The Subtle Beauty (19 page)

Colin approached her, his expression turning from crazed executioner to softened lover. “Glory, what are you saying? This is our happily ever after.”

“Do you love me, Colin?”

He took her hands in his. “You know I do.”

“Set me free.”

Colin’s shoulders hunched. “I thought that was what I was trying to do.”

Glory shook her head and stepped back. “Leave.”

Colin’s mouth hung open a little. “Glory, I would do anything…” he dropped to his knees.

“Then leave.”

“You do not mean that.”

Glory’s eyes narrowed. She turned her back to him and walked away. “I do not love you. I cannot love a monster.”

Glory’s heart was heavy. She found the winding staircase to the tower she had climbed her first morning and ascended it once more. The door was stuck again, but she got it open with the first try. The walkway was breezy. Glory sat in the middle and pulled her knees to her chest. The wind gently whipped her hair back. She gazed at the first early-evening stars that were starting to spark above a fiery sunset. It was a good place to be alone with one’s thoughts. Glory heard music close by. She rolled her eyes and grimaced. Had she not told Colin to leave? She rose and followed the notes. They were coming from the other side of the opposite tower. The door opened willingly, and she moved through the tower to the walkway. The music grew louder. She moved along another walkway through another tower. Blackthorn Keep faced the ocean from this vantage point. Waves beat off the nearby cliffs. She opened the door, ready to cowl Colin. In the middle of the walkway sat a familiar harper.

Eoghan
. Glory smiled, all thoughts of Colin vanishing.

Eoghan’s small Celtic harp hung from a leather strap over his shoulder and across his neck. He gazed at the strings, plucking them gently with a single, careful, polished talon. He seemed very deep in thought. Glory leaned against the tower, watching him play. For extra emphasis, he used his beak on the strings a few times. Eoghan shook his head as if something were not quite right. He plucked the same chords over, progressively. He paused and gazed out at the sea. The sunset cast orange lines of fire over the waves. The breeze rustled Eoghan’s burnished feathers. His free foot strummed the stones beneath him like the drumming of impatient fingers in a tired tutor’s schoolroom. Then he began playing fervently and raised his voice in song.

“Croí uasal milis,

gearrtha ag grá agam,

Míshásta agus tá mé ciúin,

Ná aon áthas nó pléisiúir dóigh liom gur.

Le haghaidh a thabhairt duit

mo anam cara is grá,

Tá mé mo chroí a thabhairt dá bhrí sin
.”

Eoghan gazed in to the sunset. His head held high and allowed the breeze to smooth over him. He seemed satisfied at last.

Glory stepped toward him. “That was beautiful.”

Eoghan’s wings spread defensively, and he leapt to his feet. When he saw Glory, his wings folded, and he relaxed again, turning his view to the sky.

“What did the words mean?”

Eoghan’s tail drummed the stones. His eyes shifted, as if to decide whether or not to divulge such information. He spoke softly. “Sweet, noble heart, I am wounded by love, so that I am sad and pensive and have no joy or mirth.” He turned his head and looked at her. “For to you, my sweet companion, I have thus given my heart.” Eoghan stared out at the sea once more, the sunset outlining his body with an elysian glow. “But love is blind to me.”

Glory’s hand went to her burning heart.
Oh, Eoghan! I am not blind. I see you now.
She drew close to him, closer than she had ever been before. She saw the rise and fall of his proud chest, heard the breaths he drew. She reached out to him. Her hand paused and her eyes looked into his. Her fingers slid over his rippling shoulder and under his feathers. He trembled at her touch. His mouth opened, his tongue rolling a little. Glory relished his warmth, the exquisite down of each silky vane. She saw her reflection in his great eye.

“I am so very sorry for all of the ill things I have said, Eoghan. It is no way to speak to such a noble prince. Please forgive me.”

Eoghan bowed his head. “There is something I wish you to know, Princess,” Eoghan murmured.

Glory’s gaze turned to him.

