They said it was the greatest battle ever seen, but they did not see the battle between the brothers.
Brand Undership's red-wrapped army sat watching the peaceful sundown sky. The wind blew unrelenting smoke from their fires across the horses and kept them pawing at the riverbank mud. Across the river the other brother's banners flapped.
Peering through the gap in his tent at his brother's army, Prince Brand himself sat, helmeted men walking past, wary of arrows from their enemy. He wasn't dressed for battle; his shield and sword sat in a dark corner until they would be readied for him the next morning, after which Brand would carry them with disgust, riding his horse over his soldiers, waiting for his brother to join him.
A man in mud-splattered armor appeared out of the smoke and knelt, head bent. "My lord. I am here to attend to your wound."
Brand nodded and rose from his stool, beckoning the aide to join him. Inside it was dark and oppressive; the heat made it stink.
"Your highness, you should have your helmet," the aide said, but the prince shook his head.
"I cannot be scared by cowardly tactics," Brand said. He removed his tunic and stood naked to the waist in the center of the tent. "What is your name?"
"Conor, your highness," the aide said. He found the tray bearing medicine and brought it closer. "I have attended you before."
"Have you?" Brand didn't look at the man as he began to prepare the medicine. "I admit I don't remember."
"I'm sure your highness has many names to remember," Conor said softly. The different potions and powders became thick and gold under the aide's careful mixing. "Prepare yourself, your highness."
Brand sat at the center table and rested his arm upon it, laying his forehead down and sweeping his long dark hair out of the way, so the aide could begin to dab the cream on the long-lasting wound. Conor did not recoil at the sight of the vicious burn wrapping itself around the arm, from the shoulder to the end of the fingertips. Bubbles and flat dead patches alternated, and red patches like craters marked the surface.
Looming quiet settled inside the tent as Conor began. He used a small brush to spread the foul-smelling cream along the injury. Brand felt the sting and growled. The aide carefully drew the brush along as a painter might, taking care not to put the medicine anywhere it didn't belong, knowing it would hurt the prince unduly.
"You are skilled," Brand said. "I'm surprised I don't remember you."
"There's no reason for your highness to remember someone like me."
Conor dabbed slowly. The first bottle of the cream was almost empty, and he had much left to do.
"I want to tell you a story," Brand said. Conor stepped back to the tray and began mixing more cream. "Will you listen?"
"If you desire."
"Good." Brand kept his head resting against the table, feeling the row of bee stings from the cream and the muted clink as more of the mixture was made. "It's about this wound." He listened to the aide as he stirred the cream in even circles, until slowly the clinks died away and Conor stepped close again. "I have never told this story to anyone. I want you to hear it."
"I will listen, your highness."
The stinging slowly grew down Brand's arm as Conor continued applying the cream, and Brand ground his teeth. "Do you know why we ready to battle?"
"Your brother-" Conor spat "-betrayed you. Besmirched your name, murdered your true love, and now he fights back against you to get what he thinks should be his -- taken away by your father the king before his death." Conor spread the cream.
"You're right," Brand said. "I will tell you the story."
In the palace we lived. I, with my dark hair, the firstborn and rightful heir. My brother, with his light hair, the second-born. Our father, king.
How my brother hated me. Not a day passed when he did not do some awful, vile, horrid thing to me because of it! Broke my possessions, lied to me, or lied to our keepers about things he had done. He was the greatest enemy I have ever known, and the fact endures. He could not bear to see me succeed so he tricked me, and trapped me, and pulled cruel pranks on me for years. I could never do the same to him, he never fell for them. He always discovered them or found them lacking, as if he had demon-blessed vision to see the deceits in others!
I suffered at the hands of my mother and father; he laughed when he saw me punished.
When I got older I spent much time out of the palace because of it. I spent time in the capital city, pretending to be a commoner. I would dress in the clothes of the everyman, spit out my high-born speech, and ruffle my hair so no one would know me. I enjoyed it -- not only because I could get away from my brother, but because I enjoyed speaking with the people in the city. I would buy fresh bread from the bakers and slices of meat from the butcher and relax with the women in their draped-velvet rooms. It was the place I felt at peace. My brother couldn't find me.
One day, I was in the city, near the edge. The gate was open, and people streamed in and out, always a loud flow of voices saying things I could never hear in the palace. I heard men call my father a bastard, call me a bastard, call my mother a whore, call us all worse. They would sometimes be shushed, told their eyes could be anywhere. I wonder what they would have done had they known I was so close.
I sat in the sunshine, in the cool day, under the clouds.
A group of coaches came into the city, covered in bells and bright colors. They held merchant families, come to treat with my father about taxes and prices. They passed sweets and toys to children and sample wares to parents. I watched them with a smile on my face, enjoying the laughter – something the palace heard little.
Near the end of the line a coach rolled in bearing the marks of a clockmaker. Wonderful, spiraling and twisting designs. The teeth of gears . . . I've always loved them. They way they fit together and work in tandem. Function only occurring once all parts pass muster and join together.
I . . .
I wanted a closer look at the things they sold. They had small pocket watches, and larger standing clocks. Grandfather clocks. My father had a giant clock in his state room. When I was a child, I liked to listen to it. With my father there my brother couldn't get me. It was peace.
They opened the coach's window. The ticking came from all sides, bounding and rebounding into me like I was surrounded by a thousand clicking stones. I stood listening; a big man said hello to me, and asked me if I was having trouble finding anything. I told him I was just enjoying the sound. He smiled and nodded.
"The clocks," he began. I saw a look in his eye -- joy. "They have their voices. Enough to drown out the largest church choir. But just one can pierce the quiet room, unlike anything else. Tell me, young man, why do you like the sound?"
I didn't tell him the truth. How could I tell a stranger the way my brother treated me? I told him it was the construction of the things; all the parts working. He nodded again, standing next to me and looking in the same direction. I didn't want him near me.
Eventually he went to a different customer when he decided I wasn't in the mood for a purchase. I remember a large cloud went across the sun, and the ticking seemed to get louder. When the cloud moved again, someone else stood next to me.
Conor finished spreading the second jar of cream on the prince's arm. The prince's silence reigned; he covered his face with his free hand, the sound and smell of the army outside the tent blowing in. Conor retreated to the medicine tray to mix another batch. The scar on Brand's arm was tended to the elbow, but it got denser, and fiercer, as it neared the fingers. Conor knew he would be in the tent for some time. Eventually he came to the prince's side again.
She . . .
Her name was Dainis Steeria.
In the stories the fair maiden has long, bright blonde hair. It flashes in the sun, cascading down her back, gold. She has flawless skin a statue would envy -- wide eyes glimmering like stars. Dainis possessed none. Shoulder-length, dirty-yellow hair, freckles and scars on her cheeks, and black eyes. She had a pretty smile, at least. It covered her face.
She surprised me. "Was my father bothering you?" She asked, and I jumped. She came from nowhere, very close to me; the top of her head just reached my shoulder. "He can talk for hours about clocks." She looked at me, and she smiled. "What's your name?"
I faltered, and came up with one of my trick names in the city. Edward. She told me hers. I couldn't look away. The reason escapes me. No legendary beauty her, but . . . her flat cheeks, the way her nose lifted. The way her hair was bound.
She . . . was . . . a clock. It worked together and moved in tandem to create something beautiful. The parts themselves would have opened no eyes, interested no . . . collectors, but arranged in one place they became a peaceful creation.
I wished to hear her tick. To hear the life-giving thing inside her, and celebrate it. The beat marking not time but her, being there, in front of me.
She asked me if I liked the clocks, and I told her yes. She asked me if I had many, and I said yes. I should have said no, but I was thinking about the grand clock in my father's state room, and the smaller ones around the palace. She asked if there was one before me I would like to see close.
I told her there was, and she asked which one.
What was I to say? What would you have said? Would you have lifted her wrist and planted your lips upon it, telling her it was the one in front of you, whose hands and face were greater than any timepiece could aspire. Would you tell her the clock you wished to have on your arm you held even now?
Would you have blushed and balked, and turned away, run back to the castle and slammed the door, to rid yourself of the thing so disrupting to your life -- the thing that interrupted your peace with a unique strain of its own?
Would you have blindly pointed at a watch hanging on a hook, and have her hold it up to your face, telling you it looks rather good against your skin, saying the colors worked, and let you hold it in your hand when what you truly wanted was to hold her? To feel it tick instead of the pump of blood through her veins? To curse and rage against yourself as she stood next to you, begging yourself to say any word you could to her -- because your heart had skipped when you found her close! Because her name still rang in your ears, and your mind chained it down so it could never be forgotten! Because she was the person giving you peace like the sweet ticking did!
I told her the watch was very nice. I said I couldn't afford it; I could of course. It would have been a trifle to pay for it. Barely a thought. I could have bought ten of them. I watched her replace it, and when her back was turned on me, I walked away quickly, stomach hard, legs shuffling as stiff boards, feet hating to strike the ground and emit sound of my cowardice.
I went back to the palace, to my room. The clock inside, on the wall, mocked me with each tick, scattering my thoughts. I wanted to think only of her, but at the same time wished to have anything else to think of. She became the enemy and the goal, the ally and the villain. I wanted her close and distant.
But eventually my thoughts sloughed away, giving light to a fixation. She was beautiful to me, and I wanted to see her more. She was a rich merchant's daughter -- my father could perhaps approve of the relationship. I stood in my room, still dressed in the clothes I wore outside the palace, and went to find my father. He sat in his state room, listening to an adviser explain the people he would be meeting the next day -- the merchants.
They were all of the highest order, top of their respective guilds. The tailors, and the cobblers, and the metalworkers, and yes, the clockmakers. I stood to the side, waiting as I had been told to do. The large clock dominating the mantle over the cold empty fireplace drummed sonorous. Eventually the adviser bowed and exited and the king moved his vision to me. He ushered me forward with a motion.
"How was the city today, prince?" He asked. He sat in his chair at the front of the table, head resting on a curled fist. He leaned forward. "I've never seen such an expression on your face. Did Allric twiddle your nose again?"
I rustled at the words, but tried to keep my face from shifting. "Father, I saw the merchants as they entered the city."
"Ah. Impressed? The last time they came was five years ago. I hear it's a wonderful spectacle for the commoner. Did you buy?"
"No father." I hesitated. I almost didn't tell him what had happened, who was there, what I'd done. But . . . "I saw the clockmaker’s coach," I began. "I talked with the head. Afterward, I met his daughter." My father leaned forward, and the smile tried to show itself on his face before I finished. "She was lovely to me." The sensation came back. "I could barely speak to her."
"Why so?"
"She had a peaceful face." The phrase meant much to me, but my father tilted his head and furrowed his brow. "I was cowardly. I ran from her."
