“Because they’re too poor.”
Yet the gown I wore to the feast could have clothed ten of them.
I shook away the memory. We reached a long hall marked with arches crossing high overhead. At the end, atop towering columns, stood carved figures of the four Guardians. Aeretha, Guardian of sky with her soaring wings was next to Helionyx, Guardian of fire, with his hotheaded scowl. The large, crosshatched stone he was always depicted with was in one of his hands. On the other side of the hall stood Terragos, Guardian of earth, dressed as always in his simple robes beside Nymphaea, Guardian of sea with her fishlike tail.
They stood tall before us. Each Guardian held one palm up to support the ceiling of the chapel, and our world, above our heads. A great sculptor must have chipped away at their bodies for decades.
The scent of burning sage stung my nose as we entered the quiet space. Two long rows of pews waited. We were the first and only visitors to pay homage this early in the morning.
My governess pulled the black velvet kneeler down for us. She reached into her pocket and took out a small string of gems and pearls carved into blue stones and handed it to me.
I knew the bracelet well: mother's prayer beads for her chosen Guardian, Nymphaea. I hadn’t held it in years. Vega had kept it safe. It was the last thing in this world that had belonged to my mother. A gift for me, given to my governess, before mother’s execution at this very castle.
Now it had returned.
I shifted on my knees to look each Guardian in the eyes. They each had their own stories of jealousy, treachery, and mortal flaws. Likely because they were human-crafted. A blasphemous thought. Maybe it was because of the despair that troubled my life, but I had no faith in the Guardians. I did not believe they were real. There was no magic in this world, no true wielders of fate. There was only the hand you were dealt, fair or poor, that decided whether you became a child out in the snow or a king seated on a throne. Or a bastard in between. But maybe you could make the best of those cards if you were cunning enough.
I was unsure if I was, in fact, cunning enough. Maybe my hand was too shit to win. The night before had been a disaster. If anything, I believed my father loathed me more than ever.
I ran a thumb over the prayer bracelet. My mother likely prayed in this very chapel years ago with these very beads.
Now history repeated itself.
Vega’s whispers to her preferred Guardian, Aeretha, beside me filled the room, softly rebounding off the stone-paved walls. We were to recite each prayer eight times. A complete waste of time. But at least the stories were interesting. I looked around the chapel, reciting the words from rote memory while my hands idly thumbed each bead.
“Guardian of the sea, mother of the ocean, master of water. I pray now to Nymphaea.” My thumb found the next bead. “Your greatness is to be told until the four Guardians unite again.”
Next: “Your story is how you created the sea to hide from Terragos and his wrath, even against his warnings, for he wanted only his world to rule. But he was a callous ruler, and his land hard and cruel.”
The next bead was a pearl carved into a fish. Circling my thumb against its grainy texture, I continued, “From the water, you created the sirens in your image, giving them your gift of song and the command to guard your body, to love and protect the sea as you do, from Terragos.”
Next: “Terragos was angry, for his people of the land were first. He was jealous because you were wise and created beings who could live on both land and sea.” Next: “In his anger, Terragos banished you only to the ocean, cursing your legs into one tail like the fish, like the dolphins, like the great sea serpent Nyraguard. Now you hide in your depths, as do your children.”
I reached the final bead. “To take revenge on Terragos each night, you guide the tide to take his land, but he fights back with might in the morning and sends your tide back. Do not take revenge on us, Holy Mother, although we are his children. Grant us safe passage across your body, the sea. Allow us bounty and nourishment from your shores. Make us fluid and forgiving as you are, great Nymphaea, for I honor you. Guardians be.”
“Lady Elowyn,” a man’s voice called, ringing through the chapel.
Vega’s head whipped around quickly. “We are at prayer, Sir Guardwin!”
The man who witnessed Cedric and I the night before stood at the threshold of the chapel, hands neatly tucked behind his round body. A devious smile spread across his face.
“My deepest apologies, but the king has asked for Lady Elowyn’s audienceimmediately.” Vega stood up with a puff to direct me as she angrily shifted her skirts and marched onward. I trailed behind her.
The walk up to the king’s private room was long and full of stairs that spent my breath. How the stout man before me managed them with ease was a wonder, but Sir Guardwin did not speak, only maintaining a knowing grin as he followed behind Vega.
I’d never seen her so perturbed. Or was that worry creasing her brow?
We approached the embellished wooden doors. Two guards posted on each side stood unflinching.
“The king has commanded the Lady Elowyn’s presence,” Vega said.
Each guard took one stiff step forward, and in practiced unison, opened the doors.
I tried not to contort my face in confusion when I saw my father, Cedric, and the queen waiting inside. Why were they all here and what did my father want? Warmth from the fire in the man-tall hearth met us, but no warmth exuded from my father’s expression. No. He was as cold as the snow that froze his people outside.
Cedric stood stock-still at his side, and the queen looked out the window a few paces from my father, a loose hand on her pregnant swell.
“Shut the doors,” the king shouted, throwing out a hand with his demand. He looked at his wife with no love. Did he look at my mother that way too? Like she was a vessel and not a human.
