A/N- This is my first attempt at a Tamora Pierce fanfic- so please leave a review- all comments are welcome.This is set some time during Squire, but isn't really related. The beginning is slightly strange- so please stick with it. And just generally thanks for reading.
Tortall- the land of the free. Or at least that was how it appeared to those deprived of the freedoms it offered. A place were you had at the very least a choice. It had a woman for its champion, armies made up of commoners. It was a place where you could make your destiny.
Except that it wasn't. True, some of the stories were accurate, Alanna the Lioness was the Champion of Tortall, but she had suffered dearly to claim that position, and had had to conceal herself in order to achieve it. The armies of commoners had strict regulations and requirements that had to be met, and many were unable to meet them. The King and Queen had made attempts at changing this, making Tortall a place, the only place in the world, where true freedom existed, but it was not something that was easily done. And although to an extent it was true, far too many were still beyond the reach of this freedom.
Sat in the window of the room of her childhood, Lilliane gazed into the distance, the green of the valley mingling with the crimson lights of a cold winter sunset. Soft blue streaked with wisps of white dancing amongst reds and yellows strokes to create a beauty that her eyes completely missed. She had a piece of half finished needlework clamped between her fingers, a passion of hers that was usually able to calm her regardless of the circumstances. But today, hidden behind clammy fingers that trembled in a way that had nothing to do with the sharpness of the approaching night, not even this old passion was able to calm her.
Her face was usually pale, but today colour had fled it to such an extent that the tear stains that flowed across her face could well have been blood stains. Deep brown eyes enclosed in long lashes seemed now to dominate her face more than ever, the beads of tears resting in them making them shine in the fading light. But despite her near hysterical state, she sat perfectly upright, the boned corset she had been forced into to accent her tiny waist preventing anything else. Her hands still rested neatly in her lap and her legs were held together in a way that demonstrated her breeding and status more than any of the symbols of wealth that had been draped upon her.
In truth, she was hiding, this room held no refuge for her except that it was upstairs, and the men she was hiding from were downstairs. Their conversation, made rowdy by the expensive alcohol the occasion called for drifting up to her ears and into her mind, despite her attempts to ignore it.
She had felt this way before, hiding in the small room she had been assigned to by the Daughters, lost and scared amongst the scattered conversation of the other girls of the convent. But that place had quickly become home, and right now she would give anything to be surrounded by their inane conversation rather than the conversation she was hearing from her father.
Prospective husbands and betrothements were frequent topics of discussion at the convent, they were bound to be, considering that the girls were there to learn how to be good wives. They would each imagine their perfect husbands from the men they knew to be available, and would joke over who might end up with one of the more disgusting candidates. She had only been presented at court a matter of months ago, and had seen interest from a number of men who had been considered prime candidates. She had retired each evening to the room her father kept at the palace with a smile on her face, imagining what her friends would say, picturing herself getting married to whichever man she had spent the evening dancing and conversing with. And in fairness, there was no reason why should not. Her lineage was one of the most impressive in the whole of Tortall, she could claim to be a serious candidate in the succession to the throne if something were to happen to the Prince and Princess. Her father had extensive lands, and a very impressive fortune, which left her with a large dowry. And despite her tiny frame, she was one of the most attractive women to be presented at court that year, and at sixteen, there was potential for growth in that department anyway. Flawless skin and captivating eyes, framed by perfect auburn curls that shimmered in the light.
But her dreams had all been in vain. Her betrothal had been finalised, and it certainly wasn't to one of the dashing young men she had spent her nights dancing with. The man sat downstairs with her father, and the cause of his revelry, was anything but a handsome young man.
Approaching 50 at an alarming rate, a figure that supposedly once was muscled and attractive now hidden under great encompassing rolls of fat, a podgy face with narrowed eyes that seemed to measure everything he saw in terms of their advantage to him. He had been chosen because of the shipping industry that was tied to his name, her father seeing the advantage this could bring to his own estate, and more than willing to sell off one of his daughters in order to achieve it.
Lord Drazen's wife had killed herself over a decade ago, and he had never seen the need to replace her, his two sons being all that she was required for anyway. But they had been killed a few months ago, and he had suddenly found himself with a need for a wife again. Her skin crawled at the thought of his fingers on her skin, but apparently she didn't have a choice. She was going to become the lady of Sparrows Creek, whether she liked it or not.
She heard a knock at her door, and rose. She hadn't heard the conversation die or their approach, but she knew it was them outside. She rose and heard her voice beckon them in, quivering slightly with a fear that made it almost unrecognisable to her own ears. She didn't bother to wipe the tears from her face, they wouldn't notice anyway, and even if they did, they wouldn't care.
Her father and Lord Drazen appeared, and she curtsied low as was expected, holding her hands in her lap when she was finished, looking at the men who had interrupted her life so viciously with a gentle subservient glance.
Her father paid her no attention, his eyes greedily observing the fat man he had guided up the stairs. The subject of his attention was paying her attention, but in such a way that she felt her skin go cold. He surveyed her with beady eyes, a fat tongue wetting podgy lips slightly, fingers running through greasy, greying hair that she assumed hadn't seen a hairbrush in years.
His clothes were incredibly ill-matched, and in her pale amber dress that had been decorated with various pieces of jewellery her father had selected to show off his wealth, she felt like a doll being shown off to a collector.
"Well," her father demanded, still not bothering to pay her the slightest amount of attention. The fat, greasy man licked his lips again. Then turned his attention away from her.
He offered his hand to her father, "She'll do." They shook hands vigorously, and left without another word to her.
Lilliane, future wife of Lord Drazen of Sparrows Creek, seated herself, a salty torrent of tears now pouring from her, knowing she would never be able to halt them, so letting them fall unimpeded.
Casting her eyes unseeingly to the now departed sunset, she made a silent wish for her freedom, knowing that it would never come, but desperately seeking it anyway. Her mind cast itself to the legends that had created the mirage of a supposedly free Tortall, the Lioness, the Wildmage, all of them. 'You are so lucky'. The rest of her thoughts were sunk by misery as she cried deep into the night, her sobs only punctuated by laughter drifting up from the continuing party below.
Far away, hidden in a corridor in Corus, her thoughts stirred an entity that had long been sleeping. It had heard similar misery so often, but such a strong desire for freedom it had only felt once before, from the boy who had eventually bound him to this Chamber, the Chamber of Ordeal.
Its purpose had been to protect, and normally selecting from those who were brought for testing was enough to keep safe those it had been charged with. But such strong misery and such a desire for freedom meant that something else was needed.
It was necessary to select one to protect those it could not reach, the legendary Protector of the Small, a title that had not been needed for centuries. It cast its reach out, eventually finding a task that would decide upon the worthy. It would find one to protect them, all of them.