The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “You’ve seen him fence,” the soldier corrected. “And in all likelihood you’ve seen him wrestle and box and ride and shoot and throw the javelin. But you’ve never seen him fighting for his life, because he’s never had to—he was born a prince, where his sire was a minor baron’s second son who fought his way to the throne.”

  “What of it, then? All the more honorable, then, to fight for what’s his by right!”

  “You think so?”

  “I know it!” The guardsman made as if to rise.

  The soldier did not; he shrugged, lifted his mug and drank, then put the tankard down empty and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The guard hesitated, then settled back into his chair.

  “King’s son or not,” the soldier said, “the old king was one hell of a man, and a warrior to the end, even when he was too old to use a blade.”

  The guard snorted.

  “No, it’s true!” the soldier insisted. “Listen, I was at Prince Philip’s manhood feast—His Majesty was still the prince then, I mean no disrespect.”

  “Go on,” the guard said. “I’ve heard the tale; let’s hear your version. You say you were there?”

  “That I was, lad, that I was. Not at the head table or anything—no, I was just one of the guards at the door, the old king had his own old regiment there as an honor, but whether for us or the boy I don’t know.” He looked down into his empty mug and sighed. “That was when old Geoffrey fought his last battle with the sword, that feast—you’ve heard the story, you said. Did you know that the king was more than sixty years of age at the time? Sixty-five, at least, I’d guess—not the typical thing for the father of a lad just coming of age, but what with the wars and the rest of it, he’d got a late start at siring sons. His hair had gone grey, and his belly sagged, but he was still a fine man, with his own teeth and his eye still bright.”

  “An old man,” the guard said derisively. “Like you.”

  The soldier snorted. “If I should be half so formidable at that age, I’d thank God and sing His praises half the day!”

  “Still an old man.”

  “Aye,” the soldier admitted. “An old man—but the king, and still a warrior. He sat at the high table with his councillors and his old cronies, the Red Duke and Tom o’ the Axe and the rest, shouting and drinking and carrying on…”

  The guard muttered sarcastically, “Nothing like maintaining the royal dignity.” His companions chuckled.

  “The old king never worried overmuch about his dignity, true enough,” the soldier agreed. “Certainly not then. He was having a fine time, he and his comrades taking turns telling stories. The boy—Prince Philip, that is—was seated at the second table, in accordance with protocol, until the stroke of midnight, when he’d be able to take his place with the men, and he had his own comrades about him. Some were men from your own company, some were courtiers and courtiers’ sons, and his mother’s friends, and his old playmates, all gathered about, making merry. If the truth be told, some were there because of their names and fathers, rather than because the prince actually liked them or wanted them there.” He winked at the guard.

  “I know the sort,” the young man agreed.

  “Whatever their excuses, there they all were, drinking and talking—but being young, few of them had any great tales to tell, and in large part they listened to the boasting of their elders.”

  “I know that sort, too,” the guardsman muttered.

  The soldier nodded. “Don’t we all,” he said. “At any rate, there was one lad there who had drunk perhaps more than was good for him, a brawny fellow of twenty-three years or thereabouts, standing six and a half feet when he was upright, and strong as an ox. Perhaps he was unused to strong drink, or perhaps the excitement overcame him, or perhaps he was just a fool, but when the festivities grew loud, he was loudest; when the boys at the second table became rowdy, he was the rowdiest; and at last, upon hearing Lord Ashleigh’s account of the defense of the Crimson Gate, he stood up and announced that the tale was nonsense.”

  “Was it?” the guardsman asked.

  The soldier shrugged. “I wasn’t at the Crimson Gate,” he said, “nor was this lad—yet he went farther, and pronounced all the stories being told at the high table as the self-serving lies and senile exaggerations of useless old men.”

  “Were they?”

  The soldier shrugged again. “The ones I knew first-hand were more truth than not.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, the lords at the high table spoke out angrily, and called the lad a young idiot, among other disparagements, but King Geoffrey called for calm, and for a moment it appeared that reason and good will would triumph. The lords ceased their protests, and the lad found himself standing alone and silent, looking rather foolish.

  “All might have been well, had not one of the other boys tugged at the oaf’s sleeve and urged him to sit. ‘Let the old men remember their days of glory,’ the fellow said. ‘They’re the king’s good servants.’

  “And at that, the drunkard shouted out, ‘They’re liars, the lot of them, and the king’s the worst of them all!’ ”

  “Hunh,” the guardsman muttered.

  “Indeed,” the soldier agreed. “I can still remember the utter silence, that tension in the air—ever been in a real battle, friend? No? Well, if you had, you’d know that moment just before the first charge is made, before the first blow falls. It felt much like that—but in the king’s own great hall, and with no armies at the ready, but only a hot-tempered young fool making trouble.

  “I watched from my post at the door as the king rose to his feet and faced the youth. Of course, all the others made to rise, too, as protocol demands, but the king motioned them back in their seats.

  “‘Lad,’ the king said quietly, ‘Think well on what you’ve just said.’

