Saladooran. For centuries the stories of this mysterious place were whispered in galaxies scattered across the solar system. Saladooran, which was rumored the home of great magic and the people who controlled it. Its location was said to be on brilliant Polithia, between the blue capped Alshitar mountains and the great Hyfybion River. They also say that it is hidden, only to be seen by the eyes of a mighty magician who is worthy of entrance.
There are still more stories I have heard. The grounds are paved with diamonds, they say, their eyes alight. The buildings stand so high and so magnificent that the gods themselves reside in them. The monarchs are benevolent and allow those of lower rank to do as they please. All who enter the gates, a voice says in a whisper, obtain magic so powerful that the entire world could be destroyed in an instant.
All are lies.
I honestly don’t know how people can make up such extravagant tales of a place that they have absolutely no knowledge of. It is utterly ridiculous. I have to stop myself from laughing hysterically whenever someone confides their suspicions of the kingdom to me. I must merely smile softly and shrug my shoulders in indifference. I cannot chide them on their lack of proof, for heaven knows that I cannot talk sense into dreamers, but I suppose that I could clear up a few mistakes.
First, the city is very much visible. The white brick castle stands tall above the town walls. It is the tallest building, but it by no means reaches past the clouds nor is it overwhelmingly lovely. It is a run-of-the-mill castle. And the only streets paved with diamonds are the ones that little princesses have in their dollhouses. What I don’t understand is that, although they pinpointed the location correctly, many on the outside still believe it invisible. But I am digressing.
I want to make this very clear. The monarchs there are most definitely not as lenient as implied. And they surely do not allow the commoners to whittle around absentmindedly. The entire idea is preposterous. If one lives in Saladooran, one must have an occupation to support one’s family, whether one is man or woman. As for the royalty, they are very aware of what goes on in the kingdom. Whoever made up these terrible lies should be . . .
Oh my. I really should refrain.
As for the final myth . . .
One should first know that there is no normalcy on Polithia. Not in the definition of a mundane world. Phoenixes dance, dragons inhabit the glaciers and fiery provinces. Pixies fool with good folk, and faeries dart about in the darkest fall of evening as energetically as little fireflies. Ever blue are the skies, ever clear and sweet the waters. This is a land untainted by Chaos. This is a land of heroes and saints. This is the home of Rath and his gifted children, where Diamond fell and life resurrected more vibrant and beautiful than ever before. Every child born on Polithian lands in blessed with a gift. Be it song or fire-touch, all have a small token of Rath's love.
However, great power cannot be gained by the simple act of walking through Saladoor land. If that were true, the entire planet would be destroyed by now. To have power takes much more than that. Sorcery is genetic. Some may believe that muttering a few words from a wall will give them immeasurable power. Some assume that words scratched carelessly on paper is an oracle telling them their entire future. This is a fact :Oracles are not visible to mortals. Destiny, prophecy, no matter what you call it, only a select few can read them and make sure that they are carried out without flaw. Had such important foresight been available to mortals, this time would be altered dramatically into a fearful and warring world of Chaos's making. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?
Very few of the seers are men. There is nothing that the higher powers have against men, you understand, although I myself find the majority of that particular sex impulsive and arrogant. It has just been observed that women tend to have more control over their tempers. And not screeching at those of higher rank or blindly fighting for pride just so happens to keep you alive longer.
Well, I might be a tad bit of a feminist. Don’t let a little thing like that bother you, though. I don’t intend to maim you if you are reading this and are coincidentally a male. Now where was I? Oh yes.
Seers are told of their heritage on the evening of their sixteenth birthday, when the moon is full and shining down magnificently on the tips of the Alshitar mountains. Up the mountain the girl must climb, to the wintry peak. There, amidst the softly glowing blue snow, rests a black slab of stone, blank with the exception of scratches deeply made in the polished finish. Then the power of the previous seer is duplicated, and half is contributed to the younger woman, who is to be pure of heart and wise in the ways of the world. After receiving the gift of sight, the girl must read the oracle inscribed in the stone. This process has gone on for thousands of years, each time bearing a more powerful sorceress, and each time the power bringing them to an earlier doom.
But the tale that I must tell goes far beyond the boundaries of tradition. This story is one that I know is true, for I lived within the walls of this magical place whilst the events unfurled, a rich purple runner of defiance, love, and cold justice.
It began on a crystal clear evening a hundred years ago. Festivities roared inside the town walls. Peasant girls kicked off their shoes and danced wildly together around the large bonfire carefully made in the crossroads. Their shadows spun and flickered merrily. Parents permitted them children freedom for one night, allowing them to run and play among the ankles of twirling maidens. Casks overflowed with foaming beer, which the men drank in earnest, the amber liquid splashing sloppily to the ground. Laughter floated high into the night air, only overcome by an occasional burst of fire in the sky.
A short ways away from the festivities two small figures made their way through the pitch black night. They twisted and maneuvered clumsily in the dark, walking swiftly hand-in-hand. Few muttered words were passed between them. Most of their descent was spent in silence, save the fading sounds of joyous celebration. Their footsteps echoed slightly as they made their way down a long alley. There was a glare of light at the end of it.
“There,” one of the two said, pointing down toward the yellow blaze. The voice was most surely feminine. Her hood was pulled over her head, shadowing her eyes. She pulled it back with her free hand. “We’re almost there, brother.” She gave the small boy’s hand a tug and smiled at him encouragingly. The child looked at her with eyes wide and full of wonder. Then, giving her a toothy grin in return, he continued to trail behind her.
At the end of the tunnel, the girl turned to bar her brother’s way. A mischievous glint lit her eyes. “Now, my dear brother, you shall see the most amazing sight that you could lay eyes on at your young age.”
The boy gazed mutely.
The sister smiled softly. “Behold,” she whispered, sweeping her cloak aside.
The boy gasped. There, in all of its brilliance, was the castle. He looked at his sister in wonder. She laughed and nodded for him to take another step forward. His sight returned to the golden glow of the gigantic building. It was the largest thing that he had seen in his life, with the exception of the mountains. Awed, he reached out blindly for his sister’s hand. She gripped his hand gently. She stepped forward as well, taking the small boy’s side. He had heard stories about this place. This was the place of wonder and power beyond the greatest wizard, the place of beauty and wealth to which fairy tales could not compare. The place of a beautiful princess, and her heart of gold . . .
* * *
“OUCH!”
The small gilded brush fell from the lady-in-waiting’s hand, clattering loudly onto the polished stone floor. A large clump of torn hair landed next to it pathetically.
The princess twirled, her long navy gown and raven hair following her movement fluidly. Her crystal green eyes were penetrating. “Ilsa,” she began, her voice icy, “Is it your intention to rip out all my hair by the roots? So help me, but if I become bald before the night is over I may become cross with you.”
The girl winced. Indeed, the princess was an intimidating figure. She stood nearly an entire foot above Ilsa’s blond head, towering even over most of the strongest warriors. And her eyes, flecked with gold, could bore through the hardest of rock. Her long, silken hair was the color of pitch, only unique by the brown that clung to the tips. Slowly, the princess turned her back again to the girl. Retrieving the fallen item hastily, Ilsa proceeded to slowly run it through the princess’s hair. “I apologize, your highness,” she murmured.
The tall girl sighed. “What have I told you about all of that formal nonsense, Ilsa?” She absently nudged Ilsa’s hand away. She took two long strides, then turned and sat cautiously on her bed, gazing out of the window. The hard, frozen look remained on her flawless face.
Ilsa set the brush carefully onto the vanity. Her hand rested on her hip. A look of amusement on her face, she raised an eyebrow. “Very well, Corsythia. I will stop the formality. But only if you go to the ceremony.”
Princess Corsythia rolled her eyes and threw her hands up into the air. “Is that what all this shy, formal act was about?! Ilsa, you know me better than that. Do you actually think that I will go to that silly little party just so that you will stop acting like a scared little rabbit?”
Ilsa smiled. It was a slow, secretive smile, one that the two had shared since youth. “Oh, I believe that I can think of something that will send you into that room. In fact, I’m quite positive.”
Corsythia forced a small laugh. “I don’t see why this is bothering you so, my friend. All that this is is a nauseatingly florid party in which some bright-eyed prince comes begging for my hand and in which I, being the man-hating heartbreaker that everyone seems to think that I am, will turn him down quite rapidly. Honestly, I don’t know if I can handle anymore of those puppy dog eyes. I might just say yes to someone someday.” She laughed again, not so forcefully this time. She gazed down at her attire. Her body was covered in a rich blue velvet gown, trimmed with gold. A confused expression crossed her face. “I don’t even know why I’m wearing this thing.”
A snicker brought her attention in a hurry back toward her flaxen haired friend. She was shaking her head slowly, the smile on her face never faltering. “I take it you don’t know, Corsythia,” she said, her baby blue eyes twinkling.
The princess furrowed her brow. “What are you babbling about now, Ilsa?” When her friend refused to answer, she chose a more direct approach. “Ilsa,” she spoke calmly. “Tell me at once!”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Only the fact that this ‘nauseatingly florid’ party in which some bright-eyed prince comes begging for your hand may not turn out the way that you expect, courtesy of your dear parents.” She pressed her hands together in a cherubic pose, her expression showing equal innocence. “The shrew may yet be tamed.”
It took only a matter of moments for Corsythia to fully understand the meaning of her friend’s words, and even less time to scream an unladylike stream of curses at the top of her lungs. When the moment of fury lapsed to the point where she could speak without weeping, she stared long and hard at Ilsa. The smaller girl had not paled or withered at the outburst, for she had heard such outrage many times from the princess’s lips. Corsythia clenched and unclenched her hands, struggling to gain her composure. She swallowed hard. “Ilsa, pray fix my hair and fetch my tiara. I think that I shall make an appearance at the ball tonight.”
