The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  Someone coughed.

  Sylvalla remembered where she was, and stepped back. Cavorting with wizards was dangerous for any ruler, and like any royal danger, the risks were exponentially worse for queens.

  Her voice, hard and cold, echoed around the silent room. “You are too late.”

  Dirk strode up to Sylvalla. “She’s right, you are too late.”

  “You’re not dead yet, are you Dirk?” Jonathan replied, “If not, I shouldn’t see that you have anything to complain about.”

  Sidestepping Dirk, Capro took Sylvalla’s hand and guided her back toward the throne. “Where’s Francis?” he asked, as he whisked her along.

  “I don’t know,” Sylvalla muttered.

  “He should be here.” Capro tutted. “Never mind. Be the queen your people need. Claim the throne and declare your intention to rule with your husband by your side.”

  “Why? I don’t want to,” Sylvalla said, dragging her heels. Knowing she meant every word, despite the fact she had come here to do exactly that. Governing Avondale would be worse than nuisance; it would be dangerous and boring. “Can’t I leave it to my mother to rule? She’s always wished for power.”

  “Yes, and that’s precisely why she shouldn’t have it. Please. You only need rule until the boy is of age.”

  “The boy, as you call him, is missing. And even if he does return, I will have to rule for over a decade. Ten years!”

  Capro paused. “He’s in grave danger. You all are. Come on, I cannot silence Tishke much longer. People will notice.”

  “What?” Sylvalla whirled around.

  Her gilded chair carried by two burly guards, Tishke bore down upon them, her face bright red, her throat straining as her jaw snapped open and shut. Despite her efforts, Tishke made no noise at all. Fortunately, with the hall in an uproar, nobody else seemed to have noticed—yet.

  Sylvalla strode toward her mother, and faltered. The look in Tishke’s eyes was murderous.

  Capro pulled Sylvalla so hard she almost fell. “Hurry.”

  “Unhand me,” Sylvalla growled. She stepped away and held her arms high in a universal bid for silence.

  The room quieted.

  “This is an evil time,” Sylvalla said, marvelling at the way her voice filled the hall. “A time of profound sorrow. But death is also a time for new beginnings, and new resolve. Avondale shall look forward to the day our enemies lie vanquished at our feet.

  “We must seize this moment and plan for the future, lest tomorrow never come.” She paused, as if to observe a moment of silent prayer. Her father, the King lay rotting before the throne.

  I must not think about that.

  After pausing for long enough to indicate respect for the dead, Sylvalla fell into the chair. Her throat burned. Eyes ahead, she told herself. This is not the time.

  Her father’s self-styled advisors, the ones she called The Crows approached. Their beady little eyes assessed the scene while their self-opinionated voices jockeyed for advantage. Chief amongst them, were the Royal Chancellor and the Grand Vizier, mouths twisted into half smiles, beak-like noses sniffing the fetid air for opportunity. “This has been a most terrible day,” the Grand Vizier said. “Much has happened. We must take our time and think upon it.”

  Time that will make my position more precarious—and he knows it.

  The Royal Chancellor nodded, and patted Sylvalla on the shoulder as if she were a child.

  Sylvalla flinched. “Say only this, the funeral will be held on the setting of the sun.”

  “The Royal Chancellor is right,” the Grand Vizier said with an owlish façade of remorse. “For only after the funeral can we begin the twelve days of mourning. It is best to have these things over and done with quickly and we can move on to matters of state.”

  “Quickly?” Sylvalla said, fuming.

  The advisors edged closer, heads bowed over the chair, whispering urgent words into Sylvalla’s ear. “It will be for the best, m’lady. Your mother...”

  Yes, her mother was there and waiting for the slightest misstep, but was she zealous enough to try and wrest the throne from underneath her daughter’s bottom? Or was there something else on her mind? If Tishke made an attempt for the throne now, it would put the missing prince in more danger. So why was she here at all, when she was obviously grievously ill?

  “Please, my lady,” the vizier smiled. “Let me. You are tired, and it would be foolish...”

  Foolish to listen to this man any longer. The slippery morpholag wanted the throne, that much was clear. And if he sat on it, then, like Phetero, he would soon be looking for her head, and those of the rest of her family.

