The Last Days Of The Edge Of The World Read online

  “But don’t you see,” said Helen, “your kind of life is the kind of life I want to live. It’s what I choose. I love Moonmansion. I want to stay here.”

  “But it’s all you’ve ever known,” said Sirion Hilversun. “How can you know?”

  Helen looked out of the window. She leaned over the sill, looking out towards Methwold forest, searching the

  deepening evening for the shadows of the forgotten city of Ora Lamae. There, it was true, was decay and desolation. It was not a pleasant place. Nor, for that matter, was Methwold itself, which was dark green from without and black and dry within. Such places no longer existed in the Western World, save as myths and legends and the stuff of nightmares. She couldn’t honestly say that she liked them, but she was used to them. She knew them. They were real.

  “I don’t want to go away,” she whispered.

  “You owe it to yourself,” said Sirion Hilversun. “You must look beyond these horizons. Perhaps, as you seem to believe, the Western World is not what people claim. But you must go to see. You can’t just stay here and reject it out of hand. You’re young. All this is bad for you…. I should have sent you away years ago.”

  “No!” she said, sharply. Then, knowing that he meant well, that he was sincere in everything he said, she repeated it in a softer tone, almost a pleading tone: “No.”

  The enchanter looked down again at the letter in his hand, reading it for the fortieth time, though he had not forgotten its contents.

  “I don’t want to marry,” said Helen. “Not a prince, not anyone. I don’t believe that life is just a matter of attaching oneself to a man—the most highly placed man available—and then drifting along in his wake. I’d rather make my own way in the world, in command of my own life.”

  “It’s not that easy,” said the enchanter. “Not even with magic to help.”

  “You’re always so very sure that nothing’s easy,” she said. “The trouble with you is that you won’t try. You give up and let things go the way they are. You have magical power and skill and knowledge. Perhaps if you were willing to try we could do something here in the magic lands. We could fight the decay, give the land some of its life again. If you weren’t always so determined to let events flow over and around you we might not be trapped the way we are.”

  She seemed very close to tears. Sirion Hilversun didn’t know what to say. She turned away from the window and from him, looking through moist eyes at the ancient furniture which crammed the room: magic carpets eaten away by magic moths, tables with broken legs, clocks with broken hearts, cracked crystal balls and magic mirrors which had long ago turned in upon their own reflections. He watched her stir at the dust which overlaid a gryphon-skin rug with her slipper.

  “The powers I have are no match for those that made our world what it is,” said the enchanter meekly. “Only Jeahawn the Judge could begin to sort things out after the war, and he could do no more than put all the released forces under check. He couldn’t undo the damage which had been done—that would have taken more than a hundred years, and the most powerful spell ever written. There’s none alive now who could ever make such a spell. The decay will have to run its course, and in likelihood these lands will be sick for ever and ever.”

  “I know,” she said. “You remember it all as if it were tomorrow. There’s no hope. What will be will be.”

  Now he was close to tears, too. She realized this, and relented.

  “I don’t mean to be unkind,” she said. “I’m sorry, I really am. But you don’t realize how much you’re asking of me. What’s this prince like? I might not like him. Why is the king of Caramorn suddenly offering me his son anyhow? It’s been three generations since a king of Caramorn last talked to you, and that was to tell you to get out of his kingdom or else.”

  “He didn’t put it quite like that,” said Sirion Hilversun, trying hard to remember. “He was decent enough, as kings go. It wasn’t his idea, really, though he had no love for magic in himself. It was popular demand. The peasants were always prejudiced against us—too many hedgewizards and charlatans making a pest of themselves, I suppose. I dare say the common people never got much joy out of magic—none that they could count in their wallets. And they were always afraid. Rufus made himself very popular by expelling us all, as I remember it. He always did want to be remembered as a king the people loved.”

  “All right, then,” said Helen. “So why is his great-grandson trying to re-import magic into the realm?”

