by Hal Bodner
“A game of dice, then?”
“’Tis like watching my blood and flesh depart me.”
Aleron peered through the window. Stefan was referring to Prince Eldred’s coat of arms—echoed today in Talia’s red gown—and the two white horses the couple rode.
“I fear, my friend, you have reached profound depths of melancholy, if your allusions are brought so low. Your pining does you no good. Come ride a while or let us practice with bow and sword; recover your spirit and a man’s courage. Show her your mettle.”
Stefan flushed. “You mock and cut me! You know nothing of love, of a heart’s anguish, but lash me again and again with your disdain.”
His angry response startled the prince, enough for his patience to finally snap.
“What know you of how I love, or what travails bother me? My pain I mastered long ago; I am not unmanned though my cause is lost.”
Curiosity distracted Stefan from his own troubles. “You, a prince, thwarted in love? Who? When? Why did you not tell me?”
“It matters not, my cause is lost,” Aleron said. “I will not mention it again.” Even if he had wanted to say more, no words would fit.
Stefan snorted. “You play me for a fool with a ploy of lost love. Your heart has never beaten for another. I’ll not waste pity on you.”
This time, Aleron was angered. “No, I’ll have no pity from you, when you dish that meal up so richly for yourself. You, who pine for the most worthless creature in this realm, a girl who has ever toyed with you and strung you as a puppet. Close your eyes but once, heed your sense but a little, and you would know she’s never cared for you. You should be glad to see the back of her.”
“You lie!” Stefan shouted, his fists balling. “She loves me; I have had it from her own lips.”
“Yes, the lips that even now kiss a prince and will smile at you tonight as he pours sweet whispers into her ear. Those ever-traitorous lips of hers—which you would believe over every sense in your body and any words of mine. I cannot fight the spell she casts over you, but I’ll not stand to watch you embrace it. Enjoy your misery without me.”
Aleron stalked from the room with a face flushed with anger. He headed for the stables.
His stallion was unsaddled, but the bay that Stefan favored was just returned. He hesitated only a moment before taking the horse, ignoring the shout the stable lad let out as he mounted.
“Away!” He pressed his heels to the horse’s flanks.
The bay leapt forward, power surging smoothly beneath the prince. He raced the horse from the castle across the plain, exulting in its strength, the wild freedom of its gallop. But the freedom of the ride could be only a temporary distraction. As for the rest of the day … the sun was warm, he’d follow his own suggestion and visit the lake, if only to skip stones across its surface.
Aleron reined the horse to a canter, turning towards the trail through the oaks. His thoughts pained him. Stefan had just been another trophy for Talia, a demonstration to her brother that she could have anything of his—even his friend—just by wishing for it. Now that she had set her eyes on another plaything, she had discarded Stefan, but the young earl was still firmly bound to her. Would his friend ever be free of her spell and the changes it had wrought in him?
Aleron could scarcely remember the boy he had met so long ago, when they had both been sent to study arms and strategy with other princes and sons of nobility. The best of friends—until Talia decided to steal Stefan away. She had enjoyed forcing Aleron to become part of her games.
Lost to his brooding, Aleron didn’t notice as the bay entered the shelter of the glade, or how the grass bent and whispered despite the lack of a breeze. A fleck of gold caught his eye. He nudged his mount towards a familiar rock, the earthy scent of mushrooms crushed by his horse’s hooves perfuming the warm air. The rock should be in shade now, surely, but there must be a gap somewhere in the canopy, because the outcrop seemed almost to shine in the autumn light.
A cloud passed over the sun. In the brief shadow, the stone glowed even more brightly A cold chill owing nothing to the season passed through the prince.
Afterwards, it seemed to him everything happened at once, though fast heartbeats separated the first event from the last.