The king leaned on the table in front of him with both arms, big body levered over it. He stared at something unseen, halfway down its length. "It's good you have found someone that causes this in you," he said at last. "Every person should feel your feeling. If they get the person that forges it, so they are forged. If not, they are still forged, of a different heat. One is love, the other rejection. No, rejection is not the lesser of the two. It can burn or break a person, just as love can. Sometimes it creates a person mightier than the storm, and sometimes weaker than driftwood." He stood up. "Tomorrow I meet with the merchants. You and Allric will attend me. When I meet with the clockmaker, I will mention his daughter, and suggest a formal meeting between you. Did you use your true name?"
"No, father. I was caught off-guard and supplied a fake one."
"No matter. Is this agreeable?" He looked at me, seeing through the young man to the child he had known first. "Or does it sound wrong?"
My shoulders slumped and my chin dropped to my chest. "I merely wish to speak with her without a veil of emotions between us."
"So do we all. Emotions are how our lives are colored, Brand. I still cannot recall your mother the queen without emotions between us. You and your brother the same. You must reach through." He walked to me. We had become the same height over the years, yet he always seemed the bigger, the stronger, to me. "I'm sure the clockmaker will be happy to introduce his daughter to the heir to the kingdom. To a prince such as you."
And he smiled; I felt courage. "Tomorrow you'll meet her. Do you know her name?"
"Dainis."
"A pretty name," my father said, and I felt small again, as if I had brought him a buck from the hunt, or penned a poem about the exploits I believed he led. Approval of a father knowing his son was becoming someone more than a child.
I retreated to my room and imagined the next day as if it would never arrive; for a long time it didn't; I was unable to sleep. The clock counted away the seconds in an unending beat.
"Was your father the same way?" Brand asked the aide. "Did he say such things?"
"My father was much the same as yours, your highness," Conor replied. "He was proud to see me grow." The man steadily applied the cream onto the prince's arm, tracing the pocked and puckered skin with the brush's bristles, not pausing when Brand gasped for the pain. "I imagine our fathers would have seen eye to eye on many things, had they the chance to discuss."
Brand watched the aide slowly follow the contours of the scar, spreading the thick cream like a painter.
We -- my brother and I -- stood in attendance for my father the next day, as he met with the many merchants from the day before. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, backs straight, eyes forward until my father or one of the merchants would call us forward for a task. Our job was to assist in management, but also to listen. I would be taking control of the kingdom from my father, and my brother would be expected to rule by my side as an ally . . . a foolish notion, even then. My brother would never be an ally.
I stood next to a hateful creature, uncomplaining, listening to the clock tick the day away, listening to the large fire under it split logs, waiting for the clockmaker to enter and perhaps recognize the young man he had spoken clocks with the day before. My heart beat faster when I would imagine the moment my father addressed me, and the clockmaker’s daughter.
I was dressed splendidly. Better than my brother; I saw his eyes flare in hatred and accusation -- how dare I appear finer than he! How could I possibly think to upstage him, the younger and second-born! How could I think to dress in fine colors and rich cloth when he wore a simple clean doublet and trousers?
The nerve I possessed.
He tried to force me to act unseemly the day through, prodding me with his finger when our father squinted over a paper. Trying to trip me when I was called forward with each merchant's entrance, to supply a bow and receive one in turn as crown prince.
I refused to let him ruin this day! I let him stick his finger into my side without a sound. I stepped over his reaching boot every time and bow, announcing myself and filling the room with my voice – how strong it was, even imagining Dainis hearing it!
His scowl told me there would be retribution. I once dared to return a scowl of my own, and our eyes locked. He could have killed me then and there, and become the base monster -- the vile and heartless aggressor, the beast in human skin -- I know him to be.
Finally -- after ages -- the time came for the clockmaker to enter. He wasn't the last merchant, but the time drew to a close, and the sun set, casting orange light across the floor as he, Frederick Steeria, entered. When introduced I bowed, wondering if recognition would spread across his face, but it remained the smile one wore when meeting someone important -- though I saw a touch of a true smile as well.
He and my father worked, and when my father needed one of us he would call only me. To say this rankled my brother is an understatement similar to saying the sun is a source of light. Like the sun's purpose to is to supply us light, Allric's purpose became to despise me.
I began to feel dizzy, caught between my own building desire, and the threat of the punishment I knew my brother was constructing -- as a clockmaker will carefully piece together in his mind, so many little parts became an interacting whole. I resolved to stay alert at all times just as my father ended his discussion with Steeria.
"One thing more," the king said, raising a solitary finger. The discussion had been spirited. Steeria seemed to enjoy this part of the job as much as the clock-making itself. My father beckoned to me, and I stepped forward. My brother did not attempt to trip me. "My son, Brand, crown prince, said he met you the day before after you entered the city." The clockmaker looked at me with surprise, and then the recognition appeared. "Brand is fond of clocks and watches. To his great surprise, he also found himself fond of your daughter, Dainis." I could feel heat on my face and neck and arms, and wished to avert my eyes. The clockmaker’s eyebrows rose. "Since he was masquerading as a commoner, my son could not properly introduce himself. He would like to do so now, if possible. Your daughter -- is she within the castle?"
The clockmaker snapped his mouth shut and appraised me. I stood with my chest pushed out and my chin up. After a time he said "I am . . . honored to have the prince interested so in both my work . . . and my only daughter, whom I love. I am afraid . . . dear Dainis is not a healthy girl. She . . . has a malady that exhibits itself at random, bringing upon her fits, seizures, and weakness. If . . . if not treated she may die, and even if treated properly she must rest for days or more. This morning she . . . fell ill as described. She is resting in our coach at the moment. I beg you, do not feel slighted! I would have her present herself in a moment if she were healthy, but . . . I fear for her as fathers do."
My father was nodding, hand on his chin. My eyes were wide, imagining Dainis wasting away. My father opened his mouth but I stepped closer to the clockmaker. "Sir, I plead you -- may I see her? I . . . She knows me only as Edward. I would have her know me as Prince Brand."
"You are my guest," my father said to Steeria. "If you wish, bring her into the castle so she may rest here. Surely it will be more comfortable than a cramped coach?" He angled his head toward me. "My son will see to it. Your whole family may stay within the walls."
The clockmaker’s face cleared of emotion, held motionless like a painting for a moment, and became covered in full surprise. "Sire . . . you honor me!"
The king nodded to me, and I left the room, pleading with myself not to run.
My brother's vision burned through my back.
The city revealed itself from behind the palace walls. I smelled served food, heard rattling horses' hooves and air-borne shouts. The warmth drew sweat under my clothes, and my stiff muscles carried me forward with silent protests. I snapped my fingers at a number of armed men guarding the palace and they fell in behind me as I forged my way toward the clock-strung coach. The street cleared as I walked, commoners and visitors to the city watching the speedy procession with confusion. I could barely be bothered to notice them.
At the edge of the city I found the coach. It and several others were circled, and a small common area was between them, allowing for cooking fires, safety for children, and idle chit-chat. The area fell silent and afraid when I entered it, followed by the soldiers.
My sweat from the heat, and my own hurried mind, assuredly made me look frantic and crazed. My hair was plastered to my skull and I panted, looking around. I identified the clockmaker's coach and climbed its few steps.
My retinue joined me. I felt the eyes of the other merchants on us as I knocked. A young man, perhaps nineteen, opened the door and was momentarily stunned into silence by the sight of us. "Geddy!" He called over his shoulder into the small coach, and a second later a man nearly in his thirties appeared.
"Yes?" He asked, equally surprised. "May I help you gentlemen?"
"I am Prince Brand Undership," I said, bowing. Geddy's face opened in shock. "You are Frederick Steeria's son?" The man nodded. "Your father meets with mine as we speak. It was revealed Dainis Steeria has taken ill, and my father allowed your family a space inside the palace. Make ready."
"Y-yes, your highness! Of course . . . thank you!"
"May I speak with your sister?" I asked, words nearly getting caught sideways in my mouth.
"She is weak, your highness, but . . . " Geddy glanced behind him. "Awake. The fit was a harsh one."
I nodded, and turned to the soldiers behind me. "Assist the family in moving the coach. I will be a few minutes." The soldiers saluted and I entered the coach. It seemed nearly twenty feet long, but only four or five wide. As outside, clocks and watches were hung up carefully, along with things for travel. The younger son bowed hastily at me. Geddy squeezed himself against the wall to make room, and pointed me at the far end. There was a drawn sheet around one dark corner.
I wondered about announcing myself, and then decided it was just another way to hesitate. I slid the sheet away slowly, not wanting to startle her.
In turn, I was startled. The young woman I'd seen the day before was absent. Instead, a crude skeletal figure lay wrapped in blankets, shallow breaths rattling from her mouth, cheeks sunken and eyes wandering. Confusion washed over me. It was impossible this was Dainis. I was the victim of a cruel trick. I nearly turned to her brothers and demanded the truth when the figure in the bed shifted her head and found me.
Understanding followed . . . she was Dainis the way a clock with the face removed and the hands twisted into improper angles was still a clock. Incredibly, her thin lips spread, and the same smile as the day before appeared. The façade broke, and she was there again, hidden behind her sickness.
I knelt. She slowly reached out a hand toward me. "Edward," she said, dark eyes -- red veins intruded through the whites -- wide. "Are you back for the watch?"
"I have all the watches I could ever need," I told her. I took her hand in my own; it was cold and light. "My name isn't Edward. It's Brand Undership."
I expected surprise, or confusion. The girl's face remained impassive. "So . . . " She said, after licking her lips. "You aren't here for the watch?"
My heart wrenched. "No, Dainis, I'm here for you. Your family will be staying in the palace, until you recover."
Again she appeared indifferent. "Palace?"
"Your highness," I heard beside me. Geddy stood with his hands behind his back, and I got to my feet. "She is very tired, and sometimes does not understand what is happening around her. She seems to think you're someone else. Please, she will be better once she rests."
"I told her I was Edward yesterday," I said, almost sick. The girl recognized me, I knew she did. "I looked at a watch." I brought my head close. "She struck me as lovely," I told her brother. "I wished to speak with her more, but your father told me she was ill. It is why I have come."
Innumerable emotions passed Geddy's face, until he nodded. "Were she well, your highness, I'm sure she would be pleased to see you."
"To the palace," I said. "You'll be our guests tonight."
Prince Brand's arm stank to the forearm. The cream covering it soothed the lingering pain from the burn but exuded a none-to-pleasant stench as Conor mixed yet another batch. The aide was gifted at painting his wound, Brand thought, but slow.
"Have you heard this story told before?" Brand asked. The other man shook his head. The latest batch of cream was taking shape. It was likely not enough to complete the process -- the prince's hand ended in dense burned tissue -- it would require patience.
