by Tia Nevitt
Besides, he needed to stable the horse. He was resolved to sell it at the first opportunity. Or perhaps simply leave it at the inn.
He arranged for a private room. He lay on the bed—which, mercifully, looked free of bedbugs—and folded his arms under his head. As the sun lowered in the sky, he listened to the laughter from the tavern below him and wished the curse didn’t force him to shun human companionship.
He knew not which of his grandfathers had struck the unholy bargain that bound them to the mirror. But for many years, they hadn’t even realized it was a curse. The spell had passed from father to son or nephew for at least four generations, and all had gone reasonably well. The mirror was locked in the king’s personal chambers. Once during the daytime and once at night, the mirror could be used to summon him. And during the summons, Richard could three times speak of things that were beyond his knowledge.
His knowledge only seemed limited by three things: he could not tell the future, he could not tell what was in someone’s thoughts and he could only speak the truth. Even if he was misinformed, he would not tell something that was untrue. Many times, Richard had learned he was wrong about something only when the answer strangled in his throat as he tried to answer.
Richard’s family had grown quite powerful while the mirror was in their control. They had expanded from a mere city-state to a nation in its own right.
When his father had inherited the throne, he had asked Richard—asked, not commanded—if he would take on the spell.
“The spell can only pass to one who is willing to take it,” his father said.
“How...” The sixteen-year-old Richard gulped. “How do I take the spell?”
“Simply speak into the mirror that you are willing to take on the spell.”
“What happens if I don’t take it?”
His father sighed. “Then I’ll carry it until I die. I would never ask you to do such a thing, except it is a terrible weakness for a king to have. Anyone who finds the mirror would be able to demand the truth out of me.”
“Just as you would be able to demand the truth out of me?”
The king met his gaze. “Yes.”
“And you did this for your father?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever ask anything of you that...that you didn’t want to answer?”
His father met his eyes for a moment before answering, “Plenty of times.”
“What happens if you die before you pass on the spell?”
“You would inherit it anyway, as my natural heir.”
Richard thought a moment more. All his life, he had been told that his life was not his, that as a prince, his life belonged to the people. It was his great privilege, he was told, and his great burden. And so, all his life, only his thoughts had ever been his. And now, his father was asking him to give up even that.
He began to pace, a habit he had picked up from his father. What truth would his father demand of him? His thoughts were intensely private to him, and he was sometimes ashamed of the things that went on in his head, especially when a pretty girl walked by. Sometimes the violence he felt when he was supposed to be practicing swordplay shocked even himself, and he had to stop himself from fighting in earnest. And worst of all, sometimes he thought his father was an idiot, and he couldn’t believe some of the decisions he had made. What if his father asked him of those? Why, such thoughts were almost treasonous.
Then he looked into his father’s brown eyes, and he was surprised to see understanding there. And then Richard understood. His father had made the same sacrifice, and his father now knew what he was asking of him.
“I promise,” his father said, “I will only use the mirror in the interest of the crown.”
“Did your father make you the same promise?”
“No. That’s why I vowed to make you this promise when it was your turn to take the spell.”
Richard nodded. “Then I will take the spell.”He turned to the mirror and before he could think about it too much longer, he blurted, “Free my father from the spell of this mirror, and place it upon me.”
Nothing happened.
Richard felt a hand on his shoulder.
“That should do it. Thank you, son.” He gripped Richard’s shoulder for a moment, and then he turned to the mirror. “Let’s make sure it works.”
And he placed his hand on the mirror.
Richard’s vision clouded over, and he could only see his father’s face before him. It was somewhat translucent, and beyond the face, he could see the mirror, as well as a shadowy figure within.
“What is your name?” his father asked.
Richard’s mouth opened and he answered without thinking. “Richard of Schwarzburg.”
His father placed his hand on the mirror and turned to him. The translucent face vanished, and his own vision returned. He nodded. “It works. Now you must know the three laws of the mirror. Break them at your peril, for they exist to protect us both.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“First, never use the mirror to summon yourself.”
Richard bit his lip and then nodded again.
“Second, you cannot harm the mirror. Only the master of the mirror may break it.”
“Who is the master of the mirror?”
“The person who used the mirror last.”
“Why not break the mirror?”
“Because as long as we work together, the magic works to our benefit.”
Richard wasn’t sure he agreed, but he nodded anyway.
“And third, as the servant of the mirror, you cannot strike the master—the last person who used the mirror. The magic simply will not allow you to do so.”
He pursed his lips as the ramifications of that last stricture became clear to him.
“Remember,” his father said with a touch. “This is a partnership. The laws protect us both. They are not just rules, but are part of the way the magic works. I know from experience that the spell works for the best when there is trust between us, so you may rest assured that I will work to keep that trust. Remember my promise.”
