Chapter Text
You could see the stars through the slash in the tent. Graham tried to remember how that cut had gotten there. Something had happened, back when he’d been a knight. He just couldn’t recall if it had been a sword, an animal claw, or if he’d just accidentally dropped the tent package in a bramble bush while traveling. Either way, it was sliced open to the heavens, and he could see the constellations through the ragged tear.
He ought to have the fancy kingly tent, the one with the furs and camp tables and stuff smashed into it. Even if it was too hot in mid-summer for furs. He ought to have a bunch of guards standing guard outside it, glaring at squirrels in the shadows. He probably ought to have wine goblets and roasted boar and whatever else you were meant to have as a king out in the wilds.
Instead, it was just him, his fussy old saggy tent that he’d put up himself, a bag of marshmallows, and the stars.
Not that Royal Guard Number One had been very happy about the plan, but Graham had insisted. Just this once. This night, in particular. He was too nervous to stay inside the castle, to feel the walls press on him, to try on the royal robes for the thousandth time while they pinned and poked and adjusted the furs (again, furs, in mid-summer, why).
“I know what my people are thinking tonight,” he muttered at the canvas, half sing songy. “They’re saying, ‘I wonder what the king is doing tonight? What merriment is the king pursuing tonight? How goes the final hour as he sees the bridal bower being regally and legally prepared?’ Well. I’ll tell them what the king is doing tonight. He’s off in the woods, scared out of his mind.”
He rolled onto his stomach, pulling his pillow hard over his ears.
“Okay, not scared of Neese,” he said to the feathers. “Never scared of Neese.”
Then what are you scared of?
“I don’t want her to marry Daventry. I want her to marry me, Graham. But she’s getting Daventry, too.”
Daventry’s pretty. Look at those stars. Anyone would be delighted to get this.
They were royalty. He was a king. She was a princess. She would be a queen, after tomorrow night. On the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, they would join hands in front of his—their—citizens. They would kiss in front of everyone, and he would place the newly minted crown made just for her on her head in front of everyone. His own crown had been beautifully updated too, with red rubies set into the gold, and the Daventrian sunset would flash against his crown, and her crown, as the sun set on their past and a hundred lanterns illuminated their future and they would be wed and everyone would applaud politely while they kissed again. They would rule Daventry together. Their relationship, by its very nature, had to be public. Had to be shared.
“I don’t want to share her,” Graham said to the dark, petulantly. Which her he was referring to, he wasn’t entirely certain he could answer. He whined into his blankets, fingers pressed tight enough against the pillow over his head to feel the weave in the fabric.
Even if his complaining hadn’t been muffled by the pillow, the guards were too far away to hear him, to respond. It was part of the deal. Graham would get to spend the night out in the forests a little distance from the castle, unable to see the flickering candles in every window as everyone ran around getting ready. The guards would come, because of course the guards would come, you couldn’t just have a king out in the field by himself. (Even if he was quite prone to doing that anyway, they were doing their best to rein him in.) But tonight they would be far enough away that he couldn’t sense them. He wanted to be alone. Breathe Daventry’s air.
“All grooms feel jittery the night before the big day,” Number One said firmly, while Graham pulled his old sleeping roll from the stack of knightly things in the storage cupboard. “You’ll be fine.”
“And I’ll be outside.”
“Sire, please.”
“You're right. I will be fine. The most that’ll happen is a mosquito bite.”
Probably because there was a gaping hole in his tent. Graham still wore his adventuring clothes even in his blankets—he didn’t actually want to get mosquito bites, and his summer nightshirt was too thin and gaped a bit too much. He’d slept in his adventuring clothes a thousand times anyway. It made him feel safer. More confident. He wished he could wear them during the ceremony, could feel like himself. Like Neese was going to marry him, and not the furs.
“It’s the middle of June, why do we need fur?” he moaned. But some things you didn’t argue against, and the tailor had given him such a glare when he’d started to suggest otherwise.
He rolled back, staring up at the stars. This time tomorrow, things would be different. So different. But it was Neese. It would be better.
