by Megan Derr
"Anson, Your Majesty. Thank you."
"Enjoy the festival, Master Anson," the king replied, and with a fleeting, polite smile left Anson to the care of the servant.
Bowing, the servant murmured, "This way, Master Anson," and led him through the halls of the palace to a beautiful room easily twice the size of Anson's cottage. In short order, the servant arranged for a bath and food, and by the time Anson was done the servant had summoned tailors and seamstresses and piles and piles of clothes to adjust.
When they were finally done, Anson looked in a large mirror set out for him and scarcely recognized the reflection that stared back at him. The boring face was still the same, the hair still hopelessly bright and already trying to turn messy again, but he did not look like a witch who lived alone in the woods with only his old horse and a few thieving rabbits in the garden to call friends.
Maybe, just maybe, he would enjoy himself for two days after all. "Thank you," he said to all the servants who had aided him. "I appreciate all you have done for me."
"It is our pleasure to serve the king and all his honored guests," said the servant the king had ordered assist him.
"Of course," Anson said, and let them go to attend duties more important than dressing up a silly witch.
As ready as he could be, Anson left his room and wandered the halls of the palace until he found the garden where all were gathered for an afternoon garden party. Many looked at him, and Anson smiled shyly whenever one chanced to catch his gaze, but in reply they only turned away and whispered to one another. His smiles faded away as he caught the words 'witch' and 'curse' and others far more unpleasant.
Taking a glass of white wine from a table laden with food and drink, Anson stood at the edge of a dance floor that had been arranged in the middle of the garden. Lords and ladies twirled in elegant display to the sweet music filling the air. It reminded Anson of days long past, when his mother had hummed those same tunes, occasionally singing, as she taught him to dance in their little cottage.
He looked around the garden and eventually spied the terrible two tucked away out of sight of the king in a corner. They saw him and hastened away, casting dark looks over their shoulders, and Anson tried not to be disappointed. It was not as though either of them would have made a pleasant dance partner. Sipping at his wine, Anson looked around for someone else who might not mind dancing with him, but wherever he looked gazes turned hastily away.
When his glass was empty, he returned it to the table and decided that a walk would be better than lingering at the edge of the dance floor like a desperate, pathetic fool. Turning away from the table, he collided smartly with a dark blue velvet jacket. Looking up, he immediately flushed as he stared into the dark blue eyes of the king. "My apologies, Your Majesty."
"No need," the king said. "I believe you were owed a dance, were you not? My worthless brothers have scampered off, so I will do the honors. Come." He offered a hand, and Anson took it before his nerves could convince him to refuse.
Whispers rose and then abruptly died as the king escorted him to the dance floor. Anson had dreamed a thousand dances alone in his bed at night. He had day dreamed a thousand more toiling over his table bringing dreams and wishes to life for others. Not even his most extravagant fantasies compared to dancing with the king, who danced with grace and elegance, talked and charmed throughout, and acted as though Anson were in fact a dear friend and they had danced so countless times.
When they finally stopped, and the king left him back at the refreshment table, Anson felt bereft. He stared after the king as long as he could, then took another glass of wine and drank it more hastily than was wise.
He could feel the stares of the others more acutely, but still no one else approached him. Retreating to a corner, Anson ignored them all in favor of reliving his dance with the king over and over. And if he pretended the king had danced because he had wanted to, and not to pay a price, well what harm was there in that?
By the time dinner came, Anson was starving and anxious and lightheaded from too much wine. Again he hung back, uncertain what to do, where to go when there were so many tables and people who followed rules Anson had never learned.
A servant appeared at his elbow, however, and with a quietly murmured, "This way, Master Anson," led him to the table where the king sat.
The king smiled warmly, and Anson hurt with how much he wished it was genuine. "My brothers are still missing, but I am certain that comes as no surprise to you. Please, do sit and I will do my best to entertain you in their place."
"It is not your place to pay their price, Majesty," Anson replied as he sat down. "I am sorry you are burdened by their debts."
