by Ana Mardoll
"Armory first," Finndís decided with a smile, relaxing into his hand. "I need a scabbard for my sword. Then food, then decisions; one of which is confining Rúni to his room before he can slip out again." Grinning, she led the way over the protests of her brother and the laughter of her companion and friend.
Early to Rise
Content Note: Magical Curses, Non-Consensual Kissing, mention of Self-Harm
No birth is a small thing to the people involved, but the arrival of a long-awaited heir to good King Juste and fair Queen Osanne was a momentous state occasion which encompassed the entire kingdom. Bells tolled in churches and wine ran freely in public fountains throughout the land. Nobles dressed in their finest clothes and rode to the capital, tossing coins to the crowds lining the roads. People cheered as they passed, aprons outstretched to catch the glittering offerings. Official celebrations spanned more days than a week could contain and the jousts, dances, and feasts continued into the nights and spilled over into holy days. No one could contain their joy over the birth of little Princess Claude.
Days of celebration culminated in a great public presentation in which the princess would be shown to her people. Guests arrived from all over the kingdom for the event, as did representatives from other lands. Ambassadors brought gifts for the princess: rich clothes for her layette and beautifully-wrought toys; kings from foreign lands sent nobles hinting at their willingness to engage in marriage negotiations. Last to arrive but foremost among the guests were the nonhuman visitors who graced the court with their presence.
Three powerful fairies arrived in glittering pomp, displaying invitations at the door and basking in the awe of the crowd. Each lady represented both herself and the fae races she associated with, acting as ambassador to the humans on the part of those who could not attend the event. Lady Honoré swept into the great hall, dressed in rich red cloth folded to resemble fiery roses blazing in the torchlight. She hailed from the north and represented dragons, salamanders, will-o'-wisps, and other fierce and flaming dancers of the sky. Holding the baby to her breast, she pressed scarlet lips to the infant's forehead as the child cooed, promising a gift of creativity: Princess Claude would excel at every activity, guided by a passionate heart and vibrant mind.
In the wake of the fire fairy came Lady Désirée, in a gown which flowed like water studded with golden lilies. She had traveled far from the south and was patroness to the selkies and nixies, the water-dwellers who lived and moved in the deep rivers and wells of the kingdom. She lifted the royal infant high in her arms, smiling a tender smile, and laughed when tiny seeking hands caught at her hair and found flowing water where blue-green tresses seemed to tumble. Désirée promised the little baby a gift of grace: Princess Claude would move with beauty, her hands and feet touched with finesse. Whether dancing or fighting, running or gamboling, the child would move with fluidity, charming all who beheld these feats.
The third and final fairy stepped forward; this was Lady Giselle of the eastern woods, friend to brownies, gnomes, dryads, and forest people. Yet a cold wind whipped through the hall, chilling all present and extinguishing the merry torches dotting the stone walls. The swirling maelstrom gathered in the center of the room, winds whipping hard enough to slash anyone who stepped close, before coalescing into a fairy woman decked in feathers of every possible length, texture, and color. Lady Mélisande of the west—queen of chaos and wild things, patroness to airy creatures: birds, bats, and banshees alike—stood wrapped in her riotous rainbow dress and considered the gathered assembly with a cold, regal gaze.
"King Juste and Queen Osanne." Her eyes found the royal parents at the front of the hall and she addressed them with a tight little nod of the head, her voice cold as mountain snow. "What a magnificent celebration for such a momentous occasion: the birth of an heir." Her eyes fell on the golden cradle shrouded in fine silks. "I was quite surprised not to receive an invitation to the event."
King Juste quailed, knowing the danger of offending any of the fae race. "Lady Mélisande, your invitation was sent but did not reach you; our messenger believed that you had left our realm. Please forgive us."
The feather-clad fairy watched him with dark eyes. The chilly breezes which whipped about her ruffled the edges of her dress and surrounded her with quivering energy though she stood as still as the statues lining the hall. "One might accuse your messenger of giving up too easily," she mused, her gaze hard.