  The enchanter shrugged. It didn’t seem to him to be a very important question. The important question was how to persuade Helen that this really was all for the best.

  “I’m going to invite the king, and the prince, and his ministers over for a banquet,” declared the enchanter. “It’s the only thing to do. You can see Damian and he can see you. And if all is satisfactory arrangements can commence. That’s what we’ll do. And it will all come out right____Just you see if it doesn’t.”

  Helen shook her head, but decided that it was wiser to say no more. Time would tell. There was no harm in having a look at the prince. And then… Well, she would think of something.

  You have got to be joking,” said Damian to his father. It was not a wise remark. King Rufus Malagig IV was not in a good temper, and the crown prince always seemed to bring out the worst in his temper, even when it was

  at its best.

  “This is no joke,” said the king, through gritted teeth.

  “The future of the kingdom depends on this. My future; Your future. Just for once you are going to do as you are told and you are going to do it right.”

  “I don’t want to marry a witch,” said Damian. “I’d rather marry a kitchen-maid than some horrible hag with magical powers. I don’t care if we are bankrupt. I’ve been bankrupt for years, since you cut off my allowance I’m used to it. Furthermore, dear father…”

  “Shut up!” roared the king.

  A group of starlings sitting on the palace roof took flight in panic, although the king and the prince were in the throne room three floors down. Rufus Malagig had often been complimented on the magnitude of the royal roar.

  Damian sniffed. “There’s no need to be like that about it,” he said. Although he was a rather sickly youth, and puny to boot, he had long since given up cowering before his father. He had grown used to the roar over the years and he knew that the king was too soft of heart to back it up with any real action. Damian had long since learned that endurance was all that was required to win family arguments in the court of Caramorn.

  “If your majesty pleases,” said Coronado, who was standing to one side, “perhaps I could explain to the prince the reasons of state which make this marriage necessary.”

  “Never mind the reasons of state,” snorted the king. “It’s not his place to demand explanations. He’ll do as he’s told.”

  “I will not,” said the prince, with an air of martyred innocence. “And it ill becomes you to suggest that I should.”

  “She only has a few magical powers, dear,” put in the queen, desperately trying to pour oil on the troubled waters.

  “That,” said Damian, “is like saying that she only has a few measles, or a slight case of the plague.”

  “Perhaps,” interposed Coronado cunningly, “the young highness is afraid of magic.”

  “I am not!” said Damian. This was a lie, of a variety which he told often. His one passionate belief was that discretion was the better part of valour. He had never been known to say “boo” to a goose, or even to a larger-than-average duck.

  “Oh, well,” said Coronado slyly, “perhaps it’s just women that he’s afraid of.”

  “I am not!” repeated Damian, turning red and stamping his foot. Though he lacked the volume, he had obviously inherited something of his father’s talent for bellowing.

  “Ah,” said Coronado, “such courage. And for the sake of his country, too. The people will love you for this,

  young sire.”

  Damian f
urrowed his brow, trying to remember whether anything had slipped out that shouldn’t have. “Now wait a minute,” he said. “I didn’t say that…”

  “It’s not everyone,” Coronado went on, “who would stand up forthrightly and say: ‘If my country needs me, I shall not flinch. I am not afraid to do what has to be done.’ You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “Well,” said Damian, “no… but let’s not rush into anything. I mean, we don’t know anything about this girl, and… well, there may be perfectly good reasons.”

  “Oh, precisely, sire,” said Coronado. “You take the words out of my mouth.”

  “Do I?” said Damian, by now hopelessly lost.

  “And I couldn’t agree more,” Coronado hurried on. “Exactly as you say. We need to know more. And that is why we are all going to dine at the enchanter’s home tomorrow evening. Then we can, as you have so shrewdly observed, find out more about the girl, and whether she is really worthy to marry your august self.”

