Heartless

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Una slumped, her chin in her hand, and absently stroked Monster, who was curled in her lap and purring, unconcerned whether or not the world crumbled to little pieces.

  Maybe I wasn’t worth loving more than himself?

  The moon seemed a little less romantic than before.

  9

  The following morning, Una’s head ached like nobody’s business, and she tried to feign illness as an excuse to stay in bed. Nurse would have none of that.

  “But my head is splitting in two!”

  “It’s doing a remarkably neat job since I can’t see so much as a seam.”

  “A history lecture would kill me today, Nurse. Truly it would!”

  “I don’t doubt it. Now, up!”

  Was there a time, Una wondered as she plodded to her tutorial, when she had actually wished for more excitement? Not even a week had passed since the Twelve-Year Market had seeped out of the Wood like so much mist before retreating again, leaving in its wake rather a lot of hassle and confusion. If only that wretched Prince of Farthestshore hadn’t come, she might even now be celebrating her engagement to Gervais!

  And well along the road to marrying a gambler and debtor.

  “Preeeowl?” said Monster, tagging her footsteps.

  Una sighed down at him. “I won’t be grateful, cat,” she said. “That Aethelbald had better just take himself and his suit and hightail it back to wherever he came from, because I will not be grateful, heaven help me!”

  But she thought it best to discard all thoughts of giving the Prince a tongue-lashing. No, a frosty reserve should achieve the same result and perhaps prevent her from sounding like a fishmonger’s wife. She took her seat in the classroom, vowing a vengeance of absolute silence with all the solemnest oaths she could invent and refusing to look at her brother as he tried to pass her notes.

  Monster sat at her feet, sniffing and twitching his whiskers. As the tutor shuffled through his notes, gave that first introductory “Ahem,” and began his lecture on the Imposter’s War and the building of Oriana Palace, the cat made a slinky exit.

  –––––––

  Monster passed through the halls of Oriana, his tail high as a banner, and the servants made certain not to get in his way, being under strict orders from their princess to “treat him nice.” Thus in that small way, Monster received the respect due a lord, and he accepted this as his right, scarcely deigning to acknowledge those he passed.

  He made his way to the barracks and the out-of-the-way quarters where the Knights of Farthestshore had taken up residence. Though as knights they should have been housed in finer chambers within Oriana itself, they knew how uncomfortable their otherworldly presence made the palace folk and chose instead to keep quietly to themselves, avoiding even Fidel’s guards.

  Massive Oeric and the smaller knight, Sir Rogan of the grass-green eyes, sparred together in the yard. They parted as Monster passed right between them, rolling their eyes but bowing as he went, though he could see neither gesture. The dark-skinned knight, Sir Imoo, sat on a bench nearby polishing a long dagger, and he rose at Monster’s approach and bowed as well. Only the Prince of Farthestshore, also seated and watching Oeric and Rogan fight, did not rise. To him alone did the cat make reverence.

  “Good morning, Eanrin,” said the Prince.

  “Good morning, my lord,” said the cat and, after putting up his nose to gauge the height, hopped up onto the bench. “Pray continue,” he said to Oeric and Rogan, and they returned to their sparring. Sir Oeric’s sword was wooden, but the smaller knight used a real blade. Even when he made a hit, there was no chance of its piercing Oeric’s rock-like hide.

  Monster groomed a paw some moments while the Prince continued to watch his knights. Then the cat said, “My Prince?”

  “Yes, Eanrin?”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so . . .”

  Aethelbald waited, then gently prodded, “Go on.”

  “What you lack – and I mean this in the most respectful sense, you understand.”

  “I’m listening,” said the Prince of Farthestshore.

  “What you lack,” said the cat, “is confidence. For while you rule the vast stretches of the Far World and master the Wood Between with a powerful hand, from the boundaries of the Netherhills to the stretches of the Final Water and beyond, you simply don’t have the first idea when it comes to women.”

  Sir Imoo, intent on his knife, snorted but turned it into a cough.

