Cassima’s Tale

By Akril

Part II

Chapter 29:

It took Gruff and Woof, the two guard dogs at the castle gate, some time to recognize the ragged girl running up the path towards them. For several minutes of pleading, Cassima tried to convince them that it was her, and not some “peasant impostor,” as they called her. Finally, she remembered what Graham had given her to earn her trust. She pulled the golden locket out of the front of her patchwork skirt and held it before the noses of the guards.

“I am Princess Cassima,” she said in the most regal of voices, “And the wizard who kidnapped me is now dead. I request that you let me in, guards.”

Blinking in surprise, the guards were so startled that at first they didn’t open the doors for her.

“Princess!” cried Woof, “How did you escape and return so swiftly?”

“Why are you dressed in rags?” asked Gruff.

“Does anyone else know you’re here?” Woof queried again.

“Just let me in, please, guards,” Cassima said. “I’ll tell you everything once I meet everybody and get freshened up.”

The guards withdrew their spears and opened the heavy castle doors. Gruff rushed inside, obviously to tell Saladin and everyone else that their princess had returned. Cassima stepped within, the familiar air of the inside of the palace in her nose, and the smooth, glassy tile floors under her bare feet.

It was just as she remembered it: the two large vases standing like sentinels beside the twin staircases, which wound their ways up to the second story. The doors to the throne room were a few paces in front of her, and in the two walls leading up to it were two wooden doors, one on each side. The left one led to the servants’ quarters and the kitchens, the right one led down to the basement and the guardroom.

As Cassima was absorbing her familiar home’s surroundings, the right door opened and Captain Saladin strode out, clad in his dark green outfit and plated with his lightweight, steel, plated armor. His sword clanked slightly in his sheath as he walked. He was, like most of the guards of the castle, a half-human, half-dog creature, his face resembling a noble collie’s, with a long, pointed nose and a streak of white down the muzzle. His mouth turned into a broad smile as he noticed Cassima, and his large, serious, black eyes became softer and happier.

“Princess Cassima,” he said in his gentle, yet strong voice, knelling down and grasping one of the princess’s hands in his gloved paws. “I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you are with us again, after so many months…we have suffered so, I can’t begin to describe…”

“It’s all right, Saladin,” Cassima said. “You don’t need to perform such formalities. I’m just glad to be home.”

Saladin smiled, but not as much as he had when he first saw her. As he rose to his feet, she continued:

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to my room and change into new clothes before I start meeting everybody. But you are free to tell them that I’m back. I just can’t stand being in these awful clothes anymore.”

“Yes…” began Saladin, but Cassima kept on talking:

“Tell my parents that Mordack is no longer a threat. He is dead, and he was destroyed by the King of Daventry! A normal king against such a wizard! Imagine that!”

“Cassima…” began Saladin again, but it was too late. Cassima had raced up the right flight of stairs, on her way to her room. The loyal guard dog sighed deeply, and lowered his head against his chest.

“Majesties,” he prayed quietly, “I hope that you can hear me, and I hope you know your daughter has returned. I will try to tell her…”

Cassima’s walk to her room was a difficult one, for the news of her return had traveled so swiftly through the castle that a group of servants was waiting for her in the upstairs hall, welcoming her home, saying how wonderful it was to see her alive and asking her countless questions. She tried her best to squeeze through the crowd, but it wasn’t easy.

If she were wearing one of her ordinary princess’s dresses, she would have blended right in with the rest of the brightly colored robes and outfits of the rest of the castle staff, but since what she had on was the shabby, gray skirt made of rags, her plainness made her stand out like a black seagull. Her dirty skin and face also made people notice her and recognize her at once.

When Cassima finally got to her room and closed the door, she gratefully flew to her dresser, pulled out one of her favorite dresses, light blue with dark green sleeves, knelt down on her bed and pulled the curtains around, giving her privacy that her unlocked door wouldn’t allow.

The patchy dress was the only thing she had worn during her stay at Mordack’s island, and consequently, she had never taken it off. It took some time for her to peel off the stiff, chafing, disgusting example of a garment and lay it on the sheets before her, careful not to rip her locket from its chain as she did.

The dress looked even worse off her than it did on her, but that was probably because she could see all of it from this angle. Soot-stained, smeared with dirt and who-knows-what, frayed hems and uneven stitching all over it. Patches of all sorts of dull, unappealing colors dotted it all over, and the rope that had served as her belt lay atop it, adding an interesting touch.

Cassima was about to open the curtains of her bed and toss the thing out to be taken out as garbage, but she remembered how she kept so many things in all those little pockets and began to search the dress to see if she could find anything worth keeping, which, of course, she doubted.

There were those few long bits of string that she used to navigate the labyrinth the first time she visited it…keep those, as a souvenir…

An old piece of celery that she had taken from the wizard’s kitchen and intended to eat several weeks ago…no thank you…

A small bag that she discovered in the back of the pantry that she thought would come in handy…nah…I don’t think so…

A few scraps of paper…no, maybe not – wait!

Cassima was about to set the pieces of parchment aside but she noticed that something was written on one of them. She turned it over and scanned it briefly. Yes. It was the poem that she had written from memory, the one that her mother had originally read to her out of that old volume of stories…the one about the girl who had challenged everything to survive…Scherazad.

It was the poem that she had read shortly before Shamir captured her and took her to the beach and before she tried to escape Mordack. Now, as she read it again, safe in her own castle once more, she wondered if the poem’s mystic lines were somehow tied in with her own life. Could it be? Was she the proverbial piece in a huge game, being played? Could this poem the list of rules?

Placing the piece of paper under her pillow and throwing the ragged dress through the curtains and on the floor, Cassima quickly changed into the clean, beautiful, comfortable outfit she had chosen. The silk felt like the breath of heaven on her skin compared to the burlap texture of those rags. Even though her body was still dirty on the outside, she felt pure and cleansed inside. After so many months of hardship and cruelty, she was finally starting to feel how wonderful her life truly was.

An abrupt knock at the door made her turn her head around with a nervous feeling. Perhaps her stay at Mordack’s castle had left her with a case of minor paranoia. Even though she hadn’t washed her face yet, she politely said, “Come in” to whoever was outside her room. She drew back the curtains and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the person to enter.

It was Jollo, one of her closest friends in the castle besides her parents, the one that always made her laugh when she was at her lowest. Surprisingly, the normally smiling clown had a look of extreme anxiety and worry on his round face, and his shoes hardly jingled as he shuffled into Cassima’s room, nearly tripping over her rag-dress as he did.

“Cassima,” he said in a strained voice, shuffling over to the bed and hugging her affectionately. “I’m so glad to see you home again, safe and sound.”

“I’m glad to see you too, Jollo,” Cassima said, grinning. “Now that I’ve changed out of that awful skirt, I want to see my parents. Are they away on a journey? Why haven’t I seen them, Jollo?”

Jollo looked more crestfallen than ever as he sat down on the bed next to Cassima. Then he removed the little red fez perched on his head and placed it over his chest, bowing his head.

“What’s wrong?” Cassima asked, starting to become more alarmed. “Has something happened?” Jollo raised his eyes to her, which were starting to fill with tears.

“Your…your parents became quite distraught when you were stolen, princess,” he said.

“Are they ill?” Cassima asked. “What has happened to them?”

“Well…it was several months ago…no one wants to remember…what happened…it’s…it’s…”

She sat still, her heart racing, trying to brace herself for the terrible news that she felt was coming.

”Your…your parents died in your sleep, Cassima…They’re gone.”

Chapter 30:

For a moment, Cassima couldn’t think. All she could hear were those few words echoing in her brain…”Your parents died in their sleep…they’re gone…they died in their sleep…” Something inside her felt shattered, the jagged edges penetrating her lungs, preventing her from speaking, and making any attempts so painful it was almost like experiencing death. After several moments of suffocating silence and Cassima’s tries to break it, she finally managed to whisper:

“No…How could they…they were still…No…They couldn’t…”

Then suddenly her dumb state shattered, and Cassima collapsed on the bed, crying as she never had before, with Jollo stroking her back sympathetically. She beat her fists on the soft pillows, screaming words of “No,” “Gone” and “Why,” her emotions rising to such a high, fiery level that Jollo eventually stopped massaging her and gazed sadly at the insane creature that Cassima had become in the space of only a few seconds.

“Why did they have to die?” she screamed. “Why? Why? Why?? They were still young! Was it because I was kidnapped? Is it my fault my parents are gone? No, no, no, no…”

Her trembling abruptly subsided, and her breathing became slow and scratchy. Jollo cautiously placed a hand upon her back again, but this time she pulled away from him and glared at him with her reddened eyes with a look of fear and rage, a look that one would give to a wild animal. Then her face softened and she quietly fell into her friend’s lap, sobbing and quivering like a frightened hare. Jollo gently embraced her, crying himself at the sight of the princess in such grief.

The thoughts that flooded through Cassima were impossible to clearly put into words. The injustice of it all. Her poor parents dying when they were still young, while she was far away, ignorant to everything that was happening at home. To think that her absence had caused their deaths, the realization that she had tried so hard to find a way to return home to them, and now that her rescue had just happened, so simply and so easily, she was confronted with the news that she had arrived too late, that her parents had died several weeks before her return…

It wasn’t fair. All her efforts to escape the island, all her searches of the castle and the island, only to discover months later that she would have returned home to such awful news if she had succeeded. Why couldn’t her rescue have come sooner, soon enough that she would at least get to say good-bye to them? But then…how would Graham or Crispin have known? It was Mordack’s fault, she realized. His stupidity and his denseness. If he had realized that he had to kidnap Alexander and his family sooner, then the king and her rescue would have consequently come sooner. But then…what was she thinking? She wanted what already happened to come sooner, just for her sake? That was just as cruel as Mordack’s twisted ideas. Why was she thinking this? It already happened, she told herself. Stop mourning over what could’ve been.

