Contributed by Larissa Peltier
“Papa, look,” Karice cried. As they beheld Icene in agony, one of her green eyes burst golden, starting at the pupil and spreading to the rest of the iris like a star. Her muscles tightened as the enchantment coursed through her small body.
Riven placed her in his bed and he and Karice took turns watching her, hoping she would not die. Icene tossed and squealed with each muscle cramp, but then a strong, gentle hand would massage the pain away. After three days, the baby came out of her delirium. Quietly, she observed her surroundings with new sight. There was her father and sister, but her mother was gone.
When his daughter finally slept peacefully, Riven left her bedside. With relief, he saw that she did not change as Beija’s previous enchantments had, she remained his little girl, the only evidence of her enchantment being her golden eye. He sought out a place where he could be alone, and made for the rough log cabin he and Beija first inhabited as husband and wife. He had to be alone. And when he was, tears broke loose. He had nearly lost his baby, and cast his wife out because of it. He remembered Beija’s indifference to what she had done. How angry it made him.
“Leave now before I kill you, leave Lindane. I never want to see you again,” were his last words to her. She left, packed up what she needed and was gone. And what would he do now without her, how would he raise his two little girls without a mother? What could he teach them? He knew nothing of the arts of women. All he knew was carpentry and… Riven stopped. His eyes became hard and cold. There was one skill he could teach them that would take care of them for the rest of their lives. He knelt near a trunk and opened it. Inside were the tools of his youth: his sword and shield.
In the domain of Nadeau, a castle stood. Vines hid the crumbling stone walls. The castle was very old and the lording family that owned it had dwindled to one heiress, Beija. She lived in one room of the wing that was less ruinous than the rest - the library. Among the books, Beija studied. The books she read were mostly about heroes and the fair maidens they married. But once, she came across a story about the castle. It read that a king and his new bride were touring their lands. They stopped at a spring that the queen fell in love with. To please her, the king built a small castle nearby. The queen became with child and a boy was born. He grew stronger every day and dismayed his parents with the evil they saw blossoming within him. One day, the king rebuked his son. The young man, in fury, murdered his father; then ran into the forest as a fearsome beast. After hearing of her husband’s death, the queen drowned herself in the spring.
Though the story gave strong evidence of a spring of enchantment near her castle, Beija had never seen it. She imagined it had dried up after all these years, or more likely, had never existed at all. Beija shut the volume. A mirror stared back at her. She was aging, and the lines around her eyes were beginning to show it. She reached for her jar of youthweed oil, but it was empty. Beija sighed, she would have to get more.
Beija made her way past ferns and veils of moss that hung from the trees. She searched for the weed that unlike its name suggested, was actually quite rare. Youthweed was the only plant whose properties made her appear nearly a decade younger than the fifty years she neared, and she went to great lengths to acquire it. She would boil it with honeysuckle and the oil would turn into a cream that kept skin smooth and tight.
Beija hiked for nearly the whole day, but the plant eluded her. She swung her machete at another swath of vines that encased the entire forest. Moisture clung to her skin, making her even more uncomfortable than the sweat from her exertions alone. In frustration, Beija struck angrily at the vine blocking her way, then nearly lost her head as her blade unexpectedly bounced off it.
Her machete rung with the sound of metal striking metal, and Beija’s arm bones vibrated from the blow. She tentatively reached out a hand on a tangle of vines and pushed. The entire lattice of vines moved in unison. It wasn’t a tangle of vines, but a wrought iron gate. She gave it a hard shove. Rusted hinges creaked loudly as they gave way.
Beija stepped through the gate, and the remnants of a marble wall were on either side of her, the same marble as that which her castle was built of. The first tree she saw had pomegranates on it. Had she stumbled into an old orchard? The fruit hung rich and red, some of the fruit had cracked open, revealing their ruby red seeds and tart scent. Her next three steps took away her train of thought. A pool of water flashed and flowed before her. The surface sparkled and was surrounded by pomegranate trees. It was the shimmering spring.
