Miladys Wiles Chapters 1-4 free porn video

"Milady's Wiles" by Brandy Dewinter with the invaluable assistance of P.J. Wright Chapter 1 To Arms! To Arms! The stream of humanity flooding into the protection of the castle known as Stalwart Guard could no longer be called an army. In their own minds, they probably couldn't even be called men. They were beaten and they knew it. My brother, Prince Bareth, the commander of Stalwart Guard would have to try and reform them into a defensive force. An errant lock of pale gold whipped into my face from where I had tried to capture it in a twist beneath my collar. I should have grabbed a clasp on my way out, but when I heard the guard announce the flood approaching the gate I had hurried out to see what was going on. Prince Bareth would not have had that problem. He had always kept his hair cut short to fit under his helmet, but I had never followed that route. That had been but one of many ways in which I had disappointed the king, our father. I was the youngest brother and he was long past enjoyment of bouncing a baby on his knee before I came along. Instead, he was usually out practicing sword whacking with my two older brothers and I had fallen much into the care of my mother, Queen Selay. She had liked my hair and had held off cutting it until I had grown to like it, too. I could not remember a time when the golden weight of it had not been part of every move I made, nor would I give up the special times we had shared when she had brushed it into shiny silk. It didn't help that I had taken after her physically, too. At sixteen it was clear that I would never be a well-muscled giant like my father, King Andros, and my oldest brother, Prince Tamor. Nor would I even have the wiry strength of Prince Bareth, who had speed enough to give any man a tough fight. There were not three finer fighters in our whole Kingdom of Achaiea than King Andros and his two sons. How often had I heard that? Not 'King Andros and his two older sons,' just 'his two sons.' There was a barely- concealed sneer at the King in this comment as well. Of all his sons, only I had the crystal blue eyes that Mother owned. That was a double concern for Father, not only did they set me apart from him and his older sons, giving rise to rumors about my true parentage. They also proclaimed my lineage to the queen's whispered powers of magic; powers of persuasion beyond other women that were, in the legends, the result of those spectacular eyes. My ruminations were interrupted when I saw an officer approach Bareth to give his report. Even without their martial respect I still deserved the outward shows of my rank, and I had a right to hear what had happened to the army the King had led into battle. The stairs from the battlement ran inside the thick wall so I lost sight of Bareth and the officer for a few minutes as I ran down. When I came out the most important news was already apparent. The officer and all the men around him were kneeling before Bareth, not the formal bow with leg extended that we were due as princes nor the clenched fist salute due the garrison commander. They were kneeling with the obeisance given only to the King. That could, in turn, only mean that King Andros and Prince Tamor were known to be dead. I was getting ready to kneel myself when all eyes turned to a doorway from which Queen Selay and her retinue approached. Her sharp eyes absorbed the postures of the army and recognized the import as fast as my own. Her next glance though, was to me and her eyes directed me to her side before I had a chance to complete my own gesture of respect. Instead of kneeling she gave Bareth a courtly bow of her own, the narrow ankle of one graceful leg extended forward from the gathered hem of her dress. Since she set the standard, I matched her, my own slender limb even more displayed in the tight knit leggings that were my standard informal court dress. "What news?" she asked simply. "Mother, the news is bad. The King and Prince Tamor have both given their lives in defense of our land, but to no avail. Kragdle and his High Canyon horde are following on the heels of these survivors of the battle." "Can we hold?" "With these men, once we get them reorganized, I could hold Stalwart Guard for a very long time," Bareth claimed, his tone so flat there was no hint of boasting in it. "But Kragdle knows that and there are many villagers who will not be able to reach the castle's protection. I fear for them, my Queen." I could see that she wanted to say something, but the words couldn't get past the tightness in her throat and all she managed was a heartbreakingly small smile and a quick nod. That seemed to be the cue for the priest to come running up with the anointing oil, followed by the Chamberlain with the crown. In moments it was over. Achaiea had a new king, though if Kragdle conducted his campaign with typical ruthlessness, it wouldn't be long before there was precious little kingdom to rule. Achaiea had known generations of peace but we never realized how much that peace was due to the internal bickering of the High Canyon hordes who had not united in as many generations. Not united until the coming of Kragdle, who now held those lands in his clutching talons and planned to extend his grasp to our own kingdom. Queen Selay turned back to her apartments in the inner castle. I knew she needed me a lot more than Bareth did so I stayed at her side. As we left the