The Oddling Prince

by Nancy Springer

  We all sat on the mossy ground, in a circle like the five petals of a cowslip, in council. The horses, tied to branches (except Bluefire), browsed on leaves. Escobar sat across from Queen Evalin, flanked by Albaric and me, while Marissa sat next to the queen.

  She told Escobar, “More likely, he thought he was sending a witch.”

  “The more fool he. Wise lassie, would you do something for me? I wish you would bring my dirk and give it to the queen.”

  Marissa looked up at Mother, questioning. She nodded, and Marissa darted up and away, braids flying, to fetch the dirk.

  “If you would be so good, Queen Evalin,” said Escobar, inclining his head in a bow of sorts, “please thumb the edge of the blade.”

  She did so and smiled, albeit faintly. “It’s barely sharp enough to cut butter.”

  “’Twas all for show. I dulled it because I wanted to hurt no one, not even by mischance.”

  Mother said with dagger edge, “You mean in case your murderous Caltor blood got the better of you?”

  Escobar’s face darkened, yet he bowed toward the queen. “Cutting words, but true. I doubt myself, trying no longer to be evil.”

  “Certainly you gave me some evil moments, Escobar.”

  “I am sorry, Queen Evalin,” he said, meaning it; I could hear his heart in his voice. “’Twas a foolish plan.”

  “No bones broken, Escobar. But I tell you, as one who wishes you well: even more foolish is any plan to venture to Caltor. Make no mistake: the king will kill you.”

  “Even if I kneel before him and swear him my fealty?”

  “He will kill you.”

  “But all the land sings him as a fair and merciful king!”

  “Lately. . . .” Mother’s firm voice faltered, and her steady gaze shied away from what she had to say; she looked at Albaric, then at me. “Lately,” she said very slowly, “a dark change has come over him.”

  “How so?”

  “A fearsome thing has come into our lives.” Her gaze lingered on me, significant, as if she guessed I might hide the ring under my linen tunic.

  But Escobar turned his head toward Albaric, questioning.

  Albaric answered with a wry half-smile. “Had you not heard that the heir of Calidon had a twin? No? Then take heed, Escobar: my coming has made the king half mad with jealousy for the sake of the throne.”

  “It is true, Escobar,” said Mother with saddest fervor. “I hardly know my husband anymore. Sometimes I think him insane. I tell you, he will kill you if you go near him.”

  He honored her warning with a moment’s pause before he replied, “Yet I must risk it.”

  “Not if you are to live! Fishheads take it all, you must flee!

  “Flee far,” I agreed, “and flee now. At once.” I stood up, startling into flight some silver doves that had perched on a bough overhead. “Look at me, Escobar,” I said, pulling back my collar to show him the scar still raw on the side of my neck. “Father nearly cut off my head in a rage not long ago.”

  He paled so greatly that his wounds made a gray webwork on his white face. He said nothing.

  I decided to send him on his way without further ado. “Have you need of food, or a horse?”

  He gestured vehemently and stood up to face me, his jaw set hard. “So I should flee? And when you and the queen return to Caltor, what will you tell the king?”

  I opened my mouth to speak before I quite realized my dilemma. Unsure what to say, I turned to Mother. In her eyes, I saw a realization similar to mine.

  Escobar bespoke it. “You are bound by the greatest fealty of all, that of kinship, to King Bardaric. If you do not tell him you have seen me here today, you will have betrayed him. Could you live with that knowledge, Queen Evalin?”

  Her face answered without words. Anything that drove a wedge between her and Father was heartbreak to her.

  “Indeed,” Escobar said, “having encountered me, if you fail to take me directly to the king, you are guilty of treason.”

  Looking at one another, we all knew he was right, confound him. But he spoke somberly, with no hint of pleasure in victory. His humility made it only just bearable, what had to happen.

  I turned back to Escobar. “I will stand by you, then.”

  “And I,” said the queen.

  “But not I,” said Albaric in a voice crushed flat, “for the sight of me is loathsome to the king.”

  Escobar looked at him curiously but said nothing. Indeed, there was little more to be said. I gave Escobar Valor to ride, assisted Mother and Marissa onto their palfries, and myself vaulted onto Bluefire behind Albaric.

