The Golden Princess and the Moon

by Anna Mendell

  Erik looked at his friend curiously. “So you didn’t see the stag earlier in the woods?”

  Dunstan shook his head. “I saw something streaking through the forest, but you had nearly disappeared by the time I mounted my horse.”

  The prince was silent for a moment and then said, “If you are a loyal friend, you will not hinder me.”

  “Hinder you? Certainly not. I will join you! Though I have to say I’m a bit offended you haven’t trusted me with your secret. Where are we going?”

  Erik shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “I will tell you when we are on the road tomorrow and not before. You will think me mad, but I have never been more serious about anything in my life.”

  Dunstan studied his friend. “I can see that. What would make our serious prince even more serious than usual, I wonder? Have you heard of another rebellion breaking out? Shouldn’t you tell the king?”

  “No nothing like that, this concerns me alone, and you must not breathe a word of this to anyone, particularly to the king or the queen. I have a feeling that my stepmother would expend all her powers trying to stop me.”

  Dunstan whistled, “Well, this is a mystery. But I see that I must wait until tomorrow for it to be revealed.”

  “I’ll meet you at the gates at break of day.”

  Dunstan nodded.

  “Break of day, do you hear? Otherwise I will leave you behind.”

  The prince’s friend waved at him dismissively and walked through the door.

  “Dunstan,” Erik’s voice stopped him.

  The fair-haired young man paused and looked over his shoulder.

  “I am glad that you are coming. This will be a hard journey, and it will be lighter with company.”

  “You’re welcome.” Dunstan grinned and then left the prince’s room.

  THE MORNING BROKE on two dark figures on horseback riding against the sunrise. Lodestar and Embermane bore their masters westwards like great comets streaking across the heavens. The two young men rode until the rosy-golden hues of the sunrise dissolved into the clear morning light, and, while they rested their horses, Erik told Dunstan about the princess, his dreams, and Ninny Nanny and her stories. Dunstan did not speak throughout the entire explanation and kept his silence when the prince finished.

  “You think I am mad, don’t you?” Erik asked.

  Dunstan answered with hesitation, “If anyone else told me that story and expected me to believe it, I would say that he was mad and laugh it away. But since it is you…” Dunstan shrugged.

  “Well, you can turn back now if you do not believe me, but you must swear on your sword that you will not tell anyone.”

  “I am not going anywhere,” Dunstan said firmly, “and I did not say I did not believe you.” Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Whoever would have dreamed that I would see the day that the serious prince would fall in love? It only stands to reason that she would be no ordinary woman, but a magical princess under a curse.”

  “I would rather you stay behind than have to endure your mockery throughout the entire journey,” Erik said through gritted teeth.

  “I am profoundly sorry. I know you are a delicate soul, and it will not happen again.”

  Erik smiled in spite of himself. He knew that such a promise would be impossible for his friend.

  “Now onward! We journey to rescue a damsel in distress!” “That is enough, Dunstan.”

  THE two rode for days without mishap, staying at inns overnight. They did not expect pursuit, for Erik had left a message behind to the effect that he and Dunstan had wearied of the castle and were leaving for the hunting lodge a few days south. They shouldn’t be missed for weeks if fortune smiled upon them.

  As they approached the western marches, Erik asked those he met on the way for stories of the Shadowood. Most were too frightened to talk of the cursed wood, though a few would tell him wild stories of men lost in mazes of thorn, or of wolves larger than men gleaming silver in the night. More often than not, however, innkeepers and their customers would fill their ears with the more mundane complaints of the Greyhawk and his band of men. They were bandits who roamed the western highways and forests preying on Midlothian travelers. Erik and Dunstan made note to be watchful on the road and took care not to reveal their identities.

