The Fairy Letters: A FROST Series(TM) Novel (2 page)

It
was at your christening. Of course, when my father announced to me that a Royal
Christening required the presence of all noble fairies in the land – the Autumn
vassals and the Winter kings alike – I was far from pleased. I remember
distinctly that I had planned a rematch with my fencing-master, who had (I am
ashamed to say) beaten me rather decisively on the previous occasion, and I had
managed to convince myself that, despite my small statue and my laziness in
practicing, I would prevail upon the morrow. And so I objected to dragging
myself away from the tundra plains behind the castle for something so
irrelevant, so foreign, as a princess's christening. “But Father!” I pleaded.
“Who cares if some girl has been born? She's only a baby. She isn't interesting
yet. Shasta's already almost two years old and she's still dull! What could a
baby possibly do that's interesting?”

“Hush,”
my mother's voice was low and strong. “Don't trouble your father so. He has far
too much on his mind as it is.” Her gaze grew dark – a darkness that would come
to be familiar to me in later days – and I know now that she must have been
thinking of the first seeds of tension which had begun to crop up in those days
between Summer and Winter, for the first Spring Rebellion had occurred some
months prior. (At the time, of course, I simply attributed her gravity to one
of those maternal mysteries well beyond my juvenile grasp).

“But
she'll be even stupider than Shasta!” I (I am ashamed to admit) whined. Shasta,
toddling over from her miniature throne, let out a convenient wail – though barely
able to walk, her eyes still had the same sapphire ferocity that you, my
dearest Breena, know so well. She fixed her babyish glare on me and I felt a
bit chastened.

“There
is nothing to discuss,” said my father, his voice as gruff as the wolf whose pelt
he wore. “These are dangerous times. Diplomacy is more important than ever. We
cannot risk offending the Queen. Redleaf is known to be less than merciful with
those whom she deems an affront to her...ahem...rigid schemes of etiquette.”

“But
why should what the Queen says matter?” I persisted. “After all, isn't the King
the one who's in charge? What do Queens do that's so important?”

My
mother gave a wry smile. “I can't think of a thing,” she said – her  almost
smooth enough to hide her sarcasm.

“Now,
now,” my father said, “there have been plenty of great Queens in Feyland in the
past. In the absence of first-born sons – or when those sons proved unworthy -
there have been instances in which Queens ruled alone, and held all the power.
Remember the story of Queen Tamara – she who built the mysterious Ice City in
Zaphon.”

“Ugh,
girls
having power! I don't see any girls in my fencing lessons”
(Forgive me, Breena – but I am bound to report this anecdote in all honesty. I
may have not been the most enlightened of toddlers – my mother, after all, had
not yet come into her own as leader. She was far quieter then, hiding her
strength and power like a lamp under a bushel, and I could not have known from
looking at her then that she would prove to be as great as the fabled Tamara.)

“Don't
be so cocky,” my mother gave my father a soft smile. “I seem to recall that
many a marriage was made when a young girl defeated a rather arrogant lad in a
match or two with the scimitar.”

My
father chuckled and returned her grin. “Funny...such a tale just might have
slipped my mind!”

“What
are you talking about?” I asked, but before I could receive an answer Shasta
let out another bellowing wail, and my mother rushed to attend to her.

“Girls
get all the attention,” I mumbled to myself, putting my hands in my pockets.
“It isn't fair.”

“Don't
grumble so.” There was a twinkle in my father's eye. “One day, my lad, you'll
be giving that attention, and not resenting it.”

I
responded with a self-important
harrumph.

On
the carriage-ride over I eavesdropped on the gossip that my mother and father
were sharing – albeit in hushed tones, so as not to wake the sleeping (at
last!) Shasta. Apparently the child, though recognized by Flametail as his own
and – at least provisionally – his heir, was not the child of Redleaf, but
rather of the king's favorite concubine, a fact that had caused no small amount
of chatter in Feyland. The Autumn people – humiliated that their favored
princess would not be the bearer of the heir to Summer – had begun rioting outside
the palace. Indeed, my mother noted sagely, it was the revolt of Autumn that
had sparked the similar revolutions in the Spring lands, which were but
tenuously under Summer's control.

