“I do not fear death – it is the ghosts I fear, the truths they know, what they might do if given the chance.”
Excerpt from Queen Litania’s diary, fourth year of her reign.
Part 2
Chapter 29
Sorcha felt calm, focused, as she waited for Omi to return from her meeting with Madam Kara. Her lone bag was packed and was propped against a post inside her tent, her black cloak draped over it. The sword, too, was leaning against the post, sheathed. She felt the call of the sword and went to hold it when finally, Omi swept into the tent. The second she looked at Sorcha, saw the bags and the sword readied for travel, understanding dawned on her face. Omi knew what it meant and her eyes grew sad but accepting.
“Must you go today?” Omi asked quietly.
The pleading look in her eyes nearly broke Sorcha. Nearly. She swallowed, hard, and closed the distance between them and drew Omi into her arms. For so long she’d felt small in Omi’s arms, comforted by that motherly presence; now, those roles had reversed.
“It’s time,” said Sorcha, pulling back from Omi. “I just wanted someone here to see me in this form one last time.”
Omi nodded, knowing that the day had to come eventually. It was impossible to cling to the face Sorcha had worn for most of her known memory; now, it had to be cast away. The strange girl whom lived in a travelling caravan had to die today, without noise or a battle. To bleed quietly away into history, perhaps little more than a note somewhere. Sorcha returned the nod and turned back to the mirror that hung off a post, really nothing more than a circle of polished metal. Enough for her to see the face that she had come to know, align with her very identity.
She lifted her hands to her cheeks and closed her eyes, summing the magic to her fingertips, then back into her skin. Heat flooded her face but she welcomed it, embracing as she felt bone and skin shift, a mask falling away. When the heat dimmed her hands fell and she opened her eyes, slowly, half afraid of what she might see. Yet the first thing she saw staring back at her was her eyes.
Golden eyes.
Her father’s eyes, she realised.
Her shape was sharper now, too; ears pointed, though not as sharp as a full blood; her hair was longer, as dark as the night. She looked like her mother now, save for the eyes and ears. The woman that had haunted her visions since she was young, whom she watched sing whilst she held a protective hand over her growing belly. The woman that had embraced her throne so young, so full of life and hope, whom dared to enter into a foreign marriage and found a love that no one expected. There had been fire and rage, kindness and love, in those eyes, in that voice. Sorcha’s hand lingered on her own cheek, yet as she turned and looked to Omi, she found her kneeling before her.
“Omi?”
Omi looked up; the woman that cared for her, fought for her, scolded her when she took too many sweet tarts, was on her knees and there was a look of pride shining in her eyes.
“You are ready, Sibylla.”
The horse thundered through the forest, guided through the darkening woods by the slightest touch of Sibylla. Instinct guided her, every twist and turn, gave her notice as the horse leapt clear of a fallen log. She landed with a firm thump and surged onwards, darting left and right, weaving amongst the trees that after a time, thinned and moonlight illuminated her path.
She emerged from the trees to a stretch of open grass that ran onto the tall walls of a small town, hunkered deep in the heart of gully. Despite being only a few hours from the City of Slaves and the sea itself the air still hung foul, dark magic clinging to her skin, nearly smothering. It made her restless, eagre to finish her tasks and return to the city, if only so that she might race to the final conclusion. In that, she might be free of the darkness that haunted the land.
Slowing to a trot she approached the gate, then slowed once more to a walk and the guards at the gate stepped forward. Their uniform, emblazoned with the empress’s own symbol – a tree wreathed in a circle of fire – was clean but old, thinning in sections. Their helmets, however, were unpolished and had several marks on them. She noted that they appeared lean, too, as if underfed for some weeks.
“State your name and business,” one shouted at her, one hand falling to the sword on his hip.
“And remove your hood!” The other chimed, shifting on his feet restlessly.
