In the distance, he could hear villagers approaching. If they found him, they would see the knife and the blood, and they would call him murderer.
They would put him to death for his crime.
(“And the queen would be able to rule unchallenged,” Conor said, making a disgusted sound. “I hope this story ends with you ripping her head off.”)
There was nowhere for the prince to run. His horse had been chased away while he slept.
The yew tree was his only shelter. And also the only place he could turn for help.
Now, the world was younger then. The barrier between things was thinner, easier to pass through.
The prince knew this. And he lifted his head to the great yew tree and he spoke.
(The monster paused.) (“What did he say?” Conor asked.)
(He said enough to bring me walking, the monster said. I know injustice when I see it.)
The prince ran towards the approaching villagers. “The queen has murdered my bride!” he shouted. “The queen must be stopped!”
The rumours of the queen’s witchery had been circulating long enough
and the young prince was so beloved of the people that it took very little for them to see the obvious truth.
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