Cressia was distressed, very distressed, to see that she was causing a ruckus in the boroughs as she left for the royal Zantzar palace.
The day after Weria had received her letter of acceptance, a royal carriage came bustling through the boroughs, and with it a quartet of royal soldiers to act as its runners in this strange rickshaw ride manner
Her neighbours came out to wish her well, and she had to console the children by telling them she would only be gone for a little while, and that fencing classes would resume when she came back at the start of Autumn.
The youngest among them, three little girls who still slipped into magical worlds of tea parties, cakes and romantic notions, brought her flowers to send her off, for they assumed that Cressia was being whisked away to wed the young Prince Alvin, someone they had once claimed for marriage themselves.
“You mean, you’re not going to marry Prince Alvin?” Eliza, a feral redheaded child, asked disappointed.
“Sadly not,” Cressia smiled as she pressed the bouquets of lilacs and gooseberries back into their hands, “I’m going to the royal palace to train him, not to marry him.”
“But…” another girl, Lydia, piped up, “Isn’t he going to fall in love with you? You’re so beautiful and kind!”
“There is more to love than beauty and kindness Lydia,” Cressia answered amid a stream of blushes, “There’s also strength, bravery and care for your fellow person. I will teach Alvin these things, much like I have taught all of you.”
The three girls stood silent complementing Cressia’s big words, but nodded. Then Amelia, the shortest of the three, held out a small brooch as a parting gift for her favourite teacher.
“Then take this with you, for good luck!”
It was made out of soft exquisite green felt, and designed in the shape of the Great Spiral, the universal symbol of the Elven Conclave movement.
It would be considered obscene in some Mylean nation states, banned in others, yet these young girls had actually taken out time to make a personal copy of it for her.
“Thank you girls, that is so wonderful of you!” Was all Cressia could muster up, before she embraced all three of them in a long overdue hug.
As she departed in the rickshaw, she found herself musing on the brooch. It went well alongside the flat colours of her own outfit - viridescent tunic, black stockings and boots, a white fluffy beret - the same prideful colours of the Elven Conclave flag.
She had knuckled down deeply in her elven heritage with her outfit of choice. She was already going to stand out as an elf in the palace, so why not just go all in?
When Cressia finally disembarked from the rickshaw after a short journey of near misses and bumbling security checks, she quickly grasped this was the first time she was within the perimeter of the White Spire.
Of course, as an elven recruit, she was given the grunt of the work when it came to Night Watch duty on the towers nearby, but this really was the first time she was inside the courtyard of the Royal Palace.
She heaved and she sighed as she made her way up the near endless steps, passing the large temple of the Dominion Sect in the distance. Its priestesses always seemed to be kept busy in servitude to its patrons, not just within Zantzar, but across all of the human kingdoms. Their arms were often incredibly chiselled, rock solid, from spending hours swirling a concoction of dark and creamy spirits, believed to be the souls of the lost, consumed by humans in order to purge them and their ancestors of any lingering sins that hadn’t been counted while in Sunday Service.
Weria was waiting for her as she climbed the last step, along with another fab four of soldiers who were to escort her through the palace to meet Prince Alvin. They exchanged pleasantries, the usual mix and match of cheeky humour and civilian stories that soldiers seemed to hold close to their hearts, and Cressia tried to pick out any worthwhile information from him as they walked.
She felt a grim picture emerging on the Zantzar border despite Weria’s attempts to stretch the truth. Orc attacks had steadily decreased with the Zantzar’s army presence on hand, but entire garrisons had disappeared without a trace in the Mylean Forest, and now Traders were unwilling to go through it to get to Pendaline and the other neighbouring kingdoms.
The few that had escaped championed the idea that it had been Forest Spirits that had snatched the soldiers up, but that was crazy talk, so the stories had been squashed in exchange for it being hungry Orcs instead.
