by L. R. Patton
No one knows that a rider is coming.
PRINCE Virgil sits alone in his bedchamber. It is large and roomy, about the size of Hazel and Theo’s humble cottage.
Hazel and Theo. He misses his friends. Especially Theo. Longing curls around his throat.
If one were to peer inside the door of Prince Virgil’s chambers, one would first notice the extravagance. The walls are painted with spectacular flourishes, blue against a color the same shade as the cream Cook warms on the evenings Prince Virgil asks for his sleeping draught. The bed is clothed with the finest blue velvet, which was Prince Virgil’s favorite color as a boy, though he has since favorited green. The bed itself is large enough to accommodate a whole family. It is sunken the slightest bit, right up its middle, where Prince Virgil sleeps, most nights, with his face toward the golden ceiling.
One would also see a boy, sitting in the place where he is most known to lie, his legs crossed beneath him. One would see him turning something over and over in his hands. If one were to draw closer to the boy, one might see that what he holds is a mysterious talisman, carved in the shape of a blackbird, tied onto a blue string. One would see the tears, glistening jagged paths down his smooth cheeks.
Where did he get this talisman, one might wonder?
Nowhere, our prince might reply, for the truth, dear reader, is much more difficult for our prince to embrace. The talisman, you see, was given to him by his best friend, on a birthing day two years ago. Even now, as he sits cross-legged on his bed, turning this talisman over and over and over again in his hands, he is trying to convince himself that the blackbird really did come from nowhere, that a boy called Theo, who happened to be a good friend, never even existed at all. For believing this new reality, though it is not a reality at all, is easier for our prince than the knowledge that his best and only friend might possibly die—because of him. To create a new reality, where a boy named Theo never existed in the first place, is to absolve himself of all guilt.
And yet, there is this talisman, given for protection. Given for friendship. Given for love.
He remembers well the evening his friend placed it in his hands. “Where did you get this?” he had asked Theo.
“Someone gave it to my father long ago,” Theo had said. “For protection in his wanderings.”
“That is odd,” Prince Virgil said. “A blackbird for protection?”
“Yes,” Theo had said. “Blackbirds do not mean in other lands what they mean to Fairendale.” To Fairendale, blackbirds mean death.
“I could not wear this,” Prince Virgil had said. “It would not bring me protection.”
“It is a magical talisman,” Theo had said. “It will protect you always.”
“But my grandfather,” Prince Virgil had said. “He was killed by a blackbird.”
Theo, of course, had heard the stories. He did not quite believe them. A man killed by a blackbird? What sort of curse might that have been?
“All the more reason to wear a blackbird around your neck,” Theo had said.
And Prince Virgil could not argue. He had placed the blue string about his neck and felt it grow warm against his chest. “I will have to hide it from my father,” he had said. “He does not like blackbirds.”
“Yes,” Theo had said. “I imagine that is so.”
Today, in his room, alone, Prince Virgil stares at the talisman, at the inscription etched in the back of its iron. “For Prince Virgil,” it says. “May your days be long and prosperous.” And though he tries to forget the words, they are etched, too, in his memory, for what kind of friend would give a prince a talisman for protection, when all he planned to do was steal his throne? It is not the Theo Prince Virgil knows and remembers. And so he must, as they say, kill the Theo he knows and remembers, if only from his memory.
Prince Virgil hurls the talisman across the room. He does not need the sort of protection Theo intended. He will not wear it any longer. The talisman hits the floor with a hollow sound, a sound that feels very much like his heart’s beat, knocking around against walls that will not hold it. The talisman slides to a stop beneath a mahogany chest of drawers, one that Theo’s father made. Prince Virgil closes his eyes.
Everywhere he looks, there are reminders of the friend he loves. He must do something about that, demand new furniture, sleep in a new room, forget. He must forget.
A knock sounds on the door, two quick raps and a pause. It is the knock of his mother, and for once, he is not glad. She is too good, too kind for him. He will pretend to be asleep. He turns over, staring at a wall he does not see. And it is too bad he does not see it, for this wall holds answers to the wonderings of our prince’s mind. If he were to look closely, if he were to really see, as has not happened yet before, he might notice the stories this wall tells. But, for now, its message is lost on him.
Queen Clarion opens the door. “Oh,” she says. “I am a bit late tonight. I thought you might be asleep.” She crosses the room to his bedside. How did she know he was not sleeping? Well, you see, Queen Clarion opens this door every night, when Prince Virgil is sleeping. Our queen knows that her son sleeps with his face to the sky.
She sits on his bedside. Her hand strokes his cheek. She does not say a word for a time, and then, finally, when his eyes do not close but simply stare without seeing, she says, “You sat in court with your father today?”
Prince Virgil looks at her now. He sees her. He sees her beautiful golden hair and the crown tucked into its silken threads. He sees her blue eyes, the color of the Violet Sea tributary when it catches the evening’s glow. He sees the jewels around her neck, flickering in the candlelight.
“Yes,” Prince Virgil says. He is still unsure what he thinks about what he saw in court today, but he dares not say it aloud.
