Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  A compelling argument would have to be made for Alarick to ascend the throne as soon as possible, for Lambrecht, in his current state, wasn’t fit to rule. No, surely, there was a way for the bastard prince to take over the crown even as only a regent. The court might despise the boy for no other reason than sheer capriciousness, but the peasantry was fond of him. It certainly wouldn’t be a surprise if the consensus outside Paradies favored the ousting of Lambrecht and the crowning of a better man, regardless of his parentage.

  Over discolored, dusty scrolls unrolled on marble tables, ministers frowned at dated accounts of this curse and that curse, stroking their chins or scratching their bewigged heads.

  Anybody trapped in towers? Dungeons? Transformed into ugly, slimy, stinking beasts that only spiteful stepmothers—who also happened to be powerful fairies skilled in the black arts—could cook up? Any pretty young noblewoman trapped in a spell that desperately needed to be broken?

  “Isn’t it the case in these things that only the destined One True Love is meant to break the spell? How can anyone be sure if the prince is it?”

  They knocked their heads together. Alarick would have to be tested, of course. Endure trial after trial, of the kind that measured his virtue and whether or not he truly deserved the fair maiden’s hand. Not to mention her Papa’s kingdom and all the wealth that came with it.

  “But he can die in those trials if he isn’t The One!” the oldest and goutiest fellow cried. “Then what do we do?”

  They all exchanged looks, the blood draining away from their creased and careworn faces. Death by brambles. Death by dragon’s fire. Death by a fall from a great height, most likely a slippery and steep glass hill. Death by poison. Death by a giant’s boot. Anything could happen, and what guarantee could they have that the prince’s chosen adventure was really the one he was meant to take?

  The king and queen should have bred more children—not that it would’ve been possible at all to begin with, of course, but it was still a tantalizing idea to play with. Then they’d have a spare or two, and the kingdom wouldn’t be in danger of being compromised by the loss of one who’d be tossed into the wrong adventure. Of course, there was also the possibility of losing all of the princes to a set of badly-chosen trials, but the ministers preferred not to dwell on the issue.

  “By the gods, this is all so useless!”

  “The only decent member of the royal family, and we’re to lose him in a test of virtue.”

  Some rolled their eyes. “Decent!” they echoed. “He’s getting buggered by another man! There’s no test of virtue here. It’s damned well too late for that!”

  As it turned out, majority of the men gathered in that room claimed to be willing to turn their heads and look the other way. If Alarick turned out to be a good, able ruler, what would it matter if he were getting buggered by Roald or a valet or the local blacksmith? An argument started, with everyone realizing at length how multi-layered the issue really was, how no simple answer could be arrived at.

  “There’s no use being so negative,” one said, dismissing all dour conjectures with a wave of a hand. “All we’re doing is add to His Royal Highness’s misfortunes if we keep it up.”

  “And we can’t have him in brothels,” another said after a moment’s pause, to which everyone nodded their heads in firm and clear agreement. “The king, perhaps, but we’ve no control over His Majesty’s behavior.”

  “Better to groom the prince into something better.”

  “I refuse to take orders from a bastard.”

  “You’re always welcome to leave.” Another round of heated exchanges ensued, but the fact remained: Alarick needed to be groomed into a much more superior ruler than Lambrecht, surely.

  Yes, surely. Hatred of the current monarch might not be shared among those gathered in the great library, but all preferred the prince if worse comes to worst, though his unusual romantic predilections continued to be a blot in their affection, an itch that seemed impossible to scratch.

  “Why couldn’t we have a royal family that’s normal?” someone asked with a tired groan.

  “What exactly is normal?” another countered. A wave of low muttering swept over the assembled men, with many half-formed ideas tossed out and no real consensus appearing.

  A few more bottles of wine were called for, and soon everyone was filling up their glasses, and the room was thick with voices wishing for an ideal that had always eluded them. A small group of young ministers refused, arguing that they needed a clear head to work through the problem.

