His Lost Princess: A Fairy Tale (Tales of Euphoria Book 2)

by Ella Ardent

  “Know or suspect?” my mother challenged. She smiled at me, but her gaze was hard. “Do you truly know her heart and mind, or do you assume that her thoughts and wishes must be the same as your desires for her?”

  “Is it so absurd to believe they might be the same?”

  “I think it is,” my mother said, her gaze dropping to the shoe.

  “She came twice to the palace,” I said. “She was the maiden I claimed last night. Though I didn’t realize it was her at the time, I knew I’d found the only woman I desired.”

  My mother arched a brow. “And so she must feel the same way about you, because it is impossible that the woman you desire might not desire you?”

  “You mock me.”

  “I challenge your assumptions, just has your maiden clearly has.”

  “What do you mean?”

  My mother picked up the shoe, turning it in her hands as if to admire it. “Given that she didn’t remain in the palace, it seems her hopes might differ from yours. Surely her departure can only indicate a reluctance to be in your company.” She pursed her lips and met my gaze. “Or maybe an unwillingness to be your possession?”

  I thought of the king being here just moments before me. I thought of the fact that I was his son, yet my mother, who must have been his lover, lived in this hut instead of the palace. “Perhaps you confuse your choice with that of Ellie,” I dared to say.

  My mother laughed lightly. “Well done,” she murmured and put down the shoe. “Perhaps I do. Either way, I will defend her choice to my last breath, because I understand more of her situation than she even dares to confide.”

  I eyed the shoe. “The king said it was a mark of sorcery. Did you send Ellie to the palace?”

  “I made two wishes come true,” my mother acknowledged. “Though it isn’t uncommon for a wish fulfilled to prove less satisfying than expected.”

  I bristled. “And what is that to mean?”

  “That she was afraid.”

  Of me.

  “Were you afraid of my father?”

  “When I was in his thrall? Yes. Only a fool would feel otherwise.” She toyed with the shards of the cup, her manner thoughtful. “I wanted nothing more than to defy him, because he was so certain he should never be denied anything or anyone he desired.”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  She heaved a sigh and flicked a look at me. “I wanted to save you from his legacy.” She smiled sadly. “You were the light in the darkness, Royce, a blessing that made the ordeal seem worth the reward. I remember the Yule that you were born as clearly as yesterday, and the way the firelight shone in the gold of your hair. I remember the way you cried, as if delighted to have emerged into the light of the world, and I remember how often you gurgled with laughter. You were merry and bright, a joy for our days and nights. Lars loved you so.” She sighed as my chest clenched. Lars. Why did I always feel agitation at the memory of Lars? He had been good to me. “I should have known that I couldn’t always shield you from him. I should have known that he would taint what once was good.”

  “I’m not tainted,” I argued but she shook her head.

  “Are you not? You are not the man who left this hut just weeks ago. There is anger in your eyes and pride in your stance. You command and you expect obedience. I wonder if there is yet mercy within your heart, or if that has been banished as well.” She turned away. “You look like him now, as once you did not. Go, for you are the son I raised to manhood no longer.”

  “Ellie said I was not the man I had been.”

  “Did she?”

  “She said it was the wine.”

  My mother turned to look at me. “The wine?”

  “The wine the king drinks. I alone in all the palace was allowed to indulge in it, along with him. He said it was my birthright.”

  “What is it like, this wine?”

  “It is red, as red as blood, and it tastes of glory. It heats the blood and makes you feel invincible, omnipotent...”

  “And so you claimed your chosen beauty with force,” my mother said with disgust. “No wonder she ran.”

  “No, no! It wasn’t like that. I danced with her. I wanted her. I claimed her. But there was a mark upon her breast, a red mark, a birthmark I suppose, the shape of a heart. I touched my lips to it and the fury dispelled.”

  She eyed me. “Until you drank the wine again.”

  I nodded.

  “And the king, how often does he drink this wine?”