courtyard I could hear the twang of crossbows as the guards on the wall let fly at Kragdle's approaching vanguard. The repetitive clank from the drawbridge chain that had so often seemed needlessly irksome when someone wanted to pass in times of peace, now seemed little enough comfort in this suddenly too-real war. At the door to Mother's dayroom she waved off all the others, though her tight grip on my arm made it clear she wanted me to stay with her. Once we were inside she walked around uncertainly for a moment as though looking for something that wasn't there, that would never be there again. "Deacon," she said to me, "your hair has gotten tangled in the wind. Fetch your brush." How often when we are overwhelmed we cling to little islands of familiarity in the chaos. I did as ordered of course, and as her hands gently stroked the twists from the long flow of my hair I could feel a corresponding tension flow from her stiff body. "Your hair is quite beautiful, you know," she said, still clinging to the mundane. "Thank you, Mother, your brushing keeps it so." Perhaps it was the word, Mother, that triggered her loss of control. I'll never know for sure, but after my simple response the brush thunked on the floor and her hands flew to her face. Heaving sobs wracked her slender shoulders as she hid her streaming eyes from the world that no longer included her husband and her eldest son. I stood and walked behind her, picking up her own brush from her dressing table and began to return the favor. Her hair had been pinned up in a more formal arrangement than mine, of course, so the first thing I did was remove the pins and combs and other aids to control. It was a few moments therefore, before I was running the brush through her own golden glory, still thick and soft and without a trace of grey. Her cat, Greyshadow, jumped into Mother's lap and added her own comfort to combat the Queen's distress. As Mother stroked the soft fur the cat arched her back in pleasure, purring with a promise that their world would survive this tragedy. My own mind churned, racing beyond the simple motions of my hands to consider . . . and reject . . . plans and strategies for defending the castle. Bareth would never ask for my help, but he had often mused aloud in my presence and listened carefully when my own musings touched on the topic he raised. It was his little make-believe to take advantage of the intelligence we both knew I possessed in greater measure than him without formally requesting advice from our father's disappointment. I had rejected a dozen impossible schemes and was searching for ever-less-likely candidates when a knock at our door had Mother quickly dabbing at her eyes and arranging her dress. At her nod I went to open the door. Bareth was there, along with a few of his top officers plus the priest and Hugh of Sandars, the Chamberlain. Several members of the entourage looked with displeasure at the cradled gray cat. The rumors that claimed strange powers for my mother declared that the cat was somehow involved and most people were wary of the innocent animal. I had one of her kittens myself but had never seen any unusual behavior. Well, none beyond the strangeness of all cats. Bareth began without preamble, "Queen Mother, the castle has been invested and Kragdle has announced his intentions." She sat patiently, perhaps still not trusting her voice. Bareth glanced at me, though not with his usual sly invitation to think on the topic for him. There was something else in his demeanor. "Kragdle intends to rule Achaiea as part of his empire. To that end, he offers terms for our surrender rather than see the lands destroyed." In later years I would remember Bareth's tone as he delivered that part of the message. It was calm, controlled, and gave no indication of the rest of the self-styled emperor's intentions. I could not have matched that calm, if I had known what was to come. "The terms?" Mother asked, a hint of hope in her eyes. Seeing that his calmness had actually misled Mother, Bareth kneeled down before her and took her hands in his own. "Mother, the terms are hard. He demands the life of all male heirs to the throne of Achaiea. Else, he will execute a dozen peasant families every day and lay waste to their homesteads until either we consent or there is nothing left of Achaiea. Oh, Mother, he has already killed the first families! Their bodies are lifted outside the gates on wooden poles. Men, women, youths and maidens. Only the smallest children are spared." "How far does this edict extend into the nobility of Achaiea?" I asked. "Never fear, Prince Deacon, you're close enough to be given the chance to do your duty," Drayson, one of Bareth's officers, sneered at me. Bareth was about to speak to him but I held his shoulder. In the face of the loss of our kingdom, and of my Father, and of my own life, I lost the fear of the future that had always controlled me. I felt a white-hot yet death-cold power rise up within me, driven by a fierceness I had never accepted before. Not a fierceness of violent motion, instead a fierceness of purpose that would crush all opposition before it with the grinding inevitability of a glacier. I walked over to the smug soldier by myself. It wouldn't have been much of a fight, physically. He towered over me by at least six inches and probably had twice my weight. But I was a son of our father, and of our mother as well. Their strength had