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Alvar is arguing with Della again.
The Queen’s voice echoes through the halls, floating out from the Great Hall as she shouts about what, exactly, a Prince is meant to do. Fitz flinches where he sits across the table from Biana, his back pin-straight and his head held high. By the fire, Alden is staring pointedly at his book, as if Biana won’t have noticed that he hasn’t turned a page in nearly ten minutes. Not since the first shout from Alvar, when the three in the sitting room had frozen all at once. Waiting. Listening.
Somewhere, far off, a door slams shut.
Alden lets out a breath, so quiet Biana almost doesn’t hear it. His shoulders relax. He turns a page.
Fitz clears his throat. When Biana looks up, his eyebrows are raised. He glances, once, at the chessboard in between them.
Biana swallows. She moves her pawn.
“He isn’t in his room,” Fitz murmurs, hours later, when the servants have put out the lights and he’s slipped into Biana’s room, a single candle cupped in his hands. Biana notes, quietly to herself, that the light is shaking. “I think his horse is gone.”
“Mom was in her study,” Biana says. She pulls at a loose thread on her pillowcase. “Writing letters. I saw them being sent.”
The two are quiet for a long time. This is how they have been, for years, if not forever: silent through the day, whispering at night. Together, hands clasped, creeping through the castle like ghosts. So unlike Alvar, who blazes through it like a fire, or maybe like a thunderstorm: loud, dangerous, without regard for what his lightning strikes.
When Fitz leaves, he does so silently. He leaves the candle on Biana’s nightstand, burning slowly through the wick. Biana watches it until her eyes grow heavy, listening for the clatter of horseshoes on the cobblestone below her window.
It doesn’t come.
Biana blows out the candle and sleeps fitfully.
“No reason to worry,” Alden tells them, smiling, when Biana’s gaze lingers a moment too long on Alvar’s empty seat at breakfast. “Your brother’s only gone on a small trip. He’ll return shortly.”
Biana looks, instead, at her own plate, trying to forget the glaring emptiness of Alvar’s. Whoever set the table had forgotten to lay out his silverware.
Della clears her throat. “I have invited the Lords and Ladies to join us for a celebration,” she says, smiling tightly. There are dark circles under her eyes, lines marking a furrow between her brows. She hasn’t touched her breakfast. “They’ll be here just before the summer solstice.”
Fitz nods, cuts his food smaller and smaller. “Very good, Mother,” he says.
Biana forces herself to take a bite. Chews the food even when it goes ashen on her tongue. Swallows.
“Very good, Mother,” she echoes. It sounds hollow.
The following day, Alvar returns. He says nothing of his disappearance, nothing of the argument. He lurks in the shadows of the too-large castle halls, sits silently at meals and says nothing when Della corrects his posture, his tone, his practices. His thunderstorm has sharpened, Biana thinks, turned as frigid and deadly as a snowstorm in the far north.
She takes idle note of the changes: his silence, his indifference, the sharpness of his smile. The absence of his signet ring, missing from his right thumb.
The days lengthen. The shadows in the castle grow, both in the halls and in the faces of the royal family. Spring turns to summer, and the Lords begin to arrive.
“I wish I lived closer,” Sophie says, glancing at Biana from the saddle of her borrowed horse. They’re riding together through the forest, taking advantage of the warm day. Sophie takes a deep breath of the fresh air, her hair escaping her haphazard ponytail as her horse jumps a log. “So that I could visit you more often. I hate having to wait for Mom and Dad to be invited.”
Biana manages a smile, weak as a morning dew. Her hair is pristine, clean and curled and cascading down her shoulders. Her dress is just slightly too tight around her ribs. “Your family is welcome anytime, Sophie, you know that.”
Sophie grins, leaning closer to jostle Biana’s shoulder. “Maybe I will visit, then. All the time. I miss you, you know.”
