Beneath Ceaseless Skies #73 Read online

  Issue #73 • July 14, 2011

  “And Her Eyes Sewn Shut with Unicorn Hair,” by Rosamund Hodge

  “Walls of Paper, Soft as Skin,” by Adam Callaway

  For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  AND HER EYES SEWN SHUT WITH UNICORN HAIR

  by Rosamund Hodge

  “Look, Zéphine!” Marie called. “A unicorn!”

  Even though Zéphine knew what would happen, her heart still thumped with hope. She set down her spoon, then jerked her head up to see the breakfast room window where her little sister stood. But when she looked where Marie pointed, Zéphine saw only a gazebo whose white latticework was clogged with crimson roses.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Marie whispered.

  “Yes,” lied Zéphine. “Beautiful.”

  Why should she hope to see a unicorn now, when she never had in all her life?

  Marie untangled herself from the lace curtains. She was only twelve; baby fat still clung to the corners of her beaming face. “And on your nineteenth birthday, too! It’s a lucky sign—the unicorns will love your maiden dance tonight, I know they will.”

  Zéphine sat back in her chair and looked at her little silver bowl. She didn’t want any more custard; the few mouthfuls she had already eaten hung heavy in her stomach.

  Marie kept on chattering. “...and the suitors can start watching you dance for the unicorns next month. Philippe is first in line to try, right? He would make a good king.”

  “Mother danced for nine men before Father.” Zéphine mashed the custard with her spoon.

  “I wouldn’t like that.” Marie’s dark eyebrows drew together. “Nine men, all dead....”

  I would only like to summon a unicorn, thought Zéphine. The men can look after themselves.

  But she knew that no unicorn would ever come for her.

  She stood abruptly. “I’m going out.”

  “I’ll come—”

  “Leave me alone.”

  As she pushed open the glass doors, she saw that Marie had tears wobbling in her eyes. Tonight, Zéphine would get to watch those pretty dark eyes overflow with tears until Marie's trembling little hands finished sewing Zéphine’s eyes shut.

  She strode past the gazebos and topiaries to the northern quarter of the garden. First came the fountains. Marie loved to play among the glistening water-spray, but Zéphine hated them: their many-tiered elegance proclaimed the wealth and peace that the unicorns had given Retrouvailles for a thousand years.

  Beyond the fountains, though, lay the pools. They were crafted with as much art, but made to look natural: some overgrown with water-lilies, some surrounded by cattails, some clean and open, ruffled only when a crane alighted. Here Zéphine had always been happiest, because she could pretend she was outside and free.

  Today the pools looked nothing like freedom; they reflected the high outer wall of the garden, the mocking rim where stone met sky. If only walls stood between her and freedom, she would have been gone years ago. But the ancient enchantments of Retrouvailles did not permit princesses to leave the palace grounds until they had performed the maiden dance and been accepted.

  Fear burned through her stomach. She halted, looking down at the still, dark water in the nearest pool. She had swum in this pool and she knew how deep it went. Deep enough for drowning.

  Swallowing, she knelt by the water. Plump white stones by ringed the pool; for weeks she had planned to use them to weigh herself down, but now she couldn’t make herself pick them up.

  If she failed her maiden dance, she might not have another chance to die with her soul still free. Still human. But even so, she couldn’t move.

  She only needed to be brave for one moment, long enough to jump. Drowning couldn’t hurt too badly. If she could inhale enough water right away—if she could be absolutely sure that she would indeed fail tonight—if she were not too afraid to do anything but kneel here, shivering.

  She was infinitely afraid.

  “Contemplating the water, demoiselle?”

  Zéphine flinched, then recognized the voice. The cold ache in her stomach eased. “Hello, Justin. Guarding the virtues again?”

  Justin stood to attention in the narrow point where two walls met, his dark blue coat crisp and buttoned, one hand on the filigreed hilt of his sword as if he might need to defend the kingdom at any moment. He would not: the garden was a nine-pointed star to symbolize the nine virtues of a true princess, and the palace guard maintained a ceaseless watch on each of the nine points to symbolize their devotion.

