Not anymore.
I’m fifteen, the pleasant years of childhood flitting past as an ephemeral dream. Father tells me I’ll need to take up other pursuits, more difficult tasks. He’s been vague, only telling me that I needn’t worry about them until it’s time. Well, it’s time.
“Iliana!”
My name is like a ram battering against what little happiness I can take from the warm bed and dozen pillows that lay snuggled around me. I keep my eyes closed, dreading the moment when Yrena will force me up. Normally, if I feign sleep, she’ll leave me alone for a few more moments. Those moments are some of the first ways Yrena managed to steal a piece of my heart.
She’d originally been a simple bedchamber maid, hired on in her old age to look after the princess and keep her happy. She tends to my every childish whim and serves as a surrogate mother, standing in for the faceless woman who died to give me life. Father still looks into the distance, misty-eyed and vulnerable, when she’s mentioned. Nadine. Some exotic beauty from across the Way of the North, dark-skinned and dark-eyed. Whenever she comes up in conversation, usually through Uncle and Father’s reminiscing, they always talk about her like she was perfect. Yrena can never genuinely replace the beautiful, caring, loving mother I envision in my dreams, but I’ve come to love her in her own special way.
“Iliana! Girl, you get up this instant! Today is not the day!” Yrena shouts, and her quick feet patter across the floor towards my bed.
“Go away,” I mutter, eyes still closed. “If there is any day for sleeping in, it is my birthday.”
“Not this one,” Yrena says, and I can feel her staring at me right next to my bedside. “Last chance, little one.”
“You wouldn’t,” I say accusingly, cracking one eye in warning.
Abruptly, she snatches the heavy blankets off of me, exposing my skin to the frigid Winter air that constantly drafts through the palace. I bolt upright like a cat splashed with water. Grabbing the blanket, we fight for the thick material that is the last of my peace of mind. Growling, I tear the sheets out of her hands. The cloth catches on one of her nails. She gasps and pulls her hand to her chest, cradling it in the other.
“I’m so sorry!” I exclaim, abandoning the blankets and coming to her side. She turns her shoulder away, huffing. “Yrena, you know I didn’t intend to hurt you. Let me see.”
Yrena glances over her shoulder at me. It’s almost coquettish, a glimpse into the girl Yrena once was. I go as round-eyed and childlike as possible, and she fights back a smile. Reluctantly, she holds out her hand so I can inspect it. The middle nail has been ripped almost to the quick, and blood is already welling from the wound.
“Oh, Yrena, this is the worst! I shall get Uncle to fix it for you in a trice.”
“No, little one,” Yrena says, her wrinkled face crinkling with concern. “The Lord General does not need to be bothered with such a trifle. I shall heal the normal way.”
“If that is your wish,” I say skeptically.
“At any rate,” Yrena says, suddenly finding her stride again. “You don’t have time for any of this! So help me, if you’re late for the parade, I’ll tan your hide so that you won’t be able to sit for weeks!”
“You can’t do that anymore. I’m a woman now,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Try me.”
I’m out of the bed and in front of the mirror brushing my hair before she can say another word. She strides out of the room, muttering under her breath that she needs some bandaging before she bleeds on the royal person.
The brush glides through my tresses, only occasionally catching on a tangle. Though I inherited some of my mother’s darker skin, a deep olive that doesn’t fade despite the near-constant rain in Donir, my hair is unique: long, soft, and the deep, luxurious brown of polished jasper. I’ve never seen anything like it, even when foreign dignitaries come to visit from the Khalintars or, on rare occasions, the Broken Isles. Reaching down past my hips, it’s my pride and joy. I’ve no idea where my blue eyes came from, just lighter than the shade of a clear sky at noon. They don’t match descriptions of my mother whatsoever, and Father has deep brown eyes. Men call them enchanting at court—trying to flatter my father, no doubt—but I don’t tell them to stop.
Yrena bustles back in with three younger maids in tow. I don’t know any of their names, though I’ve seen them a few times before. Father always tells me not to bother learning the names of the staff. They come and go with such frequency it’s not worth the effort. Yrena, of course, is my exception.
