Za's Storm - Chapter One

Za’s Storm

Chapter One

            A roar of thunder shook the earth’s foundations in its tumultuous roar. Hail tested ancient stained glass windows as stones slipped through old mortar. The black clouds sucked in a sharp gale and roared into the slick earth again, louder, waking the King from his dreamy sleep. Its rumbling and cracking continued until he stood, rubbed his eyes, and donned his robe.

            He looked past the velvet curtains and gasped at the sight beyond the slick balcony. “By the gods!” he cried.

            The queen woke from her deep slumber and groaned. “Husband, what are you doing?”

            “Look, Safia,” he yelled.

            The Queen wrapped her silk robe over her nightgown and joined her husband at the window. Beyond the chimneys and stone wall around the castle town, black and purple clouds hovered in a circle, casting thin fingers of lightning into the ground. The clouds were low and lacey against the lightless sky.

            “The gods are speaking,” the King whispered. He knelt on his thin, knobby knees. “This storm, it is Lord Za, and the rain the words of Lady Feya!”

            The Queen shook her head. “It is a mess is what it is,” she said. “You should sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day with this storm.”

            “No, Safia!” The King grasped her narrow arm and pulled her to his side. He was young yet, a king of only thirty years with a few salty grey hairs in his dusty brown braid. “I can feel an old and powerful soul coming. It is close!”

            The Queen shielded her silver eyes against the brilliance of the lightning. Its flash illuminated her snow-blonde hair, and in that moment, she looked like an old woman – not a girl of only twenty. The storm twirled like ice skaters on the frozen swamp, and the lightning crossed like knitting needles against the darkness. She joined her husband on the stone floor.

            “The great souls are only born to the Catsnians, my lord,” she whispered.

            “You see it to, though,” he said softly. He wrapped his arm around her waist. “There is no mistake. A hero is coming! We will find him and welcome him to our kingdom – no, to our world!”

            “Yes, my lord.”

            She kissed his stubbly cheek and returned to the bed, but the King could not remove himself from the window. He stared into the storm until, in a flash of sunlight, it disappeared. The pink horizon pushed away the darkness in a procession of gold, amber, orange, and then azure.

            The king sent his men on snow white horses in all the directions of the land. Some were sent to check the older bridges or assess the flooding of the riverside villages and inns. Many searched for the infant that had been born with an ancient and powerful soul. They scavenged the inns, hospitals, homes, orphanages, temples, and work houses. Word spread quickly among the towns and villages that the king had seen the gods pass the infant through the storm and that the soldiers were looking for the baby. The world was loud with chatter, hope, and praise to the gods. A great soul had been born to Lohren.

            The high priest of Alesia spoke against the cheer, though. The great souls had limited themselves to Catsnia since the beginning of time, and talk of their exodus would be blasphemy against the divines. Only a great evil would move the spirits as far as Lohren. The people quieted, and days passed without news of the great hero.

            The King awaited news with great anticipation. He took petitioners from early morning until the sky was alight with stars. His men had bags of leather-bound logs detailed every birth occurring on the night of the storm or thereabouts. The infants in the logs had seemed normal to the soldiers, though some had still been orange or red from their journeys into the world. Nearly every mother was certain that her newborn was a child of legend, though, and nearly half of the births had been accompanied by one miracle or another – the curing of a disease, a star falling out of the sky when her water broke, a strange tingling feeling. The King listened to every report, but the babies had not been exceptional. The prophecy became a whisper, and new gossip flowed into the palace walls.

            Rumors turned to a different child as the queen attended fewer social events and guild meetings. The Duke of Dalmatia sent a parade of gifts to the castle in his absence, and the judges of the town commissioned a world renowned artist to paint the glowing queen. The people delighted. For four months since the storm touched the earth, the people had a promise of joy and certainty. The temples left gifts to the divines for their blessing.

            Then the loud praises became quiet sorrow. The gifts of joy and thanks became gifts of pity to the queen. No one spoke of the promise from the gods anymore. The king didn’t take any petitioners before noon, and his foul mood was unbearable after dusk. The queen was a somber presence in the guild meetings and courts. Spring was returning to the land, and with it, the tears from the dreary sky.

            On the eve of the vernal equinox, the castle town lit up with floating lanterns and fire breathing men. Dancers circled concerts of loud performers as food and drink passed across every hand in the street. The castle doors were open even as the moon reached its zenith. Children ran about the marble pillars and rolled in the rushes against the begging of their parents and grandparents. A dog chased a cat into the castle kitchens. The world was suddenly merry and bright.

            A boy in muddy boots pressed through a crowd of velvet-suited bodies and dresses until he was at the King’s side. “Your Majesty!” he cried.

            The King raised his heavy brow and opened his hand. The boy set the scroll in his palm and bowed low into the beer-laden floor. Then the King stood and yelled for the captain, and the captain gathered his men in one deafening order.

            “When did this happen?” he demanded.

