
Arabesque
Hayden Thorne
Copyright 2011 Hayden Thorne
Cover Art by Ms. Rosek
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events, and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
As with most fireside tales, this one begins with magic. It goes back to a time when a great modern nation was still a cluster of sovereign lands, when gods, demi-gods, and mortals wandered the earth in a tempestuous relationship marked by passion, madness, and arbitrary justice, and Nature and Fortune often proved to be more formidable powers than immortals, who resented and yet feared them.
In a kingdom somewhere in Western Europe, a magnificent palace was built on soil rich enough to encourage ambitions of a man-made idyll. As the palace grew, rising up and expanding sideways, a massive garden suddenly appeared around it, spreading in all four directions till it nearly dwarfed the palace with acres of trees and flowering shrubs of every possible variety. The oddest thing about this was the fact that the palace as well as its protective gardens appeared and grew day by day without any indication that mortal hands were involved. Each day, the palace simply appeared larger than it was before, room by room, floor by floor, its private woodland denser than it was previously. No signs of a busy army of carpenters, architects, painters, or gardeners were ever noted. Indeed, no one even heard a single sound throughout the construction process---hammers, axes, or even voices of busy workmen. All that could be heard were birds and the breeze whistling through branches.
Peasants all over the kingdom stared in wonder at the rapidly swelling "forest of enchantment," asking among themselves, "Why build a grand palace and hide it behind all this?"
"Mark my words, there's black magic going on there."
"The sorcerer-king, you mean? Yes, I've heard about him."
"They say it's black magic that's forming this woodland garden of his. Have you seen people toiling away, hour after hour, planting and watering?"
The consensus was a "no," which only fueled more speculation among the hungry and the ignorant, whose fear of the unknown overrode curiosity, and for better or for worse, they kept their distance from the palace.
They were, of course, quite near to the truth, as they discovered in time. Übel was the king, though his ascension to the throne seemed rather quiet and suspicious, for no one had ever heard his name spoken before. The royal family who ruled this land lived in another region of the kingdom, and they'd remained largely detached and phantom-like figureheads for generations, with no one beyond the usual courtiers and ministers clapping eyes on them. When word spread that they'd decided to move their home to this part of the land, eyebrows rose, but no one questioned such a curious decision. The old palace was destroyed---taken down one stone at a time---till nothing was left but the telltale outline of a great structure in the grass and weeds.
No one outside the court had seen the household move. It seemed as though one day they were there, and the next, the palace stood empty, to be torn down by hired men who knew nothing about what was going on save for the coin-filled purses that had been dropped into their eager, trembling hands.
Before long, Übel was declared king, the palace was built, and the woodland garden rose around it. The process was quiet, quick, and trouble-free, though people all over exchanged uneasy whispers, and ministers who served as the link between the peasantry and the court refused to speak about anything remotely disparaging of their new king lest they be tried and executed for treason. Pale and drawn, their figures slouched and tense, their gazes darting here and there or stealing anxious looks behind them---they were clearly frightened, as though their steps were shadowed by something that stalked them, but were forced into secrecy about what truly haunted them. Their silence devoured these pitiful old men, however, and one by one, ministers died by their own hands, and those left behind were no wiser than they were before. And those who came after fared no better, everyone meeting the same end or simply being struck down by unexpected illnesses.
As time came and went, no one knew what took place in the palace, for servants were never seen carrying out orders for the royal household's day-to-day needs. In the open-air markets and the town squares, no one from the palace was spotted running around from shop to shop, buying meat from butchers, ordering new clothes from the best tailors.
"The royal family would have their own butchers, tailors, and bakers, wouldn't they?" some folks said, which didn't settle the doubts that had always plagued everyone.
"It's too quiet," others replied, stealing uneasy glances in the direction of the palace.
Fifty years passed---fifty years of unchecked disease ravaging the countryside, fifty years of hunger, fifty years of unrest among the filthy populace, which often escalated into small riots here and there that could barely be contained by overworked and underpaid forces led by unhappy sheriffs. All those years, not a single word was heard from the palace, only indirect orders handed down through feeble and frightened authority figures who barely kept the kingdom intact.
When the stench of rotting flesh carried by the winds to the nearby towns alerted people of something desperately wrong in the royal palace, long-held suspicions spilled out again among frightened subjects, mobilizing the sheriff of that county and his men, who braved the shadows of the woodland garden and broke down the tall, silent doors of a beautiful, glittering palace.
There, they said, they found their dead king. He lay on the floor of what appeared to be the library, stiff and contorted with eyes open, bulging, and milky, his lips pulled back in a pained grimace, his fingers curled like wrinkled claws as his hands scrabbled at the air. He must have been struck down by a seizure of some kind and quite likely died even before he hit the floor. Oddly, a looking-glass stood close enough as though Übel had been looking at himself in the mirror in his final moment.
He---or perhaps something---had also scrawled one word on the mirror's dark surface, the brownish color of the letters suggesting dried blood: Virtue.
He apparently lived alone because he didn't have any need for human help, whatever his needs being satisfied by unnatural agents he'd most likely summoned from beyond. Books, scrolls, and all manner of artifacts used in the dark arts filled practically every space in the palace, while bones---human and animal alike---were discovered in an underground vault. More recent kills were found on the grounds, scattered among the trees as though awaiting the appearance of scavenging beasts to clean out the bones.
"Perhaps he was too old and frail to dispose of the bodies properly," the sheriff observed, grimacing in disgust as he covered his nose with a handkerchief.
Tattered and faded clothes from men and women, young and old, rich and poor, littered several of the airy, empty apartments. Many bore marks of a savage killing, with dried blood and bits of shriveled skin still clinging to the fabric. Clumps of bloodied hair---in various states of dryness---were also found tucked away in an ornate gold trunk.
"I believe that we've just found the royal family and their servants," one of the men said as he sifted through the clothes. "And perhaps a few travelers unlucky enough to wander in this direction." As to how random strangers were lured to the palace, no one could say, given its excessive privacy, but no one certainly doubted the role of black magic in that matter.
The uproar following the ghastly discovery was immense, and it took the sheriff's force all they had to keep the populace from storming the cursed palace and burning it to the ground.
"Do what you will with the body," the sheriff said before turning around and spitting on the floor of the palace's great hall. "If you want justice, damn the bastard's soul."
The people knew how. They took Übel's stiff, withered body and brought it to the town square, where it was hacked to pieces before an angry mob, the parts tossed into a sack. The sack and the remains of the sorcerer-king vanished in the night, however, and no one knew where it was hidden or buried. Those who likely knew of its whereabouts said nothing or claimed ignorance, but they fooled no one. It was a prudent move not to divulge the truth, for the grave, wherever it might be, could very well be vandalized within hours. Superstitious folk exchanged theories about Übel being buried in a forest near the southwestern borders of the kingdom.
"It's a proper place for the old bastard."
"No one goes to that old forest---too dangerous. If he's buried there, it'll be worse."
"Let him lie there, unconsecrated," some cried, waving their fists in the air.
"Let him be damned!"
The royal bloodline was at first rumored to be broken, but historians and genealogists were quickly set to work to find their next king, no matter how remote, and at length, they found their successor. This new king, drunk with ambition, adored the cursed palace enough to refuse to have it razed to the ground in a holy cleansing ritual, instead turning to folk magic to rid if of all unnatural elements. Practitioners of white magic were summoned, offerings to the gods were made simultaneously, and before long, the palace was declared safe and livable. It was cleaned out, modified, and made accessible to ministers and visiting nobility, the surrounding woodland garden also purged of its evil associations before being reshaped into a sprawling and enchanting retreat, which enjoyed further modifications and enhancements with every generation of the royal bloodline.
The kingdom settled down into a relatively peaceful state, the legend of the sorcerer-king blurring as it was passed from storyteller to storyteller. In time, all that was known about Übel was the fact that he'd murdered to keep his powers alive, but even black magic couldn't protect him from death. That he was a condemned soul was a given, but the circumstances behind his death and his burial varied. The forest where he was rumored to be buried turned evil, it was said, where nothing but shadows and madness awaited foolish wanderers who set foot within its leafy borders.
\*
Hours turned into days, weeks, months, years, decades, a century and then two...
Europe grew more and more restless, with immortals and men locked into battles of wills with each other, at times engaged in outright challenges and quarrels. Magic remained the weapon of choice for mortals who were determined to raise themselves above the mediocre majority, and while they remained helpless in wielding it against the gods, they'd no compunction at all in using it against each other. While most practitioners of magic were prudent enough to understand and be fearful of their powers' capacity for destruction if unchecked, thus limiting their services to healing, protecting, and purging unwanted forces from individuals, groups, households, and even livestock, there were those few who feared nothing and whose boldness was fed even more by the enormity of the very fact that they held so much power. A few chanted words, a finger pointed at a target, or a hand moving in a prescribed pattern---one or a combination of those could easily destroy a portion of Nature's fabric if enough malice were poured into it.
Two young princesses from a tiny and inconsequential kingdom by the restless seas understood that well enough.
Fourteen-year-old Amara scowled at her older sister as she shivered in the dark, holding a candle aloft and waiting for Ulrike to finish throwing on a heavy cloak and stepping into fur-lined slippers before fumbling around her wardrobe for her small leather and gold chest, which housed a very precious book. With a small exclamation of excitement, Ulrike carried the chest to her bed, unlocking it with a murmured chant and pulled out her book---a large tome of old discolored leather with strange characters carved into the cover in discolored gold. Amara had caught a glimpse of the book but was completely forbidden from examining it, for it was meant for Ulrike and Ulrike only, the older princess being its sole user. The chest couldn't be opened by any means other than through that murmured chant, which Ulrike had long mastered and which Amara, for all her curiosity, refused to learn.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Sister," Amara whispered, anxiety taking hold of her when she saw her breath fog. A significant drop in the room's temperature, which was always marked by fogged breaths, alerted her to the arrival---or the awakening---of Ulrike's "tutors."
"Hush, be quiet! Idiot! Do you want Mama or Papa to hear us?" Ulrike shot back, her shadowy figure in the girls' shared bedroom barely visible despite the bit of light coming from Amara's candle. Along with the iciness came the thickening of the darkness around them---an unnatural deepness of the night that made Amara's skin crawl.
"You can't control this even after you master everything! You know you can't!"
"It's all a matter of taking the trouble to practice till you get it perfectly. It's just like any other lesson."
"And how do you know that you're doing it correctly?"
Ulrike had gathered her things by now and stood before Amara, who'd just moved to block her way to the door. "Get out of my way," she hissed.
"Any idiot knows that dark magic kills its wielder---drives him mad if he doesn't die first."
"Do I look mad to you?"
"You don't have to look the part to be it."
Ulrike giggled, her voice soft and sounding like a faint chorus of several whispering people. "You're clever. I'll give you that."
"I don't know you anymore. You---you're cold and vicious---inhuman. Your powers have changed you, Ulrike, but I know there's hope. You can still stop this, and I'll help you. I can't let you go on." Amara set her mouth in a grim line as she pressed her back against the door, moving her feet apart in an additional show of defiance.
Ulrike's look of irritation gave way to one of amused contempt. "By the gods," she whispered, drawing herself up as tall as she could, which wasn't a difficult thing to do since she was a good head taller than her younger sister. That everyone in court marked her for a successful marriage to a great king was certainly testament enough to the influence that her beauty and majestic bearing on those who laid eyes on her. "You're a determined little imp, aren't you?"
"Ulrike, listen to me---what you're doing is dangerous! Why can't you learn simple enchantment instead?"
"What you call dark magic, Sister, is more powerful than 'simple enchantment,' and anyone who fears it is clearly not suited to learning its secrets and mastering its power. Unlike you, you vile little coward, I've made plans for my future, and I never compromise. Never." Ulrike's smile twisted into a sneer. "And no one stands in my way. Not even you."
Amara watched her sister raise a hand, palm facing out and aimed at her. She swallowed but didn't move an inch. "No," she said, her low voice trembling. "I won't let you destroy yourself. You're stronger than this. I know that you're capable of turning this around---maybe even using it for good."
"And how did you suddenly become a mistress of the dark arts?"
"I've read up on it and---and asked Mistress Alda for---"
Ulrike let out a sound of annoyance and disgust. "Mistress Alda, the town witch? Well, I suppose I can't accuse you of speaking without knowledge." Her mouth curled in a sneer.
Amara shook her head. "She said that if your will's strong enough, you can still subvert your powers and use them for good."
"And if I don't, hmm? I go mad. Is that it? I'm well aware of being able to turn my powers around, Fool, but why would I do that? What reason can you give me for taking a gift and twisting its purpose? It sounds like the last resort of the desperate and the feeble."
"The time will come, maybe, when you find yourself making that choice because you've got nothing else left." Amara took a deep breath. "I won't let you get that far."
Ulrike shrugged, her hand still raised. "Oh, fine. Don't blame me, then."
With a gasp, Amara felt her breath wrung out of her lungs, as though an invisible, giant hand just took her in its grip and squeezed hard. She dropped her candle as she clawed frantically at her neck, the air, and when she collapsed on the floor, writhing and gasping, the cold wood beneath her.
"I warned you, didn't I? Stupid bitch."
Ulrike moved quickly, stepping over her choking sister and moving through the door without a second's hesitation. Once the door shut behind her, the spell broke, and Amara wheezed and coughed as she struggled to fill her lungs with air. Tears squeezed out of her eyes at the horrific pain in her chest, and she could barely see the vague outlines of the bedroom furniture and the candle that lay on the floor beyond her reach. It took her several moments to breathe normally again, and when she did, it was all she could do to crawl to her bed, use it to raise herself up on weak and trembling legs, and then burrow under the blankets.
It was past midnight. Ulrike's lessons would take another two hours, and then the chill would vanish, the night resuming its normal cloak of darkness.
In the meantime, Ulrike sat in the family vault, specifically in an old and unoccupied chamber that had been marked for her parents' future interment. She needed no light to guide her steps there, for she could easily see in the dark with a few whispered words of magic.
On the cold stone floor she sat, not at all feeling the bone-numbing iciness of the subterranean crypts. She was protected by her tutors, after all. And like a dedicated, immensely talented scholar, she sat with her back straight and her head bowed, the hood of her cloak covering everything save her mouth and chin. Like a dark ghost she sat still and read the black pages of the ancient book she'd spread on her lap. Murmuring in the dark, she read that night's lessons as they appeared in fiery text across each page, glowing red and casting an eerie glow on her marble-like features.
A low, hollow voice interrupted her reading every so often, and Ulrike glanced up to stare at the wall before her---at the shadowy forms of predecessors who'd also learned the same dark arts, flitting across the weathered, slimy stone, encouraging her with voices from beyond the grave.
They were her tutors, anyway, all bound together as one entity, there to guide anyone from a future generation who'd dare attempt those terrifying lessons. From what Ulrike had discovered, there were half a dozen of her ancestors who practiced black magic, and while none suffered death by execution, she also knew that they all succumbed to the soul and mind-eating power of the dark arts.
She'd learned about them through dusty records kept in the royal family's library---old and abandoned tomes that were never destroyed, perhaps kept around as a means of remembering the past, or as Amara would likely refer to it, the sins of the past. Of course, there was also the possibility that they were kept in case someone down the line decided to dabble in black magic---a ghastly legacy that seemed to be made specifically for the royal family's bloodline.
Inserted between the pages of one of those books were torn sheets of paper in an ancient tongue, which Ulrike rightly guessed to be some kind of spell that began her lessons by making her book appear on her lap after she spoke those old, old words several times over. From there on, the spirits of her ancestors took her on, instructing her where to go and at what time, and Ulrike gladly obeyed.
But Ulrike wasn't like any of her ancestors, though. She'd decided to learn these forbidden lessons with a very pragmatic turn of mind. She had her ambitions, all of which coincided nicely with what the court had long been saying about her: a successful marriage to a great king, a long and magnificent reign marked by prosperity and peace, a beautiful and strong family.
I need a bit of help to get there, she'd written in her journal. Unlike other princesses who prefer to sit around, look pretty, and wait for a champion to come along, I'd rather take matters in my own hands and see to it that my ambitions bear fruit. Luck is a joke. Free will isn't.
She was sixteen then, having begun her midnight lessons on her birthday, and she proved to be a quick learner. Just after she turned eighteen, she was married to the king of a land far, far greater than hers, and he whisked her off to his grand palace and its magnificent pleasure garden.
Ulrike laughed, her giddy, girlish voice reverberating through the trees as she ran past them, following one pretty lane after another. "I'm here!" she cried, throwing her head back as she lifted her skirts, somehow managing to run in several layers of cloth over stiff hoops, her silk slippers not at all made for such activity. Perhaps it was magic that kept her from stumbling or twisting her ankles, or perhaps it was triumphant joy at ensuring that the path to her new life was as trouble-free as possible---that is, that the path was littered with the bodies of her rivals, all struck down one after another in the most remarkable chain of coincidental and horrific accidents.
"I'm here!" she cried again and again, her joy all the more delicious as she imagined the ground beneath her soaked with the blood of those useless, pretentious sluts from kingdoms in France or England or Russia among several others, princesses her age or older who thought themselves worthy of King Lambrecht's attention. No. Absolutely not.
Ulrike---now Queen Ulrike---would never be challenged by useless women who wouldn't lift a dainty finger to help themselves.
"This is what real power's all about, Amara!" she added, laughing again. She'd taken a lovely tour of the glittering palace; she'd been introduced to the court. Now she was given time to herself as she'd demanded, for she needed to gather her wits, make further plans, and simply revel in her triumph. She slackened her pace and continued her rounds of the pleasure garden, delighting in the decadent mix of artificiality and rustic natural beauty. Yes, she'd have a cottage built in the garden somewhere---a retreat of hers and perhaps her children as well. Farther out, as close to the north border of the garden as possible, she'd have a waterfall made, even a watering-hole of some kind for her private enjoyment. Cottage, waterfall, watering-hole, and any other additions she'd decide on would be strictly for the royal family, which meant that a good portion of the pleasure garden behind the palace would have to be set apart from the rest. No, she'd no need of her powers now that she'd arrived at that first destination; everything else would fall into place quite nicely for her, and she wouldn't need to whisper a spell to see that through.
"You see, sister, I did tell you that I know what I'm doing," she said, grinning, as she ran a careless hand over a marble statue that rose from between thick clusters of bright pink flowers. She watched petals tear off and float down to the grass, enlivening the deep green with a shock of pink. Her eyes twinkled. "As long as you know when to stop, you'll never be overcome by your powers. I'm not stupid---not like you. From this point on, my head will rule, not my magic, and I'll show you just how baseless your claims have always been."
She shrugged, looking up and enjoying the brilliant sun above as more plans for improving the garden crammed her brain. "I'll worry about those things when the time comes," she said, inhaling the fresh air deeply. Then, once again overcome by the excitement of reaching one goal in such a remarkably short amount of time, Ulrike broke into a run, laughing and shrieking through the trees.
Around her, birds flew off branches, startled by her noise.
And hours turned into days, weeks, months, a year, then two, then five...
Chapter Two
Ulrike sat at her loom and wove. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary as weaving had always been a part of her queenly distractions, along with standing by her king and smiling with a vacant brilliance at her subjects---that is, whenever the king and queen thought fit to set foot beyond the tall, gold-painted, wrought iron fence of their immense sanctuary.
"All hail the queen!" It was her job to draw those adoring words from her people, the poor, filthy, ignorant lot, despite the injuries they suffered from her brainless boor of a husband.
"All hail the queen!" Be beautiful. Be virtuous. Be everyone's goddess. Then half the people who'd been robbed through nightmarish tributes in exchange for the king's protection would forget the scars, the empty, shrinking stomachs, and the scores of disease-ravaged children lying dead and buried in paupers' graves.
And all hailed their queen. Ulrike was their savior, their emotional balm. As long as she stood there, smiling and beautiful and perfect, her subjects would love their iron-fisted king. How could a ghoul such as he be attached to someone so divine?
"She sees something good in him. Yes, there's hope there," wizened crones hissed between discolored teeth. Surely their king wasn't beyond redemption. Some of the half-starved subjects agreed because tradition and absolute power blinded them, and the rest were simply too stupid to know any better.
Besides, as was the case where the nobility was concerned, the court remained an untouchable fortress, set apart from the rest of the land by a twelve-foot high wrought-iron fence that seemed to be a handiwork of magic, for it sported elaborate floral motifs all throughout, every inch painted in gold that never seemed to weather despite its daily exposure to the elements. A massive iron gate marked the entrance, its intricate patterns of writhing and interlocking rose vines and blooms shimmering in the sun, no differently from the way the rest of the amazingly long fence that linked each half of the gate shimmered.
Even the expansive pleasure garden with its exuberant flowering trees and shrubs that jostled for space with trees seemed to speak of an unearthly hand being responsible for the remarkable explosions of color and fragrance that filled the air day and night. The palace sprawled east and west in the middle of the massive garden, rising to meet the heavens with three storeys of tall, sunlit apartments that stared prettily out in ornate architectural playfulness, an emphatic turning up of its aristocratic nose at the ragged world beyond its sacred grounds.
The palace stood on an island of lush grass, a deep green lawn that served as vivid carpeting separating the palace from the rest of the grounds. Beyond that lawn stretched the pleasure garden, which through past generations had undergone quite a bit of aesthetic changes. For this period in time, it was turned into a landscape of a strictly measured idyll. Unlike the elaborate flower gardens so popular elsewhere, this area was something akin to a small, magical woodland of sorts, with carefully chosen trees and plants coyly hiding the royal family's favorite retreats at the extreme end of the garden: a rustic little cottage here, a pretty glade there, a small clearing through which a crystal clear brook cut its way, an elaborate mountain of rocks among which a steady fall of water poured in mimicry of a real waterfall. No one but those whom the royal family favored was allowed in that portion of the garden, and it was to the court's great credit that servants and nobles who visited the royal family respected those strict limits and satisfied themselves with the rest of the expansive garden for their enjoyment.
The pleasure garden was divided into large square sections, each of which was bordered by romantic lanes along which were scattered marble benches and statuary. Here and there, torches were put up and lit to guide the royal family and their guests after the sun had set, lending the pleasure garden an even greater romantic feel to it. During certain celebrations, small orchestras were hired to play music in selected areas among the trees so as to be hidden from view, their nocturnes and minuets filling the day and evening air as lovers strolled, inspiring them to carry on later in the privacy of their bedrooms.
Together, the pleasure garden and its nestled palace were known as Paradies to the rest of the kingdom.
So in her chosen sanctuary in Paradies, Ulrike sat and lost herself in womanly work as she counted the minutes till the moment. Weaving used to bore her, but not anymore, now that she'd discovered that she could "paint" stories with thread, not just senseless, pretty patterns. Her magic, so long suppressed in favor of "normal" queenly activities, had proven itself to be too powerful to silence completely, and while music and needlework did nothing to help, weaving surprised her with its strange and inexplicable connection to the darker arts. Ever since Ulrike learned to use the loom, she'd been amazed at how masterfully her fingers were guided even without extensive training. All she needed to do, she'd discovered, was to think of a story, and her hands would fly as though they'd just developed a life of their own, her thoughts slowly taking shape in brilliant color and elaborate patterns. It was an oddity, to be sure, to have a queen at that day and age to turn to something as primitive as weaving, but a queen could do whatever she damned well pleased, and besides, it was an activity that Ulrike had always kept secret---a prudent move, to be sure.
Ulrike paused to run her gaze from left to right, a smile growing. Within the intricacies of an extravagant border, an event played itself out. First, on the far left of the tapestry was a wedding celebration, with the bride looking quite angry, her husband, drunk and cavorting with a handful of maids of honor. Then the scene flowed into a garden kiss between the sullen bride and---someone else. A nobleman. If one were to follow the trail of strewn blue rose petals, he'd find himself watching the couple in bed next, a sword leaning against the man's side. The trail of rose petals continued from there---no, not rose petals, but drops of blood. The husband lay on the ground, his head cut off. His wife stood nearby, smiling and glowing, while her lover held a crown above his own head, looking as though he were about to crown himself. The final scene showed them both sitting on their thrones, majestic, all-powerful, and so, so content.
The tapestry was Ulrike's personal delight. Her fury, disappointment, and countless other poisonous feelings that had built up and festered over five years found release in that loom, and those same toxins had fed the dark magic that she'd been trying to keep in check. Bitterness, hate, and powers that she'd long mastered in an ambitious effort at rising up the ranks alternately fed and ate off each other---a never-ending nightmarish spiral. Her pale fingers moved quickly, the loom's frame shook under her desperate speed, and several bobbins emptied themselves of their colorful, cocooning thread.
"Never again. Never again," she murmured, her eyes narrowed and fixed on every inch of the tapestry on which she'd be working. Five years of misery were five years too long. Five years of being bedded by the king, five years of trying for an heir, the prospect of a son the only thing that kept her grounded in the moment, though she could never grow used to the disgust that roiled in her belly as her husband loomed above her, pouchy and streaked with sweat, his face powder and rouge smeared, his skin reeking from that day's adventures through the countryside, that day's executions of the hapless poor (all done outside Paradies's borders, of course), that day's drunken debauches within court and without. Lambrecht was thirty when he married her; at thirty-five, he might as well be sixty as far as his queen was concerned.
Midway through her work, Ulrike decided to rest. Rubbing her fingers, flexing them as she sauntered to the window of her private cottage, she once again felt a nervous anticipation tickling her stomach. She glanced out the window and watched the snow collect on the uneven ground.
"I suppose I should talk to the gardeners again," she said. "They've been too sloppy in keeping up the winter landscape."
Yes, even with the plants mostly hiding till the spring, Ulrike refused to allow that respite to make complete sluggards of men under her employ, and she always ordered them out into the snow to find something for them to do. Ragged men had died in past winters, digging out rocks from the snow just to break up the monotonous whiteness for the queen's pleasure as well as clearing up patches of the little woodland sanctuary in defiance of Nature.
"I want to see spring in winter," Ulrike occasionally demanded. She could, of course, use magic to achieve what she desired in less than half the time, but it also meant giving her powers away when the gardeners went about their daily maintenance duties.
No, indeed---no magic. For something as ordinary as Paradies's woodland paradise, it was far more prudent to make full use of hired help instead. Besides, those who were employed by the royal family should earn their wages, regardless. No use spending the entire winter doing nothing in their wretched cottages, after all, while their families faded with their dwindling supplies, though usefulness came at a high price.
The minutes crawled, and Ulrike waited and wove her tapestry, idly turning her thoughts to the snow-white purity beyond.
"I would dearly love it if I were blessed with a child with such a skin. It's absolute---perfection," she said. Unblemished and superior---the kind of complexion that only the next monarch deserved.
She caught herself and shook her head, waving a hand vaguely before her as though warding off a persistent insect. "I can't have my child looking like him," she murmured with greater firmness. "I'd sooner die than have two of him in my life." She could barely stifle a contemptuous sneer at the mental image of a child looking like her husband. Oh, by the heavens, no.
Be the child a boy or a girl---white skin versus dark, red lips versus peach or flesh-hued---perfection was perfection, and a pale-skinned, red-lipped creature carrying her blood in its veins without the faintest hint of paternal connection with the king was just the right kind of feather in her cap.
"No," she said, her skin crawling when a quiet voice in her head reminded her. "A girl. It has to be a girl. We've had enough of men around here." Yes, a girl. A strong-willed, intelligent young woman who'd grow up crushing importunate beasts between her dainty fingers. She'd fare far better than her mother, Ulrike determined. She'd know what to do, and she'd get her way, not be a glittering, brainless toy for her husband to showcase and brag about here and there. Ulrike would have to pass on those midnight lessons to her daughter as well, an added protection against the filthy wiles of men and the petty viciousness of women. Perhaps the hoped-for princess would find better use of the dark arts, and Ulrike had also taken care to bring her old chest and its black lesson book with her, much to her sister's horror.
At any rate, a girl instead of a boy would be a much-needed slap at Lambrecht's filthy face for all the misery to which he'd subjected her since their wedding.
Ulrike smiled as she resumed her seat and worked on. How could she have forgotten about the baby's gender? She'd already had a number of tedious conversations with herself regarding that. How silly of her to forget. And those hoped-for physical attributes? Oh, yes, she'd also had tiresome conversations about those before...
\*
"Not all nobles have white skin," her younger sister, the pragmatic, ill-tempered chit (as Ulrike had always viewed her), used to always say. "And look at the gentry---a few shades darker than you, and all of them are handsome in their way."
"Yes, but I want my children to be handsome in my way," Ulrike retorted. "What are the gentry, after all, but mongrels with money?" She caught her reflection in a nearby mirror and smiled, for she'd always been fond of mirrors. Drawing herself up, she pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, admiring the delicate, nearly translucent quality of her pale, pale complexion. "They're no more than one step above the peasantry, Amara."
"I see then that ninety-nine percent of the world will fall short of your standards," the pragmatic Amara---yes, the princess with skin a shade darker than her sister's---said with a baffled shake of her head. "Be careful with your ambitions, Ulrike. Things don't always go according to plan." Then she lowered her voice, anxiety edging her words. "Remember that you can't undo what you've learned."
Things don't always go according to plan.
But Ulrike ruled this kingdom, defined by its own borders, and all her worldly concerns were fixed within. Why should the ninety-nine percent matter to her? So she'd ordered Amara arrested, tried for treason---for what were her words but a subtle threat?---and executed.
"You should have taken your advice about caution and ambition," Ulrike said from her carriage window as she watched the bonfire in the town square situated some five miles from the palace, where executions, regardless of the status of the condemned, took place in full view of the public. The blackened hands were still bound to the burning pole, and the wild, dancing flames obscured the rest of what was left of her younger sister. "You've always been such a high-minded moralist."
\*
Now unhindered by scheming family, Ulrike continued to dream of her child, following her progress through different stages till the moment of her union with the member of the royal house of a distant---perhaps exotic but most certainly powerful---kingdom. Ah, how wonderful were these thoughts, how comforting, how given to bold resolutions as the queen vowed to herself that the child would have nothing less than the best of everything and most certainly all of her mother's time and attention.
Fairy tales may have offered other women in her predicament a solution to this quandary by forcing an enchantress into their paths, but even if Ulrike weren't skilled in dark magic, she'd still be much too proud to accept any condescending help from some tiresome, perpetually optimistic and smiling wand-waver. Despite---or because of---the daily humiliations of being married to Lambrecht and the bitter cynicism of court life, Ulrike had nurtured her hatred into an icy pragmatism, relentless toward doubts that might hamper her progress, unforgiving toward those who dared to stand in her way.
Her thoughts continued to drift from past to present to future until the door to the room finally opened, and in stepped the very means by which her ambitions would all bear fruit.
"Darling."
"My love."
She rose from her chair, abandoning the bobbins and the bloody tapestry scene and sweeping grandly toward the man who'd just entered, arms outstretched in eager welcome to him. She coquettishly stopped midway, teasing him with a hand toying with the ribbons on her bodice. The gentleman smiled and bowed, everything about his manner nothing more than false shyness under his wig, his foppish love of overly embroidered satin and too much lace. Had he kept his wits about him, he'd have taken to a simpler set of clothes as befitting an aristocrat going about his business in the day, but he'd always been keen on impressing his beloved with excesses.
Bittan von Eisenberg, the youngest and most useless son of a Saxony count, stood with the air of an impudent peacock, smirking and smug in his velvet and satin finery of warm gold and deep red. Ulrike had always loved the way the fine gold embroidery of his red satin coat enhanced its bloody significance. That the nobleman enjoyed wearing it during their trysts only heightened Ulrike's delight in the very idea that he liked wrapping himself in death. She'd had that "blood coat" made for him after their first meeting a year ago, and he never disappointed her in its usage.
People in court had raised their eyebrows at such a strange, vibrant color in a sea of softness and pastels, but Bittan apparently took an inordinate degree of pride in standing out starkly.
"How long?"
"An hour, no more," he said, his gaze raking over her body without shame.
After all he was the son of one of the royal family's oldest and dearest friends and certainly not one with any legal claim on her. But he was twenty-five and bold---proud yet indescribably stupid---still given to youthful romantic flights, and by nature impetuous and fiery. And, yes, he believed himself to be in love with his queen to distraction, for how else could he account for the thrill he felt whenever he wore her blood coat and saw her eyes light up with a mad flame?
"An hour's enough," Ulrike said, her smile broadening as she hurried forward again.
They met in the center of the room and fell into each other's arms, murmuring tender words even as they tore savagely away at each other's clothing. The fire in the nearby hearth crackled, the sound of burning wood like a crone's sickly cackling edged with phlegm. Candelabra added more light to the bedroom of the queen's rustic sanctuary, which had nothing else but the loom, a bed, and one large wall tapestry of a doubtful source and time. Whatever the scene depicted, and it was quite likely a lush garden romance, its original intent had long been muted by time and dirt. Details had vanished into dulled colors that bled into each other. Human figures had turned faceless and confused, with arms that once reached for lovers now fumbling blindly for something to grasp. Animals had turned into frolicking phantoms in dirty gray and brown. Flowers looked like malformed fingers of the dead, reaching out and grasping at clothes and air.
"Too many clothes on," Ulrike said after pulling away, her words halting and breathless. Already her skin sported a number of reddening marks. "This will be a challenge."
"Hurry."
Hands worked feverishly, and buttons, snaps, and laces were immediately undone. Silk, satin, and velvet soon found their way to the floor, and the fiery nobleman and his queen consummated their love in the warmth of the bed. Limbs entangled, hands and fingers explored, caressed, scratched. Lips and tongues roamed over bare skin, kissing, biting. Her nipples stiffened with his gentle sucking, her thighs widened when he nestled his tongue between them. Her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting to ragged sighs, misty thoughts pervading her lust-riddled mind. His desire was just as strong, and after initial preparations, he mounted her and thrust himself in, and the bed rocked with them.
She couldn't help but think about her child---his child---and, yes, damn her husband and his idiot, barbaric propensities. What did he care, anyway? He'd made whores of half the maidens in the land (not counting those women in court), and he'd done it in exercise of his authority.
Her lover---their friend's son---would help her. It would be triumph without the help of magic.
He thrust, and she smiled even as she grunted from the thorny mix of pleasure and pain, her fogged eyes opening and filling their hazy world with the sight of her lover's grimace and the countless beads of sweat that had formed on his skin. Thrust one. That would be the child's sex. Female, perfect. Thrust two, the child's figure. Slender, perfect. Thrust three, the child's complexion, white as snow. Smooth, perfect. Superior. Thrust four, the child's lips, red as blood. Seductive, perfect. Thrust five...
Ulrike lost count.
A long moment passed, an eternity, perhaps, and the world dissolved around them, and she bit back her cries, refusing to give up her stifling hold on her lover.
Chapter Three
The child arrived---not soon enough, though. The kingdom celebrated, but not so the weary, tearful queen, who was now realizing how much of a sick joke her life had become, magic or no.
"It's a boy, Your Majesty," one of the attendants declared, and everyone cheered and applauded her apparent success. Their cries rippled outward quickly from room to room, the palace exploding in jubilation, to be echoed by the rest of the kingdom.
The servant appeared at her bedside. She cradled the boy in her arms, presenting him to his mother with a low, reverent curtsy and tear-filled eyes.
A boy.
He was, if one were to follow Ulrike's long-established standards, just short of perfection personified. Skin much darker than snow---indeed, the boy's pale skin was no different from anyone's, for all his mother's desperate desires for the superiority of a snow-white complexion. His lips didn't boast a hue that made them look as though they were tainted with blood. Like his skin, his lips showed a mortal quality. There was nothing about him that was god-like and unblemished. In fact, his gender had already torn him down from the lofty pedestal on which his mother had placed him well before he was born.
Yes, the future sovereign was there at last. On his tiny shoulders lay the weight of an entire kingdom. On his little heart lay the burden of endurance---for love, of course, as the bards had always said---and would always say---in their verses.
What did the future hold for this tiny boy?
He'd ride off on his best steed, proud and beautiful and brave, his ambition goading him on. He'd rescue doomed princesses from their tower prisons, set to right ageless curses woven by vindictive witches or stepmothers---it was always the stepmothers!---wander through fantastic lands, endure the most amazing tests. And he'd succeed. He'd prevail. He was the prince, after all, and princes never failed. Whatever his shortcomings in physical appearance, nobility still meant perfection and a mere step down from the gods. And perfection was infallible; that was simply Nature's law.
Nobility, indeed...
That was one more niggling detail, for the prince was prince only in name, being born of the queen but not both monarchs, his real father now a disgraced figure. Prince, indeed---more like bastard prince, to be sure, and mingling with the joyful cheers of courtiers and subjects alike were the quieter, jubilant titters of gossips everywhere, mocking and pointing fingers at the helpless infant.
"Will you hold him, Your Majesty?" the servant asked, leaning over the bed, and Ulrike shrank away.
"No. Don't touch me," she hissed, tearing at the air with her fingers curled like pale talons and startling the old woman. "Keep that thing away!"
A boy. Damn it all to hell, a bloody boy. One more man to add to the kingdom's woes and to hers. Ulrike had always believed herself to be careful enough despite the misery of her trapped situation, had eaten all the required food that, witches said, ensured the birth of a girl, while the baby was still forming in her belly. She could hear her dead sister's laughter filtering through the decay of the grave.
Ulrike stared past the puzzled servant, her eyes, swollen from tears and rage, fixed on the airy figure standing behind the servant and the baby. She could see her sister's scorched figure, the black sockets where her eyes used to be, the grin of the dead, with burned lips pulled back to reveal a mass of black and red within.
And how do you like your perfect little baby? the specter asked, its words dissolving into hollow laughter. White skin and red lips? Female? How devastating is it, seeing your ambitions---oh---how shall I say it? Go up in smoke? More laughter as the apparition faded, leaving the faint, sickening smell of charred flesh in its wake. I just made a brilliant joke, didn't I? Oh, yes, I know a lot about smoke and fire. Enjoy your life, Sister. I know I'll delight in watching it unfold...or perhaps unravel...
"Get away from me!" Ulrike screamed, flailing more wildly now.
The servant yelped and dodged the blows, turning so that the baby was kept safe from his mother's strange outburst. Still surprised and horrified, she bowed and withdrew from the sickbed and set the child in his crib.
The servant watched the baby for a moment, wonder in her eyes---the same kind of wonder that the queen should have. She bent down and made cooing noises as she reached in, no doubt to play with the child.
Ulrike watched her, incoherent with madness and rage. "My baby!" she screamed now as she sat up and bent over the edge of her bed, groping for a shoe. With another wild scream, she flung the shoe at the servant, barely missing the woman's head. "Get out! Don't touch my baby! Get out!"
The servant fled the room, wild-eyed and wailing. Once the sound of the door slamming shut had faded, silence fell on the room, and Ulrike lay back, her eyes narrowed and fixed in grim suspicion on the crib. Her sister's ghost hadn't appeared again. Was it even there to begin with? She was sure of it, for she knew her sister died calling out to her---even before the pyre was lit, in fact, according to the executioner. Before he stabbed her with a hunting knife in a show of mercy prior to the lighting of the pyre. It was likely that in death, she'd haunt her older sister's steps with her taunts and burned remains.
The prince began to wail, a wretched little bundle under the thick layers in which he'd been wrapped, his eyes unseeing, tiny hands unsteady and awkward as they clawed at the air, searching vainly for his mother.
Yes, vainly.
After all, he now lay unattended and ignored in his crib, his mother resolutely looking the other way. She cursed that day. She cursed the day when the child was conceived. She even cursed her lover and her husband.
She cursed the moment of their discovery---of her husband's violent outburst and Bittan's equally violent defense. Betrayal had always been a part of court life, and everyone slept with everyone else, no one really batting an eyelash, though the gossips exchanged in the gold and white privacy of the palace's apartments were always vicious. Ulrike should have known, the damned fool, that Lambrecht would do something as extreme as murder. An hour of freedom in her lover's arms? Hardly! Less than half an hour, perhaps, and no more than that.
\*
One didn't readily recover from the sight of the king knocking down his still-naked rival and, in a fit of insane rage, pulling out his sword and carving his adversary with it. No one would either recover or forget the sight of her lover writhing in agony, dying in a pool of his own gore while spitting out curses at the king---or of her own still-naked self leaping up and blindly pulling out her lover's weapon from its sheath, swinging it wide and slicing her husband's belly open with the tip of the blade. She could have done more to him, dealt him worse than he'd dealt Bittan von Eisenberg, were it not for that army of embarrassed courtiers that had burst into the room as though---yes---anticipating a bloody quarrel.
The weapon was snatched from her, and she was restrained even as she kicked and fought and screamed out her dead lover's name. Lambrecht, in the meantime, was dragged away as well, swooning in his friends' arms as he bled from his wound.
The dead nobleman was now held in contempt for his sin, for despite the common nature of adultery within court, being caught and killed by his rival stained an ordinary affair with a dark scandal.
"I have no son," the old Saxony count said when he heard the news. His wrinkled face showed little emotion under the powder and rouge, and his voice was steady and hard.
"You won't go to him at all? Forgive him?" another nobleman prodded, smirking behind his glass of wine. "Come now, don't you think it's high time for you two to reconcile?"
The count simply looked at his companion. "I have no son."
Bittan von Eisenberg was buried in an unmarked grave (by order of the king), without ceremony or blessing, somewhere beyond the kingdom's borders. It was Bittan's exile even in death.
Its location remained a secret, known only to the king and the gravediggers, but rumors spread of the burial place being somewhere in the cursed forest over by the kingdom's southwestern border, generating frightened whispers that rippled through the superstitious peasantry. Even the senior von Eisenberg said nothing about the rumored sacrilege.
No one, really, knew when and how the forest had acquired its reputation save for old legends, but most knew enough of it to avoid coming within fifty feet of its borders. Whether viewing it from the ground or from one of the peaks that surrounded the general area, it looked ominous, its trees forming an endless tapestry of interlocking branches so that very little sunlight could penetrate through the leaves. Those brave or foolish enough to venture farther in spoke of disembodied voices among the trees, of icy cold, invisible hands that caressed faces. There had been reports of shadowy figures flitting here and there, creeping at times and peering out from behind trees or shrubs, only to vanish when torches were held aloft. Those who'd reported such things were foolish to venture in but were also still able to flee in response to their instincts. Not everyone, however, was that lucky in the end.
Nothing but misfortune would come of this sacrilege committed against the slain nobleman's soul, wherever he might be buried. Forgiveness and redemption---those ought to have been the king's prerogatives for the sake of the royal line.
"The royal family will now be haunted," ragged farmers said, their voices trembling. The bloodline was now doomed to a quick decline and a bloody end. It wouldn't take long, many claimed, before conspiracies would be formed and put into action, for several in court knew when to take advantage of frightened whispers and wild legends among filthy and half-starved subjects.
Lambrecht, for his part, said nothing to correct his frightened subjects and nervous courtiers. "Let them gossip and tell tales," he said over cards with a handful of his closest and most trusted friends. "They're all full of shit, anyway." And everyone burst into drunken laughter.
Ulrike sank into gloomy madness, her punishment for her infidelity being that of staying married to Lambrecht, forced to watch her scarred and drunk husband claim false ownership of her son while continuing his debauches simply because he was king.
"You know the boy will never be crowned," a duchess archly noted, her skirts swaying on their hoops as she skillfully navigated her way through narrow doors.
"He's a bastard, the poor child," a lady replied, following her friend from one apartment to another. "Why he wasn't whisked away to spare the court this scandal is beyond me. There's nothing wrong with a retired life in an obscure village somewhere. The royal family can afford to retain him like that."
The duchess whirled around, laughing, and gave her friend a playful thump with her fan. "But that's just it, my dear---scandal! Why deprive everyone of the most delicious outrage yet? How can you be so boring?"
"I suppose it's worth watching Her Majesty get knocked down the ladder by a few rungs," the lady said, her smile hardening. "I've always known that she'd be bad news."
"Hmm. I don't even remember where she's from originally. I suppose that says something about her, doesn't it?"
Elsewhere in court, ladies whispered and tittered behind their fans. Gentlemen nudged each other and muttered a few choice words about whores, lechers, and bastards before suppressing laughter. All their eyes followed Ulrike's shrunken and feverish figure as she went about her usual business, a hollow-eyed shadow of her old self. Mute and listless, her mind always fixed elsewhere and never the present. As her belly grew, her despairing hold on her last chance at salvation---her hoped-for baby girl---gradually slipped along with her mind.
She despised her life even more, and her dark powers, long-suppressed, festered in her, feeding her madness.
But such is the way with many queens, her sister would whisper at her bedside night after night. There, there. You're not alone in this, you know. At times, the dead princess would stroke Ulrike's hair, charred hands rough and cold against her skin, smelling of decay.
\*
When Ulrike's thoughts found their way sluggishly to the present, she heard nothing but her son's incessant crying.
"Find a wet-nurse for him," she ordered one of the servants who'd responded to her summons. The nervous girl immediately complied. "I won't touch him. He repulses me." Once left alone with her tearful child, she passed the time singing to herself while casting furtive glances about the room, nervously searching for signs of her dead sister coming back to keep her company.
\*
There was a family heirloom, a looking-glass, to which Ulrike often repaired for reasons known only to herself. Then again, the subjects understood that their sovereign had gone quite mad, and they merely looked the other way during these occasional odd displays.
The young prince, now in his fifth year, didn't quite understand it, either, but he knew well enough to avoid it and the room in which it was kept. What had been grounded into him had been nothing more than an odd tale or two woven around this rather plain-looking piece of furniture.
"The looking-glass," his nurse told him as she helped him dress, "has been the royal family's most feared heirloom, my pet. It's their oracle, wrought several centuries before by an ancestor renowned for sorcery and who was subsequently executed by fire."
Alarick listened, puzzled. "I thought Mama uses it to look at herself. Isn't that what mirrors are for?"
"Well, yes, I suppose. Ordinarily, anyway, it should be used for nothing more than vanity purposes." The nurse smirked as she combed the prince's hair. For all her ambitions, where was the queen now? As with everyone else she knew among the servants, the nurse whispered a little prayer for Alarick's salvation. The boy clearly showed no signs of being like either of his monstrous parents, but perhaps it was still too early to know.
"Mama's very pretty. Why would she cry when she sees herself in it?"
"We don't know, darling. It's not an easy thing, being queen."
The child sniffed. "She has maids-in-waiting. I don't see what the problem is."
The nurse would only laugh and give Alarick a fond hug. The boy would have remained in the dark on several things about his family, not the least of which was the looking-glass, but he was sure that his secret friend would be able to tell him even if his nurse refused.
His secret friend, yes---the woman who'd appear in his room only when he was alone and forgotten by the world. The woman who'd talk to him, tell him stories till he fell asleep, answer his questions, and give him a cold kiss on his cheek before she vanished in the deepening darkness just as the servants would appear, bearing candles with which to light those in Alarick's bedroom.
The nurse was usually with him from breakfast till dinner, so his secret friend never visited him then, though she sometimes took advantage of Alarick's solitary hours to check up on him as well.
"What's wrong with your face?" Alarick asked one day, frowning as he gazed at the strange scars that marred half of her face. He tried to touch them, but he didn't like the way her skin felt too cold against his fingers. It was all he could do to compare the two sides of her face as she turned her head left and right while laughing indulgently.
"Burned, I'm afraid," she said once Alarick had settled down on his bed. "It happened a long time ago, sometime before you were born."
"Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore."
"But you can't find a husband now, and it isn't fair." Alarick's heart went out to his friend, who might have been a beautiful woman at one point.
She merely smiled and shook her head as she settled herself on the floor, resting her arms on the bed and her chin on her arms. She gazed up at him, pleasure and wonder in her eyes. "It doesn't matter now," she said. "I can't marry anyone, anyway. It's too late for that. If it's any comfort, I really look far worse than what you see now, but a bit of magic takes care of that. I don't wish to frighten you."
"Magic? Are you a witch?" Alarick asked, breathless. He'd never had a witch for a friend before.
She laughed. "I might as well be, I suppose. But it's a small matter, this magic thing, and not worth anyone's time or trouble thinking too much about it."
"I don't like you being alone. I'll keep you company."
"I'm very glad." She sighed as she watched him, reaching out on occasion to brush stray dirt off his clothes or to tousle his hair fondly. "I enjoy talking to you."
She'd identified herself as Amara.
"Do you know anything about the mirror that Mama's so fond of?" Alarick asked her while toying with one of the ribbons on her bodice, which was discolored and tattered, not at all like anything a respectable woman, whether gentry or nobility, would dare put on. Amara simply allowed him to examine her dress, which also sported burn marks in several places.
"It's the royal family's curse," Amara said, the pleasure in her eyes darkening, as she went on about the looking-glass's nature. Its existence had long been deeply and tightly woven into their bloodline by a sorcerer-king, and so generation after generation till the present have been subjected to its prophecies, all of which having been fulfilled, regardless of whether or not the family's fortune swung to the side of good.
Insurrections, assassinations, betrayal, and politically advantageous matches and alliances had all been laid bare by the oracle, and there was nothing that the royal family could do to change the direction their fate was to take. Oh, yes, countless attempts---courageous and ultimately foolish attempts---had been made to thwart the prophecies, but fate had always found a way of duping them back to their predetermined paths, rendering all efforts ineffectual and further instilling a melancholy sense of fatalism in every member of the royal family. It had been rumored before that it was the looking-glass, not the current monarch, that ruled the kingdom, but no one dared venture anything more than fearful whispers of superstition and doubt. And anyone who dared try to destroy the looking-glass ended up dead.
Alarick frowned as he listened. "I don't understand anything you're saying," he said after a moment's pause.
Amara laughed and then stood up in a rustle of decaying fabric. The burned patches of skin on her face seemed to vanish, sinking into her skull so that it looked as though she only had half a face left. Alarick shrank back at the sight, but she held her hands out to him, showing their perfect condition despite the ghastly state of her dress. The prince took her hands in his, and she bent down and gave him a kiss on the forehead.
"You'll understand everything well enough when you're older," she whispered, smiling, and then stood up again, releasing his hands. "Keep yourself safe, though, and stay away from the room where the mirror's kept. It's your mother's treasure, and it won't do, invading her privacy for curiosity's sake."
The prince nodded. "I promise I'll leave it alone."
"This palace is full of mirrors, anyway. If you're allowed to wander around a bit more, you'll enjoy some of the apartments with the mirrored walls. I daresay they'll offer you a great deal more than any cursed looking-glass can." She paused, smiling, as she gave his shirt a playful little tug. "Besides, you're far better off looking at beauty---"
"But I'm looking at myself in the mirror!"
"Exactly! As I was saying, you're better off looking at beauty than wickedness when you stand before any looking-glass."
Alarick frowned as he pondered, absently touching his cheek at hearing himself associated with beauty.
Amara withdrew into the shadows, vanishing gradually while keeping her gaze fixed on the prince. Just as the gloom overcame her, she raised a hand in farewell, and Alarick thought he saw the palm rotting away, with bits of flesh missing and white bone showing through the holes. He blinked, and Amara was gone.
