The Hostage Prince by Jane Yolen Read Free Book Online Page A

in just a few moments, he cursed himself for a fool.
    If there’s going to be a war anyway, then running won’t be the cause. Old Jack will bring me the news before he brings it to the king.
That
I’m sure of! He’s a good man, Jack Daw. Well, a good drow anyway. And then once war is declared, if I can escape, and make it to the Seelie Court, I will be a hero.
    Yes,
he thought,
there would be a window, a brief one, but a window nonetheless. Once he could be certain there was to be a war, but before the king locked down his hostage and prepared for the execution, those few hours would be his only chance.
    That’s when I’ll make my escape.
    Aspen went up the stairs two at a time, legs suddenly strong again. But this time he didn’t go to his apartments to pace. This time he went to prepare.

SNAIL SPIES THE QUEEN’S HALLWAY
    O ut in the queen’s hallway one of the blind trolls, normally so sensitive even to a bit of dust on the floor, slipped. Perhaps it was because the queen was screaming and tossing about on the bed. Perhaps it had to do with the heat in the tower. Or the way the new moon sat cradled in the old moon’s arms.
    Or perhaps
—Snail thought—
my bad luck is catching
.
It is, after all, the third tumble of the day
. Then she had another thought and would have smiled if there’d been anything to smile about
. Though, luckily enough, this time the bad luck is not mine
.
    Turning, she said, in a scared, hush voice, “She’s stumbled.”
    â€œWhat?” All three midwives spoke as one. “Who?”
    â€œThe right forward troll,” Snail whispered. “The one with the scar across her nose. She’s down on one huge knee.”
    â€œLet me see!” hissed Philomel, poking Snail in the belly with a finger and pushing her unceremoniously aside.
    â€œHey!” Snail said, still hardly above a whisper. She’d all but doubled up, not with pain but with revulsion.
No one
, she thought,
pokes me in the belly!
She was about to say something more when she saw Mistress Softhands shake her head and put a finger to her lips.
    Philomel noticed none of this in her eagerness to get to the keyhole. Yarrow crowded in as well, and Snail had to scurry on her bottom like a Ness crab to escape being stomped on.
    Mistress Softhands shot Snail a look of pity, but turned quickly back to Philomel, who was busy fending off Yarrow, who was trying to secure the keyhole from her.
    â€œLeave off, Yarrow!” said Mistress Softhands in a harsh whisper, as Mistresses Yoke and Treetop joined her to the side of the door. Then to Philomel, “Tell us what you see.”
    Philomel put her eye back to the hole, gasped, and said—much too loudly and with a crow of astonishment—“There are two of ’em down now. Fat old things.”
    In her excitement—not only at the illicit viewing, but also at the undivided attention and approval of all three midwives—Philomel forgot to whisper. In fact, she practically screeched the last three words.
    Fat. Old. Things.
    The queen must have heard and thought the keyhole was criticizing her weight, for she’d gained a pound or three with the child. Sitting up in the bed, she stopped screaming and lifted her right hand into the sudden silence.
    All this Philomel dutifully reported in her increasingly too-loud voice, as if she believed the door kept her every utterance a secret from the queen.
    â€œGolly, she’s big!” said Philomel, maybe meaning the troll, maybe meaning the queen. It was unclear to all of them.
    It was also the last thing she was ever to say.
    Lightning—or the hot, blue, magical equivalent of lightning—streamed through the keyhole, lit Philomel up for a moment till she looked like a star, and then struck her dead.
    The room rocked with thunder. Every bit of Yarrow’s carefully arranged fire circles was scattered. The lumpy mattress slipped unaccountably