And care was needed. He awoke with a jerk and a gasp, sitting bolt upright, half panicked until I stood at his side. Then he fixed upon me a long gaze, studying my face, I suppose, much as I had studied him when he was sleeping, and he seemed to calm, to gather his wits. “Is it what they call morning, Prince Aric?”
“It is.”
“Then I wish you good morning. Prince Aric,” he added, still intent on me, “you will grow to look verily like your father.”
Hand to chin and head bowed, I pretended to mull over his words. “I suppose that is not a bad thing,” I murmured finally.
“Of course not! King Bardaric is—” But he broke off, giving me a different sort of look as I smiled. “Bah, you befool me! Mischief, already?”
“I cannot seem to help it.”
“Rascal.” He almost answered my smile. “What now? I suppose I should wash.”
“Eat first. You must be famished.” I brought him the tray of food, but he shook his head.
“I cannot eat yet.”
“But aren’t you hungry?”
“There is some pain, yes, but this new belly seems not yet to accept me.” Sloughing off the clothing he had ridden in and slept in for time beyond knowing, he headed toward the washstand where clean water awaited him.
Once he had bathed, I offered him a tunic woven of lamb’s wool dyed the color of heather, with a braided leather belt and soft fur breeches from my wardrobe.
He shook his head. “I cannot wear your clothing.”
“Why not? We are the same size.”
“But you are a prince.”
“And so are you, unless I am much mistaken.”
With a sharp intake of breath, he stared at me. Then he slowly exhaled and asked me, “How do you know so much of me?”
“I know not how I know. But is it not the truth? Wear the finest raiment I can offer you.”
He pondered me a long moment, then said, “Before I can do anything else, I need to have something over with.”
“What, must you jump off the tower after all?” I could not believe my own boldness, jesting of his despair.
But it was all right. He smiled, a small wry smile that struck me to the heart. “Not if you stand by me, Aric. Have you heard, how is our—” He lost his smile. “How is the king today?”
“Almost as well as he ever was. Why?”
“I need to speak with him.”
“To ‘have something over with’?”
He nodded.
Once more all servants fled at the sight of Albaric, and the men-at-arms faced him not much better, but my stern command made them stay long enough to tell me where I might find the king.
“In the garden.”
“Of course.” How better to spend such a fine, sunny morning as was rare in Calidon? And this was no ordinary garden, but the high-walled garden of a royal castle, a private place of fragrance and flowers, arbors and bowers.
“With her Highness, your mother, my lord Prince.”
Except for its caretakers, the garden was forbidden to anyone but the royal family. Something in the guardsman’s tone warned me that Mother and Father had gone there like a pair of young lovers recently reunited. So I called from the gate and waited until Father called back a welcome.
Walking in with me upon the flagstone path, Albaric lifted his gaze to the trellises of roses arching overhead, the pear and apple trees in the full sweet leaf of early summer, the grape arbor and bower of fragrant juniper, the hawthorn hedges and walls garlanded with ivy. “Pleasant,” he murmured, “but why is everything growing in straight lines?”
Having no ready answer, I led him toward where I heard the strumming of harp strings, to the pavilion, aromatic with the scent of violets clustered all around it. There my mother and father sat on one of the benches, the king plucking a love song. But as they caught sight of Albaric, they sobered. Father set his hand harp, no larger than a lyre, aside. “Come in,” he said.
As we did so, ascending the low wooden steps, Mother said to Albaric, “Fair youth, we owe you all thanks—”
“Pray be seated,” said my father at the same time, although Albaric had made no move to kneel or even bow before him.
And Mother, “Are you well? If there is anything—”
“There is,” Albaric said quietly, seating himself on another bench to face them. “Sire, Queen Evalin, I must speak with you.”
I asked, “Shall I leave?”
“No, Aric, stay with me!” For a moment, he looked as if he would spring to his feet to detain me. But as I sat on the bench beside him, he calmed. “It is a long and sad tale,” he explained, “and I would far rather tell it just once, to all three of you.”
