The Hostage Prince Page 4

  “I want some of that sweet apple wine, now. NOW, you fool! Not later,” the queen howled, and then added, “Oof, another one of those pains. Yes, by the green gods it hurts, and no, I will not sit up. YOU can sit up yourselves.” Clearly this last was said to whichever midwife was examining her.

  “Just LEAVE ME BE,” the queen continued. “I have a hand to play. No. NO! Do not leave me, you stupid midwife. Do what I mean, not what I say. I want that WIIIIIIIINE!”

  Snail turned into the first of the three birthing chambers, the one where Mistresses Softhands, Yoke, and Treetop were in charge of Snail, Yarrow, and the new apprentice. The queen would not make a final decision as to which chamber to give birth in until the very last moment, nor which three of the nine midwives would be in attendance. It was a ploy to fool any wicked spirits or Seelie spies who might be wishing the new baby harm.

  And to make more work for us, Snail thought, but didn’t say so aloud. She just walked into the room, rolled up her sleeves, held her hands and arms out for Mistress Treetop to inspect. When the midwife nodded, Snail went over to the narrow bed and the mattress that she was to stuff with newly gathered Ladies’ Bedstraw. The bedstraw would not only sweeten the air of the tower, but also ease the baby’s passage into the light.

  She saw Yarrow, Mistress Yoke’s apprentice, already setting out the juniper twigs, juniper berries, and seeds of the ash tree in the great hearth, forming them into circles of power. Yarrow was looking perfect as always, not a raven hair out of place.

  I should say something, Snail thought. But then she realized it would give Yarrow another excuse to accuse her. And all the midwives would back Yarrow on that, since making disagreements or pother in a birthing room—and especially the queen’s birthing room—was the worst sort of thing a midwife could do.

  All potheration set aside at the bedfoot, Mistress Softhands always cautioned.

  Yarrow would be lighting the herb piles soon and saying the words of cleansing. As the oldest of the apprentices, she’d had her choice of jobs. It was no surprise she left the gathering of hand towels, birth cloths, and such to the newest girl. Snail suddenly remembered her name—Philomel.

  Plenty of time after, Snail thought, to get back at the two of them. Maybe revenge really is best as cold soup rather than hot porridge, as the old saying goes.

  Stuffing the mattress appealed to Snail anyway. Fire-making was a precise task in the birthing room. If it went wrong, the whole tower could be filled with smoke, and everything would have to be moved to a lower chamber, including the queen on a litter.

  And if something can go wrong, Snail knew, it will go wrong, especially if I’m in charge.

  Suddenly, she was very glad all she had to do was stuff the mattress. Even if the bedstraw was prickly. She liked the smell, and the ordinariness of the task. She began to hum to herself, one of the songs the pot boys had been singing at last night’s party.

  And she winked,

  And he blinked,

  And their hearts both beat as one . . .

  It was a tune that caught up in one’s ear. A ballad about a changeling who changed a prince’s heart. The song helped her move the bedstraw into the coverlet in an even, flowing motion.

  Mistress Softhands came by and swatted her on the head. “If you must sing, sing a song of queen’s praise,” she said. “Or a song of jubilation for the event at hand. None of this silly, common nonsense. A changeling can’t never even talk to a prince. And singing such heresy in the queen’s tower room? What are you thinking, child!”

  Snail swallowed down her retort and began to hum the only praise song she knew. The words went something like, “Glorious queen . . . dum-ti-dum . . . ever been . . . dum-dum-ti-dum . . . in the highest . . .” Oh, it has no joy in it. No fun. No proper smooth rhythm, either. But not wanting to be swatted again, she stopped singing altogether, and just punched in handsful of the bedstraw until the mattress was lumpy and coarse.

  “Look at what Snail’s gone and done!” It was toffee-nosed Yarrow, standing over her and pointing.

  The three midwives surrounded the bed, shaking their heads, tsking, shaking fingers, and looking dour as only midwives can amongst themselves on the day of a birth.

