Tim McDaniel
Snow could feel blood seeping out between her fingers as she pressed her hand to her side. She stood with her back to the stone wall, next to the large, unshattered window. She could feel the breeze, could hear sounds from far below – friends calling to one another, some pompous boor who seemed to feel it was his duty to lecture all those in the square on the history of the palace. And someone selling apples from a cart, which almost made her smile. She didn’t like apples anymore.
The old rag picker would be down there, too, nearby, with his cart.
Snow resisted the urge to scratch an itch to the left of her nose, under the thin gray mask that hid her eyes. The guards who had cornered her in this tower stared at her with level gazes, their swords held out straight and still. Very professional. The dead one lay still at her feet; he’d been professional, too. The one she had wounded had been carried out. He’d been quite professional, as well; the wound he had given her might well prove to be fatal. But she couldn’t die just yet, and not here in this place.
The door at the other end of the round room swung open and a man entered, chin held high, a smirk on his mouth. The gray that should have been in his hair had been held back by dyes, and makeup was caked into his wrinkles. His doublet and cloak were of the highest quality, black and purple with far too many ruffles, and Snow guessed that his boots had never encountered mud – or even good clean dirt. Snow recognized him from several official functions – King La Verne himself.
“Ah!” the king said. “So, this is the famous spy. Quite the swordsman, I was told.” He stepped a bit closer. A toe of one of his boots kicked at her fallen sword. “But I see I was misinformed. You’re no swordsman. You’re not a man at all, are you? No – you’re clearly a woman!”
Snow kicked her chin up in acknowledgement.
“Sending a mere woman on an undertaking such as this! Unbelievable. Once upon a time, no one would even consider such a thing. And you wear a mask,” the man continued. “What are you hiding, I wonder?”
“It’s you who is hiding something,” Snow said.
“I?” La Verne touched his breast, his eyebrows high in disbelief. “You come furtively into my kingdom, and enter my palace, no doubt posing as a washer-woman or some such. My guards surprise you ransacking some private papers. I am the one who is wronged here, lady. Not you.”
La Verne took a step closer. He lowered his voice to a thick, sibilant hiss. “And they have chased you up into this tower. You have been disarmed, at some little cost –” he nudged the body of the fallen guard with the toe of his boot, frowning with distaste, “—and there is no avenue of escape left open to you.” The king took a step back and spoke more loudly. “It is time for you to talk. Who are you? What were you after? In the dungeons we have devices—”
“I have no fear of your devices. And I shall tell you why I have come. I want to know who your spy is, in Stockvelle.”
The prince smiled. “Is that all? Well, you should have simply asked!” His voice dropped down again, but this time it was steady and serious. “But why should I tell you anything?”
“As you said,” Snow replied, “I have no avenue of escape. So why not? Unless you’re afraid of me, an unarmed young woman, alone in your tower, surrounded by your guards.”
The king regarded her silently for a moment, then turned away. His shoulders shook, and when he spun to again face Snow, she saw that he was laughing. It took him some time to master himself. Meanwhile, Snow continued to bleed. Not yet, she told herself. Death in this room is not an option. She felt a breeze from the window.
“Really!” the king finally said. “Did you really think I was going to tell you anything?”
“It was worth the attempt.” Snow decided to no longer hide her pain. She took one hand away from her side to look at the blood. “We’ve known for a while that you have someone working for you,” she said. Snow looked at the king through lowered lashes. “Someone in a high position. A disenchanted viscount, peer, or earl, or baron—” She’d caught it – the barest flicker at the word “earl.”
She looked openly at the king. “An earl, right, your highness?”
“You are simply guessing,” the king said.
“I don’t think so.” Snow took a step forward, pressing into the sword points of the guards. But remaining close enough to the window. “Brumthill is too old, doddering. Chiltick suggested half of the changes himself. Vinbarly, though—”
“Ha!” the king said. “Why would someone like Vinbarly jeopardize his lofty position? It’s clear, little girl, that you know nothing about affairs of state.”
