Yes, that is exactly how muddled my thoughts were during that time.
“Your Majesty,” the captain began, and his usually clipped, confident voice betrayed him by cracking. “I have news I wish I did not have to share but know that I must for your safety.”
I studied him disinterestedly. “Do you come to me as a friend, or as captain of the royal guard?”
The captain considered a moment. “Both,” he finally said.
“Then pull up a seat and speak plainly,” I commanded.
The captain pulled up a chair, but as soon as he sat, he sprang back up again. He paced the floor a few times, before he came to kneel before me.
“Ella—Princess—Your Majesty,” he bumbled. “I have made inquiries about the wine from your room.”
I raised an eyebrow questioningly at him. This could be interesting. If not, it certainly couldn’t make my life any worse than it already was.
I was so, so incredibly wrong.
“It seems, Your Majesty,” the captain braved on, without quite looking at me, “the night of his coronation, His Majesty requested a special bottle of wine be brought to his rooms. The wine arrived unopened and the king commanded it stay as such.”
The captain searched my eyes nervously before going on.
“From when it was delivered, the king was in possession of the wine until he brought it here. The only man I could find selling bloodapple, long outlawed in Laurendale by the way, within a few hours ride from here, was persuaded to admit to having sold it to a finely dressed gentleman who kept his face hidden throughout their transaction. He mentioned that the man, most definitely a man, had a particularly educated manner of speaking.”
The blood ran cold in my veins and I shivered despite the blanket.
“He also mentioned a black cloak with startling blue embroidery,” the captain unnecessarily added.
He paused before he said anymore, as if even he couldn’t believe the words about to leave his mouth.
“I have searched part of the king’s private chambers but have yet to find anything resembling the packet with the dealer’s green seal upon it. I will continue searching,” the captain finished, with a resolve at odds with his desire to fail.
I stared at him with unseeing eyes. Did some part of me already know what he said? Is that why I had demanded Lyla use her mirror for me that wretched night in her room? Or was I truly shocked at this admission?
I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I felt anymore. I didn’t know that I could feel anymore.
I only remembered the captain was still there, kneeling before me, because I heard his breath catch on an inhale. I refocused on him and watched two silent tears trickle down his suddenly aged face. His eyes weren’t brown as the earth I thought, but brown like hot chocolate, rich and comforting, too.
“Should I leave the palace?” I asked.
“Where will you go?” he wanted to know.
“Alaryx?”
The captain arched an eyebrow at me. Bad enough he was tangled in this mess, I couldn’t involve his brothers, too.
“He’ll find me anywhere,” I added for him.
I reached out my hand and pressed it lightly to the captain’s stubbly cheek. He stilled at my touch.
“It will be all right, Captain,” I reassured him, seeking strength so I would have some to lend him. “We’ll figure something out.”
A bitter, muffled laugh escaped him. What was there to figure out? His best friend, the man he had grown up with, fought beasts with, had sworn fealty to, had just been found out as the intended assassin of his new friend, his best friend’s own wife. Betrayed by his monarch, betrayed by his friend. And for what reason?
The captain stood hurriedly, but not before I caught his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Captain,” I told him in earnest. “I’m glad you told me.”
“I’m not. I need to think,” was all the captain replied as he turned toward the door. I watched him go, struggling to withstand the weight of the secret on his shoulders. I was hardly the one strong enough to bear the burden with him.
Yet, oddly, as he left, some sort of resolve started flooding back into me. It came on the tail end of the same sort of relief I felt when Madame finally admitted just how much she hated me.
This was it. This was the final moment of my old life, the point at which a decision had to be made that would decide what my future, if I had any future left, would be. I could no longer be in denial of what was going on, for that is how I’d already fallen so low. I sat in that chair and thought a long while, slowly stirring up my first set of options.
For one, I could confront Alexander with what I knew and work out a solution that benefitted us both. I would gladly move out of the palace to a country estate, or even abdicate the throne, if that meant he would let me live. Considering his malice, I didn’t really think he would allow that.
For two, I could live in fear and paranoia the rest of my life, either hoping to outlive the king through sheer will or for some peaceful death that would end this all. That really wasn’t much more of a life than I had now.
For three, I could flee to a neighboring kingdom. Princess Lyla would surely grant me asylum, but it wouldn’t be long before too many questions were asked. I would either be forced back to the palace or forced to wage war against my own people. I did not think I could bring myself to that.
For four, I could accept the king’s dissatisfaction with me and patiently bear his disappointment as I had once before in a previous life. My life would be the schools, but how would that save me in the long run? Hadn’t similar behavior cast me down before?
If there was a way, we’d live separate lives in the palace, so the people would never know of the irreparable rift between us. For my kingdom, I could pretend to turn a blind eye to whatever he chose to do next, to whomever he chose to love next. But could the king really accept a life without the promise of an heir? Could I really accept a life that would force me back into my own little corner, no longer a shelter for my imagination, but from the deception of it? Why must I always be the one to bow before those wishing me harm?