But they’re gone now, she said to herself. I could’ve said goodbye before it happened…I could’ve been in the same castle when they died. It isn’t fair. They’re gone forever. I’ll never see them again. I’ll never hear father laughing. I’ll never hear mother read a story. I’ll never be able to sit with them out in the gardens after nightfall and listen to them tell me the names of the constellations. I won’t be able to sit on my father’s lap or be lulled to sleep by her mother’s songs…

But these were all things that she had experienced as a child. Why was she longing for them now, when she was almost grown up and of age to be married? For years she had been trying to break away from her parents and govern her own life, but now she was longing for them, longing for their kind advice and their curt admonishments, everything that they represented: her security, her kin, her life…

Everything she had taken for granted had vanished, told to her by the person who always used to make her laugh. Now the news he brought made her cry like a helpless infant. Whoever said “you never know what you have until it’s gone” was truer than ever in Cassima’s heart. All those months, loving with only the memory of her parents, she never thought that a memory was all she would be left with when she came home…

But there was the locket that King Graham had returned to her. She lifted it up and held it before her, the light of the late afternoon sun dancing off it like the light of the fire in Mordack’s kitchen had when the king first held it before her. The crown and the intricate designs carved into the gold encircled the heart like threads or veins, an exact representation of her own heart, and how it was suddenly enclosed by bars like an imprisoned bird, bound by chains of grief and despair.

Lifting her other hand, she carefully opened the locket and examined the portraits inside. The faces of Allaria and Caliphim stared back, clad in regal attire and wearing peaceful looks. The portraits seemed so detailed now, so real to Cassima. She examined the tiny pictures for several minutes, absorbing every iota of their features, the minute brushstrokes, the little dots and shaded garments. She had always thought of the pictures as beautiful, but now they seemed so wonderful, so amazingly lovely to her that she could not get enough. Now that her parents were gone, these little representations were all she had left of them, the only physical thing to remind her of them, just as it had been on Mordack’s island.

It was painfully ironic that the locket still was the only thing left of her parents, even though she was home on the Isle of the Crown and had expected them to be there to greet her. But the only thing that greeted her was the news that they had both died. Such a cruel word, die. Why does it have to hurt so much?

A soft twitter at the window made Cassima put the locket away and look in the direction of the sound. It was Sing-Sing the nightingale, perched on the windowsill with a small flower in her beak. Cassima extended her hand and the little gray bird fluttered into the room and landed on her outstretched fingers. With her other hand, Cassima took the small flower from her pet’s beak and examined it closely through her sore eyes.

The petals of the blossom were white and narrow, radiating from a round, saffron center. A daisy, Cassima recalled. It represents innocence, doesn’t it? She glanced at Sing-Sing and nodded, acknowledging the gift the bird had brought her. The nightingale chirped mournfully and hopped onto Cassima’s shoulder, nuzzling her under the chin with its little head. She turned the daisy over and over in her hand, examining the beauty of the small plant with its symmetrical petals and its slender green stem.

Still, she could not help but realize that what the flower represented had been destroyed in only a few minutes before. Her innocence had been shattered with the news of her parent’s deaths, and though the flower would wither and die, others of its kind would still bloom, and even with the approaching winter, spring would always bring more to the light. But there was no way Cassima would regain her innocence. Not after this. Not after this awful, awful news. Never.

Placing the flower in her lap, Cassima held Sing-Sing tightly to her breast, still crying without any noise or sobbing. She didn’t even notice Jollo saying that he was going to leave her alone until he had disappeared out the door and left an aura of cold and grief in the once-happy room.

Chapter 31:

For the next few hours, Cassima lay facedown on her bed, nearly insane with grief. Sing-Sing sat on her bedside table, warbling in a piteous voice every now and then. The princess could hardly think with the weight of the news pressing against her head and heart. It couldn’t be. How could the absence of just one person cause two others to perish? How could it be? Was it all her fault that they had died? Were all her struggles to escape the island in vain? She was only fighting to clean a castle, her parents were fighting to rule an entire, divided kingdom while battling their terrible loss.

How selfish Cassima had been. Her imprisonment was nothing compared to what Caliphim and Allaria had gone through. How could she have known, though? That Mordack probably knew it since the night they died, but of course, he wouldn’t tell as much as a word to his bride-to-be-turned-scullery-girl. Some husband he would’ve become. As if he would.

Cassima’s blame of herself was rising to a point where she felt nauseous and her head ached. Rising to her feet, she began pacing the room, trying to clear her mind. Perhaps it was her hunger that was causing her pain. She hadn’t eaten since she was at Mordack’s, and she couldn’t tell whether dinner had already begun or was yet to start. The moon was visible through her window, a narrow, milky crescent. Cassima couldn’t bear to go down to the dining hall, though. It would be too much. She would probably collapse before she was through with her meal, either that or burst into tears again, even though she had cried her eyes dry hours ago. Even though she was almost starving, she didn’t want to eat anything. It would only make her sicker than she already was.

She stopped her pacing and stopped beside her bedside table. A large book lay open on it, looking as if it had been that way for several months. Then she remembered: it was the book of poems and stories that contained that poem about Sheherazad…the one that her mother read to her so long ago…

Brushing the dust off the facing pages, Cassima lifted the book gently, the spine cracking softly as she did. Sing-Sing looked at her with curiosity and blinked a few times, ruffling her gray feathers. The princess scanned the familiar lines of text, then tried reading them aloud. The poem didn’t have the same, hypnotic effect it had on her before when she read it. Was it because her grief had destroyed the magic of the verse? Was it because her mother was no longer there to read it to her? Or was it because she was no longer the carefree teenager she once was, listening to myths and stories and reading to her heart’s content, not thinking about what was happening in the real world beyond?

Cassima tried reading it aloud.

“’She-har-a-zad’…no…’Sha-har-i-za’…no, that’s not it…’She-her-iz…’”

She tried pronouncing the complicated name several times, but for some reason, even when she was certain she had gotten it right, she still wasn’t convinced. She lifted her pillow and retrieved the poem on the piece of parchment and compared the two verses, the original and the copy. They were remarkably similar, with only a few flaws except for the name…she had spelled it “Schaherezade,” and the book had spelled it “Scheherazade.” That is, if the poem was actually part of the book…the mystical swirls of blue ink and the brilliant arabesque-like designs were so out of place amidst the yellow, faded pages that filled the rest of the tome. When she first saw it, she imagined that some wandering spirit had placed it in the book, a typical practical joke for a creature like that…but where did this poem really come from…

Again, Cassima tried to pronounce Sheherazade’s name, but finally gave up in frustration. She couldn’t remember how Ulrica pronounced it, or even how her mother pronounced it…her mother…Grief seized her again. Her mother knew how to pronounce the long, flowing name with its multiple syllables. She read it to Cassima without a slip of the tongue. But now she was gone forever…Cassima would never know how to say the beautiful name that began the poem that Allaria had read to her so many months before.

The anguish of the moment made Cassima throw the book to the floor in anger and kick it under the bed, not wanting to see it and be reminded of her past again, the past that she had taken for granted and now was gone for eternity. She groaned in sorrow and sank to the bed, crying once more as Sing-Sing chirped mournfully.

You’re becoming obsessed with that poem, she told herself, wringing her hands in frustration. Just like that Mordack was obsessed with getting his brother back in his own form. It’s stupid, to be so worked up over a silly poem. What use is a few words anyway? Like those fairy tales. They have nothing to do with what really happens in life! When will I learn to grow up? When will I learn…

Presently, a thumping noise began coming from down the hall outside Cassima’s door. She stopped weeping and listened intently, wondering what it was. The thumping drew nearer, and Cassima realized that it was heavy footsteps made by someone carrying a lot of weight and walking slowly. When the steps neared the door, she expected the familiar knock and request for entry to come from whoever was there, but instead, the door slowly creaked open and a stooped, round figure waddled through, carrying a large, square tray.

It was Ulrica. She had left her little closet in the guardroom and climbed the several flights of stairs up to Cassima’s room. This surprised the princess, since she had rarely seen the old dog anywhere but the guardroom, she preferred to have her meals brought down to her. Sometimes Cassima would bring Ulrica food as an excuse to talk with her about a personal problem or just to hear what she had to say.

When she asked the nurse about why she didn’t climb the stairs to the dining hall like everyone else did at dinnertime, she told Cassima that her age would not allow it. Cassima was a very young girl when Ulrica told her this, and naturally didn’t understand why being old meant that one couldn’t climb a few flights of stairs, which the princess at one time did daily, usually racing up and down them, pursued by her parents or one of her tutors. But now that she was a young adult, Cassima realized that Ulrica was indeed getting on in years, and her stiff joints would not permit her to ascend the stairs anymore.

Naturally, she was surprised at the sight of the ancient, panting animal walking in through her door and resting against the wall in exhaustion, still keeping a firm grip on the tray she was carrying.

“Good evening, Princess Cassima,” she said, still sounding out of breath. “I brought you your meal. Alhazred didn’t tell the cooks of your return, they found out themselves and prepared a special dish for you. It’s roast beef and carrots, with a special blend of spices from the other islands. Trade is uncommon nowadays, Cassima, so this is a rare treat.”

“Ulrica,” said Cassima, finally gathering up enough strength to speak. “Why did you come up here? Why did you leave your room? I thought you said you couldn’t climb those stairs.”

