by Hal Bodner
Options spun in my head as the lock clicked and he began to swing the gate open. For a moment, I considered trying to force my way past him. He wasn’t an overly big lad, but the one standing by the only exit could definitely be considered so. I didn’t imagine a club would do much good against him. King and his men were smart, I thought, not arming their guards down here with anything worth the effort.
Instead I just shrugged. “I know Silas and his moods.”
“Do ya now?”
Smart men, like I said. I hadn’t noticed the guard pull his club, and his swing came down with a sharp crack on my forehead. I heard, rather than felt, the second crack, before darkness claimed me.
***
A splash of wetness woke me, fluids dripping from my clothes, my hair. I coughed, felt the taste of water mixed with salty blood catch in my throat, spluttered, coughed again.
I sat up, then instantly regretted doing so. Lances of pain shot through, sharp behind my eyes. I held my head with trembling hands, my eyelids clenched shut.
“Ah, finally awake,” a voice said.
Goren.
“W-What happened …” I said. My lips felt numb, puffy. One hand trailed down to my face, felt the dried crust of blood on my nose, around my lips and chin.
“You know well what happened,” Goren said. “You took the King’s daughter, an unforgivable offense.”
My eyes opened slowly, little more than slits at first, blinking back watery tears, my vision hazy and runny. Oh, Gods, did my head hurt.
Goren sat on a wooden chair in front of me. He leaned forward, arms on his knees. He looked expectant, like he waited for something.
“My bag, Goren,” I croaked. “Did you find it?”
He reached behind the chair, his hand searching.
“I did.” His hand came back around. He held a small leather bag. I felt my breath catch.
He peered inside the bag, pulling out the blue light. “Curious to hear how you came by this.” His brow rose in question.
“It’s a dull story. That thing has been a curse. Keep it. I just want a smoke is all.” The lies rolled off my tongue easily now, like I’d been a liar my whole life. And I had been. I’d lied to myself, spoken of honor and duty, but the blue flame had discovered my truth.
Honor and duty aren’t worth the effort.
Goren nodded. “I’ll be keeping it regardless.” He pulled out the pipe, tossed it to me. “One last smoke, then.”
The light shone as he held it over my face, the blue flame steady as he lit my pipe. I drew in shuddering breaths, blew out the thick smoke, the pain receding from my head.
“I think not, Goren,” I said with a sneer, casually turning towards the manikin as it strolled through the smoke to stand beside me. “Manikin, a knife, please.”
An edged blade appeared in its hands. I took hold of the blade, plunging it into Goren’s chest, his mouth still open in surprise.
He died on the spot, his face affixed with a sudden, terrible shock. He fell with a crash at my feet, his eyes staring at the floor, unmoving.
“Not my last smoke at all,” I said, looking down as blood began to pool around his corpse. I reached down and plucked the light from his dead fingers. “This belongs to me.”
I turned my attention to the manikin. “Kill the court, but leave the King alive. Bring him to me.”
The manikin headed for the door with swift, sure steps. I sat down heavily on the chair, gripping the bloodied knife in one hand, the blue flame in the other. I set the light and pipe gently inside the bag and waited for the King, thoughts of my future spinning through my mind.
***
The manikin arrived a short time later, Silas shuffling in ahead of the creature. He looked ill, his face ashen, his eyes darting to the manikin and then me.
“Silas, so good to see you,” I said, rising to my feet. I gestured to the chair. “Please have a seat.”
“What witchery is this, Thorne?” he asked, his fingers twitching. He’d lost his commanding tone, and I heard the twinge of fear creep into his voice.
“Sit. I insist.” I gently nudged him to the chair, my knife held against his shoulder.
He looked back at me as he slowly sat, but said nothing.
“Now, Silas, we are going to have a discussion,” I said. “You are clearly distressed, so I will make this plain. You will abdicate your throne, naming me the new King.”
“You would have me, rightful ruler of this domain, name—”
“That’s not all,” I interrupted. “A King needs a Queen …”
His eyes widened. Anger touched his face, and he glanced at the manikin before responding. “Never, Thorne. You cannot—”
“Would you prefer her bled in front of you?” I smiled, put a hand on his shoulder, like we carried on with polite conversation.
He moved to speak, and I interrupted. “Don’t be rash, Silas. You know I will if need be.”
He slumped in the chair then, his eyes on the floor. He nodded.
“Good. Now, show me to the princess’ chamber.”
***
I relaxed on the veranda, leaning over the rail, looking over my new domain. Stars dotted the sky as I smoked. Inside, I could hear the faint sobs of Amalia. She grieved for her father, or perhaps over her harsh new husband. No matter to me. I might have many Queens.
The manikin stood beside me, drawn out by my command.
“Manikin,” I said, turning to face the creature. “Do you wish to obey me?”
The creature paused at my question, small, black eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because I want to know.” Reason enough.
The manikin twisted its head, and then shook it, the first time I had seen the gesture.
