Brandon Sanderson
You might have noticed, if you've read several of my books, that a while ago I was trying to figure out a good voice for Hoid. And Hoid, as a storyteller for a long-form sort of novel thing, it was a bit of a challenge to figure out what his voice would be and what types of stories he would tell. I tried a bunch of different things. This is the one that went a little too far. And you'll see what I mean when I'm reading it. I wanted the stories that Hoid was telling to actually be canonical to the Cosmere, and him not be exaggerating too much. (He does occasionally.) This one went a little too far. So, we're gonna read this. I don't have a name for this; it's just called "Chapter One: The Princess." And we'll let you see how, if I let Hoid go a little too far, how it might turn out.
I have, like, five chapters of this, but we'll only do three of them.
Brandon Sanderson
Chapter One
On Princess <Celebrin's> thirteenth birthday, her father named a day of the week after her. Though the signs had been clear all along, that day -- her thirteenth birthday -- was probably the first time <Celebrin> should have realized she was spoiled.
Younger children can be forgiven for not picking up on such intricacies, as they are -- naturally -- oblivious, sociopathic, self-interested machines who continue to draw breath only because our species developed oxytocin. But a teen... Well, a teen should have realized the truth. The massive undertaking of renaming a day involved replacing calendars, educating the public, and consoling the clergy. Fortunately, the goddess the day had been named after wasn't a popular one. The king, in a rare moment of wisdom, figured that if the goddess wasn't mad about the whole not-being-worshipped thing, she might not mind this, either.
On Princess <Celebrin's> fourteenth birthday, the king gave her a castle. Never mind that she already had three she'd never visited. This should have clued <Celebrin> to the fact that she was spoiled. But the kingdom did need a great number of castles. The war against the dragons was ongoing, after all.
On her fifteenth birthday, <Celebrin's> father gave her a vault full of gold. This was necessary, you see, as she'd used up the previous one. It is normal, <Celebrin> thought, for a child to have an allowance. And vaults of gold seemed common, really, considering how many her family had.
On her sixteenth birthday, her father gave her the color red. Though this was mostly symbolic, it really should have warned her.
Remarkably, she had a near miss on her seventeenth birthday. You see, the king banned sugar for a day for everyone except for <Celebrin>. So that evening, she sat at her dinner, staring at her lemon meringue pie, and asked the question. "Father," she said, "how does everyone else not having sugar today make my dessert any better?"
"Uh, come again, dear?" he asked, eating his own pie. Because of course, he had his own slice, despite the ban.
"My dessert," she said, pointing with her fork. "Wouldn't it taste just as sweet to me if everyone else could have sugar?" She edged towards understanding like a baby bird on the rim of the nest. Surely, this decree would make people angry. Surely, they were supposed to enjoy her birthday. Didn't she want them to.
"Ah," her father said, pretending to understand. "Mmm, here, see. If they don't have sugar for a day, they'll appreciate it all the more. They'll remember just how sweet it is after a day of fasting, yes they will. Just as they'll remember your sweetness, my dear."
It was an answer. Not a good one, but like a strong gust of wind to frighten the baby bird back into the nest, this worked. <Celebrin>smothered her concerns in meringue and went to bed.
Finally, her eighteenth birthday. Worried about how she'd reacted to her exclusive day of sugar, her father reasoned his gift hadn't been dramatic enough to impress her. So for <Celebrin's>grand eighteen birthday, the king made her name legally unique. Nobody else was allowed to be called <Celebrin>. (The day of the week, though, was fine.)
As one might imagine, her name had become quite a popular choice for girls over the last eighteen years. That changed in a legislative flash, and in an instant some ten thousand girls were forced to change their names. You'd have thought this, at last, would give <Celebrin> herself some inkling, some hint of a clue that she was spoiled. Instead, she reasoned that everyone should have a unique name, and so this legislation made perfect sense. Her parents had come hard to come up with something original, and the name was the only gift <Celebrin> had from her late mother, who had been eaten by a dragon soon after giving birth.
