by Andi Adams
"Anything. I'll do anything. Name it, Your Majesty, and consider it done."
She glared at him as he continued to squirm in his seat in nervous anticipation.
"The princess and your son escaped into the woods. We captured your son and he is being detained in the dungeons. But the princess has escaped. I want you to find her and kill her since she is the true threat. If you do this, I will spare the life of your son."
The man's mouth fell open, and his breathing changed from panting to barely breathing at all.
"But I've never killed anyone before, I'm a huntsman. I track animals. I kill game. I wouldn't even know how to begin."
"Oh, Marcel, I thought you said you'd do what you needed to save your only child. I thought you said you'd protect him no matter the cost, and that you regarded it as your duty to protect me as your Queen. A hunt is a hunt. It's all the same. Now you will either do what I request, or you will watch along with the others as your son is executed in the town square for his transgression."
Marcel lowered his head and fumbled with the hem of his vest. "Where… where am I to find her?"
"My men can take you to where they found your son, then after that it is up to you to use your tracking skills." Agrippine leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers underneath her chin. "Marcel, if you fail in any way, your son will die. Have I made myself clear?"
"Ye…Yes, Your Highness."
"And there is just one other thing," she scooted toward the front of her chair, leaned in close, and lowered her voice. "You must kill her with this."
From under her robe, Agrippine withdrew a dagger. The blade measured almost seven inches in length and was as sharp as the fangs of a viper, while the handle, emblazoned with gemstones, glittered in the light of the fire. Her seductive whisper seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, since the huntsman made no acknowledgement of her request. "And once she is dead, I want you to bring me her heart."
Marcel gasped, his fingers touching his parted lips. His posture stiffened and it took him a long moment before he found his words. "May…may I speak to my son before I go?"
"No. Use it as incentive to complete your task quickly and then you may return and talk with him once he's freed."
"How… how do I know he is guilty of the crime of which you accuse him?"
She smiled with amusement at his makeshift resistance. "You don't know. You can't know. He's guilty because I say he's guilty. That's the beauty of being queen. I need not offer you any further proof than that. So I guess that’s all. You know what you need to do if you want to see your son alive. You will leave at first light. Now, get out."
Her final command was punctuated by a gesture toward the door, and Marcel took the invitation to leave without hesitation.
Agrippine rose from her chair and strode over to the gilded birdcage that decorated the corner of her chamber. A bird sat perched on its ledge staring at the queen.
"I was never going to release you, no matter how well your father heeds my instructions, regardless of how he fares with his task. The spell was perfect and the transformation so quick. Now, you are mine."
The bird, with its brown and gold wings, white breast, and red face, chirped as if responding to her threat. She opened the cage door and reached her open hand in. It pecked at her hand, and she withdrew it, blood pearling on her skin. Shoving her hand back inside, she wrapped her fingers around the bird's fat body and squeezed it in her grip. She held it up to her face, stared into its beady eyes, and dotted the blood, still pooling on her finger, onto the top of its head. It absorbed into the feathers and marked the bird's crest with a crimson blemish.
Avis volare libero Birds fly free
directa et ieiunium direct and fast
deduc me in obscuris lead me through the dark
et mihi viam monstres and show me the way
She plucked a feather from the bird's body, dragged it under her nose to sniff it deeply, and then tucked it in her pocket. Striding over to the window, Agrippine opened the latch with her free hand. The moon still hung low in the sky. She threw the bird out, and it spread its wings to soar upon the back of the wind. She watched it head north from her tower until its shape disappeared into the darkness.
13
Marcel didn't even know where he was going, only that he needed to get as far away as possible. He needed time to think, time to breathe.
Am I really going to do this? Do I even have a choice?
The dagger was an anvil in his sheath. Nausea overtook him like a forceful punch to the gut, but he did not dare stop to rest. He kept moving, one foot in front of the other, until he exploded through a door that led to the southeast courtyard and the nighttime air washed over him. An icy wind swept over his face, chilling his sweat-moistened his skin. By the looks of the sky, dawn was only a matter of hours away.
