by Deva Fagan
“You have trespassed most grievously, priest,” I said, allowing a more ominous edge into my voice. No sense in wasting the fellow’s fear. A little terror of celestial retribution would make him much easier to manipulate. “You have taken what is holy and used it to satisfy your own impure vices. For such acts, you surely deserve punishment.”
“Please, I beg you, blessed one. I meant no harm. I’m a weak man. But I’ll make up for it, I promise you.”
Good. Just where I wanted him. “Will you do what you must to atone for these ills, priest? Will you be the hand of the Saints on earth and do our righteous will?”
“Oh, yes, Saint Federica, I swear it on your own sweet name!”
“Then fear not, priest. Your transgressions shall be overlooked, for now. I have come with a far greater purpose. I have a task for you, my faithful servant.”
“Anything, anything, blessed one.” He looked up, eyes wide, hands clasped.
“I bring a message to you and all who dwell within this village. You must see that it is heard. A great warrior has come into my demesne. A holy warrior, with noble purpose. He goes forth to vanquish great evil. He has come here by my will, to take up my blade and bear it hence from the village.” I swept one hand out to point at the sword, sending a drift of flour misting down over the icons below.
“Your sword, Saint Federica? But it has been here beyond recollection!”
“Do not question my will!”
He quailed under my fierce words and genuflected again. “No, of course not, blessed one.”
“Too long has this last remnant of war and death remained within these walls. The sword shall be drawn from the stone by the holy warrior and taken from here. Then, a new icon shall be carved in my honor, an icon of peace alone. And my blessings upon this village shall be many.
“Now, cast down your sinful brow, and do penance of a hundred prayers in my name. Then you shall go and take your rest in peace. And in the morning, ready yourself for the coming of the warrior.”
“Yes, Saint Federica, yes. Thank you, thank you for your blessings!” He cast himself down again, and I heard the muttered singsong of his prayers. As soon as I was sure he was intent upon this task, I began to lower myself down the ladder.
One hundred prayers gave me plenty of time to replace the ladder and the lamp, though it would take a bit more effort to get the flour off my skin and out of my hair. I shook clouds of powder from my hair as I stood in the dark stable doorway, watching the front of the church. It was not long before I saw the priest depart. After he had stumbled away down the street, I entered the church once more. I had one more thing to check, and then I could retire to my own bed in peace.
I strode to the front of the hall, stepping carefully around the puddles of sacred wine that tracked the floor. I seized the hilt of Saint Federica’s sword and gave it a gentle tug. Several inches of silver blade pulled up from the rough stone, as easily as from a scabbard. Good. Prince Leonato should have no problem fulfilling this part of my fortune.
A rustling sound sent my heart thumping. Had the priest returned? I scanned the dim hall, and saw nothing. It was probably mice. My work here was done, and I was eager to return to the inn.
I made my way back quickly, but paused at the threshold of the inn, catching sight of myself in the diamond panes of the small window beside the front door. I was still a sight, covered in flour, my long hair loose and unbraided. I would have to do something about that before retiring. I could imagine what Captain Ribisi would think if he saw me in this state in the morning. He was clever as a cat, that man.
I slipped around behind the inn, through a side gate that led to the courtyard I had glimpsed from the window of my room. It was a charming place, separated from the stables and other nearby buildings by a thick hedge. I followed a path of pale stepping stones between clumps of plants and taller bushes. Potherbs for the cook, judging by the spicy scents that filled the air. At the end of the path I found the well I had heard the serving girl drawing water from earlier. The moon had fled the sky, but the night was bright with stars. By their glimmer, I spied a wide stone basin beside the well. I heaved up a half-filled bucket from the well, wincing at each creak of the rope. No lights flared in the windows above. I sloshed the water into the basin and proceeded with my ablutions.
The clink of the gate latch told me someone had entered the courtyard. I lifted my head from the basin in alarm. I was clad only in my chemise, and my limbs streamed rivulets of dusty water. My gown lay across a clump of rosemary, where I had tossed it after shaking it free of flour.