“The
Spring denizens have seen what happened to Autumn,” my mother said. “The Autumn
Kingdom gave up its autonomy to become a vassal to Summer under the expectation
that the heir to both kingdoms would have both Summer and Autumn blood – and
look what has happened! The queen's infertility was a travesty, I know, but for
him to spawn an heir from a
human
! Spring will no longer trust Summer to
protect
their
interests.”

“The
first rebellion may have been put down,” my father mused, “but the next one 
will not be so easy to quell – especially if we choose to support the Spring
lands, and offer them our protection.”

My
mother raised her head. “A dangerous proposition,” she said in a low voice. “If
you support Spring, you risk Redleaf's wrath.” She scoffed. “Flametail may not
be much of a threat – he cares more about wine and womanizing than he does
about running the kingdom; if he'd been more careful about where he put his
heart he would never have offended Autumn so. But Redleaf...if she causes war,
it will not be by a hapless accident. It will be dangerous.”

“Nonsense,”
said my father. “The Spring lands are an important source of revenue – we can't
feed Winter on lily-blossoms and snow cream alone! If we had control over the
Streaming Meadows, let alone the Orchards of Saturn, we'd be able to double or
triple the rations we give out.”

“And
if we get into a war,” my mother said sharply, “there won't be enough fairies
alive to eat them.”

Oh,
my Breena! What foolishness! Your father's love for your mother – my father's
pride in war! Your stepmother's jealousy! It falls to us now to correct the
sins of our parents' generation. They have led us into war, not by malice but
by simple errors, simple sins: selfishness, lust, pride, avarice – and now it
falls to us to deny ourselves not only these errors that arise out of “human”
nature – but also the good. We must be strong – but we must also suffer. We may
not cause wars, but we also may not love. Are we destined to suffer for the
sins of our parents forever?

And
yet I digress. For it is only when we arrived at the Summer Court, scented with
bergamot and gleaming before us – its great golden dome like another Feyland
sun – that my story really begins. For there it was that I first caught sight
of a bassinet – piled high with gold and lilac and lavender silks, so ornately
bejeweled that I at first had to shield my eyes from the light. Before me I
saw, decked out in all his majesty, Flametail your father, wearing a cloak of
bright phoenix feathers, his gold chain mail lustrous in the noonday sun. I
gasped with admiration. My own court was beautiful, in its way, but it was
cold, silvery, as misty as moonlight. This place was bright and shining, full
of life. The warm sun on my face, so much more pleasing to my skin than the
wintry sun of my own court, brought a smile to my face.

My
smile faded when Flametail's companion came forth. This must have been Redleaf
– every inch of her lithe body, her hair – a warm chestnut mix of blonde,
brown, and reddish strands – her striking green eyes – suggested royalty. But
her face was dour, and at the edges of her cheeks I could see a faint pink
blush: the telltale sign of her humiliation. She said nothing, of course, and
greeted us with a smile at once force and false, but I could tell that she took
no particular pleasure in the event. I was too young to understand much about
concubines, but even I noticed the decided glare she shot at a young woman
standing at the back of the room – a young woman with soft eyes, shifting in
color as the light hit them in various ways. Eyes I now know so very well. The
woman at the back, with long dark hair and an elfin grin, was craning her neck
towards the bassinet, evidently trying her hardest to see the mystery contained
within. Whenever Redleaf turned to the mysterious woman, however, she cast her
gaze downwards and retreated back into the shadows.

“Is
that the baby?” I said – too loudly for politeness. “She doesn't really look
like much.”

My
mother gave me a stern pinch on the shoulder. “Hush,” she whispered.

