The Oddling Prince

by Nancy Springer

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH

  JUST AS WHEN MY FATHER had recovered from his illness, a plethora of exultant servants invaded my bedchamber, bringing all sorts of fresh-baked bread and pastries; platters of venison, mutton, and codfish; fresh pears; and, of course, ale. And they remained to watch me devour all I could, more exuberant with every avid mouthful. Father sent them away after a while and sat, regarding me peacefully until he was called away on business of court.

  A good thing, for he would have expected me to rest, but I had no intention of remaining in bed for one moment longer, hungry now more for life than for food. Wobbling to my feet, amazed at how weak I was, I put on a long tunic so that I need not bother with breeches—in the summertime, most noblemen shed their breeches when they could, while the peasants went about in loincloths—and instead of boots, I wore ghillies, simple footgear of leather laced on. Feeling both better and worse as bread and meat took effect—stronger, but my stomach hurt—I walked out of my chamber and down the stairs, holding onto the wall for balance, careful not to embarrass myself by falling.

  Also I was careful to avoid people, for had I been intercepted, I might never have made it to the stable. Bluefire’s stall was empty—of course, I thought; Albaric was exercising him after long inactivity. Meanwhile, the stall had been mucked out and piled deep with clean straw. Slipping in, I made myself comfortable to hide and to wait, astonished at how exhausted the short excursion had made me. I actually lay down to rest. Not to sleep, of course. . . .

  I was awakened by Bluefire’s muzzle on my face, snuffling and nuzzling and licking me from my chin up to my hair. “Ai!” I exclaimed, turning my head, and saw Albaric crouching beside me, joy and laughter in his eyes. As if on its own, my hand stretched out to him, and he gave me once again the grip of a warrior, lifting me so that I sat up as Bluefire slobbered in my ear.

  “He’s as glad as a puppy to see you at last,” said Albaric.

  I put my hands atop the horse’s muzzle to fend him off. To Albaric, I said, “My brother, I’m sorry I made you angry at me.”

  “No need to be sorry. Quite evidently that’s over.”

  “My dormouse imitation? Indeed it is over, for the black wings have flown away.”

  “Praise be.” He shuddered. “All mercy be praised that your mother and father are blind to such things.”

  “So it’s over, but you’re still annoyed. I can feel it in you.”

  “Confound it, Aric, I can hide nothing from you.” Facing me, he looked rueful, ready to mock himself. “I heard about Lady Marissa,” he admitted. “All the castle can speak of nothing else. I am perhaps a bit jealous that a stranger could do for you what I could not.”

  In no way could I have explained to him what my “dormouse imitation” had been or why he could not possibly have healed it. So I said lightly, “You can’t help it that you’re not a girl, Albaric.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Please don’t tell me that now you are feeling, ah, rambunctious?”

  “She’s too young.” And, although I did not say so, my feelings for Marissa were no jest. But I smiled and let my brother think what he wanted.

  “You mortals,” he marveled, all his vexation flown away, “is there only one dependable remedy for you?”

  “I won’t speak for all mortals.” By hanging onto Bluefire’s mane, I managed to stand on my feet, but assessing my strength, I said ruefully, “Oh brother, my brother, I think you are going to have to help me walk back inside.”

  “In a moment.” He looked all around, checking for any spying eyes, then swiftly tugged the ring out of his tunic and slipped the thong over my head. “It’s been stinging me with impatience to return to you.”

  The ring glowed a gentle white. “Was it truly yellow before?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He flushed. “But for me to say what I did—”

  “Was quite right,” I interrupted him. “Will you hush, now, and get me back to bed before Mother catches me wandering about?”

  “And what will she do to you if she does catch you?” he teased.

  “Hang me by the thumbs, very likely.”

  In a changed tone, he said, “Oh my heart, Aric, it’s good to have you back,” and he hugged me as he had never hugged me before, impulsively, then just as quickly turned away lest I see his face. “If you hang onto my arm, can you manage?”

