Late at night, after a journey that took almost half a year, Libby has finally found the sorcerer. He lives in a small cottage nestled in a valley, about a league from the nearest village. There's a terrible storm going on and she is exhausted, ready for it all to end. She has collapsed into fourteen barns, seretly slayed and ate four cows, raided uncountable houses, partially delved into the mastery of pickpocketing and crossed an entire ocean. It ends. She has found him.
[1]
She twirls a braid, ignoring the wind howling her elf-like ears red. The rain and sleets smooth the stray curls that make up a non-existent fringe. Days of sleep have rendered bags, several layer deep under her eyes. Her mouth is rounded but pursed from the cold. Her fingers anxiety bitten, and unfeeling, frozen since the first dew of last morning.
She clutches a brown satchel of her only belongings. The straps broken from one too many hasty getaways. The bottom is mud stained, dragged along through mud and other uncomfortable terrain by mere snapped straps. The covering flap is tightly laced but the bag itself is already thoroughly Water stained. Though her few belongings inside, a skin wrapped diary, a rock for a quill and a small reed flute, thankfully, do not need to be cared for that way. There is also a small bag within a bag within a bag, of broken but precious glass. An offering to the sorceror. Once a fragile goblet, shattered most clumsily on the way. Each shard would fetch at least twelve gold ingots on their own, no matter how small.
[3]
Her father's kingdom had been taken over by tradesmen. Magic, once the charm of the seas and land alike is now barely tolerated. Wizards are stoned or thrown out before they reach the borders. Their relatives too greedy to move from rich land and business but with enough heart to warn them to keep away. Bloodlines are no secret, how could they be when magic is only another part of the land? But nobody would even whisper the facts anymore. Not aloud. Bards were chased out if their music charmed animals or played to full audiences nights in a row. Haunted places are simply abandoned, suspected changelings shipped off.
Except for one. Princess Libertine Riveras Robles from her 1st birthday could speak before the rest. Which could be taken as nothing new. Her older brothers were reciting numbers at theirs. The language she spoke was of none any in the castle knew so taken as more baby babble until, after a while, a deadly pattern made itself known. A high sound brought light down from seemingly nowhere. A chortle made her nursery maids shiver. It wasn't until the day of her 4th birthday that they finally let on. She said her first human word, they celebrated. She said it again and the entire feast laid out before them, started floating. Up and up it went. It did not look like it was coming down any time soon.
They were shocked. The king screamed to kill whoever it was if they not reveal themselves now. The queen and all six concubines fainted, along with a few royal siblings. Not a maid reacted shrilly. They all looked glumly at each other, exchanging glances with all before finally pointing most politely, to the princess at the head of the table, still in her cradle-bound nightie. There was stunned silence as suddenly the bugged eyes of the terrified king unbugged themselves. Then he waved a hand, stone faced. Men and women alike dived to cover an infant's mouth. The tables crashed down, raining food and leftover dribble on everyone. The king retreated to his chambers, ordering spare hands to cart the unconscious queen into accompanying him.
The princess was thrown into a comfortably furnished room. There she was waited on by a different set of five people every day. There she had stayed her entire life, never to meet another soul since. Not family, not the budding friendships of shared pacifers. All knew the incident but like all things magic, nobody spoke of it ever again. She existed still but she was never given any more names aside from "reconsidered royal embarassment". Riveras, silent like the river. Good because she kind of didn't like "Beatrice" anyway.
[2]
Ex-Beatrice stands at the cottage door. The rain traces patterns into the side of the building. The soft patter has kept the crowd of questions from her mind, a constant reminder to the mortal body to get out of the cold. A maid's tunic was warmer than the flimsy fabric of a imprisoned princess but no less freeing. Not to mention, having been able to steal from none but her carers, the dress was weighed down by one too many ruffles, buckles, frills and embellishments. As long as they belonged to tha palace, all had an image to uphold. Only now, she realises she could've stolen more than just food. If it only her stomach had stopped rumbling for any of the days she had traveled. Is she another year older now? Two? The reflection of bathing in the ponds revealed ribs and lumps in the sides of her once rounded stomach. An unfed circumstance of the body trying to store more of what food it got.
The choice to runaway had been an impulse. Maids were almost all too willing to be incapacitated and or be put to sleep. The drive to continue had been a wish. One that burned with the remaining fire of her life. What did she hope for here? Now? He was only a son. Rumor had it he didn't take apprentices. Would her royal status hold weight? Magic was not forbidden here. His only reason to hide would be he liked to be a secret person of power. Would her gifts be welcome? She needs to knock. What if he erases her? What if he lives on another plane? So long she had been turned away. She is frightened of human presence now, trained and overthinking of the sight and smell of human. She had spoken to no soul since she left her bedchamber. She still didn't want to.
But she needed control. She saw fire that night. She made fire. There it danced for dangerous seconds on a pigtail of a maid who only curried water. And then it went out. Shortly after, she also blanks out. When she comes to from a dreamless sleep, her mind is filled with replays of the moment. To confirm her father's worries of magic breeding bad intentions was the last thing she could want.
She speaks a word. One that probably helf magic. One she had known as long as she could remember. One with meaning unique to only her. Whispered on tear stained nights between bars of black, skies of white. "Yana." She breathes the word, again in and again out. Have courage. I will. I can. I am here for reason. She smoothes her billowing skirts, wipes what may or may not be stray tear rivulets from a pair of orange cheeks and knocks. Carefully, quietly.
[1] league = an hour's distance
[2] rooms =
medieval-spell.com/Medieval-Architectu..[3] flute =
loyno.edu/~leh/KingArthur/tr_flute%5B1..