He tugged at the reins, urging his horse away. A bird screeched; the bay reared; the damaged girdle snapped. Aleron plunged to the ground, all too aware he was falling onto the slab, seeing in his mind’s eye the fairy circle hidden in the gently swaying grass. Picturing the depression that must be concealed in the crown of the stone, beneath a mantle of moss, ready to catch the blood that would spill from his body as his head met the rock, the altar, the tombstone …
Then there was darkness.
***
Aleron woke to what must be a dream. He was sitting amongst richly brocaded cushions, in a large silken tent, the white drapery billowing. Apart from him, the tent was empty, the only furnishing being a table set with a chair at either end and a basket in its center. The silence was ethereal. Or sepulchral.
After a while, he stood. Not a breath of breeze disturbed him. It took several moments before Aleron registered the absence of candles. Yet the room was brightly lit, with no sign of shadows. He walked to the table. The basket contained fruit, but this was fruit as he’d never seen before. He picked up an apple as large as a melon, observing the shining uniformity of its skin, deep red and as polished as enamel. Such a wondrous fruit ought to be sampled.
“No.”
The voice arrested his motion more than the word. A woman stood by him, as pale and silver-haired as a wise woman, but with a body as smooth and firm as a maiden’s. She reached for the apple with a slender hand, plucking it from his grasp with long and elegant fingers.
“If you would leave the land of the fairies, you must not eat of our foods,” she said. “Sit.”
Aleron did as he was bid. The woman occupied the other chair, then smiled.
“I think you are not truly awake,” she said.
A wave of her hand scattered motes of light like dust …
Aleron blinked. “Where am I? Who are you? What are you?”
“Really, Prince Aleron, can you not guess who I am?”
He studied her as a thought gathered.
“Ina,” he whispered at last.
She seemed pleased. “Yes, Ina. The eighth fairy to attend your sister’s christening.”
“The fairy that cursed her,” he countered.
He had heard the rumor, spoken only in hushed tones and darkened corners, and had thought it no more than a tale. Now he was talking to part of that fable. A sudden thought: he should be wary.
“Cursed? Or merely prophesied an unpleasant surprise?”
“How can you have spoken prophecy, when another fairy changed it?” He seemed unable to hold his tongue.
“I was weary and mistook the vision. My sister pointed out the error, no more.”
She waited, expecting … What? The one question he dared to ask no-one else? Aleron licked his lips before asking it.
“Ina, why do I alone see Talia truly?”
She spoke as if he were a child, to be asking the obvious.
“It would not do for a brother to succumb to his sister’s charms. Your mother and father also see their daughter differently to others,” she added, “but no parent sees their child truly.”
Aleron digested her answer.
“Father has banished spindles from the castle. With such precautions, your prophecy cannot come to pass.” Suspicion flickered in his breast. “Why have you brought me here?”
“We did not summon you, Highness. You must know a small part of the fairy world intrudes into yours. We heed the line sworn to protect it. Prince of this line, your pain begs us for release.”
He frowned. “The stone that injured me is yours …” And he wondered if in his own world, he lay dead.
Ina smiled. “The stone is a gateway, birthed by the pain of your heart. Though it took blood to open t
he portal, we still owed you your christening gifts. Rejoice in your receipt of these. Your body is as you feel it here, whole and well.”
Her words were some comfort. It would be churlish, he supposed, to mention their gift merely reversed the damage wrought by fairy magic.
“But what remedy for my heart’s pain might I find here?” Aleron asked.
Ina flashed him a look he knew from Talia. “Have you no clue?” she asked. She stepped close, as if he might have failed to notice the wispiness of her clothing, the bountiful swell of her body, the perfect curve of her naked limbs …
Flushing, he turned away. “You mock me.”
Ina laughed, and the tinkling of bells echoed in her mirth.
“Indeed I do, young prince.”
She placed something on the table, pushing the object towards him. When the pale fingers lifted, they revealed a large buckle, superbly wrought in gold and precious stones. Amidst a geometric pattern of dazzling intricacy, a lion faced a falcon.
“Take it carefully, prince. The tang is sharp; it is made from a spindle.”