“I will, Father.”
His father only broke his promise to Richard one time.
* * *
The sound of music broke through his thoughts. Richard lifted his head. A minstrel was playing a fiddle downstairs.
Richard sat up and reached for the bag of coins that the queen had given him. He hefted it for a moment. Perhaps he didn’t have to shun humanity—at least not for the evening. He pulled on his shirt, tucked it in and belted on his trousers. He pulled on his boots and went downstairs.
The Gastwirt noticed him and came up immediately.
“What do you require, my lord?”
“Only a table.”
The Gastwirt started to clear some people from the nearest table, but Richard grabbed his arm. “I’ll select my own table. I’d like to talk to the minstrel first.”
When the man headed for minstrel, Richard again stopped him. “For God’s sake, let the man finish his song. When I am seated, you may bring me some beer.”
At last, the innkeeper departed. The minstrel, ever vigilant, stood as soon as he finished his song and came over.
“My lord?”
Richard jingled his pouch. “It will be a good evening for you if you can keep the crowd merry tonight. No politics or complaints. Only music, dancing and amusing stories.”
“I’m at your service, my lord.” The m
instrel bowed low, topknot flipping over his head and almost slapping Richard in the face.
Richard waved him away and made his way to a table in the back. The Gastwirt immediately brought his beer. Richard clapped five marks onto the table.”Tap your finest barrel and pass out a round for all.”
The innkeeper’s eyes bulged, but he hastened to take the coins. He walked away, yelling for a boy to go to the cellar.
Within a half hour, the mood of the crowd had improved substantially. The minstrel played song after song, until eventually, he came to a popular love song.
And again, Richard fell to musing. Around him, he imagined that the dark wooden posts of the timbered Gasthaus were the pillars of his family castle’s hall. Wattle-and-daub plaster became the stately tabards and tapestries that draped the walls of the hall. Bowls of sauerkraut and steins of beer became silver platters of venison and crystal flutes of wine. But the song was the same—albeit played by an orchestra—as Richard asked Sybelle to dance.
She placed her hand in his as she consented to follow him onto the floor.
Ever since the kiss that had wakened her from her mysterious coma, he had kept things excruciatingly proper between them. But she had turned out to be quite different from the fairy tale princess of his dreams. She was, in fact, a widow, and had been so for three years. She had been wandering all this time, because the family of her late husband had turned her out after the funeral, and all over her own relations were elderly. Her destination had been yet another elderly aunt when the swoon had come upon her. She knew not when her coachman and groom had abandoned her, taking all her belongings except for her clothing.
And her clothing did verify her story, even if she would not name her late husband. It was not the chaste clothing of a maiden. The necklines were low, with the breasts pushed high and the waist cinched in.
Now, however, as they danced, it seemed that her waist did not need much cinching, because his arm around it as they danced seemed to encircle it all the way. He dared not hold her too close. His body was betraying him too much.
She smiled at him in that secret way of hers, and again he found his gaze trapped in the darkness of her eyes.
Then with a shock, he realized that she was dancing right up against him. And he was even further shocked when he found himself pulling her even closer. Her secret smile seemed to draw a veil around them, making him blind to anyone else in the room.
Even his glowering father.
That evening, he slept ill. He dreamed evil dreams, where she was a sylph and he was a Pegasus, and they rode in the sky. He turned her under him as he penetrated her, and he woke to find her nude in his arms.
“You are dreaming of me,” she said.
“Sybelle! How did you come to be here?”
“Maybe your dreams brought me here,” she said. And she kissed him.
It seemed like a dream still, as he lay in the bed with her, and as his hands ran over her body. It was all so unreal. She kissed with her tongue in a manner that he had never experienced before. First, her breasts were in his disbelieving hands, and then nothing stopped him as his hands ranged lower. Then, to his astonishment, she straddled him and her warmth enclosed him as she sank down upon him, and then she was riding him as if he were the winged stallion of his dream.
As a young prince, he had been with a few women, mostly older, who all had wanted a part in his princely education. But he had never experienced anyone as passionate as Sybelle before. Her head was flung back and her breasts bouncing before him as they furiously slammed together. And the passion wrapped around his head and wound around his heart with sharp barbs, rooting and penetrating until he was hers.
But now...even now, as the love song came to a close, another face supplanted hers. The pale face of the maiden with snow-blue eyes.
* * *
The rapid notes of a jig shook Richard from his reverie. The minstrel was sweating from his efforts as the dancers swung round and round. How long had he been playing the jig before Richard had become aware of it?
