Mythophidia

by Storm Constantine

  ‘Prince Marquithi,’ he said, blinking rapidly.

  I did not respond verbally, but raised an eyebrow. The chamberlain’s goatish eyes slithered away from mine.

  ‘The Council feel - know - that in order for the Prince to assume the crown, the population of our country would be more comfortable with - would prefer him to be married.’

  I sighed. ‘My dear Tartalan, as you know, this is a matter close to my own heart, one that I am currently intent on resolving. No-one wishes more than I to see my son happily wed, but neither will I permit him to be persuaded into an alliance with which he feels uncomfortable.’

  ‘Of course, we all realise the industry you have applied to the subject,’ Tartalan gushed, ‘but, with regret, I must remind you that the waters of time trickle ever to drought... In short, your highness, we respectfully suggest that Prince Marquithi take advantage of the offer tendered by the House of Crooms, and accept the hand of Lady Selini.’

  I had to sit down abruptly. It was common knowledge that the Lady Selini was subject to fits and constant drooling; her father had despaired of ever marrying her off. ‘My lord chamberlain, I must respectfully disagree! As long as I live, I will not see my son wed to a woman with more than one chin! I beg you to remember his status. How would our people react to the proposition of such a homely queen?’

  ‘With favour, I suggest! A homely queen is better than none!’

  ‘I would agree, but you seem to have forgotten this realm already has a queen: myself. For this reason, I feel we can be lenient with Marquithi’s desire to find a wife whom he finds both attractive and companionable.’

  Tartalan rubbed his face in apparent agitation. ‘We are rapidly coming to the conclusion such a woman cannot possibly exist!’ he said. ‘Do you realise how long Council agents have now been scouring every known land for ladies of adequate breeding? Four years! And every girl - all of them eminently suitable as prospective brides - has been summarily rejected by the prince! In fact, I will confess that standards have lately been compromised in the hope of unearthing, in some desolate spot, a woman Marquithi will consent to wed!’

  I closed my eyes for a moment and took a heavy, shuddering breath. ‘Can you not, for one moment, put yourself in my son’s position? Not only has he recently lost his father, but is being harried by insensitive fools to deny himself the chance of love! I can assure you, Marquithi will not be persuaded into accepting the Crooms lump as a wife!’

  ‘By his advisors and councillors maybe not,’ Tartalan agreed, ‘but I cannot imagine him countermanding the desires of his mother.’

  ‘You already know my views on the subject.’

  Tartalan nodded. ‘Indeed. However, it might interest you to know that I myself have been combing the judicial archives. I have discovered an ancient edict relevant to this situation. As I hope you know, my loyalty lies unfalteringly with you and the Prince, your highness, which is why I feel compelled to warn you...’

  ‘I am afraid you will have to remind me of the contents of this edict,’ I said. Of course, I knew there was treachery afoot, but what Tartalan related still dismayed me profoundly.

  ‘In short it states that should an unmarried heir to the crown fail to wed within two months of the King’s demise, the regency falls automatically to the next of kin, in this instance Lord Romolox of Brude.’

  ‘What!’ So they had managed to raise the head of that moronic oaf again.

  Tartalan raised his hands. ‘Believe me, it pains me to inform you of this edict, and I am sure no-one of this House would happily welcome the scion of Brude as King, but you know how some of the older councillors are sticklers for procedure. Therefore, I and my immediate colleagues beg your cooperation. After all, if memory serves me correctly, I recall there is little affection between your own family and Brude. I am not sure how effective the Council’s influence would be should Romolox act imprudently and decide to remove you from the palace.’

  My first instinct was to strike the sly beast with the nearest sharp object, but, because I am queen, I collected myself. Anger would have to be vented later. Some years previously a cousin of mine, having been sold into a marriage alliance with Brude, which she bitterly resented had, through deft application of toxins, reduced her husband’s intelligence to something less than that enjoyed by a vegetable, and had also rendered all children of the family under the age of ten incurably insane, before escaping the Brudish demesne with her maid. Consequently, I had scant appetite to be under the control of that family. ‘Your words do indeed stimulate my thoughts,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to deliver a message to my son, requesting his presence here immediately.’