I knew I had a choice to make, that I had to find a solution before my life got any worse than it already was. This realization had been slow in coming, because I still stubbornly held onto the last remnants of the dream, refusing to accept it was but a mirage that only I could see.
But not anymore.
To Waltz on Burning Stars
Life took on a new normal for the next few weeks, something akin to an unspoken truce, a calm before the final, most destructive storm. My pear tree soon followed my goldfish to its death, the magic slowly retreating, untapped, deep into the land as more and more magicals left. I would stare at it for long hours through my window, taking in its naked limbs and downtrodden boughs, wondering if I was projecting my misery onto it or it onto me.
I don’t know now if I should have acted sooner, knowing my life was in danger, knowing that I was to have no life the way I was living, but I was too confused, too unsure of what to do. I doubted myself and my decisions, I berated myself for not gathering the courage for a final stand. As miserable as I was with Madame, at least she never hid how she felt about me. That I always thought I might one day make her happy was my own foolishness; she’d never said anything to make me believe it to be true. But with the prince, I never knew for sure. His mouth said one thing, his heart another. Were he a prince from my childhood faery tales, the one I still believed in when I first came here, there never would have been any doubt. That one would have given me a life full of happiness, this one was chipping away at my very life.
These were the thoughts that kept me from sleep. However ill, however gaunt I’d been until then, further exhaustion only made things worse. All color drained from my skin, even my hair dulled. Javotte was beside herself with worry, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that there was nothing she could do for me. I would’ve sent her away, but that would only have broken her heart com
pletely.
One spring morning, I awoke to the news that there would be an execution the following day. The courts had just convicted a man, and it was only notable because it was to be the first capital punishment administered under the rule of the new king. For that reason, the king and I were expected to be there, to help instill fear of the Crown in the people’s hearts, to accept the convict’s pleas for forgiveness, and a lot of other things I didn’t have the heart to do. Not much outside of the school and my maps interested me in those days as it was.
There was an odd buzz in the air the rest of the day, as if an execution was all it took to validate a king’s crown. As if the people were actually looking forward to watching a man die.
As the spectacle was to take place in Camallea’s main square, the king and I would have to ride in to witness the event. The captain was beside himself with only one day to scope out the area and set up proper security, so it wasn’t any surprise that a nervous hum soon found its way to my ears. Knowing we’d be leaving the palace and riding into the center, the first thing I did was pull out my maps and trace our route.
The next morning, I dressed in an appropriately somber, modest dress. I suppressed a flinch from my husband’s touch as he handed me into the carriage. Whereas I had become thin and pale, he was bursting with life, his sandy hair glossier, his eyes brighter, his skin practically glowing. He couldn’t even keep a serious expression, his lips twitching up to show the tips of his shiny white teeth. Considering the charges, the convicted man deserved to die, but did the king really have to be so thrilled about it?
The king kept up a merry stream of conversation as we rode, and I responded as best I could. Surely, he’d seen a change come over me, but perhaps he thought to overcompensate by being extra cheery. Perhaps he thought he could infect me with his own tumbling abundance of happiness.
Sick man.
When we crossed the bridge, I was surprised the carriage didn’t turn right onto the promenade, but rather continued onto the main road. I knew from studying the maps that this wasn’t the most direct route for us to take. I glanced up at Alexander questioningly, but he innocently pretended nothing was amiss. I turned to look out the carriage window and caught a passing glimpse of a sculpture embedded with glass pieces catching the light from the sun.
I looked forward again, also pretending I hadn’t noticed, my mind racing to deny the obvious explanation that we hadn’t turned right because my charming prince didn’t want me to see the shoe and the CinderElla inscription. Maybe he didn’t want to see it either. Maybe he didn’t want to be reminded of those heady days when we lived in storybook love.
But half seeing it shook something inside of me anyway. The thought of that monument, a kaleidoscope of hope, a celebration of overcoming circumstances was a reminder that whatever was going on between me and my prince was bigger and more important than the two of us. Our happiness, our joys, our successes were our people’s, too. Hadn’t I recently said as much to Prince Daimyon? Whatever was broken, we had to fix it, for them. Even if a shattered glass slipper cannot be put back together again.
The carriage soon turned off the main road onto a wide street that cut through Camallea. The king finally looked out the window, and from the set of his jaw and the steel in his eyes, I knew he’d mapped this route on purpose. He wanted to ride down the main road, wanted the citizens to see their monarch, wanted them to know he was fearless. It was the kind of thing Lyla would do.
When we arrived at the square, the carriage was forced to deviate from the planned route as foot traffic thickened the road, not allowing anything wider than a person to fit through. The coachman led the horses around the crowd and parked behind the square, in line with a set of wooden steps leading up to the hastily erected platform from where we would watch the Crown’s justice done.