“Tell on, fair youth,” said my father.
“Albaric,” I said, realizing that neither of them could remember his name. “Prince Albaric of—for want of a better word, of Elfland.”
My father looked astonished, my mother awed, but Albaric spared them the embarrassment of having lost control of their royal countenances, for he faced me. “It is a word of which I have need,” he said. “Thank you.” Then he clasped his hands and spoke.
“It began when the most comely of kings, his royal son, and his retainers rode to go a-hawking,” he said. “I imagine they rode happily and flew their falcons with joy, until they reached the hill where a spring flows and they let their horses drink, where the oaks grow tallest and the most deeply green, and there they encountered my—they saw the Queen of Elfland riding with her retinue.”
“I remember no such thing!” I exclaimed before I could stop myself.
Albaric gave me a glance both quizzical and quelling. “Aric, please. This is difficult enough.” Then a thought seemed to strike him. He turned to the king and asked, “Sire, might I borrow the harp?”
“Of course.” Father passed him the instrument. Cradling it in his arms, Albaric plucked its strings, and they gave forth notes of such ethereal beauty that I sat openmouthed.
In a voice to rival that of angels he sang,
Her dress was of the grass green silk,
Her mantle of the velvet fine.
From every braid of her horse’s mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.
And I no longer remember his exact words when he spoke, for I seemed to see the things he described. I saw upon a magnificent stallion, the war steed of a man, one who was neither man nor mortal. She was the Queen of the Otherworld, riding like a bold flower on horseback, her gown of green silk the stem and her wild red hair the blossom, some of it curled in loving tendrils around her blithe face, some of it flying like red petals in the wind or red birds flitting amid the branches of the oaks, alighting then swooping on—her luminous hair filled the air. And her steed pranced with the silver bells ringing in his mane, and close behind her trotted a vast gold-decked company with glorious horses and flying mantles and with the uncanny glow of the Elfin folk, what is called their glamour, shining all over each of them, but most of all on the queen. Yet amid all that there was to see, still the very fairest thing was the queen’s face, a flower within a flower.
The King of Calidon looked enchanted upon her face.
It was no mere chance that made her visible to the golden-bearded king that day, for she had observed him and desired him. But not so that he could rule her realm. There was not, nor ever had been, nor ever would be, a King of Elfland; she desired King Bardaric only as a willful child desires a toy.
She beckoned, and he rode to her in a trance, her captive. His son, his followers, could neither move nor speak nor even think, for she was Queen Theena, and her spell was strong. She invited the king upon her own horse with her, and without looking back, he put his arms around her and rode away with her into a green mist, for hers was a power greater than any mortal monarch’s.
So she took him away to the Otherland of swan-blessed blue waters and mossy banks of ferny green, and there perforce he stayed with her. This was a timeless place of ease and pleasure, sweet
music and midnight dancing on the clouds, amid the stars. Every denizen of that place was more beautiful than any other, and as they lived in eternal youth, there was no need for them to have hearts, fall in love, or bear children; they lived with neither regrets nor expectations, for past or future they had none; only sunshine or moonglow, music and delight, revels and ease.
Queen Theena gifted her captive with every charm she had to offer; they went flying together like two birds of paradise, they sailed her bonny boats upon lakes and land and air; my father slumbered with her in beds of rose petals, he supped with her upon ambrosia—but even her power could not make him look upon her with desire, nor could it keep him from yearning for his true love, his wife, my mother, and for—for me.
Me, Aric. But as Albaric strummed the harp and told the tale, I saw myself as my father saw me, as the pride of his loins, his crown prince and the heir of his kingdom, a modest, clear-eyed, strong and comely youth, gallant and true.
But I had no time to comprehend this, for the tale went on.
