Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  He looked again and realized his mistake. No, the alabaster table setting hadn’t vanished. The chair had simply turned into wood—old, dark, and visibly rotting away—while the bowl was a battered tin container, something Alarick had seen a lot of in the hands of the poorest folks in his kingdom. Was the enchantment done for that setting? Once used, it had returned to its normal state? It sounded plausible enough despite it being such a wild idea, but at this point, Alarick had already gone quite used to the strange and unnatural.

  Don’t speak a word, he reminded himself. Play along, show how much you’re weak. But never let on. You can do this. You can survive this, whatever game this turns out to be.

  If he interpreted the table settings correctly, he had six more days to go before—he didn’t even know what awaited him after the seventh day. Steeling himself, Alarick moved forward and played his new part to as close to perfection as he could, though he did wish that he knew for sure just how effective his acting skills were.

  “Is anyone here?” he called out, stopping and looking around before he reached the table. He felt his skin prickle in an all-too-familiar way.

  He lived alone, but he never truly felt like he was alone. He could sense, rather than hear, whispers coming from the walls, and he understood every word. In voices that echoed his dreams, they’d offer him the solace of companionship in the face of stunting isolation from the world.

  “Come now,” they seemed to say, “you’re protected here. Remember that you were driven away. Was your life threatened? Most likely—you’re a prince, aren’t you? We all know that coming from a bloodline that makes you a mere step down from immortals is never without a price. So stay. Rest yourself. You’ll be well cared for within these walls. The forest will protect you beyond.”

  Alarick thought of Roald again. Where was he? Forgetting his hunger for the moment, Alarick sprang up from the chair and hurried to a nearby window.

  What an idiot, he thought. I could have escaped through this.

  He peered out the window and into the dreary forest beyond. He wasn’t sure if predators were out there, circling the cottage, waiting for him to take a step outside.

  Squinting, he rubbed his sleeve against the glass in wide and insistent circles and then looked again. Yes, he caught movement out there—among the trees. Figures—were they figures?—flitting behind one tree to another. Sometimes Alarick thought that he caught sight of dark, shapeless things crawling from one shrub to another as well. Some of them, he thought, looked back at him with tiny, yellow eyes that blinked a few times before vanishing. His spirits quailed, and he dared not open the window for fresh air or for a better view. He could have simply thrown the casements open and jumped out, but he was unarmed and lost, and catching sight of those creeping figures made him hesitate in his bid for freedom—perhaps fatally—though he truly didn’t know which fate would have been worse.

  Then again, even if he didn’t hesitate at the critical moment, the cottage wouldn’t have allowed him a second’s chance at escape.

  Alarick quickly grabbed the window latch and struggled with it, and all he could manage was to rouse the cottage and animate the enchanted window frame. Alarick gaped as small, wooden arms emerged along the periphery and creep across the glass outside, using gnarled, root-like fingers to claw their way to the opposite sides. They were similar to the fantastical hands and arms that had earlier sealed the door against his efforts, but this time, they were much smaller and took on the appearance of vines. Soft scratching sounds could be heard. Before long, there would be a crisscrossing of misshapen wood on the glass, like ivy vines partly covering the window and securing it, preventing escape.

  The final mockery, of course, was the fact that these vine-like arms left some parts of the window uncovered, so that Alarick could still peer through and see what was outside. These uncovered sections of glass, moreover, were far too small for him to break and expect a successful escape.

  “No, no, Your Highness,” the cottage purred—or so Alarick thought he’d heard. “The forest is wild and dangerous. There are no paths that will lead you out. Surely, you don’t want to return to the palace, do you? Considering what they’d just tried to do to you, you really don’t expect them to welcome you back with open arms, yes? Unless, of course, you allow us to look after you first. Listen to reason.”

  Alarick looked around him, skin crawling again. “Where’s Roald?”

  “The boy in your dreams?”

  Alarick fell silent, stunned. How did the cottage..?

