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No one can say when a story really begins -- if it’s a birth or a death, the fall of a leaf or the flap of a butterfly’s wings. If you believe, as some Helens do, that everything is connected to everything else, this tale and all others begin twenty Danus and thousands of years ago, before the First Families had created the concept of clans. But if I start so far back, the telling would take longer than the living and our society might be as faded and dusty as the Spartans before I reach the end. So let us venture only slightly into history, back to the first year of the reign of R’Majesty, Danu Elizabeth, the twenty-fifth Matriarch of the Families.
No one can say when a story really begins -- if it’s a birth or a death, the fall of a leaf or the flap of a butterfly’s wings. If you believe, as some Helens do, that everything is connected to everything else, this tale and all others begin twenty Danus and thousands of years ago, before the First Families had created the concept of clans. But if I start so far back, the telling would take longer than the living and our society might be as faded and dusty as the Spartans before I reach the end. So let us venture only slightly into history, back to the first year of the reign of R’Majesty, Danu Elizabeth, the twenty-fifth Matriarch of the Families.
A few days after the new Elizabeth was crowned, a
baby was left at the front gate of Shadowed Rooster Tower. The foundling
gurgled happily in the requisite wicker basket, clutching the obligatory non-explanatory
note. She was, of course, taken in (because that is what one does in these
tales); and over the years the foundling became the darling of the tower. The wizard
let her run wild, the head cook encouraged her questions, the guards made her
tiny chainmail, and the Servers happily spent their spare breaths chatting with her.
When the foundling was ten, her mate Deibra
neDeirdreyBraedin officially joined the household as trainee to
Savant Marla. When
the foundling was eleven, she broke her arm playing “guard the tower” with
Jernine neJamlyn, one of the NeachCook’s
granddaughters. When the foundling was twelve, she learned (accidently) how
babies were made. Which brings us, rather quickly, to All Fools’ Day, 2513,
when puberty hit the foundling with a sledgehammer.
I shall pause here to let you know that in any other Nation, it would be immediately evident to my audience that this
foundling is the heir to the throne, and the next Matriarch of the Families.
However,
if you have paid attention in your history lessons, you know that the keeping
of our lands does not rely upon the blood of our rulers; it relies on the
strength of them, and the willingness they have to give totally to our land. So
please release any notions that our little foundling is destined to rule, well,
anything.
This does not make her any less of an important
historical figure. Much of her life is open to public scrutiny on the
fountains, many of her actions the subject of scholarly debate. I am not here
to defend or condemn, merely to paint the picture of the life
of a young girl, an average girl, who did what she could with the tools she was
given.
Let us continue. Picture with me a violet dawn draped around the forbidding tower of the Shadowed Rooster, the oldest and least accessible Tower in Ainland. See a light wink as a door opens and closes again. Watch a tall woman, in cloak and hood, swing a satchel aboard a horse, leap gracefully into the saddle, and gallop away as if trolls were after her.
See a swirl of color –- or of light, or possibly sound –- appear in the sky. It flashes and disappears. Another swirl appears, another whirlwind of air and sound and light; this one stabilizes, solidifies, widens into a window and shows, briefly, a host of concerned faces. Then, as if a hand has wiped across the sky, the disturbance is gone, and the air is calm.
See the rays of the sun creep up the tower wall, reluctant to bring the day any faster than necessary. Light splits and slides into windows, checking each occupant, caressing each face before continuing upward.
See the foundling in her childish room, snuggled deep under her covers, dreaming one last time of puppies and swords and dashing young princes.
And see the foundling bolt upright when a scream rings through the bedroom.
It was a scream only a girl can sound: high-pitched, shrieking, full of terror and disbelief. It was a scream guaranteed to stop birds in flight and burst stone. It was a scream the foundling easily recognized as belonging to her closest mate, Deibra.
The foundling plumped up her pillow, scooched up to lean against the headboard, and watched the door expectantly.
