Fairytales Slashed, Volume 2

by Megan Derr

  "Best leave 'em, lad," Meir called, though by his tone he was just as reluctant as Alcor to leave behind the fine horseflesh.

  Alcor made a face, but obeyed. Gathering up the reins, he led the horses to where the people still stood with Meir. They warded themselves again, but Alcor could not muster the energy to do more than roll his eye. "Keep them until we are gone," he said slowly so he would not start coughing. "Then let them loose." He dropped the reins when he saw no one would take them, leaving the nitwits to scramble for them. Turning back to Meir, he said, "Go?"

  "Aye, Meir replied and without further word, led the way back to their own little camp, Mutt close at their heels.

  When they reached the fire they had stupidly left burning unattended, Alcor sat down and began to make fresh tea. "Pointless," he said after a moment.

  Meir shrugged. "Saving lives is never pointless, even if the rescued fail to express their appreciation—or realize they should be appreciative. It's mostly fear; if we had stayed longer, eventually they would have come around."

  Alcor said nothing. He wondered if perhaps the nitwits would have been more immediately grateful if they had not been rescued by a beast. He sneered and stabbed at the fire, angry for no one reason he could articulate. He was mad at the stupid travelers. He was mad at the stupid nobles. He was mad—

  He was mad at himself and that was the hardest thing to face.

  If his life had not turned into a living nightmare a year and a half ago, then he would have finally gone off to the city to begin to live his own life, largely independent of his family. Alcor was no mage, but he had his talents. He would have done well on his own feet. The freedom—

  Given all that freedom, even greater than what he'd already had, would he have acted the same as the dead men? He did not think so, for he had never favored violence. It was too messy, and he'd hated his father's beatings, but, well, half the fun of dragonweed was the freedom of mind it brought. The way it made a man not care about anything at all.

  The more he thought about it—and he could not seem to stop thinking about it—the more he had to wonder what he would be doing now, if he had not been cursed that night.

  "You all right there, lad?"

  Alcor jumped and saw that the water was sufficiently heated and that Meir was speaking to him. "What?" he growled.

  "You look a bit unsteady."

  Shrugging irritably, Alcor made the tea, but as he had known, a single sip had barely touched his lips before his stomach rebelled against the idea. He set the tea down again, silently ordering his stomach to stop trying to heave itself up for lack of contents to toss.

  Meir said something, but Alcor ignored him. Instead, he pulled out the rose and buried his nose in it. Always the honeysuckle, and that day it was stronger than ever. Warm and sweet, and he realized abruptly that somewhere along the way he had grown to like the scent.

  "Alcor!"

  He jerked his head up, startled to hear Meir actually use his name. "What?"

  "I know it pains you to move quickly, but we're going to have to travel hard and fast over the next several days to make certain we are not where authorities might find us. If scared enough, those travelers will not hesitate to inform whoever asks that we did the killing."

  And, Alcor though tiredly, he was all too easy to describe and identify. "Why?" he asked.

  "Did we bother saving them?" Meir smiled, but it looked as tired as Alcor felt. "Most of the time, people are better than that. And as I said before, fear made them less grateful than I think they would have otherwise been. Good or bad, they did not deserve what those men would have done. Anyway, if there is one thing I have learned, people always get what they deserve."

  To that, Alcor could say nothing.

  "We should break camp and get as far away as possible," Meir said after a moment. Nodding, Alcor fell to helping break up the camp, and in less than half an hour, they were on their way. "I do wish we could have kept the horses," Meir said wistfully.

  Alcor grunted in agreement and kept his eye on Dragonback Mountain, refusing to think about anything other than the hunting lodge.

