Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  “The only way to save Alarick and your soul,” her sister replied in a hushed, gentle voice as she stood in the dark, her figure gradually fading. “You’ll know what to do when the moment comes. Now go.”

  Ulrike nodded, hot tears springing in her eyes as she felt her tired, scarred heart break all over again. “I know I will. Thank you.” She was gone in another moment, taking the road that led out into the terrible world beyond the palace borders and toward the cursed forest.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Roald thought of the strange woman—another one of those confounded, meddling immortals, he was sure, though she might as well be a witch, all things considering—who appeared in his dream that fateful night as he lay exhausted and half-despairing in the middle of a strange land. He was lucky that no one dangerous had crossed paths with him throughout his lonely search for redemption.

  The goddess-witch (he still couldn’t determine which one) had assured him of a future of great happiness in the company of a princess, who was a celebrated beauty, at that.

  “What’s the use of beauty if I simply don’t care for her?” Roald had asked in his dream.

  The answer given had chilled him: “There’s only one road to happiness. You can’t expect to deviate from it and find your most desired reward in the end. Only one road—one straight, narrow line. Stray from that, and you’ll find yourself with nothing. Are you brave enough to abandon yourself and embrace what has always been, and always will be?”

  Roald heeded the goddess-witch’s words despite his doubts, but he’d told himself that he couldn’t find his way back to his land and assert his right to happiness without proving himself the way all heroes were expected to prove themselves. Perhaps his “straight, narrow line” was unique to him.

  Unique to all men like him.

  It was quite likely that Fortune had long spun his fate, and all he needed to do was stumble blindly forward, his heart and his head steady. Perhaps the goddess who currently had him bound to her was a part of that greater plan, the greatest test of his heart and his spirit. If he played along, surely he’d be rewarded with Alarick’s company again, not some unknown beauty whose steps were always dogged by jealous witches, immortals, and ferocious stepmothers.

  “I can save a princess or two,” he told himself, his spirits buoyed by his plans—his very clever plans—to outsmart the goddess-witch in his dream. “But it doesn’t mean that I ought to marry her.” What was the use of free will, after all, if one’s future had been fixed in stone by fireside tales? No. He refused to accept such a narrow idea of existence. Men’s actions shaped their lives, not the other way around. Destiny didn’t exist, and Fortune worked in tandem with free will.

  Destiny. He’d always despised that word. “An easy excuse for every good or ill that marks a man’s life,” he’d always said.

  Roald had endured a long, arduous, and lonely journey to a kingdom in the west—some kingdom, whose name he couldn’t even remember. Like the goddess had said, it took him a day to reach it, but it was a day whose hours stretched into infinity, sapping his strength, his humor, and, indeed, his will. It was while he turned to rest for solace because he’d grown so tired and heartbroken when the goddess-witch intruded, taking advantage of a very weak and vulnerable moment.

  Destiny? All horse shit, he told himself again and again. Destiny was a concept held only by the ignorant and by those too sluggish to think. Those who believed themselves entitled to every reward to be had without doing much work. Stupid, lazy asses.

  Roald had always kept his pretend-prize in mind throughout his ordeal. The road back to Alarick, he’d told himself with every step forward made by the ever-loyal Warlock, was strewn with young girls awaiting his help. He’d thought of a princess of great beauty and a tender heart. He’d thought of eyes of dark velvet that would peer into his with both wonder and affection. He’d thought of thick, dark hair that cascaded lovingly around gently sloped shoulders, collecting in an exuberant curtain around small, firm breasts. After all, that was expected of heroes who followed the smarter, more obvious road to good fortune.

  When all was said and done, however…

  Surely, there was a handsome young nobleman out there who’d do anything to claim the princess’s hand once Roald declined it after her rescue. Ambition had always been a tantalizing brew. For every eligible princess, there were a dozen or so young men who’d gladly take her—body, dowry, kingdom, children. Then Roald could move on to his next adventure, prove his worth, free up one more princess for another nobleman, and continue down his long, lonely road back to Alarick.

  You’re such an idiot with all your justifications and excuses to force yourself into mold after mold that were meant for those who aren’t you. No, you’re not an idiot. You’re a coward. A feckless, self-absorbed coward who knows the real road back to him doesn’t lie in saving princesses by feigning true love. You cowardly degenerate.

  Every word stung, every syllable rang true, breaking Roald’s heart again and again, but he didn’t fight those angry, bitter accusations that little voice kept screaming into his brain. He didn’t fight them because he knew, all too well, that they were the truth.

  It was certainly a good thing that Warlock had known where to go and had taken great care of Roald all that time, for his eyes had been blinded by tears, his defiance and resolve suddenly shut down as hopelessness and despair won this round, and he couldn’t see a damned thing even after scrubbing his eyes with his sleeves.

  When he finally arrived at the kingdom the goddess-witch in his dream had told him to go to, he was hopelessly hungry and tired, barely presentable to the king. The worst part was that he was forced into a servant’s role during his stay, but then again, who could blame the king? Roald didn’t have any proof of his pedigree beyond his word, and far too many imposters and villains had already taken advantage of a noble household’s trust.