Deibra burst through. “Savant Marla left at dawn!” (As if trolls were after her.) “She was kind enough to leave a note! Unsigned!” Deibra waved the piece of paper over her head. “Grateful I know her handwriting! She says it was a family crisis and she is confident…” Deibra smoothed out the paper and read in a disdainful voice, “‘…confident Trainee Deibra can assume the secretarial duties with little difficulty.’ Little difficulty! As if it was easy!”
The foundling nodded her head sympathetically.
Deibra paced. “I still have two years until entitlement. Two years! I’m still learning which letterhead to use when responding to R’Majesty. I have no idea how to issue invitations, set up dinner parties, order supplies.” Deibra whirled, face pale. “Oh, Unmentioned. Supplies. She never even let me see the accounts for the supplies. Only the daily use logs. But inventory was next halfmoon. She laughed about boiled linen. Why did she laugh? How much boiled linen does a wizard go through in a day?”
The foundling murmured and sighed and shook her head. She didn’t even know if boiled linen was a cloth thing or a food thing.
“I do know one thing.” Deibra spun again and straightened her shoulders. “It’s All Fools’ Day, which means we’ll have maybe fifteen breaths of NeachDare Destin’s time. I’m going to park myself outside his door, so as not to waste one breath of it.” The bedroom door closed defiantly behind her.
The foundling leaned her head against the headboard and closed her eyes for one last breath of peace. Then she climbed out of bed to join Deibra in her moment of hysteria.
Some historians wonder if this was the decisive breath. However, like the beginning of a story, the point of transition is difficult to pin down. After all, who decides who will play what roles? Destiny? The cousin in question? The random pick of the Unmentioned? It probably has something to do with past lives and choices made before rebirth, and those things the average cousins are not given to know.
Though we skalds keep trying to find out.
The head of Shadowed Rooster on All Fools’ 2513 was NeachDare Destin. He had been the head wizard for all of the foundling’s thirteen years, and a few more years besides. He knew how All Fools’ Day was supposed to work. Banishing a cloud of faces outside his own Tower was not the most unusual thing he’d done. But being accosted by two shrill adolescent females as he exited his workroom was not part of the routine. Perhaps he was more abrupt than he could have been; perhaps many things could have been avoided if he’d taken the time for a few kind words, an explanation, a gesture of sympathy.
In his defense, NeachDare Destin had been working since before sunrise, and he really had to pee. So, his last four public sentences were curt. “All I need from you is the special herb tea. I need it now. We will sort the rest out tomorrow. Get out of my way.”
If we knew the outcome of our decisions, would we choose differently? Possibly. And perhaps that is why the Helens can’t see everything, so we can make our choices on the needs and feelings of the breath, and not on the guilt of the future.
Happily, with a specific task in her grasp and a short time limit, Deibra calmed down and set out to prove herself an efficient acting-secretary. The foundling went with her, ready to hold jars, read instructions, and offer encouragement.
You will not be surprised to hear that the special herb jar was empty.
The girls searched the tower high and low, and believe me, there are plenty of both. They found many interesting things -- like a room full of statues and the bee hives, some of which they would rather not have found -- like the chicken coop; but there was no sign of the requested herb. Deibra did know the herb was to assist the wizard in staying alert and energetic for the rest of his shift in the Tower, so after much discussion, the acting-secretary and the untitled foundling sent the Server up with a pot of coffee, and held their breaths. When no bolts of lightning came down from the ceiling, they assumed everything was okay -- or would wait until tomorrow as decreed -- and settled down to learn the way of running a wizard’s tower.
It was just after luncheon –- or what would have been luncheon if they’d remembered to order it –- when another anguished scream rang round the tower, bounced off the sky, and circled back to begin the lovely tradition that is now taken for granted. “I don’t want to be a wizard!”
It took the foundling a halfmoon to recover her senses.
