by Lynette Noni
After returning to the stables and brushing Dancer down, Delucia thanked William for his company and made Jeera promise to go riding with her again soon, before she left them and headed into the palace.
Once she’d changed back into her earlier clothes and enjoyed a late lunch in the kitchens—a place her parents frowned upon her visiting, but she saw little point in having a meal delivered to her room when it was just as easy for her to go to her meal—she wandered the corridors until she came to the royal library.
Summertime was the best time, in Delucia’s opinion. Endless mornings spent riding until the sun turned too hot to stay out without burning to a crisp, followed by lazy afternoons doing whatever she wished. The library was a sanctuary for her, a place where she could while away her hours, losing herself in stories, real and fictional.
Delucia’s studies with Mistress Alma and Master Ying required her to focus more on scholarly texts, but in her free time, she always gravitated towards the back of the library where there were shelves rising to the heavens, all filled with fictional tales of adventure. The books she read took her to places she would never visit, gave her friends she would never have, and offered her a life she would never live. They were her escape from the world—they provided therapy for her mind, for her heart. They were her most trusted companions. Because unlike people, books didn’t care if their reader was a princess or a pauper. Their content didn’t change depending on whose eyes travelled over their pages. Books just were.
So far that summer, Delucia had explored the mythical Goldenwood alongside a fictional race of warrior women, she’d attended a Freyan school where the students lived in a castle and studied magic, she’d been stranded on the jungle island of Maroo and survived its famed cannibals, she’d searched for treasure amongst the shipwrecks surrounding the Undersea Islands, and she’d been swept into a land of faerie courts only to fall in love with a high lord to whom no real man could compare. All of that she’d experienced from the comfort of her favourite armchair, perfectly situated to face the windows overlooking the palace gardens.
Today she planned on visiting that same armchair, but unlike the rest of her summer so far, she wouldn’t be venturing into a fictional story. Instead, given her growing concerns about her sleeping premonitions, Delucia wandered the aisles of the grand library until she found the Psychological Sciences section, grabbing a handful of books and taking them back to her window seat.
Sunlight travelled across the horizon as she skimmed the heavy tomes, finding references in each about altered states of consciousness, but no indication of whether it was possible for dreams to offer visions of the future. The content she read focused on the cognitive processes behind subconscious imaginings rather than anything more… theoretical.
When hours passed without any insight, Delucia slammed her latest book shut and sighed loudly, rubbing her eyes.
“This is getting me nowhere,” she murmured to herself, scowling at the scientific tomes, many of which were beyond her level of understanding. She was smart for her age, but she had her limits—especially when she’d never encountered some of the words used in the texts.
With the sun now setting outside, Delucia decided to try one last book before giving up for the day. Having been through everything in her current pile, she carried them back to their shelves—the royal librarian was pedantic when it came to returning items just so—and she stood in the centre of the library, her hands on her hips as she considered her options.
‘I haven’t seen you so dedicated to your research since the time when we were hypothesising whether or not Meya still exists.’
Delucia jumped, spinning around to find Master Ying had snuck up behind her.
“Of course it still exists,” she replied, full of confidence. “It’s just… missing.”
Ying’s mouth curled up at the corners, his lips otherwise unmoving as his answer was sent directly into her mind. ‘Missing? Or perhaps lost?’
Delucia shrugged, but they’d had this same argument before, so she also knew Ying was just trying to stir her. “Does it matter? Both outcomes are the same.”
‘Oh, but are they?’
Master Ying’s dark eyes held mysteries Delucia knew would take a lifetime to uncover. But they also held affection—for her.
‘Speaking of lost,’ Ying said before Delucia could consider her response, ‘what has you looking so puzzled, child? What answers do you seek?’
Delucia bit her lip, weighing her response. Of everyone she might tell, Ying was at the top of her list, not just because he was well learned, but also because he was almost guaranteed to keep her secret. Supernaturally gifted in the art of telepathy, for as long as she’d known him, all of his communication had been spoken directly to her mind. She’d never heard him utter a single word aloud. And aside from his intimidating intellect, it was one of the main reasons he was appointed her tutor—because he was the perfect person to teach her how to protect her own mind from intrusion or manipulation. It was a vital skill for someone who would one day be ruling the human race, but she still had many years to go before her mental defences would be considered strong enough for her to even sit in on a royal meeting.
Knowing she could use some guidance—or at least someone advising whether or not her concerns were valid—Delucia said, somewhat hesitantly, “I’ve been having these dreams lately. So I just wanted to… look into them.”
Ying arched a dark eyebrow, straightening the corner of his black collar. ‘Do you mean dream interpretation?’
Delucia wasn’t sure, so she gave a half-nod, half-shrug.
Noting her uncertainty, Ying said, ‘For example, a dream about flying is considered to represent a sense of freedom or a desire to escape some kind of pressure. Is that what you seek—to find meaning in your dreams?’
That wasn’t what she’d meant, but Ying’s example had piqued Delucia’s interest, especially given her dream last night.
“What about flying on the back of a draekon? What would that mean?”
