A Universe of Wishes

by A Universe of Wishes (epub)

  But not more marvelous than you.

  I want to say something she’ll remember. I want to make myself a landmark in her mind, but don’t know how, and I settle on a request. “I think neither would compare to you. May I have your name, lady?”

  Her lips part in surprise as she extends her hands to mine. “Arabeth Caswell. Rabi, if you like, lady.”

  My heart begins to pound in my ears. I know that name, and I wish to all the heavenly gardens that I did not. That name along with two others is written across the top of the invitation I hold: CHARLISH BLUETHORN, ARABETH CASWELL & WILLADOR MAYHEW. The names of the three warriors here to compete for the hand of the Bloom.

  The reason for my visit smothers me in tight bands of vicious silk. “Willador Mayhew.”

  Understanding siphons the smile from her lips. Her eyes drift down my body, surely taking in the dull fabric of my own bodice, the ragged state of the hem of my skirt. I feel a familiar wash of fitful, stubborn pride as she studies me in a new light.

  If she is like the others, she will take my dress as a reason to underestimate me. Usually, I encourage it, shifting my feet in a practiced gesture that makes me look smaller than I feel. Right now, I don’t know that anything could make me look smaller than I feel.

  I see her take in my body and my performance, in the space of a few seconds. Then she drops my hands and says, “See you in the ring, Willador.”

  * * *

  It doesn’t matter that we were both crossing the Silk Bridge at the same moment; we are greeted and led to separate chambers, where we are to wait until the Bloom is ready to receive us.

  I walk the halls in a quiet haze, all my earlier confidence drizzling from me like a sudden, unstoppable rain. My guide weaves through the corridors with the ease of someone who was raised inside them, but my eyes follow Rabi, who travels a few yards ahead, her steps measured and sure.

  My chamber is the finest space I have ever inhabited, and I feel in sharp contrast to its dressings. The floors of marbled cream and icy white are smoothly polished, the furniture is carved so organically it bends around the room like thin blades of grass, and the ornamental filigree curling over the doors like tiny metallic flowers is so finely crafted I do not dare to touch it. At one end of the room, my ceremonial garments are displayed on a rack of polished obsidian. I stand in the center of all of it, a great dull stone, too unsure of myself to relax.

  “Would you like a glass of water?” The question comes from the boy who led me here. He is too young to paint his lips, but old enough to have chosen the way of the flower. His dress is tied around his neck and shoulders, exposing the moon-pale skin there and falling down his slender figure like a layered waterfall. He perches atop shoes that elevate him from the ground by several inches, his toes peeking over the edge with a shimmery paint glazed over each nail.

  “Yes, thank you,” I say, because I at least know what to do with a glass of water.

  The boy brings me a glass that is shaped like a hollow reed and contains not more than a sip of liquid, but the water is sweet and leaves my mouth with the lingering perfume of mint. I want more, but don’t feel as though I should ask, so I pull in a deep breath, letting the mint open my lungs, and change into the clothing laid out for me. When I’m ready, I begin a familiar routine of stretches and strengthening poses to still my mind and prepare my body.

  I have come here to win the Bloom. That is the only thought that should occupy my mind. Not the curve of a thigh between the slits of a skirt, not the pale peach of a bottom lip, certainly not the caress of an enthralling voice. I have not come here to feel these things; I have not come to pursue them. I have come in pursuit of balance.

  My meditation slowly returns me to that place of ensured calm. I breathe in and out until time releases me, until I am the boulder at the bottom of a swift-running river, constant and unmoving as the world travels around me.

  “Lady Mayhew.” The boy’s voice is tentative. “Lady Mayhew, it’s time.”

  He gestures across the room to a door layered in delicate metalwork.

  “Thank you,” I say, rising from a deep squat that burns through my thighs and lower back.

  I move to stand before the door, pushing my shoulders back, keeping my stance wide. And when it opens, the world before me is one I have only dreamed of.

