Illera's Darkliete: A Coming of Age Fantasy

by Gail Gernat

  Her father groaned. “What have you been doing now? How often must I tell you not to go out alone at night? What about wild animals?”

  Illera laughed. “I have more to fear inside these walls than from the animals of the forest. Besides, I needed some things. How else can I make you better?”

  The King covered his eyes with both hands. “Illera!”

  Illera plumped down on the bed beside him, placing one delicate hand over his blue-veined one. “Father, our fighting force is cut in half. You know the physician is an idiot and half of those left are going to die. I can’t let that happen. So just let me start with you, and then I’ll go and treat the injured men in the barracks.”

  “Illera, it is not fitting for you to be in the men’s barracks.”

  Illera didn’t reply, but turned back the covers exposing the King’s leg. A deep slash started just above the knee spiraling down across the calf to the ankle. It was a dark, throbbing red with lines spreading into the pale flesh beside the wound. Illera drew a deep breath.

  “Father, why didn’t you tell me it was this bad,” she scolded.

  Ian shook his head and looked away. She sorted through her basket, removing a woody, pale blue mushroom. She gave it to the manservant.

  “Make my father some tea with this. Hurry and bring it to him immediately it has steeped.”

  The manservant hurried off to do her bidding. Next, she placed a number of tiny dark green leaves in an ewer of water, stirring slowly until the water turned a deep amber color. Then she washed the wound, being as gentle as possible, but still, the King winced with every stroke. When the slash was as clean as she could make it, she wrapped it with moss of the palest green and covered it with fresh bandages. Then she sat with him, silently stroking his hand as he drank the blue tea, making faces at its strong, pungent flavor. As he drifted off to sleep, she gathered her things and went to treat the men in the barracks.

  Illera was again hidden behind the tapestry in the great hall. She held herself very still although her muscles ached and her bones groaned with weariness. She wiped the sleep from her eyes, anxious for a hint of what her Father had agreed to with the Franians. King Ian looked tired and beaten, although his wound was the memory of the scar, well healed from a week ago. The tables were filled with the recovered warriors, and only her absence at the head table was obvious.

  The Franians were jubilant, drinking deeply and talking loudly. Sir Kyle gazed around the great hall with a possessiveness that made Illera sorely uneasy. His laugh was like sanding paper on her nerves.

  “Well, King Ian, a toast to the success of our venture,” Sir Kyle loudly proclaimed, raising his goblet high.

  The king lifted his cup in a weary hand in reply, followed by his men at the table.

  “To the union of Frain and Madean!” yelled Sir Kyle followed by the Frainians and with less verve by the men of Madean.

  Sir Kyle continued, “So, you can expect my contingent to arrive sometime next month. As soon as I return, the bride price will be sent, along with men of arms, food supplies, weapons and horses. You drive a hard bargain you old fox.”

  King Ian grunted in reply.

  “But I have yet to see the maiden. Should she not have returned after this great time?”

  “Never fear, she is about. I have spoken to her on many occasions since your arrival.”

  Sir Kyle’s voice took on a sly note, “Yes, I heard of her healing in the barracks. It appears that she has more than talents with just livestock. In fact, some of my men thought the healing of the wounds of your army almost uncanny.”

  “They were young and healthy, well fed. So their healing was nothing unnatural. We have an outstanding physician.”

  “But the men themselves told me it was your daughter who did the healing.”

  “The people hereabouts think a great deal of Illera,” retorted Ian, growing angry.

  “But I could not bring home to my prince a woman who was...shall we say…tainted.”

  Ian rose to his feet, followed by his men, “Are you calling my daughter tainted?”

  “No…no my lord,” soothed Sir Kyle, “it’s merely that I, for one, have never seen the maiden. Even you, sire must admit that to be at Seven Spires for two weeks and never see the princess, who should be acting as hostess, is somewhat unusual.”

  Ian slumped back to his seat. A wave of his hand and his men followed suit. “My daughter has no wish to see you or to meet with you. As I told you on the first night, she does not desire to marry and move from Madean. She belongs to this land. So, as you are the cause of her going, she has no wish to see or be seen by you.”

