weeping, leaned down and kissed her baby’s forehead. She leaned back and shrieked with grief. Hands shaking, she removed the necklace from around her neck and placed it around her baby’s.
She clasped her hands over both of his.
“I love you,” she said, between sobs. “Never forget me.”
The baby shrieked as if he understood, a piercing cry, rising even above the new clap of thunder and lightning, even above the sound of approaching horses.
Rea knew she could wait no longer. She gave the basket a push, and soon, the current caught it. She watched, sobbing, as it disappeared into the blackness.
She had no sooner lost sight of it than the clanging of armor appeared behind her – and she wheeled to find several knights dismounting, but feet away.
“Where’s the child?” one demanded, his visor lowered, his voice cutting through the storm. It was nothing like the visor of the man who had had her. This man wore red armor, of a different shape, and there was no kindness in his voice.
“I…” she began.
Then she felt a fury within her – the fury of a woman who knew she was about to die. Who had nothing left to lose.
“He’s gone,” she spat, defiant. She smiled. “And you shall never have him. Never.”
The man groaned in anger as he stepped forward, drew a sword, and stabbed her.
Rea felt the awful agony of steel in her chest, and she gasped, breathless. She felt her world becoming lighter, felt herself immersed in white light, and she knew that this was death.
Yet, she felt no fear. Indeed, she felt satisfaction. Her baby was safe.
And as she landed face-first in the river, the waters turning red, she knew it was over. Her short, hard life had ended.
But her boy would live forever.
The peasant woman, Mithka, knelt by the river’s edge, her husband beside her, the two frantically reciting their prayers, feeling no other recourse during this uncanny storm. It felt as if the end of the world were upon them. The blood red moon was a dire omen in and of itself – but appearing together with a storm like this, well, it was more than uncanny. It was unheard of. Something momentous, she knew, was afoot.
They knelt there together, gales of wind and snow whipping their faces, and she prayed for protection for their family. For mercy. For forgiveness for anything she may have done wrong.
A pious woman, Mithka had lived many sun cycles, had several children, had a good life. A poor life, but a good one. She was a decent woman. She had minded her business, had looked after others, and had never done harm to anyone. She prayed that God would protect her children, her household, whatever meager belongings they had. She leaned over and placed her palms in the snow, closed her eyes, and then bent low, touching her head to the ground. She prayed to God to show her a sign.
Slowly, she lifted her head. As she did, her eyes widened and her heart slammed at the sight before her.
“Murka!” she hissed.
Her husband turned and looked at it, too, and both knelt there, frozen, staring in astonishment.
It couldn’t be possible. She blinked several times, and yet there it was. Before them, carried in the water’s current, was a floating basket.
And in that basket was a baby.
A boy.
His screams pierced the night, rose even above the storm, above the impossible claps of thunder and lightning, and each scream pierced her heart.
She jumped into the river, wading in deep, ignoring the icy waters, like knives on her skin, and grabbed the basket, fighting her way against the current and back toward shore. She looked down and saw the baby was meticulously wrapped in a blanket, and that he was, miraculously, dry.
She examined him more closely and was astonished to see a gold pendant around his neck, two snakes circling a moon, a dagger between them. She gasped; it was one she recognized immediately.
She turned to her husband.
“Who would do such a thing?” she asked, horrified, as she held him tight against her chest.
He could only shake his head in wonder.
“We must take him in,” she decided.
Her husband frowned and shook his head.
“How?” he snapped. “We cannot afford to feed him. We can barely afford to feed us. We have three boys already – what do we need with a fourth? Our time raising children is done.”
Mithka, thinking quick, snatched the thick gold pendant and placed it in his palm, knowing, after all these years, what would impress her husband. He felt the weight of the gold in his hand, and he clearly looked impressed.
“There,” she snapped back, disgusted. “There’s your gold. Enough gold to feed our family until we’re all old and dead,” she said sternly. “I am saving this baby – whether you like it or not. I will not leave him to die.”
He still frowned, though less certain, as another lightning bolt struck above and he studied the skies with fear.
“And do you think it’s a coincidence?” he asked. “A night like this, such a baby comes into this world? Have you any idea who you are holding?”
He looked down at the child with fear. And then he stood and backed away, finally turning his back and leaving, gripping the pendant, clearly displeased.
But Mithka would not give in. She smiled at the baby and rocked him to her chest, warming his cold face. Slowly, his crying calmed.
“A child unlike any of us,” she replied to no one, holding him tight. “A child who shall change the world. And one I shall name: Royce.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER FOUR
17 Sun Cycles later
Royce stood atop the hill, beneath the only oak tree in these fields of grain, an ancient thing whose limbs seemed to reach to the sky, and he looked deeply into Genevieve’s eyes, deeply in love. They held hands as she smiled back at him, and as they leaned in and kissed, he felt in awe and gratitude that his heart could feel this full. As dawn broke over the fields of grain, Royce wished that he could freeze this moment forever.
Royce leaned back and looked at her. Genevieve was gorgeous. In her seventeenth year, as he was, she was tall, slim, with flowing blond hair and intelligent green eyes, a smattering of freckles across her dainty features. She had a smile that made him happy to be alive, and a laugh that put him at ease. More than that, she had a grace, a nobility, that far outmatched their peasant status.
Royce saw his own reflection in her eyes and he marveled that he looked as if he could be related to her. He was much bigger, of course, tall even for his age, with shoulders broader than even his older brothers’, a strong chin, a noble nose, a proud forehead, an abundance of muscle which rippled beneath his frayed tunic, and light features, like hers. His longish blond hair fell just
