Princess Ben

  "Yes, my lord," I whispered. I would endure the upcoming festivities, however awful they proved, for my father, wherever he might be. What followed afterward I would confront in the passage of time.

  ***

  The ball was the stuff of nightmares. Preparations reached a last fevered note; as the guests began arriving the day before the ball, Lady Beatrix outdid herself arranging them throughout the castle in a most politic fashion, with fires in every room against the March chill. A small banquet had been prepared for the early comers, for which I had the most elaborate assemblage of clothing. Interpreting my vow to Lord Frederick to denote the dance itself, I refused to attend, and had such a case of hysterics—false at first, but building to real emotion—that I was excused. Sophia could not have been more disgusted.

  The day of the ball was spent preparing me much as one prepares a goose for Christmas, with the same ultimate effect. I was squeezed into my dress despite my ceaseless complaints that I could not breathe; powdered and scented almost to death; painted and primped and polished. My scalp was wrenched near to bits in an effort to squeeze my hair beneath the wig ordered especially for this event. Alas, no matter how the hairdressers struggled, they could not cram it into the hairpiece. Hildebert, boiling with frustration, at last took matters into her own hands and without so much as a word of warning snatched up a pair of shears and lopped off a great handful of my locks.

  I was aghast; I would have burst into sobs had not the look on her face warned me off, and so instead I was forced to watch in the mirror, whimpering in misery, as she trimmed my hair short.

  "All the ladies do it," she explained, jamming the wig onto my head. Having never witnessed Lady Beatrix wigless, I would not know, but tears ran down my sorry cheeks at this pointless and vicious indignity.

  At last dusk fell. The orchestra started its first song, the notes flowing through the castle to fill me with dread. I stood glowering at my wigged and corseted, gloved and painted reflection, my feet already aching in dance slippers more akin to pincers than shoes. "I look ridiculous," I stated, and it did not require a magic mirror to confirm that I spoke the truth.

  I remember most how crowded the ballroom appeared compared to its empty vastness most days, and how everyone, man and woman alike, glittered in a polychrome sea of silks, jewels, and powder. I was of course expected to make a grand entrance at the top of the stairs; we had practiced this extensively, and I consider it my lone small victory that I did not end up in a heap on the bottom step. Instead the kings and queens, lords and ladies, princes and princesses, earls, dukes, knights, marquises, and other titles I scarcely knew hovered about to be presented, one by one. I could not recall their names if I tried.

  That is not exactly true. I do recall Sophia herself introducing me to the Baron Edwig of Farina, for the hand he offered was, to my surprise, even clammier than that of Monsieur Grosbouche. The man's face was painted almost as thickly as Lady Beatrix's, and he clutched me as though I were a prize he would not quickly release.

  "The baron," the queen said, "has traveled five days to attend this fete. He is most interested in making your acquaintance."

  "I had heard tales of your loveliness," Edwig simpered, "but none does it justice. Perhaps someday you will match the beautiful queen regent herself."

  I glowered at the man, wondering if he had any notion of how ridiculous he sounded. "I trust you are enjoying your stay in our castle?" I asked at last.

  "Would that I were, Your Highness. But I am afraid my sleep last night was quite troubled. This morning I identified the source of my bruises"—here he reached into a pocket of his waistcoat—"as a pea that had been tucked beneath my mattress."With a sad smile, he displayed the offending object.

  I uttered the first thought that entered my head: "Well, aren't you frightfully rude."

  Sophia gripped my arm. "Princess, we must demonstrate our natural sympathy ... How delicate you must be, Baron, to suffer such discomforts."

  "Delicate?" I exclaimed. "He comes into our home and tells us that our beds are full of beans—"

  With a bow to the baron, she snatched me away. "He would be an excellent match for us," she hissed in my ear, her fingernails four stilettos in my arm, "and his family produces swarms of offspring."

  "But surely you were affronted—"

  "Queens neither proffer nor receive insults! If you cannot control your tongue, we demand that you hold it silent."