Sibylla courted her decisions, then slowly pushed her hood down and looked to the men, her chin slightly lifted. She couldn’t be that nervous, awkward girl anymore, the kind that was biding her time in the shadows. Now she had to be seen, a presence to be remembered, even if it was only by a few foot soldiers. A revolution always began small, had to be kindled from the roots of the remote villages first, then draw inwards and slowly invade the larger cities. Then, when the wood was dry and the flint ready, the spark was lit and the revolution was alight.
With care she slowly reached into the small bag just behind her thigh and fished out a small letter, then held it out to the closest guard. He regarded her suspiciously for a moment, then reluctantly reached out and plucked it from her hand. His gaze darted over the letter, more pretending to look firmly at it, likely to protect himself later. It was a fake, the letter, though she scarcely doubted he’d detect that. She didn’t scent any magic on him, so she knew he wouldn’t see through the illusion.
Still, she held her breath until the letter was returned to her. He looked up, more open now, as if she wasn’t a threat now and gave a nod.
“Welcome to Telmare. You best find your host to stay for the night. We’ve been having demons around these parts, so better stay in the town until the sun rises again,” he advised.
“Oh, those demons been attacking day and night – ain’t good signs I tell you,” muttered the other.
Sibylla laughed and gave a charmed smile. “Well, I best be on my way then. You both take care.”
She infused the tiniest bit of magic in her voice and the guards smiled warmer, then turned and shouted for the gates to be open. Once clear she rode in and tugged her hood back into place; being only half elf she managed to tuck the slight points of her ears behind her hair, which she had braided and swept over her ears. She had dulled her eyes just a little too, so they looked more warm amber than bright gold. Whilst unusual to see a lone woman astride a horse, which was by no appearance an exquisite steed, she looked otherwise unassuming.
She kept her gaze lowered, glancing only in the corner of her gaze or faintly ahead, and rode slowly down the main road. The shops had already closed and down one of the main roads branching off she spied the shut-up market, the stalls empty and cloths drawn down. It was only a few hours after sunset but the town seemed eerily quiet. From the few taverns she passed there was no loud laughter or chatter, scarcely hushed conversations floated past her. There was fewer folk she spied on the roads; even then, those that either looked her way hurried on or those that did not register her presence moved quickly, heads down.
At the centre of town she diverted down a series of narrower roads, ascending a slight incline until she came to an old apothecary pressed against the side of a butcher with a narrow lane way at the side. She slid down from her saddle, one hand sliding along the neck of her horse, whom shifted uneasily, snorting softly.
“Easy girl, I am here,” she whispered and gave a little absent scratch under the chin.
The horse settled but her ears kept flickering back and forth. She finally drew away from the horse and raised her fist to the door, knocking twice and firmly, then waited with bated breath. The footsteps she heard first, soft and scraping against the wood, followed by a firm thump in between, likely a cane of sorts. Then she listened to the tell-tale clink of locks being lifted, slid open, and the door slowly cracked open, only just wide enough for the half face of a woman to be seen. She squinted back at Sibylla, silent; her eyes widened suddenly and the door was thrown open with more force than expected. An older woman, with white hair braided down her back, leathery skin and wearing a plain dark green dress over her lean figure.
The woman glanced behind Sibylla, then up and down the street. She hurried out the doorway, locking it behind her, keys in hand and moved quickly to the lane way, gesturing for Sibylla to follow. Grabbing the reins of the horse she followed the old woman down the laneway to a small courtyard at the rear; there, the woman opened up double wooden doors and gestured inside. It was a small dark set of stables with three pens, one of which remained vacant. Two older cart horses peered out of their stalls, watching the arrivals with their dark eyes, oddly calm. Sibylla had to keep one hand on the reins, the other on her horse’s neck, rubbing softly, whispering as she led the horse into the vacant stall. The woman hung back as the bags were taken off, then the saddle, blanket and bridle. There was a small bench outside the stalls and a bar which she left the gear on, keeping her bags slung on her shoulders. When Sibylla turned around the woman had already lit a small lantern, though she hadn’t heard any flint being struck, and the stable doors were closed.
