Turold breezed out of the palace and caught a rickshaw to the palace Gardens, dodging throngs of strollers enjoying “the King’s Hour” (when he took his daily stroll—though never did). Unfortunately, everyone recognized him–or should he say, her–and stopped him every two feet to wave, bow, and on one occasion, kiss his hand! The world looked quite different as Sonya Vasileyevna, and he almost commanded the driver to take a victory lap. Maybe this time he would ask for money…
But enough: the driver huffed through the gates and Turold disembarked with a healthy tip. After a quick look to see if he had been followed (no one in sight), he made his way through the hedge maze to their rendezvous. But why did Sonya Vasileyevna tell him to beware his Shadow? He couldn’t deceive him, that wasn’t part of the spell. True, Hildigrim’s Familiar had deceived him, but only once—and then to settle scores with an age-old foe. But he had no desire to hurt Astrid, not on his life! His only feelings for her were a warm respect, a cautious regard…and if he really dug deep, a certain attraction (however vague and ill-formed). So how could he…?
He paused behind a hedge-row, knowing that the next step would take him to her, or to them. Yes, he could hear someone faintly, just beyond. Whispered voices…and then, even more faintly, a muffled sound. Great gods—was he strangling her? Was that her breathing…yes, a kind of panting, she was struggling for air! The bastard!
He leapt out and tackled his Familiar, who was indeed perched over her, his hands near her throat, his face pressed close—
“Unhand her!” he cried, throttling his Familiar.
The Familiar fell backwards in confusion, but quickly shook him off into the bushes. Astrid leapt up, shrieking, her face crimson. Just as he feared, she seemed quite out of breath, unable to summon up the words to thank him. Turold drew his knife and urged the Familiar aside, readying a spell in case the blade proved ineffectual.
“Signora?” he said, surprised. “You’re here? But I thought—”
“I was dead? Imprisoned? Courtesy of your master?”
“Mistress—forgive me!” Astrid gasped, looking from one to the other. “I…you see, this was all a misunderstanding…”
Turold had almost forgotten his mask, and quickly composed himself, doing his best (but not very good) imitation of Sonya Vasileyevna. The Familiar had to think he really was her for as long as possible, though Astrid would be harder to fool, especially as his voice sounded exactly like Turold.
“How dare you lay hands on my acolyte! Turold, you ill-formed troglodyte! You simpering shell of a diseased baboon!” he thundered, in a mangled accent.
“Mistress, you don’t understand, we were meeting here…to discuss the map,” Astrid said, producing it from a sleeve. “We feared you were compromised, and Turold’s trying to help. He knows about our work, and he—”
“I know very well what you’re doing! So why is he trying to kill you? If your master could see you now…I’ll have you strung up, your bowels removed, your balls cut off—”
Astrid crimsoned even deeper now, and his Familiar, far from dashing off, dejectedly stood his ground.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken…he wasn’t…that is, I wasn’t under attack,” Astrid said, her eyes firmly lowered.
“I took advantage of her, and I apologize, signora,” the Familiar said.
“No, he didn’t—it was mutual, I allowed it,” she interrupted.
“But if I hadn’t said—”
“You said nothing I objected to, nothing.”
“Still, it wasn’t my place…”
“Nor mine, to accept it. I should have refused. I hated you for so long, Turold, you were everything I told myself stood in my way. But when I got to know you, and I saw the man beneath…”
“Wait a minute, he wasn’t throttling you! He was…you were both…making love?” Turold exclaimed.
“Not making love—no, er, just a kiss, if even that,” she clarified. “I was terrified…I had been followed into the maze by Lord Gramsteed’s men…and when he found me, he made me feel…”
“I would never let them harm you, and of course I could never hurt you myself,” he insisted.
“You wouldn’t?”
“Never.”
“Quiet!” Turold snapped.
Turold began pacing in circles, trying to drown out their nonsense and sort out his own. So his Familiar had found Astrid here, and instead of going over the map, or even bringing her to safety, he took the opportunity to confess his love? And to kiss her–and the gods knew what else–had he not arrived in time to stop them! And worse still, the Familiar had not been acting of his own accord, but following his own desires and impulses, even though he had never, not once imagined…
Well, yes, once. And just for a moment. But never since, he was sure of that.
Clearly, some part of him knew that he and Giacinta could never be. Even she seemed to know it, and so many times, he felt she was about to tell him…though probably she didn’t know the words herself. What he had with her seemed an ideal—a dream wrapped in a fantasy and inscribed in the stars. Not something to enjoy on this earth.
