“But we do not know where she is!”
“Not yet.” Azzie got up, prowled around restlessly for a moment. “But we will find her.”
“The head has probably gone moldy by now.”
“You can never tell. If by some good fortune her face is not obliterated, she will be my Princess Scarlet in the little charade I am preparing.”
“But, lord, we have no clues as to its whereabouts.”
“We’ll start in Civalle, where she died. She’s probably buried there.”
“Master, it’s a waste of time. You have little time left anyhow before the contest, and there is much to do.”
“Pack our horses, Frike. I am an artist in these matters. I must have Miranda’s head for my Princess.”
“She had a gaudy history, master, but why this particular wench?”
“Don’t you see, Frike? It makes my plan more elegant. We will bring these lovers together again after death. Their conscious memories will be gone, of course. But something will remain. Something that will help bring a fine conclusion to my tale of Prince Charming and Princess Scarlet. We must find her body and hope that the face is still all right. Go, ready the horses.”
Frike packed the horses and they set out to Civalle in southern Provence. It was late June and travel was easy and pleasant. Frike had hoped that Azzie would transport them by supernatural means. Azzie said the distance was too close to go to all the bother of setting up a travel spell and activating it.
They arrived in Civalle, a pleasant southern city near Nice. From Albertus’ description it was easy to find the brothel where Miranda had been killed. Azzie made inquiries of the madam and learned that her brothers had taken her remains away, no one knew where. Azzie rewarded her well for the information and asked if a garment of Miranda’s remained. The madam found an old shift and sold it to him for two gold soldi. Whether it was indeed the genuine article, he could not be certain-yet.
When they left the brothel, Frike said, “What now, master?”
“You’ll see in due course,” Azzie replied.
He and Frike departed the town and passed into the forest. After a long while they camped, making a dinner of cold meat pie and boiled leeks. Afterward, at Azzie’s instructions, Frike built a fire. When its flames finally leaped high, Azzie removed a small vial from the chest in which he carried his magical paraphernalia. He removed from it a single drop of dark liquid and let it fall into the fire.
The flames flared even higher. Frike cringed back.
“Pay attention,” Azzie ordered, “for this is educational. Perhaps you have heard of the fabulous hunting dogs of the old gods? We have something better nowadays.”
As the flames subsided three large birds flew into the camp and landed near Azzie. They were ravens, with small, sinister eyes.
“I hope all is well with you,” Azzie said to them.
“We are well, Lord Demon,” one of them replied.
“Meet my servant, Frike. Frike, meet the Morrigan. They are supernatural Irish birds, and their names are Babd, Macha, and Nemain.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Frike said, remaining well back, for they looked upon him with fierce appraisal.
“What can we do for your lordship?” Macha asked.
Azzie brought out Miranda’s gown. “Find this woman,” he said. “The one who last wore this. She is dead, by the way.”
Babd sniffed at the cloth. “You didn’t have to tell us that,” he said.
“I forgot the extent of your powers. Go, peerless ones. Find this woman for me!”
When the ravens had flown away, Azzie said to Frike, “Let’s make ourselves comfortable. This may take a while, but they will find her.”
“I never doubted it,” Frike replied.
Azzie and Frike ate more cold meat pie and leeks. They discussed the weather and the possible nature of the heavenly entry in the Millennial contest. The day wore on. The brassy blue sky of Provence was a huge dome radiating sunlight and heat. They ate more leeks.
After a long while a raven returned, announcing itself as Nemain. It circled twice, then settled upon Azzie’s outthrust wrist.