A Tale of Crowns and Stars

Mummers & Lace

      Whispers of fabric ran around Cyra as the dressmaker clothed her in white, her plump, rosy cheeks, and round figure reminding her of a storybook character. Cyra was stuck with Bilka and Smyrna during her dress fitting, as no one could find Mirabel later that morning, no matter how hard they looked.

      "The bust has to be modest." Bilka piped up behind the woman, who merely nodded as she worked.

      "And the frame just right around the waist," Smyrna added, sipping tea from her porcelain cup. Cyra looked down at the woman - who measured the length from her knees to the floor - and gave an apologetic smile. The lady smiled and shook her head - this was not by any means new to her. The business of wedding dress creating wasn't easy, but it was a task the lady below her had done many times before.

      "Do you have any preferences?" The dressmaker whispered as she brushed the back of the fabric down Cyra's backside. "Anything special?" Cyra eyed her mother and Smyrna, who chattered about gossip and things that wouldn't matter in twenty-four hours. The coast was clear.

      "I like long sleeves." The woman nodded, her chestnut bun bobbing as she acknowledged the request. Then came the veil and the crown. The silver plastic thing was nowhere near as decadent as the crown she would inherit upon becoming the High Princess, but it fit for sizing purposes. The veil dropped down to her waist, and the dressmaker stepped back.

      "Tulle is cheap!" Her mother chimed in, and the dressmaker moved to choose one made of silk. "No, the lace one."

      The lace veil dropped over her eyes, and the two women oohed and ahhed in unison. Cyra rolled her eyes behind the cover - couldn't someone rescue her from the most unnecessary part of wedding planning?

      As if the gods heard her prayer, Wyndemere came stumbling into the shop, his white hair tousled. "Mummers!" He shouted at the women, who filed out of the shop with haste. The rowdy actors and sword dancers' annual parade was one of the highlights of the Yuletide, which the dressmaker recognized as she quickly stripped Cyra of the fabric and let her escape into the street barefoot.

      By the time she got to the edge of the sidewalk, colors were passing her by - reds, blues, purples, oranges, white, black, greens -  all who beheld the performers could not contain their fascination. The din of pan pipes and drums grew in timbre, and many began to clap along disjointedly with the music as they approached a makeshift stage, where various characters climbed on and danced about before beginning their play.

      This year, it was a play about the gods: Shekmir - the god of judgment, who dressed in all gold from head to toe, Usasis - the goddess of beginnings and conquests, her skin dark and tongue cherry red, Rhadros- king of the gods, with his battle-ax, the Ash Wolf - bringer of chaos, and finally, the King of Spirits - not a god, but a human who lived a just life and died as an innocent. Cyra knew this play by heart.

      The Ash Wolf, determined to eat the gods, would pounce on Usasis and attempt to bite out her throat after knocking her unconscious, but Rhadros would stop the Wolf by chopping off one of his back legs. An actor beneath the stage would toss a fake wolf leg into the crowd, and the children would shriek - out of fear or obligation, no one ever knew. Then Rhadros would suffer a blow from the Ash Wolf that would leave him incapacitated. Before the Ash Wolf could finish the job, however, Shekmir would struggle with the Wolf himself, tangling with the beast in a mass of fur and gold until they both died. Upon Shekmir's death, the now recovered Usasis and Rhadros would petition the King of Spirits for Shekmir's soul to return it to his body and restore justice to the world. The King of Spirits would grant their request - a life for a life - and return the god to the living, and the play would end.