by M. D. Elster
“Quite right — there was.”
“I doubt it.”
“And why is that?”
“Sir Lewin can’t read,” I say. “A fact that embarrasses him, but true nonetheless.”
“Interesting. An uneducated stable boy to the very end. I should have known better.”
“And then there was the bloodstone and the dagger,” I say.
“The bloodstone and the dagger?” he repeats as though he is delighted and intrigued.
“The Snake King mentioned that the spell was useless without the other two items needed to complete the ritual — a bloodstone and a dagger, ancient artifacts long believed lost,” I say.
Mr. Fletcher smiles and nods approvingly. “I must say, you’ve become quite a scholar on the history of our land, Anaïs.”
“But those artifacts aren’t lost, are they? The bloodstone was embedded in the Raven King’s royal amulet — which is why you stole it — and the dagger belonged to the Lion King. You stole that too, and used it to stab the Lion King’s guard at your cottage in the Glade of Commoners.”
“Ah,” Mr. Fletcher says, folding his hands together and nodding. “Quite right. Yes; I suppose you did get a look at that knife, and I forgot.”
“And then the page from the Snake King’s grimoire… you used me to have Sir Lewin deliver it to you on a silver platter.”
“I have to say,” Mr. Fletcher declares, “that was a stroke of genius, I rather thought.”
“I assume the others in the Glade of Commoners know nothing about your treachery?”
Mr. Fletcher laughs. “Hah! That group of peasants? They are just a little rag-tag group of gullible nobodies. ‘Village idiots,’ as they say. They served their purpose, of course — one look at that underdog group of concerned citizens and you utterly trusted me with your life!”
“And the Young Cwen?”
“Ah.” Mr. Fletcher nods. “I’m afraid the Young Cwen is as stupid as all the rest. But I had to get her involved. She needed to believe the security of the empire was crumbling, and that the only solution was reuniting the four kingdoms under one leader.”
“The Unicorn King.”
“Naturally. He is the only one who understands and appreciates an advisor like myself. It is a perfect pairing… the Unicorn King’s face is the face of discipline and order, of progress and wholesome patriotism, meanwhile I am the ace up his sleeve — don’t you see?” Mr. Fletcher shakes his head and raises his arms. “We are a destined fit.”
“So you promised to deliver the Young Cwen’s hand in marriage to the Unicorn King, making him the leader of all Four Kingdoms. And if anybody opposes him, you can use the elixir of enslavement to build him an army of deadly zombies.”
“Yes.” He nods, looking quite pleased with himself.
“And…” I say, pausing to think. “And, what’s more: once he is in power, the Unicorn King gets access to the un-mined diamonds in the Glade of Commoners.”
Mr. Fletcher’s furry white eyebrows go up. “Very good, Anaïs. I hardly expected you to know about the diamond mines. Did Sir Lewin tell you that bit of treasonous gossip?”
“I found out for myself.”
“Well, brava! My, my.” He pauses, and aims a sly look at me before going on. “But you are forgetting: There is one other benefit I now intend to deliver over to the Unicorn King.”
“What is that?”
“You,” Mr. Fletcher says in a cheerful, matter-of-fact tone.
My skin turns cold. I should have guessed. “You plan to kill me, and use my blood…” I say.
“Aha! My dear, that’s the first thing you’ve gotten wrong!” Mr. Fletcher says. “Well, half-wrong, anyway.” He smiles. “No; I don’t think I’ll kill you, but now that you’ve returned, I think I will take your blood…”
I look at him with a confused expression.
“You see, Dr. Wickham suggested we take small amounts of your blood, slowly, over time. He’s actually developed the perfect method!”
“Your plan is to take my blood… like a milk cow?” I ask.
“Indeed,” Mr. Fletcher answers. “Of course, we still need to determine if it will work. But he’s built the most marvelous machine. Please — allow him to show it to you himself… Dr. Wickham!” Mr. Fletcher shouts in the direction of the door.
