by L. R. Patton
A woman like Queen Clarion cannot do much here. At least not yet.
But let us follow Queen Clarion and her son into the shadows and through the doorway and down the long, torchlit hallway with ceilings high enough to comfortably accommodate three giants standing atop the shoulders of one another. Let us enter the royal chamber, where our great king awaits.
THE king, of course, is not waiting for his son or his wife. He is not a man accustomed to spending much time with the lesser people, which is precisely how he views his son and his wife. Lesser, for they are not important rulers of a kingdom. Lesser, for one is a woman and one a child. Lesser, for they are not him.
King Willis is a man who keeps himself busy running a kingdom, though the kingdom is mostly peaceful, and a man running a kingdom can hardly be counted upon to sup with his wife and only son, much less converse with them in the margins between settling disputes (there are none) and making kingdom decisions (what kind of sweet rolls he would like today) and protecting his people from the dangers of the outside world (no one has invaded the land since his father stole the throne).
Yes, reader, it really is a tragedy of the most avoidable kind. A child is a transformative gift. A father should always want to know his child.
The king, even now, is waiting on someone else and has no thought reserve in his large brain to waste on his wife and son. He does not wonder what they are doing. He does not consider leaving the throne room to bid his son goodnight. If one were to look inside his mind for just a moment, one would see that he is not in this room at all, but very far away, waiting.
He waits for someone very like the other one hundred forty-two people hidden in the deepest bowels of the castle, where one can easily forget them if one were a man such as King Willis. A woman is coming, after all these years. A woman he hopes will bear good news where all the others brought bad.
So when the queen knocks on the door at the precise time he expects another, King Willis, of course, believes it is the one on whom he waits. It does not even cross his mind that his son and wife might stand on the other side of the door, about to enter and soil his perfectly planned evening with unexpected questions and wonderings. He does not expect that he will be sharing any secrets this evening.
But, alas, doors do not always open on what we expect.
The king calls out in a jovial voice, a voice very unlike the one Queen Clarion and Prince Virgil have heard before today, though not often. “Come in, come in, please,” the king says.
The royal chamber is a large room of red and gold. It is the largest room you can imagine, with such a distance from the door to the throne that one cannot even see the face of the royal body sitting on the throne, even if one has perfect vision. One would have to walk halfway down the red velvet carpet to see clearly enough to know whether a king was happy or angry that one had interrupted whatever it is a king does in such a room as this one. Its ceilings are as high as the hallway ones, but these are carved with elaborate works of art, pictures of nighttime skies, a portrait of the giant who guards the Great Mountains, the faces of past kings who do not share the same family but all share the same gift: magic.
King Willis is surprised enough by the ones who enter that a “You” escapes his lips and booms all the way down the carpet to his wife and son. They stop for a moment, familiar with the contempt that meets them. And then he says, “Come,” so they continue on. By the time they are halfway down the carpet, the king’s face is blank, as if he is not made of emotion at all, as if he is merely a body on a throne. Prince Virgil tries to keep his eyes on the red drapes hanging from a gold tunnel attached to the ceiling. He tries not to notice how his father’s fat body leaks and spills over the throne arms set in gold, how one cannot even tell that the throne carries a cushion of midnight blue. Jewels blink at him as he moves closer, shimmering in the light from candles on gold pillars that line the walk from entrance to throne.
Garth, the king’s manservant, stands at the foot of the throne, at the bottom of the steps, ready to fetch a drink or some food or to simply help the king rise from his seat, since it has become difficult for His Most High King to squeeze in and out of it without a little extra help.
“Well?” King Willis says when his wife and son have reached the place just in front of Garth and done their obligatory curtsy and bow. “What is it, now?” He looks toward the door, as if he is already wishing them away.
Imagine facing a man like that with nothing to offer but questions.
But Queen Clarion, for all her kindness, also possesses another virtuous characteristic: bravery.
Bravery is what takes her foot and plants it on the first step and then the second, and one after another. Bravery is what reaches her hand toward her son to pull him forward with her. Bravery is what brings her to the space that is inches in front of the king, where almost no one goes, and it is what bows her head low, and it is also what pulls these words from her lips:
“Virgil has been asking questions.”
“Virgil has been asking questions,” King Willis repeats. He looks at his son, as if surprised that he is there. “Well, my queen, Virgil is a child. Children ask question, do they not?” He looks at his wife as if she is simply another commoner interrupting his noonday meal. They stare at one another for a time. And then King Willis seems to recognize something in Queen Clarion’s eyes, for he says, “What sort of questions has Virgil been asking?” though it is clear that he is not at all interested in the answer.
Queen Clarion nudges her son forward and nods at him in that way a mother has, encouraging him to find his bravery and speak with a king. She squeezes his hand in her own. A gentle touch. An empowering touch. A touch that says, “I am here.”
