Rough Magic Page 8

  “It will not happen.” He turned to look at her. She continued to stare out the window.

  “It will not happen,” he said again. “I would have seen it in the stars.”

  She laughed, short and sharp. “The stars,” she said, “are notorious liars.”

  He chuckled. “Not to me, mousling. You know that.”

  The old nickname, born in her childhood, seemed to soften her. Chiara turned to him, her hazel eyes gazing into his.

  “Do you truly believe so?” she asked.

  “Truly.”

  She stared a moment longer, then turned her gaze back to the window. Her expression was troubled. “Father will be upset.”

  Caliban snorted. Father. The man barely spoke to his daughter now except on state occasions. Chiara had confided that she thought the king hated her for being ugly. She was undoubtedly right. He had been hated for the same reason all his life.

  “That won’t bother you, I know,” she said wryly.

  “Your life is not a state decision.”

  “It is. I don’t like it either, but it is. And I’m too old now to dream about running off with gypsies or pirates.”

  He laughed at that. “Too old. Fifteen years this June and you’re already decrepit. What is your father thinking, sending a child into marriage?”

  “Child.” She sniffed. “Mother was married at my age.”

  He said nothing.

  “You’re right though. It’s stupid.” She flipped over on her stomach and began to trace a crack in the stone floor with her finger tip. She did the same thing every night she came here. Caliban was certain that she’d worn it smooth at the edges.

  “I don’t suppose,” she said, after a few moments, “that the stars have bothered to tell you what will stop the marriage?”

  “Not precisely, of course.”

  “Of course.” She grinned at him, lopsided mouth, lopsided humor.

  “They tell of an adventure, and challenge.”

  “Pirates and gypsies after all, then?”

  She laughed. It annoyed him. He was no crank palmist. Divination was his art and gift.

  She must have seen his expression harden and realized that she had pushed too far. She sighed. “I think the idea that my small life is mapped out by the heavens is ridiculous, Caliban. The heavens are useful to sailors and storytellers. I don’t want to go to Spain, but to avoid it I need a plan, not a vague promise.”

  “When do you sail?” he asked at last. There was no time for sulking.

  “The twelfth, with the tide. Mother is rushing every seamstress in Naples to make me clothes fit for the Spanish court. Apparently that means a great deal of heavy velvet fabrics, no matter the climate.” Her face twisted in a grimace. Caliban knew how much she hated any extremes in temperature. “Everyone tells me that Spain is a hot, dusty land, full of flies.”

  “You will sail.” He frowned, puzzled by the riddle he was reading in the sky. He needed to see more of the heavens than his window allowed. “There is danger. I will need to look longer. When I have observed some more I will know better.”

  “And I will practice my Spanish and hope for divine intervention.” She stood up, shaking her plain dress into order. She always wore green and ignored the fashions of the day, dressing in simple, straight gowns with no adornments. It added to her odd appearance, and Caliban knew it made her mother despair. “I must get back. They’re watching me closely these days to make sure I don’t run away.” Her expression was lost in the shadow of her hair.

  He said nothing as she left, but turned back to the window. “Talk to me, brothers,” he whispered. “Show me the way.”

  He stilled himself until his heart beat with the same pulse as the star that burned in the center of his view. “Speak to me of Chiara’s fate,” his mind whispered.

  Light swept through him, a flood that crossed the heavenly seas and caught him in its tide.

  —She will be tested.

  Gooseflesh rose on Caliban’s arms. There was something ominous here. It took all his concentration not to tremble, because that would break the link. “Will she live?” he asked. He hoped his question was absurd, wildly dramatic.

  The light wavered, the color changed to gold.

  —Uncertain. There are many paths that branch for her, many possible outcomes.

  The star shone blue again and left him to join the dance once more.

  He rose from the floor, slowly, his joints stiff and creaking. “Something must be done,” he muttered. He drew his hood up over his head and walking swiftly and silently left the tower.

  III.iv.

  When Caliban returned to their shared chambers, he found the old wizard sitting in his chair by the fire, twisting a green silk handkerchief in his hands and muttering at the grate. He looked up. He did not even nod a greeting. “You shall sail with her,” he said.

  Caliban held himself in check, forcing his muscles to become stone even while his blood raced and cheered.

  “The king will never allow it,” he said tonelessly. “You know his opinion of me.”

  “The king will do as I say,” the old man snapped. “He cannot refuse my dying wish.”

  Time stopped. Caliban felt himself growing small and speechless. “You are not dying,” he whispered.

  Prospero stared him. Finally he spoke, his voice flat but not ungentle. “I have never loved you, Caliban. I find it impossible even now, after all our years together. But Chiara does. She loves you, Caliban, and I know that you love her. You will protect her.

  “As for dying,” he added, his voice still steady, “I am. You know that I am, even though you deny it. The work has not saved me. I leave it to you, and to her, to find the transforming agent. If the two of you cannot do it together then it cannot be done at all.”

  Caliban took his turn at staring into the cold ashes. “I doubt that her royal Spanish husband will welcome either me as her servant or her preoccupation with alchemy.” His kept his own voice level, calm. It seemed to come from someone else. This was a foolish hope. It was cruel for the old man to dangle this dream before him.

