The Prince rode hard through the dark corridor of the forest, the sound of his horse's hooves pounding in his head and the sound of the wolves behind him thundering in his heart. He knew much about the wolves of these woods, knew that if he slowed his pace or veered from his course they would take him down in an instant, for they were relentless hunters of the faint-hearted. But his wise old uncle had told him to stay true to his purpose, turn neither to the left nor to the right, to ride hard and fast until he was upon the moor. The wolves would give up their chase quickly once he was within sight of his goal. For across the moor was the Scarlet Hedge. And even the wolves were right to be daunted by that monstrous briar.
The advice of his uncle had been freely given. The advice of the silver fox he'd rescued from the gold and ruby cage in the chamber of his father's wife had cost him dear. For that simple act of compassion she had banished him, made of him a wanderer, forced to go his own way in the world with naught but his trusty mount, Falada, his sword and the clothes on his back. But in gratitude the fox had given this counsel: "Even if you are offered the power of life and death, take nothing until True Love offers you her hand, for a Princess must be won, not given, and any other gift is no gift at all. Heed me well, O Prince, or you will be unlucky."
The Prince's boot leather had seen much travel since he'd freed the silver fox, and his thread-of-gold cloak let in more wind than it kept out, but even so he was feeling pleased with himself. He was on the moor now, with a blue sky overhead and the great wall of thorn in sight. And somewhere within there was his Princess.
The Scarlet Hedge served, so his uncle said, to protect the Princess in her vulnerable sleep from casual interlopers, hobbledehoys, and sightseers. "Traversing it will be no mean feat, mark my words, lad." The Prince could see the evidence of those who had attempted it and failed, in rags and bones set out, pinned to the giant vicious barbs the way shrikes impaled flies on blackthorn. It was the blood of these men that had earned the hedge its scarlet name.
Dismounting, he laid the tip of one gloved finger against an outlying thorn and pushed slightly. It sliced into his leather gauntlet easily, and he pulled back, only just preventing it from penetrating his flesh. He could neither climb nor push his way through without being skewered like the rest.
His hand went to the pouch at his belt, to the magic gifts he had won by kindness and through good deeds and services to the many varied creatures he'd encountered on his journey. He considered whether it was time to call in the favours promised him, or to draw his sword and try to slash his way through. And, as he was considering, the heavens caught fire.
High in the eastern sky to his right, a pin-point ball of light spun and twisted lazily, casting the shadow of the hedge left and down to the edge of the moor. The ball of light was not so much falling as drifting out of the cloudless blue of the sky.
The Prince had never seen so odd a thing as this levenbolt. The sword at his side was wrought from star iron, plucked from the heavens by the fairy Belesia and forged by her magick. She had gifted the sword to his father, who had, in turn, bequeathed it to him. Maybe this lightning ball was a similar prize he could mark for later glory, after the Princess was his. Up and down was neither left nor right, so did his uncle's warning still apply?
The fire hit the ground with a sound like a newly forged sword being quenched in ox's blood. A thick hissing and spitting sound like no other the Prince knew, although he was curious about many things, the arcanum of swordsmithing among them.
Shielding his eyes with his raised gauntlets, the Prince drew near the place where it had fallen. Around it the earth had splashed up like ripples in a pond that had frozen in a pattern of ridges. At the centre of the ripples, he could see a dark shape made indistinct by the now fading light.
A sweet smell filled the air. Was it lavender, vanilla, a nostrum or a herb? He couldn't tell. He had expected the earth to stink of burning from the falling fire, but instead his senses were overwhelmed with the tang of a thousand fragrances, each curiously individual and unmixed.
The shape was clearer now, a carved wooden box. A box of the same black wood as the thorn hedge, a tracery of blood-red spirals contouring its surface. He tried to follow the pattern. A spiral. No, a double spiral. Or perhaps an illusion, like the two faces and the goblet that a juggler had once shown him. Maybe it was more than one shape as the perfume was more than one scent.
Open me.
The voice in his head was her sweet voice as he had heard her sing years before.
He had been a page at her father's court, educated in the traditions of chivalry, before returning to his own country. He had never forgotten her high child's voice. When he had heard that the sleep curse had stilled it he'd wept and sworn to free her.
You will see her free, if only you will open me.
He could see now, a catch, a dull metal clasp on the side of the box. Unadorned, practical, it lacked the artistry of the bold design. It was purposeful. It demanded he open it.
