The Fiery Aftermath

by L. R. Patton

  Hazel shakes her head. “No, Mother,” she says. “There is more than that. I know you.” She gestures to the children, lined up in a wall-like fashion. “You are fighting for all of them. And you must keep fighting. You must agree to do as the Enchantress wishes. We must live.”

  Maude shakes her head. “No,” she says. “No, I will not.”

  “You must, Mother,” Hazel says. She brings her face close to her mother’s. “For me. And Theo. It is what he would have wanted.” And then she pulls her mother into a tight embrace. Hazel releases Maude and turns without another word. She nods at the Enchantress. “Very well,” she says. “I will come with you as soon as you do as you have said.”

  “I have already begun it,” the Enchantress says. She points to a spot, five hundred feet away, where a house grows from the earth in the shape of a shoe.

  “A shoe?” Maude says in surprise.

  The Enchantress smiles. “It will be a home,” she says. “Take a look inside.”

  And so Maude and the children do. Hazel wishes more than anything that she might go inside, too, but she made a deal. So she turns to the Enchantress, who beckons her toward the front door of her much smaller house. “Come with me,” she says. “I know just the place to put you.”

  “Wait,” Hazel says. The Enchantress turns. “First I must know who you are.” She stares at those green eyes that disturb her with their familiarity. Something about them comforts her, as if they belong to a friend. She does not remember meeting a beautiful woman like this one ever before in her life.

  “I have already answered your question,” the Enchantress says. “I am called the Enchantress. That is all you need to know.” She moves toward the door, her skirts billowing out behind her. Hazel follows her inside.

  Promise

  THERE came an evening when Zorag felt the ground rumble in an altogether different way, as if only one walked where many had once come. It had been many years since the Great Battle. The other dragons did not seem to hear it, for they were still sleeping, but Zorag always had quite an extraordinary sense for these things. Even his mother, when she was alive, would comment on his ability to warn the dragons when any danger was near.

  Zorag ventured to the edge of the Weeping Woods, which had found a new name after the new king invaded. It was appropriately named, for many had died in the forest. Many had vanished into the ground. Dragons and men alike.

  This was the boundary line. And yet someone was coming. Someone was coming closer.

  Zorag looked toward his people. They had not moved. Dragon skin was too thick to penetrate when the ground only rumbled because of one person, but Zorag, with his extraordinary sense, could feel the footsteps quite clearly. He could feel them in the most tender places.

  And yet he waited.

  The footsteps drew ever nearer. And then Zorag saw a man, hidden in shadow behind a tree. Zorag’s eye was level with the man’s face.

  His throat rumbled a bit, in warning to the man, but not so loud that his people were disturbed from their rest. The man looked at him and tilted his head, as if he were not afraid at all of the large beast before him. Zorag did not know whether to be angry or quite glad, for he had missed the humans. Still, this one was about to cross over the boundary line. He could open his mouth and breathe fire and consume this man in little more than a moment. But something held him back.

  The man stepped out from the shadows. Zorag saw that he was a handsome man, with deep blue eyes that looked, to him, kind and gentle. They reminded him of the boy he had loved once, back when the dragons began their partnership with the people. And so, quite unnaturally, the dragon bowed.

  Was this a long-lost son of the beloved king? Had King Brendon carried a secret that none in the kingdom knew?

  Then the man spoke. “I come in peace,” he said. “I come to see you.” And Zorag looked in his eyes and knew that the words the man spoke were true, knew that any words the man spoke would be true.

  “You should not be here,” Zorag said, as quietly as he could manage. “If you are found—”

  “I know,” the man said. “I, of all people, understand how dangerous it is.”

  “You, of all people,” Zorag said. “And who are you, of all people?”

  The man tilted his head to the side again. His hands opened and his arms raised, as if he were in the act of surrendering. “I am the king’s son.”

  Zorag drew back. Not a king’s son. A king’s son was not welcome here. What could this man with the kind eyes want? How would he betray them? Surely he was sent to destroy the dragons where they had not been destroyed before.

  “You,” Zorag said, still speaking in a way he could not understand, this careful, low rumble so as not to disturb the others.

  “Me,” the man said, and he fell to his knees. He fell to his knees and wept, and Zorag watched him. The dragon’s heart turned soft and warm, filling with a deep love that he could not deny. “I am sorry,” the man said. “I am sorry for what my father did to your people.”

  Zorag said nothing. He merely waited.

  “I am sorry for what my father did to you.” The man stood up and walked across the boundary line as if it did not matter in the slightest. He placed his hand on the tender spot on Zorag’s neck, where a line of arrows had pierced his father and brought him to his death. Zorag felt the recognition jolt him once more, as he found another rider, so many years after the first.

  “I am sorry for this,” the man said, and he touched Zorag’s broken wing. And then he bowed once more and said, “I am Prince Wendell.”

  “I am called Zorag,” Zorag said.

  “Zorag,” the prince said, and he smiled. “Well, Zorag.”

