Never After

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  The ice rumbled beneath their feet. Sally fell forward against the stone tomb. She gripped its dark, cold edge with both hands, and the necklace swung free. Mickel made a small sound, but she could not look at him. The queen commanded every ounce of her attention, as though the roots she had felt in her feet were growing through her neck, up into her eyes—forcing her to stare, unblinking, at that frozen, chiseled face.

  The key, whispered the queen. It has been broken.

  Sally gritted her teeth, sensing on the periphery of her vision the split, jagged remains of the heart swinging from the chain. “Then it is no use to you. Let us go. Let him go and keep me, if you must. But stop this.”

  “Sally,” Mickel said brokenly, but he, too, seemed frozen in spot.

  Another terrible hiss rose from the ice, vibrating beneath her feet. Half is better than none at all. Perhaps I will find enough power to break free. Place it in my crown, witch. Do this, and I will let him go free.

  Sally hesitated. Mickel whispered, “No.”

  A terrible cracking sound filled the air, as though the world was breaking all around them. But it was not the world. Mickel cried out, and Sally watched from the corner of her eye—suffocating with horror—as the ice broke beneath his feet, and he plunged into the dark water.

  Swallowed. His head did not reappear.

  A scream clawed up Sally’s throat, and she gripped the edge of the stone tomb so tightly her nails broke.

  Give me the key and I will save him, whispered the queen in a deadly voice. I will save him.

  “No,” Sally snapped, anger burning through her blood with such purity and heat that she felt blinded with it. Her hands released the stone. Her feet moved. Her head turned, and then her body. She could move again.

  Sally jumped into the icy water.

  It was dark beneath the ice. Pressure gathered instantly against her lungs, immense and terrible, but she did not swim back to the hole of light above her head. She kicked her legs, fighting the painful cold, and searched the drowning void for Mickel. Desperation filled her, and despair; there was nothing of him. He was gone.

  Until, quite suddenly, a ghost of light glimmered beneath her. Just a gasp, perhaps a trick. But Sally dove, feet kicking off the ice above her, and swam with all her strength toward that spot where she had seen the light. Her lungs burned. Her eyes felt as though they were popping from her skull. She was going to do this and die, but that would be another kind of freedom, and no doubt better than what the queen had in store for her.

  She saw the light again, just in front of her, and then her hands closed around cloth, and she pulled Mickel tight against her body. He moved against her, his hands weakly gripping her waist—which surprised her—though not nearly as much as the light that glowed from a pendant that floated free from a chain around his neck.

  A teardrop jewel, like her own—which she realized was also glowing. She stared, stunned, discovering the jagged half of a heart that was linked to his pendant.

  She tore her gaze away to stare at Mickel’s face, and found him ghastly. Alive, though, barely. More lights danced in her vision, but that was death, suffocation. Sally kicked upward, and after a moment, Mickel joined her. His movements were awkward, almost as if his strength and grace had been sapped away even before plunging into the water and losing air. The queen had her hold on him.

  The light in the ice was very far away, but the light around their necks, much closer. Sally heard voices whispering deep in the darkness, almost as if the water was speaking, or the palace that had drowned and whose last spire entombed the queen. Visions flickered, and Sally saw her mother’s face, soft with youth, and another at her side—two girls, little enough for dolls, holding hands and standing on the ice. Red hair blazing. Jaws set with stubbornness, though their eyes were frightened.

  She is strong in her tangled palace, even in dreams, murmured a soft voice, but this is also where she fell, and where her greatest weakness lies. She was bound by a crown made from her own flesh, bound in the blood of those who captured her.

  She cannot touch you, said another voice, sweeter than the other. She cannot touch either of you, if you do not bend. Your blood makes you safe to all but the fear and lies that she puts into your heart. What flows through your blood made her crown.

  Choose, whispered yet another. Choose what you want, and not even she can deny you.

  I want to live, Sally thought with all her strength, as darkness fluttered through her mind, and her body burned for lack of air. I want him to live.

