📖 The Celestial Codex (3/7) 📖
The Princess
The next morning Moses found Leona already in the antechamber. Kane was with her, playing with a ball-in-a-cup game.
"The queen is awake already," she said. "We'll step in momentarily. How do you think it's going?"
"It's fine," Moses said. "I'm curious, was someone doing this before me?"
"I was writing for her, for a while," Leona said. "But it didn't work out."
"Why not?"
"The ink does not take for me."
"What do you mean?"
"The ink does not flow on the treated parchment when I try."
Moses stared at her. There was nothing wrong with the ink. "It flows very smoothly," he said. "Hardly any scratching at all. The quills will last a long time at this rate."
"That's very good news," Leona said. "Ready?"
Kane looked up from his toy. “Is Princess Alyse coming today?”
Leona paused. “I expect so. Why?”
“She said she might take me riding again. Said I could help groom the gray mare this time.”
Moses smiled. “That sounds like a royal appointment.”
“What can I say?” Kane said. "She likes me."
Leona chuckled. “Yes, she does.”
Kane grinned and went back to his game, the cup clicking softly against the wood.
Leona met Moses’ eyes. “Let’s go.”
They entered together to find the queen already seated.
"Your majesty," they said in unison, bowing.
"Quick," the queen said. "Take this down while I can still think."
Moses hurried to his desk. Leona followed.
"My son," the queen said. "Is dead. Gone these five years, and I foolishly delayed the rite. I did it to relieve him of the burden, you see? And now I fear I have let it go too long. Bring my granddaughter, Alyse to me at once. I must perform the rite."
"Yes, your majesty," Leona said.
Moses began to write the order, but Leona deftly snatched the quill from his hand.
He looked up at her, protest on his face.
She subtly shook her head, No.
"I'll be right back," Leona said. "I'll fetch the princess."
"Be quick about it," the queen said, a worried expression on her face.
Moses watched Leona leave. A flicker of confusion crossed his face.
Was she delaying?
He shook it off and turned to the queen. “Your majesty, you were beginning to tell me about how magic was lost.”
"That's the whole point!" she said, hurriedly. "I must complete the rite while I still can."
"What is the rite?"
“It’s bound up in the story I was telling you,” the queen said. Then, without warning, she tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and began to sing—softly, not quite a chant, but something older. Moses, as instructed, wrote every word on the right-hand parchment.
At birth of time, four powers rose:
The star who lit the flame that grows,
The world who bore the breath of kin,
The moons—one song, the other wind.
So life began with tone and tide,
With breath that stars could not divide.
Each note a will, each chord a flame,
That gave the silence shape and name.
Ashira, Moon of silver face,
She danced beyond both time and place.
The other gods had might and throne—
But she was made to be alone.
The queen stopped when he looked up at her.
"What is it?" she asked.
"She was made to be alone, your majesty?"
"Indeed, though she loves Isen and he her, but he nearly always chases her through the sky. But here comes the important bit of the tale."
She sang, and he wrote.
The gods, they danced; the void grew warm.
They shaped the world through light and form.
But she withdrew from forge and flame,
To write what none could claim by name.
A tome she wove of lunar thread,
From tears long-lost and sorrow shed.
With quill of myth and ink of night,
She wrote the words in silver light.
Moses paused, his quill hovering over the parchment. The ink seemed to hum faintly, a vibration running through the quill’s nib into his fingers, as if it were eager to keep pace with the queen’s words.
He blinked, glancing at the shimmering inkwell. Had it always done that? Leona’s words echoed in his mind—the ink does not take for me. He shook off the thought and dipped the quill again as the queen continued.
So was the Codex born of grace:
It sings to those who know their place.
It mourns for those who wield in greed,
And hides from every grasping creed.
It does not rule. It does not bind.
It shows the shape once held in mind.
And when its words are sung in truth,
The world becomes again—renewed.
The queen’s voice faded, footsteps echoed, and he heard the rustle of skirts. When Moses lifted his eyes, the princess was there.
He'd seen her before, but only at a distance—a figurine, at best. But this was a real woman. Alive. She was beautiful, raven-haired, demure, petite. Moses was sure he had never been so close to loveliness before.
She was, he guessed, in her late twenties, similar in age to Leona, and a few years younger than his thirty-four. There was a quiet sorrow in her eyes, the kind carried by those who have already grieved something still living.
“My queen,” she said, kneeling gracefully, though her voice trembled. “You summoned me?”
“Yes,” the queen said briskly. “I should like to have brown bread, warmed but not toasted. Crusts trimmed. Two eggs over hard, and a small slice of mutton, cold. Tea. Not too hot.”
The princess blinked.
“Your majesty,” she said gently, “I am your granddaughter, Alyse. Daughter of your son Alric. I am not your lady in waiting.”
“My what?” the queen asked, suddenly sharp. “Hogwash. Be off with you.”
Alyse’s mouth opened as if to protest, but no words came. Her breath caught—then she stood, turned, and walked swiftly from the room, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She left no parting word, only the fading whisper of lavender and sorrow.
“Get rid of that one,” the queen snapped.
