"But I must," Ivy said regretfully. "It is a law in the Forest Court that the hand of the princess must be won in a contest of three tasks, otherwise the Court will fall into ruin."
"You could stay here with us," said the fairy. "We could dance and ride and laugh all day--who cares if all the Courts of the world fall into ruin?"
"I care," Ivy said stoutly. "They are my people and I owe them better than that."
The girl just smiled and swung Ivy into an energetic dance; hence the bruise. "I bumped into a door," Ivy said now, and her mother raised a golden eyebrow, but said nothing else. Just then a great noise sprung up outside the window--something between a crash and a howl of pain.
"My goodness," said Arianrhod, "what is that commotion?" But Ivy had already dashed across the room to the window, clutching with one hand at the swaths of silk that wrapped her.
A high white wall circled the palace gardens, lined on the inside with rose bushes that looked harmless until touched, when they sprouted hundreds of razor-sharp thorns. At the moment, the garden was still--in the distance Ivy could see the whole forest court at their revels below the hill, tiny lights strung together in rings through the tall oak trees. They were celebrating her upcoming nuptials; not that any fairy court really needed a reason to dance and drink themselves into a stupor.
She wondered who would show up to the First Task in the morning. Probably some slimy hangers-on, a few power-hungry fairy lords from distant courts and an old enemy or two of her mother's, just to upset her. She was just trying to decide which of those options was the worst when a second howl of pain came from the rose bushes. A dozen arrows flew from the guard on the roof. Ivy leaned even further out her window to try to get a glimpse of the action, but she was too far away. All she could make out was the thrashing of a somewhat stocky figure, grimly entangled in the rose bushes' attacking thorns. He was hacking fiercely at them, while trying to dodge the arrows which snapped through the bramble like angry hornets.
"Oh, what fun," said Arianrhod, joining Ivy at the window. "I wonder if the guards will hack him to bits?"
Ivy didn't reply. The more the stranger struggled, she knew, the tighter the thorns would bind until they cut like whips into his flesh. Most of the arrows flew wide, whistling through the air around the thicket or between the tangles, but a few had struck the wood, splintering it. She heard the intruder give a cry of pain as the guards reached him. They surrounded the thicket with arrows notched.
"Drop your weapon!" cried Pryderi, the captain of the Forest Guard. The stranger complied. "And state your business here before we kill you, or feed you to the moat monster."
"Wouldn't that kill me?" the stranger asked. He had a low, husky voice.
"That," said Pryderi, "would depend on the moat monster's mood. But I can assure you it wouldn't be pleasant."
The stranger shrugged. "My name is Sir Blythe and I desire an audience with Her Highness the Princess Ivy Blossom."
"Your desires are irrelevant here, Sir Lithe..."
"Blythe," corrected the intruder, in a tone unusually patient for someone with an arrow in his arm and ten more at his throat.
"Of what court are you?" the captain demanded.
"I am unaligned."
"Of what purpose is your audience," the captain said sarcastically, "with Her Royal Highness?"
"To declare my love for her," Sir Blythe answered. Ivy almost smiled before she heard the guards snickering.
"You will get your audience, Sir Blythe the Unaligned, although you may regret it!" The captain pulled Sir Blythe from the thornbush with a ripping sound.
"An audience with you," the Queen marveled aloud. "He must be one of the knights, trying to gain your attention. An unorthodox approach, but..."
Ivy made a shooing motion. "Do get out of here, mother. I need to get dressed if I'm to give an audience."
Arianrhod swept from the room with bad grace, her pixies trailing behind her. The moment she was gone, Ivy tossed her gown onto the bed and slipped on her worn and comfortable deerskin trousers. When the knock on the door came, Ivy found Sir Blythe on his knees flanked by ten guards. He wore a silver helm, which covered most of his face, but she could tell that he was younger than she had thought. He had a strong chin and a full mouth and the hair hanging below the helm was fair and cut bluntly at the shoulders.
"Ivy," he began, raising his head.
He was interrupted by the captain's boot in his back. "You will not speak until you are spoken to, Sir Loathe!"
