“They all hated Elden,” Woody said. “All but Leah. There was a feeling at court that he wouldn’t survive to twenty.”
I thought of the flabby, drooling thing in the VIP spectators’ box, his complexion gone past gray to an even more unhealthy green, and wondered how old Elden was now. I also wondered what had been shifting around beneath that purple caftan-cum-robe… but wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.
“The two youngest were driven together by the hate and dislike of the others, also because they genuinely loved each other, and… I think… because they were smarter. They explored almost every nook and cranny of the palace, from the tips of the spires where they were forbidden to go, but where they went anyway, to the lower levels.”
“Deep Maleen?”
“Likely, and deeper still. There are many ancient ways beneath the city where few have been for long years. I don’t know if Leah was with him when he stumbled on the way to the Deep Well—she refuses to talk about the years when they began to grow out of their childhood—but they did go almost everywhere together, except perhaps for the palace library. Smart as she was, Leah was never a one for books; Elden was the reader of the two.”
“Bet his brother made fun of him for that, too,” Eye put in.
Woody turned to him and smiled. “Truly said, you friend of Charlie. Robert and the sisters as well.”
“WHAT ARE YOU TELLING HIM NOW?” Claudia asked. Woody scribbled a brief recap on his pad. She read it, then said: “TELL HIM ABOUT ELSA!”
I straightened up. “The mermaid?”
“Yes,” Woody agreed. “The palace mermaid. Did you by chance see her?”
I nodded. I wasn’t going to say I’d seen what was left of her.
“She lived in a little hidden alcove,” Woody said. “A grotto, almost. I’d like to believe she lives there still, but I very much doubt it. She’s probably died of neglect or starvation. And, possibly, sadness.”
She had died, all right, but it hadn’t been neglect, starvation, or sadness that had killed her.
“Elden and Leah fed her, and she sang to them. Strange songs, but beautiful. Leah used to sing some herself.” He paused. “When she still had a mouth to sing with.”
I stroked Radar’s head. She looked up at me sleepily. Our trip had been hard for her as well as for me, but for Rades things had turned out well. She had a new lease on life and was with people who loved her. Thinking about her escape made me think of how I had gotten the news of her survival.
“Tell me about the cricket,” I said to Claudia. “The red cricket. Big as this.” I held my hands apart. “I don’t understand how it got to you. Did it come with Radar? And why—”
She gave me an exasperated look. “DID YOU FORGET I CAN’T HEAR YOU, SHARLIE?”
I had, actually. I could tell you it was because her hair was down tonight, covering the sides of her head where her ears had been, but that wouldn’t be true. I just forgot. So I told Woody about how I’d saved the red cricket from Peterkin, and how I’d later seen it coming out of a hole in the dungeon wall with a note stuck to its belly. One with a little bundle of Radar’s fur folded inside. How I had attached my own note to it and sent it on its way, following my father’s dictum: expect nothing but never lose hope.
“Good advice,” Woody said, and began to scratch on his pad. He wrote fast, every line amazingly straight. Outside the door, the grayfolk were settling in for the night, those who had brought blankets sharing them. Across the way I could see Falada tied to a hitching post outside the church and cropping grass.
Woody passed the pad to Claudia, and as she read what was written there, she began to smile. It made her beautiful. When she spoke it wasn’t in her usual booming voice but in a much lower one, as if talking to herself.
She said, “In spite of Elden’s best efforts on behalf of the entity he serves—he may not believe he is that thing’s tool, but he surely is—the magic survives. Because magic is hard to destroy. You’ve seen that for yourself, haven’t you?”
I nodded and stroked Radar, who had been dying and was now young and strong again after her six turns on the sundial.
“Yes, the magic survives. He calls himself Flight Killer now, but you’ve seen for yourself that thousands, no, MILLIONS, of the monarchs still live. And while Elsa may be dead, the Snab still lives. Thanks to you, Sharlie.”
“The Snab?” Iota asked, sitting up straight. He smacked his forehead with the palm of one big hand. “High gods, why didn’t I know when I saw it?”