She spent two long and bitter hours staring at nothing, sitting alone in her room; in spite of the gold-and-white hangings, and the bright blue coverlet on her bed, it refused to look cheerful for her tonight. She removed her necklace and stuffed it into an empty jar and put the lid on quickly, as if it were a snake that might escape, although she knew that it itself had no further power to harm her.
She joined her father with a heavy heart; in place of Aliyander’s jewels she wore a golden pendant that her mother had given her. The two of them ate in a little room with a small round table, where her family had always gathered when there was no formal banquet. When she was very small, and Inthur only a baby, she had sat here with both her parents; then her pretty, fragile mother had died, and she and Inthur and their father had faced each other around this table alone. Now it was just the King and herself. There had been few banquets in the last months. As she looked at her father now, she was suddenly frightened at how old and weak he looked. Aliyander could gain no hold over him, for his mind and his will were too pure for Aliyander’s nets; but his presence aged him quickly, too quickly. And the next King would be Inthur, who followed Aliyander everywhere, a pace behind his right shoulder. And Inthur would be delighted at his best friend’s marrying his sister.
The dining-room was round like the table within it; it was the first floor of a tower that stood at one of the many corners of the Palace. It had windows on two sides, and a door through which the servants brought the covered dishes and the wine, and another door that led down a flight of stone steps to the garden.
Neither she nor her father ate much, nor spoke at all, and the room was very quiet. So it was that when an odd muffled thump struck the garden door, they both looked up at once. Whatever it was, after a moment it struck again. They stared at each other, puzzled, and because since Aliyander had come all things unknown were dreaded, their looks were also fearful. When the third thump came, Rana stood up and went over to the door and flung it open.
There sat her frog.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “It’s you.”
If a frog could turn its foolish mouth to a smile, this one did. “Good evening,” it replied.
“Who is it?” said the King, standing up; for he could see nothing, yet he heard the strange deep voice.
“It’s … a frog,” Rana said, somewhat embarrassed. “I dropped … that necklace in a pool today, and he fetched it out for me. He asked a favor in return, that he might live with me in the palace.”
“If you made a promise, child, you must keep it,” said the King; and for a moment he looked as he had before Aliyander came. “Invite him in.” And his eyes rested on his daughter thoughtfully, remembering the change in those jewels that he had seen.
The Princess stood aside, and the frog hopped in. The King and Princess stood, feeling silly, looking down, while the frog looked up; then Rana shook herself, and shut the door, and returned to the table. “Would you—er—like some dinner? There’s plenty.”
She took the frog back to her own room in her pocket. Her father had said nothing to her about their odd visitor, but she knew from the look on his face when he bade her good night that he would mention it to no one. The frog said gravely that her room was a very handsome one; then it leaped up onto a sofa and settled itself among the cushions. Rana blew the lights out and undressed and climbed into bed, and lay, staring up, thinking.
“I will go with you to the Hall tomorrow, if I may,” said the frog’s voice from the darkness, breaking in on her dark thoughts.
“Certainly,” she said, as she had said once before. “You’re my talisman,” she added, with a catch in her voice.
“All is not well here,” said the frog gently; and the deep sympathetic voice might have been anyone, not a frog, but her old nurse, perhaps, when she was a baby and needed comforting because of a scratched knee; or the best friend she had never had, because she was a Princess, the only Princess of the greatest realm in all the lands from the western to the eastern seas; and to her horror, she burst into tears and found herself between gulps telling that voice everything. How Aliyander had ridden up one day, without warning, ridden in from the north, where his father still ruled as king over a country bordering her father’s. How Aliyander was now declared the heir apparent, for his elder brother, Lian, had disappeared over a year before; and while this sad loss continued mysteriously, still it was necessary for the peace of the country to secure the succession. Aliyander’s first official performance as heir apparent was this visit to his kingdom’s nearest neighbor to the south, for he knew that it was his father’s dearest wish that the friendship between their two lands continue close and loyal.
And for the first time they saw Aliyander smile. The Crown Prince had turned away, for he was then free and innocent; the King stiffened and grew pale; and Rana did not guess how she might have looked.
“I had known Lian when we were children,” Rana continued; she no longer cared who was listening, or if anything was. “He was kind and patient with Inthur, who was only a baby; I—I thought him wonderful,” she whispered. “I heard my parents discussing him one night, him and … me.…”
Aliyander’s visit had lengthened—a fortnight, a month, two months; it had been almost a year since he rode through their gates. Messengers passed between him and his father—he said; but here he stayed, and entrapped the Crown Prince; and next he would have the Princess.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said at last, wearily. “There is nothing I can do.”
“I’m sorry,” said the voice, and it was sad, and wistful, and kind.
And human. Her mind wavered from the single thought of Aliyander, Aliyander, and she remembered to whom—or what—she spoke; and the sympathy in the creature’s voice puzzled her even more than the fact that the voice could use human speech.
“You cannot be a frog,” she said stupidly. “You must be—under a spell.” And she found she could spare a little pity from her own family’s plight to give to this spellbound creature who spoke like a human being.
“Of course,” snapped the frog. “Frogs don’t talk.”
She was silent, sorry that her own pain had made her thoughtless, made her wound another’s feelings.
“I’m sorry,” said the frog for the second time, and in the same gentle tone. “You see, one never quite grows accustomed.”