Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  “You’ve no business being with them. Theirs is a puzzle not meant for you to unravel or a story that isn’t yours to understand. The gods have made their judgment. Go and serve your mistress, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”

  Roald opened his mouth to argue, but he froze when he suddenly realized that Nature was quite likely ordered by the goddess to be his watcher, and the elements, his guides. If he argued or demanded clear answers, he could very well be thwarted in his efforts. A shiver ran through him. He was a puppet. A prisoner in a strange cell, allowed to wander and observe, yet kept from communicating with mortals and kept in line by the wind and the trees.

  It was all he could do to give the willow tree one final glance before walking away, now alert and cautious. Roald took a different path this time, and he came across a small group of children standing around a little crystal pond, tossing flowers into the water and watching them float idly on the gently rippling surface.

  “What’s happening here?” he asked the grass around him.

  “The children are comforting one of their own,” thousands of deep green blades replied.

  “One of their own? Did the gods punish the child?”

  “He was the son of a god and a mortal, and a jealous goddess punished the mother by turning her son into a small pond—something she can never hold.”

  Roald scowled. That was madness, he thought, but he dared not say it. Instead, he calmly noted, “The children are mourning, then.”

  “They are. But they visit often. They hope to see their playfellow returned to them someday, when the goddess repents her harshness.”

  There it was again: hope. Roald felt a certain kind of power lacing that word, an undercurrent of countless crackling bolts of energy that kept his spirits afloat, his heart energized, regardless of how foolish it might all seem in the end. This was certainly something the goddess didn’t say anything about, or was she simply blind to the fact? Was it her nature to be so?

  “You shouldn’t tarry here. There’s no use questioning or challenging an immortal’s judgment. Go on and serve your mistress, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”

  Roald nodded and moved on, his heart full, anger swelling as he bent his thoughts down a less savory road. Innocents were being punished for crimes that weren’t theirs, and he couldn’t understand such malice among the gods. How could mortals worship such unreasonably vindictive beings? How strange, to be sure, that supplicants would willingly place their lives in the hands of immortals who apparently thought of nothing beyond their own cares and a certain perception they held regarding the world they created and watched over as well as the race of people whom the gods had surely created and nurtured as their own children.

  “No, not children—more like puppets to be manipulated and moved around according to their whims,” Roald muttered darkly. Would his goddess hear him speak of such things about her and her fellow immortals? Would his words be picked up by the winds or a spirit of the earth and carried up to her?

  Roald wasn’t sure whether or not he’d welcome her wrath if she ever read his thoughts or caught any of his words. Then again, perhaps she’d be too busy wallowing in her grief to pay him further heed until the time came for him to be transformed.

  For her pleasure—an eternal one, at that.

  Roald grimaced as a surge of panic coursed through him, carrying with it another strange feeling of unease involving someone else who, he was now convinced, ought to be there with him.

  “Better to go along,” he whispered after a painful, conflicted moment, his head filled with warring voices that refused to be outdone by their respective antagonists. Roald paused in his tracks, pinching his eyes shut as he pressed the heels of his hands on his temples in a vain attempt at willing away his confusion. Eventually his mind settled itself again, and an uneasy silence pervaded. Roald looked up, his eyes misty with unshed tears of frustration, and it was all he could do to wipe them against a sleeve. “Better to go along with it,” he said again.

  Swallowing, he walked onward—directionless and yet not. He once again felt that curious twinge in his belly, telling him that he was going in the right direction and that the solution to his puzzle lay in the road ahead.

  Chapter Eleven

  A figure tucked away in the deepest, darkest corner of the cottage watched in silence as the exhausted and battered young man felt his way around the cottage’s dining area. The figure remained unseen—at least for now. No use betraying himself to the lost prince, after all. No—let the boy gawk and murmur in wonder at the strange opulence that now bore down on him. He’d surely be too tired for a more lengthy and in-depth lecture on the nature of his destiny.

