“The world is larger than you can fathom, dear Princess; you’re no fit ruler for a kingdom, so begone!”
Sandra had no time to react. She had been walking back from her parents’ conjoined funeral, feeling the weight of ascension on her shoulders, and indeed smelling conspiracy in the air, but the conspirators had been ready for her. All it took was a gentle tap of the gem on her nose—that purple gem held at the top of a court sorcerer’s stave—and she had woken in a puddle of mud on an unfamiliar street surrounded by strange dark people who did not recognise her as a Princess, let alone as the rightful heir to any throne. The sun was out now, though it had been near midnight when the sorcerer met her in the hall.
It could have been worse, she thought; it could have been death. But she knew that, standing out as she did, death would be close at hand. Speaking not to anyone, she lifted her great muddied skirts and ran into a dark, lonely alley. Children were watching her with amazed expressions; satisfied that no credible body was around, she took the clips from her charcoal-coloured hair, letting it hang loose like a commoner’s, and handed the clips to the children; a bribe.
“You can keep those,” she tried; “understand?”
They did not understand. Appearing frightened by her foreign tongue, they ran off with the hairclips. They would bring adults, she was sure; common adults whom she’d better blend in with somehow, even if she could not match their complexion. She lifted the back of her skirt and undid the drawstrings of the massive underskirts, one at a time, letting the fluffy things collect dirt among rubbish as she stepped out of them. Now the skirt of her dress hung lankly about her wide hips; thinking it uncommonly long, she rolled it up above her hips, so that the hem hung about her knees.
Then she waited. She noticed as she did that her shoes, crystal sandals with thick, two-inch heels, were not the least convincing of a low class, but she absolutely refused to walk the cobbles with feet unshod, even if they were wrapped in white silken stockings—also unfortunate. She felt certain she’d be brutalised and robbed if the wrong person was next to see her.
A child’s footsteps drew near to the alley. After a moment, she saw two familiar children, one male and one female, the male holding an adult’s hand. They brought one adult to the alley, clad in a long leathern coat with a head of untamed salt-and-pepper hair. An old-timer, gaunt and paler than the children; studious-looking. We must have at least one language in common, Sandra thought hopefully, though she knew only her mother-tongue fluently, having the faintest grasp of three other languages.
Faint recognition showed on the old man’s face as he gazed upon her. “AAA, are you?” He spoke her language without the tiniest hint of an accent.