Faercourt ~ The Beginning

One night, about fifteen years ago, I awoke from one of the most vivid dreams I have ever had. I immediately got out of bed and found pen and paper. Pasted below is what came out of that writing session. Although the story has changed greatly since those early days and my world has grown from one castle stronghold to a continent, this brief sketch was the genesis of my desire to write a novel and my fascination with worldbuilding.

I don't remember my mother very well. When I try to picture her, I have only fragmented images - a cascade of silken black hair, soft black eyes that seemed unimaginably deep and long black lashes. Very white teeth behind full red lips; high cheekbones in a perfect oval face. But, when I try to focus on her face in my mind, I can't seem to fit all the pieces together in such a way as to see the whole. I am told I have only to peer into a looking glass to see my mother but I know this is not true. I know my mother was beautiful and I know that I am not.

My hair is black and long, but a mass of unruly curls that defy all attempts to tame. My eyes are black, my teeth white, my lips full and my cheekbones high but my face is more square than oval. No, mine is not a beautiful face but I believe it to be a strong one.

I remember her often breaking into song in a beautiful husky voice and spinning beautiful, fanciful tales. I remember the smell of her, like cinnamon and sandalwood and lavender. Yet, I cannot recall one single specific conversation between my mother and myself.

I suppose this should not be surprising as she died when I was but three. I am told that she had been ill quite often and, after my birth, seemed to regain her strength only to fall into her final sickness a short while later. I dare not ask my father about her not wishing to cause him the pain of remembering and I dare not ask others lest they speak any way of her other than in admiration.

Although I look most like my mother, I have always been my father's child. As fair as my mother was dark, as coarse as she was gentle, I could not have asked for better than my father. As the only daughter of the castle, my father did not quite know what to do with me after my mother's death. Perhaps had I older sisters he would have been more prepared for the challenge - and challenge I was. As it happened, he could see little wrong in allowing me to tag along behind he and his men. I learned to ride, trained in falconry and became quite capable with the small dagger I was allowed to carry.

I was the child unafraid; no risk daunted me and more than once I had to be rescued after wrongly believing I had been dared in some way by one or other of the men. Despite all, I have managed to reach my current age of 25, having met with little serious injury, miracle it surely must be.

My father loved me very much in his own way but was not an affectionate man. Most of the cuddling, hugging and comforting came to me from our head cook, Effie. Dear, plump, motherly Effie took me under her wing and became as much my mother as anyone could have. Her daughter, Susane, and I were instantly bonded in the way of small girls and this friendship lasted and grew and deepened over the years. She was the sister of my heart if not of my blood.

However, my daring-do ways were not shared by Susane who always preferred indoors to out. I have often wondered if it might have been better had Susane been born mistress of the barony and me the daughter of a cook. Although Effie schooled me in the ways that befitted my station, I rushed through these sessions, longing to run through the wards or practice with my father's men.

Susane seemed never to covet my path in life over her own. She took as much delight in the gifts of gowns and gems given me by my father as had she been the receiver and never showed the first sign of jealousy. Although we had the odd disagreement, Susane was my partner in harmless pranks on more than one occasion and my strongest defender and ally.

It was my asking her to act once more as my accomplice on that March morning that cost Susane her life. Had I not asked her to cover my disappearance that day, she would still be alive. My father died fighting, a warrior until the end. But Susane was no fighter, unable to defend or protect herself. And I shall avenge her just as I shall avenge the death of my father. Blood calls for blood.