TRIGGER WARNING:

Attempted SEXUAL ASSAULT

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Foreword and Acknowledgements

This story was written as a prequel to a planned fantasy epic. Unfortunately, after writing it, I learned that the only part of the story I had been truly interested in was this prequel bit. So now it stands on its own.

The fantasy epic was to be a fairly straightforward story of good versus evil, or at least to appear that way. The known world is split into three sections, a bit like a tub of Neapolitan ice cream. The chocolate side, the Winterlands, are always cold; Summerside is always hot; in between are the Spring Lands, where it is temperate and where farming is much more possible. Summers, fair-haired and tan, and Winters, dark-haired and pale, are in constant conflict over the bounty of the Spring Lands.

Water has magical properties and is consumed to fuel magic. This system takes a lot of cues from Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time , but in retrospect I wish I had combined it with the "need raw materials on hand" limitation of Avatar: The Last Airbender , or even Brandon Sanderson's thing of having Mistborn physically ingest and expend things. Well, this story predated his book; and while AtLA 's first episode hit airwaves literally one day before I started posting, I didn't watch the show myself for another four years.

There are two main deities in this story's world: Kyrei is the goddess of order, and Loduur is the god of chaos. Every thousand years or so, each one nominates a champion to fight in a war, and the winner is worshipped as the ascendent, important deity for the remainder of the cycle. My main characters, some of them the chosen champions, were to rebel against the cyclical nature of the conflict. I also did some things where the two main love interests didn't meet until the very end of the first book, instead dreaming of each other constantly—I had just played Final Fantasy VIII , which has a similar parallel plot structure—before uniting to pursue the conflict together. I don't think any of this was particularly bad for a 20something, but then I read A Song of Ice and Fire  and it revolutionized my understanding of how to write. I don't think the world is missing much by not having my story.

I'm no Tolkien and would not try to be one, but the nuances of linguistics have always interested me. From the way Chinese uses counting words for everything—the way we say "I have five loaves of bread," rather than "I have five breads", but applied to every number imaginable—to the French practice of counting by twenties, there are always fascinating wrinkles in a language even if it is translated directly to English. I have long experimented with incorporating some of those wrinkles into my fantasy fiction, and this story is no exception. (In fact, it's where it started.) Eretrians speak the same English we do, but those of other nations have different habits: grammar, vocabulary, word order, a certain amount of pronunciation. In other words, errors which seem to be authorial may instead be diegetic, or even not errors at all but rather intentional tweaks of language.

Readers who remember this tale from its initial release in 2005 may note that I have altered the attempted sexual assault in Chapter 8, which was originally successful. This was cheap drama that ultimately added nothing valuable to the story and  which I failed to address in any meaningful way in the denouement. I noticed that I could take it out and basically have to only change a few paragraphs. If that's the case, it never needed to be there in the first place. So now it's gone.

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Chapter 1

In the second month of her sixteenth year of life, Princess Gabriele LeSalle Basingame, lance-heir to the throne (that is to say, eldest daughter to the First Lance of a queen who herself had no heirs) and already known among the court as the Shining Sun of Eretria for her beauty, became a woman. That is to say, she had three monthly bleedings in a row from her womanly area. And with it, her life began to change.

The next morning, she went to her father, Lord Basingame, and said, "It has happened."

Instantly Lord Basingame understood. Though he himself had no personal experience with this sort of thing, he had been warned by Nurse that this day would probably come soon. That day had arrived, then: with her first courses, his daughter had proved herself a woman in body, and now ready to take the steps towards becoming one in spirit.

For a moment, he allowed his eyes to rest on her; as was proper for a father, he had not seen her naked in quite some time, and probably would never again. She was becoming a woman in form, with slender but even breasts and curves at her hips. Her face showed the haunting beauty of her mother where it was not rounded with the curves of childhood; her large blue-grey eyes shone of a laughing intelligence, and her mouth was as quick to smile as it was to twist in anger. Her long hair, a deep lustrous gold, hung down her back, freed from its normal elaborate styling. For a moment, he stared, and was spellbound by the beauty she would become.

"Then it is time," he said.

"I will be known as a woman?" she asked.

"Yes," said her father, "it will be declared." Some had grown anxious, for some girls were already women at her age, and in certain corners of the Royal Court it was whispered that something was wrong. Now those whispers could be definitively laid to rest.

Assuming certain proofs were offered. "I will see that Nurse is informed," he said. "She will know what to do." Lord Basingame himself knew nothing of the methods women used to staunch their flow; that would have been Eleanor's lesson, had she lived. But now Nurse would have to do. Tomorrow's courses would be collected; the next morning, he would have a proof no one could argue with. The magicians (those few trusted within striking distance of Her Majesty) would be able to verify that this was, indeed, Gabriele's blood; and all would be satisfied.

"And I'm to have my First Lance," Gabriele said.

        Doland Basingame thought for a moment. "Yes," he said. Thought for a moment—or perhaps was only lost in memory. "Yes, you shall."

If Gabriele had any thought of the course her life would take, she made no sign of it. As heir to the throne (cousin-side or not), her days were not her own.

---

On the same morning as Gabriele's menarche ceased, Lord Doland Basingame, Lord of the Echoing Vale, Marshal-Captain of the Silver Guard, First Lance to Throne Queen Meralina of Eretria, held up a scrap of cloth darkened with blood, and announced that his daughter was now a woman. After the court had been satisfied (the mages, as predicted, stepping up to do the job), he made his second announcement: that the screening process for a new First Lance would begin again, to resume for the first time since he himself had been matched to Queen Meralina, not long after her  first menses. He remembered well the excitement and chaos of those times; it quickened his heart in a way that was part anticipation, part sheer nervous dread. It was always a bit unnerving, he consoled himself, to look one's own replacement square in the face.

The court, indeed the entire country, mobilized in a flurry of activity set off by his announcement. Thirty days, a full month of three weeks, had been allotted for the gathering and preparation of the candidates. On a steady horse, one could ride from one of Eretria's borders to another in just over a week, for it was a modest nation; and since the Silver City was in the center of the country, all would have at least two weeks to hear the news, set out, arrive at the capitol, register at the barracks being now specially prepared for the candidates (and their families, since a number of them would be children not much older than Gabriele herself, and possibly younger), and prepare themselves for the trials, for the Time of Testing in which one would be selected to accompany Princess Gabriele Basingame for the rest of her life.

Nobody begrudged the intensity of the testing, nor the carnival atmosphere of the proceedings. The First Lance was not just an advisor to the Queen; he was her chief bodyguard, the last and most indomitable barrier between her and danger; he was the leader of Eretria's small but proud military; he was her most trusted confidant and closest advisor. So important was he that if the queen should fail to produce a suitable daughter-heir (as the present Queen Meralina had, through no fault of her own, as her only son had been tragically lost in an equestrian accident), his own eldest daughter would ascend to the throne, even if the queen should have nieces by blood (as the present Queen Meralina did). And the friendship between the First Lance and the Throne Queen was thought by the people to affect the state of the nation: the greatest queens of Eretria had made husbands or lovers of their First Lances; likewise, those between whom anger and emnity existed, had made bad decisions in policy, and were looked upon with disapproval by all.

The Time of Testing was a time of hope; the people looked to the future with bright eyes, praying to Kyrei, She Whose Hand Shelters, for continued prosperity. But despite the festivities and optimism, Lord Basingame's eyes-and-ears within the city brought back whispers of discontent. For Queen Meralina and Lord Doland were friends, but not good ones; there was as often dissatisfaction between them as agreement, and though the nation still prospered by the wit and wisdom of its dual rulers, many felt that a wiser and wittier man might have been chosen. He had even been foolish enough to allow mages— mages , those vile creatures steeped in magic, who had banded together fifty years ago and brought an onslaught of death down on Rascine... Not that anyone really cared what happened to the Summers, but what sort of fool allowed such dangerous people into the Royal Court ? And look, you, for Queen Meralina had no heirs, and instead we will have a daughter of this Basingame on the throne? Loduur will soon rule over us all, and there will be blood and fire.

