The Perilous Crossing Page 8

  “And now you have lost the children once more!” King Willis says. “It is unacceptable.”

  Sir Greyson does not say anything. He believes it is coming now, his dismissal. He will not be able to help his mother after all. But perhaps he will be able to save the children. This thought brings him great hope.

  “Where are your men now?” King Willis says.

  “In the woods, sire,” Sir Greyson says. “Watching the place where the children were hiding.”

  “If they have already escaped, what is the point of watching?” King Willis says.

  Sir Greyson does not say that there is, in fact, nothing else to do. The grass had been flattened where the children emerged from wherever it was they were hiding, but there are no tracks leading anywhere. His men have searched long and hard. It is as if the children have disappeared into the air.

  King Willis walks across the platform. Sir Greyson has never seen the king move so much. It is quite a sight to see, to be honest—that great, rolling-waves belly shaking every step he takes. Sir Greyson is mesmerized by the rippling waters of it. He cannot raise his eyes to his king’s face, because of that belly. Not that King Willis notices. Remember, dear reader? He does not notice much about other people. He does not notice, either, what a spectacle he is, with his round body and his fancy clothes and his plate of sweet rolls, waiting within reach. He does not know that the people in his kingdom, the people in this very castle, turn away from this large, hulking man and shake their heads for the simple fact that he has so much and all the others have so little.

  He does not know.

  And would he care?

  What a sad answer that is.

  No, dear reader. He would not care at all. For our king, the Great and Mighty King Willis, believes he is a good and strong and noble king. And perhaps he could be, had he lived another life. Perhaps he could be, had he been able to break free from his father’s hold.

  Whatever does his father have to do with him now? you might ask. His father is dead.

  Well, the dead do not always remain dead, you see. But that is a story for later. For now, Sir Greyson must answer his king.

  “We do not know for certain that they have escaped,” Sir Greyson says.

  “Well,” the king says. “Well.” He turns this way and that, slow and heavy. “We must find them.” He looks at his captain. “We must find them immediately.”

  “Yes, sire,” Sir Greyson says. “My men are trying.”

  “Have you searched the entire forest?” King Willis says.

  “My men are doing that as we speak,” Sir Greyson says. As soon as Prince Virgil was found, Sir Greyson sent his men back to their task, though he fears it is too late.

  And, yet, he does not fear it at all, but merely rejoices, for children escaping means children could very well be safe once more.

  “Go,” King Willis says. “Go join them. Do not come back to me without news.” King Willis turns to face Sir Greyson once more, sweeping his eyes over the captain’s armor. “Make it good news.”

  Sir Greyson bows. “Yes, sire,” he says, and he is just about to leave his king’s presence when King Willis stops him with a word.

  “Captain,” King Willis says.

  “Yes, sire,” Sir Greyson says.

  “Those mermaids,” King Willis strokes his chin. It is smooth, as it has always been. King Willis does not grow a beard as many in his kingdom do. He thinks it is unbecoming, though, between you and me, it might hide a few of his chins.

  Sir Greyson’s eyes rove over the belly of his king, which is still wobbling and quite spectacular to see, and then snap back up to the king’s hairless face.

  “The ones by the bridge, Your Majesty?” Sir Greyson says.

  “How long have they been here?” King Willis says, ignoring Sir Greyson’s question.

  “I do not know, sire,” Sir Greyson says. “I believe they come visit us every year. Their father is said to be king of the Violet Sea.”

  “King of the Violet Sea,” King Willis says. “Imagine that.”

  Yes. Imagine that. King of all the horrors the great sea hides in its depths. Were there dangers for that kind of king, or did he live in relative comfort?

  “Why do they come?” King Willis says.

  “It is believed that they seek men,” Sir Greyson says, though he is merely repeating the stories his mother told him as a boy. No one, you see, knows much about mermaids at all, but for what is known from the stories.

  “And why do they seek men, pray tell?” King Willis says.

  “For their kingdom, perhaps?” Sir Greyson says.

  It is one of the great mysteries of the land. Stories tell of men who, so entranced by the beauty of the mermaids, walked willingly into their waters and their arms, never to be seen again. But no one knows, alas, what happens once a man’s head disappears beneath the sea.

  “What do you think they wanted with my son?” King Willis says, and for the first time, Sir Greyson can see a bit of the king’s humanity, for his voice has raised a pitch, as if fear rides on his words.

  “Prince Virgil touched their waters,” Sir Greyson says. “They believed him to be theirs.”

  “And how was it that you convinced them otherwise?” King Willis says. His black eyes watch his captain closely.

  Sir Greyson measures his words. He does not, of course, know why the mermaids gave Prince Virgil to him so willingly, but does he want his king to know this?

  “They were called away, sire,” he says, for it is the only explanation he can recall.

  “They were called away,” King Willis says. He does not say anything for a while. Sir Greyson is not certain that he may go, so he remains as is. And King Willis does have something else to say, for he looks once more at his captain and says, “They should not be in my domain.”

  It is so unexpected that Sir Greyson cannot help but say, “But the waters were given them long ago.”

