Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales

by Sharon Lynn Fisher

  The rage I feel at his words is like a living thing inside me. I may not possess “an animal’s intellect,” but I’m more at the mercy of my animal drives than I ever have been. The same instinct that drove me to give my body is now driving me to scorch them all to blackened bones.

  But I can’t save Aurora if they kill me.

  Swallowing the inferno that claws at the back of my throat, I reverse course and return to the cave. As I swoop in through the opening, Roark slides from my back. I round on him, growling a threat as smoke curls from my nostrils.

  Ignoring me, he retrieves his breeches from the floor of the cave and pulls them on. Then he straps on his sword belt and crosses his arms over his chest, watching me.

  The transformation happens without my willing it. It feels like falling down a brightly lit well. When I hit bottom, the lights go out. My skin tingles and my ears buzz, and I remain crouched on the floor, waiting for my head to clear.

  When finally I rise, his gaze glides over me and I remember I’m naked. As I move around the cave collecting my clothes, I notice the ochre flash under my skin and wonder if it will ever stop.

  “It’s like a blush,” says Roark, as if he’s read my thoughts. “You can’t control it completely. But you can avoid situations that trigger it. Anger. Fear.” There’s a pause before he adds, “Arousal.”

  My color flares brightly, limning my skin with heat. I bend and lift my sword from the floor, avoiding his gaze.

  “How old were you when you first…changed?” I ask. My hands shake as the blade glides into its sheath.

  “Eleven.”

  I glance up at him. “Were you frightened?”

  He studies me, the lines of his mouth hard, yet failing to subdue the sensuous curve of his bottom lip.

  “Yes,” he replies. “But I had known it would come. My mother told me as soon as I was old enough to understand.”

  “How did she know?” Did my mother know?

  His hand moves to his sword, but it rests there casually, palm pressed against the hilt. “Dragons are a part of our culture. The Northmen brought the first Silver eggs in their ships, trading them for goods in times of peace. The way of making shifters was taught to us. It became tradition for the ranking families of Ériu to choose that path for their heirs.”

  “You were given dragon’s milk at birth?”

  He nods. “But I’m a shifter by blood. As were my mother and father.”

  Ranking families. I study the necklace he never took off. It had remained intact during the transformation. “You’re a prince, then? Or a king?”

  “Something very like, yes.”

  I know very little of the isle of Ériu, beyond the existence of the Celtic Silvers—no longer “rumored”—and Roark’s suggestion of a connection between our ancestors. Some said the mists blanketed the island shortly after the arrival of the Northmen, and never lifted. A pagan curse of some kind. My French tutor told me ships that penetrated the mist were never seen again.

  “If you’re of noble birth,” I ask, “why are you serving the king of France?”

  A cold smile spreads over his handsome, angular features. “The money is good.”

  “You’re a mercenary.” The stigma of the word tinges my tone with a bitterness he perceives.

  “I’ve forged an alliance with France on behalf of my people. Louis wants our help with the Dutch and Spanish. We may someday want his with the English.”

  Louis XIV had been trying to wrest our neighbor Orange from the grip of the Dutch for some time, with varying degrees of success. The uncertainty in the region had made it easier for my village to avoid royal attention—until now.

  “And why,” I ask, “with all his great wars, has the Sun King taken an interest in tiny Roussillon?”

  “Wars cost money, Isabeau.”

  I frown, studying him. He’s not the sort of man to be worked on by feeling or sentiment. He’s stronger than I am, and he has Aurora. I feel my impotence like a brand of shame. I’ve failed my family and my village.

  “If you prefer your truths coated in honey,” he continues, “I will take you to the man himself. In fact, that’s just what I’m proposing.”

  “That I speak to the king?” I ask, incredulous. “What have I to gain from that?”

  “It’s possible the king might consider another alliance.”

  “With Roussillon?” I laugh, but his lips don’t so much as twitch.

  “Dragons will shape our destiny. Nations will rise and fall by them. I’ve convinced the king of this. There are rumors the English are paying a high price to assemble a Dragon Guard. Louis cannot afford to be left behind.”

