Milady’s Wiles             by: Brandy Dewinter, with the invaluable assistance of P.J. Wright

 

Chapter 3 - Tan Fog

The dawn found Mother and I watching from the battlements as the four known heirs to the throne of Achaiea walked to their doom. Mother’s golden hair took a deep copper color from the blood of the rising sun, so soon to be matched by the blood of human cruelty. I knew mine looked the same for this morning Mother and I were identical in all respects save age. It was her intention to reinforce the image of my gender by constant reference to her own. Together we wore widow’s black, accented by silver that took on the color of the sun to look like drops of blood already spattered on our bodies.

Bareth would not stand out in the annals of our realm for the sac-rifice of his life. In the oldest records no distinction was made between this surrender to death, and death in battle. In truth, there was no practical difference as the losers were always executed. We had become more civilized since then. Now a dozen peasant families had already been sacrificed to escort my brother to his eternity. Yet another dozen stood by to ensure he held steadfast to his duty. Such "civilized" escorts were also no longer remarkable. In time, he would be most memorable for the shortness of his reign, over within hours of his accession to the throne. I wondered if I would survive long enough to have a record of my own, and what it would say.

As the rays of light crept lower into the valley before the castle the color lightened to a more golden hue. This did not fill the view with warmth, though. It showed a shifting tan carpet, swirling over the ground like fingers of fog, ever moving with no distinct form or structure. This was the way of the High Canyon horde, never called an army. Their clothes were as uniform as they could make them, disdaining honorable coats of arms for anonymity in battle except for those whose deeds were so great that no artificial identity was required. Their horde as a whole moved in apparent confusion for the same purpose. It was impossible to count them as they constantly shifted elements from one sector of the battlefield to another.

There was no doubt about the destination of our men, though. The headsman was prominent a long crossbow reach from the drawbridge. Bareth and his three uncles moved steadily forward, neither hesitation nor anxi-ety in their strides. When they reached the waiting tan-covered men it appeared that the faceless members of the horde knew something of our royal family for each was questioned. From our distance it was impossible to tell what the interrogation entailed but apparently the answers were satisfactory to our invaders. Each Achaiean man turned toward the crenel-lated wall where Mother and I stood, saluting our bright hair one last time before submitting to a professionally quick end. In all-too-brief sequence the males of the royal family were dispatched.

Those murders were only the most dramatic sign of our surrender. The gates of Stalwart Guard were to remain open as sign of submission of the people as a whole. A contingent of the horde flowed toward our castle even as the bodies of our men were bundled in cloths and presented to the disarmed retinue that had accompanied them.

With regal dignity I strove to match, Mother descended from the wall and entered the throne room where she took her accustomed place in the Queen’s high seat. I, of course, could not take the royal throne as was my right. Instead, I stood at her shoulder in the position of a prin-cess. And in the raiment of a princess. And under it all, the maiden’s lover. It had not been a comfortable night for me. The tightness of the too-narrow waist had prevented easy breathing regardless of my position and the unaccustomed bulk of the bosom I had so strangely acquired main-tained a sensation of discord in any of my normal postures. I didn’t want even to think of the unnatural compression in a so-intimate place. Still, the artistry of the palace cosmetician overcame such minor obstacles as a sleepless night and I looked more attractive than I would have believed possible just 24 hours before.

The doors to the throne room were thrown open with casual disregard for protocol, I thought. Then it came to me this was not casual at all, it was flamboyantly arrogant. Yet the actions of those intruding in our chamber were not individually flamboyant. Perhaps a dozen members of the horde entered, though even here it was hard to tell as they maintained their habitual swirl. There was an island of stability in their fog. A pair of men clothed in tan approached on a straight, unyielding line. A third man bearing the symbol of their pagan religion followed the stead-fast two.

A few feet in front of the dais one threw back his obscuring hood. We saw a face too harsh to be merely lean. Not harshness of expression, of which there was none, but harshness of a deeper, permanent sort. When the children of Achaiea were learning to laugh, the child this man had been was learning to live without water for days at a time. That dryness still pervaded him, a parched visage with no waste about it, not even the waste of muscle to pad skin stretched too tightly over sharp-edged bones.

His voice was much the same, toneless yet sharp, with no inflection.

"Madame Selay, I presume."

Mother ignored his comment utterly, gazing at the open doorway as though still waiting for someone to enter.

I saw that I had misjudged the man. There was humor in him after all. It was just not reflected in his face unless he chose to use the expression as part of his communication. A tight smile recognizable by the contrast to his previous neutrality accompanied his next comment, "Queen Selay, then."

