Chapter 1: “There was once upon a time a King who had a wife with golden hair.”
Gold
danced upon gold as sunlight flickered through the princess’s hair.
She’d laid her folded body on the gray, cold stone of the castle’s
arched hallway window, watching the streams of afternoon light shimmer
in her blond hair. But the warmth couldn’t hide the fear biting at her
heart.
She’ll be fine, Annika thought, desperate for reassurance. Mothers do not leave. They do not get sick, and they do not die. Not when they are young and so beautiful. Tears slipped from her lashes as her fingers continued to toy the golden strands of her hair distractedly.
Footsteps
against the flagstones pulled at Annika’s attention. She hid her tears
behind fingertips, scraping away the drops, before looking down the
hall. Stepping in and out of the torches, a servant of her father walked
towards her. She pulled herself from the wide sill, hastily
straightening her velvet skirts.
“Princess, your mother summons you.” He held his head down, his hands folded solemnly in front.
She
nodded silently and followed him through the grim corridor, looking not
at the pitted stone but at the embroidered hem of her dress,
remembering that her mother had chosen the rose and thorn design.
I wish I liked it more, Annika thought.
Her
mother’s chambers were bereft of the sunlight and warmth that had
sheltered Annika only moments before. In rich red robes, advisors
sprawled about the room while the king knelt against the queen’s
bedside. The bed’s four posts jabbed into the air and supported bed
curtains now sashed back. A wrist extended from the bed’s edge.
So small, Annika thought.
Like
a dreary bangle, a delicate ruffle encased the limb joint. Ignoring her
daughter’s arrival, the queen whispered to Annika’s father, the
couple’s words small and exclusive. The Queen wore a soft, almost tender
expression as she looked at her consort, the King. Annika shivered when
her mother’s cold blue eyes unexpectedly turned to her.
“The princess may come closer,” her mother said, her voice strong despite sickness. Annika obeyed.
Kneeling
on the stone floor, its stones digging through her skirts, she lifted
her palm to the Queen and said the standard greeting, “The Queen is my
will.”
She
had always known these words and couldn’t remember someone teaching
them to her—just as she couldn’t remember her mother ever calling her by
any other name then “the princess.”
“Death comes too soon to Yena’s royal house.”
“Yes,
my Queen,” Annika answered. She felt the heat from her father’s body
pushing at her as he knelt almost too close to Annika. Advisors rustled
in their silks. Her mother turned back to the King, dismissing Annika.
She stepped back, close to the door, wanting, as she always did, more
from her mother but afraid, too.
The
Queen turned to her husband and said, “If you wish to marry after my
death, take no one less beautiful than me, who has not just such golden
hair as I have.” The Queen gripped her husband’s hand and used it to
pull herself closer, her nails digging at his tender blue veins. “This
you must promise me.”
Annika saw her father’s sleeve tremble as he nodded his assent. “Yes, my Queen,” he replied softly. “You have my word.”
The
Queen gave one last deathly breath before her lashes collapsed against
white cheeks. Annika’s eyes fled to her mother hand, which still clawed
at her father’s silk sleeve.
This should hurt. I should be feeling sad, lost and scare, Annika
thought numbly. Her eyes went to the advisors, who lined the room like
death pillars. On their faces, Annika saw every fitting emotion—concern,
disbelief, sorrow—and yet, only silence, like wind before a storm,
filled her head.
Fabric
ripped as her father pulled his wife’s hand from his coat. His tears
kissed the lifeless hand farewell. Heavy silence hung over the room as
everyone watched the King rise from the gray flagstone floor. His voice
was a broken whisper, “The Queen is dead. My Promise is given.” He bowed
his head, or perhaps it sank because it was not strong enough, Annika
thought, and he left the chamber. The advisors followed him, their
footsteps quiet and respectful.
Annika
was left alone in the room with her mother. As much as she wanted, her
feet would not move. Firelight stretched along stone walls, the only
light amidst the darkness. Her father must have closed her mother’s
hands over each other because they now rested on her belly. The Queen’s
night shirt sank against the bedcovers, and her hair sat like a golden
sun in the shadows.
Annika
once again saw how beautiful her mother was, but instead of wonder,
fear met the knowledge. Desperately, Annika wanted to something honest
from this moment, from this person who more commander than mother.
She looked at the Queen. My mother, Annika amended.
But no grief or sadness came. She could offer this lifeless form no words of love or even of parting. Yet I still crave something from this moment, but how could a heart want for something it has never known? Annika thought sadly.
The
Queen’s servants entered, then. Their voices and footsteps were heavy
with solemnity and duty. The three women started in shock when they saw
the princess watching the Queen. Embarrassed and shy as she always was
with anyone other than her own company, Annika left the room and the
deadness that it held.