by RABE, JEAN
“Got to get a priest on board, so we can collect for weddings on the spot,” Hanar mused. “That’ll save money in beauty draughts too, since I won’t have to keep them pretty for so long.” He flipped a few pages in the notebook and ran a stubby finger along a handwritten column. “Ermina the miller’s daughter is next,” he mused, snapping the book shut. “Who’d have thought so many peasants could produce ugly daughters?”
“Hanar, you stop this right now!” said a feminine voice from somewhere above.
The dwarf looked up and squinted. “Ah, it’s you, Imavia. How is my favorite fairy stepdaughter today?”
“None of that,” she scowled, wagging a finger at the dwarf. “This business of yours is shameful! Using the princess’ misfortune to lure young men into matrimony with unmarriageable girls—all for your own profit!”
“Why, nothing of the sort!” replied Hanar, spreading his hands wide. “I run a legitimate matrimonial brokerage. Parents pay me to take their ugly daughters off their hands. I simply pretty them up a bit, hide them in the briars, and let the suitors pay me for maps and advice. Everyone ends up married and happy. Besides, I had to do something to make a living after your mother stripped me of my spinning wheel business.”
“But what about the young men that you defraud into marrying peasant girls?” Imavia asked.
“They would’ve married peasant girls anyway,” said the dwarf with a laugh. “If they knew how to read the tale, they’d know that only a prince of the blood can awaken the real princess. Why shouldn’t I make a bit of profit from an event that’s inevitable anyway? And besides, if I didn’t redirect them, they’d all die in the briars. This way, they’re alive, married, and whelping more stupid, ugly peasant brats to sustain the local economy.”
Imavia snorted. “Mother was right about you. But the century is up today. That means Briar Rose is due for her kiss, and I’m going to see that she gets it.” With that, the fairy vanished in a shower of rose petals.
“Humph,” mumbled Hanar to himself. “Sometimes there’s just no reasoning with a fairy.”
As the dwarf tidied up the bower where the last “princess” had lain, he heard the sound of horses’ hooves. “A profitable day indeed,” he said, rubbing his hands together as he emerged from the bower. “Perhaps Constance in bower 6G will also end this day wed.”
“Ho there, dwarf!” shouted a young man from the back of a caparisoned charger. “Is this the castle wherein Princess Rosalind sleeps?”
“This is the place, your lordship,” said Hanar, bowing low. “But she lies in a rose-scented bower here inside the hedge, not in the castle itself.”
“Poppycock!” said an ancient man, nudging his beribboned mule out from behind the young man’s steed. “She’s in the castle all right, Junior. Ignore this pompous tub of lard and go on.”
“But, Grandpa,” protested the young man. “What if he’s right? We could get killed for nothing.”
“We won’t get killed,” said the old man with a snort. “You’re a prince of the blood, and the century’s up. Why, lookee there!” he cried, pointing a gnarled finger at a path that had suddenly opened in the hedge before them. “See? Now get that overbred bucket of oats moving so we can get this land annexed officially, like your daddy wants.”
“Damn you, Imavia!” stormed Hanar. “All this work I’ve done, and you just let in the first prince of the blood who happens by. Not to mention the oldest human in the . . . wait!” Hanar peered at the old man and then did a double take. “King Edgar the Charming, as I live and breathe!” he said under his breath. “Not exactly well preserved.”
Hanar sighed and slipped through the briars to another bower. “Up you get, Constance!” he barked. “We’re closing up shop.” Leading the bawling girl to the edge of the briars, he snapped his fingers to summon his pony, hoisted her aboard, and set off for her home. “Just kills me to have to return money,” he muttered.
Meanwhile, the ancient king and his great-grandson had tied their horses outside the silent palace. “Where do you suppose she is, Grandpa?” asked the young man.
His great-grandsire heaved an exasperated sigh through his toothless gums. “Don’t you ever listen to your tutors, Junior? Beautiful princesses in distress are always stuffed in some high tower. Like that one,” he said, pointing up.
“Let’s go then,” said Junior, pulling open the castle’s main doors and entering the silent, cobwebbed hall.
