by Jayla Jasso
#
Back at Castle Villeleia, Solange was locked in her room, sitting at her vanity. She stared into her looking glass. “Father,” she whispered. “Riselle was supposed to be queen, not I.”
She had only gone to the assembly hall to call the coward Lyren out of hiding and expose the snake for what he was. She’d known him since she was little, and had never trusted his character. He had always moved and acted like a venomous adder, slithering his way into her father’s confidence, and after his death, her sister’s, coiling around her until he choked the life out of her. And just as a snake, he possessed no real weapon save his tiny venomous fangs. He had tried to sink them into Solange at the assembly, but somehow she had managed to crush his head instead. His loud cries of indignation at his unfair treatment and the impending execution had echoed throughout the dungeons below the castle for hours, chilling Solange’s soul.
She sat still, feeling the heaviness of grief constricting her chest. She hadn’t the slightest idea how to rule a nation, especially one that had so recently lost its long-time beloved king as well as his first-born heiress, the one who had been groomed to be queen all along.
She was now completely alone, and felt her isolation with acute sadness.
#
In the dark early morning hours, Gerynwid arrived at Castle Villeleia, a shadowy, black-feathered creature that flew high over the walls, out of the sight of any guards. As she soared over the courtyard of the castle, the fowl transformed into a thin stream of black smoke that slipped easily past a couple of sleepy guards and headed for a set of iron grates at the base of the castle wall. Once there, she flowed through the bars of the tiny window into a dungeon cell.
Lyren lay inside on his cot, staring into the darkness.
Gerynwid reformed into herself. “Lyren,” she intoned, and he jumped to his feet, startled.
“Gerynwid! You came!” He beamed at her. “Bastards and thieves, and that little fool Solange—about to do me in! You arrived just in time.”
“You pitiful fool.”
Lyren blinked. “Pardon?”
“Lyren, you have been a complete disappointment, and you deserve your sentence. You are a waste of human flesh.”
Lyren blinked again, his mouth gaping open slightly.
“Give me the stone.” Gerynwid held out her hand.
“What stone? I-I don’t have a stone.”
“Don’t bother lying. I saw you in my fountain, speaking incantations over a blue scrying stone that you found in a box of trinkets at the gypsy market. Give me the stone.”
“I don’t have it here, Gerynwid, I swear.”
“Then where is it, pray tell?”
“I don’t know—I lost it the night I—the night Riselle died. Help me, Gerynwid. Without its protection, they will execute me at dawn!”
Gerynwid fell silent. His face beaded with sweat, his simpering expression, his trembling frame all told her he truly did not have the stone. She stretched out her right arm toward him, forming a claw with her hand. The hand changed shape, becoming the head of a massive ebony snake with glowing crimson eyes. Her arm transformed into its scaly, sleek body and slithered its way out of her sleeve, stretching out toward him with its forked red tongue darting in and out. Before he had time to dodge or scream, the viper lunged and wrapped itself tightly around his neck.
Lyren gripped the thick body of the serpent in his hands, strangled choking sounds emitting feebly from his throat, eyes bulging as he struggled to free himself. Once he collapsed, lifeless, on the floor, Gerynwid knelt over him to dig out his heart with the viper’s sharp fangs. She whispered an incantation and sealed over the wound with her other hand, then stood to her full height and placed the heart into a pouch hanging from her belt, an offering for Ujagar. She turned on her heel and swirled out of the window in a thin stream of black smoke, leaving Castle Villeleia and Kingston the way she had come.
#
Jiandra opened the stall and led her young bay horse outside. Otto snorted and shook his head to show his enthusiasm for the morning outing. She hitched the cart to him and loaded a few burlap sacks of her sister Gracie’s fresh-baked loaves along with three bushels of raspberries in it. Jiandra normally made the four-mile trip into Kingston just after breakfast, her coppery-brown hair braided down her back and her serviceable brown woolen skirt tucked around her legs. Her responsibilities to her farm and her siblings had obligated her to choose expediency over feminine finery and grace.
