The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “No, I’m busy. Go away.”

  Jonathan bumped the table as he sat down, inciting a small avalanche of paper.

  “Go away. Go build up your business or something.”

  “No, no, father. A wizard does not run a business. I’m merely acquiring things for people—at a cost. You sure you don’t want some?”

  “My mind is foggy enough as it is. Please leave.”

  “Godsdammit,” Jonathan took a sharp look at his father. “You’re up to something.” He jabbed at a newly revealed parchment. “That’s a Sylvalla prophecy.”

  “No. No, it’s not,” Capro said. “That’s a—the end of the world as we know it—prophecy. It has nothing to do with Sylvalla at all.”

  Jonathan’s eyes glazed over. “It’s a Sylvalla prophecy.”

  Capro frowned. It couldn’t be, what was the boy talking about? “No, that’s The Twins. If things were that bad, we’d know about it. Fortunately the worship of those gods has long been outlawed.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “I just felt it was important.”

  “Okay, pick another,” Mr Goodfellow Senior said, worried now.

  What if the boy’s right? What if he’s still connected to the prophecies?

  Jonathan closed his eyes and reached down to open a tome that was on the floor.

  Capro peered over his son’s shoulder to read the section. “Prophecy, cursed prophecy. An unclear glimpse into an uncertain world...”

  “By all the gods,” Capro murmured as Jonathan continued to pick out prophecy after prophecy. “This one is bad,” Jonathan said, without even looking. “And it’s hers, too.”

  Capro cursed when he saw the title. Shadows.

  Go forth, old man—the words had said.

  “Well, this has given me a lot to think about,” Capro said, hiding his shaking hands beneath the table. “We should take a break now. Maybe you can come back and help me tomorrow afternoon.”

  Jonathan smiled. “I’ll see you then, then.”

  “Don’t forget to study for that entrance test,” his father said.

  “Sure thing.” Jonathan stepped out.

  Fortunately he didn’t seem to have guessed something was up. It would be best to solve the Sylvalla problem without putting his son in more danger. Damn those old windbags for insisting I come home. And damn them for accusing me of obsession and dangerous self-aggrandisation. As if I wanted this.

  Now he’d settled into the university life, Mr Goodfellow Senior couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than talk to students about his glory days over a nice cup of tea. But it was past time to go. He glanced around the room. If the prophecies Jonathan chose are about to come to pass, what should I pack that will be of any use? What is the proper way to prepare for the end of the world?

  §

  Jonathan closed his father’s door. My father’s a fool if he thinks I’ll fall for his act; sure as eggs hatch he’ll be packed and gone by morning. Dammit, sales were just picking up.

  Consequences

  Tap-tap.

  Sleepily wondering why she hurt so much, Sylvalla conquered the urge to pull her head under the covers.

  Tap-tap.

  “Be quiet,” she murmured, pulling herself up. Her arm ached like a horse was crushing it, and her mouth felt like a caterpillar had died in it. That stuff from the doctor’s bottle was vile.

  Bang. Bang.

  The knocking was loud enough to rattle her skull.

  A head popped around the corner. It was a young lady in the Avondale blue and white maid’s uniform. “Milady, Dirk said I was to come on in. There are a lot of people waiting for you outside.”

  “Mphmbb,” Sylvalla replied, trying to fight her way out of the bedclothes single-handedly.

  The maid tiptoed across the floor. “You alright?” she asked with an informality Sylvalla found refreshing.

  “Great.” Sylvalla tried to stand up. Her first attempt was unsuccessful. The second dumped herself and her bedclothes onto the ground.

  “Would you like some water?” the girl said.

  The room still revolving, Sylvalla sat on the bed and took the mug with both hands, sipping it delicately. “Here, you sit, too.” Her voice thundered in her own ears.

  The maid blushed. “Sorry, what?”

  “Sit. Tell me who’s waiting outside.”

  “Well, there’s Francis. He’s so handsome, the girls and I–”

  “And?” Sylvalla asked pointedly, not especially wanting to hear what anyone else thought of Francis.

