She turns, whipping the long sleeves of her gown as she waves her hands in anger. “I should have put a stop to it years ago.”
I wait, letting her rant. No matter what she says, I won’t change my mind. I’m going to marry Greta—just as soon as I can convince her to agree.
I’ve been so careful all these years, terrified if Greta were to learn the degree of my affection, she’d leave me. She didn’t need romance after her mother died. She needed a friend, someone kind and gentle to rely on.
Now she must see me as a man, not a boy. Someone to love. I’ve often wondered if it’s an impossible task, but her soft, chaste kiss bolstered my confidence. She’s never done that before.
Even as mother rails, I play the moment in my mind, recall Greta’s hesitance, the way she smelled like the flowers she so adores.
Perhaps it’s fitting the villagers whisper about the brown-eyed girl with the sable hair, calling her a witch. She’s undoubtedly bewitched me.
I’ll move slowly, take my time, warm her to the idea.
But not too slowly, I think, frowning. I’ve heard the rumors. That boy Sigwald is taken with her. It’s only a matter of time before he makes his intentions known. And I can’t have that.
Evalyntanlia, Duchess of Tremane, is lovely in a cold way. Her hair is as ebony as a raven’s wing, and her skin is fair like cream. She stands in the foyer outside the banquet hall with her entourage, looking either bored or uncomfortable. Perhaps both.
Despite her unease, this is not her first visit to Tillendall. She’s visited several times this summer at my mother’s request, though we’ve spoken little.
When she spots me walking her way, her eyes move over me, assessing.
Her guards part, and I stop in front of her, bowing. “I apologize for my tardiness, Your Grace.”
She lowers herself into a graceful curtsy. “All is forgiven, Your Highness.”
My mother would very much like us to marry, to soften the relations between the elves of the forest and those of the mountains. Our kingdoms are different, as is our magic. We in Tillendall have the power to manipulate gold. In Ivalta, they manipulate silver.
Many of my people believe we are superior.
But they are far greater in number, and if we do not repair our relations at some point, they may attack, take our land and our home and claim it as their own. They crave our rich resources—game and timber and healing herbs of the forest—like we crave their ore and precious jewels.
Yet, even though I believe we should come to an amicable agreement, I am not willing to throw myself into the cause. If I’d never met Greta, then perhaps.
But not now.
I offer the duchess my arm. “Shall we?”
She glances at me, unsure. I don’t blame her, not with the way we’ve treated her people in the past. After a moment, she nods and steps next to me. People rise as we enter, bowing in respect. Several look at Eva with pinched expressions, as though she is a snake—something to destroy. The rest openly gape at her, taking in her black hair and vibrant blue eyes. She’s different from us, yes. She’s also very beautiful.
I lead her to the long table along the back, past the elder council, and we stand, waiting for my brother and his wife to make their entrance. My stomach grumbles, having no patience for the pompous ceremony. Finally, Bertrand and Callista appear in the doorway.
I’m surrounded by my people, with Eva at my side, and yet I again think of Greta. My mind drifts to her soft, warm skin and gentle laugh. She’s entirely human, entirely perfect.
We’ll go north, to the regions of snow and ice, where the men are as fair as I. We’ll build a cottage, live off the land. I’ll make gold as needed to keep us comfortable. She’ll want for nothing, even if our life will be simple. We’ll have to be careful, keep a low profile.
But we’ll be happy. And if there’s anything Greta deserves, it’s happiness.
We bow to Tillendall’s king and queen as they finally make their way to our table. I’m to the right of my brother, and Callista, his queen, is to his left. Thankfully, Mother’s beside Callista, too far from Eva and me to see if we’re connecting as she would like. She and the council would announce our engagement this very evening if they could.
I glance toward the council men sitting nearby. They wear white robes, and their blond hair is long, as is fitting for royalty and those in their position. They are upholders of our laws of magic, keepers of promises. We honor them, obey them, fear them. Their word is law. As king, my brother also holds a place in their ranks, and I am expected to join them when I reach twenty-five years of age.
