The Sweetest Spell

by Suzanne Selfors

  He gave me a quizzical look. “Why does a prisoner care about trade routes?”

  “They’re not prisoners,” Soldier Wolf said. “They are champion fighters, destined for the king’s arena.”

  “Did they catch Peddler?” I asked. “The man who kidnapped the Milkmaid. Did they catch him?”

  “I know nothing about such matters,” the merchant said. With a kick to his horse, he sped ahead to meet up with his companions.

  She was alive and well! She was a short ride away. “Can’t we go faster?” I called to Wolf.

  “Anybody ever tell you that you talk too much?” Soldier Wolf grumbled. “We’ll get there when we get there.”

  “She’s safe,” I said.

  Mister Thistle stopped rubbing his face and met my gaze. He nodded, relief relaxing the creases around his eyes.

  “Are you going to ask her to marry you?” one-eyed Henry asked.

  It would be a waste of time to pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about. I hadn’t said anything about love, but even a lout like Henry had figured it out.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I admitted. “She’s making chocolate for the king. He’s not going to let her go back to Wander with me.”

  “Then you’ll have to stay with her,” Soldier Wolf said, turning around on the driver’s bench.

  “Stay in Londwin City?” I’d never considered this. “And do what?”

  “Whatever it takes,” Wolf said. “If you’ve got the chance at love, boy, you’ve got to fight for it.”

  I was about to ask Mister Thistle what he thought when he suddenly hollered, “Stop!”

  Red-haired people, dozens of them, sat alongside the road. Mostly women and children, and a few elderly men. Bone thin, they clung wearily to one another, staring at us with vacant expressions. One of the little girls held out her empty palm. “Let me out,” Mister Thistle cried, gripping the bars. The cage shook.

  “Let him out,” I told Wolf.

  As soon as Wolf unlocked the cage, Mister Thistle leaped to the ground and ran to his people. He knelt beside one of the elderly men and spoke in hushed tones. “Hurry up!” Wolf called. Mister Thistle ignored him. “You staying here? I ain’t waiting around!”

  “What’s the matter with you?” I snapped at Wolf. “Can’t you see they’re starving? Give that girl some food.”

  Soldier Wolf looked over at the food bag. “You want to give up your rations?”

  “Yes. Give them my rations.”

  “Mine too,” one-eyed Henry said.

  Wolf grabbed the bag and handed it to the girl, who peered up at him through ropes of tangled hair. She could have been Emmeline’s younger sister. It didn’t escape my notice that Wolf had handed over his rations too.

  “What’s going on?” I hollered.

  As the girl passed out the rations of dried meat and fruit, Mister Thistle returned to the wagon. “It’s just as you said,” he told me. “The flood destroyed everything. All the food is spoiled. They’ve come here to ask the king for help. But the soldiers won’t let them into the city.”

  “Then we’ll tell the king,” I said. “As soon as we get to the tournament, we’ll make certain he knows.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Mister Thistle said. “They need menfolk to protect them. Tell Emmeline I will see her as soon as I can.” I nodded. Then Mister Thistle leaned close to the bars and spoke directly to me. “You can ask Emmeline to marry you, but you’ll still have to wait for the next husband market. That’s how it’s done with my people.”

  I guess that was his way of telling me he approved.

  But would she?

  Leaving the dirt-scratchers behind, Wolf drove the wagon toward the city gates. Londwin City’s wall stood twice as tall as Wander’s wall. Soldiers marched along the top. Beyond the wall, stone buildings towered as far as the eye could see, their lifeless chimneys pointing to the sky. My heartbeat doubled with anticipation. She was in there, somewhere. She’d be surprised to see me. I’d tell her how sorry I was that I didn’t save her from Peddler. Then, if she didn’t totally reject me, I’d tell her how I felt. How I’d felt since I first saw her lying on the riverbank. How I felt each time I saw her—dazed, stunned, an ache in my stomach. Those words were no good. Why was it so hard to describe a stupid feeling? Where was a book of poetry when I needed one?

