The Hostage Prince

by Jane Yolen

  She smiled at him again and another yawn came between them. “So I have heard it said in other birth rooms, Serenity. But when you are ready for your own child, you will forget this time.” Actually, she’d been in very few birth rooms, but Mistress Softhands had said that often as well.

  He shook his head and vowed with great passion, “I shall never forget this time.” She had no way of knowing if he meant it as a compliment or complaint.

  * * *

  BREAKFAST CONSISTED OF some sort of frothy drink that tasted—Snail thought—too much like dirt to be enjoyed. But at least it was wet.

  Aspen smiled wanly at Ukko and said, “Good troll, may I ask a question?”

  Ukko gawked at him. “Isn’t it enough, feyling, that I didn’t have you for breakfast? Now you must task me with questions?”

  Aspen tried a smile, but it barely stretched his lips. It made him look sly rather than honest. “It is but one question, and a small one at that.”

  The cave was suddenly silent, all of them waiting to hear what Aspen had to say. Even the baby, asleep at last, offered no interruptions, only a tiny series of hiccups.

  Aspen drew in a deep breath and then expelled the question in a gust of air: “What is the Sticksman?”

  Ukko laughed, a dark hollow sound. The baby stirred but thankfully didn’t waken. “Is it a trick question, little man? I am not good at riddles. They make me hungry.”

  Huldra said, “Everything makes you hungry, husband. Why not ask in return: What is a Stickswoman?”

  “If I do not care about a Sticksman, wife, why should I care about a Stickswoman?” He stood, hulking as high as the stone roof. “An arguing wife makes me hungry, too!” He raised a fist and Huldra raised hers.

  Panic played across Aspen’s face. “It is of no matter,” he cried, pulling Snail to her feet and pushing her out of the cave.

  * * *

  ONCE THEY WERE safely outside, Snail wondered breathlessly, “What was that all about?”

  Aspen sighed. “About useless,” he said and would say no more, though Snail asked a second and then a third time.

  At last she stopped asking and they moved away from the cave entrance where the sounds of the trolls arguing had at last woken the baby, whose hollering drowned out his parents’.

  A few feet away from the cave, Aspen and Snail sat down to wait for the paths of the woods to resolve themselves.

  They waited.

  And waited.

  And waited some more.

  The prince was clearly unhappy at the wait, standing up and sitting down in quick succession, which, as Snail pointed out, simply made the wait longer. But he couldn’t seem to sit still.

  At one point during the long wait, Snail asked, “What was happening with—that ‘Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg,’ stuff? You seemed . . . well . . . pardon me for putting in bluntly . . . out of control. You were babbling about being a mighty power.”

  “That ‘Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg stuff’ is just my name. My full name.” His voice was tight but he looked genuinely puzzled. “And I never babble!”

  She could feel heat rising in her face. “Serenity, I thought your name was Prince Aspen. I’m sorry if I have offended.”

  “Aspen is my name in the Unseelie Court,” he said stiffly. “No offense taken. At least not for that.”

  But for other things, she thought. Dropping tea on him, tripping and falling against him, almost killing him with a poisoned dagger, calling him her apprentice. Those were offenses taken.

  She found herself saying, “I mean, when you saw Ukko in the cave entrance, you grabbed your sword and charged him, calling out your name and power and it frightened me. I was sure that was the end for both of us.”

  “I do not remember such a thing.”

  “It was . . .” She was going to say “stupid” and changed that at the last moment to “Truly heroic in a Border Lord sort of way.”

  His puzzlement turned suddenly to enlightenment. “Ah, Berserker Rage,” he said. “It has never happened to me before. Perhaps it occurred this time because I was never before threatened when standing on my own ground.”

  “So here, in Seelie lands, you are Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg?”

  He nodded. “And a defender of the realm. Even the third successor to the throne is considered so.”

  “Even to the death?” She really needed to know in case it happened again.

  “I suppose so,” he said, then brightened. “Do you know what the name means, then?”

  She shook her head.

  “It means we are out of the Borderlands now and truly on Seelie soil. Otherwise, even in the grips of a Berserker Rage, I never could have claimed the name. It means we do not need to sit here waiting for the forest to show us the way. We can just head out in that direction where my father’s personal lands will be.” He pointed to the left.

  She bit down on her lower lip, then whispered, “I think you mean that direction, Serenity,” and pointed to the right.

  He looked both ways. “You are questioning a prince on his own soil? You are playing a dangerous game, girl.”

  She bowed her head. “I don’t mean to question, Serenity, but to point out that the troll came from the left. See the tracks? He was hunting but only got a small rabbit. He wouldn’t dare hunt on your father’s personal land where, I’m certain, larger game abounds. Therefore, your father’s personal lands must be to the right.”

  He knelt down and scrutinized the footprints, which, being a troll’s, were wide and deep, the toe marks splayed out in a clearly recognized pattern. At last he looked up. “You are right, and I thank you for that, midwife. You have my permission to always give me such good advice, as long as we are not in company.”

  She thought he sounded a bit miffed, but didn’t say so, responding instead with the more conciliatory, “I will follow your lead, Serenity.”

