“Aye, Captain, this be my daughter,” Father finally confirmed.
“I’m no captain,” the soldier snapped, after which he promptly spun around and called out, “Captain, it’s the one!”
The captain, whom Father should have known from the gold bars along his shoulders and the obviously higher quality of his uniform, horse, and bearing, slid from his saddle and approached the door. He walked deliberately, his polished navy boots thumping purposely against the ground in tempo with the exaggerated slowness of my heartbeat.
Even with an almost mage for a best friend, even having spent time as a bird, even knowing that none of Father’s stories were true—though now supposing they could be from the way my life was unraveling before me—even with all these things, my mind denied the reality of what was playing out on the little space before the cottage.
Father’s lie, more an embellishment to raise me in the eyes of the nobleman, had yielded this. Which of us could have fathomed the day when Father’s words, always flung about so carelessly, would actually prove powerful? When had either of us ever thought twice about the words he’d filled our lives with? Time froze. There was no breath in the air, no movement in the world but the ever-nearing captain’s steps. Then, he was standing at the threshold, filling the frame with his status as much as his stature.
I recovered first. “Something to drink, good sir?” I asked sweetly, hoping good manners would somehow count favorably for me.
They wouldn’t.
“Outside, miss,” he commanded gruffly.
Father barely stepped aside enough to make space for me to pass him, and it was only that lack of movement that let me know how terrified he was for me. Were I a more malicious person, I would have gained some satisfaction from that brief moment it took me to slip outside while Father finally realized what his lies had wrought.
But I am not a malicious person.
Besides, then, I really was still Merlin’s Millie, and his Millie was incapable of such things, even if she was happy to dance and flirt. Little did I know, but from that moment on, the days of being that girl were swiftly rolling to an end and then I would never be his Millie again. Another man, another name awaited me.
I stood with my back straight, my chin high as the captain assessed me. Finally, he grunted something that meant nothing to us but communicated something to the man beside him.
“Either way, the king will see her,” the soldier who’d knocked replied.
The captain gave some instruction in another grunt, then spun on his heels and strode back to his horse, catching the stirrup and sitting astride it without breaking step.
The soldier turned back to us and clicked his heels together to stand at attention for what came next. “His Royal Majesty, King Rudolph Reginald Rupert Rainn of Farthington, invites the miller’s daughter to the grand capital of Raedryn to demonstrate her unique talent to His Royal Majesty.” The soldier paused, long enough to let us know that the next part had not been dictated by the king. “Failure to accept will not be well looked upon. Acceptance and success will surely be well rewarded.”
With his little speech done, he turned smartly and strode to his waiting horse. Before he could leap up, I called after him, “How much time, good soldier?”
The soldier stopped and spun back toward me. A sardonic grin cut across his face. “However long you’re willing to risk making the king wait,” he replied frankly. He loosely held his horse’s reins and gazed at me to indicate that their party was ready and I was all that was holding them up.
Numbly, I turned back into the cottage, standing stoically just inside the door as I contemplated what to do.
Firstly, I could make a run for the forest, lose my scent in the river, and hope I wouldn’t be worth the trouble of chasing down.
But what would happen to Father?
Also, I could somehow get a message to Merlin, have him turn us back into birds, and we could fly away from here forever.
But what would they do to Father if we did?
Additionally, I could reveal that they had heard right but Father had spoken wrong, that they were here chasing a lie that was only one drop in a sea full of them.
But what of Father then?
Lastly, I could go with them, praying all the while for a miracle, praying that perhaps the king would have mercy on a blundering old fool and his innocent daughter. Maybe this was all just a hoax anyway.
Of course, I chose the latter, and as it turned out, I needn’t have been worried about Father. That choice benefitted him most of all.
Standing there, my decision made, I realized how foolish it was to think that I could pack a bag of things that would have any place in a king’s palace. If that’s where we were really going. If I ended up in a dungeon, a bag of trinkets would do me even less good down there.
So, instead of packing, I changed into my shamrock-green gingham dress, hoping the bold print would make me look younger and more innocent. I made sure my room was straightened, then allowed my fingers to quickly trail across the familiar bumps and curves of the cottage, saying goodbye to it as if for the last time.
In the end, I would go back there only once more before I said goodbye to it for good. It wouldn’t be long anyway until Father had neither need nor strength to work there anymore, and as irony would have it, a firstborn son would buy it off him to increase his personal holdings.
As the saying goes, man plans and Heaven laughs, uproariously sometimes.
Passing through the kitchen, I stopped suddenly, and only realized that Father was right behind me because he stopped too late to keep from kicking against my heels. Somewhere in the less numb recesses of my mind, I heard him talking, but it was his talking that had done this to me, so I didn’t bother to listen. Even so, enough filtered in for me to recognize words of apology, words of regret, misplaced words of hope. I wondered if I should give any more credence to the supposed sincerity of those words over the ones I usually ignored because he so carelessly flung them about.
I paused to take the one thing I really wanted to have with me, be my final destination palace or dungeon; Merlin’s magical purple anemone, still blooming as vibrantly as the day it sprouted from a single drop of water.