But I don’t plan to be in Tillendall when that time comes.
Bertrand sits, allowing us to find our chairs as well, and then he calls out to the servants, telling them they may now bring in dinner.
“Mother is livid with you,” Bertrand says quietly, leaning closer. “Just a warning.”
“She’s already cornered me.”
“Is the little human really worth it?” He glances at Eva, who’s currently speaking with one of her guards on her other side. “The duchess is…” He widens his eyes, conveying what anyone with eyes can see. Every unwed man in the room is salivating over her.
“Yes,” I say sharply. “The ‘little human’ is worth it.”
Bertrand laughs. “So you say.”
I glance past him, frowning. Our queen looks listless. She stares at the table, her mind elsewhere.
“Is Callista well?”
Bertrand frowns. “Another disappointment.”
The two have been trying for a child for years, and to no avail.
I sit back in my chair, nearly feeling the blow as heavily as he. A betrothal has already been agreed upon between Tillendall and Ivalta’s heirs—a formal match to unite the kingdoms. But at this rate, it seems there will never be a princess for the young prince of the mountains.
Even if I were to betray my heart and marry Eva, it’s not enough of an alliance. We need a royal connection, and eventually, a ruler who shares the blood of both kingdoms.
Realizing I’ve been neglecting the visiting duchess, I turn back to her. Her guard is bent low by her side, and the two speak in hushed tones. As soon as he sees me look their way, he backs up, standing behind her and clasping his hands at his back, a silent sentry.
The duchess turns to me, wary.
“How is your nephew?” I ask, searching for a safe topic, one that will make her feel at ease.
She appears relieved to speak of something she is an expert on, and she even smiles. “The prince is very well, thank you. Even at three, he’s already precocious—mischievous to a fault.”
Like me, Eva’s the secondborn of a royal family. Her brother is Ivalta’s king. She was granted a duchy before her father passed several years ago. From what I understand, she is close to the current queen and sees the prince often.
“I look forward to meeting him,” I tell her.
Her smile falls slightly as she glances at Callista. The betrothal was proposed three years ago, when the young prince was an infant.
After a brief moment, her eyes return to me. She looks down at the plate in front of her and idly runs a finger over its porcelain rim. “Perhaps you’ll visit Ivalta?”
Dread pools in the pit of my stomach. “I… we will see.”
She looks back, her icy blue eyes latching onto mine. A smile toys at her lips. “I take it all these rumors I’ve heard since I’ve been in Tillendall are true? You’re hopelessly in love?”
I sit back, startled. I wasn’t aware so many people knew of Greta. I certainly didn’t think they’d gossip about us to a visiting noble from another court.
Eva scans the full room. Trees grow inside the banquet hall, and starlight shines through the glass roof above. There are a hundred tables, all full. Most of our people live in Castle Tillendall, or close by. We’re protected by ancient magic, a shield that humans cannot detect. They can walk by the walls of our great castle and see nothin
g but the crumbling ruins of a civilization of long ago.
“Who is she?” Eva asks, smiling to herself as she scans the crowd, looking for the mysterious girl who’s stolen my heart.
I stare at her, my brow wrinkling until I realize she’s only heard half of the story. She has no idea Greta is a human.
“She’s not here,” I say, grateful to see a man with a platter walking our way. “Look, dinner’s arrived.”
Eva doesn’t bring up Greta again, and our conversation soon becomes comfortable—or at least a little less awkward.
“I must admit something,” she says when the meal is over, crossing her arms. “My brother was hoping we might…” She trails off and then gestures a hand between us. “He’s worried about the alliance.”
“My mother wishes the same.”
“Yes, well. I don’t wish it,” she says bluntly. “I just thought you should know.”
I study her, startled. “I don’t wish it either.”
“Then we are in agreement.” She rises from her chair, and her guard automatically takes her hand, assisting her. “But I do hope we can be friendly during my visit.”
