It would be pernicious to a degree were happiness a matter of good luck.
–Saint Thomas Aquinas
Waryn had only ever wanted someone to pay a small measure of attention to him – just once; for a little while. For the entire seven winters of his existence, clubfoot, mute Waryn la Gaiseric had been mistreated, neglected, at best ignored by adults and peers alike. Simply because he could not speak and looked different. The other children in the small keep of Courroi mocked and physically tormented him. The adults frowned, clucked their tongues, muttered pity and disgust – mostly behind his back. Because of his strangeness and deformity; in the minds of the people of the Frankish court – Waryn's world – anything different must therefore be despised and could not possibly be of any value. It mattered not that he happened to be the king's own firstborn son.
Withal, the boy was not stupid. Though unable to disregard the whispers and insults as the derision of those still too immature or insecure in their own identities or trapped in unreasoned prejudices, he was nonetheless intelligent enough to realise another motivation for their scorn: They were afraid. Although he didn't understand why they looked upon his undersized, warped body with such fear barely disguised beneath loathing, Waryn soon understood how to use it to advantage. And he would teach them; anon, they would be sorry they'd never respected him.
For now Waryn felt certain it would only get worse, with this new baby in the royal household. Since this squalling bit of demanding pink flesh arrived amongst them, Waryn would never get his chance to prove himself. It mattered not that the tiny infant, as his apparently healthy younger brother, would likely supplant the supposed Crown Prince as heir to the throne (such as it was) of Franconia. Indeed, none of these thoughts even occurred to the boy as he stole into the royal nursery, lifted the sleeping child out of its cradle from under the warty nose of its snoring nanny, spirited the infant from the cold, still castle into the benighted courtyard. Simply, this thing received far too much attention – attention that should rightfully be its elder's. And Waryn would abide no more.
Late winter night, cold and starry, awaited the odd pair in the castle bailey; a clear heliotrope sky silhouetted snow-swept ramparts. Lÿlla and Lítha, two of the Three Sister moons, held one another close in pale mauve embrace, peering with half visages from behind a filigree of cloud. As if to aid the boy's escape with his small, silent burden (or mayhap to spy on him), they offered combined weak light, sprinkling it across partially cleared, frozen ground and illumining the portal from which Waryn now stole.
The diminutive lad had become quite adept at remaining unobtrusive when he wished. Ofttimes a good thing for him that others seemed to presume him deaf as well as dumb; he learned a good deal simply by listening when people thought he either could not or would not understand. Withal, a painful way to learn – about everything, most especially regarding the low deference in which people held the elder princeling.
This night, however, Waryn would prove all wrong. Wrong to have assumed him dull of wit because he could not speak; wrong to ignore and make fun of him; oh, so wrong to have thought him incapable. Of course, he intended that no one would ever connect him with what he did: to whit, remove the latest obstacle that stood between him and the recognition he so badly craved.
The Sisters, as though having second thoughts, deserted him, abruptly retreating behind diaphanous curtains. Undeterred by the lack of light, Waryn continued. He would take the child to some faraway peasant hovel or country abbey, leave it on a doorstep or by a gate. Come daybreak – or sooner, if the baby decided it was hungry – the ignorant, superstitious thralls would find it. They would care for it, believing it a gift of the sídhe (pronounced SHEE, as elves hereabouts were properly known from the underground netherworld of Faery), mayhap even the child of a god. The castle denizens would think alike, resigning themselves, after much wailing and mourning, that the sídhe had stolen him, or the gods had plans for the royal infant and spirited him away during the night. (Waryn distrusted gods; they'd never done him anything but disservices. Even so, he respected their apparent power.)
A good plan, Waryn thought; a kind and noble plan – for the boy wished no harm upon his brother (whom he did not even register as kin). It would receive just as much attention from any peasant family or religious commune as it ever would from the royal household – albeit 'royal', when used in reference to this poor keep, appeared an outrageous misnomer. Still, Courroi represented almost everything Franconia.
Lÿlla and Lítha emerged once more, as if unable to suppress their curiosity regarding the strange nocturnal activities below.
