Atyra’s love had never wavered from him until the birth of their first daughter. Her love never failed him, it morphed into something bigger than their marriage. It split between him and their daughter. Both received a fair amount. But with a woman like that, having to share her never felt fair. With a daughter like Herrona, he didn’t mind so much.
The second child born to the King and Queen of Ro’Hale lured amazement out of the Oracle who’d blessed her after birth.
“Mother of nations, bringer of might. Power will drop from both her palms into two pools. One pool like blood, the other like starlight.”
These words too baffled the King and Queen. Resayla, sure enough, exhibited outstanding beauty coupled with alarming power. Magic touched. Blond of hair. Her eyes that same forest green of her father’s but flecked with gold. Her features were not as soft as Herrona’s. Sharp facial bones and a pouting mouth. Her eyes were large, and she was long-legged and spindly.
This third daughter was a princess unlike her elder sisters: Ivaia. With hair and eyes like the sun and the sky. Blue like that in her mother and eldest sister’s, seams of blue sewn around the edges of her clear silver eyes.
“She will grow to have great power, like her sister.” The Oracle whispered. A laugh rippled her childlike face. “Power that begins and ends inside her but continues on through her.”
The King’s sunken eyes searched the Oracle’s as he tried to understand. “How great will her power be?” Without Atyra by his side, his awe crumbled into dread.
The Oracle’s eyes were vacant, the trait of one without physical sight. The trait that set Oracles aside from other children. The Blindness struck at a certain age, and forever demarcated their lives from their peers. “Greater but not the greatest.” Her skin was still supple with youth. No hair to frame that placid face. The Oracle looked from him to the babe to Nurse Attica without seeing them.
“King Adon,” the child Oracle lifted her small, plump hands. “Your Queen is no longer at your side. She is beneath your feet.”
Tears welled in his eyes and he clutched the infant to his chest.
“She lives on in them: Her beauty, her spirit, her power.” Her eyes widened as if the revelation thrilled her. “The three daughters born of you, born of her. They are birth, death, and rebirth. Go again into the earth at the end of your days and the beginning of theirs, a happy father, a solemn king.”
Years later, Ivaia was a blossoming little girl.
“You brought down a mountain in your birth,” the King whispered to Ivaia one night. He found her asleep in the grass after training in magic with her sister all day. He scooped her up in his arms. “You’ve been powerful enough to shake a nation since the beginning of your days.”
Of the three, Herrona was the most like their mother. Blessed with her same stunning features. Her true power was seizing a room’s attention. Everyone listened to her, everyone respected her, and everyone loved her. King Adon couldn’t deny it. And as she grew in age, stature, beauty, and grace, he was sure she would bring the Sunderlands and provinces beyond to their knees. Queen of her time.
He emptied coffers of gold employing the finest tutors to educate the three of them. Herrona and Resayla were studious and bright. Resayla trained her magical abilities, starting at eight. The youngest was in her eleventh year of life when her magical ability first manifested. Ivaia’s power was greater than her sister’s. Magical studies swallowed up Ivaia’s interest.
By seventeen years of age, Ivaia had learned all she could from the tutors and the mages her father paid for. She grew restless, careless, and rebellious. Herrona was preparing for her coronation. Resayla was studying politics. Meanwhile, Ivaia began sneaking off the castle grounds and into the woods. One night, Herrona had stayed up late awaiting the return of the youngest princess.
“I have found a God,” Ivaia declared upon return.
“The Gods are never out of reach. You can visit the temple any time and you know that.” Herrona raised an eyebrow.
“No, Herrona. The Gods do not live in temples of stone and earth. They are out there, in the world, in nature, in all.”
“And which God has so captured your heart? Have they made you a mortal servant?” Herrona’s eyes appraised Ivaia’s body for change.
“Not a servant, yet. I have devoted my life to the God Elymas, Lord of Magic. I have found a purpose.”
Herrona bowed her head in thought, closing her brilliant blue eyes. Ivaia did not dare interrupt her contemplation. Resayla stirred in her bed, groaning in protest at their volume. A few moments later, she sat up, hair tangled and eyes creaking open. She stretched and pushed the covers back.
