By Kelfin
This is fan fiction. Neither Scrapped Princess nor any of its characters belongs to me.
The translations of Giraud’s poem “Papillons noirs” and Busenello’s libretto for Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea are by me.
I apologize for their potential inaccuracy.
The light of the setting sun shone through a thousand panes of glass and reflected off the yellow flowers that grew in wild, disorganized clusters on the windowsill. The suite was lit with an almost otherworldly glow.
Forsyth stood with his back to the window, unable to look outside for fear of hurting his eyes. He often spent hours here, staring out at the city of Sauer and at the forests and the mountains beyond. The palace was confining. Other than gazing outside, there wasn't much to do.
Later, he would have the candles in the chandelier lit so he could sit at the table and eat with one of his books for company. Although he’d been home from school for months, the steward had yet to assign him a valet, but he hesitated to ask. For all but the most difficult tasks—like lighting the chandelier—he could fend for himself, and for the rest, he could ask other servants when they weren’t busy.
This day would be the same as every day. He would do nothing. No action would be taken. His life disgusted him; he disgusted himself.
A messenger stood at the open door, bowing. Forsyth waved him in.
The news he brought was unsettling. “An intelligence report from the King's Special Forces states that the Scrapped Princess has been confirmed alive. The King requested that Your Highness be made aware for security reasons.”
“The Scrapped Princess is alive?” The prince was stunned. “My little sister?” he asked, to clarify.
“Yes, sir,” confirmed the man. He set a stack of papers on the table. “The details are in the report.”
She was supposed to be dead.
But it was good that she wasn’t dead, right? He’d hoped… Well, he’d always questioned his parents’ moral decisions in the case.
He might get to meet her.
He thought of her all the time. He wondered about her very time he had a birthday or some other significant milestone of growing up: his installment as crown prince, his first day at the university, the day he glanced in the mirror and realized he looked more like an adult than a child. She had been his imaginary friend when he was little, until his father found out and flatly forbade him to talk about her.
And now, as his sixteenth birthday drew closer, he thought about her, and how she was supposed to destroy the world, and he thought about himself, and how he was oddly sort of a grown-up and sort of not a grown-up, and it was a little overwhelming.
The messenger was looking a little impatient. His expression wasn’t very respectful, in fact, but then people never were overly respectful with Forsyth. There was no sense complaining about it, though; it was impossible to gain respect by force. Besides, it really was rude of the prince to make him wait.
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” said Forsyth. “That was thoughtless of me. You may go.”
The man left, bowing politely, and he was alone again. He turned back to the window and mused, his hands clasped behind his back.
Who was she? What was she like?
Probably, Forsyth supposed, she was very much like him. But then again, maybe she was nothing like him whatsoever. They had resembled each other when they were babies, his mother had said, but obviously, he didn’t personally remember. Also, she was supposed to be evil, and he wasn’t evil—at least, he didn’t think so.
Confirmed alive, the messenger had said. That meant that it was certain. He was glad—there had been fifteen years of disquieting rumors, and it was better to know. He unfolded the paper and skimmed the report. She’d been sighted in the provinces.
They would capture her, undoubtedly, and then he would be allowed to meet her. Surely, she wouldn’t be killed before he could at least speak with her. He’d always wondered what it was about her that made her bad. Would she be very strong? Or maybe incredibly smart or persuasive? He wasn’t sure what exactly made a girl “the poison that will destroy the world”. But the revelation of Grendel had said that she was a curse…
He wondered if she would hate him. He’d hate him, if he were she. Fifteen years of persecution, while a brother sits comfortably in a palace, ignoring her existence… It wasn’t true that he ignored her—he thought of her so often—he’d have done anything he could to help her—but there wasn’t anything he could do. The army worked for his father, not for him, and the Church of Mauser was its own authority. He was so entirely powerless… He was useless, really, just a pawn.
Sometimes he thought about his own worthlessness and wondered if there had been some sort of blunder. Prophecies were vague, after all, and there had been mistakes before. His mother had said as much to him once. “Forsyth, do you wonder sometimes if you’re actually the one who is cursed? It’s an interesting thing to think about, isn’t it?”
Every now and then she said things that bothered him. “You’re so beautiful, you’re like a princess” (when he’d let his hair grow too long)… “Don’t listen to your Father, or you’ll grow up all mean and stop being my sweet, mild, little boy” (when he’d told her about a series of lectures on theoretical diplomacy)… “I’m so proud of you! You’re such a talented artist!” (when he’d excelled at painting and at strategic problem-solving for simulated disasters).
She seemed to have an idea of him in her head that didn’t exactly match his real feelings.
Once he’d run to her, very excited about finally being allowed to study methods of mêlée brawling. She gathered him into her arms and said, “No, you don’t like fighting. You’re much too gentle for things like that.” He wanted to protest that he did like it, very much, but he didn’t dare contradict her.
In this way, he learned that it was best not to reveal his true feelings of enthusiasm or interest. When he was excited about something, he always played it off as a joke, or acted dreamy, absent-minded, and childish. Then, if his audience laughed at him, he could always pretend that he didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to be insulted. And if his audience took him seriously, it was safe to reveal a tiny bit of his passion.
Queen Elmyr desperately wanted her daughter back. She had done her best to save the baby, but she still felt guilty. So Forsyth felt sorry for her, and tried not to let it show that he was bothered by her strange behavior. It wouldn’t be right to make her feel any worse, especially because his own feelings were so wrong. He didn’t respect her the way he ought.
But he knew he was very much like her. Neither of them could say no to a request; both were constantly being trampled upon by the King, his advisors, and other courtiers. It pained Forsyth to watch his mother humbly accept the lot she was given: he wanted to rush to her defense, knocking her attackers left and right. Only… he was cowed by them, too. He always ended up giving in.
