The Hostage Prince

by Jane Yolen

  First there was the guards’ station, which consisted of a table, two hard-backed chairs, and a stool, as well as an array of pikestaffs and broadswords lying against the farthest wall. On the table were pitchers of ale and three rather dirty-looking mugs.

  Or the dirt could just be shadows, Snail thought, though she longed for a swallow, even of ale, which she never drank for it tasted bitter and gave her vertigo. But even ale would help, for her mouth had gone dry from the long trek down and the constant fear.

  Strangely, there were no guards other than the ones who’d escorted them down the stairs.

  Once past the guard station, Snail realized why. There were no other prisoners in the cells. Or at least no other live prisoners. But along the far wall were steel-barred cages with old skeletons—skellies Nettle called them—of people who’d died here, unhappy, unremembered, and unmourned.

  Well, maybe not unmourned, Snail thought. They probably had families somewhere up above. But she doubted anyone would mourn her passing. Unless it was Mistress Softhands. And as Mistress Softhands was likely to die with her, maybe even before her . . .

  At that, it was much too much, and Snail found herself shivering with terror. She thought she would cry then, but instead, she grabbed onto the anger she’d had earlier that day and added to it Yarrow shouting, “This is all your fault!” That turned her anger into a fury big enough to mount, and she rode it through the fear and came out the other side dry-eyed but still shaking.

  Sixty stairs, she thought. Sixty stairs between me and outside.

  Of all the things that might happen from here on out, this was all she knew for sure, and this was what she chose to concentrate on. She shut out the cackles of the Red Cap and the growls of the wolf and just kept thinking, Sixty steps to the outside. And then I will be free.

  ASPEN FOLLOWS THE WALL

  Prince Aspen would have loved for the cover of darkness to be a boon to his escape. But in a court where half the nobles, servants, and livestock could see in the dark, not to mention the various hobs, goblins, trolls, the Wild Hunt, and the wolf pack, he—a Seelie lord—was the one at a disadvantage.

  I’d be better off sneaking away in broad daylight, he thought. The Unseelie are all a bit weaker during the day. Except, of course, for the Border Lords. And many will be sleeping.

  He positioned the pack a little more comfortably on his shoulders. Nothing I can do about it. The time is not of my choosing. I have to go now. Otherwise they will come for me and sacrifice me and probably send my head to my father. He bit his lip to keep from sobbing. Seelie or Unseelie, princes do not sob. What was it my father used to say?

  He remembered then. It was the day he had been sent away. The whole court had turned out to see him off, crowding the palace courtyard. The noblemen bowed to him and mumbled useless clichés like “Keep your chin up, lad” and “You are a credit to your father.”

  Patting him on the head, the ladies of the court shed polite tears that their servants surreptitiously caught in crystal bottles for later use as spell ingredients. His mother, the queen, had done the same.

  His brothers and sisters had wept loudly, looking at him with deep sympathy until he actually tried to meet their eyes. Then they looked away as if they were glad they weren’t the ones going, and were ashamed of such thoughts. Even at seven he could read it in the way they turned from him.

  Only Lisbet had hugged him, and stuffed something in his pocket when no one was looking. He had found it much later: a small silken packet in which she’d placed a locket with a tress of his mother’s fine golden hair, a tiny glass jar filled with his favorite sweets, and a toy shaped like a unicorn that he had kept under his pillow as a little boy.

  His father, the king, had walked with him to the outer gate and the great portcullis that now stood open. Beyond it, the Unseelie envoys waited, a pair of grey-faced drows with long noses and longer talons. Aspen thought they looked gruesome, despite being dressed in fine silk breeches and brocade vests. It wasn’t till much later that Aspen realized that they were some of the more seemly creatures the Unseelie Court could have sent.

  He reached for his father’s hand to hold, but the king took his hand only to place it on the hilt of Aspen’s small child’s sword. A pinprick sword, his brothers called it.

