The Rest of Chapter One

Chapter One

Modet

In a time of swept cobblestone streets and pies baking in windows; brownies scampering around, and dwarves mining in the mountains, the sun beat down and all was cheery and peaceful. Children’s laughter could be heard ringing throughout the streets as they played with the stray cats, and enjoyed the sweet sugar that the Sugar Weavers could spare from their work. The Taining Folk would spend time out in the sunlight, standing around and telling stories to the young ones chased out of their homes by mothers who needed to get work done. Their small feet barely made a noise as they ran along the road towards the camp of the Taining Folk. Soon the logs that were placed around empty firesides came into view, and the little ones could see the distinct red and white stripes of the Taining Folks’ tents.

“Mabel, Mabel!” Delphina cried as her two youngest sisters followed behind her.

Their young faces were eager and hopeful, and Mabel could tell what was coming next.

“Will you tell us a story, please?” they begged.

Mabel was a story teller of the Taining Folk, and one of the best around. They were known all over for how they traveled from city to city, earning money from the performances they put on. They never stayed anywhere for long, but Modet was the closest place they had to call a home. People there loved what they had to offer. One of those things was the acrobats, like Fablen, who was standing there now. It was as if they sat on the clouds, danced with the birds. Their tightropes were always placed high in the air, so that you had to look straight up to watch, and though your neck became sore afterwards, it was always well worth it. The story tellers, like Mabel, saved their talent for next to the fire at night, when the phantom stories would make you jump, and the tales of Wishing Wells, brownies, fairies, tree folk, and elves would be in your dreams for weeks. Mabel’s other close friend was Firethorn. He stood there watching the children closely, as if they were the real threat. He never had gotten the hang of children.

How do some people do it? he would wonder. Like Mabel. She’s just so good with them.

He himself just couldn’t tell the stories or wipe the noses. His trade dealt with fire. Something different than children. It could be tamed but not played with in the same way. Those who watched Firethorn thought differently. The way he made the fire take shape, run up his arms. The way he could rescue anything from fire, never worried if it would burn him. He made it look like a game, just like the actors with their masks, or the singers with their melodies. But today was different. He was in no mood to put on a show, and Mabel was obviously feeling the same.

“Not today. Come back in the morning and I’ll see what I can do. It will give me time to think up something extra good.”

She said this without the usual sparkle in her eyes, Firethorn noticed. Delphina’s face drooped along with her sisters, but they knew not to protest. She turned and walked away, surely to request a song or a skit, to avoid helping their mother Ange with the laundry. Ange was the court launder, but the fact that that was her title meant nothing. She lived as a peasant, and was as humble as one to. Delphina ran up and started tugging on Roana’s dress, followed by Jenna, and little Sage. Fablen watched them go with a smile. She turned back to Firethorn and Mabel.

“When will the Prince be getting back?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“He was meant to be back today with his bride. The festivities have been postponed. Everyone is restless to be leaving, but they won’t miss the celebrations,” Mabel answered, just as quietly.

Firethorn glanced around as if nervous someone might be listening.

“I heard her name was Evette. The stories are that she already has a baby, and Calleo found a poor girl now living like royalty as her maid,” he whispered, so softly that the two women had to put their heads down to hear him.

A sugar weaver pushed another cart towards the castle, which was being made to sparkle for the Prince’s return. In the afternoon sunlight, the desired affect was definitely being achieved. Mabel slapped him playfully.

“What stories? Where do you hear these things, Firethorn?” she asked, watching him.

He shrugged.

“You said you didn’t want to know where I wander during the night,” was his response, as he looked at his hands.

It was true. She hadn’t been able to sleep one night and had caught him sneaking back into the camp at daybreak. All Firethorn would say was that the tents were too stuffy for him. He had is secrets, she knew that as well as anyone, and had refused his explanation. Fablen scanned the horizon line with worried wrinkles in her brow.

“I hope the Lion Prince left them alone. It makes him mad when people escape his realm.”

The Lion Prince was the ruler of Olvia, the country bordering Boreal. Modet was Boreal’s capital, and the closest thing that Olvia had to a capital was where the Lion Prince lived, also known as Luan Manor. Luan Manor was nothing like the Castle of Modet. It was not cheery or bright. In contrast, it was dark and eerie. Vines had begun to climb up the walls and the small burned huts around it were starting to crumble in places. When the moon hit it just right, the castle would cast a large, menacing shadow, and the silver moonlight would give it a ghostly glow around the edges.

He had a clean shaven face, but it was covered in grey wrinkles, as if for every time he killed a new line had been etched into his face. He had a heart of roughened stone, cold, grey and barren, holding love and sympathy for no one. His soul was made of his victim’s screams. He fed off of fear like fungi off trees.