Ilsa dropped her hands to her sides and smiled brightly. “How did I know that you would see it my way?”
* * *
Corsythia’s pale hand drew back the velvet tapestries a fraction. The music sang serenely from the orchestra, filling the room with its splendor. Upon the moon white floor those of noble blood danced and laughed. Their jeweled clothes of rare materials glittered in the light as they moved. Above their heads the stars were winking playfully at the dancers, encouraging them to continue their perfect movements. Try as she might, Corsythia could not see anyone take a wrong step. Perfection almost made her physically sick. Disgusted, she allowed the tapestries to fall back into place. The last thing in the world that she wanted was to be out there among the arrogant men and the shy, overly sweet women. She touched a hand to her tiara. Being a princess was so overbearing at times. So much was expected of them. She sighed and squared her shoulders. Then, her gaze gentle yet regal, she swept the heavy material aside.
The music stopped. The people yielded their dancing. All heads turned toward the princess.
Now you must understand that Princess Corsythia of Saladooran didn’t find herself exceedingly lovely, nor did she truly care, but those around her could see and admire her vibrant beauty. There she stood before them, hair swept loosely into a braid that rested over her right shoulder, her jewels and gown shimmering in the white light, a slight blush casting a rosy glow on her cheeks. She cleared her throat and nodded to the guests, then to the orchestra, which eased into a gentle waltz. The guests continued to dance, but many snuck glances at her. She strode toward the thrones with as much haste as she could muster without looking undignified.
King Phobos and Queen Raine smiled gently at their daughter. “My dear, you seem to be the highlight of the ceremony,” her mother commented lightly.
“Yes, the beauty of the celebration. But I do suppose that I am a bit biased,” her father said, his smile turning a little sad.
Corsythia observed first her mother, then her father. Both looked so radiant. Neither appeared to be hiding anything from her, but she knew that their appearances could be deceiving. She forced herself to smile sweetly and curtsied. “I thank you both.” Her voice had an edge to it, but neither king nor queen seemed to take notice. She glanced at the pair of thrones ten or so feet away. The monarchs seated there stared at her with smiles on their faces, then turned to talk to one another. She noted that there was nobody standing near them. Sliding her gaze back toward her parents, she decided to be direct in her questioning. “Where is my fiancee mother?”
Raine paled slightly. Her midnight blue eyes filled with a sort of fright. She diverted her sight to her husband. The man shook his head furiously and held up his hands, unwilling to aid. She sighed inwardly. Smiling, she motioned toward the throne next to her. “Corsythia, dear, why don’t you take a seat . . .”
“I would prefer to stand actually,” she retorted in volumes of distaste. She observed her parents impatiently. “When exactly was I going to find out about this, mother? Father? The wedding day? Do you really think that I am so deaf that I cannot hear what the people here are whispering about? How could you do this to me?”
Phobos raised his voice subtley. “Corsythia, that will be enough. You make it seem as though your mother and I are intent on ruining your life. You must be married before you are sixteen, or you will never be queen.”
“I do not want to be queen!” Corsythia exploded. “I do not want to be married and I do not want you to keep on trying!”
“Oh, stop your screeching, Corsythia, it’s not very becoming.” The queen rose regally from her throne. She was as much a beauty as her daughter, with straight, shoulder length brown hair, plaited tightly for the occasion, and blue eyes every bit as powerful as her offspring’s. She was clothed in a Romanesque white gown with a belt of gold at her waist. Calmly, the queen took her daughter’s arm and proceeded to pull her along.
Corsythia was caught off guard. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded in a hushed whisper as they passed effortlessly through the crowds of dancers.
Her mother gazed at her innocently. “Why, my dear, I thought that you were curious as to the location of your fiancee, so I am going to take you there to dance with him. And you are going to dance with him if I have to throw you into his arms. You will get to know him so that you are comfortable at your wedding, because there will be no exceptions.” Her eyes turned icy for a moment. “I do hope that I have made myself crystal clear.”
Corsythia flinched under her mother’s fixed stare. She knew when she was beaten, especially when against the queen. She straightened and moved more independently, so as not to be dragged the whole way. Despite her calm, assured appearance, she was a bit ashamed, sensing the displeasure beneath her mother’s words and actions.
They stopped before a circle of men, each clad in royal robe, each with a crown that determined royal blood. They were laughing about something uproariously. Raine was, like her daughter, quite tall. She was about equal in size to the second tallest prince. Subtle, as the queen usually was, she touched the nearest prince’s shoulder. He turned to face them reluctantly, then smiled widely. “Your Majesty.” He bowed deeply, as did the others. When they stood once more, Raine smiled gently and looked toward her daughter. Corsythia’s jaw was firmly set as she observed the man before them. “Well, dear, introduce yourself.”
Corsythia shot her mother a pleading look. No sympathy was returned. Sighing, she curtsied to the man before her. She straightened and, mustering false sweetness, said, “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, your highness. I am Princess Corsythia of Saladooran.”
The prince stared at her for a moment, then burst into laughter. “Dear princess, I am afraid that you are mistaken. I am not your fiancee. Your betrothed is our brother, Prince Cornelius of Plaidre.” He turned about, his broadness blocking the princess’s view. “Come, brother. Don’t be shy and stand at the very back. Come forth and rest your eyes on the Princess Corsythia!”
Corsythia closed her eyes briefly, attempting to dismiss the embarrassment of the mistaken identity and find more courage to face her future husband. The knot in her stomach signaled to her that she could not. She turned to leave, but her mother caught her gaze and shot her a look. She met her mother’s glare challengingly before taking a step forward.
“So you are the Princess of Saladooran.”
Corsythia froze. There was something about that voice, something about the low rumble of words that soothed her anger. Her blood raced more quickly through her veins, speeding the beating of her heart. Slowly, she turned toward the voice. The prince stood before her, nearly half a foot taller then her, his brown eyes gentle, his short blonde hair trimmed neatly. She was frozen in time, staring into those eyes, the deep, dark pools that seemed to open a completely new world to her. Even five feet away, she saw flecks of gold in the brown.
Shocked, she took a step back. His face showed concern. Closing the space between them, he chastely took her hand. She wanted to pull away, but she couldn’t. “Is something wrong, your highness?” he inquired, his voice concerned. She simply stared into his eyes. Then, smiling thoughtfully, she muttered, “You have a little gold in your eyes.”
Moments later she had raced out of the ballroom and down the long corridor leading to her room. The prince, stunned, stared after her. He turned to the queen. “I apologize, your Majesty. Have I done something wrong?”
The queen bit her bottom lip and looked Cornelius in the eye. “No, dear. Of course not. Do not fret.” With that, she lifted her skirt and ran after her daughter. The prince stared after her.
His brothers watched in silence as he turned on his heel and strode wordlessly toward the hall leading to the guest quarters.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sorry if it's hard to read....
Full Version: The Seers
It looks like your story got bit by the sh*t-bug. Perhaps your narrator is more of a femininist than a feminist?
I'm sorry if the story doesn't make much sense, it it the first part of a novel I am currently writing, believe me, it gets more interesting. Thank you so much for replying, Rick. I'm sorry you didn't like it, and, forgive me for my cluelessness, I don't understand your question. 
I don't understand a lot of things!
~Much Love~
Megan
I don't understand a lot of things!~Much Love~
Megan
"... between the blue capped Alsh*tar mountains ..."
The sh*t-bug is part of the censorship feature for Mind-brain. It's rather a nuisance, don't you think so?
I think you misunderstood my message. I didn't dislike your story at all! Quite the opposite. I think it is rather feminine in outlook, not necessarily feminist.
The sh*t-bug is part of the censorship feature for Mind-brain. It's rather a nuisance, don't you think so?
I think you misunderstood my message. I didn't dislike your story at all! Quite the opposite. I think it is rather feminine in outlook, not necessarily feminist.
Oh! Sorry, I didn't get the sh*t-bug reference! I understand now. And, yes, it is a nuisance! I didn't even realize it had done that! Wow . . .
And I agree with your view on the narrator. She is a strong-willed character, and fancies herself a feminist, which is why she makes such a declaration. But, yes, the outlook is quite feminine . . .I suppose that comes with it being written by a girlie.
Thank you for clarifying!
~Much Love~
Megan
And I agree with your view on the narrator. She is a strong-willed character, and fancies herself a feminist, which is why she makes such a declaration. But, yes, the outlook is quite feminine . . .I suppose that comes with it being written by a girlie.
Thank you for clarifying!~Much Love~
Megan
Part 2 of Chapter 1
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tears wet the material of Corsythia’s pillow as she wept sorrowfully. She was seated on her large bed, hugging a pillow to her chest. Sobs ripped out of her body as she rocked back and forth, echoing in the empty room. Ilsa draped an arm about her shoulders. Holding her close, she muttered, “Hush, Corsythia. There’s no need to cry. You haven’t cried for years now. What was so terrible that it could make you start?”
Corsythia could not answer. The tears and sobs would not yield, giving her no time to speak. Instead she collapsed onto Ilsa, weeping like a small, broken child. Ilsa stroked her hair. It was true that Corsythia had not wept since her grandfather died five years ago. He had been one of the dearest people to her. He showed her how to fight with a sword and how to speak a different language, one that they could speak to each other in secret, for no one used that tongue in Saladooran. The princess grasped the pillow more tightly. Her sobs became less violent, minutes later vanishing altogether, but sorrow still clouded her heart.
Ilsa’s concerned gaze was still on her. “Can you speak now?” she asked.
Corsythia’s eyes met her friend’s. “Yes,” she stated, her voice cracking.
Ilsa smiled slightly. “Are you well enough to tell me what ails you?”