“Is s-s-someone there?” a young man’s voice called softly. My heart did a skip-beat. What was Prince Leonato doing roaming about in the middle of the night?
There was no way out. The thick hedge bounded the yard on all sides. I would have to make the best of the situation. “It’s just me, Fortunata,” I answered. I snatched up my dress, but had only time to clutch it to myself before the prince reached the well. “Your Highness,” I said, attempting a curtsy. My loose, wet (but flour-free) hair slithered forward over my shoulders. I pushed it back with one hand, hoping I had gotten the last bits of flour off my face and arms.
“Oh! I’m s-s-s-s—” Even in the dim light of the stars I could see a flush stain his cheeks. My own face felt as if it must be burning just as brightly. He gave up trying to get the word out and turned abruptly to face a pear tree in the corner of the garden.
I threw on my gown, lacing the bodice haphazardly. “Is that part of having the S-s-sight?” he said after a moment. “Bathing by s-s-starlight?” He was looking up at the sky. I could see the strong line of his brow, under its cluster of golden curls. I twisted my own hair into a rough knot at the nape of my neck, making myself at least somewhat presentable.
“Something like that,” I said, grinning despite myself. “You can turn around.”
“You look different,” Prince Leonato said.
“I’m wearing my dress now, Your Highness.”
“No, I mean different from before.” He looked at me intently. My face, if possible, felt even hotter. “It’s the robes and the headdress,” he said at last. “I didn’t realize you were s-s-so young.”
“I’m nearly eighteen,” I protested. “And besides, you can’t be much older than that yourself.”
He blinked. Belatedly, I realized one wasn’t supposed to contradict princes.
“Nineteen in s-s-six months,” he said. “That’s why Mother’s s-s-so worried. The Edicts must be fulfilled before then. On my S-s-saint’s Day, if I haven’t rescued a princess and been betrothed, the crown will go to my aunt.”
“Would that be so bad?” I asked. “You said yourself you know how hard it is to be king.”
“Yes, well. . . .” He hesitated. “It’s not proper to s-s-speak ill of your own relations. But—”
“Princess Donata would not make a good queen?”
He did not answer at first, but stood staring into the shadows. “When I was a little boy, I used to s-s-sneak down to the kitchens, to visit the cook. He was a jolly old fellow, reminded me of S-s-saint Bartolommeo. He never laughed at my s-s-s—at the way I talk.” Leonato lowered his eyes to the nearest flowerbed, running his fingers absently through the leaves. A breath of rosemary filled the air. “He always had a biscuit or a few candied fruits for me. My aunt caught me with some of his s-s-sweets one day, leaving s-s-sticky fingerprints on the chairs. She ordered the cook beaten. Father was away, fighting s-s-some other king, and Mother was ill. I tried to help, I tried to order the guards to s-s-s—”
Each halting syllable seemed to hit the prince like a blow as he struggled to get the word out. At last he slapped one hand against his thigh, giving a sort of strangled groan. I feared to speak, not knowing if it would make him feel even worse. I knew what he was trying to say, and it was horrible.
After a long moment in which I stared at the stars and Prince Leonato took deep breaths of herb-scented air, he finally spoke again.
/> “My aunt told me that if I couldn’t even control myself to give a s-s-simple order like that, I didn’t have the right to give them.”
“The cook?” I asked.
“S-s-sent away. I never s-s-saw him again, though I looked. He could barely crawl.” Prince Leonato knelt beside a large yarrow plant; he plucked a stalk tipped with a heavy white flower head. “My aunt told me it was my fault Cook had been beaten, because I asked him for s-s-sweets I wasn’t s-s-supposed to have. She told me I was a greedy child who wanted everything he could get, and that I needed to learn that others would s-s-suffer for it.” He shook his head abruptly. I could not see his face, but his voice was tight. He cleared his throat. “What is this plant?” he asked, raising the flower.
“Yarrow. It’s said to protect against evil.” Allessandra had taught me something of herbcraft, and yarrow was common enough. “You’ve never seen it?”