But Snow knew, now. “Oh, as to that: the Earl of Vinbarly has become upset by certain changes the young princess has convinced her new family to implement. Better treatment of the miners and huntsmen, food safety regulations, prohibitions against dark sorceries. Even dwarves have rights nowadays. Yes. The earl longs for days gone by, and I’m sure that he’s been assured of a suitable place if our kingdom should fall to you.”
The king swallowed. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he said. “You won’t be able to tell anyone of your wild suppositions. No, instead, I’m afraid things are going to become quite ugly. My men will take you down to an unpleasant room, and unpleasant things will happen to you there. But in the end, you will tell us all we wish to know. And that mask – oh, yes. That mask will come off. We shall see why you hide your face. We shall see who you really are.”
“Not this time,” Snow said. She turned to the window behind her. Before the guards could stop her, she threw herself out and plummeted to the cobblestones far, far below.
Watcher clucked to his horse and wheeled his ragpicker’s cart out of the square, Snow’s body safely concealed beneath scraps of cloth, torn wicker, bits of leather, and holed cooking pots. He drove down alleyways and across wider streets, all the way to the walls of the town.
He passed through the gate with nary a glance from the bored guardsmen and began making his way through farms and fields. The horse was much stronger than one would expect to find hauling garbage, but even it began to tire at last, and Watcher halted to make camp in a small meadow. He unhitched and saw to his horse, then ate a spare meal of bread, dried meat, and cheese. Some crumbs clung to his sparse gray beard.
Flies were buzzing around the cart. Watcher grimaced and wrapped himself in his cloak and attempted to sleep.
Why did she feel the need to run around and spy for the kingdom? There were people for that. It wasn’t for her. You can’t trust fairies. The idea. The very idea!
Morning came early. It seemed to come earlier every day; Watcher mused. Less sleep. Less time, the days going by more quickly each year. But he supposed that was simply what age was about. He took a swig of water and some more cheese, then hitched the horse back up to the cart.
The flies were still there. Snow was beyond caring, of course. These kids and their fond, foolish notions of love. No good would come of it, in the end. Watcher clucked at the horse and the cart jerked into motion. The kingdom of Stockvelle was still many hours away.
The sun was low in the sky, its beams slanting into Watcher’s eyes, when the gates opened, and Watcher and his cart passed into Stockvelle. No one paid them any mind. Quite a change for the Princess when she rode about openly. Alive. Then, children would follow, cheering. Older people would smile or gaze at her in wonder. Her story had spread – the persecution she had endured, the foul magic broken by a kiss. And, since coming here, the things she had done for the miners, and then for farmers and craftspeople.
The people adored their princess. What would they do to him if they knew her broken body lay in the bed of his cart?
Watcher drove his cart right up to the palace, unchallenged. There were little children playing on the steps of the front entrance. They were always there, and the princess insisted they not be shooed off. They were there, of course, in hopes of seeing her. She held a special place in their hearts. They called out to her every time she left the palace, and she always stopped to see them. They brought her flowers – weeds, really – that they picked along the streets. They ran after her carriage.
But not when she came home like this. Watcher smiled at the children and clucked to the horse. He circled around to the back, entering through a wide doorway used for bringing in supplies. A groomsman unhitched the horse and led it away, and Watcher uncovered the corpse of his spy and gently lifted her up, a sorry, limp mass of broken bones. Blood dripped. A retainer came through a door in the far wall.
“Ah, so she’s returned,” the man said. “Thank the Powers.”
“Yes. She’s back,” Watcher said. “Let’s hope it was worth it.” He picked up the body, still wrapped in a coarse blanket. “If anything could be.”
The retainer held the door open for Watcher and his burden, and then followed the older man through the halls. These halls were not used by the public, and the rugs were thin and colorless, the brick walls unadorned by tapestries. “The royal family was notified as soon as we saw your cart, Spymaster,” he said. “The prince is waiting in the chamber. The king, however—”
“Has little taste for these kinds of proceedings, I know.”
“As you say.”
Down another passageway, and the retainer edged by Watcher to open a large, carved door.
Prince Florian sat in a chair before the long table, alone. He jumped up as Watcher entered. “Is she—” He looked at the ashen face. “Oh, no. No.”