            “Yesterday, Your Majesty,” the boy gasped. “I rode as fast as I could.”

            “Go to Mistress Hilda and get yourself waited on, boy.” The King chattered his teeth and froze as his wife came to his side. “My love, you should not be awake so late.”

            “What is it?” she asked. Her silver eyes were grey and red. “Tell me.”

            He sighed. “Bandits attacked Shallowbrook.”

            Her eyebrows twitched. “When can you ride there?”

            “I cannot,” he murmured. “You know this.”

            She lowered her gaze for a moment and lifted it back to his sad eyes. “I will ride at first light with Captain Steel.”

            “You cannot. It has only been a week,” he said softly, drawing her to the privacy of a balcony over a courtyard of red roses. “I have sent my men. They will make this right.”

            “Our people need us,” she snapped. “I am not a porcelain doll, my lord.” With a quivering chin and narrowed eyes, she muttered, “I have known this pain twice before. I will survive this ache as well.”

            He drew her into his arms and kissed her temples until his lips were numb. Then, with a quiet nod, he retreated to the gossiping crowd to complete the evening rituals. At the first sign of dawn, the queen was dressed in her plain riding gown. She and her procession of twenty men rode into the sunrise for Shallowbrook.

            Ash choked the air for miles. The Queen knew she was close without ever looking at the map or signs. The brook was pregnant with charred wood, crates, barrels, and the occasional bit of clothing. The destroyed city came into view just beyond a dip in the woods, and she held her breath. An old woman wept before a mass of black wood and rising grey wisps. Men carried wreckage to the heaps of refuse lining the streets while others hammered away at new wood frames. The King’s men were about recording notes in their logs and carrying refuse to the brook. The people paused and knelt for their queen, but she waved them off and bowed to them.

            “People of Shallowbrook,” she said grandly, “I have come to offer you my deepest sympathy.” Queen Safia dismounted her white gelding with her captain’s help. “I could not know your pain this day. I know few who have suffered as you have. I will make this right in any way I can. Please, ask these men for their aid. Others will come with more supplies. You have the support of the king.”

            The people cheered weakly with blackened hands and smudged faces. She bowed to them again, and the captain dismissed them quickly. The mayor appeared from the crowd, a thin grey man, and explained to the queen the details of the attack. Men with red masks had appeared from every shadow and began burning every building in sight. They murdered anyone that escaped by funneling them in the main thoroughfares and gates. The town guard eventually chased the bandits away, but the damage had been done.

            “Your Highness, the bandits could return,” Captain Steel whispered into her ear. “Perhaps we should get you to safety.”

            She clenched her jaw. “Give me an hour to see my people, and then we will hole up somewhere safe, Captain.”

            He frowned for a moment but bowed. Her lips twitched with a faint smile. Captain Steel was much like her husband in appearance but the exact opposite in his ways. His hair was dark blond and brown, but his bear grew in like a thorn bush. His frown had become permanent in the wrinkles of his otherwise young face, and his hands were rough along the sides from his constant worrying. He was her oldest friend from Deeagor and the only soldier to accompany her to Lohren when she married the prince – now the king. The captain cringed with fright and untold waking nightmares as the queen hugged crying bodies and thanked the hard-working men and women for their help. The pink sky turned indigo and blue with the coming night, and the Queen kept her promise.

            “The inn is gone,” Steel declared. “The only free bed in town is a tavern by the brook. I reserved a room and dinner for you, Your Highness.”

            “Diligent as ever,” she said softly.

            They passed through the crowded refuse-laden streets to the market side of town. The merchant stalls were mostly empty though one tailor was determined to make some coin in spite of the sorrow. The Queen passed him without a remark and stepped into the tavern. Bodies hunched over every table as bar maidens tried to feed the crowd of quiet bodies. The smell of bad soup dominated the entire room, and some folks murmured about missing friends and family. Their heads perked up at the mention of the Queen.

            Steel grabbed one of his men. “Get me the key,” he said, and the guardsman disappeared into the crowd.

            The Queen was fatigued beyond words. She bowed weakly and started toward the staircase at the other end of the room with her captain in tow. The sober bodies parted for their Queen and continued sucking down their soup and drinks.

            A baby’s piercing wail stopped her for a moment. She turned to an old man bouncing a tiny infant on his knee, coaxing the tiny swaddled body in vain. The captain looked over the crowd of bodies for a would-be assassin, but the queen ignored his anxious shaking and muttering. The old man lifted his whiskery chin and fixed his milky eyes on his queen.

            The infant had hair as black as a crow against milk white skin. It was weak, barely moving its lips or hands. “He’s weak,” the queen said.

            “I am afraid her pain won’t last much longer, Your Highness,” the man said with a ragged voice. “Her mother held on as long as she could – fought for her baby girl, she said. Now with no one to suckle the child, she’s soon to join her mother.”

            The Queen’s chin quivered violently. She clenched her teeth together and pushed her nails into her palms. “Let me see her,” she said.

