Charming, Volume 2

by Jack Heckel

  Happily Never After

  VOLUME II OF THE CHARMING TALES

  JACK HECKEL

  Dedication

  For Isaac and Carleigh

  Acknowledgments

  AS ALWAYS, WE would like to acknowledge everyone who has helped us on this long journey to making this book a reality. Inevitably, someone will be forgotten in this list, but as we mentioned in Once Upon a Rhyme, this won’t be the last book. We’ll fix it.

  First, to Taba and Heather who always had faith and love to spare even when we faltered. You gave this book life as much as anyone. Happily ever after.

  To the members of the Paragon City Writers: Dara, Wayland, Brad, Anna and Jon. Keep writing.

  All of our beta readers: Anthony, Bill, Cathy, Chris, Dorothy, Kayla, Kim and Oliver. This doesn’t happen without you. Thank you so very much.

  To our families, including parents, in-­laws, uncles, cousins, grandparents, brothers, sisters and fairy godmothers. We love you all and appreciate the inspiration, support and understanding.

  To everyone at Estes Express, thank you for believing.

  A special mention to Rasheen for the music and the breakfast walks. Thank you.

  To our fellow Harper Voyager authors, thanks for the friendship, community, and support.

  From Harry to Dad, you have always believed in me. Thanks for the bedtime stories.

  From John to Dad—­Tout passé, tout cassé, tout lassé.

  Finally, again a big thanks to Kelly and Jessie and everyone else at Harper Voyager.

  Epigraph

  A winged shadow of starkest black,

  A darkened glade where the weak and wishful tarry.

  A curse screamed from dream’s dark depths,

  A thousand guises and a single name.

  Fairy.

  —­UNTITLED VERSE BY PRINCESS GWENDOLYN MOSTFAIR

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue: Couplet Revisited

  Chapter 1: Once Upon, Once Again

  Chapter 2: At the Crossroads

  Chapter 3: Dark Days in Castle White

  Chapter 4: Beastly Luck

  Chapter 5: On Bended Knee

  Chapter 6: Something Borrowed

  Chapter 7: Second Chances

  Chapter 8: The Magnificent Seventh

  Chapter 9: We Are Gathered Here

  Chapter 10: Or Forever Hold Your Peace

  Chapter 11: A Fairy’s Tale

  Chapter 12: Happily Ever Afters

  Epilogue: Wishing, Well

  About the Author

  Also by Jack Heckel

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Couplet Revisited

  MIDNIGHT’S QUIET HAD wrapped itself about Castle White as a twelve-­year-­old Charming padded down the long hall in his slippered feet. He was on his way back from the kitchens, having liberated another of the lovely apricot tarts the baker so jealously guarded. He savored his victory with a bite, reveling in the perfection of the pastry.

  Such raids were strictly forbidden, of course, and indeed all of the servants were abuzz with the question of who could be stealing the King’s favorite desserts, but Charming was no novice at such intrigues. He knew the castle well enough to evade the traps the head cook had set, to slip past the alcoves in the hall where the night footmen stood guard, and to avoid the curtains in the music salon where a maid sat waiting. He even knew about the broom closet where, tonight, the baker himself had tried to keep vigil.

  What a laugh, thought Charming. All my father’s horses and all of his men couldn’t keep me from those tarts. They are like blind cats sitting before a blank wall thinking it’s a mouse hole.

  They would never catch him. The castle with its twisting halls and endless rooms was his domain. He took another bite and chuckled.

  He was just passing the Royal Library when he heard the voice of his father from within. It was not unusual for him to be up this late, consulting with this lord or that, on that problem or this, but whomever his father was talking with, and whatever the topic, it was serious. Charming knew his father’s moods well, and, though muffled, Charming could tell from the tone of his voice that his father was being even grimmer than usual.

  Charming was about to continue on, feeling lucky that it was not he who was on the other side of whatever lecture was being given, when a single word, rising above the general murmur, stopped him dead in his tracks.

  “ . . . dragon!”

  Holding the tart away from his body, he pressed his ear against the keyhole. At once, he recognized that there were three ­people in the room besides his father, and not just any three ­people but the three most highly ranked members of the court: Duke Northingham of North Northingham, the richest noble in the kingdom; Lord Jocksley, his father’s closest friend and hunting companion; and Lady Greenleaf, without a doubt the sharpest mind and tongue of the court.

  “But, Your Majesty,” Northingham was saying, “the monster is destroying trade in the kingdom, and killing ­people beside.”

  “Some are beginning to grumble a bit, Rupert,” Jocksley added in his customary drawl.

  “Grumble?” Lady Greenleaf said acidly. “I see that your powers of understatement remain without peer, Jocksley. The fact is, Your Majesty, the dragon has terrorized Royaume for years, and the ­people are fed up. What’s more, the creature is growing bolder, each year going further and further afield.”

  “Lady Greenleaf is right,” Northingham verbally pounced. “The beasty used to be satisfied with attacking towns of no consequence, like Prosper and Two Trees, but now it dares go after places that actually matter!”