<Celebrin> would likely have missed understanding this birthday, as she had the others, save for one factor. She had a bodyguard, a youth named <Dristol> who had been sent back from the front lines after having his right arm ripped off. He'd recovered and recuperated as best one could, following such an event, and he wore three medals proclaiming how brave he'd been.
<Dristol> didn't feel brave. Losing his arm had made him scream and wet himself, but he confided in his father, a grizzled veteran and head of the princess's bodyguards. The older man had said something legitimately wise.
"You on your feet now, lad?"
"Yes, father."
His father had tapped each medal in turn. "They're for that part. Not for the part where you lost the arm."
<Dristol> had understood. We'll talk about his nightmares, his cold sweats, and his months spent lying awake at night trembling later. For now, let's just say he understood.
<Celebrin's> eighteenth happened roughly two days after his assignment to serve under his father, watching over the princess. The evening of her birthday -- after the glory of the fruit punch synchronized swimming routine, the novelty of the dancing cattle, and a spectacular indoor firework display -- <Celebrin> stood on her balcony with a small complement of twenty bodyguards and around as many handmaidens. She looked up at the moon, shimmering in the sky, and she wondered idly, "Do you think the dancing cattle were better trained last year?"
"No, highness!" said one of the handmaidens, beating the others to it. "They were so spectacular!"
"You sure?" <Celebrin> asked.
"Absolutely," another handmaiden said. "I don't think they made a pyramid last year, did they?"
"That's true," <Celebrin> said. "And I suppose they did taste better this year, too."
That was the moment. <Dristol's> eyes had been bulging all night, but this... this really threw him. Though he'd been instructed to be silent, he couldn't help himself. Perhaps once you've had part of yourself eaten by a large pseudo-reptile, the monarchy seems less intimidating. "Wait," <Dristol> said. "Wait. The beef at dinner. That was from the trained, dancing cattle?"
<Celebrin> glanced at the young man, realizing she didn't recognize him. "Um, yes?"
"They said," he sputtered, "at the beginning of the show that it takes years of dedicated work to train the beasts! You had them slaughtered?"
"Well, of course," <Celebrin> said.
"Why?" he exclaimed, ignoring the guards on either side of him who were hissing for him to be silent. "Why under the Firmament would you do that?"
<Celebrin> wasn't offended so much as she was confused. Nobody had ever spoken to her this way. She cocked her head, trying to understand the young man's state of distress. "Well," she said, "you wouldn't expect me to eat untalented steak, now, would you?"
Untalented. Slowly, <Dristol's> brain processed the words. He took it all in: her legitimate confusion, the night's extravagance. Then, it slipped out. The words that would change a life, and perhaps a nation. "By Endowment above," he whispered, "you're the most spoiled thing I've ever seen."
Several handmaidens gasped. One of the guards straight-on fainted. <Celebrin> merely pursed her lips. Spoiled, she thought. I wonder what that means.
Chapter Two
Spoiled. What an odd word, the princess thought as she stood on a balcony right after the word had been spoken. Like 'soiled,' perhaps? No, that was a dreary word. Maybe spoiled meant something like 'oiled." She'd learned about perfume recently in her studies, and those generally started with a fragrant oil as a base. And yet her handmaidens looked so scandalized! Plus, one guard, upon hearing the word, had immediately fainted. Why would a word make someone faint? She cocked her head and looked to him as the other guards caught him and set him down. Then she looked to the man who'd spoken the offending word, and he was now blushing deeply.
Now, over the last few months, the princess had begun to realize that something was off about the way people interacted with her. She couldn't define it, as she had very little to use as a frame of reference. She could only watch others and see how they interacted with one another. She was not socially adept, but she did realize she wanted to know what this word meant.
