The Oddling Prince

by Nancy Springer

  “This man with his black garb and his dark thoughts is not the father I remember.” The words issued from him slowly, softer than moths.

  “Yet you have not ceased to love him and yearn to please him.”

  “Have you?” he retorted.

  “A touch,” I admitted as if he had tapped me while sparring. “A definite touch. But no matter how cantankerous he acts, he still acknowledges me as his son, whereas you. . . .”

  “Whereas I what?”

  “My brother, as I love you, I cannot say it. You must bespeak it yourself.”

  In the silence of the night, I heard sighing wind and a plover’s pining cry.

  “Whereas,” whispered Albaric finally, “he will never so acknowledge me. He refuses to believe. No matter what I do.”

  For answer, I gave him only the touch of my hand. I could not speak.

  “Now he says I am an evil spirit. How does he believe in spirits, yet not in Elfland?”

  “Nothing makes sense. I do not know what to think.”

  “It seems the ring has an opinion,” he said wryly. Startled, I looked down to see light issuing from the chest of my tunic. The ring was awake and listening.

  “Quite an opinion!” The glimmer of the ring was not usually strong enough to show through fabric, not even at night. I hesitated a moment, fearful of being found out, but the massive elm stood between us and the camp we guarded, so no one there should catch a glimpse of eerie light. Tugging at the thong around my neck, I pulled the ring out so Albaric could see.

  “It’s pure white,” he whispered.

  So much so that by its light, I could see Albaric’s face hovering in the night like a white butterfly for innocent symmetry, but scarred—how could that be? How could anyone in the world hurt him?

  “It’s moving,” he whispered.

  The ring. It had divided itself along the rim, still white but now part soft and part shining, and although I held it motionless between two fingers, it seemed to spin, then swim and swirl, the soft half mixing with the shining half as we watched, rapt, until gradually it glowed once again entirely white.

  I put it in the palm of my hand, and it lay there, its white light so gentle now that I concluded it had no more to say.

  “When I looked at it yesternight, it was almost the same, like white fishes swimming nose to tail,” I told Albaric. “Somehow, it comforts me.”

  “And me also.”

  “But I don’t know what it means.”

  I saw his smile as I put the ring away. “As if anyone ever knows what it means? Or what it means to do?”

  Darkness now. The ring no longer showed through my clothing.

  “But it has settled my heart somehow,” Albaric murmured.

  “Mine also.”

  “Go sleep, my brother. I will keep watch.” Whimsically, he saluted me. “Sweet dreams.”

  CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH

  WHEN THE REST OF US got up in the morning, Albaric was gone.

  It took a while to be sure of this, for he could have been on a personal errand in the woods. But when my “Good morning, Father,” was met only with a growl and a scowl, I began to worry.

  When Garth requested help with his washing and dressing, which were difficult for him to manage alone, I crowded into the hut with him. As I rather expected, he took the opportunity to whisper to me, “Prince Aric, I have no right to ask. . . .”

  “Ask what you will.”

  “Has something gone wrong between you and your—and the king?”

  I sighed. “One would think he’d be glad to see me grow in prowess, but no, my helmet’s too far from the ground now.”

  The old captain grimaced. “And I made things worse. I am sorry.”

  “No need. How could you know?”

  “I should have been more careful. Any king can turn into a mettlesome, jealous tyrant.”

  I sighed. “It would seem that no proud king likes to be rescued by his beardless son.”

  “No proud man of any rank likes to be rescued by anyone, and that’s fact, no matter how truly gratitude may be a virtue.”

  I thought on this a while, and on other things. “I think he regrets telling me how he won the throne.”

  “Very likely, for now he cannot help but think you might take it from him in likewise.”

  “Bah! As if I want his dusty old throne or his heavy crown. But he’s full of black bile, so much so that I fear for myself, and even more—have you seen Albaric this morning?”

  “No. Nor the blue steed.”

