Clarysa scrambled into a sitting position. “But you promised! You said not the next time, but the one after.”
Lionel studied the wardrobe’s contents. “I did not.”
“Fibber!”
He swept his good arm into a dramatically wide arc, as though a performance artist. “And so it shall be! You’ll accompany us…the following expedition after the next.”
Clarysa’s eyes narrowed. “That’s exactly what you’ve been saying for the past five outings! I–what happened to your arm?”
Lionel had removed his vest and was struggling with the buttons of his shirt. “An attack. A wicked creature appeared, the horse spooked, and I fell…confounded…Johann!” he said, summoning his valet. “In my bedchamber, if you please!” Lionel sat on the bed and began to remove his boots.
Clarysa tugged at his sleeve. “What kind of creature? Did you kill it? Is it here?”
He eyed his cousin, an audacious woman of nineteen years. Vivid hazel eyes stared back, voyeuristic and eager. “It’s kind of involved. Do you really want to hear it?”
Clarysa slapped him playfully on his uninjured shoulder. “Of course! What else do I have to amuse me around this incredibly boring place? Yet more lessons in etiquette and stitching?” Clarysa beat the goose-down mattress with rapid fists. “Ugh!”
Lionel grinned and then glanced toward the door. Johann had arrived. “Oh, there you are. Help me off with this shirt, will you? And then heat some water for a bath, please.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
While Johann attended to the bath, Lionel chatted away, regaling his cousin with the tale of his most recent adventure. After he finished, a stoic Clarysa shook her head slowly.
Lionel shot her a bewildered look. His cousin was obviously a glutton for excitement. But hadn’t he delivered enough tonight? “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You think I dislocated my arm while eating breakfast? Do I look like someone who needs that much attention?”
“To answer your questions, no, and yes. But what I meant to say is about this ‘Prince Stellan.’ I’m sure you made that part of it up only to tease me.”
Lionel snorted. “Cousin, I have better things to do with my time than conjure up whimsical fairytales.”
“Nonsense. You have plenty of time to do all sorts of things and you know it.”
Lionel smiled. She had him there for sure. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But I spoke truthfully. Many of the stories we heard about the Snowflake Kingdom while growing up may turn out to be true.” Lionel cocked his head. “Heh. Oddly fascinating isn’t it?”
Clarysa nodded. “So what’s he like?”
“I just told you!”
“Tell me again!”
“Excuse me, Your Grace, but your bath is ready.” Johann stood patiently by the door.
Lionel stood. “Thank you. That will be all for now. As for you,” he said, glancing at his cousin, “I’ll tell you about him again at supper. You are staying the night, aren’t you?” Clarysa nodded. “Splendid. Now be off with you.”
Her shoulders drooped while she offered Lionel a supplicant look.
“Shoo,” he said, motioning her out the door.
Clarysa dragged herself toward the exit as if trudging through quicksand. But then she whirled at the door and blew Lionel a kiss. “Hope you feel better,” she said before closing the door firmly.
* * * *
Clarysa stepped into the brightly lit hallway. Servants nodded as they passed, some carrying linens, others tending to small children or other errands. Supper lay a good hour away, but she felt not so much hungry as bored. She ambled down a wide, curving stair to the next level, swinging her arms and humming a tune sung by a minstrel who had visited the castle earlier in the day.
Though her uncle’s estate was smaller in scale than the King’s, she had more freedom here. Or at least she had the illusion of such. Not that she couldn’t go about as she pleased, but there were certain…restraints. Then guilt about her resentment made her sigh. She didn’t crave more wealth or privilege–simply something different.
Clarysa ducked into the Hall of Tapestries. Elegant glass lanterns illuminated the giant woven canvases spaced regularly along the walls. They featured a kaleidoscope of tales, including historic battles and legendary quests. Vivid colors of every hue greeted the visitors who came from all over the Five Lands to see them. But as evening approached, the hall stood silent.
