The Threads of Magic by Alison Croggon (best books for students to read .TXT) 📗

a little. “And then — pffft! — he just disappeared. Before my eyes. He vanished, just like that.”

“You was seeing things,” said another man, swirling his mug. “Happens to me sometimes, when I get a fever. Or am in my cups.”

“I don’t have a fever,” said Erasmus belligerently. “Believe me or not, that’s what I saw, with these eyes. The point is that I was seeing things, and then I wasn’t. There was this green light, and Harp was kind of poking it, and then he was . . . sucked in . . . and then he wasn’t there. It’s uncanny, that’s what it is.” He liked the word. “Uncanny.”

“Well, you do look all shook up, that’s true. We’ll have a good laugh when we see Harp tomorrow.”

“If we see him tomorrow,” said Erasmus. He was getting sulky now at his friends’ open skepticism. “If. I don’t mind telling you that would be a mortal relief, to see his ugly face. If he can do tricks like that, he’s cleverer than any of us give him credit for. And I don’t care if you believe me. I know what I saw.”

“It’s magic, that’s what it is,” said another man darkly. “Black magic, if you ask me.”

All of them looked uneasy at that and changed the conversation.

In a corner of the tavern, another man dressed in dusty black from head to foot had been listening intently. Nobody noticed when he stood up and left. But few people noticed assassins when they didn’t want to be seen.

GEORGETTE LAY CURLED IN AN S SHAPE, WITH HER hands folded neatly beneath her cheek, and drooled a little on her pillow. Sometime after the midnight bell, she stirred and cried out, and one of her ladies-in-waiting — who, as custom decreed, spent each night propped on a chair in the corner of the room in order to protect her mistress from horrors that might fly in the window, such as moths or vampires — jumped in her sleep and muttered something about burning cakes before subsiding back into an uncomfortable doze.

Georgette was having that dream again.

The first time she had had this dream was on the night of her mother’s funeral, although it had returned dozens of times since. Georgette’s mother, Queen Alsigne, had died when the princess was six years old. This had not affected her much, since she had barely known her. On state occasions or holy days Georgette was stuffed into an uncomfortable dress stiff with pearls and brocade and taken to a gracious and pale woman she had been taught to call “Mother” or “Your Grace,” who took her hand gravely and regarded her with sad and distant eyes.

Ever since then, the dream had always been exactly the same.

She was a little girl, kneeling before her mother. As she stooped to take her daughter’s hand, Queen Alsigne was haloed with a rich golden light that seemed to be beating out of her skin. Everything around them was dark, and in the shadows moved horrible, shapeless things that Georgette didn’t dare to look at. Behind the queen was a massive stained-glass window, a window that did not exist in Georgette’s waking life. It was a magnificent picture of a crimson dragon, the sign of the Old Royals before King Axel I, rampant, its mouth spouting golden gouts of flame.

As Georgette stood up, still holding her mother’s hand, the dragon seemed to come alive, although it remained imprisoned in the window. The queen turned to look at it, unsurprised, and smiled sadly.

“Ah, my little Georgette,” she said, turning back and looking at her daughter with those immense gray eyes, always so sorrowful and so beautiful. “My sweet daughter.” (She had never said anything so fond when she had been alive, and Georgette’s heart quickened with an unfamiliar warmth.) “Do not forget the cries in the night. Do not forget.”

Usually then the queen vanished, and the dragon would turn and fix its fiery eyes on Georgette, making her quail. But tonight the dream was different. Her mother grasped her upper arm. Her fingers were like ice, so cold they burned Georgette’s skin.

“Your fate is darkening, child,” said the queen. “Beware! Soon even Death won’t stop him.”

“Who?” asked Georgette.

“The one who comes for you now.”

The dread of nightmare rose in Georgette’s throat and she pulled away in a sudden panic. But her mother tightened her grip until Georgette cried out with pain. The queen leaned close and bent her mouth to Georgette’s ear. “Run, daughter,” she whispered. “Run.”

The queen let go and stood up, and before Georgette’s eyes, her graceful beauty shriveled into a skeleton, which collapsed into a dry pile of bones on the floor. The dragon in the window turned its terrible eyes on the princess and began to laugh. It knew that she couldn’t run away.

Georgette screamed and screamed, but no sound came out of her mouth.

At the same time she heard a little boy weeping inconsolably. It was the most lonely, the most unbearable sound in the world. She knew the boy was alone and terrified and in pain.

This child was always in the dream. Every time before, Georgette had woken up torn between fear of the waking dragon and pity for the child. But this time she broke free of sleep in simple, undiluted terror, her nightdress drenched with sweat, her whole body shaking.

It’s only a nightmare, she told herself. It isn’t real. Then she looked at her arm and saw red fingermarks already purpling to bruises, exactly where the queen had held her in the nightmare.

She stared in disbelief, her heart hammering. Maybe she had clutched herself, in panic? She crept out of bed to the window, where the moonlight was brighter, and tried to fit her fingers to match the marks. They were on the front of her arm, as if someone had clasped her from behind. And yes, there was a thumbprint on the back of her upper arm. No matter how