The Hostage Prince (17 page)

“I shall say a prayer to Mab for his soul,” Snail whispered, and surprised herself by meaning it.

The queen said nothing in return but simply pushed Snail out of the door, then locked it behind her.

Snail heard the
snick
, and then the path unfolded before her. She took one step, then another.

Pausing to look at the large brooding castle behind her, Snail told herself she was glad of the escape. But then another thought crossed her mind.
I left him to die alone.

It didn't matter that she'd had no choice. That the king had commanded and the guard had obeyed. All that mattered was that Prince Aspen had died and she hadn't been there as witness, to lend him some kind of strength.

She began to weep, but as the sun was already touching the horizon with a red glow, she knew she would have to get going before someone came into the kitchen and discovered that she was gone.

So, still weeping, she headed east, walking quickly but not running, as the queen had commanded, letting the freedom beneath her feet begin to heal her pain.

*  *  *

T
HE SUN WAS barely
over the horizon when she got to the royal cemetery, its stone monuments like teeth in a beryl green mouth.

Near her was a tall stone tree on which a verse was carved.

 

Unveil thy heart, thou faithful tomb.

Take this new treasure to thy trust,

And give this baby princess room

A while to slumber in the dust.

 

“Poor mite,” she whispered. It mattered not if it were a baby princess or any baby, the loss made her sad.

Farther on, an ornately carved tombstone in the shape of a harp, read:

 

Here lies the fair maid of the east

Who loved the souls of man and beast,

But beastly indeed was the fever.

Only her harp did never leave her.

 

She wondered if that meant they'd buried the harp with her, which seemed a shame. A good harp was difficult to make.

But she didn't see any mention of kings on the close-by tombstones. Snail guessed that the kings and queens weren't buried under these simpler headstones, but in the chapel that she could see was at the end of the path, an elaborate thing that looked like a little castle.

She hurried toward it, and when she was close, saw that it had green men and dragons entwined in stone on the columns. But she hesitated to go in. Aspen wouldn't be buried in there. He was a third child, not a king, and died as a traitor. Surely the queen meant something else.

Glancing about for some newly turned earth that would signal a newly dug grave, she found it on the far edge of the graveyard. She ran toward it, tears again in her eyes, and so didn't see that there was a huge lump of overturned soil in her way. She stumbled and began to fall, the open gravesite yawning before her.

Something grabbed her arm and kept her from tumbling six feet down, probably landing on her head.

“Are we even in the rescuing race yet?” asked a familiar voice.

She turned, gasped. “But your mother said you were gone.”

“So I am,” Aspen told her. He was dressed oddly in multicolored rags and a red floppy hat with bangles hanging from it. He should have looked ridiculous, but he looked older somehow. Graver. Steadier. Snail didn't think it was the clothes.

“My mother convinced me, in between her tears, that my death would not actually stop the war,” Aspen said. “In fact it might further provoke it.” He frowned. “Though now I do not see how it could. My mother . . .”

“She's very convincing, your mother,” Snail said, as Aspen's voice trailed off. She remembered the queen's voice coming up the chimney. “I thought she meant you were dead, when she said you were gone.”

“And so we should be . . . gone on the road,” he said. “It was Mother who found me this minstrel outfit. I have fresh clothes for you, too.”

“I don't need . . .”

“It is a
disguise
,” he said. “You cannot be wandering the road as a midwife. That is what everyone will be looking for.”

“But that's what I
am
,” Snail said, “just as you are a prince. And what will we be if we are not those people?”

“We will be dead.” His voice was like a sword at the throat. “And dead we will not be those people either, and with no chance to be any other.”

“But . . . but . . .” She wondered why she should suddenly be sniveling about this when what he said made perfect sense.

“So you see, that is why I am not a prince now, but a minstrel, a wandering troubadour, a thing of song and patches.” He waved his hand airily, but his voice still held that princely snootiness. She guessed there was no disguising that.

“Well, can you sing?” she asked.

“No, I was hoping you could. I play the lute. It may be my one accomplishment.”

She suddenly saw he was holding a modest instrument in his other hand, not nearly as ornate as some lutes she'd seen, with only a cherub carved in the top end, and badly carved at that. For one thing, it was cross-eyed, and for another, its nose was smashed, as if it had been in a fistfight.

“I can't sing, but I
can
pass the hat, Serenity.” She looked at him dubiously.

“It will do,” he said. “And you will have to call me Karl.”

“Karl?” She smiled. “It suits you about as well as those clothes.”

He grimaced. “Which is to say not at all. But the name, like the clothes, will have to serve.”

“I'm Nomi.”

“Loyal?” Aspen grinned. “I see my mother's hand in that.”

She handed him one of the two knives. “Your mother is . . .”

“Yes, she is,” he said, and grinned.

