Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  “It’s because your mother was a gluttonous, beastly thing who forced your father to strike a bargain with a witch—all for a pitiful head of lettuce,” a voice called out from below as though the speaker were reading his mind.

  The prince looked down and spotted a young man sitting astride a magnificent white stallion, his face turned up and his eyes fixed coldly on him. A lifeless smile curled pale lips as the figure—a knight from centuries past, judging from his armor—watched him with grim satisfaction. He’d tucked his helm under his arm, while his other hand idly flicked a long, slender rod tipped with blood. Sunlight was caught in the thick mane of gold hair that tumbled past his shoulders, and if it weren’t for his air of icy malevolence, he could easily be mistaken for a hero of legend.

  “Are you here to help me get out of this tower? How on earth did I get up here?” Alarick called out, feeling somewhat ridiculous that he’d be placed in this position, seeing as how he wasn’t a girl. His question earned himself a moment of incredulous laughter.

  “Most certainly not! Why on earth would you ask that of your own keeper? Stray beyond those walls, and I’ll show no mercy!”

  The words rankled, and Alarick’s blood boiled. “How dare you! You have no right to hurt me! Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, I do know you, you little ninny, and as for hurting you—I just have. See for yourself.” The knight, grinning, waved the rod he held in a graceful arc, the blood glinting in the sunlight.

  Alarick felt a sudden stab of pain in his hands, and he looked down to find his palms red and bleeding, the skin broken where it had been struck violently with something long and slender.

  “How did you do this?”

  The knight merely watched him, clearly enjoying his role.

  “What am I doing here? Why am I being punished for something I haven’t done?” What was this man’s problem, anyway? A false sense of importance? He was only a damned knight, not a nobleman. No, he was clearly a bully, taking pleasure in harassing someone younger who was also forced into a state of helplessness. Regarding the latter point, of course, Alarick couldn’t help but cringe. He wasn’t a girl, blast them all, and he wished that whoever—or whatever—was responsible for his imprisonment would understand that very significant point. He’d been to war, he’d triumphed in the battlefield. He was nowhere near a coddled little pet who needed rescuing, and by the gods, if he had his sword with him, he’d have wielded it with far less mercy than this cocky knight boasted.

  “Because you really can’t choose your parents, and—well—you can’t expect fortune to be agreeable all the time, can you? Now be a good boy and stop exhibiting yourself at the window like a common slut for the rest of the world to see—and finish your lunch before the witch returns.”

  “Lunch? What lunch?”

  “Look behind you, you idiot.”

  Bewildered, Alarick turned around and found crystal lettuce heads awaiting his pleasure in a neat pile in the center of the cell. Had his father—which father, indeed? the chorus of whispers tittered around him—gathered them for him? Were they there as a token of his parents’ guilt? Or were they for his mother, who was most likely tearing away at these things at her own table, gorging herself like a wilderness beast till she exploded?

  After a moment’s hesitation, he picked one up and was treated to more sweet, bell-like sounds as he handled it. Music-like, they made him think of lullabies. His childhood friends. His nurse. Yes, his nurse—the only person who’d genuinely cared for him all those years ago. Where was she now? Oh, yes, dead. Some wretched disease took her well before her time, he remembered. She was never replaced by another living nurse (for Amara had also established herself as that woman’s otherworldly complement), and Alarick was immediately put in the care of his first tutor. An honorable and wise old man, to be sure, but he was certainly no nurse, and his nurturing might have done wonders for Alarick’s mind, but it left much to be desired emotionally. Those were the years before Roald’s entry into his life. Those were quiet, empty hours for the prince.

  And, yes, there was Amara. His long-dead aunt who’d looked after him through the years, a ghostly friend whose presence had become synonymous with tragedy and loss and dreams forever unfulfilled, all sacrificed for…

  For what? Amara had never told Alarick why she was condemned to die. She’d hinted at being accused of treason only because she dared to speak her mind, and for all of Alarick’s efforts at squeezing the complete truth from her, it appeared that Death was too powerful a force with which to contend, and she’d managed to dodge his inquiries with clever equivocation after clever equivocation.

