King Dewar of Korragar slammed his fists down on his desk and bellowed. "Ye will heed my command!" His insides were filled with rage, but not for the reasons he now led the Princess of Korragar to believe. No. He felt like a failure, so the frustration was there and real and easy enough to draw into a red ball of fury. It was the bleak realization that he was powerless against the warlock's pact, that in saving his wife from certain death so many years past, he had doomed his daughter to a future life of immeasurable torment and pain; and now that daughter stood before him, an innocent, and trembling in fear because of him. By the Gods! This would prove to be the most difficult ruse he would ever have to play out and perhaps his last.

Maranwe's eyes momentarily went wide with shock; eyes that normally revealed an enthusiastic delight for life, ingenuity, a wisdom beyond her tender years, and yes, a wee bit of whimsicality befitting her Pixie heritage--bright, violet-hued, almond-rounded eyes that seemed enchanting in their own right. Now those eyes cowered in a state of uncertainty, while her sleek-black tail flicked nervously underneath prismatic wings.

Had she really gone too far this time?

The anger displayed in her father's eyes, teamed with the palpable disappointment in his tone caused a sudden and oddly painful lump to rise in the back of her throat. She hadn't meant to destroy the Ballybogs' swamp, and truly, it was not entirely of her doing. Surely her father would come to his senses when she explained how it was that the bog happened to flood with chocolate sludge, when decorating it with a few petunias had been her only intent. Besides, hadn't she ridded the Ballybogs of that awful horny toad infestation when the trinitrotoluene crystals accidentally fell into an enchanted magma-pool, blasting the entire swamp and sending all of its contents into a brief, yet magnificent orbit? By golly! They should be thanking the Korragar crown for her assistance, especially if they coveted funding from the royal treasury in order to rebuild. With renewed vindication, Maranwe lifted her sable lashes and began to plead her case.

"But Da! It was that blasted wizardry school dropout, Marven Foechuckle the Shadowdancer. That swindling, mean-spirited cur bartered me a bag o' tricks and tainted pixie dust! I only meant ta brighten up that murky ol' bog with a wee bit o' color. ...Petunias and daffodils, Daddy, I swear!" Maranwe felt her cheeks blush hot with color; having to share evidence of being played the fool by Foechuckle was terribly embarrassing, to say the least. "Please, Daddy," she pleaded. "If I had known the bog would flood with chocolate sludge, or that the crystals Foechuckle gave me were explosive, I never would've dumped the whole lot o' it inta the swamp."

An uncomfortable moment of silence followed, in which Dewar's deep-amber eyes studied his daughter thoughtfully, reaching in, it seemed, to the very depths of her soul.

Say something, Daddy... Please!

Maranwe lowered her lashes and anxiously shuffled her feet. Her father had never looked at her in this manner before and it was quite unsettling; as though she was but a subject of Korragar, and not of his flesh and blood--a subject that was anxiously awaiting condemnation, or reprieve. Why couldn't this all be a bad dream from which she would soon wake?

King Dewar spoke, his tone deceptively calm. "The decision has been made, Maranwe; and I, as King o' Korragar, must deliver swift judgment. Our treaty with the Ballybogs has been jeopardized due to your malevolent misdeeds; therefore--"

"Malevolent misdeeds!?" Maranwe blurted out. "...But Daddy. It wasn't my fault! Why won't ye listen ta me? Do ye care more for the Ballybogs than ye do your own flesh and blood?"

"Enough!" King Dewar practically growled. "I must put the overall good o' our people above that o' my own child! Such is our way o' life and ye have been raised to understand! Ye would be well-served to comprehend that it is my bond to ye that spares your life this day, for the Ballybogs wish to claim your foolish head and place it on a spike. Princess Maranwe o' Korragar, ye are hereby banished from Korragar lands for all time. Now GO!" The king turned a stiff back to his oldest child, concealing the pain and regret in his eyes. In a solemn voice, just barely above a whisper, he acted out the final scene, "I wish never to lay eyes upon ye again."

Maranwe swallowed thickly, the lump that had lodged in her throat now found its way to her heart. Thick pools welled up behind deep-violet eyes, threatening to flood her cheeks with an outpouring of despair. She managed to breathe out in a throaty whisper, "I love ye, Daddy", before turning to leave what would never again be called home. The rhythmic clicking of her booted heels echoed through the vast hall in a methodical, downtrodden beat, then picked up pace, as the Princess of Korragar attempted to run away from the overwhelming ball of ache that had settled in her belly. And the tears came, falling in torrents, the only witness to her shattered heart.

"Her head on a spike, Father," Prince Ciaran playfully questioned, as he flitted down from the mantle and out of hiding. A two-foot high, cast iron replica of their family coat of arms had provided him ample shield. As he flew up close to his father, he hovered a few feet above the floor in order to maintain eye-level. "Was it really necessary to take it that far? You and I both know the truth, Da. Not only did Maranwe unwittingly reveal the Ballybogs source o' power, but she blasted their toads to smithereens, single-handedly gaining back our lands upon which the Ballybogs had encroached. No," Ciaran chuckled, unable to contain his humor. "They're not calling for her head. They've turned tail and run from our lands, afeared o' the fierce Korragar Princess. What a hoot!"

"Tis not a time for humor, son," King Dewar soberly replied. "Perhaps one day we will be able to give Maranwe the recognition she truly deserves, for she has, indeed, done her father proud; but ye know as well as I that day may never come to pass. If she knew the truth o' why I've sent her away, she would not have gone. She is blindly optimistic and much too loyal to have left without attempting to fight. She would have lost her soul to Him; and I could not bear the pain, nor burden the guilt. My heart would die with hers."

"Aye, Father. Forgive me." Ciaran's humor quickly faded as the unspoken name of Stathios Varnavok, the Grand Warlock of the North, consumed their air with dreaded visions of doom. "It's just that my sister has a way about her o' always coming out on top o' things," Ciaran continued, attempting to stave off the fear. "I refuse to believe good fortune will desert her now, not when it is most dire."

King Dewar heaved a weary sigh and sank into his chair. "Then let us pray her luck holds and her heart stays strong. She must find a champion for Korragar before it is too late and her fate, along with ours, has been sealed." Dewar picked up a small, tightly rolled missive from his desk and handed it to his son. "Stay as close as you dare without revealing your presence. When the predetermined amount o' time has passed, greet your sister and see to it that she receives my instructions. Then, and only then, do I give you leave to reveal the truth." He stood, embraced his son in a fare-thee-well, and then bid him leave. "See to it that Foechuckle is well-paid for his efforts, and properly warned to mind his step as well as his tongue. It is with your speed o' flight that I send thee. May the Gods lend support to your wings and guide your sister in her quest. Make haste, son."

Prince Ciaran nodded solemnly, assured his father that he would not fail, and then took his wings to flight.

© Stacy Anderson