The Thicket by LilyRose (libby ebook reader .txt) 📖

Part One

There once lived an enchanted Princess who was called Briar Rose. Briar Rose was not her name, though. She was called so because of the nature of her enchantment, which was to be trapped within a castle that was surrounded by an impenetrable thicket of Rose Briars. This briar patch was so densely intertwined, that any man attempting to hack his way through it – and there were many, over the years – would ultimately find himself trapped in the midst of the living wall, too far from help to be rescued. After a long period of loudly entreating for aid, and then just as loudly bemoaning their fate, these unfortunates would finally fall silent and die, either from infections caused by numerous piercings of the briars' poisoned thorns, or from simple lack of water and food.

There were many stories told about Briar Rose. Details changed from time to time, and from place to place. Here and now, it was an evil witch who enchanted her: there and then; a jealous stepmother. Sometimes she was said to be laying in a kind of eternal sleep, never aging, never waking. Other times the story told of how she was fated to wander the twilight between the Faery World and ours. But whatever the tale, what remained constant was her imprisonment beyond the thorny wall that surrounded her castle home: that, and the assertion that the Princess Briar Rose was waiting for someone Heroic enough to brave the magical barriers and come save her by breaking the spell.

And so, it came to pass that many would-be Heroes made their way just far enough into the thicket of thorns to get trapped and die. With the towering hedges woven together like chain mail, not even the crows could make their way down through them, in spite of the tasty morsels of trapped Heroes waiting to be feasted upon. In the thicket, only the flies and the worms held sway.

After much time, the colors of story of Princess Briar Rose became as pale as sun-faded dye on a near-forgotten tapestry. The tales of those failed Heroes, however, kept the legend alive, drawing ever more future story fodder into the tangle of barbs. Nobody really knew exactly what it was they were questing for, anymore. All anybody could say, was that so many brave and noble souls could not have died for nothing, and therefore, there had to be a pearl of great price hidden beyond the briars that gave that pearl her name.

And so, it also came to pass, that one late summer's day, yet another would-be Hero came riding in off the long, open highway into the small village that was closest to the reported site of Briar Rose's enchanted castle. He and his cortege all took lodging at the local Inn; an Inn that had seen more than one of his kind: youthful adventurers with more ambition than sense. And sometimes more money too.

Such was the case with young Prince Gyllain, who hailed from a Principality (naturally) that was some three months' travel, by well-constructed carriage and well-appointed livery, from this remote, and not particularly handsome, village. Gyllain, like so many others across the countryside, had grown up hearing the stories of the bewitched Princess living in a place where enchantments still ruled. He had also heard, like so many others, the tales of the heroes before him who had come to break the spell, and who had died so nobly in their efforts.

What Gyllain had also grown up hearing, but which so many others did not, were the tales of his own forebears, and the Heroic acts and deeds that they had accomplished over their multifarious generations. Gyllain's father, and Gyllain's uncle, and Gyllain's grandfathers and great-grandfathers: in the palace where Gyllain grew up, there was a wall the size of a cliff, and on it was a tapestry that covered the entire wall. This tapestry was of a tree; a tree whose many branches and leaves all represented heroic acts and deeds, and all marked with names, none of which were Gyllain's.

A fact that Gyllain's entire extended family made quite sure that he was never forgetful of. Somewhere in the vast reaches of that woven tree, there was a bare twig waiting for a leaf with Gyllain's name and deeds stitched upon it. And so it was a long and sometimes sorrowful tale that led to Prince Gyllain being here at this Inn on the edge of the distant northern mountains, below the hilltop where rested the fabled castle surrounded by its enchanted shrubs. Though it was when he dismounted his horse at the edge of the thicket, ready to prepare his own assault on the enchantment, that his part in this story did truly begin.

Gyllain began by walking around the perimeter of the thicket. It was awe-inspiring, to say the least, to stand before something that he had heard stories of his entire life. Stories so numerous and fanciful, that he had nearly come to believe that none of them were true at all. That he would have arrived at this village to learn that there had never been a castle, or an enchantment, or even a Briar Rose. It elated him to no end, then, that at least some of it was true. And if the castle and the thorns were true, then perhaps it was all true. All true, after all.