Ulrica looked concerned for a moment, then replied, Many of the servants wanted to take this up to you, but Alhazred kept them too busy. I don’t know if he wanted you to starve or if he really was that busy. Anyway, I heard from the guards that you hadn’t come to dinner and your meal was still sitting out, and when they were called away, I decided to bring it to you. You’ve brought me my dinner so many times, and you’ve been through so much I feel I owe you.”

“Thank you, Ulrica,” said Cassima. “But you’re so old…don’t you think it’s unsafe to try climbing all those stairs at your age?”

Ulrica straightened her plump body up and scratched her patchy fur.

“I don’t think of anything else when it comes to you, dear,” she said proudly. “I’ve been sitting down there for who knows how many years, waiting for a real reason too come out. The death of your great, great parents only weighed me down, and made me want to die myself, but the news of your return was something that made me sit up and take notice. You rekindled my old strength, girl. Thank you.”

Cassima would have smiled if her heart weren’t so shattered and her mind bulging with uncomfortable thoughts. “You’re welcome, Ulrica. And thank you for bringing me dinner.”

“You can thank me even more by eating it,” said Ulrica, walking over to Cassima’s bed, sitting down on the side and sliding the tray of food to her.

“I’m…I’m so sorry, Ulrica,” Cassima stuttered, realizing that she had forgotten her depleted appetite. “I’m not very hungry…”

“Oh yes you are,” said Ulrica, with a sudden edge to her normally passive voice. “I can smell starvation in you. You may not feel hungry, but I’m certain you are. I doubt that Mordack kept you on a stable diet. Here. Eat.”

Though she still felt terrible, Cassima brightened at the sight of the stubborn little nurse urging her to eat, just Ulrica had when she was a little child. The dog raised a forkful of food in front of the princess’s face, and Cassima willingly bit into the warm morsel.

Chapter 32:

After she finished her dinner, Cassima was so tired that she nearly fell asleep in Ulrica’s lap. The old dog arose and said good-night to her, then slowly trod out of the room, taking the tray and the empty plate with her. Minutes after her footsteps faded out, Cassima was asleep, sprawled across the bed at an awkward diagonal, still wearing her dress.

It was a long sleep, but not an empty one. Her unconscious mind was flooded with images and dreams, memories of her imprisonment and the times she spent with her mother and father. One scene was of her and Allaria sitting on the bed, reading the book of stories and poems to each other. It was the same book, but some of the pictures were not pictures of classic heroes and fairy tales, but images of her own life. There was an elaborate painting of Cassima looking at Castle Daventry imprisoned in a glass bottle, a black-and-white etching of Mordack’s face, a drawing of the wizard’s island…the strange thing was that they were moving…Mordack was leering and snarling at her, and Alexander and his family were moving about in the gardens of the miniaturized castle…

As they continued reading, Allaria’s eyelids suddenly began to droop and her head began tilting forward. Cassima asked her what was wrong in a voice that sounded like the one she had as a little girl, high-pitched and confused, asking her as if she didn’t know what was happening. Her mother then fell forward on the floor, barely moving, but the book still lay open on the bed. Then Caliphim came staggering into the room, standing for only a few moments before also falling to the floor, where he too became as lifeless as a statue.

Before Cassima could say another word, the beautiful, embroidered dress she was wearing vanished, and she was wearing that ragged potato-sack dress again, her hair was tangled and her skin was caked with filth. She called out her parent’s names, repeating the same words over and over again, her voice growing more high-pitched. Then Mordack poofed into the room and Sing-Sing flew in from the window, looking just as ragged as Cassima. The wizard pointed his wand at the bird as it flew between him and the princess and a beam of white shot out of the end and Sing-Sing fell to the ground as well, dead as Cedric appeared hours before. Cassima shrieked as Mordack laughed coldly, kicking the feathered body away.

She turned away from him and her parent’s bodies and looked at the storybook. Not only was it still open, but the pages were turning by themselves, and a voice was reading the text, a voice that sounded like her mother’s, as if she was still alive and just reading to her daughter like she always did. Then the voice began to slow down, and the turning of the pages grew less regular. Finally, the book had nearly reached the last page. Whatever force was turning the pages gave one last heave and pulled the final leaf over, revealing the last page, which was devoid of writing and had only one small drawing in the center, which Cassima couldn’t see from where she sat. She dragged her body closer to the book, which took a strangely long period of time, as if she was becoming rooted to the bed, and looked at the page and gasped when she saw that it was a painting of Alexander’s face, smiling at her and blinking his clear blue eyes.

Then there was a strange, silent explosion and the room seemed to come apart, leaving her in the blackness of her unconscious. Cassima would have awakened then, but she no longer had the strength to do something like that. Instead she still lay there, watching the terrible, discomforting images float past her mind, hoping she would have the strength to wake up soon.

She heard voices coming from outside her room more than once. Whether they were real or just voices inside her mind that seemed real, she couldn’t tell. Once it was one of the guard dogs, the one named Bay, Cassima realized. He was talking to another of his companions, obviously discussing if he should enter the princess’s room or not. A raspy, low voice, the voice of Gruff, said that Cassima was probably still sleeping and it would be cruel to disturb her in her present condition.

Cassima couldn’t hear the dogs’ exact words, in fact, later she doubted if she heard anything at all. Perhaps it was the tone of their conversation that hinted to what they were talking about, or perhaps Cassima had overheard their exchange of words and forgot about them as she slumbered on. Dreams, ideas, and other creations of the world of sleep are so easily forgotten, even over short periods. It’s there one moment, and the next moment it’s vanished. Can’t even remember where it started or ended. It’s so sad…It’s even more sad when you forget such beautiful dreams in a single night, but just can’t forget these terrible, terrible thoughts and those awful nightmares, not even after days…weeks…months…years…Wait…how long have I been asleep?

Cassima strained to open her eyes, which were agonizingly sore and heavy with dried tears and exhaustion. For a minute, all she could see was a white, pastel blur no matter which way she looked. Then Cassima blinked and focused her eyes, trying to make out her surroundings. Naturally, she was still in her room, lying face-up on her canopied bed, staring up at the painted ceiling of her bed, tracing the creases and folds of the fabric. The bed sheets were twisted and undone, revealing the true chaos of her past dreams. Her hands were still shaking and her vision was unclear as she glanced around the room like a wild animal that had just wandered in.

She could not remember what she had dreamed about even if she wanted to. Her mind was pounding with thoughts the previous night, but now it was almost totally blank, unable to grasp any new thoughts without becoming befuddled. Feeling like an undead creature from Samhain’s Kingdom of Death, Cassima rose to a sitting position on the bed. Sing-Sing was gone, probably off to another island…how Cassima wished she could fly too, away from this place of sadness, away from…

But she couldn’t do that. Not only was she unable to run away from her troubles, but she simply couldn’t. She was the princess of the Green Isles, and the only heir her parents had. If she disappeared again, the kingdom would be without a ruler and would eventually die, just like her poor parents. She couldn’t let her homeland slip away. She had to carry on the legacy her parents had shaped for her and trained her so faithfully for.

Cassima quickly rose to her feet and immediately regretted her action. She hadn’t allowed her body to adjust long enough to being in an upright position, and as a result, the blood supply to her brain was temporarily cut off, her vision blurred and became dark, and she couldn’t keep her balance. Falling back to the bed, Cassima patiently waited for her sight to become normal again, and wondered if it was her thoughts that had made her dizzy. Could it be that some force was telling her that she wouldn’t be able to carry on as Queen of the Green Isles? My parents are gone, I have to be their successor, Cassima thought. There’s no other choice…

But she had no husband, no one to be the king and help her rule the kingdom. There was no one in the village who had the capabilities to rule the Isles, and the lands that could provide such a man were so far away…How could she carry on the legacy that her ancestors and predecessors had fought so hard to keep stable? How?

These questions briefly left Cassima’s mind as new thoughts moved in to replace them. Alhazred. What does he think of all this, the girl that he tried to get rid of in the most foolproof of ways coming back alive and well? What’s the next scheme in that never-ending book of twisted ambitions? I’ll have to talk with that man, the sooner the better…

Suddenly the ringing sound of the gong interrupted her thoughts. It was the gong that one of the servants rang every hour, a convenient way of telling time that had been patented several decades before Cassima was born. The number of notes equaled the time of day, but because of the sleep requirements of not only the one servant but all the castle’s inhabitants, the gong was only rung during the day, never after dark.

Cassima carefully counted the chimes as they rag out, one by one, through the echoing hallways. However, as soon as the first two chimes rang out, the ringing stopped, indicating that it was two o’clock in the afternoon.

Two of the clock? How could I have slept this long? Cassima wondered. Then she remembered her distraught night and concluded that her grief probably fueled her somnolence, along with her chronic lack of sleep during her captivity in Mordack’s castle. In fact, for all she knew, that night could’ve been two nights ago instead of one. Nevertheless, it was one of the longest periods of time she had slept, and she was determined not to sleep anymore. Slowly rising to her feet, she looked around the room once more, ready to live again.

Chapter 33:

Cassima looked around the room casually, trying not to let her pressing thoughts interfere. It appeared no less different than the night with Ulrica, except that the ragged dress she had dropped near the door was gone and a large pitcher of water and a large basin were in its place. Cassima then looked in the mirror that hung over her dressing table.

It was the same face that stared back at her out of every reflective surface she looked into, but this time it was different. The green eyes were swollen and red, and the pale skin was smudged and dirty. The black hair was tousled and wild, the tresses that a wild horse or an Amazon would have.

Yes, it was she the princess of the Land of the Green Isles, but it was not the same face that Cassima had seen months before, preparing herself for the evening meal. It was a face that had experienced hardships and injustices beyond the thoughts of a normal person. The expression was not one of a carefree maiden, safe within a beautiful castle, but rather one of a worried, anxious young girl not yet ready to take her place, the face of a peasant who worked like a beast of burden every day of the year just to earn enough food and water to live by.

