Chapter Fifteen
Daphne
Iwake to the distinct sensation of being observed. Not romantically, but more like an I can’t look away from the chaotic maiden kind of way. They, whoever they are, are passing their unsolicited opinions on me.
I crack one eye open to find seven beards. That’s new. The varying lengths display a range of braiding techniques, and one even has a decorative pinecone woven in for flair.
“Well,” I murmur into my Hart-shaped pillow, “this is either a cult, or I’ve died again.”
They don’t laugh. Tough crowd.
His arms tighten around me. “Not the pink.”
My lips twitch. What pink disaster is my knight dreaming of? I nudge him awake with my shoulder. The sky is growing lighter, so we must have slept the night away.
“Am I still dreaming?” he grumbles. “Because this has taken a turn for the worse.”
Glad to know the pink whatever it is trumps the seven beards.
“Not dreaming,” I reassure him.
Sir Sweeps-A-Lot spins in an agitated circle before darting inside the tent. A yelp and rustling comes from the open flap before a rumpled Nash and Malachi roll out, alert and ready for battle. When they spot the newcomers, they rush over, their expressions thunderous.
I don’t sense any malicious intent in the bearded folk, but I have a terrible habit of seeing the best in people and sometimes miss the murder in their eyes, or in their case, facial hair.
I push myself upright and take stock.
The closest one polishes his spectacles before sliding them onto his face, magnifying his eyes to owl proportions.
The man next to him scowls like the concept of morning offended him.
I can relate. Maybe he hasn’t discovered the delights of how a good sausage can set you up for the diurnal.
A great sausage puts a pep in your step and makes you feel like you can conquer your annus with gusto.
Malachi draws Excalibur, looking like a man intent on beheading.
Again, if they took a tempo to appreciate the sausage, I’m sure he’d chill a little.
Any food he delights in, really. I realize I don’t know what his favorite food is, but it’s not the time to discuss the finer merits of a good sausage.
I have issues. I need to find a support group or create one. The Society for Unapologetic and Slightly Obsessed Admirers of Glorious Edibles or S.U.S.O.A.G.E.
We will meet at dawn and pretend it’s about breakfast.
The one who hasn’t stopped smiling gives me the creeps. I keep one eye on him while my other blinks at the guy yawning so wide I can see his molars. Another taps a ledger against his palm, while his twin clutches a pickax like a comfort object. Ha, he’s a mini Theo.
The final one blinks at me as if I’m a complicated math problem. He leans forward as if he can see inside me. A blue bird pokes its head out of his beard and chatters in protest.
Malachi grabs Sir Sweeps-A-Lot as he makes a move to swat the bird.
Are they providing wildlife with protective homes? No one who does that is evil, right?
More concerning is the fact that we appear to have grown. “I think we’re giants,” I whisper. “Nobody panic. I didn’t do it, but I will figure it out.”
Malachi snorts. Nash shakes his head and swipes a hand down his face.
“Why are the seven dwarves here?” Hart grumbles. “It’s too early for this.”
Oh, that makes far more sense. Phew, because I don’t think the realm would survive giant me. My hands create enough chaos when they are this size.
The dwarves wait. Expectant. Accusatory.
“Before anyone speaks,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair, “you should know I am not accepting cursed fruit.”
The one with the ledger clears his throat. “We are not here about the fruit.”
“Excellent news, as you’ve given apples a terrible reputation.”
A curl of indigo smoke unfurls between us, smelling of cardamom and singed parchment.
“Oh, good,” I mutter. “We’re summoning things before breakfast.”
The smoke thickens, coils, and then resolves into a familiar, broad-shouldered silhouette adjusting jeweled cuffs as though he has woken unexpectedly. Do genies sleep? Do they lie down? Keep their eyes open? I doubt only horses have that skill.
“I felt a disturbance,” the genie says, scanning the dwarfs, the drawn sword, the bird, and the pinecone. “Either someone has made an ill-advised wish, or you’re about to do something monumental.”
“I’ve done neither,” I reply.
“Yet,” Hart adds.
His gaze flicks toward the dwarves. “Why are they… taller?”
“We’re not,” the grumpy one snaps.
