Just because Jareth would not tell Sarah the tale, dear readers, does not mean you should be deprived as well.
…
The daughter of Queen Iswyniel and Jarrek the Owl-born was named Cadelinyth, though often called Della by her father. She was fair-haired, and as she grew it became apparent that her mother's rose-tinted blonde and her father's cream-and-gold (the same shades his feathers had been) were mingled in her long pale locks. Cadelinyth's eyes were primarily the same cornflower blue of her mother's, but each iris had a splash of dark gray. The effect might have been unsettling, to humans; to the fae it was intriguing. And lovely.
Iswyniel taught her daughter everything she would need to know to rule: statecraft, stewardship, politics, etiquette, comportment, and magic. Cadelinyth was a dutiful student, and under her mother's eye she behaved like a proper well-born young lady.
She was frustrated, though, by Jarrek's teachings, which the young girl loved far more. He took his daughter out into the forest, showed her which plants would nourish her and which were poison and which would heal. He taught her to climb trees and the tower's walls, how to mark her trail through the woods and find her way home without a map or guide. Under his tutelage, she learned to tame the birds and beasts of the wild not with magic, but with compassion and patience.
Iswyniel did not gainsay her daughter. She herself had had enough of being told what to do and how to do it and whom to obey, when she was a child. So long as Cadelinyth consented to learn what her mother deemed important, she was free to study her father's knowledge as well. They had certain things in common, among them a fey sense of humor, that Iswyniel could sometimes only look on with perplexity.
And Cadelinyth grew. Like all fae children, she matured young, growing in self-sufficiency each day, or so it seemed to her mother. Still, she was inherently a sweet child, a delight to both her parents.
Her thirteenth nameday was a grand celebration, and on that day Iswyniel had her first premonition of trouble ahead. Her daughter wanted to wear a gown of her own design, and Jarrek had already agreed to it, so Iswyniel could only impose a few limitations on such things as the length of skirt and tightness of bodice. She had no wish to see her daughter grow up too fast, and neighboring nobles would attend the party as well.
Yet when Cadelinyth arrived at the party, Iswyniel's best hopes and worst fears were realized. Her daughter had worn a gown of flowing blue silk in many shades, which lightly brushed the ground when she walked and was as conservative as any nervous mother could wish. But Cadelinyth herself—she was a beauty, and in her still baby-soft face Iswyniel saw the shadow of the woman she would become.
Iswyniel had had a taste of the fates of beautiful women, and she could imagine the nobles calculating her daughter's bridal gifts even now. She kept her head throughout the party, smiled for her daughter's sake, and brushed off her husband's questions.
Another mother might have penned her daughter up in an ivory tower somewhere, safe from the desiring eyes of men. But Iswyniel did not wish to make her child a captive. Instead, she raised the walls of her kingdom, grew very strict about who was allowed to visit, and banned any discussion of courtship. Any prince or messenger who dared broach the subject was summarily ejected from the kingdom, dumped outside the gates by magic.
And yet, the stories of Cadelinyth's beauty grew in the telling, until only the truth of her loveliness surpassed them. Iswyniel herself was of very high birth, as well as queen in her own right, and it seemed to her that every unmarried man in all the kingdoms saw her child as a stepping-stone, a bride who would bring him both greater nobility and her fabled beauty.
She would not, she swore many times to many gods, see her daughter sold like chattel to some lord who valued her face and her blood more than her self.
Her attempts to caution her daughter were distressingly laughed off. "Oh, Mother," Cadelinyth finally said. "Father taught me long ago how to deal with unwanted attentions from men."
"Did he now?" Iswyniel asked, wondering what sovereign spell Jarrek had given her against such suitors.
Cadelinyth smiled, the expression that too many poets already compared to a sunrise, and said cheerfully, "Punch them in the throat, then kick them in the fork. Then call for you or him or the guards."
Such vulgar advice left Iswyniel flabbergasted—but she could not help a flicker of grudging admiration. Had she been so self-confident at Cadelinyth's age, and so accustomed to the sort of sparring that Jarrek included in his tutelage, perhaps her first husband would not have subdued her so easily. But then, she'd made certain that Cadelinyth had many advantages she had lacked.