They stand me up in front of the mirror, slipping off my nightclothes and drawing up the elaborate and, as it turns out, extraordinarily heavy dress I’m to wear for the Liberation parade. It looks as if waves flow up and crash against the high bodice, wrought from gems in various shades of blue and green to complement the colors of my house and match the banner of the Sealord. The dress is covered in precious and semi-precious stones, stiff and unyielding. The back will keep me upright even if I fall asleep on the horse.
I sigh, or try to, but the dress prevents the movement. In years past I was a bystander, gleefully watching as the soldiers rode by in their royal blue armor, matching in every detail down to the rippled edges of swords carried at parade rest on every shoulder. The Lord General Kranos inevitably followed, never wearing more than a tight sleeveless leather shirt, his unbelievable size and strength sending ladies in the crowd swooning and causing every man with a sword on his belt to look elsewhere.
Then, the elite soldiers of the Tide marched around my Father in perfect step. He would always do something spectacular with his Shaping. The previous year, he caused every fountain and trough in the city to empty with a gesture. The sudden absence of sound had been startling, as everyone looked around at the suddenly bare and dry streets. The water flowed from every cup, leaving witnesses with empty glasses and befuddled looks. Just as the first outcries of disbelief began, he raised his arms and the water exploded from the ground, launching into a spectacular flowing tunnel that rendered him nearly invisible as he rode. As the parade ended, the tunnel burst into mist, the mist turning to ice and snow in the cold Winter air, drifting onto the overawed crowd.
And this year, it’s my turn.
I swallow nervously as the maids finish fixing my hair, piling it atop my head and weaving the longest strands through a clear crystal crown that reaches high and sets my hair to shimmering. Soft lantern light sets the crown afire, a rainbow of colors dancing through the room. As I take in at the sparkling light dancing about the room, I know what my part will be.
Father strides into the room, his royal robes the color of the deepest seas. He smiles, standing behind me in the mirror. His broad, callused hands come to rest gently on my shoulders.
“The spitting image of your mother,” he says warmly. “You look stunning.”
“As do you, Father,” I say playfully, giving him a grin through the mirror. “Are you excited about the parade?”
“Iliana, it’s time that you learned what the parade is truly for,” he says, stepping back and turning me around. “You see, everyone is required to celebrate the Liberation from the tyranny of the Council of Shapers, and many wish to. The pageantry is for them: our loyal subjects who wish to bask in our reflected glory. Others, however, do not wish to come. We rouse them from their homes, drive them along the streets, and force them to stand among the crowds. It is for these few I truly Shape. We are the elite, blessed by the Creator himself to lead, granted long life and the power to rule. They must never think they can resist us. We are wolves, and they are sheep. When I show them my power, they remember their place.”
“I think I understand,” I say quietly. There are only a handful of Shapers walking, and each is a gift from the Creator. We are blessed above the common man. “So that is why I must as well, for one day I shall rule. The sheep must be kept in their place.”
“Well, that time is, hopefully, hundreds of years hence. Perhaps we will conquer the Khalintars and I’
ll give them to you, but I plan to be around for quite some time.”
“Of course!” I say, smiling. “I have plenty of time to learn.”
“Do you know what you’ll do today? How you’ll impress the crowd?”
“I do.”
Scant hours later, hours that pass in a nerve-wracking blur, Uncle lifts me onto my horse as if I, and my heavy dress, weigh nothing. I sit side-saddle, grasping the pommel gently with one hand and trusting my balance and experience to keep me upright. He nods at me calmly, his broad shoulders level with mine despite standing firmly on the ground.
“Are you ready?” he rumbles, his deep voice rattling my bones.
“Of course, Uncle,” I say, offering him a nervous smile.
It’s a lie. The dancers have upped the tempo of their jig, but I’ll never admit fear to Uncle. He always says that fear is weakness. With a wink, he strides to his own massive destrier and steps smoothly into the saddle, somehow dwarfing the mighty horse with the breadth of his shoulders. He rides out quickly, chasing after the marching cadence of the regular soldiers of the Wave. The crowds outside the palace cheer at the sight of him, and I realize with a start that a contingent of the Tide has formed up around me. Creator save me, it’s time.
