2017 #YayYA Entry #3: Reign of Thorns

Name: Julie Ferguson (@actuaryjulie)

Genre: Historical Fantasy

Title: REIGN OF THORNS

35-word pitch:

When Val leads the next excursion to wake the princess, best friend Ilycia and brother Emeric must work past their differences to help Val succeed. If not, they lose Val and the kingdom remains cursed.

First 500 words:

They have to think you're a boy.

My best friend Val's warnings echoed in my head whenever I postured in front of the target. I silently chanted the directions he'd drilled into me: Don't talk, Leesh. Pin your shoulders back. Widen your stance. They kept me from fiddling with the mask that rubbed against my skin, the hood pinned to my too-tight braid.

Only my pants and tunic were comfortable. The leathers I'd found in my brother Issac's things were large enough to have belonged to Papa, but it wasn't like I could ask what they were or who had owned them. I'd no idea what animal could have provided such a skin: the fabric was light and breathable with a slight stretch. While I could penetrate its surface with a needle, it seemed to reject the skim from a knife blade. For months, I'd risen at first light to alter the pants until I could take a step without tripping over the hem. The tent-like tunic now stretched into a hooded top fitted enough not to hamper my throws, but not so tight to hint at the curves of my body.

Mama would've wished herself dead all over again if she could see seventeen-year-old Ilycia, her eldest daughter, parading outside of taverns in the middle of the night wearing breeches. But propriety wasn't a concern I could afford. I had sisters and a grandmother and an invalid father to feed.

By the time Val and I happened upon the tavern near the eastern quadrant outskirts of Forfaite, it was well after midnight and a full moon gleamed overhead. But the drinkers stumbled outside after word of my arrival grew.

"C'est la Marque!" they whispered amongst themselves.

That was me. The Mark.

My competitors waited their turn beside me. The bar patrons called the man on my right Gustave. Reeking of whiskey and old meat, he cramped my space with a greasy girth. Disgusting, and the exact opponent I wanted: too drunk to look close. To remember.

The same couldn't be said for D'arcy, the man on my left. His height and sharp eyes intimidated me less than the deep red of his tunic. Armed forces, no doubt a guard from Forfaite's labor camps. He scrutinized me like he saw the freckles shaded under my hood, the star-shaped birthmark covered by my mask. 

With a palm up, I balanced Agile, my twelve-inch long throwing dagger, against my middle finger. Her twin Adroite lay sunken in shame within the outer band of the target. My first throw had gone awry when Gustave stumbled and bumped against my shoulder.

I set my jaw. Each of our tipsy spectators had offered up a livre to the winner. Ten livres currently sat on the makeshift table: enough to feed my family, and Val's, for a week.

Now I couldn't lose.

Stepping forward with an underhand swing, I released Agile to sail directly into the bullseye.

35-word pitch: 

When her best friend Val leads a doomed mission to wake a princess and break the kingdom's curse, Ilycia and Val's brother, the boy who broke her heart, chase after Val to ensure he succeeds.

First 500 words:

They have to think you're a boy.

Val's warnings echoed in my head whenever I posed in front of the target. I silently chanted the directions my best friend had drilled into me: Don't talk, Leesh. Pin your shoulders back. Widen your stance. His words kept me from fiddling with the mask that rubbed against my skin, the hood pinned to my too-tight braid.

A full moon gleamed over the tavern near the eastern quadrant outskirts of Forfaite. The richest sources of the kingdom's ore resided here, under a cursed ground almost too dense to penetrate. Engineers and guards from the nearby labor camps had stumbled outside when word of my arrival grew.

"C'est la Marque!" they chattered amongst themselves.

That was me. The Mark.

Mama would've wished herself dead all over again if she could see seventeen-year-old Ilycia Robert, her eldest daughter, parading outside of liquor houses in the middle of the night. In breeches. As if propriety was a concern I could still afford. I had sisters and a grandmother and an invalid father to feed.

My competitors waited their turn beside me. The bar patrons called the man on my right Gustave. Reeking of whiskey and old meat, he cramped my space with a greasy girth. Disgusting, and the exact opponent I wanted: too drunk to look close. To remember me.

The same couldn't be said for D'arcy, the man on my left. His height and sharp eyes intimidated me less than the deep red of his armed forces uniform. He scrutinized me like he saw the freckles shaded under my hood, or the star-shaped birthmark covered by my mask.

Bad idea. The prickles against the back of my neck screamed we shouldn't have come here. But we'd exhausted every tavern in the farmlands of the western quadrant, and there was hardly anyone to hustle in our southern quadrant village of Secheresse.

It's not like this was illegal, anyway.  

I wrapped my fingers around Adroit, my twelve-inch long throwing dagger. She sent soothing vibrations up my arm until I lined myself up for a perfect throw.

That's right, she purred.

I launched the knife, but couldn't avoid the collision when Gustave staggered and careened into me. I sidestepped before he crashed to one knee and brought me down with him.

Squelching a curse before anyone could hear my feminine voice, I locked eyes on the target. Adroit had stuck, sunken in shame within the outer band.

Gustave gaped at me with bleary eyes. "Sorry, boy."  

The crowd jeered. Some whispered and exchanged livres within the shadows of torchlight. They always bet against me at first. They saw what they wanted, a slight figure with daggers too big to handle. 

I clenched my jaw. Each of our spectators had offered up a livre to the winner. Ten livres currently sat on the makeshift table. Nothing to these drunken villagers, it was enough to feed my family, and Val's, for a week.

I couldn't lose.