"Never, your highness," Conor said. "And I admit, I'm surprised to hear it told so."
"And why is that?"
"Well," the aide said, mixing, "You told me it was about your burn, but you have said nothing of it."
"Soon, friend," the prince said. He turned his head and inspected the cracking flesh. The smell of the cream assailed him.
Geddy, his brother, and their mother -- quite surprised to meet me -- moved their coach to the palace. It was held within the courtyard, and Dainis' brothers and I carefully moved her to an empty room within the building. The king's physician attended her, but told us he could do no more.
"The medicine her family gives her is the best for her," I was told. "She will recover." He laid a gentle arm on my shoulder, perhaps recognizing the reason for her family's presence. "She should be lucid by the morning."
The physician left the room. A large bed swallowed Dainis, white sheets wrapping her. The window was open, allowing fresh air to intrude. She slept, cheek against the pillow, hair covering her face like a veil. All I could see was a single closed eye. She could have been dead then, as she would be in hardly any time at all. I watched her sleep, wishing only to speak with her.
Cursing cruel fate, I exited and found her family outside. Seeing me, they knelt and bowed. "Young prince," Frederick Steeria said. "You honor us in so many ways." He looked up at me and I saw tears in the man's eyes. "The kingdom is lucky to have your leadership in its future."
"Stand, please," I told them all.
"We will stay by Dainis' side," her mother, Illia, said. "When she is better, we will send for you immediately."
My heart leapt at the promise. "Thank you. I look forward to it." I moved aside to allow them into her room, and found myself alone in the wide hallway of the palace.
No. Not alone. A dark presence stood at the other end. Allric strode up to me, hands clasped behind him, face tilted down but eyes directed at me; he looked like a madman.
"Allric," I greeted him. Even his childish, ill-deserved retribution would do nothing to soil how I felt.
"Brand," he said, voice light to hide the hatred. "I don't approve of these visitors."
"A shame you have no say in the matter," I replied. I turned and began to walk away.
"Do not leave me standing here, brat," he said, spitting the words out from between his teeth. "I will find a way to repay you."
"And what is it I've done, brother?" I rounded on him. I was the taller of us, though I never used it against him. His words had galvanized me to reply. "Chivalrously pursued a woman as a bride? Extended a kindness toward a sick girl and her family? Acted as a king should?" I shouted. "I suppose you would know nothing of those things," I sneered, feeling righteous anger fill me. "Go back to the stories our mother used to read us, and discover something there."
"Calm your tongue, brother," Allric said, speaking uncharacteristically low. "I would hate to disturb your guest."
The words hung; I heard them long after he spoke. His lips pulled apart, teeth in a skeletal smile, but it went no higher; his eyes burned with fury. The threat made me wish to throttle the life from him, and I knew it was what he wanted. He wanted me to strike at him and get our father on his side. I knew it as if he had said the words himself.
Instead I spun again and walked away. He said nothing as I left. The first guard I saw I ordered to stand watch at Dainis' door, and told him on no terms should he allow my brother inside. The guard saluted, frowning, and went to Dainis' door. My brother's dark presence had vanished.
I went to my father. I had to speak with him as quickly as I could -- but Allric reached him first.
Our father's meeting with the merchants had concluded. Evening was growing outside, and the smell of food was filling the castle. Our father sat at the table and rested his head on a fist, and looked worn and tired from the talking, even as Allric spoke into his ear. My brother looked up when I entered; our eyes met, and we fought the first battle of the war we look to end now.
Neither of us had a chance to say a word. Our father heaved himself up, fists against the table. Allric stepped back, and waited near the ticking clock and roaring fire.
"Brand," my father said. His voice filled the room. You may think your father a formidable man when he is angry but mine was a king; all ears heard him. "Allric is accusing you of violence against him."
"He struck me!" Allric said. He placed a hand to his side. "After I told him I wasn't happy with the way he acted this afternoon!"
"Lies!" I said, enraged. I remember my vision going red . . . but I know it's just one of memory's tricks. "You threatened our guests, and me. You feel slighted in some imaginary manner, and now bring it to the only person able to force me to do what you want!"
Taking a deep breath I knelt in front of my father. "Father -- my king -- you must not believe what Allric says. He is angry that you afforded me my right as crown prince to speak with Steeria the clockmaker after his daughter." I shot my brother a look. The fire he stood next to gave him a shadowed face. "He has always been petty. He has always been a violent beast. He has always been a monster. He is not fit to rule."
"Are you sure?" Conor asked, surprising Prince Brand. "Are you sure your brother wasn't fit to rule?"
Brand looked at the aide. He should have punished him for speaking without first being spoken to but ignored it. He needed to tell his story. He put his head down on the table again. "Utterly," was all Brand said.
"Do you know his heart?" Conor asked. "His mind?"
"Better than anyone could. I lived with him my entire life. I survived the things he did by providence. Luck. It's a miracle I can speak, knowing what he did. It's a miracle I don't just go away forever and seclude myself in a hole until the end of time."
"Can the things he did be so horrible?" Conor asked.
"Yes!" Brand looked up and nearly stood. Conor backed away. "They are! Like a wolf's paw print in the dirt by the shepherd's field, seeing him tells you misery is near! I experienced them all and I wish he had died a young death so I didn't have to live knowing what had been done!" Brand hovered in the dark a moment, then sat heavily, nearly breaking the stool. He stretched his left arm out, panting. He motioned for the aide to continue. Conor appeared at his side, spreading the cream with careful strokes.
"Now who's the liar?" Allric said, after I had finished speaking. "How can you say terrible lies about your own brother? Father, have I ever done something so deserving of ire? He is mad!"
"Silence."
Our father's word was barely spoken, it barely squeezed itself from between his lips, yet it froze us. He seemed to swell. "Brand. I have allowed you a privileged chance to show your grace to the woman you are smitten with. Such opportunities should never be taken lightly. Instead, you engage in a spat with your brother, as if you were a child. I expect more from you. If Dainis were to enter the room and hear you say those words about your only brother, would you be ashamed? If not, you have no reason to speak with her ever again."
His words seemed to cut into my lungs. I nearly stumbled and fell. My vision dimmed.
I inhaled and my strength came back. I moved to speak, thoroughly shamed, but my father had turned his attention to my brother.
"And you. I have stood by long enough. I hoped -- prayed! -- your behavior would change as you became older. I begged God you would stop pinching your brother when you thought I couldn't see, or trying to trap him in a lie you knew didn't exist, hoping he would be punished, or -- even today, as I met with head merchants -- trying to trip him as if you were a fool and a jester!" He roared. "But nothing has changed! I have been given one son with emotions too sharp, and one with only hate for the family that has given him everything!"
My father stepped close to Allric, towering over him. For the first time I saw my brother cowed. "I am moved to accept Brand's words," the king whispered. The light from the fire turned his face red. "From this day forth, unless I see an improvement in your character and your actions, I disclaim you." My father stepped back and I saw Allric's shocked face. "You will never rule. Not as king, not as prince. You are no more than a commoner to me now, save one of my blood."
And with that, the king turned and left the room, anger radiating from him. I quickly followed, not wanting to be left alone with my brother in the room. I went to Dainis' room; the guard I had spoken to earlier saluted as I knocked. I was bid enter; Geddy was inside.
"You highness," he said. "I'm sorry, Dainis is still not awake."
"That's all right," I said, motioning for him to sit. "I came to speak with whomever watched her. Something has happened. It has become unsafe for Dainis to stay here. She must be moved."
"Moved . . . your highness, she must rest!" Geddy blinked. "Forgive my emotions, prince," he said, staring at the floor. "Moving her in such states may trigger another fit. We moved her before but . . . only to get her inside the palace. Doing so now is even more dangerous than before."
"Then we must be vigilant," I told him. "Do not let anyone besides myself, my father, or the doctor inside the room. There will be a guard stationed outside at all times. Someone from your family should be with her as well."
"My prince -- what's happened?" Geddy asked, fearful.
"A family spat," I said. "My brother. A beast. He may wish to harm your sister, to get back at me."
There . . . I saw a shadow on Geddy's face. He was taller than I . . . stronger, too. His muscles pushed his shirt tight. Had he attacked me, I might have lost. But he saw what was on my face as well: Apology. Regret. Pain. Fear, for his sister, not myself. I would have deserved the attack. Closing his eyes and looking away from me, to the figure asleep on the bed, he nodded.
"Be careful," I urged. "My brother is vicious. Our father has removed him from the royal family, thanks to a life of such actions."
Geddy's eyebrows shot into the curly dark hair on his head. "Incredible!"
"Yes," I said, going to the door. "All the more reason to be wary. There is little left for him to lose."
I left the room and found a messenger's fist inches from my face. He brought the hand down quickly and coughed, presenting me with a message. At the same time, a guard came to replace the one standing outside Dainis' door. The message was from my father, bidding me come to the state room at once. I assumed it was to tell me of Allric's fate.
My stomach squeezed around what little food I had eaten. Standing at attention as my father met with the merchants, meeting Dainis' family, witnessing my father disclaim my brother, the only other family I had besides him, all in one day. I felt sick, and weak; what else was about to happen? What new event would occur to sap my strength further?
The state room was empty. The fire crackled merrily under the wide mantle; the clock urged itself along through its endless task; the door was closed behind me.
I felt a point in my side. It cut into me and bit whatever lay under the skin. I collapsed, crying out. A fist took me to the ground, and my breath escaped me when I landed on my chest. A boot hit the wound and I screamed.
Something gripped my hair and pulled my head from the ground. I expected to hear a voice. A mocking tone, an angry cry, something. Instead, my hair was released and my head smacked the floor again. I laid on the ground shuddering, expecting a killing blow, or another punishing wound. Imagine my surprise when I heard the door open and close. I dared to lift my head -- pain nearly blinded me -- and found I was alone.
I could only think of Dainis' safety. I used whatever strength I still had. It was little, and I could barely get myself off the ground. I pulled myself around on the floor, each motion of my arm creating a jolt of pain up and down my leg. The clock warned me of time's sudden speed. I reached the door after what felt like an eternity, sliced into thin bits by the ticking. I lifted my left arm -- I'd been stabbed in the right side -- and pounded on the door with all my might. It sounded loud to me then but I knew I barely caressed it. I kept pounding until someone came in, nearly bashing my skull as he entered. It was a servant, and he immediately called for help, finding my bleeding body. "Leave me! Dainis' room!" I hissed! "Go there and stop my brother, now!"
The servant stood and rushed from the room as more men entered, running to Dainis' room and pushing past the guard standing there.
Prince Brand inhaled slowly, letting his lungs fill. Conor had nearly finished dressing the wound. His hands shook. "I wasn't fast enough," Brand said.