Corsythia diverted her gaze, then sat up, suddenly finding a little space on the floor fascinating. “I cannot,” she said finally.
At that moment, the queen rushed into the room. “Please go fetch us some tea, Ilsa, dear,” she said quickly.
Ilsa nodded. “Yes, your Majesty.” She rose and left the room, smiling encouragingly at Corsythia. Corsythia returned the gesture halfheartedly. Raine closed the door soundly behind Ilsa, then turned toward her daughter. The princess was a sight. Her hair was mussed and her face was blotched and tear-stained. The queen observed her critically, then gentled her expression. “Come here, my dear,” she coaxed. Corsythia stood, staring at her. Raine stared back. Corsythia felt her defenses weakening under that gaze. Raine opened her arms. “My little princess,” the queen said gently.
Then, all of the binds broken, she raced into the arms of her mother and cried.
Raine stroked her hair soothingly. “There, there, dear heart,” she droned in a comforting rumble of words, partially cradling her daughter’s shaking body. “Just let it all out. Let it all go.”
* * *
Corsythia was terribly exhausted from her outbursts. The warm waters of the bath caressed her aching body, the heavenly jasmine fumes intoxicating her. She leaned her head against the hard rim of the tub and sighed. Her throat, which had been raw from weeping, now only throbbed and stung a bit when she swallowed. Her mother had given her a hot drink to calm her rampaging emotions, and it had evidently contained some sort of healing agent. She brushed the tips of her fingers tenderly across the satiny, pearl-white skin of her neck. It had been so painful to weep after all those years. Bittersweet memories clung to the brink of her emotions, overflowing her mind and body with grief that she hadn’t felt in so long. Breathing in deeply, she closed her eyes. The pain was still there, now prodding sharply at her heart like an newly opened wound. Tears pricked behind her closed eyelids. Those eyes. Those deep, compassionate eyes. Even thinking of them touched like a sword to her heart. Five years ago, her grandfather would look at her with those eyes. Brown with gold flecks that twinkled when he laughed, even in the darkest of nights.
A drop of liquid fell from the corner of Corsythia’s closed almond shaped eyes. Whether it was a tear or sweat, she did not know, nor did she pay it any heed. In the dark haven behind her eyes, visions of her past awakened her senses. She could still smell the ripe scent of freshly blooming fier roses mingling with the jasmine in her bath. Her grandfather had always waited for her by the fountain. There he’d tell her stories. He’d speak of princesses and dragons, of wars that had gone on far from Saladooran, of his own life. The passion and clarity behind his words had left Corsythia in awe. As she grew older, he had taught her how to weild a dagger, and, when such weaponry became tiresome, a sword. He had never harmed her. Not once in all of their training had he let his blade touch her flesh. Her clumsy hands had nicked him accidentally on more than one occasion, but whenever she would start to cry and fuss over his wounds, he would merely place a hand on top of her head, smile, and soothe her with his low voice.
But then . . . one fateful winter day, when the sun was brilliant in the crisp, clear sky . . . he drifted away in his sleep . . . holding Corsythia’s hand to the very last second.
She cringed and sat up. Water ran in rivulets from the upper half of her body. A wave of dizziness overcame her. Gripping the sides of the tub, she turned her head to look toward the door. “Attendant!” she called, silently begrudging her need for assistance.
A short, stocky woman rushed in. Soon Corsythia was dried, and a modest silk robe was draped across her shoulders. The woman worked through the tangles in the princess’s hair gently, chatting politely about the townspeople and the festivities that had taken place that evening as they walked down the corridor to her room. Corsythia listened wistfully. She had always wanted to take place in the town events. Her mother had allowed her to venture into the marketplace on several occasions, unsupervised. However, the peasant celebrations usually ran parallel to formal occasions being hosted at the palace. Corsythia had had the urge on more than one occasion to throw down her crown, rip off her jewels, and put on one of Ilsa’s plain brown dresses so that she could attend one of those celebrations. Instead, she was confined to the finery and expectations of royalty.
Oh, but she did envy Ilsa. She could leave the castle at her will. She could see so many different people. She was able to dance and sing before everyone. That was what Corsythia loved to do most of all. Singing had been her talent since she was a child. But she knew that if anyone knew, she would be forced to sing for royalty and at formal banquets. Ilsa taught her most of the songs that she knew, mostly folk songs or tales of far off places. Her mother had sung them to her as well, lulling her into a peaceful slumber when she was younger.
And dancing. She loved the feel of the air sweeping past her spinning form, caressing her. Her feet longed to move wildly, freely, not slowly and mechanically like the formal ballroom dances, where her hair wouldn’t move a strand out of place.
She sighed. It was useless to dream such dreams. Smiling kindly, she waved her attendant away. The woman bowed and scurried from her room. She pulled the door closed behind the servant and sighed again. Her hair was still damp. Humming to herself, she walked gracefully toward her balcony. She drew back the tapestries that blocked her way and moved toward the marble rail. The tune that she hummed was hauntingly familiar to her. She was making something up from the top of her head, but it all came together so well she began to wonder if she had heard it somewhere before. The melody still coming from her closed lips soothed her as she drew her dark hair over her shoulder and began to braid it. Her mind wandered with the song, back to the dark, brooding eyes of the prince. His handsome, boyish face smiled in her thoughts. The calloused yet smooth hands warmed her own as he gently took them into his. She groaned, cutting the music off and forcing herself to think of something else. She refused, absolutely refused, to fall prey to the clutches of girlish fancy. She’d only just met him, and already she was daydreaming like a schoolgirl. And all because of those eyes. Her fingers touched the brunette ends of her raven hair. Leaving the braid unclasped, she pushed it over her shoulder.
She had to give him some credit. The last time her parents had tried to arrange something she had been thrown together with a king twice her age. That had been a disaster. Thankfully, the two countries had come to a truce before war broke out.
Her hands gripped the ivory rail. She massaged the coolness of it beneath her fingers, her stress slowly draining with the rhythmic clenching. She realized then how lonely she was. Ilsa usually returned to Corsythia’s chamber by then to share the accounts of her day. She glanced up at the crescent moon. Three weeks before her sixteenth birthday. When would the marriage take place, she wondered. One week? Two? The evening of her birthday? She sighed. Not once in her entire life had she ever wanted to be married. Not that she was completely against it. She just never thought about it. Peasant girls giggled about it all the time, and the only girl that Corsythia knew who wasn’t quite so enthusiastic about it was Ilsa. She, like Corsythia, felt that things were much more important than being tied down in holy matrimony. Her entire future seemed to consist of political, social, and personally fulfilling duties. The idea of marriage was never interweaved in the complicated mass of tasks. And, from what she could see of love, it was draining. Corsythia had always relied on herself for happiness.
“Your highness?”
The muffled voice brought Corsythia back to the brisk evening. She turned toward the voice. “Yes?” she called back.
A pudgy hand pulled aside the red velvet tapestries. It was the woman that would knit outside of her door, making sure that no one entered without proper introduction. Corsythia felt a pang of disappointment. She had so wanted to speak with Ilsa. Nonetheless, she smiled at the woman. “Yes?” she repeated.
The maid bowed. “His highness, Cornelius of Plaidre, requests an audience with you.”
Corsythia froze. Groping blindly behind her, her hands found the rail again. “Oh, does he, now?” she asked, her voice strangely thickened.
The maid nodded her head enthusiastically.
The princess swallowed hard. “All right,” she replied, trying to keep her words from trembling. Her smile grew strained. “Show him in.”
The woman rose, curtsied again, and disappeared behind the tapestry.
Corsythia fell against the railing, her heart beating wildly against her ribcage. She pressed one hand over it in hopes of calming it. Closing her eyes, she took two deep breaths. What was wrong with her? She never acted like this.
She heard a faint shuffling through the thick red barrier separating the balcony from her room. “She’ll be with you shortly, highness,” she heard the maid explain. Then she heard the click of a door shutting. She suddenly felt dizzy.
No, she told herself firmly. She forced her body to cooperate with her. The wave of dizziness passed, her tension eased. He’s just another silly boy, she told herself reassuringly. I refuse to go soft over someone that I have no choice in marrying.
Her eyes flew open, then narrowed. That was right. She had absolutely no choice. This marriage had been arranged, the sort of thing that they did in those textbooks. What were they going to give him to take her? Half the castle? A cow? And what would they receive? Free access to Plaidre’s lands and sources? Her anger returned, reverting her softened gaze to chips of green glass. She was merely a bargaining chip in the whole of it. She straightened, setting her shoulders back regally. Well, she would go through with it---she had to---but she wouldn’t make it easy for them. Stiffly, she drew back the heavy velvet curtains and entered her dimmed room.
The prince, to her displeasure, was seated comfortably on her bed, a place that no man should ever sit with the exception of her father. She bristled at his nerve. His dark eyes turned to her as she entered. A warm smile grew across his face, enhancing his attractiveness. He stood and bowed respectfully. “Good evening, my lady.”
“Good evening,” she replied coldly. She stood far apart from him, watching him as if he were an assassin.
They stared at one another for an uncomfortable minute.
“Well,” he began. “I wanted to apologize if I said or did anything to hurt you. You left rather quickly.”
Corsythia searched his expression and was astonished to find sincerity rather than wide, pleading puppy-dog eyes. She paused to observe him more closely.
It was true that he looked young. His skin appeared as if it had never been worn, so smooth it was, but it was tanned slightly, making his eyes and hair seem more luminant than they already were. And his eyes . . . Aside from the fact that they had her grandfather’s sparkles, they were heavy-lidded and full of compassion.
Corsythia turned quickly, cutting off her inspection. “As you can see, I am fine,” she told him coldly.
Silence. “I see that now.”