Ying’s amusement was clear when he replied, ‘That you have an overactive imagination, even in sleep.’
Delucia pursed her lips at him. But still, she asked, “What about falling? Does that have a meaning?”
‘Falling is common in dreams. It’s believed to represent anxiety over letting something go, loss of confidence and control, or a fear of failure.’
“That’s… quite specific,” Delucia said, before deciding just to throw it all out for interpretation. “What if someone was flying on a draekon, then the draekon disappeared so the person was left falling towards a burning city and, just before they died, they saw a Meyarin standing above the flames and looking straight at them?”
There was a weighty pause after her words, with Ying scrutinising her closely. But he answered, ‘Fire is said to mean a lot of things, but in this case, I believe it best symbolises a prolonged passion or obsession. I think we can assume it to be the underlying theme of this dream, given the inclusion of the draekon and Meyarin—and knowing your fascination with both.’
Delucia didn’t try to deny that the dream was hers. Instead, she exhaled a relieved breath, since suddenly her nightmare-dream was beginning to make sense. But… it also wasn’t her reason for spending the afternoon researching dream psychology. Because she’d already known that particular vision couldn’t come true. The others she’d had, however…
“What about dreams that aren’t just dreams?”
Ying’s brow furrowed. ‘What are they if not dreams?’
This was the moment of truth—when she chose whether or not to trust him. But she’d come this far, so she figured she might as well take the final leap.
“I’m talking about dreams that show future events. Dreams that… come true.”
The silence that met her statement was loud to her ears. She couldn’t meet Ying’s intense gaze, so her eyes travelled to one of the far windows, noting the steadily darkening sky as twilight descended.
&nb
sp; ‘Prophetic dreams are not unheard of, Princess, though I am curious as to your reason for asking.’
Delucia’s gaze swung back to him. “So people can dream things that end up happening? It’s normal?”
‘I wouldn’t call it “normal”, Your Highness. But there have been occurrences noted throughout history.’ He cocked his head to the side. ‘Is there something you’d like to share, Princess?’
Swallowing, Delucia repeated his words in her head. I wouldn’t call it ‘normal’… If that was the case… what did that mean for her?
“No, Master Ying,” Delucia answered, her voice feeling thick in her throat. “It’s just an interesting topic of conversation. Nothing more.”
He didn’t seem to believe her, but short of calling her out on her lie, there was nothing he could do. So instead, he bowed his head slightly, before reaching into the folds of his high-collared, maroon coat and pulling out a book.
‘In that case, the reason I came here was to give you this. I discovered it hidden deep in the Archives and thought you might enjoy having a read.’
Delucia took the reasonably sized tome from him, her eyes skimming the title that read: The Lost City: What Really Happened by A. N. Onymous.
She smiled at the author’s pseudonym before looking back at her tutor. “Thank you, Master Ying. This looks fascinating. I’m sure I’ll have it back to you in no time.”
He waved a hand in the air. ‘Keep it. I have my own copy. And from what I’ve already encountered, it’s the kind of book that deserves to be read multiple times.’
Delucia flicked through some of the pages, noting that it contained both words and pictures, with every new chapter offering a different theory behind the disappearance of Meya. “Then, thank you for the gift. I—”
She stopped suddenly, the book nearly falling from her grip as her fingers fumbled on the pages. Thumbing backwards, she paused when she found what she’d seen just a hint of as she’d skimmed quickly past.
It was a drawing. A sketch of a Meyarin, black and white except for his eyes—eyes that had been painted a brilliant gold.
Delucia knew those eyes. She’d seen them in her dream.
She’d seen him in her dream.
Heart pounding, she scanned the text surrounding the image, but it was in another language, one she didn’t recognise.
With a shaking finger, she pointed at the page and said, “Have you—Can you read this, Master Ying? Do you know who this Meyarin is?”
He took the book from her, frowning slightly in concentration. ‘I haven’t yet reached this part of my own copy,’ he said. ‘The dialect seems to be an ancient form of Tarison, likely written by one of their scribes before their city was destroyed.’
Delucia sucked in a breath. The Battle of Taris had occurred over four thousand years ago. Just how old was the information in this book?
‘My knowledge of the dialect is limited, but from what I can tell, this page speaks of Aven Dalmarta.’
Delucia jerked at the familiar name. “Are you saying that this”—she pointed at the sketch—“is the Rebel Prince? The one who slaughtered innocent humans and tried to kill his own family so he could take the throne?”
‘That is just one theory, Your Highness,’ Ying said, reminding her that no one knew the truth, since the rare knowledge they’d uncovered was based on conjecture. ‘But yes, this does seem to be a tribute to Meya’s youngest heir.’
Delucia ran her fingers over the sketch, awed and not just a little bit alarmed. If he was real, then her dream…
Unable to offer more than a whisper, her voice trembled when she said, “I’ve seen him before. Aven Dalmarta—I’ve… I’ve seen him.”
She expected her admission to prompt questions, but Ying shocked her when he simply said, ‘I know.’
Her eyes shot up from the page, and Ying’s forehead crinkled at whatever he saw on her face.
