Reflect- Snow White Retold

by Demelza Carlton

  Resolve hardened within Xylander. These bastards who'd dared to beat his princess would not live past the morrow. He would kill them all himself. Only then would she be safe.

  "Then I will return on the morrow, Princess. Until then, I pray that your dreams will be sweet." Xylander bowed and left.

  It sat ill with him to leave her with the men another night, but the clear skies promised it would not snow today or tomorrow, so she should be safe. All he needed was a plan – a plan to kill seven men, armed with picks and axes and shovels, while all he carried was a single sword.

  There had to be a way to complete his quest. And if he stayed awake all night, he would find it, and enact it.

  For with the Zurine's life at stake, he could not live with himself if he did any less.

  Thirty-One

  "No, you fool, go back in there and carry her out! You would not leave me in such danger! She's barely half your size – even if she fights you, you must!" Guinevere hissed at the image of her brother in the mirror, but neither Zurine or Xylander heard her.

  Just as long as the guard outside the door did not hear her, either. The last time the Physician knight had heard her talking to herself, he'd summoned Lancelot, convinced she'd managed to sneak someone into her chamber to conspire with.

  Lancelot had duly searched her chamber, while his colleague kept watch from the doorway. She'd stood with her arms folded across her breast, not having to feign her disdain for their baseless suspicions. After peering under all the furniture, Lancelot had declared himself satisfied, and turned to leave.

  "But what about in the chests? You could hide a man or even two in one of those!" the Physician had insisted.

  Dutifully, Lancelot had gone through her gowns, laying them one by one on the bed until an armload of fabric slithered out of the folds of the golden gown.

  Guinevere's cheeks had grown hot as Lancelot lifted up a silk shift, so gossamer thin she could see straight through it. The King had gifted her with half a dozen such scandalous shifts, and the one time she'd dared to try wearing one, the sensuous slide of silk over her skin had made her think of a lover's hands, of…doing things a maiden should not be considering. So she'd stuffed them inside the gold silk skirt, too embarrassed to look at them again.

  Lancelot's eyes had seemed to burn into her very soul at that moment, as if he could read her thoughts. She'd ducked her head, but it was too late.

  "The Queen is clearly not hiding anyone in her undergarments," she'd heard him say, before he returned her things to their proper place and shut the lid. "Leave the Queen to her solitude, Tristan, for she is surely praying for the King's recovery."

  The moment he'd left, she'd pressed her burning cheeks against the stone walls to cool them, but she hadn't been able to shake the thought of a lover's hands stroking her through silk. Especially if those strong hands belonged to Sir Lancelot…

  But now, she shook the memory from her mind. Xylander had climbed a tree, from which he could observe the cottage and its inhabitants, and Zurine remained inside.

  Guinevere didn't trust the girl. There was something wild in the way she'd spoken to Xylander, more like a spooked horse than a damsel whose distress would soon be at an end.

  Zurine heard a sound – the voices of the men leaving the mine, no doubt – and her frightened expression turned to one of firm resolve.

  "If I cannot have my prince, then none shall have me," Zurine said.

  She lifted the apple to her lips, and took a bite. Then another.

  Her eyelids drooped, but determination drove her. She wolfed down the apple, even as she swayed, falling to her knees on the straw pallet, until finally, nothing but the core remained. It rolled out of her hand as she subsided on the straw, falling into an enchanted sleep so deep, her chest barely rose with each shallow breath.

  A slumber so complete, one might think the princess was dead.

  Thirty-Two

  If he could collapse the mine entrance, or somehow block it, he might be able to take them all out at once, Xylander mused. But without a siege weapon like a trebuchet, which would take far more than a day to build, there was no way he'd be able to accomplish such a feat without a small army.

