A Promise of Garnets in Winter Read online

  A Promise of Garnets in Winter

  A Torquere Press Single Shot by Camilla Bruce

  Once upon a time there was a young and beautiful queen who lacked nothing in life but a child. The Queen was also a great sorceress, and knew much about the dark arts. One winter night in moonlight she walked into the woods. Cloaked in blue velvet she stood in the snow among the great pines and chanted: "I wish I had a child. As white a snow, as black as ebony and as red as my blood." As she said the last words she lifted an iron knife to her palm and cut into her hand with the blade. Then she counted the seven drops as they fell down to the icy snow, glittering like garnets scattered on the surface.

  The wolf heard her and came.

  ***

  Nobody knew when the stranger had arrived in the city, but likely it had been after sunset, when the world was shrouded in black. Black as his soul, they said. He was a dangerous man, leaving bruises and broken jaws behind. A smooth-talker and a thief. Some said a murderer.

  The Kingdom was large, but he was not one of them. His accent was thick and his manners unspeakable. Yet no inn-keeper dared to turn him away as he drank his way through the city, leaving no tavern untouched, no rival unmarred. It was not the women he was after, this rascal. It was money and blood. His nostrils flared and his yellow-specked, green gaze shone passionately when he smelled the red fluid that ran across his knuckles after a fight. He was fierce with the dice, but it was this that was his true strength: the power of his fists. His ruthless desire to destroy his opponents. Every night, at every tavern where he stayed, he challenged the young men, the old men, to fight. Bets where taken, and usually he won. He could have been a rich man had he not drunk it all up. Careless as a spoiled child he scattered gold coins about him as if they were naught but dry leaves.

  He told them his name was Ylv. No one believed him.

  He had an unruly mane of a hair: Dark blond and wavy, hanging around his neck like ragged fur. His skin was tanned by the sun and his teeth were bright white. Pointed, some said. Others called that a lie. His upper body was strong and muscular, his hips narrow and his legs long and wrapped in brown leather. His face was broad and angled, his cheekbones high enough that his eyes were slanted, all adding to his feral look. The fright that he struck in people.

  It was another thing too, that made people suspicious of this stranger that so soon had gained a name among them, such a violent reputation. He kept asking questions about the royal family. Where was the King, and where was his son? Were they staying at the winter castle yet? No, said the townsmen, it was still early; the castle was dark and empty yet. But soon the candles would be lit and the fires would roar in the ovens. The scent of roasted goose and piglets would fill the courtyard again. And so Ylv would be silent and not ask for a few nights, spend his time on drink and fights. Then he would inquire again and go to the castle himself to have a look, but the men were right; the winter castle was still not in use. The royal family was elsewhere.

  They wondered what he wanted, the people of the city: a position at the castle? As a hunter, or a guard? Was he looking to challenge someone at court? Did someone owe him money? Or was his interest of a darker nature? Was he in fact a rebel, looking to harm the King?

  In the end it was the royal that found him one night; just as he was fighting a rogue of the mountains outside the Green Lady's Inn. Ylv's hands were colored pink with blood and sweat. His hair clung to his forehead, his shirt was ripped and hung in shreds, as did his opponent's. The men were cheering as Ylv's knuckles hit the other man over and over; he hardly reacted when the rogue hit him back. The mountain-man was soon to lose, that was clear; Ylv had split his lip in two and a bad swelling was apparent on his left cheek. He gasped and stumbled on his feet while his fist hit the air. Just a few of his attempts at fighting back succeeded.

  The Prince's horse neighed as he broke into the circle of cheering men. The black stallion threw his head and the Prince tried to calm him. Ylv looked up; his moss green gaze, flecked with gold, met the dark blue of the Prince's. Locked with it as the Prince's red lips parted in astonishment.

  Ylv forcefully pushed the mountain-man away so he fell towards the crowd and was taken care of by some of the men, flushed clean and awake with water from a barrel.

  Ylv met the neighing horse, who was at this point rolling his eyes, showing off the white, and caught the reins just below where the Prince's leather-clad fingers held them.

  "Skin as snow," the stranger said. "And hair the color of ebony..."

  The Prince wetted his lips nervously as Ylv continued to speak to him.

  "Lips as red as garnets," the large man finished his speech and smiled.

  "Let me go!" Prince Nethel brushed his hand off the reins and Ylv let them fall from his grasp. The Prince then spurred his restless and frightened horse and manoeuvred it away from the crowd. His short, black cape stood out like a seal behind his back when he rode in a furious pace out of the city gates, towards the castle, with his guards in tow.

  The people who had witnessed the whole thing shook their heads in astonishment, eyes wide with surprise. What was it they just had seen? What kind of power did Ylv have that could make the Prince pale and flee? What were those mysterious words, and how come he spoke to the Prince in that way? Did the two of them know each other? Had the horse been frightened? Had he touched their Prince with hands that were red?

  Ylv had not stayed to collect his prize after the fight. Right after the Prince had left and could no longer be seen from "The Green Lady", he went inside, not offering his opponent or the crowd a second glance.