She turned again, more composed. “I do apologize, however, if I caused you or any others to worry. It was not my wish to spoil anyone’s evening.”
Cornelius observed her. Her backbone stiffened as she fought to keep herself distant. His body language said nothing. He merely stood there, pulling her into the dark haven of his eyes. Her jaw twitched as her teeth clenched. Damn him and his eyes!
The prince nodded, smiling again. Why he was smiling? Corsythia did not know, and it succeeded only in further infuriating her. Her teeth felt as though they would break. “I do not think that anyone could avoid the sight of a queen and princess running out of their own fete, but I do not believe that anyone’s evening was spoiled.”
“How nice." Anger sparked from her magnificent green eyes. She closed her eyes for a moment, attempting to regain her patience. “It is late. I wish to sleep,” she said slowly. When she opened her eyes once more, the anger was under control.
“Very well.” The mischief in his expression never faltered. He bowed once more, then turned and exited. The plump nurse maid closed the door behind him.
Corsythia, pale with rage, flopped down on her bed and punched her pillow repeatedly. How dare he? How dare he come in here and have nothing to say? How dare he smile like that, when there is nothing humorous about the situation at all?
But then she paused. Why was she so angry? There was nothing wrong with him; he had only come to her to see if she was well. Her blows to the innocent pillow ceased. Sighing, she shifted her weight and settled on her side. A heavy curtain of hair fell across her face. She made no attempt to push it away. Instead, she closed her eyes, picturing her grandfather’s face once more.
A knock sounded. Corsythia lifted her head and glanced at the door. It was unusual for servants, even friends, to knock before entering. Her tired gaze slid to the candle at her bedside. It had gone dangerously low. Perhaps it was Ilsa, thinking that she was asleep. She smiled at the thought. At the moment, she desperately needed a friend.
The knock came again. Grudgingly, Corsythia got to her feet. “Be patient, Ilsa,” she chastised. Her satin slippered feet made small whispers as she trekked across the spacious stone room. Brushing her hair lazily from her face, she smiled sheepishly and pulled the door open.
Cornelius stood before her, arms framing the door. He took a step back at the sight of her.
Corsythia froze. Her eyes, warm and receptive moments ago, turned to chips of ice. Almost rudely, she stepped out a bit and glanced to her nursemaid’s usually sitting place. The woman’s knitting needles and half-woven scarf had been deposited neatly on the plush seat.
“I sent her to fetch some water for your highness.”
Corsythia stepped back, her hand steady on the door. Her eyes met Cornelius’s. He gazed at her warmly, but with a guarded melancholy that hadn’t been there before. “I apologize if you came to discuss something, your highness,” Corsythia very nearly growled, “but it is far past sunset, and I grow weary.”
Cornelius held his ground. “I must discuss this with you.”
“I do not mean to appear rude, but I cannot help but notice that you do not take subtle hints well,” Corsythia remarked dryly.
A smile tugged at the corner’s of the prince’s lips. “Hints are received as clearly as they are given, princess.”
All aspects of politeness vanished from the princess’s manner. Her eyes narrowed dangerously into bright slits. “I see. I suppose I shall have to be more blunt then. We have nothing to talk about. I am tired.”
“I think that we do. Have something to discuss, that is.”
“I don’t personally care what you think,” Corsythia hissed. “This is my room, and you’re invading it. Go away.”
“Why are you so bitter?”
Corsythia shook her head in disbelief. He was questioning her, trying to analyze her behavior? Did he want to know her patterns of attitude before they were wed? “What do you want from me?” she inquired, exasperated. “Do you want me to jump for joy? Laugh? Cry? Do you want me to celebrate the fact that I’m going to be stuck for the rest of my life with you, a prince whom I barely know?”
A small, secretive smile pulled at his mouth. He didn’t appear at all phased by the undignified side that Corsythia was displaying. “There is not really any way around this,” he interjected reasonably.
“Thank you ever so. I shall pretend I did not already know that and think about it while I sleep. Good evening, your highness.” The princess went to close the door softly.
Cornelius was quicker. Quite casually, he stepped into the closing door and set his foot in its path.
Corsythia’s eyes flashed as she calmly lifted her gaze to his. Then, her voice low and full of warning, she said, “If you do not move . . .”
“I just want you to know that I had nothing to do with this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I do not want your kingdom, I do not want to be married, and I do not want your father’s wealth. I had as little choice in this arrangement as you did, so do not be hostile toward me for those reasons.”
“The only reason I am hostile is because your foot is blocking my door!”
Cornelius looked down. Chuckling, he drew away.
Corsythia studied him. All of her previous suitors would have been put out and stormed away from the castle at that point. It slowly dawned on her that she would never be rid of the man. Anger heated her face. “Good evening,” she said curtly, not because she wanted to be courteous, but because she wanted to get the last word in. Without waiting for a reply, she shut the door.
Heavens, the man infuriated her! He had laughed at her! No man had ever laughed at her before, and her cheeks were burning at the memory of it. Lifting a foot, she tore off her slipper and tossed it to the side. She was busy with her other slipper, still fuming, when she heard the door begin to creak open. Removing the slipper, she turned and hurled it at the door. “I wish to sleep, you stubborn---!”
Ilsa ducked away from the slipper. The shoe hit the doorframe and ricocheted, spinning to a stop a short distance before Corsythia.
The small blonde smiled sheepishly at her friend as she closed the door behind her, carefully balancing a tray of hot liquid and fruits on an upraised knee. When the click was heard, she took the tray with her hands and proceeded across the room. “That’s quite the arm you have, Sythia,” she commented slyly.
Calm swept over the princess rapidly. The scowl on her face was replaced by a smile, and her fists unclenched themselves. “Ilsa! I was wondering when you would finally show up.”
“Well, if that is the way you’re planning on greeting me from now on, I think I might show up less and less.”
Corsythia flushed. “I’m sorry, Ilsa. I thought that you were someone else.”
Ilsa laughed. Setting the tray on Corsythia’s nightstand, she set to pouring twin cups of tea. “One of the more persistent servants again?”
Corsythia walked past Ilsa and sat on her bed. “No.”
Ilsa’s brow arched. Daintily, she tilted the cream cup toward the tea, watching the light liquid web through the dark. Placing the cream down, she murmured, “Do you want to talk about it?”
There was a pause from where Corsythia sat. “I suppose . . .” she said carefully.
Ilsa stirred the liquids together. The sound of metal meeting china tinkled through the silence briefly. Lying the
stirring rod on the silver tray, she took up both cups and handed one to Corsythia. “Go ahead,” she encouraged.
Corsythia stared into her teacup, watching the ripples expand and break within the smooth walls.
“Shall I guess?” Ilsa suggested. When Corsythia didn’t answer, she quickly sipped her tea, rolling her eyes skyward in thought. “Hmm . . . Well, let’s think about that things that could possibly drive you to hurl a slipper at someone’s head.” She paused, then laughed. “Now that I think about it, there’s not much to triggering that temper of yours.”
Corsythia smiled slowly and slapped her friend’s arm playfully. “And it is a good thing you’ve never managed to trigger it.”
“It would be a shame. You know, you really should throw softer things. I might have had a concussion for weeks.”
“Soft things don’t make loud noises, they make soft ones; soft noises don’t make a point.”
“I don’t think Plaidre would appreciate you making a point on their youngest prince’s head.”
Corsythia scowled. “You know.”
“Well, of course. We passed one another in the corridor. He was smiling like a madman, and sounded quite cheerful when he bid me good evening. To be honest, I had thought you had been hospitible to your fiancee. Until I entered, that is.”
“Father made the announcement, I wager.”
“After a fair amount of thought, to give him some credit.”
“You give credit to a man who is forcing me to marry?”
“Oh, hush, Sythia. You love your father.”
“Yes, I do, and sometimes the fact makes me feel foolish. How could he? How could he join me with that arrogant, infuriating prince?”
“Is he really that bad?”
“He is worse.”
“I do have the feeling that you’re overreacting just a bit. You tend to do that when you’re tired.”
“Now you sound like my mother.”
“I’m flattered. Your mother is a wise woman.”
“I am a bit tired. All the events of this evening have worn me out, I’m afraid. This is delicious, by the way.”
“Your mother called me to her chamber and requested that I bring it to you.”
“My mother? But she has never cooked a thing in her life.”
“How do you know?”
“Well . . . I have never seen her down in the kitchens before while I’m having my lessons, and any other time she is off doing whatever it is that queens do. Besides, she told me that her mother never let her cook.”
“Certainly there have been days between the time of her mother and yourself, not to mention the queening, in which she could have learned.”
“Still, it seems rather odd. I do not think she has ever served me.”
“Has she ever had the occasion to do so?”
“I don’t suppose she has.” Corsythia gazed at the liquid’s surface. Her eyelids felt heavy as she inhaled the fumes. “Oh, my. I didn’t know I was so exhausted.”
Ilsa gently pried the teacup from her friend’s fingers and set it aside. “It’s been a long night. You should sleep now.”
Grudgingly, Corsythia shifted on her bed, allowing Ilsa to lift the covers and usher her underneath. Turning on her side, she curled into a fetal position. “That’s what I was trying to do before that bullheaded prince came along . . .”
Ilsa smiled, lowering the thick blankets to cover Corsythia. “He has the most interesting effect on you.”
Corsythia glared sleepily. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Ilsa . . .”
Ilsa picked up the tray, holding it against her hip. “The threats in your voice don’t hold when you look like that,” she said, dousing the single flame by the bedside.
Corsythia’s lips parted in protest, but Ilsa was gone before she could muster the strength to speak. Sighing, she closed her eyes and nestled her head further into the softness of the down-filled pillow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have edited this and the former installation so that they are easier to read. I hope . . .
