Arabesque Read online

  “Yes, but I want my children to be handsome in my way,” Ulrike retorted. “What are the gentry, after all, but mongrels with money?” She caught her reflection in a nearby mirror and smiled, for she’d always been fond of mirrors. Drawing herself up, she pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, admiring the delicate, nearly translucent quality of her pale, pale complexion. “They’re no more than one step above the peasantry, Amara.”

  “I see then that ninety-nine percent of the world will fall short of your standards,” the pragmatic Amara—yes, the princess with skin a shade darker than her sister’s—said with a baffled shake of her head. “Be careful with your ambitions, Ulrike. Things don’t always go according to plan.” Then she lowered her voice, anxiety edging her words. “Remember that you can’t undo what you’ve learned.”

  Things don’t always go according to plan.

  But Ulrike ruled this kingdom, defined by its own borders, and all her worldly concerns were fixed within. Why should the ninety-nine percent matter to her? So she’d ordered Amara arrested, tried for treason—for what were her words but a subtle threat?—and executed.

  “You should have taken your advice about caution and ambition,” Ulrike said from her carriage window as she watched the bonfire in the town square situated some five miles from the palace, where executions, regardless of the status of the condemned, took place in full view of the public. The blackened hands were still bound to the burning pole, and the wild, dancing flames obscured the rest of what was left of her younger sister. “You’ve always been such a high-minded moralist.”

  * * *

  Now unhindered by scheming family, Ulrike continued to dream of her child, following her progress through different stages till the moment of her union with the member of the royal house of a distant—perhaps exotic but most certainly powerful—kingdom. Ah, how wonderful were these thoughts, how comforting, how given to bold resolutions as the queen vowed to herself that the child would have nothing less than the best of everything and most certainly all of her mother’s time and attention.

  Fairy tales may have offered other women in her predicament a solution to this quandary by forcing an enchantress into their paths, but even if Ulrike weren’t skilled in dark magic, she’d still be much too proud to accept any condescending help from some tiresome, perpetually optimistic and smiling wand-waver. Despite—or because of—the daily humiliations of being married to Lambrecht and the bitter cynicism of court life, Ulrike had nurtured her hatred into an icy pragmatism, relentless toward doubts that might hamper her progress, unforgiving toward those who dared to stand in her way.

  Her thoughts continued to drift from past to present to future until the door to the room finally opened, and in stepped the very means by which her ambitions would all bear fruit.

  “Darling.”

  “My love.”

  She rose from her chair, abandoning the bobbins and the bloody tapestry scene and sweeping grandly toward the man who’d just entered, arms outstretched in eager welcome to him. She coquettishly stopped midway, teasing him with a hand toying with the ribbons on her bodice. The gentleman smiled and bowed, everything about his manner nothing more than false shyness under his wig, his foppish love of overly embroidered satin and too much lace. Had he kept his wits about him, he’d have taken to a simpler set of clothes as befitting an aristocrat going about his business in the day, but he’d always been keen on impressing his beloved with excesses.

  Bittan von Eisenberg, the youngest and most useless son of a Saxony count, stood with the air of an impudent peacock, smirking and smug in his velvet and satin finery of warm gold and deep red. Ulrike had always loved the way the fine gold embroidery of his red satin coat enhanced its bloody significance. That the nobleman enjoyed wearing it during their trysts only heightened Ulrike’s delight in the very idea that he liked wrapping himself in death. She’d had that “blood coat” made for him after their first meeting a year ago, and he never disappointed her in its usage.

  People in court had raised their eyebrows at such a strange, vibrant color in a sea of softness and pastels, but Bittan apparently took an inordinate degree of pride in standing out starkly.

  “How long?”

  “An hour, no more,” he said, his gaze raking over her body without shame.

  After all he was the son of one of the royal family’s oldest and dearest friends and certainly not one with any legal claim on her. But he was twenty-five and bold—proud yet indescribably stupid—still given to youthful romantic flights, and by nature impetuous and fiery. And, yes, he believed himself to be in love with his queen to distraction, for how else could he account for the thrill he felt whenever he wore her blood coat and saw her eyes light up with a mad flame?

