Born Under an Ill-Omened Star

A Shelter for a Bride

The evening sunlight filters through the palm tree leaves that create a canopy overhead. I'm grateful that the foliage isn't so dense so as to completely block out those last rays. This morning I could not have predicted that this is how I would be spending my evening. I wonder what they will do with the lavish feast we had prepared for the wedding guests? Hopefully, the food hasn't gone to waste. As absurd as it sounds, after having endured extreme starvation during the War, the thought of a table of food going to waste saddens me greatly. But I can imagine now, our guests hastily retreating to the safety of their homes, away from the uncomfortable atmosphere hanging over that church like a black cloud, that I, of course, brought on. 

 Thankfully, my childhood spent exploring means that I am familiar with the forest and am able to navigate the narrow trails that web through the forest floor. I have a destination in mind, but can't be sure that it exists the way I remember. 

I clutch Beni's reins in one hand as we weave through the tall palm trees. It certainly won't be possible to climb their branchless trunks if predators reveal themselves in the night. 

Two hours pass and we reach the glade I haven't seen in more than ten years. A wave of relief washes over me as I take in the makeshift treehouse my father and I built all those years ago. In reality, it is on the ground and, therefore, more of a hut, but eight-year-old me found the prospect of a treehouse much more exciting and decided to name it as such.  

I can see that my 'treehouse' has not aged well with time. The palm tree leaves layered as roofing have dried and crispened in the unseasonably hot weather and the wooden walls slant at awkward angles. 

I tie Beni's reins to a nearby tree and pull out the waterskin from his saddle pouch. It's three-quarters full and Beni drinks gratefully. I know where to find freshwater in this forest, and it is one less thing to worry about. 

On my hands and knees, I carefully crawl through the opening of my treehouse and disturb what appears to be a colony of ants. They are in their thousands, all working away. I consider trying to swipe them away but there's so many and I'm guaranteed at least 100 bites. I curse my omens and back out the way I came. 

The only option is the forest floor, exposed to the elements and more worryingly, the predators. I've never seen a magnafeles in person - a sabre-toothed cat twice the size of a tiger and well-documented as dwelling in rainforests and, more commonly, palm tree forests. They are nocturnal creatures and so I've never been at their mercy, until today. 

Fire is the only thing I can think of that might deter magnafeles or any of their friends for that matter, and so I set about making one. There are flint and steel in Beni's saddlebag - a travel tip of my father - and so it is not long before small flames are crackling away. I have to hope that we're deep enough into the forest that the rising smoke is difficult to spot and our location will remain a secret.

 Beni and I chew on some palm tree shoots as the gravity of my actions starts to sink in. I think I might have lost the love of my life. No, I have definitely lost the love of my life. Who would take someone back who not only publically humiliated them but considered them guilty of high treason? The realisation leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and it's not the shoots. I spit them out as I feel my body start to seize up and before I know it I'm wracked with deep sobs. There's no part of me that can, or is willing, to hold it in any longer. It's like releasing all the tension that's been building up inside me since I fled the church. Until now, it has been a step by step process: get the horse, leave the village, get to the treehouse, make a camp. Having completed these tasks systematically, the only thing I can do it reflect. It's impossible not to question what I've done: why did I feel the overwhelming need to leave? Why couldn't I just hear Xander out? The more I think about the more I can't fathom the irrationality of my decision.  

My airway seems to tighten and I am struggling to breathe. I choke on tears as I gasp and splutter. It feels like drowning. I'd heard of this type of attack. They were a common occurrence for Alicia Braden, a kind but quiet handmaid, for a number of years.

 I focus on steadying my breathing. Snap out of it! After what feels like an eternity, I find myself being able to breathe again, not as well as I would have liked, but certainly better than before. The entire thing probably lasted a minute. 

Having regained my breath, my mind returns to Xander. Could  Xander kill the King? What could possibly drive him to do so? My head is scrambled. When Thaydon made his ill-timed declaration, my immediate reaction was to consider it possible. That, I cannot ignore. After all,  someone like me, born under the cursed star of Syphus, has relied on their instincts to get to this point. All others born of Star Syphus didn't make it past infancy. There must be a reason why I have out-lived them all. I've relied on instinct my entire life and I cannot dismiss it so readily. 

I lay on my back and fall into an uneasy sleep, my pillow comprising of a bundled wedding veil.