  The wide bowl of the Perennial Court is scooped from walls that are the perfect green of sepal leaves cupped around the base of a flower, while the glass ceiling is chiseled to allow light through in shattered rainbow prisms that flutter around the room like birds. At one end, the stairs of the dais unfold toward the main floor, the edges of each step curling into the next, fanning out at the bottom in a graceful semicircle. On the highest platform of the dais sits the throne blossom and upon it, the Bloom. But I am not ready to look upon him, and instead I let my gaze carry across the floor, which is covered in shimmering courtiers as colorful as any garden.

  They have arranged themselves in wedges, leaving three paths between the doors of the contestants and the throne. My path was determined before these doors ever opened. No sooner has the thought occurred to me than I hear the herald announce the three of us in a voice both clear and deliciously soft. It fills the room like a song.

  “Lord Bluethorn, Lady Caswell, and Lady Mayhew!”

  I step into the court like the consort I intend to be, strong and bold and capable of commanding the attention of all who stand near. After enduring so many previous trials, being the center of all this focus does not unsettle me, but as I travel through the crowd, I become aware of the two figures moving down similar paths to my left.

  My competition, I remind myself as I spot Rabi, her dark hair hoisted into a braided bun. It wasn’t up when we met on the Silk Bridge. There it had been loose, hanging long enough to brush her shoulders and twist into soft curls by her jaw. If it weren’t piled high now, I wouldn’t be able to see her at all.

  Which would be better. I shouldn’t be concerned with her hair. I should only be concerned with her skill.

  Beyond her, Lord Bluethorn stands a head above the crowd of courtiers craning for a peek at him. If it had been he I’d met on the Silk Bridge, I wouldn’t have been taken off guard. Charlish Bluethorn, who’d made himself a star in the early rounds by inviting five competitors to engage him at once and defeating them all, was a crowd favorite. I couldn’t have avoided learning his face if I’d tried. But Rabi? She’d been a name on a piece of paper, a complete mystery until she’d found me whispering benedictions to the pressed silk of the bridge.

  The crowd has left an open space near the dais, and as I approach the end, I have no choice but to look upon the Bloom of Everdale.

  He sits lightly upon the throne blossom as though his limbs float on the air. His skin is a cool, earthy brown, the mark of the Astera region where the royal family keeps its roots, and his eyes are even darker, two deep wells. Diaphanous sleeves open around his shoulders like the thin wings of a moth, and around his waist is cinched a skirt, flowing and layered in the colors of the sunset. His upper lip is painted a pale frothy green, and the color is echoed in the delicate ties that hold his black hair in an artful tangle of loops and braids. He is the picture of grace, a flower in full bloom to the sun, open and glorious and beautiful in his vulnerability.

  Six guards stand at perfect intervals around the throne, providing a stony backdrop to his radiance, and behind them the dais lofts once more. Three more steps lead to the Court of Roots, where the Bloom’s mother sits to observe the proceedings. Like her son, she is a vision. Her brown skin is made darker by the pale-blue gossamer of her dress, her sky-and-stars hair woven into place with the thinnest threads of silver. On her right sits her own consort, whose story I learned when I was a small girl choosing the way of the sword. She once stood where I do now, and though she came from beginnings more secure than my own, an accident in her youth requi
red the removal of her left leg from the knee down. She fights with and without the use of a molded limb, and I have long wished to see this woman who is grace in the might.

  I stop halfway to the dais, where a podium has been placed to display a vase, inside of which stands a single summer star flower. From the corner of my eye, I note that both Rabi and Bluethorn stand before their own vases, each of us awaiting instructions.

  The Bloom lets his eyes drift down the line. He is unhurried in his assessments, unconcerned by the number of courtiers waiting for the show to truly begin. Instead, he is contemplative, studious.

  When he reaches me, I do my best not to look away. The consort is meant to balance the Bloom, not be subdued or intimidated or awed by his presence. If I am to take his hand, to win him, he should be just as awed by me.

