Charming, Volume 1

by Jack Heckel

  It was strange that the dragon’s voice, so long a terror from which she had hoped to awaken, was now like an old friend. It had been the dragon that had told her of her lover’s cowardice, while she still dreamed of his rescue. It had been the dragon that had warned her that the fairy would not release her, even if she did one day find a way out of the labyrinth of dreams into which she’d been cast. And now, it was the dragon that was showing her the way to both redemption and revenge.

  She made the last mark. Gwen blinked down at the ash-­wood stick in her hand, at her palm and fingers stained black with char. It was done.

  The shadows stopped their dance and drew near, curious and fearful. Gwen stood shakily and examined the delicate tracings with a smile of satisfaction. It was incomprehensible, but felt right. Each symbol copied perfectly from the dragon’s memory.

  Gwen took hold of the hem of her shift and picked her way through the circle of runes, being careful not to smudge the complex drawing. Stepping into the shadows at the edge of the circle, she felt their hands grasp at her, their fingers twine in her hair and pull at the folds of the shift, trying to restrain her. She heard their voices whispering, pleading. “LEAVE ME BE,” she screamed, brushing them aside and striding toward her discarded dress. “You are creatures of the fairy, and I am sick of you.”

  The shadow creatures drew away, but still she felt their hands brushing her body as she walked. She frowned at their growing boldness, but used the brief pause in their attentions to stoop down and draw from the folds of her dress an elegant round-­bottom flask, almost a perfect sphere, topped by a very delicate ground-­glass stopper. She examined it in the dying light. A light dusting of herbs, a sprig of holly, some mint and lavender dust coated the inside.

  Satisfied that she had overlooked nothing, Gwen clutched the glass ball to her breast, retrieved one of the still burning candles from the floor, and, stepping carefully out of the reach of the shadows, which were now wrapping themselves around her ankles and legs in supplication, she reentered the circle. As she did, she felt power enter her body like a warm draught. It was not magic—­that would come later—­it was instead the power of action. For once, she was not waiting or hoping or wishing or dreaming. The power of her own resolve was intoxicating.

  Reaching the center of the circle, she carefully placed the candle on the ground at her feet, and then holding the glass ball in one hand, she pulled the golden fairy chain from around her neck. She held the two objects before her, and in a voice high with emotion, she shouted, “FAIRY!”

  And thus began the ritual formula the dragon had taught her in so many whispered words through so many dreams.

  “Spirit of the Firmament and of the Ether,” she cried, thrusting the ball and necklace high above her head.

  “Upon the Earth and under the Earth.” She made a sweeping gesture about her body like a circle within a circle.

  “On dry Land, or in the Water.” Another motion—­her body moved as if in dance—­like rain falling.

  “Of whirling Air or of rushing Fire.” And, here she twisted about in a pirouette of movement. The candle fluttered and almost failed.

  “I call thee to . . .” She paused and clutched the golden chain tighter in her grip, and then shouted in a ringing voice, “JUDGMENT!”

  At the word, the candle flared and the shadows at the edge of the circle drew back, slinking into the cracks and crevices of the walls and floors like beetles exposed to the sun. A choking smell of nutmeg—­the smell of fairy magic—­filled the room. Above her, the air shuddered and convulsed as though fighting against itself, and then all at once the light from the room splintered into a thousand little sparks. The sparks were drawn in a great swirling spiral down and into the golden chain, until it seemed a star had come to rest in her hand. Slowly, she lowered the chain into the vial and stoppered it. She retrieved the candle, now nothing more than a glowing ember, and began to seal the stopper with its wax.

  As she did, she intoned these words in a ragged whisper of emotion:

  “Betrayed has been my desire by promises unfulfilled.

  Broken is our contract by magic and by deed.

  Bound are you with this gold, the price for my wish.

  Promise for promise; Deed for deed; Price for price.

  Till the breaking of this oath, thy servitude shall be my recompense.”

  Gwendolyn held the orb at arm’s length and watched as the light within danced furiously around the golden lock, then moved from wall to wall trying to escape the delicate prison. At last, the glowing body slowed and then stopped.

