Once Upon a Star

by Anthea Sharp

  Estrelle had also been busy learning the laws and traditions of her new home, as well as becoming more familiar with the new cultures and customs flooding into the city as a result of the successful trade treaty. Every day, someone or something new arrived from the distant corners of the two galaxies, and she couldn’t wait to see what else the universe had to offer.

  A shift of Damryn’s body pulled Estrelle from her reverie.

  “Look,” he whispered against her ear, his long arm lifting to point at the horizon.

  Kaul’s sun had disappeared behind the mountains, its pale light still spilling into their world. But there, not too far from the edge of the land, a pinprick of crimson sparkled in the sky.

  “Staerra!” Estrelle murmured, standing up a bit straighter but still sheltered within Damryn’s embrace.

  He nodded behind her, and his smile transferred to his words when he answered, “Yes, although I am used to calling it Hettar. Not very far away at all. One day, once you’ve settled in here, we will vacation on Parsa, and you can teach me more about your world.”

  Estrelle spun to face her husband. He was so tall she had to crane her neck back very far to see his expression. “Could we?”

  He gazed down at her, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward. Tugged on her heart. His eyes deepened to an almost sky blue as he said, “Would that make you happy?”

  Estrelle reached up and pulled him down into a kiss. “Anything I get to do with you makes me happy.”

  His smile broadened, and she added, “But it would make me even happier to visit my home. I love it here, but I do miss my mother and sisters, and I’d love to show you off to them.”

  He laughed and swooped her up into a fierce hug. “And I wouldn’t mind seeing Jarna from your planet.”

  “Yssa,” she corrected him, “we call your star Yssa. And it is the most beautiful pale blue gem.”

  “I look forward to it,” he replied.

  Estrelle bit her lip and lowered her eyes.

  “What?” Damryn pressed.

  “I only hope our climate isn’t too warm for you,” she teased. “You might melt like one of those ice shards down there.”

  She indicated the lake, and Damryn laughed. “Oh, but you’ve already melted my heart, dear Estrelle. I think I ought to be well prepared.”

  Estrelle kissed him again, and for the next several minutes, they watched the sky darken and welcome the stars.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  By the Light of a Distant Star was inspired by the fairytale The Goose Girl. In the original story, a princess journeys to marry a prince, only to have her identity stolen by the maid accompanying her. The princess arrives in the royal city and is given the lowly task of tending to the geese. She also discovers the head of her horse has been mounted above the castle gate and that it is able to speak the truth of the tale. Eventually, the princess reclaims her identity and marries the prince.

  In By the Light of a Distant Star, I had the challenge of incorporating the elements of the original story into a science fiction world. The princess and her prince (Estrelle and Damryn) are still key characters, but they have been corresponding for several months before Estrelle leaves to join him on his planet. Instead of a devious maid, Estrelle is double-crossed by a villain’s minion, one who is able to take on Estrelle’s appearance. There is no trusty horse who speaks the truth, but a loyal droid who records the crime committed against Estrelle. Although I was initially nervous about taking on science fiction, I’m very pleased with how this story turned out and absolutely love this new universe I’ve discovered. I hope you, the reader, will enjoy it as well.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jenna Elizabeth Johnson is a bestselling, multi award-winning author of contemporary and epic fantasy. She has written multiple books in the Otherworld, the Draghans of Firiehn, and the Legend of Oescienne series.

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  For contact information, visit the author’s website at: www.jennaelizabethjohnson.com

  *Never miss one of my new book releases! For news regarding books, giveaways, author appearances and more, be sure to sign up for my newsletter HERE*

  Vasilisa and the Horse of Power - Jamie Ferguson

  Once upon a time a strong and powerful Tzar ruled in a land that had long ago been known for its halcyon skies, amber waves of grain, and purple mountain majesties. But times had changed. The sky was still a brilliant blue, and the white-tipped peaks off in the distance capped a majestic mountain range that did indeed appear to look purple from far away, but the land no longer produced grain. The only plants that grew well in the sweltering heat that ruled the sunblasted, storm-swept, six-month-long summer were things like cacti, sagebrush, and the scrubby little bushes rattlesnakes liked to hide under.