  Prince Aethelbald said, “And what would you suggest?”

  “I may be but a humble house pet,” said the cat, “but if there is one thing in which I hold complete confidence, it is the conviction of my own desirability.”

  “Spoken like a true cat.”

  “No matter how antagonistic the object of my current affections may be, a well-timed purr, a sweet trill, an expertly hunted and scarcely nibbled gift will work magic every time! Consider, my Prince.”

  Aethelbald raised an eyebrow. “You suggest I take up mousing?”

  “Shrews work well too. I leave toads for Prince Felix. On his pillow.”

  “And we all know how great is his affection for you,” muttered Sir Imoo.

  Monster acknowledged him with a sniff. “Exactly! And if all else fails, my Prince, you can sing. Every princess loves a chap who will serenade her from the garden on a moonlit night. I do it myself every full moon, filling the night air with the dulcet sounds of my voice!”

  “Until the housekeeper throws cold dishwater at you,” said Sir Imoo.

  The cat flattened his ears. “That old hag is tone-deaf.”

  The prince met Imoo’s gaze over the blind cat’s ears, shaking his head slightly. Then he said to the cat, “Eanrin, much though I appreciate your concern – ”

  “I live only to serve, my Prince.”

  “ – I think you must let me make my suit in my own way.”

  “By circumnavigating the girl at every turn? Mrreeeowl! Is that the spirit that won the undying devotion of Gleamdren the Fair, Queen Bebo’s golden-eyed cousin?”

  “And when did you actually win Lady Gleamdren’s devotion? Last I’d heard she was not speaking to you.”

  “A minor setback.”

  “For the last thousand-odd years.”

  “But I sensed a distinct softening in her demeanor when I visited Rudiobus last century. She looked at me once.”

  Aethelbald smiled. “She would have found it difficult to throw her shoe at your head without looking at you, Eanrin.”

  “Ah yes. You heard about that, eh? The true sign of thawing heart, I tell you! The more antagonistic they seem, the more certain you can be that they are struggling in the deepest throes of turbulent emotion! Believe me, my Prince, I know about these things. Am I not the most celebrated romantic lyricist of all the ages? You can be certain your ladylove is secretly pining away for you, and her sharp tongue and icy face are mere masks to disguise the depths of her feelings! It is your task – nay, your duty – to take every opportunity to remind her of your ardent love. Bring her flowers. Write her sonnets. I’ll write them for you if you wish, and you needn’t tell her. It’s sure to work. She’ll get so exhausted refusing you that she’s bound to give in eventually!”

  Silence followed, broken only by a thunk of the wooden sword and Sir Rogan’s yelped, “Ow!”

  Then Prince Aethelbald said, “Eanrin.”

  “My Prince?”

  “Why don’t you go chase a ball of yarn.”

  –––––––

  Then it was three weeks later, and summer arrived in a blaze of glory, full of sunshine and buttercups and balmy afternoons.

  Una’s mood did not match.

  One such afternoon, Una tossed aside her embroidery, grabbed her journal, and escaped outside, ignoring Nurse’s calls for her to mind the sun and not burn her nose and did she remember her hat?

  “Bother the sun, and bother my hat,” Una muttered, slipping into the hall. She wanted nothing more than to be left alone a
nd wished for all the world that she could disappear. Yet that was impossible. As she hurried down the hall, she passed innumerable footmen and maids, all of whom bowed or bobbed curtsies as she went by. On her way downstairs she crossed paths with an elderly courtier and his wife, neither of whom she knew, but both of whom bowed and greeted her with, “Good afternoon, Princess Una.”

  She remembered once, when she was younger, reading an adventure tale in which the princess heroine had disguised herself and crept out of the palace and into the countryside on a grand and glorious quest. Granted, this had led to rather a lot of unpleasantness for the princess, but Una had been inspired nonetheless.

  That very afternoon she had commanded one of her maids to loan her a gown, rubbed ashes from the fireplace all over her hands and face, and taking up the maid’s bucket of dirty water, stepped boldly from her chambers.

