CANNA
20 years ago
The stormy weather had proven to be a detriment to the travelers returning to Canna.
The snowstorm aggravated overnight, overshadowing the ground and covering a dense space of the kingdom; winter had come without warning and left many stranded.
As at nightfall, the weather had worsened, leaving many in a desolated dilemma.
Through that bitter storm, a man staggered forward alone.
His cloak, once thick enough to guard against winter, now clung to him like a second skin, drenched through by the freezing rain.
Snow had gathered in his hair and along his shoulders, and each breath that left him vanished into the night as pale mist.
His boots were caked with mud, his hands red and trembling from the cold, and yet he pressed on with the stubbornness of a man who knew stopping meant ruin.
At last, through the veil of storm, he saw it.
A house.
A modest home with faint golden light spilling from its shuttered windows.
To him, it might as well have been a grand castle.
He made for it with what strength he had left, nearly slipping as he crossed the slick ground. By the time he reached the door, his body was shivering so violently he could scarcely lift his arm.
Still, he knocked.
Once at first, weakly.
Then again, louder, with the last of his strength behind it.
The sound disappeared almost at once beneath the howl of the storm, and for one dreadful moment he feared no one had heard him.
He stood there, soaked to the bone, head bowed, water dripping from his brow, his breath shaking as badly as his hands. He was a stranger at an unknown door, in the dead of a merciless night, with nothing but desperation to recommend him.
Then, at last, he saw someone move inside the house.
A shadow passed the light, and he heard the latch of the door click.
Despite the lateness of the hour, the door opens cautiously into a narrow slit, just enough for a head to pop out.
A woman with dark crimson eyes came into view; her brown hair was neatly tucked back, with a few strands out of place.
She peered at the man standing on her threshold, her eyes sharp with caution.
From within the house came the rich scent of pottage simmering over the fire, thick and warm and maddening to a man who had spent too long in the cold.
It drifted straight into his nostrils, a cruel reminder of comfort beyond his reach.
"I have nothing to give," the woman said at once.
Her voice was firm, and she made to shut the door almost immediately, but the man thrust his hand against it before it could close.
"Please," he said, breathless, desperate. "I need your help. My lady is in great distress. She is in labor."
For a brief moment, the woman said nothing. Her eyes moved over him from head to toe, studying the soaked cloak, the shaking hands, and the snow clinging to his shoulders.
There was suspicion in her gaze, but not cruelty.
"I cannot help you," she replied.
At that moment she sounded heartless, yet she was not. She was only a woman alone in a harsh world, guarding the little home she had.
In such perilous times, trust was not given freely, especially to strangers who appeared in the middle of a storm.
She tried again to close the door, but the man held it in place.
"I swear I mean no harm," he pleaded.
"Please, help us."
His breath trembled with every word, and at last the woman's resolve faltered. She did not answer him aloud. She only gave a small, reluctant nod and pulled the door open wider, allowing space for him to enter.
But he did not step inside.
Instead, he turned at once and disappeared back into the storm.
The woman stared after him in disbelief. For a moment she was too stunned to move.
Then she stepped out onto the threshold, the wind howling around her and snatching loose strands of hair across her face.
Squinting into the rain and snow, she looked hard through the white blur.
At first she saw nothing.
Then, after a moment, two figures emerged from the storm.
They struggled through the darkness, bent beneath the force of the wind, and soon the cry of a woman reached her ears, raw and pained.
The man was not telling lies. A woman was indeed in labor.
At once she hurried back inside. Her hands moved quickly now, all hesitation thrown aside. She rummaged through her things and pulled out a thick towel. The pot of pottage steaming over the fire was pushed aside, and in its place she set water to boil.
Before she could gather anything more, another knock came at the door.
She rushed to it and pulled it open wide.
The strangers entered in haste, bringing the storm in with them.
The man half-guided the pregnant woman into the cramped little house, while the woman of the house helped to support her failing steps.
"She is in a terrible condition," she said urgently.
Yumi's face was pale as a dead flower, drained of all warmth and color.
Trembling and weak, she was led into the only room the small house could offer.
"How long have you been in the storm?" the woman asked, her brows furrowed as she helped settle the pregnant stranger upon the narrow bed in the only room the house possessed.
"For hours," the man answered. "I asked for help from three houses before I reached yours."
At that, the woman was filled with pity.
"Are you a midwife?" he asked, compelled by desperation.
The woman shook her head.
"No," she said, "but I know enough to help your wife, if you will allow me."
The man had little choice left. He gave a short, stiff nod and watched as the woman hurried from the room to prepare what little she could.
"Simon..."
Yumi's voice trembled as she called upon the only man who had survived the storm with her.