  Light surrounded her then. Cold air, which felt so foreign that Sally almost forgot to breathe. But her jaw unlocked, and she gasped with a burning need that filled her lungs with fire. She dragged Mickel up through the hole in the ice, and he sucked down a deep breath, coughing so violently she thought he might die just from choking on air, rather than water. His skin was blue. So was hers.

  Somehow, though, they dragged themselves from the water onto the ice, and when they were free, collapsed against each other, chests heaving, limp with exhaustion. Cold seeped into her bones, so profound and deadly she was almost beyond shivering.

  “Sally,” Mickel breathed.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “We have to move.” But neither did, and all around them the ice shook, vibrating as though a giant hand was pounding the surface in rage.

  Free me, snapped the queen, and I will give you anything. Deny me and I will kill you.

  “No,” Sally murmured, her eyes fluttering shut.

  “We’ll be going now.”

  A howl split the air, a heartrending cry jagged as a broken razor. Sally closed her eyes, pouring all of her remaining strength into holding Mickel’s hand. His fingers closed around her wrist as well, tight and close as her own skin. A rumble filled the air.

  And suddenly they were moving. Rolled and rippled, and shrugged along the ice, until rocks bit through their clothing, and their bodies were lifted into the air. Sally tried to hold fast to Mickel’s hand as they were carried through the wood, flung hard and thrown to sharp hands that pinched her body and dragged claws against her skin. She heard voices in her head, screams, and then something quieter, softer, feminine: her mother, or a voice close enough to be the same, whispering.

  Her bonds are renewed as though she is winter lost to spring. You have bound her again. You have raised the borders that had begun to fall.

  She was already bound, Sally told that voice. Nothing had fallen.

  Nothing yet, came the ominous reply. Her strength is limited only by belief.

  But Sally had no chance to question those strange words. She heard nothing more after that. Nor could she see Mickel, though she caught glimpses of those who touched her—golden, raging eyes and silver faces—and felt the heat and deep hiss of many mouths breathing. Mickel’s hand was hard and hot around her own, but Sally was dying—she thought she must be dying—and her strength bled away like the air had in her lungs, beneath the crushing weight of water. Her heart beat more slowly, as though her blood was heavy as honey, and warm inside her veins, full of distant fading light.

  Mickel’s hand slipped away. She lost him. Imagined his broken gasp and shout, felt her own rise up her throat, but it was too late. He disappeared from her into the heaving shadows, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not see him.

  And then, nothing. Sally landed hard on her back within tall grass, and remained in that spot. Small voices wept nearby, and another said: You found your answer, I think.

  But the souls, the children, thought Sally. Mickel. Rest, whispered the little girl. Someone is coming for you.

  “Mickel,” breathed Sally, needing to hear his name.

  But she heard bells in the night, and hooves thundering; and she could not move or raise her voice to call out. Nothing in her worked. Her heart hurt worse than her body, and made everything dull.

  Sally tried to open her eyes and glimpsed stars. A shout filled the air. Warmth touched her skin. Strong hands.

&nbs
p; “Salinda,” whispered a familiar voice, broken and hushed. “My dear girl.”

  Her father gathered her up. Sally, unable to protest, fell into darkness.

  * * *

  She came back to life in fits and gasps, but when her eyes were closed she did not dream of tangled forests and queens, but of men with dark eyes and fierce grins, who juggled fire and stone, and riddles. She grieved when she dreamed, and her eyes burned when she awakened, briefly, but there was nothing to do but rest under heavy covers, and recover. She was suffering from cold poisoning, said her father’s physician—something the old man could not reconcile, as it was spring, and the waters had melted months ago.

  But it was cold, he said, that had damaged her, and the prescription was heat. Hot water, hot bricks, hot soup poured down her throat, along with hot spirits. Sally grew so hot she broke into a sweat, but that did not stop the shivers that racked her, or the ache in her chest when she breathed.

  A cough took her, which made the old king flinch every time he heard it, and would cause him to roar for the physician and the maids, and anyone else who cared to listen, including the birds and stars, and the moon. He did not leave her side, not much, but once after a brief absence she heard him whisper to Sabius, “Not one person can explain it. Mercenaries were crawling past the border only days ago, but now not a sign of them. Some of the locals say they found swords and horses near the Tangleroot.”

