The Sweetest Spell

by Suzanne Selfors

  “Likewise,” I told him. I’d never killed anyone. Death in the barefist fights happened. With the right angle and force, a jealous husband or hired assassin could easily snap a neck or crush a temple. But most men fought honorably within the dirt circle, the goal to knock the opponent off his feet for ten beats of the drum. Nothing more. But today it was kill or be killed. That was my choice.

  What kind of cruddy choice was that?

  “Think of it this way,” Henry said with a shrug. “You can’t have the girl you love. So what you got to live for? Might as well let me kill you.”

  “Thanks for the sentiment,” I said. “That makes me feel much better.”

  “Good luck, Owen!” Bartholomew Raisin called from the pit where the fighters and their promoters sat. Standing on tiptoe, he leaned over the railing, his greedy eyes flashing with possibility. “I put fifty coin on you so you’d better win!”

  “Wouldn’t want to cause you any inconvenience!” I hollered back. How rude it would be of me to lighten Bartholomew’s coin purse.

  The bearded official stepped between us. “After the third beat of the drum you begin.” He looked at one-eyed Henry, then looked pityingly at me. “If the pummeling gets too much to bear, just give me a signal and I’ll cut your throat. Sometimes a swift death is best.”

  I swallowed hard. “That won’t be necessary.”

  The official shrugged, then stepped back. A drummer, who sat in the pit, raised his baton, but a sudden blast of a horn interrupted his motion. Conversations immediately ceased and everyone stood, their heads turning toward a golden doorway on the upper level. “The king,” the official said. Then he punched my arm. “On your knee for the king.” One-eyed Henry and I copied the official as he knelt in the circle. A wave of turning heads rolled across the benches as the door opened.

  King Elmer waddled in, a shrub of white hair sticking out the top of his crown. He breathed like a bulldog, wheezing and grunting with his strained movements. He headed toward his throne, then wedged himself between the armrests. Servants crowded around with trays of food and drink. I frowned. There sat the man responsible for squeezing Anglund in a vise with his unjust taxes. Had he been told about the starving dirt-scratchers? I had no way of knowing.

  The horn sounded and Queen Beatrice entered. A tall, dark-haired woman, she moved with smooth steps as if her feet never touched the ground. Chains of glittering jewels dangled from her waist. She nodded and waved at the onlookers, then took her place on the other throne. One throne remained empty.

  I waited, my breathing quick and shallow. Where was he? Where was the man who’d claimed Emmeline’s heart? Would she be with him?

  The arena was silent, everyone still facing the king who slurped ale from a golden goblet. The queen leaned over and whispered something in his ear. “What’s that?” he bellowed.

  “The fighters are waiting for your orders.” She folded her hands in her lap, a tight smile plastered on her face.

  “The fighters?” He shoved the goblet at a servant, then waved his hands. “I can’t see a damn thing over those bloody hats!” The powder-faced people sat. The women removed their feathered hats. Then the king smiled. “Now I see. The fighters are ready. Hello, fighters!” He waved. The official jabbed me in the side with his elbow. I waved back. So did one-eyed Henry. Everyone in the audience waved too. The king waved again. The audience waved. Henry and I waved. I might have laughed if I hadn’t been keenly aware of death hovering nearby.

  My gaze darted here and there. Still no sight of her. Was she with him? Was he tall and handsome like his mother or was he a fat dullard like his father? She couldn’t possibly love him, could she?

  “Your Majesties,” the official called, still on his knee. “The first fighters are ready.”

  King Elmer slapped his armrest. “Look at the size of number one. We wager he’ll be victorious.” He grabbed a skewer of meat and pointed it at me. “You there, number two. Since you are about to die, do you have a final request?”

  Change the rules. Let me go. Give me a different opponent. All these requests ran through my head, but I knew that none would be granted. Henry and I were the entertainment for these lazy, soft-bellied fools who fed on the work of others. Who ate without toil. Who slept without exhaustion. They wanted a bloodbath to fill the moments between their naps and parties.

  “Get on your feet when you address His Majesty,” the official said with a shove.