  Soldier Wolf pulled the horse to a stop. One-eyed Henry and I scooted to the front of the cage. Three messengers were arguing with a soldier. “I carry a scroll from the Baron of Highland for the king,” one of the messengers declared. “It’s urgent.”

  “I’m under strict orders not to let anyone into the city,” the soldier replied. “King Elmer is preparing for his tournament and he wants no interruptions.”

  The messenger waved the scroll. “But I carry a proposal of marriage for the Milkmaid and it must be delivered immediately.”

  “Hey!” another messenger cried. “I carry the same proposal from the Baron of Lowland.”

  “As do I from the king’s cousin, Lord Morgan,” the third messenger said.

  Wolf turned and frowned at me. “Looks like you’ll have to get into line if you want to marry her.” I gripped the bars so hard it felt as if my fingers would snap.

  “Wait here,” the soldier said. Then he walked through the gate to talk to another soldier. When he returned he addressed all the messengers. “You can all go home,” he told them. “Your proposals aren’t any good here.”

  The messengers waved their scrolls and objected, but the soldier silenced them with a shrill whistle. “I said they aren’t any good because the Milkmaid has already accepted a proposal of marriage. She is to marry the Prince of Anglund.”

  My fingers released and my hands slid down the cage bars.

  Chapter Forty-six

  I might have been able to compete with a merchant or even a baron, since they were usually old, fat men. But I couldn’t compete with a prince. I had no palace to offer, no kingdom. Just a dairy and a bunch of brown woolly cows. And my love.

  Did the prince even love her? Surely he did. How could he not?

  Did she love him?

  I knew very little of the prince. People rarely spoke of him. Some said he dressed like a commoner and had no interest in politics. But he must have swooped in with his crown and treasures and servants, and she’d said aye to all of it. Of course she had. How could a girl who’d grown up with nothing say no to a prince? Even if she’d had feelings for me, which she probably never had, she’d be a fool to refuse such a proposal.

  How different things might have been if I’d stopped Peddler from taking her!

  “Tough luck,” one-eyed Henry said as we drove through the gates. The soldier, learning we were barefist fighters come for the tournament, had let us through.

  “Shut up,” I snapped.

  “You shut up,” he snapped right back.

  Once we’d reached the tents, Soldier Wolf let us out of the cage. We signed our names to a list of fighters. “You try to escape now,” Wolf said, “and you’ll be hanged as traitors. You got that?” We both nodded. My gaze searched for signs of her. But there were no women in this crowd—only fighters and their promoters.

  We claimed a pair of mattresses in the first tent and waited while Wolf went to do something. The tent was crowded with men. Some slept while others ate and shared fighting stories. I didn’t want to lie there. My legs ached from the long journey. “Tell Wolf I’ve gone for a walk,” I said. Henry grunted and wiped at his empty socket.

  Just as I headed out the tent, a familiar voice called my name. “Owen? Owen Oak? Is that you?” Bartholomew Raisin scurried up to me, his pinprick eyes flashing with excitement. “Where have you been? We need to get you registered right away.”

  “I’m already registered,” I said, actually happy to see him. He was the first person from Wander I’d run into since leaving.

  He frowned. “I didn’t register you. You’re my champion. You’re supposed to fight for me.”
>
  “Look, Raisin,” I said, “stop yapping and listen to me. How are my parents?”

  “Fine. Worried about you but they’re fine.” He looked around, then stepped closer, rubbing his puffy hands together. “Who are you fighting for? I’ll buy you from him. I’ll pay him well. You fight for me. That’s how it’s always been.”

  My gaze drifted over his head, searching for her. Servants dressed from head to toe in black were handing out loaves of bread and jugs of ale. I grabbed a jug and took a long drink, washing the remaining bitterness of the mineral fields from my mouth. But a new bitterness had taken its place. “I don’t care who the hell I fight for,” I told Bartholomew Raisin. “Make whatever arrangements you want.”

  I shoved past him and headed toward a gold-edged door from which the servants came and went. I’d promised Mister Thistle that I’d tell the king about the starving dirt-scratchers. And Emmeline needed to know that her father was just outside the city wall. No one stood guard at the door, but just as I was about to step inside, a man with a very white face stepped out.

