FOUR KINGS: A Novel

by M. D. Elster

  “I presume individuals in your world don’t look quite like me, eh, Anaïs?” he bellows. Despite my efforts to regain my composure, I continue to stare. It is not the walrus head that shocks me; it is more a feeling that in spite of his being an animal, he looks so much like someone I know: Dr. Waters, as a matter of fact. How is the resemblance possible? I study the walrus’s beady eyes, wire-rimmed glasses, naturally frowning mouth, thick neck, and — of course — his moustache.

  “You know my name,” I remark.

  “Of course,” the walrus-headed man says. “Mr. Fletcher has told me all about you. I am quite curious about humans, you see. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Dr. Wickham.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “I am His Majesty’s royal physician,” he states proudly. He reaches up and rubs his chin, looking at me thoughtfully. “But I have a particular fascination for humans. Perhaps later, you might permit me to do a simple physical exam on you, Anaïs? You are quite the rarity in our world, you know, and I am very interested in learning more about your kind.”

  Now he reminds me of Dr. Waters even more. I shift uncomfortably on my feet.

  “Let’s not put the human on the spot, Dr. Wickham,” Mr. Fletcher intervenes. “She’s not a science specimen; she is a banquet guest — a guest of our great King’s.”

  “Of course, of course!” Dr. Wickham relents, laughing. “How rude! Forgive me!”

  Mr. Fletcher smiles and mercifully whisks me away to find out seats among the banquet tables.

  “You didn’t seem to care much for Dr. Wickham,” Mr. Fletcher comments.

  “He… he reminds me of someone,” I say. “The way he was looking at me — like looking down a microscope at me — something about him makes me nervous. I don’t trust him.”

  “Hmm,” Mr. Fletcher replies. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  Just as the Unicorn King promised, Mr. Fletcher and I have been assigned a seat at his high table. It is a striking picture: All around the king, his advisors, ambassadors, and courtiers sit swathed in Roman-style colorful robes, while the Unicorn King sits like a dot of sober gray in the middle. Again, this image does not seem accidental. After locating my place card, I nod to Mr. Fletcher and curtsy before the king, but before my curtsy is fully complete I am interrupted by the sound of several drums being beaten in a loud, furious rhythm, and everyone in the entire banquet hall jumps to their feet. They stand at attention, as though they have been given a military order. I look around, confused.

  “Not to worry, Anaïs,” Mr. Fletcher says, seeing my confusion. “They are simply announcing the Young Cwen and her mother.”

  I turn, and sure enough, I see a sphinx with the head of a young woman approaching our table. On this, my fourth visit, she is now a familiar sight to me.

  “All hail, good citizens of the Northern Kingdom! Her Royal Highness the Young Cwen graces us with her presence this evening. You shall now salute her!”

  “HAIL, YOUNG CWEN,” the entire banquet hall shouts in unison. There is a stereophonic thud as everyone crosses their right arms over their chest, bringing their fists against their left shoulder in a salute.

  Not far behind the Young Cwen, a harpy with the head of an elderly woman follows. I am intrigued to see the High Cwen. I’ve heard so much about her. And I’m more intrigued than ever to observe the interactions between this particular mother-daughter pair. I look on as a creature with the head of a human and the body of a bird enters the banquet hall. She walks with a regal posture, and from the neck up, she looks like an ordinary woman, albeit quite elderly, the hair beneath her golden crown is pulled into a chignon and is white as paper, and thinning with age. But the rest of her shocks me. It is the bird body that is the most striking: The High Cwen wears no clothes but her own feathers, and there is something almost obscene about seeing her uncovered beast’s body. She stands upright, in human fashion, but on bird legs that end in gnarled talons. Hand-like talons emerge, too, from the ends of her wing tips. Her feathers are orange in color, except for a portion of yellowy-white ones upon her breast down to her waist.

  “All hail, good citizens of the Northern Kingdom! Her Royal Highness the Young Cwen graces us with her presence this evening. Your shall now salute her!”

