Rise of the Unfavored Princess
Chapter 38

Ch. 38: Gandalf’s Twin

Emma’s shoulders sink back to a resting position under my arm as our feet carry us back towards the path.

“He’s the old man that lives at the shrine?” she says, back to her deadpan voice.

“Shrine? What shrine?” I ask.

Emma points her finger in a general direction. “There’s an old shrine near the older part of the palace that didn’t get burnt down during a fire a few years ago.”

“Huh? The palace got burnt down? When?” My mouth spits out more and more questions, surprised at how much has happened in this place. First, there’s a shrine of some sort and now, the palace has apparently suffered a fire in the recent past.

“There was a fire around 10 years ago, I think. But your palace has mostly newer maids so I haven’t heard much about it.” Emma says apologetically.

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. Just take me to this shrine!” I say with newfound excitement.

“Now, your highness?” Emma asks reluctantly. Although she doesn’t sound willing, there is a warm glint in her eye as hse views me as a younger child excited to see something new.

.....

“Of course! I have nothing better to do anyway,” I mutter the second sentence much more quietly under my breath and mean every word.

The hardest thing about existing in this world is the lack of technology. I can’t go on Instagram when I’m bored or hop in my car for a drive. The most fun I have is reading old books and taking naps on the tree in my courtyard. Aside from the occasions when someone tries to harm me, old-fashioned life is too slow and dull for my liking.

Emma bows to my childlike whims, handing off the wicker baskets to a startled maid before tugging me along by the hand. If I didn’t realize that certain parts of the imperial palace were newer than others, this short journey has made the fact all too clear.

The marble flooring I am well and truly familiar with disappear beneath us, replacing itself with sturdy stones that proves to have stood the test of time. I marvel at how well Emma can navigate the palace despite being so young but say nothing as we head out to an area of the palace that doesn’t look as well-tended as the rest of the place.

The grass here is long, the tallest pieces easily reaching my waist. The dirt patches are plentiful and hard as tack, even the morning dew can’t soften it. Before us is a small structure, with a slanted roof typically found in modern houses. The shrine is carved out of stone and inlaid with precious materials, but like the rest of its surroundings, it is dilapidated and forgotten. A scratched up logo of the Holy Church sits atop the dark entrance. Not a soul is in sight.

“Why is it so... abandoned?” I whisper to Emma, looking warily around the small field.

“I don’t know, your highness. This is also my first time here,” she replies. An aura hangs around the place, making us both feel uneasy. The hand I’m still holding tenses up around mine and I feel a strong desire to leave.

But before either of us make a move, a faint whistling reaches our ears. It is of a song I’ve never heard before and possesses a lyrical flow that displays the whistler’s skills. The two of us look sharply at each other, confirming that the other heard the sound.

“Visitors! It is not often I encounter visitors. So often they just run away when they see me. Run, run, like a colt that just found its legs,” someone says cheerfully from an unknown location. The voice is reedy from old age but carries the same sprightly energy as that of a young child.

Emma and I grip each other’s arm and spin towards the direction of the speaker, towards the rear end of the shrine. An old man who looks like he just walked off the set of Lord of the Rings has rounded the corner, his wrinkled face sporting a vivid grin. It is a terrifying combination and makes me want to run away like the other visitors he spoke of.

“Who are y-you?” I stutter out although I already know who this Gandalf look-alike is.

His robes are more rags than clothing, but they are reminiscent of the black robes the Holy Church priest wore when he inspected my lineage. A ring of white hair surrounds his shiny scalp and a long white beard falls down to his navel. A thwack accompanies each of his slow steps as his thick wooden staff aids his slow approach.

“I am Meliorn, the old keeper of this shrine,” he says nonchalantly. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Nah, I’m good,” I reply quickly, accidentally using more modern lingo. “I mean, no thank you.”

I run through my mind for any mention of a Meliorn in Clara’s story, but nothing comes to mind. This frolicking Holy Church priest, perhaps he is as insignificant as his appearance suggests.

“Emma,” I order with bravery I don’t feel, “You can step back.”

“But your highness-,” Emma starts anxiously as the priest starts digging around his floppy ears.

“Go.”

Emma scurries just out of sight, but I know she is close by which warms my heart.

“Old man! I heard you are cuckoo!” I say, easily falling into my guise of a 5-year-old and whirling my finger around in circles beside my head.

