by H. L. Burke
“Do you think one of the serving girls told him?” Arynne asked.
“Possibly, though they would’ve had to be quick in their tattling.” Elfrida put away the tray of remaining beads and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Do you wish me to come with you?”
“No.” Arynne did one final check on her hands for soot but saw none. “If it is my word against a servant’s, I don’t see how he can prove I actually did anything wrong. Even if he can, what is he going to do about it? Forbid me to use magic? Again?”
Elfrida squeezed her shoulder. “Try not to anger him needlessly.”
“Oh, don’t worry. When I anger Vanya, it is always completely needed.” Arynne chuckled.
The Mingling Room was a circular open space filled with couches, sitting mats, and even a stage with a collection of musical instruments that most of the royal family was trained to play to entertain each other—though this waking-time one of the non-family palace musicians sat on the stand, strumming a long-necked stringed instrument to the delight of a swarm of small children—Arynne’s various nieces, nephews, and cousins of various degrees.
The family quarters were divided into a wing for the unmarried women, a wing for the bachelors, a wing for the families, and a wing for the king and his children, and there were specific rules about one leaving one’s assigned place to enter the others. In the Mingling Room all could interact freely, and to an extent equally. All the wings had a hierarchy, and as the youngest in her wing, eighteen-year-old Arynne was definitely on the lowest rung within hers, but here it was all family. Young or old, king, princess, or prince.
She glanced around. The room was empty except for the children, the musician, and one nursing mother sitting in a corner with a baby on her breast and a scroll unfurled on the floor beside her—probably for poetry reading, which was a major preoccupation for the women of the court—married and unmarried alike. No sign of Vanya yet.
Arynne settled near a rack of scrolls and scanned them for something interesting. One that had not yet had time to yellow caught her eye, and she pulled it out. Yes, it was a quick inscription of current events. The tribes to the west, at the edge of the great inland ocean, had turned to piracy of late, and the news made for interesting—if a tad sensationalized—reading. She was lost in the tales of ships lost and the horrible fates of the crews when a hand clamped down on her shoulder like the talons of a golden eagle. She stiffened.
“You wished to see me, my king?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and demure.
“Do not pretend to be honey when you are, in fact, the sting of the bee.” Vanya snorted and spun her about. He stared down at her, his dark eyes glinting like chips of onyx. Arynne was tall for a woman, but Vanya towered over the whole court, broad chested, his head shaven and coated in shining oil. He wore knee-length robes of the same crimson and gold as she currently sported, though the cloth of his hugged a muscular frame that seemed as suited for a wrestler as a monarch. He kept one hand conspicuously behind his back, but for all her neck craning, she could not guess what he held there. Instead she focused on his face and the annoying, “disappointed father” expression he was giving her.
In his mid-thirties, he was nearly old enough to be her father. The Princess Arynne had been a late-life surprise for the previous king, their shared father, the result of taking on a much younger bride supposedly to comfort him through his twilight years. As Arynne’s existence proved, the late king had gotten far more than comfort from his young bride. Both of her parents had died when Arynne was too young to have much memory of them, though Elfrida and Vanya had in most ways filled the void.
“Do you know why I asked you to meet with me?” He narrowed his eyes at her.
She shrugged. Though she had a guess, she would not incriminate herself. “We are both aware I was born with the fire gift, not that of prophecy.”
He pulled his hand out from behind his back. In his grasp rested a familiar scroll. She inhaled sharply. Great stinging wind scorpions! It was the scroll she’d pilfered from the visiting priestess!
“Where did you get that?” she gasped.
“I could ask the same of you.”
She clamped her mouth shut.
He tucked the scroll into the golden sash about his waist. “One of the maids brought it to me. Said she found it this morning when seeing to your room. Do I have to remind you again that magic use, outside of the priesthood, is explicitly forbidden? This is not me being arbitrary or singling you out unfairly, Arynne. It is the law of the land and has been so since well before you were born.”
“It’s a stupid law!” she snapped.
“That is your opinion, but it is our laws that separate us from the barbaric tribes. Imagine what harm could be done if any untrained citizen could run about shooting off magic like an ill-tempered camel spitting on its rider?”
“I wouldn’t be untrained if you’d let me join the priesthood,” she stammered, her throat tightening. Though she’d prepared herself for a scolding, she hadn’t anticipated losing her scroll. She’d only managed to read a short portion of it so far, and she had so much left to learn.
“I’ve explained to you why that cannot be.” He scowled.
Crossing her arms, she angled away from him. “It cannot be because you will not let it be. You have the authority to allow me to join the priesthood, and yet you refuse.”
“That is not your fate!” The veins in his neck bulged.
“Oh, yes, it is my fate to be married off as the prize to some lord.” She sniffed. “A fine excuse. It isn’t as if there are men clamoring at our door to wed me. No one would care.”
Vanya’s jaw clenched and unclenched before he said in a tight voice, “I know I am not your father, Arynne, but I am your king. Do you know how it looks to the court that I cannot maintain control over one willful teen? You shame me. You shame me, and through me the court, and through the court the kingdom.”
A cold shudder cut through her. “That was not my intent.”
