Seize the Crown

by Gemma Perfect

  “I’m so sorry, darling.”

  Everleigh holds her arms out and Addyson sits on her lap, cuddling in close.

  They sit giving each other strength and support while they wait for Ginata.

  “I will always look after you. I will always do everything within my power to keep you safe. I hate that you hurt. I hate your curse.”

  “I hate my curse too. But I love you and I know I’m safe with you.”

  They have never really talked about Addyson’s curse. What was there to say? The same as Everleigh’s role was Kingmaker, Addyson had always been the cursed princess. Since their poor mother died giving birth to her, the Realm, her brothers and the King most of all, have been unable to forgive her or look past it. She is cursed and that gave them all the excuse they needed to abandon her. They were always there, but they never loved her or cared for her; never showed her genuine affection or consideration. She was just someone to put up with.

  “Will people ever see past it? My curse?”

  “I do. Others will. Ginata doesn’t seem to care. Nor Will. Nor Lanorie.”

  Addyson doesn’t reply, just cuddles in closer.

  Everleigh watches the flames; she can think of so many reasons to kill her brother but none to keep him alive.

  Ceryn

  SO, IT’S DECIDED. I knew it would be. I can’t say any one of us is in charge, but Weaver is happier to go with the flow, than either me or Archer. Weaver’s a thinker, I’m a doer. Archer probably sits between us.

  Both of our rabbits are gone, bones sucked dry, dogs munching on what’s left. The skins are drying outside, on a line, and no doubt Weaver will use them for something. We don’t waste much; don’t have enough to waste.

  I have packed up a bag, with some flasks of water, a blanket; I have my bow and arrow, a dagger in my boot. My mask is tied on and I’m ready to go.

  Weaver has gone to gather his stuff and we’ll meet back here before heading to the castle. He reckons a few days; I reckon we can do it faster. If we don’t hit trouble and ride through tonight, I reckon we’ll get there tomorrow. It’ll be late, but we’ll make it.

  Halfreda will look after us, we’ll probably sleep wherever Archer is and come home with him the next day.

  I head out to my horse, Pitch – she’s as black as Archer’s, but his horse is called Ink. I scratch her behind her ear and ask her to ride us safely to Archer. She whinnies like she knows what I’m saying, maybe she does, and I pat her softly, singing to her, cooing to her. I like her best out of anyone in the world. Maybe I like Weaver and Archer just as much, probably a bit less. I don’t like many people. Many people don’t like me.

  Weaver trots up on his horse, his bag strapped over his back, a smile on his face. Life is good for Weaver. Even the King’s men, who hate us, like Weaver.

  “Ready?” He asks the question, though he can see the answer.

  “Absolutely.”

  “We may have news of the new King further along the road.”

  “True.”

  We don’t get to hear much of what goes on at the castle, nor do we care to hear it. The King’s men cause us enough trouble in the little villages they torment, we don’t care to hear of their jousts and plays and feasts.

  Riding along together, I can feel Archer’s absence keenly, and I know I am right to worry.

  We hit our first bit of trouble just ten minutes from my cottage and it angers me. Trouble will only slow us down and I want to be quick.

  The scene is all too familiar: since the King’s men love to lord it over the villagers, the villagers like to get their own back in small, anonymous but irritating ways. They cause a little bit of aggravation and there’s no way of knowing who did it, so the King’s men are angry but impotent and the villagers enjoy a moment of quiet victory.

  Today, they have tied all the horse’s legs together; cruel to the horses, but the villagers don’t care, when the King’s men are so cruel to them.

  The King’s men have obviously finished their business and gone to ride away, the horses have fallen in a heap of tied together limbs and the King’s men are roaring in fury, embarrassment and pain last of all.

  We slow to a stop next to the jumble of men and horses, both trying not to laugh.

  “It’s not bloody funny.” Brett, one we’ve had several run-ins with shouts as he staggers to his feet. He pulls a dagger from his boot, though it obviously pains him – both hands are bandaged tightly – and starts cutting the ropes away.