The king laughed. "If you are a burden, then I wish more of their debts were like you, Master Anson. Now, eat, please. I will make you known to our fellow dining companions, and they will be only too happy to regale a new face with their old stories."
To Anson's surprise, the lords and ladies did seem eager to talk—and talk and talk, until he was quite overwhelmed with wine and words. It was the most fun he had ever had in his life, and though he had little to say himself Anson lapped up everything said to him and tucked it all away to enjoy again later in his cottage.
Dinner was nearing its end when there came a great roar from the far side of the room, and a great and terrible beast with dark fur and enormous horns filled the doorway. It wrapped one great paw around Timlin, who screamed and tried to struggle free.
"Guards!" the king bellowed, as all the lords, ladies, and servants fled with terrified screams.
"No!" Anson cried out as the guards appeared. "You must halt. It is the charm of destiny which has brought the beast."
The king rounded on him, eyes blazing with fury as he snatched the witch close. "What have you done to my brother?"
"Only what he asked me for," Anson said, hurt the king thought he would let anyone come to harm, even though he knew it was foolish to feel so. "Your brother loves only the hunt, and wants nothing more than to bring down the greatest of beasts. Instead, he has become the one captured by the beast. See how the charm binds them together."
Reluctantly doing as bid, the king stared tight-lipped as the beast cradled his brother close and rumbled in a way reminiscent of a purr. Timlin, pale and shaking, glared hatefully across the room at Anson. "Witch!" he bellowed. "How dare you do this to me!"
"The spouse for whom he is most suited," Anson repeated. "The charm has spoken."
The king let him go, laughing softly. "So be it. Timlin, I accept your choice of spouse. You may go."
Growling in satisfaction, the beast carried Timlin away.
"He will be all right, yes?" the king asked.
"They are suited, and assuming your brother is willing to learn and grow …" Anson shrugged. "I make the spells, but I have little control over them. But he'll be safe, and possibly even happy someday."
The king finally let him go. "What is in store for Ranlin?"
"I know not, only that it will suit," Anson said with a bare smile he could not quite contain. "I feel it when the spell takes hold, but until then I know as little as they."
"Very well," the king said with a sigh. "The hour is late, and the festival effectively over for the night. Good night, witch."
"Goodnight," Anson replied, but the king had already turned away. A servant appeared to guide Anson back to his room, and exhausted from the long day, Anson fell quickly asleep and dreamed of dancing.
The next morning, the castle was all but vibrating with gossip of Timlin carried off by a beast with the king's blessing. Ranlin was nowhere to be found, and Anson quickly grew tired of the way people stared at him even more blatantly than they had before.
The second day of the ball included a tournament, with all manner of performances and even a great joust. Anson remembered his mother's stories of such things, the parades and banners, the knights in their gleaming armor and bright, colorful tunics.
Anson was escorted to the king's pri
vate box, and tried not to notice that save for servants they were completely alone. "Are you enjoying the festival?" the king asked.
"Yes, Majesty. Thank you again for—"
"No need," the king said, and smiled at him. "Who do you think will win the joust?"
Anson blinked at him, then looked over the contenders. "I'm sure I couldn't say. I've never seen a joust and know nothing about them."
The king laughed. "Well, take a look and pick. It's all in fun. Give a token to your champion if you're inclined; they're good luck." He winked, but was kept from saying anything further as a servant ghosted in to murmur something in his ear.
Leaving him in peace, Anson turned his full attention to the jousters. There were ten in all, with seemingly every conceivable cover on display amongst them. In the end, he decided on a knight much younger than the rest, dressed in simple green and gold, hanging back from the others and with no token to his name save a rose pinned to the front of his tunic.
"Have you made your choice?" the king asked, making him jump.
"Uh—yes," Anson said, and indicated the knight in green.
The king seemed surprised. "A good choice, but he's young and new and easy to overlook." Gesturing to a servant down below, the king had the knight brought. "Your token, then, Master Anson."
