Le Mot Juste

Prince Gilliam paced, calculating his odds. Based on what little of the sky he could see, it was dusk. Ten hours until sunrise and his trial. Two guards, armed with swords stood outside his door, another two at the door on the tower’s first floor landing, and nearly half a mile of stairs between each door. Four armed guards patrolled the ground floor. His only way out was through the front gate, past stablemen, two more guards, and whoever might be out for a stroll in the castle courtyard. His main sword training was holding one in portraits and, until very recently, he had never killed anyone, let alone ten guards and whoever else would be sent to drag him back for a formal sentencing.

Treason could be pardoned by the King, but his father had never been known for mercy. Especially with his own family. Gilliam had seen too many botched beheadings to face the block without fear. Dull blades. Poor aim. Once, he saw a head bounce from the basket and roll to his feet. Her mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish. Tears ran sideways down her cheeks even after the light left her eyes. Funny, he still dreamed of that face, but could not remember which stepmother she was.

He paced down bear skin’s spine in an endless loop. His ginger curls bounced with every step. Running both hands through his hair, he smoothed it over his shoulder and out of his eyes. He bit the skin at the edge of his fingernails as a dinner grew cold and stale on his table. His stomach was in too many knots to eat real food. Besides, he would not put it past his father to poison him just to spare everyone the embarrassment of a trial.

The last burning log in the fireplace finally crumbled under its own weight. Flames dimmed to embers. Shadows spilled across the floor. The wood bin was down to splinters and woodchips, but he gathered what little he could. Using the blank parchment left for him to write his confession, he lit a page against the embers and draped it over his kindling pile. The parchment burned bright and quick, before fading back down to singed sticks. It barely gave off any heat and its light did not reach past the bear’s back legs. Prince Gilliam knew he had to choose between spending his last night in cold, pitch darkness or smashing furniture. Then, he remembered the window.

Window may be the wrong word. Built into the stone wall, the iron slab stretched from the floor to a foot above Gilliam’s head. Thin, glass pane teased a glimpse of sky and sea. A chain and pulley lowered it outward like a drawbridge, creating a short walkway to a 200-foot freefall. His great-great-grandfather designed it himself, a cruel joke to anyone with enough misfortune and nobility to spend a night in the Gallows Tower. A thick, wooden board barred the window shut, fitted into iron slats on the center of the door and the walls on either side. Enough wood to last the night.

The prince lifted the board, hoping the chain and pulley would be enough to keep it upright. For a moment, it did. Then, the chain shifted just enough for wind to catch the edge and wrench it open. A fierce gust knocked the young man off his feet. The pitiful fire remains of the fire scattered to ashes. He struggled to stand against the gust, which whipped around the chamber and back out the window. His robe billowed and dragged him out onto the iron. He grabbed the stone edge for all his lift.

Prince Gilliam looked down but regretted it immediately. Misty clouds hovered over the jagged rocks of Manoros Bay. The tower looked taller from this height. Ginger curls danced wildly like a crown of fire as he lifted his head. Every muscle tensed so hard his whole body trembled and pulled himself back inside the tower. As his weight left the iron drawbridge, another strong gust sent it flying up again. Gilliam tumbled into the chamber as the iron slammed shut into its frame. Darkness swallowed the room down to nothing.

For a few moments, he stayed sprawled on his back unsure if he was blind. Tension tightened his chest until he realized he stopped breathing. After three deep breaths, he sat up, feeling the bear skin under his palms. He felt around until setting his hand in the rug’s open jaws. His heart pounded in his ears, or maybe that was thunder rolling in from the sea. He oriented himself from there. He reached out into the darkness toward the pillar at the very center of the room. Something gently enveloped his hand in soft velvet.

Every ache drained from his muscles. Musty air transformed into chrysanthemum and burnt sugar. Warmth radiated outward from breastbone. The hands helped him to his feet. His head told him this could be an assassin sent by his father, but his heart and gut knew he was safer than he had ever been.

