Turn Me Back! (novella)

by Victoria Kelly

  “Your Highness,” I tell the prince pompously. “Princess Isla says she hopes you never see a sunset without admiring the rising of her moon.”

  The prince’s eyes grow wide. “Tell her it is my heart which rises and sets with every breath she takes. I pray our years together will be blessed with the peace and plenty of fruitful prosperity.”

  After a short gallop back to the princess’s side:

  “Princess Isla,” I announce, “the prince said his heart rises and sets in your breath and he prays your years together will be a piece of fruit.”

  The following evening Princess Isla is ready with her next message:

  “Tell the prince I have admired him from afar for so long, I am half going mad with longing for the simple touch of his hand.”

  Oh that’s a good one.

  “Your Highness,” I tell the prince, “Princess Isla says her far hand is madly longing for a simple touch.”

  He spends a while in thought. “Tell her I wish only to bedeck her brow with diamonds,” he replies, “but none would compare with the pearls of wisdom that drop from her mouth each and every time she speaks.”

  “Princess Isla,” I say. “The prince says he’s noticed how your mouth is dripping with diamonds but he hopes to bedeck your brow with pearls.”

  The ladies gasp and fall silent. I wonder whether I’ve gone too far…

  But no. The princess sends me back with a message, eloquent in its simplicity.

  “Tell the prince… I love him.”

  Darn. It’s hard to mess that one up.

  Back in the prince’s tent, I shuffle my feet a bit and blush.“The princess says…” I never thought I’d see myself playing cupid. “She says she loves you.”

  The prince’s eyes widen in shock. His face softens and his eyes shine with tears of emotion. “Tell her, I love her too,” he murmurs, voice shaking with passion.

  After that there are no more messages.

  Runner goats don’t take kindly to inactivity. It’s early the next evening and Billy has already chewed holes in several skirts, eaten someone’s diary and mangled a hairbrush beyond salvation (ha!). He and I are sent outside to ‘play’. I go willingly enough. We’re drawing close to our destination and the princess is spending much of the time obsessing over her wedding gown. The endless debate over each seam and sequin is doing my head in.

  For lack of anything better to do, I climb onto Billy’s hairy back and let him amble around as he pleases. I’ve got pretty good at riding bareback. As we wander through the forest, I practise hitting knots in trees with my throwing knives. I’m just retrieving a blade from a twisted oak when a faint light in the distance catches my eye. It looks like someone has a lantern but is covering it in order not to be seen. Of course, it could also be a swarm of fireflies. Either way, Billy proceeds enthusiastically towards the light. Maybe he enjoys snacking on fireflies. Many of his decisions seem to spring from his desire to comprehensively catalogue the taste and texture of everything in the world.

  As we get closer, voices become discernible, an urgently whispered discussion. I stiffen. This sounds suspicious. Billy continues towards the sound and I send a quick prayer of thanks for his surefooted progress through the dark forest.

  “…the problem of getting the bodies back, should anything go wrong.”

  “Nothing will go wrong.” The second voice is scornfully confident. “We’ve studied the patterns. We know where everyone will be. It’ll be child’s play.”

  “Speaking of children, we’ve noticed there’s one travelling with the prince’s party. His little cousin. Should we… I mean… um.”

  “No survivors.”

  The silence following those icy words causes goosebumps to spread over my skin.

  If I’m not very much mistaken, this sounds like an assassination plot. I grin. Excellent, I was getting itchy for a good fight.

  But while I’m grinning away to myself, I fail to notice that Billy hasn’t stopped. He carries on forward until he’s ambled right into the clearing where the plotters are gathered. There’s a moment of stillness where they all turn to gape at us.

  Then things kick off for real. “Get them!” shouts the leader.

  The nearest man dives to grab us. Billy swerves out of the way. I flail wildly to keep my balance, throwing a couple of knives as I do so. By sheer luck, one of them gets our attacker in the eye.

  I grab a handful of the loose skin on Billy’s neck and attempt to steer him towards another would-be attacker. He ignores my urging.

