Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  Back in the palace, Ulrike also become a living symbol of decadence gone wrong, which was the only reason why the court now kept her alive.

  “Learn from history,” chastened and frightened courtiers said whenever they spotted Ulrike wandering aimlessly through the glittering hallways. “Look at her and remember.”

  With the new ruler on the throne, the mad queen was shown some mercy, and returning her looking-glass to her was one measure of it. Besides, Ulrike had begged for it back, and they were forced to return it or be subjected to endless hours of her rambling hysterical outbursts and threats of murdering everyone in court with black magic.

  “Keep her happy and entertained,” the new king, a former young and ambitious minister named Ehren Fleischer, had said with a grave nod at Ulrike’s surviving maids of honor.

  “Best to keep her alive, at least,” his ministers had said as well as they gathered in the great hall, all clad in new colors that represented the dawn of a new line of kings. Brilliant spring colors of the past had given way to richer, deeper, and more somber shades of autumn, and with the promise of a new and better government, the entire kingdom tiredly welcomed the change with endless hope in their hearts.

  “Yes, keep her alive as a reminder of where we’ve been.”

  “She’s a relic of the past—an important and useful one, but a relic all the same.”

  It would be to their credit, perhaps, that the new government refused to look into the cursed mirror, for like Lambrecht and his tainted bloodline, the sorcerer-king’s mirror belonged to the past. Whether or not it continued to show its user a glimpse of the court’s future wasn’t the issue now. Indeed, Ehren scoffed at the thing, saying, “Let it predict successes and failures the way it always had. We’ve no need for a lifeless fortune-teller. All we have to do is to govern as best as we can, and Fortune will work with us or against us as she sees fit.”

  So day after day, Ulrike would crawl out of bed and creep toward the broken mirror, eyes wide and bulging, face pale, hair wild, clothes rumpled and a bit faded. Like a frightened little child, she’d tiptoe quietly toward the looking-glass, her body rigid with anticipation as jumbled slips of thoughts rattled around her shattered mind.

  What would she see this time?

  Swallowing, she planted herself before the looking-glass and forced herself to look. She was more compelled to do so despite her revulsion.

  There was silence at first, save for her ragged breathing. Then her face slowly contorted, shadows dancing across the ravaged remains of youth and beauty. Her lips trembled as she struggled to form words, and her eyes blurred with gathering tears.

  “Give him back to me!” she finally cried, reaching out and pressing thin hands against the cold glass. “Please let me have my child back!”

  Then she wailed, her hands flying to her head and tearing at her hair. Sobbing and shrieking her pleas to spare her son, Ulrike paced in an agitated circle before the broken mirror, sometimes stopping in front of it to call out to her lost boy.

  Before long, a couple of servants would burst into her room, calling out to her, begging her to quiet down before forcing her back to her bed. A third servant rushed in with that morning’s brew, a special kind of sedative that was specifically formulated for the queen by one of the court’s healers.

  “My baby,” Ulrike sobbed after being forced to swallow the wretched concoction. “Don’t let him hurt my child. Please let me go to him.”

  “Ssshh, Love,” the oldest and most loyal of her maids of honor whispered, herself distressed by her mistress’s daily hysterics. “His Royal Highness will be safe. We’ll see to it that no one lays a finger on him.”

  The queen sank back under the bedclothes and shook her head weakly despite all the reassuring words. Her vision blurred from the drink, and her words slurred, but the stuff worked its magic on her, and she slowly felt herself being pulled back down into the dark, calming waters of sleep.

  “No, he’s gone from here,” she kept murmuring even as her servants whispered and stroked her hair. “He’s alive, but he’s in danger. Please help him. Please let me go to him. But—but not now. I’m so tired. So tired.”

  Her babbling soon turned into a string of incoherent words. Before long she was silent, the tears still streaking her cheeks while she slept. Her maids of honor stood around the bed in mournful silence. Then, reassured that their mistress wouldn’t be up for another hour or so, they took their leave with a grave courtesy and then filed out in melancholy silence.