In Kingston, Jiandra halted Otto in front of Mrs. Bagwell’s Bakery and Grocer, stepping down out of the cart quickly. As she fetched an empty burlap bag from the back of the cart, she heard the town crier in the distance: “Lyren of Caladia hanged himself in the castle dungeon! Refused to die at the queen’s order!”
A man shouted, “Long live Queen Solange!” and several voices immediately took up the call.
“Gods protect her,” Jiandra muttered under her breath. She pushed open the door to Mrs. Bagwell’s shop and approached the counter, the aroma of baked meat pies pleasantly assailing her senses.
Mrs. Bagwell looked up and dusted her pudgy hands on her apron. “Good day,” she grunted, unsmiling.
“Good day to you, Mrs. Bagwell. I’ll have two sacks of flour and a flask of oil, if you please.”
“Fine.” The older woman shuffled about behind the counter.
As Jiandra stood waiting, the back door to the shop opened slightly, then closed again. She watched curiously as it opened again just a sliver. A tiny hand appeared around the door, and part of a small face peeked in. Mrs. Bagwell seemed not to notice, so Jiandra cleared her throat.
“Ahem. I believe you have a visitor, Mrs. Bagwell.”
Mrs. Bagwell appeared annoyed. She went to the back door and spoke harshly to whomever was outside. As she did this, the door opened wide enough for Jiandra to see two dirty-faced, skinny little children outside, a boy and a girl with unkempt light gray hair, wearing tattered clothes and no shoes. Their silver eyes met Jiandra’s inquisitive gaze for a moment.
Jiandra thought of the two Nandals who’d come to Stovy Farm seeking shelter a couple of days ago with a painful stab of remorse. If only I hadn’t hesitated in taking them in.
Mrs. Bagwell grabbed a burlap sack off the floor and tossed it out the door. Jiandra glimpsed a loaf of bread sticking out of the bundle as the children scooped it up from the ground, and she felt a warmth toward Mrs. Bagwell that she hadn’t before. Mrs. Bagwell bustled back to the counter to finish packaging Jiandra’s order, not saying a word about the children.
Jiandra took her purchases and gave Mrs. Bagwell two coins, smiling as their eyes met.
“Very good day to you, Mrs. Bagwell.”
The older woman made a sound like “Hrmph” and returned to her dough table.
Jiandra left the shop and stowed the goods in her cart, then gathered Otto’s reins to lead him down the street toward the square. She stopped the cart, opened the burlap sacks, and started hawking Gracie’s breads.
“Stovy Farm fresh-baked breads! Two coppers a loaf!” she called loudly in the direction of the crowd. “Ripe red raspberries! Just picked yesterday!”
A few townspeople lined up to purchase her wares. Jiandra smiled. At the age of thirteen, her sister Graciela was a talented, prolific bread-baker and had quite the customer following in town.
“Good day to you, Miss Stovy.” Ben Farro tipped his cap to her as he stepped up for his turn in the line, his narrow blue eyes twinkling down at her.
“Hello, Ben.” Jiandra looked down at her breads to avoid his hopeful gaze. “What’ll it be? Gracie’s made cinnamon currant, sourdough, and rye this time.”
He cleared his throat. “Ah, I’ll take one of each.”
I hope you aren’t buying all of them to impress me, she wanted to say. She wrapped the loaves in a cloth and held them out to him, took his coins, and dropped them in her purse.
“Thank you. Good day to you, Ben.”
“Miss Sto
vy, I—was wondering if…”
“Move along there!” a woman grumbled from the back of the line. “We haven’t got all day!”
Ben faltered in whatever he was trying to ask, and simply smiled and nodded to Jiandra as he moved aside. She felt sorry for him. She knew he had taken a liking to her, and though he wasn’t handsome, he was personable, and the owner of a small farm just to the north of town.
What’s not to like about him, Jiandra? Tall, blond, and blue-eyed? Why don’t you return his feelings? She didn’t understand her own lack of interest. But even if he would have been attractive to her, for now she was too busy raising her siblings to entertain a suitor. In the absence of their parents, she couldn’t afford the luxury of trying to find herself a husband.
As she sold the last of the breads and fruit, a crowd gathered near the crier’s post, noisily bantering back and forth about the past few days’ events.
