Unexpected

MAUDE and the children hide out in the cave that lines the boundary between Morad and the Weeping Woods. They have had no courage to do what must be done—run into the burning forest (though one might agree, this would not be the greatest plan), run for their lives, run back toward the only home they have ever known—and they are, in truth, starving. There has been no water but for the water Maude saved in a jar from the last time Arthur foraged. They have been sharing it, tiny little sips, but they are all weak and tired, and Maude knows they must move out of this place soon. They cannot die in a cave. They must at least try to live. For Arthur.

She has searched the land from the mouth of the cave, trying to find Arthur. She knows, of course, that searching from the mouth of a cave is not really searching at all, but it is all she can do, for now. Hazel wakes up every morning crying for her father. The girl’s eyes, today, are red-rimmed and purple. Maude is too afraid to cry. She is afraid that if she does cry, it will somehow make his death all the more real. She saw the bodies, so many of them. She had wondered if one of them was Arthur, though she could tell that most of the broken ones upon the ground wore the armor of the king’s guard. Now the bodies have disappeared.

A whole army destroyed by the fire of dragons. It is quite astounding and, I am sure you will agree, very, very sad. They will not be returning to their families after all, as they had once hoped. How very sad indeed. But where is it the bodies have gone? Could there yet be hope? It is impossible to say for sure.

The dragons have vanished as well. In all the fire and smoke and tears, Maude and the children did not see where they went. And this is also what stays their flight, what keeps them in the dark cave rather than breaking free and running. They do not want to see the dragons again. They do not want to be consumed, as the king’s men had been. Now that the treaty has been broken, Maude does not know what to expect. The dragons might attack anywhere. The woods have stopped smoking, finally. Perhaps they can move to safety at the day’s end, though the Weeping Woods have not ever been considered safe. But, perhaps, the fire has purified them.

Maude has not slept in all the hours since the dragon’s attack. She has watched the woods, waiting for them to cool enough so that she and children might have a hope of escaping the dangers that lie in wait at, it seems, every turn. Though one might argue that the king’s men are no longer a threat, for they lay in the dirt and did not rise, and then they vanished. Would anyone see Maude and the children emerging from this boundary cave?

The children watch the woods with Maude.

“The fire is out,” says a boy named Chester.

“Yes,” says Maude. “We must move soon.”

“But what will we find in the forest?” Hazel says. “Are there not greater dangers inside?”

It is precisely what Maude has been thinking over these past hours, as she watched the fire dim and the smoke begin to fade. “Yes,” she says. “But it is no different than anywhere else. Danger is all around.”

The children know she is right. They shiver.

“Perhaps we should sleep,” Maude says. She pats her daughter’s leg. “We shall need our strength for the flight.”

So the children stretch out as they have grown accustomed to stretching out, feet touching heads, bodies packed tightly around one another. It is cold in this cave, and they need each other for warmth. At least the woods will hold some warmth from the fire, though it will hold little else. What Maude has not let herself consider is what she and the children will do for food. The woods, you see, have been burned. There is not much life left within. Or is there? One can never really know these things when one lives in a world of magic.

Maude misses Arthur more than ever. She was never a planner in the way of escape and hiding and staying alive in such a desperate way. It is true that when she lived in the village, she planned her family’s meals and their chores and their magic lessons, even. But she has never planned how to stay hidden from a king who searches. Arthur is the man for that. And Arthur is no longer here.

But Maude closes her eyes and tries not to think about all the questions that wait to be answered. She tries not to think about the magic that will be needed to keep them safe, though the children are far too weak for magic now. She tries not to think about where they might stay and what they might eat and who might be waiting for them. But it is not easy. No. It is not at all easy. Still, she attempts, closing her eyes, only to watch the thousands of possible outcomes play across the strip of her mind. The children are caught. The children starve. The children are carried off by fairies.

She has just fallen into a light sleep when Hazel says, “Mother?” Maude startles back awake. “Is it time?”