Biana says nothing. She isn’t sure what to say; she misses Sophie, too, when she thinks about it. When she has the energy to think about it. When she isn’t focused on every aspect of herself, on how straight she’s standing and how perfect her dress looks and where Fitz is, always, where Alvar is. If they’re standing together or apart. If either of them are at her side.
“I guess I’ll see you plenty, if Alvar picks Jolie,” Sophie continues, absentmindedly, almost too quiet to hear. Biana nearly misses it-- nearly.
“Picks Jolie?” she blurts, her head tilting and her face scrunching up. “Picks Jolie for what?”
Sophie stares at her, laughing a little. “To marry?”
And then, after a long moment wherein Biana says nothing, “Biana? Are you okay?”
“Perfect,” Biana murmurs, and spurs her horse ahead.
“Alvar’s meant to choose a wife,” she tells Fitz when he slips into her room that night. “That’s why the Lords and Ladies have gathered. That’s what he and Mom argued about.”
Fitz nods, slowly, and tilts his candle to dribble warm wax onto his fingertips. Biana grabs at his hand and holds it, puts her fingers above his to stop his pouring. He does not look directly at her.
“He’s been sneaking out,” he says. “Most nights. I don’t know where he goes.”
Biana nods. They say nothing more, but sit in each other's silence until the stars are high in the sky and the wax has hardened on Fitz’s fingers.
The Queen declares that, following tradition, the Prince shall choose the quest for each suitor to embark upon. The Prince, eagerly, sets a hunt. He will hide within the forest, and the suitors must find him. The first to do so will be chosen as his wife.
It is, to Della’s irritation, incredibly unorthodox. It is, to Della’s dismay, met with great excitement from the Lords and Ladies.
Biana watches Alvar set off into the forest, heels flashing as he runs. Something squeezes in her chest, an odd feeling overcoming her. She glances at Fitz.
He leans closer and whispers, quiet as a breath, “I don’t think he’s coming back.”
The suitors cannot find him. As the sun sets the Lords and Ladies themselves enter the forest, as delight at the game turns to concern for the Prince. Biana waits, anxiously, chewing at her fingernails and watching out her window. Della retreats to her room, looking so exhausted it’s as if she’s being pulled down and down and down.
The night passes slowly. Fitz joins her, when it’s grown late, cupping a candle even though all the lights are still on. Biana can picture it: the castle, lit up in the night, a beacon.
Follow it, she begs, silently, sending her thoughts out to Alvar. Follow it home.
A storm gathers overhead. The first crash of thunder resounds as the Lords and Ladies return, their torches leading a somber line up the path to the castle. Biana knows, without even needing to ask, that they have not succeeded. That Alvar is not coming home.
Biana can tell, at breakfast the following morning, that Alden has not slept. His hair is messy, his clothes creased, and there are ink smudges all over his hands.
“No reason to worry,” he murmurs to her, even as his own face is pinched with worry. Biana smiles, just as pinched, and forces herself to eat.
The hall is filled with Lords, Ladies, and their clans, and yet is nearly silent through the meal. The air is somber, subdued. Biana looks up, once, and finds Sophie watching her. Smiling, soft and lit up with something gentle. Something almost like hope. She nods and turns back to her plate.
Alvar’s place remains empty. So, strangely, does Della’s.
Biana is wandering the gardens, trailing her fingers through the flowers, when she hears the crash from within the castle. Moments later, Alden’s shout rings out.
“Della!” he calls. Biana turns, brow furrowing, and listens as door after door opens and shuts, Alden’s voice growing more and more desperate. “Della!”
She walks back inside, ignoring the itch in her chest urging her to run, because running through the halls is not what a Princess does. Fitz appears beside her, his steps even, his circlet glinting in his hair. Biana takes his hand.
Alden is a frantic blur, when they find him. There are tears glinting at the corners of his eyes and he pushes past them to fling open yet another door. Behind him, a maid stands, wringing her hands.
“Dad,” Fitz says, resting a hand on Alden’s shoulder. “What happened?”
Alden stills. “She’s gone,” he whispers. “Your mother. She’s gone.”
