5. The Mask
“Lower your heads, you wretches!” Zhupel bellowed at us, bowing low himself and averting his eyes. “The Mistress cannot abide anyone gazing upon her unparalleled beauty!”
We bowed our heads, but the image I’d glimpsed on the castle steps still burned in my mind: a woman of breathtaking beauty! If you ever saw someone like her, you’d either gape in awe like some naive child, letting out a foolish whistle because you couldn’t help yourself, or you’d fall to your knees in reverence, begging to touch even the hem of her dress, swearing to serve her faithfully until your dying day. And at night, you’d dream of her, picturing her flawless face, those large blue eyes filled with touching innocence and warmth, the soft oval of her features, her delicate nose, and full, tempting lips... Oh, if you dared to dream of her body, every curve would ignite desire within you. Her high, alluring breasts, like enchanted apples framed by the deep neckline of her gown, drew the eye irresistibly. The graceful lines of her figure beckoned with perfect form, and her long silver hair, cascading over her shoulders, seemed to call for your hand to stroke it, to sink into that silken waterfall, to feel the intimate closeness of her slender, vulnerable neck...
The woman suddenly let out a loud, coarse laugh.
“What, Zhupel, caught again?”
The giant stirred beside us, grunting in displeasure as he began to rise to his feet.
“Genefa, how many times must you toy with me? Does the Mistress know you’re playing these games? I’ll tell her, and you’ll be on bread and water in the dungeon!” He snorted irritably, snapping at us. “Get up!”
“Rikas and Mushlya will be here soon. The Mistress ordered them to be brought immediately; she wants to see the new slaves. Three at once—that’s good. They’ll last a while!” The woman seemed to ignore Zhupel’s indignant words.
We rose from the ground, staring at the strikingly elegant lady who spoke in a harsh, grating voice. She squinted slyly, appraising the three of us as if we were livestock at a market. Then, shockingly, she plopped down on the steps, stretching her legs out immodestly and revealing exquisite shoes and slender ankles clad in sheer stockings.
“Well, well, these slaves aren’t bad this time—especially that one,” she said, pointing a finger at me and letting out another loud, unpleasant laugh. “Hey, you, in the torn shirt! If you want, I can ask the Mistress to be kinder to you than the others. You’ll last longer! And in return, you can be my lover!” She cackled again, throwing her head back and flashing a row of dazzling white teeth.
I looked closer and only then realized it was a mask! How had I not seen it before? A noticeable magical aura shimmered around her figure. Even a powerful mage might have missed this deception, instantly captivated by the woman’s beauty rather than the illusion. I’m no mage, so I felt less ashamed. Besides, the stunning allure of the magical disguise had clouded my judgment from the shock of it.
Beneath the mask was another woman—a coarse, rough-looking hag dressed in a black servant’s gown. Instead of cascading silver hair, her head was a mess of tangled locks, and on her feet were not fairy-tale slippers but worn-out clogs.
Zhupel paced irritably near us, muttering in frustration:
“Stop this nonsense right now! No respect for the Queen! When was the last time she punished you? And how did you muster enough power to pull off this rubbish?”
Genefa let out another harsh laugh, and the mask around her began to dissolve. Soon, an unpleasant-looking servant sat on the steps, cackling with a gap-toothed mouth, clearly pleased with her successful prank.
“I did it just to rile you up! What a donkey you are! Falling to your knees like that—the whole castle shook!” Her grating laughter struck Zhupel like a barbed whip.
While we stood there, stunned and trying to process what had happened, two elderly men in livery rushed out of the palace doors. They approached us and began shoving us toward the steps and into the castle.
“Move it, the Mistress won’t wait long!” one of them barked, urging us forward.
The other approached Zhupel and pressed a small pouch of gold coins into his massive hand—I could hear the pleasant clink as they landed in his palm.
“You’re free for today,” he snapped at Zhupel. “The Mistress is pleased.”
Zhupel nodded, slung his empty sack over his shoulder, and lumbered off toward some low buildings visible in the depths of the garden surrounding the castle.
We lads were led up the steps into the castle, followed by the two footmen and the servant Genefa. The entrance doors closed behind us, plunging us into near-total darkness. Silver curtains on the windows blocked out any light, making it hard to see anything in the gloom. One of the footmen lit a candle, its flickering glow illuminating the frightened faces of Evan and Danar, my unfortunate companions.
