by Alex Bledsoe
“A fish?” someone asked. “A singing fish?”
“Well, not just any regular fish,” the bard said. “The man who wrote the tune told me she’d once been a beautiful woman herself, and was turned into a cold fish when she would not, as they say, exchange flesh with her lover.”
“Turned by who?” someone else asked.
“Ladies, gentlemen, I don’t write the songs, I just sing them.” He strummed his lyre. “Now here’s one . . .”
The songs were fun, and I joined in the choruses like everyone else. Still, through all this, I kept one eye on the table in the corner, at the young man who might be a prince and the fat guy who might be trouble. They did nothing suspicious, which did nothing to allay my suspicions.
Chapter
ELEVEN
At nightfall, we all went outside to watch the ceremonial Awakening of Eolomea. The central courtyard had been turned into a maze of fire, with blobby homemade candles outlining a spiral path that led to the covered well in the middle of the space. Before that well, on a a faux throne, sat a girl with a white veil over her face. She was completely still, like a statue. Only the slightest ripple caused by her breath revealed she was alive.
I tried to see through the veil to the face beneath it, but of course I couldn’t; that was, after all, the point. The girl wore an elaborate gown made up of lots of different-colored cloth, which nevertheless had long slits up the skirt that revealed exquisite, muscular legs, and a low-cut bodice that also showed off the kind of curves men always notice. I admit I felt a little weird noticing them, too.
We got a spot at the front of the crowd. Musicians played somewhere, the kind of simple tunes everyone in this region would know. The only light came from the candles. Anticipation grew around us, and voices quickly turned to whispers. This was more than just a fun event for these people: at some level, they believed that it genuinely did ensure their continued ability to survive. Yes, they knew it was just elaborate playacting, that the girl in the chair was just the daughter of a local farmer. But they also believed that the real Eolomea was watching, and judging, and would either grace them or damn them for the coming year based on this evening.
Finally several young men—painted and loinclothed like the one who’d earlier propositioned Liz—emerged into the spiral. They danced slowly, with broad gestures, providing their own percussive accompaniment with small drums. At the end came a final young man dressed all in black, with a veil like the girl in the chair. He also carried a big black basket filled with flowers and what looked like the stalks of weeds.
This was common symbolism in agrarian communities, including some of those in Arentia. It was the spirit of dead winter, represented by the man in black, releasing the spirit of spring, rebirth and growth. My mom took me to a similar festival when I was a boy, and the much more elaborate costumes gave me nightmares for a week. It didn’t bother any of the peasant kids, of course. For them, it wasn’t scary, but joyous. My elite isolation made it terrifying.
The dancing men reached the veiled girl and knelt in a circle around her. The spirit of winter stood before her and began draping her still form with the contents of his bag.
“These unusual weeds to each part of you do give a life: no mortal woman, but Eolomea, awakening for spring’s sweet kiss. This sheep-shearing is a conclave of the petty gods, and you are the queen of it.”
As he did this, there was a slight commotion across the way. The fat man from the tavern used his bulk to force his way to the front of the crowd opposite us, then stepped aside to allow his handsome young companion to move up beside him. Because of the relative silence, I caught most of what they said to each other.
“Stand here by me, Master Jack. I will make the goddess do you grace. You’ll see the way she greets me.”
Jack, I thought. Bonny Prince Jack. Ah-hah.
The man he called Jack chuckled. “I can only hope she’d rather greet me than you, Billy.”
“Don’t you worry, now. She has eyes only for you, my prince.”
Jack scowled at him. “Okay, stop that. Seriously. Here I’m just Jack, got it? Jack. Say it back to me.”
The fat man grinned and bowed as much as his bulk and the press of the crowd allowed. “As you say, Jack. As you say.”
Jack seemed amused by this, as if his disguise, if it was a disguise, was not truly meant to fool anyone. Was he the prince of Altura, then? Was this all just so he could enjoy the festival? I could accept that, were it not for the dangerous vibe I still got from the fat man called Billy, and the fact that I’d seen him in Mahnoma without Prince Jack in tow.