The Lords set out again, led now by Alden. Biana sits in the gardens, watching the sky and breathing deeply. Alden believes Alvar to be responsible for Della’s disappearance. The Lords, already, have been whispering about it all; the scandal of it, the conspiring Prince, the distressed King. Whether or not the missing Queen still lives. Biana breathes, and breathes, and breathes. Her dress is a deep green.
Fitz finds her, Sophie hovering at his shoulder.
“We should go looking,” he says. Biana looks up, tilting her head. Her brother sounds stronger than she’s used to, more substantial.
More Kingly, maybe.
Sophie takes half a step forward. “I think you can find them,” she says, softly. Her warm brown eyes lock with Biana’s. “Only you.”
After a moment, Biana nods and gets to her feet.
She and Fitz ride out an hour later.
“We’ve been this way already,” Fitz grumbles, reaching over to grab at Biana’s reins.
She jerks them out of his reach, sending her horse trampling off the path into the weeds. “We have not,” she says, glancing around them. “I would recognize it.”
Fitz points at a tree, the trunk twisted and scarred from lightning strike. “No, we have, see? I remember seeing that earlier.”
Biana shakes her head. “Well, I don’t see you leading us, so you’ll just have to trust me.”
He rolls his eyes and spurs his horse a bit faster, just enough to get in front of her and set off further into the woods. Biana’s horse snorts, rearing his head back a bit, but follows hesitantly. Fitz leads them into the darkest part of the forest, the trees tall and foreboding around them. A mist begins to float in, covering the world around them until Biana can barely see a few feet in front of her. She squints and watches as Fitz turns around, reaching back to check she’s still there, and--
“Fitz,” Biana calls, pointing ahead, and he turns and swerves out of the way of a looming rock just in time. Biana follows, and the mist clears all at once.
They’re in a circle of stones, nothing like Biana has ever seen before. Each rock stretches up, taller than even the tallest person, and curves in just slightly at the top. It feels uncomfortably like a cage. Biana shifts in her saddle.
“We should go back,” she calls, as quietly as she can. Her voice still echoes eerily through the clearing.
Fitz doesn’t answer, staring wide-eyed at something just behind her. Heart in her throat, Biana turns, looking back the way they had come.
There, in the space between two of the tall standing stones, floats a small blue light, fluttering in the wind.
“A Wisp,” Biana breathes, watching as it twirls slowly in place. A little behind it, a second Wisp appears, then a third and a fourth, a line of them disappearing into the mist. Biana turns to Fitz.
“They’ll show us the way,” he whispers, sliding off his horse’s back and leading her to follow the Wisps.
The sun has long set when they come upon a cottage, small and quaint and nestled so neatly into the forest that Fitz almost misses it completely. Biana tugs at his sleeve to pull him to a stop, pointing at the dark windows and slightly-open door.
They tie the horses across the path and creep up to the door. Fitz knocks, and the door swings open on a long creak. He glances at Biana.
As soon as he steps inside, a quiet bell rings. They watch together as a series of toys and carvings run into each other, down a long line until a potion drops into a cauldron in the center of the room. In the steam that billows up, a kind gnomish face appears.
“Welcome to the Crafty Carver,” she says, smiling. “Unfortunately, I’m entirely out of stock at this time. To inquire about portraits or wedding cake toppers, please pour in Vial One. To speak to my homunculus, Vial Two. And if you’re that teal-eyed lad, Vial Three.”
She continues, but Fitz grabs the third vial from a small table and pours in a couple of drops. The steam shivers as the Witch’s face changes, turns somber.
“Hello, Prince,” she says. “There’s one thing I forgot to tell you about the spell: if you don’t find a way to revert the change before the second sunrise, then the spell will be permanent! Now, remember these words.”
She closes her eyes, and when they open again the smoke flares a deep red. “Fate be changed,” she says, the words echoing around the empty cottage, “look inside; mend the bond torn by pride.”
Fitz frowns and inches closer. “Fate be changed? Mend the bond?”
