Fairly Wicked Tales (19 page)

Upon our return, I resumed my duties as reigning monarch, though not officially recognized. My father continued to leave each morning to hunt and returned each night empty handed. By this time he was barely recognizable. Guilt had reduced the once virile leader to a stooped, grey old man. Every night I’d meet him at the gates and he’d ride past.

One day, Sir Thomas met me in the throne room and knelt before me. I bade him rise, and he refused. He extended his hand and offered me a small box. I opened it to find a beautiful, hand crafted ring.

“I cannot accept this.” I handed the box back but he wouldn’t take it.

“My Lady, I know I’m not worthy but it saddens me that you have no one to share your life with.”

“My heart soars with love for you, Sir Thomas.” He smiled. “But I am already married.”

His smile fell. “No one would recognize that marriage. Any priest in the land would see it annulled.”

I forced the box back into his hand. “I’m sorry.” I waved a dismissal and turned away. Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed him hover nearby for a moment, anger and disappointment roiling beneath his usual placid features. He stormed away in a huff. I busied myself with state matters and prayed I hadn’t made the wrong decision.

One evening, my father returned from his hunt and I met his as I always did. “Good hunt, father? No? Perhaps your next hunt will be more fortuitous.” The steed halted. My father’s head turned on his neck like a creaky old gate opening for the first time in years. He looked at me as if he hadn’t seen me for years. In a way, I supposed he hadn’t. His mouth opened then snapped shut. Lips in a hard line, he gave me a curt nod. Tears welled up in his rheumy eyes.

It had happened again.

A lump formed in my throat. I had two weeks to prepare.

Henry arrived at the outer gates to a different reception than his previous visit. The gates were opened as he approached astride his rooster. He played his bagpipes as the rooster strutted through the courtyard that had been decorated for the wedding.

I met Henry in the courtyard, one hand on my father’s arm. If my husband recognized me, he gave no sign. “My Lord,” I curtsied.

Sir Thomas stood to one side, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His jaw tightened as Henry took my hand and escorted me into the hall.

A generous banquet covered the tables. Servants scurried hither and yon keeping goblets and plates full. Henry sat beside me at the head table. We ate and drank. We watched jesters and tumblers. When the hour grew late, we said our goodnights to the guests and retired to my chambers.

If he noticed I wasn’t a maiden, he said nothing. Perhaps the drink dulled his senses. Perhaps he didn’t care. I waited in the dark for his breath to deepen and slow. My body trembled in anticipation and I feared I would give myself away too soon. After what seemed like an eternity, light snores sounded from his side of the bed.

I slid out from between the sheets and tiptoed to the wall opposite the bed. With a little wiggling, I worked a stone out. Reaching into my hiding place, I removed a candle the witch had given me and lit it. The flame burned blue. I raced to complete my preparations.

Satisfied that the door was securely bolted, I retrieved a large kitchen knife I’d hidden earlier. The candle flame turned from blue to red.

I stood over Henry’s sleeping form. My hand slid across his brow and he murmured in his sleep. Prying my fingers under the crease where the fur met quills, the skin gave way exactly as the witch had said it would. The hide rolled back and the quills with it. Sharp stings flared where the quills nicked my hands but I didn’t stop until I had the entire pelt removed.

The kitchen knife did not cut as well as I had hoped and I kept one eye on the candle as I sawed through the hide, forcing two strips of quills to separate from the whole. I ripped the second strip free of the skin as the candle’s flame spit and changed to green.

I threw the hide into the fireplace, grabbed the candle, and hurled it on top of the quills. The pelt ignited in multicolored fire. Smoke poured into the room and up the chimney. A howl erupted from the bed.

Henry’s skin bubbled and blackened. He reached for me but I stepped back, away from his grasp. Frantic shouts issued from behind the barred door as the castle woke to his screams. I ignored their calls and cries. When the fire finally died down, I grabbed the water pitcher, normally used to wash my face in the morning and let the water drip down Henry’s shuddering body. Pink skin gleamed from under the ash as the water washed away the charred remains of what he had been.