  “Pardon me saying so, sire, but it used to be that way when your queen still lived. It seemed that nothing wicked could touch this kingdom.”

  But her father only grunted, and Sally glimpsed from beneath her lashes his thoughtful glance in her direction.

  She received preoccupied looks from the gardener, as well, who would slip into the king’s chair while he was away, and hold Sally’s hand in her dry, leathery grip.

  “You knew,” Sally whispered, when she could finally speak without coughing. “You knew what would happen.”

  “I knew a little,” confessed the old woman. “Your mother told me some. She said… she said if anything ever happened to her, that I was to point you in the right direction, when it was time. That I would know it. That it would be necessary for you; necessary for the kingdom.”

  She leaned close, silver braids brushing against the bedcovers. “I had red hair once, too, you know. Many who live along the Tangleroot do. It is our legacy. And for some, there is more.”

  More. Warmth crept into Sally’s heart, a different heat than soup or hot bricks, or the fire burning near her bed. There was honey in her slow-moving blood, or sap, or lava rich from a burning plain; felt in brief moments since her rejection from the Tangleroot, as though something fundamental had changed within her.

  “Tell me what you mean,” Sally said, though she already knew the truth.

  The gardener held her gaze. “Magic. Something your mother possessed in greater strength than anyone believed.”

  Sally looked away, remembering her vision of two little girls facing the queen of the Tangleroot. Seeing herself, for a moment, in that same place—but holding hands with a strong young man.

  Some days later, Sally was declared fit enough to walk, though the king refused to hear of it. He had a chair fashioned, and made his men carry the princess to her favorite oak by the pond, where she was placed gently upon some blankets that had been arranged neatly for her. Wine and pastries were in a basket, along with pillows that the gardener stuffed behind her back. It was a warm afternoon, and the frogs were singing. Sally asked to be left alone.

  And when finally, after an interminable time, everyone did leave her—she tapped the oak on its root. “I know you’re in there.”

  There was no wind, but the leaves seemed to shiver. Sally felt a pulse between her hand and the root. Soft fingers grazed her brow. She closed her eyes.

  “What happened in that place?” Sally whispered. “What happened, really?”

  I think you know.

  She could still feel those hands on her body, carrying her from the forest. “Her strength is limited only by belief.”

  You wear a key, whispered the little girl. Or so the queen believes. But there is no such thing. No key. Just lies. What binds the queen is only in her mind, and the greatest trick of all. The witches who bound her used magic… but only enough to convince her that she had been caught. The queen gave up.

  Sally opened her eyes, but saw only green leaves and the dark water of the pond. When the frogs sang, however, she imagined words in their voices, words she almost understood. “You mean that she could be free if she wanted to be?”

  If she believed that she was. When she is denied her freedom, as you denied her, she gives up again. And so binds herself tighter to the lie. There is a duty to confront the queen, once a generation. To strengthen the bonds that hold her. You fulfilled that duty as the women of your line must.

  “What of them?” Sally whispered. “Those souls imprisoned in the Tangleroot?”

  Time answers all things, said the little girl. They are tragic creatures, as are all who become imprisoned in the palace of the queen. But nothing lasts. Not even the queen. One day, perhaps a day I will see—though surely you will not—she will fall. But the Tangleroot will outlast her. She has dreamed too well. Magic has bled into the bones of that forest, into the earth it grows from. Magic that is almost beyond her.

  But not beyond you, she added. You are your mother’s daughter. You are a daughter of the Tangleroot.

  Sally stared down at her hands. “Did my mother know you?”

  But the little girl who was the soul of the oak did not answer. Nearby, though, Sally heard a shout. Her father. Sounding frantic and angry. She tried to sit up, concerned for him, and saw the old man limping quickly down the path to the pond. She heard low cries of outrage behind him—gasps from the maids, and more low shouts.

