The Fairy Letters: A FROST Series(TM) Novel (5 page)

I
wonder, sometimes, about your painting. Your talent was prodigious, although
you were too young to attain the kind of mastery I later learned. What if you
had stayed longer in the palace, Breena? What if you had learned more of fairy
art? Could you have learned how to build bridges between our two worlds – could
those portraits I know you painted of me in your adolescence have come to life,
despite not being crafted with fairy paints; could those images of Feyland have
recalled you home – to and with me, where you belonged? I dream sometimes of
your finding your way back to me – some summer evening – painting our secret
orchard and then slipping with me through our paintings into such a world?
Perhaps the paintings, at least, would have jolted your memories – reversed the
forgetting-spell placed upon you when you left Feyland to alleviate the pain of
your departure – and then, when you remembered all that you had left behind,
you would – perhaps – have called to me.

And I
would have heard you.

Letter 5

My Dearest
Breena,

How
happy I was in those days! How happy we both were! We barely understood what it
meant to be engaged, but yet we shared in the promise of our shared future a
unique and unspeakable bond. How fondly I recall the last few weeks we shared
together, when you were staying with us at the Winter Court, your mother and
mine forging a similar bond as they watched us grow together. How idyllic life
seemed to me then – I forgot about the mysterious goings-on of the outside
world: wars and rebellions and chaos and troubles that my mother and father had
sometimes hinted at in hushed tones. I forgot that I was destined to be a
fighter, a warrior – I wanted only to remain in the happy cocoon of childhood,
nestled there together with you, studying art and playing games of telepathy
and experiencing the kind of childhood to which I, as a fairy and as a Prince,
was never really entitled.

The
first rumblings of discord came a few months after Raine's and your arrival at
the Winter Court. Raine was on her knees, trying in vain to plead with us to
stop painting (our painting had turned into playful roughhousing, and the walls
of the nursery and our clothing alike was covered in shimmering fairy paint)
and to come downstairs for dinner. “Is this how a little prince behaves?” She
tried to shake a wagging, disapproving finger at us both, but her expression
made clear that her sympathies were fully with our own.

“Five
more minutes!” we pleaded in chiming unison. “Just let us finish this one
painting.” We were working together on a grand map of Feyland, one that showed
the Summer and Winter castles side by side, each beautiful and majestic,
shining with the magic of the paints.

Just
as Raine was on the verge of giving in, her smiling expression making clear
that we had won her over with our twinned eagerness, my mother strode in, her
expression firm and icy.

“I
must speak with you immediately,” she turned to Raine. “There is no time!
Hurry!” She gave us a pointed look. “Stay there!” she commanded me, in a voice
that made it clear she would be far less inflexible than Raine had been. She
turned on her heel and marched out, Raine scurrying after her.

“What's
going on?” you asked me.

Of
course, as terrifying as my mother's silvery stare was, no amount of maternal
pressure, regal or otherwise, was going to get in the way of sating my
curiosity. Trading our intentions in a quick stream of telepathic thoughts, we
crept down the corridor, using all the magical powers we possessed to silence
our footsteps, until we were close enough to hear my mother and Raine, who were
conversing in hushed tones on the landing of the staircase.

“But
are you quite sure?” Raine was saying. “I mean – could this be a trick? Some
deceit of the pixies?” her voice was shaky with fear.

“No,
indeed,” my mother furrowed her brow. “It is one of my most trusted soldiers –
he says it's true. In an effort to quell the uprising in the Spring lands,
Summer has marched not only into Spring – massacring a good number of their
rebels – but also killed a good portion of the protective forces we sent into the
region.”

“But
– it was an accident, surely...?”

“No
accident,” my mother's voice was harsh and cold. “They passed beyond the Spring
borders and into Winter territory – raiding one of our villages near the
border.”

“No!”
Raine clapped a hand over her mouth. “He would never, Frank would never...”

