The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “No.” Sylvalla replied bluntly. “Francis might be nice...”

  “And handsome,” one of the girls interjected.

  “And handsome,” Sylvalla agreed.

  “And brave,” Amarinda said, winking.

  “Yes, and brave. But,” Sylvalla hastened to add, “this is a marriage of convenience. We go to war. Francis will make a fine ruler if I do not return. He will be invested on behalf of my—brother.” Unless the original heir was found soon, the prince would not be a single boy, but twins. As her mother said, “it’s perfect. Now we have an heir and a spare.”

  By the way the ladies were talking, Francis had won all their hearts—which was good. That’s exactly what a king should do.

  At last the ladies drew back.

  “You look beautiful,” Amarinda gasped. “The most beautiful bride there has ever been.”

  Sylvalla looked around at the happy, smiling faces of all the ladies who’d been helping her, and stiffly muttered, “Thank you...er...for all your efforts on my behalf.”

  “Yeah?” Amarinda peered at Sylvalla. “Come on, this is going to be fun. Don’t worry, it’s just wedding nerves, it’s normal. Nothing’s going to go wrong, just you wait and see.”

  “Ha!” Sylvalla laughed. “It’s already gone horribly wrong, or we wouldn’t be here.”

  The laughter stopped as Sylvalla’s mother invaded the room, her limp barely noticeable under a waterfall of lace.

  “There you are!” Tishke exclaimed, looking about reproachfully and casting an especially critical glance at Amarinda. “Well, don’t dally, Francis won’t wait about all day.”

  “Yes he will, mother. I quite think all this prince of Havondale stuff has gone to your head.”

  The seamstress tweaked Sylvalla’s dress here and there. “Look, a real live princess? Who could have guessed?”

  “Who indeed?” Tishke replied, “I certainly didn’t.”

  Eyebrows rose.

  “If you’re done, I think it’s time we were off,” Sylvalla muttered, before thinking better of that tactic, and trilling a laugh Mahrawyn might have been proud of. “And everybody here, Mother, had better be on their best behaviour, or I might just forget my lines.”

  Tishke stared at her daughter, lips tight. “Time to be off.” She clapped her hands. “Everyone ready for the Wedding March to the Grand Hall?”

  Amarinda gave a little squeal of excitement and blushed. “Come on, Sylvalla.”

  At least someone was happy.

  They stepped out onto the official walkway festooned with flowers, and lined with nobles. Dirk immediately offered to kill them all, and given the number of back-handed compliments she was receiving, it was a tempting offer. Sylvalla took particular objection to an old matron wearing a gold silk skirt that flared out beneath a prim gold lame jacket. “Beautiful, simply beautiful.” She extended a limp smile and an equally limp hand toward Sylvalla.

  Sylvalla took the hand carefully, trying to hide her distaste.

  It didn’t really matter. The matron’s kohl-blackened eyes were fixed on Tishke. “By all the heavens, and the ground below. Tishke, darling, you have organised an event worthy of the grandest of Kingdoms, and in such scant time.”

  “Oh, did you not know?” Tishke said. “Everything was arranged last year, I had but to put the pieces together again after the mishap at the coronation. So lovely to see you again, but I’m sure you wouldn’t want to spoil the event by holding up proceedings.”

  The lady opened her mouth, poised to say more, except Tishke had already limped past.

  “That was rude. Wasn’t that rude?” Dirk asked every few steps. “Just one? I could cut one head off and it would make a point.”

  Trumpets blew. They had made the short trip without breaking an ankle or fainting from lack of breath—or Dirk removing anyone’s head.

  The doors to the Great Hall gaped open, guards standing to attention on either side. Inside, flowers nearly buried the low stage where the Maiden and the Harvester stood. They were trying to look godly, but only managed uncomfortable as they sweltered under layers of lace and embroidery. Tishke’s design, no doubt.

  Where’s Francis? Maybe he’s escaped?

  No. There he was. Sylvalla climbed the steps, feeling fuzzy. It was like a washed-out nightmare, one in which even the simple act of breathing was near impossible. She half-hoped Dothie would come and turn her into a fruit fly.