  Some small time later, over breakfast, Garth bespoke the consternation I dared not voice, for in easy tones he asked King Bardaric, “My Liege, pray tell me, what has become of the lad?”

  “What lad?

  “Young Albaric.”

  “The fetch, you mean. When I relieved him at guard, I ordered him to ride ahead on that freakish horse of his, carrying the news to Dun Caltor.”

  “Aha!” Garth looked far more pleased than I felt. “Will he tell my wife I am alive?”

  Father relaxed his grim tone a bit. “He will tell Queen Evalin, my wife, and undoubtedly she shall tell yours.”

  After eating, I went about my business with my jaw locked, saying nothing, thinking much, thoughts I did not like. From now on, I knew with instinctive certainty, Father would seize every chance to separate me from my brother, whom he saw as no son of his, only as an intruder and a rival for my devotion. He would send Albaric into harm’s way at every opportunity. He might even scheme to have Albaric killed.

  Within the hour, we started back to Dun Caltor, and a wearisome journey it was, all at a walk for Garth’s sake. Even at that slow pace, the movement wore him with constant pain; he said nothing, but one could watch the pallor bleach his face and see its lines deepen.

  So we were a day longer on the hoof than before, but I could regain nothing of the camaraderie I had enjoyed with my father on the way out, although it was not for want of opportunity. Once we had seen how well the two outlaw peasants took care of Garth and how constantly they kept watch over him, we let them alone and rode several strides ahead of them; we could have talked about anything. But we seldom spoke. Father’s attitude made it plain that we were there as a bodyguard against brigands for Garth and his two nurses, nothing more.

  Once every hour or so, I ventured a comment. All were answered with silence until, the second day, I hit the right nail on the head.

  “The Domberk party should reach Dun Caltor not too long after we do,” I remarked.

  Father reddened, puffed, then erupted. “Bah! The idea of my son married to a Domberk curdles my liver!”

  By now, even such a harsh response was welcome. I replied pleasantly, “But would the idea of five, six, maybe seven years of peace with Domberk cool your liver?”

  “What?” Scowling, Father darted a puzzled glance at me.

  “Marissa is barely more than a girl,” I explained, even though I had told him this before; it seemed reasonable to believe that he remembered nothing of it, not in his choler. “I cannot decently propose marriage, only an engagement. And that engagement could go on for several years, and who knows what might happen in that time, or how such a pact might end?”

  “Humph.” He spoke far more quietly. “You’re no fool, and neither is Domberk; he will agree, but do you think the girl’s mother will favor this engagement?”

  “Perhaps not. Perhaps she wishes her husband to remain in your dungeon.”

  Father barked out a laugh; I had made him laugh! But then he fell silent again, and I was left with only the memory of the moment. It was the best moment in all that journey.

  Except, I suppose, another moment having to do with Garth. Even his weakness, weariness, and pain could not constrain his excitement when he saw the turrets and towers of Dun Caltor in the distance and knew we were nearly home. He tried to sit up in the crude horse-litter in which he rode and might have fallen out had Father not ordered him, “Bloody blue blazes, Garth, lie still!”
But the rough words bristled with affection, and beneath Father’s beard, his smile was broad and warm. It gladdened my heart to see good King Bardaric again.

  Even better, when we reached the village, every peasant had turned out to meet us, cheering without restraint and surging forward to surround our horses. Garth’s wife, an ordinary frizzy-haired woman rendered even plainer by weeping, kissed him right there in the street, and great was the approbation of the crowd. We carried him to his cottage, and Father dismounted to oversee—“Gentle! Be gentle, now!”—as a dozen eager yeomen carried him inside. He bespoke Garth’s wife, “I shall have the castle kitchen send treats to tempt his appetite.”

  She curtsied. “Your Majesty, her Majesty the Queen has already done so.”

  “Then you must send word if you need anything. Anything at all. I command it.” Upon the humble woman, he smiled down as warm as the sun.

  “Yes, your Highness. Ten thousand thanks, your Highness.”

