Once Upon a Dream Read online

  "I must be as spoiled as my father, to be so wrapped up in my own tantrums that I missed something so precious …" Prince Isaac released Roe's chin to cup the back of his head and draw him closer still.

  A real kiss from Prince Isaac was far better than even Roe's best imaginings, and he simply was not capable of behaving decorously as he had told himself he would, instead tightly gripping Prince Isaac's sleeves and kissing back with everything he had, determined to engrave a memory that would last him a life time.

  He could not help but whimper when Prince Isaac drew back, but made himself withdraw—only to find himself firmly dragged along into Prince Isaac's tent. "Have a bath drawn for Sir Roe," Isaac said to his waiting servants. "Also see we are not disturbed the rest of the night; I will speak with my father in the morning."

  When they were alone, Roe looked at him and said, "Highness, I don't understand…"

  Prince Isaac smiled, and bent to brush a soft kiss across his mouth. It made Roe shiver, somehow striking deeper than their more heated kiss a moment ago. "You spent three days subjecting yourself to injury and humiliation all because a brat prince asked it of you, and in return you wanted only a kiss. Even I am smart enough to know I should hold fast, and never let you go." He reached up and brushed his knuckles lightly across Roe's cheek. "No man could ask for a better champion than thee, Sir Roe, and I can only humbly ask that you remain by my side."

  "Until you've no further need of me, Highness," Roe replied, half-afraid he would wake at any moment.

  "I think you are what I have needed all along," Prince Isaac murmured, and bent to kiss him again.

  The King's Challenges

  "I'm a born citizen of this country. My family has been here since the country's inception. Their shop has been in the family for six generations, and I recently submitted my application and took the entrance exams for the Royal Academy. I am fully within my rights—"

  "To sod off like the rest of the riff raff," the clerk cut in, causing other clerks and soldiers and guests clustered around the registration tables to snigger.

  Cowan flushed, but refused to back down. "I am fully within the rights of the law, which says every citizen—"

  "Every citizen doesn't mean riff raff too poor and stupid to have even enough sense to wear a proper cloak in the cold," the clerk retorted, stroking the soft rabbit trim on his own costly cloak. "Do you honestly think the king would be impressed by any piddling answer you could give to his challenges?"

  "You know so well what the king thinks, do you?" A voice demanded, making everyone jump, whip around, and blanche. The clerk who had been troubling Cowan stammered incoherently.

  Cowan flushed still darker—the stranger was more than a little handsome, and he had never felt so painfully his own ragged state. Though he had done his best to clean and comb out his blond hair, fix up his plain, homemade breeches, undergarments, and winter-weight tunic, he was no noble. He hoped it was not obvious he was destitute and homeless.

  The stranger had black hair, cut fashionably short, and green, green eyes, the like of which Cowan had never seen—but they matched perfectly the small emerald stud in the man's right ear. His own eyes were the color of mud, and he had never felt it so keenly. Cowan met his gaze briefly, before dropping his eyes, but he'd had for a moment a fleeting impression of sadness, behind the more blatant anger. But that must be a flight of fancy; how would he notice such a thing in a complete stranger?

  He was dressed simply, but elegantly, in a gray and green tunic with black leggings and undercoat, and a handsome black cloak lined and trimmed in ermine. It looked so warm that Cowan ached, more acutely aware of the cold than ever.

  "—am sorry, Your Majesty."

  Cowan jerked as the clerk's words penetrated. This—this was the king? He'd known the king was young; everyone talked about how he had taken the throne at only twenty five, three years ago. He'd never heard of how handsome and striking and—and distracting His Majesty could be.

  Realizing his mind was wandering again, Cowan tried to stop staring at the king and pay attention.

  The king glanced his way and smiled warmly, and Cowan panicked, nodding and trying to smile and thanking and bowing all at once, only succeeding in barely keeping himself from tumbling over. He flinched as a few people laughed at him, little comforted when glares from the king silenced them.