  Thousands of years earlier, before the changes to the earth’s climate had become irreversible, a group of rich and powerful people bought up millions of acres of land and built a giant underground enclave. They brought with them a large collection of less well-off people to maintain gardens, repair machinery, and do other menial tasks. The Tzar ruled the compound, and among his servants was a young woman named Vasilisa.

  Vasilisa had a horse–a horse of power–like those that had belonged to the wonderful people of lore. It had a broad chest made of titanium, eyes like fire, and hooves of iron. In spite of the fact that much of the horse was made from metal, his charcoal skin was soft and warm, just like that of the long extinct equine species his kind had been based upon. These strong, resilient steeds had been designed to carry the brave people who donned protective armor and rode through the land to rescue others during the long-ago days when the roads buckled, the seas rose, the skies filled with fire, and whole cities were blown away by the wind or covered up with dust or water.

  There are no such horses nowadays. Some say they still exist, sleeping in caves deep under the earth, and that when they are needed again they’ll rise up, and the valiant warriors who rode them will leap from their graves and join them. Then there will be the swinging of clubs and the thunder of metal hooves across the desert, the damage to the earth’s climate will be undone, and snow and ice will cover the land once more.

  One day in December, during the green time of year, Vasilisa rode her horse of power along the dusty path that wound through the low hills near the enclave. Unlike the warriors of old, she did not have armor to protect her from the sun and the fierce winds of the summer that could arise without warning. Instead she wore sturdy boots, a cotton shirt the color of the sky, and trousers woven from brown linen. Her saddlebags contained tools and equipment she’d cobbled together over the years: a blanket she’d woven from bits of plastic fiber she’d found on her journeys, goggles to protect her eyes from the midday sun, a mask to allow her to breathe even when the air was full of blowing sand. Vasilisa was one of a very few people who were brave enough to leave the enclave and, with her horse, venture into the world outside in search of treasure.

  For treasures there were, as the great winds that blew scores of miles an hour faster than a person could run brought with it things from faraway lands. If you watched the ground for the snakes, the sky for storms, and had a sharp enough eye, you might find things like a ripped silk scarf, or chunks of glass, or pieces of the vehicles the ancients drove on the dark ribbons of roads that used to crisscross the land. Once Vasilisa had even found a bicycle, rusty and battered, but complete.

  As she rode, Vasilisa kept looked for things carried and then left by the wind. Splotches of sand and pebbles dotted the patches of short, spiky grass. Tiny berries grew on the scrub bushes, and blue and white flowers clustered on the ground underneath. Squirrels ran in the branches of the gnarled, wind-twisted branches of the trees, and hares hopped about in the undergrowth, their long, tan ears twisting and turning as they kept watch for the ever-present snakes.

  Vasilisa listened for the singing of the birds, but there was no singing. The hills were silent. The only noises were the scratching
of the squirrels, the scraping sound the branches of the trees made as the wind rubbed them together, and the heavy stamping of the horse of power in the soft path.

  “Where are all the birds?” Vasilisa asked. Her voice sounded loud in the stillness of the morning.

  She’d scarcely finished her question when the horse of power stopped in his tracks. Peering around his head, she saw a long, curving feather of red-gold lying in the path before them. The feather was larger than a swan’s, larger than an eagle’s. Not that Vasilisa had ever seen a swan or an eagle except for watching videos taken millennia ago, back when such creatures still existed.

  The feather lay in the path, glittering like a flame in the sun. Vasilisa caught her breath at the sight. A firebird had flown this way, and the feather in the path had fallen from its burning breast. This was why no birds were singing–they were hiding, frightened by the appearance of the creature she’d thought hadn’t really existed. Perhaps the old tales really were true after all, the stories about how the scientists had crafted firebirds to keep watch on the land at the very ends of the world, and move inward and help spread seeds as the earth began to heal itself. She shifted in her seat as she prepared to dismount and pick up their find.

