by The Awethors
Chess Desalls
Copyright © 2015 by Czidor Lore, LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed,
transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a
database or retrieval system, without the prior
written permission of the copyright owner, except
for noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
First Edition: 2015
Queen of the Small Seas is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed are used in a fictitious manner and are the products of the author’s imaginings. Any resemblances to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events are purely coincidental.
Dedication
To anyone who has ever felt small
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Marjorie Bicknell Johnson, Linda Judd,
and Christina McMullen for their tough love
comments on ‘Queen of the Small Seas.’
Thanks for making May’s adventure better and her character bigger. Special kudos to D.M. Cain and Rocky Rochford for getting everyone together to participate in this publication. Great idea. Your efforts and talent are much appreciated.
Queen of the Small Seas
GLIMMERS OF LIGHT emphasized the creases of a crone’s forehead as she passed a wand back and forth along the figure of a baby. The child thrashed and cooed and then closed her eyes.
“Sleep now, young one. You will be needed once the king falls.”
The crone scooped the baby with withered hands, her nails black with gore. Caught in the middle of her task of bleeding fowl, she hadn’t washed. The nursemaid’s call demanded priority.
“I can’t believe a woman of Queen Isra’s strength died during childbirth,” said the nurse. She slumped on a chair carved from a tree stump.
The crone mashed her lips together over toothless gums. “It’s as common as a father rejecting the birth of a daughter, eh?” With the baby wedged in one arm, she tore open a sack of flour. A spray of powder mushroomed from the bag. “How many years does King Ezrek have left?”
The nurse sneezed and swatted at the cloud with her handkerchief. “I have no way of knowing.”
“Then I shall modify the enchantment.”
With the gentleness of a mother tucking her child in at night, the crone began to slide the baby inside the sack. Tongues of flame flickered from candles crowding the room, casting a yellow-orange glow on the newborn’s skin as she disappeared into the sack.
“Queen Isra chose a name for a male child,” said the nurse. She yawned, lulled by the dance of candlelight. “What do we call her?”
The crone dipped a finger in a basin of fowl’s blood. With the tip of her nail, she scribbled a word across the baby’s forehead.
“Maya,” the nurse read, crumpling her nose.
Without wiping her hands, the crone picked up her wand and swirled it above the flour sack. “Maya, child, it will be easier if you stay this size. As you age, you’ll develop into a lovely young woman. But you must hide.”
With a flip of the wand, the edges of the sack the crone had torn began to reseal.
“And you must stay small.” The bag closed further.
The crone flicked the wand one last time, sealing the baby inside. “Until we’re ready for your return.”
“Are you sure,” said the nurse, “that this is the wisest choice?”
“There is no other choice.”
Inside the bag, the baby twitched.
A tiny hand rubbed an eye and then smeared blood from the left edge of her forehead, blotting out a single letter. Unknown to the crone or the nurse, the baby settled into a deep slumber with the marking on her forehead forever changed.
