The 10th Kingdom

by Kathryn Wesley

  Blabberwort would have been Relish’s pride and joy if only she had the brains to go with her fabulously bad looks. Her hair was orange and she wore a tuft of it in a straight-up ponytail shaped like a poodle’s tail. Her hooked nose was pierced, and she wore a gold ring in the side. She had her mother’s dark looks, and they seemed to suit her more than her younger brother Bluebell.

  On Bluebell the dark looks made him seem unfinished. His frizzy black hair was out of control, and his hooked nose hid his imperfectly gnarled teeth. He bent his head when he grinned, making him seem shyer than any Troll should be.

  “You are pathetic,” Relish said as he stepped inside the cell. “You call yourself Trolls? You make me ashamed.” They looked surprised at the sound of his voice.

  “Sorry, Dad,” Burly said.

  “Sorry, Dad,” Blabberwort said.

  “It won’t happen again,” Bluebell said.

  As if Relish believed that. “This is the last time I come and rescue you. Especially for minor offenses.”

  “Come on, Dad,” Burly said. “Take off the magic shoes.” Apparently his son didn’t like his father to be invisible. Apparently that made Burly nervous. Which was good. “I’ll take them off anytime I want to,” Relish said.

  ‘ ‘Mustn’t wear them longer than you need to,’ ’ Blabberwort said.

  “Shut up!” Relish ordered. “I can handle them.”

  But maybe he couldn’t. He was a bit woozy, and he was enjoying baiting his idiot children a little too much. He felt drunk—a feeling he liked—but it was probably a dangerous feeling when he was inside a cell inside the Snow White Memorial Prison. Getting caught like this by making judgment errors made him almost as much of an idiot as his idiot children. Which was not a good comparison at all.

  He put one invisible hand against the cold stone wall and pulled off a magic shoe. Then he removed the other shoe and staggered a little as he became visible.

  He watched his children as they saw him appear. All three of them leaned away from him.

  Good. They were still scared of him. As they should be. “Take this,” he said after he got his balance. He thrust the bag of Troll dust into Buriy’s hand. ‘ ‘I think I got all the guards, but I might have missed some.”

  Burly took the dust and looked at it as if he’d never seen it before. Relish glowered at him. Burly cupped his hand around it. Relish raised his eyebrows.

  “Do you want to stay in here forever?”

  “No, Dad,” Burly said.

  “No, Dad,” Blabberwort said.

  “I never want to be in here again,” Bluebell said.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Relish led them out of the cell. He was still clutching the keys, and he still had his shoes, although that wasn’t enough anymore. He felt naked now that he wasn’t invisible, and he had the beginnings of a headache—but whether that was from the magic shoes or the presence of his children, he couldn’t tell.

  They crept through two different corridors, retracing his steps. He had done a pretty good job of dusting the guards. Not a single one was awake.

  Wait.

  A woman’s voice spoke in his head. It was faint, but strong and alluring. Relish stopped and so did his kids. They all looked at each other. Apparently his children had heard the voice too.

  Come to me.

  Well, he didn’t have to be asked twice. The guards were out, and he wanted to see what kind of female owned a voice like that. He had his imaginings—and so, apparently, did his sons, who looked more focused than he had ever seen them. Even Blabberwort looked interested, although probably not in the same way the men were.

  They turned off the main prison corridor toward a sign that read: Maximum Security Wing. He’d never been in this part of the prison, not even on his own. And of course, his idiot children weren’t talented enough to even contemplate the sort of despicable deeds that got someone assigned here.

  At the end of the corridor was a stout oak door. It looked even more solid than the one his children had been stashed behind. Relish pawed through his keys until he found the right one. He unlocked the door. It opened, revealing another corridor.

  Somehow that disappointed him. He wanted to see the owner ol the voice.

  He led his children farther, and within a few moments they reached another locked door.

  Buriy’s fangs bit into his upper lip. “This is where they keep the Queen,” he whispered, the fear filling his every word. “No one is ever allowed in here.”