  “Who are you?” he asked. He’d painted his lips red. His collar reached so high it looked like his head had been placed there, like a snowball on top of a fence post. He carried a bundle of parchment.

  “I need to get a message to the king,” I told him.

  “Indeed?” He pursed his lips. “I am the Royal Secretary. If you have a message, you may deliver it to me.” I told him about the dirt-scratchers, but he didn’t seem much interested. He tapped his long, pointed shoe. “Is there something else?”

  “Yes. I need to see Emmeline.”

  “Who?”

  “The Milkmaid.”

  He snorted. “The sudden interest in that dirt-scratcher girl is astounding. Away with you. Before I call the soldiers.”

  “But I must get a message to her,” I insisted, my temper rising to the surface. “She needs to know that her father is here. He’s with the other dirt-scratchers, just outside the city wall. Tell her that.”

  The secretary narrowed his eyes, a twitch pulling a corner of his mouth. “The father is here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How very interesting.” He pulled a quill from behind his ear and wrote something on a piece of parchment. Then he hurried off, darting between tents and disappearing from view. I had no faith he’d actually deliver the message. But I didn’t have time to come up with another plan because Soldier Wolf ran up to me.

  “You’re in the first fight!” he cried, his face flushed. “Where’s Henry?”

  “Why am I first?”

  “We were the last to arrive so we had no choice in the matter. The first slot was the only one unclaimed. It’s not so good fighting first,” he grumbled as we searched for Henry. “The first fight always gets the least attention.”

  I didn’t care if I fought first or last. I’d come to see Emmeline. But that no longer seem likely.

  After we found Henry, we entered the arena. The dirt circle was bigger than the one in Wander. The tiered benches were half-full. People mingled, greeting one another. Up on the top tier, three empty thrones waited. The people who sat closest to the thrones were an odd sort with powered faces and colored lips. The women had red circles painted on their cheeks and wore feathered hats. To my far right, a forest of green spread across the benches where merchants sat. To my left a cloud of floppy black hats hovered over the benches where the tax-collectors sat. No one paid us any attention. The air hummed with conversation.

  “Get ready,” Wolf told us. One-eyed Henry and I took off our shirts and boots. A boy, carrying a bucket of blue paint, painted the number 1 on Henry’s chest, then painted number 2 on mine. Blue drops rolled past my navel. My heartbeat doubled, anticipation building in my gut the way it always did. I stretched my legs, still stiff from the cramped ride in the cage. I just wanted to get this over with. But if I knocked Henry off his feet, I’d be here for days, advancing to the next level, then the next. If I took a blow and threw the fight, I could leave. Get back home. Forget about Emmeline and her prince.

  I’d do it. I’d throw the fight.

  An official approached us—a burly man with flecks of his last meal in his thick beard. “You know the rules?” he asked.

  I nodded, as did Henry.

  “That’s good.” He folded his arms. “What do you want us to do with your bodies?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Pardon me?”

  “One of you is going to die so I need to know what to do with you. We got the incinerator out back. But if you want your body sent home, then you’ll need to pay a death tax and the gravedigger’s fee.”

  “Look,” I said calmly. “Henry, here, might be three times my size but he’s not going to kill me. So don’t worry about it.”

  The official glanced at Soldier Wolf. “No one told you?”

  Wolf shrugged. “Told me what?”

  The official smiled, his brown teeth like chunks of wood. “The rules were changed to make things more interesting. It’ll be a fight to the death. No exceptions.” He pulled a knife from his belt. “So if one of you doesn’t kill the other, I’ll step in and choose the loser.”

  One-eyed Henry and I shared a long, terrified look.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  The chambermaids held me down and poured black dye over my head. Fumes rose from the porcelain sink and stung my eyes. I trembled with humiliation. The queen watched, circling like a bird of prey. “There’s nothing we can do about the foot. The surgeon said it’s too late to straighten it. However, we can do something about the hair,” she said. “You are no longer a dirt-scratcher. You are my son’s future bride.”

