She's All Thaumaturgy

by A. K. Caggiano

  Elayne was patting Wren’s snout and very quietly thanking him for the ride. Her hair, silvery and shining despite the dust and dirt that had settled on all of them, was falling around her face messily and her shift dress was torn and muddied, but her face—soft, and smiling—was beautiful.

  “Elly,” he said softly, and she snapped to attention as if realizing the prince were there for the first time. She pulled herself up to her full yet meager height, holding her chin up and smiling before falling into a graceful curtsy. “Duchess Elayne,” Frederick said, pulling himself together, “of the newly reclaimed Heulux.”

  “Orraigh?” Quilliam blurted out, and even Legosen balked. “The cursed girl? No way!”

  Elayne wobbled a bit as she stood back up, narrowing her eyes at him, but Quilliam was always quick to charm even when he was an idiot. He closed the space between them and took her hand. “Reclaimed? You’ve broken through the miasma? Toppled the rebellious government?”

  “Uh,” she sighed, “It’s a long story.”

  “You shall regale me tonight,” he told her earnestly, “Yavarid’s most honored guest at my nameday, Duchess Elayne.”

  “Your majesty, that is why I’m here,” she said softly to him, “I’ve reclaimed Heulux, and wish to have my title restored and to serve—”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, done. Absolutely,” Quilliam said hurriedly, looking back up at the dragon then to her face once more. “Whatever you want. Really.”

  “W-whatever?” Elayne stuttered out quietly

  He pulled her close. “Anything.”

  Bix and Tavaris accompanied Frederick to his modest quarters in Yavarid Castle. The elven boy was asking him all sorts of questions, and he tried to answer, but it was hard to keep his mind off of how Quilliam had been looking at Elayne. And how she’d looked back at him. Thankfully, Bix filled him in with adequate answers.

  The three rested, were fed, and finally began preparing for the ball that night. The time went by in a blur, and Frederick found himself mindlessly completing tasks in a place so familiar yet foreign at once. A moon ago this would have been any other day, but now he felt like a stranger in his own quarters, pulling on clean dress clothes and dreading what would come next.

  “Fred!” Voss’s voice cut through his thoughts as he threw open the chamber door and strode inside. “You son of a bitch, you made it back!”

  Voss was dressed even more fancifully than usual, in the deep blues of his family’s house. Legosen too was donning the emerald and gold that elves wore at court in Apos’phia, coming in behind him. The two took stock of Bix and Tavaris, and Frederick made introductions. Voss was largely uninterested, though, even as Legosen was pulled into conversation by Tavaris immediately.

  “You haven’t won yet, though, friend.” Voss winked at him.

  Frederick lowered his voice, checking to see if the others had heard. “Yeah, well, I don’t know if I want—”

  “Afraid you’ll lose?” He nudged him. “I’m shocked to say I think you actually might have a chance. That Orraigh girl is kinda hot now, and Quill has been talking nonstop about her.”

  “No, I just don’t think—”

  “Hey, my hands are tied. Literally.” Voss held them up, whispering. “Can’t undo the bet if I wanted to. Not that I do.”

  Frederick glared at him, then turned to grab his jacket.

  “By the way, Vyv has been asking about you.”

  Frederick stopped, catching a glance of himself in the tall mirror across the room. He was clean, finally, freshly shaven, his hair combed away from his face for however long it would cooperate. He looked foreign to himself in the dress outfit, though weeks before it would have been normal.

  Voss’s reflection was smirking just over his shoulder. “She seems to think this whole thing is rather ridiculous.”

  “You told her?” Frederick rounded on him, raising his voice.

  “Yeah, I thought she’d get a kick out of it.”

  “Damn it, Voss.” Frederick swept past him and to where his decorative sheath hung. With a bit more force than he meant, he slammed his sword, clean and sharpened, inside.

  “Don’t worry, she didn’t say anything to Quill. Not that she hasn’t had the opportunity.”

  Frederick grit his teeth. What in the godless gorge was he doing? He strapped the sword around his waist and turned back to Voss. “Can you not be a dick for one night of your life?”

