~ Return Of The Goddess ~

by

JoEllen Conger

One

Natal-Day Celebration

Once upon a time, on a world far away, the nations of the land lived under the rule of The Way protected by Goddess Anoona, a double-headed dragon. Knowing of her dualistic ano-ona powers of Light and Darkness, the nobility of that far and distant planet vowed to uphold and preserve this mystical knowledge. In this way, they balanced the dual powers of Peace and Chaos--until a time when mankind forgot to keep the ways of the Brotherhood.

Their world fell into upheaval, and man began to fight his own kind. It was this sad state of affairs which brought the only daughter of the grand king, Princess Iona Catherine Anders of Glastershire, to stand, alone, on the battlements of Northernwild Castle, on the eve of what should have been the happiest day of her life--her sixteenth Natal-Day Celebration.

The cold wind lashed at her fur-lined cape. Princess Iona tugged it more securely into place and continued to pace the turret. Stubbornly, she had maintained vigilance upon the high road since dawn, determined to ignore the cold fingers of wind whipping the strayed ringlets of hair that escaped her ankle-length braid. Still she waited.

She leaned stiffly against the cold stone at her back, and watched the road across the valley for any sign of her father’s return. She ached from watching. Restless, she roused herself and began to pace again. She looked even taller than her five-foot stature, with her erect form silhouetted against the leaden, spring sky.

How can Papah not come on such a memorable occasion! He’s the only parent I’ve known these past eight years since Mamah died. But nay! He’s not even here! He’s off fighting the Kerdsman!

Iona tossed her head in annoyance. She had lost her mother, the Grand Queen Lillianna, to the Misty Veils of Death. Not having her mother, to tend to the ritual details, Iona thought surely he’d return for her celebrated transformation to womanhood!

Still, Iona was reluctant to recognize her responsibilities as Grand Queen-in-Waiting, even in her private thoughts. What did she know about the obligations and responsibilities of leading a nation? Or warfare? She just wanted to be like other girls of sixteen, unfettered to romp across the moors as free as a butterfly, flirting with life, having fun.

Beth, Iona’s maid, suddenly appeared near the princess’s elbow. “Why not come below out of the cold, Your Majesty?” Iona only waved her away.

“Then at least eat a little of this bread and meat.” The girl held out the packet she carried.

Reluctantly Iona accepted the proffered package and unwrapped the toasted slices of oven-baked bread, stuffed with butter and venison strips. She tore off a chunk, popped it into her mouth, and chewed vigorously.

The princess leaned over the parapet and cupped her small hands against her brow to shade her eyes against the afternoon sunlight. With squinted eyelids, she examined the moving patterns of light and shade that swayed beneath the trees lining the distant high road. Nothing moved but the trees and their shadows. Iona sighed, and took another small bite of her repast.

Beth spoke to distract her mistress from her gloomy mood. “The preparations for the celebration are nearly finished. And young Drew left this morning to fetch a fiddler--from Bestenshire. In fact, he should be back by now.”

Iona whirled on one heel to face her handmaiden and childhood confidant. “How could I possibly celebrate without His Majesty? Who will serve as my Kin Witness?”

“One of us could, I suppose.”

“That’s not possible! None of you is kin to me!” Iona retorted.

Then, with second thoughts, she pictured the troubadours and their lively music. How could she refuse her people an evening of entertainment? Especially now with so many families torn apart by the terrible war. They could use the diversion--and so could she.

“Who will dance with me?” Iona exclaimed.

“Well,” Beth began thoughtfully.

Iona obviously had not considered this social disaster until this very moment. She jerked back her cape and took on a dance pose; her arms held her imaginary partner. “I guess I could dance with the stable boys.”

She executed several dance steps. “Or, one of the guardsmen. Nay!” She squealed with glee. “The cook!”

Iona envisioned herself and the pot-bellied man gamboling about the kitchen, knocking over pots and pans in their frenzied flight, while his jealous dwarf of a wife chased in hot pursuit, swinging a blackened skillet. A slow, delighted smile transformed Iona’s melancholy mood.

Beth’s eyes glowed with amusement as her own solution popped into her mind. “I know what! We’ll have His Majesty do it again, after he returns. Then, we could celebrate twice!”

“Oh, Beth! It just wouldn’t be the same! Surely he’ll come!” Iona whirled about to lean over the parapet again, determined not to have Beth witness the hot tears caught on her lashes. Stubbornly, she refused to allow them to slide down her cheeks.

Nobility doesn’t cry! she admonished herself.

Their mood broken, Beth persisted, “You’ll come right in, won’t you?”

Iona nodded, replying absently. “I will follow shortly.” Popping the last slice of venison into her mouth, Iona placed the empty napkin back into her maid’s open hands.

“Nay, I mean really. Come in with me.”

“Really. I will.”

“I mean, really, really,” Beth persisted doggedly. Her eyes flashed her teasing mood.

Iona laughed. “I speak true.” She grinned.

“You can’t break your promise,” scolded the maid.

“Be gone, you harping fosterling. Even though your mother took up raising me where mine left off, I haven’t forgotten which one of us is to be queen!” Iona growled.

The servant girl fled without another word, but her chuckle drifted back over her shoulder.

Why does she mean so much to me? Iona wondered. Perhaps it’s because, of all my people, she’s the only one who is not afraid of my esteemed position, or me. How refreshing. I have no one else dear to me in these chaotic times.

Iona leaned back against the wall and turned her gaze back toward the road. The last of the sun’s rays slanted weakly across the afternoon sky.

“Oh, Papah! Where are you?” she lamented.

She cupped her hands to block the glare from her eyes, and again strained to search the road below. Nothing. Iona stamped her foot and paced some more.

I’ll just stay a few moments longer, she argued.

But you promised, cried the voice of conscience. She chose to ignore it.

Iona had nearly given up hope when she caught sight of movement along the road. Running to the edge of the rampart, she leaned well out over the wall and strained to make out a troop of horsemen marching slowly toward the castle.

She squealed with joy. “I knew he’d come!” She suddenly felt loved, warmed from top to toe, and secure once again. She sighed her relief, no longer noticing the bite of the wind.

As the party of riders drew nearer, she wondered why Papah’s flag wasn’t flying. She narrowed her gaze. If the prominent rider were her father, why wasn’t he astride his favorite stallion?

With a jerk, her heart froze. He loved that horse! He’d trained it himself, and he’d never willingly ride another. Had he lost it in the war? Did this mean the border skirmish was going badly?

Maybe it’s not Papah! she fretted. Who else could it be? Nay! Surely it’s Papah! Fear nudged the edges of her mind. Why would he feel he has to sneak back into Northernwild Castle? He’s disguised himself, that’s it! He’s ridden a horse not known by his enemy.