  “Oh,” said the prince, slowly. “Yes, well… I’m glad you see it my way. Sensible, that. We’ll go check up on them. But I warn you, I’m very suspicious of this whole affair. Very suspicious indeed. It’s not that I’m afraid … not in the least. Not of anything. But one has to cautious, you see. Very cautious.”

  Still trying to figure out exactly where the conversation had taken him, the prince left the room.

  Coronado and the king exchanged troubled glances.

  “He’s not going to co-operate,” said the king.

  “The thing I worry about,” said Coronado, “is whether she’ll co-operate once she’s clapped eyes on him.”

  “What a terrible thing to say,” complained the queen. “Is that any way to talk about the prince? Rufus? Are you going to let him talk about our son that way?”

  “He is a prince,” pointed out Rufus Malagig IV. “She can’t expect everything. And he’s not that bad.”

  “Oh!” said the queen. “You’re just as bad as he is. Your own son! Not content with bartering him in marriage to a wizard, you have to insult him as well. How could you!”

  And, with that, the queen stormed out.

  The king shifted uneasily on the throne. He took off his crown and looked at it thoughtfully, then dusted off a mark with his shirt cuff. He gave Coronado a rueful glance.

  “Are you sure this is the only way?” he asked. “The only way,” confirmed the prime minister dourly. “It’s not going to be easy.” “True,” sighed Coronado. “Very true.” He wondered, idly, about the possibilities that might be open to an experienced administrator and diplomat in Heliopolis. But he was too old to start working his way up from the bottom again—or even from the middle.

  “Well,” said the king, “I only hope it’s a good banquet. It might be our last.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Helen stood in front of one of the few magic mirrors in Moonmansion that was still in any kind of working order. She had claimed it for her bedroom on the grounds that her need was greater than her father’s.

  “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” she recited, “who is the fairest of us all?”

  “Vanity,” said the mirror, in tones of mild reproof, “is not nice.”

  “You can’t get out of it like that,” said Helen. “You have to answer the question. It’s in your contract.”

  “It’s a silly question,” said the mirror. “All of who? Or do I mean whom? And what do you mean by ‘fairest’? If I’m contractually bound to answer questions, then it stands to reason that you must put questions which are answerable.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, tiredly. “Do I look all right?”

  “What do you mean by… ?” the mirror began, but then relented as the expression on Helen’s face began to change. “Don’t look like that,” it said. “You might crack me. You look fine. Quite lovely.”

  Helen smiled, and the mirror relaxed. It always felt good when it reflected a nice smile.

  There was a knock on the door and Sirion Hilversun hurried in. He was dressed in his best robes—purple ones with a neat dressing of stars around the cuffs and the hem, gathered at the waist by a silver girdle.

  “The prince and his party are just coming over the hill,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  “Of course,” replied Helen, trying to suggest total boredom in the way that she spoke. She made some small adjustment to the placement of her hairpins.

  “Then come on, come on…. We haven’t got all day.”

  Helen refused to be hurried. In the ancient romances princesses never hurried. She was concentrating hard on being genteel and dignified.

  In the two days which had elapsed since the idea of marrying a prince had been introduced to her she had relented slightly in her opposition to it. She had re-read a couple of the old romances, which made marrying princes seem like quite a good idea. If this Prince Damian was all that princes were supposed to be, then there might be a certain attraction in the possibility. Also, of course, her father did so desperately want this marriage to take place, and the last thing in the world that she wanted was to hurt him.

  So she followed her father downstairs to the great banquet hall with feelings that were more than a little mixed. She was, if the truth be known, very apprehensive of the occasion. No one ever came to Moonmansion these

  days, and she had not been accustomed to seeing people since she was very small. She was used to conversation with magical devices and all manner of creatures, and had even passed the time of day with friendly ghosts on occasion, but real people was something she had not run across in some years.