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Tears wet the material of Corsythia’s pillow as she wept sorrowfully. She was seated on her large bed, hugging a pillow to her chest. Sobs ripped out of her body as she rocked back and forth, echoing in the empty room. Ilsa draped an arm about her shoulders. Holding her close, she muttered, “Hush, Corsythia. There’s no need to cry. You haven’t cried for years now. What was so terrible that it could make you start?”
Corsythia could not answer. The tears and sobs would not yield, giving her no time to speak. Instead she collapsed onto Ilsa, weeping like a small, broken child. Ilsa stroked her hair. It was true that Corsythia had not wept since her grandfather died five years ago. He had been one of the dearest people to her. He showed her how to fight with a sword and how to speak a different language, one that they could speak to each other in secret, for no one used that tongue in Saladooran. The princess grasped the pillow more tightly. Her sobs became less violent, minutes later vanishing altogether, but sorrow still clouded her heart.
Ilsa’s concerned gaze was still on her. “Can you speak now?” she asked.
Corsythia’s eyes met her friend’s. “Yes,” she stated, her voice cracking.
Ilsa smiled slightly. “Are you well enough to tell me what ails you?”
Corsythia diverted her gaze, then sat up, suddenly finding a little space on the floor fascinating. “I cannot,” she said finally.
At that moment, the queen rushed into the room. “Please go fetch us some tea, Ilsa, dear,” she said quickly.
Ilsa nodded. “Yes, your Majesty.” She rose and left the room, smiling encouragingly at Corsythia. Corsythia returned the gesture halfheartedly. Raine closed the door soundly behind Ilsa, then turned toward her daughter. The princess was a sight. Her hair was mussed and her face was blotched and tear-stained. The queen observed her critically, then gentled her expression. “Come here, my dear,” she coaxed. Corsythia stood, staring at her. Raine stared back. Corsythia felt her defenses weakening under that gaze. Raine opened her arms. “My little princess,” the queen said gently.
Then, all of the binds broken, she raced into the arms of her mother and cried.
Raine stroked her hair soothingly. “There, there, dear heart,” she droned in a comforting rumble of words, partially cradling her daughter’s shaking body. “Just let it all out. Let it all go.”
* * *
Corsythia was terribly exhausted from her outbursts. The warm waters of the bath caressed her aching body, the heavenly jasmine fumes intoxicating her. She leaned her head against the hard rim of the tub and sighed. Her throat, which had been raw from weeping, now only throbbed and stung a bit when she swallowed. Her mother had given her a hot drink to calm her rampaging emotions, and it had evidently contained some sort of healing agent. She brushed the tips of her fingers tenderly across the satiny, pearl-white skin of her neck. It had been so painful to weep after all those years. Bittersweet memories clung to the brink of her emotions, overflowing her mind and body with grief that she hadn’t felt in so long. Breathing in deeply, she closed her eyes. The pain was still there, now prodding sharply at her heart like an newly opened wound. Tears pricked behind her closed eyelids. Those eyes. Those deep, compassionate eyes. Even thinking of them touched like a sword to her heart. Five years ago, her grandfather would look at her with those eyes. Brown with gold flecks that twinkled when he laughed, even in the darkest of nights.
A drop of liquid fell from the corner of Corsythia’s closed almond shaped eyes. Whether it was a tear or sweat, she did not know, nor did she pay it any heed. In the dark haven behind her eyes, visions of her past awakened her senses. She could still smell the ripe scent of freshly blooming fier roses mingling with the jasmine in her bath. Her grandfather had always waited for her by the fountain. There he’d tell her stories. He’d speak of princesses and dragons, of wars that had gone on far from Saladooran, of his own life. The passion and clarity behind his words had left Corsythia in awe. As she grew older, he had taught her how to weild a dagger, and, when such weaponry became tiresome, a sword. He had never harmed her. Not once in all of their training had he let his blade touch her flesh. Her clumsy hands had nicked him accidentally on more than one occasion, but whenever she would start to cry and fuss over his wounds, he would merely place a hand on top of her head, smile, and soothe her with his low voice.
But then . . . one fateful winter day, when the sun was brilliant in the crisp, clear sky . . . he drifted away in his sleep . . . holding Corsythia’s hand to the very last second.
She cringed and sat up. Water ran in rivulets from the upper half of her body. A wave of dizziness overcame her. Gripping the sides of the tub, she turned her head to look toward the door. “Attendant!” she called, silently begrudging her need for assistance.
A short, stocky woman rushed in. Soon Corsythia was dried, and a modest silk robe was draped across her shoulders. The woman worked through the tangles in the princess’s hair gently, chatting politely about the townspeople and the festivities that had taken place that evening as they walked down the corridor to her room. Corsythia listened wistfully. She had always wanted to take place in the town events. Her mother had allowed her to venture into the marketplace on several occasions, unsupervised. However, the peasant celebrations usually ran parallel to formal occasions being hosted at the palace. Corsythia had had the urge on more than one occasion to throw down her crown, rip off her jewels, and put on one of Ilsa’s plain brown dresses so that she could attend one of those celebrations. Instead, she was confined to the finery and expectations of royalty.
Oh, but she did envy Ilsa. She could leave the castle at her will. She could see so many different people. She was able to dance and sing before everyone. That was what Corsythia loved to do most of all. Singing had been her talent since she was a child. But she knew that if anyone knew, she would be forced to sing for royalty and at formal banquets. Ilsa taught her most of the songs that she knew, mostly folk songs or tales of far off places. Her mother had sung them to her as well, lulling her into a peaceful slumber when she was younger.
And dancing. She loved the feel of the air sweeping past her spinning form, caressing her. Her feet longed to move wildly, freely, not slowly and mechanically like the formal ballroom dances, where her hair wouldn’t move a strand out of place.
She sighed. It was useless to dream such dreams. Smiling kindly, she waved her attendant away. The woman bowed and scurried from her room. She pulled the door closed behind the servant and sighed again. Her hair was still damp. Humming to herself, she walked gracefully toward her balcony. She drew back the tapestries that blocked her way and moved toward the marble rail. The tune that she hummed was hauntingly familiar to her. She was making something up from the top of her head, but it all came together so well she began to wonder if she had heard it somewhere before. The melody still coming from her closed lips soothed her as she drew her dark hair over her shoulder and began to braid it. Her mind wandered with the song, back to the dark, brooding eyes of the prince. His handsome, boyish face smiled in her thoughts. The calloused yet smooth hands warmed her own as he gently took them into his. She groaned, cutting the music off and forcing herself to think of something else. She refused, absolutely refused, to fall prey to the clutches of girlish fancy. She’d only just met him, and already she was daydreaming like a schoolgirl. And all because of those eyes. Her fingers touched the brunette ends of her raven hair. Leaving the braid unclasped, she pushed it over her shoulder.
She had to give him some credit. The last time her parents had tried to arrange something she had been thrown together with a king twice her age. That had been a disaster. Thankfully, the two countries had come to a truce before war broke out.
Her hands gripped the ivory rail. She massaged the coolness of it beneath her fingers, her stress slowly draining with the rhythmic clenching. She realized then how lonely she was. Ilsa usually returned to Corsythia’s chamber by then to share the accounts of her day. She glanced up at the crescent moon. Three weeks before her sixteenth birthday. When would the marriage take place, she wondered. One week? Two? The evening of her birthday? She sighed. Not once in her entire life had she ever wanted to be married. Not that she was completely against it. She just never thought about it. Peasant girls giggled about it all the time, and the only girl that Corsythia knew who wasn’t quite so enthusiastic about it was Ilsa. She, like Corsythia, felt that things were much more important than being tied down in holy matrimony. Her entire future seemed to consist of political, social, and personally fulfilling duties. The idea of marriage was never interweaved in the complicated mass of tasks. And, from what she could see of love, it was draining. Corsythia had always relied on herself for happiness.
“Your highness?”
The muffled voice brought Corsythia back to the brisk evening. She turned toward the voice. “Yes?” she called back.
A pudgy hand pulled aside the red velvet tapestries. It was the woman that would knit outside of her door, making sure that no one entered without proper introduction. Corsythia felt a pang of disappointment. She had so wanted to speak with Ilsa. Nonetheless, she smiled at the woman. “Yes?” she repeated.
The maid bowed. “His highness, Cornelius of Plaidre, requests an audience with you.”
Corsythia froze. Groping blindly behind her, her hands found the rail again. “Oh, does he, now?” she asked, her voice strangely thickened.
The maid nodded her head enthusiastically.
The princess swallowed hard. “All right,” she replied, trying to keep her words from trembling. Her smile grew strained. “Show him in.”
The woman rose, curtsied again, and disappeared behind the tapestry.
Corsythia fell against the railing, her heart beating wildly against her ribcage. She pressed one hand over it in hopes of calming it. Closing her eyes, she took two deep breaths. What was wrong with her? She never acted like this.
She heard a faint shuffling through the thick red barrier separating the balcony from her room. “She’ll be with you shortly, highness,” she heard the maid explain. Then she heard the click of a door shutting. She suddenly felt dizzy.
No, she told herself firmly. She forced her body to cooperate with her. The wave of dizziness passed, her tension eased. He’s just another silly boy, she told herself reassuringly. I refuse to go soft over someone that I have no choice in marrying.
Her eyes flew open, then narrowed. That was right. She had absolutely no choice. This marriage had been arranged, the sort of thing that they did in those textbooks. What were they going to give him to take her? Half the castle? A cow? And what would they receive? Free access to Plaidre’s lands and sources? Her anger returned, reverting her softened gaze to chips of green glass. She was merely a bargaining chip in the whole of it. She straightened, setting her shoulders back regally. Well, she would go through with it---she had to---but she wouldn’t make it easy for them. Stiffly, she drew back the heavy velvet curtains and entered her dimmed room.