  “But Sire,” Sir Kyle interposed, “there can be but one reason not to show me the girl.”

  “Pray tell, sir, what that might be?”

  “Either the maiden is tainted, or is of such repulsive features that you fear to show her to me.”

  Ian towered over the Franians, furious in his wrath. His soldiers drew swords across the table from the strangers. “By the Thunderer and his Bolt, you men try my patience. You force me to sell the one most dear to me in order to save my country from starvation and then have the gall to call my daughter unfit for the cur offspring of your lord. You need nothing more than a womb to bear the plagued offspring of your lord’s whelp. I’ll guarantee my daughter to be of sound health and virtue. If not, you may claim my throne as your own. By all that’s holy, I have had enough of you arrogant pig droppings. Take your horses and leave!”

  “But sire, it is the middle of the night,” replied Sir Kyle flabbergasted.

  “I don’t care if it is the second moon of Kyrian, you will be gone from my demesnes immediately! See to it,” he instructed Garth, and he strode from the room.

  Illera hurried after her father, catching him in the corridor outside his quarters.

  “Father, tell me you didn’t sell me to the King of Frain.”

  “Illera,” Ian began but dissolved into sobs, clutching her to him as weeping racked his body.

  Chapter 2

  Illera threw her arms over the lowest branch of the ancient spreading oak. She swung her leg over and pulled herself upright on the limb. Moving close to the trunk, she inched upward. The magpie fluttered around her face, trying to force her down from the tree.

  “Come on Maggie; I just want to see it. You know I won’t hurt anything,” Illera used her most soothing voice.

  The magpie squawked louder and tried harder to hinder Illera’s climb. She persisted, gently pushing the bird aside with one free hand as she inched up the bark with the other. Very slowly she made her way upward, clinging more tightly as the branches grew narrower. With an almost human yelp, Maggie left her, winging away into the clear summer sky. Illera scrambled higher, securing a position looking down into an untidy pile of sticks. Three featherless, gray blobs opened their eyes and began to gape at her. Illera smiled down at them and reaching into the pocket of her dress with one hand, tossed slivers of meat to the babies. Maggie sailed in with an indignant sound and covered her young ones, hiding them from Illera’s view with outspread wings.

  “Oh, Maggie, I just wanted to see your children. You know I would never hurt them.”

  Maggie turned her head away; pretending Illera wasn’t there.

  “Okay, I get the hint, I’m leaving.”

  She placed the remaining slivers of meat on the branch where the magpie could easily reach them. Then she slithered down the branch to one below. An imperative squawk from the bird made her halt.

  “What is it, Maggie? I’m leaving, okay?”

  Maggie gargled back a reply, looking down the road to the approach. Illera stopped and listened. Under the muffled begging of the baby magpies, she could hear the faint thunder of hooves.

  “Thanks, Maggie,” called Illera slipping down to a concealing branch where she could see the road.

  The approaching party was magnificent. Two banner carriers on snow-white mules rode first, their pennants snapping in the wind. Il
lera’s heart sank at the sight of the black dragon on a field of blood red. The other standard sported a galloping white horse on sky blue. Behind the mules trod two of the largest war-horses she had ever seen. The furthest stallion was coal black, caparisoned in sky blue and ridden by a dark-haired man in shining silver armor. The nearest was golden with a white mane and tail, also caparisoned in sky blue, ridden by a man with hair the color of his horse’s coat. He was also clad in mirror bright armor. A chestnut palfrey with a white blaze and four white stockings was led at rein behind them. She counted twelve pairs of knights behind them, each riding a well-decked out war-horse and carrying many weapons. Behind the knights came ten pairs of bowmen, trotting and carrying their longbows in their hands. After them shuffled twenty pairs of donkeys, each laden to the point that the animals looked like walking bundles with long ears in front. A mixed herd of scrawny cattle followed, Illera guessed there were about twenty head.

