Mercedes Lackey - Sleeping Beauty

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Godmother Lily is having a hard time protecting the small but rich kingdom of Eltaria. The Tradition is trying to force Princess Rosamund down a path -- but is it that of Sleeping Beauty or Snow White? Everything seems to be being subverted, from the seven evil dwarfs who capture Rosamund, to the Wicked Stepmother who rescues her. And to top it all, Prince Siegfried needs to rescue a maiden who isn't his aunt from a ring of fire in order to avoid his own Doom. The only solution to all this: issue a set of challenges to all the local Princes, the prize being the kingdom and fair Rosamund's hand.

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He didn't curse; Thurman was not that kind of man. But his face went to stone as he ran through all the possible scenarios in his mind. She saw him realize what she had, that there was no escaping this. The Tradition wanted him married, so that his daughter would have an Evil Stepmother, and there was an avalanche of force building toward just that.

Then she saw his eyes light up. She nodded. He had come to the same conclusion she had. She cast a spell over herself, changing her appearance utterly. Now she, too, wore mourning, a high-necked, Dark velvet gown, embellished with jet beads, her hair was as black as a raven's wing, her eyes as dark as the night sky, her skin as pale as milk. She looked precisely as she meant to — as another Dark Sorceress. The three below would see her and assume an unknown rival had stolen a march on them while they were jockeying with each other. Each of them would blame the other, and never think to work together to be rid of her.

The Tradition's power swirled and settled. It was satisfied. Rosamund would have an "Evil" Stepmother.

He rang for a servant.

The man appeared instantly. King Thurman took her arm as the man stared in astonishment to see a woman in the King's private chambers when he knew that no woman had passed the door.

"Bring me Father Vivain," said the King. "I have work for him."

Chapter 1

Rosamund's heart pounded as fast as the hooves of the horse beneath her. This wasn't her sweet little palfrey, her Snowdrop — the little mare had been sent away by her stepmother without a reason, leaving only powerful, dangerous-looking black beasts in the stables.

This was one of those black horses, strong and fast, and terrifying to ride. From the moment she snatched the reins from the groom, threw herself into his saddle and smacked his rump with a riding crop, she had known she was taking her life in her hands. This was like being astride a tempest, or riding a boat over a waterfall. Her arms were a mass of scratches, and every second was an eternity of terror as she clung with all her might to his back.

But not half as terrifying as the Royal Huntsman, who was probably on another one of these monsters, chasing her down. With dogs. A pack of vicious, huge black boarhounds that had come with the Huntsman when he'd arrived weeks ago. She knew about the dogs, for sure; she could hear them baying behind her as the horse raced through the woods.

She had to crouch low over the horse's neck, because the horrible thing wasn't paying any attention to low branches; she had been whipped twice across the face before she took this position, and it was a wonder she hadn't been blinded.

Not that still having her eyesight made any difference right now.

The horse was careering through the woods, and she couldn't tell if it was on a path or not. It didn't seem to care. And even if she had known where to go, she doubted it would have responded to the reins. This was almost suicide; the beast could stumble and fall at any moment, talking her with it, killing them both, or at least breaking bones.

But behind her was certain death.

It was that terror, the glitter of the knife in the dark passageway, the bruised arm where the Huntsman had seized her, the look of cold, bored evil in the Huntsman's eyes, that had driven her to wrench herself free, to run headlong to the stables, to seize the reins of the horse waiting for her stepmother's afternoon ride —

That terror was still coiled inside her, making her urge the horse onward.

She didn't know where the horse was going, but she had no clear idea where she should go in the first place, so that hardly mattered. She'd figure that out when she was safe from the Huntsman. She'd gotten away — so The Tradition might be moving in her favor now. She'd find rescue. Maybe a Prince or a brave woodsman or a bold peasant boy. Maybe a princely thief with a good heart. Maybe a Wise Beast.

Something would come to help her, surely, surely.

It must. This was Eltaria. She would not think about all the stories where the Evil Stepmother won, where the princess was eaten or ravished and left for dead or —

The horse galloped onward, deeper and deeper into the woods, into the sort of forest she had never seen before.

Something shrieked off to the side, and the horse bucked and shied violently, as if it though she was something that had leapt on its and was about to tear its throat out.

She couldn't hold on. Red-hot pain lanced through her fingertips as her nails broke and tore off when the rim of the saddle was ripped out of her hands, and then she was flying through the air. There was a moment of clarity, and a strange calm — then she landed in a patch of brush that broke her fall. The horse went careering off without her. And now she heard the hounds again.

But they were following the scent of the horse, not her. And the horse had tossed her a good many feet away. She burrowed her way into the bushes rather than running senselessly after the horse, which she had no hope of catching anyway. She managed to claw her way out of sight through the mass of twigs and leaves and into the musty gloom beneath the branches, then wiggled under the bushes like a rabbit in a warren, belly-down on the dirt and leaves until she was, she hoped, well away from where she had broken her way in, and still farther from where she'd parted company with the horse. And then, with her nose inches from the ground, she waited.

The hounds bellowed past in full cry, and she shivered, hearing the sound of hoofbeats on their heels. But they didn't stop, and the Huntsman must not have seen the signs of her being thrown. They raced off, farther into the woods, on the trail of the horse. She waited, sweat cooling and itching, insects crawling over her, until the sound of baying was nothing more than a muffled moan in the distance.

Then she struggled her way to the edge of the brush patch, staggered to her feet and listened, hard, to get a direction.

She had no idea where she was, of course. So any direction was a good one, as long as it took her away from the Huntsman.

She nicked her way through the dense undergrowth as best she could, trying to get as much distance as possible between herself and her pursuers. She was tired, frightened, hurting from a thousand cuts and bruises. She had no idea where she was, no food or water, no shelter. And now, yes, shedid hear the rumble of thunder above the trees. It certainly was going to rain.

Any minute.

Could things possibly get any worse?

Don't think that!she told herself sharply, thinking of bears — wolves — not-so-princely thieves. This wasn't a bad thing. The rain would wash away her scent. The hounds and the Huntsman would not be able to find her. She just needed to find someplace to get out of the rain. And pray that The Tradition didn't want to make a Fair Corpse out of her —

She couldn't help it. She started to cry. It shouldn't be this hard; didn't everyone in the family study what The Tradition was going to do? Shouldn't they have been able to stop this? She stumbled against an old oak tree, put out her hand to steady herself and found it was hollow. Like a frightened rabbit, she crawled inside.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Why did her mother die? She had been so good; she'd never done anything to deserve to die!

But of course, the part of her mind that was always calculating, always thinking, the part she could never make just stop, saidand if it hadn't been that, it would have been something else. You just turned sixteen. You know what that means in The Tradition.

Oh, she knew. Sixteen was bad enough for ordinary girls. For the noble, the wealthy, The Tradition ruthlessly decreed what sort of birthday you would have — if you were pretty, it was the celebration of a lifetime. If you were plain, everyone, literally everyone, would forget it was even your birthday, and you would spend the day miserable and alone. Traditional Paths went from there, decreeing, unless you fought it, just what the rest of your life would be like based on that birthday. For a Princess, it was worse. For the only child who was also a Princess, worse still. Curses or blessings, which might be curses in disguise, descended. Parents died or fell deathly ill. You were taken by a dragon. Evil Knights demanded your hand. Evil Sorcerers kidnapped you to marry you — or worse.

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