by L. R. Patton
Sir Greyson, good man that he is, tries not to eat too much or too swift, tries to think of his soldiers, still camping on the castle grounds, roasting fish from the stream beside the castle on fires spread around the palace lawn. They have not been permitted to go home as yet, have not even seen their families until further orders can be given. The king has forbidden their respite. And so it is that Sir Greyson tries to think of his men.
But it has been so long since he has had roast lamb in a rich buttercream sauce like this one that he cannot help reaching for more once his portion has fully and rapidly disappeared. He does not, in fact, have to reach at all. He simply puts his fork down for one moment, and Garth, who is a quite excellent page, fills his plate again. So, you see, it is not entirely his fault that he eats until he is nearly bursting.
“Good man,” the king says, nodding toward Sir Greyson’s plate, filled for the third time.
“Please,” Sir Greyson says. He waves Garth away. “No more.” He will surely burst were he to eat any more.
The king has asked his captain of the guard to supper for the sole purpose of informing him of the decree he intends to send to neighboring kingdoms, ordering them to surrender any fugitives who have come into their lands in the weeks past. He does not seek approval, mind you. He merely seeks a face colored in embarrassment, perhaps, for not having thought up this grand idea in spite of wearing the name Captain of the King’s Guard, tasked with finding all the missing children (though Sir Greyson and his men have already visited the neighboring kingdoms and, as you might recall, came away with no children). King Willis merely seeks praise, for an idea so carefully and perfectly wrought (though he was not the first to consider it). He merely wishes to show his captain how dire this situation has become (though nothing has changed, dear reader).
“Captain,” the king says. He is a man given to warming up a conversation. “Tell me your plans.”
Sir Greyson clears his throat. He considers the meeting before supper, all the words already spoken. Does he have more to say? Perhaps?
“We will begin closer to home,” Sir Greyson says.
“Begin again,” King Willis says. He stares at his man from across the table, his lips pulled up into a smile that resembles a sneer. Do you know what a sneer is, dear reader? It is a most horrid thing, particularly on the face of a king. Particularly on the face of a king such as this one. Particularly when the only light in a room is the candle flickering on the table.
Sir Greyson shivers, tensing his legs as if to run at any moment. And it is true that King Willis looks dangerous, more like an animal than a man in this dim light, with that horrid sneer. The two men are seated at a long table, Sir Greyson near the end, though not all the way, for the ends of tables like these are intended for those in powerful positions. Sir Greyson is not powerful, compared to King Willis. Prince Virgil, on the nights he sups with his father, has taken to sitting at the empty end, directly across from the king, though one might argue that “directly across” is not the same measurement as “ten feet across.” Sir Greyson sits at the prince’s imaginary elbow, for the prince is not supping so late but is, as we have seen, tucked in his bed, with a wooden talisman clutched in his hand.
“Yes, I suppose it would be beginning again,” Sir Greyson says.
“What is that you say, my good man?” King Willis calls from the other end of the table.
Sir Greyson looks at his king. “Yes,” he says, louder this time. “We shall begin again.”
“And I,” the king says. He makes a grand gesture with his arms. The skin pulses against the sleeves of his royal robes. Sir Greyson is momentarily distracted, thinking about the king he first came to know. He was nothing like this large king, this king who has grown fat, for there is no other word for it. How did it happen? When did it happen? Why did it happen? King Willis reaches for yet another piece of bread.
The once smaller king, though never, perhaps, small at all, has been replaced by a king who will soon not fit through the doorways, should his growth continue.
“What do you think of that?” King Willis says. Sir Greyson takes a sharp breath. Has his king been talking all this time?
“I am sorry sir,” Sir Greyson says, deciding to be an honest man about it. “I believe the food has shored up my ears. I did not hear you in your entirety.”
The king stares at him, his mouth open in what must be shock, but then he shakes out a long, bellowing laugh. “Shoring up your ears,” he says, when his laugh has turned to silence. “I did not know my captain of the guard was so funny.” He looks at Sir Greyson, his eyes squinting, his mouth in a line now. “Take care. Your king is speaking.”
Sir Greyson listens to King Willis ramble on and on about a decree and how it will get to the neighboring kingdoms and what he will do to the kingdoms should he discover they are hiding the children of Fairendale within their borders. And when he is finished, he looks expectantly at his captain of the guard.
“Well, sir? What say you?” the king bellows across the table.
Sir Greyson clears his throat. “I do not advise taking action just yet,” Sir Greyson says. “With all due respect, sire.”
“And why not?” King Willis says. “Perhaps they need to hear from a powerful king, rather than his servant men.”
A sliver of anger climbs up Sir Greyson’s throat.
Firstly, Sir Greyson does not consider King Willis a powerful king, for a powerful king, in Sir Greyson’s mind, is a wise one. Secondly, he does not appreciate being called a servant. He is a paid man, of course, but he does not do menial tasks. He does noble tasks. He protects the kingdom. He risks his life. He searches for children.
A sharp pain splits his throat. No. That is not so noble, now, is it?
Still, a servant? He is no servant. But, fortunately, Sir Greyson is an intelligent man and knows better than to argue with his king. At least about something as small as being called a servant.
