Candlewax

by C. Bailey Sims

  “You had best prepare for the feast.” With a flick of his tail he leapt off the rocks and sniffed the wind flowing down off the Cinna Range behind the castle. “Come to me at the second bell, when all is quiet tonight. And stay to the shadows.” Chilled, Catherine watched him go.

  Catherine hurried back to the bathhouse. She opened the door a crack, listening. It was completely quiet. Relieved, she slipped into the steamy room and closed the door behind her. The warmth felt good. Slowly her eyes adjusted. As she had hoped, she was alone.

  The clothes Menard had gotten for her were still lying across the bench where she had left them. The huge bath looked clean. She sniffed the water, just in case. It smelled fresh. Wishing she could take her time, Catherine bathed quickly, and afterward took one of the folded linen towels piled neatly in a basket. The stone floor was cold on her bare feet. She hurriedly dried off and dressed.

  Catherine surveyed herself in the mirror. Not bad for a stable boy. Maybe too good. Her clean hair was starting to dry and it looked rather pretty. It would be better if she could find some oil and comb it down. She looked around and saw an alabaster container next to the pool. Inside was a fragrant oil that smelled vaguely familiar.

  She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes, trying to place it. It smelled like Candlewax Wood when the warmth of the sun released the fragrance of the leaves. Carefully she rubbed some on her hands and ran them over her hair, plastering it down firmly. Better.

  She left the bathhouse and headed up to the main castle, hoping that the festivities had not yet begun. The guards at the entrance gestured for her to proceed to the large center hall. Musicians were already performing and the sound of many voices floated on the air.

  Inside the dining hall was a long table with several people already seated, flanked by smaller tables. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high. In the center a huge tapestry hung, featuring horses and bowmen fighting an unseen enemy. Two enormous hearths warmed the room, one at each end. Oil lamps burned from sconces on the stone walls and from chandeliers. Except for the overhead tapestry and the second hearth, it reminded Catherine of the dining hall at Crystallia. She relaxed slightly.

  She recognized some of the men from the trip. A few of them raised their glasses at the sight of her and smiled. She grinned back. There were Seth, Sebastian, William, Conrad, and the others. She counted about forty places at the king’s table altogether. Where am I supposed to go? Catherine spotted Menard sitting next to a pretty, gray-haired woman. There were two empty seats next to him, and then there was Cyril.

  Her eyes rested on the king for a moment. He wore a burgundy velvet tunic with gold brocade on the edges. The finery did nothing to hide his strong shoulders. For the first time since she had met him, he was wearing his crown. This might have been how I would have first seen him—for the feast at Crystallia—stately and resplendent.

  As if aware of her gaze, Cyril looked up and saw Catherine. He smiled and gestured for her to come over. Her heart jumped and she moved her feet automatically, like a moth flies to the flame.

  “Welcome to our feast, Kenneth of Gant,” said Cyril. “Take your place next to Menard. We are still awaiting the princess, but feel free to have some drink and try a roll.”

  Catherine bowed low as the occasion demanded, first to the king and then to Menard and the gray-haired lady, before taking her assigned seat. The woman leaned forward and smiled at her.

  “My name is Matilda, Menard’s wife. It is so nice to meet you, Kenneth. Menard tells me you have a way with horses. I say that you must have an exemplary character to have ventured into the wilds to protect Princess Catherine. You are a very brave young lad.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Catherine said. “It was really nothing.” She looked down at her empty plate and reached for a hot roll. Menard, Cyril, and Matilda took pleasure in watching her take a bite out of it.

  The outside of the roll was shiny and crisp and tasted of butter and honey. The inside was light and airy and melted in her mouth.

  Menard and Cyril laughed.

  “Good, eh?” Menard poked her in the ribs. She nodded vigorously and smiled. No wonder the rolls are famous. Bessie is going to love them. She helped herself to the pitcher of apple cider, poured a glass, and took a drink. It was cold and sweet and slightly fizzy, like an ale.

  Suddenly the musicians stopped playing and Cyril stood up. No one sat while the king stood; all in attendance followed suit, their chairs and the rustle of silks and satin creating a wave of sound that left a deafening silence in its wake. The atmosphere in the room was charged with anticipation. All heads turned toward the hall entrance.