“No, not in the gardens, nor anywhere in Doma.” He crushed the pale flowerets between his fingers, bending his head over the handful and sniffing.
I had been afraid of Princess Donata before this, dismayed at her promise to see my fortune fail. Now I hated her, for bringing any sorrow into Leonato’s life. He wanted to do good. He wanted to be good, and she had made him doubt that. I’d have liked to tear her throat out. But she was not here. Just Leonato, and his misery. And me, desperately wishing I could bring back his smile.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. I extended my hand, to do what I didn’t know. Pat him on the shoulder? I had forgotten he was a prince by then. He turned around to face me, and I snatched my hand back. “I’m sure the cook is well enough now, and that he doesn’t blame you,” I said.
“Truly?” Leonato’s face brightened. “You s-s-see him, Prophetess?”
I writhed inwardly. I could comfort him, but only with lies.
“It must be amazing,” he went on, “to have s-s-such powers. You always know what lies ahead; you don’t have to worry if you’ll s-s-succeed, or if you’ll be good enough. All I can think about is failing. I’ve failed s-s-so many times. This is my last chance.” He paced around the side of the well, scuffing his boots against the stones. A climbing rose twined up the well-house, its white blossoms bright even in the gloom. The prince twisted one of the thorny vines absently, as he stared down into the dark waters.
I had never more wanted to be able to speak the truth. To be able to tell the prince how fear crouched in my own chest like a lump of iron. How I had dreamed last night of my father kneeling at the headsman’s block, the great silver ax sweeping down toward his neck because I had failed. If we could only share our fears, perhaps they would not seem so dark. If only I could slip my hand into his, lead him forward to confront our terrors together. “You will succeed,” I said at last.
He grimaced into the well. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I have the words of a True S-s-seer to believe in. But here I am, rambling around in the middle of the night fighting off fears that I might not be good enough. Even though I know the s-s-sword is here, and that you have s-s-seen me taking it.” Saints smile on him, where had he gotten such eyes? I felt sure he must see through me, all the petty thoughts and lies I’d told. And was still telling. I couldn’t bear to be false with him.
The words tried to force their way through my lips, admitting my deception, revealing that this whole prophecy was a farce. But I pushed them back ruthlessly. I had to think of Father. “I have foreseen it. Don’t fear, Your Highness. You will succeed.”
“Thank you, Prophetess,” he said after a moment. He held out the single white rose he’d broken off.
“It’s Fortunata, Your Highness. You needn’t give me titles,” I said. Especially when I didn’t deserve them. He did not lower the rose, so I took it at last, wincing as the thorns pricked my fingers. It was beautiful, though the strong scent made me light-headed. I must be imagining the look in his eyes; it was the reflection of the starlight, nothing more. Yet how desperately I wished it were more, that I had brought that light and sparkle to him.
He grinned. “I’ll s-s-stop using your title, if you’ll do the s-s-same with mine. Leonato is fine.” I was sure the solid flagstones beneath my feet had turned to moonbeams, or clouds, or some other gorgeous, insubstantial substance. My heart beat like it held a thousand butterflies.
“Won’t that be improper?” I asked, trying to escape my bewilderment in humor.
“Maybe if I were king,” he said. “But I’m not, yet.”
The words yanked me back down toward solid reality. I clutched the rose, but I couldn’t hold fast to those glorious dreams. It was madness. I must make him king, I told myself. And to do so, I needed to find him a princess in dire peril. I couldn’t very well be making eyes at him in a dark garden. I struggled to speak the words that would send him away.
“It’s very late, Your Highness,” I said. “And you have much to do on the morrow. You should try to sleep.”
He nodded. “Good night, Fortunata.”
“Good night,” I said, as the gate creaked shut and his golden head was lost in the gloom. “Leonato.” I realized I was holding the white rose so tightly a thorn had pierced my palm. An echoing pain throbbed in my breast, where I had let an impossible dream slip in. In that brief span, standing together in the garden, something had spun out of the fragrant air between us. It might not stand the light of day, but I treasured it. I took the bloom with me when I returned to my small chamber. It was late, but for what little of the night that remained, I dreamed of roses and green eyes.
