“No, I cannot. Good night, Mother. I love you too.”
He squeezed her hand in the hopes that she might change her mind, as he had every night since he could remember, as he would every night for the next hundred days. But she still left him, as she had and did and ever would, then and the hundred nights after, until she left his room for the very last time. That night was no different than any of the others, and he would not have had it any other way. But never again did he smile into the darkness after her, his hair a mess against the pillow, the lingering scent of purple in the air, and the pressure of her lips still faint on his cheeks.
He snuggled back into his mother’s arms for warmth, not for himself, but for her. With every day she grew weaker and colder; his small body had become the source of heat for them both. Her arm was like marble cradled around his belly; he spread his palms against her skin and wished his strength into her flesh. He willed her breath to fall deep and even, for the heartbeat against his spine to come harder and faster, pushing the life back through her veins. Her once indigo eyes were now a dull blue, when she decided to open them at all. Her cheeks had faded from pink, to white, to a yellow-gray pallor. That color scared Rumbold.
The prince pulled tight into a ball. He imagined he was a human coal, burning with a fire so bright and hot that his mother would not—could not—bear to leave him. He cherished the pressure of her fingertips when she squeezed his knee, his arm, his fist every so often, felt the love and promises and memories as they danced lazily from her soft, faint voice through his hair. He held her hand up to the light that sliced across them from the slightly open door to the outer chambers. He tried to memorize the shape of that hand, the size of it against his own, wanting to burn the memory into his mind forever. Life was fleeting, his little ears had heard one of the chambermaids say, and the queen rushed toward its end so fast that no one could catch her, tell her to wait, or remind her of what she was leaving behind.
The flesh of her hand was translucent now, fading as she was, and it cast no shadow on his own. But Rumbold would not remember the sick shell the gods were slowly erasing from life’s canvas; he would remember the stories and the laughter, the wavy hair and the merry eyes, the lilac and the lavender. He would remember this hand, beautiful and imperfect, and his mind’s pencil would draw love, solid and substantial, along the curve of every nail and the wrinkle on every knuckle. She would leave him, as everyone left in time, but nothing could steal his memories.
“I ask you this a third time.”
“And thricely I refuse.”
Rumbold made himself as small as he could, slipping under the coverlet and sinking back into his mother with as little movement as possible. He did not want his father or godmother to see him there. They would take him away again and send him back to his own bright rooms with the colors that failed to disguise the chill in the walls and floor. The sun’s rays that fell in the window held no joy; there was nothing there but the constant reminder of how he could not help his mother. Here, with her, he could pretend. He could be the hot coal, and the queen’s soul might rub its hands together over his fire for one moment longer.
“But I—”
A silence interrupted the king, a rustle of fabric, and another silence that might have been the walls of the castle sighing, succumbing to the weight of the world. Quiet though it was it had not come from his mother; the queen’s pulse still beat tentatively at his back.
“Your feelings are not unrequited,” said Sorrow. “But blood will turn to gold, your wife will die. When the time comes again you will bind yourself once more to a fey woman, and she will not be me. Such is the way of things.”
“And you will never walk beside me.”
Sorrow barked the harsh laugh of a brazen crow refusing to be tempted by sparkling in the sand. “I will never walk in your shadow, my love. I will never be your tool, and I will never be your queen.” The silence came again, stolen and quick. “But I will ever be beside you, for as long as we both shall live.”
“So be it.” His father did not sound happy. Rumbold had never heard anything in his father’s voice besides duty.
“Tomorrow you will feast on foul and face a future fit to contain another lifetime of foolishness,” said his godmother. “Tonight you must mourn.”
Rumbold could hear their footsteps now as they approached, and the sliver of golden light that fell over them from the crack in the door grew wider. Rumbold huddled down even further and closed his eyes, refusing the light.
