by Hal Bodner
Aleron echoed the sentiment, though he considered his bed an infinitely preferable post for the duration.
The criers shouted the news until they were hoarse. All within the castle and without were soon aware the spell would commence with the twelfth bell of noon. The fairies also reassured prospective sleepers the castle and its inhabitants would be protected during their slumber.
At a quarter hour before the allotted time, Aleron and his father mounted the steps in the throne room, dressed in the full regalia of state. The King sat, his ceremonial robes draped from his shoulders, the crown heavy on his brow. Aleron followed suit, adjusting his sword and trying to settle his starched collar more comfortably. His father stared fixedly at the platform on which Talia lay, surrounded by sweetly perfumed garlands. In Aleron’s opinion, Talia’s makeshift bed had the appearance of a bier.
All who remained in the castle waited tensely for the bells to chime the hour.
This was his doing, thought Aleron as the first peal rang out. He had taken the buckle from someone who had cursed his family and he had used it in desperation. He ran and re-ran Ina’s words through his mind, to the point where he was more certain than ever of her meaning, but there was no indication how his actions might save his friend. What was beyond doubt, however, was that his mother lay on the verge of death and a castle’s complement was readying itself to be ensorcelled. What had he done?
As the last peal echoed into silence, Aleron closed his eyes. He felt nothing. A moment passed, then another, but still nothing happened. He opened his eyes, ready for his father’s laments on the fairies’ failure. But when he turned to the King, his father was sleeping. He lifted his arm to touch his father’s shoulder and a thousand motes danced in the air. He froze, staring at the thick layer of dust coating his sleeve and even the back of his hand. He turned his hand, in mingled wonder and fear. More dirt slid, some to fall upon the ground and some to hang in the air. Raising his eyes from the sight, he realized that dust also lay thick and grey upon his father’s robes.
“Um …”
Aleron turned, startled. A tall, angular and pimpled youth stood close by. He seemed anxious.
“I … have been asleep,” Aleron said. He wasn’t sure if it were a question or a realization.
“Indeed,” the youth agreed.
The prince brushed grime from his doublet as he tried to recover himself.
“Pardon, I am Prince Aleron. My sister,” he gestured towards Talia, “lies cursed. We joined her in sleep, by the grace of fairy magic.”
“Yes, I know,” replied the stranger. Silence followed.
“And you are?” Aleron prompted.
“My name is Olwyn.”
The prince studied the uncommunicative youth. He was some years short of Aleron’s age—well, of the age Aleron had been before he had slept—but he must have come from afar, by the strangeness of his clothing. He also looked more likely to trip on the sword he wore than to brandish it.
Then Aleron started. Though unfamiliar in style, Olwyn’s tunic was emblazoned with an unmistakable coat of arms. A red shield, quartered, with golden symbols of a lion rampant and sheaf of wheat in the upper quadrants, a trefoil and falcon in the lower …
“You wear the bearings of the Red Prince,” Aleron said.
Olwyn smiled. “Oh yes, I am he. Well, I guess I would be the grandson of the grandson of the Red Prince you knew. But the title remains mine.”
Aleron swiveled his head, marking the still forms of the other inhabitants of the castle. “But why am I awake, when all others still slumber?”
“Ah,” said the Red Prince, and blushed.
“Ahhh,” Aleron mirrored as realization dawned.
“Well, with your hair so long and a beardless chin …,” Olwyn mumbled.
Aleron raised a hand to his hair, thinking it must have grown while he slept, though why his bristles … but his hair only sat to his shoulder. It was true that Olwyn’s hair was cut quite a bit shorter and a soft moustache edged his lip, though his chin was also clean—perhaps in deference to a nature still more inclined to sprout tufts than support a full beard. Aleron envied the Red Prince his low-necked tunic and the soft shirt riding high beneath it. The stiff collar of his own shirt scratched.
“Did you not notice my sister, the Princess Talia? She lies yonder,” Aleron said, again gesturing towards garlands and princess, dulled alike by the accumulated grime of a century’s passage.