  “Her royal husband be damned,” the wizard barked. “That fool’s fate is not for her. I will not see Chiara used as a royal bargaining chip.” He broke off and stared at the knotted handkerchief in his hands. It seemed that he could not look up to say what needed to be said.

  “Your life with me has not been easy, Caliban. There’s been many a time that I thought it would have been kinder to leave you on your island. To leave you free and.… Well, no matter. We both made choices, and life’s been lived. I was given a second chance. It seems only right that you should be given one too.”

  Caliban stood like a stump, his hands dangling uselessly at his sides. They had never been frank with one another. They had always communicated sideways, catching meaning from gestures and expressions. He did not know how to talk to this half-father in any other way.

  Prospero lifted the handkerchief to his mouth and blew a word into it, then knotted it one last time. “It is done,” he said, triumphantly. Or he would have said it, if he had any breath left with which to speak. He had none. He had simply mouthed the words. He grew pale and fell back into the chair. His hand holding out the handkerchief shook so badly that Caliban had to grasp the old man’s wrist to hold it still before he could pry it from Prospero’s fingers.

  With the last of his strength Prospero pointed at the table. “Letter,” he mouthed again, now with foam flecking his lips. His body spasmed and a rattle sounded in his throat. His eyes slid from Caliban’s to the ceiling, then they emptied.

  Caliban knelt beside the chair. He looked down at the handkerchief, clutched now in both his hands. It had been a wind spell, created with a life’s breath. He had freed Chiara with a word.

  He had freed them both. Because Caliban knew, even without reading the letter he saw lying on the worktable, that the spell would take them to the island.

  He was going home. He sat for a while, staring a
t the form that had once been his master. He tried to feel something, but he could not. He had no emotions left. He felt as though he were a stranger to himself, as though he weren’t actually living in his own body.

  Finally he rose and collected the letter. He put it into his pocket, unread, and went to find the queen. He hoped that she would allow him to tell Chiara about her grandfather’s last wish.

  III.v.

  The room still smelled like sulfur. The afternoon sun poured in its usual way across the tiled floor, splashing up the legs of the worktable and washing over its surface. There were glass vials filled with different fluids resting there that shattered the light into rainbow splinters on the walls. Chiara sat down in her usual chair, pretending that all was well, that her grandfather would appear from his sleeping chamber at any moment, muttering and cracking his knuckles over some particularly vexing thought. The silence deepened, grew longer. Chiara felt her mind letting go of its fantasy, felt the sorrow swell and take its place. Finally, her grief overwhelmed her. She turned her head into the cushioned back of the chair and sobbed.

  She grew quiet and laid her face against the soft fabric of the chair. She neither lifted her head nor turned to look when she heard the door open and shut. It could only be Caliban.

  There was a long pause, then her mother said, “Chiara.”

  Chiara startled, sitting upright and rubbing a quick hand across her face. Her eyes were swollen and a crease had been stamped across her right cheek where it had pressed against the chair. There were wild wisps of hair sticking out all over her head, while others were pasted to her forehead by its dampness. She jumped to her feet, smoothing out the skirt of her black dress. It was one of the new ones her mother had ordered to be made for Spain. She curtsied awkwardly. “Hello, mother,” she said.

  Queen Miranda was still beautiful. Her fair hair had darkened to the shade of late summer honey. Her skin was smooth and without blemish. A few faint lines around and between her eyes betrayed her age, but they were only visible in bright light. Her eyes themselves were blue and kind, though often troubled. “Sit down, Chiara,” she said. She herself sat in her father’s old chair. Chiara stared at her mother. She had stared at her mother all her life, amazed that she was the daughter of this perfect woman. There was such a wide chasm between them that it took all their love to bridge it.

  “It is a sad time, Chiara,” her mother said at last.

  “Yes,” answered Chiara.

  “But it is also a time of celebration,” her mother added. She spoke stiffly. It sounded like she had trained herself to speak whatever she had come to say.

  Chiara swallowed. “I had thought—” she began.

  “I know what you thought,” the queen interrupted. She stopped, perhaps surprised at the harshness of her own voice. She began again, her tone softer, but just as definite. “You think that your mourning will postpone your wedding. And so it should, all things being right and natural. But your father needs haste in securing this alliance. You must put your grief aside, Chiara, at least in the company of your new husband. I know it is a terrible thing that we are asking of you. I know how dearly you loved your grandfather. But you are a king’s daughter, and your duty to your father and your country demands this price right now.”

  Chiara felt her face growing rigid with pain, with fury she could not express. No doubt her mother saw it. Miranda faltered for a moment, then seemed to steel herself. She pressed on. “You must not wear black to your wedding, Chiara. After the ceremony you may wear a black armband, but no more. It is as it must be.”

  Chiara looked down at her hands. She twisted them together in her lap to stop their shaking. “It is barbaric,” she whispered.

  “Chiara,” said her mother warningly.

  “I will do it, mother,” Chiara said, still softly. “I will do it for the reasons that you give. But it is barbaric, and both you and my father know it.”

