A History of Royal Magic was a massive tome, as thick as Kristoff's head and about twice as heavy. The cover was once a beautiful shade of purple, although it had faded with age, leaving only the shiny gold letters of its title as a remnant of its former glory. The pages were well intact, however, and the print was handwritten in black ink in an extravagant cursive font.
As she flipped through the book, Elsa had to wonder what kind of person could have possibly written that many words with so much care and precision. She was surprised to see that there were also illustrations, skillful drawings of kings and queens and creatures she had never seen before, along with a few maps and landscape sketches of places she didn't know, historical documents and charts, and figures that she couldn't even hope to interpret as she quickly flipped through. Beneath the title on the cover, written in plain silver letters, was the name of the author, a woman Elsa thought must have been an extraordinary woman: Agatha Paddick.
Once the queen began to actually read the beastly book, she had to lug it around everywhere she went, often thinking about how Aaron must consider that to be a part of her training, probably snickering about it to himself whenever he saw her struggle to pick it up off a table with both arms on her way out of a war council or after finishing a meal. She was never seen without it despite all she had to do in preparation for the siege which was only a month away.
Things had been going surprisingly smoothly since the trial, with everyone doing their part - even Kristoff, who had been hard at work with the ice harvesters fortifying the castle and the walls that surrounded the city, a job that he was surprisingly passionate about. When Elsa had seen the walls of the castle facing the ocean where Kristoff and his men had mounted enormous steel plates to protect from possible projectiles from the harbor, she was quite impressed. Her future brother in law may have been a bit of a slacker when it came to his real job, but she had to admit he could step up to a challenge it was needed.
Aaron Sinclair had given Elsa only a week to finish reading before their physical training was to begin; she had thought that was quite a large assignment to throw on top of all her other duties, but she didn't protest, knowing that their time was limited.
Besides, she trusted Aaron's judgment and knew he wouldn't task her with it if he didn't think it was vital. She quickly found that her thirst for knowledge about the Highborn spurred her to read at a speed she didn't think she was capable of. Every night she would power through pages and pages and by the time she was finally too exhausted to keep her eyes open, she had gotten through so much content she could barely keep her mind at bay long enough to actually fall asleep.
The book began with a few words directly from Agatha herself:
Greetings, reader! Or should I say Your Grace?
If you are reading this book, I am probably dead and gone and you are either one of two things: a Highborn for whom this book was written… or a thieving little maggot with very poor judgment.
If you are the former, I welcome you to read on and learn of the secrets of your existence. If the latter, I suggest you return this book to its owner and save yourself the torment of learning of things far beyond the scope of someone as lowly and disgusting as yourself before you get yourself killed.
The choice in the matter is yours.
Already Elsa could tell Agatha was more than a little eccentric. She couldn't imagine a thief would heed the words of a dead woman, let alone return something like this to whomever they stole it from, especially after reading something as juicy as that little intro. Elsa was hooked, and she read on excitedly.
The first half of A History of Royal Magic was simply an autobiography of Agatha herself. At first Elsa expected she was a Highborn like her, but quickly learned that the author was born no more than a poor commoner in the kingdom of Myleria far to the southeast.
Elsa knew little of Myleria itself, although she had learned about it some from her tutors growing up. It was a small, lush, green kingdom located right at the border where the Southern and Northern kingdoms met. Some called it the Center of the World as it was right in the divide between the Four Domains that made up the North, South, East, and West. The Northern Kingdoms had claimed it for their own a century ago, but if anyone were to ask the Mylerians, they would proclaim they were an independent nation that straddled the cultures of the Domains, a melting pot for all the people of the world.
Despite their ego, Myleria was ruled by a king and queen like many other nations, and upheld many of the same customs as most of the North that Elsa was accustomed to. It housed a capital and a castle where the monarchy resided, noble houses and knights much like those in Arendelle, but also many traditions from the South and East. Elsa heard that there were tournaments held yearly in Myleria where common folk were allowed to fight for titles, land, and even leadership positions – a cultural practice adopted from the Southern Kingdoms where the strong ruled no matter what, surnames be damned.