  He saluted. “Someday I’ll be lucky at cards.” Guarding the virtues was one of the least favorite duties among the guards, and they regularly wagered it away.

  Zéphine fought a smile. She was sure he gambled poorly on purpose, likely because he knew how much seeing him meant to her. Ever since Justin arrived at the palace six months ago, she’d sought him in the gardens again and again. Out of all the guards—out of anyone, Marie excepted—he was the only one who saw her as a girl, not a maiden fated to dance with the unicorns.

  It didn’t hurt that he was handsome. He was no taller than Zéphine, but his arms were round with muscle; his skin, though pale and colorless when he first arrived from the northern provinces, was now quite respectably tanned; and his eyes were an exotic pale blue, and his mouth seemed always on the verge of a smile. For several months, she had kept thinking she would like to kiss that mouth.

  Princesses were not supposed to long for guardsmen.

  I will never see him smile again, she thought as she stood and walked towards him.

  “You look tense. Out for a last walk?”

  Zéphine’s heart skipped before she realized what he meant. “I suppose I won’t see you as much when I’m queen.” She did her best to smile.

  “Don’t say me you’ll miss me.” Up close, his smile didn’t look convincing either; his jaw was tight, his forehead lined. Zéphine had to crush a sudden conviction that he knew what was wrong with her. She’d been so careful. Nobody knew: not her father, not even Marie.

  “What if I will?” She leaned against the wall beside him.

  He stayed at attention, facing forward, but his eyes flicked sideways at her. “I think a queen will have better ways to amuse herself. Starting with her husband.”

  She sat down with a huff and curled up against the wall. Her red skirts pooled around her; she thought of her blood seeping across the floor of the Great Dome, and swallowed dryly.

  “That’s bad posture, demoiselle.”

  “Soldier, I command you to sit.”

  “I’m not technically a soldier.” But he sat beside her anyway, stretching out his legs as if his white trousers couldn’t possibly stain.

  Zéphine tore at a clump of grass. She wanted to forget about tonight for just a few minutes, but how could she, when her stomach was still cramping in fear and every heartbeat took her closer to the unicorns?

  “So you dance tonight?”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “I thought a princess’s maiden dance was supposed to be joyous.”

  “What do you know?” Zéphine turned on him, not caring that tears prickled at her eyes. “What does the Reine-Licorne mean to someone like you? Crowns and silks and formal court sessions? Or legends and glory and—”

  “You.” He wiped a tear off her cheek with his thumb. “Just you, demoiselle.”

  “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I know about being demoiselle.”

  “Then tell me what you know.” He looked straight into her eyes. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I know my first kiss will
be with the man whom the unicorns permit to watch me dance and live. I know my first child and every one after will be a daughter. I know that I will dance with the unicorns every full moon until I die, when my body will be left on the Plaine d’Ossements; and when the unicorns have gnawed away my flesh they will crack open my bones for the marrow. And I wish I could change any part of it.”

  “Well.” Justin leaned closer. “One of those things I can change.” And he kissed her.

  It was barely more than a brush of his lips, but it sent a shock through her body, sharper than fear. For one moment she was stunned into stillness. Then she leaned forward to kiss him back.

  A moment later he had gathered her into his arms and was kissing her open-mouthed. She felt it through her whole body, a fire she had never quite believed existed, least of all for her. It felt like her bones were melting, but that was all right, because he lowered her onto the grass. When he lifted his lips from hers, it was to kiss her neck and then her collarbone.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  His lips stilled against her skin; then he sat up, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry. I can’t— I’m sorry.”

  She sat up too. “Sorry you kissed me or sorry I said—” Her throat closed.

  “You’re the princess. You have to dance for the unicorns. I can’t—” He choked on a bitter laugh. “I can’t take that away from you. I can’t hurt you.”