  I hold on for dear life as he breaks into a gallop, lowering his head. Thwack! We hit the group’s leader dead on. He shoots backwards into a tree and slides down, groaning. Puncture wounds from Billy’s horns gape in his chest. Looks like he’ll bleed out, but I throw a knife for the sake of decoration.

  Two men try to come at us from either side. I shriek as Billy leaps into the air, tossing his head to stab one man with his horns and walloping the other man with his behind. We all end up on the floor. The wind is knocked out of me, but I have the advantage of not having just been punched by a goat part. Staggering to my feet, I pull out my longest blade and go around the clearing, finishing the groaning attackers off. Within seconds, the glade is empty of movement. A distant crashing in the undergrowth indicates someone got away, but I doubt they’ll continue an assassination plot on their own. It’s probably fine.

  “Good work, Billy.” I stroke his ears. He snaps his head around and chews experimentally on my wrist. “Ow, stop it! Come on, we have to go back to camp and report this.” I climb onto his back and then try various combinations of kicking him with my heels and pulling on his fur, but Billy acts as if I’m not even there. He begins chomping the trousers of the nearest dead man, delicately pulling the cloth away from the corpse’s leg. Cursing, singing, beating my fists on his skull, none of it works.

  At least he’s not a flesh-eating goat, I concede. Knowing myself to be beaten, I slide down from his back and hurry back towards camp on foot.

  I find Kayla sitting in the command tent, conferring over a map with a group of men who are dressed in Prince Theodore’s livery. I sidle up next to her and tug on her tunic. When she looks down, I jerk my head towards the woods meaningfully. “Kayla, there’s something you should see.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she announces, rising from the table.

  One of the soldiers squints at me. I recognise him from my visits to the prince’s tent. “Hey, it’s the messenger girl,” he crows. “Are your teddy bears lonely?”

  Kayla glares at him and then follows me outside. “What was that about?”

  “Long story. But there’s something more important.” I gabble a quick explanation about the bodies in the forest. Kayla summons a few guards, directing them to fetch shovels and then follow us into the forest. I lead the way at a brisk march. I’ve just remembered I forgot to retrieve my throwing knives from the bodies. Sloppy, Willa!

  “You know,” Kayla says as we hurry through the trees, “we might be short of fighters, but you could have come back to fetch reinforcements before attacking them. You didn’t have to face a gang of killers by yourself.”

  I didn’t exactly have a choice about facing them by myself, but I’m not about to let on. “It seemed wisest for the safety of the prince and princess to deal with the threat immediately,” I say seriously.

  She smiles at me. “I had the impression you were just doing this job for the money. It’s nice that you care for their wellbeing too.”

  “I do,” I tell her. And I’m surprised to realise it’s true. Somehow, somewhere along the interminable goat journeys as I carried their banal messages back and forth, I became invested in the royal pair. I’m as eager as anyone to see them safely married and living the lovey-dovey life they so obviously long for.

  When we arrive at the clearing, the goat is nowhere to be seen. The bodies are all in the same positions, except for one difference. They’re all naked.

  “What the hel
l,” exclaims Kayla. “Did you do this? Or were they genuinely having a nudist meeting?”

  I can’t answer her because I’m too busy grinding my teeth. My knives are still stuck into the bodies, but the hilts are chewed and mangled beyond recognition. They’re completely ruined.

  I am going to KILL that goat.

  10. The Chapel at Zair

  Kayla offers me recompense for the knives ‘lost in the call of duty’. We’re still miles from any town or market so the money doesn’t help me right now, but at least I’ll be able to refit myself when I get back to Druinberg. Besides the compensation, she also promises me the bravery bonus that was mentioned during the briefing. Just goes to show: Don’t scoff at a reward until you’re sure you won’t accidentally get dragged (on goat-back) into earning it.

