"Your Majesty," Gurr's voice drew her up short, and the queen turned back to find him looking guardedly at her. "I do not know what that place was to you,
but when I was looking for that, I found people, many people, all gathered together. They were dead, just bones."
Concern at Gurr's unwise decision to mention the dead when she had not posed the question clutching her, Queen Ino relaxed into the knowledge that Gurr,
unlike some in the kingdom, knew to heed her commands and would tell no one else.
"Yes," Queen Ino declared. "I know."
Then, owing him no further explanation, she retreated to the wood.
Before she was born, it was said, there was a ritual. One would be selected by his or her deeds, by his or her loyalty. Brave acts and unwavering
conviction were signs that one possessed great power. It meant one's blood ran strongest.
When the moon turned whole, the tribe would let the strongest blood, watching it drain out little by little, along with a life. One would die, so the
others might grow stronger.
It was an honor to be chosen.
Until her.
As far as the old way of her people, Queen Ino had to rely on their stories, for she had never witnessed such a dedication. She was so powerful, legend
held, that she flowed into the world on a wave of magic. They all shared the power, the blood that flowed through their veins, but not one was as potent as
her. When she bled, they told her, the fates themselves came to attention.
After her birth, there were no more brave feats, no more glorious dedications. There was only her and the strength of her blood, and the cuts on her skin
that spilled it in order for her tribe to gain greater power.
It came as surprise, the first time, when she did not die. Less than a year after her birth, the blood ran and ran from her small body, but, as the sun
rose, still she cried. It was then that the tribespeople dropped to their knees before her, declaring her their
Sanguimbra
- Blood Soul.
In their way, her tribe had also called her queen, but they had treated her as sacrifice.
Each moon that came full, she begged as they strung her hands above her head and gathered around her, pleaded to be spared the pain, the walks through the
dead worlds where the letting always sent her, where she saw things that gave her such nightmares she would bolt upright in the night, fear gripping a
heart that thrummed weakly in her chest.
Each time, her tribe, her people, they ignored her pleas, chanting and singing as she bled more blood than any ordinary person could possess. Then, she
would live - aching, weak and cold - and they would revere her until the next whole moon when they spilled her blood once more.
Only once did she try to run. Too small and weak to get far, they found her easily. They talked then as if she had only gotten herself lost, but acted as
if they knew she tried to flee. After that, there were always eyes upon her, for she was too precious to go missing, and she knew she had used her one
chance at escape too early.
It would have been the pattern of her life, bleeding and recovering, only to bleed for them once more. Powerful as her blood was, released with such
frequency, she was simply too weak to do anything but survive.
Then came the year with the clouds, when the moon disappeared from the sky for a whole season. Too uneducated to know the moon was still there, too
superstitious to perform the ritual without it, they left her blood untouched for the first time and she had grown stronger. As her strength grew, for the
first time in her life, she could feel what they felt in her, all the power they stole.
The queen found her magic.
When the next moon rose full into the sky, she tried to warn them, told them they would pay a price, pleaded for mercy, but, as they tied her to the
branches above, pulling her wrists more tightly than ever, she knew she was only as worthy as the magic she gave them. With a single cut, her people
brought about their own demise. As the blade broke her skin, her spell unleashed upon them, power shooting from the wound to strike those who gathered to
witness her suffering, so they all met death at once, an entire race extinguished by their own bloodlust.
Except for her. She, alone, survived. And, as the blood of her people flowed across the ground, a sea of red magic, she was so strong, the vines broke at
her wrists and the mountains shook.
That was her heritage, her birthright. She was the blood queen. She could feel it then, see it in the stone that sat beneath her feet that day, where it
always did during the ritual. As long as blood flowed in the land, she would have the power to seize everything, and where there were men, blood always
flowed.
Even feeling it course through her, though, knowing it was her greatest strength, she wanted no part of the magic that had meant pain for her from the
moment of birth. If she had been only one of them, perhaps, instead of the chosen one, she might have been as hungry for its power as they were.
Instead, newly-spilt blood still coalescing with the old, slick against her fingers, she had taken the stone and buried it amidst their fallen bodies,
knowing few would walk the sea of death to find it. Then, leaving them to rot where they had fallen, she left the mountain valley alone, forsaking their
way.
It did not take long to discover that, outside the protection of her tribe, her face had its own power. Strangers came to her aid, offering clothes and
food and shelter in exchange for something they hoped to gain from her, until, at last, she landed in the presence of the king, who she discovered was no
more immune to her beauty than common men.
No matter what tribe she was among, it seemed, she was her own best asset, and, if she lost herself, she would have nothing left in the world.
Setting the stone before her in the snow, Queen Ino glanced through the silent trees and took the dagger from beneath her skirts. Quite alone, she pulled
the blade across her palm, watching her blood appear, dark and thick and pulsing, and squeezed her hand, the first drop hanging onto the fist before
falling free.
As her blood met the stone, the winds rose up, the universe opening around her, stars and moons and secrets floating amongst the dormant trees. The answer
was there. The answer to everything was always there. Dizzy on her own power, kept buried for so long, Queen Ino reached into the ether and found it.
By the time she re-entered the castle, the servants were awake.
Waiting in the vestibule, Lemi rushed to meet Queen Ino as she entered. "I am so sorry, Your Highness, I was not there to tend to you when you woke," she
rushed to say. "Do you need something?"
"I need to get warm," Queen Ino returned, walking by her to the stairs.
"Yes, My Queen," Lemi responded at once. "I shall bring you tea."
"And I need time to myself," Queen Ino dismissed her, taking the stairs with care, her footsteps quiet, but intent. Those in the castle who did not work
within it slept on, the queen was certain, by the position of the sun in the sky, and, at the early hour, the servants were sure to think she too was
returning to her bed.