I hear a key turn in the lock and Dr. Wickham comes in on cue. I notice he is bent over, pushing some kind of machine on wheels. I look more closely and see a large wooden box with dials, and thin rubber hoses attached. I understand this is some sort of blood extraction machine, but something about its design and construction reminds me a great deal of the electroshock machine back at the asylum.
“Dr. Wickham will hook you up to this contraption here,” Mr. Fletcher explains, flourishing an arm and smiling to make my stomach turn, “and steadily withdraw some of your blood. If all goes well, your blood should replenish itself as quickly as we can take it!”
“I’m quite eager to begin our medical relationship, Anaïs,” Dr. Wickham says, as though closing some kind of business deal.
I am still staring at the machine, contemplating the situation, and wondering how I am going to break free of the room when a loud knock sounds at the door.
Mr. Fletcher frowns.
“Dr. Wickham? Will you see to that?”
Over our past visits, the grotesquerie of Mr. Fletcher’s appearance — a fox’s head joined to a human body — had worn off as he had become more and more familiar to me. But now he strikes me as monstrous again: His face is like a creepy taxidermy mask, his eyes glowing a hateful yellow, his teeth suddenly very animalistic and pointy — all of this is at odds with his air of polished etiquette and fussy cravat and jacket.
Dr. Wickham crosses to the door. When the door swings open, I see a pair of guards holding sleek, bayonet-tipped rifles.
I blink, astonished, waiting to see what this new development means.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Mr. Fletcher asks, but neither of the two guards answers him. Sensing trouble, Dr. Wickham tries to sidestep the guards and leave, but they grab hold of him, put a knife to his throat and force him back into the room.
“Get back in there!”
“Gentlemen!” Mr. Fletcher scolds in a loud, tense voice. “I don’t know what you think you’re about, but I warn you, I’ll have you flogged if you do not desist immediately.”
“Hmm,” comes a raspy, tart female voice. “Knighted for less than a day, and already you are calling to have servants flogged, fox? To the manner born, as they say…”
The woman belonging to the voice enters the room behind the guards and I gasp. I see a figure with an older woman’s head paired with the body of a bird and talons for fingers. It is the High Cwen.
“What… what are you doing here?” Mr. Fletcher stammers stupidly.
“I’ve come to collect my guest,” the High Cwen states in a frank voice. “She’s been treated rather rudely in your care, it would seem.” The High Cwen’s eyes sweep around the room. Once her gaze reaches the contraption designed to extract my blood, it pauses there.
“Your guest?” Mr. Fletcher repeats.
“Yes.” The High Cwen shrugs. “I was the one who sent for her. Hence, she is my guest.”
“You were the one who left the key and the Jack of Hearts for me to find?” I blurt out, surprised.
“Yes, Anaïs,” she replies.
“Why?”
“My daughter asked me to,” says the High Cwen. “At the tribunal, two things were immediately obvious. One is that you weren’t entirely convinced of his guilt, and there was something fishy afoot. And two is that you care for him. We thought it best to call you back to the Northern Kingdom before his execution.”
“My daughter confided in me that she has recently grown suspicious of the fox,” The High Cwen says, turning to Mr. Fletcher. “And now we know for good reason. I was listening at the door, and it’s quite c
lear that hanging is too good for you, fox. But we’ll deal with that in time. For now, I think it’s best if my guards keep you and Dr. Wickham here under house arrest, while Anaïs and I take our leave of you both… Come, Anaïs.”
I can easily tell from his expression: Mr. Fletcher is absolutely flabbergasted. He is also scared. His yellow eyes dart from the High Cwen, to her guards, to Dr. Wickham still with the knife to his throat, to the door. He is trying to devise a way out, but he no longer has the advantage of scheming and planning. His fox instincts alone are not enough to get out of this one.
“I’ll have your keys,” the High Cwen says loudly, addressing the two guards.
Dr. Wickham gladly hands his over, and the High Cwen collects the other by reaching into Mr. Fletcher’s waistcoat pocket herself. He flinches as she reaches towards him with the talons of her birdlike hand, and represses a smile to see him flinch.
