Have You Ever Tried to Write Romantasy?

Yes. If you define romantasy as coming of age story, focused on romance, with angst, then yes. We must finish Maggie 2 by the weekend. So I am going to throw this at you as a bribe. I will not be around for the rest of the week, but Mod R should be here.

You can read some of the romantasy below. It is trunked for now. It needs more time to cook, and we have other projects. This will be deleted in 48 hours, because we do not like to leave half-baked things out there.

Warning: this is not a feel-good beginning.

Things start out very dark. Do not read this if you are not in a good place. I don’t want to spoil it, but think of our usual assurances in regard to pets. You will not see it here.

You are reading first draft, at your own risk. This work contains inconsistencies, grammatical errors, and other debris that clutters the first drafts since the beginning of time.

Chapter 1

 Can’t be late, can’t be late, can’t be late…

Delia leaped over a low stone border and dashed across the sun-drenched lawn.  Cake howled in canine delight and gave chase.  Behind them Mazene wailed, “My lady, my lady, not on the lawn! Stop running!”

Delia sprinted, running as fast as her nine-year-old skinny legs could carry her, all but flying over the green grass.  Her book bag slapped her thigh as she ran. To the right, the enormous ducal mansion towered, scratching at the sky with sharp points of its blue spires, shaped like swords.  The Fortress of Blades, three floors of arched windows and round towers built with pale grey stone, blocked half of the world from view. To the left, past the lawn, a wide sidewalk curved, hugging the exercise yard, where the knights had started their morning practice.

She cleared the lawn, jumped over another border, and landed on the sidewalk.  Cake launched himself into a spectacular leap and rammed the back of her knees like a catapult rock. Her feet went up, her butt went down, and she landed on the flagstones with a thud. Ow.

“Cake! What are you doing?”

The dog licked her elbow and panted, wagging his curly tail.  An Olerian rathound, Cake had cousins at every manor around the capital, and they all looked just like him: a foot tall and sturdy, with short chestnut fur, cute muzzle, round brown eyes, and big bat ears. His only distinguishing feature was a little whorl below his left ear, where his fur for some reason decided to grow in a circle.

Mommy had given him to her on her fifth birthday, and Cake had promptly earned his name by sneaking off and demolishing her birthday cake when nobody was looking. He slept on her bed every night, and he guarded her against caterpillars, moths, suspicious dust bunnies, and all other dangers that dared to cross her path. When Delia missed Mommy too much to hold in the tears, she hugged him. He snuggled in her arms, warm and furry, and licked her cheek when she cried. It didn’t make the hurt go away, but it helped a little.

“You’ll make me late!”

Delia scrambled to her feet, brushed off her breeches, pushed her book bag back on her shoulder, and took off again, dodging a group of maids in identical blue-grey dresses carrying laundry in wicker baskets.

“My lady!”

“My lady, please!”

“Lady Delia, don’t run!”

She ran past them and made a sharp turn onto a narrow path leading to the stone pavilion with a domed roof.  Twin columns guarded the entrance. She dashed between them and burst into the round chamber.

The inside of the pavilion was filled with bookshelves.  They curved along the walls all the way to where the domed ceiling started. The only light came through the open doors and the three-pane frosted-glass window in the opposite wall.  The pavilion used to serve as a garden library, but six months ago her forger talent manifested and now it was her sanctum.

Teacher looked up from the book he was holding.  Tall and old, he came from the province of Nuriat, the land of astronomers, mathematicians, and arcane crafters.  His skin was dark brown, his black and grey hair fell on his broad shoulders in a mane of thin braids tied with silver cords, and his face was foreboding and grave.  The full beard and thick eyebrows made him look constantly displeased, and when he disapproved of something she did, his gaze could pierce like a dagger.

Teacher jerked his head at the forging octagon carved into the smooth stone floor. Delia dropped her book bag on the floor, jumped into the eight-sided forge, and sat in the center crossing her legs.

Cake tried to follow, saw the Teacher, and backed away.

“Go on,” Teacher rumbled.

The small dog whined and took off.  Cake wasn’t permitted in the sanctum for his own safety.

Delia took a deep breath and reached for her power.  It waited for her, somewhere in the darkness that was outside the world, a gentle, calm sea of magic, with tiny gold sparks flaring in its depths and melting into nothing.

She steadied herself and opened a channel.  The magic flowed down the narrow path, first slow, just a trickle, then faster, turning into a stream, into her, through her, and into the forge.  The border of the circle ignited with golden light.

Made it.

Today of all days she couldn’t be late.  Not that she normally was late.  She had to study extra hard the last two weeks and she had fallen asleep with her face in the book last night. Mazene, her maid, did shake her awake, but she had fallen asleep again in the bathroom, and Mazene had to pound on the door to wake her up.

Sage Solono was the greatest forger in the kingdom. Being taught by him was a great privilege. It was a privilege Delia hadn’t earned. She’d overheard the maids gossiping about it. Sage Solono had only three apprentices during his long life, all chosen for their outstanding talent. The first two had died and the last apprentice had betrayed his master and broken his heart.

Delia didn’t have an outstanding talent. Forgers were already rare, and light forgers like her weren’t born nearly as often as other types of forgers, fire, water, and so on. But her talent was “average.” The maids had said that the only reason he had taken her as his apprentice was because her father paid him a fortune, and Sage Solono was in poor health and wanted to provide for his family before he died.

She tried very hard, but she failed yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.  Today she couldn’t fail.

Today her father was coming to check her progress.

Forging was important. Everyone told her so.  Her father, her stepmother, her tutors, Mazene, everyone.  Through forging she could contribute to the family and help Lambert ascend to the throne.  It was her duty to the family to support her brother’s rise.  Nothing mattered more than that.

For as long as she could remember, Father had spoken to her a few times per year, during family celebrations, special occasions, or when she had done something that warranted asking Father for forgiveness.  Since finding out about her forging, he spoke to her every week.

“Eyes closed,” Teacher said. “Concentrate. Recite the mantra.  Listen to your voice.”

“I am aware,” Delia whispered.

I feel, I think, I occupy a space.

With each word, she sank deeper into the cradle of magic, feeling it slide past her and then through her.

I am a master of myself.

I will not permit an intrusion into my domain.

The magic cycled through her body, drawn in with each inhale and released with the following exhale. The golden light pulsed in tune with her breath, rising in a translucent curtain.

