FOUR
"He's dead."
I didn't cry as I said it, because it was no surprise. I'd known for months that King Baines' health was on the decline, along with his mental state. He'd started draining of life after Mother's death, and each day I saw him, his skin turned a paler hue of gray.
Yesterday, he'd become white. Last night, he'd lost his light altogether.
It surprised us all that he lasted this long.
For five years, he pretended to be in good health, in the public eye, at least. The visage he showed the courtiers, the population, wasn't the same as the one he showed his closest advisors, his personal staff, and me. We all knew, we all listened to his rambling and suspicions, but he wasn't all there.
He battled his night-walking insomnia until he could no longer get out of bed, losing his capacity to amble about with ease as he used to. He'd developed allergies to foods he once enjoyed eating in troves. His limbs weakened, his eyesight worsened, and soon he even stopped talking in those full, imaginative sentences he was so renowned for.
But he yelled at anyone who listened that it was magic that made him like this—supposedly the same magic that took away Mother. The physicians insisted it wasn't. They couldn't quite explain it, but they tried. "It's grief, Highness. It makes him delusional." Father protested, saying it was a spell, a curse put on him by whomever had harmed Mother. Most of our medical staff denied this; though one man leaned into Father's theories and thought they might have some truth.
I fired the man at once. I couldn't have anyone running amok at court claiming Father's delusions of magic were real, could I?
He was ill, bereft, missing Mother. And possibly looking forward to reuniting with her in another lifetime. And in that lifetime, I prayed she'd scold him for all his nonsense talk about magic. Mother never believed in any of that. She was logical where he was inclined towards fantasy; that was why they worked so well, balanced each other out.
Magic didn't exist, and if it did, why would it attack my kind, good-natured parents?
"He's dead, Teo," I growled to myself. "And you must live up to his name—the name he'd made for himself before he lost his way."
My reflection made me nauseous. Gazing at the thick lines under my eyes—not from torrid nights of pleasure with the maids—and the new and deepening wrinkles forming on my forehead, I swallowed several sips of my wine. It was a superb vintage that Father picked out a week ago, when he became bedridden but thirsty for anything to numb his agony.
"You must find a spouse, find your inner strength, and be the king."
I snorted. Me? King of Springport? It felt unreal. Yes, I was raised for this. Yes, I had accepted Father's death far faster than anyone else had, having expected it for years. Of course, I'd moved into his decadent, velvet and satin inlaid chambers a few days after the funeral. And yes, I was his one and only heir...
But this? Sleeping in his bed, sitting on his throne, wearing his crown? It wasn't true. I wasn't ready.
The copper designs outlining the mirror morphed into faces, and they seemed to laugh at me. The vivid paintings in the background, hanging over and around the canopy bed, snickered in silence as they pointed at me. Wind whispered through the half-opened balcony doors, and even that breeze mocked me, reminding me of my ineptitude.
Me, Prince Teodric of Springport. An overgrown boy obsessed with books about monsters, yearning to play cards in the basement, preferring to spend his nights fucking servant girls instead of playing husband to a noble woman of the council's choosing.
I was a child seeking to fill in the shoes of a giant.
It made me recall the celebration for my twentieth year of existence, when rows and rows of ladies from around the world sprawled at my feet, batting their lashes up at me expectantly. They'd been invited for the special event, but it was a ruse. They were here for me, but not to wish me a happy birthday. They were here to woo me, entice me, and convince me to choose one of them out of a crowd and marry them.
I knew my father hadn't organized it. He wasn't well enough in the head to expect his only son to marry anyone, let alone to plot such an elaborate trick. It was the advisor's doing, due to their desperate need to see me wed and have babies as fast as possible, to supply Springport with all the heirs it needed.
The ladies had come running, but they weren't there for me, not really. Not for my basic looks and my silent demeanor. I wasn't known for being particularly attractive, though the maids never complained. But they only complimented me because their wages came from my treasury. I had the reputation of being mostly kind, but not outspoken, and not too interested in the politics behind the position.
No, these women were here for the crown, the prestige. And they'd obtain it by any means possible.
When I asked Father if it was normal for women to be so ruthless about competing for a prince's hand, he assured me it was customary. In one of his moments of lucidity, he reminded me how he'd chosen Mother—an ineligible handmaiden hidden by the fancy dresses—in a cluster of female suitors who'd clawed their way to the top to meet him.
On the second day of witnessing women fighting over me, I'd glared down at my glowing golden breeches and matching shoes, and wondered how Father did it. How he'd had the strength to stand atop a dais and let them all ogle him, hungry for his power. These ladies fanned out below like colorful feathers of a peacock, their radiant necklaces of ruby and sapphire and emerald blinding me, their hair piled so high their curls touched the ceiling.
