A Questionable Quest

Chapter I... in which I set some paper on fire and talk to a wizard

Princess Ariabelle Tatiana of Harvenmor was no ordinary princess.

She didn't simper. She didn't dance like an angel, or float light a cloud when she walked. She didn't dream of knights in-

The scribbling quill paused. That wasn't exactly true.

I drew the feathered nib across the line. A thin stream of ink flowed onto the parchment, striking definitively through the line.

The tip of the feather tapped thoughtfully against my wrist.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Just last night, I had dreamed of knights. In rusty armour covered in dust, laughing raucously, surrounding a campfire deep in the woods.

I had been one of them.

I could still feel the heat of the fire, the laughter bubbling inside me. The secure weight of a dagger at my hip -- my sword resting against a log a few feet away.

I sighed. The quill fell to the parchment -- slashing inelegantly across the poorly written words. Knights and campfires and close friendships. That was what Princess Ariabelle Tatiana of Harvenmor dreamed about. That was what I dreamed about.

Still, Princesses couldn't be knights. Everyone knew that. Even I knew that. Besides, I told the king and queen when they marvelled in dismay at my insistence in learning to use a weapon, I didn't actually want to be a knight. I just wanted to see what it was like.

After that, I would be happy to go live a boring life in a palace in a Faraway Land. With nothing but... embroidery... and fancy balls...

Blehrg.

My nose crinkled in disgust. Maybe not happy. But I'd do it. Cause that was what fourth-in-line princesses did.

With a world-weary sigh (that was rather melodramatic, even for me), I crumpled the parchment into a rough ball. It crunched satisfyingly between my fingers. Stupid assignment. I held the paper ball between my fingers and blew softly.

Within seconds, indigo flames had wrapped themselves around the ball, devouring it, little by little.

The tendrils of fire licked at my fingertips, but did little more than tickle.

Creeeeeaaaaaaaaak.

I stood and spun, just as the last glowing purple ember dropped to the desk.

"What are you doing?"

I shrugged.

Nannadora shot me a stern look. I bit back a grin. For an eight-year-old, her motherly looks were... convincing.

"Has anyone ever said you look like mother when you do that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You." I gestured to my youngest sister who stood there, hands on hips, frowning like she'd just eaten something disagreeable but couldn't think of a polite insult. "You look like mother."

"No I don't. And stop changing the subject."

My grin widened. Using my arm, I brushed the parchment remains into a copper basket next to my desk. Several other half-charred scraps of parchment hung out of the waste bin. "I'm not changing the subject."

"Yes. You are."

"No. I'm not."

"Then what were you doing?" Nannadora's gaze followed me as I hopped onto my cushioned bed. "You were doing your little fire trick, weren't you." It wasn't a question, so I said nothing. Nannadora waited a moment, before continuing: "Mother said you're going to scare someone someday with that."