by Megan Derr
"Well done," the king said, and once again approached him. "You are a most worthy challenger indeed, my fine historian. It is no wonder you hope to attend the Royal Academy. I am certain they cannot wait to see all that you might offer."
Cowan almost laughed at that, and did not have the heart to tell the king that he was the only one who thought Cowan deserved to be at the Academy. Given he had twice now won the challenge over at least one professor he did not foresee ever being granted entrance, even though he was able to pay the fees. "Thank you, Majesty," he said, and tried to bow his head deferentially, but he could not look away—it was all he could do to remain still and not move closer.
"A beautiful piece of the moon you have brought me, a fine charm that once fixed many wrongs. Your prize, my scholar, shall be a different sort of charm." He slid a ring from his finger, silver and with the king's symbol. A royal service ring. It meant that wherever he went, he would never want for food and bed—whoever bore such a ring was granted room and board without question, because he served the king.
"Majesty…" he shivered despite himself as the king took his hand, but instead of dropping the ring into his palm, the king turned his hand over and slid the ring onto Cowan's finger. He held on a moment longer, then slowly let Cowan's hand go.
Cowan looked up into his eyes, wanting so badly to lean in closer, to…to…
To do things he had no business doing, should not even be thinking. Someone, someday, would make the king happy—but it would be someone worthy, not some peasant struggling to survive and in possession of an education that clashed with every other aspect of his life. "Majesty," he finally said, the word coming out more softly than he intended. "Thank you."
"You are welcome," the king replied, and something about his smile was different, but Cowan could not say precisely how. Satisfaction, maybe? He was not certain. Turning away, he reluctantly withdrew to his place, ignoring the looks and the loathing he could practically feel upon the air.
"Challengers," the king cried out. "One challenge remains; let us see what you make of it. In three days, you are to bring me the stars. Good luck."
The stars? Cowan worried at his lip, completely stumped on that one. Diamonds was the easy answer, or something similar, but there was no real star-like significance to them. No, stars were not diamonds. They were too distant and fragile looking for that.
He glanced over his shoulder as he left, and stumbled to halt in surprise, to see the king remained on the dais and was watching him. Flushing, Cowan turned hastily around and bolted from the clearing, making for his little rooftop, bundling up in the cloak he still liked to think smelled like the king.
As night fell, he sat so that he could look up at the stars in comfort, naming them silently, recalling all their stories, hoping for some sort of inspiration. He had managed sun and moon, somehow, surely he could figure out how to bring the king a star … and then what?
Would he win another prize? Would he win the grand prize? What would it be? Perhaps he could ask for admittance to the Academy; that would be the wisest and most practical. With the king's favor, maybe he would have to occasionally give an accounting of himself to the king. He would tell all that he had done, and the king would listen, and then…
And then what, he thought with sudden bitterness. Kings did not talk and idle their days away with students, never mind peasants. Once the challenges were over, he would have only his cloak and ring by which to remember the king. He stood a better chance of catching a falling star than catching a …
Falling star. That was it. He knew where to find a falling star. Standing up and turning around, he looked toward the mountain. If he pushed hard, he could get there and back in three days.
*~*~*
"Cowan Medaughs! Cowan Medaughs! Cowan—"
"Here!" Cowan cried, bursting through the crowd, tripping as someone thrust a leg out, crashing hard to the pavilion stones with a cry of pain. Ignoring the scraped, bleeding skin on his hand, the way his elbow throbbed on the opposite arm, he clambered to his feet and strode anxiously forward. "I'm here."
"Cowan," the king said, startling him by using his first name. "I was beginning to fear you would not show."
"I'm sorry," Cowan said. "It took me longer than I thought."
The king smiled. "Did you climb into the sky to get the stars, my scholar?"
Startled by the words, distracted by the smile, Cowan reacted without thinking. He burst out laughing, still grinning when he finally managed to say, "No, Majesty, though gladly would I climb that high for you if I could. I only went up the Painted Mountain to the temple there."
He flushed dark as the king smiled then, slow and pleased and warm. "Oh? I did not know the old priests there could call down stars."
Cowan smiled, still distracted and pleased that he had managed to get them. He reached into his cloak, relieved to feel they were still intact. Extending his cupped hands, he dropped into the king's cupped palms a handful of delicate star-shaped objects that seemed to be made of something like glass, but not quite that.
"In the days of the third king, Majesty, the kingdom was again attacked. This time the men were armored, brutal, terrifying. The kingdom was nearly lost, because we could not do them enough harm to slow them down and steal the advantage. Then the alchemists, together with the priests of the temple, devised a clever little device. These are made of fairy glass, which shatters into the tiniest of pieces. The priests were experts with the stuff, and made these little containers to hold a special substance devised by the alchemists. When thrown from the safety of the castle walls, these little containers rained down upon the enemy, shattering on impact, covering them with small amounts of a deadly poison that killed the moment it touched skin. Used in this manner, the damage was mostly contained to the enemies, and did not spread all over ground and comrades. They were extremely dangerous, however, and after the war was finally won the king banned them. But throughout the war, the enemies referred to them as a rain of death. We, however, called them falling stars."