Never before had Queen Theena taken such a captive as this mortal king Bardaric, all noble courtesy yet not fully hers to command, confound him; even as his body did whatever she wished, his mind and soul remained his own. He would not forget Calidon; he chafed in captivity, fretted to be free—these sorrows shadowed his eyes. Because he served her with mere obedience, she could not take pleasure in him. Her frustration grew as her power proved insufficient to make him completely hers. But she knew of another power, a secret and ancient thing, a ring locked in a coffer that had once belonged to the puissant Pandora, a treasure of power so great that even greedy Theena hesitated to touch it. The nameless ring had a life of its own, and she could not predict exactly what might happen if she used it.
But desperate in her pride, at last she dared to touch the coffer, turn the key, take up from its velvet bed the ring of power, and bring it forth. She issued to it her command, then deceitfully, as if it were another pretty bauble, a trifle, she placed it on my father’s finger. And it gave her what she wanted, although not in the way she expected. Never could she have dreamed of what was to happen to her, utterly changing her endless life.
In order to fulfill her desire that King Bardaric might feel something for her, the ring caused her, Queen Theena of Elfland, to fall madly in love with him.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
QUEEN EVALIN,” Albaric bespoke my mother, “I beg you to forgive me if this distresses you.”
“It dizzies me. I can hardly take it in.” But she smiled and lifted her chin. “There is nothing to forgive, Albaric. I reason things out and judge no ill of my husband.” She reached toward him.
Father grasped her hand as if he were drowning and she would save him. He looked dazed. “I remember nothing of any of this,” he murmured. “It would be hard to believe a word if it were not for the ring.”
“Yes. The ring.”
“But in every tale of sorcery I have ever heard, a magical ring empowers the person who wears it.”
“Mortal stories of mortal magic. Little does anyone, mortal or otherwise, know of the ways of this ring. It is like. . . .” Albaric hesitated, as if he meant to say something more. But then he plucked the harp and resumed his tale.
Like the folk of Othergates, Elfland, call it what you will, the ring was neither good nor evil but whimsical and fey. The denizens of the fair, timeless place enjoyed one another’s company, singing, combing each other’s hair, and decking themselves and their horses with flowers; they played with one another as if playing with toys or pets, they tumbled together like puppies, they danced in air or floated amid water lilies, but they did not fall in love.
So when they saw on the face of Queen Theena the passion they had never seen before, and tenderness, and yearning, they did not know what to do or think. And when they heard her asking where was King Bardaric (for love had compelled her to let him roam Elfland free; she could no longer confine him to stay by her side) and when they saw her riding her vehement stallion—it is said that the horses of Elfland are made of wind and fire—riding alone, or flying alone like a red bird amid the glory of her own hair, they felt much perturbed. And whenever they witnessed the moment she found the mortal king, her love, when they saw the timid fervor in her eyes as she approached him to offer golden trinkets, cups of nectar, and herself, they were disturbed. They whispered among themselves, attempting without success to understand what was happening to her. They had never seen the like. They were scandalized.
The only one who understood, and felt compassion, was King Bardaric.
Always before, when perforce he lay with her by power of her command, he had done what she had bid. But now, when he lay with her, although still by power of her command, he saw that she strove with all her wiles to give him pleasure, she lavished upon him all her love, hoping he would love her in return; she became almost ensouled in her adoration; she nearly could have melted into him.
He could not love her, but he pitied her, and he held her as he would have held a crying child, comforting her, trying to ease her pain.
As his heart responded to her need, her body responded to him in a way unforeseen.
And despite her sure knowledge that King Bardaric still loved Queen Evalin and only Queen Evalin, nevertheless, Queen Theena of Elfland began to feel a happiness, a ripening, a fulfillment such as she had never imagined. She accepted this new joy as an Elf accepts any pleasure, without question, without understanding—at first. Only when she began to feel the butterfly stirrings of life within her belly did she surmise, with greatest wonder, what might have chanced.
The Queen of Elfland was with child.