  She sighed; this must be the party from Frain come to steal her from her land. Usually, Maggie gave her warning of bad things, but she was occupied with her new family, so Illera understood why the bird had failed to caution her. The unrest in the kingdom bothered her, and the pinch of hunger was not something she was used to. Her father said this train would bring food, enough for the farmers to survive until the crops were ready. But still, how could they expect her to leave here. It was part of her soul.

  When the last bovine passed, switched repeatedly by a dusty boy, Illera slid down from the oak and followed the entourage at a distance. There was total confusion on the outer bailey as the Frainians worked with the guards to organize a march to the inner castle and a reception by the king. She slipped past the milling throng and ducked into one of the passages, passing under the confusion and into the castle. In her rooms, she could hear her father bellowing orders below and at the mention of her name, disappeared again, exiting into the stable this time.

  The loft afforded her a good view of the proceeding. Her father greeted the guests royally, accepting the loaded donkeys and giving them to the care of the yeoman in charge of supplies. Sir Garth took charge of the soldiers, sending them to the barracks beside the stable. The grooms took the war-horses and bedded them down beneath Illera’s hiding place. The confusion moved indoors, and all was quiet below.

  Illera descended the ladder from the loft, and walked among the new arrivals. She knew every animal around the castle, but her favorites were the giant horses that the knights rode. She moved to the two huge animals from the front of the procession. The golden stallion whickered at her, and she stretched out her hand and firmly stroked his broad cheek. Stabled next to him was the black. When Illera approached him he snorted and stamped, shaking the stall walls.

  “What’s the matter?” Illera asked him.

  His eyes rolled redly in his head, and the massive hooves beat a tattoo on the walls. Illera laughed, watching his ears swivel towards her.

  “Shhhhhhh big boy. You know you don’t have to be afraid of me,” she whispered to him.

  Gradually the great head bent closer, arching down above her. Her hand crept forward, and she scratched behind the curious muzzle. He lowered his head, and she placed her forehead on his, closing her eyes and communing with the powerful creature.

  “I never thought Abbadon would let any creature so close to him except me,” a warm voice said directly behind her.

  Illera jumped and whirled around at the same time the horse threw up his head and snorted fiercely.

  “Whoa, big fellow. It’s me,” the man said, reaching up to catch the halter and pull the big head back down.

  The horse bared his teeth and shuffled backward in his stall.

  “Now what did you do to my horse?” asked the man as he turned to her.

  Illera stared up at him, speechless. He fitted his animal well, being the tallest man she had ever seen, with broad shoulders blotting out the light from the doorway. He had a strong face with wide cheekbones and deep dimples now smiling down at her. His hair was as black as Abbadon’s hide, but it was his eyes that held her mesmerized, large and dark, just the color of the sky at twilight, fringed with long black lashes and they bore straight into hers. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest.

  “I…I don’t know what to say,” Illera stammered. “I was just…ah… getting acquainted with the new horses.”

  The stranger laughed, a rich, hearty sound that made Illera smile in return. “It’s okay. I’m just surprised. Abbadon has one master, me. Anyone else approaching him usually gets stomped flat, and here I find you head to head with him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Illera replied. “I was just talking to him, and he is so beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more splendid animal.”

  The stranger’s smile grew wider. “Thank you. I think the same thing. Lark, that’s my brother, and I fought over him as a colt. But I won; so Abbadon’s mine, and Lark got Appolon there. He’s not a bad animal either.”

  “No,” Illera agreed, “He looks fabulous. Until now my father’s horse was the best one in the stable.” She pointed to King Ian’s war-horse across the width of the building.

  “I thought that was the King’s horse,” said the stranger with a frown on his face. “Don’t tell me you are the princess?”

  His eyes wandered down her body, and Illera looked too, noting the smudges of dirt and straw sticking to her front. Her hem was in its usual soiled state. Dust and cobwebs were smeared down her arms and across her face and hair. A long run, where the fabric had caught on a branch exposed the cotton petticoat below. Illera blushed, embarrassed.