  * * *

  THE PRINCE TOOK OFF to the right at a run, across a large green sward, and Snail—not much of a runner—was immediately left behind.

  For a moment, she lost sight of him where the land rose precipitously, and then saw him again as he crested a sharp hill crowned with silver flowers, and then seemed to disappear.

  “Oh no,” she cried, but scarcely took time to worry. Puffing and panting, she raced to the hilltop, which, she saw, dipped quite suddenly, which explained his sudden disappearance. But far down at the bottom she could see him again, now a small figure below, his way blocked by a tall, briary hedgerow. He was running full-tilt toward it, sword out, and was immediately trying to hack his way through the briars.

  By the time she caught up, he was still hacking in a frenzied manner and getting nowhere.

  More Beserker Rage, she thought, and watched him for a while before turning her attention to the hedge itself.

  At last she called out, “Serenity, put aside your sword. The hedge grows two new branches for each one you lop off.”

  It took a minute before he heard and understood her, but when he did, he drew a deep breath and began moving backward, a step at a time, until he was by her side. Only then did he really stare at the hedge. There was sweat beading his forehead and he was breathing hard. Such hackwork was hot business.

  “Is it true?” he asked, before stepping forward again and lopping off a single branch with great care. As he watched, the hedge produced two new branches, each with twice the thorns of the one they replaced.

  He turned to Snail, bowing his head to her. “I beg your pardon, midwife, for disbelieving you. Once again you have saved me.” He sheathed his sword.

  “Look, prince, look!” she crowed in delight, for as soon as his sword was hidden in its sheath, the hedge parted in the middle as if the fingers of thorn unclasped to offer them a
way through.

  “Of course, of course,” he muttered. “I remember now. It is called a Welcome Hedge. Friends can enter. Those who come with wicked intent cannot. How could I have not seen it? My father promised to have them planted after I left.”

  Without thinking, she took his hand and pulled him through.

  When they were on the other side, he grabbed his hand away from hers. “Do . . . not . . . do . . . that . . . ever . . . again.”

  She set her hands on her hips and glared at him. “What happened to ‘Once again you have saved me’? Is that so quickly forgotten?”

  He glared back. “No quicker forgotten than you forgetting your place.”

  “Well, excuse me, Majesty,” she said, and stalked off down the road.

  He caught up quickly. “Once again, I have been hasty, midwife. My manners are still Unseelie though I am on Seelie soil.”

  She let him walk by her side, though they were both silent for about a league or more. Anger, Mistress Softhands once said, is equally the gag in the mouth of those who have been hurt and those who have done hurt. Snail gave that some thought as they walked along. But she swore to herself that she would not be the one to speak first.

  At last the prince spoke, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them. “Where,” he asked, “are the armies? This seems a main road and I see none about.”

  “Were you expecting them?” She turned and glared at him again as if daring him to be unkind.

  “Of course I am expecting armies on a main road,” he said. “We are at war.”

  “It doesn’t look much like war to me.”.

  “Nor me,” he admitted, as a small goat-drawn cart came into view.

  When the cart was next to them, the driver—a farmer’s boy—jumped down and gave a head bob to the prince. He was in knee-length breeches and braces, and a broad-brimmed hat made of straw that perched on his head with as little effort as a songbird on a limb. “May I offer a ride, my lord?”

  Aspen leaned forward. “Have you heard of the Sticksman?”

  The boy looked bewildered. “Sticks? Man?”

  “Never mind,” Aspen said, shrugging. “You are not old or odd or powerful.”

  “No, sir.” If anything the boy looked more bewildered than before.

  “Yet still, I have asked and you have answered.”

  Now the boy no longer looked bewildered, but nervous, as if not having the proper answer to a lord’s question might be dangerous. “Can you ask me something else, lord?”

  “Stop toying with him,” Snail said sharply.

  Aspen sighed. “All right. Here’s a question you can surely answer. Do you go to the palace?”

  Eager to please, the boy grinned. “Yes, sir, that I do. With five kegs of muddled cider, my mam’s specialty. The queen loves it.”

  “The queen?” Aspen began, his eyes suspiciously looking a bit watery, like petals after a heavy dew.

  “We accept,” Snail said to the boy, giving the prince some time to pull himself together. “I’ll come up front with you.”

  They got in, Snail sitting next to the boy and Aspen perched precariously on a slat bench in the back.

  Snail spent the first part of the journey asking the boy about his family, then questioned him about the king’s family, and finally, tentatively, the state of the war.

  “Not been a war about here in Seelie land for . . . well for longer than I’ve been alive,” the boy said.

  “Well . . . I heard . . .” Snail began, then immediately shut up. There was something here that needed thinking about, not speaking about. Even to the prince. She turned her head to see what he’d heard.

  But Aspen had fallen fast asleep, as if after the long and difficult night in the troll’s cave, the battle with the hedge had exhausted him completely.

  She turned back to the farm boy. “And may it stay that way for all the rest of the years of your life. And mine.” Though she was not sure if by saying it she was making a wish or laying a curse.