“Solange shall be a fine queen,” she heard an older man shout.
“She’s too young,” another man’s voice shouted back. “She’ll never be able to stand up to the Council.”
“She stood up to Lyren, all right,” a third voice countered, a woman this time.
“She’s been in hiding ever since—afraid to face her duties,” the younger man contended. “She won’t make it through the winter, I’ll wager. Villeleia will be without a real leader, and the Duke of Wydefield will try to take the throne.”
“Argh, not him!” another man complained. “Self-indulgent cad.” Several others groaned their agreement.
“Solange is grieving at present,” a boy’s voice called out distinctly from behind them. The self-possessed quality in his tone caused everyone to stop and listen. He peered at the townsfolk from under the brim of his hat, his gaze dark and serious. “She knows what her duties are, and she will fulfill them.”
Jiandra studied him, grateful he was defending the queen, but also getting a strange feeling something was not quite right about him.
The boy raised his voice a bit. “You are wrong to judge Solange so harshly. All of you—please, give her a chance.”
Someone screamed, “Villeleia is doomed! We need a real monarch!”
Several others shouted, “Long live Queen Solange!” and the crowd broke out into bickering and scuffling.
The boy ducked as someone nearby threw a punch at someone else, and stood staring at the mob in confusion.
A sudden realization jolted Jiandra. She shoved the empty sacks into her cart and ran to the boy’s side. “Lad, come with me,” she urged near his ear. “It isn’t safe for you here alone.” She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward her cart, climbing up first and then holding out a hand to him. “Come on!”
The boy climbed up, and Jiandra snapped Otto’s reins. They were off before anyone in the crowd seemed to notice their hurried escape. Jiandra drove quickly out of town and stopped once they were past the city gates. She halted Otto in the cover of some trees and turned to face the stoic young figure seated beside her.
“My Queen.” Jiandra bowed her head, then peered at Solange’s face under her hat. “Going out in public alone, disguised as a boy—this is considerably unsafe! Forgive me, but what on earth are you about?”
THREE
Solange regarded Jiandra dispassionately for a moment. “If you must know, I was thinking of running away. I suppose that was bold and impulsive of me.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Jiandra adjusted Otto’s reins, keeping him still as she glanced over her shoulder. “Who knows whether mercenaries, invaders, or other miscreants could be lurking about Kingston, looking to kidnap or assassinate you? I’ll take you back to the castle now.” She tightened her grip on the reins and prepared to turn the cart around.
“No.” Solange halted her. “I do not wish to go back there. It reeks of death—it’s a dreadful place to me now, and I am alone there.”
Jiandra hesitated, unsure of what to do. She couldn’t very well order the queen to go home.
“What is your name?” Solange asked.
“I am Jiandra Stovy, of Stovy Farm, Your Highness, near Cobbleton.”
“Who are your parents?”
“Geoff and Margaret Stovy, now passed on. My brother Elio and I have run the farm by ourselves for the past six years.”
“Six years? But you must be barely twenty years old now.”
Jiandra smiled. “I am twenty-three, Your Highness.”
Solange studied her for a moment. “Stovy. We are very distant cousins, then. The original Stovys of Perryton were related by marriage to my great-grandmother Katherina of Mirebreach. That is your family line, isn’t it? May I see your farm? I would very much like to see it.”
Jiandra considered the wisdom of complying with this request. “Yes, we had distant relatives in Perryton. But with all due respect, Queen Solange, I do not think it prudent for you to travel about without your guards.”
“Please, Miss Stovy. I do not wish to return to the castle at present. I am alone there. I wish to visit your farm.”
Jiandra sighed. She could understand from personal experience the girl’s desire to flee her grief. “All right, Your Highness.” She snapped the reins and set out for Stovy Farm.
When they arrived, Jiandra got down from the cart and then reached up to assist the queen. As she stepped down, Solange took in the sight of the two-story ivy-covered stone cottage, her expression dispassionate.
“Excuse me a moment, Your Highness. I will call my brother.”
“Don’t call me ‘Your Highness’ in front of your family, Miss Stovy. Call me…Brigetta.”