  The king neither wept nor mumbled.

  “War does not call, it commands,” he said. “Even kings and queens must do as it demands.” He was quoting an old nursery rhyme.

  Aspen looked way up at his father, who was standing tall and straight, his long white hair tucked behind pointed ears.

  “And princes?” he asked.

  The king nodded but didn’t say anything more to Aspen. “Take him,” he called to the Unseelie envoys. They came forward, bowing politely and with all deference, dressed in their black capes, and tunics, long dark trews covering their legs. The outline of the Unseelie Dragon was drawn in gold thread on the left side of each tunic. The two of them firmly gripped Aspen’s arms. Their hands might have been made of oak, they were so unyielding. Perhaps they thought he might try to run away. Perhaps they feared he might faint. But he did neither, marching along with them as if he had been his oldest brother, Gann, doing his duty without once looking back.

  The envoys took him directly to a waiting palanquin and parted the curtains. As he climbed in, the two drows leapt onto their horses, which were black as midnight, black—perhaps—as the envoys’ hearts.

  Aspen remembered being very proud of himself for not crying till the curtains had closed. The bearers—four ungainly-looking trolls, in shiny black trews and no other garb—picked up the palanquin as if it weighed nothing at all, and started off at a run after the horses, singing out a count as they went.

  Only then did Aspen weep, where no one could see him. Unlike most seven-year-olds, he wept without sound, fat tears running down his cheeks and snot draining from his nose. When he finally stopped crying, he wiped his face on the curtain, and as he did so, he saw his family, his castle, his world disappear behind him.

  * * *

  WAR DOES NOT CALL, it commands, Aspen thought, peeking down the hall to check for any late-night wanderers. He hadn’t really understood the nursery rhyme then. It doesn’t matter whether I want to stay or go. War has made the choice for me. As it did for my father.

  Suddenly, Aspen was ashamed of how angry he’d been at his father earlier in the day. Now he realized that his father hadn’t wanted to send him away. That’s what he’d been trying to tell me all those years ago. Aspen frowned. Of course, he could have just come out and told me that instead of always being the stoic elven monarch.

  Gritting his teeth, he thought, If I ever have a child of my own, I shall speak directly to him. Of course, if he didn’t get away this day, he’d never have the chance.

  The hallway in front of his door was clear and he walked quickly and quietly along.

  Eerie how silent the place is, how empty, he thought. Normally all the halls were abuzz with servants, underlings, cleaners, by day and by night. It was almost as if he were walking through an enchantment.

  For a second he wondered what kind of enchantment it might be. Then he smiled wryly. What a silly thought! Of course—everyone was off preparing for the war.

  And of course, Jack will have made sure they have all been sent somewhere else. His smile broadened, as did his relief. Thanks, old friend.

  * * *

  WHERE THE HALL TEED, Aspen peered left, then right, appreciating the few guttering torches that still cast enough light for his weak Seelie eyes. There were few windows and the ones that existed were mere arrow slits. Unlike Seelie palaces that were built around courtyards that allowed the halls to be flooded with light, Unseelie castle interiors were purposefully kept dark, especially in the upper floors where the nobility lived.

  Well, I do have some choices, he thought. Like left or right?

/>   Having studied maps and mapmaking with Jack Daw, he knew the Water Gate was below Wester Tower, a small, guarded dock on a subterranean river that the Unseelie rarely used except in times of war or for secret messengers to come and go. Since the Unseelie folk were mostly uncomfortable around running water, they usually stuck to the ground roads. When forced to it, the dark forces were ferried across a river by the skeletal Sticksman, but few of the Unseelie could swim, except for the mer. And the mermen were untrustworthy allies, loyal to only themselves.

  As he looked at the two halls leading from the tee, Aspen knew that either one would get him out of the central keep, but the left passage went past the Great Hall, which most likely would be full of gathering troops, while the right wound through isolated and sometimes totally unlit passages before exiting behind the Great Midden Heap.