  *~*~*

  It was not in as bad a state as he had feared, perhaps because they had always paid well to ensure it was properly closed up and maintained in their absence. Even a year and a half later, it was in solid repair. The only dilemma was his lack of a key, but if he recalled correctly…

  Shrugging off his knapsack—one he had acquired as they pushed on toward the hunting lodge—he left it on the front steps and made his way to the stables. Inside, he bypassed the stalls and headed directly for the backroom where all the equipment and such were kept. At the very back was a long shelf, just above where it could be easily reached by any but an exceptionally tall person. Standing on his toes, Alcor ran his hand along the shelf, acquiring little more than dust and grime—aha.

  Grasping the spare key, he returned to the house, where Meir and Mutt had been content to slump upon the stairs and await his return. The door creaked as it opened, and a wash of dust and stale flowers struck him, but, for a moment, it had almost felt like coming home. Reality returned in the next breath, however. Once the staleness and dust was gone, it smelled only like an empty house.

  His father was not snarling orders and eying his secretary speculatively. His mother was not rolling her eyes and stripping off her gloves while calling for the gardener to begin fussing about her roses. His sister was not striding off to the stables to have a look at the horses and head stableman.

  This was the first time he had really thought of his family since being cursed. He could not say there was affection lost there, though they had not been wholly unfeeling of one another. His parents had been an excellent match, in their day, the talk of the city for months. He and his sister were splendid results of the match—a proper heir and a woman to further connections. Tellingham, he recalled abruptly. His father had recently decided to betroth her to Tellingham. Alcor's own marriage they had still been debating.

  Abandoning the front room, he wandered into the study where so many times he had seen his father—sometimes to talk, often to argue, sometimes to join him in relaxing, and occasionally to find him with his secretary.

  The room smelled like books and leather, musty velvet and the faintest hints of his father's cologne. He moved to the desk and sat down stiffly in the leather chair that had been one of his father's many thrones.

  Moving simply because he could not hold still, Alcor opened the main drawer of the enormous desk, poking at stationary and inks, seals and wax, quills and penknife, an appointment book which looked as though it had never been used, and a bottle of special oil that had no doubt been used frequently on the secretary. There was also a little black pouch, innocuous looking, but he did not need to open it to know it contained dragonweed. Careless of his father to have left it here; by now it would be well past using.

  He closed the drawer, deciding to deal with the whole mess later. Standing, he abandoned the library to explore the rest of the house. Returning to the main foyer, he saw that Meir had vanished, but Mutt still lay upon the carpet. His ears lifted hen Alcor appeared, and he climbed to his feet with a soft woof.

  "Come on, then, if you must," Alcor said and motioned for Mutt to follow him.

  Barking, Mutt followed along as Alcor climbed the stairs to the second floor. He ventured into his own suite first, more from the habit of always going that way upon reaching the second level.

  Whatever he had been expecting upon seeing his black-and-red room again, it was not to feel as though he were looking upon the room of a stranger. That was precisely how it felt, however.

  He wandered through the sitting room, touching various objects and pieces of furniture lightly. The red crystal decanter and matching tumblers. The onyx and ruby jewel box which would normally have held his personal supply of dragonweed as well as other amusements. A matching one in the bedroom held an interesting assortment of oils and creams. The furniture was black leath
er and red velvet, touched with accents of dark silver. It had always amused him to have a room which looked as though it belonged in a brothel.

  Striding through the sitting room, he opened the door to the bedroom and stepped slowly inside. More red and black. The bed was draped with two sets of curtains Gauzy red curtains because he liked the way sunlight and candlelight filtered through the filmy material and heavy black curtains for when he wanted no light whatsoever.

  Ignoring it all, he strode into his wardrobe and pulled out the old clothes he had left there because they had either become grossly unfashionable or ever so slightly ill-fitting. As much weight as he had lost in the months since his curse, everything would practically hang off him. In addition to his clothes, he gathered up his five winter cloaks, cumbersome though it was to carry so much fabric.

  He dropped bits several times on his way out of the room, but finally managed to get into one of the guest rooms with his entire bundle. Dumping the mess on the bed, he took stock of what he had—four pairs of breeches, six shirts, five jackets, five waistcoats, and four sets of smallclothes. He would probably find still more in his father's rooms, which meant he would not have to worry about clothes for some time to come.

