The Court Of The Phoenix King

A Fairy Tale

The wax seal confirmed it. The Phoenix King had summoned a bride.

The girl in question, sixteen and simmering with new-found womanhood, would go up the mountain the following evening. She would shed her tears, and she would do as duty demanded.

Her grandmother, a stranger to the practices of these folk she had to shelter with, was regarded by all as an odd woman. She did not understand, but she knew better than to argue. Grandmother claimed she came from the highlands across the amethyst sea, where the sheep were made of clouds, and giants carved the valleys out with spoons. She would tell many stories over her loom, but there was no time now.

The Phoenix King was waiting.

A queen could be anyone.

Only a real, worthy wife of the Phoenix King would rise with him. Rise from the ashes. Rise from the earth that separated him from all other men. Every woman knew this.

In preparation for the wedding, the women in her mother’s house plucked the hair around her silky forehead. The last of the branches, twisted by the boney hands of her grandmother, folding into place atop her head. How beautiful. After that, only silence among the women as they remained busy in their work. Grandmother, insisting that she take something old, gave her her own grey wool dress, and a cloak, of which she insisted always be tied at the neck. That’ll protect you from the elements, she said. The Phoenix King’s castle was high up in the mountains, where bitter wind howled, snow smothered and air grew thin enough to suffocate the uninitiated. It was a long way up, but no one knew for sure how far down. As agreed, the young bride would travel alone, and she would ask no questions as the snow lions pulled her carriage up the craggy track.

Nobody spoke of the girls that never came back, but that’s because on some level, they all understood. They understood that finding a real princess wasn’t easy; they understood that finding a real queen was a matter of life and death.

A queen could be anyone.

Courtiers, in cold, unmoving masks watched eagerly, their large, sparkling beaks hiding the wide eyes. Wide with what? No time to ask. The music, an arrangement of pipes and strings played meticulously, with fingers and lips well-versed in the routine, hypnotised the strangers into a fluid dance. Silks and satins swished as skirts twirled on the dance floor. In a flash, the women would sink like falling blossoms on a still, spring day, until the straight arms of their partners scooped them back up off the mirrored floor, parading them around the hall leaving gossamer trails. She sat atop her selected seat and watched them dance. Where did the courtiers come from? Who were the people behind the masks? Why didn’t she have a mask? She would not dance with them, not all in grey. She was as dull as a dunnock in a room full of swans.

She had come to them, red-cheeked and fresh from the foothills. Her face lit only for the blazing hearth. Mortal. Predictable, cold girl. At least, unless she became queen.

The Phoenix King did not speak, nor did he have to. She knew why she was there. His red mask turned to face her, its eye holes boring into the creamy, now white cheeks of the girl who felt a chill in a warm room. His chin and mouth, though visible, did not smile, or speak. The courtiers bowed and curtsied at his feet, and melted away like snow from a pebble when he was done with them. A whip of his lace-cuffed sleeve sent the message, loud and clear. Moving on from him, they stopped to admire the droplets of dew on his bride's crown, catching the light of the hearth like diamonds. She didn’t know what to do, so she let them stare. She let them study. Perhaps she would wake up as a queen, after all.

A queen could be anyone.

The ring of the bell, as shrill as the wren, stunned them into silence. It was time.

By her hand, he led her to the garden, where they stood beneath the stone pergola—a pewter jug and two cups on a table just outside of it. The scurrying maid had scooped it full, fresh from the trickling waterfall above the pond. Returning from fire was thirsty work.

For the first time, The Phoenix King's bride looked around the garden. A garden as grey as the stone structure. A garden as grey as ash.

A queen can’t be just anyone.

The remains of those who had come before. Their ashes lay scattered across the stone floor of the pergola like fallen, fine snowflakes, barely reaching the petrified grass. A gust of isolated wind carried faint whispers, and left again. No flowers bloomed here. She closed her eyes and apologised for the footprints she had left on their souls. She would join her sisters soon.

She watched the courtiers close the glass doors, shuffling back into the warmth of the castle. The orange, lit windows glowed like eyes of a dragon, glaring down on the Phoenix King and his new bride. It would be over soon.

The unmistakable scent of burning thatch came first. The fire, flickering on his fine, white boots, soon burst into all-consuming licks of purifying white flame. It encircled them both, a whirlwind of bright, brilliant light and breathless heat, yet she was still breathing. When she opened her eyes, he was not there. She looked down beside her and saw the small emberling forming in the ash, poking its beaked, bald head up through the eye hole of the red mask. She reached for the pewter jug and poured it over the creature—a shriek and a steaming hiss confirming what she hoped to be the outcome.

The maid came back, stunned to see just the grey, cloaked girl alone in the pergola, smiling.

Grandmother came from the highlands, where the sheep were made of clouds.

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The Spider