Table Of ContentMirror
on
the
Wall
K M Goldstar
12.4260:75.7382
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events
and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by KM Goldstar.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission
of the publisher.
Published by www.apub.com
ISBN: 9798694487276
Illustrations and book cover by Domenique Serfontein
This book is dedicated to the ‘Malcas’ of this world.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Acknowledgements
About the author
About the illustrator
Mirror
on
the
Wall
Weiss
Chapter 1
☐☐
When tales of old are recited to children around warm fireplaces,
bellies filled with hot food and eyes filled with dreams, the tales are
tamed, harmless dwarves replacing vicious men and vengeful women.
To save their precious childhood, truth of centuries is mellowed in the
warmth of the fire. Truth which has shown time and again that men and
women have been born of violence and yet we hide it from children,
feeding them tales of cherubic beings, with wonderful words. It will be
the same with my tale in the future, for I know my tale will be famous
in the years to come and it’ll be told around fireplaces on wintry nights.
I am the princess in the tale, the one which tells of a child white as
snow, and I too have been told such harmless tales of princesses before
me which I know the truth of now.
These tales have always told of fair maidens and beautiful princess.
But you see, in my tale I was truly the fairest of them all, my mother
made sure of it. She will be painted as a benevolent soul when this tale
is told, but the story is always half the truth. There is always just the one
villain and the rest are painted so white that even holy men pale in
comparison. My mother had the same luck, for her folly was only to me,
none other. She became a symbol of good and all that is pure in the
kingdom; for the truth was nothing but lies dressed as white as possible.
It was her pride, a pride for which we all paid a price.
It was her pride that made her marry the mightiest of kings-my father.
He who was in age older than her oldest brother, she a girl of sixteen
and he well into his middling age. But it never troubled her as she
travelled across kingdoms to reach my father’s castle, her own home a
distant dream she never returned to. She always wanted the finest in
life- clothes, jewellery and then a husband as well- as she wished she
received; and she basked in the joy of it.
The trouble came as years passed, for not everything was destined as
my mother bid – try as she did, not an heir did my mother bear. She
tried the roots they asked her to chew and they chose days when the
moon was full, for it was said to bring the best seed to life. But none of
these bore fruit, and she remained barren and filled with pride. My
father grew cold and distant, never for once did he blame himself as is
the way of men. He laid the blame free at my mother’s threshold and
turned his face away. Eager he was as the rest to be distanced from the
blame of a kingdom left without an heir. How strange for a man called
the mightiest? Where was his courage to own his part of the fault and
accept his share of the blame?
Made me wonder if heroes were truly what they were touted to be,
spilling blood on barren lands and crying in hubris filled rages. Yet
cowering when courage was truly asked of them, they were not to be
found. My mother bore her pain alone, no- I think she and her pride
bore the pain alone; as she became a queen soon to be forgotten. To be
left in the distant tower where the wind whistled through the walls. The
nobles had the king’s ears, as they whispered and plotted, each pushing
their daughter to preen before the king, some young enough to be his
daughters.
‘Marry her, her mother bore me eight children.’
‘No marry mine, she will give you a son, her stars have predicted no
less.’
And the king watched them through half lidded eyes, for he was no
fool, he had not become the mightiest of all with just the light of his
sword. I think deep within, his love for the queen was as fresh as the
first blossom, but his duty stood in the way of him doing what a man
devoid of the worries of a kingdom would.
It was a cold winter’s night, when the moon had broken through crisp
white clouds appearing after a flurry of snow. My mother walked
through her bare garden where the crocuses and tulips slumbered
waiting for spring to break through. She sat with her spindle, spinning it
with practice, her eyes on the horizon, an emptiness settling on her. Her
pride was being whittled away; words much powerful than a knife in her
back snatching at her worth. She sat in that sorrow, mind unravelling the
mire of people whom she thought she trusted. The brown spindle
slipped, marking her thumb, and out spilled three little drops of blood,
crimson, bold and beautiful against the paleness of the snow all around
her.