  “An hour’s enough,” Ulrike said, her smile broadening as she hurried forward again.

  They met in the center of the room and fell into each other’s arms, murmuring tender words even as they tore savagely away at each other’s clothing. The fire in the nearby hearth crackled, the sound of burning wood like a crone’s sickly cackling edged with phlegm. Candelabra added more light to the bedroom of the queen’s rustic sanctuary, which had nothing else but the loom, a bed, and one large wall tapestry of a doubtful source and time. Whatever the scene depicted, and it was quite likely a lush garden romance, its original intent had long been muted by time and dirt. Details had vanished into dulled colors that bled into each other. Human figures had turned faceless and confused, with arms that once reached for lovers now fumbling blindly for something to grasp. Animals had turned into frolicking phantoms in dirty gray and brown. Flowers looked like malformed fingers of the dead, reaching out and grasping at clothes and air.

  “Too many clothes on,” Ulrike said after pulling away, her words halting and breathless. Already her skin sported a number of reddening marks. “This will be a challenge.”

  “Hurry.”

  Hands worked feverishly, and buttons, snaps, and laces were immediately undone. Silk, satin, and velvet soon found their way to the floor, and the fiery nobleman and his queen consummated their love in the warmth of the bed. Limbs entangled, hands and fingers explored, caressed, scratched. Lips and tongues roamed over bare skin, kissing, biting. Her nipples stiffened with his gentle sucking, her thighs widened when he nestled his tongue between them. Her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting to ragged sighs, misty thoughts pervading her lust-riddled mind. His desire was just as strong, and after initial preparations, he mounted her and thrust himself in, and the bed rocked with them.

  She couldn’t help but think about her child—his child—and, yes, damn her husband and his idiot, barbaric propensities. What did he care, anyway? He’d made whores of half the maidens in the land (not counting those women in court), and he’d done it in exercise of his authority.

  Her lover—their friend’s son—would help her. It would be triumph without the help of magic.

  He thrust, and she smiled even as she grunted from the thorny mix of pleasure and pain, her fogged eyes opening and filling their hazy world with the sight of her lover’s grimace and the countless beads of sweat that had formed on his skin. Thrust one. That would be the child’s sex. Female, perfect. Thrust two, the child’s figure. Slender, perfect. Thrust three, the child’s complexion, white as snow. Smooth, perfect. Superior. Thrust four, the child’s lips, red as blood. Seductive, perfect. Thrust five…

  Ulrike lost count.

  A long moment passed, an eternity, perhaps, and the world dissolved around them, and she bit back her cries, refusing to give up her stifling hold on her lover.

  Chapter Three

  The child arrived—not soon enough, though. The kingdom celebrated, but not so the weary, tearful queen, who was now realizing how much of a sick joke her life had become, magic or no.

  “It’s a boy, Your Majesty,” one of the attendants declared, and everyone cheered and applauded her apparent success. Their cries rippled outward quickly from room to room, the palace exploding in jubi
lation, to be echoed by the rest of the kingdom.

  The servant appeared at her bedside. She cradled the boy in her arms, presenting him to his mother with a low, reverent curtsy and tear-filled eyes.

  A boy.

  He was, if one were to follow Ulrike’s long-established standards, just short of perfection personified. Skin much darker than snow—indeed, the boy’s pale skin was no different from anyone’s, for all his mother’s desperate desires for the superiority of a snow-white complexion. His lips didn’t boast a hue that made them look as though they were tainted with blood. Like his skin, his lips showed a mortal quality. There was nothing about him that was god-like and unblemished. In fact, his gender had already torn him down from the lofty pedestal on which his mother had placed him well before he was born.

  Yes, the future sovereign was there at last. On his tiny shoulders lay the weight of an entire kingdom. On his little heart lay the burden of endurance—for love, of course, as the bards had always said—and would always say—in their verses.

