by Andi Adams
"Now get dressed. He does not like to be kept waiting."
Humiliated by the shackles now binding her hands and her feet, she shuffled along the corridors lined in mirrors. For the first time in her recent memory, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection. Her hair, braided and twisted atop her head in an intricate coif, articulated a regal air, which matched the expensive fabric of her new dress.
She exhaled, the noise barely audible along the cling and clang of the metal bindings.
I've lived a lifetime since my days with Agrippine. Now I am to face a new damnation. I just wish him to make it quick. If I am killed then, at least, I will be free.
She looked back to the mirror, looked herself in the eye, and a pang of guilt sliced through her. She shook her head to quiet her internal voices.
How dare I be so glib about my possible execution. Oliver died for me. Grog died for me, and I will not have their deaths be in vain. I will fight. I will return home to my brothers. They need me, and I need them, and it will be for all of us that I will find a way to escape.
A weight lifted and, even though she still knew death was more than possible, she straightened her shoulders and held her head high. She had not only physically injured the prince, but worse, had embarrassed him in front of his entourage. She was certain those actions would not be taken lightly, but she prepared to accept the punishment.
The corridor opened into a Great Hall, which was also lined in mirrors and gilded in gold. The sun streamed in hazy beams through the windows that spanned from floor to ceiling and reflected off the adjacent mirrors. The court members lined the walls, their stares glued to the stranger shambling up the aisle. She shifted under their scrutiny, aware of her vulnerable state. The room swallowed her, and the people watched like predators.
And at the head of it all sat the prince on his golden throne.
Pompous. Arrogant. Utterly despicable.
His expression lingered between a scowl and a grin – no doubt still offended by her recent attack and yet clearly delighted by the opportunity to punish her.
Three guards prodded her forward until she stumbled only a short distance from the prince. Though she did not want to show fear, she kept her head lowered in hopes to appease his pride.
"That dress suits you better than those disgusting rags you had the nerve to wear before. And your hair — you could almost pass for a lady. That is if you weren't a criminal gypsy peasant." He sneered while tapping his fingertips together, pensive as if pondering his next move for a game of chess.
She fought to keep her gaze to the ground, staring at the metal links that held her feet in place, but she couldn't help peek at him through her eyelashes. She said nothing.
"What to do with you. Hmm." He was enjoying making her squirm. She could hear it in his voice and his prolonged display. He rubbed his hand over the red gash on his face.
"What is your age?"
"The Earth has compassed the sun now eighteen times in my lifetime, Monsieur."
"Your knowledge surprises me. How is it that a girl who comes from such squalor has had the means for such a well-rounded education? I know for certain, by the brief conversation I had with that dwarf, the education was not a universal luxury in your household. How odd that the woman would have been the one to benefit."
At the mention of Grog, Genevieve forgot her politesse and raised her gaze to defiantly lock eyes with the prince. "Do not speak of him, Monsieur."
"And what if I do? What do you plan on doing to me if I don't heed your rule?"
She eyed the scar on his face, gave a small smirk, and kept her attention there until he shifted uncomfortably. It was evident he wanted to grow furious by his twisted features and stiffened posture, but in an effort to not draw any more focus to it, he snickered. They both knew, in this state, she was powerless.
He rose from his throne and paced in front of her. "The reason I haven't had you killed yet is I find your brazen constitution quite… entertaining. And a bit mysterious. Never have I known a girl to possess such zeal. It intrigues me." The way he said girl made Genevieve's stomach turn.
He stopped in front of her and snagged her chin in a rough grip to pull her face to his. He lowered his voice. "And it doesn't hurt that you are so exquisite." He glared at her with eyes the color of storm clouds. "But remember, you are in no position to be making demands. I have known many a beautiful thing in my lifetime, and I yield for none of them." With his thumb and index finger still crooked around her jaw, he punctuated his point with a powerful shove so her head snapped to the left with the forceful thrust.
A squat man with an oddly high-pitched voice piped up from the crowd. "Umm, excuse me, Your… Your Highness…"
The prince turned to find the voice's origin. "Who speaks? And what matter is so pressing you dare interrupt this judiciary procedure?"
Silence.
The prince's voice called, "Well, who was it that spoke? Speak again or I shall seek you out and have you publicly flogged."
The man stumbled forward and spoke again. "A thousand apologies, my lord, for my impulsive interruption, but I have a very urgent piece of information that may aid you in this proceeding."
The prince scrutinized the man, eyeing him from feathered cap to weathered boot, but even after the inspection, his face conveyed an impression of puzzlement. "How long have you been a member of this court? Why do I not recognize your face?"
"Sir, I came to your court only a half a year ago, after I had fled from my own kingdom. I have not been here long, but since you took me into your kingdom and your court, my allegiance has shifted to you over the land of my birth. I can tell you for a fact the woman that stands in front of you is not who you think she is."
Genevieve's heart knocked against her rib cage. Her only saving grace had been her anonymity, and if this man were to reveal her identity to the prince, though her life would most likely be spared, her captivity would surely be guaranteed. She glanced over her shoulder and offered the stranger a silent plea, but he seemed indifferent to her prayer.
