The Beggar Prince

“…the beast slammed into my chest, at which point, pay mind, I was incapacitated by a paralyzing hex cast by that devilish witch. But just as the cursed thing was about to sink its teeth into my throat, a great elk leapt from the bushes and charged into the fray. A confused mass — claw and fang, horn and hoof, hair and yours truly — sailed over the cliff into the water below.”

The bearded man sitting across from Yaan, tipped back his mug and slammed it down. His face, full of wrinkles, satisfied at the last gulp of his drink.

“I’d have to be daft to believe that story, woman!” He said.

“And yet here I am,” Yaan, the storyteller, replied.

Settling back in his seat, the Bearded Man rubbed the shoulder of the woman next to him. Her dark, stringy hair grazed the back of his hand. In the dim light of the tavern, his skin looked like charcoal next to her pallid complexion.

“Me an’ my partner here,” he said, “an’ I do mean partner in crime, but also in other ways if you catch my meaning, love us a good story. Tell us another, would ya? But this time be sure it ain’t one that’s pure rubbish, mind.”   

“Well I suppose I could do you better,” Yaan said. A twinkle turned the warm hazel of her eyes to gold. Let’s break out the best story I’ve got. She thought. And then: skies that man needs to comb his beard, and his partner could certainly use a wash. She leaned in, pulling her scarf taut to avoid the stench of the Pale Woman, and lowered her voice so that anyone who was listening could still hear.

“Do you folks know anything about the assassin known as The Yellowjack?” Her voice shifted from silk to gravel as she uttered the last word.

  The two sitting in front of her exchanged glances. A lone woman playing a quiet game of solitaire one table over gasped and lifted a mug to her mouth with white knuckles.

  “Ain’t nobody from here to Fardaven don’t know the name Yellowjack — the fish man that runs the roads from east to west. They say he’s got three rows o’ teeth and gills. GILLS, mind!” The Bearded Man sputtered and spat his way through the words. 

The Pale Woman turned her plump figure about on her chair, observing the dozen or so people glancing in their direction. Yaan’s hazel eyes curled into a smile, friendly and inviting as she shouted toward the bar for another round.

     Soon a sharp-nosed man of about 20, light of hair and broad of shoulder, appeared with 3 mugs of ale. He leaned in so that Yaan could hear him over the drone of guitar and chatter.

     “Barkeep says you shouldn’t be tellin’ those stories here. I don’t want any trouble, mind. Just passin’ the message along.”

“Thanks, Jessamir. Tell the mistress that I’ll keep it to a minimum,” Yaan said, slapping a sack of coins in the young man’s palm. His bright eyes shone, feeling its weight. “Run along now.”

A quick flourish strummed from a guitar on the far end of the tavern as Yaan turned back. She seized the opportunity for a dramatic beginning to her tale.

“Now everyone’s heard of The Yellowjack, but I wager you’d be pressed to find a person that knows anything about his time as The Beggar Prince. Right, my friends?”

The Pale Woman started shaking her head, only changing it to a nod when she heard her companion breath out a quiet yes. 

“Long before his days roaming the mountains in search of work, our hero was a simple boy who lived in Grinthe, the capital of the south. But he wasn’t merely a citizen of Grinthe, he lived in the castle. Now contrary to the nickname, he wasn’t a prince. He was, however, of noble blood. His father was a prized knight. Part of the Royal Guard. Some might even say he was the best soldier in all the South.”

She paused for a drink, removing her scarf, leaving it down to reveal full lips and a square jawline. “Are you with me?” She said, prompting The Pale Woman to shake her head with a furrowed brow. The Bearded Man was nodding, captivated, and gave his partner a rap on the shoulder. Yaan continued.

     “Not a few years into his job as a royal guard, a knight called Lyrin walked into a tavern much like this lovely establishment right here and met himself a pretty table maid named Trella. Well Lyrin was a real charmer. Asked no questions, see, just told a lady what he intended right then and there. Trella didn’t like that, so he came back again the next night all done up in armour, making apologies and showing his honourable, knightly side. Trella quite fancied a man in uniform, so she agreed to meet him outside of work. Now you fine folks can imagine what they did over the course of the following weeks, so I’ll spare the details, but suffice it to say Trella and Lyrin ended up with a tiny boy called Faiell: our hero.”

     The guitarist’s song ended, and candlelight flickered as a few more people entered the tavern through a set of creaky, wooden doors. Yaan nodded, regarding a few newcomers in the small crowd that had gathered around to listen. The tale of The Beggar Prince was always popular with people from backwater towns. Leaning back and tucking auburn hair behind her ears, she continued.   