  Somehow Relish had known that, but he had ignored it. Now he was too curious to stop.

  He opened this door and found himself in yet another corridor. At the very end of it was only one cell. Its door was even thicker—he could tell that from this distance.

  As he led his grown children down the corridor, he passed a sign: All Food to be Left in Collection Box. It made a shiver run down his back. Whenever he’d been in this prison, the guards had handed him his food.

  A little farther along was another sign: No Physical Contact! His headache was growing worse. Still his curiosity moved him forward.

  As he passed a third sign—Always Two Warders with Prisoner at Any Time—Blubberwort looked at him as if she questioned the wisdom of his decision to continue. If he weren’t questioning the same thing, he would have cuffed her for the expression alone. And then he saw the fourth sign: Never Engage Prisoner in Conversation.

  Did a voice in the head count as conversation?

  Open the door.

  Relish looked at his children. They were looking at him.

  Open the door to everything you desire.

  Okay. That did it. That was enough to convince him. He took a step forward and peered through the little barred window that was just above his eye level.

  A human woman sat on the edge of a cot. She wore a gray hood over her hair, but the hood was pulled back enough to reveal her stunningly beautiful face. She had delicate features and wise eyes. He wouldn’t have found that attractive in a Troll, but in a human—he nearly whistled in appreciation.

  Beside her sat a golden retriever. She was stroking it with one gloved hand. Relish watched the hand movement, mesmerized.

  The woman noticed him. Her gaze met his, and she smiled.

  There was something reassuring in that smile, but another shiver ran down his back nonetheless. In that smile lay his future. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.

  The fate of the whole world turned on that smile.

  And on what he decided to do next.

  Chapter Two

  The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Prince Wendell wished they would stop. All that cheerfulness was annoying him, especially when he couldn’t be outside, enjoying the day. He put an elbow on the window of the carriage and leaned out. The forest beside him looked thick and lush, the light filtering through the trees. There’d be lots of game in that forest. And he would so much rather be chasing it—even without a bow and arrow or any other weapon for that matter— than he would like to be inside this carriage, heading to the hinterlands.

  He couldn’t stand it anymore. He leaned his head back against the velvet seat. At least he didn’t have to feel wood beneath him. This carriage was cushioned. In fact, the cushions were so thick, a person could sleep on them as if they were a bed. The old royal carriage, the historic one, the one in the basement of the palace, had wooden seats and no padding at all. He wondered how his royal ancestors and their equally royal posteriors managed to survive rides like this one.

  “Where exactly are we going?” He managed to sound as disinterested as he felt. At least he resisted the urge to study his fingernails. His man, Giles, who had known Wendell since he was a baby, would have seen through that.

  “To Beantown, sire, in the southwest comer of your kingdom. You are accepting the throne that the craftsmen there have made for your coronation.” Giles was frowning at him anyway. A seventy-year-old man’s frown had more power than a younger man’s. Wendell would swea
r to it. And Giles always frowned when Wendell asked questions to which he should have known the answer.

  Fortunately, Wendell had Giles around to listen to all the chatter from the ministers. Yes, Wendell had been briefed about this trip and no, Wendell hadn’t paid attention. That was what Giles was for.

  “Is it much farther?” And then, because Giles had seen through his restlessness anyway, Wendell added, “Can’t we stop and go hunting?”

  “Very shortly, sire.” Giles’s mouth tightened around the edges, a small movement, one probably no one but Wendell noticed. The only reason Wendell had learned to see it was because it made Giles sound even more disapproving than usual. “We must make a brief stop at the Snow White Memorial Prison first.”

  Wendell sighed. A prison. What a spectacular place to go on such a lovely day. Doom and gloom instead of sunshine and a quiet romp through the woods. He looked out the window again, only this time he leaned forward. The two spirited horses pulling the carriage had red plumes on the tops of their heads, and it looked as if the entire carriage was part of a parade. Which it would be, of course, if there were anyone around to look at it.