“Don’t be afraid,” Mother whispered in his ear, softer than sheets, softer than stone. Her hand fell away from his side and she settled back into the pile of feather pillows the chambermaids had brought for her comfort and left regardless. A bundle of down could never replace the healing properties of a little boy, no matter how heavily either was hidden in satin.
“I am still here, husband,” she announced to the room with a strength Rumbold was surprised to hear her muster. “A situation I will be sure to remedy shortly.” Her laugh was a wheeze blown over the lip of a bottle.
“I am sad to hear it.” He wasn’t, though.
Her heartbeat skipped; the strength she had found seemed to be outpacing her on the sands of time. “You will not let my son see me die.” The sentence was careful and clear, with a beat between each word that brooked no misunderstanding. Rumbold began to shake at her declaration.
“Look for me in your dreams.” She whispered this into his skin and punctuated it with a kiss on his forehead from lips as dry as summer leaves. “I will be waiting for you there.” Rumbold willed his body to cease its shivering, but it would not. He wanted to be a rock, a coal, a young man, a powerful prince, and he was ashamed at his body’s betrayal.
Those were the last commands of Madelyn, High Queen of Arilland. Rumbold was quickly ushered out of the room by his godmother. The queen reportedly died in the night, peacefully, and no one ever laid eyes on her again.
Rumbold did not eat for days. He did not speak for over a month. Not that anyone but Rollins noticed, the one man who needed no commands to carry out his duties. This further lessened the prince’s desire to share his thoughts with random castle folk. His father, on the other hand, had to keep up appearances. A lavish banquet was held in the queen’s honor. The king drank to excess, spoke at volumes that made Rumbold’s head ache, and consumed in one sitting an entire roast goose.
When Rumbold woke in the wee hours of the night the puppy was gone. He missed the warm nose squirming under his arm like he missed his mother. Mother was soft and sweet and smelled of safety and love. She used to lie in bed beside him and tell him stories and stroke his cheeks with featherlight fingertips until he fell asleep.
It had been months since he had missed her so hard his cheeks were damp in the morning, but for a fleeting moment he felt the empty chill of waking up in a world without her. He shook his head, as if by chance the thought might wriggle its way out of his ears and flop on to the pillow. Thinking about Mother made him sad, and he didn’t want to be sad.
He wanted his puppy.
The little brown and gold mutt had been generously promised to the young prince when he had stumbled across one of the palace bitches giving birth to her litter. The king had immediately denounced its existence. He frowned upon it and demanded that his son rid himself of the stinking, useless beast.
Out of spite, Rumbold treasured his puppy more than any other possession.
True, the pup was an unintelligent and sometimes stinky little creature, and caring for it took more work than Rumbold had ever done in his short life. It was so needy—always having to be fed or excused, forever wanting to play, constantly craving attention and love. Its deep, pleading eyes looked at Rumbold and saw father and brother, leader and playmate, provider and protector, master and ruler of the whole world. It refused to understand that Rumbold’s heart had been broken too badly to love anything anymore, so Rumbold cared for the puppy despite himself.
The neverending
demands of the pup forced him to temporarily take up residence on the ground floor. With an eye to his safety, rooms had been prepared for him just off the wing of the Palace Guard. No matter the hour Rumbold was never alone when he took the pup out to the yard...to where the restless animal had no doubt disappeared.
Rumbold eased out of bed and tiptoed across the cold stones, not wanting to wake Rollins for a robe and slippers. The chamber door was open a puppy-sized crack. Rumbold widened it to boy-sized and slipped through.
He paused in the candlelit corridor, calming his galloping heart enough to listen for whispers in the shadows. Nothing. They had not followed him here. Not that it gave him much comfort; he was sure the whispers would return to haunt him at any moment. It was only a matter of time before they discovered this new place. He hurried along.
He wasn’t familiar enough with the labyrinth of new corridors to know the way without Rollins. Of course, the puppy wouldn’t have known either, which was just as well. His father said a good hunter must know his prey. Rumbold concentrated and tried to think like a mischievous puppy. The left end of the hallway led to quiet candles and more darkness. The right end of the hallway was much the same, but further down there was a richer, orangish sort of glow and the faint sounds of men’s voices.