It was in the poorest district of the capital where Agatha had been born, nearly one hundred years ago, well before Elsa's knowledge of Myleria's history began. She was born to a common butcher and his wife, loyal subjects of the kingdom who were hard workers with no real dreams beyond putting bread on the table for the day for their only daughter.
Agatha hadn't been particularly pretty or good at math. As a child, she wasn't a talented dancer and couldn't play sports very well. She had plain brown curls, a sharp nose, and average height. But despite the mediocre life she had been given, Agatha was an ambitious youth. As a little girl, she would often go off playing in the woods near the edge of the city. There she would look up at the blue castle towers that she could just barely see over the treetops and dream of lordships and knighthood and banquets; all the things she believed she could take part in some day if she just believed hard enough. Her parents called her a dreamer with her head in the clouds, but Agatha never paid them any mind. She knew she was destined for greatness.
Agatha Paddick did have one talent. She was an avid artist who was never seen without pen and paper, sketching anything and everything she saw as she wandered the green forests of Myleria, a feeble attempt to escape from the monotony that her parents inflicted upon her daily life. It was in those woods that she felt truly alive and it was in those woods that destiny finally came along to change her life forever, though she didn't know it at the time.
At eight years old, little Agatha was making a routine stroll along the stream that started at the base of the castle and followed along the wall around the periphery of the capital. It had been her favorite time of day, right near twilight when there was still enough light to see clearly, just as the sky was beginning to turn a brilliant shade of yellow and pink. She had stopped to sketch a rather strange looking rock in the stream when she caught a flash of white from the corner of her eye and looked up to find herself staring into the face of a creature she'd never seen before.
It looked just like a fox, only its fur was white as fresh fallen snow and its eyes were like green emeralds that stared at her with an eerie awareness. As soon as it saw the girl, the beast turned and sprang off towards the castle the way it had come and Agatha glimpsed three snow colored tails as long as her entire arm-span whipping around behind it as it disappeared into the trees.
Intrigued, Agatha took off after the fox, hoping to get a better look so she could sketch the gorgeous creature and preserve its memory in her journal forever. But despite running as fast as her little legs would allow for hours, she never caught up to the white fox and the light began to trickle away into darkness until Agatha found herself in the pitch black woods, lost, alone, and exhausted.
Luckily for her, the girl knew those woods well from her many years of exploration. Agatha managed to find a spot she was familiar with – a little pond in a clearing with clear water, surrounded by yellow and red flowers. From there, she knew she could find her way home. But it was dark at that point, and Agatha needed to sleep. She ended up climbing a tree and nestling between two branches for a safe place to rest her eyes until dawn came.
As the morning light broke over the horizon, Agatha woke to the sound of movement among the brush. From her perch in the tree, she bolted upright when she spotted none other than the white fox poking its glorious head from the bushes. It emerged to inspect the waters of the pond and Agatha held her breath, afraid that any small noise might startle the animal.
For a while she just sat there admiring the creature as it gazed into the water, but curiously did not drink. It had three full bushy tails, a long slender body and delicate snout, and eyes that were so bright and green they seemed to shine even from afar.
Then the fox perched up on its hind legs with lithe dexterity and closed its eyes while faint wisps of golden light began to swirl all around it. There was a bright flash and, startled, Agatha had to close her eyes for a moment.
When she reopened them, the fox was gone and in its place stood a beautiful blonde woman in a white nightgown, barefoot and staring into the waters with green eyes just like the fox's. Agatha had to squint to make out her face from atop the tree but after a moment she recognized the long neck, small delicate nose, and pale rosy cheeks of the woman. It was the face of none other than Queen Alissa of Myleria, a face Agatha and all of the common folk knew well.
The queen still hadn't noticed Agatha, to her relief, and after a minute, she stamped off back towards the outskirts of the castle with all the nimbleness of her previous form. Agatha climbed down, reeling, and ran back to inform her parents of the magic display of shapeshifting she was convinced she had just witnessed.
Her parents were less than amused by the tale, to the girl's disappointment, convincing Agatha that she had been seeing things and telling her she shouldn't spread rumors about the Queen, lest she incur the wrath of her husband, King Marc.