When the girl was almost twenty, she was a legendary figure amongst poets and minstrels, much to Iswyniel's chagrin. She banned all love-songs from her kingdom, and anyone found composing verse to her daughter's beauty was summarily ejected much as the suitors were. In all of this, Jarrek had said only, "We strive most for that which is out of reach," but Iswyniel could think of no other way to protect her child, and he did not gainsay her. She knew that he, too, feared for their daughter, but his answer was to teach her to handle a sword, dirk, and bow.
Now, many leagues away there lived a king who had heard of Cadelinyth, and coveted her beauty. He also coveted her bloodline. His land was rich, but not in magic, and his family were very distantly related to the high kings. A marriage to the sorceress' daughter would bring him legitimacy … and what man didn't crave a lovely woman?
King Deruthiel of Etaron devised a plan. He had his Captain of the Guard search out a dozen young guardsmen who were loyal, honorable … and could either sing or play an instrument. He had them tutored in music, and saw to it that some of the finest bards in the land composed new ballads of battles and court-intrigue and tales of rulers who had won their kingdoms from the wilds. Romantic ballads, he was careful to leave out of their repertoire. There were at least two songs celebrating Iswyniel herself, and one, composed by someone who did not know its patron, about Deruthiel's own deeds.
When he was satisfied that his guards-turned-troubadours were talented enough to do justice to their songs, and perhaps to catch a queen's ear, he gathered the best six of them together and told them of his plan. Each man was geas-bound to remember their honor, as well. Deruthiel knew that a beautiful woman was often temptation, and he spent coin and favor he could not truly spare to have an outsider craft the geas. Should any of his minstrel-guards try to set amorous hands on the lovely Cadelinyth, his hands would fall off … along with a few other parts he might miss even more. Such a fearsome promise proved the gravity of the situation to them.
They traveled great distances to Iswyniel's kingdom, which was called Astolwyr, and played their songs in taverns along the way. As Deruthiel had hoped, the group of players was invited to the castle, and sang for the great sorceress herself.
And also for her lovely daughter, who took a lively enjoyment in the performance, or so he was told later. The six men were guests of the castle, and soon found an opportunity to fulfill their mission. Iswyniel scheduled a hunt, to which her daughter insisted on riding, and it was an easy matter for his troubadours to waylay Cadelinyth on her way home.
Deruthiel had crafted one more spell, at even greater cost, and it allowed the six to return immediately to his kingdom with the captive princess. He met her not in the throne room, but in the grand foyer of his castle, and barely noticed that his men seemed rather the worse for wear. They all had their hands, and the princess was indignant but unafraid. That was all that mattered to him. "You are being a very great fool," she told him, without bothering to curtsy.
He bowed, instead, to her. "All men are fools for love, my lady."
She laughed at him. "Love? Sir, you have never met me ere this moment. You could not possibly love me. Although by playing such a game, you show that you love yourself perhaps too dearly."
He had not expected such candor or such fearlessness from her, and was taken aback by it. She saw the startled look in his eyes, and smiled—not the sweet, shy smile of a fair maiden, but the triumphant look of a queen. In that moment, Deruthiel knew he simply had to have her. He also knew that winning her would not be easy.
Cadelinyth looked around her, pointedly paying no attention to his guards. "A lovely prison, at least."
"You are no prisoner, Princess Cadelinyth, but an honored guest," Deruthiel protested. "My castle and my kingdom are at your disposal."
A fine gold-blonde brow arched at his statement. "Is that so? And if I ask for a carriage and swift horses, to return to my home?"
Deruthiel managed not to look too chagrined in front of his men. "That, I cannot allow."
"So I am a prisoner, then," she replied, still fearless.
"Captive, perhaps, in the sense of a captive audience," Deruthiel told her. "Your mother, as any good mother, seeks to protect you from all harm, and permits no one to court your favor. She has left me no way to press my suit other than this desperate measure of bringing you here, and showing you the kingdom that I mean to offer you."