The Witch shakes her head. “One more time: fate be changed, look inside; mend the bond torn by pride.”
“Fate be changed, look inside; mend the bond torn by pride,” Biana repeats under her breath.
The smoke returns to its gentle green hue, and the Witch smiles. “Thank you for visiting the Crafty Carver! To leave a message for when I return, pour in Vial Five.”
“Nonsense,” Fitz is muttering angrily as they head for home. “Look inside, mend the bond-- what did any of that even mean?”
Biana takes an exaggeratedly deep breath, and smiles when Fitz unconsciously copies it. The furrow in his brow begins to lessen, and he’s almost calm when they reach the standing stones a moment later.
“Maybe we should look in their rooms,” Biana suggests, spurring her horse down the familiar path. “See if there’s anything Dad missed?”
Fitz huffs a breath, and Biana can tell he’s still annoyed, but he says nothing more until they’re safely in the castle walls. Biana can feel the pressure of the walls settling over her once more, straightening her spine and fixing a nearly perfect smile on her lips. She inches closer to Fitz’s side as they walk.
It’s late, the sun setting over the water beyond the cliffs, and storm clouds are rolling in once more. Biana shivers in the chill and walks a tiny bit faster.
Alvar’s room lacks anything that could be called a clue, other than a pile of rank laundry and his old circlet, abandoned on the window seat. Biana hovers beside it and runs a finger along the bluish gem.
“Fitz,” she murmurs, mindful once more of the way the castle always seems to be listening. Her brother hums. “Wasn’t Alvar wearing this when he left?”
Fitz pauses, his thinking almost audible, and then nods, slowly. “He was,” he agrees. “The beginning of the hunt was formal. He must’ve taken it into the forest with him.”
“So…”
Biana trails off, distracted by the sound of footsteps running through the halls. She glides soundlessly to the door and peaks out.
Two Lords are rushing past, hands on the hilts of their swords, muttering to each other. As Biana shrinks back into the shadows to avoid being seen, her foot knocks against something small and hard. As soon as the Lords are out of sight, she turns to inspect it.
“What’s that?” Fitz whispers, crouching beside her. Biana holds up the chess piece, tilts it so the face of the king catches the light. “Like that old story,” Fitz says, reaching down to pick up two more identical pieces. All three gleam yellow-white.
Biana glances around and finds the fourth, carved from a dark mahogany, rolled underneath Alvar’s dresser. She looks up at Fitz and finds him staring at the piece, his face pale.
“What?” she asks, not sure she wants to know the answer.
Fitz shakes his head. “I’m probably wrong,” he murmurs. He swallows, and gets to his feet, leaving the chess pieces on the ground. “Let’s check Mom’s room. Just in case.”
Alden, luckily, seems to still be out searching. The room he and Della share is empty, and as Fitz holds the door open to let in the light from the hallway, Biana sucks in a sharp breath.
The bed is wrecked, its tall canopy splintered into pieces. On the ground Biana spies Della’s dress, ripped nearly to shreds. And on the wall, the tapestry Della had spent so much time on, depicting their whole family, has been torn in two: on one side of the rift stand Della and Alden, smiling; on the other stand Alvar, Fitz, and Biana, their expressions dull.
Biana shudders as Fitz steps towards the tapestry.
“What happened?” she asks in a whisper. The sound is eerie in the quiet, expanding through the space like a cold breeze.
Fitz shakes his head. “I’m not sure,” he admits, “but…”
He slides a hand along the slice in the tapestry, then glances over his shoulder.
“Mend the bond,” Biana says. “You think--?”
“We can’t do it,” he says, already reaching up to the bar that holds the tapestry to the wall. “Alvar will have to fix his own mistakes.”
Biana frowns. “How are we meant to find him? Every Lord and Lady has already looked for him, and Mom, and found nothing.”
“The Wisps,” says a voice from the doorway.
Biana spins and finds Sophie watching them, something knowing in her dark eyes. “You’ve met them once before, haven’t you?”
