The Wicked Stepbrother and Other Stories

Finroc macFinniel Silmairë

Finroc macFinniel SilmairëWith thanks to Sylvia Kelso and Ellen McQueen

I look for him by the river, where I always found him, where he always found me. I call his name: Finn. I hear him humming that tune…

“Get up.”

Killian jerked awake. His father stood by his bed, a guard on either side.

“Get dressed. You’re getting married,” his father snapped.

“What? Are you joking?”

His father made a quick, sharp gesture and the guards, their faces expressionless, stepped back and out of the bedroom, softly closing the door behind them. “My heir. A weakling man-lover. A fairy-lover,” his father said, grimacing in distaste. Yes,” he snarled, “Today. Get dressed. This woman gave us gold; I promised her a royal husband in exchange,” he said, his voice cold and hard. “Gods, if your brothers were alive, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Killian sat up, careful to keep his lower body covered. The erection he always had after that dream had subsided, but even so he had no desire to be naked in front of his father and hear more snide remarks about how he wasn’t like his older brothers, Alistair and Lachlan.

He stared hard at the king, trying to remember when he was very little and had loved this man. He couldn’t.

“If Finn were here—ˮ

The king slapped him across the face. “Don’t mention that name in the same breath with your brothers. Get up and get dressed.”

“Get out of here if you want me to get dressed,” Killian muttered, wiping blood off his mouth.

“The garden, in an hour,” his father said as he left the room.

If he hadn’t made that promise to Finn, Killian would have left years ago. The promise hadn’t included marriage to a woman, but then, it hadn’t included his father catching him and Finn down by the river, either. He and Finn were to be together forever. Killian pushed away the lasting grief. He had to dress for his wedding.

* * * *

Killian first met Finroc macFinniel Silmairë when he was ten, by the river in the park behind the palace late one August afternoon. He knew Finn was a fairy. Finn looked just the way his grandmother had described the fey in her stories: the pointed ears, feline-shaped eyes, fire hair, the faint glow under his skin. Killian told no one, but his grandmother, his best friend was a fairy. Even for the king’s son, this was dangerous. People like his grandmother hid their reverence for the fey. The iron laws were strictly enforced; violations meant the death penalty. But the gifts and the offerings were still left in the stone circles.

He told no one at all when, at seventeen, his best friend became his lover. He had felt guilty at first; it had been just after Alistair’s death. But Alistair, he knew, would want him to be happy, and Killian and Finn were happy—until Lachlan’s assassination three years later changed everything.

The king ordered new security for the prince, including armed guards and watchers. Finn and Killian were found out one warm summer night, Lughnasadh, the air close, the shadows green and black, the cicadas trilling. After the services at the standing stones, Killian had let Finn into the palace by a forgotten back door made entirely of wood. They had gone to his apartment, thanking the gods it was a labyrinth of corridors and staircases away from the king.

We lay together, whispering in the darkness. He told me our meeting as little boys had been arranged. The fairy queen wanted to repair the rift and ease the mutual distrust between fey and mundane. Before she could ask others to volunteer their children for this experiment, she sent her own child, her fourth son.

Falling in love hadn’t been part of the plan. The queen had wanted Finn to stay away then, the risk was too great. She feared King Aloysius too much. He told her he couldn’t leave me.

I promised him when I became King, I would fix things. Together we would heal the country.

A guard had seen them go into Killian’s room together. The king, with his necromancer, caught them two nights later, down by the river.

* * * *

Now, the promise includes marriage with a woman. If Father’s necromancer hadn’t cursed him, then Finn wouldn’t have cursed him back—and then Father could marry this gold-producing woman himself. Even so, I still wouldn’t have Finn.

At least the counter-curse had both made the king sterile and given the necromancer a fatal wasting disease.

Killian sighed as he walked out into the palace gardens.

The roses were blooming; the air was heady and sweet with fragrance. “This Caroline Rose Maclaren—she may be a miller’s daughter and kind of plain, but, I assure you, she has a special gift,” his father whispered to him as they waited for her by the palace shrine, with the priest, in his silver and white robes, standing behind them. Killian shrugged; he had no idea what to say to his father.

“Here she is, took them long enough to get her ready,” his father snorted.

The bride carried a bouquet of small white roses and wore a coronet made of yellow and pink roses, a white dress, and the traditional iron necklace to ward off fairy kidnappings. Killian wore the matching groom’s necklace.

There were stories of fairies stealing a bride, a groom, if no offerings were left. Other stories told of one lover being taken out of spite. The king believed the stories.