And they were starving.
Their fathers wanted them to seek alliances. Their mothers sent them to make royal babies. And somehow, by some strange twist of fate, they showered me in attention.
"Oh, Highness, your eyes are the most beautiful shade of brown I've ever seen! Like a dark, delicious copper," one said, her plump cheeks reddening as she batted her heavily coated lashes. She'd stared at my crotch when she said delicious, which made me wonder if she'd been sucked into the rumors of me sleeping with women out of wedlock.
What she hadn't listened to, apparently, was that I only slept with servant girls. I'd never, not once, bedded a woman of renown with a higher level of nobility.
I'd choked at her pointed compliment. Beautiful shade of brown? I'd looked at those eyes for eighteen years, and never saw anything beautiful about them. They were dull, dark, glinted with gold if I stood in the light, but pretty boring. I had better features she could have commented on.
"They say I'm identical to a northern goddess," said another, twirling a strand of my ash-and-raven curls around her gloved finger, as we sat in the solar drinking tea. I'd begged for liquor to be poured in mine, but one of the advisors overseeing our meeting had refused, wanting me to make a sober choice. I wouldn't make any sober choices, for sure. I needed all the alcohol in the world to survive these gatherings with women.
I nearly gagged as she pouted her violet-colored lips in some seductive trick that had no effect on me. I wanted to ask her who had said such a thing about her, because I wasn't seeing it. She looked nothing like a heavenly creature from the skies, nothing like the mythical deities written about in our prayer books.
But to speak to her meant leaning in so she could hear me over the sound of her own ego. I couldn't stand her overwhelming vanilla musk. I struggled through the entire affair to breathe out of my mouth so I wouldn't have to smell her.
When I'd told Father, in one of our afternoon strolls in the gardens, he'd chuckled at it all. "I had a tough time picking, too," he'd said, between pauses to pluck flowers budding out of the hedges. He collected them, thinking they had a magical property that he might be able to use to concoct a potion to bring Mother back.
Our excursions were the only time he made some sense, because flowers did have some medicinal effects, for sure; but none that would revive a woman long dead.
Despite Father's assurances and the advisor's pressure, I didn't pick anyone. Three years passed, and most of the ladies left court, depressed and disgusted that the Prince of Springport still hadn't made a decision, and preferred to lust after serving girls and hang out with guards. A few lingered, desperate to attract my attention, to sway me into marrying them by all means possible—and they tried a lot of tactics. They still hoped to bring fame and fortune to their fathers.
Some nights, my serving girls would mock the noble women by dressing up like them, and pretending to seduce me for money. They were convincing. Spending so much time in the company of aristocracy had given these servants a swift ability to imitate their accents, to know their vocabulary. One night, two of my girls showed up together, and instead of sending one of them away, I kept them both, taking turns spoiling their bodies with kisses. When they kissed each other, an incredible jolt in my stomach, a strike of desire, almost made me come for them instantly.
The ladies at court drove me nuts, but they were entertaining in their attempts. And I would have continued to lead them on, to watch them squirm for my affections as I postponed my choice, day after day, year after year...
But Father died. I had no amusement left in me, no strength to fool around.
"Now you must choose, Teo." I sneered at my floor-length night-robe, striped and lined with thick fur. It tasted like luxury, its luxurious scent floating in the air and breaching into my mouth. It was Father's. I'd planned to get rid of it after my inauguration, but...I had to admit, it was comfortable.
The sight of anything that belonged to him sent shivers up my arms, but his things comforted me at the same time. They were the last remnants of him, of his soul. Like his favorite bejeweled wine goblet, still sticky with crimson liquid, stuck to the bedside table. Or his balcony slippers, worn-down and riddled with holes; a gift from Mother. Or that tattered, stained leather journal I'd found under his bed—
"Oh." I clutched my cup to my chest at the memory. At the words he'd whispered to me on his death-bed, four weeks ago.
"My journal," he coughed up blood, "I tucked it beneath a pillow, and under my bed, but I want you to take it. A royal tradition...from father to son." I wiped his mouth, but he shoved the kerchief away and yanked me close; his strength surprised me. "In that journal is the location of the cards. Commit that location to memory, for safety's sake, but do not go looking for them. Don't enact the legend, Teo."
He'd garbled about me writing my name in his journal, after his last entry. Then urged me to read said passage, as it would be important and might define my entire reign.
Until now, I'd forgotten about his request.
"Very well." I guzzled down a few swigs of my beverage and wrapped the robe tighter around myself. Its rope was a tad constricting, as Father was smaller than me in the middle.
