"Danch? Are you in there?"

"Yes, Momma-two." Prince Danchel, the future king of not one, but three kingdoms, sat on a dusty stool milking an obstinate old brown cow.

"Danch'll do for now, huh Beth?" Beth, the cow, turned her head to stare at the strange young man with her wide beast eyes. All she said in return was moo, and Danch continued to milk her chuckling to himself. A woman came bustling into the barn in the manner of a whirling dervish- all rustling skirts, hands a-flurry, and pitter-pattering feet rushing from stall to stall petting and straightening.

"Ah, here you are dear. Breakfast is ready, so finish up the milking and come on in."

"Yes Ma'am Momma-two," Danch politely answered. The woman's given name was Marta, but she didn't let him call her that. She was the closest thing to a mother he'd ever known, so he put up with the embarrassing endearment- she deserved it. His real mother had been the most terribly cold creature, and by all accounts she'd given him into Marta's care as soon as she was allowed to. A frivolous woman, the queen cared more for cards and gossip than her own children. When, on state occasions, Danch was permitted in the palace, she made no more notice of him than of some hansom new tea set.

"Mamma-two?" She stopped at the barn door and laid her hand lightly on the jamb. Marta knew what he was going to ask, and she didn't turn to face him. She never did. It had become a morning ritual. He asks, almost pitifully, if his Hagan has contacted them. She guiltily shakes her head, as if it's her fault, and then life continues on—only now there is a cloud of negativity over the farm.

"Yes dear?"

            "Has she--"

"No dear. But soon. She'll let us know soon. Hurry up now." The rustling began again and then faded away, and she was gone. As the boy tidied up the barn, he returned to his oldest and happiest fantasy. Staring off into the haze of dust particles glittering in the morning sun, he saw them: the Shadow Plains. Danchel, the sixteen-year old failure, the Prince who'd been pronounced useless before he could even properly begin his life, was standing stock-still in the middle of the Shadow Plains, calling forth walls. His mighty light shined over them, revealing their cracks and weak spots, and he tore holes through which to see. Not only was he controlling the Shadow Plains completely, bending them to his every whim, tearing down the walls of everyone in his kingdom, but he was seeing their contents all at the same time, and understanding. He was processing information at incredible rates, moving faster than any Earl, any Prince, any Hagan even, anywhere in the three kingdoms. And then there it was: the most beautiful, well-built, sturdy wall of them all. He stared at the wall that the future hid behind, the barrier to all knowledge, in awe. For a moment he thought he was really there, that he could really see the future-wall. He sent his light forth to tear into it- and was awakened from his exquisite vision with his foot in a steaming pile of dung.

"Ugh! I suppose there'll be mucking to do this afternoon then, aye Rin?" His favorite horse, Rin, shook her mane and whipped her tail at a gnat. "Here it is folks, come and see! The freak show! Watch as your crowned prince cleans up horse shit! They really should charge to see such a show…"

"Oye! Stop your griping Danny ma-boy! Did not Marta call you in? Go, hurry now, you're wasting the day," admonished their hired hand, Horass. As the kitchen was Marta's realm, so too the barn belongs to Horass. The king had hired Horass and sent him to the farm when Marta's young husband, Breaje, passed just after Danch's 5th birthday, and he'd been a fixture of their lives ever since. Danchel may have been a prince, but even Horass outranked him here in the country.

"Yes sir," Danch said, dipping his hands in the water bucket and scrubbing his face.

 

Once again she finds herself here; at her humble kitchen table, facing the future king of all three of the kingdoms of Geon. She listens to him as he chatters about nothing of importance. She nods her head and smiles while he relates to her his journey to the market, or this or that dream he's had.

"Don't talk with you're mouth full, my dear," she says with a smile. He huffs and chews quickly to finish so that he may continue his story, all awkward young man and feather-duster hair. In her mind she compares her young Danch to his father, the King. They've the same wide shoulders, long arms and legs, the same fly-away, jet black, fine straight hair. His eyes though; those eyes are all his mother's. Danchel has the clearest, darkest blue eyes- nearly violet. Those eyes that could be so cold—they made him look almost pretty when he smiled, those eyes were stunning when he stared at her with them. Which he was doing now.