  I hold his eyes and tell myself what he sees before him. He sees a warrior who made it through the trials and all the way to his court. He sees a girl from the shallows, her edges rough from fighting for every scrap of food she’s ever had. He sees someone who believes herself strong enough to be his balance in the world, to be the sword at his side, the blade to his bloom. I have no wealth or influence to offer him, but without speaking a single word, I promise him that what I do have will be all he needs.

  The Bloom removes his eyes from me, and I feel the cool release like a cloud moving across the sun. He tilts his head in a movement so graceful I feel the power of our nation reflected in it.

  “Begin,” he says, his voice as light as nectar and just as sweet.

  The three of us move as one, loosening the ties of our overskirts to let them fall away. We are left wearing only our singlets, the formfitting suits that hook over our shoulders, hug tight to our torsos, and cinch around each thigh to display our bodies and our strength.

  I make the mistake of looking to my left, where Rabi stands in a deep-purple suit, her ochre bands like smears of spring pollen over her arms and legs. Again, my breath hitches in my throat, and I force myself to look at her head-on until my heartbeat returns to normal. If I can’t look at her, I sure as hell can’t fight her. And if I can’t fight her, then I can’t win.

  And I came here to win.

  A herald steps before the dais with a small paper in her hands. With great care, she raises her young voice. “Let these final games reveal the consort to our Bloom. In their strength our nation will find balance, and with balance we will endure and thrive.” She pauses as the courtiers cheer their approval, tossing handfuls of fragrant petals into the air. “Lord Bluethorn will defend first!”

  The crowd murmurs and rearranges itself in anticipation of the first fight. Rabi and I move into offensive positions while Bluethorn places himself between us and his podium. His goal is to protect; ours is to threaten. And while on the surface that makes allies of me and Rabi, I gain nothing if she is the one to successfully destroy Bluethorn’s vase.

  There are no weapons in this challenge. We have already demonstrated our skills with blades, arrows, and spears. Now we must show that when steel is not an option, we will become a shield. Here, our weapons are our bodies.

  The herald moves to the lower step of the dais, positioning herself near the pendulum clock.

  “Three pegs!” she announces, holding the bronze pendulum between her fingers. “Beginning now!” She releases the device, giving it momentum to travel in a slow circle, knocking down pegs to mark the passage of time.

  Keeping Rabi in my peripheral vision, I circle wide, forcing Bluethorn to spread his attention between the two of us. Rabi moves in the opposite direction, using me as well as I’m using her, until we make a straight line, with Bluethorn between us.

  He is tall, with muscles that bunch around his shoulders and thighs. His skin is the same pale cream as my own, marking us as descendants of the Lilia region, and it all but glows against the cerulean blue of his singlet. He holds his chin down, his face forward, as he tracks our movements from the corners of his eyes. His body is coiled and ready, everything about his defensive posture communicating sharp strength.

  Rabi moves a second before I do, both of us racing toward the center. Swiveling, Bluethorn catches the vase up in one arm and spins it away from the podium just as Rabi delivers a precise kick. Her leg sweeps through the air the vase occupied a second before. The crowd gives a collective gasp, and there’s a smattering of applause for the romantic nature of the rescue.

  I move on instinct. Taking advantage of Rabi’s need to recover and Bluethorn’s cargo, I attack his weak side, forcing him to expose his back to me in an effort to shelter his summer star. He’s off-balance when Rabi returns, driving him into my attacks with a series of pristine jabs. But Bluethorn delivers on his reputation by feinting toward me, then spinning around to aim a vicious kick at Rabi’s chest.

  She flies back, and I can’t help the pinch of concern that worms its way through my chest as she hits the ground. There’s no time to consider all the ways that feeling is troubling as Bluethorn rounds on me, forcing me back with his long-legged kicks.

  Across the room, Rabi rolls onto her knees, one hand clutched to her chest. I drop to the floor, letting the momentum of Bluethorn’s attacks carry him past me, and as soon as his back is turned, I drive my fist into his side. It’s a solid hit, one he won’t soon forget, but I’m on the wrong side of him and time is running out.