“Of course.”
She gives me one last smile, and then her gaggle of silent guards surround her and escort her from our hall.
“I see that went well,” Bertrand says as soon as she leaves.
I look at him, my mouth slightly open, but I have no idea what to say.
Chapter 4
It took me three months to realize my advisors were drugging me. After Father’s death, and then Louisa’s right behind him, I was too wrapped in grief, fear of the crown, and an average case of young stupidity to realize the men who claimed to be my most trusted allies were using me as a puppet.
The problem is that here we are, years later, and I still don’t know which ones are behind it. Maybe it’s all of them.
Perhaps I should send them all to their deaths.
Problem solved.
But what if I’m wrong? What if one or two are innocent? Then I’ve robbed a young man or woman of a father, a woman of her husband.
Due to my history, my subjects say I’m cruel, but I’m not. Sometimes—most times—I wish I were. It would make life far easier.
“Sire.” Agnamen bows before me, offering a goblet of ruby red wine. He’s a serving boy, no one of significance. He too is a puppet, just a good little minion who transports the drought.
The wine is delivered every day, at three in the afternoon on the dot. Father swore a goblet of red wine was good for the heart. Considering he died when his stopped beating, I don’t see why we’ve kept this lovely afternoon ritual alive.
I’m sure the plants would certainly appreciate it if I’d stop dumping the tainted drink in them. I’ve killed five of the foreign ficus already, and yet the fools are none the wiser.
I accept the goblet and watch the boy scamper off. And scamper he does—far away from the fear-inducing, mad king of Morgenbruch.
“Your Majesty,” Rainart says, pulling my attention back to the matter at hand. “We believe it would be best to raise the taxes on wheat specifically.”
“Why are we raising the taxes again?”
He blathers on about this and that—things that sound frivolous, if you ask me. Do we need new gilded plates from Leant? Is that a necessity?
When I ask as much, Rainart argues, “We do not want to appear poor to the rest of the kingdoms, Sire, lest they believe we’ve become weak.”
Then he drones on about Grendel, the kingdom to the east, and their blood-thirsty, land-loving king. He makes the man sound like a good, old-fashioned pirate.
Now there’s a career with promise. If someone tries to drug you, you run them through with your cutlass, grab a pretty wench, and sail away into the sunset.
“Conrad, are you listening?” another one of my advisors—a portly, spry man by the name of Herman asks. I don’t think he’s poisoning me. He loves wine far too much to taint it for any purpose.
I stand abruptly. “I’m going for a ride.”
Rainart stands. “We’ll accompany you.”
“I’m going alone, thank you all the same.”
Herman clasps his hands in front of him, true worry lining his face. “Do you believe you’re…well enough to ride? You’re not feeling…dizzy?”
“I had a spell this morning,” I lie. “But I feel fine at present.”
“You must be careful, Your Majesty. And we really need you to stay and sign—”
I slam the door behind me, cutting off the rest of his speech. People dart out of my way. Maids and female courtiers peep in surprise when they see me coming, watching me with a combination of fear and attraction in their eyes. It’s a strange thing. If they believe me to be half mad—or all mad—why do they flush and flutter in my presence?
It makes no sense—but then again, people, in general, make no sense. If I’m lucky, I’ll be attacked by a werewolf in the forest, and then I’ll spend the rest of my life furry and content.
The grooms scramble to saddle my horse, flashing nervous glances my way. I lean against the wall, not bothering to act addled since my advisors aren’t here. As much as it disgusts me, I have to keep up the ruse most of the time, at least for now—but only until I figure out who’s behind it.
It irks me that I have no one to trust. I have no brothers nor sisters; both of my parents are deceased. If I had an uncle, I have no doubt he would try to kill me himself so he could take over the kingdom. Perhaps I only think that because my father was a vile man, and if he had a brother, he would surely be just as awful.
My mother, though. She was dear.
But since dead people do not come back to life, there is no reason to dwell on that now.