  Everyone in the kingdom was told that the prince was dead—though the circumstances remained muddy and elusive. Many grieved for the loss, for the boy had shown great promise—far more than anyone had expected from someone coming from this bloodline. However, that Alarick came from such a bloodline was also cause enough to worry about the kind of ruler he’d become—that is, if a bastard would be allowed to inherit the throne. Madness was in his blood, obviously. Clearly tendencies toward the unspeakable vice of buggery. Perhaps he’d turn out to be a vast improvement from his parents. Perhaps he’d turn out to be worse than either his mother or father—or, rather, adoptive father, as many often corrected with a knowing smirk.

  In the end, maybe it was to the kingdom’s benefit that an entire family would be wiped out and the throne cleansed of their influence. History might very well prove Alarick to be a complete innocent and a virtuous king had he been allowed a chance to succeed Lambrecht, but for the moment, it was simply too late to do anything about it. The prince was gone, and that was the end of it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “It’s a perverted thing you’re doing, Sister,” Liebella said.

  Kummerene walked a slow, idle circle around her altar, examining the more recent offerings left by despairing mortals.

  “Perverted? You might as well accuse mortals of the same thing,” she replied as she stopped before the carefully bundled clothes of an infant. She picked up the soft, clean pile and pressed it against her nose, inhaling deeply and devouring the scent of loss and grief. “These people, for instance, choose to wallow in the death of their baby.”

  She paused and inhaled again, this time fixing her attention sharply on subtler details about this specific family’s story. Vague and ephemeral, misty images appeared in her mind. Birth and short-lived joy, with the mother cradling her precious bundle and smiling happily as she sang lullabies or simply held the sleeping baby against her chest. Then the loss, apparently an illness of some kind, and the grief-stricken parents moving blindly about for only the heavens knew how long.

  Kummerene opened her eyes and turned to the two other goddesses standing nearby, watching her with varying degrees of disapproval. The older one, Weisheitta, appeared calmer, for nothing about her melancholy sister surprised her now. She was, of course, the wise one, and she could be rather irritating in the way she’d resort to lectures about “knowing better than that.”

  Liebella was the youngest of the three, and judging from the way her face shifted in color from red to pink and back, it was a very safe guess that she was furious despite all her efforts at masking her anger with a remarkably placid countenance.

  “You aren’t making any sense,” Weisheitta said with exquisite objectivity. Then again, when was Kummerene ever guided by reason? “How can you compare what you’re doing to that boy to what these poor people are going through?”

  “It’s called grief, Sister.” Why, Weisheitta wasn’t the only one who had the ability to be clever. “Loss. All of us have endured it in one way or another. Both of you have, in fact, have lost many favorites through the ages.”

  “Yes, but we endure, and move on and find new ones,” Liebella retorted, scowling. “What you’re doing to that boy—”

  “Is the only guarantee I have that I no longer suffer future losses. Unlike you, I choose to take matters in my own hands to ensure my happiness, not allow Fate to take the upper-hand in all matters.”

  The two other goddesses blinked. “Happiness?�
�� her younger sister noted. “I though it was your nature to be miserable.”

  Kummerene sighed and shook her head while turning her attention back to her altar, setting the bundle of baby clothes carefully back on it. “What would you know about nature?” she muttered, her gaze sweeping over the offerings. “You weren’t born with this curse. While I can’t fight Fortune, I at least have the ability to ease the poison of my existence—and I use that ability.”

  “And what makes you think that you know the nature of mortals?” Weisheitta broke in, her voice gentle in only that condescending way that she could be gentle toward anyone who wasn’t driven by his or her intellect. “We aren’t like them, you know. We never were, and we never will be. Why do you think our world and theirs exist but to complement each other?”

  “I know their hearts well enough,” Kummerene replied, glancing over her shoulder to smile at her sister, who merely raised a brow in answer. “Endless hours spent listening to their lamentations, their lonely prayers, their wishes for death, a second chance, or the return of what they’d lost—wisdom has nothing to what I’ve seen in their hearts.” She then looked at Liebella. “And neither does love.”