Maude looks toward the sky. It has begun to darken. Maude rises from her spot on the ground. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, it is time.”

The children shuffle to their feet and wait for her instructions. Ursula, the girl with raven-black hair, calls out, “But what shall we do once we get there?” Her voice is high and uncertain, and Maude is rather glad that she cannot see the girl’s face. “The woods are dead. There is nothing left inside.”

“And our magic is gone,” says the tiny girl, Lina.

They all look to Maude for their answer, but it has never been Maude who has had all the answers. It has always been Arthur. It has always been his job to figure out what to do next, and she has merely corrected his course a time or two, when she was fairly certain that he had it all wrong. And now it is up to her to figure out what to do, and she does not feel quite cut out for the task.

But she must. There are too many lives at stake.

“We shall figure something out,” Maude says, trying to reassure the children with a confidence she does not feel herself. “As we always do.” Hazel nods. She trusts her mother completely, you see. After all, her mother has always cared for her. Why would she stop now, even if her father is gone? She is terribly sad about her father being gone, but the other children have lost both their parents. She tries to think of them, but thinking of others who have lost the ones they love only widens the hole in her heart. She only hopes that she will be able to see her father again. Hazel only hopes she will be able to tell him how much she loves him, in case he did not know before. She only hopes that she will once again feel his arms around her, when they are reunited.

She does not know that her mother is hoping, right this minute, for the very same things.

“We shall find a place to live inside the woods,” Maude says. “For a time. And then, when we are stronger, we shall make our journey to Rosehaven, as Arthur wished.”

“Without father?” Hazel says.

Maude nods. Her eyes are dry, though she feels quite sad indeed. “Yes. Without your father. He knows where we are going.”

“And Theo,” Hazel says.

Maude’s eyes soften. “Yes,” she says, for she, too, feels the great chasm that lies before them. Half their family has been lost. But she does not have time to dwell on those losses as yet. They will keep her from moving forward, and if she and the children are to survive, they must keep moving forward.

She beckons to the children. “Follow closely behind me,” she says. “We will return to the woods. Do not stop until I do.”

What Maude does not say to the children is that they are far too weak to travel on a journey as far as Rosehaven. She does not tell them that it will take quite some time to gather enough strength from what they may find to eat in the charred remains of the woods. She does not tell them that they will, in fact, be hiding, once more, in the woods for, perhaps, longer than they expect, for she knows that all of these disappointments would end in only one possibility: The children would run. And in their running, they would scatter. And in their scattering, they would die.

And so she does what all mothers do at one time or another: she puts on a brave face and beckons them to follow her, though she knows that either way they go they might meet Death. “We will start over,” Maude says, just before she moves from the cave.

Soon, they will have run all the way to the middle of the woods, nearly all the way to the other side. They will run until an unexpected sight will cause them to falter in their steps and stop.

***

IF one were to look in between the trees that have, miraculously, even now, begun to green up again, one might see a figure limping through the forest, much ahead of the children, so he does not see them and they do not see him. He is a figure clad in dented iron, still shining where all the others were burned and blackened. He is on his way back to the castle.

Yes, dear reader. It is as you hoped. It is our good captain, Sir Greyson.

Our hero has survived a battle with the dragons, and now he is on his way to tell the king what has happened. Or perhaps he will stop in to see his mother first. There is no way to know which he will choose, for both possibilities battle in his head, and this part of the forest lies at the edge of the village. He must walk through it to get to his king.

He walks right past the house of the Enchantress, but he is too torn with grief to notice, too regretful of his order to those brave men who still lie, slain—burned, really—on a battlefield, too angry at the king who was the cause of it all. If the king had not told them to find the children at all costs, Sir Greyson never would have put his men in danger. They would never have died such useless deaths. What was the point of it, after all? They did not have the children. They only had death.

Death has not been kind. It has left no man standing. No man but he, that is, for he was so far behind his men that when his horse saw the destruction of fire, he threw the captain off his back, and Sir Greyson turned on his heel and fled.