It was then that Agatha's obsession began. For the rest of her childhood and well into her teenage years, she thought of little else besides Queen Alissa and the white, three-tailed fox. She would fill her notebook to the brim with sketches and drawings of the woman and the beast, recounting her tale to anyone that would listen, but as she grew older, that number dwindled and those that did hear her claimed she was a crazy woman who believed in myths and fairytales. Her parents had had enough after they realized it was not simply a phase, and when Agatha turned sixteen, she left home, following a stern suggestion from her father.
"I won't have my home tainted by this foolishness," he had said. "I'm a common butcher, not a damn wizard, and your mother is a woman, not a fairy godmother. If ya believe in all this magic hogwash, go find out about this three-tailed fox of yours for yourself."
Agatha had been happy to leave. Her first destination was the capital, where she'd worked in a dirty, low-end inn for meager pay and lodging. It had merely been a stepping stone as far as she was concerned. She had chosen the inn nearest to the Castle of Myleria and every day her eye was on the castle gates. She had resolved to meet the queen and ask about the white fox herself if she had to, and the only way to do that it seemed would be to become a castle servant, maid, or cook - anything that involved direct contact with Queen Alissa and the infamously bold King Marc.
Unfortunately it wasn't as easy to get a job inside the castle walls as Agatha had hoped. The servants, she discovered, were all born into the service of the royalty, much like the nobles themselves. It was rather unheard of for an outsider to just waltz in and become a maid for the king and queen. Even so, Agatha didn't mind being persistent, and she took to spying upon the castle attendants any time she could, learning names and faces of those that would come into the inn late at night or who would visit the brothel next door on their nights off. She began to recognize the house steward, a man named Brom, who would often come in for stew on Tuesday evenings, and it wasn't long before she was asking him for a job. He'd written her off the first couple encounters, claiming there was nothing available and commoners weren't welcome inside the castle walls.
After the fifth time she'd asked in passing, he had finally paid her some mind. "Persistent little brat, aren't ya? Look, what is it that makes you think working in the castle is such a great gig? Do ya think it's so much better than working at a place like this? Well it ain't! Every time the royal family so much as sneezes, I have to be there to offer a handkerchief, else I get chewed out for two days straight. My room is nothing more than a prison cell the size of one of the King's closets. You're better off here anyway, girl."
To which Agatha had responded, "Oh, it ain't about the money or the room or the job. It's 'bout the queen, milord. She's a Goddess to me – the most beautiful woman on the planet an' the most fair an' kind. I've worshipped her since I was a girl - I'd do anything to just be in her presence. I'd sleep on the cold hard floor every night if tha's what it took. If there's any work you could offer me, any at all, I'd be eternally grateful to you and pledge my service to you and the queen, milord." When she was finished, she had bowed her head and put her hands together to accentuate her point, feeling a bit silly, but knowing that it would make her seem more sincere.
Brom the house steward had just looked at her skeptically for a moment, and Agatha knew he thought she was crazy, but she didn't care, as long as he gave her what she wanted. Then he'd said, "Ya can start in the laundry rooms on Monday at 8 o'clock. Don't be late."
And she wasn't. Agatha wanted to cry with joy when she had first set foot inside the castle. The laundry rooms weren't so bad, she decided, and she had been given a fairly comfortable bed to sleep on and hot meals every day. Best of all, she would catch a glimpse of the queen occasionally strolling this way or that, completely ignoring her in a way she didn't mind at all. Alissa was a busy woman, after all, who was beloved by all of her people and had a very elegant lifestyle to maintain. Agatha figured that had to be hard work. She wouldn't much know herself. Plus, if the queen was truly out in the woods scampering about in the form of a white three-tailed fox at night, she must be exhausted all the time.
I wanted nothing more than to see Alissa transform again, Agatha wrote in her book. It was a dream and an obsession unlike anything I've had since. I'm not sure what it was that made me so passionate about it. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought that I was chosen in some way because of what I'd seen as a girl. I couldn't have been more wrong.
It wasn't until she'd been at the castle for a few months that Agatha started to actively try to catch the queen's attention. She would take extra special care of her linens and clothing and any time she saw even the slightest tear or frayed stitching, she had fixed it, hoping Alissa would notice. She never did.
