Part One
CHAPTER ONE
Once Upon A Time
They named the child Rory, because the firstborn of every generation was always a Rory, and had been since the first of that name had cut his way through the cursed briars on the homeworld and saved the kingdom of Thorne—and, incidentally, the princess—from the consequences of poor manners.
That the latest Rory was a girl and not a boy came as a bit of a surprise. The medical mecha scans had been clear. That little flicker on the screen had been proof of Rory’s masculinity. And yet, out she came, the blood-slick product of ten hours of hard work, and the little flicker was nowhere in sight on the flesh-and-blood baby.
“A daughter!” said the midwife. She had been an attendant at too many births across the years to be surprised by the mistakes of a med-hex.
The new father—whose name was not Rory, as he was the second son, and the luckier of the two boys born to his parents—stopped himself, only just, from asking if that flicker might’ve broken off somewhere during the process, or if it mightn’t, perhaps, appear at some point very soon. Then he locked eyes with the new mother and thought better. The Consort hailed from Kreshti, a small independent and allied planet on which skill with combat training was considered both a plain necessity (the neighbors were both ill-mannered and much larger) and a mark of personal pride, and the Consort was a very proud woman.
There had not been a daughter born in the Thorne line for ten generations, not since that first princess, the one who had needed her Rory. And thus, no one knew what to call her.
“Talia has the weight of tradition,” said the Vizier. “It is her foremother’s name, after all.”
“A cursed foremother,” said the Consort. “I think not. What’s wrong with Rory? That’s tradition, too.”
The Vizier chose not to argue. He pointed out, to a scowling Majesty, that popular fashion indicated that the name Rory could function for all genders.
And so it was settled. Mostly.
* * *
• • •
There was another custom, which hailed from the same quaint homeworld story about magic briars and curses and poor hospitality, which had fallen into disuse, victim of the same lack of girl children in the Thorne line. The Vizier (re)discovered it by accident, while looking for appropriate girls’ names among the rare, expensive, fragile paper tomes in the Thorne family library, which had been shipped at great expense from the homeworld when the kingdom had become a Consortium and moved its capital to the planet named for its founding line. That collection of tomes was a mark of pride, a symbol of the age of the lineage, and, according to the King, absolutely vital to the integrity and reputation of the Thorne Consortium. Except for the Vizier, the library received no regular visitors.
The Vizier had gotten his position in part because he had, in addition to a doctorate in arithmancy, earned two graduate degrees in homeworld history and folklore. Finding quaint, forgotten, and neglected customs was his second favorite pastime in the multiverse. Explaining to others the relevance of those ancient customs was the first. Besides, he told himself, he would be remiss in his duties if he did not tell the King about the Naming.
He regretted his diligence almost immediately.
“I’ve never heard of this custom!” The King spun the priceless book and shoved it back across the desk with exactly as much care as he gave his breakfast tray after he’d finished with it.
The Vizier controlled a wince. He turned the book gently and nudged it back across the (imported, expensive, and now slightly scuffed) wood expanse with a fingertip.
“Nevertheless, Majesty. I’m afraid it’s very clear. You must invite the fairies to the naming day of a girl child so that they may bless her. You know. Beauty, kindness . . . quick wits,” he added under his breath.
The King thrust out his lip. “The boys do all right without that nonsense.”
The Vizier did not blink. “Of course, Majesty.”
“We invented void-flight and everything. No magic involved. No blessings.” The King pointed at the 2D ’cast behind his desk. It was a reconstruction of the exact path the first exploratory rover had taken when it made planetfall. A panorama of dull red rocks and darker sand, creeping toward a sepia horizon. The King had set the ’cast to repeat itself, endlessly.
“Do you see that, Rupert? We did that. We Thornes. It’s amazing. Phenomenal. Beautiful.”
“Yes, Majesty.” The Vizier did not point out that the rover had been unmanned. Nor did he point out that the rover’s landing site now hosted the void-port, a high-end shopping establishment for off-world visitors, and a full set of embassies, and that the King himself had never set foot on that planet.
The ’cast restarted its loop. The Vizier cleared his throat.
“What? Oh,” said the King. He blinked and pressed his fingers over his eyes, creating a nest of fine wrinkles in the skin. “What will the investors think? The Thornes will look stupid. I will look stupid. And the Consort will probably laugh at me.”
Oh, thought the Vizier. That’s almost inevitable. He cleared his throat again. “Call it exactly what it is, Majesty. A quaint custom from the homeworld. Use the Naming as an opportunity to remind your subjects about our origins. Use it as a celebration of our progress.”
The King frowned.
“Thorne progress, Majesty.” The Vizier smiled. He practiced that smile in the mirror every day. Lips curved around just the palest hint of teeth. Eyes firmly blank. “It could be an excellent public relations move. Insist on a reenactment, of sorts. A pageant. If his Majesty will permit, I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up some names of suitable ladies who might play the twelve—”
“Fine.” The King was already glazing over. He flittered his fingers at the Vizier. “All right. Whatever.”
“—but I would like his Majesty’s advice on who should play the thirteenth.”
The King blinked. “What?”
The Vizier rebooted his smile. “The thirteenth fairy, Majesty. She was the one who cursed Talia.”
“Then why would we want her? She was bad luck, right? We don’t want bad luck.” The King grinned, suddenly. “The Consort’s mother would be a good choice, though. Ha. No. Skip the thirteenth fairy. Leave that part out. Make the ceremony an exact reenactment. I want it perfect. Only.” He stopped. “The fairies won’t come. You’re certain. They’re not, I don’t know, xenos or something.”
The Vizier controlled a tiny sigh. “No, Majesty. They are not xenos. They will not come.”
The King glanced uneasily at the ’cast, as if the beings in question might be hiding behind the rust-colored rocks. “Well, but, what if they do?”