The footman led the way, and we trailed behind in single file. We passed through what must have been a wide hall, as our footsteps echoed off the walls, then climbed a staircase and turned right. We ascended another set of stairs and walked for a long time down a dark, narrow corridor until we stopped before an unremarkable door in a corner.
“Wait!” Genefa stepped forward, opened the door, and slipped inside.
A minute later, she poked her head out and waved a hand:
“One at a time!”
I was closest to the door, so the footman grabbed my shoulder and shoved me into the room. He then stepped out, and the door closed behind him. I found myself alone in a chamber that wasn’t shrouded in complete darkness. A fireplace burned, casting a warm, cozy glow, and on a cluttered table piled with books and papers stood two candelabras, providing enough light to reveal that these were the quarters of a wealthy lady.
“Come closer and sit in the chair,” a woman’s voice commanded. It seemed to echo from everywhere at once.
There was only one chair in the room, positioned near the fireplace. It wasn’t a comfortable armchair for whiling away cold evenings, but a throne-like seat with high armrests and a rigid, unyielding back. I sat down. It was quite uncomfortable. I placed my hands on the armrests, and suddenly, iron chains snaked around my ankles and wrists. Startled, I jerked instinctively, trying to break free.
“What’s your name?” the woman’s voice asked again.
“Rank,” I croaked hoarsely.
“Well, Rank, let’s begin.”
Before the chair, a tall, dark figure materialized, completely cloaked in black. This must be the Cold Queen. She took a step toward me and leaned in, scrutinizing my face. She likely saw confusion and even fear there.
“At first, it’s unbearable, but then you grow numb to the pain! You want to live longer, don’t you? Then don’t resist!” she whispered. Her face, save for her eyes, was entirely veiled in a black scarf. All I could see were those eyes, glinting in the candlelight. And they resembled the eyes of Genefa’s illusion. Could this truly be the Queen...?
I didn’t have time to finish the thought, as the woman placed her hand on my chest, and I screamed from the excruciating pain that pierced through my body...
6. The Defiant Slave
The woman’s hand, encased in a black glove, inflicted unbearable agony. Predatory magic coursed through my body, siphoning my life force, draining drop by drop the essence that fueled my strength, my zest for life, my youth... I began to resist. Not physically, of course. Bound by chains to the chair and immobilized by the Cold Queen’s magic, I couldn’t so much as blink. My pitiful struggles only seemed to irritate her.
She was an extraordinarily powerful sorceress. Likely one of those rare few who could effortlessly conjure a magical bridge across a wide river, cross it, and then destroy her creation with a mere wave of her hand without feeling the slightest drain on her power. Such wizards were exceedingly rare in our world. King Gerast had one such mage in his service, named Primavis, and everyone knew not to cross him: with a flick of his wrist, he could obliterate an entire village or small town. It had happened once when the king sent him to quell rebels on the kingdom’s outskirts. Where a defiant village once stood, there was now only ash. That’s the kind of power some mages wielded.
And the Cold Queen was likely even stronger. After all, she had grown a forest spanning half the kingdom! And, according to legend, she’d done it in an instant. At least, that’s what the tales claimed. She had lived here for centuries. No one alive had witnessed the events recounted in stories and legends, and those who had seen the Beak-Nosed One with their own eyes were no longer among the living to tell the tale.
I felt my cheeks wither, my strong hands—hands that had bent horseshoes in contests with the blacksmith—suddenly grow weak. The chains around my wrists, once tight, now hung loosely. At the spot where the black mark had appeared, it felt as if someone had stabbed me with a dagger and was twisting it in the wound, trying to reach the bone... My legs trembled, my vision darkened, and my head spun...
“Stop, you beak-nosed hag!” I shouted with all my might, jerking against the restraints. “What, not enough magic for you? Not enough deaths? You cold-hearted wretch! What’s wrong, haven’t had a man in so long that you’re this bitter and cruel? Dissatisfied with everything and everyone? Don’t know how else to amuse yourself? If I weren’t chained up, I’d show you what a real man is! You’re all powerful and invincible with your magic, but have you ever tried just being human? Living a normal life, having a husband, raising children? Running a household together, enjoying life side by side! But you, you forest harpy, probably don’t even know what it’s like to love and be loved!”
