Cinder-Ugly

by Laura Strickland

  Markka bit her lip, juggling the child on her hip, and considered me. “I cannot send you alone, Majesty, and you just having given birth. But I’m afraid.”

  “As am I, Markka. Here, if you can carry Dinnie and Robin, I will go first with Octavius and the light. Just pull those boards across behind us so no one can tell where we’ve gone.”

  How to describe that journey? I’d faced many a terrible thing during my lifetime. None required as much courage as crawling into that hole. And when Markka obediently drew the boards up after us, shutting us in with the damp, foul air, I wanted nothing so much as to flee.

  But no, I must have wanted one thing more after all—to preserve the life of Rupert’s child, now only one day old. For I pressed on, and Markka behind me, she sobbing quietly all the while.

  I counted the steps under my breath: a score, two score, a hundred. The tunnel lay ahead of us like the trail of a snake, only the shortest portion of which the torch revealed to us. We went bent double, the children and the torch clutched in our hands, and the ceiling fell down on us, pattering gently onto our heads and backs like rain. The curved sides crumbled; clods broke loose and slithered to our feet.

  And most terrifying of all, the torch flickered. The rational portion of my mind knew it for a good thing. It meant air moved along the passage, which must mean, in turn, the tunnel had not collapsed up ahead.

  I feared all the while for the children breathing that air, especially Octavius, new born. What if I killed him in my attempt to save him? A hundred times I peered into his little face, tucked against me, to make sure he breathed.

  Dinnie, perhaps in response to her mother’s sobs, began to wail also. The sound lifted the hairs on my neck.

  “What if the light goes out?”

  The same question had been in my own mind. I told Markka, trying desperately to sound calm, “Then we feel our way—either backward or forward.”

  She whispered in fervent response, “Please God, do not let the light go out.”

  Time elongated impossibly, as did distance. I could not tell how long we had been half crawling along, nor how far we’d gone. I could not even estimate in which direction the tunnel extended or where we might emerge—another frightening prospect.

  We came upon the first partial collapse unexpectedly. The light showed it to me too late, and I almost ran into the waist-high pile of dirt before I stuttered to a stop. Above, part of the ceiling had come down—how much I could not at once tell.

  Behind me Markka whimpered, “What—?”

  “A collapse.”

  “No, God, no! What will we do?”

  “Hush. Let me see how bad it is. Can you take Octavius?”

  She whimpered again. Her arms already full of unhappy children, she accepted my infant.

  I stuck the end of the torch into the soft dirt and, hoping I didn’t trigger further collapse, thrust my arms into the ancient soil that lay ahead of me. Cold as the grave it felt and clammy with damp. Yet I wanted so desperately to move forward.

  Behind lay only capture and death.

  Ahead lay the unknown.

  “Majesty, can you get through?”

  “I think so.” I dug like a badger through the soft soil—the only saving grace being that it was not hard-packed. I scrabbled and fought and dragged myself through to a clear space before I reached back for the torch, very nearly setting my arm on fire.

  “Pass me the children, carefully.”

  Markka did, her face a mask of fear, and crawled through after.

  “Here.” I handed back Dinnie, who fretted for her mother, and Robin. “The way ahead looks clear.”

  “How much farther?”

  “I do not know, but it looks as if it begins to slope upward.”

  “A good sign?”

  “It can only be.”

  ****

  We climbed and crawled and hauled ourselves through two more semi-collapses, only to be brought up short when the tunnel branched.

  Branched!

  Nothing had prepared me for this. It now seemed we’d been down here forever and might continue so. I’d concentrated on putting one foot—or knee—in front of the other, thinking the tunnel our one escape route. Now I must make a choice.

  When I stopped abruptly, poor Markka, who could see little but my back, asked, “What now? Another fall?”

  “No.” I squeezed to one side and showed her the impossible—not one black hole ahead but two leading away at angles.

  “What does it mean?”

  “The tunnel branches.”

