The celebrations for the birth of prince Arianhel of Arlen kept on for months, in a triumph of songs, dances, and colours which made the court of Mirianadh the happiest place on earth. His father, King Garmon, flaunted a proud smile, providing with splendor even such a stern face. His mother, Queen Melirian, gave proof of incredible love and dedication, not leaving even for an instant the noble newborn, not even to live up to the honorable guests. The little prince could take profit of all the honors that could be given to a newborn, and all the blessings of the kingdom fell on his snowy little head. Every kind of gift was brought to him from everywhere: the shining gold from the desert of Gharon and the soft silk from the fields of Firian, the strong horses from the plains of Nimlas and the bright harps of the bards of Caerlead… Even before he could stutter the word “Mommy,” he had more than anyone might ever desire in a whole lifetime, and yet he cried all the time, night and day, day and night, never stopping, and no one could tell the reason for it.
At the beginning, everybody thought it the mere trauma of coming to life, the same everyone born on this earth must suffer when they first see the light, breathe the air, and hear for the first time the sound of voice or the blowing of wind. Yet soon they realized it was not so, when days passed, and the happening did not show to be ceasing, and without any hint to its possible end. At that moment, the noble parents started to wonder and fear for the well-being of their beloved child, gathering soon all the greatest and most renowned experts of cures and diseases, illness and healing that they might find in the kingdom.
“Nothing wrong with his heart,” said a physician, after visiting him.
“The lungs are functioning,” added another.
“Also, kidneys and liver are healthy,” annotated a third.
And then: “The regal child is totally sound, without any doubt, your highnesses,” they concluded, with big relief among the royals but also to their complete bewilderment.
“If he’s healthy, why is he crying, for heaven’s sake?” wondered his parents, without an answer.
And Arianhel in the while was weeping even louder.
Although the castle of Ramildanion was the wide manor hosting more than four hundred rooms and unnumbered mazes of corridors, stairways, and galleries, although thick walls of stone may stretch out between wings and heavy doors, and although high towers may raise well above the height of the keep, there was no place where King Garmon might retire in peace without hearing that weeping. It was the hideous ticking of some unknown unrest, wrapping in its wrenching coils his unaware soul and, tearing his mind to pieces and torturing his heart, it enveloped him ever more in the shroud of a nameless madness. As for Queen Melirian, not even she might understand, unless maybe in the deepest secret of her heart, but she let herself be carried away with little Arianhel and his pain, and, although without realizing the reason for it, she suffered and cried with him, never leaving the child, and every morning the servants carried away for cleaning heaps of sheets soaked with tears the meaning of which remained an unfathomable mystery.
Months passed, without the slightest hint the situation might change: processions of wizards, enchanters, priests, healers, miracle workers, soothsayers, jesters, jugglers, and fools came one after another before the royals in their attempts to diagnose something, administer a cure, perform spells, accomplish prodigies, predict a different future, distract the child with games, shows, and jests of every sort. Nothing worked, as though nothing had been tried at all. The king had by then plunged into the most furious and darkest despair. It was not a rare event that he overturned the trays that were duly served to him, or that he hurled with anger against the walls the dishes that had been prepared with such dedication by the best of the cooks, or that he disdainfully tore the pages of the books he loved most, harshly scolding those who had no guilt, badly dismissing advisers and nobles who came to report to him or bring him greetings, tributes, offers of help, and news. In all respects, the king had in fact estranged himself from the government of his own realm, in which terrible seeds of discord and discontent began to sprout. The queen was emaciated and trembling, her face a mask of pain carved by furrows of tears, and she no longer spoke to anyone. Although, when she was alone with the child, she could be heard from the corridors conducting animated conversations with people who were not with her, acting as though she could hear their answers, moreover never finding them satisfactory. The worst thing to know was the fact that some of the names she so passionately addressed belonged to long-dead individuals, distant relatives, and even past ancestors of her own ancestors, whose very face she had never been able to see in her entire life, except perhaps on a painting or a statue.
One day, the winding tension finally gave birth to its terrible fruit: a delegation of disaffected nobles of the kingdom, headed by Baron Agravain of Brasque, arrived at the castle, declaring the secession of their territories and autonomy from the central government, constituting an independent realm.