“Flametail,
as I understand it,” my mother said, raising an eyebrow, “was not consulted on
the matter. He was not in the palace when the decision was made – a decision
made by Redleaf and Redleaf alone. Not that she'd admit it, of course. My
sources tell me that she made it quite clear to the soldiers on all sides that
Flametail had made the decision to go on the offensive.”

“But
where was Frank?” My mother pleaded. “Why would he have left Redleaf alone –
alone to…”

“I'm
right here!” A booming voice echoed up the stairs. Flametail was bounding up
the stairs, his ginger hair brighter than usual in the candlelight. “Raine, I'm
so sorry – so sorry...I couldn't bear being without you another moment – I
wanted to visit you in secret...I missed you so much...”

“Well,
this is a mess,” my mother said archly.

“Frank,
how could you leave Redleaf alone? Knowing what she'd do – knowing how much she
wanted to stir up discord?”

“I
never knew it was this bad...” Frank shook his head. “I know you tried to warn
me – but I thought it was just...” he gave a deep sigh. “Petty jealousy on both
sides – I should have listened...should have known better.” His shoulders hung
down limply, his stance burdened with guilt.

“You've
put me in a dreadfully awkward position,” the Queen said. “By coming here just
when news of your attack has been announced – by all rights I should keep the
three of you hostage.”

“Daddy...”
I heard you whisper softly – but the name was strange to you. I couldn't help
but wonder how long it had been since you had seen this man who so loved your
mother, and yet who could never quite find the strength to do the bravest
thing.

“No!”
Raine cried. “No – I've had enough of this! Frank – I've loved you, you know
that, but I cannot allow Breena to be put at risk.”

“Raine,”
Flametail's voice was coaxing and soft. “We'll sort this – I'll divorce
Redleaf, denounce her as a traitor...”

“And
do you think anyone would believe you?” My mother scoffed. “Your policies about
Spring and Autumn have been divisive for decades – and I can bet you the life
of this kingdom that my people will be crying out for vengeance for the
bloodshed wreaked by this latest attack. They will demand that we retaliate –
and if you try to avoid responsibility for the attack, they will think you are
a liar and a coward as well as a murderer. Even I believe in your innocence
only on the strength of Raine's testimony to your character – you're foolish,
even stupid, but you're not smart enough to be a murderer.” The words stung,
and I heard you whimper. I wrapped my arms around you, wishing that I could
close your ears from these difficult sounds.

“Then
what do we do?” Flametail looked hopelessly at the women around him, waiting
for an answer.

“Raine
and the girl must leave Feyland immediately,” said my mother. “They aren't safe
here – not with the hatred engendered against them as members of the Summer
Court, and they certainly won't be safe at the Summer Court. How easy it would
be for any one of Redleaf's courtiers to get away with murder and pin it on
us...”

“No...”
my mother whispered.

“They
will leave Feyland tonight.” My mother decided. “As for you, Flametail – I fear
holding you in this prison will cause more trouble than it is worth. We may yet
be able to reach a peaceful settlement – in time – if you go back to the Summer
Court and try to put things right. Perhaps we can fight a few battles – just
enough to kill enough of your men to match ours – and then the people's
bloodlust will be quenched.”

“Kill
my men? How can you even think of such a thing? They're my soldiers, aren't
they?”

“For
God's sake, Frank!” Raine grew angry. “Couldn't you have thought of that before
running off here...?” Her face grew flushed. “I love you – you know I love you
– but not enough to let this war start up for my sake.”

“If
you leave the castle in disguise,” my mother said to Flametail. “Nobody will
know you've been here. Return at once to the Summer lands and we will try –
goodness only knows how – to sort out this mess. As for you,” she glared at
Raine. “We'll need to get her out of here – now!”

“No!”
I cried, forgetting that we were meant to be hiding. “No, you can't take her
away from me!” The idea of losing you – not merely to the other side of
Feyland, but rather to a world so distant it could only be imagined – felt as
if the tremors of an earthquake were splitting apart my soul.