  The Princess cackled hysterically. “Trapped by your own fairy gold. It is ironic that, absent your cursed amulet, I could not have managed, and yet how many times since I was released did I yearn to throw the thing away, to rid myself of your reminder?”

  An angry, disembodied voice echoed about the room. “My powers cannot grant thee what thou wantest, Gwendolyn Mostfair. Free me now and all shall be forgotten.”

  Gwendolyn barked a single sharp laugh, “All shall be forgotten?” she mocked. “But I will not forget, Fairy. I will not forget or forgive my stolen life or all those wasted years. I had determined to move on, but now that I have tasted the bitterness of the freedom so long dreamt of, now that I have you in my grasp, I will have my revenge. You may have been a pitiless jailer, but I shall be an even crueler mistress.”

  The voice returned, but the anger had been replaced by a deep sadness. “I see that thy captivity has not diminished thy conceit. I had hoped with time thy willingness to sacrifice others for thine own ends would have diminished.”

  Gwendolyn’s rage returned with double force. “You accuse me of conceit, you that would twist my words and rob me of both my beloved sister and my rightful place in the world? And why? Was it your idea of a joke, a—­a lesson? Without your bloody curse, I would have been queen years ago, and my sister would have . . . found another, and become a great lady in her own stead.”

  The fairy made its reply in a voice that rippled with laughter, “The dragon did not teach thee well enough, Gwendolyn Mostfair. For thy sister’s death were thou accursed to never see the throne until thy heart was melted by true love’s warmth. Thy heart is still as cold and hard and unmoved by love as it was the day I lay the curse upon thee, and so it remains.”

  “How dare you?” she hissed, feeling a rage so primal that she thought she might burst into flame. “How DARE you? I no more wished my sister’s death than I wished myself into your waking nightmare. Only you made both so.”

  Gwendolyn’s mind flew back through the years, through the dreams that had haunted her for decades, to the moment when it had all gone wrong. She had been so young and desperate, hoping for a magical godmother to grant her heart’s desire. She remembered running back to the castle through the forest, but before the memory could take hold, the fairy spoke once again, drawing her back to the present, to the time after dreams and wishes had both died.

  “Rosslyn’s death may not have been thy first goal, Gwendolyn Mostfair, but it was in thy envious heart to steal thy sister’s place in life and love and claim them for thine own. To have the one required the other, and so one wish is much the same as the other.”

  When next Gwendolyn spoke, her voice was low and menacing. “Do not think you can twist the truth with me, small one. I remember. I was there. From now on, it is my command that you shall not use my name, nor ever mention my sister again! As for the throne, we shall see which is more powerful, a fairy’s curse or a fairy’s magic.”

  The glass orb vibrated, and the flickering light within seemed to swell and deepen. “I shall give one more warning, mortal. You meddle in powers far beyond thy understanding. This crystalline cage thou hast devised is a clever bit of magic, but it will not endure, and thy previous fate will seem as paradise itself to compare with the horrors I shall descend upon thee when next I am free.”


  Threats, Gwendolyn understood. She was calm now, and her voice came out emotionless. “Do you think me someone you can bully and threaten, Fairy? I have lived through your half-­sleeping hell, aware, unmoving as day followed day in an endless unwaking cycle, interrupted only on that rare occasion when the dragon, bored by her own torment, deigned to speak to me. I am still here, Fairy. I survived. Let us see if you can say the same when I have finished with you.” She raised the glass ball until it was inches from her face, “Now, acknowledge me as your mistress.”

  A palpable, expectant hush fell on the room, the shadows slipped from their hiding places to listen and bear witness, but the silence lingered, and, a red-­faced Gwendolyn shook the flickering ember within the ball and screamed, “ACKNOWLEDGE ME, YOU WORTHLESS LITTLE BUG!”

  Quietly the answer came. “Yes, Mistress.”

  The Princess smiled her most wicked smile. “Good. Now, let us turn our attentions to what can be done about Lady Elizabeth Pickett.”

  BY THE TIME Liz finished her tale, Elle had thrown caution aside and was sitting on the edge of the dubious straw bed.