The First Lance heard these whispers and sorrowed, for he knew that his name was not one to conjure with, and because of this he worried for his daughter.

But there were other things to occupy his attention, other things to worry about. His duties to the queen had been slackened slightly, to allow him to supervise the Time of Testing, but the trials themselves needed to be arranged, as well as spaces around them for spectators (for the Trials were watched avidly by any citizen who could bring him- or herself away from daily duties to spectate), and also lodging, food and provisions, and proper training facilities for the candidates; and then there was the fete to be held after the selection, which would involve the manhood and womanhood ceremonies of Princess Gabriele Basingame and her new First Lance, so that Gabriele, once she had become a woman in every sense of the word, could be invested by Queen Meralina as the official heir to the throne. The fete would involve food, drink, entertainment fit for a queen, decorations for the royal banquet hall, official invitations to most if not all the lords and ladies of the land, appropriate garmentry for both the cousin-heir and her lance, and so forth.

There was, in short, a lot to be done. Lord Basingame was so busy during the thirty days that he barely had a chance to see his daughter, this young woman, private name Catheryne, who was now the center of the whirlwind. Of course, she too was busy, learning those things which a young girl learns before becoming a woman; but in the few moments he had to himself, he regretted immensely that they could not see each other. His little girl was taking yet another step away from him, taking a big stride towards becoming a woman in her own right, and he would have liked to cherish the remaining time with her. It seemed only yesterday that he had first held her in his arms, a tiny baby, her eyes surprisingly alert, her grip surprisingly strong, and had decided with Eleanor that her private name, their little daughter's private name which only the most trusted and intimate would know, should be Catheryne; but then, only a few years later, the consumption had taken Eleanor from them, and he had thrown himself into his duties. He could remember as if it were yesterday the last time he had held Eleanor's hand, as her breathing rattled and wheezed and slowly stopped; at times it felt as though it had just happened yesterday, for sometimes he thought he remembered nothing that had happened between then and now, and Catheryne should still be a toddling little three-year-old when she entered the room, not this tall demi-woman with her monstrous bleeding. He did not, in short, know where the time had gone; and with all his heart, he wished he did.

But the thirty days passed quickly, and the Time of Testing began. Lord Basingame, busy man that he was, was not able to watch the trials; the Princess Gabriele did, and chafed under the imposed boredom. It was all the same thing—young men and boys and even grown men running through the same hoops, tackling the same obstacles, failing at the same places. The dress she wore was ornate and abominably heavy; it seemed to strangle her. And because it was in public, with lords and ladies and the common folk watching them, watching her (and not even noticing whose elbows they rubbed; what person of proper breeding would allow such consorting?), she could not even kick her heels beneath her chair to alleviate the boredom, or shift in her seat to bring ease to her slowly-numbing legs. No, she must sit still and prim, a perfect lady in a dress built by a coffin-maker, while inside she wanted nothing more than to jump up and run away.

And so, absorbed in her own annoyances, she totally missed the run of the boy who would eventually become her lance.

He had not gone last, but close to it; the parents of candidates would jockey for their son's order in line, believing (rightly) that the judges would pay more attention to those who went first; believing (rightly) that judges would pay more attention when not dozing off. But this boy did not need to go first; from the moment he stepped onto the obstacle course, he commanded all attention. He was short, perhaps only a few inches taller than Princess Gabriele herself; he wore dark clothes that would not encumber his speed; his hair and eyes were dark, and his cold face burned with determination. And though he was allowed his choice of tools and (practice) weapons from among a pre-arranged selection, he brought nothing with him at all.

Some among the royal court recognized him. His name was Marcus Demitri, and his mother had been the Lady Violet Demitri, last remaining scion of the family, before her untimely passing due to grief over the loss of her husband. As such he was heir to a distinct fortune, but he had no parents and no family, and not a noble house could be found who would deign to even supervise him, much less take him in. He was, after all, half-Summer; his mother had somehow gotten taken with one of those barbarians from the other side of the Spring Lands, and refusing to listen to reason she had wed him and even borne him a child. It was rumored that he had been a peasant in his own lands, and many speculated about the increase of estate he had acquired by marrying into such a prosperous family, and how he had somehow tricked or blackmailed poor Violet into such a marriage. He had died under mysterious circumstances, and none were truly sorry to see him go. But his legacy lived on in young Marcus, the boy nobody would take in. As such he had become almost a child of the court, sleeping in spare rooms in the castle, taking lessons as he could; the children of the court befriended him as they might steal an apple or try to trip the Silver Guardsmen—because they knew their parents would disapprove, and that made it all the more worth doing. About three years ago he had simply disappeared... And most, as with father and mother, had called it a good riddance. But recently he had returned—right about when the Time of Trials had been announced, come to think of it—and here he was.

Those of the royal court, including those in the judging box, wondered what he was doing on the field. Had he really signed up for the trials? From whom had he learned statecraft, strategy and tactics, swordsmanship, leadership? Was this a dare some brazen young lordling had put him up to? It was ridiculous—a halfbreed barbarian? with no tools or weapons? What did he expect to accomplish?

But then the gong sounded, and Marcus Demitri began to move through the obstacle course, and all opinions changed.

His footfalls were silent; he moved with the speed of one far wiser than he in the arts of stalking. He surmounted obstacles with breathtaking speed, contorting his body in ways no one had thought possible. He bypassed some of them in ways the designers themselves had not even anticipated. And when he reached the end of the course, where the Queen's most skilled knight awaited in ritual combat readiness with a wooden shield and practice sword of bundled wood lathes—

The gasps and cries and cheers were what brought Princess Gabriele back from her musings. From her raised position in the box she saw the judges scrambling down onto the field; and Lord Faustos supine on the ground—not retreated with swordpoint to the sky in the ritual signal of defeat, but on the ground! —and a dark-haired boy in black clothing standing over him... Wait, was that Marcus Demitri ?? Everyone said he was dead! By now soldiers were hastening down into the field as well, and ignoring the cries from Nurse and from her bodyguards, Princes Gabriele followed them down.

"...Totally inappropriate!" Lord Gevardos was yelling; he was senior of the five judges. "You are meant to show discipline! You are meant to pull back and avoid causing harm!" Behind him, the other four judges stood abreast, their arms crossed, identical expressions of censure on their faces; off to one side, a soldier knelt over Lord Faustos, slapping his face to ill effect.

It was  Marcus Demitri. He had always had twice as much nerve as he ought to, and now he didn't quail beneath the stern eyes of the judges. "I did it on purpose," he said. "You would never have believed me if Lord Faustos had yielded; and besides, he would not have known how  to yield to this sort of strike. I did it to prove that I could disable an armed man without killing him and using only my hands."

They had seen her. "Princess," said Captain Molthouse, captain of the Silver Guardsmen. "You should not be here. This man is dangerous."

"If I really wanted to be dangerous, I would have killed Lord Faustos," Marcus Demitri retorted. His eyes gave a cold glare. "It's relatively easy when your man is on the ground. Stomp on his stomach, make him vomit—he'll choke to death on it before he wakes up."

"You are not  helping your case, young man," Lord Gevardos snapped.

Marcus Demitri turned to Gabriele with a formal bow. "Your Highness."

"Sir," said the soldier bending over Lord Faustos. "He's coming round." All gathered about the supine man, waiting to see what happened.

