by Megan Derr
"You were Rowell's friend," Odiore replied, closing his book and removing his reading spectacles. "His offices are in the armory, in the east wing."
"I remember where to find the armory," Brenim said, leaning against the door frame, and folding his arms across his chest, looking amused.
He also looked even more handsome than when he had left, having filled out the gangly body in which he had departed. His hair was still the most beautiful shade of brown, dark and rich, but fading to a lighter, almost copper tone at the tips. His eyes were that same coppery shade, bright and sharp against his unfashionably tanned skin. He had scars acquired on his hands and throat, a small one at the edge of his cheek.
Jerking his gaze away, Odiore stared at his books as Brenim continued speaking. "I consider you a friend, too. You were a sweet kid, and even at ten you were already smarter than at least half the people here. By fifteen, you were smarter than everyone. Stories span the world of the Scholar Prince."
Odiore scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Indeed. That would make for unbearable listening, I should think. Today he read this book."
Brenim laughed. "The tales I hear are livelier than that: an ambassador who went home in shame when you knew more of his laws than he, and more of his family history. That you discovered a new, safer way of killing dragons. There were tales of poison, and roses—"
"Enough," Odiore cut in, scowling. "No doubt you have tales of your own, why bother with mine?"
"Did you hear tales of me?" Brenim asked lightly, looking amused.
"I might have caught bits of one or two," Odiore said stiffly, very carefully not thinking about the fifty or so volumes on a shelf right behind his desk.
Brenim smiled, slow and bright, and if Odiore was given to blushing, he sensed right then he would be bright red.
"It's dinner time, by the way," Brenim said abruptly. "I told your father I would come fetch you."
Scowling again, Odiore pulled his watch from his jacket pocket and saw it was indeed far later than he had realized. "Very well," he said, and stood up, neatening his clothes and hair, pulling out a special cloth to wipe smudges of ink from his face and hands. "Shall we then?" he asked when he was ready.
Brenim stepped out of the doorway, and dipped into an elegant bow as Odiore reached him. "After you, my prince."
It was a common enough courtesy, but Odiore once again was left feeling relieved that he was not given to blushing.
The great dining hall was already crowded when they arrived, the royal table crammed with his family and those persons invited to dine with them. The conversation faded off briefly as Odiore and Brenim drew close and greetings were exchanged.
Odiore was annoyed to realize that Brenim had been seated next to him, but only sipped his wine and fell into the familiar, if boring, rhythms of a court dinner.
Except those rhythms were interrupted by Brenim, who seemed to charm the entire table with his tales, with stories of the exotic places he had been—and frequently turning to Odiore, and saying something just to him.
Almost like he was flirting, but Odiore could not fathom that was true, and so for his part responded only politely and briefly.
Just when he thought he could take no more, the dinner began to draw to a close, leaving him free to slip away once the entertainment began. But then his father said, "Now, Master Brenim, I believe you said you desired to answer Odiore's challenge?"
Odiore froze in the process of lifting his coffee cup, then hastily set it down again. "What?" he asked, looking at Brenim, then his father. "What nonsense is this?"
"I've been gone ten years," Brenim said. "In that time, I've expanded my wealth, my skill, and my knowledge. Now I return to face your challenge, Prince Odiore. Ask your questions."
Odiore's heart thudded in his chest, and his tongue seemed stuck in his mouth. Finally, though, he gave a nod, and managed to say, "Very well, Master Brenim."
The king smiled, and his brothers grinned, and Odiore wanted to smack them all.
Standing, the king called out for silence. "We have a challenger for the hand of my youngest son. Rise, Prince Odiore. Rise, Master Brenim."
Obediently rising, they moved around the table to stand before it, facing each other, visible to the entire room.
Brenim smiled, meeting his eyes, waiting patiently.
"Your first question is this, Master Brenim: once upon a time a woman was chained in a basement by an evil wizard, who every day made her spin straw into gold. Every day she tried to kill him, and every day she failed, for nothing could harm him—not blade nor poison nor a rock to his head. One day, however, she happened to learn his secret, that it would take but one word to kill him. What was that one word?"
Smile widening, Brenim replied, "His name, for on that wizard had been placed a spell, that he would live forever so long as he never heard another say his name."
Odiore drew a sharp, startled breath. "Correct," he said, and waited for the noise of the crowd to die down before he continued. "Your second question is this, Master Brenim: once upon a time a prince was cursed, taken from the woman he loved by his evil stepmother. Determined to rescue her lost love, the woman set out on a quest to find the hidden castle to which he had been taken. No one, however, could tell her where to find the strange castle, only that it was impossible to reach. Finally, though, the woman did learn its location. Where was the castle located?"
"East of the sun, west of the moon," Brenim replied. "Only the mighty north wind can reach it without need of magic. He carried the woman to the castle, where she was able to free her prince, forced to live as a bear, bound to his troll stepmother until the curse was broken."
