Cinders: The Untold Story of Cinderella

by Finley Aaron

  Hesitantly, I flew just inside the opening, swelling in size and increasing my glow to brighten the dark tunnel. I’d hoped to see Mirage just inside the tunnel, but the wet hoof prints were the only trace of her we could see.

  “Let’s hurry to find her,” Ella suggested.

  Collywobbles and couscous! I wasn’t keen on entering the tunnel. Henry had warned us not to, after all. But there really wasn’t any way around it, not unless we wanted to abandon Mirage.

  So I flew ahead bravely (you may think flying up a tunnel isn’t very brave, but because of Henry’s warning I was terrified of what we might find ahead, and any time you have to fly headlong into your fears, you’re being brave, even if to everyone else it just looks like flying up a tunnel). Ella hurried after me almost at a run, until we came to the first fork, with one route brunching off to our right, and the other to our left.

  We both looked down, and then behind us.

  At some point in her journey, Mirage had air-dried enough that she no longer left a trail of tail-drips or hoof prints.

  “Which way?” Ella whispered, and sniffed at the tunnels, hoping to catch a whiff of wet horse or stable or something that might give her a hint of which way to go. She looked at me, uncertainty on her face.

  “We don’t dare split up,” I told her. “You need my light.”

  “Let’s take them as they come, then. To the left first, then to the right.”

  I plunged into the darkness of the tunnel on the left. It was a sharp left, as though the tunnel was meant to connect, not with the corridor to the cavern at all, but to the tunnel on the right. The route to the grotto seemed to branch off to the side of those.

  Perhaps that should have given us a clue about where we were going, but we didn’t have time to think through the sensible routes that might connect the points under the castle. We just wanted to find Mirage and get back to our tent.

  I did not feel brave at all. I felt terrified, but I wasn’t sure if my fear stemmed from some sense that we’d taken the wrong trail, or because I knew we were trespassing somewhere we weren’t supposed to be.

  Or perhaps, on some vaguely magical level, I’d picked up on the spirit of the place we were flying toward. It was a place of pain, stained by the criminals who had inhabited the subterranean space over the centuries.

  The tunnel opened up to a small chamber, with anterooms branching off from that, partitioned apart by iron bars.

  Shackles hung from some of the walls.

  Thankfully, the chamber was uninhabited.

  “Mirage couldn’t have come through here,” Ella noted in a tiny whisper. “She wouldn’t fit past those bars.”

  We sprinted back down the way we’d come. Ella paused at the junction. “Grotto,” she noted, pointing down the tunnel we’d come through before. Then she pointed to the third route. “This way.”

  We hurried on, shortly coming to another juncture.

  Ella groaned. “To the left, again, I guess,” she offered, so I flew that direction.

  We hadn’t gone far when we reached what were obviously the wine cellars. Barrels were stacked in rows, clay jars mounted on special holding shelves, and empty wine bottles for serving filled the shelves.

  Not that we lingered long enough to see much. It was clear Mirage couldn’t have entered the cramped space—not without knocking over barrels and jars as she squeezed through.

  Without a word, Ella and I turned and sprinted back the way we’d come, taking the final branch so quickly, Ella nearly fell into the stables once we reached them.

  Mirage stood next to a pair of other horses, chewing hay. She looked up at us calmly, oblivious to our frantic search on her behalf.

  Ella glanced around, checking to be sure no one would see her. Then she darted forward, grabbed Mirage by her halter, and turned back to the tunnel. Mirage snatched another mouthful of hay, then followed obediently.

  It was a long walk back to camp. By the time Ella reached the tent, the torches were burning low, and those of many nearby tents had already been extinguished for the evening. Ella peeled back the curtain at the doorway and peeked her head inside.

  Sigismund lay in heavy sleep on his pallet.

  Henry sat up straight. “Allard?” he whispered.

  “Yes. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Did you get lost?” Henry clambered to his feet and came outside to chat with Ella as she tied Mirage to the hitching post and made sure she’d have plenty of fresh hay and water.

