“Ah, my faithful huntsman has returned,” the Queen said from where she sat at her desk. “I take it you have completed your mission?” Her ruby lips curved into a cold smirk, for she knew he would not have dared to return otherwise.
“Yes, my Queen,” he said, bowing his head from the doorway.
Queen Schön held up her hand, gesturing to the desk in front of her. “And you have brought me the proof I asked for?”
“Yes, my Queen,” he said again, moving into the room with the trepidation of entering a tiger’s lair or a viper’s den. He reached into his bag and produced the jeweled box. The Queen tappedone of her long fingernails on the desk, and he set down the box in front of her with another bow.
The Queen reached over and flipped up the lid of the box to see the viscera within while Hans’ heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. A wicked smile spread over the Queen’s lips. “Excellent work, my loyal huntsman. You have served me well.”
Hans nodded. “Thank you, your majesty,” he mumbled. She had not immediately noticed any issues, which was one hurdle passed.
“Tell me, where is the rest of his body?”
“I left him where I felled him, your majesty, deep within the woods.” The lie felt as sour as bile on his tongue, and his voice trembled just the faintest bit. But the Queen must have believed it to be reticence at the distasteful act, for she simply waved her hand in dismissal. He bowed again, then turned and left her chambers. And kept walking.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he walked through the palace, to the stables, grabbed the fastest horse they had, not even bothering to put a saddle upon it, and rode it out of the gates, stealing away like a thief in the night. Better to be alive and on the run than condemned and chained in darkness or whatever torture the Queen might decide for him. He had been loyal to the crown his whole life, and the crown no longer deserved him.
With preparations being made in the throne room for the final test of the boy, whatever his name was, to spin straw into gold, the Queen did not go immediately to her magic mirror. She had not given thought to her child one day outshining her,and she would not take that risk again now that the threat had been eliminated.
When she finally stepped into her workshop off of her chambers, she approached the mirror with the jeweled box in her hands. “Magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”
“Famed is thy beauty, Majesty,” the mirror said. “But there is yet one fairer still.”
“Who is it?” she demanded, her jaw clenching, her lips setting into a firm line. Was there already a new threat to her?
“He is known to thee by three names, Majesty,” the mirror intoned. “Prince. Son.”
“Stop!” the Queen commanded, holding up her hand. She opened the box and held it up. “Makellos is dead. The huntsman has brought me proof.”
“Prince Makellos still lives,” the mirror said with its usual detached tone, for what did magic care for emotion? “While he still breathes, his fairness outshines yours. ‘Tis the innards of a boar in your bejeweled chest.”
For just a moment, Queen Schön stood, stunned and speechless as the words echoed inside her mind. And then a scream tore from her throat, and she threw the box hard against the wall. It shattered into pieces, and the organs within splattered into a lumpy, bloody mess on the stone floor. She seethed with rage, for she had been tricked, disobeyed, played for a fool by one of her most loyal servants. She realized she had chosen a man. A weak-hearted fool, too influenced by tears and feelings. She should have used her more powerful weapon to begin with. She schooled her features once more into calm elegance. “Mirror, mirror. Show me my Shadow.”
She waited as her dark magic seeped through the mirror to summon the geist to her. And she waited. And waited another moment longer. He had never before ignored her summons. Ofall of the times he could have tested her patience, this was not the one to choose. Flaming hot fury rose in her again, this time prompted by her Shadow’s resistance. “Mirror, mirror. Show me my Shadow!”
Dark swirls began to coalesce, and then the image of her geist appeared, wearing only boots and his breeches. Her temper flared further. Some nasty little slattern had been distracting her Shadow from his singular duty. “Where have you been, Pet?” she cooed, her tone high and syrupy sweet. “Did I interrupt your business in one of my whorehouses?”
The look in the creature’s dark eyes when he looked up into hers was not unfamiliar, but even though she knew he loathed her with all of his non-existent heart, she had come to the end of her tolerance for his insolence. She narrowed her eyes, which was all the warning she gave him before she sent a powerful blast of magic into the center of his body where her enchantment resided. He crumpled to his knees, where he belonged.
“No one,” she hissed. “No one is more important than me.” Her Shadow had been acting strangely the past few days. But she was the only master he would serve. She would find whoever was distracting her assassin and crush them like a flea pulled from a dog.
The furious release of magic had gone through her like an arrow through an apple, and she smoothed her hands over her bodice as she let out another angry breath. She took a deeper one now, lifting her chin to gaze down her nose once more at the creature. “When I summon you, Pet, you come. Have I made myself clear?”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. She could see his resolve in his eyes.
“I learned some very… disturbing news before I retired to bed. A reliable source informed me that a problem I thought had been resolved is, in fact, not.” His head stayed bowed in silence.“You are to locate someone for me.” He still did not move. He was either being defiant or submissive, and she honestly didn’t care which. As long as he did his duty, he could sulk all he liked. “My son is alive… I need him found.”
Eight
Though he was only spending his third night in the little cottage, Makellos found that he was increasingly comfortable here. The little men were very appreciative of his willingness to help in whatever way he could, and other than having to hunt for meat, the little homestead was very self-sufficient. There was still a lot of work to be done every day, and he was unsurprised that they had not been able to keep up with it when they were already working so hard in the mines. He too was exhausted from all the work around the house, but he would not complain. He was eternally grateful to them for the roof over his head and the food in his stomach.
Today, Hardwic had been the one to stay home, and he had spent most of the day away hunting, so Makellos had worked alone, continuing with his scrubbing of the cottage. They planned that Makellos would learn to chop wood the next day with Grim, and he would fix the roof later this week with Sigurd. There were still a lot of preparations that needed to be done before snow fell, and he was happy to help however he could.
He slid off his white shirtsleeves as he prepared for bed, hanging them on a hook nearby to smooth it out, still its same pristine white as always. At least it was one set of clothing he didn’t have to worry about washing, which left him time for others. He yawned, stretching his neck and shoulders, and then leaned down to pull back the blanket from his comfortable nest.
The back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him. He straightened up and turned quickly toward the full-length mirror by the doorway. But of course, no one was watching him from the mirror. Instead, Sigmund stood framed in the door, leaning casually on one arm as he gave the prince a once-over look and an appreciative wolf-whistle. Makellos very nearly covered himself like a virginal milkmaid, but he forced his arms to stay where they were. He wasn’t in the palace anymore, he reminded himself. Here, he was not a prince. He had to earn his keep, and if letting the little men ogle him once in a while was the price he had to pay, well, he supposed it was a reasonable currency. And Sigmund was certainly not terrible to look at. None of the little men were, if he was being honest.
“See something you like, I take it,” he said, giving Sigmund a small smile. Was that how one flirted? Was that what he was trying to do? Flirt? He had not had much opportunity to do so elsewhere. Most of his interactions with others were strictly formal, and, because of his station, people would laugh and respond positively even if he said something entirely foolish, so it was quite hard to know if he was doing well at anything at all.
