The Hostage Prince (16 page)

“Father?” Aspen said, not trusting his voice to say anything more.

“I do remember telling you this one thing long ago, Son,” the king said, almost too softly to hear. “Perhaps you have forgotten.
War does not call, it commands.
”

“
Even kings and queens must do as it demands
,” Aspen finished for him.

His father finally met his gaze and Aspen dared him to look away. “And now it
demands
my life?”

The king did not move or speak for a short few moments, then finally nodded. “It is the only thing that may stop the war. A war we cannot win.”

“Is that certain, sir?” Aspen managed to keep the terror out of his voice, and that surprised him.

“The armies are not ready. The mages are not ready. The people are not ready.”

And
I
am not ready
, Aspen thought, but kept that to himself. Instead he asked, “But the Unseelie are?” He already knew the answer.

“You can wager that Jack Daw would not have made this move otherwise.”

Aspen thought desperately. “But what of your Unseelie hostage, Prince Nobo?”

The king shook his head. “You have killed him as well if Obs marches to war.”

Aspen nodded. He looked around the throne room. It looked much smaller than he remembered. But then again,
he
had been much smaller the last time he had been here. “My life has never been my own, has it?”

“That is the curse of rule, Ailenbran,” the king said. “We serve the people even more than they serve us.” He spoke over Aspen's head to Gann. “Take him to the dungeon. And his companion as well. She will hang with him.”

“What?” With a great heave, Aspen shook off the arms that held him. He stopped short of drawing his sword. “No, sire! If it is the curse of rule, then I shall do what I must for the good of the kingdom and the people.” He looked at Snail, who, he was overjoyed to see, was glaring at the king for having the gall to condemn her. “But she rules nothing.”

The king shrugged. Aspen thought it a very unkingly gesture. “What of it? She traveled with a traitor, she must die with one.”

“Father, grant me this boon. She knew nothing of this. She may have been helping a traitor. But she did not know that. She thought she was helping a friend.”

Snail shot him a look as he said that. For once her glance was soft, not glaring. He wondered if he dared call her a friend. He had never had one before. He wondered if a prince could befriend . . . It was too hard to think about.

Turning back to his father, he said, “Grant me this boon, sire, and I will go to my fate knowing that I did one thing right in my short time in this land.”

The king stared at Aspen as if seeing him for the first time. Then he stood and bowed deep and low. “You are truly noble, young sir, and I am proud to call you my son.” To the guards he said, “Take him away. The girl goes to the kitchens for employment.”

“I am a midwife, Majesty,” Snail protested.

He waved her away. “You are not a midwife in this land.”

I
t took only one guard to show Snail the kitchen, but he was enough. His very presence, the sharpened pike, the sword at his side, the dagger in his sock, the fact that she didn't know her way around the palace's twisty halls, all ensured that she did not try to escape.

He spoke little to her except to bark out instructions like
Right! Left! Down those stairs!
And all done in quick-march time.

She said nothing in return, but followed everything he told her to do. She feared what would happen if she didn't. Along the way, she stumbled twice, and each time he grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and righted her. She could still feel his fingerprints burning her shame and fear into her skin.

As they walked—trotted, actually—she marveled at how much the Seelie castle did—and did not—remind her of the castle at the Unseelie Court. There, of course, she knew every level, from the basement dungeons to the turrets. She knew the turning of every walkway. Had known them from childhood up.

Well, not
every
bit of it
, she reminded herself. She'd never been in the royal chambers or the council chambers. Or the constable's lodgings. But she knew the girls who cleaned all of those, and she certainly knew
where
the places were and how to get there. And she
had
had a peek into the guards' quarters once, before escaping from an overamorous and slightly drunk young guard, who, the very next day, she saw in manacles being paraded around the yard. For being drunk on duty, not for trying to snatch a kiss from an accident-prone apprentice midwife, of that she was sure.

This castle had dungeons, in one of which Prince Aspen was currently residing.
Though residing is a strange way of putting it
. And a throne room. And hallways and stairways and airways—those narrow arrow slits in the walls. Exactly like King Obs's palace. But this one was also, somehow, lighter, fancier, less military, less . . . she struggled to think of the word, then had it.
Less overpowering.

In fact, it seemed an inviting place.

Or it
had
seemed an inviting place until the king had thrown his own son in the dungeon because Aspen had tried to escape being executed by the king's own enemy, which—to Snail—made no sense. But when did the toffs make sense? They just made gold, made merry, and made war. And the ones who suffered were the underfolk.