I turned back to Father at the door, not allowing myself to acknowledge the tears pooling in his eyes. What right did he have to tears? Hadn’t he brought this upon us with his negligence? No, brought this upon me.
“Please tell Merlin,” I instructed, sparing him few words. Then I leaned over and planted an insincere kiss on his cheek. “Goodbye.”
I turned away from him before he could respond, before he could pull me into his arms and cry his fears away. It wouldn’t do for the soldiers to see us carrying on like so or they would doubt the validity of my false talents.
“Allow me to assist you, miss,” the soldier from the door said politely, one knee already bending, one hand already searching for my sole so it could give me a boost onto a spare horse.
He hefted me up and made sure I was settled in. I’d been on a horse very few times before, so I was not comfortable riding on one now. Perhaps I would fall off and die before having to face the king, who would certainly kill me anyway when the lie was found out.
“Name’s Kirkin,” the soldier told me. “Holler it if you need anything.”
He crooked an eyebrow at my plant, to which I simply informed him, “It needs care.”
That was my first lie.
Looking at it from my bird’s eye view of the future, the whole scene was rather curious. Who would think that a miller’s lie could spread long enough and far enough to reach the ear of the king? Who would think that a king could care enough to tug at the lines of his power until the words led him back to their source?
Certainly not I. Even if I was the one to suffer and gain the most from it.
That three day ride to the palace across more of Farthington’s landscape than I had ever seen before marked the beginning of something unstoppable. As we
rode, we crossed a bridge much like the log over the river that would take me from one life to another, from one name to the next, from one lie in a chain to the new link already forming.
I had left my house “Daughter” and “Millie,” but along the way became “The Miller’s Daughter Who Could Spin Straw into Gold.” Who knew that by the time this journey would be over I would be graced with a name far more enviable than those? Who would think then that I would one day be called “Queen?”
Not I. Not in the heart that feared each beat would be its last.
The First Test
Despite how unbelievable my situation, I was still able to appreciate the palace and gape in awe at its grandeur once it came into view. I had spent most of the ride clutching my purple anemone and vainly searching the treetops, desperate for a single peek of a purple-backed starling. Yet from the moment the highest turrets were visible, my mind turned from the terror of what could be and immediately numbed trying to encompass everything that was.
The villages along the road to the palace had seemed pleasant enough, but they were only villages, after all. There was only so much that could differentiate one small place from another; this one had two blacksmiths, this one only one, this had two bakers, this had a carpenter’s shop. Then, at all once, we burst out of the mundanity indicative of what I’d always known, and there was the palace before us.
Even our little village had heard rumors of the magnificent home the king had finished building for himself over a year ago, standing on its own estate outside the confines of Raedryn. Seeing it in person, however, proved just how futile words could be in the face of something so spectacular.
There was something about the way the very stones blended into the undulating hill, the way the moat under the drawbridge looked more like a river fed on two sides by slow rolling waterfalls tumbling down from either side of the palace, the way the whole structure gave off the distinct impression of having been raised from the earth itself, its façade dressed in twisting vines and crawling ivy. It was so unbelievable, so grand, and yet so natural that it seemed only natural for the king to rule the earth of our kingdom from it.
At that point, I knew Father had never seen such a truly impressive place, despite all the years of service he claimed under his “Lord Blackwell.” I truly pitied him for it.
It wasn’t until our small party had crossed the drawbridge that I was really afforded the chance to pick out the details of the palace, but time had run out by then. The three days of riding in muted terror, broken up only by short rests every few hours and a few hours of sleep each night in inns along the road, rapidly drew to a close as the captain leapt off his horse and tossed his reins to the descending Kirkin, who caught them with the same fist that had brought opportunity knocking on my front door.
I was helped down from my horse, my legs uncharacteristically sore being unaccustomed to riding for so long, and stumbled before catching my balance again. Everything happened rather quickly after that.
I was hustled into a bare room by the captain where some elderly servant clucked over me. I stood absolutely still, uncertain what they were looking for. It was with some effort that I realized they were debating how well to clean me up for the king. The king! Anticipation momentarily took over reason. I was too excited to breathe.
That feeling wouldn’t last very long, though the shortage of breath would.
They decided that a quick dusting followed with washing my hands and face then stepping through a misting of perfume should do the trick. I admit to withstanding the servant attacking the dust on my clothes with an actual rug beater.
The servant also took a few moments to redo my hair, brushing carefully so she wouldn’t yank my knots too hard and rip out any strands. Instead of pinning it in a style I would assume more appropriate for a lady, she let most of it down, either to make me look younger, and therefore more pitiable, or to capitalize on its golden color. Either way, it must have seemed fitting to her to leave my hair free, much like individual stalks of wheat fluttering from half-secured sheaves.
I suppose I would have had time to indulge in such poetic touches if I wasn’t the one being presented to the king. Instead, whatever thrill I’d first felt riding up to the palace was long gone. At this point, I was deeply focused on my breathing so I wouldn’t faint in middle of the room.
