For a man who only had four possessions, two of which were identical shirts, Wesley took a concerning amount of time to get ready for the ball. He stood in the corner of the cottage behind the curtain. From there, he could be heard rustling fabric, muttering and constantly groaning.
"Greatness is not hurried, fox," he would reply when I pushed him.
Mother, with her arms crossed and a tight-lipped expression, stood by the door. Father sat in his chair, motionless and quiet.
"Wesley," Mother said. “It is time to go.”
"Nearly—I am nearly—." A crash, followed by a sound like something falling behind the curtain. "That was not important."
"If you are not through that curtain by the time I count to five, I will dress you myself."
"Mother, you cannot rush —"
"One."
"The hair alone requires —"
"Two."
He came out. And to give the man credit, where credit is due, he looked good. Mother's work suited him. The fabric was simple but clean, and it fit him properly, which was all that was needed to transform Wesley from a pumpkin into a carriage. He had styled his hair that involved pushing it back from his face, the ribbon on the neck replaced with a strip of dark cloth that matched his coat.
He spread his arms. "Well?"
“You are a vain man. Stop preening."
"You look fine, dude. Can we go?"
Mother turned to me. She straightened my collar. She tugged the hem of my shirt down. She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, frowning at its length and the way it didn't quite cooperate.
"Keep your head down," she instructed. "Your voice low. Do not speak unless spoken to, and if spoken to, speak little."
"Got it."
"Do not stand near the lords. Do not stand near the soldiers. Do not stand near any man who looks at you too long or too closely. If you could manage to be entirely invisible, that would be ideal." She gently cupped my face with her hands, her thumbs resting on my cheeks, while her gaze locked with mine. After a brief moment, she released me and took a step back, smoothing down her apron, and said, "Go. Both of you. And come home in one piece or do not bother coming home at all."
The cart was slow. The mule was slower. The road unfurled before us, a ribbon of us in the blue of early evening, rutted and dirt packed, winding through fields and past farmhouses, into stretches of forest where the trees leaned in overhead and the air turned cool. Wesley sat on the bench beside me, loose reins in his hands and humming. He was always fucking humming.
"Do you ever stop?" I asked.
"Stop what?"
"The noise. You're always humming or singing or talking or —"
"Silence is a waste of perfectly good air, fox." The mule didn't respond to his flick of the reins. "Besides, the road is long and the evening is fine and we are going to a ball at the palace. When will we see such a thing again? Where is your sense of occasion? Your spirit?"
We weren't the only ones on the road. As we got closer, more and more carts appeared from the side roads and from the villages, merging onto the main route like streams feeding a river. Some of them were nicer than ours and the men wore their finest clothes. We came around a bend, and the trees opened up, and there it was: up on a hill, lit from below by a thousand torches, glowing against the dark sky like something my brain had pulled from every fairy tale illustration I'd ever seen and rendered in high definition. Tall towers with pinnacles and fluttering banners stood against the dark night sky, their walls of pale stone gleaming gold under the torchlight. Windows blazing with warm light, dozens of them, hundreds, as if the entire building were made of fire from the inside out. A long, wide staircase led up from the courtyard to the main entrance, lined with soldiers in polished armor standing at attention.
"Holy shit," I said.
Wesley turned his gaze toward me. "You speak as though you have never seen it."
"I haven't—I mean—it's different up close," I lied. My subconscious, which normally produces dreams of showing up to class naked or falling off things, had built this. The level of detail was absurd. I noticed the walls' surface, the individual flames in the sconces, and how the banners moved differently based on the direction of the breeze. If I ever woke up from this, I would owe my brain an apology. I was impressive.
The courtyard was packed. Carts, horses and men streamed toward the entrance, like overdressed cattle. The Cinderella moment—the carriage pulling up, the grand arrival, the gasps—was not happening here. Instead, it was a mob of dudes in their best clothes shuffling forward in a crowd, trying not to step in horse shit. We left the cart with a boy at the edge of the courtyard. He took the mule's reins. Wesley spared him a coin I didn't know we had.
We joined the herd.
The stairs were wide and grand, with a lot of them. Guards in full armor flanked the path, maintaining rigid postures and gazing straight ahead. Torches burned every ten paces in iron sconces. The men around us climbed in clusters, some nervous, some strutting, some visibly sweating through fabrics that their mothers had spent days sewing.
The entrance was located at the top. Enormous double doors, open wide, spilling light and sound into the night. Then, music.
Two guards flanked the doors. One of them raised his hand.