  But he’d loved her all the same, feeling a strange bond with a specter, for in many ways, he felt deep down that Amara’s story and his had a lot more in common than what could be seen on the surface.

  Alarick blinked away the gathering haze before his eyes before the mist grew too thick for him to control. He stared at the crystal head of lettuce in hands. What was he supposed to do with this thing, anyway? Before he realized what he was doing, he was waist-deep in lettuce heads, his hands flying with incredible speed over them, his fingers touching crystalline surfaces and creating their brand of discordant magic while he forced painful memories out of his mind. This was an odd distraction, one that made him wonder if it were meant to turn him into a child all over again.

  It didn’t matter. He needed the distraction. He didn’t want to experience the pain of loss all over again. Gritting his teeth and blinking away hot tears, he tossed a few in the air like toy balls; he rolled others across the floor. A couple of them broke when they accidentally struck the wall, exploding in a thousand brilliant shards that dissolved when touched by the sunlight. But that didn’t matter to him. He reveled in sound and sought to be further seduced by his senses as the loneliness of his childhood got scratched from his mind bit by bit.

  “Do I have to repeat myself?”

  Alarick, sweat-drenched and panting, whirled around and found the knight standing by the window, regarding him with icy rage. The knight snapped his wrist and tapped the bloody rod against his armored leg. At his feet lay a tangled coil of golden braided hair, which he’d used as a ladder to get to the tower cell. A red silk ribbon was woven through the plait—which only ground home the unsettling thought that this long rope of hair once belonged to someone, and heaven only knew what fate had befallen the hapless girl.

  The knight, once again reading his mind, moved toward him with a derisive smirk. “The girl? Gone, I’m afraid,” he said. “The witch cut her hair before pushing her out the window after her lover. Serves her right for luring wandering princes like the presumptuous whore that she was.”

  Alarick stepped back then realized that something—someone?—had just pressed something hard and cold against the palm of his right hand, and he glanced down to find his sword there. It shone brilliantly, its polished surface reflecting his startled face, but Alarick thought little about the enchantment that was at work. He glanced up, holding the sword firmly as he prepared to defend himself. The white knight’s steps didn’t falter, and the cold smile broadened.

  He raised his arm, and the rod whistled viciously just as Alarick lunged forward with a cry, thrusting the sword straight into the knight’s abdomen.

  Alarick sat up in his crystal bed, wide-eyed, damp with sweat, and breathing heavily. What was that all about? Was that a dream? It felt too real. Too real. His head throbbed with pretty echoes of tiny bells, and his ears rang painfully from their violence. When he looked down at his hands, he found them scarred from several lashes.

  “Rest for a few more days, Your Highness,” the watcher in the wood cooed, and the prince shuddered, looking around him in a slight panic. “Then we’ll move on to your next lesson.”

  The wooden man sighed, his eyes fluttering shut, as he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue to lap at the air, tasting the fear and confusion that continued to hang above the prince’s bed. Oh, it was marvelous. Simply mar
velous, consuming this boy’s dreams, his stubborn resistance serving as the most delectable spices.

  Yes, this prince would be broken soon enough. Like the others before him, his mind would be eaten up, the uniqueness of his humanity eradicated, transformed into what the world had long dictated to be his undoubted destiny. Like the countless wildflowers in every meadow, whose appearance showed nothing but sameness and colorful predictability, Alarick would become no better, no worse, than the rest of mortals.

  His mind could very well be broken in the process of his re-education, but at least he could enjoy the freedom that came with behaving the same as everyone else. The price, surely, would be well worth it. Virtue was worth it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Roald sat on the grass and devoured his treasure, taking care to save half of it for that evening’s repast. He recounted his adventures with a voice hushed with sympathy and grief, sharing everything he’d seen and heard and learned about humanity so far, feeling an awful pang throb in his chest when he spoke of Hamlin and Wilmar. He continued to puzzle over it and voiced his thoughts to his silent companion.