After about an hour, the captain and servant deemed me appropriate enough for presentation. I was baffled when the captain plus two other soldiers hustled me out of the room and down a twisting of passageways that felt days long.
And then we stopped.
The captain halted us before a grotesquely large, intricately carved set of wooden double doors, veritable tree trunks polished to the point of reflection. They were well positioned here, guarding entry to the seat of the man who was the root of the entire edifice. The captain fixed me with a sharp glare that warned me to stay in line, then threw back his shoulders and stalked into the throne room, leading the way as if I was a dragon he’d captured to honor the king.
The throne room, of course, was breathtaking. High ceilings studded with painted glass ushered in a rainbow of natural light. A thick red carpet led up to the dais of the king’s imposing throne, carved out of a single piece of red mahogany wood. It was sturdier than a tree stump, and seemed able to hold more than the weight of a tree, or a forest, or a kingdom. On either side of the wide dais steps, small fountains trickled down and along the floor, surely running out of the throne room to connect somewhere, somehow with the languidly tumbling waterfalls outside.
Aside from the guards hawkishly watching the room, a smattering of noble people was also in attendance to observe, gossip, and waste time, as I have found to be the case in most royal courts.
As for the king himself, he was a broad-shouldered man whose title was really the only remarkable thing about him. He was disappointingly plain and though his clothing was rich, it was unadorned, which I would later learn was not due to a lack of flair or style, but a measured decision on his part. He had been crowned just a few years ago, and was around thirty, relatively young for a king crowned and ruling in times of peace.
My first impression of the king, the man who would dam up my past to redirect the course of my future, was that he seemed rather bored. That, and only that, was the reason I would credit for my presence at the palace. Or his fascination with anything magical, no matter how far-fetched it seemed.
I wasn’t sure if I should hope or despair.
I foolishly prayed the king would only ask me a few questions, then give me leave to go on my merry way.
Heaven heard my prayer and laughed.
“So,” the king said, before I was even presented.
His voice quieted the room, unremarkable as it was. Granted, that was also a time when I merely heard it without listening to what it really had to say.
The captain halted and executed a bow in a singular uninterrupted motion. The other soldiers beside me bowed as well, and I belatedly dropped into a curtsy beside them.
“The miller’s daughter, Sire,” the captain said with a hand toward me.
The captain’s voice was not unremarkable. As he was actually speaking and not grunting, I could finally hear it and appreciate its velvety tones. His voice would make for some fine storytelling. I wondered that he didn’t use it more often.
“The girl who can spin straw into gold?” the king inquired.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The room grew even quieter, a silence loud enough to be felt. I knew all eyes were on me, but didn’t have the courage to confirm it.
“She hasn’t faery eyes,” the king commented.
“She does not,” the captain confirmed.
A rotund woman pushed her way through the crowd and didn’t stop walking toward me until we were breathing the same air. Her eyes were squinty and lost somewhere in her face, her nose pointed, her lips thick and pouty. She was swathed in yards of colorful pink and purple silk, and my first thought
was that if a teapot had arms and feet, this is what it would look like. She tightly clutched an overly fluffy, fox-colored Pomeranian to her chest.
“She is a rather pretty thing, isn’t she, Rupie?” she blustered.
I thought she was talking to her dog. I honestly thought she was talking to her dog. I was truly surprised when she was answered by—
“I hardly see what difference that makes, Aunt Mulberry,” the king said.
Him. His Royal Majesty. King Rudolph Reginald Rupert Rainn. Rupie. At least according to this woman. I had to admit, grudgingly, that it was an improvement.
“Nonsense,” Lady Mulberry replied, with an annoyed flick of her plump wrist. “Beauty is always relevant. You should know that from your father.”
The Pomeranian growled for emphasis. I couldn’t quite see his face beneath all the fluff, but it didn’t seem he liked me very much.
“A rather great man,” the king remarked dryly.
“You would do well to imitate him,” his aunt proclaimed.
“Of course,” the king replied. Then, “Well?” he wanted to know, and it took a moment to realize he was now addressing me.
“Your Majesty,” I said dutifully.
“Well then,” the king said, his pause long enough to make me wonder if those two words wouldn’t signify the end of this whole silly affair. “Let’s see for ourselves,” he declared.
So it would be the end, but not in the way I hoped.
The room found its breath again, but that did little good for me as I’d been holding mine too long. The king would actually test if I could spin straw into gold. What was this madness? Perhaps I should have anticipated that this could happen, yet I never once thought the king would challenge my father’s word. It was all so ludicrous, my own knowledge of the falsehood preventing me from seriously considering eventualities that didn’t end with me going home. Who could foresee that my father’s words would not cost him his life but mine?
There was really nothing I could do after that. Denial or protestations would have been an admission of guilt on my part of lying to the king. Treason. Before witnesses. Punishable by death. Because the king would find out very soon that everything was a farce, though surely there was plenty of time for a miracle to occur until then. If Heaven would quit laughing and make one happen already.
Lies of Golden Straw Page 6
