This is the first chapter of my current project, The Star and the Sword, the first book in the Tales of Illuvia trilogy. The Star and the Sword is currently in the editing process. Click here to join my newsletter if you’d like to receive progress updates!

There are two things you ought to know about me before anything else. The first is that my name is Lena T’Lalych. And the second is that I dislike being told what to do, though I don’t often show it, and so most people take some time to learn that. Marya always knew it, I think. It has never inhibited her from doing so.

Right now I’m standing in front of our table, vast and scarred from years of chopping herbs. My hands fly over the pile of plants she left for me—sage and spearmint. My task is to strip and sort the leaves before dinner, and by the looks of it, I’ll be done long before the sun kisses the world goodnight. The scent of earthy sage and clear mint fills the cottage air, and I can’t help but lose myself in daydreams.

Someday, I think, I’ll be standing at this table just like today, and a knock will come at the door, propped open to admit the last autumnal breeze. And through the door will come a herald, clad in blue and gold with a face long as the road home.

“Lena T’Lalych,” he’ll say, falling to one knee with the evening sun glimmering on his tunic’s gold trim, “I have found you at last.”

Naturally I’ll be quite bewildered, but as a proper Illuvian lady, even if I am only a Marian¹ lass, I’ll ask him in and brew a cup of tea. And once he’s taken the edge off his hunger with herbal tea and heavy cream and soft goat cheese spread over sourbread², I’ll ask how he knows my name.

And so he’ll explain how I’m not just some Talismar foundling—I’m the daughter of an Illuvian nobleman, stolen from him in infancy by his greatest enemy, who, having repented on his deathbed, has but lately revealed my true location, and hence my father has summoned me home to once more be pressed to the bosom of my sorely bereaved family.³

I’m so deep in my daydream I don’t hear the real knock at the door till it’s repeated with greater obstinance. I stop in stripping leaves, use my wrist to push back the hair worked loose from my kerchief, and call,

“Who’s there?”

The answering voice sounds more annoyed than anything else. “It’s Rhin is all. Where’s Marya?”

I pull off my kerchief, smooth my hair, and brush the bits of herbs off my hands before I go to open the door. The young man standing there isn’t much older than I am, dressed in work trousers and a rumpled shirt. He used to be the wildest of the village lads, but I glance with approval at the calloused spots on his hands. He married a village lass last spring, dark-haired and smiling and great with child just now, and she’s done much to improve him.

I prop the door open with my hip, untying my apron and blowing a stray strand of hair out of my face. “Marya’s in Dür Camlyn, buying beeswax. She’ll be back by twilight. Shall I tell her you came?”

Rhin is shaking his head, and I realize his hair is more tousled than usual and his shirt is drenched with sweat despite the chill in the air. “Ada needs her bad.”

I’m already bone-tired, and I sigh, leaning against the door. “Is it the baby?”

He spreads his hands, eyes wide and desperate. “How’m I s’posed to know?”

I step back inside, passing the door to him and turning to gather supplies into a basket—motherwort, willow bark, catnip, cloves. . . . What else do I need? Sheets, maybe? No, Ada will have them. . . . “What did she say?”

Rhin watches my movements, shifting restlessly against the door. “Just t’fetch Marya.”

I blow back an incorrigible strand of hair, pressing my hands to my skirt before I reach for a stack of clean white towels—just in case—and a tin of anise seed. “Why don’t you run on home, Rhin? I’ll be along soon as I’ve left a note for Marya.”

He nods with evident relief and sprints out the door. I wince as it slams, step towards it to scold him, change my mind, and go to the one low bookshelf for paper and pen instead.

While the Empire encourages literacy, it does little to promote it—at least out here in the lowlands. Marya says most villages closer to Dür Illuvia have schools, but here it’s just whatever Father Evrin finds the time for, and so only around half Lalych’s population can write. But Marya learned from her father, and taught me before I was five. By now, I’m fluent in High Illuvian as well as the low.⁴

I bend over the table to scribble a note in High Illuvian—the formal language isn’t strictly necessary for a brief note, but at least it proves I’m retaining Marya’s training. And besides, it makes me feel that much more like a hero of old, dwelling in the midst of espionage and treachery.

I’m not a midwife’s apprentice after all, I think as I gather my things and wander up the path towards the village. I’m a spy for the Emperor, stationed in a remote Talismar village until he needs me. For the time being, I serve the Forest Folk⁵ as a midwife, more skilled than any they’ve seen before thanks to my training at the feet of the palace physician. I’ve saved countless lives by now, feverish children and injured men and travailing women. . . .

But Rhin and Ada’s house is a short ways out of Lalych, maybe twenty paces⁶, and the path there doesn’t give me much time to daydream. I pause for a moment when I reach it, studying the squat stone walls mortared with river clay and the cozy thatched roof. The rough wood door is shut and all is silent within as I knock.