But would she marry him, or would she marry Daventry? The forest clearing was already decorated, the lanterns strung in the trees and ready to be lit. The gown was ready (even if he hadn’t seen it yet), the crowns were ready (he’d seen those), the furs were ready (ugh, he’d worn those). He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t—
Outside his tent, something creaked. A night bird cooed. A cricket sawed a lonely melody. Some animal stepped on a stick and it snapped, quietly, quietly. Not even sure he heard it. He sat up, looking into the dark of the canvas.
Sleep wasn’t going to come tonight anyway. He felt too buzzy and irritable, like his hair belonged to someone else.
He kicked past the blankets, past the canvas, out into the Daventry night. Not that it was much different than inside the tent, what with the giant slash in it. He really ought to have that repaired. Not that he used it often enough to bother about repairing. Needless waste of time, when he was a king and had other things to do. He ran a hand across the tear.
Other than him, the night was silent. He couldn’t see the guards, couldn’t hear them, wasn’t exactly sure where they were positioned. Not even sure if they were really paying attention. It was a warm Daventry night, star splashed and sweet, and he was impatient and moody and he was going to go walking. If he walked into a guard, well. He’d keep walking. Maybe he’d walk to Serenia. He picked a direction, and wandered off for a distance, only half bothering to keep quiet. He doubted the guards were close enough to hear his footsteps in the loamy forest. It was just him, and the night animals.
And a tree branch, flying toward his face at great speed, in the hands of an enemy. The rough bark struck him hard, and the stars winked out all at once, leaving him in the dark, achy, black of unconsciousness.
“Oh dear, oh dear, he’s bleeding,” Mordon said, clutching the stick to his chest like a security blanket. Graham lay senseless at his feet, a fairly substantial cut on his forehead dripping into the leaves and the dirt.
“I’d call that a good shot,” Manny said, sitting on a tree trunk and watching with undisguised glee. “Hardly made a sound. Good, good.” He leapt off his perch and moseyed forward, inspecting Graham’s face. “Hmm. You know, that gives me an idea.” He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped it across Graham’s forehead, streaking blood.
“An idea?” Mordon repeated, scooping up Graham’s limp body. They started walking; better to be away from here before the guards came to check. Graham had been quiet when they’d clocked him, but not silent.
“I’m wondering about ingredients,” Manny said, folding the handkerchief carefully. “Hagatha always used a single hair, and the results always seemed imperfect to me. But I wonder about blood. Doesn’t that seem better to you?”
“I’m afraid I do not have enough knowledge about magic,” Mordon said, shifting Graham’s weight in his arms as he navigated a fallen log. “But surely alterations to an established recipe should be considered with great care?”
“I always have great care,” Manny said, carelessly. “Blood seems like it would be more potent than hair. I think that could change the plans, make them better. I think it’ll be you. Yes, you could do it. I’ll stay in the shadows and keep things moving the way I need them to, and this could work beautifully.”
“I could...?”
“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Manny said, still not explaining. “They’ll excuse any mistakes you make for prewedding nerves.”
“But I—are you suggesting—Brother, are—?” Mordon staggered, struggling to keep up with the little knight, who was walking very quickly in his eagerness to get back to their hidden cabin in the woods.
The cut on Graham’s forehead was exactly where the heavy crown would sit. If he were to wear it now, it would hurt terribly, pressing into the injury. But he wouldn’t wear it again.
If you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. Manny had left his work to goblins in the past, but this time, he was going to be personally involved from step one to its conclusion. Schemes rolled past, and he plucked a different one from his thoughts. With blood and a half finished cosmolotion recipe back in his hideout, he thought maybe they could have a little more fun. Yes, this could be much more fun.
Graham woke slowly, his mouth dry and his head aching horribly. Sunlight splashed across his face, warm and blinding. He shifted in his blankets, the lumpy pillow scratchy and unfamiliar feeling. He reached up, his hand wavering like he was pushing through pudding, and he dizzily danced his fingers across his aching forehead. He found a clumsy bandage tied sloppily over his hair. Odd.
He tried to sit up, and something pressed hard against his throat, holding him back. He sank back into the pillow without fuss, willing to let the universe make his choices for the moment. He stared at the ceiling, blinking fuzzily. There were gaps in the wooden ceiling, like his tent. But he couldn’t see stars. He saw morning clouds scudding across a blue sky.