  Toward Bessie. Catherine gasped along with everyone else. She looked lovely and regal in a beautiful green gown. Cleverly, she had managed to cover her hair with a matching headdress that was beaded with tiny pearls. A single, large jewel dangled from part of the headdress that hung over the center of her forehead. Although borrowed, the gown and headdress fit her perfectly.

  Cyril walked over to Bessie and bowed. She curtseyed back slowly, just as a princess should, and Cyril offered her his arm. A man at the door called out, “King Cyril of Candlewax and Princess Catherine of Crystallia!” Everyone in the room bowed or curtseyed as Cyril led her to her seat. Catherine caught herself about to curtsey and bowed just in time.

  Bessie glided gracefully to her place. As she glanced briefly at Catherine, Catherine saw the slight flutter of panic in her eyes. Steady, my friend, she thought, nodding her reassurance. Bessie looked quickly away and took her seat. Everyone else sat down and suddenly the hall was bustling again with servants carrying trays and covered dishes. The musicians began an old Tabrekian song that Catherine remembered was often played for her grandmother on feast days.

  Laughter and conversation filled the hall as the empty plates were laden with food. Bessie flashed her beautiful smile and Catherine could see Cyril smile back. Bessie is beautiful, she thought with a pang of jealousy. Cyril must have made some clever remark, for Bessie was laughing.

  Catherine cut off a piece of meat and busied herself chewing it. It doesn’t matter that he likes her, Catherine tried to tell herself. Pokos will be waiting for me tonight at the back of the old fortress. We must get through the Cinna Gate. She tried to imagine trodliks eating their way through Lackanay. It didn’t help. Cyril was laughing now. She had to force her eyes to stay away from him and Bessie.

  “What are you thinking about, my boy? You’re stabbing at your meat! Is it not to your liking?” asked Menard. Matilda leaned forward, chewing, and looked at her with concern.

  “He’s probably not used to all of this finery, dear. How often does a stable boy come to a castle feast anyway?” She nodded and smiled indulgently at Catherine. “Kenneth is probably just feeling a bit out of place, not quite himself. Right, dear?”

  “It’s nothing.” Catherine smiled wanly and paid more attention to her manners. Or to how a stable boy might behave during a castle feast. My head hurts! And Menard’s wife is only too perceptive. “The food is very good,” Catherine added politely.

  “Isn’t it, Kenneth?” asked Bessie. The quaint sound of Swiggins was still faintly present in her carefully spoken words. “Why the cooks have made a right fine feast.” Catherine cringed at her friend’s choice of words, although pronounced in a regal, measured rhythm. Bessie turned to Cyril and smiled. He nodded his head in gracious acknowledgement of her compliment.

  At least nodding and smiling have no accent.

  Catherine’s heart went out to Bessie. She didn’t want this role. I had to command her to do it, she thought, remembering Bessie’s protests.

  Catherine decided to do her best to enjoy the feast. Underneath the table her toe started to keep time with the music. Menard was telling stories about Cedric and Cyril and the sound of laughter was getting louder and louder. Catherine tossed her head back and laughed at something Menard was saying.

  Cyril stared at them.

  “What is it, Cyril? D
id I say something wrong?” asked Menard.

  Cyril glanced at Catherine and then smiled at Menard. “Nothing, Menard,” he said with a light tone. He proceeded to eat a bite of cherry tart and the moment passed as if it hadn’t happened.

  After the pies and tarts were eaten, the table was cleared. The king rose for a toast and the room fell silent.

  “We of the Candlewax Kingdom are honored by the presence of Princess Catherine, and feel it was our good fortune to have found her with her servant and Spelopokos the fairrier cat in the forests of Lackanay. We look forward to returning her safe and sound to her father.” Cyril raised his glass and looked at Bessie, who nodded in acknowledgment. Cries of “Here, Here!” echoed around the hall.