‘Last year, Princess,’ he said slowly, like he was waiting for her to catch on. ‘The painting by the gypsy traveller—Fall From Grace. That’s what you’re referring to, isn’t it?’ His gaze moved back to the sketch. ‘The similarities between the two works are uncanny, right down to the golden eyes. I wonder if perhaps the artists are related, with their family’s representation of the Rebel Prince handed down to each generation.’
Now that Ying had explained, Delucia knew exactly what he was talking about. She had seen this sketch before—or at least one very similar to it. And while her sighting of the painting had been only for a moment, it had clearly been enough to imprint the figure into her subconscious mind—and thus offer a reason for this Meyarin, Aven Dalmarta, being in her dream last night.
He was from a memory, nothing more.
‘You look relieved, Princess,’ Ying noted, the question clear in his voice.
Delucia offered an awkward laugh and covered by saying, “I’m just glad he’s lost to the past, Master Ying. That he’s nothing more than a sketch in a book and a painting on a canvas.”
‘Indeed,’ was all Ying said in response. His expression, however, was identical to when he’d asked if there was anything she’d like to share with him.
Clearing her throat, Delucia closed the book and hugged it to her chest. “Thank you again for this. Hopefully I’ll be able to read some of it.”
‘Most of it has been translated into the common tongue,’ Ying said. ‘A few pages have some notes in Garonish and Denasen, but I’ve taught you enough of both languages for you to gain an idea of the content.’
Garonish and Denasen—two of Delucia’s least favourite dialects, since only the monks living in Garon and the scholars living in Denasa ever used the languages, and even then, always in writing, never speech. Master Ying had made Delucia learn both not for any practical reason, but rather as a punishment for slacking in her studies. As her tutor, it was his responsibility to make sure her education was beyond compare—everything else, like their mutual love for the legendary past, was covered outside of their dedicated study hours.
Despite her dislike of the tedious languages, Delucia was grateful that her grasp of both might enable her to read some of the added notes in the book. It was just a shame that she hadn’t learned Tarison as well, and that Ying’s own understanding of the ancient dialect was limited. If he wasn’t able to read it in its entirety, then Delucia could think of no one else who stood a chance at translating the page. She’d just have to hope that the rest of the book offered some insight—or if nothing else, an entertaining read with some interesting theories.
Ignorning her growling stomach and the fact that it was now fully dark outside, after Master Ying bade her a good evening, Delucia moved back to her chair by the window and opened the book, unable to resist the lure of what it might contain.
Hours passed as she devoured page after page, losing herself in supposition gathered through years of research by the author. Much of it Delucia couldn’t help scoffing at—like the idea that the entire city of Meya was now orbiting Medora in an airlock bubble, or that the Meyarins had relocated and were now living on the moon. Then there was the theory that the draekons had eaten the Meyarins before flying off to another planet, where they’d then been hunted down and killed by some obscure otherworldly race.
While Delucia had never seen a draekon in real life, she still doubted the credibility of that particular theory, for so, so many reasons.
As outlandish as some of the possibilities seemed, she was captivated enough to read the book from cover to cover, translating any Garonish and Denasen notes as she went along. By the time she reached the end, she understood what Ying had meant about it being worthy of multiple reads. She had been given lots to consider, mostly from the brief but enticing mentions of the Rebel Prince. Much of what she’d skimmed lined up with theories she’d already heard: that it was Aven’s hatred for humans that led to the ancient Meyarins banishing him from their city and warding it so that he might never return—or anyone else. What Delucia didn’t learn, however, were
any theories as to what Aven had gone on to do after the city disappeared, or if he’d ever found his way back to Meya again.
Resigning herself to the fact that she’d likely never know the full story, Delucia closed the book after finishing the last page, feeling satisfied and already looking forward to re-reading it all again one day. But for now, her eyes were gritty and her stomach was aching, so she stood on stiff legs and slowly made her way up to her bedroom, wanting nothing more than something to eat, a hot bath and to fall into a dreamless sleep.
The first two, she managed. But as always, her sleep was riddled by dreams.
Whether any of them would come true or not, only time would tell.
Four
Three days later, Delucia was in the stables brushing down Dancer when a voice drifted over from the stall door.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”
Delucia’s brush stilled for a moment before she forced her hand to continue its steady strokes.
“You are a lot of things, Lord Maxton,” she replied, keeping her speech formal—like the gracious host she was expected to be. “A fool is not one of them, so don’t waste your breath acting like one.”
So perhaps being a gracious host was still beyond her. But six days of Maxton’s constant glares and snide comments had begun to wear thin, especially during the last three breakfasts, ever since his encounter with Jeera and William. Delucia was tired of feigning politeness and peeking around corners to make sure their paths didn’t cross. She was tired of minding her manners and faking her smiles.
She didn’t want to do it anymore. And now, it looked like she wouldn’t have to.
He’d sought her out, his greeting both antagonistic and mocking, showing that he didn’t expect her to bite back. But if he thought she was going to cower behind her own insecurities as she had in the past, then he had another thing coming. Because Delucia had taken Jeera’s words to heart—she was a princess, and never again would she forget what that meant.