I will not allow my thoughts to be subverted.

I make choices and my actions are my own.

I have set my goal and my path is clear.

I am aware.

Quiet steps came into the sanctum.  Her heart sped up.  She kept her eyes shut halfway, peeking through her eyelashes, as the magic swirled around her like golden veils.

As tall as Teacher, Father wore blue and white, the House colors.  His quilted blue doublet was plain, not like the formal clothes he usually wore, and it had a tall, padded collar to guard his neck.  He must’ve come from the knight practice.  His pale hair, cut short and styled away from his face, was a little damp.

Father looked in her direction.  His light blue eyes took her measure and Delia sat very still.

Last year during the Midwinter festival, an artist carved a sculpture of Lyod, God of Winter and Frozen Mountains, out of a nine-foot-tall block of ice on the back lawn across which she’d ran a few minutes ago. Delia had watched him work on it until Mazene came and forced her to go inside to get bathed and dressed for the evening ball.  Hours later, when everyone was too busy dancing and drinking, Delia had snuck off outside to look at the God of Winter. 

He towered alone among the snow, tall, imposing, wearing ornate armor and holding a giant sword with both hands.  The translucent ice of his body borrowed the night’s darkness.  She stood under the indigo sky, rubbing her cold hands, and stared at the armored figure’s handsome but harsh face, until she finally realized that it reminded her of her father.  His Grace Duke Leonard Martel was cold and darkness, and if one disobeyed him, he would cut them down with his blade of ice.

“Sage Solono,” Father said.

“Greeting, Your Grace.”

“Should we speak outside?”

“She is in meditation. She can’t hear us.”

Teacher just lied.

“In forty-five days Lambert will be presented before the court.  I trust the sword will be complete.”

There were four steps to becoming an adult, and her tutors had Delia memorize them, since each was a milestone, and each was important.  Twelve was the sharp blade, when you could carry a real weapon and defend yourself. Fifteen was the first blood, when you could enter the battlefield and your parents could arrange your future marriage. Eighteen was the band of gold, when you could marry, and twenty-one was the shield and seal, when one could inherit a noble title and become the head of a household.

In forty-five days, Lambert would turn twelve and stop being a child. As a nephew of the King, he would be presented at court.  Father wanted him to carry a sword of golden light.  It was her job to make it.

Teacher’s voice was quiet, respectful, and steady. “How much do you know about forging, Your Grace?”

“Enlighten me.”

“A forger doesn’t simply duplicate objects that already exist.  We craft our creations with as much attention and precision as a master artisan. If you wanted to give your son a sword-shaped object made of light, your daughter could produce it by tonight. But I wouldn’t advise betting his life on such a blade. It would snap the moment it encountered resistance, while a properly forged light sword will cut through a Guranian tower shield and a man in armor holding it like they were warm butter.”

Father raised his blond eyebrows.

“To make such a sword, one must understand what a sword is and how it works.  Delia spent a month in the smithy, learning how the blades are made, followed by another month at the training grounds watching the knights and wielding a sword, understanding its weight and tensile strength. The next month was spent on learning to produce a basic prototype and hold it steady.  As you know, a forged weapon lasts only as long as the magic of its forger. It wouldn’t do for it to suddenly vanish at the crucial moment of the ceremony.”

Father’s voice was ice-cold. “It would be best for everyone if such mishaps were avoided.”

“Precisely. Success in forging depends on three things: training, imagination, and raw magical power. The first I can and will provide. The second your daughter has in abundance. She is a bright, intelligent child.  However, the extent of her magical reserves is limited.  If a youth has a weak constitution yet desires knighthood, he must train his body and mind harder than his peers.  He may not reach greatness, but with enough time and diligence, he will become capable. Delia is remarkably dedicated for a child her age, far more than I had expected.”

Father stared at Teacher.  “My daughter understands her duty to her family.”

“She desperately wants to succeed, and she will, if she’s given room to grow and some encouragement. A few words to acknowledge her hard work.”

“She has forty-five days.  Good day, Sage Solono.”

“Good day, Your Grace.”

Her little heart sank. He left.  He didn’t even talk to her. He didn’t stay to watch. 

It must’ve been because she hadn’t made the sword yet.  He would talk to her if she finished it.

Teacher stomped along the circle.  “He’s gone.  You can open your eyes now.”

Delia opened one eye, then another.

Teacher harrumphed and stomped back and forth, scowling. “Not a single word to spare.  Not even a pet on the head. Two words: good effort. How difficult is that?”

“You lied about my meditation,” she said.

“Of course I lied.  Remember, magic is the art of mysteries.  You must reveal just enough to make yourself understood and no more.  Now they will speak freely when they see you meditating because they will think you’ve gone deaf.  It will serve you well in the future.”

He turned and nudged her book bag with the toe of his boot. “What is this?”

“Books I have to study to be a good advisor for Lambert.”

“Have you no ambition besides propping up your brother?” Teacher picked up the bag.

She wasn’t sure what ambition was, but it sounded like a rebuke. “King Anselm has no heir.  Lambert is his nephew.  It would be good if he ascended the throne.”

“Good for whom?”

“Our family.”

“Your family doesn’t have your best interest at heart.  They aim to use you without any regard for your wellbeing. Let’s see what nonsense they have you reading…”  He dug in the book bag and pulled out a big blue book.  “On Princes and Thrones?”

It didn’t sound like a question, so she didn’t answer.

He shook the book at her.  “This? This garbage?  Do you even know who wrote it?”

“Walera kro Sere.  She helped the Ninth Prince of the Krakass Empire rise to the throne and become their Emperor.”

“And do you know how the Krakass Empire thanked her for her efforts?”

She shook her head.

“They burned her alive while the Emperor and his 100 ministers watched.  That woman studied humanity and learned all of its worst qualities, and then she embodied them.  She divided the world into those who were meek and those who were strong and ruthlessly manipulated everyone she met to her benefit. In all her years of analyzing people around her, she could never comprehend the beauty of human soul.  Do you understand?”

Delia shook her head again.

Teacher leaned forward, bending his huge body toward the forge.  “If you are a good person, you tend to see the best in people. If you are a conniving, treacherous person, then you’ll only see betrayal and scheming.  What kind of a person do you want to be?”

“A good person?”

“Why do you phrase it as a question?” he roared.