Jiandra stifled a smile. “Very well, Brigetta. Then you shouldn’t call me Miss Stovy. Call me Jiandra.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Elio!”
In a flash, tall, blond Elio appeared, rake in hand. “Hullo there! We have a guest, sister?” He set the rake aside and started toward them, peeling off his work gloves as he approached.
Jiandra grimaced as he drew near and offered Solange a grimy hand. His muscled arms were exposed by the sleeveless leather vest he wore, and were streaked with dust-caked sweat. He reeked of farm work and well-worn leather.
“Yes—er, Brigetta, may I present my brother Elio? He’s been…ah, working this morning.”
“I see.” Solange took Elio’s hand.
He grinned. “Brigetta? Isn’t that a girl’s name?”
Jiandra squirmed internally and reminded herself that Solange had begged to see the farm. Well, now she was seeing it. If she’d expected to be greeted by some well-mannered, silk-jacketed courtier, perfumed and coiffed—
“Indeed, it is a girl’s name.” Solange raked off her hat and freed her long, dark, wavy hair before Elio’s appreciative gaze.
“At your service, Miss Brigetta.” Elio gave her a huge smile, bowing.
There was a faint hint of a return smile on Solange’s face.
Elio took a second longer than he should have to release the girl’s hand. “Are you a friend of my sister’s?”
“Yes. We’ve just met in town, and she invited me for lunch.”
“Lunch?” Jiandra repeated.
“Jiandra! Did you sell all my loaves?” Graciella, her dark-haired younger sister, emerged from the front door of the cottage and hurried down the cobblestone steps. She saw Solange, stopped, and fell silent.
“Er, Brigetta, this is my sister Graciella. She’s thirteen. Come, Gracie, and greet our guest.”
Gracie came closer and extended a hand politely to Solange. At least one of the Stovys was presentable, Jiandra thought, glancing sideways at Elio.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Gracie smiled, her pale hazel eyes glittering with friendly curiosity.
“We have another brother, who is eight. Where is Rafe?” Jiandra asked Gracie.
“He’s out back in the garden, sword fighting with the farmhand’s son.”
“Oh, dear!” Jiandra laughed nervously. She hoped the queen didn’t think they were ruffians.
All of the Stovy children had to learn swordplay from their father as part of their daily lessons, even the girls. “I’d better go get him. Gracie, would you show Brigetta inside and prepare some tea?”
“I’ll take Otto and wash up,” Elio excused himself.
Gracie ushered Solange into the cottage, and Jiandra headed around to the back garden area, where she found Rafe and Samuel sparring with wooden swords near the pecan trees. “Rafe, go and wash up for lunch. We have a guest. Samuel, Gracie left you a snack wrapped in cloth on the kitchen steps. Off you go.”
#
“So, Brigetta.” Elio passed the breadbasket to Solange, seated to his left at the table. “Do you often dress like a boy?”
Jiandra shot him a stern glance.
Solange calmly broke off a piece of the seeded, grainy loaf and passed the basket to Gracie. “No. In fact, I have never dressed like a boy in my life before today. What about you? Do you often dress like a boy?”
Rafe and Gracie burst out laughing, and Jiandra almost choked on her pea-and-sweet-potato porridge.
Elio chuckled. “Never before today.”
Jiandra caught him staring down at Solange’s dark eyes, creamy skin, and rose-blushed cheeks, and cleared her throat.
“Ahem, Elio. Would you accompany me to the pantry for a moment? I forgot to set out the cheese.”
Once they were alone in the back storeroom, Jiandra turned on her brother. “Elio! You’re flirting!” She punched his bicep.
“Wha—!” He rubbed his arm. “Do you think she’s offended?”
Jiandra pursed her lips. “No, on the contrary, she appears to be enjoying it.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“That is Queen Solange, you dolt!” Jiandra hit him in the arm again.
“Ow! Yes, I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes, I recognized her right away when she removed her hat. I saw her earlier this year during the Regal Spring Parade. Just before the king passed away.”
“You knew she was the queen this whole time?”
“Yes, if that’s all right with you! If you’ll excuse me, I would like to go and flirt with her some more.”