"All right then, speak your piece."
"Sir, she is the only daughter of the late King Gerard Renault and the stepdaughter of Queen Agrippine von Malheur. Your Highness, this girl is the only heir to the kingdom of Arcana."
The court's collective gasp reverberated off the walls in the Great Hall, and the prince's eyes widened. Before another word was uttered, the prince cracked Genevieve across the face with an open palm, forcing her to the ground.
Unable to keep her balance between the force of the blow and the shackles still binding her feet, she fell down hard. The impact, more than the slap, knocked the wind out of her, and she fought to catch her breath. She cupped her hand to her throbbing cheek and bit her lip to keep from crying. A few courtiers stepped away from the fallen girl, while several ladies clapped their hands over their mouths in shock. But not one came to her aid.
"How dare you keep this from me?" the Prince said. "Almost did I take your life without another thought and then come to find out you are the key for which I have been searching. I have been waiting for years to take the kingdom of Arcana."
He snapped his fingers, and the two guards jerked Genevieve to her feet. Her cheek throbbed, and she was unable to assuage the ache, the heat of the handprint searing her skin. Her eyes watered, but she would not give him the satisfaction of tears.
The prince disregarded her discomfort. Instead, his thoughts consumed him, and a mischievous grin spread across his face. "After our marriage, I will be the ruler of the two largest kingdoms in the land. I will be the King of Kings. I will have all of the power, all of the fortune, and little will exist to threaten my supremacy." But as soon as he refocused his sight on Genevieve, his grin melted and snapped back to rage. "And you almost kept that from me.
"Guards, take her back to the bedchamber. I have arrangements to make for our impending nuptials."
As the guards gripped Genevieve by the crook of her arms, she dropped a
ll her weight to the ground. She wailed, kicking and bucking, like a woman on fire. The guards tightened their grip and dragged her from the hall.
24
Agrippine remained shrouded in the shadows until she was certain no one was around. Nervously checking left and right, she crept out of hiding to attain her prize – Genevieve's (still-beating) heart. The spell was such that it would trap the girl in a guise of death, undetectable to the human eye. Her physical state read as one who was undeniably dead, when in fact, her heart and her body was in the deepest of slumbers. It kept her heart silent and her skin cold. It was the perfect trick.
She shambled closer to the site from the concealment of the forest, but slowed as she noticed something was not right. Shattered glass. Trodden flowers. Dried blood. But no girl.
Agrippine felt faint. This could not be happening, not again. She couldn't have come so close to her victory only to have it snatched from her now. In a panic, she dropped her satchel to the ground and routed through it, tossing miscellaneous trinkets to the side until she found the mirror. She gripped it as tightly as she could in her stiff hand and raised it in front of her face.
"Where is she? I killed her and now she is gone. Mother, fetch me a prophecy. Tell me where she is."
Her mother's voice grew into its low tone. The mirror swirled and flecked with a cloudy glow as the voice revealed the prophetic message.
Though Your Highness hath sworn to have killed her
your enchantment was countered by chance
for the apple dislodged when they dropped her
and the crash broke her free from the trance.
* * *
It was magic that put her deep under
but magic that saved her as well,
it seems Fate fought hard to revive her
from the power of your tricky spell.
* * *
And now she has been taken captive
by a Prince who is as vain as you.
He's discovered that she is a princess
and his key to your kingdom, too.
* * *
That by marriage he'll possess the power
to reign all with authority
so their wedding bells soon will be ringing,
bound to him through captivity.
Her hand shook with rage, the mirror now quaking in her grasp. She let out a howl of rage. The frustration pulsed through her limbs, and she didn't know whether to sink into the ground to cry or smash the mirror with all her might.
The voice of her mother interrupted her breakdown. "Agrippine, it is because, in this physical state, you are not recognized as Queen. You've been missing for days. If that prince marries Genevieve, he will rule your kingdom. You cannot let this happen. You are running out of time. Now, stop sulking and get moving."
Agrippine jammed the mirror back in her bag. She didn't want to hear her mother. She didn't want to hear reason. Her world was crashing, and Agrippine just needed some time to devise a plan.
She winced at the thought of more travel, especially without knowledge of direction. She still had the horse she had stolen, but without an idea of where she was going, there was no guarantee of finding Genevieve. She pulled the feather from her pocket once more and recited the spell again. The feather turned thrice and fell, this time the quill pointing east in her hand.
East?
Her mind whirled, the prophecy repeating through her mind like a haunting chant.
A vain Prince? From the East? Dear God, no.
She mounted the horse as quickly as she could and took off into the darkness of the forest. A mixture of emotion flooded her conscience, but she didn't let it slow her.
"There's no where to run, you little brat. Now, you're mine."
25
Her bedchamber was sweltering, and the bulky fabric of her ivory dress clung to her skin like molten lead. Genevieve startled when the door swung open.
"Come, he is ready for you." The châtelaine ushered Genevieve toward the door with a hearty shove.