Her father walked with her. Killian could tell that Caroline Rose was supporting the old man, who almost fell twice crossing the garden. When he presented Caroline Rose to him, Killian could smell why: the old man was drunk. He glanced at his father. It didn’t matter. He could tell the king was overjoyed to be watching his youngest son marry.

There was no celebration of any kind. Killian didn’t even get a chance to speak with her until that night. He had hesitated at the bedroom door, the king’s commands still echoing in his head, then he reminded himself he had promised Finn. To keep that promise he had to become king. The only way to become king was to survive whatever his father demanded of him.

Killian found Caroline Rose sitting on the bed, dressed in a gauzy nightgown sprinkled with tiny gold stars. Her long brown hair had been unbraided and brushed until it glowed. Scarlet rose petals had been scattered on the bed and the floor.

She looked absolutely terrified.

“I’m scared, too,” Killian said as he sat down in an armchair.

“You look just like King Aloysius. The same dark hair and eyes, the same eyebrows.”

Killian shrugged. “I do look like my father. You, on the other hand, look nothing like yours.”

“I favor my mother,” she said with a small smile.

“My older brothers favored our mother. What is this gold Father keeps talking about?” Killian asked and smiled back.

Caroline Rose looked down at the floor, as if the answer had been written in the wood. “I can spin straw into gold. I could, I mean—only seven times. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Straw into gold? Really?” he asked, as he stared at her.

Here, let me show you something, Finn had said. We lay together on a quilt my grandmother had made me. We had found a hidden glade in the park’s forest a long walk from where we always found each other. Around us were the remains of a lunch and our clothes.

Show me what, I had asked, half-awake, my head on his chest.

This. He had a handful of broom straw picked somewhere on our walk. Humming his tune, Finn wove the stalks together, his hands a blur of motion, and then, he had a handful of golden thread.

It won’t last, Killy. Fairy gold always fades away.

She nodded. “Your father made me do it. Why are you staring at me?”

Father said the necromancer had transformed him. Could this be Finn?

“You remind me of someone I knew,” Killian said, watching her. If I kiss her, will she be transformed, like in the stories? But why would Father do this? Maybe he doesn’t know. He studied her face. He could tell it was taking some effort for her to be still, to look at him, to not run away.

“Up close, you don’t look like the king at all.”

I can do this. This is Finn…

“You know, I’m not experienced in these matters, either,” Killian said, looking down at his lap. Then he stood and slipped his jacket off.

When they were done, he rolled over on his back, his eyes closed, to catch his breath. I broke the spell. When I open my eyes, I’ll see Finn.

He saw Caroline Rose. “You’re not, you’re not—I thought—the straw, the gold—I thought it was, that you were really, that you—” He stopped at the look of total bewilderment on her kind face.

“What did you think? Did I do something wrong?”

Killian stroked her dark brown hair. It remained dark brown; it didn’t become fire-colored. He touched her face. It remained kind and puzzled. He held her hands. The fingers remained short.

“No, no,” he shook his head. “Never mind. I was just so sure that—never mind.” He wept. Caroline Rose took him in her arms and held him like a hurt child, and told him it would be all right, everything would be all right.

For a long time, he watched her. The tiny hope that had bloomed when she had told him of the straw into gold refused to wither and fade away. A week after the wedding the king insisted that they take twice-monthly excursions across the country, starting late summer until the very end of autumn. The Kingdom of Lothia, the Lothi people, needed to meet the royal couple.

Killian watched Caroline Rose on each excursion, but he saw no signs of Finroc. By the time they had returned from the last excursion Killian stopped watching. They had become friends. He looked forward to their times together, even the official occasions. Sometimes the king joined them over after-breakfast tea; those visits could be endured. That Killian truly liked Caroline Rose took some of the edge off his grieving. It became more bearable, but it never went away. Sometimes he was sure he had seen Finroc—a flash of brightness, an almost familiar face or gesture—and his heart would turn over. Killian learned to endure those times, too.

“Next spring, more excursions, I think, yes,” the king muttered after he gulped his tea. “I’ll be in the vault,” he added and left.

Killian looked at her, shaking his head. “Carrie, I will be a better king; I swear it. I will change things.”

They were in the little parlor, overlooking the December-brown garden. Yule was coming.

“I will change things. I promise,” he repeated as he stood. Official duties called.

“Wait,” she said her voice sad and heavy. “Something has already changed. I’m pregnant. I’m sure. I’ve missed my period three times.”