  He could possibly fell one of the bigger oak trees, which, if it fell just right, would block the entrance, though he doubted it would be heavy enough to collapse it. If he were to venture inside the mine to inspect it, while the men were asleep, perhaps, he might find a way to sabotage one of the tunnels, or the entrance itself, but he would have to be close to spring the trap. Close enough to possibly get caught in the cave-in, and what would happen to Zurine then?

  He had a crossbow in his saddlebag. It was not the most honourable of weapons, but he'd used it against a boar or two when one of his companions' spears had broken. Saved the man's life, too. But there was little honour in slaughtering this kind of common filth, so what did it matter if he shot them with a crossbow? The very oak he'd considered felling to block the mine entrance would make a good vantage point from which to target the men as they came out. In less than a minute, he could despatch all seven, if his aim was true and he did not miss. And if they did not realise where he was shooting from and take shelter.

  What if…

  Voices drew his attention to the mine entrance. Four men had already emerged, shouldering their mining tools as they headed back to the house.

  But Zurine had not rung the bell to summon them to dinner – why had they come out early? Did they know he was here? Xylander retreated deeper into the foliage, praying they would not see him. If he lost the element of surprise, then it was still just one man against seven, and Zurine would be the loser.

  Something he could not allow to happen.

  Seven men moved in single file to the cottage, propping their tools up against the wall before they went in.

  If Zurine were not inside, he might set fire to the place, trapping them inside…

  Xylander dismissed that idea as quickly as it had come. Too dangerous, for Zurine was surely asleep inside, and he did not dare risk her.

  "Why is our dinner not ready?" one of the men roared. "Do you need reminding of your duties?" He raised his fist, striding inside.

  "The slattern's asleep!" someone else said.

  "Then get her up! Who does she think she is, lying abed when there is work to be done?"

  Someone sniggered. "The Queen, maybe. All the Queen does is lie on her back for the King."

  "She won't wake!" This voice sounded panicked. "She's not breathing!"

  "She can't be dead. We have a wager."

  "Someone came into our house and slew her while we worked? When I find the man, I'll bury my pick in his belly, I will!"

  "There's no blood or blade. Naught but this apple core." The offending core flew out of the door.

  Xylander's heart stopped. One bite of the apple would have sent her to sleep. To eat the whole thing…she might sleep for weeks, or never wake at all. Unless someone broke the spell.

  Guinevere had told him how once, but he was damned if he could remember. All he knew was that it didn't need a witch to break the spell.

  "What'll we do?" a man wailed.

  "We'll put her in the meat chest, so she'll stay fresh. First snowfall can't be that far off – a few days, maybe. When it comes, we'll pull her out and have her then. She'll last longer if she don't fight back. We might each get two or three turns at her."

  They thought she was dead, yet they intended to violate her corpse? These men were worse than animals.

  Xylander clenched his fists as he watched one man carry her limp body from the cottage to the mine.

  "Will she fit?" worried a man who trotted close on the first man's heels.

  "Of course she will," said another, striding behind. "We had two boars in there last summer, remember? The meat stayed fresh for months."

  They intended to place her in a chest where they'd kept pigs?

  Xylander's rage simmered, close to boiling.

 
"We could keep her in there for months, take her out at night for a poke, then put her back. Like having a whore you don't need to pay."

  No one called Zurine a whore.

  The seventh man disappeared inside the mine as Xylander slid down the tree. The moment his feet touched the ground, he drew his sword.

  He glanced at the mining tools, discarded by the door.

  Seven unarmed pigs, waiting to be slaughtered.

  He didn't have long to wait.

  The first man emerged, hauling himself out of the hole and onto the turf. He never even saw the sword that pierced his throat. He was dead before he could make a sound.

  Xylander kicked the corpse aside.

  The second man was the one who'd called her a whore.

  Blinded by rage, Xylander lost all control.

  Some time later – he did not know how long – he paused to catch his breath. Had he gotten them all?

  He glanced around. He counted six…no, seven heads, for the last had rolled down the slope after he lopped it off. The turf was now more red than green, so he wiped his blade on a dead man's tunic before sheathing it.