One night Agatha had gotten out her sketchbook and began to work on the most detailed drawing of a fox she had ever even attempted. It wasn't the white three-tailed fox like she usually drew, deciding instead to stick to a normal red-tail that were a commonality in Myleria, the ones with the white paws. She borrowed special oils from one of the artists she had met in town and worked on the picture for two entire weeks, making it as accurate and perfect as possible.
The result was the best work of art she had ever produced, a beautiful and detailed portrait of a fox leaping over a log with a green, forested background with a majestic blue stream trickling off to the side. When it was finally finished, it was Agatha's masterpiece.
The laundry maid left her fox painting on top of the queen's clothes as she laid them out one morning with a simple note that read, "For Her Majesty – You are as elegant as a fox and twice as beautiful."
The next day she was summoned to Queen Alissa's chambers, alone. It had made Agatha's head light to walk into the royal bedchambers, a room which she never dreamed of setting foot in. Alissa was sitting on her bed, holding the fox portrait, admiring it when she came in. "You drew this?" she'd asked, and Agatha simply nodded nervously.
"How ever did you know that the fox was my favorite animal?"
Agatha wasn't sure what to say. "A simple maid's intuition, I s'pose, Your Majesty. I'm glad you like it."
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Agatha, Majesty."
"Agatha. Well I thank you very much for this kind gesture. Such a beautiful painting. You came to the castle rather recently, hm? They have you in the laundry rooms?" Alissa asked abruptly and Agatha nodded again shyly. "Well that's no place for a woman as talented as yourself! And so humble! You deserve a job more becoming of your ladylike nature! It just so happens that my personal chambermaid has left the capital to take care of her sickly father, god bless her, and I'm looking for someone to replace her. Would you, perhaps, be interested?"
Agatha was aghast. "Y-yes, Your Grace, I'd be honored!" she stammered out, and Alissa called for Brom the house steward.
"Brom, from now on Agatha will be taking over for Tiki as my personal chambermaid. See to it that she is briefed on the job."
"Of course, Your Grace," Brom replied, giving Agatha a queer look from the side, clearly in disbelief at her quick promotion to a title almost equal in rank to his own.
The next few weeks had been the greatest of Agatha's seventeen years. She was with the queen for hours every day, fixing her hair and helping her bathe and even giving her say in the outfits she would wear to certain occasions.
Queen Alissa was a gentle and open woman who would speak to Agatha about anything and everything on her mind, often giggling like a schoolgirl, and the two became quick friends with a relationship that surpassed the simple jobs Agatha was given as a chambermaid. She was finally in the perfect position to come out and ask about what she had seen as a child, but Agatha waited, biding her time until the perfect opportunity came to bring up the subject. After all, it was clearly Alissa's biggest secret, if it were true at all, and she was still Agatha's queen.
It was a rainy night when Agatha had made the mistake that would change her life for the second time. She had been brushing Alissa's long golden hair, delicately, making conversation as they had done many times before.
"I've been readin' more than drawin' lately," Agatha remarked nonchalantly.
"Oh? Anything interesting?" asked Alissa, sounding genuinely curious, as Agatha rarely talked of books or the like.
"Oh yes! There's this book I found in the library called The Fox People. You ever 'eard of the fox people, Your Grace?"
Alissa hesitated for a split second, staring at herself in the mirror. "No, I have not! Do tell."
Of course she hadn't, Agatha wrote. I had made them up.
"Well they're this ancient race of people… the stuff of legends, o' course, Your Grace, no doubt they weren't fer real… but they say, in this book, that these people were really into foxes. Ya know, worshipping them and wearin' their fur all the time, and all that. And the way the story goes, they had these shamans that had some magic powers in 'em that they drew from foxes themselves."
Alissa had been listening very intently, her green eyes watching Agatha through the mirror, although the chambermaid was paying no attention. "How fascinating," the queen said flatly.
"An' that's not all! There were some of 'em, these shamans, that were so in tune with the Earth and the forest and animals and all that, that they could actually turn into a fox themselves! Just like that, transform into a lil' fox, runnin' around on all fours!"
Alissa gave a half-smile. "How... whimsical."