  Sigismund had stocked everything aplenty.

  “Mirage got lost,” Ella explained as she tugged her boots from her tired feet, wincing as the bruises on her chest complained at the effort. She quickly told Henry the story of Mirage’s misguided trip. By the time she reached the part about Mirage grabbing a final bite of hay for the road, both she and Henry were laughing.

  “Oh, Mirage,” Henry snorted through his laughter.

  Mirage looked up at him, blinked, and went back to her hay.

  “I’m sorry if you stayed up late waiting for us,” Ella apologized.

  “I’d only just returned myself, and I wasn’t even to bed properly. I was trying to put the leeches on my bruises, and having quite a time reaching my back. If you help me with mine, I could help you with yours.” Henry held out a packet of something that looked like squirming raw liver in the darkness.

  Ella stared at the leeches and thought quickly. She couldn’t let Henry help her.

  “I can help you, of course,” Ella offered, and reached for the packet of leeches.

  Henry tugged his shirt off over his head, revealing bruises that were already turning from a deep red to a mottled purple.

  “Ouch,” Ella commiserated.

  “I’m sure your chest looks the same.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ella agreed. “Exactly.”

  Henry had already put leeches on the front bruises, so he turned his back to her. “Can you see where it’s worst?”

  “It’s quite obvious,” Ella assured him, placing a leech on a dark swollen patch. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

  “It’s tender,” Henry acknowledged, “but I’ll be fine. Much better once the leeches do their work.”

  Ella placed three more leeches on Henry’s back, then announced, “Those are the worst spots as far as I can see. Did I miss any?”

  “That’s the worst of it.” Henry slipped his shirt back on over his head. “How about you?”

  “I’ll get mine. There aren’t any I can’t reach. I did an inventory of them at the grotto—which eased the pain significantly, so thank you again for telling me about the place.”

  “No problem. You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

  “Fine. Get some sleep.”

  “You, too. I’ll tell you in the morning what we discussed at the tournament council meeting.”

  “Oh? Something interesting?”

  “We talked about you,” Henry told her, and ducked back through the curtain to his bed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ella watched the curtain fall into place after Henry. She half expected him to poke his head out again and explain further what he meant, but by the time she shook off her surprise and stepped inside, he was in his bed with his back to her.

  She slipped quietly behind the curtain to her side of the tent, applied the leeches to the places she needed them (I gave her a bit of help with her back, but I kept my glow down so no one would see me), and fell promptly to sleep.

  In the morning she awoke before anyone else, peeled off her leeches, and got her corset in place over her chest, though she couldn’t stand to cinch it too tightly because of the pain. By the time she dressed and rolled up the curtain that separated her sleeping quarters from the main part of the tent, Henry was awake and riffling through the food chest for their breakfast stores.

  “Do you mind starting the morning fire?” Henry asked. “There’s a tinderbox by the door.”

  “I’ve seen it.” Ella stopped to grab the box on her way out.
r />   She dug out the fire hole, arranged tinder and kindling, and crouched low with the fire striker, aiming it so the sparks would hit the tinder. She’d lit fires plenty of times on the road with her father, and quite often at Madame De Bouchard’s—the woman was awful about letting her fires go out.

  The breeze was just enough to fan the flame but not enough to put it out. Ella got the spark to catch, then fed in small sticks, adding larger ones as the flame grew.

  “You’re quite good at that,” Henry observed.

  Ella startled, then laughed at herself for startling. “I didn’t hear you step outside,” she explained.

  “I was just waiting for the fire to get big enough to start the coffee.”

  “If you’re here to watch it, I’m going to run to the latrine.”

  “Take the bucket on your way. We need fresh water.”

  “Good idea.”

  By the time Ella returned with fresh water, Henry not only had eggs in the pan, they were halfway done cooking.

  “What did they talk about?” Ella asked, having wondered since his cryptic statement the evening before.

  “Hmm?” He turned the eggs, and for a moment looked like he honestly didn’t know what she was referring to.