"How very romantic," Cadelinyth said, a touch of acid in her tone. "Very well, Thief-King, make your offer."
The cruel jest struck him, but he kept his temper reined in. She had a right to scold him for kidnapping her, and no reason at all to trust him. Deruthiel intended to prove his trustworthiness in the coming days and weeks. It would take a month or two, at least, for the sorceress-queen to marshal her army and reach his lands.
In the time that allowed him, he paid court to Cadelinyth. Her chambers in his castle were beautifully appointed, and attended by the most capable and intelligent maids he could find. His tailors and dressmakers were at her disposal, seeking to charm her with glorious gowns. His cooks served up fare worthy of feast-days for every meal. She sat at his right hand during meals, and he engaged her in conversation, trying to find out what her interests were so that he could meet them.
He had some luck, at least. They discovered a shared passion for a certain style of poetry, rather out of fashion at court presently but still pleasing to the ear and heart. Deruthiel showed her his library, and with some pain at the parting presented her with several volumes in that style, ones she had not yet read. That was the first time he saw open delight in her eyes, untainted by wariness.
That wariness—never fear, just caution—disturbed him. Perhaps she thought he meant to seduce her. Deruthiel was not so much a fool as that. It would advance his claim not at all, and might cost him dearly. A mother like hers would burn his kingdom down if she suspected her daughter had in any way been coerced. No, if he were to bed Cadelinyth, it would be by her own choice—and by her initiation.
That was not so unheard of as it would be in a tale of human kings and princesses. Virginity was not a prized trait in fae brides; though it was a very great honor to introduce anyone, man or woman, to pleasure for the first time, it was not expected that anyone would keep chaste until marriage. Deruthiel did not know, or particularly care, if some other man had taken Cadelinyth's maidenhead. His goal was her hand in marriage.
He did desire her, though. She was so lovely, no one could have resisted that. When they danced together, his heart thundered, and when she chanced to smile at him, his head felt lighter than a dandelion puff. With about as much wit in it, he feared, but Cadelinyth only mocked him gently when he found himself tongue-tied. He thought she was coming to appreciate him.
Their days had fallen into a rhythm, and to break the pattern, Deruthiel organized a hunt. He knew that Cadelinyth could ride well, and she set the tailors to craft suitable clothing for the day. On the morning they were to set out, she met him at the stables, where his stallion was saddled beside the finest mare in his kingdom.
Cadelinyth, though, shook her head. "Do you mean to send me a-hunting on a palfrey, King 'Thiel?" she asked, using the irksome diminutive form of his name that had become her trademark.
"She is an excellent mare, sure-footed and fleet as the wind," he protested.
"And mild as milk," Cadelinyth said, patting the mare's shoulder. "A lovely creature, true, but a horse with some fire in his blood is better for hunting." So saying, she hiked her skirts to reveal that she'd worn breeches beneath, and vaulted into the saddle of his charger.
That red-roan beast, named Garafin, certainly had fire in his blood. Only by much patience and firmness had Deruthiel tamed him to ride, and he was still much too hot for any lady—or most men, who didn't fancy a ride that was half battle. Garafin reared and pawed the sky, but Cadelinyth laughed, holding tight to his mane. "Easy, my handsome one," she crooned, stroking his neck when he dropped back to earth. "Tell your master to come along, we are both impatient for the hunt."
Speechless, Deruthiel could only mount the horse his grooms quickly brought forward, a gelding with speed and courage but none of Garafin's wildness. The moment he was in the saddle, his huntsman blew the horn and loosed the hounds.
The hunt was exhilarating. Cadelinyth kept her seat, and Garafin answered to her light touch on the reins. Watching the two of them gallop flat-out and then jump a stone wall in a bold, soaring leap, Deruthiel knew he was in love. And knew that he loved not the long, lustrous hair or the deep, knowing eyes or the perfect rosebud mouth that had first drawn him to Cadelinyth. He loved the sly humor in her smile, the challenge in her gaze, and the playful joy in her laughter. I am doomed, he thought, but could not despair when she called over her shoulder, "Do try to keep up, 'Thiel!"
