FAIRYTALE

by Rodriguez, Rebeccah

  “Stop him!”

  Killian stumbled out the other side of the row and nearly into the arms of another black-coated man. He ducked as the man lunged for him and sprinted toward the door.

  Dmitri still stood at the podium, arms raised up at the adoring crowd. He hadn’t seemed to notice anything was even amiss. But as Killian neared the stage, he glanced up at him and almost paused. Silent tears slid down Dmitri’s face.

  Killian grasped for the small door and it swung open with ease. He fell inside, consumed by instant darkness, and slammed the door behind him. He fumbled for a lock, relieved when he found one. Angry poundings hammered on the other side, and Killian backed away, breaths coming out in short, ragged gasps. Carefully he eased back, picking his way further away from the door.

  A small sliver of white light glowed up ahead. Holding his breath, Killian crept toward it, until another narrow door revealed itself, the white light seeping out from beneath it.

  Killian paused, pressing his ear against it, but there were no loud voices or angry, shouting men. He creaked it open, barely daring to poke his head out until he saw the snow. The door led out to a set of stairs at the back of the building, and Killian sighed in relief, stepping outside.

  There were no people about, the back alley quiet and strangely serene. Then another door clattered, and Killian spun around just as Fedya appeared a few feet away.

  For a moment, Killian didn’t recognize the look of defeat etched on Fedya’s face as he tucked his head down, fists crammed into his coat. He didn’t see the gritted teeth or the trembling, angry breaths that shook his chest. All he saw were those big, dark eyes, the curve of his jaw and the broad slope of his shoulders. Fedya was here, human. Killian wasn’t alone.

  But then Fedya started walking away, and Killian jolted from his trance.

  “Fedya! Wait!”

  Fedya froze mid-step and glanced over his shoulder, staring at Killian with a frown. But he quickly seemed to remember himself and his expression deliberately softened.

  “Can I help you?”

  Killian sped down the stairs, nearly running over to him.

  “Fedya, it’s me, Killian. What’s going on?”

  Fedya eyed him once before shaking his head. “You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t know anyone by that name. Excuse me.”

  With a brusque step he turned and started toward the main road. Killian’s heart jolted and he quickly followed after, stepping in front of him, blocking the way.

  “Wait—”

  “Please do not address me so informally, sir.” Fedya tensed. “I am Duke Fyodor, and you are confused. I’m sorry, but I do not know you.”

  Fedya pulled himself up straighter and stepped around Killian again. This time Killian hesitated, a heavy knot balling in the pit of his stomach. Fedya really had no idea who he was. This place, these people, were all strangers. And now Fedya was one of those strangers too. He looked so similar to that night they first met, with his shy, sidelong glances and guarded demeanor.

  Only he wasn’t the same. Not at all.

  But he couldn’t let him leave.

  “I liked your speech.”

  Fedya slowed to a stop, hesitating, then cautiously looked back at him again. “You did?”

  “Yes.” Killian nodded, grinning wide. “It was…empowering.”

  Fedya didn’t move, staring at Killian a few more seconds before he slowly turned back around. Still, he remained rooted to the spot, eyeing him with calculated distrust. “Really?”

  Killian smiled, a flicker of hope lighting in his chest. He nodded again. “Yes. You have a way of speaking that’s uplifting.”

  “I’m sure you’re thinking about my brother.”

  “No. He might be able to win a crowd’s favor, but he doesn’t have the presence you do.”

  As he spoke, the warmth grew deep inside him, and he realized it was all true. Fedya’s voice, the way he manipulated words, made even the most ordinary sentence desirable, and Killian bit his tongue to resist saying more than he should. But the distrust flickered on Fedya’s face and he took a few steps back over to him.

  “What did you say your name was?” Fedya said with a raised brow, tilting his head.

  Killian wanted to reach for Fedya’s hand, touch his skin, pull him in close. Instead he shoved his hands in his pockets, digging his nails into his palms.