  “The young fool shouted back, ‘I know what I said; I called you a liar. That’s what you are—a liar, and a usurper, and a coward who’d never dare face me if he didn’t sit on a stolen throne!’”

  “The boy had courage, anyway,” the guardsman remarked.

  “But little wit,” the soldier said.

  “Go on with the story.”

  “Well, now, you’d expect the king to rant and rage, and order the young man thrown in the deepest dungeon, but in fact he sighed, and he looked the lad in the eye, and told him, ‘I know the hot temper of youth, and the courage we all find in strong drink; I suggest you take a moment to reconsider, and perhaps you’ll wish to retract what you have said.’ ”

  “Fairly spoken.”

  “I thought so,” the soldier agreed. “I told you, the old king was one hell of a man.”

  The guardsman gestured for the story to continue.

  “Well, as I already said, the hall was silent, so still it seemed that no one even breathed, and every soul present heard the youth pause, and draw a deep breath—and then not recant, not at all, but instead say, ‘I’ve nothing to retract—you’re a scared old man, afraid to die in an honorable combat.’

  “The king answered him, ‘There is nothing honorable in such a duel,’ but it was clear the youth was determined to have his duel, or else, should the king fall back upon the royal prerogatives and have him imprisoned or slain, to become a martyr to the king’s tyranny. I suppose the boy’s family or friends had some old grudge against the king that had inspired this; I doubt it could be purely drunken folly, though that was plainly to be the excuse.”

  The soldier paused long enough to signal for another ale, explaining, “Talking’s thirsty work.” Then he continued, “The king knew the boy wanted to fight, and he made no further attempt to avoid it. Instead he called for his sword, and ordered that the boy’s own sword be found and brought, and then he marched down from the high table to the center of the hall, where there was room to fight.

  “Everyone else just wat
ched, the feast forgotten, as the two swords were delivered and the two men faced each other across a few yards of stone pavement.

  “Whatever the lad had said, it seemed at that moment that no one could doubt the old king’s courage. An old man, past sixty, against this young man in his prime.

  “The sight—ah, I remember it well! What a contrast! That great hulking youth, glowing with health, took up a formal fighting stance as if he were performing for his fencing master. And the old king stood a head shorter, his face lined, the tendons standing out as he gripped the hilt, hands shaking, his gray hair partially obscuring his face. He fell from old habit into his preferred stance, which was a sort of wary crouch, crooked and graceless. He looked like a troll facing a god.” The soldier shook his head at the memory, then swigged ale.

  The young men at the table shifted restlessly, and one glanced behind, as if he feared someone might be waiting to arrest him for not objecting to such an unflattering description of the late monarch.

  The soldier paid no attention; when he had wet his throat sufficiently he continued, “The youth attacked first, swinging the sword like an axe—he couldn’t be troubled with fencing’s fine points, not against a tired old man, not when they were both drunk. He swung with such strength that it would have gone clear through the king—had it struck him. The king stepped aside, though, and deflected the blow, sending it harmlessly aside with his sword.

  “‘It’s not too late to apologize,’ the king said.

  “The boy bellowed a wordless challenge, and attacked again, this time showing some pretty skill—in fact, now that he knew a single blow would not serve, he put on a display of the finest fencing-school flutters and flourishes that ever I saw, the blade weaving about like a snake, fast as a cat’s paw striking. The king gave ground, turning each attack with his own sword, or else contriving not to be in quite the spot where the blow fell, but it appeared that only by great effort and astonishing luck did he turn the attacks.

  “At last, the lad had the king backed up against a pillar.

  “‘Your last chance,’ the king said.

  “The youth laughed, and roaring with confidence, he lunged forward in a simple thrust—and fell to the floor with a look of dumb amazement on his face, having been run through the heart once the king had his measure.”

  The soldier shook his head and smiled.

  “Old Geoffrey knew it’s not youth and strength that make a warrior, nor a king,” he said. “He gave that boy his chance several times over. He never lost his temper, never did anything rash, never let his enemy know his strengths.”

  “You mean his weaknesses.”

  “No, no—I mean his strengths. So the boy ran right into them. The shaking hands, the seeming weakness—what better way to mislead a foe? And King Geoffrey was brave, but he was no fool; he’d not have fought had he not been certain he would win. Why risk his life when a word would have had the boy arrested and hanged? Oh, a martyrdom might be trouble, but better to face a later insurrection than to die in a stupid brawl. Dead kings do no one any good, most especially not themselves. Geoffrey knew that well.” The soldier sighed. “He would never have fought if he didn’t know his own strengths, and he knew them well, after all those years. Age and experience outweigh strength and bravado any day.”

  “So you old men would have us believe,” the guardsman said.

  “Oh, no,” the old soldier said. “Better for us if you don’t! Had that young idiot known it, he’d never have challenged the king so openly.”

  “Ha, a point!” one of the guard’s companions shouted, and the four young men laughed.

  The soldier did not join them.

  “Finish your tale, old man,” another said when the laughter had passed.

  “Oh, that’s all of it, really,” the soldier said. “After the king had won, after the boy had died there on the floor, King Geoffrey called for the party to continue, apologized for the unpleasantness, and sent for servants to clean up the mess. And twenty minutes later, at midnight, young Philip came to take his seat at the high table.

