Fairly Wicked Tales (12 page)

“We did not summon you, Highness. You must know a small part of the fairy world intrudes into yours. We heed the line sworn to protect it. Prince of this line, your pain begs us for release.”

He frowned. “The stone that injured me is yours …” And he wondered if in his own world, he lay dead.

Ina smiled. “The stone is a gateway, birthed by the pain of your heart. Though it took blood to open the portal, we still owed you your christening gifts. Rejoice in your receipt of these. Your body is as you feel it here, whole and well.”

Her words were some comfort. It would be churlish, he supposed, to mention their gift merely reversed the damage wrought by fairy magic.

“But what remedy for my heart’s pain might I find here?” Aleron asked.

Ina flashed him a look he knew from Talia. “Have you no clue?” she asked. She stepped close, as if he might have failed to notice the wispiness of her clothing, the bountiful swell of her body, the perfect curve of her naked limbs …

Flushing, he turned away. “You mock me.”

Ina laughed, and the tinkling of bells echoed in her mirth.

“Indeed I do, young prince.”

She placed something on the table, pushing the object towards him. When the pale fingers lifted, they revealed a large buckle, superbly wrought in gold and precious stones. Amidst a geometric pattern of dazzling intricacy, a lion faced a falcon.

“Take it carefully, prince. The tang is sharp; it is made from a spindle.”

Aleron didn’t reach for the gift, instead meeting Ina’s violet eyes with hazel green. “I will not harm my sister.”

“Not even to save someone you care for?” Her gaze was fathomless.

A shiver traced his spine. “What do you mean?”

“Princess Talia will not die, but she will sleep for more than a human’s lifetime. A hundred years—no more and no less. Possessing this buckle does not commit you to fulfilling the prophecy. But a spindle’s prick is all it would take to provide Fate her chance. Take the buckle, young prince. You may find reason for what must be to come to pass.”

He sat undecided for a long moment. Her amethyst eyes remained locked on his as his thoughts swirled.

At last he stood, bent to reach for the buckle—and fell forward, as if thrown into a well, to land shoulder-first in a sea of grass. He lay for a while, shocked and winded, as he tried to get his bearings.

The bay was grazing peacefully, securely saddled. There was no sign of the rock. Only the buckle pressed hard in his fist told him he had not had some strange dream or fevered fantasy.

As he recalled the strange events, Ina’s words reverberated like distant thunder. Aleron clambered to his feet and hastened to the horse. Every instinct he had screamed at him that something was amiss. He mounted and unleashed the bay’s speed once more, but this time in need. Danger stalked someone he cared for.

***

Aleron arrived at the castle a scant hour after he’d left.

The first he noticed was how the stable hands refused to meet his eyes. He hurried to the keep, where the evasion of servants increased his unease. Casting around, he cornered a chamber maid.

“What has happened?” he demanded.

Seeing no way to avoid him, she was forced to answer. “’Tis the Earl of Brecht, Highness. He is to be hung for treason.”

The words came as a physical blow. Aleron staggered, the maid taking the opportunity to scurry away. The prince took long minutes to recover his wits. He started to walk, then to run. Into the kitchens, down the stairs to the cellar, across and down another flight. To the dungeon.

The guard stood and half drew his sword, allowing the weapon to slide back into its scabbard when he noted Aleron’s own lack of arms.

“Your Highness,” the guard murmured, his tone wary. The prince’s friendship with Stefan was no secret.

“I must speak with him,” Aleron said.

“Sire, I cannot …”

“I do not ask you to release him, but I must speak with him. Please. I give you my word he will not escape on my account, call another to watch us if you will, but I beg you, let me talk to him.”

The man hesitated, then drew his key. “Your word I will take, Sire.”

Stefan looked up when the door opened. Hope mingled with shame crossed his face as Aleron entered.

“Stefan, what is this?”

“They’re calling it treason, Aleron. ‘Twas just a prank. A dare, to prove my courage and show her my mettle.”

Aleron winced. The words he had used just this morning.

“I meant nothing by it,” Stefan gabbled, beside himself. “Talia asked it of me; you know how she likes trinkets.” He stopped, and swallowed. “She promised me my heart’s desire,” he whispered.