  “We are here today to celebrate the continued glory of the kingdom of Avondale with the union of...

  Blah, blah, blah. Sylvalla looked through the throng, picking out her best imaginary path of escape.

  “Sylvalla?” An elbow broke into her thoughts.

  Sylvalla mumbled something—the word might have been yes. Certainly it was enough of an excuse for the girl dressed up as the Maiden to tie gold, blue and green ribbons around the hands of the betrothed. “Together you are strong, in love, in life and in death.” The Harvester bowed. “I announce that on this, the last day of spring, in the year three hundred and six, the dragon slayer, Queen Sylvalla Willetta Orlanda Roseblossom Dalrella of Avondale is married to Francis Swordstone, Prince and Heir to the ancient Kingdom of Havendale. Let these two be united until the days pass by and all is dust…”

  And it was done.

  As the young couple walked out, flanked by Dirk and Amarinda, Sylvalla looked across at Francis, her husband. Francis was nice. Sure enough. She liked him as a person. Yes. But how could this have happened?[69]

  Dirk was right–escaping all this would have been more fun–if not particularly heroic. Except that it was too late to think about might-have-beens.

  Outside, music was playing, people were dancing, tables were laden with food, and there was only one thing missing—her. She extricated Francis and herself from the stupid ribbons and threw them into the cheering crowd. Every child in the courtyard rushed up to tug at her dress, fighting like cats over the privilege while their mothers were distracted in the communal task of sharing out tiny fragments of Sylvalla’s discarded marriage ribbon.

  Amarinda gazed in wonder at the whirl of excitement all around, a twinkle in her eye. Sylvalla pushed into the throng, past trestle tables and whirling couples, laughing at the frustrated security contingent and her friends as they tried to keep up with her.

  “It will be much quieter and safer in the castle,” Dirk urged, looking about nervously. “Can’t you see all the nobles are leaving?”

  “I’d rather face swords and arrows than the vicious tongues in the palace,” Sylvalla retorted and took a pie.

  “Dirk is right,” Francis said timidly. “We should be going.”

  “No. I should be here with my people,” Sylvalla replied, and for a moment she toyed with the idea of giving a speech along those lines, but instead she kicked off her shoes. In a flash the shoes were gone, each in the hands of a different child. The rest all gathered close, giggling and tugging at her dress some more.

  “No more tugging my dress.” Sylvalla waggled a finger reprovingly and tried to adjust her corset.

  They giggled even more.

  “And no sicking up in the garden,” Francis added. “Although it’s likely you won’t get a chance, because the food will all be gone by the time you get there.” Two score pairs of eyes swivelled about—and disappeared into the crowd in a tumult of frantic yelps, shoves and pushes.

  “Watch out,” Dirk called as a drunken soldier, sword-hilt slapping heavily against his thigh, made a not-particularly-steady journey in the married couple’s direction.

  The soldier lurched toward Sylvalla.

  Dirk pulled Sylvalla back, and the man almost fell over, his hand sailing through the air where Sylvalla’s shoulder had been.

  “Our queen, the dragon slayer!” the soldier shouted, hiccupping loudly and spilling half his ale onto the ground. The other half was splashed liberally over himself and the newly-married couple as he raised the cup into the air, staggered sideways, and pitched into a table.
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  The cheers were deafening. Once the clapping and hooting had died down, another soldier jumped out of the crowd and raised his cup. “To the King and Queen,” he said to thunderous applause.

  “To the dragon slayers.” The soldier raised his arms to more wild applause.

  Sylvalla just nodded, distracted by the inert body of the soldier who’d pitched into the table. “Someone had better see he’s alright,” she said, and then, when no one moved, she took a step forward herself and tried to bend down.

  He’s breathing, so he’s doing better than me already, she thought wryly as the whale bones bit into her ribs.

  Greybeard arrived, a little out of breath, and hissed in her ear. “He’s fine, but you soon won’t be if you don’t return to the little nest of vipers waiting for you in the castle.”

  “Wonderful,” Sylvalla hissed back, wryly noting how Francis nobly saluted the crowd, and wondering why after all her years of being a princess she’d never picked up what he had in just a few short months.

