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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 than 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 fifteen.

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 crossly). 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..."