  “It’s useless arguing with you, but why are you punishing that boy for something he can’t help?” Weisheitta asked. Her tone was sharper, and her words came out in quick, impatient bursts. She was finally angry—or at least she was finally showing signs of life.

  “His father came to me, as you already know. He’d laid his son’s very life at my feet—a bargain for his son’s soul.”

  Liebella snorted. “And his glory in immortality. Yes, yes, we’ve heard all about it. You could have found a man who was better suited for your purpose. This boy has—had—someone. He loved and was loved back. It’s not your right to take that away from him and claim that you know everything about a mortal’s heart—and, yes, nature.”

  Kummerene smiled grimly. “You’re too much of a romantic, but you can’t help yourself. That, you see, is your curse, just as I have mine, and Weisheitta has hers.” Kummerene paused and frowned at her older sister. “In her case, though, she’d likely call that a blessing, being unable to feel and to know nothing more than cold objectivity and reason.”

  For her part, Weisheitta merely rolled her eyes. Theatrics appalled her unless she happened to be in a good enough mood to weather it.

  “Besides, I quite enjoy this challenge. He was brought to me with a mind already altered, and all I needed to do was erase the rest.”

  “Erase?” Liebella cut in with a look of derision. “Is it even within our power to do that in mortals?”

  “His mind, though,” Weisheitta said with some emphasis. “Not his heart.”

  “Or his will,” Liebella appended with a softer but no less determined voice. Another thought had crossed her mind, but Liebella chose not to speak it, for it could influence her sister into actually thinking things over, reconsidering her methods, and actually resorting to more drastic and destructive ones. The boy’s mind was altered, indeed, but only his memory. She’d watched him long enough, even created that marble statue and left it in his path to confirm her suspicions, and it did. His nature remained intact, and she knew—with a surge of vindictive joy—that it was only a matter of time before the superficial and cruel manipulations of his mind would be overcome.

  Immortals had limitations. While it was well within their powers to toy around with mortals like hapless puppets, deeper human workings remained elusive to them. The heart, the soul, the very foundation of man’s nature—those were mysteries to the gods, for all their manipulations. There’d been several attempts throughout history of the gods resorting to embarrassing means such as potions of every formula in order to alter mortal nature, but nothing had worked. In fact, all such attempts had led to unfortunate—if not tragic—consequences, the human targets paying dearly for the self-indulgent desires and wants of immortals. With every generation, less and less veneration for the gods were exhibited, and for good reason. Mortals, for all their shortcomings, had learned to question—had had enough.

  Liebella, for her part, couldn’t blame them one bit.

  It was to immortals’ benefit that they’d exercise prudence in the use of their advantage over mortals. How many fellow gods, despite what history taught them, had constantly shown her the consequences of rash, selfish actions that affected the side-by-side, mutually beneficial existence of immortals and their lesser counterparts? Too many, unfortunately, for immortals had gotten too set in their ways, had grown far too self-absorbed and childlike in their demands to know how to look beyond their limits.

  Liebella’s previous anger subsided to a satisfied calm. No, she wouldn’t step in and fully immerse herself in this farce. Nature would take its intended and true course as it had always done since time immemorial despite what immortals desired.

  “I’m not worried about it, Sister. Human nature is much more inconstant than you give it credit for. It can be reshaped properly, and I intend to have him for myself when the time comes. Whatever his past might be, he’ll never go back to it.” Kummerene chuckled lightly. “Besides, who’d say ‘no’ to a god and not be punished for his insolence? That boy, from what I’ve observed and sensed, is no fool. He knows what’s good for him, and he’ll take to his immortality well enough. Don’t you think I made a good acquisition? He’s a very handsome young man, and I daresay he’ll make a most delightful and satisfying consort.”

