Spring was sharp and clear that day. Recent rains had made every leaf vibrant green and every flower bright and fragrant. The garden city was gorgeous and alive, but its denizens were devoted to not acknowledging the strife at the edges of its kingdom. It was not yet called a war. That was too bold a term to use. It was called skirmishes and revolts. A true war would come later.
"You can't possibly want to marry him," whispered Vebmira as she combed out her mistress' hair. Vebmira was marked as a servant, but had long spoke as an equal, at least in private.
"Of course I don't," sighed Medeandra, dismissing the silly question. "But it's not about my wants. You know that."
"If your brother hadn't gone mad-"
"We could fill the world with ifs, Mira." Medeandra stared out the window, framed by potted plants and hanging silks. She'd miss the view. From what she heard, Desma Kan was not a very green city. It was an imperial center too crowded and industrial for gardens like Aleis. "I will do what I can to amend his mistake. It's all I can do."
Vebmira dropped the comb and embraced her mistress, and tried not to cry for her. Medeandra held her maid for a long time, but then remembered the proper way of things. She stooped to pick up the comb and wipe her own tears.
"You silly girl," she tried to laugh, holding the broken comb. "You always were klutzy."
Vebmira forced a nervous laugh in turn. "I'm sorry, mistress. Keep it, will you? To remember me."
"I'd never forget you," the lady promised, "but I'll keep this close to my heart, and remember all those times you nearly pulled my scalp off."
They both laughed, quietly and more genuinely, but silence returned to the room, broken by songbirds outside. Birds were oblivious to fear and sorrow, and could always enjoy a beautiful spring day for what it was.
The small, old kingdom of Aleis had lived under the shadow of protection and command of the esteemed Legacy of Solarev, an empire ruled by its god-king. Solarev controlled the major decisions and was owed certain tributes, but left many of the kingdoms in its borders with some autonomy. However, an Aleisian prince had, in a fit of rage and what many judged to be insanity, had gone to the Solarevan capital of Desma Kan and attacked two royals, killing one of them. Solarev responded by immediately executing the assassin, and mobilized troops against Aleis. It was best to make an example of the kingdom, than to give others a chance to consider drastic measures.
The sole surviving child of the Aleisian king was offered to Solarev as a gesture of good faith and in the desperate hope to prevent a war. The heir to Solarev, near godhood but still uncrowned, was a bachelor, and it was decided that he would marry the Aleisian princess, and with that her land and bloodline would be forgiven.
The heir, Prince Noalles, had enjoyed his years of study and leisure afforded to a man of his status. But he knew what was asked of him, and knew his duty. He would be king, and with the crown he would be as a god to his people. He did not resent having to take a more public life, but he would miss his private life. The wedding was arranged and put into motion with very little required of him. He stood for the tailors and posed for the painters, and was consulted on a few of the options for the banquet. Even though his approval and involvement were rarely needed for planning the wedding, he found himself with very little time to call his own. He spent the majority of his time in the month before the ceremony being tutored on this and that. The priests made sure he understood the ceremony and his parts in it. His advisors mentored him on how to hold himself, and how important every single movement would be to the countless subjects that would be watching. As the date came closer, they also warned him of the troubles of arranged marriages. Although she would be prepared for this event as much as he was, if not more so, there was some risk of... well... It was a careful topic. She might suffer from the madness of her brother, they warned, or perhaps panic. He was assured that if she got too nervous before the ceremony, she would be drugged enough to dull her, but she should be able to still walk in that case.
They had advice on many possibilities and even some impossibilities. Mostly, it blurred together into a blur of boring lectures.
The Aleisians arrived with a humble escort of guests and a host of extravagant gifts. They all smiled graciously, careful not to look nervous in these delicate social dealings. The bride to be, however, was hidden under veils. A woman destined to marry a royal was not to be publicly seen during her engagement, after all. She was separated from her people, and taken to be further prepared by Solarevan maids and matriarchs, to ensure that nothing could be out of place in this matter. She was docile and cooperative, even pleasant, and had a full understanding of what was expected of her in the ceremony. She was not to look at her husband until the priest said, "Look upon the face of the one you are sworn to in the holy duty of marriage." It was the only line of the wedding ceremony directed to her. Women, thought to be emotional and flighty, were not trusted with much input for royal weddings. She, like all the brides before her, was required to be silent. She never needed to nod her head or give a word of consent. She merely had to walk, kneel, wait for her cue, look at her husband, then get up and walk out. They reminded her, as she had already been told, how to act and how important it was that she be unquestionably perfect.
