The Cracked Slipper

by Stephanie Alexander

  Let me apologize again for my conduct when last we were together. It was wholly my fault. Please do not worry. Nothing need be different or strange between us. You can trust I will never put you in such a position again. I am, as always, at your disposal.

  Her disappointment grew as she reread the note. If she hoped for a declaration of some sort she would not get it. She tried to be sensible. He was right. There was no hope in all this.

  She left the bathing room and gathered some stationery on the way to her desk. She sat down and picked up her quill and ink, and on second thought put the thick vellum aside and took out a piece of scrap paper.

  Dear Sir,

  As I said on that day, your actions caused no offense. It was a mutual transgression, and you are right, it should not happen again. I bid you know you remain in my highest regard.

  She folded the note and held it to her lips.

  “Here, Chou. Please take this to Frog.”

  When the parrot had gone she lit a candle and did as Frog had asked. Dorian’s note curled up and disappeared into a pile of ash on the table. She pressed her fingers against her temples, trying to relieve the pressure behind her eyes.

  Eleanor was determined there would be no discomfort between them. She went straight to Dorian at the first opportunity and asked if he would join her in the library to review some books on the relationship between unicorns and dragons.

  “I would love to hear your opinions. The theories on the Bond are so varied,” she said.

  He put on a cheerful face, even through his halting voice. “As I have said, I am at your disposal.”

  “This afternoon, then. Chou and I will meet you there.” And so they continued their friendship that was not a friendship. Barely tolerable, but better than nothing.

  Eleanor’s interest in the Bond did not wane. Whenever a topic caught her attention she immersed herself in it. Last spring, she collected books on unicorn handling. After the dreaded attack in the garden, fairies became her subject of choice, then Mendaen culture. Two weeks after her return from the Dragon Mines she had barely skimmed the surface of the ocean of literature on unicorns, dragons, and the royal family. She sat by a wide window in one of the studies adjoining the library waiting for Dorian to return from the Paladine and join her. Chou dozed on the arm of the chair. She propped her feet on a painted wooden stool and turned the pages of a battered book in her lap. Scale, Steed, and Scepter: Theories on the Triple Alliance of Cartheigh. She sipped a cup of tea as she read.

  Caleb’s Horn is a neither legend nor a reality. It is true the object itself exists, and is kept under the heaviest of Unicorn Guard at Eclatant Palace. What no one knows, however, is whether it has the powers ascribed to it. Most scholars believe the Horn holds the key to the allegiance of the unicorns to the Desmarais family.

  It is not written, in any book, exactly how Caleb Desmarais secured the loyalty of the herds. It is commonly thought he must have had the help of magic. Some say he was a magician himself, while others believe he had outside assistance. Believers agree, however, on the role of the Horn in his success.

  Unicorn foals shed their horns several times as they mature. According to the Horn legend, Caleb took the first horn of the great stallion Eclatant, the one he shed as a foal under Caleb’s care, and sealed it in a piece of warm Fire-iron. Through some unknown sorcery the mystic residue in the chunk of Fire-iron bound Eclatant and his descendents in service to the Desmarais family. The Fire-iron hardened, became impenetrable, and is now known as Caleb’s Horn. Believers say as long as the Horn remains in the hands of the Desmarais family, the unicorns will be loyal.

  The royal family neither confirms nor denies its powers. It is possible even they are not sure whether the Horn is the key to their power. The unicorns themselves, when asked, offer no explanation for their dedication to the royal family. The Desmarais, however, are taking no chances.

  Eleanor knew of the Horn, as it was one of the famous magical objects in Cartheigh, but her current obsession lent it a new fascination. The key to the Bond! Right here at Eclatant, she thought. But where? She’d never seen any sign of it.

  As she mulled over possible locations the study door swung open. She looked up with a smile on her face, and caught herself before it could falter. The visitor was not Dorian, but Gregory. He informed her that her presence was required at lunch, as some visiting Kellish duke had unexpectedly arrived with his wife in tow.

  “I need you to converse with her. About womanly things,” Gregory said. He looked over her relatively simple afternoon gown. “You’ll have to smarten up.”

