by Eric Diehl
Sir Edric again stepped before her. He was a very attractive man, she was surprised to find herself noticing for the first time.
“Lady Galinda, this is a most blessed miracle to be granted by the Twelve. There is no woman whose beauty even comes close to matching yours, and none whose soul is so pure.” He smiled beatifically. “Please—allow me to escort you to King Everhorn. This is more than he ever hoped for; I am certain he will grant you whatever grace you might desire.” He lowered his head, almost shyly. “M’ Lady, I will serve you forevermore, in whatever capacity you so choose. I will be your protector Knight, your friend and confidant, and, if you ever so deign, your husband and lover. My Lady, whatever you wish is yours. I would give my life for you! I lay my sword at your feet.”
Galinda again looked down at herself, thoughtfully. Her every move, every gesture, now seemed so very graceful. “And so it is my inner self that defines my appearance?” she asked in a wondering voice.
Edric nodded solemnly. “As our scriptures so wisely advise, ‘Light emanates from within the soul, and upon those who shine bright, All Grace will smile’.”
She glanced again at the reflection in the pond, and knelt to lift Edric’s sword. It felt so heavy now, this piece that would have been little more than a toy just minutes past. “You would truly dedicate your life to me, Sir Edric?”
He bowed his head. “I would, Lady Galinda.”
And then he gasped as Galinda abruptly thrust the razor sharp blade through his chest. Edric fell to both knees, and raised his tortured gaze to her. “M… M’ lady? Why?”
Galinda again felt that tingling, buzzing sensation, and she began to grow in stature. “You said you would give your life fer me, Sir Edric.” Her voice grew huskier and more coarse even as she spoke. “An’ that’s ‘xactly what yer doin’.” Now she towered over Edric, even larger than she had been before, and uglier. He toppled over and she cast the cloak, far too small to suit her new immensity, down over his lifeless form. She stood there; lumpy, gnarly, her dugs hanging warted and hairy, her skin scarcely visible beneath a coarse matte of hair. She grumbled a bit and scratched at herself, stepped over to peer into the pond once more, and nodded and returned to her hut, determined to enlarge it to accommodate her increased girth.
On a rare occasion Galinda would dream of what she had been, for a very short time, and what she might have remained. Such aching beauty, at the cost of solitude. And then she’d awaken, heave a great sigh of relief, and rest easy. And thus Galinda of the Deep Woods lived happily alone, ever after.
The End
A Kingdom for the Taking
Tel gazed stonily down upon the courtyard, clicking his tongue at the disheveled figure that weaved an erratic course across the flagstone. He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Father’s grip is surely grafted to his goblet—seeing that he is never separated from it.”
The clop-clopping of hooves from a horse-drawn carriage sounded off the high stone walls of the observation chamber, their echoed cadence oddly out of sync with the horse’s stride. Tel’s gaze traced the sloshed path of wine and he snorted. “Our treasury drains to the cesspool and commercial ventures slide to ruin, all while father drowns himself in claret.”
Slovan tugged at the sleeve of his younger half-brother, a shimmer of alarm showing in his eyes. “You shouldn’t never talk bad about papa, Tel,” he said in a hushed voice. “He’s a good man and, um… well, people like him! Any man in the kingdom would stand by da.”
“Heh!” Tel flicked a hand outward, as if shooing away the tall-masted schooners that bobbed in the cove beyond the castle walls. “You are dense, Slovan, and slow to grasp reality. Father was once a man much beloved, but no one outside the castle has caught a glimpse of him in years. And aside from that, what man would dare stand up to me, the Crown Prince of Balara?”
“Our father, for one,” said Princess Lymeera, not looking up from her needlework. “There is still some bite to him, you know, on those occasions that he remains sober.”
Slovan clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle an improbable fit of giggles. Tel cast a frosty glance at his half-brother and turned to regard Lymeera.
What a family is this? A father lost to drink; a brother with no wits to lose; and a sister that… well, a sister who is Lymeera.
