Fairytales Slashed: Volume 8

by Samantha M. Derr

  "Should have apologized," King Lorand snarled, putting a hand on each of the twins' arms to hold them back as the guards dragged Janos away.

  *~*~*

  "I can pay you," Janos said, as the guards led him toward the First Castle. "You know how wealthy the King is. I have coins of my own hidden away; if you just let me go and say that I—"

  "That you what?" one of the guards asked, a cruel smile on his face. "Overpowered us?"

  "Something like that," Janos muttered.

  The guards undid the three locks on the wide front doors and threw them open, one of them pulling Janos inside while the other two flanked them, gazes alert and crossbows aimed into the darkness.

  "Brought a present for you!" the guard shouted, pushing Janos forward. He tripped on a loose board in the floor and hit his knees, instinctively staying there. If he tried to get up, he was afraid the guard would strike him down again. He and Zobor had never gotten along very well, but never had he imagined the man capable and willing of this kind of violence.

  Then he heard three sets of footsteps shuffling out of the room, and the door slammed shut behind them. Though he knew it was no use, his body reacted and he leapt to his feet and ran for the door, shoving at it and then slamming his fists into it. He heard Zobor laughing as they walked away, and vowed that if he did make it out of here, he was somehow going to see that man exiled.

  You have nothing to worry about, he told himself, though his heart was hammering. Yes, he may have confronted you and nearly broken your wrist the last time you were here and yes, nothing you found in those near-useless papers had any information on how to talk down someone who could easily be likened to a caged, dangerous animal, but that's no reason to panic.

  Then the sound of footsteps came from the landing above, and he panicked anyway.

  Janos fled toward the safety of his escape route, and then realized how futile that was. Yes, he'd been able to use that path to get in and out, but that was before he'd been sentenced to stay in this place. What was he supposed to do, wait in the garden shed for two months?

  But he did need to hide. Because if he let himself be discovered, be caught again, what was to stop the prisoner from forcing him to tell him how he could get out?

  Forcing, he thought, grimacing in self-deprecation as he headed up a smaller flight of stairs that led to the servants' old quarters. All he would have to do is give you a stern look and you'd be babbling everything you knew; wasn't that what you just did for father?

  Well, maybe he couldn't fight. But he could hide well. He'd heard the guards talking about bringing in meals, how the prisoner would wait for them to leave before coming anywhere close to the items they'd brought, after that first day when they'd beaten him to the ground for charging at the King and his associates. So he would emerge when it was safe, when the guards were there, snatch some food and water and retreat into hiding again.

  Or he could tell them, he thought. Tell the guards about the secret passageway, have it blocked up—

  No, he thought. He didn't think the man would actually hurt him—hadn't he let go of his wrist immediately?—but just in case he was wrong, he might need to make use of it himself.

  Most all of the doors to the rooms had been removed from their hinges, to be used in the new castle or broken down for firewood, depending on their condition. The servants' hallway was lined with room after room, all of them gaping open like hungry mouths. He chose one at random and poked around inside, evicting an inquisitive rat and three spiders before sitting down in the middle of the floor.

  Two months, he thought. He could survive that.

  *~*~*

  Janos had forgotten about the old piano up in the former Queen's rooms, and so when he heard it playing late on the fifth night, he almost jumped out of his skin.

  It wasn't a childlike banging on the keys, or the endless repetition of someone who knows only one brief song. It was an actual melody.

  How did their prisoner know how to play?

  Janos crept out of his current hiding place—he never slept in the same room twice—suddenly wanting, needing to see him again.

  To see him play, he amended quickly. Curiosity about that, nothing more.

  He was halfway up the stairs to the second landing before clarity came charging back into his mind, asking him what he was thinking, and he retreated back to his current quarters.

  The next night, he made it to the third landing.

  The night after that, to the hallway outside the Queen's old quarters. He slowly moved into the doorway, peering inside. The piano had always faced the back wall, and no matter how strong the prisoner was, Janos doubted he could move an entire piano by himself.