Lord Faustos did not look hurt. He wore only a leather jerkin to protect against errant practice-sword strikes, and his hairy arms and thick, corded neck and his entire head were all exposed, things that never would have been allowed in a true battle; but, aside from a lump rising on his left temple (forgivable for a knockout blow), he looked well and healthy. His eyes opened and stared above him for a moment, unfocused; then he saw Marcus Demitri and smiled. His voice was that unmistakable low-pitched, gravelly growl. "So, you've learned more than swordplay since last I saw you."

"I'm sorry if I hurt you, my lord," Marcus Demitri said, inclining his head in the slightest. There was a murmur, and Gabriele herself felt shock: this upstart young boy was not showing the deference he ought to. He was addressing Lord Faustos as an equal! But Lord Faustos simply shook his head and chuckled.

"No more'n I deserve," he said. "'Twas my own actions as much as yours laid me down." He turned to the others. "He kicked me in the head. Can you believe that? I swung at him and he stepped inside my guard, knocked the sword from my hand, and..." He grinned. "There you go. Boy's a foot and a half short my height, but he just jumped and spun and... Oh, and I think he punched me to make me back up too. Before the kick, you understand. Give him some room to move."

"That clearly constitutes a violation of the rules," Gabriele said severely. The rules of the Trial were clear: any physical harm to any of the Trial participants was grounds for immediate disqualification. Her father said that this was an important test. Any man, after all, could swing and hit; it was much harder to swing and then deliberately pull short. "He should be disqualified."

"I agree," said Lord Gevardos loudly. "Lord Faustos is hurt."

"Not hurt enough," Lord Faustos said, grinning. "If he had been in to kill someone deep in the palace and I was on the outer guard, I might've woken up before the job was done. You didn't go full force, did you, you could have kicked my head clear off my shoulders, I wager."

Marcus Demitri said nothing, but a slim smile crossed his face, one that did not warm his eyes.

"The boy's not to be disqualified," Lord Faustos said, sitting up (the entire ring of people moving to accomodate him). "I taught him the blade and he was always a deft hand with it; if he's got such a touch with his hands and feet, he'd be walking death with a sword."

"He broke the rules," Lord Gevardos grated.

"He broke the rules to prove a point," Lord Faustos retorted. "He did it to prove that even with empty hands, he's still dangerous. He proved it. If he's got a leg or an arm free, he'll protect the princess. You can't say that about any of the other boys've been through here today. And some've'm have given me harder lumps than this one has. Now, I might've given him more of a fight; got over-confident, seeing him holding nothing. That's my own mistake, and I'll keep it in mind. But you'll not find a better fighter among any of the candidates. He stays in."

"You have no authority over the Trials!" Lord Gevardos shouted.

"No." Lord Faustos's grin showed several missing teeth. "But I'm right, and you know it."

Lord Gevardos paled, his face angry.

Marcus Demitri continued on to the next stage of the Trials.

---

That night, Princess Gabriele ate dinner with her father, the first time she had done so since that fateful morning. She wasn't sure what her father had been doing all day, but there was always some silly thing to address, like certain people wanting more money or other people not having enough food or some third party threatening to invade. Gabriele thought it all tiresome and wondered why her father didn't tell them to go climb the Golden Dome. The reason it concerned her, though, was because he hadn't seen the Trials—and maybe hadn't even heard who had won and who hadn't.

The question was not long in coming. "So, Catheryne, how were the Trials?"

"They were boring," she said. "A lot of silly men doing silly things."

"Those silly things could save your life one day," Father said sharply, and Gabriele remembered that once he had had to do them. It might be wise to keep an eye on her tongue for the moment.

But nonetheless, it did  seem silly. "I haven't needed a guardian until now," she said. "I don't see why it should be any different later."

"The First Lance is more  than just a guardian, Catheryne," Father said sternly. "His primary role is advisor: to tell the queen whether..."

Gabriele tuned out. She had heard her father recite this monologue many times before and could probably match him word for word. It was as if, by repeating it, he legitimized his own position within the court. It seemed pointless to her.

Father seemed to notice, for he cut off in mid-sentence. His face dour, he took another mouthful of food.

"Did anyone catch your eye," he said finally.

"A few of them did," she said casually. Father had always felt his failure to woo Queen Meralina was an unforgivable lapse on his part. Gabriele, for her part, rather agreed; Father was still strikingly charismatic, with his stern, proud face and intense eyes, and the old hag wasn't exactly the most fetching damsel in the land; it should have been easy to slip into her bed, even despite her marriage. But he hadn't, and that was that; now, evidently, he wanted to ensure that his daughter would not befall the same plight.

Gabriele knew she would not: she was beautiful, and she knew it. She had already seen how some of the youngsters of the Court turned to look at her—the young men about her age or a little older, even some of the ones who were already married. It was as if her body carried some strange power, one that had lain dormant until... Come to think of it, until she had first started her monthly bleeding. They were connected, then. Gabriele wasn't sure what this power was , but if she knew she had it, she could learn to use it. And learn she would.

As to Father's question: There were  a few suitable young men in the Trials—tall, with faces so unnaturally smooth as to be almost girlish, feathery pale hair and a lanky, quicksnap grace. But only those few, and she had enough experience with such boys to know that they expected their faces to take them where they wanted to go; most likely, none of them would last to the final round of the Trials, though one could always hope. The rest were not worth considering—too short, wrong hair color, prickly mustaches, too old... Gabriele sighed. So many things that could possibly go wrong. One thing was certain, though: if some man twice her age and already beginning to show it round the middle should happen to win, she would never take him to her bed, and for all his moaning, Father would probably agree.

"Did any of them stand out," Father asked.

Now that was a very different question. "Marcus Demitri was there."

Father's eyes popped open and his head jerked around to stare at her. "Marcus? Marcus Demitri? Little Violet's son? I thought he was dead."

"Evidently not," Gabriele said.

"What was he doing there," Father asked. "Was he watching?"

"He was competing," Gabriele said. Then, insouciantly, after a silence: "He laid out Lord Faustos."

"He did ," Father said, his eyebrows bouncing. "Hmm. Well. I guess that's the end of his chances then."

Gabriele did not correct him. For some reason, she liked the idea that Marcus Demitri might have been disqualified, and wished he had been. There was something threatening about his total conviction.

The meal continued for several moments before what would be its permanent interruption, in the form of a tapping on the door. A Silver Guardsman bowed his way in. "Lord Basingame, we need your help for a thing. Concerning the Trials, sir."

Father stood immediately. "Why, what's wrong?"

"It's Marcus Demitri, sir," said the Guardsman. "He—"

"He's contesting his disqualification," Father asked.

"No, sir, he weren't disqualified, sir," said the Guardsman. "But—"

"He wasn't?" Father said. "But my daughter says he laid out Lord Faustos—"

"That he did, sir... Using not but his hands and feet," the Guardsman said, a bit of excitement creeping into his voice at the chance to relate the tale to his superior. "Lord Gevardos wanted to fail him, but he defended his case, he did. Said he did it to prove he could deal with a knight with not but his hands and feet. Said that he had to do it the real way 'cause there weren't no way for him to pretend."

Gabriele deciphered the commoner's speech in her head. Being able to deal with peasants and their less-than-eloquent language was an important part of being a ruler. The idea that the Guardsman was trying to imply was that there were no provisions in sparring for an unarmed opponent making unarmed attacks; he would never have treated as landing a blow because, under the rules, there were  none. So he had deliberately broken the rules to prove a point.

The Guardsman was still talking. "Lord Faustos—great man, sir, a great man—Lord Faustos said not to eject him, 'cause there's not one of the other boys is his equal in the fighting. And so he's still in."

"I see," said Father, a new note in his voice. "So what's the problem, soldier?"

"It's Marcus Demitri, sir," said the Guardsman. "He hasn't got a sponsor."