He certainly believed his secret friend as far as the nature of the magic looking-glass went. After all, he simply needed to watch his mother enter the cursed mirror's room, shut herself in, and then at length leave looking more and more aged and distracted. He was certain that she'd spent all that time gazing into the mirror, determining the family's fortune, and from the looks of things, it didn't seem to bode well for anyone.
But the queen had given strict orders to keep him away from the mirror, from the room, and from her. What he knew of her activities were merely conjectures as well as revelations he'd wrung out of Amara, and it was all he could really do to play with his toys, alone, till his nurse came by for a meal or the rare bath.
Every so often, he wondered what his future held. And sometimes he wished that he'd be allowed to peer into the accursed mirror and see for himself his mother's tormentor.
"I'll be the king," he proudly announced, puffing out his chest, green eyes glinting. "I can defeat the monster in the mirror."
"Of course, my love," his nurse purred, and she carried him away.
Spying on his mother one day, he caught the faint sounds of her voice in the room. She always spoke with the monster in the looking-glass. He always knew that, and it irked him. Sometimes he'd hear her weeping, sometimes cursing. He wasn't sure, but he believed that sometimes he'd actually hear her laugh. Then again, monsters were clever, and it was very likely that the one haunting the mirror had the queen firmly wrapped around its finger. Alarick was outraged, naturally. His mother should let him march in the room and break the glass and release the family from its curse.
Then again, it was quite another thing to convince a mad person of the most prudent course to take.
"You'll be hard-pressed to get her to talk to you sensibly," Amara once said with an earnestness that gave Alarick some pause. But her influence on him sometimes only lasted for the briefest moment, and they'd be back to where they were before.
"Nonsense!" he retorted, pulling himself away from his secret friend's hold.
He had this little wooden sword, after all; he was impressively armed. He had his books; from them he'd learn what he could about the nature of curses. He was very good friends with the alchemist who lived in town, and the man would surely accede to his demands for a magic potion concocted specifically for his purpose. Yes, this was merely one of several tests of strength and character he was destined to face.
Even as Amara continued to talk him out of his defiant fantasies, Alarick would ignore her, his mind wandering down familiar paths, his heart nearly bursting out of his chest at the incredible thrill he felt as he played out his adventures in his mind
"My love, what are you thinking about now?" she asked after several minutes of a one-sided conversation had passed. She lifted Alarick's chin with two cold fingers and forced him to look at her.
"Oh---just thinking about how I'll deal with that monster in Mama's mirror."
Amara, at first curious, broke out in quiet laughter. "Really now! And how would you do it, Alarick?" She never called him by his royal title, which at first annoyed the boy, but he'd quickly grown used to her familiarity.
Encouraged, his eyes widening in excitement, Alarick plunged into a rambling, detailed account of how he planned to go about rescuing his mother.
"Come out and face me, demon!" he'd cry, pointing his sword at the glass. "Let this be the day of our battle! Yes, just you and me! I'm not afraid of you!"
And, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh! his sword would go, slicing through the air as his hands moved with impressive dexterity and strength. And the air would clear, and the stench of blood would hang in space to fill his nostrils as he stood tall and victorious over the slashed, mangled corpse of his nemesis. He'd keep the head for a trophy, of course, present it to his mother as a token of his love. After all, she'd long been tormented by this hideous thing. Yes, Alarick was quite sure that it was that demon that had long been responsible for his mother's madness.
He should convince her that his scheme was worth a moment of her time. Now if only she'd let him near her...
"You know it's impossible, child," Amara whispered at length, her face a damaged picture of earnestness, and all his adventures vanished in an unpleasant haze till all that filled his immediate world was the figure of a half-burned woman in tattered and scorched court dress, gazing solemnly at him, the melancholy in her air putting an immediate end to his wild ambitions.
When he burst into tears, she pulled him close for an embrace, shushing him and humming a familiar nursery song, while filling his senses with the smell of earth and old fabric.
Chapter Four
If there was one thing on which Alarick outdid his parents, it would be character. Perhaps it was because of the concern---sincere and born of deep love and respect---shown by some of those who surrounded him through his childhood and youth. No one in this small group, regardless of position in the royal household, wanted to see him turn out like his "adoptive" father or mother, and they truly pitied the boy for being mocked in court as "the bastard prince."
"Don't abuse your intelligence," his tutors growled over the candles, while spreading faded atlases and dusty books before him.
"Don't abuse your subjects," his playmates warned, at times jerking their heads in the direction of the cursed forest. Then they'd taunt him with swords, and soon all would be engaged in mock battles, filling the air with screams and yelps and harsh laughter of soon-to-be-warriors. Around them, flowers shed their petals, peppering the air with a playful flurry of colorful and fragrant snow.
"Don't abuse your body," his spiritual ministers chanted as Alarick sat in the gloomy little antechamber of a holy sanctuary situated in a quiet wooded patch of land beyond the town's borders, the area filled with candles and silent, hooded figures that flitted through the shadows.
Alarick had absorbed and obeyed. For a time, anyway. He studied hard and surpassed his peers, at times putting on a show---for no one but himself, really---by outsmarting his masters. He felt kindness and mercy toward the haggard, reeking peasants. He even visited the local markets, observing the comings and goings, surprising everyone. After all, he was outside the palace walls, he wasn't demanding tributes, and he wasn't getting drunk and raping virgins. What a strange fellow he was, so unlike Lambrecht---or, indeed, even Bittan von Eisenberg---courtiers whispered, though they continued to smirk behind their fans and handkerchiefs. Alarick flattered those lucky enough to earn his interest. He kept his head and tried to maintain good health with the right food and plenty of exercise.
"He's a remarkable boy!" a few of those closest to the royal family said, watching Alarick go about his day, their admiration deepening. What could one expect from perfection, after all? From a boy belonging to a bloodline that was one step down from immortals, bastard or no? Alarick's obvious virtues managed to win over even some of the most hardened gossips and jealous peers of the royal household despite the handicap of his birth. While his activities didn't stop them from indulging in whispered mockery and all kinds of vicious tales, the court at least seemed more inclined to like him on the whole.
It had always been the queen's dearest wish to have a perfect baby, and lucky her, he was everything she'd always wanted in a child---save for his gender and complexion, naturally. And what a shame that she was simply too insane to appreciate her blessings.
Some took issue with Alarick's occasional adventures outside the palace and among the filthy populace. "Why does he bother to go out there, risking his health and his life, talking to these wretches?" the lower ranking nobles asked.
"True," their friends would acknowledge with a puzzled frown. "He's got several people he can appoint for his representatives. Let them face the disease-riddled mass, while he stays safe. Is he bent on dying young? Who'll replace him?"
"And why does His Majesty allow him this much freedom?"
"I don't even understand why His Majesty would care. The boy's not his son."
"He's spoiled the prince rotten, I'm afraid."
"You mean, by not caring a jot what the boy does."
"Prince only in name, mind you!"
"Maybe half a prince?"
"His Majesty's too drunk out of his mind to care, I'm sure." The truth, of course, was somewhere in that muddle, a very complicated issue with which those in court weren't used to grappling. After a while, after dozens of unanswered questions, ministers, fellow nobles, servants, and everyone else felt it best to simply shrug things off despite the lingering doubts and mark their bastard prince as an anomaly among near-immortals.
Oh, and the gossip!
"I daresay he'll grow up to be a preening little fop like his father," a baroness said as she sauntered through the magnificent garden with her lover.
"At the very least, he ought to grow up with twice the wit of his parents," a horse-faced fellow who claimed to be a margrave replied, covering his lady's hand with his own. The giant ruby on his ring glinted in the sun, and she eyed it hungrily. "Though it would be prudent not to get one's hopes up. One can never tell how children turn out." He suppressed a shudder, for he'd always loathed children.
"Perhaps he'll turn out far better than either his parents," a servant girl noted as she lay in a wet, rumpled mess beside her lover, a smallpox-scarred and smelly baron, whose only claim to her ignorant and greedy heart was his promise of moving heaven and earth to have her for his wife.
"That's not a very exciting prospect at all. Don't be so boring," the baron said. He eyed the girl's sweaty nakedness and then ordered her to roll over on to her stomach. "The beauty of women," he said as he climbed atop the squealing girl and then fucked her ass, "is that you can pump yourself dry in more than one opening, ha-ha!"
Above them a group of painted shepherds and gods peered through trees and flowering bushes, their lifeless eyes fixed on the heaving, locked bodies, their poses permanently frozen into melodramatic gestures of amazement.
\*
Amara continued to watch over Alarick even well after his nurse died of an illness. He spent far more time with her than he had with his mother, but then again, Amara seemed to seek him out for the sole purpose of being a substitute parent, and the queen continued to avoid her son.
"I can't marry and have a family anymore," Amara would always say whenever the prince asked her why she continued to be his nurse. "In time, I suppose, I'll stop my visits, but you need looking after for now."
"Even though I'm too old for that?"
"All right, protection, then."
"From what? Haunted mirrors?" Alarick would quip, and they'd share a light-hearted moment, laughing softly.
Amara no longer sat on the floor. Now she sat on the chair opposite Alarick, a table between them, often challenging him in unusual games of strategy. They were all games she used to play as a young girl, she said, but she never showed anyone because princesses simply didn't do those things.
"So what did you do when you were my age?" Alarick asked, frowning and tilting his head thoughtfully. He didn't even care if he got beaten by a woman. Her story intrigued him, and the more secretive she was, the more he prodded.
"Watch my older sister behave as a real lady would," Amara replied with a faint, wistful smile. "We were so dissimilar in every way."
"Is she still alive?"
"Yes, she is, but I'm afraid we've grown apart. Indeed, she wouldn't recognize me if I were to visit her, I'm sure."
Alarick wasn't certain, but he thought that Amara's smile had turned sly as though she'd just remembered a joke, but it could be the trick of the light. After all, they only had the fire in the hearth, as Alarick decided not to have the candles lit in his room that evening. As a lad, he'd been getting into all kinds of strange moods, himself, which everyone had brushed off as one of those normal---yet irritating---changes that came with youth. And keeping his room quite dark happened to be one of his newer obsessions. Amara certainly didn't seem to care.
\*
Outside the regular schoolroom, Alarick studied "combat arts" (as he so fondly called it) at a small military compound about ten miles south of the palace gates. Other young men from all walks of life went there, the sons of the poor having no other choice but to be trained well enough to enter the army someday, for it was the only chance they had for a steady pay outside the drudgery of the forge or the wood shop. As for the sons of the gentry and the aristocracy, who were mostly the younger ones in the brood, military arts were nothing more than one more extracurricular feather to add to their elite caps. Some entered the army, but they were also always guaranteed officers' positions and were expected to rarely---if at all---soil their hands in battle.
It was in this military compound where Alarick met Roald, the only child and son of a viscount from Hanover. A year older and better-traveled, Roald von Theissen won Alarick's deep admiration with his stories of faraway lands and easy confidence. The two boys practicing together or simply spending a great deal of time in each other's company had become a common sight within Paradies's borders and without.
"You're too moody," Roald said.
"No, I'm not. You're just an ass," Alarick replied as he plucked his practice arrows from the tree. He'd shot too wide, and he didn't care. He hated archery, anyway, and preferred hand-to-hand combat. Pistols also fascinated him, but those were advanced lessons, he'd been told, and for the time being, a bow and arrow would have to suffice. This was a required lesson, moreover, and he couldn't abuse his position to excuse himself from such a weak form of combat arts if his life depended on it. His weapons masters had long seen through his wiles, and they knew better than to give in to the prince's sulky demands.
"You can't hit a target," Roald said with a smirk, his eyes narrowing at Alarick as his best friend took his place beside him. "And I think you're doing it on purpose."
"I don't do it on purpose, and I don't care. I hate this lesson---always have." Alarick waved a hand in the direction of the target---a large piece of painted leather stretched taut around a hoop that stood between two massive trees. "Now shut up and shoot."
Roald snorted and stepped forward, fitting an arrow in his bow. He was always in full concentration during these practice hours, for which Alarick was grateful. Roald wouldn't notice his best friend taking a few steps back and at a bit of a diagonal whenever it was Roald's turn to shoot. He wouldn't notice Alarick watching him, not the arrow or the target, the whole time. He wouldn't notice Alarick's gaze raking up and down his person especially in the sun and heat, when they'd both go about their lessons without their shirts and jackets, and their upper-bodies would gleam with sweat and turn dark. Roald certainly wouldn't notice the faint smile that would curl Alarick's lips as the prince watched him intently, seeing nothing else but the movement of still-developing muscles under smooth skin.
When Roald shot his arrow, he rarely ever missed a mark. "There," he said, turning to look at Alarick with a triumphant and arrogant grin. "It's so easy. I don't understand why you can't get it right."
"I happen to be much more skilled in other things, you know." Alarick returned Roald's gently mocking grin with one of his own as he stepped forward and took his place before the target, idly fingering his bow's string. "Wouldn't it be a dull world if we were all good at aiming and shooting? I'd rather be close to my target when I use my weapon. Impalement would be smooth and easy, the effects a great deal more satisfying---not to mention instant."
He stole a glance in Roald's direction and nearly laughed at his blushing friend. Alarick's aim immediately following his pregnant remark was perfect, while Roald's faltered.
\*
Alarick and his best friend had grown much, much closer as another year passed till they were inseparable, much to the court's amusement. The same couldn't be said about his family, however. At sixteen years of age, after all, the prince had reached a critical point in his development, and all of a sudden, what he did came with a price.
He questioned convention now. He rebelled, learned defiance. He wouldn't budge until all his questions, which were more like proud, childish demands, were answered to his satisfaction. If not, he'd walk away, affronted. Too many lessons and activities had fallen short of his evolving standards, it seemed, and no one could keep up with him.
He grew restless, irritable, and completely dissatisfied with everyone and everything. He didn't understand it. When he turned seventeen, the only thing that seemed to remain his constant, his immovable center, was Roald.
"They never like anything I do," Alarick grumbled one day, sitting on a little grassy clearing by the watering-hole with Roald beside him. The two had gone off to hide in the private area of the pleasure garden, more specifically to enjoy the day swimming in the watering-hole situated at the extreme end, a good distance from the queen's cottage, which could be reached via a small footpath that cut through that section of woodland. Flat, smooth boulders and trees with giant roots creeping in tangled profusion over soil and grass surrounded the water, adding to the picturesque privacy of the area.
"Maybe you try too hard," Roald said, patting Alarick's knee in sympathy. "But I understand. I never please my parents, either."
It was a warm day, warmer than usual, so Roald stood up and took off his clothes then walked over to the watering hole and jumped in.
From the small, grassy clearing, Alarick could barely remember his name, let alone his friend's. "I'm Alarick," he muttered, entranced, staring at the young, firm body that now surged through the rippling waters. "He's Roald."
He watched skin two shades darker than his move under the water. Roald's figure would distort, break up, and reform, while all the time above him, the water's surface moved in thousands of broken reflections. Sunlight would be captured, reflected, and refracted. Shoulders and arms moved, plowing endlessly. Legs and feet kicked, buttocks clenched and relaxed rhythmically. Before long Roald broke the surface and stood in chest-deep water, turning to Alarick with a sly, inviting smile.
"Your turn," he called, and Alarick obeyed.
The prince removed his clothes, ignoring the damp spot in the front of his breeches. His gaze raked over his naked form as he peeled off his stockings and shirt. Does Roald approve? he wondered. He certainly hoped so, but he showed nothing---just his usual carefree pleasure as he walked down the slight grassy incline and over tangled roots and jumped in. Being swallowed up by the water drowned another nagging question: I'm too pale, aren't I? I don't think I'm good enough.
The quiet, lazy, warm afternoon was spent in play. Prince and friend wrestled, laughed, dunked, rolled, raced, and grappled beneath the watering-hole's surface. Young, vibrant laughter broke the calm, and when the time came for them to head back and resume more adult duties, Roald expressed his gratitude with a kiss.
It was an unexpected but certainly not unwelcome move. Alarick and Roald stood facing each other, their laughter dying in their throats and the echoes of their young voices fading among the tress around them. For a few, breathless seconds, they simply stared into each other's eyes, then Roald leaned forward and pressed a hand against the nape of Alarick's neck.
The kiss was neither soft nor hard, and neither was it slow nor quick. It was warmth tempered by the water's slight chill. It was eagerness edged with confusion. It was an arrogant and petulant demand, the way Roald's tongue pressed between Alarick's lips, searching and tasting. Don't I have the right? seemed to be the wordless question. Alarick answered back in his own clumsy way.
His hands resting against Roald's hips, Alarick opened his mouth against Roald's, moving his tongue against his friend's, enjoying his first taste of another boy. Roald pulled slightly away to run his tongue against Alarick's parted lips, drawing a ragged sigh from the prince, who pressed forward again for another hungry kiss, nearly toppling them both under water.
It would be Roald who'd control the moment. "Wait, wait," he whispered against Alarick's mouth. "Slow down."
For several more seconds, they'd stand in the water, holding each other close, their ragged breaths slowing. Chests pressed against each other, each boy's heart thumping loudly as though calling out to its partner. Alarick rested his head against Roald's neck and shoulder, his fuzzy gaze sweeping across the sunlit idyll around them before dropping to the water and the countless broken reflections of light that marked the gently rippling surface. For a moment, he didn't know who he was.
The hour, the world---both fell silent again. Perhaps more so this time. Alarick and Roald dried themselves, an odd mood now pervading. Something had just shifted and changed forever. Neither knew what, and neither understood. They dressed in silence, suddenly unable to look each other in the eye.
Why the sudden shyness? Alarick couldn't say. He'd left his mind back in the water, he was sure. It had been caught in that little patch of time when they were still standing in chest-high water, their mouths joined for several exciting moments. He certainly couldn't say how many exactly, but did it really matter? It did, and yet it didn't.
"I'll race you to the stables," Roald suddenly said. His voice and his words---so easily spoken as though nothing had just happened---felt like ice water to Alarick.
The magic was now gone, and the world once again moved forward. Alarick fought to squelch his confusion and managed to grin at his friend. The two broke into a run through the trees till they emerged from the shadows, following the perfectly straight, intersecting lanes till their wild surroundings suddenly replaced by the manicured lawn that made up the space between the pleasure garden and the palace. The grass made the palace look as though it sat on a small island of vibrant green, the trees beyond the lawn looking like an endless sea of leaves and branches in all directions.
"No, I'll race you to Mama's blue roses!" Alarick cried, immediately shifting direction away from the palace and on the grass, following its lush, green carpeting around the palace itself and toward the western parameter. The queen's blue roses were Ulrike's pride and joy---a collection of magnificent, vivid blue roses clustered among red-tipped thorns and deep green leaves of flowering bushes. There were two of these blue rose miniature gardens that sprawled across two halves of the palace's front lawn, and it had always been one of Alarick's favorite places to hide in or to spend some time lost in his books or simply contemplating. To their right, beyond the trees and the iron fence, sprawled several miles away, the cursed forest loomed, albeit in spirit. Alarick barely noticed the unexpected and strange reminder, and he laughed at its stupid superstitious presence. That forest, despite its sordid and macabre reputation, had always been so easy to dismiss.
The two boys rounded the corner, ignoring the occasional servant or idle aristocrat wandering through the lawns. They laughed and raced each other, at times slipping over the grass and falling, the one who remained on his feet dancing around in circles as he waited for his friend to pick himself up and stumble back into a wild run. Neither reached the blue rose gardens in the end, for they'd run out of breath and strength well before, and they simply threw themselves onto the grass to rest their screaming muscles and tight lungs. At length they parted ways, looking soiled, disheveled, and reeking of sweat and grass, and when Alarick happily sat in his warm bath afterward, he wondered if his clothes were doomed to be burned, not washed, given their dreadful state. He didn't feel at all sorry, however, and he spent the rest of his day with a wistful smile fixed on his face.
Amara visited Alarick later that evening, but instead of challenging him to another game of strategy, she merely paced back and forth, the smell of earth and rotting fabric even stronger than before.
"Have a care, Love," she said, clasping her hands against her chest. "Should anything happen, there's only so much I can do to help you."
"What can go wrong?" Alarick asked, bemused. "I'm the prince! Don't I have any power at all? I can do as I please and not fret over what others would say. My father's judgment's final, and you know he'll never rule against me. How can he, anyway? That'd be stupid unless he wants the royal line to end with him."
Amara gave him a strange look when she heard him talk about his father, but she said nothing. He'd heard of the rumors, anyway, oftentimes from the lips of vicious boys his age who detested him for reasons unknown.
"You're a damned bastard," a handful had hissed at him once or twice, and when at first he'd thought them to be insulting him by calling him names, he realized that they were referring to his parentage. It certainly had taken him a while to learn how to steel himself against cruel remarks, but if he didn't force himself to do it, no one else would help him. People in court still referred to him as prince and Your Royal Highness, though Alarick was slowly seeing how hollow their shows of respect had always been.
"I think it's pointless to talk about my position in court," he stammered, blushing deeply as mortification set in. The look on Amara's face, which shifted from worry to compassion, soothed him a little.
"Prudence, Darling. Being the son of a queen doesn't exempt you from acting rashly."
Alarick thought he understood her, and he chuckled. "Being the queen's son allows me certain privileges, whether everyone likes it or not."
Amara continued to pace, her figure fading in and out of the muted light cast by the hearth. Half the time---and perhaps as a trick of the shadows---Alarick thought that his friend looked more like a decaying corpse than a half-burned and neglected woman. But those moments were all too brief, and he'd shake his head at himself.
"Of course you do have the power, but if you've learned about history, you'll know that sometimes, no amount of power could save you from whatever Fortune decides to throw your way."
Alarick watched his friend and long-time confidante, cocking his head as he pondered. "You've been in a situation like this before, haven't you?" he asked after a moment's pause.
"In a way, I suppose."
"You can see into the future?"
Amara chuckled, shaking her head. "I'm no fortune-teller, Love, but I can sense danger, whether or not it'll happen, based on the present." She paused and waved a hand in a vague gesture, as though she were struggling to find the right words. "What happens now---what you do now---will always have consequences. Basic law of cause and effect."
"You never told me your story. All I know about you is that you come to me when no one else is around, and you seem to understand me more than I understand myself. Were you in trouble in the past? Is that why you're scarred?"
"Why talk about me? It's all too late for that, Love. Worry about yourself."
"I'm the prince!"
"I was a princess. It didn't help me."
Amara looked at him, stricken, before turning away and fading into the shadows. The last words she uttered before leaving Alarick alone were, "I'd have liked to have loved. Promise me to exercise caution in what you do, and you won't be denied your dreams."
When Alarick finally settled into bed moments later, he continued to puzzle over Amara's odd and rather extreme warning. But memories of the kiss he shared with Roald easily swept everything aside, and Alarick drifted off with Roald's name on his lips, Roald's face the last---and only---image in his mind.
Chapter Five
Alarick turned eighteen. He was thrown into combat training at fifteen, unsurprisingly, for Lambrecht claimed to be eager to see his "adopted" son rise well above the ranks in the battlefield.
"Let's see if he's made of sterner stuff than that, shall we?" he said with a wicked gleam in his eyes, mimicking one of Bittan von Eisenberg's famously affected gestures with his lace handkerchief loosely held in a limp hand, while the small group of visiting nobles gathered in the gold and white salon with him broke out in mocking laughter.
"Perhaps he'll prance his way into battle!" someone said.
"Or swoon to distract enemies!"
"No, he'll blind them with gaudy suits!"
"Offer his pretty, firm little ass in lieu of surrender!"
Lambrecht, relishing the attention and certainly well on his way to drinking himself under the nearest ornate table, waved a languid hand theatrically. "The boy's my son! No one would dare laugh at him! Be quiet, all of you!"
Of course, that only elicited another round of raucous laughter among those gathered. Repetitive questions as to why Lambrecht refused to simply send the little bastard prince away were dismissed, but just about everyone assembled that time knew in their hearts that Lambrecht kept Alarick around as a way of tormenting Ulrike---a daily living reminder of her sins. Kings, after all, could do whatever they damned well pleased without the annoyance of rebuke from anyone with whom he surrounded himself.
"Not his son!" the mad queen screamed from her bedroom window in the meantime. "Never his!"
Her maids-in-waiting had grown quite tired of running after their confused sovereign, but someone surely needed to keep her in line. Locking her away in any of the third storey rooms was the last resort, which had become more and more common lately. Tired and exasperated murmurs of "Why can't she just throw herself out the damned window and be done with it?" among these ladies were tolerated by and large, and no threats of execution for treason were made against them.
If at all, Lambrecht appeared to enjoy these complaints and vindictive wishes. "Now, now," he'd tell whoever brought these dark mutterings to his attention---usually newly hired servants, who'd yet to be taught the high art of heartlessness in court. "You know what these poor women endure day after day. Allow them some room to unburden themselves in whichever manner suits them." He'd smile dispassionately. "Do you really think them to be so cruel as to mean what they say?"
But even he had limited reserves of patience for a sick woman, and he at length ordered the queen to be moved indefinitely to her beloved cottage in the wooded garden.
"She loves it there, anyway," he said, chuckling at his cleverness. "That was where she enjoyed her most productive hours. It'd be cruel to deny an ill queen her smallest pleasures, don't you think?"
His friends certainly agreed, and it was to the court's great relief that Ulrike was whisked away in the night.
Alarick, in the meantime, showed enough interest in combat to hone his skills, and he was successful in what he did. How could he not be? He was the prince, after all, and princes never failed. Never.
And he always got his way in things.
"I only want Roald," he said. He refused everyone else for his training partner. To him his wishes made perfect sense. Why not train with his best friend? Someone he trusted with his life? Someone, he deeply believed, was his equal in everything?
His demands puzzled his weapons master, who saw that Roald was one of the weaker students when it came to hand-to-hand combat maneuvers. "Surely you want someone who's more your equal in fighting level, Your Highness?" the man asked.
"No, just Roald." Alarick ignored his superior and turned to his friend, beckoning to him with a smile. "Come!" he called out, brandishing his sword. "Let's see how long you last!"
"You're an arrogant bastard," Roald whispered, grinning, as he drew his weapon.
Roald never complained when he was defeated again and again, though the prince was one year his junior, a fact for which Roald had always been teased by his peers during these exercises. He seemed to enjoy it, actually, lying on the ground with Alarick standing above him, his sword touching Roald's throat. When no one was looking, Roald would grow bolder, suggestively dragging a finger along the flat surface of Alarick's blade, a faint smile curling his full lips. The prince's eyes would narrow; they'd sparkle. Unspoken messages tended to be heard loudly and clearly between the two.
The weapons master, a bit of an idiot, never cared for the arrangement and attempted to argue some sense into the prince.
"You're too mismatched, Your Royal Highness!"
"Then work on Roald till he's at my level," Alarick retorted before turning away and leading his friend out. Why were adults so excruciatingly thick? Why would an eighteen-year-old boy's reasoning be more grounded in logic compared to his grizzled masters?
Why, even Roald's father eyed the two with increasing concern whenever he visited the compound to check up on his son's progress. Alarick had seen the way the viscount would watch them as they practiced, his eyes fixed and determined as he followed every movement. The way the old man's jaw visibly clenched, the way his complexion turned white (sometimes red), the way his hands balled into fists---the simmering agitation was palpable even from a good enough distance.
After their practice, Roald would be called away, and Alarick would watch father and son engage each other in a hushed argument. It would obviously be about Roald and Alarick, judging from the way Roald's father would gesticulate in Alarick's direction without looking at the prince. Indeed, he wouldn't dare. The argument would always end with Roald openly rebelling against his father and walking away with a dismissive wave of a hand. It was a bold gesture of defiance and disrespect, for which Roald paid once he returned home.
"I wish you wouldn't challenge him like that," Alarick said, frowning at the bruises on his friend's arms and sometimes face.
"He understands nothing," Roald replied. Sometimes he'd break out in bitter laughter. Sometimes he'd fume the same way as his father---with clenched jaw, balled fists, and changing complexion. "Don't interfere, Alarick. This is between me and him."
It was tempting to step in between feuding father and son, and it would be so easy to do that as well, being the prince. Alarick respected Roald's wishes, however, and fought to remain civil with the viscount.
The two friends had now moved on from the watering-hole to the small glade they'd decided to mark for their own in the pleasure garden. Situated somewhere east of the watering-hole, the glade seemed to be made by unearthly beings, for the small clearing was alive with lush, deep green grass and a circle of trees and flowering shrubs, whose foliage and blooms showered the perimeter of the clearing with vibrant colors. The sun's light touched everything with magical golden fingers, turning the glade into a vividly hued paradise.
There Alarick and Roald spent most of their spare hours, talking, sleeping, and simply watching the sky as they stretched out over the grass. There they explored each other as well. Conversations recounting that day's adventures faltered and died. Quiet moments turned awkward. Hands touched, tentatively at first and growing bolder by the second when no resistance met their movements. Soon they were kissing. One boy atop the other. One boy sitting on the other's lap. One boy simply leaning close. Both knew the next logical step, but neither felt bold enough to take it, at least not yet.
Instead their hands---earlier gripping heavy, sturdy weapons of war---fumbled clumsily with strings, lace, or ribbons, moving between layers of fabric. Fine, delicate movements rendered their fingers awkward and inarticulate. They stifled embarrassed laughter with mouths and tongues as they touched sensitive body parts, grazing stiffened nipples with nervous fingers, stroking flanks and thighs with clammy hands. Breeches and stockings pulled down and bunching around knees or lower legs, the young lovers took each other's erections in hand, one boy following his partner's lead as they stroked and pleasured. Once a rhythm was set, however, the self-consciousness faded and vanished. Nature took over. Hips moved with fists. Breaths turned ragged; eager tongues and lips muffled soft moans.
They groaned their release just as the birds abandoned their perches in a wild fluttering of wings. Branches trembled, and more leaves and petals peppered the ground. Within moments the glade was silent again save for the tired breathing of two spent youths.
Lying against Roald, Alarick enjoyed the slow, languorous wave that took him back to earth, his ear pressed against his lover's chest. There was something comforting in the slowing of Roald's heart. Its fierce rhythm gradually easing to one less frantic, it was like listening to Alarick's own spirit soar to the heavens and then glide gently back down, covered in bits of cloud that faded in a breath the closer he got to the ground.
The feel of Roald's fingers idly stroking his hair lulled him to a state of lazy bliss, and Alarick watched the calm scene around them with half-closed eyes and a faint smile of triumph. Within minutes, idle touches once again fanned the embers, and the two would shift positions so that each eagerly feasted on his lover's hardness, their moans of pleasure mingling with the wet sounds of suckling, the restless movements of heads and hips giving way to spasms and muffled cries as they drank each other's release. Alarick would spend the moments following his second orgasm with a lazy swiping of his tongue over Roald's flaccid length, feeling a bit dizzy and drowsy and more than content to be lost in the wild with his lover. Then he gave the slippery head of Roald's penis a loving kiss before turning around and settling himself back in Roald's arms.
Later that evening, Amara made her appearance.
"You and your friend's love makes the dead jealous," she said as they sat across from each other at the small table. This time around, they chose not to play their usual game.
"It does?" Alarick grinned, blushing. He couldn't help himself.
Amara, half-cloaked in shadows, smiled back. "They'd find a way to challenge you---eat away at your dreams till you've got nothing left but their ghosts."
"Why's that? The dead had enjoyed their lives, and now it's someone else's turn."
Amara's gaze dropped to Alarick's hands, which rested on the table. She covered them with her own, the chill of her touch rippling through Alarick, and her momentary silence as she watched her hands envelop his felt pregnant.
"When you die violently and suddenly, you take quite a bit of a burden with you to the next life," she said. She looked back at him. "Rage, despair, envy, greed, what have you---if you allow them to shape your existence beyond this life, you doom yourself to a, well, pretty wretched eternity." She smiled wryly. "And some of the dead simply can't bear the fact that they can't have what they used to enjoy, alive. If they used to wield magic when they breathed, death turned them into ghosts with darker powers that can be used against the living."
Alarick raised a brow. "This sounds more like something that superstitious crones would say before giving you an armful of useless trinkets to ward off the dead with."
"Does it?"
"It does," Alarick said with greater conviction as he pulled his hands from Amara's grasp. "And I don't believe that the dead can come back and punish the living for enjoying what they can no longer have. It's more like something that you tell wayward children to keep them in line, but everyone knows it's not true."
Amara merely listened without moving her own hands away. A curious little smile appeared. "Oh, but the dead are capable of more than you think, Love. Punishment is one thing, yes. Protection is another. That's the beauty of death, you see. No matter how we all pass on to the next world, we become---in so many ways---dark immortals. We turn into shadow images of our past selves, almost as though we're looking at ourselves in a cursed mirror. The will to remain attached to the living world transforms us, though not all of us return to haunt you. Most of us simply remain on the other side despite the temptations, but those of us who stay do so for reasons of their own. Do you understand, Nephew?"
Nephew.
Alarick listened to her, amazed, as silence fell on them for a long moment. Why didn't he even realize this sooner?
"No," he said, brows rising in growing shock. "I've always known that you and I are linked in some way, haven't I? It's just that I never really cared to understand."
He'd always known that his strange confidante was tied to him somehow. But he'd never heard anything about an aunt who'd died---or was killed. Then again, he now realized, he'd been kept in the dark about much of his family's history. Pampered by nurses and tutors who were paid to keep him healthy and safe and no more, no thought had ever crossed his mind beyond the usual curious inquiries about the queen's magic mirror or the king's vast influence past the borders of their kingdom. Then again, he never thought to dig deeply into his past, even with the daily mocking glances from other nobles, the whispered rumors about his questionable birthright, the outright taunts of a few boys his age, who held nothing back when they sneered and called him their "bastard prince." Alarick grew up in court, and such things were simply par for the course as far as he was concerned. Cruelty amid opulence and beauty was an aristocratic requirement, and one ought to develop a thick enough skin if he wished to survive such a thorny, poisonous environment. His hours, moreover, had all been spent playing, studying, getting into one sort of childish trouble after another, and simply enjoying Amara's company and nursery stories. All the selfishness of youth had blinded him for years.
"I never asked for your story, though I've always wondered," he said after another shocked pause. "You know so much about my mother, and your appearance..."
"What did you think about me?"
"That you're---I don't know---some spirit, yes, possibly a sorceress---a good one," Alarick said, his words halting and clumsy. "That you were sent to look after me as well, but as to whom you answer to, I can't say." He swallowed. "I am grateful, though, that you've always been my greatest comfort for as long as I can remember. I doubt if my mother---well, you know." He could only shrug weakly.
"I'm tied to you, yes, through blood," Amara said, her voice gentle and soothing. "And love. I come on my own and choose to look after you on my own, though like other ghosts, there are limits to where I can go. I regret many things, nephew, and much wrong had been done to me. I'm not above avenging myself, but I also know that you're the only innocent in our family's long, bloody line---the only innocent who still lives. And what I cherish, I'll protect."
Alarick hesitated for a moment before mustering the courage to lean forward and reach out to Amara. His fingers touched cold, scarred skin. It was a familiar sensation that went well back to his childhood. Knowledge now redefined his curiosity, however, edging it with dread. With growing fascination and fear, he took a part of her sleeve between his fingers and rubbed them, noting the threadbare patches and the curious brittleness in certain areas.
He paused and frowned, his gaze lifting and meeting Amara's. "Show yourself to me, Aunt," he said. His hushed voice trembled slightly.
Amara leaned forward so that her features emerged from the shadows. Her damaged face changed in those few seconds. Once a half-scarred woman, she now appeared before the horrified and sickened prince as she was, over eighteen years ago---charred, hollow-eyed, her mouth opened in a contorted O of a perpetually silent scream, her figure swathed in countless delicate columns of smoke.
Alarick fell back with a cry.
"The dead will find a way to challenge you," Amara said, though her voice sounded disembodied now. The burned corpse sitting across the table from Alarick didn't move. "Jealousy and revenge are powerful forces. Believe me, I know."
Alarick swallowed a few times before finding his voice. "What happened?"
"I dared to speak the truth to your mother. Honesty isn't a highly prized virtue in these parts, I'm afraid." Amara sounded amused. Then she told him her story in plain words and in such an easy, matter-of-fact manner that Alarick's breath was taken away as he listened. Once she'd finished, it took him a few moments to rally himself and find his voice.
"You said that you're not above avenging yourself. Then you made my mother what she is," he stammered. "You haunted her and drove her mad because of what she did to you."
"No. She's got no one else to blame but herself. Rather ironic, really, but then again, she's always been blinded by her ambitions. Now it's her conscience that's taken over, and no small wonder at that. I've watched her without making my presence known. She speaks to me all the time, but she looks elsewhere when she does. I'm sure that she sees me standing somewhere in the room, perhaps accusing her of what she'd done to me. Perhaps simply being in the same room as her causes her to see me as her mind could only see her murdered sister."
"You said you're not above avenging yourself!" Alarick insisted.
"That's quite true, yes. My revenge is to simply watch your mother's guilt define her existence for the rest of her life. So you see, Nephew, I don't even need to lift a finger. It's really quite convenient for me in the end." Amara's burned specter gradually vanished, the nightmarish sight a macabre foil to the playful liveliness of the way she spoke.
Alarick sat alone for several moments, his mind overcome by the revelation. A loud pop in the direction of the hearth startled him out of his stunned state, and without much thought, he stood up and walked over to the fire, stoking the burning wood with the fire iron.
Was madness in his blood as well? With a shudder, he set the fire iron aside and climbed into bed. His dreams that night were jumbled and frightening, but what he could remember made him sick. Alarick awoke the following morning with the image of a young woman---a princess at that---being tied to the stake, pale and defiant as she glared at her murderers till the executioner drove a knife into her heart to kill her before the pyre was lit.
"That knife in my heart was the greatest mercy anyone could have showed me," Amara's voice said in his dream. "I didn't have to feel the horrific agony of being burned alive."
While he sat in confusion the previous night, wondering if he should laugh or cry, the answer came easily and clearly enough that morning. Sitting up in bed, Alarick bent his head and wept bitterly for his aunt.
\*
Several more days passed since that evening. Alarick and Roald continued their trysts, and people around them couldn't help but notice their fierce closeness. Who could ignore them? At eighteen and nineteen, they weren't exactly subtle about their friendship. Inseparable even more, petulant and wretched bores when forced to be apart, Alarick and Roald began to alarm some of their closest allies.
"Find them girls! It shouldn't be too hard! Just look at all those damned peasants breeding without shame! There's bound to be at least half a dozen girls in every cottage!" a handful of their peers said, elbowing each other while stealing confused glances in the direction of the young lovers. "Don't any of you idiots know anyone? He's the prince! Why would any girl not want him so badly?"
"Well, considering who his father is, don't you think that any girl in her right mind would think twice?" the more logical boys replied.
"Which father are you referring to?" the saucy ones couldn't help but ask.
"Considering who his living father is, do you think there's a virgin left in the land?" the more virtuous boys asked. Silence met this question, and everyone thought it a very clever remark, quietly cataloguing it for future use.
"Considering who his dead father was, do you even find his getting fucked by Roald a surprise?" the jokers retaliated. Another moment of silence met this question, and everyone thought how stupid an idea it was.
"Frankly, I'd rather go to bed with Roald than with those filthy, toothless peasants," other boys retorted, looking sick.
"Anyone in court then?" It proved to be another question that couldn't be answered, for all of the young men who were being trained alongside Alarick and Roald had long placed hopes on young ladies in court. They'd be damned if they were to let their prizes be used to cure the prince's perverted turns.
Some of their combat masters echoed their sentiments, though they did so along more practical lines. "This is a disgrace! How can we win battles with limp wrists leading the charge?"
Those who cared little about bedroom propensities merely rolled their eyes and argued that Alarick and Roald showed great skill with weapons. Besides, good warriors in practice were good warriors in the battlefield, and that was that. Why quibble over details?
Unhappily, a good number of spiritual ministers concurred with the protesters. "They'll abuse their positions---take advantage of the younger soldiers!"
"They'll be too busy hacking away or being hacked at to feel sordid urges if the situation gets desperate enough on the battlefield," their detractors argued back. "And any idiot knows that war will cure them of any base desires. Just watch."
"We'd rather not, thank you," those who objected snapped.
The king, again drunk in the meantime, heeded his ministers' nervous advice. In fact, he salivated over the possibilities. "The little bastard needs girls? Is that right? Oh, yes," he whispered, rubbing his sagging chin in glee once he was left alone in the massive drawing-room room. "I look forward to this!"
How long had it been, after all, since his last out-of-palace debauch? Must have been at least a fortnight now, which was a remarkable feat to him. Hopefully he wouldn't be running into filthy, irate fathers again, demanding compensation for their daughters' shame. Lambrecht's prisons in the filthiest bowels of town had suffered from overpopulation the past few years. A fourth of the inmates were angry fathers who, once upon a time, had the gall to demand justice for their children's soiling. How they must hate themselves now for their rashness. Indeed, they were angry once. Not anymore.
Then again, perhaps it was because a number of those wretches had been dispatched by disease, starvation, madness, or rats. There ought to be room enough for newcomers, should trouble cross the king's paths again.
"Bah," Lambrecht said, waving a dismissive hand at the empty drawing-room. "Trifling matters entirely! What could be better than guiding one's adopted son and heir down the direction of true manhood, anyway?"
He couldn't think of a better rite of passage than that, though he also couldn't help but dissolve in fits of inebriated laughter at the idea that Alarick was his heir. A stupid idea, to be sure, though a bitter reminder of his own failure as well. Five years of bedding Ulrike with nothing to show for it, while Bittan von Eisenberg pranced into the picture, dabbled with the queen for less than half a year (or was it more than that?---Lambrecht had long lost track of time), and he was rewarded with fatherhood---posthumously, of course.
No, Alarick wasn't Lambrecht's heir, and he would never be on the throne. Prince only in name, he was, and Lambrecht would ensure that that was as far as the boy could go.
"So..." he gurgled, blinking hazy eyes at the painted idyll in the ceiling. "Why on earth am I keeping that little monster again?" All around, tall panels of mirrors set in the walls with gold, elaborately carved frames captured the tottering, braying figure with its powdered wig askew, its richly embroidered coat and laces sporting a few discolored stains from questionable sources, its stockinged feet clumsily ridding themselves of their buckled shoes, for they made the world spin too much for a drunk man to stomach.
Chapter Six
A very timely war broke out, much to Lambrecht's chagrin. "Damn," he hissed, glaring at the circle of grim ministers and commanders before him. Maps, notes, small chests packed with gems and coins---bribes, tributes, and whatnot from different corners of the kingdom---littered the polished marble floor.
Yes, damn. Some upstart region from the east had thought it a worthwhile venture to attack, burn, and decimate every town and village on their way to the northern lands, where they believed greater power and treasures awaited them.
"Marshall our forces, Your Majesty," the oldest commander said, his voice still loud and powerful after all those years. "Gather them in the southern and eastern borders, where..." The words and the voices all melted together into one continuous hum of battlefield nonsense till everything that was spoken sounded the same to a pair of tired, distracted ears.
The filth of war just invaded Paradies's pristine calm, and the gold and white ballroom now sagged under the weight of an unnatural presence as men who normally wouldn't be caught dead within the wrought iron borders now gathered before Lambrecht, grim, ugly, and caked with dirt and sun. Though the windows were tall and allowed a good amount of sunlight in, the glow captured and reflected back by the mirrored panels that lined the ballroom, it seemed as though a cloak of drabness had descended upon the room, chasing away the sparkling charm with its dreary shade.
Shadows cast by the presence of these unwanted visitors threw every man's face into distorted nightmarish forms. Like demons, Lambrecht told himself, cloaked in mortal flesh.
To amuse himself, Lambrecht glanced up at the painted ceiling and toyed with his imagination, pretending as though he stood in the kind of old-fashioned throne room associated with armored knights and bearded, velvet-robed kings. Instead of florid, painted pastoral scenes above, brightly colored pennants bearing those great symbols and accomplishments of the royal family hung from the ceiling. In the flickering torchlight, they looked like a hundred jagged teeth about to come down on the men gathered before the king. Wolves' teeth about to tear flesh, muscle, and bone into shreds. Like war.
"Bah," Lambrecht muttered, shaking his head and clearing the ongoing fog from it. When he opened his eyes, he was once again back in Paradies's ballroom.
"We're doing our best to recruit and train every able-bodied man of sixteen and above," someone was in the middle of saying.
"Not quickly enough for what we need," another said, his voice hard as he cut in. In another moment, the two arguing voices multiplied to several, a grating chorus of war terms.
Lambrecht tried hard not to roll his eyes at the passionate debate that now took place before him, though he felt some relief at being momentarily ignored.
As his commanders and ministers went back and forth over tactics, the king allowed his mind to wander again, the regret of failing to follow through on the prince's sexual rite of passage gnawing away at his belly. Had Alarick been his real son, Lambrecht wouldn't think twice about keeping the boy out of the war, but the lad was expendable at best in troubled times. All the same, the delight in watching Alarick prove himself as a man in bed was a luxury Lambrecht was loath to give up, for Ulrike and Bittan von Eisenberg's disgrace would have been complete, and the court would be gifted with such tantalizing fodder for gossip and speculation for years to come. If Alarick were to go to war, he could be lost to his...father...and Lambrecht surely couldn't count on his mad wife to spawn him a true heir.
He grimaced at the prospects. "What, bed her?" he muttered, shuddering in disgust. "I'd rather be drawn and quartered." He'd already had enough of her, even if she weren't insane.
He tried to think about duchesses, countesses, other princesses---even daughters of the gentry---drawing a list in his head of names of women he knew who could offer him a second chance in giving the land a rightful heir. Details? Who cared about details at this point? Not he, of course! As long as the child was his, it would be enough, as he'd always believed that a king's bastard far outweighed a queen's; no one in court dared to argue against such a preposterous idea, of course. Any future squabbles over anyone's rightful place on the throne would have to be dealt with when the time came, but for now, the sharp reminders of his failure in providing the land a proper heir made bile rise to his throat.
"The queen's mad, besides," he murmured with growing satisfaction. "I've got a legitimate excuse."
Trumped-up charges against Ulrike would certainly take care of things once and for all, but even in his near-drunken state, Lambrecht had enough sense to realize that he should have done that when Ulrike was caught in bed with Bittan.
"Ah, how stupid of me," he muttered, shaking his head at himself.
In the meantime, Lambrecht's men brainstormed, hatched foolproof schemes, congratulated themselves for their cleverness, and hoped for success as a means of ingratiating themselves to the king, for all his uselessness as the land's ruler. The cleverer ones hoped for defeat and a reason to force their idiot of a monarch from the throne. Discontent among certain nobles had been steadily rising, especially after that scandalous hour of the queen's affair and bloody aftermath. It wouldn't be too difficult to rally the opposition outside the palace walls into a full-scale revolution of sorts.
\*
With the real threat of war now bearing down on the land, Alarick threw himself into his training. So did Roald. With the air now edged with the sharp stench of blood and death, the young trainees immersed themselves in their lessons with renewed zeal. Their commanders did their jobs well. There was a lot of shouting and screaming, the prince not immune to public embarrassments when he'd falter and fumble. There was so much glory to be had. A bruise or two, scraped limbs, deflated pride---they were a small price to pay.
From the shadows of the pleasure garden, a familiar wailing could be heard, the plaintive cries high and distant as they wafted out from the cottage's upper windows.
"Not his!" the drooping figure screamed from under the thick layers of black netting that serve as a mocking reminder of where a crown used to be. "Not his to use in battle! Never his!"
And whose fault is it, Sister, that your precious boy's about to be sent out to be butchered? The dead princess' specter continued to whisper from the darkest corners of abandoned rooms of Ulrike's cottage. Its accusations had long grown irrational, but then again, the queen could barely tell either way.
Whose fault was it that he was born at all?
Whose fault was it that a young lord now lies rotting in an unmarked grave?
Who was stupid enough to think so highly of herself that lives had to be cut short for her benefit?
Sometimes the dead princess would show herself to Ulrike, beautiful and unmarked as when she was still alive, smiling with profound pity for the cowering, veiled figure. Sometimes the apparition would take on its favorite form, that of the princess in death, burned beyond recognition, laughing and taunting and leaving the scent of burned and rotting flesh in its wake.
From one dark room of the cottage to another, the veiled figure wandered. Crying, singing, muttering gibberish under her breath---sometimes she paused in her meandering and swayed in time to a song none of the servants who waited on her could hear. The long, black gown trailed behind Ulrike, and the years hadn't been kind.
Even before Ulrike's exile from the palace, servants had long complained of the madwoman refusing their help in cleaning her and changing her dress, so she continued to haunt the unlit and vacant rooms in her old, old gown. An occasional servant would be dispatched to see to it that she hadn't come to harm yet, and it was rather easy to find her. All one needed to do was to raise a candelabrum high and scan the bare floors for bits of tattered and faded cloth. Sometimes the dark stone walls would be marked with bloody fingerprints or an occasional broken nail.
To calm her down, Lambrecht had ordered a mirror to be placed in every empty room of the cottage. Their presence would keep her busy enough, and she'd stay away from the rest of the court, who'd sooner forget about her existence at this point. These mirrors would also make the drudgery of looking after her a touch more bearable for the despairing servants. Every so often, the king would ask after her, and servants would dutifully recount their observations and experiences.
"She can't get enough of the mirrors, Your Majesty," they'd say.
"She talks to her reflection a good deal. Sometimes she sings to it."
"I've watched her cry in front of it, Your Majesty. She's looking for her baby."
"Aye, I've heard her ask why her perfect little princess hasn't come yet."
Lambrecht would nod, vaguely interested. "Does she hurt herself still?"
"Not anymore, Your Majesty. At least not while we're there."
"Good. That's all I need to know." With a satisfied grunt, Lambrecht would then order more wine to be brought to him.
The mirror trick seemed to have worked, yes, unless the veiled madwoman happened to look out of the cottage's topmost window to watch the activity below.
When she'd spot vague movements of shadows among the trees, she'd scream for her lover, urging him to hurry back to her side, for she'd been waiting for too long.
"Wear the red coat, my love!" she'd cry, weeping and laughing at the same time as she leaned out the window and waved at the trees' branches or the birds flying here and there. "I'll be here! Do hurry before that pig returns and finds us!"
If Ulrike had her wits about her, what would she say at the sight of Alarick mounting his horse and charging off to war? The banners flying high, the trumpets blaring, the seasoned soldiers, the frightened peasants, and the noblemen in proud battle regalia---off to defend their homes against a threat they knew very little about. The poor watched, wide-eyed and slack-jawed in their usual simple way, as the men rode off in a long, ceremonial line. Servants, women, and those of the king's council chambers too old or deemed unfit for combat stood in grim silence. A few children threw flowers in the soldiers' path, only to watch them get trampled beyond recognition under horses' hooves and men's stomping boots.
"Mine! Don't take him away!" the madwoman shrieked from one of the cottage's rooms. She continued to scream those lines, and those who chose to listen to her had long lost count of how many times. "Please don't take him away from me! He's not yours, you filthy pig!"