Already she could feel the child pressing low, and agony seized her body in relentless waves.
"Your Grace," the guard answered at once, stepping nearer.
Yumi stretched her legs and forced herself upright. She opened her mouth to say something, but all the words died in her throat. She pressed her lips together, her eyes burning with tears as another pain tore through her, fiercer than the last, and a cry broke from her throat.
From beside the fire, where she had set water to boil and was holding a blunt knife carefully above the steam, Mira heard the scream and made haste back to the room.
By the time she entered the room again, Yumi looked like she was going to lose consciousness; she was gasping for breath and sweating profusely even under the chilly cold.
"She is not my wife," Simon said as Mira stepped in; he just had to say it to let the burden of the lie off his chest.
Mira stopped short, astonishment flashing across her face.
"Then who is—"
"She is the queen," he said, his voice barely audible.
"The Queen of Canna. I refused to say so in the first place because I trusted no one, but now I know better; you are different and can be trusted. Please, I beg of you, save her."
For a moment Mira could only stare at him, her lips parting, though no words came out.
Then Yumi cried out again, all restraint abandoned, her gown already drawn up as she prepared herself to push. At once Mira turned her attention back to her, and with a firm voice she said to Simon,
"You must leave the room now."
There was no room for protest in her tone.
Simon obeyed at once; he stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him.
He was restless all throughout; the cries of Yumi filled his ears and consumed him from within.
This wasn't how it was supposed to have happened. They were returning from a feast, a feast of a new alliance forged with another kingdom, and then the storm came, and with it many unplanned events.
Simon paced the length of the threshold for hours, rubbing his palms together to chase away the biting cold that still clung to his skin.
Time stretched cruelly, but he endured; he kept his eyes open. Soon, when at last he glanced through a window, he saw that it was dawn.
Although the storm made it almost inconspicuous, he could clearly see the ray of the sun through the haze.
At last he could bear it no longer.
He moved to the entrance of the room and pressed his ear to the wood, straining to hear what was happening.
Then he heard it.
The cry of a child, thin and sharp, cutting through the silence like a beam of light.
Almost at once the door opened and Mira stepped out.
Simon turned to her, his face shaped by fear.
"She is alive?" he asked, his voice unsteady. "The queen lives, does she not?"
Mira nodded.
"The queen lives," she said. "She has given birth to twins, two daughters."
Filled with gratitude, Simon pulled Mira into a sudden embrace, holding her tightly for a brief moment before letting her go and brushing past her into the room.
Mira blinked a bit, stunned, before watching him skedaddle into the room, like a child seeking the warmth of his mother.
Yumi was on the bed, her face marred with wrinkles from the stress she had endured.
"Simon," she said softly, and he stepped closer at once, lending a listening ear.
"I have heard of a famous prophet who resides in this district. Once the storm has calmed, have him summoned."
As she spoke, her gaze shifted toward the children lying beside her.
One of the twins looked bright and lively, already stirring with a healthy strength.
The other one appeared quiet and dull; she took notice of it, and it stirred uneaseness in her heart.
Simon followed her gaze, then bowed his head.
"As you command, Your Grace."
He left the room soon after, drawing the door shut behind him.
Only then did he allow himself to breathe fully. He sank down near the fireplace and stretched his hands toward the fire, letting its warmth chase the cold.
For the first time that night, the terror gripping his chest loosened.
"This is all I have," came Mira's voice. "The pottage may taste somewhat strange, but I assure you I used only edible ingredients."
A bowl was lowered beside him.
Simon looked up. Mira was already moving away, carrying another bowl in both hands as she made her way back toward the inner room.
"Do you live alone?" he asked, raising his voice slightly so she could hear him.
She paused for only a moment, then gave a small nod without turning.
"I do," she said simply, before continuing on her way.
When Mira stepped into the room with a bowl of pottage in her hands, she stopped at once.
Something seems wrong; she could sense it because of the look on Yumi's face.
"The baby is not breathing."
Yumi's voice reached her ears, filled with fear.
Tears blurred her eyes as she clutched the frail infant against her breast, the one who was dull and quiet.
Mira quickly set the bowl aside and crossed the room. Gently, she took the babe from Yumi's trembling arms.
"My lady, you must try to be calm," she said, though her own heart had begun to pound.
She lowered her gaze to the child, and then she saw what terrified the queen.
The baby's eyes were an eerie white, the dark pupils nowhere to be seen, and her little body was shaking still in Mira's hands.
For a moment Mira could only stare.
For years she had been barren, even to the extent that her husband had abandoned her.
And now, when at last a baby had been placed into her care, it was a child circling around death.
Drawing the infant close, Mira held her with fierce tenderness.
"You will live," she whispered, her voice low but steady. "You must."