“What are you two on about?”
Herrona smirked at Resayla and then turned back to Ivaia. “I believe you.” Ivaia wept with joy.
“But—” Herrona lifted a long-fingered hand, “You will go to worship, accompanied by a knight. Never after dark.”
Both Resayla and Ivaia exchanged looks.
“The both of you. My first act as Queen will be to find you each a knight protector.”
Resayla rolled her eyes and shuffled back to bed. “You mean a husband.”
Herrona pursed her lips and waved her hand at Resayla’s response. “Long has it been a tradition in this family, that the princesses should receive a guardian from the order. I will put it off no longer.”
Ivaia’s eyes were far away, but her mouth quirked up at the corners.
The next day, Herrona ordered the finest knights in the kingdom to present themselves to her. For Resayla, she chose a handsome hardy knight.
“Resayla, my first act as Queen is to choose Indiro Aval as your knight protector.” This stunned Resayla. The most battle-worn knight became her closest companion. Where she went, he followed, and he cared for her. They left the kingdom shortly after.
“Ivaia, my second act as Queen is to choose Riordan Gale as your knight protector.” Herrona smiled. Ivaia’s jaw dropped when she first laid eyes on her knight. A tall, muscled man with eyes like diamonds and hair like gold. She imagined them alone in the woods together and blushed.
After Herrona’s Coronation, King Adon died from what appeared to be a broken heart, and Herrona met her first challenge as Queen. Rumors flew like arrows about a newly blind child in the castle village. The Gods chose a new Oracle. Herrona knew there were traditions and there was a ritual she had to perform. Her first task as Queen was to lead the kingdom in pious celebration of a holy phenomenon. The Veil Ritual was as old as the Ro’Hale kingdom itself.
Her father had taught her everything. She knew it all by heart but now she must act. They presented the child to her in the temple. All her hair had fallen out, as happens with all new Oracles. Her eyes were wild, although glazed. As if she were scouring the darkness for a glimmer of hope. Herrona, being merciful, knew what she must do.
“For ages, our traditions have exploited these children chosen by the Gods. While we worship the Gods’ decision to use the child, we forget about the toll paid— the loss. No longer can we ignore their pain.”
Ivaia marveled at her elder sister. Herrona gained fame that spread beyond the kingdom, for her acts of kindness to the Oracle children. They were no longer left to wallow in blindness and visions on the temple floors. They were elevated, treated with dignity and honor. She desired for them to be clothed richly and always accompanied. Herrona ordered for mages to enchant any kind of animal the child desired to be their companion. They received rooms in the castle. The temple priests restocked the library with books for the blind. Tutors traveled to court to help the child learn to read with her hands and adjust to the loss of sight. These changes affected all Oracle children who outgrew their connections with the Gods.
Herrona inspired Ivaia. The beauty of religious culture awed her.
“How gracious the Gods are to use us and be a part of our lives,” Ivaia pondered. Herrona, signing her name on scroll after scroll, put her quill down and looked at her sister.
>
“Blessings and Curses, they both exist in our world. You must give up something, sacrifice something of yourself to become an instrument. The Oracle has suffered a great loss so we may gain. Do not diminish that.”
Ivaia nodded in solemn agreement, realizing her error.
“Magic,” Herrona continued, “Is a great force that runs in our bloodline. The gift of such power requires we lose something too: Our pride, our comfort. Not everyone looks upon Mages with high regard in this world. Elves do but most others do not.”
Ivaia nodded again.
“As women with power, we must lead and take the blame; act and lose. Myself as the Queen, and you, my little Mage. Never forget, our power does not come from victory or strength, skill or reputation. Power comes from the ability to see what is right and do it, even if it costs us. It is a weakness to chase accomplishments only for self-glorification. It is a failure to be selfish, not to see what our words and actions do to others.”