I should have stopped right then, wrote Agatha. I should've taken the signs of Alissa's discomfort, let it rest for good, lived out my days with the three-tailed fox a distant memory of my childhood, happy in the Queen's service in Myleria. But instead I kept talking.
"There was even this one shaman in the book, he was the king of the fox people, see. An' he was so magical and powerful an' all that, that when he turned into a fox, it di'n't look like no regular fox. They say his fox was completely white with green eyes and even had three tails –"
"That's enough," Alissa snapped, pulling the brush from Agatha's hands. "I believe you should go now, Agatha. Good night."
Agatha had been taken aback, but did as her queen demanded, quietly leaving the royal bedchambers, never to return.
The next day they had put Agatha back in the laundry rooms. She didn't even bother to ask why.
I berated myself for years after that night, she Fox People, hah! How transparent could I be. Alissa figured I'd been trying to subtly blackmail her or threaten her in some way. In truth, I just wanted to know if I was crazy or not. Turns out I am, but not because I made up the story of the three-tailed fox. I'm crazy because I thought I was trustworthy enough to speak to Alissa about her powers myself, a poor chambermaid of seventeen, the daughter of a butcher. And I paid the price for my assumptions, that I did.
The following week, Agatha was given a piece of parchment and was escorted from the castle, relieved of her duties. At first she thought she had simply been fired, possibly banned from the castle. But the parchment was no simple dismissal. It had been marked with King Marc's signature and insignia.
Banishment from the Kingdom of Myleria. Agatha could hardly believe what she was reading. One little slip-up and she was cast off from her home forever. She would never see her parents again, or Queen Alissa. She would never get to see the three-tailed fox again. She would never explore the forests of her childhood again. But at the very least she knew that what she had seen was no falsehood – the queen was a shapeshifting sorceress, there could be no doubt, and Agatha would never forget that magic existed in this world, despite what anyone said.
If nobody else out there would believe her, then she would get the proof herself. Alissa couldn't be the only one in the world with strange powers, and if there were any others left on Earth, Agatha was determined to find them and make their presence known.
The butcher's daughter had been dropped off on horseback at the southern border where it was hotter and dryer than what she was used to. She'd had only the clothing on her back and a bag with a day's worth of food, water, and a few supplies she had brought with her from the castle. The knights of the castle told her if she ever set foot back across the Mylerian border, she would be arrested and put to death, and Agatha knew it was no empty threat.
"Good riddance," Agatha had spat just before setting off, away from her home kingdom forever. "I've never like Mylerian food anyway."
So she went south. The Southern Kingdoms were a different world to Agatha at first, full of gravel, dirt, and sand rather than grass and shrubbery. The first few days on the road had been the hardest, and Agatha had silently cursed her father for never teaching her how to properly hunt or forage.
Not that there was much to hunt anyway in the barren wastes she found herself wandering, trying desperately to just find a village or small town to take shelter in for the night. The South was large and uninviting, with long stretches of empty land with no civilization, and little else but the hot sun and the occasional patch of shrubbery for scenery.
Eventually, Agatha had come across a pack of travelers. They were clearly Southerners, four tan-skinned and hard looking men, with long black hair and barbaric faces. They were riding on horseback with many bags on their saddles and a few carts dragging behind them full of food and other commodities. Agatha figured they must be on their way to a town. When she approached them and begged to tag along, they had looked at her like she was a talking animal.
While most people of the Northern and Western Kingdoms speak the common tongue, the South is far more sporadic in its language patterns and many grow to adulthood only learning what they need of the common tongue for business and trade.
These men had clearly never even set foot in a Northern Kingdom, and they spoke to each other in a rough, grunting language that sounded abysmal to my ears at the time. Regardless, they had seemed to understand what I wanted well enough, and the leader gestured for me to follow them. They hadn't been particularly friendly, but they did give me a drink of water and a stick of jerky, and in my desperate state, they might as well have been gods for that.
Agatha had followed for a while, slowing the traveling pace a bit until one of the Southern men had thrown her on top of one of the carts so they could move faster. She had welcomed the free ride. By that point, her feet had started to bleed and blister and she was so fatigued from hunger she thought she might pass out.
