The Eye of the Beholder (41 page)

"What is he then?" Papa asked.

But how could I explain Lysander to him, to anyone? My hands plucked restlessly at my coverlet, and I stared unseeingly at them as I thought of Lysander's rage, but I knew I would never tell Papa about that. He already thought of Lysander as something evil, horrible, and I did not want to contribute to that image. Time and illness had softened my anger, and I did not want to paint Lysander as someone he should hate, but I did not know how I could possibly convince him that Lysander was someone worthy of friendship.

There was no answer to Papa's question. I could not explain Lysander even to myself. To simply say that he was a beast would be to discredit his intelligence, his wit, his capacity for warmth. To say that he was a talking beast did not seem correct either. There was something more to him, something I perhaps would have discovered, had I been courageous enough to remain by his side.

"He is… was… my friend," I said, feeling tears rise to my eyes. I turned away from my father, not wanting him to see.

"Oh, Mira," he said, his voice sounding infinitely sad. "You always were such a compassionate child, and always such a lonely one. It is no great wonder that you could have developed kinder feelings for that…for Lysander. But surely you must know that he was dangerous, that you could never have been safe with him. It is a wonder you are unharmed, and I shall never cease to give thanks for it."

"He would not have harmed me, Papa. Not intentionally." Unlike I, who wounded him grievously.

Papa sighed. "We should not speak of this. It only sets us at odds. Now, what do you say to a picnic on Friday? You have not left the cottage since your return, and I thought it might do you some good to be out and about again."

The cheerful note in his voice made me want to weep. I knew he meant well, but it hurt me that he brushed my words about Lysander aside as he had. I tried to imagine myself in his shoes, tried to think of what I would do if my daughter were to speak as I had about a creature like Lysander, but I could not do it. Instead, I could think only of how I needed to talk about Lysander, needed to maintain some sort of connection to him, and my father would not assist me in that. It cut more deeply than I could have imagined, both because I felt he was failing me and because I knew he was doing Lysander a disservice.

"That would be fine," I replied automatically, unable to attend to my father's cheerful planning of the picnic. My mind was, instead, back in the castle with Lysander.

"I am afraid all my chatter has worn you out, my darling," Papa said, when he finally noticed my silence. "You should rest."

He squeezed my hand one last time before moving to the door. "It is good to have you home."

"It is good to be home." He smiled at me and I managed to smile faintly in return.

I had not really been truthful with Papa. While it meant more to me than I could express to see him again, I no longer felt as though I really belonged in this little cottage on the edge of the forest. My life here seemed so distant that it was almost as if it had been someone else's life. The life I had known at the castle, strange as it was, had becoming infinitely more real to me.

My heart ached as I thought of Lysander, alone in his castle. It had been wonderful to speak with him, to find someone who could surprise me with his wit and intelligence, someone in whom I could confide my deepest secrets. He meant a great deal to me, and this thought frightened me, though I could not say why. Even now, even as I found myself missing him, I was terrified of the thought of returning to him. But I was equally terrified of the thought of never seeing him again.

Fool, fool, unforgivable fool,
I cursed myself.
He was my friend and I threw that friendship back in his face. He spoke what must have been the most difficult words he had ever spoken, and I repaid him with my scorn.

I drew my knees up to my chest, burying my face in them, and giving in to my despair. What had I done?

Chapter 39: Dissolution

As the days passed, I began to see that my self-imposed exile was indulgent, that I did not have the right to retreat into my chamber and abandon the servants to their fate--my fate…our fate. It was my fault that they would die along with me, and I simply could not allow myself to waste away in solitude, far from sight of those vivid reminders of the consequences of the terrible, unforgivable choices I had made.

Over the years, I had grown used to the servants' expressionless faces, but now it seemed that I found an accusation in each and every one. I had often wondered why the enchantress had transformed the servants as she had, and had often suspected her of trying to punish me further by making them so horrible to behold. Now I knew that the transformation had been of my own making, much as my transforming into a beast had been. I had wished my servants to be blind, quiet, nearly invisible, and that is exactly what they had become. It was now difficult to face the sight of them, for it was further proof of my own depravity. Not only had I stolen them from those they loved, I had made them into something less than human, just as I had done before we had all been transformed.

As if responding to some sort of silent cue, the servants gathered around me, emerging from other doorways, other corridors. They stood around me in a ring, their faces lifted up to me, and I felt a horrible sensation of drowning in those awful eyes. Just as surely as if I had wielded the executioner's ax myself, I had sentenced all of them to death because of my failure to win Mira's love.

"I am sorry," I rasped, my voice breaking. There was a slight movement at the sound, as if they were astonished to hear me betraying any sort of real emotion. I could not blame them for this. When before had they ever had I ever shown them any evidence that I possessed emotions? "I have failed you. I have failed us all. I could not win her love and now…now, we shall all perish."

It was clear my words came as a blow. Many of the servants sagged visibly, some of them leaning against one another as if unable to support their own weight.

"I have never acted as a just king should; thus, there is no reason why any of you should believe what I shall say next. However, I am most sincere in saying that, if I knew of any way to spare you all my fate, I would. I am guilty of the crimes for which every one of you have been convicted. I will not insult you by pretending that I thought of this at the time of the transformation, for I am certain you all know well that I thought of no one but myself. I now feel most keenly my own culpability in this, and the unfairness of the punishment you are all to meet, along with me. I do not expect that my words should mean anything to you, but I did want to speak them, for I wanted you to know my remorse is heavy."

