Thornheart's Embrace

Seraphina.

As we are walking to the festival I catch the eye of something old, powerful, strong. Then the vision fades and I am returned to the present. My hands move mechanically to check that my veil is secure.

“Do you think you’ll win?” says a small voice beside me.

“Probably not,” I reply, turning and smiling behind my veil to my sister, Ivy. But something within me stirs to suggest I may be wrong.

Ivy, only nine years old, has a somber but determined look on her face as she scurries beside me carrying a satchel of paintings. She’s too young to be this serious, but her life has been one hardship after another.

The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and the underlying tang of anticipation. My heart quickens as we approach the fairgrounds. It’s more than just an art competition at stake today — this is a chance for a better life for me and Ivy.

There’s something eerie in the light, some presence that keeps tugging at my attention as Ivy and I set up my paintings for display. Passers-by look at my covered face with curiosity.

I shudder at the memory of our escape from our last village. I never want to put Ivy in that kind of danger again. So my veil stays on tight, concealing this face that drives people to insanity.

“What fine work, girl!” belches a fairgoer behind my shoulder. I turn around with a shudder, knowing what will come next. “—and such pretty eyes too!” He is bald, fat, and already drunk at midday.

“Thank you,” I say coldly, busying myself with the booth. He crowds in closer, peering at my face, glancing up and down at my body underneath its loose garments which cover me from head to toe.

“Girl!” he barks, “show us your face love!”

“I’m sorry, sir—” I begin in the polite yet firm tone reserved for men, but before I can finish a clear voice cuts in:

“Leave her be, man.”

The drunkard looks up with an astonished look. “Of course sir!” he sputters on seeing the stranger. Behind the drunkard is a lithe man, of unclear stock, dressed in an unembellished black cloak of fine quality. Clear gray eyes peer out from a face with ambiguous features.

“Don’t mind him, mademoiselle,” says the stranger. “He’s just curious.”

“They’re all curious,” I say and then catch myself. Turning to the stranger, I dip my head in gratitude. “Thank you for your help sir,” I say calmly.

“Please don’t bow, miss,” says the man. He is looking intently into my eyes. He is… is he recognizing me?

“Do I know you, sir?” I say trying to discern his intentions.

“Who’s this, Seraphina?” chirps Ivy, who has just returned from fetching a meal of two simple rolls.

“I am nobody,” says the stranger, “but I know who your parents were.”

“How… what —” I stutter in fright, but before I can respond a chorus of bugles drown out my words. The royal procession into the festival has begun, and the crowd seethes to greet the King and his son, the Prince. In the shuffle, the gray-eyed, dark-clad stranger has vanished.

It’s the annual summer festival of Celestria, our home for only a few short months. So far the common people don’t hate us, and the noble people haven’t noticed us. Celestria is the capital of the vast empire ruled by King Dione Thornheart. It’s the closest Ivy and I have ever been to this type of prestige.

The procession parts the crowd like an ocean. Dozens of knights on horseback and a battalion of mages are followed by palaquins carrying ladies of the court swathed in silks of every color. Drummers, trumpeters, and a chorus of singers follow. Finally I can see the king astride a white stallion. His eyes are hard as steel, and his robes are the color of iron. And then, behind him, I see the prince.

The crowd is deafening, completely enthralled by the display of pomp. But I can’t hear a thing. I can’t control my gaze as it points directly at the son of the king.

Riding a black stallion, the prince’s mind is clearly far away from the crowd. His blue eyes stare into nothing, and his jet-black hair ripples gently in the wind. His clothes hang deftly over an athletic body. He can clearly handle a horse, and probably the sword that dangles from his hilt.

I watch his face as it moves through the throng, watch his eyes move absently, and then, all of a sudden, I watch them meet mine.

Our eyes lock. One instant, one split second, and that same feeling from earlier, a flash, a shudder—

The crowd roars. I return to earth, to the wall of sound from the thousands upon thousands of subjects of the realm venerating their king.

“Did you see the Prince?” yells Ivy into my ear. “Don’t you think he’s handsome?”

“No,” I yell back. But Ivy is a clever kid. She’s seen the look in my eyes, and smirks without believing me. “Shut up!” I yell over the din.

The day progresses and the sun climbs over Celestria. There are games, feats of strength, and music. The royals are ensconced in their dais high above the common crowd. And Ivy and I wait for our chance.

One by one the esteemed artists of the court visit our stall to judge my paintings. Their eyes pass over my work with interest which grows the longer they look. Some of them linger quite a while, looking into the worlds I’ve made. They look at me questioningly and I can nearly read their thoughts — why is she covering herself? What does she have to hide?

Everything, I think. But I don’t allow my eyes to betray a thing, and I stand straight and firm. I am simply trying to survive in a world that hates us.

One of the judges, a short man of fifty with a curious air and sumptuous amber robes, spends nearly twenty minutes looking at one of my paintings. His gaze turns to me and I hear him inhale sharply.

“Miss,” he says in a stuttering voice, “where did you learn to paint like this? And your veil—”

“My mother was an artist sir,” I say quickly before he can ask more questions. The less anybody knows about me the better.

“She certainly taught you well, Miss—?”

But before he can say more a nervous-looking young man carrying a scroll taps the judge on the shoulder. “Sir Greenhaven, it’s time to announce the winner,” he says quickly.

“Thank you, Cedric,” replies the judge, giving me another long look before turning away.