Cassima turned her sore eyes away, shocked at the ragged creature that she had become. If she had looked at her reflection the previous afternoon, before Jollo told her the terrible news of her parents’ passing, her face would not be one of a frightened young woman. In spite of the smears and grime, it would still be a happy, joyful expression, a girl relieved to be home again, amongst her friends and familiars.

But the news about her parents had destroyed all the happiness her homecoming had generated in the short time she was oblivious to their deaths. It was as if she was a prisoner once again, though not within the walls of a fortress on an isolated island, but inside her own head, tripping over the troubled emotions and trying to find a way out of the tangled web of thoughts that kept her bound and distraught.

What made it even worse was the fact that there was no way out, no way to escape herself, nothing more to look forward to. Everyone in the castle knew about the death of the king and queen, and she couldn’t walk about, acting as if it wasn’t real. Each person would immediately remind her before she could walk away, not letting her forget the painful truth, the truth that she was alone and orphaned, still too young to understand why her parents had to die now, when they were still healthy and young themselves.

Cassima looked at the white, water-filled porcelain pitcher and the basin by the door, and the feeling of dirt on her skin grew suffocating. She hadn’t bathed in months, and the other servants who had confronted her as she made her way to her room were probably also aware of the fact. Now was an ideal time to bathe herself. Perhaps the water will make me feel better, Cassima decided. It seemed silly, pushing these terrible thoughts out of her mind to make the menial chore of cleaning herself more enjoyable, but feeling better was the only thin on her mind at the moment.

She picked up the basin and the pitcher, and slowly walked to the right corner of her room, careful not to spill any water on the carpeted floor. There she found the plain, brown, bathing screen that ensured her privacy from anyone who happened to enter her room without warning. Cassima unfolded the accordion-like screen and stood it up, adjusting it so that it formed a semi-circle around her corner.

She pulled back a corner of the red rug to reveal the small, discreetly placed drain in the stone floor. The drain led to a network of pipes and ducts that ran throughout the castle, an ingenious plumbing system that had been perfected several generations ago. It was certainly more convenient and sanitary than throwing dirty water out of windows, Cassima said when this system was first explained fully to her when she was eleven. It seemed that no matter how simple the castle appeared, there was always some complex puzzle holding it all together, with very few people actually aware of its existence.

Cassima dipped her fingers in the basin and was pleased to find that the water was still warm. When fuel in the castle became scarce, her bathwater would often be ice cold and would remain that way until more firewood was collected from the nearby groves of trees. Finding a small cloth draped over the bathing screen, Cassima retrieved it and slipped out of her clothes. The afternoon air felt warm, yet chilling on her bare skin. Her waist was slender, but not nearly as thin as the elegantly clothed empresses she saw depicted in her storybooks. She was only a little bit plump, but none of the chubby fat of her childhood had stayed with her through her teenage years. In spite of her regal status and her virtually unlimited access to food and drink, she never ate much, probably because she was a very active person as well as one with who never became possessed with too strong an appetite.

Cassima dipped the cloth in the water and began to vigorously scrub at her dirty skin. The feeling of clean water was like heaven to her, and she sighed with contentedness as she continued to bathe herself. It was a task that had been taught to her years ago by her mother, who would clean her every week, making sure that Cassima enjoyed it and realized the importance of it. When Cassima reached her preteen years, she began to bathe alone, and refusing to let her mother see her unclothed. Allaria willingly left her daughter alone, satisfied that her years of teaching had finally paid off.

These years of associating bathing with happiness had a definite effect on Cassima, but she never imagined that she would like it this much. It was like she hadn’t bathed in decades, and she couldn’t remember ever wanting to do something so badly. Finally, after several minutes of scrubbing, she quickly rubbed her face with the cloth and poured the contents of the pitcher through her hair. The warm liquid touched her scalp with a gentle tickling sensation as it ran down her neck and back, finally reaching the stone floor, where it seeped out of sight through the drain.

Now that the warmth of the water had left her, Cassima was standing drenched and cold, feeling very much like she did on the day she tried to escape Mordack’s island in her makeshift dinghy and was forced to swim ashore. Her eyes fell upon a folded white towel on the floor near the screen, untouched by the water and slightly dusty. Apparently it had been there since the night she was kidnapped, carried in by one of the servants, no doubt. Kneeling down, Cassima unfolded the towel and shook it out, then gratefully wrapped it around her, using another rag to wring out her hair. Folding the bathing screen back up and propping it against the wall, the princess picked up the dress she had slipped out of minutes before, then walked across the room, keeping the towel tightly wound around her like a Greek toga, knelt down before her dresser and opened one of the drawers.

The first thing she noticed was another beautiful dress made of silk, a plain lavender hue with loose, tapering sleeves. She lifted the garment out of the drawer and held it before her. The red afternoon sun shone through the fine weaving and created shimmering shadows of pink on her white skin. Smiling, she lay the dress down by her feet and placed the blue dress (the one she had already worn) by her door. The feeling of changing into an unclean dress (no matter how unclean) was not one Cassima preferred to experience, yet again a lesson taught to her by her mother and branded into her mind as an essential rule to living a healthy life. Once again, Cassima climbed onto her bed and drew the curtains around her, her need for privacy not being fulfilled sitting out in the open.

Quickly changing into the lavender dress, Cassima got to her feet and pulled on the heavy brass door handle that led to the rest of the castle. She wanted to see the rest of this fortress that had always been her home, and for all she knew, always would be.

Chapter 34:

Before she ventured into the hallway, Cassima cautiously peered around the edge of the door, searching for anything suspicious. Perhaps her life in Mordack’s castle had left her with a paranoid demeanor, but still something seemed awry in the castle. Perhaps it was the air of death that lingered so long after someone passed on…or perhaps it was something more sinister…Cassima couldn’t say.

Quietly opening the door, the princess stepped out, her feet still bare on the carpeted floors. The carpet felt strangely pleasing as it tickled the calloused soles of her feet, a sensation that she hadn’t felt since she was a child and ran barefoot all the time before her parents had forced her to wear shoes outside her room.

Her parents…had their bedroom changed? She had seldom visited it before she was kidnapped, unlike her early childhood, when she slept in a cradle by her parents’ bed until she was old enough to have a room of her own. But even then she would venture into her parents’ room in the dead of night, asking for her mother to comfort her or her father to sing to her. Now it had been so long since she last visited the bedroom that she could hardly remember which door it was.

All the doors on the second floor of the Castle of the Crown looked the same in general, dark, polished wood with brass handles and intricately shaped hinges. Ahead of her in the hallway and to her right was the door to Alhazred’s study, and further down, the door to his room, which remained locked and accessible only to the vizier, who obviously carried a key with him…or perhaps even a whole chain of keys, when one considered all the secrets that he was forced to keep locked away from the rest of the world.

To Cassima’s left, the hall led down to a larger, more ornate door, the hinges inlaid with gold and copper, as was the large handle. This door led to the east tower, the largest tower in the Castle of the Crown. The interior of the tower was like a greenhouse, since the domes ceiling, floor and wall were all coated with an almost translucent, green stone. Tall windows ran down the walls, making it a lovely place to enjoy the morning sunlight. A flight of stairs spiraled down from the east wall and down two more stories and to another door that led to the throne room on the main floor of the castle. It was such a beautiful place, and Cassima felt sorry that Ulrica could never see it, with her joints and muscles the way they were.

But Cassima wasn’t going into the tower. The room she was looking for was only a few steps away from her own, the room where her parents had slept and rested when they weren’t seated upon their thrones or spending time with their daughter. Cassima stepped over to the door, lifted the brass latch and pulled it open.

There was a gentle gust of wind that met her from the open window. At the same time the white curtains rippled across the red carpet and the delicately embroidered rug that lay in the room’s center. It was just as she remembered it: the large, canopy bed, almost identical to hers but made for two people instead of one, the sheets a fiery crimson. Embroidered in the center with gold thread was an insignia of two leaping dolphins, their heads bending towards each other, almost forming the shape of a heart. It was probably a royal crest, but Cassima would never know now. She couldn’t ask her parents and nobody else in the castle could answer her question.

The edge of the thick top sheet was bordered with the same gold thread, which glowed with warmth in the late afternoon sunlight, which dappled the room and spread out like water when the silk curtains were blown out by the wind that came through the open window. Cassima’s eyes took in the rest of the room’s features.

There was a tall, mahogany bookshelf against one wall, and nearly all of the shelves were packed with thick, leather-bound volumes, but on some shelves there were statuettes carved out of marble and crystal, sculptures of mythical creatures and beings. Statues of tall humans with downy wings, great winged serpents and creatures that were human above but fish-tailed below. Cassima remembered the sculptures frightening her at one time, when she was very young, her words being that they scared her because they were “different.” But then her mother took her in her arms and told her that every creature in the world is different and unique, and something ugly in one’s eyes could be beautiful in another’s. In the weeks, months and years that followed that short lecture, Cassima never looked upon the sculptures with loathing again. Instead she marveled at the exotic might of the serpent, the subtle beauty of the fish-human, and the majestic splendor of the winged being.

It was the same in the stories her mother read to her. She saw the fierce monsters and beasts not only for their bad qualities, but also for their remarkable traits that set them apart from “ordinary” creatures. Her mother always had the ability to help her see the good side of everything, of evil, of wrongdoing, of sin…Even death…

But she could see no good side to this experience. All her parents’ deaths had done was bring out more tears than she had ever shed in her lifetime, leave her alone in a suddenly strange world and destroy what innocence remained in her heart. What made everything worse was that this pain wouldn’t go away. It was deeper and more infectious than any physical wound she had experienced before.

