Snow Roses Read online

  Snow Roses

  by Taryn Tyler

  Copyright©2014 Taryn Tyler

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher except brief quotations

  Interior design by Taryn Tyler Cover design by Jordie Tyler

  For Hali

  Thank you for all the support In the Dark

  What is out there in the dark? Teeth and claws and endless shadow What is out there in the dark? Winds that bite and beasts that swallow

  But I am safe here in these walls Cradled away from light that blisters Smothered, I cannot hear the calls, The howling shrieks and crying whispers

  Here I spin an endless thread Of powers I cannot hope to reach My heart bleeds in an endless red

  With songs I must not try to breach What is out there in the dark? The pain of loss, the screams of sorrow

  What is out there in the dark? Too much past, too much tomorrow

  I am locked behind these walls Cowering inside a memory

  I am bound by soundless calls, By fears that screech to be set free Forbidden thoughts frost with ice,

  Melting in a heap unspoken Silence is life's sacrifice If you want your mind unbroken

  I am trapped here in the dark Without a friend, without a vision

  I am trapped here in the dark Within these walls, within this prison

  Whatever horrors lurk out there I know that they could never be As treacherous as this black hole Twisted deep inside of me

  I am lost here in the dark Blind to hope, unmasked of purpose

  I am lost here in the dark Lost to thought, alone with madness

  Snow

  I grew used to papa's death the way summer dwindles into winter. Silently. Laboriously. Without hope.

  I do not know when the funeral was held. I do not know how many foreign dignitaries attended or how the common folk mourned the loss of their ruler. I imagine I was invited --expected to attend in somber black silk, suffering silently by my stepmother's side. I imagine that my handmaidens pleaded with me to allow them to dress me but I never heard them. I paced across the intricate weave of my chamber's rug, losing myself in its elaborate swirls, trying to conceive some kind of consistent pattern. My eyes grew raw and tender around the rims. I slept little and ate only when coerced. My already slight form and pale skin became a rattle of bones and a ghostly pallor.

  When I did sleep I dreamt that I was drowning. Ice cold water poured into my lungs, filling them until I thought my chest would burst. Other nights –or days; I had long since stopped keeping track of time –thick, thorny vines wound their way around me, squeezing until I bled. I woke, screaming, only to realize that the reality was worse than any nightmare.

  I woke one day, blinking up at the ceiling above my bed. It took me a moment to realize that the big-eyed, bat-like creatures engraved on it were not trying to eat me. I remembered that Papa was and always would be dead. He would never tell me another story riddled with indecipherable morals again. He would never look up from mounds of records with a fond, preoccupied smile and tell me that he was going to be king for the afternoon and my questions would have to wait until dinner. He would never press his hand against mine and tell me how strong I was, making the statement true with the deep strength of his voice.

  My chest burned with an inner sinking I thought would never end. My limbs felt dead and leaden as they sank into my down mattress. It was a familiar feeling that I had begun to accept along with the damp of the cooling season.

  Through the haze of despair I suddenly realized that I was hungry.

  Hunger. I'd almost forgotten the sensation curdling in my stomach, gurgling around like a boiling pot until it almost seemed to hiss at me. I lay there for a moment beneath the heaviness of my comforter, remembering the sensation now that I had given it a name.

  I sat up. I rolled the comforter off and walked across my chamber floor. The door creaked as I pushed against the iron handles. It felt heavier than it had the last time I had opened it. My thin arms shook under the weight. I poked my head out into the antechamber.

  Brightness streamed in from the windows, blinding me. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Elise.” The sound came out a whisper. My throat felt hoarse and scratchy. I cleared it and tried again. “Elise.” Louder this time but still not quite clear. “Elise.”

  “Elise is gone.” The voice was tight, short and irritated as if I had interrupted some great and all important thought. I pried my eyes open to see the shadow of a tall, dark haired woman in mourning clothes sitting on Elise's embroidered chair. She scowled at me.