Weria’s countenance, white as a sheet as he recounted all this her, told Cressia that he was terrified of spirits, but she could not find herself falling into despair quite yet.
That was not their style, nor was the increase of Orc attacks in recent months. True, they’d happening sparingly here and there, but never to this extent as
Then the forest, which had always been a safe spot for the Orcs, was now increasingly becoming a no go spot for them. How this was all interconnected with lost spirits, neither Weria or Cressia had any idea
They’d grown increasingly wary of the Orcs, but in reality they’d have to worry about snatched by spirits. She felt frustrated when it came down to that, that she could not even get something as simple like that right. She felt a sense of frustration, of how primal the
"Enough of this chitchat," Weria was wearied with worry, “I'm sure you're looking forward to your meeting with the prince.”
"I'm curious, to say the least.”
She was a little bit curious. She'd always held a strong democratic streak within her, not as much as her parents, 2nd generation members of the Conclave, but strong nonetheless. The idea of a royal family always seemed so patently absurd to her when she read about the feuding human kingdoms in the east from across the Conclave. Royal families? In an age of government by the people?
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
Yes, the elves once had royal families too, but they’d been purged more than 80 years ago and brought an end to a long slump in elven fortunes with it. Any lingering monarchist sentiment soon died a slow and painful death as the Elven Conclave went to increasingly desperate lengths to rid itself of it’s Monarchist past.
Seeing Weria struggle and pull his hair out over Alvin’s frivolous choices reminded her of the fable of the Moon King, who, according to legend, was where the Zantzars traced their lineage back to.
By magic or by natural law, the Moon was beckoned to the ways of this grumpy old king, until the Moon soured and refused to budge, leaving the southern part of Mylen drenched in darkness. Once the king had capitulated to its demands, the Moon withdrew, but the resulting shock of sunlight nearly turned southern Mylen into a desert wasteland afterwards, leaving the Moon King without a place to call home.
Of course, the scholar within her of course could trace the tale's lineage back to old elven forest folklore (don't tell the humans that), that had been written to explain why Zantzar often had the most extreme drifts in season, but surely Prince Alvin wasn’t as vindictive and pernicious as that?
Going through the courtyard, she felt like a green pea trying to swim through a current of red, white and gold. The palace's layout, with its narrow hallways and sharp stifled corners, didn't help to put her nerves at ease either. It did not feel elvish, or even like the simple stone homes back in the boroughs, Soldiers seemed on guard everywhere, but she gave a faint nod of recognition to any former comrades who might’ve stayed on in service after their initial contract was over.
As Weria left her at the entrance to the Royal Garden, her mind lingered on what to ask as a boom, on what a vain prince dressed in wolf furs might be willing to lose to get training in return.
She had learned to bargain once, on behalf of the Zantzar King no less, when she was faced with murderous pirates who were secretly fond of elves reciting sea songs for their amusement. But with Alvin, all she could offer was an attempt at training him, which made her reluctant to press hard in demands.
Perhaps she could use the moment to give him a piece of her mind instead, and mention how much the boroughs we're suffering, how veterans like her constantly felt they skirted the realm of dignity and had to resort to squatting in derelict houses in order not to sleep out in the cold?
His responses would be short and sweet, much like the ones the headache inducing tellers have at the Post Office where she drew out her benefits. Perhaps a beheading would be on the cards if she pressed too much on how little windfall she’d gotten from the royal coffers.
Maybe sell one of those priceless paintings to help your subjects Alvin?
She felt like a child being forced to wait outside the keeper's hut during the middle of her school years. So many afternoons she'd spent outside it over the most trivial or crimes, such as failing an archery test or being unable to recite the paragraphs of the Conclave’s party pledges off by heart.
She wanted to move, to stretch her legs, to not feel like she was heavily worn down by the sight of the guardsmen who kept track of what came and went in the middle of the palace.
There was a subtle chink in the large garden doors, and whispers that flew in and out between guardsmen. A curt nod was given to her, and suddenly she was allowed to move into the garden as a free woman.