  “Fred,”—Voss’s face fell—“What’s the matter with you?”

  Legosen was looking at them now, as was Bix and Tavaris. They were all finally ready, and the sun was setting. “I gotta go.” He swept out the door.

  CHAPTER 37

  Men too often measure their worth by the length of their sword and overlook the depth of their wounds.

  - Ancient Elven Proverb translated from the archaic rune language of the First Sylvans to Elder Elven to New-Elvish to Bridgetongue, with liberties taken

  Elayne smoothed the front of her gown and closed her eyes, listening to the quiet in the room. Her room. She hadn’t been back to it in so long she had almost forgotten that there was a place for her here, in Yavarid, and it had been home for a decade. After bathing, dressing, and having her hair plaited, the ease of this life came rushing back at her. Not the ease of walking down the halls, but of locking herself up in this room, alone, with her needs met.

  But the halls were waiting. With a deep breath, she lifted the corner of the sheet that covered her mirror and peeked at her face—or at least a bit of her forehead and left eye. The veins had receded, and her natural, warm tone had returned. And, importantly, there were no pock marks or extra hairs that she could see. The glamour was gone, but so was the curse, and the corruption of the nexus. Finally, she was just herself. It would be much easier now, looking like this, but even though she knew that was true, she still just really, really, really didn’t want to go downstairs.

  There was a knock at the door, and she was flooded with relief. Rosalind would be excited, forceful even, about going, and she flung open the door. “Ro, I—”

  Frederick stood in the hall outside her room, alone. He was different, cleaned up and looking like they’d never left, like the boy who hadn’t spoken to her for years, but his green eyes were looking back at her in a different way. In a way that said he knew her.

  “Hey.”

  Elayne willed herself to take a breath. “Hi.”

  “You look—”

  “Shh,”—she held up a finger—“I don’t want to know.”

  With a nod, he offered his arm, and she took it.

  Silently, they made their way down the stairs and toward the ballroom. Elayne’s stomach was a migration of every winged being, worse than when she’d first seen a troll, been nearly drowned by a man with a squid for a head, or ridden on the back of a dragon. Of course, one always thinks that they are in their worst moment despite being unable to really know. In Elayne’s case, however, she would be right by the end of the night.

  The ballroom was already full of people dancing and drinking, and Elayne was convinced they could quietly sneak in and sidle up to a table somewhere in the corner, but then the music stopped. Eyes cast themselves up to where she stood, her foot poised to descend into the hall on Frederick’s arm. She swallowed a huge lump and blinked out at the others.

  These faces clearly did not recognize her, but she recognized them. Their cruel words, snide looks, all a dark memory, replaced by wonder at who this stranger was until the answer was announced by a voice that echoed into the hall, “Duchess Elayne Orraigh of Heulux.”

  Frederick held her in place a moment longer, staring blankly out over everyone. She tried to nudge him forward, hating every eternity-filled second, but then they finally began to descend. Every muscle screamed at her to take it at a run as whispers ran through the courtiers, but that was neither polite nor shrewd behavior—not in this dress anyway. Then there was a familiar voice—“It can’t be”—and she snapped her head toward its owner. Vyvy
an and her henchwomen, Cici and Buffy, were crowded together just at the foot of the stairs. Elayne felt her blood go cold, and quickly looked away after meeting her gaze. They alighted the ballroom, passing her without another look.

  The music started up again, and Frederick released her. She hurried away from the crowd that had gathered around and to the shadows at the side of the room. Frederick had followed her, and he was there when she pressed her back up against the wall and gasped for air, finally remembering to breathe.

  “What’s wrong?” His brows knitted, and he looked her over. “Are you all right?”

  Elayne pressed a hand against her chest missing the thaumat stone even more. No, she definitely was not all right. “I’m fine.”

  “Do you want something to drink? Ale?”

  Elayne remembered the last time she indulged and how that had ended. “No. I just don’t want anyone to look at me.”

  “Well,” he chuckled lightly, “Hyperventilating in the corner isn’t going to help that.”

  She narrowed her eyes, catching her breath. “Is there somewhere else we can go with less people?”