  The villagers have come to observe the fun, forming a circle around the scene. The children are laughing and pointing, the adults acting only slightly more grown up.

  One little boy throws an egg, before ducking out of the way.

  The yolk runs down one of the King’s men’s faces and he howls out a threat. An empty one, we all know, but the anger is mounting.

  “Leave us alone, you bunch of bullies,” someone shouts, and again, you couldn’t tell the culprit; they all look alike, sound alike, are as angry as the next.

  We grin at each other, we’re used to this and hoping that it will fizzle out, as most of the troubles do, when a stone lands at Brett’s feet. He jumps back, looking around for whoever did it.

  Another one is thrown, and even from up high on my mount I can’t see who did it, but it lands with more accuracy, hitting another one of the King’s men on the knee. Brett jumps up, brandishing his dagger.

  Weaver hops down from his horse and calls for the crowd to move back; most of them listen; they like us because they know we aim to help them. Sometimes a fight isn’t what’s needed; sometimes words work and there’s no point causing trouble for the sake of it, and I love a good fight.

  “Back off, back off,” Weaver calls out, and again the crowd move back. Brett cuts the rest of the ropes and the men help the horses to their feet. None of the horses nor the men are injured; the men are just annoyed, but they mount up quickly. Probably wanting to leave before anything else is thrown at them.

  As I turn to watch Weaver jump back on his horse, I see a flash of movement and, thwack, another stone is thrown, more of a rock, and it cracks down on Brett’s horse, right in its eye. The horse neighs in pain and drops to the floor. Brett is thrown off again, and this time his fury is palpable. A bit of me doesn’t blame him.

  Weaver rides his horse at the crowd, which is thinning, and people seem happy to back off. Looking around, they seem as upset as Brett is, no one likes the King’s men: there’s a definite feel of ‘us versus them’, but ultimately, they are just doing their job. Things don’t usually escalate like this, and not many of the villagers would hurt one of the horses; they aren’t at fault at all.

  “Who did it?” I shout out, angry, and upset.

  I know it was an accident to hurt the horse, but whoever threw the rock was stupid enough not to be sure of a true aim before they attacked.

  No one answers me but I knew they wouldn’t. A joke or a prank against the King’s men is one thing, but it’s stupid to try to start a fight. They are all armed, they are all trained in fighting and some of them are pretty nasty, just looking for something to rally against.

  This is the last thing we need.

  Maeve, one of the nicest villagers, hands up in surrender, moves to the horse. It’s probably been blinded in the one eye, and is jumpy. Maeve coos to it and smooths along its nose. Her daughter brings her some water, cloths, ointment.

  Brett nods at her and she starts to work on the horse, trying to patch it up so it will have a more comfortable ride back to the castle, or whatever inn the men are staying at.

  “Can we leave things peaceful here?” Weaver asks him, as I watch Maeve at work; the horse is calm and accepting her tending to him.

  Brett nods but he’s angry. “Only because we didn’t see who did it and no doubt they’re too cowardly to own up.”

  I agree with him again, and it worries me. I don’t have much in common with the King’s men.

  “Any news from the castle?” I
ask, patting his horse. “Which prince was crowned?”

  I know the princes from their travels, they like to visit the villagers, mingle with the common folk, not that I’ve ever sat and dined with them. Nothing like that. “Did the Kingmaker cry when her throat was cut?” The Kingmaker I never met; she had no reason to travel to our village and I had no reason to travel to her castle. Unlike Archer.

  “The Kingmaker is alive,” Brett says, pushing his dagger back into his boot. “One of the princes killed his brother and so we have a new King.”

  “Really?” Weaver looks surprised but only because he can’t imagine anyone looking for trouble like that. Despite what us three get up to, Weaver is the most placid person I know.

  “The new King is Millard.”

  I shrug, as does Weaver. Which one of the cosseted princes has a bigger crown on his head now isn’t really a concern to us. Whoever is in charge will tax the poor and look after his own. We will still have to battle the King’s men, who cause so much trouble for us, whoever wears the crown.

