I need a writing vacation. Or perhaps a writing job. In the meantime, with a little over 3 weeks until Match Day and a schedule that's more fluid and unpredictable than a broken thermometer, a brief mental health break will do. Half an hour obviously isn't enough for a full story, but at least it'll let me post the prologue to my Elementalist "trilogy." Yes, there was supposed to be a trilogy. We shall see if I ever complete even the first book. Back to the knitting and sewing after Lent, perhaps? Not giving them up, mind, just trying to make the best of limited resources.
Prologue
Once in
a far-off kingdom, two princesses were born. The fairy tale books
would insist that one was fair as sunlight, the other dark of hair
and skin like a moonless night. Not so: they both looked like
ordinary babies, and extremely alike ones at that, as twins are wont
to look, and no amount of hyperbole could do justice to the fact that
they were both small, pink, screaming things with a few fine tufts of
hair on their heads of an indeterminate blackish color.
Their
mother did not die in childbirth, though during the act she probably
rather wished she could. Their father was, surprisingly, present,
having taken a crash course in midwifery prior to the event, just in
case, and to the midwife's surprise was actually quite useful, a
lucky thing as she was not one to shower false praise even on her
sovereign.
The
room in which they were born was modest by fairy tale standards as
well, furnished with a large convertible bed, several trays bearing
various roots, powders, and basins of water at different
temperatures, a few mirrors which could be turned or removed at a
moment's notice depending on the laboring queen's taste, and very
little else. In attendance were two or three maids, a somber man in
black robes and a tall hat who bore about him the official air of a
minister or magician, and that man's sixteen-year-old niece. It was
obvious the two were related based on a certain set of the mouth that
both unconsciously adopted, and equally obvious she was not his
daughter based on the fact that the minister wasn't old—mid-thirties
if that—and fairly radiated honest temperance. Also, his new wife
having borne him a son only two lunar months ago, he still wore the
faintly incredulous glow of a man having beheld his first child.
In any
case, the babies were born, the second taking an interminable amount
of time after the first as she insisted on emerging feet-first,
deemed healthy, the cords were cut, the afterbirth delivered, and
both shrieking princesses were put to breast where they suckled
hungrily, one to a side. The kingdom breathed a sigh of relief, the
news-criers sought out gossip in other quarters, and everybody turned
back to what he or she had been doing before.
It
should have been business as usual. Once both children survived the
complexities of birth and infancy, the elder girl, being the heir,
would be trained in the dual arts of diplomacy and warfare, as well
as any other skills she or her father deemed useful in the running of
a kingdom. If she was of a beautiful and soft nature she might
perhaps marry, advantageously of course, to a man of wealth or power.
If not, well, she would take the reigns of sovereignty upon herself
regardless. The younger girl would receive an abbreviated course in
these things, just in case, but she was to prepare for other
pursuits. Traditionally she could be taught magic and lore to
prepare her for a life in the Ministry, if she showed the proper
talents, or she could learn domestic economy and etiquette if she
seemed marriageable to one of the noblemen who needed a reward or
bribe to cement his loyalty. There were other options, of course:
minstrelsy might be considered, or weaponry, though craftsmanship
might be frowned upon for someone of her station. Still, there would
be time to sort out all that as the children grew and developed
personalities beyond mere speculation.
Except,
unfortunately, for the prophecy.
“Are
you certain, Uncle? I mean, you've always been wary of prophecies
before.” The Minister's niece sounded petulant, not least from the
prospect of never seeing the jewelsmith's boy again if she followed
through with her appointed task.
“As I
am of this one,” he replied, “but there are others who are not,
and who are placed conveniently near enough to the royals to act if
we hesitate. Lord Sinder and Sir Albrecht have proposed solutions
that would make your hair stand on end, and they're building up quite
a following within the Ministry. If we want Abriona to grow up to
rule the kingdom, it is we who must be the schemers and not those
bloodthirsty old-regime noblemen who claim to represent peace.
They'd like nothing better than to return to their fiefdoms and do as
they please to their lands and subjects.”
