Awakening (The Guardari Chronicles Book 1)

by Raven Bouray

  The first set of stairs caused her very little trouble, and she walked quickly by her classroom and the servant’s rooms before mounting the rear stairs, which were closer to her room but that she really shouldn’t use. Those stairs were harder, and she let out a groan of pain at the top. Her limp was much more pronounced as she made her way to her room and opened the door with her key. After turning the lock and removing the metal, it fell back down onto her chest. It was easier to keep her key on a necklace than it was to carry around a satchel if she didn’t need it.

  Her room was simply decorated, and she preferred it that way. A few paintings adorned the walls of scenes from nature, one of a unicorn, but those were rare and widely sought after though she had never laid eyes on one in person. Emmaline seated her sore backside onto her goose feathered bed and sighed in moderate relief as she brought her feet up to unlace her training boots. They were dusty and worn looking, but she paid that no heed while she set them down next to her feet. Her mother would have scolded her about keeping her clothes proper at all times, but she was not the lady that her mother was. In fact, she was usually quite terrible at all the things that a lady did. She had the natural saving grace of the nobility, but that could only get one so far in the Court. She lacked the intrigue and haughty quality that allowed women to have a kind of secret power separate from their lord husbands.

  Her leggings were next to go and those were hard to peel from her sticky, sweat-coated legs, and even worse was that every time she tried to move, it caused her pain. Eventually her leggings ended up on the floor as well, followed quickly by her leather vest. The air of the room was cool on her skin, which she was grateful for at this moment. A wash basin from the morning was sitting on a table near her vanity, and she made her way over to it.

  The washcloth was cold when she picked it up to dip it into equally cool water before wringing it out and gliding it across her skin to wash away the grime and sweat caused by her previous activities. Legs, arms, neck, shoulders, and face each were wiped clear, and by the time she was done, the clear water looked murky, but she felt clean. Another cloth was used to dry her skin before she applied her soft cream to the skin of her arms and over her right thigh.

  She knew exactly where the scar was even if she wasn’t looking at it through her mirror. A long diagonal cut along the outside of her thigh. It ached sometimes during the winter when her skin was dry and tight, and so her mother had procured the cream for her to use to help smooth the ragged scar. It had helped, but she still hated the look of it.

  After applying the cream to her skin, she stood in front of the mirror of her room. Her reflection had not changed in at least five years, save perhaps gaining height. Her skin was flawless, save for her scar, and a color slightly darker than cream, she was lean and had little to no curves at all.

  Emmaline reached for a brush and ran it through her fire blonde waves. Her one saving grace was her hair, and she was as vain as one could be about it. The silken waves fell to her mid-back, and it was always brushed three times a day. Her lady maids often praised it, how beautiful it was, how soft, how it curled just perfectly, the color of it. It was her crowning glory, along with the eyes that stared back at her in the mirror as she brushed.

  Her seventeenth birthday was in less than a week, and she had yet to show any signs of becoming a woman. No bleeding, no breasts, and not a hip to speak of. Although she had no reason to, she felt like a failure. She could read, write, draw, paint, talk forever about history, and knock a grown man flat with a staff, but so much hinged on this stupid thing. It would be more difficult to find a husband for her if she could not show that she could bear healthy children.

  With a final glare into the mirror and brush stroke, she rose from her seat to the wardrobe and dressed quickly for her ride in a pair of light riding clothes and boots. Her father was home, and she should be focusing on that and not her shortcomings.

  Emmaline knew that her father had told her wait for him to come for her but she wanted to surprise him and so she made up her mind to find him. The servant had said that he had a message at his Triveri glass and that was in his study like always. If he were busy still, she could always come back to her room and read, but maybe they could leave sooner if she met him there. And they could eat as well. Her stomach rumbled impatiently at her musing while she left her room. It was just down the hall, after all.

  Chapter 2

  Half limping down the hall from her room, Emmaline drew closer to her father’s study, which resided in a small tower overlooking the keep and the village surrounding it. She had been up there many times since she was a child, and each view was as breathtaking as the first time. As she had grown older though, she realized the weight of responsibility that her father had to shoulder keeping everyone in his territory fed, safe, clothed, and relatively happy. The people of the village were lucky to have her father for a Lord, because a lot of the other Lords weren’t so very kind to their people.

  She came to a stop in front of the doorway, which was crafted from thick oak wrapped with iron and took a few tries for Emmaline to pull open due to the size of the heavy wood and the spells of deterrence that she was sure there were. The passageway up to the top of the tower was circular and poorly lit. One could fall and break their neck if they weren’t careful. With a hand on the cool stone wall, she began the slow trek up the stairs. Certainly her father wouldn’t mind her coming up even though he had said to wait for him. His conversations over the Triveri glass were most often about crops, gold, patrols, and sometimes bandit raids, though those were not prevalent in their territory. As she drew closer to the top, she could hear muffled voices. The door ahead was warded to prevent eavesdropping in the case of spies, but she could hear through it if she concentrated.

