Prince Erik studied the door in the garden wall.
It didn’t impress him, this door. The wood was thin. It could be shattered with a few swings of an axe. And the lock was simple, unworthy of the Duke’s faith in it.
In the course of his wanderings, Erik had encountered many such locks. And, over time, he had learned the burglarious methods required to open them. A few minutes with a bent nail would suffice.
But he had also come to the conclusion that doors were overrated as a way of getting past walls. A garden wall has gates, yes. But it also has a top and a bottom. Erik couldn’t see himself digging under this wall, but he could easily imagine himself climbing over it.
Especially since the wall in question was cloaked in thick ivy and flanked by well-grown trees. This oak tree, for instance. It stood at the upper edge of the Duke’s garden, away from the villa. Not easy to keep an eye on. And it was definitely taller than the wall.
Erik shinnied up the tree – another skill he had acquired in his wanderings. He climbed until he found a branch that stretched in the right direction.
It was a good-sized limb. And it made a comfortable perch. Erik sat there for a while, his back against the trunk, observing and listening. The late morning sun glittered through the leaves like water sparking on a pond. When he closed his eyes, it cast moving red shadows that reminded him of fish. He was surrounded by wind and birdsong. The air smelled like golden dust.
–
The tree was pleasant. But he didn’t have all day. Erik balanced on the branch and crawled outward.
There, in a floating world of leaves and sunlight, he reached the Wizard’s wall. And discovered that the branch intersected it, vanishing into the masonry with no obvious disturbance of either wood or brickwork.
Erik felt the familiar, wild frisson of magic. He ran his fingers around the junction of bark and bricks, but found no sign it had been contrived. It simply… was. Which meant, he thought, that the branch probably emerged from the wall on the other side, overhanging the Wizard’s garden.
He stood carefully on the branch, bracing his hands against the wall. The top was just beyond his reach. But the ivy was old and strong, anchored to the brickwork with a mat of tiny, fibrous rootlets. Erik had climbed such ivy-mats before. He took a deep breath, swarmed up the wall like a sailor on a ship’s rigging, and threw one leg over the top.
It was narrower than he expected. A single course of brickwork – that couldn’t be right. When he had passed through the garden door, the wall was five feet thick. Erik pulled himself up, and found that he was straddling a parapet. It flanked a brick path on the top of the wall, with a similar parapet on the other side. He swung his other leg over, and stood.
It was like a castle battlement, he thought. The path stretched away in both directions, receding in broad curves. It overlooked the Wizard’s garden on one side, and the Duke’s estate on the other – villa, garden, and broad, rolling vineyards.
Erik checked the Wizard’s side, and confirmed that the branch passed through the wall unimpeded. It should be a simple matter to climb down to it, then attach a knotted rope and drop into the garden.
Always assuming that’s what he wanted to do.
He had spent time as the Wizard’s captive, and he didn’t want to repeat the experience. All he wanted was to sneak into the palace, grab a few things, and make his escape. Next time he was in a good-sized city, he would fence the loot. It was a good way for a wandering “prince” to make a living, until he managed to snare a rich, pretty wife.
He had seen enough before he was captured to know that theft would be quick and easy, if he could avoid the Wizard’s magical traps.
That book, for instance. Erik shuddered at the memory of it. That thing would certainly fetch a good price. If it were not a massive block of solid stone, and also impossible to look at without enthrallment. But there had been other things, pretty little baubles made of gold and magical crystals, which could be grabbed and dropped into a pocket. They would definitely be worth the trouble.
But perhaps it would be better if he could find a way down that was closer to the palace. Erik didn’t see himself racing the Wizard to the bottom of the garden with his pockets full of treasure. He sauntered along the wall, enjoying the afternoon and taking mental notes.
He spotted a number of places where the wall had intersected trees. Most were single branches, like his original limb. But occasionally a whole leafy crown sprang from the path, making progress difficult.
He remembered something that Agate had said, about the Wizard’s wall being further away when she was young. He had thought at the time it was a remark about the greater subjective distances of childhood. Now, he womdered. It seemed more likely that the wall itself had moved.
Well, that’s magic for you. Would the Wizard’s garden someday overrun the Duke’s villa? Why did Obsidian even stay here, if that was a possibility?
Erik shrugged. Nobles were all mad. Everybody knew that.
But some of them had very pretty daughters.
He was looking down into the Wizard’s garden — here, more of a woodland — thinking about Agate, when a voice said, “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
Erik jumped, and turned to face… no, not the Wizard. Some other fellow. Someone he had not seen before.
He was about Erik’s own height. (The Wizard was much taller.) And younger than the Wizard. Maybe fifty? Hard to tell – his face was young, but his brindled reddish hair was streaked with gray. His features were pointed. Foxlike, Erik thought. Or maybe that was just their expression: intelligent, knowing. Tricky. His green eyes seemed to see everything.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the stranger repeated.
“Who are you?” said Erik. Then, “Wouldn’t what?”
“Break into Gerrit’s palace again. I would have thought you’d had enough of his… hospitality, last time you were here.”
Erik considered denying any such intention, but he had obviously been recognized. “I don’t remember you,” he said.
“No reason you should. But I was quite aware of you, Liam.”
“Wait. What? How do you know my name?”
The stranger laughed. “Nobody can use an alias in a dream.”
The young man blinked. “What dream?”
“This one,” said the stranger. “You’re skeptical. But… how many fingers do you have?”
Liam stared at his hands. He knew what the answer ought to be. But his left hand seemed to have three fingers, while his right had seven. He closed his hands into fists and reopened them. Now there are six and nine. He looked up at the stranger, who held up his own, oddly irregular, digits.
“It’s how you can tell you are dreaming,” the stranger explained patiently. “Finger numbers don’t stay contant. And you can’t read text. Next time you wonder if you are really awake, open a book. If you’re dreaming, it will be total nonsense.”
The stranger had a fox-face now, complete with black nose, fur and pointed ears. A fox’s tail emerged from his gray-green robes.
A chill rippled down Liam’s spine. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The fox-man laughed. “Oh, I’m just the gardener. But it doesn’t matter. It’s time for you to wake up.”
–
And, just like that, Erik was awake. But it took him several seconds to realize it.
It was dark, for one thing. His body felt cold and cramped. There was an uncomfortable roughness against his back.
Slowly, memories returned.
He was sitting in a tree. In the tree, the oak near the Wizard’s wall. The wall he had obviously never reached, never climbed, never walked along in the afternoon sunlight. Where he had never met that strange fox-fellow who knew his given name.
Well, that’s magic for you. Erik climbed down from the tree with difficulty. It was night-time now. He wondered what time, exactly? He wondered if anyone had noticed he was missing.
His stomach rumbled, and he realized he had missed dinner, tea-time and supper. For all he knew, it was not even the same day. Damn magic, anyway. He gestured a rude malediction toward the wall and its resident mysteries.
A sleek black cat slipped past him and scrambled up the oak tree. It peered down at him from the limb above, then headed toward the wall.
—