“For those of you that aren’t familiar with the old language of the south, Faiell means Stoic. Well baby Faiell was stoic as sure as Shayar is the brightest star in the sky. But above that, he was a smart young boy. He learned to walk and talk more quickly than most of the other younglings around the capital, and unlike his father, he was a proper charmer. By age five he was upholding conversations with lords and ladies of the castle. By ten he was writing poems and songs for girls his age and older. Boys, too. All was great except one fine detail: Lyrin wanted the boy to follow in old Dad’s footsteps. Starting in his eleventh year, he began training with sword and shield. He spent many days from sunrise to sunset training. But no matter what he did, it didn’t make the faintest lick of a difference to his skill. Mute, his father called him. Useless,” Yaan hissed these words, “He was as skilled with his tongue as a bard or poet, but he hadn’t even the faintest grasp on the language of sword and shield. 

“The lady Trella loved her little boy, so she fought with Lyrin to have him put into service under the castle’s historians and scientists. Pardon, you folks down here call them…alchemists, I believe? This, however, didn’t suit the boy’s father. Faiell was a disgrace to his family name and like all disgraces he was to be dealt with. Lyrin did then what any respectable member of the Royal Guard would do and had him cast out beyond the city walls. Wolves take you, he said, and be sick from the useless meat you provide.”

Yann paused and took a long drink. The crowd, now visibly larger, stirred in anticipation. Yaan chuckled as several exclamations rose from the crowd. As if I’m not the best, most masterful storyteller these foolish country folks have ever had the pleasure of meeting, she thought.

What happened next?

Tell us about the witch!

I heard he killed his father.

I heard he married a fish!

“Settle yourselves,” Yaan said, waving a gloved hand, “and let me tell my tale.” The crowd again fell silent. So easy, she thought.

“Moving on. You probably know that the open road is a treacherous place for a young fellow. Lucky for Faiell, his mother supplied him with a dagger and a small bag of rations to get him through a few days. For weeks, he roamed without a clue where he was going, settling eventually in a grove close to the Wiseham trail north of Grinthe. At night he would stalk the trails, lying in wait for unsuspecting folk to pass by so he could talk them out of at least a portion of rations. A good many took pity on the wretched young thing — skinny as he was — but sometimes he’d have to resort to dagger point threats. This he did, of course, only with those he knew he could take in a fight. He was not strong or skilled.     

“Soon after, my friends, tales of an urchin thief fell over the queen’s domain like a warm blanket. But unlike the blanket your mother swaddled you in when you were still at the tit, this one didn’t keep young Faiell warm. It soon dawned on our hero that he’d have to find lodging in order to avoid Eshewynn’s icy breath during the colder months. He took to walking and happened on the quaint little rat-spit village of Yest.”

Yaan stopped for a moment, her mouth twisted in thought. With a sharp exhale through her nose, her next phrase came out with feigned care.

“Now please don’t get me wrong here, I’m a lover of small towns, but I must say one thing about small town folk: you don’t always know when to shut your mouths. Faiell also knew that to be the case, so he took it upon himself to tell his story to a few locals. You can imagine what happened next, I’m sure: word of his exile and bastard of a father spread as quickly a flame through brush. He hoped, see, that he could make use of this defamation to get back at the old man.”

The crowd, larger now, mumbled at this final phrase.

“Defamation…you know, vilification. Backstabbing!”

A good portion of the crowd shook their heads in disgust. According to countryside custom, a child should never shame their father. The Bearded Man, the Pale Woman, and a small handful of villagers, however, nodded their assent.

“Villagers knew he wasn’t born from royalty,” Yaan continued, “but he spoke with a tongue that could have only been raised near the castle, and they believed his stories of the boy who was cast out by his father, prized knight of the Royal Guard. Considering this, and the fact that Yest hadn’t been visited by the Queen or anyone of her ilk in decades, it’s clear why he was named The Beggar Prince. Now Yest—"

Yaan’s story stopped short as the low thumping of a hand drum reverberated from across the tavern. A new performer had begun to sing. She wore a high-necked, waist length, brown jacket buttoned to the top and a pair of loose, gray pants. Thick, black hair fell to her shoulders and olive skin glistened in the candlelight. Her voice floated through the crowd like honey through hot tea. Yaan, now hypnotized, remained silent as music filled her ears.

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In morning o’er mountain, the sun brightly shines.