Gabriele felt her eyebrows climbing her scalp of their own accord. Now here  was a loophole she could exploit. Every candidate required a respected and acknowledged sponsor, unless of course the candidate was a man in his own right, at which point he could simply vouch for himself, though references were still a benefit. Most of the grown men had them.

"That's impossible," Father said. "No one can enter the Trials without a sponsor."

"Begging your Lordship's pardon, sir," said the Guardsman, "but, err... Yes they can. He has . But he sure can't win  the Trials without one, 'specially now as how they've caught him."

"A good point, soldier," said Father. "Come along, Gabriele. Let's sort this out."

For a moment Gabriele wanted to be petulant—she was heir to the throne! not some servant to be ordered about! But there were others about, and it was considered proper for young women to obey their fathers; and so she followed, seething to her private self.

Marcus Demitri was being held in an outer chamber, as befitted someone of his unknown status. Several of the Silver Guardsmen were there, as well as Lord Faustos, and then another man that Gabriele had seen around court on occasion, though she didn't well recognize him. He was a broad, solid man with a ruddy face and sharp cheekbones. His hair was a bronzish color, odd for a Winter, but Gabriele knew that she herself, with her rich golden hair, had very little room to speak.

"Lord Basingame," said Marcus Demitri, bowing low. "I am filled with rapturous joy to find you so well."

"Thank you," said Father, not blinking an eyelid at the florid politeness. "I too am pleased to see you well, Master Demitri. It had been said you were dead."

"Merely away in parts unknown, my lord," said Marcus, neatly sidestepping the veiled interrogation. "But I have returned now, and that is all that matters."

"Lord Faustos," said Father, inclining his head.

"My lord," said Lord Faustos with a bow.

Gabriele saw Father's eyes flick to the bronze-haired man. Lord Faustos picked up the hint. "My lord, this is Kenneth Tilmitt, one of the, ah, more outlandish  visitors you have allowed into the court." Lord Faustos did not bat an eyelash at the mention of a dangerous, terrifying mage—which was what this Kenneth Tilmitt was —because clearly he was blithely loyal to Father. "He is loyal to the throne, and I brought him in case... Something might occur that only he may deal with." In other words, if Marcus Demitri had something dangerous up his sleeve, this magic-user was around to keep him in check.

"I have been well-treated by the members of this court, my lord," said Master Tilmitt, bowing. His voice was profoundly resonant, seeming to emanate from all corners of the room. "A far better welcome than I might expect from any other place in these lands. If my lord wishes my service, he needs only name it."

His words were outrageous, and yet Gabriele sensed no deceit in his voice. His promise was given sincerely. Father, for his part, responded in dignity. "Thank you, Master Tilmitt. Your presence is all we require for the moment; I trust to your discretion."

"We have matters to discuss," Marcus Demitri said impatiently, his voice cutting the air like a knife.

"That is true, young master," Father said evenly, ignoring the veiled slight. "The matter of your lack of sponsor."

"Well, one must  be found," Gabriele said. "The law states that any man shall be eligible to compete if he so choose to, and nothing shall bar him back. Master Demitri clearly falls under the heading of 'any man,' so we had better find him one."

Father smiled at her. "Fair-minded as always, Gabriele."

"The castle provide sponsors to those who cannot find them otherwise," Gabriele said. "You need only to come and ask. Did you not do this?"

"How did  you get in?" Father asked. "The registrars asked for the name of your sponsor, did they not?"

"I gave them a false name," Marcus Demitri said, his voice inflectionless. "Your security is quite lax, my lord, they accepted me simply because I had all the proper information in the proper places. Only when they stopped to look  for Lord Notorio Absentio, to inform him of my success this afternoon, did they realize he doesn't exist."

"Oh, is that  what was going on," Kenneth Tilmitt said with a bright smile. "Guardsmen coming around and asking for someone with such an absurd name that he must clearly be fictional. I thought it was a very large practical joke."

"That it was, Master Tilmitt," Father said severely. "Young man, I do not appreciate the levity with which you approach the Trials."

"The same might be said about you, Lord  Basingame," Marcus snapped. "If your registrars had been trained and competent, and not simply satisfied to write down the material without caring, they would have detected my falsehood immediately. As it was, I was able to not only complete the first Trial, but to lure Princess Gabriele to within striking distance, before anyone even noticed  I was there under false pretenses. Had I been an assassin, she would now be dead."

"She would indeed," Lord Faustos said, his voice grim. "We'll have to pick up on our security, my lord."

"How would he have killed her?" Father asked. "The Trials allow no real weapons and each participant is searched carefully for hidden items!"

"On the contrary," said Marcus grimly. "There are at least three places I could have hidden a weapon that your Guardsmen didn't check."

"With his hands and feet, same as he 'killed' me !" Lord Faustos retorted. "Did he tell you the details?"

"Who?" said Father, confused by the undefined pronoun.

"The boy jumped up and kicked me in the head," Lord Faustos said. "That's not an easy feat, not for someone his height. He did it hard enough to knock me unconscious but not hard enough to do me any real harm. He's got excellent control, my lord. If he had wanted, he could've seen me laid out dead. You mustn't go underestimating the skill of this boy, my lord."

"If he's so dangerous, why hasn't he been expelled!" Father cried.

"If I may, my lord," Kenneth Tilmitt said. "He may be dangerous, but he is offering to be dangerous for your benefit. It is clear his skill and training warrants it. I think it would be foolish for you to reject him—at least, until you've learned from him all that you can."

"Training," said Father, latching on to the first coherent chunk of thought to bob his way. "Yes. Training. Where did you learn what you know, boy?"

"Yes, I think that's a pertinent question," Gabriele said. "Where have  you been, that everyone thought you were dead, Master Demitri?"

"I was in Pelanha," said Marcus Demetri calmly. His gaze burned her skin. "Studying with the Night Blades."

The Guardsmen took an involuntary step back. Father's hand flashed to his waist—seeking a sword hilt, she realized, grappling for a weapon he wasn't wearing. Master Tilmitt's eyes widened, and she felt a sudden tingling on her skin. Was he holding onto his monstrous Power right then and there?

Before them, Marcus Demitri stood calmly, a strange, self-satisfied gleam in his eye, his every posture and movement gleaming of death.

Suddenly they realized that Lord Faustos was laughing.

"You sure don't do things by halves, do you, boy!" he cried. "Kyrei save us! The Night Blades!" He wiped at his eyes. "And then he just... He just walks in and signs up for..."

The Night Blades were a band of assassins. They were paid to kill, as simple as that. They were among the most deadly people alive. Their skills were legendary, as were their fees. In their own way, they were honorable, but it wasn't wise to trust someone who, it was said, could kill with a look. The boy was right: if he had intended to, he could have slain her this afternoon.

The fact that he hadn't ...

"Are you an assassin," Father asked, his voice in surrogate for his sword.

"No, but many of them trained me," Marcus said calmly.

"Why are you here, boy," Father grated.

"To compete in the Trials, my lord."

"Who are you after!" Father thundered. "Who's the target!"

Marcus said nothing, his face calm and expressionless, and slowly Father's frothing anger died.

"A Night Blade's word is his life," Marcus said quietly. "We are hired and paid, but no one catches us if we do not want to be caught. Enough people seek to hire us that in a few days of business we could amass a fortune, and then live as kings without lifting a finger. The buyer has only our word that we will carry out the job he has hired us for... And yet, a Night Blade has never broken his word.

"I give you mine, my lord, that I am here to kill no man, save those that threaten your daughter. I have come to compete in the Trials and for no other reason. To win them, if Kyrei supports my fortune. Then I will be at your service, one of your liege men as these men are, and I would not raise hand against you or yours. If you choose to reject me, that is your right." He did not say what a foolish idea it would be. He didn't need to.

Father's teeth clenched.

Then he relaxed.