He should have been the cursed one. She’d have liked a daughter. And a girl, no doubt, would be much better at dealing with people, and therefore better at being the heir to the kingdom.
His sister must be a strong person, to have survived so long.
He didn’t know what kind of person he was. He didn’t even know how to go about figuring it out. Was his identity determined by how he acted or by what he thought? Meaning, if he smiled all the time, was he a cheerful person? If he always gave in, did that mean he was laid back? Even if he were actually upset? But… was he upset, if he acted as if he wasn’t?
He’d found that when he pretended to feel a certain way, his true emotions usually followed. So maybe he should just always behave as if he felt fine. He tried; he really did. He always smiled. Only sometimes, he thought, it didn’t reach his eyes. He hoped no one could tell. He thought maybe as he got older and had more time to practice, he’d get better at it.
He was getting stronger, too. Soon he’d be strong enough to hold himself back. He’d be able to support, with sheer force of will, a barricade of pleasantry and compliance. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t burst out with anger. People wouldn’t know if they had hurt him, because it didn’t matter, really, if they hurt him at all.
He knew how distressed he felt when he inadvertently hurt someone, and he didn’t want anyone else to have to feel like that. He was glad to suffer if it meant that other people wouldn’t have to—that’s the kind of person he wanted to be. That was the kind of person he was becoming. He was working hard to grow stronger, and someday he’d be strong enough to act completely unselfishly.
Right now, he was a very selfish person. But he didn’t want to be selfish. So, if he had selfish feelings, but he stamped them out and acted unselfishly instead, was he a selfish person or an unselfish person?
When the sun set, he decided against having the candles lit and just went to bed. There was no sense in troubling anyone.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t seen anyone all day, because there was no one he wanted to see. There was no one who wanted to see him.
He had his back to the same window. The scenery only changed in tiny ways, and he was bored, so the interruption was very welcome indeed. It was with a broad smile that he stood among the bright, waving daffodils and greeted his guests.
“Your Highness Forsyth, a fine day to you,” said Baroness Bairach.
“And to you, Baroness,” he answered happily, half-turning to face her. His voice pitched up in his enthusiasm. He liked her very much—she had always been kind to him and was an honest friend to his mother.
“This is Christopher, my foster son,” she said, gesturing to the dark-haired youth who stood straight-backed a step behind her. He was a head taller than she was, but as the Baroness was very short, it wasn't saying much. Forsyth was much taller than either of them was.
The young man bowed.
“He was raised in the provinces, but I would be delighted if you would offer him your friendship,” the Baroness added.
Forsyth quirked his head. What a strange thing to say! He thought the provinces sounded fascinating. “It would be my honor,” he said, turning to face the young man fully. “I am pleased to meet you, Christopher.”
The situation was awkward, as first meetings always were. Forsyth was grateful for etiquette; even if he felt timid, he could always fall back on the scripted formula. It wasn’t a bad thing: whenever possible, he tried to add feeling—to really mean the words when he said them.
“You honor me, Highness.” Christopher’s voice was light but low. He never raised his eyes.
That wouldn’t do at all.
“Please,” said the prince shyly, “would you call me Forsyth?”
“Yes, sir, Prince Forsyth,” the young man answered, lifting his head. He had large brown eyes and an expression that seemed innately open and yet told the observer nothing of his thoughts. It was an attractive face, in the prince’s opinion, but a blank one.
Now it was Forsyth’s turn to bring up a polite topic of conversation.
It was always good to converse on topics of general interest. Happily, the most obvious conversational subject was a matter of specific interest as well—his thoughts had been on the provinces ever since he’d heard yesterday’s news.
“Do you know much about the provinces?” ventured the prince.
“Yes, a little.” Christopher gazed at Forsyth unblinkingly.
How strange. Why did he stare like that?
The prince felt extremely self-conscious. He couldn't help but stare back. There was something suspicious here—something was off. Choosing his words carefully, he went on. “Tell me, Christopher. Have you heard this rumor? The rumor that says that the Scrapped Princess is still alive?”
The young man blinked in surprise and opened his mouth as if he were about to say something.
“Come now, does an august personage such as yourself truly believe in such nonsense, Prince Forsyth?” interrupted the Baroness.
Forsyth had almost forgotten her presence.
Her words were light, teasing—but he felt uncertain, wondering if he were being mocked. Turning his back on his companions, he walked back to the window and turned his gaze outside. If the Baroness couldn’t see his face, she wouldn’t learn of the flash of disappointment he’d experienced when she’d stopped Christopher from answering.
He took a deep breath and tried to justify his question. “When the Royal Wizard attended my aunt's funeral, he apparently spotted a blonde girl with blue eyes there. In a little town called Manurhin. My twin sister, who was scrapped right after her birth... She may be alive somewhere in this wide world.”
Strands of blond hair hung in his eyes, and he brushed them out of his way. Maybe, if he kept looking, he could see the place where she was.
Anyway, if they were to become “friends”, he and Christopher would have to spend time together. Eventually, he’d find out what it was that the Baroness didn’t want him to know.
“Tell me, Chris. If my little sister is still alive, do you suppose that she would look like me?”
Forsyth had decided that, if they were friends, they would be “Chris” and “Forsyth”. Chris wasn’t catching on very quickly, though. Forsyth smiled sweetly and corrected him every time he spoke too formally.
It was exciting to have his very own friend. It was kind of like a project.
At the question, Chris looked up from his tea in surprise. He blinked at the prince, and the bright light from the windowpanes reflected, sparkling, in his eyes. Lowering his gaze back to his cup, he said quietly, “Yes. I'm sure she would.”
Aha! They were getting somewhere.