Now it wasn’t me, but the Cold Queen who flinched, as if struck. She withdrew her hand from my chest. Finally, the searing pain coursing through my body ceased, and I slumped in the chair. Tears streamed down my cheeks—I could feel them, having welled up from the sheer torment.
“That’s enough for today,” she said dully, stepping back to the table and rummaging for something. “Usually, I drain the marked ones almost completely right away. But I see you’re quite the talker, full of bravado. Hmm, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a defiant slave! And you’re clever, too, though a fool. Thinking you know what I need,” she turned around.
In her hand, she held something resembling a small, juicy red strawberry. I was puzzled: strawberries at the start of autumn? Their season had long passed. This wretch was up to something, no doubt!
“So, what did you say your name was? I’ve forgotten,” she asked again, stepping close.
“Ra—,” I started to say, reflexively blurting out my name, unable to hold back despite sensing a trap. But I didn’t finish. The woman suddenly shoved the strawberry into my mouth, and my teeth bit into it out of surprise. Sweet berry juice flooded my mouth with blissful delight, and the fruit itself melted away as if it had never been.
“Now you’ll be silent, slave!” she cackled. “You’ll speak only when I permit it! Imagine, some worm trying to teach me how to live! You say you’d show me what it’s like to have a man? I despise all men, every last one! They’re cruel, heartless, vile beasts! And for your insolence, I’ll take my time with you, long and tedious. Ones like you need to be taught a lesson! Love! What do you know of love, you maggot!”
And suddenly, in the Queen’s voice, I heard such sharp, unbearable pain that I forgot my attempts to respond. Likely, that enchanted berry had taken effect, stripping me of my ability to speak. Her words carried an indescribable longing and piercing regret... Could it be that the Queen knew what love was? Had she once loved? This murderer, this cruel predator? These thoughts flickered through my mind, but I pushed them aside as the chains on my wrists and ankles fell away.
“Take this slave away! Bring the next one!” she called toward the door, which immediately swung open. The footmen rushed in, grabbed me under the arms, and dragged me out.
“Let him recover! Bring him back at the same time tomorrow!” the woman ordered. “I want to savor this reckless fool for as long as possible!” She laughed again, but I now heard her laughter differently. The mournful notes I’d just detected hadn’t vanished; they’d merely sunk deep beneath the surface of her words.
Next, they brought Evan in, and as I stood outside the door, I heard his desperate cries. The sound grated on my nerves, but that wasn’t what troubled me most. I stared at my hands in disbelief: they were the hands of an old man. I touched my face and recoiled in horror—wrinkles creased my forehead and cheeks. The Queen had drained my life force, turning her slaves into withered husks.
7. Food
There come moments in every person’s life when they begin to reflect on their existence, taking stock of their achievements, recalling the good and useful things they’ve done, and feeling shame for what they’ve left undone or couldn’t accomplish. As the saying goes, you aimed to soar, but your wings grew too short. You didn’t reach your dreams, didn’t achieve your goals, didn’t make it happen—so you remain grounded. And there I was, swaying on my feet, pondering a life I hadn’t even truly lived, always putting things off for later... And now, look how it had turned out. I likely had little time left... Bitter thoughts swirled in my head...
Evan was led out, also shriveled and aged, staggering and clutching the wall to keep from falling. Danar, too, emerged in a similar state from that room. The three of us could barely stand.
Genefa, once the vile Queen had finished her dark work, snapped at us:
“Hey, you old codgers, shuffle along, come on! Boys,” she turned to the footmen, “take them to the kitchen first, then let them sleep. The Mistress ordered this one to be brought back tomorrow!” She pointed at me. “So feed him well! I want him walking on his own tomorrow, not carried!”
We were led down another dark corridor. Genefa was right—we had indeed become old codgers, barely able to shuffle along, clinging to walls and stair railings to avoid collapsing from weakness and dizziness. At least, I was crawling along, breathing heavily and silently cursing the beak-nosed witch with every breath. Silently, of course, because after that strawberry of hers, my voice was gone and hadn’t returned. Most likely, I’d stay mute.