  And finally I understand why this artists’ village has come to the notice of Louis XIV, king of France. “That’s why he wants Aurora.”

  Roark nods. “Yes. But you…you will be even more valuable to him. Like me, you are in a position to negotiate.”

  “I’m no prince. Only the Artists Guild can speak for Roussillon.”

  Laughter rumbles up from his chest, deep and mocking. “Who protects the artists of Roussillon? The Artists Guild?”

  “I do,” I snap. “Not for money, and not for power. Because I’m married to the blade. Because I’m bound to Aurora. And because I’ve sworn to.”

  He steps closer, speaking in a low voice that vibrates under my skin. “Your blade and your draco have been defeated. The Sun King’s army camps upon your doorstep. Come and deal with Louis. I’ll speak for you.”

  I study him warily. “Why would you do that?” This time it’s my gaze that moves over his form. Chest bare like a savage. Musculature as hard as the metal plates that hang around his neck.

  Ochre pulses brighter beneath my skin, heating my blood.

  He steps closer still, and I watch the dance of spirals. “Because we are kin, Isabeau.” His breath warms my cheeks as he pronounces my name.

  “You threatened to poison me,” I hiss. “Why should I trust you?”

  A smile softens the line of his lips. “Because I have Aurora, and you have no choice.”

  Flight

  It’s not forbidden, what I’ve done. Because I’m married to the blade, I can marry no other. But needs of the flesh are understood, if not acknowledged openly. The guild’s mandate that I’ll live my life a maiden is symbolic and quaint, but has no real bite. A breach would not condemn me in the eyes of the village, or the guild.

  Unless they knew the particulars. Had I been discovered in a hayloft with another of the guards—even had I opened my legs for my sword master as I had once desired—no one would have spoken against me.

  But I’ve lain with our enemy now. Even as my mind grasps for a way to gain the upper hand, his body pulls me. The heat of his gaze. The small twitches of his muscles. The clenching of his fists. I see the hard ridge beneath the wool of his breeches, and I ache to take him inside me. I hate him for this. And for the transformation he has triggered. What will my life be like now? What will happen to my family? To my village?

  Yet part of me trills with joy and relief at this opening of my body and soul.

  “The journey will take three or four hours if the fair weather holds,” he says. “We’ll leave at dawn. Rest until then.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “I must give orders to the king’s men. And Aurora must stay quiet until our return, or she will come to harm.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re going to drug her again.”

  “She’s strong. She will recover fully.”

  “Why not let her go with us?”

  He doesn’t bother to reply. “I’ll bring food if you need it.”

  “I have food,” I mutter, turning my gaze on the painting I was in a position to study so closely a little earlier.

  “Then I’ll come for you at dawn.”

  —

  I do not sleep in this cave. My duty is to watch, and I’ve never shirked it. Because of this, I assume I won’t be able to rest, th
ough tomorrow will require a clear head and all of my courage. But on this night—perhaps because I know there’s no point watching, or perhaps due to the loose-limbed fatigue I’ve felt since coupling with Roark—I fall asleep minutes after I’ve bunched my doublet up under my head.

  I don’t wake until his shadow falls across the floor of the cave. I sit up, rubbing a stiff shoulder. The bright morning light silhouettes his form, and I can’t guess at his mood.

  “Come,” he says. “We’ll find a meal en route.”

  “Are we going by horse?” My voice creaks with fatigue, but I do feel rested.

  He shakes his head. “We’ll shift. The journey will be much shorter.”

  I rise to my feet, feeling soreness in muscles I’m sure I’ve never used before. “I don’t know how to shift.”

  “You’ll learn to control it. But today, I’ll help you.”

  I wait for him to explain, but as he moves deeper into the cave, I see the wolf behind his eyes. One hand reaches for the tie of his breeches.

  I take a step back. But already the moist flesh between my legs is throbbing. Our bodies begin to flash light and color. He steps forward with determination, grasping my hand. Pulling me close, he thrusts my hand into his breeches, curling my fingers around his thick, taut flesh.

