Mercedes Lackey: Sleeping Beauty

One might think that this was a good thing. After all, it meant that good, kind maidens, like Celeste, found themselves married to handsome Princes — that brave, penniless orphans slew dragons and won the hands of beautiful Princesses. And that was true.

But before the penniless orphan slew the dragon it had to decimate the countryside. The dragon might have been perfectly good-hearted before The Tradition drove it mad. The countryside generally was not improved by being decimated. Often many people suffered in the path of a Traditional Story on its way to its ending. It was also true that for every girl whose circumstances exactly matched those of, say, an Ella Cinders, there were dozens for whom the Prince in question was already married, an infant, a senile old man, a rake, a cad, or...would much rather marry another Prince, thank you. But The tradition did not care, and would senselessly keep trying to force the poor girl and her "destined mate" down the "right" Traditional Path, generally to grief all around. Not only that, but with that much magical force building up around her, the girl and her destined mate would quickly become the target of however many Wicked Witches, Dark Fae, Evil Wizards or the like that happened to be in the neighborhood and in the market for a nice juicy dollop of magical power.

Which, of course,every Wicked Witch, Dark Fae, and Evil Wizard was on the prowl for. Always. It was easy enough to take someone around whom the Tradition was moving, and drain that power. The procedure, unless carefully managed by an extremely skilled, patient and highly ethical magician, generally killed, maimed, or mind-wiped the victim. Patience and ethics were not something dark magicians worried about. Not when it was easier to just rip the stuff away.

That, of course, was not the only set of problems The Tradition caused. Because not all — nor even most — tales had happy endings. For every Ella Cinders, there was a Bluebeard, a Laithley Wurm, and a Rakshasha. For every Gingerbread Witch, there were Babes in the Woods. Girls danced themselves to death. Wolves ate grandmothers. Little Match Girls froze to death in the snow. Mothers told their errant offspring about the Boggles that would get them if they weren't good — and lo! a child misbehaved, as what child doesn't now and again, and a Boggle got him.

At least as tragic were all the times that people failed the tests. The witch that held Ladderlocks captive generally infested the ground beneath her tower with brambles, and plenty of would-be suitors would fall into them to have their eyes put out and wander sightless for the rest of their lives. The palace of a Beauty Dreaming was always surrounded by poisonous thorns, and if a Prince's courage failed him, even a little, they would impale him and his sad corpse would hang among the vines until he turned to bones. If a Prince of the Kingdoms of the Rus failed to get the help of Zhar-ptica, he would adorn the garden of the Katschei as a statue forever.

Preventing the tragedies, steering the stories, finding a way to prevent the mismatched from becoming the victims of those who would drain that magical power, was the job of the Fairy Godmothers.

Like Lily.

But unlike Lily, most Godmothers didn't find themselves trying to stem off an entirely mortal invasion on a monthly basis on top of her other duties.

"Ah!" said Jimson, finally. And then..."Oh dear."

Before Lily could snap at him to explain himself, the mirror cleared and revealed a room she recognized — as she would recognize the public, and most of the private, rooms of most of the kingdom's nobles. This was the audience chamber of Duke Perrin, which was currently serving as Thurman's audience chamber, since at the moment he was there. Perrin's Duchy was right on the border with the Kingdom of Dastchel, which had moved troops to the border it shared with Eltaria as soon as the Queen died. Poor Thurman was not even allowed to mourn as anyone else would —

At first she had trouble understanding what she was seeing. The entire audience chamber was full of people in mourning garments in deference to the King, so three women in black and purple didn't stand out particularly.

Then her memory caught up with her, and she recognized three of the faces in the crowd.

In no small part because they were glaring at each other like the rivals they were. "Nicolette ol the Gray Forest." Dressed with deceptive simplicity, with wide violet eyes that looked utterly without guile, blond hair cascading to her hips, and a d'e colletage that was shocking in a mourning gown, Nicolette was widely acknowledged to be the most beautiful of the practitioners of the Dark Arts in this Kingdom. "Asteria of the Ice Tower." True to her name, Asteria was aloof, cold and remote as a statue of snow. White hair and pale skin, eyes so pale a blue they looked like glacier-ice; the high-necked dress of dark purple made her hands and head look as if they were detached from her body in some peculiar way. "Desmona of Ghost Lake." Of the three, Desmona was the most obviously an Evil Sorceress. Her black gown featured a spider theme, down to the glittering jet spiders — which might well be real spiders, enchanted — ornamenting her black hair. She openly carried her magical staff, atop of which a murky globe emitted the occasional sullen red spark in its depths.

She knew what they were there for, of course. And they knew it, too, throwing smoldering glances of sullen rivalry at each other. It didn't seem to have occurred to any of the three that she might be watching, because they were doing nothing to keep her from spying on them.

"Good job, Jimson," she said, putting the hand mirror down, carefully. She was going to have to act quickly. But she hadn't been the Godmother of Eltaria all this time without learning to plan ahead. She ran to her Hall of Mirrors, generally the most-used room in her palace. Other Godmothers might be able to take the time to travel by roads or flying beasts or even the "All Paths are One," spell; in Eltaria things moved too quickly for that.

The Hall was, true to its name, lined with mirrors. All of them were shrouded in draperies, and each had a name above it. She pulled aside the drapes from the one marked "Perrin," and gazed into it.

Luck was with her. The King was using the Duke's private chambers, which was where the mirror linked to this one already was. He was slumped over in a chair, his face in his hands, and the War Crown on the table beside him.

The magic was already in place, and keyed to her. She stepped through, from her Hall into the private rooms of the Duke, through a mirror mounted permanently on the wall. A gift from her to the Duke's great-great-grandfather. Just in case she ever needed to use it. She had to step down a little, and the leather sole of her shoe scuffed the wooden floor.

The sound of an unexpected footfall made Thurman look up; when he saw her, his face crumpled. She held out her arms to him, and he stumbled into them.

"My poor boy," she murmured, as he sobbed on her shoulder, as he had not dared weep with anyone else. He was the King. He could not cry for his Queen, nor show any weakness, not in public, and not with most of his Court. But she had known him since he was an infant; she was the person with whom the Kings and Queens of her Kingdom could be people, and not monarchs. "My poor, poor boy."

She let him cry as long as she dared, then pulled away ever so slightly. He felt that, and immediately straightened. He was, after all, a King, and he knew what her sudden appearance would mean.

"Lily — what is it?"

"There are three of the Evils downstairs right now, waiting for you to show your face, and the moment you do, the enchantments will be flying thick and fast to ensnare you with all of the force of The Tradition behind them." She hated to do this to him, but there was no choice.