  She closed her book. “Of course,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. She stood, and it occurred to her that the answer to her question was in the room with her. “Gregory, where does the family keep Caleb’s Horn?”

  “The Horn?” Gregory repeated. “It’s in a secret chamber, here in the palace. Why?”

  “Oh, I’m just interested. I’ve been reading up on it.” Chou landed on Eleanor’s head and yawned. “Would you take me to see it?” she asked.

  Gregory shook his head. “No. Few people ever see it. Only my father and I may touch it. I doubt a woman has ever crossed the chamber’s threshold.”

  “I’m a Desmarais now. Doesn’t that count?”

  “Unfortunately not. I can’t think of anyone besides the Unicorn Guard who has…oh, except Ezra Oliver.”

  She scowled her opinion, and Gregory laughed. “Come now, he’s been the Chief Magician for a century, and it’s a magical national treasure.”

  She gathered her belongings, and Chou flapped around her head like a living hat. “Please,” he said. “Must you bob so?”

  She ignored him. “Reading about it is one thing. Seeing it is another. Can’t you ask your father?”

  Gregory’s nostrils flared, and she could tell she would get no further. “You have a unicorn. You’ve been to the Dragon Mines. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I suppose it will have to be,” she said.

  “Try reading about something else. Sewing perhaps. Or maybe childbirth. Both useful topics.”

  “Darling, I think your green silk gown would be just perfect for today’s lunch,” said Chou. “The one with the lace bodice? Don’t you agree?”

  Eleanor took Chou’s hint. She excused herself before she said something she would regret.

  Dorian knew it was a bad idea to accept Gregory’s request for a fencing match. Gregory hated losing, but he also hated when someone else lost for him, and Dorian never let him run away with any contest. Gregory had years of training with a sword, and few men at court other than Dorian presented a challenge. Gregory’s practice in the ring couldn’t compete with Dorian’s combat experience, or his long arm span.

  They had both stripped to their undershirts in the lingering LowAutumn heat. Dorian squinted against the glare of the washed-out sky and wiped at the bead of sweat trickling down his nose. Gregory took a cloth from Melfin, mopped his own face and threw the cloth across the deep grass of the topiary garden. It snagged on one of the tall hedges and waved at both of them like a white flag of surrender. Dorian wished Gregory would just accept the inevitable, but the prince ran a hand through his wet auburn hair and tightened his grip on his sword.

  Dorian lifted his own sword and the ching of Fire-iron on Fire-iron rang through the garden again. Advance, retreat, feint, parry, counter parry, thrust, thrust, thrust. Gregory’s nose was a few finger widths away from Dorian’s own. Blasts of air shot into Dorian’s face through their crossed swords. They strained against each other for a few moments, until Dorian turned the edge of his blade and bore down hard. Gregory’s sword spun out of his hands and landed on the gravel path several paces away. The thud was embarrassing, even to Dorian. The sword could have done Gregory the favor of a dramatic, upright landing.

  “Fuck an ogre!”

  Dorian raised his eyebrows. “That was colorful, even for you.”

  Gregory retrieved his sword, took another cl
oth from the servant, and wiped the dust off the thin blade. He called for wine and whiskey. Melfin retrieved the drinks from the wicker basket left under a decorative cherry tree. Gregory handed the whiskey to Dorian and they both sat in the grass. It was not so lush this time of year, and scratched at Dorian’s rear-end through his calfskin leggings. The gardeners couldn’t drag enough buckets of water out here to keep it green this late in the season. Flecks of brown shot through the dark green.

  “Out with it,” Dorian said. “You never stew over anything. You might strain something.” Dorian hoped to insult Gregory out of his foul mood, but to no avail.

  “That business with Thomas Harper Rowe last summer. I can’t put it from my mind. It didn’t seem right. Why would Rowe steal those jewels? His family is one of the richest in Cartheigh. He’d been trying for a position in Oliver’s office for years, and he was so close to it.”

  “Have you discussed it with your father?”

  “He says what’s done is done. Won’t hear a word. All he cares about is a new Desmarais heir. Humiliating, having your bloody father question your vigor. As if it’s my fault she hasn’t caught ag—er…yet.”