  Sure enough, the man's back was to him, and Janos leaned against the doorway, watching him. Something about the play of muscles under his skin as he moved his arms, the way his fingers slid over the keys, was utterly mesmerizing.

  Then he turned, looking up at him, and Janos ran, careening back down the stairs so fast that he was shocked that he didn't fall and break his neck.

  The next night, though he heard the piano, he didn't come out of hiding.

  *~*~*

  "Janos!"

  Janos nearly tripped in his haste to get to his feet. That had been his father's voice. It had been two weeks since he'd been locked away in here, and not once had his father or brothers come to visit him. He emerged from the room he'd slept in last night and hurried down the narrow servants' stairs.

  Maybe he'd decided to lessen the sentence. Or perhaps he'd realized how cruel he'd been and was getting him out of here altogether.

  But as he drew close enough to see the smile on the King's face, Janos was abruptly certain that wasn't the case.

  "Enjoying yourself?" King Lorand asked.

  "It gets a little drafty at night, but other than that I've no complaints," Janos said, trying to cover his sudden wariness with a blithe expression.

  "I bring news," the King said. "The ship Mariska was on was intercepted. This morning she was put to death." His smile widened as Janos blinked at him. "I'm sorry, son, did you want to say goodbye? If you like I can bring you her head."

  Janos strode forward, his small fists itching with the need to hit, and the King laughed. The guards on either side of him made no move to get between them and at that, Janos stopped. Even now, with rage and grief pouring through his body, he didn't pose any kind of threat, and everyone in this room knew it.

  The King looked him over one last time and smirked, then turned his back on him and walked away. The guards stayed alert, peering into the corners of the room, their crossbows at the ready. Then the door closed again, leaving Janos standing in the middle of the floor.

  He walked away mechanically, one foot in front of the other, barely conscious of the movement. When he reached the stairs, he couldn't find the strength to climb them and so he turned and leaned against the wall instead, his knees giving out on him a brief moment later. His back scraped against the uneven stone, and he felt like he was going to cry—should cry—but the tears wouldn't come, everything was locked inside in one swirling mass of grief and self-hatred.

  She was dead. Beheaded. All because he'd assumed he had the perfect solution.

  They could have taken more time. He could have sent missives to her family back home, asking them to come up with some reason why she was desperately needed back in her Kingdom. Lorand needn't have had any idea that there was something wrong. She could have gone home and then refused to come back. Her family could have lied and said that she'd fallen ill and was too sick to return; it was doubtful the King would take the time to go across the seas to check on such a story for himself.

  But no. He'd charged right into something without thinking it through, and she had been the one to pay for it. All she'd wanted to do was go home, stop getting hurt.

  Janos closed his eyes, willing the tears to come, for something to happen. He felt like screaming but his lungs were too tight to work.

&
nbsp; She must've been terrified, going up to face the ax.

  *~*~*

  When he awoke, he was still slumped by the stairs to the servants' quarters. The wool blanket he'd brought out over a month ago was tucked around him.

  Janos ran both hands over the thick material. His mind was still crowded with the news that his father had given him, and he feared that this new complication might just push him over the edge completely, leave him crouching here for hours, battling between guilt and bemusement, self-recrimination and comfort.

  Finally, he got to his feet, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and stumbled out to the middle of the room.

  "Hello?" he called. "I… I would speak with you. If that's all right."

  He waited, watching the stairs and the third-level landing. After a moment, the prisoner walked down the stairs, his eyes on him rather than the steps, and Janos wanted to tell him to be careful of where he was putting his feet, but couldn't seem to make his voice work.

  "That… um. That's close enough, I think," he managed, when the prisoner reached the bottom of the stairs. Which was a ridiculous thing to say, he knew that as soon as the words were out of his mouth—if he wanted to hurt him or threaten him to get information, he'd certainly had ample time to do that earlier today—but he'd realized as the man drew closer that if he stood directly in front of him any coherency he'd managed to gather would scatter to the four winds.