Aleron didn’t reach for the gift, instead meeting Ina’s violet eyes with hazel green. “I will not harm my sister.”
“Not even to save someone you care for?” Her gaze was fathomless.
A shiver traced his spine. “What do you mean?”
“Princess Talia will not die, but she will sleep for more than a human’s lifetime. A hundred years—no more and no less. Possessing this buckle does not commit you to fulfilling the prophecy. But a spindle’s prick is all it would take to provide Fate her chance. Take the buckle, young prince. You may find reason for what must be to come to pass.”
He sat undecided for a long moment. Her amethyst eyes remained locked on his as his thoughts swirled.
At last he stood, bent to reach for the buckle—and fell forward, as if thrown into a well, to land shoulder-first in a sea of grass. He lay for a while, shocked and winded, as he tried to get his bearings.
The bay was grazing peacefully, securely saddled. There was no sign of the rock. Only the buckle pressed hard in his fist told him he had not had some strange dream or fevered fantasy.
As he recalled the strange events, Ina’s words reverberated like distant thunder. Aleron clambered to his feet and hastened to the horse. Every instinct he had screamed at him that something was amiss. He mounted and unleashed the bay’s speed once more, but this time in need. Danger stalked someone he cared for.
***
Aleron arrived at the castle a scant hour after he’d left.
The first he noticed was how the stable hands refused to meet his eyes. He hurried to the keep, where the evasion of servants increased his unease. Casting around, he cornered a chamber maid.
“What has happened?” he demanded.
Seeing no way to avoid him, she was forced to answer. “’Tis the Earl of Brecht, Highness. He is to be hung for treason.”
The words came as a physical blow. Aleron staggered, the maid taking the opportunity to scurry away. The prince took long minutes to recover his wits. He started to walk, then to run. Into the kitchens, down the stairs to the cellar, across and down another flight. To the dungeon.
The guard stood and half drew his sword, allowing the weapon to slide back into its scabbard when he noted Aleron’s own lack of arms.
“Your Highness,” the guard murmured, his tone wary. The prince’s friendship with Stefan was no secret.
“I must speak with him,” Aleron said.
“Sire, I cannot …”
“I do not ask you to release him, but I must speak with him. Please. I give you my word he will not escape on my account, call another to watch us if you will, but I beg you, let me talk to him.”
The man hesitated, then drew his key. “Your word I will take, Sire.”
Stefan looked up when the door opened. Hope mingled with shame crossed his face as Aleron entered.
“Stefan, what is this?”
“They’re calling it treason, Aleron. ‘Twas just a prank. A dare, to prove my courage and show her my mettle.”
Aleron winced. The words he had used just this morning.
“I meant nothing by it,” Stefan gabbled, beside himself. “Talia asked it of me; you know how she likes trinkets.” He stopped, and swallowed. “She promised me my heart’s desire,” he whispered.
“For what trinket?”
“Your father’s crown.”
Aleron groaned. Stefan must’ve been summoning his nerve to try for it. No wonder he’d reacted badly to Aleron’s advice.
“You fool, know you not that the crown is a badge of authority? To take it is to say you deny the King’s power. You might as well have taken the throne itself!”
Stefan turned red-rimmed eyes to him. “But only if I kept it, not if I gave it … she’s our princess … and now they say … they tell me I will hang.” He swallowed once more. “What have I done? What can I do?”
“Have you told anyone Talia asked it of you?” Aleron asked. “The act would not be treason if …” The words stuck. He cleared his throat. “My sister could not have been seeking to take the throne,” he said, and the lie sat heavy on his tongue. Talia may well have thought to claim the realm as her own; she was foolish enough to convince herself any and all would follow her.
“I cannot speak against her,” Stefan said, “Much less say what she offered. None know of our closeness. Your father might think the worst, better I die than he think …”
Aleron said nothing. He strode to the locked door and rapped on the hardened wood, ignoring the entreaties of his friend as the grim-faced guard swung the door wide.