  Damnation. Sylvalla gritted her teeth. This mortal combat required words and not swords. “I am your queen, excepting for only two formalities–the sanctification of an official coronation and the traditional oaths of fealty. And I intend to remedy the latter directly. The fate of Avondale should wait for no man—or woman. Alive or dead.”

  She looked at the Grand Vizier pointedly. “Do you think you can help with the traditional oaths, or do I need another Grand Vizier?”

  He coughed and looked to the other crows who carefully avoided his gaze.

  Meanwhile, Sylvalla sought out the Goodfellows. Face impassive, Mr Goodfellow Senior elbowed Jonathan. What did the people say about wizards? Kingmakers, puppeteers, frauds and cheats. She might even believe it, if Jonathan wasn’t looking so bewildered. He’d probably never even heard of Regus, the Boy-King who’d been strong and desperate and young—and played this very same trick—successfully calling for his people to give him their oaths before the previous king’s funeral.

  Still, the Grand Vizier hesitated.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior wiggled his fingers and glared at the man.

  Paling, the Grand Vizier turned to the crowd. “I c...call the p...people of Avondale t...to the trad…d…ditional oaths of fealty.” Solemnly, he turned and knelt, proclaiming his fealty—with only the slightest glance back at Capro. “Sylvalla, daughter of Rufus, Queen of Avondale, by my blood I serve you. By my blood I will follow and obey your every command.”

  The other advisors followed in what Sylvalla assumed must be some elaborate ranking system. One she should have already known.

  The rest of the audience followed.

  Part way through, Tishke approached and stiffly bowed her head. For a moment, Sylvalla wondered if she should demand the oath from her mother, but that would open a whole box of worms. Instead Sylvalla inclined her head in a way intended to show respect—but not to an equal.

  Gods, I really am Queen.

  Tishke shook her head slowly. “Daughter, you have done well, but you presume too much.”

  “I presume nothing,” Sylvalla said, deciding to make her intentions clearer by quoting directly from Regus the Boy King himself. “I take what is mine with one fist, and defend it with the other.” Unconsciously, she waved the hand that gripped Dragonslayer.

  Tishke raised an eyebrow[64] and whispered, “Careful, you think you’re a man, but you are not.”

  This is dangerous.

  “You are right, mother.” Sylvalla smiled and turned to the crowd. “If there’s anyone here with a greater claim to the throne of Avondale, speak now, and either myself, or my champion, will meet you in battle.”

  Eerily silent, the crowd drew back. It was an ill choice. To chance being bested by a girl, or, of a certainty, killed by Dirk.

  “I repeat. Speak now, or remain silent.”

  Nobody spoke.

  Tishke nodded. Visibly shrunken from her injury, she was carried out of the throne room by her guards.

  Once she was gone, Sylvalla settled back into the many-cushioned throne to receive more oaths of fealty, struggling to remember the names the Grand Vizier was calling out as each approached the throne and clasped her hand.

  “…Sylvalla, daughter of Rufus, Queen of Avondale, by my blood I serve you. By my blood I will follow and obey your every command.”

  �
�Sylvalla, daughter of Rufus…”

  Head nodding, Sylvalla was woken as each hand clasped hers. By the time the last battalion of soldiers had walked out, she wondered if she still retained the memory of how to stand.

  “Well done, Sylvalla.” Spry as any goat, Capro Goodfellow jumped up the stairs toward her.

  “Don’t you think you’ve forgotten something?” Sylvalla asked pointedly.

  “No,” Capro replied, even more pointedly. “Wizards may not become embroiled in affairs of state.”

  Sylvalla looked Capro Goodfellow up and down. “It seems to me you are up to your necks in broiling. I...I mean... We would keep you, but you do not wish to stay. May the wind be at your backs.”

  “May it indeed, Sylvalla—er, Queen Sylvalla,” Capro said. Still there are things you must know.

  Sylvalla shook her head as if to remove a bee from her brain. She’d heard the words—but he had not spoken them aloud.

  §

  His suspicion confirmed, Capro continued to nod, playing the part of an old man in his dotage. There was a certain satisfaction in being correct, but the implications were far less likely to be joyful.