  A door clattered behind them, followed by a gruff shout. Killian glanced over his shoulder just as he heard Fedya mutter, “Damn.”

  The door behind the theater had opened again, and out from it popped three men. They were not the same men who had chased Killian through the rows of seats, though they wore similar black coats and fur-lined hats. Small gold pins flashed on their front breast pockets.

  In a flurry, Fedya yanked Killian after him, shoving him around the corner and pushing him against the wall out of sight.

  “Who are they?” Killian whispered, craning his neck to try to spot them.

  Fedya instantly snatched his collar, pulling him back. “My Shielders.”

  “Shielders?”

  “Yes.” Fedya nodded, hushing his voice even more. “Bodyguards.”

  Killian sucked in a breath, still twisting his neck. He could hear their voices, but their words blended together, still too far away to make out. He glanced back at Fedya. “Are you in trouble?”

  “Probably,” Fedya mumbled, rolling his eyes. “My brother was not supposed to be seen until tomorrow. Everyone is excited now, but it won’t take them long to realize he has broken tradition. And it’s my fault.”

  There was a crunch of snow and Fedya clamped his mouth shut. Their bodies pressed up close together, and Killian felt the warmth of Fedya’s chest radiating against him. He froze, not wanting to move, but then one of the men shouted and Fedya swore again.

  “This way.” Fedya turned on his heel.

  Just as they reached the courtyard, the front doors to the theater burst open and the crowd from inside came pouring out. Their thundering ovation practically burst into the sky, and swirled with the ringing of a thousand clanging bells, some as large as globes, the deafening clashes rousing all around.

  Killian laughed. He’d never seen anything like it, and he scurried after Fedya as they propelled straight into the throngs of people. Fedya quickened his pace. “Come on.”

  “Do you know where you’re going?”

  Fedya didn’t answer. A shrill whistle pierced through the noise, and Fedya grabbed his hand and yanked him hard. “Hurry up!” he hissed. “They’ll catch us.”

  Killian couldn’t help but grin. He had never thought of them as “us” before.

  The street rapidly flourished back to life. The shop doors and windows flew open as cars started up their engines and a musical chorus of shouts and chatter weaved through it all. The bells grew louder, bellowing in Killian’s ear. He looked behind and locked eyes with a Shielder.

  “They’ve spotted us.”

  He knew he should be afraid, anxious, anything. But it felt too good to say. “Us.” They were an “us.”

  “Follow me.”

  Fedya’s hand slipped against Killian’s palm, giving a sharp tug. Killian whipped back around, ducking his head into the crowd. Fedya weaved them through the throng with ease, venturing deeper into the city streets. Killian glimpsed the shimmering palace rooftop for just a moment before Fedya tugged him down another street and suddenly pulled his hand away. Instantly the cool air bit Killian’s fingers.

  “Stay quiet. They won’t look here.”

  They approached a looming building made of the same dark brick as everything else. Tall, skinny glass windows lined its sides, surrounding a single, wide wooden door at the front. A warm light glowed from inside, catching on the windows in flashes of yellow and orange.

  Killian craned his neck as he stared up at the gleaming gold bell hanging from the top. “Is this a church?”

  Fedya
glanced at him and frowned. “It’s a Chapel of Saint Viktor.”

  Killian quickly nodded. “Right. I forgot.”

  Fedya led them around to the side of the building, entering through a squat narrow door near the back. A rush of warm air burst out as Fedya opened it and they hurried inside, the door slamming shut behind them as the wind pulled it closed. Darkness flooded Killian’s senses and he promptly bumped into Fedya’s side.

  “Shh.” Fedya jerked his head to the side. “This way.”

  Killian couldn’t see the main room of worship, but its flickering warmth and glowing light emanated out from a carved doorframe. He tried to peer inside before Fedya started up a narrow flight of stairs. They reached a small second floor, and the heat from downstairs instantly ebbed away. Killian shivered, his arms and neck prickling with goosebumps. But as he looked around his eyes widened. The narrow windows gave way to the rooftops of the city, gleaming and glittering silver with fresh snow.

