Once Upon a Star

by Anthea Sharp

Several whose abilities he continued to overlook. Starting with the walking computer serving us refreshments and ending with myself.

  Smugness replaced savagery as he dismissed my claim with a handwave. “Regardless of where my powers came from, they are now mine. As are the lives of your clone-sisters. As shall be your kingdom. The only question is whether you shall rule it by my side alive, able to bear future heirs for both our bloodlines, or whether you join your sisters in undeath.”

  I shook my head, smashing the napkin against the table forcefully. “Do not forget the terms you set when you bested Father’s first champion. You cannot force me to wed; I must do so willingly.”

  He gave an exasperated headshake of his own. “I am well aware of those terms, my sweet. Fortunate for your father and yourself that I am so determined to have you as my bride that I made that bargain rather than merely destroying your clones that very night.”

  “You mean the night you grew so infuriated with my refusal of your proposal that you stabbed me to death with the same blade used to defeat Father’s champion?”

  Olbard narrowed cerulean eyes that now glowed with inhuman light. “One and the same, my love. Are you so eager to taste its caress again tomorrow? Do you really want your father’s bloodline to end with you? Is that the legacy you wish to leave for your beloved Nonna?”

  I bared my teeth in a smile of my own. “Nonna would plunge the blade into my heart herself given the chance. I do not understand why you expect tomorrow’s ball to end any differently than the last eleven. You know I will die before I allow you to claim my kingdom with artificial legitimacy. Take my throne if you must, but then you can explain to the Galactic authorities that you wiped out yet another Terran royal line because they dared stand up to you.”

  He slammed a fist down so hard that his plate cracked, and his wineglass went flying. Dark red liquid pooled upon the floor amid shards of glass before the liquid was slowly absorbed. Too perfectly prophetic of tomorrow’s potential outcome if my plan failed…

  That thought remained locked inside the deepest reaches of my mind, where Olbard couldn’t hear. In for a penny, may as well dive in for the whole pound…

  “Oh, that’s right. The Galactic Council decreed that if you claim any other Terran thrones through war without marrying into the current royal line to preserve it, you forfeit both your realms. And your miserable unholy life.”

  Olbard shoved to his feet and crossed to my side with impossible speed. His hands pinioned my arms with brutal strength, and he jerked me up. “I know how much you love to dance Miriana, but I’ve had enough. Your continued defiance doesn’t hurt just me or you or even your father. It has dire consequences for your entire kingdom.”

  Ice skittered across my skin at his words. Father I’d expected him to threaten. Only the original Royal Heir, one of their legally sanctioned clones, or a direct relative could lawfully claim the Zenobayairan throne without inspiring a war of succession. Father’s embryonic clones had been cremated when mine were created, as law required, and he was long past child-bearing years, which meant he was useless to Olbard except as leverage.

  But Olbard lusted after our kingdom even more than the original one he’d stolen. His mother’s ancestors had originated here rather than in Faerie, where his father’s people had always dwelt. He swore his mother’s people descended from an older Zenobayairan royal line and believed my throne was also his birthright. But never had he threatened harm to the planet or its people. Doing so now meant he was internally sweating about his chances of success.

  I wasn’t sure whether to be emboldened by that thought or terrified that an Olbard backed into a corner would be a thousand times more dangerous. Thoughts of which choice Nonna would make had me gritting my teeth and going with option number one. I could also continue lulling my would-be fiancé into a false sense of security.

  “L—let me go! You’re h—hurting me.” I forced my voice to tremble when what I really wanted was to drop him to the ground with a well-placed kick. Or order Cimorene to go into bodyguard mode. Just picturing either event calmed my rage slightly.

  Olbard’s pressure on my arms eased just as slightly, inspired by Cimorene’s body tensing as she waited for my command to attack rather than fear of what harm I could do. Idiot. I’d foiled seven assassination attempts on my own.

  “My apologies for causing a small pain in my enthusiasm to avoid causing one far larger tomorrow.”

