That day late in winter at the end of 1098 is my earliest memory.

“Everything stood perfectly and utterly still as the goddess Matthise wrapped the world in her white embrace at that moment. Every individual flake of snow that fluttered down from the heavens danced tenderly across the frozen earth in celebration. Even the north winds sang a symphony through the bared branches of the hibernating forests that surrounded the small kingdom of Joven to herald her arrival into our world.”

Or at least that’s the way that the bard in the tavern down the road told it the other week, and I thought it rather poetic. Like most poetry it contains some lies mixed in with the truth.

The castle was bustling that day. Late in the afternoon a group of white and blue smocked women hurried through the marble corridors of the palace, too and from Queen Carol’s chamber. Both she and the king were nowhere to be found after a certain point in the day.

I had thought something was wrong with the queen, at first as she had undergone a variety of changes over the last couple of months, and so when my father — the royal gardener and herbalist who had been working with some of the smocked ladies earlier in the day, laid me down to sleep that evening I asked him if something was wrong he just looked and me and smiled.

“A miracle.” Was all that he answered.

Well, I wanted to see the miracle; as magic was rare in those days. So I waited for my father’s breathing to fall into a rhythmic cadence. When his low, steady rumble began I rolled out of the wood-slat bed, put on my thickest clothes, and snuck out the door of our small shack pressed against the eastern walls of the fortifications that surrounded the palace, in the shadow of the crumbling watch tower overlooking the distant shadows of the Paash Mountains.

The skies were as clear as crystal — the full moon as bright as flame as it hung in place in between the Stags horns. A distant howling in the north told me that the storm that had been ravaging Joven for the better part of winter would soon return, but at the moment, a lull.

I crept across the placid white towards the blaring orange wedge that bled through a small gap in between the thick velvet curtains of the queen’s chambers on the southern side of the palace, and pulled myself up onto the ledge — my fingers trembling as they dug beneath the powdered snow and clung to the frozen stone. The warmth wafting off of the thick glass was enough to keep me warm as I pressed my face into it.

All I could see of the room was the back half of the queen’s bed, and a single corner opposite of the window, where the usually stoic King Royland stood — worry wrinkled his face as his bright eyes kept watch in the direction of the queen’s bed where the army of smocked women attended to her. It was as if he had aged several decades since the last time I saw him, earlier that day.

Occasionally the king would pace back and forth casting the room in near darkness whenever he passed in front of the crackling hearth. If it weren’t for the dim glow of flickering candles just beyond my sight, the darkness would have been complete for the second or so it took for him to cross it. This continued every so often until Mrs. Cherie; the palace’s head maid, grabbed the king by his shoulders and dragged him to the corner opposite of the window where I could see him, pointed to the floor and stormed back out of sight behind the curtain’s fold and to the queen’s side.

The smocked women, directed by the elderly Mrs. Cherie, hurried in and out of the room. Dirty linens and towels left and were replaced with a never ending supply of clean ones. Wooden tubs of steaming water were carried in, and dirty water went out. Occasionally, a woman would come in with a bundle of mossy, dry logs to toss onto the fire. All the while the king’s face grew more and more sullen.

I waited for the miracle until the moon hung high, and the howling winds drew dangerously close and chilly. At the moment I was about to give up and sneak back home all of the commotion in the room came to a stop. It was as if the entire world stood still and calm. Even the north wind ceased its cries.

The stillness lasted for a couple of minutes before being broken by Mrs. Cherie walking into view for the first time since she told the king to stay put. Cradled in her arms was a small bundle of blankets that she handed to the king. As soon as the bundle was placed in the king’s arms all the worry and decades of age that had painted his face all melted away in a broad, bright smile that shone in his amber eyes as he rocked it back and forth. I had never seen the King smile like that before.

The close howling of the wind indicated to me that it was time to go. So I climbed off of the window sill and sank into the packed snow as I fell the foot or so. After pulling myself free I traced the divots of my footsteps back home to the shack pressed against the eastern walls. Half way there the snow started to fall again; little flakes of white twirling on the breeze to cover the tracks that would tell of my intrusion. By the time that I was at the door the storm had started in all of its howling fury.

My father was awake and feeding dried twigs to the fire. He turned to greet me whenever I pushed open the door.

“Well, did you see the miracle, Seth?”

He asked after berating me for doing something so dangerous and stupid like that.

“I think so.” I answered as I crawled back into bed and let sleep take me.