  Sylvalla did have some power after all, and even a little was dangerous in one not properly trained. Moreover, for all her erstwhile childish innocence, today she was playing the game of thrones very well.

  The girl seemed tough as steel.

  Forged in dragon-fire

  Forged in battle

  Forged in ashes

  The snippet of prophecy came unbidden. It was one of the many that haunted Capro Goodfellow’s every waking moment, and most of his sleeping ones. And that was a bad sign.

  But she was Queen of Avondale—could she really be the key to the Maretta prophecies?

  Sylvalla intruded into his train of thought, “I’m afraid I’ll require...”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Capro Goodfellow replied with a wan smile. “Perhaps, my lady, you will suffer our presence one more time before we depart.”

  “Huh?” Jonathan looked at his father as if he’d turned into a cabbage.

  “We shall see if a time can be arranged,” Sylvalla replied. Pulling every remaining fragment of haughtiness into her voice.

  “Thank you, Queen Sylvalla.” Capro Goodfellow bowed, and Jonathan followed suit without too much prompting.

  §

  As they left, Dirk emerged from the shadows of the almost empty hall. “My lady.”

  “Dirk?” Sylvalla asked.

  “It’s time to get a little shut eye, Syl—Your Majesty.”

  “Of course.” Sylvalla allowed Dirk to escort her out of the door to where Francis was waiting—patiently propped up against the entrance.

  “Fool,” she hissed, angry with herself—it was she who’d been the fool. “You should have been there by my side. Those oaths should have been yours, too.”

  “Oh! We’re not...” Francis blushed in a way that was almost endearing. “I’m not the king. I mean...”

  “No. You’re not.” Sylvalla said coldly. More was the pity. Now, because of her blunder the full burden of crown was on her head. She turned on her heel, tears streaming down her face. There was no stopping them now, nor did she try.

  Dirk and Francis fussed as they followed her to her rooms, discussing her safety behind her back.

  It was all very rude, but Sylvalla couldn’t focus on that now, she had bigger concerns. “What have I done?” she whispered.

  Nobody answered.

  §

  Sylvalla locked the door and sat down heavily on her bed before removing the riding boots that had been hiding beneath her dress.

  “Who’s supposed to be on guard?” Francis asked.

  Dirk looked about. There was a dearth of applicants. “Me.”

  “You have to sleep,” Francis interjected.

  “A few hours without sleep. That’s nothing. It’s in the job description of bodyguard,” Dirk said breezily.

  A thud shook the door.

  Dirk swung around, sword in hand.

  Whispering filtered around the edges of wood and stone, followed by more heavy knocking. Dirk was not the only one for whom a lack of sleep was an occupational hazard.

  “Not now,” Sylvalla groaned. “I’m sleeping. Go away!”

  “You ungrateful wretch.” Tishke’s voice could cut glass.

  “Leave it to me.” Capro Goodfellow’s voice was little more than a mumble. “I’m sure the door’s not locked.”

  It jolly well is, Sylvalla thought.

  The lock clicked, the door swung open and Tishke was borne into the room accompanied by two guards and a small retinue that trailed decorously behind her. For someone who was almost dead not so long ago, she was doing quite well.

  “I was sure it was locked.” Dirk said, startled.

  “It was.” Sylvalla frowned at the Goodfellows as they slunk in behind Queen Tishke’ retinue. “And to what do I—”

  “I’ve decided,” Tishke said, “that it is past time you were married, Sylvalla.”

  “Father is...”

  “Say nothing of that to me. The pain is too near, and I am grievously injured. If I should die—”

  “It would be because you take no rest. Can this wait until morning?”

  “Danger is everywhere. You must not take this step without a husband at your side.”

  Sylvalla’s chin rose fractionally. “You’re right, mother,” Sylvalla heard herself rasp, her voice even harsher than intended. “When should we squeeze it in? During the funeral? Or perhaps it will make a lovely addition to the coronation festivities?”

  “That is enough! Child, do not play the silly goose with me! You have proved this very night that your foolishness is...not as empty-headed as I’d thought.”