  Oh, yes, it was a prince who’d crossed the threshold of the cottage. The figure in the wall knew it right away, for it was too easy to detect noble blood. It had a certain smell, left a certain taste in the air, one that hinted at opulence, unequalled privilege, and an arrogant belief of being descended from immortals. The vanity of nobles felt like thick, sluggish fog that refused to dissipate. This lost prince, however, reeked very little of it. The hidden man raised his face and sniffed the air with short and sharp inhalations. It took him a little while to satisfy himself with the conclusion that this prince was an odd creature in that sense—that he was a prince and yet not.

  A bastard, perhaps? It wouldn’t be a surprise. Those in court simply couldn’t keep their legs pressed together if their lives depended on it, and only the gods knew how many illegitimate spawn had worn the crown through the centuries. Indeed, at least half of those kings’ true identities were destined never to be discovered by even the most thorough historian, and perhaps the most remarkable thing—or, rather, the most amusing thing—was the fact that, because of these tainted offspring, the royal bloodline surely would have long been muddied by impure blood.

  So much for descendants of immortals.

  The unseen man smiled at the thought. If the court were to suffer a continuing downward spiral in its rule, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone with the barest amount of wit to understand the ongoing polluting of the blood coursing through the heads that wore the crown.

  The man who now watched the dazed prince stumble around, barely conscious, was invisible because he was hidden in the shadows and had always been a part of the wall he leaned against. Flesh, hair, and clothing were made of wood grain, and the curious patterns on the wall embraced him and made him one of their own. This man was the cottage. Now had the prince stopped his exploration, he’d have seen the watcher in the wood—his figure, his eyes, his hair, even his posture, which was an elegant draping across one of the paneling. He’d have rubbed his own eyes in disbelief at the sight of a wood grain hand being lifted to raise a wood grain goblet to wood grain lips.

  Not a trick of the shadows, no. This was real magic, the peasantry would likely say. Or should it be a curse?

  For good or ill, Alarick remained oblivious.

  “There are seven chairs here,” he said, his voice faint and trembling as he limped over to the dining table. “And seven plates, glasses, and bowls.”

  He stared closely at each, gingerly fingering the first dish, eyes widening in astonishment at the intricacies that seemed to throb under his fingertips. He moved clockwise and marveled, his breath catching at the enchantment that he perceived. His injuries and exhaustion were suddenly forgotten, to be replaced by the sense that something had turned back the time, and Alarick was again five years old. This time, however, rather than be the passive and awestruck listener of his nurse’s fireside tales, Alarick was now an active participant who didn’t quite know what to do with his remarkable discovery.

  The first bowl he observed was unadorned alabaster white. The second was made entirely of crystal, which tinkled when touched. The third was made of richly fragrant flowers in full bloom, woven tightly together to form a container. The fourth was a collection of strange figures and patterns set against a backdrop of discordant hues. The fifth was subtly d
esigned with a fruit pattern in a rich burgundy shade. The sixth was a sensual wonder with its finely carved relief of delicate vines and roses. The seventh was a collection of skull fragments joined like puzzle pieces into a perfectly shaped and functional container.

  The chairs that corresponded to the different place settings were designed similarly, lending a uniform feel to the supper table—crystal, wildflowers, gypsum, bone—all were echoed quite nicely in the furniture they’d been partnered with.

  Alarick ogled the table and its enigmatic contents for several moments before his sore stomach rumbled, tearing a hole in that amazing moment of magic, and immediately, a host of unwelcome sensations and memories swept over his bruised form. With a strangled little cry, Alarick doubled over as sharp pain lanced his side, and it was all he could do to use the table for support as he bent at the waist, one hand pressed against his side as he waited for the pain to subside. Ragged breaths cut through the silence that followed, while time crept forward.