Those who'd lost patience ground out, "She's got all those mirrors. She damned well had better use them before someone makes her stop her unnatural screeching."
But she did look into her mirrors. She certainly didn't need to be out there, watching Alarick ride away. What she saw in some of those mirrors, in fact, made her scream and cry all the more. But there were no servants anywhere to watch her when that happened. No one would be able to say what it was she'd seen that had terrified her to such extremes; then again, what would it matter? A madwoman would see what her broken mind insisted. A bleak reflection of her shattered self might be enough. The memories stirred by her image in the mirror's depths could be the result.
"Stay away from him," she'd cry, clawing frantically at the mirrors. "Don't touch him! Leave him alone!"
Phantom faces merely laughed at her from the mirrors' dark depths.
"No one understands," came the low sobbing as the veiled queen flitted from one room to the next, wringing her bruised and bleeding hands. Whenever she found herself back in that dreadful room---now cleaned up of its blood and other messes---she'd walk up to the loom and stare at it in wonder. The tapestry she'd woven had long been taken away and destroyed, but the loom remained behind, as did the bed.
Suddenly calmed by the sight of the loom, Ulrike would sit down on the chair which she'd moved to the window, and she'd gaze out in childlike wonder at the trees outside.
"I'm waiting, my love," she'd whisper, a hint of a smile brightening her pale and haggard face. "I'm waiting."
\*
There was blood---a lot of it. There was dismemberment. There was a good deal of cutting. Some men lying in the soaked battlefield died slowly in that miserable slipping away of strength and breath, where minutes faded into something that was impossible to count. Desperate pleas to the gods for swift, merciful death remained unheeded. Some died not because of their wounds but because of the carrion birds that swooped down, pecking every ounce of life from their mangled bodies. Some died with a look of utter shock fixed on their faces, their eyes wide open and staring at entrails that burst out of gaping holes where their bellies used to be. Quite a few severed heads lay next to their bodies, eyes open and staring in no less shock at their previous "homes". The stench of blood, guts, and mud rose from the battlefield, the coming sun cooking cold flesh and adding to the vile scene of decay. Swarms of flies eventually appeared to feast and lay eggs before bodies were hauled off for proper burial.
There was also mercy on the battlefield for some of the more fortunate ones. Soldiers from both sides spotted dying comrades and enemies and chose to end their suffering with one quick sword-stroke. But with the dead outnumbering the living, acts of mercy were few and far between. Those unlucky enough not to be noticed simply waited out the time till the end finally came.
There was also glory in the battlefield for the victors. Those bloodthirsty upstarts had been defeated and driven back to their sad little kingdom. There they'd lick their wounds, possibly undergo a revolution if they knew what was good for them. There would be time enough to reflect and to kick themselves where it hurt the most. There would also be time enough to pluck out the so-called traitors from their midst: commanders and ministers and anyone else whom people could blame for the bad turn in their fortune. They'd be brought to a quick and very partial trial before dying in a very public execution, which would be the peasants' only source of entertainment before plunging into a deeper economic crisis.
"It's their fault," toothless hags snarled as they shook their fists at the twisting, writhing bodies dangling from the scaffold.
It was their fault, yes. It was always someone's fault when a kingdom was cheated of its glory in war. It was always someone's fault for allowing the monarch, like the crowned dimwit that he was, to gather his forces and exert his power over strange lands no one had ever even given any thought to before. And for what reason? Because he thought he could.
It was always someone's fault that starving children would now die, for all resources had been spent on war. Paupers' graves would fill up quickly. More holes would need to be dug up elsewhere. The stench of rotting bodies piling up would be more difficult to ignore this time around. Then disease---one shouldn't even get them started on that.
Damn those traitors to hell, everyone cried, and the dangling corpses were cut down the day after, to be carved into separate pieces and set on spikes, depending on the kingdom's traditions of justice.
"If you don't behave, you'll end up like that miserable bastard," mothers warned bothersome children, pointing at a twelve-foot spike with a severed head set awkwardly on top.
No one would care, of course, that the severed head once belonged to a general who was known for his intelligence and even-handedness, and who was wrongly accused, tried, and executed. Failure in war demanded a scapegoat, and as luck would have it, he drew the short straw.
Noblemen were equally unfortunate in these cases. Most of the time, they simply got thrown in prison cells, there to be forgotten and to rot, literally, to death. If the peasantry and the gentry were provoked enough, the entire royal line would get snuffed out in one fell swoop. Ministers and soldiers were easily bribed. Their alliances were never a source of concern for anyone who demanded change in the highest levels of government.
Following the overthrow of the monarchy, fresh blood ascended the throne. Promises to the disgruntled masses were made. A turbulent season followed, filled with final purges and a settling of accounts. The new monarch, oftentimes the bastard child of a disgraced nobleman, ironically, assumed command and moved forward with his plans, which ultimately led to war with neighboring kingdoms. New ambitions required more room to grow, naturally, and people would discover too late that they'd replaced one mad, tyrannical ruler for another.
The cycle then continued, with the peasants too ignorant or mentally weakened by starvation to learn from their past blunder. Such was the fate of the losing kingdom.
Chapter Seven
Alarick and Roald returned in triumph, and the kingdom rejoiced. Lambrecht drank himself nearly to death in the company of his closest friends, all of whom weren't any better than the slobbering monarch. Girls were taken from their homes or were hired for that evening's revelry. The madwoman in the garden cottage consulted her mirrors and saw things no one else could. Servants who were given the sordid task of looking after her complained of her incessant crying. At times they'd catch her squatting in one corner of a dusty room, her skirts hitched up as she relieved herself. Her tattered veil spilled over her crouched form, soaking up her urine while she muttered gibberish about the end of the royal bloodline.
Sometimes marks of her past humanity would appear for a few fleeting moments. She'd sink before the mirror, her head bowed, her filthy hands lying limp on her lap. "Please don't take my child away," she'd whisper. "He's all I have. Please don't turn him against me."
Sometimes she'd ramble on and on about her past glory. Strange, nonsensical things, like "Who's the fairest of them all?" Surely not her younger sister, she'd quickly argue, her veil catching her spit. That ill-tempered bitch was too dark. Too imperfect. Too high-minded. Too moralistic. Too bad she had to be executed for threatening the queen's life.
"Serves her right, the little shit," Ulrike would crow.
Alarick tried to see his mother, and while Lambrecht didn't want to witness the touching reunion between mother and son disrupted---it was like twisting the knife more deeply in that bitch!---the prince's wish kept getting thwarted, at least for a time. The young fool, some people noted, still loved her despite her madness and her odd ambivalence toward him.
"Your Highness, she can't be reached," the king's ministers said. They tapped the sides of their heads meaningfully. They'd always been fond of pointing out the obvious, and Alarick had always held them in contempt for such pitiful limits in understanding. "Not quite there, you see."
"It'll be useless for you to try to connect with her again," Roald whispered in the darkness as they lay in each others' arms in Roald's chambers. "She hates you. She's always hated you."
Alarick took after his mother in some ways; he could be a bit of a stubborn ass. Roald, thankfully, was incredibly persuasive, and it never took long for him to have the prince---his superior, equal, friend, and lover---agreeing with him.
A kiss, starting out gently and deepening with increasing ferocity, never failed in shutting up the younger boy. Lessons learned in the idyllic privacy of their little glade had moved on to the rougher and more desperate explorations in the battlefield---explorations made more urgent with the threat of death hanging over their heads. Roald had claimed Alarick a few times in the midst of filth and rain, his bandaged and bleeding hand muffling the prince's cries as he pushed hard, fast, often pressing Alarick's bruised face against the grass or the mud, sometimes against the bark of a tree. The delicious warmth of a tight and yielding body gave him a glimpse of eternity, and he wondered if paradise in the afterlife was like being buried deep in his lover's backside.
There had been times when, overcome by the loss of comrades in the battlefield, Roald had crawled over to Alarick in the dead of night and had taken the prince without the courtesy of waking him up first. Muffling his sobs against Alarick's soiled hair, Roald moved inside his lover, nearly suffocating the prince as he drove relentlessly on in a futile attempt at wiping away that day's bloody scenes.
Roald had always pictured a completely different scene for Alarick's deflowering, but Fortune seemed to have other plans for them. No lily-livered sap, however, Alarick demanded and claimed in equal measure when violence and death drenched his reality and forced him to scrabble for a small vestige of humanity amid the carnage. In fact, when he first took Roald, he prefaced it with a hollow-eyed glare and a fist in the face, the furious rutting that followed left them both with mouthfuls of mud.
Now, in the calm of victory, they both tried to unlearn the savagery of lovemaking in the midst of war. They held back. They eased their demands on each other. They tempered their desires. They tried to explore each other's bodies more leisurely this time around. Half the time their efforts worked. The other half? Well, at eighteen and nineteen, they simply couldn't help themselves, and a few subtle yet telling bruises bloomed here and there.
In the daylight hours, thwarted in his efforts for so long, Alarick's concerns for his mother shifted in purpose. They turned practical, and it was all he could do to ensure that the queen was properly looked after by servants.
"Make her sanctuary a proper place for a queen, at least," he said, and they quickly obeyed, though not without some muttered complaints. It took some doing, but the reluctant, snarling, spitting queen was given a more a more decent and humane hideaway. Her cottage was cleaned up and enhanced with newer furniture, a flowering garden, and a good deal of light from a rich supply of candles. Lightly drugged to keep her from struggling and fighting, she was bathed and refreshed, given a new gown and toys with which she could distract herself day in and day out. A pair of nurses was assigned to look after the partially conscious but resplendently-dressed woman day in and day out, their living quarters in the cottage beautified to their specifications as a means of encouraging them to remain.
Their orders were simple: "Keep her human."
Once reassured of the queen's humane treatment, prince and lover grew even more inseparable. Before long, after the initial post-war euphoria faded, tongues began to wag. Having proven themselves in the battlefield, Alarick and Roald now raised concerns about the royal line despite the fact that Alarick was never technically in line for the throne. Over cheerful card games, impromptu masquerade balls, incessant flirting in the pleasure gardens, and indiscriminate fucking within private apartments, idle gossip came alive again.
"The prince needs to get married," a countess said to her friend, hiding her words coyly behind her fan.
"What for? He's not useful to the crown, either way," the friend replied, snorting in a very unladylike way.
"Well, curing his---uh---habits---will be good at any rate."
"Do you think he'll marry a masculine girl?"
"Mmm, I'd dearly love to see him in a gown. He'd make a lovely girl."
The friend giggled as the two sat idly on one of the stone benches in the floral gardens, the slight distance between them required in order for their skirts' hoops to enjoy their full circumference. All the same, it still proved to be a rather crowded seat for all their efforts. "Perhaps he wears one when von Thiessen fucks him."
From a nearby rose bush, a bird twittered.
"He needs to spawn children---the more, the better," one of the grooms said with secret relish as he brushed one of the horses till the animal's coat gleamed in the sun. He'd always been fond of children but was too poor to maintain a large family.
His fellow servants agreed and were soon engaged in comparing notes regarding their own children.
"He's abusing his body again," a very austere lady said with clasped hands and bowed head. "It's immoral."
Her lover's laughter stopped her disapproving observations, and the recently knighted gentleman swooped down for a passionate kiss, making his lady forget the fact that her husband was out doing diplomatic work for the king in one of the western kingdoms. It would be a month, he'd said in a recent letter, before his return. The somber, virtuous lady was grateful for that.
The pair broke apart, smiled at each other, and then hurried off to the knight's apartment.
\*
Lambrecht roused himself from his usual foggy state. He'd grown more and more unintelligible and sluggish with each day, and those around him wondered if it was from all the wine, food, and sex. Some ministers frowned as they puzzled over their king's rapid deterioration.
A growing number of Lambrecht's ministers, in the meantime, hid their smiles and continued to exchange whispers in Paradies's glittering hallways or the darker, heavier rooms of public houses up and down the countryside. Small silk pouches were exchanged, murmured agreements mingling with the sounds of jingling coins. Ministers who once mocked at witches now sought their counsel and their magic powder. Alchemists proved to be easily bought. Words that muddied a powerful man's brain were clearly laid out on yellowed paper, and instructions on how and when to whisper them in a ruler's ear accompanied the deadly scrolls. The tainted powder went with those as well, with precise instructions on dosage. Guarantees were demanded, threats of death in the event of failure made. Crones well-versed in the black arts merely laughed in toothless, joyless mirth at the anxious traitors' nervousness while snatching their gold from their clients' clammy hands.
When assembled before their king, everyone could feel the growing strain of rebellion among the group.
"That's brilliant!" Lambrecht gurgled, blinking stupidly at his frowning ministers. He didn't even know what it was to which he'd just responded in such glowing terms. Everything seemed like an endless loop of swirling images, color, and sound. It was magical. It was remarkable. While he didn't know how his world suddenly ended up that way, he wasn't one to complain.
Then he inquired after his favorite brothel before collapsing on the floor in a drugged swoon, his servants and perhaps only a handful of his old and most trusted ministers scrambling to help him up or carry him off to the sickroom. And there he'd be plied, unwittingly, with drinks that had been tainted with dark powder from a witch's cupboard.
\*
What could the world offer perfection? Quite a few had wondered. What did the world have that the prince didn't? Sober men bent their minds in the direction of the fair sex.
Alarick had proven his worth in the battlefield. He'd been an exemplary scholar. He'd always been a devoted son despite the misfortune of being born to such a set of parents as an incompetent wastrel who was visibly rotting where he sat and an adulterous madwoman who reeked of human waste and hunted for spiders to eat. Or, if one were to be more technical about it, his real father being a dandified buffoon who now lay in the countryside somewhere, mourned by no one but his broken lover.
Fairy tales would have the young man aided by a fairy godmother, but all he had were his wits and his own frailties. Perfect princes in those quaint little tales would be charging off to distant lands, tall, brave, and proud, determined to right all wrongs, and the king and queen's current distresses would certainly be a great part of those. What they suffered from, according to these stories, were nothing more than the effects of curses made by vengeful creatures. Stepmothers, most likely.
"Surely," well-meaning, foolish ministers said, "there are dozens of young princesses out there who need to be saved in one way or another. The prince has to be kept busy, and there ought to be at least one princess somewhere who'll work her magic on him. He simply needs to find her."
When some started to raise the same tired corrections regarding Alarick's claim to the throne, they were forced into silence by a new argument: "The royal line has to be broken. It's the only way. His Majesty is incapable of siring, and the queen isn't faring any better. Where do we find a successor? His Majesty is the last of his bloodline!"
As proof, they all called forth a small group of historians and genealogists, who'd been assigned to trace out Lambrecht's family tree. No, the royal line would truly die with the king, for everyone who could have succeeded on legal grounds had died. War, disease, murder, suicide---the trail was cold and bloody, and all leads went nowhere.
A compelling argument would have to be made for Alarick to ascend the throne as soon as possible, for Lambrecht, in his current state, wasn't fit to rule. No, surely, there was a way for the bastard prince to take over the crown even as only a regent. The court might despise the boy for no other reason than sheer capriciousness, but the peasantry was fond of him. It certainly wouldn't be a surprise if the consensus outside Paradies favored the ousting of Lambrecht and the crowning of a better man, regardless of his parentage.
Over discolored, dusty scrolls unrolled on marble tables, ministers frowned at dated accounts of this curse and that curse, stroking their chins or scratching their bewigged heads.
Anybody trapped in towers? Dungeons? Transformed into ugly, slimy, stinking beasts that only spiteful stepmothers---who also happened to be powerful fairies skilled in the black arts---could cook up? Any pretty young noblewoman trapped in a spell that desperately needed to be broken?
"Isn't it the case in these things that only the destined One True Love is meant to break the spell? How can anyone be sure if the prince is it?"
They knocked their heads together. Alarick would have to be tested, of course. Endure trial after trial, of the kind that measured his virtue and whether or not he truly deserved the fair maiden's hand. Not to mention her Papa's kingdom and all the wealth that came with it.
"But he can die in those trials if he isn't The One!" the oldest and goutiest fellow cried. "Then what do we do?"
They all exchanged looks, the blood draining away from their creased and careworn faces. Death by brambles. Death by dragon's fire. Death by a fall from a great height, most likely a slippery and steep glass hill. Death by poison. Death by a giant's boot. Anything could happen, and what guarantee could they have that the prince's chosen adventure was really the one he was meant to take?
The king and queen should have bred more children---not that it would've been possible at all to begin with, of course, but it was still a tantalizing idea to play with. Then they'd have a spare or two, and the kingdom wouldn't be in danger of being compromised by the loss of one who'd be tossed into the wrong adventure. Of course, there was also the possibility of losing all of the princes to a set of badly-chosen trials, but the ministers preferred not to dwell on the issue.
"By the gods, this is all so useless!"
"The only decent member of the royal family, and we're to lose him in a test of virtue."
Some rolled their eyes. "Decent!" they echoed. "He's getting buggered by another man! There's no test of virtue here. It's damned well too late for that!"
As it turned out, majority of the men gathered in that room claimed to be willing to turn their heads and look the other way. If Alarick turned out to be a good, able ruler, what would it matter if he were getting buggered by Roald or a valet or the local blacksmith? An argument started, with everyone realizing at length how multi-layered the issue really was, how no simple answer could be arrived at.
"There's no use being so negative," one said, dismissing all dour conjectures with a wave of a hand. "All we're doing is add to His Royal Highness's misfortunes if we keep it up."
"And we can't have him in brothels," another said after a moment's pause, to which everyone nodded their heads in firm and clear agreement. "The king, perhaps, but we've no control over His Majesty's behavior."
"Better to groom the prince into something better."
"I refuse to take orders from a bastard."
"You're always welcome to leave." Another round of heated exchanges ensued, but the fact remained: Alarick needed to be groomed into a much more superior ruler than Lambrecht, surely.
Yes, surely. Hatred of the current monarch might not be shared among those gathered in the great library, but all preferred the prince if worse comes to worst, though his unusual romantic predilections continued to be a blot in their affection, an itch that seemed impossible to scratch.
"Why couldn't we have a royal family that's normal?" someone asked with a tired groan.
"What exactly is normal?" another countered. A wave of low muttering swept over the assembled men, with many half-formed ideas tossed out and no real consensus appearing.
A few more bottles of wine were called for, and soon everyone was filling up their glasses, and the room was thick with voices wishing for an ideal that had always eluded them. A small group of young ministers refused, arguing that they needed a clear head to work through the problem.
"He was such a good child," someone said with a trembling sigh. "What happened? Someone had gone wrong somewhere."
"Born to a pair of unnatural beasts---that's what happened."
"His birthright was bound to come out. It was only a matter of time."
"No one prayed to the gods properly. Is that it?"
"No, you idiot. This is nothing more than bad luck."
Sometimes, the painful life lesson said, it didn't pay to be too fond of someone, or one would surely be driven to drink.
Possibilities were exhausted. By the time another hour had gone by, everyone had decided that sometimes, it was simply best to err on the side of caution, seeing as how they'd only one prince to look after. The ministers took a few moments' rest. The older ones poured themselves some more wine. Called for fruit and bread. Some were compelled to pace around the great library to keep their aching, creaking joints from fusing themselves solid.
When they gathered around the table again, they were out of ideas. Slightly intoxicated, their bellies tight with food, they stared in a fogged daze at the scrolls. Some counted the minutes. Some counted every expulsion of breath. Some fought to keep themselves upright. One or two were forced to shamble off to the marble hearth and vomit their excesses.
In the meantime, the younger ministers kept their heads and watched their companions' slowly diminishing wit in cautious silence. Meaningful glances were exchanged, and sly smiles were hidden behind goblets filled with plain well water.
Then a thin, wind-like voice broke the heavy silence. It was Ehren Fleischer, one of the youngest ministers and the most ambitious of the lot. "Perhaps," he said, "the prince can be cured." After all, he proceeded, the prince had been coddled for too long. He'd been a child for too long. Now was the time for him to grow up and grow out of his irresponsibility. He needed to look forward, into the future. With that came a sense of duty to the royal bloodline and the kingdom's security.
Alarick's seducer wouldn't go unpunished, naturally. Roald had taken a boy from an unsettled, questionable lineage and had made things worse for him. Had Alarick received proper guidance and the best kind of influence, he would have turned out much better than this. What Roald did was unforgivable and a classic example of what happened when one heeded nothing more than the desires of the flesh.
"His father," one man declared, holding up a hand and putting a halt to the venomous exchanges regarding Roald, "has returned from his holy pilgrimage, and he's reassured me that all's well with regard to his son."
"All's well means nothing! What does he mean exactly by all's well?"
"He's prayed to the gods? Offered sacrifices? Made promises and bartered his soul for them?"
"Most likely sold his son's soul to the gods..."
The speaker smiled, pressing a finger against his lips. "Wait. Just wait. You'll discover soon enough."
All the assembled men looked at each other, exchanging bewildered glances. The older, more faithful ministers struggled against the arguments flung their way. They imbibed more wine, this time unknowingly draining the contents of the last of the poisoned bottles.
The younger men, having held back all this time, prepared themselves, drawing their daggers from under their coats. Just as their drunken peers stood up, wide-eyed and gagging, their hands wrapped around their wrinkled old throats, the sober ones merely sat back and watched their treason unfold in such a colorful and amusing display of excesses gone wrong.
Like a group of marionettes being tossed around in the wind, the older men staggered about, some falling over quickly, and some stumbling and flailing as poison ate away at their insides. The great library was filled with the sounds of groans from fluid-filled throats, small cries of pain and surprise, and a great deal of grim laughter from the small group of murderers. Before long, trusted men lay on the ground, with some dying swiftly, and some requiring a bit of help from their assassins, who walked around the massive gilt room, plunging daggers into chests or throats. The sounds of dying men soon faded, and before long, the group of traitors stood amidst the dead, bloody daggers in hand and exchanging looks of shocked amazement and triumph.
"Shall we move on, gentlemen?" their new leader, the ambitious one and mastermind of the small revolt, asked. Ehren Fleischer grinned, looking calm and dignified despite his crime. Daggers were wiped clean, the empty bottles of tainted wine were broken against the marble hearth, and the bodies were disposed with the help of their allies within the royal household.
"When should we hear a report from the others?" one minister asked, casually sauntering over to the main table around which his comrades had gathered.
"Soon."
They eyed each other, smirking, finding grotesque amusement in seeing their peers' satin coats and white shirts spattered with blood. The significance, the symbolism, wasn't wasted on anyone.
Chapter Eight
Alarick had gone through his list of things to do. He'd ventured out to the people again to talk, observe, absorb. He'd inquired after the sick, the dying, the old. He'd acknowledged the poor, who made up at least three-quarters of his subjects, and followed them to their decrepit cottages or the noisy, filthy marketplace. He'd listened to complaints, suggestions, and pleas. He'd reassured, promised, and offered comfort.
Not everything he'd attempted succeeded, however. He saw how embittered too many people have become, no thanks to the king and many others currently in power. Some of the poor refused to speak to him, daring him to have them arrested for---well, for whatever perceived crimes were made against the crown. Some were only willing to spit a few words out while eyeing him and his company with deep suspicion, if not naked dislike.
One filthy, ill-looking woman practically chased them away from her run-down hovel, wielding a broom and screaming something about her lost daughter, who'd been raped by someone in court and who'd hanged herself out of shame, and her husband, who was now rotting in a prison cell, for having the audacity to demand justice for his child.
"You'll have to work harder than ever to win them back," Roald observed as the two cast one final glance down the dusty road that linked the palace to the rest of the land. He winced visibly, realizing the ridiculousness of what he'd just said.
"I wouldn't know where to start," Alarick replied, his spirits low. What were his options, besides? He'd learned to loathe his position, for all the luxuries it offered. His future, he knew, remained nebulous, and visiting the peasantry on occasion was an exercise in futility despite his sincerity in wanting to help them. If he couldn't ascend the throne, he could at least remain in court and use his influence on the king, whoever it might end up being once Lambrecht died.
During moments of weakness, as he'd always believed them to be, Alarick caught himself wishing that he were born to a different set of parents, a family nowhere near nobility, one that wasn't tainted with a history of jaw-dropping scandals and atrocities. His mother was nothing more than a creature just a step above a wild beast, mocked by former friends, shunned by her husband, reluctantly cared for by servants who once half-killed themselves to be in her service---at least according to rumors. His "adoptive" father, with his own rich list of moral shortcomings, had grown feeble in mind, spirit, and body, though without any clear marks of an illness. That final point was the most baffling to Alarick, and he was too rational, too level-headed, to give much thought to hints dropped by his peers that the king was under a spell of some kind. A fatal weakness was in his mother's blood, moreover, and Alarick feared it. How long would it take, after all, before he'd begin feeling its effects on him? The implications staggered him.
I don't want to be like her, and I sure don't want to be like him, he'd sometimes thought as he watched the king eat and get drunk at the table. It was like being born under a curse, though in his case, it didn't involve transformation into one unnatural form or another. Cursed heroes and heroines in his old, favorite nursery tales certainly had it far better than he ever did.
And it was always with a sharp pang that Alarick would be assailed with incredible shame for feeling that way toward his family, real or otherwise. With a muttered curse, he'd shake himself back to the present, silent, bitter chiding filling his next moment.
Trailing several feet behind them were their escorts---a pair of young, gangly pages and one servant. They all made for a strange parade, for the pages were exhausted and nearly fell off their own horses despite their brightly colored costumes that were specifically made for their roles. Their wigs sat crookedly on their heads, and neither seemed to realize it---or perhaps care. The trailing servant looked alert and smart in his own uniform, occasionally giving the two yawning and nodding pages a look of clear disdain.
"As long as we don't find ourselves in another war..."
Roald appeared grim. "How realistic is that? His Majesty's got too many enemies beyond our borders."
Alarick sank into a pensive silence. Too true.
In fact, he'd always been secretly surprised that no restless stirrings had been noted within the court, but perhaps it was only a matter of time. Roald turned his horse and urged the prince to follow him. They'd done their duties for the day, and with peacetime upon them, they'd nothing more to look forward to but long, idle hours.
Alarick dismissed their pages and their servant, who showed quite a bit of relief at being let off for the day. Suddenly energetic, the pages turned their horses around and galloped back toward the palace, while the servant merely bowed and followed them without another word or even an expression that could be read. Alarick and Roald rode off toward a quiet patch of trees some distance from town and the palace, the promise of privacy and delicious pleasures steering Alarick away from more dour thoughts, the ticklish rippling of excitement through his body making him shiver.
It was a recently discovered patch of paradise outside the stifling borders of the palace, completely ignored by humanity and blessed by all the best that Nature could give such a little area.
But a vague sense of foreboding grazed the edges of his mind, and once or twice, Alarick couldn't help but slow his horse down and glance back over his shoulder, his eyes wide and searching. There was no one behind them, of course, the general area nothing more than gently rolling terrain of green and occasional color, trees scattered here and there, the sky a breathtaking shade of blue, the peacefulness softly laced with the occasional twittering of birds. It was beautiful, a magnificent idyll that belied the land's bloody history.
Alarick tried to shake off the creeping chill and the whispered doubts as he followed Roald. And he'd almost managed to settle into a reasonable state of calm and contentment had he not caught movement just in his vision's periphery. He turned, startled, and saw a woman standing alone in the middle of a meadow to his right, watching them. Her distance was close enough that Alarick could easily make out familiar details in her dress, catching the soiled and tattered fabric, the telltale marks of fire, and the half-scarred face gazing out at him.
"Amara," he breathed, gaping.
Amara merely watched him ride on, her face a picture of profound sadness. She said nothing to him, and neither did she attempt to reach out, physically, to Alarick. But her mere presence chilled Alarick's being, for he knew that she didn't belong there. The dead, his aunt had told him, had limits as dictated by Fate, and it was Amara's fortune to haunt the palace's corridors, shadowing her mad sister and keeping her nephew company.
"No, surely---it's my imagination. That's all," he breathed, pressing his eyes shut as though to clear his vision. "She can't be out here. She's not supposed to be out here."
"What did you say?" Roald asked, and Alarick started, blinking his eyes open, and looked at Roald.
"I thought I saw..." He looked back at where Amara stood and found it empty. Alarick forced a tight smile when he spurred his horse on till they were abreast with Roald. "Nothing. Just a trick of the light."
They rode up to the trees that marked their new retreat's borders, and there they dismounted, leading their horses through familiar spaces till they reached their sanctuary, a clearing that was at least three times the size of their little glade in the pleasure garden. Everything in their new patch of paradise was a far cry from what they'd been used to. While everything in the pleasure garden spoke of a studied design that was meant to appear natural, this newly discovered clearing was all wild beauty and liberating spontaneity.
There they sat in the sun, enjoying the gentle warmth and brilliant clarity of the day. They stripped and swam in the pond beyond the trees and then enjoyed their usual pleasures once they dried themselves.
"You're daydreaming again," Roald murmured once he'd fully seated himself in Alarick. He paused for a bit, wondering at his lover's distraction. He kissed the prince and tasted the familiar. He brushed damp, black hair from Alarick's brows, marveled at green, slightly haunted eyes that stared back at him. Pressing down, he whispered the usual calming words in Alarick's ear and punctuated them with a ticklish swipe of his tongue.
Before long Roald sensed something unusual. Something different. It was all around them. The birds, the trees, the warm breezes, the cloudless sky---all pointed to rugged perfection, yet all seemed very, very slightly askew. How odd. Something---something---didn't feel right, yet he saw nothing unusual. He moved inside Alarick, rewarding himself with a breathless moan from his lover, determined to undo these odd feelings.
Alarick's eyes darkened, looked even more haunted despite the obvious pleasure he felt. His fingers curled around Roald's shoulders turned claw-like in their grip as he tipped his head back, his mouth slack, his eyes unseeing, while panting and grunting under Roald's weight.
"Close your eyes for me," Roald hissed, gritting his teeth and feeling more beads of sweat bursting out of his pores. No, he didn't want to see that uncertainty in Alarick. Not now, not ever. Everything was good. Everything.
Alarick's glazed eyes fluttered shut, and Roald rewarded him with a deep, salty kiss, their sweat and the remains of their swim mingling in their mouths. There was something deliciously filthy about making a prince obey a subordinate's order, which turned all the sweeter when Alarick clearly enjoyed being dominated.
Time moved forward. Desires were sated in a rush of wild sensations and breathless cries. Roald's thrusts quickened, went deeper, drove Alarick's willing body against the crumpled grass with increasing ferocity. Release finally overtook them, with Alarick not even touching himself, and Roald cried out first, shuddering and emptying himself in his lover. Alarick mingled his voice with Roald's gasps when he released, coating his stomach with ropes of semen. The flight back to earth was languid, much like the gentle kisses they exchanged, with each young man brushing sweat-pasted hair away from his lover's fogged eyes. Then came rest---fitful, refreshing. When they awakened, both of them wondered what had just happened, wondered why the sudden unsettling doubts in the midst of lovemaking. They gazed around them, and everything looked perfect as it had always been in that tiny patch of paradise.
The sun's position in the sky urged them to return to the palace, and they reluctantly rose from their grassy bed and dressed up. An embrace, a kiss, and they were on their way. They led their horses through the trees, Roald in front. He stepped into the open countryside, turned around to look for Alarick, and was suddenly enveloped in darkness. The last glimpse he had of the prince was that of Alarick in the arms of a large man, his face almost fully covered by a rag. The horses whinnied, and the calm was further violated by voices, low and harsh, and footsteps, mixed and hurried.
"Roald," a voice whispered harshly amid the confusion. "You force my hand in this."
Roald barely had time to recognize his father's voice before something struck him from behind, painfully wrenching the world and his consciousness away.
\*
Sounds of running feet and hurried voices filled the air outside Ulrike's cottage.
"Why are there so many people in this garden?" she demanded, outraged, as she pressed her face against the glass of her bedroom window. Below her, servants and nobles broke through the trees, hurrying along down the romantic lanes, in pairs, in small groups, their voices raised in consternation.
"How dare they!" Ulrike muttered, and she pounded against her window, stopping only when she thought she heard the glass crack. "This part of the garden is only meant for the royal family! Out! Get out!"
No one heard her, however, and the cottage was ignored by everyone who appeared. Only servants were allowed inside ordinarily, but then again, no one, even when running in fear for their own lives, wanted to find safety in a madwoman's little retreat. At any rate, they'd be discovered, for the cottage would surely be one of the first places to be searched by those who hunted them.
It had been going on for a while now, and while Ulrike at first walked over to the door and pressed her ear against it, muttering gibberish to herself while listening, she now knew that something was very, very wrong.
"Where's my looking-glass?" she demanded as she paced around the foyer before going upstairs. "Where is it? I've some business with it still."
She paused every so often, holding her breath and straining to catch that curious stream of sounds outside. Running feet and hurried voices now partly drowned out the distant sounds of weapons clanging. There were also shouts and cries rising from the confusion of voices, as well as several pistol shots ringing out from the direction of the palace.
What were the voices saying? Ulrike couldn't rightly tell, for she'd more than too many voices to sort through in her head already, and her damned sister refused to shut up.
You've already seen what's in the mirror. Why would you look into it again? The dead princess's shade chuckled from the cold, dark corner where it stood, barely visible, fading in and out with the shifting light that entered the room from two windows. What, Sister? Did you think that looking into the glass on different days would somehow change the course of our family's story? Our paths have long been chosen for us. Don't you remember?
Ulrike shook her head, scowling, as she swept back and forth. Her heavy skirts rustled, barely muffling the soft padding of her hand-sewn slippers. Though caged like a wild beast and mad beyond all help, somehow, at that moment, she'd managed to find what little remained of her former regal self. She paced in her room with her head held high, her shoulders squared back, her hands clenched into fists as her eyes flashed.
"My loom, then," she hissed, casting a look of cold disdain in her dead sister's direction. "I can tell a far better story than that mirror. I've control of my own destiny."
Tsk. You really are mad. For all the trouble you've put into weaving that tapestry of yours, it certainly hasn't helped you much in your present state. Control your own destiny, indeed! How does your story end, anyway? I doubt if you've even reached the midpoint yet.
"How dare you challenge me, you treacherous bitch! Feeling a bit smug, now that you're protected by the grave, are you? You were never this bold before---bold enough, perhaps, but what can one expect from high-minded mongrels like you?"
She burst out laughing, her voice clear and full.
"You coward. You can't touch me, and you can't touch my son. He'll change things around here, you know. He'll avenge me and his father in ways that no one will ever expect."
The dead princess smiled back, her stained teeth barely visible in a mouth that was nothing more than a black and red mass. I've never doubted that. I look forward to it, in fact. Have a care, Sister. He will avenge, but even you can't see how, for all your pride and venom.
"We'll see. That filthy bastard I married will have his day. In fact, I think it's already here." Ulrike paused, grinning, as the distant noise of confusion reached her ears. The garden paths had gone silent, with only occasional scurrying feet breaking the calm, and everyone else seemed to have converged onto the open areas beyond the trees. She hurried over to the wardrobe and pulled out a cloak, throwing it around her shoulders before running downstairs like an excited, restless child. The two nurses assigned to her had gone off somewhere, most likely to the palace for something, and Ulrike was free to wander.
She burst through the front door, looking around her in hopes of catching sight of trespassing villains, but they all seemed to have scattered farther into the pleasure garden, and all she had were frantic voices coming from the deepest shadows of the trees.
Ulrike took the path that led her out into the massive lawn beyond the garden, and against one of the trees she hid herself, peering out and watching the amazing scene unfold before her.
"Oh, look," she murmured, shivering. "They're preparing for an execution---or two, perhaps, maybe more. How delightful."
Her sister's ghost laughed from somewhere in the shadows behind her. It is, isn't it? I'm glad to see that you never lost your macabre sense of humor. Then again, I suppose it runs in the family.
Ulrike barely heard her. Her tattered mind had long vanished in a swirl of murky memories, odd, familiar sensations, a painful yearning for a child long taken away from her...and rage. Insurmountable, unquenchable rage.
\*
Farther away, in the depths of the palace---in the ballroom---Lambrecht sat in a haze that was far more than his usual drunken state. It was frightening to those closest to him as they stood before their monarch in a panic. There were only a handful of them left, for everyone else had turned against the king, quickly claiming allegiance to the traitorous ministers and nobles who'd instigated the uprising.
Lambrecht slumped in a chair, a pathetic, wizened wretch, subtly and methodically poisoned till nothing was left of his reason. He might as well be left roaming the pleasure garden or some neglected location like his unfortunate wife, but leaderless, the court simply wouldn't know how to function.
They'd long been used to being dictated to, what passed for truth to the king being fed to everyone else below him. This was how they should think. That was how they should act. No questions, no challenges, unless one intended to pass the rest of his days in the cold, wet dinginess of the prison cells. Dissent was tantamount to treason, and while a harsh thought, it was rather easy to think in absolutes, in black or white, in yes or no. And if they gave the right answer, they were all rewarded with extravagance and excesses.
Now the court had shaken loose its opulent fetters, and a new generation of possible leaders had emerged, but like an infant just out of its mother's womb, they all teetered and wobbled, baffled and unsure, flailing and gurgling unintelligible sounds. They knew what they wanted: freedom from their monarch's cursed bloodline and freedom to think for themselves. But what came next, they knew, was a treacherous step for them, for it required the choosing of a new leader among those who weren't born into the role. How would it be done? How much blood would be shed among them? How many factions would arise from it?
What a great irony now faced them, having gained their independence.
"What do we do?" the small, huddled group of loyalists asked one another.
Beyond the secured doors, the noise of cries and weapons could be heard. After the initial surprise and shocked apathy, small waves of resistance had begun to ripple through the court. Blood was now being spilled, but no one had yet to determine which side had the advantage.
"We wait?"
"We fight?"
"We give him up?"
They felt more lost than ever. On the lawn outside, the gallows were being erected in a hurry. Frightened subjects, mostly poor, could do nothing but follow orders from the usurpers. Loyalist peasants were rounded up beyond the palace walls, hordes of filthy, ignorant folks who knew no other life but mindless allegiance to their king.
It was fortunate that the rebels chose to show them more mercy compared to nobles and gentry who stood defiant and unwavering in their fealty to their king. Peasants were forced to choose, and the collective response wasn't surprising. It didn't take long for the entire countryside to swear loyalty to the rebels, for those farmers, potters, blacksmiths, and butchers were simply too cowed by any show of force and knew of nothing else beyond the dreary limits of their own wretched lives. Loyalist nobles were condemned to die on the gibbet, unless they'd already been hewn down by the sword or silenced by the pistol as they fought for their honor and their lives.
As for the king? Well...
A decision was finally made among Lambrecht's last circle of supporters, and the hastily erected barricade of furniture was pulled aside. As the ballroom's great doors swung inward, bringing with it a rush of warm wind that made everyone recoil from what was about to happen, the small group parted with bowed heads, forming a short path from the door to the chair on which Lambrecht slumped---a boneless, brainless mass of useless flesh.
"For our people," they said in a scattered chorus of trembling voices and a collection of cringing forms.
Leaders of the uprising marched forward, and the ballroom was emptied with surprising ease, for Lambrecht was too far gone to struggle.
\*
From her chosen hiding place, the mad queen continued to watch the lawn and the growing swarm of humanity that gathered there, smiling, sometimes singing a lullaby, sometimes letting out peals of despairing laughter. She'd have said something about those filthy peasants soiling the grass, but she didn't care this time, allowing their weather-beaten, cringing forms feed her rage. Her madness had also saved her from the gallows, which was more than what one could say about the king, despite his near-catatonic stupor. Indeed, he was practically a corpse when he was carried up to the platform for beheading.
"Perhaps it was a blessing that he was so far gone," some people murmured among themselves as they watched in horrified fascination while the executioner raised up the bloody head by its tangled hair to show his audience. "It's quite likely that he never felt the end when it came."
"Good riddance."
The sight of their fallen monarch made them all mute for the next several moments. Shock, perhaps? The stunned realization that they'd just rid themselves of a tyrant? The horrified understanding that they'd just committed a crime against the gods by murdering their representative on earth?
As though time itself had slowed, everyone watched in heavy silence as the king's body was collected and laid out on a bier, his head resting on his chest. After a group of men bore the body away, the audience waited for a moment in frightened awe before dispersing without another word exchanged among them.
The kingdom had experienced insurrections before, but never one that went so smoothly and so quickly. It was, indeed, rather unnatural in that regard, and this fact only served to rouse the current of fear that now unsettled peasants up and down the countryside.
"What have we done?" they whispered among themselves.
It would be evening before a nervous calm settled upon Paradies, and the long, terrible task of taking away the bodies of executed loyalists for burial continued well into the night. Those foolish enough to seek refuge in the pleasure garden were all hunted down and dragged away, their fates dependent on their accusers' mercy. Remarkably, none were killed in the pleasure garden, and it wasn't long before silence fell among the trees. Blood that stained the floors and walls of the palace was quickly washed off, and by midnight, nothing but the muffled sounds of helpless sobbing from different corners could be heard. The prisons, meanwhile, remained a hive of activity.
Alarick sank under the shadow of an ancient oak and allowed himself to breathe more easily once he was certain of his safety from that man's clutches. His clothes were soiled and tattered, his horse taken away. He'd no weapon he could use with which to defend himself. That had been taken away as well. He was injured, having been beaten by a pair of thugs, his ears filled with sneering, mocking whispers of girl and slut, the words coming with every blow. A third man had torn him away from their hold, nearly ripping his arm off his shoulder. A blessing, indeed. That fellow, though armed, stopped the beatings and ordered the others to leave.
"We can't have some mad bitch's bastard taking on the throne someday, can we?" the man said in a low, dead voice, as the others ran off, laughing.
"Who are you?" Alarick asked, his voice a thin, hollow counterpoint to his hired assassin's. He ached all over, his upper-lip felt swollen, but at least his nose had stopped bleeding, if only for now. He could barely breathe, let alone speak one word, without his insides twisting in pain. It was simply a miracle that he could stumble to his feet and stay relatively upright.
The man paused, glancing behind him and in the direction that the other two thugs took. Once ensured of their privacy, his hold slackened as he bent closer to the dizzy prince.
"I won't kill you, Your Highness," he whispered, "but I'm charged with the task. Run to the forest and hide there. No one will dare search for you past the first line of trees, and I'll say that I buried your body in their shadows."
"The cursed forest? You're sparing my life by forcing me to hide there?" If he didn't hurt so much, Alarick would have laughed at the bizarre irony despite the fact that he'd never bought into all those fireside tales.
"I don't believe in superstitious nonsense, but most do, and hiding in a forest they fear is the best way to keep safe," the man replied without hesitation, turning his head if only to spit. "What would you rather have, Your Highness? Would you prefer to stay out here and die by someone else's hands? You've no protectors anywhere, no weapons. Believe me, you've no friends left in court---at least those who'll continue to voice support for your family."
"Why are you doing this? Where's Roald? What have you done to him?" Alarick gasped once he could find his voice as he staggered beside the man, his mind barely wrapping itself around the thought of being disposed in a forest that was known to devour men foolish enough to wander in or to spit them out, stark raving mad, several days later.
"Run now," the man hissed once they reached the forest's clearing. "Run. Don't look back. Don't ask questions. Just run."
"No, wait!"
The man grunted, pushing Alarick toward the waiting shadows. He planted both feet apart while drawing a knife from his belt and holding it up. Alarick watched him in speechless shock and horror, and somehow, a little thought, uncalled-for, crossed his mind in one mad moment. He didn't know where it came from, but he somehow knew that it was true and that he needed to say it.
"You were the one who killed my aunt before lighting the pyre," Alarick said, pressing a trembling hand against his aching stomach.
It was mercy on his part, Love. For that, I'll forever be grateful.
"Run, Your Highness. I won't tell you again," the man replied, this time lowering his knife to aim at Alarick's throat.
Mercy has its limits. He'll kill you where you stand if you don't flee.
"I'll die in that forest all the same!" Alarick cried, his head whipping around as he fought to catch a glimpse of his old friend and companion. He saw nothing of Amara anywhere, however, though he felt her presence nearby or at least in his head---melancholy and comforting as it always had been. This time, he also felt something else edging his spectral guide's presence. He wasn't quite sure about it, largely perhaps it could be nothing more than his muddled senses working in a confused haze, but he thought that Amara also seemed resigned---helpless.
"What's going to happen to me in there, Aunt?" he whispered, his gaze fixed on the blade that was inching its way to his throat.
"Your Highness," his assassin said, his earlier grim detachment giving way to a fatherly desperation, almost. "Save yourself."
What happens to you depends on what you'll make of your adventures within its borders. I'm sorry, Alarick, but I can't help you now. Be strong.
"Run!"
And Alarick did, Amara's faint voice fading to nothing more than a soft sigh in his mind.
\*
The sun had just reached its apex, warming the northeastern kingdoms with its golden brilliance. But it was nothing more than cold comfort for everyone who was unfortunate enough to live there.
A great war had recently devastated the land, leaving nothing more than burned rubble in its wake and only a handful of small towns standing. Rich, golden cities that once soared to the sky with their alabaster towers, staring proudly and disdainfully out into the countryside, were now reduced to crumbling piles of rocks and black smoke.
It was a war that had ultimately turned into a raging confrontation between two gods---mother against son. The balance was eventually tipped in favor of the mother, and the detested son was vanquished---but at such a price. No one quite remembered how it all began, but as it was, it involved just about the entire land, and those who survived barely made it day after day, scraping for their provisions and praying desperately to the gods for mercy.
The gods heard, but no one heeded.
Broken by the devastation, they, too, had lost several mortal favorites. Immortal passion running more deeply and yet less fixedly, the gods were barely touched by men's prayers, their attention now centered on their own losses and the alleviation of their own grief.
The heavens mourned with them, the sky splintering just as they flew off in countless directions for their own brand of solace.
One goddess sequestered herself from her sisters and her peers, choosing to stand in the shadows of trees as she watched the others fly away and soak the winds with their laments. There was comfort to be had in hiding under a heavy veil, arms cradling the soiled and battered helmet of a beloved casualty in the battlefield.
Kummerene stood on the crest of a low hill, watching the world before her with sleepless eyes. The silence was deafening, but she sought it---embraced it. She desired nothing more than to listen to stillness and the vague, phantom voices of dead men that were carried by the wind, to be scattered throughout the world as testament of past follies---to be heeded only by those who chose to listen.
One of them, she knew, belonged to her dead lover, whose helm she held protectively against herself. He was perhaps one of the greatest generals who'd ever lived. He fought on the immortal mother's side, but, Gier, the lover of that goddess's son, was ever blind to everything else but her own pleasures and appeared in the battlefield as a boy soldier who curried favor with the general. In her disguise, she ultimately betrayed the man's trust, rendering him vulnerable to enemy forces, who'd slain him without much trouble.
For her interference, her immortal lover rewarded her honeyed drinks and endless hours of pleasure, their moans of release mingling in mockery with the lamentations rising up from the mortal world they'd just destroyed.
Of all the gods, Kummerene mourned the most in spite of her silence, her heart---forever attuned to tragedy---refusing all comfort and chasing after the bitterness of lost hope. To her mortals would repair during moments of loss, in her shrine they'd place all their desperate offerings, to her ears they'd raise their voices in a horrific chorus of wails. But now was her turn to endure a loss, and great though she was, her nature was truly no better than those to whom she'd offer her black cloak on which to shed their tears.
She stared at the empty countryside. "A waste," she said, spitting out her words as though to rid herself of their rancid effects on her tongue. "All this life---all these gifts---and no one's left to enjoy them. Sometimes I wonder what the use of our existence is if this is all we can look forward to---barren fields left to rot."
With a grimace of disgust, she turned away and cried, "Come!"
A few feet away, a small spiral of air lifted itself out of the grass, swirling into a barely visible pillar. She watched in silence as the pillar throbbed and pulsated, carrying an occasional leaf and small organic debris with it as it rose up, its top fading against the breeze.
A shape slowly took form within the pillar---dark and shadowy at first before its edges sharpened, and details ripened with the infusion of color.
It didn't take long for her "creation" to complete its transformation, and when Kummerene ordered it to step forward, she was treated to the sight of a young man at the height of his youth---tall and lean, eyes bright and all-seeing, complexion darker than what one could find on Northeasterners, skin slightly scarred.
She eyed her acquisition critically. "The old fool was right," she murmured. "This boy will suit me quite nicely."
\*
"He'd been in a battle before," the old man told the goddess as he knelt before her, a desperate supplicant who'd do anything to ensure that his son and heir would somehow be cured of certain unnatural propensities.
"He's a handsome creature," Kummerene told the old man with a derisive little smirk while staring down her nose at the pitiful, groveling mortal. He'd shown her a miniature containing his son's likeness to prove to her just how blessed the boy was in his parentage. "I would've thought that he wouldn't be in need of willing girls to debauch."
"Roald refuses girls," the father, who'd identified himself as von Thiessen, replied, his face turning red as he dropped his gaze in shame. "He simply won't touch one and has taken on another boy for his lover. That's why I've come to you."
"Roald?"
"That's his name---a very humble one, really. Fits him well enough."
The goddess drew herself up as she inhaled deeply, the smell of frustration and stupidity sharp and bitter in her lungs. Like jagged puffs of air, they sliced their way down, energizing her and rendering her better disposed to listen to the pleas and unholy bargains made by the sad little man before her.
"Why are you looking to me for his transformation?" she said, her eyes fluttering shut as she sighed her contentment, her body absorbing the sting of mortal weakness like sweet poison, her exhalations sounding tremulous.
"I don't think I can give you a clearer reason why, Madam," von Thiessen stammered as he flushed, wrung his hands, and bowed his head low, for Kummerene's physical form blinded him with a strange, white glow that was both soft yet sharp. To a mortal's eyes, she was simply frightening when revealed thusly.
It certainly didn't take long for the old viscount to offer up Roald for his son's re-education. Witches and sorcerers and all manner of holy men or clever conjurers be damned. Only a god could save Roald's soul now, and this particular goddess, known and worshipped for the darkness that shaped her nature, was also very much a mistress of vengeance. As far as von Thiessen was concerned, converting Roald's preferences through such intervention was revenge enough against the vile decadence of the court and the young prince who wasn't even the proper heir to the throne. A bastard noble, conceived in a scandal, set to rule the land? The heavens help them all. And to think that Alarick had gladly taken on Roald for his lover...
Kummerene looked at the miniature again.
"He's a very handsome young man," she said, narrowing her eyes as a ghost of a smile curled her lips. "I can offer you nothing more than your son's immortality and greatness if you were to give him to me, and I reassure you, he'll see the errors of his ways."
"But---but how would you manage that, if I may ask?" von Thiessen asked, the redness of his complexion deepening all the more. "Forgive me my boldness, but I---I'd like to know how he'll be changed for the better."
Kummerene raised a brow. Was this puny man questioning her? "What have you done to prepare him, mortal?" she asked in return.
Panic seized him for a moment, and he grimaced. "Nothing beyond a rushed spell," he said, swallowing. Was that good or bad? It was difficult to tell, for Kummerene simply regarded him without a shred of emotion. "That is, I took him away from his lover, unconscious, and brought him to a witch who claimed to know how to clear one's memory."
