Always Golden

by Gina Dickerson

  ‘You,’ the soldier called. ‘King Germaine’s daughter, I demand you stop immediately!’

  Oriana glanced back again. Panic made her clumsy and this time she could do nothing to prevent her feet sliding out from underneath her at the same time as the soldier raised a bow and arrow. She heard the arrow slicing through the air before she felt it hit the back of her shoulder. She cried out as she fell down, anticipating pain. When there was not any, she twisted around.

  If she wanted to escape she had to run, wounded or not.

  Hold on, why wasn’t the arrow impaled in her shoulder?

  Something weighed heavy in her hair. Fumbling, Oriana grasped the wooden length of the arrow and detangled it from her hair. The metal tip was bent in half.

  Had the soldier fired the arrow knowing it was bent and wouldn’t harm her?

  Oriana watched the rapidly advancing soldier load another arrow into his bow. She jumped to her feet, her ultra-long hair swinging around her body as she turned away. This time she did not cry out when the arrow struck. Pulling it from her tresses she stared at it and sure enough the tip was bent. Dropping the arrow she raced to the moat, the soldier now hot on her heels. Fumbling in her waistband she felt for the blade she had taken from the cellar room but it was no longer there, and she did not know when it had fallen out.

  Now she had nothing to defend herself with.

  ‘Stop!’ the soldier shouted once more. ‘I won’t miss a third time!’

  Oriana’s mind buzzed.

  The soldier thought he had missed her but he hadn’t. Those arrows had hit her. They had bent on impact with her...no, that wasn’t right. There was no way the metal spearheads would have bent against her flesh. Something else had protected her.

  Something else had acted like a shield.

  Her eyes widened incredulously.

  The arrows had bent on impact with her hair.

  Her hair had saved her.

  Not once, not twice but three times. Her hair had held off the flames in the castle causing the fire to arc around her and had deflected the magical discs. Why hadn’t she realised it?

  Despite her fear, Oriana could not help but laugh.

  Who’d have thought her mane of hair—the thing she had always despised spending so much time on—had saved her. Was that why her mother had never wanted her to cut it?

  Another thought made Oriana slow in her running.

  Was that why her mother had never cut her own hair? Why she’d always worn it up in the twisted knot style she had shown Oriana how to do?

  ‘I demand you stop!’

  The soldier was steps away from her as Oriana reached the edge of the moat. She faltered; the water stretched wide and was bound to be cold. Even without the burden of her skirts it was still a fair distance to swim in the weight of clothes. Hesitating on the edge of the water, she nervously eyed the soldier.

  A nasty grin creased his weathered face, displaying rotten teeth. He licked his cracked lips. ‘My, my, aren’t you a pretty one?’

  Oriana defiantly glared at him. ‘Your new king wants me alive.’

  ‘Maybe I found you and you were already dead,’ he said, his voice reedy.

  ‘Hashir doesn’t sound like a man who would forgive someone who disobeyed his orders.’

  The soldier frowned briefly. ‘There isn’t anyone around to see.’ His face brightened. ‘They’re all inside rounding up the last of your father’s subjects.’

  ‘Where are my parents?’ Oriana asked, stalling for time.

  The soldier chuckled. ‘I know you saw their bodies. I saw footprints in their blood, and your feet are covered with it.’

  Oriana swallowed. Tears blurred her vision; the pain of loss was so immense it surged through her entire body making even her fingertips hurt. ‘And what about their...h...he...heads?’ Her voice broke.

  The soldier laughed. ‘Trophies to begin King Hashir’s collection.’

  ‘And my friend?’

  ‘I expect she will be another trophy.’

  ‘But she’s still alive.’

  ‘Really, Princess, do you know nothing of The Collector tale? The king will not collect only trophies from his kills, he will collect living ones as well. The same as his father did, and his father before him.’ The soldier raised his bow and arrow.

  ‘But your king wants me alive!’

  The soldier lowered his bow and arrow, slid the arrow back into the case hanging from his back, and reached into his waistband. Holding out a dagger he pointed it at Oriana. ‘I’ll say you attacked me so I had no choice but to defend myself.’

