“He’s not lying,” Rose said, putting a slender hand on Petunia’s shoulder. “At least, Grigori isn’t. He truly believes that Rionin can do this. But it does make sense: why would Rionin waste his power killing our father or our husbands, if he didn’t have a way of bringing us here yet? He’s only just rediscovered how to make a gate.”
The rug in their sitting room had transformed into a stairway that led to the Kingdom Under Stone. It had been created for their mother by the first king, and she had taught them how to use it before her death. Galen had destroyed it after rescuing them ten years before.
“The first king had never taught his sons how to make such magic,” Rose explained. “But Rionin figured out how to do it at last. There was a temporary gate placed under the dead leaves around that rosebush you found. And a permanent one in Grigori’s hunting lodge. They thought that if you, the youngest, were taken first, it would inspire us all to follow and protect you.”
“And it did,” Pansy said. “We didn’t just come because Grigori threatened Papa and the others.”
“Thank you,” Petunia croaked. “But what now? What can we do? How can we fight this?”
“We will find a way,” Rose said at her most no-nonsense. “We did it before, and that was with only Galen to help us, and none of us able to tell a soul what was happening. We’ll do it again, older and wiser and with more help coming.”
“Unless Grigori killed your husbands after we left,” Jonquil said bleakly.
Hunter
Oliver had been robbing coaches since he was thirteen years old. He knew every inch of the forest along the highway. And yet that journey through the Westfalian Woods was the strangest two days of his life. Oliver found himself riding on a fine horse, dressed in his faded leathers, wolf mask bobbing on his shoulder, in the company of an extremely old woman, a one-legged man, and a heavily armed bishop who rode what looked like a cavalry horse.
Despite the seeming fragility of the old woman—who apparently didn’t have a name and was merely referred to as “good frau” by everyone—she proved to be a skilled rider. Walter Vogel, too, was at ease on a horse even though Oliver would have thought that his peg leg would be a hindrance. And it seemed that Bishop Schelker’s father had been a general and had insisted that all of his sons learn to ride and shoot, no matter that one of them had been called to the Church at a young age.
They set a swift pace, and as they rode, Walter Vogel, who had once been a gardener at the palace but was also a sorcerer or some such improbable thing, explained to Oliver that if the princes Under Stone could come out of their prison through the hothouse, it might be possible to get into the Kingdom Under Stone through that same hothouse.
“Why would we want to do that?” Oliver looked over at the old man in consternation. “Shouldn’t we just scrub away that spell and keep them in there for good?”
“Whoever created a gate in the hothouse will just make another,” Walter said. “The best thing to do is to reseal the prison.”
“Or kill them all,” Oliver said.
They had slowed to a walk to rest their horses before Walter answered Oliver. He brought his horse in close to Oliver’s, his face grave.
“Wolfram von Aue summoned terrible powers from spirits of the dead and other unholy sources,” Walter said in a lecturing tone. “He held all these powers within him, gathering more strength by feeding off the energy of his followers. That power still exists. It needs to be contained. If it gets loose, it could destroy all of Westfalin.”
“Westfalin?” The good frau had brought her horse close along Oliver’s other side. “Don’t coddle the boy! If the powers that Wolfram gathered get loose, Ionia would be a smoking pit in the ground!”
“Galen was lucky,” Walter went on. “Very lucky. He killed Wolfram when his oldest son, the perfect vessel for those powers, happened to be standing right at hand. If Wolfram’s sons had not been there, the powers might have scattered and broken out of the cage we created. Or they could just as easily have gone into Galen, twisting and using him even as Wolfram had twisted and used them.”
“I wonder,” Bishop Schelker said from Walter’s other side, “if Galen would have killed the king so readily, had he known the danger he was in.”
“And young Rose,” said the crone. “If we had had a Queen Under Stone, would that have been any better?” She clucked her tongue in disapproval. Her horse took it as a sign to move back to a canter, so they did.
As they moved steadily down the road into the depths of the forest, Oliver pondered everything that he had now learned. They could not kill the dark king or his brothers, at least not all of them. One of them would need to remain alive to hold the power in check.
“What are we going to do?” Oliver asked all three of his companions as they slowed again. “If we can’t kill them, and they’ve broken the lock on the prison, what do we do?”
“We remake the walls of the prison, stronger than before,” Walter Vogel answered.
“But how?” Oliver looked at his horse’s mane in despair. “According to a book Princess Poppy gave me, most of the wizards who made the prison died working the magic! And those who survived have been dead for centuries now anyway.”
“The young are so sure of themselves, aren’t they?” The good frau sucked her remaining teeth and rolled her faded eyes. “Dead for centuries, bah!”
“Indeed, good frau,” Oliver said, his voice strained as he tried to conceal his frustration. “Wolfram von Aue was imprisoned well over fifteen hundred years ago.”
“Has it really been so long?” Walter studied his own horse’s mane for a moment. “I suppose it has.”
“I don’t worry about such things as age or death.” The old woman sniffed. “I have too much to do yet.”
“Er,” Oliver said.
“He talks even less than the one Lily married,” the crone remarked to Walter. “Though when the mood strikes him, he asks just as many questions as Galen.”
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said weakly.
The old woman nodded. “You are forgiven,” she pronounced in queenly tones. Her sharp eyes bored into his. “And that is because once I was a queen.” And with that she spurred her horse to a gallop.
Oliver looked over at Walter, concerned that the woman’s mind was as feeble as her body appeared. But Walter was rubbing at the leg that terminated in a polished wooden peg and gazing after the crone with a wistful expression.
“Long ago we were all something else,” was all Walter said, then he too sent his horse forward, leaving Oliver and the bishop to catch up.
They rode in silence the rest of the way to the estate, but just when they could see the stone fence peeking through the trees, bandits surrounded them. Oliver and his companions brought their horses to a sharp halt on the hard road as men in wolf masks stepped out of the trees on all sides. Oliver looked around, nonplussed. They had to have recognized him: he recognized them even with their masks in place. He was about to call out to Karl, who stood directly in their path, when Karl unmasked and spoke.
“All right there, Oliver?”
“I’m well,” Oliver replied. “Yourself?”
Karl nodded.
“What’s the reason for this?” Bishop Schelker looked around. “Aren’t you Lord Oliver’s men?”
“Indeed we are,” said Johan, taking off his own mask. “And that’s why we’re here. Lady Emily told us that you intend to rescue the princesses. If that’s so, then that is the path you must take.” He pointed to a narrow side road, little more than a deer path, that skirted around the back of the estate wall.
“What’s down there?” Walter peered through the trees.