Illuminary: The Sceptre & the Stylus, #1
()
About this ebook
Glimpse the past, illuminate the future.
Yosarai Patican dreams of becoming an illuminator in a country that values art above all else. A lofty goal that finally seems within reach when she earns a position at the prestigious Academy of the Seven Arts. Although Yosarai loathes to leave behind her quiet country life, she travels to the capital, determined to live up to her mother's fame as one of Indel's greatest artists.
Prince Xander never planned to become king. Indeed, he never wanted to become king. But when his father dies suddenly, he is thrust into the middle of coronation preparations—and assassination attempts. With everyone around him in increasing danger, Xander decides to hide in neighboring Indel until the time for him to be crowned king arrives.
Posing as an inventor struggling with aesthetics, Xander enlists Yosarai's aid as part of his cover, but soon he suspects she knows more than she should. But when danger threatens and secrets are exposed, entering a competition reputed as cutthroat may be the only way for them to protect everything they hold dear.
Other titles in Illuminary Series (1)
Illuminary: The Sceptre & the Stylus, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Read more from Chawna Schroeder
The Vault Between Spaces Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Beast Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5
Related to Illuminary
Titles in the series (1)
Illuminary: The Sceptre & the Stylus, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related ebooks
A Lost Love Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAnomaly: A Novella by Lamiaa Elkholy Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsEhldaivehn Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLove Letters: At the end of a broken journey you will find Him, when you search with all your heart. Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsUnbroken Bones: Greater Love Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe God Of Sno Cone Blue Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Changing Shores Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsReturn to Jasmine Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsIn Aeternum 1: The Curse He Chose Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Experiment , The Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSeventh Dimension - The Door: A Young Adult Fantasy Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsForlorn: The Forlorn Series, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRemembrance: Remembrance Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Mapmaker's War: Keeper of Tales Trilogy: Book One Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Helper Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLuminary Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Angel of the Tree: The Awakening of War: The Angel of the Tree, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Book Beyond Time Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Pleasure Principle: Poems Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Crescent Beacon: Young Adult Fiction: Religious – Muslim, #3 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Major Arcana: An anthology of short stories inspired by the tarot major arcana Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Blue Susurration: Gisiya Island, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsPromise of Eternity: Eternal Vows, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsNight Song: Songs of Redemption, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsReview Tales - A Book Magazine For Indie Authors - 13th Edition (Winter 2025) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRevival Road Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsElements: The Crystal Series, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Mirror of N'de: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Assimilate or Go Home: Notes from a Failed Missionary on Rediscovering Faith Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Memento Mori Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
YA Religious For You
The Case for Christ Student Edition: A Journalist's Personal Investigation of the Evidence for Jesus Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Me and Earl and the Dying Girl: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Walking with Bilbo Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Radiant: His Light, Your Life for Teen Girls and Young Women Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Circle Maker Student Edition: Dream Big. Pray Hard. Think Long. Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Seedfolks Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Jesus Calling: 50 Devotions to Grow in Your Faith: (A Devotional for Teens on Spiritual Growth) Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5A Crown as Sharp as Pines: The Winter Souls Series, #3 Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Soul as Cold as Frost: The Winter Souls Series, #1 Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Chosen Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Out of Time: The Complete Trilogy: Out of Time Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Rumble Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Anne of Green Gables Devotional: A Chapter-by-Chapter Companion for Kindred Spirits Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDollhouse Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Road to Nowhere Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5John: A Double-Edged Bible Study Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMy Real Name is Hanna Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Jesus Calling: 50 Devotions for a Thankful Heart: (A Devotional for Teens on Being Grateful) Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Dust: Heirs of Neverland, #1 Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Halo Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Those Summer Nights Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Golden Braid Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5A Time to Die: Out of Time, #1 Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/53-Minute Devotions for Teen Girls: A Daily Devotional for Her Heart Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Guy's Guide to God, Girls, and the Phone in Your Pocket: 101 Real-World Tips for Teenaged Guys Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Death of Joan of Arc: A Lost Story from the Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Story of Jesus: Teen Edition Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Gods at War Student Edition: The battle for your heart that will define your life Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5
Reviews for Illuminary
0 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
Illuminary - Chawna Schroeder
The Illuminary’s Journey
A nomadic teen of ancient history,
An envied student of Victorian fiction
The inheritors of wealth and favor reduced to
Dire circumstances of undeserved servitude mocks
Beliefs and behavior and impossible hopes tried with
Passing years and worse situations show
Abused and forgotten but persevering on leads to
New prosperity of sudden exaltation gives
The restored status of favor and wealth revealed with
Generosity of a pretending princess,
Forgiving spirit of a dreaming ruler.
