The Black Queen Pt. 03: The Maze

Young Stefan has won the mysterious Lottery and been taken from his small village to the Black Queen's castle. There he is but one servant among many, and the Queen's true intentions for him are yet unknown...

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For Stefan the next week was spent in a haze of endless labor. He was worked like a beast, but the kitchen matron told him it was the same for everyone during the first few months.

"They do it to test your mettle," she confided. "Do well and you'll go on to better things."

He began to learn the ways of the castle, noting that new arrivals like himself were always dressed in gray while the other servants wore garments of brown or black. He also discovered that skittish little Yvonne was one of the new scullery maids, and though she was almost pathetically eager to please, she also proved to be dreadfully clumsy. She was always spilling baskets and knocking things over, and after a few days her nerves were so rattled that Stefan found her huddled in the cellar, sobbing, certain that she was going to be whipped. But the matron took pity on the girl and gave her simpler tasks like washing the floors and linens, and Stefan was glad to find that there were at least some in the castle who were not cruel.

In the following days he noticed a growing sense of excitement in the kitchen as supplies began to arrive by the cartload. The matron informed him that the Queen's Tournament was approaching, a grand affair that drew great numbers of knights and nobles from far across the realm. By her account it sounded like an event of bloody, frenzied abandon with all manners of debauchery and wild carryings on. Stefan was immediately intrigued.

It was not long afterward that the Queen's Chamberlain arrived to inspect the kitchens. He was a smaller man than Stefan would have guessed, and he had an odd habit of smoothing his black mustache and beard as if he were preening himself. He surveyed the cooking area with the matron following anxiously behind, seeming to fear the little man's displeasure. But everything appeared to be in order, and Stefan breathed a sigh of relief as the Chamberlain left to survey the cellars with the matron still in tow.

Then, disaster struck. The Chamberlain had been gone for barely a minute before Yvonne, who was even more nervous than usual, tripped as she was hurrying to empty her wash bucket. The bucket rolled into a bundle of heavy iron skewers, knocking them over, and the falling skewers clipped the handle of a spit where a great roast had hung all morning over a low fire. Already bent under the weight of the meat, the spit fell, sending the roast into the coals with a heavy thud and a puff of sparking ash.

Stefan stared, frozen in the middle of sweeping the floor. If he hadn't seen the spectacle for himself, he would not have believed it. Yvonne lay where she had fallen, her face a mask of horror. The other servants scattered as the voices of the matron and Chamberlain grew louder from down the hall.

Without pausing to think, Stefan pulled Yvonne to her feet and told her to flee. She stood rooted in place as if stunned, but after a gentle shove and a slap on the backside she retreated from the room just as the Chamberlain arrived. An inquisition swiftly began, and seeing no other way, Stefan stepped forward to claim responsibility for the spoiled roast. The Chamberlain smiled thinly and stroked his beard, seeming pleased by the quick resolution. He then summoned a footman to take Stefan away.

"Give him, oh, twenty lashes," the Chamberlain ordered dismissively. "Perhaps that will cure him of his carelessness."

Resigned to his fate, Stefan did not protest as he was led through the halls to the courtyard where his punishment awaited. Having taken his fair share of beatings, he thought he would be able to face it as stoically as always. He was wrong.

The rough leather whip cracked again and again, each blow stinging horribly and cutting his back like a salted razor. The lashman was a master of his craft, and he was in no hurry. He allowed several moments to pass between strokes for the pain and anticipation to build, and after only the third lash, Stefan cried out. The agony was nearly unbearable. The only thing that steeled him was the thought that fragile little Yvonne might not have survived such treatment.

Stefan took ten lashes, each one worse than the last. He sagged against the ropes that bound his wrists, gasping, his shoulders aflame. He felt the warm trickling rivulets of blood snaking down his back and wondered how he could possibly endure more without going mad. He tensed himself to await the next blow, but it never came. From behind came the sound of voices, and craning his neck, he could just make out the bulky frame of the kitchen matron as she conferred quietly with the scowling lashman. Then she departed, and to Stefan's surprise he was untied and led to the stocks.