  “I hate these outer provinces,” he said. “The people are so common.”

  Giles made that small face again. Wendell resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Giles hated it when Wendell dismissed his subjects like that. If Giles had had his way, Wendell would have spent a year among them, getting his hands dirty in some sort of forced labor and bathing not at all.

  “Your stepmother has applied for parole again,” Giles was saying, “which we will, of course, turn down. This is simply a routine courtesy visit.”

  The carriage rounded a comer. Some time ago, the forest had given way to manicured grounds. Wendell wasn’t sure when. He wasn’t even certain if they had gone through a small town. He had been staring at the horses, not at his surroundings.

  But now he focused on them. Snow White Memorial Prison was shaped like an ancient palace, from the days when palaces doubled as fortresses. It had towering stone walls and a foreboding gray exterior. The grounds were rather lovely, but even that beauty was marred by the vulture that never seemed to leave the brown-and-white sign at the base of the property.

  The carriage followed the narrow road. Here the bumps were so great that even Wendell’s royal posterior, swaddled in cloth, cushioned on the finest velvet in the Nine Kingdoms, felt every single jolt.

  As they wound their way to the top, Wendell glanced at Giles. Giles’s frown was even deeper. Wendell was frowning too. The last time he had been here-—and he had no idea how long ago that was (although Giles would probably know)— there had been all sorts of people outside, waving and shouting and laughing. Then there had been the warden and the guards. They had stood in a grim semicircle farther inside the grounds, waiting to greet the Prince and his entourage, such as it was.

  Today there were no screaming people, no grim welcoming committee. Had Giles finally gotten a date wrong?

  “Well, this is marvelous, isn’t it?” the Prince asked. “Not exactly the red-carpet treatment.”

  “I’m sure they can’t have forgotten about our visit, Your Majesty,” Giles said, although his tone belied his words.

  The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the drawbridge— which was down—and before Wendell could move, Giles had opened the carriage door. Oh, the old man was angry. He would storm to the door, pound on it, and demand that Wendell get treated like the Prince he was. Wendell did so like having Giles around.

  Giles was halfway to the door by the time Wendell got out of the carriage. He followed, a smile playing across his face. He could hardly wait for the confrontation. No one riled Giles without paying for it dearly.

  When Giles reached the large, arched wooden doors, he grabbed the knocker and pounded so hard, people probably heard the sound three kingdoms away. Wendell stopped beside Giles and worked very hard at keeping a serious expression on his face.

  Instead, he found himself looking across the grounds and yawning. Giles glared at him—Wendell couldn’t see the look, but he could feel it—then knocked again.

  The door opened. Wendell heard it more than he saw it. Then he turned toward Giles in time to see the old man stagger backwards. He was bleeding at the neck. His throat had been cut.

  Suddenly, Wendell was awake. He reached for Giles, but as he did so, someone grabbed his arm and yanked him inside. Wendell tried to pull himself free, but he couldn’t. The grip on his arm was extremely tight. The door closed behind him, and he had to blink to see what was happening in the gloom.

  He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but he knew it involved Trolls. He recognized the stink of them—the smell of old leather, sweat, and something rancid, like spoiled meat.

  The hand let go of his arm and he stepped forward, trying to get away. Then someone kicked him in the rear. He nearly fell, but he righted himself. He started to run, but someone punched him in the face. He fell backwards, was caught by heavy hands, and got kicked again. Wendell flailed with his elbows, but it did no good. He had at least two assailants and they had to be Trolls. One of them was as big as a house.

  They half dragged, half kicked him down the corridor, punching him every time he put up a fight—which was all the time. Finally they made it to the reception hall. The door was open. Wendell was about to shout for help when he was shoved inside.

  He sprawled on his belly and cringed as a boot headed for his face. He deflected the blow but felt half a dozen others. As he moved this way and that, staggering up only to fall again, he caught a glimpse of the two beating him. One of them was fairly short for a Troll. He didn’t punch that hard either. The other one, the one who had some power behind her kicks, was female, with orange hair. Wendell focused on the gold ring hanging off her nose. If he could grab it, maybe he could get somewhere.