Beginnings
Once upon a time . . .
Isn’t that how a good story should begin? Set at a specific time in a specific place, where specific people live and do specific things? Yet before any of that happens, there is darkness, a void without form or shape or light. A place of infinite possibility both for good and for evil, for nothing that will be made has yet been made. All that exists is the creator and possibility and the hush of anticipation, as all that is not waits to be.
Then words come, and possibility becomes reality, ideas taking on substance and thoughts manifesting as tangible. Word made incarnate. A wonder inexplicable.
Is it any surprise, then, that the sounds formed by our tongues and the symbols joined together on the page carry in them the power of
Life
and
Death?
1Birthfest doldrums were a real affliction.
Many laughed them off as a literary device, dreamt up by keshel awful novelists to create easy suspense. Others attributed them to the overwrought drama of the fainting female seeking to draw more attention to herself. The reality was much simpler. Sometimes celebratory occasions carried so much weight that they burdened a person’s spirit with the musts and oughts of the day, and especially with the expectations of how one should feel, wringing out all joy.
I rested my hand atop a ribboned box, light spilling across my dressing table from the nearby window. But its warmth did nothing to disperse my emotional cloudiness. Yes, birthfest doldrums were real, for what other explanation could there be for the drizzle of melancholy dampening my spirits on a day that sparkled with sunshine?
My maid turned from fluffing the pillows, my earlier attempt to make my own bed having failed to meet Rivka’s precise standards. Her usual maroon pavadai sattai had been replaced by a multicolored one, and the cascading colors of the cap-sleeved blouse and cone skirt stood out in festive contrast to the buttercream sheets. Is something wrong, Sibah Yosarai?
Just feeling dreary today, Rivka. That’s all.
On your birthfest—and your twentieth one at that? Whatever for?
Whatever, indeed? I had all I could ask for and more, as my bedchamber attested. The circular room was adorned with every luxury wealth could afford without turning the place gaudy, from gauzy curtains embroidered with real gold thread and seed pearls to the whimsical flower garden painted upon the plaster walls by my mother before my birth. And if I discovered anything more I could desire, I needed only to ask, for lack and need were words with which I had no personal acquaintance. A strangely depressing thought, that.
Ah, I know what you’re missing.
Rivka returned to pillow-fluffing, her eyes crinkling at the corners, accentuating her impish looks.
She was baiting me. I knew that. I bit anyway. Pray, do tell, what grand light has vanished from the heavens of my life to cast a shadow across my birthfest?
Hasib Bane could not come today.
I snorted, completely unladylike, but such an outlandish suggestion could warrant no other response. Yes, that peacock’s absence shall be mourned with all the grief of a lost wart.
Rivka paused from smoothing the coverlet, head tilted thoughtfully. They say a poultice of cidapple and orleen is very good for removing warts.
Then she refocused on me. Do you wish me to inform Hasib Bane of your sentiment the next time he visits?
If you do, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll demote you to field hand.
Understood, sibah.
She bobbed her head in respectful acquiescence—an acquiescence marred by the merriment glinting in her eyes. Because she knew full well I’d never follow through on such a threat. Which was why many of my sphere discouraged such familiarity with menials. It made them insubordinate, they said. Twaddle, I said.
Turning to my wardrobe, I withdrew a rose-colored dress made of layers upon layers of gauzy fabric, created for my birthfest.
Rivka abandoned her arranging. Allow me.
I’m quite able to dress myself, Rivka.
You would deny me this privilege, today of all days?
Especially today, because I’m no longer a child to be coddled.
Rivka grasped the dress a moment longer, the stubborn tilt of her head revealing her inner struggle. Then she let go. As you wish.
She returned to her organization of the room, straightening pictures and shaking out curtains.