THE NEXT MORNING I dressed myself in the glittering fortune-telling costume. I didn’t think the priest would recognize me, but better to take no chances. My hair was still damp; I rebraided it and tucked the coils under my starry headdress.
Unfortunately, though my nighttime scrubbing had removed all traces of my saintly impersonation, they had also given me an undesired gift. My head ached, and my throat felt like I’d swallowed coarse salt. My nose was stuffed up, giving me a very un-prophetess-like sniffle. I had just brewed a pot of lemon tea in the hopes of clearing my head when we were summoned to the church.
My ruse had worked even better than I had hoped. By the time we reached the shadow of the church spire, the priest had already gathered up most of the villagers to see the holy warrior who had come with the blessing of Saint Federica herself. I heard the story a dozen times before we even reached the building. In some versions, Saint Federica had flown in through the windows and set every candle in the hall alight. In others, she had sprung forth from the sword itself. But in all, she had brought a command that must be obeyed. “And she’ll shower blessings upon us,” said one woman. “Think of that. What sort of blessings, do you suppose?”
Anything good that happened in the next dozen years, I thought, would be cast up as a blessing of Saint Federica. I was pleased. Everything was working out as I planned. Except this silly cold. I sipped at my mug of lemon tea, which I had brought with me. Mother had always warned me about sleeping with a head of wet hair.
The church was crammed with people, and we had to pass up the steps between a press of onlookers. I slipped to the side as we entered the hall, finding a spot beside one of the great stone columns, where I could sip my tea quietly and watch the priest and Leonato perform their parts for the crowds.
Leonato looked just as a prince on a grand quest ought to look. His doublet was of dark golden velvet, slashed at the sleeves to show the undershirt of wheat-colored silk. His hose were dusky amber, a color like fine honey. He carried himself proudly, with no hint of the anxiety I had seen last night. As he strode down the hall, he gave me a brief, glowing smile that warmed me more than the hot tea.
Captain Ribisi was dressed in his finest as well, but the bright scarlet and white made his grizzled hair dull and his scarred face more fierce. Beside him, Leonato appeared even more the image of Saint Marco. The clamoring crowds quieted as Leonato approached the sword. The priest bowed, spreading his hands wide in a welcoming ges
ture. His white hood hung straight, though I could just make out wine stains down the front of his purple robes.
“Prince of Doma, you are welcome to the sacred church of Saint Federica. Your coming is truly a blessing, heralded in this very chamber by the spirit of the Saint herself.” The priest turned to face the crowded pews. “People of Saint Federica’s Rest. Many of you have already heard of the miraculous happenings that transpired last evening. As I lay prostrate in this very church, in earnest prayer to the Saints, I was visited by a stunning apparition.”
I snorted into my tea at this, but fortunately the oohs and ahhs of the crowd covered the noise. He went on, “The blessed Saint herself appeared to me and spoke of the coming of this holy warrior, who would take up her blade and wield it in the cause of goodness and righteousness. She hovered there”—he pointed up to the roseate window—“a vision of light and purity. Her voice was like the bells that ring in the Hall of Saints.” The priest lifted his feverish eyes to the heavens, outstretched hands trembling. “And now the prophesied warrior has come, and it is the hour for the sword of Saint Federica to be claimed for its new task.”
The priest stepped aside, waving Leonato forward to the sword. It stood gleaming just as I had seen it last night, struck into the great boulder. Leonato’s back was turned to me, but I saw his shoulders rise and fall, as if he had taken a deep breath. Then he stepped forward, set his hand on the hilt, and pulled.
It did not move. I could see Leonato straining mightily, but the sword held fast within the stone. There was barely time to think. I knew I had to act immediately, lest my whole deception fall down and bury us all. The people clustered around me had already started murmuring in confusion. It would soon turn to suspicion, then anger.