The naked, shivering, hairless man peered up at me. I wrapped the strips of quills around my hands. “This is your future.” The strips sang through the air and struck his back. He winced and screamed. “You will be my prince consort but I will be the rightful ruler of this kingdom.” I struck him again. “You will make no decisions, sign no laws or treaties without my consent.” The quills continued to fall even though my blows lightened. “Every day, you will thank providence that I allow you to be.” He cowered and awaited the next blow but it didn’t come. “And every night, you’ll show me the light.” His head lifted. He gazed at me in confusion.

I dropped the quill strips by his face. Next, my shift dropped to the floor. “Show me the light.” A smile played at his lips, the beating forgotten. Henry, my husband, picked up the quills that had so recently lain across his back. I knelt at his feet and waited for the sting.

When his hair grew back, light brown with a slight curl, he proved to be a pleasant-looking man. Not especially handsome but nice enough to gaze upon. Over the years the kingdom grew and prospered even more than before and when my father died, no one balked at my ascension to the throne. Henry remained at my side and though his hair thinned and his middle widened, he kept his word and supported me as ruler. Each night, behind our chamber door, he showed me a light that burned brighter than the sun.

About the Author

Lizz-Ayn Shaarawi
is a Texan lost in the Oregon wilderness. She’s a horror screenwriter and author whose short stories have been featured in numerous anthologies. Her screenplays have been recognized by The Austin Film Festival, The Nicholl Fellowship in Screenwriting, and The Page Awards. She enjoys cheap thrills, expensive shoes, and things that go bump in the night. You can find her random babblings on Twitter under her username @lizzayn

Sacrificed

A reimagining of “Snow White”

Laura Snapp

“Your Majesty?”

I set down the quill when a tremulous voice intruded again into my thoughts. I crumpled the inked paper into a tight ball and pushed back my chair, the legs rasping against the wood planked floor. My hands fisted the soft folds of my dress as I paced the bedchamber, wondering what words I might use to explain. To tell my story.

“Please, your Majesty, the Council demands your willing attendance or …”

“Or what?” I spun around. “I will be dragged from my chambers?”

The round, fresh-faced girl who addressed me stood in the shadows, wringing her hands. Beside her a pig nosed the sticks of wood next to the hearth before letting out a squeal when a hot ember from the crackling fire landed on its snout. The flames that licked the morning gloom barely illuminated the large room. But I did not need light to smell the fear wafting off of the girl when I picked up a long blade and ceramic bowl from the desk and stepped toward them.

“Tell them I shall be with them shortly. I must first visit the tower.” The harshly spoken words were barely past my lips when she fled my chambers.

I advanced on the pig. It squealed louder this time, perhaps sensing its fate. The sound cut through the morning quiet as the animal backed itself into the corner. I fell to my knees and, with a deft twist of the wrist, split its neck wide. The amount of blood for what I needed took only a brief time to drain. Carefully, I carried the bowl back to the desk.

With a shaky hand, I emptied a small vial of poison into the blood and stirred. A tear trickled down my cheek. I brushed it away. Now was not the time to falter. Not when
she
was on her way here.

Bitterness had me reaching for the ornate mirror lying next to the bowl. I lifted it to my face. Despite the burdens weighing upon me of late, my face radiated a youthful glow. But that was of no comfort to me now.

My image dissolved into a raven-haired girl seated on a horse behind a handsome, young prince. A grimace crossed my face. The wretch was not worthy of a prince. Until yesterday, I thought her dead from the apple I had brought her. With my own eyes, I had seen her placed in the glass coffin. Had witnessed the mournful cries of the Council when they thought their Snow White dead.

A keen cry caught upon the early morning wind carried into my chambers. My gaze focused on the pig’s blood, and my resolve hardened. I would do what was necessary. Still, the truth must be told. My actions made clear before I paid my final visit to the tower.

I set the mirror on the desk, then shuffled through a drawer in search of parchment. I withdrew several sheets and picked up my quill. The sharp nib, wet with ink, scratched across the paper:
Once upon a time there was a child with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony …

***

I clasped Snow to my heart and twirled, my breath forming a white wisp in the chilled air. Snow shrieked, her black eyes sparkling as she flew through the air, her arms outspread. “More, Mama, more,” she demanded.