  Once the pain had gone, Alarick stood straight, sucking in a breath as sore and bruised muscles throbbed here and there, his hunger compounding his current distress. Forced back to more practical issues, he went through cupboards and drawers, searching for a loaf of bread, though it took him perhaps longer than he’d hoped as he stopped several times whenever pain overcame him.

  But Alarick didn’t have to worry about anything.

  The rejected prince had been expected; the forest had been whispering about his arrival for some time now, ever since he’d set foot within the forest’s shadows. The trees sensed him, knew him, and they passed on the message to the cottage. So, yes, he found his bread and its accompanying bottle of wine just within easy reach, and taking both to the table, he promptly sat down and stuffed himself greedily, sitting on the alabaster chair and using its corresponding bowl and drinking from its matching goblet without ceremony.

  There was also something strange about his meal; not only did it replenish him, but it seemed to heal him. Alarick could feel the pain lessen gradually, the throbbing soreness of bruised limbs quiet down. A quick glance at a torn sleeve showed the skin beneath it—cut and marred with blood before—now sporting a closed wound, with the blood nothing more than a dried smudge. Alarick blinked, and he looked at another injured arm and saw the ugly bruise left by rough, vicious hands looking as though it was in the latter stages of healing, for the initial reddish-purple marks were now faint and edged with yellow.

  After a moment’s stunned silence, Alarick took another swallow of his wine and raised his eyes to the ceiling, not quite sure what or whom he was trying to reach. All the same, he whispered, “Thank you.”

  The man in the wood inclined his head and smiled again. It was, indeed, his pleasure.

  Once he’d finished his meal, Alarick tried to search for something with which he could clean his soiled dishes, but he found nothing.

  “I suppose I should rest first,” he murmured, feeling sleepy. There was time enough for him to do what was proper and clean his dishes out of respect and gratitude to the cottage and its mysterious owner, whoever—or whatever—it might be. Alarick had to pause and hold his breath when he stood up from his chair, listening. He felt his skin prickle and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand. Was someone else present?

  He cautiously looked around him, still not daring to breathe. No, he found nothing out of the ordinary—if complete solitude and a heavy, almost asphyxiating silence could be called ordinary, that is. Yet he could feel eyes on him, watching and observing closely.

  “Is anyone here?” he called out. He heard nothing but the faint movement of the wind outside the cottage, the muffled rustling of branches and the occasional scratching of woodland debris against glass as they struck the windows. Alarick walked over to one window and peered out. He saw nothing but shadows and endless trees everywhere.

  He shook his head as he withdrew. “It’s just my imagination,” he said with a heavy sigh. The sleepiness that at first overcame him now doubled in intensity, and Alarick found himself yawning several times, feeling unnaturally sluggish. The earlier sense of being watched remained, but it had been dulled by heavy languor that now cloaked him.

  Alarick abandoned the dining room to search for the bedroom, which was simply the second half of the cottage, separated from the dining room by a wall with a narrow doorway. There he found seven beds decorated with the same motifs as the dinner bowls and chairs in the other room. They all looked inviting and warm, but Alarick opted for the alabaster bed and crawled under the blankets and promptly fell asleep. He could have chosen another, of course, but something urged him to follow through on his earlier pattern, though if he were alert and clear-thinking, he’d argue that it was simply nothing more than systematic orderliness that had been ground into him by his tutors through the years.

  The wall behind his headboard shifted in the shadows, and the wood grain moved until something shaped like a human hand reached out and tried to touch him but couldn’t get too far. Instead, it mimicked a gentle stroking of Alarick’s hair, pretending to lift strands and allowing them to fall softly between fingers that creaked like moving branches. A quiet whisper wafted from wood grain lips.

  “Dream on, Your Highness,” it said. “Enjoy what you can.”