  The Chamberlain stood up and bowed. ‘I felt sure we could rely on you,’ he said.

  Marquithi had always been a compliant and sensitive child: I had made sure of it. It is imprudent to let careless Fate have too strong a hand in the fortune of kings, so I had always ensured my son’s temperament remained equable, through practical employment of certain philtres. Likewise, I had made sure my late husband had lived a serene and tranquillised life. Therefore, I was discomforted by the tantrum Marquithi manifested once I informed him he should marry the daughter of Crooms.

  ‘My darling, it is quite bad for the complexion to work yourself into such a rage,’ I said. ‘Remember that being royal precludes displays of a brutish nature.’

  ‘I don’t want to marry such a sow! I won’t marry her!’ Marquithi declared, gesturing widely with stiff, angry arms. His slim, delicate frame was visibly shaking, his dark hair tumbling into disarray. I had to turn away. The sight of so much indiscretion alarmed me. Naturally, I shrank from explaining our predicament in too much detail. I had no wish to frighten him, his being such a dainty constitution.

  ‘I fear I must order you to concede, my lamb,’ I said.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, do you want to hurt your mamma?’ I appealed to him with open arms.

  ‘I won’t do it,’ he said, stepping back from me. ‘If I can be pushed around in this manner now, it hardly bodes well for my future as king. I know my youth is against me, Mother, and that many of this court would prefer to see another in my place. Therefore, I must remain steadfast over this matter. It is the only way to gain respect.’

  Poor deluded boy! Still, it was hardly gratifying for me to discover he had acquired a will from somewhere.

  One thing I had learned from the women of my own family in far Loolania; as a lady of standing and therefore vulnerability to the spite and jealousy of other, less important mortals, I should never be without recourse to a competent alchemist. In comparison to their Loolanian contemporaries, the alchemists of Gordania were grievously incompetent, and for most of my married life I had been forced to rely upon my own resources. However, the previous year my sister had sent me a recently graduated student from the Alchemical Academy in Panossos as a birthday gift. Anguin was a serpentine young man, with yellow eyes and an eerie fondness for bones, but who was nevertheless canny and discreet. I kept him in a suite of rooms, high above my own, and now consulted him regularly on matters of dire significance.

  His apartment was approached by a narrow dusty stair, beyond three locked doors. Only Anguin and myself possessed keys to these doors. Coming up the last of the stairs, I emerged through the floor of Anguin’s workroom. It was an arcane place, the ceiling strung with bizarre devices, some of which were astronomical, some decidedly necromantic. His worktables were littered with parchments, books, alembics, athames, roots, herbs, and brass dishes in which he burned his substances. The air reeked of the various fluids and powders he employed in his art; musty, half pleasant, half sour. An enormous open chest stood against the far wall, filled with a muddle of broken bones, all of which I knew to be human despite Anguin’s claims to the contrary.

  Anguin was so engrossed in his work, he did not hear me approach. The sound of my feet was quite drowned out by the angry hissing of a sparking substance he was holding in a small metal tray.
I watched him for a moment or two; his faded yellow hair, tied at the neck, the sweet knobs of vertebrae pressing out against the tawny skin above the collar of his shirt. He had an iridescent pile of dismembered damsel-flies beside him, which he was dropping one by one into the blue sparks.

  ‘Anguin, if I may disturb you?’

  He turned and looked at me slyly over his shoulder. I had to repress a shudder. Sometimes he can look so menacing.

  ‘Your wondrousness, I am ever yours to disturb,’ he said. There is a slight hiss to Anguin’s voice, which is not a lisp exactly, but something distinctly more reptilian. I had never had occasion to inspect his tongue minutely, but it would not have surprised me to find it forked.

  I sat down upon the only chair that was not occupied by boxes, manuscripts, fusty animal pelts, or piles of thin, jointed metallic arms. ‘Anguin, I have a problem which I feel you may be disposed to solve for me. I need a wife for my son. Speedily.’

