The Hostage Prince (14 page)

W
hen Aspen turned and saw the big male troll, fear hit him as if his heart had suddenly been dunked in cold water. But just as quickly the cold was gone. A sudden wave of heat washed over him, and the strangest thought hit him.

Finally, a worthy opponent.

And suddenly he was no longer Little Bit or Weeper or Sniveler—all the names the Unseelie had bridled him with as a child, and that he now realized he had never really let go of. He wasn't even Prince Aspen anymore, a name that
sounded
more regal, but actually came from the time Sun and Moon had seen him quaking at a giant serpent that the Border Lords had captured, shaking, the twins said, “like the aspen's leaves in a stiff wind.”

No
, he thought and then cried out, “I am Prince Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg, and Third Successor to the Seelie Throne.” He was a warrior and a warrior-chief-in-waiting. His sword was suddenly in his right hand and the torch he held in his left glowed brighter from the magic flowing from him to its flames. “I am a Prince of Faerie. I am a power mightier than you have ever seen.”

The male troll flexed his arms and giant muscles rippled and popped. He flung the rabbit aside and roared at Aspen, who roared right back, matching the giant creature in gusto if not in volume.

Raising his sword high, Aspen began to charge forward, and the troll took a giant step to meet him, arms outstretched to grab, smash, pummel, and destroy.

“Stop it!” two female voices shouted, one high, one very low, and the troll pulled up short. “Don't kill anyone!”

Aspen, however, kept coming and was just poised to take a mighty swing that he knew would remove the troll's head from its shoulders, or at least his huge kneecap from his giant knee, when Snail ploughed into him from the side.

“Oomph,” he said, tumbling into a heap beneath her, the torch flung from his grasp. He managed—just barely—to hold on to his sword, and desperately tried not to skewer her.

Though I probably should
.

“How dare you!” he shouted, struggling to rise.

However, Snail was small, but not slight, and she was peasant-strong.

Aspen could use only one hand to try to get out from under her. He still held the sword and continued to
not
want to stab her with it.
But if she holds me down any longer . . .

“Huldra!” boomed the male troll. “Tell me true, woman, why don't I kill the intruder?”

“Because they are guests, Ukko.” Huldra answered.

“Guests?” Ukko laughed. “They are food!”

“Get off of me!” Aspen hissed at Snail. All the power and magic he'd felt just seconds ago had fled him, and now he was afraid that Ukko the troll would come and step on his head while he was being held down by a mere girl.

A rather ignominious end,
he thought grimly.

“They are midwives,” Huldra said.

“Midwives?” Aspen shouted. That was the final indignity, and with a massive heave, he was able to shove Snail aside. Springing to his feet, he brandished his sword at Ukko. “That is it. I am—”

“A midwife, yes,” Snail interrupted. “Or rather,
I
am the midwife.” Her hair was wet with sweat and plastered across her face, and she took a moment to tuck it behind her ears. “And I have delivered you a son, Ukko the Cave Troll. A fine son. Big and . . . trollish.”

Ukko squinted at her. “Yes, you
could
be a midwife.” He turned back to Aspen. “But what is
he
?” His voice roared the suspicion.

Aspen tried to stand straight and tall like the heroes always did in the ballads, but it seemed useless in the face of the troll's great height. He would have brandished his sword manfully at the creature, but he noticed his hand had started to shake and didn't think that would be too impressive. But still his voice held strong as he said, “I am—”

Snail interrupted him again. “He is . . . my . . . er . . . apprentice.”

Both Aspen and Ukko turned and stared at Snail.

Aspen found his voice first. “Your
what
?”

“My apprentice,” she stated firmly this time. “He was a great help in delivering your son, bringing fire and water as demanded. He used his magic powers to turn the child in the womb.” She took a step toward Ukko, putting herself between him and Aspen. “And you know the law against harming midwives.” Placing her hands on her hips, she added, “
And
their apprentices.”

Her back was to Aspen, but he could picture the glare she must have been shooting at the troll. It made him smile to think of it, and how often she had turned her fierce anger on him the two days they had known one another.

Though Ukko was ten times Snail's size, her glare was causing him to stop and sputter. And that made Aspen's smile even greater.

“But . . .” Ukko waved a big troll hand at the prince's rich clothes and bejeweled sword. “He's a . . .”

“Ah, there is that,” Snail said, and Aspen suddenly wondered how she was going to explain his princely attire away.

“He's a seventh son of a lesser royal,” Snail began, “and—well—you know the old rhyme, I'm sure.” She ran her hand through her hair and Aspen could see that her fingers were trembling. He had heard trolls were nearsighted, and he hoped that was true.

There was a long silence from the Ukko. His jaw had dropped so much, it looked like a cavern. A cavern with teeth and tusks.

Aspen took a firmer grip on his sword.

