Sophia, Princess Among Beasts

by James Patterson

  El Cuchillo brought his own plate to the table and sank into the chair across from me. “Do not be afraid of me,” he said. “Underneath this fearsome exterior is the heart of a poet.”

  I looked at him, dressed all in black, an obsidian brooch at his neck. His eyes were deep-set under heavy dark brows.

  “A poet, you say? You are dressed in the garb of a hangman,” I said.

  I was surprised when he laughed.

  “Rope is not my weapon of choice, Princess,” he replied, as his gaze traced the low neckline of my gown. No man had ever dared look at me like that so openly.

  I leaned forward. “So you admit you are a killer.”

  “We are all killers here, Sophia! That’s why we get along so well.”

  “You make it sound… so ordinary,” I said.

  “There is nothing more ordinary than death, Your Highness. It comes to king and serf alike, to dragon and sparrow and gnat.” El Cuchillo gazed up at the ceiling thoughtfully for a moment, and then he began to speak again.

  A princess with hair as black as mine,

  With melodious voice and features fine,

  I would like to hear her laugh and sing—

  I thrust my face close to his. “Who killed my father, the Warrior King?”

  Startled, El Cuchillo looked at me with grudging admiration. “It is rude to interrupt a poet,” he scolded me. “But your rhyme and meter were well chosen.”

  “I am not interested in your poetry,” I said. “Who is responsible for the death of King Leonidus?”

  I had to know if I was really right.

  El Cuchillo exhaled. “It was Reiper,” he said. Then he shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Or maybe it was Zozo. Or could it have been Seth? Possibly it was all of them.” He took a long drink from his gilded goblet. “They are all terrible—they have no soul. It wasn’t me, I can tell you that much. I am the only one in this dark castle you can trust.” He paused and took another sip. “Trust, rust, dust… lust. Yes,” he said to himself, “I feel another poem coming.”

  I laughed, I couldn’t help it, and his face twisted in anger.

  “You mock me,” he seethed.

  “I do no such thing,” I said. “I admire poems and those who write them well. But I do not choose you. Go back to your leader and tell him this. Tell him I choose to be alone, tonight and every night.”

  For a moment, El Cuchillo stared at me. Then he rose from the table slowly. I let the breath I had been holding out. Alone, I would finish my humble meal in peace.

  But then he flung his arm forward, his fingertips flashing with knives, and he struck at me. By some miracle I moved out of the way—almost. A single blade sliced my cheek and pain flared up, hot and urgent. I fell backward onto the floor, knocking over candles as I did. The rushes quickly ignited. I began to crawl backward like a crab, blood running into my mouth and flames licking my gown as my poet-suitor advanced on me, murder in his eyes.

  “You will be alone for all eternity,” he whispered.

  Terrified, I felt the wall at my back. There was nowhere else to crawl.

  He lunged at me. And then he stopped, midair.

  Reiper’s sword had run him right through, like a pig on a spit.

  El Cuchillo’s limbs spasmed wildly and then went still.

  Reiper tossed his body onto the fire, extinguishing it. “In your honor, Princess,” he said, and bowed.

  CHAPTER 43

  Once again, a knight had died because of me. And this time, I was sorry for it. I could hardly say that I had liked El Cuchillo, but I’d felt a shred of kinship with him. A sliver of respect. He’d loved words and rhyme as I did, hadn’t he? He was a killer who wished to be a poet, and I had watched him drown in his own blood. Because I had dared to laugh.

  And selfishly, I understood that his death complicated my situation further. Reiper had saved my life, and surely he believed his claim to me had now grown stronger.

  These were the thoughts that troubled me as I rose the next morning and dressed in the servant’s clothes, which were warmer and sturdier than my own. I was going to the village to find Raphael again, and I’d demand to know where we were, and how we’d gotten here, and if it was possible to ever go home.

  Florence was nowhere to be found, and no one seemed to notice me as I made my way out of the castle. Nor did I have Jeanette to tell me that my hair was messy, or a father to tell me I couldn’t consort with beasts. In a way, there was a strange freedom in being Ares’s prisoner—just as Raphael had said.

