Rapunzel and the Griffin Prince Page 3

  “They say your land was cursed, but such things cannot be true. Magic isn’t so strong as to ruin a whole kingdom, is it?”

  “That is a rather long story, Your Majesty, and one with a complicated answer. Dalborough’s vile wizard did indeed cast a curse upon my kingdom, but it was unwittingly strengthened by a darker and older magic long forgotten by my people.”

  “You’ll have to share the tale one night over drinks. Tell me, do you enjoy wine? Brandy?”

  “I do not often partake in drink.” He preferred fresh spring water or hot tea, though his clan distilled their own special liquor from small berries found on hardy shrubs in the high peaks and traded it with the bears who brewed mead.

  “We’ll have to introduce you to our other libations during your stay. Now, tell me, is it true your people are able to… transform?”

  “Only a small portion of our people hold such gifts.”

  “And you?” the king asked. “Are you one of these shapeshifters?”

  “Aye, but the majority of Cairn Oclanders are as human as you. Our queen, as you know, hails from Creag Morden.”

  “Ah yes, Queen Anastasia. I had hoped to marry her to my son Joren. Alas, I see a better man has won her hand.”

  “Then you harbor no resentments?”

  “No, and why should I? Morgan and I have made our peace over the failed match and hold no grudges.”

  Muir tucked that bit of knowledge away. “My queen will be pleased to hear it. She had some worries and hoped the situation would not affect future relations between our kingdoms.”

  “I am an old man. Too old to cling to petty grudges. I like to leave that to the younger generations. Do you have children? A wife?”

  “No.”

  Interest lit the old man’s clouded gaze. “A shame. Then again, leaving behind family for such a long journey would be a sad affair. Perhaps Eisland will be appealing to you for a lengthier stay.”

  Muir dipped his head and forced a polite smile. “Time will tell.”

  “Indeed it shall. However, I’m sure you would like a rest after your voyage. Your rooms have been prepared, and Fillian shall be at your disposal for the duration of your stay with us. I would be honored if you would join me for supper this evening at the eighth chime.”

  “Of course.” Muir rose and bowed, taking the chance to leave without further questions.

  * * *

  Every day was the same for Rapunzel.

  A single bedroom window provided a landscape view of the western castle grounds, a bit of the port city below, and the bay, but beyond that, there was never anything new to see.

  She remembered a time she loved watching the billowing white and blue squares pull into Azure Bay, like clouds across an endless sapphire horizon. She’d lived for the days the Jolly Roger returned from sea, bringing home the man she loved. Those days were long past though, since James had sailed off and never returned. Since he’d turned to a life of piracy and heroism without once ever realizing she needed him to be her hero too.

  Just as she lost interest in the serene view, a ship bearing unfamiliar canvas sailed into the harbor, its flag a scarlet dragon on a field of black and gold. Not an Eisland ship.

  Who were they? Had her father found someone else to share his illicit dealings? Were they another barbarous country prepared to supply innocent children to an excruciating and prolonged death in the frozen fields?

  Something about the standard tickled the back of her mind, as if she’d seen it before once long ago in passing. It wasn’t Creag Morden—their flag bore a golden eagle silhouette over emerald. Liang represented themselves with an eight-pointed black star on a yellow field, Samahara’s colors were gold and red, and Ridaeron ships flew gray banners.

  Perhaps Sebille would arrive with gossip about their foreign guests.

  If not for the occasional visits from her handmaiden, Rapunzel thought she might have gone mad and long ago dashed herself to bits upon the stony ground below her tower. Every once in a while, the notion crossed her mind, an insidious whisper that told her to end this miserable existence. What enjoyment was there in living life anymore when the possibility of escape grew ever more distant?

  As far as everyone was concerned, she had gone insane with grief over Hook’s betrayal and abandonment and had been confined for her own safety. On the few occasions she was allowed to leave and play her role as the addled, crazed princess, her father drugged her tea with some strange herb that sent her into a frothing state of madness. Any attempt she made to air his dirty secrets to anyone who might be able to help came out as paranoid babble. They all believed her mind had crumbled into delirium.