  “Which way—?”

  “I don’t know.” My overwrought brain sought desperately for an answer. I tried to picture the castle and the lay of the tunnel leading from it—southward, which was good. Surely we’d come far enough to lead us away from the walls and would be safe whichever path we took?

  Of one thing I felt certain: we could not stay where we were.

  Both openings seemed narrower than what we’d been traversing, dismayingly so. Air still moved down both of them but seemed a little stronger as it issued from the branch on the right, which I figured must veer west.

  Faced with the impossible, I caught my breath and chose. “This way. Here, you go first with Dinnie and Robin. I will hold the light.”

  Was it instinct that made me change the order of things? I’ll never know. But Markka entered the tunnel on the right obediently. It collapsed just after I followed her, dirt raining around me—and Octavius pressed against me—in a clammy shower, clods both great and small trapping my legs and threatening to choke me.

  I heard Dinnie wail. Markka exclaimed in horror, and the torch went out.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A grave—I was caught in a grave, or half caught in one. The darkness of the grave could not be more complete than what surrounded us. I could still hear Markka sobbing as the last of the dirt settled. And—praise be to God—I could feel Octavius moving in my arms. I’d been buried to my knees. I reached for Markka, blind in the darkness.

  “Pull me out!”

  “The torch!”

  “I know. For the love of God, pull me—”

  Hampered by both children, she tried. In the end, I again passed Octavius into the crook of her arm and fought my own way free, kicking and thrashing and very likely risking a further downfall. I didn’t care by then—I was trapped in darkness.

  Once free, I collapsed, but not for long. I fought my way to my feet and accepted my son back from Markka.

  “What now?” she wept. “What…”

  “Feel our way. I’ll go first.”

  “Can’t. No room for you to get by. We’re stuck like corks in a bottle. Oh, I can’t breathe!”

  “There’s still air. I can feel it moving. Are the children all right?”

  “Yes. Yes.” They both wailed.

  “Then we go on—you first. Feel your way along the wall.”

  “I can’t, Majesty!”

  “You have to, for the sake of the children.”

  We went, step by painful step, Markka groping with one hand along the wall while I carried both Robin and Octavius. She sobbed all the while and whispered over and over again, “I can’t.”

  Behind us—and ahead—the darkness stretched. I could not tell where we went, save upward, slowly. I could think only of getting out from under the ground, that and of the weight of dirt pressing down upon us. If the tunnel collapsed now—fore or aft—we would never be found.

  It did not collapse. Instead, at last I realized the air had begun to grow lighter around us. I could very faintly see the curve of the roof and Markka’s bulk moving ahead of me.

  “Majesty, I can see—”

  “Yes! And there’s air. Fresh air!” I could have wept. Markka did weep, and she sped her pace to a scrambling run.

  Only to come up against a wall of dirt. The light shone down from above us, through roots and fallen soil. No way up.

  “What—” Markka broke off.

  We co
uld hear through the opening, the sounds of distant shouts, cries—the clash of arms.

  Distant.

  Breath surged in my lungs. “I think we’re safe away.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How are we to get up?”

  I examined the shaft—barely wide enough for our shoulders, it stretched some ten feet upward. The fallen dirt clogged it part way. But I could feel the air—cold—and see the sky full of gray cloud. I could have wept for joy and frustration.

  “We move this dirt and climb out,” I told Markka.

  “Climb?”

  I turned and looked at her. “After what we’ve just accomplished, this is nothing.” Nothing. I hurt from head to toe and—somewhere back in the fall—I’d lost one shoe. Yet freedom lay only ten feet above us.

  Markka took heart from my determination. She nodded. “Yes, Majesty. You are right. Come, children, see that? It’s the sky, freedom. And that’s where we’re bound.”

  ****

  We cleared what dirt we could from beneath the shaft, and carved steps into what was left with found stones. That being done, we dug toe holds into the shaft as far as we could reach. Higher up, roots stuck through the soil—hand holds, I hoped.