*  *  *

S
HE CHANGED INTO
the new clothes behind the chapel with the prince—
Karl
, she reminded herself—standing watch at the front. The gown his mother had sent along was of a soft mauve wool with lace collar and cuffs. It was more elegant than anything she'd ever owned, more like something a lady's maid might have worn, or a minstrel's minion. She doubted it would wear well on the trail.

Gone, too, were the striped stockings, and in their place she put on the dull black ones that he'd handed her. The shoes were still her own. The ones the queen had sent were too small and not made for walking. But she tied them around her neck by their laces in case she could barter them at a market town for something more suitable.

The midwife wear was too easy to identify, so they buried it in the open grave under a shower of loose dirt and stone. With luck, a coffin would soon be set down upon it and the grave closed for all eternity.

And with that they were off, weaving their way through the old monuments, and back into the living world.

It was now full day, the sun lightning the sky and with nary a cloud to shadow it, so they would have to be careful.

S
nail followed close behind Aspen, apparently trusting his knowledge of the countryside to lead them. It made him feel almost like a hero from the old nursery tales Lisbet had entertained him with way back when.

The feeling lasted about two minutes.

I don't know why I should feel heroic,
he thought bitterly.
All I have done is carry us from one disaster to the next. And I do not even know where we are going.

Sighing heavily, he stopped and turned to look at Snail.

“I have no idea which direction we are to go,” he admitted. “And now, because of me, we are hunted in two kingdoms. Perhaps you should go ahead on your own.”

She laughed, though with little mirth. “Nomi at your service, Serenity.”

“Karl,” he said. “You
have
to remember I am Karl now.”

“Then you will have to start talking like Karl the minstrel and not Aspen the prince,” she told him.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, to start with, you sound like the toff you are, always saying things like ‘I am not' when you should be saying ‘I'm not,' and ‘I am' when we underthings say ‘I'm.'”

“But I
do not
talk like—”

“Don't.” She laughed. Clearly she was laughing at him.

“Oh.” He bit his lower lip. “I shall try.”

“I'll try.”

“You, too? Oh wait, I see.” He managed a smile back at her. Then he said seriously, “I still do not know . . . er . . . don't know where we should be heading.”

“Maybe we could stay with the trolls again,” Snail said.

Aspen thought he saw a merry glint in her eyes.

“I . . . I'm sure the father would love to have us for dinner.” He chuckled at his own retort, though he thought they both might be on the edge of hysteria.

“Neither one of us is fat enough for a meal,” she pointed out.

He had to reluctantly agree she was right.

*  *  *

T
HEY WALKED ON
in silence for a bit, quickly leaving the cemetery and entering a wide field of barley where they scattered a family of partridge. The hen cackled at them with a great deal of anger before first flying toward Karl the minstrel's hat and then zigzagging away.

At the far end of the field, Aspen clambered over a low rock wall, then reached back for Snail's hand to help her over. He held on to her hand longer than he had to.

“There's a war coming,” he said slowly, savoring the new way of talking.

“I know.”

Her face was solemn. It was, he thought, a pleasant face, not beautiful like the twins, Sun and Moon. Not unreachable like theirs. But readable. Reliable. And loyal.

The woods had closed around them now, like a mother's arms, and that slowed their pace to a crawl. With it came a comforting darkness. Aspen knew it would make them safer even if, at the same time, it slowed them down.

“A war I started,” he said it as if it were a confession, not to a human priest or to a dungeon master, with the hope of redemption or the ceasing of torture. Just said as one would to a friend.

He heard Snail snort and turned to look at her.

“You did no such thing!” she said derisively. “Remember what your mother told you.”

“But I—”

“You were used by the drow, that Jack Daw. Manipulated. Almost killed!”

“That's true. But it was my responsibility—”

“
Your
responsibility?” she was almost shouting now. “You were a child! And where were your parents?”

“Shhhh!” he cautioned. They might be in the woods, but it was no guarantee they were alone.

In a softer voice she asked, “Well where
were
they?”

“Well, they were—”

“A thousand leagues away! And to your new family you were only a hostage, not a son, not a boy, but a piece in a game. A game of war. By Mab's heart, Serenity. I mean, Karl, I was raised an orphan, and I got more parenting from Mistress Softhands than you ever did from . . . from . . . anyone!”

“Maybe, but I—”

“No maybes, you—”

“Do not interrupt me again!” Aspen roared in exasperation.

“Now who's too loud?” Snail snapped, and then said quickly, “I'm sorry, Your Serenity.” She didn't sound exactly sorry, though.

He shook his head. “No, Snail . . . er . . . Nomi. Not like that. I'm Karl, the minstrel, remember? And I just want a chance to speak.”

“Go ahead then, Karl, speak as long as you need to.”

He saw a small glow ahead, and guided them into a stand of wide-spaced birch and luminescent moss. The glow from the moss turned everything green-grey and black, as if the sun had been replaced by a witch moon while they'd talked.

He could see Snail's face clearly now, and tried to read her expression.
Angry? Hopeful? Expectant?
He had no idea. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Everything you say is true. But I believe in . . .”