  “Now, I call for a dance!” Cyril smiled widely, put down his glass and clapped his hands twice together. The musicians struck up a tune. Cyril turned to Bessie and held out his hand. Bessie continued to sit, her smile frozen in place. Finally, because Cyril did not waver in his intent, she took his hand and stood up. Catherine tensed. Does Bessie know how to dance? Do they even have village dances? Bessie was pale and slightly green, like a slice of cucumber.

  Menard and Tilda were standing now too, as were many other couples at the table. As soon as Cyril whisked Bessie away, the others joined in. Catherine was one of the few left sitting at the table. Is it my imagination or did Cyril look over at me?

  Bessie did not know the steps and tread on Cyril’s toes, trying to turn left when Cyril was guiding right and tripping on her gown instead of lifting it gently during the curtseying part of the dance. Cyril encouraged her politely, helping her as much as he could. Catherine swallowed. Poor Bessie! Oh please, let him not suspect!

  Bessie bravely carried on through the ordeal, her face flaming, grimacing when she bumped into Matilda.

  At last the music ended, and Cyril guided Bessie back to the table. She sat down and glanced over at Catherine. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

  But Cyril took her hand and smiled into Bessie’s eyes. “Thank you, fair lady.” His voice sounded so sincere that Catherine wondered if perhaps he hadn’t noticed how badly Bessie had danced after all, and she let out the breath she had been holding. Cyril bent over Bessie’s hand and kissed it. The guests in the room applauded. Bessie smiled weakly.

  Cyril did not ask her to dance again. He seemed content to sit at the table and watch as others at the feast danced. He joined in with Menard’s stories about tournaments, hunts, and battles. Gone was the stiffness of unease. He laughed often and leaned forward frequently to make some comment to Menard and Catherine. She thought as she watched him that he was truly the king of his own castle.

  As the night wore on, guests began to leave. Bessie had already followed one of the castle ladies out of the hall. Catherine hoped all would go well for her friend. Bessie has difficult days ahead. Cyril—and Father—will ask her endless questions.

  After Bessie left, Cyril turned to Catherine.

  “You will come with us for a ride tomorrow, Kenneth. I would like to see how you work a horse through the jumps,” he said, standing up to leave. Menard and Catherine got to their feet.

  “I should like that, sire,” answered Catherine. She dropped her head in a courteous bow. It sounds like fun. Too bad I won’t be here. I wish I could be in two places at once—with Pokos in Cinna, and here with Cyril.

  “Menard and I will meet you at the stables at sunrise. Goodnight, Kenneth.” The king’s expression was unreadable. Catherine felt a knot in her stomach as she watched the ruler of Candlewax turn on his heels and leave the room.

  Catherine lay awake, tense and waiting, listening to the snores of the grooms around her. She didn’t dare close her eyes. The drone of the others’ peaceful breathing and snoring made her head leaden with fatigue. Her dearest wish was to stay vigilant and her second dearest wish was to fall blissfully asleep.

  Under the covers she was fully dressed in her old clothes. She had made sure to replace the fairrier cat fur in her socks. Beneath the bed were her pack, her coat, and her boots. She felt the back of the pendant and pressed her thumb into the indentation there, comforted by the familiar warm sensation.

  The thought of Bessie’s family pushed its way into her head. What must they think of me now? Everything I told them was a lie. They were so generous and kind. They must be worried about Bessie. It’s my fault that she isn’t safe at home.

  Then there was Cyril. She needed to pass through the Cinna Gate before he could stop her. He wants to return me safe and sound to Father and Mother.

  The second bell sounded, two low, sad, muted tones. Cautiously she lifted the blankets off. The air was chilly in spite of the glowing embers in the fireplace. She gathered up the coat and slipped it on, then the pack. She carried her boots to the door and stepped out without making a sound.

  The night was bright with a full moon, just as Spelopokos had said it would be. Icy air nipped at her face, clearing away her longing for sleep. She sucked in her breath and felt refreshed. Boots on, she followed the wall of the stable quarters around the corner, out of the moonlight. There, across the castle yard, rose the eerie old fortress. To the right, Catherine could see the tops of the trees from the Candlewax Wood over the castle wall. The fires from millions of tiny flames caused the trees to twinkle as the breeze shifted the branches. It was mesmerizing. Like a holiday! And that lovely smell! Catherine wondered if it were ever truly dark in the Candlewax Kingdom. She didn’t think so.

