A Tale of Wishers: The Road

Queen Vetra sat in front of her mirror, unbinding her hair for the night. “What in the twenty-one kingdoms is going on?” She mumbled, staring at her reflection. “He storms out in anger, hating the very ground I walk on, and returns in a pleasant, happy mood, not even acting like his father tells him, as if I can’t see right through stone walls and fake grins.”
Her reflection wavered into the image of an unruly mage chained in a circular stone room that was distorted, as if under water. He answered, “He longs for another.”
“What?” Vetra cried, snagging a lock of fluid dark brown hair on her brush. “I mean, how am I to save Karkonia if he loves another? Who is it?”
“He’ll still marry you by duty,” the mirror reminded her. “This woman, Nadra, is one of those who put stock into sacrificing for the greater good, even if Rilen is not, and she has begun to teach him that same value. Your father’s wish will still be fulfilled, and I’ll still be trapped in here.”
“But it will be empty as long as she’s still around,” she said, “and don’t try to get me to feel sorry for you; it’s just as much your fault you’re trapped in there as it is mine.” Suddenly, she turned around and rang the gong by her door. Immediately, a servant girl materialized and bowed.
“Send for Gerrain!”
“Yes, my Queen!” the servant squeaked.
“That’s a desperate measure, don’t you think, Your Majesty?” The mirror queried. “The lass is losing her job. She’ll probably die of starvation anyways.”
“In which case I am being merciful, and her suffering will be short,” snapped the Queen. “I’m just not leaving this to the chance that Rilen will give her charity. People like that are so easy to predict; you wouldn’t have to be a sorceress to figure that out.”
Presently a man with dark hair and rugged features stumbled in, looking disoriented. “Evening, Your Majesty.” He gave her the proper bow. “What’s the meaning of dragging me from my shack at such an hour? I was sleeping!”
“No you weren’t; you were drinking,” she muttered, then louder, “I need someone taken care of. I know this to be your area of expertise.”
His foggy consciousness transformed immediately into gleeful alertness. “Who’s the job?”


Nadra pulled her large knapsack close to her, aware of thieves. Years of merchants’ training had taught her to always be on the lookout. Not that there’s much on me to steal, she thought, even though she knew it was not true. Among her few articles of clothing and provisions she’d managed to snag from the kitchens before leaving were a few fine silks and rare perfumes of great value she had saved from her father’s business, just as a precaution against the future. She would never, of course, resort to selling them unless there was no other choice; once they were, gone, they were gone.
Also in her possession was a fine black ebony embroidery frame. That she would never sell, not even if her life depended on it.
She leaned against her walking stick. Three miles she’d journeyed, but where was she going? She started to head towards the work-market, then realized that all it would offer her were jobs in the castle, and seeing as they had just fired her, they probably weren’t too keen on rehiring her too soon.
She sat in the shade of someone’s doorway, took off her hat, and began to sing; music always cheered her. Much to her surprise, a small clump of people had gathered around her before long, and some had even put coins in her hat. By the time the song was done, there was enough in the hat to buy a day’s worth of food.
“Thank you, everybody,” she said.
“Another,” someone shouted, “sing us another!”
So she did, into the day. Sometimes large crowds flocked to listen; other times, nobody paid her any mind. This did not discourage her, however; she knew she was doing better than most street performers anyway, and unreliability came with the trade. She felt lucky merely to be making any money at all.
One thing that disturbed her, though, was a man who never went away. When she went to the public fountain for water, he followed her. She checked to make sure her knife at her side was intact; she was not taking chances.
As the street grew dark and people began to head home, she realized she would have to find shelter for the night somehow, and the man was still trailing her. She vaguely remembered someone in the palace telling her about a gypsy encampment on the edge of town, who would give shelter and board to anyone who gave them a cut of the profits of whatever trade they made their living. She had thought nothing of it then, but now it seemed like a good idea for her current situation, and headed towards the outskirts of the capital.
The man was still following her.
She tried not to glance behind her shoulder too often; that would look suspicious, but she could gather from the brief looks she got of him that he was gaining on her, and he was armed.
Try as she might to lose him by taking sharp, unexpected turns through almost-invisible alleyways, he stayed behind her, now by only a few paces. Desperate, she turned into a narrow gap between two walls and slid to the other side of the buildings, just to find herself in an abandoned cul-de-sac, facing the large, smooth wall that protected the city from invaders, and certainly wouldn’t be easy to scale. Behind her, she could hear the man stumbling into the alleyway, her heart beating fast as her fingers enclosed around the hilt of her dagger.
“Alone at last,” the man said, grinning evilly as he advanced towards her, sword drawn. “Would look too suspicious in front of all those people.”
“What do you want?” Keep him talking, Nadra said to herself, mentally preparing herself for combat.
“Money, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “Too bad it’s such a pretty thing this time, but the Queen wanted it done quickly without fuss, without making you suffer too much.”
“The Queen?” Nadra gasped.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” the man cackled. “The Queen.”
He lunged at her, but not fast enough; she had her guard up already. The sword slid off her dagger easily, and jabbed at her chest. She was able to deflect it, but only far enough that it slashed her side shallowly instead of hitting something vital. Not wanting to wait for him to attack, she immediately knocked him over with her walking stick and went for his eyes, gouging one out, leaving him stumbling in pain while she slipped through the alleyway and ran as fast as she could; she didn’t need anyone to tell her she wasn’t safe in the city any more.
She abandoned the idea of refuge with the gypsies and headed to the surrounding forest; if there was one place the Queen wouldn’t look (even though she knew this was fruitless, it calmed her to find things to reason out), it was there.
She wandered all night, exhausted, and further the next morning until she came, exhausted to what looked like an abandoned cottage. This will do, she thought, as she opened the door, bandaged her side, and sank into a rather tiny armchair. She dozed off for about an hour, than, somewhat refreshed, took a closer look at her surroundings.
The place was a dump. The windows were so grimy she couldn’t see out of them; the fireplace looked as though one spark inside of it could burn the whole place down. The furniture, including the chair she was sitting in, was so dusty she could hardly see what the original pattern was. The floor was soiled with mud caked in layers, and the sink was stacked with layer upon layer of dirty dishes.
“Well,” she said aloud, “if this is home for the moment, it had better be habitable.”
So she set to tackling the fireplace first; it looked like the most dangerous risk, and she wouldn’t be able to cook or drink water safely without it. She found, to her delight, that wood was already stacked nearby; that would do for the moment.
As she set about cleaning the house, she felt somewhat grateful to have something to do. She really did not want to think about the man who had tried to take her life, or about why the Queen would want to do this to her, all for the sake of a moment’s conversation. It was a pretty fascinating conversation, though, no doubt of that...