  Her father’s face was pale and grim. “Salinda, I am sorry. I have been a fool, and I pray you will forgive me. When you left, when I almost lost you, I realized… oh, God.” He stopped, his expression utterly tragic, even heartbreaking. “I will do everything… everything in my power to keep you safe from that man. I should not have agreed to such a foolish thing, but I was desperate; I was—”

  Sally held up her hand, swallowing hard. “The Warlord’s envoy is here?”

  “The Warlord himself,” hissed the old king, rubbing his face. “I looked into his eyes and could not imagine what I was thinking. But your mother… your mother before she died spoke so fondly of her friend and her son, and I thought… I was certain all would be right. It was her idea that the two of you should meet one day. Her idea. She could not have known what he would become.”

  Sally held herself very still. “I would like to meet him.”

  “Salinda—”

  “Please,” she said. “Alone, if you would.”

  Her father stared at her as though she had lost her mind—and perhaps she had—but she heard footsteps along the stone path, and her vision blurred around a man wrapped in darkness, flanked by a giant and a bear. Sally covered her mouth.

  The old king stepped in front of the Warlord and held out his hand. “Now, you listen—”

  “Father,” Sally interrupted firmly. “Let him pass. I’m sure you don’t want to test those homicidal tendencies that the man is known for. What is he called again? Warlord of Death’s Door? Or maybe that was Death’s Donkey.”

  “Close enough,” rumbled the Warlord, a glint in his eye as the old king turned to give his daughter a sharp, startled look. “Your majesty, I believe I have an appointment with young Salinda. I will not be denied.”

  “You,” began the king, and then glanced at Sally’s face and closed his mouth. Suspicion flickered in his gaze, and he gave the Warlord a sharp look. “If you hurt her, I will kill you. No matter your reputation.”

  “I assure you,” replied the Warlord calmly, “my reputation is not nearly as fierce as a father’s rage.”

  The old king blinked. “Well, then.�
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  “Yes,” said the Warlord.

  “Father,” replied Sally, twitching. “Please.”

  She felt sorry for him. He looked so baffled. He had tried to marry her off to the man, and now he wanted to save her. Except, Sally no longer wanted to be saved. Or rather, she was certain she could save herself, quite well on her own.

  The old king limped away, escorted by the bear and giant, both of whom waved cheerily and blew kisses once his back was turned. Sally waved back, but halfheartedly. Her attention was on the man in front of her, who dropped to his knees the moment they were gone, and laid his large strong hand upon her ankle.

  “Sally,” he said.

  “Mickel,” she replied, unable to hide the smile that was burning through her throat and eyes. “I thought you might be dead.”

  He laughed, but his own eyes were suddenly too bright, and he folded himself down to press his lips, and then the side of his face, upon her hand. A shudder raced through him, and she leaned over as well, kissing his cheek, his hair, his ear; spilling a tear or two before she wiped at her eyes.

  “You’re not surprised,” he said.

  “The pendant.” Sally fingered the chain around his neck with a great deal of tenderness and wonderment. “I had time to think about it, though I wasn’t sure until I saw you just now. I couldn’t believe. Why? Why the illusions?”

  He rolled over with a sigh, resting his head in her lap. “When people hear there is a warlord passing through, they tend to get rather defensive. Pitchforks, cannons, poison in the ale—”

  “They hide their daughters.”

  He smiled, reaching up to brush his thumb over her mouth. “That, too. But you find the most interesting people when you’re a nobody.”

  Sally kissed his thumb. “And the names? The reputation?”

  Mickel closed his eyes. “My people are decent fighters. Really very good. You couldn’t find better archers or horsemen anywhere. But that doesn’t mean we want to fight, or should have to. So we lie when we can. Dress men and women in rabbit’s blood and torn clothes, rub soot in their faces, and then send them off into the night blubbering senselessly about this magnificent warlord who rode in on a fire-breathing black steed and set about ravaging, pillaging, murdering, and so forth, until everyone is so worked up and piddling themselves that all it takes to win the battle is the distant beating of some drums, and the bloodcurdling cries of my barbarian horde.”