“But
'The sisters shall divide up the kingdom and bloodshed will again
reign'? Surely no actual prophecy reads like that. They're all
those cryptic sayings like 'The wise man shall gather grain and sow
when the ground is fertile.' Sinder and Albrecht couldn't get enough
people to believe their drivel before the others declare them
traitors and drive them out with tar and pitchforks.”
“You're
forgetting a few pages from your lessons, my dear: 'And the lion
shall unite them, and there shall follow one hundred years of peace.
At the end of that time shall rise the wolf moon. The tides shall
dance and the air shall taste of tears. The corn shall be plentiful
yet taste bitter.'”
“So
the tsunami victims in Tsoria complained about our food. I think
it's more our mass-production techniques, personally. All those
preservatives to make the bread last longer, it's bound to taste
different.”
“And
tell me, my young alchemist, which of the compounds has been shown to
produce that particular bitterness.”
The
girl glared.
“Yes,
I know you've been working on our grain production for two years now.
Don't take it so personally.” Her uncle sat down beside her at
the workbench and quietly took the blade of barley from her hand.
“I'm merely pointing out that people believe what they see—and
smell and hear and taste, come to that. They've heard the wolves
howling, and it frightens them. Who knows how they'll act, or who
they'll turn to?”
“And
so you want me to keep Princess Aurora safe by keeping her far away
from her sister in that...place?”
“What are you so afraid of, that they don't use magic or that they
call it science? You've studied the various planes all your life, my
dear. I've no doubt you'll find a way to fit in.”
His niece thought about the jeweler's son, about his strong,
sure-fingered hands and lean but well-muscled body, and began to sob.
“I've told him, you know,” said the Minister. “He said he
would wait for you to the ends of the earth. Whatever that means. I
hate mixed metaphors.”
She gave a tearful laugh and nodded. “Might as well get on with it
then. Let's go over the plan again.”
So it was that the girl was seen walking up and down the nursery
hallway at midnight on a full moon. The bundle in her arms cooed
contentedly and drooled onto her work shirt. She conjured a bottle
from the depths of her cloak and fed the infant with a surprisingly
competent tenderness.
A door creaked open and a figure emerged, hair tousled and body
wrapped in a flannel robe. It paused at the sight of her. “Sophie
Brandon?” it asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she murmured. “I was borrowing the royal
laboratory tonight and came downstairs to see if I could find a snack
in the kitchens.”
“And found the nursery?”
“This one was crying, Majesty, and the wet-nurse was fast asleep.
I didn't mean to wake anyone.”
The king squinted. “And which one is that? Bloody hard to tell
when they're so young and look exactly alike.”
“Aurora, sir. She's got a small dimple on her right cheek; Abriona
doesn't.”
“Oh, that helps.” He ran a finger along the infant's cheek, and
she smiled at him.
“If you don't mind my asking, Your Majesty, what are you doing up
and about at this hour?”
He looked sheepish. “Me? Oh, I'm a horrible insomniac. Every
time I drift off, all I can dream about is the job, and trust me,
just because it's inherited doesn't mean it's not work. It's
nerve-wracking running a kingdom: I go through most days praying to
various deities not to let me screw anything up too badly. Not that
your uncle has it any better, I'm sure, being elected to his post.
Now, tell anyone about this conversation and I shall have to have you
executed, which would cost me no small amount of grief and
paperwork.”
“Understood, sir.”
There came a sound of breaking glass, and the two looked at each
other in horror. “The nursery!”
The king had thrown the door open and himself inside before Sophie
had managed more than two or three steps. Inside, the nurse was
cowering in terror, a howling baby Abriona clutched to her breast.
Two masked men already lay bleeding on the carpeted floor as the king
carefully speared his sword through a third. “Sophie,” he cried
as he parried a blow from a fourth, “take the child and run! Get
yourselves as far from here as you can!”
She didn't think twice, merely let her feet direct her as she bolted,
Aurora screaming pitifully into her cloak. There were more men in
the hallway, swords drawn and menacing. She aimed a Thought laden
with a desperate, hateful fury at the first one and he toppled,
clutching his chest, into the man behind him. She spun on her heel
and ran the opposite way.