  We are back on our horses and ready to ride off. “We are headed to the castle, looking for a friend of ours.”

  “Good luck,” Brett says, grinning. “There’s even more people there than there was for the feast. Everyone wants to meet the mad King.”

  Again, who is or is not King doesn’t matter to me, nor how mad he might be. We just need to get moving and moving quick.

  The crowd has completely cleared and so with a nod to the men we head to the castle, hoping the way ahead is clear.

  6

  GINATA COMES BACK INTO her little cottage with a woman in tow, she is older than Ginata, but not old enough to be her mother. She is as fair haired as Ginata is dark haired, and has a kindly face, and soft eyes.

  “This is Della, Della this is Everleigh, and her sister, the princess Addyson.

  Della bows to them both in turn and then takes Addyson’s hands. “You must have been so scared. You too, my Queen, but you more, little lamb.”

  Everleigh smiles. She loves this woman already. No one ever pays more attention to Addyson than to her. No one ever touches Addyson unless they have to. No one has ever spoken so kindly to her, who wasn’t related to her or paid to.

  “Ginny’s told me everything, I hope you don’t mind me knowing, Queen, but I will do everything I can. I will look after you both until whatever happens next.”

  “Thank you.” Everleigh sits down, watching Della chat to Addyson in front of the fire, touching her plaited hair, laughing at something she says and for the first time since Archer’s death, she feels a sort of peace settle over her.

  There is plenty to be done, but for a moment she closes her eyes. She is safe. Will is safe. Ginata is safe. Addyson is safe. Lanorie is the only one she has a slight fear for, and yet, she thinks it’s unlikely Millard will get to her before she does and so she smiles.

  It’s been an awful day, but by the time the sun comes up tomorrow she will have done it. She will not risk anyone else’s life; she will go to the castle alone, once Addyson is sleeping and she will kill Millard. Before he does any more damage, and more importantly, before he finds Lanorie or Addyson or her.

  She tunes out of the quiet conversation around her, slipping into a dream, then a word or a laugh wakes her up, before she drifts off again. In this world between waking and sleeping she is calm, can pretend that all the horrible things that happened this week, didn’t.

  Would it have been easier for everyone had she been sacrificed as any other Kingmaker? Definitely. Her father would still be dead, though, and Millard would still have killed Macsen to become King and so not everything would be better. But she wouldn’t be here to feel the pain, that would be better, but then who would protect Addyson? No one else but her.

  There are always reasons to want a different outcome to what there is and yet she is glad to be alive. Addyson’s laugh nudges her away from sleep and her smile widens. Della will be wonderful for Addyson. Everleigh thinks she could ask her to move into the castle when she is Queen. Addyson needs people in her life that aren’t frightened of, or repulsed by, her curse. Della is obviously neither.

  They are talking a little louder now, all feeling safe and more relaxed, away from the castle, away from Millard, away from the death of the day.

  Della is talking, her voice is low and lilting, musical, almost, to listen to. Ginata didn’t mention any husband or children for her, only a brother, but she would make a good mother, bedtime stories would be heaven with her soft, sweet voice.

  Everleigh tunes in and out, her body sinking so deep into the chair, she doubts she could move if Millard ran into the cottage brandishing his sword. Her limbs are liquid, and she feels happy for the first time since she opened her presents that morning. Is it still her birthday? That doesn’t even make sense.

  Archer died on her birthday. How would she ever enjoy another year’s passing again?

  She opens her eyes. “Ginata, I’ve just remembered the stupidest thing.”

  “What?”

  “It’s still my birthday.” Suddenly Everleigh is both crying and laughing, smiling and sobbing, as both Addyson and Ginata hug her, both laughing and crying with her.

  “I’ll be glad when it’s over. Your birthday,” Addyson says, wiping at her tears. “By your next birthday things will be better.”

  “I was supposed to die today,” Everleigh says, regaining some composure. “Instead my brother, Halfreda and my beloved Archer died. How will I get over it?” As she asks the question, she answers it in her own head, by killing the man who did it.