The very act of coming and declaring it in person, although still masked by magnanimity and fairness, in all respects had clearly the profile of a challenge: “I am not afraid to come and flaunt my betrayal in front of you, to spit in the very man’s face to whom I once prostrated myself in adoration swearing lifelong fidelity.” That was what they meant, but the king was no longer in a position to understand it. He only nodded dreamily, stammering incomprehensible phrases and fragments of ancient songs.
The rebel squad took their leave in spiteful arrogance and showing great contempt, when they spat on the ground, overturned the ancient armors of the royal family, and tore precious tapestries into pieces. Then they wreaked havoc on the pantries and cellars, dirtying food and wasting wine, devastating barrels and baskets, shelves and tables, and flasks and flagons, as they killed servants and raped handmaids. Then they set fire to the library and even dared to steal the royal crown from the precious reliquary where it resided more often than on the king’s head. Never in the whole history of the kingdom had such an outrage been seen, not even at the times of the Wars of the Blood Scepter, and when the news spread, the reaction was not long in manifesting itself.
No more than four days had passed since the crime when a group of dignitaries showed up at the manor, led by the Marquis Teralar of Marseele, and seeing the heartfelt participation of brave knights such as Sir Mysteryn of Brenne and Sir Varadyr of Golgabria. The procession presented itself to the king in the throne room, where he languished, darkened by the fumes of defeat, shaken by strong tremors and powerful shivers and spasms that affected all his limbs. The dignitaries were struck with great pity and compassion to find him in such a miserable state. Still they respected the rules of the ritual, prescribed by law for honor and dedication, of course, but above all for the affection that bound them to their sovereign. They knelt before the trembling figure, respectfully kissing his jeweled and bilious hand. Then they swore a solemn oath of vengeance and loyalty before the king.
“The land that has been unjustly taken from you will be brought back under your aegis,” proclaimed Sir Varadyr solemnly.
“All the people who have been misled by the traitor’s words will come back to understand the truth you testify,” promised Sir Mysteryn.
“The head of Agravain the traitor will decorate your dining room, and the hearts of his unrepentant followers will be served on a silver platter to your dogs,” Marquis Teralar undertook.
Then, all together they drew their swords and, raising them towards the sky, they swore in unison: “None of us will know the peace of the hearth, the warmth of the wedding bed or the taste of the convivial banquet before peace, justice, and honor have been brought back to your kingdom, before the iniquitous rebellion is quenched, and the shame suffered avenged. The crown will return to sit on the only garment worthy of wearing it! Yours, o Sire! On everything we love, on everything we honor, on everything we respect, we swear this to you, Our Majesty!”
And the astonished silence of the unconscious ruler gave silent assent to their declaration.
The war spread like wildfire after the squad of faithful to the king departed from the austere mansion to fight against the faithless Agravain, summoning all their bannermen and allies. If on the one hand large groups moved to support the cause of the ruling family, on the other hand new outbreaks of revolt flared up to back up the nefarious traitors. Furthermore, in a quick move, Baron Agravain commanded a sortie beyond the borders of the kingdom, recruiting among his troops vast ranks of the peaceful shepherds from Shamras, deported into slavery and bowed to a martial law that was contrary to the centuries-old customs and traditions of their people. Great was the bewilderment of the nobles of the Kingdom of Arlen in the face of such perfidy. Many died in the inability to turn their weapons against cowards by nature, just as many and many more of the shepherds lost their lives in the royal cavalry charges, meat for slaughter compared to so brave knights.
Marquis Teralar, the general of the army, soon realized that it was necessary to put an end to the conflict before the massacre exceeded the atrocious proportions it had already reached. After meeting the war council, he decreed that an Arlenian delegation meet the leaders of the revolt and stipulate a truce with them, in violation of the oath taken but in order to avoid the wrath of the gods for the unjustly shed blood. The delegation, to which Sir Varadyr himself belonged, went to meet the most disloyal of betrayals. Nor could their status as representatives and spokesmen be worth their lives: one by one their heads were displayed on poles at the entrance to the encampment of the army of Agravain, a terrible sight to contemplate and a clear warning of the violence, madness, and terror that were rampant in the kingdom.
“For a baby’s cry!” shouted the commanders of the royal alignment in the assault charge in the pitched battle that followed in the plains of Assavar.
“For a baby’s cry!” thousands of horsemen and foot soldiers echoed them.