  Anguin was familiar with this subject, since I had previously consulted him about it. Knowing that all the simpering females of aristocratic birth my late husband’s sycophants had so far presented to Marquithi were all unsuitable to share his bed, never mind his throne, I had commissioned Anguin to concoct an elixir that would make all females unattractive to Marquithi’s eyes. The only good wife was a wife chosen by a loving mother. Preferably, she should be a girl whose like mind would make her a reliable accomplice to the mother, well versed in the arcana natural to womankind. If such a female proved unobtainable, a cowering mouse should be procured; a girl who could be confidently ignored. Intelligence would only be tolerated in examples of the former. Under no circumstances should a son’s wife be in love with him, because she might become prone to acting unwisely. Husbands, like horses or dogs, should be admired for their conformation and, when they have it, their kind nature. As with domestic beasts, they should be cared for with consideration and gentleness, but one should not become too attached to them because then they are likely to take advantage of the situation. Also, you never know when they might die unexpectedly.

  ‘Do I detect a change of circumstances?’ Anguin enquired.

  I nodded. ‘Quite so. I want a girl who is beautiful but mindless, someone of royal birth, but without a royal family behind her. She must be controllable, yet charmingly capricious. She must be an accomplished courtezan, yet a virgin. She must be at our threshold within a few days.’

  Anguin stood up and cupped his chin, tapping his lips with long fingers. ‘Hmm, this is a challenging request.’

  ‘But not, I trust, beyond your capabilities.’

  He grinned, displaying his small, white teeth. ‘Certainly not. In fact, one of my final year projects at the Academy involved a similar difficulty, which I solved with honours.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it. Will you require any special equipment for this task?’

  He pondered for a moment. ‘There are one or two items which might prove difficult to procure in this region. That is, at their proper value.’

  ‘I shall consult my personal treasurer immediately,’ I said. ‘Come to me when you have finalised your costings.’

  ‘Also, I shall require the prince’s foreskin.’

  It was lucky that my late husband had allowed me observe the custom of my native kingdom whereby all male infants are circumcised at birth. I had, of course, kept this scrap of skin as both a memento and insurance against any future filial intractability. It seemed my prudence had been justified.

  I glided through the next few days with calm detachment, confident of my alchemist’s art. I had discontinued the use of Anguin’s elixir in Marquithi’s food and had satisfied the subsequent gust of libido with a stream of catamites who were members of my personal staff and thus to be trusted. Women, I kept far from my son’s apartment, in order to prime him for his bride-to-be.

  One afternoon, the late summer balm turned sour in the sky, and heavy purple clouds bustled in from the west. From my window, I could see that the greenery in the garden glowed unnaturally lush beneath the murk, and the air was full of powerful scents; the loamy earth, voluptuous late flowers, recently-cut hay beyond the palace grounds, putrid offal from the slaughter-houses. I had a slight headache. By dinner-time, the clouds had burst, and a wind had arisen to drive the rain into hard spears that came down at a slant over the gardens. The temperature dropped so dramatically, everyone was forced to don extra clothing in order to withstand the chill in the dining-hall. Rain came down the great chimneys to drip upon the blackened tiles of the hearths. Dogs moaned and licked their paws beneath the tables. Marquithi, dressed in midnight blue, seemed feverish, his pale skin flushed along his cheekbones, his black hair strangely lank about his shoulders.

  Thunder growled like the nightling shades that exist at the boundary between our world and the next. Crooked tridents of sulphurous lightning flashed beyond the windows, while nervous servants hurried wraith-like from the kitchens to load the table with rich viands and wine. The storm was uncommonly violent, indeed almost predatory in tone. Windows rattled, candelabra shook, the air was oppressively damp. One or two of the less spirited courtiers were beginning to look greatly alarmed. I myself felt only a momentous thrill building up within me, similar to how I’d felt when the obsequy-horn had bleatingly announced my husband’s death. Fate was turning a page in her Book of Delusions. I wondered whether my loyal Anguin, having slipped out through the lichened slates, was presently poised atop the palace roof, conjuring up these fierce elements of storm and light. Elaborating upon this fantasy, I imagined him naked, his wet body lissom as a river snake’s, his genitals swinging heavy and fat between his thighs.