Now as she looked at the slowly familiar features of the room, the massive dresser, the twin bedside tables, the dressing table with her mother’s perfume and makeup brushes still there, the gold-framed mirror above the dressing table, and the wood and glass shutters of the window that hung ajar, a pain deep inside her began swelling to a high point that almost suffocated her. It was as though her umbilical cord had suddenly become part of her body again, trailing out from her navel, trying in vain to pull her to her mother and consequently both her parents. The pulling that could only be in her mind strained at her body, every nerve, every blood vessel, every facet of her being was affected by this ache that would not subside. The white curtains blithely fluttered before her, oblivious to the irony of the situation.

Tears coming to her eyes, Cassima crossed the room, closed the heavy shutters and latched them. The curtains fell back, limp and devoid of life, hanging like wilted leaves. Turning her back on the room that had once been a place of comfort for her, now a place of mourning, the princess slowly walked the length of floor that lay between her and the door, lifted the heavy, cold brass handle and stepped outside.

No sooner had she done so than she found herself standing face to face with the one person that had until the moment been the farthest from her mind and the one she least wanted to meet: Alhazred.

Chapter 35:

His appearance startled her so much that she nearly backed up against the wall. Instead, though, she stood examining him with a feigned interest, something that one would expect from a girl held hostage for several months and then suddenly returning, hardly remembering anyone from her home. Alhazred also looked her over, his lips curled into a hint of a smile that Cassima couldn’t tell was genuine or not.

“Welcome back, Cassima dear,” he purred, his voice imprinting into her memory of his last spoken words like a stick of hot wire, not changed in the least. “We are all so relieved that you have returned, alive and well.”

“Of course,” said Cassima, playing along with his familiar string of words that generally opened a friendly conversation. This time, however, the circumstances were different. No one else in the castle ever addressed her in this sickly, honey-coated style of speech. Alhazred was the only one who spoke to her like the humblest of servants kneeling at the feet of the ruler of an entire world.

Not only that, but the last time she had seen this man, he was waving farewell to her as she was being kidnapped by Mordack, a wizard that Alhazred had apparently befriended several months, or even years before. This vizier that her father had trusted eternally had planned for her abduction from the Isles and then imprisoned, and hopefully killed on that God-forsaken rock in the middle of the ocean. It now seemed obvious that Mordack would never go to so much trouble just for the hand of a beautiful princess, especially a stubborn one like Cassima.

His tolerating her presence had to be part of some deal he had arranged with his companion, a delicately interwoven plot, twisted and contorted, like all of the vizier’s thoughts and ideas. Surely, Alhazred’s sense of accomplishment had been deflated with the news of Cassima’s return, and now actually meeting her in person, no different in appearance from the night they parted would probably make him feel quite low.

Cassima could only hope that the reason they hadn’t met any sooner was because he spent the last few days cursing his failed plans in his room, perhaps even insulting his genie, Shamir, who he blamed for almost everything that went wrong in his personal life. Oftentimes, in the years before she left the castle, Cassima would overhear Alhazred bellowing like a wounded bull at Shamir, apparently throwing vases, small objects and other things at the genie, either for a benign practical joke (which the vizier loathed) or for some unintentional mistake.

Shamir, however, never seemed to get hit with any of the projectiles thrown by his master, since he never yelped in pain or made any indication of his being struck. This was either because of his supernatural qualities and possible invulnerable body, or perhaps he managed to dodge the objects amazingly well. Cassima regretted never getting to actually see one of these small-scale battles.

But even so, if Alhazred had been in such aggravation over the past few days, he was doing an amazing job of hiding his emotions. Since he was normally a very bland, emotionless man, this was no great challenge for him.

“Thank you for welcoming me home,” said Cassima, even though his “welcome” was no more different to the several dozen flattering greetings he gave her in the hallways every week. For many years he had attempted to gain her trust through his soft words and flattery, but naturally, he never succeeded. Still, he never saw a reason to stop trying.

“I am truly amazed that you were able to return home, princess,” he continued. “The knowledge your parents taught you must have helped you greatly.”

“Amazed?” Yes, you would find it amazing, Cassima wished she could say to his face, but it was still to early to assume that he was still plotting against her. Perhaps he had finally stopped his scheming and plotting against her, and if she said anything to remind him of his evil past deeds, the old flame could just be reignited, and then the whole dirty business would start again.

On the other hand, she was still unclear if this could really be a possibility. In the nearly ten years she had known him, he had appeared to her as nothing but a person who would remain as unchanged and unchangeable as a stone brick through his entire existence. No new mode of conduct could sway him, and no great master could conform him. If he was still the man he once was, Cassima would be ready to believe it.

“Well,” said Cassima, attempting to answer his last question, “Not exactly. I was liberated from my prison by a benevolent wizard. He was probably even an archrival of the one who imprisoned me.”

“You were imprisoned by a wizard?” asked Alhazred with sudden surprise, acting as if he wasn’t there at all on that night when Cassima was snatched from the tiny beach by Mordack, as if he never knew that a wizard could be motivated to steal such a precious princess. He was either playing innocent in hopes that the princess’s trauma had destroyed all her memory of the kidnapping, or just pretending to be unaware of the circumstances of her theft just in case someone was listening to their conversation. But to Cassima, whose memory of the incident was just as vivid as it was when it occurred, Alhazred’s words made him sound like a complete half-wit.

“Yes,” said Cassima, playing along with his game, “A wizard named Mordack. Apparently it was part of some plot involving a society of dark wizards called the Black Cloak.”

“Goodness, Princess Cassima, are you certain about this ‘Black Cloak’ cult? Anything that evil in the Isles would be eliminated immediately by the Royal Court!”

Cassima, who had been looking at the vizier’s feet until he spoke these last words, slowly raised her head and met his sharp blue eyes with her luminous, cat-like irises. Her eyes were narrowed, and her eyebrows made small shadows beneath them, making her eyes almost shine like someone in a trance, silently accusing Alhazred, searching for a weakness in his soul or an untruth in his tale.

Indeed, Alhazred did feel a slight uneasiness as he looked into Cassima’s angry eyes. Perhaps she had remembered what happened on the beach…perhaps if he hadn’t been there, he could have blamed her kidnapping entirely on Shamir, up to his usual pranks…but what kind of prank would delivering the princess to a sorcerer? The worst thing Alhazred could remember his genie doing was putting a large rat in one of Cassima’s dresser drawers when she was a preteen, but no normal person or supernatural being would hand her over to a wizard…so it hadn’t made any difference…And he had to be there to assure that Mordack took her away, otherwise the girl would have escaped and alerted the whole castle that there was a traitor in their midst…

Cassima was still staring into his face, her expression unchanged and her eyes unfaltering. Could it be that she suspected him of killing Allaria and Caliphim? Impossible. Alhazred had informed everyone in the castle that the royal couple was dead the dawn after his task was completed. The dagger he used for the job was small and reliable. The cuts he made were small and imperceptible, even to the middle-aged physician, and of course he didn’t ask Ulrica to hobble her way up the many flights of stairs to inspect the corpses. That mangy mongrel had a nose that was too sharp for her own good, and fortunately many of the servants that examined the king and queen’s bodies never brought up the possibility of summoning Ulrica.

His disposal of the dagger was also clean and uninterrupted. After wiping the light smear of blood from the blade, he had thrown it out of the couple’s window and into a small bay beneath it, where it would undoubtedly be carried out to deeper waters, where no one but the fishes would see it again. Since there was no moon on that night, no light reflected off the dagger as it spun rapidly through the air, diving into the water like a tiny dolphin. No one lived near enough to the bay besides the inhabitants of the castle to see him throwing the weapon, and no one in the castle itself was awake at the time he did.

But Cassima was not one to be easily fooled by a lie, perhaps a clever, well thought-out one or a carefully planned one, but definitely not a spur-of-the-moment, totally unexpected fib. Still, Alhazred still had to play innocent, acting as if he knew nothing of any factors concerning the girl’s kidnapping or her parents’ unexpected deaths. What he had to tell her was something that he had formulated the previous evening…she would undoubtedly resent the idea, but, as the ancient books said, it was tradition. Nobody but the most unruly and unorthodox defied traditions, and Cassima would surely not want to wedge herself into that unsavory profile…at least, not now.

“Cassima, dear…” he began, “You are aware that your parents are dead, I assume?”

“Yes,” said Cassima flatly.

“I understand that this has been a heartbreaking experience for you.”

“Yes.”

“You understand the old tradition of allowing the deceased’s loved ones a period of mourning, yes?”

“Yes, I am aware of that, Alhazred.”

“Since you were the closest relative and the closest to Allaria and Caliphim emotionally, I have arranged that you spend an extended period of time in your chamber as part of the mourning ritual. When you have composed yourself, you will begin lessons on your new responsibilities from your tutor, Kateb. He is quite knowledgeable in such topics. You may return to your room now, Cassima.”

“I…I’m sorry, Alhazred,” Cassima said, startled at his sudden ideas for her future, “But I think I’d rather look around the castle for a short while longer before…”

“You are given permission to return to your room,” said Alhazred, with a sudden edge to his cool voice. “I am only doing what your parents would have you do if a relative passed away. I’m sure you are not the one to go against tradition, young princess. Now please return to your room.”

Cassima glanced at her door, then back at the vizier’s face, which bore a look of definite dislike and perhaps even malice. She glimpsed something in his eyes that she had never seen before, something that made her shy away from him and back up until she was level with her door, which she swiftly opened and darted inside her room, where she flung herself upon the bed, gazing at the ceiling through the transparent canopy.

Did they really die all because of me?

