Chapter Three:
Sixteen Years Later
Within two years of their marriage, the good king had died in a war in a faraway land. Ravenne, of course, did not shed a single tear—now she didn't have to worry about keeping her activities a secret. The day she received news of his death, she got rid of the modest twin thrones in the main throne room and commissioned a new one of spectacular ostentation and even more spectacular cost. She spent most of her time in the throne room, which she had lined with mirrors, and the Mirror itself moved to the far end of the room, that she might assure herself of her continued beauty without the inconvenience of all those stairs. She increased the taxes of the kingdom tenfold, using the money on clothes and on potions to supplement her beauty. She also hired maids at an alarming rate, killing the pretty ones the day after their arrival and draining their blood into large glass jars. The homelier ones were valuable as well, to keep the palace fit for a Queen of such magnificence and beauty.
She had quickly discarded the method of killing her victims; it was wasteful, she had discovered, and it was getting more difficult to find maidens of sufficient beauty. She had used several children, hoping that their cherubic appearances would suffice; but she did not wish to look childish, so she only used them when hard-pressed.
Her current method was much better, and she prided herself on having been the one to think of it. The girl's veins would be cut, and the blood drained out, leaving just enough for her to survive. Then she would be given a space in the dungeons and plenty of food and care, that she might survive to be "milked" again. This method worked well, for the most part, though the subjects died eventually. Sometimes their appearances grew so haggard that Ravenne ordered them to be done away with—she had no desire to look like a walking corpse.
She had convicts do the bloody work—ones that she had saved from beheading and paid well to ensure their loyalty. She was far too busy to attend to such matters herself, and these men were for the most part sadists and seemed to enjoy themselves. She didn't care what they did to the girls, as long as they were still alive and reasonably good-looking. Once every month she bathed in a basin of blood, and her great beauty grew and grew. She was no longer just the most beautiful woman in the kingdom—she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She knew this for a fact, because the mirror had told her so, albeit reluctantly.
This coveted title was also due to the constant attention of her closest henchmen, who kept tabs on growing beauties and put an end to the ones that could possibly threaten her own status as the most beautiful. She made sure to cover every inch of herself in their blood.
The king's child, Snow White, was now sixteen years old. She was a very innocent, good-natured girl, and spent her days doing innocent things and staying out of the Queen's way. Incredibly, it seemed that she had no notion of the maids and serving wenches who were disappearing from the kingdom, nor by what method her step-mother was preserving her ravishing beauty. She was very pretty little girl, and Ravenne anxiously awaited the princess's seventeenth birthday, when she had decided to bathe herself in the girl's blood. But it had to be done delicately—the kingdom loved their princess very much, and might rebel if they suspected anything unnatural about her death.
But something happened two weeks before Snow White's birthday that would change everything.
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Eranthis stared through the prison of the Mirror, out at the throne room, in a jaded state of semi-consciousness. He had been trapped there for two and a half thousand years, and had seen everything life could possibly offer—and he was abominably sick of it all. Before he had made a pact with the Devil, he had feared death; but now, it was the one thing he longed for. Even the fires of Hell would be a relief from this torment.
Everything he said he was forced to say in rhyme—it was part of the curse. Those faeries had thought they were so clever—he had been a minstrel originally, and had prided himself in his great ability to rhyme. Now it was just a misery. It limited his choice of sentences dramatically, and it sounded ridiculous to speak in couplets all of the time.
He had once been the most revered balladeer in all of Etheria, the kingdom of the faeries. Not even their great magicks could come up with the same glorious style, the same silvery metres and rhymes that he could invent without so much as a thought. That had annoyed some of the more snobbish faeries very much, because he was merely a naiad—a water sprite. Which was the reason why, when he had fallen in love with one of the faerie princesses, he had seen fit to make a pact with Satan. No faerie—especially a royal one—would lower themselves to the level of a naiad.
His curse had never been used for the purposes of good; it was always the corrupted, ambitious people that got hold of the fabled "Mirror of Truth". And it was a loathsome thing to answer the questions of a tyrant who would use the answers to further his evil designs.
At least Ravenne lacked that sort of ambition. All she cared about was being beautiful and living like a Queen. If she had wanted it, she could have conquered the world with the Mirror and the magical powers—limited as they were—she had been able to gain from the local warlocks. Satan refused to help her in that respect; he had said flatly that if she wanted magic, someone would have to offer him their soul in return. Her argument that magic would help maintain her beauty had no effect.
On the other hand, it was absolutely abhorrent to have to tell her twenty times a day that yes, she was still the most beautiful woman in the realm. By human standards, that is. He was gifted with enough power to see through the glamour the Prince of Darkness had placed on her, and could clearly see her ugliness. It had grown worse over the last sixteen years—as her heart shriveled and twisted and her soul filled with conceit and jealousy, her true appearance became more and more hideous.