Gerrain was nervous as he presented, on a silver platter, the heart of a boar. “I present to you the heart of Nadra, called Snow-White!”
“Nice try, Gerrain; you should know by now that I can see past such tricks.”
“She was strong, Your Majesty, and she was trained in defense!”
“So you’re telling me this wench beat you up?”
“Don’t be angry, Your Majesty!” Gerrain squeaked, holding a bandaged eye. “I wasn’t counting on her being armed!”
“You told me once,” said Queen Vetra, her green eyes flashing malevolently, “that you never counted on anything, that you would always be prepared.”
“But I--”
“Enough excuses!” The Queen half-shouted. “Guards! Throw this man in prison!”
As Gerrain and her guards exited through the gilded doors, Vetra sank back in her throne, exhausted and somewhat angry at herself. I should not have done that, she thought nervously. I wanted to be a better ruler than that.
She had little time to brood, though, as presently Prince Rilen entered.
“What is it, my beloved?” She smiled at him as convincingly as she could, trying to hide the guilt from the conversation she had just finished.
Rilen winced at the word beloved.
“What has become of the storyteller Nadra?” he demanded.
“Who is this Nadra?” Vetra configured her face into what she remembered as “slightly, yet benevolently puzzled” from her training in diplomacy. “If you are referring to a storyteller who works here, I hardly have time to keep track of every last entertainer who works here; there are far too many, and I do have the business of running a country to attend to.”
“Very well, then,” Rilen muttered. “I won’t waste your time any longer.”
He turned around to leave, but Vetra got up from her throne and stopped him. “Please, you are not wasting my time, I could use a break. Will you go with me on a stroll through the gardens, perhaps? They are exquisite this time of year; once you live here, I am sure you will enjoy them quite often.”
She smiled and worked every charm of persuasion she could summon without eye contact (he was staring pointedly in the other direction), but he shook his head and mumbled, “Sorry, Your Majesty, but I have other matters to deal with.”
He left, and she retreated to her quarters. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she slowly lifted her crown off of her head, feeling its weight more than ever. Why, she wondered, did they always make them so heavy? Did the goldsmiths think the rulers actually needed reminding of the weight of their position?
She gazed even further into the mirror. The face that looked back at her was way too young, way too fresh to be hers. She felt so old, so old, but knew that she was still quite young. . .
If only her father were still alive. He’d know what to do about this naive prince. She didn’t even want to marry him, but it had to be done for the sake of her people.
She sighed, replaced the crown upon her head, and walked back to the throne room to await the next case.


Nadra felt very satisfied with her handiwork. The cottage was now gleaming, and soup was simmering in the fireplace. There had been, to her surprise, quite a lot of food littered about the place, so she arranged it in the cupboards and used her own from her knapsack to get a goodly-sized cauldron brewing.
She ate a few bowls of the broth, then went upstairs and nestled herself crossways on the seven short beds she had come across (much to her astonishment) in her exploration of the cottage. Taking one of the pillows, she promptly fell asleep.


Rilen paced about his room in Vetra’s castle. “Women,” he spat in disgust. Vetra may be powerful, he thought. Vetra may be psychic. Vetra may even be beautiful, but to him, she was a backstabber.
He didn’t have to read minds to know that somehow Vetra had just done something to Nadra. For starters, she was no longer on the records of staff working in the palace. All traces of her were wiped out as though she never had existed. The children in the castle orphanage seemed to be the only ones who remembered her; apparently, she had come to tell them stories every day. Also, he had seen Vetra’s favorite hit-man dragged out as he had gone in to see her.
Somehow he knew she wasn’t dead, but knowing what Vetra could do to somebody, that didn’t encourage him much.
It is you who must learn from yourself. You alone can experience and live it.
Suddenly, he realized what he had to do. He only had so much time of night cover, when the castle’s slumber wouldn’t miss him, but he would use these hours well. But then again, Nadra had also said that he should do his duty for her people...he juggled the ideas in his mind as a court jester juggles pins for amusement.
Finally, he decided he would wait, and send out some discreet feelers in the meantime. It would be rash to randomly saddle up a horse and search Karkonia at random. No, first he would study maps, do it systematically, convince Vetra that he was merely going out to learn about her people before becoming their co-ruler. He probably should have done that anyways, but never mind that, at least he was thinking of it now, which would keep it from being a lie.