Her first conscious thought, upon realizing she was the acting-wizard of the tower, was to wish she could crawl back into the sweet darkness of oblivion. The agonized cry had been extremely unconscious, along with the rest of her, because being hit with the power of a dying wizard is not a pleasant thing.
Even an agile young mind has difficulty adjusting to a major change of life. If that change happens within the blink of an eye, one expects to spend a moon under the bed covers denying the fact before one gets out and gets on with it.
But R’Majesty forced the foundling out of her retreat long before the desired moon was up. Perhaps R’Majesty thought the work and responsibility of the tower would help the foundling fend off the shock and dismay, until she was rational enough to think and too tired to get mad. Perhaps this was even how it worked.
However, a wizard’s work is never finished. If one is not casting a spell of one sort or another, one is researching the best way to cast a spell, or studying the effects of a cast spell, or communicating with others about spells cast. One does not have time to contemplate, even for a few breaths, the total unfairness of life, and how one would much rather be crossing swords with one’s bodyguard than be guarded. And when one doesn’t have time to deal with things, the subconscious starts acting up, saying, “Hi, yeah, um, by the way, you have a huge problem and it’s really affecting you.” Thus, the daily wake-up call for the tower and its staff.
As an aside, never offer coffee to a wizard. The caffeine jump starts all the impulses, sending them faster and farther than a human can control.
The foundling had liked coffee. She had liked standing in the rain, and having temper tantrums, and running away to be by herself, and pretending she was a great Skald. She had liked peeking into the arena when she was supposed to be having language lessons, and looking at dresses, and planning her first ball, and commanding her pretend army, and making up her own accounts. She had liked wondering what she was going to look like as an adult, and if she would like making babies, and if she would ever leave the island of the Shadowed Rooster.
Most of all, the foundling had loved her anonymous status. She’d had the future ahead of her. No one had expected her to follow in her footsteps. No noble mother had taught her, day in and out, about protocol and correct behavior. She’d had no responsibility, she was the darling of the tower, and she was her own self.
Now her life belonged to someone else. Hundreds of someone elses. From the time the foundling rose to the time she returned to bed, she was under someone’s watchful eye. When she made too many missteps, she was summoned to the Palace to explain her actions. Which made her feel rather put out, as she was the only thirteen-year-old in the Nation who had to answer to R’Majesty whenever she was naughty. It became much simpler to go along and hope that someday, somehow, she would find firm footing.
Some days the foundling felt like an animated statue, to be placed strategically and pointed at. This was a strangely comforting feeling, as the tower was home to many statues. They came in all shapes and sizes, and often gave off the air of being misplaced or living someone else’s life. Best of all, the statues were quiet; they did not yammer incessantly, wanting Honored this, and Acting-Wizard that, and on and on and on.
The foundling wizard liked the statues so much, in fact, the first spell she memorized was the spell to turn living objects to stone. It was very accessible (on the third page of the first journal she read) and very easy to learn. Almost too easy, she realized, when she started turning cousins into statues with the flick of a hand and the squint of an eye. Common sense dictated she learn the reversal spell also, so when she was called to the carpet (again) the “issue” would already be “corrected.”
The other beings in the Tower with whom she found comfort were the animals. Even the dratted rooster who waited for the foundling to scream before he crowed was preferable to the crowds of cousins she was supposed to order about. Animals didn’t want help for stupid things and animals showed affection and animals did their jobs naturally without needing to ask a hundred questions.
The one animal the foundling could not stand was the Familiar, who should have been a welcome friend and mentor. But he was so snotty, so supercilious, so superior, the foundling couldn’t bear to listen to him. (Obviously, he was a cat. A large, white, very old cat.) The foundling knew the cat was supposed to be her teacher; she even knew he was her best choice of teacher. Nevertheless, the Familiar was so much more useful as a doorstop. Though, like a cat, he always popped up again, fully fleshed and opinionated.