“Oh really, dear sister?” said Tel. “And just when was it that father last demonstrated some semblance of lucidity? Might we ever expect the fog to dissipate?” Tel’s gaze drifted back to the window and his tone went wistful. “By the Gods, would that he were truly be lost to the murk…”
Slovan’s brow creased and he leaned forward to peer out the window. “Fog?”
Lymeera’s gaze snapped up from her needlework, first to Slovan, who stood at the window intently searching the horizon, and then to Tel, who watched her expectantly. She flashed a warning glare at her twin brother, and returned her attention to Slovan. Clearing her voice, she spoke casually. “Slovan, it would seem that I’ve not brought all my yarns. Would you be a dear and fetch them? In my chambers there’s a skein of russet that I need.”
Slovan turned from the window to peer at Lymeera doubtfully. “Uh, a skein of….?”
“A bundle of dark red yarn, Slovan. The color of brick.”
A purposeful smile lit Slovan’s face and he bolted for the door, looking for all the world an oversized adolescent. His heavy steps clomped down the stairwell and Lymeera turned angry eyes upon Tel. “Do not be foolish, Tel! Never jest about any harm that might befall father, not even to Slovan!”
Tel waved her warning aside. “Nonsense, dear sister. Our brother is ‘half’ not just in relation, but just as surely in wits. A slathering hound that humped his leg would exercise, even at that moment, a higher level of mental acuity than would our simpleton brother. His prepubescent mind would never grasp the fact that the dog had motives beyond loyalty.” With a slightly narrowed eye Tel watched Lymeera shake her head, her lips pursed.
How well I know you, fair Lymeera. You will now seek to undermine my resolve.
Her voice took a note of uncertainty. “Should we not be considering this action, Tel? He is our father, after all, and if we are found out…”
Tel spoke grimly, a rime of ice frosting his pale grey eyes. “Yes, the bungling ninny is our father, as much as that thought displeases me. The only grace there is that his loss will raise me from a position of mere ceremony. Mark my words, Lymeera, once I’ve become King, I will restore proper structure to Balara. I’ll press the ever-bolder peasantry into obeisance, and the honor of Family Kessant will rise above the mire wherein the King now wallows as a pig in slop.” He paused, a forefinger laid along the bridge of his nose. “I do worry about mother, though. She’s told me time and again that she’d never assume the role of a widowed Queen—that if father’s death preceded hers she’d abdicate to her son. But she’s relatively young yet—what if she decides to ascend the throne once father is gone?”
Lymeera shook her head. “Of that, at least, I am certain. Mother has spoken to me in confidence many times. She married father not for rank nor for privilege, but rather for the man that he is. Or rather, for the man he once was. I am confident mother that would be content to finish her days free of the plotting and subterfuge that attend to matters of court. With her son as King she’d enjoy the benefits of royalty without assuming its tiresome responsibilities.”
Tel nodded and rapped his knuckles on the window sill. “What of Slovan, then? Though he is officially nothing but an orphan taken in as a ward, he’s undoubtedly the consequence of some youthful dalliance by the Prince-not-yet-King.”
“Leave Slovan be, Tel, he’s harmless enough. As you say, even if he weren’t forevermore a child, at best he’s an illegitimate bastard.” She looked away and shook her head. “I would agree to none of this if there might be any hope that I could persuade father to nullify my betrothal to Lord Galador. The man is a bloated, reeking toad. I’m told he rarely leaves his bed—a stream of attendan
ts cart food in and garbage out—there is even a hoist mounted to leverage him over the bedpan!” She wrinkled her nose. “What kind of life could I hope for at House Galador?”
Tel cast a sly glance at his sister. “Ah, but do you not feel compelled to uphold your duty to the Royal House of Kessant? A joining with Galador would create a direct conduit into the vast wealth of his family.”
Lymeera’s gaze snapped to him. “Tel! You swore that as King you’d dismiss that covenant!”
Tel nodded slowly and a hard smile cracked his lips. “There’s also the matter of a certain handsome young merchant, is there not? But of course he has no lineage, and father would never allow marriage into a family of base bloodline.” He peered at her, watching her alarmed expression fade into the annoyed realization that he toyed with her. “Yes, I will do as you wish,” said Tel. “That will be my reward for your role in our plot. But be reminded of the life that awaits you, should I not soon become king.”