Olwyn sighed. “I know it’s my duty, to take a wife and father heirs,” he said. “But I’m not sure I’m entirely ready.”
Aleron stared at him. “Then why did you come?”
“Oh, you know. Mother insists a wife would make a man of me, and King Eldred’s description of the beauty he lost, fairest and most beloved of all who saw her … I had hoped, maybe …” He kicked the ground gloomily.
Aleron’s heart thudded. “You have viewed her, then, and she does not entrance you?”
“Entrance me? Interest me would be enough. If you ask me, she looks like she would be a petulant shrew.” In the ensuing silence, the Red Prince belatedly remembered who he spoke to. “I mean, I’m sure she would be a fine wife and mother … “
“Your candor is refreshing,” Aleron assured Olwyn, his head reeling while his spirits soared. What had Ina said? Talia would sleep for more than a lifetime. Was it possible her fairy-gifted charms might only last a lifetime? Might this magical slumber signal a repentance of the error of charming Talia when she was but a babe? Or might the removal of her gifts be part of the christening gifts the fairies had bestowed upon him? Hope flared along with a terrible yearning, for those who slumbered to awaken liberated from his sister’s spell. But would they?
Aleron regarded Olwyn, who grimaced in response. The prince doubted the unpromising youth would agree to kiss others of the castle retinue while Aleron watched, especially as Aleron couldn’t have explained the request. Still, the pimpled fool had been effective in rousing Aleron …
“Have you tried kissing her?”
“No, I only kissed …” Olwyn hesitated, continuing in an anxious rush. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? I don’t usually kiss strange men. But it’s been such an odd day. The roses outside bowed and parted their thorns at my approach, then I walked into this sleeping castle, to find her lying over there and you seated beside the King, and frankly, of the two of you … “He faltered.
“I won’t say a word,” Aleron promised. He had to control the urge to shake the peculiar fellow and yell at him to kiss his sister.
“Oh good, thank you,” Olwyn said. “Well, duty calls, I guess.”
With a sigh, he turned and loped to the podium. Bracing himself, he picked up Talia’s hand, swiping at the dust of years with distaste, and pressed his lips in a perfunctory peck. He displayed all the passion he might put into kissing an eel.
Aleron almost laughed as his sister stirred. Of course Olwyn’s heart was pure; it held not a speck of desire for Talia. At Aleron’s side, the King also moved. The prince gripped his father’s dust-covered arm.
“Father, the curse is lifted,” he said as the monarch blinked awake. “Talia has secured her Red Prince. And, Father …” Aleron braced for his hope to be disappointed. “Stefan didn’t realize the import of what he was doing. Talia asked him to bring her your crown as a dare. He was jealous of Prince Eldred and thought to win her favor by delivering on her request, but that was all. He has no army; his house does not conspire against us. Please, he has learnt his lesson, and well. I beg you, do not make him hang.”
“Stefan?” The King was still regaining his bearings. “I had forgotten him.” He considered his son. “The earl and his family have long been friends of this court. You are sure of what you say?”
“I heard her ask him, but he swore me to silence, to protect Talia’s honor.”
The King sighed. “I had thought you would try to intercede for your friend, in disrespect of my law. Yet I believe you.” He smiled. “My son, you a
re grown into a fine man, to cleave to honor and duty though burdened with this knowledge. But why did Talia not tell this to me?”
“I begged her, Father, but Talia feared evil gossip and to lose the Red Prince’s regard. But now she has her match.” Aleron waved towards the podium, where Talia was brushing at her bare arms. A sour expression twisted her features.
The King’s face darkened. “And well it is for her. To pose such a dare was thoughtless indeed, but to say nothing and let the earl hang, to cause such a rift between our family and the noble Duke’s … she is lucky indeed to be sheltered by a future husband.”
Aleron spared another glance at the couple as he cajoled a passing man-at-arms to bear witness to the King’s word, to enable him to free his friend before a written pardon was produced. Talia appeared as unhappy as Olwyn had been, scowling at the lack of attention from her husband-to-be, the steward he had fallen into conversation with and the castle servants attending to their duties with scarcely more than the odd relieved look in her direction.
