Beauty & Cruelty Read online

  Sixth stared at her for a long moment, pale and afraid; finally, unexpectedly, both those expressions faded into something like exhaustion. She frowned at that, and apparently taking the frown personally, Sixth's shoulders sagged further. He pointed. "About two days walk that way, my lady," he said, tone short, and cut himself off from further words.

  "There's a good boy," Cruelty said. "Now run along and give Odette a hug or something. Tell her I said 'hi.'"

  Sixth looked like he wanted to say something else, but whatever it was didn't matter; he restrained himself finally. She gave him a cheery, sarcastic wave goodbye before she pulled magic around herself, stepped out of space, and shifted to cross the distance within the world's margins.

  Here, wrapped in the world's energy, she could feel how damaged it was. Walking a day's distance in a step was nothing at the best of times; they made boots that let you do it to save your own energy if you wanted. But it still felt like she was picking at the edges of a scab, could feel that shaky tugging attachment and the threat of blood if she pulled too hard. She needed more power. Displeased, she reached to the spell of her own castle's protective brambles. If what she was hearing about Beauty's plan was true, keeping people out might be counterproductive. Still, she only reduced their density, didn't remove them completely; there was no point in undoing them all so easily. Even with that little, she felt power rush over her again as she reabsorbed some of her spell. Drawing a slow relieved breath, she took two quick steps.

  Cruelty arrived in the air over a drawbridge, and managed to maintain at least a little dignity as she dropped down to it, landing in a crouch with one hand down for support. Fortunate, she thought, that she hadn't landed in the moat instead. The castle in front of her was quite familiar; it gave the impression of once having been airy and light but having since fallen into stagnation, the entire path and area around it overrun with rose vines. Even the air felt still, silent and static.

  The magic had, like most things here, weakened. She could see a narrow and dangerous trail across the drawbridge through the mass of brambles, and that, of all things, should not have been possible. The purpose of the brambles was to deter visitors, not to lure them in with a lined path. She frowned at it, but let the issue go; refreshing it to its full, dense, dangerous quality would be too much effort. The barrier she set was something she was invested in, but for now, at least, she could turn a blind eye; better not to change things until she'd assessed the situation. Rather than take the path directly, she took her path, entering the brambles, feeling thorns scrape across her skin without cutting her, feeling vines pass through her body as if she only filled all the spaces around them as she proceeded on. The doors at the end were closed tight, warped from the intrusion of the vines, but they recognized her and let her pass through their wood without the effort of opening them.

  The Great Hall just within the entrance to the castle was large, echoing, and empty. She could walk silently if she wanted to, but didn't; enjoyed being the element of change, enjoyed the sound of her bare feet on flagstones echoing through the hall, a slap slap slap of flesh on marble announcing her presence, echoes catching each other up and slowly dying out again as if muffled. She had transformed this castle, once upon a time, to intimidate and deter even those rare individuals who had managed to make it this far. Those people would have the lonely impression of being the only living individual in this walls, be made to fear that the spell would catch them up as well. Of course it wouldn't; anyone who made it this far had a right to get this far. But that seemed almost a relic of another time with the path now added to the front door. Regardless, nobody came to greet her despite the noise of her movement.

  Cruelty ascended the stairs from a side door of the Great Hall, climbed several flights, and emerged in a long hallway lined with rooms. Once the guest quarters, it was even more beautiful up here, if no less lonely and abandoned. The ambient outdoor light shone in through stained glass windows from open rooms, and illuminated the hall in eerie colors.

  Usually, it would be completely silent up here, but she heard a soft shuffling sound from one of the rooms. Despite knowing about the path, despite knowing that others had been helping Talia with her plan, it still caught her by surprise. Careful—no accounting for who it might be—Cruelty glanced around the door frame. In it was a woman all in black, blonde hair upswept, her face pale and worn. She was dancing en pointe with her eyes closed. Knowing what had happened to Odette, Cruelty knew it could only be Odile. There was no one with her; she danced alone, telling her lonely repeating story to an empty room.

