The Catalyst Queen: Shadows

III -IRIELLE

For all the gold worked into its doors, the velvet lining its seats, and the royal crest carved proudly into nearly every available surface, Irielle had decided that the carriage was an exceptionally beautiful instrument of torture. The left wheel found another rut, lifting her from the cushioned seat and sending the book in her lap sliding toward the floor. She caught it against her knee and looked accusingly toward the ceiling, as though the craftsmanship alone ought to have prevented such an indignity.

"Wonderful. Truly, an inspired method of travel."

Across from her, Mariel pressed her lips together, struggling to conceal a smile. Her lady attendant had accompanied her on enough journeys to know that Irielle's patience rarely survived several intervals of uninterrupted travel, particularly when she was expected to remain seated throughout.

"I'm sure the road will improve, Your Highness," Mariel offered, though the amusement in her voice did little to support the reassurance.

"You may laugh," Irielle informed her. "I would prefer it to watching you pretend you aren't enjoying my suffering."

"I would never take pleasure in your discomfort, Your Highness."

Another jolt disturbed the tassels hanging from the curtains and set the delicate gold chains along the windows chiming. Mariel's shoulders shook, and the laugh she had been holding escaped despite her efforts.

Irielle sighed and abandoned her book beside her. There were worse ways to cross Vaenys, and she knew perfectly well how fortunate she was to be travelling in a carriage constructed for the royal household. Deep cushions covered the benches, fine blankets had been folded into one corner, and a lacquered cabinet beneath the opposite seat held water, wine, fruit, sweet cakes, and enough provisions to suggest whoever had packed it believed Elyria existed on the other side of the world.

Her trunks occupied another carriage entirely, along with most of her gowns and several belongings her attendants had insisted she could not leave behind. None of those comforts changed the fact that roads had stones, wheels had no mercy, and she had been sitting so long that she was beginning to suspect she would arrive in Elyria permanently bent at the waist.

She drew aside the curtain, welcoming the distraction of the countryside. The road wound between broad fields and distant forests, its pale surface broken by stretches of uneven stone. Riders travelled alongside the carriage in the colours of House Von Alden, their armour catching the steady brilliance overhead whenever they passed through an opening in the trees.

More rode ahead and behind, enough that her father had apparently decided sending his daughter across the realm required a small military campaign. She had protested the size of her escort before leaving St. Vaenys, arguing that half the royal guard need not abandon its duties simply because she was travelling to another kingdom. Alaric had listened patiently before informing her that the arrangements would remain unchanged, and no amount of further complaining had persuaded him otherwise.

Irielle allowed the curtain to fall. Somewhere beyond those forests waited Elyria, a kingdom she knew mostly through accounts of its ancient beauty and the remarkable woman who ruled it. Queen Seraphine Sylvaire had watched generations of mortal rulers rise and disappear while her own reign endured. Irielle found the idea of such immortality difficult to comprehend, though it was hardly the most extraordinary thing about the woman she was travelling to meet.

Seraphine had been her grandmother Selaera's closest friend.

Irielle had grown up beneath portraits of the former Queen of Vaenys, surrounded by stories of her reign and the remarkable things she had accomplished. To the kingdom, Selaera Von Alden belonged as much to history as she did to the royal family, her name preserved in records and ceremonies long after her death.

Seraphine, however, had known her before history made her into one.

She possessed memories no portrait or court record could preserve. She knew what made Selaera laugh, what angered her, and perhaps even what had frightened her. There might be stories Alaric himself had never heard, ordinary details of his mother that existed nowhere beyond the mind of an immortal queen.

The possibility of hearing those stories interested Irielle almost as much as the reason for her journey.

She had once found a ribbon tucked into a book in the royal archives and taken it to Alaric, hoping he might recognize the embroidery.

Her father had known whom it belonged to immediately. He smiled, then spent so long turning the ribbon between his fingers that Irielle felt ashamed of interrupting him. Eventually he told her Selaera used to leave unfinished books throughout the palace because she was forever being summoned away before reaching the last page. It was a small memory, scarcely worthy of a chronicle, yet Irielle remembered it more clearly than any account of her grandmother's victories. She hoped Seraphine knew a hundred stories just like it.

Until recently, the extraordinary power known as Maana had belonged to accounts of elder races, magik-wielders, and ancestors whose gifts seemed far removed from her own life. Selaera had possessed it, though nothing in Irielle's childhood suggested she might inherit the same ability. For sixteen years she had been an entirely ordinary mortal princess, at least in that regard, until whatever had remained dormant within her blood finally made itself known.

The experience had been frightening enough without discovering that no one at her father's court possessed the knowledge necessary to help her control it. Unpredictable surges had damaged objects around her, startling servants and leaving Irielle increasingly uncertain of what might happen the next time her emotions overcame her concentration.

Seraphine understood Maana. More importantly, she had witnessed Selaera's abilities firsthand and knew things no surviving scholar could reproduce from written records. That was why Irielle was travelling east beneath royal escort, carrying enough clothing to survive a siege and considerably more questions than she intended to admit aloud.

She hoped the immortal queen might teach her to control the inheritance her grandmother had left buried in her blood, though surviving the journey itself was beginning to seem the more immediate challenge.

Another rut sent the carriage shuddering beneath her. Irielle caught the edge of the bench and closed her eyes, allowing herself a thoroughly displeased sigh before turning toward Mariel.

"I've reconsidered my earlier complaints about the escort. If we encounter bandits, you may inform them that they're welcome to take the carriage."