  Killian’s breaths grew shallow, his heartbeat doubling as he stepped closer to the glass. The swirled domes of the palace shone gold against the purple evening sky, rich as oils on canvas. His fingertips trembled, and he reached for the glass, desperate to keep just a piece of it.

  “Are you a runaway?”

  Killian paused and turned back around. Fedya hadn’t moved from his spot. He stood perfectly still by the stairs, gripping the iron railing tight. His voice was hushed, though he watched Killian with a steady, unjudging gaze. Killian realized his mouth had slipped open and he clamped it back shut, swallowing as he shook his head. Fedya sighed before Killian could answer. “Never mind.”

  He gave one final sweep across the room. “You’re welcome to stay here, for a little while anyway. Get warm. I recommend staying up here, but obviously you’re free to do as you wish.”

  He started briskly back down the steps. Killian jerked back without thinking. “Wait.”

  Fedya paused mid-step. Killian chewed on the back of his tongue. “Are you coming back?”

  Fedya hesitated, and his grip visibly tightened on the railing. He sucked in a breath as if to say something, but then he glanced back around the room before his gaze settled on Killian one final time. Their eyes held each other for just a moment before Fedya broke away and started down the stairs. Killian watched him go, each step echoing hollow in his chest.

  “Good night,” he whispered.

  K

  illian stared at the staircase, willing for Fedya to return. But he already knew he wouldn’t. Through the window, the glittering skyline started to fade to violet, each breath a cloudy puff of white that lingered on his chapped lips. If he craned his neck, he could just make out the domed silhouette of the building where Fedya had made his speech, and past that, the gray smoke of a train bloomed into the darkening sky.

  Fedya had told him to stay put, but he couldn’t. Not like this. His mind raced, trying to sort it all out. He knew he was in Eskor. But why? How? Did Fedya really not recognize him? Did Astrocia even exist anymore? He got up, pacing along the creaking floorboards. Someone had to have answers. There had to be a reason why he was here.

  He felt sick, his stomach starting to churn, and he glanced back down the stairs. The warmth beckoned him, and as if on cue, his whole body racked with shivers. Sucking in a breath, he slowly made his way down.

  A few people lingered in the main room; most of them milled around a man in an intricately embroidered fur hat and a deep purple sash wrapped around his coat. He was handing out blankets, though Killian stood rooted to the spot, ignoring the aching in his bones.

  Killian couldn’t remember the last time he’d stepped inside a church. He had dim memories of the local parish when his grandmother was still alive. She never liked to go to the royal church, and she loved to sneak him out in a hand-knit sweater and cap so no one would recognize him, even though everyone always did. He’d snuggle close to her side in those big, hard chairs and she’d smell like peppermint and slip him orange slices from beneath her shawl. When the time came to wash their foreheads from the Holy Basin, she always let him wash her first, tracing the lines of her wrinkles with his nubby fingers before blowing on his nose and making him laugh.

  Killian’s mouth twitched upward at the memory, but then he glanced around and the smile skittered off. This chapel wasn’t like the church back home. No soft music filtered down from somewhere invisible up above, no creaking redwood to muffle each footstep or chandeliers with a dozen flickering candles.

  But there was fire.

  It sat in the middle of the room in a large pit, its crackling flames lighting up even the furthest corner. There were benches instead of chairs, draped in furs and pushed up against three of the walls, and not a Holy Basin or cloth in sight. Iron candelabras stuck out from the walls, alight with torches.

  “Do you need a blanket?”

  Killian startled and turned around. Another man in a fur cap and purple sash stood behind him.

  “Oh.” He wavered, and then awkwardly nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  The man smiled and handed him a blanket from his pile. It was lined in the same type of wool as Fedya’s coat, and Killian pulled it tight around his shoulders to trap in the heat, burrowed in deep. He was glad everyone ignored him, and he turned his face to the floor to avoid any stray glances. He didn’t belong here. He focused on his breathing, trying to quell the pounding in his chest. There had to be some sense to all of this. Some explanation.