"Blythe," said the stranger in a muffled voice. "I told you already..."
Ignoring him, the captain turned to Ivy. "What shall we do with him?"
"Well, that depends," Ivy said. "Is he here for the contest?"
"I don't see what difference it makes if he is."
"If he is, than he is under the Forest Court's protection as long as he is on our lands. It's part of the proclamation. You know. 'Whosoever in the land wishes to sue for the hand of the Princess, blah blah blah.' It's meant to encourage those from other courts to travel here, knowing they can do so safely."
The captain glanced down at his prisoner. "Are you here for the contest?"
"Ofcorsmam," said Sir Blythe.
"Take your boot off him," Ivy suggested, and the captain did so. Sir Blythe straightened up.
"Of course I am," he said. "To win the hand of the princess, I have traveled many miles, fought through untold dangers, withstood unimaginable hardships..."
"He does run on, doesn't he?" said the captain disapprovingly.
Ivy sighed. "Take him to the dungeons and have someone tend to his wounds. Let him sleep there. He may vie with the others in the morning."
"Are you certain, Lady?"
Ivy nodded. She could have Sir Blythe killed in some humiliating public way, she knew, but he had said that he loved her. And he had such a pretty face--what she could see of it anyway. "I am certain."
The guard bowed to her and escorted Sir Blythe out. He went reluctantly, allowing the guard to pull him to his feet and turning his head to look at her until the last possible moment. Even after he had left, Ivy could feel the strength of his gaze on her as if it had been burning through the helm.
One thing was sure, she thought, whether Sir Blythe was a true knight or simply a spy, things were going to be a lot more interesting tomorrow than she had expected.
---
Five fairy knights were about to duel each other to first blood in the Forest Hall, and Ivy was bored. She was perched on a tree branch like the rest of the Court, a host of wickedly bright birds flashing their brilliant plumage through the dark green branches.
It turned out that with the exception of Sir Blythe, Ivy had done a pretty good job of predicting who would show up to fight for her hand. Lord Caradoc had arrived from the Meadow Court and given her mother a really disgusting smile before falling to his arthritic elderly knees and declaring himself. He was well armed, with a curved blade made of enchanted bone, and it was possible that his lifetime of experience with a blade would make up for his decrepitude. Ivy shuddered at the thought of him winning--seeing Lord Caradoc there made Ivy realize just why her mother had been so happy when her father had won the contest.
Lord Gronwyth of the River Court, already married but wanting to strengthen his ties to the throne, had sent his nephew, Orrin, a young knight who was clearly terrified. He had taken one look at Caradoc's sword and gone the color of his own green fish-scale armor. Who knew if he even wanted to be here, Ivy thought. He hadn't looked at her once.
Then there was Rival, a knight of the traveling Wind Court. He had arrived for the duel in a patchwork suit sewed together from unmatched stolen human clothing. Bands of flowered silks vied with rags and scraps of cotton, all festooned with trailing ribbons and all in bad taste. He bowed to the King with a flourish of his rapier, grinning through a trailing lace sleeve. When he stood up, he scanned the crowd carefully. Ivy gazed upon him enviously--it was rumored that he was a spy for the Wind C
ourt. She had always wanted to be a spy for her own Court, but both her parents had refused to entertain the notion for a moment. She'd asked Rival about it once, but he'd only scoffed, saying girls couldn't be spies.
The fourth knight was Prince Geraint of her own Forest Court. Tall and handsome, with flowing black hair, Geraint radiated a wicked allure. He batted his eyelashes at the Queen as he straightened out of his bow, and the Queen grinned back.
Ivy knew that her mother favored Geraint--she was so fond of him that Ivy had gone so far as to suggest that if Arianrhod liked Geraint so much, she ought to be the one who married him. Arianrhod had looked so delighted at the suggestion that Ivy had begun to fear for the future of her own father, who had brought a hunk of honeycomb to the proceedings and was eating it with relish, oblivious of what was going on around him.