“Close your eyes…” A woman’s voice whispered impossibly close. Prince Gilliam did not, and immediately regretted it. White light burst forth from the fireplace, burning his eyes. For a moment, he was as blind as he had been in the dark. When the world darkened back into color, he found himself in front of a roaring fire, hovering above where logs should be. Glass clinked behind him.

“Red or white?”

The prince brushed his curls from his face to fully take in the lovely stranger. The woman stood before his armchair, holding the empty carafe that once held his wine. He knew for certain he had never seen a face like hers before. Her eyes, black eyes flecked with gold, shimmered like the night sky. Indigo dye stained each fingertip up to the first knuckle, with an intricate lacelike pattern traveling up to her elbows. She wore a silver ring on her index finger, the stone a small scorpion encased in amber. She stared in anticipation of an answer to a question he almost forgot.

“Uh . . . red?”

The woman tilted the carafe. A single droplet rolled down the glass into a thin trail that ended before it reached the rim. Nevertheless, the goblet filled with blackberry wine. She held the drink out for him, but he stared in disbelief. Was this a dream? Had he fallen from the tower? Was his head in the basket or rolling across the platform? They stood so long that he jumped in alarm when she stepped toward him. The woman lifted his arm by the cuff and set the cup into his palm for him.

“You’re . . . you’re a witch, aren’t you?”

“Never met one before, my prince?” She lifted a second glass from thin air and poured nothing until her cup was full of wine.

“No,” He admitted. His wine rippled from his trembling hands. “Never. But I have heard of one. The Witch of the Vanishing Desert.”

“I prefer Selene.” Her feet made no sound as she moved from the fur to stone. “You sent a plea for sanctuary to the southern countries with a young squire. Nice lad. Underpaid.”

“But how would he find you?”

“Oh, there’s always a way.” The woman ran her hand across the mantle. Her attention turned curiously to a boar’s head mounted above, silhouetted by the firelight. Her beauty struck him, but he told himself not to trust it. After all, if any stories of hers were true, she was over a century his senior. Even so, he blushed when she spoke his name. “Tell me, Prince Gilliam, what do you know of me?”

“You served my great-great-grandfather as the royal Magi. Then betrayed him. He exiled you out of mercy.” A flicker of hope floated up from his memories. “And you’re indebted to my family! You owe us a life in return. You’re here to save me!”

“Interesting choice of words.” She cut her eyes across at him, then turned her head until her pupils were centered again. “True? Yes. I finally have the chance to repay your bloodline. A life for a life.”

Tears welled in the young man’s eyes. He exhaled in relief as weight melted off his shoulders. Luck smiled on him for the first time in his life. “You . . . you’re here to rescue me! Oh, thank the stars! I’ll finally be free of this prison.”

“Never seen a prison with a feather bed.” Selene ran her fingertips across his sheets. She tested the mattress, first by pressing onto it with one hand, then throwing herself backward without a care. Red wine splashed onto his quilt and he grimaced and the stain. Her eyes lit up like an excited child as she bounced on the mattress and swung her legs. “Not bad for fratricide.”

The prince bristled at the dig. He pushed down his last memory of Killiam.  as Gilliam stabbed a dagger into his heart. Lowering his voice to regain authority, he said, “We don’t have time to waste. My trial begins at first light. I do not feel the odds are in my favor.”

“It is a bad sign when they pay the executioner in advance.” The witch spilled more wine as she hopped down from bed. She strolled around nonchalantly, stopping to admire the drawbridge window. “Worry not, my prince. Your odds have turned soundly on their head. I will help. Just tell me how.”

“How!?” He scoffed, staring at her in confusion. “How would I know how? You must know some way to help me escape!”

She placed a kind hand on his shoulder. The air became springtime flowers and warm sun. He thought of Xara, back before all the trouble and their love was new. Back when she smiled at him with desire. Before her eyes turned to his own brother. Before she heard of his death and flung herself off the balcony. The witch cupped his cheek. “There’s always a way, sweet boy. Too many in fact. Be more precise.”