“She was a pretty one, I’ll give you that,” said the old man, smacking his leathery lips. “But these royal princesses are all alike. Soon as they’ve borne the requisite heir, they suddenly get the vapors every night and don’t want anything to do with you anymore. Just like your great-grandma—the princess I married after Rosalind went down for her nap. That’s why I never took another wife after she died. Give me a buxom scullery maid any day,” he cackled, as he followed the young prince up the tower stairs.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Grandpa,” said the young man. “Why did you give up the throne all those years ago?”
“Easy there, boy,” wheezed Edgar. “Not as spry as I used to be. But to answer your question, I fell into a bog while hunting when I was about your daddy’s age. A pretty little bog sprite saved my life and kept me as her play toy for years. Didn’t care much for her perfume, but she was a fun girl. Naturally, my son—your granddaddy—had to take the throne when I didn’t come back right away, and when I did show up, I didn’t ask for it back. I was happier being a prince again and having my days free to chase women and hunt foxes. They figured I’d die soon enough, but that bog sprite gave me long life as a parting gift—so the family has had to feed and support me in royal style.”
“Pity she didn’t give you eternal youth to go with it,” said Junior, pulling the tower door open. “Here I am, Rosalind!” he cried. “Your prince has . . . Grandpa!”
“What’s the trouble, Junior?” asked Edgar, holding onto the doorframe and gasping for breath.
“This can’t be Rosalind! She’s . . . she’s UGLY!” said Junior, pointing at the sleeping Xyhille.
“Ugly?” said the old man, coming forward to look. “I wouldn’t say that. Maybe not a spring chicken, but not bad. Got some nice love handles there too—I like a woman I can hold onto. Yessir, this here’s my kind of woman!” And with that, Edgar seized Xyhille and planted a long, loud kiss on her lips.
The fairy’s eyelids fluttered open, and she began to struggle, pushing against Edgar’s chest until he dropped her back into the pile of dusty wood. “Who in the nine hells are you?” she demanded, wiping her mouth and gasping for breath.
“Prince Edgar the Charming, at your service!” cried the old man triumphantly, seizing her hand and pulling her to her feet.
“Charming, eh?” said the stout fairy, looking her rescuer up and down. “Not much charm left in you now. But you’ve got more energy than most mortals half your age.”
“There may be snow on the roof, but there’s still fire in the furnace, girlie,” chided Edgar, pulling Xyhille closer.
“Well, now,” said Xyhille with a half-smile. “You must have been quite a catch in your day. Maybe with a little fairy magic, you’d be almost passable.” The twinkle of magic formed around her fingers as Edgar pulled her closer.
“I don’t think I wanna watch this,” said Junior, edging over to the door. His great-grandsire and the fairy ignored him, and he made good his escape, sprinting down the tower stairs two at a time. Once he reached the castle’s second floor, he opened the first door he came to, slipped inside, and slammed it shut.
“Who are you?” asked a sleepy voice from within. “And what are you doing in my bedroom?”
The young prince whirled at the sound and then stood transfixed for a moment at the sight of the loveliest maiden he had ever seen, yawning and stretching in a canopied bed. “I . . . I’m Prince Harold,” he said, haltingly. “And you’re Princess Rosalind, aren’t you?”
She nodded and yawned again. “Ca
ll me Briar Rose,” she said. “But that still doesn’t tell me what you’re doing here. Daddy will be most angry if I have a boy in my room.”
“Well,” said the prince, his mind working feverishly. “I just kissed you, see, and woke you up from a century of sleep.”
“You must not be much of a kisser, if I can’t even remember it,” she replied.
“Well, you were asleep. Let’s try it again,” said Junior. Crossing to her bed, he took her in his arms. Just then, he noticed a movement in the hallway.
“Who are you?” he asked the three men standing outside the door.
“Oh, that’s Gerald the Chamberlain, Armand the Protocol Expert, and Brynmor the Court Wizard,” said Rose, waving to the three.
“Well, go ahead boy, kiss her!” said the chamberlain impatiently. “We don’t have all day.”