Such magical tricks are powerful because they’re so simple in their effect. I used to chat with a merchant-mage named Yark, whose shop was near our forge. We’d often grab lunch together at “Old Braus’s Tavern,” and he’d tell me all about various magical items. He was obsessed with unique artifacts and spells. He claimed that the simpler a magical object was, the stronger its effect, because its internal magical structure was tightly bound, unlike a more complex item or spell with additional, weaker links. To put it simply, imagine two types of fabric: one a solid, plain weave, the other intricate, embroidered, and full of holes. Which would tear more easily? Exactly! The more complex the magical spell, the more delicate and fragile it is. Though, of course, when it comes to raw magical power, complex spells are often stronger. But these are high scholarly matters, not for me to explain or judge, since I’m no mage and don’t know how it’s supposed to work. In short, that magical silence-inducing strawberry had enchanted me thoroughly and for a long time. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t speak.
They brought us first to the kitchen—a large space filled with cooking equipment: stoves, pots, various dishes... Everything was neatly arranged on shelves and in cabinets. In one corner stood sacks and crates of provisions—vegetables and fruits. Hanging from the ceiling were bags of grains, cheeses, and cured meats... All within easy reach. Likely for today’s cooking, as I didn’t see any perishable items; those were probably stored in the cool cellars below. The room was lit by candles that burned with a steady, unmoving flame, unaffected by drafts—enchanted, no doubt. Several people bustled around the stoves: two elderly women, a tall, very stout man who seemed to be the head chef commanding everyone, and a young boy and girl, about ten years old, who darted about helping the servants. They’d set a plate on the table, sweep up ash fallen from the stove, or wash a fork or spoon that occasionally clattered from the hefty chef’s hands.
When we were brought in, the chef’s face darkened. He nodded toward some chairs by a table near the window and ordered:
“Have them sit there! New ones, eh? Hey, Parushka, Martino, bring everything to the table—let them eat, the poor devils!”
His voice carried an odd mix of anger, irritation, and, I thought, pity. He felt sorry for us, the newly minted slaves.
The women quickly set the table before us: the food was hearty and rich, just the thing to sate hunger and rebuild strength.
I don’t know about the others, but I felt ravenous, as if I hadn’t eaten in a hundred years or drunk in a thousand. I started eating and couldn’t stop! The wicked witch had drained so much of my life force! I ate and ate, nearly choking, gulping it down, and my unfortunate companions were just as unable to tear themselves away from the feast. The chef watched us, growing even grimmer. He began scolding the children, who stood gawking at our frantic eating with open mouths, and eventually sent them out of the kitchen.
The footmen who had brought us left for somewhere else, but Genefa stayed behind and started arguing with the chef:
“Hey, Yovan, why haven’t you called the others yet? They could’ve eaten together! Now I’ve got to go drag them out of bed again!”
“Your job is to call them—mine is to feed them!” the chef snapped back.
“You could’ve sent the kids—they’re not doing anything useful here anyway!” Genefa slammed the door irritably and stormed off somewhere.
Soon, she returned with three more men. And they were very, very strange. All three were old and frail, barely able to walk, but when they saw the food, they rushed to the table with surprising speed, grabbing bread, meat, vegetables, and fruits from the platters! They stood right there, snatching pieces from each other like wild animals. Clearly, they were starving. Likely, they were also slaves from whom the Cold Queen had drained the life.
I stopped eating, though the hunger still gnawed at me. Those men, however, kept devouring everything with ravenous greed—and I began to notice that with each bite, they were changing! The wrinkles on their faces smoothed out, their hunched backs straightened, their arms and legs grew stronger, younger. Before my eyes, the old men rejuvenated—not quite to the youthful state we lads had been in, but they could no longer be called feeble elders.
Yet the expressions on their faces, the look in their eyes, their demeanor—it frightened me! They seemed unhinged, like people who cared for nothing except food. Even their speech was harsh and hostile as they snatched morsels from each other’s hands, behaving like animals fighting over prey. Evan and Danar initially watched this in astonishment, but soon they calmed down and resumed eating alongside the old slaves. For some reason, though, I couldn’t bring myself to continue the meal.
I started sipping the water they’d given us as a drink. Feeling somewhat sated (though the urge to eat lingered), I began to take in my surroundings more clearly; my head wasn’t spinning as much. And something about what was happening here didn’t sit right with me.