And now he is left to deliver the news to the castle. He does not want to deliver it to the soldiers’ wives. Oh, no. They have lost so much already.

But let us see what this good man does. He walks from the woods. He stops at a house. He puts his hand on a door. He waits. Should he go in? Should he continue on?

He enters.

His mother is lying on a bed. She raises herself when he comes in. “My son,” she says, for she knows him immediately, though he wears his helmet. This is the way mothers know their sons, you see.

“Mother,” he says, and he falls into her arms. He weeps as he has never wept before, though his face plate keeps all but the sound of his weeping from his mother.

“Oh, child,” his mother says, though he is no longer a child. Perhaps men are always children to their mothers. “What is it?”

“My men, Mother,” he says. “All of them are gone.”

“Gone, my son?” his mother says. “Whatever could you mean?” for this woman does not know the news of the kingdom without her son. She only knows that her son has not come for several days, has not delivered her medicine, which ran out the first day Sir Greyson and his men entered the woods, and she can feel the sickness spreading into her legs. She is glad he is here now. He can give her the medicine that will stave off her pain, and she might rise from her bed again.

“My men,” he says. “Burned up by dragons.” His eyes fill with tears once more. He has removed his helmet, so his mother is witness to his pain. His mother pats his back, trying not to cry, too. She is a compassionate woman, you see. She cannot bear to see her boy cry, for it tears at something in her heart, too. She is a mother who wants to make it better, but there is no way of making a tragedy such as this one better. She does not ask questions. She merely listens. She merely holds him and waits.

“The king,” her son says. “The king wanted so badly to find the missing children. And we did. They were with the dragons.”

She puts the pieces together, for she is a wise woman. She knows that the children must have been with the dragons and her son’s men must have crossed the border and then all madness must have broken loose, as it would with a treaty broken and dangerous dragons. She had never trusted the dragons, even back when the people of Fairendale used them for their travels. They were too powerful, she always thought. She mistrusted their intentions.

“And what of the children?” Sir Greyson’s mother says.

Sir Greyson shakes his head. “I do not know what became of them,” he says. “They might be dead.”

“Perhaps you should tell the king all this,” his mother says.

“I was on my way,” Sir Greyson says. “But I have not seen you in so long.” He pulls away from his mother now. He peers into her face. “I have been gone for some time. You need your medicine.”

“Yes,” his mother says. Her eyes laugh a little. “Yes, I do.”

He pulls a vial of medicine from his pocket and shakes it rhythmically, drops it into the space inside a needle and then inserts the needle into his mother’s leg. “I am sorry, Mother,” he says.

“For what, my son?” she says.

“For neglecting you,” he says. “I got here as quickly as I could.”

“I know you did,” she says.

Sir Greyson bends over her and kisses her forehead. “I shall return soon,” he says.

She watches him go, knowing it may be quite some time before she sees him again. The king is not a gracious man, and when her son tells him this story, he could very well imprison Sir Greyson or send him away without honors. There is no way of knowing what it is the king might do.

She will soon be gone. And then her son can make a life of his own, instead of working for a man as cruel as King Willis and doing what he knows to be wrong. She only hopes that she will not leave this world too late.

***

SIR Greyson walks up the path with a slow step, a bent over back and the weight of death on his shoulders. He passes the mermaids who call to him and knocks on the large oak door of the castle with the brass bear placed there for such a purpose. A servant opens the door. His mouth drops open, as if he is surprised to see a soldier standing at the door. He opens it wider, and Sir Greyson steps inside.

“I will let the king know you are here, sir,” the servant says and scuttles off toward the king’s throne room. Sir Greyson takes his time, trying to figure out just how much he is going to say. If he indicates that all the children are dead, perhaps he will be released to return home to his mother. But that would be defying his honor, for, of course, he does not know for sure whether they are dead or alive. He only knows that he saw dragons, that all of his men are dead and that the children disappeared. For all he knows the dragons might have taken them back to a hiding place where they shall remain safe for all the rest of the king’s days.