  ***

  In the winter castle, behind the marble walls, the young Prince sat by the fire, swirling the fluid in his glass round and round. It was the best wine from the finest grapes, but tonight it did not matter... He kept picturing the forest gaze of the man he had seen in the city; green moss shot through with gold as sun rays filtered through the tree-tops. He saw the bloodied skin and the torn fabric, the sculpted flesh underneath. How that smile had made him look not happy, but cruel.

  Nethel did not know him, had never seen the man before. Yet the Prince had behaved like a mouse in front of a snake. It annoyed him. He threw his glass against the hearth and it shattered when it hit the pink marble, showering the floor with tiny fragments. A servant dressed in white was there at once, picking up the pieces and cleaning the wine off the tiles.

  The Prince did not notice; his lips were pouty and his gaze dark. He pushed the arms of his flared shirt up over his elbows and smoothed the fabric of his black waistcoat. Then he leaned forth over the table, resting his head in his hands while his gaze kept to the fire. He contemplated calling for his friends: the fine, young noblemen he had brought with him to this god-forsaken forest castle. If nothing else they could spend their time playing: listening to the musicians and drinking more of that delicious wine. But he did not feel like chattering with his friends. His father was out of the question; he had brought his young mistress with him and was probably not eager to trade an evening with her for one with his son. Even if he were the one and only.

  Nethel sighed deeply.

  Though he hated the feeling of unease the stranger had struck in him, there was nothing he would rather do less than sit there and think about that monstrous man... That devil he had seen beating his prey.

  Of course his hair was ebony-colored, his skin white as the purest snow, his lips the red of dark garnets. He knew all that, so why did it matter so much that the stranger had said it? That savage, sweat-drenched, unruly man. It did not. Yet it did.

  Prince Nethel sighed again and demanded more wine.

  The next night was no better; Nethel only plucked at the fat
trout lying on his plate when he had dinner with his father and his mistress. The Prince had just woken, having tossed and turned under the covers for most of the night, living the scene in the city street over and over in his mind. So who could blame him for preferring the wine to the fish? He ate cheese and some walnuts, then he sent for the sitar player against his father's wishes. The lady, a silly blonde woman who was younger than Nethel, laughed nervously and laid her white hand on the King's in a calming gesture. It was not necessary. Both of them knew Nethel was his father's only child. The only one he could have. His mother's witchcraft, or herb lore, as his father preferred to call it, had made the King's empty sachets fill with seed again. But the Queen was dead now. There would be no more royal babies. She had told Nethel that herself before she died, lying on the bed, her face the color of wax. Her hand in her twelve-year-old son's. He knew it, but the king did not know that he knew. Nethel had shared many secrets with his mother.

  The Prince grew tired of the sitar player and threw a nut at him. His father's old, wrinkled face gained that sour and stern expression he so often got when Nethel did something he did not like. Nethel brushed the heavy, black hair away from his face and lifted the goblet from the table again. His rings shone in the candle light. The stones sparkled: amethysts and sapphires. His mother had preferred garnets the color of blood and roses.

  Again he thought of the fighter he had seen. The dark blond hair and the dark complexion. The rich, dark color of the blood on his skin. The scent of him, so strong... Sweat and fur and copper...

  The Prince stabbed his pudding with his spoon and poured more sweet liquor into his glass. The sitar player was all but forgotten now that he stared at the flickering flames of the candles, trying to ignore the young lady's chattering voice. He leaned back in the chair and placed his legs on the table; the silver pins in his shoes were clean and newly polished. His white stockings were spotless. The velvet trousers were full of dog hair, to be expected, as they were to go hunting on the King's command, and thus had brought several barfing, drooling specimens with them. The Prince drank down the liquor. Nobody told him to take his feet down, so there they rested among the plates and silverware. Nethel took an apple from a tray and gave his father a last glance of disgust before leaving the table and retiring to his rooms. There he drank more wine and did not quite remember when he went to bed.

  ***

  The day after that, as if he were pulled like a fish on a hook, Nethel went back to the Green Lady's Inn. He was trying to blend in; his hair was tied back with a black ribbon, and he was cloaked in dark grey. He had just a sword by his side, no guard was with him, though his father had forbidden him to leave the courtyard without one. Nethel did not care much. He hardly did about the old, slow man these days. He had been old already when he married Nethel's mother. Now he kept forgetting things, and it was horrific to see him play with his young girl, chasing her and pinching her behind, patting her bosom. Nethel shrugged and drank deeply from the beer he had been served first thing upon his arrival. Of course they had recognized him. Nethel smiled a little of his own foolishness to think he could trick them with a ribbon and a cheap cloak. But he was grateful for the beer; it tasted good. Refreshing.

  The Prince felt, rather than saw, when Ylv entered the crowded, smoke-filled room. His shirt was whole this time: a roughly woven fabric the color of eggshells. His brown leather trousers were tied to his legs with leather cords. Nethel could not help but stare at them; the way they clung to his body. The Prince tried to blend in with the shadow, suddenly shy now when so close to the beast. He noticed a couple of large men standing by the door. Newly-arrived, he supposed, as he had not seen them earlier. They both looked strong and had full beards covering most of their faces. As Ylv had the first taste of his beer by the bar, one of them approached him. They were having a kind of argument, it seemed, as they were both looking sternly at each other. Ylv's eyes had narrowed to glittering slits of challenge.