Never in forever had this happened in that world. Where there is no growing old and no death, the idea of birth—it was beyond comprehension. Scandal turned to shock, then to awe, as the queen enlarged in girth like a ripening pomegranate, as her glamour increased in warmth and loveliness, as her belly swelled like blown glass, like a bubble, until she grew so translucent that when she unmantled herself, one could see the baby within, a perfect folded flower of—of uncanny life. Elf melded with mortal! The denizens of timelessness could not bear the sight; terrified, they fled from the presence of their queen. She began to fear, for no one stood by her, and when her time came, what did she know of giving birth? She or any of the others? There would be pain and danger, both unthinkable to her. Would another great change come upon her? Would she—could she die?
Trying to comfort her fears, King Bardaric remained with her constantly. He, and only he, stood by her when she gave birth, although he knew little more of it than she did, having always been chased away by midwives—but he had heard the screaming, screaming from Evalin, his beloved wife, who never otherwise cried out in pain, and although he concealed his dread of childbirth from Queen Theena, it perhaps exceeded hers.
But to the relief of both, it was not such an ordeal. Instead of hard labor, there was a simple sort of opening like that of a flower blooming, and the infant came forth, not amid blood but amid a stream of white light, and the newborn child’s nakedness needed no bathing but glowed with white glamour; he was the most beautiful of all possible babes. His father held him for long moments before handing him to his mother, whose breasts ached to suckle him. For she lay swollen now with milk—milk! Like a mortal—and the king looked on in wonder as the baby boy, his son, nursed at the breast of the Queen of Elfland.
Then he thought of his true love, Queen Evalin, and of how many times she had lain in a blood-soaked bed nearly dead after childbirth, and how it had broken her heart each time another child had struggled for life only to fall victim to some sickness, until at last one had lived: his son, Aric, for whom he ached every day and whom he might never see again. He felt how unfair it was and how wondrous that the Elf Queen’s birthing had been so supernaturally bloodless and white.
He reached out to his new son, and the baby’s hand met his, and the boy’s strange blue-gray eyes looked straight into his eyes,
and this time it was the king who fell in love.
“I know what I would like to name the child,” he said softly. “There is an old word, ‘alba.’ It means ‘white.’”
“You wish to name him Alba?”
Thinking of his other son, whose name the Elf Queen did not know, the king replied, “I wish to name him Albaric.”
I am not stupid, although I sometimes choose to appear so. My heart had started pounding when Albaric spoke of Queen Theena’s being with child, then racing when the babe turned out to be—yes!—a boy, and when he said the name—
“Albaric!” Taking him into my arms, harp and all, I hugged him and felt him trembling. “My brother?” I whispered, even in my joy not yet able to comprehend—all my life alone, but now I had a brother? The most magical of brothers? No wonder that I felt I would do anything for him, that I had felt thus from the first night I met him.
“Aric.” Father’s voice, displeased.
I would have disobeyed the tacit command, but Albaric pulled away from me, still trembling but trying hard to keep his head up and his face steady, the way he had done when he had asked my father—our father—“Sire, do you not know me?”
Father sat motionless with Mother clutching his hand, nearly as pale as he; above his golden beard, his skin had gone the color of chalk. In a low voice he warned me, “Be not so hasty. We do not know whether he is telling the truth.”
Astonished, I forgot respect, lifting my head to cry at him, “How can you say that? He saved your life!”
“Yes. And I have not yet thanked him.” The king rose to stand, a great golden man. “Albaric,” he spoke straight to the—visitant, the marvel, my brother—“fair youth, I owe you greatest gratitude for my life. Yet it is a life dedicated to protecting the throne of Calidon. If you claim to be my son, it could be for the sake of taking the throne.”
Albaric stiffened as if he had been hit, but he faced Father levelly. “Sire,” he told the king, his voice soft and straight, “you fear treachery, as any king must. But I promise you, there are no schemes in me. From this moment, I renounce any claim upon your throne or kinship. Prince Aric, Queen Evalin, you are my witnesses.”
The Oddling Prince Page 3
