Shrouded In Mists

The river ran backward on the day the Queen vanished.

That, at least, was as it should have been, even if the Queen's absence was not.

The land was linked to the wellbeing of its ruler, after all. It served as a kind of warning system, undeniable evidence when something was wrong.

The Queen was alive, at least, or the skies would have turned the deep purple-black of mourning. Any harm she suffered was negligible, for the birds still sang, rather than falling silent in warning. But the Queen was not where she should be, and had not vanished of her own will, and thus the rivers ran backward.

The High Council convened an immediate session, broadcast across the realm by the use of Mage Crystals. The Chief Sorcerer had a cold compress pressed to his head, where a rather spectacular bruise explained why he had not prevented the vanishing. "We have detected traces of Black Magic, but the very magic that links Queen Vanora to the land, also makes her very difficult to trace. "

The Head of the Royal guard chose not to make an issue of that, lest it draw attention to how he, also, had failed. "Historian, is here any precedent for this happening?"

The Royal Historian rose to her feet, "Yes, actually, though as it was more than a thousand years ago, we are still translating the records. What we have discovered so far gives room for hope that this may not necessarily have been a malicious action."

The High Chancellor, who was also the Queen's cousin, tilted her greying head. "A thousand years... that was the time of the Great Reformation, was it not?"

The Historian nodded, "Indeed, your Grace. A time of great change is coming, and the land believes that we are not prepared to meet it. Last time, seven were chosen for a quest, with no apparent reason to their choosing, and their descendants formed the seven Great Houses of the current nobility."

The Head Sorcerer nodded, wincing with the motion. "The Choosing will be unmistakable. Citizens of our great land, loyal subjects of our beloved Queen, you must be ready, if the Quest choses you."

A low cover of mist blanketed the streets, despite the high noon sun that should have burned it away hours ago.

"Will you go, if you're chosen?"

Daphne, a baker's apprentice with the muscles to prove it, shot her cousin an exasperated look. "I don't see how I'd have a choice otherwise, should it happen. Now get out of the way of the paying customers, if you aren't going to do anything useful!"

Her cousin, Thomas, a scribe who spent more time dreaming of adventure than he did practicing his letters, pouted at her lack of ambition. Still, he moved before she carried through on her unspoken threat to make him. Daphne had proven more than once that she wasn't above picking him up and stuffing him into the vat where they put the stale bread to distribute to the poor.

It was one change Queen Vanora had made that Daphne approved of: any foodstuffs that were beyond being sold, but still edible, were delivered daily to community kitchens that fed all who entered without question. Bread that was stale but not yet moldy could be toasted and eaten. Bruised or misshapen produce could be made into stew of some kind. Those who had to choose between food or rent were fed without cost, and the businesses who supplied the kitchens could claim a small tax break.

The fare was nothing fancy; stew or soup with toasted bread and perhaps some cheese, but food was food, and there was less being woken up by people digging through bins at night.

The old King had been of a more miserly bent. He'd thought that suffering motivated people to better their situation, and overlooked the fact that for some people, no motivation could overcome the obstacles that stood between them and a better life. Take the Widow Blanche, who lost her legs and her family in the same accident. No amount of suffering would change the fact that very few occupations were suited for someone who couldn't move without assistance, and the ones that were all required a level of education that the Widow had never gained.

Widow Blanche worked at the Community Kitchen to earn her the pennies required to pay for a private room at a boarding house, and someone to help her through the day. There was nothing wrong with her arms, and she could stir and dish out anything within reach. If not for the Community Kitchens feeding her thrice a day, however, the poor widow might have had a very different story, along with countless others for whom one less burdan made a substantial difference.

Daphne herself sometimes went to the kitchens when she wanted company that wasn't related to her, or a bit of gossip that didn't come from people wealthy enough to pay someone to bake for them. Sometimes she even made a friend.

"You could refuse", her fellow apprentice, Ryven, pointed out, once the rush of customers had been dealt with. "You just couldn't do it decently."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Decent or un-decent, I'd do it so the rivers stop acting up, before we have to go back to mules turning the millstones."

Ryven laughed, and winked at pretty Amalee, the Dressmaker's apprentice, who blushed and smiled back. One day, they'd stop dancing around each other. "At least it was Queen Vanora who vanished. People would have been far more relucent to volunteer to go rescue Old King Colm, if he'd vanished one day."

Amalee scoffed as she bought a pastry. "Most would have seen him as doing us a favour, even with the environmental upheaval. See you for dinner?"

Ryven nodded, and wished her a good day before the dressmaker came looking for her. Daphne would join them at the Community Kitchen tonight, she decided, and see what everyone else was saying about Queen Vanora's disappearance, and if anyone had been chosen yet.

Hopefully whatever higher power did the choosing wouldn't pick a noble. Daphne couldn't think of anyone more useless for a quest than someone who'd been waited on hand and foot all of their lives.

At least she was unlikely to be chosen. What could Destiny want with a Baker's Apprentice?

What use could Fate have for any of them?