  Zéphine hugged herself. “It doesn’t matter,” she said dully. “I’ve never seen a unicorn.” She ignored his sharp intake of breath. “My dance will fail tonight, so Marie will be queen and I will be the unicorn bride. Do they tell you guards what that means? They will dress me in white like a bride and give me the draught of waking sleep so I can neither feel nor move. Then Marie will lay me on the floor of the Great Dome; she’ll sew my eyes shut with unicorn hair, slit my arms from wrist to elbow, and perform her maiden dance around me. When the unicorns come for her they will drink my blood until I die and eat my soul when it escapes between my lips. It’s the only way she can take my birthright once the unicorns have rejected me. That’s why I’ve never loved my sister. I’ve always known the last thing I’ll ever see is her sewing my eyes shut. The last thing I’ll ever hear is her song to the unicorns.”

  Justin drew her back into his embrace, but she held herself rigid and went on, “Being the unicorn bride, it’s not just dying. Unicorn queens can rest with the ancestors when they die, but unicorn brides forget their names and ride for eternity with the unicorns. I’d let you take me right now if it would make me unfit, but I’d still have to try and fail and I can’t bear it. I won’t. I came down here because I was trying to decide if I should drown myself in the pond.” She gulped. Her voice had gone high and babbling, but she couldn’t care. “You have a sword. You could—”

  “I’m not going to kill you, demoiselle.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Zéphine.” His arms tightened around her. “I couldn’t ever kill you.” He pressed his face into her hair.

  It felt comforting to be in his arms, but he couldn’t protect her. “I’m dying anyway.”

  He drew a slow, deep breath. “You said that even if I— You wouldn’t be unfit. But I was taught that a princess draws the unicorns through her purity.”

  Her face heated. “The purity of her heart. That means she wills nothing, desires nothing but to dance before the unicorns and by dancing, protect her people. And I—” Her fingers tightened around his arm. “I don’t remember which came first. Not seeing the unicorns, or wanting to be free. But either way—there’s no chance they will look at me tonight and judge me pure.”

  Justin let out a deep breath. “Did your tutors ever tell about the Bull of Kyrland?”

  “Of course,” she said. Kyrland was the barbarian country across the northern sea; the Bull protected it as the unicorns protected Retrouvailles.

  “In my home town... most of us are more than half Kyrlander. So we know about the Bull. It isn’t like the unicorns. It doesn’t judge your heart. The Bull comes for whoever spills blood and offers it a binding price—something as precious as what you want it to give you.”

  Zéphine blinked at the grass. Hope felt like a cold weight in her stomach. “But... what could possibly be as precious as my birthright?”

  He squeezed her. “Offer it your birthright as the price to take you away from here.”

  She sat rigid for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. Escape. For years, she’d thought it impossible. She’d thought she would have to be queen or unicorn bride or die.

  She could live.

  Zéphine twisted to face him. “Tell me how to summon the Bull.”

  Justin’s face was unreadable. “You’re sure?”

  “Do you think I have any other choice? Tell me how.”

  He let go of her. “As my demoiselle commands.”

  She scrambled into a kneeling position as Justin pulled a knife out of his boot. It must be his own personal knife: it had none of the decorations and monogramming that were all over the palace guard’s regalia—just a plain wooden handle, with a one-sided blade that angled down to the tip.

  He handed her the knife. “Carve a circle on the ground. It doesn’t need to be big.”

  The knife handle felt cold and awkward. Zéphine clenched her hand around it and shoved the knife into the ground. Slowly, jerkily she ripped it through the grass roots in a little circle barely wider than her hand.

  “Good,” said Justin. “Wipe off the blade. Now cut your finger enough to draw blood. I can’t do it for you, I’m sorry—”

  Zéphine sliced her palm open with a long, shallow cut. The pain made her wince, but her hands were steady. She was doing something. She wasn’t trapped any more. She thought she could suffer anything if she were only doing something to escape.

  “Now?” She looked at Justin.

  He looked a little sad. “Spill your blood inside the circle. Say, ‘Black bull of the north, come to my blood.’ Name your price and make a wish.”

