The prince paused, unsure. The cobbled street was a river of reflected silver this night, marred only by the harsh angles of his shadow. Amid the derelict buildings, his polished appearance and dignified poise jarred. An expression of deep unease rested on his fine, elegant features; he had long since lost his way in the warren of streets, buildings and bridges. Shivering in the frigid cold, breath misting in the air, he surveyed his surroundings. There were no lanterns, or artificial light, indeed he had long since left the populated areas and ventured now into realms where even his sovereign rule held no sway.
Follow the trail of the moon’s blood,the message had said, instigating a hasty departure from the revelry. A pile of crumpled, discarded finery glimmered at the edge of a secret tunnel, the only sign of his haste. A path outlined in silver stretched away from it, leading him to the meeting place. Inconspicuously clothed, he had followed it, eyes darting about, wondering if anyone else noted the shining road. It soon became apparent that only he could see the path. He felt a deep foreboding, at this sign of witchery, serving to remind him that he dealt with unholy powers best left alone. Nor was it randomly chosen, this passage way. It had led out and away from the palatial parties and wealthy quarters where no sign of wear or tear showed. Into shadowed streets and darkened alleys, he had been led, along avenues filled with the homeless, the beggars, the poor: women and children. The war had not been easy on these, their young men and working husbands taken, maimed, killed.
The women and children in the street, unable to pay taxes and unaided by a cash-less treasury, were left to the mercy of the vagrants. The prince’s jaw tightened in anger as he recalled their avid staring at his clothing, their unshielded bodies bearing the brunt of the harsh winter cold. The wailing of women clutching small, blue forms still echoed in his ears: but always, he strode onward, never faltering. He bore the weight of their grief on his back, their tears and expectations, but the Empire had to go on. Sacrifices had to be made and he accepted this hard truth. He had continued, withdrawn. Now finally he stood, stamping his feet and blowing hard on his numb fingers, at the end of the trail.
Come on, where are you Patrick?! Even as he thought it, a shadow detached itself from a wall, striding fluidly toward him. He stifled instinctive recoil, mastering his surprise. “Patrick!” he hissed. “What the devil took you so long?” He was angry now; he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be frightened so easily. Patrick had always been a fey child though; constantly disappearing and reappearing at odd intervals. That hadn’t stopped the page boy and the heir apparent from becoming fast friends however, becoming life long friends despite the gulf in status.
“Apologies, master,” Patrick said, smoothly doffing his bowler hat. “I was delayed by noble patrons seeking after your health.” Ah yes, the ruse that had allowed him to withdraw from the ball. Silence stretched now between them, neither wanting to make the first move. Patrick leaned forward, hair platinum blonde in the light and emerald eyes locked onto royal blue: “Are you ready for this, William?” A fraught whisper, filled with fear.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” William said softly. “Now where do we go?” They stood now, in the shadow of a bridge.
“Don’t you see, William?” Patrick said in a strained voice. “We’re already there.” Indeed, he saw now with piercing clarity. The shadow around them shifted and flowed, cold was replaced with warmth and walls now enclosed them. He shivered at the strangeness of it all, staring about him in morbid curiosity. Exquisite music danced through the room, with its grime smeared wood panelling, hard packed dirt for a floor, and incongruously, a lovely hand crafted oak table that gleamed in the spluttering light of a single candle. There was only one seat. Its occupant was shrouded in shadow; the feeble light only allowing glimpses: dark hair, a fine elegant hand—inch long nails gently scraping on the tabletop and one piercing eye that glittered strangely.
“You’ve come, on the hour twain the death of one night and the birthing of another morn, seeking answers to which you have no right.” Whispered words, issued it seemed from a thousand mouths, flocking about, beating at them. “What do you offer in exchange?”
The heat, previously welcomed, bore down on them now, an unseen snake that smothered in the darkness. Sweat beading on his brow, William licked his lips and opened his mouth to respond. Before he could say anything however, Patrick stepped forward and knelt on both knees. “Milord, we beg of you this indulgence. In our hour of desperation, your generosity will not be forgotten.” he said, eyes on the floor. From seemingly nowhere, he pulled forth a rolled bundle, unfurled it and revealed a meagre bread roll and wheel of cheese. William stiffened in princely outrage; he was no peasant to offer so poor an exchange! He didn't hear the soft sigh from the other, nostalgic for recognition and worship.