  “Father, I keep telling you we should not act rashly.” The important person whom the servant had summoned her father to speak to was her Grandfather. How strange that he would be calling on her father so soon after seeing him at the Gathering.

  “Rashly! It was an act of war!” She could hear her Grandfather better now and that shrewd voice hadn’t changed from when she had last heard it when she was no more than four.

  “It was an accident. They seemed just as confused and angry as we were but unlike you, they did not instantly cast blame on us.”

  “You were always so soft, boy. That’s why I didn’t choose you to wear the crown after me. I don’t care how many times you plead for mercy, I will not let this stand!”

  “What would you do, father? Take our troops and march across the Half-Sea to the North? Troops that have not seen battle in years? Troops that need to be fed by failing crops? Would you let the Magus out from their tower collared to do your work for you? Tell me.”

  “What I do with my soldiers and my kingdom is not your business! Your brother is near death! My heir has been assaulted by her foul sorcery.”

  “Her child was killed. She will never get her back. My brother may become well again.”

  “You know what caused all this -- the Gathering. It is a foolish trifling thing made by weak men to keep ‘peace’. See what peace has wrought?”

  “War is a better alternative? Really, father?”

  “My grandson, your nephew, has scarcely seen a year on this Earth. My daughter-in-law lies weeping near his bed. If I should die, that child will become King because of them.”

  “Well, I should hope you live a while yet. You should do as I bid you before. Use the Magus to find his ailment.”

  “No. It is bad enough they exist at all. I won’t have them make him worse or kill him with their fumbling. They stay in the tower.”

  “I can see that speaking with you is like talking to a wall. I’m here if you start speaking sense, father. Goodbye.”

  Emmaline waited a few moments and released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. It was silent now and still dark in the stairway, and Emma realized that perhaps she shouldn’t be in the stairwell; perhaps she should have just w
aited in her room for her father to meet her. It was far too late for that, however, as she could not easily forget the conversation between her father and grandfather. She wished that she could. Just as she was about to turn around to make her way quietly and quickly back to her room, the door opened and the stairwell was flooded with light from the open windows of the tower, a shadow falling across her turned head. Her head whipped back to lay eyes on the large form of her father standing in the doorway with a look of surprise, then wry irritation. “I suppose that you heard everything?”

  For a moment, she contemplated lying to him, but he would have seen right through her attempt at deception, so she merely nodded meekly in reply.

  She watched his shoulders lift as he sighed and pulled back from the doorway. “It’s my fault. I should have locked the door. I know how impatient you are. Come up here, dove, and we can talk about it, yes?”

  “Yes, Father.” She placed a hand on the side rail and lifted her feet up while pulling up to ascend the remaining steps, of which there were only six but they were a sore and aching six, and when she entered the room, the door was shut behind her.

  “So, how much of that did you hear?” Her father asked as she took a seat in a well cushioned chair across from his desk and nearly parallel to the Triveri glass, which was now dark while inactive.

  “Uncle Herinn is hurt, someone died, and grandfather wants to wage a war.”

  Her father nodded as he took a heavy seat in his chair. “You heard almost everything that you were not supposed to, but I should expect no less.”

  “What happened while you were at the Gathering, father?” Emmaline was concerned now as the information had time to settle in. She had known nearly all her life that the relations between the two kingdoms were tense. Erisin, the north, was very different from Brecirin in the south where she lived and where her grandfather ruled. It had been this way for at least thirty years, or so she had been taught in her history lessons. Every five years, in order to reaffirm the peace between the two kingdoms, they hosted a gathering where the royal families would travel to the border to the kingdoms and host a week long tournament in which they would compete for glory and what essentially amounted to bragging rights. Both contributed an equal amount of gold, people, and resources to keep the peace. It was usually quite exciting, the way her father recalled the events to her. She had never been able to go due to her age and the fact that she was a girl.

  “Too much, little dove. And what it comes to is that I might be travelling frequently for the next few months because of this. Your Uncle Herinn is ill, and they hope that they will be able to cure what ails him. There was an accident, and no one but Herinn and Princess Rynessa were present for it.

  “The Princess of Erisin? But if it was an accident, why is Grandfather so angry?”

  “That is who your grandfather is, sadly. You haven’t been to visit him since your grandmother died. How there hasn’t yet been a full scale war is beyond me. Ever since my mother died, he’s been harsher than ever and it worries me.” Her father placed a hand over his temple and rubbed as if it bothered him. “That is not for you to worry about. But you must promise me that you won’t say anything to anyone about what you heard.”

  “But I’m not even sure what I heard or know. You said that you would explain things but you haven’t done a very good job at that. I still have questions.”

  “I know, but it’s best this way. You shouldn’t been kept up worrying about things that are beyond your control. You should be focused on your birthday. Your mother and I are planning something grand for it.”