Even now, as the prince watched the ceremony, Billy watched the prince with tiny, avaricious pig-eyes. What was the relationship between these two? And why did their apparent interest in Isadora set off even more alarms?
At last the black-clad spirit of winter finished draping the young woman with his flowers and stepped back. The previousimmobile form raised its hands and lifted the white veil, exposing this year’s face of Eolomea, Isadora Glendower. She opened her eyes, looked up at winter, and smiled.
She was beautiful. I’d seen a lot of beautiful women and girls over the years, and Isadora ranked near the top. She had big dark eyes, dark hair, and high cheekbones. Her lips were full, and revealed a slight but adorable overbite. She looked, of course, nothing at all like her adopted family. How had they explained that?
She peered up at the Winter King and smiled, very slightly, the kind of smile that came only from intelligence and self- knowledge. Liz had that kind of smile, too; it struck me without warning that, had things been different, Isadora could very well be our daughter. That realization took me by surprise.
Isadora then let out a trilling shriek, echoed by the throng of other young girls that rushed from the shadows and began dancing with the boys.
Isadora jumped up as well, tossing off the weeds that had covered her. Three men lifted her and carried her around the spiral, somehow avoiding the candles. They placed her on the ground at the edge, and she began skipping and dancing, distributing joyful kisses to those of us in the front of the throng.
She stopped dead in front of Jack, though, frozen in mid-movement as if she’d become the statue she’d pretended to be moments before. I couldn’t see her face, but the look on his was plain enough. And even if it hadn’t been, Liz said softly, “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“I know that look. He’s taken the bait, and she’s reeling him in.” She shook her head. “And neither of them even knew they were fishing.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s the way you looked at me that first day in Angelina’s Tavern. And if you were really as observant as you thought you were, you’d remember that’s how I looked at you.”
The kiss Jack and Isadora shared was completely different from the ones she’d been distributing so freely. It was tender and sweetly passionate, the kiss of two people who had not yet experienced the madness love can drive you to. But with Billy nearby, grinning and almost rubbing his hands together in glee, I had a feeling this innocence wouldn’t last.
As she pulled away, her legs wobbled and almost collapsed under her. Jack caught her, and they both laughed. Had his kiss been that effective?
After the little ceremony, the festival degenerated into random music, dancing, and drinking. I’m not much of a dancer, at least not in a nonformal situation; I can do a fine court waltz, but otherwise I’m pretty lead- footed unless someone’s trying to kill me. Liz did not have this problem, though, and after a few drinks I couldn’t keep her seated beside me. Not that I minded much, since watching her lithe, supple form move around to music was certainly one of my definitions of a good time.
Once when she returned to take a drink, she said to me breathlessly, “You look miserable.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. If you won’t dance with me, why don’t you go talk to him and get it out of your system?”
“Talk to w
ho?”
“The fat guy. He’s all by himself. His pocket prince is too busy dancing with Eolomea.”
She was right: Billy sat on the porch of the packed tavern, a tankard in his hand, watching the people dance in the courtyard. The prince and Isadora were in the center, dancing the way two kids who have recently fallen in love always dance. A low cloud of dust obscured everyone’s feet and made the fat man appear to sit in a smoldering cloud.
“Go talk to him, find out who he is and what he wants. You know you want to.” She kissed me and returned to her dancing.
I picked up my tankard and sauntered over, playing a man who was looking for a seat and a good drinking partner. I said, “Excuse me, mind if I join you?”
Billy looked up at me. His hair was thin on top but long in the back, and he’d combed little points out of his beard on either side of his chin. There was something fierce and wily in his eyes, an intelligence greater than I’d anticipated finding there. I wondered how many men might have met their end, or at least their detriment, because they missed that. He said, “Certainly, sir. It’s a festival; if you were a pretty girl, you could sit in my lap!”
