by Emily Deady
The early morning light was streaming into the room and bouncing off shards of glass on the floor around her.
Why was there broken glass on the floor?
Jolted awake, she sat up, checking to see that she had not been hurt by whatever had shattered.
Her stepsister, Stasiya, stood a few feet away with her arms full of an assortment of items. But she was looking over them to peer down at her feet. She must have dropped something.
“What was that?” Ashlin asked, carefully shaking off her dress and apron as she stood.
“Nothing important.” Stasiya shrugged and dropped the rest of her armload onto the wooden kitchen table. Amongst the items, Ashlin noticed the blanket from her bed, two books her father used to read to her, and the small basket in which she kept her sewing needles, pins, and scissors. It was everything she still kept in her room that had not been sold off. Which could only mean the broken item on the floor was . . .
She sank back to her knees, carefully reaching for the largest of the glass shards. “No, no, no . . .” She picked it up, thumbing over the familiar feathered texture.
“Stasiya!” she cried, but her stepsister was already swishing out the kitchen door. Ashlin got up and followed Stasiya, anger twisting in her stomach as hurt stung her eyes.
Her stepsister stopped at the base of the stairs. “That’s ‘Miss Stasiya’ to you,” she sneered.
“Was it on purpose?” Ashlin’s hand gripped the glass piece so hard it nearly broke her skin.
“It really wasn’t lovely enough to be upset over.” Stasiya shrugged, her eyes suddenly focused on the wooden railing beneath her hand.
“You should have been more careful!”
“Ashlin?” Her stepmother appeared at the top of the stairs. “What are you accusing your sister of?”
She opened her fist to reveal the piece of glass, her unshed tears threatening to make an appearance. “It was my mother’s.”
“Ahhh.” Her stepmother floated down the stairs, stepping around her daughter. “Stasiya, I’m sure you did not mean it, did you?”
Stasiya shook her head.
“Good, now why don’t you finish what I asked you to do? Ashlin and I have some things to discuss.”
Stasiya nodded, pinching her lips in what looked like an attempt to hide a smile. “Yes, Mother.” Lifting the front of her heavy, warm skirt, she climbed the stairs with all the elegance of a noble lady, throwing a quick glance at Ashlin from beneath her low lashes.
Lady Cabril moved towards Ashlin, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “You poor child.” She reached down towards the piece of glass.
Ashlin quickly closed her fingers, not willing to part with the one piece of her real mother she had left. Her childhood memories were hazy at best, mostly generated from the stories her father had told her.
She thought she felt her stepmother tense for a moment, but it must have been her imagination. The older woman moved her hand back to Ashlin’s shoulder and gently guided her towards the kitchen. “Come, my dear. It’s time to talk about you.”
Surprised by the gentleness in her stepmother’s voice, Ashlin let herself be led back to the kitchen.
“I know this year has been hard on you. It’s been hard on all of us.” Stepping into the kitchen, her stepmother stopped. The stone floor was still covered in pieces of glass. She dropped her hands from Ashlin’s shoulders and skirted around the edge of the room to retrieve the broom. “But together, we will all get through this. Our best hope . . .”
As she was speaking, she swept at the glass, but her awkward stroke merely flung the particles farther across the room. Ashlin reached out for the broom, dropping the precious piece of textured glass into her apron pocket. Her stepmother moved out of the way.
“Our only hope is that Stasiya can catch the eye of a rich young nobleman,” she continued. “She is quite beautiful, you know.”
Ashlin focused on the broom, not sure how this discussion pertained to her.
“That is where you come in. With your job at the palace, you can get her an invitation to the prince’s ball.”
“The prince’s ball?”
“Yes, yes. It was announced this morning. But of course, it is only for those of noble birth. And while Stasiya’s father, my dear Jacques . . .” She paused for a long sigh. “. . . could have purchased this entire city, he was not from one of the approved families. For now, though, we must do all we can to protect Stasiya’s chances, mustn’t we?”
Ashlin nodded. Her father, Lord Cabril, had been a nobleman, which made her part of the nobility. And her stepmother had become part of the nobility when she had wed him. But the same inclusion did not apply to Stasiya, since neither of her parents were noble at the time of her birth.
Lady Cabril tugged on a rarely used door against the back wall of the kitchen. After a few firm pulls, it opened to a small room that was meant to be used by the scullery maid. “You must play your part so well that the beautiful Lady Stasiya is never harmed by the fact that her sister is merely a palace servant.” Her stepmother had been methodically lifting the blanket, books, and sewing basket from the kitchen table and depositing them into the scullery maid’s room.
Ashlin had brushed the debris into a small pile in the corner. She dropped the broom and followed her stepmother, trying to fully fathom what she was insinuating. The small room was barely more than a closet. It held a small bed in the corner. The old mattress gave off the scent of rotting hay, and the only window, a tiny square, had long since been boarded over.
“Isn’t this a little extreme?” Ashlin asked, turning to follow her stepmother back into the kitchen. “How will anyone know what happens inside our house since we are too poor to entertain guests?”
