by Jordi Burton
A knock sounded at her door before Lili entered. She was dressed in a traditional flowy blue and green gown, a crown of bright yellow flowers in her hair. She looked ethereal.
“Good morning, my Princess.”
Anastasia tied her amulet around her neck, feeling the stone fall heavily against her chest. “Morning.”
Closing the door, Lili proffered a garment box, a long match, and a large white candle. Anastasia took the ceremonial candle and placed it on her windowsill. Lighting it, she wordlessly asked the Gods and Angels for protection and guidance through the following year. The candle would remain lit all through the day, until the following sunrise, when the solstice would end.
Out of the garment box, Lili pulled a new gown of blue and green. Anastasia admired the handiwork; the bodice was decorated with pale yellow thread, sewn in flower patterns. Wordlessly, Lili helped Anastasia into the dress. She completed the look with a flower-patterned tiara with yellow diamonds.
Looking at her reflection, Anastasia frowned. At the time, her tattoos seemed incredible, a testament to her individual strength and uniqueness. Now, they served as a reminder of her illness.
“You will be well, my Princess,” said Lili. “The people will see that.”
Anastasia laughed derisively. “Will they?”
Turning from her reflection, she made her way downstairs. Her family was already there, waiting. Calla and Celia wore similar blue and green gowns, while her father, uncle, and great-uncle were dressed in bright yellow doublets. They all carried ceremonial torches, lit for the procession through the town. As she approached, her father handed her one.
“How are you feeling, girl?”
She gave him a wan smile. “Fine.”
He didn’t press her any further, though she knew he wanted to. But there was nothing else to say. She had epilepsy, and unless they found a way to fix it, she would never be able to become Queen of Jacqueline.
As the first rays of sunlight colored the sky, the procession began. She stepped outside with her family and Lili, joining the growing collection of people in the castle square. Every last one of them was dressed in shades of blue, green, and yellow, holding torches that lit up the early morning sky. The sheer number of people took Anastasia’s breath away, despite her sour mood. She saw the dressmaker, Mistress Woodsman, who offered her a kind wave. Beside her were Chris’ sister and parents. The sight of them made her chest tighten. She turned away from them, but not before she spotted William’s father amongst them.
Tears pricked her eyes. Swallowing her sorrow, she moved away from them, joining Calla and Celia. As she moved through the townspeople, she noticed their stares. It took her a moment to remember that she had finally gotten her tattoos, and they were, indeed, quite different than anyone else’s.
“Oh, poppycock,” Celia was saying.
Hoping for a distraction, Anastasia turned to their conversation.
Calla shook her head, her deep blue eyes pensive. “Are you so sure it is?”
“Of course I’m sure! There is no way Anastasia will give up her throne. Nor should she, when there is a perfectly good course of action.”
Anastasia frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Celia didn’t even bat an eye as she turned to Anastasia. “You need to remarry.”
“What your aunt means to say,” interjected Calla, “is that this new illness caught us all off guard.”
“I said what I meant. Anastasia needs to remarry. She has gone through the proper mourning period for Aatu, and in light of recent events, it is the right thing to do. For Jacqueline.”
Anastasia stared at her aunt, hoping she misunderstood what she was saying. But by the stony look on Celia’s face, and the guilty look in Calla’s eyes, she knew she’d understood perfectly. Her aunt didn’t just want her to remarry, but to remarry and birth an heir. They’d moved straight past her epilepsy, understanding that she would certainly be removed as heir-apparent, and picked the next best thing.
Gods and Angels, she never thought this is what her life would be. She married Aatu because it was the right thing for their people. And she agreed to marry Niboki back when they thought it would protect them from the Chaos. But she never imagined she’d have to do it again.
“You want me to have a child,” she said woodenly.
Celia huffed. “You must find a husband first.”
Calla scoffed. “Surely you are not debating semantics right now, Celia.”
Before Anastasia could begin to formulate a response, the procession began. The people of Sehir strolled through the early morning light. Musicians played frolicking tunes, children darted about carrying streamers, and people linked arms and skipped. This was a time for celebration, and yet, all Anastasia could focus on was the frivolity of it all. Her time was over. She suspected it had been long before her first seizure. It was her future daughter’s time, now.
“There are plenty of good Nadmilise men,” her aunt was saying. “Should you want to marry within Jacqueline.”
Calla shook her head. “Is now really the best time?”
“Gerrard Tomlin is just over there,” Celia retorted. “His father is the cousin to the Representative of Menen. He comes from good, strong stock. His roots can be traced back to the founding of Sehir.”
“Yes, because that is what makes a good husband.”
“It will do Anastasia no harm to meet the boy! Honestly, Calla.”
While her aunts bickered, Anastasia followed their gazes to where Gerrard walked with his friends. He was handsome enough, she supposed. Tall, muscular, and had a decent job as a carpenter, denoted by the royal blue band tattooed on his right bicep, and the cyan blue band on his left.
But he wasn’t William.
Her Uncle Graham suddenly joined them, his hands clasped behind his back. He strolled beside his sister, his eyes mischievous.
“What are we discussing, ladies?”