Meliorn chuckled, giving me a look to follow him as he slowly reentered the abandoned shrine.

“I am not a cuckoo, I am a human,” he replied calmly, turning around to look at me.

I wrinkle my brow as I follow the old priest. The man seemed veritably crazy when Emma and I first entered, but why does there now seem to be a flash of lucidity in his eyes?

“If you say so,” I say nonchalantly. “But everyone says you’re crazy.”

The old man looks up thoughtfully as he pours two cups of tea. I decline the one he extends to me out of habit. It’s ingrained in my modern mentality not to accept drinks from strangers.

“I’m not crazy, I just see things people don’t see,” he replies.

I squint at the man, unsure of what to respond. After all, what he described is practically the definition of crazy.

He looks at me, his rheumy eyes a shock of light blue that seems to pierce my soul.

“For you, I see someone who isn’t tied to this world,” Meliorn says lazily, suddenly drifting back to his ‘senile’ self.

My heart freezes in my chest at his worlds. Five years. Five long years I’ve been a citizen of this strange world out of a NovelFire and this is the first time someone has told me that I’m not from these parts.

“What do you mean?” I answer with a weak laugh, attempting to look like he didn’t completely ruffle my feathers.

“The threads... there are no threads tying you here. Yet so many want you dead. How... curious?”

Meliorn’s voice is rather soft and whimsical as he speaks, counteracting what he’s saying. But beyond the fear of him realizing I’m an interloper in this world, I spy a treasure chest of answers.

My eyes shine like stars as I lean across the table excitedly.

“Please, Sir Meliorn, explain what you mean!” I say louder than I intend.

“No threads... no threads...” he murmurs, his gaze unclear. The lucidity I spotted earlier has long left the building, like a dream slipping out of your memory after you awaken.

“What are these threads? Who are my enemies? Do you happen to know of an individual named Peppermint?” I ask, determined to fish for more answers.

In my head, I’m running through what he means by threads, sifting through all my memories of various mythologies. I settle on threads of fate, unconsciously nodding my head when it comes to me.

“By threads, are you referring to my fate? Like, my destiny or something?”

“With no strings, you’ll fly away like a kite. I love kites, they’re so pretty when they drift in the wind,” Meliorn replies somewhat unhelpfully.

However, I’ve read enough books to know that even insignificant sentences like these can end up playing a large role later in the plot. My hands itch for a pen to write down these potential gems Meliorn is spitting. But at the same time, my suspicion is at an all-time high. The man seemed perfectly sane the moment Emma walked away, but as soon as he started giving me the first lead I’ve gotten in five years, he dissolves into madness.

“I’m not done with you,” I mutter under my breath so he can’t hear. The weak, hazy light coming in through the single window of the shrine illuminates the dust particles in the air and now Meliorn is completely fascinated by them.

“Goodbye, Sir Meliorn,” I say with a curtsey, not forgetting to be respectful. Crazy or not, this Gandalf look-alike has given me something to work with now. I feel motivation bubbling in my chest as I know now that these threads the key to something big. I want to replace Henry, that friendly librarian, and tell him to get me any book about strings and threads that aren’t related to embroidery.

Emma is startled at my small form hurtling away from the shrine with a determined look.

“Did he scare you, your highness?” she asks as the shrine disappears from view behind us.

“Nope! On the other hand, he may have been the most helpful person I’ve met since I came here,” I reply with red-cheeked fervor, barely catching the brief flash of hurt on Emma’s face.

Remembering how easily children’s feelings are hurt, I quickly add, “Well... the second most helpful person.”

In the haze my long-awaited lead, I miss the Duvernay family logo etched in stone on the stairs.

Meliorn watches the little girl scuttle away like a pup that had been offered a juicy bone, his expression thoughtful as a person garbed in black steps out from the overgrown bushes beside the shrine.

“Go tell Prince Julian I’ve found another one. Tell him that it’s a ‘big one’,” Meliorn says to the stealthy manservant, distastefully using the code name Julian had ordered for him use for the unique individuals whose threads of fate didn’t connect them to the world. Travelers, Meliorn chuckled merrily as he shook his head, they all are a strange lot, especially this little princess.

But deep down, the old priest’s heart was troubled. Something wrong had entered the palace, like a rot that would soon spread its curse everywhere. It seemed that the falsely peaceful times would not remain for long.