maintained order, even justice, in our kingdom for longer than this cretin had been alive. I just stared at him, the chips of blue ice that were my eyes drilling into his muddy brown ones with cold beyond his worst nightmares of hell. Without breaking my hold on his eyes I slowly walked up to him and drew his own dagger from his sheath and pressed it to his neck. "Never fear, soldier-who-fled-the-battle, I will do my duty," I whispered in his face. Then, without yet looking away, I threw his dagger down to spike between our feet. It made him blink. Only then, with a cold neutrality replacing my intensity, did I turn back to Bareth and the Queen. "However," now I continued on as though no fierce emotions had just been vented, "we still need to know how far the edict extends. Does it include those in Mother's family line? What of the outlying barons? They are outside the walls already and if Kragdle expects us to gather them in, his terms are impossible and our decision is obvious." The Chamberlain, who had never been a particular friend of mine though he had been my primary tutor, weighed in on my side for once. "Prince Deacon is correct. We should not volunteer anyone to this madman's bloodthirst. We must make him give us a specific list of those to be surrendered." "We cannot accept his terms," Mother breathed. "We may have to," Bareth disagreed. For the first time, the royal 'We' was evident in his voice. "We cannot allow Our people to die needlessly. If Kragdle does as he promises, and the precedents of his cruelty are many, there will be no kingdom to rule if we do not meet his terms." He stood straight, his resolve firm, his bearing regal in a way that I had seldom seen even in our father, King Andros. With a brief nod in respect to the Queen, our King led his staff out of her room to continue the negotiations. "Oh, Deacon, I can't lose you, too!" her sobs returned even as the door closed. I did not notice at the time that Mother's expression of grief did not include Bareth, "We are sons of our father as well. If we turn our back on our duty, you will already have lost us." The proper thing to have done would have been to stay with her, but faced with the prospect of my own imminent demise I found I had no comfort to spare. My apartments were not far down the hall and I reached them quickly. What would happen to the momentos of my life? My mother's influence was clear in my room, dotted with paintings and musical instruments rather than the swords and armor I knew were in Tamor's room. And my books! In all the kingdom, there was not a finer library of discourses on human motivation than I had accumulated. The rumors of Mother's powers had intrigued me and I had been quietly corresponding with scholars since I learned to read, though always through my Mother. Father would not abide any reference to her gift, except from the one source he could deny nothing. And why was that? Had I just witnessed within myself an echo of that rumored power? That irresistible persuasion? Now I would never know. My own cat, Wraith, was a few shades lighter than Mother's Greyshadow. Both had a smooth, uniform color that seemed to make their forms indistinct in anything other than strong light so I missed her for a moment while I was considering my few treasures. When I didn't reach to pet her as I moved near, she voiced her displeasure with a demand no less imperative for coming from a kitten barely past weaning. She subsided with no more than a brief caress, though, sensing my mood. I spent the next hour or so quietly reminding myself of my favorite tunes on the various instruments, letting the music be a symbol of my brief and passing contribution to the world that would soon throw my books out with the other rubbish. A knock on my door interrupted me before I became excessively maudlin. "Prince Deacon, your presence is requested in the Queen's chambers," came the call when I stopped playing. The resolve demonstrated by my brother the prin . . . my brother the King, set a higher standard than I had given him credit for and I tried to capture a share of that myself as I went to hear of my doom. When I got to the Queen's chambers there was an unexpectedly high level of energy in the room. Bareth and Mother were looking together at a parchment that appeared to set out the terms of the surrender, with the other members of Bareth's staff humming to each other in small groups. "Deacon, your name's not on the list!" Bareth blurted out as soon as I entered. "What?" "Look and see," he offered, not quite pulling the parchment from Mother's hands as he turned it toward me. At the head, was Tamor's name, followed by Bareth. But where mine would be expected to be found, the name of one of Father's brothers was listed, Alcon, then his other brother, Kestrel. The fifth and final name on the list was mother's brother, Nyquist, who had come to Achaiea to assist us in the ill-fated war. All these relatives were elderly. Father had been proclaimed heir by his father in preference to older brothers who were considered unsuitable for some reason I never knew. As I looked at the list I wondered if their failing had been in choice of a mate, for they were similar to Father in many ways, yet none had found wives to match our mother. Father had reigned, but who had truly ruled in Achaiea? These idle thoughts were an attempt for my mind to consider small problems before attacking the large ones, but the large