Chapter 36:

For the rest of the evening, Cassima remained in her room, her dinner given to her by a servant at her door, who informed her that he understood that she was granted a mourning period, and would henceforth be delivering her meals to her. Cassima nodded in acknowledgement as the servant slowly closed the door, allowing her to eat her food in peace. She was still shocked by her conversation with Alhazred, and the thought that she would have to remain inside her room for who could say how long had rendered her numb to all the stimuli outside her mind.

Of course she was aware of the period of mourning, her parents and tutors discussed it with her countless times, but now that Alhazred had suddenly announced that she was to be quarantined in her room for several weeks, unexpectedly and out of the blue like a gigantic tidal wave, it was like something she had never heard mention of before. How could she possibly spend such a long time indoors, without the sensation of being outdoors with grass under her feet? How could she remain separated from the ocean and the trees in the garden, and after so many months away from them?

Then something started to burn inside her: had that vizier taken advantage of the tradition to keep her in here, out of his plans and schemes? What could he be plotting that required her to be imprisoned in her own room, the place that she had been longing to see again every day of her captivity on Mordack’s island? She dared not to speculate on what the answers to these questions could be, instead, she decided to concentrate on her dinner.

It was fish, something that had appealed to her in the past, but her recent experience in Mordack’s scullery, preparing and cooking carcass after carcass of the slimy, gray, aquatic creatures, the dish seemed slightly less enticing. Still, she hadn’t eaten for at least a day, and she had yet to experience a full day of meals in her home, so she started eating the tender food.

Cutting a small piece with her fork, she lifted it to her lips, taking in the delicate aroma. Holding the fork was something she hadn’t done in some time, and she took a few seconds to get used to the feeling; most of the meager food she ate in Mordack’s castle she ate with her fingers. The flesh of the fish was a delicate pink, and warm and sweet in Cassima’s mouth. The flavor was subtle, yet adequate to please her tastes, and the texture of the meat was something she hadn’t savored in a long while.

Trying not to remember the stale bread and moldy vegetables she had lived on during the time she was under the wizard’s power, Cassima proceeded to consume the entirety of her dinner, along with the goblet of water that the servant had also brought. Placing the empty dish and cup by the door, she sullenly trudged over to her dresser, opened a drawer, and lifted out one of her pale, silk nightgowns and quickly changed into it, not bothering to retreat to within the safety of the bed’s curtains or to duck behind the bathing screen that stood against the wall.

Flinging her dress on the floor, Cassima slowly climbed into her bed and drew the white sheets around her. Even though it wasn’t cold, she felt a need for security, and the blankets provided her with the same sense of integrity they had when she was little. Perhaps it was because of her deprivation of blankets in Mordack’s castle, or perhaps sleeping on a hard floor every night…or not sleeping at all, in some cases…

Enough, Cassima said to herself. I have to stop thinking about that place every minute of my life. I’m not there now. I’m home. I’m inside my castle. I’m in my room…I’m…in here for…how long?

She paused her thoughts temporarily. Ulrica had once told her that she could smell distrust and deception inside the castle walls, whether it was in a person or in an area that they frequented. It could have been all in her mind, but Cassima could almost sense something wrong in the air. Something that wasn’t there before. Something evil…

These last thoughts drifted into oblivion as she fell into a deep slumber, her last thoughts being:

What is going on…?

Alhazred was agitatedly pacing his bedroom, the thick walls muffling his curses and hissed expletives. Every few seconds his hands would contort, as if pulled by an unseen puppeteer, contorted into blotched collections of bone and sinew, quivering madly as he avoided the urge to tear something apart. The noise would surely attract a guard.

“That damnable son of a dog! I trust that Mordack with all I have and he lets this pitiful excuse for a princess slip through his hands! And the rumor everyone’s spreading through the castle is that he’s dead! Dead by a common man, a king, surely, but still a human, no match for a wizard of such power and he allows himself to be defeated!!”

Wiping a fleck of spit from his mouth, Alhazred snatched one of the heavy pillows off the bed and flung it across the room, where it thudded silently against the opposite wall.

“If that fool were still alive, I would kill him myself! I should’ve known not to leave the wretch with him when he said he couldn’t even teleport with another person! Worthless creature!”

Alhazred seized the drapery that hung from the canopy of his bed and yanked them tenaciously, but stopping short of ripping them down.

“Now that princess is back in the Isles! I should’ve known my plans were getting too good to be taken for granted!”

He slumped down upon his bed, his thick brow beaded with perspiration.

“At least I took care of the little blabbermouth before she told everyone in the castle. Still, there’s no saying that she’ll stay in that room long enough…that tradition was a lifesaver, that’s certain…”

Pausing again, Alhazred nervously glanced around the bedroom, expecting a guard to be crouched in the shadows, listening to his spoken thoughts, but there was nobody he could see. Quickly, he rose from his bed, strode over to the door and opened it silently. After stepping through to the other side, he locked it carefully behind him, walked to the door to his study, only a few paces away, and unlocked the door silently as the key would allow. Stepping inside, he beheld his desk, with the wooden, silk-covered chair seated in front of it. Above Alhazred’s head and to the left of the doorway was an enormous head that once belonged to an exotic creature named (as Alhazred recalled) a rhinoceros.

At first it seemed out of place in the plain, unfurnished room, but a closer look at the pensive expression on the beast’s wrinkled face gave one the impression that the rhino was deep in thought, just as the room’s most frequent occupant usually was. The sense of another being’s eyes fixed upon his back also gave Alhazred a perpetually alert frame of mind, so that he occasionally turned around in his seat to make sure no one was peering through the door’s keyhole or had managed to open the door.

Apparently, his guard was off on that unfortunate day that Cassima had snuck in behind him and had gotten to close for Alhazred to believe she was only wondering what he was up to. Again, the vizier clenched his fists and cursed silently under his breath.

Quickly, he strode up to his desk and glanced at the oblong, green-blue glass bottle that sat upon the corner of his desk. He had moved it there after his assassination of Allaria and Caliphim, deciding that his study was a safer and more appropriate place than his room. He raised his thin finger and tapped the side of the bottle gently. Nothing happened.

If this were any normal container, he wouldn’t have given this a second thought, but the lack of response to his tap meant something important: it meant that his genie, Shamir, had not yet returned from delivering the message that Alhazred had written just after he learned of Cassima’s return and only recently had requested Shamir to deliver it to the vizier’s most advisory correspondent of the Black Cloak. It was uncertain what the wizard’s true name was, but the name he always went by was Shadrack. Though he wasn’t the most frequent of Alhazred’s correspondents (and Alhazred couldn’t risk frequent letters anyway, for fear of detection), Shadrack had given him some of the most useful information that the vizier rarely ignored.

It was Shadrack that had given Alhazred the suggestion of creating a perpetual tension within the Isles to deter the royal couple’s attention and to get rid of the princess safely and quickly. But now that that maneuver had failed, Alhazred had hastily penned a long, frustrated letter explaining all of the events that had taken place, Mordack’s death, the princess’s return, even including all the omnipresent rumors and stories that were rapidly spreading through the castle and the nearby town. Alhazred was uncertain how long it would take Shamir to deliver the letter, and her tension increased with the thought that Shadrack might not have any immediate advice to send back, and even if he did, it would take at least a day for him to get his ideas on paper. He was a slow thinker, Shadrack. It showed in his handwriting, which was written out slowly and carefully, as if the writer were a child just learning the style.

And even more troubles aroused in Alhazred’s mind when he remembered what mode of letter-carrying Shadrack possessed. He had a single, old, decrepit crow that usually took several days to find the addressee, even when he knew where the receiver lived, which didn’t happen often. And there was always the chance of that rook dying or getting caught by a wild beast…but surely Shadrack would know…he undoubtedly kept a crystal ball or some other mode of seeing beyond whatever fortress he resided in….

But no time to muse, Alhazred decided. Before waiting for Shadrack’s reply, I must work with the good material he has already delivered to me. Surely there is something I can use in there…

The vizier unlocked the top drawer of his desk and peered inside. The light of the waning moon through the single window in the room eliminated his desire to light the small lamp that rested on the corner of his desk. According to the local superstition, almost all activities done during a waning moon would turn out bad, fingernails, plants and hair wouldn’t grow if they were cut during this time, marriage and childbirth were omens of bad luck…Alhazred dared not contemplate the possibility of his failed attempt to find a way to settle the kingdom and prevent a protest.

After all, as divided as the land was, the passing of the king and queen would not go unnoticed. Questions would soon arise and would find their ways to the palace, even with the Isles’ only mode of transportation out of commission, namely the local ferry. The ferry’s owner, a sharp young man named Hassan, had dry-docked the boat several years before when the tension between the Isles had grown to such a high degree that it was obvious that Hassan would go out of business unless he halted his service.

This, along with the many other factors leading to the islands’ breakup, helped, but not enough. There had to be a way to create a large enough rift between the lands that would draw attention away from the Crown and allow Alhazred to plan his next move in peace and, most importantly, in plenty of time.

Reaching inside the open drawer, Alhazred removed several of the letters. Most of them were from Shadrack, the more recent ones that the vizier hadn’t had time to relocate to the large trunk in his bedroom. They dealt primarily with the kidnapping of Cassima, and Shadrack’s own philosophies and ideas on how Alhazred should handle the problems, as well as critiquing the vizier’s proposed schemes. “You have an excellent plan growing,” said one letter. “There are several minor flaws, but I’m certain you can identify them by your own means. I am glad that you have taken my suggestion to write to Mordack, he is young, but full of original ambitions and ways to keep that princess you describe so vividly under control. If you proceed, I need not advise you further. You have pretty much planned your own future, and very well, I might add.”