  I stood. King Elmer chewed, grease shining at the corners of his painted mouth. Queen Beatrice stroked a string of yellow beads, her gaze turned skyward. “Your Majesties,” I said, boldly aiming my voice at the thrones. “I do have a final request.”

  The king stopped chewing. The strand of beads dropped from the queen’s hands and she looked at me for the first time. Everyone sat forward in their seats.

  “I want to see Emmeline, the Milkmaid,” I called. “I need to tell her something.”

  “What’s that?” the king hollered, a piece of meat flying from his mouth.

  “He wants to marry her,” one-eyed Henry bellowed.

  “I want to talk to her,” I said as I walked toward the railing. “She needs to know that her people are outside the city gates. The dirt-scratchers have no homes because the Flatlands flooded. They’re starving and they’ve come here for help.”

  “Dirt-scratchers?” The word hissed around the arena, slipping from mouths pursed with disgust.

  Queen Beatrice stood and held up her hands. The arena fell into silence. “Who are you?” she asked, her cold voice sliding over the heads of tax-collectors and merchants until it reached me.

  “I’m Owen Oak, from Wander. I’m a dairyman’s son.”

  “Well, Owen Oak, dairyman’s son, we do not understand why you believe the Milkmaid would care about dirt-scratchers. The Milkmaid is not from the Flatlands. She is from a distant land, and her only concern is the making of chocolate and the pending marriage to our son, Prince Beauregard.”

  “Your Majesty,” I said, not weighing the words before I spoke, for what did I have to lose? To kill or to be killed was my fate. “Emmeline is from the Flatlands. I know this because I found her after she was washed downriver. Please, do not let her people starve. I have met many dirt-scratchers. They are good people. They are citizens of the realm. They need your help.”

  Stunned faces stared back at me from the tiered seats. Eyes widened, mouths hung open. The queen’s face twisted into a grimace. “The Prince of Anglund would never marry a dirt-scratcher.” She addressed the entire arena. “Dirt-scratchers have red hair. The Milkmaid has hair as black as mine. Everyone will see this at the Royal Wedding, which will take place tomorrow.” People murmured in agreement.

  Black hair?

  The queen continued. “We have no interest in the welfare of dirt-scratchers. We will send them back to the Flatlands where they belong.” More murmurs.

  The king, who’d finished his skewer of meat, hollered, “Stop talking and fight! To the death!”

  The crowd took up the call. “To the death. To the death.” Cheers rose and feet stomped. The official motioned at the drummer, then stepped to the edge of the dirt circle. One-eyed Henry staggered to his feet. He raised his fists. The drum beat once, twice, thrice. I looked around one last time for Emmeline. She’d never know about her people. They’d die like dogs at the side of the road and she’d never know. Or maybe she didn’t care anymore. Maybe a life with the prince was what she wanted. Maybe she’d dyed her hair so she could be one of them.

  No. I didn’t believe it.

  Henry lunged at me. I ducked beneath his armpit. I could probably sidestep his blundering movements all day. Or until the official grew bored and slit one of our throats. Henry growled and lunged again. As I darted away, movement caught my eye. The golden door had opened and a young man walked out. Black-haired but with a normal, unpowdered face, he took the throne next to Queen Beatrice. I gritted my teeth, trying not to imagine him kissing Emmeline when … wham! Hen
ry threw a punch to my right cheek.

  The crowd cheered. I spat blood into the dirt. One-eyed Henry bent forward and charged me like a bull. That’s when I decided what I had to do. Enough with this stupid fight. I turned and ran straight for the railing. The merchants who sat in the front row gasped as I leaped over the railing and ran up the steps toward the thrones. Rather than try to stop me, the powder-faced people shrank back, clinging to one another in fear. “Prince,” I called as my feet hit the fourth tier. “Emmeline needs to know—”

  Two soldiers grabbed my arms and twisted them behind my back, holding me in place. I didn’t struggle. I was already a dead man. All I wanted was for Emmeline to know the truth.

