Echo

Chapter One

A single note permeates the air, weaving through between the short gaps in the cacophony of chatter that encircles me, the warm bodies pressing against me in a shuffle to explore every booth before the parade commences. As sharply as it began, a wave of noise crashes down as the rest of the orchestra follows suit. The blare of the trumpets, the thunder of the drums, the shrill whistle of the flutes made from the red Cedar trees that flock the walls of my kingdom. I can hear the band, but I can't spot them, not yet.

The warm breeze carries the comforting smell of fresh baked firberry pastries slathered with creamed frosting tantalizingly to my nose. I'm not hungry—I'd already eaten, had given into the temptation of the juicy, tangy oranges that lured me into the worn dirt isles of the market, but the buttery scents of the flaky braided shava bread persists either way. They have the tendency to coax another greedy snarl from my stomach, and my traitorous feet would then move of their own accord until I end up at one of the many booths, my wallet spilling its contents onto the battered wood. The scene unfolds itself in my head every year, and by now I know It's inevitable.

I hop once, trying to distract myself from the aroma of the warm goods and simultaneously attempting to see over the bobbing heads of the crowd, but to no avail. I duck my head and weave through the people as best I can, squirming through to the front.

"Sorry, sorry," I mutter to the clumps of people my shoulders knock into, grasping my skirts tight in my fists so as not to trample them underneath my boots. Desh would have a fit if I tore another pair, whether or not it be by accident.

I emerge from the sea of citizens, spat stumbling out in front. I dust my skirts off and glance up to the left, catching sight of the rear of the orchestra right as they turn the corner of the civilian-lined trodden dirt road. Damn. Just missed them.

I toss my dark brown braid over my shoulder just as the elementary group appears in my line of sight. There's not much of a point to having them march, and since they're young children, they can be quite difficult to keep organized, but it's sweet to see how much they do enjoy flinging snipped flowers to those who were able to push to the front of the masses; that's why we still take the time to organize their participation in the parade. I smile quietly to myself as their wild giggles replace the fading clamor of the orchestra.

A cluster of jasmine blossoms land at the ground by my feet. I bend at the knees, reaching down to pluck them up off the dusty road, shaking the dirt off the small, white flowers. My eyes quickly find the girl who slung them at me. She's smiling bashfully, waving as she plods onward, following behind her enthusiastic classmates.

Thank you, I mouth, winking, and her grin widens. She squeals, clutching the arm of her teacher and burying her face in her cloak. I understand her excitement—it's not every day that you have the opportunity to gift a bundle of flowers to the princess. I raise them to my hair and twist the white blossoms into my single plait that cascades down to the bottom of my ribs, keeping my eyes on the little girl as her group continues to move forward and out of sight.

There's only one thing left before the Druthers, and I can hear the telltale clopping of hooves against a dirt road that indicates he's almost arrived. I don't need to strain to see the king's horse drawn carriage—I see him every morning at breakfast—so I let myself fall to the back of the crowd.

My father wanted me up there with him, waving to the people and smiling politely as they feast their eyes upon us and all our 'royal glory', but I'd much rather be down here with my people, intertwined with the observers. Participating, feeling like I'm one of them. I told my father that, pleaded with him to let me explore the markets this year for my sixteenth birthday, to let me become more and more familiar with the people that I'd be the one ruling over one day. He grudgingly allowed it, but I could tell he would be much more comfortable with me at his side, relaxing in the silk white cushions of the open-topped carriage, pulled by luxurious, well kept steeds.