For something as large as a decree that could very well bring war upon the land, it is another story entirely.
“I must disagree with you, my lord,” Sir Greyson says. “We have traveled to the lands already. I do not think they would appreciate hearing from our king so soon.” Particularly when “hearing from our king” means interpreting veiled threats. Sir Greyson does not say this aloud, however.
“What would you have me do, then?” King Willis says. “I have been counseled otherwise.”
“By whom?” Sir Greyson says, for he did not know that King Willis had counselors at all.
King Willis waves his hand. “That makes no matter,” he says.
The king and Sir Greyson stare at one another for a time. There is no sound at all in the royal dining hall. Even the servants hold their breaths.
“Sire,” Sir Greyson says. “I must beg you to reconsider.”
“What is it I must reconsider?” King Willis says.
“Our relationship with the other kingdoms,” Sir Greyson says.
“We are the fairest kingdom of them all,” King Willis says. “The most powerful.”
And while it is true that Fairendale may once have been the most powerful kingdom, part of the land’s power was found in its children, in its magic flashing about the streets. Its children are gone. It has not much power left. Though there is some power left yet.
Oh, yes.
“Pardon me, your highness,” Sir Greyson says. “I implore you to wait. At least until my men and I have a chance to comb the Weeping Woods again. Until we have searched the village. Until we enlist the mermaids down by the cove, in case any children might have ventured into the Violet Sea.”
King Willis gives a great laugh once more. “Children in the Violet Sea,” he says. “That is quite preposterous.”
Sir Greyson can see that his king is unsure now. “I am certain they are closer to home,” Sir Greyson says. “I am certain that is why my men did not find them. Please permit us to try once more before sending this decree.”
King
Willis nods. “Very well,” he says. “You have one week. If you do not find the children in one week, the decree will fly.”
Sir Greyson will make haste. He does not want war to hit the land. He had heard stories about war. He knows what it can do to men and women. He knows what it can do to children. What it had done to him, though that was not a war against men but one against the elements of a dangerous land.
“We will begin in the forest, at first light,” Sir Greyson says.
“Tonight,” King Willis says.
Sir Greyson does not think he can ask his men to do such a thing, not only for the dangers held within the Weeping Woods but also for the exhaustion his men, at this very moment, feel in their very bones, for Sir Greyson feels it in his own. But he can see the king’s patience is growing short. “Yes, sire,” he says. “As you command.”
“Search under every stone,” King Willis says. “Examine every creature, even the tiny ants. The children have magic on their side. They could be pesky squirrels by now, for all we know. Or raccoons or porcupines.” King Willis reaches for another slice of bread. He takes a large bite before he says, with a muffled sound, “Find them.”
Sir Greyson rises from his seat, trying to erase the sight of bread crumbs spraying from his king’s mouth. He would round up every creature he could find. His men would set traps. They would hide out in the forest, even after the sun’s setting. But they would begin tomorrow, at first light.
His king would never know.
When Sir Greyson reaches the door, he suddenly remembers the bellies of his men. He turns around. The king has finished his bread in record time. Steaming plates of lamb and bread and smoked potatoes cover the long table. The king has more than enough food. Sir Greyson will ask to take some to his men.
“Sire,” Sir Greyson says. The king looks up.
“Yes?” he says. “Why are you still here, Captain?”
“My men,” Sir Greyson says. “They are hungry, sire. Might I take them some food?”
King Willis looks at his captain. Sir Greyson feels his king’s gaze slicing through him, dividing him clean in half so he is not so much a man as he is a trembling child. He would turn and go, but his king holds him in a look that feels unbreakable.
“You,” King Willis says, his voice very like what men have said of the Violet Sea: cold, dark, unmerciful. “Dare to ask me if I will share my food with the common man?”
“I am sorry, You Highness,” Sir Greyson says, and the words come tumbling out, end over end, on their own. “My men are hungry. And we have all traveled so—”
“You dare ask me if I will share my food with the common man?” King Willis roars. It is a chilling roar. The marble floors of the castle nearly shake in its great, wide breath.
“Please, sire,” Sir Greyson says. “Let it be as if I had never asked.”
The king is still bellowing when Sir Greyson turns and flees out the door. He should have stuffed his pockets with bread. At least then he would have something to share. Now he will bid his men good night with a full belly, while they sleep starving.
Perhaps they will find something in the woods on the morrow.
Sir Greyson returns to the castle grounds, where his men have disappeared into their tents for the night. He looks toward the village, where his mother is probably sleeping now. He misses his mother. He has not seen her in so long. Does she live? Surely someone would have gotten word to him if she does not. He hopes that someone else has taken to caring for her in his absence. But who? The people have all but died since the children disappeared.
He is turning away when he notices a light glowing in one of the village windows. Strange. It is late for the villagers to be up. He knows their habit of retiring early, preserving their candles and setting their sleep to the sun. He used to be one of them, after all. But, then, the village has changed since the children left it. It has grown quiet. Sad. A bit mysterious, perhaps.
