Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  That was when I still had hopes and dreams that might someday come true, when I had coins in my pockets, and fine department store dresses to wear. That was also when a handsome noble man met me by the fountain and shared with me his soul, and later, I shared with him my body.

  Now, every day, I stared out at the frozen courtyard, for the winter had come and was vicious, punishing us with heavy snow. The gardens were nothing but skeletons of dead shrubs, and the rose bushes were empty and layered in ice.

  I never left the servant’s building even to walk about, so did not see how the ocean had breached the seawall on the palace’s eastern shore. A maid, who cleaned the apartments of the nobility, told me that all the sand had eroded until there was none. All that remained was a wall of large, black boulders and the frigid waters splashing upon them. Angry, bitter ocean tears were cast upon the windows, no matter how high above they were.

  “It is because the angels are angry,” the maid whispered. “They do not approve of our new king.”

  She was bringing me her thin coat with a torn lining and sleeves which required the filthy lace to be replaced. Like most, she had no coins to pay me. Instead, she offered me a half loaf of bread, or four chocolate cookies uneaten by the King.

  “Why do they not like him?” I asked, accepting her gifts and stowing them in the closet beneath an overturned box.

  “He is cruel,” the maid replied, her hand paused on the door. Then, she bit her lip to keep from saying what all knew. Marko Korelesk had stolen the Crown, even though it had been empty, awaiting a new head. “They say-they say-there is another to whom it rightly belongs.”

  “What is he called?” I feigned disinterest, although the needle between my fingers began to shake. There was one. Only one, if he still lived, by birthright it belonged to him.

  “A boy.” She spoke beneath her breath, coming closer as if to watch my needlework. “A Karut boy.”

  Her foul scent seeped over my shoulder, for this poor girl knew not to wash or brush her teeth. Though, this stench bothered my nose, I resolved to bear it so I might hear.

  “Who?” I asked again, waiting for the name, which I had granted him myself and held closely in my heart every moment of every day. “Who told you this? Who else knows of this boy?”

  “I overheard a conversation between the Lord Chief of Staff and a man who came into his office. I was in the corridor dusting and could not help but overhear their words. The man said there is a boy. A boy who the Karuts claim is the MaKennah returned. This boy’s face, they say, resembles that of King Mikal, and the Great Emperor before him from long ago.”

  My heart raced a little, although this gossip was not a confirmation. Mikal favored his Karupta ancestors and that family was large and filled with many boys. Grandmother often said that we, too, were descended from those same genes. Only one boy, though, only one would have a feature that set him apart.

  “What of his eyes?” I whispered, attempting to make a stitch. I was so distracted and anxious that my needle moved astray and like a novice, I stabbed into my thumb instead.

  “Foolish girl!” Grandmother yelled from the recesses of my brain. “Concentrate on your work or you will die alone in the snow.”

  “His eyes?” the maid repeated. “How did you know of the boy’s strange eyes?”

  “Tell me!” I demanded, brandishing my needle like a sword.

  The girl looked at me with curiosity, biting her lip and debating whether or not I had gone mad.

  “He said—-.” She opened her mouth but was interrupted by the swinging of the door. The wind grabbed it and slammed it open, allowing a gust of frigid air to enter the room. “I’ll return tomorrow, Mistress Seamstress.”

  The maid’s footsteps quickly ran away. I ignored her as if she was no one, listening to the soft sounds of another as he approached on shoes too thin to tread through the mountains of ice and snow lining the pathway to my shop.

  “Ailana,” the voice said, too high and too soft for such a boy. “Will you fix something for me quickly? I’ll pay you double, or even triple for your time.”

  “Of course, Petya, and you owe me nothing. Your sweet company gives me pleasure enough.” I set down the maid’s torn coat and took his socks, which needed darning in three places. “Are you hungry? I have bread and cookies. Please eat them before the mice.”

  The boy shook his head and sat in his usual chair. He had grown tall, but his limbs were far too thin. The faint mustache, which graced his lip, had darkened, but was out of place upon a face that looked more like it belonged to a woman.