“But she’s already awake,” protested Armand. “He must have kissed her before we got here.”
“Nothing says he can’t kiss her again,” said Brynmor with a yawn.
“What’s that noise?” asked the chamberlain, frowning in the direction of the tower.
“Do you MIND?” asked Harold, glaring at the three until they withdrew. “Now where were we?” he asked, smiling down at Briar Rose and then kissing her gently.
“Hmmm, not bad,” thought the princess. “But not that great either.”
“Now the spell is broken and we can get married,” said Junior, rising and offering Rose his hand.
“Whoa, there,” she said, rising from the bed under her own power. “I’m engaged to Prince Edgar the Charming.”
“Well, I don’t think you’ll want him now,” said Junior. “He’s my great-grandfather. Wouldn’t you rather have me?”
“I don’t think so,” said the princess, crossing to her mirror. “Eww, how did I get all these cobwebs in my hair?” She seized a brush and began to brush out her long tresses. “He does have the family chin,” she thought with a pitying glance at the prince. “A shame. But he could always grow a beard.”
“I’m not sure I want to get married,” she said aloud. “And even if I did, one kiss doesn’t make an engagement. Or even two.”
“Oh, this is terrible!” whined Armand, peering into the room. “Everyone knows the beautiful princess has to marry the handsome prince in a situation like this. What will people say?”
“Yes, you have to do something,” said the chamberlain, glaring at the wizard. “He’s of Edgar’s line, and the king always intended to join their realms with that marriage.”
“Looks like it’s time for a love potion,” muttered Brynmor. “Now where did I put that eye of newt?” The three walked off down the hallway, bickering all the way.
Around the two young people, the rest of the castle began to awaken. Down in the scullery, the cook yawned and boxed the potboy’s ears to awaken him. The king and queen stirred in their chamber, and then looked about with a start. They stared in wonder at the briar thicket outside their window, gasping with astonishment as the vines budded and exquisite roses bloomed. They closed their eyes dreamily, breathing air perfumed with thousands of fragrant blossoms. Then a shared recollection struck them.
“Rose!” they shouted together. With that, they dashed to their daughter’s room. On the threshold stood the court wizard, carrying a small, empty bottle. “Brynmor, what has happened?” blurted the queen.
The wizard bowed. “It will take some explaining,” replied the wizard. “Suffice it to say, we have circumvented the curse. And now all of us have considerable work to do.”
Inside the chamber, Prince Harold stood bewitched as Rose reached out her window to pluck a namesake blossom. “I don’t recognize the species, but these climbing roses are fabulous—fairy work, I’ll bet. She offered the blossom to the prince, who bowed and accepted it. “He’s really rather cute after all,” she thought, wiping the traces of the chocolate drink that Brynmor had brought from her lips. Rose threw a leg over the sill and extended a hand to the prince. “Come and see the castle. But mind the thorns!”
As the lovely princess scrambled down a vine, the prince tucked away the blossom. One glance at the thorny tangle outside the window convinced him it would be best to keep his armor on. Suddenly, he heard a shout from above.
“Whee!” yelled his great-grandsire, as he flew past the window in Xyhille’s arms. “So long, Junior! Tell your folks I won’t be home for dinner for a few decades!”
“Hanar Throngand Dwin!” shouted Xyhille, banking around to accost the dwarf on his pony. “Release me from my promise. I’m going to marry a prince.”
“A little old even for you, isn’t he?” asked the dwarf, looking up at Edgar.
“He’s a hundred and twenty-two, toothless, and wrinkled,” said Xyhille. “But he’s got one thing going for him—he’s not you.”
The dwarf shrugged. “Fine. You’re free, Xyhille. Enjoy your prince.”
The fairy waved and flew off, the prince becoming younger and handsomer as they went. “Wonder what that bog sprite is doing this century?” muttered Hanar, clucking to his pony.
Junior shook his head. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Grandpa gets a girl, and I’ve no guarantee of it.”
“Well, are you coming or not?” demanded Rose. Feeling doubly giddy from the height and Rose’s nearness, the prince stepped onto the sill. “So, you’ve made a study of plants, have you?” he asked as the two clambered onto a sturdy vine.