  The cheering crowd followed us right to the gates of Dun Caltor, and cheering castle folk awaited us within, and again Father showed how innately he was a kind man, for he turned his attention first to the shy, speechless litter bearers who followed us, thanking them again while ordering the castle steward to welcome them, see to the stabling of their horses, and give them yeomen’s clothing, bunks in the barracks, and all the hospitality he had to offer.

  Meanwhile Mother, a slim and lovely goddess, with her golden filigree crown holding in place an airy white drapery over her wide-sleeved gown, stood waiting on the steps of the keep, her head high and smiling. And beside her, in regalia befitting her escort, stood Albaric.

  As Father was busy, I managed to reach them first, bowing to Mother on bended knee before rising to give her a son’s kiss of greeting; as I hugged her, I whispered in her ear, “Bear with burrs.”

  Turning to Albaric, I felt his contentment, his sense that he had done good service, and I hated to say what I must. But he had to know. “Trouble ahead,” I told him by way of greeting, “unless I’m much mistaken.”

  Then Father strode up the steps to embrace his wife as his people clapped and cheered. Albaric he ignored until we four had turned, entered the keep, and the great doors closed behind us.

  Then he turned on him vehemently. “What are you doing in my son’s clothes?”

  I took my stand beside my brother as Mother said what Albaric dared not. “Dearest, he is your son.”

  “Don’t you ever say that again! Ever!” And the look he gave her made her pale. “Foolish woman,” he told her, words that must have cut like a dirk, “don’t you know a fetch when you see one? Weird, unnatural, evil?” Then he turned on Albaric. “You, take your blasted blue horse and leave here at once. Go.”

  “Father,” I said, “if he goes, I go with him.”

  I spoke so levelly that for a moment, Father seemed unable to comprehend or react but stood choking on his own black bile, glaring at me. Then his face reddened as he roared, “What! You defy me?”

  “No, Sire, I defy you not. You have given me no command. But I say what I must do. If Albaric leaves, then I shall accompany him.”

  “You—impudent puppy—you say nothing!” My father yanked his sword out of its scabbard, menacing. “I rule here!”

  “And I conduct myself with honor, my Sire, as you have taught me.” I gazed into his maddened eyes—barely human, his look more like that of a charging bull—I met his glare with mute plea, willing him to see me, recognize me, remember who I was, to come back to being my father. I did not draw my sword, only touched Albaric’s arm, signaling him to step back, feeling his reluctance as he did so. But he knew I had the right. This matter was between Father and me.

  Father had forgotten about Albaric, all his ire now for me. “You conduct yourself as a traitor! Renegade—ungrateful—viper!” Left-handed, he clouted me on the side of the head. I took the blow silently, barely staggering, standing erect and making no move to counter it.

  Father gave a roar without words. His sword swept up. I glimpsed Mother’s face, very likely a mirror of my own, white and waiting, knowing this was the only way. I saw the sword slicing down to smite me, and I think I closed my eyes, for after it cut the side of my neck, I only heard it clang to the floor as Father dropped it; I did not see.

  I opened my eyes but closed them again, because I could not bear to look upon the scarlet contortion of my father’s face, now all horror and dismay.

  “What have I done?” he cried. “Have I gone mad? Aric, my son!”

  I wanted to look at him and speak to him, but my vision blurred, and something clotted my throat.

  Mother stood beside me, examining the cut on my neck. “Not so bad,” she murmured. “Albaric, take him and tend to him, would you, please?” Already, she had Father by the arm, leading him away as if he were a distraught child.

  As soon as he left, servants crowded in, babbling, exclaiming, the whole keep in an uproar. Some took charge of my father’s sword, some cleaned blood off the floor, some had brought bandaging and water for me, and most had come with no excuse but to look.

  I found my voice. “Out!” I commanded in a tone not unlike my sire’s. “Everybody out!” They scattered like quail.