  I took advantage of his weakened grip to pull away and step to the opposite side of the table. Cimorene deliberately placed herself between the two of us, close enough that she could thwart any future manhandling attempts.

  My voice remained shaky. “Are you threatening to hurt my people if I don’t agree to your proposal?”

  He gave an oily smile and brushed a stray piece of lint off his silk shirt, metallic cuffs glinting. “Of course not, Miriana. That would violate the terms of our agreement.” His lips twisted into a more sinister expression. “But it simply would be a shame if I lost all incentive to hold to that agreement. If you perish, that leaves Zenobayair with no Royal Heir to legitimize my rule. It also leaves you dead and me here to ensure that the winner of any war of succession will accept my proposal.”

  His head tilted thoughtfully. “She must be genetically female, of course, so she can bear me heirs. But who is to say that my new queen will care for her people nearly so well as you?”

  The words he stressed along with his tone made the theories sound the threat they clearly were. They also indicated my subterfuge was working. He believed me backed into a corner.

  Now, if only I could succeed in blasting an escape route through the corner’s walls…before he killed me one final time.

  “Please go! I will consider your words, but just leave me in peace tonight. Tomorrow is soon enough to gloat over your victory.”

  A softness I’d never seen crossed his expression. That had my pulse racing. Could it be that he did care for me, if in his own twisted way? It would certainly explain why he’d invested 12 years into ensuring that I wed him rather than starting a war of succession himself.

  “I will leave you to prepare for tomorrow’s festivities. Please do consider my words, Miriana. I vow to make you happy if you accept my hand. We need not be enemies.”

  That was the first time he’d used the word please with me in a sincere rather than mocking manner. Neither that nor his apparent affection changed the fact he had cold-bloodedly killed me eleven times, but they could be used to my advantage.

  I kept my thoughts locked tightly beneath the surface. “I promise to seriously consider it.” And that was the first time I hadn’t flat-out rejected him.

  His cerulean eyes lit from within, and he bowed deeply before murmuring words in a language I couldn’t understand. Static electricity tangled my hair and raised goosebumps along my skin as he demonstrated one of the unique skills that had convinced my father to accept his challenge rather than risk outright war. A hole in the fabric of reality slashed through the air several feet away, causing more visible electricity to spark as the portal solidified. Fifty of our best soldiers had died the first time he summoned one into their midst from inside his own realm.

  “Until tomorrow,” Olbard said with a charming smile. “Sleep well, my dearest Princess.”

  He stepped into the hole temporarily joining our realms and then vanished. Residual electricity flashed for a few seconds before the portal, too, faded. Leaving me behind with a disgusted expression.

  Cimorene gave a disgruntled look of her own, confident in our privacy because Olbard would need to recover from the strain of opening a portal to Faerie from this realm rather than his own. Faerie was what our Terran ancestors had named his realm where physics worked so differently from our own, in honor of ancient folklore. The realm was just as fantastic—if often more sinister—than the grimmest of fairy tales.

  I reached out to this unlikeliest of champions. She smiled and enclosed my hand with her own. Now that we
knew he couldn’t simply portal into another room, cloak himself in invisibility, and sneak back into my chambers more silently than an ancient ninjutsu, we were free to drop our guard for a few stolen moments. The only kind we’d ever known…

  “Please hold me. I need to wipe away his filthy touch.”

  Cimorene sighed softly and then she became he. No walking computer at all, but rather the soldier my father had forbidden me to even consider wedding disguised by the real Cimorene using modified holographic technology. It was so sophisticated that it could mask a person’s thoughts from Olbard’s telepathic abilities for a short period of time. Expensive as hell, so impractical to mass produce, but damned impressive.

  The man I loved most (besides my exasperating father) smiled down at me, dark hair and brown eyes not far from Cimorene’s own black hair and hazel eyes. Dezmund pulled me into his arms, and we embraced for a long moment. No kissing, no talking, just drawing comfort. Where my sisters had pined for the decorated veteran-turned-bodyguard forced into early retirement by my meddling father, I’d had the courage to claim the relationship we’d each desired. Well, except for Eight, who’d discovered she preferred feminine companionship. And Eleven, who preferred none.