She veered to one side and ran fingers along each tapestry as she walked. The creations had taken years to complete, and so demanded careful preservation. Clarysa shook her head, knowing she would never have such patience. She had a restless energy, always, her body thrumming like an instrument in constant play.
How one could ever find the patience to devote months, or even years in some cases, to constructing a glorified rug was simply beyond her understanding. Without a doubt, she admired those who possessed the quality, but the thought made her heart sink. She wished she had something of equal measure to offer her people. Well even if I did, I’m sure I wouldn’t be allowed to use it. So being denied endeavors such as politics or agriculture, she channeled her energy elsewhere.
She liked animals and books and physical activity of any sort. Horse riding thrilled her, and she wondered if it weren’t too late for a quick ride before supper. The best part of her visit had been the day before when she’d spent the morning scrambling over rocks and sunbathing by the Elysian River. The trip had been wonderful until that strange calamity had sent her scurrying back home. Insatiably curious, upon her return she had promptly ordered a contingent of guards to investigate. Perhaps they would locate the strange man who had so urgently warned her. Against what, she hadn’t been able to determine, for the interior of the woods had been very dark.
But the guards had found nothing except an area of burned earth deep in the woods. In their estimation, it was an accident born of a careless vagrant. Clarysa knew otherwise, but kept her silence. It figures. The moment anything exciting starts to happen, Fate conspires to bury it.
Nearing one of the lanterns, she bent to inspect the set of scratches on her knees. Regardless of the adventure that wasn’t meant to be, the river had been bursting with bright stones and odd-shaped fish and slimy weeds. She’d had to experience them all. The scratches still stung, but they made her feel alive. That was much more than she could say for this dreary place. She briefly traced a few old scars.
Unbidden, her older sisters’ scolding voices penetrated her thoughts. “How could you let your skin get so marked up? It’s unbecoming, especially for a princess. Why can’t you sit still? Have you been kidnapped and a boy put in your place? Good heavens, stop wrestling with that dog! You’re an embarrassment to the monarchy.”
Clarysa let her skirts drop. Her life was dull and sheltered, and she hated it.
Sometimes she hated herself more for having such ungrateful thoughts. Undoubtedly there were thousands of folk who would gladly trade their downtrodden lives for her privileged one. What was wrong with her, anyway? Why couldn’t she accept the inevitable?
Thank goodness for Lionel. He understood her need for thrills. Perhaps this was because the same adventure-craving blood pumped as hotly in his veins as it did in hers. He could always be counted on for some fun. Unlike Edward. Now there was someone best avoided at festivals, if he even bothered to show up at all. She loved her brother, but he was so caught up in the politics of the royal court she couldn’t relate to him at all.
True there were a few ladies, mostly kin, with whom Clarysa could spend time when a longing for those distinctly female diversions took hold. Her cousin Mirabelle on her mother’s side shared Clarysa’s interest in books about dragons and fairies and faraway lands. Occasionally they’d weave flower garlands while spinning tales for each other, ones that often slipped into territory deemed too mischievous for “innocent” maidens.
But the others were often close-minded and vapid. They would only
titter politely whenever she proposed recreation beyond the castle walls. And her sisters, well, “peculiar” would not be too strong a word for their view of her. Surely she had been adopted into the family. She couldn’t have possibly been birthed by the same mother as those creatures.
Clarysa sighed heavily. She envied Lionel and his freedom. He could ride wherever he wanted, see whomever he pleased. She frowned. Her mother the Queen had been hinting recently of marriage in earnest, probably because her next oldest sister would be wedded three months hence. Unfortunately, the suitors who came calling often revealed irritating narcissistic traits within the first five minutes. The cads among them skipped talking altogether in favor of groping. Regardless, Clarysa feared none would truly want or love her given her overactive nature. She had spent so much time with Lionel and his entourage that they treated her more like a sister than a potential lover, so no luck there.
There must be a more exciting life than her current one, but how would she find it? Where would she find it? Clarysa frowned. She didn’t begrudge her lofty station in life, she…
No. She did. Yes. But only when it was boring. Which was daily. Hourly.
