The Hostage Prince (15 page)

“Well . . . I heard . . .” Snail began, then immediately shut up. There was something here that needed thinking about, not speaking about. Even to the prince. She turned her head to see what he'd heard.

But Aspen had fallen fast asleep, as if after the long and difficult night in the troll's cave, the battle with the hedge had exhausted him completely.

She turned back to the farm boy. “And may it stay that way for all the rest of the years of your life. And mine.” Though she was not sure if by saying it she was making a wish or laying a curse.

Either way, the farm boy seemed pleased with her statement, and in companionable silence, they made the rest of the blessedly short trip to the king's castle.

T
he cart hit a rut and Aspen's head bounced against the shoulder he had fallen asleep on. Opening his eyes with a start, he realized the shoulder had been Snail's. He wondered when she had climbed in back, and he glanced at her guiltily. She was staring at him with an expression he could not read. He tried to figure out something to say, but failed to think of anything appropriate.

Thank you for your service as a pillow? Sorry for drooling on your shoulder?

The thank-you seemed overly formal for two boon traveling companions; the apology not warranted considering their relative stations. He refused to embarrass himself either way, but still worried about the right thing to say. For some reason, talking to the apprentice midwife was more difficult than talking to the princesses Sun and Moon.

And by Oberon! That was difficult enough.

He was saved further struggle by Snail speaking up first.

“Is that . . . ?” she began, pointing up the road.

Aspen followed her gaze and saw Astaeri Palace rising up over the horizon. The seat of the Seelie Court had been built to be impressive when seen from any angle, but approaching from the main road it was especially inspiring. While the Unseelie capital fortress was frightening in its sheer martial hugeness, Astaeri Palace inspired with sweeping arches and sky-thrust towers. Its walls were bone white, its windows mirrored, its roofs tiled in blue and green. There were golden gutters called eaves troughs and bronze gargoyle rainspouts long gone green. From the tops of the many towers, with their bronze top hats, also greened over, brightly colored banners fluttered halfway to the horizon. In the gardens decorative fountains shot cascades of water high into the air to sprinkle the huge topiaries based on creatures both real and imagined.

“Yes,” Aspen said, “Astaeri Palace.” But he was thinking,
Home.

Snail eyed the palace critically. “It's a bit much, don't you think? All those statues and towers and . . .”

“I suppose it would certainly seem so to a
servant,”
Aspen replied haughtily. But he immediately regretted the angry words when he saw the look on Snail's face, part anger and part pain. He was certain it would turn to a glare in a moment. He wondered why he should care. He put it out of his mind, and squared his shoulders, calling to the farmer's lad in the front seat in as imperious a tone as he could muster, “Go, boy! Now! Go!”

Surprised, the boy clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, slapped the reins against the goat's back, and the creature startled and sprang forward.

Snail had to grab on to Aspen to keep from falling out. He decided to say nothing this time, thinking only that now they were even, and he need not worry about offending her again.

*  *  *

T
HE RIDE UP
the long road to the castle was straight, and eventually the goat slowed back down to its original pace. Of course it was not as strong as one of the oxen back in the Unseelie Court, nor even as strong as their warhorses.
Though
—and Aspen chuckled when thinking of it—
warhorses would never be put into traces to pull. As soon marry a dairy maid to a prince
.

Finally, still a good half a league from the castle, the goat stopped altogether, but the prince, in his joy to finally be home, forgot all decorum and grabbed Snail by her hand and dragged her from the cart.

“Thank you, good peasant,” he called to the goat-cart boy, hoping Snail heard him using the P word without scorn, “we will go the rest of the way by foot.”

They moved quickly along, not speaking at all, saving their breath. Not even when they passed handcarts piled high with vegetables in withy baskets. Or passed others filled with woven goods drawn by spavined horses whose knees knocked together. They were silent the whole way, for Aspen's eyes were on the castle, though he kept hold of Snail's wrist as if she were some sort of prize he dared not lose.

When they were almost to the tall wooden gate studded with bronze spikes, Aspen could no longer contain himself. He began running toward the palace, pulling Snail along with him.

“Wait, I can't run that fast!” Snail complained, but Aspen just laughed, running faster, never letting go of her wrist.

“Come, Snail, you must not keep the lords and ladies waiting for me.” And then in sheer exuberance, he just shouted one word, the important one: “Home!”

Workmen, traders, peasants, and peddlers all shuffled off the road to make way for the crazed boy, most shaking their heads at the folly of both royalty and youth.

“Good morrow!” he called to them, and “Good E'en,” and “Good whatever!” and began laughing even harder when he realized he had no idea of the time. Nor did he care that he did not know. Being home whatever the time was all that mattered.

And finally Snail was laughing with him. Wriggling out of his wrist hold, she grabbed his hand and held it tightly, as if they were of the same class and she had every right to do such a thing.

Aspen realized with a pleasant jolt that he was happy for the first time in as long as he could remember. Not just a little bit happy, but totally happy.

They reached the gates panting and giggling and full of a kind of giddy relief.

Stopping suddenly, Aspen pulled sharply on Snail's hand and slipped out of her grasp. He looked up into the stern face of a young captain of the guards. Two more guards stood close behind him. Their uniforms all had gold buttons and bangles shining so brightly in the sun. They were hard to look at.

“Good whatever, Captain,” Aspen chuckled while Snail performed what he realized was a true courtly bow.

Perhaps some of my manners have finally rubbed off on her.

“What is the meaning of this?” barked the captain, no trace of humor in his voice.

There's something about that voice, that face . . .

Aspen took a closer at the guard's face and a wide grin jumped to his lips. “Why, Gann! Do you not recognize me?”

Gann peered down at Aspen, who waited patiently until the spark of knowledge lit Gann's face.