"Or one could take a hint and see that one was not wanted," Giselle tittered behind her hand. The little brownies and gnomes of the forest are fond of such jokes and put no stock in them, but Mélisande drew herself up taller and all breath left the room as the people stilled in alarm.
Queen Osanne broke the dangerous silence, worry for her newborn etched on her lovely face. "We are grateful to have you here now, Lady Mélisande. Please make yourself at home and feast with us. A place of honor will be set for you at our table." Her offer might have been enough, but for another giggle from Lady Giselle.
The fairy narrowed her eyes and a smile spread over her face. "You are very gracious, Queen Osanne, but I shall not tarry. Before I go, I too wish to bestow a gift on the child." The queen took a step towards the cradle in alarm but the fairy and her winds were already there, beating back all who would approach. The fair woman stooped to gather the baby in her feathery arms and studied her with grave intent.
"The princess shall indeed grow in skill and grace, the fairest of all in the realm," the lady announced, turning to present the child to the crowd as though she herself were the mother. "However, before the sun sets on her seventeenth birthday, she will prick her finger with a spindle and she shall die."
"No!" Queen Osanne hurried forward, one arm thrown over her face as she fought the buffeting winds. With a flash of light and the scent of candle wax on a winter's eve, Mélisande vanished and the child was left in her mother's arms; unharmed, but wailing in vexation at finding the pretty feathers taken away.
Guests wailed along with the infant and the king yelled for his guards, but the chaos was to no avail. No one knew where the fairy Mélisande made her home, nor could they imagine any threat or bribe that would make her reverse the curse she had laid upon the princess. When the king slumped defeated onto his throne, the last of the fairies stepped forward: young Lady Giselle, now chastened by her part in the affair.
"Your Majesties, do not grieve your daughter's death before her time," she urged, her soft voice like the merry jingle of bells. "I cannot undo Mélisande's magic, but I can alter the course it will take. The princess shall indeed prick her finger with a spindle, but she shall not die. She shall fall into a deep sleep, and the kingdom with her. Her sleep will last until she is awakened by true love's kiss, and then all shall be restored."
This last gift bestowed, the fairies withdrew from the hall and the humans were left to mourn when they had hoped to make merry.
"If we held a ball for Séraphine's birthday, we could invite Prince Régis. What do you think, dear?"
Claude kept her eyes on her painting, though she had to take the brush from between her teeth in order to answer. "Isn't he too old for her? She's only nine."
Osanne never sighed or groaned—to do so would be unqueenly—but the little pauses in her speech could convey a world of meaning. "You would be there too, Claude."
Now she did look up, feeling her entire body contort in a wince. "Me? Mother, I don't like Régis! He chews with his mouth open and his breath smells like cabbage."
Her mother lifted an arch eyebrow. "He is a high-spirited boy who likes to talk during dinner and enjoys his vegetables. If a man's table manners are his worst quality, those can be fixed with time and patience."
Claude let her lips twist into an expression which could be read as defeat or defiance depending on her mother's mood and turned back to her painting. The mixture for the sky wasn't quite right and this frustrated her; blue paints were the hardest to procure and finding exactly the right hue was time-consuming and w
asteful. This particular piece had frustrated her almost beyond bearing and she was tempted to consign the entire canvas to the fireplace but didn't want to let it beat her. She would win.
If her mother would just leave her alone.
"We could invite Yves as well. You like him, remember? He has that lovely little duchy with the lake you enjoyed so much as a child. Remember how your father and I used to take you there?"
She tried to smile but the effort left her grimacing at the canvas. "Twice, mother. Yes, I remember." That seemed insufficient, so Claude searched for something more to say. "It was a very nice lake; peaceful."
"And Yves is a very nice peaceful boy, so that works out well," Osanne observed in her crisp manner. "I'll put him on the invitation list, along with Prince Régis. Is there anyone else you'd like to suggest?"