The day of the wedding was a day of celebration in the heart of the Solarev empire. Bells rang out at dawn. Many peasants lined the streets and waited all day in hopes of seeing part of the royal procession. Servants worked tirelessly to arrange every flower and banner along the path of the wedding march. Priests chanted in the cathedral all day, to further bless the sanctuary where a future god would marry his earthly bride. Her new maids, her Solaveran maids, fussed over every inch of her for hours on end. By their standards, Medeandra was quite plain looking: long, straight brown hair, brown eyes, and a complexion slightly darker than their own. They thought she looked like a tanned commoner. To an Aleisan, she showed all the signs of finer breeding, but the cultural difference was lost on the maids. They lectured and rehearsed with her when to bow and when to move, and warned her against trying anything funny. Funny, they said. What her brother had tried wasn't considered funny. If a woman tried it, was that all it was? Strange, but amusing?
She walked up the steps of the cathedral and kneeled at the platform before the altar on her own power with a clear mind. She had proved herself cooperative enough that they let her keep her wits about her for this event. She stared forward and down, as instructed to, as the groom entered. The princess had never felt so small, surrounded by such powerful people in such a cavernous church. She knew she would return to this church in years to follow, when she and her husband were crowned. She found no comfort in knowing she would some day be the most powerful woman in the Legacy. Desma Kan was full of strangers who saw her as the sister of a madman and a murderer. Or worse, they saw her merely as a pacifying gift to the royal family.
She heard the guests and witnesses rise from their seats and lift their hands in greeting and praise to the some-day-king. He took his place beside her, to her left, and she did not turn her head. She did not even move her eyes. She swore to herself that she would be perfect and not look until instructed so. She had the rest of her life to look upon her husband. She was not exactly in any hurry.
The ceremony was full of praise for his bloodline, for his ancestors who now watched over the empire from their heavenly thrones. The speeches and rituals eventually gave way to the core purpose of the event. The priest asked if the prince, now as an heir and later as an earthly god, would accept this woman at his side. The prince gave his formal acceptation. Blessings were said and the end to the ceremony drew near.
"Let it be known that, within these walls and under all the heavens, the honored prince has taken this woman as his wife, and so they are bound and wed."
The next line would have addressed the bride and groom, now wife and husband, and told her to look up. But the priest never spoke the line. He muttered scared, frantic prayers and fell backwards as the prince screamed in agony.
She did not look. She was afraid to look, but also knew she could not look. The priest had not given her permission. Her husband howled and thrashed beside her, stumbling back into the aisle. There was panic among the guests and frenzied thundering of fleeing footsteps. Some men tried to give orders and instill calm and direction, but there was so much chaos and fear. Through it all, the prince cried in pain and terror, and she wanted more than anything for him to stop.
Someone eventually grabbed her and dragged her out of the cathedral, through a cellar door and into tunnels below. Soon after she heard her husband, his screaming subsided into pitiful moans, deep and low like a jungle predator. When the guard released her, she crumbled to her knees, still afraid to look, and unsure if she was permitted to meet eyes with anyone in this place.
The men here tried to soothe the prince, but the uncertainty in their voices made their words unconvincing. They asked each other sharp questions with vulgar words that they, undoubtedly, would not normally use in front of a royal or a lady. These were indeed strange circumstances.
Someone grabbed a fistful her hair and veil and jerked her head up. She recognized him by his robes to be a priest. "You did this, witch!" he accused. "Is this revenge for your brother? You foolish wench, your lands will know only blood and suffering for this!" When he shoved her away, she hit the floor and instinctively covered her head in case he would strike her.
"There is no magic to her," said a calmer voice. "It was not her doing. Maybe done on her behalf?" The speaker kneeled closer to her, but she did not move her cheek from the cold stone to look at him. "Do you have a jealous lover who did this? A concerned friend? Tell us all you know, and no harm will come to you. You will be forgiven for it."