  I thought of him, that very morning, savoring it as he reclined in his bed. “All the time.”

  My mother clutched my arm. “From whence does the wine come?”

  “Imperium,” I said. “It was brought by the Emperor’s daughter, Lascivia, as a gift.” I grimaced. “I was supposed to marry her, but declined.”

  My mother caught her breath and paled, then turned her back abruptly upon me. She crossed the hut to the fire and stared down into it.

  “What does that mean?”

  She didn’t reply, simply gestured to the shoe. “Go.”

  “No. I won’t go until you tell me where she is. You hid me from the king. I know you’ve hidden Ellie from me.”

  She looked over her shoulder at me, and I couldn’t read her expression. “And if I did, because she asked me to do so, and if I did, because I felt compassion for her situation, why would I break my pledge to her?”

  “Because I command you to do so,” I said, and knew as soon as the words left my lips that I had chosen the wrong answer.

  My mother laughed outright. “My son knows that it is in my nature to defy both king and crown prince. Go! You are my son no longer.”

  “But Ellie...”

  “Should you deserve as much, she might find you.”

  I reached for the shoe, mightily vexed with my mother, but she waved a hand. The fire lit the shoe, seeming to fill it with flames, and then, before my very eyes, it melted to a puddle on the table.

  The shoe was gone.

  I couldn’t use it to claim my prize.

  Because my mother had ensured it was so. I noted her satisfaction and turned to leave, impatience in my steps and vigor in my gesture when I closed the door. She’d chosen Ellie over me. The afternoon was white and cold, my servants waiting, my horse impatient to run.

  As soon as I looked upon them, I knew that I would not win Ellie with a display of pageantry or even of force. If she feared me, I would have to convince her to grant me another chance myself, with my own merit.

  Such as it was.

  “Return to the palace,” I said with authority. “I will continue the hunt alone.”

  Lars. Why had my mother spoken of Lars? She never did. Something had put him in her thoughts. I had mentioned the burden of my past to Ellie. I knew I must have had a nightmare the night before. What had I said? Had it been about Lars?

  Had it been about my persistent feeling of dread at the mill?

  I seized the reins of my horse and leaped to the saddle, knowing the first place I would seek Ellie.

  Chapter 10

  Eleanor

  I was being followed.

  There could be no doubt.

  Each time I believed that I had imagined the sounds of pursuit, I heard them again, closer and louder. Each time I believed that whoever was behind me had taken another path, I was soon proven wrong. I couldn’t imagine who would follow me or why, much less who would do so upon a horse.

  There was no mistaking that it was a horse. I heard the trap jingle. I heard the beast snort and shake its head. I heard the sound of its steady footfalls, never so close behind that I could see it or its rider, never so far that I doubted its presence.

  A rider on a horse should have overtaken me, even on the narrow path that wound beside the river, even when the horse couldn’t gallop in safety. I grew more and more certain that I was being stalked.

  Which made me fear the reason why.

  I moved more quickly, even though I stumbled a bit at this greater sp
eed. Once I fell and almost tumbled into the river, but caught myself in time. My pursuer kept the same distance behind me, probably to ensure I couldn’t see him clearly.

  The mill loomed before me suddenly, its silhouette emerging in the white haze of falling snow. I knew there was nothing beyond it but the open road to the border. Was that what the rider behind anticipated? That he or she could end the chase well beyond the village perimeter, where none might witness his intent?

  The mill was both my destination and a timely haven.

  Bella had our flour delivered to the house each month, so I had never actually been inside the mill. I knew the miller and his son only by sight, and mostly by the rough shape of their garb and the smell of them. They both smelled of the fields, of grain and stone and water, and faintly of horse. I seldom lifted my gaze when he or his son made the delivery to the house, and I doubt that either of them looked closely at me. I thought of Marta’s words, and hoped that this was the origin of Royce’s nightmare.

  It would likely be the only prospect I could explore.

