Vow of Eternal Night

They were fanciful, romantic stories – stories that transformed our village into a glittering city and elevated the hulking tombstone of a castle on the mountain into an imperial palace. It was silly, I told them. There was still a prince somewhere, even if we’d never seen him. We’d never seen the Emperor either, and he wasn’t missing – he was in Vienna.

I was not a popular child.

The adults told other stories, of taxes and armies and whispers of unrest in faraway lands. But I was too young to understand. So on the day the prince returned, I was oblivious to the horrors our future held. I was ten years old and hadn’t yet learnt what it is to grieve. By the time I turned twelve, I was numb to it.

The prince returned on the night of Erntedankfest, when the hills were ablaze with the flaming rust of Rostenburg’s namesake. It was my favourite time of year. There was so much to celebrate: another successful harvest, another winter well fed. And all thanks to Father, who had overseen everything without needing to scrub dirt from his fingernails.

Most of the town had crowded into the square, but Yann and I had crept away with a bundle of krapfen he’d stolen from his father’s stall. We hid in the darkened alcove of the closed bakery on the main street, giggling to ourselves and feeling ever so grown-up. I was wiping my hands on my apron when Yann spotted something over my shoulder. His smile dropped.

‘Who is that?’

A stranger was walking towards the market square. That in itself wasn’t abnormal – it was festival night, after all. But we could tell he didn’t belong in the valley: his dark hair was impeccably styled, and his clothes were so fine they put my father’s best to shame.I had no concept of how old he was beyond the nebulous threshold of adulthood, but he seemed to fit the window my aunt would call ‘marriageable age’. For a brief moment I wished I was that age too.

If he had been standing in full sunlight I might have seen thecrest on his ring or recognised the exact shade of crimson of his coat. But of course he would never stand in full sunlight. And as it was, I didn’t need the ring to identify him. A man that beautiful could only be a prince.

‘That’s the Prince of Rostenburg.’

It was the flawed logic of a child, correct only by coincidence,but Yann didn’t question it. I was the only one of our peers forced into lessons with a tutor, and he never questioned even my most outlandish tales.

‘Where’s his horse?’ Yann asked.

‘He probably left it by the bridge.’

‘Unless he came on the mountain path.’ It was meant as a joke, but as Yann said it, we both looked back to the route the stranger had taken. Unless he was terribly lost, he hadn’t come from the bridge.

Orlfen was nestled at the southernmost point of the Orlfen Valley, ringed with mountains on all sides but the north, where the River Lin carved through the fields and farmland that kept usall fed. The only road linking Castle Rostenburg and Orlfen crossed the river at the bridge on the edge of town. You could, in theory,reach Orlfen from the castle by crossing the glacier at the summit and trekking across the mountains, but even if the bridge collapsed,it would be faster, easier and safer to simply fix the bridge.

‘Perhaps he lost his way,’ I said, not wanting to admit the possibility that I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. I stood and dusted off my skirts. ‘Let’s go back. We might be able to meet him.’ Yann looked down at his jam-smeared hands, then attempted to wipe them clean on his patched, flour-covered trousers. They came away less sticky but just as dirty as before. ‘I don’t think he’d want to meet us,’ he said, tucking his hands into his pockets and out of sight. ‘Father will introduce us,’ I said, although I knew not even Father was acquainted with our ruler.

As it turned out, we didn’t need Father’s help. When we rounded the corner, the stranger was still lingering in the shadows on the edge of the square, watching the festivities in shrouded silence. His eyes flicked our way as we came into view, and this time his face sparked with a dull flare of interest.

‘Which one of you wants to earn a pfennig?’

Something in that voice made me stop. There was a coldness toit, a poisonous drip I would later learn to identify. His lips curledin a way that made a mockery of smiles, and when he produced acoin from his purse, I noticed his nails had been allowed to grow toolong and too sharp. I waited for Yann to take the money. I didn’tneed it, and I didn’t think I wanted it.

But he was a prince, wasn’t he? I curtseyed as my mother had taught me. ‘What can we help you with?’

‘You’ll do.’ He tossed me the penny and returned his gaze to the market square without watching to see me fumble my catch. ‘I have business with the mayor. Which one is he?’

I shoved the coin deep into the pocket of my apron. ‘My father,’ I said proudly.