Suddenly, Snail began to recite in a singsong voice that had little sweetness to it and much desperation.

 

One is the heir,

Two is the spare,

Three sent away,

Four for the fray,

Five for the kirk,

Six legal work,

And seven alone

Must get the work done.

 

The troll still looked uncomprehending, though the rhyme seemed to have the power of a spell, for his great head rolled from side to side with the rhythm of it.

Aspen felt happy for the small reprieve. Also, he was positive Snail was glaring up at the troll. It was what she did in a tight spot. Perhaps the troll thought that was part of the spell, too.
And
, he thought,
if Ukko can see that Snail has one blue eye and one green eye here in the dark cave, he will probably credit that to magic, too.

She took a deep breath, then said, “The seventh son. He has to find his own work. And this one, well . . .”

How stupid can the troll be that he needed every little bit of it explained
? Aspen wondered.
But then, trolls are not known for their brains
.

Snail took another deep breath, almost—Aspen thought—a death rattle.
And it will certainly mean a death if she cannot convince the big ugly fellow that I am
(he shuddered)
an apprentice
.

For a moment he wondered which was worse: death or embarrassment. Only a moment.

“And this one,” Snail repeated, “has not once but twice caught a baby before it hit the floor.” Another deep breath. “One of them was a mer's child. And you know how slippery they can be.”

Aspen could see the troll nodding.

“So he—um—like a good seventh son,
gets the work done
!” Then the rest of it tumbled out. “So his father apprenticed him to a midwife. Me. And part of the training is to seek out places that are far away and to help others for a year under the keen eye of the midwife. We left his father's . . . er . . . castle and, after a year of wandering, found ourselves in your woods and got lost and . . .”

It was clear she was running out of invention and Aspen was not certain he could help her with that any more than he could catch a baby.
But,
he thought,
I will certainly try
. He was about to stand and—
Oberon help me!
—spin more of the preposterous tale, when fate in the form of the troll wife intervened.

“Did you not hear the midwife, husband?” Huldra said. There was a snap to her tone that made Ukko's shoulders tense upward as if they were protecting his ears from being boxed. “She has delivered you a son! And the apprentice helped, too.”

Ukko gave Aspen one last angry snarl, then relented. “A son? Let me see this miracle, wife, for didn't the hedge witch tell us you would never bear a child, before we ate her?”

Stepping lightly around Snail, he received the small burden from his mate. “A son,” he breathed, and looked back at Snail with such a beatific smile on his face that Aspen was surprised to find he was glad he had not killed the great ugly beast.

“Maybe we ate the hedge witch too soon,” mused Huldra.

Aspen thought,
Snail really
must
have powerful magic to make a troll regret a meal.

“She could have marinated a day or two longer,” Huldra added.

“I shall name him . . .” Ukko thought a minute and turned to Aspen. “What are you called?”

Quaking just a little, Aspen took a quick breath and stepped next to Snail. “Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg.”

Ukko nodded. It was like a boulder nodding. “I shall name him Og.”

“A strong troll name, that,” declared Huldra, grinning.

Aspen bowed. “I am honored.” He turned and winked at Snail.

“A killing in the birthing room can curse the lives of all involved,” Snail said, softly so that only he could hear. “I apologize for the ruse, Your Serenity. If you could just be my apprentice till we leave in the morning?”

“I couldn't poss—” he began, but didn't finish. He knew he should be appalled at her interruption of battle, at her assumption of higher station. He should be angry with her for embarrassing him. He could justifiably have taken her head off for any number of infractions of the laws of royal privilege. But mostly he just felt tired.

Looking at the trolls hugging their newborn and patting its tiny—comparatively tiny—head, he felt the tension leave the cave. He knew that, at least for now, there would be no killing done here. And for that he was completely grateful. And amazingly relieved.

T
he baby cried on and off most of the night, and none of them got much sleep, Huldra least of all.

Ukko had paced half the night, snarling at his wife, and she bared her teeth at him more than a dozen times while nursing the child. Both of them fell asleep at last and snored with a sound as loud as rolls of thunder in the mountains.

Snail and the prince found themselves wide awake because of the noise, staring across the fire at each other. It was like trying to sleep during a battle.

“How do we quiet them?” Aspen asked at last.

“We don't.”

“Who could have guessed that having a child was such a noisy occupation,” the prince said, not really expecting an answer.

But Snail answered him anyway, between yawns. “That's just the way of trolls.” And then she added with a wry smile, “Actually, it's the way of any parents of any newborn. Sleep becomes a privilege, not a right.” How often had she heard Mistress Softhands say that. And thinking of Mistress Softhands again, she was suddenly wistful, and thought,
Must be lack of sleep that makes me so . . . so . . . so weepy!