Of course, who could possibly like being turned into a slave, having their life force drained? That much was obvious; the situation was far from ideal! But these people, the old slaves, didn’t even resemble humans anymore, if you thought about it. Oh, this was all wrong, a bad omen! I stopped eating, touched my face—it, too, had regained some youth. My hands felt stronger, I could tell. I decided not to eat like the others for now; something scratched at my heart, a strange unease I could see before me but hadn’t yet grasped.
I began looking around: the servants kept bringing more food for the starving slaves, the chef stirred something in a large pot, and Genefa had stepped out the door. Everything seemed in order, on the surface.
I glanced at the table in front of me, where a tray of delicious-looking pastries sat, their aroma utterly enticing. I was sorely tempted to resume my meal; I even reached out, picked up a pastry, and was about to take a bite when suddenly, a flicker passed before my eyes. Then it was gone, and everything seemed normal again. I examined the pastry closely—and saw it was wrapped in a web of magic! That meant there was enchantment at play! What kind, I didn’t know, but those pastries were imbued with something.
Hmm. I set the pastry down and began scrutinizing the other dishes. Every single one, without exception, was magically enchanted! The water, however, appeared ordinary. I started drinking it again while inspecting the provisions stored in sacks and crates in the corner. There, I detected no magical influence. So, the chef must take raw ingredients, prepare the food, and only then enchant the finished dishes? And this magic restores strength, just to feed the Beak-Nosed One again the next day? It seemed so.
That’s as far as my reasoning took me. Though, perhaps, it was far more complicated. Why would the Queen drain life from her slaves every day? She’s all-powerful, brimming with magic. Clearly, it’s not to sustain her own life, but for some other purpose. I’d have to figure it all out!
For now, I resolved not to eat any more. I’d see if I could hold out. Though I felt full, the urge to keep gorging, like the slaves beside me, was overwhelming.
When nothing remained on the tables, and the sated slaves leaned back on the benches like overstuffed pigs, staring blankly at one another, Genefa returned with the footmen. They led us to the first floor, beneath the stairs, where a long, wide room lined with beds along the walls awaited.
“Alright, lie down and sleep! Build up your strength; tomorrow, it’s back to work!” she cackled.
The old slaves shuffled to their beds, while we lads were shown where we’d sleep. Everyone collapsed onto their mattresses and quickly fell asleep. I sat on my bed but didn’t sleep; I looked around, lost in thought.
And my thoughts were far from comforting: it seemed we weren’t just slaves here under the Cold Queen’s rule, but her food. Wasn’t that the case? Like some bizarre livestock, raised, tended to, and periodically bitten into. Then fed again so new flesh could grow. Oh, I didn’t want to be food! Even if it was magical. But that was the impression I got from everything I’d seen. Perhaps I was mistaken. What on earth was happening here?
8. Aulika
After sitting for a while, I realized sleep was pulling at me fiercely. I was drawn to the pillow and blanket! The slaves around me snored so loudly it was like a storm raging! But I forced myself to resist, deliberately standing up and pacing the dormitory. It was dark here, as it was everywhere in the castle. Only a single magical candle burned on the windowsill, behind impenetrable silver shutters—one of those that never goes out, fueled by false flame.
Then, almost without thinking, my feet carried me toward the room’s exit. After all, no one had forbidden us from wandering the castle. Of course, where could one escape to, and how? It seemed a hopeless endeavor at first glance. But I wanted to scout the place a little. I hadn’t lost hope of escape yet; I’d cling to it until the very end, despite the daunting high walls around the castle, the snakes in the Cold Forest, and the Cold Queen herself, who could torment me to death at any moment.
The castle was indeed dark, but once my eyes adjusted, I began to make out the shapes of furniture, halls, rooms, and corridors as I passed through them. Somehow, faint light seeped through the shutters, and in some corridors, tiny magical lanterns flickered.
Suddenly, having wandered so far that I feared I wouldn’t find my way back, somewhere on the second or third floor, I heard someone crying. It was a pitiful, bitter sound, laced with pain. I followed the sound. In a corner of the corridor stood a bench, its outline barely visible. On it sat a girl, curled into a dark little ball, sobbing uncontrollably. I could tell it was a girl by her voice. My heart ached at the profound sorrow and grief in her cries. What could I do? Only one thing.