Each day when he arose, Gyllain washed and groomed and dressed in his finest: expensive suede breeches and polished knee-high leather boots with buckles of silver that gleamed. He shaded his brow from the sun with a plumed, black and silver tricorn hat. He wore a white silk shirt and a white silk cravat, and a coat of deep green velvet so lush it felt like the pelt of a creature of heaven. The coat had large embroidered cuffs, and these were woven from thread that was itself made of pure spun gold; an extravagant gift from some nobleman looking to curry favor. If ever there was an occasion for wearing it, this was it.

Gyllain also wore a short sword, a rapier, with an engraved handle in a scabbard on his belt, although he had already decided that hacking one's way through the thorns was not the method that would bring success in this endeavor. Exactly what would bring success, Gyllain wasn't sure. He had faith in himself, though. He knew he would find the solution, if he just looked long and hard enough. He was prepared to take as long as it took, to do so.

To this end, he set up a camp at the edge of the thorny wall. He had a stock of provisions, and as time went by, he sat by a fire at night cooking dinner and considering his observations of the day. Then he would sleep. The next day, while his horse contentedly grazed on the long, summer-bleached grasses that grew along the sloping hillside, he set out and observed some more.

And observe he did. He made many observations, and he cataloged them all. It took one hour by the sundial to walk the perimeter all the way 'round. If he climbed a nearby tree, he could barely see the tops of the castle towers in the center. The briars were high enough to start casting shadows by mid-afternoon. The sky was generally clear, but clouded up most afternoons. It had not rained since he had been here. The moon was waxing, and each night was a little brighter than the last.

The ground was stony; the grasses were high; the thicket was a series of bushes so close together that it was impossible to follow even one single branch from root to thorn. There were birds in the surrounding copses of trees but none in the thicket or even roosting on it's highest branches. In fact, it seemed that animals avoided the place altogether. Even his horse spent most of the day grazing down the slope of the hill. The bushes themselves were profuse with pale pink flowers that looked like layers of crinoline, and the thorns that grew in even greater profusion were long and black and shone with the sheen of poisonous oils that sometimes oozed and dripped from their tips.

By the fourth morning, Gyllain was beginning to wonder what he was a going to do with all of his observations. He had a quite a lot of them, but they didn't seem to add up to anything. He had never done this sort of thing before, and so had no real idea of how to go about it. His father had been no help; the man was so completely filled with his own exploits he only had time to scoff at his son for not yet having had any of his own. Asking his father how to go about it would be like asking how to take a piss while standing up. Worthy only of scorn.

And so on the fourth morning, Prince Gyllain walked somewhat dejectedly around the perimeter of the thicket once again, wondering if there was anything he might not have observed yet. In truth, he wasn't much observing anything at all any more. Mostly he just looked down at the ground and kicked at stones that were in his path. It was for this reason that he didn't know he was not alone until heard a sharp gasp in front of him, and when he looked up he gasped himself.

There was a girl, standing maybe ten paces ahead of him. She had long red hair pulled and tied, or perhaps braided, behind. She wore a simple dress, of a style he had seen locally. Gyllain could see that she was as startled as he was; perhaps even frightened. Her eyes were a bright, hard green, and were wide and fully alert as she stared at him. Her entire body seemed tensed, as though she were about to bolt, and for a moment he was sure that was what she was going to do. Then all at once she visibly relaxed, as if she had decided that flight was not an option and it was better to stand and wait.

Who are you? Gyllain asked. Where did you come from? I've been up here for days and I've seen no one at all.

The girl cocked her head and regarded him, apparently unafraid now.

Well?, the Prince demanded. Can you speak?

I can, said the girl.

Good. Who are you? Where did you come from?

I'm from here, said the girl, answering the second question first. I live here.

You live where?, asked Gyllain, looking around. Here? I've been here for days, I've seen nobody at all. No one lives here.

If no one lives here, said the girl, then what did you come here for?

If you're from around here, then you must know the legend of this place, said the Prince.

Of course, said the girl. This is the home of the Princess Briar Rose.

Amused at her tone, Gyllain said to her, You sound as though you personally know her.

I do, the girl responded.

The Prince stared at her. I don't understand, he said. What do you mean, you know her?

I am her servant. I am her lady-in-waiting.

What?

I am Meridian, and