  Even Amarinda was doing a great job of waving to the crowd and accepting their congratulations. Sylvalla followed suit before heading back, shaking her head. “Now they call me dragon slayer. Now they throw these things at my feet.”

  She looked about and lowered her voice. “It’s those meddling wizards again.”

  Amarinda nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

  “Killing the dragon isn’t enough. No.”

  “The people here have to believe in their ruler, my lady. Especially now.”

  “I wish I did,” Sylvalla said. She waved and smiled enigmatically out into the night.

  §

  And she was a vision of loveliness, with the lights from the many lanterns reflected in her eyes. I know, because I was there. I’d been commissioned to catalogue the illegal use of magic by the two Goodfellows and their unauthorised meddling in politics.

  So did they meddle? I cannot say. What I can say is that was the moment I saw Sylvalla for the first time. And by the measure of the people of Avondale I was lucky, for on that day Sylvalla was their darling; conqueror of the true prince of Havendale’s heart—and moreover, she was brave, fearless, and a slayer of dragons. They fully expected war, but believed with all their hearts that Sylvalla the dragon slayer would teach the hated Phetero a lesson he’d never live to forget.

  To Seek Salvation

  Thunderbolt, Sylvalla’s gorgeous jet-black stallion, frisked near the front of the rag-tag Avondale army snaking through the scrubby landscape. Thunderbolt was amazing, but somehow, she found herself missing her little pony, Swift. Now she was hailed as a hero and riding the most beautiful horse she’d ever seen, she was caged in just as thoroughly as if there were walls. Amarinda rode beside her on a quiet brown horse, her blue split skirt almost trailing the ground. Torri was on the other side wearing an Avondale blue uniform similar to the rest of her Chunker team—a nearly all women affair of newly-minted trebuchet enthusiasts who theoretically doubled as an entourage for Sylvalla. Tishke had been apoplectic when she found out Sylvalla’s vaunted entourage consisted of not one single noblewoman. Not that Sylvalla could do anything about that. There wasn’t a noble lady within the Seven Kingdoms who would ride out at Sylvalla’s side, let alone into war.

  “Sylvalla?” Greybeard—Commander Grehaum Tehray pulled up beside them. His horse skittering nervously one way, and then the other. “My Queen, would you...”

  “Commander, I am fine.”

  “But, My Queen...”

  “Commander; if you wish to tell me a brilliant new plan for our offense, I’m all ears. If we need another smithy, or any other item of importance, again you have my attention, although I dare say you’re capable of ordering such yourself. But pray, do not trouble me with questions about my ... health.”

  Greybeard opened and closed his mouth before wheeling his horse back along the track.

  The Goodfellows took this opportunity to approach.

  Sylvalla pretended to be entranced by Torri talking about her Pumpkin Chunkin’ Machines. “…and that’s why they’re more hefficient than anythin’ else bein’ used today.” Sylvalla had no idea what hefficient might mean and was too scared to ask. The girl must have some magical talent. How else could wood and rope and little else hurl boulders that would smash castle walls?

  Torri looked up at her. “Miss, Princess, Queen Sylvie, Don’ let ’em Misties get their greedy paws on my Chunkers.”

  Sylvalla was tempted to say that her biggest worry about the Chunkers was that they’d be as much use as butter at a rope climbing contest, but she decided to reassure Torri instead. Mostly because that meant avoiding the Goodfellows for a few moments longer.

  A warning shout pierced the calm. Trumpets sounded, a warning bugle.

  Scotch Mist horsemen galloping along a nearby ridge were just visible through the scrub.

  Sylvalla’s soldiers drew weapons, rushing to close ranks into a fighting formation. They tried to form a protective circle around Sylvalla and her entourage, but Sylvalla spurred her horse before they could close ranks, taking Thunderbolt straight up the hillside, on the shortest track she could find.

  Others joined her, and the enemy retreated.

  “What did you think you were doing?” Dirk asked.

  “We don’t want them to see our engines yet, and we definitely don’t want them to get past us.”

