A Fistful of Fire: Chronicles of Marsdenfel #1

Year 247 of the Bynding

Year 247 of the Bynding

The Kingdom of Salles

Winter, before Solstice

Of all the kinds’ arts, the ancient elven is the most elaborate. Once, our best artists were mages, casting spells to discover stories and art in their dreams.

But such use of magic always costs, and it cost us our ability to create in our dreams. We dream what happens around us as we sleep. What is not true, what has not happened, we cannot dream.

—Endellion

· · · • • • · · ·

“Your stitches are too loose,” I say with as much calm politeness as I can muster, to the spoiled noble-born girl who’s barely learned the basics of embroidery over the past few years.

Rather, Marigold’s learned them well enough, only so she can intentionally do them wrongly. She’s still convinced that she doesn’t need to learn embroidery and that someday King Aldrik will come to his senses and relieve her of my presence. And this despite she and other noble girls hiring me to pretty up their dresses, since I reached subadulthood.

She sniffs. “Mend it. That’s your job.”

“You don’t mend embroidery.” I struggle not to snap at her in my irritation. “Mending is for seams and hems, to keep clothing wearable. Embroidery either works or it doesn’t.”

“If that’s beyond your skill, you can just say so. Or wait—maybe you can’t admit it, since mending is all you’re good for, after all.”

“At least I’m good for something,” I retort. “You can’t even embroider a simple pattern.”

“My lordship won’t have me do such things.”

I laugh outright. “You’re not worth an essere, never mind an attare!”

Marigold shrieks indignation and rushes me, wielding her needle. I stare at her. “Marigold, mage.”

She doesn’t react to those words—I grab her wrist so she doesn’t stab me in the eye. But I’m an elfin-small girl, and Marigold’s blossomed into her womanhood; this isn’t going to last for long. Doesn’t leave me much choice, really. I could mutter some rather distasteful things about this.

The fire comes easily, heating the needle ’til Marigold yelps and drops it, her fingers singed.

William abruptly shoves the noble girl away from me. “Better hope His Highness doesn’t hear about that,” he says sourly. I stumble; he grabs my arm to steady me. Once I’m secure on my own feet, he releases me and bows slightly per Runner protocol before delivering a message. “His Highness would like his favorite jerkin now, if you’re done mending it. He’s in the courtyard.”

Prince Aidan wants me to take him his jerkin now? A subadult girl taking an adult man his clothing in public? I rub my cheekbone. Well, at least it’s overgarb. “Men’s?”

William nods and winces, obviously aware of the impropriety of His Highness’s demand. “A word of advice? Take your sewing basket with you. It’ll keep most from getting the…from thinking you…”

From thinking that I’m there to proposition for a lover. Which is precisely why I’ve never entered the inner courtyards in the four years that I’ve been here and therefore have no idea how I’m going to find Prince Aidan now. “Thanks.”

“I’m on a Run to His Majesty, too.”

So he can’t help me by showing me the way. My avoidance of the inner courtyards means I don’t know which one I’m going to have to enter, now. “East or west?”