The price of Peraltia’s loyalty at present was neither pumice nor gold, but rather the hand of Princess Urgulana, who was widely regarded as the most unattractive princess since records of such things started being kept. Even Princess Stugnafska of Avaress, whose bust had been mislabeled as “Gurthan the Goblin King” in the Royal Museum for three hundred years without anyone noticing, is thought to have been quite a looker compared to Urgulana. Up until recently, it had been widely assumed that Prince Corbet of Skaal would end up marrying Urgulana, but with the revolt in the north the balance of power had shifted toward Skaal, and Boric had pressed the issue by giving King Celiac pretense for a motive to attack. Boric spent the next two days after his return to Brobdingdon poring over charts and reports from field commanders, looking for a way to repel a Skaal attack without losing the northern provinces, but he came up with nothing. The only way to even the odds was to secure a pledge of assistance from Peraltia — and the only way to do that was for the Crown Prince of Ytrisk to marry Urgulana.
Having despaired of finding a way out of this morass, Boric’s thoughts now alternated on two different paths: on one hand he was reassessing just how badly he wanted to be King of Ytrisk. Was it worth it if it required being married to a woman who was evidently about as attractive as a goblin king? He had never expected to be able to marry for love — or even for like — and it was pretty well accepted practice for kings to have affairs as long as they weren’t too obvious about it, but he still wasn’t sure he was prepared to be married to a goblin king. And on the other hand, he reassured himself that she couldn’t possibly be as ugly as she was made out to be. He had never laid eyes on her, of course; she was only thirteen years old and never accompanied her father, King Gavin, on any state expeditions. The official rationale for her rare public appearances was that she was “delicate.” If she had some condition that made her susceptible to illness, that would explain why she was never seen, and a princess who was never seen would naturally become the subject of lots of mean-spirited rumors. She was probably a perfectly lovely girl who had been slandered by cynics.
Having convinced himself of this — or at least having failed to convince himself to cede the reins of power to his shiftless brother Yoric (who would have married a she-bear if it meant being King of Ytrisk), Boric agreed to marry Urgulana. Not an hour after he announced his decision to his father, he was informed that the princess had arrived at Kra’al Brobdingdon. Evidently she had been stashed somewhere nearby in hopes of receiving word of Boric’s acceptance of the proposal. It occurred to him that the Peraltians were probably worried that he might change his mind if he were given too much time to think about it.
Boric met Urgulana for the first time in the main reception hall of Kra’al Brobdingdon. He stood at one end of the hall with his father, mother, and brother Yoric seated behind him. Urgulana was escorted by her own parents into the room, which was otherwise empty. When he saw her, Boric let out a gasp that turned into laughter. This seemed regrettably cruel in retrospect, but at the time he was absolutely certain that his family was playing a joke on him.
Urgulana was a man. At least, she gave every indication of being a man, other than the fact that she was wearing a salmon-colored gown festooned with daisies. Urgulana’s shoulders were so broad that her parents had to drop behind her as she entered the room through the massive arched doorway, and at six and a half feet she towered over Boric, who was himself exceedingly tall by Ytriskian standards. She had no bosom to speak of; all of her girth appeared to be in her egg-shaped midsection and shoulders like cast iron cauldrons. Urgulana’s hair, which Boric assumed to be a wig, was a glorious array of golden curls that added another six inches to her height, making her an even seven feet tall and only further accentuating the impression that she was a man in drag. Her long, oval-shaped face contained a pair of thin lips, two bulbous eyes, and a crooked, pimply nose, in no particular order. A layer of makeup that appeared to be about a good half-inch thick had been applied in an apparent attempt to blot out her face entirely, to little effect. Whoever had first thought to refer to Urgulana as “delicate” had a dark sense of humor indeed.
And so Boric laughed, because never in his wildest imaginings could he have conceived of a woman who looked like this. A split second after the guffaw left his lips, Boric realized two things. The first was that no one else was laughing. In fact, everyone else in the hall seemed to be making a heroic effort to be as somber as possible, which made his laughter seem all the louder. Even his brother Yoric was quiet, although he was half-hiding a smirk under his hand. The second thing he realized was that this was possibly the worst occasion for humor in the history of the Kingdom of Ytrisk and that, therefore, the odds were strongly against this being some sort of prank. Boric managed to force his laugh into a sort of hacking cough that probably didn’t fool anyone but at least spared some small remnant of his dignity.
He straightened and regarded Urgulana anew. She scowled back at him, which incredibly had the effect of making her look even more goblinesque. Boric bit his lip hard to avoid bursting into laughter again and approached the gargantuan princess. “Urgulana, I presume,” he said, inadvertently spitting blood all over the front of her dress. She scowled again and made a noise in her throat like a wounded bulldog. Boric winced and did his best to wipe off the blood with his handkerchief. He succeeded only in smearing the droplets thoroughly into the fabric and eventually gave up, turning the handkerchief over and tucking it into the front of Urgulana’s dress. This covered the bloodstains as well as making Urgulana appear as if she were preparing for a hearty meal. She slapped his hand away with one of her leathery paws and held it out for him to kiss it, which he did, reluctantly. “Enchanted,” she said in a thick, nasally voice that sounded like a billy goat with bronchitis. “Likewise,” replied Boric. Urgulana’s hand smelled like lavender and pork chops. He marveled again that this was actually a woman standing in front of him. No, not a woman: a little girl. Urgulana was just thirteen years old! How much bigger and manlier might she get? As it was, Boric was fairly certain she could crush him to death with her bare hands. He had slain one ogre only to come home to marry another!