“By the ancient trees, Bran! Is that you?”

“Yes, brother, it is,” Aspen answered. Then he was engulfed in the older boy's arms and he hugged him back. Both their shoulders were wet from tears, but their eyes were dry when they released the hug, both holding on until they had gotten their emotions under control. The other guards glanced away and made no comment.

“Mother will be overjoyed.” Gann held Aspen by the arms and looked at him. Frowning, he said, “You look hard-used by your travels. Did those Unseelie blackguards not send a proper escort when they released you? And when did they release you? I had not heard word.”

Aspen shook his head vigorously. “They did not release me, brother. I escaped. With war starting, I was to be executed.”

“
War
?” Gann scoffed. “There has been no hint of war.”

The guards behind him suddenly leaned into the conversation.

“But, I was told . . .”

“You were told wrong.” Gann's voice was oddly cold.

The guards' expressions suddenly changed as if they were suddenly on high alert. Their hands on the hafts of their spikes turned white at the knuckles.

Aspen couldn't fathom it. Jack Daw had told him . . .

Jack Daw had lied.

The enormity of what the old drow had done hit Aspen like a troll's fist and his knees buckled. It was Snail who grabbed his arm to steady him, and for once he did not shake her off.

“I . . . I . . .” he said, but couldn't think of what to say further.

“We need to speak to Father.” Gann's face gave nothing away. But his voice was no longer that of a brother's. He sounded like a distant stranger. An enemy.

Aspen nodded mutely and, guided by Snail's hand, trudged into the palace he had been ready to skip into just moments before.

*  *  *

T
HEY WALKED DOWN
the long, polished halls and Aspen did not try to look around, remembering, but rather stared ahead as if to be certain he did not trip and fall. He wanted to be princely, stately, brave, for whatever lay ahead.

I will not think about it
, he thought, though he could not help thinking, worrying, gnawing at the worry like a dog on an old bone, looking for meat where there was none.

When at last they entered the throne room, they were marching at a morose and slow pace, like a tiny funereal procession, just the five of them in order: Gann, Aspen, Snail, and the two guards from the gates. Aspen thought Gann had given the guards some kind of signal, for they had spread out a little, grasping their weapons in a way to be a little more ready.

As if I am a prisoner, not a returning son.
Which, he supposed, he might be.

Unlike Gann, the queen recognized her youngest child at once.

“Bran!” she shouted. “Oh, my dearest Ailenbran!” She leapt off her throne and started toward him.

“Halt!” shouted the king. “What is the meaning of this?”

But his mother did not halt. Instead, she ran to his side and drew him to her with her left hand, the heart hand, to signal their connection, though not quite embracing him because they were, in fact, in the company of others.

His mother. She who had been so tall when he left was now shorter than he by several inches, though otherwise exactly as he remembered. Her thin features, softened by her kind nature, were still beautiful though centuries old. She had long red hair piled on her head in complex braids, and green eyes that had been written about in ballads because they were so unusual.

On the other hand, his father was sitting on the throne with his shoulders hunched, leaning forward and scowling—which was not what Aspen remembered of him. The king was extraordinarily fleshless for so powerful a man, and short for an elf, as if the crown weighed him down, stunting his growth. It looked especially heavy on him now as he frowned at Aspen, lips thin and bloodless beneath the white moustache.

Gann seemed about to speak, but Aspen stepped in front of him.

“I have returned, Father,” he said.

“Yes, I see that.” The king stood and looked about to step down from the dais, but quickly stopped himself. He shuddered slightly.

A mountain trembling
, Aspen thought.

“But why, boy?”

Aspen slipped the leash of his mother's grip and moved a step closer to the throne. “I was told that war was upon us.”

“You were
told
 . . . ?” The king sat back down heavily. “Oh, Son, would that I had warned you of politics. But you were so young, and I thought they would not—could not—involve you.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. Aspen was surprised to see how pink his father's scalp showed beneath the white hair.

His father went on. “Still, Obs is not clever enough for this . . .”

“Jack Daw.” Aspen spit out the name as if it soured his mouth.

The king nodded. “Oh yes, Old Jack Daw. Peace always sits uneasily on that one's shoulders. He is not so different from the rest of his drow clan. They eat their nest mates, you know. He has often come here to court to report on your condition and to try and foment rebellion against me. Only his status as Obs's envoy has kept him safe from my assassins. This is his kind of game exactly.”

“Obs's envoy?”
Jack had never told me any of that
. “I thought he was my friend.”

“You had no friends in that place. Would that I had warned you of that.”

“You may have, and I forgot,” Aspen said, wanting his father to have no guilt about what had happened, yet in a deeper part of his mind, wishing to make him feel guiltier.

“You were too young to understand. I said nothing.”

“So then, Father, what does this mean? I only came here because I wished to avoid execution.” Aspen tried to keep his voice even, but he knew it was on the verge of breaking. As was he.

He tried to meet his father's eyes, but the king looked away. So too did his mother, for she was busy giving the king a look that was half fury, half pleading.

“Do you not see, Son?” the king said, more to the wall than to Aspen. “You have brought the very thing you wanted to avoid upon yourself. And you may have doomed us all as well.”

For the first time, Aspen thought of something other than his own fate. Had he, indeed, a prince of the Seelie folk, brought disaster to his own realm? He could not believe it was true. He could not live should it be true.

Not being privy to Aspen's inner thoughts, the king now spoke to Gann not as his son but as the captain of the guards. “Ailenbran is your prisoner. He has brought war to a land woefully unprepared for it and has traitorously broken his word to his monarch. And as that injured monarch, I must do as the law prescribes.”

Looking aghast, Gann just nodded. The two guards stepped to either side of Aspen and grabbed his arms roughly.