The prince, to her displeasure, was seated comfortably on her bed, a place that no man should ever sit with the exception of her father. She bristled at his nerve. His dark eyes turned to her as she entered. A warm smile grew across his face, enhancing his attractiveness. He stood and bowed respectfully. “Good evening, my lady.”
“Good evening,” she replied coldly. She stood far apart from him, watching him as if he were an assassin.
They stared at one another for an uncomfortable minute.
“Well,” he began. “I wanted to apologize if I said or did anything to hurt you. You left rather quickly.”
Corsythia searched his expression and was astonished to find sincerity rather than wide, pleading puppy-dog eyes. She paused to observe him more closely.
It was true that he looked young. His skin appeared as if it had never been worn, so smooth it was, but it was tanned slightly, making his eyes and hair seem more luminant than they already were. And his eyes . . . Aside from the fact that they had her grandfather’s sparkles, they were heavy-lidded and full of compassion.
Corsythia turned quickly, cutting off her inspection. “As you can see, I am fine,” she told him coldly.
Silence. “I see that now.”
She turned again, more composed. “I do apologize, however, if I caused you or any others to worry. It was not my wish to spoil anyone’s evening.”
Cornelius observed her. Her backbone stiffened as she fought to keep herself distant. His body language said nothing. He merely stood there, pulling her into the dark haven of his eyes. Her jaw twitched as her teeth clenched. Damn him and his eyes!
The prince nodded, smiling again. Why he was smiling? Corsythia did not know, and it succeeded only in further infuriating her. Her teeth felt as though they would break. “I do not think that anyone could avoid the sight of a queen and princess running out of their own fete, but I do not believe that anyone’s evening was spoiled.”
“How nice." Anger sparked from her magnificent green eyes. She closed her eyes for a moment, attempting to regain her patience. “It is late. I wish to sleep,” she said slowly. When she opened her eyes once more, the anger was under control.
“Very well.” The mischief in his expression never faltered. He bowed once more, then turned and exited. The plump nurse maid closed the door behind him.
Corsythia, pale with rage, flopped down on her bed and punched her pillow repeatedly. How dare he? How dare he come in here and have nothing to say? How dare he smile like that, when there is nothing humorous about the situation at all?
But then she paused. Why was she so angry? There was nothing wrong with him; he had only come to her to see if she was well. Her blows to the innocent pillow ceased. Sighing, she shifted her weight and settled on her side. A heavy curtain of hair fell across her face. She made no attempt to push it away. Instead, she closed her eyes, picturing her grandfather’s face once more.
A knock sounded. Corsythia lifted her head and glanced at the door. It was unusual for servants, even friends, to knock before entering. Her tired gaze slid to the candle at her bedside. It had gone dangerously low. Perhaps it was Ilsa, thinking that she was asleep. She smiled at the thought. At the moment, she desperately needed a friend.
The knock came again. Grudgingly, Corsythia got to her feet. “Be patient, Ilsa,” she chastised. Her satin slippered feet made small whispers as she trekked across the spacious stone room. Brushing her hair lazily from her face, she smiled sheepishly and pulled the door open.
Cornelius stood before her, arms framing the door. He took a step back at the sight of her.
Corsythia froze. Her eyes, warm and receptive moments ago, turned to chips of ice. Almost rudely, she stepped out a bit and glanced to her nursemaid’s usually sitting place. The woman’s knitting needles and half-woven scarf had been deposited neatly on the plush seat.
“I sent her to fetch some water for your highness.”
Corsythia stepped back, her hand steady on the door. Her eyes met Cornelius’s. He gazed at her warmly, but with a guarded melancholy that hadn’t been there before. “I apologize if you came to discuss something, your highness,” Corsythia very nearly growled, “but it is far past sunset, and I grow weary.”
Cornelius held his ground. “I must discuss this with you.”
“I do not mean to appear rude, but I cannot help but notice that you do not take subtle hints well,” Corsythia remarked dryly.
A smile tugged at the corner’s of the prince’s lips. “Hints are received as clearly as they are given, princess.”
All aspects of politeness vanished from the princess’s manner. Her eyes narrowed dangerously into bright slits. “I see. I suppose I shall have to be more blunt then. We have nothing to talk about. I am tired.”
“I think that we do. Have something to discuss, that is.”
“I don’t personally care what you think,” Corsythia hissed. “This is my room, and you’re invading it. Go away.”
“Why are you so bitter?”
Corsythia shook her head in disbelief. He was questioning her, trying to analyze her behavior? Did he want to know her patterns of attitude before they were wed? “What do you want from me?” she inquired, exasperated. “Do you want me to jump for joy? Laugh? Cry? Do you want me to celebrate the fact that I’m going to be stuck for the rest of my life with you, a prince whom I barely know?”
A small, secretive smile pulled at his mouth. He didn’t appear at all phased by the undignified side that Corsythia was displaying. “There is not really any way around this,” he interjected reasonably.
“Thank you ever so. I shall pretend I did not already know that and think about it while I sleep. Good evening, your highness.” The princess went to close the door softly.
Cornelius was quicker. Quite casually, he stepped into the closing door and set his foot in its path.
Corsythia’s eyes flashed as she calmly lifted her gaze to his. Then, her voice low and full of warning, she said, “If you do not move . . .”
“I just want you to know that I had nothing to do with this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I do not want your kingdom, I do not want to be married, and I do not want your father’s wealth. I had as little choice in this arrangement as you did, so do not be hostile toward me for those reasons.”
“The only reason I am hostile is because your foot is blocking my door!”
Cornelius looked down. Chuckling, he drew away.
Corsythia studied him. All of her previous suitors would have been put out and stormed away from the castle at that point. It slowly dawned on her that she would never be rid of the man. Anger heated her face. “Good evening,” she said curtly, not because she wanted to be courteous, but because she wanted to get the last word in. Without waiting for a reply, she shut the door.
Heavens, the man infuriated her! He had laughed at her! No man had ever laughed at her before, and her cheeks were burning at the memory of it. Lifting a foot, she tore off her slipper and tossed it to the side. She was busy with her other slipper, still fuming, when she heard the door begin to creak open. Removing the slipper, she turned and hurled it at the door. “I wish to sleep, you stubborn---!”
Ilsa ducked away from the slipper. The shoe hit the doorframe and ricocheted, spinning to a stop a short distance before Corsythia.
The small blonde smiled sheepishly at her friend as she closed the door behind her, carefully balancing a tray of hot liquid and fruits on an upraised knee. When the click was heard, she took the tray with her hands and proceeded across the room. “That’s quite the arm you have, Sythia,” she commented slyly.
Calm swept over the princess rapidly. The scowl on her face was replaced by a smile, and her fists unclenched themselves. “Ilsa! I was wondering when you would finally show up.”
“Well, if that is the way you’re planning on greeting me from now on, I think I might show up less and less.”
Corsythia flushed. “I’m sorry, Ilsa. I thought that you were someone else.”
Ilsa laughed. Setting the tray on Corsythia’s nightstand, she set to pouring twin cups of tea. “One of the more persistent servants again?”
Corsythia walked past Ilsa and sat on her bed. “No.”
Ilsa’s brow arched. Daintily, she tilted the cream cup toward the tea, watching the light liquid web through the dark. Placing the cream down, she murmured, “Do you want to talk about it?”
There was a pause from where Corsythia sat. “I suppose . . .” she said carefully.
Ilsa stirred the liquids together. The sound of metal meeting china tinkled through the silence briefly. Lying the
stirring rod on the silver tray, she took up both cups and handed one to Corsythia. “Go ahead,” she encouraged.
Corsythia stared into her teacup, watching the ripples expand and break within the smooth walls.
“Shall I guess?” Ilsa suggested. When Corsythia didn’t answer, she quickly sipped her tea, rolling her eyes skyward in thought. “Hmm . . . Well, let’s think about that things that could possibly drive you to hurl a slipper at someone’s head.” She paused, then laughed. “Now that I think about it, there’s not much to triggering that temper of yours.”
Corsythia smiled slowly and slapped her friend’s arm playfully. “And it is a good thing you’ve never managed to trigger it.”
“It would be a shame. You know, you really should throw softer things. I might have had a concussion for weeks.”
“Soft things don’t make loud noises, they make soft ones; soft noises don’t make a point.”
“I don’t think Plaidre would appreciate you making a point on their youngest prince’s head.”
Corsythia scowled. “You know.”
“Well, of course. We passed one another in the corridor. He was smiling like a madman, and sounded quite cheerful when he bid me good evening. To be honest, I had thought you had been hospitible to your fiancee. Until I entered, that is.”
“Father made the announcement, I wager.”
“After a fair amount of thought, to give him some credit.”
“You give credit to a man who is forcing me to marry?”
“Oh, hush, Sythia. You love your father.”
“Yes, I do, and sometimes the fact makes me feel foolish. How could he? How could he join me with that arrogant, infuriating prince?”
“Is he really that bad?”
“He is worse.”
“I do have the feeling that you’re overreacting just a bit. You tend to do that when you’re tired.”
“Now you sound like my mother.”
“I’m flattered. Your mother is a wise woman.”
“I am a bit tired. All the events of this evening have worn me out, I’m afraid. This is delicious, by the way.”
“Your mother called me to her chamber and requested that I bring it to you.”
“My mother? But she has never cooked a thing in her life.”
“How do you know?”
“Well . . . I have never seen her down in the kitchens before while I’m having my lessons, and any other time she is off doing whatever it is that queens do. Besides, she told me that her mother never let her cook.”
“Certainly there have been days between the time of her mother and yourself, not to mention the queening, in which she could have learned.”