Moses hand hovered over the parchment and trembled. Ultimately, he only pretended to write the command. Some words were not worth saving.
He was surprised when a single tear of his own dropped to the desk, caught in the wood's grain where no ink would stain. He felt the pain of the princess in his chest—a dull ache, like remembering the sound of a lullaby long after the voice that sang it was gone.
Leona hesitated for a breath, then quietly stepped after Alyse, the door closing softly behind her, leaving Moses alone with the queen.
Moses stared at the open doorway, heart heavy.
“The impertinence!” the queen said, her voice rising with the brittle force of a fading storm. “To enter my chamber without tea—without manners!”
She looked toward the window then grumbled about servants and wilted gardens.
Moses did not speak. He only dipped his quill again and waited—not for orders, but for the ink to wake.
"What year is it?" she asked, repeating her question from the prior day.
"It's 1467, your majesty," he said.
"So many years," she whispered. "Two hundred twelve to be exact, since magic left the world."
"Yes, how did that happen, majesty?" he prompted.
"Eight generations ago, the King of Garreval, my ancestor, removed magic from the world."
"I heard that magic just faded," Moses said.
"It did not," she snapped, looking at him. "My ancestor removed it from the world."
"How?"
"How, indeed?" the queen said. "That's what the rite is about…"
She trailed off, staring at the patterns of light on the floor.
She turned her head, looking at the door.
"Confound it," she said. "Where is Alyse? Where is my granddaughter? We are running out of time."
"She was just here, your majesty," Moses said. "You sent her away."
"I did?" the queen asked. She turned her gaze back to the light patterns on the floor and watched as they moved very slowly.
Moses set his quill down and waited.
Leona's return several minutes later interrupted the uneasy silence. She entered and stopped, looking at the queen, whose head was bowed in sleep.
"Has she said more?"
"She said her ancestor took magic out of the world."
Leona glanced between Moses and the queen.
"Well, she says some strange things," she said at last.
"I wasn't sure if I should write that down," he said.
"Did you?"
"I did not," he confessed. "But I could."
"No, you did right," she said. "Not a command and not a musing of her dreams."
"Even so—it somehow feels important," he said.
"Maybe," Leona said. "But she commanded you how and what to write, as you recall."
"I do," he said thoughtfully.
But that night, when he was back in his bedchamber, he wrote everything the queen had said that day. And then he wrote everything he could remember from the prior day.
The next morning, he offered a suggestion.
"Why don't we have the Princess Alyse stay with the queen through the day, for those lucid moments when she wants to do whatever this rite is?"
Leona's eyes flicked at the mention of the rite. It was subtle, but Moses caught it, leaving a question in his mind.
"The queen always seems to dismiss her," Leona said. "And I don't think that her highness' pride will handle being treated as a lady-in-waiting for six or seven hours until a half hour of semi-lucid moments shows up unannounced."
"Fair," he said. "She probably wouldn't want to do that. But what do you think this rite is?"
"Oh, probably some family affair she learned from her father, I would guess. I don't think it's important."
"The queen does—at least sometimes."
"That's the point though, right? Only sometimes. Other times it means nothing to her."
"But," Moses protested, "When it does matter, it seems to really matter to her."
"It's nothing for you to worry about, Moses," she said. "Just write what she says."
"I wonder if I might have a third stack of parchments," he said. "To write down other things that she says. Yes, I know that she said I needn't write down everything, but I think the princess might want to see some of her other thoughts one day in the future."
"Well," Leona said. "You're being paid to write. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?"
"But it doesn't take much effort to write other things."
"I said, No," Leona said.
It did not sit well with Moses.
Who was she to tell him what he could and couldn't write? He worked for the queen, not Leona. She was just a lady-in-waiting, not his boss.
He addressed it directly with the queen after lunch when Leona took the washing away.
"Your majesty," he asked.
"Yes, Moses?"
She didn't look at him, keeping her gaze on the patterns of light on the floor.
"You said I did not have to take down every single thing you said," he said.
"Yes, there's no need to do that," she said.
"Begging your pardon," he said. "But I wonder if I may be permitted to write other things?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well," he said. "You do talk about your dreams, and you do give orders, and I diligently write those down, just as you say them. But—"
"But what?"
"Well, your majesty. I've been here three days now, and you have some very wise sayings, and I thought that, perhaps, writing them down wouldn't be any harm."
"Why, thank you," the queen said beaming. "You don't have to write those things, but if you feel compelled to do so, you certainly may."
"Thank you, my queen," he said. "I thought it might be worth writing some things, just for your grandchildren."
"Grandchildren?"
"Yes," he said as he wrote down her order permitting him to write other things that he, as a scribe, deemed worthy of retaining. It wasn't exactly what she said, but there would be no one to question it, since Leona was not there. He knew the queen's phrasing well enough to fake it.
"I have grandchildren?"
"Yes, several, and three great-grandchildren. Your next in line is your princess Alyse, daughter of Alric."
"I must see her at once," the queen demanded.
Then, she spoke more loudly, in a voice that Moses was surprised to hear. There was power in her voice.
"Bring me Alyse! Now!"
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
I like all the mystery about what's being kept hidden. Great tension building here.