  “I’ll shake it out,” Yarrow said, in that snooty way she had, and, with several quick flicks of her wrists, did just that.

  “I was about to shake it down,” said Snail, but no one heard her because just then the queen started bellowing again.

  This time there were no words in what she was saying, just a lot of screams and whines, and an occasional roar.

  Snail ran to the door but knew better than to throw it open. Unless there was a knock indicating the queen had chosen their room, it was punishable by death to do so. Instead, she stooped, put her eye to the keyhole, and looked into the chaos of the hall.

  On a litter carried by four blinded trolls—trolls were not supposed to look at the queen if she was not perfectly dressed and glowing—the queen thrashed about, her slim arms waving, be-ringed hands clutching at the air. Her normally serene face was red and sweaty as a farmer’s wife, and she was using words Snail had only heard the dog boys say, swears of such monumental force that Snail was surprised the air in the hallway hadn’t turned blue or the stones in the tower melted and run like whey.

  “Look at Snail!” Yarrow cried out from across the room. “She’s spying! She’s spying!” At the same time, she pushed Philomel, who darted forward to try and pull Snail from the door.

  But Mistress Softhands shouted, “Leave her!” and bulled her way through the two hysterical girls, then leaned down over Snail’s shoulder and whispered. “What do you see, girl?”

  Snail was so surprised at that, she almost took her eye from the keyhole. But what she saw next so stunned her, she kept on looking.

  ASPEN’S DESPERATE PLAN

  Aspen excused himself from dinner as soon as was seemly and scurried to his apartment. He needed to be alone with his tumultuous thoughts.

  How could my father do this to me? he thought, stomping back and forth in the main room.

  Measuring twelve paces by ten, the room was small by princely standards, but no real insult to a king’s younger son, and a hostage at that. It was well-appointed: an inglenook fireplace big enough to roast a pig in should he have desired, a fine oaken desk, cushioned chairs on a woven silk rug, the giant chest holding his prized garments. There were two windows with views across the great wall to the Downs. Aspen paced toward the fireplace till his face was hot, then turned to glare at the single worn tapestry that hung on the far wall. It depicted King Obs and his nobles in some unnamed victorious battle.

  “Obs and the Mobs,” Aspen called it, but only when he knew himself to be entirely alone.

  He had told no one that name, not Jaunty, not Jack Daw, and—he felt a tremor go down his back—certainly not the twin princesses.

  It’s not right. It’s not fair.

  He stomped up to the tapestry until he could smell the stale, barnyard smell of the woolen threads and get a close-up view of the unrealistic muscles the artist had given the king. The king was skewering a fey lord who looked suspiciously like Aspen’s father, or at least how he remembered his father.

  Serves Father right, he thought. First he sends me away, and then he starts a war. He’ll get me killed, and then we’ll probably lose the war anyway.

  The Border Lords alone were a match for anything he could remember from his childhood in the Seelie Court. And they weren’t even the worst creatures King Obs had at his command. He had trolls and ogres and bloodyguts and Red Caps and the Wild Hunt and . . .

  He paced back toward the fire. Of course, I don’t know why I say “we.” I’ve been here so long, I’m probably more Un than Seelie. He stopped suddenly in the middle of the room.

  “And that might very well save me!”

  He ran out of the room and b
ack down the great stairs to the feast.

  * * *

  NOW IT WAS less of a feast and more of a drunken revel. Aspen never understood the older lords’ fascination with liquor.

  Even if you start the evening clever and well-spoken, you end it as an ignorant lout, he thought. And Oberon help you if you were an imbecile to begin with!

  King Obs, while not the sharpest sword in a sheath, was neither ignorant nor imbecilic, yet judging by how far he was leaning over the table and the low level of mead in his bowl, Aspen feared he was well on his way to becoming both.

  Maybe I should ask at another time. But before he could turn to leave, the king saw him and called out.