Wesley produced both scrolls with a flourish, and the guard cracked the seals, checked them, looked at us, looked at the scrolls, and stepped aside. We entered.
The great hall was enormous. The ceilings were so high that they disappeared into shadows, supported by stone columns carved with vines, faces and animals. Massive iron chandeliers dripping with candles hung from long chains that looked like they were floating. The polished stone floor reflected the light like water. Long tables ran along both walls, covered in white cloth, and on them... food.
Food was everywhere. Bread that wasn't hard and sad and brown. Meat that was roasted and glistening. Fruits that I recognized and fruits that I didn't. Cheese in wheels and wedges. Pies with golden crusts. Pastries covered with some white powder didn't matter what. I would have eaten at this point, even if it had been cocaine. There were pitchers of wine and cider, and more food than I had seen in five days combined, more food than Cassian had likely seen in her entire life, all arranged on a white cloth illuminated by candlelight. My mouth watered.
"Fox," Wesley said while already surveying the room.
"Wes. Food," I said. "I need to get to that table. Right now. Before anything else happens. Before soldiers show up or someone starts a fight or this world throws me another curveball. I need to eat something that isn't stew or rock bread. That's all I want tonight."
As he spoke, his mouth began to shape itself into an argument, a counterproposal, and a sales pitch for the disorder he had already devised.
"No," I interrupted him. "Whatever you're about to say, no. Please. Wes. One night. I just want to eat and not get punched."
He looked at me for a moment, then sighed. "Very well, fox. Go. Eat your fill. Gorge yourself on the king's hospitality." He adjusted his collar and disappeared into the crowd. Honestly, I was worried that he'd get us killed tonight, but that was a problem for later. Right now, there was a table full of food, and nothing between me and it, and I was determined to make the most of it.
I made it to the table. I was holding a pastry. It was golden and flaky and dusted with sugar, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, including sunsets and the palace and Lyra's face. No. No. No. I wasn't thinking of Lyra's face. I was thinking of this pastry. I was about to take the biggest bite of my life. My mouth was open. My teeth were ready. A horn sounded from near the far staircase. Its sound echoed off the stone walls and high ceiling, silencing every conversation in the room. The music stopped instantly. Every man in the hall moved toward the far end, where the staircase was.
"You have got to be kidding me."
A figure emerged from the top of the staircase. Tall and thin, draped in heavy robes adorned with embroidery, he carried a gold staff. He struck it on the stone floor three times, and each strike resonated throughout the hall like a bell.
"My lords, gentlemen, and honored subjects of the realm," he intoned, his voice resonating from his diaphragm. "You stand this evening in the great hall of the Palace of Tolamn, by the grace and invitation of the crown. You are called here to bear witness and to present yourselves before the throne."
A pause. The staff struck again.
"It is my solemn honor to present His Royal Majesty, King Ionracas, Sovereign Lord of Tolamn, Shield of the Coastal Throne, Keeper of the Northern Reaches, Defender of the Realm and Protector of its People."
The king entered from a door behind the stairs. He wore a heavy crown and deep red robes. He moved slowly. He was very old. He reached his seat, a raised chair at the head of the hall, not quite a throne but close enough and sat. The room bowed. I bent my knees, just like everyone else, since it was not appropriate to be the only one standing upright, holding a pastry.
"And it is my highest honor and privilege to present Her Royal Highness, the Princess Cruit, First Jewel of Tolamn, Heir to the Coastal Throne, Daughter of the Morning Tide and Light of the Eastern Shore."
She appeared at the top of the stairs.
The first thing I noticed was the veil. It covered her face entirely, falling from a circlet on her brow to below her chin, moving slightly with each step. You couldn't see her features through it. Not clearly. Just the suggestion of a face. Guess my brain used up all its power to render this castle.
"She wears it still," the man whispered to his companion. "They say she has not shown her face at court in three years."
"Three years? I heard four. I heard her countenance is so fearsome that the Duke of Admore fainted upon seeing it."
"My cousin's wife's sister serves in the palace. She says the princess's gaze turns men to stone. That is why she veils herself. An act of mercy."
"Nonsense. Idle talk and nothing more."
She slowly made her way down the stairs, holding on to the rail with one hand and the edge of her gown with the other. The princess was dressed in a pale blue gown adorned with gems and jewels. The princess moved with grace, just like her father.
The king watched her come down, and for a second his face was just that of a man. The princess reached the bottom of the stairs.
"The princess welcomes you," he proclaimed, "and the ball shall commence."
