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built on a place of great power.”
    Sigismund drew in his breath. “So she must be the faie in that story you told me when I was ill?”
    “She is,” Syrica replied. It had grown so dark that she was little more than a cloud of white on the far side of the brick circle. “And I am the one who thwarted her, converting the spell of death into the enchanted sleep. I have waited here and watched since then, hidden out of sight and mind for the hundred years to end. For the one you call the Margravine will never accept the undoing of her spell or let the magic run its course undisturbed. She will try and turn events to her purpose again, either by ensuring that the princess never wakes, or that the chosen prince will be a puppet serving her will.”
    Sigismund took a deep breath as memory flashed, followed by a searing image of a blue jewel extended to him by a fair, slender hand. He had reached out for it through the iron bars of the gate, but something had gone awry—a cloud of sparrows had risen up, out of the ditch, and the jewel had spun to the ground. He shook his head as the memory slipped away again. “But I still don’t understand why she is my enemy?”
    “She hates all human rulers and their kingdoms.” Syrica’s reply was soft. “But she works against your House in particular, because your great-grandfather placed the interdict on the Wood. She feels that it has buttressed my spell and helped keep her from the kingdom she desires.” The soft voice paused. “And you, Sigismund, will come of age in the hundredth year of the enchanted sleep. This means that you, more than any other, are likely to be the chosen prince.”
    There was silence beneath the lilacs. A breeze riffled leaves and hair, whispering of the leagues of wood it had wandered through, but Sigismund remembered the absolute stillness beneath the trees. And he heard Auld Hazel telling him to keep away—
for now.
Sigismund shivered, feeling a mixed sense of excitement and danger, and wondered if this was how Parsifal had felt, riding forth on the Grail quest.
    He forced his mind back to the present. “And the Margravine knows,” he said slowly. “That’s why she tried to give me the ring.”
    Syrica nodded and took a step toward him. “No faie spell is ever certain once the magic has been set in motion. But the Margravine and I are both tied to this spell. We know its terms and how the magic is likely to work itself out. And in one respect, at least, the magic is specific: the chosen prince is the only one who can undo the spell. So she will want to make sure that you serve her will before that day comes.” She traced the outline of his face with gentle fingers. “You are related to the Margravine through your mother, whose own mother was a
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Malvolin. But it will not save you, unless you become her puppet.” The silver voice was sad. “It did not save your mother when she would not raise you to serve the Margravine’s will.”
    Sigismund turned away so they could not see his expression. He had only just learned that his mother had been poisoned, and now Syrica was saying that it was because she had defied the Margravine
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Malvolin to protect him. Sigismund shook his head, and counted every shadow on the moon’s face until the tightness in his throat eased. When he turned back, both Balisan and Syrica were watching him.
    “So is that why both of you are here?” he asked. “To keep me safe?”
    “In part,” Syrica said. “But this place too has power, in a small way, and it has allowed me to remain hidden all these years, holding the threads of my counterspell intact.” Her face turned, pale, toward Balisan. “And you?”
    “I am here for the boy,” the master-at-arms replied, without hesitation. His voice was resonant, sure. “The King sent for someone out of the Paladinates and I am kin to his House, although at some remove.”
    To Sigismund’s surprise, Syrica laughed. “Is that it?” she asked, amusement shimmering