  In the dusty courtyard, the Sphinx sunned itself in the pale early light. As I tried to slip past, it sat up and blinked sleepily at me.

  “You’ll let me go, won’t you?” I asked. “I don’t need to answer three questions every time I want to leave or return?”

  The Sphinx shook its great head in a slow, dignified manner. “No, my small, delicious-smelling girl, you have earned free passage. But for the sake of conversation, do you know what comes each night without being called?”

  “Not at the moment,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me. I hope you have a nice day.”

  “And you as well,” it said gravely.

  I picked my way down the twisting cliff to where the tatzelwurm lay curled in the sand. I was glad to see it.

  “Hello, you enormous kitten,” I said. “If the Sphinx ever asks you the riddle about what comes each night without being called, the answer is ‘the stars.’”

  The dragon huffed gray smoke and ducked its head so that I could pet its cheek.

  “Maybe I should train you to let me ride you,” I said teasingly. “It’s such a long walk to the village.”

  The dragon leaned into my touch, a low rumble beginning in its furred throat.

  “That would be a grand thing, wouldn’t it, to show up at the gates of the beast village with a dragon as my mount! What would the troll guards think of me then?”

  But the tatzelwurm didn’t answer; it only purred.

  “Perhaps I’ll call you Leo,” I said softly. “Leo for lion—and for my father.” I scratched it for another few moments, then kissed it goodbye on its nose and began walking along the dusty track to the village. I didn’t see the harpies, the centaur, or any other fantastic creature; I was trailed only by a seagull, circling high in the cold gray sky and calling out in sad, lonely squawks.

  When I came to the village gates, the trolls who stood guard ignored me yet again. Hurrying past the decaying, abandoned part of the town, I made my way to the square where I’d last seen Raphael.

  I had made up my mind last night: if he did not know me from my past life, then he would know me in this one.

  But Raphael was not in the square, and neither were the sheep. The lonely old juggler was the square’s sole inhabitant, but he was asleep beneath the empty fountain. Standing there, uncertain of what to do—how would I find Raphael now?—I heard something that made my heart clutch.

  Metal ringing against metal. The clash of striking swords. A gruff shout. And then, like a bell, a bright peal of laughter.

  Somewhere, not too far away, friends parried their weapons, the way I used to do with Odo.

  Without thinking, I ran toward the noise. I turned down an alley and nearly collided with a winged man in a butcher’s apron. “Excuse me,” I gasped, hurrying past him. Laundry flapped above me and chickens, scratching in the alley dust, fluttered out of my way. An old woman standing in her doorway glared at me and hissed like a cat. Probably she was part feline, with a furry tail hidden under her dirty smock.

  The alley grew wider and then opened onto a courtyard. Neat, whitewashed cottages ringed it, their shutters closed against the chill breeze.

  And there he was: Raphael. Shirtless, his brown chest polished with sweat, he wielded a heavy dull sword against a man with a dog’s face. Behind him, a mix of men and beasts engaged in practice combat with blunt knives and axes, while in the courtyard corner, four ragged children—boys or girls, I couldn’t tell—took turns firing arrow
s into a target made of straw.

  I quickly realized that this was not simply play. Everyone in this courtyard was preparing for battle.

  CHAPTER 44

  But which enemy would they strike against? What kingdom was at stake?

  Still unseen, I watched Raphael. He was graceful with his footwork, skilled with his blade—though I thought Odo could still teach him a thing or two.

  Beside me was a bucket of water, with a cup lying next to it in the dirt. I picked it up, and before I dipped the cup into the water, I saw, in its still surface, my reflection: cheeks the color of storm clouds, tiny pearlescent horns peeking out from my dark hair. No wonder Raphael didn’t know me—or pretended not to.

  I filled the cup and walked slowly toward him. Still dodging, dancing, and thrusting his peasant’s weapon, Raphael took no notice of me. Standing close, I could hear his heavy breathing, the strain of the fight, the clash of the swords. The opponents were evenly matched: one light and quick, the other stout and strong.

