The Fiery Arrow

by Bo Burnette

  A young man—perhaps a bit younger than Arliss—came dashing over to grab the little girl.

  “Oh, pardon me, my lady, I…Keelin didn’t mean to…” His dark eyes darted to Arliss’s face as he apologized.

  Arliss laughed. “It’s all right. No harm has been done.” She lifted the doll and replaced it in its owner’s outstretched arms.

  Keelin offered a shy smile in return.

  “Thank you, my lady,” the young man said. He stood well taller than her, though his face was perhaps more youthful.

  She peeked over his shoulder at another young man, older-looking than the first but not so tall. He rose from his picking to observe the kerfuffle with the princess and the doll. Sweaty brown hair clung to his forehead, and his hands were turned green from the beans.

  Just then, the evening bell clanged from inside the village. It was five o’clock. Time to cease all work for the day.

  The fellow took Arliss’s basket from her, and she looked into his remarkable eyes. They were deep, full of joy and sorrow mixed together; so many colors wove together in them that it was impossible to say which shone most clearly: blue, green, and hazel. He nodded at her.

  She turned and hurried back to the village, haunted by the look in his eyes.

  As Arliss trekked through the bustling village that evening, the sun had already descended into the west, its light sinking towards the plain which stretched out for miles. At the end of the plain were the great Cliffs of Aíll; beyond the cliffs, the sea; and beyond the sea, who knew.

  She paused outside the inn, The Bronze Lion. Lights and laughter flickered inside, beckoning to her. She hesitated. Her father would be in there, and probably the whole royal council after the day’s festivities. She didn’t want to have another useless conversation about her romantic life.

  But the smell of fresh bread was too strong. She inhaled and pushed the wooden door open.

  The Bronze Lion was the only inn in the entirety of the village, and thus the entire country. It welcomed dozens of Reinholdians into its wooden walls every evening—farmers and craftsmen ready for refreshment after a long day of work.

  Fireplace and candlelight illuminated the entire building as she sat at one of the wide, wooden benches, gripping a hunk of bread in one hand and a book in the other. She tore through the warm, buttered bread. Exhaustion pulled at her from all angles. Both her father’s urgent talk and the hour of work in the field had drained her more than she had been in many a day.

  She finished the story and the bread at the same time. It was the story she had begun in the tree that morning—the tale of the brave queen and her flaming arrow. At the end of the tale, it had a poem which she knew well. Her mother had read this same story to her many times when she was a tiny lass.

  A princess on a carven throne

  Clothed in simple raiment

  A queenly look is in her eye

  And grace is on her forehead

  A princess on a smooth-hewn throne

  Clothed in linen raiment

  A queenly look is in her eye

  And grace is on her forehead

  A princess on a gilded throne

  Clothed in silken raiment

  A queenly look is in her eye

  And grace is on her forehead

  The poem did not fit the story; after all, the poem told of a princess and the story of a queen. Perhaps the poem had another meaning. She would ask her mother about it later. Elowyn had saved dozens of books from the island and knew each one in the castle library inside and out.

  As she started to devour the thick slice of cheese on her plate, Ilayda slid onto the bench beside her. Arliss continued eating and staring at the poem without acknowledging her friend.

  “What’re you doing?” Ilayda twisted to stretch her back.

  Arliss thought it was rather obvious what she was doing. “Eating cheese.”

  The noise of dancing and music filled the large hall with a sort of clamor that made it difficult to hear anything—but easy to notice everything. Lines of young people skipped around to the informal scratchings of a single fiddle.

  As Arliss turned to face Ilayda, she caught sight of her father in the adjacent hall, along with the three lords of the city. His brow was knitted together and he looked tired, almost old. What had caused his concern?

  Kenton clamped his mug down on the table. “It’s a dangerous idea, Nathanael.”

  “I know,” Nathanael replied. “But I believe it’s a good one. We must expand. There can be no more of this stagnant waiting.”