  “Nothing about this makes sense,” he said, gingerly rubbing his chest. “Yet I’m supposed to accept it. Learn from it. Turn it into something that will shape the course of my future. I hate it, but I feel so helpless against the world. Sometimes I wonder if I’m going to go mad from the misery that I see being inflicted at will, and I’ve no power to do anything about it.”

  Roald paused and looked away, blinking away the gathering tears. “I’m being turned, Alarick. Someone wishes me to change—desperately enough to mortgage my own soul.”

  Did Fortune turn his steps in Hamlin and Wilmar’s direction? Very likely so. And for what purpose? His goddess would have him learn from the dreadful consequences of pursuing one’s unnatural proclivities. She’d have him terrified enough to swear complete allegiance to her or, if Roald were to stretch his mind further, to women, most assuredly.

  But what if there were other forces at work? That thought didn’t cross Roald’s mind till then, and he quickly pounced on it—for his own sake as well as for Alarick’s. What did these forces want him to take away from that wretched scene?

  Strength? Determination? Faith? Hope? Courage? Roald mulled over those points for a few more moments, drawing an arm across his eyes to dry them just as his spirits rose from unexpected prospects. He was being thwarted—no, his humanity was under threat. His soul wasn’t going to be his for much longer unless he continued to resist or at least developed enough strength to counter a force that was far greater than he.

  “I’ll play the part. I understand nothing. I’m a shell—an empty slate. I’m simply waiting for my mistress to come and reward me for a job well done,” he murmured, feeling anger swell inside him. He’d keep things to himself, of course, lest the goddess overhear him, but her ongoing silence since she’d summoned him and saddled him with the miserable burden of her existence and unhappy dreams only gave him some measure of hope that she’d completely given him his freedom till the time came for her to claim him.

  Roald glanced up at the statue and gave a small start at the sight of little cracks that originated from a tiny gash on the statue’s abdomen. Were those cracks there before? He couldn’t even recall. The marble boy seemed so perfect just the previous day. His eyes followed the cracks and watched them branch off into two jagged trails that cut across the statue’s chest and stomach.

  “It appears as though you feel more than I do,” Roald noted, a little bemused at himself for continuing this one-sided conversation, as he gently ran his fingers over the cracks. “Did I just hurt you with my story?” He looked up at the upturned face. Clouds trailed across the darkening sky, muting the setting sun and casting soft shadows on the statue’s face. There was melancholy there, yes. Pain, perhaps.

  “Hmm. It appears that I did.” Roald suppressed a chuckle despite the tightness in his chest. Indeed, the humor he felt was bitter, and perhaps it was for the best if magic involved itself in his predicament, and the marble youth had taken on the burden of absorbing the pain he was meant to take in. “I seem to have found my mirror,” Roald appended, “though I’m very sorry for inflicting this on you.”

  He hurried off through the trees and found himself once again on his knees to gather fresh wildflowers from the meadow, and when he returned to his haven, he immediately sacrificed the previous offerings to the rippling brook, and the new blooms took their place at the foot of the marble statue.

  “There,” he said with quiet satisfaction, admiring the vibrant colors that were now giving life to the broken old pot. “For Alarick.”

  His eyes fell on the statue’s hands, and while he remembered Hamlin’s gesture of comfort in holding Wilmar’s hand, he convinced himself not to do the same. Hamlin and Wilmar, after all, were lovers. He and the marble statue weren’t, but he felt that the flowers and simple companionship should suffice—unless, of course, the statue substituted for Alarick. In this case, Roald felt himself justified, so he stepped closer and took hold of one cold hand in his. He moved his fingers against hard stone, marveling at the smooth and graceful lines that had been cut by no less than a master sculptor. He stared at the statue’s hand in his, his heart willing those lifeless fingers to close around his in a reciprocated gesture as he believed that Alarick would.