  I took off my shawl and fashioned a carrier of it. Fortunately, none of the children had much bulk or weight. We looked at each other.

  Markka, wild-eyed and wild-haired, her face streaked with dirt and tears, visibly drew herself up. “I will go first, Majesty. I am better fit—you gave birth but yesterday.”

  Giving me no opportunity to argue it, she put the sling around her neck with the makeshift cradle at the back. I placed Dinnie into it, knowing Markka needed both hands free. If she fell, she would crush her own child.

  I wanted to close my eyes, shut away the sight of her making that perilous climb. Fear wouldn’t let me. I watched her scramble, slither, slide, and at last haul herself up onto her belly at the top. She and her daughter were safe.

  She turned to look at me.

  Doubt hit me then. She might leave me. Even after all we’d been through together, that thought possessed my mind. My mother would have abandoned me. So would my sisters. Donella—the only other friend I’d known—might have stayed.

  What of Markka?

  She cast me a single look before turning her gaze away, glancing about.

  “We’re in the wood, well beyond the edge of town, Majesty. The castle is far away. It—it is burning!”

  My heart clenched and fell. Rupert! I saw the terror in Markka’s face, silhouetted against the gray sky. Now was the moment she would panic and run.

  Instead she very gently lifted her daughter from the sling and tossed it down to me. “Put Robin in there—we will haul him up next. Then you and Octavius. Do you need me to come back down and help you?”

  I just stood there, tears pouring down my face.

  She never knew why.

  ****

  I crawled my way up to find we had, indeed, emerged in a little copse of trees just outside the boundary of the town, a wild place no one had ever claimed, full of rocks and scrub bushes and ancient trees. Snow lay on the ground, and after our long, nearly airless time below, we shivered. I had only one shoe and that one woefully inadequate, being the aged slipper from my days in the kitchen. I didn’t care, even though we had miles to walk before we might reach help.

  We walked. Slowly and steadily, with the babes cradled in our arms, we moved through the gray day with the clamor of battle behind us.

  I went for the sake of the children and not my own—for them and for Markka, who’d shown such courage and loyalty. My heart wanted to return to that place of conflict, to be with Rupert even if that meant dying with him.

  As we went, it began to snow softly, big flakes floating down onto our hands and faces. We had to pause many times to nurse the children when they cried and, when I lost all feeling in my bare foot, to wrap it in pieces of the shawl.

  That journey changed me, altered me fundamentally inside, and turned me into the woman I have since become. For all her painful experiences, Cinder-Ugly had been a child who still believed impossibly in a happily-ever-after. I now became Her Majesty Cindra the Queen, wife—or widow—of King Rupert, devoid of wealth but heavy with responsibility. I grew up. I grew grim. Having left my heart back with Rupert, I became a woman without one.

  “What do you think is happening at the castle?” Markka asked this many times.

  Having no answer for her, I shook my head.

  Anything could be happening.

  Ortis’s forces might have overrun the place. The defenders might have repelled them, securing the broken wall. The fire might have consumed everything. They might all be dead.

  Rupert might have lost his kingdom. He might have lost his life.

  “Where will we go?”

  “To Khett. King Edmund.” Rupert’s best ally, so he’d said.

  Markka turned her head and stared at me. She no longer looked like Markka, who had been a rather pretty girl. She looked like a woman destroyed, her face a mask of dirt and pain. “So far?”

  “So far.”

  “We’ll never make it, Majesty. The children…”

  “At least we can feed them.”

  “Yes, but we have no food. And you—”

  I did not tell her I bled heavily; I could feel it. And the last of my strength had nearly failed.

  She continued on a sob, “No food. No water. No rest.”

  We stumbled on, running on sheer willpower until night fell and a miracle occurred. We happened upon a woodsman’s hut. There was no one inside—everyone had fled to the castle for protection.

  Only look how that had served them!