“The poison that will destroy the world, huh?” Forsyth stared down at the cup he held in his right hand—he'd been taught to eat that way so he wouldn't bump elbows with anyone—and thought nothing of its awkward position halfway between the table and his mouth. “What do you suppose that revelation meant?”
Chris avoided his gaze. “I'm not sure.”
He was lying! He had to be.
Forsyth was dying to know what was going on. He looked at his new friend earnestly, the tea forgotten. “If it were learned that my sister were alive, I suppose she'd be targeted for death again.”
Chris was emphatically not looking at him.
“I'm sure that our mother is worried, as well,” he tried again, and it worked.
Chris looked up. “The queen?”
Forsyth lowered his eyes in a facsimile of bashfulness before glancing up at his friend. “Of course, I haven't seen my mother in quite some time.”
The sound of a door opening at the other end of the room made both of them turn in surprise. It was natural, Forsyth thought bitterly, that there’d be an interruption—and just when they were getting somewhere, too…
A gray-haired man in a gaudy robe took a few steps into the room. Behind him, a handful of advisors and bodyguards hovered. Forsyth expected that Chris would have no idea whatsoever of the man’s identity—his ashy coloring and angular features did not resemble Forsyth in the slightest.
“Father!” said Forsyth, getting to his feet. Chris immediately stood and made a low bow.
The prince put his hand over his heart and nervously clasped the jewel that hung at his throat. “I'm speaking with a friend at the moment—”
“Who is that?” demanded the king. “Lift your face.”
“Yes, sir,” Chris answered, complying. He kept a hand over his heart in a confident salute. Forsyth was impressed by his presence of mind. “My name is Christopher Bairach, your majesty.”
“Bairach's adopted son, eh?”
After a piercing look, the man turned abruptly and left. Forsyth’s cheeks burned.
The young men waited until they heard the door click shut before relaxing. The prince let his arm fall to his side. It was so embarrassing... He couldn't decide if the fact that they were royalty made his family’s sordid affairs worse, or if such affairs were already so humiliating that these particular familial circumstances could no longer make any appreciable difference.
“Surprising, isn't it?” He tried to smile. “It's always like that between my father and me.”
Chris turned swiftly to face him, his expression, as always, unfathomable.
Forsyth looked at the floor. “My father hates me,” he said with an embarrassed little laugh.
Chris turned back to stare at the door for a moment.
Christopher Bairach was, without a doubt, the most fascinating person he had ever met.
Forsyth had always wondered what it was like to have a friend, having never properly had one, and Chris seemed like a good prospect—the only prospect, actually. At least, the only one Forsyth thought worth pursuing. He had had schoolmates, of course, but they didn't count as friends, not really—they had been deferential to him, but not kind, and he was old enough now to be able to tell the difference between honest affection and flattery.
Christopher Bairach did not flatter.
Forsyth was used to being ignored. He was used to being petted and spoilt. He was used to fear and condescension and awe and disdain. But he was categorically unused to being treated like, well... a normal person. At least, he figured this was probably how normal people treated each other. Really, how would he know?
At any rate, Chris managed to balance apparently sincere politeness with an indifference that lingered just this side of icy. Forsyth was intrigued. Chris was independent and capable and mysterious and reserved and poised—and everything the prince wasn't.
Not that Forsyth wasn't working on it. That is to say, he had been trying hard to be independent and capable and mysterious and reserved and poised, but he wasn't very good at it. He was never given any work to perform or, in fact, allowed to do basic tasks for himself.
At school, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into his studies, reveling in the opportunity to excel at something through his own hard work. When he was not at school, his duties consisted of attending meetings where he never spoke, writing insipid missives to other heads of state, making appearances at public events, and generally serving as a figurehead. He had already exhausted the skills of the palace's dancing and fencing instructors, so his options for occupying his time were limited. When he was not “working”, he spent most of his time reading, taking music lessons, and, when a suitable companion (a guard, actually) could be spared, riding or hunting. He already had more education than his father thought necessary, so there were no more tutors, and he was left to his own devices.
He had been lonely.
Occasionally it occurred to Forsyth that he was getting much more out of this arranged friendship than was Chris, and when it did, he made a special effort to hold up his end of the bargain. He made introductions, wrote letters that gave Chris permission to do pretty much whatever he wanted, and found a place Chris could practice martial arts.
He gave Chris a detailed tour of the palace and the fortress beneath it, except for the dungeons, which Chris said he didn’t need to see. Forsyth wasn’t supposed to go down there, anyway. Actually, there were a lot of places Forsyth wasn’t supposed to go, but once he was able to convince General Peters-Stahl that Chris was skilled at self-defense—which was surprisingly easy once Peters-Stahl heard the name “Bairach”—they were allowed to go off by themselves. They managed to get into a lot of places that Forsyth had never been before.
Like Cardinal Hogue’s private chambers. And the records room of the intelligence department.
“Will you get in trouble if we’re caught in here?” Chris would ask calmly.
“No… Well, probably not,” Forsyth would answer. “We won’t get caught.”
When he was with Chris, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t get caught. Chris was just that awesome. One time, they’d been poking around in the armory, fiddling with the broadswords, when Chris suddenly threw himself onto Forsyth, knocking him to the floor. Forsyth pushed at his chest and tried to protest, but Chris had already covered his mouth with a forearm. He shook his head meaningfully, and Forsyth stopped struggling.
He lay on the floor, a poleyn jammed uncomfortably into the small of his back. It was an incredibly uncomfortable position, actually, being smashed between armor with pokey, pointy bits and the hard, compact body of an accomplished fighter.
It seemed like ages before he could hear them.
There were voices in the corridor. It was two of Peters-Stahl’s aides, doing a routine check of the building. They actually came into the room, and Forsyth’s eyes widened with horror, imagining the explaining he’d have to do to get out of this situation. Chris jammed an elbow into his ribs until he stopped squirming.
