"´Idhra´ chapter 1" by J. lawrence

Chapter I

Alfvihdra raised her hand.

“Idhra.”

She tried not to smile, to just stay calm and indifferent as was polite. But she was glad Mister Macauley had called on her.

“There were six main families competing for the Tysk crown after King Adlig Sternlicht formally announced that he would be the last of the Sternlicht line: Pierre Pont, Bel-Cheré, Bergstein, Abendroth, Kamin, and… Krakowsky,” she counted on her fingers beneath the desk.

“Yes. Very good.”

Idhra couldn’t help a small grin.

“Does anyone know the ethnicity of the six competitors?”

Idhra raised her hand again, and Mister Macauley chuckled.

“Miss Kiersted, you would make a wonderful teacher, but for now, I think I must lead the lessons a bit.”

Ylva raised her hand. “The first two families that Idhra mentioned were from Fransk, the next three from Tysk, and the last was Russike.”

Idhra watched Mister Macauley’s brown eyes silently taking in Ylva and that perfect answer, and then sweep the room to land on her cousin.

“Sara, which of the competing families gained control of Tyskland when King Sternlicht died?”

“Kamin, sir,” she said politely.

Afvidhra’s ears pricked up as her teacher said Sara’s name in his Befriland accent: Sërá. And her ears went red as she scolded herself for paying so much attention to Mister Macauley’s eyes and drawl.

“Do any of you young men know what happened to the others?” Mister Macauley asked, deepening his voice a bit and frowning to show his disapproval that the only three girls in the class were answering all the questions.

Idhra raised her hand again when none of the boys did. For the first time in her life, she was glad her parents had taught her about the rise of King Kamin, but couldn’t quite convince herself that it was only so that she could shame the older boys.

“Bel-Cheré’s daughter married Pierre Pont’s son to combine their families’ fortunes. Then Bergstein and Abendroth were murdered by Kamin¾”

“They were killed by Krokowsky,” Mister Macauley interrupted. “And so would have Kamin been killed, but he was to clever to be tricked by that traitorous Russlander.”

“Oh.” Idhra was sure she had answered it the way her mother’s story went. Maybe mamma told it wrong.

“After Krakowsky of Russland killed nobles Abendroth and Bergstein, the combined families of Pierre Pont and Bel-Cheré traveled to Russland to avenge their comrades’ deaths,” mister Macauley continued, not wanting to give Idhra another chance to insult their King. Boys’ heads were nodding, eager now to show that they understood and would never be made inferior by a female.

“But merely three weeks after the triumphant party returned home to Fransk, Christophe Pierre Pont, the son of Pierre Pont, and his wife, the daughter of Bel-Cheré, were found dead one morning in their estate: killed by Krakowsky’s twisted supporters.

“Their son Olivier Pierre Pont survived, though, as well as their eldest daughter, Mireille, who is wed to King Kamin, Queen of this land, and mother to our crown-prince. The youngest daughter disappeared: she was not found dead with her parents or live with her siblings, so our great King, just as he took in Mireille and Olivierre, vowed to find Christianne, the youngest daughter and favorite child of Christophe.

“Now, many years later, the maiden still has not been located, but King Kamin has not ceased his search. His men have come to this part of the empire to search for her, and they expect success!”

Whispers sped through the one-room schoolhouse; all the boys exchanging their surprise that there might be a noblewoman nearby.

Alfvidhra listened with interest and confusion. Her mother’s story went much differently; with Kamin slyly killing off each of his competitors, mad with power and lust for the thrown. And it always ended dramatically with the death of Christophe Pierre Pont, shot with a burning arrow in his own courtyard, and slashed through the heart with Kamin’s gleaming sword.

“Idhra, it’s time to leave,” came a quiet voice. “Alfvidha?”

“I’m coming,” she sighed.

“Why do you do that?” Sara asked when they were outside.

“What?”

“You… Sit there…”

Idhra frowned, confused.

“You sit there, too. That’s what we do in school.”

“He’s over thirty,” she blurted.

Idhra immediately blushed.

“He ¾ He’s from Befriland.”

“I know.”

“And his eyes are brown… and ¾”

Sara giggled. Idhra was on the verge of tears.

“Isn’t it a pity I’m not as poor as you are,” cut in a voice, “so that I could think about him as seriously as you do?”

Idhra whipped around, her gold-bronze plaits slapping at her face.

“Go home, Ylva.” She wanted to wipe at her eyes, but couldn’t; not with Ylva right there.

“I like his brown eyes, too,” she continued. “Don’t you want someone to appreciate him with you?” Idhra didn’t know how much longer the tears could stay on her eyes. Her vision was blurring. The world was moving around in watery waves. She didn’t dare blink, for fear it would push her tears over the edge of her lids, sending them cascading down her cheeks. She couldn’t cry.

“Go home, Ylva!” Sara almost yelled. Idhra was stunned. Her cousin was always polite to everyone, never raising her voice. Alfvidhra even doubted whether Sara ever had rude thoughts against anyone.

“Oh, all right,” Ylva sighed, managing to sound thoroughly disappointed through her amusement, and she walked off with her nose in the air, swinging her braids so Sara and Idhra could see the sky-blue ribbons tied in them.