But if this union would spare the lives of thousands in a needless conflict with the Skaal, then it was all worth it, he told himself without much enthusiasm. He had better luck convincing himself that it would be worth it when he was king and could order his two idiot brothers to oversee the pumice mines of Bjill. We’d see who was smirking then. He wondered how many years his father had left in him.
Fortunately their one brief, agonizing exchange was about it for the pleasantries. Boric and Urgulana each retreated to their respective corners while their mothers discussed the details of the ceremony. Urgulana’s father reassured her that Boric hadn’t been laughing at her, and Boric’s brother reassured him that there was no reason to think that Urgulana was harboring any unpleasant surprises under her gown. Her giantism, he told Boric, was almost definitely not caused by her being a pair of twins — one male and one female — who had failed to separate completely in the womb. Boric punched Yoric in the mouth and he tackled Boric, sending him sprawling onto the carpet. Six yeomen had to be called to separate them. Urgulana was heartened somewhat when her father explained that the two brothers were fighting for her hand.
The ceremony was scheduled for the next day — both because of the urgent threat of a Skaal invasion and because of Peraltian worries that Boric would get cold feet. Boric found to his dismay that he was under constant watch. When he asked his father about the yeomen lurking about the castle wherever he went, the king apologized and explained that the Peraltian king had insisted: Boric was not to be given any chance to escape. This fact did not have the effect of reassuring Boric about the arrangement he was volunteering for. He was also anxious about Milah; he hadn’t had a chance to check on her since he had arrived in Brobdingdon, and now he would have to wait until after he was married — which would make their eventual meeting that mu
ch more awkward. The sensible part of his brain told him to forget about Milah; after tomorrow he would be married, and in any case Milah was just a poor alchemist’s daughter. There would be no place for her in his life at Kra’al Brobdingdon, and there would certainly be no place for her silly mirror-making schemes.
On the other hand, there was a limit to how sensible one could be expected to be. As the crown prince, he would be expected to spend his days officiating over pointless ceremonies and attending all sorts of dull meetings on trade and taxation, and his marriage would be a sham foisted on him by interkingdom politics. Surely he could be forgiven for an occasional dalliance with a commoner. And he could hardly imagine that Milah wouldn’t be amenable to such a relationship — he just had to convince her to give up her foolish notions about those damn mirrors. On some level she had to know that no king was going to spend a hundred thousand gold pieces so that some common peasant girl could play at being an alchemist. She’d already been turned down by five other kings, for Grovlik’s sake! Eventually she would come to terms with the truth and then she and Boric would…well, not live happily ever after, exactly, but they’d make the most of the situation.
What Boric had forgotten about entirely while weaving these scenarios in his mind was a wedding-day custom that was observed throughout most of the Six Kingdoms, having been inherited from the time when the kings were provincial governors appointed by the emperor at Avaressa. The tradition was to allow commoners to come before the ruler of the province on the wedding day of his son or daughter and make any request they wished.
In fact, Boric was so preoccupied with worries about the wedding and its aftermath that it didn’t occur to him that Milah might make an appeal to his father until she was standing before him on the raised platform in front of the gates of Kra’al Brobdingdon. He didn’t recognize her at first: she was wearing a dark green dress, elegant but simple — probably a gift from the widow. Her hair was braided and pulled over one shoulder. She looked radiant. And she was looking right at Boric.
Boric sat next to his father on the platform, as was the wedding-day custom. A line of several hundred people snaked down a wooden staircase and down the street, where it eventually merged with the rest of the crowd: thousands of people who had gathered in front of Kra’al Brobdingdon to witness the goings-on.
Milah was still standing there looking at him insistently, as if urging him to say something. But Boric didn’t know what to say. How could he explain even knowing who this peasant was? He couldn’t very well admit that he had met her on the road to Brobdingdon and shared a room in the local inn. Princes could be expected to sow their wild oats, of course, but it would be in extremely poor taste to stoke suspicion about such a recent liaison on Boric’s wedding day. Not only that, but if he admitted to knowing her now, that would shut the door on any future liaisons. She would be forever known as “the crown prince’s friend” and watched wherever she went. He’d never be able to be alone with her again. She had to know that, didn’t she? She couldn’t possibly be so naive as to think that he was going to vouch for her here in front of his father the king and thousands of his subjects?
Boric averted his eyes and the king, growing impatient, growled, “My dear, there are three hundred other good citizens behind you. Perhaps you could be so kind as to grace us with your request?”
