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Ah well, Rowan thought, there was no sense to having sound men like Perchingbird serve under one if
one never asked their advice. He'd talked this curse thing over with practically every other so-called
adviser in the kingdom. Why not with a man who at least had the wit to know which end of a bawling
baby wanted attention?
"So, Cyril," he said casually. "What do you make of the box and that piddlin' bit of paper that's cursed
my little lass here?"
Perchingbird turned from wiping the dishes. Rowan's cook from Castle Rowan had taken over the
palace kitchen, and she was a most particular woman. Sir Cyril had no wish to offend her and risk losing
his kitchen privileges. He smiled politely and encouragingly, but blankly for all that, and asked, "What box
is that, Sire?"
"You don't KNOW?" Rowan's voice started to rise to its usual roar, and the baby whimpered and
wriggled. "You mean to say you really don't know?" the King repeated, whispering this time. "Some
blackguard gave Bron a wicked toy at her christening. We think it's cursed her. I know for a fact it's
cursed her mother. I never thought t'be sae anxious t'get m'lady OUT of bed in m'life. She's been asleep
these three weeks past and won't rise."
Perchingbird was no whiz at protocol, but he knew enough to skirt that particular royal complaint. "You
said something about a parchment, Sire?"
"Aye, a parchment. Come under the cursed box. No one knows what it means. D'you mean t'say none
of that pack of advisers of mine even asked you about it?"
Perchingbird shrugged. "There are others in the palace who read, sire. Usually documents don't come to
my attention unless they're at least a decade old."
"Worthless lot o'lamebrains," the King growled, and dug inside his clothes, carefully, so as not to wake
his daughter. He pulled out a soiled, much-creased, besmeared and flattened scroll, which he tossed
across the table to Perchingbird.
Sir Cyril's eyes glanced swiftly over the document, then stared back at his King with an expression of
incredulity. "This accompanied a curse, Sire?"
The King nodded. " 'Twas underneath the wretched box." His eyes narrowed as he waited to see what
the one man in his court who obviously knew how to help him but hadn't been asked had to say.
Sir Cyril shook his head and scanned the scroll again. "That's impossible, Sire. I know this hand, these
illustrations. This is nothing more than a christening gift from Her Highness, the Princess Pegeen the
Illuminator."
Reaching an arm the length and breadth of a medium tree across the table, Rowan snatched back the
document, stared at it with no more comprehension than he'd had before, and tossed it back to
Perchingbird. "Hmph," he said.
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Sir Cyril re-examined the scroll. "Yes, sire, this all seems perfectly innocent. All the Princess Pegeen is
doing here, really, is translating the standard horoscope for an upperclass lady born under your
daughter's moon into ancient Drumclog runic, an archaic written language in which the noble lady is most
proficient."
Rowan sighed and nodded. His only hope of finding the sender of the curse was lost.
"Wait," Sir Cyril said suddenly. "What can she mean by this?" His intelligent round face sharpened with
concentration. "Oh, dear. I must be mistaken. No, surely not. That rune has two meanings and they
both-Your Majesty?"
Rowan's weary red-rimmed eyes snapped to attention.
"I'm afraid I was slightly mistaken. This document is not a simple horoscope, as I thought at first, though
it's meant to look like one. The Princess Pegeen has carefully encoded a message, sire, in the last portion.
I don't know exactly how to translate it back into the Argonian tongue, but what it essentially says is that
unless you make haste to the Princess's home at Worm's Roost Castle, not only is your child cursed but
your entire reign, and possibly the kingdom, is in jeopardy." Perchingbird glanced once more at the
document. "And though it doesn't say so, sire, I very much fear from the manner in which the Princess
chose to warn us that she is also in grave danger."
Even the Queen stirred from her sleep as Rowan's roars echoed through the castle all the rest of that
night, waking his generals, his admirals, his administrators, and his advisers.
Leaving his daughter with her yawning mother, the King harangued his cabinet about the need for speed.
The arrangements, he was told, would take several weeks, while the army was called back from its
various outposts. Armies could not be gathered up just like that, didn't he know.
Once more it was Cyril Perchingbird who had the practical suggestion. "My Lady Pegeen writes only of
the need for speed, Sire, not striking power. The fastest route to Worm's Roost is by sea, a fortnight's
journey in good weather, compared with a month overland." The Chief Archivist was also keeper of
Argonia's somewhat sketchy maps, which contained details of matters like time and distance.
Another adviser, eager to make up for not thinking of Perchingbird's idea himself, added, "That little ship
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