The Puppet Queen: A Tale of the Sleeping Beauty

by Mira Zamin

I had been riding Cinnamon almost without break for two days and was about ready to topple out of the saddle. I could not even fathom how Cinnamon herself was feeling. I had managed to catch snatches of sleep beneath bushes during the night and I could only imagine how I had begun to smell. The path I had taken was discreet, off the main road, but that also made it difficult to follow, for it was not maintained and often overgrown. The ride itself had been mostly uneventful—if tiring, but the number of times I had thought I had heard the hoofbeats of a search party was countless and I was sure that I would have gray streaking my night black hair after this.

  In my haste, I had forgotten to pack a basic essential: a map. It had slipped my mind somewhere between the second packing and the third unpacking. As a result, I had only the vaguest idea of where I was going. I intended on staying in the second-largest town in Ghalain, a port city named Clemen, in the neighboring emirdom of Viziéra—although my ignorance of the precise location of Clemen was a gaping hole in my plan It would be easy to become one of the throng in Clemen.

  A short time before noon on the second day, I reached a small farming village. Unloading Cinnamon of the bags, I walked hooded into the village’s only inn. I nearly started out of my skin when I heard one of the several men gossiping at a table mention my name. “I heard the Lady Selene up and ran from her wedding!” he laughed. His voice was a singsong peasant drawl. “If my Liza had done that, Seasons know what I would have done with myself.”

  “She’s a wild one, eh? My niece that works at the Mehal says she’s a nice girl—but ass-headed stubborn,” said a brown-haired man, carefully carving a block of wood. I could discern the faintest shape of a swan.

  I prickled at being called ass-headed stubborn, but knew enough to keep my consternation to myself. “Pardon me. Can someone tie up my horse and bring me a meal please?”

  The man who had a daughter named Liza gestured for an idling youth. The boy eyed me appraisingly and then apparently decided that filthy and bedraggled was not so attractive after all.

  “Saul, tie the lady’s horse!” The innkeeper smiled, revealing crooked teeth. “We have a delicious beef stew today, would that please you?”

  “Anything!” I exclaimed. I had not realized running away was such hard work, and I had devoured most of Nechele’s basket in the space of a day. (Whenever I grew bored, I would eat an apple, and so on.) “Would it also be possible for me to borrow a room for a moment to wash my face and change my dress?”

  “Of course. Narine!” The girl by the door raised her head sulkily. “Get the lady a warm wash basin and take her to the room. It will be an extra copper,” he added to me.

  I was taken aback. So much for the courtesy of small towns. “For the mere use of a basin and a few brief moments to change my clothes? Good sir, I would rather remain dirty than be taken for a fool. Call your girl back. I will not be changing. And you may keep your stew. I will not be dining either.” I made to leave, but the innkeeper called me back.

  “Fine, fine!” he said quickly. “Stay. You can use the basin for free.”

  Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I thanked him and sprinted up the stairs to the dingy room and cracked basin with its blessedly steaming water. Compulsively checking my money to ensure that I had not lost it, I stripped out of my riding dresses. My body sighed with relief at its release. Quickly, I sponged myself clean, cringing at the water’s now gray pallor. Garbing myself in fresh clothes, I felt wonderful as I descended the stairs.

  As the innkeeper placed the hot beef stew before me, I asked, “Could you oblige me by telling me how to reach Clemen?” The stew might have been basic, but it was hearty and I had appreciated no delicacy whipped up by our palace chefs. I devoured it hungrily.

  “Clemen, eh? Not too far from here. A day’s ride straight east down the road. If you take the path right, you should be there with the night. You can’t miss it.”

  “Many thanks.”

  After I had downed the stew, my ears pricked, registering the thundering of hooves and the loud calls of men. I knew for certain, this time, that it was not imagination, born of paranoia and too much time singing to a horse. Blanching, I stuttered, “How much?” I should not have stopped. I will be taken back to the palace for certain now, I panicked.