  “I think you are taking gross liberties with my argument, Northingham,” said Lady Greenleaf archly. “However, Your Majesty, he is correct that if something is not done soon, the ­people will demand action.”

  There was a pause, and Charming could picture his father puckering his brow and fixing the three nobles with the commanding gaze he gave when he was challenged.

  “What would you have me do? Would you have me send more knights, more troops after it? We’ve lost nearly four-­score men trying to hunt the creature down. How many more would you have me sacrifice? And why? The prophecy is quite clear that it is my son who will defeat the dragon.”

  “Frankly,” Northingham said, “it’s the Prince we are interested in talking to you about.”

  “Is there a problem with the Prince?”

  “Look, Rupert,” Jocksley said with forced cheerfulness, “it isn’t that anyone questions the Prince, or you—­”

  “As well they shouldn’t.”

  “But—­” Jocksley tried to continue.

  “But?”

  “Let us cut to the chase,” Lady Greenleaf interceded. “The Prince is twelve, soon to be thirteen. I don’t think I need to tell Your Majesty that, for many peasants, thirteen marks the age of majority. Farmer’s sons on my estate are getting married at thirteen, and many more are beginning to keep their own fields at that age.”

  “And what exactly is your point?”

  “The point, Your Majesty,” she said, “is that the ­people are beginning to question when the Prince will be ready for his quest, or, indeed, if he will ever be ready.”

  From behind the door, Charming felt blood rush to his face and an emptiness fill his chest. Are the ­people really beginning to question me?

  There was a spluttering noise that Charming took to be his father trying to compose himself, and then Jocksley stepped into the fray. “Look, Rupert, all we are asking i
s how realistic is it to imagine that a boy of thirteen, or fifteen, or even seventeen, is going to be able to slay a dragon. Take my son, Daniel. I love the boy to death, but he’s sixteen now and has taken to running about in the woods with a bunch of his friends, doing who knows what. Boys like Daniel and Charming are just . . .”

  “There is no ‘boy’ like Charming,” his father said. “Look, Jocksley, Lady Greenleaf, Duke Northingham, I know that this delegation represents the leading nobility of the kingdom, and you have been charged to deliver this message to me. I appreciate your candor, but you can send this response to the nobles, and be at peace in your own hearts: All is in hand. The Prince will be ready—­and soon. I have spared no expense or effort in his education. He trains daily at combat and arms, and at building his body to the peak of physical readiness. He studies under the finest tutors to sharpen his mind and to develop his strategies and tactics. In short, he is growing into the very model of honor and chivalry, an example to hold up to the rest of the kingdom.”

  Charming’s heart swelled as he listened to his father defend him. He felt, almost, that he could ride out tonight to fight the dragon. Nothing could stop him.

  Suddenly, a sharp pain raced through his left ear.

  “I caught you, you little thief—­and red-­handed, no less!”

  The baker had his ear. The beefy man pulled him away from the door and ripped the tart out of his hand. Charming had no time to plead as the baker knocked loudly at the door.

  “Come!” said the King.

  As the door was thrown open, Charming saw his father standing behind his enormous gold-­gilt desk. He was holding a scroll in one of his many-­ringed hands, and gesturing broadly about the room. On the opposite side of the desk, the three nobles turned to look.

  “What is the meaning of this?” his father asked. “Charming, what are you doing up at this time? And, Baker Crumplet, what gives you the right to handle my son, the Prince, in this unseemly manner?”

  The baker released Charming and then bowed low. Charming rubbed his stinging ear.

  “You may rise. Now, Crumplet, I expect an answer to my question.”

  “Y-­Your Royal Majesty,” the baker said with a slight stutter of nerves, “I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, but I have caught the tart thief.” The odious man held the apricot tart high in the air, beaming.

  The King’s gaze settled on the apricot tart and his face clouded with anger. There was a stifled chuckle from Jocksley, and Duke Northingham cleared his throat uncomfortably. Lady Greenleaf was disdainfully silent.

  “Edward?” his father said coldly.

  Charming felt his heart thump violently in his chest, and a sudden queasiness rose in his throat. His father may never have been warm to him, but Charming had also never been the target of his father’s full wrath.

  “Explain.”

  “I—­I cannot,” Charming said, his voice catching.

  “I see. So this is how you choose to repay me for all your years of privilege, education, and training? To steal the bread from my own table, LIKE A COMMON THIEF?” his father roared. “Shall I deal with you as I would deal with any other thief? Shall I put you in irons, or perhaps parade you through the village for the ­people to throw rocks at and to spit on? Is this what you want?”

  Charming could not speak.

  “Answer me!”

  “N-­N-­No, Father,” Charming finally choked out.

  “What punishment would you have me mete out, if I am denied my customary due?”

  Charming had no answer, and so remained silent, and the silence stretched on and became oppressive.

  Jocksley’s voice cut through the tension. “Come now, Rupert. What boy doesn’t sneak a treat from the kitchens now and then? We never caught whoever was stealing from our kitchens. All we ever found were arrows. Strange, but as in this case, no harm done.”