  “I’m Emmeline,” I insisted. “Emmeline Thistle. From the Flatlands.”

  She froze. “You are not from the Flatlands.” She tapped her fingers on the side of the sink. “The Prince of Anglund cannot marry a commoner. Thus, from this moment hence, you are a princess from a distant land. No one can know your real identity.”

  She was going to rewrite history, just as Queen Margaret before her.

  “I’m—” I sputtered, water trickling into my mouth. One of the maids wrapped a towel around my head, another wiped my face dry. I pushed them away, stumbling backward. “I’m a Flatlander and I don’t care who knows.” The towel tumbled from my head.

  “I care!” the queen roared, her eyes fiery with rage. The room fell into silence as our gazes locked. She’d made a huge mistake and I knew it. She knew it. She cleared her throat. “We care,” she corrected. “We care.”

  “I know the truth,” I whispered, my jaw trembling. “You have dirt-scratcher blood. So does your son.” I held my ground, even as her face contorted with fury. “Your ancestor, Queen Margaret, was a dirt-scratcher.”

  The queen stomped her foot. “Out!” she ordered. The maids, their hands black with dye, scurried from the room. The two of us stood, glaring at each other. Droplets rolled down my face but I didn’t wipe them away. “You speak treason,” she said between clenched teeth.

  “I know you dye your hair,” I said. The queen took a step toward me. Though my heart nearly burst through my chest, I held my ground, balancing on the tip of my curled foot, trying to stand as straight as possible. “I know your true hair looks like mine.”

  “You are a fool to speak to us that way.”

  “Why don’t you tell the people the truth?” I asked. “My people have a right to know that they were here first. They have a right to live outside the Flatlands. You share our blood. You should help us.”

  I’d gone too far. A gurgled sound arose in her throat. She lunged at me and grabbed my shoulders. Then she twisted me around to face a golden mirror. I gawked at the reflection that greeted me. The girl’s hair hung in black ropes. Trails of black ran down the front of her dress. Tears welled in her eyes. She isn’t real, I told myself. She is part of a horrid dream. I do not know that girl.

  “You are no longer Emmeline. You are who we say you are,” Queen Beatrice said with the ic
y cold of the River Time. “You do what we tell you to do.” Then she released my shoulders and walked toward the door, her jeweled belt clinking with each precise step.

  “That wasn’t our agreement,” I said. “I never agreed to be someone else.” The queen kept walking, not a glitch to her steps. “I won’t make chocolate for you. I’ll stop. If you don’t change my hair back, I’ll stop.”

  “Then we will kill him,” she said as she reached for the door’s handle.

  “Him?” I whispered.

  “The boy who brought you here. We had him escorted to the dungeon.”

  My knees began to tremble. “You said you gave him the reward and he returned home.”

  “He’s alive, that’s his reward. And as long as you make the chocolate, he lives.” The queen chuckled. “The only way I can keep you in your place is to possess something you love.”

  I clenched my fingers. “When your son rules, everything will be different.”

  “Rule? My son rule?” She opened the door. “Prince Beauregard is too weak to rule.”

  As she left the room, the chambermaids returned. I sat limply on a stool while they dried and combed my hair. It all made sense. That’s why Griffin didn’t wait to say good-bye. That’s why he had simply disappeared. Everything had been a lie, right from the start.

  “Griffin,” I whispered.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Henry and I stood in the dirt circle, our painted numbers now dry, though mine had begun to itch with sweat. The dirt was perfect, rock-free, soft beneath my twitching toes. The benches were almost full. I craned my neck and peered up at the sky. Even though Henry was a bumbling kind of brute, heavy on his feet, this could possibly be my last day. My last hour. My last moment.

  I’d tried to run. As soon as I realized that Soldier Wolf had tricked us, that we had to fight to the death, I darted beneath the railing and had just about made it to the exit when three soldiers tackled me and dragged me back.

  So there I stood, facing my opponent. His broad shoulders and wide chest blocked my view like a flesh-covered rampart. His sunken eyelid glistened. But there was no rage in his good eye, not like the other times we’d fought. “I’m sorry I’ve got to kill you,” he said.