Chapter Text
There is the dragon, my lord, and then there is the fear of the dragon. It is hard to say which is worse. And even if you doubt the dragon, you must admit the fear is real.
Philip Reeve, No Such Thing as Dragons
***
Something is wrong. Queen Naomi writhes on the bed, the soft sheets damp with sweat and tangled around her legs. Her chambermaid presses a cool cloth to her forehead and she winces, flinching away from the touch.
King Charles paces, striding back and forth across their bedroom. He moves in and out of the sunlight streaming through the high windows. He chews on the nail of his thumb, a nasty habit he has never been able to fully break himself of. “Where is she?” he snaps at the guard at the door, causing the man to jump.
“On her way, sir. I’m sure she will be here–”
“Charles.” The voice is soft as it carries down the hall. “I came as fast as I could.”
Charles’ shoulders sag with relief at the sight of his sister. If anyone can help, it will be her.
“Amara,” he says, and he takes her hand in his, squeezing it. “I fear the worst. Her fever hasn’t broken at all, and she’s started crying out, speaking words that make no sense to me.”
Amara presses against the side of the bed, putting her hands on Naomi’s face, her chest, her swollen belly.
“The child is alive,” she says.
“Thank the stars,” Charles says, putting his head in his hands. “What about Naomi, will she be alright?”
Amara is silent, pressing against the Queen’s skin. She bites at her lip, taking entirely too long to answer.
“Amara, just tell me.”
Amara stands up, looks over at Charles and her eyes, when she speaks, shine with tears. “I will do what I can. She’s fighting hard, but I am not sure–I think we have to remove the child now.”
“Is he ready?”
“He is big enough to survive, yes. It’s the best chance we have to save them both.”
“Do it.”
Amara speaks to the chambermaid in a hushed tone, and then there is a flurry of movement. Water is boiled, rags are brought in, and in the corner, Amara unpacks her tools. Some of them are medical, some of them are magical. Sharp knives, needles and thread, potions, poultices, and herbs.
Magic has always been regulated in the Kingdom of Heofon. It’s not something that the King has gone out of his way to enforce outside of a wide set of decrees. However, whatever magic is allowed is supposed to go through him, approved by the court and closely watched. It’s easier this way to unite a people, to keep anyone from becoming powerful enough to challenge him. But he has always turned a blind eye to the village healer, to the farmer who might increase his crop.
Amara is both his sister and the official court sorceress. She’s the only one in the castle with the tools and the knowledge to perform this kind of healing, both medically and magically. She is the only one he trusts to do this.
The sky outside darkens as she works. The room smells like sweat and blood. His heartbeat is nearly loud enough to drown out the sounds of screaming all around him as he paces, paces, paces. It takes too long, all of it takes entirely too long. Just when he is about to start screaming, the sound of a cry breaks the silence. A baby–alive. Charles feels a rush of relief, air from within him pushing out through his mouth in a soft sound of disbelief.
“A boy, as I predicted,” Amara says, as the child is pulled away by a midwife who takes him to be cleaned and wrapped. On the bed Naomi whines, whimpers. Charles goes to her side, tries not to look down at the handiwork below, the stained sheets.
“My love,” he says, “It’s a boy.”
She opens her eyes to find his, and they are far away. It’s only moments later that the babe is returned, being passed first to Amara on the way to his parents.
Amara takes the bundle, pressing fingers to the baby’s face, and then immediately drops to her knees on the floor. She cries out, and Charles instinctively goes for the blade at his side. Amara holds the child to her chest as her head falls back, eyes rolling until all Charles can see is the white of them–egg without yolk. She has fallen in front of the window, the night behind her a perfect, inky blue. The stars are as bright as flames where they pinprick through the heavens. The moon is pale and strong enough to cast her partially into silhouette as she arches back against the night. The room still smells like blood, one woman’s screams replacing another's.
“Amara?” Naomi asks, her voice rough and worn from screaming.
When Amara speaks, it sounds nothing like her normal voice. Thunderous, ancient, she speaks as though the words are moving through her and not coming from within at all.