"There is still the matter of your sponsor, Master Demitri," he said.

"I'll sponsor him, sir," said Lord Faustos. "Naught have believed me, but I've known this boy since he was a wee toddler and I've always thought him an honorable man."

"You cannot, Faustos," said Father, "you're one of the officials of the Trial. The rules state that an official can't take a sponsor."

"Well... I could resign," said Faustos.

Father's eyes squeezed closed, and he passed a hand over his face. "That... Would be your right."

"I didn't mean it, m'lord," said Faustos apologetically, "I can see how mightily it'd pain you. But I offered it because I believe this boy should be allowed to continue. I believe it strongly."

"Master Demitri," said Master Tilmitt suddenly. "Would you object to one of my... Persuasion... Taking up your banner as a sponsor?"

Marcus Demitri looked up, and his eyes met those of Kenneth Tilmitt. For a moment, silent communication seemed to pass between them.

"I would not object," Marcus Demitri said.

"A mage sponsor... That might reflect badly on you, boy," said Lord Faustos.

"I am confident," said Marcus, "that my abilities will allow me to overcome this setback."

"Yeah, you would be," Lord Faustos grinned.

"And you, Master Tilmitt," said Father. "You agree to the assumption of these duties?"

"Well, I suppose I'd better find out what those duties are," Kenneth Tilmitt said dryly, "but insofar as they are within my power, I will carry them out to the best of my abilities."

"There you have it, m'lord," said Lord Faustos. "A candidate and a sponsor. Not bad for a night's work."

"Yes, yes," said Father distantly, "not bad indeed." He seemed to come to himself—perhaps remembering the acquisition of his own sponsor. "Thank you for your time this evening, gentlemen. I will see you on the morrow."

And thus did Marcus Demitri gain a sponsor.

---

Chapter 2

By the end of the Trials, the entire city was abuzz with talk of the dark-haired, dark-eyed boy. Marcus Demitri had done sensationally well, winning or placing highly in every event, no matter its content. He had proven himself exceptionally physically fit and conditioned; his understanding of statecraft was superb; fans were still talking about his brilliant play at the Castles board a week ago; and he had displayed a knowledge of Eretrian history that bested Gabriele's own. Some joked (perhaps more cheerfully than necessary) that should he be chosen, Gabriele herself would become superfluous. Word of his true nature, and the identity of his tutors, had not been made public; people spoke of him enough as it was.

But as much as he was competent, the news went around that he was unapproachable. In every event, but especially those involving teamwork, he was brusque, direct, sarcastic; when those around him failed to live up to his standards, he was known to chew them out at great length and detail. Even worse, he always seemed to be right. His lectures, delivered in a singsong lilt as though speaking to a child, were grating to receive, and precious few had ever found fault in him to attack in revenge.

Gabriele, sometimes called Catheryne, could see her life clearly: following after him in a flustered panic, hastily smoothing out ruffled feathers while he charged through the corridors of the palace dispensing wisdom and abuse in equal amounts. It was not something she looked forward to.

But all that was in the future—or might be. It was the last of the Trials, and Gabriele was obliged to attend. Her father was there, as was Her Majesty Queen Meralina and almost all the royal court and all the candidates that had not been disqualified. Almost all the opponents had been dismissed as well; the remainder were judges for this final event.

The contestants had been whittled down to a bare seven. The final event, outdoors on the practice field that had been cleared of all obstruction, would be a brutal test of endurance. The names of the seven candidates had been written on slips of paper (a sign of the court's wealth, to waste paper in such a way) and thrown into a golden bowl; the Queen herself would pick two of them, and the two would be pitted against each other in a three-minute sparring match. Then, during a single minute's rest period, a third name would be drawn, and that person would step forward to aid the loser; the winner would immediately face both. Any downed opponents were to lie as they fell, as they would in a real engagement, until the completion of the match, with either the aggressors or the lone defender falling. So it would continue until the defender was defeated, at which point he was permanently disqualified. Another two names would then be drawn and the process begun anew. Unless, of course, the defender should happen to defeat all the remaining candidates in a gigantic one-versus-many onslaught; this had happened only rarely, and any who accomplished it was immediately proclaimed First Lance to the Heir of Eretria.

As predicted, none of the effeminate boys had made it this far. To Gabriele's displeasure, Marcus Demitri had. He had shown himself as highly capable in all aspects of the Trials... But then, so had all the other remaining candidates. And this Trial, her father said, was much more difficult than any of the others. Father himself had only won because most of the truly skilled swordsmen had already been rejected due to sheer lack of stamina. But luck was deliberately allowed to part a part in the competition; Kyrei would watch over her own.

Gabriele had not bothered to learn any of the candidates' names; there were too many of them. A few of them she had picked up anyway, but of those, the only one still in the Trials was Marcus Demitri. So she wasn't entirely sure who went first, and who lost first, but a second opponent was added. The fellow defeated them handily, but the third was his downfall; he tripped over the 'bodies' of one of his already-defeated foes, and found himself laid open from throat to crotch before he could blink. Discouraged, he took a seat in the stands.

The man who had dealt the blow was Marcus Demitri.

Two new names were drawn, one of them coincidentally the 'body' that had caused so much trouble earlier. He won, but when the second stepped up to join the original opponent, Father winced. "He's forgotten his training," he murmured to her. "He's letting them control the fight. He should be splitting them apart and dealing with them one at a time." And indeed, the single challenger seemed to be spending most of his time fending off enemy attacks, instead of moving on the offensive. Even Gabriele, unversed in sword-work, could tell that he could not keep this up indefinitely; eventually someone would sneak a blow in that he couldn't deflect, and he would go down. Which was exactly what happened, and a second man was disqualified.

The next pair involved Marcus Demitri.

The two were given practice swords and bowed to each other in the ritual manner, and then to the throne. "For Queen and Crown," they intoned.

Father bent near her: "I'm glad he at least observes the proper forms."

The duel was over in less than five seconds. Marcus moved aggressively and his opponent simply didn't know how to react. His blade was a flickering blur, first high then low, first to one side then another, with the other man scrambling to catch up until finally the two blades met with the clack of wood on wood. Marcus's blade spiraled around and the other's went flying out of his hands, sending up puffs of dust as it hit the ground. A single stroke at the neck, halting just short of contact, and it was over. The opponent was breathing hard. Marcus was not.

There was applause from the audience. Father stared. "Kyrei's Light. He is  a Night Blade."

Queen Meralina was drawing another name. Marcus stepped into the circle again to signify his readiness, barely five seconds after the first man's sword had struck the dirt, and in a few moments, the fight was rejoined.

Even to Gabriele's untrained eyes, it was apparent that Marcus was a good fighter. He moved ever sideways, seeking new angles, using his two opponents against each other, refusing to let both attack him at once; but every few seconds, just as the one not occupying his attention had gotten into position and was preparing to come at him, he would strike them , throwing them off-balance and forcing them to retreat, reset and come again—which he didn't give them a chance to; he would pursue the second, giving his former opponent a breathless moment to gather their wits and position themselves to attack... At which point he'd turn to them and repeat the entire process.

"He can't keep that up forever," Father murmured, and Gabriele could see that he was right. But Marcus knew it too, seemingly—for his next darting shift pushed the fellow so far off-balance that Marcus was able to pursue and deliver a solid strike to the side of the fellow's stomach. A few moments after that, the other man was out.

"He seems to know what he's doing," Gabriele said casually to her father.

Father made a loud huffing exclamation. " Know  what he's doing?? He's a new Camden Locarno!"

The next battle should be interesting, Gabriele thought, for Marcus would not be able to continue using the tactics he had shown earlier. Against three people, there was no way he could shift back and forth quickly enough to keep from being struck. And she was proved right: he moved aggressively against his original opponent and removed him from the battle with a bare minimum of three attacks. He left the newest one for last. "Clever," said Father, "he's taking on the most tired opponents first. But they'll have their breath back soon and be fresh for the next round."