I approached and placed a hand on her shoulder. I couldn’t ask anything, but I couldn’t leave her in such a state. Her sobs were so heart-wrenching, she was practically choking on them. She flinched and let out a small cry:
“Who’s there? Who are you? What do you want?”
She hadn’t expected anyone to pass by, and indeed, the castle was desolate and dark in these depths; likely, few ventured into such remote corners of the palace.
I couldn’t say a word, but suddenly, I stroked her head as if she were a small child. My mother used to comfort me like this in my childhood. She’d run her fingers through my hair, gently caress my cheek, tickle my neck—and somehow, it made things easier. The sadness didn’t vanish, and I still felt my failures and childish woes keenly, but it got better because I knew someone was there beside me, supporting me, loving me, stroking my head...
I ran my fingers through her hair, and she quieted under my touch, like a kitten. Her locks were soft, silky, her braid long—reaching down to her waist, I could tell, as I moved my hand to her neck, then back to her forehead, gently stroking to the nape again. The girl was silent, and so was I.
I placed my hand on her forehead once more, but this time, I didn’t move it over her head. Instead, I lowered my fingers, tracing the outline of her nose, her brows, and began wiping the tears from her wet cheeks. There were so many tears—her cheeks and chin were damp. She let out a soft sigh, but it seemed she welcomed my touch. She lifted her head, offering her cheeks and soft, full lips as if inviting me. Suddenly, I realized I didn’t just want to touch those plump lips and wipe away her tears—I wanted to taste them. They must be salty and bitter right now...
Oh, my imagination carried me to such dizzying heights that I forgot everything. That I was a slave now, that this girl was a complete stranger, that I’d started out comforting her, and that I had no right to dream of her as a woman. I scolded myself sharply, banishing those foolish fantasies, withdrew my hand from her tender face (though I can’t express how much I didn’t want to!), and sat silently beside her on the bench.
The girl, too, seemed to snap out of a daze, coming to her senses as I had. She sniffled one last time and asked:
“What’s your name? I don’t think I’ve seen someone like you in the castle before?” She peered at my face in the darkness, but likely couldn’t see much, as it was pitch black.
How could I explain that I couldn’t speak, that I was enchanted? I took her hand in mine and pressed her fingers to my lips. I feared she’d pull away in alarm, but she didn’t.
“You can’t speak?” she asked, her voice trembling.
I don’t know what stirred her—whether it was the grief she’d been crying over, the tenderness of my touch as I stroked her head, or the fact that I hadn’t let go of her hand from my lips. And she didn’t pull her fingers from my grasp.
I nodded. She must have felt it with her hand, or perhaps saw it in the dim light. She asked:
“Are you mute, perhaps?”
I shook my head no, and suddenly, unable to restrain myself, I kissed her fingers. They were so small, delicate, and smelled of some flower. What kind, I couldn’t recall, as strange, dreamy thoughts began creeping into my mind again.
“If you’re not mute and you’re here in our castle, and I don’t know you—though I’m familiar with all the other inhabitants—then you must be one of the slaves Zhupel brought today?”
I nodded again, marveling at how perceptive this girl was. I kissed her fingers once more and reluctantly, gently, placed her hand back on her lap.
“Oh, then the Mistress must have enchanted you to keep silent!” she guessed.
She perked up, perhaps momentarily forgetting the troubles that had made her cry. She began speaking for both of us, likely wanting to get to know me. And I, too, desperately wanted to learn the name of this stranger. All these touches—to her tear-streaked cheeks, her tender lips, her warm fingers—had stirred me deeply. I found myself drawn to her, even though I couldn’t see her face in the dark.
“Then I’ll talk, and you…” She paused, thinking, then offered her hand again, wrapping her fingers around my palm, her touch burning my skin like a warm ember. “You squeeze my hand if it’s ‘yes,’ and do nothing if it’s ‘no.’”
She seemed delighted with her clever idea, even shifting on the bench to sit more comfortably. Holding my hand, she spoke for both of us, asking questions and sharing about herself:
“My name is Aulika. I work as a chambermaid for Queen Bertha herself. What about you? Oh… you can’t say! But I’ll figure it out! I’ll name letters, and when I get to the right one, squeeze my hand.”
