Young Writers Society

It took far too long for Ferrell to arrive at the two inns. By the time his horse trotted up the road, Randall had managed to take a nap, and Braxton had failed to do the same. His ghost form simply wouldn’t allow him to sleep. It didn’t matter that starlight already shined through the treetops.

“Good evening, Ferrell,” the fox said, racing in front of the third prince’s horse, “I hope your legs are sore.”

“They’re not,” Ferrell said sternly. He tried to urge his horse forward, but it was too scared of Randall to do anything but move a few inches.

“That’s too bad.” Randall turned around and walked forward towards the wooden shack of an inn that the princes were supposed to stay at. As Braxton followed, he slid beside his brother’s horse and solidified one hand. Reaching into one saddlebag, he found a small knife which he took and held behind his brother’s back, right where he’d never see it. If only he wasn’t invisible, then Braxton could simply store the knife in a pocket.

Watching Randall lead his brother to the inn, Braxton slipped away, back to the pine trees that lined the edge of town. He absently picked a thick branch off the ground and began carving it. This felt so much better than sitting and doing nothing.

Randall returned a few moments later, sniffling like someone had injured his pride. “Your brother is an idiot,” he said, pretending to tear up.

“As if I didn’t know that already.” Braxton’s branch was already free of bark, and something like a fish began to appear out of the wood. He ran the knife along one side, wood peeling off like apple skin.

“Tch. Such mean princes we have in our royal family.”

“Shut up.”

By morning, Braxton had carved three figures out of his branch. He thumped Randall on the head with the newest one before dropping it on the ground next to the others. All three were foxes, elegantly carved with smooth bodies and tails that looked almost fluffy.

“What?” Randall’s scratchy voice suddenly said, “Did you carve figures of me while I slept?”

Braxton did not have time to answer. Already, Ferrell walked towards the trees, having clearly seen Randall’s red fur.

“Who are you talking to, Fox?” he asked disdainfully. Braxton winced at the way his brother’s steps cracked every single branch he stepped on, and quickly slipped the knife behind Randall’s figure, just where his brother couldn’t see.

“A tree,” Randall said, sounding equally unimpressed, “Why do you care?”

“Well, I do like to know if people are plotting against me.” Ferrell ran a hand through his shiny black hair, making it stick up quite comically. As Braxton snorted, Randall’s tail swished through his leg. Apparently he wasn’t allowed to make noise, even if Ferrell couldn’t see or hear a thing he said.

“I’m not plotting against you,” Randall pointed out, “I’m plotting for you. Now are you going to let me lead you to the golden bird or not?”

Ferrell nodded, his eyes still brimming with suspicion.

“Good, now grab onto my tail. I want to get this nuttiness over with as soon as I can.”

Though clearly dubious, Ferrell did as he was instructed. Braxton also grabbed on, prompted by a meaningful glare from the fox. They skipped the count of three, and soon enough, raced over the quilt-like landscape. During the two minutes spent traveling like that though, Braxton didn’t hear, nor see the slightest bit of awe on his brother’s face.

They landed in the forest near Lady Avondale’s estate, where Randall quickly shushed Ferrell and pointed a paw through the trees. “See that?” he asked.

Both princes nodded dumbly. A thousand soldiers rested outside the Avondale estate. Their light blue and dark grey uniforms shone brightly against the dying grass, and their weaponry gleamed in the morning light. Whatever hope Ferrell had of retrieving that bird had been pretty much dashed.

“Now then,” Randall said suddenly, breaking the princes from their wallowing, “all those men out there are tired from their very long march here. In fact, all of them are asleep! So in order to get the bird, which is in the main hall, Ferrell, you’ve got to get it without making any noise.”

“Won’t the bird squawk if I move the cage?”

Randall shook his head. “The bird will only make a sound if you remove it from the cage. So you’d better keep it in the cage that it’s in, alright? Don’t try to take it out.”

Ferrell pricked an eyebrow and spun on his heel before walking away. His silhouette, darkened by the low sun, picked through the field of snoring soldiers, and suspense settled on Braxton’s shoulders. Suddenly, the electric-shock of someone touching his soul zapped through him.

“He’s in the building now,” Randall said, “Leave that knife you took with me, go catch up with him, and watch. He’s going to mess up, by the way. You’ll see; he’s going to switch the cages.”

Soundless as a ghost should be, Braxton floated past the soldiers. He’d heard Randall mention a ‘unit’ during their talk with Lady Avondale earlier, but he hadn’t expected so many. The castle loomed ahead, the drawbridge locked down, and the gigantic front door slightly ajar, as Ferrell had the sense to not close it completely.

As Braxton leaned through the door, his eyes met the ladder first. It wobbled a bit, having already been mounted by his younger brother. Soldiers had collapsed on the edges of the room, eyes closed in dreamless sleep.