With a gentle tap, my horse begins walking, the soldiers marching next to me in perfect time. The bright noonday sun glows down, giving off little heat but illuminating the vast sea of faces spread out before me in their multitudes. Uncle is still in their midst, but all eyes are focused on me. Silence falls over the crowd. I stare straight ahead, trusting my horse and the soldiers around me to keep me on track.
Despite trying to focus, my eyes drift to the unbroken ocean of humanity stretching as far as the eye can see, a shocking riot of blurred color and indistinct shapes. The people are still, quiet, regarding me with something akin to reverence, as if I’m something else, something more, something greater than I feel myself to be. Almost as if the Eternal herself rides before them. Their awe and their fear wash over me. Imagining myself, though, I see the girl in the mirror. A slight wisp of a girl stuck in a gaudy dress she can barely walk in, riding stiffly on a horse too magnificent for such a tiny person. I can feel it, as the illusion begins to break, as the people notice that I’m nothing more than I appear. It almost terrifies me.
Instead, I concentrate. I can feel the energies coursing through me as only a Shaper can, suffusing my flesh with the power of my soul. I reach out, and the earth responds, welcoming. The power of my spirit quests down and into the stones. Beneath the cobbled streets, beneath the hewn sewers, the fresh, strong earth pulses and breathes. I drag it up, the deep power of the untapped earth heeding my call. As it presses through the minute cracks in the rock, I force it to change, pouring more of my essence into the dirt, compressing it, transforming it. The glowing symbol of my power rises to the surface of my bare upper arm, glowing a bright and vibrant emerald.
The first any of the spectators notice, it seems that the air around me shimmers, glittering and winking in the bright Winter sun. I close my eyes. Silence reigns as I raise my arms, the force of my will lifting the tiny shards of glass high into the sky. I bring my hands together, and the slender shards form into a floating disc high above us. I smooth it, turn it just so, and smile as sudden gasps erupt through the crowds.
I open my eyes. Rainbows dance through the crowd, the light of the sun reflected and bent through the massive lens. Every color imaginable bathes their upturned faces, the radiant glow shifting and mesmerizing. A low rumble sounds through the people, and soon they’re cheering, on and on until the noise is deafening. My grin broadens, and I wave to them, the myriad colors sparkling off the gems in my dress. Their adoration fills me in a way I’ve never experienced. The fear and anxiety disappears, and excitement takes their place. I’m eager to be a woman and take on the role of protecting my subjects.
A break in the crowd forms as a man forces his way through the soldiers lining the parade route. I smile, ready to accept his gracious adoration. His blonde hair takes the riot of color well, his handsome face warped with anger. He shouts something, nearly unintelligible through the noise, but I’m able to read his lips.
“The Vengeance sends his regards.”
He raises his arms, a crossbow appearing from underneath his cloak. A punch in the chest knocks me clean off the horse. I hardly feel the impact with the ground, my head jarring against the smooth stones of the Way of the East. My lungs feel full and thick, unable to draw in the breath my chest longs for. I squint into the glowing rainbow of color, the prism shattering and fading into the cold light of the sun.
I lurch forward, reaching for the light and drawing breath in a grating rasp. The bright sun dissipates, replaced by the filigreed walls of my chambers in the palace. I gently grasp at my chest, reliving the sudden shock of a bolt blasting through me. My skin feels whole, unblemished. I lift my nightdress, but the same smooth surface I’ve grown accustomed to over fifteen years stares back at me. Was it a dream, an all-too-realistic nightmare?
Yrena bustles in. Seeing me awake, she throws herself into my startled embrace.
“My lady,” she sobs out, gasping between each word. “I feared the worst. I saw you fall, and they said you’d live, but I’ve seen men thrice your size p-perish from less, so-”
“Peace, Yrena, peace!” I say, rubbing her back and cooing to her gently. She continues to sob, so I hold her loosely in my arms. So it’s true. That man was real, blonde-haired, his elegant features twisted into such a rictus of rage I wince even in my memory. His words come back to me: “The Vengeance sends his regards.”