Not knowing what else to offer, taking his cue from what the other knights wore, Anson removed a bracelet he was wearing and handed it to the knight. "Good luck."
Grinning brightly, the young man gave an awkward half-bow from his horse, then rode off.
When the jousting began, Anson quickly found himself caught up in the excitement, cheering and screaming and protesting along with everyone else, and he cheered loudest of all when his chosen knight took round after round—and finally secured the grand prize.
After he had claimed his prize, the knight rode up and handed back the token, along with part of the coin he had won. "Thank you for the faith, good sir." He kissed each of Anson's cheeks, then rode off again to where a little girl stood waiting eagerly. A sister, Anson surmised, and smiled.
"Well done," the king said, gripping his shoulder. "Now I think it is time to eat."
They had scarcely settled into their meal when Ranlin came darting in, face red and furious. He yanked Anson from his seat and shook him hard. "What is the meaning of this, witch?" he demanded. "I said I loved music! What have you done to me?"
"What are you talking about?" the king demanded, as the rest of the room fell silent. He rose and pulled Anson free, shoving his brother back and warning him to behave.
Anson watched, unsurprised, as a beautiful woman entered the room and walked over to Ranlin, standing still and quiet by his side.
"Mute," Anson said softly. "A man who only listens, and listens best to the sound of his own voice, is most suited to one who cannot speak at all."
Beside him, the king laughed softly. "Yes, indeed. Ranlin, I accept your choice in spouse. What did you think would happen when you tried to cheat my orders by using magic? Be off with you, and show some kindness to the bride destiny chose, and is probably too good for you."
Ranlin looked ready to hit them, but in the end only snarled and reluctantly gave his arm to the woman, who took it after glaring briefly at him, and together they left the room.
"You are quite the witch," the king said. "I hope they will learn from your workings all that I could never manage to teach them."
Anson shook his head. "I only gave them what they asked for, Majesty."
"Well done, I say. Now, let us enjoy this fine meal."
The meal proved very fine indeed, and Anson grew flustered as more and more people spoke with him, asked him questions. Servants refilled his glass again and again, so that by the time dinner ended and everyone adjourned to the grand ballroom for the closing dance of the festivities, his head felt as though it floated and he could not stop smiling.
When a beautiful woman asked him to dance, Anson at first thought she was speaking to someone else. But she laughed and took his hand, and when she had finished a man approached. Two dances became four became many, until Anson was quite breathless and in need of more wine.
It was the king who found him on the balcony, enjoying the cool air and the sweet scents wafting up from the gardens. "You look as though you have been having a very fine time tonight," the king said warmly. "I am glad."
"I've had a wonderful evening, thank you, Majesty. You've been most generous, and I shall treasure that generosity always."
The king smiled and offered his arm. "Shall we enjoy the last dance, Master Anson?"
"I would be honored, Majesty," Anson replied, and laughed in delight as they twirled around the dance floor. The king smelled like honey and citrus, a bit of sweat from their exertions in the crowded room. The candlelight made his dark gold hair seem almost to glow, and there was a small smudge of a birthmark on his jaw that Anson longed to kiss.
He supposed if he was going to dream, he may as well make it as hopeless as possible. What was the point, after all, in dreaming small? If he held on a touch too long as the music died, he doubted anyone noticed.
"You dance wonderfully," the king said with a boyish smile. "Truly, I wish all my debts were so pleasant to repay."
The words were a knife, a hard, cold reminder that he was the only one caught in a dream. The king might be his sweetest dream, but he was only the king's burden.
Except there was no reason for the king to dance with him a second time, and so Anson had stupidly thought maybe the king wanted to dance with him. Stupid, to let his flights of fancy mingle with reality.
"Thank you again, Majesty," he said, and tried to summon a smile, but felt it falter. He saw the king's smile fall away, but could not bear to wait to hear what he said next. "The debt is paid in full, and I wish you and your brothers every joy. Goodnight and farewell."