  I could and returned to my room with fair speed, finding to my astonished relief that no one had missed me except a lazy manservant who had seized the opportunity for a nap on his pallet. Awakening him, I learned that Mother was still busy with Marissa, the two of them rummaging through Mother’s hoard of clothing in search of things for Marissa’s wardrobe.

  I had many reasons to bless the coming of Marissa.

  The next morning, after a great deal of eating and even more sleeping, I felt so much better that I sallied forth, barely wobbling, to join my family for breakfast at the table on the dais. Marissa, I was pleased to note, sat with them. No hostage, she; hers was the place of an honored guest.

  “Prince Aric!” Marissa saw me first, jumped up, and ran to greet me with a hug around the waist—her head came barely to my shoulder—and, no jest, she nearly knocked me over. Yet, in her linen frock and her willful innocence, she was utterly a lady, a flower, a white rosebud nearly in bloom.

  “Aric,” Mother exclaimed, “you should be in bed!”

  “Sit down,” commanded my father at the same time.

  I did so, ate oatmeal with milk and raspberries, and teased Marissa. “My lady, if I may ask, how old are you now?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Then you have had a birthday since we met last.”

  “I have, yes. Have you?”

  The minx, meeting my dart with her own! “I am nearly of age,” I said, smiling, “but you’re full young to go a-courting. Have you no sisters, that your mother brought you to Dun Narven?”

  “I have sisters aplenty, but all younger.” She gave a little bounce—evidently any joy of hers required physical expression—and declared, “I am well pleased to be here. Someone else must mind them while I am away.”

  Mother asked, “Does your mother then stay at her loom all day, Marissa?” Already she was forgetting to title her “Lady.”

  “No, Mother does what she pleases. When she and Father are not quarreling, she drinks mead with him and Escobar.”

  Escobar! A shocked silence followed in which the name rang like the scream of a ghost.

  It was not a common name.

  “Escobar?” I asked Marissa, distracting her while I pretended not to see that Father and Mother sat like two statues of white stone.

  Marissa shrugged with elaborate scorn. “A wolfish vagabond, my father’s boon companion. He showed up out of nowhere last winter, and Father and Mother treat him like a prince. Or used to,” she added. “I heard Father questioning the henchmen who brought me here. No, they told him, Escobar had not returned to Domberk.”

  “So he—this Escobar—so he did come here with your father to invade Dun Caltor?”

  The shadow man who had burst out of Brock Domberk’s room behind the throne, I was thinking. The one who had run away.

  The one who, Albaric had said, resembled Father.

  “I suppose so,” Marissa answered me, “but I don’t know for sure. When Mother and I returned home from Dun Narven, Father and Escobar and the men-at-arms were gone without a word for us. Mother,” she added with satisfaction, “was annoyed.”

  “Lady Marissa.” It is of great credit to the king that, having found his voice, he constrained it to be courteous. “This Escobar, what is he like? Describe him for me.”

  “He is thewed like a warrior and far taller than my father.” Marissa faced my sire quite unafraid, despite the shadow and strain in the king’s face. “Ageless and strong, like a stone, with grizzled helm-cut hair and his face beneath its beard all weathered and crisscrossed with scars, yet he stands like a lance and carries his head high, as if. . . .” Her lips parted but s
poke not, and her brown eyes widened and gazed at King Bardaric and through him and far beyond, brown like forest pools with a kind of mist over them and secrets swimming in their leaf-shadowed waters.

  Motionless, she remained gazing thus for moments, and as if there were a trance on Father and Mother and me also, none of us moved.

  Marissa took breath, and her voice issued forth like an echo out of a Delphic cavern. “As if he were a prince. Sire, he is kin to you.”

  The king lunged up from his chair, shattering the spell, or trance, or timeless time; I know not what to call it. As if a strong wind had struck her, Marissa wavered in her chair, blinking up at him, only a girl again.

  “What did you say?” Father demanded of her, looking grim as death.

  But she tilted her head back to answer him eye to eye. “Escobar is kin to you.”

  “Who told you so?”

  “No one.” She drew a deep, quivering breath and turned her head away. “Sometimes I just know things.”

