5 Years Later

Rain tapped in a light mist against the arching glass panes, collecting rivulets on the outer sill and lead frame corners, sending the bead-shaped, dried petals that piled in these corners, cascading onto the flowerbeds and mosaic path of the small courtyard outside the library. 

The library was not only Zhuel domain and sanctuary. Another soul shared this territory with him. 

True to the Old god’s prophecy, Chana bore a daughter, and named her Malka, adhering to the god’s declaration. 

And true still to the promise both Rukhel and Chana pledged on the night of Zhuel’s birth, Chana ruled as second to Rukhel, serving as Rukhel’s right hand.

Their children grew in each other’s presence, and they began awkwardly, like fumbling foals, tripping over words like the foals with their stilt-like legs. 

For what Zhuel struggled with utterance, Malka battled for an ounce of courage to say the words that came easy to her. 

But the boy and girl slowly formed a friendship. 

Rukehl observed how Chana’s bright-eyed daughter communed with her son. In Malka’s company, Zhuel’s tongue faltered less. He voiced his interests, a surge of confidence sprouted inside him, whenever they played. 

Likewise, Chana noted Malka’s painful shyness seemed consoled by Zhuel’s quiet studies. Malka, like the red flower that was the same coppery hue of her braided hair, opened in the cool shade of the prince’s inviting observations. 

Though Zhuel ate a bitter meal of loneliness each day, his time with Malka proved a welcome respite from the loneliness-he found a soul who understood his frustrated stutters and knew his moodiness were steeped in regret. 

Malka made many friends in the palace- the maids, the dairymaids, the seamstress’s daughters- all sought Malka’s favor and friendship. The pages always had a merry smile and honeyed word for her.

But Malka knew, like Zhuel, they only saw her mother’s influence on the Queen, and to favor her, they favored her mother, and thus, earned the ear of the Queen. 

The smiles, the gifts, it was, for the most part, a pageant of falsehoods. 

Malka possessed one true friend amongst the seamstresses. A quiet, melancholy soul gifted with embroidery and storytelling, one Katya. 

But Katya had departed from the palace upon encountering a lusty, brawny, swarthy mercenary who reformed his sword-wielding ways and sought trade in the city. 

The last Malka heard of her friend, Katya and the brawny warrior parted ways, for he proved too much spirit and lust for her still soul. Katya had found a diligent scribe in the next city, and formed a marriage with him. Katya was due with child that coming Spring. 

A dull click of the heavy oaken library door’s lock snapped Malka from her pensive recollection of her old, gone friend. 

And whisking himself in secret, was her constant, present friend. 

“We might wait the moon appears from the clouds- that way, the light outside masks over the light we’ll have lit in a bit.” came a youth’s voice. 

“Wise idea. I fear your mother’s reproach if we are caught, Zhuel.” confessed Malka. A stinging tingle pricked her spine and heels in gnawing apprehension. Her breath flickered in her throat, mostly in the excitement of their forbidden meeting, but more thrilled about their shared deed which was to happen before them now. 

Zhuel, nearly a year her elder, was two inches her better, but somehow, in the darkness of the great library, with his high collar, (which made his neck longer, and in her mind, more elegant), and his stately cloak, (which rendered his slender shoulders broader and commanding), seemed much taller than that. 

Youth proved well for the prince. 

Rukhel and the people all marveled how the young Prince’s stutter vanished that one year. His speech was now a smooth flow, and he gained an unusual eloquence, almost poet-like. 

Adolescence spared him the last and cruelest of its barbs, for his voice cracked with ease and speed. The arrival of manhood’s prime showed its signs favorably- Zhuel’s childish face gave way into the stronger frame of growth, and his brow and chin seemed to settle into evenness. 

Malka knew well that the first seasons of adolescence proved merciless for Zhuel- and her. They shared this common misery, though much to her chagrin, this left her quicker than the prince. She lamented this departure, for she appreciated the commonality between her and the prince. She saw it persisted in him, and her own triumph built a silent, invisible wall between them. A wall that had never been there during those painful seasons. 