  Swallowing and fighting back another wave of tears, Roald wracked his mind for more bits of memory he had of his lover. The marble boy’s hand, for all its chilly hardness, still felt awfully familiar to him, and fleeting glimpses that were now cooperating with him—glimpses of a boy around his age or perhaps younger, blessed with intelligence and a good heart, with black hair and green eyes, a ready smile that exuded warmth and a special kind of intimacy as well as longing—offered Roald some measure of comfort against his forced solitude and loneliness.

  “I’ll find you again,” he whispered, pressing his lips against the statue’s hand before releasing it and stepping away. It was now dark, and only the rising moon’s light allowed Roald the benefit of seeing Alarick’s representation in all its melancholy splendor.

  “I can stay tonight—just to make sure that you don’t hurt any more than this—and only if you don’t mind.” Words carelessly and thoughtlessly spoken, but Roald couldn’t help but wonder if he said them to reassure himself or Alarick.

  Faint shadows moved across the statue’s face, and the marble boy seemed pleased with that idea. Roald spent the rest of the evening hours listening to the brook and the grass, the trees and the crickets. When he grew hungry again, he finished off the rest of his fruit and ill-gotten bread.

  The grass, the trees, and the incessantly chirping crickets all spoke of great lands far and away, of heroes whose names would never be forgotten so long as the gods offered their gifts to those destined to keep mortal history gloriously alive. They spoke of the strange and the exotic, of the commonplace and the mundane, and Roald absorbed it all, his mind filling with wonder. He felt like a child all over again, and though it was a feeling that was familiar largely because it had been forced on him just a few days ago, Roald couldn’t help but take shelter in the old and familiar, with the world and all things unknown hovering just beyond the comforting shadows of the trees.

  To a young man his age, listening to nursery stories was a silly little exercise in boredom. But he also understood their purpose and appreciated the simple value they offered with regard to the sanctuary of imagination and the lessons they offered in hopes of greater wisdom among those who’d care to listen.

  He lay at the statue’s feet through the night once he’d grown tired, listening to the moonlight on the grass. Eventually he fell asleep, Alarick’s name still on his lips.

  * * *

  “A test, you say?” Kummerene asked, surprised.

  “Yes, a test,” Liebella said. She cocked her head to the side as she frowned at the new offerings left at the base of her sister’s altar. More infants lost, she saw wit
h a pang. More grieving mothers. Yet she’d heard no such reports from her cousin, the king of the underworld—at least, the accounts of souls walking past the shiny obsidian doors to his world said nothing about a rise in infant mortality.

  Curious, she thought, stopping in front of a neatly-folded set of baby clothes. They were faded but still in good shape, which could only mean that the child must have been lost at an older age, and it was likely that the grieving parents had attached themselves to their child’s earliest years. A devastating glimpse into their hearts, to be sure, but Liebella didn’t quite sense anything right about this particular offering.

  This child still lives, she told herself. His parents grieve for him—for something about him that they perceive to have lost.

  “What kind of test are you thinking about?”

  “If you wish to judge where your protégé is in his—ah—development, perhaps you should measure his progress.” Liebella glanced at her sister and flashed her a sly little smile before setting her gaze back on the baby clothes she’d been observing. “Send him off on a quest of some sort, something that fits your purpose in taking him on for your consort. Or something that his father would approve. His goal and yours coincide, after all, don’t they?”

  Liebella didn’t bother to look at her sister as the latter pondered her words. Her attention had been caught—and in a most undesirable way, at that—by the things that a simple set of baby clothes had brought to the fore.

  “A quest,” Kummerene repeated slowly. Yes, she was seriously considering it now. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Liebella felt anger swell inside her, and it was all she could do to pinch her mouth in a tight line to keep herself from spitting out curses at those mortals—stupid, misguided mortals—for it wasn’t her shrine, and the prayers weren’t meant for her.