“Oh,” sputtered Milah, shifting her gaze uncertainly to the king. “Sorry, yes.” She fumbled in a leather bag hanging from her shoulder. After a moment, she produced a small, silvery object.
“Knife!” cried one of the guards standing to the side of the platform, drawing his sword. On the other side of Milah, his counterpart did the same.
Boric leapt to his feet, drawing Brakslaagt. “Stop!” he ordered, but it was too late: the guard on Milah’s left had already begun his swing. Boric stepped forward and thrust Brakslaagt into the path of the arc, simultaneously spinning and kicking backward with his left foot. The first guard’s sword struck his with a loud clang just as the heel of his boot sunk into the other guard’s gut, sending him tumbling backward, gasping for breath. “Fools!” Boric hissed. “They’re only…Milah!”
He watched in horror as Milah, shaking with fear, dropped two mirrors. They struck the wooden platform and began to roll in two different directions — one toward King Toric and one toward the edge of the platform. “Catch it, you idiot!” Boric shouted to the guard who now had a boot imprint on his belly. But the guard was too dazed to do anything and the mirror rolled right between his legs and off the platform, falling eight feet to the cobblestone street, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. The other mirror rolled to Toric’s boot and fell over onto its face. Milah dropped to her knees, her face ashen.
The king bent over and picked up the mirror, examining it. “A gift?” he asked, puzzled.
Milah’s mouth was open and her bottom lip quivered, but she seemed unable to speak.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” said the king, “but your craftsmanship is lacking. This one is cracked as well.” He held up the mirror to show that a fine spider web of cracks covered the surface.
Boric helped Milah to her feet. “Bor…Boric?” asked Milah.
“You know this girl?” asked the king.
“What?” asked Boric. “No, of course I don’t know her.”
“You called her Milah.”
“No, no,” said Boric, irritably. “I said mirror. I was trying to tell these dimwitted guards of yours that she was carrying a mirror, not a knife.”
“Please, Boric, tell him,” pleaded Milah. “Tell him about the mirrors.”
“I can’t,” Boric whispered. “Please, it would do no good. You must understand.” He felt in his pocket and found three gold coins. He put them in Milah’s hand. “Take it. It’s all I have on me.”
“What are you saying?” the king asked. “What are you talking about?”
“She’s disturbed, father,” Boric said. “Guards, escort this woman to the street.” The guards took Milah by the arms and ushered her back down the steps past the waiting throng. Cries of “Boric, please!” could be heard as she was dragged away.
“Well, that was odd,” noted King Toric. Boric slumped into his seat next to his father, nodding glumly. “Next!” hollered the king.
Boric couldn’t have said with any degree of certainty what else happened that day. At some point, he was fairly certain, he became the husband of a goblin king, but that wasn’t the experience that was going to haunt him for the next twenty years.
SEVENTEEN
Having realized just how little he knew about the Blades of Brakboorn, Boric decided that what he needed was more information. And if there was any place in Dis that contained a clue about his curse, it was the Library of Avaressa to the northeast. He would break into the library and find out whatever he could about Brand and the blades. But getting there without being intercepted by the wraiths was going to be tricky.
Rather than head back north and take the east-west road to Avaressa, he planned to go through the mountains into the Kingdom of Blinsk and then head north. Boric knew that there was a pass through the Kalvan Mountains to the southeast, but he couldn’t say within twenty miles where it was. The threfelings might have known, but he hadn’t dared to ask them for fear that if pressed they would reveal his route to the other wraiths. Even if the wraiths split up to cover more territory, they were unlikely to anticipate him taking the mountain pass. Now if he could only find it.
He walked east until the foothills became impassable mountains and then turned south, looking for a break in the peaks that might indicate a pass. He hadn’t found it by sunrise and took refuge in a small cave for the day. At nightfall he continued to the south, but still found nothing looking like a pass. Some time after midnight he concluded that he must have missed the pass and did his best to retrace his steps. Unaccustomed to navigating by the stars, he lost his way and only by luck managed to find a cave just before dawn. As he settled into the cave, he noticed a
chalk drawing on the cave wall. His initial excitement that this was perhaps a sign of some kind faded when he realized it was the drawing of his brother Yoric fornicating with a sheep that he had drawn a day earlier: he had been walking in circles. If he had been able, Boric would have burst into tears. Instead, he lay down on his back and determined never to get up again. He was, after all, a corpse, and it was about time that he started acting like it. How bad could eternity be anyway? At least he wouldn’t have to sleep next to Urgulana anymore (they hadn’t seen much of each other over the past few years but still usually slept in the same room to keep up appearances).
Boric had experienced only about six hours of eternity when he heard a sound he had heard only once before: a great, rhythmic throbbing, followed by a rush of wind through the cave. He leapt to his feet. The mighty wyndbahr had alighted at the mouth of the cave. On its back sat the beautiful blond Eytrith. She slid off the creature and strode toward Boric.
Disenchanted Page 11