The Woods-Wanderer

Chapter 2

  Twelve years later...

"Danaë, if she doesn't do this, there will be war. We don't have a choice." The steady baritone of King Ingar carried far whether he wanted it to or not, and Ilya didn't have to strain to hear every word her father spoke. A heavy stone of dread settled in her stomach.

"She's seventeen," the queen protested weakly.

"You were younger when we were married. Please, Danaë. We have to be united on this. For Gallyn's sake." More words, but quieter. Ilya caught 'my baby' and 'other solution' before her mother stormed out of their chambers, her face a mask of anger and pain. Ilya ducked behind a ridiculously large topiary as her father appeared in the doorway and started in the queen's general direction.

"Ilya?" Ilya nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned around to see a frightened-looking girl, staring at her with wide eyes. Ilya breathed a sigh of relief.

"Stars, Laureline! I thought you were Nanna!" Laureline shook her head. A breeze lifted her pale blonde hair off her shoulders so that it floated all around her. She looked so angelic, with the sun shining on her white dress and her big brown eyes wide and artless. It seemed impossible that copper-skinned Ilya, with her dark hair and gray eyes, could be her sister. Laureline had inherited their mother's hair, skin, and eyes. The only thing Ilya inherited from her mother was her temper.

"Nanna's napping," Laureline said softly, smiling. "How else do you think I got away?" She giggled, then caught Ilya's expression. "What's wrong?"

"It's happening," Ilya said grimly. Laureline looked puzzled, her fine features arranged into the picture of bewildered innocence. "Oh, don't act like you don't know what they're planning. You're thirteen, not four." Laureline's face shifted into a wry-looking smile.

"They're marrying you off, aren't they? I knew it. I mean, I always thought they'd wait until you were eighteen, but..." she trailed off, looking sideways at her sister, whose expression was becoming more and more dismayed. Ilya buried her head in her sleeves, fingers twisting her dark hair until Laureline feared she would pull it out. She rested a delicate white hand on her sister's shoulder, not entirely sure what to say. For all her sweetness, Laureline wasn't the best with words. Suddenly Ilya jerked her head up and pierced Laureline with a determined look.

"Gallyn will go to war with Truss if I don't do this. I have a duty to my country. A responsibility." Laureline inwardly shivered. She was a terribly shy girl, and the thought of speaking to a man she didn't know, let alone marrying one, was too alarming to fathom. She both admired and pitied her boisterous, independent sister. Ilya– the dutiful, obedient war-wife. It was almost laughable. Almost. Ilya groaned, giving up all illusions of responsibility and grandeur.

"Why couldn't I have been a boy? Then I could pick my own bride, and fight if I had to. All we can do for our country is marry, have children, take care of our husbands, and cry dutifully when they die. What a meaningful existence."

"Shhh!" Laureline exclaimed, looking around warily. "Someone could hear you."

"And do what? Tell our parents that I don't want to surrender my whole future to a man I've never met at the ripe old age of seventeen? Something tells me they won't take my opinion into consideration."

"You don't know that," Laureline said, straining to find some sliver of positivity. Ilya raised an eyebrow.

"Even if they agreed to hear me, there's the small matter of them being king and queen and being able to essentially do whatever they want. Just a tiny issue there." Laureline rolled her eyes. Sometimes it was like Ilya couldn't help herself.

"Maybe it's better that you don't talk to them, if you're going to be that way," Laureline said primly. Ilya kicked her foot in Laureline's direction, sending a cloud of gravel and dirt onto the clean whiteness of her skirt.

"Ilya-Talura Gallador! I can't believe you!" she exclaimed in outrage. "I just had this washed!" Ilya had the decency to look somewhat penitent, and offered to let her borrow one of her frocks until it was cleaned. Laureline glared at her.

"You really think I'd be caught dead in one of those?" she spat. She gestured to Ilya's dress, which was a coarse but sturdy weave of forest green.

"What's wrong with it?" Ilya retorted, looking down at the dirt on the hem and the pockets full of interesting rocks and leaves she had found when wandering the edges of Brazen Woods. Laureline laughed unkindly.

"You look more like a fisherman's daughter than the future queen. You know, you're going to have to dress nicer than that once you are married to– who are you marrying?" Ilya sat up straight, alarmed.

"I don't know! There are three princes of Truss; it could be any one of them. Do you know anything about them?" Laureline shook her head.

"I'll ask the maids- they always know everything–about everyone," Laureline said, giggling again. Ilya rolled onto her back and stared at the clouds as a breeze ushered them through the sky. The grass tickled her legs and the back of her neck.

"What am I going to do?" she said to no one in particular.