  So, others were using Talia's castle for their own purposes, then. She'd imagined them here to plan only, not this. The world had shifted, she reminded herself; perhaps a few homes had been lost. Talia had been calling for change, and changing the world. There would be displaced people as well as those who wished to be involved, and at least some of those would come here. That itself was strange, that Talia would invite people into her living space who were neither part of her story nor sharing her Motifs. It was a sign that Talia was stretching her story to the breaking point, Cruelty thought grimly; if her story fell apart completely, that would be that. It didn't speak well to her ultimate survival, or theirs.

  Cruelty considered calling out to Odile, but Odile was busy with her own sadness, and Cruelty was here for a reason. She moved on without any further delay, went down to the end of the hall, up a small staircase to the princess's wing. Here, the hallways grew narrower, more confined, the walls white and bare and stark and deterring. Then up another set of stairs, a sharply-ascending and tight spiral staircase into the tallest tower. Even she was feeling a little winded by the top; she took some time to catch her breath in the alcove by the plain, unadorned wooden door there. It wouldn't do to show even the hint of an embarrassing face to the princess. When she was sure that she seemed as unmoved as ever, she pushed the door open.

  The room was somewhat humble considering its royal occupant, a small stone room with less in the way of adornment than one would expect. The main feature of it was the canopied bed, draped in reds of various shades, starkly brilliant. Beyond that there was a wardrobe and a dressing table, some screens, a seat—for those who might want to watch the bed and its occupant, something Cruelty had done more than once in the not-so-recent past—and, of course, the spinning wheel in the corner.

  She approached the bed, tugged back the transparent blood-red canopy curtain, and looked down.

  Talia was laid out more as if she were dead than sleeping, long legs straight, pale curly hair arranged around her soft face, arms placed lightly across her chest. Her fingers, curled loosely, were long and slim, almost completely perfect in form and curve and angle, though one was marred, a piece of flax sticking from the tip with the skin mostly grown over it. Despite the wan color of her face, there was no mistaking her for a corpse; she breathed slow and steadily, stirring wisps of hair that curled around her cheeks, and her eyelids flicked slightly with the force of her dreams. Here she slept, Cruelty thought, until her Story ended. The defining Motif of Sleeping Beauty was that she was asleep until rescued, so no matter how many times her story had been told to the end, no matter how many versions had been recreated and retold, Talia herself, the Archetype behind the story, slept and waited for a prince or king to come and see her. Even if one actually came and sucked the flax from her finger, she wouldn't gain any more power; her Archetype was a weak one. Little children weren't told these days to wait for someone to rescue them, were told over and over to choose their own destiny. This story, their story, was largely read to give the child a lesson on what not to do.

  Eternally a young woman, Talia still had a slight plumpness to her face, round-cheeked in a way that would look rosy and merry were she awake. Her figure had developed toward womanhood with generous curves at hips and breast, but youthfully so, perky and firm. Her cream-colored nightgown concealed her, but in a way that hinted at unconcealing—it was, after all, a nightgown, and it
had settled over her body to outline her legs and hips. The other Motif of Sleeping Beauty was how seductively she slept; the stories were all clear that the Prince would be drawn to her body, after all. In some versions a kiss, in others rape and waking with a baby suckling her finger in lieu of finding a nipple. Cruelty touched a foot, found it a bit chilly, considered covering it up in a fold of blankets and didn't.

  "Well, Beauty," Cruelty said, "I hear you've been up to a few things."

  Energy gathered in the center of the room and Cruelty turned to watch as the ghostly figure of Talia formed there, the perfect transparent double of her body. Of course, she'd had all the time in the world to watch herself and memorize her figure. She floated, wavered, and then tucked some hair behind her ear with a quick and uncertain gesture. "Somebody has had to," Talia said. Then, in a tone half-displeased, half-longing, "You're back."

  "For now," Cruelty agreed, non-committal. No point getting the dear girl's hopes up, whether she wanted Cruelty to leave again or hoped she'd stay. She took a seat on the bed beside Talia's body, leaning over her and gazing into her sleeping form's face instead of the image of the woman talking to her. "I couldn't resist the opportunity to see you ruin everything with your own hands, Beauty."