Watcher laid her gently on the polished table and carefully freed her from the wrappings. He straightened her legs and crossed her arms over her breast, wincing as bones clicked. Her left arm was shattered, her back broken, the back of her head a ruin, but she had protected her face.
Florian looked down, tears in his eyes. “What have we done?” he asked. “What could be worth this? Look at her – she’s white as snow!”
“It’s what she wants,” Watcher said. “To protect the kingdom.” He took a step back.
“It is all too much to ask of her,” the Prince said.
Watcher scratched his neck. “It is what it is. She never waits to be asked. She knows what it’s like to live under a tyrant.”
“I need to—” Florian ducked his head, his cheeks coloring.
Watcher turned away.
Florian leaned in over Snow’s face; her visage now more snowlike than ever. Even her lips were pale.
The prince kissed her.
He kissed her again.
“Watcher? Watcher – she is not breathing!”
Watcher turned around. “She is not waking?”
“No!” Florian turned his anguished face towards the older man. “Nothing!”
“Try again.”
Florian took a deep breath. Then another. He bent over Snow’s face and kissed her again, more slowly, more tenderly.
Nothing happened.
Florian closed his eyes. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Watcher came closer. “Do you still love her, my liege?” he asked, his voice low.
Florian opened his eyes. “Of course, I do!”
“Yes? But then—”
“Of course! Yes!”
“Then why—”
“I don’t know!” Florian turned away. “I do love her, I do. Her smile, the way she curls up on a chair like a cat. And she’ll pull down institutions to make things better for the little people. Annoying, yes – the cause of many battles – but lovable, so lovable!” The prince took a deep breath. “I don’t know! It should work! It’s always worked before!”
Watcher clenched his jaw, looking at the dead girl. “Fairies!” he finally spat. “Maybe there was some kind of limitation that they never told us about.”
“‘True love’s kiss’!” Florian quoted. “That’s what it was supposed to be, right?” Florian wiped his eyes on his sleeve and struggled to take deeper breaths.
Watcher frowned. “Maybe that’s it. The queen of her old country, she made some kind of deal with the fairies. She got a magic mirror and a poisoned apple. But fairies never do things simply; there’s always a catch. So the death from the apple only lasted until True Love’s Kiss.”
“And it’s always brought her back before. What happened this time?”
“Who knows?” Watcher threw his hands up. “Who even knows what ‘true love’s kiss’ even means? It’s some fairy’s idea of true love. What kind of love would that be? Fairies don’t marry, fairies don’t know what it means to be with someone, stay with someone, appreciate someone. It’s just beauty and impulse. That’s what love means to them.”
Florian shook his head. “Love is love.”
Watcher sighed. “But is it? When first you kissed her, she was lying on a bench, out in the forest. What did you think of her?”
“The first time? She was lying there, so beautiful. Faultless. So pure.”
“And you fell in love with her.”
“Yes, instantly! And I kissed her, one small kiss – and suddenly she was waking up in my arms. I had thought her dead, that my kiss was a salute, a parting gift!”
“You fell in love with her.”
“Oh, yes.”
“You loved her smile. Her dedication to doing what was right.”
“Yes, yes. I mean, no, not yet. I didn’t even know her, not really. But I loved her.”
Watcher nodded. “Yes, that’s what I mean. You loved her. But your love now is different. When you kiss her now – say, the night before she left on her latest trip – the kiss was different than that first one, I suppose.”
“Of course, it was different. Better! We know each other now.”
“That’s it. It’s a different love. I was married, for a long time. I mean – well, tell me: Is she still faultless in your eyes?”
“Of course! You should have seen her when she told my parents of her plans to learn swordplay and become a spy for the kingdom! She fought them with wit and fire!”
“Her maid says cuts her own toenails.”
The prince gave a small uncertain laugh. “Yes. It’s rather horrific, actually. She always does that herself,” he said. “I told her that is was her maid’s job, but she – she wouldn’t listen. She had to do it herself, when she was on the run. ‘It’s not like a flock of bluebirds are going to come do it for me,’ she’d say. Maybe she lived with those miners too long. Pieces of toenail on the bedroom floor.”