Just as the sun was beginning to set that day, the caravan reached a village. It was like no village in Myleria that Agatha had ever seen, mostly made up of enormous tents and outdoor fire pits, with only a few small stables and wooden structures sprinkled throughout. She asked one of the men where they were, and he had just grunted, "Bal'rok." She had assumed that was the name of the village, and that was that.
When the caravan had stopped in front of the largest tent in the village decorated with a huge boar's head above the entrance flap, Agatha had climbed down from the cart and tried to thank her companions, eager to part ways to search for food and a place to sleep. The leader of the caravan had stopped her.
"You come," he snorted, grabbing her arm and beginning to pull her into the tent. When she had resisted, he simply picked her up with his enormous arms and carried her inside, the other men in tow as Agatha kicked and squirmed, powerless.
The next thing she knew, she was in a huge tent as large as the great hall of the Mylerian castle. The sides were lined with torches and long enormous tables were set out on the dirt ground beneath men were sitting around drinking and eating what looked like raw meat, paying no mind to the screaming Agatha as she was dragged in and thrown to her knees at the head of the tent where a raised platform loomed a few feet above.
A large man was sitting atop the platform on an even larger chair that Agatha compared to a throne lined with fur, watching with hard black eyes as Agatha was brought before him. He was a fierce looking Southerner, with a beard down to his chest, wearing a bear-skin cloak and a crown that looked like it was made of some kind of animal's bones. His face and arms were scarred and tattooed and his ears were pierced in more places than Agatha could count.
He had simply stared, emotionless when he saw her.
The caravan travelers had spoken to him in their native tongue. After a moment of listening, looking almost bored, the man on the throne had waved a lazy hand and the men began to take Agatha off again.
She cried out, "Where are you taking me you filthy rotten pigs, get yer 'ands off me!" That seemed to get the man on the throne's attention and he put his hand up, halting the others.
"You call me… pig?" he asked in a deep rumbling voice as everyone else fell silent. "You are a slave girl now!" Agatha had been surprised at his proper common speech, although his accent was thick and heavy. "You will learn respect for your king in the whore house!"
Agatha's fighting attitude faltered when she heard that.
How stupid I had been, thinking the travelers were helping me and asking for nothing in return. They had intended to sell me to whore house in this village of Bal'rok the whole time, to this king with his crown of bones. But what can one expect from a seventeen year old girl who was banished from her home, the daughter of a butcher and a former chambermaid? I wasn't the brightest star in the sky, let's just put it that way.
"No, no, please… Anything but…" she began to plead. "I can be of service to you, milord! I…I can cook, and sew, and write… please, just, listen for one second!"
This king, or whoever he was, seemed uninterested in her cries. "I have no need of these things. Take her," he commanded, and the caravan travelers complied, grabbing at her arms.
Agatha had reacted instantly to the dismissal, jerking her head to the left and smashing into the nose of one of the men, then slamming two balled fists into the crotch of the other on her right. Both men had howled in pain and stepped back, clutching their respective wounded parts, while Agatha whirled and sprinted for the exit of the tent. She had been only two steps away from freedom when she'd felt a huge hand wrap around her ankle and slammed into the dirt. The next thing she saw was the boots of the bearded man on the throne as she knelt in front of him once more.
"An impressive escape attempt, girl, I do admit! You make my men bleed well!" he boomed, sounding genuinely amused. Agatha looked up and noticed the man whose face she had head-butted was covering his broken nose and eyeing her with a scowl.
"This girl has earned herself a proper introduction, yes? I am King Borus of Anvel, and this is my village of Bal'rok. Where does this feisty girl hail from, hm? You look like a Northern one."
Agatha was still panting and out of breath and it took her a moment to realize King Borus had asked a question. "Myleria," she breathed.
"Ahhh, Myleria!" Borus echoed. "The tiny kingdom full of trees and knights and useless things. If there was anything of worth in Myleria, Borus would take all of his Anvel warriors, and cut down the silly stone walls of your tiny kingdom and take it for himself! Borus shows mercy every day he does not! This girl should be grateful!" He laughed heartily, apparently amused by just the thought of Agatha's home kingdom.
