“Whose child is this?”
His Majesty didn’t get an answer.
“I didn’t mean to, Dad... It just happened...”
“Whose is it?!”
“I don’t know. I think... It doesn’t matter. It’s mine. You hear me?! Mine alone! I want it to live!”
The Emperor urgently shared the problem with his advisors and closest friends, Krezin and Dison.
It didn’t help.
No, they were good advisors, professionals even. But in a situation like this, mere advice wasn’t enough.
Dison, with his vast experience as a physician, personally dashed the Emperor’s plans by declaring that at this stage of pregnancy, nothing could be done—short of quietly disposing of the princess to avoid rumors. Maldrab, for whom his reckless daughter was more precious than the empire itself, categorically refused and hoped the elf was joking.
Incidentally, His Majesty quite easily uncovered the name of the future grandchild’s father. Contrary to his initial impulse, the Emperor didn’t punish him but instead brought him closer to the court, reasoning fairly that someone had to take care of the child. If that someone definitely wasn’t going to be the princess, why not involve the other culprit in the mess?
Oh, if only the Season of Pilgrimage were a few months later... The bastard would be born and sent off with its father to some remote backwater, Margalinaya would walk the Path of All Sanctuaries and happily marry, Garton and the Vellian Empire would sign a treaty for future unification (whenever that might be), and everyone would be satisfied. But time was catastrophically short.
Maldrab couldn’t imagine how he’d explain to King Graight the reason why a marriage to his son was impossible. Of course, death or illness would be a valid excuse, but... For the chance to take Velli without bloodshed, Graight would bring in the best healers and find a cure for every known disease in the world. And when the king learned that Margalinaya had chosen a common guardsman—not even a noble—as her lover, that’s when the local equivalent of the Mistress of Chaos would descend!
The Emperor thoughtfully rubbed his nose and said, addressing no one in particular:
“Maybe we could ask for the Season of Pilgrimage to start later?”
“Your Majesty, we need something more specific,” Krezin objected timidly. “I’ve been thinking... I believe Radis gave us a hint.”
“And how could he do that without knowing what we want?” Dison’s voice carried a note of suspicion. “Or is he already aware of our situation?”
“Uh... Well... Yes.”
“How? How could you?!” Maldrab tried to muster anger, but it came out rather pitifully.
Krezin recalled the impressively comprehensive and varied collection of torture instruments in Radis’s dungeons, the impeccable array of magical potions and artifacts, and the stone-faced expressions of the First Mage’s assistants. He answered curtly:
“They know how to ask questions there.”
“And how did he react?” the elf asked, intrigued.
“Oh, Radis laughed like a madman and swore no one would hear about it from him.” Krezin kept to himself his personal impression: Radis had encountered something similar, and quite closely at that.
“So, what’s this hint you’re talking about?” the non-human pressed.
“It’s that the result of the wish will help me! I think it’s a person! And he mentioned something about relocation... Sorry, I didn’t hear it well—there was an orchid blooming in my ears at the time...”
Dison burst out laughing.
“You want to wish for a second princess? Ha! One’s not enough?”
“You’re an idiot, even for an elf,” Krezin retorted without malice. “Margalinaya will be able to fulfill her duties soon enough, but until then, we’ll find someone to play her role. At Garton’s court, they know the princess’s doubles, Dini and Lota, so we need a girl only the three of us know about. And in these... conditions... we’ll wish for her to believe she’s the princess, to have the princess’s memories, and to act like the princess.”
“Hmm, that’s an interesting idea,” the Emperor agreed. “And then?”
“When?” Two pairs of genuinely surprised eyes fixed on him.
“When we no longer need the double.”
Both advisors snorted in unison. Krezin was the first to respond:
“Your Majesty, do I really need to say it out loud...?”
Maldrab lowered his head. Then he said:
“I’d gladly refuse, but I don’t see another way out.”
He sighed heavily and approached the Well. For some reason, he moved it to the center of the tower and began to speak:
“I, Maldrab the Fourth, Emperor of the Vellian Empire... Dison, stop snickering right now! I wish for a girl who resembles Princess Margalinaya, my daughter, to appear here and now.”
A circle of light formed around the ruler, within which the outlines of an unfamiliar room quickly faded, and in the center stood... a girl?! At first, Maldrab thought the First Mage had cruelly mocked them, but upon closer inspection, he gasped in shock:
“Who are you?! Gods, you understand us! My daughter!”
But instead of a reply, he heard Dison’s heartfelt words:
“Idiot! Fool! This is the end!”
And Krezin’s groan:
“The conditions...”
But the Emperor’s reaction was understandable. Seeing his daughter in men’s clothing, with hair cut to her shoulders, in a tiny room with no familiar objects except a bed—and even on that bed sat someone of indeterminate gender—few fathers could handle such a sight!
Meanwhile, the circle of light dimmed and vanished, but the strange double of the princess remained. The girl looked around in a daze, taking in her surroundings (a short man in a red cloak, a sharp-eared, long-haired beauty in lace), and her gaze landed on Krezin, who was very inconveniently blocking the way to the stairs. And then...
The advisor neatly folded in half as green tongues of flame raced across him, since the Well, thrown by the startled newcomer, had landed squarely in the middle of his torso. Maldrab tripped over the cursed artifact for the second time. Only the elf, ever cautious, stayed put and calmly watched as the girl bolted for the stairs.
From below came the voice of a guardsman:
“Your Highness, allow me to escort you!”
And then the tower was filled with the jubilant cries of the advisor, who shouted thanks to the gods in every known and unknown language. No, Krezin hadn’t lost his mind! He had shed his plant-like decorations and acquired a light lettuce-green skin tone, which, compared to having branches in his pants, was downright marvelous.