The only tolerable thing about Ravenne was her step-daughter, Snow White. The girl was kindhearted and gentle, and her soul was so bright and perfect that even Eranthis had to shield his eyes when she entered the throne room. It wasn't right, he knew, to enjoy the brightness and glory of her good soul after intentionally damning his own, but it was the only tolerable thing in his miserable existence.
It was during one such moment of observation of the princess that he realized something wonderful.
Snow White was more beautiful than Ravenne.
Finally, it has come! he thought to himself gleefully (In his own mind, thankfully, he was not forced to rhyme). Someone lovelier than Ravenne—and that evil pretender will finally get what she's deserved these sixteen years! For the first time in the history of his curse, he was actually looking forward to answering a question.
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"Magic Mirror, tell me do; tell your mistress, tell her true—answer me, obey my call: who's the loveliest of all?"
Eranthis grinned and leaned against the glass, observing Ravenne awaiting the usual reply. He had spent the last hour thinking up a suitable reply. Normally he wouldn't have cared if his metre was off or if the rhyme was imperfect—but this was different. He took a breath and began,
"Her skin's as pure as a brand-new snow;
Her eyes set people's hearts aglow.
Lips red as blood, hair black as night:
The loveliest is… fair Snow White."
Ravenne gasped and stumbled back, dark olive eyes wide and aghast. "What?" she cried, her calm demeanor shattered. Her voice, normally so musical and light, was harsh and cold. "How can this be?! I am the most beautiful woman in the land! I always have been, and I always shall be!" Her eyes were now narrowed, and there were uncharacteristic lines of hatred marring the perfection of her face. "Treacherous Mirror, how dare you say Snow White is lovelier than I?!"
Eranthis actually laughed aloud, something he hadn't done since he had been banished to the Mirror. He conceded wryly,
"Your loveliness is great, tis true,
But there is one more fair than you.
For Snow White's beauty does begin
Where yours does stop—tis from within."
Ravenne gaped at him for a moment, too horror-struck to speak. She forced her face to return to its usual blank state, fearing wrinkles even in her anger. When she finally did speak, it was directed at a cringing servant in the doorway. "Send me my royal huntsman, immediately!"
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"So you understand what it is that I want you to do, my loyal huntsman?" Ravenne asked calmly, examining her reflection in a handmirror. She was still as beautiful as ever. More so, even, since she had absorbed the beauty of that miller's daughter from Ghent. How could a pathetic little girl like Snow White ever have bested her?
But why waste time thinking about it? She needed to fix the problem before Satan discovered it and took away her beauty. By this time she was much more composed than she had been earlier, and had decided that it was not as big a problem as she had originally thought. So she killed the girl two weeks early—that was no inconvenience. And then she would bathe in the girl's blood, and her place as the loveliest woman in the realm would be even more assured.
"But your Highness—" the huntsman started, from his place kneeling at the foot of her throne.
"I asked you a simple question," she said sharply. "Do you understand?" Normally she wouldn't send a huntsman to do anything this vital, but she needed to keep the people of her kingdom from growing suspicious about Snow White's unfortunate demise. If she sent Snow White into the forest with one of her convicts, someone might start to wonder. Better to use someone that everyone respected. There were threats of rebellion as it was, and everyone loved the girl—it might just send them over the edge. Only if it occurred as an accident could this be achieved without reprisal.
"Yes, your Highness," the man replied. "I understand."
"Good. Because if for some reason you should fail, then tonight I shall be dining upon head of huntsman. Do I make myself clear?" That wouldn't very conducive to my health, she thought dispassionately. It made a very good threat, however.
The huntsman bowed, fighting to remain calm. "Yes, your Highness."
"Then we understand one another. Now go!" She threw the handmirror with an imperious flick of her wrist. The huntsman barely stumbled back in time, and fled the room. Ravenne admired her beautiful reflection in the shards of glass, and a wicked laugh escaped her lips.
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The huntsman watched Snow White happily frolicking among the trees and flowers, and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. The Queen had bid him slay her and make it seem like an accident, then bring her body back to be drained of blood. The whole idea was so revolting that it was all he could do to keep from retching. But if he didn't obey, then he would undoubtedly be tortured unto death—and the Queen would just find someone else who wouldn't have a problem with disposing of the girl.
Snow White giggled happily and twirled around, causing her white dress to twist and flare in the afternoon sun. She held a haphazard bouquet of wildflowers, which bounced and leapt with her movements. "What a beautiful, glorious day! Have you ever seen such a lovely, sun-shiny day, huntsman?"
"Even the sunniest of days can have its dark clouds, princess," he said sadly, thinking of the task he must go through with.
"Oh, huntsman, don't be so glum!" she reprimanded playfully. "You are beginning to sound just like my step-mother." She sighed, her inherent happiness momentarily subdued as she contemplated the Queen. "I wish there were a way to make her happy."
"You would not be so anxious to make the Queen happy if you knew why she sent us here," he muttered.