"Unless he finishes it quickly," said Gabriele. Again, her prediction was accurate, as Marcus, in an action that drew gasps from the audience, moved in as the other man slashed downward, sliding around the blow like smoke, moving so close to him that he could not use his sword. But Marcus had discarded his own blade and was free to use his hands, and in a moment the other man was disarmed and down.

There was a spattering of applause from some of the attendant Guardsmen, most notably from those around Lord Faustos, who was sitting not far from Gabriele and her father. Marcus turned and bowed to them—and Gabriele was surprised to see a small smile on his face. It looked strangely twisted, as if he was not used to smiling; but the faint glow in his cheeks betrayed him. Gabriele suddenly recognized the look, from others' faces, from the feeling it left on her own face: an expert being lauded by other experts for a moment of particular brilliance.

Father was clapping too. "He's got it," he told Gabriele. "If he doesn't overtax himself and trip on the next fight, he's got it. There en't a one of 'em who can touch him."

Gabriele frowned. Her father really shouldn't lapse into common speech like that. Her frown had nothing to do with the prospect of Marcus Demitri winning. Nothing at all.

The fourth and final contestant squared off against Marcus Demitri. Four-against-one odds. Men had been known to survive them, but there were certainly better ones. And most of those survivors hadn't been sixteen.

Marcus stood his ground, changing position every now and then but allowing the four to encircle him, a revolving ring that moved with him like a halo. "Oh, that's not good," said Father, "they've got him in a very bad position. Now one of them will give the signal and another one of them will know to—"

"Wait," said Gabriele. "How will they know?

Father's eyes opened wide, and he realized the mistake Marcus had allowed his opponents to make: that of assuming they knew how to fight together.

Before he could open his mouth, Marcus moved. He ran forward, the ring shifting frantically to keep him contained. His opponents on the field, indeed most of the audience, must have thought it a move of desperation—but father and daughter Basingame knew differently. He had broken their equilibrium for one crucial moment. And so they were the only two who weren't surprised when Marcus suddenly lunged sideways, his momentum swinging around, to engage and dispatch one of the four in a rapid and furious exchange.

The remaining three were astonished. One simply stood there, totally caught off-guard. Marcus gave him a poke with the tip of his practice blade—even from the stands they could see that it had no force behind it, that Marcus was merely making a point—and the startled opponent blinked a few times and then subsided to the ground in a desultory manner.

Marcus scrambled backwards, shifting desperately, his legs moving but gaining little ground. One of the remaining two, seeing his evident loss of footwork, gave chase—totally forgetting the downed bodies between them. He tripped over the first one and Marcus struck him with a blow that would have taken his head from his shoulders if the blade had been steel. As it was, the man would have a sore neck for quite a while.

That left only one—the newest, the most unknown. He was tall and lanky, with light brown hair, but his strikes came whipsnap quick, and Marcus was pushed to the defensive for the first time in the Trials. His face betrayed no anxiety, but his breathing was heavy, a previously unknown phenomenon, and a smile lit upon the other man's face and he stepped forward aggressively, his blade a darting blur.

Suddenly something set in Marcus's face, and he stepped forward into vicious assault. Now it was the other man giving ground, his face a mask of surprise, and then of concentration. Blade crashed on blade, and the courtyard rang with the dry cracks of their collisions, but neither contestant took a blow.

Then a horizontal swing came within inches of taking Marcus's head from his shoulders, and he was arching over backwards with the wind of the aggressor's blade of bundled lathes riffling his hair. There were general gasps from the audience.

Marcus fell backwards, landing hard on his back in the dirt, and the aggressor stepped forward with blade raised high. But Marcus twisted, his feet lashing out, and the man backed away again, fearful. It was all the time Marcus needed. His flailing feet turned into a twisting maneuver, and suddenly he was on one knee, his back facing the aggressor.

His opponent saw his chance and lunged in, his blade crashing down on Marcus's head. ...While, simultaneously, Marcus's blade darted out, stabbing one arm under the other, and took the other man in the gut.

There was a moment of silence as everyone absorbed what had just happened. Even the other 'dead bodies' were peeking at the milieu.

"Your Majesty, this is... Highly unprecedented," said Lord Gevardos.

"Yes, I see that," said the Queen. She raised her voice, pitching it out over the grounds. "Stand up, you two. Stand up, all of you. No need to fash yourselves while we decide."

The men on the practice field stood, and Queen Meralina said, "Bring the boy to me. What is his name?"

"Marcus Demitri, Your Majesty," Father said, as two Silver Guardsmen trotted out to comply with the queen's request. He stood up, beckoning for Gabriele to follow him, and they joined the Queen at the dais.

"Marcus Demitri?" said Queen Meralina. "I heard he was dead."

"That does seem to have been said in many corners, Your Majesty," said Lord Gevardos, who in normal capacity was the Minister of the Treasury, "but as you can see, he seems to be... Alive."

The Guardsmen were back. Marcus Demitri looked a bit pale, but otherwise none the worse for wear. Behind him, Kenneth Tilmitt hovered, looking strangely anxious.

"Well, young man, you certainly seem to have caused a fuss," said Queen Meralina. "Returning from the dead. And with such skills! Never in all my years have I seen such a display of swordsmanship." Gabriele thought that was rich. Like she had seen much at all  in all her years.

"Begging Your Majesty's pardon," said Father, "but we do need to decide."

It was an interesting dilemma. While Marcus had fulfilled the rules of the challenge by single-handedly defeating every one of his opponents, he had also lost,  by the rules of the challenge, by being defeated. Which should take precedence?

"He seems to have won and lost at the same time," said another of the judges, Lord Dautan, the Minister of Diplomacy.

"The two seem to even each other out," said Lord Gevardos. "If you give an apple to a man who is in debt to you one apple, he is left with nothing. Perhaps we should run the challenge again—"

"I must take objection to that idea, my lord," said Kenneth Tilmitt.

"Who is this man?" said Queen Meralina.

Tilmitt bowed. "Kenneth Tilmitt, this boy's sponsor, Your Majesty. If I may continue?" At her wave, he did: "Master Demitri is presently exhausted. His opponents are clearly tired as well. It would be unfair to subject them to further rigors."

"Then run it again tomorrow," said Lord Dautan.

"No, unacceptable," said Lord Gevardos. "They will have had too much time to study their opponents. The challenge is designed to present each defender with a series of unknown aggressors and force them to learn on their feet. If they are given forewarning..."

"Look," said Father, "it seems to me that he has actually won."

"Nonsense, he was killed," said Lord Ranescan, Minister of the Interior.

"By the rules, that doesn't matter," Father said.

All looked to Lord Gevardos.

"The rules say..." he said, frowning. "The rules... Do  say that being 'killed' is grounds for disqualification only before  all other opponents are defeated. It says nothing about after."

"Yes, but what about during ," Lord Ranescan asked.

Lord Faustos spoke for the first time, his gravelly voice jovial. "So he'll clearly fight to the last breath. What more do you want?"

"The First Lance is expendable, Your Majesty," Father said, "that is his nature. He is a soldier. It is better for him to die and his charge live, than for him to live and his charge die."

"Yes, but it is good if they both  live," Queen Meralina said.

"It has never been a matter of what is good, my lady," said Father quietly. "But rather, a matter of what is best."

The queen was silent for a moment, perhaps remembering her own experiences in the Time of Trials—perhaps thinking about the man who had been chosen for her, a man who was the best, but not necessarily good.

"What do you think, Catheryne," said Queen Meralina, using Gabriele's private name.

"I think that he clearly has the confidence of those around him," Gabriele said, carefully refraining from mentioning whether her confidences were included.