He stopped.
What
do
I believe in? What am I? Am I still a prince? Or am I truly Karl the minstrel now?

“I believe in nobility,” he finally said. Then, “Did you just snort again?”

“I did,” Snail admitted. “I couldn't help it. My experiences with the nobility have been . . . less than, well, noble.”

Aspen was about to argue for the nobility, but he stopped and forced himself to think. He thought about the nobles he knew: cruel Sun and Moon; manipulative Jack Daw; his father the king, who had sentenced him to death; King Obs, who would have adopted him as a son and killed him just as quickly.

“Mine, too, I suppose.” He shook his head. “But I don't mean the nobles themselves, only what they are
supposed
to represent.”

“And what's that?”

He thought about that for a moment. Tried to put it into words. “I believe in a nobility of purpose,” he said.

“A nobility of purpose? What in all of Faerie does
that
mean? Sounds a lot like toff nonsense to me.”

He scratched his chin. “I mean that I believe what my father says about the curse of rule. I believe in the responsibility of leaders to their people. And I believe I have . . . I've failed in that responsibility, not once, but twice now.”

“Failed how?”

“Once when I let Jack Daw deceive me. And the second time when I let my mother free me.”

“Bah!” She spat into the moss for emphasis.

“It's not what you believe, Nomi, it's what I believe. And I believe I have . . . um . . . I've failed as a hostage. I failed as a prince. I alone am responsible for this war.”

And so saying what was lying heavy on his heart, he walked on, no longer able to look over at Snail, only looking down at his feet.

It took Aspen a few moments to realize Snail was not following him. Glancing back, he saw she was leaning against a birch tree, one hand idly picking at the bark.

“You haven't failed as a friend, Your Serenity.” She looked up at him and smiled. “I mean Karl. The minstrel.”

“Haven't I? Last I checked, we were alone in the woods with no home, no plan, and no allies. Oh, and no less than two armies gathering for war whose soldiers will have orders to kill us on sight!”

Snail stopped picking at the tree bark and stood up straight. She stepped toward Aspen and said, “And last time I checked, no less than two kings and one queen have ordered our deaths, and yet here we are, alive.”

She stood in front of him now and grasped him by the arms. “
Alive!
” She looked hard into his eyes for a moment then backed away a step. “Listen, Karl. I'm sure you feel like you've lost everything.”

“Well that is . . . that's comforting.”

“I wasn't done. And now you're interrupting me.”

“Sorry.” He could not believe he just said that.
To an apprentice
. The world had turned upside down and he was not sure he was comfortable with that.

“You may have lost everything,” she said, “but you don't see what you've gained.” She walked a slow circle around the nearest tree, her hand on its trunk. “I didn't even see it till just now.”

He watched her, confused. “See what?”

“It's been easier for me to understand, because I had nothing much to lose. Except my life.”

“Understand what?”

“That we're free. We may not live to see next week. Mab's mercy! We might not live through this day and the night. But we're beholden to none. No one owns us. From here on, we make our own path.”

“That
sounds
nice.” And suddenly it did.
Wandering the world free of responsibility, free to come and go as one pleases, no king or kin sending one to stay in dirty, old fortresses full of dirty, mean creatures.
“But . . .”

“But?”

Aspen sighed. “But I am beholden.”

“Princespeak.”

“All right—
I'm
beholden. It means the same thing.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“Listen, Snail—”

“Nomi,” she corrected him.

“Right. Nomi. For you, freedom must be wonderful. You didn't choose your life—it was thrust upon you. No one—
especially
not me—would blame you for taking your new freedom and disappearing into the woods with it. But I want . . .” He paused. “No, I need—”

“A nobility of purpose,” Snail finished for him.

He nodded and she stared at him with what he hoped was admiration but feared was pity. “Yes.”

“And what is this purpose?” she asked.

“I don't know . . .” he began but stopped abruptly as he realized he
did
know. It was so obvious he wondered that it had taken him so long to think of it.
The fact that it's completely impossible and insane may have had something to do with it
. Quickly he shrugged the thought off. Folding his arms in front of him in what he hoped was a resolute pose, he said to Snail, “I'm going to stop the war.”

He was very surprised that she didn't snort again. Instead, she asked him quite seriously, “And how are you going to do
that
?”

“I've absolutely no idea,” he answered honestly. “But I know I'm going to need help.”

She cocked her head at him, then looked away into the forest, as if mentally wandering its paths alone and seeing where they led. Then she sighed a bit theatrically and took two steps up to him and hooked her arm through his. “If I end up a kitchen slave again because of your ‘nobility of purpose' I'm going to be very,
very
angry.”

Chuckling, Aspen lead them out of the clearing's thin light and back into the dark of the thicker forest where they might be safe for the coming night.

“Good,” he said. “I like you best when you're angry.”

“And I,” she countered, “like
you
best when you have a plan.”

 

 

END OF BOOK ONE OF THE SEELIE WARS TRILOGY