  The first footman she had encountered had bowed low and asked, “May I help you, princess?”

  Una had given up disguises since then.

  Out in the gardens, sunlight greeted her, and she tipped her unprotected face up to enjoy its brightness. Let her nose burn! At least it would disguise any blotches.

  What she desperately needed, she thought, was half a moment to herself to sort through some of her thoughts. That moment would not happen in her chambers, nor anywhere within Oriana’s walls. Neither were the gardens a suitable place for a girl in need of quiet, for gardeners and their clipping shears abounded, giving her sulky looks as she passed, as though daring her to think she served any useful purpose while they and their ilk labored in the summer sun. She nodded to them and hastened on her way, trying not to call attention to herself.

  Clematis and trumpet creeper bloomed bravely against the heat, climbing the southern wall. Una did not want to walk among them today. Flowers, she found, lacked their former romance, ever since a certain serenade in a certain garden. She picked up her skirts and hurried down the path. Blossoms arched with special elegance over Southgate, which was small compared to the main gate on the western side of the palace. Southgate was trafficked only by servants, grocers, and gardeners.

  Today as Una approached the gate, she heard shouts, rough and angry. The sounds startled her, and she slipped behind a shrub and wondered if she dared continue her present course. The shouts grew louder.

  “Oi! If you don’t let me through, I’ll be certain it gets back to your superior officer, and you’ll wish you’d never – ”

  “Right. As though you’ll be on chatting terms with my superior officer. Listen, mister, we don’t let just anyone come trampin’ through here, and anyone who tells you otherwise – ”

  Una peered over the shrub and saw two guards at the gate. Guards always stood watch there, but she’d never noticed them until today, for Southgate was such an unobtrusive corner of the palace. But now both guards were growling and struggling, big hands clamped down hard on the arms of the most outlandish character Una could remember ever seeing.

  He was dark complexioned, but his outfit dominated any other impression he might give. He was dressed in bright yellow with stripes of red and blue running at all angles throughout the costume. The collar and sleeves were cut in odd triangles and, of all things, had little silver bells tied to the ends of them. Una blinked several times and pulled back behind her shrub.

  But the stranger had already seen her.

  He lunged forward, almost breaking free of the guards, shouting and holding out a hand. “Lady! Fair lady!” he cried. “You seem of a gentle nature. Tell these blackguards to unhand me – ”

  Una ducked away, taking another path before the guards spotted her. She heard several angry shouts and the sound of blows. “And take your hat with you!” one of the guards bellowed.

  The iron clang of the gate shutting rang in her ears. Una hurried down the path between snapdragons and lilies, wondering what sort of man could induce the palace’s ever-lenient guards to shut the gates in his face. It felt almost like an invasion or something from a history book. What a terrible thought!

  But rather romantic in a way.

  Una smiled a little to herself as she made her way deep into the gardens, away from the palace and the gates.

  White marble statues of old kings and queens of Parumvir stood at regular intervals down the paths of the seven-tiered garden, with the occasional legendary hero standing bravely between trimmed hedges. On the seventh tier, nearest the edge of Goldstone Wood, was even an old marble statue of the Bane of Corrilond, a long and serpentine dragon. The body was somewhat startling, curling as it did down the side of the path, then arching at the neck so that the jaw could open wide enough for Felix to stick his head inside, as he often did when he and Una walked together. The expression on its face was hardly menacing; it reminded Una of Monster yawning.

  It was a quick walk from the top tier to the seventh if one took the cobble stairway cutting directly down and didn’t stop to explore the various levels. Halfway down the hill, the gardens ended abruptly, swallowed up by Goldstone Wood.

  Una loved the gardens of her home, but much more she loved the Wood.

  To be sure, horses refused to step into its shadow, and men and women trembled at the thought. But to Una, the Wood had always been a place of solitary comfort, filled with memories of her childhood, and these days providing the one place where she knew she would not have to face anyone.