Celia rounded on him immediately. “Anastasia’s future husband.”
“Ah. You mentioned Ericcen Ros, right?” At their blank expressions, he shook his head. “He’s the new armorer from Pousa.” Scanning the crowd, her uncle pointed. “There.”
They all followed his gaze, finding a rather scrawny redheaded young man. Anastasia sighed. Did everyone in her family have a suggestion of who her future husband should be? Did it matter not what she wanted?
Falling behind them, she let herself get lost in the crowd of people. Most of them whispered about her strange tattoos, but she found them easy enough to ignore. Clutching her torch, she wound her way through the city, letting her mind wander and the lilting music fill her head. Thankfully, no one approached her. She was able to meander through the streets of Sehir wordlessly, taking in the beauty of her home.
As they passed the warrior training grounds, Anastasia tightened her grip on her torch. Wanted posters with William’s likeness were nailed to posts, and even the smell of basil, rue, and rowan—from bundles strung up in doorways—wasn’t enough to calm her. She pictured him, being hunted by his sister warriors, and she suddenly felt like she couldn’t breathe.
It didn’t matter that she had nothing to do with his disappearance, or that Calla hadn’t, either. It was the plain fact that she had no idea where he’d gone, or if he’d even gone willingly. And the warriors wouldn’t care. They didn’t care that he was innocent. All that mattered was that he was imprisoned.
She wrapped her free arm around herself, as though she could hold herself together from the outside. It didn’t help.
“Anastasia!” Celia called.
Turning, she made her way back to her aunt. At that moment, she realized they’d reached the west fields. A massive balefire was already burning, filling the air with the scent of sweet smoke. Fallen trees had been carved into tables, and people quickly set to putting food atop them. Everyone seemed to know their place, from the people gathering for a hunting party, to the children folding paper boats to float on the water. Anastasia felt s
upremely out of place.
Celia made an impatient noise. “Come along, now, Anastasia.”
Hurrying, she joined her aunt. “What?”
“I’ve spoken with Mistresses Tomlin and Ros. They’re expecting you to spend time with their sons today.”
“Excuse me?”
Celia leaned close, so only Anastasia could hear her. “You need an heir, Anastasia. Or Jacqueline faces losing everything. With your illness—”
“I understand!”
She planted her torch in the ground and moved away from her aunt, ignoring the shocked expression upon her face. Catching a worried look from her father, she huffed. What kind of life was she supposed to lead if everyone treated her like she was made of glass?
Plastering a smile to her face, she joined the children. “Happy solstice!”
Most of the children hurried to curtsy or bow to her. All except a young boy, who was concentrating so hard on folding his boat, his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth.
“And who are you?” she asked.
The little boy looked up, his eyes wide. “Haspen.”
“Well, Haspen, your boat looks very nice so far.”
He grinned. “It’s the first one I’ve ever made by myself!”
“Will you teach me to make them?”
He scrunched his nose. “Do you not know how to make boats? Everyone knows how to make boats!”
It didn’t matter that she could speak both Bashaa and Virrean, or that she’d memorized the steps to the traditional dances of Jacqueline by the time she was ten, or that she knew all the dining customs for the realms. No, to this little boy, she was odd because she didn’t know the simplest tradition for the Sehirian solstice festival. Something about that filled her with sorrow.
One of the little girls took Anastasia’s hand. “I don’t know how, either.”
Anastasia smiled. “Perhaps Haspen could teach all of us.”
Thrilled at the prospect of an audience, Haspen set to fluttering around the table, tossing bits of parchment every which way.
“You’re good with them.”
The deep voice behind her startled her. Turning, she found Gerrard Tomlin standing behind her. Mentally, she rolled her eyes. Outwardly, she smiled. He stepped forward, joining her at the table.
“Gods and Angels, I haven’t made one of those since I was their age.”
Anastasia picked up a finished boat. “You’re never too old to do it again.”
“No, I suppose not.”
He seemed gentle, soft-spoken, but even so, the idea of being around him felt wrong, like she was somehow turning her back on William. Thankfully, Gerrard didn’t seem to pick up on her detachment. He seemed perfectly content to just sit beside her and fold little paper boats.
“You have to put a wish inside!” Haspen instructed, holding out a quill.
Anastasia took the quill, looking down at her blank boat. There were plenty of things she could wish for. Her health, her mother’s health, Joey’s safe return from his Shadow encasement, the prosperity of Jacqueline, peace between Hullenia and Jacqueline… but all she could think of was: let him come home. She didn’t even know who the he was, per se, or to what home she was referring, but it felt right.
She and the children took their boats down to the water, where Gerrard stepped onto the bank and pushed them away.
Haspen tugged on Anastasia’s skirts. “What did you wish for, Princess?”
The little girl from before, Nally, waved her arms at him. “You can’t tell your wish, or else it won’t come true!”
“Nu-uh!”
As the children took to chasing each other around, debating the proper wish-telling etiquette, Gerrard stepped up beside Anastasia. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and though the scent wasn’t altogether unpleasant, it wasn’t necessarily welcome among the strong herbal incense and smoke.
“I know what I wished for,” he said an in low voice.