“Intent or not, it has happened.”
She rubbed her fingers together. She could feel her magic still there, beneath her skin, a constant tingling presence. “It isn’t as if you can remove the magic from me ... you have other female relations, cousins, nieces, and daughters, all of whom are far more willing to wed than I am. Why do you need me as well?”
“Because it is your place!” His growl caught her off guard, and she staggered back a step, into the scroll rack. The musician ceased his twanging, and everyone stared in their direction.
Tears welled up in Arynne’s eyes. This wasn’t fair. She wanted more.
Vanya drew a deep breath. “I had been waiting to find you a suitable husband until your older cousins were all settled as brides, as it could be perceived as unseemly for the youngest to marry before her elders, but perhaps this is a mistake. Perhaps a husband will be able to rein in your single-minded nature in a way that I, as your brother, cannot.”
Arynne’s heart sank to her feet. The idea of a husband was not particularly onerous—she’d been resigned to marriage as her likely fate, and she was not immune to the charms of men—but the idea of one specifically chosen to break her spirit, to bend her to the will of the court and the laws of men, no. That would be torment.
“Please, brother, I will wither without my magic, like a flower without water,” she whispered.
“Do not ask me for what I cannot grant.” Vanya hung his head.
The musician resumed his song, though with a somber tune this time that spoke to Arynne’s despair.
“Go prepare for dinner. We received word this morning that an envoy from a foreign land will be arriving—I forget which one, but we will be entertaining their ambassador at dinner. It will look ill if you are not there with the other ladies of the court.”
Arynne swallowed her tears. She had no time for weakness, in herself or others. “I will prepare.”
“See that you do. Remember Arynne, I do not wish you ill. A person is hap
piest when serving something greater than oneself. We all must make sacrifices for our kingdom, and there are harsher things that could be asked of you than marriage.”
Without another word, Vanya turned away.
Arynne sat at the edge of the room, not wanting to return to her chambers and explain things to Elfrida. Was she really shaming Vanya? As much as she hated his rules, she did not wish to bring him dishonor. Still, there had to be another way. A way she could have her magic without disgracing her kingdom and displeasing her brother.
Chapter Two
While many areas of Solea operated without the concept of marking time, palace life required a certain level of structure, so all the royal family had learned to govern their lives by the sand clock. As the sand shifted from one half of the glass vessel to the other, it indicated morning prayers, meals, and other group activities. State dinners, while not every waking-time, were not uncommon and were always scheduled at the midpoint between the late tea and the evening prayers.
Arynne prided herself on punctuality. It was an uncommon trait amongst Soleans in general. She supposed living in a world where there was always sun so one could always work led to a general lack of hurry, but the attitude didn’t suit her. Far too many times she’d stared at the sand clock, waiting for the grains to drop to where it would signal it was time to leave for some event, only to find when she’d arrived that she was the only one there. Then she’d sit, tapping her toe, until the other members of the court wandered in. It did, of course, give her her choice of seats.
So when she breezed out of the women’s quarters, her braids piled into an impressive bun atop her head in a way that she thought offset the length of her slender neck quite well, she was not surprised to find the other maidens of the court not there yet. A bulky, bearded bodyguard waited several respectful steps from the threshold, to escort the ladies so that they were not potentially harassed—though Arynne thought this pointless. Only a suicidal madman would so much as sling an unkind word or a rakish look at the female relations of King Vanya.
Upon seeing her, the bodyguard—a man of about thirty named Callan—grimaced. She threw back her shoulders and approached him.
“No, I’m not early. The others are just late,” she said, cutting off the protest she saw playing about his lips.
“Again.” He sighed. This wasn’t the first time she’d put Callan in this position, though it wasn’t her fault that the other maidens took so long fussing with their hair and garments and completely forgot to watch the sand clock.
“Why don’t we just skip the argument, which you know I’ll win, and allow me to walk myself to the banquet hall.” She gave him her best smile. “It’s only a short walk, and that way I won’t have to wait here for the others and you won’t have to risk leaving your post before my nieces and cousins arrive.”
“Thankfully, I foresaw your impatience and have prepared accordingly.” He stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave out a shrill whistle. A younger guard, a smooth-faced new recruit, popped out from one of the doors down the hall. “Mika, escort the princess to the banquet hall, please,” Callan ordered.
“Yes, sir.” The youth clasped his hands in front of his chest and bowed at the waist.
Arynne pursed her lips. “Well played.”
Callan laughed quietly. “Anything to accommodate my princess.”
Young Mika had to hustle to keep up with Arynne’s determined pace as she strode down the sandstone-lined halls of the palace, her sandals shuffling against floors worn smooth by centuries of passage. It was said that Solea was the first, and therefore the greatest, kingdoms to arise out of the chaotic years after the world stopped turning and one side became perpetually dark and the other perpetually light. Great cities were reduced to ruins in a generation as rivers dried beneath the ever-present sun and forests died in the darkness beyond the Gloaming.