“You desire freedom from my demands?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Very well then, I offer you freedom, under one condition. Give me a sword, with all the powers you wield, and I will deliver you from my yoke.”
“You have a dark soul, my Lord, how can I be sure you will keep your word?”
“If I break my vow to release you, manikin, you may strike me dead.”
Its eyes peered into mine, and apparently satisfied, it bowed. “Very well, my Lord.” The creature reached out and a long sword appeared in its grip, sharp on both edges, the hilt wrapped in glittering bands of silver. A single gem, glowing with a swirling blue light, sat embedded in the guard.
Chills ran down my spine as I grasped the hilt. I swung the sword lightly, and then wished for a simple thing, an apple. One appeared in my other hand, shiny and red. I took a bite and smiled as I looked down upon the creature who had given me everything.
“My thanks,” I said. “You have done all I asked, and now it’s my turn.”
I lunged forward, the sword making the briefest contact with the manikin. The creature fell with a hollow clang, shock written on its tiny face.
“I release you,” I said, laughing as I walked through the archway to my chamber. A guard stood by the far door. Amalia cowered on the bed, her head hidden as she sobbed into the sheets.
I gave her a look of disgust before turning to the guard, a thin smile forming.
“Bring me Silas.”
The apple was delicious.
About the Author
Wilson Geiger has been gripped by fantastical worlds not quite our own ever since stumbling upon his father’s copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. He writes fantasy and science fiction stories when not maintaining networks, troubleshooting servers, or fighting the good fight against computer illiteracy. Wilson resides in St. Louis, Missouri with his wife, two boys, and a possessive cat. Read more at wilsongeiger.com.
Let Down Your Hair
A retelling of “Rapunzel”
Eugenia Rose
The dogs had picked up another kind of scent. Not deer, not rabbit. Different. Human flesh. Fresh. They went after it, following the scent, and the soldiers followed the dogs. The fores
t, wet from last night’s rain, smelled of earth and dead leaves. The moisture weaved a thin net between the trees and the men could only see so far ahead.
“It’s a dead body!” they called out.
He circled the motionless form with his horse. Covered with dirt and leaves, it seemed one with the forest. He dismounted and knelt over the girl.
Patrick knew her face—even pale as a cloud—did not belong to a dead woman.
He swept the leaves away, placed his arm under her white shoulders, and gently lifted her head off the wet ground. He felt her breath on his neck, so weak he thought the exhalation might be only in his imagination.
He wanted the girl to be alive.
“Can you hear me?” he asked softly.
A rustling came from behind the bushes in the clearing. The men put their hands on the grip of their swords and glanced around nervously.
Silence.
One of the soldiers moved towards the edge of the clearing. A pair of grouse took flight and the man jumped. Patrick laughed, but the soldier kept his gaze fixed on the bushes.
“What is it?” Patrick asked, sensing something wrong.
“My liege, I think you should see this,” said the man and turned to him, holding something resembling a piece of rope. A dirty, long rope braided with leaves, dirt, and insects. It seemed to have been made with golden thread, its luster dimmed by age.
“But it looks like …” the Duke said, puzzled.
The thick rope was made from blond human hair leading to the gold surrounding the girl’s head. The men picked up more tufts from the ground under their feet, long strands of hair spread like a bed sheet under the woman.
A golden sheet for her to lie on, the Duke thought.
“She’s a witch!” one of the men said and drew his sword.
Patrick laid the girl’s body on the ground gently and stood in front of the frightened soldier.
“Put down your sword,” he ordered, and the soldier went down on one knee.
“Forgive me lord, but this girl is not human,” he said, his eyes on the ground. “She must have been left in the woods to die by some nearby villagers.”
“Parth,” the Duke said. “This woman has not harmed us.” He looked at the sleeping girl and his expression softened.
“We will take her with us, back to the palace.”
***
She was lying on something much more comfortable than the leaves and sticks of the forest. She stared at a ceiling. Drawings, golden on red.
A woman cried out. She wore a grey dress and wore a surprised expression on her face.
“Are you awake?” the woman said before she ran out of the room.
Dizziness swept over her. She touched her face and neck. She felt nothing on her shoulders. It was her turn to cry out. “My hair!”
The man burst into the room and took her in his arms. “Calm down, you’re safe,” he said quietly, caressing her cheek.
She sobbed and tears streamed down her cheeks. She held her head with both hands, as if trying to protect what little hair she had left.
“Please, calm down. Your hair held you prisoner to the forest. I had to cut it off in order to free you.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“My name is Patrick. Patrick Cheverell. And you?” His eyes were sweet. The crow’s feet made them sweeter.
His hair and beard were a deep red, with some gray at the edges. His clothes were soft. She felt his sleeve on her cheek as he held her. He smelled better than her and anything in the forest. She was safe with him. She smiled and the man relaxed and let go of her arms. His scent left her.
“What is your name? What were you doing in the forest?”
Her smile disappeared. Her mind went dark. No light breached the depth of the darkness. The darkness held everything, even the things that were only hers.