“Um… I don’t know…”

“Why should you want to be a good person?”

“So I don’t get burned alive?”

Teacher looked at the ceiling and heaved a sigh. “Never mind. Begin your build.  We’ve wasted enough time.”

#

Sweat broke out on Delia’s forehead. 

The base of the sword hung in front of her, a narrow core of condensed golden light shaped into the semblance of a thin blade with a simple crossguard and a hilt. On the left and right of her, magic pooled at opposite ends of the forging circle, streaming up in shimmering tendrils of light.  About seven feet above the ground the tendrils twisted together to form twin glittering threads that stretched toward the sword.  She had attached them at the crossguard and was now painstakingly braiding them onto the core to form the actual blade.

A sword made in this manner would be flexible yet strong, and its razor-sharp blade could cut through a human body with little effort.  After she had made a small dagger as practice, a tiny blade the size of her hand, Teacher had taken her to the kitchen, chased everyone out, and handed her a raw ham to try it out.  The dagger had cleaved through the thick bone like it was nothing.

Thread from the left, thread from the right.  Each loop had to be fitted perfectly snug, and the place where the threads crossed, on the widest portion of the blade, had to be flat.

The threads buckled and resisted.  Pulling them was like trying to take away Cake’s rope toy when he’d latched on to it with his teeth.  She had no idea how much time had passed.  The world had shrunk to the core and the looping threads. In all this time, she had barely managed to weave only four inches of the blade.  So little and the sword was so long…

Teacher paced along the circle.  He’d tried to read for a while, but he kept getting up and stomping around, waving his arms and speaking too loudly.  In Walera kro Sere’s book, she had written that during the Summer Summit the Western Barbarian Chiefs had ranted like madmen, waving their arms and bellowing their words. Delia hadn’t understood what ranting meant until now.

“I know exactly what he wants. He wants a mabrehon.” Teacher waved his hand.  “Every king of Mercia going back ten generations had a mabrehon, starting with Sadiran I and Tenyr the Fireforger. The ruler and his pet mage, a matched pair, all the way through history to present day and King Anselm and your aunt Queen Beliana, may her soul rest in serenity, and now Duke Martel wants a pet mabrehon for his son.”

She wished he would be quiet. The magic buckled and strained against her hold, and Delia had to clamp her teeth to keep control of it.

“And who is better than a sister?  A spouse could divorce you, but the sibling bond is hard to break, especially if you start the conditioning from childhood.”

The threads slipped onto the blade one by one, agonizingly slow. It felt like she was pulling with her whole body now, and it hurt.

“He is already the Duke of Martel.  In the entire kingdom, only one man can give him an order, but that’s not enough.  He’ll use his own daughter as his stepping stool so he can plant his foot on her bent back and shove his son onto the throne.”

The magic flow stopped.  The twin threads refuse to move.  Panic gripped her.  She pulled and pulled, but the magic refused to obey.

“He must’ve been besides himself when he realized you were a light forger. The showiest of forgers, the weaver of dazzling light.  Just like the late Queen.”

Delia pulled, throwing all of herself into it.

“The obedient daughter, the quiet sister.  You’ll make him a sword, make him a cape, make him a hunting hound of golden light to blind the simple minds into thinking he is divine.  To see him as ordained for the throne. A natural progression from one king to the next.”

She couldn’t hold it anymore. 

“All of that glory courtesy of the humble mabrehon. The heir of the Duke will get the kingdom, the Duke will get to be the power behind the throne, but what will the mabrehon get except for her lifetime of servitude? A father who can’t spare a single word of praise.  A brother who seeks only to use her. What will be the mabrehon’s reward when they are no longer requ—”

The magic threads snapped.  They shot away from her, twisting. 

No, no, no….

The impact of the severed connection punched her, reverberating through her whole body.  Pain exploded everywhere, from her fingertips to her toes, hot and blinding, so bright that the sea of golden magic turned black.

There was no point in fighting against it.  She curled into a ball, cradling the agony as it raged inside her. 

Gradually the hurt lessened.  When only her bones hurt, Delia opened her eyes.

She lay on the floor in the middle of the forge. A hot metallic taste filled her mouth.  She sat up, wiped her lips, and saw blood.

The forge lay cold, the golden light of magic gone.

She failed.  Again. This was how it ended yesterday.  And the day before yesterday.  And the day before. Today was supposed to be special.  She wasn’t supposed to fail today. Heat wet her eyes.

Teacher stared at her, silent and grim.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“What are you sorry for?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“For not being an outstanding talent, teacher.”

Teacher leaned forward, looming over the forge, but not touching the boundary.  “Talent is an evil word. Do you know what is the difference between success and failure?  It’s not talent.  It’s work. The road to success is paved with failure. You mustn’t fear it.”

“It hurts,” she told him.

“The pain of disappointment is a good teacher. I have failed more times than I can remember, as will you. It will make you resilient and strong. I’ll give you something much better than talent, child.  I will give you skill. Take a deep breath and begin anew.”

She crossed her legs, inhaled, and reached for the glowing sea of magic.

It wasn’t there.

Delia shut her eyes and searched for it again, frantically casting herself into the space beyond the world, looking for the light.

Nothing.

“It’s gone,” she squeaked, her voice pinched with panic.

“You’ve gone magic deaf.  This is what happens when you overextend yourself. It’s temporary, and you will learn how to guard against it with practice.  Keep searching.  Call for it, and the magic will answer.”

She closed her eyes again.

“Remember how we started,” Teacher intoned. “Open yourself.  Commit entirely.  Become the flame of a candle and call to the magic with your light.”

She followed his voice, relaxing her body, moving through the vital points one by one. 

Her tight, cramped muscles loosened slowly, gradually, unwilling to let go of the last echoes of pain lingering deep inside her.

The hot knot in her stomach melted away. 

Her shoulders straightened.

Her spine became her core, a solid yet flexible rod that held her upright.

Her breathing deepened, her chest rising easily.

“That’s it…” Teacher’s voice stretched to her.  “Call to it.”

She opened herself up.  In the space beyond the world, she became a beacon.  Her power pulsed, a beam of a lighthouse, calling to the magic…

Something shifted in response.  Something powerful and big.

Another flash of light. 

Tiny lights sparked in the darkness in response, the magic answering her call.  But they weren’t golden.

