The peace and solitude needed for meditative studies was not easy to find in the crystal palace of Caithel Ur. Dagmar’s door flew open with a slam as Tara, her eldest sister, barged in. Eilir and Tegan followed close behind, filling the room with malicious energy.
“Father wants you,” Tara said without preamble.
“Does he? I thought the whole point is that he doesn’t want her,” Eilir sniped. “None of us do. That’s why she was given to the temple.”
“Father wants you in his study.” Tegan clarified.
Dagmar stood and smoothed the wrinkles from her gown. She should have changed into priestess robes or at least a comfortable tunic and pants before settling into practice. But these sorts of summons were exactly why she didn’t dare wear more practical clothing at home. One never knew when one’s Honored Father might like to shout at one for one’s various shortcomings.
Three matching pairs of clear gray eyes watched and whispered as she pushed her feet into shoes. A glance in the mirror told her everything she didn’t want to know. Next to her white-haired, pale, willowy sisters, she was a sturdy brown oak. But at least her brown hair was tidy and her clothes not too mussed. She trailed along behind as they giggled and gossiped their way through the halls.
Unlike most of the public rooms of the palace, her father’s office was a dark paneled, quiet space. Shelves of old-fashioned books covered the walls. His desk was a massive island of dark wood filled with cubbies full of secrets. He didn’t glance up from his datapad when they entered. Despite her sisters’ low conversation, he took no notice of any of them until their mother arrived as well.
“Ah. Aneira. Good. I have news.”
“Indeed, honored husband.” Aneira nodded, the bounce of her brown curls the only movement in her elegant frame.
Like Dagmar, she too had studied to be a priestess. Unlike Dagmar, she had no talent for the arts of the temple. Abilities sometimes skipped generations, they said.
They said that the talent had not only skipped but landed on Dagmar with extra force. If only she’d apply herself, the temple teachers said, she could be one of the greats of the era. But that thought was vanity, a self-indulgence she couldn’t afford.
Dagmar didn’t want to be great. She just wanted a friend. Well, she had a friend now, didn’t she? A smile snuck onto her lips at the thought of Rori, who would be waiting for her in the garden at dusk.
Her secret friend told her she was beautiful and wrote her poems. Bad poems, but at least he made the effort. Her father cleared his throat, slamming her back to the present matter.
“As you know, Ran of Brundt has made a claim to be the Shaipur of all D’Abraxas.”
“Oh, Ancestors preserve us,” Aneira muttered.
“He now wishes to find a wife,” Ramon continued after casting a dark look at his own wife.
“What for?” Tara asked. “Isn’t the Shaipur a kind of priest? Priests don’t marry. They hook up however they please and then have natural bastards.” Her gaze slid over to Dagmar, full of malice and meaning.
Aneira made outraged shushing noises at her eldest child. But Tara’s pointed words were nothing new. Unlike her sisters, Dagmar had received no in vitro genetic modifications. She was, for better or worse, the completely natural daughter of her parents, Warlord Ramon of Caithel Ur and his consort, Aneira. So it was and so it had to be, if she were to be a priestess of the temples.
The Tweak, as the genetic engineering that made D’Abraxans extraordinary was called, removed any ability to commune with the Ancestors. Only the poor or those destined for the temple had no Tweak at all. Her sisters had all the Tweak. Everything from their physical appearance to their supposed proficiencies was selected for and programmed in with the greatest care.
“The Shaipur is a leader chosen by the Ancestors. Not necessarily a priest. In any case, he’s of an age to start thinking about producing an heir for his province. He’s asked all warlords to bring a potential bride for consideration.”
“And you would give one of the daughters of Caithel Ur in marriage to that jumped-up farmboy?” Tara made a rude noise. “I won’t do it. You can’t make me.”
“You think you can shove this mess off onto me, Tara? No way. You’re oldest, you deal with it,” Eilir added.
“If Tara doesn’t go, it would fall to me next anyhow, Eilir,” Tegan pointed out. “You’re youngest.”
Not exactly, Dagmar thought. Dagmar was the youngest, but since she was meant for the temple, their argument meant nothing to her. It was a surprise that she was even summoned for the announcement. She was rarely included in house business.
When she caught Tegan’s eye, Tegan gave an apologetic shrug. Of her three sisters, Tegan was the least awful.
“Whomever I choose, I expect that she will go without argument and represent this family with grace and dignity.” Ramon’s cold crystal gaze scanned the four of them.
“Yes of course Father, but please consider.”
Tara cut her plea short when Ramon’s gaze stopped on her, hard and uncompromising. She let out a little distressed yelp and turned her eyes downward to focus on the hem of her elaborate court dress.
It was amusing and gratifying to see the high and mighty Tara, the firstborn of the house and the warlord’s heir apparent, quivering like a chastened schoolgirl.
Tara should use her supposedly superior brain for a moment. Tara should realize that because she was the heir and the favorite, their father would never send her off to Brundt.
Tara would choose from the young men of the local noble houses and marry someone hand-picked for his malleability and good genes. It would most likely be Tegan because even if Eilir was chosen, she’d cry her way out of it. She was tearing up already in preparation.
“I have considered. I have consulted with my advisors. I have consulted with the temple, even.” Ramon’s mouth twisted up into something like a smile as he transferred his gaze to Dagmar. “The opinion is unanimous. Dagmar will go.”
“Dagmar?” Aneira screamed. “You can’t! You promised me. One daughter for the temple. We had an agreement!”
“Assuming that Ran chooses her over the others, how much closer to the temple can you get than the bride of the Shaipur?”
