The Sweetest Spell (31 page)

I’d do it. I’d throw the fight.

An official approached us—a burly man with flecks of his last meal in his thick beard. “You know the rules?” he asked.

I nodded, as did Henry.

“That’s good.” He folded his arms. “What do you want us to do with your bodies?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Pardon me?”

“One of you is going to die so I need to know what to do with you. We got the incinerator out back. But if you want your body sent home, then you’ll need to pay a death tax and the gravedigger’s fee.”

“Look,” I said calmly. “Henry, here, might be three times my size but he’s not going to kill me. So don’t worry about it.”

The official glanced at Soldier Wolf. “No one told you?”

Wolf shrugged. “Told me what?”

The official smiled, his brown teeth like chunks of wood. “The rules were changed to make things more interesting. It’ll be a fight to the death. No exceptions.” He pulled a knife from his belt. “So if one of you doesn’t kill the other, I’ll step in and choose the loser.”

One-eyed Henry and I shared a long, terrified look.

The chambermaids held me down and poured black dye over my head. Fumes rose from the porcelain sink and stung my eyes. I trembled with humiliation. The queen watched, circling like a bird of prey. “There’s nothing we can do about the foot. The surgeon said it’s too late to straighten it. However, we can do something about the hair,” she said. “You are no longer a dirt-scratcher. You are my son’s future bride.”

“I’m Emmeline,” I insisted. “Emmeline Thistle. From the Flatlands.”

She froze. “You are
not
from the Flatlands.” She tapped her fingers on the side of the sink. “The Prince of Anglund cannot marry a commoner. Thus, from this moment hence, you are a princess from a distant land. No one can know your real identity.”

She was going to rewrite history, just as Queen Margaret before her.

“I’m—” I sputtered, water trickling into my mouth. One of
the maids wrapped a towel around my head, another wiped my face dry. I pushed them away, stumbling backward. “I’m a Flatlander and I don’t care who knows.” The towel tumbled from my head.

“I care!” the queen roared, her eyes fiery with rage. The room fell into silence as our gazes locked. She’d made a huge mistake and I knew it. She knew it. She cleared her throat. “We care,” she corrected. “
We
care.”

“I know the truth,” I whispered, my jaw trembling. “You have dirt-scratcher blood. So does your son.” I held my ground, even as her face contorted with fury. “Your ancestor, Queen Margaret, was a
dirt-scratcher
.”

The queen stomped her foot. “Out!” she ordered. The maids, their hands black with dye, scurried from the room. The two of us stood, glaring at each other. Droplets rolled down my face but I didn’t wipe them away. “You speak treason,” she said between clenched teeth.

“I know you dye your hair,” I said. The queen took a step toward me. Though my heart nearly burst through my chest, I held my ground, balancing on the tip of my curled foot, trying to stand as straight as possible. “I know your true hair looks like mine.”

“You are a fool to speak to us that way.”

“Why don’t you tell the people the truth?” I asked. “My people have a right to know that they were here first. They have a right to live outside the Flatlands. You share our blood. You should help us.”

I’d gone too far. A gurgled sound arose in her throat. She lunged at me and grabbed my shoulders. Then she twisted me around to face a golden mirror. I gawked at the reflection that
greeted me. The girl’s hair hung in black ropes. Trails of black ran down the front of her dress. Tears welled in her eyes.
She isn’t real
, I told myself.
She is part of a horrid dream. I do not know that girl.

“You are no longer Emmeline. You are who we say you are,” Queen Beatrice said with the icy cold of the River Time. “You do what we tell you to do.” Then she released my shoulders and walked toward the door, her jeweled belt clinking with each precise step.

“That wasn’t our agreement,” I said. “I never agreed to be someone else.” The queen kept walking, not a glitch to her steps. “I won’t make chocolate for you. I’ll stop. If you don’t change my hair back, I’ll stop.”

“Then we will kill him,” she said as she reached for the door’s handle.

“Him?” I whispered.

“The boy who brought you here. We had him escorted to the dungeon.”

My knees began to tremble. “You said you gave him the reward and he returned home.”

“He’s alive, that’s his reward. And as long as you make the chocolate, he lives.” The queen chuckled. “The only way I can keep you in your place is to possess something you love.”