The genie blinks. “Ah. A perception warp. Excellent.” He leans closer to me. “Daphne, why is the narrative flexing?”
“Yet to be determined. You spoiled the big reveal.”
He recoils as if I had reached over and slapped him. “You mean I’m here to witness the beginning of the next disaster?”
I scowl at him. “If you aren’t going to be supportive, you can go straight to your lamp and stay there until you learn some manners.”
Wow, it’s not like me to be this grouchy. I must be hangry.
“Continue,” I urge the dwarves.
The spectacled one steps forward. “Our princess has deviated.”
“Snow?” I check. Best to make sure we’re all speaking about the same royal.
“Yes,” the smiling one says.
“What happened?” I ask.
“She left,” says the yawner.
“With the prince?”
“No.”
“With a hunter?” I try. There’s something about a dude with a knife who falls for the princess.
I’d pick him over a pompous prince. But then again, I do like my men a little rough around the edges.
Soft kisses and caresses are all fine and dandy, but give me a tumble of passion over that any diurnal.
“Also no,” the one with the pickax grumbles as he swings it over his shoulder, making all the knights stiffen with readiness. He needs to be careful where he’s swinging his weapon. Too close, and he’ll find it’s his own head he loses.
They exchange looks. The cheerful one giggles. “She started a glassblowing business.”
I tilt my head. “A what?”
“She says she’s tired of ‘lying in caskets,’” the pickax one explains with air quotes.
I press my fingers to my temples. Fair play. My thoughts skitter to the Snows rotting in the belly of the Hallows castle. They need to be woken and freed from a fairy tale that has forgotten them. I'll add that to my growing list of things that need sorting.
The genie removes his turban, rubs his forehead, then replaces it. “Of course she has,” he groans. “Self-determining princesses. It’s spreading.”
“Spreading?” Nash asks.
“Like glitter,” the genie says with a shrug. “Once it’s loose in the realm, you’ll never sweep it all away.”
Sir Sweeps-A-Lot smacks the genie in the face, making him stop his uninvited commentary on whatever is happening.
Wait… “How did she get out of the casket in the first place?” I wonder.
“There was an incident with some clumsy maiden and a bunch of ugly big dudes,” the happy one says. “We had a spare casket when she found us, but no matter how long she lies in it, she cannot return to slumber.”
She’s that Snow? What are the chances?
“And she got pissed with the pushy fruit-bearing witch,” pickax adds. “But we took care of that.”
I focus on the dwarves. “She declined the apple and the chance of becoming the Snow?”
The ledger dwarf nods. “She’s expressed a desire for autonomy.”
Oh. No, no, no. I’m not quite ready for the fallout. I need my dragon first. I can’t do this while I’m not whole. Everyone needs to give me a few diurnals before causing an uprising or staging a coup.
First sidekicks, now protagonists.
“And you?” I whisper. “Why are you at my campsite at dawn?”
Seven beards bristle, and the blue bird chatters as if it can sense the unease.
The spectacled one gestures at the others. “We have been re-evaluated.”
“By whom?”
“The narrative.”
He means the Idol. He’s just afraid to say it.
The genie inhales. “Don’t say that so casually,” he warns. “When the narrative reassesses its pieces, it’s rarely subtle.”
On that, we can agree.
“And what does the narrative say?” I ask.
The scowling one glares. “That we are interchangeable.”
Rude.
The cheerful one winces. “It suggested we could be replaced by ‘a quirky forest collective with less ego.’”
The genie makes a strangled sound. “Collectives are phase two.”
“Phase two of what?” Hart demands.
“Replacement,” the genie replies flatly. “If the Idols are consolidating, they will simplify first. Compress archetypes. Merge functions. Reduce resistance.”
How does he know so much about this? A matter for another turn without an audience.
The Idols are fighting back by changing up the narrative with previously overlooked creatures who will either be flattered by their attention or clueless to what is becoming of them.
I jump to my feet and start pacing as my thoughts bump into each other and scatter out into the world.
“You built an entire mining economy,” I point out. “Housed a fugitive royal. You even normalized communal living.”
The yawner perks up.
The ledger dwarf nods. “Precisely.”