  “He was such a good child,” someone said with a trembling sigh. “What happened? Someone had gone wrong somewhere.”

  “Born to a pair of unnatural beasts—that’s what happened.”

  “His birthright was bound to come out. It was only a matter of time.”

  “No one prayed to the gods properly. Is that it?”

  “No, you idiot. This is nothing more than bad luck.”

  Sometimes, the painful life lesson said, it didn’t pay to be too fond of someone, or one would surely be driven to drink.

  Possibilities were exhausted. By the time another hour had gone by, everyone had decided that sometimes, it was simply best to err on the side of caution, seeing as how they’d only one prince to look after. The ministers took a few moments’ rest. The older ones poured themselves some more wine. Called for fruit and bread. Some were compelled to pace around the great library to keep their aching, creaking joints from fusing themselves solid.

  When they gathered around the table again, they were out of ideas. Slightly intoxicated, their bellies tight with food, they stared in a fogged daze at the scrolls. Some counted the minutes. Some counted every expulsion of breath. Some fought to keep themselves upright. One or two were forced to shamble off to the marble hearth and vomit their excesses.

  In the meantime, the younger ministers kept their heads and watched their companions’ slowly diminishing wit in cautious silence. Meaningful glances were exchanged, and sly smiles were hidden behind goblets filled with plain well water.

  Then a thin, wind-like voice broke the heavy silence. It was Ehren Fleischer, one of the youngest ministers and the most ambitious of the lot. “Perhaps,” he said, “the prince can be cured.” After all, he proceeded, the prince had been coddled for too long. He’d been a child for too long. Now was the time for him to grow up and grow out of his irresponsibility. He needed to look forward, into the future. With that came a sense of duty to the royal bloodline and the kingdom’s security.

  Alarick’s seducer wouldn’t go unpunished, naturally. Roald had taken a boy from an unsettled, questionable lineage and had made things worse for him. Had Alarick received proper guidance and the best kind of influence, he would have turned out much better than this. What Roald did was unforgivable and a classic example of what happened when one heeded nothing more than the desires of the flesh.

  “His father,” one man declared, holding up a hand and putting a halt to the venomous exchanges regarding Roald, “has returned from his holy pilgrimage, and he’s reassured me that all’s well with regard to his son.”

  “All’s well means nothing! What does he mean exactly by all’s well?”

  “He’s prayed to the gods? Offered sacrifices? Made promises and bartered his soul for them?”

  “Most likely sold his son’s soul to the gods…”

  The speaker smiled, pressing a finger against his lips. “Wait. Just wait. You’ll discover soon enough.”

  All the assembled men looked at each other, exchanging bewildered glances. The older, more faithful ministers struggled against the arguments flung their way. They imbibed more wine, this time unknowingly draining the contents of the last of the poisoned bottles.

  The younger men, having held back all this time, prepared themselves, drawing their daggers from under their coats. Just as their drunken peers stood up, wide-eyed and gagging, their hands wrapped around their wrinkled old throats, the sober ones merely sat back and w
atched their treason unfold in such a colorful and amusing display of excesses gone wrong.

  Like a group of marionettes being tossed around in the wind, the older men staggered about, some falling over quickly, and some stumbling and flailing as poison ate away at their insides. The great library was filled with the sounds of groans from fluid-filled throats, small cries of pain and surprise, and a great deal of grim laughter from the small group of murderers. Before long, trusted men lay on the ground, with some dying swiftly, and some requiring a bit of help from their assassins, who walked around the massive gilt room, plunging daggers into chests or throats. The sounds of dying men soon faded, and before long, the group of traitors stood amidst the dead, bloody daggers in hand and exchanging looks of shocked amazement and triumph.

  “Shall we move on, gentlemen?” their new leader, the ambitious one and mastermind of the small revolt, asked. Ehren Fleischer grinned, looking calm and dignified despite his crime. Daggers were wiped clean, the empty bottles of tainted wine were broken against the marble hearth, and the bodies were disposed with the help of their allies within the royal household.