It passes us nightly and leaves us behind,

Like warm dewdrops splashing on young willow leaf.

For what would you call time if not but a thief?

A newborn babe cries in its mother’s warm arms,

She cuddles that child and protects it from harm,

The mother knows now that these years will be brief.

For what would you call time if not but a thief?

Your beauty, my love, is as stubborn and true

As sun o’er mountain and warm drops of dew,

I spend my days pondering sorrow and grief,

For what would you call time if not but a thief?

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     As the song came to an end, Yaan returned to her tale, looking down to shade misty eyes.

“Now Yest, as you all may have the privilege of knowing, is a small village rife with superstition. But as this story will tell you, sometimes superstition is true. And this—”

“The witch!” A young boy interrupted, throwing up a celebratory fist. Yaan pointed a finger and winked at him, the twinkle returning to her eye.

“The newly crowned Beggar Prince spent a good year working in Yest. He moved from place to place helping the village’s tradespeople with whatever needs they had. During his days of rest, he spent hours practicing with a sword and shield. His father’s desires were a parasite rooted deep in his skull. I have my suspicions that a few of you here tonight know a thing or two about this particularly sensitive topic.

“Having learned that what couldn’t be ripped out of his head must be tamed, and having heard many a tale of the witch in the forest near Yest, The Beggar Prince decided that he had wasted enough time with futile attempts to teach himself to fight. The witch was said to be able to grant one wish during the lifetime of anyone who asked, and so to her Faiell went.

“He stood outside her door. Mistress Kale, he shouted, I’ve come to claim my wish! He waited until the sun went down as per the instructions of the local youths and sure enough the door opened. Come in, a voice whispered. He went inside.

“The witch’s hovel was not as he expected. Where there ought to be jars of pigs’ feet, there were lilies. Instead of an array of skulls, he found cages filled with various colorful birds chirping with delight. Instead of a haggard old monster, he saw before him the most incredibly beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on.”

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What is it you wish of me? The witch whispered.

I want to be able to fight. I want to be skilled enough that should I ever see my father again, I can kill him with a single swing of my sword.

Powerless to resist, Faiell felt the warm embrace of the witch’s lips. The woman tasted sweet. Of citrus and something else that escaped her.

Did the townsfolk tell you that wishes always come with a cost?

Yes, Faiell said, shuddering.

And you’re willing to accept the cost?

Yes.

Then let us begin.

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A familiar woman’s voice cut through the crowd, cleaving the air and rendering Yaan speechless. It was the performer — the woman in the leather jacket. A hush fell over the crowd. Everyone was looking at her.

“Alright, alright that’s enough of that now. It’s all well and good that you told them about the curse, but you left out one very important part of the story. You didn’t tell them why they dubbed this vicious killer The Yellowjack.”

She rounded the table. As she walked, she regarded the Bearded Man and the Pale Woman with keen eyes. Everyone in the tavern had forgotten about Yaan in favor of the raven-haired songstress with eyes like ice.

“You see Yellowjacks aren’t particularly dangerous fish. I’ve hooked my fair share, and what I’ve noticed is that they often flutter about aimlessly — their golden flesh, a king’s crown gleaming in the daylight. They’re quite beautiful, really, and that’s how they keep their secret. Not many people know it, but they’re actually predators, see? They sneak up on unsuspecting prey by acting as friends do, sometimes working alone, sometimes in pairs. And then they strike.” Some of the crowd jumped as she slammed a fist on the table, emphasising this last word. “And it’s a damn good thing,” she continued through rows of gleaming teeth halfway between a grimace and a smile, “these two idiots don’t know that Faiell is a woman’s name.”

Yaan’s hazel eyes narrowed, flashing a challenge at the newcomer who was now undoing her coat’s silver buttons one by one with slender fingers. Underneath, a low-necked shirt betrayed golden scales that covered the left half of her chest and made a trail around her slender neck. The bearded man rose to his feet as realization smacked him like an errant mallet on a clumsy carpenter’s thumb — the colour drained from his partner’s already colourless face. Stupefied, they moved to run but before they could gather their wits, gleaming steel flashed through the air and The Yellowjack’s prey fell to the floor.

After what felt like a lifetime to many in the tavern, the woman called Faiell shouted to the tavern’s server.

“Jessamir! These two were worth a pretty penny. I’m buying drinks for everyone tonight!”

The woman sitting next to Yaan returned to her lonesome game of cards as the Tavern filled with an uproarious cheer.