  Still, we went through this routine on every visit, for he came often with his clothes always in need of repairs. He spent hours by my side, sharing gossip and trading news, and I enjoyed his company for he was just my Amyr’s age.

  But, Petya’s life was hard and filled with a pain of which I dared not to think, or question. What was done to this boy, when he was not with me, burned a hole in my soul and the pit of my stomach. Instead, I sought to humor him, to make him laugh, and smile, to forget his woes. I wished that far off in Karupatani, a woman was doing the same for my son, for now I knew with certainty that my Amyr was alive.

  “You’re not eating enough,” I scolded, followed by a chorus of motherly clucks, while laying the cookies in front of him on my only silver tray. “How are you, dear? Tell me your news. Are you feeling better? Did you get over your ague and malaise?”

  Petya turned his gaze to the window, to the ever present snow that never ceased to drift from the sky. His eyes grew wet, sending a spike of fear through my heart. I turned my own eyes away, examining the socks and putting a finger through each hole.

  “My son would destroy a pair of socks each time he wore them. Do you think far off in the motherland, there is woman to repair his, while he sits beside her in a chair?”

  “You said your son was dead,” Petya murmured, his voice empty of emotion.

  “I don’t know. I hope not. I heard—-I heard, just this day—-”

  “I hate him,” Petya interrupted, his voice suddenly growing violent. “I would kill him if I could. I would slash his throat and watch him bleed.”

  Not my son. I knew he did not speak of my son.

  “Hush now,” I implored him. “Don’t say such evil words. The Evil One will hear you and bid you come to serve him.”

  Petya shook his head.

  “I don’t care. I would serve him for he is kinder than my current master.”

  To this I didn’t respond, for I had no words of wisdom I could share. Instead, I picked up my needle and prepared to begin my mending. I noted the perfectly round hole upon the sole where the threads of wool were once again singed.

  “Do you need some salve, Petya?” I asked, keeping my voice steady and without pity, for the boy would only snap at me if I treated him like a babe.

  He didn’t answer, and when I looked up from my needle and thread, I saw tears drifting quietly down his cheeks.

  How I wanted to take him in my arms, to hug him and to comfort him! How I wished I could make his demons go away. Yet, in the past, when I touched his arms, he would forcefully push me aside.

  “I do not need a mother,” he would snap. “I am not your replacement son.”

  Petya left immediately after that, refusing my salve, or the handkerchief to dry his tears. From my window, I watched him disappear, like a ghost in the wilderness of snow. As I held his ruined sock in my hand, I decided the maid had been correct. The angels were angry and they were punishing us for allowing such an evil king.

  I repaired Petya’s socks, but he never came to fetch them. In fact, for a week, he was unseen about the palace.

  “Everyone is searching for him,” the maid whispered when she arrived to collect her coat. “The King is in a rage and demands the boy be produced forthwith.”

  I worried after Petya, for he had become my replacement son. As to the king’s interest in him, that I did not question, nor did I doubt the King was behind the
boy’s disappearance.

  For this and more, I despised Marko Korelesk. I called him a pretender to the throne and I did not care who heard me speak these words.

  Ten days from the day Petya left me with his socks, when the snow had abated for a few hours, a guard spied a body upon the rocks below the seawall. It was frozen and blue, but his form remained intact.

  Immediately, he was recognized as Petya. Whether he jumped himself, or was pushed into the waters, was still in doubt. To me, it didn’t matter, for I knew who killed him, if not by his own hand.

  “Careful, Mistress Seamstress,” the maid said. “If His Majesty hears of your disdain, you’ll be sent out upon the streets to join the beggars in the snow.”

  “I don’t care,” I declared and though a great injustice had been done, I took comfort in knowing even a king wouldn’t escape God’s Final Judgement.

  The following day, a funeral was held for Petya, in which he was entombed in the mausoleum adjacent to the palace. Curiously, this boy was placed in building full of noble souls, surrounded on either side by the ducal ancestors of Korelesk.