She rose from her desk and walked to a shelf beside the window. Scanning for the book she wanted, she added, “I see it in you, Iv. The drive.” Ivaia waited. “I see your passion to serve the Gods, your heart for religion and tradition. Your enthusiasm and willpower to make a difference.” Herrona was smiling, Ivaia could tell by her voice, as she bent to pluck a book from the bottom shelf. “It is in our blood, to feel as you do. It’s who we are.” She presented the book to Ivaia with a broken smile. “Mother’s diary.”
Ivaia’s eyes widened in disbelief. “How—”
“Father gave it to me when you were born. In it are her prayers and wishes. She too loved the Gods. She prayed that at least one of us would do great things with our gifts and ambitions.”
Ivaia caressed the worn leather journal.
“I’m sure it would please her to know that not one, but all three of her daughters are powerful and righteous.” Herrona turned her skirts back toward the desk, seated herself, and dipped her quill in the ink. “Keep to it, Ivaia.”
On their daily walk, Ivaia confided in her knight, Riordan. “The God of Magic, Elymas, has gifted me with great power. My father used to tell me about my prophecy from the Oracle. Over and over he told me because I asked him to, over and over.” She chuckled.
Riordan smirked.
“Power begins and ends inside her but continues on through her.”
Riordan pondered her words but did not interrupt her.
She stretched out her arms. “What else could that mean? I believe the Gods will choose me one day, as a vessel through which their might and power will be demonstrated. My sister says power comes from helping others, and that’s what I want to do. I don’t want to just have power and do nothing. I want to use it. For good, for the will of the gods, for our people.”
She looked up at the skies.
Riordan loved her passion. “If you feel so moved, who is to deny it will be that way,” was his only response.
“I must try my best to prove myself. Will you help me, Rio?”
He walked towards her, one foot in front of the other, hands in his trouser pockets. A long sword slung over his shoulder. He dropped it to the floor and stepped closer again.
She felt a flutter in her belly as his eyes locked on hers. One step closer and they were toe-to-toe. He brushed a wild curl behind her ears and smiled.
“You want my help?” He scrunched up his face, and she giggled. “You want to change the world, Iv. Do you know you already have?” He touched his nose to hers and closed his eyes. “My world was forever changed the day the Queen gave me you.”
Ivaia lifted her eyebrow. “I believe she gave you to me.”
He smiled and bit his lip. She tilted her head to kiss him, but he stopped her, their mouths nearly touching.
“I will follow you to the end of the earth and beyond,” he promised. Their smiles faded, eyes searching each other’s face.
She grabbed him by the shirt and stepped on his toes. His callused hands gripped the backs of her thighs and lifted her to his waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his mouth hungrily. He held her against him with one arm under her bottom and knotted his other hand in her hair. He pressed his tongue into her mouth and explored the taste of her.
A gasp escaped her as he lowered her to the ground. Kneeling over her, he removed his tunic. He opened her long legs, which trembled at his touch, and bent down to kiss her belly through her mesh gown. His blue eyes flashed up at her and he watched her as he lifted her dress and pressed kisses onto her inner thighs. She twirled her fingers in his long blond hair and writhed to sate the urge burning between her legs.
His fingers held her legs, controlled her movements as he lowered his mouth onto her. She whimpered as his tongue swirled over the sensitive peak between her legs. Every attentive kiss sent shivers through her body. He stroked her until she screamed, and his name echoed off the trees.
Climbing back up her body to face her, he thrust himself inside of her and gripped her throat. Her body arched in response, curls flattening in the grass. He filled her body with his promise until she was overflowing with pleasure.
That night, he brought her under his cloak to the ink artist in the kingdom village. An old woman with weathered hands that were still steady. She illustrated their devotion to each other on their skin. Pressing ink into their bones with a sharp tool: One on each of their left palms.
“You are my Queen, and I am your King. We are allegiant to no one else but each other.”
They pressed their palms together and swore an oath to each other. Blood seals. He bandaged her freshly inked hand and kissed her fingertips.