It was a spell, all right---a rushed one, to be sure, its guarantee nothing else beyond a toothless crone's terrified promise while someone held a sword against her quivering throat. But von Thiessen was desperate and needed Roald's mind cleared before the boy regained consciousness, and carrying his son to the tiny, reeking cottage of a witch was, at that moment, his only hope. Suddenly a sheen of cold sweat broke out over his skin, and it was all he could do to fumble around for his handkerchief, which he used to pat his face dry though he continued to cower and tremble before the goddess.
Kummerene at length nodded, much to von Thiessen's relief. "We'll see," she said as she handed him back the miniature. "I'll find out soon enough." She'd have to come up with ways on how to keep the boy's mind empty---or at least keep the boy fooled into thinking he was one thing and not another. "I don't want you back, old man. I've no need for you, and by making this bargain with me, you've just given up your place in your son's life forever. If you still wish to say farewell to him, do it now before he regains consciousness."
Von Thiessen, though dismayed by her terms, thought it a great honor, indeed, for his own son to be chosen for an immortal's consort. He bowed even lower, practically begging to kiss Kummerene's feet in gratitude, but she merely took one step away to tell him, without a word uttered, how unnecessary it was for him to do so. Had he glanced up, he'd have caught the disgusted grimace that had just darkened the goddess's pale features.
Kneeling on the ground, pressing his lips against the cold stones of her shrine instead, von Thiessen thanked Roald's new protector again and again.
"I suppose it's better to be bound to her forever," the old man had muttered, wringing his hands in part doubt, part fear, and part exhilaration, "than be partnered to a mortal with all the vices of a demon."
He thought that the goddess couldn't hear him, for she'd already vanished after their unnatural pact was sealed, but he was wrong. It was all she could do to suppress a burst of mocking laughter as she watched him from the safety of invisibility. Yes, mortals were incredibly stupid as a rule, and exceptions were pitifully few. This von Thiessen fellow was most certainly not one of them.
\*
Now Roald stood before the goddess, his gaze fixed on his mentor---perhaps creator---for a few seconds in curious silence before it was averted in favor of the hills and meadows that rolled gently around him.
Kummerene continued to watch him, feeling pleased with her new acquisition. Handsome, indeed, and born into an aristocratic bloodline. He was also, at nineteen, still very young. Yes, he would do quite nicely for her purpose. His education would be a very gratifying process, she was sure.
She slowly walked around him, her gaze keen as she swept it up and down his figure, absorbing every inch of the young man before her, alternately admiring, desiring, and feeling revulsion toward a fresh-faced youth---the spoiled son of a viscount, clearly, despite the fact that Roald had served time in the battlefield and had clearly done an impressive job in not only keeping the enemy at bay but also surviving intact. He was too fresh-faced still compared to Kummerene's lost commander, who'd been all muscle, all sweat and dirt, all roughness and coarseness that could only be born of endless wars. Kummerene would miss the man's gruff lovemaking, but she could easily reshape this wide-eyed youth into something refreshingly new.
Yes, I can live with that, she thought, nodding slightly.
"Do you know who or what you are?" she asked after another moment of silence, startling Roald and forcing his attention back to her.
"No," he replied quietly after a moment's thought. He'd tried to wrack his brain for something, but all he could find were shadows and silence. He didn't know how he got there, didn't know where he was, didn't know who he was. Nothing existed but the present, and it frightened him.
"You're my..." She paused, hesitating, before carrying on. "You're my muse." Then she laughed lightly---dryly.
Roald regarded her and waited, a bit baffled over his lack of memory and feeling slightly uneasy being there. Something told him that he'd been stripped, not newly born, as perhaps this strange woman seemed to want him to believe. There was something definitely wrong. For all his struggles, however, he couldn't understand what it might be, but he could feel the wrongness so keenly in his gut.
"You're not human. Do you understand?" Kummerene said, speaking a little more slowly now as though she were speaking to a child. She wished it, however, for she needed to fool him into believing his helplessness, his complete dependence on her as a baby would a mother. "You're a spirit to whom I've given human form. You'll leave this place and wander among mortals---and there you'll learn what you can about the blacker sides of their nature. That wouldn't be too difficult to do. Mortals are, by nature, cruel, pernicious animals, and you shouldn't find it too great a chore reading their hearts. You can smell the filth of their souls even before they appear on the horizon."
She paused to catch a breath, mildly amazed at her ability to lie so easily to the baffled creature standing before her with regard to his mortality. "You'll absorb everything that you see and hear---you'll be reformed by their baser instincts, and you'll come back to me, the perfect embodiment of humanity. Only Nature can hear you speak. It's not your business to form bonds of any strength with mortals. That's simply not your purpose. Do you understand?"
You'll live as I do.
Roald nodded, shivering from a sudden chill that enveloped him.
"You won't remain in your human cloak. If you do as you're told, I'll allow you to choose your immortal form---consider it your reward for a job well done. You're to represent me, my curse." She raised a hand and gently touched his cheek with her palm.
"You know nothing but what you need to survive---you understand nothing. You're a shell---an empty slate. On you the world will work its poison, and humanity will plant the seeds of decay. You'll carry the burden of deprivation, sin, and death with you till you come back to me, enriched by all that you've absorbed. And when the moment's ripe, you'll be rewarded with your final form, and you'll take your place by my side as my consort---my lover---my cupbearer---one to feed me poison, sing me dirges, write me elegies."
She stepped back and glanced down at the battered piece of armor she held. "And this will no longer be my fortune."
Roald nodded again, feeling the chill deepen inside him and his stomach lurch. An odd need started to gnaw in his belly, but he didn't know what it was, didn't understand its nature.
Kummerene regarded him steadily. "You have no need for a name, but I'll call you Roald." She tried not to chuckle at the little joke she'd just played on the boy and found it difficult, though she managed to suppress it well enough in the end. Her mouth curling in a smirk, she added, "Mind you, if you decide that you don't like that name, you'll be free to choose a new one when I claim you. Go now."
Roald felt another surge of doubt coursing through him, but he dared not speak a word of it. He knew better, even in his current state, not to challenge or correct a goddess. He turned to follow her pointed finger, and, casting one final glance in her direction, he moved off and hurried down the hill. Kummerene remained where she stood and watched him go, her figure dwindling with every step Roald took. And when he disappeared in the distance, she stood like every other mortal woman---pale and weathered and burdened by her nature, clinging resolutely to the soiled helm she held against her breast as a widow would in reverence to her lost husband.
Then she bowed to the sun before vanishing completely.
Chapter Ten
Alarick sagged against a tree, panting and tired. His mind was a jumble. His heart beat an erratic rhythm. His face now felt as though it had swollen to five times its size, and his body hurt. He'd yet to inspect himself, but he wouldn't be surprised if he found that his injuries were far graver than they now felt. He wondered about Roald, wondered where his lover was. Worse, he wondered what those barbarians might have done with him. Alarick would gladly take the humiliation and abuse that had rained on him when those two men beat him, calling him names and clearly relishing the violence they were inflicting on him, but he wouldn't be able to cope with the thought of Roald suffering something similar or worse.
"Calm down," he said. "Calm down. Think." He rallied himself after several moments and was able to look around and assess his situation. He slid down the rough trunk, sat on the tree's hard, uncomfortable roots, and waited for the pain and exhaustion to subside to something more bearable. They did, albeit slowly. "Where am I?" Oh---the forest.
The haunted one, naturally, as all nursery tales often had it---haunted and cursed for reasons that varied greatly but still shared a common thread. Had Alarick been nothing more than a lost, frightened child, he'd be able to recite all of those strange nursery verses or recall those unsettling tales that his nurse had always been so fond of telling him as a way of keeping him in line. He wasn't a child anymore, though, and he felt like death, his mind barely functioning through the thick haze of pain. His mother's looking-glass had warned against the forest, he remembered, and Amara had told him about the sorcerer-king's legend.
That was all, however---just a legend. A story that was so far-fetched even though his reality was deeply intertwined with magic and the supernatural, and he'd never truly believed it.
Alarick drew ragged breaths as he struggled to stay calm, gazing around him and seeing nothing but trees and shadows. He tried to look behind him, retrace his steps if only by sight, but there was no path anywhere, no clear indication of a way in or out of the forest even though he was sure that he ran through a narrow pathway till he was forced to stop and collapse in pain and exhaustion.
He blinked, grimacing as pain shot through him. He could hear nothing more than his irregular breathing and the occasional chirping of birds. The forest, otherwise, remained still, and whatever little narrow pathway he'd followed to that point seemed to have vanished.
Alarick swallowed as he closed his eyes and rested some more. He'd have to move soon and find some kind of shelter, though preferably a way out of the forest. He'd just begun to notice the chill, and he wasn't sure if it came from the fact that the sun barely penetrated the canopy of leaves above him, or if it came from the nagging sensation of being watched.
"Who's there?" Alarick called out in a weak voice and immediately felt foolish. Even if someone were there, hiding in the shadows and spying on him, the chances of him or her being a friendly stranger were unnervingly slim.
No. It had to be ghosts. This, legends said, happened to be the forest in which the sorcerer-king was buried, unconsecrated. And everyone knew what that meant.
No blessing, no peace for the soul, especially one that belonged to a man skilled in the Black Arts. Power heaped upon power---surely death would have done more to feed such a soul and reshape it into a distorted image of its previous self than to bless it with eternal rest. He remembered Amara and her curious warning about the dead and how his and Roald's love made them jealous. Or was it one restless soul that felt such animosity toward them? Why?
The sorcerer-king then haunted the forest, Alarick had always been told, condemned to roam through the shadowed trees for all eternity. A black pall had been cast over the entire area, and men who wandered in either never ventured out again or if they did, they'd been driven completely mad---to live the rest of their days in the grip of dark dreams till they were forced to put an end to their miserable existence.
Alarick had always laughed off these stories as stupid superstitions meant to keep children in line, for that was exactly the purpose of his nurse's never ending variations of the tale. No, there weren't ghosts to be afraid of in that forest---just the dangers of wandering alone, hurt, and confused, with animals likely skulking in the shadows, smelling his blood, sensing his weakness, and getting ready to attack at the best possible moment. He also felt fear for the too-real man who'd been dispatched to slaughter him, and once he felt up to it, he pursued his course deeper into the forest, choosing a direction solely by chance and hoping for the best.
At length, whether or not because he'd chosen correctly, a path appeared before him, softly lit by the faint rays of sunshine that filtered through the trees. He stared at it for a moment, unable at first to determine its reality, but the path remained after several moments of confused blinking and muttered remonstrations meant to snap himself back to reality. The path looked almost pretty, the faint sunshine touching it so that it nearly shimmered in the midst of cold dreariness.
Follow me, the path seemed to whisper to him. Stray, and you'll never find your way out.
Alarick was too tired, too much in pain, and too baffled to think more clearly about his options, though he knew that retreating and retracing his steps would mean capture, torture, and perhaps execution---that is, if he could even manage to find his way back to where he'd first entered. The ambush could only mean that something was afoot in court, and he knew too well just how tenuous his position was, how it would do little, if anything, to save him.
After walking for some time without incident, he found thick, moss-covered roots into which he settled himself for a restless nap, and he soon awakened to sore muscles and a bad headache, his stomach gurgling its protests.
Alarick sat up, groaning, and looked around. "I've no idea where I'm going," he said, his spirits faltering. His gaze settled on the path that had taken him that far, and it was the only thing that afforded him some measure of comfort at the moment. If a path was present in the middle of a forest, it surely meant that someone must live somewhere in it and had carved the path in the grass and earth in order to reach the world outside. Or at the very least, it had been created by men who ventured in and out all the time---hunting forest animals, perhaps, or foraging for vegetation that was known to thrive in such a dark and cheerless environment.
"Yes," Alarick said, rubbing his arms with his hands to ward off the chill. "That's it. There's nothing supernatural about such a simple thing as a path through the forest."
It sounded very good and reassuring in his mind, anyway.
So he staggered to his feet and moved forward into the gloom as it whispered its welcome to him, asking what he'd done to deserve this.
"What? Is someone there? I can hear you!" he called into the darkness, and the decaying trees bowed before him. Alarick blinked, rubbing the remnants of his nap with his fingers. "Who are you? What do you want?" He swallowed, whispering, "What's happening to me?"
Your Highness, one can't realistically choose his parents, can he? the dreary forest replied. Come here and rest with the shadows, and we'll comfort you with stories that won't mislead you with false hopes---unlike your ageless and tired nursery tales.
He'd reached a point where the sun couldn't find its way into the forest anymore. Alarick, shivering in the darkness, wandered farther into the forest's bowels while the trees whispered their tales and caressed him with their rotting branches. An odd light, soft and cold, illuminated the path as it wove its way through ancient trees. In that part of the forest, the leaves and branches above were too thick, the canopy quite impenetrable against the sun's rays beyond, yet there it was, a ghostly light that coaxed Alarick's feet forward.
\*
There was one of a princess who'd been plunged into a century-long sleep by the pricking of a finger. "Curiosity killed the cat" had never been a lesson ingrained, alas. Briars grew around her palace, entombing everyone within, while she slept in luxury in her pearly turret. Foolish noblemen tried their luck and were eventually caught in the brambles, where they were stabbed by a thousand sharp thorns, bleeding to death. And there their corpses hung in silent guardianship over their virgin princess. She continued to sleep and dream while her body carried on with its natural functions, and she was a mess of organic filth in a soiled velvet gown. Time passed, dust piled up on her, and she eventually suffocated under its heavy layers. And so she passed on and faded in time as do the others---innocent victims of her own spoiled nature.
This isn't fair! their corpses cried out, but no one heard, let alone listened.
There was another of a girl who was abused by her stepmother and stepsisters. She yearned to be at the prince's ball and was given a chance by a meddling fairy godmother. Be sure to be back by midnight, child, the crone said with a firm shaking of a gnarled finger. Otherwise, the magic loses its hold, and you'll be transformed back to your bleak, soot-covered self. "Yes, yes," she cried happily and danced the night away. But she was a silly, giddy little creature, and she forgot about the crone's warning---so much so that when midnight struck, she lost her pretty ball gown and her pretty dancing slippers, and she stood before her prince in her rags, reeking of filth and the pigsty. He visibly flinched and shied away from her, and she was kicked out of the palace, weeping at her own carelessness, while the prince was seduced by one of her stepsisters. Yes, the one who'd never had the advantage of a fairy godmother.
This isn't fair! she wailed, but she had no one but scampering mice and lizards for company.
There was another of a girl in a red hood and cape, who'd been given the thankless task of taking a basket of baked treats to her ailing grandmother. You've no choice, sweet child, her mother sighed as she pushed her daughter out the door. Go to her and be the obedient girl that you are, and we're sure to be blessed with our rightful share of her money someday. The little girl skipped into the woods and there met a wolf, who planted himself in her path, grinning and foaming in the mouth. She smiled to herself. Ah, here was a wolf who'd try to trick her into showing him her grandmother's cottage. She knew that he aimed to enjoy both her and grandmother for his meal, but she was cleverer than that. So she met him, a ready response poised on her lips, one aimed to thwart his efforts. The wolf sniffed her once and then devoured her in one massive snapping of his jaws---basket and cloak and all. Silly child. Who gave her the preposterous idea that wolves could talk?
This isn't fair! she sobbed in the wolf's belly as he lay down contentedly and cleaned himself.
There was also another about a brother and sister who'd gotten lost in the woods and had stumbled across a pastry cottage, but that was a tale that could wait.
By the time the forest's tales of shattered hope faded, its ghostly whispers drifting with the breeze that suddenly picked up, Alarick had fallen to his knees against an old tree, and among its misshapen roots he vomited what little he had left in his belly.
He waited after a few moments, heaving and sighing and spitting the vile remnants out of his mouth before leaning an arm against the black trunk and resting his head against it as he waited for the dizzy spinning inside his skull to stop.
For all the pain and surging waves of nausea that swept over him in increasingly softened intensity, Alarick whispered, "Roald...please be safe..."
If he were of a more religious bent, he'd surely pray for his lover's safety, but Alarick's faith lay in free will and autonomy despite the occasional doubt brought on by odd turns of Fortune. He sniffled, wiping his nose against a sleeve, as he pulled away from the tree and stared in horror at the path that had led him that far.
Perhaps it was time for a conversion, Your Highness?
Alarick shivered at what felt like the brush of icy lips against the nape of his neck, even giving it a light, playful swipe of a tongue that seemed even colder, deader. It was all Alarick could do to stumble to his feet with a little cry of disgust and to hurry back onto the path, feeling nothing now but a certain reckless abandonment as he placed himself in the mercy of a cursed forest.
\*
After what felt like a half-blind walk through eternal, dark dreamscapes, Alarick reached a clearing in the center of the forest. There he found a cottage standing---a pretty, ornate little cottage of red wood and black stone, whose carved patterns reminded him of ages long gone. Serpentine animals entwined with graceful, hooded figures and beckoned to him as they squirmed against each other on the walls and foundation, making the cottage look as though it shifted and shivered, breathing in shallow, rhythmic gasps.
Shadows---must be the shadows playing tricks on Alarick's mind. Carved shapes weren't alive, after all. It was all in his head, all in his head. He was simply delirious from shock, exhaustion, injury, grief, and hunger. And those damned trees and their tales weren't helping, either.
He hesitated before the door, but one of the figures on the wall reached out, grasped his wrist, and pulled him in. He heard nothing but the sound of ancient wood crackling as fingers curled around him, while a misshapen wooden arm wrapped around his waist, ensuring that he wouldn't run away. Not that it mattered, really, for Alarick was close to fainting at that point, and he didn't even struggle as he was pulled inside the cottage, the door closing softly behind him.
\*
Roald wandered far and wide, stopping on occasion to rest himself and to gather berries and dig up root plants for sustenance. His memory remained a blank, and he continued to puzzle over his knowledge of certain things, particularly what he needed to do to survive without money or basic comforts and amenities. Someone had taught him how to forage for food, how to protect himself against deprivation in the wild, in the face of danger, even. Yet he still couldn't pull up a single shred of his past to satisfy any question he had.
When he found a river and stripped off his clothes to plunge in, Roald froze in his tracks and stared long and hard at the gently rushing currents.
"Someone," he murmured, frowning and feeling helpless. "Someone should be here."
He walked on till he was waist-deep in the warm, comforting water, enjoying the relaxing massage of the river's movement against his body. Still, however, the strange unsettling feeling kept its hold on him, and it was all he could do to stand there for a moment and stare at his reflection in the water, feeling his head throb from a growing ache as he forced his mind to recall something---or, rather, someone.
When nothing surfaced, he plunged into the water and swam for a bit, luxuriating in the weather and the river's soothing cloak. When he emerged, spluttering and coughing happily and blinking water out of his eyes, Roald quickly looked around him, a cheerful invitation to join him in the river poised on his lips. The words melted and faded, however, when he realized that he was alone. He raked his fingers through his wet hair, combing them back, as he scanned the area for the dozenth time.
"What's wrong with me?" he asked, his spirits sinking under the weight of confusion and loneliness. "I'm alone in this. Alone. There's no one else who should be with me but---"
He stopped before completing what he needed to say. No, he was bound to that goddess, intended for no one but her despite his instinct's protests and insistence that it wasn't so.
Roald dove back into the water to silence all the warring voices in his head, allowing nothing but the river to fill his senses and to take over his world. Once his mind had finally been subdued by the water's seduction, Roald surfaced and jogged back to his clothes, dropping to his knees on the grass and tilting his face to meet the sun. He decided to let it dry him with its warmth. There was time enough for everything else.
Before long, Roald was back in his clothes, rested and content, and headed down a road that led somewhere.
He eventually reached north---or west, he couldn't rightly tell---and found a lush meadow. White, jagged peaks and a generous scattering of pine trees marked its perimeter, which was a great distance away. Wildflowers peppered the grass, while a clear, winding stream snaked through the area and reflected the sky. There he spotted a small group of women laying flowers at the roots of a willow tree. Roald frowned as he paused, and he swept his gaze around him.
"Willow tree?" he murmured. "How odd. It seems to be the only one in this meadow."
The women spoke in hushed and awed tones, and they reverently placed their hands on the tree's bark as though consoling it.
Roald watched them in curious silence for a moment. He thought of going up to the women and talking to them, but he remembered what the goddess had told him about communicating with people he was to see on the road. A part of him seemed to fade, lulled into a sleeping state of some kind, while another part of him was roused. A small, childish part of him---long neglected, perhaps, and left in the distant past, where all things childlike were kept, gathering dust in time---had awoken, and an infant-like curiosity took a hold of him.
The air around him picked up, and he felt its gentle touches against his face.
"What are they doing?" he asked the wind.
"Comforting one who used to be like them," the wind said. It had a sweet, haunting sound that seemed to come from a distance, like a gentle chorus of a dozen soft voices in perfect harmony.
"What happened?"
"The gods punished her for being desired by one of them."
Roald listened and pondered, his frown deepening. "Nonsense," he said. "How can one be punished for something that she couldn't help?"
"Well, one doesn't exactly reason with the gods," the wind replied, its dozen voices now sounding matter-of-fact and a bit scolding. "Have you even tried?"
"No. Then again, I haven't had just cause to argue with..." Roald's words faded before he could utter another one. He felt his face warm, and he was sure he'd just blushed.
"Indeed. No just cause?"
Roald, his confusion back, chose not to pursue the subject and simply watched the women speak to each other some more as though turning to each other for comfort before moving off, their heads bowed in apparent grief.
"Will she be turned back to the way she was before?"
"No---unless the gods who brought this on her repent their harshness. If you know how immortals work, that means never."
"Then why do those women come to her still?"
"They have hopes that someday she'll be granted mercy---even if her punishment was never once warranted."
"Hope..." Roald wrinkled his brows.
"Yes, hope. Mortals are odd creatures in that sense---flawed yet hopeful. One can study them through millennia and still get nowhere near full understanding of their nature."
Roald silently toyed around with that idea: hope. It certainly felt good, clinging to it.
"You've no business being with them. Theirs is a puzzle not meant for you to unravel or a story that isn't yours to understand. The gods have made their judgment. Go and serve your mistress, and you'll be rewarded handsomely."
Roald opened his mouth to argue, but he froze when he suddenly realized that Nature was quite likely ordered by the goddess to be his watcher, and the elements, his guides. If he argued or demanded clear answers, he could very well be thwarted in his efforts. A shiver ran through him. He was a puppet. A prisoner in a strange cell, allowed to wander and observe, yet kept from communicating with mortals and kept in line by the wind and the trees.
It was all he could do to give the willow tree one final glance before walking away, now alert and cautious. Roald took a different path this time, and he came across a small group of children standing around a little crystal pond, tossing flowers into the water and watching them float idly on the gently rippling surface.
"What's happening here?" he asked the grass around him.
"The children are comforting one of their own," thousands of deep green blades replied.
"One of their own? Did the gods punish the child?"
"He was the son of a god and a mortal, and a jealous goddess punished the mother by turning her son into a small pond---something she can never hold."
Roald scowled. That was madness, he thought, but he dared not say it. Instead, he calmly noted, "The children are mourning, then."
"They are. But they visit often. They hope to see their playfellow returned to them someday, when the goddess repents her harshness."
There it was again: hope. Roald felt a certain kind of power lacing that word, an undercurrent of countless crackling bolts of energy that kept his spirits afloat, his heart energized, regardless of how foolish it might all seem in the end. This was certainly something the goddess didn't say anything about, or was she simply blind to the fact? Was it her nature to be so?
"You shouldn't tarry here. There's no use questioning or challenging an immortal's judgment. Go on and serve your mistress, and you'll be rewarded handsomely."
Roald nodded and moved on, his heart full, anger swelling as he bent his thoughts down a less savory road. Innocents were being punished for crimes that weren't theirs, and he couldn't understand such malice among the gods. How could mortals worship such unreasonably vindictive beings? How strange, to be sure, that supplicants would willingly place their lives in the hands of immortals who apparently thought of nothing beyond their own cares and a certain perception they held regarding the world they created and watched over as well as the race of people whom the gods had surely created and nurtured as their own children.
"No, not children---more like puppets to be manipulated and moved around according to their whims," Roald muttered darkly. Would his goddess hear him speak of such things about her and her fellow immortals? Would his words be picked up by the winds or a spirit of the earth and carried up to her?
Roald wasn't sure whether or not he'd welcome her wrath if she ever read his thoughts or caught any of his words. Then again, perhaps she'd be too busy wallowing in her grief to pay him further heed until the time came for him to be transformed.
For her pleasure---an eternal one, at that.
Roald grimaced as a surge of panic coursed through him, carrying with it another strange feeling of unease involving someone else who, he was now convinced, ought to be there with him.
"Better to go along," he whispered after a painful, conflicted moment, his head filled with warring voices that refused to be outdone by their respective antagonists. Roald paused in his tracks, pinching his eyes shut as he pressed the heels of his hands on his temples in a vain attempt at willing away his confusion. Eventually his mind settled itself again, and an uneasy silence pervaded. Roald looked up, his eyes misty with unshed tears of frustration, and it was all he could do to wipe them against a sleeve. "Better to go along with it," he said again.
Swallowing, he walked onward---directionless and yet not. He once again felt that curious twinge in his belly, telling him that he was going in the right direction and that the solution to his puzzle lay in the road ahead.
Chapter Eleven
A figure tucked away in the deepest, darkest corner of the cottage watched in silence as the exhausted and battered young man felt his way around the cottage's dining area. The figure remained unseen---at least for now. No use betraying himself to the lost prince, after all. No---let the boy gawk and murmur in wonder at the strange opulence that now bore down on him. He'd surely be too tired for a more lengthy and in-depth lecture on the nature of his destiny.
Oh, yes, it was a prince who'd crossed the threshold of the cottage. The figure in the wall knew it right away, for it was too easy to detect noble blood. It had a certain smell, left a certain taste in the air, one that hinted at opulence, unequalled privilege, and an arrogant belief of being descended from immortals. The vanity of nobles felt like thick, sluggish fog that refused to dissipate. This lost prince, however, reeked very little of it. The hidden man raised his face and sniffed the air with short and sharp inhalations. It took him a little while to satisfy himself with the conclusion that this prince was an odd creature in that sense---that he was a prince and yet not.
A bastard, perhaps? It wouldn't be a surprise. Those in court simply couldn't keep their legs pressed together if their lives depended on it, and only the gods knew how many illegitimate spawn had worn the crown through the centuries. Indeed, at least half of those kings' true identities were destined never to be discovered by even the most thorough historian, and perhaps the most remarkable thing---or, rather, the most amusing thing---was the fact that, because of these tainted offspring, the royal bloodline surely would have long been muddied by impure blood.
So much for descendants of immortals.
The unseen man smiled at the thought. If the court were to suffer a continuing downward spiral in its rule, it shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone with the barest amount of wit to understand the ongoing polluting of the blood coursing through the heads that wore the crown.
The man who now watched the dazed prince stumble around, barely conscious, was invisible because he was hidden in the shadows and had always been a part of the wall he leaned against. Flesh, hair, and clothing were made of wood grain, and the curious patterns on the wall embraced him and made him one of their own. This man was the cottage. Now had the prince stopped his exploration, he'd have seen the watcher in the wood---his figure, his eyes, his hair, even his posture, which was an elegant draping across one of the paneling. He'd have rubbed his own eyes in disbelief at the sight of a wood grain hand being lifted to raise a wood grain goblet to wood grain lips.
Not a trick of the shadows, no. This was real magic, the peasantry would likely say. Or should it be a curse?
For good or ill, Alarick remained oblivious.
"There are seven chairs here," he said, his voice faint and trembling as he limped over to the dining table. "And seven plates, glasses, and bowls."
He stared closely at each, gingerly fingering the first dish, eyes widening in astonishment at the intricacies that seemed to throb under his fingertips. He moved clockwise and marveled, his breath catching at the enchantment that he perceived. His injuries and exhaustion were suddenly forgotten, to be replaced by the sense that something had turned back the time, and Alarick was again five years old. This time, however, rather than be the passive and awestruck listener of his nurse's fireside tales, Alarick was now an active participant who didn't quite know what to do with his remarkable discovery.
The first bowl he observed was unadorned alabaster white. The second was made entirely of crystal, which tinkled when touched. The third was made of richly fragrant flowers in full bloom, woven tightly together to form a container. The fourth was a collection of strange figures and patterns set against a backdrop of discordant hues. The fifth was subtly designed with a fruit pattern in a rich burgundy shade. The sixth was a sensual wonder with its finely carved relief of delicate vines and roses. The seventh was a collection of skull fragments joined like puzzle pieces into a perfectly shaped and functional container.
The chairs that corresponded to the different place settings were designed similarly, lending a uniform feel to the supper table---crystal, wildflowers, gypsum, bone---all were echoed quite nicely in the furniture they'd been partnered with.
Alarick ogled the table and its enigmatic contents for several moments before his sore stomach rumbled, tearing a hole in that amazing moment of magic, and immediately, a host of unwelcome sensations and memories swept over his bruised form. With a strangled little cry, Alarick doubled over as sharp pain lanced his side, and it was all he could do to use the table for support as he bent at the waist, one hand pressed against his side as he waited for the pain to subside. Ragged breaths cut through the silence that followed, while time crept forward.
Once the pain had gone, Alarick stood straight, sucking in a breath as sore and bruised muscles throbbed here and there, his hunger compounding his current distress. Forced back to more practical issues, he went through cupboards and drawers, searching for a loaf of bread, though it took him perhaps longer than he'd hoped as he stopped several times whenever pain overcame him.
But Alarick didn't have to worry about anything.
The rejected prince had been expected; the forest had been whispering about his arrival for some time now, ever since he'd set foot within the forest's shadows. The trees sensed him, knew him, and they passed on the message to the cottage. So, yes, he found his bread and its accompanying bottle of wine just within easy reach, and taking both to the table, he promptly sat down and stuffed himself greedily, sitting on the alabaster chair and using its corresponding bowl and drinking from its matching goblet without ceremony.
There was also something strange about his meal; not only did it replenish him, but it seemed to heal him. Alarick could feel the pain lessen gradually, the throbbing soreness of bruised limbs quiet down. A quick glance at a torn sleeve showed the skin beneath it---cut and marred with blood before---now sporting a closed wound, with the blood nothing more than a dried smudge. Alarick blinked, and he looked at another injured arm and saw the ugly bruise left by rough, vicious hands looking as though it was in the latter stages of healing, for the initial reddish-purple marks were now faint and edged with yellow.
After a moment's stunned silence, Alarick took another swallow of his wine and raised his eyes to the ceiling, not quite sure what or whom he was trying to reach. All the same, he whispered, "Thank you."
The man in the wood inclined his head and smiled again. It was, indeed, his pleasure.
Once he'd finished his meal, Alarick tried to search for something with which he could clean his soiled dishes, but he found nothing.
"I suppose I should rest first," he murmured, feeling sleepy. There was time enough for him to do what was proper and clean his dishes out of respect and gratitude to the cottage and its mysterious owner, whoever---or whatever---it might be. Alarick had to pause and hold his breath when he stood up from his chair, listening. He felt his skin prickle and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand. Was someone else present?
He cautiously looked around him, still not daring to breathe. No, he found nothing out of the ordinary---if complete solitude and a heavy, almost asphyxiating silence could be called ordinary, that is. Yet he could feel eyes on him, watching and observing closely.
"Is anyone here?" he called out. He heard nothing but the faint movement of the wind outside the cottage, the muffled rustling of branches and the occasional scratching of woodland debris against glass as they struck the windows. Alarick walked over to one window and peered out. He saw nothing but shadows and endless trees everywhere.
He shook his head as he withdrew. "It's just my imagination," he said with a heavy sigh. The sleepiness that at first overcame him now doubled in intensity, and Alarick found himself yawning several times, feeling unnaturally sluggish. The earlier sense of being watched remained, but it had been dulled by heavy languor that now cloaked him.
Alarick abandoned the dining room to search for the bedroom, which was simply the second half of the cottage, separated from the dining room by a wall with a narrow doorway. There he found seven beds decorated with the same motifs as the dinner bowls and chairs in the other room. They all looked inviting and warm, but Alarick opted for the alabaster bed and crawled under the blankets and promptly fell asleep. He could have chosen another, of course, but something urged him to follow through on his earlier pattern, though if he were alert and clear-thinking, he'd argue that it was simply nothing more than systematic orderliness that had been ground into him by his tutors through the years.
The wall behind his headboard shifted in the shadows, and the wood grain moved until something shaped like a human hand reached out and tried to touch him but couldn't get too far. Instead, it mimicked a gentle stroking of Alarick's hair, pretending to lift strands and allowing them to fall softly between fingers that creaked like moving branches. A quiet whisper wafted from wood grain lips.
"Dream on, Your Highness," it said. "Enjoy what you can."
\*
Alarick found himself sitting on the edge of a well. Slithering vines that sprouted from the grass moved to embrace the well and everything around it, creeping forward like tentative fingers till they encased Alarick's legs and feet. He glanced down at the writhing branches and leaves, frowning as he puzzled over them. He tried to move his legs but found them fixed. Moreover, the vines were a little itchy even with his stockings on, for they moved in slightly clumsy fits and starts, at times hesitating and retracing their steps before taking a different direction altogether. As though gifted with reason, the vines went about their business with human-like determination, but they weren't a great nuisance, Alarick had finally determined.
Besides, there were graver matters to consider. A very important token of his had disappeared in the well, and a very courteous frog had volunteered to retrieve it for him.
"It could be worse," he murmured with a sigh, shuddering at the thought of the promise he'd gave the clever little amphibian---despite the fact that he couldn't remember making promises of any sort. All he knew was blinking his eyes open and finding himself in the middle of a curious little quandary, of the sort that he knew could only be possible in those nursery tales that were meant to frighten or edify children. The frog, a pleasant little creature, was already present and in the middle of speaking its resolution to retrieve Alarick's precious token---whatever that might be---and reminding him of a promise he'd just made.
After another moment of somewhat uncomfortable waiting, Alarick heard movement from inside the well. The token, slick with stagnant water and green slime, was finally tossed back out, and it rested at Alarick's imprisoned feet. It was a locket, one that Alarick readily recognized, for it was a gift that Roald had given him before the war. Alarick hoped that the water didn't ruin its contents. The frog, equally wet and slimy, immediately followed, leaping out of the depths of the well with amazing precision, for he never missed the stone ledge, and he sat before Alarick with a triumphant little grin.
"I got your locket back," he said happily. "Now it's your turn. Payment for services rendered."
The frog was oblivious to the vines that crept up the well's sides to enclose him in their leafy prison. They slithered and curled around the little green body, but the animal remained unaware. Expectation lit up his bulging yellow eyes, and Alarick, his own legs now fully encased as the vines worked their way to his waist, sighed and nodded.
"A bargain's a bargain, I suppose," he said, and the frog croaked his agreement.
Alarick leaned down and forced himself to kiss cold, wet, amphibious lips. What did it matter, anyway? His stomach may be turning at the repulsive contact, but at least he got his locket back, and it was a happy ending all around---especially if the frog were to transform as was always the case with those old nursery tales.
There was a flash of alabaster light, and Alarick was startled at finding himself kissing---another prince? A nobleman? A knight? A peasant? Was it Roald? He could hardly guess. It was a bit difficult, after all, being locked in the arms of another, his mouth being coaxed open with a light flicking of a tongue against his lips, the vines securing the two of them firmly in their wriggling branches.
With a surge of joy and relief, Alarick recognized Roald's taste as his lover deepened the kiss. By the gods, Alarick missed him, and he pressed closer, wrapping his arms around Roald's shoulders just as Roald moved his around Alarick's waist. Alarick closed his eyes and felt the sun against his eyelids, gentle in its warmth while Roald's tongue filled his mouth, coaxing quiet moans from his throat and rousing his body with familiar pleasure. Alarick hardened, a reaction that was surprisingly and embarrassingly easy, but he didn't care as long as Roald remained with him. The silence pervading the area was soon laced with soft sounds of pleasure from both young men, the shifting of cloth under eager hands, the increasingly ragged breaths that escaped them.
Vague snatches of memories flickered like dying candle flames in his mind, and Alarick remembered violence. Of Roald being torn away from his side. The sack that covered his lover's face, obscuring Roald's look of shock and dismay. And worse, the blow that was made against Roald's head, done while Alarick was looking as he struggled against the hold of his own captors. It seemed as if they meant for him to see it.
Roald's father was also present---Alarick couldn't say for sure. But there was a shadow there, lurking just behind Roald, hissing something.
Are you hurt? With his mouth busy and his body coming alive under Roald's ministrations, it was all Alarick could do to ask in his mind.
He tried to break the kiss and pull away in order to demand an answer, but Roald's hold didn't slacken and in fact felt a bit painful. The kiss, Alarick realized, was also increasing in ferocity, so that it seemed as if Roald were devouring him. Alarick's jaw ached once panic began to take hold of his mind, as Roald's mouth and tongue had forced it wide open and held it open, and Alarick could feel saliva trickle down his chin and his throat. He started to push against Roald, struggling in earnest now, his earlier moans of pleasure replaced by muffled protests. His lover didn't seem to realize what was happening; indeed, Alarick wasn't sure that it really was Roald holding him now despite the familiar taste, smell, and feel of the other young man.
Around them, a slight breeze had picked up, and with it, a distant, hollow voice that laughed. Alarick couldn't rightly tell, for he was now struggling to breathe and couldn't escape. His eyes flew open, and it was all he could do to stare at the sun in growing terror, the mocking laughter now sounding as though it were coming from Roald.
Stop! Let go, you bastard!
The vines tightened around them and then gave a mighty tug. The two youths tumbled backward and fell into the well. No---only Alarick tumbled into the mossy darkness. Where was Roald? Was that him laughing from some great distance? The well was small on the outside, but once he'd fallen in, Alarick realized that the interior was large enough so that a person tumbling down it wouldn't even touch its walls.
A few times, Alarick caught sight of the well's opening, which shrank bit by bit, and Roald's silhouette broke through the light as Roald peered into the well.
"No! This isn't fair!" Alarick cried as watery darkness engulfed him, and in a final desperate and useless move, he threw a hand out for Roald to take hold. The words that came out of him weren't the ones he wanted, either. Cries of help burst through his lips but instead turned into a complaint against injustice. Cold, wet darkness shrouded Alarick as he sank to the bottom, the well's opening now a faint and distant dot of light. Roald's silhouette had vanished, and the well sighed.
You got your ridiculous locket back. You saved him from a curse. How much luckier did you expect to be?
Alarick awoke with a little gasp of surprise, and he sensed that morning was just about to break. He looked around him, frantic and shivering, the spectral remains of sleep and his dream fading with every blink of his eyes. It was still dark, and after a moment, his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. He found himself alone in the cottage's bedroom, surrounded by nothing but empty beds---six of them. He listened to his heart's desperate hammering calm down along with his breathing. Once his mind had fully caught up with him, he took a deep, shuddering breath and ran a hand through his hair.
"That was a strange dream," he said, rubbing his eyes, and the watcher in the wood nodded knowingly. Then Alarick remembered Roald and felt his spirits sink again. "I don't even know which is preferable," he added, this time blinking away the gathering tears when the feeling of crippling loneliness overcame him. "Waking up to this or dreaming of punishment."
The wooden man smiled faintly and then breathed in, savoring the doubt and fear that rippled out of the figure on the bed. This boy appeared to be showing promise as a student, the watcher noted. His lessons would prove to be a real pleasure, his mind a sweet and tempting fruit to pluck, and what a happy coincidence it was for him to end up in the forest, vulnerable and lost. It had been a long time since the path had led another unwary person to the cottage. That last one was rather unsavory in the end, his mind too empty and rotting from drink, his soul blackened with thieving, and the taste of his reason as it was methodically drained away from him was---unappetizing. That this scruffy, filthy man was let out after seven days in a state of complete madness that reduced him to nothing more than a woodland animal revealed everything about the distasteful process. If a cursed cottage could vomit following a horrible meal, it would have.
The watcher had grown quite bored of the solitude and the perpetual cold and darkness that had been his lot in the afterlife, but then again, even he couldn't remember what it was he'd done that had led to this form of exile. A collection of memories that seemed to come from several men haunted his hours---memories from the distant past, involving black magic, rape, murder, adultery, women...
How many past lives did he lead, anyway? Or was he the result of countless fragments of past lives that had been devoured by the forest and then regurgitated in a cottage taken from nursery tales but was definitely tied to a more sinister purpose? Was he the embodiment of sins committed by long dead men and women?
You're the combined essence of several dead men and women, absorbed through the years in the light of a hundred candles while alive, and the darkness of countless leaves in death, their minds, their hearts, and their souls shaping your existence now...
Wooden lips pulled back in a grimace, a soft growl escaping wooden teeth. The watcher shook off reminders of his own destiny---or, perhaps, destinies entwined---as he fixed his attention back to the tired prince who'd by now managed to pull himself together by talking himself back to reason.
"Roald's fine," Alarick said as he stared at the blankets covering his lower body. "He'll be all right. He knows how to protect himself. I just hope that he meets with friends, who'll help him, wherever he is."
Alarick wasn't convinced, but hearing himself say those empty words still raised his spirits somewhat even if it was because of nothing more than the comfort of the familiar sound of his voice in a strange cottage.
"Rest, Your Highness."
It was still much too early for him, and Alarick burrowed back under the sheets for another hour or two of rest. He heard nothing, of course, even if the watcher were to attempt to talk his ear off. The wooden man wasn't meant to be heard, let alone acknowledged by the living. That was yet another aspect to his curse.
Alarick continued to dream of other tales, those that he'd heard before and had kept close to his heart for whatever reason---sentimentality, perhaps. The fact that they made the sting of childhood loneliness less bitter, at least before he met Roald. Perhaps it was also because Amara told him some of them, sharing them during those moments of distress and isolation, when he felt the most vulnerable. In his dreams, Alarick found that he loved being in them, loved living them if only in his sleeping state, in spite of the minor irritation of odd little accidents happening here and there that somehow tempered the romance. Nothing, it appeared, ever worked out to his satisfaction. In fact, at the end of each nursery tale, he seemed to be worse off than when he began.
"Surely there's a reason for this," he told himself as he struggled against stabbing thorns or monstrous teeth, granite coffins or clumsy giants.
And each time, he thought he heard a distant voice shout, "What are you doing in these stories? There's no room for you here! Get out before you ruin things even more! You're not the one! You'll never be the one!"
Then he realized that he was wrong. No, he didn't hear voices screaming at him to go away. No one told him that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time; he was never told, and circumstances showed him instead. He saw that his dreams unfolded to demonstrate his bad fit. Attempts at rescuing helpless princesses turned ugly, and either the princesses or he himself got killed in the process. Sometimes the entire dream-kingdom went up in flames, all because Alarick simply appeared at the scene.
"What am I doing wrong?" he cried, horror filling him as he watched peasants get slaughtered or flattened by marauding monsters. Gripping his sword, he'd charge headlong into advancing enemy forces, but somehow, the more he fought, the more his enemies' numbers increased. For every slain monster, three sprang up in its place, wreaking more havoc and crushing more lives.
Get out of here! Get out! Do you want to kill everyone?
That was the answer given to him, and it was all he could do to turn around and fight his way out of one dream---only to tumble headlong into another. The ancient, web-festooned spinning-wheel creaked back into life, and a new story was spun.
In Alarick's mind, throughout his misty and horrifying adventures, he also heard another quiet voice urging him on, encouraging him to dream and to enjoy his little escapes despite his increasing reluctance and the obvious disasters he caused by simply being there.
Enjoy them while you can, it said with emphasis.
"How can I enjoy any of these?" he demanded as he stood on a hill in one dream, surveying the burning wreckage of what once was a palace from which he'd tried to rescue a princess. The young lady had perished in the process, of course, because Alarick simply appeared and tried to do good. She'd been shot in the chest with an arrow while attempting to escape with him. The look of shock and bitter recrimination on her face as she sank to the ground, blood blooming rapidly on her chest and trailing down the corner of her mouth, was the last image Alarick had of her.
When the voice remained silent, Alarick looked at the sky and cried, "What am I doing wrong?"
It was a question that wouldn't be answered, would never be answered, perhaps. Alarick could feel it in his belly, and he looked back in mute helplessness at the palace that slowly vanished in flames.
And when he finally awoke to a brilliant morning---or at least whatever he could gauge given the thick enclosure of trees around the cottage---he was amazed and relieved to find himself healed, all marks of a savage beating gone.
"Good morning, Your Highness," the man in the wall said.
Alarick, for his part, had jumped out of bed and was now examining himself closely, his mouth hanging open in speechless shock as inch after unmarked inch of skin was bared to his stunned gaze. There were no bruises, no cuts, and he felt no pain anywhere.
The watcher chuckled. "Had your mother been around, she'd scold you for oversleeping. No---had your mother been around as well as sane, she'd scold you for oversleeping. That is, if she even cared enough to bother." Wood grain shoulders shook as the man in the wall laughed at his own cleverness.
Chapter Twelve
Another day of Roald's travels came, with him venturing down the southern road, and he came upon an isolated woodland glade---teeming with a variety of rich plant life and a small bubbling brook that cut through it. And there he spotted a marble statue standing near the trees.
He stopped dead and blinked. It was an odd sight, to be sure, for there were no signs of creative efforts anywhere. Roald quickly scanned the immediate area and found no discarded tools, no broken stone---absolutely nothing that might have suggested previous activity taking place in that small patch of land. Seeing as how the statue stood at a height that was true to life, Roald could only imagine the weight of the whole piece and the efforts that surely would have been required to move it from one place to another. That the artist or whoever was responsible for placing the statue there chose such an isolated and lonely spot for the marble figure to spend its hours gave Roald nothing else to go by. It was a puzzle from start to finish, but perhaps there could also be a less pragmatic reason behind this strange presence.
"Another unhappy mortal punished by the gods, I suppose," he said. "Why aren't there people here to comfort him, though? Has he been abandoned?"
He walked up to the statue and gazed at it critically. The figure, which was that of a boy near the end of his adolescence, was slight of build, but its musculature was clearly showing signs of development. It stood with its head turned up as though it was caught glancing up at the sky when it was transformed. Its expression was that of calm intelligence with a hint of wistful longing, and Roald thought that were the statue alive, he was sure that the figure would be rather striking in appearance.
Roald froze. "Wait a moment," he murmured as he turned his face away and shut his eyes. Something had just whispered in his mind, a vague, vague touch along its fringes, stirring shadows from his past. He stood there for a moment, desperate and exasperated as he fought to keep those embers alive, but they seemed to flicker with a dying fire for a second or two before fading again. They left nothing in their wake but an odd and insistent stirring in Roald's stomach as well as a thought---distant, improbable perhaps, but no less emphatic in its desire to be acknowledged---that remained nebulous but most certainly significant.
Familiarity? Yes, that was it. For the briefest of moments, the feeling of familiarity swept over Roald, and he didn't know what it meant or where it came from.
"Have I been here before?" he asked, this time opening his eyes and frowning at the clusters of forget-me-nots near his feet. A quick sweep of the area around the statue revealed a scattered collection of those little flowers, all mingling with other wildflowers in a variety of brilliant colors. Against such a backdrop of vivid hues, the forget-me-nots seemed to shrink in the background with their soft blue color, but it was this curious calm in the midst of a riot of exuberant shades that drew Roald's attention to them all the more.
No, Roald had never been in that woodland glade before. Of that he was now sure; however, the feeling of familiarity remained, and it was all he could do to attempt to trace its path in a slim hope of understanding its source. His attempts led him nowhere, for beyond the recent days, he could find nothing but darkness and void.
He slowly stepped back, unable to take his eyes off the marble figure before him. The statue's legs were encased in rough stone up to the calves, with one leg bent at the knee as though the figure were in the process of walking when it was captured and frozen forever in this state. A long, narrow sheet wound airily around it as a soft scarf would when billowing in the breeze, but for the most part, the figure was naked.
There was a lack of self-consciousness in the statue's pose that struck Roald---a general casualness that spoke of confidence and a deep-seated strength that went beyond what was physical. A closer look at the face only served to confirm that in the Roald's eyes, and he nodded knowingly.
"I'd imagine any of the local folks telling me one troubling story after another regarding your plight. I can hear them tell me that you angered one of the gods," he said, half-expecting the marble youth to say something in return, but the statue remained silent. "But I'll play along and stretch their story further. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if one of them desired you, and you were punished for something you can't help."
He felt faint warmth spread through his face as he spoke, but he also felt no shame in what he'd said or of the fact that he was communicating with a marble figure standing in the middle of an isolated glade. His eyes still fixed on the figure, Roald decided that the marble boy truly was pleasing to the eyes and added, "You are beautiful."
Another twinge in his belly---another pang of familiarity. Was it the feeling of admiration that was it? Was it the statue itself? What it represented, perhaps? Roald tried to determine what it was the statue, indeed, stood for, and he could think of nothing. Stunning and ageless, the marble youth stood for only the heavens knew how long, placed there to mark an event or serve as a memorial of a young man long gone.
With a heavy sigh, Roald realized that he was nowhere nearer the answers to any of his questions, but he held on to that feeling and refused to let it go. Perhaps if he were to allow it to grow in his mind and in his heart, it would lead to...
Roald shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair. He didn't know where it would lead to.
"I like the thought of you being punished by the gods for something you can't help. How cruel of me to say so, but I can't help but be drawn to it somehow. It's---it feels---right, though I don't know why." He tried to imagine a lad blessed with beauty and maybe even more than that, envied and despised by a being who was far, far greater than he. What irony it was, indeed, that the gods would crave certain perfections that eluded them, for all their powers. Perhaps that was the tragedy of their existence, that their immortality was nothing more than a painful, infinite extension of petty concerns that surely would have destroyed mortals in a breath. Silence met his words, but Roald pressed on. "It's a bit harsh being caught out here and being exposed to the weather. But---I suppose you wouldn't feel a thing."
The clouds shifted above, partially obscuring the sun before moving again. Soft shadows were thrown on the statue's face, and Roald thought that he saw it frown. He couldn't help but smile faintly at the effects.
"It looks like you do," he said, a little surprised at his own reaction to the minor miracle. He paused and looked around. The trees that surrounded them seemed too thick, with shrubbery covering up every inch of ground between them.
"There's no place where I can move you right now," he said, oddly compelled to speak in apologetic tones. If the statue were truly a young man who'd been cursed, Roald must be feeling the effects of the unfair punishment, for he couldn't help but talk to the marble figure as if it truly were alive and it could hear him. The shadows moved on the statue's face yet again, and it looked as though a small, sheepish smile curled the corners of its mouth. "I think you'll have to put up with the weather until someone does find a better place for you."
The branches of nearby trees swayed lightly in the wind, and the statue seemed to nod as well. Roald studied it for another moment, and his mind settled itself on the doomed willow tree and the unfortunate pond, and he felt strangely moved.
"I'll return," he said, bowing, before turning and hurrying off through the trees, bursting out at the other side to find himself standing in a small field choked with wildflowers.
