The Catswold Portal

“Oloroso,” he said, seeming surprised that he held the bottle. “Worth a fortune—brought down from Spain generations ago.” He filled two goblets, holding the bottle carefully, not using a spell, as if with drunkenness his spells, too, were shaky. “In the upperworld they bid fortunes against fortunes for such wine.” His eyes, when he turned to look at her, seemed caught between drunkenness and fear stirred by her words.

He handed her a glass. “Tonight you drink a fortune, my love. And tomorrow,” he said, lifting his goblet unsteadily, “tomorrow we banish the queen.”

“How can you banish her? You don’t know yet if I’m with child.”

“Tomorrow we will know.” He smiled, regaining his composure. “This morning I sent a page to Ebenth to fetch an old woman who is a master at the spells of prediction. She will tell us if we have started a son.” He watched her, laughing.

“Oh yes, my love. She will tell us. She has a solid reputation among the peasants. Whether her prediction is true or not, the peasants will believe her.”

She set her glass down. “No one can know so soon.”

“This woman can. And if Siddonie has found a changeling as you say, then we must have proof at once. The old woman can give us that proof. A son, Melissa—a new prince of Affandar.” He reached to pull her up from the chair, to hold her. She pushed him away.

He said, “Once the news is public, Siddonie wouldn’t dare to harm you.” He snatched up her glass, spilling wine. “Drink, Melissa—drink to our child—to a healthy new prince for Affandar.”

She rose, took the glass, and set it on the mantel. “What about Wylles?” she said quietly. “Wylles is the true prince of Affandar.”

“Everyone knows Wylles will die. Whether he dies here or in the upperworld makes little difference. It would be more convenient, though, if he died before any switch was attempted.”

“You can’t kill him.” She watched Efil, shocked. “The Primal Law…”

“No one spoke of killing.” He lifted her chin. “But poor Wylles knows pain. He could know more pain. Wylles knows fear, and that could turn to terror. Perhaps Wylles will find a way to ease his own hurts.” He pulled her close, kissing her, open-mouthed and ardent, forcing her toward the bed. Fear and repugnance filled her.

“We daren’t, Efil. Not here.”

“There’s no danger. Siddonie is occupied with a tinsmith from Cressteane, a hulking boar—as if size could assure her a breeding.” Crudely he pulled at her dress, pinning her against the headboard, forcing her, seeming possessed. She fought him, stiff and clenched, hitting him. But even drunk he was stronger. His weight was on her, his hands invading her; this was not lovemaking, it was cruel. She was terrified she would cry out and be heard beyond this room. She bit him, twisting away, and heard the door crash open.

Light filled the room, blinding her, shattering across Siddonie’s face twisted with rage. The queen lunged at her, grabbing her, wrenching her away, jerking her off the bed, shaking and slapping her, her nails biting into Melissa’s shoulder. She hit back at Siddonie and broke free. She tried to run, but something unseen jerked her down; a power held her unmoving and helpless.

“On the taint of Catswold blood…” Siddonie hissed.

“No!” Efil shouted. “She bears my son! She bears the prince of Affandar!”

“To Catswold cleave…”

“The peasants already know,” Efil yelled. “The news has been spread—they will rise against you…”

Melissa struggled, twisting at Siddonie’s feet; above her Siddonie’s voice echoed, “To cat do I command you…”

Her body constricted. She couldn’t breathe.

“To cat I commit you. To cat you will cleave, to no other spirit yield.” Siddonie had grown so tall, so huge. Melissa stared up at her, then stared at her own shaking hands. And her hands were changing into paws.

The queen glared down at her, her eyes filled with loathing. “To cat you are returning. Cat you will remain and never more than cat. You will remember no more than cat…”

Her body hurt, her legs were twisted with pain. She saw the disgust on Efil’s face, saw him turn away. Siddonie’s shouts deafened her. “Bring the guards!” Running feet pounded down the hall, and the queen’s voice blurred, lost all meaning. The room was immense around her. She tried to rise, and fell panting. She stared in terror at her white paws scrabbling at the carpet as men pounded into the room, surrounding her. She spun around, facing one then another, torn with fear. “Get the creature out of here! Put it in a cage!”

The calico cat crouched, her eyes blazing, then leaped at the queen, clinging to Siddonie’s thigh, slashing so brutally the queen screamed and knocked her away into a tangle of booted legs. The room seemed filled with boots, soldiers towered, spraddle-legged, blocking her, grabbing at her. She faced them spitting, raking their reaching hands, then dashed through between their legs and fled into blackness under the bed.