A retraction of my statement leapt to my lips. I choked it back. It was high time we both acknowledged I was no longer a child and therefore ought not rely on others as much as I did. Starting with this dress.
I tugged and twisted, pulled and pushed, grunted and groaned. How could pliable fabric be this uncooperative? It defied me at every turn, but after many contortions, I prevailed, though with far less satisfaction than anticipated.
With the first battle won, I sat at my dressing table. Time to conquer my black mane. Except, no matter what I did, the wild locks refused to be tamed. Should I leave them loose? But that made my face seem narrow and my eyes too big.
Even the strongest cannot do everything.
Rivka’s reflection materialized in the mirror, her black eyes holding no censure, only sympathy. Nor do the wisest know all things.
My hands dropped to my lap. Would you arrange my hair, Rivka?
It would be my pleasure.
Her smile could have illuminated the whole room without the sun’s aid. How did she find such delight in serving me day after day? Surely, to anyone else, it would be absolutely maddening.
Which caused tears to sting my eyes afresh. Have I told you what a blessing you are?
Every day.
I mean it.
Rivka met my mirrored gaze with . . . tenderness? Affection? Pity? I couldn’t quite decipher it. I know.
She placed the final hairpin as a knock sounded. While she checked on the visitor, I examined my reflection. Almond-shaped eyes were set into olive skin, but my chin was too square to be delicate, giving it a perpetual jut of defiance. As for my hair, Rivka had twisted it in a way that framed—rather than swallowed—my face, in perfect replication of my mother’s self-portrait from her twentieth birthfest. I fingered the small oil painting on the corner of the dressing table, a knot swelling in my throat. Oh, Ima, I wish you were here to help me celebrate.
You look very much like her.
Rivka reappeared in the mirror, startling me. She, like every menial I knew, walked with the soundless tread of velvet feet. I have no doubt she would be very proud of the woman you have become, if you would permit me to say so, sibah.
Like a watercolor wash of the palest pink, her words spread across the page of my heart.
Such words from any other menial would be considered fawning due to the difference in our spheres. Not Rivka. She preferred to speak her mind or say nothing at all. How would I ever replace her when she passed her crossover assessment? For despite her doubts, she would pass and leave behind the menial sphere to become an elite like me, pursuing her dream of being a stylist, helping others look their best.
I returned the portrait to its place of honor. Since when have you sought my permission to speak your mind?
Whenever I speak bold words that are too late to retract.
Then it isn’t permission you seek, now is it?
Permission may be given for actions already past.
She sifted through my jewelry box, searching for the perfect accents to my dress.
And if I refuse?
Then it’s good I spoke first and asked permission second, for truth unspoken is worse than a lie.
A familiar argument, one for which I had never found a suitable retort. Instead I fastened my gold hoop earrings and slipped on my bangles. Who was at the door?
Lascar. Your father awaits your arrival in the gazebo.
You thought to tell me this just now?
It is your birthfest, sibah, and beauty anticipated is beauty appreciated.
She secured the clasp of my gold-and-pink topaz necklace. According to a Mounce tradition, wearing pink topaz on one’s birthfest will bring true love in the year to come.
True love? Of all the subjects to leap to! Not that Rivka was being intentionally evasive. Because, for all her outward orderliness, Rivka’s mind switched rails somewhat at random. It is good I’m not superstitious, or you would be searching for a different necklace. I can ill afford a romance this year.
If you say so, sibah.
She retreated. Now let’s see the whole together.
I rose and, at her prompting, spun in place, arms outstretched.
Faster.
I shook my head but did as she asked.
Faster.
I twirled, my full skirt flaring and bangles jangling, feeling so like my five-year-old self that a smile couldn’t be contained by the time I stopped from dizziness.
I knew you were in there. Now go and enjoy yourself.
She shooed me toward the door.
I picked up the ribboned box from my dressing table and headed into the airy hall, the far side open to the entryway. As I descended the grand staircase, my hand glided along the polished banister. Maybe later tonight, after everyone was abed, I could sneak out and slide down one last time, a final goodbye to childhood.