The king stood, and approached him, taking both Cowan's hands. "You are brilliant and clever, wise and hard-working. Tell me, my wise scholar, do you know the story of Consort Lore?"
Cowan frowned in thought, speaking slowly as he said, "Consort Lore was consort to the tenth king, and it's said that he was made consort after winning…" Cowan's eyes widened. "Majesty—"
He got no further as the king kissed him, releasing Cowan's hands to slide his arms around Cowan's waist, immediately possessive. After a moment of shock Cowan responded, fingers clinging tightly to the sleeves of the king's shirt. The amber and orange smelled so much better, a thousand times better, upon the king's warm skin.
This could not be, he had to be dreaming, such things did not happen to people like him.
But if he was asleep, he could not figure out how to wake. He blinked as they finally broke apart. "Majesty?" he asked, words so low none but the two of them could hear.
"I want you for my consort," the king replied, "unless you have some objection."
"Everyone else will object? I am hardly worthy—"
"That is for me to decide, and you," the king said. "You have proven more than worthy; it is only for you to accept or reject."
"I don't understand why," Cowan said.
"Because you are everything a consort should be," the king replied. "That aside, you drew me from the moment we met, and I think you looked as lonely as I, and now we both seem less so."
Cowan smiled, because this was true. He had been so absorbed in the king, in the challenges, that he had not felt lonely at all save when he thought of never seeing the king again. "You eased me. I hoped I eased you, but could not say for certain."
"You do," the king said. "I want you by my side."
"That is where I would like to be, Majesty," Cowan admitted, and smiled as he realized that he could be, would be, despite all odds.
"Then it is done," the king replied, "and my name is Seay."
>
"Seay," Cowan repeated softly, before Seay kissed him again, while around them the people could only stand and stare, shocked into absolute silence.
The Knight of the Rose
Once upon a time there was a king who wanted only the best for his children, and for them to be happy. When it came time for each to marry, he saw to it he obtained for each of them only the most perfect companion.
When it came time for his youngest son to marry, the king sent out for the very best knights in the kingdom, for his youngest son was a mage, and had a penchant for danger, and would need someone to keep him safe once his father was gone. The king sent out a proclamation for knights of noble bearing, who had slain no less than one hundred dragons, broken no less than two hundred curses, and saved no less than three hundred persons. Only knights so brave and smart and daring would be good enough to care for his dear son.
Many weeks later, two knights arrived bearing the king's proclamation, and said they met all the qualifications required by His Majesty.
The first knight was grand and glorious, tall and broad and handsome. He had long, gold hair and eyes like blue diamonds. He wore fine plate armor that was polished to a mirror shine, and sparkled like silver in the sunlight. At his hip was a fine broadsword, the hilt resplendent with jewels, the pommel carved into the shape of a great bird. His shield was carried by one of his six servants, painted with bright colors, dominated by a crest of the sun. His steed was a white mare with a silver mane and golden horn, and she was sweet and docile as another of the six servants held her reins. The people admired him, and smiled at him, and whispered that of course the prince would choose such a perfect, beautiful knight. He bowed to the king and smiled a charming smile, and declared he was a knight of the Order of the Sun.
They laughed behind their hands at the second knight, and whispered that the king should send so sad and tarnished a knight away, for how could he compare to the first?
The second knight was short, stocky, with a squashed-looking nose and an unsightly scar that ran across his cheek and chin. He had hair the color of pitch, cut very close to his scalp, and his eyes were the color of dishwater. His armor was only old chainmail, with patches where tears had replaced with newer links. At his hip, his sword was a simple thing, the hilt wrapped in leather, the pommel unadorned. Beside him, restless and alert and standing protectively close to the knight, was his steed. He was also black as pitch, body riddled with the marks of battle, his mane the color of dull steel, and the broken horn on his head the color of old iron. The knight knelt before the king, and said that he was a knight of the Order of the Rose, and honored to be able to answer the summons of his king.
Greeting them both, and thanking them for coming, the king then announced they each face many challenges that day to prove which of them was most worthy of his son. All day long, beneath the hot summer sun, the knights met challenge after challenge. Never were they given a chance to pause, but went many hours with neither drink nor food nor rest.
At the end of the day, the king called them before him once more and bid them kneel. The Knight of the Sun was still beautiful and resplendent, hardly the worse for wear in his ordeals, for he had smoothly and cleverly led his six servants all the day through each and every challenge. Beside him, the Knight of the Rose was sweaty and tired and worn, exhausted from his labors, for he had faced each of his challenges alone.
The king congratulated each of them on a job well done, and asked if either would like something to drink.
The Knight of the Sun said he would like a draught of wine to quench his thirst from a long day's work. And the king nodded, and his request was granted.
The Knight of the Rose asked for water for his steed, for the beast was exhausted from a long day's work. And the king nodded, and his request was granted.
Next, the king asked if they would like something to eat.
The Knight of the Sun said he would like a fine meal, for he had toiled all day long and required nourishment. And the king nodded, and his request was granted.