Snow White did not hear him, having moved closer to the stream to run her fingers through the cool water. "I know, let's pick some wild berries for my step-mother! Perhaps that will please her."
The huntsman drew a dagger and advanced until he was within striking distance, steeling himself for the blow. At the last moment, Snow White turned and saw him. She gasped. "Huntsman, what are you doing?!"
And those wide eyes broke his resolve. He threw the dagger into the stream, crying, "I cannot do it!"
"Huntsman? What is it?" she asked in bewilderment.
"Run, princess," he cried, "run for your life!"
Snow White did not move. "My life? What are you talking about?"
"The Queen—she is jealous of your beauty! She has ordered me to slay you!"
The sweet princess was astonished. "Slay me?"
"Your stepmother would do anything to see you dead!" How could she not know this?
"She wishes me dead…? I cannot believe this—surely you are mistaken!"
"There is no mistake!" he snarled, gripping her shoulder. "You must flee! Run—far as you can, go!"
"But what about you? If you disobey the Queen—"
"Run, I say!"
Still she did not move. Every moment that she delayed was a moment closer to death! "I shall never forget you, huntsman."
"Nor I you, princess," he said sorrowfully. "Now quickly, you must go! And never return!"
The princess finally obeyed, turning and running deep into the forest.
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The bright, sun-shiny part of the forest that Snow White had enjoyed picking flowers in soon gave way to darkness. The trees were rotten and evil-looking, with twisted branches that grabbed at her dress and tore at her hair. Mist veiled everything from her waist down, and she stumbled over many unseen rocks and crags in the earth. Unbeknownst to Snow White, this was Satan's part of the forest.
She was a simple creature, and there was only room for one thought in her mind: "Run, princess, run for your life!" So she tugged her dress free of the ensnaring branches and concentrated on making her legs go faster. But her dress-shoes were not made for running, just as her willowy limbs and were not suited for anything more strenuous than climbing the palace stairs. Though her heart was pounding and her ephemeral stamina had long since run out, she dared not stop.
It grew darker still. Evil eyes peered at her from the shadows, and the trees grabbed for her with increasing ferocity. Though her original fear—fear of the Queen—was still there, it was quickly losing ground to fear of the forest. She had heard terrible stories about this part of the wood, and the creatures that lurked there. Her imagination conjured up terrifying images of ghouls and trolls, terrorizing her until she screamed aloud.
Then she heard it—coarse, savage laughter, booming through the trees. It was the most horrible sound she'd ever heard. But there was something alluring about it; something that made her feel warm and fearless, and for a frightening moment her mind filled with absolute disdain for humanity and for the good Lord, and delight in the thought of all that was sadistic and terrible.
But in her delirium, Snow White collided with a tree. Stumbling back, she saw with horror that it seemed to have eyes and a cruel, open mouth that revealed monstrous, jagged teeth. The fear returned and cleared the strange clouds in her mind. She ran on, crying and praying that she would reach the end of the forest in one piece.
She dared not stop, though she felt as if her heart was about to implode from the terrible strain. There was light ahead, and she raced for it, running, running—
The poor girl ran straight into something; at first she thought it was another tree, but with a shock she felt it move against her. With a cry she jerked away from it, but it grabbed hold of her shoulders. "Whoa, whoa there!" it exclaimed.
They were in a lighter part of the forest now, but Snow White was frightened and did not care. She did not notice the man's appearance, so busy was she trying to escape from him. He was a handsome man, with dark, shoulder-length hair, twinkling eyes, and a mischievous smile. His clothes were simple enough, but if she had looked more closely she would have seen that they were the best money could buy. He had dropped his bow when she collided with him.
"Wait a minute, miss," he said with a charming smile. "You are the most lovely creature this forest has ever seen."
It must be the Devil, she thought feverishly. Who else would be in this forest? "Let me go!" she screamed, trying to wrench her shoulders free.
He held on easily. "Who are you?" he asked kindly. "What are you afraid of? Let me help you, please!"
But she continued to fight, and he released her. She immediately ran off, in a different direction from the way she had come.
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Prince Gwydion stared after her for a moment, dumbstruck, before calling to his men, "After her! I must know who she is!" His servants, Hans and Stephen, obediently set off after the girl. He knelt to retrieve his bow, shaking his head to clear it. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen; with her innocent, hazel eyes and lustrous raven hair…. He had been warned that, this close to Satan's forest, he might run into some malicious creature masquerading as something beautiful and alluring. But she had been much too frightened to be truly evil.
After a few minutes, the two men returned. "Sire, she has disappeared from sight," Hans reported, straightening his askew tunic.
"Tis true, sire," Stephen agreed wearily. "Perhaps she was a witch, or a gnome."
Gwydion shook his head vehemently. "No—no one with a face like hers could be a witch or a gnome." Decisively he mounted his horse. "I swear by all that I hold sacred I shall find that girl, no matter how long it takes—and if I am lucky enough, she will become my princess."