The problem was that Ivy hated Geraint, had hated him ever since she'd caught him torturing a helpless pixie one day in the castle gardens. She wondered if she'd rather marry a sadist, a dandy, or a walking corpse like Caradoc.
Lastly, there was the mysterious Sir Blythe. Broad-shouldered and straight as a feather staff, he bowed stiffly to the Queen and declared himself. "I am Sir Blythe, here to seek the hand of the Princess Ivy."
"You mean the Princess Ivy Blossom of the Forest Court," the Queen said sharply, taking offense at Blythe's over-familiar tone.
"I didn't realize there was another princess on offer," Blythe said.
The Fairy Court tittered.
The Queen frowned, her crown of silver-dipped thorns sparkling in a threatening manner. "And you are of what court? A knight? A prince? What is your position, sir?"
"My position is unimportant," said Blythe. "What matters is the love in my heart. The love I bear the Princess Ivy."
The Queen frowned. "Let the First Task begin," she said, rising to her feet. "Caradoc, you will duel Rival to first blood; Geraint, you will duel Orrin."
"But I have no partner," Blythe objected, sounding alarmed.
"You, sir Blythe, will fight each of the winners," said the Queen coldly. "Should you best them, you may proceed to the Second Task. Otherwise, you are disqualified."
Ivy heard a murmur run around the Court. Clearly, the Queen had taken a dislike to the mysterious young suitor, who would now have to fight twice, and win twice, just to stay in the contest. She glanced anxiously toward Blythe, but he merely shrugged his indifference as the Queen clapped her hands sharply for the Task to begin.
It was soon clear where the advantages lay: Caradoc, though experienced, was old, and wearied quickly under Rival's onslaught. Soon a bright flower of blood bloomed on the front of his white tunic, and he conceded the fight. Geraint, true to his nature, tormented the young knight, Orrin, the way that he had once tormented that pixie in the garden--lunging at him, then veering away at the last moment, prolonging the boy's anxious terror. Finally his sword slipped, piercing the green fish-scaled armor at the elbow, and the duel was done.
"Geraint!" the Queen cried, leaping to her feet in girlish delight as Orrin limped from the scene of his defeat, his arm streaming blood. As he passed the King's throne, Ivy saw Blythe reach out to lay a sympathetic hand on the river fairy's shoulder. There was something about that movement--something familiar--something that nagged at the back of her mind.
The second round of duels began, and now Ivy found herself leaning far forward on her branch, no longer bored. Sir Blythe, though small, fought with a passionate fervor she'd rarely ever seen before. Within moments he had disarmed Rival and nicked his wrist. Geraint, so much taller and heavier, proved a greater challenge.
The two fought back and forth across the meadow, churning up mud and flowers with their boots. When Blythe's sword finally cut a gash along Geraint's upper thigh, Ivy had to stifle a cheer.
"All three of you go on to the Second Task," said the Queen, sounding disappointed, as the knights approached the throne. She glanced at Blythe, her expression sour. "You fought well enough," she said.
"I would fight a hundred, a thousand knights, for the heart of Ivy," Blythe said, his clear young voice ringing through the air. "I would best a dozen dragons, swim a score of roiling rivers, brave the icy slopes of Mount--"
"Oh, do shut up," said the Queen peevishly. "You're giving me a headache."
"I merely speak my heart," said Sir Blythe in a mild tone.
The Queen shook her head before she replied. "Hearts have no place in a contest like this."
---
That evening, Ivy sat again by the window in her tower room, looking out over the wall and the meadows and the far-off mountains. In the distance, a plume of black smoke curled up behind the trees--probably the local dragon, Faustilian, out for an evening maraud. Faustilian had lived near their lands for many centuries, and when she had been a little girl she'd spent many hours in his lair, listening to him reminisce about the good old days when mortals respected dragons and offered them presents like tasty knights in crunchy armor and the occasional maiden on a stick. "Now," Faustilian would say, "it's important to remember to toast the maiden lightly so as not to give yourself indigestion." And Ivy would nod, busily burying the dragon's enormous horny claw under a sand pile of gold coins.