  The prince darted in front of his mother, guarding her with outstretched arms. He wore no weapon. A pair of strange spectacles hung around his neck. We locked gazes. “What did you say about Emmeline?” he asked.

  “I need to tell her something. I’m her friend. My name is Owen.” I winced as the soldiers tightened their grip. “I brought her father from the mineral fields. He’s waiting outside the gates.”

  The prince took a step toward me. “Her father?”

  “This boy is a madman, full of lies,” the queen said, pushing the prince aside. “He claims that your future bride is a dirt-scratcher. He asks us to concern ourselves with dirt-scratchers who have gathered outside the city wall. We care not about such matters. We will order them back to the Flatlands.”

  “The Flatlands were destroyed,” I said. “The people will die. They need food.”

  “Let them die,” the queen said. “We care not. Take him away.”

  My gaze burned into the prince. “Tell her,” I called as the soldiers dragged me toward the golden door. “Tell her about her father. Tell her about her people.” The door opened and just before they shoved me through I cried, “Tell her that Owen Oak loves her.”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Prince Beau hurried into my room. He wore a long brown cloak. I lay curled on the bed, a ball of anger and shame. My hair had dried but the pillows were still damp. “Your mother lied to me,” I said quietly.

  The chambermaids were playing a game of cards. They scrambled to their feet and bowed like trained animals. “Out,” he told them. As soon as we were alone, he slammed shut the door and tossed a second brown cloak onto the bed. “Put this on. I’m taking you outside.”

  “Outside?”

  “Yes. There’s something you need to see. It’s important.” He frowned at me. “I’m sorry she did that to your hair.”

  “She never gave Griffin his reward,” I said as I grabbed the cloak and slid off the bed. I hadn’t felt this much anger since my days with Peddler. I nearly broke the cord as I tied the cloak around my shoulders. “She promised to give him the reward but she stuck him in the dungeon. She said she’d kill him if I stopped making chocolate.”

  “It’s worse than I ever imagined,” the prince said as he stared out the window. “My mother has gone too far this time. She has lost her humanity.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Outside the walls.”

  “But I’m not supposed—”

  “I’ll say I ordered you to go.”

  I strained to keep up with the prince’s determined pace. We took the narrow staircase that led to my churning room. No one questioned the prince as he led me through the kitchen labyrinth. The rooms and hallways were crowded with servants and cooks bustling here and there. The royal chefs shouted orders. “More salt!” “Baste the guinea hens!” “Brown the butter!” Baskets of carrots and cabbage were stacked one on top of the other. Cauldrons bubbled. A man unloaded a wagon of peacocks. Another led two pigs toward the slaughter room. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Our wedding is tomorrow,” the prince said. “On the second day of tournament. All the ambassadors will be here. Mother decided to hold our wedding first thing in the morning, before the tournament begins.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” I didn’t care if I sounded disgusted. I was. I hated the queen and wanted nothing to do with her plans. But I was as much her prisoner as Griffin.

  “She will introduce you to the ambassadors and then she’ll give them each a gift.” He motioned me into the chocolate room. Servants sat at a long table painting gold swans on the chocolate squares before setting them neatly into golden boxes. “These boxes will be given to each ambassador to take back to their kings and bishops. Once the outside world has tasted chocolate, the orders will pour in. With the profits, Mother will build a new palace. I’ve seen the design.”

  “Another palace?” I asked. He nodded. “And all the while, she’ll hold Griffin hostage.”

  “My parents are holding the entire realm hostage,” he said.

  I followed him into a room lined with shelves of bread. His friend, the Baron of Lime, waited in the room, baskets in hand. One basket was filled with apples, the other with smoked turkey legs. The baron also wore a long brown cloak. The prince grabbed a crate and filled it with bread rolls. “Why do we need all this bread?”

  “I’m taking you to see your people,” he said. “My people?”

  “A group of dirt-scratchers are outside the city wall. They’re starving. We’re going to take this food to them, but we have to be sneaky.” He and the baron tied their cloaks, then pulled the hoods over their heads. Prince Beau pulled my hood over my black hair. “If Mother finds out she’ll punish me, probably by exiling the baron to the mineral fields.”