The second floor was quiet as she reached it, the only work being done the watching of the chambers, and the guard on duty stood at more rigid attention,
nodding deferentially as the queen passed.
Outside the door of the room she shared with the king, Queen Ino paused, picking up on the familiar drone of the king's breathing, and, familiar with it as
she was, she knew he would wake within a short time.
Morning fleeting, Queen Ino's magic was not. It would wait for another day, and yet it would not wait, for with every step Queen Ino took she lost nerve
for the deed. Feeling she may not find it again, she moved quickly to the door at the end of the hall, a room she never had cause to enter, and, mindless
of the guard, pushed the door ajar, gaze going instantly to the bed, cloaked in white netting to protect the delicate creature inside. Captivated by the
sight, Queen Ino entered, pushing the heavy wood barrier back into place.
On the other side of the thin wall that separated the room of Snow White's handmaiden from the chamber of the princess, the maid moved about. If Snow White
cried out, Queen Ino knew she would have to kill, but the thought, once disturbing, felt oddly satisfying, her desire to draw blood sharp.
Removing the winter shoes, the second thumped heavier to the floor than she intended, and the queen's eyes went back to the bed. Tucked within it, Snow
White slept without care. Of course, she would not start at such a small noise, never exposed to the types of dangers that made a heavy sleep a hazard to
one's well-being.
Across the room to Snow White's bedside, Queen Ino stared through the gauzy veil, seeing what the mirror had seen, pure beauty fair and untouched before
her, a stronger pull even than the magic. In sleep, Snow White was so peaceful, it was almost catching, and the queen felt the serenity of it wind around
her, wanting nothing more than to crawl into the bed next to Snow White and bask in her innocence.
Closing her eyes, for a moment the world felt uneven and the queen swayed on her feet, before everything suddenly righted itself again. When her eyes
opened, it was as if she had suffered no doubts at all.
Time slipping on, Queen Ino slipped through the veil and eased back the thick pile of quilts, pulling quickly at the laces of Snow White's sleeping gown.
Even with such intimate invasion, Snow White did not wake, and Queen Ino envied the innocence she had just been admiring.
Sides of the sleeping gown eased apart, the queen exposed a soft chest, paler than ivory, to the chill, but Snow White only sighed, as if the touch of cold
brought pleasure. Hand slipping beneath her skirts, Queen Ino pulled the dagger from the band at her calf, the always accessible weapon of a woman who did
know dangers before she was surrounded by guards and stone walls.
Eyes on the blade as it moved to the delicate terrain of Snow White's chest, she remembered its feel against her own body, hesitating for only an instant
before flicking a slice into the whitest of skin. With a moan, Snow White came to the verge of waking, but when Queen Ino pressed her lips to the girl's
forehead, whispering soothing words, she calmed once more, dangerously placated at the moment of gravest danger.
Slipping the dagger back into place, the queen watched the blood seep bright red to the surface. There was no need to spill blood to make good magic, she
had always told herself. She too had innocence once.
"At your death," Queen Ino whispered, tongue moving across her lips as she watched the blood come closer, "your beauty shall be mine."
Lowering her lips to the wound, tasting the substance she had watched her ancestors drink with disgust many times, she finally understood their taste for
it, for she could imagine no sweeter taste than that of Snow White's blood on her tongue. Though it was only the taste she needed, the queen stayed long,
until Snow White sighed, her hand moving in sleep to land against the queen's where it had come unknowingly to rest against her stomach.
Pulling back with sudden fright, Queen Ino whispered words of healing and watched the skin close. With shaking hands, she tugged Snow White's gown
together, but did not spare the time to tie it, pulling the netting closed and grabbing her boots as she left, her presence there known only by the guard,
whose memory she would be forced to take.
Slightly deeper into the day, Snow White woke and looked toward the narrow window at the high sun, which shined unnaturally bright as it reflected off the
snow-covered ground.
Sitting up, the laces of her gown fell open and, face going red, though there was no one to see, Snow White reached for them, grimacing as her hand brushed
against her chest. Pulling the gown open again, she expected to find a source for the pain, but found nothing except the slightest traces of pink. Her
favorite color.
T
he air in the tower breathed easy, far from the stench and decay of the village, and it was good for Rapunzel's song. Each deep breath gave it power, and,
for hours, she could sing, notes floating across the tree tops to intermingle with the songs of the birds.
The freshness of the air would save her nose, her mother told her. In the village, the excrement in the streets piled higher than the coverings on one's
feet, and the magic they used was a wicked one, designed to bring about fear and turn people into slaves.
The slavery of village life would never be Rapunzel's burden. She would never breathe their poisoned air. She would not hear the cries of the starving and
the heartbroken and the damned. Protecting her from such things was why her mother had put her away in the tower. Without doors, even those who dared
traverse the forest could never get to her. Her safe passage through life was guaranteed. That was how much her mother loved her.
Heaped upon her from birth in the forms of isolation and inaccessibility, though, as Rapunzel grew, she began to question that love. Alone day and night,
but for her mother's evening visits, she started thinking thoughts that were uncomfortable in her head.
How was the tower safe passage through a life she did not live?
How was she being protected when no danger was near?
Not very old when she first had the thoughts, only old enough to think too much, Rapunzel asked these questions of her mother. As answer, her mother began
bringing bound pages she called books when she came to visit that showed terrible images of things in the world. Perhaps, her mother said, they would make
Rapunzel understand why she was there, in the tower, kept away from the evil that abounded across the kingdom.
The first time she opened one, Rapunzel gasped at the horror shown on its pages. After that, her mother never failed to come with a new book. She would
point out every danger that lie within, and then leave Rapunzel to the darkness and terrible noises of the tower at night.