I sat on the stoop beside him. We touched mugs and drank. Foam and liquid dripped from his facial hair when he lowered his tankard. He said, “Where are you from, sir?”
“Muscodia. What about you?”
“Oh, here and there. No place like home, but no place is home, I say. Wherever I lay my lance is my home.” He laughed uproariously at his own double entendre.
I smiled as I drank, or rather as I pretended to drink. I sensed I needed to keep my wits about me with this guy. “Is that your son?” I asked, indicating the boy dancing with Isadora.
“Oh, goodness, no, he’s a friend. A companion, if you will. Up with the sun, gone with the wind. I met him on the road, and we decided to travel together, enjoying the fruits of spring with these wholesome lads and lasses.” He raised his glass to the ones around us. Then he took another drink and said, “By heaven, this rustic ale has a bite to it. I wonder that it doesn’t eat away the pit of my stomach.”
“Could be worse,” I said. “Down where they grow corn and wheat, they draw off this stuff from the bottom of the silos, where the silage has rotted and fermented, sometimes for generations. I’ve seen it leave a man bald the next day. All over.”
“Good heavens,” he said, eyes wide in mock horror. “Then I shall be grateful for this libation.” He turned up the tankard and drained it in one long swallow.
“That’s pretty grateful,” I said.
“Oh, the best ale is good for two things. Do you know what those are?”
“Nose painting, sleep, and urine?”
“That’s three things. No, good ale, good rum, good drink, goes straight to your brain and dries up all your doubts and troubles, then it warms your blood so that even shy persons have the strength to get up and do what needs be done.”
He did like the sound of his own voice. I indicated his dancing friend again and said, “Who’s the young lady?”
“Why, the queen of curds and cream,” he said with a laugh. “She’s the prettiest lowborn lass to ever run on these green hills. The daughter of some shepherd, believe it or not. She’s far too noble for this place.”
“So you know her?”
“My young friend knows her. He made her acquaintance some weeks ago after a falconing incident. That’s why he was coming back: he wanted to surprise her, and I’d say he did.”
“Coming back from where?” I asked.
“Oh, here and there,” he repeated again, and this time he looked at me more closely. I’d have to be craftier if I wanted to get any information out of him without tipping my own hand. “He, like me, moves about following the good food and drink, much like the sheep in these parts. Alas, we have no shepherds to guide us.” He laughed again at his own wordplay.
I decided to try something provocative. “I’m in the market for a young, pretty wife myself. Perhaps I’ll go ask her to dance.”
He put a meaty, stubby-fingered hand on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that, my friend. I’m as serious as the falling sickness. Crossing paths or swords with that boy will end only in tears and sadness, and all of them will be yours.”
“Really? He doesn’t look that impressive.”
“He has a mighty paternal weight behind him.”
I nodded at his belly. “You sure you’re not his father, then?”
He laughed. “Oh, heavens, no. Merely a mentor.”
“Who is his father?”
“A man of power. That’s all you need to know.” He patted me on the shoulder, then took another drink.
I felt that little knot in my belly that meant a mystery was taking its irrevocable hold. Usually this was a good thing, because usually I got paid for it. But here and now I was on vacation, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend it unraveling the truth of the strange prince, his rotund protector, and the girl I’d once saved from a bear.
But damn it, I knew that’s exactly what I was going to do.
Chapter
TWELVE
We slept in the wagon, with the lid off to enjoy the stars. The night grew chilly away from the fire and crowd, which made us snuggle close. The festivities in town thinned without entirely stopping, but luckily Liz and I were just drunk and exhausted enough that the songs, drumming, and dancing didn’t bother us. We even did some discreet fooling around before we finally fell asleep, inspired by one of the festival songs: With a trill and a heigh, the thrush and the jay, are summer songs for me and my girl, while we go tumbling in the hay. At some point between midnight and dawn, I awoke to a full bladder and climbed down to relieve myself. I pulled on my pants and tunic, in case I encountered anyone. It was cold enough to see my breath, but it helped clear my head so I didn’t walk sleepily into something.