ones weren't going away. "Why is Tamor's name on the list?" I asked while I tried to understand the significance of my name's absence. "They don't know he died in the battle. We told them that we believed that to be the case and Kragdle has scouts out looking for his body. I confirmed with our men, though, and Tamor definitely died in the fight. "It's, um, a surprisingly short list," I mused. The briefest flicker of amusement flashed across Bareth's eyes as he replied, "Brother, you have a gift for making a point without saying what one would expect. The absence of your name is indeed a surprise." "Do you have an explanation?" I asked. "No. When they gave Hugh the list, he did a masterful job of betraying none of the surprise you mentioned and just brought it to me." The Chamberlain, on hearing his name, turned to us. "Your Majesty, I may have an explanation. All the names on that list have participated in martial tournaments. In addition, all have been proclaimed as the King's representatives at fairs or as envoys in negotiations or in other official capacities. And of course, Queen Selay's only other brother now reigns in Verdantland. Since Prince Deacon has only now turned sixteen, he has had no official duties outside the castle. It appears that Kragdle's spies are not very efficient." "Surely his spies can't be that bad," I disagreed. "Your pardon, Highness, but your appearance is somewhat , um, ambiguous. It is more common to find a girl who wears leggings than a boy, uh, man with long blond hair, especially as long and . . . err . . . well tended, as yours. Those who saw you but did not know you personally might not have recognized your true . . . gender," my old tutor stammered out. So that's why he was never very friendly toward me. He thought I was too effeminate. Not just weak, but actually un-masculine. Well, maybe he was right, at least in how I appeared. I didn't voice these thoughts, but Mother's mind was moving in a similar track and much further down the path. "We can beat that monster!" she breathed fiercely. "Mother?" Bareth asked in surprise. In sharp, clipped tones that seemed brittle as glass and twice as edged, she explained her plan. "Oh, Bareth . . . my son . . . forgive me, but I cannot find a way to save you. This is no less your duty than it would be to lead your army into battle, though the outcome is certain rather than in the hands of God. However, Achaiea can survive." Bareth's eyes had held hope when Queen Selay had claimed a chance to beat Kragdle, then became carefully neutral when she withdrew any personal hope for him. He nodded briefly in acceptance of her priorities. Achaiea was more important than any single life and the life of her King was always hers to claim. Yet just as surely, if the kingdom were to survive, there needed to be a King. "I don't understand," he prodded the Queen. Instead of responding to him directly, Mother looked at me. "Deacon, are you ready to make a sacrifice almost as drastic as that demanded of Bareth?" she asked. "Yes, Mother, though what can be almost that bad, yet be effective?" "Can you not guess? You were always the smartest of my children and Hugh has already given you the answer." Hugh has given the answer? What answer? Hugh just said that some people might have mistaken me for a . . . It came to me with an inevitability of its own, yet I must resist. "No. I'm sorry, but I'll let them have my head first." Bareth still hadn't caught on, so the next to react was Hugh. His face took on a fierceness to match Mother's and I remembered that this man controlled the daily management of the Kingdom, not a job for a man of weak will or small intellect. "Yessss," he breathed. "It would work." "What would work?" Bareth demanded. "Somebody tell me what's going on!" I tried to cut off any other response, "Nothing is going on. Go tell Kragdle that they made a mistake. It's better to do it now than have him find out on his own when he occupies the castle." Bareth was puffing up in preparation for a truly regal rage when Mother put her hands on his arm, and on my own. She spoke to me, first, "Deacon, this is your duty to your kingdom, no less than your duty to die if required. In this case you must live in order for Achaiea to live and for Kragdle to die." Finally, she explained to Bareth, "Deacon will have to masquerade as a woman. When the time is right, he can depose the High Canyon trash and reclaim the kingdom." Chapter 2 A Maiden's Lover Even his own impending doom could not contain my brother's humor at the path the Fates seemed to have selected for me. His laughter rang out with a too-loud energy that betrayed the tension within him even as it gave him a way to relieve it. "Why, Deak, old boy, uh, girl, I think you may have the greater sacrifice to make at that!" "No, for I will share the same end as you. It is impossible, and when Kragdle finds out his vengeance will make his current threat seem the greatest of mercies." "Deacon," at the word of our mother, all other voices ceased, "if there were a way, one that would work for long enough to rid our land of this pestilence, would you do it?" "Of course, but your premise is impossible." I gave an easy, hollow agreement. "I tell you that it is not. I tell you that this can work, if you will commit yourself to it as fully as your duty requires." Her tone was strange. There didn't seem to be any emotion in it at all, but it left not the slightest room