  She stepped into it now and breathed deeply. Goldstone Wood smelled old. Not musty or antique. Certainly not like Nurse’s smell of dried lavender, nor even like the smell of the aged books in the library, with their spidery handwriting in faded ink. The Wood’s smell altered according to the season. Now, in early summer, when Una stepped into the shelter of the trees, she took a deep breath of rich, green air, full of health and a hint of some nameless spice that carried up from the sea below.

  She crunched through last autumn’s dead leaves while greener growth swung at her from low-growing branches. There were no paths in Goldstone Wood, nothing but little deer trails. Una, however, followed landmarks with ease and never lost her way, not between the gardens and the Old Bridge.

  She moved quickly through the forest this afternoon. The glory of summer surrounded her, but she could not appreciate it as she should have. There in the shadows of the trees, Una found herself half remembering, but unable to quite grasp, her dream.

  Every night the same dream, or dreams so similar that they may as well have been the same, plagued her. Yet every morning when she woke up, she could remember nothing more than a vague uneasiness and a tightness on her finger where her mother’s ring gleamed. But the ring slid off and on as easily as it ever had, so she did not remove it.

  Gervais’s departure surely was the cause of her restless nights, she decided as she approached the Old Bridge. Eventually her heartbreak over him would pass and she would sleep again, but in the meanwhile she must simply endure it.

  She stepped onto the bridge. How long had it been since last she’d been there? She missed her younger days, when she and Felix ventured this way and played their silly games. Smiling, she remembered the day they had found and rescued Monster, who was now so much a part of her life.

  Una sat down, removed her shoes, and put her feet in the water, enjoying the cool trickle. Then she took out her journal and nub of pencil and wrote:

  I’m not going to forgive him. It’s my choice. He drove Prince Gervais away, and even if that has proven for the best, it was none of his business. So I won’t forgive him, and that’s that.

  She stopped writing, for her thoughts took her no further. If only she could express what went on inside of her, she might find some relief. But no inspiration came, and she sat in silence for many long moments.

  A wood thrush sang in the branches above her. She looked up and fancied she caught a glimpse of its speckled breast. It opened its mouth, and a series of notes trickled forth like water; then it flickered out of sight into the forest beyond the Old Bridge. Yet its silver-bell voice still c
arried back to her. She listened and suddenly thought perhaps there were words.

  She turned to a fresh page in her journal and wrote quickly:

  I listened long to your story,

  Listened but could not hear.

  When you chose to walk that path so overgrown,

  I remained alone with my fear.

  The thrush song went silent, then suddenly burst out again, farther away this time, deep in the forest.

  Once more Una wrote as fast as words came to her mind:

  Cold silence covers the distance,

  Stretches from shore to shore.

  I follow in my mind your far-off journeying,

  But I will walk that path no more.

  The thrush song ceased, and she stopped writing. She read over the lines and scratched her head with her pencil. A smile slowly filled her face. These verses were, she dared hope, good. What they meant exactly she could not guess. There were so many meanings in life, and so few of them meant anything. Why did life have to be so very confusing?

  Nevertheless, Una had written verses for the first time in weeks, and perhaps not even Felix would sneer at these.

  Crackling leaves caught her attention, and her heart jumped to her throat. The noise came from the far side of the Old Bridge.

  Never in all her years of playing in Goldstone Wood, playing on this very bridge or on the near side of the stream, had she seen or heard anything beyond the bridge other than the occasional bird and, of course, Monster. She leapt to her feet, staggering a little, and backed away, her bare feet leaving wet prints. She peered into the shadows of the Wood beyond the bridge.

  A figure stepped into view, head bent, watching its own footsteps. It came to the clear spot right before the bridge and looked up.

  “Prince Aethelbald!”

  He startled, stepped back, shook his head, and looked again. “Princess Una?” Swiftly he slipped down to the streambed and splashed across rather than crossing the bridge. Water poured from his boots as he climbed up the near bank, and he beckoned to Una. “Princess, what are you doing here? Please come off the bridge!”