The final change to the household (with the screaming wizard being the first and the stone familiar being the fourth) was the addition of an advisor, or possibly governess, depending upon whom you asked. The foundling hated this advisor with a pure teenage passion; but, as Deibra was busy trying to figure out her new job, and Jernine wouldn’t look at her, and the Familiar continued to be just too obnoxious to bear, and there was never enough time to really visit the statues, the advisor became a constant companion to the foundling; and the familiarity eventually bred a strange sort of hug me/hew me relationship.
That is how things stand for the foundling on the morning of All Fools, 2514, one year after that sliced cup of coffee. A year of screaming herself awake and a year of casting spells with a wish and a prayer. A year of rising every morning and stumbling her way up to the top of the tower. A year of making excuses to the ruler of the Families and making statues out of everyone else. Sad to say the foundling’s fear had not lessened, her ability felt no more honed, her will was only as strong as her anger.
That is why the stories ask for a year and a day. Because that day makes all the difference.
I grant you, the day we’re concerned with is actually one year exactly from the assumption of power, the bright sunny morning of All Fools’ Day, in the fourteenth year of the rule of Danu Elizabeth, twenty-fifth matriarch of the Families. Our foundling has issued her morning scream of anguish; she has turned the Server into a statue and flicked him back again without his knowledge. She has received a cake from Deibra, Acting-Savant d’Shadowed Rooster. And with the morning rituals completed and the nagging voice of Deibra in her head, it was time to rise and start the day.
See a swirl of color –- or of light, or possibly sound –- appear in the sky. It flashes and disappears. Another swirl appears, another whirlwind of air and sound and light; this one stabilizes, solidifies, widens into a window and shows, briefly, a host of concerned faces. Then, as if a hand has wiped across the sky, the disturbance is gone, and the air is calm.
See the rays of the sun creep up the tower wall, reluctant to bring the day any faster than necessary. Light splits and slides into windows, checking each occupant, caressing each face before continuing upward.
See the foundling in her childish room, snuggled deep under her covers, dreaming one last time of puppies and swords and dashing young princes.
And see the foundling bolt upright when a scream rings through the bedroom.
It was a scream only a girl can sound: high-pitched, shrieking, full of terror and disbelief. It was a scream guaranteed to stop birds in flight and burst stone. It was a scream the foundling easily recognized as belonging to her closest mate, Deibra.
The foundling plumped up her pillow, scooched up to lean against the headboard, and watched the door expectantly.
Deibra burst through. “Savant Marla left at dawn!” (As if trolls were after her.) “She was kind enough to leave a note! Unsigned!” Deibra waved the piece of paper over her head. “Grateful I know her handwriting! She says it was a family crisis and she is confident…” Deibra smoothed out the paper and read in a disdainful voice, “‘…confident Trainee Deibra can assume the secretarial duties with little difficulty.’ Little difficulty! As if it was easy!”
The foundling nodded her head sympathetically.
Deibra paced. “I still have two years until entitlement. Two years! I’m still learning which letterhead to use when responding to R’Majesty. I have no idea how to issue invitations, set up dinner parties, order supplies.” Deibra whirled, face pale. “Oh, Unmentioned. Supplies. She never even let me see the accounts for the supplies. Only the daily use logs. But inventory was next halfmoon. She laughed about boiled linen. Why did she laugh? How much boiled linen does a wizard go through in a day?”
The foundling murmured and sighed and shook her head. She didn’t even know if boiled linen was a cloth thing or a food thing.
“I do know one thing.” Deibra spun again and straightened her shoulders. “It’s All Fools’ Day, which means we’ll have maybe fifteen breaths of NeachDare Destin’s time. I’m going to park myself outside his door, so as not to waste one breath of it.” The bedroom door closed defiantly behind her.
The foundling leaned her head against the headboard and closed her eyes for one last breath of peace. Then she climbed out of bed to join Deibra in her moment of hysteria.