  As we rode silently back to Caltor, I noticed that the ferns, instead of thriving green, were curled and yellowing. and the thistles had gone hoary. Yes, it was a warm day at the height of summer, but a winter king ruled the land of Calidon.

  When we reached the courtyard and dismounted, Albaric took Bluefire to the stables, grooms came for the other horses, and the rest of us mounted the steps to the keep, amid stares and whispers on Escobar’s account.

  We found King Bardaric where we expected to find him: sitting in his court of law hearing the petitions of his people. But instead of torc and baldric, he wore a weighty black tunic and tabard, black leggings, and heavy black boots.

  Lifting her long riding skirt with one hand in order to walk, Mother led the way in, followed by Marissa, Escobar, and me. We all hoped, I think, that before the eyes of many folk, and especially in the presence of Marissa, Father might curb his temper somewhat. But Mother and I had cautioned Marissa to stay back by the door. As a guest, if not actually a hostage, she was in no position to anger the king.

  As it was beneath the king’s dignity to observe all who entered and exited the great oak doorway, I saw my father before he saw us coming in, and the sight of him gripped my heart with dreadful force, as if the black garb he wore also darkened the cast of his features, making him morose, older than his years, and, yes, sinister. Even his golden hair and beard seemed dulled, somber.

  Then, as Mother and Escobar and I entered the group of those awaiting public audience, he saw us.

  He recognized his brother at once, for his face contorted and flushed blood red; with catapult force he shot to his feet, and he bellowed forth a roar like that of a great black bear. He drew his mighty sword and brandished it. His scribes dropped their pens and bolted from the room. Even his guardsmen paled and backed away, and peasants scurried to flatten themselves against the walls.

  “Escobar!” thundered the king, his rage at last taking the form of the single word.

  Escobar strode forward to kneel before the throne, within striking distance of the king. Mother and I followed to stand flanking him, one on each side. The king’s wild, flailing glare took us in, and fury deformed his shout. “My wife, my son! Traitors!”

  “No, my Liege Lord and Husband,” said Mother without raising her voice. “Nor is Escobar.”

  Head bravely bowed despite the threatening sword, Escobar said, “King Bardaric, I am your humble servant.”

  The king only bellowed a foul oath and addressed his brother by names even more vile, swearing, “I will kill you! Tell me one reason I should not slay you here and now!”

  Escobar raised his head to speak to his brother with his eyes as well as his mouth. “I spared your life.”

  “What! When?”

  “When I came here with Domberk. When, by some arcane power, the queen prevented him from doing his worst. But no such power constrained me, so it became my task to slay you as you fretted in chains in your dungeon. At any time of day or night, I could have cut your throat, and all the devils of hell know I tried. Yet I could not do the foul deed. I coveted the throne with greed that gave me no rest. I walked the nights with my dirk in my hand, yet as I roamed the corridors of my childhood, I thought of the goodly king I had seen in battle and remembered little Bard laughing and clinging to my leg when I was a stripling, and. . . . I am a warrior, I have killed many men, but I could
not bring myself to slay my brother.”

  The whole court of law hung silent, listening to these words. Even the king stood silent for a breath or two afterward, and his sword slowly lowered.

  But he raised it again. “Yet you admit you came here to claim the throne!”

  “Yes. Domberk had the force, and mine was the title. But I seek it no longer.” Escobar steadily met the king’s maddened eyes. “I renounce any claim—”

  “Bah! Once a traitor, always a traitor. Guards! Seize him!”

  My mouth felt almost too dry for speaking, but I managed. “Sire, he came before you of his own free will.”

  “How dare you!” The king—in that moment I could not think of him as my father—turned all of his fury on me. “You are not my son! You are a traitorous knave! Silence, or I’ll have them take you to the dungeon, too!”

  I felt myself shaking, partly from terror, partly from relief: the dungeon. Escobar was to live for the time being, at least.

  None too gently, the guardsmen seized him by the arms, lifting him off his feet. He did not resist, nor did he cry out, or shout, or sneer, or do anything except meet my eyes, merry-go-sorry, as they carried him away.

  Glowering on Mother and me, the king struck at the air with his sword as if smiting us out of his way. “Go! And I warn you both, stay far from me.”

  I bowed to him, still shaking, and backed away. Mother curtseyed and did likewise.

  CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND

  AS SOON AS I DARED, afterward, with Albaric by my side for courage, I slipped by back ways down to the depths of the keep, to the dungeon. There, by torchlight as always, for no sunlight penetrated that place, I found Escobar shackled to the wall, sitting upon a pile of straw, dour but unharmed.

  “Greetings, Prince Aric,” said a gruff old voice I knew well—Garth’s. “Greetings, Albaric.” Healed of his wounds but sadly maimed by them, Garth could no longer ride horseback. He could only walk in a bent and skewed way, so he now served as Captain of Guards in the keep. I breathed somewhat more easily, finding a friend in charge of Escobar.

  “Garth,” I told him, inclining my head toward Escobar, “this is a kinsman of mine.” As well he knew. “I would like you to keep him in the greatest comfort possible in such a place.”

  Replying, he matched my dry tone. “His Majesty has not ordered me otherwise, my Prince.”

  No torture, Garth meant, no beatings, no meals of bread and water, or not yet. I took a deep breath. “I must keep my fingers crossed, then.” For I hoped that if enough time passed, I might be able to talk to my father and find his heart.

  “Prince Aric,” Escobar told me with a warrior’s dark humor, “I have slept in far worse lodgings than these. All is well enough.” More lightly, shifting his glance to my brother, he added, “Even better would be if someone would explain Albaric to me.”

  I felt a smile comfort my face, and Albaric went over to speak with Escobar through the bars. “I am a fetch, I am told. I think that means I have been fetched from somewhere peculiar. I am sure the guards would be happy to tell you all about my arrival.”

  A sweet voice, Marissa’s, surprised me from behind. “Albaric is all honor,” she told Escobar.

  He inclined his head toward her. “No more so Prince Aric. It would seem I need not have dropped like a cutthroat from a tree.”

  But Marissa had already turned to me. “Aric, are you all right? You looked so pale.”

  “Speak sooth and say I was quaking in my boots.” Smiling, I reached out for her hand; it was like holding a warm nesting dove. “But Albaric played the harp to comfort me.”

  “Good. Your mother sent me to see how you fare. I went with her afterward, you see, for she looked even worse than you did.”

  As well she might, for Mother’s plight was more frightful than mine; I was the king’s son and heir, but she was merely his wife.

  In the days that followed, I remembered how Albaric had said “Some dire event is at hand,” and I thought that it had come to pass. The king’s wrath, far from abating, shadowed my brother’s life and mine and Mother’s like the dark wings of death. Only Marissa dared join him on the dais to eat. I took my meals in the kitchen, and Mother had hers brought to her chamber. Invisible arrows of dread pierced me for her sake and for Escobar’s; if I could not find a way to placate or appease my sire, would Escobar languish the rest of his life in the dungeon, or—or worse?

  The first day I hid in the mews, with the hooded hawks. That night, I slipped cake and ale to Escobar in the dungeon while Albaric stood lookout for me. But rather than thank me, Escobar chided me, “Do not risk yourself for my sake, Prince Aric. Garth sees to it that I am fed well enough.”

  “Has Father come to see you? At all?”

  “No, not even to curse at me.”

  The second day, I skulked in the guardsmen’s barracks. Albaric kept me company, and while the king was in court, we slipped to Mother’s chamber to visit her and Marissa. There we sat like a mute and unlucky four-leaf clover with nothing to say, shadowed as we were by the king’s wrath.

  The next day, I thought I would dare the presence of the king, but from the corridor as I approached, I heard him shouting so hatefully that a servant fled in tears. It would have been foolhardy to go on. Sighing, hoping Father’s temper might abate on the morrow, I turned back.

  But the morrow was no better, and day after day, I dared not bespeak the king, until I felt as if I had lost my courage, or my father, or both. Yet the stranger on the throne was still my father, my troth to him unchanged, and—and I dared not think what might happen. The ring of power hung suspended on its thong against my chest, against my skin, over my heart, and it burned with passion, burned and burned, white hot.

