The Treacherous Secret Page 5

  “I...” but Theo cannot finish. He cannot tell his father this.

  So Hazel does instead. She sits straight up in her bed, her purple nightgown swallowing her where the crisp white sheets do not. “He used magic.”

  Arthur studies his son but does not say anything. They wait.

  “To whom?” Arthur finally says, for this matters a great deal.

  “To Mercy,” Hazel says. Her eyes shift to her brother. She does not want to tell, either, but she knows she must. “And Prince Virgil.”

  Her father clears his throat. “I see,” he says. His children watch him, but he does not say another word, as if there is nothing more to say. But there is plenty more to say, dear reader.

  “Does he know?” Arthur says, finally.

  “I told a story,” Hazel says. Her eyes flicker. “I said I did it.”

  “But he might,” Theo says. “We are not certain.”

  Arthur pats his son’s hand. “Let us not worry ourselves, then,” he says, and his eyes say the same. This is the face that reassures his children. Arthur kisses his son’s cheek and moves to kiss his daughter. Then he stands and gives a small stretch, his thin body lengthening and flattening until it smooths out again. He walks toward their door.

  “Father,” Hazel says when he is almost through. He turns back.

  “Yes, Hazel?” Arthur says.

  “Why would Prince Virgil say magic is stupid?”

  Arthur lets out a long, deep breath. Its whisper falls on the children’s ears like a spell, and they are suddenly very tired. But they must know the answer to this question, too, and everyone knows that when children must know something, they will never be able to sleep until they do.

  Arthur leans against the doorway, crossing one foot over the other. The toes of his boots have pulled away from the sole, and his dirty white stockings poke through. There is a crack up high, near the knee. His pale brown pants are streaked with dirt, and his tunic is laced tightly enough so the white shirt on his belly is protected. His sleeves, ruffled at the ends, ripple in the wind.

  “Well,” he says. “There could be many reasons.”

  Many reasons, perhaps. But he knows the one. Because it has to be the one. Yet Arthur has a duty to his children, to dispel their fears so they can find rest.

  “It could be that the king and queen forbid him from practicing magic outside the castle, and he does not like their rules. Or perhaps they do not wish him to practice it until he is of a certain age.” The children nod. Parents in the village are not quite as strict with their children as a king and queen must be. None of the village children will rule a throne, after all. Arthur continues. “It could be that he is having trouble in his studies and his magic is not working the way he thinks it should. In which case, perhaps we could help.” He looks at Hazel as he says the words.

  Arthur’s eyes grow cloudy then, as if he is not in the room with them at all. “It could be that he does not have the gift of magic.”

  The words do not come easily. Arthur, you see, remembers another boy who said those very words when he was a child. He remembers trying to help and being cursed away. And even though he knows these words will not make his children feel any better, he also knows that he must tell them the truth. He simply must.

  Hazel and Theo look at him, their eyes wide.

  “Surely not,” Hazel says. “Why would Prince Virgil not have the gift of magic?” She looks at her brother, as if begging him to agree that this cannot be so. “I thought princes were always born with magic.”

  “Not always,” Arthur says. “There are rules to magic. Only firstborn children get the gift.”

  “But Prince Virgil is an only child,” Hazel says.

  “Yes,” Arthur says. “He is.” He uncrosses his legs and crosses his arms instead. “Then I suppose we have nothing to worry about, do we?”

  “But if he does not have magic,” Theo says. He lets the sentence hang in the room, where it twirls on the wind.

  Arthur looks at Theo. His eyes hold something different now, something wild and haunting and terrifying. It makes Theo catch his breath. “Well, then, Prince Virgil would have something to lose if someone knew his secret,” Arthur says. “And a boy with magic would be in grave danger.” He clears his throat. Hazel shifts her gaze to her father now.

  “So Theo—“ she says, but her father shakes his head. She stops.

  “Theo is a boy,” her father says. “A boy without magic.” Then softer, “You understand.”