Killian stared at her, wrestling with surprise and despair. Pregnant? I should be happy, but I don’t know what to feel. Killian wanted to ask why she didn’t seem happy about the baby and why she had kept the pregnancy a secret for so long.

He sighed. Let her have her secrets. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.

Thinking he could at least be glad for her, Killian grabbed her hands and pulled Caroline Rose into a hug.

Father will be ecstatic.

* * * *

A few days later the guard captain came to Killian to tell him his father was dead. Killian listened as the man explained how the king had died. He had been in the vault, where he went every morning. The reels of spun gold had started vanishing, one after the other; the shock killed him.

It won’t last, Killy. Fairy gold always fades away.

I wish I could mourn him.

Killian gave the necessary orders and then went to tell Caroline Rose.

It was a ten-minute walk from the little parlor to the private family wing, and five minutes down the Hall of Portraits, before he was at Caroline Rose’s apartments. Killian thought he would find her in her sitting room, reviewing her schedule with Margaret, but the room was empty. Before he could call for her, he heard voices, two women, coming from Caroline Rose’s dressing room. The door was ajar.

Caroline Rose was crying.

“He said he would come back to take one I loved.”

“You should tell Killian, Carrie. Besides, nothing has happened, maybe nothing will.”

“No, everything has to be a secret. Dear gods.”

“Sit down. You can’t do anything until something happens. Let me brush your hair; it’ll make you feel better.”

More secrets?

Killian pushed the door just enough to ease inside and see Caroline Rose’s face in the mirror, her eyes closed. He watched as Margaret combed and brushed at the ends of Caroline Rose’s long brown hair and then began to work her way up until she reached the top of Caroline Rose’s head, and then down, down, to the end of her hair and back again. Long slow strokes. Carrie leaned her head back slightly into the pull of the brush.

He swallowed the questions about the stranger and the news of his father he expected to say next. This moment between the two women, it was not to be disturbed—not yet. Finn had touched him that way. Killian held up his hand to stop the memory and to stop his body’s arousal. It’s like he’s somewhere near.

All right. If Margaret isn’t worried, I’ll wait for them to tell me. Keep your secrets, Carrie. He shivered, then cleared his throat and walked forward to tell Caroline Rose she was queen.

* * * *

On Litha, the summer solstice, Killian, as was custom, led a pre-dawn crowd from the main shrine to the stone circle to the steady beat of drums. He took them down a narrow road out into the countryside, winding by the river to greet the sunlight when it touched the standing stones. Each curve of the road reminded Killian of Finn, of two boys in love by the river.

The guard captain told him his son had been born when he came home. Queen and prince were fine. Margaret answered his knock at the door to Caroline Rose’s sitting room. She hushed him as he slipped in and led him into the bedroom where they slept.

“You have a son, Your Majesty. Born on the solstice, he’ll have good luck. Car—Her Majesty wants to name him after you,” Margaret whispered as she stroked Caroline Rose’s brown hair that spilled over her pillow.

“Thank you for taking care of her, for being here,” he whispered back, ashamed he had thought so much of Finn and so little of her while leading the procession, reciting the longest-day-of-sunlight prayers, talking to whomever walked by him. But he had left Caroline Rose with one who loved her in a way he couldn’t. He knew she was safe and cared for. He hoped that meant something.

* * * *

The next month before the naming ceremony was busy for everyone. Even so, Killian swore he would not be like his father was in the nursery either. As much as his schedule would permit, he spent time with his son. Often, he found himself watching the two women as he sat there, the sleeping baby on his shoulder, or as he walked the boy, humming Finn’s tune. The small touches, the winks and smiles, the private conversations, their heads together: he envied them, even as they were his friends.

He thought several times of asking them about their secret, as nothing seemed to have happened, decided against it. Just one more story of fairies stealing loved ones; this one had scared a pregnant woman.

* * * *

Margaret came to him the morning of the ceremony. Killian was in his office, reviewing the plans for the new hospital and the new train line it would require. He looked up when she knocked.

“Your Majesty. I need to talk to you. Carrie—Her Majesty—doesn’t know I’m here and she might be even be mad, but this is beyond us.”

“What do you mean, Margaret? Sit down,” he said and pointed to a chair. He almost reminded her to call him Killian as he had asked her to do when they were alone, as she called the queen Carrie. Somehow saying his name was hard. He sighed.

She told him the story.

The queen, before she married him, when she was just the daughter of a foolish drunken miller, had made a promise to a fairy. He had done things for her that saved her life, so the queen had said. Now he was back, to collect on the promise, to receive his payment.