  The stranger straightened and held out a hand. “My lady, I am Raven, squire of King Korul, sent to escort you to your betrothed, Torul, prince of Frain.”

  Caught, Illera could do little but extend a dainty, if soiled, hand to him. He raised it to his forehead and bowed over it, releasing her immediately. Raising his head, he stared. Illera fidgeted; uncomfortable under his gaze.

  “Sir, you embarrass me,” she snapped staring right back at him.

  “Your pardon my lady,” he replied looking away. “Rumor has it that the princess of Madean is an ugly hag that Torul will have to be blindfolded to beget an heir on, and yet I see before me the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.”

  Illera looked at the floor, not knowing how to reply. Twisting her fingers together she said, “I’m sorry Sir Raven, but I resist this union and I refused to meet with the other messengers from your country. By that, they inferred my appearance.”

  Raven smiled broadly. “I’m not Sir Raven yet. When we return successfully from this mission, King Korul has promised us our spurs.”

  “Us?” inquired Illera.

  “Lark and I. My brother.”

  “Surely, the mission is not that important. You could lose me, and it wouldn’t matter,” she ventured hopefully.

  Raven smiled sadly. “I must not fail. We were not royal born, but our mother was the horse girl, and shamefully treated for having us without wedlock. Not until we were ten was there a man brave enough to dare the villager’s scorn and take her for his own. So if Lark and I earn our spurs, then we honor her, as she deserves.”

  Illera turned away. “I don’t want to go. I belong here. This is my land.”

  Raven turned her back, looking down at her, “I’m sorry, but we don’t always get to do what we want. If it were up to me, I would leave you here and move Torul in with you. This is a much more pleasant land than Frain. I too, have no choice. I must take you back to my liege.”

  Illera looked away. She pulled free from his hands and strode out the door and straight to the keep and her rooms there. She hurled herself on the bed and began to weep, soaking the pillow into soggy clumps. When she was drenched from crying, she summoned her servants and had them prepare a bath. She chose her best gown for dinner, a royal purple that accented the color of her eyes. The maids took an hour to fix her hair with amethyst and golden chains. She hung a golden torque set with
amethyst around her neck and went to the meal looking her best.

  Her father’s smile of gratitude at her appearance almost made the lump in her throat burst into tears again, but she was determined not to embarrass herself in front of the Franians again. She nodded graciously to Raven as he took his place beside her and held out a hand to Lark, seated at her other side. He was like and unlike his brother, an inch shorter, but still gigantic compared to the men of Madean. His hair was golden and his eyes the same dark blue as Raven’s. The dimples and wide cheekbones were similar, but Lark had a full-lipped mouth, curved now in a pleasant smile. He greeted her as courteously as his brother as they took their seats.

  Illera could see her father heave a sigh of relief as she behaved herself and she felt a pang of sorrow at the discomfort her disobedience caused him. However, he was unfair to sell her for the good of the kingdom. She ate very little at the banquet and spoke not at all, even though both Raven and Lark attempted to engage her in conversation during the meal. Before the last course, she pleaded weariness and escaped to her rooms and another storm of weeping.

  As soon as she opened her eyes the next morning, the serving maids were there, supervised by Sar. They had cedar chests brought in and began to pack her clothes. Illera sat on her bed, just watching as her dressing room emptied of its contents and the offensive boxes were filled one by one.

  “This can’t be happening. This is not real,” she ventured to Sar when the other maids left to fetch more dried lavender to pack in the folds of her garments.

  “For shore ‘tis ‘appenin’ my Lady. But a few days ‘ence and you’ll be gone from all ar lives. ‘tis a shame too by all I’m ‘earing.”

  “What do you mean Sar?”

  “I canna’ tell, my Lady. T’wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Sar, by all that’s holy, if you know anything about the situation I’ll be facing please tell me. Have I not been a kind and considerate mistress to you?”

  “Aye, you ‘ave, but still, they’d cut out ma tongue were they t’find I’tol you anythin’.”