And so, the girl began reciting the alphabet, naming each letter. I nearly missed the letter ‘R’ when she reached it, so lost was I in the feel of her fingers in my hand. I was glad the letter was so far into the alphabet, as it meant I could sit longer, savoring the warmth in my palm. Whether it took a long time or not, Aulika eventually pieced together all the letters of my name.
“Rank. A nice name! So bright, like the morning! That’s why you’re kind, I think,” she sighed. “You took pity on me when you could have just walked by…”
I squeezed her hand, encouraging her to share why she’d been crying. But she likely didn’t understand. I missed my voice terribly, longing to talk with her, to ask questions. After all, a burden shared is a burden halved. And it was clear that a real tragedy had befallen this girl. No one cries so bitterly and hopelessly over a broken cup or a torn dress.
“I have to go, Rank,” she said, squeezing my hand in farewell. “Tomorrow, if you want, we can meet here again, at the same time. Maybe the Queen will restore your voice, and we can talk. Though, probably not…”
I wasn’t sure what she meant—whether we wouldn’t meet again or my voice wouldn’t return—as she sprang to her feet and hurried down the dark corridor. All I could see was her silhouette in the gloom: tall, slender as a reed, fragile and sharp like a statuette...
My hand felt empty without her fingers. I lifted it to my face and inhaled the faint, elusive scent of a flower I still couldn’t place.
9. The Children
If a person doesn’t want to see or hear something, no matter how much you try to convince them, no matter how much you explain that, say, black is black, they’ll still see the color they want to see. Maybe green, or even white. I’m exaggerating, of course, but if someone truly refuses to change their mind, they won’t, no matter what you say. What am I getting at? That it’s hard to persuade others. But is it hard to persuade yourself?
Sometimes, even in simple matters, it can be difficult. For me, for instance.
Just an hour ago, I’d eaten well. Very well. A lot, and heartily. Yet I was starving again, unbelievably so! I felt like I could devour a whole boar right now! Or even two!
Aulika had run off, and I sat on the bench in the darkness, thinking about food. Hungry—ravenously hungry! And it was useless to tell myself I didn’t want to eat. I started reasoning logically, trying to convince myself that the dishes were likely enchanted, deliberately made so that the more a person ate, the hungrier they became. And if you didn’t eat, you’d sleep! Look at my unfortunate companions, who’d fallen asleep the moment they reached their beds. This wasn’t by chance! I was beginning to suspect the Queen cultivated her garden of slaves like this—nurturing, feeding, and then consuming them.
And was it just life force she took? Clearly, it wasn’t magical energy she absorbed, since we were ordinary people, simple folk with no trace of magic in us. So, what sets humans apart from animals, for example? Intelligence, of course. And emotions, feelings. Could she be draining emotions from her slaves as well? I had no answer to that question.
I slowly stood and shuffled along, hoping I wouldn’t get lost in these dark corridors. My sense of direction didn’t fail me. Soon, I found myself back in the hall near the castle’s entrance.
Even seeing that no one was around, I tugged at the main doors—they were locked. I hadn’t doubted they would be; I just checked. Then I headed toward the kitchen, whose location I already knew, drawn by the delicious smells wafting from there. I felt strange: as I said, I was hungry, despite being stuffed.
In the kitchen, as before, the head chef—whom Genefa had called Yovan, I remembered—was bustling around the stove. The two children, a boy and a girl, sat at a table shelling beans and playing, as all normal kids love to do. Seeing me, they fell silent. Yovan looked surprised to see me at the kitchen threshold, glancing at me from under his brow, and asked:
“You’re not sleeping? What do you want? Go away! You shouldn’t be wandering around here unsupervised!”
I hesitated, not daring to step further since I was being shooed away, but my greedy gaze caught the array of dishes on the table. I longed to rush over, grab a piece of bread or meat, and eat, eat, eat... Yovan must have noticed my hungry eyes. His face darkened, but he waved a hand, reluctantly allowing me to enter:
“Come on, eat, I get it!” He turned back to the stove, stirring something with irritation.