“This way, my dear,” murmured the woman, moving to a small door tucked in the corner.
Sibylla pushed her hood down and nodded, following the woman in through the back door, down a dark hallway, guided only by the lantern. When they came to a tiny little drawing room cluttered with bookshelves full of jars, books of every kind. There were two fur draped chairs facing each other by a tiny window, heavy curtains drawn heavily over them. Only the lantern lit the space that smelt vaguely of burnt spice, sweet and homely. She drew in a deep breath and let it fill her lungs, touch every inch of her being.
Familiarity rushed down her spine. She sat down slowly, setting her bags down beside it and watched as the woman gingerly lowered herself down too. The whole time the woman watched her; without looking away she raised her hand to the cold fireplace beside her and snapped her fingers. Sparks lit from her long, bony hands to the old stacks of wood. Fire took hold rapidly and soon lit the room in a warm amber glow. Sibylla stood again and shed her cloak, revealing her long blouse tucked into her leather pants and high boots. She sat again, met the gaze of that woman, trying to stifle the million questions that rushed to her tongue, demanding to be answered.
“You know whom I am,” said Sibylla.
The woman inclined her head. “I was there when you were born. Before you ask, I can see through illusions. It is among my talents, one of the few that hasn’t departed me in recent years. So, I recognise you, even with that feint glamour you have on.”
With a deep breath, she paused for a moment, then exhaled and let the magic fall away. It felt so strange, even in the company of a woman whom had been present the day she screamed her way into the world, to bear her true face, to not be living a lie anymore.
“I have had visions of you for some time but I never catch your name,” said Sibylla quietly.
In her experience her visions tended to hold true but sometimes visions of the past were tricky, occasionally vague, as though seen through a light fog or at a distance. Many times, they held no sound. She could only hope that the vision was as true as the ones she had of Wren and Lorca, of her impressions from the visions to that which she experienced on meeting them.
“I went by the name Lady Opehlia Glenmore, a midwife and a historian in your mother’s court. I was the ninth daughter to a wealthy lord, the head of my house a Lord Robert Glenmore of current, yet circumstance brooked an education of me and provided me the position of midwife to your mother. I also considered myself her friend and honoured to be there upon your birth – of course, aside from the marks I see now, there are several on your arms and legs, that I must see to confirm that it is you – you understand this, of course?”
She’d known it would be necessary, particularly if she had any chance of proving her own identity and securing her claim to the throne. It had to be cemented, beyond any possible doubt and that began with the one woman present at her birth. She’d known this early on, as soon as she had decided to act upon her visions, so she had focused on drawing on visions of where she might find the woman. It had been a matter of preparing the correct documents and what she’d need when that location had been determined.
“Of course.”
“Now, I do not go by that name anymore, so do call me Ophelia,” she said kindly. She sat back in her chair and looked on, relief and even hope in her eyes. “You do not understand how it warms my heart to know that you survived, my dear. When your father’s head guard took you away, along with your father’s sword, and one of the family’s personal slaves I held hope. It was such a dark night, though, full of so much pain and blood, I feared the worst…then your aunt said you had all perished in the attack. I did not want to believe it but there was never any proof you had survived.”
In Sibylla’s mind she had pictured few surviving members within the court lingering with hope of her survival, of believing any chance of it. Hence her determination to confirm her blood and carefully reveal herself, so that doubt would be erased or dimmed to a point of control.
“The people that took me in did not immediately know of my heritage but suspected that I might be hunted, for how they found me on the side of the road was to suggest that. I changed my face through magic when I was younger and have kept that face until only a few hours ago, so with silence within my family there was no chance of betrayal,” explained Sibylla. “I was cared for, though, loved and not treated badly.”
Ophelia nodded. “That is good.” A look of concern darkened her face, furrowing her brow. “You have come to me to confirm your blood. You seek to reveal yourself.”
“In the correct time, yes. The final pieces are falling into place as we speak and soon, I will march with an army on the capital and take back my throne.”
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