  Some of them must have fought back, he realised, tasting blood as he massaged his aching jaw. But it hadn't been enough to save them. Nothing would.

  Now, nothing stood between him and Zurine. He would save her, just as he'd promised.

  Xylander slid down the ladder, into the darkness.

  Thirty-Three

  Xylander followed the light of a flickering candle to the chamber where Zurine lay. The walls glittered, throwing back reflections like pools of water, if ever water pooled vertically. Salt crunched underfoot, but he paid it no heed. Zurine was all that mattered, and she could not be dead.

  When he entered her chamber, he gasped. What those dullards had called their meat chest was in fact an enormous casket, carved out of salt so clear he could see her inside it. Zurine lay sleeping beneath an equally transparent lid that was little more than a giant slab of salt.

  Xylander levered it aside, and reached inside to pull her out. He touched her bruised throat, and almost cried when he felt her faint pulse. She lived, and once he worked out how to wake her…

  A few drops of cold water on her neck did not rouse her, nor did calling her name.

  He wished Guinevere were here – it was her blood that had cast the spell, so she would certainly know how to undo it.

  Blood? Was that the answer?

  He touched his still bleeding lip – split by a lucky punch before he'd hacked the man's hand from his arm – and his fingers came away red.

  Lightly, he brushed his bloodstained fingers against her throat, and waited

  But she did not wake.

  By all that was holy, how had one of his hunting party broken the spell before? He'd drunk too much wine and taken a bite of one of Guinevere's apples to stave off the hangover, but one of his men had stumbled over him in the dark, kicking him in the face. He'd awoken with the taste of blood in his mouth, and a curse on his lips for every clumsy, drunken fool who'd ever…

  Was that it? She had to taste blood to wake?

  No. Xylander shied away from even the thought of raising a hand against her. He was not like the men who had kept her captive. He'd come to save her, not hurt her further.

  But…perhaps a drop of his blood…

  Guinevere had told tales of princesses awoken by a kiss, but he had not believed them. Yet…

  He leaned over, and lightly touched his lips to hers.

  For a moment, she stiffened, and then her lips parted. To kiss him back!

  For the second time that afternoon, Xylander lost control. Her kiss blinded him, drenching his senses until he could see and feel nothing but her. Could not taste the blood, but a faint trace of…apple…

  She shoved him away.

  "How dare you, assassin!"

  Somehow, she'd managed to get her hands on his dagger, which she now pointed at him.

  Xylander backed away.

  "I mean you no harm, Princess, I swear." He swallowed. "I only kissed you to break the spell, to save you."

  "I will not die dishonoured. Not at your hands, or theirs. I will not share my mother's fate," she said, turning the dagger until it pointed at her own breast.

  "No!" He dived forward, wresting the weapon from her before she could plunge it into her flesh. "I am not an assassin, I told you!"

  "Then who are you?" she demanded.

  He could resist her no longer. He'd tried, and failed. "I am Prince Xylander, come to claim you as my bride. But when you disappeared, I set out to find you. That first night, I had hoped to persuade you to return with me, but you ran from me. I searched and searched, until I found you here. I vowed to bring you safely home to Castrum, for that is where you belong. At my side, if you'll have me."

  Her eyes widened. "You're the prince my father promised?"

  Xylander bowed his head. "Your father sent a messenger to my father, summoning me to Castrum to claim you. Since the day of the tourney, I have thought of no one else. Yet when I saw you in the Great Hall, you stole my breath away with your beauty. I am, and have always been, your prince." He bowed low before her.

  She rose unsteadily to her feet, and Xylander moved to help her.

  "You're really…real?" she asked, wondering eyes shimmering with tears.

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  "You saved me!" She threw herself at his chest and burst into tears.