It was a good hunt, in that it left his larders well-provisioned with venison, and also in that every kill was made cleanly and quickly, and no one was hurt. The only casualty was one of his minor nobles, who in trying to keep pace with Cadelinyth had been unhorsed and sent flying into a bog. That young man was still picking waterweed out of his teeth, and his splendid riding coat was surely ruined, but so infectious was Cadelinyth's happiness that even he was chuckling at the spectacle he'd made.
Cadelinyth dismounted, and stood for a moment at Garafin's head, scratching under his jaw. The hot-blooded, fierce stallion stretched out his neck and whinnied contentment, his eyes half-closed. Deruthiel approached them both, and rested his hand on his mount's shoulder. For all Garafin's faults, the red roan was his favorite.
"I'd meant to make a present of the mare," he said to Cadelinyth. "But I see now that Garafin suits you more. He is yours, my lady."
The joy in her expression did not dim, but she grew serious. "He is your personal mount, sire. I meant only to tweak your nose and show you I am no delicate flower to be coddled. Never to take him from you."
"Yet I would give him to you," Deruthiel insisted, with a little roughness of loss in his voice. "Yes, he has been my pride since the day I finally convinced him to accept a saddle, but I have rarely seen a horse and rider so well-suited to one another. He was … he was everything a horse should be, under your hands, and happier than he ever was in mine. If you take nothing else from my kingdom, Princess Cadelinyth, take Garafin, I beg of you."
She reached out to him, her hand light on his forearm. "You speak with the song of the huntsman's horn in your ears, and I would not give you cause to regret it. I cannot accept so princely a gift made on even so noble an impulse, though I do honor the heart that makes the offer. You have my thanks, Your Majesty."
"I preferred 'Thiel," he said, unexpected even to himself, and then continued, "Or even Thief-King. I would not have you speak to me as a courtier."
"Very well, 'Thiel," she said, and smiled again. "You still have my thanks, under any name. And my friends call me Della."
That day marked a change in their relationship. Her wariness evaporated, and she sought him out. They talked for long hours in his study, discussing poetry and hunting and court life. Cadelinyth—Della, as he now called her—had no taste for gossip, but she did have a keen eye and a deeper understanding of fae foibles than he would've expected from a sheltered young woman. Sometimes their discussions were more than half argument; she had a mind and opinions of her own, and no fear of disagreeing with Deruthiel. To her he was not the king and master of the realm and castle, he was simply Thiel, her friend and suitor. After the eager and eternal approval of his courtiers, Della was a welcome difference, as a splash of strong wine after too many cloying sweet cordials, and he loved her even more for it.
Deruthiel did not, yet, openly ask her hand in marriage. It was too soon, he felt, and he enjoyed their courtship. He knew her mother must be planning a rescue … but to his shock, it came without the slightest warning. One day he was planning an excursion to the lake, where Della boasted she could captain a team of rowers and outrace him across its length.
The next, there was an army at his borders, and an armor-clad envoy outside his castle gate. "We demand that you release the princess!" the man boomed, and five others at his back stood silent on their horses, but their hands were close to their swords.
His guards notified him, and he was so shocked he did not upbraid them for laxity. Perhaps he had no reason; the queen of Astolwyr was a mighty sorceress, after all. Deruthiel rushed to Cadelinyth's side, took her hands, and fell to his knees. She cocked her head and stared at him, waiting.
"Della, my love, please forgive me," he began, and urgency granted him eloquence where his tongue had often stumbled in her presence. "I meant to offer you a proposal worthy of your brilliance, your courage, your kindness, and your beauty. I had such plans, an arbor being built with your favorite flowers trained to climb its walls, and minstrels to sing your favorite poems, and my best wines to celebrate what I hoped would be your acceptance.
"All of that is for naught. Your royal mother's army stands ready to invade and take you back by force, and armed envoys stand at the gate awaiting my answer. I had hoped that in time you would come to see me as a man with whom you might spend your life, and accept my troth for that. Instead, I find myself hoping that you might have come to love me. You mocked me once, when we first met, for thinking I loved you then, before I knew you. I should have seen that as a warning, for I have fallen more in love with you than I ever dreamed possible. I have no wish to harm a single hair on the head of the least soldiers in Astolwyr's army."