“I … don’t know. I don’t remember.”
The man appeared perplexed, but said nothing. He motioned to the servant to open the heavy red drapes covering the windows. Light flooded the room and stung her eyes. When they adjusted, she saw a room full of color, with strange creatures running and playing on the walls. Half animal and half human, they danced with pretty, pale girls. Horses ran towards her as if they could break free from the walls holding them. Everything in the room gleamed gold, like her hair used to.
Her heart skipped a beat. She got off the bed and walked slowly around the room. She touched the creatures drawn on the wall. She wished she could set them free, tell them there was a whole other world outside this room for them.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“It belonged to a little girl,” the man said, staring into nothingness.
She didn’t ask about the girl. She felt his sadness. Perhaps it was his daughter. It didn’t matter. She sensed her as if she was still in the room. These drawings were for her.
“It doesn’t matter if you can’t remember,” the man said, breaking the silence. “Would you like me to give you a name? Something to call you by?”
A name? The idea seemed both natural and strange at the same time. Everything had a name, even the animals in the forest. But her own name remained hidden in the darkness of her mind. Yes, she would like a name.
She nodded.
“We will call you Anne until you can remember your name. Now I would like you to follow Esme, who will bathe you and clothe you. Then you will come and find me.”
“Will I smell like you?” she asked.
The man laughed.
“I hope not! You will smell much better than me.”
He took her to the window.
“Anne, would you like to know a secret?” he seemed to enjoy using her name.
She nodded.
“I brought you to the most beautiful place in the whole kingdom. I brought you to the palace.”
***
“Approach, Lord Patrick,” said the fat man, busy with a chicken leg.
The decorated table did nothing to refine the King’s manners when he ate. That’s what Patrick always thought when he observed King Cassius eat in the dining hall. He resembled an animal, possibly a lion about to consume its prey. He wondered if he came upon the King in the forest, would he realize he was a man, or would he kill him, afraid the wild beast would attack him?
His eldest son, Prince William, sat at his side holding a golden cup. He stared straight ahead, lost in his thoughts. Only the noises his father made seemed to sometimes draw his attention. He regarded the King with a mixture of pity and disgust.
Patrick bowed down and then approached the table. He sat when the King invited him to.
“I was told you met someone interesting on your way back,” he said and smiled.
“We found a girl. A sick thing—if we hadn’t come upon her, she would have surely died, your Majesty.”
“I think you’re trying to make yourself sound like a better man than you really are, Patrick. I was also told the creature is very, very attractive.”
Patrick made no comment.
“Maybe she will be your second wife,” the King went on. “Some of the soldiers claim she’s a witch, you know.”
“Do you believe them?”
Laughter escaped the man and then he started coughing. He swallowed a cup full of wine to make it stop.
“Don’t be a fool, Patrick. Make sure to present her to me tomorrow. Who knows, her lucky streak might go beyond being found in the woods.”
Patrick began to sweat as he thought about the fate of the rest of the girls who had caught the King’s eye. Or that of his son’s. Word was they shared everything.
“But my Liege, she’s still not well.”
“Enough, Patrick. I expect you both tomorrow.”
He balled his hands into fists and murmured, “Yes, your Grace.”
He got up and left the room to search for her. He wondered if the girl would have fared better in the woods, than the corrupt halls of the palace, where death was often not the worst fate.
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***
“You hair is like gold,” Esme said as she poured warm water down her face.
Anne lifted her hands and touched her hair again. It was still gone, cut short to her ears.
“Don’t be sad, Anne. It’s not that bad. It’s longer than it appeared to be when I first saw you.”
Anne turned and looked into her eyes. “Am I ugly?”
“What are you talking about? Do flowers ask such questions? They will bring you beautiful dresses to wear and we will hide your hair with a white veil. All the ladies wear them in the palace.”
Anne reached out and held the maid’s hand. A broken smiled formed on her lips. Esme’s tired face brightened a little bit.
***
“Do I have to wear this?” Anne asked.
She stared straight ahead and held her breath, as Esme tightened the corset around her waist. The clothes were tight, too. The veil held her hair, but her pale face shone through the green fabric. Esme shot her a look and then continued to adjust the dress. Every detail seemed to be important. She ran her fingers through her clothes and by some magic way seemed to make the already uncomfortable dress completely unbearable.
“You don’t want to present yourself to the King completely naked do you?” she told her. “I’m sure you don’t want that …” she whispered to herself.
The fingers suddenly stopped at her neck. Anne heard the servant draw breath and glanced up into the mirror. Her fingers had caught in a few golden tufts that had escaped the veil. She put them back under the veil and swallowed.
“Esme? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said and curtsied. “You are ready my lady. Now you must follow me”.
Anne followed her without comment. They reached the great hall and the guards stood aside to let them pass. Patrick appeared and she hesitated a little before bending her knees and bowing her head. She spread her arms and completed the curtsy she had been taught to do.