"Correct," Odiore said softly, barely able to hear himself, so loud seemed the beating of his heart. When the noise around them once more died down, he said, "Your final question is this, Master Brenim: one thousand years ago, a princess and her entire palace were cursed to sleep forever. Five hundred years ago, a noble prince was cursed and turned into a toad. Two hundred years ago, a fair princess was poisoned by a cursed apple. Though most books say these people died of their curses, they were in fact all saved by the same thing. What saved them?"
Brenim grinned, and stepped forward, grasping Odiore's shoulders and jerking him close. He bent his head to kiss Odiore hard, deep—possessively.
Odiore knew he should draw back, such behavior was more than a little unseemly—but Brenim was kissing him, and had answered all three questions—
He drew back, scowling. "Strictly speaking, that's not an answer."
"A demonstration. The answer is true love's kiss—to free a sleeping beauty from her slumber, to turn a toad back into a prince, and revive a poisoned princess. All curses, weak or strong, can be broken by true love's kiss."
"Correct," Odiore said, only just remembering to say it loud enough for all to hear. More quietly, he said, "Since when—"
"Since you were old enough for me to see what you would become and realize I wanted to be worthy of that man."
Odiore frowned at him. "You were always worthy."
Brenim only smiled, and drew him close again. "Shut up, and kiss your betrothed, my prince."
He started to argue, feeling they were far from finished discussing the matter—then decided it could wait, because Brenim had answered his questions, and so was his forever. Matching Brenim's smile, he drew him back down for another kiss.
The Witch in the Woods
Once upon a time there was a king. He was a young king, only just thirty-three summers, and he ruled a small, quiet kingdom that saw no greater trouble than the occasional band of thieves or a wizard whose spells went out of control.
The king's parents died when he was very young, leaving him with not just a kingdom to rule, but two brothers to raise. He tried his best, the young king, but being little more than a boy himself he did not know much about raising children.
His brothers grew up healthy and handsome, but also selfish and ungrateful. Though all in the king
dom knew the young king was not at fault, he blamed himself for every wrong committed by his brothers. Determined that they should learn the ways of the world once and for all, and gain the honor and pride they lacked, he arranged for a grand festival to be held over the course of two days.
Then he told his brothers that they must in those two days choose a spouse, a new life, and learn something from it, or he would cast them out of the kingdom. Angrily the brothers protested, but the king remained firm: marriage or exile.
Two nights before the ball, the brothers snuck out of the palace and slipped into the woods. They were a treacherous place, the woods, long known as the Laughing Forest for the spirits who dwelled there and laughed and chuckled and snickered in the moments before they tormented their victims.
Pale moonlight offered just enough light to tease, leaving the brothers to trip and tumble as they journeyed, soft laughter chasing them all the way. They wended their way along a path that seemed to change whenever they took their eyes from it. Every sound made them jump, made their breath catch, every ghostly laugh sped their hearts and quickened their step.
Just as they could take no more, yellow-orange light drew them to the glade they had been seeking: the home of the witch. The air smelled sweet, like candy or fresh gingerbread and the brothers remembered again all the tales of the witch mad enough to live deep in the Laughing Forest, the witch whom everyone said could provide anything the heart desired—for a price.
Reaching the cottage, the brothers knocked upon the door. It was opened a moment later by a tall, spindly man with short, spiky red hair, sun-dark, freckled skin, and hazel eyes. He was, the brothers noted with wrinkled noses, quite homely, not as beautiful or frightening as a witch should be.
"How can I help you?" the witch asked.
"You need to give us a spell," said the first brother, whose name was Timlin.
The witch sneered at them. "I don't need to do anything. I do not take orders from anyone, not even royalty," he added when the second brother, Ranlin, tried to protest. "If you want my help, try asking politely and I may agree to lend my services. But you'll not get anything but this door slammed in your face if you only order me about."
The brothers glared at the witch, but the witch only continued to scowl right back.
"We'll pay you, of course," Ranlin finally said. "If that's what's got you in a snit."
The witch heaved a sigh and muttered something about brats, but then said more clearly, "I do not accept conventional means of payment. If you do not agree to my terms then you will not get the spell you desire. If all you have to offer me is gold then you can leave."
"We'll give you whatever you want," Timlin snapped. "As you already know, we're royalty. We can give you anything."
"Being royalty does not grant the power to give anything. I assure you that though I am but a humble witch, living alone in the woods, I have more to offer than either of you. Come inside, but do not think to cheat or harm me or the spells you desire will work against you rather than for you."
The brothers motioned impatiently, and Timlin said, "Yes, yes. Can we just get on with it?"
The witch pursed his lips, but nodded and motioned for them to sit at the large table that took up the center of the room. Many bottles, boxes, bowls, and other such items were scattered across it, filled with all manner of magical ingredients. A book took up one corner, a stack of more near it. The room smelled of wood smoke and pungent herbs.
When they had taken their seats, the witch stood on the other side of the table and folded his arms across his chest. Though he was so homely looking, and wore only faded breeches and a heavily-patched shirt, something about him made the brothers suddenly nervous.
But when he continued to scowl at them, waiting and waiting, Ranlin finally said, "Our odious brother says we must marry or face exile. We want spells to ensure we get ideal spouses, so he does not try to force us to marry the people he wants."