"Hmm," said the queen, thinking again.

"It's highly irregular," she said finally, "but I believe that our champion has been found." She raised her voice again.

"We pronounce this boy the victor."

The applause was deafening in intensity. Gabriele clapped mechanically, her eyes resting on her new First Lance, wondering what life now held in store for her. Marcus Demitri had proven himself unparalleled in the necessary skills and abilities... But who was  he?

A pair of Guardsmen came out with cloak and sword that marked his office, the cloak blue and grey with a golden shield embroidered on one side and the emblem of Eretria, a five-petaled flower, on the other; now with those settled around shoulders and waist, they guided Marcus Demitri up a step on the dais, where he knelt.

"You have accomplished the tasks and trials set before you," Father intoned. "It is now your right, should you so choose, to take upon you the office of First Lance to the Heir to the throne of Eretria."

"What is your decision," Queen Meralina asked.

"I accept, Your Majesty," said Marcus Demitri in a ringing voice.

"Then—" Father drew his sword and passed it to the queen, and she tapped his shoulders with the flat of the blade: left, right, left. She gave the sword back to Father. "I now pronounce you First Lance to Princess Gabriele Basingame of Eretria. May your lives together be long and prosperous."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," said Marcus Demitri.

Gabriele wondered why nobody had asked her.

"Rise," said Father, and Marcus did. "Turn," said Father, and Marcus did. He pitched his voice out into the stands: " Presenting the First Lance to the Heir of Eretria! "

And thus it came to be that Marcus Demitri became the advisor to Princess Gabriele Basingame.

---

The fete was a loud, boisterous affair, held in the royal banquet hall; food and wine flowed freely, and citizens of all rank and placement were allowed inside (which probably accounted for the loud-and-boisterousness, Gabriele thought). It seemed like fun. Gabriele herself had no idea. She sat on a dais at the far end of the hall—not on the queen's dais, of course, but on a smaller dais in front of it, specially set up for the night—with Marcus standing at her side, greeting a continuous stream of well-wishers, commenters and even visitors who simply wanted to see with their own eyes.

The tailors had worked frantically in the few hours after the last Trial, and Marcus now wore black, form-fitting clothes in military styling with silver trim. The Shield and the Rose were embroidered on his left breast. The slightly-curved sword, a mirror to the one at her father's own waist except for being a bit smaller, rested at his hip. Though he was shorter than many, his cold eyes and clear readiness gave the impression of having more stature.

And Gabriele... She could well imagine herself, a woman swaddled in an outrageous pink dress that did nothing for her coloring and whose bodice sagged alarmingly, meant to cover a bosom that simply wasn't there yet; a dress accented with enough lace for three women, in that alarming pink and apricot and silver. Who exactly had commissioned this garment? She was sure that everyone thought her absurd-looking but were too polite to mention it. Oh well, it couldn't be helped.

At some point during the evening—a couple hours had passed at least—somebody was thoughtful enough to send her (via servants) a plate of food and a rather spindly table to set at (since, of course, no princess should ever be seen eating with her hands). In the general commotion of being polite and saying hello to everybody, she hadn't realized how hungry she was. It occurred to her to send Marcus to eat as well, or have something sent for him, for he must be as hungry as her if not hungrier (it was strange  having an other half to remember all the time!), but when she turned to look for him, he was gone.

It was alarming. One moment there he'd been, and the next he had disappeared.

The servants said, "Oh, Lord Demitri?" (for titles and attendant power were bestowed on every First Lance, no matter how mean; Gabriele wondered how many had competed simply for the chance of the wealth). "He's been called away, Your Grace, on matters of... Well, you'll have the same thing later tonight, if you catch my meaning." A wink and a nod. She knew what they meant. "He had food sent you and then left. I think he's had his food already. And if not he'll have plenty to chew on presently!"

A monstrous wink and some good-natured chuckling. Yes, she got the picture now, thank you.

Marcus had sent her  food? Marcus had realized she  was hungry? It was such a startling reversal that she really didn't know what to think. She hadn't realized he was capable of thinking about other people.

By the time she had emptied the plate and, feeling devilishly gluttonous, was wondering if she should send for more, Nurse had appeared at her shoulder. "It's time," was all she said.

Nurse combed her hair and wiped her face free of makeup, and then helped her into the knee-length sheer satin robe that had been prepared for this occasion, a feather-light garment in moon-colored white that belted across the front. "My Lady is becoming a woman now." Despite being demure, it made Catheryne feel extremely exposed, because she could feel fresh air circulating in parts it almost never reached. "I fear that My Lady's father might see fit to dismiss me now. Oh, what am I saying, what does it matter." She gave the shoulders a twitch and stood back to admire her charge. "There now. You look—"

"Of course  it matters," Catheryne said, reaching out to take Nurse's shoulders. "If not for you I don't know what would've become of me. If my father thinks he can just dismiss you, well... I'll talk to him. I may be growing older, but..." She sighed. "That doesn't mean I don't still need someone to look out for me." After all, why else all this rigamarole with the First Lance?

Nurse smiled, a strangely sad thing. "My Lady is wise beyond her years. But she will be a full-grown woman soon, with no need of apron strings to hang to."

"Well, maybe not apron strings," Catheryne said, suddenly aware of this woman's place in her life. How many times had she gone running to Father, only to find him sealed away in some secret meeting or court function or diplomatic envoy? How many times had Nurse been the one to smooth her brow instead? "But other things."

Nurse smiled again, an expression layered with meanings that Catheryne could not comprehend, and said nothing.

The room in which Catheryne would have her first experience was empty when she arrived, or so it seemed; multiple curtains, made mostly of the same sheer stuff as her robe but quite a bit more translucent, hung from the ceiling in multiple rings around the bed. The bed, of course, was the center of the room. It had no coverlet, only the undersheet, and two pillows. Of course, it was not meant for sleeping. The moment she left, the sheet would be stripped, and the blood of her second passing into adulthood would be displayed publicly in the banquet hall. Then Princess Gabriele would be officially invested as heir to the throne, a title that could only be given to a grown woman

She sat on the bed, the single doorway hidden by the diaphanous curtains. The man who would perform the ceremony on her had not yet appeared. Any number of assassins could hide behind these curtains,  she thought, looking around her. Where's Marcus when you need him.   And then, a bit irreverently: He could watch.

A rustling noise made her jump, but it was just Nurse, settling into the room's single chair. She was there to chaperone the event, to make sure nothing got out of hand. Catheryne had known this going in, but it was somehow unnerving to realize somebody would be watching.

She wasn't at all sure what to expect. She knew what it was; that had been explained to her by her own father after she had once interrupted him and the Lady Denrasta. It had been quite confusing at first—she seemed to be in pain, but her father would not stop; nor would she stop kissing him and urging him on. He had explained it quite thoroughly afterwards, the various appendages and urges involved, but she remained a bit distrustful of the subject. And he had only been able to deliver the male view on the subject. Her own mother, who should have been handling these affairs, was dead, but a number of women, acting as surrogates, had spoken to her on the matter; Nurse, and Cook in the kitchens, and the Lady Elaine Gevardos, and others that she did not know so well; and even Queen Meralina herself. Their advice had been varied, and at times perplexingly contradictory.

Her Majesty had been probably the least useful. "It happens, every so often. It's not the most monstrous thing. The pain isn't... Well. You'll become used to it. Your husband will like it, and of course it's necessary for having babies, but..." All delivered with a wavery, distant look. Queen Meralina was a singularly unexciting person with a tired, slack face as if her flesh were beginning to peel from her bones; Catheryne had learned to take her advice with a grain of salt.