  Oriana screamed as the soldier raised the blade, but instead of lunging for her, he stabbed himself in the shoulder. He cried out and crumpled for a moment. The blade was bloodied when he eased it back out, his face visibly paler than before.

  ‘I’ll say you did it to me, Princess, see? Dead or alive you will make a pretty addition for the king...but dead you will be far easier to control. You are too much like your father to be allowed to live, too strong willed. He was never one to be told what to do. He always believed what his pretty little wife told him, even if she embellished her stories.’

  Oriana realised who the soldier was. He had aged considerably since their last encounter which was why she had not recognised him at first. She mentally kicked herself for not having recognised him sooner.

  ‘Anearr De-Leal. My mother never had to embellish anything where you were concerned, I saw you. I may have been a child but you knew once I’d seen you, you would never get away with it yet still you carried on.’

  Oriana remembered she had been much younger and although she couldn’t recall her exact age then, she knew it was over a decade ago. Having just taken her evening bath, she’d wanted her mother to braid her hair for her for bedtime. The nursemaid usually dealt with the task of braiding Oriana’s hair every evening, and with undoing the braids the following morning, but on that particular evening Oriana had specifically wanted her mother to do it.

  Her father, the king, had been downstairs in the grand hall entertaining what he had termed to Oriana as “very important people”. She knew her mother was not involved in her father’s meeting, having just returned from visiting a local breeder for a new pony for Oriana.

  With thoughts of a new pony filling her head, Oriana had taken her favourite doll by the hand and happily skipped to her parents’ chambers and pushed open the door, eager to hear if she would be receiving a dappled pony with a blond mane as she had asked for.

  Sounds of angry voices had flooded out from her parents’ bedchamber. Oriana had not been able to make out all of the words as the doors were closed but she had caught snippets.

  “...touch...I don’t...,” her mother had snapped.

  “...you...such a...,” bellowed a male voice.

  Oriana’s mother had screamed and the doll Oriana had been holding slipped from her grasp, its delicate porcelain face shattering on the floor. She had raced through the rooms until she wrenched open the doors to her parents’ bedroom.

  Her mother, dressed in her long, liquid-silk nightgown clutched one of its torn straps to her chest. “Oriana,” she had said, her voice trembling. “Go back to your own room.”

  Oriana had looked from her mother’s pale face to the angry red face of the man in the room with her.

  Anearr, her mother’s personal guard.

  “But...,” Oriana had protested, uncertain whether to go to her mother’s side or do as she was told. “I heard you scream.”

  Anearr smirked nastily. “Do as your mother tells you, you disobedient child.”

  Oriana had stood firm. “No, not until I know why Mother was screaming.”

  “Do as you are damn well told!” Anearr reached out for Oriana at the exact time her mother shouted.

  “Go, Oriana,” her mother had ordered, “and fetch your father!”

  Frightened, Oriana had fled as her mother threw herself on Anearr’s back. The last thing Oriana had seen was Anearr spi
n around, knocking her mother to the ground before kicking the bedroom door shut.

  ‘She was always enticing me, teasing me.’ Anearr’s face twisted. ‘When she let down her hair and brushed it over her bare shoulders she knew full well I had no choice but to watch her. I was her personal guard!’

  ‘You should never have laid hands on her!’ Oriana spat. ‘If you had kept to your station, my father would never have cast you out. You were lucky he didn’t have you killed! You probably jumped at the chance to rampage our castle, I imagine you turned to King Acapf as soon as you left the city limits all of those years ago and have been waiting to strike!’

  ‘Acapf was good to me.’ Anearr grinned. ‘He wasn’t precious about sharing.’

  Oriana turned as Anearr raised his stained dagger. Pulling her hair taut across her back she turned away from him.

  With a warrior-cry Anearr threw the dagger.

  Oriana felt the blade hit her hair and prayed she had been correct in assuming it would protect her. There was a thudding sound behind her and this time the weapon was not tangled in her hair. Slowly, Oriana turned around, bracing for Anearr’s next assault.