  The baron grumbled. “I’d like to see her try.”

  The peacock wagon lay empty, the driver carrying the last two birds toward the curing room. When the driver disappeared around a corner, the Baron of Lime set the baskets inside, then climbed onto the wagon’s bench. Prince Beau placed the crate of bread into the wagon, then jumped in. He grabbed my hand and pulled me in beside him. The baron flicked the reins and drove the wagon through the kitchen courtyard, down an alleyway, and out onto a Londwin street.

  My people were out there. They weren’t supposed to leave the Flatlands. Would they be arrested? Or worse? As if sensing my impatience, the baron urged the horse into a gallop. We flew past lifeless stone buildings, soot rising in our wake. Though the chimneys had been asleep for weeks, soot still clung to everything—a powdery reminder of days gone by. The gargoyles no longer frightened me. I felt like one of them—stuck in this city for the rest of my life, as if I too were cemented to a rooftop.

  Shouting filled the air as we neared the city gate—the sound of not one, but many voices calling the king’s name.

  To get the soldiers to open the gate, Prince Beau had to reveal his identity. But he pulled the hood over his head as soon as the gate opened. The gathered crowd was in an uproar, shaking fists and shouting, throwing stones at the wall. “Why are they here?” I asked, pulling my cloak tighter around my face.

  “They’ve come to protest the taxes,” the prince said as the wagon rolled through the gate. The crowd parted as the horse pushed through. Not far up the road, just as the shouting was beginning to fade in the distance, the baron yanked the reins. There, beneath a cluster of trees, sat a group of tattered people. My people.

  I knew some of the women and children who’d once lived in Root, but many others I didn’t know. My heart ached as I recognized the hollow cheeks and sagging skin of starvation. As the horse came to a stop, Prince Beau and I climbed out with the baskets of food. “Eat,” the prince said. “It’s free.” But none of the Flatlanders moved, looking warily at him.

  “It’s okay,” I told them. “We’ve brought food for you. You can eat.” I pushed my hood away. The Flatlanders stared at me. Even though my accent sounded like theirs, distrust clung to their faces. “Please don’t be afraid. I look different but I’m Emmeline. I’m from Root.”

  “Emmeline?” a woman said. It was Missus Trog, the gravedigger’s wife. “Is that really you, Emmeline?”

  “Aye.” I carried the crate toward her, my limp speaking louder than words.

/>   “Emmeline,” they whispered, their faces relaxing. Even though I was an outcast amongst them, they trusted me over the prince and the baron. The women let go of the children, who flung themselves at the food. Prince Beau and the baron set the baskets on the ground. Every morsel was grabbed. The food wouldn’t be enough, though. They’d die if I didn’t figure out a way to help them. My gaze traveled over their faces. A boy with freckles, a young mother with her babe bundled on her back, an elderly woman with a missing tooth, a man with sharp shoulders …

  Was I seeing things?

  “Father?” He stood a few feet away. “Father?” I whispered.

  He walked up to me, his face older than I remembered. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he said.

  Was he glad to see me? Honestly I couldn’t tell. Or was it the same as always—my presence reminding him of the burden I’d brought to our family. “I wanted to find you,” I started to explain. “I was trying …”

  There was no hesitation. Before I could say another word he wrapped his arms around me. “I am happy you are safe.” He had never embraced me in this way. The other Flatlanders stopped eating for a moment and watched. I tried to pull out of his hug. Surely his mind was sick from hunger. He’d never hugged me in private and to do so in front of our people would bring him shame.

  “Father,” I said, trying to remind him. “I know I look different, but I’m still Emmeline. They still think I’m unnatural.”

  “I don’t care what they think.” He held tight. “You are not my shame, Emmeline. That I cast you aside is my shame. That has always been my shame.”

  We stood like that for a long time, until our breathing settled and my tears stopped flowing. Until someone tugged on my skirt. Small green eyes stared up at me. “Thank you, Emmeline.” The girl couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. From her hollow features and sallow skin, it was clear that death had been hovering, waiting to snatch her.