  Stinky and dark didn’t appeal to Aspen very much, but he still turned right.

  “War commands,” he muttered. He couldn’t afford to run into anyone. He would have a hard time explaining what he was doing in traveling clothes with a pack on his back. Most of the court knew he was a hostage, and the rest had surely heard the gossip. Better to risk the dark and the garbage.

  * * *

  HE DIDN’T WALK LONG before the torches were no longer lit, though the last one he could see still sat in its sconce like a lever to an invisible machine. He thought about lighting it, but that would only be for comfort, and might attract attention he could not afford.

  Chuckling to himself, though there was little to laugh about, he thought that he might even be better off navigating in the full dark. After all, it was the only way he knew that area.

  Sun and Moon had once dared him to follow them down the unlit corridors, and he, of course, had followed willingly. They had quickly left him stranded, and he had spent nearly a whole day finding his way out—partly by trailing his right hand on the wall, and partly by following his nose. He had exited at the midden heap, vowing never to go that way again.

  But here I am. He was well aware of the irony of the situation.

  Trailing his hand once again on the wall, he kept his nostrils wide, trying to pick up the rotten stench that would signal the exit was near. The walls here were cold and damp to the touch; he remembered them from that long-ago trick played upon him. The walls would get colder and damper the closer he got to the Water Gate.

  Keeping his footsteps light and his breathing soft, he listened carefully for anything that might be coming near.

  These unlit corridors, he thought, are about the last place in Faerie you want to run into anyone unexpectedly. Especially as a hostage prince.

  But when he finally did hear something, it wasn’t the scurrying paws or scuttling footsteps he had been worried about. Nor the clang of steel hitting stone or the growl of a wolf or woodwose or troll.

  It was something far worse. From what seemed like close by, but definitely muffled by a lot of stone, Aspen heard the sound of a girl screaming.

  SNAIL IN THE DUNGEON

  Yarrow had already been screaming before they’d got down to the dungeon floor, though no one had even laid a finger on her.

  Yet.

  Despite the appalling noise, the soldiers had kept the group of women moving forward, the Red Cap giggling as if the sight of them struggling down the stairs was the funniest thing he’d ever witnessed, and perhaps it was.

  Or perhaps, Snail thought, he just has a brutal sense of humor.

  When they were marched past the skellies into the actual cell, she saw that the room was quite a bit smaller than the queen’s birthing chamber with none of its amenities, just undecorated grey stone walls seeping moisture. The birthing chamber, she thought, suddenly aware that the queen and the baby had been far from her thoughts all this time. She wondered if it had been born already, whether it was a boy or a girl. And who, she thought, had been in attendance? And had anyone dropped the slippery child? Then, as quickly, her mind turned back to her own dire situation.

  As the women were unbound and pushed through the open door, the three-headed wolf lay down and began to moan. It had only two paws to cover its ears with, which left four ears open to Yarrow’s screeching and the insane high giggles of the Red Cap. Clearly, the wolf was not happy.

  In fact, the sound of Yarrow’s screams was so unsettling, Snail wondered briefly if sticking a striped legging in the girl’s mouth would help.

  She hadn’t gotten any further than that thought when someone put a hand on her shoulder, which made her jump.

  When she turned slowly, fearing the worst, she saw it was just Mistress Softhands.

  “Pretend she’s in labor.”

  Snail nodded. Mistress Softhands was right, of course. If a woman screamed in labor, a midwife was trained to ignore the sound and stay on task. It was one of the very first things an apprentice learned.

  But what, she thought, is the task here?

  “Gag her,” the captain of the soldiers said, pointing at Yarrow. The captain was a tall drow with one slumped shoulder and a scar on his face that pulled his lip down into a permanent sneer. His voice was dispassionate and firm.

  One of the soldiers reached into his back pocket, pulled out a dirty nose rag with little bits of black snot still clinging to it, and headed toward Yarrow.