"It seems yer too good fer the whip," the lashman grumbled as he locked the bar down over Stefan's neck and wrists. "But perhaps a night in this'll teach you just as well."

For a time, Stefan was jubilant to have escaped the agony of the whip. But soon his limbs began to stiffen and cramp, and he would almost have preferred the lash to the slow, ongoing torment of the stocks. He stretched his legs as best he could, passing the time with fond thoughts of Maggie and her lusty farewell embrace.

By afternoon it had begun to rain and he was soon soaked and miserable. From time to time a servant passed, but none spoke to him and the few who dared to meet his eyes did so with a scornful smile. Evening came and the rain stopped, but the night brought a chill that left Stefan shivering so violently that he began to fear for his life.

He was nearing despair when the white handmaiden came suddenly out of the mist like a ghostly apparition. She carried with her a thick woolen blanket, and this she wrapped around him snugly. Even as Stefan thanked her she turned and walked away, disappearing as swiftly and silently as she'd arrived.

Eased at least from the cold, he dozed fitfully on his feet like a horse. He tried kneeling but the strain it placed on his neck was unbearable, so he soon resigned himself to his discomfort. When he lifted his head he could just make out the flickering lights of the castle towers, and he imagined the Queen looking down on him and laughing at his misery.

The dawn came cold and misty, the haze lifting as the sun rose higher in the sky. Stefan was hungry and thirsty, exhausted from lack of sleep. At mid-morning the lashman came and released him, giving him into the care of a sallow-faced maid who rubbed an oily salve over his torn back as Stefan clenched his teeth and bit back tears. He was given water and then sent back to the kitchens where he was received with a sort of quiet awe. Though he was pained and weary, he went about his work without complaint. He soon came across Yvonne in the cellars, but she would not meet his eyes and hurried away without a word. Stefan had not expected an outpouring of gratitude, but her avoidance served to add a fresh sting to his wounds.

As the morning wore on, however, he was surprised by small gifts of smuggled food that the other scullery maids pressed secretly into his hand or pockets, an apple here, a biscuit there, all accompanied by a smile or wink. He had missed both breakfast and supper the night before, and this kindness softened his mood considerably despite the pain of his wounded back.

Stefan was nearly dead on his feet by the time he returned to his room. The only one of his bunkmates who paid him any mind was the always complaining boy, who if anything seemed to perk up at Stefan's pained groan as he settled into bed.

"Only ten lashes?" The boy scoffed after Stefan had related his ordeal. "The torturer must be going soft. I got twelve for spitting in a footman's face. Don't ask why, but the pig deserved it."

The boy pulled up his shirt to reveal his back, which to Stefan's surprise had only a few faint scars.

"That salve might sting like hell, but it does the job." The boy remarked.

Stefan was somewhat reassured. He was also interested to see that the boy kept the front of his short clutched protectively over his chest, but when he inquired about it the boy only muttered something about a rash and disappeared beneath his blanket without another word. Far too tired to pursue it, Stefan lay down on his stomach and slept like a dead man until morning.

He was awakened by a page only to be told that he was at liberty for the day, free to remain in his room or move about as long as he did not leave the castle grounds. The pain in his back had faded to a dull ache and he lazed for a time, but he soon grew restless and set out with the desire to explore that wing of the castle. It turned out to be far larger than he thought. No one hindered or questioned him as he perused his way through a seemingly endless number of richly decorated halls and corridors, seeing enough armor, weapons, and coats-of-arms on display to equip an entire army.

Stefan followed a side corridor until he came to an archway through which his eyes caught the glimmer of oddly colored light. He ventured within to find a room filled with innumerable treasures that gleamed and glittered in the many-hued sunlight that streamed in through a row of stained windows. There were jeweled crowns and swords, golden shields and armor, fine silk gowns with gem encrusted sleeves, and all manner of coins and precious stones sealed away within cases of clear glass. It was a collection of incredible wealth, and Stefan gazed at each treasure with a sort of reverent awe.