And as she aged the trappings of royalty became like a noose around her neck. A silken noose replete with gold perhaps, but a noose nonetheless. Nothing scared her more than to wind up as an elegant tapestry on the wall–beautiful, yet lifeless.
“Life is what you make of it,” one of her tutors had once said.
Yes, but for royalty? For whom every outfit, every lesson, even every glance seemed predestined? Still, she wanted to believe. She wanted to believe her mind would not be left to waste. Out there, somewhere, there might even be a man who would find her zeal for the fantastic refreshing instead of tiresome. Knowing my luck, he’s probably living in somebody else’s lifetime.
Clarysa turned to depart the hall, giving one last glance at the tapestries and the tales they wove. “My life is what I choose to make of it,” she whispered. Her glance fell upon a brave knight shown brandishing his sword in victory over his opponent. “My life, no one else’s.” With renewed determination, she turned on a heel and left to ready for dinner.
There, at least, she would find adventure, if only in a tale.
Chapter 4
Two months later
Squatting flush against a tree trunk veiled in age-old bracken, Stellan watched his prey with a measured stare. His discipline was absolute–neither a muscle moved, nor a hair shifted. He’d been in the same position for an hour, and he greatly appreciated the cool air dampening his scent. Now, at last, patience had finally rewarded him.
A mountain lion crept along the carpet of leaves. The animal had wandered down into the valley, only a stone’s throw away from Aldebaran’s border.
Or rather, it used to be a mountain lion.
Its plaintive cries drifted through the air as though a newborn cub. Stellan had tracked it for a mile now. At first the beast had sounded feral and mighty as it wandered, casting about its glowering mien if even so much as an insect crossed its path. Stellan understood well its mood swings, for a strange transformation had overcome its body. The pitiful creature strained for an escape, one that would regretfully never come.
Slinking out into a clearing, the creature dragged hind legs that had become hairless and bloated, far out of proportion to the compact musculature of its torso. The mottled black skin jiggled like a full drinking sack. A constant twitch plagued its left ear. The feline trailed a brownish, gooey discharge, of which Stellan had already collected a sample.
Now was the time to act and put the animal out of its misery.
The lion had finally slowed down to where Stellan could try his experiment. Days earlier he had crafted a special dart, one filled with a potion he hoped would not only kill the diseased animal, but also disintegrate it entirely. The ingredients were not easy to come by, and their synthesis had been highly complex. However, if this worked, those long, hard hours would be more than acceptable. This alternative held far more appeal than a fire, which could lead to discovery. He eagerly awaited the results.
Stellan crept forward; the beast could not outrun him now. Yet caution would still be prudent, for the mutated animal could turn against him at any moment. He had one chance and one chance only to make this work. Slowly, he removed a glass vial from his side pouch. He poured its contents into a small dart. At the sound, the mountain lion’s head turned to him, a silent wail behind its eyes. Affixing the dart to a small mechanical launcher, Stellan slowly took aim.
“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Stellan whipped around. Four sinister horsemen stood before him. The mountain lion uttered a weak snarl and then slumped to the ground. Stellan hid the launcher in the folds of his cape. It was too late. His window had closed. Through gritted teeth, he spoke. “What do you want, Alucard?”
The lead rider was an older man with platinum-gray hair. Neatly combed, it fell to his shoulders. Haughty features like those of an eagle looked down upon Stellan with amusement.
“How devastating.” He raised a hand to his chest in mock grief. “I would have thought your words would be kinder for your estranged uncle. I’ve missed you, boy.” Alucard’s harsh tone belied his words. He signaled, and the other men grouped their horses around Stellan, blocking him from the beleaguered animal.
Alucard inched his own steed closer. Stellan felt like slicing daggers through his uncle’s patronizing expression. He envisioned the blood soaring out into a hundred rainbow-like arcs. No, make that two hundred. He deliberately locked his face into a stone-hard expression, a frequent habit because he often felt so angry. The unexpected visit from his kinsfolk only stoked his ire more. You will get nothing from me, he thought.