Our
parents turned to look at us.

“Kian!”
My mother cried. “I told you to stay...”

“Please!”
I pleaded, and your voice joined mine. “Don't take her away – please don't take
her away...she's my bride...I love her.”

The
words stopped my mother short. Her face turned pale, and her eyes shone icy
blue and silver. “And look at these two.” She made a contemptuous gesture at
Flametail and Raine. “Look where love got them.” She rushed forward, grabbing
your arms, and dragging you forward. “It's the only way, girl,” she said. “We
need you out of here – and we need you safe. It's for your own good.”

“You
can't take her!” Flametail's voice echoed mine. “She's my daughter. I love
her...”

“Frank,”
my mother whispered, taking his hand. “If you love her, let me keep her
safe...”

His
great, ursine frame seemed to melt into the floor as grief overtook him. “I've
been selfish, Raine,” his voice shook. “If there's one thing I can do to fix
this – if there's one unselfish thing I can do...I'll do it now...”

He
came over to you. “Goodbye, Breena,” he whispered, kissing the top of your
head.

“Daddy!”
you cried, your voice rising higher and higher. “Daddy, what's happening?”

“One
day,” he whispered to you, and although Raine and my mother could not hear it,
your thoughts transmitted the words to me. “You will be a greater queen than I
ever was king. I promise you that.” He looked up to my mother. “Please,” he
said. “One favor. I don't want her to suffer – I don't want her to miss me,
miss this. Make her...make her forget.”

“It
will be done,” said my mother, and with that the three adults rushed from the
room, carrying you – still screaming in their arms.

“Breena!”
I felt myself call the name, but in my pain I was insensible to myself – less a
being than a disembodied sense of agony, of loss, with no direction and no
reality – only a single, unending rhythm of pain. “Breena! Breena! Breena!”

Letter 6

My
dearest Breena,

And
then you were gone, and it was eight years before I saw you again. You had the
blessing – and the curse – of my mother's memory spell. You remembered nothing
of our sweet and happy childhood together. But I remembered. I lived with the
memory every day – the memory of a beautiful face with kind, penetrating eyes.
The memory of my soul coming to meet its twin in the purple orchards of the
Summer Court, of our two loves – stronger than the strongest magic in Feyland –
uniting together – at first, these memories overwhelmed me, so that when I woke
in the morning, I saw before me not the events of the day but rather memories
of the days that had been. When I breakfasted, I breakfasted with you, and
tasted the berries and oranges of the Summer Court even as I ate the thick
slabs of brown bread and heavy eggs of my own kingdom. When I drew and painted
and fenced in my lessons, I imagined that the figure beside me, teaching me,
accompanying me, was not that of my tutor or of my fellow-pupils, but rather of
you – your lithe form alongside me, accompanying me, whispering to me, giving
me strength.

But
all that was soon to change. For as I grew from a lad into a warrior, my
concerns changed too. Art lessons, at my mother and father's behest, were
abandoned for lessons in military strategy; history of Feyland lessons were
abandoned in favor of more fighting lessons. The whole tone and tenor of the
palace was different, now. Where before, the solemnity of the Winter Court had
been somber, but beautiful, now the whole palace and its grounds reverberated
with danger. A war was coming. We could feel it. My mother and my father grew
colder and more distant than ever – I rarely saw them, so locked away were they
in the royal ante-chambers, trying desperately to arrange alliances with giants
or dragons to protect their interests, trying desperately to avoid war.

It
had seemed, at first – a brief glimmer of hope – that war could be avoided. For
the first six months after the attack, my mother and father executed some
skillful diplomacy – the Summer Court gave up its claims on the furthest
reaches of the Spring lands, which officially were given up to Winter, and we
hoped against hope that this would be enough. After all, the palace gossip went
– it was Redleaf who was our enemy, not Flametail – not that the populace of
the Winter kingdom knew that.