  Dirk shook his head “But Prince Francis said his gimpy old men and unshaven boys had been hand-picked to stand with him and defend Avondale.”

  “Exactly,” Sylvalla said as they reached the top of the hill and found—nobody, just a little pot over smoking coals and trampled grass.

  “Don’t know what all the fuss was about,” Dirk muttered.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior smiled. “Dirk, I seem to remember you telling me, Ride bravely to face your enemy. Only a coward gets caught in a trap.”

  “I might have.” Dirk grunted. “But I damned well didn’t say it to you.”

  One of the young officers took it upon himself to complain that he hadn’t seen much of the cowardly Scotch Mist foe through all the road-dust.

  “That’s strange,” Dirk replied. “Imagine a little caution, rather than eager fools who are more likely to injure themselves on their own swords than use them effectively.”

  The Goodfellows didn’t say anything. They’d buried their heads so deeply in their old vellum books that Sylvalla imagined the great gaping pages might, at any moment, swallow them whole.

  Possibilities

  “How dare the idiot king summon me like this?” Dothie muttered to Arrant and Fergus. “How can I find his gods-forsaken portal, if I have to keep running back and forth to the castle?” Dothie arrived at Phetero’s gilded throne room doors, and hesitated. The piercing screams coming from inside were hardly encouraging.

  “Look, you lot going in, or not?” the guard said, his face carefully neutral.

  Toots hissed and drew back.

  Glancing sideways at Arrant and Fergus, Dothie feigned an interest in the Scotch Mist door handles cast into the shape of Eagles. They seemed to glare back at him, like they were accusing him of weakness.

  Dothie thrust open the doors.

  A crystal bowl arced through the air. The servant it was aimed at ducked—leaving the bowl to continue its arc—and smash at Dothie’s feet.

  Red-faced, Phetero watched the new arrivals like a snake poised for its strike. “Damn them!” he said to nobody in particular. He stalked the room, before sitting down heavily on his throne.

  Fergus ambled in. Crossing his arms, he stood stolidly beside the door. Arrant prudently stayed beside him.

  Servants had rushed to right his table and clean up the broken shards.

  Ignoring their efforts, Phetero placed a crystal chalice laden with ruby red plums perilously on the armrest. “Now, see what your foolishness has done,” he said.

  Dothie tried to hide the less-than-respectful smile on his lips. Bowing low helped—even though it m
eant that he was suddenly painfully aware of Toots; a silent but disapproving jockey upon his shoulder.

  “And what steps have you taken so that I may claim the power you promised me?”

  I promised? Dothie thought, but he did not bother to refute the King. He’d never promised power; he’d been offered power, and professed a professional interest. Maybe he’d gone so far as hinting at certain...possibilities. He licked his lips and bowed once again, to give himself time to properly consider his options.

  It was time to turn the conversation around. “King Phetero, I am yours to command. Which is why I’ve been diligently sending my people out to discover, er—” He looked about at the servants cleaning up the glass. “—that which you wish to find. We are only awaiting confirmation. Word cannot be far off. I am sure the slight holdup is nothing more than the inconvenience of having to slip through the, er ... Avondale rabble.” Dothie dismissed the Avondale army with a careless wave of his arm.

  A blue tongue flicked past Dothie’s cheek, tasting the air.

  Phetero purpled. “The Avondale scum. I do not have the patience for a pitched battle. Dammit, my glory awaits, and you insist that I sit trapped here doing nothing—and with my army decimated?”

  Dothie made uncommitted noises. Phetero’s decision to kill every tenth man had been a terrible tactic, doubling the number desertions overnight and wreaking havoc on morale.

  “I shall crush her,” Phetero said, squeezing gobbets of plum onto the floor. “My army is bigger than hers. Better trained. The gods say the men who remain are true and will fight harder than mountain lions with cubs. One way or another, I shall be victorious. But, Dothie, let me assure you that if you do not bring me the information soon, the first person to lose their head will be you. In the meantime, be ready. Ready to fight. Ready to carry out my Great Plan. And take your place on the city walls as I have asked. A few hundred fruit flies and Sylvalla’s army will be as chaff in the wind.”