  “When should we hear a report from the others?” one minister asked, casually sauntering over to the main table around which his comrades had gathered.

  “Soon.”

  They eyed each other, smirking, finding grotesque amusement in seeing their peers’ satin coats and white shirts spattered with blood. The significance, the symbolism, wasn’t wasted on anyone.

  Chapter Eight

  Alarick had gone through his list of things to do. He’d ventured out to the people again to talk, observe, absorb. He’d inquired after the sick, the dying, the old. He’d acknowledged the poor, who made up at least three-quarters of his subjects, and followed them to their decrepit cottages or the noisy, filthy marketplace. He’d listened to complaints, suggestions, and pleas. He’d reassured, promised, and offered comfort.

  Not everything he’d attempted succeeded, however. He saw how embittered too many people have become, no thanks to the king and many others currently in power. Some of the poor refused to speak to him, daring him to have them arrested for—well, for whatever perceived crimes were made against the crown. Some were only willing to spit a few words out while eyeing him and his company with deep suspicion, if not naked dislike.

  One filthy, ill-looking woman practically chased them away from her run-down hovel, wielding a broom and screaming something about her lost daughter, who’d been raped by someone in court and who’d hanged herself out of shame, and her husband, who was now rotting in a prison cell, for having the audacity to demand justice for his child.

  “You’ll have to work harder than ever to win them back,” Roald observed as the two cast one final glance down the dusty road that linked the palace to the rest of the land. He winced visibly, realizing the ridiculousness of what he’d just said.

  “I wouldn’t know where to start,” Alarick replied, his spirits low. What were his options, besides? He’d learned to loathe his position, for all the luxuries it offered. His future, he knew, remained nebulous, and visiting the peasantry on occasion was an exercise in futility despite his sincerity in wanting to help them. If he couldn’t ascend the throne, he could at least remain in court and use his influence on the king, whoever it might end up being once Lambrecht died.

  During moments of weakness, as he’d always believed them to be, Alarick caught himself wishing that he were born to a different set of parents, a family nowhere near nobility, one that wasn’t tainted with a history of jaw-dropping scandals and atrocities. His mother was nothing more than a creature just a step above a wild beast, mocked by former friends, shunned by her husband, reluctantly cared for by servants who once half-killed themselves to be in her service—at least according to rumors. His “adoptive” father, with his own rich list of moral shortcomings, had grown feeble in mind, spirit, and body, though without any clear marks of an illness. That final point was the most baffling to Alarick, and he was too rational, too level-headed, to give much thought to hints dropped by his peers that the king was under a spell of some kind. A fatal weakness was in his mother’s blood, moreover, and Alarick feared it. How long would it take, after all, before he’d begin feeling its effects on him? The implications staggered him.

  I don’t want to be like her, and I sure don’t want to be like him, he’d sometimes thought as he watched the king eat and get drunk at the table. It was like being born under a curse, though in his case, it didn’t involve transformation into one unnatural form or another. Cursed heroes and heroines in his old, favorite nursery tales certainly had it far better than he ever did.

  And it was always with a sharp pang that Alarick would be assailed with incredible shame for feeling that way toward his family, real or otherwise. With a muttered curse, he’d shake himself back to the present, silent, bitter chiding filling his next moment.

  Trailing several feet behind them were their escorts—a pair of young, gangly pages and one servant. They all made for a strange parade, for the pages were exhausted and nearly fell off their own horses despite their brightly colored costumes that were specifically made for their roles. Their wigs sat crookedly on their heads, and neither seemed to realize it—or perhaps care. The trailing servant looked alert and smart in his own uniform, occasionally giving the two yawning and nodding pages a look of clear disdain.

  “As long as we don’t find ourselves in another war…”

  Roald appeared grim. “How realistic is that? His Majesty’s got too many enemies beyond our borders.”

  Alarick sank into a pensive silence. Too true.