  She looked up at the fortress, seeking out the guards. Where are they? She could not afford to wait to find out. She took a breath and sprinted lightly across the open stretch of moonlight between her and the fortress. There aren’t any shadows to keep to, Pokos, she thought nervously.

  She reached the fortress and made her way around to the other side, once again safe in the shadows. She listened to the night. Nothing. Just the sound of her own breathing and the quiet gurgling of water. Pokos has to be nearby, but where? She peered into the darkness, looking for the familiar white head.

  “Over here.”

  She turned to Pokos’s voice and saw only the mossy fortress stones, shimmering slightly.

  “Pokos?”

  “Yes,” came his voice from the shimmering area. “Follow me.” Now Catherine could see Pokos walking away from her in the shadows. She ran after him. The sound of water was stronger and soon they reached the place where the stream passed through a great iron grate and into a small pond. The water from the pond flowed into a stone-lined channel that led into an opening under the fortress. Catherine looked across the pond. Pokos was right—part of the grate had worn away with rust. The fairrier cat waded into the water, not making a sound.

  Catherine took off her boots and stuffed them into her pack. She placed her sheepskin coat on top and lifted them both above her head. She gritted her teeth and waded in after Pokos. The water was icy. Her calves were already burning with cold and it was only getting deeper. At least her socks and the fairrier cat fur gave her some protection against the stones and mud in the pond.

  She was up to her chest before the pond leveled out. As they neared the grate it grew shallower. Pokos passed through the hole, his fur dripping wet. Catherine struggled with the pack. She couldn’t get through.

  “Rest it on my head,” Pokos ordered. She passed the pack through the grate and felt Pokos support it from the other side. She reached for the opening and pulled herself through the jagged hole, careful not to scrape against the sharp metal.

  Once on the other side, she took her pack and coat and followed Pokos to the left bank of the stream. Her teeth were chattering. Pokos shook vigorously. Catherine raised her hand to block her face from the forceful shower.

  “You’d better change your clothes.” He turned his back on her and faced the woods.

  Catherine pulled out her boots and reached past the food to some of the clothes she had bought in Swiggins. She peeled off the wet garments and pulled on a soft, dry shirt.
Then she pulled on some dry underwear, soft woolen hosen, and a divided skirt. No need to be Kenneth of Gant anymore, she thought with relief, her teeth chattering. She added a thick sweater and put on the coat, her hosen, socks and boots. She began to feel warm again. She looked down with distaste at the pile of sodden clothing.

  “Leave it.”

  Pokos pushed through the undergrowth for twenty minutes until they reached a well-hewn trail, wide enough for Catherine to walk beside him. From what she could see, the trail led down to a gate in the back wall of the old fortress.

  She felt strange without fairrier cat fur in her socks. She couldn’t wait ‘til Pokos was dry again so she could ask him for more. She was sluggish, and the pack was heavy. If it weren’t for the moonlight I would be stumbling in the dark. She knew Pokos had slowed down for her. It must be hard for him to walk at my pace now that we’re so close to the Gate.

  The castle grew smaller as they made their way higher up the steep face of the mountain. Soon, even the twinkling brightness of Candlewax Wood would be out of sight when the trail took them into the Cinna Range. Catherine felt a twinge of anguish. It was getting to be a familiar feeling, leaving the known for the unknown.

  Pokos sniffed the trail.

  “Horses. Not long ago. Patrols from the castle or a hunting party perhaps.”

  They continued on in watchful silence. Catherine struggled with the pack. It was cutting into her shoulders. Her legs were aching. When was the last time I slept?

  “How much farther, Pokos?”

  “Get on. At your pace it would take us until noon to reach the Gate.”

  She gratefully clambered onto his back, noting the woolly smell of damp fur. He bounded up the trail, forcing her to concentrate on keeping her seat. The ground was a blur. The cold air rushed by her. She wished she had fastened the sheepskin coat before she had gotten on, but now it was too late. She didn’t dare release her grip on his neck fur as he surged forward.