The words of his counsellors came back to him; but there was something compelling in the way the light licked at the box's outline.
Only if you open me will you have your heart's desires.
The clasp was old and brittle to the touch. Opening it would be easy. Easier by far than winning his way past the scarlet hedge. It smacked of dishonour somehow; and yet wasn't every injunction to be either obeyed or broken? Sometimes the heroes of lore won because they questioned.
Almost unbidden, and yet without the least sensation of surprise, he felt his hands opening the box, as if it were, after all, inevitable.
And then his heart's desires came true. All of them. At once.
He kissed the Princess, and she woke / and he touched her and she woke / and he merely set foot in her chamber and she woke as the dust stirred / and her eyes were blue / hazel / black as sloes. And her first words were "Oh, my Prince" / and her first words were "You came for me" / and her first words were "Do you remember the song I sang when you were a page in my father's keep?" / and the wedding came swiftly / and the wedding came after three strange tasks / and the wedding came that Christmas / and there was no high wedding for they lived together in a hut in the woods and were wed by God alone. And they had a son / a daughter / twin sons. And / And / And...
And the Prince lay in the earth, his hand on the open box, his eyes glazed and his breath faint and regular, and he saw everything and nothing. And the blackthorn retained its dominion.
It was half a day later before the old woman gathering firewood from the sloughed-off, oldest thorn branches of the hedge found the Prince lying there, petals and dust blown on to his upturned, staring eyes.
She tapped the body sharply with her blackthorn walking stick, and grunted under her breath when the Prince didn't move. His royal status was obvious enough from his clothes, his unsoiled stockings and his sword. She drew it from his belt and made a few trial passes, left-handed, gay as a child. The heavy star iron moved lightly, familiarly, in her old arthritic grasp.
She saw the box at the Prince's right hand. It was a grey shape - dust draped over a skeleton of fine bone. A spider box, all webs and promises. She kicked it away with her pointed leather shoe, and it burst sickly. It was too much to hope that that would be an end of it; that one life alone had been eaten.
It was all starting again and there was no defence against it, not in all the world.
The Missing Page
Unfortunately, a printer's error led to the first printing of Grimm Reality containing two page 150s and no page 146. All misprinted books were recalled, and correctly printed books issued in their place.
However it seems that some of the faulty copies have slipped through the net and gone on sale, especially in the US. Anyone who has bought a faulty copy should return it to the vendor for a replacement - all copies now being distributed are "complete" versions and so your vendor should be able to supply you with one of these.
BBC Books would like to apologise for any inconvenience this error has caused their readers.
In the meantime, if you have a misprinted copy and haven't had the opportunity to replace it yet, here's what you are missing:
Grimm Reality p146
...seventh daughter and that her powers had made her sisters sorely jealous. One day they made a secret bargain with a witch and she was spirited away to the giant's castle where she was to live out her days, her powers to serve only the giant, and so she was called the Master-maid. But if a mortal man served the giant for one week without becoming his supper, the spell on her would be broken.
Then the giant's tailor looked troubled. "Oh dear," he said, "I do hope I count as such, for on my father's side I am immortal, barring accidents."
"Are giants accidents?" the Master-maid asked fretfully.
*****
The Doctor smiled a wry smile to himself on the evening of his second full day of service. The Giant had been hard pressed to find fault with his sewing, thanks to Janet. Oh, it had still taken hours, stitching and picking, cursing in languages he hardly knew when he'd run the Giant's hair into the ball of his thumb, but he'd finished finally, and now he realised he was enjoying himself.
This was certainly less stressful than the dentistry had been the previous night. Even with the seventeen barrels of wine and a whole poppy field's worth of opiates, the Giant had still winced and grumbled as the work had gone on. And his teeth had been strange: the Doctor could have sworn he'd seen holes appearing as he worked.
After the work, the Doctor had slept badly even though he was exhausted enough to need to sleep.
Fears for Anji and Fitz had come hard on the tail of poor Inex's fate. He'd supported Inex and Alex in turns during their climb, giving of himself unstintingly, only for the gnome to end up eaten, and the human to flee. Oh Alex, he thought, I can hardly blame you: what did I bring Inex to for his trust but the jaws of death?
He had dreamed of jaws. Closing on him, closing on Anji, closing on Fitz. Gnawing on the hapless Alex staring wild-eyed in the green lurid light shining from the thing he had stolen.