  A whimper of longing escapes my lips as his hands move around to squeeze my backside.

  “No,” I mutter, trying to untangle from him. I can master this.

  He laughs quietly in my ear, hands gliding up to tug my chemise over my head. He slides my breeches over my hips, and the moment his finger presses into the hot wetness there, the transformation takes me.

  —

  My circumstances are alarming, to say the least. But my color at last is free. I see now the truth about my cave paintings—I was like a child who floats a toy boat in a washtub while dreaming of the sea. Painting gave me a taste of the nourishment my body craved, but it could never fully satisfy. It eased my thirst but could not quench it.

  I glide on the redolent breeze, heavy with the scent of heat-crushed lavender and wild herbs. These, too, are like colors in my mind, but I know no language to explain this. The rolling green of Provence stretches before me, and if I look behind, I catch the topaz wink of the Mediterranean.

  I glance at Roark—a magnificent display of silver, slate, and ultramarine against a cobalt sky. I wonder if my color has worked its way under his skin as his has mine. I wonder if he knows that he has freed me. His eyes flash as he meets my gaze, and he tosses his head back with a roar of pure pleasure. Whether or not we are allies, he’s right that we are kin. I understand that this freedom is like life’s blood to us both.

  I want to freeze this moment. Rest in this bliss, this perfect contentment, and forget the failure that precipitated this transformation. The decisions that I must soon make, and the perils that await in the court of the Sun King.

  —

  I’m transfixed by Paris—noises, colors, and smells, not all of them pleasing. I’ve never seen a city so large, nor so much activity all in one place. From my vantage point I like it very well, but know that I would feel small and lost in its crowded streets. Perhaps one day I will see it close up, but for now I’m relieved that we’ll meet the king at his new palace at Versailles. Roark said that the second of three building phases has just begun, and the royal family has yet to move in. But when the king is not with his army, he’s at Versailles, overseeing progress on the palace and gardens, enjoying the company of favorite courtiers—including his high-born mistresses.

  The king is still in his prime, and handsome, they say. But I know nothing of the French court and worry how I will be received. Perhaps he’ll laugh at or scorn my simplicity. Or lock me away in the Bastille for daring to address him with demands of my own.

  I am soon to find out. We alight in a clearing near the palace. The earth is torn and scarred, and carts of farm implements are scattered about. This section of the grounds is currently deserted, but soon after we arrive an armed guard marches out to meet us. Roark has already shifted, and as he strides forward to speak with the captain, I feel the falling sensation that preceded my own shift the first time.

  The captain seems to know Roark, and both appear oblivious to his nakedness. But I scramble for the leather bag Roark brought and clothe myself while a dozen men watch. They continue to eye me—with a mix of fear, curiosity, and lust—as we accompany them toward the palace.

  I have not the education to adequately describe this new palace, but it is by far the largest building I have ever seen, even in the illustrated manuscripts that made their way through our village via the Silk Road. This is a dwelling for one family, and my whole village could reside within its walls.

  We’re led through a series of large, open halls and passageways, all richly furnished and strangely silent. After a wait of perhaps a quarter of an hour in a small salon, a man and woman join us.

  “I understand you have news from the south for His Majesty, my lord Roark?” says the man, a tall fellow in a gold-embroidered crimson doublet, with dark hair cascading over his shoulders and back. He’s speaking French, and I’m grateful that my parents undertook the expense of having me tutored, though I’ve not had much use for it before now.

  “I do, my lord,” confirms Roark.

  The man nods. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll help you prepare to meet the king. The Lady Catherine will assist la Occitane.”

  A lovely woman in a pale blue gown steps forward, eyes sweeping over me. “I have never seen a woman in breeches,” she cries, clasping her hands and smiling brightly. “I’m delighted, but we shall have to polish you up for His Majesty.” She holds out a soft-looking white hand. “Lady Catherine Charlotte de Gramont, Princess of Monaco, and lady-in-waiting to Madame de Montespan.”