  Somehow Dorian managed to keep his tone light. “The fate of the nation lies in your lap, man. You must start procreating.”

  “No.” Gregory shook his head. “Even if Eleanor pushes out ten children in as many years it won’t matter.”

  Dorian blocked that image from his mind and focused on his best friend in front of him. “Your father would do better to use the talents you have than try to make you into something else.”

  Gregory’s mouth twitched. “Don’t get all sweet and sugary on me.”

  “I’m being about as sugary as this whiskey,” Dorian said. “You’ll be a great king someday. I’ve been with you on warships, in the Dragon Mines—”

  “In the whorehouses.”

  Dorian choked on his whiskey. He spit a mouthful on the grass. “Not quite the picture I was painting.”

  Gregory called for a hunk of cheese and some bread. He chewed thoughtfully for a while. “You know,” he said once the bread disappeared, “I don’t want you to exert yourself flattering me. You might run out of things to say.”

  “Oh, no, Your Highness, I could write a sonnet.”

  Gregory laughed. “Cheeky bastard. Your poetry is fairy shit. Even I know that.”

  “Forgive me if I disregard your opinion,” said Dorian. “I think the last book you picked up voluntarily had no words. Maybe just some sweet little drawings of fairies? A wolf chasing after a few pigs, perhaps?”

  Gregory finished his wine in one long swig. “Who needs books when I have you? When I’m king we’ll rely on my charisma and good looks and your brains and we’ll be unstoppable. Cartheigh will rule the world.”

  Dorian chuckled.

  Gregory stood and offered Dorian a hand up. “Thank you, friend,” he said. “I am fortunate among princes to have found the likes of you.” He punched Dorian’s arm, hard. “As long as we’re being sweet and sugary. Melfin! Clean this shit up. I want to visit my wife.” He winked at Dorian. “No time like the present to fulfill father’s great wish, eh?”

  Dorian trailed behind the whistling prince on the short walk back to Eclatant. His arm throbbed, but it was pithy compared to the ache in his chest.

  CHAPTER 22

  Shenanigans

  On another fine morning a few days later Eleanor and Gregory and their friends lounged on blankets on the south lawn sharing a picnic breakfast of scones and fruit. Eleanor lay back and watched the fat clouds disappearing behind the great silver bulk of Eclatant. She ran her fingers through the grass.

  “What a day,” she said. “I think everyone should visit the North for a month so we can all appreciate Maliana. It may be crowded, but at least it’s dry.”

  “Your description will have to be enough for me,” said Eliza.

  “You never know, Liza dear, you may feel adventurous one day.”

  “I doubt it. I don’t want adventure. I just want a full night’s sleep.”

  Eliza’s son, Patrick-Michael, was two months old. She and Patrick-Clark had brought him to Eclatant for a visit and the king’s blessing. He was a sweet, fat little thing, but he drove his mother hard with his night feedings.

  “When will Patrick-Clark reclaim your bosoms?” teased Anne Iris.

  “Just wait,” said Eliza. “Someday you’ll be sitting in my chair and I won’t have any sympathy for you.”

  “I have plenty of sympathy for you. I just have more sympathy for Patrick-Clark. Besides, when I have a husband and a baby there will still be enough of me to go around.”

  Brian choked on his sweet bun. “Please, Anne Iris, I’m trying to eat.”

  “Speaking of eating,” said Margaret, “Have you seen the deliveries to the kitchens? The cooks are preparing for the Harvest Fest invasion.”

  “Oh, already?” sighed Eleanor.

  Gregory tickled her and she sat up. “Sweetheart, you sound positively unfestive.” He draped an arm around her and she glanced at Dorian, who was suddenly fascinated by his teacup.

  “The Waxing seems like just yesterday,” Eleanor said. “I guess we missed the peace and quiet.”

  Christopher Roffi joined the conversation. “You Cartheans are so formal. You are needing a good Svelyan Fest.”

  “What makes a Svelyan Fest?” asked Raoul.

  “Many, many beers.”

  Eleanor smiled at Dorian’s laughter. It was a sound like no other. “The townsfolk have those Fests every night,” he said.