  Oh, how I burned! The very concept that the queen did not proffer insults—the woman could flay a man with more expertise than a cook skins a rabbit. And for her to reiterate, lest for a moment it slipped my mind, that the entire point of this exercise was to mate me to a fecund, well-heeled fop ... my patience left me entirely.

  Fingernails still buried in the flesh of my arm, the queen led us to our next guests. "King Renaldo, Prince Florian, how delighted we are to meet you again. May I present Princess Benevolence."

  I curtsied as I had been taught; they bowed. King Renaldo? I knew that name; my father had uttered it, many times...

  "Your brilliance outshines the lights, Your Majesty," the man stated, beaming at the queen.

  I remembered now: he was king of Drachensbett! This very man standing before us had ordered the murder of my mother, and Sophia's spouse!

  Yet the queen, who better than anyone knew this truth, demonstrated not a sliver of disdain. "It is our greatest delight that you have consented to attend our humble affair this evening."

  "Indeed," the king replied—his tone lacking, I was stunned to observe, all guilt, cunning, or malevolence—"knowing of your presence here, I could not have allowed myself to be elsewhere."

  His son, I was pleased to note, rolled his eyes at this insipidness. Florian was unmistakably handsome, even to my inexperienced eye, although his sneer negated his good looks. But then, what else could one expect of that country? He scanned the ballroom. "Such an attractive space," he murmured to his father. "So perfectly proportioned."

  "You are but one of many men present plotting its acquisition this evening." These spirited words flew from my lips of their own accord.

  Prince Florian for the first time paid me notice, his dark eyes squinting in disdain. I did my utmost to match his frigid scowl, though I could not completely suppress a strangled gasp as Sophia's nails sank further yet into my arm. 'Twas some manner of miracle that four pools of blood were not already collecting on the ballroom floor.

  Without warning this delightful interchange was interrupted by the return of Baron Edwig. He bowed to our foursome, his wig nearly brushing the floor. "So honored I would be if the fair princess would accept my hand for this dance." For permission he looked not at me—I was only commodity, not a living being—but at Prince Florian, who bowed in return with an expression of exquisite boredom.

  So I found myself on the dance floor, all eyes on my performance, as the baron droned away. My only joy came from my discovery, curtsying to my partner at the commencement of our pas de deux, that his slippers featured the exact bows as those of Monsieur Grosbouche. I forced a smile, and within fifteen steps expertly released his laces. Too proud or dim to stop, the baron continued dancing with an ever more shuffling, mincing pace.

  So intent was I on this entertainment that I paid his words no heed. "I beg your pardon," I said finally. "The music has quite captivated me."

  "Oh, 'tis nothing," the baron warbled, struggling to remain upright. "I was wondering only what think you of Drachensbett."

  I could not restrain my tongue. "As a nation, you mean? Or an invading force?"

  My candor, combined with his failing footwear, left the baron stumbling. "That is not—what I meant—but how— oh, behold, the tune has ended..." With a bow, he shuffled off, not even feigning an interest in properly concluding our conversation.

  Joviality had scarce filled my soul prior to this dance, but nonetheless I allowed myself a healthy dose of indignation at the baron's profound faux pas. How dare that idiot raise the topic of
our nations' enmity—with King Renaldo himself not twenty paces away!

  My ire must have shadowed my face, for several plucky young men withdrew at my scowling visage. Absently I worked my way along the groaning banquet table, gorging on the delicacies. My gown felt ever tighter, the noise and heat of the room set my ears to ringing, and I was overcome with the yearning to escape this useless commotion and miserable garment. But the grand gilt doors atop the stairs stood in plain view; Queen Sophia, chatting with several of her countrymen, would intercept me in an instant.

  There were, however, other options...

  Behind the table, two prominent pilasters flanked the Montagne coat of arms—including an enameled hedgehog. I glanced about. I was unobserved; apparently I wearied even the most prying guests. In an instant I was in the shadows and through the wall.

  The climb had never been more torturous, for I truly could not breathe in my corset. Finally I burst into my cell. Oh, how inviting it looked, how refreshing and simple after the frippery below! I dropped atop my quilt. The spell and gestures required but an instant, and at last I stood gulping down great quantities of air as a Doppelschläferin lay at my feet, still trapped in that horrible gown. Now I could think.