“You don’t need the narrative. You’re already forging your way in this world. I suggest you follow your path and enjoy the journey.”
Hart catches my hand and tugs me to a stop. “You can’t just go around inciting rebellion,” he mutters.
I shrug. “I’m not. The Idols started it when they replaced their own characters. I’m helping them embrace that brave new future.”
“If that’s the case,” Malachi drawls, sliding Excalibur into the sheath at his side, “then why are you here?”
Me? I’m here to find Theo. Did he forget why we ride at dawn?
“Now we would like names,” the pickax dwarf utters.
That’s the reason?
The air shifts, and the genie’s head snaps toward them. “Absolutely not.” Seven dwarves stare back at him. He points at me. “You cannot name them. You are an Architect. When you name, you anchor. When you anchor, you destabilize the existing weave.”
“You’re being dramatic,” I say.
“I’m aware, not dramatic,” he snaps. “There is a difference.”
This is not small; I know that. But we all deserve names. They have existed as “the seven dwarves” their whole lives. A collective noun. A chorus. A bearded cluster. They want to become individuals.
The forest leans in as it waits with bearded breath for the next twist in this story. Excitement and anticipation pulse around us.
“You understand that once I name you, the story cannot compress you back into a footnote?”
The spectacled one nods while the cheerful one does a little jump. The scowling one pretends not to care, but he’s as eager for this new adventure as his brethren.
“If you name them, you can’t claim them,” Nash warns.
I roll my eyes. Like I don’t have enough sidekicks already to contend with. Does he think I walk around with a permanent opening for more?
“Very well,” I sigh, dropping my hand from Hart’s. “Stand in a line and try to look historically significant.”
They arrange themselves into a line from smallest to largest beards. It’s chaotic, and I love it. No surprises there.
I point to Spectacles. “You are Magnus, because you see what others overlook.” He inhales.
I point to the one with the permanent scowl. “You are Bram, because you endure.” His scowl deepens, which I take as gratitude.
To the cheerful one I say, “You are Lark. You insist on optimism even when it is narratively inconvenient.” I lean down to whisper in his ear. “I can relate. Never let them break the way you see the world.” He beams.
Now the yawner. I squint, seeing his strengths beneath the tired exterior. “You are Soren. You observe before you act.” He straightens and nods with the largest yawn to date.
Next, the ledger dwarf. “You are Tallyn. Keeper of accounts and grievances.” He nods in acceptance.
I twist my lips as I study the pickax dwarf. “You are Garrick. Builder. Breaker. Protector.” His grip tightens on the handle.
And finally, the blinking one. Hardest to read, but if I have Nash figured out, this guy is a breeze. He stares at me as if the meaning of existence is floating just behind my left ear. “You are Ivo, because you think before the world catches up.”
Silence ensues as they accept their unfamiliar names and the knowledge that for the first time, their fate doesn’t lie with the Idols, but in their hands.
They stand a fraction taller. Seven individuals now exist where once there was a collective. Somewhere in the distance, a page tears, and the pieces flutter on the breeze.
The genie closes his eyes. The indigo smoke around him pulses once. “There it is,” he whispers. “The shift.”
The forest trembles with recognition.
“You are free,” I tell them. “Stay with Snow. Start a union. Open a glass empire, whatever you want. But you are no longer interchangeable.”
They each fall to one knee and bow their heads. “Thank you, Architect,” they chorus.
My heart swells. “Don’t kneel, don’t bow, and never put your future into the hands of anyone but who you choose.”
They rise and crowd around me. I glance over their heads at the knights, who wear various masks of amusement.
The rejoicing dwarves lift me off my feet and carry me in a circle. I giggle as they jostle me and sing a joyous song in the deepest voices I’ve ever heard. They no longer need a princess to complete them. They are now with purpose, not merely a device.
They put me down after a few tempos. I glance at the genie, who stares at the lake with his wispy bottom half rippling like the water. “Daphne, if the Idols feel this…” His eyes flick toward the east. Toward the Hallows. “They will answer.”
I have to hope the Idols are busy doing whatever it is they do all annus and not looking at the minor battles beginning to break out across the realm.