  Her two sisters merely exchanged glances, with Liebella sighing. “I told you she’s mad.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps,” Weisheitta replied, eyeing their brooding sister with a thoughtful tilt of her head. “I wouldn’t underestimate her, though I question her methods.” She spoke with characteristic regal calm, which tended to unsettle Kummerene somewhat, for Kummerene couldn’t help but wonder if Weisheitta knew something that she didn’t. A glimpse into the future? No, for all her knowledge, Weisheitta was no fortune-teller, and she’d no powers that would allow her to see what had yet to transpire.

  Still, Kummerene couldn’t help but blurt out, “You know something, don’t you?”

  Weisheitta merely gave a placid, enigmatic smile and shrugged. “Absolutely not. I can deduce, however, and perhaps make intelligent guesses about the future, but I won’t. It’s trite and dull—something that lesser gods and even mortals might be fond of indulging in to pass the time with, but not I. There are far more important things for me to worry about than the future of your soon-to-be-consort.”

  “Her doll, you mean,” Liebella said with a contemptuous snort, though she couldn’t help but steal a narrow-eyed glance in Weisheitta’s direction. She thought she caught a brief sparkle in her older sister’s eyes, which usually meant a secret that Weisheitta refused to share.

  She knows something, Liebella thought. She pretends not to care, but she does, and she knows more than we do.

  Wisdom could be pretty damned infuriating at times.

  Kummerene rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand at the two visitors. “You’re both disrupting my shrine,” she said with forced casualness. “I’ll join you when I’m good and ready. I’ve got quite a few prayers and wishes to listen to still, and you’re taking up too much of my time already.”

  The other two vanished without another word exchanged between them, and Kummerene sighed her relief. She walked past the massive columns of her shrine to stand on the top step of the magnificent marble structure. From where she stood, she could see the entire land, for her shrine was set atop a mountain, which could only be accessed on foot through a long, winding, narrow, and misty path. Loyal followers constantly braved that trail, endured the hardship of its long, arduous ascent in their pilgrimages, and old von Thiessen showed remarkable determination and grit. Desperation tended to do that, after all, and she was impressed with the way his ambitions had blinded him enough to easily offer up his own son to her pleasure if only to ensure that Roald stopped his habit of making love to another boy.

>   This boy—her future consort—this Roald fellow—was somewhere out there, mindless and absorbing what he could of the darker side of human nature. Kummerene didn’t think to worry about him, for he was under her protection and couldn’t be harmed by mortal means. She had every confidence in her methods despite her sisters’ objections.

  Indeed, the pain of private grief—exacerbated by the bitterness of immortal existence—should never be endured. Her sisters should understand that. They’d lost mortals lovers several times through the centuries, and yet there they were, willingly giving their hearts out to new heroes and willingly subjecting themselves to such unspeakable agony. They’d been resilient because they weren’t her, born to be cloaked in an eternity of mourning, unable to find any respite from the heaviness that had been her lot and her curse. For too long, she’d bowed to the dictates of Fate, but not anymore.

  No, she’d now learned to be more pragmatic than that. Give her one consort to stay at her side through eternity, and she’d never want for another mortal lover, never endure that crippling emptiness that could only come from love that was denied her in the cruelest way. As for that boy? Mortals were plentiful. They could spare one of their own easily enough. For every Roald von Thiessen, there’d surely be a dozen more like him being born all over the world. One couldn’t say the same thing about immortals unless they were to turn a favorite into one of them, and it was a very, very rare thing that was done only in extreme circumstances.

  Easing her heart for an eternity was a good enough reason for plucking one young mortal from countless others.

  No, this Roald wouldn’t be a loss in the grand scheme of things.

  “Besides,” she appended with a little smile, “I have his father’s blessing.”

  The sound of voices and footsteps crunching grass and earth drew her attention back to her shrine, and she turned in time to catch sight of the silhouettes of dusty and exhausted pilgrims breaking through the mists of her lonely mountaintop. Without hesitation, she vanished before she could be seen, that too-familiar weight of another mortal’s grief finding her soul and her heart just as she faded. With a trembling intake of breath, she inhaled the coming wave of sadness that was about to be unburdened upon her altar.