will not revive the dead, but I will revive a sort of shadow of the dead.”
The queen looked suspicious and not at all pleased by this promise. Aruendiel walked a few paces, his gaze lifted. Nora realized that he was looking at the portraits that hung on the walls. He stopped near a full-length painting of a young woman in a blue dress more high-waisted and full-sleeved than the current fashion. She stood outdoors in a space framed by green leaves, one hand resting on a gate, the other holding a wide-brimmed straw hat.
“Queen Tulivie,” Aruendiel said. “She was your grandmother, I believe, Your Highness?”
He had addressed King Abele, who nodded. “Yes, my father’s mother. But I never knew her.” After a moment, the king added, “The same artist painted her in her coronation robes—that portrait hangs in the long gallery—but my father preferred this one.”
“It is a good likeness,” Aruendiel agreed. “It captures not just her beauty, but something of her gentleness.” The words hung in the air for a moment. “Well, she is dead and gone, and we will not disturb her. But this portrait can show us a little of what she was, on that summer day when it was painted.”
“Of course it can,” the queen broke in. “But that has nothing to do with magic.”
“Your Highness!” Aruendiel said, raising his voice. “Your Highness!” But he had turned away from the king and queen to face the painting.
The woman in the portrait moved her head, a movement so quick that Nora almost missed it. The painted eyes now gazed toward Aruendiel. A whisper went around the room.
“Your Highness!” Aruendiel called again.
This time there was no mistake. The figure in the painting leaned forward, lifting her hand to shade her eyes. “Who is calling me?” she asked.
“It is the magician Aruendiel, ma’am.”
“Oh, it’s you!” she said, smiling. “Can’t you see that I am having my portrait painted?”
“I apologize for disturbing you.”
“No matter, I am getting horribly stiff.” She gave a quick, unregal shrug of her shoulders. “But what are you doing here? I thought that you and my husband were closeted with the Orvetian ambassador. Is the king finally finished? I’ve barely seen him all day.”
“I imagine he is still occupied, Your Highness.” There was something constrained in Aruendiel’s voice, as though he were searching hard for the right words and the right tone.
“A pity. Nurse is bringing the baby into the garden after his nap, and we’re going to see the new plantings around the oval basin. Will you tell the king, when you go back? He might want to join us.” The portrait of Tulivie gave a frown. “It is too bad that he will probably have to leave again on campaign so soon. The prince has barely had a chance to know his papa.”
“It will be a short campaign, ma’am.”
“You sound so sure! Does your magic tell you this?”
Gathering up her skirts, the image of Tulivie started forward as if to hear more, stepping lightly onto the floor of the banquet hall. She bore herself confidently, apparently unaware that she had left her canvas garden behind or that a roomful of people were staring at her.
It was impossible not to stare. She was so obviously not flesh and blood—Nora could see the brushstrokes on her skirt—and yet she was not a paper doll. Her body was solid-seeming; she moved through space like any living creature. She also looked brighter, more vivid than any of the people around her. Like a cartoon, Nora thought. Everything a little simplified or exaggerated, closer to the ideal than we ever see in real life.
Aruendiel took a step forward, too, moving into the shadow of the column beside him. “I am no fortune- teller,” he said. “But I know this to be true. The Orvetians are ill-prepared for war, and your husband will beat them soundly. So you must put your mind at ease, Your Highness.”
“Thank you, I will try.” She added, a little wistfully: “Are you sure you cannot tell what is to come? There are a few things that I would like to know.”
“Such as?” he asked warily.
“Such as—will it rain soon? I am worried about my new plantings. It has been so dry lately. If the king were not so occupied with these stubborn Orvetians, I would ask him to lend me his chief magician to ensure that we have some favorable weather.”
“Your Highness, I am always happy to be of service to you.”
“Then perhaps you could arrange a little rain sometime after midnight, after my dinner guests have gone home? Enough to give the ground a good soaking. And then, of course, another clear day tomorrow.”
Up until this point, she and Aruendiel had been conversing as though it were only the two of them, both standing in the garden where she was posing for her portrait. (Presumably the painter was waiting at a respectful distance nearby.) The watching court was absolutely silent.
But now there came a minor commotion in the crowd, the sound of sobbing. At the edge of the crowd, Nora glimpsed a bent white head. An old woman crying, racked with untidy grief.
The painted queen turned with concern on her smooth, uncanny face. For the first time she seemed to notice someone else in the room besides the magician. “Oh, the poor thing,” she said. “What is the matter? My dear old grandma’am, what’s the matter?”
The old woman held out a skinny hand toward the queen. It took her a minute to restrain her sobs. “Dear lady, it is so good to see you,” she said, gulping. “It has been so many years. You are just the way I remembered you.”
“Am I? That’s good. Now, we must get you looked after.” She glanced over at Aruendiel. “She’s confused, poor thing. Someone must have left her here; I don’t think she could have wandered far by herself. What is your name, grandma’am?”
“I’m Lady Marisiek Uliveran,” the old woman said with a hint of pride.
“Oh,” the portrait said, puzzled. “One of the ladies of my bedchamber is Lady Marisiek. Are you one of her relations? I will summon her at once.”
“No, that’s me, Your Highness. Surely you know me. I was one of your ladies before I married. I used to help you dress the little princes. You gave me a pendant, a gold peacock with emeralds. Look, I am still wearing it,” she said, fumbling in her dress. “I remember that day so clearly, clearer than yesterday. Well, I am old, you know, but you are just the same. I don’t quite understand it. I thought you were gone, how many years ago? It rained at the funeral; they could hardly get the pyre to burn. Oh, that was a sad day. How is it that you are here again, as beautiful as ever?”
As Marisiek spoke, Tulivie’s image stared at the tiny gold bird that the old woman had pulled from under her shawl, and then looked hard at her gnarled face. “Marisiek?” she said finally. “Marisiek? Merciful gods, what has happened to you? Impossible!” She looked to Aruendiel again, her hand gripping Marisiek’s shoulder protectively. “This is some wicked enchantment. Lord Aruendiel, you must do something.”
Aruendiel said nothing. After a moment, he shook his head gently.
“What do you mean? Someone has put a spell on this girl and turned her into an old woman. I command you to undo this evil magic.”
“It is not magic. It is only time.” His voice was slow, as though the words were heavy.
“Time? What do you mean? I saw Marisiek only this morning. Of course this is magic, and we must find the magician who has cast such a terrible spell.”
“Madame!” It was the king who had spoken. “Madame, there is no need to fear,” he called from the dais. “We would like to welcome you to the court of Semr—welcome you back, that is. We are greatly honored by your presence.”
“Who is this man?” Tulivie’s portrait asked with open bewilderment. “Welcome me back to the court of Semr, when I am already here? What is he talking about?”
“I am privileged to follow your husband on the throne of Semr.” When she still looked blank—and a little angry—the king added, “I am Abele the Fourth, King of Greater Semr. My father was your son, Abele the Third. I am your grandson.”
“My grandson!” Now she looked as though she would like to laugh. “My boy Abele is a baby. He is just learning to walk. This is absurd.”
“Nonetheless, I am your grandson,” the king said with a trace of starchiness. He rose and bowed. “Grandmother, this is a rare and remarkable meeting. I used to hear my father speak of you. I have admired your