  “When will she be back?” I asked. I had thought it was still morning but perhaps I'd slept longer than I'd thought. “Is Dana--”

  “Elise and Dana are both gone.” Her voice grew tighter. “They will not be back. I am Constanze.” She seemed to think that a sufficient explanation for why both my handmaidens, who had been with me since they were my nurses, had suddenly abandoned me.

  Gone. Just like Papa. My throat swelled but I didn't want to cry in front this strange, stone faced woman. I squinted at her, trying to decide if I'd seen her before but I couldn't remember. The last days had danced by in a whirl of pain and whispers. I raised my head in the best lady-of-the-manor stance I could manage with red eyes and a wet nose. “Constanze, I am hungry. Bring me some breakfast.”

  Constanze bowed her head. At least I think she did. The motion was so slight it might have been a shadow shifting outside the window. Her long, black gown rippled around her ankles as she slipped out into the corridor. The whole household must have been wearing black now. Except for me. I'd been up here in the same thin, white night shift for I didn't know how long.

  I let the heavy ebony doors slam shut and slunk down against the wall. My body ached with exhaustion. The tears started again. By the time Constanze brought me my breakfast my eyes were swollen once more, my nose red and tender. I stirred the simple oat porridge around, nibbling only a little at the unbuttered bread she had brought with it.

  When I was finished Constanze returned to fetch the half empty bowl and crumbled bits of bread away. She looked down at me. I didn't look very much like the lady of the manner crumpled against the wall with my night shift stretched around my feet. She curled her lip and raised an eyebrow in a mocking query. “Will you be dining with the queen tonight, your ladyship?”

  The queen? Oh, she meant Lucille. The last thing I wanted was to sit beneath my stepmother's scrutiny while she waited for me to use the wrong fork or spill gravy on my chin. I never did but that didn't stop her from watching me with more intensity than any of my tutors ever had. Papa had laughed when I'd complained. 'You make her as nervous as she makes you.' I hadn't wanted to be the one to smooth the laugh lines out of his forehead so I hadn't argued but Papa was gone now. There was no longer a reason to pretend I liked her.

  Gone. The aching feeling in my chest deepened. I struggled to remind myself that Constanze was still staring down at me, waiting for an answer. I forced myself to meet her gaze. I shook my head then looked back down at my fingers, limp in my lap. I didn't see or hear Constanze leave but she must have. The next time I looked over at the patterns on my rug she was gone. So was the porridge and the bread.

  I couldn't sleep that night. I squirmed and rolled beneath my comforter and the gaze of the bat-like carvings overhead but not even nightmares would overtake me. I rose out of bed and went to the window. The pane was caked with dust and frosted over with ice. I leaned forward and breathed onto the glass. Tiny icicles melted away, drizzling down the pane onto the black ebony windowsill. I pressed my palm against the glass and smeared away the dust with my fingers. The ice bit through my skin into my bones.

  The courtyard was dark but for a f
ew lanterns pacing back and forth near the gate. The fire in the forge was on and I could make out the shadows of Lucille's men working in the yard. The window was closed but I could imagine the rhythmic hammering of iron wares being made. I shuddered, remembering the burn of hot iron from my dreams.

  If it had been a dream. I shut my eyes, trying to blot out the memory with darkness.

  I climbed back into bed. Soon I was asleep, dreaming the worst of all the dreams. Papa, tossing in his bed, unable to recognize me through the fog of fever in his eyes. Me, gripping his hand as if I could make him stay if I held on tight enough. His eyes, gray and lifeless as Lucille stooped over him and rolled them shut with her pale, soft hands.

  It was still dark when I woke. The quiet, thin dark of early morning, not the busy, thick dark of night. I drew myself out of bed and went to the window again. Squinting, I could see only one of Lucille's men in the yard, chopping wood outside the stable. His work was quick and meticulous as he piled log after log onto the wood pile. It was late for such work. Or early. Not even the cooks and scullery maids were up yet. He stopped suddenly and looked up toward my window as if he could feel my gaze.