Smiling slightly, Alhazred replaced the letter and read a few lines at random from the next one:

“Camarthi is a powerful old mage, but he is quite ancient, and has a memory bad enough to rival that of the benevolent, weak-brained sorcerer, Crispinophur. I suggest placing your princess in the hands of a strong wizard…”

Typical advice. Alhazred had already used it. Next letter:

“Remember what I said in my previous correspondence: faith is placed in the smallest things, though they may appear simple and worthless at first…”

Hmmm…That sounded interesting…

“The Princess Cassima is indeed the most precious thing to the Island of the Crown and even more so to her parents. Removing her will create enough of a disturbance to execute your plans. In many cases, this is the most trustworthy maneuver to use. Take away what is most precious to any person or thing, and they will be at the mercy of your power.“

Alhazred scanned and rescanned the last lines of the letter. Suddenly it made sense…”what is most precious”…”Removing her will create enough of a disturbance to execute your plans”…Yes! It all fit now! The Achilles’ heel of every one of the islands was more obvious than anything else! The thing that was most precious to each island…surely it was something noticeable…a crest or a trophy of some historical significance…but what were they…?

Already, Alhazred was coming up with answers to his questions before they were even fully formed. As soon as Shamir returned, the vizier had some important things to take care of.

Chapter 37:

The next day was a slow one for Cassima. Her breakfast was already at her door, even though she had risen at an early hour. She ate it willingly, then walked over to her bad and sat down upon the rumpled sheets. The thoughts of her parents’ deaths and now her proposed period or mourning were heavy in her mind, leaving her little to do that day besides gaze out the window and look at some of the books that still rested on the shelves upon her walls, just as clean and dustless as they had been when she was kidnapped.

Her absence hadn’t deterred the servants from leaving the unoccupied room alone. Of course, perhaps they were just sticking to the duties that had been with them since they became employed by Cassima’s father. They were very noble people, the servants. Cassima rarely took the time to realize how important they were, keeping all the surfaces in the castle shiny and pristine and preparing all the meals for everyone else in the castle. They worked hard just to feed and support themselves. But they were far luckier than she was now. They didn’t have parents to grieve over, they didn’t have to remain locked in a room for an unsaid number of days. Even though she had barely been in her quarters for a day, dread was already beginning to sink in.

That evening, as she sat on her bed with a book opened on her knees, she heard her door open quietly, and she turned just in time to see the hand of a servant retrieve her breakfast dishes and replace them with her supper: a leg of mutton and several thick slices of warm bread. Cassima didn’t rise to retrieve her food just yet. She was finishing her reading of the multi-line poem in the heavy volume she had open.

He of the noble heart will never forget his love

He may not grieve or cry for her, but he will recall

The day when first he met her, the day her eyes met his

They may not meet, but they still will be

With one another, from sea to sea.

When someone is in turmoil, all romantic poetry has a connection to her life, Cassima thought. Before she even finished the poem, she remembered the young man she met in Mordack’s castle. Prince Alexander. It means “defender of humanity.” I wonder if people are always true to their names, she pondered. She remembered the blue of his young eyes, the same color as his father’s and sister’s eyes. The same color as the sky at noon, the sky that shone above the Isles, not the wretched, dusty gray of the sky around Mordack’s castle. And his face…Alexander’s face was a pale color, yet strong and sensitive, with fine features and a childlike air to it.

Cassima’s face, like the rest of her skin, was light and delicate. In the days before her kidnapping, it had a light suntan to it, not very visible because she stayed indoors frequently for her studies and leisure reading, and even outdoors as a child she enjoyed staying in the shade of the palm trees near the west end of the isle, near the dock.

Her imprisonment in the dark fortress surrounded by perpetual smog, however, had robbed her skin of much of its pigment and mean color tones, leaving it a fragile white. This wasn’t entirely obvious because of her unclean condition at the time, but now that she had scrubbed the filth and grime away, she looked almost ghostlike in her paleness. Then, her skin was naturally light in color, much like her mother’s, and the fact that it barely darkened in a tropical climate such as the one she was born in hinted that it was even lighter than she knew.

Since Alexander came from Daventry, and Daventry was a temperate country, it was natural for his skin to be so light in color. From what Cassima had learned, the color of a person’s skin can say much about their origin. People from colder regions usually had extremely pale bodies, whereas people from warmer countries had dark skin. But then…something caught her attention: what about Mordack? Serenia was a temperate country, and Mordack’s island was quite near Serenia, so she expected that the people from that land would have middling skin tones, but why, then did Mordack have such a terribly dark complexion, especially on his face?

Even his eyes were dark, almost as if he wasn’t entirely human…could wizards be nonhuman? Or was he an animal disguised as a human? Perhaps all that darkness inside him had built up to such an extreme that it oozed out through his pores and showed through his skin…Cassima would have had no surprise if that was the case. But still, he was gone, and there was no point thinking ill thoughts about a person that had already died, no matter how evil he or she was.

Then her thoughts traveled back to Alexander. His hair was the same color as hers: a thick, deep black, dark as the coat of the legendary Steed of Death. He had probably inherited from his father, Graham, since his mother’s hair was a burnt red. Though the king’s hair was a dull, slate-hued gray, Cassima could imagine the man in his younger days quite clearly, almost identical to his son…

And his voice…she had only heard it once, but Alexander’s voice was one she couldn’t forget easily. It was soft, yet strong; gentle yet mighty. No one in the castle had a voice like his. Many of the servants had scratchy, imperfect tongues, with obscure accents that she never could place. Many of the guard dogs had gruff, hard voices, even Saladin’s gentle speech wasn’t like Alexander’s.

Everything about his appearance seemed perfect, or as far as her definition of “perfect” went. He was also kind, and now that she remembered, his hands were rough in her own when he asked to visit her. That meant that he was a hard worker, or had labored exceedingly at one time in his past.

But what was the use of thinking about him now? Sure, he had asked to visit her, but how would he know where the Isles were? She suddenly realized, for the first time, that she hadn’t even given him a general idea of where she lived. And very few foreigners knew of the islands, so how could he know? Cassima cursed herself for not telling him, and an even greater despair settled upon her.

The chances of Alexander finding her kingdom were close to nil, and if he didn’t find it, he would probably be caught in one of the violent storms that frequently occurred around the islands. She should’ve told him not to risk his life when she had the chance…but should she have? Should she have told him to forget her and be granted that she would never see him or even hear from him again for the rest of her life? And how would Alexander feel? He might die of heartbreak, like her parents had. At least there was still a slim chance that she would see him again…no matter what the odds were, at least there was still hope…

But now that she thought of it, she wasn’t sure why she wanted to see the prince again so desperately. Could it be that she was in love with him? But how could that be? Her parents knew each other for years before they married…how could she have fallen in love with Alexander after only meeting him once? Could it be the proverbial “love at first sight?” She had never felt such a longing before, an emptiness that cried out to be replenished ached inside her. Perhaps that was the feeling all people felt when they met someone so kind and beautiful…but what if it was just infatuation? What if Alexander forgot about her and fell in love with another maiden?

She dared not consider of the possibility. Instead of going over all the memories she had of the young man that had touched her life like every prince in her fairy tales had touched the life of their brides-to-be, she decided to put the book she was reading away and start on her dinner, which was already becoming cold.

Chapter 38:

For the next few weeks, Cassima did little inside her room, which seemed smaller and smaller to her with every day. She couldn’t tell if it was the grief of the loss of her parents or the fear of what Alhazred would do to her if he caught her outside her room. Every day she would hear his soft sandals padding up to her door, stopping, then turning and walking back to his quarters or his study. She never was sure which one he went to.

Every now and then she would hear muffled conversations between the guards. Even through she couldn’t see them, she could tell who was who by their voices and the exchange of words. Bay had a childish voice, like an overgrown puppy’s, Gruff and Woof had rough, growling tones, both similar, except Gruff’s was slightly deeper. Rowlf had a light, gentler voice that matched his noble hound’s nose and brow, and Saladin (who she heard very rarely) had a tone that was impossible to forget. It was strong, yet merciful, the voice of a hardened warrior that had seen and experienced much.

He was so different than the other dogs and so much more disciplined and loyal that Cassima often wondered about his lineage, but she never had the courage to ask him. Whenever she asked one of the other dogs, they merely shrugged and turned away. However, when she asked Ulrica (and she had only asked once), the old mutt looked at her with a pair of eyes that looked almost sad, then looked away from Cassima and refused to speak again.

During the first few days of her confinement, the princess had to remind herself of what her regular routine was, since it had been so long since she last wore a pair of shoes or brushed her hair. It took a long time for her to brush and comb out all the snarls in her ragged black mane, and she was forced to use scissors to eliminate some of the knots that refused to untangle. However, her hair was so thick and fluffy that it would be hard to notice any missing patches of it.

She was so relieved to have access to bathing again that she washed herself almost every day, even though she never went outdoors. After about two weeks, though, she fell back into her routine of bathing every three days. She was also happy to be back in her room, which had all the sensations that she associated with it: the smell of flowers that floated in from the gardens, the brightness of the sun shining through the open window, the feeling of the soft carpet beneath her feet (even when she had her shoes on), the songs of the birds (sometimes including the voice of her own bird, Sing-Sing) coming from the trees near the village, and the sweet taste of the tropical air, which was so thick that she could sense it in her mouth.

In spite of being among all the things that comforted her, she was not entirely happy. The memory of her parents made her cry sometimes, and she had to force herself to read whenever this started. She also felt angry towards Alhazred and the way he had more or less forced her into her quarters. She was still concerned that the man was plotting something, like he had been doing before with that Mordack. But she hadn’t been put out of the way then. What was he doing that required her to be fenced up?

Cassima repeatedly tried to avoid delving into this thought. She was home, like she had wanted to be since the first minute she set foot in Mordack’s castle, but what a price to pay. To be released from the duties of a prisoner to become one again…in your own castle! The idea was terrible, but Cassima realized it was true.