"Why can't you lift this curse?" growled her husband at the other end of the chamber.
"It is a powerful one, your highness. The Ancient Ones must be behind it," said another speaker. There was a few murmurs and a whispered prayer to ward against evil, then a moment of awkward silence.
"Where is my father? He could-"
"It would not be good for your father to see you in this state. You may be tainted. We cannot risk the king's spiritual health."
There was a dread silence for a moment. The prince snorted impatiently. "What's to happen now?" he asked, sounding hurt and abandoned.
Hesitation defined the silence now, and it held longer. "Exile." The word was so dire it had to be given its time for consideration. "It's the only option. You can't stay within the Legacy."
"I am a holy son!" the prince declared. "How-"
"Please, cousin," a voice attempted to soothe, but could not offer any reason to be comforted.
"You have been cursed. And we will make every effort to understand it. But you cannot remain, and risk what your ancestors began," said a voice, aching to sound certain. "The old magic is dangerous… we can't have it so close to the heart of the Legacy."
She turned her head slightly, and caught a view of the prince out of the corner of her eye, through her hair and veils. He was wrapped in someone's cloak, and was half turned away from her. She thought she saw horns, twisting and arching above his ears, and decided it was better not to look.
The men continued to plan and plot, paying her no mind.
"Publicly, the Aleisans will be blamed. The king will be dethroned, but not executed. We'll make arrests, the usual public scene. Radicals who supported their insane prince, we'll say. The king should have governed his son and people more closely. But we won't need to execute him over it. He's just an old man. House arrest?" Her heart stilled to hear that.
"The people will want executions." She flinched and whimpered; it was all she could do to not sob outright.
"We'll round up unfavorable types. Ugly and mean. They'll make better scapegoats than that old bag of bones on their throne. We'll interrogate confessions out of them. Dark deals with Ancient Ones that they can't undo. We promise to find ways. The public will be scared and outraged, but hopefully won't lose faith in the long run. The Legacy will endure."
"You bastards. You cowards! This is my life you're talking about! This is me! You're already covering it up!" He spoke with malice and pain, like a dying man.
"Prince Noalles, we have no other options. This is a complete disaster!"
"Our sympathy for you cannot cloud our priorities. Above all, the Legacy and faith must be preserved!"
"What about her? Execute her with the ruffians?" asked the cold voice of the man who had attacked her moments ago. She cringed as he loomed over her, looking down at her.
"Oh, leave her be!" chided one of his peers. "Stop terrorizing the poor girl." She was grateful for that bit of mercy.
"This 'poor girl' may have asked the Ancient Ones to do this to our prince!"
"They would have left their mark on her. No, it wasn't her." She suspected this man to be a shaman, but did not look to see if the speaker was dressed as such.
"My lord? Would you like to take her with you... in exile? There will be no place for her here. She's sworn to you. She could take care of you."
The prince growled. "Where will we go?"
No one had an immediate answer to that.
"To the west, through the valley and into the mountains. It's isolated there. It's the best place."
The prince held his breath, holding back futile arguments and pleas.
"Get the girl off the floor. Get the most trusted servants, only the ones you trust NOT to talk, and have them prepare her and our prince for their journey. And call the great scholars. We must find out how and why this happened."
In the middle of the night, Medeandra was lifted up and pushed into a covered wagon. She moved where she was pushed, as she had done for several hours. She had been taken out of her wedding gown and veils, and placed into a peasant's dress. The cloth was rough and itchy, and she wished she could have been put in one of her old dresses, just to have something familiar during all this upheaval. Mostly, she felt numb and helpless. She sat on some mats, surrounded by boxes of supplies. Deeper in the wagon, she was aware of her husband. He was wearing a heavy cape and cowl. She only glanced at him very briefly, and did not look back to him again. She did not really want to see him now. If his appearance had scared his own kin so deeply, she did not want to look at him. It was an uncomfortable and hurried ride out of the city through guarded streets. She had never ridden in such harsh conditions, but did her best to not show any emotion. The soldier at the front of the wagon snapped the reigns frequently as he rushed them away from the stone streets of civilization. He did not stop until nearly midday. She heard his armored footsteps clank around the wagon. She squinted as sunlight poured in as he pulled back the flap of canvas concealing them.
