The Hostage Prince (5 page)

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.

A
spen 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 back down the great stairs to the feast.

*  *  *

N
OW 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.

O
ut 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 forward 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.

All this Philomel dutifully reported in her increasingly too-loud voice, as if she believed the door kept her every utterance a secret from the queen.

“Golly, she's big!” said Philomel, maybe meaning the troll, maybe meaning the queen. It was unclear to all of them.

It was also the last thing she was ever to say.

Lightning—or the hot, blue, magical equivalent of lightning—streamed through the keyhole, lit Philomel up for a moment till she looked like a star, and then struck her dead.

The room rocked with thunder. Every bit of Yarrow's carefully arranged fire circles was scattered. The lumpy mattress slipped unaccountably through the arrow slit, landing four stories down in the garden below, though no one thought such a thing possible.

On one side of the door, Yarrow was lifted in the air and tossed the length of the room to hit the wall with an ugly thud.

On the other side the three midwives were treated the same. Only they didn't hit the wall.

They hit Snail.

All that saved her was that she managed to curl into a ball as the three sizable midwives hurtled at her. They squashed her against the wall and she lay still, trying to consider each individual bone, hoping nothing was broken. Finally, she came to the conclusion that everything was whole—with the possible exception of her pride.

But as no one dared move for long minutes, Snail was afraid that having no broken bones wouldn't matter. Instead, she would certainly end up crushed. Together, the midwives weighed almost as much as any troll
.

She wiggled a finger painfully. After a long minute, she was able to move her right arm a bit. Once that arm was free, she was able to shift to one side so that her left arm could move as well. At last, with two free arms, she was able to drag herself out from under the midwives, though she was immediately exhausted by the effort.

That was when she heard a strange sound—
like a pig in labor
, she thought—coming from across the room. She knew what laboring pigs sounded like. Apprentice midwives got to practice on them before being allowed into any fey birthing room.

Looking around, she realized it was Yarrow making the ghastly noise.

Well, at least she's alive,
Snail thought
. I won't have to clean the whole room up myself.

But even that thought was a bit unwelcome. Yarrow was now whimpering so loudly, Snail was sure the queen, with her supersensitive hearing, would strike again.

“Shhhh,” Snail hissed at her. “Shhhhhh!” and pointed to the door.

Yarrow's whimpering moderated a bit but never stopped.

As nothing more was heard from the door, no more lightning through the keyhole, no ogres or Red Caps coming in to eat them whole, Snail got to her hands and knees. She was pleased that—except for an extremely dirty pair of hands and her hair being all askew—she was fine.
Nothing broken, nothing torn, nothing past saving.

She stood up slowly, then went over to the door, and knelt by poor Philomel's remains, though all that was left of her was a bit of dust and a silver locket.

Oddly, Snail felt a tear in her eye. She wiped it brusquely away.

Hrmph!
she thought
. I hardly knew her, and what I did know I didn't much like.
But a push in the back didn't warrant such an awful end
.
Snail knew she'd wanted revenge, but not this. Not just a pile of dust in a cold room.

Another tear came and dripped down onto the silver locket. It sizzled and disappeared where it hit. Snail was glad she hadn't touched the thing. It obviously wasn't cool yet, or free of the queen's magic. Sometimes silver could hold the remnants of a spell for hours and even be dangerous a day later.

Wiping her eyes, she stood up.

It's just this place. So much random pain and . . . and . . . meanness!
She thought of Nettle and his pranks.
Not on the same level as the queen's anger, of course. But still . . .

She moved her right shoulder, which was beginning to stiffen up
.
Then,
sighing, she turned back to look at the midwives. They seemed fine, if a bit shaken. Their eyes were wide open, watching her. But they didn't look like they dared move yet.

Fine—lie there in a pile like sows after a feeding,
she thought.
But if I'm going to die, I'd rather it was while I was doing something.

Not that there was much to do. The room had been destroyed, and wouldn't be suitable for
any
birthing, let alone the queen's.

She glanced down at the locket and dust.
There's nothing I can do for Philomel now.

Hearing a whimper, she remembered Yarrow, and started toward her. “Are you all right?” she whispered when she got close.

She knew already the answer would be “No!” Yarrow's usual response to her, but she bent over to inspect her anyway. Snail could see that Yarrow's left foot was bruised and swelling—possibly not broken, but obviously badly injured. There was also a bump the size of a falcon's egg on her forehead, and it seemed to be growing fast.

Yarrow looked up at her, eyes struggling a bit to focus. Then she scrunched her forehead and spit at Snail, “This is all
your
fault!”

“How?” Snail gasped, straightening up in amazement. “How is this
my
fault?”

“You were spying first! If you hadn't been spying, she'd never have thought of it. She wasn't that bright.
You
got Philomel killed!”

Snail bit her lip. There was some truth in what Yarrow said.

“Yes!” Mistress Treetop called from the midwife pile. “You got my apprentice killed!”

Then Yoke struggled to her feet and scuttled over to her wounded apprentice. “There, there, my dear girl,” she said, “we'll make sure that nasty Snail gets her comeuppance.”

With a wrinkled, clawed hand she patted Yarrow's midnight hair.

“But I . . .” Snail could think of nothing to say in her own defense so she turned to Mistress Softhands in the hope of finding some support there. But her midwife was just staring at the door, as if somehow blaming
it
for all that had happened.

Slumping to the floor, Snail let the buzz of the three women all talking at once fade into a cicada's nighttime trill. They were blaming her for everything—from the troll's slipping to the queen's mood to the lightning through the door. It didn't help to listen further.

Snail felt like whimpering herself. Like her namesake, she'd begun to pull herself into a kind of shell, curling away from the others, when there was a sudden knock on the door.

Three raps, two, three.
The signal
. All unaccountably, and quite beyond reason, the queen had chosen their chamber.

Without giving it further thought, Snail went over and opened the door.