Of course, the men left after fetching something-or-other for which they’d been searching, and Chris hastily scrambled off him. He got to his feet and reached down to help the prince up.
Forsyth looked at him, wide-eyed with admiration. “You could hear them so far away?”
Chris shrugged. “I was paying attention.”
Some afternoons, they’d spar. Chris nearly always won, even though Forsyth was the better swordsman, because he didn’t consider himself above what Forsyth called “cheap tricks”. Forsyth always beat him at archery.
More often, though, Forsyth would sit and read and while Chris drilled with the battleaxe. It was hard to believe someone as young as Chris could be so good at anything. Forsyth thought about it for a long time, trying to decide if he were that talented at any one pursuit, but gave it up in despair after determining that he was only mostly good at many things. He kind of thought he ought to be jealous, but he wasn’t, which puzzled him until he shook it off and laughed at himself.
The most boring thing in the world, Forsyth decided, was sitting for portraits.
He had to do this every year before his birthday. When he was younger, he’d sat with his mother and sometimes his father, and they’d been painted together. By unfortunate coincidence, he’d gained the ability to sit still about the same time his parents started hating each other.
“Your Highness, please,” implored the unfortunate man the king had commissioned. “This will take less time if you hold still.”
“I’m sorry,” Forsyth said, genuinely distraught at having caused trouble. He began to go on with his apology, but the look the artist gave him made him think twice about continuing to move his mouth. He snapped it shut and tried to concentrate on not moving.
He loved art, but portraits weren’t art. Portraits were obsequious.
He was just thinking that even if he purposely disfigured himself, he would probably still have to go through this, when Chris arrived. Immensely grateful for the interruption, Forsyth dropped his pose and went over to greet his friend.
“You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” Forsyth said under his breath.
“This looks boring.” Chris kept his voice similarly low. He handed the prince a stack of books. “These were in the library at the Bairach estate. I’m not sure if you’ve read them before, but nobody at home wanted them.”
It was hard to think of somebody not wanting something as valuable as a book. Forsyth opened the volumes to look at the first few pages. They were all in perfectly good shape; the illumination was beautiful, and the handwriting was extremely neat. They appeared to be painstaking translations of very ancient books of assorted types: Piers Plowman, Mabinogion, Distichs of Cato, Book of the Civilized Man, Consolation of Philosophy, Diseases of Women, and The Knight in the Panther’s Skin. This was a much more expensive gift than he deserved.
“Nope, I haven’t read any of them. Thank you—”
“Don’t mention it.”
It suddenly occurred to Forsyth that he could maybe get Chris to stay and make the session less tedious. He manufactured an overenthusiastic expression. “Do you want to sit with me for a while?” he said, as if it would be the most exciting activity in the world.
Chris looked very much as though he wanted to say no, but wasn’t sure he was allowed to.
“You don’t have to,” said Forsyth.
“I suppose I can stay for a little while,” said Chris slowly. “I’ll read to you, if you like.”
“Oh, would you?” Forsyth asked with relief. “That would be much less boring than just sitting.”
The painter was looking impatient, so he moved back to the artfully draped “set” and resumed his pose. Chris followed, settling himself on a wooden chest just to one side. “What do you want to hear?” he asked.
“Cato,” answered the prince promptly. He’d found it referenced in much of what he’d read, and had always wondered what it was like.
“Your Highness, please.” The painter was growing desperate, so Forsyth acquiesced and tried to put himself back in the proper position.
“I think it’s a book of advice,” said Chris. “One. If God is a spirit, as the songs tell us, He is to be worshiped above all with a pure mind. Two. Always keep alert, nor be given to sleep; for continuous idleness offers food for vice. Three. I think the first virtue is to be keeping your tongue; he is close to God who knows how to keep quiet properly.”
It was very easy to listen to, since the couplets had a certain calming rhythm.
“Nine. When you warn somebody who does not want to be warned, if he is dear to you, do not desist in what you have begun.”
This couldn’t have been interesting for Chris—it wasn’t terribly interesting for Forsyth, although it made the situation much easier to handle, since he now had something to occupy his fidgety mind.
“Thirty-three. Since fickle life turns on uncertain perils, consider each day you struggle through a gain.”
The painter sent Chris a look of utter thankfulness.
There was plenty of room in the palace. It was almost a city in itself, built to house thousands of people: relatives of the king, their entourages, servants, entertainers, and long-term guests—most of them strangers to Forsyth. The palace currently housed about twelve hundred people, but there was room for several hundred more, and Forsyth always found it to be eerily empty. It wasn’t that the kingdom’s wealth had declined; rather, the kings of the past must have had a taste for the ostentatious.
Nobody would notice one more person, so Forsyth arranged for comfortable quarters so that Chris could stay in the palace when he wished—which was really not very often, since the Baroness had a residence in Sauer, and Chris often left the city to conduct business in Grendel.
Forsyth had formerly thought that he liked being alone, but he was discovering that the truth was that he just hadn’t liked being with the particular people he usually dealt with. After having spent time with Chris, days without him were boring.
Days with him were always interesting, if not exciting.
Chris was absolutely the most fascinating person in the entire world. He was so capable and sophisticated and polished… Chris had a genuine tragic past, and his parents, whom he refused to talk about, had evidently died when he was very young—and he’d been unexpectedly adopted by the Baroness Bairach for reasons unknown. Chris crushed attackers with cool disdain. Chris stared people down, reading their every thought. Chris chose words carefully and smoothly delivered subtly sarcastic barbs at the perfect moments.
Chris was his hero.
Forsyth wanted to be exactly like him. He knew he never would be, but he still wanted to be able to see Chris and helplessly adore him. Everything Chris said was the most rational thing in the world; everything Chris suggested was immediately implemented.
