Sel Guil, West Bavaugh
Sel
Guil, West Bavaugh
SEL STOOD ON the shore of the mainland, looking at the island surrounded by sea.
Pale light peeked over the distant horizon, trimming the waves and rocky edges of Mont Isle in gold.
A castle rose from the island’s centre, twisting turrets of tanned stone and criss-crossing battlements soaring higher and higher towards the watery sky.
Sel pushed her hood back from her face and cursed under her breath. She was late. The royal baby would be born any moment, then the Blessing would begin. She needed to be on that island. If she missed the Blessing, the whole journey would have been for nothing.
She scanned the shoreline, looking for something or someone who might be able to help, and further down the coast she spotted a wooden jetty stretching out into the sea.
Breaking into an ungainly sprint, she hurried towards it, her black boots scattering pebbles and the waves roaring in her ears.
As she drew closer, she saw three men climbing into fishing boats.
One of them caught sight of her and he must have said something because they all turned to watch her approach, their weathered faces pulled into scowls.
‘Excuse me,’ she panted in Bavaughian, the words feeling round and unfamiliar in her mouth. ‘Can I pay for passage to the island?’
She stepped on to the jetty and the men flinched. One of them said, ‘When the tide goes out again you can cross the causeway.’
‘But I need to be there now.’
Silence.
‘Are you about to go out to sea?’ she persisted. ‘I can pay you handsomely.’
She was desperate and she could see that she had tempted one of them enough to step out of his boat.
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘Two flecks of gold.’
By the expression on his face, this was more than he had expected. She wished she had offered one.
‘Get in,’ he said, and the men behind him shook their heads.
Sel clambered into the rowing boat, pulling her cloak tightly around her; the faint drizzle that hung in the air had turned the thick material soft and heavy, so that the clasp almost choked her throat.
Taking two flecks of gold from the pouch tied at her waist, she handed them to the fisherman.
He watched her with an expression that was half suspicious, half curious as he took up the oars.
The little boat lurched into motion and Sel fixed her eyes on the island ahead.
Magic radiated from it in tendrils that curled through the wind and chafed her cheeks.
It had been a while since Sel had felt so much gathered power and her fingers itched to take it and shape it, but she knew she must wait.
As much as she would have liked to mutter a charm to dry her wet cloak and clean her grimy clothes, she needed to save everything for the Blessing.
She had not travelled all this way to fail now.
A whole moon of bumpy cart rides, stomach-churning sea travel and bland food, trudging down muddy roads and remaining ever watchful for thieves and predators lay behind her.
It was in stark contrast to how she had spent the seasons of her adult life, poring over dusty books in dark, warm rooms.
It will be worth it, she told herself. It has to be worth it.
She slipped her hand beneath her cloak and touched the worn edge of folded parchment tucked into the lining, a gesture she had repeated on the road, reassuring herself of the journey’s purpose.
It was an invitation for her late Master, Florentina Samara the Wise.
It called Florentina to pay respects to the firstborn child of the former Princess Violanna, fourth daughter of King Lepon of the Diaspass Kingdom, now Queen of Bavaugh.
The invitation was written on thick, creamy parchment and the royal seal of Bavaugh was stamped in red wax at its corner.
At the bottom, scrawled in the Queen’s own, nervous hand, was a message: Please, Florentina, I beg, you must come.
‘There’re steps over there.’
The fisherman’s mutter made Sel jump and she turned to see the island’s stone pier looming beside them.
‘Oh, good. Thank you … for your service,’ she replied.
When it became clear that the fisherman was not going to offer her a hand, Sel wobbled to her feet then leapt at the nearby steps, heaving herself on to the pier.
Before she had even straightened her cloak, the fisherman was rowing away.
With a sigh, Sel smoothed back her dark, wet hair and hurried towards the gatehouse.
Liveried guards watched her approach and Sel stopped before the nearest one, pulling out her invitation.
‘“Florentina Samara the Wise”,’ read the castle guard, his eyes flicking from the invitation in his hands to the young woman in front of him.
‘That’s me.’
The guard frowned and Sel forced a smile.
‘You’re younger than the others,’ he grunted, peering under the hood of her cloak.
‘I’m older than I look.’
His frown deepened. ‘You’re late.’
‘And I think I might be later if I wait here much longer.’
When there was no reply, she added with as much haughtiness as she could manage, ‘I’m the Queen’s royal guest and I must pass through now.’
‘All right, all right.’ He thrust her invitation back at her and signalled to the other guards on duty.
Ignoring their glares, Sel held her head high and passed through the gatehouse.
Behind the castle walls, the courtyards and corridors were deserted and all was wrapped in the expectant hush before a momentous occasion.
There were no guards or attendants to direct her, so Sel hurried blindly through archways and up flights of stairs, hoping the ceremony had not started.
She could feel magic emanating from inside the stone walls above, like the beckoning warmth of a fire, and she hastened towards it, crossing quads and rushing down passages.
Finally, at the end of one corridor, she spotted a cluster of jittery servants.
They were waiting before a set of thick, carved doors and they drew back against the walls as she approached.
‘It’s about to begin!’ cried a sentry. ‘You’re very late.’
Behind the doors, Sel could hear the hum of many low, babbling voices. Excitement and nerves simmered through her stomach as she handed over her invitation and stood back to let the guards haul open the doors.
‘Florentina Samara the Wise,’ called out the Sergeant-at-Arms.
Sel took a deep breath and raised her chin, mimicking the posture of her old Master. Then she pulled back her shoulders and walked into the Great Hall.