And there he busied himself, falling to his knees as he pulled out brilliant blooms that caught his fancy, gathering what he could fit into two hands. When he couldn't hold any more, he stumbled to his feet and hurried back to the statue, stopping once to pick up a broken and faded pot that littered the side of a dirt road. It was an odd thing, Roald thought, to find it in the middle of nowhere. He glanced around and found nothing else that seemed out of place, but he decided that this broken pot must have fallen off a traveling wagon sometime ago. It could very well have been discarded by an individual on foot, too, but Roald didn't care to think any more about particulars.
Once back in the little woodland clearing, he filled the pot with water from the brook, and in the old container he placed the wildflowers, offering the collection to the marble statue as he'd seen other mortals do.
"This will, I hope, comfort you---until the gods repent their harshness and change you back." He paused as he thought he'd just heard a faint voice chide him: Do you really believe that they'd repent once they make their judgments on humanity? Roald shrugged, feeling a bit helpless. He knew the answer to that well enough.
"Mortals may have given up on you, but I won't. If nothing happens in the next few days, I'll ask my mistress if she could appeal on your behalf." Roald had to smother a burst of laughter. How very romantic of him to say such things, he thought, his amusement only softened by the return of odd yearnings for something or someone. With a pang, Roald realized how lonely he felt despite the goddess's promise to elevate him into immortality, to be surrounded by other gods and goddesses till the end of time. Worshipped, to be sure, by those who inhabited a world he was now poised to leave behind.
For all those enticements, however, Roald could only think of the present and how alone he was. He studied the marble youth with some longing. "I'd like to have met you before this," he whispered, the words tumbling out of him and leaving him aching and, to some extent, rebellious. "If I had it in my power, I'd move heaven and earth to bring you back."
The statue gazed pensively at the sky. It seemed to hope for the best, too.
Roald now took to cleaning up the area a bit for all the good it did, feeling himself compelled again, this time to make the little woodland sanctuary a prettier and more comfortable haven for himself. Besides, he was also reluctant to part from his new friend, but he knew that he had a task to perform, and time wasn't on his side. At length, he stepped forward and placed a hand on the statue's in farewell.
"I don't know why I'm talking to a statue," Roald said, blushing and feeling sheepish now. "But something tells me that I should, and I've learned---somewhere, sometime ago, maybe---that I should listen to what my instincts tell me. Whether or not you are what I think you are isn't the issue here, but I think that talking to you will somehow help me. As to what all this might mean, I really can't say."
Roald paused, still blushing but now feeling a little relieved by his strange confession. "Yes," he added in a hushed, thoughtful voice, as his gaze inched its way down the statue's figure, admiration, awe, and insistent stirrings now filling his immediate world. "Yes, I know I should do this. I must."
He reached up and pressed tentative fingers against the statue's cheek, feeling cold, unyielding stone against his skin. As his eyes traveled down, his fingers followed their direction, exploring full lips, a gracefully shaped throat, the swell of collarbones and chest muscles before tracing their way down to the statue's stomach and hips. The winding sheet of cloth that swirled around the statue, however, covered its genitals in the most provocative and sly way imaginable, and if Roald could tear the damn thing off and liberate the boy, he'd do it. As it was, he could only let his imagination run away with all kinds of images and possibilities as his gaze lingered on the area, his fingers also resting against the spot where Roald knew the heavens surely lay.
His sheepish smile shifted to something less embarrassed, and a wholly different heat now suffused Roald's face and body. There it was again---that familiarity, that longing, that desire to be with someone else. And for one mad, brief moment, Roald wished that this enticing youth were alive, so he could honor him with passionate attention.
"Where did that come from?" he blurted out, eyes widening, as his mind fixed itself on that final thought of his. He desired another boy?
The statue only stared at the sky, but Roald thought that he saw a tiny, mischievous smile in the shifting shadows, and he smiled as well.
"Never mind. I'll come back to you eventually, as I can't think of a better place for me to rest in my adventures. In the meantime, I'll pray for good weather." He pressed his hand against the marble youth once more, this time in farewell.
He fancied that the statue seemed to like the suggestion, and Roald walked away, feeling a little lighter in his heart and warmed by the thought of seeing that lovely boy again. Once he emerged from the trees, he headed straight for the dirt road, whose direction he didn't know. Not that it mattered, truly, for Roald understood that in order for him to carry through with the tasks that had been laid on him, he needed to head forth without knowing where he was going. Adventures surely required impulsiveness on his part, and simply taking an unknown road to unknown destinations felt like the right thing to do.
So, after a brief moment's deliberation, he went down one direction and walked for as long as he could till fatigue and hunger overcame him, and he was forced to stop and forage for food wherever he could find edible fruit. For relaxation, he searched for another river in whose sparkling depths he found comfort and peace, even though the mere act of swimming---or even stripping and walking to the water---once again roused those strange, disjointed feelings in him of missing someone.
Roald wished that he could stay underwater indefinitely, for it was a welcome relief to his burdened mind despite its other effects on him, which he'd yet to fathom because of their insistence in being facts and nothing less than.
He supposed that he could always avoid rivers or any body of water in which he could swim. Perhaps he could wash himself just as nicely and thoroughly---as well as enjoy the same kind of relaxation---in a brook or a stream. Neither could offer him the depth in which he could swim away his troubles and fatigue, but he could always sit by their edges and wash himself without having to immerse himself entirely.
Roald surfaced and then dove in again. This is ridiculous, he thought, impatience at himself roiling in his belly. I sound like a child.
He finished his swim eventually and wiped himself down with his shirt. His clothes, he noted with a grimace, were soiled and getting damned close to being torn up. He looked more like a peasant than...
Roald took a deep breath at the thought---or would it be a remembrance? He wasn't a peasant. He knew that. Somehow, deep down, something had just reached out and attempted to connect with the rest of his mind, telling him that he wasn't poor and had never been poor, but for all his efforts at clawing away at that something, he still failed to tear out of its hidden place and to make it tell him everything there was to know about himself.
He pressed the heels of both hands against his temples when he felt a jolt of pain rip through his head.
"Stop it," he hissed, pressing his eyes closed and grimacing as wave after wave of a sharp ache swept over him. "Stop it!"
He fell forward and curled up on the grass, crying out while desperately willing it all away. The pain subsided, eventually, but for several agonizing moments, Roald thought that he was in danger of going mad, if not fainting.
Once his mind had settled itself and the pain had gone, Roald realized that he was still naked and that he lay on his side, fetal, while the sun soothed him with its warm, gentle light. Dizziness followed the delicate calm, and it felt as though Roald were swimming in a haze of mixed and disjointed images, sounds, and color, and nothing stayed long enough in the forefront of his mind for him to grasp and cling to. His stomach churned, and he was afraid that the next thing to happen would be his vomiting everything he'd eaten since the goddess revived him from whatever state he'd been in.
"Where are you?" he whispered, and he felt hot tears trail down the side of his face and onto the grass. "Alarick, where are you?"
There! Hold on to it before you lose him again!
The torturous whirlpool in his head dissipated, and to his dismay, Roald could remember nothing about that jumble of images, but he did hold on to the name that came unbidden to his lips: Alarick.
He remembered nothing of Alarick, whoever that might be, but that deep, hidden something in Roald's mind reassured him with an odd sense of relief. For the next few moments, Roald remained on the grass, crying and repeating Alarick's name, his despair being compounded by the silence that answered his calls.
\*
Roald awakened to a marvelously warm breeze and a sun that had gone a little past its highest point in the sky. He also realized that he was still naked and lying on his side, curled up like a baby, and whatever dirt he'd managed to wash off in his swim had returned in a different form. Small debris that had been carried by the breeze dotted parts of his exposed body, while the side that had lain pressed against the ground now sported bits of earth and crushed grass. With a pained grimace, Roald stretched his cramped limbs and felt the ache of muscles that had been forced into one position for too long.
It was all he could do to stumble to his feet and hurry back to the river, where he simply waded in and proceeded to wash himself off. His mood remained grim, however, and his spirits felt depressed. The name of Alarick lingered like an insistent ghost along the fringes of his mind, and Roald knew that he needed to find a way to bring his past back to him.
As he put on his clothes, he wondered if the goddess were watching his every move at the moment, observing and taking critical notes, perhaps, of his behavior. Would she be furious at him for stumbling across that marble statue and allowing its strange presence to move him enough so that his memory endured a bit of a jarring?
He wondered as well if gods could see inside a mortal's heart and mind. Behavior could easily be watched and read, but the inner workings that made a mortal unique in every way?
Roald gazed around him before glancing up at the sky. No, it was best for him not to utter a single word whenever he thought things through. Better to be safe than sorry. He just hoped that the goddess, wherever she might be, hadn't heard him call out Alarick's name. That she'd yet to appear before him, looking offended or outraged over his perceived transgression, gave Roald some hope.
"Besides," he murmured, eyes darting left and right cautiously, "she hasn't turned me into a rock or a tree yet." Yes, there was hope still.
He set out at length with a firm reminder to keep his mouth shut and to not betray himself---and Alarick, whoever that might be---to the goddess. In the meantime, he ought to carry on the task that had been appointed to him, and perhaps along the way, answers to the puzzle of his existence would show themselves to him.
Roald walked on until he finally caught sight of human activity after half a day on the road as he paused to rest on the crest of a hill. Past some of the other low hills that bordered the secluded meadow and woodland glade, another colorful valley stretched before him, and in the distance, where other roads coming from other points, tiny figures of people and horses drawing wagons and carts converged. They all seemed to be headed down a single road in particular, which appeared to take them to a sizable town.
He was amazed that it lay at a relatively short distance from the secluded woodland glade, but it was no matter. In fact, it gave him quite a bit of relief, knowing that at the end of that day, following his adventures at "absorbing" human nature, he had the ability to retrace his steps and return to a quiet little haven that was now familiar to him.
Roald found that he didn't care for the possibility of venturing too far, however; in a moment of surprising clarity, he felt---indeed, he knew---that he simply didn't want to be separated too long from that hideaway of his. He felt and knew that he should return there, maybe as soon and as often as he could.
Familiarity.
There it was again. Roald's heart thundered in his chest as he held on to that thought and that remarkable sensation that came from some unfathomable depths in his very soul. And the more he lingered on it, the more determined he was to go back to that little glade and its silent resident.
"I've been there before," he noted, wonder now suffusing him. "Not that same glade, but a place that's similar." He paused, swallowing, his spirits lifting. "And I know that someone was with me." The wonder that just overcame him had turned to delight---a little tentative, perhaps, but still delight at the realization as well as the assurance that he knew he was right.
Alarick, now fully healed, saw that he couldn't leave the cottage because it simply wouldn't let him. The first thing he'd tried to do the morning after his arrival was to hurry to the door and flee the accursed place, while remnants of his dreams faded in and out of his consciousness, taunting him with reminders of his failures---no, his seeming inability to be the perfect prince and hero for which he'd long been groomed.
But once he reached the door, though, he could only see its outline in the wood, along with the curious carved patterns that embellished it and the door handle. The door itself seemed to have melted back into the wall, its outline nothing more than a mark of where it used to be, its handle turning into another mere decorative pattern.
For several moments, Alarick stood before the door's outline, feeling around for possible edges of a hidden exit but found nothing. He wasn't sure if it was panic or confusion or perhaps the beginnings of madness that made him see several thin hands with fingers shaped like tree roots creeping over the door, feeling around as they inched forward. They seemed to have emerged from the wall that surrounded the door, and they groped their way toward the opposite side of where they'd begun. In their wake, it appeared that more thin layers of wood were stretched out over the door, further sealing it against efforts at forcing it open.
It was all Alarick could do to stand there, slack-jawed and stunned, as he watched their creeping progress. He thought he could even hear them move, their twisted, root-like fingers scratching against the wood and creaking like branches that bent and swayed with the wind.
"They're locking me in," he said, breathless and horrified. When he reached out to tear at a couple of those strange, crawling hands, they merely raised themselves off the wood and scratched away at his skin, tugging at his fingers painfully, and drawing blood with their pointed tips. They reminded Alarick of small beasts that were cornered, like raccoons hissing and spitting and slicing away at him with their razor claws.
"Oh! Ouch!" Alarick cried as one particularly vicious hand took hold of one of his fingers and tried to break it by bending it backwards. Slamming his free hand against it in a fist, he managed to pull his finger out of its hold. The creeping hand released him with a violent shudder and a momentary writhing of its corresponding arm before carrying on with its strange task as though nothing had just happened. Within seconds, it had reached the opposite side of the door and had melted away, adding one more layer of intersecting wood against Alarick's only means of escape.
Once the hands terminated their journey and vanished back into the wall, Alarick fell against the door and pushed, pounded, and tugged violently at the door handle. His efforts only yielded an irregular rhythm of wood creaking a little against his fists and feet when he took to kicking the door. And judging from the muffled nature of the sounds, Alarick was convinced that the walls and the door were far too thick for him to hope for any escape.
At length, exhausted and numbed by the fact that he was now a prisoner, Alarick turned around, leaning against the door, and slid to the floor till he sat like an abandoned puppet. He stared ahead without seeing, his legs stretched out, his hands lying limply on his lap, but his mind was madly whirling about as ideas, memories, bitter accusations, among other things, surged and fought for dominance.
"I'm going mad," he whispered. "By the gods, I'm..."
He swallowed as he forced his thoughts to quiet down. He couldn't leave, and his predicament now could have been his fault entirely or partially. Regardless, he was there, and it didn't matter. What did matter was for him to survive whatever it was that kept him there---defy it, fight it, till he neither had the strength nor the will left. He wouldn't be a victim so easily.
He listened to his heart slow and his breathing soften. Once he'd regained mastery of himself, Alarick wondered if whatever creature or force that kept him prisoner could read his thoughts.
There's only one way to find out, he told himself.
Schooling his features to what he felt was the perfect expression of hopelessness and despair, he let his mind scream.
You bastard! Son of a whore! You're a sickening pile of shit!
One invective after another flew across his mind with such ferocity as to make him breathless for a moment. He made those thoughts go while still keeping his outward appearance as helpless and anxious as he possibly could. It proved to be a draining experiment, for he'd never done such a thing before, having been forthright all his life, and attempting a risky experiment in deceiving a force that he knew nothing about took just about every ounce of strength in him. Once or twice, he felt his resolve waver, but there was something liberating about mentally screaming one's fury and outrage that easily swept him up and carried him with the currents, and any doubts that threatened to shake him were easily squashed.
After he'd run out of insults, Alarick waited for punishment. He held his breath as he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them while pressing his forehead against his arms in a theatrical show of surrender.
With a surge of hope, he heard nothing but silence and sensed nothing amiss. The only thing that broke the silence was the sudden gurgling of his empty stomach, and he shifted and stumbled to his feet.
Alarick let out a trembling sigh as his gaze went to the dining table, the chairs and their corresponding bowls. With a start, he counted only six this time. The alabaster table setting had vanished.
He looked again and realized his mistake. No, the alabaster table setting hadn't vanished. The chair had simply turned into wood---old, dark, and visibly rotting away---while the bowl was a battered tin container, something Alarick had seen a lot of in the hands of the poorest folks in his kingdom. Was the enchantment done for that setting? Once used, it had returned to its normal state? It sounded plausible enough despite it being such a wild idea, but at this point, Alarick had already gone quite used to the strange and unnatural.
Don't speak a word, he reminded himself. Play along, show how much you're weak. But never let on. You can do this. You can survive this, whatever game this turns out to be.
If he interpreted the table settings correctly, he had six more days to go before---he didn't even know what awaited him after the seventh day. Steeling himself, Alarick moved forward and played his new part to as close to perfection as he could, though he did wish that he knew for sure just how effective his acting skills were.
"Is anyone here?" he called out, stopping and looking around before he reached the table. He felt his skin prickle in an all-too-familiar way.
He lived alone, but he never truly felt like he was alone. He could sense, rather than hear, whispers coming from the walls, and he understood every word. In voices that echoed his dreams, they'd offer him the solace of companionship in the face of stunting isolation from the world.
"Come now," they seemed to say, "you're protected here. Remember that you were driven away. Was your life threatened? Most likely---you're a prince, aren't you? We all know that coming from a bloodline that makes you a mere step down from immortals is never without a price. So stay. Rest yourself. You'll be well cared for within these walls. The forest will protect you beyond."
Alarick thought of Roald again. Where was he? Forgetting his hunger for the moment, Alarick sprang up from the chair and hurried to a nearby window.
What an idiot, he thought. I could have escaped through this.
He peered out the window and into the dreary forest beyond. He wasn't sure if predators were out there, circling the cottage, waiting for him to take a step outside.
Squinting, he rubbed his sleeve against the glass in wide and insistent circles and then looked again. Yes, he caught movement out there---among the trees. Figures---were they figures?---flitting behind one tree to another. Sometimes Alarick thought that he caught sight of dark, shapeless things crawling from one shrub to another as well. Some of them, he thought, looked back at him with tiny, yellow eyes that blinked a few times before vanishing. His spirits quailed, and he dared not open the window for fresh air or for a better view. He could have simply thrown the casements open and jumped out, but he was unarmed and lost, and catching sight of those creeping figures made him hesitate in his bid for freedom---perhaps fatally---though he truly didn't know which fate would have been worse.
Then again, even if he didn't hesitate at the critical moment, the cottage wouldn't have allowed him a second's chance at escape.
Alarick quickly grabbed the window latch and struggled with it, and all he could manage was to rouse the cottage and animate the enchanted window frame. Alarick gaped as small, wooden arms emerged along the periphery and creep across the glass outside, using gnarled, root-like fingers to claw their way to the opposite sides. They were similar to the fantastical hands and arms that had earlier sealed the door against his efforts, but this time, they were much smaller and took on the appearance of vines. Soft scratching sounds could be heard. Before long, there would be a crisscrossing of misshapen wood on the glass, like ivy vines partly covering the window and securing it, preventing escape.
The final mockery, of course, was the fact that these vine-like arms left some parts of the window uncovered, so that Alarick could still peer through and see what was outside. These uncovered sections of glass, moreover, were far too small for him to break and expect a successful escape.
"No, no, Your Highness," the cottage purred---or so Alarick thought he'd heard. "The forest is wild and dangerous. There are no paths that will lead you out. Surely, you don't want to return to the palace, do you? Considering what they'd just tried to do to you, you really don't expect them to welcome you back with open arms, yes? Unless, of course, you allow us to look after you first. Listen to reason."
Alarick looked around him, skin crawling again. "Where's Roald?"
"The boy in your dreams?"
Alarick fell silent, stunned. How did the cottage..?
The whispering voices laughed. "Come, come, we know your dreams. They're immensely delightful, to say the least. As for this boy you're so concerned about, he has his own path to follow for now, as do you."
"I don't know that for sure. He could be badly hurt or dead."
The voices, once nothing more than indistinguishable whispers, could now be heard clearly, though they still spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones. "He'll be fine, and you're sure to be reunited with him when the right time comes. When you do, it will be with a mind that's a great deal more improved and, dare we say it, a great deal more aligned with the natural order of things."
"I don't understand..."
"You're too young and too confused. Just rest and enjoy the calm of our cottage and our stories of virtue."
Alarick glanced back at the barred windows and found that every single window in the cottage was secured by tangled, wooden arms. His gaze moved to the door, and he saw that its outline had faded a little. If it were, indeed, vanishing little by little, it wouldn't be long before it would be nothing more than a blank wall.
"I can't leave," he said, feigning more terror than he actually felt. At that moment, mild terror and a simmering rage consumed him, but he kept up his acting.
"Good boy. You're learning quickly. Now have yourself some breakfast."
Alarick obeyed. He didn't need to act this one out, for he was truly starving now, and for the moment, being a trapped prisoner in the middle of a cursed forest meant little to him. He went through the cupboards again and found them filled with bread and roasted meat---as to what kind of animal would be slaughtered for consumption in that cottage, Alarick tried not to think about. He also discovered some spices and broth kept in two large jars as well as a small basket filled with fresh fruit.
A quick inventory of the cupboard's contents convinced Alarick that what the cottage provided for him was a full day's meals.
"Thank you," he said out loud, this time pretending a certain degree of meekness for such a bounty. Of course, everything that he saw could very well be tainted or poisoned, but he refused to let on about his suspicions even though he was also quite sure that the cottage needed him to survive this imprisonment somehow. Warring thoughts continued in his mind, and he fought to appear calm and resigned.
"You're welcome, Your Highness," the cottage replied. Its chorus of whispered voices sounded pleased, though it certainly did little in helping Alarick's unease.
Alarick helped himself to bread and a small pot of jam, both of which he took back with him to the table. He hesitated as he scanned the table settings, wondering where he was expected to sit. He said nothing at first, wondering if the cottage would direct him. He wasn't wrong.
"You're thirsty, aren't you?" the cottage asked, amusement edging its voices.
Alarick frowned and looked at the table again, this time seeing that the battered tin bowl now had an equally battered tin cup sitting next to it, and it was filled with fresh water. Without another word, Alarick sat down on the old, worm-eaten chair, feeling it wobble under his weight, though it held steady, and proceeded to eat. At least, he found, the tin bowl appeared to be clean, and so did the cup. He suppressed a smirk as he ate, silently noting how remarkably efficient a cursed cottage could be in matters of housekeeping and cooking.
As he ate, the cottage entertained him---if one were to call it that---with softly sung lullaby-like pieces, whose language he neither understood nor recognized.
For all I know, it's casting another curse on me, he thought, chewing his bread. I must say, though, that this is the best bread-and-jam fare I've ever had. It might prove to be fatal in the end, but...
Again, Alarick suppressed a grim smile.
No, play along, you idiot. Play along. You're sure to find out what this monster's plans are.
Once Alarick had finished his meal, the voices stopped their singing. Oddly enough, they did so in such an abrupt manner that left Alarick momentarily on his guard, holding his breath as he strained to listen for what might come next. Fortunately, the cottage simply ended its entertainment, and it left Alarick alone in silence.
He turned to look at his used bowl, cutlery, and cup. "Where should I take these for cleaning?" he asked.
"Leave them there, Your Highness," the cottage replied. "Surely, you don't expect a prince to soil his hands, do you?"
He shook his head, now feeling restlessness gnaw away at his belly. "If I'm to stay here, I'd like to be kept busy."
"You'll be kept busy. As to how, you'll discover soon enough."
Alarick didn't know whether or not to take that as a threat of some kind, but he thought better than to demand answers or challenge the cottage. If this cursed structure wouldn't show him what he could do then Alarick would find ways of keeping himself occupied while drawing the cottage's secrets out.
He left the dining room and stepped inside the bedroom, a sharp gasp escaping him as he stopped dead.
The alabaster bed in which he'd slept the previous night had turned into a decrepit shadow of its former self, with weathered, discolored wood, the pillow and bedclothes a collection of faded and frayed fabric. For all those, however, the bed appeared to be clean and had been properly made by invisible hands.
There was also, Alarick noted, a large tin tub filled with water sitting against the bedroom's farthest corner. Beside it sat a basket which contained clean rags with which he could scrub himself. He swallowed, squelching a sudden urge to panic, but he still had the presence of mind to allow a bit of that fear to escape, shadowing his features and drawing the right kind of response from the cottage.
"There's no need to be afraid, Your Highness," the countless voices cooed. "It's only right to take care of you. Enjoy your bath. The water's still warm."
\*
The cottage fed him well. It dressed him in sumptuous clothing. Alarick had tried to determine the source of its magic, but after several failed attempts, he simply gave up. Magic was magic; magic simply was. If he were to stop and think about it, after all, it wasn't any different from his life in the palace---well-cared for, pampered, and fed till he felt like bursting, and Alarick found that he didn't have much to complain about in this strange new world. He'd wait for Roald, surely---wait for the time when he'd be allowed to leave. If he'd be allowed to leave, anyway.
He shook his head and rethought things. No, that was wrong because first thing was first. Alarick shouldn't wait to be allowed to leave the cottage; he should outsmart the demonic structure and somehow fight his way to freedom through guile and nothing more than his wits. If the cursed forest lured him to his prison, Alarick was sure that there was also a way out of it, for all of the dark magic that had now become his reality. Yes, he'd outwit the damned thing, find his way out into the world, and then rejoin Roald. Then the two of them would ride off and disappear, damn the kingdom and everything in it. He never belonged there; that message had been forced onto him loudly and clearly.
He remembered the whispers, the giggling exchanges, the condescendingly pitying looks through the years. Intelligence and skill meant little if a "paragon" were deemed less than his peers through no fault of his own, whether it was about his long-questioned birthright or his natural choices for romantic relationships. The attack on him and Roald said as much about how his own subjects---at least those within court---regarded him, and Alarick wouldn't be surprised if the entire kingdom was told that the prince had been taken away by stealthy, vengeful invaders, possibly sold off to slavery, possibly kept as a prisoner and tortured, possibly killed.
And what of the throne? The king and the queen? What had become of them now? Alarick dared not entertain the idea of a revolution, yet he couldn't shake it.
It's out of my hands, he thought, feeling sickened, as he sat before the hearth, staring at the brilliant fire that the cottage had started for him and warming himself there. Then Alarick prayed to the gods, a sincere and despairing plea for his mother's protection.
Aunt Amara, he couldn't help but append, please look after her.
Was it a slap in the face of the gods if he were to pray to the ghost of a mortal? Would his spectral friend even hear him? She'd warned him about the limits of her powers, if one were to call the ability of the dead to reach out to the living. Haunting the palace's white marble and gilt hallways was her destiny beyond the grave. And even if she could reach beyond the palace borders, she was simply no match for the horrifying, bewildering power of the cursed forest.
No, enough of that, he thought with a surge of impatience toward himself. There's no room for self-pity or surrender. Not now, not ever. Let Fortune deal with Mother as she sees fit. I've my own problems to fix.
He did, indeed.
"If I'm not to be given books to read, the least I should have are stories," he said out loud. Did he sound like a petulant child? Perhaps, but it was neither here nor there. It was, by and large, a way of keeping himself sane.
"Stories in the day, dreams at night, Your Highness?" the cottage whispered.
"Yes."
"Very well, then."
So the cottage plunged into a string of stories, legends and myths from kingdoms all over. At the same time, the wooden man---the watcher---observed Alarick from where he placed himself: against the wall beside the hearth, head, limbs, and torso blending well into the woodwork, moving ever so slightly so as not to startle the mesmerized prince, who listened while staring at the fire.
He was an enticing creature, this lost prince. He was, in every bit, a mother's every best wish come true, which could only mean that his presence in the forest meant something darker at work---man-made, of course, for the forest had nothing to do with the prince's current fortunes beyond its borders. Indeed, it was simply there, a permanent fixture in the landscape, ready to welcome stray wanderers with shadowy, leafy arms.
This young man came to the cottage in bad shape, too. He'd been mistreated, mishandled, for reasons that could only mean a violent shift in power in the kingdom.
"The king's most likely dead," the wooden man said, but Alarick didn't hear him. Indeed, this watcher---this cursed melding of several souls, perhaps damned for past transgressions, all collected and held together by the restless ghost of one man who'd been buried in the forest with neither ceremony nor respect once upon a time---was destined never to be heard by mortals ears, for the cottage both sustained him and denied him, kept his blackened soul fixed to the world even well past its cruelest limits. Spread too thin, stretched past repair.
The wooden man closed wood grain eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the strong scent of youth, power, and beauty. It had been a long time since he'd absorbed such an essence. The taste of peasant blood, of misery, ignorance, cruelty born of crudeness and desperation, vices that turned any rational man's blood cold---those had been the wooden man's reality for too long. They'd left him burning in the worst way, aching for relief from the near-daily torments of past memories from dozens of wayward poor. Like a damned soul left to rot in chains and the damp, unlit chambers of underground crypts, he gnawed on the only sustenance that chance had tossed his way.
This, however, was a delightful surprise.
The watcher inhaled again, shuddering this time, his head jerking like a broken clockwork doll whose mechanism remained stuck at a certain point in its movements. No, he'd let this prince stay, stretch out the young man's days and feast hungrily on his dreams, his memories, and his mind, till nothing was left of Alarick but a shrunken, prematurely aged, and leathery corpse. Indeed, if the watcher were careful in his feeding, Alarick might still be allowed to leave the cottage alive.
Seven days were the usual limits the cottage itself had given him in the satiating of his perpetual hunger. Oh, what he'd give to keep the prince for twice as long, at least.
"I'll do that," he said. "I will."
\*
Back in the palace, the mad queen stood before her looking-glass. It was now cracked and filthy, the mirrored surface dulled with dirt and eternal shadows. But it still spoke to her, showed her things that kept her coming back in tearful desperation, as though returning to look at its hidden depths would somehow change the course of events.
She'd been brought back from exile, with her little cottage turned into a storage house---grain, herbs, oil, flour, and all other excess food supplies were kept there. Nothing was left of the cottage's furniture and decorative wall hangings, and no one knew where they all went, though rumor had it that they'd all been given away as tokens to peasants who'd helped topple the king. As to these items' final fate, well---some things would forever remain in shadow. Work was also now underway to make the gardens more accessible to everyone, with more torches, benches, and statuary being placed all over, bringing light to the once-secretive corners of Paradies and encouraging courtiers and wealthy visitors to enjoy the calming beauty of the trees at any time of the day. The lanes marking each square section of the pleasure garden would be widened a little more, ensuring even more light to brighten the area. Unfortunately for the rest of the kingdom, there was simply no guarantee that law and order would be assured if they were to be allowed access to the gardens, so even with the change of power in court, some details remained the same.
Back in the palace, Ulrike also become a living symbol of decadence gone wrong, which was the only reason why the court now kept her alive.
"Learn from history," chastened and frightened courtiers said whenever they spotted Ulrike wandering aimlessly through the glittering hallways. "Look at her and remember."
With the new ruler on the throne, the mad queen was shown some mercy, and returning her looking-glass to her was one measure of it. Besides, Ulrike had begged for it back, and they were forced to return it or be subjected to endless hours of her rambling hysterical outbursts and threats of murdering everyone in court with black magic.
"Keep her happy and entertained," the new king, a former young and ambitious minister named Ehren Fleischer, had said with a grave nod at Ulrike's surviving maids of honor.
"Best to keep her alive, at least," his ministers had said as well as they gathered in the great hall, all clad in new colors that represented the dawn of a new line of kings. Brilliant spring colors of the past had given way to richer, deeper, and more somber shades of autumn, and with the promise of a new and better government, the entire kingdom tiredly welcomed the change with endless hope in their hearts.
"Yes, keep her alive as a reminder of where we've been."
"She's a relic of the past---an important and useful one, but a relic all the same."
It would be to their credit, perhaps, that the new government refused to look into the cursed mirror, for like Lambrecht and his tainted bloodline, the sorcerer-king's mirror belonged to the past. Whether or not it continued to show its user a glimpse of the court's future wasn't the issue now. Indeed, Ehren scoffed at the thing, saying, "Let it predict successes and failures the way it always had. We've no need for a lifeless fortune-teller. All we have to do is to govern as best as we can, and Fortune will work with us or against us as she sees fit."
So day after day, Ulrike would crawl out of bed and creep toward the broken mirror, eyes wide and bulging, face pale, hair wild, clothes rumpled and a bit faded. Like a frightened little child, she'd tiptoe quietly toward the looking-glass, her body rigid with anticipation as jumbled slips of thoughts rattled around her shattered mind.
What would she see this time?
Swallowing, she planted herself before the looking-glass and forced herself to look. She was more compelled to do so despite her revulsion.
There was silence at first, save for her ragged breathing. Then her face slowly contorted, shadows dancing across the ravaged remains of youth and beauty. Her lips trembled as she struggled to form words, and her eyes blurred with gathering tears.
"Give him back to me!" she finally cried, reaching out and pressing thin hands against the cold glass. "Please let me have my child back!"
Then she wailed, her hands flying to her head and tearing at her hair. Sobbing and shrieking her pleas to spare her son, Ulrike paced in an agitated circle before the broken mirror, sometimes stopping in front of it to call out to her lost boy.
Before long, a couple of servants would burst into her room, calling out to her, begging her to quiet down before forcing her back to her bed. A third servant rushed in with that morning's brew, a special kind of sedative that was specifically formulated for the queen by one of the court's healers.
"My baby," Ulrike sobbed after being forced to swallow the wretched concoction. "Don't let him hurt my child. Please let me go to him."
"Ssshh, Love," the oldest and most loyal of her maids of honor whispered, herself distressed by her mistress's daily hysterics. "His Royal Highness will be safe. We'll see to it that no one lays a finger on him."
The queen sank back under the bedclothes and shook her head weakly despite all the reassuring words. Her vision blurred from the drink, and her words slurred, but the stuff worked its magic on her, and she slowly felt herself being pulled back down into the dark, calming waters of sleep.
"No, he's gone from here," she kept murmuring even as her servants whispered and stroked her hair. "He's alive, but he's in danger. Please help him. Please let me go to him. But---but not now. I'm so tired. So tired."
Her babbling soon turned into a string of incoherent words. Before long she was silent, the tears still streaking her cheeks while she slept. Her maids of honor stood around the bed in mournful silence. Then, reassured that their mistress wouldn't be up for another hour or so, they took their leave with a grave courtesy and then filed out in melancholy silence.
Everyone in the kingdom was told that the prince was dead---though the circumstances remained muddy and elusive. Many grieved for the loss, for the boy had shown great promise---far more than anyone had expected from someone coming from this bloodline. However, that Alarick came from such a bloodline was also cause enough to worry about the kind of ruler he'd become---that is, if a bastard would be allowed to inherit the throne. Madness was in his blood, obviously. Clearly tendencies toward the unspeakable vice of buggery. Perhaps he'd turn out to be a vast improvement from his parents. Perhaps he'd turn out to be worse than either his mother or father---or, rather, adoptive father, as many often corrected with a knowing smirk.
In the end, maybe it was to the kingdom's benefit that an entire family would be wiped out and the throne cleansed of their influence. History might very well prove Alarick to be a complete innocent and a virtuous king had he been allowed a chance to succeed Lambrecht, but for the moment, it was simply too late to do anything about it. The prince was gone, and that was the end of it.
Chapter Fourteen
"It's a perverted thing you're doing, Sister," Liebella said.
Kummerene walked a slow, idle circle around her altar, examining the more recent offerings left by despairing mortals.
"Perverted? You might as well accuse mortals of the same thing," she replied as she stopped before the carefully bundled clothes of an infant. She picked up the soft, clean pile and pressed it against her nose, inhaling deeply and devouring the scent of loss and grief. "These people, for instance, choose to wallow in the death of their baby."
She paused and inhaled again, this time fixing her attention sharply on subtler details about this specific family's story. Vague and ephemeral, misty images appeared in her mind. Birth and short-lived joy, with the mother cradling her precious bundle and smiling happily as she sang lullabies or simply held the sleeping baby against her chest. Then the loss, apparently an illness of some kind, and the grief-stricken parents moving blindly about for only the heavens knew how long.
Kummerene opened her eyes and turned to the two other goddesses standing nearby, watching her with varying degrees of disapproval. The older one, Weisheitta, appeared calmer, for nothing about her melancholy sister surprised her now. She was, of course, the wise one, and she could be rather irritating in the way she'd resort to lectures about "knowing better than that."
Liebella was the youngest of the three, and judging from the way her face shifted in color from red to pink and back, it was a very safe guess that she was furious despite all her efforts at masking her anger with a remarkably placid countenance.
"You aren't making any sense," Weisheitta said with exquisite objectivity. Then again, when was Kummerene ever guided by reason? "How can you compare what you're doing to that boy to what these poor people are going through?"
"It's called grief, Sister." Why, Weisheitta wasn't the only one who had the ability to be clever. "Loss. All of us have endured it in one way or another. Both of you have, in fact, have lost many favorites through the ages."
"Yes, but we endure, and move on and find new ones," Liebella retorted, scowling. "What you're doing to that boy---"
"Is the only guarantee I have that I no longer suffer future losses. Unlike you, I choose to take matters in my own hands to ensure my happiness, not allow Fate to take the upper-hand in all matters."
The two other goddesses blinked. "Happiness?" her younger sister noted. "I though it was your nature to be miserable."
Kummerene sighed and shook her head while turning her attention back to her altar, setting the bundle of baby clothes carefully back on it. "What would you know about nature?" she muttered, her gaze sweeping over the offerings. "You weren't born with this curse. While I can't fight Fortune, I at least have the ability to ease the poison of my existence---and I use that ability."
"And what makes you think that you know the nature of mortals?" Weisheitta broke in, her voice gentle in only that condescending way that she could be gentle toward anyone who wasn't driven by his or her intellect. "We aren't like them, you know. We never were, and we never will be. Why do you think our world and theirs exist but to complement each other?"
"I know their hearts well enough," Kummerene replied, glancing over her shoulder to smile at her sister, who merely raised a brow in answer. "Endless hours spent listening to their lamentations, their lonely prayers, their wishes for death, a second chance, or the return of what they'd lost---wisdom has nothing to what I've seen in their hearts." She then looked at Liebella. "And neither does love."
"It's useless arguing with you, but why are you punishing that boy for something he can't help?" Weisheitta asked. Her tone was sharper, and her words came out in quick, impatient bursts. She was finally angry---or at least she was finally showing signs of life.
"His father came to me, as you already know. He'd laid his son's very life at my feet---a bargain for his son's soul."
Liebella snorted. "And his glory in immortality. Yes, yes, we've heard all about it. You could have found a man who was better suited for your purpose. This boy has---had---someone. He loved and was loved back. It's not your right to take that away from him and claim that you know everything about a mortal's heart---and, yes, nature."
Kummerene smiled grimly. "You're too much of a romantic, but you can't help yourself. That, you see, is your curse, just as I have mine, and Weisheitta has hers." Kummerene paused and frowned at her older sister. "In her case, though, she'd likely call that a blessing, being unable to feel and to know nothing more than cold objectivity and reason."
For her part, Weisheitta merely rolled her eyes. Theatrics appalled her unless she happened to be in a good enough mood to weather it.
"Besides, I quite enjoy this challenge. He was brought to me with a mind already altered, and all I needed to do was erase the rest."
"Erase?" Liebella cut in with a look of derision. "Is it even within our power to do that in mortals?"
"His mind, though," Weisheitta said with some emphasis. "Not his heart."
"Or his will," Liebella appended with a softer but no less determined voice. Another thought had crossed her mind, but Liebella chose not to speak it, for it could influence her sister into actually thinking things over, reconsidering her methods, and actually resorting to more drastic and destructive ones. The boy's mind was altered, indeed, but only his memory. She'd watched him long enough, even created that marble statue and left it in his path to confirm her suspicions, and it did. His nature remained intact, and she knew---with a surge of vindictive joy---that it was only a matter of time before the superficial and cruel manipulations of his mind would be overcome.
Immortals had limitations. While it was well within their powers to toy around with mortals like hapless puppets, deeper human workings remained elusive to them. The heart, the soul, the very foundation of man's nature---those were mysteries to the gods, for all their manipulations. There'd been several attempts throughout history of the gods resorting to embarrassing means such as potions of every formula in order to alter mortal nature, but nothing had worked. In fact, all such attempts had led to unfortunate---if not tragic---consequences, the human targets paying dearly for the self-indulgent desires and wants of immortals. With every generation, less and less veneration for the gods were exhibited, and for good reason. Mortals, for all their shortcomings, had learned to question---had had enough.
Liebella, for her part, couldn't blame them one bit.
It was to immortals' benefit that they'd exercise prudence in the use of their advantage over mortals. How many fellow gods, despite what history taught them, had constantly shown her the consequences of rash, selfish actions that affected the side-by-side, mutually beneficial existence of immortals and their lesser counterparts? Too many, unfortunately, for immortals had gotten too set in their ways, had grown far too self-absorbed and childlike in their demands to know how to look beyond their limits.
Liebella's previous anger subsided to a satisfied calm. No, she wouldn't step in and fully immerse herself in this farce. Nature would take its intended and true course as it had always done since time immemorial despite what immortals desired.
"I'm not worried about it, Sister. Human nature is much more inconstant than you give it credit for. It can be reshaped properly, and I intend to have him for myself when the time comes. Whatever his past might be, he'll never go back to it." Kummerene chuckled lightly. "Besides, who'd say 'no' to a god and not be punished for his insolence? That boy, from what I've observed and sensed, is no fool. He knows what's good for him, and he'll take to his immortality well enough. Don't you think I made a good acquisition? He's a very handsome young man, and I daresay he'll make a most delightful and satisfying consort."
Her two sisters merely exchanged glances, with Liebella sighing. "I told you she's mad."
"Hmm. Perhaps," Weisheitta replied, eyeing their brooding sister with a thoughtful tilt of her head. "I wouldn't underestimate her, though I question her methods." She spoke with characteristic regal calm, which tended to unsettle Kummerene somewhat, for Kummerene couldn't help but wonder if Weisheitta knew something that she didn't. A glimpse into the future? No, for all her knowledge, Weisheitta was no fortune-teller, and she'd no powers that would allow her to see what had yet to transpire.
Still, Kummerene couldn't help but blurt out, "You know something, don't you?"
Weisheitta merely gave a placid, enigmatic smile and shrugged. "Absolutely not. I can deduce, however, and perhaps make intelligent guesses about the future, but I won't. It's trite and dull---something that lesser gods and even mortals might be fond of indulging in to pass the time with, but not I. There are far more important things for me to worry about than the future of your soon-to-be-consort."
"Her doll, you mean," Liebella said with a contemptuous snort, though she couldn't help but steal a narrow-eyed glance in Weisheitta's direction. She thought she caught a brief sparkle in her older sister's eyes, which usually meant a secret that Weisheitta refused to share.
She knows something, Liebella thought. She pretends not to care, but she does, and she knows more than we do.
Wisdom could be pretty damned infuriating at times.
Kummerene rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand at the two visitors. "You're both disrupting my shrine," she said with forced casualness. "I'll join you when I'm good and ready. I've got quite a few prayers and wishes to listen to still, and you're taking up too much of my time already."
The other two vanished without another word exchanged between them, and Kummerene sighed her relief. She walked past the massive columns of her shrine to stand on the top step of the magnificent marble structure. From where she stood, she could see the entire land, for her shrine was set atop a mountain, which could only be accessed on foot through a long, winding, narrow, and misty path. Loyal followers constantly braved that trail, endured the hardship of its long, arduous ascent in their pilgrimages, and old von Thiessen showed remarkable determination and grit. Desperation tended to do that, after all, and she was impressed with the way his ambitions had blinded him enough to easily offer up his own son to her pleasure if only to ensure that Roald stopped his habit of making love to another boy.
This boy---her future consort---this Roald fellow---was somewhere out there, mindless and absorbing what he could of the darker side of human nature. Kummerene didn't think to worry about him, for he was under her protection and couldn't be harmed by mortal means. She had every confidence in her methods despite her sisters' objections.
Indeed, the pain of private grief---exacerbated by the bitterness of immortal existence---should never be endured. Her sisters should understand that. They'd lost mortals lovers several times through the centuries, and yet there they were, willingly giving their hearts out to new heroes and willingly subjecting themselves to such unspeakable agony. They'd been resilient because they weren't her, born to be cloaked in an eternity of mourning, unable to find any respite from the heaviness that had been her lot and her curse. For too long, she'd bowed to the dictates of Fate, but not anymore.
No, she'd now learned to be more pragmatic than that. Give her one consort to stay at her side through eternity, and she'd never want for another mortal lover, never endure that crippling emptiness that could only come from love that was denied her in the cruelest way. As for that boy? Mortals were plentiful. They could spare one of their own easily enough. For every Roald von Thiessen, there'd surely be a dozen more like him being born all over the world. One couldn't say the same thing about immortals unless they were to turn a favorite into one of them, and it was a very, very rare thing that was done only in extreme circumstances.
Easing her heart for an eternity was a good enough reason for plucking one young mortal from countless others.
No, this Roald wouldn't be a loss in the grand scheme of things.
"Besides," she appended with a little smile, "I have his father's blessing."
The sound of voices and footsteps crunching grass and earth drew her attention back to her shrine, and she turned in time to catch sight of the silhouettes of dusty and exhausted pilgrims breaking through the mists of her lonely mountaintop. Without hesitation, she vanished before she could be seen, that too-familiar weight of another mortal's grief finding her soul and her heart just as she faded. With a trembling intake of breath, she inhaled the coming wave of sadness that was about to be unburdened upon her altar.
\*
Von Thiessen went about his daily business with a mind reassured and a spirit feeling much lighter than it had been since---well, since Roald had crossed paths with Alarick, that is.
And with that newly acquired confidence and pride, he couldn't help but talk too much about his desperate pilgrimage to the goddess's shrine. He especially couldn't help but talk about the fact that Kummerene herself had heard his prayers and had been moved enough to show herself to him.
"I've been chosen," he said with a broad smile, while his listeners stared and listened in wonder and disbelief. "Roald's been chosen. For so long, I've dreamt of seeing him cured and properly married to a girl I myself would have hand-picked for him. There's been a small change in plans, however."
"Immortal, you say?" one of his old friends said, his crusty brows wrinkled in amazement. "Young Roald's to become an immortal?"
"A small change in plans, indeed," another echoed in no less awe.
Von Thiessen nodded, his chest puffing out in ever-increasing pride. "Yes, I couldn't have chosen a better bride."
"Lucky bastard."
And for the next several days, von Thiessen would enjoy listening to the excited and spirited discussions around him regarding Roald's unexpected and most welcome destiny. Some aristocrats seethed in jealousy as they eyed their own children, taking careful note of their sons' and daughters' shortcomings and wondering what kinds of bargains needed to be made with the gods for their families' glory.
Before long, a small number of young lords and ladies began to complain about their parents' sudden and unfair criticisms of their conduct, with some of them showing bruises and injuries inflicted on their persons by unreasonably irate fathers just because they fell short of certain standards that before were never addressed.
When a handful of silly aristocrats packed some clothes for their own pilgrimages, their unhappy children gathered their own belongings and vanished from court with a faithful servant or two in tow. They were never seen or heard from again, their lives fading into vague rumors shared among the bored, who'd claimed to have heard from foreign wanderers that young men or ladies fitting those missing youths' descriptions had been spotted traveling through strange kingdoms across the sea.
Old and wise men watched the absurd theatre unfold with a tired shaking of grizzled heads. "Apparently," they noted with an emphatic nod in the direction of those aristocratic bullying parents, "stupidity isn't limited to the ignorant and starving poor."
As for von Thiessen, he turned into a most vocal proponent of the modification of wayward children's behavior. "Only the gods can help!" he often said with an insistence and a wildness in his eyes that more and more people thought to be a madness once dormant but had now breached the dam. "Humble yourself before them, and they'll listen to your prayers."
With a jolt of excessive pride, he realized that before long, everyone would be raising their prayers to Roald, who, as Kummerene's immortal consort, could very well take on the much-honored role of intercessor, too. It was too much for the old man's devout heart to take, and it was all he could do to sink to his knees in the middle of company---startling everyone around him---and thank the remarkable goddess for her generosity with an upturned and tear-streaked face as he spread his arms out at his sides.
\*
It was with growing mortification that Roald continued his travels in faded and frayed clothes. He wished that he'd at least been given something proper to wear or at the very least some means of acquiring a new set of clothes without breaking any laws, but the goddess seemed to see nothing of importance in the thought of preparing her soon-to-be-eternal-consort for travel and for appearing before strangers.
Perhaps it was nothing more than plain pride that made Roald grimace in shame as he gazed down at himself and took in the pitiful sight of near rags covering his body. "No, it's self-respect," he muttered, frowning now as he shook his head. Well, some things weren't so easily forgotten or taken away by an immortal's hand.
Then again, since he couldn't communicate with anyone but Nature, though he could still hear himself speak---an odd spell cast on him by the goddess, to be sure---perhaps it was for the best that he looked no different from a peasant. If he were to learn more about the deeper and darker workings of the human heart by being practically invisible, surely he could also use that to find those answers to all his questions about his past.
"And perhaps Alarick," he appended.
After watching the flow of travelers through the intersecting roads before him, Roald allowed himself a bit of time eating fruit he'd gathered in a nearby wooded area. It was all he could do, really, to devour as many as he could find, for the lack of meat and the means to hunt for small game for his daily sustenance was taking its toll on him. The heavens only knew how he looked to other people---most likely no more than a sunburned and gaunt shadow of himself, who'd once been...
Roald's thoughts froze, his breath hitching. There it was again---that unexpected flaring up of misty images that had long been imprinted in his mind. Images of himself. Reflections in mirrors and bodies of water. He was an aristocrat, and he lived in court.
"Surely Alarick lived in court as well."
And there was another revelation. What he said was the truth, Roald was sure, for the feelings unexpectedly roused by those seven words were warm, reassuring, and above all, triumphant and joyful, their intensity taking his breath away. Another misty image surged weakly, following this revelation and those other brief, vague bursts of his own reflected visage in water and glass.
This time, it was a reflection of his face in the green depths of someone's eyes. The distance between him and the owner of those eyes was close enough for him to see himself in a pair of eyes that steadily darkened in pleasure. No, Roald didn't see all that in that too-brief moment---didn't catch any sharpness or clarity of his reflection or even the precise shade and shape of those eyes' owner. Instead, he felt all those recollections, for those experiences had clearly ingrained themselves not only in his mind, but his heart and his soul. A mere vague suggestion of a private, tender moment in his past was enough to give those smoldering embers the much-needed puff of air.
One of Roald's hands flew to his chest, gently rubbing it to help relieve the sudden tightness that crushed it, but he grinned in tearful disbelief. He'd just found his first mark, apparently, and his spirits soared at the small victory.
Swept up and away by the exhilaration of realizing that he'd loved and had been loved---and, perhaps, continued to love and be loved despite this strange and frightening separation as well as the dismaying future that now awaited him---Roald closed his eyes and whispered a prayer for Alarick's safety.
Let me find my way back to him, he thought. Green eyes aside, he still had yet to recall everything about Alarick, but the other young man---yes, Alarick was young, wasn't he?---remained elusive.
"Only for now," Roald murmured as he blinked his eyes open, his jubilation giving way to steeled determination. And as for the goddess and her mad quest? Roald still needed to come up with a solid plan for dealing with her. But perhaps his adventures in the first city or town whose borders he was about to cross might help jar his memory further. He only hoped that, by the time he'd gone back to his old self, things wouldn't be too late for both him and Alarick.
Abandoning his temporary haven from the sun after resting from a full but unsatisfactory meal, Roald hurried back to the hill where he'd stood, observing the roads and forming plans. It was time to rejoin humanity.
\*
Within an hour, Roald found himself walking through the outskirts of a city, one that bustled with surprising activity, considering its location, which appeared to be cut off from the rest of the world by endless stretches of dusty roads, plains, hills, and mountains. People either ran or walked briskly to and fro, many of them chattering eagerly about a much-anticipated wedding or something more mundane such as that evening's dinner or the weekend's gathering of relatives. Roald couldn't speak to any of them, so he contented himself with listening instead, taking in what he could as he searched for much more than what it was the goddess had charged him to find.