  “Prince Tortoise! Approach me.” His voice was a low rumble, which in itself was ominous.

  Cursing his own bad luck, Aspen said, “Of course, sire,” and waded through the crowd toward the king.

  When he reached the throne, he took a knee and bowed his head. “Yes, sire?”

  King Obs patted him clumsily on the head. “Look at you, Tortoise. Always so respectful. So polite. Always such a good boy.”

  When he said good, it didn’t sound like a compliment.

  “Thank you, sire,” Aspen replied. It was what one always said to a king, whether he was praising you or cursing you.

  “What am I to do with you should I ever go to war with your father?”

  With the king so far in his cups, Aspen hadn’t thought it was the right time to talk to him about his new idea. But now the king had asked a direct question.

  And Old Jack always says the best way to convince someone to do something is to make him think it’s his own idea.

  “Well, sire, I had been giving that some thought actually.” He was speaking too swiftly, words tumbling one after the other, and he forced himself to stop and take a breath. Strange, given what he was about to ask, but it was his father’s voice he heard when he thought, You are a prince of the Fair Folk. Act like one!

  “And?” King Obs asked, one bleary eye focused on Aspen, the other peering at the now-empty bottom of his mead bowl. Not something the ordinary fey could do.

  “Sire,” Aspen said, more calmly this time, “I have lived here longer than I lived at my father’s court. I can barely remember my father’s face, let alone that of any of my siblings.” It wasn’t entirely the truth, but it wasn’t entirely a lie, either. He’d forgotten old Lisbet’s face, and she’d been dearer to him than his father, or most of his siblings. She’d even packed him clothes enough to carry him into adulthood, wrapping them within precious paper on which she’d printed instructions in her peasant script to the laundress on how to take proper care.

  He took a deep, slow breath and continued. “My life there is a distant and not particularly fond memory.” He lifted his chin, determined to look directly into whichever eye was looking at him. Surprisingly, King Obs seemed to have sensed something important was coming, and had both eyes on him now, clear and focused.

  “Sire, I request that you adopt me as a noninheriting son and allow me to stay here.” Aspen had to force himself not to gulp visibly before the next word. “Forever.”

  It’s better than death, he reminded himself.

  King Obs sat perfectly still, eyes locked with Aspen’s for just long enough for the young prince to fear that the king had fallen asleep with his eyes open. Then the king smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. But then he never smiled pleasantly. It wasn’t the Unseelie way.

  “Wouldn’t that just make the pious old fart eat his own spleen!”

  Aspen forced a smile. “I suppose that is an extra bonus, sire.”

  “Come closer, boy.” King Obs reached out and took Aspen by the arm with a meaty hand. “I shall certainly consider it.”

  “Thank you, sire.” Aspen bowed his head, trying to decide whether to feel relief or revulsion.

  “It won’t save you if it comes to war, you know,” the king said.

  Aspen couldn’t help himself this time. Gulp. “Why not?”

  “Look around you.” The king turned Aspen to face the room, still full of Unseelie revelers. “Trolls, boggarts, drows, bogies—do you think they follow me out of love? Respect? Honor? Duty? Do you think Red Caps care about all of that? Or the Border Lords? Or the ogres? Or the Wild Hunt?”

  Dismally, Aspen shook his head. He was afraid he knew where this was going.

  “No, my young prince. It’s fear and fear alone that keeps their spears at my command and their daggers in their belts instead of my back.” He spun Aspen back around and pulled him close. His breath smelled of honey mead and rotten meat. “If I show a moment’s mercy, a moment’s weakness, they will tear me apart.”

  The king released Aspen’s arm, and Aspen stumbled as he realized his legs had gone weak and the king had basically been holding him up.

  “But, sire, if I were your son—”

  “No,” the king interrupted. “Son or no, you would die at the first clash of swords between our kingdoms.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I swore an oath you would.” King Obs thumped his bowl on the table and a servant scuttled forward to brim it with golden mead. The king took a healthy draught and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “And a king keeps his word, no matter the consequences. You’d do well to keep that in mind, Prince.”

