The Circle

Chapter One:

“Are you Danska?”

The almost pretty boy lying under the tree didn’t even bother to sit up, instead addressing the elegantly clad speaker with yawn and a laconic, “Who asks?”

The traveler, Geran, a dark haired young Tessari man of twenty years, smiled, and crouched beside the lazy youth, who barely cracked open one of his startling blue eyes at the intrusion. “I’m a friend.”

“Hmph,” the boy scoffed, with a teasing hint of good humor playfully disguised as disapproval. “Some friend you must be if you don’t even know what he looks like.”

The boy tucked his hands behind his blond head, and turned his comely young face to the sunlight that dappled through the canopy of green above them both, the perfect picture of careless relaxation, not a worry in the whole world. The weather was turning cold and soon the Grenbrar would become a place of darkness and silence, so the boy was very obviously taking in the sun while he could. His thin form and threadbare clothes spoke of his poverty and surely these were things of concern, but he did not show it. Maybe it was a front, or maybe he was truly breezing through life. Geran didn’t know but either way, it brought a smile to the Tessari’s face.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him... and his brother… his sister.”

Now, this made the boy open his eyes, “Hmm, I have a brother and a sister like your friend does. What do you think their names are?”

Charmed by this odd little boy, Geran tapped his fingers on his chin and asked, “Would they be Aleksa and Narelle?”

The boy laughed, and closed his eyes again, “Wrong. You’re not a very good guesser.”

Geran stood up and said, “Let’s start again then. My name is Geran Aldonza, emissary for Yonaton Avanta Corryna, King of Endiala. Who might I have the pleasure of addressing?”

Getting to his feet, the boy, who upright seemed somehow smaller and more delicate than he had formerly appeared, gave a deep bow and said, “Mikel Cutter, at your service.” He picked up the small reed flute that he had been playing when the traveler came upon him, and said, “Come on then. We should make it to the cottage before sunset if you aren’t too slow.” He headed off down a path that was so faint that Geran, who had been raised most of his life in the cobblestoned city, could barely follow it. “Oh, by the way,” Mikel said, a teasing lilt in his voice, “My brother’s name is Dafid and my sister is Cera. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself by trying to guess.”

Geran watched the fleet footed boy for a moment, whispering to himself, “At last...”

Then, he hurried to catch up with him. After all, no one wanted to be in the Grenbrar at night.

*****

In a clearing, surrounded on all sides by the high great trees of the Grenbrar, stood the small cottage where lived a young woman and her two brothers, the orphaned children of a woodcutter. Ten years before, a sickness had struck the Grenbrar home, and while Papa had been lost, the children had been spared, and they had lived alone here ever since. It was not easy, as they had been so very young, but family is what was important, and family is how they survived.

Brown haired and pretty, Cera Cutter, all of nineteen and tasked with the unenviable task of raising two young boys all alone, was lifting an armful of straw up into the rafters at that moment. Work never ended, and though her hands were rough and raw, she did her best to care for this home and the two boys who were her whole world, only one of whom was helping her with this yearly chore. She looked over at her brother, trying to ignore the sour look on his face, knowing the cause as sure as she knew her own name, “Pass me some more, Dafid?”

Dafid, two years younger, hoisted some straw up to her and, sure enough, he could not hold his complaint back, as his sister had feared, “Of course, as always, Mikel disappears when there is work to be done.”

“The straw makes him sneeze,” Cera said, placatingly, as she pushed the armful up into the rafters. “You know that. He does plenty of work. I won’t have you making him feel bad for this. Tonight he has... his own chore, so he deserves his rest,” She crouched down on the table she was standing on to make herself tall enough to reach the rafters, “Besides, he’s not as strong as you and not as tall as me, so what could he do that would make this chore easier?”

Dafid scoffed, unwilling to admit she had a point, instead looking up at the rafters, ashamed that his anger came so quickly, but being young enough to not know how to change it, “I think that should be enough to keep us warm this winter.”

Cera tucked her hand under her younger brother’s chin, bringing his face down to look into her eyes, “What’s really wrong, Dafid? It’s not Mikel.”