  I looked into his scarred but handsome face. “Ready for tomorrow?”

  He nodded, stroking a calloused hand along my cheek. “I’ve memorized your instructions, and Cimorene perfected the remote cloaking technology that should work just long enough for me to sneak through the portal and hide among the trees. Everything else relies upon our wills, our actions, and our reactions to chance.”

  I sighed and leaned against his chest. He moved to caressing my tangled red hair, never minding how sweaty it became. Likewise, I never minded how sweaty his weapons practice made his. Just one more reason we worked so well together.

  Who needed some mythical fairy tale prince when she could have a flesh-and-blood warrior who would fight by her side? It’d taken months for us to find our balance—he feeling unworthy of a future queen and me feeling ridiculously young next to him; even though technically I had 29 years’ worth of memories rather than my chronological age of nearly 19. We would need to continue fighting for our balance long after we won our battle against Olbard. But the prize was worth the fight.

  As if he could hear my thoughts, Dezmund turned teasing. “Do you wish me to leave you in peace as well? I’d hate to steal your—how’d you put it—last night among the living?”

  I pinched his arm lightly, inspiring a satisfied grin that slowly began to heat. He zeroed in on my mouth when I licked my lips as matching desire began to burn in my veins. “The last thing I ever want from you is peace,” I purred with a husky tone. “Hopefully this won’t be my last night among the living, but if it is, I want to spend it in your arms. Making love.”

  His body shuddered and his arms tightened around me. “Are you sure you want tonight to be the first time? Your first time?”

  My expression grew solemn. “Completely sure. No matter how tomorrow plays out, I want this moment that only you and I control. To hell with Olbard, to hell with my sisters, to hell with Father’s stubbornness. I want this. I want you.”

  Dezmund’s eyes burned even more fiercely, and a sense of wonder crossed his face. He claimed my lips in an intense kiss that sent sparks flaring across my skin. And then we crept our way into my bedroom and claimed that perfect moment for ourselves.

  “Oh, Twelve, you look beautiful!” Eleven breathed the next evening as we finished grooming. All twelve of us were bedecked in radiant finery; wearing expertly-applied cosmetics, costly jewelry, and hair in elaborate updos or cascades of curls.

  Nerves had chewed through my stomach since the earlier parade of birthday celebrations that planetary tradition required. Father’s hands had trembled when he set his birthday gift—an ornate silver-and-aquamarine coronet my late mother had adored—upon my long, straight hair during the first ceremony. I again wore that coronet, but my hair was now gathered into a complicated mix of braids and curls.

  I forced nerves aside to reassure Eleven. She smiled gratefully when I softly touched her hand. “Thank you, sister. You also look lovely. You all do.”

  One appraised our reflections in the mirrored wall. “We all do. For you shall become truly one of us in mere hours if you do not make the correct choice.”

  Ten let out a frustrated sound and placed an arm around Eleven’s shoulders. “Oh leave off, One. This is Twelve’s decision to make just as it was each of ours. Besides, you heard Olbard’s command when he contacted us this morning. No more nagging.”

  I blinked at that revelation. Wow. Apparently, I’m as good at acting as I am dancing. He is convinced I’m going to accept.

  I nodded at the eleven gorgeous undead creatures surrounding me. “Let us make our way to the ball, sisters.”

  We left my chambers behind, passed through the royal family’s private hallways, and into the public portion of the palace. Father and an official Court of Honor waited in the opulent throne room, garbed nearly as extravagantly as we twelve.

  Cimorene—the real Cimorene—stood at the foot of the stairs, flanked on one side by the handsome, arrogant Royal Duke Father had chosen as this year’s champion. Honestly, arrogant hardly began to describe the champions he selected each year. Every new champion—extremely skilled in all courtly skills, including both the arts of dance and dueling—always believed they would be different. They would triumph against the enemy prince seeking to usurp our kingdom and, as a result, be rewarded with my hand in marriage as in days of old.

