Free Snow White and Rose Red by Patricia Wrede Page A

was accomplished by words, or by ritual, or by the virtue in specific plants, or with the aid of some object of power? Whether ‘twas intended to entrap the Prince your brother, or whether he has accidentally fallen foul of some dire spell intended to work otherwise? Knowing these things, I might begin to fashion a remedy; without such knowledge, I can but guess and hope.”
    “Then at least tell me what to expect,” John said. “What is this enchantment doing to Hugh? How shall this end?”
    “It ends in misery and mourning,” said a cool voice from behind the two men. They turned as one, and the healer made a deep obeisance. The Queen of Faerie stood in the doorway with her ladies-in-waiting about her. Each of the women wore something that was the white of Faerie mourning—a sash, an armband, the lining of her sleeves. The Queen herself was all in white, from the small hood she wore to her pearl-covered slippers. Her sleeves were edged with ermine, and a ruff of stiff white lace stood out around her neck. White did not become her.
    “What meanest thou, Mother?” John said.
    “There’s naught that can be done for Hugh,” the Queen said. Her pale face was bleak as she stared down at the bed where her youngest son lay. “His very essence hath been riven from him; soon he will lose even the outward semblance of a man.”
    John stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the stiff white brocade of the Queen’s wide skirts. “No.”
    “Yes,” said the Queen implacably. “Thou hast but to look at him to see the truth; the change is even now begun.”
    Slowly, unwillingly, John’s head turned to look at his unconscious brother. The clear, pitiless light of Faerie poured through the long windows overhead, relentlessly marking every alteration in Hugh’s face. His nose seemed longer, and beneath the shadow of his unshaven beard his jaw was narrower. His lips were thinner, and his forehead sloped slightly backward. His neck had thickened; so had his shoulders and arms. The long fingers were thicker, too, and shorter. Even his fingernails had changed; they were dark and bruised-looking, and hard as horn. There was no longer anything remotely elegant about the figure on the bed, though no one could have claimed with any success that it was not Hugh.
    “No!” John said again, just above a whisper. “Not Hugh.”
    “Yes. And when he is become a beast, he must be cast from Faerie. That is the law, and not even I can change it,” the Queen said coldly. “Therefore I and all my court have put on mourning for my son.”
    “‘Tis not too late to stop this spell,” John insisted. “It cannot be!” He glanced at the physician for support.
    “If we knew more, ‘twere not too late,” the physician replied reluctantly. “But where to learn what we must know, I cannot say. This spell comes out of mortal lands, I think, and mortal ways are passing strange.”
    John turned back to the Queen, his expression intent. “Then let me go into the mortal lands and seek a remedy—”
    “You!” The cold immobility of the Queen’s face made the bitter anger in her voice cut deep. “This abomination is your doing, yet you think only of how swiftly you may evade my edicts and return to your beloved mortals! You care naught for your brother, nor for me, nor for the realm of Faerie.”
    For a long moment John was stunned into speechlessness. Finally he managed to stammer out, “My doing? I’d never harm Hugh; thou canst not think it!”
    The Queen’s expression did not change. “You did not cast the spell yourself, but the responsibility is yours nonetheless. Your foolish wandering among the mortals has drawn their attention here. Had you not left our realm, Hugh would not now lie unknowing as he does.”
    “Thou dost blame me without cause,” John said. “Let me prove it. If there’s help for Hugh in mortal lands, I’ll find it.”
    “Seek not to repeat your thoughtless folly!” the Queen answered. “You’ve done enough