All right, so it had seemed inviting until I was sent to the kitchen
, she thought sourly.
But that's still better than being in the dungeon
.

*  *  *

T
HE KITCHEN WAS
on the lowest level and built, the guard explained, into the hillside. So there were windows on one side, overlooking a sheer drop down to a deep, black lake. The other side of the kitchen was a simple wall. Simply stone and simply several feet thick throughout.

The guard pointed toward the lake. “Dragons,” he said. He had a voice that seemed filtered through his rather large and rather bulbous nose.

Being Unseelie and used to hearing about awful things the Seelie folk had, Snail believed him.

“Very fast, very mean, very hungry dragons.”

She believed that, too.

“So don't try to escape, girl. There's only the road. We guard the road.”

“I thought I wasn't a prisoner,” she said, “just kitchen help.”

He grunted, which wasn't an answer. Or perhaps it was. She couldn't be sure.

The head cook came over to see who she was.

“King wants her here,” said the guard. And then he turned and left. It seemed all the instruction he'd been given and—having passed it on—he was done with his duty.

The head cook looked like a pale dumpling, his face and body in doughy folds. His eyes were black raisins, his mouth strangely red, like a berry plumped into that doughy white face. “What do you know about kitchens?” he asked. It was like hearing an uncooked dumpling speak.

“I know how to eat,” she said.

“Hmmmmmmfff!”

“I am an apprentice midwife,” she added.

“No use for a midwife in the kitchen.” The berry mouth turned sour.

“I'll be sure to mention that to the king when next I see him,” Snail said.

“King wants you here, here you stay,” he told her, unaware that she had tried to make a joke. “Just keep out of my way, and out of the way of my cook boys, pot boys, and serving boys.”

She looked around and noticed the bustle of pot boys toiling at the stone sinks. The cook boys, too, were hard at work within the ample jaws of the two arched fireplaces, where—she was sure—whole trees could have been burned for cooking meat. It was too early in the day for many serving boys to be about. But except for her own presence, there were no other females in the kitchen, not at all like the kitchen in the Unseelie Court where half the servers and some of the cooks were women and girls.

Before she could wonder further, the head cook said, “Remember, stay out of my way or I'll stick an apple in your mouth and serve
you
for supper!”

She believed him, too.

*  *  *

T
WICE DURING THE
afternoon she'd tried to head for an open door and both times was stopped roughly. The first time was by a pot boy who—alerted by a server—tripped her, and she fell, bruising her shoulder.

The other time happened when she noticed that no one was watching her. She strolled slowly and casually in a large circle around the central carving table as if just stretching her legs. She'd almost reached the door when a pot was hurled—she never saw who threw it. The pot hit her in the back of the head and felled her as if she was a pin in a game of tall pins.

She didn't try to escape a third time. After that, she just sat on the perch she was given and tried to stay awake.

Now, all Snail's life she'd been busy, whether she did a job well or poorly. She had never been left on her own. But here she'd nothing to do except worry about getting in the doughy cook's way, worry about being served for supper, and worry about Prince Aspen. All that worrying almost drove her crazy. So, she did the only thing she could—she fell asleep.

When all the kitchen work was done, the boys all off to bed and the tapers and lanterns and torches snuffed out, the doughy cook, with the last taper in hand, noticed her, dozing in the corner.

“Girl!” he said, poking her with a wooden spoon as if he'd sully himself if he touched her with a finger.

She opened her eyes.

“You sleep here. I will lock you in.”

“But . . .” she began. At home she had a bed, a place to bathe, covers.

At home she had a candle by her bedside and a cup of water.

At home . . .

And then she remembered that if she were at home, she would be in prison awaiting execution. Or she might have already been executed and awaiting burial. Or already buried and awaiting worms.

She shuddered and said nothing more, simply watched as he went out, and then breathed a sigh when she heard the three clicks of his keys.

For a minute she thought she would be crushed by the dark in this unfamiliar place. But then she saw that through the narrow windows she could see the stars.

And the moon.

They were a comfort of sorts.

She found the stub of a candle and managed to light it with an ember from the remains of the fire in the left-hand hearth.

*  *  *

T
HREE TIMES
S
NAIL
went around the room, seeing what she could in the candlelight, worried that the candle would burn out before her tour of the place was done. But then she found four more candle stubs and lit them one after another from the first.