When she returned to her living quarters, and he returned to his, she prayed. “What magic is this? And which God might I thank for this new gift? Elymas, is this a spell? Mrithyn, know that if you take him, you are to take me as well. Adreana, do you see my secret love and weep? He is beautiful. And who might I pray to for protection of my mate? Imogen, make a pact with me, to let only peace and safety follow him.” She waited in silence for a feeling of comfort, but none came because she was in love, and it made her feel a vulnerability for which there is no comfort.
7. CLAN RO’HALE
The gates creak as they open; an argument between metal and wood. As I reenter the campgrounds, I glance up at the walls and the guards looming twenty feet above my head. Their attention stays on the forest. The proud white stallion insignia decorating their breastplates looks like pearl in the light.
Afternoon sunlight floods the campgrounds, running its golden fingers along the treetops. The sounds of a hammer falling on an anvil, and children’s laughter greet me. Silence quenches the conversation between the two guards behind the gates. One with brown hair, one with black. Their dark eyes follow me, tracing my body. Either they’re noticing my weapons and gauzy dress, an odd combination, or the generous curves of my body. I pass them and push farther into the center of the camp. “Coroner.” He nods.
The fragrance of bread and smoked fish fills my head. I don’t eat any animal of the earth. Do not take a life if it is not necessary. Still, my mouth waters with hunger. Near the armory, a female shovels stew into her husband’s and children’s bowls. One groans as his mother’s cooking slops into the wooden bowl in his tiny hands. The father quickly defends his wife, scolding the child who sniffles and agrees to eat all the carrots.
Another female is coming in from harvesting, her basket laden with ears of corn and potatoes. It’s so heavy she bears it between her arms, leaning it on her belly like she’s with child. She trips over her skirt and a potato rolls over the brim of the basket. A nearby hunter in brown leather armor stoops quickly and picks it up for her, dusting it off on his breastplate before placing it back in her basket. He smiles and she blushes. She nods and sidesteps him, but he holds out a hand to stop her, offers to take her basket and walk her home. Nervously, she passes it into his brawny arms and busies herself with twirling a lock of her long black hair around her finger. They pass me by, nearly
hitting me with the basket as they stare at each other with moon-sized eyes. I overhear him complimenting the fragrance of her hair.
Long black hair. Smells like jasmine.
I force myself to ignore the empty beds that decorate Chamira’s yard. Buried. I pick up the pace, desperate to get home before anyone sees me cry. No one knows what I did last night. No one except my sister knows of my hunts with Ivaia. I watch my kin bustling about camp as I make a run for my tent. I try to remind myself that this hunt was for them, but it feels like a lie. If I pray there will be no repercussions, will the Gods prove useless again?
My weapons clang together on the ground and Ivaia’s dress tears as I rip it off my skin. Silk and linen undergarments don’t make me feel more comfortable. My eyes are blurring, and my face feels hot. I want to swallow the air; it’s so hard to breathe. There’s that nagging pain in the back of my throat again from choking back the tears. I pass my shawl around my shoulders to fight off the chill in my blood. Its fine, red-dyed silk caresses my bare arms.
I will not cry. I refuse to break down. Instead, I force happy memories of the nine into my mind. I force myself to smile. I will not grieve for them; they would not want me to cry. They were not weak, so I won’t be either. I sit on my bed, zoned out, for longer than I care to notice.
My fists eventually uncurl. My chest loosens and my stomach growls. I turn my feet toward the gardens in search of something to eat. I stretch my shawl overhead and drape it over my hair.
The winding path to the gardens has been overrun by mushrooms and crawling plants. I take my time; the lowering sun a salve for my nerves. My people walk this path less and less— only when it’s necessary to leave the main grounds. I eventually shove through the gates to the garden and scan the territory.
Of course, my sister is here: knees pressed into the soil; hands busy with weeds. Dirt streaks her sweaty face. Despite years in the sun, her skin has maintained its opalescent sheen. Her blue shift is crumpled and stained. She loves that dress. It makes her already vivid features more profound. I try to sneak past her to the large harvest storage tent. She knows I’m here without looking in my direction.
The Sunderlands Page 6