My hands shake with cold fury where they meet around Yrena. The Vengeance is a nuisance, a constant threat to everything Father has built. Along with his ally the Mason, the Vengeance represents the last remnant of the Shaper Council to resist the Kingdom of the Sea. As the Shaper of Air and the Shaper of Stone, the two men are more powerful than the entire might of the Khalintari Republic and the rest of the western continent and twice as troublesome. Father has dispersed two of their supposed rebellions already, scattering their armies like cockroaches before the approaching light.
If only I was old enough, perhaps we would have been able to crush them completely in the last resistance. No one has heard from them in seven years. Rumors abound: the Mason is currying favor with the Khalintar of the Coin, the Vengeance has been spotted flying over the deeper reaches of the Kinlen Forest, the pair of them have been seen treating with the Warcaptain of the Geledin, as if the people of the Broken Isles would ever accept or deal with a Shaper. After two high-profile defeats, it seems they are now resorting to subterfuge and assassination to accomplish their goals. I don’t like the idea of killing another Shaper, but I’m certain that, for those two, it would be justice to allow their talents to pass on to another generation and finally wipe away the tyranny of the Council.
“Yrena,” I begin curiously. She looks up at me, her tear-filled gaze joyful. “I was shot by a crossbow, correct?”
She bursts into tears again, and I roll my eyes as I gently pat her back.
“Come now, come now. I live. I breathe. I’m not even scarred. My question is, how?”
“The Lord General Kranos, blessed to possess the Creator’s own hands, galloped back to you and ripped the bolt out of your chest. I feared that was the end of you, but he placed his hands over your heart. People are still spreading the story of how your skin sealed like it had never been injured, and your breath came back as if the Creator himself had gifted your lung with air.”
“Did they kill him?” I ask calmly. “The man who shot me. Did they kill him?”
“I couldn’t tell. Damn the Vengeance’s eyes to the bottom of the Eternal’s dark tomb! They beat him into the ground, and all was chaos as I tried to reach you. I didn’t see him dead, but let us hope they killed him, little one.”
“Don’t call me that any more,” I say, softly. “I’m a woman now. I’m no longer ‘little.’ It’s ti
me I acknowledged that fact. Where is my father?”
“You will always be ‘little’ to me, princess. Your father left to attend the Liberation Ball.”
“The Ball is happening now?” I ask in surprise. “Get me up and dressed, Yrena.”
“But, my lady, you have just been-”
“Enough. I am in perfect health,” I cut her off curtly.
“As you wish,” she says, eyes lowered. My heart aches at even this minor hurt I’ve caused her, but I ignore it. It’s time to grow up.
She dresses me swiftly, procuring a deep blue gown of silk to match the robes my father often wears. She braids my hair in intricate swirls tight to my head, her fingers deft and practiced. Even as I watch her work, an unexpected sorrow echoes in my heart as I look on her wrinkled features and bony hands. She will be dust long before I show the first signs of age. Father is near a century and a half old, and he doesn’t look a day past thirty.
“If only... If only you were one of us,” I say quietly.
“Oh, no,” Yrena sings out. “I would never want that responsibility. I’ve lived a full life, and should the Creator take me tomorrow, I’ll be satisfied. Us normal humans are content to live and die our natural span.”
“I cannot imagine.”
“One day, when you’ve lived as long as I have, perhaps you will.”
“No,” I say, staring back at the reflection of my eyes through the mirror. Yrena finishes up, patting me gently on the back and looking at me over my shoulder. “I won’t.”
I sweep down the final flight of stairs to the main hall. Hundreds of people talk, eat, and dance throughout the room. Dignitaries from every vassal state have come, individuals dressed in the supreme finery of their particular corner of the kingdom. The rustic military-inspired beauty of Hollen, the gorgeous lace and frills of the Tirans, the tightly woven straps that make up the dresses of the women of Itskalan; each person brings their own touch to the celebration. The grand hall of the palace is decked out in intricate blue and green stones in the shape of the mightiest oceans, much like my dress from the parade. The throne stands on a raised dais three steps above the floor. Pillars line each wall supporting balconies that stretch above the heads of the dancers.
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 6