The prince stumbled over his own thoughts. “More precise than escape before dawn?”

The witch let go of his shoulder and stepped around him toward a tapestry beside the guarded door. A cold chill ran down the prince’s spine. His shoulder tingled until he massaged the feeling back into it. He drank a few sips of wine as he awaited her response. Shadows danced in time with the silent flames as the witch studied the embroidery, inch by inch, as though reading it like a book. The prince impatience flared. “Well!? Can you help me or not?”

“Le mot juste.”

The prince waited a moment for her to continue. “Was that the spell?”

“A foreign expression. It means you have found just the right word needed to express your intentions. No ambiguity. The target does not leap into your path. You must aim the arrow.”

“Then . . . I suppose that I would want to—let go of that!” He barked suddenly. The witch snapped her neck around with a confounded smile, like she had been struck. She told him with one raised eyebrow what a mistake he just made. She dropped the tapestry and twisted her body until she faced him completely. He bowed somewhat and apologized. “Not to offend, my lady. That is real gold thread. It’s an unbelievably valuable antique.”

“So am I.” The witch sat in his chair beside the impossible fire. Her eyes reflected off the surface of her wine. He cleared his throat and brushed his curls from his face.

“Alright. Le mot juste. Um, I would like to escape this tower with my life. Be somewhere my father would never think to look for me. A brand-new life. A chance to start fresh someplace new. And comfortable. Safe, too. I would hate to catch plague or get killed by raiding hoards. I would prefer not to toil in fields or work around farm animals. I am quite partial to dogs, but no shepherding or hunting. I get seasick, so sailing is out too. As little work as I must do to live comfortably. Safe from harm for as long as possible. All before dawn. Can you grant all that?”

           “All I need to know is what you’re willing to lose for it.”

           The prince approached her, towering his height over her. “I thought the payment was relieving your debt to my family.”

“I am deeply indebted to your benevolent lineage. But I am only trying to fulfil your wish. You can never be safe with as a man wanted for treason. You must give up your life to save it. Everything you own. Everyone you know. Titles, riches, wealth. Give it all up and I can grant your every request.”

“I would be someone else?” He pretended to consider, like other options existed. “Could I still be handsome?”

The witch smiled coyly. “You can keep those darling curls.”

“Then how do we do it?”

“That’s up to you.” Her posture shifted. She set aside her wine and rose to her feet. Her body brushed against his with how close he stood. Blood rushed in two different directions. His heart raced. Her gentle hands slid over his shoulders. “What say you, my prince? Do you give yourself to me?”

“To you?”

“Who else?” Her lashes fluttered. At this angle, she almost looked like Xara. Prettier even. One hand slipped inside his robe. She whispered to him so close he felt her lips brush his ear. “Let me run my fingers through your curls. Feed you from my own palm. Let me hold you in my arms. Share my bed. Be mine. Will you give yourself to me for a new life?”

The Prince flushed. What choice did he have? The basket or the plank. For a witch, even one so ancient, she was beautiful. As she held his face in her hands, he knew he could trust her with anything. “For as long as you are true your word.”

Her full lips parted slowly as she leaned close to his ear. “Close your eyes.”

This time, Prince Gilliam closed his eyes. The moment her lips touched his, a bolt of agony shocked him from inside out. His knees buckled backward, dropping him down onto hands. The prince called out for help, but his tongue stretched thin and flat, no longer able to articulate. His jaw stretched as his skull shrunk. The pain was so intense he went numb and melted back into his own mind somewhere. Color faded from the world as it stretched up tall around him. His howls filled the Gallows Tower. He regretted it all until her arms wrapped him and any worry he had faded with the fire in the hearth.

By the time the guards unlocked the door, the room was miraculously empty. The Witch of the Vanishing Desert was seen by many on the Southern Road that night. A woman like her stood out from the other travelers, so lovely and foreign and walking alone. Although alone may not be the right word. In her arms, the witch held a small ginger dog with curls that bounced as they walked. Neither she, nor Prince Gilliam, were ever seen in Veranita again.