But it was too soon to think of anyone else. What was his Familiar thinking? And how could he work with her to save the city if she thought, if she expected him to…talk like that?
“Mistress, I beg your forgiveness, it won’t happen again,” Astrid said. “You must believe me when I say I came here out of the most dire urgency—”
“I have no quarrels with you, Astrid,” he said, composing himself (if not his accent). “My business remains with you, Turold. Or should I say, Lord Gramsteed’s accomplice!”
Astrid gasped and tried to interrupt, but Turold made his most impressive gesture as Sonya Vasileyevna: a swing of her arm that he had seen her do twenty times over. She shrank into immediate, stunned silence. The Familiar crossed his arms uncomfortably, but again, made no attempt to flee or deny the charges.
“Speak, villain!”
“It’s not Turold…he has nothing to do with this,” he replied. “He remains as loyal to you as he ever was. It’s not his fault.”
“Indeed! And yet I stand before ‘Turold’ right now, and find him making secret assignations with my servant, only to deliver her to Lord Gramsteed on the sly.”
“Mistress, you’re mistaken!”
“Then let him refute the charges!”
“Turold—tell her! Tell her she’s wrong!”
The Familiar stammered a response, looking sheepishly at Astrid’s expression.
“Forgive me…but I’m not Turold. He sent me here to meet you, little knowing that I’d fallen under Lord Gramsteed’s control. I never meant to harm you, and if I had any choice in the matter—”
“No, you’re him—you’re you—I would know the difference!”
“Please understand, I had no choice,” he said, miserably. “Turold’s spell wasn’t strong enough; once Lord Gramsteed found me wandering the palace, he ensnared me. I’m not a man with ethics or free will. I’m just a spell…a projection of his thoughts and desires, though maybe a shade taller…”
“Mistress, where’s Turold?” she suddenly exclaimed. “Is he…does Lord Gramsteed have him?”
“He did, yes—but he’s safe for the moment. I came here as soon as I could to save you. We both feared…well, it seems we feared the wrong thing!”
“But if Lord Gramsteed controls him then he knows everything. All our plans–your secrets!”
“Not all of them, not yet,” Turold said, with a wink—and betrayed far too much of his voice.
Astrid started, took a squinting look at him.
“Mistress?”
“Familiar, I want you to return to Lord Gramsteed. Tell him…whatever you like, but keep him occupied,” he commanded, trying to recover his voice. “Give us a head start, that’s all I ask. In return, I’ll let you live; though if we should cross paths again…”
“I thank you, Signora, truly,” he said, bowing, and vanishing down the path.
Astrid cocked her head, pulling apart his secret like a child unraveling a blanket from a few fraying threads.
“Turold?”
With a sudden flicker he felt himself shrink and become lighter, clearer. He suppressed a quick wave of nausea and closed his eyes against the light. When he opened them he saw the familiar hands and boots, baggy trousers, scratchy beard.
“Yes, yes, it’s me, obviously I can’t fool you any longer,” he said, shrugging awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I came here as fast as I could. I thought he might…well, not this, obviously, but I feared you might be…”
“In danger?”
“Something like that,” he nodded.
“Where’s Sonya Vasilyevna?”
“In prison—we traded places. I’ll tell you everything en route.”
“En route to where?”
“To every portal in the city. There’s so much to tell you, and frankly, I need to hear it again just to understand it myself.”
“Just a second,” she said, catching his arm.
She waited for him to respond, but he just stood there, waiting, too.
“Well, now I know you’re not her. She would have knocked me silly,” she said, with a laugh. “So you sent your Familiar here to find me. Nothing else. Not…”
“No, no, not that—of course not!” he said, laughing erratically. “That was his own idea, I assure you.”
“But he said he can’t have his own ideas; he’s just a projection of your thoughts and desires. Is that true?”
“Ah, perhaps he interpreted them rather liberally…I’m sure we all feel things we don’t properly understand ourselves. I assure you, I would have never taken the liberty to—”
“Well, I meant it,” she said. “I misjudged you, and I wanted to apologize. Maybe I said too much, as I often do; but I’m not going to pretend I didn’t want to. I’ve always admired you. Hated you, too, but with grudging admiration. And I’m not ashamed to say that admiration has finally won out.”
Here she bent down and kissed him, quickly but firmly; then pulled away.
“There, now I’ve kissed you, not your Shadow. We need never mention it again. But I wanted you to know.”
Turold tried to respond but his voice cracked. He forgot how to think and answer like Turold.