She called again and suddenly the darkness moved. She felt it rise in a massive wave, an ocean of magic, bottomless, endless, too deep and vast to comprehend.  It was all the magic she ever wanted, but it wasn’t made from the glittering light. It was woven of darkness, of shadows and twilight, and when she called to it, its waters glowed with an eerie purple light, like lightning in the middle of a terrifying thunderstorm.

The waves swelled above her, as big as a mansion. Delia tried to pull back, but it was too late.  The ocean rushed at her and swallowed her whole. Pressure squeezed her. She spun in its depths, caught in the violent current of magic. It dragged her deeper and deeper. Panic clawed at her. She was drowning from the inside out.

She had to fight.

The only way to rise to the surface was to ride the wave and let it erupt through her. 

Suddenly, the fear vanished. She grasped the current with her will and rode it up.

The boundary of the forge erupted with darkness and purple light.  The magic kept coming, so much of it…  It wanted to be used. The strain of holding it back was too much.  She had to channel it, or it would burst her.

Delia pictured the sword: the solid core, the crossguard, and the twin ribbons winding onto the blade.  The shadow flames shot up, to the ceiling, twisting into the twilight threads almost on their own.  She formed the core, shaped the magic into the crossguard, pulled the two ribbons and attached them to the crossguard in a faction of an instant.

The sea of magic surged through her. The sword turned, the ribbons braiding almost on their own. She wove fast, then faster, spinning the sword so fast, it blurred, until the full 35 inches of the blade came together in a flawless weave.  She cut the ribbons off at the razor-sharp point. The sudden snap knocked her back, and Delia had to throw her arms behind her to keep from landing flat on her back.

The sword hung in the forge.  It was perfect and its blade smoked with shadows.

Teacher stared at her from outside the boundary.

Slowly she reached out and touched the guard.  The sword was solid.  It wasn’t a dream.

“I made it,” she breathed. “Master, I made it!”

Teacher leaned forward, his eyes shining.  “Yes, you did.  What else can you make?”

She looked around, trying to find something to imitate and saw the shelves.  A book.  She could make a book.

Delia pulled a dollop of magic and a fat book with thick pages fell into the forge, its cover a glossy black. She grabbed another dollop.  The second book joined the first.  Another, another, another… She stacked them into towers and there was still more magic to play with.

“Can you make a bunny?” Teacher asked.

“A bunny?”

“Yes.”

 She thought back to last summer when she had seen bunnies at the edge of the glen past the back garden, took a lump of magic, and formed it into a bunny.  The magic snapped into shape, matching the memory in her head. A fluffy bunny the color of the night sky with long ears and bunches of whiskers crouched in the circle. It made her so happy, she wanted to jump up and run around the forge.

“Is it fun?” Master asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes!” 

“Make it hop around.”  

She gave the bunny a push.  It scrunched its nose and hopped.  She jumped back in surprise.  The bunny hopped again, back and forth as if it had springs. 

She made a second bunny, and a third.  They hopped all around her, leaping and jumping over the stacks of books she’d weaved.  She pulled on the magic, and the whole family of bunnies burst forth into the forge. Master laughed, a deep happy laugh, and she giggled.  She had finally done something right.

Something tugged on her from the depth of the magic.  Something odd, a dense knot that seemed to move against the flow.  She reached for it.  It wanted her to pull it forward.  Delia grasped it.

A strange shape began to form in the shadows of the forge.  It stood upright like a person, on long legs, tall, hunched over, with long arms.  She stared at its head congealing slowly from the magic and saw a slash of a mouth filled with a forest of fangs, long and narrow like needles.

Master swept into the forge. The magic vanished, like a candle snuffed out.  The bunnies, the books, the sword, and the shadow monster disappeared.

She blinked at him.

Master raised his head to the sky.  “One more chance,” he whispered, his voice shaking.  “Thank you for remembering me.”

Shadows surged along the forge’s boundary, spinning around her like huge waves. They didn’t belong to her. It wasn’t her magic.  She ducked her head and saw Master.  Magic twisted around him, glowing purple.  His face was dark, and his eyes were full of lightning.

The lightning crackled.  The waves crushed her, and all went dark.    

#

Delia raised her head from her crumpled pillow.  She’d dreamed of the dark veils of magic spinning around her streaked with lightning.  It wasn’t a scary dream.  It felt comforting and safe.

Moonlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, drawing a pattern of the window on the floor. Someone, probably Mazene, had changed her clothes to a light nightgown. The bedroom was warm, dark, and quiet.

Too quiet.

She stared at the spot by her feet where Cake usually snored.  It was empty.

“Mazene?”

Nobody answered.

“Mazene!” she called louder.

The door swung open, a rectangle of bright light in the bluish gloom, and her maid slipped inside.  “My lady, you’re awake.”

“Where is Cake?”

Mazene bit her bottom lip.

Fear squirmed through Delia’s throat. “Where is my dog?”

“I’m so sorry, my lady.  Cake bit Lady Talia. The duchess said…”

Panic picked her up and jerked her to her feet.  Delia dashed out of the room and down the brightly lit hallway, her gown flying around her.

“My lady!”

Mazene chased after her.

Walls flashed by Delia.  She kept running fast, so fast.  The double door loomed in front of her, and she hit it and burst into the Duchess’ suite.

Her stepmother sat at a table, smiling at Talia who perched in a padded chair next to her.  Delia’s three-year-old half-sister held a cookie in her hands. She saw both of them with crisp sharpness: Lady Adelcia in a purple embroidered gown, her long reddish blond hair swept from her face into an elaborate braid studded with pearls, her face sharp, and her blue eyes like two chunks of cold glass and Talia, a toddler with lighter blond hair clustered in ringlets around her round pink face.

Lady Adelcia pivoted in her chair.  “What is the meaning of this?”

Delia opened her mouth.  Suddenly there wasn’t enough air. 

“What is it? Why are you running around the manor in a nightgown? Do you not have any sense of propriety, Kardelia?  Answer me.”

“Cake.”  Her voice came out small and quiet.

“What?” Lady Adelcia arched her eyebrows. 

“My dog. Where is my dog?”

“That wretched little creature bit your sister.  This is unacceptable. You do not deserve a dog since you clearly can’t control that mongrel…”

It felt like her heart stopped.  She reached for her magic, scrambling for it as if she was drowning but it wasn’t there.  None of it was there.  She was empty. The world spun.