“Please keep Dr. Wickham and Mr. Fletcher here under house arrest. If they try to leave, kill them. And keep the situation quiet until I can return to you with further instruction. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Good.” The High Cwen turns to me, pleasant again. “Anaïs? Will you please come with me? We haven’t much time now.”
I nod and follow her out of the room. She locks the door and double-checks it to ensure it is indeed secure.
“You’ll have to run on ahead without me,” she says. “Even with wings, I’m afraid I’m too old to keep up.”
“Run on ahead where?”
“To stop Sir Lewin’s execution. You know where, don’t you?”
I realize I do: The main hall where I attended Unicorn’s banquet.
“Hurry!” the High Cwen hollers impatiently. “The execution is scheduled to begin any minute! My daughter can only delay it for so long.”
“Oh!” My brain suddenly clicks and I understand. My legs spring into motion, seemingly of their own automatic impulse, and I fly down the corridor.
I run through the castle grounds, dashing down this hall and that, weaving my way back into the center of the castle. I begin to cross through the more populated areas of the castle. A few creatures stare at me, puzzled to see a human sprinting through their royal palace.
I’m guessing as I go; I hope I can find my way. At last, I turn and dash down a final hall and suddenly find myself in the busy banquet hall. I’m not on the upper level — the level where the Unicorn King and his courtiers can be found — but rather, on the lower level, nearest the stage.
Drums are beating, and a dense crowd has amassed in the commoners’ area at the foot of the stage. I look and see an executioner’s block sitting in the middle of the wooden platform. A troop of guards approaches from the opposite side of the stage, escorting Sir Lewin. When I catch sight of his familiar shape and his spotted fur, my heart lurches with sympathy for his terrible situation. But there is something peculiar about him — just as there was when I saw him last, chained to the wall in the dungeon — something I can’t quite put my finger on. His eyes are blank, his posture is stiff and hunched, whereas ordinarily it is loose and confident.
Once I burst onto the stage, however, everything grinds to a halt. I feel hundreds of eyes trained on me. I freeze, unsure of what to do next.
Up in the boxes, the Unicorn King rises from his seat at the high table.
“What is the meaning of this?” he shouts down. His booming voice echoes in the commoners’ courtyard. “Is that the human, Anaïs, I see down there?
I can make out the figure of the Young Cwen sitting beside him. She looks anxious and pale. I see her eyes go from me to Sir Lewin, and then back to the gleaming edge of the executioner’s sharp axe.
“I’m here to stop the execution,” I pipe up to say, shouting as loudly as I can with my small voice. “Sir Lewin is innocent, and must be set free!”
The Unicorn King cocks his magnificent white horse’s head and leans forward as though to get a better look at me down below him, standing on the stage.
“Innocent! What makes you claim he is innocent?” the king demands.
“Sir Fletcher — your recently knighted fox — unwittingly confessed all,” I call back up to him.
“Sir Fletcher… he confessed all?” the Unicorn King asks, looking quite surprised.
“Indeed, Sire — all,” I say, putting as much weighty meaning into it as I can muster.
“And I can vouch for that,” comes a gravely voice. “I can vouch for the girl. I heard it all for myself as well.” Everyone turns to see the High Cwen as she enters the upper level of the banquet hall and crosses the room to stand beside her daughter’s chair. The harpy crosses her arms and fixes the Unicorn King with a hard stare to curdle milk.
“I see…” the king nods soberly, appearing to think the situation over.
He takes a long pause, pretending to turn back to his table of revelers and raise a glass of wine. From my faraway vantage point on the wooden platform, I can see his human hand shaking, the wine in the glass sloshing incrementally from side-to-side. I realize we have won, that the Unicorn King wishes to save face, but it is only a matter of time before his ruse unravels entirely.
“Well,” the king finally says, shouting down to us and that crowd that has filled the commoners’ banquet area, “At the moment, I don’t see proof of his innocence, but I suppose I will have to take this under advisement, given the source. Any creature worth his salt would tell me it is hardly wise to question one’s future mother-in-law right before the wedding…”
His joke elicits an appreciative laugh from the crowd of commoners at the foot of the platform.