  Theo and Hazel nod. “Yes, father,” they say.

  “Goodnight, then,” Arthur says. “I love you both dearly.”

  They echo his words, and then Arthur moves silently through the shadows, into the bedroom he shares with his wife. Maude is bending over a wash basin, candlelight flickering across her brown dress. Arthur does not say a word. He moves behind Maude and puts his arms around her and holds tight, so tight she turns.

  “What is it, Arthur?” she says, her dark eyes troubled.

  Arthur shakes his head, buries his face in her silvery brown hair. He has no words for the cold terror that has crept up his arms and legs and sent its ice storm straight to his heart.

  He never should have returned. He never should have risked it. He never should have followed his heart back to the people he loved. He knew something like this could happen. He knew they could not stay here forever, hiding a secret as important as this one.

  So they will have to run. They will have to go. They will have to find a place, somewhere safer than here.

  The morrow. They shall leave in the dead of night. They shall escape.

  They shall live.

  “Come in!” The king’s voice crawls beneath the gap between the door and the marble floor. The prophetess straightens her back as well as she can. But it is not much, you must understand, for she is an ancient woman. She hitches up her robe and steps through the door opened by a man in balloon pants. “Thank you,” she says. He bends his head, just slightly, the only acknowledgment that he has heard the words. He remains outside. She limps in.

  “Ah,” King Willis says. “Ah ha ha.” His arms are stretched out, as if waiting for an embrace. But this is not the way of the king, and she is still a long distance from the throne. She knows of this king and his ways. He merely believes she is here to deliver the Word he would like to hear, the Word he sent in his letter that reached her on her travels. The king believes she can gift his son with magic though he was not born with it. This hope makes him generous.

  The queen waits at the bottom of the steps, along with a handsome boy dressed in a cape and tunic and boots very like his father’s, black, trimmed with gold near the knees. His dark eyes watch her approach, and her dark eyes watch him. This is the boy she has seen in her visions. This is the boy who will set it all in motion.

  Prince Virgil, in return, stares at her ebony skin and the hair that is wrapped in gray-black braids that swing with every step so it looks as if serpents sit on her head. She is frightening, and yet something about her is familiar. He has never seen her before. But perhaps he has read about her in stories. He once took a book on prophets and prophetesses from his father’s library. Perhaps she was in it.

  “Your name,” the king says when she has hobbled close enough to the throne.

  Our prophetess stops on the carpet. He waves her still nearer. She waits until she is closer to answer his question, which annoys our king. He is not a king accustomed to waiting, after all. “My name,” she says, straightening up her bent back as well as she can manage, “Is Aleen. Aleen of White Wind.”

  Prince Virgil studies her closer. Yes. He has seen her picture in the book. Aleen of White Wind is the most famous prophetess in history. She was born more than a hundred years ago. One hundred forty-two years, to be precise, but Prince Virgil was never a boy bent on precision. He could complete his studies “well enough” so he could spend the rest of the afternoon in the village, playing. He could lace his tunic “well enough” before venturin
g past the castle walls. He could learn to ride a horse “well enough” before dismounting and racing off to his friends. His tutors know well his shortcomings. They tolerate them but try not to encourage them.

  Prince Virgil did not know a prophetess this old could still be alive. He looks at his mother. Queen Clarion grips his hand but stares at the prophetess.

  Surely Aleen has brought them good news. Surely a woman so famous from the faraway land of White Wind would come with news that would not send her to a dungeon.

  “What Word do you bring me?” the king says.

  “A Word of magic.” Aleen’s voice creaks on its way out. Hundreds of wrinkles slice and twist across her dark face. They ripple and fold when she speaks, as if the family of serpents has moved from her hair to her cheeks.

  “A Word of magic!” the king bellows. “Pray tell me then, woman.”

  She smiles. Prince Virgil stares. She looks a thousand years younger when her white—or are they blue?—teeth are showing. She is not missing a single one, which is quite remarkable in one so ancient. Aleen keeps her teeth strong by eating apples. Three a day, to be exact, though she has not had one since she set out from White Wind.