  In this first moment of clarity, I realized I could tolerate this existence not a moment longer. Not the wardrobe, not the interminable and useless instruction, not the discussions of invasion and matrimony, for both of which I was absolutely unsuited. If the castle believed my only contribution to the preservation of Montagne was my unwilling and unsolicited presence at the altar beside a man I would abhor, then the kingdom was as good as lost. My Doppelschläferin could better serve that role, so uninterested was anyone in my intelligence or opinion.

  I stared down at my sleeping double. If that was what the nation wanted, then that is what it would receive. I had fulfilled my promise to Lord Frederick. My life henceforth would be my own. I could fly a broom with middling skill; I knew how to clean. I would find some distant land where I could work an honest job in return for three meals a day. With time, when I was very old and in my twenties, I might find a man to love, not one forced upon me...

  With swift decisiveness I pulled on my warm wool clothes and cloak. Snatching up my broom, its magic pulsing through my hand, I strode to the window.

  No sooner had I touched the latch, however, than I heard the most horrifying sound of pounding footsteps.

  In a panic, I fumbled to open the window.

  Outside my door, a man cried out, "Your Majesty—she could not be here—"

  "I must find her!" Sophia cried wrathfully. The key turned with a blood-chilling snap, the door slammed open, and she burst into the room, fury contorting her face.

  I froze in terror.

  "There you are!" she roared—not at me, but at my poor, lifeless Doppelschläferin! Nonetheless I reflexively pressed myself against the glass.

  My movement caught her eye. "Touch not that girl, fiend!" she shrieked.

  I gaped back at her. She did not recognize me! My hooded cloak, a room drenched in shadow—

  "Seize the witch!" she commanded the two guards behind her.

  Grimly intent, the guards stepped toward me, their arms spread wide. I would be seized, interrogated, even burnt—

  Blindly I groped behind me—the latch released at last! I pushed the window open with all my strength.

  The guards lurched closer as Sophia shrieked instructions.

  I took a deep breath, redoubling my grip on the broom.

  The guards' massive hands lunged for me, for one terrifying moment grasping my cloak. At that instant I dove out, plunging through the night to my doom.

  Part Three

  IN WHICH MY NEWLY ACQUIRED TALENTS PROVE TO BE OF LITTLE BENEFIT IN A HARSH AND UNFAMILIAR TERRITORY

  ELEVEN

  Chateau de Montagne stands atop a precipice, the castle's northern façade rising straight from the living rock. From the Wizard Tower, the highest point of the castle, to the cliff's base far below is a vast distance, absolutely vertical and terrifying to behold. Such was the void through which I now hurtled, scrabbling at the air itself as I clutched my useless broom. Wind roared past my ears, my cloak billowed like a living beast. My life would end in a matter of heartbeats.

  Forlornly I forced my eyes open to see the world one last time. I was hurtling headfirst to the ground—I could spy the lights of the castle between the toes of my boots—

  And then, I slowed. The lights of the castle! I pulled the broom closer, clinging to it like a vine, never taking my sight from that focal point. How close I came to the ground I will never know, but I can aver that the castle was far, far above as I began my struggling ascent.

  To my shock, the castle, as I neared it, burst into flame. Or so it appeared, for massive bonfires sprang to life atop every watchtower, and pealing alarums urged soldiers to their battle stations. Was this the Drachensbett attack, at this moment? A great shout broke out—an arrow hissed past my head. More arrows followed, and in my panic I lost all concentration and plunged anew through the air, thus providentially escaping those deadly missiles.

  Should one ever be in a position to learn the art of flying a broom, I strongly advise against this particular scenario, above all if the sum of one's sole previous experience has consisted of circumnavigating a narrow tower cell in a manner most resembling a carnival ride. How I survived these first minutes I do not know, and I can only assume that the same abstruse yet benignant forces directing my magical education preserved me now from death.