  What was he doing on the floor?

  Anearr lay on his back with the dagger protruding from his bleeding, left eye socket. His legs twitched several times before stilling.

  Dead. He was dead, Oriana thought. The dagger must have ricocheted off her hair as she had pulled it tight, and like a boomerang, had returned to its owner. Anearr would never have the chance to attack anyone else ever again.

  Not wanting to spare another thought for Anearr, Oriana took a deep breath and plunged into the cold moat. She gasped as she hit the water and sunk beneath, trying to stop the murky liquid rushing inside her mouth. Choking, she swam up to the surface and coughed out the foul tasting water. Steadying her breathing she began the long swim across the seemingly never ending moat.

  Chapter Three

  Vilas

  ‘Take the cloth off your face so I can talk to you properly,’ King Hashir said to the man sitting opposite him at the long table in the castle’s dining hall.

  The other man’s response was muffled. ‘The physician told me to leave it on for as long as possible, it will help with healing the burns.’ His dark, lightly curled hair protruding from above the cloth was damp.

  ‘It’s lucky you’re so charming, the women will still want you, even if you are scarred.’

  ‘You make it sound as if that’s all I’m concerned about. For your information it hurts like hell and whatever the physician soaked this cloth in is helping somewhat so I’d like to keep it on. You’ll just have to put up with it. Would you rather I was screaming in agony?’

  ‘Come on, Vilas,’ Hashir cajoled. ‘Take it off. You have sat there with it on your face for an hour. It’s like talking to a soggy scarecrow, there are no birds here for you to have to scare...well, apart from the roasted ones!’

  ‘I won’t need the cloth to scare birds,’ Vilas joked. ‘Just stick me in a field and anything that lays eyes on me will run a mile, be it man, woman, child, or beast.’ Vilas winced, peeling the cloth from his tender skin. ‘So, how does it look?’

  Hashir’s expression said it all.

  Jumping to his feet, Vilas’ long strides effortlessly carried him to the large mirror on the far wall behind his chair. Nothing could have prepared him for seeing his new reflection for the first time. His once smooth, flawless face with its high cheekbones, arched eyebrows, strong jawline, and searing green eyes, was now red raw on the whole right side. Half of his right eyebrow had burnt away completely, and blisters had formed along his lash line. He leant closer to the mirror.

  Hell, even the eyelashes had been burnt away.

  The burns puckered his raw flesh leaving a ragged line which protruded against the undamaged side of his face, and ran from halfway above his right eye, across the cheek below, and down over the side of his jaw, ending in what looked like drips on his throat.

  No doubt drips of his flesh as it had turned molten.

  Part of his hair on the same side had also been burnt, exposing his ear which had suffered the same fate. Vilas opened and closed his mouth, stretching his jaw.

  Yes, excruciating.

  At least his lips had not been touched. He could smell the tonic the physician had soaked the cloth in, it was not unpleasant but he knew as soon as his skin absorbed it all the pain would return ten-fold. He jumped as Hashir placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You really do have a major burn there,’ the young king commented, eyeing Vilas in the glass. ‘I still don’t understand how you of all people did not manage to dodge a flaming torch thrust in your face.’

  Vilas looked from his reflection to Hashir’s untarnished, blond-haired, image. He was a few years older than the young king but he had never noticed the difference in their ages, until now. Now he looked old in comparison.

  Damaged.

  ‘If I had dodged that flaming torch, it would be your face bearing this mark now, not mine. I was not the torch’s intended victim.’

  Hashir nodded. ‘You always have been loyal, old friend. Your sacrifice will not go unrewarded.’ He turned away from the mirror and gestured expansively. ‘You may take your pick of what you want as repayment.’

  Vilas tore his eyes from the looking glass. It would take time to accept the man reflected was him, time to come to terms with how he would forever carry the scars of fulfilling his duty. ‘You know there is only thing I desire, Hashir.’

  Hashir sighed. He picked a decanter up from the table and filled two goblets with the golden liquid. Taking one, he handed it to Vilas. ‘You know I cannot allow that.’