  ‘Something amuses you, your highness?’

  I was dragged from my pleasant reverie by Tartalan’s stiff, nasal voice beside me. ‘A private matter,’ I said, dabbing my mouth with a napkin. On my other side, Marquithi stared at me narrowly but did not speak. I forgave him his continuing unfriendliness. Soon, all the knots in our relationship would be cut away.

  ‘Your highness,’ Tartalan murmured, bending towards me. ‘If I might remind you of our conversation the other day...’

  I raised my left hand a fraction and glanced significantly at Marquithi. ‘Being attended to,’ I whispered.

  Tartalan opened his mouth to deliver further indiscretions but, as that precise moment, the thunder suddenly abated. Diners blinked at each other, dazed by the abrupt stillness as much as they had been deafened by the former noise. For a few long seconds, nobody so much as murmured. The only sound was that of the rain patting softly at the windows, like little fingers seeking ingress. Then, the great doors to the hall swung open and a solitary liveried steward, puny in the immensity of the storm’s departure, minced hurriedly towards the high table. He went directly to Tartalan, and whispered in his ear. Everyone had stopped eating, and all eyes were directed towards the high table. It was as if they had all experienced some dire precognition and were waiting for terrible news.

  ‘Well?’ I said to Tartalan. ‘Has some catastrophe occurred to the fabric of the palace? Has someone been killed?’ My voice, which was usually low and musical, sounded loud and harsh in my ears.

  The Chamberlain looked thoughtful and spoke with some reluctance. ‘No, your highness. It seems a stranger has presented themselves at the gates, most insistent upon speaking to the Prince.’

  ‘Oh? Who?’

  ‘A girl, your highness. She says she is a princess.’

  At a brief inspection of the girl, it was hard to imagine why any of the palace staff had entertained her claim, and had not propelled her instantly back into the storm. From her apparel, our little visitor hardly resembled a princess. However, a longer glance at her face and hands revealed she was no gypsy scrap. I had expected some ploy of Anguin’s to come into manifestation, so therefore I was less perplexed than the Chamberlain by the news of this female’s arrival. Indeed Tartalan was clearly astonished when I ordered the steward to accommodate the girl in one of the staff
sitting-rooms until I could interview her myself.

  ‘Is this wise, your highness?’ he inquired. ‘Doubtless we are host only to some wandering mooncalf.’

  I shook my head. ‘Instinct, my dear Chamberlain, speaks to me most emphatically at this time. I feel we should indulge the girl’s request.’

  He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

  Both Tartalan and Marquithi accompanied me to the staff quarters to interview the girl. Under normal circumstances, I’d have never set foot in the servants’ domain, simply because many unprepossessing sights could greet the unwary there. I had little interest in the procedures that ensured a comfortable life in the higher apartments of the palace, because most of them were grossly repulsive. The servants’ quarters were a hot dismal warren of steaming laundry, greasy smoke, and hump-backed scullions, and there seemed too many rooms dedicated to the disembowelling of carcases for my liking. Marquithi berated me during our passage, declaring it was beneath our royal dignity even to view this unprecedented guest, never mind speak to her. I had been encouraged by the way he’d demanded to accompany me though. It was not a response I would have expected from him, and I suspected it might have been involuntary.

  ‘Have a little faith, my lamb,’ I said. In truth, I was beginning to realise there were few lamblike qualities left in my son. Once this matter was resolved, I would have to direct Anguin to concoct a more potent philtre to restore Marquithi’s docility.

  The girl had been accommodated in a small room dedicated to the maintenance of royal footwear, and was seated in a high-backed chair, beside an open fire. She was surrounded by a tumble of boots and shoes, through which the steward made a path for us. The slim little storm-maiden, who did not look up as we entered the room, held my entire concentration. A sodden cloak hung along the back of her chair, and her hair drooped down over her face and chest in damp tendrils. Her gown was torn and muddied, her shoes split along the seams. As I approached her, I noticed that, despite her frail body and sodden condition, she did not shiver. Her body was surrounded by a fragrance of crushed, wet flowers, quite at odds with the odours of starch and cooking meat that predominated in this area.