Lymeera nodded, her expression resolutely blank.
***
King Argon lifted his low-hooded, bloodshot eyes to Varion, Minister of the Court and Promulgator of Accord. The king’s jowls hung flaccid, like bladders half-full, and dark wine matted his graying beard. He raised the chalice and drained it in three messy gulps, with the overflow dripping to a stained robe bulging over his paunch. A steward dashed forward to refill the goblet, after which Argon waved the boy from the room.
The two sat alone.
“So… you believe there is merit to my suspicion, Varion?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, I share your misgivings.” Varion’s voice rasped like a saw blade through thin paneling. He smiled blandly, his mottled age spots stretching into curious patterns on skin of wrinkled parchment. “I have the ears of the castle, my Lord. I have heard whispers; tales of sinister plotting and collusion, and all speak of the King’s demise.”
Argon took another swallow and pushed himself to his feet. He stood wobbling a few moments before coming steady. He looked long upon his Minister; silent and considering, and finally the King nodded. Wispy, grizzled Varion had been prime Minister to his own father—to his grandfather, even. Argon trusted him more than anyone, save perhaps his mistress Valainya.
“Mine own son, plotting to kill me.” He drained the goblet and held it up, studying the refraction of light through precisely cut crystal, and he abruptly turned and flung it across the room. With startling accuracy it shattered into a hail of fragments in the roaring fireplace, each tiny shard for the briefest moment holding the flames like a firework bursting over the hell-fires below. The King scowled.
“When will it be, then?”
“Your Majesty, that I cannot say. But…I have reason to suspect that it will be a poisoning.”
Argon slumped down into his throne, shaking his head sadly. “You will speak of this to no one, Varion. I could put a stop to it easily enough, but I cannot help myself—I still have hope that it’s naught but a baseless rumor. If it truly is to be, then I must see this vile act in the making with mine own eyes.”
After a moment of silence Varion took his queue to leave. As he rose to his feet Argon spoke wearily. “Attend to my legion of tasters, Minister; ensure that they are doubly zealous. And summon the page for a new goblet.”
***
“We should abandon this plan, Tel. While there is still time.”
Tel cursed under his breath and stopped, turning to face his sister, a dark anger welling. He understood they now skated the thinnest film of ice, a dangerous passage over remorseless depths.
“Lymeera.” He spoke softly, but her eyes widened.
Good. She sees my resolve.
“It is too late to turn back. The alchemical will be soon enough be missed—you know how regularly it is inventoried and tested. Who would you prefer reign as King when the theft of the poison is detected?” He watched closely as her eyes darted from side to side.
“But Tel. We know he uses tasters. They will surely defeat your plan.”
“And that is why we bear this gift ourselves. An offering is expected of us today, on father’s half-century day of birth. Would he waste the rarest Renzanoble Liqueur, presented by his own son and daughter, on a taster? I think not; it is far too precious and his desire runs too deep.” Tel resumed his stride, waving a hand for her to follow. “Come.” He smiled, hearing her footsteps scurry to catch up.
Entering the throne room, Tel and Lymeera came to stand before King Argon Kessant. The King drowsed, slumped to one side, his rounded belly expanding and contracting with each wet, snuffling, snore. A goblet dangled precariously from the King’s fingers where his arm hung over the throne’s armrest, and the light from a torch behind broke into a rainbow of colors through the cut crystal, sending slivers of light dancing throughout the throne room. Tel cleared his throat.
“Ahem. Ah, Your Majesty? —Father?”
The King started and his eyes popped open; the goblet released from his fingers and dropped to shatter on the stone tiles.
“Eh?!! Bloody mothers, surprising me like that! Now look what you’ve done.” The King’s exclamation fell off to a mutter. “A mess, such a mess… where’s my steward?” He leaned to one side, reaching for the bell-cord to summon his attendant.
“Father!” Tel stepped forward and flashed a brilliant smile. “Happy Birthday, papa! We bring you a gift!” He thrust the small, brightly wrapped package forward, but his smile cracked just a fraction as his father’s bloodshot eyes came slowly round to bear on him, like a crossbow settling on its mark. The King’s eyes seemed to narrow ever so slightly.