  The horse of power spoke and said, “Leave the golden feather where it lies.”

  Vasilisa bit her lip, sat back down on the saddle on the horse of power, and stared at the golden-red feather. It was like nothing she’d ever seen. If she took it to the Tzar, he would be pleased. He loved possessing things no one else had. In return he might grant Vasilisa a gift, and the gift she would ask for would be to allow her people–the servants and the poor–to have a few of the many, many kinds of seeds he kept locked away in the vault.

  The rich grew and ate a vast assortment of fresh foods, like cherries, dates, fennel, radishes, and pistachios, all grown in the Tzar’s subterranean gardens. Sometimes a kitchen maid would sneak a half-eaten persimmon away to share with her family, or a busboy might tuck a few leaves of basil in his pocket. But the punishment for doing this type of thing was severe, and so the majority of the people made do with simple foods, like vitamin-enhanced gruel made from maize, or casseroles made from apples, soybeans, and flour.

  The more Vasilisa thought about this, the more she wanted to carry the feather to the Tzar.

  Finally, she leapt from her saddle, picked up the golden feather of the firebird, mounted her horse again, and galloped back through the hills. The sun hung low in the sky by the time they reached the compound.

  The entrance to the enclave had been built in the side of a hill. The main doors were kept open during the day at this time of year so that the inhabitants could venture outside to have a picnic, or to play soccer or volleyball. But most people stayed close by so they could hurry back to safety if the storm alarms went off, as the main doors closed automatically if a storm was detected. There were a number of side doors that could be opened and closed manually, although most people didn’t use these. Vasilisa did, though, during the long summer months, when she only went out to scavenge during the few reasonably cool hours of the night.

  She rode the horse of power through the open doors, and then blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer, cooler lights that illuminated the underground complex. The horse followed the wide, brightly painted tunnels that curved down and down, his iron hooves making soft clomping sounds on the worn cement floor. They passed a community area that contained a large gymnasium and a swimming pool, one of the schools, and the many winding passageways that led to the living quarters for the lower classes. The paintings on the walls became more ornate and elaborate the further down they went. Finally, they reached a wide, open courtyard, with a high ceiling that reached up at least two hundred feet above the ground. Trees and flowers were planted around the edges, and a small, heated pool stood on one side. The wall on the opposite side, across from the tunnel Vasilisa and her horse had just come through, was painted in gold and silver and red, and the great door in the middle of it was as black as coal.

  Vasilisa slid off her horse, the feather still held tight in one hand. She patted the horse of power’s shoulder, took a deep breath, and headed through the door and into the palace.

  She walked through a long, winding corridor and then entered the great hall, where the Tzar held suit with his court. The two guards who stood by the entrance nodded to her. Their positions were more for show than anything else, as it had been centuries since anyone had challenged the authority of the ruling class. She smiled at each of the guards and then made her way across the great expanse of marble floor, doing her best to ignore the rich, plump courtiers that lounged on chairs and sofas of brocade and velvet, their eyes following her as she made her way toward the low dais where the Tzar sat. Servants dressed in simple white linen wandered to and fro carrying trays of food, or filling glasses of wine. Vasilisa had never before entered the palace proper, and her plain clothing, so appropriate for traveling through the land outside, made her stand out among the brightly colored silks and satins worn by the Tzar and his court like a pebble in a bowl of diamonds and other precious stones.

  As she passed through the room, the conversations grew quieter, until the only sound left was the soft clomping of her sturdy boots on the hard marble. Finally, after what felt like hours, she reached the end of the long room where the Tzar sat on a plush chair covered in red velvet. He wore a robe of purple silk with diamonds around the neck and on the cuffs, slippers of cream-colored satin, and a small smear of gravy clung to the edge of his chin. Streaks of white ran through his dark hair, and his eyes were the piercing gray of the sky before a hailstorm. A young man dressed in a simple uniform, with the small silver badge of a scientist pinned on his lapel, sat on a low plastic stool next to the Tzar.

