A/N: this chapter is short, but the next one will be longer, with dialogue and everything, oooooo aaaaaaah. My thanks to Elly W and antz for reviewing, it means a lot to me Enjoy!
My mother was a great sorceress. Like her father, Numair Salmalin, she attended the Imperial University in Carthak, and there she completed her studies and became a black robe mage, one of only eight in the world. She accomplished this in her twenty-first year, young for a black robe but not the youngest. After she earned her black robe, she returned home to Tortall and found work as a mage working for King Roald. Along with her Gift, my mother had wild magic, a talent she got from her mother, Veralidaine Sarrasri. She wasn't as strong as her mother, but she could heal animals and put her will on great numbers at one time. Shape-shifting, however, perhaps my grandmother's most useful trait, was beyond her. But what wild magic could not give her, the Gift could. Grandfather Numair passed on spells to her that allowed her to take many shapes, from bird to wolf to horse. But she rarely used these spells, for they drained her and left her weak for days afterward if she remained in a shape for too long. All of these skills, she passed on to me. But I am getting ahead of myself. Before I speak of magic, I will speak of the mundane, and how my parents met and wed, against the wishes of society.
Mother was three years older than father. When she came to the palace at twenty-two, he was nineteen, and had just earned his shield as a knight less than a year before. He found a place in the King's Own, often far from the palace, but nonetheless they saw each other often. She was a warrior mage, and often called to councils where she met with the generals and commanders of my grandfather's armies. Even though he was technically only a lieutenant, my father was often at these meetings, because it was an accepted fact that he would one day be a general for his brother, the future king. My father was a military prodigy, with a mind for tactics and strategy and the skill to match a Shang fighter. But he was still the third son, landless with no real inheritance.
Third son or not, my father was sought after by many a noble matriarch as a match for one of their daughters or granddaughters. Royal blood aside, my father was a very handsome man. He had the Conté blue eyes and coal black hair, but his eyes were slanted and his hair had a silken texture to it, both traits he got from his mother, Shinkokami. His skin was fair, and he had less body and facial hair than was the norm for Tortallan men, a Yamani attribute. While his father and brothers all sported full beards, all my father could manage was a light, well trimmed goatee. I liked it better that way, and I told him so often, but I was biased. Like his father and brothers, Raenef was tall, an inch over six feet, with broad, strong shoulders, long, well proportioned limbs and a trim waist. He always wore his hair long, tied back in a braid or horsetail.
He was a wonderful dancer, but few knew it, because he was also incredibly shy. He always laughed when he spoke of it to me, saying it was a wonder that he got married at all. Charismatic and quick-witted around his troops, around women his tongue became lead in his mouth and his wits melted away into molasses. It was a long standing joke in the Second Company of the King's Own, my father's bumbling in the presence of women. But he overcame his weakness through sheer determination, all for my mother.
They did not properly meet for another two years after my mother's arrival at the palace. They had been introduced and exchanged greetings, but the opportunity to have a real conversation did not present itself until my father's twenty-first birthday celebration. The guest of honor, he was unwillingly the center of attention, a much sought after dance partner by many noble ladies or an ideal drinking partner for young noblemen. Comfortable in only small groups of people he was familiar with, Raenef was miserable. He was at the ideal marrying age and the iron-handed noble matriarchs were very unsubtle in their advances upon him to introduce the young prince to a young granddaughter or niece. Overwhelmed, he took the first chance he saw to escape, ducking behind curtains and making his way out to the Palace gardens by jumping over the railing of a balcony.
That was where he met my mother. Uninterested in the social affairs but too polite to refuse the king's invitation, Nicola had excused herself soon after dinner under the pretense of taking a walk in the garden. She ended up sitting on the garden wall, staring up at a clear night sky, skirts hiked up and legs splayed in a most unladylike way. What transpired there, I shall leave to my father's telling.