Still, as powerful as all these thoughts were, she couldn’t ignore her favorite hobby that she had been almost completely robbed of during her imprisonment: reading. There were dozens of books packed in many of the shelves that lined her room, books of stories, books of ancient heroes, books of plays and dramas, some old scrapbooks that she had kept when she was younger, containing drawings and pressed leaves, flowers and spore-prints of fungi, and countless books of poetry.

Nearly all the books had been read or at least looked at once, with very few exceptions. Many of the pages were torn or dog-eared, some spattered with food, water or even tears, especially in the tragedies and the love poems. Many of the books had been passed down from her mother or her father, and even a servant gave her a book as a christening gift, it being his only prized possession he felt was worthy to give the newborn princess.

She learned many lessons from the books of fables, and learned what choices were best and what choices were worst in her stories of heroes and heroines in pursuit of adventure. She learned how to trust people and how to act like royalty should act. When her parents read to her out of the heavy volumes, it was just like they were lecturing her or teaching her, but she never realized his fact until she was older. Yet still she listened to the stories, often falling asleep and dreaming the stories, sometimes with herself as the heroine, fighting dragons and riding enchanted horses.

Perhaps it was the memory of those stories that made her continue her reading. If they had taught her so much about life in the past, they could probably tell her how to deal with her sorrow and anxiety for her home now.

But the stories held her interest less now. If the experience she had in Mordack’s castle, when the wizard caught her in his library and bellowed a diatribe of insults to both her and the tales she treasured so dearly was connected to her sudden detachment, she would willingly accept the fact as true. Or perhaps she had overindulged in those stories, and eventually realized that she wasn’t the child that she used to be, that she was now a young woman and she had to put those memories behind her, but yet…she couldn’t forget them. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t put those long, intricate stories out of her mind. However, in her sudden grief, she doubted if she could ever read another fairy tale or a myth of ancient Greece again. But there was still a hint of magic, fantasy and even innocence in the poems.

She had been drawn to the poems since the day she recovered from the sudden shock of her parents and was able to get out of her bed. She had almost forgotten about the heavy book containing the poem about Scheherazade, which still lay under her bed, where she had unceremoniously kicked it several days before. There were several volumes of poetry on her shelves, and she had selected a few at random and started leafing though them, with nothing more to do than sit and read, and hope that Alhazred wasn’t up to his old schemes.

On nights when she couldn’t sleep, she would light a small candle and read by its light until she became drowsy. Sometimes it worked, sometimes she never nodded off and spent the whole night thinking about the poems.

Searching for a place to land

It flies, it soars, it dives

Betwixt the nimbi and the sand

‘Tis hope that alights in all our lives

Yes, that poem is beautiful, Cassima thought as she read it one evening four days after her mourning period was announced. The sun had set, but night was still darkening the horizon outside her open window. I wish what it said was true, though. I can’t see any hope here. I wonder if anyone else can…

As she pondered over the lines, she heard a soft scuffling outside her room, accompanied with the jingling of a pair of bells. She looked up from her book as a soft knocking came from the other side of her door.

“Princess Cassima,” whispered a familiar male voice. “May I come in?”

Chapter 39:

The voice belonged to Jollo. Surprised, Cassima quietly replied, “Yes,” and the door opened slowly and the short, pudgy clown tiptoed inside and shut the door behind him.

“Jollo,” Cassima hissed. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you, princess,” explained Jollo, taking off his fez and bowing exuberantly. “I knew Alhazred wouldn’t give me permission, and I could never trust that man if he said you were too ill to see anyone. I know you too well, princess. Ever since you were a baby, I could see that you were a strong one. Much stronger than that vizier, that’s for sure.”

Cassima hesitated before speaking again, amazed by the clown’s words. Then she almost laughed.

“I’m grateful that you could come, Jollo,” she said. “Here, come away from the door. I don’t want anyone to hear you.”

“Certainly, Cassima,” said Jollo, walking as quietly as his jangling shoes would allow over to her white bed and sitting down next to her.

“I can’t tell you how amazed everyone is at seeing you home alive and unharmed,” Jollo whispered. “But still…you were so changed, too…what happened to you, princess?”

“It’s a long story,” Cassima sighed, reluctant to speak of what she had endured for so long, even to as close a friend as Jollo.

“You don’t need to tell me everything, Cassima,” encouraged Jollo. “Just please tell me how you were kidnapped and how you returned. Those surely are the most important, for both you and me.”

Cassima grinned slightly at his words. For a simple-looking court jester, he sometimes spoke things of such depth that one would wonder if he truly was what he said he was. Perhaps the simplicity of his profession gave him copious time for gathering wisdom. Even though he hadn’t asked for her to do so, Cassima decided to tell him everything she could remember, not wanting to hold anything back to one of the closest companions she had now.

“Very well,” she said, and she slowly began retelling the story of the events that had happened from the night she was taken from the Isles to the day she was returned. Jollo frequently stopped her and asked her a question, to either get an answer or her thoughts on what the answer could be. These questions were mostly about the vizier and Shamir Shamazel, and since she was in the presence of someone she knew she could trust, Cassima told him everything that she suspected of Alhazred and his genie, and Jollo seemed to agree with all her words.

Jollo looked intensely sorry for her when she described the wizard’s harsh words and the punishments that he inflicted upon her. He smiled and almost laughed when Cassima described her spying on Mordack through the crystal ball and discovering that his brother had been turned into a cat. But when Cassima came near the end of her story, when she started telling Jollo how the prince named Alexander had requested a visit to the Land of the Green Isles, the clown’s face took on a more pensive, curious expression that grew more pronounced as Cassima talked.

“What is it?” she finally asked.

“It’s the way you’re describing this Prince Alexander,” Jollo said, putting a hand to his chin. “The way you talk about every piece of him in such detail…describing how you felt when he knelt in front of you and held your hand…”

Jollo paused again and thought for several seconds before turning and looking Cassima straight in the face with his bright, blue eyes.

“Do you think you love him, Cassima?”

The question came so unexpectedly, Cassima couldn’t think. Then, when her thoughts had fallen into place again, she began running possible answers to Jollo’s query through her mind. Sure, I thought he was a handsome fellow, but I don’t know if I actually…I only met him once, so I can’t really…How would I know what love is, I’ve never loved a man before…Maybe if you saw him yourself, you would know…Maybe…How can I be sure…What do you mean, “in love?”…I don’t understand…

“Er…” said Cassima, her mind still trying to find a stable place to settle as she searched for the words to reply. “Well…I…why do you ask, Jollo?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Jollo. “Something seemed different about you…I just wanted to know how you felt.”

“Well,” said Cassima again, “If you really want to know…I would say that I do…in a way, I suppose…”

Jollo’s round face suddenly split into a broad grin.

“What?” asked the princess, wondering what had humored him, if that was humor his smile was conveying.

“I thought so!” he chucked gently. “It was your eyes. That’s what was different about you when I first saw you up close. There was something in your eyes…something almost magical, I daresay. A bright spark that wasn’t there before…I must confess it isn’t as bright now as it was before, but I swear I saw it. It was just like the look in your parents’ eyes on their wedding day…I was a young man then, and my mind never forgot the way they both looked…so free…so happy…just like you were, Cassima…before…before I told you…”

Jollo bowed his head sadly, and sighed deeply. Cassima, also feeling sad for her friend, touched his back gently and tried to console him.

“It’s all right, Jollo,” she whispered. “It could’ve been worse. Much worse. That’s what my mother always told me when I was little.”

Jollo looked up, with tears glistening in his dark, dewy eyes.

“I wish I could forget what you told me,” Cassima continued, “But I can’t. I never will. I would be cold not to remember how long I cried for them, and how kind you were to me when I did, or how Ulrica brought me my food when no one else would. We can’t forget what has happened, but we can try to make do with what is now.”

Jollo smiled and suddenly embraced Cassima, the force of his arms almost forcing the tears that had been unknowingly building up inside her. She tried not to cry out loud, for fear of alerting a guard or anyone else nearby, but she couldn’t restrain the tears from sliding down the sides of her face as she hugged Jollo. It was a playful, “best friends” hug that had originated when she was very young. Even as a teenager, she still used that old expression of affection with her companion, no matter how childish it was, it was always something Cassima associated with happiness and love. But with Jollo’s claim that she was probably in love with a foreign prince, she began suspecting that what she was feeling was a different kind of love.

Finally, Jollo unlocked his arms and resumed his seat on the edge of the bed, looking at Cassima, still smiling through his tears. The great gong sounded the last hour of the day with nine echoing notes as Jollo spoke.

“You talk just like your mother used to,” he sobbed, trying not to be too loud. “She and Caliphim were so wise…I sometimes wonder if they themselves came up with all those beautiful words and ideas…I’m so sorry, Cassima. I know you can’t forgive me, but I’m so sorry I had to be the one to tell you. Everyone else was too afraid.”

“You were the only one brave enough?” Cassima asked, calm in spite of her tears.

“Yes, if you put it that way,” Jollo sniffed. “Forgive me, dear Cassima. I’m sorry I reminded you. That was so heartless of me…I already caused enough trouble for you, poor, young princess…I should’ve known better…”

Cassima gently shushed him and asked him if he felt he should leave. Jollo nodded sadly, got up and slowly shuffled towards the door.

“Please don’t punish yourself, Jollo,” Cassima pleaded. “I would hate to be the cause of someone else’s misery. I thank you for coming here and talking to me very much.”

Jollo looked back at her and forced another of his blithe smiles.

“And if you would, tell Ulrica that I am well. I know I was in a bad way when she last saw me, so I’m sure she would appreciate the knowledge that I am better.”