  He watched the man walk off before he turned back to the benches. A few people sat huddled in small groups or pairs, all wrapped in the same blankets being passed out. They stared at the fire with glassy eyes, and at their feet Killian spotted the same bells from before. Some of them looked just as lost as he did.

  No one approached the fire, though. Even as the heat licked his face, taunting him and luring him forward, Killian remained near the wall. There was no platform, no chairs or stage, nothing to signify where the chaplain spoke. There was only the burning fire in the middle of the room, the flames threatening to jump up and latch on to the cloth scroll hanging from the middle of the ceiling. A few letters were embroidered in gold, but he didn’t recognize any of them.

  Killian made his way over to one of the benches closest to the stairs and sat down beside a hunched-over old woman. She wore the same blanket he did, wrapped around her broad shoulders, but her hands were free in her lap. She fiddled with something between her fingers, nimbly moving it back and forth. Killian fidgeted, trying not to peek.

  “So, have a look then.”

  Killian twitched at the woman’s sudden raspy voice. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Do you want to see or don’t you?”

  “Oh.” He shifted in his seat again. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  The woman snorted, but her lips upturned as she eased her shoulders back just enough so he could peer over. She held a tiny carving knife in one hand and a ball of white wax in the other. With expert precision she dug the blade into the hard wax, sculpting the delicate curve of a flower petal.

  “That’s beautiful.”

  The woman snorted again, but didn’t say anything. She continued carving, tiny flecks of wax littering her skirt like snowflakes. Killian clamped his mouth back shut, but leaned over a little more, watching as the wax slowly blossomed into a flower. The old woman set it on the bench beside her before fishing out another ball of wax from the drawstring purse around her waist and began carving again. She set each flower down beside her, five in a row, before she finally pulled out a second carving knife.

  “Well, come on then,” she said, shoving the knife into Killian’s hand. “Don’t just sit there.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t know how to carve.”

  “And did you come from your mother’s womb knowing how to walk and talk? That is why you learn.”

  She pulled out another piece of wax and placed it in his other hand before turning back to her own carving. Killian hesita
ted, watching closer as her fingers deftly handled the blade, each cut swift and certain. He awkwardly turned the knife over in his hand and carefully shaved the side of the wax, working slowly until a crude, boxy petal began to form.

  “There you have it. Go on.”

  Killian almost smiled, but he kept his head down. The wax warmed up and softened against his palms and he started on a second petal.

  “You need to have patience,” the old woman said. “Good things take time.”

  Killian worked in silence, slowly smoothing out each and every petal. They stuck out in angles and didn’t rest naturally, but he didn’t care. He forgot about the cold and the stiffness of his joints, turning toward the light of the fire to see better. The world melted away, soft and faded. The fear dwindled. He focused on the wax, the only thing that seemed to make an ounce of sense.

  Metal clattered against stone and Killian jerked his head up. The cold returned. Three men wearing fur hats and sashes entered from the back of the room, carrying a large pot between them. Killian recognized one of them from before. A fourth man soon followed, holding a tray piled with bowls and spoons. Almost instantly his stomach growled ferociously.

  “Good. Keep practicing,” the woman said. “When it is done, you can light it and remember the memory of your loved ones.”

  She set down her final flower on the bench and stuffed the knife back in her purse before standing up and brushing off the bits of wax from her skirt. Pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, she joined the small group of people gathering around the pot. Killian watched her leave, but as his stomach growled again he looked back at the rudimentary flower in his hand. The woman’s words rested on his thoughts and he tightened his jaw.

  His loved ones. Where were they now?

  He shoved the flower and knife inside his coat pocket and stood up. A steaming bowl was nearly thrust in his hands, and his stomach flipped. The soup burned his throat as he drank it down, but he didn’t care. Made of cabbage and sliced potatoes and carrots, he only wanted more. He crumbled his thin slice of black bread in the bowl, soaking up every last bit of vegetable stock, and resisted the urge to lick his fingers.