for any alternate concept. What had been impossible now became the only possibility. I found myself nodding, as did everyone else in the room. For a long moment she sat quietly, the only motion in the room her fingers idly stroking Greyshadow's fur. "Leave me, please, all except Deacon." Her order included the King as casually as it did the lesser soldiers who guarded him. They filed out in silence, remarkable silence no less so because it seemed absolutely unremarkable at the time to all of us. "How often have you used the white-cold mind?" she asked when they had left. "Excuse me?" what was she talking about? "As you did with Drayson. I saw it in you as surely as I saw his submission to your strength." "Never," I replied. "I just couldn't accept his insult, at least, not any longer. I mean, what could he do to me that wasn't going to happen already?" "Why do you suppose he didn't react?" she continued to probe. "I don't think I really considered it. To begin with, I was so angry that I didn't care, and when it was over, we had other things to worry about." "Were you angry? Describe your anger." "It wasn't one of Father's smashing rages, if that's what you mean. It felt focused, white-hot yet cold beyond anything imaginable. I just knew that my will would prevail." This was too intense, not supported with the fuel of anger from Drayson's insult, confusing to a degree that made me very uncomfortable. I had to lighten the mood. "Or else he would have killed me," I defined the acceptable alternative with a smile. "There was no middle ground." Mother ceased her questions and began to explain, "What you have described has been in our family, that is, my family, for untold generations. Your description is apt. We have always referred to is as the 'white-cold mind'. It is a means of focusing our minds so intensely that we can compel other minds to do our bidding. Yet it is a dangerous gift, or curse, for there are limits. It is a battle between our will and that of our target, and if our will is insufficient, well, don't attempt it lightly. It is easiest of course, when the target's will aligns with your own. Intense anger such as you felt provides great power to your will, but it is a dangerous source of strength. It will burn you out as surely as a true fire of equal intensity." I nodded, not really sure what she was talking about though her description certainly matched my experience. My lack of comprehension must have been apparent, but when she continued she added yet another layer of confusion. "Yet it is the reason you can succeed in your duty. If both participants are willing, the white-cold mind can allow them to share knowledge without coercion; to merge wills in an alliance rather than dominance and submission." Where was she going with this? What did this have to do with regaining our realm? And how did it make the impossible become inevitable? "Will you merge your mind with mine, Deacon? In a matter of minutes I can provide you with a lifetime of knowledge on how to act like a woman. The other aspects of your masquerade are clothes and artistry that are secondary. You will be convincing. In fact, with your fine features you will probably be appealing, but that is also secondary. You will reveal yourself, or confirm yourself, with every gesture of your hand, with every glance of your eyes to be either man or woman. I can help you learn what you must know to succeed." "With this white-cold thing?" "Yes. But you must be a willing participant. If you fight me, I will not be able to sustain the intensity of emotion it would take to force you, especially since you have the power yourself. Yet this is how you can do your duty to our kingdom and to our people." I could not claim to understand any significant portion of what she said, not truly understand. On another level though, I could not deny what she said. I had felt that intensity, that . . . power. It was as real to me as the breath that sighed in and out of my lungs as my mind churned. In the end I had no more option than Bareth. Duty is a hard taskmistress when she provides no choices at all. Even death was not mine to choose if there were a chance that we could restore our kingdom through some other sacrifice. Yet what a sacrifice this would be! Still, I nodded, "What do we do?" "Sit here," she pointed to a low stool near her own chair. When I was in place she took my hands in her own and caught my eyes with her own. The blue jewels that had always seemed so much like my own were now so different, somehow. Larger, it seemed, and deeper in more ways than I could measure. I found myself moving forward into that depth as though swept in a current of smooth water, at first quite slowly and I knew I could draw back, but with gradually increasing speed until I knew just as surely that I had no control at all. Images, impressions, sensations beyond senses began to match me on my journey. They melded with me until no seam existed and I could not tell which were external and which had always been part of me. The first images were of Father and I thought to study them, but I felt a pull in another direction and knew that Mother would hold these to herself. The sensations that next sought me out were like, yet unlike, my own memories. The scenes were the same, the people were familiar, but these impressions were from Mother in those same situations, impressions that focused more and more on things she did because of her