Nurse had said, "'Tis an honor to Kyrei, the Mother-Creator, She Whose Hand Shelters, when a child comes out of the act... But at other times, 'tis the caress of Loduur, of He Who Brings Pain and Defilement. Not that there isn't pain to begin  with, but... Be careful ere you share it—be of the proper times in your cycle. And use it to keep your husband steady and faithful, for creatures of the flesh they are, and he'll follow where you lead."

"You'll love it," said Cook emphatically. "It'll be painful at first, because it's small, you see? and it has to learn to grow. But you'll love it. It's the men who always want it, but it's the women  who really enjoy  it. Find yourself a man who knows what he's doing. Your life will be blissful and carefree. Or..." Leaning closer, in a conspiratorial whisper: "If you can be really  careful, find a woman  who knows what she's doing. Nothing like one to teach one, I always say."

Really, she wasn't sure what to make of it all. Princess Gabriele, of course, could simply nod and smile and thank them for their time, and then be drawn into the next lesson on court intrigues, or on the care and feeding of armies, or on the proper way for a lady to hold her knife and fork, and in learning all those things, forget about it. But Princess Gabriele had been left at the door. She was a creature of poise and dignity and a certain defensive armor; it was Catheryne who would have to go, naked or almost naked, to this final meeting.

The thick cloth curtain used as a door shifted open on metal rings. Nurse looked up with unreadable eyes, and then seemed to fade into the surroundings, becoming invisible.

A figure dressed stepped through the various veils and curtains. He wore a robe cut of the same material as hers, in the same style. He looked not much taller than she was. She wondered who it would be. Almost anyone could be chosen, but not just anyone would  be—it required a man of a certain sensitivity, her father said. It might not be true for the commoners—for every girl went through this process eventually—but for the Princess and Heir, only the best would—

And so it was with some surprise that she saw her own new First Lance, Marcus Demitri, parting the final layer of veil to face her.

"Marcus?" she said.

"Your Highness," he said evenly, not inclining his head.

"They've... You've been..."

"My own ceremony was just now," he said. "In case you didn't notice, I left early—"

"I did notice, thank you—"

"Actually, my manhood ceremony was several months ago," he said, "in Pelanha, overseen by the Night Blades. But your father obviously wanted to make sure that I could do a good job—"

"Yes, about that, how did  you get picked? I mean, you're not..."

"I asked your father. He saw no reason to refuse me—once he had ascertained that I possessed an acceptable level of skill—"

"Yes, but you're not... I mean... You aren't..."

The simple fact was, she could sooner imagine Marcus sprouting wings and flying away than being a good lover. For that matter, she could hardly conceive of him as a lover at all . There was such a distance about him; he carried with him at all times an emotional moat several miles wide. It seemed to her that such a remote person should not have need for the indignified huddlings of physical love, that he should simply be able to switch it off and ignore it. Why had he been chosen?

"I have expressed to your father," said Marcus Demitri, "and now express to you, a wish to be as competent and effective a First Lance as possible. To that end, there are certain things that, I believe, are required of us."

Catheryne felt a chill. Things that are required of us . It was as if he was speaking of signing a contract.

"I could ask for somebody else to be brought in," she said. That was always an option. Elders were wise, but they had been known to make mistakes; or there were sometimes extenuating factors. Sometimes there was sheer nerves: men were who found themselves unable to stand to attention when the time came. There was always a backup for such situations, but it was embarrassing for the original man.

"It would be your right," said Marcus. "But I assure you, Catheryne, that I will not disappoint you." A heartfelt pledge in someone else's mouth was a flat statement in his.

She shifted uncomfortably. It was odd to hear her name from his mouth. "You know my private name. What is yours?"

"Jordan," he said.

She looked at him for a moment—his calm, unlined face. He could not be much older than she was, she realized, or else his face would look different; but the almost unnatural calm and self-possession on his face was enough to make him look far older. It was as if he had seen horrors so awful that nothing could surprise him again.

"What made you like this," she asked suddenly. "What made you so... Distant?"

Marcus—Jordan—gave her a singularly grim look. "That, my lady, is my business, not yours."

"Mar—Jordan—whoever... Jordan, you can't just keep being distant like that. Eventually you're going to have to tell me some thing about yourself."

"Perhaps," said Jordan, which Catheryne thought was his polite way of saying, 'No, I don't.' "Does Your Highness find me acceptable, or shall we send for another man?"

Her first decision as a woman, or perhaps her last as a girl. It would be well for her to choose wisely; beginnings are such an auspicious time. Nurse was nearby to make sure nothing would get out of hand; and if only one thing could be said about this Marcus Demitri fellow, it was that he could clearly do anything. Why should this be any different? And her father had chosen him. No matter what, Father would not have allowed someone inappropriate into this room, at this time.

"I guess you'll do," she said.

"Her Highness's confidence in me is overwhelming," he said emotionlessly, moving to the bed.

She gaped at him. "Did you just make a joke ? You have a sense of humor ?"

"I am glad to see Her Highness in such high spirits," he said blandly.

"If I have one more massive surprise like that, I just might die of shock," she drawled.

"Then, seeing as it is my duty to safeguard  Her Highness's life," said Jordan, "perhaps I should simply get down to business."

She looked at him, piqued. "It's not just 'business,' you know. This isn't just something that you do because you have to." It was the last ritual step of her awakening womanhood—to be made a woman, and to be made to know what it was women knew.

"Maybe not to you , Your Highness," said Jordan.

She felt a chill that had nothing to do with her relative nakedness. "Perhaps you'd better just get on with it."

He climbed onto the bed, the panels of his robe giving her a flashing glimpse of his manhood as he passed—flaccid, hanging limply, it did not look like the powerful, potent object everyone had led her to expect. She had barely time to notice the wrinkled skin and short, downy covering of dark hair before he passed out of her line of view. She felt his weight settle behind her; and then there was nothing for a time.

"Why, what's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm deciding how to go about this," he said, a disembodied voice behind her that clearly found the interruption irritating. It was a normal voice—not too deep, not too bright; not too raspy, not too thin. It could be mistaken for any hundreds of other voices.

She twisted to look behind her—he was kneeling, his feet under him, hands on his knees. She looked up at his face, at his impassive eyes. "What's to decide? You touch me, you kiss me, you take my flower. It's simple."

His eyes closed for a moment. "It's not so simple as that." He reached out with his hands—they descended on the top of her head, the palms wide and warm, and gently twisted her head back until she was facing forward.

No one had spoken about this. "What are you doing?"

"Be still," he said, in a voice as gentle as she had ever heard from him—that was to say, a neutral tone, devoid of any emotional overlays. "Be still and trust me. That, at least, is not an absurd thing to ask."

Now what did that  mean? What 'absurd thing' had he asked before? Or had he been going to ask? She started to question, but then his fingers ran through her hair, over her scalp, down between the long, fine strands that shone in the candlelight. It felt... Nice. She had always liked it when Nurse combed her hair. A pleasant tingling sensation built up in her scalp, and then began to spread deeper into her body. Moment by moment, she slowly relaxed.

His hands moved to her neck, clasping to the sides; his thumbs began a warm rotation on either side of her spine. Nothing like this had ever been done to her before, and she rather liked it. Her eyes closed and she felt a month and a half of nervous dread slowly flowing out of her body like water. His thumbs moved in slow circles down her neck, until his palms were rubbing her shoulders.

"Where did you learn this," she breathed.

His palms moved in silence for a moment before he answered. "We are trained to fight with our hands," he said. "And to know where on the body to strike if we need to disable instead of kill. The human body is sensitive to many types of feeling in many places." One hand, his right, ceased its motion; his fingertips trailed down her body to a point on her lower back. "Being struck... Here... For example..." His fingertips exerted a subtle, deep pressure, making her aware of the potential for discomfort. "Can be very painful." His hand resumed its position at her shoulder blades. "These are useful things to learn."