  “It stings like hot iron,” I confided in Albaric one day after suffering the king’s displeasure for perhaps a week, although it felt like much longer. My brother and I had taken refuge in Bluefire’s stall.

  “The ring?”

  “Yes. It feels as if it is branding me, yet it leaves no mark.”

  “Neither does the king’s ire.”

  “Not yet,” I muttered. My brother meant only to cheer, but the words chilled me in a way I could not explain.

  Straw rustled as Marissa came in, and Bluefire stepped aside with a gentle snort of greeting. “The queen is sleeping,” she whispered, as I reached for her hand and kissed her pert face. “What was that about the ring?”

  “It burns like coals of fire against my chest.” I drew it out for her to see. She touched it, then held it in her hand.

  “It feels cool as a white rose petal to me,” she said, puzzled.

  “And it looks as innocent as a wee white lamb,” agreed Albaric, with a quirk in his voice that said he knew better. We watched the ring, as white as milk but flowing, always flowing within its circle, throbbing like a living thing, pulsing like two hearts, then one, and then two again.

  “Let me put it away,” I whispered, for I found it hard to bear the sight—yet no wonder, for everything in that dark time was hard to bear, and the ring burned me more fiercely the moment I tucked it back under my tunic. “Marissa, you should go back inside.” She would be in danger, I thought, if found with me. “When Mother awakes, please tell her I am well.”

  Marissa said, “She knows better, and she is not well, not at all. Never before has King Bardaric failed her so, turning his back, unspeaking, scorning her bed. She says she cannot bear confinement for even one more day; however foolhardy, she must breathe sunlit air again. She wants us to go riding with her on the morrow if we are willing.”

  Given the king’s mood, Mother’s idea was indeed foolhardy; she had to be feeling quite desperate.

  Albaric questioned me with his eyes. I nodded but said to Marissa, “When you breakfast with the king, does he speak to you? At all?”

  “Yes. He is courteous.” She flashed a merry smile. “I am, after all, his bonnie wee lassie.”

  “Then could you bonnie wee tell him that we
are riding out to look upon the sea, as is your heart’s desire?” The king would be mightily wroth, I thought, if we sallied forth without his knowledge, as if in defiance. Better he should be told beforehand. “But if you think it will turn him against you,” I added, “speak not.”

  Marissa smiled up at me. “Gentle Aric, I would gladly join company in disgrace with the rest of you! Certainly I will speak to the king.”

  The morrow turned out to be another sunny day such as I used to think a marvel in Calidon’s brief summertime. Now, it signified only more drought. At least the sunshine meant a respite from the gloom within the castle, but alas, we were a subdued company who rode forth. As if she had no heart for finery, Mother wore a simple kirtle of unbleached wool that barely covered her feet as she rode sidesaddle on Marzipan, and even Marissa in her bright tartan frock seemed downcast.

  “Did it go badly with the king?” I asked her in a low voice once we had passed out of the village, beyond where any peasant might overhear.

  “Not for me, no. He was all courtesy.” But it was plain to be seen on her soft young face that something troubled her. Glancing at Mother and Albaric trotting ahead of us, she slowed Cherub to a walk. I reined in Valor to walk beside her, waiting with an uneasy heart for her to speak.

  When the others could not hear, she whispered, “King Bardaric has decreed that tomorrow at dawn, Escobar is to be put to death. Executed,” she added, “with all the honors of a nobleman.” Irony fraught her musical voice almost as much as horror did. “His head on a block to be taken off by a doomster’s axe.”

  I think I said, “Don’t tell Mother,” but I do not remember surely, for I might as well have been struck on the head and thrown into whirlpools and waterspouts to drown. Some dire event indeed! So direly wrong that I knew I would act, must act, tonight, to save an innocent man and thus betray my father. Betray my father! The king! I very nearly could not bear the thought of being his enemy, and outlaw, a fugitive, even with Albaric at my side, if I lived—but Marissa! Would I ever see Marissa again? If not, then how would I live?