A magical view greeted me. Fireflies spread their lazy glow all over the hills, matching the stars in the clear sky. The big bonfire was not yet lit, but smaller ones dotted the landscape, surrounded by tents or groups of people still laughing and singing. Near each one huddled a small herd of sleeping sheep. At least, I assumed they were sleeping. I suddenly wondered if they slept standing up, like horses. I’d have to ask someone.
After I peed, I stayed beside the wagon watching, entranced by the simple beauty of it all. I’d seen so much carnage, so many duplicitous people acting for reasons often they didn’t even understand, that this easy community camaraderie really touched me. If I’d taken Beatrice’s offer back then, what would have happened? Would I now be a proud father, watching Isadora and her younger siblings grow up? Would I have stood beaming as she played Eolomea in the night’s rituals? Without all the years of blade time and skullduggery, would I have been smart enough to spot Jack for what he really was?
The wagon shifted very slightly as Liz rolled over, and her light snoring grew stronger. I smiled. No, I’d made the right decision back then. I couldn’t have predicted where I’d end up, but there was no doubt I was where I belonged.
I was about to climb back into the wagon when I heard voices nearby and, out of habit, stood very still to listen. A woman’s voice said, “I’m really scared, Jack. What if your father finds out? My God, what if he sees me dressed like this? How could I look him in the eye?”
I had one bare foot on the tailgate. I slowly lowered it, then took my hands off the wagon, careful not to make it shift. Liz continued to snore.
A man’s voice responded, calm and kindly. “Shh, people are sleeping in these wagons. And there’s nothing to worry about, Izzy. He’d never come around here.”
“You did.”
“Yes, but I was chasing my falcon, remember, not looking for chicks. Ow!” He laughed at her mock blow. “Anyway, my father doesn’t indulge. In anything. He sits in his castle and mutters to himself about his subjects. I prefer the personal touch.”
They were quiet for a long time. It didn’t take a sword jockey to know what they were up to
, or who they were: Bonny Prince Jack and Isadora Glendower.
I knew I should announce myself by a throat-clearing or discreet cough, but habit and curiosity won out. What would two such socially disparate people talk about? Was Liz right about them? Had Billy told me the truth? I silently edged farther into the wagon’s shadow.
“Your hands are cold,” she said.
“I can put them in my pockets.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Then they were silent again.
“You know I love you, Jack,” Isadora said when they came up for air. “I tried not to. I really did.”
“And I love you, my sweet Isadora.”
“But Jack, you’re the crown prince, and I’m a shepherd’s daughter. A rich shepherd, I’ll grant you, but still a commoner. One day soon you’ll have to choose between me and the throne, and there’s really no choice, is there?”
“Listen, Izzy. Seriously. I intend to marry you. It’s not some idle promise to get under your skirt, you know. Have I ever even tried to do that?”
“No . . .”
“And I won’t, not until we’re married. ‘My desires run not before my honor, nor my lusts burn hotter than my faith.’ ”
I heard the smile in her voice. “Oh, really? And who said that?”
“A really smart guy. But that’s truly how I feel. I can’t be anything, let alone the king someday, if I give my word idly and then don’t keep it, can I? And if a king can’t choose his own queen, what’s the point of even being king? I’d rather be a shepherd and come home to you every day, than rule a kingdom without you.”
They paused, and when she spoke again, Isadora sounded forlorn. “How would I know? I don’t know how these things are decided. I only know that I love you, too, and this has been the best spring of my life. But if you marry me, then either I’ll become queen, or we’ll both be banished, if not publicly executed.”
He laughed. “Wow, your tankard is really half empty, isn’t it?”
She giggled softly. “I have to get back to the wagon before my family heads back home. I’ll see you tomorrow at the banquet, okay? You will come, won’t you?”