  “HAIL, HIGH CWEN,” the entire banquet hall shouts in unison.

  “And now,” the Unicorn King says, addressing the entire room. “We have much to celebrate tonight! Good citizens, let us be seated, and let the feast of betrothal begin!” The salute is given one final time.

  “ALL HAIL, OUR DIVINE LEADER!”

  The King sits, and the rest of the open hall follows suit — yet again in nearly militaristic unison.

  “Anaïs!” the Young Cwen exclaims, leaning forward in her banquet chair to get a good look at me. Her beautiful black glossy hair swings around her chin as she leans. “It is good to see you!” She is seated immediately on the other side of the Unicorn King.

  “Congratulations on your engagement,” I say politely.

  “Thank you. You are very kind,” she replies, and smiles. But it is a strained, tight-lipped smile — almost as though the Young Cwen is not overjoyed to find herself engaged after all. Her eyes dart nervously to the Unicorn King’s face, then quickly away.

  “I am very glad to see you are not hurt in any manner,” the Young Cwen continues, changing the subject. “When I heard the news — that the blood thief was caught and turned out to be…” She pauses, and proceeds delicately. “Well, turned out to be a certain courtier commissioned by the Lion King — I was worried for your safety.”

  “Yes,” I say, “but I am fine. And every bit as shocked as you.” But the Young Cwen’s remarks remind me of my own nagging suspicion that I have not gotten the full story from Mr. Fletcher; something still doesn’t add up. And it seems strange to me that the Young Cwen changed her mind about marrying one of the Four Kings. Her change of heart is very abrupt. I was told by one of the handmaidens that they were marrying to ensure the safety of the land; to see that a corrupt king like the Lion King could never plot in secret again. I don’t fully believe it, however, and believe there must be something else in it for the Young Cwen herself. What could she want from the Unicorn King, I wonder? And then it occurs to me: Diamonds! The Unicorn King is the wealthiest king by far.

  I regard the Young Cwen where she sits at the banquet table, delicately holding a horn-shaped crystal flute of champagne. Her mother, the harpy, also watches her, frowning. I have an unsettling creeping feeling that something is not as it should be.

  “Forgive me, Sire,” I say, directing my question to the Unicorn King, “Mr. Fletcher said a search of Sir Lewin’s person revealed he was carrying orders from the Lion King, commanding him to commit the acts for which he’s been placed under arrest. If that is so… how are you still at peace with Lion and the Western Kingdom?”

  “Ah! Yes,” the Unicorn King replies. He nods his noble head and I see the tendons working in his muscular equine neck. “That is a question of diplomacy. Diplomacy and timing, my dear… You see, the Lion King denies it all. He claims to have no knowledge of Sir Lewin’s misdeeds, or the writ of order we found. As a token of his honesty and good faith he offered up Sir Lewin’s life, an execution the Lion King will tolerate while promising no retaliation.”

  “You mean… you plan to execute Sir Lewin?” I stammer. This possibility, too, had not occurred to me.

  “Why, yes. Of course,” the Unicorn King says, now tossing his head indignantly. “The leopard is a murderer of humans and a dangerous threat to our land; he shall be beheaded. Right on this very stage, in fact,” he adds, pointing.

  My eyes drift down to the wooden platform across the way. I am a little sick with disbelief. The King notices my expression.

  “Oh, but not tonight, of course. It would be unlucky. His execution is in three days’ time, when the engagement celebration has concluded. As for the Lion King, I hardly believe he is telling the tru
th, but for now I have let him believe that I’ve agreed to a truce. Ambassador Peabody and I deemed this arrangement best — we wanted time… time to celebrate my betrothal to the Young Cwen in peace, and time to contact the two other kings.”

  “The Raven King and the Snake King?” I say, blinking and confused.

  “Naturally,” the Unicorn King replies. “It is clear from these malevolent plots that the Lion King has become quite dangerous, and Raven and Snake have agreed to join me in invading his kingdom and overthrowing him. In exchange, Raven and Snake may stay on as protectorates of their respective kingdoms after I am made High Cyning. They will be under my rule, of course, but they will govern their respective kingdoms in a more local manner. All will be as it should be.”