Prince Alvin was alone and aloof, trimming hedge shrubs that lingered between being overtaken by a growing number of strawberries or raspberries.
She didn't understand the etiquette between royalty and commoner, should she make the first word or should he? It embarrassed her that there was such a class distinction between them and even more so that she allowed herself to be affected by it.
He turned to grasp a handle, and gave her the chance to slither out of an embarrassing faux pas.
"Ah, you're the elf Weria was telling me all about!"
"How can I help you?" Cressia asked, content with her tone. Respectful, but not tinged with a case of bending over backwards like so many servants in the palace seemed to be inflicted with.
“Sit down first, and we’ll talk,” He motioned to the table and chairs in the centre of the garden with a wine and jug on it, "Sake?"
Sake was Venada’s most prized export, and one glass was worth a lifetime of the pitiful pension Cressia received for her service. She wasn’t the biggest social drinker, her “socialising” having been reigned in because of budget cuts, but neither was she a complete teetotaller.
She took a glass and found an incredibly salty taste awaiting her, not at all like the sweet Pendaline soft drinks she treated herself to when in a bit of funk. It was certainly not worth a lifetime of dreadful pension payments.
'How can I help you?" She asked once more, a part of her not too happy to refer to him as her prince yet. She watched as he picked his words carefully - uncertain, unwilling, unyielding - to admit he was in trouble, much less to an elf.
An Elf. That’s all she was to him, wasn’t it? one of those strange creatures who lurked in the west, who often lingered in the same pages of loathsome creatures such as trolls, ogres and orcs? She doubted he’d ever been around an elf this long alone without a vast array of diplomats and grim generals to help him deal with the wilder folk. Good! It would make negotiation with him so much easier to deal with as she outlined her demands.
“I'm in need of private lessons.”
"In what?" Cressia asked, keeping her tone neutral.
"In sword fighting."
Cressia raised an eyebrow. “I am but a competitive fencer, Prince Alvin.”
Blast! She’d already blown her solemn vow of not referring to his excellency by his proper title. She began composing herself back into the distant elven swordswoman image she was trying to convey.
"I know, but you studied under the Zantzar Blades, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Cressia admitted warily, “I was trained by Supreme Swordmistress Helena.” Alvin was probably aware of this already, but if he turned out to be a dullard then perhaps there was no harm in repeating it again.
“Normally a royal would’ve been trained by the leader of the Zantzar Blades, but Helena disappeared across the border some time ago,” Alvin paused, and then pressed on, “I would like for you to train me, if you’re willing.”
Cressia regarded him with a curious expression. “You actually want me to train you in sword fighting?”
“Yes,” Alvin replied, unable to even glance at the elven woman across from him, “My skill with a sword has been subpar at best, but I wish to improve.”
Cressia remained silent as his request. She had trained numerous children before, all at the same time, how difficult could it be really to teach a royal prince new tricks?
“Training with the Zantzar blades was rigorous, not just in technique but also in discipline and mental fortitude. Are you up for that challenge?”
He nodded like a headstrong bulldog. “Yes, I’m willing to do everything to succeed.”
“There will be trials and tribulations, far beyond anything you’ve faced so far in life.” Cressia’s tone was serious, but her expression was beginning to soften at such determination.
“I understand, I will do anything you ask of me.”
Such formal language, Cressia thought. She began to cringe, both at this strange conversation they were having and the roles they’d slipped into. Her as the ancient Sword Fighting Mentor, and him as the young apprenticeship looking to take on the world, each of them pretending it had nothing to do with that whole spirit business that was beginning crop up in the Zantzar forests.
She reminded herself that they were both in their mid twenties and still very new at figuring out this thing called life.
Cressia smiled, and extended her hand. “Very well, I will agree to train you.”
“Thank you Cressia, I will not let you down.”
“We’ll begin now!”
“What?”