“You were never my prisoner during your stay here.”

Glory’s eyes widened.

“You could have left any time you chose. You may have felt there was no way out, or that you had no other options, but you were wrong to believe so.” Eoghan gazed at the stars, a certain sadness washing over him. “I was wrong for allowing you to believe so. There is always a choice. You kept choosing to return to Blackthorn.” He sighed and looked at Glory. Her hand was slipping away from his shoulder. “Seeing your unhappiness, Glory, causes me great sorrow,” Eoghan admitted. “I do not wish you sorrow, Princess, but your happiness only. If you can not find it here with me, then you are free to leave whenever you wish. In my faery tale the princess rescues herself.” Eoghan looked into the face of the heavens once more. His expression was pained. “I release you from our betrothal.”

“Eoghan, I—”

Eoghan shook his great head and spread his wings. Glory gave him his space, and he took flight.

Glory sat on the bed in her room. She pondered what had transpired between them. She was free. Did she want to be free? For a season, she had wanted nothing more. The door was now open to her, and the road she had been so eager to take sprawled out ahead. Glory could not take the first step. She looked across the room to where the ghost usually appeared to her, willing it to show itself. “Now would be a good time for you to do your magick,” she told it. But the specter did not come.

Glory’s shoulders sagged. She was alone. Staying at Blackthorn Keep or returning to Winterholme Castle was going to be her choice to make. She tried to weigh the pros and cons, but they both seemed to equal each other out. This matter was presenting itself as very difficult. However, the more she thought, the more questions began to arise, and she realized that they could only be answered by one person. With a deep breath, she steeled herself and went to the door. She summoned a servant.

“Please ready a carriage immediately.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

Glory took one last look around the room and left. She made her way to the courtyard. A black carriage was ready and waiting, drawn by two black horses. A footman opened the door and assisted Glory inside. She sat down and stared up at Blackthorn Keep.

The driver turned from his perch up front and asked Glory through the window, “Where to, Princess?”

“Please take me to Winterholme Castle as fast as you can.”

“As you wish.” The driver flicked the reins and the carriage lurched forward.

Tears welled in Glory’s eyes, but she never looked back.

Part IV

THE SUBTLE BEAUTY

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Wisdom and the Glory

The early-morning sunlight glinted off of the sparkling white stone of Winterholme Castle the same way it had done for centuries. The snow on the All Father’s Spine had melted. The silver peaks were lush and green with summer. Yet, to Glory, who had arrived in the middle of the night, it seemed as though she was seeing it all for the very first time. Her reflection in the polished and ornate marble floors did not seem to gleam as it once had. Instead, she noticed the intricately-painted details of each shining tile. The gardens seemed more beautiful than she had ever remembered them being, and mirrors did not catch her eye the way that the swaying trees and singing robin did. She had been tired, resting on very few hours of sleep in her own bed, but she rose at early dawn anyway. Questions pressed upon her mind. She dressed without assistance and snuck away from her room. She tiptoed to her father’s room. She sat on the edge of his bed and gingerly touched his shoulder. The old king startled from a deep sleep. His eyes fixed on Glory and bit by bit adjusted.

“Glory?” he mumbled groggily. “Is that my little princess? What are you doing here?”

“I have come home, Father. Will you rise and walk with me in the garden?”

Balthazaar sat up. “Give me a moment to dress, and I will join you down there.”

Glory smiled and left her father to his privacy. She made her way to the rose garden and waited by the lily pond. She looked in, not seeing her reflection, but wondering when all of those beautiful, rainbow-like fish had ever existed in the water. The sun was beginning to peek over the hedges. Glory sat on a bench and watched the sunlight roll in. She pictured herself only a few yards away, in the center of the garden. She could imagine a beautiful girl waiting in the shadows, her beauty only surpassed by her vanity. Glory shook her head, banishing the image from her mind. That seemed like an eternity ago. She felt like a fool to have been so vain. That girl was someone else, a stranger even. The sun crawled over the ground to where her feet rested near the base of the bench. She still loved the gift of the sun’s warmth, but she recognized it as only that: a gift. Every day was a gift and precious in its own right. She leaned back on her hands and turned her face skyward with a smile, closing her eyes and feeling a compelling gratitude deep within.