The Soleans, however, had picked up the pieces, staked a claim to a strip of land on the edge of the last remaining sea, and held fast, creating a kingdom that had lasted nearly five hundred years. It was only in the last few generations that other kingdoms sought to rival them. Vanya was not interested in challenging these upstarts, though he maintained their superiority to them. He often entertained ambassadors from the island kingdoms or the forest folk who dwelt within the Gloaming. However, unscheduled visits were rare. Normally such things were planned months ahead.
The fact that these ambassadors had only sent word that morning of their impending arrival piqued Arynne’s curiosity. Where were they from and what did they want?
The halls of the palace were lined with massive sandstone columns carved in the shape of palm trees. Every few feet, a great skylight of colored glass opened in the ceiling, allowing in the sun and speckling the interior with tones that made Arynne imagine she was in an undersea garden.
Mika reached the end of the corridor and stepped aside with a bow. Beyond, a pool stretched across an open courtyard. Small palm trees and planters filled with flowers lined both sides, and long-legged cranes waded amongst the lily pads and reeds. Water was precious to the Soleans, which meant displays of fountains and pools were the most obvious way to show off one’s wealth and importance. This particular pool, one of the largest in the palace, was positioned so that in order to enter the banquet hall, one had to walk along its length. A footbridge crossed it at the mid-point allowing easy access from either side of the courtyard.
Across the pool, standing by the foot bridge, stood a pair of strange men. They wore hooded cloaks of dark brown and off-white garments—obviously travel worn—that covered almost all their skin. Good protection from the sun and harsh winds of the desert regions, but hardly appropriate for a palace. Strangest of all, however, were the leather goggles with dark-tinted glass that covered their eyes. Rather than cross the bridge and approach them, Arynne stopped behind one of the palms and observed from a distance.
The only visible part of their faces were their beards, one dark, the other gray. The dark bearded one wore a badge of a silver star upon his chest and held a small wooden chest
Arynne considered their garb. Not from the islands ... nor the mountains to the south. Could they be from the herd folk of the badlands? They usually wore face coverings to protect from the harsh wings plaguing that region, but they were also only loosely incorporated—not organized enough to send a delegation to a foreign king.
She glanced towards the entrance to the banquet hall. Double doors crafted of woven metal set with more colored glass in reds, yellows, and oranges were shut. Apparently she was too early to go in and take her place—which she didn’t mind. It gave her an excuse to watch the visitors.
The dark-bearded man stretched and yawned. “Well, it doesn’t seem they have any trouble keeping folks waiting in this sun-blasted land.”
Arynne started. The man was speaking Frorian.
“Starwarden Kajik,” the older man snapped in the same language. “We’re on a diplomatic mission. What if a member of King Vanya’s court overhears you refer to his kingdom so disrespectfully?”
“What are the chances anyone here understands our tongue, Lord Rafal?” Kajik pointed out.
A smirk curled the corners of Arynne’s lips. She considered walking up to Kajik and addressing him in fluent Frorian. Maybe asking him how he was enjoying his stay in this sun-blasted land. Before she could act upon this impulse, however, he pushed off his goggles and shrugged back his hood. Something caught in her throat.
His hair was the same black as his beard, shorn short on the sides and long on the top. He had a young face with a straight nose and mischievous mouth, pale of skin but ruddy of cheek. Most striking, however, were his keen blue eyes that sparkled like the palace’s stained glass. They sat like sapphires beneath dark, expressive eyebrows. Her heart quickened, and she suddenly lost all motivation to humiliate him.
“Be that as it may, you represent our kingdom while you’re here.” The older man also shed his goggles though his hood remained in plac
e. “You do understand the stakes of our mission?”
“I’ve only had them drilled into me since birth.” Kajik scoffed. “However, if King Vanya doesn’t even think us worthy of escorting into the banquet hall on time, then what do you think the chances are that he’ll willingly part with a princess for us to take back to Frorheim?”
Intrigued, Arynne leaned closer.
Rafal shrugged. “Marrying off excess daughters to secure political alliances is a tradition older than the static sun. It is the purpose for any woman of rank, their very reason for existing.”
Arynne bristled.
“Hearing you talk about women, I have to wonder how you never managed to marry one.” Though his face was expressionless, Kajik’s tone was as dry as the shifting Solean sands.
Curious both about this Frorian visitor and his mission to claim a Solean princess, Arynne stepped away from her hiding place and onto the footbridge. The men stiffened at her approach. She considered her greeting. It wasn’t often that she was allowed a chance to meet strangers, let alone exotic foreigners from a land she’d only heard of in tales. She opened her mouth to greet them.
As if in response, the doors to the banquet hall swung open. The royal steward strode out and bowed.
“Honored guests of the Solean Crown, please allow me to show you to your seats.” The steward frowned in Arynne’s general direction, even as he addressed their guests. While as a servant he wouldn’t dare openly chastise a princess, this wasn’t the first time he’d caught her waiting outside the banquet hall without the presence of an escort. He obviously did not approve of such behavior.
“Thank you,” Rafal responded in accented but clear Solean. Both he and Kajik bowed at the waist before following the steward into the dining room.
Arynne waited until the steward had gone after them before following. Distant feminine voices rose from behind her: the other palace maidens finally arriving. From their chitter-chatter they were as eager as Arynne to meet the mysterious visitors.