  A pause. Marissa was frightened now, I sensed, but not of the king.

  He said quietly enough, “Then tell me, young seeress, where is Escobar now?”

  Without looking up, she shook her head.

  “Can you find out?”

  Marissa’s shoulders flinched. “Bard,” interposed Mother quietly, “have mercy.”

  “Bah!” he said explosively, then strode off in a way that told me he meant to take care of the matter himself.

  “What is happening?” Marissa whispered, looking from Mother to me. “What have I done?”

  “You have done no harm and all good,” I told her, greatly hoping this was not a lie and wishing I did not feel so weak and useless. Doubtless, Father was summoning his men-at-arms to ride out with him in search of Escobar, dangerous claimant to be King of Calidon, and I wished I could ride with them—even though it seemed to me most unlikely that they would find him. “He missed his chance at the throne, for whatever reason,” I added, thinking aloud, “then fled, and all sense says he should be far from here by now.”

  “Greatly I hope so,” said my mother.

  “Queen Evalin, Prince Aric,” Marissa addressed us almost in plea, “I have been kept ignorant. My father does not believe in knowledge for women. I have had no teachers, only tales told by firelight. How should I know anything?”

  I leaned forward and placed my hand on hers. “Is it the first time this—this strange way of knowing things—the first time it has happened?”

  “The first time it mattered!” Her voice plunged from a shout to a whisper. “This Escobar—is he truly King Bardaric’s brother? Rival for the throne?”

  I nodded.

  “There could be war? Or—or even worse?”

  “Not on your account.”

  Mother said, “Child, you spoke merest truth. You are but the messenger, and blameless. Take comfort.” The queen arose, serene. “I know a place where always there is peace. Lady Marissa, would you care to come with me to the garden?”

  Far too wrought to rest, I would not be left behind, although Mother insisted on wrapping me head to toe in a vast plaid blanket. She and I sat under a pavilion garlanded by climbing roses, and at first Marissa stayed with us, but soon the beauty of the place did its magic; Marissa forgot the shadow of Escobar, got up, and flitted hither and yon, exploring the flagstone paths laid down like a mosaic in many subtle colors of slate, exclaiming over the arbors, the foxgloves, the hollyhocks, the fragrances as she sniffed the myriad roses. Watching her, Mother smiled; no courtly compliments could have pleased her more that Marissa’s transparent delight.

  “Marissa,” I asked her after she rejoined us, “Does Dun Domberk not have a garden like this?”

  “No. We grow cabbages under our fruit trees.”

  I laughed. She minded not in the least. Seating herself beside me on the same bench, she asked with a bold fling of her head, “Aric, Father said this was your idea, to have me come here as a hostage for his release. Is that true?”

  Trying not to laugh again, I retorted, “If he said it, then why would it not be true?”

  “Because my father is a frequent and mendacious liar,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone, and then in quite a different tone, “Oh!”

  The “Oh!” was because she saw Albaric coming in through the garden gate, cradling his harp in one arm as if it were a baby.

  Although he wore the plainest tunic and leggings in our collective wardrobe, and no sword, once again, Marissa whispered, “Oh!” As she had seen him truly while we were dancing at Dun Narven, so she saw him now. Darting up from her seat, she ran to meet him, stopping at a respectful distance to curtsy low.

  “My Lady Marissa!” he protested. “I should bow to you.”

  “Fiddlesticks. Oh!” she cried as her head came up and she saw his scar. “Albaric, what has happened to your face? Someone hurt you!”

  “It is nothing.”

  “It is terrible! Who could do such a thing to you?”

  Rather than tell her it had been a Domberk, he answered only with a gentle look as he stepped forward to escort her toward Mother and me. “Queen Evalin.” He bowed his head to her. “I thought I should find you here.”

  “And you brought your harp because all is tumult elsewhere?”

  “Yes, with quantities of men sallying forth to search the uplands for Escobar, or scour the valleys, or question the villagers about him.” Albaric shrugged, and I sensed what he was thinking but would not say: the king would not welcome him among the searchers.