In her haste with her built up anger and pride, she demanded of the
earth and the snow and the skies- a child as pale as snow, with lips as
red as the blood on her finger and hair as dark as the spool on her
spindle. She stood trembling and alone in that winter kissed garden,
waiting for an answer. Her wait was long and when she heard none even
with the coming of dusk, she walked away, a sigh escaping her as the
pride was chipped away a bit more. She walked away smaller than she
had come.
It was the blossoming of spring when she realised, she was with a
child. Her breasts grew heavy and her legs swelled, but she swept
through the castle, her eyes brilliant with the shine of new found
strength. As the days passed her pride returned hot and feral, claiming
all of her that it had lost purchase on. And as the word spread of the
heir, there came a barrage of men and women with their empty wishes,
on a quest to confirm the coming of an heir. And the king returned with
his devotion.
‘Promise me!’ She asked as soon as he stepped over the threshold of
her old chamber. He looked at her warily, foot dangling.
‘Promise me, that never will you subject me to humiliation again. I
will not be made second to any.’ And he agreed, his guilt eager to give
her what she wanted.
She watched amused as the nobles declared their allegiance to her, and
these were the very ones who had vied to usurp her throne with their
spindly daughters. She banished none, she was adept in court politics
even before her marriage and she would not be foolish now.
Insulating herself from the chaos surrounding her, she felt that she was
still at the eye of the storm. She was a royal in every sense, for she
loved the chaos her child was bringing. So, she played them, played
them so subtle that they bowed to her and did it grinning through their
teeth. It was her time for revenge now, not extracted at a knife’s edge
but with venom coated words wrapped in velvet. She guarded me
through this, her precious wished-for child. Tasters tested every morsel,
every sip of all that she wanted to eat or drink. Sentinels guarded her
doors, as she slept in peace.
I was born in the midst of winter, the snow laid its seal on me as did
my mother’s blood on my lips and the thread on spindle spilt as my
ravenous locks, as she had wished. When the blessings came, they
called me the fairest babe in the land and mother watched me with a
possessive eye- I grew as a child, guarded more than the king’s coveted
crown.
Tales of my beauty spread far bringing me no joy, for I was cleaned
and brushed, powdered and preened, until my hair shone black as the
velvet of the night and my lips were a reminder of the blood spilt.I was
a sullen child, cosseted in reams of silk and lace, corsets cinching my
waist tight and ribbons streaming from my hair. I would look out of my
window everyday, as the sparrows would chirp on the boughs of the
apple trees, and I would dream a freedom I was not entitled to.
I would march everyday between hordes of ladies to be seated on
perfumed cushions, soft as butter, but to me they were the like of iron
manacles, chaffing at my wrists. And through all this I saw mother bask
in the glory of my beauty, she was the ocean reflecting the sun, soaking
all that was bright and beautiful. She was never envious, no, for she was
beautiful too, but hers was an earthly kind, and mine the kind which
made me an object of worship. Mother would always be watching me,
her lips set in a tight line every morning as she inspected my attire and
my hair. She would not smile or greet or hug me, but her hands would
feel the silk for softness and look at the lace to see if it was intricate and
showed the silver spent. She would be satisfied everyday, for none
wanted to be in the line of her ire. A small smile would light her face
towards my ladies in waiting, a nod of approval as she climbed to her
throne right next to my father’s. In the beginning I would wait eager and
expectant for a smile as a nestling for food, but as I grew and learned
and watched, the hatred began.
It took me long to appreciate that rotting emotion within me, which
would make my breath hiss and fill the insides of my head such that I
felt it would splinter into a thousand pieces. All the while I pretended to
be calm and serene, the picture of a perfect court lady. I was never
allowed to cry, any tantrums subdued as I would be left in a dark
chamber, devoid of any to see or speak to. I raged at the beginning but
mother trained me incessantly until I was what she wanted and dreamt
of, a picture of perfection. The words and emotions which I would have
used if I had been born in any household with a loving mother and
doting father, ended up being prisoners in my head. It became a