Claude felt her mother's eyes watching her, tension in the air as she waited for her to show some semblance of interest. Osanne didn't wish to make the conversation awkward—indeed, much of her role as a queen was to defuse tense situations, not exacerbate them—but on this one subject it was impossible for her to step back and give her daughter breathing-room. Claude swallowed the lump in her throat and spoke.
"Léandre?"
She felt her mother's hesitation in the tiny pause that followed. Léandre was neither prince nor duke, just the son of an earl. But he was gentle and lovely, with hair that flowed over his shoulders like spun gold, and half the girls in the kingdom wanted him. Osanne was in no position to be choosy so she put on her warmest smile. "Of course. I'll put him at the very top of the list. See you at dinner, dear."
"Mother!" Claude whipped around before she could retreat. "Do you like my painting? It's not quite finished yet and I'm not happy with the sky, but I think the trees along the bottom came out really well."
A long pause, gentle in intent if not delivery, conveyed all the sighs the Queen never breathed. "It's lovely, dear, as is everything you do. Please don't be late to dinner; it worries your father when you are." Osanne swept out, her skirts rustling against the floor like a soft breeze through autumn leaves.
"She never even asked if I wanted a party," grumbled Séraphine, glaring out through the glass pane to the courtyard below. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her back rested against the stone behind her. The window seat was her favorite perch in the tower, and she often kept Claude company when she painted.
Claude formed her mouth into a sympathetic grimace, though she wasn't sure if the sentiment reached her eyes. "It's tough being the youngest," she offered, the words an olive branch. She wanted a royal ball even less than Séraphine did, but Séraphine was right: the celebration was being arranged on Claude's behalf, not hers.
"What would you know about it?" Séraphine was blunt to a fault. "You've never been the youngest. You were an only child until Valéry came along, and then you were the eldest. I've been the youngest since I was born. What are you painting? Giving up landscapes and moving on to castle scenes now?"
Claude blinked at the sudden change of subject and looked back at her canvas. Gray stone walls, open to the viewer, framed the lush frills of an enormous bed with billowing curtains pulled back just enough to show the hands folded modestly over the sleeper's chest. Roses in bloom filled the chamber; red flowers, because her instructors insisted love was that shade. Claude couldn't say if they were right but took their word as law.
"It's a painting of the... the situation. So that the prince will know what to do; or the duke or earl or whoever."
"'Whoever'?" Séraphine repeated with a snort. "Listen to you! Don't tell Maman you're pining for a stable boy. She's having enough trouble accepting an earl. But why wouldn't he know what to do, Claudie? The whole kingdom knows, along with everyone in the neighboring kingdoms. Traveling bards sing about the curse!"
Claude opened her mouth then closed it again; turning back to her paints, she set about the process of packing away her supplies. The canvas needed time to set before she could layer more paint into place. "Well, it's just in case," she said, choosing her words slowly and trying not to sound defensive. She didn't like talking about the curse—she couldn't get away from it for even a moment—but Séraphine didn't count the way others did. "Maybe he won't turn up for a long time, and people won't remember. If I have paintings up to explain the situation then he'll know what to do, even if it's a thousand years later."
"A thousand years?" Séraphine's mouth dropped open as she stared at Claude from the window seat. "Are you serious? Maman is expecting it to be a few weeks at the most. Why do you think she's so obsessed with finding the right boy for you to meet and fall in love with?"
Claude shook her head, not wanting to be drawn into that line of speculation; no one wanted to hear her say she had no idea what the 'right boy' would be, nor if she could ever feel the way they wanted her to feel. "I know, Séra. I know. But it's sensible to make plans. What if the first one dies on his way here? We'd have to wait for another True Love to appear. That could take a long time." Or forever, she added mentally.
"You're so morbid, Claudie." Séraphine unfolded herself from her seat and moseyed her way over to peer at the canvas, her nose inches from the damp paint. "I remember those clay sculptures you used to make of yourself sleeping; so still and solid, as if you were dead instead of asleep."
Claude sniffed, putting on her haughty artist's voice. "I was expressing myself."