I approached the table laden with food, the same one where we’d eaten earlier, and stopped. My eyes could have devoured everything, and my hands trembled as they reached for the food... But suddenly, I snapped out of it, noticing the wide, curious eyes of the children. They sat quietly, watching my every move as if it were a performance. With the last of my willpower, I turned away so my eyes wouldn’t see the bounty on the table and sat on a chair beside the children. To distract myself, I grabbed a bean pod and started shelling it. The boy and girl looked even more surprised, exchanging glances, but they remained silent.
“Why aren’t you eating? I can see you really want to,” Yovan asked, coming closer.
I nodded to him, then pointed at the provisions stacked in the corner. There, I’d seen, they weren’t magically altered, unlike the food on the table, which glowed with enchantment to my eyes. The longer and more closely I looked at magical things, the clearer I could discern their influences.
“Hmm,” Yovan mused, perhaps not understanding what I wanted, or perhaps understanding perfectly but lacking permission to feed slaves unenchanted food. “Why are you silent?” His brown eyes bored into me.
I pointed to my lips and spread my hands. I smacked them, as if showing I couldn’t speak.
“So, you’re mute?” Yovan asked, just as Aulika had earlier. Like her, he caught on when I shook my head no. “Ah, the Mistress must have enchanted you?” Seeing my affirmative nod, he continued. “I see. Well, take whatever food you want. I don’t mind. But…”
Yovan stopped himself, leaving something unsaid, turned away, and returned to the stove.
I stood, shuffled over to the crates and sacks of provisions, and picked out a large apple. I wiped it on my trouser leg and took a bite. I’d hoped to taste the heavenly aroma of an Antonovka, as it was one of those round, juicy apples, but the flavor was—like grass, utterly bland. There was no taste at all. I froze in surprise. What on earth! Then it dawned on me: this must be a side effect of the magical food we’d consumed. Only that would taste good to us now, encouraging us to eat more and sleep deeply. But I didn’t want that! I wanted to remain human, not fodder for a deranged witch. So, resigned, I bit into the apple again—I had to eat to preserve myself, my consciousness, my emotions, everything that made me human and not something else.
Yovan occasionally glanced over as I choked down the apple but said nothing. I finished the juicy fruit and felt, to my relief, that my hunger had lessened slightly. To distract myself from gloomy thoughts, I sat beside the children again and resumed shelling beans. At first, they were surprised, but they soon got used to it, occasionally whispering to each other, and eventually growing bolder. Yovan didn’t shoo me away, as if he didn’t notice me. When he stepped out of the kitchen for a moment, the girl suddenly asked:
“Mister, have you kissed Queen Bertha yet?”
The bean pod slipped from my hands at her question. I stared at the girl, dumbfounded.
“Silly Duska, what are you asking?” the boy laughed. “Can’t you see he’s a slave? Who’d let a slave kiss the Queen? That’s hilarious!”
“I’m not Duska, I’m Dushinka,” the girl retorted, offended. “I don’t call you Vaylak!”
“I’m not Vaylak, I’m Vaylanko,” the boy shot back. “And you’ve always been Duska, and you still are!” He stuck out his tongue at her. “But seriously, that’s funny! The Queen must be kissed by her true love, not some slave!” The boy glanced at me, and, noticing my bewildered look, suddenly explained. “There’s a legend about it.”
“Yeah,” the girl said dreamily, forgetting about the beans and everything else. “Queen Bertha must be kissed by her true love, and then she’ll become real…”
“She’s already real,” the boy interrupted. “And it’s not about kissing, it’s about breaking the curse. Those are different things!”
“There has to be a kiss! How can there not be a kiss?” the girl insisted, ignoring her brother—likely her brother, as they looked so much alike: both had large blue eyes, blond hair, and round faces.
“All you think about is kisses. You’ve been listening to too many fairy tales from Aulika! Kisses, really! Bleh!”
“I didn’t just listen, I read about it. Aulika read about the Cold Queen in a big, ancient book in the library! And books don’t lie; they tell the whole truth!”
Vaylanko opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment, Chef Yovan returned to the kitchen, and we all fell silent, resuming our task of shelling beans.
Meanwhile, I had something to ponder over Dushinka’s strange words about kisses, a book, and a library. They’d also mentioned Aulika, who reads books. The sound of the girl’s name stirred warm memories in me; I recalled her fingers in my hand and her bitter sobs. And I resolved firmly to get to the bottom of everything happening here. Of course, if I survived.