  Yarrow’s eyes had begun to roll so far back in her head, all Snail could see were the whites.

  Without thinking it through, Snail rushed toward the soldier, palms up as if pleading.

  “It’s my fault,” she said. “I’ll calm her down.”

  But at that, Yarrow only screamed louder.

  The soldier pushed roughly past Snail, grabbed Yarrow with one hand, and with the other somehow managed to stuff the tail of his rag into her mouth and then tie the rest around her head to anchor it. Yarrow was so cowed by the action, she didn’t even try to tear the filthy thing away, only sank to her knees.

  Horrified, Snail was nonetheless fascinated by the soldier’s quick action and by the knot itself. She’d never seen one like it. And best of all, she thought, it’s worked!

  The dungeon room was suddenly and eerily quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Even the Red Cap was silent, having stopped his giggling to watch the soldier, though now he was leaning toward Yarrow as if waiting to see if she was going to suffocate or live, and clearly he was hoping for suffocation.

  “That’s better,” said the captain. “Now, all of you women—listen carefully. Your lives depend on it.” The scar on his face wriggled like a crawling worm as he spoke.

  They listened.

  It’s hard not to listen, Snail thought, with that incentive.

  The captain explained, almost if it pained him to say so, that he would take each of them out separately for questioning by the Master of the Dungeon, an ogre named Geck.

  “And when Master Geck is satisfied with your answers, and only then, you will be let go.” When he finished speaking, the scar worm was still.

  Of course everyone knew what happened to people whose answers an ogre didn’t like. And it wouldn’t be pretty, it wouldn’t be painless, and it wouldn’t be fast.

  Mistress Treetop went with the captain first. Not her choice, of course. His. He kept his hand on her shoulder. He did it for control but she seemed to take it as comfort.

  The other soldiers stayed to watch them, but from outside the cell, as if by separating themselves from their prisoners, they also separated themselves from their prisoners’ fates.

  * * *

  AFTERWARD, SNAIL UNDERSTOOD—though at the time she’d thought it very odd—that the women were questioned in a room close enough to the cell so their sobs could be heard as if the cell door had been left open, though not really close enough to understand what they were saying.

  It was another way to keep them all frightened and atremble, and it worked, too. S
nail tried to hold on to her anger, but the fear kept creeping through, and she worried that if she let it set up camp in her brain she would start crying and never stop.

  And then I, too, will be munching on a soldier’s dirty snot rag.

  After each questioning session was done, Master Geck would rumble out to the captain to come and get the one questioned, take her back to the cell, and bring the next. This all of the midwives and apprentices could hear and understand full well, and it added to their fears.

  Mistress Yoke and Mistress Softhands went out in turn after Mistress Treetop. All were still disheveled from the tumble they’d taken in the birthing room, and a bit lame from the forced march down the stone stairs to the dungeon. But when they returned, they each looked . . .

  Well, wrung out like pieces of laundry before the laundress has touched the cloth with the hot iron, was Snail’s first thought. Each came back with unkempt hair as if someone had tried to pull it out by the roots strand by strand. Their eyes were bright red with weeping. And the usually fastidious trio wore large blotches of sweat like dark wounds under the arms of their no-longer-well-starched dresses.

  In addition, Mistress Treetop’s hands wrangled together. Mistress Yoke twined her fingers through her hair nervously. And Mistress Softhands’ eyes darted around the room, as if expecting something ghastly to leap upon her from every corner.

  The questioning of the three women had not taken long, for none of them was trained in resistance.

  And now the captain looked at the two girls.

  First his gaze narrowed on Yarrow, though she was conveniently passed out, lying on the stone floor like a broken puppet with its strings cut, her swollen foot to one side. Mistress Yoke had taken a moment from her hand-wrangling to remove the gag from Yarrow’s mouth, but it hadn’t brought her around.