Anastasia screwed her face into a chiding smile, hiding her inner unease. “You know what happens to wishes if you share them out loud.”
He laughed good-naturedly. “I’m sure I’m willing to risk it if you are.”
“I just don’t know if I could take that chance.”
“Come now, Your Highness, what’s a secret among friends?”
Ordinarily, she would proffer a sarcastic remark or a joke, and ask him to call her by her given name rather than her title. That’s what she’d done with William, and Chris, and their sisters. But in this case, it didn’t feel right. She didn’t feel right. It had nothing to do with Gerrard and everything to do with everything else in her life. No matter what her family expected of her, she would not be screening candidates for a new husband. Not today.
Shrugging, she stepped away from him. “Every girl must keep her secrets. Surely you understand.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
A horn sounded behind them and they both turned. The children ceased chasing each other, huddling around Anastasia’s legs, as a line began to form in front of a smaller fire. Recognizing her family at the front of the line, Anastasia turned to the children.
“I guess that’s my cue.”
Haspen took her hand. “Good luck, Princess!”
They walked together towards the fire, Gerrard and the other children trailing after them. As they neared, Gerrard stepped up beside her.
“I shall find you later, Your Highness.”
She politely inclined her head. “Happy solstice, Master Tomlin.”
“Please, call me Gerrard.”
The irony of his turn of phrase wasn’t lost on her. She offered a curt smile and joined her family in line, towing Haspen along with her. Though her aunt didn’t mention anything about Gerrard, she pursed her lips to hide a smirk. Anastasia focused her attention on Haspen, who shuffled worriedly from foot to foot.
A second horn sounded, and Anastasia’s great-uncle Bale stepped forward. As the eldest member of the royal family, it was his duty to go first.
He backed up a few paces, and everyone in Sehir held their breath, watching. Shaking out his hands, Bale raced forward, propelling himself over the flames. Cheers surged up, and then a second horn sounded. Celia was next, followed by Anastasia’s father, and then her uncle Graham. At last, it was Anastasia’s turn. She knelt down beside Haspen, catching the anxious expression upon his face. The horn announcing her turn to jump carried through the field.
“Are you worried about me?” she asked him.
Haspen shrugged. “It’s a big fire. What if it burns you?”
“Then I shall have a burn.”
“Won’t it hurt?”
“For a little while, but the pain will fade. Most things that hurt you don’t hurt forever.”
Seemingly pacified, Haspen nodded. He screwed his small, round face into a grimace and stepped back, hands on hips. Anastasia nodded to him as she hiked up her skirts and faced the flames.
Blowing out a breath, she charged. The wind tore at her cheeks; her stomach lurched as she leapt. The heat from the fire seemed to bloom around her, carrying her to the grasses on the other side. As she landed, she hardly heard the cheers. A nearly overwhelming sense of clarity took hold of her, and she stood stock still, letting it wash over her.
She was the Crown Princess of Jacqueline. She would not be deterred by seizures or illness. She was the direct descendant of the Angel Razibelle and Humurse the Warrior God. Strength coursed through her veins. She would not give in so easily.
With that realization, she threw herself wholeheartedly into the celebration. Music started up as the townspeople lined up to leap through the fire. Some couples began to dance, jumping and twirling to the raucous jig. Feeling as though her heart had grown three sizes, Anastasia embraced it all. She made flower crowns, drank honeyed wine, and chased the children through the fields.
There were fruit pastries and salads, sweet ciders and teas. Some people set barrels on fire and chased them down the hill to the water,
where they fizzled out, ready to be lit again. All the while, music threaded through the air, carrying the warm, fresh scents of summer.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, and twilight settled over the field, she was breathless with excitement. Everyone put on sun-inspired masks, like dancing light spirits before the firelight. Hunting parties returned with meat they roasted over a smaller flame; people passed around a communal wine goblet fashioned from an overlarge tree trunk roughly the size of Anastasia’s head. The children leapt over smaller fires, their giggles piercing the night. Off a ways, Anastasia saw the royal bard telling stories, illuminated by the flames.
Standing off to the side to catch her breath, Anastasia fingered her amulet. It sizzled with energy, ever since she’d leapt over the fire, filling her with a comforting warmth.
“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”
Startled, she turned to see someone standing behind her. He wore a mask, and the same blue and green clothing as everyone else, but there was something familiar about him. It took her a moment, but she finally recognized him as Ericcen, one of her potential suitors.
“It is.”
He smiled. “Might I have a dance with Your Highness?”
Seeing no way out without getting an earful from her aunt, Anastasia agreed. Ericcen led her to the fire, where they joined the dancers flitting around the flames.
They twirled and clapped, the women’s skirts blooming around them like flower petals. Turning, Anastasia and Ericcen leapt in amongst them. They darted left and right, bobbing and weaving to the rhythm of the song. Part of the way through, they switched partners, and Anastasia found herself with a vaguely familiar young man in a mask.
Something about the shape of his face, the warmth of his hand was familiar. But he wouldn’t look directly at her. A moment later, she found herself returned to Ericcen’s arms, the scent of smoke and the waters of the Fire Lake lingering in his wake.