  The whispering voices laughed. “Come, come, we know your dreams. They’re immensely delightful, to say the least. As for this boy you’re so concerned about, he has his own path to follow for now, as do you.”

  “I don’t know that for sure. He could be badly hurt or dead.”

  The voices, once nothing more than indistinguishable whispers, could now be heard clearly, though they still spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones. “He’ll be fine, and you’re sure to be reunited with him when the right time comes. When you do, it will be with a mind that’s a great deal more improved and, dare we say it, a great deal more aligned with the natural order of things.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “You’re too young and too confused. Just rest and enjoy the calm of our cottage and our stories of virtue.”

  Alarick glanced back at the barred windows and found that every single window in the cottage was secured by tangled, wooden arms. His gaze moved to the door, and he saw that its outline had faded a little. If it were, indeed, vanishing little by little, it wouldn’t be long before it would be nothing more than a blank wall.

  “I can’t leave,” he said, feigning more terror than he actually felt. At that moment, mild terror and a simmering rage consumed him, but he kept up his acting.

  “Good boy. You’re learning quickly. Now have yourself some breakfast.”

  Alarick obeyed. He didn’t need to act this one out, for he was truly starving now, and for the moment, being a trapped prisoner in the middle of a cursed forest meant little to him. He went through the cupboards again and found them filled with bread and roasted meat—as to what kind of animal would be slaughtered for consumption in that cottage, Alarick tried not to think about. He also discovered some spices and broth kept in two large jars as well as a small basket filled with fresh fruit.

  A quick inventory of the cupboard’s contents convinced Alarick that what the cottage provided for him was a full day’s meals.

  “Thank you,” he said out loud, this time pretending a certain degree of meekness for such a bounty. Of course, everything that he saw could very well be tainted or poisoned, but he refused to let on about his suspicions even though he was also quite sure that the cottage needed him to survive this imprisonment somehow. Warring thoughts continued in his mind, and he fought to appear calm and resigned.

  “You’re welcome, Your Highness,” the cottage replied. Its chorus of whispered voices sounded pleased, though it certainly did little in helping Alarick’s unease.

  Alarick helped himself to bread and a small pot of jam, both of which he took back with him to the table. He hesitated as he scanned the table settings, wondering where he was expected to sit. He said nothing at first, wondering if the cottage would direct him. He wasn’t wrong.

  “You’re thirsty, aren’t you?” the cottage asked, amusement edging its voices.

  Alarick frowned and looked at the table again, this time seeing that the battered tin bowl now had an equally battered tin cup sitting next to it, and it was filled with fresh water. Without another word, Alarick sat down on the old, worm-eaten chair, feeling it wobble under his weight, though it held steady, and proceeded to eat. At least, he found, the tin bowl appeared to be clean, and so did the cup. He suppressed a smirk as he ate, silently noting how remarkably efficient a cursed cottage could be in matters of housekeeping and cooking.

  As he ate, the cottage entertained him—if one were to call it that—with softly sung
lullaby-like pieces, whose language he neither understood nor recognized.

  For all I know, it’s casting another curse on me, he thought, chewing his bread. I must say, though, that this is the best bread-and-jam fare I’ve ever had. It might prove to be fatal in the end, but…

  Again, Alarick suppressed a grim smile.

  No, play along, you idiot. Play along. You’re sure to find out what this monster’s plans are.

  Once Alarick had finished his meal, the voices stopped their singing. Oddly enough, they did so in such an abrupt manner that left Alarick momentarily on his guard, holding his breath as he strained to listen for what might come next. Fortunately, the cottage simply ended its entertainment, and it left Alarick alone in silence.

  He turned to look at his used bowl, cutlery, and cup. “Where should I take these for cleaning?” he asked.

  “Leave them there, Your Highness,” the cottage replied. “Surely, you don’t expect a prince to soil his hands, do you?”