In order to learn, her gut said she needed to minimize what had just happened. Whenever there was a big fuss, people got extra touchy around her. Therefore, she decided to shift everyone's focus away from the guard who had spoken the word, and instead on the poor one who had fainted.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "He must have locked his knees! You're never supposed to lock your knees. Someone send for the palace surgeon. Then, everything will be okay!"
They did. And it was.
Such a curious experience. They all seemed relieved by the fuss over the fallen soldier. When the surgeon asked what had happened just before the soldier collapsed, <Celebrin> allowed herself a tiny lie and said she didn't remember, that she'd been staring up in the sky and contemplating her father's great love for his people. The servants had been chatting about something, but she didn't remember what. This made everyone relax further, including -- noticeably -- <Bokul>, the head of her bodyguards.
How to describe <Bokul>? He was a soldier, yes, but you'd expect that of a bodyguard. <Bokul> was... <Bokul> was like a sausage, grilled over a campfire after a long day of work. An expert chef will always make you a finer meal than the campfire sausage. Indeed, if you order a sausage from a good restaurant, it will most certainly be better than one of your home-cooked ones. And yet, nothing tastes better than a sausage grilled at the end of a long hike, made for yourself. Strange how that is. No fine sauces, no utensils, and minimal expertise; yet there's just something special about a good sausage made over a campfire. Likewise, if <Bokul> were to enter a swordsmanship competition, he'd most certainly lose. With only one good eye (but a glorious mustache) and a body slightly past its prime, he'd do fine. He wouldn't wash out, but he would also never win. Yet strangely, if you wanted someone protecting your family, your gut said: pick <Bokul>. There was something about this quiet wall of a man with the ruddy skin, bald head, and leathery complexion. Something that whispered to you that you didn't want the best swordsman: you wanted the best bodyguard. And he was it, contest be damned.
<Bokul> had arrived after the incident, but before the fallen guard was carried away. He studied everyone involved, then dismissed the young guard who had spoken the strange word. <Celebrin> noted the family resemblance, said nothing, but sat up all night thinking.
Spoiled. She'd had extensive lessons in literature, poetry, and philology. How did she not know this word? So, once tonight's handmaiden was snoring, the princess slipped out of bed and went to her library chamber. Her father, of course had spared no expense in outfitting it for her. He had not one dictionary, but six. She chose Ahlstrom's Great Unexpurgated Reference of All Known Words and their Origins, Eighteenth Edition. It had text so small she needed a magnifying glass to read it. There, right between "spoffish" and "spoke" was the word "spoiled." Defined as:
"Adjective. Charming. Comforting. Pretty. Princessely in every way, like Princess <Celebrin>."
Ah, well, that made sense. Except... why was her name in the dictionary? She checked the other five and found similar definitions, though one had a typo. Then, she spend the night pouring through definitions of other words in the latest edition. The word "beautiful" used her as a reference. That made sense, as being pretty was her job. But so did the word "charming," and the word "winsome," and even the word "comely," a term she'd never really liked because she was sure it was hiding something. All in all, she was able to identify thirty-seven places in the dictionary where her name came up, including the one for "spoiled."
She eventually returned to bed, but continued to have trouble sleeping. Something itched at her, like a barely whispered conversation at a party, when she'd been certain her name had been mentioned. She'd wanted to know what nice things people were saying about her when that happened; but when she spoke to them, they seemed to be hiding their emotions. As if they didn't want her to know the true depths of their affection for her.
She was close. To what, she didn't know, but she was determined to find out.
The next day was linguistics practice, where she was taught the languages of various nearby kingdoms so she could charm their dignitaries at parties. She was joined by Professor Candle, a bearded squinty-eyed man who had purportedly come out of the womb carrying a parameter. He conjugated ancient words in the past perfect for fun, and kept a list of homonyms in seventeen languages because he found them amusing. His knack was the ability to see typos in spoken sentences. Yes, you heard that right.
"Professor," <Celebrin> said, rising and greeting him. "I'm glad to see you. You were off for your anniversary last week, is that correct?"