Pleasure rippled through me, hearing this precious child call me
Mama
. For her, I had told her father
yes
. I glanced his way.

The King’s pale blue eyes crinkled when he caught my gaze. “Tis late. Come, my precious ladies, before you both catch chill.” He bundled us in furs and half-carried, half-pushed us through the newly fallen snow to our waiting carriage. We drove through the clearing, before becoming entombed in dense trees. Branches covered in thick blankets of snow reached toward the fading light. Snow, her eyes heavy with sleep, curled against me.

A high pitched whinny cut through the chilled air. The carriage came to an abrupt halt.

Startled, the King drew back the heavy curtain. A shadow darted across the snow, then a heavy thud sounded overhead.

“Wait here,” my husband said, leaping from the carriage, sword in hand.

I unclasped the emerald from around my neck and pulled the rings from my gloved hands. A royal coach traveling alone was an easy mark for highwaymen. I had been parted from my jewels before. Their loss did not concern me. Sacrificing the few precious moments away from the entourage routinely accompanying us? That caused me great sorrow.

It was the sharp clang of metal hitting metal heard over the neighing of horses and the hearty cursing of my husband and footmen that woke Snow.

“Mama! What’s happening? Where’s Papa?”

I gathered her in my arms. Robberies were usually more civilized than this.

A dark head popped through the curtained window. The stranger’s face was pale, too pale, as if carved from alabaster stone. His blazing eyes met mine. I shrank from the raw desire contained within their depths. A longing not for me, but for the child I held in my arms. “Give her to me,” he commanded. His voice wove through me, and though I was afraid, I felt myself responding like a woman to her husband.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Over my dead body,” the King said.

“That was my intention. You must pay for your crimes.” The stranger bared his teeth before spinning around. His black cape enshrouded them in darkness, and I shrank back in fear. I had never believed the wild tales I’d been told of creatures of the night—until now.

“Mama?” Snow’s voice was laced with fear … and something else. “Who is that? That man with Papa?”

“Shh … ” I took her hand in mine. We slipped unseen from the coach. With swift fingers, I released the straps that yoked the nearest horse to the carriage, then lifted Snow onto its back. I climbed on behind her, glancing over my shoulder to search for my husband. A dull snap drew my attention. My gaze landed upon the King, wide-eyed and staring, in the arms of the stranger. Blood seeped from a wound on his neck. My hold on Snow tightened as a wave of grief ran through me. I swatted the horse hard with the reins, my only goal to keep Snow safe.

***

Grains of saltpeter mixed with black pepper glistened in the early light as I walked along the perimeter of the castle wall checking for flaws in my line. I gave a satisfied grunt, seeing the line intact. My protective charm had held. A reassuring sign given the dreams haunting me still.

Many years had passed since the night I lost my king, but the feeling that his murderer was ever watching, waiting to snatch Snow, stayed with me. The memory of that night had me reaching into the leather pouch hanging at my side. I withdrew a pinch of salt to reinforce the line, where dirt partially obscured the shiny granules. The action served to soothe me. I pushed my worry aside, knowing there was nothing more to be done, then dusted off my hands and retreated to the tower.

“You are always up here,” Snow said, flouncing into the turret several hours later. “What draws you to this dirty place, with its noxious smells?”

“How else can I avoid the Council?” I teased, attaching the last of the herbs to the twine stretched between the pitched beams of the tiny turret. I handed the empty basket to the dark-haired maidservant attending me, then stepped down from the stool. “That will be all, Matilda. You may leave us.”

With a nod, the girl slipped past Snow on her way out the door. Snow watched her go, her face set in a frown. “Se was in my chambers this morning pawing through my dresses. Several have gone missing.”

I sighed. Snow had taken an instant dislike to Matilda.

“She stole them.”

“I am sure that is not true.”

Snow stomped her foot. “We are of similar height. She takes my cast-offs, thinking I will not notice. But I do. She wants to be like me. I know it.”