The prince found his sister in her rooms, admiring herself in a mirror. She flicked her hand at her lady-in-waiting, sending the woman scurrying. That she preferred to talk to him alone told Aleron she’d guessed his business with her. She feigned otherwise.
“What do you want, brother?”
“You can save Stefan. Say you but wanted the crown for its prettiness, you thought it a precious trifle, all would see it as a foolishness on Stefan’s part …”
“Why would I?” she interrupted, studying the effect of a brooch with her newest gown. “To admit a confidence with Stefan, when I have the Red Prince ready for the taking? T’would not be wise.”
Aleron’s temple throbbed. “He will hang.”
The princess shrugged. “He is your friend, not mine.”
Aleron swallowed, his mind cool despite the hot fury within. Ina’s question echoed in his ears: Not even to save someone you care for?
“I will trade you for his life.”
Talia arched her eyebrow as he drew out the buckle. Avarice swept her face as she saw the design.
“Give me that!”
She didn’t notice how his hand wavered as she snatched the trophy from his palm.
“Why, my Eldred will …”
Talia shrieked once as the tang drew a drop of blood from her finger. Aleron caught her in nerveless hands as she swooned. Talia’s lady-in-waiting came running at her mistress’ cry. She took one look at the limp princess and screamed.
***
Amidst the shrieking and wailing, Stefan was forgotten.
Aleron blamed himself, loudly, for not having protected his beloved sister—after scooping up the buckle, lest its wondrous design raise questions. But all others in the castle were too bewildered, too grief-stricken to wonder if he might have had a part in the tragedy. After all, why would the brother of the most favored of princesses possibly want to harm her?
Suspicion immediately fell on the evil fairy, Ina, and the brooch Talia had been admiring. But even certainty of the disaster’s cause would bring no recourse.
“What will we do?” Stefan asked, distraught, when Aleron brought news of the sorrowful events.
“The princess is laid in state in the throne room, to allow all to pay their respects,” Aleron told him. “A delegation of seven fairies arrived yester-night. They say she will awaken whe
n a man of pure heart kisses her, and he she shall marry. The Red Prince has tried and failed and has left the castle with a broken heart.”
Stefan looked hopeful. “Help me escape this cell and I would surely succeed.”
Aleron was grim. “I fear, dear friend, should I manage to free you from here, your attempt would be more likely to awaken my father’s ire than my sleeping sister. What I know of your regard for Talia does not strike me as showing purity of heart.”
Stefan scowled and would’ve argued, but Aleron was continuing.
“This morn, my mother collapsed from the strain and the physics report her to be gravely ill, perhaps even to death. The fairies have said they can cast a spell over the entire castle, so its inhabitants will sleep while Talia sleeps and awaken also with her.”
Stefan nodded. “So the princess will not wake to strange faces and unknown people. That is well.”
Aleron said nothing. Left to die by his sister, Stefan still thought only of Talia. It galled, deeply.
“Are you sure you could not let me kiss her?” Stefan asked. He amended his request at the look on his friend’s face. “Perhaps if I were to kiss a kerchief, you might press it to her lips?”
Stefan’s wistful but unswerving hope eventually wrought Aleron’s agreement. The reluctant prince had to supply his own kerchief since Stefan was bereft of one. He tried not to grimace at the passion Stefan inflicted upon the square of material.
“Such scant regard is all I can send,” the young earl said as he handed the fabric to his friend.
“The love of one such as you is priceless,” Aleron said, “I shall guard your token well.”
He tucked the scrap securely, to ride against his breast. Stefan smiled a miserable thanks as Aleron left the cell.
***
The fairies tarried in their arrangements for only the morn, long enough for those whose close ones lay outside the castle to depart, but not so long that the waning Queen might succumb to her sorrow.
“I shall occupy the throne during our slumber, so my beloved Talia will wake to know her family is with her,” the King declared amidst the preparations.