“Ramon. Do you think that a peasant farmer from the southern jungle who managed to somehow worm his way into Brundt’s palace is truly the Shaipur?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what the temples think.”
“She’s not of age.”
“She’ll be of age later this year. Soon enough not to matter for a state marriage such as this.”
Dagmar swallowed her own scream of protest. She didn’t have Tara’s social capital with their honored father. Her standing in the family was somewhere above outcast and below that of a poor cousin living in the palace on sufferance. Nothing she could do or say would change a thing.
“Well then. I guess I’d better go pack. Honored Mother, Honored Father, please excuse me.”
She made it out of the office before she started crying, and halfway to her rooms before her sisters caught up to her with their false sympathy and thinly disguised gibes. Dagmar’s maid, Cambrie, sent them all scurrying out with some well-placed barbs of her own.
“Oh miss. What should we pack for you? Like as not, you’ll only be there for the house party.” Cambrie started pawing through gowns in Dagmar’s wardrobe, muttering under her breath as she examined each one.
“You also don’t think the Shaipur will pick me?” The thought stung even though she didn’t want to marry a warlord. Not even if he was Shaipur.
“Of course not! There will be seven other ladies to pick from.”
“I’m a daughter of Caithel Ur. Surely that’s worth something.” Irrational pride, her teachers said, was the biggest block to seeing a situation clearly. This conversation couldn’t get much more irrational, and yet her ego refused to accept the blow.
“You’ll be back to us in no time, and all this will feel like a bad dream. You’ll continue with your studies and become the priestess you were destined to be!”
Ah, yes, how could she forget? Her mother picked Cambrie, another temple dropout, to serve as Dagmar’s maid. She was specially chosen for situations like this. Somebody had to be on hand night and day to remind her of her destiny when her mother wasn’t around.
That was unfair to her mother, who was generally supportive and kind. But hyper-focused on Dagmar’s temple studies. A daughter of Caithel Ur must always do her best. Always be the best; always top of the class.
“Pack all of it.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“Every dress. Every pair of shoes. Every veil. All my jewelry and stuff. Pack it all.”
“But my lady, you won’t need all this for just a few days…”
“I won’t know what I want to wear until I get there. I want to make sure that I look my absolute best next to the others. Besides, it will save time if he does choose me.”
“My lady!”
It would be expensive to airlift all her belongings to Brunno City. It was madness to take everything for what likely would be a weekend stay. Some tiny voice in her insisted, even so. Her honored father would have something to say about it. The expected summons from her father arrived shortly after the first load of trunks was hauled out to the airfield.
“What are you playing at?” Ramon glared at her over his huge desk.
“I’m playing to win, Honored Father. Isn’t that what you expect of me?”
“I have my reasons for sending you. Reasons you wouldn’t understand. All you need to do is fill your part. Try not to be too much of a bumbling child while you do so. Be ready to leave at dawn.” His eyes went back to his paperwork.
“We of the temple shall not be political pawns for any warlord’s ambition.”
Her father glanced up at her again, and for a moment, it felt as though he truly saw her. Then gave her a half-smile that managed to convey both pity and contempt. “You’re not ‘of the temple’, not quite yet. So until then, I’ll use you as I see fit.”
It occurred to her later that should the worst happen, this might be the last time she’d get to cry by herself in her garden. There was a natural area with a miniature temple and a low fountain that was perfect for hiding in. A path encircled it, but there was no way to the middle. Only there was.
Dagmar had long ago discovered how the gardeners slipped in and out to maintain the temple and fountain. From that moment forward she had her own private retreat. A rustling in the shrubbery signaled that she was no longer alone.
“Rori!”
He was a little older than she, and further along in his training. With his shaved and braided hair and crisp white robes, he was the most handsome boy around. That he took time to notice her, to sneak away to spend time with her, seemed like a dream come true.
“Mari!” It was his own little nickname for her. Not even her mother called her anything but Dagmar, despite each of her sisters having pet names.
“I’m so glad you could get away so we could say goodbye.” Her breath hitched over her words and he hurried to her side to take her hands in his.
“It’s true, then. You’re bound for Brundt. Don’t worry, Mari. It will be fine.” He chafed her cold fingers between his palms.
“I’m frightened.” It was an admission of weakness she shouldn’t make, not even to him.
“No! Really? Don’t worry. All will be well, you’ll see. He’ll never pick you. And hey, you can put in a good word with me with Father Nathan of Brunno City’s temple while you’re there. It’s time for me to apprentice at another temple for a while.
Father Lugo wants to send me to Seawall. Middle of nowhere! I want to go to a city temple.” His eyes jumped to a noise out on one of the paths. “And burn those poems I copied out for you. No point in taking unnecessary chances with someone recognizing my handwriting!”
Her heart sank as she realized that the poems he gave her probably weren’t his own. Most likely, they were copy work from his temple scribe class. His hands weren’t so warm after all. He had a pinched, rabbity look about his eyes.
And worst of all, he was shorter than she was. What had she been thinking when she thought he was nice? Why did she think that anyone would try to be her friend without wanting to use her for something?
“Goodbye, Rori.”
Maybe Brundt temple would take her in after the Shaipur picked someone else as his bride. Dagmar stomped back to her room to finish packing. With luck, she would never have to see Rori or her sisters or anybody from the whole stupid province of Caithel Ur ever again. And even though they didn’t deserve it, she would miss them.
I hope you enjoyed this short from the world of D’Abraxas, home of Ran Shaipur. Do you want to see what happens when Dagmar gets to Brunno City? Check it out Here!