The Lion Prince controlled all the lion packs in the Wishful Wood. His most vicious pack of lions was the manticores. They had spots like cheetahs, and grey hair, and beards like dust.

His shoes clicked and echoed ominously when he walked through his castle’s hollow halls. His fortress threw a threatening shadow across the Wishful Wood. Any soul careless enough to enter his land should hope never to come out again. His crest of the roaring manticore on a black shield hung above every door in the fortress, and it had many. He had magnificent living quarters; they were the most decorated rooms in the castle. The dungeons were cold and unkempt human sized cages. They pitied their prisoners as little as their ruthless owner. The turrets and towers were cold and lifeless and all the windows were draped in black. Soldiers and men at arms stood with swords and shields at the ready. He had many maids and other servants that he beat into cooperation. If they tried to escape or disobey him, they were all punished severely. Some were girls as young as twelve and thirteen. They were forced to leave their families to be enslaved to him.

His banquet hall had glossy wooden tables that stretched from wall to wall. The castle itself was made of cold stone.  Stories said that anyone with a warm heart would freeze when they touched it. The Lion Prince and his followers were immune.

Mabel shook her head.

“Calleo knows that,” she said. “He may just be waiting for the right time to sneak her out. Ange said that she lived close to his castle, in the corner of his eye. That’s where he has all the beautiful women stay, probably so nothing like this can ever happen to them.”

Mabel was close to Ange after all the times she had taken such good care of her children, but then most people were close friends with Ange. She heard things during her trips to the castle, and though she didn’t go near the prince or his close advisors, she knew some maids who did, and they were good listeners.

“Or other reasons. He needs a son, an heir. Most likely he doesn’t want Evette going off with Calleo because this kingdom might get what he wants,” Firethorn added.

Fairies swarmed around the castle, hoping for a taste of the sugar. They had purple skin and tie-dyed dresses, which made them stand out in their home of the Wishful Wood. Fablen distracted them with a few strands of her hair and they chattered happily. Fablen had beautiful hair. It was a dark, curly brown that cascaded down to her shoulders, and brought out her green eyes. The fairies could use it in their homes, which were intricate series of nests in the forest. They could use the hair to keep warm, or even as rope between nests, they were so light.

It was the opposite of Mabel, who had strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes that seemed to change color in the light. They were different kinds of beautiful, though modestly. The minstrel women never really tried hard with their appearances.

They saw people forming a circle around two men. The trio went down the road to see what was going on. Fablen’s expression showed she was resigned to the situation in an ‘I told you so’ way, mixed with disbelief at how absurd it was.

“Burk has such a big head. We all know as well as he does that he has no hope of ever defeating Castor,” she muttered to her friends.

Mabel nodded. Burk wore the green and blue of Modet on the cape over his armor. He was standing outside Castor’s door, knocking, his helmet in his hand. His sword was at his belt. Castor opened the door, and when he saw who it was he let out an exasperated sigh.

“Again, Burk?” he said. “Will you ever get put in your place?”

“Just because you’re the quarter master and have a house full of weapons doesn’t mean anything. I can beat you. Today I’m really ready.”

Castor just shook his head. He turned and grabbed a sword lying near the door and stepped outside. After a few strikes, over-weight Burk was breathing heavy, and Castor had dropped his sword. He kicked and punched, and finally pinned Burk down.

“Really ready? Go away Burk,” he said, standing up.

Castor rolled his eyes as Burk tried to stand, gasping. He put his sword away, with all the other weapons he had created that lined his walls, next to the knives and swords that were so shiny they glinted when sheathed, bow and arrow sets that he could shoot straight in a hundred mile wind. He learned how to create such things from wood from the elves, some of his many teachers. The tree folk taught him camouflage. Growing up he would watch his father as a silversmith, and his uncle as a blacksmith. They taught him how to work with metal, like the dwarves taught him how to work with stone.

Also a master of every martial art, he was quick and agile, with a warrior’s build. His shoulders were broad and strong, his legs and arms pure muscle. His skin was a deep tan from all the hours spent in the sun training for the fights that were yet to come. He wore a billowing white shirt that was snug at the wrists and waist. On the bottom he sported skin colored leggings and often went barefoot, his feet more toughened than any shoe.

Soldiers like Burk often tried to make a name for themselves by fighting him, and he was the most persistent. There is no way to even think of how good you would have to be in order to beat him.

Blays, Burk’s half brother, (though much smarter than Burk), laughed jokingly as he helped him up.

“You will never learn, eh?” he said while chuckling. “You just make a bigger fool of yourself when you can’t give up.”

“One day,” was all that Burk replied as he stormed off to the castle.