“…and so I will heed the High Cwen’s words.” The king raises an arm. “I have no choice, but to set the leopard free from his chains!” He nods to the guard standing nearest Sir Lewin. There is a tiny additional element to this exchange, but it passes too quickly for me to make much of it. “You heard me, guards! Unfetter Sir Lewin from his chains, and convey to him our deepest apologies!”
I turn to watch Sir Lewin as his bound hands are freed, an involuntary grin spreading over my face in spite of the dire situation. To see him being freed makes me feel immeasurably relieved. It is strange, though; there is still something not quite right about Sir Lewin. His face remains blank, his gaze hollow and empty. He looks in my direction — finally! — but there is not a single spark of recognition in it, and his eyes move away from my face again as if he never even saw me.
Once free of his shackles, Sir Lewin stands in the middle of the platform, not moving, not speaking. He sways ever so slightly on his feet. Then his hollow gaze moves up to the balcony, to the box where the Unicorn King stands. The two creatures lock eyes, and the Unicorn King gives a tiny little nod. Then the king speaks, but it takes me several seconds to fully comprehend what he is saying.
“I order you, Sir Lewin — do with the human as I have commanded!”
I am at a loss to understand what is going on, but as I look over at Sir Lewin, I see him suddenly spring into action. With impressive speed, he steals a dagger from one of the guards’ hips and races towards me. His eyes are still vacant, but his body moves with absolute purpose; he is like a zombie.
He is like a zombie, and he is coming straight for me.
“STOP!” I shriek. I hold one hand in the air. Sir Lewin halts, looking at the hand. All of this is happening in a matter of seconds; I never knew such small increments of time could move so slowly, or contain so much.
Sir Lewin’s vacant eyes look from my face to my upraised hand, and back to my face again. I realize: I have only halted him for the briefest of instants, and now it is over. He springs into action again, and I understand, without a doubt: He means to stab me.
I lurch away, but I am too slow. My dodge only results in the dagger entering my abdomen, instead of being plunged directly into my heart.
After that, everything else happens around me in a blur. I am aware of the
Young Cwen screaming at the guards, and one of the guards heeding her, tackling Sir Lewin to the ground. I hear the dagger clatter out of his hand. I hear the slap of flesh and crunch of bones as the other guards pile on top of him. As for myself: I have fallen to the ground. My cheek presses against the rough wood of the platform and I feel something warm and wet spreading out around me.
There is a peculiar scent in the air. I know this scent. It is iron — the scent of blood. A scent you can only smell when there is quite a lot of it present.
“Anaïs!” I hear the Young Cwen call. She hurries down from her seat at the banquet table on the upper level.
After a few seconds, I open my eyes and see her looming over me, near me. She rolls me over and touches my cheek, attempting to determine my state of consciousness. I can see now that she was not party to Mr. Fletcher’s evil plan, nor aware of the Unicorn King’s power-hungry greed. She never was. But as her eyes fall to the dagger still in my side, and I can also see: She doesn’t know how to tend the wound. And perhaps, is afraid to touch the deep gash where blood now drips.
“Sir Lewin… Mr. Fletcher was the blood thief… he must’ve given Sir Lewin the elixir of enslavement,” I say, figuring it out in my head. By the time the last girl was murdered — the girl who looked uncannily like Lucy — Mr. Fletcher had acquired the bloodstone, the dagger, and the grimoire page. He had all the ingredients, and likely used Sir Lewin as his guinea pig.
“Can you save him?” I ask the Young Cwen now. “Is there an antidote?”
The Young Cwen looks surprised. “Save him? — Anaïs… you are the one who might not survive this.” I read worry in her eyes as she glances down at my wound. “You mustn’t worry about Sir Lewin. At least you stopped the execution. Feel good about that, and worry about yourself!”
“No…” I mutter in disagreement. “They weren’t able to chop off his head, but a head without a mind is no good — take my word for it. You may as well be dead if you are robbed of your memories and your soul until the end of days… Please, help him. He has been innocent all along, and in my stupidity, I unwittingly helped the fox frame him. Is there an antidote?”