Morning. Morning...oh stars, the morning of his wedding! Stars, he was probably late!
He sat up again, to fling the blankets aside, to get to his tailor and his fitting and his breakfast and—and again something yanked against his throat, keeping him pinned to his pillow. His yelp at being surprised by the morning turned into a strangled choking noise, and his fingers reached for his neck. They brushed against warm metal. Metal?
Something clicked on the pillow beside his ear. Chain links.
There was a shackle clipped around his neck. A metal collar holding him down.
It wasn’t tight at all, but suddenly Graham wasn’t sure he could breathe around it. He scrambled backward, his feet kicking against the mattress, until he was pushed as far up the headboard into as much of a sitting position as the short chain would allow, clawing at the metal with shaking fingers. He stared around the room, fingers interlocked with the collar and holding it as far off his neck as he could.
He was alone. A timbered cabin, half rotten with age and disuse. Sunlight sparkled through broken window panes, glittering as it hit familiar objects in an unfamiliar setting. He remembered. Last year, Hagatha’s magic had accidentally sent him to a cave crammed with Manny’s life. His books, his bottles of ingredients, his paints, his power. Graham recognized these same objects now, easily. Manny’s things. And Mordon’s leather cap, discarded on the floor like it had been flung there. The splintery floorboards were stained with something green, some potion that had bubbled and spilled and done...what.
He could see the potion bowl, too, on the cracked desk. Stained with something sludgy. It was scraped out, whatever had been in there. He desperately hoped they weren’t planning on filling it with something goopy and oozy and meant to torture him into doing something dreadful for them.
This all felt so out of place and wrong, to see all those grim things out in the sunlight and not in the gloom of that cave. But that’s all that was there. Things. No one was around. He experimentally called for help, not expecting a reply, and his voice was trembly and broken with the terrible darkness of forced unconsciousness and fear of the collar. Okay. Definitely alone.
There was dust on the pillow. Fresh sawdust and mortar dust. Graham’s fingers felt the short chain back to the wall behind him, where he found a spike driven into the wall, as clumsily done as the bandage on his head.
“I don't think I was supposed to be here,” he muttered, feeling the spike’s placement. This didn’t feel extremely thought out, per say. He was trapped, undeniably, but it still seemed like it had been done in great haste. Probably Mordon, he thought, driving the chain into the wall while Manny complained about the minutes he was taking up doing it. Manny had probably complained the whole time Mordon was binding up the cut on Graham’s forehead, too. It was all quite sloppy.
Did the job well enough, though.
Graham slumped in the pillows, the metal biting against his throat now he knew it was there. He swallowed hard around it. Okay. Okay. There was a keyhole, he could feel it against his fingertips, but that wouldn’t do him any good. Manny almost certainly had the key on his person.
And where was Manny, anyway? Surely he’d love to be here to gloat. Or Mordon, his huge lanky body folded awkwardly on that little footstool in the corner, reading a dictionary and waiting for Graham to wake up so he could explain the evil plot of the week. But there was no one. Just birds, outside the cabin, twittering madly at each other. Sing songy. The sort of thing you’d definitely have in a fairy wedding.
His wedding. Surely it was cancelled by now. They were missing their groom. The guards would be throwing a fit. Did they think he’d run away, with prewedding jitters? He’d been close to it.
I wouldn’t leave Neese like that.
Okay. He had to get out of here, and he couldn’t use a key. The collar wasn’t going anywhere, unless he was taking his own head off. Which meant he needed to disconnect the spike from the wall. The chain would dangle loose, like a scarf or a leash, but it would be freedom enough to get home. His questing fingers gripped the edge of the spike. He could probably wiggle it free, with enough time. He hoped he’d have enough of that.
Time, time. The morning drifted by, time moved on, as Graham struggled alone. But the wedding wasn’t cancelled. The groom was right where he was supposed to be. Sitting at the breakfast table with Neese and the King of Kolyma, barely eating and barely looking anyone in the eye, but still very much in Daventry castle, his nervous fingers dancing on his fork.