The Search for Terror (ONC 2021)

Chapter 4

      In Saqat's absence, Amaia took to the streets herself. The people she passed would stop to smile, wave, and welcome her with a chorus of 'good morning's. It wasn't unusual for Amaia to walk the paths of the ordinary people, but it was infrequent enough for it to remain exciting. 

      In return, Amaia smiled and waved and called good morning to the crowds. She passed an elderly couple she knew from the park—two of the ten or so dog walkers—and stopped to ask how their puppy had settled in. Both women were eager to talk, firing details of the interactions between both the puppy and the dog, and the puppy and the new toys. 

      The conversation was refreshing, easy to get lost in. Though it did make her miss Rumpelgeist even more, sending a bolt of impatience ricocheting through her being. He was apparently arriving tomorrow, and she couldn't wait. 

      "It's been lovely to talk," Amaia said with full honesty, "But I'd better be on my way. Make sure to give extra hugs to Anissa and Kala from me." 

      With warm smiles, the women agreed and waved goodbye, the taller of the two adding, "See you later, Amaia." With the absence of 'Queen', Amaia was nearly taken back to her early childhood, in the few years she had had to capture memories of skipping down these very same polished grey flagstone streets and jumping into the puddles just below the kerb. 

      Growing heavier with every second she walked away, her steps became more purposeful. A few streets had passed by her before she stopped, turning to the man stood at the fruit stand. "I suggest the pineapple; it'll taste its sweetest in this summer sun." The startled man placed the plums back into their basket and paid for the pineapple, thanking her in an overwhelmed rush of very few actual words. 

      "Of course," Amaia laughed casually, "And while you're here, you haven't heard of anyone causing pain or upset?"

      "No, Queen, I haven't," the man assured her, nearly tripping over his own feet as he walked back down the street. 

      She sighed. At this point, Amaia very much wanted someone to say yes; then she could focus her efforts on the individual responsible and get the weight of her fate off her shoulders. Instead, it was looking likely that she'd have to follow through with her latest backup plan. 

      Mind elsewhere, she wandered further through town and village, occasionally stopping to ask others if they'd heard or seen anything dangerous or terrifying. Every answer came back as no, everyone assuring her she was an amazing ruler. 

      Amaia wanted to shout to the world that it didn't matter how good a ruler was, enough pressure would make it snap. 

      Eventually, she turned back in the direction of the castle, eyes resting on the horizon. But she didn't walk towards it. She just looked at it for a while, pondering, wondering, thinking. The castle stood tall and strong day in day out, but though it never changed, it didn't feel familiar. It was hers now, but you wouldn't know it. 

      You wouldn't know she was the queen to look at unless you'd known her parents and could see where their features had crafted her own. The only real sign that she was anyone more than the girl down the road was her crown. 

      Eleven years, the crown had belonged to her, but it was only four years ago when it had finally fit her head—even then, it didn't feel quite right. 

      Her fingers curled around the soft, cold metal, squashing themselves in the curve of the dip between two spikes. Pressing against the underside of her thumb was the smoothness of a jewel she hadn't earned at all. It was strange how one only had to lose their parents to be given such things. A twelve-year-old on a throne was comical. Though, at twenty-three, she didn't think she was doing much better, still trying to find time to have a life and, in finding she had none, going about her royal duties with more misery and seriousness than her parents had ever had.

      Just for a moment, she wanted to feel like a nobody. Like a somebody without the world on their back. She dragged the crown from her head and left her hair as it landed, unkempt and uncaring. 

      Footsteps sounded behind her as a stranger rounded the corner, and the crown was back atop a head of neat hair before she could see their face. 

      Her smile lasted just long enough to greet and pass the person, sinking into a set line immediately afterwards. Buying a rough-looking bag at the next stall over, Amaia took to the long road out of her country. The border passed below her feet and then the crown was off her head, the action half blocking her vision with tendrils of dark hair. The bag swallowed the gold shine, hugging the dull weight loosely. 

      Here, in Haglaiya, she was a normal girl in a dress handed down from her mother and a bag she'd worked hard to afford. The stones pressed into her soles with every step, reminding her that Haglaiyan streets didn't encourage bare footedness. She missed the clean, smooth paving of home, but it would be easier to buy shoes here than it would be to walk unnoticed there. 

      "Excuse me, Miss," a man of maybe thirty said, approaching from across the road after taking in the sight of her, having just rounded the corner—she'd noted his presence in the fluttering of his cloak ahead of him. She stood still, eyes lifting to meet him in false shyness. 

      From her silence, he drew permission to continue, "You mustn't be from round 'ere, what with no shoes. Where are your parents?" 

      Her messy hair and shorter-than-average figure must have had her looking younger than she was, she realised with some small joy. Here, she was a child who could be out playing in the streets, having wished their parents goodbye for a day in the sun with friends who could be waiting just round the next corner- "Dead," she answered, reminding herself that that child would never be Amaia Goldmorn. 

      "Orphan, 'ey?" 'Yes,' Amaia thought, 'Be the terror I'm looking for, take advantage of a lone girl.'  The man sighed and lifted his hat to rub at his eyes, though it hadn't been blocking them. "Sorry to hear that, Miss. Come on," he said, ushering her across the street the way he'd come, "Let's see about gettin' you somethin' to put on them feet of yours." 

      "Thank you," she offered, following him only for the gift, slipping three gold coins into his pocket without his noticing. Then she left, turning around only to give a small, hopefully shy-looking, wave, before jogging out of sight. 

      Surely, if she wandered long enough, she could find the fabled terror. She had to. Because she was done waiting.