Samut Nalir's Miraculous Elixir of Life

Prologue

The bedchamber of Queen Dicella was, in a word, dismal.  The hard stone walls were windowless, and gave the room the feeling of being much smaller than it actually was.  A cluster of candles lit the chamber, but cast shadows so deep as to make the room seem even more darkened than before.  What little furniture there was in the room was old and spindly, making for an overall depressing scene.

The Queen herself lay in the large bed, which was adorned with thorny vines climbing from the foot to the headboard.  Only her head was visible above the quilt that lay atop her, and, although it had once been a beautiful head, it now showed all the signs of a woman who had been infirm for a long time.  Her eyes were sunken and ringed, her haired thin, and her skin a nasty grayish hue.

She did not so much as turned her head when her maid, Calla, entered, bearing a tray with a hot meal.  "Evening, your highness," she said, trying her best to sound cheerful, and not entirely hiding the strain it took.  "Bit chilly in here, isn't it?  Pity we don't have a fireplace in this room, but some good hot food can always help!"

She set the tray down on the bed and stood back as the Queen pulled herself upright with a great effort.  She was silent as she ate, her hands shaking as she did so.

"You really could do with brightening this place up a bit," Calla said, trying to start a conversation to break the uncomfortable silence, "A nice tapestry or two on the wall.  I've an aunt who makes lovely ones; animals, scenery, anything you ask for."

The Queen said nothing, but continued to eat in utter silence.

"I think a chandelier would be pretty," Calla continued nervously, "The rafters in here could support it well enough, I think.  Then again, it would be a right pain having to put one up, and you would be bothered, always being in here as you are."

The Queen remained noiseless.

"Anything, really, so long as it makes the room a bit brighter.  If it weren't right in the middle of the castle as it is, a window would be right lovely.  You could do with seeing a bit of sun, couldn't you?  I mean, you haven't in ages."

Finally, the Queen put down her utensils and looked Calla in the eye.  "I know I'm dying," she said softly.

"Oh!" Calla replied, quite taken aback.  "Erm, how did you--"

"Sick as I am, my hearing is still good as ever.  One cannot live in the middle of the castle and miss news such as this."

"Very true, your highness," Calla said uncertainly.  She rocked back and forth on her feet, trying to decide where to go from here. "So--"

"If you don't mind, Calla, I'd like you to go and fetch Tranald for me."

The maid was more than happy to oblige.  She hastily left the bedchamber, and was replaced moments later by Queen Dicella's personal scribe.

"You needed me?" Tranald asked.

The Queen nodded.  "Please, sit down, Tranald.  I need you to write something of utmost importance."

Tranald pulled over a small table and pulled a blank, readily available scroll of parchment out from his cloak.  "At your service, your highness."

"I am aware, Tranald, that I am dying."

The scribe nodded, but said nothing.  In his many years of serving the royal family, he had learned that it was always much easier to simply write, and not ask any questions.

"You are also aware, of course that I have yet to choose an heir to the throne for when I am gone; and if I fail to do so, the throne will go to my firstborn, the current Prince Josiac."

"All true, your highness," Tranald asserted fervently.

"I do not wish to leave the throne to Josiac simply because of age," the Queen continued, "My other children are all equally as capable of governing the kingdom as he.  Which is why I have chosen not to be the one to choose; I want the kingdom itself to choose for me."

For once, Tranald abandoned his usual composure and looked up abruptly.  "You don't mean the people choosing?"

"Heavens, no," the Queen replied, "As much as I love the kingdom, they could not possibly choose their own leader.  No, I had something different in mind."

"And what would that be, your highness?"

"Tranald, can you tell me what surrounds this castle?"

Tranald was surprised by the question.  Surely the lack of windows in the bedchamber shouldn't hinder the Queen in knowing her own realm.  But he stated all the same, "The kingdom, you highness.  Your villages and churches and farms and homes--"

"And so surround the East, the North, and the South," the Queen interrupted calmly, "But the Westward side is very different, is it not?"

"The Badlands, you mean?  Just a mad jumble of swamp and desert and forest and cave.  No good for farming, let alone inhabiting."

"And survival.  What are your thoughts on one surviving in the Badlands?"

Tranald thought for a moment, then said, "It could be done, of course.  If one had knowledge of the land, and good instincts, and could do much with little.  They'd have to be downright hardy as well, in those conditions.  And awful smart, too; heaven knows what could be lurking out there."

The Queen leaned back to stare at the ceiling, "Knowledgeable, instinctive, resourceful, hardy, smart.  All makings of an excellent ruler."

"Yes, I suppose they are," Tranald agreed curiously.

"If one of my children were able to survive in the Badlands longer than the others, surely it would prove them more fit to inherit the throne."

It took a moment for this thought to register with Tranald, and when it did, his mouth fell open in shock.  "Your highness, surely you don't mean--"

"You've stopped writing, Tranald," the Queen said lightly, still staring at the ceiling.

Tranald hastily sent his quill flying across the parchment again, but that didn't stop him from arguing his point.  "Really, your highness, there must be plenty of better ways to go about choosing your heir!"

"Perhaps there are, but this is the one I have chosen.  Be sure to write this down carefully, Tranald, for it will be my royal decree:

"Each of my four children--Josiac, Ceicyl, Gaildor, and Sylvaun--shall be given time to prepare until my death.  When I die, they must each be sent into the Badlands, with no supplies.  They may bring one companion; selecting a responsible one will show their skill at decision-making.  They can use only resources provided by themselves, their companion, and the land itself.  Whoever survives longer than the other three shall inherit the throne."

"But, your highness!" Tranald cried, "A fight to the death? Must you really rid the kingdom of all but one of your children?"

"My word is law, Tranald."

"Your highness, please--"

"Those who do not win," the Queen said in a half-whisper, gently closing her eyes, "Will join me in the afterlife.  No one need be rid of them."

Tranald's face shone in desperation.  "Please, please, be reasonable!  You can't really want to go through with this!  You must have some other idea to select your heir!"

Queen Dicella lay still.

"Your highness?" Nothing. "Your highness!"  Tranald quickly stood up and rushed to the Queen.  "Your highness, please say something!"  He shook her gently, trying to rouse a response, but he did so in vain.

The Queen had died.