The room was too solidly built, the windows too narrow to slip through. And even if she could get through, she was too high over the lake and would be killed in the fall. And even if the fall didn't kill her, and even if she could swim across the lake, there were those pesky dragons.

So
, she thought,
escape is off the menu
. Though, she feared, she might still be on.

It was then that she saw something odd and shining in the right-hand fireplace, the largest of the two. Going over to examine it, she kept losing the light each time she put her hand toward it. Only at the last moment did she glance up and there, way at the top of the vast chimney, she saw what was casting the light. The moon was shining down, for at the moment it was right over the chimney opening.

She knew the moon rode across the sky at night, following its sister sun. Could she climb up the inside of the chimney with the moon as her guide?

Is it possible? Is it dangerous?

She thought:
Surely chimney cleaners managed. Those sooty fellows who came around twice a year, spring and fall with their apprentices and ropes. With their funny way of speaking, and strange songs.

She couldn't hope to be as fast or as knowledgeable as they, but it was all that she had.

Racing back to the sinks, she found several large knives set out to dry for morning use. She grabbed up two and tied them with twine around her neck. She also tied two of the candle stubs—the other two had already burned down to puddles of wax. The twine was sufficient for tying the knives but not strong enough for a climbing rope.

Still, it was then or never. She ran back to the chimney, but a bit more carefully because of the knives around her neck, and felt around till she found some stone steps jutting out.

Slowly, with infinite care, she started to climb.

She was about fifteen steps up, when the stone juts stopped and she realized she was barely halfway up to the top, and the moon had already moved a quarter of its bulk off the chimney opening.

“No,” she whispered to herself, then louder, “
Nooooooooo!
”

She was making too much noise to hear the sound of the door opening below, and too far up in the surround of stone chimney. But when a woman's voice came halloing up, calling “Girl? Girl!” Snail was so startled, she could have fallen down, which would surely have killed her, but luckily she was standing with her back firmly planted against the chimney wall.

“I will get you out of here,” came a voice. It was soft and strong at the same time, and so convincing, Snail was ready to climb down at once. She was tired of being without help, and here was help offered. Only later did she realize that she'd been bespelled.

She untwined the knives from her neck and dropped them into the echo chamber of the chimney, and followed them but slowly, backing down each stone step until she was at last on the chimney's floor. Then, picking up the knives, she turned.

The queen stood there, a lantern in hand.

Snail knew then that she could trust her entirely.

“I will get you out and set you on the road, girl. It is the least I can do for my son.”

“Snail, Majesty, they call me Snail.”

“Not any kind of name for my son's only friend,” the queen said. “I shall call you Nomi instead. It means
‘loyal one'
in the Old Tongue. You must use it for your escape.”

“Nomi,” Snail said, though she was thinking,
No-me. Not me.
And indeed, in the queen's presence, she did not feel herself at all.

The queen nodded at Snail, the very smallest gesture, barely perceptible. In return, Snail dropped practically to the floor in a deep curtsey. “I will try to be worthy of the name, Majesty,” she said.

*  *  *

T
HE QUEEN LED HER
to a hidden passage through the wine cellar and thence through the walls, their way lit by only the lantern the queen carried, which threw awful shadows—some short as foxes, some tall as dragons.

All,
Snail thought,
seem to have teeth
.

When they finally reached a door, the queen stopped and handed the lantern to Snail.

“Here, Nomi, hold it high.”

Snail did as she was told, and the queen took a large chain from around her waist, on which hung about three dozen keys. She fit the smallest into the keyhole and opened the door. Once it was open, the queen took the lantern back.

The cool air and the smell of freedom was as filling as a meal. Snail breathed it in and out several times.

“There,” the queen said, pointing, “go east toward the rising sun, and quickly, but do not run or otherwise call attention to yourself. There you will find a royal graveyard. Look for the tomb of the kings. You can say your good-byes there.”

“Is he gone then?” Snail asked, her eyes unaccountably filling with tears. “Is the prince gone? So soon?” She wondered that she'd felt nothing—no tremor, no cold around the heart—whenever the moment of his death had been.
Not much of a friend, then!
she thought.

“Gone,” the queen said, her voice low but without a single quaver.

Snail was surprised at how little the queen seemed affected by her son's death. Of course, the queen hadn't actually seen him since he'd been seven years old and surely the Unseelie queen would have acted just as coldly. Both of them had an army of servants to raise their children. Not like ordinary folks who actually dandled their babies on their knees. Even the trollwife had fed the child herself, not needing a milk nurse to do the job for her.