  ‘You are king now; you can break the oath if you wish and set me free.’

  Hashir took a long drink from his goblet before replying. ‘Your father swore to mine he would bring me Germaine’s daughter as a wife. You are your father’s son and as long both Oriana and I are alive, I will not permit the oath between our fathers to be broken, even if mine is dead. Your family owes mine.’

  Vilas was torn. Hashir and he had been friends since Vilas was assigned as one of his guards, but that was before Hashir had become King. He cleared his throat. ‘You had her and you let her go.’

  Hashir nodded slowly. ‘I wondered if you saw. You have always been light on foot, I should have remembered.’

  ‘You saved her from the flames.’ Vilas laughed dryly at the irony. ‘I saw the back of her but it was enough to see what was going on.’

  Hashir finished the remainder of his drink in one mouthful and refilled his goblet. He offered the bottle to Vilas. ‘No? I forget you like to keep a level head. Yes, I extinguished the flames around her but it was not me who saved her. It was her hair.’

  Vilas could not help but laugh. ‘Fire-retardant hair, like that’s a real thing! You just fell for her beauty.’

  Hashir raised an eyebrow. ‘Laugh all you like but it’s true. I saw it with my own eyes. The hair would make a fantastic shield in battle.’

  ‘You’re serious.’ Vilas whistled. ‘I thought my father was making it up when he told the stories about Oriana’s mother’s hair. He’s infatuated with her. He’d probably believe it if someone told him the queen could extinguish a fire with the blowing of a kiss.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for your father’s infatuation we would never have known about the power the queen’s hair held and we wouldn’t be here. Like Mother, like Daughter.’ Hashir chuckled. ‘Oriana will make a very fine wife indeed if she just surrenders.’

  ‘Will the queen’s hair still be as effective since your father had her head severed?’ Vilas shuddered. ‘I understand they were cruel people but severing heads was a step too far, even for your father.’

  Hashir shrugged. ‘I currently have people testing the theory of the queen’s hair.’

  ‘That still does not explain why you let the princess escape. Why would she return after her parents were slaughtered?’

  ‘I am not
quite yet my father’s son, Vilas. I do not want a woman just because I can take her. I want her to desire me in return.’ Hashir sighed. ‘And now I have seen her she is even more beautiful than the stories say. I would rather she came to me willingly. I want her alive, not as a head in a box as my father would have preferred. All he wanted was the queen’s hair for his own armour, the princess’ for mine. I’m thinking longer term. If the princess has now inherited the magical hair from her mother, then presumably her children could inherit it also. Besides, this way is more entertaining. I have her best friend so I hope the princess will return to the castle for her. If she does, she will see how well I have treated her friend and know I am different from my father. She will have no choice but to bow before me.’

  ‘So that’s why you have the woman. I didn’t think she was your usual type, you always prefer blondes.’

  Vilas sipped from his goblet. The drink was sweet yet strong, and he coughed. Glancing at Hashir, who was busy refilling his own goblet, Vilas frowned. Something niggled at him. A tiny whisper of a thought that the young king was planning more than he let on. Vilas shook his head.

  No, he was just imagining it considering he was edgy after the fight to take over the castle. He knew Hashir, damn it he was with him nearly all of the time. The only occasions the young king was alone was when he was bathing or occupied with more personal engagements.

  Pushing aside the uneasy flutters, Vilas tried again, ‘Can I now assume my father has fulfilled his promise to your father? He led your armies here; you did have the princess, now both my father and I should be free to lead a quieter life. Surely the debt my family owed yours has now been repaid? You were the one who allowed the princess to leave.’

  The doors leading into the dining hall were flung open and two soldiers staggered through with a limp body in their arms before Hashir had a chance to answer the question. Noticing the ruby gemstone ring on the body’s right hand, Vilas raced towards the soldiers, his own pain virtually forgotten.

  ‘Father?’ Tentatively, Vilas touched his father’s face. It was cold underneath his fingertips. ‘Lay him on the table,’ he told the soldiers.