King, queen, and wizard watched the youngsters vanish beneath the windowsill, their hearts full.
Later, in the castle’s great hall, the wizard explained the events of a century ago to the royal couple. The king nodded gravely. The queen looked thoughtful for a moment. “I think,” she said, “we ought to begin with a birthday party.”
The chamberlain heaved a sigh. “Here we go again.”
FIVE GOATS AND A TROLL
Elizabeth A. Vaughan
Elizabeth A. Vaughan is the author of The Chronicles of the Warlands and Dagger-Star. She still believes that the only good movies are the ones with gratuitous swords or lasers. Not to mention dragons. At the present, she is owned by two incredibly spoiled cats and lives in the Northwest Territory, on the outskirts of the Black Swamp, along Mad Anthony’s Trail on the banks of the Maumee River.
Snowdrop was the prettiest.
White from the tops of her floppy ears to the tip of her tail, with dark hooves and dark eyes, she was the prettiest, the smartest, and absolutely the cutest of the goat herd.
And magic, as well, but, then, they were all magic.
She pranced down the path, well ahead of the others, enjoying the sun as it scattered through the leaves, warming her back. Ting-tang, ting-tang chimed the bell around her neck as she moved.
The rest of the herd stayed with their humans, behind her on the trail. The humans were slow, because they would stop to press their faces together once in a while. This wasn’t something that impressed the herd, but the humans seemed to enjoy it.
They certainly did it often enough.
But the waiting bored Snowdrop, so she’d prance ahead in the warm sunshine. Happy and content, because everything was as it should be for a goat.
The herd and its humans were going back to where they’d come from. It was a place of lush, sweet grass and clear, cool water. The humans called it Athelbryght, but what is a name to a goat?
It mattered not to the herd what it was named, so long as they were going back there. Names were a human obsession and mostly ignored.
Of course, Snowdrop knew her name, for it could mean treats and scritches under the chin. Of course, it could also mean she was in trouble, but Snowdrop was rarely in trouble. She was the prettiest, after all.
So she kicked her heels and danced along the path as it twisted and turned. The forest ended, and the trail led right to a bridge, made of sturdy rope and wooden planks. Snowdrop never paused, just danced out onto the bridge over the rushing river.
Trip-trap, trip-trap went her
little hooves as she started over the wooden planks.
Ting-tang, ting-tang chimed the bell around her neck.
Pleased at the sounds, at the rush of water, of the sun on her back, Snowdrop turned around danced back to the end of the bridge, making as much noise as she could. She did a leap back on to solid ground, then turned and started back again, happy, pleased, and excited about—
A troll stood there in the center of the bridge.
A big, mean, evil-smelling troll with fur and claws and nasty eyes.
She bleated in surprise and danced back, her hooves clattering and her bell ringing.
An answering bleat came from the trail behind, and Snowdrop knew that her herd was close, which was a relief, because while she was the prettiest, she was also the smallest.
The troll growled and took a step toward her.
Kavage came around the corner, she of the brown coat, who was as small but not quite as pretty. Kavage bleated as she saw the monster, and she raced for the bridge to stand at Snowdrop’s side.
Trip-trap, trip-trap, their hooves rang on the wooden planks.
The troll advanced, swinging its long arms, growling, snarling . . . talking like a human.
Snowdrop took another sniff, and she wasn’t so afraid when she understood that this was a human dressed in skins and smeared with mud and dung. Still dangerous, still ugly, but not so much a troll.
Another bleat from the trail, and Dapple and Brownie rounded the corner at a run. They were both a bit bigger and, being male, had horns. They charged the bridge, their added weight causing the rope and wooden plank structure to sway back and forth. Their hooves made a clip-clop sound, ringing hollowly on the wood.
The troll lost its balance and grabbed for the railings. Snowdrop and Kavage darted under its arms and ran past him, headed for the other side. They stopped where the ropes tied off to the edge, and bleated their defiance fiercely.
From a safe distance, mind.