Agatha looked up at him with a sneer, blowing a stray strand of hair from her eyes. "Spare me from yer whore house, and this girl will march with yer Anvel warriors, cut down all them useless trees in Myleria, burn down the castle, and bring ya King Marc and Queen Alissa's bloody 'eads on a pike if tha's what ya want."
It hadn't just been an attempt to weasel my way from my fate, either. I meant every word, she wrote.
King Borus of Anvel had laughed like that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard in his life, turning red in the face as he cackled. Some of the men around him had chuckled as well, although Agatha suspected they hadn't even understood a word she was saying.
"Oh ho ho, such a warrior girl, this one! She offers me the heads of kings and queens, as if it is nothing! I like you, girl. What is this one named?"
"Agatha, milord."
"Bah! King Borus is no lord! He is a warrior! I spit on your lordships and fancy words! And you are no slave girl, not yet, no, no. She is not pleasant on the eyes, a waste in the whore house anyway, I say! Ha ha!"
Agatha had never been so happy to be born with such an ordinary face before. She knew she didn't exactly look the pinnacle of beauty at that moment, covered nearly head to toe in sweat and dirt, her hair ragged and springing in brown curls in every direction, falling loosely down to the small of her back. She had no doubt lost about fifteen pounds since she left Myleria, leaving nothing but skin and bone left on her already slender body, and her clothes were now in shambles as well.
"I've always been a fighter more'n a lover anyway, milo – er, yer Kingliness," she said.
That also made Borus laugh. "A fighter woman, eh? Come. Eat with me. You are hungry, no?"
And that's how I came into the service of King Borus in the brutish kingdom of Anvel, just like that. The King was a rough man who was quick to pick a fight, but for some reason, he took quite a liking to me, and some days I felt like he was working for me instead of the other way around. He'd asked me to teach him how to read and write the common tongue, something he was ashamed to admit he couldn't do any better than a child, and I was happy to help. I became his teacher and right-hand-woman, a notion that was unheard of in the kingdom of Anvel.
Women there are treated like scum, given very little freedom and power, and it was no wonder I was viewed as a strange, fearsome girl when I had shown just the slightest hint of a backbone in the tent of the king himself.
Agatha Sharptongue was what they called me in Bal'rok, the woman who fought with words. It was the first of many nicknames I would accrue throughout my travels, and it's one that rang true to me my whole life. It was actually very simple how I got my reputation – anytime any of the King's brutes would give me lip, I would send it back at them tenfold. At first it was a defense mechanism of a scared little girl, but it quickly became my trademark, part of who I was.
Three years I spent in Bal'rok, in the prime of my youth, learning the things I never dreamed I would in Myleria – how to ride a horse, how to fight, how to skin an animal and cook it on a hand-made roasting pit, how to speak and curse in Anvelish. And most importantly, I learned to stand up for myself in a world that seemed to want to beat me down and grind my spirit to dust.
It was around this point that Elsa's reading was interrupted by a sharp rapping on her office door. She sighed, annoyed that anyone would bug her this late in the evening when they knew she was so busy.
"Yes?" she called.
"Your Majesty! I have something to show you!"
It was Desmond Holdt's voice, sounding unusually chipper and excited. The Captain had always been a pretty serious and solemn man with a dark past, Elsa knew, but ever since the news of Astor's attack came, he had seemed much more animated. Elsa had seen a new twinkle in his eye as he gave orders to his men and there was a renewed sense of purpose in the way he carried himself. The new recruits were already fighting as well as the original royal guard from what Elsa had seen, thanks to Holdt's vigorous training regime and unabashed guidance.
"Come in," said the queen, closing her book. Desmond entered the office with a goofy grin painted across his face, as if he had just thought of something hilarious.
"If you don't mind, Majesty, I can't show you here. Follow me," he said and started down the hall, not waiting for an answer. Elsa would normally ask if it could wait, but her Royal Captain seemed so excited about whatever it was, she decided to follow without a word.
The captain led Elsa out of the residential section of the castle and through torch-lit hallways in the direction of the barracks. She expected they would take a right into the armory, but Desmond continued deeper, past the steel doors of the armory and the courtyard, even past the storage closets near the rear of the barracks, until they were going down the dusty stone steps that led to the dungeons which formed a maze of tunnels underneath the barracks. Elsa deducted they were directly beneath the courtyard right about now, not ten feet below.