“If that is true,” the prince muttered, “then I shall never have a baby. I prize my sleep too well for that.” His face seemed a bit pulled in on itself, as if the lack of the one night's sleep had cost him several years.

She smiled at him again and another yawn came between them. “So I have heard it said in other birth rooms, Serenity. But when you are ready for your own child, you will forget this time.” Actually, she'd been in very few birth rooms, but Mistress Softhands had said that often as well.

He shook his head and vowed with great passion, “I shall
never
forget this time.” She had no way of knowing if he meant it as a compliment or complaint.

*  *  *

B
REAKFAST CONSISTED OF
some sort of frothy drink that tasted—Snail thought—too much like dirt to be enjoyed. But at least it was wet.

Aspen smiled wanly at Ukko and said, “Good troll, may I ask a question?”

Ukko gawked at him. “Isn't it enough, feyling, that I didn't have
you
for breakfast? Now you must task me with questions?”

Aspen tried a smile, but it barely stretched his lips. It made him look sly rather than honest. “It is but one question, and a small one at that.”

The cave was suddenly silent, all of them waiting to hear what Aspen had to say. Even the baby, asleep at last, offered no interruptions, only a tiny series of hiccups.

Aspen drew in a deep breath and then expelled the question in a gust of air: “What is the Sticksman?”

Ukko laughed, a dark hollow sound. The baby stirred but thankfully didn't waken. “Is it a trick question, little man? I am not good at riddles. They make me hungry.”

Huldra said, “Everything makes you hungry, husband. Why not ask in return:
What is a Stickswoman
?”

“If I do not care about a Sticksman, wife, why should I care about a Stickswoman?” He stood, hulking as high as the stone roof. “An arguing wife makes me hungry, too!” He raised a fist and Huldra raised hers.

Panic played across Aspen's face. “It is of no matter,” he cried, pulling Snail to her feet and pushing her out of the cave.

*  *  *

O
NCE THEY WERE
safely outside, Snail wondered breathlessly, “What was
that
all about?”

Aspen sighed. “About useless,” he said and would say no more, though Snail asked a second and then a third time.

At last she stopped asking and they moved away from the cave entrance where the sounds of the trolls arguing had at last woken the baby, whose hollering drowned out his parents'.

A few feet away from the cave, Aspen and Snail sat down to wait for the paths of the woods to resolve themselves.

They waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

The prince was clearly unhappy at the wait, standing up and sitting down in quick succession, which, as Snail pointed out, simply made the wait longer. But he couldn't seem to sit still.

At one point during the long wait, Snail asked, “What was happening with—that ‘Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg,' stuff? You seemed . . . well . . . pardon me for putting in bluntly . . . out of control. You were babbling about being a mighty power.”

“That ‘Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg stuff' is just my name. My
full
name.” His voice was tight but he looked genuinely puzzled. “And I
never
babble!”

She could feel heat rising in her face. “Serenity, I thought your name was Prince Aspen. I'm sorry if I have offended.”

“
Aspen
is
my name in the Unseelie Court,” he said stiffly. “No offense taken. At least not for that.”

But for other things
, she thought.
Dropping tea on him, tripping and falling against him, almost killing him with a poisoned dagger, calling him her apprentice
. Those
were offenses taken
.

She found herself saying, “I mean, when you saw Ukko in the cave entrance, you grabbed your sword and charged him, calling out your name and power and it frightened me. I was sure that was the end for both of us.”

“I do not remember such a thing.”

“It was . . .” She was going to say “stupid” and changed that at the last moment to “Truly heroic in a Border Lord sort of way.”

His puzzlement turned suddenly to enlightenment. “Ah, Berserker Rage,” he said. “It has never happened to me before. Perhaps it occurred this time because I was never before threatened when standing on my own ground.”

“So here, in Seelie lands, you are Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg?”

He nodded. “
And
a defender of the realm. Even the third successor to the throne is considered so.”

“Even to the death?” She really needed to know in case it happened again.

“I suppose so,” he said, then brightened. “Do you know what the name means, then?”

She shook her head.

“It means we are out of the Borderlands now and truly on Seelie soil. Otherwise, even in the grips of a Berserker Rage, I never could have claimed the name. It means we do not need to sit here waiting for the forest to show us the way. We can just head out in that direction where my father's personal lands will be.” He pointed to the left.

She bit down on her lower lip, then whispered, “I think you mean
that
direction, Serenity,” and pointed to the right.

He looked both ways. “You are questioning a prince on his own soil? You are playing a dangerous game, girl.”

She bowed her head. “I don't mean to question, Serenity, but to point out that the troll came from the left. See the tracks? He was hunting but only got a small rabbit. He wouldn't dare hunt on your father's
personal
land where, I'm certain, larger game abounds. Therefore, your father's personal lands must be to the right.”