The music resumed. Slowly, people began to move again. I looked at the princess, standing far away at the end of the hall, surrounded by guards, and then I looked back at my pastry. I stuffed the entire thing in my mouth and grabbed another one. Nothing in this dream or any other mattered except the fact that the pastries were the single greatest thing my brain had ever invented.
I did not take part in the dancing. I was very busy at the food table, as I did not want to waste this opportunity on such a frivolous activity as dancing. The bread was so pillowy soft, like a cloud. The cheese tasted nothing like feet, and the meat had been expertly seasoned. The fruit's flavor exploded on my tongue, tangy and sweet.
Everyone else seemed absorbed in the dancing, the princess, or whatever they were doing to impress her. Marrying her? Meanwhile this entire spread was just sitting here, unattended, like food wasn't the single most important thing in the world. Baffling, but whatever. More for me.
No one had stopped me yet, so I chose to take that as permission. Unless my mind had conjured up a dungeon in this palace, in which case consuming the king's food without an invitation could lead to trouble. But that was a future Cas problem.
From where I was standing, I could see the dance floor. One at a time, men approached the princess. The Chamberlain, the Steward or any other guy who managed the line of hopeful idiots led the way.
Everyone bowed. Everyone offered a hand. The princess refused all.
"Perhaps she simply finds none of them worthy."
"None of them? There are lords here. Sons of the great houses. If none of them are worthy, who is?"
I took a bite of the meat pie and watched the princess refuse to dance with another man. She stood still, apparently waiting for the next one to approach. Sucks. I almost felt sorry for them.
Almost. The meat pie was really good.
I suddenly heard Wesley's voice. His voice cut through the music, filling the room without any effort. He was somewhere to my left.
"—And she dwelt alone in a tower at the edge of the world," Wesley continued, holding a cup with three men gathered around him. "And her beauty was so terrible, so vast, that the gods themselves could not bear it. And so they cursed her."
Harmless. A story. Classic Wesley. I bit into another pastry while keeping an eye on him.
"They cursed her eyes so that any man who looked upon her face would be turned to stone. Frozen where he stood, caught forever in the moment of seeing her, his last breath a gasp of wonder and his last thought: she is magnificent."
Some men chuckled. Some others also looked toward the far end of the hall, where the princess, veiled and still, sat beside her father. The connection was not subtle. Wesley, if he noticed, did not stop.
"Suitor after suitor came to her tower." His voice was now booming, filling the room like it did in the plaza. "Lords and princes and warriors, each one certain he would be the one to withstand her gaze. Each one swearing he was braver than the last."
More heads turning, more glances toward the princess.
"And one by one," Wesley declared, raising his cup, "she turned them all to stone. The brave and the foolish. The proud and the desperate. They lined the path to her door like statues in a garden, each one frozen in the act of believing himself worthy." He stopped. Grinning, "They say she wept for every one of them. They say the curse was never her choosing. But the stones could not hear her weeping, and the living were too afraid to come close enough to listen."
The princess got up from her seat and the hall became very quiet.
She crossed the floor the way she had before, and the guards followed. She raised one hand barely and they stopped. Wesley stood in front of her.
"An interesting tale," she remarked. "A woman cursed to destroy every man who looks upon her. A creature so monstrous that the gods themselves saw fit to punish her. And you chose to tell this story tonight. Tonight, in my father's hall."
"Your Highness, I assure you, the tale was not —"
"A woman whose gaze is said to turn men to stone. You thought no one in this room would find the likeness?"
"I spoke of an ancient tale, Your Highness, nothing more. The woman in my story is a creature of myth—a monster—she is not—"
The word landed before he could catch it. Monster. The dawning horror of what came out of his own mouth. A murmur of surprise spread throughout the room.
"A monster," the princess repeated.
"That is not — I did not mean — Your Highness, the woman in the tale was fearsome, yes, but she was also beautiful, terribly beautiful. That is what made her... I would call you — I am saying — the tale speaks of a woman whose beauty was so great it could not be endured, and I only meant —"
"That my face cannot be endured."
"No!"
"That men are wise to fear me."
"Your Highness, if you would allow me to —"
"You have been allowed quite enough." Her voice remained calm.
Wesley was very still. His cup hung at his side. His mouth, perhaps for the first time in his life, had nothing to offer.
"I should like to test your theory," the princess said as she raised her hands to the veil.
