Chapter One
Aurora sat in the crooked little cabin with its worm-eaten walls, staring intently at the object in her hand.
Somewhere outside birds called to each other, and a gentle breeze rattled the leaves on the trees. An overgrown bush outside the cabin tapped against the window with the aid of the wind.
Aurora did not notice. So absorbed was she. The object in her hand, to any outsider, appeared to be a small ball made of glass. A light like muted sunshine seemed to emanate from the ball, bringing a crowd of muted sounds with it.
The ball was like a window into another place. Aurora held the King’s coronation in her hand. She watched it unfold, paying attention to nothing else.
A stage of sorts, constructed from wood, had been erected in the city square in Vallengrad. Soldiers were stationed all around it, head to toe in steel plate and carrying swords at their hips. Still, the public gave them little space. The crowd thronged, ready for a glimpse of their very-soon-to-be King.
The people pushed against one another, clamouring with excitement, eager just to be a part of this momentous day.
Children squeezed themselves through the crowd, squealing with delight as their curiosity got the better of them. They just had to see what was going on. A few got pushed back. Some even earned a knock for their efforts.
A few ill-dressed citizens had clambered up walls and fences behind the crowd. Every upstairs window had been flung open, women and children leaning out for the view.
Somewhere there was laughter.
Then the trumpets sounded.
The restless crowd quieted. There were a few hushed voices still exchanging words, but the shouting and laughter was gone.
The trumpets sounded again, and the distinct sound of armoured soldiers marching could be heard. The clank of metal plate, the thud of heavy footfall, the clatter of scabbards as they bounced off their owners’ legs.
The men marched in two straight lines about three feet apart. They came down the wide road from the palace and stopped once they reached their fellows in the square.
All was still as the trumpets bellowed again. Between the lines of soldiers walked a proud figure dressed in rich blue. He was rather tall and had a distinguished gait, he held his head high and his shoulders back. He was a perfect picture of royalty.
As he approached the stage, two of the soldiers at the far side of the perimeter moved back to join the lines. The prince stepped up, his movements fluid and graceful. He walked to the middle of the newly erected wooden platform, where a frail old priest awaited him.
The priest rose slowly from his seated position, almost drowning in his purple robes. The seat he vacated was a simple little stool, provided only for his convenience, and was quietly and quickly whipped away once it was no longer needed.
The only thing that remained on the stage, other than the prince and the priest, was the throne. And, on the throne, sat the crown.
The prince gently bowed his head to the priest, and, in his turn, the priest went down on his knees to bless him. He rose from the floor slowly and with obvious difficulty. Everybody pretended not to notice.
The little man brushed the dust from his robe and cleared his throat.
“May the gods bless this crown that, once upon your head, makes you father of our great nation.” The priest’s voice rang out loud and clear. He raised up the crown. Out of deference, or awkwardness, the prince bent down his head to meet it.
The crown came down upon his well-oiled, golden-brown hair and the corner of his lips turned up. He stood up straight again as the priest began to bellow.
“I call upon the people to pledge their allegiance to the new King Caleb!”
The audience made some noise, nothing that could definitively be called a pledge, but a sort of approving murmur. A few individuals seemed to know what they were saying, but their words were drowned out by the overwhelming din of confusion.
The priest seemed to be satisfied, the prince did not.
“King Caleb,” the little man turned to the new King, his voice a little lower. “Take the throne.” He spread out his arm, gesturing towards the seat.
King Caleb, his face a little stormy, walked across the platform, turned his back to the chair, and sat. He sank into the seat, his white hands resting on the arms. The crowd erupted, people yelling and cheering for their monarch.
The discontent among the people was not immediately noticed. Fights began to break out on the far fringes of the crowd. Angry shouting blurred with joyful cheering. A number of determined men began to wade towards the stage, pushing aside any who got in their way.
The fighting started to spread inwards, threatening to turn into riots. And the soldiers finally noticed. It all moved fast from that moment.
The King was out of his throne in seconds. It toppled over—or was pushed—as he ran for the safety of his troops. He hopped down off the stage, his usual gracefulness abandoned in his hurry, and took shelter between the two lines of soldiers.
While that was happening, the men stationed around the platform unsheathed their swords. The conflict came quickly.
Those men who had pushed their way to the front were armed; some with swords, some with improvised weapons. They did not hesitate when they came face-to-face with the soldiers.
“For the true King!” someone yelled.
The clash of weapons, the roars of anger and defiance, was deafening. People who had turned out only to watch the coronation began to run as blood began to fly. The watchers at the windows maintained their positions, safe from harm as they were.
The sky above turned grey as death. It cracked and flashed and began to pour water on the city. This was the final straw for the King who, until then, had been content to watch the chaos unfold.
“New blood upon the throne brings death and destruction to the land.” A wizened old woman with white hair and a crooked back shuffled into the room, her voice pulling Aurora from her orb.
Mechanically, she answered the old woman, “Only the power of gods will deliver us. I know, Mother Vida.” She sighed. She had heard that prophecy many times before.
Rain pounded down on the cabin roof, splashed against the windows. Little rivulets of water had started to find their way through the many cracks in the wooden walls. White light filled the sky outside, then left it almost dark as night.
“It is upon us,” warned Mother Vida, her old voice almost as crooked as her back.
“It always is, Mother,” said Aurora.
Mother Vida gave the girl an evil look. “No, child. It is come. You saw the coronation.”
Aurora sighed again. It was just like Mother Vida to be fatalistic. A little rain and blood was the end of the world. And, why? Because some old man said so a few hundred years ago.
“You know I don’t believe in that prophecy.”
“You best start believing, child,” Mother’s eyes flashed with a hint of contempt as she watched the girl. “Stopping it is to be your Quest.”
That was new. “My Quest?”
Mother nodded, “you knew it would come one day.”
“I didn’t know I would be asked to save the world!” Despite not believing in the prophecy, Aurora could not just shrug it off.
Mother Vida did. “It is as I have told you. Pack what you need, it is time.”
Aurora instinctively looked out the window, as if to confirm what she already knew to be true. It was raining. And not just a drizzle; it was as if oceans were falling from the sky.
“You can’t possibly expect me to go out in that.”
The old woman stood as straight as she could with her hands on her hips and that look on her face. That look that left no room for argument.
Aurora muttered a few choice words under her breath and placed the little glass ball into a wooden box. It was small, only big enough for the orb, and intricately carved. She left it open as she rose from her seat.
“Guess I’ll go pack,” she said, giving Mother Vida a look like daggers. Aurora left the room, pushing past Vida without apology.