  I managed to suppress the eyeroll. Lucky for this latest champion he was merely a decoy.

  Cimorene tilted her head slightly, and I caught a flash of light next to her that no one else noticed. She was maintaining the hologram concealing my true champion, judging by that little glimmer. Her cloaking device wouldn’t last long once we passed out of the palace’s advanced network of technology and into Olbard’s more ethereal realm.

  Which was one reason Dezmund couldn’t merely impersonate Cimorene as he often did. She physically couldn’t go with us.

  Father nodded to the guards to close the heavy doors. Once, a smaller throne had sat to the side of his, but Mother had died when I was barely 5. One reason I’d never had biological sisters (or brothers).

  Mirisio Alexander Santobar Chastayne, His Most Royal Majesty, the King of Zenobayair, rose to his feet and gravely motioned me forward. I dipped my head and climbed to the step below him, where I curtseyed deeply. His hand settled upon my head, and he gave the traditional blessing. His voice wavered only slightly when I raised my eyes to meet his.

  “May you return safely unto Us at the evening’s close.” He turned a stern expression upon the pretend champion. “May you fight with utmost grace and cunning to make it so.”

  The decoy bowed deeply and murmured, “As Your Majesty wills.”

  My father glanced pointedly at Cimorene—no, to the not-so-empty space on her other side. “You have Our leave to commit any act necessary to return Our most precious daughter. You shall have any reward you so choose, including the right to seek her favor for future marriage should she so choose. And the realm’s highest of titles shall be conferred upon you.”

  My breath caught at what Father was secretly communicating. He knew who my champion was; he knew Dezmund was here; and he’d given his blessing for us to wed. We need only survive the evening.

  Even more fierce determination flowed through me. The decoy looked a little confused, since he already had the highest of Zenobayairan titles save Prince or King, but he bowed and murmured some appropriate nonsense while I hugged my father in an inappropriate public display of affection. Given that most people present believed I’d either perish or return as Olbard’s slave, in name if not undead minion, no one acted scandalized. Not even Father.

  “I will return to you, Father. I swear it.”

  “See that you do, Tiny Dancer,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I couldn
’t bear otherwise. I love you, Miriana Isabella Grace Chastayne.”

  “And I you.”

  I pressed a kiss upon his check, curtseyed deeply, and backed down the steps—no easy feat with yards of fabric swirling around my legs. But years of dance served me well, and I reclaimed my spot among my sisters. I nodded at One. “Summon the portal, if you please.”

  Her eyes—normally the same emerald as my own—swam with thick spots of darkest black as she accessed the unholy link binding her to Olbard. It allowed her to communicate with him even across dimensions. Electricity flared, and a portal far larger and more substantial than the one summoned from this dimension slashed into existence in a roped-off area. Olbard had a far easier time creating portals inside his own realm.

  One motioned and a guard hurried to open the rope. We twelve princesses curtseyed to our father and then moved to step through the portal one by one.

  Father’s pretend champion offered me his arm, and I accepted. I felt a rush of air behind and comforted myself with the knowledge that my dearest love had my back. And then we three—only two of us visible—journeyed through the portal and toward the lion’s den.

  The portal flung us through an empty expanse of blackness before shoving us through a glittering array of lights that flashed with the telltale electricity signaling a tear in reality. We stumbled onto a paved gravel path surrounded by a carefully cultivated orchard of fantastical trees. Their limbs stretched gracefully toward the sky, and all appeared to be carved from a different precious metal. Silver, gold, copper, iron, bronze, platinum…all were represented. Many bore precious gems instead of fruit. Emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and one that I knew would hold diamonds. I’d once seen Olbard execute a former favorite with a diamond-hilted dagger. That minion had not simply regenerated as the other undead creatures I’d seen be stabbed with mere steel. My lips flashed in a brief, fierce smile. Hopefully Dezmund remembered my instructions as well as he claimed. We would get only one chance.