"Desmond? Where are we going?" the queen asked. "These dungeons haven't been used for decades… they've mostly just been storage cells as long as I can remember. What could you possible want to show me down here?" It was dark and gloomy in the dungeons, the stone walls and floors giving little warmth to the deserted halls of barred cells. Elsa could barely keep up with Desmond's long strides and when she thought she heard the squeak of a rat somewhere behind her, she quickened her pace.
"Aye, it's true, we've been keeping things down here more than people of late," Desmond said as they passed by rows of empty cells and dusty wooden doors. He stopped at the last door in the hallway and began to fumble with his keys, the clinking noise echoing off the stone walls. Elsa waited, uneasy.
He finally found the right key and unlocked the door, pushing it open and grabbing the nearest torch from the wall to illuminate the pitch dark room. Elsa walked in curiously behind him.
"Barrels?" she asked, confused. The room was packed to the ceiling with large, unmarked wooden barrels, all identical. Besides a single, strange-looking chest in the corner, that was all there was, as far as Elsa could see in the dim light.
"Not just any barrels, Majesty. These are all full of a Caedian substance called 'Gunpowder,'" Desmond said, smiling. Then he thrust the torch into Elsa's hands unexpectedly and rushed over to the small chest, bending down to open it.
It was some kind of special lockbox, only about two feet wide, and it was inscribed with a foreign insignia. Elsa squinted and recognized it as the royal emblem of the kingdom of Caed. "And this –" he said as he brought the lid up. "This is my secret weapon."
Inside was a strange looking piece of metal, not much larger than one of Desmond's fists, with a handle and a hole at the end of a tube. "What is it?" Elsa asked.
"The Caedians call it a 'revolver.' This baby will shoot a tiny metal bullet so fast it can pierce a man's heart and kill them in an instant. I'd give you a demonstration, but…"
"No need," Elsa said, putting her hand up instinctively as Desmond brandished the weapon.
"Don't worry Majesty, it's not loaded. Harmless at the moment. It's the gunpowder that makes it work," he explained. "Caedians sent me this as a gift about a month after I returned from Sefield. Said they'd give me whatever else I asked. So, naturally, I had them send me two barrels a year ever since! Been stocking up for nearly fifteen years." He beamed at his collection like a proud father.
Elsa had known that Captain Holdt was considered a war hero in Arendelle and Caed alike. Desmond had been sent by her father as a lieutenant to defend their allied nation from attackers and wound up in a bloody battle where only a few survivors had returned home. Desmond was one of those few, and had the scar on his side to prove his mettle – and his sacrifice.
"I see… Not to question the usefulness of your war gifts, Captain, but why on Earth would you need this many barrels of this 'gunpowder' anyway?"
"Because, Majesty! I knew that one day we'd be in a bind like this and need a secret weapon, and what better secret weapon than thirty barrels of explosives!"
"Explosives!?" Elsa exclaimed. "You mean to tell me that – "
"Yep! Just one little spark to these babies and…" he flourished his hands. "Kaboom."
Elsa fought the urge to slap an open palm to her forehead. "Okay Desmond… Not to put a downer on your secret weapon, but I feel like I need to remind you that the enemy we'll be facing here can do this," she flicked her wrist and sent a magical icicle careening into the stone wall where it crackled and froze in place. "Except with fire."
Desmond just stared at the icicle for a second, trying to conjure up a counter-argument, but apparently failing. "But Majesty they'll never see it –"
"No explosives, Captain. That's my final decision," Elsa commanded in a polite but firm tone. "As for that revolver, feel free to use it, but be careful. That goes in nobody's hand except yours when the time comes. And the barrels stay down here, safely away from where Alexander could blow up the entire castle. Now if you'll excuse me, Agatha Paddick awaits me."
Elsa took her leave, handing the torch back to Desmond and conjuring a glowing ball of magic snow for the purpose of lighting her way back through the dungeons (as well as a line of defense if she encountered any rats along the way).
"Bah…" the captain muttered when she'd left. "What's the point of having an entire room full of explosive kegs if I can't even blow 'em up!?"