  “So you see, there is real danger for us,” Liz concluded. “My only hope so far has been that Gwendolyn stays her hand until Will returns and we can make our escape.”

  There was a long pause, and in her guilt, Liz read disapproval in Elle’s silent scrutiny. She had hoped Elle would understand, maybe even forgive, but perhaps it was asking too much. “It is okay, Lady Rapunzel, I understand.”

  “It is Elle to you, Liz, and let me tell you what I understand. Your brother, the Lord Protector, ran into an open field to face a dragon, the dragon, unarmed, in the hopes that he might draw its attention away from you and the house you were hiding in. Then, you ran after him because you thought your own presence would be the only way to keep him from jumping straight into the creature’s belly. Then, after the two of you survived the fire-­storm that accompanied the dragon’s death, your brother rode up into the Cursed Mountains, along the Black Road, armed only with his pitchfork, and managed to recover the Princess without putting so much as a hair on her demented little head out of place. Do I have all that right, Lady Elizabeth Pickett?”

  “Well, when you say it like that . . .” Liz started hesitantly.

  “You mean, when I recount it as it actually happened, the two of you still sound like the most heroic figures in the history of this kingdom? Yes, I agree.” Elle started pacing again. “In fact, it seems to me the only thing your brother did wrong was to bring that lunatic Princess back. Maybe the dragon had the right idea, locking her away all those years. It is too bad your brother is too thick to see how truly loathsome the crazy wench is.”

  Liz found herself defending Will. “You must not think Will stupid, Elle. He is actually quite clever but, in affairs of the heart, is at a disadvantage. Will is a terrible romantic. To be honest, I’m afraid we both are, otherwise how can I explain my continued fascination with the Prince?” She blushed at Elle’s stern gaze, and added quickly, “I think Will is in love with the idea of the Princess far more than he is with the reality of Gwendolyn. I think, given time, he will realize that she will not make him happy, if not that she is a madwoman. But he needs time to overcome his infatuation and, frankly, his maleness.”

  Both women laughed and then Liz said, “I do not know why you risked Gwendolyn’s wrath to come to me, Elle, but I am so glad you did.”

  Elle rose and embraced her. “It was not just for you, it was for me also. I told you, I am a ruined woman, and I was not exaggerating. My only quality of note was my hair and that is gone, so I cannot expect a marriage of advantage. And, after the scene I made at the ball, I am an outcast in society. You may regret having gone to Gwendolyn’s tea, Liz, but at least you had an invitation. Now that I have nothing more to lose, the Gwendolyns of the world do not frighten me the way they once did. My whole life has been spent on the edge of the court, currying favor, slowly building my position and hoping that someone of higher birth would take notice. I was willing to throw my virtue away on a man that had no interest in me, beyond an afternoon’s dalliance—­well, that and those eyes of his,” It was Elle’s turn to blush. “When I heard what the Princess had done, especially after you defended me to her, I knew I had to help. ”

  Liz studied the younger woman behind pursed lips. Liz realized that she had accepted her imprisonment partly out of guilt, but also partly because she thought she deserved it. She recognized the same thing in Elle, and it was not acceptable. “I am thankful for your help and friendship, Elle, but that is the last time I want to hear you say that you are ruined. You are smart, courageous, and, though you won’t admit it, beautiful.”

  Elle sat quietly staring at her shoes.

  “Elle?” Liz said gently.

  She looked up and tears were spilling down her face. In a rush, she sprang from her feet and wrapped her arms around Liz. “Thank you for saying that,” she whispered.

  “I only spoke you the truth, Elle.”

  “Maybe, but thank you anyway,” Elle said, wiping her eyes. Then she took Liz’s hand and led her to the window, where they sat side by side. “Now, about your plan, Liz. I’m afraid it isn’t safe for you to hide out in this tower until your brother returns. You have no idea what Princess Gwendolyn is capable of. My mother was in the court when the King was young. You probably know that Gwendolyn was not his first choice?” Elle paused long enough to allow Liz to nod. “What most ­people don’t know is that there was a rumor at the time that Rosslyn was poisoned.” Liz gasped and put a hand to her mouth. Elle nodded and whispered, “Gwendolyn was there to comfort Rupert, and in time, a few months time I would add, his affections for the elder sister passed to the younger. The rest, as they say, is fairy tale.”