  He stopped, and Janos cleared his throat. "Um. Thank you," he said, pulling the blanket a little tighter around himself.

  When he didn't say anything else, the man smiled, the expression crinkling up his eyes and making him look about ten years younger. "Is that all?" he asked.

  "No," Janos said, but there were too many questions rattling around in his mind for him to settle on just one. The thick, leathery fabric the prisoner had draped around his legs was clean. It had been bloody and filthy when he'd been carried through the village. He must have taken it off in order to clean it, Janos thought, surprised at how visceral his reaction to that was. Finally, he gathered his concentration enough to ask, "What's your name?"

  "Roland."

  Janos blinked. "Really?" He'd been expecting a completely unfamiliar name, something he'd have trouble pronouncing. Their own King five rulers back had been named Roland.

  "And you're Janos," he said. "The King's son."

  "Yes," he admitted.

  "You never answered my question. Why did you keep bringing gifts?"

  "To be fair, you did scare me out of my mind."

  "Sorry. I didn't intend to."

  "You didn't intend… so you jumped out of the dark?"

  "Fair enough. It had been a long day."

  "I imagine so," Janos said quietly. "I just… I suppose I didn't like the idea. Of you being trapped in here all by yourself."

  "You weren't afraid I was going to drink your blood?" he asked, smiling briefly.

  "No. Well, not very, anyway," he admitted, handing him the blanket back. Roland's hand brushed against his, and Janos found himself wishing for another excuse to touch him. "I've come to believe that a good deal of the things written in my father's papers about your people are blatantly false."

  "Dare I ask what you've read?"

  "Things about… well, human sacrifice," he murmured. "You clearly already know about the ‘drinking the blood of your enemies' rumor. The papers do seem to be right about a general lack of shirts, however," he said.

  "I do wear shirts, actually. Mine was just too bloodstained to keep."

  "…oh."

  "Now the people a much further distance to the west, they don't tend to wear shirts. Perhaps the notetaker got confused."

  "There are people further to—but all the books say…" Janos trailed off, realizing exactly how much he didn't know. "Are you truly a Prince?" he asked. "Or was that another lie my father told, to make your capture seem more important?"

  "I am a Prince," Roland said. "My mother was elected Queen twenty-three years ago."

  "Elected?"

  Roland nodded. "Our people chose her to rule."

  "Oh. Here the gods decide," he said quietly. "Our family has ruled for nine generations. Why is your name Roland? That's… well, that's a name that we use."

  "Because, my great-grandfather was originally from your lands. Kings and Queens here exile their ‘undesirables', and much of the time we find them."

  "So my… my father sends people to you? We went to war against you and you—you're us?"

  "We don't believe he knows about it," Roland said. "When did the practice of exiling start?"

  "Over three hundred years ago," Janos said, still feeling dazed.

  Roland nodded. "The first man we found in the forest… it didn't end well. One of our hunters just saw a mass of brown moving, and thought it was a bushling. He'd slung a rock at it for a killing blow before he realized. After that, we kept a close eye on the forests surrounding our home. Much of the time, there would be no one. But on some days… gradually, we learned to communicate with each other. Interbred. I fully believe if your father knew people were reaching sanctuary rather than simply wandering around until they starved to death, he would stop the practice of exiling immediately." He looked him over. "Why did he throw you in here?"

  "Because I helped his mistress leave the castle," Janos said, feeling an old instinct to defend his father rise in response to the plain loathing in Roland's voice. "I knew I would get in trouble even as I took the action. Father knew I'd explored this castle for hours upon hours as a child. He knew I could hide. He never intended for me to get truly hurt. He was simply trying to scare me, that's all."