There was a turn, and then another, the hallmark winding passages of
a castle built for defense. More men, but her uncle had trained her
well in the practical defensive magics. She left one group gaping
behind an invisible barrier, another two men behind a curtain of
flame, and, well, she didn't want to consider what thoughts were now
going through the minds of the men who had just collapsed clutching
their heads behind her, emitting bloodcurdling screams. The palace
guards had gotten in on the action by now, and it looked to be a
several-hour melee in the works. Fine with her, so long as it
allowed her to make it to the bridge where here uncle would be
waiting.
Still, the coldness of the night was a bit of a nuisance. Midwinter
though it might be, she could not recall there ever having been such
a chill. Her knees shook under the extra layers of stockings and
trousers, and her breath spurted out in frosty plumes. The air was
almost solid, impeding her all-our sprint into a clumsy jog. A
thousand steps between the palace and the bridge, and the smaller the
remaining distance, the harder it became to move.
Until she came to a complete stop. “I believe you've gone quite
far enough, my dear,” a voice said behind her, and the marrow froze
in her bones.
“That's right,” said Lord Sinder with a sort of deliberate
patience. “We'll stop right here, and you'll give the child to
me.”
Her teeth chattered, and it was all she could do to keep her grip on
the baby, who seemed to sense the situation and stared silently at
her next would-be abductor. Sophie felt as if the bones of her jaw
were being squeezed to powder as she brought out the word: “No.”
Lord Sinder laughed mirthlessly. “Have it your way, then. A
little extra blood to sweeten my sacrifice.” His long fingers
raked the air in front of him and the twisted blade began to form.
Sophie curled herself around Aurora's small body, still surprisingly
warm in the unnatural cold. She closed her eyes against the
inevitable.
A sound of shattering metal and something else—a shriek from high
up in the unnatural registers?--rent the air above her. She heard
Lord Sinder curse and stared numbly at the small, perfectly cut stone
at her feet. Only one family shaped a diamond like that.
She looked up in time to see him glare with defiance at the hooded
aristocrat, a second diamond ready in his hand. And then the jewel
slipped from his fingers and he seemed to give her a resigned
half-smile as he slumped against the lamppost. Lord Sinder's hand
had barely left his dagger sheath. The dagger itself was buried to
the hilt in the boy's chest. In the iciness of the night, there was
very little blood.
Rage warmed her limbs and allowed her to move. She held the child in
one arm and raised the other hand to gesture in the air in front of
her. The howl that tore from her throat held no words, but the
Intent was unmistakeable. If he'd had more of a heart, it might have
been torn, dripping and still beating, from his body. Instead, he
stiffened, more with shock than with pain, and for the brief moment
their eyes met she had the upper hand. Then he sent her a blow that
knocked her backwards into the street. Dazed, blinded, unable to
focus her thoughts, she somehow managed to keep her arms tight around
the baby.
And
then her uncle was there, pulling her along in a whirl of cloak and
warm air. Somewhere above her head they battled, but she was too
tired to pay attention even to a clash of swords, much less one of
wills.
They
were on the bridge then, and he muttered the words that would send
her away. She welcomed it now. Aurora made a startled sound as the
shift began, an unsettling series of what might be described as
pressure gradients if by pressure one meant time, space, and
existence. It was over almost as soon as it began—before
it began?
Unbeknownst to Princess Aurora, she was about to begin her life as
she would come to know it, far away from all the fuss of magic and
prophecy. As to what became of the Princess Abriona and the realm
she was to inherit, we can only speculate. If we believe in fairy
tales, then her father successfully held off the onslaught of Sir
Albrecht's men, held the kingdom together despite his insecurities,
and happily left his lands to his daughter when he died. If not,
then, well, what's the point of our fairy tale? Let us pretend,
then, that Queen Abriona now reigns in Astyria. And her sister: did
they leave her a doorway back, or, fearing the prophecy, have they
barred it forever?
approximately
worsted weight yarn, roughly 200 yards or 1 skein apiece main color
(tan) and contrasting color (brown), small amount black and blue yarn (waste yarn will do) for eyestalk
Body:
Rounds 1-4: knit.
Eyestalk:
