The Prince and Her Dreamer

by Kayla Bashe

  Mathilde sat on the edge of the bed. "I think your Drosselmeyer is my friend Ross, the Court Wizard. He said he was taking me to the human world to find someone who could break the curse."

  The girl nodded. "He…gave you to me. As a Christmas present."

  "I hope I've exceeded your expectations," Mathilde teased.

  "Oh, certainly," she replied at once, a blush staining her cheeks. "I'm Clara, by the way."

  True, she was lovely, and probably only a bit younger than Mathilde herself. But now wasn't the time for flirting. "If he's here, then the Rat King could be here, too. We need to hurry and find the portal to the kingdom of sweets before he starts killing whoever's in his path to get to me. Get a sweater and hat on, quick, and I'll help you put your hair up in case they're looking for you as well."

  *~*~*

  Clara felt shy and uncertain and very pleased all at once. She wanted to roll around naked in the snow or possibly scream. This kind of giddy excitement, being filled with champagne and light—was this what her normal peers felt around boys?

  Mathilde's unsteady breath warmed the back of her neck. She knew that if she leaned back, Mathilde would have caught her. Then something funny occurred to Clara, and she chuckled.

  "I was just thinking—it's like I'm the doll now."

  "You'd be a beautiful doll," Mathilde said, tying her hair back with a pink ribbon. "All that long, thick hair. Girls would trample each other to stroke it."

  Clara shivered, and felt certain that Mathilde could feel it.

  The clock began to strike.

  "Midnight," Clara whispered, catching Mathilde's knowing gaze.

  Mathilde bit her lip. "We have to go. Now."

  One…two…three.

  They peered into the hallway: dark and silent.

  "Everyone's asleep, let's hurry!" Clara whispered.

  Four…five…six…

  Clara showed Mathilde where to step so that the floorboards wouldn't creak.

  Seven…eight…nine…

  They crept down the grand spiral staircase.

  Ten…eleven…twelve.

  Clara caught her breath. The Christmas tree, the warm, welcoming room with its cheery fire, had been altered. The walls were impossibly large.

  Thirteen. The wooden owl on the mantelpiece clock opened its gem-bright eyes and hooted a malevolent warning.

  Clara jumped, startled, as the walls moved back and the Christmas tree spiraled further upwards.

  "Of course," Mathilde said quietly, observing the scene. "The Rat King may have assassinated my father and pushed me to the edge of the known worlds, but there's a showman's honor in him. He was very angry at the archer who poisoned me, I remember—he wanted everyone to know he'd killed me in battle, as was his right."

  What Clara had expected were the ratsoldiers of her childhood picture book. Not scary, but funny, with big fuzzy ears and pink noses. Instead they were merciless warriors. Their bodies seemed inhumanly tall and lithe, and they wore featureless grey uniforms, but they had the heads of sewer rats. Cracked yellow teeth and blood-matted fur gave off a powerful scent of mold and decay. She clung to the Prince's hand and willed herself not to faint.

  "Don't worry. They haven't seen us yet," Mathilde whispered.

  Still, Clara felt scared. All those rats, and just two of them. How would they ever get out of this room or look for the portal? But Mathilde seemed more confident, as if she had a plan. She opened the glass toy cabinet and held out a box. "These look familiar. What are they?"

  "My brother Fritz's toy soldiers," Clara said faintly. "Uncle Drosselmeyer…"

  She grinned: roguish, wicked, and utterly free. Suddenly Clara could breathe again. "Oh, I'd recognize Ross's mark anywhere," she murmured, tracing her fingers over the carved wooden faces. "Did you know, in your picture book, he made himself about a foot taller and a great deal better looking. Who would have thought the old Spartan would pull a Portrait of Dorian Grey?"

  Even among the chaos, Clara couldn't resist excitement. "You know about Oscar Wilde?"

  "Of course. Ross has been reading to me for years while I was a doll. It kept me sane."

  A wisp of smoke arose from the box.

  "Er," Clara said, her concern overpowering her excitement.

  "I think that's supposed to happen—"

  Then there was a popping sound, like many fireworks, and smoke plumed upwards. When it had cleared, twelve human soldiers in beautiful blue and red stood before them.

  "There they are!" shrieked a ratvoice, high and shrill.

  Mathilde shoved Clara behind a nearby sofa. "Hide here, Clara. I couldn't stand for you to come to any harm."

  The fullness of Mathilde's dark eyes captivated Clara utterly. She leaned forward and kissed Clara on the forehead. The place her lips had touched burned like a brand.

  The swarm of rats seemed endless. They streamed over the floor like a poisonous river, and Clara was so frightened she could hardly move.

  "Forward! Attack the Rat King!" Mathilde cried boldly.

  In the candlelight, as she decapitated rats with a flick of her gleaming saber, she looked splendid and brave. The toy soldiers brought out their cannons and fired at the rats. Others cut down the rats with their muskets or smashed them against the wall.

  But for every rat Mathilde or the soldiers killed, five more remained. Rats twisted the heads from soldiers and broke their wooden limbs, leaving them twitching and helpless on the floor. Clara's heart ached at the agony in their painted eyes as sawdust spilled forth.

  Soon only a few brave wooden soldiers were left standing. The small group was pressed back until they were right against the couch where Clara hid. She was frightened to even breathe in case someone heard her.

  And then she saw the Rat King. He had seven heads on one grotesque, lumpy body. A fine silver suit could hardly contain the inhuman bulges of his shape.

  Seven rats sewn together, Clara realized with horror. She willed herself to look away—but she couldn't. Seven mouths that oozed poison and disease. Seven pairs of beady black eyes. All the rat soldiers drew back, as if they were frightened of their monstrous king as well. They held their weapons at the ready, allowing their king space to step forward and speak.

  "Prince Mathilde," the Rat King said, his cultured voice dripping with hatred and venom. "At last I will finish the task I started so long ago. I will kill you in fair combat. Everyone in all the kingdoms will know that you fell before my blade. Not because I was cleverer than you, or trickier, or used a poison your Sugarplum Fairy could not counteract. But because you are weak!" A smile covered all his faces, starting with the middle head and spreading outwards. The heads crowded for position; from the way some of them flopped, Clara could tell they were all sewn onto one neck. "Perhaps you are even weaker than your father before you."

  Mathilde's posture straightened, and she gripped her sword tighter. "My father was a good man." Her voice was calm and steady, and it carried over the chittering of rats.

  Clara had read about how the Scarlet King died and guessed at the effort it took for Mathilde to maintain her regal demeanor. Her book had glossed over the worst details, not even including an illustration. But Clara knew he had died in a dungeon, alone, covered in rat bites that festered and oozed. And now that she knew more of war than just the fairytales of her childhood, she knew how horrible it would be to die that way.

  On this night, on Christmas Eve of all nights, she prayed for her Red Prince to be spared such an ignoble fate.

  "But good men die like all others," the Rat King responded, "and good women as well." He leered closer, and when he opened his mouth Clara could see the bits of flesh and gristle clinging to his pointed teeth.

  "Face me in single combat, and we shall see what kind of a man—or rat—you are," Mathilde shot back.

  "The kind who wins, little Princess."

  Clara felt angry at his condescending tone, but there was nothing she could do. Mathilde had fought so valiantly to keep her safe. />
  Ceremoniously, the Rat King unfastened his doublet, revealing details of his construction: many broad furry torsos patched together, bolted to a single waist. Muscle rippled in strange patterns as skin bulged like cottage cheese pressed against a strainer. He laughed and twirled his sword. "En guarde, red-blooded child."

  Mathilde, defiant, ripped off her cravat and tossed it aside. She pulled out her hair ribbon and ran a hand through her dark wavy locks. Her eyes glittered with anticipation and fury, and her buttons shone gold. Mathilde shifted into a battle stance. "En guarde, Rat King."

  Circling each other, they drew their swords.

  "Begin!" cried a rat officer, and Mathilde's bright rapier flashed through the air.

  The Rat King's larger weapon blocked her blow. Only one of his heads watched the fight. Other heads chittered—foam spilling from their mouths, their oversized teeth chattering—or drooled in seeming anticipation of eating an enemy. She breathed deeply through her mouth and forced herself to keep watching.

