The Beauty of Darkness - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,152

into her arms. She held me fiercely, a quiet sob lifting her chest. I had no tears left, but my arms locked around her, holding her in all the ways I had needed to in these past months. She said my name over and over again. Jezelia. My Jezelia.

I finally pulled back. “You tried to keep the gift from me,” I said, still feeling the hurt. “You did everything you could to guide me away from it.”

She nodded.

“I need to understand,” I whispered. “Tell me.”

And she did.

She was weak. She was broken. But her voice grew stronger as she spoke, as if she had told this story in her own mind a hundred times. Maybe she had. She told me about a young mother and her child, a story I had only seen from my vantage point.

Her tale had seams I hadn’t seen; it was colored with fabric in shades I’d never worn; it had hidden pockets heavy with worry; it was a story that didn’t hold just my fears, but hers too, the threads of it pulling tighter each day.

When she had arrived in Morrighan, she was eighteen, and everything about this new land was foreign to her—the clothing, the food, the people—including the man who was to be her husband. She was so filled with fright she couldn’t even meet his gaze the first time she met him. He had dismissed everyone from the room, and once they were alone, he reached out and lifted her chin and told her she had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. Then he smiled and promised her it would be all right, that they could take their time getting to know each other, and then he delayed the wedding for as long as he could, and he courted her.

It was only for a few months, but day by day, he won her over—and she won him over too. It wasn’t exactly love yet, but they were infatuated. By the time they married, she was no longer looking at the floor but happily meeting the eyes of everyone—including the stern gazes of the cabinet.

Though the seat of First Daughter on the cabinet had been ceremonial for centuries, when she told her new husband she wanted to be more active in her role at court, he heartily welcomed her. She was known to be strong in the gift, sensing dangers and folly. At first the king considered everything she said. He sought her advice, but she sensed a growing resentment among the cabinet at the king’s attentions toward his young bride, and she was slowly, but diplomatically, pushed aside.

And then the babies came. First Walther, who was the delight of the court, then Regan and Bryn, who added to their happiness. They were allowed every freedom, which was new to her. She came from a household of girls, where choices were limited. Here she watched her young boys nurtured and encouraged to find their own strengths, not just by her and the king, but by the whole court.

Then she became pregnant again. There were enough heirs and spares, and now everyone waited with expectation for a girl, a new generation to carry on the tradition of First Daughter. She knew I was going to be a girl before I was ever born. It filled her with immeasurable joy—until she heard a rumble, a growl, the hunger of a beast, pacing in the corners of her mind. Her misery grew each day, as did the thump of the beast’s footsteps. She feared that it stalked me, that it somehow knew I was a threat, and she felt strongly that this was because of the gift. She saw me being torn away from my family, from everything that I knew and dragged across an unimaginable landscape. She chased after me, but her steps were not as swift as the beast that had ripped me from her arms.

“I vowed I wouldn’t let that happen. I spoke to you as you grew in my belly and made a daily promise that I would somehow keep you safe. And then on the day you were born, in the midst of my fears and promises to you, I heard a whisper, a soft, gentle voice as clear as my own. The promise is great, for the one named Jezelia. I thought that was my answer, and when I looked into your sweet face, the name Jezelia fit you best above all the others the kingdom had placed