She squeezed his hands gently. "Then release me, Thiel. It is as simple as that."
He bowed his head, pressing her knuckles against his forehead. "If only it were! Della, I believe you would return to me if I did so—pray do not disillusion me if I am wrong—and all would be resolved. For now. My noble neighbors would hear that I surrendered meekly, and in a month, or a year, they would come for my kingdom. I am no sorcerer like your mother to wall them out with spells. I have only bronze swords and men to bear them, and those men will desert me if they think me craven."
"Is it craven, to return what you have stolen once you know its true worth?" she asked.
"No, milady, but I fear they would not see it so." Deruthiel looked up, and saw only calm poise in her gaze. "I have reached too far above my station, I understand that now. But if I turn back, I will lose all, and who will protect my people against my neighbors, or whichever of my men leads the mutiny? I cannot surrender you to your parents. If you do not accept my pledge, it will be a battle."
He swallowed, and his pride broke. "Please, Della, I beg of you. Come to the balcony with me, say yes before your mother's envoys, and let us end this without bloodshed. Please."
"I will go with you," she said, and relief lightened him. He held her hand all the way to the balcony.
Looking down at her mother's envoys, and seeing the army beyond his gates, Deruthiel spoke with confidence. "Honored lords, there is no cause for battle," he called out. "Instead, carry word to your queen that we should prepare a feast! Behold your princess, safe in my care and glad of my company. Let her royal parents come, too, and hear what their beloved daughter has to say."
It took only moments for the dread sorceress and her husband to ride forth, with more guards. When they stood beneath his castle, he turned to Cadelinyth. Softly, he murmured, "I apologize for all that has gone before, for making you a captive, for this moment being less than I wished it would. But it cannot be helped. I was a fool, though I am wiser now, and I say this with my heart's truth, not as courting words: Della, I love you." And then, raising his voice, he called out for those below to hear, "Now, my lady. In sight of your parents and the gods, give me your answer. Will you be my bride?"
Della put her hand on his arm, and looked somberly up at him. Raising her voice, she called out, "You have been a most gracious host, and I treasure the love you bear me. The only answer I can give to your question is…"
All the courtyard went silent, and Deruthiel was keenly aware of the sorceress' eyes upon him. Then joy broke in Della's smile, and her sweet voice sang out, "I will consider it."
He blinked. She was supposed to say yes, smiling like that with such affection she should have said yes, he meant to ask her what in all the realms she was doing … and then she silenced him with a kiss. Just a brush of lips across his own, and Della murmured, "Ask me again in a year, ask me in my own kingdom, and I shall answer as you wish. But my dear Thiel, one thing you must understand: I was never your captive."
And while he stood stunned, she turned and took a light-footed leap to the railing. Deruthiel heard someone cry out "NO!" and realized it was himself, just before Della launched herself out and over the long drop. He damned near went over himself, trying to grab her.
Only to see a gold-winged owl soaring away from his tower. Down below, her mother held up one arm, and the owl landed on it, ruffling her feathers. He gaped; he could not help it. The owl hopped off the queen's arm, and landed on her feet as his Della. Laughing, but not cruelly. "Come to me in Astolwyr, my king!" she called, and one of her mother's soldiers dismounted for her to take his horse.
The sorceress looked at her smiling daughter, then looked up at him with eyes that were flat with hatred. Deruthiel realized that all his soldiers and gates meant nothing, if this woman was his enemy, but the queen did not strike. "It appears my daughter has issued an invitation," the sorceress said. "Very well. Come to us, King Deruthiel, and plead your case to me, in my stronghold. We shall treat you as well as you've treated my precious daughter." She said no more, but rode away in silence.
Her husband nodded to him once, as he followed, and Cadelinyth waved.
And not for the first time, nor the last, King Deruthiel of Etaron thought, I am doomed.
…
To be continued…