  “There is a boy,” the prophetess says. She looks at Prince Virgil. His heart thumps hard. Could it be him? Could he have magic they have not yet discovered? Could he be the real heir to the throne after all? Aleen turns back to the king. “A boy with magic.”

  If one were to turn one’s attention from the prophetess to the queen, one would see Queen Clarion squeezing her son’s hand, beaming into his face with a look that says, “See? There is hope still.” For a mother will always hope where her child is concerned.

  Oh, sweet queen. Poor, sweet queen.

  “My son!” King Willis says, and there is no room left for disagreement. “You have come to awaken his magic.” The words hang in the air, shifting on their breaths, an impossible command.

  Aleen throws her head back, her hair swinging again, and lets out a hoarse laugh. It is quite disturbing and a bit exaggerated. It has been so long since she has laughed, you see, so she is out of practice. The laughter makes her insides feel warm. When she is finished, she looks at Prince Virgil. Her eyes are nearly black, and he takes a step back, unprepared for that empty look, the look all prophets get when they are seeing a vision. She licks her cracked lips. She gives a vicious shake of her head. “I cannot awaken magic,” she says. “One is born with magic.”

  “You must do this awakening!” the king roars.

  “I cannot,” Aleen says, still shaking her head. Prince Virgil turns away. “It is already too late.”

  “Then who is this magical boy?” The king’s voice rumbles through the throne room, bouncing off the walls and beating his audience with its echo.

  “I cannot tell you who,” Aleen says. “But I can tell you where.”

  The king waits, but he is not a patient man. And when the silence stumbles on for too very long, he says, “Where?” in a voice that could shake the walls were they not made of the sturdiest stone.

  The prophetess holds up a bent finger, pointing out the window behind the king. The window that looks upon the village of Fairendale.

  “The village?” the king says, turning to look. Prince Virgil cannot take his eyes off the woman’s finger and its dirty, curved nail. That one finger holds more power than he could ever hope to have, though this prophetess has no magic.

  “Yes,” Aleen says. “There is a boy in the village who was born with the gift of magic.”

  Prince Virgil’s face begins to burn. He knows who it is. He knows the boy with magic. But he is a best friend. Best friends do not betray one another. Best friends keep even the most dangerous of secrets. Best friends...

  “And what else have you seen?” the king says. “What else do you know?”

  Aleen creeps closer to the king’s throne. She does not fear a man like him. Prince Virgil feels his heart beat faster. “I have seen destruction,” she says. “I have seen death. I have seen a throne in ruins.”

  “No,” the king says. “It cannot be.”

  “Yes,” Aleen says. “Oh, yes.”

  The king’s face has turned ashen. He is staring at the back of the throne room, toward the doors. Prince Virgil watches his father and feels as if he is losing either way. Keep the secret and make his father worry. Share the secret and perhaps endanger the life of his best friend.

  What would happen to Theo? Would he be imprisoned? Would he be killed?

  A friend cannot do that to another friend. So our prince remains silent, for now.

  “When?” the king says now. “When will what you have seen come to pass?” His face is red and splotchy again. His boot stamps the floor, as if he is an angry, petulant child. His hands grip the throne so hard the gold cuts marks into the flesh of his palm.

  “Soon.” Aleen’s voice scratches against the walls. “Soon. Very, very soon.”

  King Willis flicks his wrist, a small movement that throws open the door of the throne room and sends footsteps running, men’s boots cracking against the marble floor. Garth stands before the king, bowing deeply. “Yes, m’Lord,” he says.

  “Find the captain,” King Willis says. “Bring him here.”

  Garth bows again. “Yes, Your Most High King.” He scurries out again.

  Everyone in the throne room holds their breath until the captain of the King’s Guard, a man called Sir Greyson, stands before the king with his sword point against the marble floor and his hands crossed upon the hilt. The candles flicker against the metal armor the captain wears at all times.