“Mazene,” Lady Alelcia said, her gaze fixed on the point above Delia’s head. “Is that how you take care of your lady?”

“Give him back!” The shout tore out of her on its own.

Lady Adelcia stared at her, shocked.

“Bring Cake back! I want my dog!”

“Put it out of your mind.  You will never see that nasty beast again.”

The world spun and smashed into Delia. Cake was gone. Her legs failed, and she fell hard.

Lady Adelcia rose out of her chair. “Get up!  Kardelia, answer me!”

Delia just stared at her.  She was still falling, plunging deeper and deeper into the cold.

“I have to tell His Grace,” Mazene breathed somewhere close.

Lady Adelcia pointed at her.  “Stop right there!”

“No,” Mazene’s voice spiked. “His Grace ordered me.  I will be punished.  I have to tell His Grace.”

“Stop her!” Lady Adelcia snapped.

Her two maids rushed forward, but Mazene spun and ran out of the room.

Lady Adelcia froze, her face terrified.

It didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered.  Cake was gone.

“Pick her up!” Lady Adelcia said, frantically straightening her gown.  “Put her on my bed. You! Take Talia to her room.”

A maid picked Delia up and carried her to the right, through the doors into the shadowy bedroom. Delia knew she was being carried but she didn’t feel it.  It was happening to someone else while she watched it from the bottom of a deep dark well.

The maid ran out, leaving the double doors open.

In her mind she was seven years old again, curled up on the covers next to Mommy, holding her hand as her fingers grew colder and colder.

Father walked into the room. He wore dark blue, neck to boots, and his face was harsh. He looked like a sword in a scabbard.

Lady Adelcia swallowed.  The maid behind her froze, looking on at the floor.

Father turned and looked at Delia.  She looked back at him.  She knew she should get up and curtsey, but she didn’t care. The well was cold and quiet. She had fallen too deep.

Father looked at the Lady Adelcia.  “Leave us.”

The maid scurried out of the room and shut the doors to the suite behind her.

Lady Adelcia licked her lips. “That mongrel bit my daughter.  I was well within my rights.”

His voice was calm and icy. “The Queen Dowager also owns an Olerian rathound.  When it bites your child, should I run it through with my sword?  Or would it be more prudent to teach your daughter to behave properly around dogs?”

Lady Adelcia winced.

Father tilted his head to the side and looked at her. “The child cherishes the dog because it was given to her by her dead mother.”

The skin on Lady Adelcia’s face turned very white.

“It is the last living memory of her deceased parent,” Father continued. “The dog, therefore, becomes a pressure point.  Control the dog and you will control the child. I find myself puzzled that I have to explain this basic fact to an heiress of Diruk family.”

Lady Adelcia clenched her hands into a single fist.

“You and I have an understanding,” Father continued. “You brought your mercantile contacts and the support of your barony to this marriage, and I provided legitimacy and granted you and your child the privilege of my rank and the advantages that come with it.”

“You promised,” she squeezed out.

“In forty-five days, my son must walk through the Blade Hall into the ceremony acknowledging the end of his childhood. He will do so carrying a golden sword.  That sword can only come from our family.  It is a statement of unity and purpose that will serve as the first step to his ascension. And the only person who can create such a blade is lying in that bed catatonic.”

“I didn’t…”

“Ours is a union based on mutual benefit. I married you, because you assured me you would prove useful, Adelcia. You’ve chosen to become a hindrance instead. If you can’t manage a meek nine-year-old, how will I ever rely on you to manage the ducal estate?”

Lady Adelcia opened her mouth and clenched it shut.

“Fix it. She must be at the forge tomorrow.”

He turned and went to the door.  It opened before him as if by magic.

“Mazene,” he said.  “Take your mistress to her rooms.”

Mazene scurried into the room, swept her into her arms, draping Delia over her chest and shoulders, and carried her off.

Time passed slowly.  Delia lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

A careful knock echoed through the bedroom.  The door swung over slowly, revealing Mazene and Knight Marshal Vlacen, who was in charge of the manor’s defense and security of the ducal family.  Knight Marshal entered the room, pulled his cloak aside, and put Cake onto the bed.

Was it real?

Cake stomped over to her and licked her face. His little hot tongue felt so familiar on her cheek.  Delia jerked upright and hugged her dog to her.

“Her Grace chose to be merciful to honor the memory of the previous duchess,” Vlacen said. “She has decided to return Cake to you.”

She didn’t care.  She just hugged Cake tighter and tighter until he started squirming. Her eyes leaked and the tears wouldn’t stop running. Cake made his little grunting noises and kept trying to lick them away.

“You can show your gratitude to Her Grace by attending to your duties in the forge tomorrow,” Knight Marshal said.

Delia’s fingers slipped over the little dog’s neck.  She’d petted him like that a thousand times, looking for the little whorl where his fur grew in the circle.

The whorl wasn’t there.

The Knight Marshal loomed by her bed, his hard face cold, watching her.

This little dog looked like Cake, and he licked her face like Cake, but he wasn’t Cake.  If she said anything, if she let it show, whatever happened to Cake would happen to this sweet little dog. She had to save him.

“Do you understand, my lady?” The Knight Marshal asked.

She nodded and hugged the dog, trying to shield him with her arms. If he tried to pry it away from her, he would have to lift her off the bed with him.

The Knight Marshall watched her for a few more moments, turned without a word, and left.

“Everything will be well,” Mazene said soothingly.  “You will see, my lady.  Everything will be well.”

#

 Teacher walked into the sanctum and paused in the doorway.  Delia sat in the middle of the forge, holding the little dog.  She put a collar on him this morning and wrapped the leash around her wrist so he couldn’t run away. 

The Teacher looked at her for a long moment.  “Where is Cake?”

She hugged the dog to her.

The Teacher tweaked his fingers.  A small clump of darkness rolled down the wall and slipped outside the open door.

 Teacher crossed the line into the forge and sat cross-legged on the floor next to her.

Delia cradled the dog to her. 

They sat in silence.

“She killed him.”  The words hurt as they came out.

“The Duchess?”

She nodded. 

“Did they pretend this dog is Cake?”

She nodded.

“Did you tell them you knew?”

She shook her head. Anger choked her, clamping her throat in a hard fist, and she had to squeeze the words out through it.  “When Mommy died, I held her hand.  Nobody held Cake’s paw. He must’ve been so scared. He was alone. She killed him for nothing.”