  He shook his head, now feeling restlessness gnaw away at his belly. “If I’m to stay here, I’d like to be kept busy.”

  “You’ll be kept busy. As to how, you’ll discover soon enough.”

  Alarick didn’t know whether or not to take that as a threat of some kind, but he thought better than to demand answers or challenge the cottage. If this cursed structure wouldn’t show him what he could do then Alarick would find ways of keeping himself occupied while drawing the cottage’s secrets out.

  He left the dining room and stepped inside the bedroom, a sharp gasp escaping him as he stopped dead.

  The alabaster bed in which he’d slept the previous night had turned into a decrepit shadow of its former self, with weathered, discolored wood, the pillow and bedclothes a collection of faded and frayed fabric. For all those, however, the bed appeared to be clean and had been properly made by invisible hands.

  There was also, Alarick noted, a large tin tub filled with water sitting against the bedroom’s farthest corner. Beside it sat a basket which contained clean rags with which he could scrub himself. He swallowed, squelching a sudden urge to panic, but he still had the presence of mind to allow a bit of that fear to escape, shadowing his features and drawing the right kind of response from the cottage.

  “There’s no need to be afraid, Your Highness,” the countless voices cooed. “It’s only right to take care of you. Enjoy your bath. The water’s still warm.”

  * * *

  The cottage fed him well. It dressed him in sumptuous clothing. Alarick had tried to determine the source of its magic, but after several failed attempts, he simply gave up. Magic was magic; magic simply was. If he were to stop and think about it, after all, it wasn’t any different from his life in the palace—well-cared for, pampered, and fed till he felt like bursting, and Alarick found that he didn’t have much to complain about in this strange new world. He’d wait for Roald, surely—wait for the time when he’d be allowed to leave. If he’d be allowed to leave, anyway.

  He shook his head and rethought things. No, that was wrong because first thing was first. Alarick shouldn’t wait to be allowed to leave the cottage; he should outsmart the demonic structure and somehow fight his way to freedom through guile and nothing more than his wits. If the cursed forest lured him to his prison, Alarick was sure that there was also a way out of it, for all of the dark magic that had now become his reality. Yes, he’d outwit the damned thing, find his way out into the world, and then rejoin Roald. Then the two of them would ride off and disappear, damn the kingdom and everything in it. He never belonged there; that message had been forced onto him loudly and clearly.

  He remembered the whispers, the giggling exchanges, the condescendingly pitying looks through the years. Intelligence and skill meant little if a “paragon” were deemed less than his peers through no fault of his own, whether it was about his long-questioned birthright or his natural choices for romantic relationships. The attack on him and Roald said as much about how his own subjects—at least those within court—regarded him, and Alarick wouldn’t be surprised if the entire kingdom was told that the prince had been taken away by stealthy, vengeful invaders, possibly sold off to slavery, possibly kept as a prisoner and tortured, possibly killed.

  And what of the throne? The king and the queen? What had become of them now? Alarick dared not entertain the idea of a revolution, yet he couldn’t shake it.

  It’s out of my hands, he thought, feeling sickened, as he sat before the hearth, staring at the brilliant fire that the cottage had started for him and warming himself there. Then Alarick prayed to the gods, a sincere and despairing plea for his mother’s protection.

  Aunt Amara, he couldn’t help but append, please look after her.

  Was it a slap in the face of the gods if he were to pray to the ghost of a mortal? Would his spectral friend even hear him? She’d warned him about the limits of her powers, if one were to call the ability of the dead to reach out to the living. Haunting the palace’s white marble and gilt hallways was her destiny beyond the grave. And even if she could reach beyond the palace borders, she was simply no match for the horrifying, bewildering power of the cursed forest.

  No, enough of that, he thought with a surge of impatience toward himself. There’s no room for self-pity or surrender. Not now, not ever. Let Fortune deal with Mother as she sees fit. I’ve my own problems to fix.

  He did, indeed.