  What did the future hold for this tiny boy?

  He’d ride off on his best steed, proud and beautiful and brave, his ambition goading him on. He’d rescue doomed princesses from their tower prisons, set to right ageless curses woven by vindictive witches or stepmothers—it was always the stepmothers!—wander through fantastic lands, endure the most amazing tests. And he’d succeed. He’d prevail. He was the prince, after all, and princes never failed. Whatever his shortcomings in physical appearance, nobility still meant perfection and a mere step down from the gods. And perfection was infallible; that was simply Nature’s law.

  Nobility, indeed…

  That was one more niggling detail, for the prince was prince only in name, being born of the queen but not both monarchs, his real father now a disgraced figure. Prince, indeed—more like bastard prince, to be sure, and mingling with the joyful cheers of courtiers and subjects alike were the quieter, jubilant titters of gossips everywhere, mocking and pointing fingers at the helpless infant.

  “Will you hold him, Your Majesty?” the servant asked, leaning over the bed, and Ulrike shrank away.

  “No. Don’t touch me,” she hissed, tearing at the air with her fingers curled like pale talons and startling the old woman. “Keep that thing away!”

  A boy. Damn it all to hell, a bloody boy. One more man to add to the kingdom’s woes and to hers. Ulrike had always believed herself to be careful enough despite the misery of her trapped situation, had eaten all the required food that, witches said, ensured the birth of a girl, while the baby was still forming in her belly. She could hear her dead sister’s laughter filtering through the decay of the grave.

  Ulrike stared past the puzzled servant, her eyes, swollen from tears and rage, fixed on the airy figure standing behind the servant and the baby. She could see her sister’s scorched figure, the black sockets where her eyes used to be, the grin of the dead, with burned lips pulled back to reveal a mass of black and red within.

  And how do you like your perfect little baby? the specter asked, its words dissolving into hollow laughter. White skin and red lips? Female? How devastating is it, seeing your ambitions—oh—how shall I say it? Go up in smoke? More laughter as the apparition faded, leaving the faint, sickening smell of charred flesh in its wake. I just made a brilliant joke, didn’t I? Oh, yes, I know a lot about smoke and fire. Enjoy your life, Sister. I know I’ll delight in watching it unfold…or perhaps unravel…

  “Get away from me!” Ulrike screamed, flailing more wildly now.

  The servant yelped and dodged the blows, turning so that the baby was kept safe from his mother’s strange outburst. Still surprised and horrified, she bowed and withdrew from the sickbed and set the child in his crib.

  The servant watched the baby for a moment, wonder in her eyes—the same kind of wonder that the queen should have. She bent down and made cooing noises as she reached in, no doubt to play with the child.

  Ulrike watched her, incoherent with madness and rage. “My baby!” she screamed now as she sat up and bent over the edge of her bed, groping for a shoe. With another wild scream, she flung the shoe at the servant, barely missing the woman’s head. “Get out! Don’t touch my baby! Get out!”

  The servant fled the room, wild-eyed and wailing. Once the sound of the door slamming shut had faded, silence fell on the room, and Ulrike lay back, her eyes narrowed and fixed in grim suspicion on the crib. Her sister’s ghost hadn’t appeared again. Was it even there to begin with? She was sure of it, for she knew her sister died calling out to her—even before the pyre was lit, in fact, according to the executioner. Before he stabbed her with a hunting knife in a show of mercy prior to the lighting of the pyre. It was likely that in death, she’d haunt her older sister’s steps with her taunts and burned remains.

  The prince began to wail, a wretched little bundle under the thick layers in which he’d been wrapped, his eyes unseeing, tiny hands unsteady and awkward as they clawed at the air, searching vainly for his mother.

  Yes, vainly.

  After all, he now lay unattended and ignored in his crib, his mother resolutely looking the other way. She cursed that day. She cursed the day when the child was conceived. She even cursed her lover and her husband.

