Page 25 of Legacy of the Heirs
A burn in the shape of a male handprint.
Chapter Fourteen
Sadira
Choices were like flowers; some flourished easily with little required to grow, while others took time and consideration. Sadira wished she was deciding between flowers right now. She let out an exasperated sigh and threw what must have been the twentieth dress from her armoire. Indecision always plagued Sadira, who feared how each choice affected another’s perception of her, and the implications of her actions. What if she inadvertently caused harm to another?
She imagined her mother would laugh if she were alive, telling her it was simply a dress, while her grandmother would say,“An outfit speaks volumes when one is a princess.”It was the latter that stuck in her mind. Sadira had formally met the people of Garridon twice now: once upon her arrival and once when visiting Antor, but something about an official engagement ball felt different. Perhaps it was the thought of all the attention or the anticipation of being in a room with all the rulers and Soren for a second time.
Sadira stared at her reflection and brushed her cheek, unsure of how to act. Soren had been clear about her feelings after the way Sadira spoke to her in front of the other royals in Nerida. Yet to instil trust in the Garridon people, they would need to perceive Sadira as the future queen, which involved garnering the attention of a room. But would Sadira be the future queen? She was not so certain, based on Soren’s words.
Tears pricked her eyes as vines of doubt twisted around her lungs. She scraped back her hair and secured it with a ribbon before padding to the windows of her chambers, gazing out across thegreenery that kept her calm. Somehow, Caellum had chosen the perfect rooms for Sadira before ever meeting her.
Tugging the silk robe tighter around her waist, Sadira embraced herself and admired the view. The wall of her room was crafted of paned glass, allowing an unrestricted vision of the gardens below and the forest surrounding the castle. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes.You can do this, she thought. She frowned when she opened them again. She did not recognise the simple carriage entering the estate, though that was unsurprising given she knew so few people in the kingdom.
A gentle knock sounded at the door, and she called for them to enter, expecting Roslyn, her lady-in-waiting. Sadira sighed again. No matter how many questions she asked Roslyn, the older woman participated little in their conversations. The sun lowered behind the tree line, casting a silhouette of the carriage as it drew closer.
“I take it you are an indecisive person,” called a gentle voice. Sadira whirled, blushing as she realised the owner of the gentle knock was not Roslyn after all.
“Queen Larelle!” Sadira said, flustered. “I do apologise.” She scooped the dresses from the emerald chaise beside her before remembering herself, dropping the pile to the ground. She dropped into a curtsey, avoiding stumbling over the dresses.
“No, no!” Larelle said quickly, stepping over the dresses to reach her. “Do not apologise. I was the exact same the morning I met my lords for the first time.” She reached for the dresses in Sadira’s hands and carefully draped them on the chaise.
“I must apologise,” said Sadira. “I am not respectfully dressed to greet a queen.” She hid her face between her hands and turned back to face the windows. Sensing Larelle’s approach, a gentle hand touched her shoulder.
“Sadira, please. You are to be a queen soon; we are of the same station. Even if we were not, it would not affect my judgement of you.” Sadira removed her hands from her face andglanced at the queen. After Caellum’s recommendation to reach out to Larelle, Sadira had paced back and forth with the letter for hours until requesting the staff take it to the aviary. Caellum was right again. Larelle was likely the person Sadira could connect and relate to the most.
“I should be the one to apologise,” Larelle said. “It seems my response to your letter did not meet you in time, and if my unexpected arrival has added stress to your preparations, I will not be offended if you prefer I leave.” Though it was not Sadira’s wish, she believed the queen, who always had a way of speaking that flowed with sincerity.
“No, please,” Sadira said. “I welcome the company. Perhaps you can help me decide on what dress to wear.” She gestured at the many gowns, but her eye caught again on the carriage finally arriving in the courtyard. Sadira stepped closer to the glass, her breath fogging the panes. She did not recognise the hunched man exiting the carriage in parchment-coloured robes.
“Do you know who that is?” Sadira asked Larelle. The queen furrowed her brow as the old man shuffled from view.
“That is the Historian,” Larelle murmured. “I did not know he was invited.”
Sadira frowned.
“I handwrote all the invitations myself; I do not recall addressing that name.”
“How odd,” Larelle murmured. “He resides in the Neutral City. Growing up, we all attended his lessons.” Larelle turned from the window and began filtering through the dresses.
“What kind of lessons?”
“Mainly history of the realm, lineages, and what little information remained on Ithyion.” Sadira perched on the chaise while Larelle separated the dresses into piles. The Neridian queen paused and fiddled with the beading on a lavender gown; she opened and closed her mouth before pursing her lips. She wished to say something more, but Sadira remained silent, allowing her time.
“Could I ask you something that I hope is not insensitive?” Larelle finally said. She perched on the bed opposite Sadira.
“Of course. Anything!” Sadira responded eagerly.
“When we last met, you mentioned that some parts of your family descend from Wiccan.” Sadira nodded. “What do you know about the abilities of Wiccan?”
Sadira frowned. “Abilities?”
“Are there certain things Wiccan can do that, let’s say,Icould not? Or someone else from Garridon could not?”
Since Sadira’s arrival, nobody had asked about her heritage except to learn of her claim to the royal line. It did not surprise Sadira, as she expected; most people assumed the Wiccan were extinct. Caellum’s grandfather, King Jorah, had all Wiccan killed after he usurped the throne. Sadira’s heart bled for those connections. Given the Wiccan had an affinity for earth power, Jorah believed they posed a risk to the throne, and their connection to the earth could prove their greater entitlement to the throne. Some had managed to flee to Doltas, while the other Wiccans were born there—descendants of the prisoners abandoned on the island by Novisia’s original settlers. Her mind wondered to Rodik.
“I only know of a few, but they are rare from what I am told,” began Sadira. “I have an affinity for healing. While the growth of plants comes from my connection to the royal line, my innate knowledge of what can heal different ailments comes from my Wiccan heritage.” Larelle nodded in encouragement. “My grandmother had a subtle gift of foresight, though it rarely came to her. The last time she foresaw something was the death of her husband, my grandfather.” She appreciated Larelle’s solemn look at the mention of losing a family member, regardless of whether or not Sadira had met him. “In seeing it, the gods also gifted her knowledge of the prophecy.” Larelle pulled out the chair at Sadira’s dressing table, and Sadira sat. She smiled as Larelle undid the ribbon holding her curls and began rearranging them.