“It’s only temporary, my dear,” her stepmother said. “I’m sure Stasiya will be dripping in suitors after the ball, and then we can all be a family again. We can go back to the way things were. But until then, I must implore you to play this part. It is just too risky . . .” She paused. She had noticed the folded brown wool sitting near the washbasin. It was streaked with mud and straw. Grasping a corner, she shook it open. Two gold coins rolled to the floor.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lady Cabril’s entire demeanor changed, and Ashlin wanted to run back into the miserable excuse for a bedroom she had just been advocating against.
Ashlin cowered backwards. “It’s . . . I can explain. The wool will wash out quite easily!”
“Were you hiding coin from me, girl? After all I’ve done to house and feed you?” The tall woman stepped towards her, and Ashlin cowered back.
“No, no! I was going to give it to you, but with working at the palace yesterday I forgot.”
“Where did it come from?”
“There were . . . two young men here in the storm two nights ago, and they merely wanted to sleep in the barn. They left the coin in payment.” Ashlin thought it was safer to not mention the fact that the two young men were the crown prince and his brother.
“You see?” Her stepmother’s voice was higher pitched than usual. “This is why we must take extreme measures. Did you bother to think what having two young men sleeping on our premises would mean for your sister’s reputation?”
“I could not turn them out in the storm. No one will ever know.”
“Unless these two young men go around telling everyone that we are running a hostel!”
“I don’t think they will tell . . .”
“You do not think. That is the problem. I will not have you risk the future and happiness of your sister.”
“It won’t happen again.” Ashlin’s voice was reduced to a whisper.
“There won’t be a chance for it to happen again.” Her stepmother dropped the wool to the ground and turned to the door.
“But, Stepmother . . .”
“It’s ‘my lady’ or ‘madam’ until you have earned my trust.” She swept out of the room, pausing at the doorway for a moment. Her shoulders drooped and she pl
aced a hand on the doorframe, leaning against it for support. “I have been so impressed with your hard work recently. I thought you were truly trying to make up for your selfishness and restore what we have lost. But I see now that I was mistaken. You cannot think of anyone but yourself.”
“Stepmother . . . Madam, please.” Ashlin felt as though she couldn’t breathe. The disappointment in her stepmother’s voice was agonizing. “You are all I have left. I want nothing more than to go back to the happy family that we were. I will do anything to protect that.”
Her stepmother’s gray eyes were guarded as they looked back at her. Ashlin could still sense her sorrow, but she clung to the hope that they both wanted the same thing.
“Your selfishness has brought this family to the brink of ruin, and now it threatens the only hope we have left. I want to believe you are capable of growing past this childishness. Perhaps your work at the palace will teach you how to think of others as well.” She sighed deeply, as though untangling her thoughts while she spoke them. “For now, I think the previously discussed arrangement is oddly fitting. I will let you know if there is a greater way in which you can prove yourself.” She gave Ashlin a final glance filled with pity and then left the room.
Ashlin’s desire to cry had been replaced by a firm resolve. She had willingly taken on more responsibility as they had slowly let their servants go over the past few seasons, so this would not be much different.
Returning to the broom, she began to sweep the pile of broken shards into the tin dustpan. The delicate swan-shaped figurine had been a favorite of her mother’s. While tossing away the broken pieces, she almost lost her resolve. Her life could never be the same as it had been in her early childhood, but at least she still had the promise of a new family.
Chapter 6
“We have been steadily increasing the number of knights on guard here at the palace, and we will continue to do so for as long as we can.” Onric gestured towards the towers around the perimeter of the palace gates. “Every entrance to the palace has been doubly manned as well.”
Lord Munney listened attentively as Onric led him around the palace perimeter.
Ian followed as well, although he had already given the councilor a detailed account of the larger defense plans throughout the kingdom. As the crown prince, Ian was second-in-command of Iseldis’s troops. Onric, the second son, was in charge of the immediate defenses of the palace and capital city.
“Have you been watching for Majis spies here?” Lord Munney said, directing his question at Ian.
“We have been for some time now. However, that would be a question for Onric as the palace defense is in his command.”
“Ah, right.” Lord Munney turned back towards Onric.
“We have been speaking with all unrecognized guests to the palace since last harvestreign, so nearly a year. We have been keeping an account on each person’s reason for visiting as well as where they have traveled from and the duration of their stay.”
“Is this within the palace only?” Lord Munney asked.
“Currently, yes. We have not yet instituted these measures throughout the city . . .”
“With the upcoming ball, Crown Prince,” Lord Munney said over Onric, once again addressing his comment to Ian, “the city will be receiving an influx of visitors. I think it would be wise to extend these same precautions to the city gates.”
Ian nodded, but directed his own gaze to Onric. “The city is under Prince Onric’s jurisdiction.”
Lord Munney turned back to Onric. “Wouldn’t you agree?” His voice was curt and for the first time, he lost a small sliver of his gracious composure.
“Yes, of course,” Onric answered quickly, feeling the need to prove he knew what he was doing, even if he wasn’t the crown prince. “As I was saying, we haven’t yet extended these measures to the city gates, but we have begun discussions with the city guard to implement such measures as soon as the invitations for the ball are sent.”