femininity. Clothes seemed initially overwhelming in variety and purpose, but as they were absorbed into my knowledge their complexity seemed childish next to those of action within the clothes. I saw her as a young maiden captivate suitor after suitor with a lift of an eyebrow, a glance, a flutter of a wrist, or of an eyelash. I saw her win Father with a smile, while that same smile transformed a rival into incoherent rage. The intensity of that long-ago rival's emotion cast me from her mind. I blinked and the merging was lost. When I looked again at Mother's eyes, I saw only the clear blue gems that had always comforted me. They crinkled in the corners with amusement, a surprise on this most devastating of days yet perhaps understandable. "So, Deacon, do you still think this is impossible? Or should I say, 'Cherysse'?" The voice that answered her was not my own, though it came from my mouth. This voice was lighter, more musical, more full of life and energy. The register had not changed, my own voice had never dropped much, but in all other ways it was as different as night from day. Or, as man from woman. "I would not have believed it, but now I cannot imagine we will fail. At least, not because of someone penetrating my masquerade," that strange, musical voice replied. This phrasing seemed to bother her. I saw a note of discomfort pass her face, quickly suppressed, but less deniable now than even in our previous closeness. Before I could ask about it, she had risen and gone to her door. Opening it, she bade the servant request the attendance of the King and such others as he desired. "Cherysse, you will find that after you have fully absorbed the impressions I have shared, you will be able to choose between the mannerisms as you wish, but for now the feminine will be dominant. I'm sorry for the abruptness but we have no time. Remember always, your duty is as vital and as inescapable as Bareth's own." By this time the King had approached. I still sat on Mother's stool, dazed by the flood of thoughts that had assailed me. Lost in my thoughts as I was, I absorbed without registering the conversations around me. Finally, Bareth's voice grew loud. "Deacon. Deacon! Wake up, brother!" I jerked to attentiveness and swiveled on the stool to look at him. His eyes wore a very strange expression, one that seemed to indicate that I was the source. "Yes, Bareth? I mean, Majesty," that strange voice replied from my mouth. All sound in the room ceased. Bareth's eyebrows made an attempt to disappear into his neatly trimmed hairline. The voice from his mouth, though still his own, had wonder in it that I had never heard before. "Deacon?" he asked again. "Yes?" I replied, a bit petulant at the repetition. I tossed my hair over my shoulder and stood up. Why was everyone looking at me so strangely? I just stood up, for God's sake. I could feel a most unattractive frown forming on my face and I fought to keep my features smooth. A glance at Mother from both Bareth and I stirred her to explanation. "I have instructed Deacon in skills he will need for his masquerade. In support of that, from this moment forward, this is Cherysse, my daughter. Deacon never existed. I wanted you to understand this before the transformation is complete so that there is no doubt that Cherysse is indeed Deacon." "Your pardon, my Queen," Hugh, the Chamberlain interrupted, "but that brings up a point that we need to address. It would be best if the succession of the crown were uninterrupted and unambiguous. If we allow Kragdle to crown himself without our own anointed monarch, his claim might be more difficult to unseat at a later date." "What do you advise?" Queen Selay asked. "If King Bareth were to abdicate, in favor of, um, Deacon, and Deacon were crowned before Kragdle could anoint himself, then we would have a much more compelling rallying cry for our people." Bareth smiled in a self-deprecating sort of way and replied, "That would be acceptable to me. I was never destined to wear the crown for long, it seems. Let Deacon carry the weight of it forward." He removed the simple circlet of gold that symbolized our nation and moved to place it on my head. The priest interrupted him. "Your Majesty, that should follow the anointing," he reminded us all. From the folds of his robe he drew forth a small vial and approached me in his turn. Once again, the ceremony was completed quickly. A drop or two of oil and then the cold weight of the crown. Bareth was right, it was heavy. And I knew it would not get lighter for some time to come. Once again Mother controlled the situation. The advisors wanted to draw me off and begin to involve me in the affairs of the realm, to no good purpose that I could see, but she swept them up with her glance and made them pause. "Cherysse," the emphasis was unmistakable, and the command just as clear, "has further preparations to make. You must leave us alone. What is Kragdle's deadline for our response?" Bareth replied, "If we do not surrender by dawn, he will execute the next dozen peasant families." "Very well. Bareth, we will attend you later." Her words contained the dismissal of the staff and of the so-briefly-reigning King. When they were gone she turned again to me. The expression that briefly clouded her face when I talked about none penetrating my disguise had now returned in even greater measure. She paced about the room for a moment, then sighed with a glance at me that