Once out into the courtyard, he slowed his pace and finally stopped to compose himself. He rested upon a cement bench, which sat under a cherry blossom tree. The low-hanging moon silhouetted the pink buds that flecked the branches, and a subtle fragrance perfumed the breeze. He exhaled and fought to set his thoughts straight.
Oliver? A traitor? Impossible. We should have never come here. We should have never… but did we really have a choice?
I have to save my son, but I am not an executioner.
He glanced down at his hands. They were not the hands of a killer. Not even the hands of a fighter. They were the hands of a simple man. Hands that gripped the delicate fingers of his loving wife in his own. Hands that embraced his son when he was first born, taught him to play the game of bowls, and trained him to fence.
I have to protect my family. That's how I must look at it, change my perspective. I'm not committing murder, I am saving my family.
He drew the dagger from its sheath and watched the moon reflect on its blade.
He stood and wandered along the garden path. This is it. I can do this. For my wife and for my son.
A guard's stern voice interrupted his thoughts. "Monsieur Beauvais, I was sent to collect you. We are assembling for our search of the princess at the north entrance. I was told to bring you — if not voluntarily, then by force."
When Marcel did not move, the guard advanced toward him.
"Don't you touch me,” Marcel drew his arm away. "I'll go. On my own." He grunted in the direction of the guard, who retracted his outstretched arm, but remained close.
When Marcel still did not move, the guard waved his hand toward the castle entrance in a gesture that indicated 'lead the way,' growing impatient with Marcel's sluggish initiative. Marcel shuffled forward, unable to delay any longer. He glanced upward at the expansive moon and wondered how on Earth he was going to bring himself to find the princess and carve out her heart.
With the kerosene lanterns lit and the small party assembled, there were no further excuses to hold up the search. Marcel followed the group until they reached the place where they claimed to have found his son.
"We found him buried under some brush over by that fallen tree," indicated one of the guards whose name Marcel couldn't remember. He was certain the soldier had probably introduced himself along with the rest of the entourage, but Marcel was far too distracted to have retained anything so trivial.
"Buried? How? Why? What was wrong with him? I don't understand, " Marcel asked. "Before I track the princess and lead you in this hunt, tell me what you saw."
The soldier straightened his posture before beginning. "Your son's eyes were open, but he was unconscious to the world. We attempted to shake him, slap him, and rouse him for information on the princess' whereabouts, but he was completely unresponsive. He just twitched, and his eyes remained fixed on air, as if his mind had been wiped clean."
Marcel's eyes brimmed with tears at the thought of his son so defenseless and weak. He opened his mouth wide to breathe past the tension gathering in the back of his throat.
"Then what happened?" asked Marcel.
"Nothing. We located t
he boy because we spotted the princess' locket on the ground and searched the area again. It seems she hid him in the shadows of the fallen tree, covered him in foliage, and then took off. We might not have found him at all had it not been for that locket."
The orange wash of dawn's glow filled the spaces between the leaves and trees. Tracking in this light would certainly be much easier than the pitch black of night.
"I will find the princess," Marcel said. "But I am going alone. Leave me a lantern and a waterskin and go."
"Monsieur, we cannot do that. We have strict orders to–"
"Strict orders to what? Bring back the princess? I will do that. But I am going to find her on my own. You will only slow me down, and I do not need the added distraction. It takes concentration, and you will just get in my way."
"Sir, I must insist by orders of Her –"
"I will not say it again. Go back and leave me to fulfill the queen's request by myself. Now go. The longer we debate this and the more time passes, means a more difficult, perhaps even impossible task it will be to locate the princess." Marcel extended his hand and waited for the soldier to turn over a lantern and waterskin. The soldier hesitated, his eyes shifting back and forth in thought. Marcel wiggled his fingers impatiently until the soldier handed over the items in defeat.