  All’s quiet for the rest of our journey. After several more days of forest, we reach the foothills of the Bandus Mountains and make camp. Zair is only a short distance further, but the chapel is built on an outcrop of rock at the end of several miles of unforgivingly steep and rocky path. Long ago it became a tradition for royal wedding parties to camp at the edge of the forest and journey the last stretch to the chapel on foot. Numerous details related to that final trek have gone from accidental to customary and then hardened into ritual over the years. For example, the very first time a royal couple got married in that chapel, one of the guests lost a shoe along the way. Now it’s required for one poor sod to only wear one shoe and be forced to limp up the mountain. Even weirder is that male guests actually vie with each other to be the one to do it. There are loads of other stupid things like carrying flowers and chewing mint leaves. Oh, and we’re also supposed to be accompanied by goats.

  Speaking of which, Billy has been noticeably absent since he ate the assassin party’s wardrobe (AND RUINED MY KNIVES). I treasure the hope that it’s because he’s choked to death on a button and is lying dead somewhere. Being eaten by maggots. While crows peck out his eyes. And entrails.

  But it seems other people in our expedition are concerned over his disappearance. Not least because tradition stipulates a specific number of goats. To my mind, this is a triflingly banal detail. I mean, who’s even going to know if we’re short one goat?

  “You’d be surprised,” Kayla tells me. “That tiny chapel only holds a few guests, so wedding parties have to bring scribes to document everything for the common people who don’t get the chance to see it for themselves.”

  Writing down everything that happens at a royal wedding? Thank god that’s not my job. “And they’ll make a big deal out of the missing goat?”

  Kayla frowns. “Absolutely. Some fanatics even go around saying that a royal couple isn’t truly married if the traditions surrounding the trek to Zair aren’t followed to the letter. From a legal perspective, that’s rubbish, but my predecessor warned me it leads to rioting and unrest if people suspect their monarchs are living in sin.”

  Come to think of it, I have a vague memory of one of Waldani’s puppet shows where the king and queen were found out to have married illegally. I can’t remember what the result was exactly, but I have a strong feeling that it involved a crocodile and lots of sausages.

  “Willa!” The princess is calling me, waving madly from the entrance of her tent. “Oh, Willa! Come and see! I have a surprise for you.”

  Kayla lets out an amused snort. I punch her in the arm before trotting off to see what the princess wants. Maybe she’s found the goat. That would be cool. I can wait until after the ceremony to murder it.

  Inside the princess’s tent, the princess and her ladies are hovering excitedly over a mound of white fabric and lace. “Willa, look!” One of them holds up the mound, revealing it to be a dress.

  I stare at the thing they’re holding, confused. “Isn’t that Princess Isla’s wedding dress?”

  “No!” They caper and giggle, clapping their hands. “It’s YOUR wedding dress!”

  “WHAT!?”

  “Oh Willa! I’m so happy,” laughs the princess. “We weren’t sure if it would be ready in time, but here it is: an exact copy of my gown! You’ll be accompanying me up the mountain as my flower girl. And when we get there, you’ll be standing next to me in the chapel. Isn’t it exciting?”

  “But…” I say, dazedly. “I’m not even related to you.”

  She kneels next to me. “After everything you’ve done for me, Willa. I can’t help but consider you family. Anyway, that’s immaterial. My husband-to-be will have his little cousin Cecilia accompanying him. It is only fair that I should have a flower girl too.”

  This is like a terrible nightmare. I knew I’d be going up the mountain. Kayla wanted me there in case anything happens. After all, we never did find the last member of the assassination plot. But I always assumed I’d be trotting along in happy obscurity among the other guests. Not as a bloody flower girl in the princess’s bloody entourage! “And if I refuse?”

  The princess’s eyes go wide. “Please say you’ll do it, Willa. I want you to be there. Plus,” she looks uncomfortable, “the goat is still missing…”

  I scowl at her. “Do you mean to tell me I’m to go down in history books as a replacement for a goat?”

  She scoffs. “It’s a silly tradition, anyway. We’re starting a new one. The prince and princess get to choose flower girls, and you’re mine.”