Allric marched to Dainis after leaving the state room. The guard outside -- Allric had asked him to relieve the one on-duty minutes ago -- allowed him to enter. Geddy had gone to his parents, away for a few minutes -- Dainis' younger brother turned, surprised to hear someone enter so suddenly, and found a hole in his chest for the trouble. He failed to cry out, and could only watch as his blood left him.
Now my brother stood by Dainis' bed. She was still asleep. In her weakened form her chest rose and fell by the barest amounts. She may have appeared dead already.
He grabbed her throat and pulled her from under the sheets. Her small body struck the floor and crumpled. She awoke suddenly -- cold . . . alone . . . afraid . . . weak -- and then a hand found her throat again.
It squeezed, big enough to wrap around her neck entirely, cutting off all blood and air to her. She looked up and found her killer smiling, knowing he had injured his brother more than any wound could, knowing all debts would be repaid, knowing wrongs would be righted, knowing his actions would bring balance back to his life -- at least, the demented figure crouching over her thought so. It was no more than a beast finding a sleeping child in the woods and tearing it apart at a whim.
Barely able to lift her arms, she struggled. Her feet kicked, shifting the sheets still tangled around them. Her mouth opened; not a sound emerged. She began to shake, trembling, tiny spasms removing any ability to fight. Her body shook with violent jerks, the hand around her throat released slowly, and retreated as her body continued shaking. Her eyes spun, retreating behind her eyelids, and her mouth opened and closed, feebly speaking to nothing. Specks of foam appeared, and she gagged. Her arms and legs clenched, tightening, squeezing, pulling close to her body and turning her into a small mass on the floor, writhing. Her fingers scraped on the stones.
She . . . Allric stepped away, watching her, emotionless. He watched her die. The life ran from her, draining from her lips as her body failed to grasp what was happening, as her heart and mind shut down, slowly turning her from a human being into a corpse.
And then my brother stood alone, in the room, both bodies still. He picked up the knife and opened the door. The guard outside, none the wiser, stood at attention as he disappeared within the palace.
He was able to hide before I called for help. He slipped away, clutching his knife and murderous intent. He sent for a servant, saying the king had been attacked. The palace flew into chaos, and I thought Dainis had been discovered, sending the men away from me to find my brother. I had no idea he would come back to me.
But the door creaked open, exposing the killer, the light from the fireplace lighting him as if he were good and pure.
I tried to breathe. I sucked down air, and my side stung as if the knife remained. "What have you done," I whispered. Even in the quiet room it sounded weak.
"Punished you," my brother replied. "Did what should have been done to you. What sort of life have you lived, feeling no pain?" My brother asked me. His feet stepped as the clock ticked. "You never knew pain. You never knew sorrow. You could never live as I lived!" He shouted, angry in the span of a moment and nearly leaping on me. "I showed you how life is!"
"By killing an innocent!" I said, pain and fury clawing at each other. "If you have shown me how life is then I have no choice but to make life better for everyone!" I found my feet bringing me up, hand still pressed against my side. "By taking you from it!"
He rushed me, and I was knocked to the ground, my body flushing with pain. I pushed myself up and grabbed his wrist, his knife's point inches from my stomach. I was lucky I had the better leverage; I threw him aside and the knife spun across the floor. I took a step, limping, and fell on top of him, fist connecting with his chin. He pushed me off.
He opened his mouth but only a feral noise escaped. I fell on the ground and he rose, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He approached, the fireplace giving him a shadow reaching out to me, covering me. In the otherwise dark room the fire burned behind him.
So I leaped forward, colliding with him around his middle, bearing both of us to the ground! I'd forgotten my pain -- forgotten my fury! I was left with one thing: revenge, against a killer, ending an innocent girl's life as payment for . . . for what?
NOTHING!
Forgive me, I . . . H-he hit the floor hard. I heard the breath rush from his lungs. I punched him in the stomach and pushed myself up.
The fire was before me.
I grabbed the base of his head and pushed him toward the heat of the fire; he felt it and fought back. He raged against the hellfire! He tried to fight the destiny he deserved, but I was of one mind! If I succeeded and then dropped dead I would die a happy man, knowing he was marked as a beast!
The cream had been applied to its furthest point, but Conor wasn't finished. He took a flat blade and began to slowly scrape the dried medicine at the top of the arm away from the skin. Brand bit his lip to keep from crying out. The prince's other hand was a tight fist. He'd pounded the table during his outburst moments ago, and now felt the blade scrape down his arm. Conor slowly peeled the medicine away, revealing the twisting, mottled burn underneath.
The heat was great. It was a large fireplace. It could have swallowed our bodies.
I heard the clock as we struggled. He looked into my eyes and realized what lay there . . . he realized I had a sudden goal in mind, and he dared to realize he could fall prey to it. His eyes swiveled up, looking at the dancing flames above his head. I took the chance to heave him closer, and he thrashed in my hands. I squeezed the life from him -- a cruel, kind, unknowable echo to the death he had dealt Dainis.
His boot found the wound he'd given me earlier. I opened my mouth as if to scream but had no breath, my body nearly collapsing. He punched me, snapping my head aside, and I had to take my hands from him to keep myself from falling over. He pushed himself away, resting against the edge of the fireplace, trying to regain his breath.
Our visions met as if we looked into mirrors -- hatred and anger and revenge, a wish for death. He pushed away from the edge of the fireplace and reached for me, still sitting. His mouth was full of fangs and his hands were claws; the fire painted him with blood. He took hold of my head and pushed me to the ground, trying to bash me but too weak. I pushed him away.
We could nearly reach out and touch one another from where we lay, both panting and coughing. It was as if we had just played a game, and were spent from the fun. I barely had the strength to open my eyes, but I heard him move his limbs and pull himself up. He crawled to me.
I tried to keep his hands away from me but couldn't muster the strength. His grip was weak. I hit him in the face, across the eyes, and he gasped, angry. I pushed his jaw from underneath and his neck craned. Finally he broke away, but I kept up the attack. My goal had returned, but I was weak enough to think I couldn't do it. I gripped his shirt and dragged him closer to the fire.
He grunted, trying to escape, but couldn't. The heat grew. He struggled against my grasp as he felt it. He freed himself from one hand, fighting against the other. I crawled closer to the flames, ignoring his struggles, and just as I got close enough I lost my grip.
The fire lit our final struggle. We pushed each other, trying to knock the other down. Other than our grunts, and the fire's low crackle, and the large clock's ticking, the room was silent.
Snarling, my brother attempted a punch. It did nothing but put him off-balance. I grabbed the arm he had used, his right arm, and dove for the fire.
He clawed at my face and I stumbled, stretching my left arm too far. Our two limbs went into the flames, each submerged up to the shoulder. They fell and rested against the hot coals, burning us both. We screamed, louder than either of us had before. I released him, unable to hold him in like I had imagined, and we fell against the floor, frantically slapping the flames on our arms to put them out. I was more successful than he -- his arm became little more than a roasted shank attached to his body.
It still hurts. The pain was incredible. It was as if lines of knives and needles pressed into my arm from all angles. I thought I could smell it -- and to my disgust, it smelled good. Like pork. I imagined sitting with my father and brother, and even my mother before she died, and feasting as a family. My brother still antagonized me then, but at least there was joy. At least there was still something to salvage from him, some part of him not dedicated to brutality and murder, and pointless revenge. At least my family could enjoy a meal together without worrying about death.
Our screams drew an audience. Soldiers and servants, those looking for the king, came running. They put us both out and called for help. I demanded they lock up my brother, speaking through clenched teeth, trying to see through locked shut eyes. I couldn't dare look at my burns for a few hours. I was taken and placed in a chair, and the same mixture you have just finished removing was used to soothe the pain. It was little help.
Our father was called. By then, the bodies of Dainis and her brother had been discovered, and it was all too simple to assign Allric the blame. He was removed from the palace, sent away to a secure place, until his fate could be decided.
Tragedy does not halt. Days later, our father, the king, fell ill. Many say it was due to the knowledge he had fathered a monster, and couldn't bear knowing he had brought such evil into the world. The doctors could not help him. He wasted away, and I wasn't even able to be with him when he died.
To say I was angry with my brother -- to say I wished him dead . . . I wanted him to experience pain like I had.
But . . .
How would it make me any better? He . . . wanted revenge. For something I can hardly tell! Because I was . . . the elder? Because I had something to be happy for, someone giving me joy? Was it for any reason at all, or was he simply a monster in human skin?
Brand shook his head. Conor cleaned the last of the dried cream from the edge of the blade. "I cannot tell. I have no words for it." Brand raised his head, finding Conor still brandishing the blade. "You know the rest, I expect. My brother freed himself, and raised an army, saying he had been betrayed, and that my story is a lie. He wants my kingdom." Brand stood, inspecting his arm. "You've done well, Conor," Brand said. "My arm feels much better. Will you be fighting tomorrow?"
"Yes, your highness," Conor said.
"Should we both survive I would have you attend me tomorrow, as well," Brand said. He found his cloak and tied it around his throat. The sun was gone and away; the camp was quiet in the night. Brand glanced at Conor, finding the man standing as if he carried a weight. "You have a question?"
"Yes, your highness. Why . . . why did you tell me this?"
Brand again looked out the tent's gap, as he had before Conor arrived. "Stories must be told," he said. "The hearer must hear them, the teller must tell them. It is for both." He paused.
"You are dismissed," he said without looking, and exited the tent.
Dark winds blew Conor's cloak as he climbed the far bank of the river. He took some time to escape Prince Brand's camp, but now he neared friendly scouts at last. He identified himself, and was given free passage to the center of the camp. Upon nearing one of the tents, he removed his cloak and outer shirt, revealing a large, twisting, painful burn on his right arm. He took off his helmet, and his blond hair flashed as he passed torches.
He entered the tent, and a man stood up, notifying others in the room. "Allric! Where have you been?"
"Doing some scouting of my own, Geddy," Prince Allric said. "I went to see my brother."
"What?" Geddy came closer, helping the prince to the chair next to his favorite clock. "How?"
"A not-so-clever disguise," Allric replied, sighing as he sat. "Nearly everyone in the camp had their helmets on. It's why I asked our archers to tease their camp. My brother thought nothing of it."
"Did you tell him?"
Allric shook his head. "I planned to. But . . . he told me my own story, with him as the heroic prince instead of I." Allric thought about laughing. "To hear him describe Dainis so . . . it felt like he had reopened my wound."
"He's deluded himself into thinking you are at fault?"
Allric stood and went to the entrance of the tent. He was aware how similar he and his brother would have looked. "Stories must be told. The hearer must hear them, the teller must tell them," he echoed, to Geddy's confusion. "Did you know, Brand?" He said to himself. "Did you mean to tell me my own story?" The good prince looked over the camp toward the river; he felt tired. "Did you seek repentance?