But Baron Agravain had foreseen the frontal retaliatory attack and had deployed legions upon legions of Shamrasian shepherds on the front line, instead leading a large group of his best troops to the assault of Ramildanion, where he had introduced his spies. The gates were opened to him and he set about leading the massacre of the occupants of the castle, a small number of defenders, and the servants. It was only thanks to a handmaid, the candid Shelia, who led the confused rulers through the secret passages of Ramildanion to the exit into the woods of Pendall, if the royal line was not broken and the halls of the palace were not stained with the blood of he who sat on the throne, of the one who was tied to him by a nuptial bond, and of the weeping child whose screams so worried the fugitives in case they attracted unwanted attention.
In the woods, the group camped in the hollow of the great centuries-old Pendalia oak, whose resin was said to give the power to see the future if smeared on the eyes, and waited for the night to pass, amid Garmon’s delusions, Melirian’s imaginary conversations, and the baby’s cries. Shelia was amazed that they had made it this far, but she did not know where else she could lead them farther, now that nowhere was safe. She thought of the village of Bromnan, or of Tirivald Manor, but no choice was devoid of dangers, and every path presented its perils. Eventually, when she had started even to fear that time had frozen and they were stuck in an eternal night of anxiety and terror, the sun rose with blasts of fanfare, bringing her a new, worse fear: the fear that they had in fact been reached by those who were seeking them. Indeed, so they had, but not by Agravain’s false knights.
On the back of a white steed, Sir Mysteryn escorted the Master of Slaves, the Shepherd of Shepherds, Nomedens of Laharat, his wife Chaundra, and their newborn daughter Gywennen. The shepherd had joined his ranks with those of the kingdom, rebelling against the traitors, and at first the remaining part of the rebel army had been crushed. Then, in the course of the night, the castle had been reached and taken up again. Once the gates had been opened, thanks to a spell by Nomedens, the troops had broken in while Agravain and his lot reveled, soiling the already bloodstained halls for a second time. The ensuing struggle soon had ended in favor of the attackers, who had thus avenged the honor of their sovereign. The corpse of the traitor had been beheaded, so to reserve him the fate that suited his deeds, and a similar fate had befallen all of his lot.
Now Sir Mysteryn, having been informed of their escape by a peasant who had heard the prince’s cry in the night, had guessed the chosen destination and had led the others there, hoping to restore the pride and dignity of King Garmon through the good news of their victory. Gywennen gave a childish giggle of joy at hearing Arianhel’s voice, and his cry changed into laughter.
“The ghosts… They have vanished!” declared Queen Melirian, who suddenly no longer heard the voices of distant people.
“Praise be to the gods!” King Garmon exclaimed, reassured.
“That little girl’s laughter broke the curse,” said Sir Mysteryn.
“Long live the little girl! Long live the Prince! Long live the King and Queen!” Shelia erupted, amid her tears of joy.
The crown was placed on its only right seat due to its worth, the head of King Garmon, the just ruler. The palace of Ramildanion, refurbished and cleaned up, returned to be a place of celebrations and great jubilation for the entire kingdom from that day on, and for a very long time after.
Notes: First written independently on Christmas Day 2013, after my own invention of both theme and story in what was already the present form almost in every detail. I thereafter discovered, to my utter surprise, tales in many variants still somewhat similar to the core concept of my story already existed, however hitherto unknown to me, in the folklore of several cultures worldwide. For example, see the folktale “The Princess Who Never Smiled” in Alexander Afanasjev’s Russian Folktales. Besides considering, however interesting, all issues pertaining to archetypes or collective subconsciousness in writing, the occurrence chiefly sorted the effect to better highlight (first of all to myself) the spontaneous traits peculiar to my own version: the prince’s cry is the whole kingdom’s ruin, and only the happiness of his female counterpart, assigned to him by fate, is able to restore him and everybody to their proper state of health, prosperity, sanity, order, and good fortune. Only her own happiness makes his and everybody’s happiness, I realized then, simply because he is everybody, and she simply is his happiness, regardless of anybody’s rank, prestige, power, wealth, science, magic, and even actual sexuality (seen as crucial in Freudian readings of the general theme of sadness and laughter, but here still out of question at the very least in its proper “adult” sense due to their very young age), or mere sympathy (key to the princess’s laughter in the aforecited Russian tale)
This short story and others originally appeared in Tales of Chivalry: A Medieval Anthology.