A Short Story: Dagger, Misunderstanding and 
Mistake

 Stave One: Nightfall

The woods of Elmaroth were desolate that night. The crows came to claim the dead. Blood was spilled. 

The sun was dipped in blood; it illuminated the trees with a ruddy glare. The ground was also red - only more so. 

Melanie sobbed over her mother’s body, sobbed and shook. The protruding arrow in the woman’s chest symbolised the imminent danger of death. 

“Find him,” then woman rasped, “Find him, Melanie. Take my dagger. Compare it with his. The heir. The Prince.”

“Mother…don’t leave, don’t leave me…”

“The Prince!” The mother’s voice was frenzied, “Find him! Tell him who you are…”

As her mother’s last breath withered away, the girl shrieked in despair. 

Crows cawed above, mirroring her voice. The dagger was accepted into the palm of the girl, as she left her mother’s body. Let the creatures of nature bury the dead. 

As she walked out of the clearing, Melanie dared not look behind. 

The passionate, frolicking sun cowered away from the sober moon. 

By the time the it dared rise again, she was in the village of Faraway where her home lay, packing for the journey. A new hatred grasped her heart.

The weather was damp and a red sun was setting. 

Cyril’s hands held his chin as looked out into the glade as he sat on the steps of his home. His father laid a hand on his small shoulder. 

“Pa?” He asked, “Why did Lanie leave? When will she come back?”

His father sighed, “soon, Cyril, soon.”

But a tear, unnoticed by his child, slipped off his face, sliding like a dribble of blood into the setting sun behind his face. 

He wiped it away hastily. 

“Now, Cyril, let’s go eat dinner. The maids have made our dinner.”

Stave Three: Six years later

The Capital Woods were dark in the night. So dark. So quiet. 

An arrow whizzed out of the dark, hitting a doe, its shaft sinking neatly into its body without a hesitation. The animal fell without a sound. The disturbed night sent out a draft of wind. 

After a good meal and storing more supplies, Melanie went on her track, through the forest, over the hills, through the streams, always moving silently and swiftly.

As she ran, she thought of revenge. 

The heir had become the king, and ruled from his palace not far from the forest. (How far? She didn’t know.) A night in a resident house had revealed to her that he was approaching thirty but had not an heir, and so all were anxious for the future. 

Of course, the drunks had yelled out their thoughts on the king. A kingly, splendid man! one had called. A great gentleman! another had garbled. A awesome magic user! a young boy had chirped. A great king and deserving ruler, all agreed. 

Blasphemy, Melanie snorted. He killed my mother. 

She shook her head and reminded herself of the task at hand. 

She will find the king, compare her dagger to his in a duel and kill him. Simple. Except for the fact that he was heavily armed and was an excellent fighter. 

The edge of the forest stone made itself known. Bright light stabbed through the gaps in the leaves, leaving specs of gold on the brownish soil beneath her feet. Melanie stopped and carefully put her supplies on the ground, a few feet from the opening. She had to cover her face first. 

Owning it from her father, her mother said, she had rather exotic looks. Her features were sharp, rigid and rather pale, but her eyes were the most unusual: they were a shade of bright turquoise-green, almost seeping of light in its brightness. She hid them with a bandana and by drooping her lids most of the time. 

She took her bandana out to cover her eyes but stopped to listen. The night was chaotic. Something big was happening, judging from the amount of hooting and shouting coming from the outside of the line of trees. She decided to cut herself some slack. 

Putting the bandana back into her bag, she slipped out from the shelter of the trees. 

“Ouch,” she complained. The lights were far too bright compared with the total night in the forest. What were they doing at night? 

A poster caught her attention. She grinned. 

The palace was all golden splendour. The chandelier glimmered in many-coloured light. The tables were full with food of every kind. 

The feast was about to begin. As the guests poured in, Cyril stood beside the king. Or rather, the image of the king that Magi had conjured. The king wasn’t available tonight. 

He rubbed his eyes, “Ugh.” He hated having to change his face, but a servant with eyes the same shade of the royal family wasn’t acceptable. He was glad, however, that he did change them. 

The huge palace was filled tonight. Guests from all around the country had come, and Cyril scanned the crowds as his hand grabbed a dagger hidden under his cloak. He had only one chance. He couldn’t fail. 

The feast had been announced a few months before and Cyril had applied for the position of servant-of-the-king. For some unknown reason, the king chose him directly out of a few thousand boys. Strange. 

He scanned the crowd again. No sign. 

As the guests trickled away, Melanie stored herself behind a dusty, age-old banner where no-one went behind and then followed a maid who loudly proclaimed she was, “Goin’ to th’ king fer’ his clothes tha’ neede’ washin’.”

As she glided in the shadows, she studied the many portraits of the kings before. They all had one common trait - turquoise-blue eyes. Much like her own. 

“I’ve got those too,” she growled to King Silas III’s tattered red nose. He didn’t respond. 

The servant stopped. Melanie also did a few doors away. The door opened and the servant bowed, saying something, but Melanie was too far away to hear. Yet she observed that the man she’d seen did not come out. Instead, a boy ’s head did. A boy! 

Melanie’s brain worked furiously as adrenaline rendered her body cold with anticipation. The boy had been inside. He had locked the door. He was wearing clothes of royalty, not servant-wear. He had green eyes, just like the portraits. The kind had no son, no heir, so this could not be the Prince. Wait. Wasn’t he the boy she’d seen at the feast, beside the king? How did he change his eye colour?

She remembered more. Murmurings of the king knowing magic. The somewhat jerky movements of the old king at the feast. Was this…?

The boy laughed suddenly. Melanie heard his melodic voice - yes, definitely similar to the king, just younger - say, “Oh, the public needn’t know, Mar, not before I find her. Fancy I saw her at the party tonight. The one with the green bandana. Send messengers to look for her, will you?”

Melanie chilled. She had a green bandana and had put it on during the party. This quelled all her doubts. This was the king. This was her mother’s-killer. Find him.

After the maid had “Aye”'d, curtsied and went away, Melanie stole up and knocked on the door. 

It opened. 

The boy looked out, first with a rather annoyed look, then with surprise and finally scared incredulity. “Mel-“

She pounced down on him in an instant, whipping out her dagger even as he did his, and stabbed at his chest, waiting for the collision of blades. Compare your blade with his. 

None came. 

Instead, the dagger sunk into flesh with a slick shink. The boy’s eyes widened and grunted in surprise. 

Melanie tackled him to the ground and sat upon his toro, pinning down the young, dying king. 

“You,” she growled, “You killed my mother.”

Then she realised he hadn’t even raised the dagger to defend himself, had only pulled it out to show her. He wasn’t even holding the grip properly. 

“Are you not the king?” She suddenly felt sick - had she killed an innocent boy?

But a nod dissuaded her fears. The boy spoke, his voice heavy and gasping with pain as his life waned. Melanie suddenly felt like six years ago, when her mother had died, leaving a seven-year-old her. 

With an effort, he gasped out, “I am the king,” staring up into her face with wonder and melancholy joy, Cyril added, “And you can be Queen, Melanie…little sister.”

The bright moon dimmed as rain crashed down.