Prince Virgil has only spoken to his father three times in his life—once when he was merely a baby and Queen Clarion brought him into the royal chamber to show King Willis that his son had learned to say Father, once when he was a young boy of five and Queen Clarion brought him into the royal chamber so he could explain to King Willis why the curtains in the ballroom were missing three inches from their bottom (he did it, reader, because no one ever opened the curtains, and there were so many windows, so much light, and the room had the best view in the whole castle. He merely wanted to see outside. He did the best thing he thought possible), and another time when the king and queen discovered, after the first ninety-nine prophets said the same old thing—that Prince Virgil was, surely and certainly, a boy born without the gift of magic.
And now, today. Only four times in his twelve years has Prince Virgil spoken to his father.
He stammers a little. (Wouldn’t you, dear reader? If you were speaking to a king, a king who rules a whole land, a king you did not really know, a king who is your father? Of course.)
“W-w-why was I b-b-born without m-m-magic?” Prince Virgil says. He hates the way his voice sounds so squeaky and nervous and weak. He would like to have a different voice, one more like Theo’s, who sounds like a boy but also sounds like he may be on his way to becoming a man. He does not want to disappoint his father with this voice. So he does not say more.
His father looks at him. Queen Clarion squeezes Prince Virgil’s hand, and that is the only reason Prince Virgil looks at his father. And when his father does not answer, Prince Virgil clears his throat and tries again, encouraged by his mother’s warmth. This time his voice sounds thicker, though not any older. “Why, Father?” he says.
The king lets loose a great laugh, which shakes his whole belly in a way that looks much like waves rolling across an ocean, pitching into a shore. Prince Virgil tries to keep his eyes on the king’s face rather than that great grey velvet ocean with buttons that hardly fasten anymore. A gold piece at the center of his father’s belly is held on by a tight belt that looks as if it may burst at any moment. Prince Virgil lifts his eyes up, away from the shaking. The crown on the king’s head is large and shiny, with red and blue and purple jewels studded in all its spikes. It is so heavy, and King Will
is has so much extra flesh on his forehead, that the wearing of it produces an almost permanent scowl, even when he is laughing. Prince Virgil feels the urge to laugh at the frightful sight.
“Son,” the king says. “Of course you were born with magic.” The king glances at his manservant, Garth, as if Garth has not listened at doorways and heard what one hundred forty-two prophets have told the royal family in years past.
“No,” Prince Virgil says. He looks at his mother, who lets out a breath. “No, Father, I was not.”
“Silence!” King Willis roars. The whole royal chamber echoes the word, and the world holds still, everyone too frightened to even breathe. “Leave us,” King Willis says, a touch softer. The king does not specify to whom he speaks, but Garth has already begun to move.
Queen Clarion smiles at the meek, homely boy. “Thank you, Garth,” she says. King Willis does not know his manservant’s name, for this is not something important to his life and well being. But Queen Clarion knows the names of every servant in the house.
“Yes, m’lady,” Garth says, his eyes on the floor.
King Willis moves in a flash, surprising for his bulk. Prince Virgil hears the smack and sees his mother’s face twist to the side. Did King Willis hit her? Did he strike Queen Clarion on the cheek? What kind of man would do something so cruel and unnecessary?
Well, reader, men do cruel and unnecessary things for all kinds of reasons. Arrogance. Conviction. Fear. For our king, it is some of all of those that move his hand.
Queen Clarion touches her cheek, staring at the floor. “How dare you!” roars the king. “How dare you address my manservant by name!” His hands fly, his arms bouncing against his sides and then spreading back out again. “They are little more than dogs. They do not deserve a name.”
Prince Virgil stares at his father. This explosion does not surprise Queen Clarion, but it surprises Prince Virgil, indeed. He has never seen his father this angry, over something so simple as calling a boy by his proper name. Prince Virgil looks at Garth, this boy who is older than him by four years? Five? Perhaps more? It is hard to tell on a face like his. Garth pulls at his brown belt splitting his deep green tunic in half, as if unsure of what he should do.
“Go!” King Willis roars again.
Garth scurries toward the door, like one of the mice Prince Virgil frees from the traps in the castle library. He does not mind the mice so much. A few of them are blind and merely enjoy sitting in a place filled with the scent of ancient days. Or so he believes. He does not know, of course. Mice cannot talk.
As soon as Garth has closed the door behind him, King Willis takes a deep breath. One. Two. Three. Then he clears his throat. From the sweat collecting on his brow, one might think the king was uncomfortable or nervous or caught.
Yes. Perhaps he is caught.
“Why do you not have magic?” King Willis says. “That is a question your mother can answer just as well as I can.” King Willis glares at his wife, as if she is to blame for putting him in this uncomfortable circumstance.
“No,” Queen Clarion says. Her voice is kind, but the words hold a steel bar. Prince Virgil watches it take a swing at his father’s face. But Queen Clarion is not yet done. “This is a question for his father.” She peers at the king. Prince Virgil stares at the red flower on her cheek, an exaggerated hand.