“For what trinket?”

“Your father’s crown.”

Aleron groaned. Stefan must’ve been summoning his nerve to try for it. No wonder he’d reacted badly to Aleron’s advice.

“You fool, know you not that the crown is a badge of authority? To take it is to say you deny the King’s power. You might as well have taken the throne itself!”

Stefan turned red-rimmed eyes to him. “But only if I kept it, not if I gave it … she’s our princess … and now they say … they tell me I will hang.” He swallowed once more. “What have I done? What can I do?”

“Have you told anyone Talia asked it of you?” Aleron asked. “The act would not be treason if …” The words stuck. He cleared his throat. “My sister could not have been seeking to take the throne,” he said, and the lie sat heavy on his tongue. Talia may well have thought to claim the realm as her own; she was foolish enough to convince herself any and all would follow her.

“I cannot speak against her,” Stefan said, “Much less say what she offered. None know of our closeness. Your father might think the worst, better I die than he think …”

Aleron said nothing. He strode to the locked door and rapped on the hardened wood, ignoring the entreaties of his friend as the grim-faced guard swung the door wide.

The prince found his sister in her rooms, admiring herself in a mirror. She flicked her hand at her lady-in-waiting, sending the woman scurrying. That she preferred to talk to him alone told Aleron she’d guessed his business with her. She feigned otherwise.

“What do you want, brother?”

“You can save Stefan. Say you but wanted the crown for its prettiness, you thought it a precious trifle, all would see it as a foolishness on Stefan’s part …”

“Why would I?” she interrupted, studying the effect of a brooch with her newest gown. “To admit a confidence with Stefan, when I have the Red Prince ready for the taking? T’would not be wise.”

Aleron’s temple throbbed. “He will hang.”

The princess shrugged. “He is your friend, not mine.”

Aleron swallowed, his mind cool despite the hot fury within. Ina’s question echoed in his ears: Not even to save someone you care for?

“I will trade you for his life.”

Talia arched her eyebrow as he drew out the buckle. Avarice swept her face as she saw the design.

“Give me that!”

She didn’t notice how his hand wavered as she snatched the trophy from his palm.

“Why, my Eldred will …”

Talia shrieked once as the tang drew a drop of blood from her finger. Aleron caught her in nerveless hands as she swooned. Talia’s lady-in-waiting came running at her mistress’ cry. She took one look at the limp princess and screamed.

***

Amidst the shrieking and wailing, Stefan was forgotten.

Aleron blamed himself, loudly, for not having protected his beloved sister—after scooping up the buckle, lest its wondrous design raise questions. But all others in the castle were too bewildered, too grief-stricken to wonder if he might have had a part in the tragedy. After all, why would the brother of the most favored of princesses possibly want to harm her?

Suspicion immediately fell on the evil fairy, Ina, and the brooch Talia had been admiring. But even certainty of the disaster’s cause would bring no recourse.

“What will we do?” Stefan asked, distraught, when Aleron brought news of the sorrowful events.

“The princess is laid in state in the throne room, to allow all to pay their respects,” Aleron told him. “A delegation of seven fairies arrived yester-night. They say she will awaken when a man of pure heart kisses her, and he she shall marry. The Red Prince has tried and failed and has left the castle with a broken heart.”

Stefan looked hopeful. “Help me escape this cell and I would surely succeed.”

Aleron was grim. “I fear, dear friend, should I manage to free you from here, your attempt would be more likely to awaken my father’s ire than my sleeping sister. What I know of your regard for Talia does not strike me as showing purity of heart.”

Stefan scowled and would’ve argued, but Aleron was continuing.

“This morn, my mother collapsed from the strain and the physics report her to be gravely ill, perhaps even to death. The fairies have said they can cast a spell over the entire castle, so its inhabitants will sleep while Talia sleeps and awaken also with her.”

Stefan nodded. “So the princess will not wake to strange faces and unknown people. That is well.”

Aleron said nothing. Left to die by his sister, Stefan still thought only of Talia. It galled, deeply.

“Are you sure you could not let me kiss her?” Stefan asked. He amended his request at the look on his friend’s face. “Perhaps if I were to kiss a kerchief, you might press it to her lips?”