“It’s little Killian he wants. She has to guess his name and if she doesn’t, he will take away one whom she loves. She did promise to name the baby after him the last visit if he would go away.”

“How did he save her?”

“She won’t tell me. We’ve guessed name after name, made lists, sent soldiers out to find more names, and today, before the ceremony, is his third and last visit.”

“I’ll be there,” Killian said. “Why didn’t she say something?”

Margaret shook her head. “She wanted to fix things herself. You know how independent she is.”

“I know, but he’s my son, too,” he said, shaking his head and sighing.

* * * *

That evening, just before twilight, almost an hour-and-half before the naming ceremony, Killian waited in the shadows behind the couch where Carrie and Margaret sat waiting, holding hands. His son slept in a cradle by the couch. He stood behind a dark red curtain, a narrow window at his back, holding his hunting pistol, loaded with iron bullets. Candles had been lit and placed in all the wall sconces. Caroline Rose had been furious when he had shown up—at him, at Margaret. Then she had cried in relief.

The clock on the queen’s desk struck the half-hour, a short ting. There was a sudden flash of light, and a tearing noise, and there the little man was, just as Margaret had described him, perched on the desk. Fey, yes, the hair, the eyes, the light under the skin, but wrinkled and shrunken. The little man was no bigger than a small child.

“What is my name?” he asked softly.

Caroline Rose began reading names out of her day book, the ones collected by the guards, the ones Margaret had collected from the palace staff, the ones Killian had given her just a while ago. At each name he could see the ugly little man shake his head.

Caroline Rose came to the end of all her lists. Swallowing a sob, she looked up. “Please, tell me your name. I don’t know; I couldn’t find out.”

“We had an agreement. Straw into gold. You swore,” the ugly little man said and began humming a little tune as he jumped down from the desk.

Killian gasped, feeling his heart catch. He stepped out from behind the curtain into the candle light. He was trembling. “I know your name: Finroc macFinniel Silmairë. Finn.”

The little man jerked forward, stopped, jerked again, then cried out in pain as he bent over, clutching his head. His body twisted as his neck grew longer, then his arms, his hands, each spurt painful, sharp. His clothes split, ripped, and fell away, until he was naked and he kept growing and crying until he was the same height as Killian. Gasping, he straightened and looked at Killian.

Killian stared back, his hand on his heart. He was staring at Finn. He carefully laid his pistol on the window sill and took a step forward, another, until finally he could touch him and be touched by those long fingers.

“It’s really you?”

Finn nodded. He kissed him and nodded. Not letting go of Killian, he turned to Caroline Rose and Margaret. Killian could look at no one but Finn. “His father caught us together; his necromancer cursed me into that body until I was invited back into the palace and called by my right name.”

Finn took a deep breath, turned to Killian. “That curse had three parts: to be invited back, to be named, and to have to leave. I can’t stay.”

“Name our son Finroc, like you promised, Carrie,” Killian said, still looking at Finn. “Then you can stay, yes?”

Finn shook his head. “No, I can’t. Come with me. That’s why I did all this, not to steal you, but to ask you to come with me.” His eyes glowed brighter and his hair stood up as if his head was truly on fire.

“I’ll come with you.”

“Wait, wait,” Caroline Rose said quickly, getting to her feet. “You can’t just go. You’re the king.”

“I told you I would take one you love.”

“But we found out your name.”

“You didn’t guess it,” Finn said. “Killy knew it. Killy, I have to go and I can’t come back, but you can. You can take little Finroc back and forth, I’ll show you how. You can show Carrie and Margaret how.”

“I’m going, Carrie,” Killian said softly as he finally turned to her. “My dear, you’re my friend and I love you, but not as a husband loves his wife—no more than you love me as a wife loves her husband. Someone else here lives in your heart. I saw it when she brushed your hair.”

Caroline Rose looked back at Margaret, then back at Killian. She started to speak, and then closed her mouth and nodded.

“I’ll come back sometimes, but not to stay. Tell them I’ve gone on a long journey to a far country, for trade; I had to leave suddenly.”

“Can’t you wait, just a little?”

“No, Killy, we can’t,” Finn said quickly. “The sun is going down and we have to leave now—and your clothes, they can’t go with you. Hurry, hurry, hurry.”

A moment later they both stood naked and hand in hand in the middle of the room. Margaret stood by Caroline Rose and both women raised their hands together in farewell.

The candles in the room flickered, sputtered, went out, and Killian and Finn were gone.