Hope flutters in his chest.

So what is it that he will tell the king?

Well, he has no more time, for the throne room doors are opened at this very moment, and he steps onto the red carpet, with only the distance between the doors and the throne to find his words.

The king waits until Sir Greyson is halfway into the room to speak. “So,” he says. “So you have come back to us. This is quite unexpected.”

“Yes, Sire,” Sir Greyson says. He is still walking. He notices that the king’s son is standing just beside the throne. The prince’s hair and face seem darker than Sir Greyson remembers. Darker enough to look at the prince twice, in quick succession, as if it is a completely different boy who stands before him as a prince. But no. The face is the same. Only more sinister. Sir Greyson swallows hard. He had hoped that Prince Virgil might break the reign of evil in Fairendale. But seeing that boy, seeing the change, has told him otherwise.

He hopes all the harder that the children live still.

“Tell me,” the king says. “Tell me what you know of the children.”

Sir Greyson feels the contempt for his king strike him hard and fast between the shoulders. King Willis, you see, did not even ask about the welfare of Sir Greyson’s men. A king who cares not for how many soldiers gave their lives so they might carry out his commands. A king who thinks only of himself and a throne and securing it for generations to come. What does a kingdom do with a king like this one?

If Sir Greyson carried dislike for his king before, it turns, quite rapidly, to hate, though Sir Greyson has never been able to hold hate as others might.

Prince Virgil tilts his head and narrows his eyes, as if he can see what lies behind the look on Sir Greyson’s face. And perhaps he can. Sir Greyson was never one for hiding what he felt. Which is precisely why he wears a helmet in the presence of the king. But, if you remember, Sir Greyson removed his helmet at his mother’s house. It is, unfortunately, still there, on the table beside her bed.

Sir Greyson takes a deep breath. “I know not what happened to the children,” he says. He tries quite hard to keep the contempt from burdening his words.

The king roars, his eyes turning from curious to angry in only a matter of seconds. “What do you mean you do not know? How could you not know what happened to the children when you had them in your hands?”

“With all due respect, sire,” Sir Greyson says. “We did not have them in our hands. We followed them to the dragon lands, but we did not touch them.”

“Did not touch them,” King Willis says. “Tell me, what is the difference? You had them within your sight, did you not?”

“Yes, sire,” Sir Greyson says.

“And what is the difference between seeing them and seizing them, when you are hundreds and they are only a few?” King Willis says. He is pacing the platform where his throne sits.

It does not take the most brilliant of minds to know that seeing children in the middle of Morad and seizing children in the middle of Morad are two very different things, with many, many steps between. But Sir Greyson merely humors his king. “They stood with dragons, sire,” he says. “I did not want to place my men in danger.”

“And yet your men died,” King Willis says. His eyes turn upon Sir Greyson, with darkness that cannot be contained. “They died, and you have nothing to show for their sacrifice.”

Sir Greyson feels the sadness brimming toward his mouth. He swallows it down and blinks hard. “Yes, sire,” he says. His voice is thick. He does not say more. He does not need to say more.

“The dragons,” King Willis says now, satisfied that his words of attack have hit their mark. “They defied their treaty.” He folds his hands together and brings them to his lips. When he takes them away, he says. “What shall we do about that?”

Sir Greyson shakes his head. “No, sire,” he says. “They did not defy their treaty.”

“They did not?” King Willis says, this time surprised by what Sir Greyson has to say. “Then, tell me, what happened?”

“One of my men,” Sir Greyson says, but he cannot finish, for he can only see their bodies, lying on the ground he fled. “I am sorry,” he says, but it is too soft for Prince Virgil or King Willis to hear.

“What is it you say?” King Willis says.

Sir Greyson clears his throat. “One of my men crossed the border. He tried to take the children. The rest of my men followed in the confusion. The dragons were only defending their own territory.”