Mariel laughed, shaking her head as Irielle reached once more for her book. The familiar warmth of their conversation had almost restored her good humour when one of the horses outside gave a sudden, distressed cry.

Irielle's fingers stopped against the leather cover.

Another horse answered from farther ahead. The steady rhythm of hooves surrounding the carriage began to change, riders passing close enough that she could hear the creak of their saddles and the muted clink of armour. Mariel's amusement faded as the carriage slowed, its wheels grinding against the road until Irielle could distinguish voices beyond the curtains.

She drew the fabric aside and found the nearest riders closing ranks around them. What had been an orderly procession moments earlier had tightened into a defensive formation, leaving her narrow glimpses of the road between horses and armoured legs. One of the men farther ahead raised a hand, and the others responded immediately, moving into positions that concealed whatever lay beyond the escort.

The carriage continued another few lengths before stopping.

"What's happening?" Mariel asked, leaning forward.

"I'm not sure." Irielle drew the curtain farther aside. "There doesn't seem to be anything blocking us."

A rider approached before she could investigate further. She recognized Captain Vaelor immediately, though his expression was considerably more guarded than during their earlier exchanges. Alaric had entrusted him with command of her escort from St. Vaenys to Elyria, and until now he had carried out that responsibility with such steady competence that she had scarcely needed to think about him.

"Remain inside, Your Highness," he instructed, keeping his horse close to the carriage.

Irielle glanced toward the weapon already drawn in his hand. "Captain, what's happened?"

"Nothing yet. Please keep the curtains closed until we've examined the road."

He turned before she could question him further, guiding his horse toward the front of the procession. Irielle followed his movement and finally caught sight of what had brought them to a halt.

An overturned wagon lay across the narrowest section of the road, its shattered bed resting at an awkward angle against the grass. Several crates had split open around it, scattering their contents across the dirt, while pale lengths of cloth hung from the broken frame. One wheel lay several feet from the axle, partially hidden among the weeds.

There were no horses attached to the wagon, and no driver stood nearby attempting to recover its contents. Irielle searched the roadside for someone who might have been injured, but the tall grasses remained undisturbed. Nothing suggested the ordinary confusion of a traveller whose wagon had overturned, and she began to understand why Vaelor had approached it so cautiously.

She released the curtain as Mariel closed the opposite window. The carriage had become strangely quiet, broken only by the low voices of guards exchanging instructions. Horses shifted against their reins, and boots scraped across the road. Somewhere near the front of the procession came the unmistakable sound of steel being drawn, followed by a warning spoken too quietly for Irielle to understand.

Mariel moved closer, her earlier amusement replaced by concern. She had accompanied Irielle throughout much of her childhood and knew her well enough to recognize when confidence was beginning to give way to fear.

"Captain Vaelor knows what he's doing," she assured her, though her attention remained fixed upon the door. "Your father would never have entrusted him with your safety otherwise."

"I know."

As she listened, Irielle became aware of the effort required to remain still. She wanted to demand that Vaelor tell her what his men had found, but every voice raised near the carriage might distract someone watching the trees. Mariel reached across the narrow space and set her hand over Irielle's.

Her fingers were cool, steady, and familiar, and Irielle held them for a moment before drawing away to straighten her skirt. She was a princess travelling beneath her father's protection, surrounded by guards sworn to defend her. Until that moment, she had never considered how little those promises might matter when something went wrong.

Irielle resisted the temptation to open the curtain again. The captain's caution should have reassured her, but the abandoned wagon continued troubling her. Whoever had left it there had disappeared without taking the horses, retrieving the supplies, or seeking assistance from the nearest settlement.

She could imagine several reasons a traveller might abandon a damaged wagon. None explained why it had been left in precisely the place where a royal procession would struggle to pass.

A bird called somewhere within the woodland, its sharp note carrying through the stillness before another answered farther away. Irielle had just begun to wonder whether the guards intended to move the obstruction themselves when a scream rose from the front of the escort.

Steel rang against steel, followed almost immediately by the violent cry of a horse. Something struck the carriage hard enough to rock it beneath them, sending Mariel stumbling against the opposite bench.

She caught herself against the window frame as another impact shook the wooden panels. A sharp crack sounded beside Irielle's head, and she turned to find an arrow lodged in the carriage wall, its shaft protruding only inches from where she had been sitting.

"Down, Your Highness!"

Mariel seized her arm and pulled her from the seat as the fighting outside grew louder. Irielle struck the floor on one knee, pain shooting through her leg while the book she had been reading moments earlier slid from the cushions and struck the opposite wall.

Hooves pounded across the road, horses reared against their reins, and the disciplined formation surrounding the carriage disappeared beneath the clash of weapons and men shouting warnings. She could hear guards calling for reinforcements as they struggled to defend the procession. Somewhere close by, steel found flesh with a sound she had never heard before but understood immediately.

Mariel crouched beside her, attempting to shield her from the windows while another impact shuddered through the carriage. Irielle clutched the woman's sleeve, her heart beating so violently that she struggled to distinguish the noises outside.

She had heard stories of attacks upon travelling merchants and noble parties, though such accounts had always seemed distant from the carefully guarded life she knew. Now the danger surrounded her, concealed by little more than decorated wooden panels and a handful of men fighting desperately beyond them.

A guard shouted for the others to protect the princess, his voice rising above the fighting. Before anyone could answer, another command came from somewhere beyond the carriage door.

It belonged to a woman, her voice calm enough to be heard clearly amid the violence.

"Take her alive."

Irielle turned toward Mariel, whose expression changed the moment she heard those words.