These words were familiar to me. The King’s bastard was the favorite boogeyman of Aramoor.
Since I was a child, I had heard horror stories about him, about his deformities and terrible temper. Some said he had two heads, some that there was a second set of eyes in the back of his head. There were tales of fang teeth and long, sharp talons like his father had taken up with a dragon.
Children who stayed out past dusk were told by their parents that the bastard would come for them. When sheep were found dead, there was always talk that the bastard had killed them. He was a shapeshifting sort of monster, something uniquely horrible to every person—a bespoke nightmare. My own father had threatened me with the bastard, when I was younger and had such difficulty waking up before dawn to milk the cows.
“He’ll come for you, girl. They say he likes little blondes best.” I shuddered at the memory.
I had heard time and again that the bastard son of the king had to wear a mask so that all those who saw him didn’t go mad upon the sight of his awful, horrible face. They said that just looking into his eyes was enough to turn a man to stone. How much of that was true, I had my doubts. But rumors of the bastard always hung around Aramoor. The poison fog of gossip.
But all at once, my thoughts of the bastard son of the king vanished from my mind. Because through the halls, I heard the firm, clear, beautiful voice of the love of my life. Randal. He was somewhere close.
I followed the sound of his words, “Lords and ladies. By now, you have heard the news of my father’s illness…”
It was definitely him. He had told me himself that his father was unwell. Where is he? And why is he speaking that way about his father, like he’s someone everyone should know? I hurried through the hallways, moving with the flow of servants, following the sound of his voice.
Randal’s voice boomed, “…I saw him just this morning. He asked me to come to address you…”
Address them? Why would Randal need to address anyone? Why was his father’s illness so important as that? My mind turned with the new information bombarding me from all sides, itching with some new insight that I couldn’t quite see.
I turned left, and found myself in a great, vast hallway, lined with gleaming suits of armor affixed to the sandstone walls. In front of me was a huge hall, with cathedral-high ceilings, packed with women and men in the finest, most elegant clothes I had ever seen. All of their heads were turned to a man who stood before them, addressing them. He was masked, but his body was undeniably Randal’s, and it was his voice, it was him.
I froze, with my jugs of milk in my hands, staring, trying to marry the image before me to the world that made sense. I knew his body, I knew his voice, but he was masked. Why in the world would he be…
“And so it is time that I show myself to you. Not as the bastard prince,” he said, now lifting his mask. “But as your future king.”
The crowd gasped, all at once, like a flock of ravens taking wing together. But the face that was beneath the mask wasn’t the horrible face of the bastard prince. It was no monster. It was Randal. It was him. So, where in the world was the bastard?
Unless… could it be?
All at once, every lord and lady went to their knees and knelt before him. As they dropped in unison, I clapped my hands to my mouth, and the jugs of milk fell to the floor, shattering at my feet. I was shocked, stunned. The sight of him there on the dais winded me, like I’d been hit with a cannon ball. And yet, he had been a prince to me since they very beginning. My prince. My King.
The crowd rose again, and my direct line of sight to Randal disappeared, leaving me bewildered and dizzy.
A hand on my shoulder startled me back to reality. I turned to see a young woman, with kindly eyes and a warm smile.
“Are you lost?” She asked me.
Oh, such relief. So lost. So very, very lost. I stared down at my feet, at my clothes. I must have looked entirely out of place. A servant girl gaping at the future king inside the royal palace. But I had to get to him. I simply had to.
“I…I’ve…I need to…” I stammered. She narrowed her eyes at me, not impatiently but definitely with confusion.
“Here, come with me,” she said. “There’s milk all over your pretty outfit. It’ll spoil the fabric if we don’t rinse it clean. Let me help you.”