"Sleeping Beauty´s Sister" by Meg Y. Gardner

"Your highness?" came the usual query from the man-at-arms posted outside the entrance.

"Enter." Tirian dragged out the word. The man did so.

"Your highness, should I call the captain?"

"No, no, I’m fine. Go back to your post."

"You’re sure, your honor?"

Tirian struggled to be patient. "Yes, it was nothing more then a dream. It was nothing. Nothing." It sounded unconvincing even to Tirian himself, but the sentry only bowed, and backed out of the room. Tirian flopped back down onto his pillow, tried to sleep again. That dream. It haunted him. He had had the same dream for a fortnight, and every time he woke up in a cold sweat. The woman. He had never seen her before, or any of her like, any which came close to her exquisite beauty, yet somehow she was familiar. The sheer mystery was driving him mad. She was more beautiful, and more unattainable than any other maid in the world. Unattainable, to him, crown prince! Thinking this for what seemed the hundredth time, Tirian slept at last.

* * * *

Morning came, and Tirian was back in his role as a prince. He toured the training barracks, joked with the courtiers, and rode his horse, dreams of the past night forgotten. As a youth of seventeen summers with one foot in boyhood, the other reaching continuously to be a man, he was yet too unsteady in his life’s paths to dwell for long on any fancy.

But when he went to his suite to change for a banquet, the sight of his bed let loose a dam that flooded his mind. The image of the girl rose in his head, and Tirian’s skin crept, but he shook off the sensation and pulled on his hose.

* * * *

Tirian laughed, a handsome and enthralling picture. The Duke de Choisen and the Count le Bariel watched the heir from a distance.

"Prince Tirian is a amusing sight, is he not?" inquired the Duke de Chosien.

"Yes, the hope of the kingdom; a healthy young man," concurred le Bariel.

"Perhaps too healthy for his enemies. It would be difficult to rid yourself of him if you happened to hate him. The traditional unfortunate sickness would be rather obvious, would it not?"

"I agree with you, my lord. A riding accident, perhaps, would be a nicer subtly,"

"You are not, my dear count," replied the duke softly, "implying that you would be one to cause this to happen?"

"Of course not, for that, my friend, would be treason. In addition, we both know that it is your duty to the crown (and mine as well) to relate any treason to the king. I only say, it would be if someone chose to kill the dear, dear prince."

"Ah, if. I think we understand each other now, Count le Bariel."

"Perfectly," assented the count.

* * * *

Marion tittered prettily. "Dear highness, you are so very witty," Tirian smiled politely at the blond beauty, and stifled a yawn, inside bored of her already. Trying to recapture his attention, Marion spoke again. Noticing the prince’s eye wandering in the general direction of the end of the hallway, where a comely brunette stood, she slyly said, "Do you find Lady Catherine a pleasing sight, highness?"

"What?" Tirian replied, a little angrily, nettled that she had interrupted his musings. Startled by Tirian’s outburst, she simpered, "Why, highness, what causes your anguish?"

" I only was startled. I apologize."

"Of course highness." Marion said, honey dripping off every word. Inside, she seethed that Tirian was involved with Catherine, as it seemed. For surely, why else would he have responded so violently? And Catherine, of course, had bragged of a lover in high places, but refused to tell whom. I must find a way to rid myself of that self-important Catherine. I will wed myself a prince.

* * * *

The flirtatious Lady Marion had ruined Tirian’s spirits. As soon as was socially possible, he excused himself from her company and left the room altogether. In truth, he had not been looking at the green-eyed Catherine. He had only gazed at that end of the room trying to find an excuse to leave Marion and take care of someone or something at the other end of the hall; a drunk lord, a tipped over table, a sleeping guard. Tirian undressed, and fell into bed. He was tired, but feared to sleep. Finally, his pessimism gave way and he dreamed.

* * * *

Tirain sat up panting, but this time he did not shout. He looked around, assuring himself of where he was and when. That outfit. It reminded him of something, but what? Yes! It looked like the style of clothes that the women wore in old paintings in the back of the castle, paintings from a hundred years ago that he had had to study as a child prince. Tirian sat back, thinking. Tonight, no guard came to the door, for which he was grateful. Who is this woman? Why would anyone dream about her, much less me? he thought. Questions flooded, gushed, overran his head. Why does she sleep? Why do I dream continuously about her? Questions without answers, answers without questions, (beautiful, tired), questions and more questions, (golden-sun-tipped hair), questions, questions, (so tired, can’t think). I will ask my former tutor tomorrow about those paintings. Father Jacobus was always able to answer me, when others could not. But I must ask in a roundabout way. (Must sleep. Too late to be awake. Tired. So tired.) I would rather not answer needless question that may arise if I were to ask directly. My own questions are enough as it is.

* * * *

Tirian rose late the next morning, tired from his night’s vigil. He dressed and broke his fast in his apartments as usual, with only a few servants in attendance. After doing his daily routine with his sword and lance in the courtyard, he went on an inconspicuous stroll through the castle where the mentors and priests stayed, hoping to "accidentally" run into Father Jacobus. After half an hour of meeting only the various monks, his ploy was becoming too noticeable, so he went to the chapel, hoping to catch Jacobus there instead. As he entered the private church, he had the good luck of siting the clergyman at prayer. He knelt down beside the priest. When the man showed signs of rising, Tirian too rose, and Father Jacobus, noticing the heir for the first time, smiled brightly and motioned for the prince to follow him outside.

"Tirian, my dear boy!" the friar exclaimed. As his tutor, Jacobus had the privilege of address Tirian as something other then, "Highness" "Lord" "Prince Tirian" "Your Grace"…Many found this deeply offending, as even the prince’s siblings and relatives (even the queen) were required to name him by title in public. The king was the only other allowed by law to address him title-less. Tirian loved having this informal relationship, and would have loved it even more to have everyone address him so openly, but the law was as old as the kingdom, and not one to be changed.

"I’ve missed our talks, Jacobus. You were always such an intellect with profound ideas that kept me up half the night. Now, I must find other ways to exhaust my body," Tirian confessed, smiling a little. Jacobus beamed, his semi-bald head shiny and red, his grin from ear to ear.