It occurred to Aleron that Ina’s buckle would make a fine betrothal present for the Red Prince. None bar Talia had marked the precious trinket and if she spoke against her brother, all would think her addled. Laughing to himself, Aleron left Talia to discover her new condition.
When the door to the cell was flung open, Aleron greeted a haggard Stefan with a light heart, wide smile and mercifully loosened doublet. For his part, the young earl threw his arms around Aleron’s neck and hugged him tight, weeping, as he was told of Talia’s betrothal and his own pardon. The guard and man-at-arms looked away from such unmanly behavior, though Aleron was sure they sympathized. He quickly bundled his friend onto the staircase leading from the dungeon.
“As one nobleman to another, you stink, and are as bristled as a boar,” Aleron was saying when Stefan halted on the stairs. The prince turned. “What, surely I don’t offend? You have been too many days in a cell, with or without a century in slumber. ’Tis clear you need a wash.”
His banter faltered at Stefan’s expression.
“Aleron,” the earl said, reaching to cup his friend’s face as if in wonder, “you are the best of men. You tried to warn me of my folly, watched over me when I persisted with it, then secured my pardon when things went awry.” His tear-bright eyes searched Aleron’s. “Yet these past months, nay, years, I have treated you ill. Chasing a princess, I forgot what an exquisite and noble prince stood fast by my side. Ever my friend, now you have saved my life and along with this worthless trifle, the honor of my family. Though you have had cause to doubt me, I swear I am your man. Now and forever. Body and soul.”
Aleron stood unable to breathe, almost hypnotized as Stefan moved closer, his hand shifting to the prince’s nape.
“But whisper your heart’s desire,” Stefan murmured, “and I will deliver it. Anything. I promise you.”
Aleron stared into those so-familiar eyes. A well-known pain lanced his chest. His cause was lost. He couldn’t speak the words, now or ever. He stood speechless and immobile, unable to act.
Stefan broke the stillness with the movement of his free hand.
“What is this?”
Aleron’s eyes followed as the earl’s fingers found the open neck of the prince’s doublet and tugged at a scarcely visible edge. A kerchief, slightly soiled, pulled loose. Both recognized the earl’s love token as Stefan drew the fabric from its place over the prince’s heart, where it had rested for a hundred years.
The prince wanted to snatch at the kerchief that Stefan dangled like a limp flag. But it was too late.
“Your heart’s desire. Tell me,” Stefan pressed.
Aleron couldn’t deny what the material had revealed. “You,” he breathed, helpless and hopeless.
The earl smiled.
“Your wish is my command, Highness.”
He pressed his lips to Aleron’s, gently, experimentally, before drawing away to study the unbelieving prince’s face.
“Alas, I think you did not believe me,” Stefan murmured. “Must I prove that I am your man?”
He kissed the prince again, this time with passion. And the knot of pain—such a constant companion that Aleron had thought it a part of him—started to unravel, then to dissolve in the heat of his friend’s ardor.
Far above them, the castle’s bells began to peal in celebration. In their resonant chiming, Aleron heard the echo of Ina’s laugh.
About the Author
Adelaide-based Fay Lee followed the adage that “the best science fiction writers are engineers” Now, after two decades of developing technological understanding, honing research skills and learning to write on demand, the need to write fiction is asserting itself with the insistence of a slowly blossoming bomb. Fay divides the time remaining from exorcising the plots and people demanding to be let out with reading, gardening, riding her bike, engineering work, avant-garde knitting, baby-sitting the grandkids, running the odd bike art festival, feeling guilty about not studying Spanish or Mandarin and—most recently—embarking on the winding path that will hopefully lead to a PhD. She pines for a cat and to travel more, but recognises that these are mutually incompatible without serious advances in genetic engineering, teleportation, or the responsibility levels of her neighbours’ children.