"Please, don't make me do this. I'm not ready, I can't–"
"Enough. Don't make me get the guards to haul you down there by force." Her glare indicated she was not exaggerating. Genevieve moved forward, the shackles clanging with every step.
She was thrust into the Great Hall once again and was astonished by the changes that had taken place in only a few hours. White lilies covered the hall from floor to ceiling, the room tinged in gold and illuminated by hundreds of flickering candles, their light reflecting off the gilded walls.
In perhaps any other situation, I would actually find this room to be quite lovely.
She wanted to laugh at the absurdity, at all that she'd been through these past few weeks. Could it get any worse? And the answer continued to resound 'yes' with every passing catastrophe. She let the smirk of disbelief tickle the edges of her mouth, but kept her eyes cast downward, watching the chains between her feet.
The king was already seated at the front of the Hall when the fanfare swelled to announce the prince's grand entrance. The king stood and beckoned Genevieve with a swift gesture of his hand and a curt twitch of his chin, like he was calling a dog. He was a handsome man, with a defined jaw line and hair the color of gold. She could see where Alaricus got his good looks… and his winning personality. When she was in front of him, he grabbed her chin and tilted her face to the left and right, assessing her.
"She'll make a fine wife. Her beauty is certainly worthy of you, son."
Alaricus beamed like a small child who glowed in the praise of a hard-to-please parent.
The king continued, "Not only does she have a worthy face and figure, but I'll be content that Arcana is finally under Heiglet rule. With the agreement of marriage between Agrippine and King Gerard so many years ago, the intention was always to acquire their kingdom without force. But she was useless, as she has always been. Finally, we have acquired it our own way and do not need her any longer." The king clapped his son on the back and addressed the congregation. "As you know, it is written as law, on the day the prince is to marry, I am to turn my crown over to my successor, my son."
The elation that shone through Alaricus' wide grin made Genevieve want to vomit. Repulsion pooled in her stomach and inched its way up her throat in the form of a tight knot. The only consolation was, when he smiled, the scar she'd given him across his cheek became more pronounced.
The wedding ceremony was quick, but the astringent residual taste of wine from Alaricus' forceful kiss stained her lips. When the bishop asked the couple to seal the marriage with a kiss, Alaricus wasted no time seizing Genevieve by the shoulders and pressing his lips to hers. To him, she probably tasted like triumph. She realized this was not how she pictured herself getting married. Her heart sank as the thought made her insides tighten and burn like she'd consumed poison.
Oliver. Her one and only true love. Gone. It forced to the forefront of her mind vivid memories, which made her heart ache even more. Wrapped in the arms of this repulsive prince, Genevieve closed her eyes and pictured Oliver's wide smile, his chestnut hair, his strong hands. She imagined the passion of his kiss, his soft lips pressed upon hers, the heat of his breath, the delicate touch of his fingers grazing her skin. Alaricus' barbaric, forceful mouth-attack was a far cry from Oliver's tenderness. She winced at the comparison.
After the marriage and the pomp and circumstance of Alaricus' coronation, Genevieve was ushered back to her bedchamber to prepare for the wedding banquet. She glanced out the window to gauge how much time she had before nightfall. The room was stifling. With her head in her hands, walking back and forth, she wracked her brain for a plan. But pacing only made her hotter. The ankle cuffs continued to rip into her ankles and blood soaked the dress' hem. She sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. She had to get herself out of this mess and fast. But she knew it'd be nearly impossible to escape. Too much security. Too many eyes watching.
She looked again to the window hoping desperately the answer to
her problem or some inspiration would materialize. Could she somehow climb out? Jump, perhaps? Not a chance, not if she wanted to survive.
The descending sun beamed over the expansive landscape and, from her window, she could see that the castle overlooked a village nestled in the valley. The town and its people were much closer to the castle in this kingdom than in Arcana. She stared out at the town, imagining what it would be like to roam free as she pleased, though she knew it was impossible. Even if she was trapped here and forced to be queen, it was unlikely Alaricus would ever let her wander the kingdom and its villages alone.
Maybe if I promise to behave, he'll take me one day. One day.
A tapping on the window startled her from her thoughts.
Genevieve turned to the tapping's place of origin and saw a small brown and gold bird perched on the window's ledge. The red and black marking on its face was distinct and familiar.
The bird tapped again.
"I… I've seen you before, little bird. Can it be?"
The small bird tapped, once more, on the window with its beak. She rushed over to let it in, the shackles now feeling weightless with her elation. She unlocked the clasp on the sill and pushed the window with all her might. It only opened a small crack, no matter how hard she tried to force it further. It was enough space for the small bird to wedge himself inside, but certainly answered her question as to whether or not she could escape through the window. The bird hopped into her outstretched hand, and Genevieve examined it carefully.
"Are you the bird who has been keeping so close to me over the past few weeks? Are you here to help me?"
Genevieve paused a moment. The bird, still in her hand, looked at her like it was awaiting her instruction.
Am I really talking to a bird like a friend? ? Am I to believe this is the same bird who helped me before? Am I going insane?