  Was that a smile or a grimace? Sylvalla sighed and looked over to her bed. Maybe if she just played along, the game it would be over faster. “That’s nice of you to say, mother, and I will think over your words of ... wisdom.” Sylvalla fluttered her eyelids and raised her hands tremulously to her chest as though she were taking great tidings to heart. It always works for Mahrawyn.

  “Do not do that!” her mother snapped. “It’s disrespectful of the dead.”

  “What? Mahrawyn dead?” Sylvalla asked, knowing her disbelief was driven by her heart and not her head.

  “A casualty of your ambition, daughter.” Tishke’s words were cold. Their implication, that this disaster was Sylvalla’s fault, was a slap in the face.

  “A casualty of Phetero’s ambition, mother,” Sylvalla corrected. Her stomach turned. This was none of her doing. She hadn’t wanted any of this. “Please, Mother. You should rest.”

  “We need only decide the date.”

  “Of the coronation ceremony? Yes, I have thought of that. It will be on the twelfth day of mourning. That is tradition, is it not?” Sylvalla waited for Tishke to nod, before continuing, “I would ask you to organise it, Mother, but I would not dream of discommoding you further, not with your injuries.”

  “I’m alive, which is more than you will be if you don’t reconsider and marry the boy. There are many who don’t want a woman on the throne, least of all you.”

  “Yes, why don’t I paint a red circle on my forehead and be done with it. Scotch Mist can line up for archery practice.”

  “If only ruling was so easy. Do you go to war?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “See, it is easy then.”

  “Don’t!” Tishke snapped, biting down on the word, and clutching her wound. “You may have your way for all else, but I tell you now. You will be married. And it will be, as you said, during the coronation. Unfortunately, there is no better time.” The silence settled thicker than a Scotch Mist, before Tishke added, “My Queen.” Imperiously, she waved to her litter bearers to take her away.

  “Ahem,” Capro Goodfellow cleared his throat as Tishke disappeared.

  Sylvalla turned. “And what do you want?”
/>
  “I’ve warned you before. You told your mother that your young lady in waiting, Mahrawyn’s death was not your fault—but I say it is. Be careful, princess, your wishes are dangerous.”

  Stung, Sylvalla answered, “It is time you left.”

  “My lady,” Mr Goodfellow Senior said, “I beg you, there is something we must discuss.” Regardless of his words, Mr Goodfellow Senior’s speech held no hint of begging. “There are important…things you must understand.”

  “Of course,” Sylvalla replied, “but not now. I thank you for your courtesy on this evil night.”

  “Yes, indeed. Tomorrow, perhaps? But, be sure, this is no small matter to wait forever and never come to light. For what hides in the darkness festers and putrefies.”

  “Lovely. Good night.”

  Dirk closed the door on the wizards and Sylvalla collapsed onto the bed. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she fell asleep, tumbling into nightmares.

  §

  A tide of bodies jostled Sylvalla, floating past as if borne upon invisible currents of water.

  She raced to see where they were going until a deep pit fell away before her feet. Screams echoed—her father…men…women…children…Mahrawyn.

  Sylvalla sobbed.

  Mahrawyn’s mangled corpse picked itself up at the bottom, and torturously began climbing up again. She was yelling something—but no matter how hard Sylvalla listened, she could hear no words, only the sobs of the wretched people tumbling past. Time and time again, Mahrawyn almost clambered to the top of the pit, only to fall again.

  Sylvalla, poised over the lip of that dreadful fall, stretched out her arms and begged Mahrawyn to hold on.

  Mahrawyn’s clawed hands snatched at hers. “Though the moon shall die, it shall be but the beginning,” she hissed—and pulled.

  They both plummeted.

  It was a long, long way down. The only noise Sylvalla could hear as she fell were her own screams as Mahrawyn tore her apart.

  Dothie

  NAME:Dothie, E.R.

  CLASS:Wizard

  FAMILIAR:Toots. Some idiot—now long dead—had called Dothie’s tuatara-inspired familiar, Toots, and the name had stuck around, if not the idiot. The proper name is generally agreed to be Sphenodon Agamidae or Tuatara Lizard, although the exact classification is murky, given the creature only exists as a transmogrification.