I
tiptoed closer towards the bassinet. A small, pink, round face peered out at
me. At first you seemed like just a typical baby – just like Shasta – tiny and
infinitely breakable and capable of emitting wails as loud as the screeches of
the Nordic Banshees. But then you opened your eyes – those same eyes, shifting
in color yet always so filled with light – and looked straight at me.

And I
felt something. I can't say that it was yet love – we were too young to even
think of love in the way that I know and understanding it now – and yet when
your soft and inquiring gaze met mine I felt a sudden shake deep within my
soul, a stirring of the magic deep within me. There was magic all around us –
all at once! - yours and mine and the magic of Winter and Summer, all pulsating
through the room, at first slowly and then faster and faster until the energy
felt as if it were ricocheting off the walls and into my body, into my soul –
as if it would consume me.

I
stumbled back, overwhelmed. You continued looking at me with that same
unblinking stare.

“Don't
get too close,” hissed Redleaf. “The little princess was able to repel a kelpie
last week –(don't ask me how! Goodness me!) and she managed to send it packing.
Maybe she'll do the same to you, little boy.” Her gaze was cold and, as
Flametail turned his head towards her, I could see a frown furrow on his face.
How, after all, had a kelpie managed to get that close to his daughter? She was
constantly attended to by a stream of attendants, watched by his very own royal
knights.

My
mother curtseyed deeply before Redleaf, her aquamarine and silver silks
spreading like an ice-storm across the red-tiled floor, the colors striking in
their contrast. “You must both be very proud,” she said to the Summer King and
Queen. “What a beautiful little girl. A wonderful addition to your family.”

“Perhaps
she'll have a brother next,” Flametail smiled, catching the eye of the young
woman across the room, who turned crimson as a smile blossomed over her face.

“I
doubt it highly,” said Redleaf, her voice high-pitched and strangled. “There
will be no more children.”

Not
even I could mistake her intent. The warm blush on the young woman's face
vanished, and instead there flushed the scarlet hue of humiliation. She
swallowed hard and, turning on her heel, ran from the room.

A
stagnant pause followed.

“Maids!”
Redleaf laughed – an unnatural, cruel laugh – that shook the walls of the Grand
Chamber. “So emotional!”

“But
I thought she was a....” I cut in.

“Hush!”
My mother came down upon me with another sharp pinch. Flametail was looking
with intense concentration at the floor, doing his best to pretend that he had
heard or witnessed none of the preceding conflict.

The
carriage ride home was a somber one. My mother and my father both seemed to be embarrassed
by what had occurred between Flametail, Redleaf, and Flametail's concubine.

“Really,”
my mother said, “he should be ashamed of himself – running about on his wife
like that – and keeping a concubine in the same
room
! No wonder Redleaf
is...what she is.”

“I
wouldn't be so sympathetic if I were you,” said my father. “It was a political
match – nothing more. Redleaf has more power as Summer Queen than ever she did
as an Autumn Princess. And she is, after all, infertile – the country needed an
heir.”

“But
the humiliation!”

“It
would have been better if he had taken an Autumn concubine?” my father asked.

“One
that she agreed upon, yes,” my mother sighed.

“But
he loves her...” My father smiled and took my mother's hand. “Not all of us
were lucky enough to be able to make a love-match.”

“I
don't know...” My mother gazed at him with searching eyes. “Is love really
worth the risks that Flametail is taking – with Autumn? With Spring? With us?”

My
father stroked her cheek. “I wouldn't turn it down.”

My
mother turned away. “They say that in the days of the great heroes – queens like
Queen Tamara – there was no love in Feyland. The magic that the heroes of old
possessed was so great, so powerful, that they could not risk falling in love,
or being ruled by emotions. They were ruled by other priorities – honor, duty,
order. And thus their magic was great – and their reign greater still. If we
still held to some of those values of old...”

“Outdated!”
my father scoffed. “Everybody knows love isn't dangerous anymore. Certainly we
figured that one out for ourselves.” He squeezed her hand once more and she
reluctantly looked up at him, unable to resist a smile.