One display was elevated in a place of special prominence, but as he examined it he was puzzled by the seemingly mundane objects it contained. There was the spindle of a loom, its tip darkened as if with blood. Beside it lay a coiled length of braided hair that was as long as a rope. He saw a coral-handled knife with a gleaming red blade, a small sack of something that looked like ordinary beans, a pewter thimble, and the shattered pieces of a glass shoe. Last was a shiny red apple with a bite missing, coated in a preserving layer of wax. There was something vaguely unsettling about this collection and Stefan quickly moved on to explore the castle further.

At length he found his way out into the courtyard and roamed along its garden paths, enjoying the fresh air and earthy scents. Now and again he caught sight of a servant or guard going about their business, but as before, no one challenged him. It seemed that he was indeed free to go wherever he wished.

Rounding a bend in the path, Stefan happened upon a stablehand exercising a magnificent black horse. To his surprise, he saw that the stablehand was none other than Grigory, his other companion on the long carriage ride to the castle. The swarthy, curly haired young man was leading the great steed by its bridle, but he drew to a halt as Stefan drew closer.

"Ah. There you are, my friend," Grigory said with a broad grin. "I was beginning to think you had met some terrible fate by blade or black sorcery. Or perhaps the women have been keeping you busy, eh?"

The young man greeted Stefan with a hearty clap on the back. Wincing, Stefan gave his assurance that he had fallen prey to no such peril. The two walked together for a time, catching up on all that had befallen them during the past week. Grigory had been put to work in the stables but was otherwise in much the same situation as Stefan. His only complaint seemed to be that there were not enough pretty women to be found on this side of the castle.

Before long, however, a servant appeared and told Grigory that he and the horse were wanted back.

Grigory sighed. "Alas, it seems my services are in great demand. I must say my farewell for now." He gave a dramatic bow, but then leaned in closer and lowered his voice.

"Take care, Stefan," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "There are strange happenings after dark. Wild beasts roam the garden paths, and I have heard of new servants like us disappearing, taken in the night to never be seen again."

He then straightened up and the roguish grin quickly returned to his face. "Keep your wits about you, such as they are, my friend!" With a farewell salute, he departed toward the stables and left Stefan to ponder his ominous words.

But the day was warm and peaceful, and as Stefan walked beside the fragrant trees and hedges it was difficult to believe that any danger could lurk in so majestic a place as the royal gardens. Beds of vibrantly colored flowers lined the path, with endless green hedges and ivy-clad walls that branched off in all directions. Above it the towers of the castle loomed tall and formidable, a constant reminder of the Queen's might.

Despite all the splendor around him, Stefan soon found his thoughts drifting to home. It had been barely two weeks since he'd left the inn, his village, and everyone he knew behind, but somehow it felt like months. He wondered how long it would be until he was forgotten.

Lost in reflection, he came suddenly to an open field where a company of archers were practicing their craft. They stood before a row of wooden targets, raising and firing their bows on command. The men shot well, their arrows striking with deadly accuracy. One of the bowmen noticed Stefan and pointed him out to the captain, a tall, lean man with a slender black mustache. The captain motioned for him to approach and Stefan complied. The captain sized him up, his dark hawk-like eyes seeming to miss nothing.

"Have you ever used a bow, lad?" He asked, his voice gruff and deep.

"No, sire." Stefan answered truthfully. In fact he had never laid eyes upon a proper longbow before, only the simple bows used by his village's huntsmen.

"Hmm, you have the build for it." The captain called for one of his men to fetch Stefan a bow, which was swiftly done. He was then tutored on how to hold and draw it, and once he could do this correctly the captain ordered him to fire at the nearest target. Overeager, Stefan's first shot went completely astray, much to the amusement of the men. His second barely hit the target's edge but his third was much better, striking just outside the center ring and earning him a congratulatory cheer.

He spent the rest of the day practicing and was soon hitting the center more often than not. It was hardly a great feat compared to the bowmen, as his target was a mere twenty paces away where theirs were nearer a hundred. But Stefan enjoyed himself all the same and could not help but feel a small amount of pride. The captain released him at sunset with an invitation to return for more practice whenever he was able. Stefan thanked him and started back to the castle, already imagining himself a great warrior.