"Perhaps I will attend you again brother, should we both survive."
Brand Undership's red-wrapped army sat watching the peaceful sundown sky. The wind blew unrelenting smoke from their fires across the horses and kept them pawing at the riverbank mud. Across the river the other brother's banners flapped.
Peering through the gap in his tent at his brother's army, Prince Brand himself sat, helmeted men walking past, wary of arrows from their enemy. He wasn't dressed for battle; his shield and sword sat in a dark corner until they would be readied for him the next morning, after which Brand would carry them with disgust, riding his horse over his soldiers, waiting for his brother to join him.
A man in mud-splattered armor appeared out of the smoke and knelt, head bent. "My lord. I am here to attend to your wound."
Brand nodded and rose from his stool, beckoning the aide to join him. Inside it was dark and oppressive; the heat made it stink.
"Your highness, you should have your helmet," the aide said, but the prince shook his head.
"I cannot be scared by cowardly tactics," Brand said. He removed his tunic and stood naked to the waist in the center of the tent. "What is your name?"
"Conor, your highness," the aide said. He found the tray bearing medicine and brought it closer. "I have attended you before."
"Have you?" Brand didn't look at the man as he began to prepare the medicine. "I admit I don't remember."
"I'm sure your highness has many names to remember," Conor said softly. The different potions and powders became thick and gold under the aide's careful mixing. "Prepare yourself, your highness."
Brand sat at the center table and rested his arm upon it, laying his forehead down and sweeping his long dark hair out of the way, so the aide could begin to dab the cream on the long-lasting wound. Conor did not recoil at the sight of the vicious burn wrapping itself around the arm, from the shoulder to the end of the fingertips. Bubbles and flat dead patches alternated, and red patches like craters marked the surface.
Looming quiet settled inside the tent as Conor began. He used a small brush to spread the foul-smelling cream along the injury. Brand felt the sting and growled. The aide carefully drew the brush along as a painter might, taking care not to put the medicine anywhere it didn't belong, knowing it would hurt the prince unduly.
"You are skilled," Brand said. "I'm surprised I don't remember you."
"There's no reason for your highness to remember someone like me."
Conor dabbed slowly. The first bottle of the cream was almost empty, and he had much left to do.
"I want to tell you a story," Brand said. Conor stepped back to the tray and began mixing more cream. "Will you listen?"
"If you desire."
"Good." Brand kept his head resting against the table, feeling the row of bee stings from the cream and the muted clink as more of the mixture was made. "It's about this wound." He listened to the aide as he stirred the cream in even circles, until slowly the clinks died away and Conor stepped close again. "I have never told this story to anyone. I want you to hear it."
"I will listen, your highness."
The stinging slowly grew down Brand's arm as Conor continued applying the cream, and Brand ground his teeth. "Do you know why we ready to battle?"
"Your brother-" Conor spat "-betrayed you. Besmirched your name, murdered your true love, and now he fights back against you to get what he thinks should be his -- taken away by your father the king before his death." Conor spread the cream.
"You're right," Brand said. "I will tell you the story."
In the palace we lived. I, with my dark hair, the firstborn and rightful heir. My brother, with his light hair, the second-born. Our father, king.
How my brother hated me. Not a day passed when he did not do some awful, vile, horrid thing to me because of it! Broke my possessions, lied to me, or lied to our keepers about things he had done. He was the greatest enemy I have ever known, and the fact endures. He could not bear to see me succeed so he tricked me, and trapped me, and pulled cruel pranks on me for years. I could never do the same to him, he never fell for them. He always discovered them or found them lacking, as if he had demon-blessed vision to see the deceits in others!
I suffered at the hands of my mother and father; he laughed when he saw me punished.
When I got older I spent much time out of the palace because of it. I spent time in the capital city, pretending to be a commoner. I would dress in the clothes of the everyman, spit out my high-born speech, and ruffle my hair so no one would know me. I enjoyed it -- not only because I could get away from my brother, but because I enjoyed speaking with the people in the city. I would buy fresh bread from the bakers and slices of meat from the butcher and relax with the women in their draped-velvet rooms. It was the place I felt at peace. My brother couldn't find me.
One day, I was in the city, near the edge. The gate was open, and people streamed in and out, always a loud flow of voices saying things I could never hear in the palace. I heard men call my father a bastard, call me a bastard, call my mother a whore, call us all worse. They would sometimes be shushed, told their eyes could be anywhere. I wonder what they would have done had they known I was so close.
I sat in the sunshine, in the cool day, under the clouds.
A group of coaches came into the city, covered in bells and bright colors. They held merchant families, come to treat with my father about taxes and prices. They passed sweets and toys to children and sample wares to parents. I watched them with a smile on my face, enjoying the laughter – something the palace heard little.
Near the end of the line a coach rolled in bearing the marks of a clockmaker. Wonderful, spiraling and twisting designs. The teeth of gears . . . I've always loved them. They way they fit together and work in tandem. Function only occurring once all parts pass muster and join together.
I . . .
I wanted a closer look at the things they sold. They had small pocket watches, and larger standing clocks. Grandfather clocks. My father had a giant clock in his state room. When I was a child, I liked to listen to it. With my father there my brother couldn't get me. It was peace.
They opened the coach's window. The ticking came from all sides, bounding and rebounding into me like I was surrounded by a thousand clicking stones. I stood listening; a big man said hello to me, and asked me if I was having trouble finding anything. I told him I was just enjoying the sound. He smiled and nodded.
"The clocks," he began. I saw a look in his eye -- joy. "They have their voices. Enough to drown out the largest church choir. But just one can pierce the quiet room, unlike anything else. Tell me, young man, why do you like the sound?"
I didn't tell him the truth. How could I tell a stranger the way my brother treated me? I told him it was the construction of the things; all the parts working. He nodded again, standing next to me and looking in the same direction. I didn't want him near me.
Eventually he went to a different customer when he decided I wasn't in the mood for a purchase. I remember a large cloud went across the sun, and the ticking seemed to get louder. When the cloud moved again, someone else stood next to me.
Conor finished spreading the second jar of cream on the prince's arm. The prince's silence reigned; he covered his face with his free hand, the sound and smell of the army outside the tent blowing in. Conor retreated to the medicine tray to mix another batch. The scar on Brand's arm was tended to the elbow, but it got denser, and fiercer, as it neared the fingers. Conor knew he would be in the tent for some time. Eventually he came to the prince's side again.
She . . .
Her name was Dainis Steeria.
In the stories the fair maiden has long, bright blonde hair. It flashes in the sun, cascading down her back, gold. She has flawless skin a statue would envy -- wide eyes glimmering like stars. Dainis possessed none. Shoulder-length, dirty-yellow hair, freckles and scars on her cheeks, and black eyes. She had a pretty smile, at least. It covered her face.
She surprised me. "Was my father bothering you?" She asked, and I jumped. She came from nowhere, very close to me; the top of her head just reached my shoulder. "He can talk for hours about clocks." She looked at me, and she smiled. "What's your name?"
I faltered, and came up with one of my trick names in the city. Edward. She told me hers. I couldn't look away. The reason escapes me. No legendary beauty her, but . . . her flat cheeks, the way her nose lifted. The way her hair was bound.
She . . . was . . . a clock. It worked together and moved in tandem to create something beautiful. The parts themselves would have opened no eyes, interested no . . . collectors, but arranged in one place they became a peaceful creation.
I wished to hear her tick. To hear the life-giving thing inside her, and celebrate it. The beat marking not time but her, being there, in front of me.
She asked me if I liked the clocks, and I told her yes. She asked me if I had many, and I said yes. I should have said no, but I was thinking about the grand clock in my father's state room, and the smaller ones around the palace. She asked if there was one before me I would like to see close.
I told her there was, and she asked which one.
What was I to say? What would you have said? Would you have lifted her wrist and planted your lips upon it, telling her it was the one in front of you, whose hands and face were greater than any timepiece could aspire. Would you tell her the clock you wished to have on your arm you held even now?
Would you have blushed and balked, and turned away, run back to the castle and slammed the door, to rid yourself of the thing so disrupting to your life -- the thing that interrupted your peace with a unique strain of its own?
Would you have blindly pointed at a watch hanging on a hook, and have her hold it up to your face, telling you it looks rather good against your skin, saying the colors worked, and let you hold it in your hand when what you truly wanted was to hold her? To feel it tick instead of the pump of blood through her veins? To curse and rage against yourself as she stood next to you, begging yourself to say any word you could to her -- because your heart had skipped when you found her close! Because her name still rang in your ears, and your mind chained it down so it could never be forgotten! Because she was the person giving you peace like the sweet ticking did!
I told her the watch was very nice. I said I couldn't afford it; I could of course. It would have been a trifle to pay for it. Barely a thought. I could have bought ten of them. I watched her replace it, and when her back was turned on me, I walked away quickly, stomach hard, legs shuffling as stiff boards, feet hating to strike the ground and emit sound of my cowardice.
I went back to the palace, to my room. The clock inside, on the wall, mocked me with each tick, scattering my thoughts. I wanted to think only of her, but at the same time wished to have anything else to think of. She became the enemy and the goal, the ally and the villain. I wanted her close and distant.
But eventually my thoughts sloughed away, giving light to a fixation. She was beautiful to me, and I wanted to see her more. She was a rich merchant's daughter -- my father could perhaps approve of the relationship. I stood in my room, still dressed in the clothes I wore outside the palace, and went to find my father. He sat in his state room, listening to an adviser explain the people he would be meeting the next day -- the merchants.
They were all of the highest order, top of their respective guilds. The tailors, and the cobblers, and the metalworkers, and yes, the clockmakers. I stood to the side, waiting as I had been told to do. The large clock dominating the mantle over the cold empty fireplace drummed sonorous. Eventually the adviser bowed and exited and the king moved his vision to me. He ushered me forward with a motion.
"How was the city today, prince?" He asked. He sat in his chair at the front of the table, head resting on a curled fist. He leaned forward. "I've never seen such an expression on your face. Did Allric twiddle your nose again?"
I rustled at the words, but tried to keep my face from shifting. "Father, I saw the merchants as they entered the city."
"Ah. Impressed? The last time they came was five years ago. I hear it's a wonderful spectacle for the commoner. Did you buy?"
"No father." I hesitated. I almost didn't tell him what had happened, who was there, what I'd done. But . . . "I saw the clockmaker’s coach," I began. "I talked with the head. Afterward, I met his daughter." My father leaned forward, and the smile tried to show itself on his face before I finished. "She was lovely to me." The sensation came back. "I could barely speak to her."
"Why so?"
"She had a peaceful face." The phrase meant much to me, but my father tilted his head and furrowed his brow. "I was cowardly. I ran from her."