"My point exactly." Séraphine laughed, turning on her heel; her dark eyes glinted and Claude wondered just how much she saw. Young as she was, Séra seemed the most mature of the three royal children, as though an old soul had bonded with the child in infancy. "Speaking of which," she said, her hand darting into the sash at her waist, "I found what you asked for, so you can 'express yourself' better on your next boy-day."
Silver glinted in watery sunlight that filtered in through the tower windows. Claude's breath caught and she reached with infinite care to touch the scissors. Sharp treasures were precious and rare in her world, given her parents' fears about the pricking of fingers. Scissors weren't a spindle on a spinning wheel, but Osanne and Juste were taking no chances with their children. "Thank you," she breathed, glancing at her sister as she tucked away the gift at her waist. "You know, you and Valéry are the only ones who believe me."
Séraphine smirked at her and tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder as she turned to leave. "Not quite the only ones. Be careful; you didn't get those from me, Claudie."
"Why do I have to be here for this?" Valéry groaned and leaned forward on the stool Claude had set out for him. The boy was older than Séraphine by a good two years, but no one would know it to look at them; Val continually squirmed and fretted like a baby hound aching to dash off after the latest sight or scent.
"Because I like the way the barbers do your hair and I need a model," Claude explained again, trying to maintain a patient tone. They looked at themself in the mirror, pulled up another long strand of hair, held their breath, and tried to bring the scissors in at precisely the right angle. There was a long pause as they held still, eyes narrowed at the mirror to be sure, then the satisfying whisper of hair being sheared.
The lock coiled on the floor like a black snake, poised to slither to safety now that it had been freed. Claude grinned and shook their head; already they felt lighter, as if they could float away on a cloud. Another long strand of glossy hair was divided and held out, another whisper of the scissors. Soft bangs in front tapering to jagged daggers jutting down between ear and cheek, a gentle feathery profusion of hair at the crown, and airy layers down the neck with nothing past the nape: that was what Claude longed for.
"Maman is going to be angry," Valéry warned, watching his sibling work. He squirmed again, twisting in his seat when Claude reached to measure his hair with their hands. "Where did you get the scissors?"
"That's for me to know," they said absently, mind on the task at hand. "Stop worrying. She won't be angry with you, Val. If you don't say anything
she won't even know you were involved. It's not like you're the only boy in the kingdom wearing your hair in this style."
"But you'll be the only girl," he pointed out.
They turned back to the mirror, working more slowly now that they were at the nape of the neck. "Mmm. I doubt that's true, but even if it were, I'm not doing this for my girl-days; I'm doing it for my boy-days."
Valéry peered up at them, curiosity in his eyes. "What's today? Usually I can tell, but today I can't."
Claude glanced back at him, smiling in spite of themself. "Today is an 'ask me later' day, I suppose; I'm not sure myself. I've been in a bit of a mood this last week, but I'm fine, really. Just tired."
He made a face, slumping in his seat and resting his chin on his fist. "It's all the ball planning. Maman wants to have me measured for a new suit just for the occasion. I don't know why I have to attend. The whole point is for you to find a True Love, isn't it? Séraphine said so and no one denied it."
Claude gave him a sharp look in the mirror. "When did Séraphine say so?"
"In the kitchens earlier," Valéry said, sounding bored. "She and I went down there to sneak a bite to eat and they were talking about menus. Séra was in a mood. The cooks overheard her but no one said she was wrong."
Claude sighed and turned back to the task at hand, not wanting to let anything ruin their enjoyment of the moment. They were so close, just a few more snips. There! Claude turned in place, looking behind themself at the mirror to see the back and running a hand through the soft fluff at their neck. Perfect.
"She's not wrong," they admitted, turning back to Valéry. "Maybe we can still have fun, though, doing our hair and dressing up. Speaking of which, how do I look?"
He studied them with his soft baby-brown eyes, so much lighter than Séraphine's and Claude's dark eyes; he had taken after their father in every way. "I like it," he decided. "Do you think the True Loves will?"