  I am stunned.

  “It is the best arrangement for the entire realm,” the Unicorn King states with confidence. “And as I have promised my people, I will always do what is best for the entire realm.”

  There is little I can say in reply; I can hardly protest the king’s opinion. I try to think of an appropriate response, but before I can, I am interrupted by an unexpected sound. Drums begin to beat, and the stage down below near the commoners’ tables is suddenly illuminated. A troop of children runs out. They begin to perform a synchronized marching routine, complete with gymnasts and flag bearers.

  “What is this?” I lean and ask Mr. Fletcher.

  “Patriotic performances. All citizens are invited to honor the King with his or her skills.”

  “So…” I said, trying to think in terms of nightclub acts, “…instead of courtly games, the Unicorn King hosts a kind of variety show?”

  “That does not describe it with proper respect, Anaïs,” Mr. Fletcher retorts. “It is a display of loyalty, to glorify our enlightened leader.” I must look skeptical, because Mr. Fletcher glances at my face and, looking impatient and cross, continues. “Your limited human mind is missing the point. Our Unicorn King is a mythical creature, Anaïs, descended from a long line of pure-blooded mythical creatures, the last of his line.”

  “And that makes him enlightened?” I ask.

  “That makes him more pure-blooded than any of us,” Mr. Fletcher replies.

  And more inbred? I silently wonder in my head.

  “It makes him older and wiser, for unicorns live longer,” Mr. Fletcher says. “Not to mention the fact they are descended from mystics. The good King is, well, a little like a god, Anaïs. And these pageants are the capital’s way of acknowledging that.”

  And indeed, over the course of the banquet, the stage sees a wide array of performers: Acrobats, singers, ballet dancers, children’s choruses, even a man charming a snake with a flute. Each performer concludes his performance by giving that curious shoulder-pounding salute and shouting, “For the glory of the divine Unicorn, and for the glory of his betrothed! All hail the Unicorn King!”

  Between the dinner and dessert course, there is a pause and then the stage lights suddenly go dark, and a hush falls over the entire hall. I find myself looking around, trying to determine if perhaps something is wrong. But then a distinct sound echoes throughout the room. It is the sound of a woman’s voice, amplified and echoing throughout the banquet hall, and I realize: She is singing. Horns and strings swell and begin to accompany her; a drum and bass begin to coolly keep time. I peer in the direction of the source and see the stage lit up. A female figure stands in the middle of the stage in a very tight, low-cut silk robe, singing into a microphone. I squint and see she has the sleek head and tiny ears of a snowy white ermine. She is, in her own curious, animal-headed fashion, very sexy.

  “Ah, yes,” the Unicorn King says, patting the Young Cwen’s hand. “I almost forgot — one of our noblewomen wanted to perform as a present. Here, now, is Lady Erwin! She kindly reminded me she wanted to sing a special song to congratulate us on our betrothal.”

  “That is… very nice of her,” the Young Cwen says, but I notice a curious note of strain in her voice.

  Onstage, Lady Erwin continues her performance. It began as a ballad, but now, as it ramps up towards its finale it transforms somewhat into a circus act. Lady Erwin dances around with a pair of scarves, winding them around her body this way and that, almost in the manner of a strange contortionist. It is balletic, it is exotic, it is hypnotizing. The banquet guests in the commoners’ area begin to go wild for this, and by the time she is finally done, she has earned herself a standing ovation.

  Having concluded her performance, she bows.

  “That was tremendous — wasn’t that tremendous?” the Unicorn King says to the Young Cwen, repeating this exclamation of praise to me, to Mr. Fletcher, Ambassador Peabody, and anyone who will listen, agree, and nod. It dawns on me that, despite the fact we are celebrating his engagement, the Unicorn King may already have a mistress. Perhaps this explains the Young Cwen’s mixed expression when I congratulated her.