Forsyth was terribly afraid that Chris didn’t like him equally as much. He absolutely forbade himself from talking to anyone else about Chris, because he knew he couldn’t help but sound like an idiot, and he scrutinized Chris for hints of approval or disapproval. He hoped desperately to be approved of.
He liked it—the unsettled feeling that kept him alert, always waiting, hopeful for a word or gesture that might plunge him into uncontrollable happiness. There was a chance that his hopes would be dashed, too—which is what made the whole situation exciting. He thought, sometimes, that the chances of his being disliked were very small, but then sometimes he thought they were very great.
He found that a glance or a word could occupy him for days, which was a good thing because sometimes he went days without seeing Chris, which was an agony. It was a bad thing, too—this dwelling on specific gestures—because it interfered with his duties.
For the first time since he was very young, there was something more interesting than the philosophical tomes he stole covertly from the library. Instead of staying up all night secretly pouring over ancient—and, to most people, irrelevant—treatises on music and architecture, he lay awake replaying scenes from their last meeting, editing and augmenting them. He had a difficult time paying attention to his father’s counselors; he found himself smiling and trotting off obediently to do as instructed and then realizing that he hadn’t any idea whatsoever of what he’d been told to do. This, he decided, was because Chris’s conversation was much more interesting than, for example, the Cardinal’s was.
He had to hide the fact that the two of them spent so much time together. There were particular passages that had to be taken and meeting places that had to be kept secret. He took care never to allow anyone to know that Chris visited him in the evenings or at night.
It often occurred to him that all of this sneaking around was beneath him, that he was acting as devious as a schoolgirl or, worse yet, a courtier. But a glance or a word in the wrong place might cause a lot of trouble for Chris; being thought of as the favorite of the prince would make him a target of intrigue. Forsyth didn’t think it would be right to bring something like that down on Chris’s already burdened shoulders. Besides, how could he put someone he so admired in danger?
This constant state of nervousness, this wound-up, ever-ready tension, began to take its toll. He found himself daydreaming to excess, easily distractible, and more irritable than usual. Upon reflection, he decided that it was due to his lack of sleep and sudden disinterest in those things that had formerly brought him pleasure. But it was so much fun—never knowing when Chris would appear, and so always having to be ready, having a reason to make sure that he looked okay and had prepared interesting conversational topics.
He realized that, for all the time he spent looking out the window, he’d never before had anything to watch for, and this new sensation of expectation—of hope—as he looked out both terrified and enraptured him, sending him flying to the window every few minutes “just in case”.
He felt so entirely in Chris’s debt—for the books, for the thoughtfulness, and for the companionship—that he found himself looking for ways to make it up to him. But it was hard to find things that he could do for Chris, since Chris was better than he was at everything… well, at least better at everything worth doing.
They were wasting time one afternoon when Forsyth found there was something he could do.
“I got a letter from a girl,” said Chris placidly.
“Oh?” Forsyth looked up, immediately interested. Conversation with Chris was easy, and it was safe to be animated and excited about things when it was just the two of them.
“Yeah,” said Chris. “The Baroness gave copies to everyone at work.”
“Really?!” The prince was appalled. “That’s so—“
“She’s right. I shouldn’t allow myself to be distracted.”
“I suppose you’ve a point,” said Forsyth. “Who’s the girl? A pretty girl?”
“Just a girl. A girl I met while… traveling. She’s nice. We got along well. We have a lot in common. She wrote to say thank you—for lending her my cloak, I think.”
“Are you going to write back?”
Chris shrugged.
Forsyth feigned horror. “You’re not going to write back?” Nodding decisively, he added, “You must.”
“But…” Chris looked genuinely at a loss. “What would I say? ‘You’re welcome’?”
Forsyth laughed. “I suppose you’ll say all the things you usually write in letters.”
“I don’t usually write letters,” said Chris warily. “I more often write… messages.”
Sighing with mock impatience, Forsyth held out his hand. “Give me her letter.”
Chris looked at him blankly. “Why?”
“I’ll write your answer, if you like. Give me her letter.”
“You expect me to carry it with me? Not likely.”
Forsyth went to his writing desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. “What’s her name?”
“Winia Chester.”
Forsyth dashed a few lines in a loopy, ornate script. “Okay. Where did you meet?”
Chris paused, then said carefully, “At an inn.”
“How uninspiring. Where did you lend her your cloak?”
“In a valley.”
“Chris…” He was being so recalcitrant. “What was the weather like?”
“I have no idea. I think there was a full moon, maybe?”
“Right.” Forsyth brightened. “Girls love that stuff. I can get a whole paragraph out of that.”
Chris shifted uneasily. “You’re not making it too poetic?”
“Um… not… really…”
Probably not, anyway.
Forsyth folded the letter and handed it to Chris, beaming. “Just recopy it and make sure you answer any questions she asked directly.”
“Can’t I just give her this one?” asked Chris with such an expression of mortification that Forsyth’s heart swelled up with pity. It was an honor to be trusted with Chris’s honest feelings.
“Sorry… She’d know. A person like you would never have handwriting like mine.”
There was a beat as Forsyth realized how insulting that sounded.
“I’m so sorry,” he hastened to add. “I only meant that a person with your personality probably has neat, tiny, crisp handwriting. Mine’s round and I press too hard with the pen—it obviously couldn’t have been written by your hand.”
“You’ve studied handwriting?”
Forsyth shrugged. “I haven’t very much to do here.”
They took tea together in the afternoon and dined together whenever Forsyth didn’t have to make an appearance somewhere else. Forsyth learned to take care of his personal affairs before noon because Chris was always busy in the mornings—and he was always evasive when Forsyth asked what he was doing.
“Business,” he’d say. Or “errands”. Or “something for the Baroness”. He never gave a straight answer to a direct question.