  But wasn’t that a part of the plan, after all? Weren’t all heroes required to suffer for their prize?

  * * *

  Roald kept his mind fixed on the youngest princess—wasn’t it always the youngest princess in those nursery tales?—when he presented himself to the king. “Ha! The next foolish soul!” the king’s courtiers tittered along the grand salon’s periphery. “Shall we gamble on his chances?”

  “How long will it take him to disappear?”

  “This is ridiculous. Why can’t we replace those royal strumpets’ worn-out dancing slippers before the world’s gutted of its young men? How many have failed so far?”

  “Idiot. It’s destiny, remember?”

  “Damn destiny. I don’t want my son involved in this farce.”

  “We don’t even know where the others have gone. They just disappeared.”

  “Just think of them as dead. It’s easier that way.”

  “This fool will disappear, too. Just watch.”

  Roald waited patiently despite his dusty state as the king described the puzzle of his daughters’ dancing slippers. Twelve princesses, all trotting off to some unknown destination, engaging in some demonic revelry, to be sure, and wearing out their shoes in the process. Roald was confused by the king’s concern. “They’re only shoes,” he noted pragmatically.

  “They sleep all of the next day and are pretty damned useless for anything!” the king snapped. “How in the world does one expect me to marry them all off if they lie around like sacks drenched in wine till the afternoon?” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “And how can I be guaranteed that my daughters are still fit to be married off?”

  Ah, yes, that.

  Why, Roald thought, being tired, drunk, deflowered, and useless surely wouldn’t be a radical departure from the lifestyle of the nobility. But he decided against voicing his opinion, seeing as how the king appeared to be annoyed with any questions that forced him to lay out a logical basis for this adventure.

  The princesses were all paraded before him like the pale, sunken-eyed chattel that they w
ere. Where was the youngest? Ah, yes, there she was. Always the prettiest, too, but no less wasted than her sisters.

  Solve this riddle, he told himself as he knelt before them. Pretend docility. Play the game, but use your wit. Remember Alarick.

  * * *

  Easy enough task. Roald had the drive, and he had the tools. Some benevolent spirit watched him, he was sure, and he’d just enjoyed some luck with the magic laurel tree—a magic tree giving him a little white flower with the ability to make him invisible. Such was the stuff of fireside tales, he silently gloated. He was certainly one step closer to being at Alarick’s side again.

  Besides, what other choice did he have? If those wild princesses had a secret hideaway of some kind, there was only one way to find it. Tucking the flower from the magic laurel tree in his buttonhole, Roald cloaked himself with invisibility and followed the princesses to their secret underground palace and its perpetually active ballroom.

  So what had gone wrong?

  It was nothing more than a casual glance made in the direction of the prince who’d claimed the youngest princess for a dance in the enchanted palace by the lake. Magic surrounded Roald that first night of his adventures. Magic soaked the air and filled his mind, shattering all illusions with its potency. And, suddenly, things didn’t seem so simple anymore.

  Staying invisible with the flower that he kept secured in his buttonhole, Roald found himself observing the young couple as they moved gracefully across the golden ballroom. Alternately bowing to each other and touching hands as they moved in formation with other dancers in a stately minuet, the princess and her partner lost themselves in a world of musical courtship. Their eyes sparkled, their smiles broad and intimate, their minds clearly set on nothing else but the music, the dance, and themselves.

  Roald watched the princess exalt in her advantage over her partner. He knew that the noblemen who peopled the palace were his predecessors, hapless young men who’d tried their luck in discovering the riddle of the dancing slippers. They’d all fallen prey to their lovely partners in the process, poor fools. Roald didn’t know—yet—how they’d been placed under a spell, but he realized that for the time being, these young men were doomed to live out a perpetual ball. Forced to love dancing for the princesses’ sake. Forced to totter around in glazed joy to the strains of a magical orchestra.

  Roald’s adventures on the second night turned out the same. He followed the princesses in a cloud of invisibility, anxious to be at the palace just like the glittering, tittering girls.

  His reasons, however, were different, and guilt lanced through him. Suddenly his objectives had turned cloudy. Alarick’s image seemed to fade before his mind’s eye, to be replaced by another image. Another nobleman. Another prince. One who was, unfortunately, under a very annoying spell.

  Unseen, Roald watched the dancing in the enchanted ballroom from a quiet corner. His doubts grew. He fought against them, but something made him watch though he wanted, desperately, to look away.

  Are you sure you’re in the right place? a quiet but very irritated voice asked. Are you sure that this is what you want—what you need?

  As he watched, his conscience stirred and called him feckless. Where was Alarick now, anyway? Surely he was back in his palace, safe and protected. He was the prince, after all, and that was one security Alarick enjoyed. Monstrous parents and past scandals aside, no one was in any position to dispute Alarick’s right to be treated as only the son of a queen should be treated.

  “He’s told to forget about me,” Roald said in the cover of darkness. “Why shouldn’t he? He’s better off without me—deserves better than what I can give him.”

  Reasons and excuses flew back and forth in Roald’s mind. He saw all kinds of answers to his questions—at least he made himself believe he did, the poor, untested, ignorant youth.