Suddenly, a small squeak resounded from the ceiling. Looking up, Braxton saw his younger brother opening the door to the wooden cage. His eyes seemed glazed over, entranced by the golden bird’s beauty. As he stuck one hand into the cage, palm up, trying to lift up the bird, Braxton panicked. He rushed forward to climb the ladder, but it was too late.

Ferrell’s hand brushed the bird’s belly. A golden gleam of talons sparkled in the ceiling, as bright as the chandelier that should have hung there. And then, the bird squawked. It was loud, grating, like nails on glass. Something inside one of the giant crates left around the room crumbled to pieces, clinking as it hit wood.

And of course, the soldiers awoke too. Grumbling and growling, they stood up and stretched, their weapons shining like the leering eyes of a wolf.

In the air, Ferrell was fumbling to shut the golden bird in its cage. He succeeded, and the wood clicked together perfectly, but the bird could not be contained so easily. It butted its head against the cage, throwing Ferrell off his already-precarious balance, and both third-prince and bird suddenly fell through the air, into the waiting arms of the soldiers.

A grey-haired man flung the front door wide open, sending bright light streaming into the great hall. With the confidence of a king, he strolled through the crowd of soldiers, nodding as they parted for him. He stopped upon reaching Ferrell, who was struggling against the two soldiers who held him back.

“Let go of me!” Ferrell demanded, “Don’t you know who I am?”

“That doesn’t matter right now,” the older man said, his voice cold, “You were caught trying to steal the golden bird; that is all that matters.” He clapped his hands and looked around the crowd of soldiers. “I want five men to escort this thief to Lady Avondale. She shall decide what becomes of him.”

Braxton followed as the five men dragged Ferrell through the castle. It seemed that everything inside was being renovated at once, as plaster covered the lower half of tall, stone walls, and the floors had been covered with rugs to disguise the fact that they were not tiled yet.

After a few twists and turns, the men stopped before a wooden door with black iron fittings.

“Lady Avondale?” one of them called, knocking, “we’ve caught someone who was trying to steal the bird.”

Slowly, the door creaked open to reveal Lady Avondale behind it. She looked far more regal than the night before, with her brown hair pinned and curled, and a deep purple gown with white ruffles and trim. But it wasn’t the clothing that set her apart from last night, but the icy, unfeeling gleam in her eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked, chin held high as she glared at Ferrell.

“Third Prince Ferrell,” he spat, “and I demand that you release me.”

Lady Avondale narrowed her eyes. “Prove it.”

“I know the queen’s full name,” Ferrell offered. Braxton knew that wouldn’t work; their mother was too open and boastful for her full name to be a secret.

“As does everyone else in the country,” the lady said, “any other evidence? These soldiers are getting restless, and personally, I’d like to see you go on trial.”

As Ferrell fell silent, thinking of proof of his identity, Braxton noticed the slightest crack in Lady Avondale’s mask. Her eyebrows were no longer arched in apathy, but curved downward in worry.

“I can see you have no proof,” she said, voice quivering as she held up a hand to quiet Ferrell’s spluttering, “But, there is something you can do for me that might… make me reconsider putting you on trial.”

Behind Ferrell’s dark eyes, Braxton thought he saw the formations of a plan, or maybe it was just greed swirling in his head.

“Somewhere,” Lady Avondale began, “there is a golden horse, said to be as fast as the mountain wind, and stronger than fifty men. And, of course, it would be far more valuable than any bird I might have.” She paused for dramatic effect while Braxton silently cursed the fox for not telling him about this earlier. “If you can bring the horse to me, I’ll let you off the hook, and as a special prize, I’ll give you the bird too.”

For a moment, Ferrell narrowed his eyes at Lady Avondale. “I have your word?”

“Naturally,” she replied. Eyes wide and innocent, she looked at the five soldiers who had brought Ferrell to her. “You boys won’t tell anyone about this, will you? I mean, he is going to be paying for the bird eventually.” Braxton wasn’t sure why, but suddenly the square neckline of her gown suddenly seemed like a weapon, not a fashion statement.

“Besides,” she added, tossing a thick brown curl over her shoulder, “it wouldn’t do for you to ignore your future queen.”

Flustered, the soldiers bowed to Lady Avondale, echoing their assents. Braxton watched as they dragged his brother back through the castle, their metal armor and weapons clanking with each step. As soon as the group turned the corner at the end of the hall, Braxton heard a sniffle. He turned around to find Lady Avondale with her teeth clenched, and her eyes shining with tears. With a quiet sob, she sank to the ground, purple skirts billowing around her.

“Oh, please,” she stammered, “please, break the clause, Ferrell. You have to! Because Gordon has to come back, and because… because Dianne doesn’t deserve this!” And then, Lady Theresa of Avondale gathered the front of her skirt in her fists and cried.