  “Anaïs,” I hear someone say, and I turn to realize the High Cwen is addressing me. She is an unusual looking woman — or, rather, I should say she has striking human face. Her silvery hair is pulled up in a bun and is topped with a thin, thorny crown, while her cheekbones are quite skeletal and severe. Her eyes are a pale, piercing gray. Her feathered harpy body is both fascinating and grotesque. My eyes are drawn to where her fingers end in claws. I sit up a little straighter.

  “They tell me, young human girl,” she says, ignoring the din of noise that has followed in the wake of Lady Erwin’s performance, “that you traveled with the young man from Lion’s court — the one that’s being accused of the conspiracy that threatens the peace treaty in this land.”

  I nod, and it comes off a little more like a bow. “He tended to my wound during my visit to Lion’s court,” I reply, “and we traveled together to the Snake King’s palace.”

  “You must have been very surprised to learn of his treachery,” she says.

  “Very surprised, Your Highness.”

  “Do you think there were signs of his evil intentions?”

  I think about this. “Looking back now, yes… I suppose there were signs.” I do not go on to add, but I missed them because I had a soft spot for him.

  The High Cwen pauses for several seconds, and looks me over with a stern, thoughtful expression, her hard gray eyes glittering. She is calculating something, but I have no idea what.

  Finally, she rises from her seat at the banquet table with a decisive air.

  “I demand there be a tribunal!” she shouts. Her voice is shrill and shockingly loud. “The human girl shall face Sir Lewin, the Lion King’s courtier, and give her testimony of events!” she announces, as though giving an official decree.

  All the voices in the banquet hall — as well as the groundlings down in the commoners’ area — instantly hush and grow silent.

  Finally, the Unicorn King stands from his own seat at the banquet table, and faces the High Cwen.

  “We already have the villain’s confession. You wish for the human to give her testimony, regardless?” he asks.

  The High Cwen nods. “It is only proper, and I should like to witness this exchange between the girl and the prisoner.”

  “Very well, then,” the Unicorn King says, lowering his sharp horn as he bows his head. “Tomorrow we shall bring the human to the court in the dungeon where he is chained, and she shall confront him and tell what she knows.”

  “No,” says the High Cwen in a very stern voice. “You know as well as I the spell I cast long ago over our land returns humans to their own world the moment they sleep. She shall confront him now.”

  A ripple of strange surprise goes through the room. My eyes accidentally alight upon the Young Cwen’s face, and I notice her pale face and worried expression. Why should this turn of events bother her? I wonder, and my suspicions about her being involved in something underhanded tick up another notch.

  But before I can muse on the matter too much, the entire population of the banquet hall springs
into action, and I am hustled away by Mr. Fletcher — along with many guards.

  “I’m sorry, Anaïs,” he says. “When the High Cwen says ‘now’ she means it. It looks like we’re going to make an unexpected visit to the dungeons.”

  CHAPTER 35.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “If he has already been found guilty, why does the High Cwen want me to give testimony against Sir Lewin?”

  We are making our way through the castle, leaving the beautiful, pristine, soaring glass rooms behind for a dim, damp, windowless dungeon. Mr. Fletcher has a protective arm around me, guiding me on my way through all the commotion.

  Mr. Fletcher shakes his head. “She must have her reasons,” he replies. “As High Cwen, she is within her rights to demand a tribunal at any time.”

  “Does she doubt his guilt?” I ask, feeling a brief glimmer of hope that perhaps Sir Lewin is innocent after all, that perhaps everyone has mistakenly jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  Mr. Fletcher snorts as though offended. He halts and turns to face me with a serious expression. “Listen to me, Anaïs: I know you developed a fondness for the leopard—”

  I begin to protest but he holds a finger up to silence me.

  “Don’t bother arguing; I know it’s true. But you must cast this fondness aside. Sir Lewin is not what you think he is. He is a vicious creature — the blood thief, intent on helping the Lion King to start a tremendous war. Do you understand me?”