"I see," the witch said. "Ideal for whom?"
Timlin cast him a look of great annoyance. "Why for us, of course, you halfwit. Who else?"
"Who else indeed," the witch murmured, but unfolded his arms and nodded. "Very well, then. If you desire spouses who suit you, then you shall have them. I will deliver the spell to you the day of the first ball. By the end of the second night, you will each have found the spouse for whom you are most suited. As to payment …"
"We aren't paying you anything until we know the spells have worked," Ranlin said.
The witch gave him a cold look. "My spells never fail. My payment is due when the spells are given to you, and my payment is this: you will make me your guest at the festival. You will dance with me, you will sit beside me at dinner and speak with me, you will provide me with all that I require to enjoy the ball as your guest. Trivial things for two princes to provide. Do we have a bargain?"
"Yes, yes," the brothers chorused impatiently. "If that is all you want, then you shall have it."
"Very well, then," the witch said. "The bargain is struck. Tell me, then, what it is you love best in all the world."
They stared at him blankly, and the witch prodded, "What is your favorite thing to do? What would you do all the day long if you were permitted?"
"I enjoy the hunt," Timlin said. "I want to bring down the greatest beast ever to walk the land."
Ranlin sneered at his brother's words and said, "Music. There is no finer thing than golden voices singing sweetly to me all the day long."
"Very well," said the witch. "Now you may go. I will make your spells and you'll have them the morning of the first day. Remember my warnings."
Nodding, the brothers hastened away back to the palace and the warm safety of their soft beds.
Two days passed swiftly by as the whirlwind preparations consumed everyone. The king, seeing the good cheer of his brothers, thought them finally excited by the opportunity being given them and allowed himself some excitement as well.
But as the day of the festival arrived a witch presented himself at the palace and announced he was a guest of Their Royal Highnesses. The princes agreed to see him, grimacing all the while, receiving him in the smallest, darkest parlor in the palace, so seldom used it was covered with dust.
The witch held out two necklaces, and the brothers saw they were bone charms strung on leather cord. Peasant jewelry, nothing at all what princes would wear. "Your spells," the witch said. "Charms, actually. They are called charms of destiny, and they will give you what you seek. Wear them at all times, and the spouse for whom you are meant will be drawn to you, bound to you eternally."
"Can you not give us a potion or some such?" Timlin asked, eyeing the charm distastefully.
"No," the witch snapped. "You want this particular spell; this is how you get it. Be warned, though, Your Highnesses. There is no undoing this spell, or avoiding the spell running its course once you put the charms around your necks. The moment the charms are in place they will seek out that which suits you and bind you to it forever. It cannot be stopped once started, and only greater—darker, forbidden—magic can undo it."
Timlin sighed. "Yes, witch. We get it. That is what we want—spouses suited to us, not suited to our brother's whim. I just do not see why the spell must take on this… particular appearance."
"Never fear, you are free to hide them beneath your clothes. Now for your end of the bargain."
"Yes, yes," Ranlin said. "We will send someone to see to you immediately." They left without another word, leaving the witch to wait.
A short time later, two guards stepped into the parlor and grabbed hold of the witch. They dragged him through the halls of the palace, into the servants' spaces, then out into the back where they threw him out. "Never darken the palace again, witch, or it is the executioner to whom you will answer for your dark deeds."
The witch watched them go, angry and sad, the clothes he had taken such pains to clean and patch covered in mud and muck, his carefully polished boots ruined. Slowly standing, he cle
aned off what mud he could and strode back into the palace.
Many tried to stop him, but all fell away either from the look in his eye or the twitch of his fingers as though he were about to cast some terrible spell.
"Halt!"
The witch turned and saw a man who could only be the king, and his cheeks went scarlet to see so handsome a figure. He felt all the more acutely his own sorry state, and nearly abandoned his goal—but a bargain was a bargain, and he had felt it when the brothers put on the charms. Lifting his chin, he said, "Your Majesty, I have come to collect the payment owed me by your brothers. They wear my spells, and they tried to have me thrown out rather than pay their debt."
"What?" the king said, and turned to one of his servants. "Tell my brothers to attend me in my chambers immediately. You, come with me." He marched off and the witch hastened after him.
In the king's private chambers, his two brothers waited with sour looks upon their faces. Taking a seat before an enormous window, sunshine spilling over him, the king said, "What is the meaning of this? Did you pay this witch for spells?"
The brothers said nothing, and the king sighed. "Witch, what spells did they purchase, and what compensation is owed you?"
"In exchange for two charms of destiny, I asked to be treated as their guest for the whole of the festival: to be dressed suitably, to dance with them, to eat and converse at the banquets."
"That is an easy price to pay, and I am ashamed they tried to cheat you," the king replied. "It shall be paid. You two had best stay out of my sight. I am ashamed not just by your attempts to use magic as an easy way to meet my demands, but by your attempts to avoid paying the debt you owe. Let us hope you learn something over the next two days. Get out."
The brothers fled, red-faced with fury and humiliation. The king again offered his apologies, and summoned a servant. "See this man is treated as my honored guest, and given every luxury. What is your name, witch?"