  “They are my waters,” King Willis says, his hand waving in the air. “Just as Fairendale is my land.”

  Sir Greyson does not, in fact, know what to say. The mermaids have been in the tributary for thousands of years, so the stories say. “But sire—” he tries once more.

  “They are not welcome here,” King Willis says.

  “But—” King Willis only allows his captain one word before he finishes.

  “They tried to take my son,” King Willis says.

  “They let him go,” Sir Greyson says.

  “He may not be so fortunate next time,” King Willis says. “It is your duty to protect the kingdom. There is no kingdom without my son.” The king’s voice echoes into the silence that follows. Sir Greyson cannot, in truth, find a single word to say. He merely stares at his king, his mouth dropping open a bit, which would not have mattered quite so much if he had remembered to return his knight’s helmet to his head. But now the king can see his shock, and perhaps this is what makes him say the worst of all words.

  “You will drive them from the waters.”

  Sir Greyson involuntarily shakes his head.

  “Yes,” the king says. “You shall do as I say. Or you will be relieved of your duties.”

  If one were to see inside the head of this captain, standing before his king, one might see something like this:

  It is not possible.

  What you are asking would be far too dangerous.

  It would demand my very life.

  I cannot give my life. There is my mother.

  There is my mother. How will she live if I do not do this?

  There is my mother.

  There is my mother.

  There is my mother.

  Poor Sir Greyson. He is caught, you see, for he cares more for his mother than he cares for his very life. For her, he would do anything.

  And so it is that Sir Greyson finds his head nodding, instead of shaking. And with the nodding, all thoughts vanish from his head, but for one: “Which shall I do first,” he says. “Shall I find the c
hildren or drive the mermaids from their waters?”

  “From my waters,” King Willis growls. And then he laughs, his belly becoming a pitching ocean again. He laughs until there is no sound left in the royal throne room.

  “You ask what you should do first,” King Willis says when he has quite finished laughing. “You ask the king what it is you should do first, as if one is not clearly more important than the other.” His eyes are narrow and hard, his voice like a cold wind shaking the room in its gust. “Find the children.”

  And he waves his arm, as if casting Sir Greyson from his presence.

  Sir Greyson turns and strides away, his face warm and cold all at the same time.

  The king’s roaring laughter follows him out the front doors of the castle.

  Captain

  IT was not so very long before his father’s men showed up at Greyson’s door, the same day he happened to run out of medicine for his mother. “You have returned,” he said, looking around for his father. He did not find it odd that his father’s men were the ones who had come to his door, not his father. Grief, you see, can make a man blind as well as foolish for a time. Greyson had been so consumed with caring for his mother that he had not given another thought to what the king had said of his father, though his nights were filled with nightmares.

  The front man, a large bulky man his father called Miller, dropped to a knee. “We are sorry,” he said, and that was all, but it was enough. Oh, yes. It was enough.

  Greyson stood before him, his throat growing dry. “What is it?” he said, though he very well knew, for a son always knows.

  “Your father,” said another man, the one his father had always called Green. “He did not come back with us.”

  “So he did desert the king?” Greyson whispered.

  The men stared him, their faces twisted in confusion. And then Miller said, “No. Your father would never desert.” And Greyson felt hope rise in him again. His father was not a deserter. He could ask the king to help his mother. He could go back. It was within his rights, as long as his father worked for the king.

  But his hope did not last so very long, for Green said, “There was a volcano. Ashvale is a land of fire mountains, you will recall.”

  “But fire mountains are not dangerous,” Greyson said, for there had never been danger before. “They are merely mountains with holes cut all the way through them.”

  The men looked at one another. “This one was dangerous,” Green said. “This one spit fire from its bowels.”

  They told the story in pieces.

  “We tried to get everyone safely out,” one man said.

  “But your father returned for those who could not walk,” another man said.

  “He was a brave man,” still another said.

  “He saved many, many people,” Green said. “But he did not make it out himself.”

  They stood there while Greyson wept, trying to understand what they were telling him, trying to figure out what this might mean for him and his mother, trying to reconcile the long, searing ache that began in his chest and spread all the way to his toes and the tips of his fingers. He took a step back from the doorway. All the men fell to their knees. They bowed.

  “We are yours to command,” they said with one voice.

  Miller raised his eyes to look at Greyson. “You are very like your father,” he said. “Good and kind and brave. We would be honored if you would lead us.”

  “But I am not even yet a man,” Greyson said. “I am only seventeen.”

  “It matters not,” Miller said. “We knew your father. We know you will follow in his footsteps.”

  “But I do not want to lead an army,” Greyson said. He had his mother to care for, after all. How would he keep her alive if he were gone from her bedside?

  How would he keep her alive if he did not do what it was the men were asking? He would have no medicine, and she would surely die without that.

  “Your mother is very sick,” Green said. “We heard the talk on the way in to town. She will die without medicine. And the only way you can get medicine...” He let his voice trail off, for he knew the boy already knew.

  “Is to work for the king,” Greyson said. He could scarcely breathe, though the door was open and the air was crisp and fresh. Yes. He would have to work for the king. He had no other choice. He could not let his mother die.