I clenched my fingers. “When your son rules, everything will be different.”

“Rule? My son rule?” She opened the door. “Prince Beauregard is too weak to rule.”

As she left the room, the chambermaids returned. I sat limply
on a stool while they dried and combed my hair. It all made sense. That’s why Griffin didn’t wait to say good-bye. That’s why he had simply disappeared. Everything had been a lie, right from the start.

“Griffin,” I whispered.

Henry and I stood in the dirt circle, our painted numbers now dry, though mine had begun to itch with sweat. The dirt was perfect, rock-free, soft beneath my twitching toes. The benches were almost full. I craned my neck and peered up at the sky. Even though Henry was a bumbling kind of brute, heavy on his feet, this could possibly be my last day. My last hour. My last moment.

I’d tried to run. As soon as I realized that Soldier Wolf had tricked us, that we had to fight to the death, I darted beneath the railing and had just about made it to the exit when three soldiers tackled me and dragged me back.

So there I stood, facing my opponent. His broad shoulders and wide chest blocked my view like a flesh-covered rampart. His sunken eyelid glistened. But there was no rage in his good eye, not like the other times we’d fought. “I’m sorry I’ve got to kill you,” he said.

“Likewise,” I told him. I’d never killed anyone. Death in the barefist fights happened. With the right angle and force, a jealous husband or hired assassin could easily snap a neck or crush a temple. But most men fought honorably within the dirt circle, the goal to knock the opponent off his feet for ten beats of the drum. Nothing more. But today it was kill or be killed. That was my choice.

What kind of cruddy choice was that?

“Think of it this way,” Henry said with a shrug. “You can’t have the girl you love. So what you got to live for? Might as well let me kill you.”

“Thanks for the sentiment,” I said. “That makes me feel much better.”

“Good luck, Owen!” Bartholomew Raisin called from the pit where the fighters and their promoters sat. Standing on tiptoe, he leaned over the railing, his greedy eyes flashing with possibility. “I put fifty coin on you so you’d better win!”

“Wouldn’t want to cause you any inconvenience!” I hollered back. How rude it would be of me to lighten Bartholomew’s coin purse.

The bearded official stepped between us. “After the third beat of the drum you begin.” He looked at one-eyed Henry, then looked pityingly at me. “If the pummeling gets too much to bear, just give me a signal and I’ll cut your throat. Sometimes a swift death is best.”

I swallowed hard. “That won’t be necessary.”

The official shrugged, then stepped back. A drummer, who sat in the pit, raised his baton, but a sudden blast of a horn interrupted his motion. Conversations immediately ceased and everyone stood,
their heads turning toward a golden doorway on the upper level. “The king,” the official said. Then he punched my arm. “On your knee for the king.” One-eyed Henry and I copied the official as he knelt in the circle. A wave of turning heads rolled across the benches as the door opened.

King Elmer waddled in, a shrub of white hair sticking out the top of his crown. He breathed like a bulldog, wheezing and grunting with his strained movements. He headed toward his throne, then wedged himself between the armrests. Servants crowded around with trays of food and drink. I frowned. There sat the man responsible for squeezing Anglund in a vise with his unjust taxes. Had he been told about the starving dirt-scratchers? I had no way of knowing.

The horn sounded and Queen Beatrice entered. A tall, dark-haired woman, she moved with smooth steps as if her feet never touched the ground. Chains of glittering jewels dangled from her waist. She nodded and waved at the onlookers, then took her place on the other throne. One throne remained empty.

I waited, my breathing quick and shallow. Where was he? Where was the man who’d claimed Emmeline’s heart? Would she be with him?

The arena was silent, everyone still facing the king who slurped ale from a golden goblet. The queen leaned over and whispered something in his ear. “What’s that?” he bellowed.

“The fighters are waiting for your orders.” She folded her hands in her lap, a tight smile plastered on her face.

“The fighters?” He shoved the goblet at a servant, then waved
his hands. “I can’t see a damn thing over those bloody hats!” The powder-faced people sat. The women removed their feathered hats. Then the king smiled. “Now I see. The fighters are ready. Hello, fighters!” He waved. The official jabbed me in the side with his elbow. I waved back. So did one-eyed Henry. Everyone in the audience waved too. The king waved again. The audience waved. Henry and I waved. I might have laughed if I hadn’t been keenly aware of death hovering nearby.