  "It is my understanding," the king said, "that the King's Challenges may be attempted by every citizen of this country. Everyone may try, regardless of station. That is the law, unless I have always misunderstood the meaning of the phrase 'every citizen'. Only the king may turn away a challenger. Are you the king?"

  "No, Sire. I was only—"

  "Then what gives you the right, any of you, to turn him away? How does he fail to meet the requirement of 'every citizen' when he has stated clearly, and I see has the papers to prove it, that he is a citizen of my kingdom."

  His question was met only with silence.

  "Precisely," the king said, looking at each person until their gazes dropped to the ground and remained there. He turned to Cowan, who only barely kept his head up, still feeling the sting of humiliation—but even that faded away completely beneath the warmth in the jewel-bright eyes. "What is your name?"

  "Uh—Cowan, si—Your Majesty. Cowan Medaughs."

  "A pleasure to meet you, Cowan Medaughs. I welcome you to my challenges. Have you put your name on the registry?"

  "No, Your Majesty. They wouldn't—that is—I have not, Your Majesty."

  The king's smile widened. "Then, by all means."

  Looking much like he had eaten something sour, and blamed Cowan for it, the clerk slid the registry parchment across the table, along with ink and quill.

  Taking up the quill, ignoring the eyes upon him—able to feel the king's anyway—Cowan signed his name at the bottom of the registry. His hand was not quite as flowing and elegant as the more refined hands which had signed, but it was respectable. He ignored the murmurs of surprise when people realized he had written in court script, rather than the common script they had expected.

  He glanced slowly up, feeling unusually shy. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

  The king only smiled again, and waved the words away. "I announce the first challenge in an hour. I look forward to seeing what you will provide in answer to it, three days hence. Good luck to you, Cowan Medaughs."

  Then he turned and left, before Cowan could manage another thank you. Face hot, and not liking the hostile looks he was receiving, Cowan fled. He went down to the market, straight to the food stalls, and obtained enough bread and cheese to last him a couple of days. He looked longingly at meat pies and pasties, hot buns and pastries, soup and stew, but managed to resist. His money was dwindling fast, and it had to last as long as he could possibly make it, until he managed to find employment again.

  Or managed to win some sort of prize in the King's Challenges. Hah. What had he been thinking, really? Slipping away to a quiet alleyway, tucking away most of his bread and cheese and keeping out only a small portion to eat, Cowan turned his mad scheme over and over again in his mind. He might have scraped out an education, but he was hardly a noble—and nothing proved that more than the way they refused him entrance to the Academy unless he could pay an entrance fee he knew was thrice what it should be. If he could not even get accepted there, what chance did he have being capable of meeting the King's Challenges?

  But he had no choice. No job, no prospects, down to his last few coppers, and the Academy farther away than ever… he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by trying the Challenges.

  The Autumn Market and Festival was the most anticipated of the year, and the main feature of it was the King's Challenges. It was said the brightest and cleverest and bravest in the country came to meet the challenges. The prizes varied, but were given only at the king's discretion, when he thought his challenge had been sufficiently met. Three challenges, over the course of nine of the twelve days of the festival. Three days
to each challenge, with a prize awarded each day, and a grand prize awarded at the end.

  Legend had it that once upon a time a king had been so impressed, he had taken the winner as his consort. More realistically, the grand prize was estate, or a position in the court, or a large sum of money. Cowan would settle for whatever money or sellable item he could manage to obtain. Anything that would help him survive or, better still, provide enough to pay his entrance fee.

  He shivered as the wind kicked up, reminding him all the more painfully that he no longer had his cloak. Footpads had attacked him two weeks ago, while he was running an errand to fetch a book for his employer. They'd taken his money, his pen knife, the book, and ruined his cloak in the process.

  His employer, displeased to lose such an expensive book to Cowan's careless behavior, had terminated him on the spot. Since then, Cowan had not been able to find new employment. He was increasingly afraid he would have to go crawling home—and more afraid they would turn him away.