"There's a canteen over there, ma'am," he said. She looked up at him long enough to see where he was pointing. "That's for you and his highness. If you get hungry, there's some dried meat in the bag hanging there, above your head, miss. I'll make a warm meal tonight." Never before had men she did not know referred to her so casually as ma'am and miss. It was strange to her, but not hurtful. It was just a small reminder of how so many things had changed so quickly.
She picked up the canteen and offered it to her husband, while looking down. He ungraciously snatched it from her and drank in deep gulps. He tossed it past her, and she picked it up and drank what was left, then settled back down where she had been.
"I'll take you as far as I can, but I have orders to leave you tomorrow morning. The rest of the way..." He was not brave enough to explain to two former royals that they would have to continue without him. It seemed too bizarre and cruel, but he was not going to disobey his orders.
She nodded patiently. He seemed like a nice fellow, she thought to herself. She understood why this task was trusted to him.
He went back to the reins and pressed on. She settled back down, wrapped in a simple blanket and dressed in clothes that Vebmira would find too plain and simple even for herself. She remembered when her aunt, once widowed, took up similar clothes and went to a monastery. A peasant would be grateful for such clothes, but they were certainly a step down for anyone of privilege.
She pitied her husband more than herself. A would be god, huddled in the back of a wagon like a pilgrim.
In the evening, the soldier caught fish and roasted them over an open fire. She ate what her husband left behind. The soldier said he did not have time to catch more. They had to continue on. Without sleep, the soldier drove on, until morning's light.
He quietly asked her to step out of the wagon, not knowing if the prince slept or was merely quiet in his dark corner. He gave her his cape and helmet, and quickly taught her some of the commands for the horses, and told her not to leave for a few hours, to let the steeds rest. He took a horse for himself, and after wishing her well, he slowly made his way back to the capital.
She sat at the front of the wagon, awkwardly perched on the bench. She had never gone so long without a bath or pampering from maids. The unpleasantness of being unwashed was a minor one, all things considered. It was yet another unfamiliar discomfort in a long list of troubles of which she was aware but did not think about individually. She twisted her hair behind her and tucked it under the soldier's cape. She wrapped the cape around her, trying to conceal her feminine shape. She wondered what someone would think, to see her like this. Did she even pass for male or lower class? As much as she wanted help and guidance, she did not want to be seen and asked to explain herself by some backwoods peasant. She reached under the cape and beneath her robe, and pulled out the broken piece of the comb. It had been a miracle that she had convinced the Solaveran maids to let her keep such a silly trinket. She was grateful for it. She cried a little, wondering if word had reached Vebmira. Grimly, Medeandra wondered if Vebmira was safe.
Time passed quickly while she was lost in her thoughts about her new role and responsibility. She urged the remaining three horses to follow the line the soldier had told her to take, towards a gap in the mountains.
When not driving the wagon, she slept in the back, curled up among their supplies, but never she looked directly at her husband and never spoke to him. She was unsure if he looked at her, and he certainly said nothing. She did not expect him to say or do anything, and made her best attempts at the new tasks set upon her.
If she had been weaker, she would simply have not moved. The fear of this new life, far from everything she ever knew, would be paralyzing if she gave it half a chance. But she had a duty to him, as his wife, to take care of him. Normally, that would only entail obeying him and providing children. However, she knew that out here she had to be more than a princess. She had to be a servant, a cook, a driver. She was not particularly skilled at any of that, but she made her best attempts.
He hardly moved, much less provide any assistance or guidance in their survival. When she stopped, he'd get out to feed and relieve himself, without saying anything to her. They mutually avoided facing each other when he came out of the wagon. They were strangers, and their situation did not make either one eager to start up conversations. She sometimes walked away after she saw to his needs and the horses, to cry as quietly as possible. It was painful, to work this hard, to do such strange and unheard of things that a royal should never have to do, and to not know or understand any of it. Her mind sometimes wandered, and she thought of her country. Images of the green hills turned black and brown from fires would ambush her, and she would bite her thumb until the thoughts passed, or she would muffle her sobs against her sleeve. Sometimes, she'd curse her brother. If there was anyone she could blame, it was him. But she still missed him, and did not want to be angry with his memory.