  We went in. I would not allow Markka to strike a light, but we did kindle a small fire in the hearth. There was food and a bed, and a chance to sleep.

  Come morning, Markka wanted to stay there. I did not dare and told her if Ortis won the battle at the castle, his troops would spread out and occupy all the land.

  “Yes, Majesty, but that will not happen for days. You need rest. You are not well.”

  “I need to get the Crown Prince to safety.” Or he might be King by now. I could not, would not let myself think about that possibility.

  “Just one day,” Markka begged.

  It terrified me; we were not far enough away. For the sake of the children and because it began to snow hard, I gave in.

  The next morning, a second miracle occurred.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Markka brought word when she returned from using the outhouse, her eyes shining.

  “Majesty, Majesty, you’ll never guess!”

  I confess, a thousand thoughts burgeoned through my mind: Rupert had come looking for us; Ortis’s army had fallen; We could go home. I shook my head.

  “Horses. Two of them. In a shed out back. Do you think you can ride?”

  I’d never been on the back of a horse. Scarcely had I ridden in a carriage. But the woman I’d now become had no room for uncertainty. “Yes.”

  We borrowed warm clothing, blankets, and food from our accidental host and set off riding through the newly fallen snow. The weather had cleared, but looking back toward the castle, I could no longer see so much as a wisp of smoke.

  Setting our backs to home, we rode on.

  The journey gave me an opportunity to think. Rupert knew King Edmund. I did not. Rupert might trust him; I no longer trusted anyone save Markka. If Ortis succeeded in overthrowing Burgendy, what was to stop him taking aim at Khett next?

  “Markka,” I said as we rode, “it would be best if we do not let anyone know who Octavius is, or that the Crown Prince of Burgendy has survived. That way, Ortis cannot hunt him down and kill him. That means we can tell no one who I am, either.”

  “But Majesty! How will you sue King Edmund for help if you do not tell him who you are?”

  “I cannot, at least not at once. We must wait and see how the land l
ies. For now, I think we must pose as mere refugees. Sisters, perhaps.” I smiled painfully. “Though I have never had a sister who cared for me.”

  “But Majesty…”

  “To begin, you must stop calling me that.”

  “What shall I call you?”

  “Cinders.”

  “But that is an insulting sort of name.”

  “And I am no one of consequence. We will say we were returning home when the castle fell and we came away. It will explain how we alone escaped. For I have seen no one else from the castle, have you?”

  “Not yet,” Markka admitted, and bit her lip. “We must say you were away at your lying in. It will explain why you have a newborn infant. Say you were unwed and in shame.”

  “A likely story.”

  She gave me an apologetic look. “It will mean you must remove your wedding band. I’m sorry; I know what it means to you.”

  A lump rose to my throat. I looked down at the fragile band, inscribed with flowers. Rupert had put it on my finger, and I’d never yet taken it off.

  “I would do far more to protect my son. And it is but for a time, until we can discover how things lie in Khett and—and who is left alive back home.”

  “Yes.” Markka gave me a tremulous smile. “Yes, Sister.”

  ****

  And so we arrived in the kingdom of Khett, two hapless and helpless peasant women with children. We played our parts well, if I do say it. And I’m certain we looked them also, dirty and ragged, the children weary and squalling and me with but one shoe.

  The good citizens of Khett with whom we first came in contact passed us along like a hot potato; no one wished to keep us too long, until we came to King Edmund’s palace.

  Not exalted enough to see the King himself, we were at last conducted into the presence of an official, a middle-aged man with an impatient manner and not unkind eyes.

  He introduced himself as Sir Rand and said, once he’d heard our story, “Quite frankly, we’d wondered what transpired in Burgendy. We have had absolutely no communication even via our agents.”

  “Agents?” I repeated in surprise.

  “My good woman, we always have operatives in foreign capitals. It is as if ours have now dropped off the face of the earth. Not too surprising, given you say the castle has fallen.”