  Aspen nodded mutely, beyond words now.

  The king waved his hand, dismissing him. “I shall give your request due thought and give you my answer soon. Now off with you. I’ll not have anyone of your young age—whether my son or the son of my greatest enemy—see what the Border Lords get up to when they’re into their tenth bowl of mead.”

  Aspen turned on numb legs and staggered out of the Great Hall.

  Only an hour ago I was condemned to die. Now I’m to die as the son of my family’s enemy. Now even if war didn’t come he had no hope of ever going home. He was stuck here at the Unseelie Court. Forever. Or as long as it took to hear the first horn of the first Seelie War.

  He cursed himself for believing any thought or plan of his could do anything but make things worse.

  But a worse thought quickly followed.

  If I run, then the truce is broken and I will be responsible for the death of thousands and as such will be a hunted man in both kingdoms.

  For the second time in just a few moments, he cursed himself for a fool.

  If there’s going to be a war anyway, then running won’t be the cause. Old Jack will bring me the news before he brings it to the king. That I’m sure of! He’s a good man, Jack Daw. Well, a good drow anyway. And then once war is declared, if I can escape, and make it to the Seelie Court, I will be a hero.

  Yes, he thought, there would be a window, a brief one, but a window nonetheless. Once he could be certain there was to be a war, but before the king locked down his hostage and prepared for the execution, those few hours would be his only chance.

  That’s when I’ll make my escape.

  Aspen went up the stairs two at a time, legs suddenly strong again. But this time he didn’t go to his apartments to pace. This time he went to prepare.

  SNAIL SPIES THE QUEEN’S HALLWAY

  Out in the queen’s hallway one of the blind trolls, normally so sensitive even to a bit of dust on the floor, slipped. Perhaps it was because the queen was screaming and tossing about on the bed. Perhaps it had to do with the heat in the tower. Or the way the new moon sat cradled in the old moon’s arms.

  Or perhaps—Snail thought—my bad luck is catching. It is, after all, the third tumble of the day. Then she had another thought and would have smiled if there’d been anything to smile about. Though, luckily enough, this time the bad luck is not mine.

  Turning, she said, in a scared, hush voice, “She’s stumbled.”

  “What?” All three midwives spoke as one. “Who?”

  “The right f
orward troll,” Snail whispered. “The one with the scar across her nose. She’s down on one huge knee.”

  “Let me see!” hissed Philomel, poking Snail in the belly with a finger and pushing her unceremoniously aside.

  “Hey!” Snail said, still hardly above a whisper. She’d all but doubled up, not with pain but with revulsion. No one, she thought, pokes me in the belly! She was about to say something more when she saw Mistress Softhands shake her head and put a finger to her lips.

  Philomel noticed none of this in her eagerness to get to the keyhole. Yarrow crowded in as well, and Snail had to scurry on her bottom like a Ness crab to escape being stomped on.

  Mistress Softhands shot Snail a look of pity, but turned quickly back to Philomel, who was busy fending off Yarrow, who was trying to secure the keyhole from her.

  “Leave off, Yarrow!” said Mistress Softhands in a harsh whisper, as Mistresses Yoke and Treetop joined her to the side of the door. Then to Philomel, “Tell us what you see.”

  Philomel put her eye back to the hole, gasped, and said—much too loudly and with a crow of astonishment—“There are two of ’em down now. Fat old things.”

  In her excitement—not only at the illicit viewing, but also at the undivided attention and approval of all three midwives—Philomel forgot to whisper. In fact, she practically screeched the last three words.

  Fat. Old. Things.

  The queen must have heard and thought the keyhole was criticizing her weight, for she’d gained a pound or three with the child. Sitting up in the bed, she stopped screaming and lifted her right hand into the sudden silence.