But not now. Avi was waiting. I pattered through the covered breezeway, its shade making the summer humidity bearable while allowing the fragrance of the gardens to freely waft through. I greeted menials by name and accepted their birthfest blessings with a nod, until I reached a small courtyard where a nursemaid scolded two young girls.
Is something the matter, Hezzy?
Face reddening, the woman crossed her hands to the opposite shoulder and bowed. Sibah Yosarai, the blessing of Sustainer be upon you on this, the happiest of days. May the bloom of youth never fade from your countenance, nor the light of life dim in your eyes.
The children followed her lead. Many blessings, Sibah Yosarai!
My gratitude to you all, but if this is to be the happiest of days, I must dispel the clouds of gloom overshadowing you three.
After setting my box on a stone bench, I knelt before the girls, flouncing out my skirt. Rivka would thoroughly scold me, twentieth birthfest or not, if I spoiled the beautiful fabric.
Hezzy stood behind the two girls. There is no need to trouble yourself, sibah—
I didn’t steal it.
The younger girl, face tear-streaked, hugged a simple doll to her chest.
The older girl jutted her chin. That doll is mine.
You threw her out!
I did not—
Girls!
Hezzy tapped them on the shoulders before bowing apologetically to me. Forgive us for marring your day with such petty squabbles, sibah.
There is nothing to forgive, for there is nothing petty about the matter of theft or the accusation thereof . . . is there, girls?
The younger’s shoulders caved around the doll she hugged, while the elder glared at the ground.
Hezzy nudged them. She asked you a question.
No, sibah,
they responded in unison.
I studied the two girls. The older, Ayah, had been born on our estate. Her parents, having served in difficult houses, indulged their daughter’s whims as much as their position permitted. As a result, Ayah sometimes bullied the other menials’ children. Still, her parents would never permit her to discard a lavish gift like a doll.
Nidhi and her family arrived less than two months ago, acquired from a tyrant of an elite master who’d nearly starved them. Even now, Nidhi was too much bone and not enough flesh. After such deprivation, she could be tempted to take what was not hers, since the other children had much.
How do I find the truth, Sustainer?
My hands tingled. May I see the doll?
Nidhi relinquished the toy to me.
The tingling in my hands increased as I examined the doll, which had suffered severe maltreatment, boasting both stains and rips mended with tiny uneven stitches.
As my finger traced a repaired seam, a flash struck.
I am the doll sitting on a chair as Ayah pours me tea. She spills some on my arms.
Ayah and I hunt tigers among the bushes. My dress snags and rips.
Ayah sets me on the ground as she reads. She is called away for afternoon lessons. She leaves me on the ground, and a summer storm mires me in mud.
I sit on a shelf, one arm hanging limply, torn at the shoulder. Ayah and her mother argue. Ayah says she needs a new doll. Her mother refuses. Ayah needs to care for what she has.
It is night. Ayah carries me through a darkened hall to the trash bin by the kitchens. I’m dumped inside.
Light pierces the darkness of the bin. Nidhi envelops me in a hug.
With a sharp intake of air like breaking the surface of water, I blinked the world into focus. The flash hadn’t lasted more than three seconds, but being yanked in and out of reality had never become comfortable in the twelve years since the visions began.
Knowing my blankness during a flash could be disturbing, I offered the girls a wobbly smile. Ayah squirmed impatiently, while Nidhi’s eyes were round, never having seen one of my spells,
as my father called them. The elchan gifting unnerved many, especially since many priests of the kodesh sphere claimed the elchan no longer existed. Therefore, Avi allowed people to believe I suffered from a rare disease that caused seizures.
Which meant I couldn’t render judgment based on the flash, not without either revealing my gift or sounding arbitrary. The first was not permitted, and the second was unacceptable. After all, I was the daughter of Hasib Caleph Patican, the fairest-minded judge in all of Indel. To render arbitrary judgment would be a travesty on par with murder, for it was the death of justice.
How, then, do I render justice, Sustainer?
I fingered the doll’s uneven repair. Ayah couldn’t mend anything. Nidhi was the daughter of a seamstress. That made this Nidhi’s handiwork, which she would hate to see destroyed.
A story from the Writings of the Scribes about Indel’s wisest chancellor came to mind. Would the same tactic work here? Would you please fetch me some scissors, Hezzy? Since their testimony has not revealed who is telling truth and who is lying, it seems just to give each girl a half.