  “Oh, there’s Dirk, but you know that already. He’s been guarding your door all night. And, well, lots of people who think they’re important.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s anyone who could give me something to take away the pain?”

  “I didn’t see the doctor.”

  “Never mind. So these people who think they’re important,” Sylvalla laughed, “were they not important enough for you to know their names?”

  “Guess not, m’lady.” The servant smiled almost cheekily as she looked up through her lashes. “You know, you must be so excited, what with the wedding and everything.”

  “What wedding?” Probably the one that was supposed to happen yesterday. At least it’s too late to worry about that nonsense now.

  “Um…Her Highness, your mother, said that since your first dress was ruined you need to get to the dressmakers this very morning. And she wasn’t taking no for an answer. She says...”

  “There will be no wedding. Not now,” Sylvalla snapped.

  “Oh no, the Queen Mother says otherwise.” The girl raised her eyebrows for effect. It was hardly necessary, Tishke’s tantrums were legendary. “Anyway, she said for me to tell you this—in war, life is but a whim of the gods, do not leave the rule of Avondale to their mercy.”

  Sylvalla changed the subject. “I don’t suppose,” she said, “that you could give me some idea of what I ought to wear to court this morning. I need something that will hide this.” She pointed to her shoulder.

  The maid frowned. “You should get someone to look at that.”

  “Yes, but there’s no doctor, and Dirk—oh, never mind. Let him in, anyway.”

  “My lady, that’s hardly proper.”

  “Good.” Sylvalla said, “I’ll ask him in.”

  “In your nightdress?”

  “Really? So formal?” Sylvalla smirked, and opened the door, but one look at the crowd outside wiped the grin off her face. She closed the door quickly, and bolted it. “Um, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Amarinda, my lady,” Amarinda replied.

  “Amarinda, I don’t suppose you’d know how to tie a bandage?”

  “Well, I don’t know about proper, like.”

  “Good. We’ll make do with what we’ve got, then,” Sylvalla said, trying to imitate her mother’s brusque tones. “Now where did that alcohol get to?”

  “Alcohol, my lady? I don’t think you want that,” Amarinda said trying to kick the bottle under the bed.

  “Not to drink,” Sylvalla shuddered. That was a mistake not worth repeating. “To put on the wound.” She bent down to pick it up, bolstering herself against an attack of blinding nausea. “We’ll need a bandage.” Sylvalla opened her wardrobe. “Um.”

  The maid peeked inside. “Oh, look, isn’t that beautiful? And this, what a gorgeous pink.”

  “I think we can use this one,” Sylvalla said, and began tearing strips out of the abhorrent dress.

  “What are you doing?” Amarinda wrenched it from Sylvalla’s hands.

  Sylvalla winced. If it wasn’t for the pain running up her arm and through her head, teasing Amarinda would’ve been fun. It would also alienate her, the same way she’d done to poor Mahrawyn. There had to be a better way. “If you like, you could take one of my dresses. I mean, we could swap—you got any trousers?”

  “No. Come on, hand over that bottle and sit down,” Amarinda said authoritatively examining the blood-encrusted bandag
e. “I’m going to use the alcohol to stop it from sticking so badly.”

  Sylvalla held out her bandaged arm and clenched her teeth.

  Amarinda dribbled the cold fluid so it soaked into the brown and red mottled bandage. She untied the end and pulled tentatively.

  “Ow!”

  “And I thought you were brave,” Amarinda said, before slopping the rest of the bottle over the bandage.

  Sylvalla shivered with the sharp cold sting, but nothing more. Then she stood as still as possible, biting her tongue as the last bit of bandage was tugged away. Blood flowed down her arm, bathing the tiny punctures where the leeches had been placed. Sylvalla shuddered, remembering how they’d bloated up until they were too fat to hold on, falling into a small tray, writhing and squirming.

  “Shivers!” Amarinda said, wiping at the blood before bandaging the wound again with strips of pink dress. “That should hold. If you’re careful.”

  Sylvalla bit her lip. “Right. Now for the worst bit.”

  Amarinda turned startled blue eyes on Sylvalla. “Worse?”