Forsyth had started to make wild speculations on the nature of Chris’s business. There had to be some reason the Baroness had introduced them. It had occurred to him that it could be an assassination attempt, but it was pretty obvious that wasn’t what was going on—nobody could be that good at acting, and it would never have dragged on so long. Chris couldn’t be there to spy on Forsyth, because Forsyth was considered completely unimportant by the intelligence branch of the military; by the time he was told anything, it was practically common knowledge, anyway. Clearly, Chris was getting something else out of it.
Forsyth was pretty sure it was access to the palace library. Chris had been very careful not to ask about the library directly, but Forsyth was getting to know him well enough to recognize the telltale signs of a well-organized conversation. Regardless, he was more than happy to show Chris the library; it was one of his favorite places—quiet and good smelling and, most of all, extensive.
Chris had acted slightly too uninterested in the library. It probably would have fooled anybody else, but Forsyth had been watching for it.
So it was the library that was important.
The other thing that was disconcerting about Chris was his odd behavior whenever the topic of the Scrapped Princess was brought up. His normally inscrutable face would, just for an instant, show a glimmer of hesitation. Forsyth got the feeling that he knew something, but wasn’t allowed to talk about it, and since the subject plainly made his friend uncomfortable, the prince avoided it. He was dying to know, though, and it was really hard not to talk about it. He congratulated himself on his strength of character every time he did not bring up his sister—though he still talked about her too often, because he thought about her all the time.
Of course, it didn’t take Forsyth very long to put two and two together. Chris was probably doing some kind of research on the Scrapped Princess, especially considering that some of the records from the temple at Grendel were kept at the palace. Nobody had access to the library except palace residents. That explained the trips to Grendel, now that he thought about it.
Something like that would be just like Baroness Bairach, too! Forsyth couldn’t believe he hadn’t figured it out sooner. She’d been supporting his mother ever since he could remember; he wouldn’t be surprised if, ultimately, all the information they gathered was going straight to the queen. Well, on second thought, the Baroness knew the queen too well to trust her with secrets. It was probably her own initiative driving the project.
Once he’d figured all this out, everything made much more sense. He really, really wanted to know what information Chris had found, and it took all he had to wait for the right moment. But the moment didn’t come, and there was an insufferable number of teas and dinners and sparring sessions during which Forsyth desperately wanted to just blurt out the question.
It wasn’t fair, what had been done to his sister… and it had been done so ineffectively, too. Forsyth steeled his mind and tried to imagine what it would actually take to kill a baby, and then what it would take to kill a young girl. Not much, actually; it was pathetic that she was still alive. This forced him to wonder: had the military actually tried to kill her? The more he thought about it, the more he thought that maybe they hadn’t. It occurred to him that, the older she got, the more difficult it would be to attack her. It also occurred to him that, should the king want him dead, he’d be much easier to kill than she would. He’d have no way to defend himself against the entire army.
But the prophecy had clearly said that it was the girl who would curse the world. Hadn’t it? Well… Forsyth was sure that’s what he’d been told, but how many people were actually around to hear a prophecy? Only a few Church officials, and that made Forsyth suspicious. The prince was a fervent believer in the Church’s teachings, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see that Cardinal Hogue was an extremely unpleasant person. He knew that the Cardinal would do anything to end a curse, even if it meant creating an elaborate deception. Neither the Cardinal nor the king nor General Peters-Stahl harbored any goodwill toward the prince, although the Cardinal pretended to, and this was scary, since he was completely at their mercy.
But why? Why would they wait so long? Why wouldn’t they have just killed him when he was born? For that matter, why were they waiting now? The meager intelligence reports he received stated that the military had ceased its assassination attempts and was tailing her. If his sister really were alive, shouldn’t they be trying to kill her? None of it made any sense.
All this only made him more eager to ask Chris what he had found. If there were any ambiguity in the prophecy, surely Chris would know.
He eventually decided that the right moment to ask would never come. So one morning, he dashed through his paperwork, keeping one eye on the window to see if Chris had come. When he saw that Chris had arrived, he hurriedly finished up the last bit of work—it still took him twenty minutes—and rang for a servant to deliver each dispatch to its proper location.
He checked his reflection to make sure that he looked acceptable, then scampered off to the library. He took a roundabout route to make sure he wasn’t caught—he wasn’t technically supposed to be walking around alone, and he didn’t know how he’d explain himself to anyone who stumbled across him.
The palace library was lonely and dusty and dark and multi-chambered and complicated, and Forsyth had to look through rooms and rooms before he found the one that held the records of Grendel’s prophecies. He didn’t think he’d been in this particular room ever before—it seemed like nobody had been in it for years. Most of the books in here were unintelligible to him, anyway. They were in old, lost languages, or printed with a script nobody knew how to read. Some of them didn’t even look like somebody had written them by hand, but more like they had been printed from teeny-tiny woodcuts. Forsyth was in awe of any civilization with craftsmen who had the time and skill to carve such perfect little letters.
Books were precious. In them was stored the secrets of the ancients. Someday, he’d figure out how to read them. Then he’d be able to build buildings as tall as the ruins he’d seen. He’d be able to put those incomprehensible machines back together and make them work.
Looking through the space between two books that leaned away from each other, Forsyth finally found the person for whom he’d been searching. Chris was standing in the darkness between two shelves, scanning through one of the more slender volumes. If that were the book Chris wanted, he must have had to spend days and days searching for it. Forsyth couldn’t imagine how anybody could find anything specific in here: there was no order whatsoever; everything was completely disorganized.
He peeked around the corner of the aisle, as Chris, obviously disappointed, closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. The prince walked forward, feeling shy but trying very hard to seem open and interested. He tried to keep an alert posture and a friendly expression on his face. “Is your research coming along well?” he asked.