  Albaric took me upstairs, my arm over his shoulder. “My brother,” he kept saying in a kind of daze. “My brother.” In my chamber, I slumped on the bed as he slipped my blood-spattered tunic off me, lifted a clumsy bandage away from my neck, washed the cut and closed it with gentle fingers, and wrapped it more tightly. It was a wound, I thought, the mate of his, the misplaced twin of the scar on his face.

  At the thought—that scar on his perfect face—I bent with pity of the whole world’s pain and burst into weeping, trying to hide behind my hands.

  “My brother.” Kneeling beside me, Albaric enfolded me, and slipping to the floor to lean against him as he leaned against the bed, I wept as I had not wept in years, not since I was a child.

  “You know,” Albaric said quietly, “it was the weight of the sword only that smote you; he had loosed his grip before it touched you.”

  I nodded to show that I had heard him, because I could not speak for sobbing.

  “Therefore, as he did not lop off your head, I was not after all obliged to become a patricide,” Albaric added dryly.

  I knew it was no joke; to avenge me, he would have killed Father then and there. His beloved father, for my sake. My brother. . . . With my tears soaking his tunic, I clung to him, crying in his arms, unable to stop until I could cry no more. When I had mostly quieted, he boosted me back onto the bed and knelt to pull the boots off my feet—I protested feebly, but indeed I felt so spent, I might not have been able to do it without his help. “You did it for me once upon a time,” he remarked, “and made me rest, and gave me your bearskin for covering.” It was too hot for the bearskin, but he helped me slip a nightshirt over my head and made me lie down. Bringing a moist cloth from the washstand, he bathed my face, paying special attention to the bruise on the side of my head. He stroked the damp hair away from my eyes, then sat with me until I slept.

  CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH

  WHEN I AWOKE, my father sat there.

  A candle burned, and some quality of silence and darkness told me it was very late. By my other side, on the bed, Albaric slept in his clothes. At the bedside sat Father in his nightgown, not at all majestic, with his hair and his beard in a crow’s nest.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, his voice very low.

  In a whisper, so as not to awaken Albaric, I said, “I’m hungry,” for it was so gut-true I could think of nothing else, having missed dinner. I sat up and reached for the candle, already halfway to the kitchen in my mind, before I paused to look at my father’s face.

  It is hard to describe his expression. Baffled, I suppose, and desperately haunted, yet almost laughing. I asked, “Sire, are you all right?”

  “The world could be ending, and you would be hungry, Aric, my son. Why ever should I not be a
ll right?”

  I did not venture a response to this. We spoke no more until we reached the kitchen and I had devoured much bread and cheese. Father would have brought me ale, but I drank milk. He himself did not eat, only sat across from me and watched me.

  “Would you not like one?” I asked as I finished off a dewberry tart. “They are very good.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot eat.”

  I turned on the bench to lean against the table, replete, studying him. Even now, I felt sure, even in pain of spirit, he was too proud to welcome sympathy or advice or declarations of my devotion or even the touch of my hand. “Father,” I asked as simply as possible, “how can I help?”

  “I scarcely know. It would appear you have already forgiven me?”

  “Willingly.”

  “You are a wonder, my Aric. Yet your goodness makes me feel only more that I am evil. I think crazed thoughts, fly into rages, act like a madman, I do not know myself anymore. I am afraid to wear a sword. I feel unfit to call myself your father, much less King of all Calidon.”

  “Yet you have been the best of kings.”

  “So you tell me! So also does your mother!”

  “How is Mother?”

  “Sleeping, I hope. She says I let go of the sword before it touched you. She said that, even before seeing this, she knew I would not greatly harm you, or she would have interfered.”

  “I knew the same, standing there.”

  “Standing up to me. I thought it the worst of insolence. Now I marvel at your courage.”

  I shook my head. “I wished only for you to see.”

  “See what?”

  I spoke softly. “The troth between us, Father.”

  After a glimpse of his moistening eyes, I studied my own hands, sparing his pride.