Alucard assumed a bored look. “What we want is what doesn’t belong to you.” He gestured lazily to his men.
Stellan watched as the other riders unfolded a sturdy wooden cage. They proceeded to load the mountain lion into it, being quite careful to avoid its abnormal parts.
Stellan tried to hide his confusion. Why were they collecting it? “That doesn’t belong to anybody,” he said, jutting his chin up in defiance. “It’s merely a sick wild animal.”
“Wrong!” Alucard lunged forward and hit Stellan across the cheek. His next statement sounded more like a hiss. “It belongs to the Black Mage. And he’s livid about your continued interference.”
The blow stung, but Stellan had endured worse. Breathe. Breathe, and don’t say a word. Though prudence might save his life, he couldn’t resist a retaliatory barb. “Aren’t you rather close to Leopold’s kingdom? I hear Aldebaran swordsmen enjoy smiting barbaric warlocks like you.”
Alucard glowered, but he refused to take the bait. “Our business takes us wherever His Highness desires.” His gaze took on a distant look. “Aldebaran and its guileless yet hateful citizens will soon acquaint themselves with the true meaning of fear.” His eyes closed as if in rapture. “The storm is gathering.”
The new development made Stellan suspicious. “Enough riddles. What do you mean?”
An ominous smile fell over Alucard’s face, one masking answers Stellan desperately wanted to uncover. Why have you been following me? Why now, after so many years of silence?
“We’re finished here,” said one of the men.
Alucard nodded slowly and regarded his nephew with a stern expression. “If we find you interfering like this again, it will mean your life. I don’t care who your father is. Oh, and here.” He reached into a pocket and withdrew a small gray sack. It landed at Stellan’s feet and something metallic clinked inside. “Something for your trouble.” Alucard snickered. “I know times have been rough.”
Stellan remained still, sullen and resolute, avoiding their gazes.
In the background, he heard one of the men whisper, “Look at the fool! He’s waiting for us to leave so he can pick up the money.” Raucous laughter followed.
The men hooked the cage to one of the horses and
signaled the animals to ride. A few jeers floated back in the air, followed by even more riotous laughter. Eventually, it faded. All around him, the wood creatures resumed their light chatter. They too seemed to take great delight in the impoverished man before them. Stellan rammed a fist against the nearest tree. Damn you all, then!
His scalp tingled. Looking around, he spotted a hooded figure astride a horse many yards distant, peeking at him from among the trees. The rider wore a lavender cape–a woman’s raiment. His wary gaze followed her for a few moments, but he quickly tired of the game.
“Be gone, sister,” he muttered. He watched until she, too, retreated.
Then, and only then, did he pick up the bag of coins. It wasn’t much, but despite Alucard’s arrogant ways, his uncle was right–he did need the money. His food stores were hideously low. Even his scullery maid had complained there was only a finite number of ways one could cook potatoes, and no doubt she had tried them all numerous times over the past few months.
But what else could he do? There were more important issues at stake here than receiving a full-course meal every night.
Stellan pondered the recent encounter as he walked to his horse. Alucard had just threatened his life. How serious was he? Stellan’s ties with his blood relatives had been estranged, to put it mildly, since that dread event so long ago.
But his uncle had never openly threatened him with death before. And what did his parting words mean? Aldebaran and fear, along with something about a gathering storm? Surely his “kin”–how the word left a sour taste in his mouth–would not be foolish enough to wage war on Aldebaran. They would be slaughtered, having neither the numbers nor strategy to face down King Leopold’s military might. Alucard knew this fact, otherwise he would have led an attack long ago.
Stellan shook his head. The sorcerers of the Western Wastes had a long history of infighting. They would never successfully unite. He had learned one thing from the confrontation with his uncle, though, gaining confirmation of a suspicion he’d harbored for years now.
Lord of Snow and Ice Page 4