  “At your meeting last night—you said they talked about me. Or were you only joking?”

  “Ah, yes, they talked about you. They talked about what you did—how you were unhorsed, but then turned right around and leapt up on Einhard’s horse.”

  Ella’s eyes widened, as they often did when she felt afraid. “Am I in trouble? They’re not going to ban me from competing, are they?” The thought made her head spin. If she couldn’t compete, what would she do? Would she have to go back and serve Madame De Bouchard? The thought made her blood nearly freeze in her veins.

  “No, no. They’re not banning anyone, not today. Most of them were very impressed.” He got out two plates and served up their eggs.

  “Impressed? I thought it might count as cheating.”

  “That’s what some of the men said last night. That’s why the meeting went on so long. But some of the wise ones reminded us of why we fight in tournaments—to practice the necessary skills for battle. In battle, if you’re unhorsed, you’re usually as good as dead. That’s why the mounted melee eliminates men when they’re unhorsed. But if you can get back on a horse, like you did, in battle, you’re not dead. So the discussion centered around the idea that maybe, if a man can get on a horse again, he won’t be disqualified after all.”

  Ella understood the practical application for wartime, but it created problems in tournament play. “But you can’t have men on their feet in the midst of the horses. They’ll get trampled.”

  “That was also part of the discussion.” Henry scooped up a spoonful of eggs. “My argument was, you wouldn’t have many men who’d stick around on the field to try it, because they couldn’t do it anyway. That’s a rare skill you have.”

  “I grew up around horses. I can do more than just that.”

  “I’d like to see what you can do.” Henry smiled at her.

  For a moment, Ella just looked at him. He had nice teeth. A nice smile, really.

  Henry cleared his throat. “Perhaps along the road. We’ll leave for Bonn as soon as we break camp.”

  Ella nodded. She’d taken a mouthful of eggs and didn’t feel it would be polite to talk (Madame De Bouchard threw fits when her daughters talked with food in their mouths). But she’d noticed that some of the men had packed up and left already. She and Henry had slept in a bit after their late night. Sigismund had already risen, though she hadn’t seen him yet that morning.

  Jerome was, of course, still sleeping.

  She finally swallowed her bite of eggs. “Tell me what we need to do to break camp.”

  With Henry’s guidance, as they finished their coffee, they tore down the tent from around Jerome (who snored on until the morning clouds broke, and the warm sunlight hit his face). Sigismund arrived with a cart and horse, and Henry checked over the equipment to make sure everything was hitched correctly.

  “You got the yoke secured properly this time,” Henry observed, complementing the boy.

  “A stable hand helped me,” Sigismund admitted, looking up at Henry through low-hanging straw-like hair.

  “Better to do it with help than do it wrong,” Henry pronounced. “Have you head breakfast?”

  “I stopped at the sausage vendor’s tent.”

  “You’re going to use up all your pay before the week’s out. We have food here.”

  “Not sausages.”

  Henry chuckled and shook his head. “Let’s get loaded. If we can be ready to leave before the sausage vendor closes up shop, I’ll buy you lunch there.”

  Sigismund grinned and burst into action, packing and loading items with a precision that was, if not exactly up to the skill level of Ella and Henry, still quite impressive for an eight-year-old. Henry made good on his promise of sausages, and the four of them struck out on the road to Bonn. Ella rode Mirage, Henry rode Bastian, and Sigismund drove the cart while Jerome dozed on the seat beside him.

  It was a busy route, but not crowded. The bulk of the travelers had either left earlier that morning, or wouldn’t head out for another day or two. As they topped hills, Ella could see other parties on the road ahead of them, but there wasn’t anyone close enough to be a nuisance.

  “How about those riding skills of yours?” Henry asked once they’d finished their sausages.

  Ella didn’t say a word, but pulled her feet up onto her saddle, getting them steady underneath her, soles flat against the saddle, with her body in a crouch, before standing upright, still holding Mirage’s reigns.