  I stepped back. The silver-spun drapes dropped over the window, blocking me from sight. I clenched my fists. My breath tightened. Why had my heartbeat quickened? Why had my blood gone so cold, heavy as if it were being drained down into the ground? Had it been so long since the world outside had acknowledged my existence? I laid my palm against the top of my breast where the pain was the deepest. How long had it been? Days? Weeks?

  I glanced at the heavy ebony door across my chamber. Only a few steps away. I dropped my hand to my side, edging my way toward it. I pressed my ear against the wood and listened. Constanze acted more like a jailer than a handmaid. I wasn't certain she would let me out if I asked. I breathed deep, clenching my fingers tight around my hand. Nothing stirred in the antechamber. I unhooked the latch and pressed the door open, inch by inch to keep the hinges from creaking. I peeked out.

  Constanze lay across the handmaids' sofa, her legs dangling over the side, her head rolled back. The dark, somber fabric of her gown looked strange against the embroidered silk of the sofa even in the shadows. Snores filtered out of her mouth in a series of short starts like my first attempts at notes before I convinced Papa I wasn't meant to play the flute.

  I crept past her, balancing my bare feet against the carpeted floor. I pressed my hand against the door handle and held my breath. Constanze stirred, rolling her head amongst the pillows. The snoring stopped. I bit my lip to hold back a gasp. A stinging drop of blood rolled down the corner of my mouth.

  The half-hearted whistle of Constanze's snores returned. I breathed again and pressed against the door, bracing myself for the pull of a latch chain.

  The door opened. I caught my balance as I stumbled out into the corridor. The long hall was eerie. Strange. Nothing like the safe labyrinth I had memorized as a child. The candelabras were unlit. The dark threaded tapestries draped toward the ground like heavy spider's webs. I glanced back at Constanze to be sure that she was still asleep and clicked the door shut.

  The corridor was empty. No one stopped me as I pattered through the twists and turns, quiet and sightless like a blind rat, until I reached the manor's side door. I hung back just outside of the shadow of the door's pale wooden planks and tarnished silver hinges. A pair of night guards dozed against the wall on either side of it, catching what few minutes of sleep they could before the morning guards relieved them and sent them back to the day's training.

  I crept past the guards on the balls of my feet. The deep scratch of their breaths echoed through the dark, interrupted only by the irregular thump and clatter of ax and wood. Once outside, I shivered. The stone was cold against my bare feet, sending chills up through my soles. A scullery maid knelt next to the well, fetching the morning's water. She gathered up her bucket and scurried past me.

  I approached the woodcutter, still working next to the stable. I had seen him before. He had been among the first to arrive with Lucille, always lurking in her shadow, whispering in her ear. Her other men called him the Hunter since he wasn't a part of their ranks and regiments. No one knew quite what his function was except that he often returned from long trips into the forest with a deer or a swan for Lucille's dinner table. I glanced at the long knife thrust into his belt, the bear fur lining his tunic. Whatever his function he didn't look like a man who would hesitate to kill.

  The Hunter looked up at me, letting his ax head fall to the ground. He scowled.

  I stared, wondering if I should speak. If he would ask me what I was doing out in the yard so early. If I had any kind of answer for him. “I can help.” I said “With the wood.”

  He pressed his lips together. His scowl deepened beneath his wild mat of black hair. He glanced up at my chamber window. “I suppose Constanze isn't much for company.” He lifted his ax, turning the handle out towards me. “Be careful. It's heavy. Half your weight I reckon. Hasn't the queen been feeding you?”

  The queen again. Papa had never called Lucille that even after he'd made her his wife. “I . . . haven't been feeding myself.” I took the ax. Its weight pulled at my arm sockets and I almost dropped it. I tightened my fingers around the handle. It was worn but free of splintering slivers.

  The Hunter nodded. “It takes you that way sometimes. The sadness.”

  “How long?” I asked “Since . . .”