At this Mother nodded her head with rigid precision. Her glance never left the open doorway beyond our intruder’s head, but she acknow-ledged his unwelcome presence once her own recognition was proper.

"I am Kragdle, King of High Canyon, and by grace of the one true God, now ruler of Achaiea," he declared, stepping up to confront Mother from a distance too close for proper court protocol. Still his voice was absent, the comments carried seemingly by force of personality rather than the volume others would need.

He waved his hand and the other figure who had strode directly to our dais pulled back his own hood and approached to stand in front of me. This man was inches taller than Kragdle and had the wide shoulders and large hands of my father and older brother. Yet his body reflected a lean economy more reminiscent of Bareth. Of the men in my experience, my father and brothers had been the greatest warriors. This man, though, looked to combine the best of the fighters in my heritage. His face did not show the harshness of the thirst that had marked Kragdle, yet the additional flesh he carried on his face was spare and efficient. More than any other distinction from his father though, his warm, brown eyes lacked the ruthlessness of the glittering chips of black rock displayed by our conqueror. Instead, the eyes showed interest, all the more terrifying when I realized I was the primary focus of that interest.

"Your Majesty," in another voice there would have been a sneer buried in that comment to the Queen but the flatness of Kragdle’s whisper robbed it of clear insult, "allow me to present my son, Lyonidas. He will be regent in Achaiea. In accordance with that duty, I have charged him to act as judge in our first case. A case of possible treason."

Then he turned that snake’s glare on me.

"Ah, what have we here? A royal princess, no less," he whispered in that voiceless hiss. "We had heard rumors of another child."

He started to move toward me and one of the royal guards moved to in-terpose himself. An instant of irritation flickered in the black coals of Kragdle’s eyes. He looked around the throne room at the surviving leaders of the Army of Achaiea and his smile changed to something even uglier.

"Lyonidas, my son, have you ever noticed how hard it is to tell the difference between the Achaiean soldiers and . . . their women?" he mused without inflection.

"Why, even this delicate flower might be one of their noble warriors in disguise," he continued, pointing at me.

A low, wordless growl escaped from the men of Achaiea in the room. There was a shifting that cleared sword arms. Kragdle ignored it com-pletely but his swirl of men did not. Their own arms moved beneath the concealing cloaks, accompanied by a muted whisper of steel withdrawing from sheaths.

Lyonidas forestalled the imminent battle by stepping up to me with a grin. He ignored my guard and said to his father, "There is really only one way to be sure."

A shake of Mother’s head even more constrained than her previous acknowledgment caught Lyonidas’ attention. Kragdle used the opportunity to deliver a threat he had obviously intended from before he entered the throne room.

"Why, if we found that this creature were male," this part was said with amusement, but then his tone became vicious, "or if we found another male heir hidden anywhere in the castle, we would be forced to execute every single member of the Achaiean royal family to ensure that no other heirs masqueraded among the inhabitants. Since such treachery might permit disguise as serving girls, or even children, every person residing in this castle would be sacrificed to the traitor’s deception."

Again there was that flicker of amusement on Kragdle’s sun-darkened features as he observed the total lack of response from Mother. No fear, no guilt, no anxiety colored her regal features. After it was clear his threat would bring no response, he concluded with yet another question, "Is there anything you wish to say before we conduct our trial?"

Queen Selay finally spoke, "This is my daughter, Cherysse. I am not responsible for your rumors. You have the power to murder peasants, and for that reason our heirs died in honor. Do not assume that gives you ultimate power over us. We who remain will die before we are dishonored . . . for death is available to all. If you defile my daughter, we will save you the trouble of executions and with our dying breath we will curse you before God. Our people will know of your perfidy and of the use-lessness of surrender. You will not see any value from your usurpation and butchery, not now, and not for future generations too numerous to count."

The smile vanished from Kragdle’s face while Mother spoke. At the end of her speech he put it back on his features with deliberate intent, but he stepped back. The amusement on his face made a claim of being still in control of this audience, but the true battle of wills had been won by Mother and at least she, Kragdle, and I knew it.

"Lyonidas, how would you determine if this is truly a woman?" he offered with that tight little grin. My sex was clear in his mind but he would use this joke he had made up himself as an excuse to gloat about his power.

Lyonidas reached out to me with his large, muscular hands. The audience in the chamber gasped, then gasped again as Queen Selay stood.