  “If I’m not to be given books to read, the least I should have are stories,” he said out loud. Did he sound like a petulant child? Perhaps, but it was neither here nor there. It was, by and large, a way of keeping himself sane.

  “Stories in the day, dreams at night, Your Highness?” the cottage whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, then.”

  So the cottage plunged into a string of stories, legends and myths from kingdoms all over. At the same time, the wooden man—the watcher—observed Alarick from where he placed himself: against the wall beside the hearth, head, limbs, and torso blending well into the woodwork, moving ever so slightly so as not to startle the mesmerized prince, who listened while staring at the fire.

  He was an enticing creature, this lost prince. He was, in every bit, a mother’s every best wish come true, which could only mean that his presence in the forest meant something darker at work—man-made, of course, for the forest had nothing to do with the prince’s current fortunes beyond its borders. Indeed, it was simply there, a permanent fixture in the landscape, ready to welcome stray wanderers with shadowy, leafy arms.

  This young man came to the cottage in bad shape, too. He’d been mistreated, mishandled, for reasons that could only mean a violent shift in power in the kingdom.

  “The king’s most likely dead,” the wooden man said, but Alarick didn’t hear him. Indeed, this watcher—this cursed melding of several souls, perhaps damned for past transgressions, all collected and held together by the restless ghost of one man who’d been buried in the forest with neither ceremony nor respect once upon a time—was destined never to be heard by mortals ears, for the cottage both sustained him and denied him, kept his blackened soul fixed to the world even well past its cruelest limits. Spread too thin, stretched past repair.

  The wooden man closed wood grain eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the strong scent of youth, power, and beauty. It had been a long time since he’d absorbed such an essence. The taste of peasant blood, of misery, ignorance, cruelty born of crudeness and desperation, vices that turned any rational man’s blood cold—those had been the wooden man’s reality for too long. They’d left him burning in the worst way, aching for relief from the near-daily torments of past memories from dozens of wayward poor. Like a damned soul left to rot in chains and the damp, unlit chambers of underground crypts, he gnawed on the only sustenance that chance had tossed his way.

  This, however, was a delightful surprise.

  The watcher inhaled again, shuddering this time, his head jerking like a broken clockwork doll whose mec
hanism remained stuck at a certain point in its movements. No, he’d let this prince stay, stretch out the young man’s days and feast hungrily on his dreams, his memories, and his mind, till nothing was left of Alarick but a shrunken, prematurely aged, and leathery corpse. Indeed, if the watcher were careful in his feeding, Alarick might still be allowed to leave the cottage alive.

  Seven days were the usual limits the cottage itself had given him in the satiating of his perpetual hunger. Oh, what he’d give to keep the prince for twice as long, at least.

  “I’ll do that,” he said. “I will.”

  * * *

  Back in the palace, the mad queen stood before her looking-glass. It was now cracked and filthy, the mirrored surface dulled with dirt and eternal shadows. But it still spoke to her, showed her things that kept her coming back in tearful desperation, as though returning to look at its hidden depths would somehow change the course of events.

  She’d been brought back from exile, with her little cottage turned into a storage house—grain, herbs, oil, flour, and all other excess food supplies were kept there. Nothing was left of the cottage’s furniture and decorative wall hangings, and no one knew where they all went, though rumor had it that they’d all been given away as tokens to peasants who’d helped topple the king. As to these items’ final fate, well—some things would forever remain in shadow. Work was also now underway to make the gardens more accessible to everyone, with more torches, benches, and statuary being placed all over, bringing light to the once-secretive corners of Paradies and encouraging courtiers and wealthy visitors to enjoy the calming beauty of the trees at any time of the day. The lanes marking each square section of the pleasure garden would be widened a little more, ensuring even more light to brighten the area. Unfortunately for the rest of the kingdom, there was simply no guarantee that law and order would be assured if they were to be allowed access to the gardens, so even with the change of power in court, some details remained the same.