by Wendy Vella
“Because he wears the griffyn? Perchance, it’s only his overlord’s colors he wears, and not his.”
“That’s a possibility, of course, but it doesn’t matter. He wears the sign. This is the one. I feel it, Elspeth.”
“Holy Mary, child.” Her voice quavered. “What if you’re wrong? You know your Gift is truly useful, but it cannot save you from disaster.”
“Yea, I know that well. Too well. There are times this Gift is a curse, though it’s often helped me learn truths others cannot see. He must be the one, Elspeth, he must—or I would be able to see in his mind as I can all others. He’s too strong for me to penetrate the wall of light around him, too powerful for my Gift.” She opened her eyes. “I intend to ask him to help us.”
“Aiee! Child, you frighten me. Have you no regard for your own safety?” Elspeth rocked back and forth, her arms crossed over her bony chest in a gesture of grief. “I fear for you if you deal with rogue knights. They’re evil men, with no regard for others, devouring all in their paths. If it’s meant to be, it will happen. Do not ask him, I beg of you.”
“But this knight is different.” She searched for the words to explain herself, to make Elspeth understand. “When I look at him, I see a griffyn. We need such a fabled beast, need a man with the strength of a lion and the fierce courage of an eagle. Take heart. He’s the knight that was promised, and he’ll help us. I know he will.”
Elspeth subsided, but the discussion was not ended. Sasha knew better. In truth, she had misgivings of her own. What if Elspeth was right? What if she’d made a mistake? But even if she had, wasn’t anything better than what yawned before her—living out her years in a remote English village so far from everything? In a moment of despair and weakness she had yielded to Elspeth’s pleas, and now they were so close to the village where Elspeth had been born, so close to the end of their long journey across most of Europe and all of England. Years of wandering, from gilded palaces to burning desert sands, over towering mountain heights and down into valleys beautiful enough to hurt the eyes, would soon be over. It hadn’t all been wonderful. There had been terrifying times, times when she was certain they would be killed and their bodies left in a desolate wilderness, but they’d survived. She had done what she must—donned disguises, foretold futures at country fairs, even danced with a bear once on frozen tundra.
She’d perched atop the bare backs of racing horses and won the admiration of a French count—the most dangerous kind of attention for a maiden, and one that had sent them scurrying from the chateau in midnight hours. Yea, she had not spent the past thirteen years idly.
But for what? If she gave up now, what would have been the purpose of surviving when those she loved had not?
“Remember,” Elspeth said softly, coming to stand in front of the fire, “that you are a princess. Men oft grow greedy, or swollen with the lust for power. Do not trust too readily, child.”
Sasha’s mouth twisted wryly. “A princess without a throne or a country, hunted by those who would slay me for an accident of birth. I have riches but not enough to buy an army, royal blood but no title. Not even the name I use is my own. No, you don’t have to remind me. It would be impossible to forget who I am. Or who I once was.…”
Those days were gone, vanished in the uprising of fierce men who had swept over her father’s land, seizing the white-washed towers and minarets, slaying all those in their path. Her mother, the fair English rose renowned for beauty and wisdom, had been slain as well. Dark days, dark memories … The inherited Gift, passed from mother to daughter, had not been enough to save Elfreda from death. It had only allowed her to see her daughter and maidservant safely away, forfeiting her life to ensure theirs. That was the ultimate gift, the ultimate sacrifice, and it had been for love of her child. No, she would not allow that sacrifice to be in vain, not allow the murderer of her parents to go unpunished. And she would take back that which was hers.
Al-Hamin would not be allowed to keep what he’d stolen, neither would he succeed in annihilating all of Ben-Al Farouk’s heirs, for she was still alive, the last one. And if her enemies knew it, she would die as well.
Rising, Sasha removed her cloak, laying aside the useful garment. It was royal purple on one side, green on the other, suiting whichever mood was on her, as changeable as she needed it to be. She moved to a bundle and rummaged inside until she found what she sought. Then she returned to the fire and knelt before it. After carefully inscribing a few words on a chip of sandalwood, she placed it in a brass censer.
“What do you wish for?” Elspeth asked.
Sasha looked up, pausing. “Only for an answer to the prophecy. What is meant to be, will come to us. I wish for another sign to prove that I am not wrong.”
She lit the sandalwood with a burning twig; a fragrant coil of smoke rose to mingle with the scent of burning oak. She closed her eyes. Joy and peace, all the things that eluded her, were written on the sandalwood. The prophecy would come true. Opening her eyes, she stared intently at the brass censer, thinking hard of the wish rising with the smoke, repeating it over and over, until the wood was nothing but ash.
Eyes half-closed, she turned her head to stare into the fire. Among the leaping flames and curling smoke she saw a land of sunshine and warmth, peace and beauty—and the knight who could win it all back for her.
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