Sanna, Ada’s mother, opens the door. Her soft brown hair is pulled into a severe bun, as tight as the sash of her linen apron and her expression is unnaturally grim. She looks me over with mingled relief and disappointment and asks, “Where’s Marya?”

I pull down my cloak hood and strip off my wool mittens. “Dür Camlyn. She’s due back tonight. How’s Ada?”

Sanna’s usually gentle eyebrows press together. “It’s too early for her.”

I moisten my lips, hoping I don’t look as desperate for Marya’s guidance as I feel. But really, why should I feel anxious? Marya’s taught me well, and besides, I rather think I could handle anything life threw at me. “Well . . . maybe it’s not the baby yet.”

An unfamiliar note of hardness enters Sanna’s voice. “Ada was my sixth, Lena.”

True, but beside the point. “Are you boiling water?” I brush past her into the front room. “Rhin, get towels.”⁷

The villagers are goodhearted but generally incompetent, and it’s a good thing I’m there for the birth. I’ve seen my share of laboring women, and remain stoic through the muffled cries that send Rhin, white-faced, to pace in the woodshed till it’s over. Still, I’m not so competent that I’m ungrateful for Sanna’s presence, and more than once, I wish for Marya too.

I expect Marya to come any moment, but she doesn’t, not even when it’s long past twilight. There’s still no sign of her when it’s over—nearly dawn by the time mother and baby are safely snuggled beneath a nest of quilts.

Once they’re sleeping, and I’m so weary that I’m as unsteady on my feet as a Nevrish ship caught in a storm, Sanna orders me home, and I stumble outside, pulling my sweater closer against the wind. Despite my exhaustion, I’m warm inside—my first time as a real midwife, and it couldn’t have gone better—but the first snow of the season is drifting down, and I look forward to a hot mug of tea once I’m home.

But when I pry open the door against the resistance of the snowy wind, I’m so tired I want my bed more than tea, and I stumble towards the curtained corner that serves as my room. Despite my exhaustion, Marya’s training is so deep in me that I rally myself enough to fold my clothes and brush my hair before bed.

My hair is paler than a winter sun, thick and falling just past my hips, and—at least in my opinion—my greatest beauty. Marya has never permitted me to cut it, which I have no objection to. Neither am I permitted to show it, and I’m naturally less fond of that rule. Unseemly, she always calls the village lasses with their bare curls hanging to their hips—I suspect she’s more Illuvian than she lets on.⁸ I disagree, and would like little more than to let my hair dance on the wind, but I obey, and even now, I pull my hair into a long braid before sinking into bed—I really ought to kneel for my prayers, but I suppose God will excuse me for lying down just this once.

For all my exhaustion, sleep is slow in coming tonight—it’s morning, really, by this time—and once I’m settled in bed and through my prayers for Marya and Ada and Rhin and the baby, I lose myself in daydreams.

I’m an Illuvian duke’s daughter this time, run away from home to avoid marriage to a man twice my age.⁹ On my travels, I happen across a scene of carnage where a horde of bandits met a diplomatic envoy from Nevrin. Dismissing my horror at the bloodshed, I tend to the wounds of the one surviving diplomat, but it’s too late, and he dies in my arms as I sing him an old Illuvian lullaby.¹⁰ With his last breath, he gasps directions to go to the Emperor at once, and presses a packet of papers into my hands.

I take a horse and flee for Illuvia Minor, pursued by bandits all the way. Through the night and all the day I ride, till a clatter into the palace courtyard at twilight, having lost the last bandit.

But my message of peace, of a desire for diplomacy, comes too late. Having heard of the savage slaughter of his diplomats, the Nevrish king declared war on the Illuvian Empire and all her holdings. By the time I arrive in Dür Illuvia¹¹, he’s already launched his navy. The Emperor, however is not willing to surrender peace so easily, and sends our own ships to sea in response.¹²

But I prevail upon him to attempt diplomacy before the Empire is torn apart by war. And so, with a boatload of Illuvian diplomats for an envoy, I, as the only surviving witness of the bandits’ attack, am sent to Illuvia. There the Nevrish king hears my story, and, by the skill of my tongue, is persuaded to withdraw his assault upon the Empire. We return home in triumph, where my father, having been informed of my noble deeds, begs forgiveness and gives his blessing on my marriage to the young and handsome diplomat with whom I fell passionately in love during our shared ordeal.

The wedding is magnificent, and everyone exclaims over my beauty in my elegant dress—white satin trimmed with lace—the skirt voluminous over half a dozen petticoats and the train sweeping out behind me. My hair is in an elegant swirl trimmed with rosebuds—or perhaps I wear it down with ivy—or with wild roses—though violets would also look well—or lilacs, if the wedding is in June. . . .

It takes me a minute to realize the pounding at the door is not imagination—and another minute to squirm out from under my quilt, locate a shawl, and proceed to the door.