  Even in this weather, the mill stones were turning. I was surprised, then wondered why. The river was still flowing and there must still be grain to be ground. Only if the river froze over or went dry would the mill be compelled to stop, or it might be stopped if there was no harvest remaining. I heard the massive stones grinding against each other and felt the vibration in the building when I touched the outer wall. I could smell the grain being crushed and hear the diverted water rushing over the gears within the mill.

  It was cold and shadowed inside, for there was no fire in the working part of the mill, but the stones cast a bit of heat from their friction. I blinked to let my vision adjust after the brightness of the snow. The miller was humming and I smiled at the sound, for his voice was low and reassuring in its merriment. There is much good to be said of a man who finds joy in his labor.

  His son was carrying sacks of grain and placing them beside the millstones. I understood that the grain had to be poured into the top and the flour gathered at the bottom. They both wore great aprons, and the miller himself was fingering the flour, checking its quality before loading it into plain cloth bags like those he delivered to the house. Mindful of Marta’s warning, I waited until the son strode down the stairs and out of the far side of the mill, presumably to fetch more grain.

  I pulled my hood forward and stepped into view. “Good morning to you, sir,” I said to the miller.

  He jumped a little and straightened, blinking as he looked me up and down. “Well, you have startled me. Why are you about on this day?”

  “Because I seek a refuge, sir.”

  “And who might you be, boy?”

  “An orphan, sir,” I said, which was sufficiently close to the truth since my father had cast me out. “I can work for my haven.”

  The miller rubbed his brow in amazement, his manner cheerful. “And just as I said to Jacob that I had need of another pair of hands. Well, the Yule does bring gifts to all, it is clear.” He beamed at me. “Are you from the village?”

  “No, sir. I come from the forest, but lost my way in the snow.”

  “No wonder you look hungry and chilled, boy. Come along and have a bowl of soup. It’s time that Jacob and I took a little leisure.” He called to his son, then and wiped his hands.

  I noticed that he hadn’t barred the door but feared to suggest it to him, lest he think there was reason to be suspicious of me. I wondered whether the rider and horse had gone, and could only assume that my hunter would linger outside to avoid detection.

  I would be safe in the mill.

  For the moment.

  I hadn’t realized I was hungry until the miller opened the door to a snug little chamber at the back of the mill and gestured me inside. The fire on the hearth had burned down to coals but the room was warm. There was a cauldron hung over the fire and I guessed that he had left the soup to simmer. It smelled of beef stock and root vegetables, the very kind of soup I would have brewed on a day like this one.

  The smell of soup made my belly grumble and he chuckled at the sound.

  I thanked him for his hospitality and his son returned. The three of us ate together. He spoke of the duties he needed to see done as his son had another bowl of soup. His son nodded and said little, and I remembered him as being taciturn.

  “I can do these things, sir.”

  “And what will you want in exchange for your work, boy?”

  “Shelter, though perhaps I can give more.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I was told that whoever helped me would be able to surrender the truth that weighed upon his soul,” I said, wondering even as I uttered the words if they were whimsy.

  The miller looked up abruptly. “Who are you?” he asked quietly.

  “I am but an orphan.”

  He stared, his face pale, and I wondered whether the glamor already wore thin. He frowned then and put his bowl aside though there was still a bit of soup in the bottom. He appeared to consider my words again, then nodded. “Well, then. That is a fair wager indeed.”

  His son blinked. “Have you a secret, Father?”

  “Indeed, I do, Jacob, and it has weighed upon my heart these many years.” He lit his pipe then, coaxing it to burn. “This Yule brings a wondrous gift indeed, though I will be leery of saying too much before too many. If you would hear the secret, boy, you will hear it alone.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  At his glance, his son finished his soup, then excused himself to tend the horse.

  Still, the miller fussed with his pipe. I nigh fidgeted beneath the weight of the older man’s gaze. “I have a notion that I know you, and that your appearance is not all I believe it to be,” he said and my heart stopped cold. “But I also believe that you offer me a gift, and it is one that I would be foolish to spurn.”