  “I never imagined,” whispered Liz. “But your story only makes me more certain that I cannot abandon my brother, Elle. He wouldn’t survive a night with the woman.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you do.” Elle rose and began pacing again, clenching and unclenching her hands as she did. Elizabeth watched her crossing back and forth across the room and smiled—­so certain and full of energy. “You can make your escape with my valet. I will prepare it for tomorrow night. We can disguise you as a servant and he can lead you to one of my family’s country houses. We are of no great significance, so no one will think to look for you there. Meanwhile, I will take my own leave of the court and find your brother. I will bring him to you, and you both can go into hiding until the King returns. After that, we can deal with the Princess.”

  Liz laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Elle. I will agree to your scheme on one condition: Do not put yourself in danger.”

  Elle snorted. “The only person that will be in any danger is the Prince. If he places so much as a foot out of line, I’ll give him a black eye to match that broken nose.”

  They laughed again, and as the night deepened and storm raged outside, Elle brought out her splendid picnic and the new friends ate in the light of the sputtering little oil lamp. Elle made Liz tell her all about Will, and they exchanged tales about their lives growing up. The scent of the spiced pheasant filled the room, so the two women never noticed a strange aroma of nutmeg in the air.

  IN HER HIDDEN chamber, Gwendolyn gazed into the flickering glass orb on the table before her and watched a shadowy image of the laughing women. She closed her hand around the ball, covering it. Almost at once, the scene began to dissolve. The crystalline surface of the sphere cleared until only the incandescent glow of the fairy within remained.

  “So, the court was spreading false rumors behind my back. I knew there was a reason I never liked that girl’s mother.” She shook her head. “No matter, in time I will devise a punishment for the poisonous old harpy. Right now, we must think on what to do about Lady Elizabeth and Lady Rapunzel.”

  Gwendolyn took the orb in her hands and rolled it between her p
alms as she thought. They would make their escape from me would they? I think not. She chortled and patted the little sphere. “We won’t let that happen, will we?”

  She unfolded her hands from around the orb and placed it back onto her lap. In a laughing voice, she chanted, “Fairy, fairy, tell no lies, bring the one I seek unto my eyes.”

  The light shimmered and faded, and the image of a large dark man took its place. He was tending a horse. “So, this is Lady Rapunzel’s footman,” she cackled. “We shall do her the favor of testing his loyalty, won’t we, little one?”

  Chapter 10

  Something Foul at the Cooked Goose

  THERE ARE MANY quaint and distinguished taverns scattered about the kingdom, and almost all of them profess to be “renowned” for one reason or another. Some of these claims cannot be confirmed objectively. Does the Meddlesome Crow in Two Trees really have the “best meat pies in all the land?” Can the proprietors of the Four Dogs actually support the assertion that they have the “most buxom serving wenches?” Is it even a good idea for the bartender of the Gasping Fish in Timsley to declare that he has “the most potent farts west of the Southern Mountains?” And shouldn’t he, as a public ser­vice, provide the identity of the individual east of those peaks to whom he dares not compare himself?

  Others, however, are distinguished by right, and the Cooked Goose is renowned and reviled throughout the land for having the worst-­tasting ale in several kingdoms. In fact, over the years the debate has raged regarding exactly what the taste of the brew resembles: turpentine, lantern oil, raw sewage, but most agree with S. Tagger, author of S. Tagger’s Beers of the Realm, who describes it as “virtually indistinguishable from mule piss.”

  Despite its reputation, Will and the squire, out of a total lack of other options, retreated to that disreputable inn following their fight with the troll. Mostly what Will remembered about the first ­couple of drinks at the Cooked Goose was how depressing the place was. The Cooked Goose was a place to get drunk. Frivolity was not encouraged. Fortunately, the gloom of the tavern perfectly matched his own foul mood.