  Lord Adam lifted his hand. “We are not stagnant. The people are fruitful in everything they do. The crops have doubled from a few years ago. That, I believe, is anything other than stagnation.” He stroked his short beard. “Though I daresay the leadership of this city could be more structured.”

  Kenton frowned. He disliked what Adam was hinting at. His words stank of disgruntlement and resentment. “And what is your meaning?”

  Adam shrugged. “I’m curious why your daughter was so late for this morning’s ceremony.”

  Kenton half-glared at him. “That was her own doing. I am not responsible for her lateness.”

  “Clearly she doesn’t think herself to be responsible either,” Adam pointed towards nothing, but Kenton knew very well to whom he was pointing fingers. “This is not the first such incident.”

  “Arliss is only fifteen.” Nathanael’s eyes sparked.

  “Nearly sixteen, though, is she not? Aren’t we celebrating her birthday at the ball tomorrow? Nearly a woman, by my standards! If she cannot—”

  Kenton held up a hand. “Peace, gentlemen. I have spoken with my daughter about her tardiness. I trust it will not happen again. Now, to the business at hand. We must decide on this issue of villages: whether to remain here, or to branch out.”

  Lord Brédan cleared his throat as his mug met the wooden table. “There seem to be many opinions among us. I call for a counsel as soon as possible. I would like to hear what the queen has to say on this matter.” His eyes twinkled beneath dark, bushy eyebrows. “P’raps even the princess could join.”

  “No!” Kenton said, a bit more forcefully than he had intended. He lowered his voice. “No, she is not of age to be on the royal council.”

  “You should not doubt her,” Nathanael murmured. “She has more wisdom than you think.”

  To this Kenton could make no reply.

  “Look!” Ilayda tapped Arliss’s arm, pointing across the room. “It’s your peasant friends from the field earlier.”

  Arliss noticed the two young men sitting in the corner, but she spun to face Ilayda. “I met them not more than an hour ago. How do you know about them?”

  “I see more things than you know.”

  So she must have been spying from the library window again. Arliss narrowed her eyes. “Why did you call them peasants?”

  “Because they are. Just like you’re a princess, and I’m a lord’s daughter.”

  “But, Ilayda, have you never considered why? Why we are treated like…well, like we’re better than they are.”

  “Aren’t we, in a way?”

  Arliss opened her mouth but found she couldn’t say anything. These divisions between the people of Reinhold, they spread through everything and everyone—even to her best friend! Since when had the royalty become so much better than the commoners?

  She fixed her gaze on the duo in the corner.

  The one with the curious eyes turned to meet hers, and she dropped her head in haste.

  Philip leaned his head onto his fist, still watching the princess. She had turned away—almost bashfully—and now was avoiding his gaze, her eyes darting everywhere but at him.

  Why had she been working in the field today? She had been alone. She had spoken to no one but his cousins Erik and Keelin. And she had left without a word of explanation.

  As he studied her, he recognized something in her demeanor. A look of longing, of regret and hope intermingled, and a desire
for something else. It was a feeling he understood all too well.

  “I’m going to dance with her,” he said aloud.

  “What?” Erik followed his gaze. His eyebrows shot up. “Princess Arliss? Now?”

  Philip swung to face Erik. “No, of course not! At her birthday ball tomorrow. I’m going to dance with the princess.”

  Erik smirked, his face skeptical. He held up a coin. “One copper says you won’t.”

  Philip slapped down another. “Two coppers say I will.”

  CHAPTER FOUR: ANARCHY

  “The poem does, indeed, have another meaning,” Elowyn said. She rose from her chair and strode over to one of the few shelves that decked the wall of the castle library. Flickering candlelight trickled about her gliding form.

  Arliss leapt up from her own seat, striding over to the queen. “What is the other meaning, then? And how do you know it?”

  Her father frowned up from his Bible, his blue eyes narrowed and focused. “I believe your mother is going to answer you in due time, Arliss. Do not nag with incessant questions.”