"Indeed, your Highness!" he said, bowing and removing his hat. His mustaches did seem to wave hello as he did so.
"Did you enjoy your new carriage?" she asked.
"My what?"
"Your new carriage. Father gets a new carriage for his anniversary every year. Did you pick gold or white for yours?"
"Umm... White, Highness."
"Excellent taste, Professor," she said. "Quite stunning with black horses. I hope you chose black horses."
"I did..."
She nodded in approval, imagining the professor's beard shaking as he looked out the window of his anniversary carriage while touring the grounds of his estate. How many books the professor must have in his mansion! She'd pressed him once where his mansion was, and he'd just said "far, far away." Which she took to mean out in the countryside, which made sense. She had one out there, though she'd never visited. But she heard it was nice.
They settled into her study room, the third one, which was her favorite. It had birds painted on the trim, and the golden furniture was a little less stiff than the other two. She was attended by her bodyguards, as always, but notably for these lessons, they were required to stay on the other side of the room, out of earshot. That was in case she needed to ask for delicate translations of terms that might reveal state secrets.
She made shared tea with Professor Candle and discussed her progress in the <Galtic> language in advance of diplomatic talks concerning a joint offensive against the dragons. Eventually, at the appropriate time, she eased into the question she really wanted to ask.
"Professor, there's something I want to ask you."
"Their," he said. "There. They're? You used the wrong 'there.' Lovely homonym, that."
"Oh, of course. There... is something I want to ask you."
"Anything, Highness!"
"What does the word 'spoiled' mean?"
She was watching, so she caught as he stopped, tea nearly to his lips. "Well," he said, recovering after just a moment, "why don't we look it up?" He stood and walked to the bookcase.
"I did look it up," she said, pouring him more tea. She liked these lessons, which was one of the times she could pour herself, so she'd have practice not spilling if she ever needed to pour for a dignitary. "The dictionary referenced me, saying the word 'spoiled' is a flattering term, and refers to someone who is like Princess <Celebrin>."
"Ah, well, then," he said, walking back to his chair but not sitting. "Mmm, why do you ask then?"
"What did the word mean before I was born?"
"It likely referenced a different princess, I'd imagine." He was sweating. She put the teapot back, then regarded him uncomfortably shifting from one foot to another. He hadn't even noticed the extraneous comma in her sentence, the one she'd deliberately imagined being there.
"Professor," she said, "did my father redefine a word on my behalf, then ban the original usage?"
The professor emitted a low squeak from the back of his throat, as if he'd swallowed a mouse. Or as if he'd been placed in an extremely uncomfortable situation, and now either had to lie to her face with her knowing it or betray the will of the king.
She smiled and dismissed him, letting him scurry back away without having to say anything further. She sat, cup in hand, thoughtful. Then, at long last, came the moment. The one that should have happened when she was thirteen. The one she just nearly missed realizing some dozen times now.
Princess <Celebrin> wondered if, perhaps, her family went a little too far at times.
It was a little like wondering if the Ice Age was chilly, but it was a start.
Chapter Three
The next day, Princess <Celebrin> rose early and had precisely three minutes and twenty-seven seconds to ponder last night's epiphany. Then the day began. A quick meal of three pieces of fruit while dictating letters of comfort to the wives of men at war, each with as much personal touch as she could accomplish. Calisthenics next, with her four private trainers, followed by weights with four different trainers. The exercising took two and a half hours, collectively, with requisite laps in the pool for cardio. You might be angry at her father for requiring this rigorous schedule, but he wasn't to blame. <Celebrin> had spent her childhood in the Hall of Forefathers studying the portraits of princesses who had come before her and had a certain idea of how they should look. Being <Celebrin>, she hadn't considered that the artists might have created the portraits with a certain flair for flattery. So in this, she had an image to chase that wasn't strictly impossible, but might be considered unrealistic if she hadn't somehow exceeded it.