I paused, knowing they could say nothing in response. They had begun to console one another, clasping hands and embracing. To my great surprise, more than one of them also reached out to touch me haltingly on the arm. Though some had apparently forgiven me, others had not, and they turned their backs on me. Consumed with shame, I bowed my head.

"I do not deserve to indulge myself by hiding in my chambers. Yet I know of nothing I may do that could be of any comfort to you. Would that I did."

One of the servants who had touched my arm now stepped forward, tugging gently at my sleeve. She pointed to one of the windows, and I stepped over to it. As I gazed out, I could see that it overlooked the gardens, which were beginning to once again show signs of neglect. I thought about what I was seeing, what the servant was trying to tell me. They had cleared that garden out, at Mira's initiative. It had given them hope and, just as her leaving had led to the dimming of our hopes, so had the garden begun to decay.

"Shall we work in the garden?" I asked, uncertain if I had grasped the full meaning of her gesture.

It became evident that I had, in fact, understood her. Though some of the servants walked away, disappearing, others remained where they were. As I hesitantly began walking toward the gardens, they followed. I continued to walk, my steps more purposeful now. As I glanced behind me, I could hardly believe how many of them followed. While it was true that many had abandoned us--had abandoned me--there were more than I might have thought who had decided to follow me.

But perhaps they were not following me at all. Perhaps they wanted only to be closer to the things Mira had touched. Perhaps they wished to see if they could somehow cling to some of the hope that her presence in the castle had inspired. For whatever reason they chose to come with me, they were welcome. I hoped only that they might find some small comfort in the gardens.

The work proved helpful in dulling the pain. If I worked hard enough, the sheer physical exertion could make me forget, for a short time, about the fate that was now looming before me. I could temporarily forget the pain of having lost Mira, though it seemed to return a thousandfold whenever I was forced to rest. Being in the garden made me feel somehow closer to her, and I ceased returning to the castle at night. I found it preferable to sleep on the hard, unyielding ground, or to lie upon one of the uncomfortable stone benches, or to simply fall asleep sitting up, the branches of the neatly trimmed hedges poking into me rather painfully.

The passage of time was, of course, apparent in the rising and setting of the sun, but I did not count the sunrises and sunsets and, as such, did not know how much time had passed since Mira had left. I knew only that it seemed like an eternity. Before I fell asleep, I would find myself staring up at the sky, wondering if Mira was looking at the same stars, the same clouds, the same impenetrable blackness that seemed to engulf me when I was flat upon my back. The night air bore the scent of the roses, but the scent was somehow forlorn, as if they, too, were mourning the loss of Mira.

I was lying thus one night, skimming along the border between sleep and wakefulness, when a familiar face loomed above me. Abruptly, I sat up, blinking wildly, certain that it was a figment of my imagination.

"Edward, once King of Organdy," she greeted me.

She looked just as I remembered her. Her gown was the same silvery blue, the same shade as her eyes, and her silvery hair seemed to flow about her graceful, delicate shoulders like water. She was beautiful to behold, but I lowered my eyes, ashamed to look her directly in the face.

"I do not even know your name, but you have ever been on my mind, these hundreds of years," I said.

"You had not the courtesy to ask me my name when last we met," she observed.

"Aye, indeed. And for that, and many other things, I am most ashamed."

What seemed an interminable silence followed my words, but I had no temptation to look at her. Long had I seen her as the engineer of my misery, but now I knew that I was to blame for what had come to pass. She had merely helped me to see past my own deception. I did not know if she thought my lowered gaze was due to deference, or if she merely thought I was feigning respect for her. I did not know, and, in truth, it did not matter much. I had not come so far, learned so much, solely to be concerned about how I appeared to others. I knew what was in my heart, knew that it was sincere.

"Indeed, you are sincere, are you not?" she mused, her voice startling me, causing me to raise my eyes to hers once more.

"I am," I said simply.

"I am called Oriantha."

"Oriantha. I should have shown you due deference when first we met."

"I care not for deference," she said dismissively. "I would not have you bow before me simply because I am an enchantress and you wish to please me."

"Nay, that is not what I meant." I shook my head. "I should have shown you compassion when you were brought to me as a woman, before you showed me your true form. Your plight should have moved me to mercy."

"It should have," she agreed. "These hundreds of years may have seemed long to you, but I have seen the passage of more years than you can imagine. I have seen many acts of heartlessness. I have seen much deceit, many broken hearts, many wars. You were not the worst man I have ever seen, but that does not diminish your sins. There are those who cut with their swords and those who cut with their words and their indifference."

"I did not need to lift a sword. I inflicted grave injury solely by ignoring the troubles of my people. I was not a merciful king, nor was I wise. I cared only for myself."

"You did not know much love as a child, and this helped shape you into the man you became. Had you been a boy of purer heart, perhaps you would have taken the opportunity to offer to others the love that you did not receive."

"I…I would like to believe there is hope for me. It is true, I have been mostly led by my baser nature, but I have learned much. I cannot forget what I once was. Indeed, I do not wish to, lest I risk becoming it again. I must allow my past to guide me, to serve as a caution."