  There’s nothing I can say. If I refuse point blank to do it, she might get angry and ban me from the wedding party and then I’ll lose the money for the protection job and any chances to help people along the way. But in order to go with them… I lift my eyes to the fluffy, satin confection of a dress.

  I shift my gaze back to the princess. “I’ll guess I’ll do it,” I sigh.

  “Wonderful!” She claps her hands in delight.

  “But only if the seamstress can sew me a couple of extra pockets into the dress.”

  She looks surprised. “What for?”

  “Um… Dolls?”

  The next morning is still a distant promise when I’m woken and bundled into the horrible dress. See, this just proves my point: If the wedding is at dawn, the wedding party has to start their journey a few hours before dawn, and that means they have to get dressed in the dark. Surely it’s only a matter of time before some vain princess decides that the dawn start is an unnecessary tradition.

  I sure wish Princess Isla hadn’t already used up her ‘let’s-change-tradition’ quota. I can’t stop yawning as I stumble up the rocky path after her. It’s still mostly dark, but there’s enough light for me to make out that both our white dresses have become grubby from the dusty path. Mine has a dribble of mint juice down the front and there’s a horrible smell that suggests I must have dragged the hem through goat dung. Stupid traditions! If I were a princess, I’d decree I was getting married at home, or else not at all. Come to think of it, if I were a princess, I’d probably abdicate and run off with a band of mercenaries. This royal stuff seems like more trouble than it’s worth.

  The eastern sky is getting lighter as we reach Zair. The last stretch of path twists and winds so much that it’s a complete surprise when we round the last corner and realise we’ve arrived. We’re standing at the edge of the broad space dedicated to the ancient mountain god Zair. A wide plateau stretches before us. The small yet elegant chapel stands on the other side, occupying a narrow sliver of ground between the edge of the plateau and the sheer drop down the mountain. It’s hard to say whether the great Zair would have approved of this building dedicated to modern deities, but since he was ignored out of existence long ago, he doesn’t get a say in the matter.

  Generations of Hellavan royals have made similar pilgrimages to this spot in order to marry whichever of the neighbouring kingdoms’ offspring was the appropriate age. When I proceed further onto the plateau, it becomes clear why so many pampered princes and princesses have been willing to soldier through the long journey from Druinberg and make the arduous trek up the mountainside. The soaring view over the surrounding hills
and valleys is so majestic that the prospect of ruling the world suddenly seems not so crazy a dream. If you’ve been groomed to assume the role of ruling a kingdom since birth, the feeling must be many times magnified.

  I expected the chapel door to lead off the plateau, but instead, the building is positioned with the door facing the mountainside. And when I say “facing”, I mean the door of the chapel is flush with the bare rock face. The architects apparently weren’t fazed by the inconvenient fact that no-one could enter their chapel and simply hewed a narrow passageway into the rocky surface to allow entrance. The passageway is curved so you end up entering the chapel from the direction of the mountain — almost as if you were emerging from the rock itself.

  The cramped entrance is a potential bottleneck, so it’s lucky that the prince’s party left even earlier than we did. He and his entourage are supposed to be already waiting inside the chapel.

  Isla and her ladies fuss over her hair and do last-minute primping while the princess’s guests disappear in single file into the sinister opening in the cliff face. A few minutes later, we hear the chapel organ begin belching out the jaunty folk tune that traditionally accompanies weddings. A basket of flower petals is shoved into my hand and several pairs of hands propel me towards the hole in the rock. “Smile!” someone tells me. “Walk slowly down the aisle, scattering the petals, then wait next to the prince.”

  There aren’t any torches or illumination in the rocky passage. “Didn’t anyone think to drill windows in this thing,” I mutter, stumbling over the uneven floor. I’m fairly certain I’ve scattered petals here too. They’ll probably stick to the goat dung on the hem of the princess’s dress and look very pretty.

  I arrive at the chapel door and take in the view. Rows and rows of heads, craning in the dim light to observe the chapel entrance. My arrival causes a stir and the sense of excitement in the room heightens.