Stefan’s wistful but unswerving hope eventually wrought Aleron’s agreement. The reluctant prince had to supply his own kerchief since Stefan was bereft of one. He tried not to grimace at the passion Stefan inflicted upon the square of material.

“Such scant regard is all I can send,” the young earl said as he handed the fabric to his friend.

“The love of one such as you is priceless,” Aleron said, “I shall guard your token well.”

He tucked the scrap securely, to ride against his breast. Stefan smiled a miserable thanks as Aleron left the cell.

***

The fairies tarried in their arrangements for only the morn, long enough for those whose close ones lay outside the castle to depart, but not so long that the waning Queen might succumb to her sorrow.

“I shall occupy the throne during our slumber, so my beloved Talia will wake to know her family is with her,” the King declared amidst the preparations.

Aleron echoed the sentiment, though he considered his bed an infinitely preferable post for the duration.

The criers shouted the news until they were hoarse. All within the castle and without were soon aware the spell would commence with the twelfth bell of noon. The fairies also reassured prospective sleepers the castle and its inhabitants would be protected during their slumber.

At a quarter hour before the allotted time, Aleron and his father mounted the steps in the throne room, dressed in the full regalia of state. The King sat, his ceremonial robes draped from his shoulders, the crown heavy on his brow. Aleron followed suit, adjusting his sword and trying to settle his starched collar more comfortably. His father stared fixedly at the platform on which Talia lay, surrounded by sweetly perfumed garlands. In Aleron’s opinion, Talia’s makeshift bed had the appearance of a bier.

All who remained in the castle waited tensely for the bells to chime the hour.

This was his doing, thought Aleron as the first peal rang out. He had taken the buckle from someone who had cursed his family and he had used it in desperation. He ran and re-ran Ina’s words through his mind, to the point where he was more certain than ever of her meaning, but there was no indication how his actions might save his friend. What was beyond doubt, however, was that his mother lay on the verge of death and a castle’s complement was readying itself to be ensorcelled. What had he done?

As the last peal echoed into silence, Aleron closed his eyes. He felt nothing. A moment passed, then another, but still nothing happened. He opened his eyes, ready for his father’s laments on the fairies’ failure. But when he turned to the King, his father was sleeping. He lifted his arm to touch his father’s shoulder and a thousand motes danced in the air. He froze, staring at the thick layer of dust coating his sleeve and even the back of his hand. He turned his hand, in mingled wonder and fear. More dirt slid, some to fall upon the ground and some to hang in the air. Raising his eyes from the sight, he realized that dust also lay thick and grey upon his father’s robes.

“Um …”

Aleron turned, startled. A tall, angular and pimpled youth stood close by. He seemed anxious.

“I … have been asleep,” Aleron said. He wasn’t sure if it were a question or a realization.

“Indeed,” the youth agreed.

The prince brushed grime from his doublet as he tried to recover himself.

“Pardon, I am Prince Aleron. My sister,” he gestured towards Talia, “lies cursed. We joined her in sleep, by the grace of fairy magic.”

“Yes, I know,” replied the stranger. Silence followed.

“And you are?” Aleron prompted.

“My name is Olwyn.”

The prince studied the uncommunicative youth. He was some years short of Aleron’s age—well, of the age Aleron had been before he had slept—but he must have come from afar, by the strangeness of his clothing. He also looked more likely to trip on the sword he wore than to brandish it.

Then Aleron started. Though unfamiliar in style, Olwyn’s tunic was emblazoned with an unmistakable coat of arms. A red shield, quartered, with golden symbols of a lion rampant and sheaf of wheat in the upper quadrants, a trefoil and falcon in the lower …

“You wear the bearings of the Red Prince,” Aleron said.

Olwyn smiled. “Oh yes, I am he. Well, I guess I would be the grandson of the grandson of the Red Prince you knew. But the title remains mine.”

Aleron swiveled his head, marking the still forms of the other inhabitants of the castle. “But why am I awake, when all others still slumber?”

“Ah,” said the Red Prince, and blushed.

“Ahhh,” Aleron mirrored as realization dawned.

“Well, with your hair so long and a beardless chin …,” Olwyn mumbled.