Were he to look at his father’s hands at that very moment, he would see the sausage fingers clenching into fists, turning the knuckles white. One might, perhaps, suppose that King Willis would strike Queen Clarion again, but our king has more discretion than this. Discretion, of course, can be lost in a moment of fury, as it was mere moments ago, but King Willis, for now, is calm.
Prince Virgil peels his eyes from his mother’s damaged cheek and turns them on his father. His anger bites out words. “I want to hear it from you,” he says.
King Willis waves a hand. “You have magic,” he says. “Dormant magic. We have not found the right prophets to uncover it yet.”
“There are no more prophets,” Prince Virgil says.
“Ah,” the king says. His eyes turn glittery. “That is where you are wrong, my boy. There is one who comes this very night.”
Prince Virgil tilts his head. Could this prophet, perhaps, carry the answers to questions he has wondered all his life? “Who?” he says to his father.
King Willis leans forward in his chair, but he cannot place his elbows on his knees, for there is no room. So he rests his arms on his belly instead. “A prophetess,” his father says. “Come to bring good news, I suspect.”
Prince Virgil shakes his head. He has hoped for so long, through one hundred forty-two of them. Is there any hope left? And if there were, should he waste it on something as uncertain as this?
“Tell him,” Queen Clarion says, and Prince Virgil looks at his mother’s face. Her eyes are icy and hard and unsafe. So he moves his gaze to his father.
“Tell me what?” Prince Virgil says. He keeps his eyes on King Willis, who glares at the queen.
“Ask your father what he ever did of magic before you were born,” Queen Clarion says. Her voice is marble, cold and unbreakable.
Prince Virgil does not know if he wants to hear the answer to this question. But he asks it anyway. “Did you practice magic before I was born?”
King Willis stares at him for far too many moments. He does not think his father will answer. And then King Willis surprises them all. His face softens.
“Come closer,” the king says. He folds himself back into the throne, and the gold lets out a squeal of protest. Prince Virgil steps to his side. Queen Clarion sits on the stairs and smooths her billowing blue skirt so it fans out across the red carpet. King Willis takes a deep breath. Prince Virgil wonders how his father can breathe at all, stuck in a throne as tight as this one. “In the kingdom of Fairendale,” his father begins, “magic rules the throne.”
Yes. Prince Virgil knows this.
“Eighty-three years ago,” King Willis says, “my father stole the throne from a man who had only the smallest threads of magic. A girl to carry his name.” He looks at Prince Virgil with shadowed eyes. “Your grandfather had some of the most powerful magic in all the lands. And so he took the throne from the king who had so little. He was about your age, I think. How old are you, son?”
“Twelve,” Prince Virgil says, trying to imagine leading a rebellion at his age.
“Well, then,” King Willis says. “Never mind. Father was sixteen.” The king clears his throat. “For years my father ruled the throne with justice and set the people in their rightful place. You must understand that in the days of King Brendon, the common people ate a great feast on the lawn of the castle every Year’s Last Day. They would visit the castle. They would walk its halls and eat its leftover food and take whatever it was they needed.” His eyes narrow, just the slightest bit. “That is not a proper way to run a kingdom, you see.”
King Willis glares at his wife, then looks back at his son. “So my father restored the balance that every kingdom needs. The common people remained in the village. The royal line remained in the castle. Still, to this day. It is as it should be.” He stares at his son, as if trying to determine whether Prince Virgil feels the same. But all Prince Virgil can think about is his best friend being a commoner. What would it be like to sup with his friend? What would it be like to play hide-and-seek in those great halls? What would it be like to swim out in the cove, protecting one another from the mermaids?
“Your grandfather was forty-four years old when he brought me into the world,” King Willis says. “But there are rules to magic.”
Prince Virgil does not know any of the rules of magic, for he has never had a reason to learn them. He does not know about vanishing spells or precisely how magic is passed on to children or that something cannot be magically created from nothing, for no one has ever formally trained him, since he did not have the gift.
“When a magic person has a child, all of his magic passes to that child,” Ki
ng Willis says. “His son or daughter receives the gift of magic.” King Willis looks at the floor. Prince Virgil wonders, more now than ever, why the magic did not pass to him, then. If magic passes from parents to children, why was he skipped?
“There’s a catch,” Queen Clarion says. She looks at her husband.
“Yes, a catch,” King Willis says. His fingers turn white against the throne now. “If there are any other children, they do not get a single ounce of magic. Not one single ounce.” King Willis stares out toward the door, as if he is seeing something entirely different than this room and these people and the candles painting shapes onto the wall.
Prince Virgil still does not understand. But he knows better than to ask any questions. He looks at his mother. She stares at the king, waiting for what comes next.
King Willis shifts in his chair, but there is no shift that really happens. A man as large as King Willis does not shift, merely rearranges. “I have a brother,” he says. “An older brother.”
The words slam against Prince Virgil’s throat. An older brother? But the only brother his father had was Wendell, a younger brother who was banished from Fairendale long before Prince Virgil was born. Because he was not a wise man.
And then another thought scratches past all the others. If his uncle got all the magic and his father got none, where was the hope for him?