  Either way, the farm boy seemed pleased with her statement, and in companionable silence, they made the rest of the blessedly short trip to the king’s castle.

  Aspen in the Castle

  The cart hit a rut and Aspen’s head bounced against the shoulder he had fallen asleep on. Opening his eyes with a start, he realized the shoulder had been Snail’s. He wondered when she had climbed in back, and he glanced at her guiltily. She was staring at him with an expression he could not read. He tried to figure out something to say, but failed to think of anything appropriate.

  Thank you for your service as a pillow? Sorry for drooling on your shoulder?

  The thank-you seemed overly formal for two boon traveling companions; the apology not warranted considering their relative stations. He refused to embarrass himself either way, but still worried about the right thing to say. For some reason, talking to the apprentice midwife was more difficult than talking to the princesses Sun and Moon.

  And by Oberon! That was difficult enough.

  He was saved further struggle by Snail speaking up first.

  “Is that . . . ?” she began, pointing up the road.

  Aspen followed her gaze and saw Astaeri Palace rising up over the horizon. The seat of the Seelie Court had been built to be impressive when seen from any angle, but approaching from the main road it was especially inspiring. While the Unseelie capital fortress was frightening in its sheer martial hugeness, Astaeri Palace inspired with sweeping arches and sky-thrust towers. Its walls were bone white, its windows mirrored, its roofs tiled in blue and green. There were golden gutters called eaves troughs and bronze gargoyle rainspouts long gone green. From the tops of the many towers, with their bronze top hats, also greened over, brightly colored banners fluttered halfway to the horizon. In the gardens decorative fountains shot cascades of water high into the air to sprinkle the huge topiaries based on creatures both real and imagined.

  “Yes,” Aspen said, “Astaeri Palace.” But he was thinking, Home.

  Snail eyed the palace critically. “It’s a bit much, don’t you think? All those statues and towers and . . .”

  “I suppose it would certainly seem so to a servant,” Aspen replied haughtily. But he immediately regretted the angry words when he saw the look on Snail’s face, part anger and part pain. He was certain it would turn to a glare in a moment. He wondered why he should care. He put it out of his mind, and squared his shoulders, calling to the farmer’s lad in the front seat in as imperious a tone as he could muster, “Go, boy! Now! Go!”

  Surprised, the boy clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, slapped the reins against the goat’s back, and the creature startled and sprang forward.

  Snail had to grab on to Aspen to keep from falling out. He decided to say nothing this time, thinking only that now they were even, and he need not worry about offending her again.

  * * *

  THE RIDE UP the long road to the castle was straight, and eventually the goat slowed back down to its original pace. Of course it was not as strong as one of the oxen back in the Unseelie Court, nor even as strong as their warhorses. Though—and Aspen chuckled when thinking of it—warhorses would never be put into traces to pull. As soon marry a dairy maid to a prince.

  Finally, still a good half a league from the castle, the goat stopped altogether, but the prince, in his joy to finally be home, forgot all decorum and grabbed Snail by her hand and dragged her from the cart.

  “Thank you, good peasant,” he called to the goat-cart boy, hoping Snail heard him using the P word without scorn, “we will go the rest of the way by foot.”

  They moved quickly along, not speaking at all, saving their breath. Not even when they passed handcarts piled high with vegetables in withy baskets. Or passed others filled with woven goods drawn by spavined horses whose knees knocked together. They were silent t
he whole way, for Aspen’s eyes were on the castle, though he kept hold of Snail’s wrist as if she were some sort of prize he dared not lose.

  When they were almost to the tall wooden gate studded with bronze spikes, Aspen could no longer contain himself. He began running toward the palace, pulling Snail along with him.

  “Wait, I can’t run that fast!” Snail complained, but Aspen just laughed, running faster, never letting go of her wrist.

  “Come, Snail, you must not keep the lords and ladies waiting for me.” And then in sheer exuberance, he just shouted one word, the important one: “Home!”

  Workmen, traders, peasants, and peddlers all shuffled off the road to make way for the crazed boy, most shaking their heads at the folly of both royalty and youth.

  “Good morrow!” he called to them, and “Good E’en,” and “Good whatever!” and began laughing even harder when he realized he had no idea of the time. Nor did he care that he did not know. Being home whatever the time was all that mattered.

  And finally Snail was laughing with him. Wriggling out of his wrist hold, she grabbed his hand and held it tightly, as if they were of the same class and she had every right to do such a thing.

  Aspen realized with a pleasant jolt that he was happy for the first time in as long as he could remember. Not just a little bit happy, but totally happy.

  They reached the gates panting and giggling and full of a kind of giddy relief.

  Stopping suddenly, Aspen pulled sharply on Snail’s hand and slipped out of her grasp. He looked up into the stern face of a young captain of the guards. Two more guards stood close behind him. Their uniforms all had gold buttons and bangles shining so brightly in the sun. They were hard to look at.

  “Good whatever, Captain,” Aspen chuckled while Snail performed what he realized was a true courtly bow.

  Perhaps some of my manners have finally rubbed off on her.

  “What is the meaning of this?” barked the captain, no trace of humor in his voice.

  There’s something about that voice, that face . . .