This was the way I was able to leave the prison of the Storyteller Witch’s making. It galled me to take so much time and expend effort in such a ludicrous way, but it worked. I was not free forever, and I could not meddle overmuch in the affairs of the lowlands without attracting the attention of my jailors, but I could begin; and, in beginning, I regained my strength.
There was a cost, of course. There is always a cost. The long years I’d spent wedging open the cracks in the mountain prison had not gone unnoticed. Weaker fae than I were struck down, or cast into ore-lined caves to suffer the long pain of iron sickness, but I evaded capture and swore further revenge in the names of my destroyed kin. Once I began to focus my efforts on the kingdoms of the King Maker and his descendants, those cracks were filled once more. Flowers bloomed again, and water ran clear and crystal over the smoothed-out stone. It was a careful balance, and one I fought to maintain as my plans for freedom coalesced. And it was enough.
At last, I needed only the Little Rose to grow into the queen I would have for my own use. Though her life was nothing to mine, those years were the longest of my long wait. I could not spy on her as much as I wished to, to my abject frustration, and was forced to rely on the clumsy maneuvers of the Maker King and his abhorrent son. At last though, she was nearly ready to be mine. I needed only for the magic of my curse to complete itself in her, and then I would be victorious.
I had also done my best to avoid temptation. When I had cursed the Little Rose, I could have taken her back to the mountains with me then, and raised her to suit my purposes exactly. I could have made sure that her mind was perfect, rather than leave it to chance and the whims of her tutors. I might have raised a monster, prepared in every way for the horrors I would use her body to unleash; but I chose a different path. If I had had the Little Rose on hand, I might have taken her the moment she showed promise, my weariness at my isolation driving me to recklessness. So instead I separated myself from her—pushed her away—and made sure that when our paths did cross, it would be time for her life and soul to become my tools forever.
When she disappeared, I laid waste to every flowered glade I could find, and cared not if every piskey in the whole cursed range watched me do it. Then I went to see the Maker King, for there was work to do.
I WAS DOUBLY GLAD OF THE WATERFALL after Saoud and the others took their leave of us, because when they had gone, the silence that settled between the Little Rose and me was nearly intolerable. With Arwa and Tariq to buffer us, we had at least maintained some level of courtly niceties, and Saoud had kept us all grounded in the reality of our situation. Without them, I found I did not know what to say to her, and so as a result I said nothing. I had held her in my mind as a princess for so long that, when faced with her as a person, I couldn’t reconcile the two. Cursed or no, and whether or not she had shoes, she would always be a princess. And I was a spinner, or at least I might be; so I spent my time debating with myself about what our next steps should be.
She let that stand for three days. Three days of echoing quiet around the pool, around the cooking fire, broken only when I bid her good night and ascended to the lookout post that Saoud and I had constructed. I tended to the camp and cooked our food. She gathered kindling and, when I was busy or distracted, she soaked the strips of cloth that Arwa had sewn for her in the pool. She clearly did not want to be disturbed, and so I did not disturb her. On the fourth morning, she took the bowl of bitter vetch from me when I offered it to her and then grabbed my hand before I could pull away.
“Yashaa, this will not do,” she said.
“I’m sorry, princess,” I told her. “It’s too early for wild wheat, even if Arwa had been able to find some before she left.”
“I don’t mean the food, Yashaa,” she said, aggravated. “Or the camp, or anything else like that.”
“I’m not sure I understand, then,” I said. “But if you tell me, I will—”
“Oh, be quiet,” she snapped, and then immediately softened. It was an odd contrast. When she was angry, she might have been my friend. Kind, she was a princess to her fingertips. “Or rather, don’t be quiet. You’ve barely said anything to me since the others left. I’m sorry you are stuck here with only me for company, and I do regret that I forced you to take me with you in the first place, but I couldn’t think of another way out of the castle.”
“Princess, all of that is fine,” I said. “What do you want me to talk about?”
She took a deep breath, as though she wanted to say all manner of things and couldn’t decide which to say first, and I knew that I still irked her in some fashion. Apparently she decided not to hold it against me, however, because she took a bite of her vetch and chewed without any indication of the pent-up anger she’d exhibited only a moment before.