a fairy tale for this Valentine's Day
To honor this day, a short, odd fairy tale, offered in lieu of chocolates.
A taste: This crisp, edge-of-snow night happened to be the annual Night of the Heart-Sacrifice, whereupon since the beginning of sung history, each king of the Seven Lands had sacrificed a heart -- usually of some snotty peasant, dragged from a hidey-hole in the straw to his death -- to ensure amity and love amongst his people for the year.
It was a crisp, edge-of-snow night outside the castle; a smoky, edge-of-nerves night inside the castle's great hall. For the bard, at least.
He strummed his mandolin one more time with his thumb (the only digit not currently trembling with fear) before saying tentatively, “Sire? Your pleasure?”
The king rotated his cup of wine with a slow, meditative wrist. This lazy movement didn't comfort the bard, to be honest: the king, a handsome if somewhat worn man of a certain age, had made his name throughout the Seven Lands with his immense learning, skill with sword and crossbow, easily pricked and often volcanic temper, and devotion to all rituals, even the nasty ones.
This crisp, edge-of-snow night happened to be the annual Night of the Heart-Sacrifice, whereupon since the beginning of sung history, each king of the Seven Lands had sacrificed a heart - usually of some snotty peasant, dragged from a hidey-hole in the straw to his death - to ensure amity and love amongst his people for the year.
True, the king had recently married for love, which might have been thought to have softened temper and/or devotion to ritual. But the new queen, bright and shining and clever as she was, also was a daughter of a warrior-race. In fact she often sparred with her husband in the courtyard: the court and people had become adept at averting their eyes at the public exchange of clashing swords, then vicious words, and then passionate embraces, which was the usual way these sessions went. And now, seated next to her husband on the dais, she was engaged in sharpening the ritual Heart-Sacrifice knife. (She didn't trust their servants to do it properly, she'd said in front of them all, which had caused another exchange of words -vicious - and embraces - passionate - with her king.)
The bard thought of the king's devotion to ritual, the queen's devotion to a cutting blade, and the royal pair's inexplicable failure to summon a hapless peasant for tonight's sacrifice, and he almost broke a mandolin-string.
Had the king so truly hated the bard's new Return of the Light song a fortnight ago, and decided that further royal investment in the arts was a bad idea? In other words, the bard thought, it'd be just like His Majesty to kill off his bard for a simple aesthetic disagreement about metre. And then what would become of the bard's secret lover Sir Brian, his delicious knight who smelled of metal and blood and lavender and who had inspired two extremely popular ballads about shagging in the moonlight, he'd probably just move onto that kitchen-slut Anthony...
“Singer of songs, pay attention!” barked the king, all laziness gone.
The hall went quiet. The mandolin-string snapped.
“Sire?” the bard managed.
The king narrowed his eyes. “That mishap shall make the ritual less potent, perhaps. But we shall continue,” he muttered, then said in his most regal voice, “People of the Seven Lands, we sacrifice a heart on this night, as our ancestors have done since time began. May the hearts that remain be lightened by this death!”
The queen brandished the knife. The bard almost, but not quite, lost control of his bowels.
“Sir Brian!” the king called.
No, the bard thought, no, but before he could get the words out, his lover walked, clanking (blame a profusion of chainmail), up onto the dais. Strangely, and in complete violation of usual practice, Sir Brian was carrying an oddly-wrought box from the queen's homeland. He knelt at the queen's side, and presented the box.
“My dear,” the king said, smiling into her eyes. “Shall you do the honours?”
“I shall cut with a good will, my love,” she replied, with a matching smile.
The king seemed poised to have gazed adoringly at his queen for the rest of the night, but he collected himself and then bellowed, “Bard! The song, man!”
No, no, the bard thought. But with one last despairing glance at his idiotically smiling and no doubt doomed lover, he touched an unharmed string on his instrument and began the ritual song. (It was a stupid lyric, moon-June-death-blood-moon-June nonsense, but it's what he'd been taught. It did have a nice melody, though.) He sang with sadness, with fire, with love--
And the king opened the box, and took out a red, heart-shaped fruit, and held it at arm's length.
Down came the queen's arm, flash went the blade, and the fruit screamed -- magic from the song? From the knife? --and split. Crimson spatters went everywhere, just like a peasant's heart.
The world shimmered, and the hall filled with the spirit of amity and love, just as it had done every year since the beginning of sung history.
Wiping a few red bits from his forehead just underneath his crown, the king smiled again. “That was a very good idea of yours, darling.”
“We really can't afford to waste peasants in that manner, can we?” she said, smiling back. “Sacrifice is important, true, but we must be reasonable about this, and as humane as possible.”
“Yes, indeed. I was struck yesterday by a passage in Arioti on the same theme...”
“Darling, don't be scholarly at just this moment, it's so annoying,” the queen said, and then kissed away the king's frown at this insult. Then she sent a half-way smile at the bard. “Shouldn't you be singing, Master? You'll spoil the ritual if you don't conclude it properly.”
“Right, right,” the bard said hastily, and he swung into the traditional tune, Reasons to Be Cheerful (Part III).
Outside, the night was crisp and edge-of-snow, but the spirit of amity and love flowed out through the Seven Lands for another year.
