Shoe

THE sun is hidden, so Prince Virgil does not know what hour it is when he wakes. It is dark, gray, cold in his chambers, as if light and warmth do not live in a world without children.

Why would it? The laughter of children is the light of a world. The presence of children grant warmth to even the coldest midnight.

Prince Virgil rises from his bed, pulls on his clothes, black pantaloons today, with a black tunic and a black cape. He wraps a royal robe around his shoulders, the only color he permits on a shadowed day like this one. It is soft, purple, rimmed in gold.

He steps out into the hallway. At least the torches are lit. The hallway shines bright compared to his chambers. He is glad for it. He has never liked this hallway, in truth. It is too long, with too many picture of the old kings who have ruled the kingdom. Many of them have kind eyes, but there are also the eyes of his grandfather. When he was a younger boy, he used to imagine that the eyes of these portraits followed him down this hall, and once, when he convinced himself to look back, he saw that it was true. Now he does not look at the portraits. In fact, he tries to ignore them.

Except that today, his grandfather’s portrait stops him.

King Sebastien’s painted likeness has cold blue eyes, the eyes of a hard man. Staring at his grandfather’s portrait, painted in his younger days, Prince Virgil shivers. He did not know his grandfather. His father might be a hard man, but the eyes of his grandfather hold more cruelty, more hunger, more intelligence, perhaps. Not that Prince Virgil would ever call his father anything but intelligent, but the truth is, he did not have the wits of, say, Queen Clarion. Prince Virgil knows this. It is, perhaps, why King Willis is not such a frightening man as King Sebastien was in his time, though King Willis tries to be every now and again.

Prince Virgil moves to his father’s portrait, struck by the difference between the young man on the wall and the man who sits in the throne room. His father had been a smaller man once, with eyes that shone with, what is it—hope? Love? Mercy? Prince Virgil looks back at his grandfather, back to his father, back to his grandfather, again and again. His father’s eyes were made for warmth. His grandfather’s eyes were made for terror. And somewhere along the way, King Willis had become more like his father before him, though he was not so very cruel as all that. One might, perhaps, argue that imprisoning innocent children and hunting the rest of them down is, in fact, a very cruel thing to do, but Prince Virgil must consider what it is his father has not done with the children. He has not killed them, after all. Most of the people still have their lives, though there are many, both children and parents, missing. Looking at King Sebastien’s portrait, he is not so certain that the same would be true were he still living.

Prince Virgil steps away from the portraits. One day his will hang beside his father’s. When he is a man, when he is king. Unless the throne is no longer his...

Unless...

That would not happen. His father would not permit it to happen. He would, somehow, recover his magic, for even now, even after one hundred forty-three prophets have come bearing the same news—that Prince Virgil is a boy born without the gift of magic—our prince still holds hope that his is merely a dormant magic, that it will, one day, be recovered.

Poor, dear boy.

Prince Virgil hears a scuffle at the end of the hall. His mother is leaving her bedchambers, dressed in an elaborate gown of red and gold, with sleeves that join the hem of her dress. She turns to him and appears startled that he is there. “Virgil,” she says. “I did not expect to meet you here.” She smiles.

He smiles back. “I was on my way to join Father in the throne room.”

Queen Clarion’s smile falters. “Your father,” she says. Her voice holds a stiffness he has not heard before. “Yes, of course. I shall not keep you.”

Prince Virgil takes her arm. “Where are you going?” he says.

Queen Clarion glances toward the front doors. “I need a walk,” she says. “Perhaps to the village.” She does not say more. Prince Virgil wonders what she could possibly want to see in the village. The people no longer come out of their houses. He knows, for he has visited a few times. They did not even seem to notice him peering in the windows.

Prince Virgil and Queen Clarion make it to the castle entranceway, which is nearly as long as the hallway between the bedchambers and here. His mother turns toward the doors. He turns toward the throne room.

“Virgil,” Queen Clarion says. He spins on his heel.

“Yes, Mother?” he says.

“Come see me after you are done with your father,” Queen Clarion says. “Please.”

Prince Virgil dips his head. Queen Clarion turns away. He strides toward the throne room doors.

“Oh, and Virgil?” his mother calls again. He turns to face her once more. “I visit the village for the people. They are very sad. It is the kind thing to do.”

He watches her slip from the door, which closes behind her with a clack that echoes through the hall. He looks up at the marble ceiling, carved with its intricate designs. She has given him much to consider. But, perhaps, not so much as his father will give him, for when Prince Virgil opens the throne room doors, King Willis stands before a mirror Prince Virgil has never before seen. He wonders how he could have missed something so large and golden and...large. And then he sees the red velvet curtain that must have draped it. He has seen that, of course—an object concealed by a red velvet curtain. Never what was under it.