“And you love her for it?”
“You know, I actually do.”
“But not because she is perfect.”
“Perfect would go stale. Perfect is for statues.” Florian jerked himself to his feet. “But Watcher, what can we do? She is lying there, dead, and my kiss does not bring her back!”
“Maybe you can’t. Not anymore.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t know.”
“I know little of the ways of magic,” Watcher said. “But I know people, and all my life I have heard tales of fairies. This kind of magic needed a kiss to break it. Not just any kiss. A kiss of purity and innocence. A kiss of that simple, momentary, hasty love. A fairy’s idea of love. Not the kiss of man who knows, really knows, his wife. Not the kiss of a man who cannot see her as an ideal, but who sees her as a person.”
“I love her. But yes, of course, my love has changed, deepened, become bigger, as I have come to know her. Is that not right, now? If my love is no longer the kind that can awaken her, what can we do?”
Watcher shook his head. “I think you’ve done all you can.” His jaw tightened. “Damn the fairies, anyway!”
The funeral was held in the main hall. Snow’s corpse had been dressed in a blue and white gown, her limbs straightened, her face made up. She looks as though she were merely sleeping.
The king and queen stood before the casket. Florian stood beside them; his eyes red but momentarily dry. The people of the kingdom had been allowed in to pass by, to pay their last respects. The dukes and duchesses, the earls and the barons. The peers and the knights.
The Duchess of Reladis seemed unexpectedly touched by the young princess’ death, her stony visage twisted by sorrow. She leaned on her husband. The plump Baron of Konlay passed by, but his eyes barely rested on the body before straying to the tables laden with foods for the mourners. The Earl of Vinbarly paused, his face unreadable.
After the nobility the commoners passed by. Some were clearly there to be seen, dressed in borrowed finery, preening. But many had faces etched by grief. A group of miners, dwarfs, wept inconsolably.
So many people. Florian drew a cold comfort from that. The princess had indeed been loved.
A dressmaker and her husband passed by, a young brown-haired girl between them.
“But she’s just sleeping, Mommy,” the girl said.
“Hush, child.”
“But see? She’s just sleeping.” And suddenly the child leaned over the casket and kissed Snow’s cheek.
Her mother drew her back and looked with terror at Florian. “I – I’m so sorry, I—”
Florian nodded.
And then Snow drew a small breath. She arched her back, eyes still closed, and then straightened.
Her eyes opened.
She smiled.
“Florian!” she said. “I’m back.” She turned her head and saw the girl. “Well, hello, little one!”
“Your, your Highness,” the girl squeaked.
Snow half sat up. “But what is happening?” she asked. “All these people?”
Florian drew a great, racking breath and gathered Snow in his arms, crying. He clasped her tight and buried his face in her neck.
“Florian! It’s all right,” Snow said. “What’s happened? It’s no worse than any other time, it?”
Florian tried to speak but could not.
The King made some kind of hurried announcement – something about an illness, about a mistake of the court doctors. Florian didn’t hear it clearly. When he finally looked up again from clutching the confused Snow, the last of the mourners were leaving the room, and there remained just the King and Queen, Watcher, and himself, with Snow still in her casket.
“Oh!” Snow said. “Watcher! Florian! It’s the Earl of Vinbarly. He’s been working with La Verne!”
Watcher signaled to a man near the door.
Florian swallowed his tears. “Yes. It will be taken care of, my princess.”
“Oh, Florian, why are you carrying on so?” Snow asked. “Come on, perk up. Won’t you smile for me? And what is going on?”
Florian drew back, his face wet. “Fairest, oh fairest! I was afraid I’d lost you,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be silly. I always return. True love’s kiss always brings me back! Let me rest for a week or two, and then I’ll be ready to go out again. Watcher told me one of the outlying castles – I forget which one – has been having problems with a troll.”
“That can wait, Your Highness,” Watcher said.
“Go out again?” Florian said. “I can’t bear it. The danger.”
“But, my love, my – my condition – it makes me safe. I’ll always come back to you.”
“Yes, my love,” Florian said. “To me. And the children are always so happy to see you. But for now, rest, my love. Your skin is so pale.”