All Princess Celia has ever wanted is to be left alone. She’s built her own enchanted tower out of glass and thorns, where she can keep the world outside while exploring her magical gifts, far away from royal expectations and an arranged marriage. But she’s woven her protections too well -- and even though she’s finding her tower lonely after so long, she can’t undo her spell alone.
Stefan only agreed to accompany his brother in order to provide magical help. After all, rescuing the princess of the glass castle is supposed to be Crown Prince Garald’s quest, not his magician’s. But the quest has already claimed lives, and Stef can’t let his brother face the peril alone. Besides, he likes a challenge.
Unlocking the spell will require Stef and Celia to use all their power and find the key in an exchange of hearts.
Stefan put out a hand, touched one of the thorns, curious. It hummed with a kind of low-level awareness: it was alive, it was purposeful, it would protect the woman in the castle.
The woman in the castle ...
The impressions were only at the level of the limited comprehension of vegetation, of course. But they were complex, and cold, and painful, and oddly sweet.
Painful, he thought, surprised, and then asked, an impulse, Why pain? Weren’t you all her design? But the question was too complicated, beyond plant comprehension; and the branches and thorns stirred uneasily.
So did Gar, drawing about an inch of his sword. The thorns reacted instantly, whipping long tendrils around Stefan’s body, arms and legs and torso, holding him immobile. He could feel the points pressing against the leather of his shirt; with very little movement, they could pierce him in a hundred places. Very carefully, he said to Gar, “Don’t move.”
“Stefan --” A shocked helplessness skewered his brother’s voice, as if Gar realized for the first time that this quest might cost one, or both, of their lives.
But it was all right; the instantaneous response had provided an idea. Stefan reached out again, ignoring the possibility of instant death, and said, to the consciousness that lurked somewhere in the web of branches, ::We don’t mean you harm. We don’t mean her harm, either. We only want to see her.::
Sword/hurt/pain flickered through his mind in reply. ::No,:: he told it. ::Not from us. I would not have you, or the lady, hurt.::
::Promise?::
::Promise.:: The word of a magician was not given lightly, even to constructs and enchantments. It would be enough. He hoped it would. The needle-points against his skin were too pointed for comfort.
But branches unwound in a hiss and a slither; thorns released, almost caressingly, leaving him alone on surprisingly unsteady feet. Holes scratched his shirt, but not his skin: perfectly judged.
Stefan took a deep breath, reassuring himself that he was all right. It was necessary. Maybe one more breath. And then he turned, to look at his brother. “Leave your sword.”
“Stef --” Gar said again. “I thought -- I mean -- we don’t have to do this. We can still go home.” And there was nothing but honest fear, and deep concern, in his face. Even though it would mean giving up on his quest, and admitting failure.
“No,” Stefan said, answering the concern just as truthfully. “I’m fine. Besides, look.” And he waved at the wall of thorns, where a helpful opening had appeared, just wide enough for one man, or two men in single file.
Gar blinked at it in startled shock. “You -- you did that.” He took a small step forward, entranced; the thorns rattled in warning, and he jumped back.
“I didn’t. It did. Leave your sword.” He had already dropped his own long knife -- the only weapon he carried -- onto the ground.
His brother looked at said sword, the ruby of the royal house of Aulsley gleaming in the hilt, and then, slowly, set it down. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Stefan said. “I promised.” And he was sure of something else, as well: he was even more interested in meeting the person who could create all this, the person who’d given up a princess’s life and walked away from the world, yet could imbue dangerous thorns with an understanding of pain, and duty, and compassion.