  She narrowed her eyes, refusing to face him. His conversation from earlier still burned in her mind. “I was asking Mother.”

  “Arliss!” Elowyn stopped scanning the shelves. “Peace!” She continued to search for the desired volume. Finding it, she gave a triumphant “aha!” and pulled it out.

  Arliss beheld the ancient book. Its thick leather cover smelled old and sweet, as if with a perfume. She loved old things such as this book, but they proved rare in a country barely twelve years old.

  The title was emblazoned in a language she did not comprehend, but the sound of the letters felt magical when she read them aloud: Finscéal agus Stair na Trí Clans.

  “It is an ancient language of our people, now lost in the depths of time,” Elowyn said. “It means ‘Legend and History of the Three Clans.’ This book contains many treasures from our history—both comprehensible and incomprehensible. You see, before our flight to the Isle of Light and the wrath of its fiery volcano, the clan of Reinhold dwelt on the other side of the ocean. Our people were oppressed by the great clan of Anmór and desired freedom.”

  “I know the stories, Mother.” Arliss smiled, idly fingering the thick pages of the volume.

  “And it was just before that flight when this book was written. It relates many mysterious events of the past, present, and even the future.”

  “And the poem?”

  “It also appears in this book, but here it comes with a prophecy. These accounts were written by a wise man of old—one who, it is said, advised kings and governed cities. With many of his poems he included a foretelling or a wise adage.”

  “But aren’t they just legends? Surely they aren’t actually true.”

  Elowyn shuffled through the pages of the book. “And why would they not be?”

  Arliss kept silent. Her mother, too, was quiet as she found the poem and laid the book out on the reading stand nestled between the shelf and a window framing a starlit night.

  “Here is the poem and the prophecy.” Elowyn read aloud, “‘In a time of great need, such a one will arise. Fire shall arm her, and water shall guard all. War, hate, and greed shall come with their lies. Yet from such a great harm she shall save her people from fall.’”

  “Well, I suppose it makes for decent poetry,” Kenton chimed in from the corner.

  Arliss pressed her hand into the reading desk to restrain herself from speaking.

  “Kenton!” Elowyn scolded, her tone hard but her eyes playful. “It may yet hold true. The prophecies of the very wise rarely fail.”

  He shrugged. “Stories are stories. They hold neither power nor sway in real life.”

  Arliss couldn’t contain the fierce fire in her heart any longer. “That’s simply not true!” She turned from bending over the desk and stood tall. “Stories are powerful. Stories have life—truth!”

  He sighed and closed his Bible. “Arliss, have you ever seen a story save a man’s life? Or feed someone?” He cocked his head. “Of course not. There is no profit in fleeting myths and daydreams.”

  She took two steps forward, her feet padding on the woven carpet which draped the stone floor. “But there is! These stories don’t just flee away. They endure. This tale has lived on for many generations, and it is not forgotten. You’re wrong, just wrong, terribly wrong! And I will certainly not—”

  “That is quite enough, Arliss!” Kenton’s sudden outburst stopped her words short. “It is not your place to lecture me.” He frowned. “You would give me orders? And you would carry yourself carelessly—associating with commoners? I saw you in the fields this afternoon, Arliss. And I am not alone. The lords have noticed your behavior as well. If you do not know your place, then perhaps you ought to adjourn until you can find it.”

  Heat rose to her cheeks, and she hurried out of the room. Once in her own bedchamber down the hall, she leaned against the wall. She tilted her head back against the stone and closed her eyes. How could he say these things? How could he…

  What had he said? Associating with commoners, was it? Her eyes snapped open. The monster of division was rearing its head in a new way. The schism was widening.

  In her dreams that night, she wandered up the tiers of an endless hill, on which every layer felt more foreign and more opulent than the last. She walked ever on, looking for someone whose name she could not remember.

