Hart's Hope

In that moment Orem muttered the final words of the rite, completing it. "Come water, come water. Come mother, come daughter. Come father, come son. Come blood and be done. The Hart makes us one, the Hind for the slaughter." In that moment all the power Beauty had bound in him left him, went into his son. In that moment all Queen Beauty's magicking was swallowed by the unbound Sink who lay on the silver altar under the knife. In that moment the knife came down, cut through the child's throat. Blood spurted, ending the child's terrible shouts in a gurgle of foam. Did Beauty know the power was gone from the blood before she drank? Who can know. She lifted Youth and held him over the basin that a servant held. In seconds it filled enough to satisfy her. She laid down the still-living child, whose hands still struggled, whose eyes still started out of his small head in agony; she picked up the bowl and drank.

The Last Undoing

Her death undid it all. The loyalty of the guards was gone; they made no effort to stop Orem as he ran forward and kissed the warm corpse of his child, weeping. They watched the Little King, some of them. Others looked at Urubugala, who had become pink of eye, stark white of skin, and tall, as all the stories said of Sleeve. Or at Craven, who suddenly filled his armor, a strong man with the fire of war in his eyes. But soon all eyes had turned to Weasel. For there before them all was Beauty again.

Beauty's face, Beauty's body. She had tricked them after all; she had survived; she was alive and would avenge herself.

They fell back from her, all but Zymas and Sleeve.

"Fools," Zymas said. "Queen Beauty is dead. This is the true and rightful wife of King Palicrovol, Enziquelvinisensee Evelvenin. You have nothing at all to fear from her."

It was then that Orem lifted his bloody, weeping face from the altar and realized that the Queen's Companions had not died. We saw the knowledge come upon him; saw him remember that Sleeve had told him all of them would pay the price. A lie. To trick him to do his part.

"No, it wasn't a lie," Sleeve said gently. "It all depended on whether I could work a spell with the blood of your hand. I was able to replace her spells enough to keep us to the age we were when she first bound us—I wasn't sure that I could do it."

But Orem said nothing, only looked back and forth from Zymas to Sleeve, Sleeve to Zymas.

Enziquelvinisensee Evelvenin, pitying him, ran forward to ask for his forgiveness for the lie that she had unwittingly conspired in. But he saw her face and screamed at her, flew at her to attack that face that had no right to be alive. Possibly he thought that it was Beauty—he was that distraught. They pulled him away from her, drew him back; immediately the struggle ceased, and he only hung his head and wept.

It was then that the Hart came from Palace Park and walked easily to the altar. He put his horns under the bodies and lifted. It was a curious thing: the bodies rose and yet remained, as if the Hart had found the truth of the mother and her son and raised them up, while leaving the empty bags of flesh behind. Raised them up and carried them away exultantly; they rode high among the hundred bright points of the Hart's horns. Orem watched them out of sight into the woods. Then he shook himself like a wet dog, and made as if to walk away. The guards restrained him until Zymas called out, "Let him go. We have to hurry and give the city back to the King, before another life is lost!" It was enough for the guards. They followed Zymas at a run, armor and all, to the Palace gate, rushing to get to Corner Castle and raise the flags of peace; to take down and defile Queen Beauty's ermine ba

26

The Rage of the King

How the King treats his enemies.

Rejoicing

You commanded the soldiers to lay down their arms when you saw the change of the flags. Beauty would either have the strength to destroy you, or she would die. You knew she would resort to no trickery. Your men laid down their arms and the city was yours. The people poured into the streets to cheer for you, though in fact they had not longed for you when you delayed your return. You wore your Antler Crown through the streets.

Zymas you embraced; Sleeve you greeted with a bow; Enziquelvinisensee Evelvenin you only gazed upon, and said, "Yes. I know you."

Forgiveness

All of Beauty's soldiers, all the courtiers who had flattered her, all the merchants who had profited from her rule, all the servants who had cared for her, all the magistrates who had administered her laws—you forgave all these.

Honor You found her body upon the altar, and the baby under her. You had them carried to the riverbank. You had the bodies burned, and their ashes cast upon the river. It was this water where you had a million flowers strewn to greet the Rower Princess. It was this water that you swam, though it was swift and cold, to get a son upon a farmer's wife.

Now with your troops you wait at the base of a mountain redoubt, not even properly a castle. Within the place you know that Orem Scanthips waits, and with him, you imagine, there waits an army, or a wizard of some terrible power. I will tell you who waits inside:

A boy with no ears, who can pick a pocket or handle a keener and live; he may bruise a soldier or two before you slay him.

A man of breeding, a courtier, the best of those who waited on Queen Beauty. He will wound five, and deeply, before he dies.

A woman of high station who serves the Little King, because Orem Scanthips taught her to value mercy above justice, virtue above rank.

A young, young man of eighteen years, dark of hair and pale of skin, with the blood of a King in his veins and the weight of the world in his heart. He flees from you only because his friends command it. He cares nothing for you. He grieves only for the ashes that you cast upon the stream.

God is not with him. The Sweet Sisters are not with him. The Hart is not with him. He finished the task they raised him up to do; they have no further need of him.

Blessing

I write this with my own hand. I write this in your own tent. I will give it to you in the evening; when you return to the tent it will be waiting for you. If you have read it you know it is the truth.

Did you think that only wizards and witches had powers? I have pricked my finger and blotted the living blood upon this page. I have written two blessings here, which no eyes but yours are fit to read. If you are the sort of man who will abide strictly by your oath and slay the usurper called Orem Scanthips, called the Little King, then you will see only the blessing that will give you the strength to finish your work quickly, and slay him on the morrow. But if you are the man who is merciful, even at cost to himself, then you will see only the blessing that will heal your heart and reconcile you to your son. I will love you whichever man you are, and in truth I do not know which end Orem himself would wish for, if the choice were his.

Now you know what man you are, Palicrovol. Now you know your name. That is the ending of this story. Did you think this was the tale of Orem Scanthips? His tale was finished when Youth died. In Orem's short life he has already earned his name: Hart's Hope. But you: come to me now, my husband, and tell me which blessing of those I gave you, you were able to receive.

In Orem's short life he has already earned his name: Hart's Hope. But you: come to me now, my husband, and tell me which blessing of those I gave you, you were able to receive.