He knelt down and scrutinized the footprints, which, being a troll's, were wide and deep, the toe marks splayed out in a clearly recognized pattern. At last he looked up. “You are right, and I thank you for that, midwife. You have my permission to always give me such good advice, as long as we are not in company.”

She thought he sounded a bit miffed, but didn't say so, responding instead with the more conciliatory, “I will follow your lead, Serenity.”

*  *  *

T
HE PRINCE TOOK OFF
to the right at a run, across a large green sward, and Snail—not much of a runner—was immediately left behind.

For a moment, she lost sight of him where the land rose precipitously, and then saw him again as he crested a sharp hill crowned with silver flowers, and then seemed to disappear.

“Oh no,” she cried, but scarcely took time to worry. Puffing and panting, she raced to the hilltop, which, she saw, dipped quite suddenly, which explained his sudden disappearance. But far down at the bottom she could see him again, now a small figure below, his way blocked by a tall, briary hedgerow. He was running full-tilt toward it, sword out, and was immediately trying to hack his way through the briars.

By the time she caught up, he was still hacking in a frenzied manner and getting nowhere.

More Beserker Rage
, she thought, and watched him for a while before turning her attention to the hedge itself.

At last she called out, “Serenity, put aside your sword. The hedge grows two new branches for each one you lop off.”

It took a minute before he heard and understood her, but when he did, he drew a deep breath and began moving backward, a step at a time, until he was by her side. Only then did he really stare at the hedge. There was sweat beading his forehead and he was breathing hard. Such hackwork was hot business.

“Is it true?” he asked, before stepping forward again and lopping off a single branch with great care. As he watched, the hedge produced two new branches, each with twice the thorns of the one they replaced.

He turned to Snail, bowing his head to her. “I beg your pardon, midwife, for disbelieving you. Once again you have saved me.” He sheathed his sword.

“Look, prince, look!” she crowed in delight, for as soon as his sword was hidden in its sheath, the hedge parted in the middle as if the fingers of thorn unclasped to offer them a way through.

“Of course, of course,” he muttered. “I remember now. It is called a Welcome Hedge. Friends can enter. Those who come with wicked intent cannot. How could I have not seen it? My father promised to have them planted after I left.”

Without thinking, she took his hand and pulled him through.

When they were on the other side, he grabbed his hand away from hers. “Do . . . not . . . do . . . that . . . ever . . . again.”

She set her hands on her hips and glared at him. “What happened to
‘Once again you have saved me'
? Is that so quickly forgotten?”

He glared back. “No quicker forgotten than you forgetting your place.”

“Well,
excuse me
, Majesty,” she said, and stalked off down the road.

He caught up quickly. “Once again, I have been hasty, midwife. My manners are still Unseelie though I am on Seelie soil.”

She let him walk by her side, though they were both silent for about a league or more.
Anger,
Mistress Softhands once said,
is equally the gag in the mouth of those who have been hurt and those who have done hurt
. Snail gave that some thought as they walked along. But she swore to herself that she would not be the one to speak first.

At last the prince spoke, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them. “Where,” he asked, “are the armies? This seems a main road and I see none about.”

“Were you expecting them?” She turned and glared at him again as if daring him to be unkind.

“Of
course
I am expecting armies on a main road,” he said. “We are at war.”

“It doesn't look much like war to me.”.

“Nor me,” he admitted, as a small goat-drawn cart came into view.

When the cart was next to them, the driver—a farmer's boy—jumped down and gave a head bob to the prince. He was in knee-length breeches and braces, and a broad-brimmed hat made of straw that perched on his head with as little effort as a songbird on a limb. “May I offer a ride, my lord?”

Aspen leaned forward. “Have you heard of the Sticksman?”

The boy looked bewildered. “Sticks? Man?”

“Never mind,” Aspen said, shrugging. “You are not old or odd or powerful.”

“No, sir.” If anything the boy looked more bewildered than before.

“Yet still, I have asked and you have answered.”

Now the boy no longer looked bewildered, but nervous, as if not having the proper answer to a lord's question might be dangerous. “Can you ask me something else, lord?”

“Stop toying with him,” Snail said sharply.

Aspen sighed. “All right. Here's a question you can surely answer. Do you go to the palace?”

Eager to please, the boy grinned. “Yes, sir, that I do. With five kegs of muddled cider, my mam's specialty. The queen loves it.”

“The queen?” Aspen began, his eyes suspiciously looking a bit watery, like petals after a heavy dew.

“We accept,” Snail said to the boy, giving the prince some time to pull himself together. “I'll come up front with you.”

They got in, Snail sitting next to the boy and Aspen perched precariously on a slat bench in the back.

Snail spent the first part of the journey asking the boy about his family, then questioned him about the king's family, and finally, tentatively, the state of the war.

“Not been a war about here in Seelie land for . . . well for longer than I've been alive,” the boy said.