“You look very serene,” said Balthazaar.

Glory hummed contentedly, “I am.” She opened her eyes and looked at her father. He offered his arm.

“Shall we walk?”

Glory took it and rose.

“I have missed you, my dear,” Balthazaar murmured.

“Yet you do not ask where I have been. Have you not worried for my sake?”

Balthazaar shook his head. “I hope your regard for me will not diminish when I say that I have not wondered one day after your whereabouts.”

“And why is that?”

“The night that I announced your betrothal, I had the suspicion that you would try to run. It was in my foresight, and your best interests, that I confide my concerns to your sisters.”

“To what end did you hope this would achieve?”

“I disclosed to Alexa that Barwn Xander, Regent of the Blood Realm, would be expecting you after the wedding. I had felt there was no time to waste on your betrothal, especially when I knew how spirited you are.”

Glory momentarily resented the fact that her father knew her
too
well.

“Xander approached me at Council’s Realm with a proposal that I could not ultimately turn down. Your marriage to Prince Eoghan would unite all of the kingdoms and bring about a long and celebrated age of peace.”

“So it
was
a political union.”

“Not entirely.”

“What do you mean?”

“You must know that I love you and your sisters more than anything else in the world. You may think that the men I choose for your sisters are unsuitable to their dispositions, with the way they carry on in a show of misery. What you all fail to realize, however, is that I desire nothing more than the happiness of the lot of you. As your father, I see beyond what you all stand to see. I see, from my own experience, that you all are already a bunch of miserable mongrels.”

Glory looked at her father; her brow furrowed.

“So when I pick a suitor for one of my daughters, it is my every intention to change that misery into joy. I wish for you all to know the unconditional love that your mother and I shared.”

“I am sorry, Father, but I still do not understand.”

“Yes, yes. I thought you might come to say that. I wish you to know that you and your sisters possess certain…
qualities
, shall we say. You each are like a rough and dirty lump of coal.”

Glory did not exactly appreciate that metaphor.

“However, with guidance and the proper care, that lump of coal can be put through a fire and polished in to a brilliant, perfect, and most exquisite diamond.”

“I still fail to see the point you are trying to make, Father.”

Balthazaar patted Glory’s hand. “Perhaps you should ask your sisters.”

“For what purpose? Will they not all bemoan and wail of their misery?”

“Not necessarily. Each one has been matched to a man who is their equal, if polar opposite. Each of your sisters was also presented with the option of leaving their betrothed. Not one of them has chosen to end her marriage, so they are not as miserable as they appear. It is my intention to instill desire to serve into lazy Murtia; frugality to extravagant Lucullia; happiness to melancholy Ophelia; temperance to wrathful Odessa; moderation to Portia, who is a glutton; and chastity to lustful Alexa.…”

“And to me?”

Balthazaar smiled broadly. “My dear, I think you may have fulfilled my intentions for you already. I hope you will return to your prince.”

Glory wandered the palace. She still had some unanswered questions, but she had followed her father’s advice. She hoped to bump into any of her sisters, but they did not seem to want to be found. No doubt, word had spread of her return home. Could it be they feared how she would treat them for what they had done to her? Now that she understood that they had been under the direction of their father, how could she possibly be angry with them? She was keeping her promise. She did not blame them for where she was now. It had made her a better person, as her father had intended for each of them. Knowing she was beautiful and finding peace with the knowledge that it was enough not only made her stand a little taller on humbled self pride, but it had lifted a tremendous burden from her shoulders. Everyone conceded that she was the fairest in the land. What more did she need? She did not feel compelled to gloat or enforce such knowledge on the world. Her vanity had been a curse.