  They reached the river marking the boundary between Westhane and Midlothia on the morning of the fourth day of their travels, but saw no bridge by which to cross. Erik espied an old, white-haired man standing knee high deep in the river, holding a net, his coracle landed on the bank nearby. Erik dismounted from his horse and called out to him, but the old man gestured for the prince to be silent. Both Erik and Dunstan stood patiently by as he remained motionless, waiting for his catch. He must have captured something in his net, for soon he let out a victorious laugh and slowly waded ashore, dragging his net up through the water. Erik reached out and gave him a hand back onto the shore.

  Now that the he was near, Erik saw that the fisherman was not as old as he had thought. Though his hair was bone-white, his face was unlined, and the prince could not make out his age.

  “Look at my beautiful fish.” The man laughed as he dumped his catch into the coracle. “They glimmer and dance so gracefully.”

  “Is the river shallow enough to wade across? We need to cross to the other side,” Erik asked.

  The fisherman shook his head. “No, she dips in the middle and becomes too deep for horses. There was a bridge here, but it was washed away in the spring floods. You will have to travel a few hours north to find the next one.”

  Erik nodded. “Many thanks, but we must be on our way.”

  “Why don’t you share a meal with me? I have more than enough fish to share among three.”

  “No, we would travel a few more hours before resting. We are making haste.”

  Erik would have turned to go, but the fisherman caught sight of the silver pendant that he wore around his neck. It had slipped over his tunic when he had helped the man ashore. The fisherman exclaimed as he reached forward and caught hold of the pendant and then examined it closely. “It has been many a year since I’ve seen a piece so old in my wanderings. Do you know what this is?”

  Erik shook his head. “It was given me by my mother, but, other than that, I do not know anything about it. Does it hold any significance for you?”

  The fisherman stared at Erik keenly and then said, “This pendant is called a symbolon. They are always made in matching pairs and contain a secret. See how this ridge in indented?”

  The prince nodded.

  “This is where it interlocks with its matching pair.” He turned it over on its back and paused, running his thumb over the cross hatching on the back surface. He flipped it over again to the engraving of the bird clutching the fish.

  “This bird is a kingfisher, a friend to all fisherman. Guard this pendant well, and perhaps one day you will unlock the key to its secret.”

  Erik gazed at the man with curiosity. His eyes were as deep as still black pools and as inscrutable. He certainly did not speak like an ordinary fisherman. Erik wondered if perhaps he would know more about the Shadowood than those they had encountered on their travels so far.

  “Would you know any tales that would be helpful in navigating the Shadowood?” he asked.

  “One does not navigate the Shadowood. The wood either chooses to reveal itself or it does not. But I will tell you that what you seek is lost within a labyrinth, and you will not find the true path until you have journeyed the labyrinth of your own heart.”

  The fisherman fixed his eyes on Dunstan, who had dismounted to join the both of them. “The wood tolerates no doubt. It weighs those who enter it and casts away those who are unworthy. Once you walk into the wood, your step must not falter.”

  Erik felt his blood run cold and then he looked at his friend with troubled eyes. Dunstan merely gave a light laugh and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Thank you for your warning, mysterious fisherman,
but I’m a little too old to be frightened by old wives’ tales. Shall we head off, Erik?”

  The prince nodded and thanked the fisherman, who had returned to the coracle to look after his catch.

  “Next time,” the fisherman said, “we shall share a meal, you and I.”

  Erik waved, and both he and Dunstan mounted their horses and followed the river up north until they came to the bridge and crossed it into Westhane.

  BOTH Erik and Dunstan had intended to be on their guard against the Grey Hawk and his band of brigands, for, though they were dressed simply, their tunics were finely woven, and no one could mistake Lodestar and Embermane for anything other than noble steeds. But partly because they were both dwelling on the fisherman’s final words of warning, and partly because of the great stealth of the Grey Hawk’s band, Erik and Dunstan were completely taken by surprise when they were ambushed on the solitary road.

  Erik had barely drawn his sword when it was knocked out of his hand, and soon both he and Dunstan were unhorsed and bound as brigands rifled through their belongings, lifting them of their money pouches.