  Finished eating, he slipped back out into the crowd, and made his way quickly toward the Grand Pavilion. He could hear them reading off the list of challengers, and pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring looks and curses and elbow jabs, bursting through just as his name was called, tripping over someone's foot and crashing to the stones.

  The herald paused to sneer at him, while everyone else laughed uproariously at him. Cowan flushed, but wiped a smear of mud from his face and stood with shoulders squared.

  "Cowan Medaughs," the herald drawled again, and rolled the parchment back up. "Challengers, face your king!"

  The king stepped forward and gave a short speech, but Cowan barely heard it, too lost in staring. He was again struck with an air of sadness. No, that wasn't quite right. It was something like that … but of course he should know it, he saw it every time he caught his reflection in a pane of glass or bit of shined up metal. Loneliness.

  "My first challenge," the king suddenly called out, "is only this: bring me the sun. Good luck, challengers. We will meet again in three days' time."

  Cowan stood watching as the king left the dais upon which he'd been standing, vanishing into a tent. Bring him the sun? The sun, the sun…

  Around him, people jostled and clamored and cursed, frustrated by the unusual challenge. Ignoring them, Cowan thought and thought. The sun, the sun, how in the world did one bring the king the sun?

  He strolled absently through the city, barely noticing the markets, the people, until he was stopped short by a little flower girl who shoved a bouquet of wilted wild flowers into his face. "Blossom for a bit, sir?"

  "That's it!" Cowan cried, and gave her a copper just because, and turned sharply, racing out of the city. He would have to travel quickly, but if he could find one…

  *~*~*

  Cowan stood anxiously with his 'sun' in hand, feeling increasingly anxious and hopeless as the other challengers approached with their own variations of bringing the king the sun. Beautiful works of sculpture, painting, jewels, someone had brought a sundial. Worst of all, someone with the marks of a professor of the Academy had brought the king a beautiful book of legends and tales concerning the sun from around the world.

  There was no possible way he could compete with that book, or the wealth and beauty of the other answers. What had he been thinking with his one stupid little thing? No doubt the tale to go with it was in the book, anyway.

  He wilted where he stood, feeling sick with increasing dread the further down the list the herald got, until it was finally his turn. Well, he was already considered a laughing stock. One more day of mockery would not kill him and afterward he would simply bow out. He should never have gotten involved to begin with.

  It was hard to remember that as he stepped out to the cleared square in the center of the pavilion, and the king's eyes were already fixed upon him. Gods, it was so hard not to stare into those eyes. There was kindness there, and Cowan suddenly found himself able to approach the king.

  Someone laughed, and his momentary confidence immediately collapsed. He strode with head down to the throne, and extended the simple 'sun' he held—a bouquet of flowers with long, lush petals of a brilliant gold hue, just barely orange at the very center.

  The laughter increased as everyone saw more clearly what he had presented.

  "Goddess flowers?" a courtier said. "Honestly—" he shut up as the king shot him a look, and hastily slid back into the crowd and out of the king's sight.

  The king turned back to Cowan. "They are beautiful. I am genuinely curious, Master Medaughs. How are these flowers bringing me the sun?"

  "Uh—" Cowan slowly looked up, and fought down the shivers that threatened due to the cold. "At the very beginning of our kingdom, before it was a kingdom, nomads traveled through the land. Exiled from their homeland, resigned to wandering, they thought this empty land a blessing from their own goddess, the golden flowers filling the fields a sign from her. That is how we came to call them Goddess Flowers. However, in the native language of the nomads, no longer spoken save in very ancient texts and amongst scholars of that language, the words literally translate as 'Sun Flower' because they worshipped the Goddess of the Sun. These flowers were long believed to be her tears, fallen to the earth and turned to blossoms."