Before letting go, the solider locked eyes on Marcel and warned, "You have until nightfall. After that, we hunt you both."
Marcel ripped the items from the man's grip. It had been hours since his son and the princess had last been there, but he was certain he would find some remnants of their presence. He rested the lantern on a small patch of flat ground and inspected the area, focusing on its taste and smell. Pine. Mildewed moss. Burnt oak. He moved leaves and branches to search for footprints in the softened Earth.
He grabbed the lantern and took off heading north.
The sun had risen and set twice since Oliver had been captured. Genevieve meandered through the woods as if pulled by an invisible rope tethered to the breeze. She was exhausted, starving, and delirious. She scanned the woods for some sort of recognition, but realized that every tree and every shaded nook looked the same. She wandered so much farther than she'd ever traveled before and continued to drift without direction, hoping for some sign of where to go or what to do.
What do I know about woodland survival? I'm a princess, for God's sake. Perhaps I should have just let them capture me. It certainly would have been quicker.
But after the first two nights she spent alone, terrified of the darkness and shivering in the cold, a realization hit her. She had made it two days. Survived two days. Though she didn't know how much longer she could endure on her own, Genevieve acknowledged it was already a feat she had lasted this long. Between watching Oliver's capture and knowing that Agrippine would realize only too soon that she had not been killed, Genevieve’s mind fogged with devastation and fear. It was clear her only chance for survival was to continue as far away from the castle as possible, but all she wanted to do was curl in a ball and weep. In spite of the ache in her heart, she knew she had to keep moving. It would be the only way to stay alive.
Mud crusted and cracked over her ordinarily pale skin, caked under her fingernails, and smeared across her blue dress. A sleeve was half missing, and the bottom hem was torn, while the herringbone corset that was bent out of shape left a lopsided, lumpy silhouette. The brodequins upon her feet were wearing dreadfully thin, contributing to the numbness in her toes. Leaves and burrs knotted her hair after having slept on the ground. Genevieve cursed herself for not having worn a heavier petticoat, but still she trudged on. She had no idea what she was looking for or if she'd even know if she found it, but she continued to push her tired, aching body onward toward uncertainty.
After drifting off to sleep, curled up with her knees to her chin and her arms wrapped around her chest, Genevieve woke with start to the sound of rustling leaves and snapping branches. She froze in place upon the hard ground, her eyes alert and searching. Another crunch of the leaves and the call of a bird jostled her to a sitting position.
"Who…. who's there?"
Only silence responded and she strained her ears to listen for any further signs of an unwanted visitor. A deer strode into view, and Genevieve exhaled a sigh of relief. Even though she had been in the woods for nearing three days, she still had not grown accustomed to the unrelenting sounds of the woods. The caws and rumbles. The snaps and howls.
Another crack. This time louder than before. Genevieve jumped to her feet, grabbed Oliver's satchel she'd been using for a headrest, and began to move. The bag was growing heavier as the days stretched longer, but she wouldn't dare leave it behind. Oliver was smart enough to pack a small flask filled with wine, a small waterskin full of water, a knife, some nuts and grain, some scraps of material used for bandages, and a small cachet of gold francs. Watching her step and working to remain quiet as she continued through the thicket of trees, she peeked over her shoulder every few seconds.
It's just my imagination. Her soldiers couldn't have found me. Not yet. They lost too much time when they took Oliver.…
Oliver. A raw twinge burst in her chest. She shuddered to think of the look on his face, blank and vulnerable. He was so helpless. She should never have left him. He never would have left her, that much she knew. She should have given herself up or fought them off, even though she was certain she would have been defeated without much effort. She swiped away a tear and reached in the satchel to pull out the waterskin. But upon opening it and turning it over in her mouth, barely a drop touched her lips. She didn't know why she even drew it out of her bag. She knew it was empty. It had been for nearly a day now, and she was growing weaker as dehydration tugged at her body.