Waryn peered about the empurpled interior of the dilapidated royal stables. Nothing stirred save the tail of an emaciated draft horse. Even the ubiquitous flies were still, thanks to the cold. Easing open the ill-fitting door, Waryn turned and, rag-bound feet stepping carefully over sleeping forms of stableboys, approached one of the other two animals sheltered in the draughty barn. Though at least twice the height of the crippled boy, undaunted, he smiled up at the king's personal warhorse; proud beast acknowledged the child's unvoiced greeting with a slight toss of huge dun head, a snort, nuzzle of Waryn's cheek. When the underfed stallion nudged at the small bundle his human friend carried, the mute lad cautioned it with a mental sentence:
No, Vinrouge. No sweet for you today. I've business... Waryn hesitated as he realised his dilemma: How would he mount the animal with his arms full? Temper flared – his wont when frustrated – and the stallion called Redwine jerked its head, stamped its hoof. The baby woke, began to fuss. No, Vinrouge, Waryn soothed him. Easy, boy. Turning his mental probe toward the infant, added, Be quiet, baby. Both stilled, and Waryn's temper cooled.
Anon, hearing no sound beyond a sleepy murmur from one of the human occupants of the large byre, he freed one arm, gingerly balancing his tiny cargo with the other whilst reaching up to stroke the steed's muzzle. Peering around the gloom, he suddenly had his solution. Waryn hobbled over to a corner of the smelly stable toward a pile of empty sacks made of the same coarse hempen material he wore as clothing. Setting the somnolent newborn gently into a pile of straw, he retrieved a sack and produced a knife that was much larger than such a small boy should carry from inside his crude shift. A few unexpectedly skillful gestures later, he had what he wanted. He slipped the makeshift harness – copied from what he'd observed peasant women use for the same purpose in the fields – over his head, thrusting his arms through the new holes. Straightening, he retied the rope belt about his middle so it supported the baby's body next to his own ere restoring the various packages he'd displaced. Picking up his tiny brother, stowed him inside the oversized tunic.
Waryn grinned in satisfaction as he similarly stored the knife. He then tackled the problem of mounting the big warhorse with the added weight. It turned out to be not much of an obstacle, however, for they had an intuitive bond; the creature bent its neck and even knelt enough so Waryn could grab two fistfuls of mane and scramble up to cling there as if part of the steed, despite the burden added to his physical handicaps.
The crippled boy had become an incredibly adept rider; many failures, bruises, and frustrations notwithstanding. Nigh upon two summers of perseverance had it taken Waryn to teach himself to ride Redwine bareback, but the freedom it afforded had been worth every bruise. Fortunately, the nearly invalid king almost never rode his own steed, and so, since the boy had virtually limitless freedom due to being 'invisible', he had little difficulty commandeering the mount practically whenever he wished. Not to mention the servants' negligence in watching over royal possessions, much less persons.
Quietly, using gentle knee pressure and unvoiced commands, Waryn guided the horse out of the byre. The intelligent steed, as if sensing the need for stealth, stepped gingerly over sprawled, snoring bodies, huffing softly. The strange trio clopped slowly toward the open gates of the bailey – which again implied laxness of the keep's inhabitants, rather than any openness and hospitality – and continued down the road away from the crumbling stone edifice. Glancing back at the darkened bulk shadowed in violet moonlight, he observed – and sensed – no movement; the mute boy at last began to relax.
Withal, they didn't travel far ere disaster struck. For there was only one problem with Waryn's plan – a sad, dreadful oversight: The baby woke and began to cry, and this time Waryn could not soothe it back to sleep with a mental murmur. Waryn prayed it would be quiet; but it must be hungry. Luckily – or so he believed – he'd thought to bring food with him, for he planned on a long journey. If he fed the child and quieted it, he reasoned, anon they could once more travel in silence...
Waryn settled the baby up near the opening of his homemade carrier. From another bag secreted inside his inner garment, he fished a bit of stale barley bread he'd sneaked from the kitchen, tried to feed his brother; but the squalling infant would not eat. It kept crying and crying, and it was lucky that it was secure inside Waryn's makeshift harness, or it surely would have struggled right out of his grasp and fallen to the snowy ground.
He tasted the bread; nothing wrong with it, aside from being a day old and rather hard, mayhap. He tried to give it to the newborn again, holding the dry hunk to the tiny gaping mouth; but it would not even attempt a bite.
Gods and daemons! To his utter dismay, Waryn discovered that the baby had no teeth! So, the poor thing was deformed, just like him. How was it supposed to eat with no teeth? Nearing tears in frustration, Waryn put a probing finger inside the baby's mouth to confirm his discovery – and was surprised as the newborn instantly clamped down upon it and began to suck in earnest.