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Little Beauty
A retelling of “Beauty and the Beast”
Matthew Hughes
A pounding on the door woke her. The lady of the house rolled over and covered her face with a pillow. Such inconveniences were alien to her. Since her father’s shipping business had gone belly up, she had still been cared for. Her father waited on her hand and foot, but she deserved his attention. She was his favorite, after all. Although she did have two sisters and a brother, Belle would always be the chosen of the litter. But on this night all of that did nothing to stop the incessant pounding upon her door.
Rather annoyed at having had her sleep interrupted at such an awful time of the night, Belle climbed out of bed and wrapped an overcoat around herself. She lit a candle and stepped out of her room into the cold, damp hallway. She shivered. In the old days the house stayed warm, well lit and fully staffed. Once, Matelot Imports had been the biggest, most successful company in the country. They had lived in a mansion in the hills, surrounded by servants who catered to their every wish. The house never got cold, because a fire always burned in one of the half dozen fireplaces scattered around the structure, with a servant nearby to keep it stoked.
This house was something different. Her father had failed her, and she never missed an opportunity to remind him. She was the most beautiful girl in the county; everyone told her so. They had called her “little beauty” since she was old enough to walk. Such beauty did not deserve to be locked away in a drafty old shack. If he had agreed to the offer of one of her suitors, and promised to smuggle hashish into the country, they would now be in an even larger mansion with more servants. Her father stuck to his morals, so now they found themselves crammed into a tiny little shack near beggar’s row. A hurricane sunk one of his ships, along with a fortune in merchandise, and left them penniless. The other ship, Belle’s Bounty, had been missing since the same storm.
“I’m coming!” she snapped when the knocking came again.
Earlier that day word had come down from one of the port cities that Belle’s Bounty had arrived in the harbor only the morning before. The eyewitness said she sat low in the water, which possibly meant she was loaded down. One good shipment could be just what she needed to get out of this shack and back where she belonged.
The knocking had just begun again when Belle threw the door open. A small, cloaked figure on the other side cowered away from her. The hood of his cloak left his face concealed in shadows. When she held the light up to get a better look at him he turned his face away, blocking the light from his eyes with one extended hand. A giant emerald ring on one finger caught her interest.
“Madame Belle M
atelot?” the man asked.
“Yes, what do you want at this ungodly hour?” she asked.
“One of your father’s many creditors dispatched me,” the man said. “Belle’s Bounty and everything she carried has been claimed to pay off your father’s bad credit. That takes care of all of his debts except one. My employer. He has detained your father as a debtor, and unless you agree to come meet with him, your father will be handed over to the magistrate and will likely be sent to debtors’ prison. You will be all alone.”
“I don’t need my father,” she said. “He got me into this mess in the first place. Let him pay his debts and I shall go live with one of my brothers or sisters.”
“We attempted to contact them, Madame, and they turned the messengers away,” the man told her. “It seems no one but your father, and my master will take you in. Perhaps they have tired of your personality.”
Never having been spoken to in such a way, Belle was taken aback, but she was not one to take insult lightly. She grabbed a broom, which stood close at hand, and struck the messenger over the head. The small man jumped backwards and cackled. She swung at him again, but this time he was prepared and sidestepped the blow. She prepared for a third attempt, but he reached into his cloak and withdrew a beautiful diamond necklace.
“If the love of your father shall not sway you, perhaps this will,” the man said, dangling the jewelry in front of her. “My master is an extremely rich man. One of the richest in the whole country. He is also single and would like to be married. His bride will be showered with gold and jewelry, no doubt.”
“A rich man in need of a wife? Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
***
The messenger had a carriage waiting in a nearby alley. It was gigantic and black, with two beautiful stallions harnessed to the front. The driver, like the messenger, wore a hooded robe which concealed his features. Normally Belle would have been suspicious, but the promise of wealth drove her. The freedom of her father mattered very little, he was simply someone who provided her with things, and he had ceased to adequately provide for her when his business went under. On the other hand, if she managed to convince her future husband to help him get things going again, she would have two wealthy men to dote over her. She considered these things as the carriage traveled through the deep dark forest.