The hall moved backwards. A collective flinch. Dozens of men stepping away at once. Some turning their heads; some shielding their eyes. One man near the pillar actually dropped to his knees and covered his face with both hands. The guards reached for their weapons, and the king rose from his seat.
I'll be honest, a small, stupid part of me braced as well. A part that had been living in this dream long enough to have almost come to believe in its rules. Maybe she would turn him to stone. Maybe my subconscious had finally decided to go all in on fantasy. Maybe I was about to see actual magic, actual supernatural bullshit. This boring, grounded, no-flying, no-monsters, nothing but manual labor dream would finally deliver something worth the five days of suffering I'd put in.
However, to Wesley's relief, and that of everyone else, he did not transform into stone. The man on his knees stayed on his knees for a few seconds longer than necessary, then peeked through his fingers, realized he was still alive, and stood up looking embarrassed.
Figures. My brain could create a palace in high definition, but couldn't come up with a monster. Boring. This dream was so boring. However, as I glanced at Wesley, who was standing there very much alive and made of flesh, I probably shouldn't be upset that my dream brother didn't get turned into a rock. It would have been hard to explain to Mother.
I glanced up, finally looking at the princess's face.
I stopped.
My hand stopped moving. My mind went blank. The pastry was in my fingers, but my fingers had forgotten what they were doing because my eyes were very busy.
The princess's face was familiar to me. I had memorized it over fifteen years of sleepovers and study sessions and shared secrets on bedroom floors. A face that crinkled at the corners when it laughed and became serious when it read aloud.
Lyra.
Not just a girl who resembled Lyra. Lyra herself, her very face: the same eyes, the same lips, the same way her eyebrows met when she was angry, which she definitely was at the moment.
Great.
Great, great, great. Thanks, brain. Really nice work. Five days of shoveling shit in a medieval nightmare and my subconscious decides to put Lyra's face on the princess. Cool. Jesus Christ.
I stuffed a tart in my mouth and chewed, feeling increasingly angry with every second. Of course Lyra was the princess. Even the Lyra in my dreams had to be royalty. She got to the castle while I was out here scooping goat shit and sleeping on straw and getting punched in the face by strangers. She got to be the princess and I got to be the poop guy. That tracks.
She did not deserve to be a princess. She didn't deserve the castle, the dress, or the food. I had earned every single pastry through hard work and pain. She could never have them. I turned around and stuffed a piece of cheese into my mouth.
I was determined not to look at her or think about her. I was about to indulge in this cheese, followed by whatever else was on the table, and I was determined to have an excellent night, perhaps the best of this ridiculous dream. Lyra's face on a medieval princess was not going to kill my spirit. I reached for the wine.
"—You have insulted the crown before the full court. You have mocked the honor of the throne and made a spectacle of my father's generosity. This is not a matter I am inclined to overlook."
"Your Highness, I beg of you, the tale was merely —"
"Do not insult me further by pretending ignorance." A pause. "You will be held in the palace cells until such time as my father determines a fitting consequence."
I turned around. The princess, surrounded by guards, was in front of Wesley.
This bitch.
Whether dreaming or subconsciously projecting Lyra's face, this was unfair. Imprisonment for telling a story? For being loud and stupid and not knowing when to stop? Sure, it's an issue, but it's not dungeon worthy.
Honestly, this is exactly the kind of thing Lyra would do. Lyra, who used to lock up her Barbie dolls when they “misbehaved," and created a mass genocide plotline among her toys. She was a creepy little kid. I drank the rest of the wine in my cup. Set it down. Wiped my mouth.
"Fox." Wesley saw me coming. His eyes widened. "Fox, no."
Too late. I was already there, between Wesley and the guards, facing the princess, with no plan whatsoever.
The princess watched me with curiosity.
Ugh. Lyra's eyes. Up close. Right in my face. My stomach churned.
Her attention fixated on me. “Speak. Your name, your father's name, your village."
"Mind ya business, bro."
A hand firmly grasped my shoulder, its weight making me turn. The towering guard behind me had an iron grip, and his other hand was already balled up. His expression was unambiguous: he was ready to resolve this matter with the most immediate and direct action at his disposal. Sigh.
Why? Why was there so much violence in this dream? What had I done to deserve a subconscious that wanted me beaten up every three days? First, the guys outside the barn. Then there were those who came close to killing me after Wesley insulted them. And now this! A seven-foot-tall soldier about to cave in my face.
His other hand landed on my shoulder, and my knees hit the stone before I had made up my mind to kneel. My kneecaps cracked against the marble. Pain shot up through my thighs. The hallway tilted sideways, and the princess looked down at me.