He burst out, impulsive. "Please, Honoured Sir, disregard my servant's ill-advised offering! I am no peasant: I offer riches and land!"
Silence, but for the beautiful music which made for a sorrowful backdrop and beneath this; the gentle scrape, scrape, scrape of nail on wood. Then, "Is that so?" Again, they were buffeted by the thousand fold voice, but it was softer this time, with an undercurrent of amusement. Patrick, unnoticed, withdrew his offering, shuffling back out of view in humiliated silence.
William drew himself up. "Yes."
The figure straightened. "Very well. Do you, William Avan Norotir, willingly bind yourself to this agreement?" The one eye visible burned now like a tiny sun, illuminating his soul, his secrets.
He swallowed. "Yes."
The invisible violinist paused, as if on some unspoken cue. "Who stands as surety?"
"I do." -- This from the still kneeling Patrick.
"Then so be it."
The prince tensed, wary. But there was no flash of light or dramatic thunderclap, no pentagram of flames or blood sacrifice. He felt himself relax, releasing a pent up breath.
A grim chuckle came from the other then, as if he heard the prince's thoughts. “I have no need for gimmicks, young prince, but know this. Break your word and your soul will be mine. Now then, ask of me what you will.”
And there it was. The thing he had worked so hard towards, the reason for all the secrecy and this clandestine meeting in the dark heart of the empire. His hands trembled just at the thought of being so close. The jittery bird that fluttered in his chest burst free then:
"I want the war to the end, this feud to be done with and peace to be achieved at last!" And now the veneer of royal invulnerability cracked; desperation in his face and voice clear. “Please, I’ll do anything.”
The nails clicked once, and the music resumed.
He fell to his knees then, no longer a prince, just a man. He stared at this otherworldly being, pleading with his eyes for understanding … for forgiveness. His pride and vanity had caused this war. There was to be peace amid a glorious union of empires. But he had seen the royal princess of that other nation, and she had not been to his liking. Plump and pallid, with frumpy clothes and a dismissive attitude, she irked him from the very beginning. Tall, athletic, with chiselled good looks and brilliant blue eyes, he was far too good for her! He had flown into a terrible rage on catching sight of her and eventually she had fled home in tears. The shame of it almost stopped his heart now. A furious round of diplomacy, threats and shouted promises, bred war then. Every day from then onward, he was dogged by nightmares:
He saw again, the legions of men, marching out with pride; then flew over bodies broken and bloody in fields of gore. Women and children in the street, crying for help, for even a blanket to wrap those terribly still, icy blue forms. All the while his nobles danced and laughed and partied the night away. And it was his fault that his family was hounded by assassins and his people died in the streets, that two empires bled and hungered. The guilt had finally been too much and he had sought help.
The nails clicked once more; it seemed a decision had been made. The shadowy figure reached down, pulling something upward and placing it on the table. It was a doll, beautifully crafted, porcelain white, with bouncing golden curls. But the eyes … William felt a wave of goose bumps prickle all over as he saw two very real grey pupils staring back at him. A world of horror existed there, of pain and loneliness and sadness beyond bearing. He turned away, tears pricking his eyes.
“Ah, you have noticed my treasure. Is she not exquisite?” The hand was stroking the doll now; its eyes rolled up in obvious pleasure and the demon shuddered. William felt sick, seeing this, and he couldn’t help wonder how she had come to this.
“Her father lost a wager, you see… wouldn’t pay the price. So an exchange was made, and his daughter sold,” the demon said, the echoed whispers somewhat subdued now. “She is my companion now. But I long for another; someone to partner the Dark Dance with me.” The demon’s words came back to him then, about owning his soul. Before he could think more on this, the thing moved. The doll stood and wobbled forward on its own two legs in a sick parody of life. Her arms and legs began twisting and jerking, unnaturally, then becoming more fluid and graceful. She was dancing William realized in surprise, which was quickly followed by anger. This display was for his benefit, it showed that the demon owned her, body and soul.