Though it had been at least a century since she'd last visited Faustilian, Ivy couldn't push back a wave of sadness at the thought of tomorrow. When her mother had announced that the next Task was to be a quest into the heart of the forest to the lair of Faustilian, the forest dragon, from which each suitor must return with one of the dragon's scales, Ivy had been certain that Geraint would return with the scale, and that Faustilian would be dead. It saddened her, but she could not change her mother's mind.
As she raised herself up on the windowsill, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. The edge of a wing? No, it was a scarlet ribbon, trailing across the top of the white wall.
She leaned farther out as the ribbon was joined by another, this one gold. A moment later, a gaudily patchworked figure swung itself up on top of the wall. Rival of the Wind Court stood silhouetted against the moon for a long moment before he dropped lightly into the garden. Ivy thought that perhaps he, like Blythe, was coming to pledge his love to her--but he avoided her window, creeping silently toward the small door at the garden's foot that led to the castle's lower levels.
And what are you up to, my fashionable friend? Ivy remembered his curt words to her, and her mouth curled. No one knew this castle better than she did, and that included any spy of the Wind Court. Let's see how the spy enjoys being spied on himself, she thought, and rose lightly into the air, her wings barely rustling the leaves on the oak trees as she darted down into the garden after Rival.
---
"All three?" Amazement was plain on the Queen's face. "All three suitors have returned with the dragon's scale? Well, that is...unprecedented."
The Court stared along with her, for there, on their knees before the Queen, were the three knights, each of whom held a green and silver scale in his hands. The scales were as large as supper platters and as thick. Rival was untouched, his coat and boots as clean as they had been yesterday. Sir Blythe's armor seemed darkened, as if by smoke, but his smooth skin showed no marks. Geraint was cut and bleeding in a dozen places. Oh, poor Faustilian! Ivy thought, hoping that the great serpent was still alive.
The crowd pushed closer for a view of the scales, glittering in the light. "Well fought, suitors," the Queen said. "Each of you has quested into the heart of the forest. Each of you has battled the great beast and returned, not just with your lives," she shot a suspicious look at Blythe, "but also with the dragon's scale. You may all..."
"That is not exactly true, mother," Ivy said loudly, rising to her feet behind her parents, who turned to stare at her in surprise. Sir Blythe's hands tightened on the scale he held. Ivy wondered what troubled his conscience.
"What do you mean," the Queen asked slowly, "by this outburst, Ivy?"
"Lord Rival did not enter the forest
at all. The scale he holds was stolen from our own treasury last night."
The Queen stared first at Rival, then at her daughter. "These are grave allegations, Ivy. What proof have you that they are true?"
"I witnessed his crime myself. I saw him creeping into the garden last night and followed him to the treasury. He picked the lock with a Wind Key and stole the scale, as well as a large quantity of gold."
"Stolen?" the Queen echoed. "Our gold?"
"Indeed," Ivy said cheerfully. "You will find the gold not on his person but in the hands of his creditors, whom he met last night at the Old Oak. They are mostly garment merchants, to whom he had given chits of debt in exchange for his expensive clothing."
Lord Rival had gone the color of milk after it had been soured by a brownie. "This is preposterous," he protested. "While it's true that this suit cost me well over a hundred gold pieces..."
"You were overcharged," murmured Sir Blythe.
Ivy stifled the urge to laugh. "Examine Sir Rival's scale!" she said, turning the fairy guards who stood at each corner of the pavilion. "You will find the Court's insignia engraved on the corner."
The Queen stood, gazing down at Lord Rival from a frosty height. "Lord Rival of the Wind Court," she said, "are these allegations true?"
Rival looked frantically from one side to the other, then drew his sword, tossed the scale at the Queen's feet and, turning on one heel, ran from the hall with his sword drawn. The crowd parted to let him go, watching his cowardly flight with open mouths.
Ivy picked up the scale and held it out to her mother, showing where the engraved symbol of the flowering tree caught the light. The Queen nodded, her lips tightly compressed.
So Fey: Queer Fairy Fiction Page 7