Lyra's eyes, from below, looking down.
"Your Highness," the soldier said, his voice a deep rumble directed toward me. "Shall I remove him?"
The princess did not answer right away. She was studying me like a strange bird, the way she had studied Wesley.
"I will not ask again," she said. "Who are you?"
I opened my mouth to say something and my head went light. I felt dizzy, as if the floor were pulling at me from inside my chest, instead of from beneath my feet. My hands felt far away.
"Cassian. Second son of Buain, of the western farmlands. Brother to the fool who has offended you, and the one who must answer for him."
"You answer for him," she said. "And yet he is the elder. Does he not answer for himself?"
"My brother speaks with more beauty than sense: Your Highness. He is a bard, and bards are faithless to everything but the story in their mouths. I came forward not to challenge you but to spare you the trouble of punishing a fool for the crime of being foolish. I would ask that you see the intention beneath the injury and grant him mercy."
I tried to scream, but I couldn't. My mouth was moving but a stranger's voice was coming out.
"You would call your own brother a fool?"
"I would call him what he is. As I suspect you would call me what I am."
"And what are you?" she inquired.
"A farmer's son with no lute and no gift for song. I can not tell tales that stop the heart or make children weep for endings. I have nothing to offer a crown but honest hands and a tongue that speaks plain.”
"Honest hands," the princess remarked. "And a plain tongue." She stopped. “I have been offered jewels and lands and the devotion of men. And you offer me honesty." The princess was quiet for a moment. Then she stepped closer. "Mercy," she repeated. "You come before me with your brother's mess at your feet, and you ask me for mercy. Tell me—do you think mercy is owed to you? Do you think because you are willing to kneel that I should set aside the insult to my father's house?"
"I think mercy is the province of those who have the power to grant it, Your Highness. It costs the strong nothing and buys what coin cannot."
"You speak well for a farmer's son.” She paused. "And if I do not grant this mercy? If I find your brother's punishment fitting and your plea insufficient?"
“Then you would be the monster that everyone in the kingdom says you are. You summon every man in the kingdom to your door as cattle. You drag farmers from their fields and tradesmen from their work and you line them up in your fine hall to grovel before a princess who has made sport of every man who has ever stood before her." The speaker's tone became careless. "You humiliate them before the court and send them home in shame and when the kingdom calls you a monster for it, you hide behind a veil and let the rumors speak for you."
The guard grabbed the back of my neck and forced me upright. His breath was hot and his grip was tight. “You dare,” he hissed, trembling with rage. "You dare speak so to the heir of the Coastal Throne. You are nothing. A peasant. Dirt beneath her feet. I should break your jaw where you stand and let you swallow those words with your own teeth." His hand pulled back, preparing to strike.
"Olc.” The princess's voice. A single word spoken with authority. "Lower your hand."
Olc stopped his fist. His eyes stayed on me, promising violence held on a leash, but his hand lowered. The princess stepped forward. She looked at me and I felt it: Lyra's face, but not Lyra.
"Your brother is forgiven," she stated. "He may leave this hall tonight a free man. However, an insult was spoken before the full court. Such a debt does not dissolve with an apology. It requires payment."
"I am not a man of means, Your Highness. I have no coin to —"
"I do not want your coin." She tilted her head. "Your brother goes free. In his place, you will remain. You will serve the crown in whatever capacity I determine, for as long as I determine, until I consider the debt settled."
"You would make me a prisoner. I have lived beneath it my whole life. I will not trade one cage for another."
"Then your brother stays. And the cage you speak of will be his."
Every eye was watching in the hallway. Wesley, somewhere behind me, was silent for what might have been the first time in his life, and I could feel his fear from across the room without seeing his face.
This is a dream; none of this is real. Wake up, wake up, wake up.
“If I stay," my voice said, "My brother walks free. Tonight. He returns to our family and the crown does not touch him. And my family. They are not held to account for my tongue."
The princess stared intently at me. "You have my word," she promised. "No harm will come to your family. You will serve, and you will be housed and fed and kept whole. Whether you are kept comfortable depends entirely on you. Rise, Cassian, son of Buain. You belong to the palace now."
The lightheadedness faded, like a receding tide. My hands and mouth were mine again. Wesley appeared beside me, his hand resting on my arm. His grasp was firm and his face was pale, and tears glistened in his eyes. He leaned in closely, ensuring only I could hear his whispered question.
"What have you done, Sister?"
I didn't have an answer, because I hadn't done anything.