  Emmaline made a disgruntled face. “You know I hate grand things. Why does it have to be grand? I’m terrible at grand.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve seen the way you dance, and it would put many girls to shame.”

  “Grandness is more than dancing, Father,” she retorted.

  “Don’t tell your mother that.”

  She shook her head and they both shared a laugh after which her father seemed less burdened, “You promised me a picnic, and since you have to be all secretive, I demand compensation.”

  “Exact your terrible price, m’lady.”

  Emmaline pursed her lips and she felt her brow furrow in concentration while thinking but couldn’t come up with much on the spot. “Allow me to think of something.”

  “Don’t take too long,” he teased her, and she glared back at him.

  “I want you to put on a dress for our picnic like you used to. That should be my price.”

  “And I will absolutely never live that down. It would not do for their Lord to ride out looking like a fine lady, now would it?” She grinned at him and he gestured her up, “Come along now. I promised you a ride and a picnic and I shall at least deliver on that. No dresses. And many sweetcakes.”

  “Good.” She rose from her seat and glided across the room for her father to open the door for her to exit his tower. He followed her closely, a soothing and protective presence in the darkness and through the halls. “Where is mother? Have you seen her yet?”

  “She had business in the village with the seamstress, did she not tell you?”

  “No. Well, yes but I forgot.” Her groan was audible. “Not another tight, uncomfortable dress.” Sulking was unbecoming of a lady but that didn’t stop her from doing it.

  “Chin up, I promise that you will love it. Your mother knows you better than you think.”

  “Fine.” She grudgingly agreed but within a few moments came to a full stop and nearly toppled over when her father walked into her. A hand closed around her upper arm before she hit the ground and steadied her.

  “Are you alright?” His tone was filled with concern as she slowly turned to face him.

  “You are having a ball, aren’t you? A ball for my birthday.” Her tone was low and accusatory.

  Her father did not have the best stoic face at times when he was ill prepared for sudden revelations, and his eyes gave him away within seconds. “Now why would you think that? Turn around and keep walking. Stables. Picnic. Go.” He ushered her back to walking which she did, but her glare forward as she moved through the halls had servants and guards taken aback and deflected any hellos that she might have gotten from them. To be fair, they didn’t deserve her glares, and it did make her feel bad, so she toned it down until they reached the stables.

  A soft whinny from the stable had Emmaline running up to the doors, despite her injured backside, and greeting her mare, who enthusiastically nuzzled her face and hair. “Hello, Arya. How are you doing today?” Arya answered with a soft snort as Emmaline rubbed the tip of her nose.

  “Saddle up our horses. We are going to go for a ride.” She heard her father in the background talking with the stable master, Arnir.

  “At once, My Lord,” Arnir answered and spoke a few quick and short words to the stable boys, who ran to fetch the tack.

  “Who’s a good girl?” Her nails scratched the mare between the eyes now as they waited. “You know that I don’t need a saddle.” She called back to her father, less upset with him now than she had been.

  “But I do,” was the answer from a few paces away. “And if you go out without a saddle again, your mother will scold us both.”

  “She won’t know,” Emmaline groused.

  “I think she will and I’m much more afraid of her than I am of you.”

  “Hmmph.”

  Emma unlatched the stable door and stepped out of the way to allow her horse out into the paddock. Arya plodded out of her stall and through the stable door out onto the grass and immediately dipped her head down to take a sample of it. Her cream white coat shone brilliantly in the sunlight and always reminded her about the stories of unicorns that her mother would tell her late at night when she was little.

  Her grandfather on her mother’s side had been the best breeder of horses in the two kingdoms. People from Erisin even traveled to his farm to purchase them. For her tenth birthday, after her first fostering with Lord Calgen, her fami
ly traveled northeast up to her grandfather’s farm and told her that she could pick any horse or foal she wanted. And Arya had trotted right up to her when she walked into the open paddock and whinnied soundly at the intruder, stomped her feet and eyed the young girl in challenge. They had taken the filly back with them a few days later, as her grandfather was loathe to give up such a promising mare, even to his own great granddaughter, and they had been the best of friends ever since. Lately, however, Emmaline did not have the time to see the mare, and a chance to go out riding would lift both of their spirits.

  The stable boys brought out her father’s large warhorse, who had a lot more bark than bite, but there weren’t many people who dared to find that out. The chocolate bay whickered a greeting to Arya, and Arya whickered back while both the stable boys went to work.

  At first, Arya eyed Robert, as if to ask him why in the world such a lowborn would be touching her, before letting him put the saddle on her back. “No bridle.” She reminded him once again as he brought out the offensive material. Both she and Arya hated the bridle but she couldn’t fault him for forgetting because Robert was still new to his job. Emmaline could direct her horse by use of her legs and bridles hurt horses’ mouths, more often than not.