Within a week, they were low on supplies. This added to her worries, because she did not know how to hunt. She supplemented the dried foods with what she knew was safe to eat from the woods. However, she dreaded offering her husband a mushroom that would make him ill, so she only used a few vegetables and roots she found. She was unsure if she could ask for his help, or if he would even know better than her. She wondered if she should have better rationed the food to begin with, and then felt guilty that they were running low.
After a painfully small meal one evening, she sat at the edge of the creek, trying to think of ways to get more food, which led into a more frightening question: where were they even going? She had been told to go west through the valley. She had not been told anything else about their destination. Where would they go after the valley? Or were they not expected to go that far? Were they supposed to just dwindle and die out here?
All of it nearly overwhelmed her. She could feel the crushing weight of these burdens on her shoulders. To calm herself, she washed her face and hands in the cool stream. Distantly, she thought of fragranced soaps, and felt an additional pang of longing.
She thought she heard something back where she had left the wagon. She wiped her face with the cape, which reapplied a layer of dust and grime to her, and reaffixed the helmet. They had yet to cross paths with anyone, but she was still cautious. She had always heard dreadful tales of thieves and bandits ambushing travelers in the uncivilized corners of the Legacy, and feared that the first people she would encounter out here would want to take what little they had in the wagon. She approached as quietly as she could, while her cruel imagination told her about robbers and murderers and endless dangers.
"Ah, the princess returns!" said a man, kneeling at the small fire she had started. He had added firewood and was roasting a rabbit over it. The huddled mass of fabric beside the stranger was her husband with his head bowed under his hood. She still had not gotten a good look at the prince, and in the dancing shadows from the flames, he looked more frightening than she cared to think. Quickly, she looked away before truly registering what she saw. She pulled at her cape, trying to further cover herself.
"We're all friends here," the stranger soothed. "Come! Sit. Your meal of roots and old bread wasn't very filling for our prince, so I figured I'd provide a bit more."
She took a few cautious steps towards the fire. "Who are you?"
"The name is Thistle," he chirped pleasantly. "It's an honor to meet you, m'lady." He was dressed in what may have once been nice clothes, but were now mismatched with other fashions and outfits, and worn nearly threadbare. His accent was hard to place. He was a confusing man, but nothing seemed obviously dangerous about him. His hunting knife was out of his reach, imbedded in a tree near where he skinned and prepared the rabbit. Her husband apparently trusted him enough to sit beside him. But she felt thoroughly threatened by his presence.
"What are you doing here, Mister Thistle?" she asked as she kneeled across the fire from him.
"You and our prince obviously need a spot of help, right? I'm a charitable man, and I figured I should lend a hand. I was traveling out here myself, and was surprised to see that a wagon had passed through. Prince Noalles and I have met before, haven't we, your highness?"
There was a grunt of acknowledgement from her husband.
"So just leave things to me from now on," Thistle continued, "I'll take you the rest of the way."
"Rest of the way... to where? If I may ask, Mr. Thistle."
He grinned. "I know a place were you two can live. It's certainly not what you're used to. But you don't have better options right now, I'm afraid."
She looked to the west. "What sort of place is it, out here in the wilderness?"
"Wasn't always wilderness, princess," Thistle corrected her. "A hundred or so years ago, explorers poured through here, trying to find fortunes. A few tried settling and making a living, but the left for easier climates. We'll take up in one of the places they left behind. I can fix it up some, especially if you can lend a hand. It won't be so bad."
He gave the cooked rabbit to her husband. Before she realized she was looking, before she knew to look away, she saw a hairy, if not furry, clawed hand accept the rabbit and begin to pull the flesh from the bones. She looked down, at the edge of the fire.
"I'll take care of things now, miss. Please, don't worry from now on," Thistle went on to assure her. She did not believe that he could save her from all her worries, but she did not argue. Her husband had accepted his offer to help. What else could she do?
More babbles about this at the LJ
E.R.Riggs, ©2004-2006. Be kind, and don't steal.