  Soldiers continued to launch volleys in my direction, including flaming arrows of terrifying dimension. Powerful searchlights probed the sky, seeking me out. My great-grandfather had found lighthouses endlessly fascinating and designed a martial equivalent to ferret out nocturnal invaders. Though I had always gloated over my forebear's ingenuity, I now cursed his cleverness. As I could barely steer, I had no notion how to avoid these bedazzling rays, and indeed at one point found myself blinded, trapped like a fly in a web. Panicking anew, I again lost all control, and in my tumbling evaded the beams.

  Desperately I scanned the blackness around me. Surely there was another target, something in that pitch of night I might use as beacon to escape.

  As if answering my unspoken plea, the moon drifted into sight through a litter of clouds. At once I shot toward this crescent. Faster and faster I climbed, fear driving me to ever greater speeds. And then, to my horror, the moon slipped away, quick as it had emerged. I must not fail! I kept my eyes on that one spot, convincing myself I could yet see it. Miraculously, I continued to rise.

  Still, searchlights probed the sky. Much as I raced, they swept faster toward me. I was snared! A second joined, a third. Try as I might, I could not evade these spotlights. A missile, large as a catapult stone—perhaps, indeed, that it was—hurtled past. If struck, I would perish in an instant...

  I plunged into the cloud itself. At once, icy fog swallowed the damnable searchlights. Relief was followed instantly by panic. I could barely tell up from down, and had no notion of the direction in which I should fly. Yet on I flew, remaining on my broomstick through grit alone, knowing I must not return to the valley below and the soldiers who longed to blast me from the sky.

  The air grew colder, if that was possible, and I adjusted my clothing as best I could against the chill. Weariness flooded my bones, and I could not but wonder what strength my effort was costing, and how much longer I could survive.

  Suddenly my foot brushed an object! Almost plunging from my broom in astonishment, I peered down and could just distinguish snow-covered treetops below me. I must be on the mountain itself: perhaps near abreast the summit! Now would be the ideal time to cross Ancienne, find some obscure hamlet that knew nothing of Montagne or Drachensbett or witchcraft, and there settle into a new life.

  Steeling my heart, I set myself to the daunting challenge. A challenge it was, too, for the air itself shriveled and weakened at this height. Closer I dropped to the mo
untainside, for I now needed it as guide. How carefully did I pick my way! My eyes ached from strain, and my back from my crouched position.

  Without warning a mammoth boulder, scabbed with ice, loomed before me out of the darkness. I turned, but too late—I lost all control. I crashed into the stone face, a tangle of limbs and cloth, and, falling to the mountainside, knew no more.

  ***

  My violent shivering roused me as rose tints painted the eastern sky. Much labor it required to recollect each tumultuous event of my recent past, how I came to occupy this patch of snow. My head throbbed, and my fingers, though numb with cold, located a lump half the size of an egg on my forehead. Packing more snow still against my skull, I sat up and attempted to take my bearings.

  My precious broom lay not two paces away, shattered in a half-dozen fragments. I crawled over, silently praying, but could tell with one touch that all hope was gone. No hint of magic tingled through the splinters of wood, which now looked no better than kindling. It, and I, rested on a bank of snow. Above me, an ice-coated cliff rose seemingly without break to the heavens. Escape, should I manage it, wherever my ultimate goal (and one can be sure my enthusiasm burned much dimmer in the light of dawn), would only be down.

  The snow alone proved a formidable obstacle. At times I found myself waist-deep, forcing each leg forward with all my strength. Never did the powder rise to less than my knees, and more than once I plunged suddenly into a drift over my head—most entertaining had I been a child within sight of my warm home and a bubbling kettle of chocolate, but not in the current circumstances. Neither can I omit mention of the boulders that turned my path into a rugged obstacle course, or the wind that sent blinding fistfuls of snow into my eyes and ears, and down my collar.

  My situation only grew worse. Stumbling, I nearly tumbled off yet another cliff obstructing my route. Panting with fright, I began to climb down hand over hand, feet scrabbling for position. My hot perspiration chilled to ice; my fingers numbed. Falling the last bit, I touched ground again, relieved past measure though the impact knocked the wind from my body.