made it clear she was not happy with what was to come. "Cherysse, are you familiar with a 'maiden's lover'?" she asked. "No, not that I kno . ." and then I paused as her words triggered a memory that had not been there a few hours ago. "No! Mother, you cannot! I cannot! It is too much!" But the very memories that horrified me were linked to the portion of her memories that justified the terrible device. She waited for my protestations to dissipate. When I ran down, she smiled a sad smile that conveyed her personal knowledge of the price she was asking. "It can be survived," she declared. Not for the first time I wondered if Bareth's part were indeed the easier one. Not for the last time, either. Yet this was duty no less demanding once the full price was established. "What do I need to do?" My sigh of resignation brought an even brighter shine to her eyes, and a warm embrace. "I'm sorry, Cherysse, you know that I would not do this if there were any other way." "Of course," wistfully I replied, with a tremor in my voice that would have shamed me, once. "You will need to disrobe, of course, and we had better arrange a bath before you dress in your new attire," she said with brusque efficiency as she summoned the servants. A bath was drawn with scented oils to smooth and protect my skin. At Mother's suggestion a fine blade was used to remove all my body hair, not that there was much of it. I would have savored the luxury of the bath for a very long time, but as the water began to cool Mother brought forth my tormentor. "This one was my own. We don't have time to have another one made more to your form. It is a good thing that you are slender." A 'maiden's lover' was so named because it had the sole purpose of preventing any other lover from approaching her virtue. It looked like a vest of chain mail woven of the finest steel our land could produce, drawn down to fine thread but no less strong than an equivalent thickness of plate. In extent, it was designed to cover me from my nether regions to the bosom that I did not have. In between the woven steel formed a tightfitting corset, sized as Mother had explained to the shape she had possessed as a maiden. Unfortunately, that was not my natural shape, especially in the lower portion that was led back between my legs. This portion of the garment was rigid plate, providing enough room for a maiden's treasures but requiring my own to be compressed most uncomfortably. A flexible rod perhaps the thickness of an ordinary bootlace trailed from the tip of this part of the device, trailed for a surprisingly long distance. The first step in donning it, though, was to slip a soft silken garment up my hips to cover the same area. It was woven continuously without seam or fastening, yet in some cunning fashion it provided sufficient stretch to allow it to pass my hips. The bottom of this tube of silk was closed off sufficiently to provide some cover for my most intimate areas while leaving openings that I knew would be only too necessary when I wore the controlling steel device for days at a time. When the actual maiden's lover was slid up my hips and into position the corset portion began just above my hips and had eyelets for conventional laces, though they were set into the rear of the 'lover' on removable flaps. Mother drew other laces, ordinary string, through these eyelets and began to bring the edges together. It took a while. When the tension would become too tight for her to pull (well past anything that I could willingly accept) she would pause and require me to raise my arms, or lower them, or breathe (as though I could) or move as well as I might. After these exercises, she would draw on the laces again. Eventually the purpose of the long wire leading from the nether guard became apparent as she began to thread it through interlocking loops on the back of the garment. This would only work if the back were fully closed, a condition that the young Princess Selay no doubt found much easier to achieve than I did. The reduction in my waist was so intense that some of the flesh actually worked up into the cups in front, giving me a surprisingly realistic bosom, especially since these cups were themselves stiffly formed. When she was done she unlaced the long string and removed the lacing flaps, leaving only the thin rod to hold the back together. The purpose of a small loop in the end of the rod became apparent as Mother drew a final part of the diabolical device from the chest that had held the garment. A small lock, jeweled and intricate to rival the most precise of timepieces, bound the loop in the wire to a corresponding loop in the back of the garment. "What key opens that lock?" my maiden's voice gasped. "You will not know that, now or ever," she replied. Something in her tone let me know that she had once asked the same question, and received the same reply. I turned to look at her in surprise, but my own protest was stifled by the view displayed in a tall mirror behind her shoulder. Whatever else that device might accomplish, it had transformed me into a woman in body. It appeared Mother, as a maiden, had been a most shapely lass. Now, whether I wanted it or not that shape defined me as well. My long golden hair did much to complete the picture. It reminded me of my earlier comment. "Well, Mother, it is certain that no one will penetrate my disguise now." I tried to chuckle for her sake, but the device left me too little