"For countless generations the Imperial Edict has proscribed the defilement of women, whether maid or matron," she reminded him.

"There hasn’t been an Emperor for most of those generations you invoke," Kragdle snarled.

"Perhaps not, but the other nations of the old Empire still obey those precepts of civilization. My brother, King Nikolai of Verdantland has told me many times of his respect for those ancient traditions."

At this thinly veiled threat Kragdle’s eyes narrowed once again. It was well known that there had been border squabbles between High Canyon and Verdantland for years as Nikolai had tried to take advantage of any distraction Kragdle might experience in his conquests. The High Canyon campaign against our nation had been so swift that Queen Selay’s brother had not had time to mobilize while the High Canyon horde was outside home borders and Verdantland was not strong enough for a bald invasion of High Canyon. However, an atrocity or two would bring Nikolai allies, perhaps enough to give Kragdle a real challenge.

Still, great conquerors are great gamblers. Kragdle had not built an empire from nothing by being intimidated by distant threats. Just the opposite, his arrogance led him to believe he could do as he wished with us and still protect his past conquests. I could see a decision forming in his eyes to make his strength clear with a gesture suitably disdainful of the old customs.

Before he said anything though, I spoke up. My bookish, unmanly studies had provided me with another control on his aggressiveness. My words were not directed to Kragdle, but to the silent shaman with the pagan wand, "Is it not written in the book of Aster, ‘Who wars on an innocent maiden of a conquered land will face destruction. Verily, even unto the least of the followers of the defiler’?"

The shaman jerked at hearing the words of his own Holy Writ. His answering nod was too reflexive for him to solicit permission from his King. It provoked a stirring from Kragdle’s other silent escorts as they realized that Kragdle was threatening their own souls with his power games.

Kragdle’s eyes held mine for a long moment. He took in my golden hair and blue eyes as though noticing them for the first time. Then his glance flickered to Queen Selay for an instant, reminding himself of our similarity. When he spoke, his hiss was too quiet for his own men to understand. Only the Queen, Lyonidas, and myself heard his comment, "I had heard that the noblewomen of Achaiea were witches with strange mental powers. Well, I don’t believe it. I have beaten ‘King Andros and his two sons, the finest fighters in Achaiea’ and I can beat the women and chil-dren that remain, witch powers or no."

After holding my gaze, and then Queen Selay’s, for long enough to make the point that he was not intimidated, he glanced sidelong at Lyonidas. Uncertainly showed in the son’s features for a long second, then he again moved toward me.

"Do you really think it is making war on a maiden, when all I want to do is see if this vision of loveliness has a woman’s sensuality as well?"

Lyonidas’ eyes never left me. That is not to say they never left my eyes for his own gaze slowly absorbed my form from golden halo of intri-cate hairstyle, past swell of apparently full bosom, to sweep of sleek waist, stopping only with a speculative glance at what might be hidden behind the full skirts. Where Kragdle was a leathery snake, Lyonidas was a languid lion, secure in his power, not intense with taut energy. Only once his gaze had completed his evaluation of my form, did he again look directly into my face.

"Father," he said with a ponderous tone at odds with the amusement lurking within his soft brown eyes, "there is definitely evidence of treachery here. However, the obvious evidence is against those outside the authority you have given me. Those spies who report to you have claimed that the women of Achaiea are the most beautiful in all the world, yet that report so understates the truth as to be tantamount to deliberate lie. I assume you will deal with them yourself when you return home."

Now he spoke directly to me with a possessiveness in his tone that transformed the meaning in his respectful words, "My princess, it is also rumored that once a girl of Achaiea reaches the age of fertility, only her husband . . . or her lover . . . ever see her hair unbound. Is this true?"

"Such is our custom," I replied, "and if you know that, you know that husband and lover are one and the same."

"Always?" His amusement now twitched at his eyes as well as his lips.

"For those who are honorable, yes," I declared.

"And for you?" Now he grinned openly.

I slapped him.

It was a reflex so fast that I didn’t even have time to consider any consequences. Deacon would never have done it. When struck with an equivalent insult, Deacon had called on the white-cold mind for the power to restore respect. But my responses were now driven by Mother’s personality and she was a woman of strength in many more ways than just power of mind.

Swords appeared in the hands of the tan swirl behind Lyonidas and it began to flow toward the dais almost before the echo had died. They were stopped by Lyonidas’ laughter.

"Ah, a woman of spirit. We had reports of that as well. Tell me, girl, are you yet a maiden?"