  There were few who attended this simple service beyond a maid, four page boys of Petya’s age, an elderly butler, a young uniformed guardsman, and lastly, me.

  “A pity,” everyone said, placing a hand upon the polished stone, wishing the child peace in the next world and whatever came beyond. Then, they walked away, except for the guardsman, who like me chose to sit upon a bench and reflect.

  “I shall miss him greatly,” the young man said.

  “As will I. He was far too young to die.”

  No more words passed between us until much later, when the sky grew dark and the building chilled as night began to fall.

  I would have stayed until dawn, if I could have. It was the custom of my people to sit beside the dead until they were well upon their way.

  Although Petya was not of Karupatani, I felt it was something that I must do. The young guardsman seemed inclined to do the same, until our vigil was interrupted by an angry voice.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” the King demanded, interrupting our silent contemplations.

  “I—-” I rose from the bench and began to speak, assuming that his words had been directed at me.

  “I told you to stay away from him! Now, you disobey me even in his death! Be gone with you, or you shall follow him across the seawall into the surf.”

  Before I could speak again, the guardsman quit the room, running quickly past the King, while I stood trembling in my place. My own knees were too weak to move, and my heart was fluttering wildly in my chest, as the King took the guardsman’s seat upon the bench and sat down heavily.

  I thought he would order me away, as well. At least, I assumed he would question who I was. Surprisingly, Marko Korelesk ignored me. Burying his head in his hands, the King began to weep, leaving me to watch his sorrow in stunned amazement.

  “I loved him,” the King sobbed, as great tears rolled down his cheeks and I, who should have held her foolish tongue, lashed out with angry words.

  “Love?” I spat. “That is what you call what you have done to him? His death is on your shoulders, for if not by your own hand, you certainly drove him to it.”

  “What?” The King looked up and as if realizing I was there, he narrowed his red rimmed eyes and pointed at the floor.

  Hesitantly, for I had vowed never to make obeisance before him again, I stood my ground. Crossing my arms before my chest, I refused to kneel.

  “I said, you killed him,” I accused. “If you truly loved him, you would have seen the pain you caused. It was plainly evident if you had dared to look. Your actions with him were despicable and repulsive. No amount of penance will absolve you of this sin.”

  “Then, you are mistaken, Mistress,” the King replied, his voice going hard and cold. “I neither wished for him, nor caused him pain. I sought only to provide him with a life of honor and respect. It was his own poor choices which hastened his death.”

  Now, it was I who gasped and cried aloud.

  “What? Honor and respect, Sir? After what you did to him? How many times did you use him as you once said you would use a colt?”

  The King shook his head and his brow furrowed as if trying to recall.

  “In my presence, you admitted such an affinity,” I declared. “Before, your cousin, King Mikal, in his office, many years ago.”

  “You think I did what?” Now, the King’s voice rose as a spark of recognition flickered through his eyes. “You are presumptuous, Mistress, and quite mistaken. Who do you think you are that you can accuse me of such a heinous act at the graveside of my only and beloved son?”

  “Son?”

  Had I been mistaken? How did I not know there lived this prince?

  “Petya?” I whispered. Aye, Petya Korelesk. Petya, the son of the Duke with the same clear gray, almost colorless eyes.

  Now, I did drop to my knees and I bowed my head, as tears fell from my eyes. I had been wrong. I erred horribly.

  “Forgive me, Sir,” I begged. “I knew not of whom he spoke.”

  “What did he tell you?” the King demanded, and when I could not speak, for my throat was thick, he put his hand upon my shoulder and bid me sit beside him on the bench.

  We sat as this, side by side, for many hours, until the dawn broke and the sky began to lighten. Outside the snow had ceased to fall, although the ground was thick with mountainous drifts.

  “Ride with me, Mistress Seamstress,” the King said, his voice hoarse from hours of weeping and so I was returned to my workshop in the Servant’s Wing by the warmth of the King’s own sled.