  Moonmansion did not look at all its usual lazy, dusty self. It had been well and truly cleaned up and tidied, and appeared positively radiant with magical magnificence. All the cabinets full of treasure-trove trinkets which had accumulated in the attics had been hauled out, because Sirion Hilversun seemed to recall that unmagical men were very impressed by such things. Because there weren’t enough suits of armour to fill up every alcove a couple of green porcelain dragons had been brought in from the laundry room, where their outstretched arms (they were dragons rampant) were normally used to hang wet washing.

  Personally, Helen thought it a little unfortunate that her father had not thought it necessary to remove the seventy-seven chiming clocks from the walls of the great hall, but at least she had dissuaded him from winding them up.

  There were servants everywhere. In the normal course of affairs Helen, with the aid of a few magic spells and wonderful devices provided by her father, did most of the housework herself, and the rest went largely undone. For the special occasion, however, Sirion Hilversun had thought it polite to put on a show, and thus had rooted out an old spell for turning mice into footmen, which he had picked up cheap at an auction in his youth. Helen hadn’t really thought that it would work, but it had apparently been the property of a fairy godmother of the highest repute. Although it had a strict time clause in the small print the spell actually went off a treat.

  While the enchanter and his daughter, resplendent in their most extravagant clothes, stood in the midst of all this grandeur at the foot of the stairway, two of the exmice opened the front door. One especially handsome mouse took up a position beside the best suit of armour and began announcing the guests by name. He did a first-rate job, not misplacing a single syllable.

  The foreign minister and his wife led the royal party, followed by the other ministers. The king, queen and prince brought up the rear. The ministers and their wives stood to either side, forming a kind of corridor along which the royal family could advance to meet their hosts. When the whole party had been properly presented and introduced, their own servants—not one of whom was, or ever had been, a mouse—were admitted.

  The big moment, of course, was the introduction of the young couple. As they were urged towards one another by their respective fathers, they exchanged long, suspicious stares.

  Prince Damian should, logically, have been most impressed. Helen was a beautiful girl, a
lthough perhaps not cast in the mould of the princesses of ancient romance. She was, perhaps, a little tall and a little more healthy than those delicate and precious creatures. Her hair was cut short and her posture was aggressive rather than demure. But none of these things detracted from her beauty—and, indeed, were part and parcel of it. Nevertheless, despite it all, Damian was not overcome. He found her rather intimidating, even before he took into account any supernatural abilities. While not exactly quivering in his shoes, he was more than a little apprehensive both of her and the surroundings. His greeting was lukewarm, to say the least.

  Helen had a little more excuse for her lack of enthusiasm. Even carefully dressed up, the prince seemed undersized and sallow of complexion. His features were not exactly unhandsome, but their aspect was ruined by the expression which he wore—a mixture of vanity and nervousness, with a slight hint of slyness. Helen was not impressed. Not at all.

  The encounter—indeed, the whole banquet to which it was a prelude—was something of a failure. It never really got under way. The food was excellent, but the guests did not quite trust it. They were all too well aware that the Arts Magical had been involved in its preparation. In Caramorn, the Arts Magical was definitely one of those subjects not suitable for discussion in mixed company. Unfortunately, the mixed company in Moonmansion on this occasion could discover few topics of conversation which did not touch upon them, and for this reason a certain awkwardness preyed upon all of the table talk.

  It was not long before virtually everyone was looking forward expectantly to the time when the guests could tactfully take themselves back to Jessamy. They had prudently decided not to spend the night in the magic lands. Both Rufus Malagig IV and Sirion Hilversun tried hard to inject some real bonhomie into the occasion, but the atmosphere defeated even the diplomatic talents of Coronado. Helen and Damian exchanged contemplative glances over the soup, but by the time the main course arrived they had each decided that the whole idea was unworthy of serious thought. Each, independently, settled on a policy of ignoring the other. They both became very quiet and resistant to questions addressed to them from elsewhere, retreating into invisible shells from whence it was impossible to coax them. Even when th time came for the farewells and au revoirs they stood apart.