  He looked out over his shoulder. “Not really. But we could just, you know, blend in?”

  Elayne cocked her head.

  “Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her away from the wall and through the crowd. In an instant they were out on the dance floor, and she was swept up by the knight and the music. Spinning suddenly, the nervous energy had an escape, and out here the others were focused on their partners and not her. A smile played at the corner of her lips, and then she laughed. Frederick was a good dancer. And he was good at making her laugh. Gods, he was good at everything.

  The music slowed. His hands were on her waist and hers on his shoulders instantly, falling into their familiar places. It was easy, thoughtless really, and even without the ale, Elayne felt light and happy and free. “I can’t believe we…did all that,” she said quietly, the gentle thump of drums and strings playing in the air around them.

  “I had no idea it would go that far.” He tightened his grip on her waist. “Traveling across all of Yavarid, meeting dwarves and pirates, overthrowing a tyrant.”

  “Don’t forget riding a dragon.” She glanced out the open doors to the courtyard beyond the hall to see Wren flopped over on his back, his tongue lolling out as children scratched at his belly and chin. Tavaris was at his side laughing along with the kids.

  “Please, I’m still trying too.” Frederick grabbed his own stomach to mimic being sick, then returned his hand to her waist, pulling her a bit closer. She stepped in without hesitation.

  “And to think you almost didn’t do it.” She smirked up at him. “Though I guess you did almost die—we all did, multiple times—and all so I could get my face back.” She bit her lip. “Wow, that was sort of selfish, huh?”

  “It wasn’t just for your face, which, by the way—”

  “Ah,”—she put a finger up to his lips—“Really, I don’t want to know.”

  He raised a brow at her hand, and she pulled it back. “Fine. But the curse was more than your face, it was all of Heulux, and you saved it.”

  “We saved it.” Elayne could see Rosalind and Bix from across the floor. They were regaling some of the younger knights, laughing, and she was smiling so brightly as she showed off her staff. She’d managed, unsurprisingly, to get her hands on a soldier’s dress uniform and looked sharp in it. They waved to one another. “Freddie,” Elayne managed, her throat suddenly hoarse. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t…I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you did.”

  “Oh.” Frederick dropped his gaze down to their feet. “I mean, it’s fine. It was just my job.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” She tipped his head back up to her. “You risked everything for me, and I—”

  “Elly?” His voice was suddenly taut. “I have to tell you something.”

  She pulled her hand back, her stomach flipping like she were miles above the ground on a dragon with one bum wing. “What?”

  The knight stared back at her, his hair falling into his face, incapable of staying in place. He was looking at her like he might confess something absolutely wonderful or equally horrible. In fact, he might even throw up. “Elly, I—”

  “Duchess?”

  Elayne jumped at the voice at her back. Prince Quilliam was there, bent at the waist. Elayne and Frederick broke apart and dropped into a curtsy and a bow—a prince bowed to no one without a bow back.

  “If I might cut in?” Quilliam straightened, and Elayne glanced back at Frederick, but the knight was already nodding at the prince. In a flash, Frederick was gone, disappearing into the crowd, and Elayne was in the prince’s arms. For the gods’ sake, the prince.

  “You look absolutely stunning,” Quilliam told her, wrapping an arm around her waist and taking up her hand in his own, sweeping her deep into the crowd of dancers as they parted for him. “Your face is as if painted by Aa’h herself, the perfect blend of elven beauty and human charm. Duchess, I am completely taken with you.”

  “Oh, geez.” Elayne felt her cheeks go warm. “That’s a lot of fancy words, Quillie, might wanna tone it down a bit.” She cleared her throat then, realizing what she’d said, her eyes flying open and staring in shock. She hoped, after not speaking for a decade, he might cut her some slack.

  Quilliam threw his head back and laughed. “And yet you’re the same as you were all those years ago! Delightful.” His eyes brightened as the music changed again, faster now, and the two fell into a familiar, quick dance. Elayne tried to keep up, remembering how it went from what she’d seen. Quilliam was an all right dancer too, she quietly admitted to herself. “Do you remember when we were children? That was so long ago.”