  Before he can recover, I dig my knee into his thigh, forcing him to bend. I have him exactly where I need him to be, but before I can swing around to his other side, Rabi is there. She approaches in silence, and then the vase shatters against the thin side of her hand.

  Water, glass, and a single flower pool at our feet. The pendulum knocks down its final peg. And a stony mask falls over Bluethorn’s face. He hasn’t lost. At least, not yet. Nothing will be decided until all three of us have defended, but he gained very little in this fight, and he knows it.

  The courtiers issue delighted applause, and three young boys hurry out to sweep away the destroyed vase as the herald calls out, “Caswell will defend next!”

  We take up our positions around Rabi’s vase, this time with her assuming the point of defense. She shrugs as she settles into a crouch, and I understand instantly that she’s hurt, though not deeply. Her eyes flick from me to Bluethorn, and I know she’s thinking the same thing I am: Bluethorn will be out for blood.

  I should use that to my advantage, but when I look at her, my desires travel in confusing ways. I want to protect her as much as I want to win.

  You will change the path your family walks, I think. Outside the palace grounds, my mother waits for word in the Thorn Garden. She has been there since the earliest hours of the morning, afraid that arriving too late would mean a spot too far to be among the first to hear the news. Sometimes I think she’s been waiting for this moment longer than I have. Winning will change everything for us, it will root the Mayhew line in the very bedrock of our nation.

  “Three pegs!” the herald’s voice calls. “Beginning now!”

  Bluethorn moves instantly. He doesn’t know or care what I will do, only that he makes the first attack. He aims low, forcing Rabi to dance away from his sweeping legs and put space between herself and the podium. Thinking the move afforded him an easy advantage, Bluethorn moves in to swipe the delicate vase from its perch. But Rabi is there. Her body arches in the air as she performs a tight flip that brings her legs slicing down against Bluethorn’s arm.

  It’s an exquisite move, and the crowd loves her for it. They cry out and fling petals, filling the cavernous room with her name. “Caswell! Caswell! Caswell!”

  Rabi hears them—there is no way she doesn’t—but she is a wall of focused intensity. Her eyes remain locked on Bluethorn, but I can feel her tracking me as I circle around her side.

  Bluethorn strikes again, this time with a punishing effort. Rabi dodges, deflects, and counters, matching Blue
thorn’s speed if not his force. The fight pulls them away from the podium, just far enough to give me an opening.

  I take it, charging in, my eyes on Rabi’s form.

  Which is why Bluethorn takes me by surprise. His fist crashes into my jaw, neatly curtailing my approach. Rabi is on his heels, leaping high in the air to drive her own fist into his neck.

  For the flash of a second, her eyes skip to mine, marking the blood now sliding down my chin, and I know—I know—her attack was a retaliation for me. It’s over in a beat, there and gone, but it leaves me with a swollen feeling in my chest.

  Bluethorn moves again, returning his attentions to Rabi. This time she swings low.

  It’s a mistake.

  I see it the instant she does, though it’s too late to change course, and now there is nothing standing between Bluethorn and Rabi’s summer star.

  I’m trapped on Rabi’s other side, closer to the vase than I am to Bluethorn. There is only one option before me, and I’m startled to find that I do not want to take it.

  You are here to win!

  I drive my leg out in a low kick, nailing the podium dead center. As it flies across the room, the vase crashes to the floor. The summer star comes to rest at my feet, and I raise my eyes to find a wounded look in Rabi’s. I destroyed her vase so that Bluethorn would not, but that is a look that will haunt me.

  I tell myself that it won’t matter when the Bloom chooses me and the line of my family is restored.

  The crowd is cheering, but I do not hear the words. Instead, I move to my podium. I pause and bury my nose in the layered ice blue and lilac petals of the summer star flower, letting the lacy fragrance remind me of my purpose, then I turn to face my opponents.

  “Mayhew defending!” The herald has to stretch to be heard above the excited clamor of the courtiers. “Three pegs! Beginning…now!”

  Once more, we initiate our violent dance. I take a wide stance, knowing that Rabi will bide her time, while Bluethorn will attack head-on.