The Spielmann ended his jig with a couple of furious saws with his bow. He wiped his forehead with a rag, pulled up a chair and then held his fiddle like a lute.
“And now,” he said as he strummed, “I shall tell you a true story of the house of the seven dwarfs.” He strummed his fiddle. “Seven dwarfs...and one giant.”
The minstrel looked his way, as if for approval. Richard gave a slight nod, and the minstrel looked around at the company. There were smiles all around; they now expected to be amused.
“They live on a farm, not far from here,” he said. “Two of them are the owners of the farm, Herr and Frau Klein. They have several farmhands...”
Richard relaxed at last as the minstrel described the occupants of the dwarf refuge one by one, and he let his head lean back against a wall. A girl tried to approach but he held up his hand and she backed away. The last thing he needed was a dalliance. He had endangered one girl already; he would not do it again, even if he had to live as a monk, as he had done for the last five years.
“And Gretchen, the newest of these dwarfs, is the only female there besides Frau Marta. She is very ladylike and pretty. All the men adore her. But Frau Marta doesn’t tolerate shenanigans. The men are in the bunkroom, while Fräulein Gretchen—who is a milkmaid—stays upstairs, where she remains under Frau Marta’s large nose.
“This house of dwarfs, as you might imagine, has attracted several regular visitors. One of them, as you might guess, is myself. But the other...the other is someone of whom you know, but just who? You’ll never guess.”
The minstrel looked around as if he were confiding in a great secret.
“It,” he said in a stage whisper, his hand beside his mouth, “is The Tattered Princess.”
The crowd murmured.
Richard sat in shock for a moment, unable to believe he heard that name, unable to believe the depths of his abysmal luck. Of all the inns he could have come to, to stop at the one where someone knew where the Tattered Princess regularly visited—
“The Tattered Princess,” the minstrel continued, “as I’m sure you know, is—”
Richard stood. “Stop!” he yelled.
The minstrel stopped abruptly and looked over at Richard, who made his way toward the minstrel’s corner. When he arrived, he placed his hands on the minstrel’s shoulders. “Please tell me that this...this dwarf farm doesn’t really exist,” he said in a heavy whisper. “That it’s a story you invented for the amusement of the crowd.”
The minstrel stared up at him. “I could, but it would be a lie, because it does exist. I was just there, only weeks ago.”
“Then you must take me there.”
“But why?”
“The girl—the Tattered Princess. You’ve put her—no, I’ve put her—in terrible danger. It’s dangerous for me to know where she is. I must go to her and tell her to hide somewhere else. There’s no time to lose!”
“But sir—”
Richard placed the bag of coins on the minstrel’s lap. “This is yours if you can bring me to her by dawn.”
He looked down at the bag, and then he met Richard’s eyes. “I’d almost rather know the story behind this, my lord.”
“Then that will be yours as well.”
Richard left the inn. He headed directly to the stable and started saddling his horse.
“Do you ride?” he asked the minstrel as he hustled into the stable after him.
“Yes, but I don’t have a horse.”
“That one will do,” Richard said, nodding at a sturdy gelding in the next stall. “Go find the owner and give him ten marks. I’ll bring the horses out—”
The summons cut off his voice. He breathed a quick prayer before Sybelle’s face swam before him.
“It has been two days,” she said. “Where is Princess Angelika staying?”
“She...is on a farm.”
“Damn you! Which farm?”
He smiled and lifted his head. A question wasted! “What farm are you referring to?” he asked.
She closed her eyes. “Tell me the name of the person who owns the farm where Princess Angelika of Weissland is currently staying.”
“Dieter Klein.” He refrained from smiling again. It would take her days to find out who Dieter Klein was. Had she forced him to tell of a dwarf-owned farm, she probably could have found out all about it within an hour.
She dismissed him without another word, which struck him as odd. But the thought was soon forgotten in his hurry to be off.
Chapter Thirteen
As they rode through the black of the Schwarzwald, Richard told Johann of the magic mirror, how the spell had long been in his family and how he had taken the spell from his father.
And then, he told him of Sybelle.
“It was something out of a fairy tale,” he said. “She appeared one evening in a carriage drawn by six white horses, with no driver and no footman. It was as if enchantment had driven the horses, and in truth, I think it did.”
“In truth, your highness, you spin a tale better than I do.”
“We took her in the castle and tried to awaken her, but not even the best doctors could do so. But three days later—I swear this is true!—I kissed her, and she awakened.”
“Aah. The sleeping beauty tale comes to life.”
“Yes, it did seem so. But she was quite different from the virginal maidens of the tales. I soon learned she was ten years older than I. Young enough to enthrall me, yet old enough to also fascinate my father.”