But a great navigator he was not, and in the deepening dusk the hedge-lined paths confounded him. He could see the lights of a tower not far off, but the tall hedges around him had narrowed into a maze of tight grassy pathways and sudden dead ends, and try as he might he could get no nearer.

At first, he was not much concerned. The evening was pleasant and he felt that he had only to call out and someone would soon find him. But as darkness fell he began to sense that he was being watched, and no matter which path he chose he seemed to be heading deeper into the maze.

The hedges gave way to ivy-covered walls of rough stone, and no longer being able to see the castle, Stefan was torn between apprehension and a rising curiosity to see where the maze would lead him. Curiosity won out, and by the light of the rising moon he made his way along the crumbling walls, pausing every few moments to listen. At times he fancied he heard footsteps or the quiet snuffing of some animal, but the sounds were never clear enough to be certain. Growing wary, he gathered up a small but hefty stone, and thus armed he proceeded onward.

Suddenly, the night was split by a shrill, screaming cry. He froze, heart pounding, then relaxed as the noise revealed itself to be only a bird screeching and flapping in a nearby tree. In the stillness that followed, however, he heard--or believed that he heard--the faint sound of a woman's voice, calling for help from somewhere ahead.

Silence fell once more. Stefan hesitated, wondering if his ears were deceiving him. Grigory had warned that the night brought strange and perilous things to the gardens, but Stefan nevertheless found himself moving forward, unwilling to ignore a plea for aid.

The sensation of being watched grew stronger than ever. Suddenly, he heard the distinct sounds of padding footfalls and rasping, inhuman breaths coming from somewhere in the darkness behind him. Stefan broke into a run, his blood fired with both dread and reckless exhilaration as he imagined some terrible monster closing in on him. He could almost feel its hot breath upon the back of his neck.

He came to an abrupt halt as he rounded a bend and came face-to-face with a huge, pale-skinned creature with the horns and head of a bull. With a startled yelp he hurled his rock and stumbled backward, stopping as his missile cracked harmlessly on the monster's head. The creature remained motionless, and to Stefan's great relief he saw that it was only the statue of a minotaur, not the real thing. It stood on the edge of a walled-in clearing that was ringed with tall pillars and several other statues, all of which stood pale and gleaming in the moonlight.

The night was silent and still. Whatever he had heard in the maze seemed to have gone away. Stefan approached the minotaur and carefully touched the tip of one of its horns, finding it cool and sharp but still nothing more than sculpted stone. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he passed it by and went to examine the other statues. Besides the minotaur there was a male athlete, a voluptuous woman, a dancing child, and a goat-legged satyr playing a flute, all arranged in a rough circle between the pillars.

He studied each of them in turn, feeling a bit envious of the naked athlete's muscles and absurdly large stone phallus. The statue's face was twisted into a lecherous leer and he was posed as if chasing the woman. She was likewise naked and over-proportioned, with huge breasts and wide curving hips. The workmanship and detail was excellent, from the arch of her eyebrows to the erect nipples and stylized patch of hair between her legs. She was posed as if running away from the athlete's grasp, looking playfully to one side with her arms crossed under her hefty bosom.

Had it been her voice that called out to him? Surely he had only imagined it. But suddenly taken with the idea that she might be a bespelled princess, Stefan leaned in and kissed the statue right on its cold stone lips. He waited for a long moment, feeling disappointed and rather foolish when nothing happened.

He moved on to the next statue, seeing that the child was standing in mid-pirouette with its hands in the air and a mischievous smile on its elfin face. It was wearing a tunic of graven leaves and could have either been a boy or a girl. Lastly, the satyr stood on a low pedestal as if performing for the others, its goat-horned head bowed as it silently played a flute.

As Stefan stood regarding it, a cool breeze blew suddenly through the clearing, swirling the leaves and sending a tiny shiver down his spine. He decided that he'd done enough exploring for one day and looked around for another way out of the clearing. There was none. In fact, he couldn't even seem to find the path which had led him there, and to his dismay he saw that the minotaur was now facing into the clearing, as if it had turned to watch him. Stefan quickly surveyed the other statues. The man and child seemed just as they had been, but the woman was now looking forward instead of to the side. Something was clearly amiss.