  He said nothing more. He merely climbed on Zorag’s back, and Zorag took to the air. It was a choppy flight, to be sure, for it was the first time Zorag had taken to the sky after his wing had been damaged. It had been many years, and his wings did not quite know what to do anymore, even without the injury. But they landed, and the prince stole away, back through the Weeping Woods, without any dragon or man spotting them.

  They met again and again and again, the prince climbing on Zorag’s back and Zorag taking him all around the land, showing the prince where the dragons were permitted to go and where they were not. It was dangerous for them to fly so close to Fairendale, but Wendell assured him that the people were sleeping, though Zorag flew high so that if there were eyes that happened to look up to the sky, they would not notice the flight of a dragon.

  Every night, before they parted, Prince Wendell stroked Zorag’s neck and said, “When I am king, you shall be welcome in the land again.”

  And Zorag began to hope and wait and love again.

  But the prince’s promise, alas, was never meant to be.

  Search

  THE village people wait, ignoring the calls of the mermaids behind them, who try to warn the people of the castle what is coming for them, but no one has ever, in the history of Fairendale, paid any mind to what mermaids say. One hundred twenty-three people cover the front lawn, up to the stone steps, holding the largest log they could find in the charred forest. They look about at one another as if all asking the same question: Where is Cora? She is their leader, after all. Had they all heard incorrectly? Would she not be here with them? How would they know what to do?

  A noise behind them draws their attention, and there is Cora, her red hair streaming loose in the wind, flapping behind her as if on fire. “Now,” she says, and they push the log back and ram it into the door and push the log back and ram it into the door, again and again and again, until the castle doors break open and they pile inside. They do not stop to admire the artistry on those ceilings, where famous artists painted until their arms began to shake. They do not stop to examine the marble floors or the portraits of past kings that line the hallway. They merely run toward the throne room, where they know the king to always be. Servants flee as the villagers come, with the log hoisted before them.

  They fin
d the throne room barred. They hear the king’s voice from within. “This is madness,” he says. “What is all this? Who has knocked at my door and broken it?” and they hear, then, the voice of another calming him, Queen Clarion, perhaps, for this is the voice of a woman. And then Cora hears the voice she wants. Prince Virgil. This will be easier than she thought. Cora looks at the village people. “To the kitchens,” she orders, and half of them scatter. The rest of them ram the log against the throne room doors. The door does not budge, but they will not give up. And what happens when sixty-two people do not give up when faced with a closed door? Why, it opens.

  It opens, dear reader, on quite a comical scene. The people see the king, poking through a hold in the floor. The prince is standing right next to him, as if waiting for his father to sink down inside.

  “Go, Father,” Prince Virgil says, his voice urgent and high-pitched. He looks as though he is thinking that his father should have let him go first. But his father, you see, was not thinking of his son in those moments of danger. He was only thinking of himself. Prince Virgil urged his mother into the hold first, and so she stands below, pulling on the king’s legs. But the king is stuck tight. He can no longer fit inside the hiding place that the castle builder, centuries ago, placed in this throne room for a dangerous moment such as this one, when a king might need a rapid escape route. Our king today is much too fat for this hold. He has eaten far too many sweet rolls, and now his legs dangle helplessly below, where who knows what awaits them. This hold has not been used since it was fashioned.

  The top side of King Willis juts from the hold, and there is no amount of pushing by Prince Virgil and pulling by Queen Clarion that will make him budge.

  Prince Virgil looks on the people, spilling into the throne room, and he looks at his father, stuck tight. His eyes widen. His father says, “Run.”

  And so he does.

  But, alas, there is nowhere in this room to run, not with sixty-two villagers running toward him. He moves to the back and off around the sides, but they have already cornered him. There is a woman, a fast one with flaming red hair he has seen before. Mercy’s mother, perhaps? She looks as if Mercy belongs to her. She is the one who reaches him first.

  “You will come with us, my dear,” she says, and while her words are kind, her eyes are not. He reaches for the talisman he has hung around his neck, but then he remembers that it is a blackbird, and something about a blackbird moves a shiver of fear all the way through him.

  Two more men grab Prince Virgil’s arms, while his father watches, unable to do anything or go anywhere, not in, not out, because of that enormous belly. The people carry Prince Virgil from the room.

  “We will not hurt you,” the woman with flaming hair says once they have pulled Prince Virgil from the safety of the castle and begun to drag him down the path toward the village. She says the words so that he will not fight. But, in all honesty, our dear prince does not want to fight, for he is done fighting, and so he goes willingly.

  “Where are you taking me?” Prince Virgil says.

  “We have prisons of our own in the village,” Cora says. She smiles at him, and her face is one long shadow, flickering into a blackbird so momentarily Prince Virgil believes it was only his imagination. Was it only his imagination? We shall have to wait and see.

  Prince Virgil shivers again. He does not know what these villagers have planned for him, and neither, in truth, do they, but they do know that what they have caught is precious and valuable to use for negotiation purposes, and so they take him down the road and past the bridge, where a red-haired mermaid taunts them, and then, when she sees Prince Virgil, her eyes grow wide and angry.

  Prince Virgil remembers that he has seen this mermaid before. She is not like the others, or at least he does not think she is. He remembers her singing over him once, and he remembers that she saved his life the night he thought he might venture into the woods. It feels so long ago he does not remember if the singing was real or merely a dream. Her eyes meet his. They are fierce and wild. “I will help,” she says, and then she dives below the surface.