Prince Virgil moves closer, silent on his feet. King Willis appears to be talking to the mirror. And before Prince Virgil can register what it is, exactly, that he is seeing, his father turns, abruptly, nearly knocking the looking glass from its stand. “Virgil,” he says. He bends to retrieve the velvet cover from the floor. “I did not expect you so soon.” King Willis hastily throws the curtain over the looking glass.

“What is it, Father?” Prince Virgil says.

“This,” King Willis says. He gestures toward the looking glass, covered once again. “This is only a silly old mirror.”

“Were you speaking to the mirror?” Prince Virgil says. He cannot look his father full in the face, afraid of what his answer might be.

“Speaking,” King Willis says. “Speaking to a mirror?” The king’s face has grown quite red. And then, rather than contrive a story that does not make sense (for what story makes sense when we are hurrying it along?), King Willis says, “I speak to myself sometimes. I want to make sure I look stately.” He straightens his shoulders.

It is just as Prince Virgil fears. He says nothing, however. He chooses to pretend his father never said the words at all.

“You will hold court with me today?” King Willis says.

Prince Virgil knows very well that there has been no holding court for quite some time, even before the children were taken from their families. The people of Fairendale, you see, did not respect the decisions of their king, so they began settling disputes on their own. Not that there were many disputes. But Prince Virgil knows that they took their decisions from Arthur, not his father.

Now Arthur is gone. So there can, perhaps, be people visiting the court, that is, if the people can bring themselves to venture from their homes.

King Willis looks at his son expectantly. “Yes, Father,” Prince Virgil says, for he does not want to disappoint. He joins his father on the stage, and they turn toward the doors, where not a soul walks through. They remain in their expectant poses for quite some time before King Willis turns to his son and says, “Shall we break for our noonday meal?”

Prince Virgil has been eating the breads that King Willis keeps near his throne, so, in truth, he is not hungry at all. But he nods his head and follows his father to the great dining hall, where a feast will be laid at the flick of the king’s wrist. It is as if, dear reader, our king possesses the gift of magic, though we know he does not. Prince Virgil watches. The slight movement. The servants running. The table stacked with roast and greens and a pie made from apples. Is this what it is like to be a king? Servants at your beck and call? Prince Virgil has never wanted for anything, but this, this flicking a wrist and seeing what you desire laid out before you, this is too wonderful to lose. Prince Virgil’s grip on the throne clenches a bit tighter. His father, you see, knows precisely what will sway the prince, for this is the secret of the golden throne. It knows precisely what those who sit on it most desire. Or, rather, King Willis has been told. And now he works this telling into his every move.

This is why, after Prince Virgil has heaped his plate high of the rich food so different from what he has been fed thus far, eating in the less formal, less royal hall where his father did not dine, King Willis opens his mouth with, perhaps, a larger bite of roast in it than might, in others’ estimation, leave room for polite conversation and says, “Your uncle.”

Two simple words, but they pull Prince Virgil’s eyes to his father’s face, shining even in the day’s low light. King Willis puts down his fork. “Your mother does not know of what she speaks.”

His mother? His uncle? What is it his father would like to tell him? Prince Virgil prefers a silent dinner to this wondering one.

“Your uncle was a foolish man,” King Willis says.

Prince Virgil takes a bite of a roll, as inconspicuously as he might. It is, you see, too wonderful to leave on a plate so it cools. He does not say a word, for Prince Virgil knows better than to talk with food in his mouth. He mostly dines with his mother, you see, and mothers are good for teaching manners. But his father does not desire an answer, for he is accustomed to delivering his monologues without a single word spoken from anyone else in the room who may have the very great privilege of hearing their king’s mindless chatter. Oh, for sure, not everything out of the king’s mouth is mindless chatter. There are nuggets, of course. But King Willis, now, talks and talks and talks about the foolishness of his brother, the true and rightful king, though he would never admit that title aloud. His brother did not deserve the throne, though he was the one born with magic. His brother made his choice and must now live with it.

“He would not have made a good king,” King Willis says. He wipes his mouth with a blue napkin and places it on the table, as if he is finished. But a man like King Willis is hardly ever finished with eating.

His words bother Prince Virgil, for there is still so much of the old prince that has not yet been touched by his father and the golden glory of a throne. “How do you know?” he says.

King Willis tilts his head. His eyes rake his son’s face. He does not like to be contradicted, you see, especially from a boy. “What is it you say?”