  “You are simply repeating what I have already said. But it changes nothing. It is still as it must be,” her mother replied.

  The door opened again. Caliban stood there, his hood drawn up. He stopped at the sight of the queen. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” he said. He moved back into the hall.

  “Stay,” said the queen, rising from the chair. She walked to him and, amazingly, took his hand in her own. “I am sorry, Caliban,” she said. And then, softly, so that Chiara could barely hear the words, she added, “He was your father as well.”

  Chiara saw a look pass between them, but she did not think her mother could read the darkness of Caliban’s eyes. The queen dropped his hand and turned back to her daughter.

  “My father asked the king to grant him a final wish,” she announced. She could not keep the formal tone from her voice. Chiara was not surprised. There was nothing natural or easy in anything her mother was saying. “He knew his days were drawing to a close, and he wanted to make certain that Caliban was provided for.”

  Chiara caught her breath. She knew how her father felt about Caliban. “Mother, please—”

  “Be still, Chiara,” her mother said, interrupting her daughter once again. “My father asked that Caliban be allowed to accompany you to Spain, as your personal servant. The king thinks it is a preposterous request, but it was your grandfather’s dying wish. I believe it is for the best,” she said, smiling gently at Caliban.

  Then the queen looked down at her hands. She looked embarrassed. It was a rare thing to see Miranda looking embarrassed. “She should be,” Chiara thought. “With everything she’s said, she should be ashamed.”

  “It pains me to say this,” the queen began. Then she lifted her face and looked Caliban directly in the eyes, all her gentleness gone. “My husband and I ask only that you keep to yourself when you arrive in Spain. Do not allow yourself to be seen more than is absolutely necessary.”

  “Mother!” Chiara was mortified.

  “I am sorry, Chiara. I find no joy in saying this. I am asking because it is in your best interest that this be so, and I know that Caliban understands and will agree to it for the same reason. Your position in Spain will not be secure for some time. You must win your husband’s good favor. Caliban’s presence… Chiara, no matter how much you care for him you must know how others see him.”

  “They are idiots,” Chiara said, flatly. She could not believe her mother was speaking this way about Caliban right in front of him, as though he were nothing more than an insensible tree stump.

  Caliban waved his hand dismissively. He always claimed that he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. “I understand, Your Majesty. I will be a shadow, and silent. You have my word.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Caliban. That is that, then. Be well, Chiara.” She left the room, her perfume lingering behind her.

  III.vi.

  Chiara stared after her, then turned to Caliban. “I am so glad,” she said, at last. “Spain will not be so horrible if you are there. But I won’t hide you, Caliban. People will think that I’m ashamed of you. They’ll think that they can treat you badly. I won’t have that.”

  “I will not be in Spain.”

  “What do you mean? Caliban, you won’t abandon the ship and leave me?”

  “I will abandon ship, but not alone.”

  Heat spread across Chiara’s cheeks. “I cannot, Caliban. You must not ask it of me. If I run away, I dishonor my family and leave my father powerless.”

  “Powerless.” Caliban spat the word contemptuously. “He is a king with great resources. He does not need to enslave his child to achieve his political goals.”

  “Stop it, Caliban. ‘Enslave,’ what a ridiculous word. He’s my father. You know—”

  “It is not ridiculous. It is the truth. And I know more than you understand. I know that your grandfather wished you to escape, and bought that escape for you with his very life.”

  Chiara’s mind whirled. “What do you mean?” she asked hoarsely.

  “He cast a wind spell with his breath. It took all th
at he had left. It will take us to the island, Chiara. There will be a storm. The sailors will believe us to be lost at sea. Your father will not be disgraced. He will simply have to look about for other means to further his ambitions.”

  “Don’t speak about him like that,” Chiara whispered. She stood and wandered about the room, her thoughts spinning. It was not honorable. Her parents would think she was dead. They would grieve for her while she fished for trout on Caliban’s island. She stopped at that thought. It would trouble her father, but would he grieve? Her mother would, but her comfort would be found in small Ferdinand, their son. They would find another way to ally themselves with Spain. And she would be free.

  “Let me think about it, Caliban,” she said at last. “I will decide. Let me think.”

  She left the room quickly, unable to look at him. In her confusion she stumbled into a servant. The man caught her arm and steadied her, then stepped back and bowed. “The king wishes to speak with you, Highness. He’s in his chamber now.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She wanted to run out into the wood, but she steeled herself and walked the path of carpet-muffled hallways that led to her father.

  She rapped softly on the door. “Come,” said her father’s voice from inside. He was always direct in his speech.

  She entered by slipping in like a thief, letting the door slide shut again behind her. King Ferdinand stood alone by the window, gazing out across the south grounds. Chiara knew he could see the small grove of Caliban’s trees from there. He called it the “Pagan Wood.” No doubt as soon as they were gone, he would cut them down and put some pleasant garden walks in their place.

  He turned and looked her over appraisingly. Chiara curtsied, then waited for him to speak. The king did not move from his position in front of the window. That’s all he is to me, she thought. He’s nothing more than a dark silhouette in the shape of a father.

  He regarded her evenly. “You have spoken to your mother,” he said.