Some historians wonder if this was the decisive breath. However, like the beginning of a story, the point of transition is difficult to pin down. After all, who decides who will play what roles? Destiny? The cousin in question? The random pick of the Unmentioned? It probably has something to do with past lives and choices made before rebirth, and those things the average cousins are not given to know.
Though we skalds keep trying to find out.
The head of Shadowed Rooster on All Fools’ 2513 was NeachDare Destin. He had been the head wizard for all of the foundling’s thirteen years, and a few more years besides. He knew how All Fools’ Day was supposed to work. Banishing a cloud of faces outside his own Tower was not the most unusual thing he’d done. But being accosted by two shrill adolescent females as he exited his workroom was not part of the routine. Perhaps he was more abrupt than he could have been; perhaps many things could have been avoided if he’d taken the time for a few kind words, an explanation, a gesture of sympathy.
In his defense, NeachDare Destin had been working since before sunrise, and he really had to pee. So, his last four public sentences were curt. “All I need from you is the special herb tea. I need it now. We will sort the rest out tomorrow. Get out of my way.”
If we knew the outcome of our decisions, would we choose differently? Possibly. And perhaps that is why the Helens can’t see everything, so we can make our choices on the needs and feelings of the breath, and not on the guilt of the future.
Happily, with a specific task in her grasp and a short time limit, Deibra calmed down and set out to prove herself an efficient acting-secretary. The foundling went with her, ready to hold jars, read instructions, and offer encouragement.
You will not be surprised to hear that the special herb jar was empty.
The girls searched the tower high and low, and believe me, there are plenty of both. They found many interesting things -- like a room full of statues and the bee hives, some of which they would rather not have found -- like the chicken coop; but there was no sign of the requested herb. Deibra did know the herb was to assist the wizard in staying alert and energetic for the rest of his shift in the Tower, so after much discussion, the acting-secretary and the untitled foundling sent the Server up with a pot of coffee, and held their breaths. When no bolts of lightning came down from the ceiling, they assumed everything was okay -- or would wait until tomorrow as decreed -- and settled down to learn the way of running a wizard’s tower.
It was just after luncheon –- or what would have been luncheon if they’d remembered to order it –- when another anguished scream rang round the tower, bounced off the sky, and circled back to begin the lovely tradition that is now taken for granted. “I don’t want to be a wizard!”
It took the foundling a halfmoon to recover her senses.
Her first conscious thought, upon realizing she was the acting-wizard of the tower, was to wish she could crawl back into the sweet darkness of oblivion. The agonized cry had been extremely unconscious, along with the rest of her, because being hit with the power of a dying wizard is not a pleasant thing.
Even an agile young mind has difficulty adjusting to a major change of life. If that change happens within the blink of an eye, one expects to spend a moon under the bed covers denying the fact before one gets out and gets on with it.
But R’Majesty forced the foundling out of her retreat long before the desired moon was up. Perhaps R’Majesty thought the work and responsibility of the tower would help the foundling fend off the shock and dismay, until she was rational enough to think and too tired to get mad. Perhaps this was even how it worked.
However, a wizard’s work is never finished. If one is not casting a spell of one sort or another, one is researching the best way to cast a spell, or studying the effects of a cast spell, or communicating with others about spells cast. One does not have time to contemplate, even for a few breaths, the total unfairness of life, and how one would much rather be crossing swords with one’s bodyguard than be guarded. And when one doesn’t have time to deal with things, the subconscious starts acting up, saying, “Hi, yeah, um, by the way, you have a huge problem and it’s really affecting you.” Thus, the daily wake-up call for the tower and its staff.
As an aside, never offer coffee to a wizard. The caffeine jump starts all the impulses, sending them faster and farther than a human can control.