  “That was my understanding, sir.”

  “Have you been sent from the king’s palace?”

  I shook my head, for the truth was close to that.

  “What do you know of the king?”

  “That he rules Euphoria.” I chose to say no more than that.

  “A wise reply, my young friend. And what do you know of his son?”

  I shrugged. “That he will rule after his father.”

  “But if you come from the forest, you will know little of either of them.” The miller sighed. “I know the king’s son well. I have known Royce for all of his life, long before he was summoned to the palace to be named as the king’s heir. He is Marta’s son, though if you are not from the village, you will not know her either. Marta was wed to Lars, a good man and a hard-working one, a man who came from Noorlandia though I know not why. Marta had been chosen by the king on his coronation and subsequently Marked, then she was wedded to Lars by the king’s command upon her release. No one thought of Royce as the king’s son until he was summoned to the palace not a fortnight ago. No one but me.”

  He drew upon his pipe and blew a smoke ring. I would have been more delighted by his trick, if I had not been so interested in his tale.

  “But why did you think it?”

  “Because I am old,” the miller ceded with a smile. “Because I remember the king as a boy and a young man, and there was much in Royce that showed the resemblance. I wondered always that no one else seemed to notice it, but then, it is said that Marta has arcane powers. It wouldn’t surprise me if she wanted to shelter her son from the king.”

  “So you said nothing.”

  “I would not see anyone charged with treason. I liked Lars and he was clearly fond of the boy. A good father. What cause had I to meddle, on the basis of an impression that might have been wrong?”

  “Indeed.” I set my bowl aside and watched him suck on his pipe, coaxing it to burn better.

  “Until that day, of course. The day that Lars died.”

  “Did he die here?” I asked when the miller paused again.

  “He did, and I saw it, though I lied about wh
at I saw.” He gave me a hard look. “I was instructed to lie, by none other than the king, upon the value of my life. I might have chosen otherwise, but I had a pretty wife and the king had a bright eye in her presence. And then there was Jacob. I held my tongue for fear that I would not bear the consequences but those I loved would be condemned to do so.”

  “I understand,” I said. “What did you see?”

  “Lars came for flour, as often he did, and Royce was with him. The boy was small, perhaps three years of age, and he was here often enough that I let him play without watching him overmuch. He used to follow the cat when she hunted mice, and she would lead him on a merry chase. It always ended in a sunbeam, with him patting her and her looking quite pleased with herself. He was a good boy.”

  He drew on his pipe and exhaled the smoke. “I was asking Lars for gossip from the village, though he was always taciturn, as I packed a sack of flour for Marta. There had been many come for flour and I had none prepared. It was a day when I could have been three men. My boy was sick, as I recall, and my son not yet born. The mill was turning, as always, and I saw that the hopper was emptying. Lars offered to take a sack of grain up the stairs for me and I welcomed his help. I forget what we were laughing about, when the king suddenly appeared in the doorway. He looked to be furious, and I bowed immediately, but his anger was directed at Lars.”

  The miller shook his head. “The king climbed the stairs with amazing speed, such was his fury, and he seized that man right before my eyes, though Lars did not flinch. Perhaps he had expected the challenge. ‘You weren’t supposed to claim her heart.’ That was what he said. And Lars only smiled, his gaze hard. ‘Love cannot be commanded,’ he said, and I guessed that it was a proverb from the way he said it.” The miller swallowed and set his pipe aside. “And the king struck him.”

  I gasped.

  “Aye.” The miller nodded. “He punched Lars in the face and that man stumbled. There is little room up there, as you can see, not enough for two men to truly fight. Certainly, not enough room for Lars to escape, not when he had to pass the king to get to the stairs. When Lars straightened, the tip of the king’s sword was at his throat. He raised his hands slowly and I watched in silence as the two stared at each other. I knew that it would be my death to intervene. I feared to watch but I feared more to look away. There was only the sound of the mill stones turning and the racing of my heart.”