“Here you are, Sire,” the groomsman says, leading Frank my way.
It’s a strange name for a horse; I know, and I don’t care.
Frank doesn’t care either. He shakes his head, ready to run.
“As am I,” I say to the horse, giving his nose an affectionate stroke. He’s a good sort of beast, better than most people I know. He’s a bit on the dimwitted side, as I’m afraid most horses are—but he’s not nearly as trying as my advisors, so there’s a point for him.
I swing myself onto his back and nudge him out of the stable, letting him go as fast as he pleases through the courtyard. We startle a few chickens—literally ruffling feathers.
Even though I have no particular destination in mind, I find myself heading toward the village. Frank’s eager today, and I let him stretch his legs, enjoying the feel of the crisp autumn air whipping around my face and tugging at my jacket.
We pass a few farms and a mill, and then I pull the horse back to a walk. Levinfeld is an artisan’s community, the height of modern in our fair kingdom. I ride through, ignoring the smell of freshly baked cakes that wafts from a bakery’s open window. I pass an old stone shop with a newly painted sign that simply reads, “Chocolatier.” Vaguely, I remember hearing gossip that a marquis and his wife are in the process of setting up a shop, as they have in dozens of other kingdoms.
Chocolate—now there’s a better business than pirate. Certainly better than king. Perhaps he’d like to trade? My kingdom for his chocolate empire.
Wouldn’t my advisors love that?
A brown cat sits on the doorstep. He watches me as I pass, his gaze far too knowing for a feline.
“Hello, cat,” I say, narrowing my eyes at the beast from atop my horse.
He watches me go by, his tail twitching the entire time.
I scan the crowds, ignoring those who gape at me. I tell myself I’m not looking for anyone in particular, but that would be a lie.
Is she here somewhere?
The girl’s image is burned into my mind. She was a siren, an enchantress, sitting amongst a gaggle of peasants. Her hair was silk and her dress white. But it was her eyes that caught my attention. There was pain in them—veiled, hidden away—yet present all the same. It spoke to me in way
s words could not.
I pass through the village, heading toward the forest, resigned that I won’t meet her today. And that, for her more than myself, is likely for the best.
The sun is a little too low for me to be venturing into the Dark Forest, a place so dense with firs, it’s dim in the daylight, but I have no desire to return to the castle.
Frank trots along the path, ears perked to the noises around us. It’s early enough squirrels still scamper up the trees, making a racket as they prepare for the cold months that loom not far ahead.
For a while, I follow tracks left by a stag, though I have no bow with me, and I wouldn’t haul a carcass all the way back to the castle even if I did. Eventually, when the sun sinks low, I let out a world-weary sigh and turn back.
Chapter 5
“These are lovely, Greta.” Nanette takes a sachet and holds it to her nose, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of peppermint and chamomile.
“If you put it under your pillow, it will help you sleep,” I tell the shopkeeper, and then I hand her another that’s filled with cedar shavings and lavender. “And this one will keep moths and crickets out of chests and wardrobes.”
Nanette cocks an eyebrow. “You must be careful. People are starting to wonder if you’re a witch.”
I shake my head, rolling my eyes at the thought. She’s certainly not the first person who’s mentioned it. Father’s mumbled about it as well, especially this time of year when I can no longer sell my fresh flowers at the market, and I resort to making potpourris and sachets such as these—but he never turns down the gold they bring in.
Though it’s unusual for a woman to apprentice under a sorcerer, learning the science of magic is acceptable—respectable even. But those who practice in secret are outcasts—and for good reason. They dabble with things they should leave alone, cutting frog legs and tossing them in boiling cauldrons, draining the blood of newts and toads, making potions that serve a purpose—but always at a heartbreaking cost.
I don’t practice magic, but Rune has taught me about plants, knowledge his people have in abundance. I’ve put my training to use. I tuck away the gold I earn, withholding some in secret so that someday, I might leave my father’s house.
Queen of Gold and Straw: A Rumpelstiltskin Retelling Page 3