He fled the ballroom, ran through the castle back up to the room granted him. After the soft silks and linens and velvets he had been given to wear, his rough homespun scratched and itched. But the clothes were familiar, safe, and a sorely needed reminder that he did not belong in the palace. He'd had his two days of flight and fancy, it was time to return to the world to which he belonged.
Unable to stomach the thought of going back through the palace, he climbed out the window and down the stones of the palace wall, creeping across the lawn until he at least reached the familiarity of the Laughing Forest.
Three days passed in quiet misery, as Anson toiled preparing tonics and balms and creams to sell in the village on the other side of the woods. When he heard a horse, he sighed, wondering who had come and what spell they would require.
When the inevitable knock finally came, Anson drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Shoving his hair from his face, he went to the door and yanked it open—and stared, mouth gaping.
"May I come in?"
"M-Majesty?" Anson hastily stepped back, making room for him to enter. "Um. Is something amiss with your brothers?"
"No," the king replied. "My brothers are, I presume, doing quite well and getting what they deserve. I did not come to speak of them, or of anyone else. I came because I find I am quite in need of something."
The words churned like spoiled food in Anson's stomach. Of course that was all he wanted. That was all anyone ever wanted. Squashing the terrible ache in his chest, Anson asked, "What is it you need, Majesty?"
"My name is Thane, and I find myself quite in need of a witch."
Anson stared at him, blinked. "Well, I am a witch, Majesty. But that doesn't really answer my question."
"Thane."
"Thane," Anson dutifully repeated, wanting suddenly to smack him though he could not say why. "What do you need me to do?"
Drawing closer, forcing Anson to stumble back until he collided with his work table, Thane reached up to cup his chin, giving Anson no choice but to look at him. He stared at Anson for what seemed an eternity, then slowly let go. "I wanted to apologize for my last
words. I meant them in jest. I did not dance with you that second time in order to pay a debt. It was purely for the pleasure."
"Uh—oh," Anson said, too startled to think of anything intelligent to say. "I—" He flushed and looked down. "I am glad you did not feel obliged," he finally said softly.
Cupping a finger beneath Anson's chin, Thane forced his head back up and said softly, "I say again that I find myself in need of a witch."
Anson swallowed. "And as I said, I am a witch. But you'll have to be more specific. What need do you have of me?"
"Many," Thane murmured, and kissed him.
Ivan the Heartless
The room fell silent as they entered, but Ivan was used to it—and he could not blame them, a lively party interrupted by a man in a dark, all-encompassing cloak, not even a hint of his face visible. Even without the hooded cloak, he tended to make rooms fall silent for one reason or another.
If he did not, then certainly his strong and silent shadow stopped conversations. Ivan was not conceited, but he knew they each had a presence lent them by the lives they had led—and together their presence was all the stronger.
Behind him, his bodyguard closed the door to the inn, blocking out the sounds of howling wind, thunder, and pounding rain. He walked across the room to hang up his sodden cloak, leaving Ivan by the door. Ivan did not bother to remove his own cloak; the weather was no match for the enchantments he had laid upon it.
He took in the dozen or so people gathered around a large ring of tables in the middle of the otherwise empty inn. By the way they were dressed, the food and drink upon the table, the veil hung traditionally above the fireplace, they had interrupted a wedding celebration. Yet the bride's smile was wrong, and the groom had an air of angry impatience. They were all seated, and Ivan had never attended a wedding ceremony that did not involve cheerful buffoonery—dancing, games, playful chases around the room, and other drunken antics.
What, he wondered, simmered beneath the wedding party's façade of gaiety?
Only one way to find out. Pushing back the hood of his cloak, letting his gold hair spill free, baring his notorious beauty, Ivan stepped closer to the table and swept a bow. "Lords and ladies, I apologize for our intrusion. We did not mean to interrupt your wedding celebration. Regretfully, the weather gave us no choice but to stop and take cover for a time. Please, do carry on. We will go to our rooms and trouble you no further."