  “Enough,” said a female voice. A very familiar female voice.

  “Since when do you give the orders?” That was a male voice, and it wasn’t familiar.

  The kicking stopped. Wendell got to his feet and resisted the urge to dust himself off. He stood at his full height, even though it didn’t match the Trolls’. And as he looked toward the door, he got a sense of how much trouble he was in.

  The two Trolls who had beaten him had gone to the door. They were now standing with two other Trolls—male, tall, and hideous—who flanked Wendell’s stepmother, the Queen.

  He was in trouble now. The entire Nine Kingdoms were in trouble now. Unless he could do something. But he didn’t know what that something would be. Giles had warned him about traveling without an entourage, but had Wendell listened? Of course not. That was what Giles was for. Had been for.

  Oh, dear. Wendell had to listen on his own now.

  “You’re a long way from your castle, Wendell. Perhaps you should have stayed there.” The Queen was smiling her secret little smile. He swallowed hard. He’d never forgotten that smile.

  “You’ll pay for this,” he said, more to stall than anything else. If he had a moment, he was certain he would figure a way out of this.

  The Queen laughed. She had a soft laugh, but that only made it more menacing. “On the contrary. I think you will beg at my feet for food.”

  Only then did he notice the dog beside her. It was large and golden and had strange eyes. They seemed to be brighter than a dog’s eyes should be.

  ‘ ‘Do you know what this is?’ ’ she asked, stroking the dog.

  “It’s a very special kind of dog. Magical. I hope you like dogs, Wendell. You’re going to spend the rest of your life as one.”

  She bent down as she said that last, and let go of the dog. It bounded toward Wendell. He tried to back away, but the dog reached him and put its paws on his chest. Wendell raised his arms in a gesture of surrender—damn her, she’d known how much he hated dogs—when he suddenly felt quite loose inside his body. It was as if he wasn’t attached to his own skin anymore.

  He was shrinking and the room had
grown dimmer. It had also gotten louder. His perspective had shifted. He had been staring at his stepmother, and now he was looking at—his own sash. How did that happen?

  He glanced up and saw his own face. Only his tongue was out, the way a dog’s would be, and his front arms were cocked and bent like those of a dog standing on its hind legs.

  Oh, no. He didn’t like this at all. He glanced down and saw that his own hands were feet. Hairy feet. Golden hairy feet.

  “Come, come, Wendell,” the Queen said in a tone that had a motherly chiding behind it. “You don’t greet people on all fours, do you?”

  “You’ll never get away with this,” Wendell said. Or tried to say. Instead, he barked.

  “You know, I do think he’s trying to tell us something,” the Queen said.

  The Trolls applauded. Wendell shook his head, felt his ears flap against his skull, and something move around his royal posterior. He glanced over his golden, hairy shoulder.

  He had a tail. He really was the dog.

  The Trolls were laughing and applauding. The real dog— who looked for all intents and purposes like the Prince (did he really have such curly blond hair? And such a goofy expression on his long face? Or was that the function of the magic, the dog, and the Queen’s maliciousness?)—was exploring his face with his hands. He swayed on his feet as if he weren’t used to balancing on two legs.

  The Queen’s smile had faded. “Grab him!” she ordered.

  One of the taller Trolls hurried toward Wendell. Those creatures could move fast. The Troll reached for Wendell, and Wendell did the only thing he could do.

  He bit those stubby, pale, filthy fingers. They tasted like Ihey smelled.

  “Ow!” the Troll cried and pulled away.

  Wendell resisted the urge to spit. He wheeled around, nearly getting tangled in all four limbs, and ran from the room. It was easier to run on all fours as a dog than it was as a human. It only took him a moment to get into the loping stride. The tail was throwing off his balance, but he bet he could get used to (hat too.