  He pointed up at the pale sliver of moon above us. It glowed faintly through the drifting veil of clouds. “The night the king died there was no moon.” He said. “Tomorrow there will be no moon.”

  My grip on the ax slackened. A month. Twenty nine days. It was a long time to be shut up in my chamber.

  He nodded toward the unchopped logs. “Get on with it then. Work makes you hungry.”

  I lifted the ax. My arms shook. It had been so long since I had lifted even a hairbrush. I aimed for the wood laid out on the chopping block and swung downward. The ax fell. Fast.

  The Hunter put out his hand, catching the ax before the blade swung into my shins. “Steady. Swing, don't drop. Stay in control. Go slow if you have to.”

  I lifted the ax again and swung downward. This time I brought the sharp edge down onto the chopping block, missing the wood by at least three inches. Another try and I tapped the wood but didn't swing hard enough to slice it. Again and again and again I tried until I'd lost track of how many times. My shoulders grew sore then warm then numb, my breath short, then strained, then long and controlled, as I concentrated on guiding the ax blade. The Hunter stood beside me, watching, interfering only when the blade came near my shin or toes.

  Finally I swung the blade down, hard and direct, onto the wood. It splintered beneath the blow, falling away with a heavy thud.

  “Good.” The Hunter held his hand out for the ax. I handed it to him. My fingers and palms ached as I let go, red and scratched from gripping so hard.

  The Hunter resumed his work without a word, grim and determined as if nothing else in the world existed. I sat on the ground with my back against the stable wall and watched him work, lifting the tool up over his head, then letting it swing down onto the wood. Pieces of log clattered onto the ground and he stooped to stack them against the stable wall.

  Winter was on its way but the woodpile was already high enough to keep the manor warm for months. I wondered why the Hunter needed to work in the early hours of the morning, why he needed work to make him hungry. My eyes drooped as I listened to the splintering, uneven fall of iron against the chopping block.

  I started at the touch of the Hunter's hand against my wrist. The chopping had stopped. I opened my eyes, blinking up at him. It was almost dawn. I hadn't meant to fall asleep.

  “You'd better go.” He said “The queen won't like me taking you up.”

  I nodded and rose to my feet, shivering. My feet were wet and numb from the morning frost. The hem off my night shift was drenched where it had draped over the
ground. I turned and trudged back toward the manor.

  “Snow.”

  I turned around, startled. He had called me by my name as if I were any other child on the manor. As if I weren't the king's daughter. I should have been angry but I wasn't.

  “Next time bring a pair of shoes. You don't want to get frost bite.”

  I nodded.

  Every morning after that I rose before dawn and joined the Hunter ---Hans he told me to call him--- in the yard next to the stable. We didn't speak much. We just chopped wood. My arms grew stronger, my aim steadier. When I could split almost as many logs as he could he showed me how to throw knives and make animal traps then taught me where to slice a man's throat for the cleanest, quickest death. I watched him kill first a rabbit then a lamb for Lucille's dinner table.

  The moon reappeared and grew full again. The morning frost began to harden and remain throughout the day as the season grew colder and colder. I never told Constanze about my lessons. As far as she knew I didn't wake until late morning when I poked my head out of my chamber to ask for breakfast. I never went out when it was light. I didn't want hundreds of eyes prying at me, wondering where I had been the last weeks when I should have been taking up papa's duties to the villages.

  “Does she miss him?” I asked Hans one morning. I pulled the silver knife he had given me to practice with out of the molding straw doll he had set up against the stable wall. I blew a piece of straw off it, trying not to wheeze on the spores of mold.

  Hans blinked. He fixed his eyes on me, searching for my meaning.

  “Lucille.” I said. “Does she miss Papa?” I hadn't seen her since the night she had rolled his eyes shut. The night she had had my hands pried from his and had me dragged to my chamber, squealing like a pig before slaughter.

  Hans shrugged.

  “You would know.” I gripped my hand tight around the silver knife handle. I could feel the grooves marking their pattern of vines and oak leaves into my skin. “If she missed him you would know.”