  * * *

  Alarick found himself sitting on the edge of a well. Slithering vines that sprouted from the grass moved to embrace the well and everything around it, creeping forward like tentative fingers till they encased Alarick’s legs and feet. He glanced down at the writhing branches and leaves, frowning as he puzzled over them. He tried to move his legs but found them fixed. Moreover, the vines were a little itchy even with his stockings on, for they moved in slightly clumsy fits and starts, at times hesitating and retracing their steps before taking a different direction altogether. As though gifted with reason, the vines went about their business with human-like determination, but they weren’t a great nuisance, Alarick had finally determined.

  Besides, there were graver matters to consider. A very important token of his had disappeared in the well, and a very courteous frog had volunteered to retrieve it for him.

  “It could be worse,” he murmured with a sigh, shuddering at the thought of the promise he’d gave the clever little amphibian—despite the fact that he couldn’t remember making promises of any sort. All he knew was blinking his eyes open and finding himself in the middle of a curious little quandary, of the sort that he knew could only be possible in those nursery tales that were meant to frighten or edify children. The frog, a pleasant little creature, was already present and in the middle of speaking its resolution to retrieve Alarick’s precious token—whatever that might be—and reminding him of a promise he’d just made.

  After another moment of somewhat uncomfortable waiting, Alarick heard movement from inside the well. The token, slick with stagnant water and green slime, was finally tossed back out, and it rested at Alarick’s imprisoned feet. It was a locket, one that Alarick readily recognized, for it was a gift that Roald had given him before the war. Alarick hoped that the water didn’t ruin its contents. The frog, equally wet and slimy, immediately followed, leaping out of the depths of the well with amazing precision, for he never missed the stone ledge, and he sat before Alarick with a triumphant little grin.

  “I got your locket back,” he said happily. “Now it’s your turn. Payment for services rendered.”

  The frog was oblivious to the vines that crept up the well’s sides to enclose him in their leafy prison. They slithered and curled around the little green body, but the animal remained unaware. Expectation lit up his bulging yellow eyes, and Alarick, his own legs now fully encased as the vines worked their way to his waist, sighed and nodded.

  “A bargain’s a bargain, I suppose,” he said, and the frog croaked his agreement.

  Alarick leaned down and forced himself to kiss cold, wet, amphibious lips. What did it matter, anyway? His stomach may be turning at the repulsive contact, but a
t least he got his locket back, and it was a happy ending all around—especially if the frog were to transform as was always the case with those old nursery tales.

  There was a flash of alabaster light, and Alarick was startled at finding himself kissing—another prince? A nobleman? A knight? A peasant? Was it Roald? He could hardly guess. It was a bit difficult, after all, being locked in the arms of another, his mouth being coaxed open with a light flicking of a tongue against his lips, the vines securing the two of them firmly in their wriggling branches.

  With a surge of joy and relief, Alarick recognized Roald’s taste as his lover deepened the kiss. By the gods, Alarick missed him, and he pressed closer, wrapping his arms around Roald’s shoulders just as Roald moved his around Alarick’s waist. Alarick closed his eyes and felt the sun against his eyelids, gentle in its warmth while Roald’s tongue filled his mouth, coaxing quiet moans from his throat and rousing his body with familiar pleasure. Alarick hardened, a reaction that was surprisingly and embarrassingly easy, but he didn’t care as long as Roald remained with him. The silence pervading the area was soon laced with soft sounds of pleasure from both young men, the shifting of cloth under eager hands, the increasingly ragged breaths that escaped them.

  Vague snatches of memories flickered like dying candle flames in his mind, and Alarick remembered violence. Of Roald being torn away from his side. The sack that covered his lover’s face, obscuring Roald’s look of shock and dismay. And worse, the blow that was made against Roald’s head, done while Alarick was looking as he struggled against the hold of his own captors. It seemed as if they meant for him to see it.

  Roald’s father was also present—Alarick couldn’t say for sure. But there was a shadow there, lurking just behind Roald, hissing something.

  Are you hurt? With his mouth busy and his body coming alive under Roald’s ministrations, it was all Alarick could do to ask in his mind.