“Excellent.” Lord Munney turned back to Ian. “Chendas has already received accounts of returning Majis attempting to reintegrate as spies on the coasts of Etrar and Allys. It is good to hear you are alert and ready here in Iseldis.”
Ian nodded once again, but he raised his shoulders at Onric behind the councilor’s back. He could only redirect the conversation so many times.
Onric rolled his eyes in response. He was used to it, even if it still hurt to be overlooked. He decided to take the conversation back into his own hands. “Have these Majis spies helped the examiners to learn more about the magic?”
“The few that have been captured are being sent to Chendas for that very purpose. Hopefully we should know more soon.”
“What other types of defenses can we expect from the findings of the examiners?” Onric kept his questions direct and firm.
“I cannot say for certain, as that is not my area of expertise.” Lord Munney spoke with the ease of one who had spent his life at court. “But they have hinted they are coming close to sharing a series of spelled items that can be used to deflect any magic-based attacks by the Majis.”
“That sounds promising,” Onric replied. “Do you know the strength of these spelled items?”
“Do you know the strength of the Majis’ attacks?”
“No, but I do know the strength of this castle, which is in my care.”
“Let us return to the Great Hall,” Ian cut in diplomatically. “I believe King Frederich wanted an audience with you, Lord Munney, to hear your opinions on our current status.”
“Yes, of course.” Lord Munney seemed all too eager to return his focus to the crown prince. “Lead the way, Your Highness.”
“If you will excuse me, my Lords,” Onric interjected, “I have some other matters to attend to.”
Ian nodded to him and then led the councilor back inside the palace.
Making sure no one was following him, Onric wound his way to the inner courtyard and slipped inside the ruins of the old castle.
He knew he would be required to work closely with Lord Munney for the rest of the year, but he was not looking forward to it.
Thinking back to his father’s words the previous evening, his hand found its way to his side pocket for the fiftieth time that day. The needle was still there, just as it had been the last forty-nine times he had checked. He couldn’t tell if he was worried about losing it or feeling guilty about using it. Likely, it was both.
Winding up an old stone staircase, he made his way to the top of the old eastern tower. It had been one of his favorite places as a child. Not only did it afford a generous view of the newer surrounding palace, it was also filled with crates and chests of abandoned treasures. Or at least, that was what he had thought back then. Broken statues, outdated globes, dull weapons, and swaths of canvas had been an endless source of entertainment for his young imagination.
At the moment, however, he was not looking to recreate the games of his childhood. He was going to follow through on his father’s secretly condoned mission.
When the Majis had been exiled one thousand seasons prior, or two hundred and fifty years ago, the Council had confiscated all spelled items as a safety precaution. They had destroyed most of them, but some they were using for research in order to prepare the five kingdoms for a safe reintegration of the quotidian, or non-magical, with the returning Majis.
But the Return was only four seasons away, and for as long as he could remember, Onric’s parents had returned from each session with empty promises from the Council. The kingdoms had agreed upon a set of new laws that would protect the weak. But if the powerful Majis came back and overpowered them instead of reintegrating, then everyone would be weak.
Onric reached the tower room and closed the door behind him. It smelled of dust, just as he had remembered it, though he had not remembered the additional sickly-sweet scent of mold. But no matter, this was perfect. No one would disturb him here.
He found a stray piece of canvas and settled himself ato
p a wooden chest, holding his breath as the dust resettled around him. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he gripped the metal case. There was only one way to find out if the needle was spelled or not. He opened the elaborate case and removed the simple needle, threading it with a strand of silk he had borrowed from Meena. Then he turned his attention to a scrap of canvas. He’d once learned how to sew a leather casing around the hilt of a weapon or bow, but that was closer to weaving than actual sewing.
He folded a corner of the fabric over, his left hand beneath it, holding it firmly in place while his right hand confidently pressed the tip of the needle through the center of the two pieces.
A scuffling noise from the corner of the room startled him, and he jumped in surprise. The tip of the needle buried itself in his finger.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, quickly pulling his damaged hand from behind the fabric, expecting to see blood. His aching finger looked exactly as it usually did. He stuck his finger in his mouth anyway to soothe the pain and moved his eyes towards the source of the sound, expecting to see a mouse. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to see a now-familiar brown kerchief. The new servant girl was peeking up from behind one of the crates in the corner of the room.
“Prince Onric?” she asked, standing and working her way through the maze of crates to reach him. “Did you hurt yourself?”
Realizing that he was sucking his finger like a petulant child, he quickly pulled it from his mouth. “Uh, no. Of course not.”
“What are you doing?” Her eyes ran down the pile of canvas he was holding. He looked down, unsure how to explain his outlawed activity . . . Where was the needle!? All other thoughts left his head as his mind flooded with worry. He flipped the canvas over. The needle hung in the air, suspended by the thread that was now attached to the canvas.
He picked it up and carefully poked it back through the fabric so it was safely in his sight on the other side.