“What are you going to do about it?” the Teacher asked.

“I’m going to kill her.”

The Teacher nodded solemnly.  “Good.”

“I tried to make her give him back to me yesterday, before I knew, but my magic wasn’t there.”

“That’s because I sealed it.”

The betrayal rocked her. “Why?”

“In this world it isn’t enough to be fierce,” he said.  “One must be strong and cunning to survive.  Does your father love you?”

Father’s face surfaced from her memory, his icy eyes staring at her. The answer tasted bitter as it left her lips. “No.”

“If your father knew the depth of your talent, he would use you, but he would also fear you. You have read Walera’s awful book.  What happens to the people that rulers fear?”

Her mouth went dry.  “They die.”   

The Teacher nodded.  “We cannot count on your father’s love to mitigate his fear. We cannot count on your brother.  He is the focus of his father’s attention, the embodiment of his ambitions.  Your father will not permit anything that would subvert Lambert from this path. In your father’s plans, your brother is the star, and you meant to be a stool that helps him to the throne. Lambert is a smart child.  He understands this. Has your brother ever stood up for you?”

She shook her head.

“He already sees himself as superior to you, and with age, the gulf between you will only grow wider.”

Since Mommy died, Cake was the only one who cared about her.  But Cake was only a dog and now he too was gone. She felt cold and hollow.

“The adults in your life are giants determined to control your every step. Even with your magic, you are too young and too small to fight them now.”

“So what do I do?” she asked.

“You make your father comfortable. You choose a role and play it until you are ready, and when the moment comes, you strike and break free.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“I will teach you.”  Teacher raised his hand in a fancy flourish. “I am the great Sage Solono.  I have survived the three generations of tyrants at the court of Luminous Inkida. I have played the Game of Blood at Nuriat’s Academies and navigated the treacherous human currents of its towers.  I will teach you how to survive.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because you are my treasured apprentice. If you let me, I will entrust you with my knowledge and wisdom, everything I have learned over my many years. You will be my legacy and my successor, a gift I will leave to this world. That knowledge is precious and cannot be lost.”

This was too confusing. “But you took away my magic?”

“No, little one.  I only sealed the greater aspect of your power to keep you safe. Look inside yourself and you should find the golden spark.”

She reached deep and felt the faint sputtering of golden light. It was too weak to use, but it was there.

Teacher leaned forward. “The forgers of radiance, like you and I, possess twin powers.  One power is always much stronger than the other. You aunt, the late queen, was the forger of light, a blazing golden sun.  But you, my dear child, you are the forger of shadows.  You are darkness suffused with moonlight, a midnight storm, a bottomless ocean. It is that part of you I sealed away. You still have use of your lesser twin power. You can forge with light.”

“I don’t understand…” she whispered.

“You will, in time. When I was your age, I didn’t understand either. I am, like you, a shadow forger.”

A drop of darkness fell from the fingertips of his right hand.  It grew, unfolding as it fell, and a shadow bunny landed in the forge. It blinked at her with purple eyes swirling with lightning and hopped. The little dog lunged after the bunny, but his teeth bit only smoke.  She pulled him back and wrapped her arms around him.

“We must be patient,” the Teacher said. “We will pretend that your true power doesn’t exist, and meanwhile, we will continue to develop your light magic, growing your mastery of it one skill at a time. The principles and methods for the two disciplines are exactly the same. The seal I placed on you will fray with time.  Years in the future you will regain this power, and by that time I will have trained both your magic and your mind. Then you’ll have the means to tear free of your family.”

“And avenge Cake?”

“And avenge Cake.”

She brushed the tears from her eyes. “What do I have to do?”

“Allow me to teach you.  You must concentrate on your magic to the exclusion of most other things.  You’ll have to work harder than you have ever worked before.”

She thought of shadow veils streaked with lightning. The memory of them swirled through her. She had to become stronger.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“Good,” he said. “Now what name can we give your new dog?”

“I’ll call him Sweetcake.  They will hear the cake and won’t know the difference.  Will it work, Teacher?”

“Call me Master,” he said.  “From today onward you’re not just my student.  You are my apprentice.”

She had called him that once before, by accident, when the sea of shadows stormed and flowed through her.  It just felt right.

“Will it work, Master?” she asked, and she wasn’t sure if she was asking about Sweetcake or about something much bigger.

“Yes,” he said. “It will work.”

Chapter 2

11 years later

I am aware.

I feel, I think, I occupy a space.

I am a master of myself.

I will not permit an intrusion into my domain.

I will not allow my thoughts to be subverted.

I make choices and my actions are my own.

I have set my goal and my path is clear.

I am aware.

“You are the only person I know who can meditate on horseback,” Lambert said next to her.

She wasn’t meditating.  She was sharpening her magic the way one sharpened a dagger before driving it into an enemy’s heart. Lambert didn’t need to understand it.

Delia opened her eyes and glanced at him. “You are the reason I’m meditating.”

“We are almost to the city.  Do you have sufficient time to prepare?”

“Yes.”

She hadn’t told him what she had planned, and he hadn’t asked. He simply waited.  Probing wasn’t in Lambert’s nature.  He was like a falcon.  He soared on the wind currents high above, watching the situation, calculating his odds, until he saw an opportunity and struck.

They rode side by side down the Knight Highway, a straight as a ruler road that cut through the green pastures and gently rolling fields with the precision of a sunbeam. Ahead the standard bearer on a grey horse announced their identity with a banner streaming from the top of his spear. The blue and white colors of Dukedom Martel danced in the breeze, matching the sunlit sky above.  Behind them a long column of Martel knights rode, two per row, their armor accented with white, their blue cloaks confirming their allegiance.

It was an impressive sight and yet it was Lambert who drew the eye.  His armor was pure white, encrusted with a golden inlay that matched his blond hair, and he wore it as if he were born in it. His face echoed their father’s but where Leonard Martel was icy steel, Lambert was handsome strength, radiant and reassuring. The perfect golden prince, a battle angel, kind and caring to his people, fierce and resolute to the enemies of the kingdom. Merciless on the battlefield, unflappable at court, courteous, educated, a paragon of knighthood. Awful brother, uncaring friend, ruthless egomaniac.