  She nearly believed it herself sometimes.

  When a click echoed from the lower level, Rapunzel abandoned the window and moved down to the second floor. Her tower consisted of three levels. The topmost floor served as her bedroom while the bottom floor, which she rarely ventured to anymore, was a cozy drawing room. The second floor contained a study and dining room. As she wound her way down the stairs hugging the outer wall, Rapunzel left the natural light of day behind and entered a room illuminated by amber magelights.

  Her father had bricked up the windows years ago after she tried to escape.

  “Good afternoon, Your Highness. I’ve brought your lunch. You haven’t been eating.”

  “I haven’t been hungry.”

  Sebille bit her lower lip and said nothing more while she arranged the table. She set out a bowl filled to the brim with creamy soup, fresh bread slathered in butter, a roasted quail, and carrots glazed in honey. It was more food than what she normally received.

  “What’s going on, Sebille? Did my father order you to bring this?”

  “No. He ordered your usual meal, but I… Cook and I thought you would like something better.”

  “Thank you. It looks lovely.”

  “I also come with a bit of gossip.”

  There was nothing like a little palace gossip to ease the monotony of her day-to-day routine. “Yes? Do tell. Has the groomsman finally proposed to Myrtle?”

  “No, something far better, Your Highness. Fillian was sent to meet the ambassador from Cairn Ocland.”

  “Cairn Ocland? No wonder I didn’t recognize their flag straight off.” But she had seen it before in her books.

  “It’s been the talk of the castle. Your father received word from their king and queen weeks ago requesting an audience. They wish to open trade agreements between our country and theirs.”

  Rapunzel stiffened. Could her father be purchasing more flesh? “What sort of trade?”

  Sebille flinched from the sharp question. “I do not know, Your Highness. Only that your father was excited about the opportunity.”

  “I see….”

  The only thing that excited the king anymore seemed to be money.

  “I have more pleasant news as well,” Sebille said in a rush. “I know I shouldn’t speak of it, but I overheard Fillian deliver the news to the king that your brother plans to be home within the month. For good. He’s graduated from the collegium as an archmage of profound honor.”

  “Joren is coming home?” The news brought with it a deep blossoming of warmth and hope. For a moment, her heart swelled and her spirits soared at the thought of her twin swooping in to rescue her, for surely Joren wouldn’t stand for her confinement any longer.

  Then the dismal truth came crashing down around her.

  Joren already knew. Their father had him believing the same lie as everyone else.

  All the breath left her lungs and her shoulders sagged. The meal, as delicious as it was, lost all appeal.

  “Sebille, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t… Joren cannot see me maddened by poison.”

  “I could try and get him word—”

  “No,” she cut in. “Father watches you, and if he discovers the betrayal, you’ll be shipped off to Ridaeron, and I could never forgive myself for such a horror. I simply have to hope that maybe, this time, Joren reali
zes something is wrong.”

  Finding little solace in any of the news, Rapunzel returned to her bedroom and her preferred seat. Sebille swept up the end of the three-meter silver braid trailing behind her and began unravelling it.

  This was their bonding time, a twenty-nine-year custom they’d both enjoyed since the first day Sebille’s mother came to the castle as the royal tailor years ago.

  At the time of her father’s betrayal, her braided hair had been a few inches below her hips. Now it trailed the ground when Rapunzel walked if it wasn’t bound up in an intricate styling.

  “Shall we wear it up today, Your Highness?”

  “Please.”

  Once conversation resumed, the discussion turned to Sebille’s family in Floren, a distant port city on Eisland’s eastern shores where her mother and father had taken years of wages saved while working for the royal family and turned her grandfather’s shop into a marvel of refined quality.