  In fact, he’d always been secretly surprised that no restless stirrings had been noted within the court, but perhaps it was only a matter of time. Roald turned his horse and urged the prince to follow him. They’d done their duties for the day, and with peacetime upon them, they’d nothing more to look forward to but long, idle hours.

  Alarick dismissed their pages and their servant, who showed quite a bit of relief at being let off for the day. Suddenly energetic, the pages turned their horses around and galloped back toward the palace, while the servant merely bowed and followed them without another word or even an expression that could be read. Alarick and Roald rode off toward a quiet patch of trees some distance from town and the palace, the promise of privacy and delicious pleasures steering Alarick away from more dour thoughts, the ticklish rippling of excitement through his body making him shiver.

  It was a recently discovered patch of paradise outside the stifling borders of the palace, completely ignored by humanity and blessed by all the best that Nature could give such a little area.

  But a vague sense of foreboding grazed the edges of his mind, and once or twice, Alarick couldn’t help but slow his horse down and glance back over his shoulder, his eyes wide and searching. There was no one behind them, of course, the general area nothing more than gently rolling terrain of green and occasional color, trees scattered here and there, the sky a breathtaking shade of blue, the peacefulness softly laced with the occasional twittering of birds. It was beautiful, a magnificent idyll that belied the land’s bloody history.

  Alarick tried to shake off the creeping chill and the whispered doubts as he followed Roald. And he’d almost managed to settle into a reasonable state of calm and contentment had he not caught movement just in his vision’s periphery. He turned, startled, and saw a woman standing alone in the middle of a meadow to his right, watching them. Her distance was close enough that Alarick could easily make out familiar details in her dress, catching the soiled and tattered fabric, the telltale marks of fire, and the half-scarred face gazing out at him.

  “Amara,” he breathed, gaping.

  Amara merely watched him ride on, her face a picture of profound sadness. She said nothing to him, and neither did she attempt to reach out, physically, to Alarick. But her mere presence chilled Alarick’s being, for he knew that she didn’t belong there. The dead, his aunt had told him, had
limits as dictated by Fate, and it was Amara’s fortune to haunt the palace’s corridors, shadowing her mad sister and keeping her nephew company.

  “No, surely—it’s my imagination. That’s all,” he breathed, pressing his eyes shut as though to clear his vision. “She can’t be out here. She’s not supposed to be out here.”

  “What did you say?” Roald asked, and Alarick started, blinking his eyes open, and looked at Roald.

  “I thought I saw…” He looked back at where Amara stood and found it empty. Alarick forced a tight smile when he spurred his horse on till they were abreast with Roald. “Nothing. Just a trick of the light.”

  They rode up to the trees that marked their new retreat’s borders, and there they dismounted, leading their horses through familiar spaces till they reached their sanctuary, a clearing that was at least three times the size of their little glade in the pleasure garden. Everything in their new patch of paradise was a far cry from what they’d been used to. While everything in the pleasure garden spoke of a studied design that was meant to appear natural, this newly discovered clearing was all wild beauty and liberating spontaneity.

  There they sat in the sun, enjoying the gentle warmth and brilliant clarity of the day. They stripped and swam in the pond beyond the trees and then enjoyed their usual pleasures once they dried themselves.

  “You’re daydreaming again,” Roald murmured once he’d fully seated himself in Alarick. He paused for a bit, wondering at his lover’s distraction. He kissed the prince and tasted the familiar. He brushed damp, black hair from Alarick’s brows, marveled at green, slightly haunted eyes that stared back at him. Pressing down, he whispered the usual calming words in Alarick’s ear and punctuated them with a ticklish swipe of his tongue.

  Before long Roald sensed something unusual. Something different. It was all around them. The birds, the trees, the warm breezes, the cloudless sky—all pointed to rugged perfection, yet all seemed very, very slightly askew. How odd. Something—something—didn’t feel right, yet he saw nothing unusual. He moved inside Alarick, rewarding himself with a breathless moan from his lover, determined to undo these odd feelings.