  To think he had once thrown fits if he had less than fifteen unique, tailored outfits at his immediate disposal…

  Shaking his head, leaving the clothes, he went to see what else there was to see. Mutt trailed along cheerfully, content with the occasional absent petting. Alcor took stock and began to feel overwhelmed and helpless. There were so many things he did not know how to do, that he would have to figure out.

  Firewood, cleaning, laundry. He'd never noticed there were so many candles about the place. How precisely did one make a bed? At least he did not need to know how to cook. Then there was the yard—the rose garden.

  Turning sharply on his heel, he strode downstairs and through to the back of the house, throwing open the glass-paned doors and stepping out into the rose garden.

  It was a disaster. He would not have thought so much could happen in less than two years, but the whole area had devolved from beautiful order to pure chaos. His mother had planted both bushes and climbing roses, and the two now combined in a wild tangle of vines and thorns and colorful petals. Even the cobblestone path cutting through the garden had been overtaken by the roses. Red, white, yellow, orange, pink, and it seemed at least half a dozen shades of each color, if not more.

  Alcor sighed and started to turn away when something caught his eye. A color—a red, rich and deep, so unlike any other red he had ever seen. Frowning he picked and pushed his way through the mess, wincing at the occasional thorn until he reached the rosebush in question.

  Reaching out slowly, he touched the nearest of the riotous blossoms. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out his own rose. Holding it up against those on the bush, he could only stare in confusion. They matched perfectly. How could that be?

  He bent to smell the rosebush, feeling foolish, but they only smelled like roses. Alcor twirled his rose in his fingers, and wondered how in the gods' names he had come to be gifted an enchanted rose that had been taken from his mother's garden.

  Shadows moved in his mind, murmuring softly. Snatches and whispers of his dream, but none of it was clear enough or loud enough to make any sense. Aggravated, Alcor quit the rose garden and returned to the house. Back in the main foyer, Meir had reappeared.

  "Tidy little cabin," he said in cheerful understatement. "Not a bad place to spend a self-imposed exile from the rest of the world."

  Alcor ignored that. "Picked a room and made yourself at home yet?" he asked instead.

  Meir looked at him. "Why should I have? It's not as if it's my house, or you've said I may stay."

  "Since when do you care about what I say or don’t say? I could not get rid of you when we were camping outside on the wretched ground, how in the hells would I get rid of you now we are someplace comfortable?"

  There was a moment of silence then Meir burst out laughing. "Alcor, I think you just made a jest. Here I'd resigned myself to your not having a sense of humor." Alcor only cast him a withering look then turned to explore those parts of the house he could not recall ever actually seeing.

  The kitchen looked even stranger than his room. He was not certain he even knew what most of the objects in it were for, except in the haziest of ways. At least food was not an issue, he thought again. If he had to feed himself, he would be dead, curse or no curse.

  "Been a lot of years since I was in a kitchen," Meir said, coming up beside him. "Took me two decades to decide to learn how to cook. Might be fun to take it up again." He smirked. "I can teach you while I'm at it."

  "No," Alcor said tersely.

  Meir laughed. "Well, now. I'd be willing to wager the day to day matters of maintaining a house are a bit of a mystery to you. Were to me too, once. I'll teach you what you need—if you learn how to cook as well."

  "I hate you," Alcor said with feeling. "What in the bloody hells does it matter if I cook and eat? What is this obsession you have with it? It is my business, not yours."

  "You're too skinny," Meir said lightly, but then continued more seriously. "One day, lad, you'll break your curse. I do not doubt it. It took me decades to show the changes that you are already showing. I was far more stubborn than you, trust me. When you do break that curse, you will have no choice but to eat. So, you'll learn."

  "I hate you," Alcor repeated.