  “Jocksley, did I not just assure you—­no, did I not just demand—­that you deliver a message to the entire court that, upon my honor the Prince was like ‘no other boy,’ and that they could place their faith in his character? Does my honor and name mean that little that my words should be thus proved false before they have even left the ears of those that hear them?”

  Jocksley said nothing at this and the King addressed Charming again. “I am waiting for an answer, Edward. By what means can this wrong be righted?”

  Charming had never felt so empty and low. Death would be preferable to this. And then, with the clarity of youth, he knew what he had to do. Taking a few deep breaths, he raised his blurry eyes. “You must send me against the dragon, Father. It is the only way that I can redeem myself—­and if I fail, then it will be of no great loss if I am gone.”

  There was a long silence at this pronouncement, during which the nobles and his father, whose face had grown suddenly white, did not move or speak. Beside him the baker stared, dumbfounded.

  Finally, his father cleared his throat. “Well, we have said enough on the subject for now. I have important matters to discuss with the, um, delegation from the court. Return to your chambers and we will talk tomorrow.”

  “Please, Father,” Charming pleaded. “I can go tonight. I have dishonored you, and I do not feel right staying here in the castle.

  “You are a child, Edward! You do not know what you are saying! You are not ready! I forbid you to speak of this again! Now leave us.”

  Anger burned through Charming’s breast. He was not a child, and he was prophesied to be the dragon slayer. His hands clenched into fists. “What about the ­people who died, who are dying? Shouldn’t I go help them? Isn’t it my duty? The ­people think I should go.” He stabbed a finger at the three nobles. “Father, even they say so.”

  A gasp escaped from Lady Greenleaf, and Charming thought that the baker swayed on his feet. His father’s face flushed red with fury. “Edward Michael Charming! You will always remember that I am not only your father but also your King. You are not just my son, but also my subject, and you will follow my commands without dissent! I will tell you when it is time for you to ride against the dragon, and this is not that time. Now, go!”

  Charming dropped to a knee and, struggling to keep his voice from cracking, said, “Yes, Fath—­” His father, the King, looked at him sharply and Charming quickly amended with, “Your Majesty.”

  His body shook as he rose. He bowed stiffly to his father, the King, and marched from the room. Once out of sight, he took to his heels, running as tears splashed across his face in confusion, shame, and anguish.

  Chapter 1

  Once Upon, Once Again

  “ONCE UPON A TIME,” everyone can agree, is a fairly inaccurate way of marking time. “Once upon a time when?” one might well ask. Of course, most fairy tales live in their own blurry and disconnected time, neither now nor exactly then, and so the relative “when” of the story doesn’t matter. But in Charming’s tale, where you inconveniently have more than one “Once Upon a Time,” it can be important to know whether any particular “Once Upon a Time” came before or after any other “Once Upon a Time” that had been or is to come.

  And so . . .

  Once upon a time, at about the same time that the recently disowned Charming wandered lost in his own melancholy, Elizabeth Pickett awoke from a muddled dream about the Prince, little men, and fairies as a badly metered ­couplet was running through her head. She lay in bed staring at a short man perched atop a tall stool. His back was to her, and all she could see of him, apart from a waistcoat of garish purple, was a thin head of wild white hair. He had his arm cocked back and seemed on the verge of throwing a small leather book he was holding through the open window where a rainbow flock of songbirds chirruped loudly.

  She had no idea where she was.

  Liz sat up. As she did, the birds fell silent and stared at her. For his part, the strange little man spun about quickly, nearly unseating
himself. As he struggled to regain his balance, she studied him. Putting aside his size, he was most singular. He had a white beard that matched the disorder of the hair on his head, and he wore a tiny pair of wire-­frame glasses that perched unsteadily on his long thin nose.

  Finally reseated, he smiling and said, “The poet speaks, the lady stirs . . .”

  She started to say that poetry could be deadly in the wrong hands when another pair of eyes, sitting just above a short fat nose and topped by a head of curly black hair, appeared above the foot of the bed. The eyes of this second little man narrowed, and then a deep voice boomed, “HEY, EVERYONE! . . . THE BROAD’S AWAKE!”

  This announcement provoked an alarming racket from the room beyond. There was an explosive sneeze, something heavy crashed to the floor, then crockery shattered and someone with a high, wheezy voice let loose a remarkably colorful curse, all followed by the sound of booted feet thundering unseen through the door. Then, like gophers in a field, four more heads popped up over the edge of the bed’s footboard. Red hair and yellow, hatted and bare, thin nosed and broad, and each with the same sharp beetle-­black eyes. Liz mouthed silently as she counted out the number: . . . four . . . five . . . six. Six little men. No! Not little men . . . dwarves!

  Her head felt strangely foggy, so when she spoke, it was without thought. “Wait a minute, I’ve heard of you. You’re dwarfs! Or is it dwarves?” Both words sounded wrong to her.

  “Actually,” said the white-­haired dwarf on the stool in a pedantic tone, “the etymology of the plural of dwarf has been the subject of debate for some time. Of course, a morphologist would tell you that words ending in a fricative should be pluralized by the simple addition of an s. Therefore, dwarf would be dwarfs.” He concluded by nodding his head sharply as though that brought the matter to a close.