“Still, it seems rather odd. I do not think she has ever served me.”
“Has she ever had the occasion to do so?”
“I don’t suppose she has.” Corsythia gazed at the liquid’s surface. Her eyelids felt heavy as she inhaled the fumes. “Oh, my. I didn’t know I was so exhausted.”
Ilsa gently pried the teacup from her friend’s fingers and set it aside. “It’s been a long night. You should sleep now.”
Grudgingly, Corsythia shifted on her bed, allowing Ilsa to lift the covers and usher her underneath. Turning on her side, she curled into a fetal position. “That’s what I was trying to do before that bullheaded prince came along . . .”
Ilsa smiled, lowering the thick blankets to cover Corsythia. “He has the most interesting effect on you.”
Corsythia glared sleepily. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Ilsa . . .”
Ilsa picked up the tray, holding it against her hip. “The threats in your voice don’t hold when you look like that,” she said, dousing the single flame by the bedside.
Corsythia’s lips parted in protest, but Ilsa was gone before she could muster the strength to speak. Sighing, she closed her eyes and nestled her head further into the softness of the down-filled pillow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have edited this and the former installation so that they are easier to read. I hope . . .
Yes, adding the whitespace between paragraphs makes them both easier to read.
Hoorah! 
Has anyone else read these stories?
I don't know if anyone on Mind-Brain has except the few of us visit this area....
Time passed, as time often does. Preparations for the marriage of Princess Corsythia and Prince Cornelius were set swiftly into motion after the engagement announcement. A dizzying whirl of social appearances consumed their daily lives. Rarely were the young royalty given the opportunity to meet in the chaotic rush toward the alter. But, occasionally, the frenzy of flower arrangements and gown fitting would ease, and then the young lovers would find pleasure and tranquility in each others' warm company.
Across the checkered table, Corsythia fiddled absently with the crystalline rook, her brow furrowed. Her gaze, frozen with fierce determination, took in the battleground stretched before her.
Cornelius monitered her intent bemusedly, arms crossed in the fashion of one who has attained victory before the end. When at last she begrudgingly moved her piece to perilously take his knight, he leaned forward attentively, sweeping her rook grandly from the table with the mediocre sweep of a pawn. Rolling the captured piece between his fingers, he smiled charmingly at his fair fiancee. “You are rather bad at this.”
Corsythia’s face heated at his words. “Perhaps it is because I am a lady, sir, and do not dabble in the barbarism of war.”
“Without war there can be no claim to land. There would be anarchy.”
“Without war, there would be understanding and unity.”
“Where would the excitement be in that?”
“The world does not spin for your pleasure, your highness.” Her queen advanced, taking his second knight.
Cornelius escaped the queen's path, obtaining her knight in turn. “No, but I derive pleasure from my life.”
“Think you it pleasurable to kill?”
“War is not always about killing. There are political aspects.”
“Indeed! And the politics are usually rendered gibberish by men who seek only to color the earth red to make their views known! There is no sentiment or logical reason.”
“In that you are correct. There can be no compassion when it comes to politics. One way or another, a party will be offended. That cannot be easily sidestepped with pretty words or logic. Therefore, there is war.”
“I would expect you to take that position.”
“My lady, if you are referring to my sex, I implore you to think before you speak. Many a woman have plunged into the heat of battle, vengeful and lusty as any man before her.”
“Do not be crude.”
“I highly doubt that such words are new to your ears, my lady.”
"How very presumptuous of you!"
"I speak only of what I have observed in your very actions, dear princess. I presume very little. Check."
Reality stole the fire from Corsythia's argument. Numb, she stared at the board. "Oh . . ."
"May I make a suggestion?"
Corsythia glared daggers. "Do you think me weak-minded, to accept the aid of my challenger?" High-handedly, she thrust her final knight bravely into battle.
"Never. Check. I think only of my own health if I were to best you."
"Cry you me shrewd?"
"No! Overly passionate, fanatical, perhaps mad, but shrewd, never!"
"You aim to ignite my anger, highness. Well sought, but I shall not lose to this or any storm of mockery you seek to stir in my blood. Checkmate." Standing away from the table with a haughty air, she lifted her skirts and strode proudly from the room, chin hitched,
Cornelius stared at the immobile game before him, mutely astonished. His lips twitched. Touching a hand to his head, he laughed.
~~~~~~
"ARGHHHH!!!!" Corsythia hurled a pillow from her, disgusted, flinging her arms above her head. Rolling to her side, she struggled with the bubbling frustration in her gut. That arrogant, pig-headed, unbelievable royal brat!
"Highness, your mother, the gueen, requests your presence."
Corsythia punched her pillow, drawing herself up on her elbows to face her mother's handmaid exasperatedly. "You can tell her Majesty that I am ill and unfit to act as her human mannequin."
She instantly regretted her words. The elderly servant flushed, unused to such flippant responses to the wishes of the queen. "Forgive me, Highness," she stammered, "but she says that it is most urgent."
"Blessed be!" Corysthia muttered, knowing very well that Sambora would quite possibly have a stroke if she heard such. She pushed her pillow to the head of her bed and stood. "Very well. Take me to her."
~~~~~~
Raine was a queen of few indulgences. Her husband bought her many things, of course, silks and furs and jewels aplenty, but often they were accepted with a smile and a kiss, then stored away to be used at a later date. In all practicality, however, Raine never saw any use in such extravagance. Raised in the lower class of Saladooran, she had only one true passion. It was said that her mother had pricked her finger on the king's spindle while pregnant, and thus passed her talent and love of a seamstress on from the womb. Swept up in the responsibilities of the crown, oppurtunities to take up needle and thread grew slimmer. She had been forced to hire a seamstress when Corsythia was born, burdened at that time with endless duty. She lived a satisfied life for the most part, but only when she gathered the materials of silk and satin and smoothed them on the work table did she feel euphorically whole.
Corsythia faltered. Adjusting her standing position, she looked down at her mother, hands on her hips.
Raine noted her daughter's impatience and smiled. Removing the pin from her mouth, she tacked the hem, then reached behind her and placed another needle between her lips. "You look quite wonderful, darling."
"Truly? How ironic. My insides are seething."
"Ah." RRIIIPP. Another portion of hem fell. Raine began tacking busily. "Another argument with young Cornelius?"
"Oh, no, mother. We do not have arguments. We have debates. Involved, infuriatingly endless debates. He never raises his voice, he never scolds me for my point of view. He's a perfect gentleman."
"I do not see the problem."
"The problem lies not in his temperament, but in his manner! He laughs at me, mocks me with every sly little smile, every patronizing agreement."
"Not everyone will treat you as though water turns to wine at your touch, darling."
"I do ask him to worship me, God forbid he should worship anything. I ask only for respect."
Raine glanced her daughter full in the face, skepticism raw on her features. "Truly?"
"Come out with it."
Innocently: "With what, love?"
"With whatever theory it is you have boiling in that head of yours."
"Sambora, could you stitch this please."
"Yes, Majesty."
Sambora drew forward and took up where Raine had left off. Raine stood grandly, circling Corsythia slowly. "Oh, Sythia, are you certain you do not wish the train shorter? The hassle of movement will be greatly diminished."
"If I am to be dragged into this marriage, I want every ounce of fabric I can accumulate. Perhaps then my people will see what a burden this throne has bore down upon me."
"Such dramatics! It is no wonder the young prince finds sport in you."
"I am not a plaything."
"I am willing to give you some advice, darling, if you are willing to hear."
"What advice?"
"If you are to make this marriage work, you must be willing to adopt the mannerisms which enrage you so, or in the very least tolerate them. You have a strong will, and I imagine Cornelius does as well. Every attempt you make to get along will inevitably strengthen your union."
~~~~~~
The kitchen was by far the warmest, most welcoming area of the castle. The heavenly scents of freshly baked breads and roasting meat were constant, filling the place with its heavenly aroma most wonderfully around mealtimes. Once a member of the kitchen staff herslef, Raine felt great comfort in the presence of the elderly head cook, Maudra, and visited her daily. Even Corsythia could be tame under the rotund cook's watchful eye. Scraggly, silver-haired and ever smiling, she was an indispensible part of their home.
Today's visit was less for conversation, however. Raine entered. Instinctively, she went to the enlarged silver sink and washed her hands. Drying them on a handtowel, she turned to the busy chef. "Maudra, is the cake---"
"Well on its way to being iced, Majesty," Maudra chirped brightly. Her hefty arms whipped the pearl white frosting furiously, an action contrasting the pleased smile she greeted her queen with.
Raine sat upon a stool edged against the table, monitering Maudra's progress closely. "Good. I want this to be perfect."
Maudra set the monstrous mixing bowl on a cleared counter. She moved the cake closer. "You're awfully sweet, to be so concerned about the little'uns day."
Raine smiled. "Well, I figure someone has to be."
Maudra slathered icing on the exposed second layer of the cake with a wet plop. She flicked her grey gaze upward to observe her weary queen as her fleshy arms moved busily to and fro to cover the massive pastery. "Majesty? Are you well?"
"Well as any mother before her daughter's wedding."
"You're lookin' awfully pale," Maudra said slowly.
"I am merely tired," Raine insisted meekly.
Maudra made a sound in her throat.
Coolly as she approached the subject of her daughter's birthday, Raine's mind was in constant turmoil. The wedding was one thing. Dresses, flowers, food, guests; all were simple tasks drawn out over an overlong period of time. While the thought of her daughter being married against her will did pain her, she could see no other solution, and therefore was resolute about the strangely matched pair. It was not the wedding . . . Her daughter would be sixteen. The age of inheritance, of broken ideals and dreams that she could no longer shelter her from.