..................... May your February 14th be a good day! :-)
A taste: This crisp, edge-of-snow night happened to be the annual Night of the Heart-Sacrifice, whereupon since the beginning of sung history, each king of the Seven Lands had sacrificed a heart -- usually of some snotty peasant, dragged from a hidey-hole in the straw to his death -- to ensure amity and love amongst his people for the year.
It was a crisp, edge-of-snow night outside the castle; a smoky, edge-of-nerves night inside the castle's great hall. For the bard, at least.
He strummed his mandolin one more time with his thumb (the only digit not currently trembling with fear) before saying tentatively, “Sire? Your pleasure?”
The king rotated his cup of wine with a slow, meditative wrist. This lazy movement didn't comfort the bard, to be honest: the king, a handsome if somewhat worn man of a certain age, had made his name throughout the Seven Lands with his immense learning, skill with sword and crossbow, easily pricked and often volcanic temper, and devotion to all rituals, even the nasty ones.
This crisp, edge-of-snow night happened to be the annual Night of the Heart-Sacrifice, whereupon since the beginning of sung history, each king of the Seven Lands had sacrificed a heart - usually of some snotty peasant, dragged from a hidey-hole in the straw to his death - to ensure amity and love amongst his people for the year.
True, the king had recently married for love, which might have been thought to have softened temper and/or devotion to ritual. But the new queen, bright and shining and clever as she was, also was a daughter of a warrior-race. In fact she often sparred with her husband in the courtyard: the court and people had become adept at averting their eyes at the public exchange of clashing swords, then vicious words, and then passionate embraces, which was the usual way these sessions went. And now, seated next to her husband on the dais, she was engaged in sharpening the ritual Heart-Sacrifice knife. (She didn't trust their servants to do it properly, she'd said in front of them all, which had caused another exchange of words -vicious - and embraces - passionate - with her king.)
The bard thought of the king's devotion to ritual, the queen's devotion to a cutting blade, and the royal pair's inexplicable failure to summon a hapless peasant for tonight's sacrifice, and he almost broke a mandolin-string.
Had the king so truly hated the bard's new Return of the Light song a fortnight ago, and decided that further royal investment in the arts was a bad idea? In other words, the bard thought, it'd be just like His Majesty to kill off his bard for a simple aesthetic disagreement about metre. And then what would become of the bard's secret lover Sir Brian, his delicious knight who smelled of metal and blood and lavender and who had inspired two extremely popular ballads about shagging in the moonlight, he'd probably just move onto that kitchen-slut Anthony...
“Singer of songs, pay attention!” barked the king, all laziness gone.
The hall went quiet. The mandolin-string snapped.
“Sire?” the bard managed.
The king narrowed his eyes. “That mishap shall make the ritual less potent, perhaps. But we shall continue,” he muttered, then said in his most regal voice, “People of the Seven Lands, we sacrifice a heart on this night, as our ancestors have done since time began. May the hearts that remain be lightened by this death!”
The queen brandished the knife. The bard almost, but not quite, lost control of his bowels.
“Sir Brian!” the king called.
No, the bard thought, no, but before he could get the words out, his lover walked, clanking (blame a profusion of chainmail), up onto the dais. Strangely, and in complete violation of usual practice, Sir Brian was carrying an oddly-wrought box from the queen's homeland. He knelt at the queen's side, and presented the box.
“My dear,” the king said, smiling into her eyes. “Shall you do the honours?”
“I shall cut with a good will, my love,” she replied, with a matching smile.
The king seemed poised to have gazed adoringly at his queen for the rest of the night, but he collected himself and then bellowed, “Bard! The song, man!”
No, no, the bard thought. But with one last despairing glance at his idiotically smiling and no doubt doomed lover, he touched an unharmed string on his instrument and began the ritual song. (It was a stupid lyric, moon-June-death-blood-moon-June nonsense, but it's what he'd been taught. It did have a nice melody, though.) He sang with sadness, with fire, with love--
And the king opened the box, and took out a red, heart-shaped fruit, and held it at arm's length.
Down came the queen's arm, flash went the blade, and the fruit screamed -- magic from the song? From the knife? --and split. Crimson spatters went everywhere, just like a peasant's heart.
The world shimmered, and the hall filled with the spirit of amity and love, just as it had done every year since the beginning of sung history.
Wiping a few red bits from his forehead just underneath his crown, the king smiled again. “That was a very good idea of yours, darling.”
“We really can't afford to waste peasants in that manner, can we?” she said, smiling back. “Sacrifice is important, true, but we must be reasonable about this, and as humane as possible.”
“Yes, indeed. I was struck yesterday by a passage in Arioti on the same theme...”
“Darling, don't be scholarly at just this moment, it's so annoying,” the queen said, and then kissed away the king's frown at this insult. Then she sent a half-way smile at the bard. “Shouldn't you be singing, Master? You'll spoil the ritual if you don't conclude it properly.”
“Right, right,” the bard said hastily, and he swung into the traditional tune, Reasons to Be Cheerful (Part III).
Outside, the night was crisp and edge-of-snow, but the spirit of amity and love flowed out through the Seven Lands for another year.
..................... May your February 14th be a good day! :-)