“Your father,” Queen Clarion says, but she does not say more. Queen Clarion does not like speaking an ill word about another, though she could very well say plenty about her husband. Still, she understands him. She knows from where he comes. And this, you see, makes all the difference.
“He ordered another search,” Prince Virgil says. “To find the missing children.”
“I fear the children will not be found,” Queen Clarion says. “Or, rather, I hope.” She says the words softly and looks at her son. He looks at her, knowing that she would understand if he were to say what is in his heart. But to say what is in one’s heart takes great courage, and our prince does not feel great courage this eve. So, instead, he looks toward the talisman. It remains hidden from him, clenched in shadows.
What he would say if he had the courage are three very simple things:
He misses his friends.
He does not believe Theo means to steal the throne.
He wishes he could be an ordinary boy.
These are three simple things a prince of Fairendale should not think. He is the heir to the throne. It is an honor to rule a kingdom as lovely as Fairendale. And he found it such, for a very long time, until his father decided that the way to keep rule in a kingdom was to round up the children he had loved for his entire life.
Though, it must be said, our prince, when in the company of his father, longs for the throne more than anything in this world. One might say he is enchanted with power when in the company of the king. One might say he is, perhaps, enchanted with kindness when in the company of his mother. Who is it, dear reader, our prince would rather remain in the company of? Who is it who will win this indecision?
“You have been sitting with your father more often of late,” Queen Clarion says, as if she is merely making an observation.
“He would like me to learn the ways of the kingdom,” Prince Virgil says.
His mother’s eyes fall on him. They do not change, though her voice does, a slight edge to it now. “And what are the ways of the kingdom, my son?”
This is a question our prince is not ready to answer. For, you see, he has not spent enough time learning the ways of the kingdom. It is only of late that he has spent an
y time at all in the courts, and that is most likely because his friends have disappeared. There is nothing better for him to do anymore. His father is more and more pleased, every day, by his presence.
Queen Clarion seems to understand that her son cannot make his answer yet. She pats his hand. “You will learn in time,” she says. “You will decide for yourself. You are nearly a man.”
Prince Virgil does not want to be a man yet. He is not fully done being a child. He does not desire the responsibility that comes with ruling a kingdom. He does not think he will ever want that responsibility, if it means imprisoning children and forsaking friends to keep a power that is not his.
“Would you like to hear a story?” Queen Clarion says.
And though Prince Virgil is twelve, an age at which children begin to believe they are too old for stories told aloud by their parents, our prince desires one tonight. It is the missing of his friend. It is the promise of a kingdom, weighing heavily on his shoulders. It is the sadness, moving about in his memory. Stories, of course, have a magical quality about them. They cure sickness, and they calm concern, and they smooth away sadness. One has merely to listen, and words will wander in like soothing balm.
“Yes,” Prince Virgil tells his mother. “Yes, I would like a story, please.” Our prince has not forgotten his manners. He remembers how to be kind and how to speak politely and how to love when he is with his mother.
Queen Clarion smiles. She pulls the heavy blue velvet up to her boy’s chin. These are her favorite moments, when she is granted time alone with her son, when she can wrap him in the warmth of words and mend a heart whole again.
“It is cold in here,” she says, glancing toward the window. “It is growing colder.”
Prince Virgil looks toward the window as well. “I forgot to close it.”
“No matter,” Queen Clarion says. She rises swiftly from her place and closes the window before stoking the fire and sitting back on his bedside. “The fire will warm you soon.” She smooths the velvet around him again. “What kind of story would you like to hear?” Prince Virgil’s candle, balanced on his bedside table, flashes in her eyes. “Perhaps one of adventure? Or love?”
“A happy one,” Prince Virgil says. “One that is true.”
Queen Clarion does not know many true stories that are happy. But she can modify, perhaps, for there is one that began very happily indeed. So she tells him of his Uncle Wendell, how she was brought to the castle when she was only a girl of six, to marry him. Her mother gave strict instructions that the marriage would wait until she was old enough, sixteen at least, and in those intervening years Prince Wendell taught Queen Clarion to shoot a bow and aim at the place that would be most merciful to the animals hunted, that would take them down in the swiftest way possible so that there would be no pain, or not much of it. Prince Wendell taught her to see what she could not see before.
Queen Clarion hesitates for a moment. She comes to a place in the story where she has always told what she was expected to tell. She has never told the real part of the story before, but something about the way her son looks at her this night tells her now is precisely the right time to tell it. She must share the truth. She must show him the kindness and courage and love of his uncle. She must erase the story of foolishness and tell, instead, the story of a hero, for that is what Prince Wendell was.
So, rather than the typical turn in this story, Queen Clarion weaves another one around her son. She tells of a girl and a boy sneaking from the castle to visit the people of the village, who were starving under King Sebastien’s reign. She tells of magic that helped fill their bellies and keep them warm. She tells of the castle and its extravagance, and the scant provisions it would provide to the people who made furniture and shoes and baked bread for the kingdom’s pleasure.
It is a story of injustice, where Prince Virgil has only been told a story of might.
“The people could not feed their families with what the castle provided,” Queen Clarion says. “They were desperate. Your uncle urged King Sebastien to do something about it. King Sebastien refused.”