This time it was my turn for the curt, tiny nod that Mother had demonstrated. I felt my lips tighten at this continued insult but no out-of-control reflex lifted my hand for another physical response.

Without further words he reached up and started removing the combs and pins from my hair. His touch was gentle and his hands never came close to my body, nor even my face. Nothing in his slow, soft touch ever quite became enough threat to present an unbearable attack, though the insult of stripping my hair was as great as stripping my body. A woman’s status was defined by the arrangement of her hair no less than a man’s status was defined by his coat of arms. To take down the combs from my hair and let it flow freely was to take away my status as a princess. Worse, it left me less than a simple but honorable maiden of Achaiea, such as the peasant girls who had been slaughtered so casually.

Yet, it triggered sensations within me that I did not understand. Only a lover caressed a woman’s hair this way. As he removed the decora-tions, strands began to hang down in unbalanced disarray, tugging my head even as his ministrations tugged on the combs and pins. A part of me wanted to slap his hands away just to finish more quickly than his slow pace would support. But a part of me found the gentle caresses he gave my hair to be unimaginably sensual, so much so that my eyes closed in appre-ciation of the sensations. When he finished and my golden mane again fell in free tumbles, I gave a reflexive shake of my head to cause the scat-tered strands to lay behind my shoulders. Another unconscious reflex tucked a portion behind each ear to keep it out of my face as I re-opened my eyes.

"Father," Lyonidas reported, "I tell you that this is a woman. Her hair is natural, and too beautiful for a man. Her reflexes show that this hair has been always been part of her life. However, in watching it flow freely, I find a treason on her part, after all."

Another gasp filled the chamber, but I could see the amusement shining in his eyes and knew destruction was not on his mind.

Lyonidas continued speaking to his father but looking only at me, "It degrades the beauty of your new realm to restrict such beauty with combs and gaudy distractions. As your regent, I issue my first formal edict. Henceforth, only such hair adornments as enhance Our ability to see a woman’s features will be permitted. Combs to keep her shining sunlight from her face, or perhaps a clasp to gather it, will be allowed, but in no cases is the full length of it to be bound. It must be allowed to flow unfettered and reflect her grace when she moves."

With that he picked up two of the combs of status that had been so painstakingly added to my hair that morning and offered them to me. I took them and worked them quickly into my hair above and behind my ears to hold the golden mass free of my features. Why did I not resist? In later moments I would never be able to really explain, but at that par-ticular moment I wanted to do what Lyonidas directed.

His smile at my compliance completed the transformation of his features into a generous openness, but that smile was only for me. Even as he turned back to his father, I saw the mask of neutrality move again across his visage. That I could understand since his father was clearly not given to outward displays of emotion. But what was the meaning of the small nod he gave his father when their eyes met? He had already announced his conviction that I was indeed a maiden.

The small smile of amusement on his father’s face had never wavered, but he gave a small nod of his own before turning to the Queen. "Your Majesty, this edict applies to all the unmarried women in the kingdom, except only yourself. It will be a sign of availability for your women that my men may use to determine who to woo and win."

"None will be courted until after our mourning period," Queen Selay declared with a finality that made it clear what forcing a woman would cause. Her own duty, and her own willingness to sacrifice to that duty if needed were never more clear. Kragdle gave a minuscule nod of his own head to acknowledge her threat.

"How long will this mourning last?" he asked.

"That depends on the circumstances of the woman’s loss. If she has no personal losses in the war, then her mourning will last only the three months due the loss of her King. If she has lost a brother or cousin, our customs call for six months. If she has lost a husband, no less than nine months is required to ensure clear paternity in the event of issue."

Lyonidas interrupted, "And how long will your lovely daughter mourn?"

Mother provided me as much margin as she could, "Princess Cherysse has lost her father, two brothers, and three uncles. While I will only require formal mourning clothes for three months, as I shall wear, no one will be allowed to court her for at least a full year."

I could see an intention to argue on Lyonidas’ face but his father responded with his dry whisper, "This is acceptable."

The glance that passed between the two tan-garbed men was full of promise to discuss this further, in private, but it held no greater signi-ficance than the glance that passed between Mother and I.

With only the barest of nods, Kragdle turned and strode from the throne room. Lyonidas took a moment to capture my eyes. Then his gaze swept the other women of the court and his fingers danced a light twiddle that made it clear their hair should be unbound the next time he saw them. Turning quickly, his longer strides caught up to his father even as the remaining members of the horde swirled around them.

 

(continued in Part 4)

 

*********************************************
Milady's Wiles © 1998 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.