Tendrils of darkness, bolder then the night, gathered about her twirling form. Her movements became even faster, till she blurred from sight and a small cyclone of shadow spun on the tabletop. Then it too was gone.
He didn’t have time to question or wonder, swaying on his knees as he was, praying to a demon. In fact he wasn’t even sure of the origins of this creature; Patrick had been the one to set this up, Patrick who he trusted so much. Before he could pursue this line of thought, the music swelled and grew with volume, picking him up in its gentle, sorrowful waves. A beautiful, heart rending voice of purity soared out, accompanying the violinist in what could only be described as a sublime union. How could such wonder be draped in these dirty rags? The musician sang of a prince, who erred in pride and vanity and started a war. He sang of a prince whose life long friend had struck a deal with a kinsman to end a war crippling the country he loved. The sweet piercing clarity of voice struck the prince and he found himself sobbing.
The song went on to describe the conflict that was tearing the man apart, of the love for a fellow brother weighed against the bonds to a nation, a population. William, face in hands, shook silently with grieved understanding. Beneath this though rippled a maelstrom of emotion; anger, betrayal, and hurt, but above and beyond this there was love. In his heart he knew this was the only way. Out of the darkness descended an ivory hand. The demon? He didn’t know, but he grasped it nonetheless, desperate to rise out of the pit of despair. William gasped at contact: it was as if pure sunlight lanced into his body, cresting through his body. The wave of music consumed him; a rich veil between him and the world, removing all care, all responsibility. He could feel his soul crying for release, the motes and atoms of his being bursting and straining against the heaviness of feeling, urging him to give in. All this and more, he felt in an instant as he was hauled upward.
“Dance with me,” the demon whispered, on Williams’ lips. And suddenly they were whirling, no longer in the den, but across a diamond floor filled with dark and light beings, terrible and awesome in their beauty and power. Here the dance of the eternals was enacted, and he found himself swept up alongside it. The figure opposite him was clothed in shadow and silver, face covered in a cunning fox mask through which one eye burned; a star in a cage of bone. There was nothing but the dance, the music, and the moves. They would herald in the dawn he knew and he gloried in the knowing of it, laughing joyously across the floor, the night and the stars.
****
Patrick watched with a heavy heart as the prince was raised from the ground. He even managed to follow their ascension, but beyond that even his eyes could not see. “Be easy on him Father,” he whispered to the night. “Take care of him.” Head bowed, he began the long walk home. He had long since cried the grief from him, in the weeks that followed the decision. It had been the hardest choice he ever made; William was like a brother to him, they had grown up with one another, faced trials and tribulations other friendships hadn’t.
But they had very nearly been split apart by the marriage scandal. He could see the problems with the Princess, but she was not a bad person and this union would bring peace and prosperity. Long had they argued, but William refused to listen to reason. It had been so frustrating, it was so unlike William! In fact, it was as if … Patrick stopped cold, heart hammering as the thought occurred to him. It was as if he had been possessed. But that would mean … Oh gods, he thought, what have I done? In light of revelation, he re-examined all that had happened. The horrendous war that had sprung it seemed, over so little a thing, the unwillingness to see reason by both sides; the disease and famine that spread, then just recently, the growing peasant unrest and protest. And through it all there had been William, crying in the night, tormented by nightmare, by guilt.
Patrick stood still, mouth agape, eyes vacant as revelation struck him. He cringed knowing what followed next, but how could he have done differently? He was tied to the land and it cried for help and surcease, oh how it cried. So he visited his father, made the proposition and all the while had been supported by and praised for, his decision. Pandered to, he realized now, a sick feeling in his gut. He felt rage, a deep abiding anger boiling in his blood at having been so manipulated. Patrick stared at the giant moon that glared down at him. “You won’t get away with this,” he vowed, blood and tears filling his eyes. “You will suffer as I have for this!”