Instead, she sipped a good amount of the wine out of dire thirst, but she realized quickly, on an empty stomach, the spirit was making her woozy. She drained the flagon, the liquid splashing to the ground to emit a mist, and went in search of water. She followed the paths of moss and the foliage, which she knew also needed to draw its life from a water source, and continued to head down into the valley, praying she'd find it soon. As the sun rose to its highest point, she seemed no closer to finding her only chance of survival. A lack of water would certainly mean her death.
She had picked up a walking stick to aid her tired body, and leaning her weight upon it drove the wood into her palm. Her exhaustion wore upon her like a cast-iron coat, and she desperately wanted to rest upon the forest floor. Her knees gave way, and she stumbled to the ground. The exertion left her panting, which only worsened her dry, cracking lips. Her mouth tasted like clay, and it was impossible to swallow.
Her body shifted, and she could feel herself being pulled by her weight to the ground. Her eyelids fell again, and it took more energy than she had to open them.
Maybe I'll just rest here awhile. Just a moment.
As she collapsed, the satchel fell off her shoulder and the contents of her bag spilled onto the ground. Too weak to move, she left the items scattered about. The cool dirt felt pleasant against her warm face, and she savored it amidst labored breathing.
"Ow!" Genevieve’s body jerked when a little sting bit her bare arm, but her eyes did not open.
The nip of pain came again. "Ouch! What the—?" Genevieve used all of her effort to swat away the nuisance, but the sting nipped at her flesh again. And again. And again. She could hear the sound of flapping wings and then Ouch! Another bite.
"Leave me be! Please!" Logic told her it was impossible to reason with an animal, a bird by her guess, but she didn't have the strength to get up and defend herself.
Another peck.
"Ouch! I mean it. Leave me alone!" But after almost a dozen nips, Genevieve’s heart was racing and she suddenly had mustered the strength to push herself to a seated position. Her head spun, and the forest moved about her in Earth-toned swirls.
Another bite.
A flash of gold and red.
She swiped to hit at the
bird who was, at her best obscure guess, an arm's length in front of her. She missed and fell to all fours. A peck and then another swipe until she was crawling with each missed attempt to swat at her assailant. Finally, before she knew it, she swatted and when she missed again and her hand fell to the ground, her palm slapping into mud. She squinted and adjusted her tired eyes to ensure it wasn't a trick of the mind.
Without hesitation, she crawled past the mud to a deeper puddle and dove her face into the stagnant pool. She lapped it up with no regard for manners. Gritty. Sandy. Mud-tainted heaven. She slurped the water so quickly and so violently the muck clogged her nostrils. She gasped in between slurps and licked her coated lips, relishing in the briny taste. Then, wearily, she flopped onto her back and allowed herself to savor the delight of a full stomach and the sun on her face. She watched the bird circle over her head, dizzied by its brown and red tones, but content in the happy accident of it leading her to the water she needed. She smiled gratefully.
Genevieve, sated, used all her energy to get to her feet. The world wobbled beneath her, and she spread her arms outward to keep her balance. Then the world tilted and she began to wretch. Doubling over with her hands on her knees, she vomited in forceful waves. Thin, aqueous bile flowed from the depths of her gut. What is happening to me? Did I drink too much? Too fast?
"Argh!"
Like a piercing dagger, a stab of pain ripped at her side. Her body tensed, and instinctively, Genevieve curled into the fetal position. Tears streamed down her dirty face, creating muddy trails along her cheeks. She held her stomach and continued to heave until there was nothing left to vomit.
She leaned her back against a tree and concentrated on the rise and fall of her chest and the fierce spasms firing in her stomach. She squinted against the sun's light, its brightness disorienting. Floating specks encircled her vision until the dots changed to a veil of blackness. She clenched her eyes shut and, staggered forward until her legs slipped from underneath her, and her head knocked sharply against the solid ground.
