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Chapter One
Olympia
Hate is not a word in the Summerstream dictionary.
Mother’shellish naggingwords of wisdom resounded deafeningly in my head, shattering the peace of the early dawn. My fingers curled tight, creating little crescent-shaped moons in the cup of my palms.
The sharp pinch severed my concentration and the soft, floating lily pad under my bum wavered a little, dipping into the pond.
A large water stain traveled up my surcoat, tinting the cerulean silk a dark blackish-blue. I cursed softly under my breath, berating myself for the lapse as I sought the ebb and flow of the lily pad’s energy and gently tilted it up to the surface of the pond again.
But the damage had been done; my favorite surcoat drenched.
Perhaps it was a silly notion, but I likened the wetness to a crack in my armor—a little chink that negated the integrity of a stoic iron facade. The stain told the world that I was capable of making a mistake, and Summerstream queens weren’t allowed frivolous errors in the face of our court. Such was our burden—we were queens, not human, at least in the eyes of our people.
A slight throb began at the back of my head, and I wondered if one could experience the beginnings of a migraine even before the day had truly begun.
Surely not.
As quickly as it manifested, the meditative state I’d fought to protect floated away, buoyed on a cloud of restless thoughts and dampened skin.
The serenity of the grand gardens brought no relief. Not today, when the past and present seemed to come to a head with astonishing speed.
I had dreaded this day for weeks.
It felt as though my anxiety had grown and bloated, fed by memories and fears alike, until the infection slowly seeped into my blood instead of bursting forth and spilling a river of poison. But I was still here, still alive, and not quite ready to face what the day might bring.
At the crack of dawn, the gardens were my true sanctuary, devoid of people who demanded my time, energy and sometimes, a piece of my soul. The royal guards were stationed at the entrances and perimeters, within earshot but out of my way as they always seemed to be within the walls of the fortress.
Here, in the center of my Goddess’ creations, I could feel the throbbing, vibrant energy of all organic life forms, each one distinct and unique, yet coming together in a beautiful song that pulsed beneath my skin.
It was late autumn, although it hardly mattered. The Vetri mountainside only had two temperatures: cold or colder. The day was still moderately cool as the twin moons remained at the very edge of the horizon, ready to sink back to bed.
The sun, when it rose, would offer a heady flush of warmth, sufficient to nourish the life in the garden. But even with the sun’s best efforts, the mountainside wind would ensure an almost-uncomfortable degree of cold in the late autumn months.
The scent of heady blooms was rife in the air. Dragonbloom grew in thick profusion, the cool mountainside air encouraging their vined progress up lattice structures. The greenish-yellow flowers unfurled in reedy tendrils akin to the tails of their mythical namesakes, reaching towards the sun for nourishment. Their sweet, almost fruity scent, attracted insects and humans alike, perfuming the air with the promise of good weather and sunny skies.
Today, however, a pyre had been lit in the middle of the private grounds. Burnt ash had been rifled through by the fingers of the wind. I scented the remnants of singed dragonblooms and larkpeonies, sacrifices to the Goddess of all things good and natural. Someone had been here before me with prayers and offerings, disturbing the peace of my morning ritual. Ash and debris floated in the air, and I grit my teeth, tamping down on the irritation that sparked through my chest.
The disruption to my routine didn’t bode well.
Routine.It was my best friend and worst enemy. One single change in an otherwise uneventful day could throw me off course—push me off center. And the one person who loved to throw a wrench in my plans was mother. Sometimes I thought it tickled her to see me flail with each new challenge she pushed into my path.
Summerstreams don’t wallow, they overcome,she always said.
Far be it for me to question her wisdom, although I had always wondered at her definition of the word.
Overcomeseemed to have a different meaning to her, one that had been submerged in delusion. I envisioned mother with a large paintbrush, casting over a gray, sullen wall with harsh strokes of cheery yellow. It was exactly like my mother to brush over emotions that didn’t suit her—fear, sadness, weariness—with a fake and bright facade. I doubted she’d ever done the work to cross a very thorny emotional bridge.
I couldn’t be the first wallower of the Summerstream clan. Could I?
Breath gusted from my lungs, deep and long and filled with foreboding. It gave away every gloom-ridden thought that traipsed through my heart. Without looking in a mirror, I knew my perturbation was plastered on every inch of my face, turning my features into a transparent piece of parchment.
In my mind’s eye, I saw mother’s features twist into a disapproving frown—the slight tilt of her copper brows and the taut set of her lips. Nothing more than a brief look was necessary to tell me she was disappointed. It seemed, even in my subconscious, mother had an all-consuming power over my emotions, my life, my every thought.
Time and again, I had warned her that I wouldn’t bethattype of Queen—the type that made revving speeches and rallied a Kingdom. Rather, I fancied myself the kind that kept our books in the green and negotiated trade treaties to ensure overflowing granaries. My contributions were much less flashy but they had merit… didn’t they?
I’d always assumed my life belonged to my people—an existence of magnanimity and devotion. Like all Summerstreams, I was born to serve the landlocked Kingdom of Vetri, and not one day had gone by without a reminder of my duty.