Before this explanation, you might have been imagining her as soft. In this, perhaps, I have painted the wrong pictures, so let me revise. <Celebrin> had the kind of flat stomach and toned muscles that people think is due to genetics. Which, I suppose is true, as the mindset required to relentlessly drive oneself towards peak physical conditioning certain has some kind of genetic component. <Celebrin's> job might have been being beautiful, but she wasn't going to depend on that for lack of effort on her part. Hence, the exercise regimen, where each morning she became a strawberry-blonde tempest of activity. While no person should be forced to live up to such unrealistic expectations, <Celebrin> at least had a reasonably healthy interaction with it. And considering how spoiled in general she was, this was probably one of her more benign misunderstandings.
Excercise was followed by a short bath, and then they next saw to her hair, which required daily brushing and conditioning. Simultaneously, her steward went over the day's appointments. In today's case, she had a state dinner to host, which meant a need for a wardrobe selection. So before lunch, she spent two hours going through options with her royal stylist.
"The <Monique> gown is particularly stunning," the stylist noted as two assistants took out a remarkable red dress and draped it across the couch. "Current trends are toward more daring, Highness, and <Monique> is extremely well regarded."
"Yes," <Celebrin> said, arms folded as she considered. "Check the guest list. Is Lady <Gravida> attending?"
"The younger, or the elder?"
"The younger."
"Let's see... yes, Highness."
"She's engaged to be wed as of last week," <Celebrin> said, "and she loves <Monique> gowns. She'll be in one for certain, and it would be unseemly for me to show her up on such an important time of her life. Let's look for something a little less showy."
"We could go with the <DeMarco>," the stylist said, pointing for assistants to bring out a plain brown gown with ruffles on the wrists.
"<Ashlin>," <Celebrin> said to the stylist. "I said less showy not funeral-ready. Have you lost your senses?"
<Ashlin> grinned. "Well, you know how everyone imitates your fashion choices the week after an event? Imagine the panic as they all try to obtain dresses three decades out of style!"
<Celebrin> looked to her, then gave a hesitant smile, finally picking up on the humor. You'll have to forgive her. <Celebrin> wasn't dense; more, she'd spent her life in a low-density environment, and her brain had adapted. After her revelation the night before, however, she found herself seeing things just slightly different, and she realized she'd always liked <Ashlin>, though she'd never defined why before that moment. Few people ever joked with her; even if she didn't always get the jokes, she could appreciate someone that tried.
"Have you ever considered it," <Ashlin> whispered, "wearing the most ugly thing imaginable just to tie their brains in knots?"
"I couldn't. This is a very serious event. Ambassadors from seven different kingdoms will be attending!" <Celebrin> hesitated, then leaned closer. "But out of curiosity, what is the ugliest thing you have, <Ashlin>?"
<Ashlin> practically glowed as she grabbed a box off of one of her carts. She waved the princess over, then with a great deal of pomp produced the most ridiculous of all hats. It was bright pink, with what appeared to be a mass of bubbles on it made of glass. These surrounded a long pole which had streamers on the end. Ugliness is like beauty: ordinarily, a matter of perspective, but there are some few items that transcend subjectivity. This hat can be considered the ur-example. Too earnest to be a joke; too audacious to be an accident. The product of someone who was simultaneously skilled enough to create, but oblivious enough to create this. It was a masterpiece of mediocrity, and a monument to someone's own hubris. <Ashlin>, being an expert in fashion, naturally collected such offenses to her craft, finding them wonderful. It's an artist thing.
<Celebrin's> breath caught, and for the briefest moment she considered it. She actually considered it. "I couldn't," she said, "but thank you for showing it to me."
<Ashlin> grinned and packed it for her anyway. <Celebrin> soon settled on a blue gown, the color of the Firmament in the sky when the sun was shining. That, mixed with a brilliant sapphire broach, should be just the right amount of ornate without being ostentatious. The right amount of striking, without being scandalous. It's easy to draw attention; drop some glassware in a crowded room, and you'll see. It's difficult to draw attention gracefully. And say what you will of her upbringing; at this, <Celebrin> was an expert.