  She addressed Talia's flesh as if that was where the person herself was, as if Talia would open her eyes and reply to her physically. How would she look if that were to happen? Would she stir softly, eyes bright as their lids lifted, reanimating with the sudden fullness of an abruptly-inhaled breath? Or would it be like a normal morning, yawning, having trouble peeling her eyes open, drifting off for a few minutes more, words finally coming sluggishly and carried on sour morning-breath? She stroked her fingertips along Talia's cheek.

  Behind her, Talia said, "You've had plenty of opportunity to try to do something yourself. If you think I'm being foolish, what would you do instead?"

  As always fascinated with Talia's unresponsiveness, Cruelty ran her thumb over Talia's lower lip, denting it with pressure. "Me? Hah. Nothing."

  "Nothing. Of course. Because that has helped us so much already. Everyone here, always doing nothing!"

  Cruelty shrugged, and tugged on Talia's lower lip a little, revealing even, pearly teeth behind that perfect bow lip. "At this point, doing anything at all is just likely to just hurry our fate up. It's been a long time coming, and if we stay unresisting enough, it may be a long time yet. If we give humanity a reason to deny our existence, it is only going to make things harder. It's like a bear attack."

  "I—" Talia seemed completely prepared to argue in theory, but was at a loss when faced with the actual statement. "What?"

  "In the event of a bear attack," Cruelty explained helpfully, lifting her hand and watching Talia's features slide back into their relaxed state, "you have to go limp. If it thinks you're dead, it's more likely to ignore you. If you're active and moving about, you're asking to get mauled."

  "Thank you," Talia said insincerely. "What helpful advice. I do so often worry about bears."

  "I think you'll do okay," Cruelty said. "You're pretty good at playing dead."

  "I get a lot of practice," Talia said.

  "It's a gift," Cruelty agreed brightly. "The best gift I could give you."

  Talia said, "Humans aren't bears, Cruelty."

  Cruelty snorted, picked up one of Talia's relaxed hands. "Let me see—large, blundering, violent, far too protective of their youth for our own good, catch Atlantic salmon in rivers, over-fish them, really..." She graciously kissed the tips of Talia's fingers, lips lingering on the piece of flax, careful not to disturb it; a curse-caster was one of the few people outside the curse's specifications who could break it, after all. "If it walks like a bear and talks like a bear..."

  Voice flat, actually unimpressed, Talia said, "Yet we live and die with their hopes and fears and belief, so let's not encourage them to ignore us. Bears, Cruelty?"

  She laughed and put Talia's hand down, arranging it prettily over her breast. "I'm just having a little fun, Beauty, don't fuss. I think you know the point I'm trying to make."

  "I think we're getting off topic," Talia said. She managed to sound both tired and irritated at the same time. It wasn't what Cruelty had expected from the ignorant little girl who had waited so long for someone to come to her. It was a tone, Cruelty thought, to make one uneasy. "I don't think that accepting being ignored is going to solve anything. Perhaps starting a system of demanding attention won't either, but if we're going to go out either way, I'd rather go out with a bang than a whimper."

  "The world's most sedentary action hero," Cruelty said, gently mocking. She smoothed Talia's hair on the pillow, then finally turned to face her image. "Isn't that like saying you'd rather commit suicide than die of old age?"

  "We don't age," Talia said. "That's a false dichotomy; we are meant to never die. The situations aren't slightly comparable. Approaching non-existence is nothing like approaching a necessity too early. Don't do that, Cruelty, you're better than that. Are really so afraid that you'd try to digress and derail the topic so thoroughly?"

  That dragged another laugh out of Cruelty's throat, rough and bitter. "Afraid? No, Beauty, no. I've lived among them. I've lived their lifestyle. I've spent ages barely touching magic. I've seen how they think. I've seen how society has changed. The only thing tales and their Archetypes are good for in this day and age is fodder for watered-down animated films to excite the minds of children. There is no such a thing as a cautionary tale these days." She reconsidered. "Well, there sort of is, actually. Perhaps I should try to become an urban legend. I don't know yet how long those last, but it has to be better than working in fast food..."

