Sleeping Beauty

by K. M. Shea

  Briar scratched one of the mares on her neck. The mare stretched her head in approval. “What do you mean?” Briar asked.

  “At your christening—all magic users present gave you a gift. A fairy godmother said you would be liked by animals. I suspect that’s why Isaia’s Valor gave you pony rides instead of snapping your arm off,” her father said. “I’d suggest you take the red bay—she has a little more spunk left in her.”

  “Thank you.” Briar switched her attentions to the other mare. Her father called for a groom, then dallied by the stall of a beautiful buckskin gelding—his horse based on the way the animal sniffed his doublet, looking for treats.

  Briar wandered a little farther, pausing when she found an unlikely horse several stalls down. He was light gray, with a sooty mane and tail, but it looked like someone had left him out in the dripping rain, for his body was covered with brush-thin stripes of charcoal gray. Briar recognized the coloring—it would have been called brindle in a dog—but she had never seen it in a horse.

  Moreover, his confirmation was quite strange. He was large—as big as the knights’ horses—and he even had some of the feathery bits of hair covering his hooves that a few of the fancier warhorses had. However, his face was as fine and sculpted as the riding horses, and his neck was beautifully curved. It was an odd balance, for his legs and frame were not as delicate as a palfrey, nor did he possess the grounded beauty of the muscled warhorses.

  Physically, he was the combination of a riding horse and a war-mount, but he chewed his hay with a calm temperament neither breed of horse possessed in their youth.

  “Ahh, I see Misfit has caught your eye.” Prince Consort Filippo joined her in front of the horse’s stall.

  “Misfit?” Briar asked.

  “One of your grandfather’s best riding mares slipped through the fence to flirt with a warhorse. He is the result.”

  “But why is he called Misfit? He’s quite pretty.”

  “He looks good enough—if not a little odd—but he doesn’t have the traits the stables have been working towards for generations. He can outrun a warhorse, but he’s not as fast as one of our little palfreys. He can go longer than a palfrey, but a warhorse will soon ride him into the ground. He has a nice temperament, but placidness is something you search for in drafts and ponies—unless you’re looking for a lady’s horse, and he’s far too big for that. So, Misfit.”

  Briar leaned over the stall door so she could give the poor horse a pat on the shoulder. He looked at her with bright eyes, and thrust a mouthful of hay at her in an obvious invitation.

  Her father laughed. “Poor bloke is as friendly as a dog. I’ve told your grandfather he should sell him, but I think he keeps him around to remind the grooms to keep a vigilant eye on the mares. Right, then. Looks like your horse is nearly ready for you.” He strode away, leaving Briar with Misfit, who had by now ventured all the way up to the stall door and was leaning against it so it groaned.

  Briar patted him consolingly one last time. “Good boy. Don’t listen to them—you’re not a misfit. We would love a horse like you on a farm.” She smiled at the gelding, then moved to join her father.

  “You must lower your chin like a genteel lady, not stick it out like a mule lying down to roll in the mud!” The ogre who passed as Briar’s “elegance” teacher poked her spitefully in the back.

  Briar did not tuck her chin, and instead icily eyed the woman.

  “You will not utter a word! A princess is demure and soft spoken—not a wild hoyden as you have proven to be!” the teacher continued.

  Briar curled her hands into fists and tried to rein in her burning temper. For two weeks, now, she had borne this horrid woman’s criticism, and her patience was nearly gone.

  Behind her, Velvet, Silk, and Jewel murmured—their voices holding a note of worry.

  “You should strive to be like your mother—a paragon of virtue—and cast aside your brooding, spiteful tendencies. It will not serve you when you seek out a husband.”

  Briar shifted slightly on the uncomfortable fainting couch where she perched. It is alarming how little concern seems to be placed on me as a future queen. They seem forever worried there is to be a beauty contest among princesses, and I shall lose horribly. She was tempted to pick at a nub in the couch out of sheer spite but managed to withhold and instead stared at a fresco of a swooning maiden collapsing at the feet of a knight. (Just about every room in the ornate palace seemed to sport a fresco. She was surprised the stables hadn’t been bedecked with one yet.) “I believe my foremost concern is what will serve me as a future monarch.”

  The woman shook her head and scowled. “No, Your Highness. What is of greatest importance is that you do not bring shame upon your family—though your dreadfully straight posture toes the brink already.”

  Briar stood. “And that is enough,” she declared.

  “You claim to have the finesse and sweetness of temperament your parents and grandfather desire?” the woman demanded.

  “No. But I do not see how I can learn polish and finish from a woman who has the personality of a troll,” Briar said.

  Lady Delanna laughed outright and didn’t even try to muffle her laughter for several long moments.

  “You would make me the villain? I am teaching you only what you lack—what your parents feel you lack!”

  The comment stung more than Briar would care to admit, but she kept her expression fierce, unwilling to let the mean-spirited woman win in even the smallest way. “If this sort of nitpicking and insult are what is fashionable, then I’m afraid I will prepare myself to be out of vogue. I will have nothing to do with this!”

  As Briar growled, the woman sauntered across the salon, picking up her shawl and handbag. “Be that as it may, we shall see who is right. You are not in charge of your own person, Your Highness.” With a disdainful sniff, she sailed from the room.

  “Good riddance,” Lady Delanna said.

  “She was rather rude.” Velvet scrunched her button nose in a rare show of dislike.

  Briar’s anger drained from her, and she dropped back onto the settee with a groan. “What will my parents say?”

  Jewel patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Worry not, Your Highness. If need be, we can testify that she was positively…”

  “Odious?” Silk offered.

  Jewel exhaled, puffing up her chest. “Indeed!”

  Briar removed the veil that covered her hair—it was a popular and, in Briar’s opinion, rather pointless adornment the female variety of Sole nobles favored. She ran a hand down the length of her braided hair and tugged on the end, wishing she could shake her locks free. “I’m as hopeless at this as I am at music.”

  Jewel planted her hands on her hips. “Your Highness, that is positively not true!”

  “Indeed—you are quite proficient at dancing!” Silk said.

  “And besides, in spite of your bluster, you sing like a nightingale,” Velvet added.

  “Yes. A literal nightingale,” Briar said. “I have terrible range and can’t sing any words!”

  Delanna seated herself in a chair next to Briar’s. “You do have grace and elegance, Your Highness.”

  Briar rolled her eyes so she could stare at her friend. “I move nothing like any of you—or my mother—and that is what they aim for me.” While some of the gifts Briar had received as a babe served her well, like her dancing ability and comradeship with animals, others had horribly backfired on her. Her unique singing voice was perhaps the most obvious, but her gracefulness was off as well.

  “You don’t move like us, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t graceful,” Delanna argued.

  Jewel straightened a pillow. “Exactly! You might not mince and glide like we do, but there’s something else about you.”

  “Assurance!” Velvet piped in.

  “Yes!” Delanna pounced on the idea. “You still move beautifully—just more like an enchantress than a typical court lady.”

  Briar smiled. “Thank you for
trying to cheer me up.” She stood with a groan. “I don’t know if you’re right, but in my heart of hearts, I can’t regret giving that troll a set-down…though I may have second thoughts when I face King Giuseppe tonight.” She grimaced. “We still have table instruction, don’t we?” The lengthy lessons were meant to teach her conduct for hosting dignitaries. If they knew how I dispatched Prince Johann of Erlauf, they would die!

  “We do, Your Highness,” Jewel confirmed.

  Briar sighed. “Might as well get it over with. Shall we be off?”

  “If it pleases you, Your Highness.”

  “It doesn’t, but I’m not sure I have a choice. Here we go!”

  Briar, waiting for the rest of her family—how she loved to say that word—nursed a cup of drinking chocolate—a velvety smooth drink she had come to love since her ladies in waiting introduced it to her. She knew her grandfather was going to be upset, so she had taken the trouble to fortify herself with a visit to Nonna. She had worried the old woman would be stiff and respectful with her, but she had proven Briar wrong, and had embraced her with all the love she had. It was one of the best hours Briar had spent since coming to the palace as Nonna reminded her she was loved and that everything had happened was because her parents loved her, too.

  Briar smiled as she traced the rim of the delicate teacup. When she heard the tread of heavy footsteps outside the door, she rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

  Her grandfather flung the doors open, and his eyebrows were even lower than usual. “You dismissed your tutor.”

  “I did.”

  Princess Alessia and Prince Consort Filippo glided into the dining hall behind the king. Based on the depth of breath they were taking, Briar suspected they had hustled to meet him here.

  “You have dire need of the lessons she was to provide,” King Giuseppe said.

  Briar couldn’t help it. She raised an eyebrow at her grandparent and smiled glibly. “Elegance? Oh, yes. I shall certainly perish without it.”

  Princess Alessia glided up to Briar and patted her hands. “Though it pains me to say it, you must learn these lessons, Rosalinda.”

  Briar managed not to shiver at her name. “But I am learning my lessons. I’ve gritted my teeth through every lecture you’ve asked me to attend.”

  “But you haven’t improved!” King Giuseppe lowered himself into a chair and gave Briar the same look she imagined a father would give his gambling addicted, neck-deep-in-debt son.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but it has only been two weeks. You can hardly expect her to learn and apply everything so swiftly, and adjust to palace life,” Prince Consort Filippo said.

  Glancing warily from her parents to her grandfather, Briar felt her hackles rise yet again. She did not like the implications of the conversation. “Exactly how am I supposed to improve?” She sipped her drinking chocolate to keep from saying more sarcastic words.

  King Giuseppe drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Cease acting as you do.”

  The drinking chocolate’s rich, sweet flavor turned sour with the king’s hurtful words. They want me to change who I am—and they see that as an improvement? Briar shifted in her seat, nearly popping out of it in her anger.

  Princess Alessia seemed to sense Briar’s boiling temper, for she took her hand and squeezed it. “What Father means, Rosalinda, is that he wants you to act more genteel in public.” She smiled down at her. “You are so clever and funny, but royalty must present itself differently.”

  King Giuseppe fixed one of the jeweled rings on his knuckles. “Her conduct is not only a public problem. If she continues to act as she does, our choice of marriage partners will grow smaller. Who would saddle themselves with her?”

  Briar stood and clenched her free hand into a fist. “Don’t I have a say in whom I marry?”

  “No,” King Giuseppe said frankly. “We must put the needs of the country before our own—and you need to marry a man who will become a great king to cover for your fractured childhood.”

  “What?” Briar’s voice was quiet and falsely calm.

  Prince Consort Filippo, standing safely behind King Giuseppe, gave him a withering glare. “What His Highness means, though he made a mess of it, is that a few have recently voiced concerns over whether you will be able to properly rule as queen, being that you were not raised in the palace, and not even as a royal. Therefore, your husband will have to be someone the courts trust to run the country with you.”

  Briar stared at him in shock. Hidden under his kind words, she saw the truth: she wasn’t going to rule. They didn’t think they could trust her. After less than two weeks of knowing her, they had decided she wasn’t fit to be queen as her mother would be.

  The realization was almost worse than learning she was Princess Rosalinda. She hadn’t wanted to be a princess, but she had accepted it. In return, they were rejecting her and intended to make her serve as little more than a placeholder.

  She was so angry she wanted to stab something with Isaia’s dagger—which she still carried on her person. Somehow, she doubted that would improve the situation.

  Her father offered Briar a smile she barely noticed. “It’s not your fault, darling. If you had been raised here in Ciane, this wouldn’t have been a problem.”

  “It is true, Rosalinda. You cannot take this to heart,” Princess Alessia said. “And you’ll have a say in who you marry. We don’t want you to be unhappy!”

  “You are coddling her.” King Giuseppe turned his purple eyes—so similar to Briar’s—back to her. “If you continue to resist your lessons, we’ll have a wretched hard time of getting a good candidate who will accept you.”

  Briar’s last strand of patience snapped. “No.”

  Her parents stared at her.

  King Giuseppe raised one eyebrow. “No?”

  Briar pulled her hand from her mother’s and stood straight. “I will attend your useless lessons, smile at those who make disparaging comments over me, and let you try to change me—since I am clearly unfit to be your granddaughter, in your estimation—but I will not let you decide whom I should marry and spend the rest of my life with.”

  King Giuseppe’s stoic expression cracked for a moment, and Briar thought she could see pity in his eyes. “You don’t have a choice.”

  Princess Alessia brushed her fingers across Briar’s ramrod-straight back. “I’m sorry, darling. But he is right.”

  Briar smiled triumphantly. “No, he isn’t. I have a big say in whom I will marry.” She stepped away from the table and away from her mother, her posture stiff with anger. “You can try and throw marriage candidates at me until you exhaust all resources. You can force me into an engagement and trumpet it from here to Erlauf. The fact is, when the curse hits, if I don’t love your precious choice for my husband, I won’t wake up.” Her smile turned grim. “And how will that make you look?”

  The curse had been Briar’s biggest worry since she’d learned her identity. Now it seemed like it might become her saving grace.

  Princess Alessia burst into tears. Prince Consort Filippo hugged her to him so she cried into his chest, but the look he gave Briar—it was one of surprise, sorrow, and something else…

  King Giuseppe wore a similar look. Briar would have thought the reminder would have angered him, but—mostly—he seemed surprised.

  Her mother continued to cry, but Briar was too furious to care that she had upset her. She knew she would feel guilty later, but now she was still hurt and bitter that they were so keen to change her.

  White-faced servants huddled in a doorway, holding silver trays.

  Seizing the opportunity, Briar stormed from the room. “Excuse me, but I have lost my appetite.”

  No one said anything as she took her leave. Quick steps put the stifling air of the palace behind her. It was hard to breathe as she walked through the fragrant flower gardens and lawn that surrounded the palace, her rage swiftly turning to sorrow. Tears blurred her vision. She searched for some
thing, anything she could find comfort in.

  Eventually, she stumbled into the stable. The smell of straw and the nickers of horses surrounded her like a warm hug. She staggered to a pile of hay bales and collapsed. Her chest heaved with effort as she tried to choke down her sobs.

  It seemed like everyone was forever rejecting her. Nonna hadn’t wanted to be her mother—though Briar now understood why. Her real mother loved her, yes, but apparently not well enough to accept Briar for who she was; her father was the same. And as for King Giuseppe…

  Dried hay poked Briar’s cheek as she laughed darkly. At least now I know why Isaia occasionally thrusts up his wall of respect. I can’t imagine there is a single person in this palace who doesn’t know they seek to use me as a means of procuring a “proper” ruler.

  She heard footsteps echo down the stable aisle, but she was too tired to run, and the fight had left her. When they stopped near her, Briar rubbed her eyes, then glanced up.

  Isaia, his brows pinched painfully with worry, stood before her. He hesitated, then sat next to her on the hay.

  Briar tipped over until her head rested on his shoulder. When he tucked his arm around her shoulders—as he used to do when she was a child—her control crumbled, and she sobbed into his neck.

  Eventually her tears subsided, leaving her with aching eyes and a throbbing headache. “My parents don’t like me.” She spoke abruptly, her voice hoarse and brittle.

  Isaia brushed her shoulder with his thumb. “They love you.”

  “Yes, but they aren’t satisfied with who I am. They don’t like me. They aren’t even willing to wait to see if I’ll earn their trust. They want me to marry—” She was too hurt to finish the thought. She whispered, “What do I do?”

  Isaia said nothing.

  A barn cat joined them, purring so deeply its entire body vibrated as it nestled into the poof of Briar’s gown. She caressed it, though she didn’t remove her head from Isaia’s shoulder. “It’s not that I think I know better than them. I know I need to learn more, but it’s like they’re dissatisfied with my personality.” The cat rubbed its head against her fingers. “Do you think I need to change?”