That way.
A few more twists and turns brought him to the Guards’ Hall. Rumbold peeked around the corner carefully, so as not to be discovered and sent back to bed.
His father’s men sat around tables, eating and drinking and talking and laughing in deep, seemingly bottomless tones that Rumbold couldn’t imagine himself possessing one day. Now and again scraps from the table would be nonchalantly tossed to the rushes, where the palace hounds would playfully fight over them.
The prince squinted into the light tossed about by the fire and wall sconces until he found his squat little prey, dancing in a forest of legs thick and thin, man’s and dog’s. Rumbold balled his small hands into fists, wondering how he would get his pup to heel without attracting the attention of the whole room. If his father discovered that he had left his chambers unnoticed as a result of the animal’s behavior, he would certainly and immediately deprive Rumbold of the puppy…or worse.
He stifled a giggle as he watched the older dogs playfully tease the pup with scraps. He hoped they didn’t feed him overmuch; on a previous occasion the pup’s belly had become distended enough to hamper his ability to walk. Amusing as it was at the time, the prince did not find it amusing later, when the sick pup emptied his insides from both ends.
An older dog pulled at a scrap with the pup and then let the little one win, sending him tumbling back into the leg of one of the guards. Startled, the pup turned on instinct and nipped at the offending ankle. Like a cow bit by a fly Rumbold watched as the muscle of the leg twitched and the foot jerked, sending the weightless puppy sailing into the stones of the fireplace.
Rumbold was not worried. The pup had many times proven to be remarkably resilient. He would pop up, shake himself off, and jump at another scrap.
Any moment now.
One of the older dogs moved to the unmoving body and nudged it with his nose. Another dog let out a small whimper. A high-pitched, unbroken wail filled the room.
All eyes turned to Rumbold’s hiding place.
He realized the wail was coming from him.
The candle flames dipped and trembled and there was a cold breeze at his back. Long, thin fingers tipped by ebony nails slid over his shoulder. “Shhh, dearling,” the dark voice hissed. “Your godmother is here now.”
Rumbold wished the screaming would stop, but he could not seem to shut his mouth. He wished he could move. He wished he could breathe. He wished that all the things he loved would stop leaving him.
The icy fingers squeezed in a comforting gesture, but Rumbold did not want comfort. He wanted vengeance. His stiff arm rose as if lifted by godstring, his finger pointing at the tall, blond guard who rubbed his ankle absentmindedly.
The fingers squeezed again and the fire in the fireplace extinguished itself, filling the whole room with a similar chill.
The guard’s red-bearded companion turned to him. “Jack, what have you done?”
It happened each afternoon like clockwork, but Rumbold didn’t indulge himself by taking advantage of every opportunity. It would be dangerous for his own habits to become as predictable as Master Lucian’s. Nor did the prince want his current lackadaisical Studies Master to be replaced by a tutor made of sterner stuff. So when the clock in the outer chamber rang two bells and Master Lucian settled back in his comfortable chair to sleep off his noon meal, Rumbold did not always escape.
When he did, he made egress by way of the portrait hall, where generations of kings and queens hung immortalized by the hands of the finest artisans of their time. Each monarch had left to this land great legacies of children and laws. Of battles won and lost. Of lands conquered, allies garnered, and foes slain. The years had made them memories, lines in sonnets and stanzas in songs, yet here they remained in perfect splendor for all time.
Rumbold tried to see some part of himself in each of the men and women before him. Had they preferred peas or potatoes? Would he grow into that stern expression or those wise eyes? Would he be pictured inside this castle, sitting by a fire, surrounded by items of peaceful benevolence? Or would he be bloody-armored on the battlefield, standing triumphant amidst the slain bodies of his enemies? Would he have champions so loyal to him that they would present him with rings of power and magic swords? Would he go mad and drink wine out of his shoes? When would his hair turn silver?