  “Now these are a fine pair of steeds,” said one of the men addressing the one who appeared to be their leader. “I say that we keep them instead of selling them.”

  The leader, who could only be the Grey Hawk, nodded. He was a tall man dressed in a grey tunic, with an angular face possessing a sharp nose and deep-set, piercing, grey eyes. He held up his hand, and one of the men tossed him the money pouches. Opening one of them, he peered at the gold and then glanced sharply at Erik and Dunstan. “Now what may be your errand in these parts, boys?”

  “What’s it to you?” Dunstan retorted. “We are traveling to Castle Westhane, where I am sure the Lord Clovis would be displeased to learn that you are manhandling his guests.”

  The Grey Hawk’s face turned hard at the mention of the Lord of Westhane. He gave Dunstan a dangerous smile and then bowed low to him and the prince. “Forgive me, where are my manners? Any guest of the Lord’s is a guest of mine.” He barked out orders to his men, who brought him the horses and then unbound the prisoners.

  “I am afraid I must relieve you of your fine steeds and your gold,” the Grey Hawk continued. “You see, I and the Lord of Westhane have a little game that we play. Both try to outdo the other in generosity towards our guests. If I take your horses, then that only means he will have to supply you with a pair of his own. He helps me out in the same way.”

  He threw Erik and Dunstan’s swords out into the middle of the road. “I’ll leave these here with you. Perhaps next time, Midlothian boys, you will think before you travel the western roads alone. I hear there are dangerous men abroad.”

  The brigands rode off, and Erik took up his sword and sheathed it. Dunstan did the same, saying, “Curse those vile outlaws and horse thieves! I know what you must be thinking. Why couldn’t I have kept my large mouth shut and not mention the Lord of Westhane. You know I always say the first thing that comes to mind… I wanted to make him think twice about robbing us.”

  Erik shook his head. “No, they would have robbed us either way. I should have noticed them waiting in ambush. It is my own carelessness that brought us here.”

  “Well, you are not the only one with eyes and ears. I should have noticed them as well. What now? Shall we go back to the nearest inn and send word to the castle?”

  “No, I am not giving up. We are going to get our horses back.”

  “What!” Dunstan exclaimed. “Why don’t we take the Grey Hawk’s suggestion and instead get a fresh pair from the Lord of Westhane?”

  “And lose Lodestar and Embermane? You should be ashamed!”

  “Better than losing our necks,” Dunstan grimaced. “Now, you know I am as eager for battle as the best of them, but there were at least fifteen men here on ambush, and there will be more at the camp. I do not think that they will let us go a second time.”

  Erik felt for the hilt of his sword. “They left behind our swords. I do not think they will kill us. Besides, it will take us days to get to Castle Westhane by foot, and I am not sure if the Lord of the castle may not try to detain me until he gets word to my father. No, we will just have to not get caught.”

  Dunstan grinned. “Well, I was getting bored. Let’s go then!”

  IT WAS easy enough to follow the trail left behind by so large a band as the Grey Hawk’s, so Erik and Dunstan pursued Lodestar and Embermane by foot. It was dusk when the prince and his friend finally reached the outskirts of the brigands’ camp. There was a watch posted about the camp, so the two hid in the undergrowth and waited for the darkness to completely fall before they stole past the watch and, when near enough to observe the camp, hid in the bushes.

  A large fire blazed in the center of the camp, with a boar on a spit roasting above it. The men were seated about the fire, and one of them made the rounds, pouring sparkling liquid into outstretched goblets like a royal cupbearer. The men were seated tall and straight, and the Grey Hawk himself sat lordly in the midst of them. This was no common outlaw’s feast. The trees rose tall in a leafy canopy around them, and they appeared like lords of a forest hall.

  The Grey Hawk seemed far away from the all the laughter and the talk, watching the flames dance with a somber brow. He waved to one of the men, saying, “Aymer, sing us a song of the wandering king. I am in a melancholy mood tonight.”