  But what can a mermaid do?

  Well, we shall find that out soon enough, dear reader. But for now, let us return to the castle, where King Willis is still stuck tight in a too-narrow passageway.

  KING Willis was surely not thinking. He should have let his son go first, down into the passageway, and then there would have been some point to his being stuck, would there not? He could have plugged the passageway so that the people could never have reached his son. And now it is too late for a plan as brilliant as this.

  In truth, our king was thinking. But he was not thinking of anyone else in the room, only himself. He was thinking of how he needed to escape, for the people had surely come for him. He had been the one to imprison their children, after all. They wanted his head for it. And because he was not willing to die, King Willis forgot all about his son. How will he keep a throne without his son? How will he get his son back without the captain of the king’s guard and new men?

  Queen Clarion thumps his backside. He can hear her muffled voice. “What is happening?” she says. “What is happening, Willis?” She asks it over and over again, for all King Willis can do is slump over the passageway. He cannot answer his wife. And soon the servants move from their hiding places, for, you see, they did not want to die in the madness, either. They venture inside the throne room to see what might be left. It takes twelve of them pulling and Queen Clarion pushing to get King Willis out of the passage. He pops out with a squelching noise that all the servants, and the queen, pretend not to hear. Queen Clarion climbs out, slipping easily through the passageway with her slender, tall form, though the long, billowing skirt gives her some trouble. She looks around and does not see her son, and it is with a tenderness that blocks their throats that the servants watch their queen collapse right in the middle of the court with sobs that would make any man cry. Any man, that is, except for King Willis.

  “Quiet, woman,” King Willis says. “I cannot think with all of your noise.”

  “Our son,” Queen Clarion says. She looks up at the king, the lids of her blue eyes lined with red. “Our son is gone. They have taken our son.”

  “QUIET!” King Willis roars.

  The servants do not move, for in their world, quiet means remain as still as possible, so as not to make a sound with mouth or body. Barely even breathe. Queen Clarion, it seems, is the only one brave enough to defy a man as powerful as King Willis, for she is the only one who speaks. “Perhaps we should give their children back,” she says. She does not so much as flinch when King Willis turns a heavy hand toward her face.

  “I said quiet,” he says. “We will not give the children back. That is not part of the plan.”

  Queen Clarion rises. Grief does strange things to people, if you will remember. Sometimes it makes them brave, as it does Queen Clarion. She is sad enough to take a chance. “But our son,” she says. “They have taken our son. Just like we took their sons and daughters. They will want an even trade.”

  “They will not get an even trade,” King Willis says. “We must think of the kingdom.”

  “We must think of our son,” Queen Clarion says. “There is no kingdom without our son.”

  Oh, how Queen Clarion wishes King Willis were more like his brother. Kind, smart, gracious, helpful, loving. A real man. This shell of a man who stands before her should never have been her husband. None of this would ever have happened.

  While these thoughts bounce through our poor queen’s head, she does not remain where she is. She moves, instead, toward her husband.

  “But the kingdom,” King Willis says, and it is as if these words take all the life out of him. He slumps where he stands, his large belly fanning waves of grief. Could it be that he regrets putting his son in danger? Could it be, dear reader, that he does, in fact, love his son? Could it be that we have not known King Willis as well as we thought?

  Queen Clarion puts a hand on his
arm. She is a woman who can forgive easily, even a man who has made as many mistakes as King Willis. For Queen Clarion knows that forgiveness does not belong to the worthy. It belongs to the giver. And so she can forgive and forgive and forgive, knowing that it does not give this man power over her but gives her power over her own mind and heart.

  “We must give them back,” she says. “It is the only way.”

  “It is not the only way.” The king and queen look up at this unknown voice. There is a woman, hiding in the shadows at the back of the room. She does not move but merely waits.

  King Willis does not recognize her. “Who are you, woman?” he says. “What do you want?”

  “Only to help,” the woman says. She steps from the shadows. She is dressed in ragged clothes, covered by a dirty apron. She is the castle cook, you see. She is the one who works all day in the kitchen so that King Willis can grow fat and satisfied on her food. She is a valuable possession for a man like King Willis. She is also not everything she seems, for she has a secret. A shape shifting secret. As you will remember, not many shape shifters exist in this world. As few as six, in fact.

  This woman is terribly old, though she looks to be around the age of a grandmother, with plump skin and face and wrinkles in all the right places, as if she is a merry person. Those who work with her know she is not, in fact, merry. Just ask Calvin, who has had his ears boxed for the slightest of reasons. Sometimes for the reason that Cook felt like it. No one in the castle knows that when night falls, she shifts into a bear and rumbles off toward the enchanted wood, where creatures will not hurt a being as large as she can become. No one would be able to tell by looking on her face. No one would be able to see her secret hidden there, for they never venture close enough to Cook to notice the way her chin is just slightly darker with a film fuzz that she never found necessary to remove. Mankind is not so observant. They do not see that her eyes look a bit more animal than most.