Although he could not have been expecting the intrusion, Chris turned and bowed smoothly, covering his heart with his hand. He lowered his gaze respectfully. “Prince Forsyth…”
“It’s not easy, is it?” asked the prince calmly. “All records dealing with the Scrapped Princess have been destroyed.”
He watched Chris’s large brown eyes as he spoke. They opened, but didn’t turn up to meet his face until he had finished speaking. Chris looked surprised. Forsyth grinned to himself.
“Hey, Chris,” said Forsyth, stepping closer. “Who are you, really?”
He didn’t really expect Chris to answer him truthfully, given his penchant for evading direct lines of questioning, but after a barely perceptible pause, he said, “I’m a member of the Obstinate Arrows Special Forces unit.”
“Is that so? That explains a lot.”
The Obstinate Arrows, huh? It certainly made sense. That was one of the military’s top units, the one Baroness Bairach commanded. It fit with what he knew of Chris’s past and skills—they occasionally took in and trained talented children who had no other place to go. Wow… special forces… Chris immediately became a hundred thousand times more amazing.
Forsyth pulled a book from a shelf and idly flipped the pages, not looking at it. “I have a favor to ask,” he said, glancing up at Chris hopefully.
“A favor?” Chris’s face, as always, was unreadable.
“I don’t know why you’re investigating my sister, but would you let me help you?”
Chris looked down. “I’m sorry, but that’s—“
Forsyth nearly panicked. “If that’s out of the question,” he hurried to say, “would you at least tell me what you’ve turned up?”
He closed the book, looking at Chris more earnestly. “It’s possible that I was the one who was abandoned. I have a duty to find out if that’s the case.”
And he also cared very much about his sister, but he somehow didn’t think that would be an effective argument. This, on the other hand, was something that had been distressing him for a while. He hoped he could make Chris understand.
Chris kept his gaze averted, a pained expression on his face. “Um… Highness…”
“Not Highness. It’s Forsyth.”
Chris started, and Forsyth laughed a little, smiling kindly. “Please.”
His friend blinked at him a moment, hesitating. “Prince Forsyth, it’s… not exactly that…”
“It’s not an order,” said Forsyth reassuringly. “You don’t have to tell me, if you’re going to get in trouble. I just… I would like you to tell me, if you can.”
Chris glanced around the room surreptitiously.
“Nobody ever comes in here,” said Forsyth.
“Still… Follow me.”
Chris led Forsyth through a maze of shelves, finally stopping at one of the castle’s inner walls. Pulling away heavy drapery, he revealed an alcove.
“Nobody comes here,” he explained. “I’ve been using it to store my notes.”
“Since obviously you can’t take anything out of the library,” finished Forsyth. “How did you know it was here?”
He walked into the niche and curled up on one of the marble benches that lined the walls. It was discomfiting to know that there were places he’d never seen in a building in which he’d lived for more than fifteen years.
“I notice things.” Chris let the heavy cloth fall back. It was too dark to read now, and it smelled musty. “There’s one behind each of the curtains.”
“I thought they were just drapes,” said Forsyth. “How do you know no one else comes here?”
“First of all, nobody comes into the library. Secondly, this place is really dirty. They’d leave footprints. And I wouldn’t sit there. You’ll get covered in dust.”
“What was in here before?” Forsyth asked, moving to a spot on the floor that was, bafflingly, slightly cleaner than the bench.
“Books,” said Chris, sitting gracefully down next to him. He nodded at the codices carefully stacked against the opposite wall.
“Ah,” said Forsyth. “So… tell me about the Scrapped Princess.”
Chris spoke very low. “This is on the understanding that you will say nothing about this.”
Forsyth nodded breathlessly.
“Well… I am investigating the Scrapped Princess.”
“…And?”
“And I can’t tell you anything else.”
“What?!” shrieked Forsyth. Lowering his voice, he started over. “I mean, what? You brought me all the way here to tell me that you can’t tell me anything?”
Seeing the closed-off look on Chris’s face, he backpedaled. “I mean, not that you have to tell me anything because what you’re doing is probably really important and it’s probably a major security risk and I don’t want you to feel bad about it so—“ He let his voice fade away.
Chris looked vaguely amused.
“Listen,” he said. “You’re safe. You aren’t the one who was abandoned.”
“How do you know?” asked Forsyth. “Have you found the records for the prophecy?”
“It’s clear that your sister is the one the Church and the Army are after.”
“So, no, you haven’t found the records.”
“No. Not yet.”
There was silence as the two boys looked at each other in the gloom.
“You worry too much, Highness.”
“Forsyth,” he corrected.
“You worry too much, Prince Forsyth. Nobody is trying to kill you. And if they were, you have people to protect you.” Chris spoke too firmly to be contradicted.
If Chris thought so, then it was true. He would stop worrying about it. But then what on earth was the military doing, constantly going back and forth about the Scrapped Princess? Forsyth frowned. “So then my sister…”
“You’re concerned about her?”
There was another pause. It was such an odd situation—it was dark, a little cold, and altogether exciting and adventurous. Forsyth moved closer to Chris, who leaned away uncomfortably, and lowered his voice until it was barely a whisper.
“Um, Chris… What is she like?”
“Her name is Pacifica Casull.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s believed to be in Giat, under the protection of the royal family there. Her older brother and sister are with her.”
“And what are they like?”
“The sister is practical and collected, keeps a cool head in a crisis. The brother, Shannon—he’s hot-tempered, but an excellent swordsman. Better than you.”
“Oh. Well… I’m glad she has somebody to protect her.”
“Yeah.”
“So… What does she look like?”
Chris reflected. “Like you.”
“How, specifically?”