Sir Greyson looks up at the sky and toward his men and back to the village. He tries not to think about what a light in a village window might possibly mean.
A group of villagers gathers on the other side of the hill where they fetch water from a fountain. There is a hidden passage. There are secrets. There are whispers.
Some of them are parents whose children sleep in the dungeons with one hundred forty-three prophets. Some of them are parents whose children went missing, and they have no knowledge of where they are. Some of them are no longer parents but old grandparents with white hair and papery skin. Some of them were never parents in the first place.
What they all wish to know is what will be done to save the children. For someone must save the children. Fairendale, after all, is not the same without children. It is not warm. It is not dry. It is not light.
And perhaps it is not so important who they are or to whom they belong. What is important is that they all, on this particular night, when a rapping on the door stirred them from their fitful sleep, have risen from their beds and walked up the hill and slipped through the secret door and now stand in a candlelit room, hugging the shadowy corners, for they do not want to know who is here and who is not. What is more important than even this is that they are thinking, talking, planning how they might yet save the children, before it is too late.
AND it is, perhaps, with great delight that the villagers might look inside the walls of the Fairendale castle, deep, deep down in its bowels, for were they to have a way of seeing what happens behind solid stone doors, they might, perhaps, see a boy named Calvin.
Calvin is Cook’s assistant. He is not good for much in the kitchen but cutting vegetables and getting in the way. But the perk of being Cook’s assistant is that he sees the crates of food that settle on counters, to be eaten by the royal family. He knows that these crates hold more than enough food for one family of only three people. So he takes a little every day, feeding his own belly.
And then, when he is tasked with keeping the children in the dungeons beneath the dungeons fed and watered, he began to execute a plan on which he had spent quite some time—taking a little, hiding it away, waiting. His storehouse grows daily. So tonight, when Cook dismisses him with a bit of bread that is not nearly enough for all the ones who share a dungeon, Calvin retreats to his store, which is not quite as large as he would prefer, but is, perhaps, enough. He stuffs apples and bits of bread and carrots and whatever he can fit in the pockets of his breeches, beneath his tunic, inside, even, the floppy hat he wears on his head. He balances the expected tray of food and water and does not consider how he might appear to one walking through the castle this night. Fortunately, there is no one walking through the castle tonight, and so he lights a candle, and he descends the stairs, and he can hear their voices of wonder.
“Is that light I see?” a man’s voice calls.
“Who is there?” says a woman.
He turns the corner. It is he, Calvin. He has brought food and candlelight and enough water for all of them.
“You,” says a woman with what looks like snakes for hair. “You brave boy.”
“For you,” he says. He empties his pockets and his hat and the tunic, placing before them more food than they have seen in all the days and nights spent in this dungeon. The children murmur, but they do not reach for the food.
An old man stares at him, his hair white and wild. “Why, my boy?” he says. “Why did you risk your life like this? To bring us light?”
“No one can live without light,” Calvin says. He has heard this somewhere, back when he was a boy, perhaps, though he does not remember much from that time. He remembers his parents leaving, dying, Cook says, and then he was brought to the castle rather than shipped away to some distant cousin in the kingdom of Ashvale. And lucky for him, for the kingdom of Ashvale was leveled by a red, spitting mountain that soaked the ground with its erupting fire and then cooled into rock. The people burned in their homes when it rained from the sky. And he is here, alive, helping the children.
“What is
your name, boy?” the woman says. Her white teeth glow against her dark face, but it is not a frightening glow so much as it is a comforting one.
“Calvin,” he says.
“I am called Aleen,” the woman says. She moves closer to the prison bars. “Do you know what you have done for us, my boy?”
He has fed them. He has brought them light. Is there more?
“You have brought us light,” she says. “You have given us hope.”
“I will bring more,” Calvin says. “Every night I can.” Every night he could steal away from Cook, every time he could stuff his pockets with extra food. Perhaps he could come up with something larger to carry all his supplies, something a person would not notice. Perhaps a knapsack. He would search the old rooms of the castle, where no one had lived for some time. There might be something. He could sew a stitch or two. Cook had seen to that, when his legs began growing too fast and she had no more time to let out his hems.
“You must be careful,” Aleen says. “Do not risk your life, boy. You are needed.”
Had he not already risked his life? Or very near it. Cook would flay him were she to discover what he had done. He would certainly have to be careful. But what did she mean that he was needed? He had never really been needed in his entire life. Cook made it a habit to remind him of this, that she had never asked for help in her kitchen, that he only made her job harder, that she wished the castle would find another job for him to do.
A child moves to the bars. Her hands wrap around them. She tries to smile, but Calvin can tell she is weak. Her hair hangs in a heavy curtain across her eyes. She brushes it away, but it is as if the strands are permanently stuck there. This is, you see, what weeping in your sleep can do. “Thank you,” she says. Her eyes, the parts of them visible beneath her blanket of hair, shine in the candlelight.
Calvin dips his head and shoves the tray forward.
“Might you hand it to us between the bars, my boy?” Aleen says.
Certainly. He had not thought of that. He dumps the food from the saucer onto the tray, hands Aleen the saucer and then begins to give her each piece of food.