  “One copper, miss,” he answered, and I clamped the coin into his hand. Trying to avoid conspicuity, I walked quickly to the stable, grabbing Cinnamon’s reins from the stableboy.

  Beneath my hood, I watched the soldiers ride through the town and for a gut-churning moment I thought they would stop at the inn. But no, they raced through. I stood stock-still until they faded from my sight. I breathed a sight of relief. North. They had ridden north, towards Nehajan where my father’s older sister Lyra was emira. The path east was open and without a look back, I urged Cinnamon forward.

  Just as the innkeeper had said, as night began to fall and the sky streaked from indigo to mulberry to orange, I crested my final hill. I gasped sharply. Lights of every different color twinkled everywhere, holding themselves in the dark like fireflies. From the city itself, my gaze traveled to the pitch-dark sea, where lights flickered from bobbing ships. The city and sea met on the spread of the jutting peninsula. I could only imagine how many thousands of people lived there—and how easy it would be to become lost among them.

  Slowly passing through the city gates, I could not help but think, I will not be able to survive for an instant, and I will die in this mad scheme. Still, I knew that this, while wandering through a strange town, was no time to be assailed by such worries. No matter, I shall consider it tomorrow. For now, I will get to an inn, and sleep in a warm, soft bed.

  I finally dismounted in a narrow street, but stayed close to my horse, overwhelmed by the crowding of the buildings, the folk bustling past me—probably going to dinner with their families as I wandered aimlessly, sleepily, searching for some respite.

  “We’ll get you a place to sleep, Cinnamon, my girl,” I murmured to the mare. I struggled against my eyelids to keep them open.

  A girl a few years my senior whipped around to face me. “Sleep? If it’s an inn that you want, then there is no finer than the King’s Crown. Would you like me to show you?” She spoke with a lower-class lilt, not unpleasant to the ears.

  Warily, I eyed her, but decided she appeared trustworthy enough. “That would be excellent…” I sighed thankfully. “Lead the way.”

  She fell beside me. “You sure talk fine. Like a lady.”

  Mentally, I snatched for dust motes in the air for a response to her observation, ensuring that my hood still cloaked my face. “I was visiting my cousin you see, she works at the palace. In Viziéra, for Emira Quenela. Very fine. How do you know of this inn?” I inquired, desperate to change the subject.

  “I work there as a maid.”

  Soon enough, we arrived at a neat inn, with freshly whitewashed walls and a sign reading King’s Crown that swayed slightly in the late Autumn wind. Beneath that, a little notice swung which said “Rooms for Let.” The girl automatically took the horse to the stables while I walked into the inn and was immediately enveloped by the warm atmosphere, the laughter and herbal smell of roasting, marinated meat. My mouth watered. Men and women sat at wooden tables, dining and dicing. Even through my fatigue, I was exhilarated.

  As I suppressed a yawn, shifting my heavy bags in my hands, I was greeted by a woman with thick, matronly curves.

  “Welcome to the King’s Crown,” she said briskly. “My name is Abarta and I am the innkeeper here. Will you be having dinner or are you seeking room for the night?”

  Overwhelmed by her clipped speech, I managed, “Dinner and a room, please.”

  Her face twitched, noting my cultured accent, but she said, “Room and board for one night is a silver denar. Merga will direct you to your room.” She smiled warmly and instantly, I felt more at ease.

  Merga offered to take my bags, holding them easily with her strong arms. My riding boots creaked leadenly up the stairs
as she led me to a good sized room. It was rather cozier than my spacious apartments at home. However, the wooden floor was swept clean and the bedsheets were a crisp, clean white, and in the corner stood a metal tub, ready to be filled. “Oh, Merga, I would like a bath please,” I said eagerly.

  After a hot bath and hot dinner, at long last, I slipped into the cool white sheets and slept away from my family for the first time in my life. It was the easiest sleep I had had since I had learned of the curse.

  Chapter Six