  Mirage was familiar with the move, and didn’t falter, but continued on at the same pace.

  Henry clapped, and Sigismund cheered.

  Jerome, who tended to be dour in the mornings, raised one eyebrow, then went back to dozing.

  “Ride up alongside me,” Ella directed Henry.

  He looked wary, but brought Bastian up even with Mirage. The two horses synchronized their steps, hooves hitting the earth in rhythmic unison.

  Ella touched her right foot to Bastian’s back.

  The horse didn’t falter.

  Gradually, Ella put more weight on that foot, until she was standing evenly between the two horses.

  Sigismund cheered and clapped, and Henry looked up at her warily.

  She placed one hand on Henry’s shoulder. Still holding Mirage’s reins, she lifted her left foot and brought it over to Bastian’s back. She rode that way a moment more before reversing the moves and stepping back onto Mirage. Finally, she crouched down again, then sat in the saddle as she had in the beginning.

  “Impressive,” Henry complimented her. “But I don’t know that it would do you any good in the melee.”

  Ella laughed. “No, I don’t think it would. Still, you asked to see my skills. Here’s another one.”

  She leapt off her mare and ran ahead down the hill (the horses were walking to match the speed of the cart, which couldn’t go very fast). When she reached the bottom of the valley, she whistled to Mirage, who broke pace to a trot, bearing down on Ella almost as though to trample her.

  But as the horse approached her, Ella ran, almost meeting her pace, planted her hands just behind the mare’s mane, and threw her leg up and over the horse’s back, pulling herself on.

  Sigismund and Henry clapped again, and Ella called back, “Now you run up alongside me.”

  Henry didn’t hesitate, but urged Bastian forward.

  Ella got her feet up under her in a crouch again and rode, her neck craned to watch their approach from behind her. She let go of Mirage’s reins this time as Bastian pulled even with her, and she sprang to the side, landing on the bare stretch of Bastian’s back, behind Henry’s saddle.

  She grabbed Henry’s arm to steady herself.

  He laughed from the thrill of it, and also with relief that she hadn’t fallen. �
�Now that,” he pronounced, still chuckling, “is a trick that would be useful in the melee.”

  And so the journey went. Ella showed off a few more variations of her tricks—sliding back into Mirage’s saddle from Bastian’s back, mounting Bastian from standing with Henry still on his back, leaping onto either horse from various parts of the moving cart—and then, at Henry’s insistence, she tried to teach him how to perform the same tricks.

  He had considerable strength and skill, and confessed to already knowing how to mount a moving horse, though he’d not done it at such speed before. He was an able learner, though not as agile as Ella, especially with the standing skills.

  “I don’t know if I could ever ride standing,” he confessed, rising to no more than a high crouch before collapsing back into his saddle.

  Ella laughed at him. “I can shoot an arrow at a target while riding standing.”

  “Then your horse is steadier than mine,” Henry told her.

  At that, Ella hopped from Mirage to the cart, dug out a bow and a quiver of arrows, and called to Henry, “Give me your horse a moment. I’ll show you.”

  By this time Jerome was awake, and offered to bet Sigismund three silver coins that Allard wouldn’t be able to hit his mark.

  “I haven’t got more than two silver coins,” Sigismund told him. “But he can do it, if anyone can.”

  Henry overheard them as he clambered off Bastian’s back and onto the cart. “Three silver coins to all of you, and supper at the finest tavern we can find, if Allard can hit the mark I name.”

  Ella grinned, eager for the challenge. She strung the bow, climbed onto Bastian’s back, and fitted an arrow to the bowstring.

  When Henry pointed to a branch hanging over the roadway far ahead, and indicated a leaf that drooped lower than the rest, Ella laughed at him.

  “That’s not even that difficult.”

  “Do it, then.”

  So Ella did.

  The arrow, of course, flew straight through the leaf.

  Jerome, who may not have understood that Henry’s bet didn’t require Jerome to pay anyone no matter how Allard shot, protested that the shot had missed.