  She cursed the moment of their discovery—of her husband’s violent outburst and Bittan’s equally violent defense. Betrayal had always been a part of court life, and everyone slept with everyone else, no one really batting an eyelash, though the gossips exchanged in the gold and white privacy of the palace’s apartments were always vicious. Ulrike should have known, the damned fool, that Lambrecht would do something as extreme as murder. An hour of freedom in her lover’s arms? Hardly! Less than half an hour, perhaps, and no more than that.

  * * *

  One didn’t readily recover from the sight of the king knocking down his still-naked rival and, in a fit of insane rage, pulling out his sword and carving his adversary with it. No one would either recover or forget the sight of her lover writhing in agony, dying in a pool of his own gore while spitting out curses at the king—or of her own still-naked self leaping up and blindly pulling out her lover’s weapon from its sheath, swinging it wide and slicing her husband’s belly open with the tip of the blade. She could have done more to him, dealt him worse than he’d dealt Bittan von Eisenberg, were it not for that army of embarrassed courtiers that had burst into the room as though—yes—anticipating a bloody quarrel.

  The weapon was snatched from her, and she was restrained even as she kicked and fought and screamed out her dead lover’s name. Lambrecht, in the meantime, was dragged away as well, swooning in his friends’ arms as he bled from his wound.

  The dead nobleman was now held in contempt for his sin, for despite the common nature of adultery within court, being caught and killed by his rival stained an ordinary affair with a dark scandal.

  “I have no son,” the old Saxony count said when he heard the news. His wrinkled face showed little emotion under the powder and rouge, and his voice was steady and hard.

  “You won’t go to him at all? Forgive him?” another nobleman prodded, smirking behind his glass of wine. “Come now, don’t you think it’s high time for you two to reconcile?”

  The count simply looked at his companion. “I have no son.”

  Bittan von Eisenberg was buried in an unmarked grave (by order of the king), without ceremony or blessing, somewhere beyond the kingdom’s borders. It was Bittan’s exile even in death.

  Its location remained a secret, known only to the king and the gravediggers, but rumors spread of the burial place being somewhere in the cursed forest over by the kingdom’s southwestern border, generating frightened whispers that rippled through the superstitious peasantry. Even the senior von Eisenberg said nothing about the rumored sacrilege.

  No one, really, knew when and how the forest had acquired its reputation save for old legends, but most knew enough of it to avoid coming within fifty feet of its borders. Whether viewing i
t from the ground or from one of the peaks that surrounded the general area, it looked ominous, its trees forming an endless tapestry of interlocking branches so that very little sunlight could penetrate through the leaves. Those brave or foolish enough to venture farther in spoke of disembodied voices among the trees, of icy cold, invisible hands that caressed faces. There had been reports of shadowy figures flitting here and there, creeping at times and peering out from behind trees or shrubs, only to vanish when torches were held aloft. Those who’d reported such things were foolish to venture in but were also still able to flee in response to their instincts. Not everyone, however, was that lucky in the end.

  Nothing but misfortune would come of this sacrilege committed against the slain nobleman’s soul, wherever he might be buried. Forgiveness and redemption—those ought to have been the king’s prerogatives for the sake of the royal line.

  “The royal family will now be haunted,” ragged farmers said, their voices trembling. The bloodline was now doomed to a quick decline and a bloody end. It wouldn’t take long, many claimed, before conspiracies would be formed and put into action, for several in court knew when to take advantage of frightened whispers and wild legends among filthy and half-starved subjects.

  Lambrecht, for his part, said nothing to correct his frightened subjects and nervous courtiers. “Let them gossip and tell tales,” he said over cards with a handful of his closest and most trusted friends. “They’re all full of shit, anyway.” And everyone burst into drunken laughter.

  Ulrike sank into gloomy madness, her punishment for her infidelity being that of staying married to Lambrecht, forced to watch her scarred and drunk husband claim false ownership of her son while continuing his debauches simply because he was king.