The king leaned on the table in front of him with both arms, big body levered over it. He stared at something unseen, halfway down its length. "It's good you have found someone that causes this in you," he said at last. "Every person should feel your feeling. If they get the person that forges it, so they are forged. If not, they are still forged, of a different heat. One is love, the other rejection. No, rejection is not the lesser of the two. It can burn or break a person, just as love can. Sometimes it creates a person mightier than the storm, and sometimes weaker than driftwood." He stood up. "Tomorrow I meet with the merchants. You and Allric will attend me. When I meet with the clockmaker, I will mention his daughter, and suggest a formal meeting between you. Did you use your true name?"
"No, father. I was caught off-guard and supplied a fake one."
"No matter. Is this agreeable?" He looked at me, seeing through the young man to the child he had known first. "Or does it sound wrong?"
My shoulders slumped and my chin dropped to my chest. "I merely wish to speak with her without a veil of emotions between us."
"So do we all. Emotions are how our lives are colored, Brand. I still cannot recall your mother the queen without emotions between us. You and your brother the same. You must reach through." He walked to me. We had become the same height over the years, yet he always seemed the bigger, the stronger, to me. "I'm sure the clockmaker will be happy to introduce his daughter to the heir to the kingdom. To a prince such as you."
And he smiled; I felt courage. "Tomorrow you'll meet her. Do you know her name?"
"Dainis."
"A pretty name," my father said, and I felt small again, as if I had brought him a buck from the hunt, or penned a poem about the exploits I believed he led. Approval of a father knowing his son was becoming someone more than a child.
I retreated to my room and imagined the next day as if it would never arrive; for a long time it didn't; I was unable to sleep. The clock counted away the seconds in an unending beat.
"Was your father the same way?" Brand asked the aide. "Did he say such things?"
"My father was much the same as yours, your highness," Conor replied. "He was proud to see me grow." The man steadily applied the cream onto the prince's arm, tracing the pocked and puckered skin with the brush's bristles, not pausing when Brand gasped for the pain. "I imagine our fathers would have seen eye to eye on many things, had they the chance to discuss."
Brand watched the aide slowly follow the contours of the scar, spreading the thick cream like a painter.
We -- my brother and I -- stood in attendance for my father the next day, as he met with the many merchants from the day before. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, backs straight, eyes forward until my father or one of the merchants would call us forward for a task. Our job was to assist in management, but also to listen. I would be taking control of the kingdom from my father, and my brother would be expected to rule by my side as an ally . . . a foolish notion, even then. My brother would never be an ally.
I stood next to a hateful creature, uncomplaining, listening to the clock tick the day away, listening to the large fire under it split logs, waiting for the clockmaker to enter and perhaps recognize the young man he had spoken clocks with the day before. My heart beat faster when I would imagine the moment my father addressed me, and the clockmaker’s daughter.
I was dressed splendidly. Better than my brother; I saw his eyes flare in hatred and accusation -- how dare I appear finer than he! How could I possibly think to upstage him, the younger and second-born! How could I think to dress in fine colors and rich cloth when he wore a simple clean doublet and trousers?
The nerve I possessed.
He tried to force me to act unseemly the day through, prodding me with his finger when our father squinted over a paper. Trying to trip me when I was called forward with each merchant's entrance, to supply a bow and receive one in turn as crown prince.
I refused to let him ruin this day! I let him stick his finger into my side without a sound. I stepped over his reaching boot every time and bow, announcing myself and filling the room with my voice – how strong it was, even imagining Dainis hearing it!
His scowl told me there would be retribution. I once dared to return a scowl of my own, and our eyes locked. He could have killed me then and there, and become the base monster -- the vile and heartless aggressor, the beast in human skin -- I know him to be.
Finally -- after ages -- the time came for the clockmaker to enter. He wasn't the last merchant, but the time drew to a close, and the sun set, casting orange light across the floor as he, Frederick Steeria, entered. When introduced I bowed, wondering if recognition would spread across his face, but it remained the smile one wore when meeting someone important -- though I saw a touch of a true smile as well.
He and my father worked, and when my father needed one of us he would call only me. To say this rankled my brother is an understatement similar to saying the sun is a source of light. Like the sun's purpose to is to supply us light, Allric's purpose became to despise me.
I began to feel dizzy, caught between my own building desire, and the threat of the punishment I knew my brother was constructing -- as a clockmaker will carefully piece together in his mind, so many little parts became an interacting whole. I resolved to stay alert at all times just as my father ended his discussion with Steeria.
"One thing more," the king said, raising a solitary finger. The discussion had been spirited. Steeria seemed to enjoy this part of the job as much as the clock-making itself. My father beckoned to me, and I stepped forward. My brother did not attempt to trip me. "My son, Brand, crown prince, said he met you the day before after you entered the city." The clockmaker looked at me with surprise, and then the recognition appeared. "Brand is fond of clocks and watches. To his great surprise, he also found himself fond of your daughter, Dainis." I could feel heat on my face and neck and arms, and wished to avert my eyes. The clockmaker’s eyebrows rose. "Since he was masquerading as a commoner, my son could not properly introduce himself. He would like to do so now, if possible. Your daughter -- is she within the castle?"
The clockmaker snapped his mouth shut and appraised me. I stood with my chest pushed out and my chin up. After a time he said "I am . . . honored to have the prince interested so in both my work . . . and my only daughter, whom I love. I am afraid . . . dear Dainis is not a healthy girl. She . . . has a malady that exhibits itself at random, bringing upon her fits, seizures, and weakness. If . . . if not treated she may die, and even if treated properly she must rest for days or more. This morning she . . . fell ill as described. She is resting in our coach at the moment. I beg you, do not feel slighted! I would have her present herself in a moment if she were healthy, but . . . I fear for her as fathers do."
My father was nodding, hand on his chin. My eyes were wide, imagining Dainis wasting away. My father opened his mouth but I stepped closer to the clockmaker. "Sir, I plead you -- may I see her? I . . . She knows me only as Edward. I would have her know me as Prince Brand."
"You are my guest," my father said to Steeria. "If you wish, bring her into the castle so she may rest here. Surely it will be more comfortable than a cramped coach?" He angled his head toward me. "My son will see to it. Your whole family may stay within the walls."
The clockmaker’s face cleared of emotion, held motionless like a painting for a moment, and became covered in full surprise. "Sire . . . you honor me!"
The king nodded to me, and I left the room, pleading with myself not to run.
My brother's vision burned through my back.
The city revealed itself from behind the palace walls. I smelled served food, heard rattling horses' hooves and air-borne shouts. The warmth drew sweat under my clothes, and my stiff muscles carried me forward with silent protests. I snapped my fingers at a number of armed men guarding the palace and they fell in behind me as I forged my way toward the clock-strung coach. The street cleared as I walked, commoners and visitors to the city watching the speedy procession with confusion. I could barely be bothered to notice them.
At the edge of the city I found the coach. It and several others were circled, and a small common area was between them, allowing for cooking fires, safety for children, and idle chit-chat. The area fell silent and afraid when I entered it, followed by the soldiers.
My sweat from the heat, and my own hurried mind, assuredly made me look frantic and crazed. My hair was plastered to my skull and I panted, looking around. I identified the clockmaker's coach and climbed its few steps.
My retinue joined me. I felt the eyes of the other merchants on us as I knocked. A young man, perhaps nineteen, opened the door and was momentarily stunned into silence by the sight of us. "Geddy!" He called over his shoulder into the small coach, and a second later a man nearly in his thirties appeared.
"Yes?" He asked, equally surprised. "May I help you gentlemen?"
"I am Prince Brand Undership," I said, bowing. Geddy's face opened in shock. "You are Frederick Steeria's son?" The man nodded. "Your father meets with mine as we speak. It was revealed Dainis Steeria has taken ill, and my father allowed your family a space inside the palace. Make ready."
"Y-yes, your highness! Of course . . . thank you!"
"May I speak with your sister?" I asked, words nearly getting caught sideways in my mouth.
"She is weak, your highness, but . . . " Geddy glanced behind him. "Awake. The fit was a harsh one."
I nodded, and turned to the soldiers behind me. "Assist the family in moving the coach. I will be a few minutes." The soldiers saluted and I entered the coach. It seemed nearly twenty feet long, but only four or five wide. As outside, clocks and watches were hung up carefully, along with things for travel. The younger son bowed hastily at me. Geddy squeezed himself against the wall to make room, and pointed me at the far end. There was a drawn sheet around one dark corner.
I wondered about announcing myself, and then decided it was just another way to hesitate. I slid the sheet away slowly, not wanting to startle her.
In turn, I was startled. The young woman I'd seen the day before was absent. Instead, a crude skeletal figure lay wrapped in blankets, shallow breaths rattling from her mouth, cheeks sunken and eyes wandering. Confusion washed over me. It was impossible this was Dainis. I was the victim of a cruel trick. I nearly turned to her brothers and demanded the truth when the figure in the bed shifted her head and found me.
Understanding followed . . . she was Dainis the way a clock with the face removed and the hands twisted into improper angles was still a clock. Incredibly, her thin lips spread, and the same smile as the day before appeared. The façade broke, and she was there again, hidden behind her sickness.
I knelt. She slowly reached out a hand toward me. "Edward," she said, dark eyes -- red veins intruded through the whites -- wide. "Are you back for the watch?"
"I have all the watches I could ever need," I told her. I took her hand in my own; it was cold and light. "My name isn't Edward. It's Brand Undership."
I expected surprise, or confusion. The girl's face remained impassive. "So . . . " She said, after licking her lips. "You aren't here for the watch?"
My heart wrenched. "No, Dainis, I'm here for you. Your family will be staying in the palace, until you recover."
Again she appeared indifferent. "Palace?"
"Your highness," I heard beside me. Geddy stood with his hands behind his back, and I got to my feet. "She is very tired, and sometimes does not understand what is happening around her. She seems to think you're someone else. Please, she will be better once she rests."
"I told her I was Edward yesterday," I said, almost sick. The girl recognized me, I knew she did. "I looked at a watch." I brought my head close. "She struck me as lovely," I told her brother. "I wished to speak with her more, but your father told me she was ill. It is why I have come."
Innumerable emotions passed Geddy's face, until he nodded. "Were she well, your highness, I'm sure she would be pleased to see you."
"To the palace," I said. "You'll be our guests tonight."
Prince Brand's arm stank to the forearm. The cream covering it soothed the lingering pain from the burn but exuded a none-to-pleasant stench as Conor mixed yet another batch. The aide was gifted at painting his wound, Brand thought, but slow.
"Have you heard this story told before?" Brand asked. The other man shook his head. The latest batch of cream was taking shape. It was likely not enough to complete the process -- the prince's hand ended in dense burned tissue -- it would require patience.
"Never, your highness," Conor said. "And I admit, I'm surprised to hear it told so."