“So we defied the treaty,” King Willis says, and, for the first time since Sir Greyson entered the room, King Willis looks frightened. “That means...” But he does not finish now.

Sir Greyson is not thinking of what it means. He is only thinking of his men. “I lost them all,” he says. “Every one of my men.”

King Willis looks toward his captain of the king’s guard. “You lost every man?”

“Yes, sire,” Sir Greyson says.

“No man but you lives?” King Willis says, as if this is too unbelievable for even a man like him.

“No man,” Sir Greyson says.

“And how many men was it you lost?” King Willis says.

“Two hundred nine, sire,” Sir Greyson says. He chokes on the number. It is a number far too great for him. It is a number far too great for Death and sorrow and loss and one man.

“You must prepare more men,” King Willis says. “The dragons will come. They will want war. We must be ready.”

“But I have no more men,” Sir Greyson says. “I have used every man this kingdom had.”

“You shall gather more,” King Willis says. “Lincastle is a good place to start.”

“But sire,” Sir Greyson says, but the king holds up a hand.

“You shall gather more,” King Willis says. “You shall leave immediately.”

Poor Sir Greyson. He has only just seen his mother, after many long days of leaving her to her sickness. What will he tell her now?

The thought of his mother makes Sir Greyson brave. “Might I ask for a bit of leave, sire?” Sir Greyson says. He does not say more, though the look on his face says there is much more. Perhaps we might surmise what it is on his mind. Perhaps he would like leave to care for his mother. Perhaps he would like leave for the exhaustion that buckles his knees even now, clanking them against the armor that is the only reason he remains standing. Perhaps he would like leave because he was the only one of two hundred nine men who survived the fire of the dragons.

The king releases a long, bellowing laugh. “You are in jest, my good man,” he says. “Leave at a time such as this.”

Sir Greyson merely stares at him, for he was not, in fact, jesting. He does not say more, though, for he knows there is no arguing with a king like this one. He will have to prepare, alone, for immediate departure. His eyes feel heavy just thinking of it. Lincastle is a week’s journey at least, more when one is as indisposed and weary as Sir Greyson.

Perhaps he could desert. Perhaps he could take his mother with him and be gone from this land, far away from where the king might find him. Perhaps he could take her to Guardia, or to the wastelands of Ashvale. Surely it was habitable now. It has been many years since the last fire mountain exploded.

No. Of course he cannot desert. He is a man of honor, after all. And where might he get his mother’s medicine, if not from the king?

Sir Greyon risks one more plea. “Please, sire, allow me to tend my mother before I go,” he says. He watches the prince look at the king. The prince’s eyes are soft, now the color of the dirt in the village garden, rather than a midnight sky. Is that compassion we see? Why, yes, dear reader. It is.

But the king roars. He is angry. He is annoyed. He has had absolutely enough. “There is not a moment to lose,” he says. “You shall go now.”

The throne room doors fling open, as if they were waiting for this dismissal all along. Sir Greyson turns toward them, takes one step, two, and falls to his knees.

“Father,” he hears the prince say.

“Get up,” the king says.

“Father, he is not well,” the prince says.

“Get up!” the king roars. And Sir Greyson tries, he does, but it is all too much—the despair, the weariness, the hopelessness of it all. The prince moves to his side and wraps his arms around the captain’s armored belly. He pulls Sir Greyson to his feet. Sir Greyson turns to thank the boy, and the eyes startle him, more like wet earth with tiny flecks of gold in them. Prince Virgil nods at Sir Greyson. The prince’s eyes fill, and he turns away.

And this, one small little gesture by a boy, gives Sir Greyson a strength that rises up within him and pulls him out the doors. It is only when he stumbles through the entrance of the castle that he looks down at his hand to see what is held within it.

A vial. Medicine.

His mother will not die while he is away.

Dear, sweet Prince Virgil.

Sir Greyson squeezes the vial in his hand and somehow, in spite of his faltering knees, runs back to the village.