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GREYSON had always been a merry boy, from the time he was born. He was a child who helped wherever he might, cooking with his mother in the kitchen or running to fetch his father on the nights he got caught in conversation with the other men in the village and supper sat on the table, growing cold. Greyson loved running through the streets and watching the girls do their magic and seeing the blacksmith and the baker and the shoemaker work. He especially liked watching the bookmaker. Though his home did not have many books, Greyson loved stories and so watching stories be made, bound together as a book, was of great entertainment.
Because he was an only child, Greyson had to help both his father and his mother, though his father was a soldier and only needed his sword shined every now and again. Sometimes he would try on his father’s armor, and his father would laugh heartily at the tiny bit of boy and the large bit of steel.
Every evening Greyson and his parents would sit around the fireside while his mother told stories of distant lands and magic and the mermaids of the Violet Sea. He always tried to spy the mermaid’s tail at the very moment the sky flashed golden, for he was one who believed in the fortune of such a sight at such a time. Alas, he never did see it. And this is why Greyson believed that he, perhaps, was not one of those that fortune smiles upon, for not only had he never seen a mermaid’s tale at sunset, but he was also always skinning his knees and catching colds and burning supper. His parents shook their heads and laughed, ruffling his sandy hair and calling him their clumsy lad. He did not think this was funny, of course, as I am sure no child would, but he tried not to let it bother him much. In the space between stories and sleep, his mother whispered that one day he would outgrow it. And he believed her.
He was a friend of all, calling the adults by name, greeting respectfully, patting the younger children on their heads. The children would always come running when Greyson emerged into the streets, for he kept his pockets full of the special candies his father brought home from his travels. His father was captain of the king’s guard, and in those days there were many travels, for the kingdom of Fairendale was still repairing the damage done by the Great Battle, though it had been nearly eighty-three years since King Sebastien marched the men of all the lands toward death. All those men of King Sebastien’s were mysteriously lost, and the other kingdoms were not so happy to have given up their most strapping young men. Greyson’s father was a peacemaker, though, and this is what kept the other lands from storming Fairendale’s castle. He brought with him seeds from the flowers of Fairendale, for its beauty was widely told and celebrated.
Because of his father’s position within the palace, Greyson and his family were well cared for. They had more than enough food and clothes and medicine. Greyson tried to share whenever he could, though he had heard stories of the prince who had been banished from the castle for doing just that. Greyson thought it a very sad story and asked that his father never tell it again, and his father never had. Even so, Greyson could not forget it.
In the kingdom of Fairendale, as it existed when Greyson was a boy, a person could be punished for sharing what excess he had. So Greyson grew discreet about it. The children, then, would gather round him, and he would wave them away, and just before their going, he would slip the leader, who would share with the rest, a bag of candy or some cookies his mother had made or one of the baker’s famous bon bons. They would walk away with it hidden in their tunic, and he knew they would savor it later.
Most days, when Greyson finished his household chores, he would wander the streets in search of his father and find him talking with the men of the village in the watering hole, which served some kind of drink that smelled sour and tasted even worse. Greyson’s father usually had a tall glass of it in front of him. He dressed always in black, a cape gathered round his shoulders. It was not often that Greyson saw his father in his armor.
There Greyson would sit, listening to his father and the men of Fairendale tell the kingdom’s stories.
Greyson was not born the day King Sebastien moved into town, but most of the stories told by the villagers were about The Good King Brendon, the king Sebastien had defeated when he invaded the land, the king the people of Fairendale had all loved dearly. In fact, one could never hear The Good King Brendon’s name without “The Good” preceding it. So King Brendon became The Good King Brendon in all the history stories. They were stories told throughout the generations, since none of those who lived at this time in our story had been alive when The Good King Brendon ruled the throne. He was known as the wisest and kindest and bravest of all kings. And though the people told these stories of the good king for the hope they held, they did not look so hopeful at the end of them, only despondent. This made Greyson sad. So he and his father would walk home sad, and his mother would say, “Why are my men so sad?” and she would ruffle their hair and move into the kitchen, where she had baked some kind of surprise while they were out telling and listening to stories. They would sit around the table eating apple pie or cinnamon cookies or cream puffs, and Greyson would think that even though he had never seen a mermaid’s tail at sunset, he was the most fortunate person in all the world.
Until the day it all changed.