  "Beautiful, and well done," the king said with approval, smiling warmly. He stood up and slowly approached, and Cowan wondered when his heart had begun to beat so quickly. Only a step or two away from Cowan, the king stopped. "Though I've many fine prizes to offer, I think I know one which would suit you and please you best. It, and all that might be in it, is yours for best meeting this day the Challenge of the Sun. You brought me the sun, so in reward I give you warmth." So saying, he removed his black, ermine-lined cloak and swung it around to settle on Cowan's shoulders, pinning the emerald cloak pin in place.

  Cowan stared in shock. "Majesty—"

  "Your prize, and fairly won," the king said firmly. "Take it."

  Cowan stared for a moment, then simply nodded. The cloak smelled of amber and orange, the sort of scent only a king could afford. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

  The king smiled, and squeezed his shoulder, so close for a moment that Cowan thought his heart would burst from his chest and now he could smell the orange and amber on the king's skin—

  He flushed dark and barely kept from scrambling back, mortified by his own thoughts.

  The king returned to his seat, and Cowan retreated to his own place, taking several deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm himself.

  "Challengers," the king announced. "Many strong efforts on this first challenge were made, and one prize awarded. Let us see how you fair on the second challenge: bring me the moon."

  Cowan stole one last look before the king vanished, then fled as quickly as he could with the unfamiliar weight of a king's cloak upon his shoulders. It was sinfully warm, and it was impossible to think of anything else when his mind was filled with the eyes and smile and scent and kindness of a man who would always be out of his reach.

  He groaned as he realized he was smitten, and how hopelessly stupid was he to be smitten with the king? But even the realization of his stupidity did not keep him from finding a roof to settle down on for the night, where he could curl up in the cloak and daydream about the king, and how to make him smile by bringing him the moon.

  The moon, the moon. That was even more difficult than the sun. If only he could reach out and steal a piece—

  He paused, as it suddenly came to him. It would cost him everything he had, and whatever he had to sell—minus the cloak and cloak pin. He would never sell them; no matter he had to sleep on a roof.

  Curling up in the cloak, smiling faintly, he fell quickly asleep.

  *~*~*

  The stares—glares—were heavy upon him, but Cowan refused to care. The king was too marvelous a distraction for him to care about their petty behaviors any longer.

  Waking up two mornings ago, he had felt something hard digging into his side. Thinking
at first it was beneath the cloak, he had looked for a rock or piece of brick, but at last had realized the hard object was in the cloak itself. A few minutes searching uncovered a hidden pocket, within which was a small purse that contained more money than he had ever possessed.

  He certainly had enough not to need to continue the challenges, to find a room to rent and even enough to pay his entrance fees … but there was plenty of time for all of that, and he had only two more chances to see the king, speak with him, and try to make him smile and look less lonely.

  Cowan waited anxiously as challenger after challenger approached the throne, offering more gems, flowers, still more paintings and sculptures, books, glassware, china, even perfume—that made him sick with disappointment, until he realized it was only perfume.

  Finally it was his turn, and he approached the throne with a shy, uncertain smile. It brightened, however, when the king smiled back. "Master Medaughs. What have you brought me in answer to the challenge?"

  Unwrapping his fingers, Cowan presented the small, delicate glass bottle which he had held so protectively until then. It had taken a great deal of work to obtain it, but seeing the king smile in wonder and curiosity, he thought it would have been worth any cost or effort. When the king had taken the bottle, he said, "Long ago, Majesty, in the early days of our country, not long after the first king had been crowned, the land was beset by a tribe of savages who possessed the ability to turn into wolves. They attacked, killed many, and worst of all they spread their shape-changing ability to the people here. But the alchemists, those long ago and long lost masters of the arcane, devised a tonic that drove back the savages and cured the afflicted. The basis for that tonic was this—a solution of pure silver, called 'extract of the moon' by the alchemists. The secret of its making was only recently rediscovered. It is used by farmers and villagers, when they can afford it, to create the wolfs bane potion that keeps back the wolves that run thick in the forests."