  He loved Alarick, but he knew it was a bad idea at this point to pursue things between them. Life was proving to be much, much more complicated than the idealized picture formed in a private glade, within vast, mirror-and-gold lined rooms of a palace, in an intricately designed maze of a sprawling royal garden.

  Feckless. You think with your prick. Idiot. Idiot and coward.

  The words hurt, but Roald’s will had already realigned itself down another path entirely.

  Coward.

  It should have been easy, Roald thought in ever-deepening confusion as he stood along the ballroom’s periphery, watching the dancers. No—only one. His gaze followed no one else but the youngest princess’ partner, whose figure had stealthily crept into his mind.

  You allowed it, you stupid letch, his conscience screamed. So much for Alarick. So much for all your notions of chivalry.

  That nobleman—what was his name?—had firmly fixed himself into Roald’s consciousness till Roald’s waking hours were subjected to phantom echoes of this strange, beautiful youth. He felt his restless urges stirring once more. Yes, the same urges that Alarick once roused in him.

  Feckless bastard.

  What wasn’t there to think about, after all? This unknown nobleman was handsome and elegant, haunting in his haplessly manipulated state, a black-haired, brown-skinned puppet clad in black velvet and gold silk. Perhaps the goddess-witch was mistaken, Roald told himself in miserable perplexity as his eyes followed the tall figure around and around the ballroom. Perhaps she really meant that Roald was destined to be with this youth, the way he’d always thought that he was destined to be with Alarick.

  There it was—destiny again. Only this time, Roald didn’t find himself scoffing at the word.

  “But, surely, this is a test,” he whispered. As to whom it was he was trying to convince, he didn’t quite know. Weren’t all heroes expected to endure all kinds of trials for the sake of his beloved’s heart?

  Then who really is your so-called beloved, fool? Alarick? Or this fellow?

  Alarick, surely. Ah, the ready, mindless response to what could easily be regarded as an obvious question.

  Which one is it?

  Was it a part of this strange enchantment, he wondered, to feel these restless urgings during the day, when he was nothing more than a lowly flower-boy, assigned to present the princesses their daily bouquets of blue roses when they emerged from their rooms? Was it also a part of this strange enchantment to have his unraveling mind torn from what he believed to be his expected prize to a new and altogether frightening prospect? Was it, finally, a part of this strange enchantment to feel a quiet yearning for a mere moment of conversation with this unknown nobleman?

  It was all Roald could do to allow himself to watch the dark-skinned youth wistfully.

  “Alarick would have found someone else by now,” he murmured. He half-believed it, too. “He’d have been shown the right way. I don’t think I matter to him the way I used to—no, not after his ministers, his family, his other friends have talked to him. And they’d all be fools not to discourage him.”

  Ah, yes, speaking of fools…

  It wouldn’t take long for Roald to believe his own arguments.

  “I’ll save him,” Roald said. “If I fail then I’ll simply be a part of this and join him. Someone, someday, will break the spell.” A deeper wish remained unspoken, though. He hated to admit it, but he almost hoped that no one would come and save everyone from this. If he couldn’t go back to Alarick, maybe this was where he belonged.

  * * *

  It was his third and final night, and the king was growing restless and impatient with him. “Well?” he thundered, and it was all Roald could do to assure the surly old bastard that he was close to finding out the princesses’ secret.

  It was nothing short of madness that urged Roald to walk up to the oldest princess and confess his knowledge of the truth.

  “I’ve seen everything, Your Highness,” he whispered to the startled woman. “I know where you and your sisters go every night. That golden palace deep underground—the one that’s past the forest of glass trees. You have to cross the river to rea
ch the palace, and then you’re free to dance the night away.”

  The oldest princess listened, her complexion turning red and then white. Roald swore that he could hear her teeth grind. “How did you find out?”

  “Magic, Your Highness.” Roald waited for a moment, but the princess appeared to be preoccupied with something. “I’ve no wish to betray you,” he appended, earning himself another look of shock. “Will you allow me to be a part of your company?”

  “Are you mad?” the princess blurted out, her smooth forehead deeply creased. “Do you realize what you’re asking?”

  Roald swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “I do, Your Highness. Allow me to stay with you, and I won’t trouble you at all.”

  She laughed dryly, tossing her straight, silky hair back. “Oh, my dear, trouble from you will be the least of our worries after you drink our wine.”

  Roald could only bow in silence.

  Always and forever an imbecile, his conscience cried, nearly tearing his skull open.

  During that evening’s revelry, he was invited to join everyone at the banquet table. The oldest princess had poured a philter into his goblet, urging him to drink in their honor and watching his every move with hawk-like vigilance. He felt every eye fixed on him as he took the goblet and regarded it in bewildered silence for a moment.

  How ironic, he thought bitterly, that enchantment would be the very engine through which reality would force itself into his consciousness—and that enchantment would be the very engine through which he could ensure the perpetuation of this reality.

  Roald believed himself to be in love with the youngest princess’s partner. In that enchanted palace with the never-ending ball, his future seemed to lie. That was his reality now. That was his world. Alarick belonged in the past. He’d moved on. His path was different in ways Roald had never before thought, let alone expected.