My gaze darted here and there. Still no sight of her. Was she with him? Was he tall and handsome like his mother or was he a fat dullard like his father? She couldn’t possibly love him, could she?

“Your Majesties,” the official called, still on his knee. “The first fighters are ready.”

King Elmer slapped his armrest. “Look at the size of number one. We wager he’ll be victorious.” He grabbed a skewer of meat and pointed it at me. “You there, number two. Since you are about to die, do you have a final request?”

Change the rules. Let me go. Give me a different opponent
. All these requests ran through my head, but I knew that none would be granted. Henry and I were the entertainment for these lazy, soft-bellied fools who fed on the work of others. Who ate without toil. Who slept without exhaustion. They wanted a bloodbath to fill the moments between their naps and parties.

“Get on your feet when you address His Majesty,” the official said with a shove.

I stood. King Elmer chewed, grease shining at the corners of his painted mouth. Queen Beatrice stroked a string of yellow beads,
her gaze turned skyward. “Your Majesties,” I said, boldly aiming my voice at the thrones. “I do have a final request.”

The king stopped chewing. The strand of beads dropped from the queen’s hands and she looked at me for the first time. Everyone sat forward in their seats.

“I want to see Emmeline, the Milkmaid,” I called. “I need to tell her something.”

“What’s that?” the king hollered, a piece of meat flying from his mouth.

“He wants to marry her,” one-eyed Henry bellowed.

“I want to talk to her,” I said as I walked toward the railing. “She needs to know that her people are outside the city gates. The dirt-scratchers have no homes because the Flatlands flooded. They’re starving and they’ve come here for help.”

“Dirt-scratchers?” The word hissed around the arena, slipping from mouths pursed with disgust.

Queen Beatrice stood and held up her hands. The arena fell into silence. “Who are you?” she asked, her cold voice sliding over the heads of tax-collectors and merchants until it reached me.

“I’m Owen Oak, from Wander. I’m a dairyman’s son.”

“Well, Owen Oak, dairyman’s son, we do not understand why you believe the Milkmaid would care about dirt-scratchers. The Milkmaid is not from the Flatlands. She is from a distant land, and her only concern is the making of chocolate and the pending marriage to our son, Prince Beauregard.”

“Your Majesty,” I said, not weighing the words before I spoke, for what did I have to lose? To kill or to be killed was my fate.
“Emmeline is from the Flatlands. I know this because I found her after she was washed downriver. Please, do not let her people starve. I have met many dirt-scratchers. They are good people. They are citizens of the realm. They need your help.”

Stunned faces stared back at me from the tiered seats. Eyes widened, mouths hung open. The queen’s face twisted into a grimace. “The Prince of Anglund would never marry a dirt-scratcher.” She addressed the entire arena. “Dirt-scratchers have red hair. The Milkmaid has hair as black as mine. Everyone will see this at the Royal Wedding, which will take place tomorrow.” People murmured in agreement.

Black hair?

The queen continued. “We have no interest in the welfare of dirt-scratchers. We will send them back to the Flatlands where they belong.” More murmurs.

The king, who’d finished his skewer of meat, hollered, “Stop talking and fight! To the death!”

The crowd took up the call. “To the death. To the death.” Cheers rose and feet stomped. The official motioned at the drummer, then stepped to the edge of the dirt circle. One-eyed Henry staggered to his feet. He raised his fists. The drum beat once, twice, thrice. I looked around one last time for Emmeline. She’d never know about her people. They’d die like dogs at the side of the road and she’d never know. Or maybe she didn’t care anymore. Maybe a life with the prince was what she wanted. Maybe she’d dyed her hair so she could be one of them.

No. I didn’t believe it.

Henry lunged at me. I ducked beneath his armpit. I could probably sidestep his blundering movements all day. Or until the official grew bored and slit one of our throats. Henry growled and lunged again. As I darted away, movement caught my eye. The golden door had opened and a young man walked out. Black-haired but with a normal, unpowdered face, he took the throne next to Queen Beatrice. I gritted my teeth, trying not to imagine him kissing Emmeline when … wham! Henry threw a punch to my right cheek.