Chapter 6 The Hand and Heart of a Prince
The Hand and Heart of a Prince
Araminta found her daughter in the nesting tower, sitting in a pile of feathers.
They did not have much time, but Araminta could not stop herself from pausing to stare at her youngest daughter.
Had Demelza not been of veritas swan lineage, she could have sworn her daughter was a fire bird.
Her hair was molten silk. Her limbs looked stark in the gloom of the nest, as if she was a girl carved from flame and bone.
Alone of her daughters, Demelza resembled Prava not just in features, but faculties too. Demelza could not fly, but she never quite seemed to touch the ground either, for she was always flitting from one fascination to the next.
Long ago, Araminta had glimpsed a snippet of Demelza’s future and she had seen what use her husband would find …
but she had seen Demelza’s determination too.
And it was this that she had tried to hone to a blade, in the hopes that her daughter would outrun any danger.
But it seemed as though all she had done was driven her straight to it.
“Demelza, I am so sorry,” said Araminta.
Demelza looked up. She gasped when she saw her mother and looked her up and down.
“Mother?” said Demelza. “He … he turned you into a swan.”
Araminta honked. “For now. He’ll turn me back. He always does. You know your father. Absolutely useless at finding any of his things. If he wishes for his spectacles and slippers, then I’ll demand the use of my limbs.”
Demelza almost laughed, but she was too stunned by the last hour.
“Ironic, isn’t it? I only wished to be of use and now look at me.”
“It is my fault, dearest,” said Araminta. “In my effort to protect you, I drove you to this.”
The wyvern, who had decided to accompany Demelza to the tower partly for company and mostly to take notes of her demise, chirped:
“At least you may take comfort in knowing your mother loves you.”
Araminta let out a mournful honk. “To think you ever doubted it! Your father and I love you beyond reason, child.”
Araminta longed to stroke Demelza’s hair, but settled for batting her wing across her daughter’s leg.
“Yes, Father’s love is a credit to him,” said Demelza.
“If it makes you feel any better, I believe that once he has achieved immortality, his next project will be reviving you from the dead, an endeavor that he suspects will be futile, but also drive him to despair and remorse, the product of which will cement his place as a tragic legend and fulfill the spell of immortality,” said the wyvern.
“This might shock you, but that does not in fact make me feel better,” said Demelza.
“Your father is a monster,” said Araminta. “But he has never hidden that.”
Demelza drew in a quick, shuddering breath. “How hard is it to fall in love, Mother? Bring me someone. Anyone. What about the toad that Father turned into a secretary? He’ll do fine! I’ll just give my heart away and then he won’t be able to use me—”
Araminta let out a low hiss. “Do you think so little of your heart?”
Demelza cowered.
“The minute I gave your father my heart, my life was doomed,” said Araminta.
“He loves me, but he does not trust me and I do not trust him, and in that way, love is forever a prison. For love to control you is a fate worse than death, and I would sooner let your father carve out your heart if I could spare you that torture.”
Demelza lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mother. I did not mean to be so glib.”
Araminta sighed, and her ruffled feathers smoothed.
“Think of all that I have made sure to teach you, my dear. I did my best to teach you to survive. The rest is up to you. But you will not be without help. Take this.” Araminta dropped a little knife into her lap.
The runes along the blade glinted as Demelza interpreted them.
A blade to cut through anything. Even the mist surrounding the Silent Lakes.
“Go, Demelza,” said Araminta. “Run.”
“What about Father?”
“Let me worry about your father,” said Araminta. “Perhaps I might convince him to turn his attention elsewhere … or perhaps your sisters will send him a different treasure to pursue.”
“But what’s the point?” asked Demelza. “Father can go anywhere. He can rifle through time. I can’t hide from him.”
“There is one place he cannot go,” said Araminta.
“Rathe Castle,” said Demelza, dully. “As I recall it, Father ‘and all of his ghoulish ilk’ were banned from Rathe Castle hundreds of years ago. I think the royal family would be more surprised he has children rather than an actual army of ghouls, but we are not allowed to step foot anywhere near the Castle without—”
“An invitation,” said Araminta.
She curved her neck, her orange bill disappearing in the marble plumage of her breast feathers.
From this, she withdrew what looked like a paper sparrow.
Only it was not made of paper, but sylke, a strange flower that gave its name to the Vale on the other side of the fog that separated the Silent Lakes district from the rest of the Isle.
The blooms of a sylke flower were hardly more than a puff of smoke and the ghost of a sparkle …
but in the hands of a Valer, the sylke could become anything.
A skilled Vale tailor could sew his will into the cloth, such that the hem of a gown as blue-green as the sea might ebb and flow like the waves.
Sylke was an impressionable bloom, and to braid the petals with will and words could conjure a thousand short-lived marvels.
It was what made the Vale the cradle of the Isle’s fashions and arts.
But then what was it doing here?
The fog that Prava had raised at the borders of his territory was near impenetrable.
“I could sense something had gotten lost near our borders,” said Araminta, when she saw the shock in Demelza’s gaze.
“But Father—”
“Your father was clever enough to trap me, but I am not a docile prisoner, my dear. Now hush. Listen.”
When the sylke sparrow shook out its wings, it sounded like the rustle of dry leaves.
Its wings were edged in gold and when it hopped across the stones to Demelza’s fingertips, she recognized the shadow of the royal seal—three interlocked stars—and gasped.
The sparrow opened its mouth and an invitation sang out, ringing through the tower and shaking the flowers overhead:
Hear ye, hear ye!
King Eustis, Queen Yzara and the Isle of Malys
Hereby request the presence of all eligible and interested maidens
To compete in a contest of beauty, power and grace
For the hand and heart of Prince Arris