  A thin young man picked up the lyre that lay beside him and, after plucking a few chords gently, tightened a few of its strings before he began his song.

  The wand’ring king tirelessly treads

  the path of exile.

  There is none left among mortal kind

  to whom he dares speak.

  There is none left to unburden

  the treasures of his thoughts.

  The monuments of old have crumbled

  into the ocean.

  Branches shake against the bitter cold

  where once the bird sang.

  The ruined earth lies waiting for

  the renewal of the rain.

  The shadows lengthen in the dark night.

  The moon shines above.

  Sorrow returns at old memories

  of love won and lost.

  The wounds of his soul are sore with

  the longing of lament.

  The wanderer cries:

  Time the destroyer of cities

  who cuts short the breath of men,

  how long will your wheel fall relentlessly downward

  and fate follow its predetermined path?

  All glory is fled

  buried with the dead.

  The wand’ring king tirelessly treads

  The path of exile.

  Alone unchanging in a fading world,

  he waits for the time

  when what was sunder’d is joined by

  the coming of the crown.

  As the last notes faded into stillness, Erik was lost in the images of the sorrowful king wandering through the bygone ages. A quick nudge from Dunstan brought him back to himself, and his friend pointed out where the horses were being kept. They were at the rear of the campsite, a far enough distance to be stolen back without alerting the main band of men. The prince nodded quietly, and the two crept softly and gently toward the horses. A guard was on duty, but Erik disabled him without a sound and then untethered Lodestar and Embermane while Dunstan stooped over to relieve the fallen man of his bow and quiver.

  They stealthily led their horses from the camp, but the fallen man and the theft of the horses must have been discovered, for a sharp cry echoed through the forest.

  Erik and Dunstan leapt on their horses, all attempts at remaining hidden abandoned. They fled the inevitable pursuit, but the sentries up ahead on horseback diverted their flight, and the rest of the Grey Hawk’s band rushed the two young men with their swords drawn. As they were surrounded, the prince unsheathed his sword, which glimmered in the torchlight, and Dunstan drew his bow.

  “I recommend
that you lower your weapons,” rang a voice in the darkness, and Erik recognized the Grey Hawk’s commanding tones. “You are outnumbered and in the sights of our arrows. If you lower your weapons, I promise you your lives.”

  Erik saw no choice other than to heed the Grey Hawk’s warning and sheathe his sword, and, following his lead, Dunstan lowered his bow. Two of the men rode up with torches, and the fire cast its light upon the intruders, revealing their features. One of the men laughed.

  “If it isn’t the two boys we met on the road. They must enjoy being soundly fleeced.”

  “Quiet, Corwin,” the Grey Hawk snapped. He stared at the two young men with a thoughtful expression. “You are welcome to sit with us at our fire and partake of our food as our guests. But you will have to lower your weapons and, of course, return the horses to us.”

  “I am afraid we cannot do that,” Erik spoke firmly. “I will not leave Lodestar behind and I am on a journey of great haste. You will have to slay me where I stand.”

  Dunstan started, and the Grey Hawk looked at the prince intently.

  “You are not traveling to Castle Westhane,” he said.

  “We are not.”

  The Grey Hawk came to a rapid decision. “You will return with us to the camp, and we will reach an agreement. I promise you will not be worse off than you are now.”

  The last the Grey Hawk said with an ironic smile that Erik did not like, but both he and Dunstan agreed and followed the men back to the campsite, where the Grey Hawk offered them food and drink.

  “I hope the meat and drink is to your liking. We do not partake of the sumptuous fare I am sure you are accustomed to. We have music, however, to rival even the bards of the king’s court.”

  “Indeed,” Erik acknowledged. “Your bard sings songs of the wandering king.”

  “You know the old legends, then?”

  Erik recited softly,

  The wand’ring king tirelessly treads

  The path of exile.

  Alone unchanging in a fading world,

  he waits for the time

  when what was sunder’d is joined by