  The men stood. “We are on our way to the king,” Green said. He held out his hand for Greyson to shake. Greyson hesitated before taking it. “We will inform him of your plans.” Greyson could only nod, his entire body lost to numbness. He did not feel Green’s hand. He did not feel his feet on the ground of his family’s cottage. He did not feel the heart thumping in his chest.

  The men left, and Greyson moved to close his door. He did not see Cora until she spoke. “So a captain,” she said.

  His throat felt tight, for this was something he never wanted to be. But love will do curious things to a man’s ideals. “Yes,” he said.

  “You will work for that horrible man,” Cora said. She looked at him with those sharp eyes that could cut all the way through him.

  “I must,” he said. She must understand. There was nothing more he could do for his mother but lead these men in their army.

  “There are other ways,” Cora said. She tilted her head, as if challenging him.

  “No,” Greyson said. “There are none.”

  “If you could see,” Cora said.

  Greyson shook his head. “I do not see another way,” he said. “Tell me, please, if there is another way.”

  Cora moved to him in a whisper. She put her hand on his arm. “Magic,” she said. Her eyes flashed. He felt their jolt in the pit of his stomach.

  “There is no magic to fix sickness,” he said.

  Her eyes flickered again. “But there is,” she said. “When you find someone whose magic is strong enough.”

  “But no one has ever lived with strong enough magic to cure sickness,” Greyson said.

  Cora did not answer. She merely took a step back.

  “There is no time to waste on silly stories,” Greyson said. “This is the only way. It is the only way to save my mother.”

  “I see,” Cora said. She took another step back, dissolving into shadow.

  “I will still see you,” Greyson said.

  “What does it matter, boy?” Cora said. Her voice was angry, cruel once more. “You are nothing to me.”

  He could not see her any longer. He stepped outside the door of his cottage.

  “Cora,” he said.

  “Do not speak to me,” she said. “You are nothing to me.”

  He moved ever forward, but she was gone, disappeared into the darkness so quickly he did not even see her retreat. Overhead, a blackbird screeched, letting loose the saddest cry the world had ever heard.

  Morad

  PRINCE Virgil wakes with a start. It is a nightmare that pulls him from his deep and peaceful sleep. He wakes crying out, and it startles his mother, who dozes in the chair just beside his bed.

  “What is it, Virgil?” Queen Clarion says.

  “Mermaids,” he says. “There were mermaids in my nightmares. Not like the ones in the cove.”

  Queen Clarion strokes his cheek. “What about the mermaids?” she says, for she knows that the mermaids in his dream were very much like the mermaids in the cove. The mermaids in the cove have not yet shown their true selves to her boy.

  “They were reaching for me,” Prince Virgil says. “Fighting over me. There was one with red hair.”

  Oh, yes. Queen Clarion had seen the mermaid with red hair, the one who held Prince Virgil in her arms and would not let go.

  “And there were others?” Queen Clarion says.

  “Three others,” Prince Virgil says. “With black hair and sharp teeth.” He shivers beneath his covers. Queen Clarion touches his hair.

  “You are safe,” she says. “The mermaids cannot get you here.”

  “Why did they let
me go?” Prince Virgil says, and before his mother can answer, he moves on. “What if I should fall again?”

  Queen Clarion is silent for a time. Truth be told, she does not know why her son was let go, but she is grateful. She looks at her son, but he is lost in the nightmare. She takes his hand. “Virgil,” she says, and his eyes raise to hers, so like his fathers and yet so very different. Gentler, perhaps. She cannot say for sure. “You have lived in this castle for twelve years. You have never fallen before.”

  She does not say that he has never before ventured out at night, but Prince Virgil understands. The night is dangerous. Perhaps it was not always so. But he knows it today.

  His mother’s eyes flicker in the candlelight. “You are safe now,” she says.

  Prince Virgil looks away, toward the talisman he has buried in a chest. Perhaps he should take to wearing it again. Perhaps it would provide an extra layer of safety. Perhaps it might one day save him.

  If only our prince could know. If only.

  “There was one,” Prince Virgil says, as if thinking aloud. “The red-haired one. She sang over me.”

  “In your dream?” Queen Clarion says.

  Prince Virgil shakes his head and winces. His head is not yet healed, for wounds like these take time. “No. I remember.”

  “What did she sing over you?” Queen Clarion says.

  “It was not a song of our land,” Prince Virgil says. He peers at his mother, searching for the smallest clue. Her face does not change. “Perhaps it was a song from her land.”

  Still he searches. And he is rewarded, for there it is, just a short darkening of her eyes, and then they return to their clear blue. What is it about the mermaid’s song that could bring fear to a mother’s heart?

  “Let us not speak of mermaids,” Queen Clarion says, for perhaps she knows what her son has discovered in her eyes.

  “She had a lovely voice,” Prince Virgil says. “It was warm. And safe.”

  Queen Clarion leans forward, as if to make sure her son does not miss her words. “It was not safe,” she says. Her voice is soft, yet hard. “A mermaid’s voice is never safe.”