East

Troll Queen

MY PEOPLE GAVE MYK a great ovation when he finished playing his flauto. As I knew they would. He has won them over and shall be a well-loved king.

Taking our places for the wedding ceremony, we stood facing my people, Tuki at Myk's side and Urda beside me. I opened my mouth to begin the words of binding, when suddenly Myk stepped forward, turning to face me. He got down on one knee and gazed up at me. This was not at all the order of events. I had gone over these with him many times and wondered if he had gotten confused.

"I have a very great favor to ask of you, my queen," he said loudly.

"Of course. What is it?" I replied. I heard a very faint murmuring from those trolls sitting in the rows closest to the front.

"There is an old custom in the land I come from," Myk said. "Will you humor me and allow me to ask you a question, before we say the words of binding?"

His words puzzled me. This must be from some old memory of his homeland that had suddenly returned. I did not understand why this should be happening now. But I smiled at Myk. "You may ask me anything," I said.

"Thank you, my queen," he replied. "In the land I come from, the question is asked so that a man may know if his intended bride will be a good wife to him. If she will care for him and the home they will share."

I nodded.

"Will you wash a piece of clothing for me, my queen?" Wash a piece of clothing? I stared at him. What sort of strange, outlandish custom is this? I thought. It was irksome that he should have had this returned memory, now of all times. Probably some softskin servant triggered it. It is settled then—I shall get rid of all the softskin servants as soon as possible. They are more trouble than they are worth.

"My queen? Will you grant my request?"

The murmuring grew louder. My people knew this was out of the ordinary. They were waiting for my response. Myk's eyes were on me, too.

"Yes, Myk. I will honor this tradition of your land, and after I have done it, then we will proceed." It was annoying, but the proposition was a simple one. With my arts I could wash anything clean.

"Then you agree to honor my tradition—I shall marry the one who washes a garment of my choosing."

All eyes were on us. Tuki let out a little squeaking sound. His pathetic eyes shone with excitement. It was then I felt the first glimmer of unease. I did not see how Myk should have memories of wedding traditions of his homeland when he drank the slank every day. But I could not back down, not with my people watching. It would make me look weak. And I could not back down because of the foolish rules my father had imposed on me.

"I agree, Myk." After all, it was a small request, insignificant, one easily done.

Myk got to his feet and crossed to his flauto case. From it he withdrew a white bundle of cloth and carried it to me.

Gesturing at Tuki I said, "Bring me water and soap."

Tuki nodded eagerly and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

As we waited Myk again kneeled in front of me, taking my hand and looking up at me. "You are patient and kind, my queen, to indulge me in this tradition of my homeland."

I was reassured by his words and by the warmth in his voice. And yet there was something about him, I noticed suddenly, something different.

Tuki returned and handed Myk a bucket that was filled with warm water. Myk brought it to me.

I shook out the white cloth and held it up. It was a shirt with a dull gray stain on the front. Where had Myk gotten this shirt? I wondered. Something was not right. But there could be no trick, no deception. The slank had never failed.

I took the bucket of water from Tuki and a bar of white soap he also handed me. I did not want to kneel over the bucket—that would not do—so I ordered a table brought. I set the bucket on the table.

"In the country of your future king," I said to my people, speaking loudly and with dignity, "they have a ritual before binding, and it is to honor him that I cleanse the shirt."

I dipped the shirt in the water, rubbed the stain with the soap, working it in until the fabric was covered with suds. In truth, I had never washed cloth in my life, for that is servants' work, but I had seen it done. The stained part was hard against my fingers, which puzzled me. But I concentrated, felt the tingling of power in my fingertips. Then I rinsed the shirt. Holding it up so the stain faced me, I saw that instead of fading away, the stain was, if anything, larger and darker than before.

Something bubbled in my brain. This was not right. It cannot be.

Calling on my arts, I immersed the cloth again. The soap churned white in the water; the surface of the soapy liquid swirled and foamed. Iridescent bubbles fizzed up into the air. All eyes were on me as once again I lifted the shirt from the water.

The stain had blackened, hardened. I let out a cry of rage. This could not be happening. Was it some sorcery? One of the southern trolls seeking to undo me? But why? My eyes found Myk. He was not looking at me but at someone walking toward him, wearing a dress that resembled the moon. I had seen it before—She stepped forward.

"May I try to wash the shirt?" she said.

Then I knew. She wore a mask, but it was her. The softskin girl. She had come for my Myk. It was impossible. Yet there she stood, her face hidden by the mask, but her eyes filled with the most provoking bravery. Did she not know I could destroy her with little more than a thought?

I should have done so, right then, but everyone was watching, and it would have looked like weakness to refuse. If I with my arts had failed to clean the shirt, then so would she. Myk must see her fail once again. There would be ample time to destroy her after she had been defeated.

I saw Tuki cross to the softskin girl. She said a few words to him, and nodding eagerly, he darted away. Urda was speaking to me, buzzing in my ear, asking who the troll girl in the moon dress was. I told Urda she was a fool—this was no troll. Did she not recognize the softskin girl whom she had waited on in the castle? Urda recoiled, muttering under her breath.

I stared at Myk. His face was unreadable. Had he planned this? With Tuki? I could not believe it of him. Myk was mine, body and soul.

Tuki returned with several pieces of kindling, a large stone tile, a bar of white soap like the one I had used, and an iron pot with water in it. He gave these to the softskin girl. Urda ran to Tuki, taking him by the arm and hissing at him. He merely smiled at her, shaking her hand off gently, then gestured toward the softskin girl.

My people had been murmuring during Tuki's absence, but all grew quiet as we watched the softskin girl stack the kindling on the stone tile, light it with a striker Tuki had also brought her, and set the pot of water atop it.