breath for more than a whispered comment. "Yes, dear, that was my concern when you mentioned it earlier. The only justification for this garment is that it has that virtue, even when the maiden may not." She continued, "Now, let us get you dressed. It is impossible for a princess to dress herself, and it would be too suspicious if I took care of everything for you with my own hands. Once you are dressed in your 'lover', others can aid you. However, only I will ever release you from your protection. That has been our way for generations and will be our justification now." She summoned servants and opened her own dressers to find the proper gown for me. While she considered choices that I would eventually have to make on my own, others attended to my hair. A woman's rank was displayed in the combs and pins she wore in her hair anytime she was out of her own chambers. Those of a princess were many and varied and it was clear that Mother was again correct. No woman could place them all properly by herself. By the time they were done a gown had been selected, along with stockings and shoes. It was clear that this was again a chore that would need assistance, for while wearing the 'maiden's lover' I could not bend sufficiently to place stockings on myself, nor shoes. The final assistant was a cosmetician skilled in arts imported from far off Araby and even further lands to the East, more legend than real yet none the less artistic. He transformed my face so that all remaining vestiges of Deacon were removed and only Cherysse remained. In the hustle and bustle of so many attendants I had not had time to look again into the mirror. As though at a signal, all drew back and an aisle was made from me to the looking glass. If I had still possessed the breath to do so, I would have gasped. As it was, I grew light-headed with shock and had to be steadied by several pairs of hands. Like all court gowns my dress was ornate, yet the decoration in this gown complemented the shape displayed, not distracting from the flow of waist and swell of bosom. Only the full, wide skirt departed from the curves beneath, providing security against a too-intimate revelation of a lady's limbs. Mother had selected a gown of a deep, rich blue, highlighted with gold. The combination picked up the colors of my hair and eyes, colors which Mother displayed as well. "That was the gown I wore the day I met your Father," she explained, the bright shine back in her eyes. A dismissive wave of her hand sent the servants scurrying, all but one she called by name. "Amy, send to Bareth's chambers and see if it would be convenient for him to receive us at this time." The woman was gone in an instant, returning in barely more time with his reported assent. "Mother," I whispered, "why not have him come here?" "We need to maintain the fiction of his reign until at least the dawn," she explained. "Besides, it will do you good to get out and about." Taking my hand in her own, she led me down the corridor to Bareth's apartments. At the rap of his guard, his door opened. He stood there himself but did not move back into the room to allow us to enter. "Dea, uh, Cherysse?" he stammered. "Yes, brother, it is your sister," I replied. My voice, still strange to him though I was becoming accustomed to it, caused him to start out of his stupor and finally move back in to the room. "I would never have believed it. Even after the transformation Mother called us down to see, I would never had credited any report of this miracle," he chattered. "You are not merely feminine, you are beautiful!" "Thank you," Mother's imprinted mannerisms brought out the demure response without conscious thought. Bareth's eyes had lit up with pleasure at the sight of the pretty maiden that I had become. It overshadowed, for a moment, his own fate. Still, it was clear that this had been weighing heavily on his mind for it sobered quickly. "Can you do this, Deacon?" he asked. "Yes, my brother. I can. I will, for our realm, for our people, and for you." As I said it, I felt an echo of the white-cold mind in my voice and saw conviction greater than my own appear on Bareth's features. And peace. His honor was such that his own sacrifice was not an unrealistic price for him to pay, but it gave him peace to know it would not be in vain. Would I be able to keep the promise I had just made? I wished my own mind were as certain as I had caused his to be. 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 sacrifice 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 anxiety 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 crenellated 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 princess. 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 maintained 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 steadfast 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 acknowledged 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 interpose 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 completely 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 uselessness 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 children 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 intricate 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 decorations, 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 appreciation 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 scattered 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 t