  Meir grinned. "At least you've developed a sense of humor. That took me thirty years. Come on, then. Let's take stock and see what we've got, what we need, and what needs to be done."

  A task easier said than done, and Alcor sat down in a large, plush reading chair in the study several hours later, grimacing in pain. He glanced at the bar and its array of decanters across the room , but the desire for a drink vanished as quickly as it had come.

  Instead, he turned his attention to the books which lined one wall. He wondered, suddenly, why there were so many. Every now and then one of them might have picked up a book out of boredom, but they had set it down again almost as quickly. Just for show, perhaps?

  Having nothing better to do, and willing to take any distraction from the pain, Alcor slowly stood up and began to idly read the titles of the various books. The diversity of the subject matter was startling. There seemed to be a little bit of everything: History, religion, magic, philosophy, astronomy, astrology, chemistry, mathematics, politics, medicine, anatomy, and even a few books of poetry tucked off into a lower shelf in the corner.

  Unable to think of anything better to do, he chose a book at random and set it on his chair. Then he moved to stoke the fire and throw on a couple of extra logs. That done, he resumed his seat and began to read.

  The feel of something warm and wet across his face jerked him out of sleep, and he stared groggily as the book tumbled from his lap and Mutt got in one more sloppy lick before Alcor gathered his wits enough to shove the damned dog away. "Bad dog," he said, but the force of the words was stolen by a yawn. He scrubbed at his face and wondered what time it was.

  The fire had all but died, making the room chilly. Stooping, Alcor retrieved the fallen book and set it on the little table beside his chair. He glanced toward the window and saw only moonlight slipping through the curtains.

  "Why did you wake me up, you damned dog?" he grumbled. Shivering, he moved to bring the fire back to life. A few minutes later, suitably warmed, he moved to the window and pushed back the drapes to stare out over the front lawn and the drive which wove through the forest and up to the house.

  Outside, all seemed still, save for the rustling of the trees in the wind. Alcor dropped the curtain back into place and turned away from the window with a sigh. Going back to sleep sounded a fine idea, but he was too awake now to manage it.

  "Damned dog," he muttered again.

  Sensing he was being spoken about, Mutt came forward and pushed at Alcor's hand to receive more petting. He obliged for a mo
ment, having nothing better to do, then pulled away with another sigh to leave the study. He stood at a momentary loss in the hallway, weighing his options. Wherever Meir might be, likely he was still asleep, so wandering the house was a poor idea.

  Instead, he turned toward the front door and let himself out into the cold, crisp night. He should have brought a cloak, but trekking back inside and upstairs was too much effort for him to be bothered with—and it was not as though the cold would kill him.

  Keeping close to the house, Alcor wandered slowly around it, pausing when he reached the wall that he knew separated his mother's precious rose garden from the wilderness beyond. Here and there, the climbing roses had reached high enough to spill over the top of the wall and begin to overtake the opposite side. Pale petals seemed to glow in the shreds of moonlight.

  Alcor walked on, pulling out his own rose, smelling wood smoke, tea and whiskey, and something sweet that he could not place. He imagined the mysterious, pale-haired figure sitting beside a fire, sipping a hot toddy, perhaps conversing and laughing with some unknown companion. Family? Friend? Lover?

  The last one stirred a heavy, cold, unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sneering at himself, Alcor tucked the rose away and decided he may as well have another go at reading. The book he'd fallen asleep reading had not actually been that bad.

  He stopped abruptly as the ground beneath his feet changed. Hard packed ground, rather than grass. Turning his head, he realized he had wandered rather further from the house than he had intended. Looking back down at his feet, he realized he had reached the old path which looped widely around the lodge and led into the forest at various points.

  In fact, he seemed to recall he had used this very path quite frequently as a child. Not for years now, not since, oh, what, his fifteenth year? Sixteenth? He had preferred the indoors, save for hunting, after whichever year that was. Dragonweed and the occasional bits of flesh were far more interesting than anything a bunch of trees could offer.