"And why is that?"
"Well," the aide said, mixing, "You told me it was about your burn, but you have said nothing of it."
"Soon, friend," the prince said. He turned his head and inspected the cracking flesh. The smell of the cream assailed him.
Geddy, his brother, and their mother -- quite surprised to meet me -- moved their coach to the palace. It was held within the courtyard, and Dainis' brothers and I carefully moved her to an empty room within the building. The king's physician attended her, but told us he could do no more.
"The medicine her family gives her is the best for her," I was told. "She will recover." He laid a gentle arm on my shoulder, perhaps recognizing the reason for her family's presence. "She should be lucid by the morning."
The physician left the room. A large bed swallowed Dainis, white sheets wrapping her. The window was open, allowing fresh air to intrude. She slept, cheek against the pillow, hair covering her face like a veil. All I could see was a single closed eye. She could have been dead then, as she would be in hardly any time at all. I watched her sleep, wishing only to speak with her.
Cursing cruel fate, I exited and found her family outside. Seeing me, they knelt and bowed. "Young prince," Frederick Steeria said. "You honor us in so many ways." He looked up at me and I saw tears in the man's eyes. "The kingdom is lucky to have your leadership in its future."
"Stand, please," I told them all.
"We will stay by Dainis' side," her mother, Illia, said. "When she is better, we will send for you immediately."
My heart leapt at the promise. "Thank you. I look forward to it." I moved aside to allow them into her room, and found myself alone in the wide hallway of the palace.
No. Not alone. A dark presence stood at the other end. Allric strode up to me, hands clasped behind him, face tilted down but eyes directed at me; he looked like a madman.
"Allric," I greeted him. Even his childish, ill-deserved retribution would do nothing to soil how I felt.
"Brand," he said, voice light to hide the hatred. "I don't approve of these visitors."
"A shame you have no say in the matter," I replied. I turned and began to walk away.
"Do not leave me standing here, brat," he said, spitting the words out from between his teeth. "I will find a way to repay you."
"And what is it I've done, brother?" I rounded on him. I was the taller of us, though I never used it against him. His words had galvanized me to reply. "Chivalrously pursued a woman as a bride? Extended a kindness toward a sick girl and her family? Acted as a king should?" I shouted. "I suppose you would know nothing of those things," I sneered, feeling righteous anger fill me. "Go back to the stories our mother used to read us, and discover something there."
"Calm your tongue, brother," Allric said, speaking uncharacteristically low. "I would hate to disturb your guest."
The words hung; I heard them long after he spoke. His lips pulled apart, teeth in a skeletal smile, but it went no higher; his eyes burned with fury. The threat made me wish to throttle the life from him, and I knew it was what he wanted. He wanted me to strike at him and get our father on his side. I knew it as if he had said the words himself.
Instead I spun again and walked away. He said nothing as I left. The first guard I saw I ordered to stand watch at Dainis' door, and told him on no terms should he allow my brother inside. The guard saluted, frowning, and went to Dainis' door. My brother's dark presence had vanished.
I went to my father. I had to speak with him as quickly as I could -- but Allric reached him first.
Our father's meeting with the merchants had concluded. Evening was growing outside, and the smell of food was filling the castle. Our father sat at the table and rested his head on a fist, and looked worn and tired from the talking, even as Allric spoke into his ear. My brother looked up when I entered; our eyes met, and we fought the first battle of the war we look to end now.
Neither of us had a chance to say a word. Our father heaved himself up, fists against the table. Allric stepped back, and waited near the ticking clock and roaring fire.
"Brand," my father said. His voice filled the room. You may think your father a formidable man when he is angry but mine was a king; all ears heard him. "Allric is accusing you of violence against him."
"He struck me!" Allric said. He placed a hand to his side. "After I told him I wasn't happy with the way he acted this afternoon!"
"Lies!" I said, enraged. I remember my vision going red . . . but I know it's just one of memory's tricks. "You threatened our guests, and me. You feel slighted in some imaginary manner, and now bring it to the only person able to force me to do what you want!"
Taking a deep breath I knelt in front of my father. "Father -- my king -- you must not believe what Allric says. He is angry that you afforded me my right as crown prince to speak with Steeria the clockmaker after his daughter." I shot my brother a look. The fire he stood next to gave him a shadowed face. "He has always been petty. He has always been a violent beast. He has always been a monster. He is not fit to rule."
"Are you sure?" Conor asked, surprising Prince Brand. "Are you sure your brother wasn't fit to rule?"
Brand looked at the aide. He should have punished him for speaking without first being spoken to but ignored it. He needed to tell his story. He put his head down on the table again. "Utterly," was all Brand said.
"Do you know his heart?" Conor asked. "His mind?"
"Better than anyone could. I lived with him my entire life. I survived the things he did by providence. Luck. It's a miracle I can speak, knowing what he did. It's a miracle I don't just go away forever and seclude myself in a hole until the end of time."
"Can the things he did be so horrible?" Conor asked.
"Yes!" Brand looked up and nearly stood. Conor backed away. "They are! Like a wolf's paw print in the dirt by the shepherd's field, seeing him tells you misery is near! I experienced them all and I wish he had died a young death so I didn't have to live knowing what had been done!" Brand hovered in the dark a moment, then sat heavily, nearly breaking the stool. He stretched his left arm out, panting. He motioned for the aide to continue. Conor appeared at his side, spreading the cream with careful strokes.
"Now who's the liar?" Allric said, after I had finished speaking. "How can you say terrible lies about your own brother? Father, have I ever done something so deserving of ire? He is mad!"
"Silence."
Our father's word was barely spoken, it barely squeezed itself from between his lips, yet it froze us. He seemed to swell. "Brand. I have allowed you a privileged chance to show your grace to the woman you are smitten with. Such opportunities should never be taken lightly. Instead, you engage in a spat with your brother, as if you were a child. I expect more from you. If Dainis were to enter the room and hear you say those words about your only brother, would you be ashamed? If not, you have no reason to speak with her ever again."
His words seemed to cut into my lungs. I nearly stumbled and fell. My vision dimmed.
I inhaled and my strength came back. I moved to speak, thoroughly shamed, but my father had turned his attention to my brother.
"And you. I have stood by long enough. I hoped -- prayed! -- your behavior would change as you became older. I begged God you would stop pinching your brother when you thought I couldn't see, or trying to trap him in a lie you knew didn't exist, hoping he would be punished, or -- even today, as I met with head merchants -- trying to trip him as if you were a fool and a jester!" He roared. "But nothing has changed! I have been given one son with emotions too sharp, and one with only hate for the family that has given him everything!"
My father stepped close to Allric, towering over him. For the first time I saw my brother cowed. "I am moved to accept Brand's words," the king whispered. The light from the fire turned his face red. "From this day forth, unless I see an improvement in your character and your actions, I disclaim you." My father stepped back and I saw Allric's shocked face. "You will never rule. Not as king, not as prince. You are no more than a commoner to me now, save one of my blood."
And with that, the king turned and left the room, anger radiating from him. I quickly followed, not wanting to be left alone with my brother in the room. I went to Dainis' room; the guard I had spoken to earlier saluted as I knocked. I was bid enter; Geddy was inside.
"You highness," he said. "I'm sorry, Dainis is still not awake."
"That's all right," I said, motioning for him to sit. "I came to speak with whomever watched her. Something has happened. It has become unsafe for Dainis to stay here. She must be moved."
"Moved . . . your highness, she must rest!" Geddy blinked. "Forgive my emotions, prince," he said, staring at the floor. "Moving her in such states may trigger another fit. We moved her before but . . . only to get her inside the palace. Doing so now is even more dangerous than before."
"Then we must be vigilant," I told him. "Do not let anyone besides myself, my father, or the doctor inside the room. There will be a guard stationed outside at all times. Someone from your family should be with her as well."
"My prince -- what's happened?" Geddy asked, fearful.
"A family spat," I said. "My brother. A beast. He may wish to harm your sister, to get back at me."
There . . . I saw a shadow on Geddy's face. He was taller than I . . . stronger, too. His muscles pushed his shirt tight. Had he attacked me, I might have lost. But he saw what was on my face as well: Apology. Regret. Pain. Fear, for his sister, not myself. I would have deserved the attack. Closing his eyes and looking away from me, to the figure asleep on the bed, he nodded.
"Be careful," I urged. "My brother is vicious. Our father has removed him from the royal family, thanks to a life of such actions."
Geddy's eyebrows shot into the curly dark hair on his head. "Incredible!"
"Yes," I said, going to the door. "All the more reason to be wary. There is little left for him to lose."
I left the room and found a messenger's fist inches from my face. He brought the hand down quickly and coughed, presenting me with a message. At the same time, a guard came to replace the one standing outside Dainis' door. The message was from my father, bidding me come to the state room at once. I assumed it was to tell me of Allric's fate.
My stomach squeezed around what little food I had eaten. Standing at attention as my father met with the merchants, meeting Dainis' family, witnessing my father disclaim my brother, the only other family I had besides him, all in one day. I felt sick, and weak; what else was about to happen? What new event would occur to sap my strength further?
The state room was empty. The fire crackled merrily under the wide mantle; the clock urged itself along through its endless task; the door was closed behind me.
I felt a point in my side. It cut into me and bit whatever lay under the skin. I collapsed, crying out. A fist took me to the ground, and my breath escaped me when I landed on my chest. A boot hit the wound and I screamed.
Something gripped my hair and pulled my head from the ground. I expected to hear a voice. A mocking tone, an angry cry, something. Instead, my hair was released and my head smacked the floor again. I laid on the ground shuddering, expecting a killing blow, or another punishing wound. Imagine my surprise when I heard the door open and close. I dared to lift my head -- pain nearly blinded me -- and found I was alone.
I could only think of Dainis' safety. I used whatever strength I still had. It was little, and I could barely get myself off the ground. I pulled myself around on the floor, each motion of my arm creating a jolt of pain up and down my leg. The clock warned me of time's sudden speed. I reached the door after what felt like an eternity, sliced into thin bits by the ticking. I lifted my left arm -- I'd been stabbed in the right side -- and pounded on the door with all my might. It sounded loud to me then but I knew I barely caressed it. I kept pounding until someone came in, nearly bashing my skull as he entered. It was a servant, and he immediately called for help, finding my bleeding body. "Leave me! Dainis' room!" I hissed! "Go there and stop my brother, now!"
The servant stood and rushed from the room as more men entered, running to Dainis' room and pushing past the guard standing there.
Prince Brand inhaled slowly, letting his lungs fill. Conor had nearly finished dressing the wound. His hands shook. "I wasn't fast enough," Brand said.