She had worked very hard to keep his halo untarnished and in a couple of miles, once they’ve reached the gates of the capital, she would add another brilliant jewel to his political crown.

The spring sun warmed the air.  Delia pushed the hood of her cloak back before she started to sweat. She wore armor in battle, a simple non-nonsense set, but in public, she had to be a shadow, assuring her brother’s glory yet never drawing attention to herself. She had changed into a mage robe this morning, dark blue and suitably embroidered for the daughter of a Duke, but carefully designed to fade into background next to Lambert’s white snow armor. She had drawn the design herself and had it sewn to her exact specifications. There was a skill to not being noticed, and she had honed hers to a fine art.

Her back hurt. Her thigh ached. It had been a long trip.

Normally roads this close to the capital were crowded, busy with travelers arriving and departing and merchants who flowed into the city at sunup and out at sundown like a human tide.  But Knight Highways were reserved for official use. They were open only to royal couriers, officials, and troops sanctioned by a royal decree.  The decree rode ahead of Lambert and her, in a leather tube hanging around the standard bearer’s neck.  A marauding Gara tribe had come down the twisted mountain passes with their manticores and crossbows to prey on the rich caravans returning from the south.  Someone had to respond to this threat, and Duke Martel never missed an opportunity to thrust Lambert into the spotlight.

The tribe was no more.

They had fought the invaders for two bloody weeks. Before they had set out on their return trip, Lambert paused for a day. They washed the gore from their armor, repaired the dents, and polished everything. They laundered the blood-spattered banners. They bound their wounds.  Right now, in the column behind them, dozens of fighters quietly bled under their armor, but from the outside they looked ready for a parade.

Five knights, nine archers, and twelve men-at-arms rode in a covered wagon miles behind them, their dead bodies laid out like cordwood. The capital would never see them. The wagon would veer off before the city gates, heading north and then west, to the Fortress of Blades. Dead soldiers didn’t fit the desired narrative of the invincible heir to the Dukedom and his indestructible personal army. Lambert would ride into the capital in splendor, sending a simple loud message.  Behold, we have taken on the vicious marauders and returned unscathed. Should I claim the throne, I will use this might to shield the kingdom. I will keep you safe.

It was a betrayal, and it cut her to the bone. She had made a deliberate choice to avoid acknowledgement of her achievements. It was imperative that everyone around her discounted and ignored her.  Her survival and freedom hinged on it.  But the soldiers of the Dukedom Martel made no such choices.  It was an unwritten contract between a liege and their troops that should they give their lives for their lord, their sacrifice would not be forgotten.  Their deaths would be acknowledged, their memory would be honored, and their loved ones would be provided for in their time of grief.

If it was up to her, she would’ve marched into the capital as they were, in battered armor and flying stained colors, with the wagon bearing their dead ahead of the procession, in a place of honor, so everyone would know the real cost of keeping the kingdom safe.  Instead, they would execute a perfect triumphant return to milk the moment for all the political benefits it could bring.

“Does your leg hurt?” Lambert asked her quietly.

A manticore had tried to gore her four days ago.  She’d stabbed a forged dagger through the beast’s massive skull and its fangs couldn’t penetrate the armor shielding her thigh, but the pressure left her bruised and if she turned the wrong way, her thigh bone whined in pain.

It was so easy to mistake the question for a concern, but it wasn’t. Delia had learned long ago that running to your older brother when you fell or when someone was mean to you was for other people.  They were siblings in the name only, united by the same goal, existing in a state of cool politeness, like two junior officers under the command of an older general.

“It will not impair my ability to perform.”

“I didn’t ask if it will impair you.” His voice had his familiar frosty indifference.  “I asked if it hurts.”

“It does.”

A part of her buried deep inside her soul wished that he cared. She had been trying to strangle it for the last eleven years, but somehow it refused to die.  It was a weakness, and when a crucial moment came, it could make her hesitate. She had to make sure to that vulnerable little whisper kept quiet.

Ahead, in the distance, the Knight Highway turned, swerving to join the main road. She squared her shoulders, feeling the magic flowing through her body.  Once an object or a creature had been created in the forge, she could summon it at will as long as she recalled the exact structure of it. She had tested this new one, but not enough for comfort.  It was never enough, really.  There was always a possibility of variation that would break the forging…

“Two months left,” he said. “Then you can wash it off.”

What has gotten into him today?

She was fifteen when Master died. They both knew it was coming.  He had been ill when he’d taken her on as his apprentice and trying to keep her safe had given him the motivation to hold on to life.  He’d fought the battle with his body for 6 years, but eventually death came for him as she came for everyone.

Delia had known it was near, anticipated it, and yet it shattered her like a hammer. She’d held his hand as he slipped away, and when his fingers grew cold, she did what the apprentices of Nuryat mages had done for generations.  She took the jar of white mourning paste she had prepared in advance and drew the mourning lines, three ragged white stripes, on her face. One went down her nose, and the other two crossed her forehead to her eyes and stretched down her cheeks. The paint distorted her features.  She no longer recognized herself, and yet it matched the stark hollowness inside her. She felt like a shell without a soul. Utterly and completely alone.

When she walked out of her rooms wearing her grief on her face, Adelcia was stunned.  A quick parade of emotions mirrored in her stepmother’s face, shock, calculation, and then obvious, feverish excitement.

The lines had become the focus of Adelcia’s attention.  In the past the mourning period lasted five years, but for the last century or so, 5 weeks was most common. She found out about it and grew obsessed, mentioning it over and over, at every opportunity. It was a way to further erase her, and Adelcia had been so embarrassingly focused on it, even an icy stare from Father couldn’t shut her up. If Delia wasn’t in the picture, Talia would shine.

Once the searing hollowness of loss let go enough for her mind to return, Delia calculated the odds.  Wearing the lines effectively removed her as a target from her stepmother’s view and it went along with the image she had been working so hard to cultivate – a woman focused utterly on her studies to the exclusion of all else, including traditional feminine pursuits. It reassured Father of her dedication to his cause and demonstrated the lack of personal ambition.  The Great Sage would approve. 

She had been wearing the mourning lines for almost five years. When the summer began, she could finally wash them off.

Lambert was looking at her, and there was a flicker of something vaguely human in his eyes.

“Even if I wash them off, I will still miss him,” she said.

“It can’t be helped,” he said.  His face shut down again.

