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Prologue

You’ve Never Heard of Me, but I Am Very Famous

I never thought that anyone would tell a story about my deeds. When it ended up happening anyway, I certainly never expected that first story to turn into several dozen contradictory versions, spreading across the world and becoming completely unrecognizable as it went.

As a protagonist, I’m an unlikely choice. No prophecies were uttered at my birth. I’ve never stumbled over a genie’s lamp in a cave, and no one ever gave me a handful of magic beans in exchange for a dying cow. Or any other dying farm animal, for that matter.

I’m one of seven siblings, it’s true, but I’m neither the youngest, nor the oldest, nor even the middlemost. And while I’ve been granted a magic power, it’s not so much a gift as an uncontrollable curse that’s completely fucked up my life. In short, I’ve never had main character energy.

After I played a bit part in someone else’s adventure, helping my friend Jacqueline save the life of her true love, King Gervase, I assumed that would be the end of it. Once the hero and heroine got married, the fairy tale was over, right? No quests or love matches or starring roles for the rest of us. Instead, we received our lesser rewards—which meant knighthoods for my sisters and myself—and after that, no one needed to hear from us ever again. We could take our final bow and live in quiet obscurity for the rest of our days.

Not very exciting, perhaps. Maybe even a bit disappointing. But at least it would be safe.

Ha.

Ha, ha.

Yeah, turns out, not so much. There was still quite a bit left to do. So, there are stories about me now.

Lots of them. Mostly wrong. Every version of my exploits contains at least a kernel of the truth. They all start off with the right idea. Someone who isn’t a man—like yours truly—dons male clothing as a disguise. The only point of agreement in all of them is that if a fairy-tale adventure is the goal, then wearing a dress sucks ass.

Just as these stories about me all begin the same way, they also all end the same way. I’ll get back to that later.

Much later.

The version of my story that contains the most truth—which still isn’t very much—is called “The Tale of Ilyana the Golden.” Roughly speaking, it goes something like this:

Once upon a time, there was a great emperor who conquered nearly the whole world. And of each country he subdued, he demanded that the king send a son into his service, or else no peace would be declared. One conquered king, however, had no sons to send.

“Alas!” he bewailed—for in this kind of old-fashioned story, everyone tends toward the histrionic, and no one speaks normally when they could bewail, grumble, or bellow instead. “Alas!” he bewailed. “Why have I no strong, manly sons? All I have is a pointless, useless girl!”

“I’m standing right here, you know,” his daughter grumbled. “But worry not, Father. Though until now I have only worn dresses, I will disguise myself as a man and enter the emperor’s service as your son.”

I’m going to interrupt the story here to point out a few things it’s already gotten wrong. It wasn’t my father who sent me; it was my horrible older sister Gruoch. She actually did have a son, but I went in his place.

That wasn’t even the first time I’d dressed as a man. When I played a small role in that saving-the-king quest I mentioned before, a dozen of us wore huntsmen’s outfits as part of a bizarre scheme to confuse monstrous assassins. But if I point out all the inaccuracies in the tale, there’ll never be an end to it, so I’ll leave it be for now.

The princess went to the stables to choose a steed. In the last stall, she found her father’s elderly, spavined, swaybacked warhorse.

“Choose me,” the horse advised her. “It is true that I am old, and I suffer much from asthma. And scabies. And lungworms. And a tiny case of advanced osteoporosis. But I will serve you as best I can.”

“Then you shall be my choice!” the princess assented. She donned a suit of men’s clothes, mounted the horse, and rode away.

Unbeknownst to her, however, her father was a magician. He raced ahead of his daughter and threw a bridge of gold across a stream, then turned himself into a many-headed dragon. But the horse, who was also a magician, warned the princess of how her father planned to make her prove herself.

Even forewarned, the princess nearly faltered when she saw the fearsome dragon waiting for her on the bridge. Gathering her courage, she spurred the horse forward and fought the dragon for nearly an hour. Finally, she cut off one of its heads with a mighty blow. The dragon fell to the ground, and rose as her father.

He threw his arms around her. “You are strong and brave enough for this task.” If she hadn’t been strong and brave enough, then presumably he would have killed her and eaten her corpse, but let us not dwell on the complexities of father-daughter relationships.

The princess rode on. As she journeyed over the mountains, she came across one genius locked in battle with another. From context, it can be inferred that a genius is some kind of monstrous supernatural creature, but this version of the story will not provide the reader with anything so helpfully crass as a description.

“Young hero!” the first genius shouted. “If you aid me, you shall be rewarded with a great treasure! I will give you my magical talking horse!”

Her own horse nickered for her attention. “You should take his offer and replace me. The horse he speaks of is my brother, Sunlight.”

The princess split the second genius’s skull in two with a swing of her sword and followed the first one back to his house.

The genius’s mother was pleased to see her son come home safely, but suspected that his new companion was a woman in disguise—one who would make a perfect wife for her son. The genius scoffed at the idea, for he believed no woman could wield a sword so well.