  Thirty-Four

  People rushed through the corridors of the castle, their voices raised in panic. Something was happening, but no one had dared open the door to tell Guinevere what. She would have to ask the maid who brought her noon meal, she decided.

  Unless Xylander had returned with the princess…

  Guinevere hurried to the mirror, which she'd ignored for some days now. Knowing Xylander had succeeded in winning Zurine's heart and each day brought them closer to Castrum, she hadn't felt the need to check on their progress.

  That, and the couple spent an ordinate amount of time kissing.

  Fortunately, she seemed to have caught them at a moment their tongues weren't tangled together, as they rode through the forest.

  "We'll reach the road soon, Princess. When we do, it's less than a day's ride to Castrum – I'll have you in your own bed by nightfall," Xylander said.

  Zurine giggled. "And I thought you wanted to wait until after we were wed. What if I plan to have you in your bed tonight, instead, my prince?"

  Guinevere hurriedly told the mirror to show her reflection before the conversation turned any more intimate. She didn't want to know what her brother and his (hopefully) soon to be wife wanted to do to each other in bed.

  But if they were still a day away, then the castle commotion could not be because of their arrival.

  Hope sparked in her breast. Maybe a miracle had occurred, and the King had recovered!

  Obedient to her mind's desire, the mirror showed an image of Artorius, lying unmoving in his bed. People moved around the periphery, blocking her vision, until a voice she recognised at Lancelot's said roughly, "Move aside! The physician is here!"

  A true physician, and not the knight she called by that name, shuffled forward, and the crowd parted.

  Guinevere's heart sank, feeling for all the world like it had turned to stone within her chest and dropped into a bottomless well. The grey-faced corpse in the King's bed had taken all hope from her when he drew his last breath.

  Regret washed over her. She, as his wife, should have held his hand in his final moments, waking him from the sleeping spell to let him say a final farewell, if he'd been capable of such a thing. If he'd died alone…

  She stared at the mirror. "Can you show me how he died?" she asked.

  The image blurred, then cleared. The same man in the same bed, but now Artorius only appeared to be sleeping, his face a pink picture of health on one side, still drooping on the other.

  "Your time is over, old man," said a voice Guinevere al
so recognised. Melwas.

  She watched in horror as Melwas took one of the King's pillows, and placed it over his face. He held it down for what seemed an eternity, before he finally took it away again. Artorius, still enchanted by her sleeping spell, had not even fought for his last breath, nor had he been aware of it. That living, sleeping face had turned as grey as the shadow that now lay over the kingdom.

  A kingdom ruled by the King's killer.

  She wasn't sure what was worse in a king – her father's madness, or Melwas's mad quest for power. She wished she had played more at politics, in her father's court as well as here. Perhaps then she would know how to cheat Melwas out of his stolen crown. Instead, her mother had trained her in how to hold a funeral or coronation feast – neither of which she would be allowed to plan, with Lady Ragna ruling the castle.

  When Xylander returned, she would tell him of Melwas' crimes, and he could bring the man to justice. As dowager queen, any power she might have had as Artorius' wife would now pass to Zurine. She would surely help Xylander, for she was certainly no friend of Melwas'.

  She sat on the end of her bed, wishing she could do more than wait. But there was no work to be done – her hands sat idle.

  The door burst open, and Melwas stood there, his eyes bulging in his red face as if the King had tried to suffocate him and not the other way around .

  "There's the traitorous witch! Seize her!"

  Guards spilled into the room, grabbing her arms and crowding around her so she could not escape, even if she'd had a mind to, or anywhere else to go.

  "Can you hear them?" Melwas asked.

  The scurrying servants? Of course she'd heard them…but as Guinevere listened, she realised the sounds outside had grown louder. No longer individual shouts, from outside there came a swelling roar.

  "They're baying for your blood, witch. They want justice for their murdered king," Melwas hissed.

  Even her patience had its limits. She would not let him get away with this. "You – " she began.

  Something struck the back of her head, and blackness won.