  “Oh, I remember.” Elayne’s eyes flicked over the crowd, but she’d lost where Frederick had gone.

  “To think, back then we never expected things to go this way, for Heulux to fall, but then—then, for it to be reclaimed. And with a dragon. You must tell me everything.”

  He stared back at her with eyes shimmering in anticipation. And so Elayne did. She, of course, left out the most salacious bits, but she explained in detail what she thought he would be most interested in, the trolls, the krows, the darkness of the nexus.

  While she spoke, her eyes wandered out over the crowd, and eventually found Frederick chatting with Vyvyan. At that, she almost recalled how he’d gotten himself into a ridiculous tavern brawl that a drunkard had to save him from, but instead she sighed and told the prince how incredibly brave he had been. In fact, she may have laid it on a bit too thickly, catching Quilliam’s eyes narrowed at her, and she changed the subject to Rosalind’s impressive feats.

  But, most importantly, she stressed that the duchy would need strong leadership and plenty of assistance to return to a livable state. The people there—elves, humans, and those in between—were recovering, and they would need monetary help and someone to guide them. At this, Quilliam’s brow furrowed, but then shifted to a thoughtful puzzlement.

  “Elayne,” he said with a softness she hadn’t heard from him maybe ever, “I will find a way, as their king, to help them.”

  A brightness bubbled in her chest, and she smiled.

  “And perhaps we will help them, with you as their queen.”

  Elayne became, in that moment, a healer’s miracle, still sweeping across the floor, hurriedly staying in step, but with her heart stopped and her soul leaping up out of her body. She looked down on herself, dancing beside him, staring at her own face as it stared blankly at the future king, not responding to his sudden proposal. For the sake of the gods, she screamed at herself, Say something, you moron!

  “You know, Duchess,” he dropped his voice as the music died down again. “The purpose of tonight is to celebrate my nameday and tomorrow morning’s coronation, but more importantly to make strong binds within Yavarid. You and Heulux are important to this country and to our future. I have many women I must speak with tonig
ht, but undoubtedly they will all pale in comparison to you. Consider it,” he said with a wink, stepping back, and then he left her with a smile.

  Elayne stood alone on the dance floor as the others mulled around in the musical lull. Consider it? What was there to consider? One did what the king said, and the man who would be king tomorrow had just asked her to be his queen.

  Her heart thumped along with the drums picking up again, and bodies began to flood the floor for more dancing. She pushed through them to get away, bumped back and forth in her panic until she was finally clear of them. She needed to get away, if just for a moment, and be alone.

  “I have to say, I’m impressed.”

  Elayne stopped short. That voice made her want to run but instead she turned on her heel and faced her. “Vyvyan.”

  She was standing with her arms crossed, beautiful as always, but instead of looking utterly disgusted, she wore a satisfied smirk. Elayne didn’t trust it. “What do you want?”

  The woman stared back at her and sucked her teeth. “Oh, stop it,” she laughed, closing the gap between them and squeezing Elayne’s arm. “I’m not here to be a bitch, I’m here to congratulate you.”

  Elayne wanted to throw her off, but Vyvyan wasn’t hurting her—not yet anyway—she was just gently guiding her toward one of the long tables laden with food and drink. She was also alone, Cici and Buffy not even lingering in the shadows watching, and that was rare. She then grabbed a tankard of wine and started to pour. “You really pulled it off, hon, and I’m legit amazed.” Vyvyan pushed a full cup into her hands and poured one for herself. “And riding in on a dragon? Shit, wish I’d have thought of that.”

  “What…are you talking about?”

  Vyvyan took a drink and rolled her eyes. “Okay, I get it, really; you’re the perfect candidate. Whatever, you’re already winning, you can stop being so modest.”

  “Winning?” Elayne felt like her brain might be broken.

  “Like you don’t know.” She snorted lightly and took another sip. “And Fred’s in for a win too. The two of you make a good team, turns out. I just didn’t know you were so ruthless. So if you’re going to be queen, I’d like us to be friends.”