  She must be able to read my bewilderment, because she raises her hand to her cheek and whispers theatrically, “Madame is the favorite of His Majesty. Now tell me, what shall we call you other than la Occitane?”

  I stare at her with my mouth hanging half open like the provincial I am. How am I to introduce myself to a princess of Monaco?

  Roark comes to my aid. “Isabeau of Provence, my lady.”

  She reaches out again, and this time I grasp her fingers, remembering belatedly to perform an awkward curtsy.

  “A rumor circulates, Isabeau of Provence, that you are able to take the form of a magnificent golden dragon. Is this true?”

  Likely the whole court knows this by now, but I glance at Roark, and he nods.

  “Yes, my lady,” I reply in careful French.

  One corner of her vividly red lips twists upward. “How exciting,” she breathes. “Come with me, mademoiselle.”

  I look again to Roark, but he is already turning to go.

  Lady Catherine takes me to an empty bedchamber and opens a large wardrobe. She begins dragging out gowns, holding each against me, murmuring about size and color and fabric. Soon there comes a soft knock at the door, and another lady enters.

  “Ah, Henri,” calls Lady Catherine with obvious relief, “just who I was wanting. We must outfit this beautiful creature to dine with His Majesty.” The new arrival looks me over, and Catherine says, “Isabeau of Provence, this is Henrietta of England, sister-in-law to the king.”

  The two women exchange glances and erupt in a fit of ladylike giggles.

  I’m certain they’re laughing at my expense until Henrietta says, “Sister indeed.” More giggling ensues.

  At last Lady Catherine sighs and wipes her eyes. “Forgive us, mademoiselle. Henri and I have known each other many years.”

  “We have,” agrees the other lady, smiling fondly. I catch a glint of mischief in her eye as she turns to me. “We do love welcoming new ladies to court. Especially interesting ones. We grow so dull out in the country.”

  Glancing about at the opulence surrounding me, I have my doubts about this. But I hold my tongue.

  Mercifully, Henrietta turns to Catherine, reac
hing for one of the gowns. “This will suit her best, I think. It’s rather a manly shade of red, but her complexion will carry it. As for fit, we’ll have to see her sans ses vêtements to be sure.”

  Catherine glances at me, lifting her eyebrows. “If you please, Isabeau?”

  I swallow loudly and remove my doublet, folding it over the back of a longue. I pull loose the tie of my chemise and begin to work at the laces of my bodice. But my fingers shake and I make slow progress.

  “The poor thing is so tense, Cat. Is she not?” says Henrietta. “Nervous about meeting His Majesty, no doubt. Who can blame her? Perhaps we can help.”

  Catherine nods and rises to stand before me. She reaches for my fingers and moves them gently aside. Then she begins on my laces with her small, deft fingers.

  Once the bodice is unlaced it falls open. Then she reaches for the hem of my chemise. “Cat,” whines the other lady.

  Catherine chuckles softly and moves away. Henrietta—a slender woman with milky flesh and hair the same shade as my own, but worn in ringlets—takes her place before me. She smiles, dark eyes sparkling, and lifts my chemise.

  Her gaze moves over my half-bared form, and I feel a blush spread over my cheeks. She reaches for my hands and raises them, extending my arms out from my body. She gives a satisfied nod and circles around me. I feel her move in close behind me, and her arms slip around my waist, reaching for the tie of my breeches. She slides them over my hips and down my legs, and I step out of them.

  I glance at Catherine, noticing the lazy way her gaze moves over my body. I feel a tickle of unease at the close attention, and suddenly it occurs to me why. These women are studying me the same way a man might. The same way Roark does every time he looks at me.

  I resist an urge to fold my arms over my chest.

  “She’s blushing, Henri,” cries Catherine. “How charming!”

  Chuckling quietly, Henri circles back around. “Of course she is. So exposed. How inconsiderate of us.”

  Henrietta backs toward Catherine, and Catherine begins working at the fastenings of her dress. I watch them, confused.