By the Gods, I’d swear he sees straight through me.
Of a sudden, Tel was no longer the disdainful, self-absorbed young man standing before a decrepit relic. He had reverted to a trembling boy, standing before the wrath of a powerful, perceptive father—as it once had been. Even so, he held his poise, leaning further forward, nodding encouragingly at the package in his hands. When his father’s eyes fell to the package Tel cast a sideways glance at Lymeera; she stood wide-eyed and pale.
Damn the woman! Can she make not the slightest pretense?
Argon came to his feet in a series of ponderous motions that made for a major production; once risen to his full height Tel was uncomfortably reminded of how large a man his father was. And there was none of his familiar stoop now, how could that be? Argon swiped a great hand down his ruddy face, and he stepped forward to study Tel closely.
Suddenly both hands shot forward, and Tel nearly shrieked as the King’s powerful fingers closed on one shoulder. He followed Argon’s gaze as it shifted to Lymeera—she stood small and quivering under her father’s hand. And then Argon brusquely pulled them both inward, enfolding them in a smothering embrace, and Tel smelled wine, rank, on the old man’s breath.
“My loving son and my beautiful daughter, come to pay homage to their doddering old father—even though he has fallen so far from his once noble standard.” Argon gently pushed them both out to arms length, and with a slight shake of his head he released them. Tel’s eyes went wide as he saw a tear roll down his father’s cheek. The King drug a grungy sleeve over his face before looking back to Tel.
“Enough then; enough of this sentimental foolishness. Let’s have a look at what you’ve brought your raspy old da.”
Tel placed the small package in his father’s outstretched hands. “It is not so much as you deserve, father, but it was very difficult to come by.”
The King stripped away the wrapping and tossed it to the floor, and he held up the crystal flask, cut with the well-known Renzanoble sigil. The liqueur inside glowed a brilliant golden hue, with flecks of silver shimmering throughout. A tearful smile lit Argon’s face as he pulled the stopper out and held the flask to his nose. He took a deep whiff.
“Ah, but isn’t that a fine scent. I developed a taste for the spirit when I was but a young Prince, visiting the far Isle of Ren.” He reached out to again take Tel by the shoulder, p
ulling him in close. “The first sampling, eh? For you?” He pushed the bottle toward his son and made an exaggerated wink.
“Ah… no thank you, father,” Tel stammered out, pushing the flask back. “There’s not much of it, I’m afraid, and this is your special day.”
Argon nodded his agreement. “Just a sip for now, then.” He put the flask to his lips and threw his head back. Tel smiled, the color coming back to his cheeks.
Just a sip indeed; he’s likely drained half the flask. No matter, though, a single swallow will do…
The King lowered the flask, pushed the stopper back into the bottle and thrust it into a pocket under his soiled robe. He swiped a sleeve across his lips and another tear started down his cheek. “Ah, and this is something indeed, I cannot begin to tell you what this gift means to me. I can’t remem… rememb—”
Argon faltered. His hand went to his forehead and his eyes turned glassy and unfocused. “I… I can’t…” His hand fell back on Tel’s shoulder, but with no power in the grip this time—feeble, even. Tel took on a grievously concerned expression, but a look of triumph lit his eyes.
“Father? Are you all right?”
The King’s hand slipped from Tel’s shoulder as his eyes rolled up, and Argon collapsed to the floor in a crumpled heap. Tel stepped back to survey the silent scene, and a smile stretched his face.
King! So quickly as that, I am now King of Balara!
He turned to Lymeera. Her eyes were wide and misty and her lips trembled. Tel looked down upon her from his new, lofty plateau, and he felt some sense of benevolence. She had at least not fully botched her role; perhaps he truly would release her from her troth. There was quite a bounty to be had from a union with House Galador, though, and the Kessant fortunes—his fortunes, now—were flagging. He pulled her into an embrace, an embrace made infinitely more joyous by knowing that he could embrace her, or implicate her, or do whatever he wished with her.