The foundling had liked coffee. She had liked standing in the rain, and having temper tantrums, and running away to be by herself, and pretending she was a great Skald. She had liked peeking into the arena when she was supposed to be having language lessons, and looking at dresses, and planning her first ball, and commanding her pretend army, and making up her own accounts. She had liked wondering what she was going to look like as an adult, and if she would like making babies, and if she would ever leave the island of the Shadowed Rooster.
Most of all, the foundling had loved her anonymous status. She’d had the future ahead of her. No one had expected her to follow in her footsteps. No noble mother had taught her, day in and out, about protocol and correct behavior. She’d had no responsibility, she was the darling of the tower, and she was her own self.
Now her life belonged to someone else. Hundreds of someone elses. From the time the foundling rose to the time she returned to bed, she was under someone’s watchful eye. When she made too many missteps, she was summoned to the Palace to explain her actions. Which made her feel rather put out, as she was the only thirteen-year-old in the Nation who had to answer to R’Majesty whenever she was naughty. It became much simpler to go along and hope that someday, somehow, she would find firm footing.
Some days the foundling felt like an animated statue, to be placed strategically and pointed at. This was a strangely comforting feeling, as the tower was home to many statues. They came in all shapes and sizes, and often gave off the air of being misplaced or living someone else’s life. Best of all, the statues were quiet; they did not yammer incessantly, wanting Honored this, and Acting-Wizard that, and on and on and on.
The foundling wizard liked the statues so much, in fact, the first spell she memorized was the spell to turn living objects to stone. It was very accessible (on the third page of the first journal she read) and very easy to learn. Almost too easy, she realized, when she started turning cousins into statues with the flick of a hand and the squint of an eye. Common sense dictated she learn the reversal spell also, so when she was called to the carpet (again) the “issue” would already be “corrected.”
The other beings in the Tower with whom she found comfort were the animals. Even the dratted rooster who waited for the foundling to scream before he crowed was preferable to the crowds of cousins she was supposed to order about. Animals didn’t want help for stupid things and animals showed affection and animals did their jobs naturally without needing to ask a hundred questions.
The one animal the foundling could not stand was the Familiar, who should have been a welcome friend and mentor. But he was so snotty, so supercilious, so superior, the foundling couldn’t bear to listen to him. (Obviously, he was a cat. A large, white, very old cat.) The foundling knew the cat was supposed to be her teacher; she even knew he was her best choice of teacher. Nevertheless, the Familiar was so much more useful as a doorstop. Though, like a cat, he always popped up again, fully fleshed and opinionated.
The final change to the household (with the screaming wizard being the first and the stone familiar being the fourth) was the addition of an advisor, or possibly governess, depending upon whom you asked. The foundling hated this advisor with a pure teenage passion; but, as Deibra was busy trying to figure out her new job, and Jernine wouldn’t look at her, and the Familiar continued to be just too obnoxious to bear, and there was never enough time to really visit the statues, the advisor became a constant companion to the foundling; and the familiarity eventually bred a strange sort of hug me/hew me relationship.
That is how things stand for the foundling on the morning of All Fools, 2514, one year after that sliced cup of coffee. A year of screaming herself awake and a year of casting spells with a wish and a prayer. A year of rising every morning and stumbling her way up to the top of the tower. A year of making excuses to the ruler of the Families and making statues out of everyone else. Sad to say the foundling’s fear had not lessened, her ability felt no more honed, her will was only as strong as her anger.
That is why the stories ask for a year and a day. Because that day makes all the difference.
I grant you, the day we’re concerned with is actually one year exactly from the assumption of power, the bright sunny morning of All Fools’ Day, in the fourteenth year of the rule of Danu Elizabeth, twenty-fifth matriarch of the Families. Our foundling has issued her morning scream of anguish; she has turned the Server into a statue and flicked him back again without his knowledge. She has received a cake from Deibra, Acting-Savant d’Shadowed Rooster. And with the morning rituals completed and the nagging voice of Deibra in her head, it was time to rise and start the day.
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