  Long after the sun set and Sebille retired to the main castle, Rapunzel remained alone in her chair by the window. She touched her hand against the chilly glass and wiped the condensation with her thumb.

  After years of imprisonment, she'd learned to work her magic around the bracelets on her wrists. She closed her eyes and willed herself beyond her body, letting the magic flow through every limb. It was cold but pleasant, a tingle that reached through to her heart and soul.

  Outside, a snow drift spun up into the air. Rapunzel pushed her consciousness from the tower and into the crystalline flakes, reveling in the limited freedom her magic allowed her. It had taken years of painstaking attempts, but each time she tried, she managed to control the snow longer and venture out farther.

  As a flurry, she sped through the air on the breeze and swirled past the gardens to the edge of the noble district. Laughter and lights spilled out of the many windows, a direct contrast with the darker portions of the city below.

  It hadn’t always been like this. She remembered the way the entire city shined with illumination, a glowing beacon that hugged the coast. Now it seemed only the wealthy had the privilege.

  As she streamed further down into the city, more and more streets appeared dark. A few lights shone in the merchant district, mostly on the Silken Road, but beyond that everything was black.

  People huddled together in their homes around small fires for warmth if they were lucky. Many more out on the streets didn’t even have that small comfort.

  She barely recognized her home anymore. Worse, there was nothing she could do to aid them, and that helplessness was her true prison.

  Chapter

  Muir thought very little of the Eislanders. They smiled to his face but spoke ill of him behind his back, too dimwitted to realize he understood.

  Griffins had a voracious appetite for learning languages, picking up new tongues as often as Eisland nobles frequented pleasure dens. That was another reason to frown.

  How could they take something personal, such as the acts of love between two mates, and cheapen it to a service for mere coins? Worse was the way they all seemed to laugh and boast about their tawdry encounters.

  He hated this place. He hated the stink of it and the smokestacks billowing over the city at the bottom of the hill, and he loathed the sight of the dirty-faced peasantry—not because he resented poor people, but because true royalty would have gone hungry before their commoners starved and lived in such poverty.

  He couldn't imagine Anastasia and Alistair ignoring their people. They had worked alongside the common folk of Cairn Ocland with their own hands and claws to restore ruined cities. Multiple times.

  He doubted the Eisland nobility would tolerate dirt beneath their nails.

  Three days had been enough to cement his opinion of them, no matter how much Fillian tried to befriend him. The man was a strict taskmaster with a tight guest schedule, taking Muir around the city and introducing him to high-society visitors by day and different entertainments in the city by night. Plays. Opera. Acrobatics and orchestra. Soon, they’d be joining the king and queen for dinner.

  Muir would have preferred to stay outside in the fresh air. Between the king’s sly, backhanded comments about Cairn Ocland, and the queen carrying the scent of liquor on her person like she’d pickled herself with the alcohol always on her breath, he found their company intolerable.

  “Yes, yes, but when will I see the wineries? The vineyards. I would like to see those,” Muir said again, sometimes wondering if maybe he was speaking the wrong language for how much the man ignored him. He’d already had two tours of the castle grounds and seen every inch of the courtyard.

  Fillian graced him with a nervous smile. “Your request has been noted, Lord Muir, I assure you.” He fluffed his powder blue curls and gestured to a doorway to the left. “Ah, this way, milord. I have been tasked to show you the cellars since you harbor such an interest in our vintages.”

  Muir grunted. “Fine.” He’d seen almost every inch of the castle save for one of the western towers, and when he’d asked about it, they'd merely said it was an uninhabited portion of the castle requiring work once the weather improved. Nothing of interest. He glanced at it in passing then paused, spotting a feminine silhouette in the window. He studied it for a moment then sighed and stepped through the door.

  The cellars were another wasted hour of Fillian describing the many vintages, the occasions for each specific bottle’s usage, and the great history behind the royal family’s profound friendship with the monarchs of Creag Morden.

  Once darkness fell and he was able to shake his guide, he moved out onto the garden. So far, he'd met everyone but the princess, and he found it strange that no one would speak of her except to say she was ill.

  Lost in thought, he traveled down the path and drew up short when the cool temperature plummeted even more. No one had shown him this garden before, and he wondered why. It looked overgrown and abandoned, the ideal place to transform.

  If he returned before dawn, they’d never know he left at all, and with the cover of darkness, no one would notice a griffin flying over Eisland. Before he could enact his plan, a wall of frigid wind struck him with the ferocity of a snow giant’s fist.

  * * *

  An abundance of her father’s prized frost roses grew in the garden, but they weren't Rapunzel’s favorite. Saddened by the sight of her beloved lavender trumpets choked by the unkempt grass, she swirled around them and used the power of the wind to rip the taller grasses free from the ground.

  Heavy bootsteps tread over the ground to her rear, the tread of a large man on the snow-dusted ground. Petrified, she swirled away behind a rose bush.

  If they ever caught her—assuming her spiritual snow form resembled her physical body—she'd lose this one freedom. There were worse tortures to bind magic, after all, and the manashackles were considered a light and humane punishment for neutralizing magic.

  Instead of a guard on his nightly rounds, a stranger came into view around the bend. He was a tall man, handsome in features with bright eyes that shone amber in the limited lantern light and hair that coursed over his shoulders like liquid fire.

  She’d never seen the color before in her kingdom. He wore no Eisland fashion she’d ever seen and had a rather majestic look about him, a certain poise she expected to see in nobility. This had to be the man her maid spoke of, the ambassador from across the sea.

  Drifting past the roses, she remained near enough to observe but stayed out of sight. Did he and Cairn Ocland plan to join her father’s cruel business of trading slaves?

  Perhaps she could scare him off, if such were the case. The impulsive idea surged through her, giving force and a focus to her anger. She streamed forward from the roses with all her fury. Maybe if this foreigner thought the place was haunted, or bothered by a snow beastie, he'd run off and flee back to his ship.

  He staggered back, but instead of shrieking and running for the castle, he leaned into the cold blast. Then there was an explosion of feathers and soft do
wn, a sudden transition that swept away the man and replaced him with a creature larger than their mightiest draft horse.

  Rapunzel dashed into the trees for cover and peered at him through the glossy white foliage. A griffin! She'd heard tales of them, had even fancied as a child she’d seen them in the distance—though she knew it had only been a sea hawk—but never believed they were truly real. The beast was handsome, feathers tawny and golden brown touched with red, like the man’s hair had been.

  He darted around in a circle and reared onto his powerful hind legs. Gods, he was beautiful—and coming straight at her.

  If the snow flurry form wasn’t soundless, she would have shrieked. All thought and reason fled her mind as the winged beast barreled into the trees. She raced away from him and across the palace grounds toward the hills. Fields passed beneath her as she pushed herself faster and faster, but the griffin matched her in speed and agility, twisting and taking wild turns through the darkened skies. Finally, she angled downward to the edge of a vineyard slope and decided to make a stand.

  Once the particles of ice and snow coalesced into a feminine silhouette, she held out her hands toward the creature and prepared for impact. It hurtled toward her, ferocious foreclaws extended.

  At the last moment before impact, he pulled up and soared over her instead for a clumsy crash into the slope. Instead of landing with grace and dignity, he became a crumpled pile of feathers and gorgeous fur.

  Oh no! Injuring him hadn’t been her intent. She drifted over to inspect the crashed griffin from a respectful distance.

  Unlike the gentle khione who inhabited the frozen forests and snowy plains, she lacked the ability to transfer her voice to this form and could do nothing but drift around him and pray he hadn’t broken his neck.

  He’s not moving. I killed him. What if he wasn’t even the lord from Cairn Ocland or some mustache-twirling associate of her father, but an innocent man she’d terrorized for no reason at all?