  Queen Clarion tries to pull her son toward the door, but Prince Virgil shakes her off. He wants to hear what will happen. He has friends in the village, after all.

  King Willis shakes himself out of his throne and paces back and forth across the stage, in heavy, lumbering steps. “There is a boy, captain,” he says. “A boy in the village. A boy who has magic.” He turns around and paces the other way. “This is a danger to us.” He stops and looks at his captain. And it is only because Sir Greyson has removed his silver helmet that the king can even see the grey-blue of his eyes, though he is not paying attention enough to notice color. He is quite thoroughly distracted by this news he has been given. I am sure we can all empathize with our king. If one receives news one was not expecting, it can throw a whole evening off balance.

  “So,” King Willis says. He turns back to the window that faces the village. “Something must be done. The village must be searched, its people punished.”

  “Wait,” Prince Virgil says. There is an easier way. Theo will give himself up, if he knows everyone else in the village is in danger. Prince Virgil knows he will. “Wait, Father.”

  King Willis turns to him, as if surprised his son is still here, or, perhaps, that he has a son at all. “We will invade every territory from here to the kingdom of Guardia,” the king says. “We will leave no stone unturned. We will find the boy with magic.” His eyes grow suddenly soft. He looks at Prince Virgil as if he really sees him this time. Moments of fatherhood can turn the most spindly men into the gentlest creatures, though King Willis has never been a gentle father. Or a concerned one, for that matter.

  But this, a magic boy threatening his son’s reign, this has turned him uncharacteristically gentle. “You will keep your kingdom, son,” he says. He even strides over to Prince Virgil and pats his head. Prince Virgil stares at the red carpet, uncomfortable with this attention.

  “Wait, Father,” he says, still staring down rather than up. “I know something.”

  “You know something?” his father says. The king grows impatient again, and just like that, the tender spell is broken. Children, you see, at least according to King Willis, are better seen and not heard. “What could a boy like you know?”

  “I think I may know,” Prince Virgil says. “I think I may know the boy with magic.”

  Should he tell? Should he betray his friend? Should he do it in the name of safet
y for all the others? Does our prince care enough to risk the life of his friend so he can save the lives of Hazel and Mercy?

  Yes. Yes, he will tell.

  The room grows absolutely still. Only the swishing of Queen Clarion’s skirts as she draws nearer to her son and the raspy breath of the prophetess can be heard above the stillness.

  Queen Clarion places her hand on her son’s arm. Does she know about the boy, too? Perhaps she suspects. Perhaps she has no idea. “Are you sure, Virgil?” she says. Her eyes hold warnings, as if this is a leap forward one could never take back. The queen knows about leaps forward that appear to be solutions but are really only disasters. She lived through her own, many years ago.

  But Prince Virgil does not heed his mother’s warning. He simply says, “Yes.”

  “Who, son?” King Willis says. “Who is the boy with magic? Where does he live?”

  “The boy with magic is Theo,” Prince Virgil says. “He is the furniture maker’s son.” Queen Clarion gasps.

  “And how do you know, boy?” King Willis says.

  “I saw him do magic,” he says. “His sister tried to cover it up, but I could tell. He made a puppet fall out of the sky and land in his hands.”

  Queen Clarion puts her hand over her lips, as if she can change the betrayal of this gaping secret by stuffing it back into her own mouth. But it hangs in the air, and it makes King Willis laugh—a loud laugh that echoes all through the chambers, that would surely shake the foundation of a home as humble as Arthur’s but cannot touch the solid one of the palace.

  “The furniture maker’s son,” King Willis says. “Well, now, that is interesting.” He moves back to the throne and squeezes into it once more. “That is interesting indeed.”

  The room waits for what comes next. They all know that something is next.

  “We shall attack this night,” King Willis says. “While they sleep. We shall move in with cages and swords and teach them all an important lesson they will never forget.”

  “But,” Prince Virgil says. “But there is only one.”