  Her heart thudded in her ears. “Black bull of the north.” It wasn’t just her heartbeat; there was something deeper thudding through the ground, almost in time to her heart. “Come to my blood.” She could barely breathe; the vibrations rippled through her bones. “Take my birthright... set me free.”

  Everything went dark. She couldn’t feel the grass beneath her or the sting of the cut on her palm, only the heavy beat of approaching hooves. Then she saw something moving towards her: a silhouette of even deeper darkness, growing every moment until it towered over her like a mountain. Hot breath steamed across her face—

  She was lying on the grass, light dazzling her eyes. Zéphine blinked, her eyes watering. She was still in the palace. Had the Bull refused her?

  Then she heard crashes. The clatter of metal on metal. And screams.

  She sat up with a gasp. “Justin. What—”

  He shoved her back down. “You summoned the Bull but he didn’t listen. You did break the protections on the palace.” His voice had gone harsh and clipped. “Stay down or I will tie you up.”

  “But—”

  At the edge of her vision, she glimpsed black-cloaked men. She caught her breath in fear, because she knew they were not any of Father’s men—and then they started speaking in a harsh, guttural language. Kyrlander.

  Justin answered in the same tongue. They bowed to him and left.

  Zéphine stared up at him. Her whole body had gone cold.

  He looked back down with no hint of a smile at all. “I am Prince Idrask Leifsson, and you just allowed my men into your kingdom. Thank you, demoiselle.”

  She surged up, grabbing the knife off the ground, and lunged for him.

  He caught her easily, twisted her wrist until she dropped the knife with a grasp, and slammed her back into the ground, this time face-first.

  “You really won’t win against me in battle, demoiselle.”

  She sobbed with fury into grass. He had lied to her. Ev
ery single day he had lied to her, and most especially today. When he kissed her—when he said he wanted her to be free—

  She had been such a fool.

  “What are you doing to my family?” she gritted out.

  “Let’s hope they’ve been taken prisoner.” There was a short silence; then someone shouted from a distance in Kyrlander. “Time for us to find out.” He hauled her to her feet, pulling her hands behind her. “Do I need to tie your hands?”

  Zéphine pressed her lips together. After a moment Idrask sighed, gripped her arm, and pulled her forward.

  Her face heated as she remembered the last time he had touched her. He had only stopped because he had realized it wouldn’t break the protections on the palace.

  The gardens were still empty; at first she could almost imagine that nothing had happened. Then she saw a group of black-clad men marching along the side of the palace; the glass doors of the breakfast room were shattered. She had always thought she didn’t love her sister, but when she thought of Marie trapped by the Kyrlander soldiers, she felt sick.

  Idrask dragged her down the pathway, past the breakfast room and towards the southern wing of the palace which surrounded the Great Dome. She glimpsed the weathered, gray-green curve of the dome rising above the other rooftops; she remembered the mosaics on the inside walls, portraits of queens all the way back to Ysonde Blanchemains, the first Reine-Licorne. It was probably full of Kyrlander soldiers now.

  They were certainly all over the rest of the palace now. She saw more of them, and more signs of fighting: smashed vases, doors swinging open, and sometimes bodies lying horribly still—Idrask always grabbed her chin and turned her face away when she stared. They passed groups of guards taken prisoner, little frightened clumps of servants, and one noblewoman crouched sobbing in a corner, her lacy blue dress spattered with blood.

  By the time they entered the southern wing, Zéphine felt like she was in a dream: as if she had closed her eyes and found herself in this nightmare palace overrun by Kyrlanders, and all she had to do was wake up.

  The inside of the southern wing was only more dreamlike: fewer signs of fighting—the tapestries had not been ripped off the wall, the golden molding and rosettes still gleamed, the mosaic floors were unstained—but all the palace guards, the nobles and servants, privy councilors and petty officials were gone, replaced by ranks of pale Kyrlander soldiers who saluted Idrask.