Ayah jutted her chin. Your judgment is most wise.
No!
Nidhi took a step forward, then flinched as if expecting me to hit her for her objection. Please, sibah, don’t.
Her whimpered words quavered, like a script written with an unsteady hand.
It nearly undid my resolve to follow through with this ruse, and I clenched my teeth. Some elites deserved to be stripped of their strata solely based on the mistreatment of their menials, for inspiring such fear in one this young . . .
The right to revenge is Mine; repayment will come in due time.
The words of Sustainer, as recorded in the Last Declarations of Eshom the Gatherer. I forced out my frustration with an exhale. She needed gentleness, not anger. If I’m not to divide her, Nidhi, what am I to do?
The little girl bit a trembling lip. I held my breath. Her next words would determine everything.
She scrubbed an arm over her face. Give her to Ayah.
Good girl. She’s yours.
I placed the doll into her arms.
The smirk left Ayah’s face. But—
She clamped her mouth shut. It was not proper for a menial to question an elite.
Yet it was fair to answer. Only someone who did not care about the doll would willingly condemn it to destruction. If Nidhi had stolen the doll, she would have considered half better than none. However, it was you, not her, who condemned it. Why would you do that—unless you had already thrown it away?
Ayah’s mouth gaped as Hezzy said, A wise ruling, sibah, befitting Hasib Patican himself.
Indeed it was,
said a man at my back.
The girls shrank against Hezzy as all three bowed. My father appeared from the shadows of the covered breezeway, his head almost brushing the low arch. The movement caused the metallic embroidery on a new midthigh vest to shimmer with dozens of colors. At his side, Dowser sported a wide, doggy grin and a plaid bow tied around his neck, his golden fur brushed to a gleam. Apparently, the menials had decided both of them also needed new attire on this festive occasion.
Avi.
I rose, shaking my skirts free of debris and wrinkles.
My little illuminary.
My father planted a kiss on my forehead. I see you’re bringing light into darkness and making the unseen seen again.
But I didn’t do anything.
I stooped to scratch Dowser’s ear, his stubby legs keeping him close to the ground, and was rewarded with a lick on the chin.
Being an illuminary is not something you do, Yosi. It is something you are. Nonetheless, I’m pleased to see that not only do you grow more beautiful every year but also wiser.
His praise flooded my cheeks with warmth. If I have cultivated any fruit of wisdom, it’s because an even wiser man planted an abundance of seeds over the course of many years.
I retrieved my box from the bench of the now-deserted courtyard.
A wiser man? Should I be concerned another vies for my Yosi’s affections?
He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm.
I promise, Avi, when another man finds his way through the maze of my heart, you shall be the first to know.
Something that would not happen anytime soon, for though streaks of white adorned his dark hair and goatee, my father remained the most handsome man I knew, in addition to being the kindest and wisest. As we strolled along the shaded path, Dowser faithfully shadowing us, a cool breeze brought the chortling of a kooka bird mixed with laughter and music from the fields beyond. With a sigh, I rested my head against Avi’s broad shoulder.
For someone celebrating her twentieth birthfest, that has the odd timbre of one feeling forlorn.
I shouldn’t ask again, but the question surfaced anyway. Must I go to the capital next month?
I know you question my decision, but you need to trust me concerning this.
I’m trying, but I simply see no advantage in taking the Strata Exam in Kolchan rather than here. Hasib Kells will apprentice me regardless; I’m certain of it.
Kolchan was a noisy, bustling, crowded city—everything opposite of my quiet country life. How could studying in a place of constant distraction be better than my focused work here?
Your mother trained there, and you know what came of that.
It would be impossible not to. She may have died shortly after my birth, but even now Jasmene Patican was regarded as one of the greatest artists of a nation that prized artistry above all else. A weighty legacy, which was why my father insisted I be well-educated in all fields. He wanted me to have other options. But, in the end, my heart was set on becoming an artist, albeit one degree removed from my mother’s painting. I wanted to become an illuminator.
My father leaned toward me. Besides, Kolchan is home to the Scriptorium Grande, where the original Writings are stored.