That gave Waryn an idea. Although he'd been confused when he watched the baby's wetnurse apparently allow it to chew on a prodigious portion of her anatomy (which parts he'd observed none but women and older girls bore), he now realised there must be more to it. For, he remembered that baby animals such as kittens and puppies did much the same thing to their mothers. Similarly, milk came from cows' teats and udders, as well as, come to think of it, sheep and goats and horses and... The differences in anatomy were still confusing to the boy, but mayhap...?
A cursory inspection inside his tunic confirmed that Waryn was not equipped to be a mother. Yet, he happened to have something he believed would be almost as useful: From a leather wineskin he had brought along – managing to splash it all over himself and the wailing child – Waryn poured goat's milk over the lump. Offering it once more to his tiny sibling, peace descended, as this time it began to suck noisily. It seemed to be working! When the bread got too dry, he soaked it again; when it began to disintegrate, Waryn ate the rest, soaked another hunk, held it for the baby as they rode along. He repeated this for some time until calamity befell.
A sizable gobbet dropped into the baby's mouth; the infant immediately began to choke. As helpless as the baby, Waryn knew not what to do. The tiny child began to make obscene gurgling sounds as it kicked and jerked. Its complexion came to match that of the brightening sky. Reaching inside his tunic, Waryn grabbed hold of the baby and desperately moved its arms and legs. Shook it, trying in vain to help it become normal again. Silent tears slid down the boy's pale cheeks.
And, as his voice could not, his mind shrieked his helpless rage...
Redwine reared and bolted. Ordinarily, the boy could have handled that but, being totally unexpected and not even holding on, the animal lunged from under him, baby and all; both impacted the frozen road. A thousand candles ignited in his head, just as abruptly went out.
At vigils shortly before sunrise, panic reigned over the Frankish court. Women shrieked and wailed; men shouted confused orders at one another as the poor palace roused in sleepy chaos. Aged King Gaiseric paced and cursed, sputtering conflicting and pointless instructions at his courtiers in his curiously high-pitched voice. His much younger queen, so distraught as to be nearly catatonic, sat in her small private chamber located on the top floor of the keep, staring vacantly from a high window as the rising sun banished lavender dawn. Ignoring her handmaidens, who stood by wringing their hands and screeching their dreadful death-mourn, repeatedly mumbled, "It is the Will of the One True God... for my sins... It is the Will of God..."
No one appeared to have any wits – except Chamberlain Hamai. To this thin, bald, charcoal-skinned and dark-eyed man, a house guard brought two ragged bundles later that morning: A dead baby, blue and frozen; a nearly as blue, almost as dead, unconscious, clubfooted and hunchbacked boy. The castellan saw opportunity.
"I warned you, sire!" the courtier shouted in his sovereign's haggard face. "Dimas predicted all this, he did. And I told you... but you would not listen – you would not believe. And now look!"
The dead infant and the nearly dead child lay in the dry, dirty rushes at the king's feet in the draughty great hall. Gaiseric stood, dazed and unmoving, amidst redoubled caterwauls of the court women. No sign of the queen.
Hamai went on, accent barely discernible. "That wretch of yours, firstborn, you ought to have done away weeth at birth! He would breeng you and your kingdom aught but grief – so the great Haruspex, Dimas, saw. Now thees abomination has caused the death of your only worthy child! And you know your good lady wife has been forbeedden by Dimas to bear another in peril of her own life.
"What say you then, sire? What shall be done with thees meesbegotten creature that has slain your son? What punishment would you deem appropriate to satisfy the great god, Tíw?" Hamai, in hubris borne of a most favourable situation, dared grip the king by narrow shoulders and shake him, not gently. "What would you have the House Warden do, sire?"
"D-Do?" Gaiseric repeated, dumbly.
"With the treasonous, murdering Prince Waryn, Highness."
"He... He is... n‑not dead?"
"No, sire. But he should be!" A lesser man – or one who addressed a greater king – wouldn't have dared such an affront to the Royal Person. "The great god Tíw demands justeece!"
"No!" The king, reacquiring some senses, tore heartsick gaze away from the still forms of his sons. "You... will n‑not... k‑kill him..."
"Then what, sire?"
Gaiseric shuddered, looked away. Knees buckled suddenly; aided by a body servant to sit in a rickety leather-bound chair that served as throne. Voice dropped to reedy whisper like the rattling of dead corn husks left in the fields after Samhain. "N‑No. You will not... k‑kill him. Not... both... m-my sons..."
Hamai sketched a curt bow toward the inattentive king. Black eyes alive with subterfuge, gestured peremptorily for the guards to remove the two small bodies, adding instructions as to their disposition.