I clambered through the vast quarters to his desk, nestled in the corner by the balustrade. I'd set the journal there, as it was his favorite place to sit and write, and I could tell why. The views from there were splendid, overseeing the port where our capital city got its name. Now, with stars sprinkled across the heavens, peering down onto the navy waves, the world appeared at peace. Quiet, asleep, resting before the festivities of tomorrow.
My coronation.
I set the cup down and sat, tugging the drawers open in search of a quill. Mother's rose brooch hid in one drawer, along with dried flower petals—Father saved those from her funeral. In another, I found a badge he claimed to have misplaced, the one the people gave him for exceptional counsel and a heart of gold.
I sniffled, finally locating a writing utensil and plucking it out, blowing its dust off.
Would I ever live up to King Baines' generosity? His wisdom, before Mother left us?
I placed a hand over the battered, half-burned, half-ripped book Father treasured and guarded with his life.
"The recollections of all Kings of Springport." He'd never showed it to me, and Mother had warned me of its existence. It was mine.
I gulped as I pried open the cover, fingertips numbing as I flipped through the pages. His handwriting shifted from page to page. It started with proper, indented letters looping in poetic ways. But the closer I got to the current date, the more ink splotches I found, lines traced through mistakes, and difficult to read words. Mentions of magic, sorcery, and curses, and scribbles of charms he thought would bring him answers.
On his last page, I squinted to understand what he wrote.
"The Legend of Cards."
I sucked in a breath.
"Where one shuffles an enchanted deck of cards in front of an ornate mirror, to open up a realm beyond ours. It's real, and I beseech whoever is reading this to never try it. Its consequences are dire, and the price to pay is too steep. Laugh as you might, mock me as you wish, but it's all true. Magic is real."
My concentration strayed after that, as Father dove into explanations and attempts to prove his theories.
My eyes swelled with the tears I'd refused to shed. After several cups of that great vintage, my mind was blurry, my thoughts unclear. So unclear that I almost missed the tiny inscription at the bottom of the page.
"The deck of cards is under the king's bed, beneath a loose board. Remove at your own risk; once your skin touches the cards, the spell will weave around you, and—"
I slammed the journal shut, overcome with annoyance at my father's persistence. That damned legend was a joke, right? I scoffed. The warning was so exaggerated, it was almost as if he wanted me to find the deck of cards, and wanted me to test the theory.
Through the years, King Baines kept insisting, even as he grew weaker with illness, that magic was real. A curse took Mother away, and that same spell caused his grief, destroyed his internal organs, twisting them until he reeled in pain.
I couldn't believe it. I wouldn't.
After chugging down the last of my drink, I'd made my decision. "Fine." I stood and arched my back, hearing it crack in relief. "Fine. You didn't want me to, eh? Well, I will. I'm going to test your damn legend to prove to your ghost that it's fake."
I crawled to the mattress, slipping underneath to pat the floor-boards, seeking one plank different from the others. One of them creaked, loosened. I pressed down on it, which pushed up one side, giving access to a secret drawer-like space below. I dug my hand into the cramped area, immediately finding a smooth, carved box. I pulled it out, and removed myself from under the bed, resting my head against the mattress.
With a deep breath, I set the box on my thighs, and opened it. Surprisingly, it wasn't locked or secured in any way to deter anyone from accessing its contents. Strange, for something supposedly so dangerous.
Within was...a deck of cards. Father hadn't lied about that.
The deck appeared ordinary, with the habitual numbers and suits and face-cards. The cards were faded with age, some burned at the edges. The design on the back was a black background with rich red flowers woven together in a rectangular pattern, framing the card.
I didn't feel any jolt of energy or magic surging up through my hands as I touched the cards, so I discarded the box and got up, woozy from the sudden motion.
"So...I'm doing this, then?"
I approached the looking glass, my steps wobbly from drinking too much. I brought the cards up to chest-level, and began to shuffle through them in the intricate manner I was taught many moons ago. With unsteady breaths, I gaped at myself, eyes widening, nostrils flaring. As if the tiniest part of me became curious if this legend would enact, if it would transport me elsewhere. I tilted my forehead closer as I continued shuffling, wondering if I'd detect someone else on the other side of the glass.
"Hmm, it's not working," I jeered at myself, "perhaps I should recite something?" Holding the cards in one hand, I used the other to tap on the mirror's surface with my knuckles. "Mirror, mirror, open your doors—" I chortled so hard my knees gave out. "Oh, this is absurd. If only Father could see this, he would realize how wrong he was—"
I gasped, dropping the cards. Lines rippled across the mirror's facade, and the glass pried apart like a silky curtain. Before I had a chance to scream, two silvery arms reached out to suck me through.
♥♣♦♠
Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: AzTruyen.Top