  I spoke for him. “You and Bluefire could have found him in short order if he’s out there.”

  He nodded, and his glance lingered on me, assessing whether I felt stronger and would soon be well.

  Again, I answered aloud. “I want nothing more than your music.”

  Marissa clapped her hands. “Yes, Albaric, will you please play for us?”

  He perched on the pavilion railing, and Marissa settled herself beside me with a bounce. Albaric smiled at her, but then his gaze shifted far away. As if on its own, his hand drew a bell-like harmony from the strings of his harp. It sang along with him:

  In the west sea-eagles lament

  Salt their calls as the tears of men.

  On black legs as long as life

  The ghost-gray crane stalks in the fen.

  In the night the owl awaits,

  Profound and still. From its den

  The wolf sings skyward. Echoes answer.

  Dayspring answers in the east when

  From the world tree wings the sun

  High sky chariot soaring bright

  And from the sea arises One

  The One True King in a crown of light

  When wind and water, day and night

  Owl and eagle, moon and sun

  Out of the deep shall bring the One

  White mystery shall ring the One.

  Even after he had finished, the song seemed to echo in the air, to remain, mysterious, like a legend.

  “Oh,” sighed Marissa. “What does it mean?”

  “I do not know. It was in a book Aric gave me.”

  She said, “I have heard that the hands of the One True King have the power of healing.”

  “It might well be about Arthur,” Mother said, “the great southern king of whom it is said he will rise again.”

  “Or it might be about the White King,” Marissa added.

  “The White King!” I blurted in such a heightened tone that everyone stared at me. But I did not care to say that I had seen him in my fever dreams, riding a great blue horse with a white tail and mane and a wise white face, and that I remembered him with longing. Awkwardly, I explained, “Lord Kiffin mentioned him to me, but I do not understand who he is.”

  Eagerly, Marissa leaned toward me. “My grandmother told me he was the One True King in the Great Time before time, when it was always summer and Calidon was a green and fertile place of peace, a place where no dragon-ships raided and no one needed to wear a
sword. But once upon a time ended, and mortal time began when the White King’s best friend, the companion he most trusted, betrayed him and killed him to take the throne. The traitor’s name was Winter, and since his foul deed, the land has fallen prey to storm and cold, and all the Kings of Calidon have been Winter Kings, usurpers—oh!” Her hand flew to cover her mouth. “Please forgive me.”

  Mother smiled, albeit a bit sadly. “Never fear when you speak truth, Marissa. Yes, my husband is a usurper.”

  “But everyone says King Bardaric is the best ruler of Calidon in ages and ages!”

  Mother’s smile widened. “This, also, is true.” Then she had mercy on Marissa by asking, “Is there more to your tale?”

  “Only that the White King will come again someday, to make Calidon a paradise, a place of utter peace where no one need go hungry, no outlaws roam, and no raiders from the Craglands ever dare venture. Like King Arthur, he has not died; he is made of legend.”

  Made of legend. Did she remember the song? Much moved by that and the tale of the White King, I blurted, “You tell a marvelous story, Marissa.”

  She blushed, then shrugged, then said in a quelled voice, “My father says ‘White King’ is only a mistake for ‘Viking,’ making a fairy tale of how our ancestors in longboats came to Calidon.”

  “Your father is a frequent and mendacious liar,” I responded, “or so I have been told.”

  That made her laugh, and then Albaric charmed us with harp and song some more, and so we passed the morning pleasantly. But when we left the garden and returned to the castle keep, the serving-folk seemed too silent and the shadows too stony, too still, waiting for word of Escobar.

  I returned to my bed, exhausted by my slight exertions, and got up again only at nightfall when I heard many riders clopping into the courtyard. One look at my Sire’s scowl as he strode into the great hall told me there was no good news. His mood was plain to see, as black as his tunic and tabard. I would not have troubled him with my presence, but he caught sight of me and gestured imperiously: come here. I followed him into the small room behind the throne, where he stood glaring at the humble bed once more piled with oddments.

  “Tell me,” he demanded without looking at me.