Minutes pass. Then the bugles blast for the umpteenth time today. An amplified voice shouts for silence from the crowd, and then proclaims that the judges of the Celestrian Guild of Arts have made their verdict. My heart is beating in my chest.

One chance, one opportunity for things to work out for once.

“The winner of the Celestrian Guild of Arts Medal for exceptional talent is—”

No more fleeing, no more hiding.

“Seraphina Darkwater!”

That’s my name! I’ve won!

Alaric.

The day is hot and stupid, and the people are stupid too. They groan and shout and fawn and sing bawdy melodies out of tune. I am bored out of my skull but know better than to show it.

My father also hates these horrid traditions—he hates everything—but he still stands by them. “For the good of the realm,” he says with a bitter taste in his mouth. His traditions will suffocate him one day.

I sigh and let my gaze disappear over the crowd. I’ve felt strange since the procession this morning. Agitated. Like something big is going to happen. Ever since I saw…

“Don’t usually see a girl in a veil in Celestria,” comes a voice from my right. Sir Elias Humpston, my only friend in this hellish farce.

“What?” I reply.

“Pay attention you sullen sod,” says Elias. He’s the only person in the realm besides my father who could call me a sod without hanging.

I turn to face his smiling green eyes.

“Pay attention to what, you insubordinate ass?” I retort.

“Shut up and look!”

I look down from the platform to see a veiled woman striding across the arena. She is completely covered in long robes from head to toe, despite the heat of the day. Her clothes are plain, homespun, but her gait is straight and fine. Her hands drift delicately beside her. She certainly doesn’t move like a low-born woman.

Her face is completely covered except for her eyes. I lean forward unconsciously.

“I knew you’d like that,” smirks Elias, who’s been watching me.

“I don’t ‘like it’,” I clip back.

“As you like,” says Elias with an affable grin. “Where do you think she’s from?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” I say coldly.

Elias is always trying to goad me into the company of women. He would probably even condone a low-born woman, provided it wasn’t serious. But I can’t ever reciprocate their affections.

All around me on the platform the ladies of the court pout and preen, fanning at their heaving, corseted chests in the heat. Each one of them is trussed up on this rare occasion to see the crown prince, each desperate to be noticed by me.

It makes me feel nothing. No woman, no person, could ever really know me. Better to stare at nothing.

Still, I can feel the strange young woman below pulling my attention. I look away.

My father is seated to my left, his brow furrowed, his eyes unreachable. He hasn’t heard the banter between me and Elias, thank gods. The smallest things upset him.

“Why is she covered,” I hear my father mutter under his breath. The veiled young woman is now facing the royal platform. She gives a deep curtsy, but her posture remains defiant.

Suddenly my father stands up.

“Young woman,” he cries loud enough for her to hear below, “congratulations on your artistic accomplishment. I’m sure it was well deserved. The judges are wise.”

The crowd, usually in a constant yell, has grown quiet with the presence of this strange woman.

“You have no need to hide, young woman,” says my father in a firm tone. “Remove your veil and show us your face, so we may know who has been so honored today.”

The figure below straightens. A voice, soft but determined, rings out from behind the veil.

“Your Majesty,” says the voice, “I am greatly honored by your court. My name is Seraphina Darkwater. But I cannot remove my veil.”

The crowd responds in shouts and whistles, hoots and lewd calls.

“Show us, girl!”

“Take it off, you low-born hussy!”

“What are you hiding, you haughty cow?”

I wince at the words, but I don’t know why. She’s just an ordinary girl in a veil.

“Seraphina Darkwater,” booms my father, the anger rising in his voice, “you must be new to Celestria. You are forgiven for your trespass. But you will not be forgiven a second time. Girl, take off your veil.”

Silence falls over the crowd as they wait for her reply. It is slow in coming.

Finally, the strange sweet voice replies steadily from behind the veil.

“Your Majesty, again I am greatly honored. But I cannot remove my veil.”

The crowd is shocked into silence, aghast at the slight to the ruler of the seven kingdoms. Then a wall of sound rises from the spectators, yelling insults, thirsty for action, blood. They are dogs, they will take anything.

In the din, I look at the mysterious girl. Who could remain so defiant to the most powerful man in the world, my hateful father?

I look more closely. Only her eyes are visible. Only her eyes —

“You will be imprisoned, woman!” says my father in a roar.

I am flooded by an amethyst light. Her eyes, meeting mine, sparkle like purple jewels from above her veil. She casts her eyes down. It’s gone as quickly as it came.

I feel strange. I feel something, after many years of feeling nothing.

I stand up, hardly conscious of what I’m doing.

“Your Majesty,” I hear myself say loudly to the crowd more so than to my father, “leave this woman alone. Let her wear her veil.”

I turn to my father. His brow is completely soaked in sweat. His steely eyes gaze at me with both curiosity and anger.

Elias too is giving me a puzzled look. Never before have I used my voice as the prince in public. Never before have I wanted to. And, of course, never before have I dared to challenge my father.

My father’s face is growing in fury. His grey eyes flash with a profound hatred for me. He has never forgiven me for being born. This is the first time we’ve spoken to each other in months. Here, in front of this bloodthirsty crowd, for all to see.

“Boy!” he hisses at me in red-hot rage, too quiet for the crowd to hear.

Looking away from me, the king stands to face the crowd. Firmly, coldly, he says, “Guards, please escort this girl to the garrison. To be executed.”

A roar of pleasure surges from the crowd.