From there, she picked a wardrobe for her father; he never paid attention, and would just put on whatever was given to him. And coordinated the servants, tablecloths, brocades, and napkins for the dinner. She and her father needed to match without looking too similar, and -- with consideration of the guest list -- she decided the decorations required a certain patriotic flair this time
That done, she ate a sandwich on the go for lunch and arrived at her second reading room for political tutelage for the evening. She went over the entire guest list, making sure she had names memorized, a question to ask each one, and was aware of any tragedies or political nuances.
"Do be certain not to mention kumquats, Highness," the tutor said, sliding his spectacles up his nose.
"Kumquats?"
"Unexpected Deluge upon Lord <Branberry's> orchards. A Category Three, I'm told. It set it raining for three weeks and washed out the entire crop. It's a sore spot for many, and it has disrupted trade. Many in the room have lost money from the kumquat fiasco."
"No kumquats," <Celebrin> said. "Noted."
After two hours of drilling on all the names, faces, and relationships, the tutor left her to study while she got her nails done. However, she found her mind wandering. For the first time of the day, she had the chance to really think about what she'd discovered. Her father had changed the very definition of words on her behalf. If he was willing to do that, what else about life didn't she know? What had been changed or obscured? It was a terrible thing to consider, and with some thought she decided she needed further proof. And so, once her nails were done, she did something truly remarkable.
She put on the hat.
The ugly hat, the masterpiece of mediocrity. Most of her handmaidens hadn't been there when <Ashlin> had laughed at it, so they wouldn't know that it was ridiculous. But they had eyes; surely they could see. She turned to the group of twenty women and girls. "What," she asked of them," do you think of this hat?"
She received a group of blank stares.
"I like it," <Celebrin> added.
"Oh, it's wonderful!"
"Looks like you're floating!"
"So perfect; what a complement to your bubbly nature, Highness!"
By the Goddess of All Gifts, she thought, pasting a smile on her face, it's true. They will tell me anything, so long as they think it's what I want to hear.
She looked to her bodyguard, hoping to see the young man from earlier, the one who had called her spoiled. But he wasn't on duty today, unfortunately, and it would have been strange to ask her bodyguards for advice on clothing, so she put away the hat, troubled.
Further thinking on her state had to be delayed, however, for it was time for another short bath. Then perfume and makeup, the latter of which she applied herself with coaching from her makeup experts. She needed to be able to do touchups on herself, after all, so she couldn't just let them do it. After that, it was styling her hair, which she needed help for. Though she decided on the style, a half-up half-down set of braids with a cascade of hair on the left. As her hair was being done, her dialect coach helped her with pronunciations of foreign words and names so she wouldn't embarrass anyone at dinner. She approved the seating chart, put on her gown and gloves, checked on her father to make sure he wouldn't be too late, then hurried to start receiving guests, arriving thirty minutes early just in case.
Her father arrived forty-five minutes later, wearing formal attire and his bright golden dragonslayer's medal pinned upon his chest. Together, they greeted each guest in turn. I'll spare you all their names but one: second cousin <Bentle>: duke, wine snob, and the man her father had not-so-secretly been wishing <Celebrin> would marry.
Brandon Sanderson
So, the story was going to be, at that dinner the king announcer her cousin, who is loathsome, as the new heir. Because there's a law that only someone who has slain a dragon can inherit the kingdom. And so she decides she needs to go kill a dragon.
Now, why did I not decide to keep writing this? Well, as I told you, it is fun. It matches a lot of the storytelling styles of some things, like, you might have seen in Dealing with Dragons by Patricia C. Wrede. But it was too silly, too non-canon to fit in the Cosmere. So, maybe I'll take it out of the Cosmere and finish it some day.