"Do I have food on my face?" he asked. He, in fact, did have food on his face. She giggled to herself and spit into her handkerchief in that maneuver known to mothers of all worlds.

"Be still!" she commanded as he wriggled away, gently swatting at her with his too-big-for-his-arms hands.

"Marta! I'm sixteen years old; I can wipe my own face! Get back woman!"

"Don't call me Marta!"

"I know I know. Sorry," Danch looked down at his plate, worried that he'd hurt her feelings.

"Sorry who?" she smiled at the shy teen across from her. Danch sighed, blowing his bangs away from his eyes.

"Sorry, Momma-two."

"That's better. Now then, what was it you were saying?" she asked. She wanted him to keep chattering away. Marta knew this was going to be their last proper breakfast before he left—and she wanted it to be as normal as possible.

"Right. So then the chick climbed up and sat on Horace's shoe and…."

Soon Marta became lost in the sheer insanity of it all. She wondered once more if it was her fault. Honestly, how could a highborn fail to find the Shadows? Even the dirtiest milkmaid in Mockre is entitled to the occasional trip now and then to look into the cracks of her lover's thought-wall. Sometimes people found their pets could even venture onto the darkened edge. She knew that highborns had the cleanest blood of all, and the most potent. Of course they have the best connection to the dark, and the brightest lights on the Shadow Plains! There wasn't a highborn in all of Geon, Saather, and most likely even Mockre as well, that couldn't enter the shadows, bring their light, read anyone in the three kingdoms by it, and return without even the urge to nap. Except her Danchel.

Why would the High Hagan choose her? Breaje (may he rest in the light) had died soon after the ceremony, and if she'd gotten through his thought-wall, High Hagan would have known. She would have seen the pain there that Breaje had hidden from everyone. She would have known Marta would soon be alone, a young widow with no other children. Yet here she sits still, in the tiny cottage her Breaje had built them, watching the most intelligent young man she's ever met slop about his breakfast as he talked.

When the High Hagan had made her first and only visit ten years ago to feel for his perception of the shadows, there was nothing. Though he had lit like a flame at the sight of her, started babbling happily and smiling and giggling for her; though he had excelled in all his initial strength and intelligence tests, promising a fine prince in the future; and though he strained his tiny child brain searching, he never found the edge of the Shadow Plains, or even became aware of any border from this consciousness. He was a failure, and there was nothing anyone could do. His parents would be so disappointed. The High Hagan had simply shaken her head and left the now somber child, continuing her solitary and mysterious travels, telling Marta to keep him despite his defect, and perhaps things would come right.

Right indeed! A highborn that couldn't reach or even sense the shadow plains? This was the worst disaster since the Tri-kingdom wars!

"Mamma-two, why does High Hagan not come to teach me?" he had whined through adolescence.

"My love, I'm sure your Hagan is quite busy right now. She keeps up with you though, through me, and my thought-wall." Marta was always forced to give the poor child the same answer, day after day. "She is far away. She'll come when she can."

"But I can understand, so I should be learning," he would say. Even when he was only ten years old, he had a thirst for knowledge that she in her simple ways could never quench, try as she might. She taught him everything she knew, and answered every question she could-- though there were many that she couldn't. "Now then, you little lay-about, its time you got to your chores. The poor cows are lowing for their dinner and their milking," she would tell him.

            "But Mamma-two, I have to know--"

"No sir, there is nothing you have to know right now. All in good time. You will know everything you need to know, when you need to know it. Go on now. Go on!" It was all she knew to say to him. All the comfort she could offer was a borrowed line and work for his mind to focus on.

"Go where, Marta?" asked the man-boy before her, his fork poised for landing, his mouth gaping open.

            "No where my dear. And don't…"

            "I know I know. Don't call you Marta. Yes Ma'am."

            "That's a dear. Now, I've something to discuss with you Danchel, love."

            "What is it, Momma-two?'