The Knight of the Rose requested that the six servants who had assisted their Knight be given a fine meal, for they had toiled all day long and deserved nourishment. And the king nodded, and his request was granted.
Finally, the king asked each knight, "Why did you come here?"
"To marry the prince," replied the Knight of the Sun.
"Because my king bid me," replied the Knight of the Rose.
And the king nodded, and withdrew, and bid his son make his choice. The prince stepped forward. He was tall and willowy, with smooth skin darkened by the sun, hair like the dying embers of a fire and eyes like new grass, glowing bright with the strength of his magic. He had watched the knights carefully throughout the day, and the challenges and the questions put to them by his father had all been of the prince's devising.
He ignored the grand and glorious Knight of the Sun as he stepped down from the high dais of the royal throne. Through the dust and dirt he walked, past the Knight of the Sun and his six servants, to kneel before the haggard, solitary Knight of the Rose. From his robes, he pulled out a token—a plain gold ring bearing a signet of a rose in full bloom; it had been a gift to the prince from his mother many years ago. "I would be honored, dear knight, if you would be mine."
The Knight of the Rose looked at the prince in surprise, but took the ring and slid it on his finger. Then he smiled, the first smile he had given all the long day, and despite his squashed nose and terrible scar and ragged state he was the most handsome of men. He rose to his feet, and helped the prince stand as well. Then the Knight of the Rose kissed his prince, and all were happy.
Except the Knight of the Sun, but that is a tale for another day.
A/N: The tale of the Knight of the Sun was done by a friend of mine. You can read at http://drowning-london.livejournal.com/119284.html#cutid1
Three Questions
Once upon a time there was a grand king who had three sons. The eldest became a glorious soldier, the grandest of knights, a hero beloved of the people. He was destined for the crown, and would someday wear it well.
When the time came for him to wed, he called a challenge of duels: whosoever could best him in three duels of skill and fortitude, would marry the crown prince. And so the challengers came, thousands of people from across the kingdom, eager for the chance to marry the great and glorious crown prince. But one after another, they went again, unable to win the duels.
Until one day a beautiful woman with golden hair and shining golden armor appeared to challenge him. Try as he might, the crown prince could not defeat her, and so he took her happily to be his bride.
The king's second son was born shrewd and sharp, with a silver tongue that could convince a bird to give up flying, a fish to give up swimming. He grew to be a renowned politician, a diplomat of unsurpassed skill, securing boons from around the world for the good of his father's kingdom. None could deceive or resist the words he spun.
When the time came for the prince to marry, he called for a challenge of lies—whosoever could fool him, he would marry. And so the people came by thousands, eager for a chance at the handsome, clever prince. All who challenged him told the prince two truths, and one lie, but every time the prince was able to mark the lie, and so all went away again, defeated.
Until one day a beautiful maiden appeared, pale of hair, dressed in a gown trimmed in silver, and her voice and words were more beautiful still as she spoke. Try as he might, the prince could not pick out the lie amidst her truths. Bested, the prince took her happily to be his bride.
The king's youngest son was possessed of a brilliant mind, steeped in knowledge—history, government, religion, language, magic, literature, down to even the most arcane lore. Any question, no matter how strange or obscure, the prince could answer. Often his brothers and father turned to him, when they had need of some bit of law or warfare or culture.
When the time came for the prince to wed, he called for a challenge of questio
ns—whosoever could answer three questions, match him in knowledge, he would marry. And so the people came by thousands, eager to wed the brilliant, beautiful youngest prince. Despite their efforts, however, none could answer the prince's questions.
Gradually, the challengers faded off, and the prince withdrew once more to his books.
Odiore looked up as the door to his private study in the great library opened, annoyed that someone would dare to enter without first knocking. Sharp words of reprimand died in his throat, however, as saw who it was, unable to believe what he was seeing. "What are you doing here?" he finally asked, then closed his mouth, refusing to say anything more.
Of all the people in the world, he had never expected Brenim to walk uninvited into his study. The youngest son of the ancient Baron Velasco, he had been friends with Odiore's eldest brother, Rowell. He was five years older than Odiore, but had always had time to speak with the young, awkward child that Odiore had been (whereas Rowell had just tried to lose him).
Odiore had been crushed when Brenim had left years ago to travel, to seek his fortune, since being the youngest of several children he would inherit little or nothing. Only a year or so after he left, stories began to trickle back of his travels and adventures—dragons slain, enchantments broken, curses lifted, monsters fought. All knew the tales of Brenim the Cursebreaker.
Like the fool he was, Odiore meticulously recorded every tale that reached his ears, each to its own slender volume, bound in copper-toned brown leather, with annotations for all the variations he heard. He had never thought to see Brenim again, had hoped, foolishly, that his feelings would finally fade. That whoever answered his questions would finally help him forget the first man he'd ever loved.
But he could not say he was as disappointed as he should have been when no one had been able to answer his questions and challengers eventually ceased to arrive.
"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Brenim asked, and the older, deeper version of his charming smile was far more devastating than it had been when Odiore was an innocent boy.