The houses in that area, for the most part, were decrepit cottages in various states of disrepair. All made with stone and dried mud, the roofs thatched, with the doors and windows barely sealed with weathered and worm-eaten wood. Here and there, wide-eyed faces of underfed children peered out of the windows, the light in their eyes a mix of innocent wonder, fear, and desperation. Roald spotted a handful of those little faces wearing the scars of disease or even a cruel beating.
Here and there, as though to break up the dreary monotony of poverty and need, an occasional luxurious structure loomed above the stone cottages. They certainly didn't look like mansions, but they were still great houses that either soared to the sky with three floors and a more compact width, or they kept to two floors but expanded greatly on all sides, eating up as much ground as they possibly could. Compared to their poorer neighbors, these houses were made of old, sturdy stone cloaked with ivy. The windows had glass casements set in lovely metalwork and were protected by wooden shutters of remarkable craftsmanship. Indeed, one could catch so many intricate carvings on those shutters flanking crystal-clear windows on the ground floor. The front doors were no less beautiful, with the wood so polished that it gleamed in the sun. Any signs of age or weathering only added to the houses' venerable appearance, not take away from it.
Roald couldn't help but pause in front of such a structure, whose immediate neighbors were little cottages that seemed to be rotting on their foundations. It was a mix of wildly diverging images that was both unusual and cruel.
"Are these houses here to remind people of their place? To mock others' misfortunes and elevate their own lives?"
As though to answer his question, an occasional liveried servant would appear, walking around the great house from the rear. Sent out on an errand, he or she wouldn't even acknowledge any of the humbler passersby with so much as a nod. The gaze would be fixed ahead, the chin lifted in a show of great pride, the bearing straight and proud, the pace of the walk brisk, steady, and purposeful. The poorer folks, behaving as they'd long been taught through years of deprivation and ill-luck, easily moved their tired and bent figures out of the way, their own gazes falling to the ground as those impressive servants swept past them.
The people from the cottages looked weathered and drawn, the cares of the world and the shock of the recent war weighing heavily on them. But they carried on regardless, and Roald followed them down one of the larger dirt roads that led him to another part of the city's outskirts, where an open-air market was set up.
He walked through the sprawling collection of booths, marveling at the offerings every single one had. He declined temptation with a grave shaking of the head whenever a merchant planted him or herself before him, brandishing goods with honeyed words that promised the stars if he were to purchase the items. Sometimes merchants called out to him from behind their display tables, waving and even singing.
The air was filled with voices and the smell of wood, paint, freshly-baked bread, and flowers. The modest blandness of every booth's discolored canvas canopy and unpainted tables was easily overcome by the dazzling array of colors of merchandise that were as varied as they were plentiful. Handmade toys, clothes, pottery, fruit, vegetables, pastries, among others---all fought for attention, and while Roald was easily taken in by the lively yet humble charm of his surroundings, he also ended up developing a bit of a headache from so much visual and auditory noise.
The market was set up in an area that appeared to have the sparsest collection of trees, and many vendors chose to set up their booths under the largest and shadiest trees, which added to the unique magic of the place.
Roald at length came upon a booth that stood under an aged elm. It was piled high with flowers, which were tended by a vivacious young man who smoothly tried to ensnare his customers with sweet words that disguised a sharp wit. It was rather difficult to guess his age, for poverty made him appear younger than he perhaps was. Pale, thin, with faint shadows under his eyes, he went about in faded clothes with his jacket looking a little too small for him. For all those, however, his spirits remained high, though Roald suspected it was because he simply had no other choice.
"Cast a spell on your house with flowers touched by fairy magic!" the young merchant called out, bowing at the waist with an exaggerated flourish, one arm raised and extended, a cluster of brilliantly colored flowers in his hand. When he received no response, he walked a few steps in another direction and cried, "Enchantment by the dozen! How can you not be bewitched by these prices?"
"Who is he?" Roald asked the venerable old elm under whose branches the booth had been set up.
"No one of any significance," the tree rumbled gently in reply. "A mortal with no family, no connections save for one, and no real future but the sale of flowers from his garden."
The bright-eyed merchant moved around, calling out and greeting people as they walked by, his grin broad and irrepressible. But no one came, and Roald watched as people walked past the booth, the look of grim determination on their faces showing a deliberate snubbing. Many of them, furthermore, walked in a wide arc past the vendor's table as though terrified of catching something if they were to pass too close to it. An occasional scowl would be thrown in the merchant's way as well, and a child even flung a half-eaten apple at him, and his parents didn't once lift a finger to stop the assault.
The vendor expertly dodged the projectile, which was easily caught by another young man who appeared to be working with him and was simply hovering in the shadow of the tree. He walked up to his startled partner and spoke a few quiet words, gently rubbing the latter's shoulders in a gesture of reassurance and comfort.
"Who is he?"
"No one of any significance and the cause of the trouble you've seen and will see."
"What did he do?"
"Defied his family and followed his heart," the tree continued. "Once wealthy, now disowned and disgraced, shunned by kin and friend alike."
Roald glanced around to watch the people as they continued to dodge the table. "I see that everyone seems to know their story."
"Human nature, plain as day. Who's never sat before the hearth and enjoyed a good gossip or two?" the elm replied, now sounding bemused.
Gossip...again, that strange jolt.
Roald frowned, his head bowing as he held his breath, his aching head now struggling with another lost memory. Gossip, yes---he'd been involved in that, and so was Alarick. Of that he was sure, but as to the nature of such gossip beyond what he could only refer to as "the obvious cause of scurrilous talk among the idle," he didn't know. At least not yet. Perhaps it had more to do with him, or it had more to do with Alarick.
And with that thought, another came to the fore, startling him with its grim possibilities.
Perhaps it had something or everything to do with his current predicament---the loss of his memory, his separation from home, family, friends, and even Alarick, and that goddess's claim of ownership of him.
Bewildered by all this, this new puzzle piece compounding his headache some more, Roald remained standing where he was, resolute in his drive to see more---learn more. Even though many did nothing to hide their disgust with the flower vendors, he eventually discovered that some of the people who (he at first thought) were snubbing the couple were walking past the booth not out of spite but rather out of necessity, their steps being hurried as they bent their thoughts on carrying on with their errands. A few granted the vendors the courtesy of an apologetic smile, a brief greeting, or a sheepish excuse for their inability to purchase that day's offerings. They might have been fleeting at best, but they were certainly there. And those who seemed to be burdened the most with true, deep-seated revulsion toward the pair tended to be the most demonstrative of their bitterness and therefore the ones who were the most noticed.
Happily, even though the numbers were painfully few, there were those who stopped at the table and purchased some flowers without a moment's hesitation.
There was comfort there, yes, and Roald turned his attention back to the pair---watched the small, subtle gestures of reciprocated affection, reassurance, and acceptance. A hand momentarily clasping another, a slight smile offered, a vague dimming of the eyes in resignation. He felt a dull twisting in his chest and thought that easing himself of that bout of pain meant that he needed to approach the two outcast lovers and offer them some gesture of friendship.
I know who you are. I know how it feels.
He also knew, however, that he couldn't. Not only did he not have any money with which to purchase anything from their booth, he was literally speechless and wouldn't know how best to communicate with them. That confounded goddess had shut him out, rendered him completely incapable of forging any connection in the world of men. To what extent it was supposed to aid him in the task she'd given him, Roald had yet to find out, but he also couldn't help but wonder if this was her way of forcing him into an existence that was solely hers: isolation and loneliness.
Anger spiked through Roald. "It might be so with her, but not with me," he ground out. He thought the old elm said something, but what it was had been drowned out not only by the cacophony of sounds that pervaded the marketplace, but also the chill that now filled Roald's immediate world and gave rise to a subtle but insistent feeling of dread.
Who led her to me? Why?
Frustration mounting, it was all he could do to stand by in silence and watch the minutes crawl past while the pair of outcast lovers plied their trade, seeing very little in return for their pains. A pity, indeed, that Roald couldn't even show either support or sympathy. At the very least...
"May I know their names instead?" he asked, and the elm shifted its branches as though shielding the two.
"Hamlin is the disgraced one, and Wilmar is his undoing. That's what mortals say of them, and I'm quoting the kindest things that have been passed around regarding those two. You've seen enough, young man, and I hope you've learned a lesson. Go on and serve your mistress, and you'll be rewarded handsomely."
Roald turned away and walked back to the glade, where he felt he could rest and mull things over and perhaps share his adventures thus far with his new friend, strange however it might be. Along the way, he'd managed to be the lucky recipient of a loaf of bread that had tumbled out of a woman's overstuffed basket. With the market being so busy, Roald was quick to snatch up the unexpected prize, thievery be damned. Necessity dictated a momentary dive into minor unlawfulness, and as Roald hurried off with his prize, an overwhelming feeling of empathy for the desperate poor seized him even though his own circumstances had yet to reach such terrible levels. Guilt-ridden and heavy-hearted, he went about gathering more fresh fruit to supplement his bread before finally making his way back to the marble statue's side.
Chapter Fifteen
In the meantime, Alarick had slowly adjusted to his strange situation. Mysterious magic now drowned him in rich wine and exquisite dishes, velvet and lace and silk. Whenever he felt restless, he was urged to sit before the brightly-lit hearth and to listen to the cottage whisper some stories for his entertainment.
"Curious," he noted once, unable to hold back a smile. "I feel like being a child all over again."
Until he was of age, the creaking wood and wind-rattled windows seemed to say, he was still little more than a child.
"I'm eighteen!" Alarick said, bemused. "I've been to the battlefield. I've watched friends and comrades die. I've got scars from it all."
Out there, perhaps, but not in the forest and not in the cottage. As such, there was no such thing as adult urges, curious experiments with another, an unnatural understanding of how one's body and instincts truly worked. Within the shadows of ageless trees and enchanted, meandering paths, a young man was protected against the world---and against himself. He was stripped of his self, and he was back to being a shapeless mound of clay, ready to be worked on. He was little more than a child---a baby.
The cottage took to spoiling him excessively, and after a couple of days of this, Alarick had grown a little more content with where he was, though he found the cottage's need to treat him like a little boy a source of never-ending amusement. At the same time, he reminded himself to remain on his guard, for his dreams had become more and more puzzling and terrifying, with all his earlier hopes and beliefs being torn apart and redefined in the most horrifying ways.
He often found himself waking up in the dead of night, the remnants of a terrible dream releasing their hold on his mind till he could barely remember if he'd truly dreamt at all.
"No, I'm not a child," he whispered, skin drenched in sweat, heart thundering in his chest, residual fear and confusion fluttering like torn curtains in the breeze, their threads dissolving till nothing was left but restless phantoms in his mind.
So what really is your purpose? Alarick immediately wondered, pressing shaking and damp hands against his face. What do you want from me? Within moments he was once again asleep.
When he awoke in the morning, he felt exhausted, as though he'd never slept at all, and he was sometimes disoriented for several moments, with the cottage telling him that he was a handsome young prince who needed to find the right princess to rescue, to love, and to marry. But every time the cottage tickled his ears with fantastic images of heroic adventures and romance, his mind and heart rebelled against those whispers, and they'd claw their way back to the present with reminders of Roald till the cottage's voices faded into silence. Along with those voices went the shadows of Alarick's dreams, so that by the time he'd washed and seated himself down for breakfast, he couldn't remember anything about his dreams beyond the lingering sensations of vague, unsettling fear.
"You poor lost little boy," the cottage said as he ate his breakfast, fighting the urge to squirm in his chair from a gnawing discomfort. "Let us take care of you. Here's another story of heroism and virtue..."
And Alarick was treated---if one were to call it that---to another nursery tale involving imprisoned princesses or less aristocratic but equally beautiful girls, and this time, Alarick stood in the place of every gallant hero in those stories.
"My story unfolds differently," he said, only to be cut off by condescending laughter.
"Only within the charmed shelter of palace walls," the cottage replied. "Beyond those, the world works differently, and you're expected to give up the comforts of childish fantasies. In the real world, princes rescue princesses, not other princes."
"Aren't your stories childish fantasies as well?"
"Look beneath the surface, Your Highness, and you'll find them to be very much a reflection of adult concerns, obligations, or at the very least, expectations. You've been spoiled excessively for too long. What you were able to get away with within those sheltering walls no longer works. It's high time for you to learn harsher lessons for your own good."
It took Alarick those couple of days (were they really only two days---no, three or four?) to discover the cottage's purpose, and it took him all he had to keep himself from breathing a word of his outrage and dismay. Schooling himself to show nothing but curiosity and naïve good humor was growing more and more difficult, and he was beginning to feel the effects on his health---if not his mind.
This cottage is trying to change me or destroy me.
Somehow, he realized, both of those were one and the same.
And if he didn't find a way to escape, he'd surely be driven mad, if not be hammered into subservience and forced into a nature that was never his to begin with. Every so often, Alarick would walk to the door and observe it, his eyes taking in as many minute details as they possibly could in hopes of seeing weaknesses in the door's magical structure. He found none. When he tried to do the same with the windows, he found them to be just as they were the first time he saw those wooden arms and fingers crawl across the glass panes to secure them against any forced movement from within and without.
The wooden man kept his vigilant watch over the lad, shaking his head at Alarick's none-too-subtle attempts at searching for a way out. The prince had steadily fed him his dreams, and the dawn hours arrived with the wooden man feeling sated yet hungry for more, trembling amid the wood grain as he stared at the stirring figure in the bed. The addiction to this boy's hopes and desires had grown to unbearable levels, and it had only been two days so far. Or had it been three or four? This lost prince was making it more and more difficult for the watcher to keep track of time.
Alarick was often startled by the occasional creaking and groaning of old, weathered wood throughout the cottage, but those were sounds that had nothing to do with a shifting foundation or effects of moisture or changing temperatures on the wood. Had he stopped to look very, very carefully at the shadows cast on the walls around him, he'd surely have seen the watcher struggling against himself and his consuming desire to devour more of the prince's dreams.
He reached out whenever Alarick stood close enough with his back turned to the wall, the wooden man's fingers trembling as they tried to touch the young man's dark hair. Hunger and eagerness, along with the strain of pulling away from the walls that imprisoned him, were what made the cottage creak, the wood panels groan. The rancid taste of peasant fantasies and hopes had been replaced by the vibrant colors of the privileged, but there was also a certain passion seeping through Alarick's dreams that gave them a decidedly sweeter, more intoxicating flavor.
Alarick was offering him something different---something unnatural yet titillating by virtue of its subversion. The prince's dreams, all of which were tightly laced with his hopes and the deeper intricacies of his heart, offered the wooden man a most remarkable glimpse into a wholly different world of color and beauty despite its obvious and complete divergence from the commonplace and accepted. And to be fully fed Alarick's life force meant coaxing an occasional surge of those deep-seated emotions and preferences by twisting the prince's dreams into scenes of the commonplace.
Indeed, how else could one expect to enjoy a most gratifying display of a young man's passion for another but through challenging his attachment and replacing his male beloved with another---each time a female? Oh, the anger! The confusion! The outrage and fierce protectiveness! When Alarick reacted with those in his dreams, the force of his emotions was astounding and more than satisfying to a creature who'd long forgotten how it felt to be human.
Were the startling effects also nothing more than stirred memories from a life long buried in the past? The wooden man couldn't say for sure, but Alarick resurrected a good number of broken but vivid images that couldn't be understood, let alone identified. Figures in fine robes, brilliant pennants, gilt-edged rooms, shadows moving inside mirrors, images of frightened faces watching him before their mouths opened in screams of horror---like mosaic that didn't quite complete a picture, they flashed across the wooden man's eyes, teasing and taunting him with mysteries of his own past. What did they mean, exactly? He certainly couldn't tell, but they offered sweet associations. Like the most delectable wine, leaving a potent and lingering taste in his ageless mouth. Power and beauty and lust for life---all devoured and absorbed and then subverted in the name of virtue. The wooden man shuddered amid the panels, his phantom shape blending with the grain. He couldn't wait for the evening to come for his feast.
\*
In the meantime, Alarick observed the table setting. Each day passed with each setting shedding its charmed exterior and transforming into dull, battered tin. Mornings always led him to that discovery, and he was urged to eat from that setting during breakfast and lunch.
When evening came, however, that table setting had vanished, leaving nothing on the table except its corresponding chair---which had turned into dark, rotting wood---and Alarick was obliged to enjoy his dinner using the next available plate, bowl, and goblet as dictated by the cottage. His meals varied greatly, and they all spoiled him with their rich flavor and more than sufficient quantities.
And I'm sure that these dishes shape my dreams, he thought as he dutifully finished his current meal.
He'd just enjoyed a most delightful plate of roasted game and vegetables, consumed from the crystal set. Like the previous meals, this one was further enhanced by the nature of the table setting from which he'd eaten.
While Alarick savored his food, he was also surprised and pleased by the clear, sweet tinkling sound that constantly came from of the plate, bowl, and goblet at the slightest touch. The wine being a remarkably rich one, Alarick eventually found himself a bit fuzzy-headed and silly, and at the conclusion of the meal he thought it a rather clever thing to toy with the dishes by tapping them with his fingers and listening to the music he was creating till the cottage said, "Not very becoming behavior at all from a prince, Your Highness."
"You've yet to see me at my worst," he replied, his words slightly slurred.
"We're fortunate, then." Did enchanted cottages huff? This one did, and it was all Alarick could do to smother a very amused and unflattering outburst.
By the gods, if only Roald were here.
"The hour's getting late, Your Highness," the cottage noted with a bit of impatience edging its words. There it was, huffing again.
Alarick snickered and weakly tried to blink away the effects of his drink, but he eventually had to leave the table in order to relieve himself at the hearth, which was set to be lit by the cottage once he'd finished doing his business.
"Seeing as how I can't enjoy myself with more wine," he said as he stumbled away from the raging fire that had suddenly appeared and took his place on the floor before the hearth, "I'd be obliged if you were to lull me to sleep with more of your damned stories."
"Well, that's gratitude for you."
Alarick grinned, his eyes glazed and his complexion flushed as he stared at the fire. "It's my pleasure. Please don't let me stop you. Carry on, carry on."
And the cottage carried on, spinning more tales that barely sank into the prince's consciousness.
\*
Back in the palace, Ulrike sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the dying fire in the hearth. Her servants would be appearing soon enough to get her ready for bed, but in the meantime, she simply sat there, struggling with the broken mechanism of her mind.
"If no one wants to help then I must go to him," she muttered repeatedly, running both hands along her lap from the junction of her thighs and her hips down to her knees. "I must see him. He needs me."
She could feel her dead sister watching her silently from one of the darkest corner of her chamber. It was just too bad that she couldn't quite sense the dead princess's feelings, let alone thoughts. Well, let the dead watch her. She was the queen, after all, and she didn't need anyone's pity, whether or not it came from the grave. She could take care of herself, and above all, she could take care of her only child.
Ulrike stole occasional furtive glances in the direction of the broken looking-glass, which also stood in a lonely and shadowy part of her room. Like her dead sister, the mirror appeared to watch her in grim silence---waiting for her next move, almost.
"No, no, no, no," she whispered fiercely, shaking her head now, though the rhythmic movements of her hands along her lap continued. "No, no, you don't frighten me. Oh, no, you've tried to own me, and you almost succeeded. You'll never own him. You won't, and I won't let you. No, no, no, no, no..."
She looked down on her hands as they turned, palms up, and with every scrap of her shredded will, she fought against the darkness in her mind and bent as much thought as she could on her hands.
"I have control over it, haven't I?" she whispered, frowning. "I know what I'm doing. That's the key---control. You don't understand, do you, Amara?" She started humming softly, tilting her head to the side when her hands gave off a faint glow. "You don't frighten me, and you won't own him. No. A thousand times, no."
She hummed again, blinking and smiling as her hands gently pulsed, long-dormant powers rousing in slow waves. With a sudden giggling fit, Ulrike turned her hands over and resumed the rhythmic running of her hands along her thighs. "No, no, no, no..."
A soft knock on her door interrupted her chanting, and in seconds, the dimly lit and silent room was alive with cheerful voices and movements as the queen's servants swept inside and fussed over her, getting her ready for bed. One of them brought more wood for the fire, for the night was very chilly outside.
Ulrike didn't seem to mind them, though, for her thoughts were far away, searching the moonlit land for her lost son, regret and guilt and profound, unspeakable despair guiding her phantom way, only to stop at the outer trees of the cursed forest.
"No, no, no, no," she whispered now, shaking her head, her face distorting in terror, even as her servants guided her gently out of her gown and hoops and into her nightdress. "You can't have him. You can't, you can't, you can't...I won't let you, you demon. No, no, no, no, no..."
Her servants helped her crawl under the blankets, and before long Ulrike was alone in her chamber, staring at the black ceiling and shaking her head, with nothing else for company but the broken looking-glass and the silent specter of her dead sister.
"I'll come for you, my darling," she murmured, her words dissolving into the night. She wished that she'd at least a doll, which she could hold against her like an infant.
\*
When night fell, the cottage commanded a tipsy Alarick to sleep in the crystal bed, which he did with some difficulty. The mattress, the pillow, and the blankets are made entirely of countless tiny bits of crystal pieced together to mimic cloth. They sparkled in the glow of candlelight like little stars though they might be too harsh on a body long used to the luxury of feather cushions and silk sheets.
Then again, Alarick didn't have much of a choice. The cottage had said so, and besides, the previous bed in which he'd slept had already echoed its partner at the dinner table, the wooden frame turning into a decrepit shell, the blankets and pillows dissolving into filthy, tattered piles of old cloth. Looking at the remains of what used to be a beautiful bed turned Alarick's stomach, for he swore that he could hear the progression of decay, and he most certainly could smell it.
But the moment the prince's head settled on the pillow of his new bed, Alarick immediately sank into sleep, only to blink his eyes open and find himself sitting in the middle of a round crystal chamber.
He looked around curiously and found that the little cell was equipped with only a window, and there he walked, shivering at the sound of a thousand tiny bells created by his shoes clicking against the crystal floor. He leaned out the window and gazed at the countryside beyond, marveling at the sight and wondering what he was doing stuck in a tower prison.
"It's because your mother was a gluttonous, beastly thing who forced your father to strike a bargain with a witch---all for a pitiful head of lettuce," a voice called out from below as though the speaker were reading his mind.
The prince looked down and spotted a young man sitting astride a magnificent white stallion, his face turned up and his eyes fixed coldly on him. A lifeless smile curled pale lips as the figure---a knight from centuries past, judging from his armor---watched him with grim satisfaction. He'd tucked his helm under his arm, while his other hand idly flicked a long, slender rod tipped with blood. Sunlight was caught in the thick mane of gold hair that tumbled past his shoulders, and if it weren't for his air of icy malevolence, he could easily be mistaken for a hero of legend.
"Are you here to help me get out of this tower? How on earth did I get up here?" Alarick called out, feeling somewhat ridiculous that he'd be placed in this position, seeing as how he wasn't a girl. His question earned himself a moment of incredulous laughter.
"Most certainly not! Why on earth would you ask that of your own keeper? Stray beyond those walls, and I'll show no mercy!"
The words rankled, and Alarick's blood boiled. "How dare you! You have no right to hurt me! Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, I do know you, you little ninny, and as for hurting you---I just have. See for yourself." The knight, grinning, waved the rod he held in a graceful arc, the blood glinting in the sunlight.
Alarick felt a sudden stab of pain in his hands, and he looked down to find his palms red and bleeding, the skin broken where it had been struck violently with something long and slender.
"How did you do this?"
The knight merely watched him, clearly enjoying his role.
"What am I doing here? Why am I being punished for something I haven't done?" What was this man's problem, anyway? A false sense of importance? He was only a damned knight, not a nobleman. No, he was clearly a bully, taking pleasure in harassing someone younger who was also forced into a state of helplessness. Regarding the latter point, of course, Alarick couldn't help but cringe. He wasn't a girl, blast them all, and he wished that whoever---or whatever---was responsible for his imprisonment would understand that very significant point. He'd been to war, he'd triumphed in the battlefield. He was nowhere near a coddled little pet who needed rescuing, and by the gods, if he had his sword with him, he'd have wielded it with far less mercy than this cocky knight boasted.
"Because you really can't choose your parents, and---well---you can't expect fortune to be agreeable all the time, can you? Now be a good boy and stop exhibiting yourself at the window like a common slut for the rest of the world to see---and finish your lunch before the witch returns."
"Lunch? What lunch?"
"Look behind you, you idiot."
Bewildered, Alarick turned around and found crystal lettuce heads awaiting his pleasure in a neat pile in the center of the cell. Had his father---which father, indeed? the chorus of whispers tittered around him---gathered them for him? Were they there as a token of his parents' guilt? Or were they for his mother, who was most likely tearing away at these things at her own table, gorging herself like a wilderness beast till she exploded?
After a moment's hesitation, he picked one up and was treated to more sweet, bell-like sounds as he handled it. Music-like, they made him think of lullabies. His childhood friends. His nurse. Yes, his nurse---the only person who'd genuinely cared for him all those years ago. Where was she now? Oh, yes, dead. Some wretched disease took her well before her time, he remembered. She was never replaced by another living nurse (for Amara had also established herself as that woman's otherworldly complement), and Alarick was immediately put in the care of his first tutor. An honorable and wise old man, to be sure, but he was certainly no nurse, and his nurturing might have done wonders for Alarick's mind, but it left much to be desired emotionally. Those were the years before Roald's entry into his life. Those were quiet, empty hours for the prince.
And, yes, there was Amara. His long-dead aunt who'd looked after him through the years, a ghostly friend whose presence had become synonymous with tragedy and loss and dreams forever unfulfilled, all sacrificed for...
For what? Amara had never told Alarick why she was condemned to die. She'd hinted at being accused of treason only because she dared to speak her mind, and for all of Alarick's efforts at squeezing the complete truth from her, it appeared that Death was too powerful a force with which to contend, and she'd managed to dodge his inquiries with clever equivocation after clever equivocation.
But he'd loved her all the same, feeling a strange bond with a specter, for in many ways, he felt deep down that Amara's story and his had a lot more in common than what could be seen on the surface.
Alarick blinked away the gathering haze before his eyes before the mist grew too thick for him to control. He stared at the crystal head of lettuce in hands. What was he supposed to do with this thing, anyway? Before he realized what he was doing, he was waist-deep in lettuce heads, his hands flying with incredible speed over them, his fingers touching crystalline surfaces and creating their brand of discordant magic while he forced painful memories out of his mind. This was an odd distraction, one that made him wonder if it were meant to turn him into a child all over again.
It didn't matter. He needed the distraction. He didn't want to experience the pain of loss all over again. Gritting his teeth and blinking away hot tears, he tossed a few in the air like toy balls; he rolled others across the floor. A couple of them broke when they accidentally struck the wall, exploding in a thousand brilliant shards that dissolved when touched by the sunlight. But that didn't matter to him. He reveled in sound and sought to be further seduced by his senses as the loneliness of his childhood got scratched from his mind bit by bit.
"Do I have to repeat myself?"
Alarick, sweat-drenched and panting, whirled around and found the knight standing by the window, regarding him with icy rage. The knight snapped his wrist and tapped the bloody rod against his armored leg. At his feet lay a tangled coil of golden braided hair, which he'd used as a ladder to get to the tower cell. A red silk ribbon was woven through the plait---which only ground home the unsettling thought that this long rope of hair once belonged to someone, and heaven only knew what fate had befallen the hapless girl.
The knight, once again reading his mind, moved toward him with a derisive smirk. "The girl? Gone, I'm afraid," he said. "The witch cut her hair before pushing her out the window after her lover. Serves her right for luring wandering princes like the presumptuous whore that she was."
Alarick stepped back then realized that something---someone?---had just pressed something hard and cold against the palm of his right hand, and he glanced down to find his sword there. It shone brilliantly, its polished surface reflecting his startled face, but Alarick thought little about the enchantment that was at work. He glanced up, holding the sword firmly as he prepared to defend himself. The white knight's steps didn't falter, and the cold smile broadened.
He raised his arm, and the rod whistled viciously just as Alarick lunged forward with a cry, thrusting the sword straight into the knight's abdomen.
Alarick sat up in his crystal bed, wide-eyed, damp with sweat, and breathing heavily. What was that all about? Was that a dream? It felt too real. Too real. His head throbbed with pretty echoes of tiny bells, and his ears rang painfully from their violence. When he looked down at his hands, he found them scarred from several lashes.
"Rest for a few more days, Your Highness," the watcher in the wood cooed, and the prince shuddered, looking around him in a slight panic. "Then we'll move on to your next lesson."
The wooden man sighed, his eyes fluttering shut, as he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue to lap at the air, tasting the fear and confusion that continued to hang above the prince's bed. Oh, it was marvelous. Simply marvelous, consuming this boy's dreams, his stubborn resistance serving as the most delectable spices.
Yes, this prince would be broken soon enough. Like the others before him, his mind would be eaten up, the uniqueness of his humanity eradicated, transformed into what the world had long dictated to be his undoubted destiny. Like the countless wildflowers in every meadow, whose appearance showed nothing but sameness and colorful predictability, Alarick would become no better, no worse, than the rest of mortals.
His mind could very well be broken in the process of his re-education, but at least he could enjoy the freedom that came with behaving the same as everyone else. The price, surely, would be well worth it. Virtue was worth it.
Chapter Sixteen
Roald sat on the grass and devoured his treasure, taking care to save half of it for that evening's repast. He recounted his adventures with a voice hushed with sympathy and grief, sharing everything he'd seen and heard and learned about humanity so far, feeling an awful pang throb in his chest when he spoke of Hamlin and Wilmar. He continued to puzzle over it and voiced his thoughts to his silent companion.
"Nothing about this makes sense," he said, gingerly rubbing his chest. "Yet I'm supposed to accept it. Learn from it. Turn it into something that will shape the course of my future. I hate it, but I feel so helpless against the world. Sometimes I wonder if I'm going to go mad from the misery that I see being inflicted at will, and I've no power to do anything about it."
Roald paused and looked away, blinking away the gathering tears. "I'm being turned, Alarick. Someone wishes me to change---desperately enough to mortgage my own soul."
Did Fortune turn his steps in Hamlin and Wilmar's direction? Very likely so. And for what purpose? His goddess would have him learn from the dreadful consequences of pursuing one's unnatural proclivities. She'd have him terrified enough to swear complete allegiance to her or, if Roald were to stretch his mind further, to women, most assuredly.
But what if there were other forces at work? That thought didn't cross Roald's mind till then, and he quickly pounced on it---for his own sake as well as for Alarick's. What did these forces want him to take away from that wretched scene?
Strength? Determination? Faith? Hope? Courage? Roald mulled over those points for a few more moments, drawing an arm across his eyes to dry them just as his spirits rose from unexpected prospects. He was being thwarted---no, his humanity was under threat. His soul wasn't going to be his for much longer unless he continued to resist or at least developed enough strength to counter a force that was far greater than he.
"I'll play the part. I understand nothing. I'm a shell---an empty slate. I'm simply waiting for my mistress to come and reward me for a job well done," he murmured, feeling anger swell inside him. He'd keep things to himself, of course, lest the goddess overhear him, but her ongoing silence since she'd summoned him and saddled him with the miserable burden of her existence and unhappy dreams only gave him some measure of hope that she'd completely given him his freedom till the time came for her to claim him.
Roald glanced up at the statue and gave a small start at the sight of little cracks that originated from a tiny gash on the statue's abdomen. Were those cracks there before? He couldn't even recall. The marble boy seemed so perfect just the previous day. His eyes followed the cracks and watched them branch off into two jagged trails that cut across the statue's chest and stomach.
"It appears as though you feel more than I do," Roald noted, a little bemused at himself for continuing this one-sided conversation, as he gently ran his fingers over the cracks. "Did I just hurt you with my story?" He looked up at the upturned face. Clouds trailed across the darkening sky, muting the setting sun and casting soft shadows on the statue's face. There was melancholy there, yes. Pain, perhaps.
"Hmm. It appears that I did." Roald suppressed a chuckle despite the tightness in his chest. Indeed, the humor he felt was bitter, and perhaps it was for the best if magic involved itself in his predicament, and the marble youth had taken on the burden of absorbing the pain he was meant to take in. "I seem to have found my mirror," Roald appended, "though I'm very sorry for inflicting this on you."
He hurried off through the trees and found himself once again on his knees to gather fresh wildflowers from the meadow, and when he returned to his haven, he immediately sacrificed the previous offerings to the rippling brook, and the new blooms took their place at the foot of the marble statue.
"There," he said with quiet satisfaction, admiring the vibrant colors that were now giving life to the broken old pot. "For Alarick."
His eyes fell on the statue's hands, and while he remembered Hamlin's gesture of comfort in holding Wilmar's hand, he convinced himself not to do the same. Hamlin and Wilmar, after all, were lovers. He and the marble statue weren't, but he felt that the flowers and simple companionship should suffice---unless, of course, the statue substituted for Alarick. In this case, Roald felt himself justified, so he stepped closer and took hold of one cold hand in his. He moved his fingers against hard stone, marveling at the smooth and graceful lines that had been cut by no less than a master sculptor. He stared at the statue's hand in his, his heart willing those lifeless fingers to close around his in a reciprocated gesture as he believed that Alarick would.
Swallowing and fighting back another wave of tears, Roald wracked his mind for more bits of memory he had of his lover. The marble boy's hand, for all its chilly hardness, still felt awfully familiar to him, and fleeting glimpses that were now cooperating with him---glimpses of a boy around his age or perhaps younger, blessed with intelligence and a good heart, with black hair and green eyes, a ready smile that exuded warmth and a special kind of intimacy as well as longing---offered Roald some measure of comfort against his forced solitude and loneliness.
"I'll find you again," he whispered, pressing his lips against the statue's hand before releasing it and stepping away. It was now dark, and only the rising moon's light allowed Roald the benefit of seeing Alarick's representation in all its melancholy splendor.
"I can stay tonight---just to make sure that you don't hurt any more than this---and only if you don't mind." Words carelessly and thoughtlessly spoken, but Roald couldn't help but wonder if he said them to reassure himself or Alarick.
Faint shadows moved across the statue's face, and the marble boy seemed pleased with that idea. Roald spent the rest of the evening hours listening to the brook and the grass, the trees and the crickets. When he grew hungry again, he finished off the rest of his fruit and ill-gotten bread.
The grass, the trees, and the incessantly chirping crickets all spoke of great lands far and away, of heroes whose names would never be forgotten so long as the gods offered their gifts to those destined to keep mortal history gloriously alive. They spoke of the strange and the exotic, of the commonplace and the mundane, and Roald absorbed it all, his mind filling with wonder. He felt like a child all over again, and though it was a feeling that was familiar largely because it had been forced on him just a few days ago, Roald couldn't help but take shelter in the old and familiar, with the world and all things unknown hovering just beyond the comforting shadows of the trees.
To a young man his age, listening to nursery stories was a silly little exercise in boredom. But he also understood their purpose and appreciated the simple value they offered with regard to the sanctuary of imagination and the lessons they offered in hopes of greater wisdom among those who'd care to listen.
He lay at the statue's feet through the night once he'd grown tired, listening to the moonlight on the grass. Eventually he fell asleep, Alarick's name still on his lips.
\*
"A test, you say?" Kummerene asked, surprised.
"Yes, a test," Liebella said. She cocked her head to the side as she frowned at the new offerings left at the base of her sister's altar. More infants lost, she saw with a pang. More grieving mothers. Yet she'd heard no such reports from her cousin, the king of the underworld---at least, the accounts of souls walking past the shiny obsidian doors to his world said nothing about a rise in infant mortality.
Curious, she thought, stopping in front of a neatly-folded set of baby clothes. They were faded but still in good shape, which could only mean that the child must have been lost at an older age, and it was likely that the grieving parents had attached themselves to their child's earliest years. A devastating glimpse into their hearts, to be sure, but Liebella didn't quite sense anything right about this particular offering.
This child still lives, she told herself. His parents grieve for him---for something about him that they perceive to have lost.
"What kind of test are you thinking about?"
"If you wish to judge where your protégé is in his---ah---development, perhaps you should measure his progress." Liebella glanced at her sister and flashed her a sly little smile before setting her gaze back on the baby clothes she'd been observing. "Send him off on a quest of some sort, something that fits your purpose in taking him on for your consort. Or something that his father would approve. His goal and yours coincide, after all, don't they?"
Liebella didn't bother to look at her sister as the latter pondered her words. Her attention had been caught---and in a most undesirable way, at that---by the things that a simple set of baby clothes had brought to the fore.
"A quest," Kummerene repeated slowly. Yes, she was seriously considering it now. "That's not a bad idea."
"No, it isn't."
Liebella felt anger swell inside her, and it was all she could do to pinch her mouth in a tight line to keep herself from spitting out curses at those mortals---stupid, misguided mortals---for it wasn't her shrine, and the prayers weren't meant for her.
He's dead in their eyes. That's probably what this is all about, she fumed, her eyes narrowing. When she looked up to see if her sister was watching her and found that she wasn't, Liebella bent down and pressed a pale hand against the baby clothes, and she saw the mortals' intent. She also saw the story behind their "grief."
The young man had brought shame to his family by marrying the wrong sort of girl, at least in their eyes. He'd been cut off completely, left to fend for himself despite his youth, his lack of experience in any trade, and his bride's pregnancy. He was simply dead in his parents' eyes, and that was that.
The girl and her child will die, Liebella thought. They'll have no money, no means to afford anyone qualified to help them. She stood up, pale and rigid in bitter anger. The boy's parents might as well have sent them to the gallows.
But it was also a costly price that came with love, she reminded herself even if her heart broke at events that had yet to unfold. Mortal hearts were complicated, love itself doing nothing to help by its very nature. Some paid dearly, and some were rewarded, each case often nothing more than cruel, arbitrary events. The injustice of it all rankled, but she could do nothing about it, for Fortune and men's free will were forces that could never be challenged by the gods. Their tightly interwoven, complementary and yet diverging, connection was too deeply complex even for immortals to fully understand.
"His father told me about a most unfortunate connection he had," Kummerene said, her back still turned to Liebella as she gazed out at the calm night scene beyond her shrine. "Perhaps I should send him on an errand to see how much he's managed to shed some of his preferences." She glanced over her shoulder to look inquiringly at her sister. "What do you think? A test of love? I know that you of all immortals would appreciate that."
Liebella shrugged. "Whatever fits your purpose, like I said," she replied. "If you wish him to be prepared for an eternity as your partner in misery, you might as well make sure that he is."
Her older sister rolled her eyes at the none-too-subtle jab. "I do believe I've just the right adventure for him," Kummerene said, turning her gaze back to the sleeping land below. She'd somehow lost track of time and couldn't quite remember how many days were now left before her original plan of claiming Roald, but she felt unnaturally buoyed by her future prospects that, should Roald fail the test and require additional time for his full conversion, she wouldn't mind one bit.
Well, that is, as long as he didn't require a month. For the time being, Kummerene had quite a bit of grieving to listen to and absorb, for mortals appeared to be excessively fond of lamenting their fate. She might have quite a few things to say about her destiny, but at least she'd always been---and always would be---well looked after by humanity.
Liebella, in the meantime, scowled at the baby clothes she'd just "read" and hissed, "Idiot mortals."
\*
Roald couldn't find Wilmar's booth the following day, and he wondered if the vendor had decided to pack up and move off to a more accepting town to ply his wares. A new booth was set up where his used to be, and an energetic old woman bustled to and fro, her table swarming with customers who all demanded her attention.
"Where did they go?" Roald asked the old elm, and the tree sighed, shaking its branches ever so lightly so that a small shower of leaves floated down to coat the grass below.
"I can't tell you, I'm afraid," it replied sadly. "I know very little of what happens to mortals beyond the limits of my roots and my branches. Perhaps it's better for you to move on to more promising things---remember your mistress's charge."
Roald silently bristled at the word "mistress." While he'd nothing against women, the very thought---or, rather, fact---of his being retrained for someone else's benefit gnawed away at him, giving rise to bitter resentment and, therefore, a more determined resolve not to surrender, even if it meant dying as a result.
He opened his mouth with a ready retort about being his own man but caught himself in time, lest the goddess somehow were to hear him. A sensible voice in his mind chided him, calling him illogical and silly, but Roald knew that a very dangerous game was being played. He could certainly ill-afford to risk an immortal's wrath, but as to how he could get himself out of this predicament, he didn't quite know. There were still too many unknown factors---or at least suspicions that yet required some confirmation.
I'll know what to do when I get there, he thought, though his confidence wavered a little at that.
Roald watched the new merchant go about her business for another moment, forcing himself to the present and scolding himself for losing his focus, though briefly. After the old elm gave him another nudge, urging him to carry on with his task, Roald nodded and walked on, disappointed. He was hoping to observe the outcast lovers some more and somehow figure out a way to connect with them as he'd wanted the previous day. A simple gesture of empathy and solidarity would have sufficed, even if it only happened once and he were never to see them again. That one connection meant far more to Roald in his isolation than a reprieve from his predicament through a happy reunion with his friends and family.
Somewhere in the eastern end of the market, he spotted another couple who seemed---or, rather, felt---out of place. It was a young man and a young lady, who, of course, should be an acceptable match compared to Hamlin and Wilmar's union, but Roald again noted how people seemed to ignore the couple in spite of their occasional greeting to those whom they perhaps knew.
People simply walked past them or glanced at them icily before turning away without so much as a nod or a word of acknowledgement.
"Who are those two?" he asked the pine tree against which a small booth stood, where the couple decided to stop and inspect the flowers being offered there.
Roald watched the couple scour the table critically for what they needed, picking up and showing an occasional flower to each other and speaking in a language both musical and unknown to him. They were both dark-skinned, with large, dark eyes that sparkled with intelligence and good humor, their hair straight and combed back. The young man had his hair cut short, his wife opting to let her luxurious tresses tumble freely down her back while draping her head with a gossamer veil of blue, its borders embroidered with pretty gold patterns that Roald couldn't quite make out. Even their clothes were unusual for that part of the world---loose and comfortable, richly embroidered and colorful. The young vendor, for her part, waited patiently, smiling and nodding her encouragement.
"Not everyone shuns them," Roald said with a touch of triumph and pleasure in his voice. "The girl vendor doesn't. And neither do that woman in the red shawl and the couple with soiled clothes."
He stepped aside when a small group of women walked past, chatting amongst themselves and refusing to accommodate other passersby, who were forced to step around them or move out of the way, waiting and frowning, till they'd gone.
"I've never seen her till today. Perhaps she's new and unused to the ways of the market. Mortals care nothing for her if she doesn't have a name to boast of like the long-established vendors here. That's what they say. There's nothing more for you here, young man. Go on and serve your mistress, and you'll be rewarded handsomely," the towering pine tree said.
"What are the names of the other two?" Roald asked.
"Kavi and Uma just late of the eastern end of the world---husband and wife, strangers yet to each other and to fellow mortals."
"Newlyweds, you mean."
The tree merely let drop a few pine cones, and Roald took that for an assent. He couldn't help but suppress an amused smile.
Knowing full well how dreadful he looked, Roald nevertheless plucked up enough courage to edge closer to the pair as they continued to inspect the young vendor's blooms. They seemed to have their minds bent on globe thistles in a mind-boggling array of colors, most of which were strange variations of basic flower colors. There were many as well that were tipped with gold, which gave the flowers a rich, majestic luster that entranced Roald, and he couldn't help but gape.
By the gods, I've never seen flowers this marvelous before, he thought, eyes widening in spite of himself. How in the name of the heavens did she---how's this even possible?
"You've done a marvelous job with these flowers," Kavi remarked, holding up a small bundle of brilliant orange-and-blue-striped ones, turning them over as he gazed at them critically. "Wonderful colors here."
"Thank you, sir," the vendor stammered awkwardly, her hands twisting and tugging at her apron. She looked as though she'd just turned fourteen or fifteen, but no older. She was clearly very new to this and had not yet established a method of enticing customers into purchasing her offerings. "My parents showed me the best way to raise them, and I try hard."
"I wouldn't be surprised if people offered these unusual flowers to the gods," Uma said with a bright smile. Both she and Kavi spoke the region's native tongue with no trouble, their speech enhanced by a foreign accent that laced itself in the words. Roald found their communication to be quite hypnotic, and it was all he could do to divide his attention between the flower vendor's remarkable offerings and her customers' uniqueness.
And so Roald was treated to a moment of skilled haggling (if one were to call it that), in which the young vendor was invariably apprised of her flawed method of charging her customers---that is, of her selling her merchandise at too low of a price given their superior quality. She was immediately given an impromptu lesson on commerce, which the couple concluded with the willing exchange of their money---a larger amount than what was first required---for a bunch of unusually colored globe thistles in vibrant pink, yellow, and violet.
The girl gratefully accepted the terms and bundled up her customers' purchase while Roald turned and walked away, deep in thought. Was this new experience something that was nothing more than coincidence? Was this a random moment tossed into his lap by Fortune herself? There was something about his accidental discovery of Kavi, Uma, and the young flower vendor with those uniquely---and at times, bizarrely---colored blooms that told Roald the goddess had absolutely no hand in. He couldn't put a finger into what it was that made him believe so, but deep down, he knew it to be true.
Was this the handiwork of another immortal, one who'd somehow known about the goddess's plan of transforming Roald into her immortal consort? He pondered this for a good long time, but something about that brief experience gave him no indication that another divine hand was at work.
"They were still outcasts in some ways," he muttered as he wandered aimlessly through the market, observing people here and there and seeing nothing else worth noting. "Man and woman together, yet shunned by everyone else. The girl with the unusual flowers also ignored by most---too strange, most likely, just like Kavi and Uma. Too strange to be readily accepted---at least not by many."
It was a repetitive lesson Roald now learned in that market for two days in a row. It was very likely that the lesson wouldn't change much, if at all, if he were to return the next day or the next. In fact, he was quite sure that if he were to venture farther out and explore another city, he was bound to see the same behavior again and again. Human nature might be complicated, but it was also universal and rather predictable, and Roald's spirits sank at the notion.
Come on, come on. There's clearly just as much nobility in human nature as there are darker turns, he chided himself. It's impossible to lose yourself in one or the other. It isn't realistic. It isn't fair either way.
When he saw a baker being overwhelmed by customers at one corner of the market, Roald decided not to let chance feed him this time. He simply ambled up to the table and casually inspected the baker's offerings. When a heavy-set and harried woman with two squalling children pushed her way past other customers and demanded the baker's attention, Roald took advantage of the irate shuffling among the little crowd to nudge a loaf of bread off the table and catch it while being pushed aside and squashed between three people.
You'll make an accomplished thief yet, he thought, grimacing at the sting against his conscience as he hurried through the busy swarm of people in the market, his prize held firmly under his arm.
He reached the main road at length, passing several people on horseback, on foot, or in small carriages, all of whom were going in the direction of the market and its town. A quick glance back showed no one in pursuit of a stolen loaf of bread, and Roald wondered how long his luck would hold, let alone how long before he'd be able to break his connection with the goddess once and for all. He could always run off, but what good was that, when he was fleeing an immortal?
No, he needed to be in her company; he needed to face her in order to break this connection---or, perhaps, contract---that had never been his choice to begin with.
He took the usual path back to the glade, but before he neared the woodland that protected it, he was startled to find a horse standing in the middle of the dirt path that had branched out from the main road. Beside the horse stood the goddess, watching him with a slight frown.
"And where have you been?" Kummerene asked as he neared her.
"Doing exactly what you told me to do," Roald said without hesitation and with a slight edge of irritation in his voice that he failed to suppress and immediately regretted.
Kummerene's face contorted in a derisive grimace. "That town, you mean? That town with its reeking market and filthy, wailing brats?"
"Even a market can teach you much about humanity."
"Does it, really?" she replied, her contempt giving way to condescending amusement. But dear heavens, mortals were really limited in their intellectual scope, weren't they? Did that miserable von Thiessen just mortgage an unimaginative booby for her consort? "Well, no matter," she murmured, shaking her head and squelching her rapidly spiraling annoyance. "He'll prove to me well enough whether or not he's worth all the trouble."
And if Roald failed her? Von Thiessen would pay dearly for it. Kummerene began to suspect that no amount of time spent in reshaping Roald would make a difference in the boy if he were, indeed, this stupid.
She beckoned Roald to come closer. "I've a quest for you."
"A quest?" Roald echoed, blinking. He watched her step away from the horse and wave at the gorgeous animal dismissively.
"Something to help us achieve our purpose. Take this horse. He's properly bridled for you, and he brings you a couple of sets of suits and some food."
Roald walked up to the horse, marveling at it. It was a robust, healthy creature, a white god on four legs, who easily submitted himself to Roald's gentle stroking and murmured reassurances without hesitation. "He's beautiful," Roald said, smiling.
"Good. I'm glad you approve. He's to take you to a palace in the west, where a curious little puzzle awaits you."
Roald looked at Kummerene. "A puzzle? You want me to solve a puzzle?"
"A mystery," she corrected. "Which shouldn't be too difficult for you to solve, as I see that you're a very intelligent fellow. And don't worry---failing to solve the mystery doesn't result in death, the way other idiot kings frame their riddles." She paused, smiling grimly. "Don't you agree that it's a remarkably stupid thing to encourage noble souls into solving puzzles by threatening failure with death? Who'd want to try?"
"The ambitious, the equally stupid, and perhaps the virtuous," Roald said, feigning an air of naïveté, which, to his relief, drew a quick, humorless laugh from the goddess.
"As you say," Kummerene replied. "Warlock will guide your way. He knows where to go. In the meantime, find yourself a proper river where you can bathe and make yourself look fit to stand before a king. The journey to the palace will take you a mere day if you start off now."
"But what about the quest?" Roald asked. "How would I---are you---"
"You'll know what to do, when to do it, and how," she said. "Let your wit and your instincts guide you. Succeed or fail, you'll find me at the end of your adventure. Now go. We've lost enough time as it is."
A surge of mild panic coursed through Roald, and along with it a thousand questions that clogged his throat in their mad rush to be asked. It was all too late, though, for the goddess merely appraised him one more time before nodding and vanishing.
Chapter Seventeen
Without the benefit of sun and moon to guide him, Alarick had long lost track of time. Using the table settings for a guide proved to be a fruitless effort, for there were times when he was "guided" by the cottage to eat from the same setting as before, twice or thrice in a row, well after that particular setting lost its enchantment and turned into battered tin. The beds lasted a bit longer, however, though Alarick did notice a definite progression of weathering whenever he was obliged to lie on the same bed for two nights together. The cloth smelled old, and the pillow and mattress felt thin, the bed frame digging into his back and keeping him awake for a little longer as he struggled to find a comfortable position.
The door and windows remained barred against escape, and while he kept his temper and tamped down any threats of panic---something which was getting more and more common lately---he couldn't help but notice dozens of little things happening around him that seemed to communicate something dark. Perhaps they all had something to do with Alarick's suspicions regarding the cottage's sly manipulations of his dreams as its way of changing him, frightening him away from what was his nature and firmly entrenching him into a certain behavior that was quite far from what was normal to him.