  Della stands up, straightening her shawl. “I’ll go and fetch some food from mine. Sorry again that Finn isn’t here to greet you. He’s out and about all the time and I don’t know half of what he gets up to. He’s only a year older than you, Queen, so quite a bit younger than me, and he tells me I nag him like a mother, but then I’ll be doing the same to you two within a day, so I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Everleigh laughs. “Thank you, Della. You don’t know what it means to me, to us, to have somewhere safe to lay our heads, and someone speaking so kindly to us.”

  Della nods and leaves the cottage. Ginata smiles at them both. “Isn’t she lovely?”

  They both nod, and Addyson sits by the fire. “I don’t feel so scared with her next door.”

  “Do you want her to sleep in here with you both tonight? She wouldn’t mind, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, please.” Everleigh had been worried about leaving Addyson sleeping alone while she ventured to the castle.

  “I’ll ask her when she comes back in.”

  Della comes back and insists she is happy to sleep in the cottage with them. She has food and ale but Ginata declines. “I need to get back to the castle. There is to be a feast and I dare not miss it. I have to keep on your brother’s good side. The sleeping draughts are on the table. If you need them, take them a half hour before you want to sleep, just a few drops – any more will knock you out.”

  Everleigh and Addyson both nod. Everleigh will make Addyson take it and pretend to take it herself.

  After Ginata leaves, the three of them sit and, once again, a wave of peace settles over Everleigh. This is a safe place; Addyson will be safe while she kills Millard.

  Della takes the lead, entertaining them with stories of hapless villagers who knock on her door by mistake looking for anything from a love potion to rat poison. Both girls are enjoying the feeling of safety, the warmth of the fire. Addyson’s eyes are starting to droop. “Take this.” Everleigh opens the vial and squeezes three drops onto her tongue. It will ensure she sleeps soundly through the night and doesn’t wake up to find Everleigh missing.

  “I may slip out for fresh air in the night,” she says quietly to Della, not wanting Addyson to hear.

  “Do not venture far, Queen. I have sworn to keep you safe.”

  “I know. And I thank you for it. And when I can reward you for it, I promise I will.”

  Lanor
ie

  SO THERE’S NOT MANY times in my life that I wish I hadn’t done something that I had. When I told Everleigh’s secret, that was one time, there was a time I pinched a bit of cake off Cook, and she rapped my knuckles so hard, it wasn’t worth it.

  And now.

  Sitting in the tower.

  By myself.

  Alone.

  Cold.

  Hungry.

  When I think about Everleigh, and I think how pleased she must be with me, then I feel a little bit better. A little bit proud of myself, like people would be surprised by me. Impressed with me.

  Then I hear the guard outside coughing or spitting on the floor and I’m crying again, thinking that no good feeling is worth the trouble I’m in.

  What Everleigh or anyone else might be thinking about me, means nothing, really, because in here by myself I can only pretend what they might be thinking or saying and it’s nothing compared to what I can see and what I feel.

  The real thing is the cold, bare room. The cold, hard bed, with one threadbare blanket, the cold, tasteless food. Only cold because of the trek from the kitchen to the tower, and only tasteless because I feel so sick, I could be sucking sugar off my fingers and it would be tasteless.

  The little maid who brought me food, a little supper, because Cook felt sorry for Addyson, nearly died when she saw me, and I swore her to secrecy. Let’s hope she’s better at secrets than I am or what’ll become of me?

  Well, I know what will become of me. If Millard finds out about me.

  I have seen the madness in Millard’s eyes. For every bit of handsome he’s got; something’s gone wrong inside him.

  Cook gave me the most beautiful little cake once, it was a honey cake, with frosting on top, and a load of chopped nuts just sprinkled over it. I bit in to it and tasted something wrong with my tongue. When I looked, I fainted dead, and after I woke up, poor Cook was most upset. There was a maggot inside it. Well, it wasn’t Cook’s fault, so I wasn’t cross with her. Long time till I ate another cake, though, I can tell you.