I don’t know whom I’m expecting—Marya, I suppose—but instead it’s a strange man, young judging by his forehead and eyes—the rest of him is swathed in cloth as black as a starless night. I study him with interest—he’s taller than I am, and that’s a rarity around here. But I can tell by his gray eyes and dark brows that he’s a Marian—not some snobbish Illuvian lord.¹³

His eyes crinkle—in pain, I realize with chagrin—and I whip open the door, stepping back.

“Oh, I’m sorry—please come in right away—I’m not afraid of catching it.” I hesitate, wondering if I ought to hold my breath. “Only—it’s not leprosy, is it?”

His squint deepens, and I think I detect a touch of humor in his eyes, but he steps obediently in and begins to remove layers of clothing. One cloak, one overcoat, two scarves, one pair of gloves, one pair of mittens, one pair of boots, and one waistcoat later, he stands before me in just stockings, trousers, and a loose white shirt, all rather wet, and clinging to him as resolutely as a child to its mother. I study him again, but his silence combined with his height is rather disconcerting, and after a moment, I glance away, stepping back to shut the door.

“Won’t you sit down,” I say to fill the silence, waving him to a stool at the table, still strewn with sage and spearmint. He sits, but his eyes stay on me, too inquisitive for my liking. I purse my lips and gesture to the kitchen, tucked away in the back right corner of Marya’s little cottage. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Soup?”

He inclines his head. “Both, thank you.”

His voice is deeper than I expected, but remarkably crisp, and the sound fills me with a pleasurable confusion as I wander to the stove and start the kettle. Yesterday’s soup—barley and carrot—is still warm on the back of the stove, and I ladle out two bowls and bring them to the table. I haven’t eaten since yesterday noon, and my stomach rumbles at the smell of food; the stranger blinks with what I suspect is amusement, and I narrow my eyes.

I hesitate before saying grace, because I’m not sure if I ought to lead as the hostess, or let him as the man. After a moment, the stranger bows his head and murmurs:

“Na i-dalas cheled na i-alari da i-nadal til su-elerat. Len, ma-til se-meram, lin da-mel ba-blenan na-til kala da alara ase-selarat.”¹⁴

Once he’s finished, we begin to eat, both of us with enthusiasm. I’m halfway through my bowl before I pause long enough to say, “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

He glances up, returning his spoon to his bowl. His eyes are a darker gray than I thought, and uncomfortably probing. “Lann T’Ondran. You?”

My cheeks heat—for no reason whatsoever, I tell myself, even if he is staring—and I try to cool them by sheer willpower. Of course that only makes it worse, and I look down at my soup bowl and mumble, “Lena T’Lalych.”

His eyes are still intent on my face, but all he says is, “Hmm.”

After several silent minutes, during which I fill his bowl again and bring out a loaf of Marya’s sourbread, I venture, “What brings you to Lalych?”

Lann leans back in his chair, resting his hands on the table. “I have business with Marya.”

So does everyone, it seems. I blow a loose wisp of hair out of my face, and my voice is mildly irritated as I answer. “She’s in Dür Camlyn at the moment. At least, I hope she is given the snow. She was supposed to be home last night. But I’m sure she had the good sense to stay.”

Lann nods but volunteers no further information, and I decide to continue my interrogation—tactfully, of course. I’ll prove I could manage a diplomatic mission perfectly well, even if he did have to wake me up right before the wedding.

“Did you have a long journey?”

Lann pauses, spoon hovering over his bowl. “Yes.”

“Where did you come from?” I press.

He looks me over again, a faint twinkle in his eyes. “Dür Illuvia.”

I nibble my lip and try to think of a polite way to fish for more information. “It must be urgent that you couldn’t wait for better weather.”

“Yes,” he says, and utterly fails to suppress a yawn.

I rise to hide my mingled amusement and exasperation, reaching for the dishes in front of him. “Hadn’t you better rest? I can make you a bed in front of the fire.”

But he straightens his shoulders, shaking his head. “Not till I find Marya.”

I pause in frustration, resting the soup pot on my aproned hip. “But she’s—”

He pulls himself from the table, meeting my eyes with a gaze that is so serious it makes me want to crawl back into my still-warm bed and return to a world where the only serious things are adventures. “Then I go to Dür Camlyn.”

I deposit the dishes beside the washtub and follow him to the door, folding my arms as he layers on his assorted coats and scarves and mittens. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

He opens the door to step outside. “Thank you for the soup.”

I twist a loose strand of hair, realizing for the first time that it’s still down in a braid—Marya would not approve of his seeing it. “Are you sure you can’t stay?”

Lann turns back to me, snowflakes collecting on his black-clad shoulders like tiny stars in the night sky. The wind gusts past him, cutting through my shawl, and I shiver.

Half his face is shrouded in scarves, but his eyes crinkle into something that might be exasperation or disgust, but which I strongly suspect is amusement. “Quite sure, Lena T’Lalych. But don’t fret. We’ll meet again.”