  After a few moments, Raphael turned and saw me. He leaned his sword against a cottage wall. “What are you doing here?” he asked. His tone was far from welcoming.

  I should hardly be surprised by his capacity for insolence, I thought to myself. It’s how we met, after all.

  “I had thought to give you water,” I said stiffly. “But never mind.” I held out the cup, tipped it, and let the water spill into the dust. “You can get your own.”

  A smile seemed to flicker at the corners of his mouth. “That I can, if I want it,” he said. He reached out and took the cup from my hand, but he didn’t move to fill it. He just gazed at me silently. Curiously.

  It unnerved me.

  So I stood taller, summoning a shred of my old, royal pride. “Why are all of you sparring?” I asked. “Even the little ones?”

  “This is our work now,” Raphael said. “We have been conscripted.”

  “By whom?”

  “We are Ares’s men,” he said flatly. “We are training for combat.”

  I felt my heart begin to pound. Did Ares seek war in this world, too? I thought of Faye, my chambermaid, crying out that she didn’t want to die. “With whom does he have such grave quarrel?”

  Raphael laughed bitterly. “Everyone,” he said.

  “But what kingdom? Who is his enemy?”

  He looked at me in disbelief. “Does it make any difference who it is? We swing our swords unwillingly. The target hardly matters.”

  “Of course it matters!” I said. “It matters to them—to those you would seek to kill.”

  Raphael shrugged, his expression dark, as he kicked his foot in the dirt.

  Then the dog-faced man spoke up. “We’re going to attack a castle some days west of here. It’s well defended, they say. An outright fortress, encircled by a moat…” And as he spoke of its size, its defenses, and the way it loomed over a wide river valley, with snow-tipped mountains in the distance, I felt a prickling chill creep up my spine.

  I knew the gatehouse he described. I had climbed those great towers and imposing battlements; I’d once been safe behind those massive stone walls.

  He was speaking of my home.

  Under Ares’s command, Raphael and the villagers were preparing to attack Bandon Castle.

  I couldn’t fathom how this could be true. Ares had been on his way to destroy Bandon as I lay in bed, wracked with the burning fever of the Seep. That was days ago now. Surely he had already stormed its gates! Its proud towers must now be piles of rubble.

  Unless, by some miracle, the fortress still stood.

  Perhaps Odo and his men had repelled Ares’s first advance, and now he was mounting his second. Hope bloomed in my chest: Bandon stood! Odo had been victorious.

  And yet it seemed impossible.

  Or what if the attack had somehow not happened yet? Perhaps I wasn’t trapped in a different world, but instead held captive in a different, earlier instant. Maybe, somehow, there was still hope to save my home.

  I knew this was a ludicrous thing to wish.

  But was it more ludicrous than me—a princess, a queen—turning into a purple-skinned beast? I still didn’t even know if I was alive or dead, so what did I know of anything? Who was to say that time was a line instead of a circle? Maybe, like a melody played on a harp, time repeated itself, its refrains echoing forever and ever—

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  Raphael lifted his head. “Well, like I told you, princesses know nothing.”

  “I’ll ask you to stop saying things like that,” I said sharply. “It’s not as if you’re any paragon of knowledge. And you might be proud of your name, but you should hardly feel pride about your sword-fighting skills.”

  Then Raphael surprised me by offering me a true smile. “That’s why I’m practicing, Your Highness.”

  I held out my hands, almost pleadingly. “Do you understand what’s going on? What is this world we’re in?”

  His smiled faded. “Again, I might ask you why it matters. Some things are different, but most remain the same.”

  “But—”

  “What of that old life of squalor and shit? Good riddance, that’s what I say.”

  “How did you get here? I must know!”

  Raphael stabbed the tip of his sword into the dirt. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

  Then a familiar, hateful voice rang through the courtyard. “This is not the time to be idle!”

  CHAPTER 45

  I whirled around to see Reiper striding into the courtyard. He made his way toward Raphael and the dog-faced man, his cruel mouth twisted in a sneer and his fist clenched white around the hilt of his sword. “What is this—tea time? Ares bade you wretches fight.”