  "They are going to fight." A barmaid suddenly leaned over Nethel's table to fetch his empty glass. She was showing all too much cleavage, Nethel thought, as her breasts were covered in a red rash.

  "You wanna bet?"

  The barmaid looked flushed. Her blonde hair had come loose of the hairpins and hung like dry grass around her face. She smelled stale, but then so did the whole room.

  "What are the odds?" Nethel stretched his legs under the table.

  "He, that stranger, Ylv they call him, hasn't lost yet!" the bar maid smiled.

  "All right!" Nethel dropped a few gold coins on the table. "On him," he said. "On Ylv..."

  The bar maid picked them up with a wink and a smile and hurried off towards the bar. The newly-arrived was still standing in front of Ylv; his legs were spread and his fists curled up by his sides.

  "Get out! Get out!" The bar keeper rushed them. "No fighting in here, do you hear me?!"

  "Certainly!" Ylv gave the red-faced man a quick bow. "This way." He gestured to the bearded one.

  Nethel smiled. He admired the unexpected elegance, the manners his champion displayed. When the other guests rose to follow the pair out on the street, passing hats to collect bets, Nethel rose as well and found himself a quiet spot by a barrel filled with rain water where he could see, but hopefully not be seen, by the fighters.

  The crowd cheered when the first blow hit and the bearded man landed face first in the mud. There had not been much snow yet this year, and the street was nothing but a brown, slippery mass of wet soil. Prince Nethel held his breath. He watched as the man with the beard rose, his clothes dripping with mud, and saw how he launched at Ylv who took the blow without faltering. Ylv's own fist, however, made the opponent's nose split open with a cracking sound that made the crowd both cheer and scream. Blood streamed from the broken nose, over the beard and down in the soil. Ylv hit him again, and again. His nostrils flared and his eyes shone.

  Nethel moaned by the barrel. He wet his fingers in the barrel and smeared his damp brow with the cool water. He was heaving for breath and could feel that his face had grown warm. When Ylv hit the other man again, Nethel could not help but moan again, his eyes fluttering shut a brief moment. He felt confused and ashamed. The fabric of his breeches restrained his arousal like a firm caress, adding to his lust. He fought not to touch himself, rub himself against the woodwork of the barrel. Instead he bit into his lower lip and tasted the coppery tang of blood while watching Ylv's violent dance: the way Ylv’s legs moved on the slippery ground, the expression on the man’s face, so focused and energized. He watched the bloody fists as they hit the other man, and with a deep sigh of relief, the young Prince spilled himself in his trousers. Shivering and shocked, he leaned against the wall behind him, trying to regain control of his breathing. He could feel the warm fluid embracing his member and the deep satisfaction in his loins. The bearded man fought no more but lay still in the muddy street. The crowd gave a victory cheer on Ylv's behalf, but the man himself said nothing; he stared at the Prince with flaring nostrils and a smile on his lips. Then he licked the blood off his fingers.

  Prince Nethel fled through empty, dark streets and alleys. He was not even looking for the gate; he was just trying to escape. Not from the champion, but from himself. The sweet-tasting horror that he did not, would not, understand.

  Ylv had known, Prince Nethel was sure of that. Ylv had known what shameful secret was hidden in his trousers. He had known that Nethel's abdomen was coated in fresh semen from watching the fight. Why else would he smile so, his nostrils flaring, as if he smelled it? Nethel blushed. But it had been sweet, so sweet, so good to let it go. His heart still raced in his chest and his breathing had still not calmed.

  He could see the watchtower by the gate rise above the tiled roofs of the houses and he hurried towards it. It had all been so horrible and shameful, yet a smile was playing on his lips. He could not quite grasp the unexpected joy that bloomed forth in him now, as he thought of the great man, this marvellous fighter. It was not all
bad and horrific, was it? It felt wonderful as well, dangerously alluring. He already knew he would be back to see Ylv fight again. Reckless, his father said; adventurous, Nethel called it, this thing in him that could never let the danger be, but had to explore it. Had to follow it to the end. No matter what, he had to see where the danger could take him.

  He had not quite expected to be back already the day after, but he was, eagerly yearning to see Ylv again. He had not slept at all the night before, just tossed and turned in his bed, touching himself over and over again and staining the sheets with dreams of red passion. Blood-drenched lust and bitter longing.

  He had seen his share of bloodshed in his life. The court was a violent place and the executions many. It had always excited him, always made it tingle inside. Forbidden and secret, this lust for blood, this love for the juice of life, to see it flow like that from a human body. Feed the earth; sate the opponent's anger and fury. Such a sacrilegious act, this, emptying the human vessel of its contents. Drain the life, extinguish the soul. But never before had it excited him quite so much as to see this art of destruction performed, as when this master of the art, this fabulous savage, performed his deadly dance.

  The Prince was bitterly disappointed when no one offered to fight Ylv the night after. He sat in the same corner as the night before. The dark beer grew bitter in his glass.