“The Star Prince,” she says, rocking back and forth on the stone floor. In her arms the babe goes still, his new eyes open wide, bright and wet as the sky behind him. “The Star Prince has come at last! A new path rises. If he is Crowned, if he is Kinged, the tide will change. The land of Tirras is transformed by his hand. The downfall of Heofon as it is known will come to pass. He will set in motion the death of his mother first, and his father later. The Star Prince has power unseen for centuries. He will heal the land. He will heal the people. Beloved of the stars, beloved of the land, beloved of all. A sorcerer unlike any before him. When The Star Prince inherits the throne a new day will rise. Rejoice! He has come. He has come at last.”
Amara cries out, her body shuddering and shaking back into form, curling over the child in her arms.
“Charles,” Naomi says, but Charles is already upon Amara, knife drawn. He takes the baby from her. The blade shines in the light. “Charles don’t!”
The King looks at the Queen. “I have to, you heard what she said–the death of us both.”
“If he is crowned,” Naomi says, and her fever bright eyes are wide as a doe’s. “He is not to inherit the throne, Charles. He can live, he must live. Please.”
“He will kill you, he will kill me,” Charles says, walking closer to his wife. She reaches for his hand, he lowers the blade.
“I am already gone, my love. I know it, Amara knows it. There is nothing left to do.”
Amara is crying from her spot on the floor, looking terrified and terrible. Charles shakes his head, looks between them.
“You have no idea what it means, prophecies are never so clearcut. It could be anything,” Naomi goes on. “It could be an accident thirty years from now. It could be that you love him so, and decide to save him. To sacrifice yourself for him. We don’t know.”
“The downfall of Heofon… and he’s a sorcerer,” Charles seethes.
“And you can train him, can tell him not to use his magic. He will never rule, not with Gabriel in line for the throne. Charles, promise me. I give my life for him, willingly, gladly. Let the baby live.”
Charles drops the knife, his eyes hot with tears.
“Naomi,” he whispers, and it’s a plea.
“His name is Castiel. Let him live a quiet life. Make sure he never takes the throne. Promise me.”
Charles nods, and hands the small, crying bundle over to his wife. They look together at his face. His eyes are the same blue as the night sky. His hair is the color of ink.
“My star prince,” Naomi says, and then her eyes close, her body shudders, and she is gone.
Amara stands, coming to rest beside Charles and looking between the knife still clutched in his hand and the child. He can tell that she doesn’t know yet what he will do, and he is angry that she’s right to question it. In a fit of rage he brings the blade to the throat of his third child. His wife is nothing but a corpse behind him, and he thinks, distractedly, that the soft fur that the baby has been wrapped in will soak up the blood. How much blood can there be in such a tiny body, anyway? Bright blue eyes hold his, unafraid. Anger is a living thing in his chest. Promise me, she had said, and he had. Loyalty and love for a dead woman are all that keep him from slitting Castiel’s throat right there.
“He will never learn of his true power,” he spits out, dropping the knife. “He will know nothing of the existence of magic. I will make sure that wheresoever a finger is raised in the craft, a body falls. From this day on, it is done.”
“Brother,” Amara whispers.
“You as well,” he turns to her with disgust, raising a finger. “You did this. Somehow, you did this to him. To her. Didn’t you? You knew?”
“I did no such thing, Charles. This is the will of the stars. They speak through me, you know that. I did all I could to save them both, to make them healthy.”
“Guards,” Charles says. “Lock her up. She will be hung at dawn.”
“Charles!” Amara screams, agonized and betrayed.
He won’t hear it. Someone must pay for this, and if it cannot be the baby, if it cannot be Castiel, then it will be Amara. Either way, blood of his own will spill. He won’t look at her as they drag her away. Doesn’t want to look at his son either, hands him to the chambermaid and storms off into the castle.
In the morning, a decree goes out across the land. Any found practicing the craft will be hung. A reward is offered for those who turn in others. Heofon is henceforth a place of reason, of law–not of tradition and magic and prophecies.
But when they go to bring Amara to the gallows, she is gone. There is only a single, golden feather in her place.