  During the springtime, I acquired a friend. He was an elderly gentleman who had once been in the Imperial SpaceNavy during the last days of Empress Sara’s reign. Despite his advanced age, Kenan worked in the Big House opening and shutting the main door.

  “Once, my task was done automatically. During Sara’s time, there was an abundance of energy to do these things.”

  “My grandmother spoke of sewing machines,” I agreed. “They would do my task in a minute instead of the hours I spend stitching by hand. In the evening, there would be no need to put salve upon one’s fingers.”

  “Ach, those were the good old days,” Kenan said and sighed. “But, that is what every old one says. Why, in my youth, I recall my grandfather saying the same. You are doing a fine job on my shirt, Ailana. No machine could stitch finer than you.” Kenan’s eyes sparkled, inviting me to smile and blush a little. “You have the loveliest smile, Mistress Seamstress. It is a joy to gaze upon your face.”

  “Is that why you visit so often?”

  “That, and my preponderance to snag my clothes upon every nook. But, I confess, I enjoy your company much more so than any other.”

  Kenan asked me to walk about the gardens with him when I closed my workshop for the night. Spring had arrived and with it the longer days. The weak sun slowly melted all the snow, sending rivulets from the palace down the hills, leaving the courtyard clean and green with fresh, new growth.

  At first, I demurred to Kenan’s request. I did not desire such a friend, or a new love. My heart was heavy from loss and Kenan was old, and would not remain with me for very long.

  Here was I, once surrounded by family at every turn, and now, I saw them only in the darkness in my dreams. Every night, I saw visions of my son, tall and strong, fully grown, but with Petya’s face.

  “Amyr!” I would call to him, my arms outstretched, my eyes thick with tears.

  “I am not Amyr,” he would reply. “I am another. I am your son.”

  “Will you come, Mistress Seamstress?” Kenan stood by the door and held out his hand. Like the gentleman he was, he bowed his head in way reminiscent of the days before.

  “Go on!” Grandmother’s voice spoke up from the corner of my brain. “Why not? You could do worse than this old man. He will care for you and keep you safe until he dies.”

  Sometimes, I
wished I could speak back to Grandmother and remind her that even death had not removed her stewardship over me. Instead, I said, “Why not?” and found my sweater, locked my door, and took a turn about the courtyard by Kenan’s side.

  We took to walking about nearly every evening, as spring became summer, and the nights grew long. Our friendship grew as well, and I began to care for him, despite my reluctance to share my heart.

  “Marry me,” Kenan asked. “I would spend the final years of my life waking up to your smile.”

  I couldn’t and though, I thought long and hard, tempted by the comfort of his quiet, steady presence, I did not know whether my husband, Pellen had lived or died.

  “I can’t,” I insisted. “However, I will live with you as man and wife.”

  Thus, for a short time, we shared a bed and though his lovemaking was no better than Pellen’s had been, it was a comfort to be held by a man. I did not fear that inside me a baby would quicken, for I was already in my fortieth year, and Kenan was so old, surely he had nothing left to sire one.

  However, our time together was brief, ending quickly, but not by death. Instead, one day, I was summoned to the Big House by a guard, in the same manner as once before.

  “Come quickly, Mistress Seamstress,” he said, so I took my sewing kit with needle and thread, assuming a repair was required at the behest of our new king.

  I passed Kenan at the doorway. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, as I was guided by the guard up the staircase to the topmost floor. There, I was instructed to wait outside a door. It was the self-same door, the one I had been to once before. I feared that my summons were again for the self-same purpose.

  The guard knocked and backed away, a snicker upon his lips and a leer in his eyes, before removing himself to the corner, whereupon he stood, watching me with pleasure.

  Presently, the heavy door swung open.

  “Ah, Mistress Seamstress,” the King declared. “I have need of your skills. Do come in.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I curtseyed dutifully, although my heart began to race. I held my sewing kit before me. “What would you like me to repair?”