Allric marched to Dainis after leaving the state room. The guard outside -- Allric had asked him to relieve the one on-duty minutes ago -- allowed him to enter. Geddy had gone to his parents, away for a few minutes -- Dainis' younger brother turned, surprised to hear someone enter so suddenly, and found a hole in his chest for the trouble. He failed to cry out, and could only watch as his blood left him.
Now my brother stood by Dainis' bed. She was still asleep. In her weakened form her chest rose and fell by the barest amounts. She may have appeared dead already.
He grabbed her throat and pulled her from under the sheets. Her small body struck the floor and crumpled. She awoke suddenly -- cold . . . alone . . . afraid . . . weak -- and then a hand found her throat again.
It squeezed, big enough to wrap around her neck entirely, cutting off all blood and air to her. She looked up and found her killer smiling, knowing he had injured his brother more than any wound could, knowing all debts would be repaid, knowing wrongs would be righted, knowing his actions would bring balance back to his life -- at least, the demented figure crouching over her thought so. It was no more than a beast finding a sleeping child in the woods and tearing it apart at a whim.
Barely able to lift her arms, she struggled. Her feet kicked, shifting the sheets still tangled around them. Her mouth opened; not a sound emerged. She began to shake, trembling, tiny spasms removing any ability to fight. Her body shook with violent jerks, the hand around her throat released slowly, and retreated as her body continued shaking. Her eyes spun, retreating behind her eyelids, and her mouth opened and closed, feebly speaking to nothing. Specks of foam appeared, and she gagged. Her arms and legs clenched, tightening, squeezing, pulling close to her body and turning her into a small mass on the floor, writhing. Her fingers scraped on the stones.
She . . . Allric stepped away, watching her, emotionless. He watched her die. The life ran from her, draining from her lips as her body failed to grasp what was happening, as her heart and mind shut down, slowly turning her from a human being into a corpse.
And then my brother stood alone, in the room, both bodies still. He picked up the knife and opened the door. The guard outside, none the wiser, stood at attention as he disappeared within the palace.
He was able to hide before I called for help. He slipped away, clutching his knife and murderous intent. He sent for a servant, saying the king had been attacked. The palace flew into chaos, and I thought Dainis had been discovered, sending the men away from me to find my brother. I had no idea he would come back to me.
But the door creaked open, exposing the killer, the light from the fireplace lighting him as if he were good and pure.
I tried to breathe. I sucked down air, and my side stung as if the knife remained. "What have you done," I whispered. Even in the quiet room it sounded weak.
"Punished you," my brother replied. "Did what should have been done to you. What sort of life have you lived, feeling no pain?" My brother asked me. His feet stepped as the clock ticked. "You never knew pain. You never knew sorrow. You could never live as I lived!" He shouted, angry in the span of a moment and nearly leaping on me. "I showed you how life is!"
"By killing an innocent!" I said, pain and fury clawing at each other. "If you have shown me how life is then I have no choice but to make life better for everyone!" I found my feet bringing me up, hand still pressed against my side. "By taking you from it!"
He rushed me, and I was knocked to the ground, my body flushing with pain. I pushed myself up and grabbed his wrist, his knife's point inches from my stomach. I was lucky I had the better leverage; I threw him aside and the knife spun across the floor. I took a step, limping, and fell on top of him, fist connecting with his chin. He pushed me off.
He opened his mouth but only a feral noise escaped. I fell on the ground and he rose, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He approached, the fireplace giving him a shadow reaching out to me, covering me. In the otherwise dark room the fire burned behind him.
So I leaped forward, colliding with him around his middle, bearing both of us to the ground! I'd forgotten my pain -- forgotten my fury! I was left with one thing: revenge, against a killer, ending an innocent girl's life as payment for . . . for what?
NOTHING!
Forgive me, I . . . H-he hit the floor hard. I heard the breath rush from his lungs. I punched him in the stomach and pushed myself up.
The fire was before me.
I grabbed the base of his head and pushed him toward the heat of the fire; he felt it and fought back. He raged against the hellfire! He tried to fight the destiny he deserved, but I was of one mind! If I succeeded and then dropped dead I would die a happy man, knowing he was marked as a beast!
The cream had been applied to its furthest point, but Conor wasn't finished. He took a flat blade and began to slowly scrape the dried medicine at the top of the arm away from the skin. Brand bit his lip to keep from crying out. The prince's other hand was a tight fist. He'd pounded the table during his outburst moments ago, and now felt the blade scrape down his arm. Conor slowly peeled the medicine away, revealing the twisting, mottled burn underneath.
The heat was great. It was a large fireplace. It could have swallowed our bodies.
I heard the clock as we struggled. He looked into my eyes and realized what lay there . . . he realized I had a sudden goal in mind, and he dared to realize he could fall prey to it. His eyes swiveled up, looking at the dancing flames above his head. I took the chance to heave him closer, and he thrashed in my hands. I squeezed the life from him -- a cruel, kind, unknowable echo to the death he had dealt Dainis.
His boot found the wound he'd given me earlier. I opened my mouth as if to scream but had no breath, my body nearly collapsing. He punched me, snapping my head aside, and I had to take my hands from him to keep myself from falling over. He pushed himself away, resting against the edge of the fireplace, trying to regain his breath.
Our visions met as if we looked into mirrors -- hatred and anger and revenge, a wish for death. He pushed away from the edge of the fireplace and reached for me, still sitting. His mouth was full of fangs and his hands were claws; the fire painted him with blood. He took hold of my head and pushed me to the ground, trying to bash me but too weak. I pushed him away.
We could nearly reach out and touch one another from where we lay, both panting and coughing. It was as if we had just played a game, and were spent from the fun. I barely had the strength to open my eyes, but I heard him move his limbs and pull himself up. He crawled to me.
I tried to keep his hands away from me but couldn't muster the strength. His grip was weak. I hit him in the face, across the eyes, and he gasped, angry. I pushed his jaw from underneath and his neck craned. Finally he broke away, but I kept up the attack. My goal had returned, but I was weak enough to think I couldn't do it. I gripped his shirt and dragged him closer to the fire.
He grunted, trying to escape, but couldn't. The heat grew. He struggled against my grasp as he felt it. He freed himself from one hand, fighting against the other. I crawled closer to the flames, ignoring his struggles, and just as I got close enough I lost my grip.
The fire lit our final struggle. We pushed each other, trying to knock the other down. Other than our grunts, and the fire's low crackle, and the large clock's ticking, the room was silent.
Snarling, my brother attempted a punch. It did nothing but put him off-balance. I grabbed the arm he had used, his right arm, and dove for the fire.
He clawed at my face and I stumbled, stretching my left arm too far. Our two limbs went into the flames, each submerged up to the shoulder. They fell and rested against the hot coals, burning us both. We screamed, louder than either of us had before. I released him, unable to hold him in like I had imagined, and we fell against the floor, frantically slapping the flames on our arms to put them out. I was more successful than he -- his arm became little more than a roasted shank attached to his body.
It still hurts. The pain was incredible. It was as if lines of knives and needles pressed into my arm from all angles. I thought I could smell it -- and to my disgust, it smelled good. Like pork. I imagined sitting with my father and brother, and even my mother before she died, and feasting as a family. My brother still antagonized me then, but at least there was joy. At least there was still something to salvage from him, some part of him not dedicated to brutality and murder, and pointless revenge. At least my family could enjoy a meal together without worrying about death.
Our screams drew an audience. Soldiers and servants, those looking for the king, came running. They put us both out and called for help. I demanded they lock up my brother, speaking through clenched teeth, trying to see through locked shut eyes. I couldn't dare look at my burns for a few hours. I was taken and placed in a chair, and the same mixture you have just finished removing was used to soothe the pain. It was little help.
Our father was called. By then, the bodies of Dainis and her brother had been discovered, and it was all too simple to assign Allric the blame. He was removed from the palace, sent away to a secure place, until his fate could be decided.
Tragedy does not halt. Days later, our father, the king, fell ill. Many say it was due to the knowledge he had fathered a monster, and couldn't bear knowing he had brought such evil into the world. The doctors could not help him. He wasted away, and I wasn't even able to be with him when he died.
To say I was angry with my brother -- to say I wished him dead . . . I wanted him to experience pain like I had.
But . . .
How would it make me any better? He . . . wanted revenge. For something I can hardly tell! Because I was . . . the elder? Because I had something to be happy for, someone giving me joy? Was it for any reason at all, or was he simply a monster in human skin?
Brand shook his head. Conor cleaned the last of the dried cream from the edge of the blade. "I cannot tell. I have no words for it." Brand raised his head, finding Conor still brandishing the blade. "You know the rest, I expect. My brother freed himself, and raised an army, saying he had been betrayed, and that my story is a lie. He wants my kingdom." Brand stood, inspecting his arm. "You've done well, Conor," Brand said. "My arm feels much better. Will you be fighting tomorrow?"
"Yes, your highness," Conor said.
"Should we both survive I would have you attend me tomorrow, as well," Brand said. He found his cloak and tied it around his throat. The sun was gone and away; the camp was quiet in the night. Brand glanced at Conor, finding the man standing as if he carried a weight. "You have a question?"
"Yes, your highness. Why . . . why did you tell me this?"
Brand again looked out the tent's gap, as he had before Conor arrived. "Stories must be told," he said. "The hearer must hear them, the teller must tell them. It is for both." He paused.
"You are dismissed," he said without looking, and exited the tent.
Dark winds blew Conor's cloak as he climbed the far bank of the river. He took some time to escape Prince Brand's camp, but now he neared friendly scouts at last. He identified himself, and was given free passage to the center of the camp. Upon nearing one of the tents, he removed his cloak and outer shirt, revealing a large, twisting, painful burn on his right arm. He took off his helmet, and his blond hair flashed as he passed torches.
He entered the tent, and a man stood up, notifying others in the room. "Allric! Where have you been?"
"Doing some scouting of my own, Geddy," Prince Allric said. "I went to see my brother."
"What?" Geddy came closer, helping the prince to the chair next to his favorite clock. "How?"
"A not-so-clever disguise," Allric replied, sighing as he sat. "Nearly everyone in the camp had their helmets on. It's why I asked our archers to tease their camp. My brother thought nothing of it."
"Did you tell him?"
Allric shook his head. "I planned to. But . . . he told me my own story, with him as the heroic prince instead of I." Allric thought about laughing. "To hear him describe Dainis so . . . it felt like he had reopened my wound."
"He's deluded himself into thinking you are at fault?"
Allric stood and went to the entrance of the tent. He was aware how similar he and his brother would have looked. "Stories must be told. The hearer must hear them, the teller must tell them," he echoed, to Geddy's confusion. "Did you know, Brand?" He said to himself. "Did you mean to tell me my own story?" The good prince looked over the camp toward the river; he felt tired. "Did you seek repentance?
"Perhaps I will attend you again brother, should we both survive."