Fitz gives another tug and the tapestry flies from the wall. He bundles it up in his arms. “Yes,” he says shortly. “Biana, needle? Thread?”
Sophie nods. “I thought so. Return to the forest. Your brother needs you,” she smiles, then, and picks up a small silver needle from the dresser beside the door. “And the Wisps will show you the way.”
The storm breaks as they race for the forest. The trees blur around them, in the dark of the night and the cold rain. Torches have been lit, calls of Alvar and Prince and bear echoing around them, but Biana can’t spend the time deciphering what that means. She’s focused on guiding the horse they share down the path, leaping over logs and turning sharp angles around ancient trees.
“There!” Fitz shouts, throwing a hand over her shoulder to point. Ahead, in the haze, Biana sees the Wisp, waiting for them in the rain. She heaves on the reins to spin the horse towards it, racing forward as fast as she can. Fitz leans against her back and she feels the tapestry trapped between them.
Torn by pride, she thinks, and spurs the horse faster.
The Wisps lead them to the stones, as Sophie had said they would. They arrive as a long line of Lords is breaking through the trees, surrounding the stones and the figures within them.
Biana leaps off the horse and runs for Alvar, throwing herself between him and a Lord with a drawn sword.
“Stop!” she yells, and relishes in the flash of fear in the Lord’s face. She turns to Alvar, leaving Fitz to deal with the Lords and Ladies. “You have to fix it,” she says, reaching out as Fitz tosses her the tapestry. She glances up at the sky, but can’t tell how far the dawn is through the clouds thick with rain. “Mend the bond torn by pride.”
Alvar is watching her, face twisted up. For a moment, Biana’s heart stops, and she thinks he won’t listen. She can see the magic glimmering around him, the trail of it linking him to the hulking bearish figure behind him. She swallows, once, and reaches out a hand to each of them. In one, she holds the thread. In the other, the needle.
“Fix it,” she tells her brother, and watches as his face falls. “Please.”
In the torchlight of the gathered Lords, Alvar sits in the mud and begins to sew.
The dawn comes slowly, and the bear that Alvar explains is Della’s cursed form grows restless as the night passes. Finally, as the first rays of light hit the clouds on the horizon, Alvar carries the mended tapestry to his mother and drapes it over her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for Biana to hear. “I hope you know that. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Fitz steps up beside her. “Why did you do it?”
Alvar shrugs, looking up at his younger siblings. “I don’t know,” he says, simply. “I could tell you a thousand things that are all half-true, but really, I don’t know. I wanted her to listen, I guess. I wanted all of you to listen.”
Biana kneels next to him, the cold mud soaking through the fabric of her dress. “We’re listening,” she tells him. Fitz joins her, and then, from the crowd of Lords, Alden finally emerges.
“I’m listening,” he agrees, and lowers himself on creaking knees to sit with them.
The bear lowers her snout, nosing at each of their faces. Biana can see the fear in her eyes, the worry as the sunlight creeps slowly closer.
It hits the tapestry, first, illuminates the sloppily-done stitches that reunite the family. Biana feels it sweeping over her back, warming her, and watches it spread across Fitz, then Alden, and finally Alvar and Della.
In the blink of an eye, under the tapestry lies a woman, in place of a bear.
She laughs, the sound lighting up her face and the entire clearing, and rests a hand on Alvar’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” she says, quietly, tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
Biana grins, wiping at her own tears, and leans heavily into Fitz’s side.
She glances up, and over Della’s shoulder, watches a Wisp appear in the soft haze of the morning light. As she watches it rises up, and up, and disappears into the sky.
Alvar hugs Della, and pulls the others in. They sit, as a family, in the mud and the dirt and the warm sunlight, and hold each other. Silent, again, not from fear, but from happiness. From simply being together.
In the new tapestry, the one they create together, the Vackers stand closer than before. Their hands are linked. They’re smiling. Behind them, the sky is gray, and dots of blue mark the Wisps that led them to their fate.