Prince Virgil realizes, then, that it might have been more prudent to close his mouth. Was that not what all the sages wrote in their volumes of proverbs? A man with many words is a man deemed foolish. A man who speaks without thinking may as well wear a fool’s cap.

The boy clears his throat. “Nothing, Father,” he says, for he hopes his father did not hear him at all.

But King Willis, though he is not a great listener, is a skilled listener. He listens to the mumblings of servants. He listens to the talk of the village, through his trusty spy, who flits about the town, landing on windowsills and collecting the conversation within. The spy has not been needed for some time, for the people do not seem to move from their homes.

The king has, alas, heard the words of his son. “How do I know?” he says.

Prince Virgil drops his head. He may as well wear the fool’s cap for a moment. “How do you know he would not have been a good king if he never sat the throne?”

The silence between them is worse than the speaking. Prince Virgil much prefers the chatter. The quiet steals across him like a cold breath of fear.

King Willis does not rise. He does not strike the table. He does not breathe, one might think, for it is obvious when King Willis breathes. The very buttons on his shirt tremble. But the king must be in good humor this afternoon, for when he speaks, his voice smoothes calm across the whipped waters. “I know,” he says, “because he was just like my grandfather. Weak.” He leans back in his chair, though there is not much difference between King Willis leaning forward and leaning back. It is merely a slight movement, imperceptible, almost, though Prince Virgil, observant child he is, notices. And if he did not notice, his father’s chair would have given it away, screeching its pain. “It takes a strong man to lead a kingdom. Especially one as desired as Fairendale.” He stares at his son. Prince Virgil tries not to look away from his black, beady eyes. “Are you a strong man, son?”

He does not know the answer to his father’s question. Is he strong? Is it a strong man who would give away the secret of his friend for the safety of the village children? Is it a strong man who stands by while his father destroys the village and all the people he loved anyway? Is it a strong man who sits in a warm castle while village children sit in the dark dungeons below the dungeons, kept alive only by bread and water?

Well, you see why it is such a difficult question to answer. Strong, yes. Weak, yes. He is both.

Prince Virgil turns it over and over in his mind. Is his father a strong man? What does it mean to be strong? Does it mean cruelty? Does it mean kindness? Is it stronger to be cruel or to be kind?

King Willis answers for his son. “I think you are a strong man,” he says. He stands from his chair with great difficulty, peeling layers of his belly from the sides of it. “Come now. Let us return to the throne room. Perhaps we shall have some news today. I feel change afoot.”

So Prince Virgil follows his father through the wide double doors and back into the room that does not bear light as it once did. He watches the window as he walks to the platform where his father’s throne waits. The sky has grown increasingly darker, though it is day. The gray reaches into his heart. He has a bad feeling about this day. He does not want to be here, in this room, for whatever may come. He suspects there will be news, but it is not the kind of news he will want to hear. So while he is concocting his reasons for leaving court early—extra studies, perhaps, though it is not an instruction day—his father stuffs himself into the golden chair.

Prince Virgil remains, in the end. For a king must be strong, and he will one day be king. He will have to find his strength.

As we all must.

***

THE sleeping soldier wakes. He looks around. He takes in the missing traps, the tracks of an animal that is more tame than wild, and there, a footprint. A single footprint that Arthur did not think to wipe away, for when fear beats a heart, a mind can forget the most important parts.

Someone has been here. And this soldier has missed it. He drops to his knees, examines the footprint, examines the tracks—sheep, he thinks—pats the grass all around. He crawls, searching the ground, searching for a clue, for there must be something here. Something left behind besides this most universal footprint that tells him nothing, only that someone was wearing shoes. To whose foot does it belong? How can he explain what he has found when there is no actual person in his possession? What might the captain do? The captain is a merciful man, to be sure, but this soldier fell asleep on his shift and missed the very ones that could have sent them all home.

The soldier sits back, drops his head to his chest. He should not have stayed up playing cards. That much is certain. He will never do it again.

His hand moves to his eyes, rubbing them. He is still so very tired. So he lies down, on his back, but something pierces between his shoulder blades. Something tiny. Something hard. Something left behind. He rises, turns, and leans ever closer to the grass, and finally he sees it, what looks like a tiny shoe. Is his exhausted mind playing tricks on him? Does it mean a thing at all? Could it belong to the missing children, or just another enchanted being of this haunted forest? He does not know. But he does pick it up, for this is enough news. This is enough discovery. This is enough hope. Or so he hopes.

He clutches the tiny shoe in his hand so he does not misplace it in his haste and runs as fast as his legs will carry him, back to the captain.