Sara watched longingly at Ylva’s sparklingly white blouse and shiny new shoes as they turned back around to go home. But Ylva turned back toward them.

“Oh, Idhra. I forgot to tell you. Mister Macauley came to our house on Saturday…” She let the sentence fall away.

“I’d like some shoes like that,” Sara said longingly after Ylva’d gone away. Idhra tried not to cry or think about what Ylva had said. Or what it could mean either, but hundreds of possibilities sprouted and took root.

They walked along the main road to where Fattig Street cut through it, and turned toward their house: third on the right. Sara wiped the dirt off her shoes with a rag, and put them neatly by the door.

And then the sound of the drums cut through everything else, and Idhra looked out toward Valdarr, the city across the fens, and only place close enough to them that the drums would be heard.

Idhra’s mother rushed into the hallway, her face indifferent, but with steep worry in her eyes. Idhra didn’t think much about it, just listened again for the drums; it wasn’t often that a message came this far into the country, and that made it always fun to listen to. She was one of the only people in town that could translate the beats.

She struggled to remember the beat translations her parents had taught her, and the translation was strange. She wasn’t sure she had it right.

Noble. Intend. Retain. Girl. It repeated several times. Idhra’s mother started breathing hard, and she sank slowly to the floor, cradling her head in her hands. Then the drumbeat changed, and words started to unfold letter by letter. It was near to never that a message would contain words that didn’t have their own beats. Idhra glanced at her mother, wondering, and decided it would be best to listen to the rest of the message, to find the part that upset her.

I-M-U-S-T-K-N-O-W stop. W-H-E-R-E-D-O-Y-O-U-P-L-A-C-E-Y-O-U-R-S-E-L-F  stop.

Sara had neglected the drumbeat, and was stroking Idhra’s mother’s hair, patting her back as she shivered convulsively. Idhra was scared. She glanced at her mother, and back toward Valdarr. Where do you place yourself ? What did any of the message have to do with her mother?

Alfvidhra’s father came crashing through the back door, lines of worry cutting deep into his face. Aunt Cathrin and Uncle Mats appeared from the kitchen. All the adults looked terrified.

Uncle Mats grabbed his daughter by the wrist and jerked her to her feet. Before another moment had gone by, Idhra and Sara had been shuffled out the door.

They were all walking down the main road again: back toward the schoolhouse. Idhra’s parents were speaking in Fransk, her mother’s voice thick with fear.

“Alfvidhra, Sara, go home,” she said at last.

“No. Stay,” her father countered. Her mother started to cry.

“They’ll burn the house, no matter what, Christianne,” he said gently. “Their only chance will be with us.”

“Mamma?” Idhra asked. She couldn’t figure out what was going on. “Mamma, you’re Kjersten, not Christianne! That’s the name of ¾”

“Kjersten is Norsk for Christianne,” her mother said, cutting her off and clasping her daughter’a hand tightly. Idhra stopped walking, shocked.

“Mamma?” Kjersten looked at her sadly.

“Papa, who are you?” she demanded.

“Crown prince of Norsk. But I guess you want the full name? Hjalmr Odin Havard Jarlaner. Mats and I escaped from King Kamin after he attacked the Norsk capital trying to find your mother.”

Sara took it all in wide-eyed. She hadn’t had time to put her shoes back on before they’d been dragged from the house, and looked very uncomfortable. She slowed eventually, after stepping on a sharp rock, and Uncle Mats picked her up and carried her like a baby.

“So your story about the King was right, mamma.”

It wasn’t a question. There came no answer.

“Why didn’t King Sternlicht marry again after his first wife died?” Sara asked over Uncle Mats’ shoulder. There was a pause after, and Idhra thought no one would answer, but Kjersten began telling the story in her sweet, liquidy voice.

 “I wasn’t at the funeral,” she began, “but I’ve heard stories enough to know…

“Sternlich looked over his silent guests, sure that the rest of his Kingdom was as quiet. He knew that the sweet, sad sound of the harps would carry over the waters as if the instruments were playing across the moat, not on the sloping green lawns here.

“Wondering whether his speech would carry as well, and with only one way to find out, he began: tales of his wife spilling from his lips as if he wanted all the people of the world to know. The duty of a King, he thought as he spoke.

“The duties of a King! His life had been spent writing and signing documents, blessing babies and helping peasants. And as he came to the section of his dialogue announcing the ball to be held where he would pick his new queen, Sternlich wondered whether that be what he wanted.

“So when he came to the part, he pushed it aside, and began with his own piece that told of how old he was and how tired he’d become. It told of the way he’d loved his wife like he could love no one else, and that he would not choose another bride, and so would have no heir.

“When the day was done, and all Sternlicht’s guests went home, many said that his own words were more beautifully woven than those that the bards and scholars had written for that day, the ones he had abandoned. Most thought it was the sorrow thick in Sternlicht’s voice that touched them, and some even told of tears that had stained the cheeks of most by the end of the funeral.

“But two nobles of Fransk, one of Russland, and three of the King’s own country left the assembly plotting and thinking to themselves.

“Now the thrown was open!” She paused, and licked her lips. “You know the rest of the story.” She meant Kamin’s rise to power: the part that ended with a fiery arrow.