  Mathilde was light on her feet, graceful as a dancer. Clara had seen her turn the attacks of rank-and-file rats aside with just a tilt of her wrist. The Rat King was larger and clumsier but stronger. And he had one distinct advantage, which Clara, horrified, remembered at once: Mathilde had been a doll for twenty years, then awoken, rushed downstairs, and fought for hours. She had gone from not even being able to scratch her own nose to loading cannons and charging into the fray.

  As the Rat King dodged back, Mathilde thrust forward but took an instant too long to return to position.

  In her moment of imbalance, he pounced.

  One of the rats threw a dead mouse (a real mouse) into Mathilde's path as she stumbled back. It burst under her shoe, a further distraction. His broadsword made a wild swipe at her middle. It carved through the air again and again, forcing her to leap and dodge backwards. Soon she was pressed against the mantlepiece. If the Rat King looked to the side, he would see Clara barely three feet away. She prayed he wouldn't look. She wished he would. She wanted to save Mathilde at any cost or suffer in her place—yet like a trembling little animal, Clara was motionless with fear.

  The Rat King brought his sword up for one last blow, but Mathilde blocked it inches from her face. Stockings fell from their perches. The ornaments shook.

  "Surrender, Red Prince. I'll make your death quick. That was all your father ever wanted."

  "Never," Mathilde said bravely. But Clara could see how pale she looked, and the muscles in her forearms, so long unused, trembled from strain.

  Clara couldn't change what had happened in Tales of the Red Prince. The king's death, war overtaking the world, the prince wounded and on the run. No one could change the past.

  But it was always possible to change the present.

  Even when she was only a doll, Mathilde saved me. I won't just watch—

  Clara leapt to her feet, tore off her slipper, and flung it at the Rat King's middle face.

  Whap! It hit him right across the snout, and he shook his heads, disoriented.

  "The girl! Get the girl!" Rat officers shouted.

  They advanced on Clara, muskets out, bayonets drawn. She looked around frantically—nowhere to run!

  And in that one moment of distraction, the Red Prince ducked under the Rat King's broadsword and thrust her slender silver rapier straight into his heart.

  "To Clara!" called the last officer of the toy soldiers, staggering to his feet even though half an arm had been gnawed off. Clutching tightly to his musket, he whacked Rats aside.

  "To Clara!" came the answering cry as the remaining rank-and-file toy soldiers who could walk straggled to her. Some were barely holding together, but they managed to surround Clara, who yanked the largest cushion off the sofa to use as a shield. The noise of battle felt overwhelming, and she wanted nothing more than to be back in her room with a book, or reciting poetry in her head as she walked by the river. She looked frantically around, trying to predict where from the first bayonet blow or musket ball would come.

  Sharp, hot pain pierced her bare foot. A rat had dove between her protectors, and now its mouth was clamped around her toes!

  Clara screamed. She beat at its head with the cushion, swinging as hard as she could. She managed to dislodge it enough to tug away and stumble backwards, wincing with every step. The rat soldier bared its sharp incisors for another blow, but a musket came down on its head.

  "Are you all right, Miss?" asked a breathless toy soldier.

  She tested her injured foot by putting her weight on it; the wound felt deep but didn't bleed much. In fact, she could barely see two pinpricks where the teeth had pierced her.

  "I think so." She hugged her pillow tighter and thought about her favorite of Shakespeare's sonnets, the 133rd, as her remaining guardians formed a tighter circle around her. But the Rats were already drawing back.

  "Retreat!" The call came from every corner of the room. "The king is dead! Retreat!" As the announcement spread, Rats dropped their weapons and scuttled away on all fours.

  Clara sank to her knees, trembling. When the room was quiet, all she could hear were her own ragged gasps.

  Mathilde, heedless of the blood drying on her face and neck, rushed up to her. She caught Clara's hands, almost breathless with laughter. "Clara! I thought for certain I was going to die…"

  "I thought so, too," Clara whispered. She wanted to lean against the Prince's comforting weight.

  "You're not hurt, are you? I'm sorry—if I'd known I wouldn’t have brought you into such danger…"

  "I'm glad I met you. I wouldn't have done anything differently, not even if I'd known about all seven heads of the Rat King."