Tears of blood streamed down his face, in rivulets that quartered. He ran then, needing to get away from it all; the darkness, moon, the truth, guilt, and grief that rent through his heart even now. In a haze of black and white buildings, of blood shaded vision, he ran. He knew where the body would be, he knew but didn’t want to see. Nevertheless that’s where he ended up. Somehow, he had made it through unobserved, or so he hoped. Patrick didn’t know and didn’t care, as he stood panting outside the Prince’s rooms. Trembling, he reached forward and opened the door. He stepped into the unlit chambers, and then walked the familiar route through the sitting room, study, finally halting outside the bedchamber. Hurriedly, he wiped the blood and tears from his face, staining his immaculate black attire. Straightening his jacket and smoothing his hair down –he had lost the bowler hat somewhere along the way –as if it mattered.
He opened the door and there the prince lay, just as he’d always known he would. Cold and still, draped in moonlight, he truly was beautiful. “Oh my prince, please forgive.” Patrick whispered, striding to his side. He knelt by William’s limp hand and grabbing it, kissed it over and over, murmuring, crying, begging him to come back.
Some hours later, the bells began to toll. The royal heir was dead.
************
The capitol of Trinova stirred slowly this morning. There was little of its usual hustle and bustle amid its normally hectic market places. The war had seen to this. Initially all had been well, but increasing losses and unseasonly hot weather had bred fatigue, famine and disease. Now few people moved in the wide thoroughfares and many criss-crossing lanes, save the odd old woman too stubborn to change, fast moving messenger, or roving pack of children too young to be conscripted.
There was still some trading to be had however, amid the wealthiest of the merchants and the most high priced of markets. It was here that a young, energetic little girl tugged and pulled on the hand of an obviously weary nursemaid. “Come on, come on!” she insisted eagerly. “I want to see the dolly!” The nurse merely sighed in resignation as her royal charge steered her toward the most threadbare of stalls, with a motley selection of goods on offer. Amid the trinkets and eccentricities there lay a doll; an immaculate porcelain version of a golden princess in miniature. For some strange reason she felt a deep sense of foreboding upon seeing it. Not so the little princess who oohed and ahhed appreciatively.
“I want it,” she said, turning green eyes framed by auburn tresses on the nurse. And that was all there was to it. On the way back to the palace, the girl skipped and pranced about the woman, a picture of happiness in a city of despair.
That night, as inky darkness spilled into the sky, the princess prepared for sleep. “Good night Vila,” she whispered, having chosen the name just then. Hugging it close, she slipped into a deep slumber. Hours passed and nothing moved, although the sounds of marching boots never faded. Then Vila’s eyes snapped open. She had a mission to complete and her eyes glowed crimson at the thought of it. She slid fluidly out of the girl’s tight grasp, and under the bed sheets. Grapping an ankle, she opened her mouth revealing rows of jagged sharp teeth, and bit down.
The girl murmured and shuffled but didn’t awake. The next morning the princess was strangely restless, bothering her frumpish older sister for hours on end and then tramping from one end of the palace to the other, driving her nursemaid mad and getting tangled in the feet of old men muttering around maps. And all the while Vila dangled at her side. So it was no surprise when she decided to retire at midday, fatigued and sweating. Hours later when she still had not stirred, and indeed was sweating more profusely, the royal physician was called in.
A small man, from the exotic Far East, he was dark brown and balding. Small round spectacles sat on his nose as he peered down at and prodded the little girl. An hour after this, when the boils were discovered on her legs and ankles, he straightened up, unhappy.
“Girl will die,” he said. “Girl has plague.”
He announced it tersely, as if it meant nothing. Just another patient, another unfortunate case. The nurse, Bella, reared up in matronly outrage. “If she dies, the so do you!” she hissed.
“Maybe this is so,” he replied calmly. “Maybe we all die. Maybe not. Who knows?” With that, he packed his things and prepared to leave. News would spread and so would the disease, they both knew. And indeed it was so. The whole royal household and family were soon laid low with it, moaning and screaming in pain but with no one to attend them.
The mood of the populace was already ugly what with the war and the reduction of normal luxuries, with news of the plague, the people turned murderous and anarchy ensued. A mob formed and marched on the palace, torches and looting bags in hand. The infection could only be burned out, everyone knew that. Although afterward no one would remember how they had come by this knowledge, the idea was firm in their minds.
No one saw the little figure, highlighted by the inferno, walk a shadowed path away from the palace. Her job was done and the mission accomplished. Her master awaited.
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