“Come to me, my Child.”
She froze, her legs trembling beneath the outstretched skirt of her handmaiden's dress. She could not move, could not manage the words that she knew she must speak. It was as though time had ceased, the crowd holding its collective breath, and she, bent in the delicate pose, several paces in front of them. She could feel the disappointment of a thousand hopefuls radiating behind her like a sigh of a fading sun.
“Come to me, my Child.”
The words each one so longed to hear had been spoken for her; why could she not take up their sweet offering? Each of them had come for that reason, to hear those words, to be the one, the Child. They were ranged behind her now, each with his or her private thoughts, dismay, anger, envy, loss. Why? Why not me?
She also wondered, silently, in that space of a moment, why? Why me? They all wondered. Why such a lowly servant girl? Why? How they had all wanted it, longed for it! The chosen one was not one of them, not the beautiful, rich nobles or proud, strong citizens, but a handmaiden. A handmaiden who was even too tall and slim to be a proper maiden was the chosen one, the Child.
“Come to me, my Child.”
Five words, five simple words that they had all so hoped to hear. They were words that held power and meaning, words that could bring joy and responsibility and could cure poverty and despair. The people had travelled from distant reaches of the kingdom in the hope of hearing those words, only to be disappointed by the choosing of a humble maid.
They traveled every year for the ritual, and every year most left in regret. They had made the journey in anticipation of the ritual every year, as long as anyone could remember. It marked the coming of age of all who had turned sixteen in the past year and the choosing of the Child.
“Come to me, my Child.”
She had never indulged in the fanciful dreams of the other girls, to wear the elegant gowns of the rich, to have her red-gold hair trimmed to sweep her shoulders, to be treated as one of the Royal Family. She had never thought of change to the dress of a handmaiden, to her hair coiled in its braid on her head that marked her as a commoner, to being shown her place as a servant of those above her. She had never hoped to be chosen to enter the service of the king as the others had dreamed of.
They were called forward, one at a time, a tedious process that would take hours, even days, just to be presented to the king. The name was read, then a bow or a curtsy and a nod in return was all. So it was for all but one. The one to whom the words were spoken, the one who would join the ranks of the Royal Family and govern the kingdom.
The man had read her name, one of the ay-rens and arr-ens that everyone tried. She had taken the careful steps forward, one, two, three, four, then lowered herself into the graceful curtsy, head respectfully bowed. She had waited for the nod, the signal to rise, return the four steps to the crowd, and await the choosing of another. It was not so.
“Aeren.” The one word held her in shock; he, the king, had spoken to her, had said her name. He had pronounced it correctly, the graceful, flowing aye-rin that she had thought only she knew. “Come to me, my Child.”
She knew what the ritual required of her; she knew what she was compelled to do. She wondered what would happen if she simply refused, turned back to join the crowd and wait for the choosing. She was certain it was not allowed, for the privilege that was granted to one young man or maiden upon that day was irrevocable. Unalterable. Unchangeable.
Slowly, she stood, brought herself up to stand on unwilling, unsteady legs, and raised her head, only slightly, as all those her age had been taught. She knew the response she had to give and knew she did not want to give it.
“If it pleases my king, I will come.”
The words slid softly from her lips, yet they seemed to reach every corner of the spacious throne room. She did not believe she was worthy of this honor; she was merely a stable girl who spent her days in the midst of animals and manure. She was not dressed in the fancy gowns of the rich, but the simple garb of the servant. She had not been taught at an expensive school, had not learned more than how to read and write. But she was chosen.
She walked forward, exactly seven more steps as she had been taught, and performed the curtsy again. Five more steps brought her to the foot of the throne. Four from the crowd, seven to the curtsy, five to throne. Sixteen paces that were the longest moments she could remember, sixteen paces that were watched by the entire kingdom, sixteen paces that reflected on sixteen years of life.
The king stood and descended from his throne as he had when she had watched many times in years gone past. This time it was she who knelt before him to take on the responsibilities of the Family. He placed his hands on her shoulders, either side of her bowed head, and she knew as he spoke that this was what she must do.
“You are a Child of the king.”