  Vasilisa bowed before the Tzar.

  “O Tzar,” she said. “I have brought you a feather of the firebird.”

  She swallowed, feeling the weight of all the eyes in the room on her, and held the feather out toward the Tzar. Her hand trembled, making the reddish-orange fronds flutter.

  The Tzar raised his thick, bushy eyebrows. After a moment he reached out and took the feather from her. He held it in his hands, turning it from side to side. The feather glittered in the florescent light. He held it up to show the court; everyone clapped.

  “Thank you for bringing this to me,” he said. He sat back down in his sumptuous velvet chair and motioned to the young man sitting next to him. The people of the court returned to their conversations, their chatter filling the spacious room with a soft hum.

  The scientist hurried out of the room, and then came back with a glass tray. His brown eyes met Vasilisa’s for a second, and he smiled at her. A warm feeling ran through her middle, and for the first time since she’d entered the palace she felt comfortable. The Tzar placed the feather on the tray. The young scientist bowed and backed away, and then carried the tray out of the room.

  “Now leave us,” the Tzar said to Vasilisa.

  “May–may I request something in return?” Vasilisa asked, her heart thumping. She’d thought the Tzar would offer a gift, or a reward. She’d brought him a feather from a creature of legend! “A few seeds, for a sage plant, or maybe some thyme…”

  “No, you may not,” the Tzar said. “Who do you think you are?” His voice grew so loud it echoed off the walls of the little chamber and made her ears ring. Everyone in the room who wasn’t still looking at Vasilisa turned and stared at her.

  “I just…” she began, and then she snapped her mouth shut as he stood up on the dais. He was several heads taller than her, and the dais added a few extra feet, so he loomed over her like a rattlesnake about to strike. Vasilisa shivered.

  “No, you may not request anything in return.” He narrowed his eyes. “I grant gifts and favors when I choose to. Not when asked. And I have no interest in giving anything to a lowly servant like yourself. Your place in life is to serve your betters.”

  She pressed her lips together and
stared at the marble floor.

  The Tzar cleared his throat and sat back down.

  “If you have brought me a feather of the firebird, you will be able to bring me the bird itself,” he said. “A mere feather is not a fit gift to bring to the Tzar. Bring the bird itself, or, I swear by my sword, your head shall no longer sit between your shoulders. Now be gone from my sight!”

  “Yes sir,” Vasilisa murmured, and dashed out of the chamber. Bitterly she wept, for she knew now what it was to be afraid. She’d braved storms and heat and hail in the world outside, but had always known she could return to the safety of the enclave to avoid the worst of the world’s weather. If she didn’t bring the Tzar the firebird itself–an impossible task–her choices would be to be killed by the Tzar, or to leave the underground compound and become an exile in a hostile land where even a scavenger like herself could only find the tiniest amounts of food.

  She went out into the courtyard where the horse of power waited for her, tossing its head and stamping on the ground, by the steaming pool of water.

  “Mistress,” said the horse of power, “why do you weep?”

  “The Tzar has ordered me to bring him the firebird, and there’s no way I can do that,” said Vasilisa.

  “Do not be frightened yet,” said the horse of power. “And do not weep. The trouble is not now; the trouble lies before you. Go into the storerooms and gather as much maize as you can carry.”

  Vasilisa blinked back her tears, and they followed the tunnels to the vast rooms that held food stores for the regular folk. She grabbed two large sacks of maize, placed them on to the horse of power’s back, and climbed up in between the sacks. They headed back to the surface and she rode through the open doors and out into the dark night on the horse of power. The light from the stars and the moon illuminated their way as they followed the same dusty path they’d taken before. After a few hours they came to an open field full of rocks and short, scrubby grass. In the middle of the field stood an old, crooked oak with spreading boughs.