Sometimes Rumbold would forget his escape altogether and remain in the portrait hall, transfixed on some new minutia that had gone previously unnoticed: a dog at the foot of a chair, a dragon in flight outside a window, the lion’s mane on a coat of arms.
He spent countless hours in front of the first queen. Not the first queen to have ruled Arilland—though at times he found her equally as fascinating—but his father’s first wife, the woman who had preceded his mother. The whisper of a white gown draped over her willowy figure, and long silver hair spilled down over her shoulders. Her eyes were black, hollow, and…incomplete was the only word he could think to describe them, missing the robust confidence and substance of the queens before her. So much light surrounded her that she cast no shadow, but none of that brightness came from inside her. Each time he saw the queen’s portrait Rumbold thought her thinner and frailer, more sad and more afraid, as if her body were fading from the painting little by little and might one day disappear forever.
The first queen’s portrait never changed, but his father’s did. And eventually, reluctantly, Rumbold would find himself there.
He never saw himself in the king, because he refused to look. It was hard to tell when it had been painted; his father appeared as a young man of indeterminate age. The king pictured did not look much older than his middling teen son, but neither did the portrait look much younger than the king did today.
The Portrait King stood alone in a grove, proud hands on his hips, proud chest outthrust. A wild wind mussed his crownless hair and ruffled his heavy cloak. His expression was one of arrogant selfishness and entitlement, a face that said he knew just what the world owed him, and he would take pleasure in exacting his due.
The attitude disgusted Rumbold and would have turned him away every time had it not been for the dynamic world that surrounded the Portrait King. The trees around him shifted with the seasons. Buds gave way to leaves that turned russet and fell to the ground over the course of the year. Birds nested, fed their young, and flew off to warmer climes. Flowers bloomed. Animals burrowed. Rain and snow fell, or had just fallen; the Portrait King never seemed affected by inclement weather.
And always, without fail, Rumbold’s fairy godmother was there.
She never accompanied the king physically, but her presence kept a watchful eye on him from somewhere inside the frame. The suggestion of the curve of her body in t
he trunk of a tree; the image of her face formed by the leaves. An eye in the rain, or fingers on the wind. Rumbold would find himself torn between the challenge to seek her out each time and the fear that she would somehow find a way to escape the painting and haunt him the same way she haunted his father. But her eye never turned to Rumbold—it was ever fixed on the bold, immortal Portrait King. As Rumbold grew older he realized how beautiful his godmother was, a glamour enhanced by her terrible power, a power that had earned her a prestigious position in his father’s court.
Long ago, in the annals penned by scholars in the age of the monarchs at the far end of the portrait hall, a disastrous curse had almost ended the royal line, and a valuable lesson was learned regarding the importance of certain fairies of significance. There were no “good” or “bad” fairies, but there were certainly those whose blood ran with a purer strain of the Wild Magic, who did not suffer fools and whose character tended towards impatience. These fairies had an affinity for mischief and an alliance with the chaotic monsters of the night. No one wanted to welcome such unpredictability, but trying to keep these fairies away inevitably brought upon the hosts a devastating retribution.
Early on, one particularly unlucky noble family decided to anticipate this disaster by inviting to their fete every fairy who had ever been suspected of doing anything malicious or vengeful. Unfortunately, the only thing fairies hate worse than having their powers insulted by humans is having their powers insulted by other fairies. The side effect of the fairies’ resulting one-upmanship physically removed that kingdom completely from the face of existence.
Rumbold had searched his father’s library for more on this subject, but as no traveler has ever returned from this kingdom, no one was ever able to confirm or deny the validity of the claim.
And so it became standard practice to formally invite one singular “bad” fairy to important events of state. In time, the title became one of fear and respect. By rolling out the red carpet for the most threatening creature shy of the Faerie Queen herself, a royal family might avert all future disaster.