But maybe I'm going mad, he thought, swallowing, as he fought to maintain a calm front as he tried to seek refuge in the warmth of the water in the tin tub in which he'd immersed himself for his bath. It was the easiest reason to use as far as he was concerned, though the very real element of magic tended to muddy the issue too much for him, for when did enchantment end and madness begin?
The wooden man watched the naked prince in the tub, smiling at the sight of manhood caught in between soft and awkward youthfulness and the hardened and more sculpted lines of maturity.
He moved along the wall, a slow, creeping walk as he pushed through wood, his gaze still fixed on the pensive young man in the tub, till he reached that part of the wall just behind Alarick. The tub stood close enough to the wall for the watcher to steal a touch or two. With a tremulous sigh, the watcher reached out a wooden hand and ran hungry fingers over Alarick's wet and tangled hair, catching his breath at the feel of those black strands against what used to be skin once upon a time.
"I'll keep you longer than seven days," the wooden man whispered. "I sense that you're strong enough to withstand a few more days locked away from the world. I don't know what it is you're made of..." He paused, chuckling, giving off faint creaks along the walls that startled Alarick out of his thoughts for a brief moment. The prince looked around him, holding his breath, clearly straining to hear more unsettling sounds around him. "It's definitely sterner stuff than what I've long been used to in these past centuries. Peasants are strong in their own way, but their dreams are stunted and lacking, many of which are too diluted by poor men's vices to give me much enjoyment. You, however, are unique---like a magnificent banquet spread out after centuries of starvation and neglect. Your Highness, I'll have to take all I can from you. Only the heavens know how long before I'll be blessed with another lost treasure like this unnatural prince."
Alarick picked up a clean rag that was draped on the edge of the tub and began scrubbing his arms idly. He didn't feel the touch of those cursed fingers, encouraging the watcher to continue his soft petting. Eventually, Alarick finished, and after wringing the rag and draping it back on the edge of the tub, he stood up in one smooth, easy move.
The wooden man couldn't help himself, and he leaned as far away from the wall as he could, opening his mouth and pressing a wooden tongue against Alarick's right buttock, following the firm, wet swell of the prince's warm flesh in a line from the crease beneath it to the enticing dimple above. He tasted water and skin, his own excitement spiking at the simple, lurid act and especially the lustful impulse that goaded him into a momentary indulgence. He was trapped in the wall, however, just as the prince was trapped inside the cottage, and he couldn't separate himself from the wood past his shoulders. If he wished to touch something, he could do so, but only if the rest of his body remained fixed in the wall while he stretched an arm out up to his elbow in order to reach something. The wooden man could only suppress a snarl of frustration at not being at liberty to take what was so easily his.
He eyed the cleft between those enticing cheeks, forced himself to picture the pucker hidden there, awaiting the most passionate, sordid attentions with which one could ever hope to shower it. Tongue, lips, fingers, a swollen, dripping prick---they were most welcome in drawing strangled sounds of pleasure from the young prince who'd be pinned beneath him.
"I was a devout man once upon a time," the watcher said, grinding his wooden teeth as anger---ancient, indefinable, a cacophony of hundreds of memories from men and women long gone---surged through him. "Upright, virtuous, fearful of the gods, a humble servant of theirs. This boy will be shown the road back to virtue." Apparently it would take the watcher more than seven days to accomplish that, but what soul wasn't worth the time, where salvation was concerned?
"Yes, for the good of his soul," the watcher murmured, stretching out his neck and attempting to taste Alarick's backside one more time, but his tongue only touched air, for Alarick had moved. "I'm serving the gods. I'm their champion on earth. I'll save this boy."
It was all he could do to withdraw back into the wall, wooden eyes wide and hungry in the way they watched Alarick step out of the tub, naked and dripping wet, and then walk over to a chair on which was piled a clean set of clothes as well as a towel. Every fluid motion in the course of wiping himself dry fed Alarick's jailer's excitement, fueling the watcher's impatience for the evening hours.
\*
It was with some trepidation that Alarick ate from the crystal dish. His earlier musings regarding the shifting nature of the cottage kept their hold on him, and he found it more and more difficult to keep his mask on as he ate dinner and then listened to the cottage tell him more stories.
The cottage exerted a strange power over him; it kept him in place with its root-barred windows and door. It spoiled him with its feasts and fine clothes, but it monitored his movements, chided him for his occasional wistful remembrances of Roald, which tended to happen whenever Alarick's defenses slipped, and loneliness and hopelessness emerged from the shadowy corners of his mind.
Was it also punishing him for small transgressions? He couldn't tell, but he felt that those subtle little accidents---a finger pricked against something sharp that he'd never seen before, a toe stubbed against a piece of furniture that seemed to have been moved into his path when he had his back turned, a cupboard's door suddenly swinging out and slamming against his face, nearly breaking his nose---were the cottage's reminders that he shouldn't be straying off and into disapproved territory.
"Why do you think of him so much? What did he give you besides this? Imprisonment? Nightmares? Madness, perhaps?" At times Alarick thought that he heard this question whispered from dark corners of the cottage.
"What did you just say?" he'd demand, but the voices would fall silent, the question left hanging and unanswered, tickling the edges of Alarick's mind with unsettling meaning.
Was the cottage jealous? He shuddered at the grotesque thought. Day after day, night after night, it had been force-feeding him stories about men and women finding true love, never men and men. His dreams, which were once his only escape from physical imprisonment, were now tainted by some unknown, malevolent force that continued to punish him for dreaming about rescuing other princes, not princesses, at times showing him how his nature, even as he tried to save a young lady, only ended up wreaking more havoc.
I'm not giving him up, he thought, glaring as he looked around him, taking care to sweep his gaze over every piece of furniture or panel of wood or scrap of cloth. I know who I am---what I am. You can drive me mad or kill me, but you can't change me.
Alarick's blood ran cold at the final thought, but as he pondered it some more, his conviction also hardened.
Yes. I'll die for him if it comes down to that---if my salvation requires it.
It appeared that his destiny was to die a prisoner who remained unbowed and unrepentant. Would that be considered a virtue expected in all princes? He tried to remember all those nursery tales from years long gone, and he couldn't come up with a single story in which the hero chose death over surrender.
It looks like I'm about to live out a new nursery tale. Perhaps my story will be told to children down the line. What a way to be immortalized!
"You're too pensive for your own good, Your Highness," the cottage broke in, scattering his thoughts. "Come along and sit before the fire before going to bed if you'd like one more story."
Proper rest. That was what he needed above everything else. Sleep undisturbed by images from which he couldn't run, even in his waking hours.
What complicated matters was the fact that his previous dreams recurred, oftentimes weaving themselves into new ones, and he found himself doubly punished with unhappy conclusions to those thickly intertwined stories.
"You're this way for a reason," the dreams seemed to say to him. "Was it your nurse? Did she do something to you---feed you all kinds of vile, perverted ideas in your childhood---to make you grow up to be this? Was it your isolation, your loneliness, that turned you into the kind of young man who'd be taken in by a forest renowned for its black legends? Do you think that you belong here, Your Highness? Your dreams seem to say so."
Alarick couldn't think of anything to say to that. He'd learned---or at least he'd learn to try---to close his mind against that nagging, taunting idea. He didn't need to dignify it with a response.
Something had also changed in the cottage. He could sense it, but he couldn't quite put a finger on it. He walked around---wandered through two familiar rooms---touched familiar surfaces---and he knew that something was different.
Your mind! Your mind! All in your mind! a quiet voice told him, but that something always followed those words with mocking, ill-suppressed laughter.
Amusement at his expense? Contempt? Pity? Boredom? He sure couldn't tell.
"Why are you laughing?" he asked, but a hollow silence met his question.
"You should eat from the flower bowl today," the cottage noted with forced humor when the prince stirred from his sleep. In fact, Alarick was sure that the cottage was growing quite tired of his presence and growing impatient with its task. "And tonight you should sleep on the flower bed."
The bowl of tightly-pressed and joined flowers intoxicated him with its fragrance. And what an odd variety it offered with the stew cradled against its petaled insides---spices and vegetables and meat---all commingling with subtle floral aroma. Alarick couldn't help but sniff more and eat less, and the cottage chided him for his neglect.
"Had your mother been around, she'd scold you for your childish idiocy. Do as you're told. Eat."
Unlike the crystal bed, the bed of flowers was soft and gently yielded under his weight. Alarick crawled under the blankets and felt his mind and body suddenly awash with the sensually soft smell of spring blooms. He shifted restlessly under the covers, his body reacting to the sensations, his mind, once again feeling the crippling loneliness of his imprisonment, fixing itself on memories of Roald and all those glorious moments spent in the privacy of their idyllic glade. Within seconds his nightshirt was pulled up, his hand busy between his legs, eyes pressed shut and mouth opened and slack. He thought of Roald's weight pressing upon him, the way his lover forced his mouth open in those somewhat awkward, demanding, and very, very thorough kisses. He remembered Roald's taste, his smell, the texture of his skin and the scars it sported from war, the incredible experience of pressing his face against the coarse, springy hair in Roald's groin before taking his lover's erection in his mouth.
Body moving against his hand as he pleasured himself, Alarick whispered Roald's name again and again, sweeping his tongue over his slack lips before wetting the fingers of his free hand, coating them as thickly as he could, and then bringing them under and behind. Alarick bit back a groan as his fingers penetrated his body. It was a bit uncomfortable and clumsy, for he'd never done this before, and his arm was starting to ache from such an awkward position, but his body craved it, and he was soon moving against both hands, moaning and sighing and seeing Roald's sweaty, lust-filled face hovering above him, encouraging him with whispers and an occasional filthy word tossed in. Alarick wished to be drowned completely in this strange intoxication, and the cottage allowed him his moment. He turned his head further to the side and pressed his sweat-dampened face against his fragrant pillow to muffle his groans. He came in a rush of white heat and helpless cries, felt himself falling, faintly wishing that Roald could be there, experiencing the cottage's remarkable and frightening magic with him. The last thing that filled his senses as he drifted off to sleep was the delicious smell of semen and flowers.
If Alarick were to look long and hard at the wall against his headboard, he'd have spotted the wooden man lost in his own self-pleasuring, for Alarick's lustful imaginings were simply too much to ignore, and if the watcher couldn't have the young man on all fours, his wood-grain prick plunging rhythmically inside that beautiful, willing body, the least he could do was to enjoy his noble prisoner from a distance.
\*
Perhaps it was nothing more than sheer willpower that allowed her this, but Ulrike awoke earlier that day to a curious state of lucidity, one that she knew wouldn't last for too long. The gods must have taken pity on her at last, for all those years spent in punishment, living no better than a caged animal. Stained with her own urine and feces, tears, dirt, and the ravaging effects of a burdened conscience---emerging from sleep at dawn with her mind suddenly intact could only be seen as a final act of grace from immortals, if not her own will because her son was out there and in danger.
Ulrike stood by the window, pressing a hand against the glass as she looked outside, her mind marveling at the sunlit clarity of her world. Closing her eyes, she whispered a silent prayer of thanks and another for strength to carry through her scheme. "Let me go through with it," she said, "and you may do what you will to me afterward."
Ulrike had a good enough idea of what was in store for her, given what she'd done with her life---as well as what she'd done to others'.
"Allow me this one thing," she added, and that was the end of her prayer.
She went through her day calmly, after knowing how short her time was now. She knew what to do to redeem herself, even if it were her last act on earth, and she wouldn't have anyone---mortal, that is---stand in her way.
"If they force my hand, by the gods, I'll hew them all down," she muttered, pinching her mouth into a tight, determined line. She glanced down at her hands. It had been years since she'd last wielded dark magic purposefully while sinking under the heavy effects of her powers' ruthless, consuming force. She didn't even know if weaving would've helped her long enough. Perhaps the day might have come for her suppressed powers to break the dam and override the cathartic nature of the loom.
Ulrike smiled humorlessly at the realization. "It would've devoured me all the same."
She pretended madness, therefore, giving her servants nothing to be alarmed about and further lulling their senses and expectations with the same old drudgery in keeping a hopeless madwoman from turning completely into an animal. The hours dragged, and her impatience swelled, but she needed to wait out the time and pretend to be a lost soul, sitting by the window and staring out, even taking care to hold a doll against her chest as though she were nurturing a baby, humming a lullaby as she tried to put it to sleep. She'd asked for one a couple of days ago and was granted a male doll.
She tried not to think about the past, for it had already destroyed her. What little reprieve she enjoyed in the present could only be sustained by her thoughts firmly fixed on the future.
"Independence, my little darling," she whispered to the doll she held. "Rest for me. Vengeance for Bittan. The scales balanced for Amara. You'll live and love as none of us could. If any burden ever falls on your shoulders because of our sins, let it be that, my sweet boy. Now wait for me."
When the palace retired for the night, the queen got out of bed and immediately changed to her walking-dress, throwing a thick cape around her shoulders to help stave off the chill. She even put on an old powdered wig of hers---one she'd worn on several occasions before her wedding. The powder was nothing more than dust now, of course, but the wig was still intact, and she powdered her face and even pressed a beauty mark against her cheek after carefully applying rogue and regarding the effects with pleasure. She might have lived a life of luxury, pampered and waited upon hand and foot, but at least she wasn't too helpless in all things.
She gave herself a few more careful cosmetic embellishments, the mere act offering her some measure of comfort in its faded familiarity. Before long she considered herself ready for her final adventure. Without another glance back, she slipped out the door of her bedroom and hurried through the glittering hallways and down the grand staircase.
Ulrike paused in the middle of the stairs when she saw her sister standing at the bottom, watching her descend. The dead princess didn't appear in her usual burned state and in fact looked as though nothing had ever happened to her at all, and she was still alive.
In the darkness of the grand staircase and hall, with those countless mirrors and gold candelabra somehow reflecting dim light from within their deepest recesses, Amara looked quite beautiful, very much the image of the queen's sister at the height of her youth. She watched Ulrike in silence, her face a picture of serene melancholy and expectation.
"You know where he is," Ulrike at length said, her voice hushed.
"I do."
"Lead me to him, then."
"I can't go beyond these walls, but I'll guide you in your head, and you won't see me till the final moment." The ghost regarded her in silence for another moment. "I know what's in your heart. Do you really wish this, Sister?"
Ulrike nodded, drawing herself up proudly. Even in death, that confounded little chit insisted on questioning her? She couldn't help but suppress a grin, however, because this also brought back far too many familiar and comforting sensations. For a few seconds, in fact, Ulrike thought that she and her sister were young girls again, taunting and challenging each other as only silly youngsters did.
"If you had a child, wouldn't you do the same?"
The ghost gave her a faint little smile and stepped away, allowing her room to go down the rest of the way and in the direction of the front doors.
Ulrike found the doors locked, and she took a deep breath. "Help me, Amara," she whispered tremulously. "I don't have much time left."
The doors immediately opened without her giving the handles another try. They swung outward without a sound, and Ulrike stood on the threshold, glancing up to look at the cloudless sky and the full moon above.
When she felt something round and cold pressing against one of her hands, she looked down and found a red apple that gave off a strong and most delectable scent. "Amara?" she asked, looking around.
"The only way to save Alarick and your soul," her sister replied in a hushed, gentle voice as she stood in the dark, her figure gradually fading. "You'll know what to do when the moment comes. Now go."
Ulrike nodded, hot tears springing in her eyes as she felt her tired, scarred heart break all over again. "I know I will. Thank you." She was gone in another moment, taking the road that led out into the terrible world beyond the palace borders and toward the cursed forest.
Chapter Eighteen
Roald thought of the strange woman---another one of those confounded, meddling immortals, he was sure, though she might as well be a witch, all things considering---who appeared in his dream that fateful night as he lay exhausted and half-despairing in the middle of a strange land. He was lucky that no one dangerous had crossed paths with him throughout his lonely search for redemption.
The goddess-witch (he still couldn't determine which one) had assured him of a future of great happiness in the company of a princess, who was a celebrated beauty, at that.
"What's the use of beauty if I simply don't care for her?" Roald had asked in his dream.
The answer given had chilled him: "There's only one road to happiness. You can't expect to deviate from it and find your most desired reward in the end. Only one road---one straight, narrow line. Stray from that, and you'll find yourself with nothing. Are you brave enough to abandon yourself and embrace what has always been, and always will be?"
Roald heeded the goddess-witch's words despite his doubts, but he'd told himself that he couldn't find his way back to his land and assert his right to happiness without proving himself the way all heroes were expected to prove themselves. Perhaps his "straight, narrow line" was unique to him.
Unique to all men like him.
It was quite likely that Fortune had long spun his fate, and all he needed to do was stumble blindly forward, his heart and his head steady. Perhaps the goddess who currently had him bound to her was a part of that greater plan, the greatest test of his heart and his spirit. If he played along, surely he'd be rewarded with Alarick's company again, not some unknown beauty whose steps were always dogged by jealous witches, immortals, and ferocious stepmothers.
"I can save a princess or two," he told himself, his spirits buoyed by his plans---his very clever plans---to outsmart the goddess-witch in his dream. "But it doesn't mean that I ought to marry her." What was the use of free will, after all, if one's future had been fixed in stone by fireside tales? No. He refused to accept such a narrow idea of existence. Men's actions shaped their lives, not the other way around. Destiny didn't exist, and Fortune worked in tandem with free will.
Destiny. He'd always despised that word. "An easy excuse for every good or ill that marks a man's life," he'd always said.
Roald had endured a long, arduous, and lonely journey to a kingdom in the west---some kingdom, whose name he couldn't even remember. Like the goddess had said, it took him a day to reach it, but it was a day whose hours stretched into infinity, sapping his strength, his humor, and, indeed, his will. It was while he turned to rest for solace because he'd grown so tired and heartbroken when the goddess-witch intruded, taking advantage of a very weak and vulnerable moment.
Destiny? All horse shit, he told himself again and again. Destiny was a concept held only by the ignorant and by those too sluggish to think. Those who believed themselves entitled to every reward to be had without doing much work. Stupid, lazy asses.
Roald had always kept his pretend-prize in mind throughout his ordeal. The road back to Alarick, he'd told himself with every step forward made by the ever-loyal Warlock, was strewn with young girls awaiting his help. He'd thought of a princess of great beauty and a tender heart. He'd thought of eyes of dark velvet that would peer into his with both wonder and affection. He'd thought of thick, dark hair that cascaded lovingly around gently sloped shoulders, collecting in an exuberant curtain around small, firm breasts. After all, that was expected of heroes who followed the smarter, more obvious road to good fortune.
When all was said and done, however...
Surely, there was a handsome young nobleman out there who'd do anything to claim the princess's hand once Roald declined it after her rescue. Ambition had always been a tantalizing brew. For every eligible princess, there were a dozen or so young men who'd gladly take her---body, dowry, kingdom, children. Then Roald could move on to his next adventure, prove his worth, free up one more princess for another nobleman, and continue down his long, lonely road back to Alarick.
You're such an idiot with all your justifications and excuses to force yourself into mold after mold that were meant for those who aren't you. No, you're not an idiot. You're a coward. A feckless, self-absorbed coward who knows the real road back to him doesn't lie in saving princesses by feigning true love. You cowardly degenerate.
Every word stung, every syllable rang true, breaking Roald's heart again and again, but he didn't fight those angry, bitter accusations that little voice kept screaming into his brain. He didn't fight them because he knew, all too well, that they were the truth.
It was certainly a good thing that Warlock had known where to go and had taken great care of Roald all that time, for his eyes had been blinded by tears, his defiance and resolve suddenly shut down as hopelessness and despair won this round, and he couldn't see a damned thing even after scrubbing his eyes with his sleeves.
When he finally arrived at the kingdom the goddess-witch in his dream had told him to go to, he was hopelessly hungry and tired, barely presentable to the king. The worst part was that he was forced into a servant's role during his stay, but then again, who could blame the king? Roald didn't have any proof of his pedigree beyond his word, and far too many imposters and villains had already taken advantage of a noble household's trust.
But wasn't that a part of the plan, after all? Weren't all heroes required to suffer for their prize?
\*
Roald kept his mind fixed on the youngest princess---wasn't it always the youngest princess in those nursery tales?---when he presented himself to the king. "Ha! The next foolish soul!" the king's courtiers tittered along the grand salon's periphery. "Shall we gamble on his chances?"
"How long will it take him to disappear?"
"This is ridiculous. Why can't we replace those royal strumpets' worn-out dancing slippers before the world's gutted of its young men? How many have failed so far?"
"Idiot. It's destiny, remember?"
"Damn destiny. I don't want my son involved in this farce."
"We don't even know where the others have gone. They just disappeared."
"Just think of them as dead. It's easier that way."
"This fool will disappear, too. Just watch."
Roald waited patiently despite his dusty state as the king described the puzzle of his daughters' dancing slippers. Twelve princesses, all trotting off to some unknown destination, engaging in some demonic revelry, to be sure, and wearing out their shoes in the process. Roald was confused by the king's concern. "They're only shoes," he noted pragmatically.
"They sleep all of the next day and are pretty damned useless for anything!" the king snapped. "How in the world does one expect me to marry them all off if they lie around like sacks drenched in wine till the afternoon?" He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a near whisper. "And how can I be guaranteed that my daughters are still fit to be married off?"
Ah, yes, that.
Why, Roald thought, being tired, drunk, deflowered, and useless surely wouldn't be a radical departure from the lifestyle of the nobility. But he decided against voicing his opinion, seeing as how the king appeared to be annoyed with any questions that forced him to lay out a logical basis for this adventure.
The princesses were all paraded before him like the pale, sunken-eyed chattel that they were. Where was the youngest? Ah, yes, there she was. Always the prettiest, too, but no less wasted than her sisters.
Solve this riddle, he told himself as he knelt before them. Pretend docility. Play the game, but use your wit. Remember Alarick.
\*
Easy enough task. Roald had the drive, and he had the tools. Some benevolent spirit watched him, he was sure, and he'd just enjoyed some luck with the magic laurel tree---a magic tree giving him a little white flower with the ability to make him invisible. Such was the stuff of fireside tales, he silently gloated. He was certainly one step closer to being at Alarick's side again.
Besides, what other choice did he have? If those wild princesses had a secret hideaway of some kind, there was only one way to find it. Tucking the flower from the magic laurel tree in his buttonhole, Roald cloaked himself with invisibility and followed the princesses to their secret underground palace and its perpetually active ballroom.
So what had gone wrong?
It was nothing more than a casual glance made in the direction of the prince who'd claimed the youngest princess for a dance in the enchanted palace by the lake. Magic surrounded Roald that first night of his adventures. Magic soaked the air and filled his mind, shattering all illusions with its potency. And, suddenly, things didn't seem so simple anymore.
Staying invisible with the flower that he kept secured in his buttonhole, Roald found himself observing the young couple as they moved gracefully across the golden ballroom. Alternately bowing to each other and touching hands as they moved in formation with other dancers in a stately minuet, the princess and her partner lost themselves in a world of musical courtship. Their eyes sparkled, their smiles broad and intimate, their minds clearly set on nothing else but the music, the dance, and themselves.
Roald watched the princess exalt in her advantage over her partner. He knew that the noblemen who peopled the palace were his predecessors, hapless young men who'd tried their luck in discovering the riddle of the dancing slippers. They'd all fallen prey to their lovely partners in the process, poor fools. Roald didn't know---yet---how they'd been placed under a spell, but he realized that for the time being, these young men were doomed to live out a perpetual ball. Forced to love dancing for the princesses' sake. Forced to totter around in glazed joy to the strains of a magical orchestra.
Roald's adventures on the second night turned out the same. He followed the princesses in a cloud of invisibility, anxious to be at the palace just like the glittering, tittering girls.
His reasons, however, were different, and guilt lanced through him. Suddenly his objectives had turned cloudy. Alarick's image seemed to fade before his mind's eye, to be replaced by another image. Another nobleman. Another prince. One who was, unfortunately, under a very annoying spell.
Unseen, Roald watched the dancing in the enchanted ballroom from a quiet corner. His doubts grew. He fought against them, but something made him watch though he wanted, desperately, to look away.
Are you sure you're in the right place? a quiet but very irritated voice asked. Are you sure that this is what you want---what you need?
As he watched, his conscience stirred and called him feckless. Where was Alarick now, anyway? Surely he was back in his palace, safe and protected. He was the prince, after all, and that was one security Alarick enjoyed. Monstrous parents and past scandals aside, no one was in any position to dispute Alarick's right to be treated as only the son of a queen should be treated.
"He's told to forget about me," Roald said in the cover of darkness. "Why shouldn't he? He's better off without me---deserves better than what I can give him."
Reasons and excuses flew back and forth in Roald's mind. He saw all kinds of answers to his questions---at least he made himself believe he did, the poor, untested, ignorant youth.
He loved Alarick, but he knew it was a bad idea at this point to pursue things between them. Life was proving to be much, much more complicated than the idealized picture formed in a private glade, within vast, mirror-and-gold lined rooms of a palace, in an intricately designed maze of a sprawling royal garden.
Feckless. You think with your prick. Idiot. Idiot and coward.
The words hurt, but Roald's will had already realigned itself down another path entirely.
Coward.
It should have been easy, Roald thought in ever-deepening confusion as he stood along the ballroom's periphery, watching the dancers. No---only one. His gaze followed no one else but the youngest princess' partner, whose figure had stealthily crept into his mind.
You allowed it, you stupid letch, his conscience screamed. So much for Alarick. So much for all your notions of chivalry.
That nobleman---what was his name?---had firmly fixed himself into Roald's consciousness till Roald's waking hours were subjected to phantom echoes of this strange, beautiful youth. He felt his restless urges stirring once more. Yes, the same urges that Alarick once roused in him.
Feckless bastard.
What wasn't there to think about, after all? This unknown nobleman was handsome and elegant, haunting in his haplessly manipulated state, a black-haired, brown-skinned puppet clad in black velvet and gold silk. Perhaps the goddess-witch was mistaken, Roald told himself in miserable perplexity as his eyes followed the tall figure around and around the ballroom. Perhaps she really meant that Roald was destined to be with this youth, the way he'd always thought that he was destined to be with Alarick.
There it was---destiny again. Only this time, Roald didn't find himself scoffing at the word.
"But, surely, this is a test," he whispered. As to whom it was he was trying to convince, he didn't quite know. Weren't all heroes expected to endure all kinds of trials for the sake of his beloved's heart?
Then who really is your so-called beloved, fool? Alarick? Or this fellow?
Alarick, surely. Ah, the ready, mindless response to what could easily be regarded as an obvious question.
Which one is it?
Was it a part of this strange enchantment, he wondered, to feel these restless urgings during the day, when he was nothing more than a lowly flower-boy, assigned to present the princesses their daily bouquets of blue roses when they emerged from their rooms? Was it also a part of this strange enchantment to have his unraveling mind torn from what he believed to be his expected prize to a new and altogether frightening prospect? Was it, finally, a part of this strange enchantment to feel a quiet yearning for a mere moment of conversation with this unknown nobleman?
It was all Roald could do to allow himself to watch the dark-skinned youth wistfully.
"Alarick would have found someone else by now," he murmured. He half-believed it, too. "He'd have been shown the right way. I don't think I matter to him the way I used to---no, not after his ministers, his family, his other friends have talked to him. And they'd all be fools not to discourage him."
Ah, yes, speaking of fools...
It wouldn't take long for Roald to believe his own arguments.
"I'll save him," Roald said. "If I fail then I'll simply be a part of this and join him. Someone, someday, will break the spell." A deeper wish remained unspoken, though. He hated to admit it, but he almost hoped that no one would come and save everyone from this. If he couldn't go back to Alarick, maybe this was where he belonged.
\*
It was his third and final night, and the king was growing restless and impatient with him. "Well?" he thundered, and it was all Roald could do to assure the surly old bastard that he was close to finding out the princesses' secret.
It was nothing short of madness that urged Roald to walk up to the oldest princess and confess his knowledge of the truth.
"I've seen everything, Your Highness," he whispered to the startled woman. "I know where you and your sisters go every night. That golden palace deep underground---the one that's past the forest of glass trees. You have to cross the river to reach the palace, and then you're free to dance the night away."
The oldest princess listened, her complexion turning red and then white. Roald swore that he could hear her teeth grind. "How did you find out?"
"Magic, Your Highness." Roald waited for a moment, but the princess appeared to be preoccupied with something. "I've no wish to betray you," he appended, earning himself another look of shock. "Will you allow me to be a part of your company?"
"Are you mad?" the princess blurted out, her smooth forehead deeply creased. "Do you realize what you're asking?"
Roald swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "I do, Your Highness. Allow me to stay with you, and I won't trouble you at all."
She laughed dryly, tossing her straight, silky hair back. "Oh, my dear, trouble from you will be the least of our worries after you drink our wine."
Roald could only bow in silence.
Always and forever an imbecile, his conscience cried, nearly tearing his skull open.
During that evening's revelry, he was invited to join everyone at the banquet table. The oldest princess had poured a philter into his goblet, urging him to drink in their honor and watching his every move with hawk-like vigilance. He felt every eye fixed on him as he took the goblet and regarded it in bewildered silence for a moment.
How ironic, he thought bitterly, that enchantment would be the very engine through which reality would force itself into his consciousness---and that enchantment would be the very engine through which he could ensure the perpetuation of this reality.
Roald believed himself to be in love with the youngest princess's partner. In that enchanted palace with the never-ending ball, his future seemed to lie. That was his reality now. That was his world. Alarick belonged in the past. He'd moved on. His path was different in ways Roald had never before thought, let alone expected.
It was a strange revelation all around.
Roald raised his eyes and once again found his dark nobleman. Like the princesses flanking them, the spellbound youth watched Roald from his seat across the table; unlike the princesses, however, his gaze was empty and dreamy, an expression of a mind lost in a fantasy that would never end unless the right hero exerted his strength of will and overcame the wily princesses' attempts at keeping their secret safe. If Roald were to drink the philter, he'd join his dark nobleman in that accursed palace. He'd be forever at the beck and call of any princess who'd care to dance with him when the moment arrived, forever a puppet to their whims, forever lost to the world and its reality of hard labor, injustice, obscurity.
Ah, but he'd also be forever at the side of his beloved.
Beloved? Who again? Alarick?
No. All blessings on dear Alarick, and much love to that boy. It was simply time to move on.
If Roald were to reject the drink and break his goblet, he'd be shattering this dream world, saving all those trapped in its golden web and ensuring a return to a life they all once knew. They'd be free to do as they pleased, their dignity restored, their minds once again mastering their own paths. Given that, Roald also had no guarantee that the dark nobleman's heart would follow the same puzzling lines as his. And what would he have left?
Roald watched his new beloved for what felt like an eternity. Things should have been much easier, he told himself, the voice in his mind fading quickly when his resolution began to form, and his heart grew surer of itself. The dream-witch had lied to him. The world had lied to him. They'd obviously forced him into something for which he was clearly unsuited, but he now had a chance to take the path shown to him by his developing nature.
Reality, as he saw it, had laid claim on him, and he saw no princesses in his future. They'd never been a part of it. And Alarick had shrunk back into the nebulous fringes of his mind, no longer real, for grief had taken root in his heart, and he believed himself to be powerless against its despairing power.
"This is it, then," Roald said, not at all caring who'd hear him. Without moving his gaze from the glazed, dark-eyed figure before him, he raised the goblet to his lips and drank the philter.
Roald vanished from all knowledge in the world beyond the enchanted palace and its perpetual ball. Wasn't that a part of the plan, after all? Weren't all heroes required to suffer for their prize?
\*
From her shrine, Liebella watched the events unfold with a rage that she could barely control. She stared at the silver wine in her crystal goblet, for it was her means of keeping an eye on humanity whenever she saw fit to do so. The silver wine served her like an enchanted looking-glass, following her will and showing her exactly what she demanded.
"Fool!" She seethed, her grip on the goblet nearly breaking the stem. "What a stupid little---"
"Love and grief both can turn the most sensible man into a mindless wretch," Weisheitta broke in, her voice calm and even. Liebella glanced up and snarled at her sister, who sat on a marble chair that was flanked by a pair of blue rose trees in marble pots. "Come now, Sister. You've been resentful of the way Kummerene treats the boy, yet here you are, condemning him for falling in love." Weisheitta sighed and shook her head. "I really don't know how to reason with you both."
"Humph," Liebella snorted, looking back down at the silver wine. "Look at him. He just sacrificed his love for another just to experience something new."
"It's best to let him go as his heart dictates, Liebella. How else can you expect him to find himself again? You're no better than Kummerene, the way you're making all these unfair demands on the boy."
Liebella finally set the goblet down on her altar and turned away with an indignant flounce. All of a sudden, all the offerings laid in her shrine by mortals who were deeply in love, who'd lost love, and those who desperately sought it, felt meaningless. She didn't know why she'd grown fixated on this unfortunate young man, but she felt herself deeply enmeshed in his adventures in ways that confounded her.
She paced around her shrine for a moment, waiting for her temper to cool. When she realized that nothing came of her efforts, she stopped and sighed, rubbing her temples with her fingers.
"I'm sure Kummerene's having a bit of a histrionic fit, watching how her protégé isn't moving in the direction she wants him to," Liebella noted.
Weisheitta shook her head, bemused. "Oh, I assure you, she's not at all paying attention to what her protégé is doing. She never has been, you know. She's caught in the brambles of her own making, whether she realizes it or not. Go to her shrine and surprise her at random times, and you'll see that I'm right."
Liebella frowned. "What on earth is she doing all this time then?"
"What she does best---devouring men's grief."
"How irrational."
Weisheitta raised a brow. "And you aren't?"
\*
As it happened, it didn't take long for another man---a peasant this time---to appear before the irate king and take the challenge of the twelve dancing princesses. Fortunately for him, the goddess-witch's predictions had found their right target, at long last, and he'd successfully broken the spell. His reward: the youngest princess. Because youngest princesses were notoriously easy prizes for enterprising young men, according to those saucy nursery tales, but they were proven correct in this case.
Roald, for his part, realized his mistake too late. Once he'd drunk the philter that fateful night some days ago, any resolution he might have had regarding continued control, however little, of his faculties after the spell had claimed him, was gone in a breath. He was just one more doll for the princesses' pleasure---another mindless dancing nobleman who'd guide his beautiful partner around and around the ballroom till he'd literally collapse from exhaustion.
He could see, as though through the foggy tunnel of a never-ending dream, what went on around him. He was also unable to do anything with regard to being with the dark youth he'd sacrificed so much for. He couldn't move without being summoned by one of the princesses. He couldn't speak without being drawn into conversation by the same. As though encased in a glittering cocoon, he was helpless from start to finish, a fitting punishment, his conscience soon told him, for being so weak-willed and contrary. As with the rest of the men caught in the spell, he was no more than a toy.
When the next challenger appeared and successfully broke the spell, the enchanted palace shuddered and then vanished, melting in puddles of colorful glass that flickered pitifully in the moonlight before disappearing completely. Everyone---noblemen and princesses alike---were thrown into confusion as the last remnants of the spell evaporated from their souls. Some collapsed to the ground in a momentary swoon. Some staggered about, heads in hands, groaning and sometimes cursing. Some stood and gaped stupidly around them.
Roald immediately caught sight of the young man with whom he'd fallen in love. He ran to the latter's side as he lay on the ground, groaning and confused.
"Are you all right?" Roald asked---a silly question, he knew, considering where they'd all been. He raised the dark nobleman up gently, an arm secure around trembling shoulders.
"I---where am I? What happened?"
Roald, taking advantage of the continued noise and confusion around him, also allowed himself to be swept away by his infatuation as he cradled the half-delirious fellow against his chest, murmuring reassurances. When the young man's gaze cleared and met his, Roald bent close and kissed him.
A bad idea.
Within moments Roald was on the ground, in pain, his face burning from at least a couple of punches thrown by the horrified and disgusted nobleman.
"Pervert! Sick, filthy animal!" the dark youth screamed again and again, his fists flying, his feet swinging as he kicked at the fallen Roald till a few people had to throw themselves atop him and drag him away from his victim.
"Are you all right?" Roald heard nothing but that question being asked countless times.
Humiliated, in pain, and sickened, it was all he could do to stagger off, waving away any offer of support as the group of revelers tried to find their way back to the princesses' palace. Roald chose not to appear before the king with the others. Before dawn broke, he found himself mounting his faithful horse.
"Fuck eternity," Roald sighed as he stared at the long stretch of road before him. His horse---bless the old fellow who'd purchased his stallion sometime ago for agreeing to part with the animal for a measly handful of silver---neighed in agreement.
"Don't you ever do that again, you stupid gnat of a man!" the horse seemed to say, given the greater-than-usual expression of impatience from him.
Roald couldn't help but chuckle weakly, and he stroked Warlock's neck. "No, I won't," he replied. "I'm very sorry for treating you this way---for allowing my judgment to be clouded."
A sudden dull pain coming from one side of his face put an immediate end to his gloomy thoughts. He grimaced as he gingerly touched his left eye, which was still bruised from that unexpected---though it should have been expected---drubbing he'd received from that dark nobleman. Yes, the same one he'd foolishly called his beloved and for whose cause he'd willingly sacrificed Alarick.
"How could I have known?" he asked, turning his face to the morning sky. It offered him no answers.
No, he wouldn't have known without risking the kind of humiliating battery he'd just suffered in the hands of the same young man he was willing to give up a normal existence for.
Roald knew where he was headed, and he half-dreaded the outcome. No, after a strange, protracted length of time sunk so deeply in enchantment, he'd learned his lesson and knew his path truly lay. How would the goddess take to his adventures, he wondered? Probably badly, if her purpose for sending him to the palace in the west were, indeed, what he suspected. Yes, he wouldn't be surprised if she'd consider him to have failed. He blinked the fog from his eyes and looked back at the world before him.
"Let's go," he urged Warlock, and they soon trotted idly down the dusty, solitary road back to the town with the little market, back to the lovely woodland glad where that strange marble statue awaited him.
Chapter Nineteen
Things were changing around him. For the next few days, whether or not those were truly days or quantifiable chunks of time, Alarick caught a glimpse of what these were. His senses had grown more sharpened---more acute. He now heard things more clearly, and he smelled things more vividly. He even believed that he was seeing shapes in the wood grain---shapes that moved and followed him wherever he went, skulking in the shadows whenever they got the chance. They watched his every move, he was sure, gauging his every response, anticipating his every word.
When he drew near to make out these shapes, they melted into the wood, and he saw nothing more than the usual grain and odd patterns. Frowning, it was all he could do to run fingers over those weathered panels, searching and feeling, his mind alternately chiding him for letting his imagination get the better of him and spewing execrations out of annoyance.
And yet sometimes he thought he saw a man caught in the wood---a man who watched over him and who directed his every move, sipping idly from a goblet or sampling something from a bowl. But it was also one of those things that could easily be dismissed as nothing more than a "trick of the light," for this wood-man tended to appear---or at least make his presence felt---whenever shadows skittered across the walls when Alarick lit candles or moved them around.
"Is anybody there?" he called out, wide-eyed and startled, as he held a candle aloft, but its puny flame could barely set the room alight, and any magical wood-man hiding in the walls could easily take advantage of the shadows to hide himself from Alarick's searches.
Was this the voice he sometimes heard in his head, especially after he awoke, shaking and stunned, from yet another twisted dream that had battered his weakened defenses?
Alarick had already given up on freedom, for the door remained solidly blocked, as did the windows. He'd already come to the point where soul-eating loneliness now haunted his steps, and every once in a while, he felt nothing but intense loathing for the cottage that kept him, a hungry yearning for Roald and happier times, and a deadened resignation to what surely awaited him in the future.
I'm going to die here. If the cottage can't change me with stories and corrections of my dreams, it'll eat my soul while battering away at my defenses. Someday there'll be nothing left of me but a withered husk.
Alarick glanced down at his body and took note of the bruises, both fresh and faded, that had bloomed up and down his arms and legs from all those bizarre instances of what he now called "the cottage's revenge" for his obstinacy toward its agenda. The strangely moving pieces of furniture when he wasn't looking, the accidental turning of a knife against his hand as he tried to cut something, the sudden breaking of glass as he held it---those and dozens more had led to his injuries. The cottage was terribly displeased with him and his resistance, and those incidents had spiraled.
When Alarick refused to sit before the hearth to listen to any more tiresome stories, the cottage would taunt him with whispered slurs, calling him every colorful name for the kind of limp-wrist poof that he was.
"Pretty little cocksucker, pretty little ass-eater," it would hiss in its chorus of a dozen graveyard voices, some of which dissolved in uncontrollable giggling. The effects were chilling at the very least. "Weak as a girl, always eager for a fuck like every other cocksucker born..."
"Fucking cowards!" Alarick cried, whirling around and balling his fists, his body shaking in fury and fear, his eyes wide and darting back and forth as he rode the cresting waves of defiance and helplessness. "Are you hungry? Come on, eat! Swallow me whole!" He spread his arms out at his sides. "See? I'm not armed---why haven't you taken advantage of that since the start?"
The cottage responded with more whispers and giggling. Alarick, buoyed by the release of pent-up rage, hurried to a wall and gave it a hard kick, yelling.
"Go on! I'm alone! I've got nothing! Fucking my mind isn't enough for you?" He picked up a nearby chair, swung it hard, and hit it against another part of the wall, breaking it, though it left no marks on the wood paneling. "I know what you want, you miserable shit! Go on, take me, then!" He swung the battered chair, whose legs barely clung to its seat, and struck it against the wall once again. "Isn't that the way with hypocritical shits like you? Show me the right way, eh? Why won't you now? Tell me how to live, while you indulge in what you condemn me for!"
Was this the madness he'd inherited from his mother? If it were, he couldn't experience anything more gloriously cathartic. Screaming, kicking, and destroying another chair against the cottage walls, Alarick attacked and let loose every ounce of fear, hate, loneliness, and despair that he'd miraculously managed to subvert for so many days in favor of a mask of surrender and complete subservience to a force that was far greater than he'd ever imagined.
Seeing the second chair hanging in broken bits of wood in his hands, he threw its battered remains away and ran to the bedroom, tearing his clothes off and throwing himself on one of the beds---naked, bruised, drenched in sweat, and wild-eyed.
"Go ahead, you pathetic hypocrite! Fuck me and get it over with!"
The wooden man, watching this remarkable display in amazement, could only stare at the thrashing body on the bed. If he could be seen in such a state of debasement, one wouldn't miss the bulging eyes, the slack mouth, the hands reaching out for the naked prince who offered himself to him. The cottage creaked from the wooden man's efforts as he fought against his own prison, his hunger and desire so powerful that he was literally tearing himself apart as he tried to separate himself from the wall.
He couldn't even articulate his need---his want. Like a wounded beast, he groaned as he clawed desperately at the air, fighting in vain to reach his victim, feeling tree sap dripping from his open mouth as he salivated for the feast that was right there. And when he couldn't touch Alarick, he howled, his voice soundless within cottage walls but reverberating through the forest, shaking leaves, scattering shadows. His erection strained under his clothes. The cottage continued to creak as he tore against it, the agony of ripping flesh---if one were to call his wood-grain skin and clothes---shaking the cursed structure to its foundations.
"What's the matter?" Alarick snarled. "Why so modest all of a sudden? Playing the virgin, are you? Then let me take care of things, myself!"
The cottage groaned more loudly now, drawing a quick burst of manic laughter from Alarick, who took himself in his hand and pumped, enhancing his performance with exaggerated movements. He threw his head back, closing his eyes while groaning, his body arching, his legs spreading, while his hand worked feverishly. Even in his rapidly spiraling rage-pleasure, he could feel the cottage strain against its foundations, contracting its walls as it desperately sought out his body, eager for a feast. Every inch of wood creaked and splintered, letting out hollow, sepulchral moans of its own as it found its nature laid bare by that audacious prince, and it fought against itself now. Hungry for Alarick's body while reasserting its power over him, it struggled against a new and completely baffling predicament---a war against its masquerade existence.
"I'm a devout man!" the watcher continued to howl even as he salivated and fought against his prison. "I know the path to virtue, and I can guide him!" He lusted and abhorred, lusted and abhorred, repeating his shrill protestations of purity to the cursed forest while fighting to reach Alarick and fuck him senseless.
Previous victims had never seen through its conflicting purpose and nature. Ignorance and fear had kept them bewildered and easy targets for the cottage's unnatural appetite for power over the weak---or at least what it perceived to be weak. Whether by coincidence or destiny or the interference of an unknown power that couldn't be deciphered, let alone measure, Alarick had crossed the threshold and offered the cottage something different, something deliciously tempting, and now it was slowly realizing what a mistake it had been to keep the prince captive for longer than the usual allotted time.
Greed had weakened it. Desire, so long subverted and redirected down other roads and redefined in ways that had nothing to do with pleasures of the flesh, had eaten away at the wooden man, and the rotting core from two centuries of pest infestations was slowly being laid bare.
Alarick continued to pleasure himself, his fist a near blur as he crested, and he exploded in a series of helpless gasps that faded into ragged sighs. The sight of his milky release coating his stomach and fingers drew more groans from the wooden man, who'd now sunk to the floor, where he clawed away with shredded fingers at the weathered wood as he fought a stupid, vain battle against his prison to get to the sated prince.
Alarick listened to his blood rushing in his ears, his heart thundering in his chest, as he gradually drifted back to earth with Roald's name in his lips. He stared at the ceiling with eyes that threatened to spill tears, for his earlier defiance had completely drained him, his fury now abated, and he was once again faced with the fact that there was nowhere else to go other than death.
He pinched his eyes shut, and tears did flow. "I love you, Roald," he whispered. "The gods bless you, wherever you are. I hope you know that I never gave in even till the end." It was all he could do, appending a silent prayer that the next person to cross the cottage's threshold would be the last. He never saw the wooden hands that vainly reached out to him from the floor, clawing and scrabbling, drawing out more sounds from a cracking foundation.
\*
With resignation came a numbed sort of calm. The cottage, incensed by Alarick's furious provocation, moved more furniture around, causing him to trip and fall, hit something, cut himself, burn himself, all meant to punish the damned slut for his mocking challenge. Bruised and bleeding, hobbling about in pain, Alarick nevertheless took to the abuse without a word, satisfying himself with a contemptuous smirk.
Let the monster tire itself out, he told himself even as he was on the verge of lashing out in another violent fit. And sure enough, the cottage grew tired of its bullying when it saw that their victim showed no response.
"You're no fun, Your Highness," it said with a heavy sigh. "Very well, then. Have it your way. Your bath awaits you."
The familiar tin tub broke into Alarick's line of vision, and without a word, he shed his clothes and climbed in. The warm, clean water was escape enough for him, and there he let lost himself, forcing his mind back to happier days in the past. He drifted from one family member to another, from one friend and acquaintance to another, in a quietly systematic farewell, ending his thoughts on Roald. If Alarick were to die in that cottage, he wanted to make sure that his final breath would be a prayer for his lover.
By the time he'd finished, he felt both clean and drained, and he headed straight for bed.
\*
Eventually Alarick had to eat from the garishly patterned and colored bowl, and it was truly all he could do to simply wait for time by observing the table setting. The bowl's design was nothing but a confusing mass of lines and curves that intersected and ran parallel to each other. Adding to the visual puzzle was the infinite collection of colors that filled every inch of space available. In several places the colors melded into each other, creating even more hues with which to boggle the prince's mind. And yet---in spite of the discordance---there was an unusual brand of beauty that could be found and that Alarick, regardless of the pain that stung his eyes, was drawn more and more into what he saw.
"What lesson will you teach me now?" he asked, feeling nothing more than dullness, which was steadily defining his daily existence. "What story will I be in? Will it turn out just as happily as the stories my nurse used to tell me?" He gingerly poked at his food with his fork, chuckling without humor.
The wooden man read the prince's rapidly dwindling strength of will to be a much-anticipated sign. The boy was finally surrendering himself---mind, body, soul. The wretch had put up a good fight, and with no help forthcoming, Alarick had finally, finally, given up. Took him long enough.
The cottage didn't respond. It didn't need to. The battle had been won, and it was only a matter of time before the prince would be claimed completely. A thick silence, which emphasized Alarick's isolation and helplessness, would be the death blow, and it wouldn't be long.
Not that Alarick cared one way or the other, of course. The shapes and the colors in his bowl were simply too exquisite to ignore, and he sank into a mesmerized state. Things seemed to move before him---lines and shades shifted into and against each other, and he was barely aware of going to the similarly patterned bed that evening. He moved mechanically as though in a perpetual dream state while he undressed and prepared for bed. His eyes were wide open yet dulled, and he had to feel his way around as though blinded. The shapes on his bed beckoned to him, and the colors controlled him. He obeyed willingly enough.
\*
Ulrike stood before the cursed forest's initial line of trees. Her gaze swept over the silent sentinels, her eyes narrowing as she listened to shadows whispering, stirring something awake in her.
From somewhere in the deepest, darkest corners of her soul, she felt her ancient bloodline and the power that had long consumed her stir. "I suppose it has its purpose," she murmured grimly. Her eyes fluttered shut against the looming threat before her, and she whispered old, familiar chants, feeling a warmth swell in her belly, slowly and gently rippling outward to flow over her limbs and her hands and feet, the most burning heat settling in her heart and feeding her mind with a confidence she hadn't felt in so many years, further fueled by a mother's vengeance and a lover's final wish for vindication.
Feeling her veins pulsing with a heat that staved off the chill of the night, the queen stepped forward, vanishing in the shadows of the guardian trees.
The forest felt her too well, and it offered its own resistance. Ulrike would merely turn to look at a creeping shadow, her eyes glowing while she murmured a spell, and the shadow would shrink, shudder, and be rent apart with an unearthly wail, the black tatters of its former self flying everywhere, to be swallowed up by the surrounding darkness. Other shadows would attempt to fight off the advancing witch-queen, only to be served the same way, till the cursed forest rang with echoes of its slain watchers.
"I'm not afraid of you!" she cried out as she moved to step on a fleeing snake-shaped shadow, destroying it with her satin shoes. She laughed, feeling almost drunk from her power's restoration and seeing how well she'd been able to defend herself against a cursed forest that had been around for as long as her own bloodline of sorcery existed.
And the last sorceress-queen would never go down without a fight.
The apple held in one hand, she raised the other with another murmured spell, and her hand disappeared under a ball of light. It pulsed softly for a moment before intensifying till it surrounded her with a brilliant glow that made the trees pull their branches away from her and curl up their roots, their trunks shrinking away from the piercing brightness. Other shadows cringed and crept back to safer places, and they peered out from behind trees, shrubberies, and rocks, watching and hating the presumptuous bitch as she forced her presence onto the forest, challenging its authority with her own.
"Where is he?" she demanded, only to be answered by distant laughter that echoed and faded. "Very well. I can find him, myself."
She walked on, spotting the path that Alarick had taken to the cottage but stepping outside it and plunging deeper into the forest in another direction. She stopped along the way, raising her head and sniffing the air, her eyes nothing more than a pair of glowing white sockets. She continued to sniff, turning left and right, sometimes bending low at the waist as she caught a scent that hovered like thick, sluggish mist just a few feet above the forest floor.