  “Now, I have to get dressed. Choose something, would you?”

  Clapping her hands, Amarinda rushed to the wardrobe. “They’re all so beautiful,” she gushed, rustling through the dresses. “I don’t usually like puffy sleeves, but they’ll hide that wound nicely. That one’s so pretty. You’ll look the very picture of a queen in green and gold.”

  “I am a queen,” Sylvalla said, sighing. After all she’d just been through, she’d better be Avondale’s queen. There was no way was she about to rush into another farcical coronation ceremony.

  “It’s so pretty,” Amarinda gushed, wrestling with the ungainly thing. “You’re going to look lovely.”

  Sylvalla thought of Mahrawyn again, and held back her usual sarcasm. “If you like this sort of thing, you really should try one on for yourself.”

  “Oh, my lady, I couldn’t.”

  “It’s only fair. If I have to wear the whole flouncy skirt get-up, then so do you.”

  Amarinda’s eyes lit up. She rushed to the wardrobe and pulled out a high-necked blue dress. “It’s perfect,” she whispered.

  “Well then, get into it! Come on, hurry up.”

  “What about jewellery? Oh, you’re not wearing that sword are you? It’ll spoil the lines of your dress.” Amarinda sighed.

  Sylvalla rolled her eyes. “Not you, too.”

  The girl swallowed, ‘It’s just everyone says—”

  “It’s okay, I’m Queen. Besides, we live in dangerous times. Don’t you think it’s important that I can protect myself?”

  The girl shook her head then nodded. A sharp determined nod.

  “Good. Now listen, your job is to yell, make way for the queen. You ready?”

  Amarinda nodded and clutched the door handle.

  “Right. One, two, three—go.”

  Amarinda pushed the door open, and forced her way into the crowd gamely yelling, “Make way! Make way for the queen!”

  Some of the throng stepped back at Amarinda’s insistence, but more surged forward to see what was happening, tugging at her clothing or reaching for her wounded arm as though it were a talisman—as if it didn’t ache enough already. Then, just as she was about to call a retreat, Dirk and Francis were there, by her side and the crowd fell back.

  “Where are we going?” Dirk hissed.

  “To court.”

  “Um,” Francis said. “What are you planning to do?”

  “Declare war.”

  Francis frowned. “Again? Didn’t you just do that?”

  “I need to prove I’m still alive. And kick my so-called advisors out of there before they dethrone me.”

  Dirk sighed and began yelling, “Clear the way! The Queen will be in session at the Great Hall. Make way for the Queen.”

  “Stay close,” Sylvalla whispered to Amarinda. “A ruler needs an entourage.” She arrived in the throne room and strode past the Grand Vizier holding court amongst some of Avondale’s top dignitaries.

  A dangerous play.

  Dirk whispered something to the court crier, who opened his mouth in a gasp before shouting, “All hail the Queen of Avondale.”

  “Well done,” a familiar voice came from the stands.

  Capro. What’s he up to now? I clearly asked him to leave.

  Sylvalla surveyed the scene for any other little surprises, a soldier with an arrow? A wizard intending to turn her into a fruit fly? Someone she could kill?

  No? More was the pity.

  Frowning, she turned her attention back to the inconvenient wizard. “You! What are you doing here? Does it take you this long to pack?”

  “We have, in fact, returned,” Capro said, putting a little magic[68] into his speech; enabling the rich tones of his voice to reverberate around the small room. “To discuss Prophecy.”

  “Back?” Sylvalla said, but nobody heard. They were all yelling, “Which Prophecy?”

  Capro smiled and addressed the crowd. “The Maretta prophecies. I take it you’ve all heard her Morpholag prophecy. Well, here is another:

  “The sword is forged in ashes, and the men around her weep,

  “But the maiden has made promises she has sworn to keep.

  “Into darkness,

  “Into fire and hate.

  “Unto death and unto life;

  “Her fate,

  “The fate of all the world

  “Lies sealed upon the rock of doom.”