A red carpet covered the steps and the small square of platform, showing some effort had been put forth in consideration of the king and queen. Two large cushioned chairs stood side by side overlooking the executioner’s platform and the surging crowd beyond it. All around, like little purple wildflowers popping up for spring, stood the king’s soldiers, attentive and wary, their eyes roaming the crowd without ever really leaving their monarchs.
As we walked up the steps, a low rumble that turned into a cheer rose up from the crowd at the sight of us. The people whistled, they clapped, stomped their feet, and raised their fists in the air, raising up their monarchs on the work-worn backs of their fealty. The king stepped forward and beamed down at his subjects, an image of beauty and power, opening his arms to them in a show of acceptance and love, belief and pride in his people. I managed a small wave from my place, just so they wouldn’t think I had rejected them. Still, it was enough to raise the noise from the crowd even more.
The king lowered his arms and with them fell the cheers. He sat in the seat beside me just as the low staccato of drums announcing the prisoner rose to a dramatic crescendo. As one, the crowd held its breath and the manacled prisoner was yanked forward and brought to his knees to hear the verdict against him.
Usually, the court’s justice was clear, but as part of the ceremony of this day, the king would choose the man’s death; a slow, painful beheading or a swift, merciful hanging.
The prisoner was pushed forward, to his right the noose, to his left the chopping block. The executioner looked to his king. Alexander didn’t hesitate, he pointed to the block.
“Please,” I gasped, “some mercy.”
Alexander glanced down at me and shook his head. “A lesson must be taught,” he said simply.
“There is another lesson you could teach,” I reminded him with a nod to the noose.
He simply shook his head at me, disappointed at the weakness he thought he saw in me.
The executioner grabbed the prisoner by his neck and kicked his knees from behind so he was kneeling before the block. He grabbed his neck and shoved his head down, then towered over him, his blunt blade gleaming with anticipation. The onlookers responded in kind, leaning forward to better see the oncoming punishment.
Suddenly, from the back of the crowd, someone cried out. From my seat, I could see a man exiting a narrow alley and throwing himself against the mass of people as he attempted to push his way through the crowd. I looked around to see if anyone else had heard him, if anyone was seeing the man frantically waving papers above his head to attract someone’s, anyone’s attention.
His behavior could really mean only one of two things. Either the man before us had been pardoned, which was highly unlikely because the only one who could pardon him was sitting beside me, waiting for him to die. The second option was that new evidence had been uncovered, evidence strong enough to stay the execution and send the case back to court.
Either way, the man needed to get through. But no one seemed to know he was there.
“Alexander?” I questioned softly but received no response.
Realizing it was up to me, I half rose from my seat, lifting my hand to indicate to the nearest guard that he should help the man through. At almost the same time, I saw a guard step forward, but instead of helping the man, the guard pushed him back, essentially silencing him and the content of his papers.
I turned to look at the king, only to catch him looking away from what I had just seen. Without blinking, the king caught the eye of the executioner and nodded. My hand jumped to his arm, just as the executioner’s sword began to saw at the man’s neck.
The king glanced down at my grip and looked at me curiously.
“But that man with the paper,” I whispered.
I received a blank look in return, the lack of question, the lack of curiosity evidence of feigned innocence. My hand left his arm to cover my mouth.
“The king’s justice was decreed, so it had to be done,” he said simply, and even after all my years of living with Madame’s madness, I had never heard such cold words.
A possibly innocent man had to die, so cruelly, just so the king could
prove the power of his crown.
What about the love, the justice, it was supposed to represent? What about the protection it was supposed to offer the people? The security? The compassion?
I saw something then in my prince’s gaze which caused my stomach to curdle. Were I to live one thousand years, I would never forget that moment when I looked into his crystal blue eyes and no longer saw the depths of the ocean, no longer saw the clarity of a cloudless sky. The eyes that looked back at me were icy glaciers and I was only seeing the tip of their cruelty.
I knew what he’d done to me, but now I knew the problem ran deeper. It wasn’t about lost love, or that this man hadn’t lost the war with the evil inside; rather, he’d never fought it at all. It even seemed there were times, like now, that he willingly embraced it.
I felt like I had been suddenly skewered on a knight’s lance. Whatever I thought about myself, I knew that I had accomplished something meaningful during my time at the palace. Maybe it wasn’t anything great, maybe it wasn’t enough, but it would be if I kept at it. Perhaps I hadn’t found my happily ever after, but I had what I could do, and I would not let him take it away from me. I wouldn’t let anyone take anymore from me.
I stood up and stumbled away from the king, who didn’t even bother to call after me. He turned his focus back to the execution and I forced myself not to tumble down the stairs. Ignoring the carriage and the beckoning coachman, I began to run, removing the crown from my head and clutching it so tightly in my hand, I was certain it would draw blood.
My footsteps followed the map in my mind and I didn’t stop until I could no longer hear the bloodthirsty crowd. I rested in a small piazza with a single well at its center. I could hear irony’s maniacal life bouncing off the stones as I recognized it as the piazza where I had first met the prince and his captain all those years ago.
A Cinderella Retelling Page 26