Her lips curled into a grim smile. "Ah, there you are," she said, and she hurried forward, this time taking another direction that forced her to walk through thickets and dead trees with low-hanging and interlocking branches. She'd lost her wig to one of those web-like formations, and her cape had been pulled back and tugged at, her dress torn in places. Indeed, if the forest couldn't stop her, surely the trees could at least claw away at her and work at her defenses.
But a will driven by vengeance couldn't be weathered, and the reassuring effects of sorcery in the blood only strengthened its determination. Ulrike barely felt the indignities she suffered, and at length she stood before an old mound of earth in a small clearing that was barely touched by the moonlight.
"Well, hello, Your Majesty," she said, the light pulsing around her growing brighter as she called on her powers. "So the legends are true, after all. The great sorcerer-king of Paradies, buried without ceremony and prayer, condemned to an eternity of unrest."
She curled her lip in disgust as she walked a slow circle around the unconsecrated grave, keenly taking in marks of a damned soul as exhibited to her by the unremarkable-looking mound. With the use of her powers, of course, she could see these telltale signs of a curse set on one who himself had placed a curse on the people who'd surrounded or served him two hundred years ago. Here and there, she caught sight of faint wisps of his soul, torn into ribbons and perpetually hovering above the grave, rising in graceful, invisible columns like the remnants of smoke of a doused fire.
Ulrike stopped at length, drawing herself up and feeling her powers surge through her, radiating outward through her outstretched arms. "But don't be afraid. Consider me your savior, Your Majesty. I'm sure you're tired of being chained to this forest and warping it to your image. I know that the people in this land feel this way. Sire, I do believe it's time for you to retire at last."
Chapter Twenty
The watcher in the wood smiled with cold satisfaction as he stood guard over his protégé. Alarick was now indulging in the burgundy-colored bowl with the delicate fruit design, and he'd understood its purpose. He ate his meal without his utensils and even his hands. He bowed into his food and moved his tongue to lap at his soup. Vegetables and meat got to be picked up with his lips and teeth.
"Like wine," the prince murmured almost rapturously at one point, his eyes fluttering shut as he slowly swiped his tongue across his lips before diving back into his bowl. "Wine and soup together---it's wonderful."
"Taste should always be savored," the watcher observed, and the prince nodded faintly. He could hear the watcher's voice in his head, which was a final sign of his surrender. It wouldn't be long before he was the cottage's completely, though the wooden man regretted the final state in which he was now about to claim his prize. "See, had you not resisted the way you did, you'd have been released a long time ago, Your Highness, with your humanity intact."
Alarick, though more like a doll than anything, still had that small corner of his mind to himself, fiercely protected as a hopelessly overpowered army would stand up to its victorious attackers, with their backs against the wall. And as such, he mentally rolled his eyes and laughed bitterly, angered more by the fact that death hadn't come quickly enough, and he was forced to defend his tiny patch of sanity and free will every minute since he awoke from one more night of twisted dreams.
My humanity's a great deal more intact than you think, you brainless coward, he thought, though his eyes remained dull and unseeing, his movements listless and wholly dependent on the cottage's smug directions.
He licked the bowl clean, unmindful of the mess he'd just created both on himself and around him. His mentor nodded his approbation before indulging in his own repast from wood grain bowls. The prince at length finished and glanced up, his eyes instantly fixing themselves on the wooden man as though he'd just spotted him easily from where he sat.
"The bowl tastes like wine and fruit," Alarick said. "Will my bed be the same?"
"Of course, Your Highness. Surely you don't expect anything less," the cottage replied.
Alarick offered a vacant smile before shuffling off to sit before the hearth. He moved like a puppet now---led around by invisible strings that the wooden man himself controlled. He obeyed it, was impressively pliant.
The wooden man followed him to his room and ensured that he repaired to the right bed. His eyes narrowed as his lips curved into a lazy smile of accomplishment. A hand once again pulled away from the wall, reaching out to the slumbering youth and failing, and once more resorted to pretending to stroke tousled raven hair. In Alarick's dreams---those that came after his violent tantrum---Roald was nowhere to be found, for the cottage had already taken over them, though it still failed to claim that last small corner of reality that Alarick kept hidden from it. In those same dreams, Alarick finally played by the rules, following one adventure to the next, rescuing princesses without a problem, without a single disaster happening. In those same dreams, he smiled at the pretty young ladies he'd valiantly saved from spells or imprisonment, taking their hands in his as he dropped to his knees and declared true, undying love to them before proposing marriage.
His brides welcomed his attentions happily, gifting him with the brightest, loveliest smiles and prettiest tokens of love, and each dream ended with him riding off into the sunset with his new beloved, with whom he was to remain steadfastly attached, through the years, through several children and even grandchildren, till death parted them, only to be reunited in blissful eternity ever after.
The wooden man absorbed those dreams, Alarick's final surrender to his lessons. In the cover of night, he watched the prince sleep, delighting in the tears that trickled down the sides of Alarick's face, judging them to be tears of joy at being finally set on the right path.
Every once in a while, the watcher would spot a strange shape forming around the prince when he slept. It only appeared in faint lines that softly glowed for a second or two before disappearing entirely, and it was always difficult to catch them. But after several glimpses of those odd lines, he was convinced that they existed, but he didn't know what they were or how they were formed.
Whenever he caught sight of them, he mentally connected those lines and came up with the picture of an oblong box surrounding the sleeping prince---like a coffin, one might say. Those lines appeared to him for two nights in a row, and each time they flickered into sight, they seemed more defined than they were before. Was this oblong box an effect of Alarick's dreams? Even a cursed creature such as the watcher couldn't fully delve into the young man's mind to know for sure, but the vision was quite stunning, and the efforts at solving this new puzzle proved to be rather fun to someone who never slept.
"What a beautiful sight you'd make, Your Highness," the wooden man once said with a leer, "lying in state in a glass coffin, exposed to the world and yet protected from it."
\*
There's a man in the wall, Alarick thought. This man moved around as he did, following him around the cottage. He'd pull away from the wood---as far as he could, at least---and move toward his protégé every so often, reaching out to touch the prince, a wooden hand against his cheek or his body whenever Alarick stood close enough to the wall. Sometimes wooden fingers idly combed through the tousled mess of raven hair that framed Alarick's face.
The man in the wall at times would bend over from the wood paneling to loom over him after his head sank in the pillows, telling him stories, filling him with tales of love and punishment, how one could never exist without the other. A good part of Alarick would accept what he heard readily enough. What greater truths he currently knew and understood were those that the cottage and the forest had long whispered in his ear---and what his dreams had now impressed in his mind.
Dreams...
He now believed that he lived in one. He could hardly tell the difference between his waking and his sleeping hours, though every once in a while, a flicker of light would shine from one corner of his mind---the one he continued to protect from the cottage's influence, even if his efforts had become no more than instinctual at this point. Nothing more than a basic act of survival, perhaps?
In his deepest state of unconsciousness, his senses were heightened to levels that left him trembling from want, contemptuous of anything that fell short of pure sensual pleasure. In his most conscious state, he felt the cottage and the forest---felt the world around him. He heard the tales being whispered between tree and bird, the lamentations of the evening breeze, the guttural murmurs among the rocks. He saw shadows creep about, and he chased after them, only to have them melt into the distant night. He felt soft velvet against his skin as though it were fingers that caressed him endlessly. He smelled every flower, every rotten tree, every blade of grass. He tasted the rain, the wind, and the sun.
The watcher in the wood---the man in the wall---his guardian and master---lover and enemy---quietly exulted as he carefully groomed the boy by devouring what was left of his humanity. Insubordination could never be tolerated, and for the prince to tempt the watcher into all kinds of unnatural fantasies? Ah, that would never be allowed to go unpunished.
Alarick ate from the bowl with the exquisite vine relief. He sat at the table, staring blankly ahead, his eyes dulled as his hands and fingers did all the work for him. He groped and felt every inch of the bowl, his mind hazily marveling at the way the intricately carved porcelain fired up his veins. When he was commanded to eat, he merely moved his hands inside the bowl and scooped out his food with his fingers, and he ate without his utensils---eyes still dully staring ahead, mouth barely moving once food was shoveled inside.
Drugged by this new sensory assault, Alarick fumbled his way to the bedroom, crawled under the covers, and literally fainted from being so overpowered.
He'd become a richly-dressed doll---a mannequin that his guardian easily shepherded here and there, now groomed even more for the real world. For a happily ever after as could only befit a prince. In his dreams, Alarick had already proven himself a worthy champion and husband, the kind that the world beyond the forest's borders expected and wanted from all of its young men. The wooden man reveled in his success and rewarded himself with occasional fantasies of fucking Alarick into the mattress, taking the prince in every position imaginable, on every possible surface.
Then the watcher would raise his eyes to the heavens and spread his hands before him, saying, "I've saved him. His life will be one of virtue."
The day finally came when the prince ate from the bowl that was made of pieces of bone tightly fitted together like a morbid puzzle. There was nothing to experience this time, his deadened mind noted, and he simply existed, going about his days with a vacancy of thought and spirit that not even his excessively heightened senses could fill.
But that only rendered him more pliable to his guardian, who now appeared in his dreams, crawling into his bed with him, holding Alarick close while he spun more tales of corruption and despair. The prince took it all in passively as he pressed himself against his mentor till sleep claimed him within the dream, and he drifted off with his lips gently resting against the other's in an attitude of bewildered adoration.
Nothing but darkness filled up his dreams within dreams this time around, and he simply floated in space, naked and cold and lost. Sometimes he suddenly felt hot pleasure coursing through him, and he shuddered, wishing for more. Sometimes he felt the sting of pain in some part of body, and he reflexively curled into himself, though he might seek the hurt. Better than not feeling anything at all, he comforted himself.
And so he waited in his dreams within dreams, his senses alternately roused and numbed, rewarded and punished, till he craved and loathed what he received in the darkness. For all this, however, he was forced to concede that he'd never before felt so alive.
In the meantime, the wooden man continued to see that phantom coffin appear, enclosing the sleeping prince. It had become more and more visible ever since he and the cottage had finally overcame the prince's defenses, invading Alarick's dreams and establishing themselves in them. What a strange effect---or perhaps reaction---in the young man.
When Alarick finally awakened, he was tired and drenched in sweat and milky release. His childhood had long disappeared; indeed, he believed that he'd never really had one. He tried to recover some long-forgotten memory of days spent in his parents' palace, but his mind failed in its task; nothing but dreams and black tales were brought to the fore, and his thoughts were not much more than an endless stream of beautiful and terrifying images. Everywhere he turned, he thought he saw the white knight laughing at him---taunting him. He felt chased and harassed, reproached and dissected---treated no better than any animal that had been marked for a hunt.
Alarick felt so tired now. Sometimes he'd forego a meal or two, opting instead to lie in bed and seek shelter in sleep, that tiny, safe corner in his mind hoping for rest without dreams this time, for his strength had begun to fail even there, and that little scrap of humanity that was left in him simply refused to let go of Roald or, indeed, his nature.
"This is your world," the forest said, and Alarick could hear its mocking voice through the cottage walls. "This is where you belong. You're an unnatural; you're someone's creation."
All thoughts of fairness have long abandoned the prince as he lay in bed, hands clasped on his stomach, his head softly cradled on a pillow, that strange coffin-like shield appearing even in the daytime---or what perhaps amounted to daytime in that forsaken part of the cursed forest. His eyes fluttered closed.
What did the future hold for this raven-haired youth?
He shall ride off on his best steed, proud and beautiful and brave, his ambition goading him on. He'll rescue doomed princesses from their tower prisons---set to right ageless curses woven by vindictive witches or stepmothers (it's always the stepmothers)---wander through fantastic lands---endure the most amazing tests. And he'll succeed. He'll prevail. He's the prince, after all, and princes never fail.
Bright but lifeless eyes of green peered into the bleakness around him. They searched---for what, no one could say. No, not even him.
\*
Ulrike smiled grimly as the leaf-covered mound shook, and she raised both arms, her hands spread open and engulfed in red light now. "Come on, Your Majesty," she jeered. "Surely you've never lost your touch."
The mound continued to shake, this time more violently, and the leaves suddenly flew up in an explosion of decaying organic debris, for the mound had been destroyed as bits of the sorcerer-king's bones were forcibly torn out of their final resting place.
"Well, it looks like you've seen better days." Ulrike burst out laughing as the sorcerer-king's bones rose from the grave and hovered in space for several moments. "And it's high time that you moved on, don't you think?"
The ground beneath her rumbled, and the trees around her moaned, swaying like drunks, their gnarled branches reaching out to tear at her, but she remained rooted and focused, her voice dropping to a low hum as she chanted a powerful spell that was meant to purge the forest. She didn't feel the sting of sharp branches and twigs scratching her skin and clawing at her dress and cape. Her eyes remained white and glowing, and the bones rattled in the air, shivering as though they struggled mightily against her power. Magic that continued after death, regardless of the length of time it remained active, proved to be subservient to the stronger forces of magic wielded by warm flesh and blood and fed by life.
Around the queen, the moans of trees gave way to a series of hysterical screams that came from all directions, each echoing the one before it, some of them exploding in unison like a ghastly chorus from beyond the grave, till the entire cursed forest itself shook from the forced expulsion of the dark magic that had long enshrined it.
A chill wind picked up and blew around Ulrike, moving in a wild spiral that picked up the sorcerer-king's bones and shattered them into a thousand pieces that were then spat out, to fly in all directions, vanishing in the night. The howls rose in a fevered pitch one final time before falling till nothing but the sound of a gentle night breeze remained.
Ulrike blinked, and her powers subsided. She found herself standing in a small forest clearing, the trees around her giving off nothing more than a nocturnal calmness that she once enjoyed. She held her breath and listened, her senses heightened. With a sigh of relief, she found that there were no forces around her that felt threatening and unnatural. Before her, the sorcerer-king's grave had vanished, the only indication of its existence being nothing more than a scattered pile of dead leaves.
"Rest in peace, Your Majesty," she said, smirking, before turning around and hurrying back through the trees and in the direction of the path that would take her to the cottage. She stumbled once and was forced to lean against a tree to catch a breath and regain her composure, one hand pressing against her heart and gently rubbing it. The spell she'd just cast to rid the forest of the sorcerer-king's condemned soul and vindictive magic had taken quite a bit out of her, and she was not only exhausted and weak, but also in a bit of pain. She'd exerted herself, perhaps pushed herself too far, but it was all done for her son and for the rest of the kingdom. Being granted lucidity that day and well into the night was, indeed, a blessing, the last that she could ever hope to expect, and she swore not to waste a single moment of it.
\*
Alarick's eyes flew open at the sudden shaking of the ground. His body felt like a massive, immoveable weight, however, and his desire to sit up and stand only flared up weakly for a second or two before vanishing, to be replaced by the most potent feeling of deadness and deep indifference to everything outside the crystal box he'd managed to form around him. Could he breathe? Oh, yes, he could, but he was so weak. So weak.
Even as he opened his eyes, his lids could only go halfway, and Alarick peered through mere slits as he tried to determine what was going on around him.
The ground shook---no, the walls did. From where he lay, and from the partly visible shield of his glass box, he could see the walls swaying, the furniture moving or getting knocked down. He wasn't sure, but the wood panels contorted as well, as though being forcibly reshaped by some unknown force, and amid the confusion, he spotted the wooden man stagger through the walls, groping his way from one end of the cottage to another as though suddenly blinded, sometimes disappearing along the way, sometimes reappearing in a completely different location. All the time, the wooden man seemed to be fleeing something, his face a mask of terror and dismay, his mouth open in a silent scream.
"This is it, then," Alarick murmured, blinking away the heaviness of his eyes and finding it more and more difficult to stay awake. Was he dying? He wouldn't be surprised if he were, but he welcomed the peace of death. It would be far, far better than what he'd been enduring since his last day with Roald in their favorite glade.
The wooden man screamed and flailed, fighting off the burn. Yes, he was burning, or at least he felt as though he were burning. He could feel heat growing behind him though he saw no fire, and it was all he could do to flee. It was simply too bad that he was the cottage, and there was really nowhere for him to go. He reached out to the prince who lay on the bed, unmoving as though dead, but even the mere act of pulling his hand out and away from its prison nearly incapacitated him from the incredible pain that accompanied it.
From somewhere outside, he felt another presence---magic, dark like his, but wielded by someone alive. Powerful magic that was about to destroy him.
No, he realized, when he looked down at himself and saw parts of his body melting into the wood, becoming permanent parts of the wall, so that he could barely move.
"No!" he screeched. "No!"
Something terrible was happening somewhere in the forest. He didn't know where, didn't know what. But it was ripping him apart.
"No!"
He struggled, barely managed to tear himself from one spot in the wall, only to find himself anchored down in another. Roaring, he fought to move his limbs, but his legs were now absorbed by the wood panels, and his arms had frozen in mid struggle. He watched in horror as they slowly vanished, fingers and palm, along with his clothes, fading into the wood, till all that was left was his head.
"No!"
He couldn't move his head, and any struggle only tore at his skin. As he slowly got eaten up by the cottage walls, the last image of him that could be made out was of his face contorted in an expression of extreme terror, his mouth wide open in a perpetual scream. But no sound emerged, and within moments, calm descended upon the cottage.
The thin, wooden arms that crisscrossed to lock the door and windows shuddered, dried up, and crumbled. A hollow silence now filled the cottage, with neither sound nor movement coming from the bedroom, where Alarick lay.
Time finally righted itself, and the flow of minutes and hours settled back into its normal rhythm. All in all, Alarick was in the cottage for twelve days, though the time during his imprisonment had become malleable and confusing. He wouldn't know any of these, however, and he never would. Existence in an isolated capsule of time, where one's mind and spirit were broken to fit the lies perpetuated beyond the forest's borders and yet practically raped by the desires of a creature that was evil incarnate, was no less than a black limbo, from which escape meant death.
Several more minutes passed before the door opened under a pale, trembling hand, and Ulrike stepped across the threshold.
Battered and bloodied, her powdered wig gone, her hair stringy and loose, her clothes torn and soiled, she nevertheless swept inside with a grandness that could only befit a monarch. She looked around her, surveying the empty cottage, taking in the sight of dark, aged wood, discolored walls and old furniture. She drew a cold hand across her brow as she rallied what was left of her strength.
Stepping forward, she saw the door to the bedroom on her right, and she immediately walked through, pausing at the doorway at the sight of her son lying as though dead on a filthy, decrepit old bed. He looked so peaceful, resting like that, but she knew that he needed her. She saw the faint outline of an oblong box encasing him, and she understood what it meant.
No, her son didn't inherit her powers---there was no such thing. She'd learned them as a young girl, for it was the only way for sorcery to live on from one generation to the next. It was never inherited by blood, the way so many people always believed, and only the most ambitious sought out the power and worked hard to enhance it. Amara certainly never wished to learn it, for she was the hopeless dreamer who believed too much in lofty things. Ulrike, however, was more pragmatic, and she'd remain pragmatic till the end.
"Funny how things work out," she said, leaning against the doorway now in exhaustion.
What she was seeing---that strange box around her son---was his doing, to be sure, but it had nothing to do with magic. He'd created it perhaps by sheer force of will to protect himself, perhaps the magic that surrounded him in the cottage feeding it inadvertently, helping it. Indeed, she wouldn't be surprised if it was a physical manifestation of his heart, built to protect himself from the rest of the world---from further pain. Yes, he definitely needed her help now, but she was so drained and was in no way capable of moving him, but she knew at length what to do.
Ulrike moved over to the nearest wall and pressed a hand against it, reading its composition. A surge of hope swept over her at the realization that the cottage was built and controlled by magic. It could easily be undone by the same.
With a tired sigh, she felt around her pockets, drew out the apple, and walked to the prince's bedside. She stroked her son's hair, her lips trembling as she whispered his name, calling him out of his stupor---self-made or otherwise---urging him back. When he opened his eyes weakly, the brilliant green dulled under the heavy lids, she smiled.
"I'm here to help you, Darling," she said in a gentle, quiet voice. "Can you hear me?"
Alarick didn't move at first, but he eventually nodded. His mouth opened as though to speak, but no words came out.
"I've seen your resistance. I've watched it happen in the looking-glass. I also need to get you out of this cursed cottage, but I'm too weak to physically move you." She paused to steady her voice, stroking her son's hair again. "He'll find you again, you know. He will. You're too broken and weak to meet him halfway right now. All you can do is to wait."
Alarick blinked, nodded, his gaze fixed on the ceiling and unfocused. His skin felt cold.
"You've put up a good fight, protected yourself---or what might be left untouched by that monster. I'm proud of you." The queen took a deep breath. "That young man will come back for you, but he won't be able to find you in here. I have to destroy this cottage and leave you exposed for him to find you. Only your will to live and to be with him will see you through till the time he arrives. Don't give up. You can still dream---good dreams---and reclaim yourself---those parts of you that that monster somehow blackened. Heal yourself in the meantime."
She held up the apple. "Will you die for him---your beloved?"
Alarick blinked again, nodded again, much more weakly this time. Ulrike pressed the apple against his lips while stroking his hair. "Take a bite, Dearest. Take back what's rightfully yours---your life, your love, your hopes and dreams. Then sleep, restore yourself, and he'll be at your side before you know it."
It took some effort, but Alarick finally bit a small piece of the apple and chewed slowly.
"Swallow, Darling. Swallow."
Alarick swallowed, and his eyes finally closed and remained still. Ulrike watched him for another moment, still stroking his hair, this time ensuring that her son was peacefully in a state that hovered between sleep and death---a protective state that was neither permanent nor too transitory, one that lasted long enough till the right awakening happened to complete the restoration of his humanity.
"Farewell, my love."
She bent down and pressed a kiss on a cold forehead, moving his hands so that they rested above his heart before standing up in time to watch Alarick's oblong box take shape again, this time forming more solidly. Like a glass coffin, it encased her son, the manifestation of a young man's stubborn will to be what he was and also a most remarkable form of protection for a heart and a mind that had been broken by malice. The glass coffin was, the queen knew, Alarick's ultimate resistance and the key to his salvation and future happiness.
Yes, her son would be happy. The thought reassured her. With one final glance at the glass coffin and the young man lying inside, Ulrike turned and walked into the kitchen and toward the hearth.
Standing before it, she summoned every ounce of power she had with whatever strength was left and formed a raging fire in the hearth, which she fed till it grew into a dangerous size with a wave of her hand. Before long the hearth and its surrounding walls were ablaze, the old, rotting wood of the cottage easily catching fire. The cottage didn't resist, for it was already dead.
Ulrike stood in the middle of the dining room and encouraged the fire to spread rapidly, not at all worried about her son in the bedroom being burned alive, for she was now destroying remnants of old magic with hers.
She closed her eyes, spreading her arms up at her sides as she chanted. Flames grew, bits of burning wood popped, and some tumbled down. She barely felt the heat, the brilliant light behind her eyelids making her feel strangely more alive than she'd ever been.
Was this redemption? Emancipation? She opened her eyes and saw nothing but thick flames around her, the cottage nowhere to be seen. There was a shadow in the fire, however, that slowly grew, and Amara emerged. She looked at Ulrike with an expression of calm and compassion, hesitating for a moment before raising a hand, which Ulrike took in hers.
"He'll be fine," Amara said. "He'll live and love for us."
"I know." Feeling the warmth of Amara's hand, Ulrike smiled at her younger sister even as the fire roared.
Chapter Twenty-One
Roald didn't know how long it took him to reach the edge of the woods where he last saw the goddess. He dismounted, stroking Warlock's neck for a few moments, whispering his thanks to the horse. Warlock merely bowed his magnificent head as though in humble acknowledgment, before wandering off to find something to eat. Roald watched him with a rueful little smile before turning and walking into the trees and in the direction of his beloved glade, deep in thought.
He wasn't even aware that he was back in the glade until he realized that he was standing before the marble statue, gazing at it sorrowfully. His chest ached. The sharp pain that assailed him throughout his eye-opening ordeal in that enchanted palace had now receded to an insistent, dull throbbing that kept one of his hands pressed against his heart.
"The gods won't come for you, will they?" he whispered, and then he shook his head. "That was silly. No, of course the gods won't come for you. I think you're nothing more than a random statue that's been left behind." He thought about his recent adventures again. "No, I've been so stupid---so incredibly stupid."
"Is this where you've been hiding?"
Roald turned around and found his mistress standing at the other side of the glade, glancing around with vague curiosity. She looked back at him, her eyes pale but registering a light of anticipation.
"You look dreadful, but it's good to see you back in one piece," she said, dismissing Roald's bruised state without hesitation. "I assume that you've been successful."
"It depends on what you mean by successful," Roald replied without much enthusiasm.
"How would success be defined, generally, in cases such as that?" Kummerene asked, looking bemused. "Surely you'd know, considering all those silly stories they used to tell you as a child. A noble youth rides off in search of true love? He should be tested first, shouldn't he? How else would anyone know if he's the right one who deserves that---oh, how do mortals call it---that happily-ever-after?"
Roald regarded her for a moment before turning his attention back at the statue. Spotting some dirt on one of its arms, he proceeded to brush it off. "I failed," he said at length.
"Failed. You failed a simple test." The goddess's voice was sharp and biting. "The heavens help you for being an idiot, though I know that you aren't."
Roald sighed and looked back at her. "My path doesn't lie in that direction or follow a path that runs along similar lines, if you'd like me to be more specific about this. You wanted me to save a princess from herself and fall in love with her, didn't you?"
The goddess raised a brow. "What else did you expect, seeing as how I've been grooming you to be my consort?"
"I fell in love with another prince---or at least believed that I was in love with him," Roald snapped. "But don't get your hopes up yet, Mistress, because what I tried to do was run away from a situation that I thought I had no control over. I know now why I was brought to you, and I know why you chose me."
She looked at him in amazement. "Send a fool off to an adventure, and he returns an arrogant little bastard."
Roald walked closer to her, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "You thought that I'd be easy to manipulate because of grief---not yours, but mine. You---and my father, I know now---thought that despair would make me pliable and an easy mark for change. You tried to teach me your reality and his. You isolated me from everyone I knew because you believed that stripping me of everything, even my dignity, would make me see the light as only you and my father could define it."
"A very arrogant little bastard," the goddess broke in, her voice now low and angry.
Roald moved closer, and she moved away, so that both of them inched their way around the glade, eyeing each other in fury. "And what of that? I'd rather look at it as self-discovery, frankly, and I don't care what you think or what you say or better yet, what you'll do to me, but I'll never bow to your blind selfishness or my father's ambitions." He paused, laughing bitterly. "What, did you really think that you could send me out on a fool's errand, absorbing misery because that's all you know and all you want to know, and then return a changed man? That sending me out to that palace in the west would prove that I'm now happily favoring bedding women and not men? Is this what grief does to you---cloud your judgment?"
"And seeing the way you fondled that statue, it's safe to guess that you'd sooner fuck it than a woman." Kummerene seethed. She'd been too lax with this insufferable dolt. She should have stayed with him, kept an eye on him, rather than allow him too much freedom. Even with the effects of a momentary loss of memory, he still retained too many of his old qualities to be so easily molded.
"For a goddess, you're rather crude."
She stared at the statue in mute amazement for a brief moment, her features registering an attempt at understanding. Then she locked gazes with her protégé. "It's nothing but a pile of stone carved to look like a boy no one knows. Judging from the way the feet aren't even done, the sculptor must have abandoned his work---given up on it."
Roald blushed deeply as he continued to fight his temper, but he felt reckless in his anger and desperation, and it was far too difficult trying to watch his tongue. "Then perhaps you should take over and finish what's been started. This should be an easy enough task for you. When you're done, just turn him into an immortal who'll share your self-absorption for the rest of eternity."
"He is an it, you idiot, and nothing more. Just an insignificant piece of stone with no life and no future save for time spent standing in this glade till it crumbles to dust."
"I can easily claim to be that statue, considering what you've done to me. I only feel foolish enough for taking so long to remember who---and what---I am. Oddly, it was through some of the things you wanted me to absorb that this realization happened."
Her face brightened, and the light in her eyes almost looked manic. The sight unnerved Roald, who now began to wonder about this goddess's true state of mind. "You've felt it all then," Kummerene murmured. "Everything---every black thought, every destructive tendency, every ounce of despair that the human heart can contain. You've felt it all---you've achieved perfection---just as I'd hoped. Come now. I don't care what had happened in your quest. In fact, I'm rather gratified by your failure, as I'm sure that you did something quite extraordinary and was dealt a pretty terrible blow." She paused, narrowing her eyes and cocking her head. "Yes, I can sense that you somehow expressed this---misguided infatuation you had with this prince---and suffered from it. Violence, rejection, and inhumanity..."
Roald shook his head, alternately shocked and repulsed. "By the gods, you really are mad. I'm not going anywhere, let alone with you. If you want a consort, find someone who already fancies women and make things easier for both of you."
Kummerene raised an eyebrow. "That's for me to decide."
"I have a choice. You've never taken that away from me---even my father failed." Roald smiled grimly. "Go ahead. Punish me the way gods punish mortals. Turn me into something---a plant. A rock. A body of water. A statue. It doesn't matter because you both failed, and nothing will ever change that fact---even my death."
"Oh? And what makes you think that?"
She slowly walked up to Roald, circling him, inspecting him critically. Her eyes flashed in anger, her complexion losing even more of its color.
Roald watched her calmly. "Because it's true, and you know it's true."
She stopped before him. Her eyes darted from him to the statue and then back. "Are you telling me that you'd rather fall in love with this useless piece of marble?" she asked incredulously.
Roald held his ground, convinced that the end---his end---was now near. Best to face it with whatever courage he had. "Your judgment's clouded again," he replied, and Kummerene flushed deeply. "But if you want to know if I'd rather fall in love with another man then yes. Warm-blooded and mortal, preferably."
"You feel only what I command you to feel." Kummerene shook, confusion now warring for a foothold in her mind. She was an immortal, for goodness's sake! Why did this fool remain defiant? Did he not understand what forces he was now up against? "How dare you question me! We've made a bargain---"
"A bargain with my father, you mean. As for me, you took advantage of a state of confusion and weakness. Not a very godly thing to do, don't you agree? Or do immortals normally stoop this low?"
What have you done? a quiet, familiar, and beloved voice asked, the words of a dead general carried to Kummerene by the winds.
She shivered at the sound and its reproach. Just as unexpectedly as it came, however, it was gone in a breath, and she recovered once the charm was lifted, sudden rage surging through her.
"There's nothing in you but what you're meant to have! You're nothing but a shell!" she repeated, her manner now dangerously manic. She looked as though she were about to lunge forward and tear Roald to pieces with her hands. "Fool! Do you want me to prove it?"
"You've nothing more to prove, Mistress," Roald said calmly. "I've already seen through you and through my father. Do what you will to me, but you can never change the truth by hiding it behind spells and immortality. Time will be our judge." With that, he inclined his head in farewell and turned around to walk back to the statue.
"Very well then---I promised you a reward. Let your---heart---dictate your gift, and I'll be content. Just spare me your embarrassing theatrics."
He ignored her half-whispered words that followed. He ignored the derision that formed them.
"What will you look like, I wonder? Perhaps a little bird---or a fish. Maybe even a butterfly. Anything small, weak, and silly would suit you."
Roald suddenly stumbled with a cry and fell to the ground. His legs had ceased to function. He looked around for a moment in stunned amazement, his body struggling to move muscles that seemed to have locked themselves completely. And when his eyes rested on the marble figure standing just a couple of feet away, he gathered all his strength and dragged himself across the grass, his legs trailing uselessly behind him, Alarick's name on his lips.
Sweat broke out on his brow, but he persisted, and he was soon at the base of the statue, reaching out to grab hold of something for sufficient purchase. Fingers clawing desperately, he strained and pulled himself up, clinging to the statue as he felt the locking down of joints and muscles moving its way up his body.
His feet froze on the ground, and small appendages sprouted from them and buried themselves in the soil, digging deeply and branching off in several different directions under the surface.
"You'll never have me," he grunted as he pulled himself up.
"What's this? What are you doing to yourself?" Kummerene demanded, her voice rising to near-hysterical levels. What was happening? She hadn't even lifted a finger in punishment or reward!
Roald felt the pull of her power as she fought to re-establish her control over him, but her efforts were thwarted. He felt invisible fingers attempt to wrap themselves around him and then relinquish their hold, sliding off before struggling to take him again.
Small green branches sprouted all over his body, but he ignored them, his eyes firmly fixed on the marble boy's face as he clawed his way up. Dark green, glossy leaves appeared in thick clusters on these branches, pushing their way out as though eager to touch the sunlight.
"Alarick..."
He'd managed to pull himself to a near-standing position, leaning heavily against the figure on which he continued to cling tightly. Thick canes broke out of his body, shooting languidly up, with more young green branches and leaves appearing throughout.
Thorns---long, sharp, tapering gracefully to red points---broke out of the branches and the canes. Roald felt an odd warmth suffuse him as he transformed. Life---of a different kind---seemed to promise calm and silence. The dull pain that had tormented his mind for some time was gently washed off with every new cluster of leaves, with every thorn, with every new branch that broke out of his body and pushed its way out into the breeze.
His eyes dimmed as he felt his arms stiffen around the statue's shoulders, solidifying into young wood and fresh stems. He turned his face and pressed his mouth against the cold marble cheek.
"Alarick," he said, his words slurred as his tongue slowly lost its function. "I'm so sorry." Roald's tongue was stilled, and, resting his face against the marble neck, the final moment of transformation came. Where his head used to be, long, graceful branches appeared, wrapping themselves around the statue's shoulder and groping steadily up the back of the marble boy's head as though gently cradling it in green fingers. Rosebuds of a deep, blue hue sprouted in clusters all over the plant.
The glade fell silent as Kummerene stood and watched Roald's heart make itself known to her---rooted by its independence, armored in thorns by its pain, lush in its hope, and vibrant in its passion and yearning for the impossible. Only she was in the secluded little sanctuary now, the marble statue protectively embraced by rose-covered vines that tempered the air with its fragrance.
Balling her hands into tight fists, she threw her head back and screamed, again and again, till her voice cracked.
What have you done?
"It's time, Sister," a quiet voice spoke, and she turned to find Weisheitta and Liebella standing behind her, looking grave. "The war's been over, and we've grieved long enough. The world can't wait for us."
"Did you see what he did?" Kummerene spluttered in a hoarse voice, pointing at the marble statue and its cloak of blue roses. "How could he do this to me?"
Weisheitta regarded her in pity. "He was never yours to begin with, and we warned you. As always, you were too blinded by your own needs to see."
"His father gave him to me!"
"An unholy contract made, yes, but you both underestimated his will. Now let him go and let him carry on."
Kummerene shook her head, blinking away the tears that had begun to fall. "Why? Don't I deserve happiness like everyone else? Is it too much for me to hope for companionship that won't die?"
Liebella sighed, again feeling a surge of impatience, though she took care to suppress it as she'd promised to Weisheitta before they appeared to their despairing sister. "No one's denying you that," she replied, nearly appending "you fool" to what she'd just said. "But if you insist on fairness and justice for you and everyone else, court a mortal who'd be willing to be your consort."
"Oh, how easy it is for you to say that," Kummerene retorted. "I'm sure there are countless mortals out there who'll trip all over themselves to offer their souls to me."
Liebella raised a brow. "There are," she said. "Believe me, there are."
"And how would you know this?" Kummerene paused immediately after she spoke, and she blushed deeply at realizing how ridiculous the question was. Of course, Liebella, of all immortals, would know the passion in men's hearts! "Never mind." She dashed tears away with the back of her hand and sniffled, turning to look at the marble statue and the blue roses again.
"What about him?" she asked brokenly.
"Release him and then leave him," Weisheitta replied. "Sometimes the best course is to let things be."
"Though sometimes a little merciful intervention doesn't hurt," Liebella broke in, an edge of bitter rebuke in her words as she glared at her sister. "I'll make sure that he finds his way back to where he truly belongs."
Kummerene turned to Liebella, now feeling resentful. "What, are you going to be his protector now?"
"No," Weisheitta said before Liebella could answer in a negative. "No, I will."
Kummerene regarded her sisters in silence, her heart doing its utmost in struggling against what was obviously the best path for her to take. But the fragrance that filled the glade was potent, and she felt her spirits slowly succumb to its soothing power.
She nodded at length, drawing the back of her hand against her eyes as she stepped forward and was gladly received by her sisters. As they vanished to take their rightful place in the realm of immortals, she turned to cast one final glance at the silent lovers in the glade. And grief, once all-consuming and blinding, finally surrendered to the gentler, quieter force of pity.
"Have faith," she whispered. "You deserve your independence."
Her voice trailed off into silence, and calm once again fell on the glade.
\*
The cursed cottage had vanished, leaving nothing in its wake but a forest clearing edged with the remains of charred trees. It was a miracle, many wanderers would say, that the fire didn't spread through the forest and cause a horrible disaster. It only consumed the cottage and some surrounding trees, the latter fact making it look as though the fire had a mind of its own, deliberately clearing the way for a lot of sunshine to enter that area. It was a haunting view for those who wandered through the forest, for the sun's light flooded that small area, like a golden arm reaching down to cradle a glass coffin that sat on what once was a bed.
As it was inside the cottage, time inside the glass coffin seemed to crawl, the minutes and hours melting into each other in a pulsing, living tapestry that never ended, telling stories that soothed this time, not intimidated or harassed the way the cottage's nursery tales did. There was some comfort to be had in that little capsule of static time and magic, and as Alarick's lifeless body was awash with story after hopeful story, his mind and heart, now healing, couldn't help but attach themselves to old shadows.
No, in the world outside the palace borders, there were no curses or spells woven by vindictive witches or stepmothers. There were no princesses to save. There was only the sharp delineation between the natural and the unnatural, white and black. The unnatural was the outsider---that one that belonged nowhere else but the horrible little world from which it had been spawned, and Alarick was exactly that. But just as the alchemist created poisons from a mixture of otherwise harmless compounds, the simple quality of naturalness of an apple served as poison to the system of one who'd been someone else's manufactured doll.
Alarick, even in that deep dream-state, could still remember his mother's face as she bent down over him, helping him in her final moments. He could still remember the taste of the apple she fed him, something that maybe she believed to be enchanted as well, but Alarick was convinced otherwise. There was nothing strange about the apple; it was untouched and natural---something that Alarick had desperately needed after so much time spent in what had been a twisted masquerade generously peppered with manipulated stories and dreams. The apple was a desperately needed light in a dark theatre.
His mind also couldn't help but cling to remnants of dreary memories and bleaker dreams; it still remembered the lingering smell of wood. He could still see snatches of his reality when he finally succumbed to the effects of the apple and his mind's final and powerful push to form that protective glass box that now encased him. Curses, reproaches, vindictive insults being screamed at him from all corners of the cottage---all were caught up in a wave of nightmarish activity when the sun set behind the trees, and shapes and colors swirled against each other before sinking into a void.
Alarick dreamed of feeling himself touched; he felt himself kissed; he felt his clothes dissolve. Shadows hovered above as the night deepened, and he was drowning under a thousand hands that fumbled, groped, and caressed. His hands lay cold and lifeless on his chest though sometimes they'd feel as though bound with silk ribbons above his head. His legs seemed to be spread and bent---sometimes draped over a broad set of shoulders, sometimes pushed up against his chest, sometimes wrapped around heaving flanks.
Those snatches of past dreams and nightmares gradually faded in time, and the soothing stories told by the forest around him now lulled him into a patient, hopeful, though melancholy state.
"Have faith, Your Highness," the trees said, once terrifying, now protecting him.
Rumors eventually spread all over about an enchanted glass coffin lying on an old, wooden bed that was now moss-and vine-covered. Thorny briars had sprouted from the ground and had stretched out their arms to cradle the coffin in a protective embrace, blue roses blooming extravagantly up and down those canes. The oblong container then was secured firmly to the earth in spite of its otherworldly nature, and that, some people said, was the essence of magic.
"What's in it?" peasants ask. "Who's in it?"
"No one of any importance."
Some claimed that the figure that lay inside was that of a young man who'd been cursed to be born to the wrong set of parents, an accident of fate that had set the wrong wheels in motion, and the square peg, as the saying went, was hammered mercilessly into a round hole.
"And why isn't he buried properly?" travelers prodded.
"Because it would do the world a great deal of good to make an example out of him."
Ah, yes, some had seen him---lying in state atop the remains of faded bedclothes, dark head slightly propped up by an old pillow. Pale features sought the sun, and gently parted lips welcomed lovers. Bruised hands were softly folded on a still chest as though feeling for a heart---or perhaps shielding it against the elements and the rest of the world. He enchanted as he lay in the glass coffin, luring the curious and the bold to his side.
They'd wipe the dusty glass and would be enticed by the strange vision. Some desired him; some were horrified by their own lust and blamed him for their shame.
The coffin was alternately worshipped and spat on, caressed and kicked, and the briars tightened their hold around their lifeless charge in jealous protection. Those who wished to break the glass open were stabbed with countless thorns, their clothes and skin shredded and infected until they were forced to abandon their efforts. The youth inside remained unsullied and peaceful, drawing more admirers and outraged gawkers to him.
He was a creation of the long-dead sorcerer-king, they all cried. Release him from his coffin, and a plague of misfortune will be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. He was desperately wanted and violently loathed, and inside the dirt-caked glass coffin, he was painfully alone.
His eyes saw beyond their shut lids. They watched the world age around him, watched time leave its mark on everything else but him. They continued to stare out of the glass, searching.
Search for what? he asked incredulously. There's nothing out there for me! This is my lot!
"Remember what you've just endured, Your Highness," the forest said, dropping comforting leaves on the shield he'd erected around himself. "Have faith."
One day a face appeared above him, stooping over the glass and peering carefully inside. It was a young face, about a year older than the cursed prince---streaked with dust and dirt from travel, dark hair waving in the breeze, tired eyes wide and questioning.
"He's a wanderer from a strange land, and rumor has it that he's a disgraced aristocrat out to clear his name. But does it matter now?" the forest said.
"No, not a wanderer," the breeze corrected, and the briars with their blue roses gently loosened their hold on the glass coffin. "No, he's someone from these parts who's finally come home."
Alarick silently wondered. There was something comfortably familiar with that face, which was now speaking, but the words were lost outside the glass. Had Alarick seen him before? The face disappeared, and the coffin suddenly shook. The sound of cracking and squeaking could only mean that the newcomer was attempting to pry the lid open, no doubt with a sword. All travelers---particularly those of noble blood---always carried a sword.
Alarick wracked his brain and fished around the fog.
Have we met before? he asked.
Yes, he finally realized it. Yes, they'd met before, a long time ago.
They'd shared a kiss at the vine-choked well. They'd been locked away in a crystal tower prison. They'd chased each other in a flurry of fur and hysterical yowling. They'd descended into a bed of silk with the beating of white wings. They'd spun straw into gold together. They'd marked themselves unwittingly in the bloody chamber and had unfairly paid for it. They'd floated in oblivion.
Yes, we have met! he cried, jubilant, and a solitary tear pressed through his lashes in welcome to the young man who'd just come home to him.
Cracks formed and rapidly spread out like jagged fingers across the glass, tiny capillaries that stretched and multiplied till the coffin shook unsteadily, and the briars gave up their hold under the determined swinging of a well-aimed sword.
There were no curses or spells woven by vindictive stepmothers, after all. There were no princesses to save. There was only the sharp delineation between the natural and the unnatural, white and black, but was it real? This separation---this delineation---was nothing more than phantasms formed in the dreary depths of one's mind if he were to surrender to unchecked grief and despair.
The lid shattered and showered Alarick with a thousand shards of glass, but he felt no pain.
The sun enveloped him in warmth, the breeze filled his lungs with clear air, and he yearned to smile again. Behind his closed lids, he could still see Roald loom over him; he appeared bruised, weary, and soiled, his shoulders sagging from the weight of resistance and counter exertions. Yet his eyes gazed at Alarick's lifeless figure with a faint light that hadn't dimmed completely. And perhaps---perhaps---it never would.
Please, Alarick said as Roald gently lifted him from his discolored bed and held him in warm arms. Give me what my senses lack, and I'll spin you tales of contentedly-ever-after.
Alarick must have said---or done---something right at last, for the dust-covered Roald, tearful and smiling, bent down for a kiss.
Back in the northern kingdom of the continent, Kavi and Uma seemed to be compelled to remain where they were, but whatever ostracism they'd endured before had tapered off to shaky acceptance. The couple, after all, proved themselves to be remarkable intellectuals and were courted by the new king of the region to be his ministers. But they declined politely, with Uma offering to be the king's scribe instead, faithfully recording events both great and small and assigning them a permanent place in the kingdom's annals. Kavi was a talented poet and had entertained (and continued to entertain) the court with his creations, which tended to touch on epic accounts of the land's history though he'd also given life to smaller, more insignificant tales of mortal struggles.
He was credited for committing in ink the story of Hamlin and Wilmar, which, as time went, turned to legend, and people recounted the tale without truly knowing which points were real or not.
Perhaps the most mystifying tale that had ever come from Kavi's pen was a curious romance between a blue rose and a marble statue. The poet claimed to have received the story in his sleep, and people pressed him on to finish the tale, but he resisted them, much to their chagrin.
"Are the gods kind to them?" they asked.
"Will they be given another chance?"
"The poor boy! All that suffering for nothing?"
Everywhere, people demanded their happily-ever-after, refusing to accept that the charming tale of a young man who resisted an immortal's efforts at falling in love with the wrong person---and who chose to be transformed instead than bow to her wishes---was ongoing.
Kavi shrugged, looking faintly bewildered. "I don't know how the story ends," he simply replied. "The gods guide my pen, and as far as I'm told, this doomed youth has yet to be vindicated."
People left him, muttering under their breaths, but he paid them no heed and threw himself into his work. The inspiration would come---of that he knew too well. And as he worked, he'd smile at the anticipation he always felt---when he'd look forward to the next moment when he and Uma, goaded on by the gentle voice of a sorrowful goddess, who'd visit them at seemingly random days, would leave the world behind them to gather wildflowers. Those were offerings for an abandoned marble statue that stood in an idyllic glade, waiting for a certain kind of lover to appear, offering his heart and even his life, to an impossible goal.
\*
"People are getting impatient," Kavi said as he sat on the grass, luxuriating in the warmth of the golden sunshine, his pen and paper at the ready. Nearby, Uma sat in rapt attention, and the two of them together looked like eager schoolchildren in rich, colorful costumes that spoke of adventure and distant lands. "They all want to know how the story ends."
Kummerene glanced at him and smiled faintly. She stood at the far end of the glade, the trees behind her softly shadowing her pale figure. "I'm afraid I don't know how the story ends, but it will in time, and from the looks of things, it'll end happily."
Kavi sighed, glancing back at the statue. "No one wants to hear that. They want specifics---something definite."
"Something real and reassuring," Uma broke in with a nod.
"The only reassurance we can hope to have depends on how these lovers live out the rest of their time together."
Kavi and Uma exchanged amazed and hopeful glances. "You mean to say that he---this Roald boy---found his way back?" Kavi said.
Kummerene's smile broadened, though she remained swathed in sadness. "He's one of the lucky ones. Now that's all I can tell you," she said, raising a hand when Kavi opened his mouth to speak again. "No more. Don't rush them to their deaths, for goodness's sake. The end of their story will come eventually, but I suppose a bit of reassurance for your eager audience is in order." She paused, looking wistful. "They found each other, yes. All else beyond this is superfluous." Kummerene nodded as though she'd finally convinced herself of that fact, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "They found each other, and that's all that matters."
Kavi bowed in gratitude, and Kummerene faded, leaving the couple alone in the glade, observing the statue and exchanging amazed whispers about this strange romance. It certainly defied what was always a standard tale of love against impossible odds, the kind of story told to wide-eyed children night after night, generation after generation.
The couple stayed there for a little while longer, lost in thought and perhaps creative inspiration. At length Uma stood up and brought her husband out of his trance-like state. "Come along," she said, laughing as she gave Kavi a gentle nudge with an embroidered silk shoe. "I'm hungry."
The two abandoned the glade, never once realizing that they weren't alone after Kummerene left them. Standing invisible in another part of the glade were two other goddesses, who waited for their sister to leave before coming down to lose themselves in their own thoughts regarding Roald and Alarick's remarkable adventures. They found that Kavi and Uma had gathered a large bouquet for that visit's offering. The rich collection of flowers, moreover, looked very, very strange, for the colors were not only unique, but also patterned strangely for the breeds. Some were striped, some had dots, some had random indefinable patterns, and all were in wild combinations of vivid blues, oranges, pinks, reds, and yellows.
"I don't think they found those in the meadow."
"No. They bought those somewhere."
"Hmm. A mortal flower-seller knows how to nurture unique and very special breeds, I see. I've never seen these before."
The younger of the two smiled. "Very appropriate for their purpose."
"Are you going to let that statue remain here?"
"Yes. I think its purpose has---oh---expanded a little. Besides, how can you take it away when it's been receiving such adoring attention from mortals? I mean, look at the flowers they gave it today!"
"I do believe you've just created a new god," Weisheitta said, laughter brightening her eyes, as she gave Liebella a playful little nudge with her elbow.
Liebella merely grinned back at her. "Have a care, Sister, that's blasphemy."
\*
Despite Roald's best efforts, he could find no leads on Hamlin and Wilmar. No one in the market town that he decided to visit again during his travels had seen the couple, though visitors from distant corners of the world claimed to have seen the lovers living quietly and contentedly in the south somewhere. But when pressed, no one could accurately pinpoint the couple's exact location, and everyone was convinced that the lovers were perhaps protected by the gods.
"Why are you so compelled to find out about them?" Alarick prodded over dinner one day, and Roald merely shrugged, offering his lover a sheepish little smile.
"I suppose I just want to talk to them."
"We can always travel to the south. No one's holding us back."
Roald laughed, the sight of his eyes crinkling more deeply warming Alarick with a quiet contentment. Nearing thirty, the years were beginning to take their toll on both of them, but the signs of age and the inevitable twilight never frightened him. He silently wished Hamlin and Wilmar all the happiness in the world, but he was far more concerned about his life with Roald and how they were to live out their declining years together.
Like Hamlin and Wilmar, wherever they were, Alarick and Roald wished for nothing more from life but a peaceful existence untouched by the caprice of fellow mortals. They'd settled down in a modest but cozy cottage across the water north of the cluster of restless kingdoms in the continent of their youth, reluctant to venture out and keeping a respectful but friendly distance from their neighbors, all of whom lived a good three or so miles from them. Alarick, nurturing his love of flowers, took to planting and caring for a rich garden that surrounded their home, tucking it away from the road and allowing them their own little man-made patch of paradise.
"It's probably excessive, but I can't help it," Alarick said, blushing and laughing as he and Roald surveyed their tiny kingdom.
"Better than a cursed forest, I say."
They didn't have their own watering-hole anywhere, but that was fine. A large tin tub that could fit two grown men for a bath was enough, though it always turned out rather messy in the end.