“Why?” Prince Virgil says. “When the people were starving?”
“Your grandfather believed that the working people should remain the working people,” Queen Clarion says.
“But they were working,” Prince Virgil says. “And they were still starving.”
His mother smiles, but it is a sad smile. “Precisely,” Queen Clarion says. “Your uncle could not watch his people starve. His heart was too tender.” Her eyes take on a faraway look. “Your grandfather believed that meant your Uncle Wendell was weak.”
“So Grandfather sent him away?” Prince Virgil says. “For having a tender heart?”
“For helping the people,” Queen Clarion says. “Your uncle helped them survive.”
“I do not understand,” Prince Virgil says.
“It is not for us to understand,” Queen Clarion says, for this is something she has learned in all the years since, in all the years grieving for a man she had grown to love, though she had only recently turned seven when Prince Wendell left, in all the years married to his brother, who had been trained to be another King Sebastien, only larger and, perhaps, just a touch softer. “It is for us to do better.” Notice, dear reader, that she does not tell him what the better thing to do is. She leaves that open to him, for deciding what to do can only happen in one’s own mind.
“Was my grandfather afraid of the villagers?” Prince Virgil says.
“Perhaps,” Queen Clarion says. “Perhaps he feared the same thing your father fears.”
“Losing the throne?” Prince Virgil says.
Queen Clarion bends her head. She takes her son’s hand. “There are more important things to life than keeping a throne.”
They are words, you may remember, from another time and another place. Queen Clarion is a wise woman. She knows much of the world, much more than, say, her son. Her words dip into his chest, squeezing softly. He knows them to be true. He blinks tears away. There is a great, wide chasm on his insides. He fills it with more words.
“I loved Theo,” Prince Virgil says. “He was my best friend.”
“Losing a friend is not easy,” Queen Clarion says.
“Do you think he is alive?” Prince Virgil says.
His mother touches his cheek. “We cannot say for sure,” she says. “But if the boy had magic, we can hope.”
“If he had magic, he could take what is mine,” Prince Virgil says.
“Perhaps,” Queen Clarion says. “What do you think?”
Prince Virgil thinks about this boy he knew, this boy he loved. He thinks about the sister with evening sky eyes, and the way she could turn a cloudy day into one that held the brightest sun a world has ever seen. He thinks about the girl with flaming red hair. “No,” he says. “No, I do not think he would have. But he did lie about his magic.”
“Fear makes man do unexplainable things,” Queen Clarion says. “Look what his magic set in motion.”
Prince Virgil considers this. Children stolen from their homes. Families torn apart. Parents beaten in the streets. So much destruction from a simple discovered secret.
“What happened to the people?” Prince Virgil says. His mother tilts her head, as if she does not understand. So he says, “After my uncle left?”
“They carried on,” she says. “As people do.”
“But if he cared so much about the people, why did he leave them?” Prince Virgil says. “Why did he not stay and help them?”
Queen Clarion smiles again. “I suppose your uncle had other plans,” she says. “And the people have done well enough for themselves.”
Prince Virgil supposes that, yes, they had. They did not have quite enough to eat, but they had found ways around it. A community garden he had only seen once. Some sheep for wool. Goats for milk. A wheat field behind the village.
“Does he still live?” Prince Virgil says.
“We have not seen your uncle since
he was banished,” Queen Clarion says. “But I suspect he lives still.”
“You miss him,” Prince Virgil says.
His mother’s eyes turn soft. “Yes,” she says. “I loved your uncle very much. He was kind to me.”
Prince Virgil wonders, at this moment, why he has never heard this story before. He asks.
“There is a story your grandfather wanted told,” Queen Clarion says. “It is the same story your father wanted told.” She pauses for a moment. “You were not ready to hear the truth. But I thought, perhaps, that now you are.”
And this is precisely what urges him to ask the question that has weighed on his mind since turning that talisman over and over and over again in his hands.
“Did Grandfather really die from a blackbird?” Prince Virgil says.
“Is that the story your father has told you?” Queen Clarion says.
“It is the story the villagers tell,” Prince Virgil says. “Father does not tell stories. He leaves that to others.”
“Yes, I suppose he does,” Queen Clarion says. She takes a breath, lets it out smoothly. She smells of peppermint. She leans down to kiss him goodnight, for this is a story that will wait for another evening. “Your grandfather died of the heart sickness,” she says.
She is all the way across the room when Prince Virgil calls out, “Will I die of the heart sickness?” Queen Clarion stops in the doorway. Her gown swishes as she turns. She looks at her son. He looks at her.
“I do not believe you will,” she says. “I believe you will live for a very long time.” His mother closes the door, leaving her words with him.
And these words, dear reader, ease our prince from his bed and around to the chest of drawers and down to the floor. He slides his hand between the gap of wood and floor, and when he grasps the talisman, he carries it back to his bed, where he falls asleep with his fingers wound tight around it.
WHILE the boy is sleeping, his father, the king, remains in the court, still eating, supping this time, for the fifth time, with his captain of the guard, who has not had a decent meal in months.