  “And that,” said the old soldier, finishing his ale, “was twenty years ago next month.”

  BETH’S UNICORN

  Beth had loved the unicorn once; she had thought it was the most beautiful, wonderful thing in the world.

  That had been when she was just a little kid, though. Now that she was almost fifteen the whole idea of having her very own unicorn somehow seemed a little bit silly. None of her friends had unicorns—or at least, if they did, they didn’t talk about them. And grown-ups, like her parents, didn’t even believe in unicorns, so far she could tell.

  Beth believed in unicorns—she had to, since one lived in the woods behind her house and followed her around every chance it got.

  The unicorn had been living out there, and following her around, for as long as she could remember. It had definitely been an old friend by the time she had started the first grade, all those years ago—she could still remember the embarrassment when she told her first-grade teacher that she had her very own unicorn that lived out back. Beth had thought it was a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

  The teacher hadn’t believed a word of it. She had said that it was a very nice story, and then when Beth’s mother came to school for conferences she had talked to Beth’s mother about invisible playmates and how important it was not to stifle a child’s imagination. Beth’s mother had repeated this, in a tone of mild puzzlement, to Beth.

  “Do you have an invisible playmate, Beth?” she had asked.

  Beth had silently shaken her head. The unicorn wasn’t invisible. And it wasn’t really much of a playmate, either. It couldn’t talk or anything. It didn’t have hands, so it couldn’t throw a ball or a Frisbee, or dress and undress Barbies, or play any good games. It was pretty good at tag—though Beth had to be careful when they played, because that horn was sharp; she had gone back inside with nasty little cuts once or twice. It was okay at races and things like that, though it could outrun a little girl so easily that it wasn’t really fair, but it wasn’t good for much else, so far as Beth could see.

  It wasn’t any fun playing hide-and-seek with the unicorn because it could just plain disappear; Beth never found it when it hid. Now that she was older she wasn’t all that sure she’d have said it wasn’t invisible. It wasn’t always invisible, but sometimes she wasn’t sure.

  Whether it was invisibility or ordinary stealth at work, it never let anyone else see it—only Beth.

  When Beth was little she had thought that was pretty neat, having a magical animal that wouldn’t let anyone else near it, and she had given it names and pretended she was secretly a princess and the unicorn was the only one who knew it, and had played a lot of other silly baby games, but she had gotten tired of all that. None of the names had stuck, anyway; the unicorn never cared what she called it.

  Now she just called it “the unicorn,” when she called it anything at all. It wasn’t as if she’d ever seen any others.

  And she wasn’t sure she liked seeing the one. All in all, Beth preferred other kids as playmates.

  She wondered whether any of the other girls in the neighborhood had unicorns that followed them around when they were alone. She knew the boys didn’t; they’d always made fun of her when she talked about it. Sometimes that was almost as bad as the grown-ups not believing her.

  But some of the other girls had said they had unicorns, too, and had described them and told Beth their names—but she was never sure if they were serious, or just pretending, going along with Beth’s stories.

  It didn’t matter. She was too old for all that stuff now, anyway. Nobody else she knew still admitted to ever having even seen a real, live unicorn.

  She was almost grown up now, Beth told herself as she looked at herself in the mirror. She was almost a woman. She didn’t look like a kid playing dress-up any more when she
put on make-up and wore heels.

  And Josh, who was almost seventeen, didn’t think she was a little kid. He’d agreed to drive her to the mall and shop with her—it was practically a date! Her first date!

  Dates, boys…who wanted unicorns?

  She glanced out the window of her bedroom, and there was the unicorn standing under the trees, looking up at her, its golden horn gleaming in the light of the setting sun.

  “Screw you, unicorn!” Beth said. She thumbed her nose at it, and danced out the door of her room and down the stairs to wait for Josh.

  It wasn’t a long wait.

  “You look pretty,” he said, when she answered the door.

  “Thanks,” she answered, smiling foolishly. She knew she looked silly the way she was grinning, but she couldn’t stop. She bounced down the steps toward the car waiting at the curb. Josh had borrowed his mother’s car; Beth climbed in carefully, almost catching her high heels on the doorframe.

  Beth had a fine time at the mall; Josh didn’t even act bored when she looked at clothes she couldn’t afford. They got giant cookies, and ate them while sitting by the fountain in the center of the mall, and talked about school and music and TV and stuff. And Josh held her hand.

  Then he drove her home, and when he pulled up in front of the house he came around and opened the car door for her, like someone in an old movie, and when she got out he leaned over and kissed her.

  She was scared and excited, and kissed him back, and put her hands on his shoulders.

  His arms went around her and the kiss continued, and she felt his hand sliding down her back. She thought she was on the verge of trembling. This was thrilling and frightening at the same time, and she wasn’t sure what she should do, whether she should stop or what.

  She liked it, though—until the unicorn squealed.

  Josh started and pulled away from her. He turned, and saw the unicorn standing a dozen feet away, pawing the ground with a cloven hoof, that golden horn lowered and pointed straight at his chest.