He averted her eyes, a nervous sullenness replaced his openness, and a resenting envy stilled their friendship. 

So now, she welcomed how, last Winter, Zhuel likewise made his way through the woods of adolescence. She thought it like this: she made her way first, and waited on the forest’s edge for her friend to come through on his own and join her. 

And she waited and welcomed him gladly. 

But now her reverie interrupted yet again. She shook her head and focused on their task at hand. 

Carefully, she tucked herself in the recess of the window’s arch, letting it shade hide as she watched the guards grow lax and bored. They sought amusement with their dice and cards, and now the moon slipped out its cover of the night clouds. 

The pale moonlight spilled into the library, obscuring its chamber instead of offering the clarity light usually does. 

Her nod signaled Zhuel. 

Swiftly, with a single, graceful flick of wrist and hand, Zhuel conjured a small flame on his fingertip, and lit the candle within the glass-paneled lantern on the master table in the library. Its light casted a pleasant array of silhouettes from the tempered light holes, and hues swirled on the walls and books from the colored-glass panels.

Malka’s eyes widen in delight at the brief dazzling display, but then swiftly assumed a grave demeanor. She wished not to seem easily amazed like a child, for Zhuel was not like this. 

“Have you mastered the flame skill yet, Malasha?” Zhuel asked, smiling playfully as he used his favorite pet name for hers. 

Malka looked down, and sighed, scuffing her slippered toe against the deep-fibered carpet on the floor. She bit her lip, slightly ashamed. 

“Not quite. Magic does not come so easily as it does for you, Zhuel.” She confessed. 

“Let me see it.” He looked at her with a softening, encouraging concern. 

Reluctantly, Malka held out her right hand. With her left, she circled her right hand, and snapped her fingers three times. Sparks flicked from the tips of her fingers. But then a spasm bent her fingers in a crook- she cried out slightly, pained by the spasm. 

In an instant, Zhuel leapt to her side. He feared whenever Malka practiced a ritual- it seemed magic ill-suited her. Or rather, they had yet to find the sort of magic she could master. 

In a protective instinct, Zhuel took her hand, and grasped his fingers over hers, siphoning the magic energy through her fingers into his own. Malka’s pain surged right into his hand, seizing his fingers and wrist in a spiteful twist. Zhuel gasped at the shock, his eyes opening wide for a brief moment. He mastered the energy, and like quelling a spirited steed, he quieted the magic and the pain left his hand, and his hand straightened back. 

In regret, he noted Malka’s soft eyes were pricked at the corners with a glint of tears. She winced back the tears, and bravely assumed a face of composure. 

As was her manner, Zhuel, dejectedly noted. Malka, he knew, would never admit to her own pains and sorrows, but also masked them with her smiles and stillness. 

“I-I am sorry I asked you-” began Zhuel. He still held her hand in his, not realizing the act, for he sought to comfort her. 

“Oh! If only I wasn’t so inept-I can’t seem to learn anything you teach me.” Malka insisted, peeved at her own failure. 

“No, you haven’t found your magic yet,” advised Zhuel. 

“There’s magic I have yet to master, too. We’re both learning, Malasha. But promise me you’ll refrain from rituals- at least until I’ve gained more power, and you can take whatever I impart to you. But not until then, do you understand?”  He sought her eluding eyes, for Malka grew embarrassed and vexed with herself. 

She nodded. She then gazed down at their hands, still interlocked in the gentle grasp. 

Zhuel blinked and realizing he still held her hand in place, he let go in surprise. “Ah, is your hand all right now?” He turned around, distracting himself with adjusting the flame within the lantern. 

Malka nodded. Surprise faded from her, and a second of longing piqued her. His touch comforted her, and she desired his gentle hold again on her hand. It felt akin to a rare sweet on her tongue, or the all-too brief sweet song of a morning bird. 

But sweets melt and songs are drowned by the day’s din, she knew. 

“Where did you hide the book, Malasha?”