  I ran forward to stand between him and Raphael. “It’s my fault,” I said. “They were sparring. I interrupted them.”

  He didn’t even glance at me. “Does the wench speak true?” he asked them.

  “Yes,” said the dog-faced man, bowing and panting nervously. “We were at practice, sir.”

  “But do not blame her,” Raphael began—and then, in an instant, he crumpled to the ground. Reiper had struck him across the face.

  I gasped, falling to my knees beside him. Raphael’s cheekbone was already turning purple, like my new skin. “That was uncalled for,” I said, glaring up at Reiper. “Do you forbid your men to even speak?”

  Reiper’s lip curled. “I do not need the peasant to tell me who I should or should not blame. I asked if you told the truth—if they had been sparring.”

  “You have no right,” I said. I ripped a corner of my dress and pressed it to Raphael’s now bleeding cheek.

  “You are incorrect there, girl,” Reiper said. “He is under my command. His life is mine.” He smiled cruelly. “As is yours.”

  Raphael was shaking his head, clenching his fists, and lifting himself from the ground. He spat into the dirt and took a step toward Reiper. I reached out to stop him—he should not make Reiper angrier. But he shrugged me off and stood, his dark eyes fierce and blood trickling down his face.

  “My life is my own,” he said, and his voice held the same defiance it had the day I met him. The day he flung manure in my face.

  Some people never learn, I thought.

  Raphael lifted his sword and swung, and Reiper’s blade met his with a clash.

  “Stupid boy,” Reiper hissed. His blade flashed, and he sliced Raphael’s fighting hand. Raphael’s sword fell to the ground as he clutched his wounded hand to his chest.

  Once again I put myself between them. “Stop,” I pleaded. “Spare him.”

  Reiper lowered his sword. “I will spare him,” he said, “but not because you asked.”

  “Ares must have told you to stop murdering his men,” I said.

  Reiper ignored this. “Do you see how quickly I defeat my opponents, Sophia? In your honor, of course,” he said.

  “You don’t even know what that word means,” I said.

  His e
xpression was so cold it seemed to turn the sky to ice. I turned away from him, shivering, as the dog-faced man and I tended to Raphael’s bleeding hand.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him as I wrapped another piece of my skirt around the cut. “It’s just a scratch. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Raphael laughed bitterly. “Everything? Fine? Lying doesn’t become you, Princess.”

  “Queen,” I reminded him.

  “Prisoner,” he returned. He smiled a little, and then winced in pain as I tightened the makeshift bandage around his hand.

  He closed his eyes, and I looked at the dark, handsome planes of his face, his worried brow, his full mouth tense with wounded pride. I wondered how it was that we two had come to be here together, and what it all meant, and if we’d ever be able to leave.

  “We’ll get out of this,” I said softly. “Don’t worry.”

  Raphael kept his eyes closed. “How?”

  “We’ll kill him,” I said. I was surprised how calm I felt about it. How certain.

  Raphael opened one eye. “You don’t look like a killer.”

  I shrugged, thinking of the Blemmye and my lack of regret at his death. “I don’t look like a queen, either. And yet I am.”

  Raphael didn’t answer, and I rose to go. But he reached out with his bandaged hand and caught my wrist. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said. “I hope.”

  I felt my cheeks flush. “Hope is a good thing,” I said.

  CHAPTER 46

  When I returned to the castle, gaunt, pale-skinned Mordred was waiting outside my bedchamber. A giant, funereal lily dangled loosely from his hand, and its scent filled the corridor with a sickly sweetness.

  “You are smiling,” he said. “A lily for your thoughts.”

  Had I been smiling? I’d been thinking of Raphael. But Mordred certainly didn’t need to know that. “What do you want?” I asked. “I’m in no mood for company.”

  He licked his thin lips as he pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against and managed to tuck the flower into my hair, though I stepped back to avoid his touch. “It’s not what I want,” he said, “it’s what Ares wants.” He reached out to touch my cheek, and I flinched away from him. He smiled. “Though I suppose I want it, too.”