”
Mayfridh narrowed her eyes. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You know wolves can neither laugh nor cry.”
“But if you could laugh, would you be laughing now?”
Eisengrimm nudged one of the spells with his nose. “Go on, Mayfridh. Try it.”
She collected the spells in her left hand and stood. “Fine, then. We shall go to the spell chamber, and I shall reacquaint
myself with the Real World.”
The Autumn Castle’s spell chamber was under the ground, above the crypt and the dungeons. No light permeated the gloom except
for the brass lantern Mayfridh brought with her, and the soft daylight from a tiny high window that opened onto the grass
outside. The room was cold, the rough-hewn stone bare of tapestries or hangings or anything else that might absorb magic.
Laid out around the chamber were mirrors and bowls and burners and ladles and mortars and pestles and bottles. Once, before
her faery parents had departed for the Real World, all magic in the realm had been spun and woven in here, rather than in
Hexebart’s well. Mayfridh always looked around the room with a sense of sadness. Its ghostly emptiness was a reminder of her
inadequacies as a ruler.
“One day, Eisengrimm—” she started.
“Be kind to yourself, my Queen. You are still young, and if you are patient and strong, this difficulty with Hexebart will
be overcome.”
Mayfridh had brought wine from the kitchen. She slumped on an unsteady stool in front of the long wooden table that ran almost
the length of the room and stood the bottle in front of her. Eisengrimm transformed to Crow and joined her. He used his beak
to uncork the bottle.
“I wish you would be Bear and use your hands. Why do you never change to Bear?” she asked him.
“You know it hurts my joints. Bear is so heavy. I’m bruised for weeks afterwards.”
“I don’t like you as Crow. I know you
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