She touched a a hand to her head. "Perhaps some tea would revive me," she amended in a low voice. She got to her feet, moving instinctively to the small cabinet above the stove. Her brow furrowed. "Have you moved the leaves?"
"Now, now. What kind of cook would I be if I couldn't brew my queen some tea?"
"Maudra, really . . ."
"Uh-uh. You sit your delicate royal bottom down in that chair, young lady."
Raine did as she was told, settling once more. "You're a goddess," she praised tiredly.
"Far from it. Honey?"
"Yes, please."
Maudra pulled the honey from the cupboard and set it next to the steaming teacup. "We'll just let that steep for a while."
Raine rested her head on her arms. The throbbing behind her eyes eased slightly. "This is more exhausting than I thought it would be."
"It isn't easy letting go, is it?"
Opening her eyes, the queen stared blankly to the side. "No. No, I don't suppose it is."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First part of chapter two......The second part is mostly dialogue now. I need to go and fill in the action.
Across the checkered table, Corsythia fiddled absently with the crystalline rook, her brow furrowed. Her gaze, frozen with fierce determination, took in the battleground stretched before her.
Cornelius monitered her intent bemusedly, arms crossed in the fashion of one who has attained victory before the end. When at last she begrudgingly moved her piece to perilously take his knight, he leaned forward attentively, sweeping her rook grandly from the table with the mediocre sweep of a pawn. Rolling the captured piece between his fingers, he smiled charmingly at his fair fiancee. “You are rather bad at this.”
Corsythia’s face heated at his words. “Perhaps it is because I am a lady, sir, and do not dabble in the barbarism of war.”
“Without war there can be no claim to land. There would be anarchy.”
“Without war, there would be understanding and unity.”
“Where would the excitement be in that?”
“The world does not spin for your pleasure, your highness.” Her queen advanced, taking his second knight.
Cornelius escaped the queen's path, obtaining her knight in turn. “No, but I derive pleasure from my life.”
“Think you it pleasurable to kill?”
“War is not always about killing. There are political aspects.”
“Indeed! And the politics are usually rendered gibberish by men who seek only to color the earth red to make their views known! There is no sentiment or logical reason.”
“In that you are correct. There can be no compassion when it comes to politics. One way or another, a party will be offended. That cannot be easily sidestepped with pretty words or logic. Therefore, there is war.”
“I would expect you to take that position.”
“My lady, if you are referring to my sex, I implore you to think before you speak. Many a woman have plunged into the heat of battle, vengeful and lusty as any man before her.”
“Do not be crude.”
“I highly doubt that such words are new to your ears, my lady.”
"How very presumptuous of you!"
"I speak only of what I have observed in your very actions, dear princess. I presume very little. Check."
Reality stole the fire from Corsythia's argument. Numb, she stared at the board. "Oh . . ."
"May I make a suggestion?"
Corsythia glared daggers. "Do you think me weak-minded, to accept the aid of my challenger?" High-handedly, she thrust her final knight bravely into battle.
"Never. Check. I think only of my own health if I were to best you."
"Cry you me shrewd?"
"No! Overly passionate, fanatical, perhaps mad, but shrewd, never!"
"You aim to ignite my anger, highness. Well sought, but I shall not lose to this or any storm of mockery you seek to stir in my blood. Checkmate." Standing away from the table with a haughty air, she lifted her skirts and strode proudly from the room, chin hitched,
Cornelius stared at the immobile game before him, mutely astonished. His lips twitched. Touching a hand to his head, he laughed.
~~~~~~
"ARGHHHH!!!!" Corsythia hurled a pillow from her, disgusted, flinging her arms above her head. Rolling to her side, she struggled with the bubbling frustration in her gut. That arrogant, pig-headed, unbelievable royal brat!
"Highness, your mother, the gueen, requests your presence."
Corsythia punched her pillow, drawing herself up on her elbows to face her mother's handmaid exasperatedly. "You can tell her Majesty that I am ill and unfit to act as her human mannequin."
She instantly regretted her words. The elderly servant flushed, unused to such flippant responses to the wishes of the queen. "Forgive me, Highness," she stammered, "but she says that it is most urgent."
"Blessed be!" Corysthia muttered, knowing very well that Sambora would quite possibly have a stroke if she heard such. She pushed her pillow to the head of her bed and stood. "Very well. Take me to her."
~~~~~~
Raine was a queen of few indulgences. Her husband bought her many things, of course, silks and furs and jewels aplenty, but often they were accepted with a smile and a kiss, then stored away to be used at a later date. In all practicality, however, Raine never saw any use in such extravagance. Raised in the lower class of Saladooran, she had only one true passion. It was said that her mother had pricked her finger on the king's spindle while pregnant, and thus passed her talent and love of a seamstress on from the womb. Swept up in the responsibilities of the crown, oppurtunities to take up needle and thread grew slimmer. She had been forced to hire a seamstress when Corsythia was born, burdened at that time with endless duty. She lived a satisfied life for the most part, but only when she gathered the materials of silk and satin and smoothed them on the work table did she feel euphorically whole.
Corsythia faltered. Adjusting her standing position, she looked down at her mother, hands on her hips.
Raine noted her daughter's impatience and smiled. Removing the pin from her mouth, she tacked the hem, then reached behind her and placed another needle between her lips. "You look quite wonderful, darling."
"Truly? How ironic. My insides are seething."
"Ah." RRIIIPP. Another portion of hem fell. Raine began tacking busily. "Another argument with young Cornelius?"
"Oh, no, mother. We do not have arguments. We have debates. Involved, infuriatingly endless debates. He never raises his voice, he never scolds me for my point of view. He's a perfect gentleman."
"I do not see the problem."
"The problem lies not in his temperament, but in his manner! He laughs at me, mocks me with every sly little smile, every patronizing agreement."
"Not everyone will treat you as though water turns to wine at your touch, darling."
"I do ask him to worship me, God forbid he should worship anything. I ask only for respect."
Raine glanced her daughter full in the face, skepticism raw on her features. "Truly?"
"Come out with it."
Innocently: "With what, love?"
"With whatever theory it is you have boiling in that head of yours."
"Sambora, could you stitch this please."
"Yes, Majesty."
Sambora drew forward and took up where Raine had left off. Raine stood grandly, circling Corsythia slowly. "Oh, Sythia, are you certain you do not wish the train shorter? The hassle of movement will be greatly diminished."
"If I am to be dragged into this marriage, I want every ounce of fabric I can accumulate. Perhaps then my people will see what a burden this throne has bore down upon me."
"Such dramatics! It is no wonder the young prince finds sport in you."
"I am not a plaything."
"I am willing to give you some advice, darling, if you are willing to hear."
"What advice?"
"If you are to make this marriage work, you must be willing to adopt the mannerisms which enrage you so, or in the very least tolerate them. You have a strong will, and I imagine Cornelius does as well. Every attempt you make to get along will inevitably strengthen your union."
~~~~~~
The kitchen was by far the warmest, most welcoming area of the castle. The heavenly scents of freshly baked breads and roasting meat were constant, filling the place with its heavenly aroma most wonderfully around mealtimes. Once a member of the kitchen staff herslef, Raine felt great comfort in the presence of the elderly head cook, Maudra, and visited her daily. Even Corsythia could be tame under the rotund cook's watchful eye. Scraggly, silver-haired and ever smiling, she was an indispensible part of their home.
Today's visit was less for conversation, however. Raine entered. Instinctively, she went to the enlarged silver sink and washed her hands. Drying them on a handtowel, she turned to the busy chef. "Maudra, is the cake---"
"Well on its way to being iced, Majesty," Maudra chirped brightly. Her hefty arms whipped the pearl white frosting furiously, an action contrasting the pleased smile she greeted her queen with.
Raine sat upon a stool edged against the table, monitering Maudra's progress closely. "Good. I want this to be perfect."
Maudra set the monstrous mixing bowl on a cleared counter. She moved the cake closer. "You're awfully sweet, to be so concerned about the little'uns day."
Raine smiled. "Well, I figure someone has to be."
Maudra slathered icing on the exposed second layer of the cake with a wet plop. She flicked her grey gaze upward to observe her weary queen as her fleshy arms moved busily to and fro to cover the massive pastery. "Majesty? Are you well?"
"Well as any mother before her daughter's wedding."
"You're lookin' awfully pale," Maudra said slowly.
"I am merely tired," Raine insisted meekly.
Maudra made a sound in her throat.
Coolly as she approached the subject of her daughter's birthday, Raine's mind was in constant turmoil. The wedding was one thing. Dresses, flowers, food, guests; all were simple tasks drawn out over an overlong period of time. While the thought of her daughter being married against her will did pain her, she could see no other solution, and therefore was resolute about the strangely matched pair. It was not the wedding . . . Her daughter would be sixteen. The age of inheritance, of broken ideals and dreams that she could no longer shelter her from.
She touched a a hand to her head. "Perhaps some tea would revive me," she amended in a low voice. She got to her feet, moving instinctively to the small cabinet above the stove. Her brow furrowed. "Have you moved the leaves?"
"Now, now. What kind of cook would I be if I couldn't brew my queen some tea?"
"Maudra, really . . ."
"Uh-uh. You sit your delicate royal bottom down in that chair, young lady."
Raine did as she was told, settling once more. "You're a goddess," she praised tiredly.
"Far from it. Honey?"
"Yes, please."
Maudra pulled the honey from the cupboard and set it next to the steaming teacup. "We'll just let that steep for a while."
Raine rested her head on her arms. The throbbing behind her eyes eased slightly. "This is more exhausting than I thought it would be."
"It isn't easy letting go, is it?"
Opening her eyes, the queen stared blankly to the side. "No. No, I don't suppose it is."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First part of chapter two......The second part is mostly dialogue now. I need to go and fill in the action.
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