  "Was he?" Roland said, his voice shifting from its former conversational tone to a low rumble. "Because your soldiers starved me for days. They taunted me with food, and sliced at me with their knives when they grew bored on their march home. And when your father and his lapdogs came to visit me here, they talked endlessly about what they would do to the rest of the people in my village, especially my mother. Given the mood that would put any man in," he said, "tell me. Would you assume he isn't violent? Would you trust your family with him?"

  "But you're not—"

  "No, I am not. But it wasn't for the King's lack of trying."

  *~*~*

  He'd never slept so close to anyone before.

  Well, save for when he'd bundled up under a multitude of blankets with one of the nurses after an incident involving a frozen lake and a weak board on the dock, but that was so far removed from this situation that Janos didn't think it really counted. About the only similarity was that on both occasions, he was trying to stay warm.

  It was a little strange to get used to—he couldn't stretch as fully as he normally would—but it was… it was nice. And he was most certainly warm, between the blanket they shared and Roland's considerable body heat.

  Did the other man want him this close? After all, it was quite a large blanket, and he'd only edged nearer after he was certain the other man was asleep.

  They were on perfectly friendly terms now that everything had been sorted out between them several days ago, but it wasn't as if Roland had invited him to his bed before tonight. He'd just offered to share the blanket after the temperature plummeted.

  He would still be perfectly warm if he scooted away a bit. Janos started to do so, nearly yelping in surprise when Roland just hauled him in close again like a child with a favorite stuffed toy.

  Well.

  *~*~*

  He hadn't intended to fall asleep. Most certainly hadn't intended to wake up sprawled out across Roland's chest like some sort of awkward living blanket.

  It was odd, to see Roland asleep. When he wasn't snarling at the guards from the shadows at mealtime and scaring the hell out of them, then he was explaining some custom or another or listening intently to Janos talk. Always so vital, Janos thought. It was strange to see him still.

  Janos rolled to the side, intending to apologize should Roland wake up, but fortuna
tely that wasn't necessary. He sighed with relief and started to get to his feet, then paused when he caught sight of something on Roland's skin.

  They weren't precisely tattoos—he'd seen the colored ink that some of the soldiers got in honor of a particular battle or a fallen comrade. They were more like scars. One was reddish-white, fairly recent, while the others were simply raised bumps, fading back into Roland's skin tone. They were symbols of some type, clearly meant something, but he didn't understand the language.

  Despite himself, he reached out, started to trace one with his fingertip. Then he felt eyes on him and his hand froze, and he looked up very, very slowly. "Sorry. Um. I—"

  He started to scoot back, but Roland took hold of his hand, curling it against his chest.

  "What do they mean?" Janos asked softly.

  "This one," Roland said, gently touching three small curved scars that rested above his heart, "was given to me because I reached my tenth birthday."

  Janos nodded in understanding. Queen Valeria had given birth to two other children, but one had died a few days after birth and another had been taken by disease at not quite a year old. Some of the peasantry, he'd heard, didn't even name their children until after their third birthday.

  "This one is for passing the combat trials," he said, pointing to a triangle with a small dot inside it on his left shoulder. "Queen and King's children can specialize in strategy or fighting, but we're all expected to defend our land. And this," he said, hesitation in his voice now as he motioned to the most recent scar—four lines that slanted to the left— "this is to mark my first kill in battle." He cleared his throat. "There are marks for other things, of course. Ones given on a wedding day, or to celebrate the birth of a child. There's also a mark for exceptional bravery. Maybe one day I'll give that one to you. After all, it was brave of you to come back, after the scare I gave you."

  "Sounds like a fine idea," Janos said, though some of his instinctive terror at the thought—what did they use to cut the skin open? A knife? A sharp rock?—must have shown through on his face, because Roland laughed.

  Janos laughed as well. The palace doctors had fussed over him since the day he was born; the idea of him intentionally getting a scar was nothing but laughable. Still, a part of him couldn't help but wish that he could treat it as cavalierly as Roland did.