The boy shook his sister off, never really one to be touched, and he sighed, waving a hand at the cottage’s one oil-skinned window “The weather is getting colder, and the Grenbrar is getting darker. The men from the city will come soon for their wood. Maybe… “

His sister stood and turned away to tuck more straw into the rafters, fussing with it, even though she certainly did not need to. “No more talk about that,” she said, quietly, “Father died to give us this house, and we’ll honor those wishes.”

Dafid’s dark eyes narrowed and he said, coldly, “You don’t even remember Father. None of us do. The sickness took that.”

Cera clenched her fists around a handful of straw and said, “Dafid, enough!”

“Why are you so scared of the city?!” Dafid snapped, “Mikel and I can manage without you, but you… you deserve more than this. You’ve raised us well enough.”

“I said, enough!” Cera said, as she spun around to confront the angry youth. “We stay together the way Father…” But tables are not for standing on, and worn leather shoes do not always have the steadiest footing. The girl’s foot slipped on the smooth wood and she fell backwards, toppling from her perch…

… directly into the arms of a tall, dark and very handsome stranger.

“Geran Aldonza,” Mikel introduced as if this was nothing concerning whatsoever, “Meet my sister, Cera Cutter.”

*****

As Geran washed his face in cool water drawn from the well, Mikel set the dishes out, one for Cera, one for Dafid and one for their guest. The stew steamed warm and hearty, thick and brown, nice grainy bread to sop up the gravy, and tin mugs of milk to wash it down. “I hope you like rabbit,” Mikel said, to Geran, the young man joining the Cutters at the roughly carved table near the fire, “The forest empties when winter comes, but Dafid has never come home empty handed.”

“I have,” Dafid denied, not yet eating, instead staring at their guest.

“Well, rarely then,” Mikel said, amiably.

Geran looked at the youngest of the siblings as he sat down at the table, “Aren’t you eating?”

“We only have three bowls,” Mikel said, a smile still on his face. “We’re Cutters. We can’t afford a second name much less fancy gold plates.”

“Afford a…” The implications of the generosity of his impoverished hosts suddenly striking him like a bolt of lightning, the outsider looked down at his bowl and said, “This isn’t right. It’s not right.You should not be living like this.” Geran stood up, looking around the small one room cottage, taking in the cracks in the walls, the simple lofts where the three slept, the patches in their clothes, the meagerness of everything in their lives. “It is not suited to you.”

The three looked up at him, eyes wide at the outburst. Mikel was, of course, first to his feet, “Please, please, friend, don’t be angry, not on our account. Our home is humble, but it’s safe. It’s warm. We have food to eat and the rain only comes in when I forget to care for the roof. I’m sure it seems like squallor to someone who comes from the city…”

“You’re from Endiala?” Dafid interrupted, “Why are you in the Grenbrar? If I was from the city, I’d never leave it.”

“But you did,” Geran said, “You all did...and it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

The three Cutter children looked at each other, confused. Cera put out her hand, to rest it on their strange visitor’s arm, “Lord Aldonza… “

“I’m not a lord,” Geran said, “And, you… you are not the children of a woodcutter.” He suddenly dropped to one knee, “You are the royal children of King Yonaton Corryna. Princess Narelle Cera, Crown Prince Aleksa Dafid, and Prince Danska Mikel… the lost heirs to the Endialan throne.”

“What…” Cera whispered, “You… you’re mad…”

Geran shook his head, “No, I’m not.” He rose slowly, and said, quietly, “I’m… the one who failed you. I’m the one who could not protect you.” He lowered his head, “We were friends, you the grand high royals and I the son of a guardsman… and when they came, I… I was unable to protect you…”

Dafid slowly got to his feet and said, “When… when…”

“No, Dafid,” Mikel caught at his brother’s sleeve, suddenly afraid, but unable to say why, “Don’t ask…”

But the older boy was unable to stop himself, “When who came, Aldonza… who are you talking about?”

Geran looked at them, one by one, the pause breathless and tangible, like a cloud of acrid smoke. He opened his mouth once, twice, three times, before his nerve failed him and he looked away, “The new Queen came… and she brought the wizard with her.”