  “Perhaps that’s what we need. Let’s start the Fest right, and put our princess in the mood,” said Gregory.

  Dorian grinned. “You know, Greg, that’s the best idea you’ve had in a long time.”

  The next night they met in the royal stables at nine o’clock. Eleanor, Margaret, Anne Iris, and Eliza all wore leggings and tunics. Eleanor had been surprised when Eliza decided to join them.

  “Should you leave Patrick-Michael?” Margaret had asked.

  “I think the wet-nurse and Patrick-Clark can keep him for one night. Besides, I once heard beer thickens your milk.”

  The women were nervous, for they knew the king would not approve of their plan. Margaret jumped when the barn door swung open. Orvid Jones, the apprentice magician who had accompanied Eleanor and Gregory to the Dragon Mines, crept inside and shut the door behind him. He was a timid man, quite unlike most of the blustery magicians Eleanor had met. She liked him.

  “Orvid, thank you for coming,” she said.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” he whispered. “I must return to the Covey before Oliver notices I’ve gone.” Orvid shed his shyness once the conjuring began. He gazed at all four women like a theater director sizing up his actors. “This won’t do. You’re all far too obvious.”

  He set to work disguising them. First he magically shortened their hair, and Eleanor’s blond became bright ginger. Both Anne Iris and Eliza were wrapped in baggy tunics that hid their ample cleavage. Margaret squealed when the stiff whiskers of a small goatee sprouted on her chin.

  “Don’t worry,” said Orvid. “These disguises never last long. You’ll be yourselves by morning.”

  Eleanor thought of Rosemary’s spellwork at the Second Sunday Ball as she ran her fingers through her short hair. “I feel naked without it.”

  “Sweetheart, don’t tease me.”

  Eleanor turned around and burst out laughing. The men had already been subjected to Orvid’s handiwork.

  Gregory had sandy blond hair and a long handlebar mustache, and wore a seeing glass. Orvid had curled both Roffi and Brian’s hair so tightly they appeared to have sheep attached to their heads. Brian had shrunk while Raoul had grown, so they were roughly the same height. Dorian, however, had the worst of it. His dark hair hung down his back and over his shoulders, and a thick beard obscured most of his face.

  “Mister Finley is well-known in Maliana, so I disguised his more recognizable features
,” Orvid explained.

  “Orvid would hide the tiger eyes behind a lion’s mane,” said Gregory.

  Dorian scowled. “I won’t be able to find my mouth to drink.”

  Hilarious tears streamed down Eleanor’s cheeks. “Don’t worry,” she choked out. “We’ll all assist you.”

  A groom brought their horses, and each lady climbed up behind one of the men. Margaret sat nervously behind Christopher Roffi. She didn’t grab his waist until the last possible second. Eleanor stifled another laugh when his horse lurched sideways and Margaret threw her arms around him. She’d waited for months for the opportunity.

  They trotted behind the barn to one of the smaller exits in the back wall of the palace. Gregory had spoken with the guard and he waved them through. They cantered down the Hundred Heralds Street in high spirits.

  “How did I end up with no fair lady’s arms around me this evening?” lamented Brian.

  “We aren’t so fair tonight, brother,” called Anne Iris as she brushed Dorian’s overgrown hair out of her face.

  “I’m sure you’ll find someone willing before long,” said Raoul.

  They crossed Smithwick Square and headed for the more decent taverns marking the first blocks of Pasture’s End. Gregory and Dorian reined in at a substantial brick establishment where scantily clad women lounged in hammocks on the wide front stoop. The sign hanging from the eaves read The Ogre Bar.

  Eleanor dropped to the ground. “Charming. Does that describe the décor or the clientele?”

  Dorian’s white teeth flashed through his beard. “A bit of both.”

  The reclining ladies called to them as Roffi opened the door. Eleanor waved away the smell of burnt stew and peered through the thick pipe smoke.

  The Ogre Bar was a great square room, full of long wooden tables and benches filled with men of all shapes, sizes and ages. Most were drinking thick ale out of heavy tankards. Behind the bar were several voluptuous young women and a huge bald man in a dirty white shirt. The scar cutting across his lip showed his two jagged front teeth.