  "Um," Talia said.

  Cruelty flopped back dramatically, draping herself backwards across Talia's body, curling against her curves. "What do you think? Red-Haired Cruelty, who appears to overly-curious girls when they want to experiment, and after she sticks something in you, you pass out and never wake up? Hmm, needs some work, a little too porno. Maybe an email chain forward...?"

  "I'm glad to have helped you find such a good backup option," Talia said, tone dry. "I don't remember you penetrating me quite so erotically."

  "Marketing, Beauty. Sex sells."

  Talia shook her head. "Marketing to who, exactly? Oh no, don't get me wrong, I'm sure if you applied yourself to it, you could find some way to sell yourself. But—"

  "Oh," Cruelty said, and clapped. "Well done. That double entendre was something else. You're growing up despite yourself, aren't you?"

  "But," Talia pressed on, "most of us don't have a backup option, Cruelty. We barely have a primary option. Have a little empathy. You can live among them. Become an urban legend, if you wish to. Go ahead! But we can't. The only way we could possibly live among them was if we were to blow society so wide open that they could not deny us, and then establish ourselves before they decided our place. And we could do that. We could show them that there are sleeping princesses out there behind walls of thorns if you know where to look. To not speak ill of others for fear of toads and frogs coming to life on your tongue instead of words. We need them to think 'It'll happen to me,' or at least, 'It could happen to someone.' We need it to be a real fear. So, yes, that is my goal! To blow society open. I will kidnap humans, I will force them to live in our world, and I will send them home, and I will do this over and over, and then we will step back and watch them look at the world with new eyes."

  Talia's voice had risen with the passion of her words and, in her projected, imagined image, her hair moved around her as if there was a wind blowing. Cruelty watched her thoughtfully. She remembered the Beast Enchantress begging for help as she got dragged off, knew that even if Talia's way worked, it wouldn't be without a cost. Witch hunts and a search for monsters. But perhaps that was the cost of belief, of paranoia. Perhaps Talia was counting on that.

  "We will force belief," Talia said. Her image raised both arms to Cruelty in supplication, but her face was demanding. That, too,
gave Cruelty a brief chill to see. Talia had never been someone who could demand anything. "Are you with us? Or will you run away with your tail between your legs again, determined to live and condemn the rest of us?"

  "I never ran away," Cruelty said. "I've just been someone who's had no interest in staying around to be part of the panic of a sinking ship."

  "Doesn't that make you a rat?"

  "If it makes me a rat, then I'm a rat," Cruelty said. Talia's blue eyes were blazing, and Cruelty stared into them. The challenge in them was impossible to deny, and she could never be more passive than Talia. It wasn't something she could permit in herself. So she curled a smile on her lips, projected her own scornful calm right back at that fire. "But your idea sounds interesting. Doomed to failure, but interesting. I can always turn my back on you later, so I'll stick around for now and see where this goes."

  That fire went out abruptly as Talia closed her eyes. "So you're staying with us then. Truly, I wonder if I should thank you or not," she said, and her image vanished.

  Cruelty's brows rose. Image or not, she knew Talia could still hear her, see her, as long as she was still in this room. Nowhere else; her domain was only her bedroom. So she responded regardless. "Why are you acting shocked I accepted your invitation? You asked me so nicely to join you. Beauty, Beauty, Beauty." She headed for the door with her head down, her straight red hair showering down to hiding her face. "Why ask, if you didn't want it? You of all people should know to be careful what you wish for."

  And with that, before this new, agitated Beauty could show herself again to retort, she left the room.

  Chapter Three

  On her way out, she stopped by the room where she'd seen Odile dancing. The black swan was still there, twisting and arching, body telling her story to a non-existent crowd. Ballet was a language where each movement of the hands and feet, each pose and gesture, signified a different phrase in the story. As always, Odile told the story of an abandoned duplicate, second best to everyone, nobody's prima donna. She longed for love, but could gain it only when she was pretending to be someone else.