For a man reputed as fair, you employ tactics most unfair.
But that is your dream, is it not? To create an illuminated script based on the originals?
Dreams can change.
A cat may shed its fur, but its stripes remain the same.
My father knew me too well. Besides, it’s not as if we’re still trapped in the era of horse and carriage. The rails do travel between here and there the last time I checked, and I am more than able to afford a visit every fortnight.
Promise?
From the moon to the depths of the ocean.
Avi turned to me. But more importantly, Sustainer will always be with you, ready to help, no matter what you face, whether the problem is big or small. All you have to do is ask. It’s no bother to Him. Do you understand?
My uncertainty must have shown, for his hands cupped my face. So strong, so fragile.
He rested his forehead against mine. Effulgence, be her fuel, be her light.
His simple prayer tightened my throat, stirring up a strange mix of yearning, envy, and trepidation.
Avi straightened. Now, no more talk of departures and separations, or letting tomorrow’s gloom overshadow today’s joy.
He guided me to the table in the center of a gazebo arranged with a pyramid of packages encircled with my favorite foods, far more than I could eat in a week, much less in a day.
Please say this is not all for me.
I suppose Muri may have been a bit zealous.
Avi palmed a sweet cake of shredded carsnip and offered it to Dowser. Then my father wondered why the furry scamp stayed closer than a shadow to him. But as she would tell you, ‘A celebration without food is no celebration at all, and our girl celebrates her twentieth birthfest but once.’
I stifled a laugh at his imitation of our high-strung cook and stood on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek, then extended to him the package I carried.
While tradition dictated that the parents were to be honored with a gift on every birthfest, I had applied special care to this year’s present.
Avi opened the box. Is this . . .?
Ima’s poem, illuminated from the original.
An original that Avi kept locked away. It had taken some conniving—and a bit of bribery—to obtain it. You’re not upset I borrowed it?
I should be, but in light of the purpose, I cannot be.
He held the framed picture so we both might read the poem Ima gave Avi at their wedding gala. Its wraparound style, where the beginning word of each line both finished the previous thought and started a new one, was meant to convey a marriage’s continuity in the midst of constant change.
Love is
Fragrance wafting
Hope carrying
Through troubled times unyielding
Faithfulness offering
Joy defying
Hardship forging
Iron love.
Among the words, a blooming vine grew from flames of fire. In the background, a pair of doves flew above tumultuous waves, caught in a shaft of light piercing the sky’s stormy clouds. The custom silver frame, which I bartered from one of our craftsmen, edged the whole piece with interlinking hearts.
My father brushed a finger over a tiny egg nested among the vines and letters. A small detail, one I hadn’t been sure he’d notice, but one I was loath to omit. This is what she imagined when she wrote the words?
he asked.
There were a few elements I couldn’t include, but yes, that is most of it.
The blessing of Sustainer upon you for the honor you have brought to your mother and me.
Emotion roughened the traditional acceptance like uneven brushstrokes. You have given a piece of your mother back to me. My deepest gratitude, Yosarai.
He kissed the crown of my head. Every moment of work from the past six months had been worth it.
And since we harvest what we plant . . .
He retrieved the topmost present from the table’s stack, shooing Dowser away from the food. The scamp flopped on the ground, resting his head between his forepaws, his golden eyes staring up at us woefully.
No doubt Avi would soon give into his plea, but until then I returned my attention to the package he gave me. The size and shape indicated a book. Now, every handcrafted work he acquired for me was a precious treasure, but what set this one apart that he’d break the tradition of gifts after the meal? I withdrew a leather-bound volume from its pouch.
The cover bore the simple title Illuminary. No author’s name. No adornment or other artistic work. Plain, unpretentious, and . . . I gasped. The front page bore the same beautiful penmanship I’d studied for the past six months.
Birthfest Blessings
upon my beautiful Yosarai, now full-grown.
May Sustainer’s Light spill from your heart,
illuminating the lives of those all around you.
From my heart to yours, Ima
H-how is this possible?
My mother had been gone for nearly nineteen years.
She worked on this throughout the pregnancy, and almost feverishly after your birth. Almost as if she knew . . .