  Some of the toy soldiers were dragging the Rat King's carcass into the fire. It flared once as it caught, causing the flames of the Yule Log to turn a moss-swamp green. Clara didn't want to watch. Her knees felt suddenly weak, and she sagged.

  Mathilde stroked her back, murmuring gentle words. Clara sensed she was comforting herself as much as anything, steadying her own nerves after coming so close to losing everything, and wrapped her arms around the Prince in return until her breathing slowed, both girls allowing themselves to be held.

  I could stay like this all night, she thought, and wondered if Mathilde felt the same way.

  "The way you fought," she managed. "I've never seen anything so beautiful."

  Mathilde drew back to arm's length and regarded her fondly. "When I was a child, your uncle used to haul me out of my bed at night and tell me the castle was being attacked."

  Clara gave a rueful smile. "That's his idea of a prank? Hardly surprising."

  "That's his idea of training. I despised it at the time, but it means I can duel or pilot in my sleep."

  Clara nodded. "Once he dressed up as a highwayman and pretended to attack the family coach when we were on a picnic luncheon. I suppose he may have been teaching me to expect the unexpected."

  "Immortals—some of them—have odd senses of humor, or they're just odd. They're not like us."

  Clara liked being part of an "us" with Mathilde.

  Mathilde wiped the blood off her face and rapier, then sheathed the latter. With that small act, she seemed to become once again regal—not the same young woman who'd softened in Clara's arms. "We need to find the portal they used to travel here and let everyone in my realm know the tide of the war has turned."

  They all looked, even though Clara wasn't sure what she was looking for. But behind the Christmas tree, she spotted something completely unfamiliar. "Is that it?" she called out.

  A spiraling circle of light unfurled in the air. Through the blue glow, clear stars shone in a faraway sky. The constellations seemed vastly different from any night Clara recognized.

  "Good eye, Clara. Let's take one of their sledges," Mathilde said, unloading artillery from the enchanted sleigh. She really was incredibly strong, Clara thought, swallowing.

  "We'll stay here and clean up," the toy soldiers said, saluting the pair
as they departed.

  Mathilde helped Clara into the sledge, and they were off. Going through the portal felt like flying through a champagne waterfall, like a warm seaside wave hitting Clara in the face. Air bumped them upwards, and the sledge tilted before righting itself. They clung to each other and to the railings, hearts beating fast.

  They came out in the middle of a hailstorm. White fog crowded the sleigh.

  "I can't see anything," Clara yelled. "What if we crash into a pine tree?"

  "Do you trust me?" Mathilde shouted over the storm.

  "You put your life at risk to save mine," Clara said.

  "Good. Because it doesn't matter to me whether I can see the landscape or not. I'm going to fly blind."

  *~*~*

  Mathilde closed her eyes, sensing the invisible currents aligning with the world's grid. It had been a long time since she'd sought to connect with the natural magic of the land. But she was still High King of the Quintet, even if she'd never been formally crowned. She knew immediately that they were in crystal territory, near the Forest of Frost. She breathed in the bitter cold and breathed out memories of the Forest when it had stood beautiful and whole. Icicles chiming in the pines, silver sleigh bells, winged reindeer fluttering through the trees.

  You know me, she told the land. You know my touch as I know yours.

  Around her, the world exhaled. The wind traced patterns of welcoming on her face, the chill gentling. Hail detoured around them, and even the stinging gusts ebbed. At last the wind mellowed, and they emerged from the cloud. Mathilde opened her eyes, feeling heart-full with the knowledge of home, and peered down at the landscape far below.

  "Where are we?" Clara asked, spellbound. "What's that?"

  "The kingdom of snowflakes. As High King of all the realms, I was supposed to look after it." From this height, she could see every place where she had failed. Every place where her split-second mistake decades ago had cost the kingdom of snowflakes dearly. All the frost pines in the ice tree forest were damaged, needles melting and trunks askew, and no diamond flowers bloomed. Where were the solstice carols pure as silver bells that once filled the air? She suspected the remaining locals were hiding, garrisoned. Maybe waiting for the end. How long would it take for the rule of the Rats to collapse entirely? What could she do to help?