            The man handed the tiny infant to her. The weight surprised her, barely that of a book. She lowered the swaddle and looked into the babe’s face. A blue web of strange scars marred her right temple, but it was beautiful. She readjusted the child’s weight and felt the perfect unison between them – woman and child.

            “Your Highness,” Captain Steel whispered.

            “Where is her family?” the Queen said, biting any emotion that might show in a tavern full of commoners.

            “Gone, Your Highness. Her mother was her only family.”

            The Queen tightened the swaddle and lowered her eyes to the man. “I will take her. Enjoy your food, sir.”

            The old man swallowed and turned to his plate. The tavern was quiet for a moment longer as the queen continued up the stairs, but in her wake, whispers followed. The captain looked over the people with stone eyes before following her to the corner chamber. A guardsman and bar maiden stood at the opened door with a tray of food and hot water for washing.

            Queen Safia stepped into the modest room, looked over the clean bed and chest beside it, and nodded to the two at the door. They set the food on the table by the window and water on a night stand, bowed, and left, leaving the captain and queen alone with the infant.

            “Your Highness,” he said softly.

            She sat on the bed and stared into the unmoving face of the life in her hands. Such a sweet face! Her mother must have been beautiful! The Queen set the infant on the bed like a china teacup brimming with hot tea and began unfastening the top of her gown.

            “Your Highness,” Steel said again, averting his eyes to the carafe of water.

            “Yes, Captain?”

            “Will you be taking this infant to the castle?”

            “Are you questioning my judgment, Captain?” She finished unfastening the gown and slipped it off, leaving her girdle and chemise. Her breasts were heavy and painful, and her stomach was swollen with death’s ache.

            “I fear the king’s wrath, my Queen. I wish only to protect you.”

            She smiled. “Do not fear the King, Captain. Now go take care of your hands. You are driving me mad with your ceaseless twitching!” The captain quickly bowed and left, closing the door with his usual double-checking, locking, unlocking, and locking again.

The Queen sighed and returned to the infant’s side on the bed and lowered her top. She’d never nursed a child, and her own mother had left her nursing to a young woman whose only job had been caring for the baby while the Duchess attended important affairs. She pressed the babe’s lips to her aching nipple and rubbed her hair, and the babe quickly sucked. The Queen held her breath for a moment, anticipating, and nearly cried. Nothing. She could produce nothing at first – and then she was nursing the weak girl.

Tiny hands escaped the swaddle and flailed about. The Queen released a weak sob and took the girl’s hand into her own little fingers. Her body was as heavy as lead and rippled with sobs. Hours passed. The tavern darkened as the town lulled to sleep, but the Queen could not separate herself from the infant in her arms.

“What shall I call you?” she whispered. Then, with a weak smile, she added, “Perhaps I should keep you nameless until my husband has a say in the matter.”

The babe was quiet though her lips and slow fidgeting suggested she was dreaming sweet dreams. The Queen lowered her to the bed again and called for clean rags to swaddle her in. She washed the little girl and then herself. The bar maid brought in a crate lined with clean blankets for a crib for the baby, insisting that babies had a habit of falling off everything. The Queen thanked her, set the crate against the wall, and used the last of her willpower to separate herself from the little girl.

Hours later, the royal procession was en route to the castle again. The Queen held the black-haired babe to her heart as she rode, and the baby was content to let the Queen love her.

The Queen returned early in the morning after a sleepless night riding. The castle town released its usual cheer for the crowd, though the line of guardsmen on each side masked Safia. She dismounted at the mouth of the castle between two heavily-armed knights, careful not to disturb the baby’s pleasant sleep.

The King was in his study, hunched over a list of tasks set before him by quarreling lords and religious traditions. Captain Steel followed on the Queen’s heels to the King’s desk. She wore a tired but genuine smile, the sight of which shook the King out of his sleepiness and to his own smiling self. He walked quickly to greet her and paused.

“My love,” he said, looked at the babe in her arms, and wrapped her waist. “Who is this?”

“We have to think of a name for her,” she chirped.

The King’s brow lowered. “We cannot, Safia. We are forbidden from adopting an heir. You know this.”

“Then she will not be an heir,” Safia stated simply.

He let out a quick breath and lowered the swaddle. With a hum, he poked the baby’s little nose. Her eyes opened instantly, revealing dark, dark blue eyes that were too deep to become such an otherwise silly face. “Will she make you happy?” he asked softly.

“She will,” Safia replied.

“I want you to be happy, my dearest love.” He wove his fingers into her hair and stole a kiss from her lips. “What name do you have in mind, my clever wife?”

Safia smiled into the kiss. The tilt of her feminine neck shone the sun into her silver eyes in a way that made her nigh impossible to resist for her husband. “Diana,” she breathed.

“A lovely name,” he said. The King looked into the sleepy face of the baby girl and cooed. “Hello, Diana. Welcome to my castle. Make yourself at home.”