He broke off as emotion filled his eyes, then he cleared his throat. She wanted you to have it today.
I turned the page. The cream paper had been covered in black-and-purple swirls with a single shaft of light cutting across them. In the middle were words in a lightning-like font, sharp enough to make me hesitant to touch them.
But the lure to glimpse my mother’s mind was too strong. My finger, the tip stained with ink even on this auspicious day, moved across the smooth page, and within two letters everything transformed, as it did every time I touched the written word. Through my elchan gifting, my finger felt raised letters, which in reality had no texture, and a soft, lilting voice—my mother’s thought-voice—spoke words I alone could hear.
Once upon a time . . .
My mind filled with images—the very ones my mother had imagined as she wrote these words. The glimpse evoked much of the same imagery as her painting: churning purple waves, edges razor-sharp. Swirls of black fog. A beam of white light piercing the chaos. The waves and fog separated, the waters calming. The light curled into the word be, then coiled around the fog and water, molding them, dispelling darkness, coloring them.
Is it any surprise, then, that the sounds formed by our tongues and the symbols joined together on the page carry in them the power of life and death?
With the final word, the artistic renderings transformed into a scene vividly real yet utterly surreal. I saw myself sitting on a stone bench in an unfamiliar garden courtyard, a fountain bubbling in the center. I wore a blue brocade anarkali with a full skirt and lace sleeves, the neckline edged in tiny pearls—a dress finished last week. At my feet sat a simple clay jar. My younger cousin, Jamarde, stood across from me in a stance unusually confrontational, though I sensed she wasn’t alone. She thrust an uncapped flask into my hand. Choose wisely, cousin, because it could mean the difference between life and death.
My hand wrenched from the page. With the physical connection broken, the scene fled my mind. Yet the images, the words, remained imprinted there, thick, heavy, bold . . . undecipherable. A warning written in smeared ink.
And the future that had seemed merely dismal but one bell ago, now loomed black and ominous.
* * *Not again.
Xander dug his fingertips into his thigh, his sole concession to this latest threat. Perhaps he should be more concerned, but endless repetition could make anything wearisome—even attempts on one’s life.
Instead of looking over his shoulder, Xander stared at the stony mountain filling the window of the sky gondola. The vehicle bounced once as it passed by another pole, the steel cable upon which the skondola hung drawing them ever nearer the station. Eight minutes, ten at most. Dare he hope the potential assassin would wait that long before attacking?
Across from him, Massard peered around an unfurled newspaper. Should he dismiss the unspoken concern? Except that would border on apathy, and that was one thing he could not afford to become, no matter how wearisome the attacks grew. Besides, his bodyguard had a knack for detecting subtleties no one else did. Xander tugged on the cuffs of his greatcoat. The code word for a suspicious person of low threat should be sufficient. A crow is circling three skondolas behind us.
Massard shook his paper as he turned the page. You’re quite right, Your Highness, though his wings should be tiring after three bells of flapping about.
Three bells? Xander suppressed a groan. They’d been tailed for almost the entirety of this outing, then. And here he had been congratulating himself on finally concocting a plan that would avoid drawing notice. He should have stayed in his workshop, tinkering on the swan for Ellie’s fifth birthfest.
His father should have never named him crown prince instead of his older half brother.
But what was done was done. He stretched out his long legs as much as the narrow space between the benches permitted, adopting a relaxed posture in case the crow was monitoring them with a scope. I hear we need to detour past the mapmaker’s.
Code: What’s the plan?
You have a tight schedule. Allow me to take care of the package.
A wise course of action, but for once, he’d like to face the problem instead of letting others handle it. Like he did before it leaked that he, not Selucreh, had been named crown prince of Egdon. Would the attacks even end with his coronation, after the official mourning period for his father finished?
Xander clenched his gloves. His father was supposed to live a good many years more. At least long enough for Selucreh to reform and have the title returned to him. Xander never wanted to be king. Had never planned to be king. Never should have been considered for kingship. Not as the illegitimate son.
Your Highness?
Massard frowned, newspaper folded beside him.
And there he went again, losing time as he’d frequently done since his father’s death—minutes, even whole hours, slipping away, unaccounted for. Grief