“Um… Blonde hair, blue eyes… your faces are shaped the same way. She’s shorter than you are, though. And louder.” One corner of his mouth twitched, threatening to curve into a smile. “She’s kind of a brat.”
Forsyth laughed warmly. “Really?”
“Yeah. Much less accommodating than you. Assertive.”
Forsyth wasn’t sure how to respond. Had he just been insulted?
“So you’ve met her,” he said, at length.
“Yes.”
“Is she… Is she happy?”
Chris gave a sardonic little laugh. “When we talked to Queen Elmyr, she said the same—“
“You’ve seen my mother?!” Forsyth’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Yeah.”
“When?!” He leaned in earnestly.
Evidently uncomfortable, Chris moved back a few more inches. Forsyth was confused. It didn’t seem as though Chris disliked him, but he always avoided touching him. Did he think it would be improper?
“Not too long ago. In her tower.”
“Oh.” Forsyth wasn’t allowed to go there. The king was very angry with Queen Elmyr right now—his attitude toward her vacillated, but it had grown steadily worse since Forsyth turned fourteen.
“Did she… did she look well?” he ventured, scooting a little closer to Chris.
Chris shrugged. “Sure.”
Forsyth felt his face fall and supposed that he must have had a particularly pitiful expression on his face, because Chris sighed and said, “She asked the Baroness a lot of questions about you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Chris nodded. “How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”
Forsyth thought for a moment. “About fourteen months, I think.” Gathering his courage, he closed his eyes and let his head drop onto Chris’s shoulder.
Chris stiffened for a second in surprise, then relaxed warily. He twisted his neck to look down at Forsyth. “That’s a long time.”
“Yeah. Last time I saw her she gave me earrings. Can you believe it? She thinks I’m a child.”
Chris sounded as though he was trying not to smile. “Not the ones you’re wearing?”
“Yeah.”
“They are kind of girly.”
“Mmm, do you think so? Shall I not wear them?”
“Does it matter what I think?”
“Yeah. Kind of. I mean, you know so much better than I do what people think is weird.”
“Well… Most guys don’t wear earrings.”
“Really? Should I take them off?”
Chris shook his head. “They’re a gift from your mother.”
Forsyth immediately felt like an idiot. How could he be so insensitive as to talk about his mother to somebody who barely had a mother? He had a moment of guilt-stricken panic before he realized that Chris hadn’t reacted at all. So maybe it wasn’t such a big deal.
“You must write to her often,” said Chris.
“Yeah,” said Forsyth. “Every week or so.”
He was trying to decide whether he should move. This position wasn’t very comfortable, and he was starting to get a cramp in his neck. He didn’t really want to break contact, and it would be really awkward to pull away. But if he stayed like this much longer, it would be equally awkward.
Chris solved the problem by moving first, sliding back so that he sat against the wall. Forsyth rolled over onto his stomach and propped his head up in his hands, figuring that he was already so dirty that a little more dust couldn’t make a difference. Chris put out his hand hesitantly and rested it on the prince’s hair.
Forsyth looked up at him. His heart was pounding.
“Do you remember that girl who wrote me that letter?” Chris asked, laughing uncomfortably. “She keeps writing to me. I think she may have… misinterpreted the letter you—we—wrote. It’s almost like she’s… smitten.”
Forsyth felt a little tiny bit guilty, but mostly dismayed. It would serve him right if he had gotten himself in trouble. “Well…” he said. “Do you like her?”
Chris rolled his eyes. “No. Not that much, anyway. I liked her more before she got a crush on me.”
Forsyth felt relieved and uneasy at once. It was nice to know that she didn’t mean anything to Chris. (Wait! For shame! He had no right to feel so possessive.) Anyway… now that he knew she wasn’t a threat, he felt kind of sorry for her. He certainly understood why she thought Chris was amazing. He wouldn’t want to have Chris say something like that about him.
He had a horrible thought that maybe Chris harbored unutterable disdain for him and was only hanging around so that he could make fun of him later. I liked him more before he started worshipping me…
“Be… be kind to her, okay, Chris?” Forsyth said nervously. “Just until she gets over it.”
Chris looked down at him. “You think that’s the best thing to do?”
“Being kind is always the best thing to do,” Forsyth smiled.
“You know that you’re always going to be taken advantage of, right?”
“I don’t care,” said Forsyth. “I’d rather be taken advantage of by one person than thought cold by a hundred people.”
“Are you calling me cold?”
“Um…”
Chris made a wry face. “I’m glad you can trust people.”
“Why don’t you trust people?”
Chris looked at him for a moment. “I trust people who have proved themselves to be trustworthy,” he said carefully. “I find it… interesting… that you haven’t yet found yourself a victim of your own unwariness. It must be nice to be so sheltered.”
“I’m not sheltered,” protested Forsyth, although, upon further thought, he decided that he probably was.
Chris raised an eyebrow in response and said nothing.
There was a comfortable silence during which Forsyth bumped his hand against Chris’s knee and Chris clumsily stroked Forsyth’s hair.
“Highness… I mean, Prince Forsyth…”
“What?” Forsyth’s voice was muffled by his arm and the stone floor.
“I should thank you. For offering me your friendship. The Baroness appreciates it very much.”
Forsyth beamed. “Please don’t mention it. It must be tiresome for you, with only grown-ups to talk to at work.”
Chris shrugged. “My inferiors are considerably older than I am. But I talk to the Baroness, as well.”
“But it must be difficult to be free with her, since she is your superior… and your mother, too, now.”
“I suppose that everyone is either a superior or an inferior. It would be difficult to avoid speaking to people who aren’t exactly equal to me in rank.”
“I wish,” said Forsyth eagerly, “that you wouldn’t think of me as your superior—“
“I know,” said Chris dryly. “But wishing doesn’t change what is.”