  “Go!” Sylvalla ordered, not about to be placed in the middle of any prophecy. “Get...” and she almost added–out of my chambers and out of Avondale, I will abide you no longer. Instead, she took a ragged breath, marshalled scraps of composure as airy as down, and choked out these bitter dregs of diplomacy—“...whatever supplies you need, but war is what Avondale is forced to. And you, you are not Avondale. You cannot be part of my councils.”

  While Sylvalla waited for the Goodfellows to leave, she glanced at Amarinda, sitting amongst the nobles. She was staring hard at the floor, her face blotched with points of crimson. The ladies next to her, fans fluttering mightily, never seemed to stop moving their jaws. Whatever it was they were saying, it wasn’t making Amarinda happy.

  Whatever was the matter?

  Sylvalla smiled at Amarinda. Maybe that would help? Now she was queen, she really did need an entourage. A proper one—with advisors who worked for her, and not themselves. And Amarinda didn’t act like the other ladies and staff. She treated Sylvalla like she was a real person. Unlike that awful Grand Vizier, who said nice things and then backstabbed you. She had to get rid of him. And soon.

  Wait. Let him fight for your approval first.

  Yes, that was a good idea. She sized them up and tried to remember what one of the more persistent governesses and tried to teach her in diplomacy. Something about flattery….

  There was a commotion amongst the lords and ladies, and Amarinda, her cheeks crimson, fled the chamber.

  One of the noblewomen hid an evil smile behind her hand.

  I should have known they’d be a pack of vipers. “Dammit Francis. Could you? Tell her…tell her I need her. Make her my…my lady in waiting.”

  “Hmm,” Francis said.

  Sylvalla turned back to the crows. Somehow she had to promise them everything and give them nothing.

  §

  Francis rushed off after Amarinda but was cut off by another young woman.

  “Francis, there you are,” she said, barring Francis’ way with more determination than was necessary for a casual hello. Francis hazily recognised her from the way her wiry red hair sneaked a curl out from under her cap.

  “So, has anybody looked into my problem?” she asked.

  “Huh?” Francis replied. As she stood wringing her hands, Francis valiantly tried to put a name to her face. Esme, or something, Emma perhaps? Pondering this, he realised, too late, who she was—one of the palace nursemaids.

  “The nursery is a disaster. Half the furniture is sti
ll broken, and every inch is filled with children. Dozens of them. I have at least one left on the doorstep every day—some of them girls, I might add, and most with some half-witted scribe’s note pinned to them. Thys musst be the Prynce. Wee fownd hym on the doorrsstep. We’ll never find all the real parents again. What are we supposed to do?”

  “Um.” Francis desperately tried to think of a polite way of saying, it’s not my problem, when the girl burst into tears.

  He patted her hand. “I–I guess, I’ll see what I can do. It’s just that things are kind of hectic, what with everything else that’s going on.”

  “So is it true? Are you getting married? Everyone wants to know, since yesterday…”

  Francis blushed, uncertain what to say, caught between Tishke’s wish for a wedding and Sylvalla’s renewed determination not to marry—not even to secure the kingdom.

  “That’s nice,” she said, mumbling something about true love and gushing even more tears.

  Francis’ blush deepened. But for different reasons. Then he patted the young nursemaid’s arm. “You’ll be fine. Something will be done about the children, and soon, I promise you.”

  Carefully extricating himself, he ran off after Amarinda.

  The Worm Turns

  Phetero glowered at his wizard. “You failed.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “This morning I heard that Sylvalla lives. By all the gods, if she lives, why should you?”

  Dothie opened his mouth.

  Phetero didn’t notice, mostly because Dothie’s lizard, Toots, creeped him out.

  “The brat plots and plans my destruction. I can feel it.”

  Dothie nodded. “That would be only logical, my lord. If we—”

  “Silence, fool! I did not summon you to hear your pitiful excuses. Tell me what you know.”

  Dothie bowed his head. “I have my suspicions, Lord, but I do not know.”

  “Tell me these suspicions then.”

  “The power we—ah, you seek, lies North of here—”

  “Do you think I am a fool? The power is here. Listen, can you not hear the call from within these very walls.”