Why was he doing this?  It had to be maintenance. Lambert possessed a razor-sharp mind, the true inheritance of their bloodline, and he was observant and astute.  He must’ve sensed some hint of neediness from her and was now testing the waters to see how far she could be manipulated.

They made the turn.  Ahead the wide ribbon of the road waited crowded with travelers.  The herald put his horn to his lips and blew.  The deep powerful note rose on the wind and people scrambled to the sides, rushing their carts to make way. To their left, less than half a mile away, the great grey wall shielding the capital scratched at the sky, with the blocky Eastern Gates flanked by defense towers swallowing the caravan of travelers.

She spun the magic inside her, building it, and slipped into that comfortable place where the world floated around her.  She rode through it, suffused with power and disconnected.  Gossamer strands of magic emanated from her like air from hot cobblestones, shining with gold, so thin she was probably the only one who saw them.

“The Dukedom of Martel has only one female heir,” Lambert said, his face so hard, it might as well have been stone. “It isn’t Talia.”

“You are at your scariest when you pretend you care.” The words escaped before she fully calculated their impact, but the magic veils were spinning in her mind, ready to coalesce, faster and faster, and faster…

“Adelcia is our father’s wife. She will never be a Duchess.  Her daughter will never be our sister. I will tolerate no interference in affairs of our family.”

There was no time to react.  She was full into the recall.  The golden light tore out of her like a pillar and snapped into a magnificent glittering bird. Its neck was long and elegant, like that of a swan, its body was slick like that of a crane, and a breathtaking crest of long feathers crowned its head.

The bird spread its great wings, every delicate filament of the feathers clearly visible and glowing.  It looked like sunlight married the sky and birthed it into existence.

Delia stared at Lambert, incredulous.  Support?  Now?  After all these years?

He looked at the bird and smiled.

The horn of the Eastern Gate sang out, acknowledging their greeting.

There would be time to analyze this later.  Delia let her will sink into the bird. The golden creature sang out, a beautiful high note, and streaked toward the city, guided by her, a herald of their coming.

People stopped and stared. 

They entered the main road, turning into the corridor formed by travelers on both sides and the crowd erupted into cheers.

The golden prince had returned.

#

Stairs. 

How much she hated the damn stairs.

Delia eyed the staircase leading to the second floor. She had managed to dismount without falling over like a graceless sack of potatoes, walk to the house without limping, and climb halfway up the long staircase leading to the second floor.  But now her thigh was screaming at the slightest movement, and she still had half of the stairs to go.

She kept moving at a steady pace, clenching her teeth at every jolt of pain.  One showed weakness only if it was to her advantage, and she could see no advantages in announcing her injury.  Not in this house.

Around her the Martel Mansion thrummed with activity, an elegant, less threatening, scaled-down version of the Castle of Blades.  Like most prominent families, her father maintained a residence in the capital, and the closer Lambert edged to the throne, the more time they spent here. The small castle was beautiful inside and out, furnished with taste and care, and perfectly maintained.  Suitable to be the childhood home of the next Heir to the Throne.  She violently hated it.

She made it to the top of the stairs, turned right, and headed down the long corridor flooding with sunshine to her quarters.  Right now, Lambert was likely making his report to their father.  It would buy her a bit of time.

The carved wooden door swung open under the pressure of her hand, and she strode into her sitting room, a sunny space furnished with the customary arrangement of furniture: a low tea table, a plush couch upholstered in grey, and matching grey chairs with polished wooden legs.  Ahead the wide double doors leading to her bedroom stood ajar.  To the left a heavy, reinforced door led to her sanctum. A bouquet of tulips rested in a glass vase on the tea table.

Delia paused, enjoying the simple pleasure of standing still.  The ache in her leg dulled to a monotonous whine.

The door swung open behind her, and Mazene slipped into the room, a feathered duster in her hand.  Her blue eyes widened.

“My lady! I didn’t know you’ve arrived.  I didn’t greet you.  I apologize…”

Delia shook her head. She never berated Mazene, but Adelcia took her sour moods out on her maids with depressing regularity, and Mazene always carried herself like a harried field mouse. Deep down, both of them knew that Delia couldn’t protect her.  It stung, but there it was.

“The flowers?” Delia asked.

Mazene gave her a small smile that brightened her worried face.  “Lord Dellon.”

“Ah.”  She’d guessed as much.

Delia took six steps forward and lowered herself to the sofa. Her leg whimpered.  She plucked a small vellum card from the table and opened it.

To my fearless fiancé

I’m so grateful that one of us knows how to hold a sword. 

The future of the barony is assured.

She hid a smile.

The soft upside-down bells of tulips blazed with color.  Red, orange, yellow, and white.

When she turned eighteen, she was officially betrothed. It was understood by everyone involved that this was a temporary arrangement. Her father tolerated no distractions and falling in love or being paid attention to by prospective suitors would have been a distraction.  Therefore, he had to disqualify her a potential bride.  The temporary betrothal was the answer, and Baron Dellon Serinah drew that lucky straw.

Technically, he was Lord Dellon Serinah, since his father was still alive, but the old Baron Serinah had drunk himself into a permanent state of delirium.  He was hanging on to life, but her sources said he could barely remember his own name, let alone his son’s.  At twenty-three, Dellon ran the barony.  It was neither prosperous and nor influential, and he stood lower than her on the social ladder, so everyone pretended it was a love match.

Dellon played the role of a placeholder fiancé with flair. He was attentive, and courteous, and he was the only one among people she knew who tried to make her laugh. They would never marry, but meanwhile attending the balls and formal functions knowing Dellon would be there whispering ridiculous jokes under his breath made it less horrible. He was getting something out of this arrangement – what, she could never find out – and yet, she looked forward to seeing him.

And he was ridiculously handsome and charming. There was that.

“When is the celebration ball?” she asked.

“I don’t know, my lady.  I will find out.”

Mazene slipped out the door.

Delia slumped onto the couch and shut her eyes. The celebration ball would fall on tomorrow evening or the day after tomorrow at the latest.  Lambert had to capitalize on his victory.  She would have to attend.  She always had to attend…

Mazene rapped her knuckles on the door and entered.  “My lady, the celebration ball is tomorrow. His Grace requires your presence.”

“Now?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Damn it.  “Where is he?”

“On the practice grounds.”

She swore in her mind and pushed to her feet.