  Ilayda walked ahead of Arliss, her brown hair bobbing and flashing in the morning sun as she hurried through the crowd. She was a true friend, but was as unpredictable as Reinholdian weather—one moment perfectly sunny, the next pouring down a storm from its cloudy expanse. The storms were always brief, though, and so were Ilayda’s inconsistencies.

  “Il-LIE-da!” Arliss sidestepped a man with a wheelbarrow full of potatoes and shooed aside an angry hen that flapped its wings indignantly. “Wait!”

  She had determined not to be distracted. Her mother’s orders had been simple: half a dozen apples and a length of blue ribbon, then home again as swiftly as possible.

  This morning, the market bustled far more than on an ordinary day. Today was the day of a ball—her birthday celebration—and that meant feasting and dancing for all. The baker had to bake dozens of loaves, the farmers would have to have their freshest crops displayed, and the tailor—Mrs. Fidelma—would be up to her chin in orders for alterations and hems and ribbons and capes. Elowyn had sent Arliss with a length of fine green ribbon to trade for the beautifully embroidered blue one Mrs. Fidelma had displayed in her shop.

  Ilayda pulled Arliss into Mrs. Fidelma's shop. “Let’s at least look around for a minute.”

  “No, no, and no. We haven’t time to shop for dresses.” Arliss would rather have spent the morning shooting arrows. She held up the green ribbon she needed to exchange. “One blue ribbon, that’s all.” She found the ribbon and laid her exchange on the counter as Ilayda waltzed about the shop.

  “I wonder where Mrs. Fidelma is?” Ilayda strode into the adjoining room. “Not here.”

  Arliss stepped through the doorway and grabbed Ilayda’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go. I really don’t think we—”

  Male voices sounded just outside the front of the store. Ilayda grabbed Arliss and pushed her against the wall, shushing with her finger. Arliss rolled her eyes and complied, sidestepping to avoid the spinning wheel next to the wall.

  The voices paused, then the men entered the shop.

  “There’s not a one in here.” The voice belonged to Lord Brédan.

  “Good.” It was Lord Adam, Ilayda’s father. “As I was saying, I believe this council will be a decisive one.”

  “And a divisive one, if last night’s conversation was any indication,” Brédan noted.

  “Indeed. Kenton will want to turn the seaside outpost into a second village. He will want to split up our people. We must make him see what is best for us.”

  “I would remind you, he is King Kenton, and his opinion holds no smal
l sway. He may be brash at times, but he is no fool.”

  “The way his daughter acts, you would think they are both fools.”

  Arliss avoided Ilayda’s eye.

  Ilayda’s father continued. “In all honesty, I hold no inseverable allegiance to Kenton. He has led our people well, and for that I am grateful. But should he choose to pursue this frivolous expansion, I will neither serve him nor pay him homage.”

  “Would you turn to anarchy and rebellion to achieve your purpose?”

  “It is not anarchy I propose. Only freedom.”

  “But are we not free enough?”

  “I disagree enough with Kenton. I doubt I could ever serve his daughter,” Adam growled. “If she’s this careless at nearly sixteen, what will she be like at his age? A careless, bumbling idiot.”

  “Would you wish to be king, then?” Brédan asked.

  “Perhaps we do not need a king. A careful governor might suffice. Consider the current situation. The merchants and craftsmen rent their fields to the peasants for a portion of the crops. By the same way, we royalty outfit guards from among the craftsmen in return for some of their work: bread, swords, furniture.”

  “So y’think this system could remain without a monarch atop it, eh?”

  “Indeed. It would flourish. But, do promise me this: that you will speak nothing of what I have told you.”

  “Aye,” Brédan said. “I shall not say a word of it. P’raps you are right. Come, let’s get on.”

  Arliss didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until it burst out in a stream.

  Ilayda’s mouth had fallen open. She stepped back into the shop’s main atrium just as Mrs. Fidelma reentered from outside, blissfully unaware of the conversation that had just occurred.

  “What can I fetch for you two girls, hm?” she asked.