Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters (except Charname, such as he is), setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.
Prologue
She watched longingly.
No, that wasn't right. Mentally, she scribbled over the word, 'curiously'; that was better. She watched curiously.
Sometimes self-narrating grew dull, but it gave her something to do. While she watched, pretending to pay attention while she searched the crowd, she would find things to amuse herself with. This latest entertainment came in the form of reciting stories of those around her, and having her bard sing them back to her – or so she liked to pretend. He never did, but she could imagine his voice singing to her. Curiously, she looked again, from the corner of her eye. What made this one so different?
He didn't fit in. She saw that immediately. Everyone else did, but he didn't. Something about him, the sharp awareness in his eyes… he was actually listening, and making mental notes. Oh, how exciting! Someone else who actually liked history? And wasn't interested in polite chitchat? Had he snuck in? He had, hadn't he?
She determined to follow him as soon as the meeting closed, her bard forgotten.
—
"In honour of the Grand Duke," the speaker began, unveiling a plaque. A polite round of applause echoed through the auditorium. Tonight's colours were drab, colourful but plain, variation upon variation of darker and pastel shades, in mimicry of an earlier age. The latest fashion. To compensate the perfume wafted, clashing in what, no natural flower meadow or forest, could ever bring together. Spices made her sneeze. Stupid Amnish bringing their fashions here; why did they have to adopt it? The sea kelps were so much nicer on the nose…
Three hours and all she wanted was to be back at home, and that in itself was bad. Home was so boring. Here was worse. She smiled politely as an older gentleman, some noble or other, caught her eye, and tried to keep her attention from wandering.
She noticed the young man again; his hair seemed out of place. For one, it wasn't washed in a thousand dyes, and for two, it seemed ill-kempt, as if he had only dragged a comb through it a half dozen times, instead of the two hundred strokes she endured. But then, his fell to his shoulders, a pretty shade of coal, whereas hers was curled. That was another thing; he only just fit in with the fashion, but didn't seem to be making a statement. A dull green robe, with only the merest hint of embroidery. She scoured her mind, but she couldn't remember seeing him before.
"And our ancestors of the sea–"
Why couldn't he put some life into his words? Monotone… how could anyone be expected to listen to this? She loved history, but not this sort of… oh, that was just typical. Cythandria got to sneak off with whoever she was with; the other girl's name escaped her; probably hiding out in the privy 'powdering their noses', and everyone smiled endearingly, but not her? Well, she was a duke's daughter…
Her thoughts wandered. Tonight, she would visit her bard, and hide out on the tavern's rooftop, in the sheltered cranny she made her own. She longed to hear his sweet words as he sang to those ungrateful louts who could never appreciate the beauty and majesty of his song… she suppressed a wistful sigh. How her bard brought history to life, tales and sagas of the gallant and the villainous, where the smart ones won over chivalric virtues. He spoke of real life, not the courtly prose of the fawning poets that sought to win her hand and her father's favour…
She tried to withhold a sniff; the older gentleman two seats down stank of sandalwood and wine, and his lady, obviously not his wife, stank of rosewater and cinnamon. The couple above them, also not married, stank of ambergris, musk, aniseed and rum. How daring. Inwardly, she rolled her eyes. Last year had seen powdered rubies and rose quartz; this year, hairnets were out and tiaras were in. Not that she minded tiaras, per se, but they sparkled just a little too much and no one took her seriously when she donned one. Not that anyone did anyway, but that was hardly the point.
Her gaze strayed and she tried not to frown. Surely he hadn't been sitting here three hours; she would have seen him when he first entered. Had he snuck in?
"We commit this, a new dawn, to the likeness…"
He had pretty eyes, she decided, a nice, pleasant brown, sort of like loam. (She didn't actually know the precise shade of loam, but she imagined that his were close to it. Sort of like willow-tree bark crossed with tigers eye. It didn't matter.). Then she noticed what was missing. Even her bard, with his beautiful dark hair, oiled his ebony locks, and trimmed his silly little beard, but this one, whose age she placed between eighteen and twenty-six, didn't. Her bard's goatee was endearing, even if he would look better without it, but this one seemed clean-shaven, but only recently. She found his inability to fidget both admirable and frustrating. How could anyone put up with this?
"Thus, the Undercity remains…"
She had had enough of this. A polite excuse, a headache perhaps… if only corsets were in, she could claim to faint, but sadly, those went out three years ago. Maybe next time, she'd dig one out, add some embroidery and lose the lace, and try to start a new fashion. Fainting was most convenient at times, even if she couldn't breathe properly. Of course, three years ago it was less of a squeeze than it would be now. That would be a bother. Still, garnet did become her, and she'd been longing to wear her brown and red, and bronze band again… maybe if she used gold and green?
A faint scowl touched her features. Gold and green were Cythandria's colours of choice. No, that wouldn't do at all. People might think she was imitating her. As if she would ever do such a thing; fawning up to Sarevok and then feigning disinterest, driving men wild with envy, just with a slight glimpse of… Where had he gone?
—
"My dear Skie," Cythandria appeared, with her signature smile, her green eyes not quite condescending, "you do look pale." She fluttered her fan between a not-quite-murmur, "It's so dreadfully hot in here. Shall we get some air?"
Before she could object or thank her, she found herself presented with an arm. Fan white, and skirts cream, Cythandria, as ever, looked radiant, her hair a mane of artful curls. She didn't even use dyes; she was naturally flaxen, her complexion porcelain, perfect without blemish. Kohl she used to great effect, but only because she dabbed it, rather than smothered it. It was so unfair.
"Oh, look at that," Cythandria fussed, her warmth belying the coolness behind her words. Mouth drawn into a disapproving line, she pursed rosebud lips, stained crimson-cherry, and fished out a silken handkerchief and delicately wiped the younger girl's brow, "you're wilting." She observed clinically, then swept her skirts behind her as she half guided, half pulled her from the chamber.
Skie had no reason to object, but offered apologetic smiles to those who turned in her direction. Cythandria wore a similar smile, but hers was tempered with determination and slight dissatisfaction, concern and authority. There would be words about the conditions in the hall…
Absently, Skie wondered about the gnomish fans that had been installed; ventilation systems were meant to breathe into the stuffiest of chambers…
—
Once outside, Skie found herself the subject of another lecture. The night air was cool and fresh, the heavy scent of fish carried from the docks, with other, less desirable aromas.
"And you really mustn't wrap up so tightly; you need to breathe." Cythandria tugged on her laces as she spoke, loosening her dress. A slow flush crept up her cheeks, and she lost her voice. Cythandria, by contrast, continued chiding, "Modesty is becoming, but really, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You'll never win a man with a maiden's approach; you're not a monk. There, now isn't that better? You can actually feel the air on your skin."
"B-but–"
"And you really mustn't frequent taverns, you know. Don't look so surprised; you're not so discreet that I haven't noticed. It's not common knowledge, but it will be if you continue. If you're bored, you must visit me; the Iron Throne is not the most interesting of places, but I always find means to keep myself entertained. Now don't argue, dear. Really, now, there are better ways of amusing yourself."
She didn't answer, but set her jaw stubbornly.
"If you really want to be entertained…" Cythandria leaned in close, "Perhaps I can show you somewhere… with prettier men."
Her eyes widened.
Cythandria leaned back with a knowing smile, "That is, unless you'd rather hang around taverns like a fawning shepherdess?"
"I – I'm not a–"
The flaxen haired woman laughed low, musically, "Of course you're not. Shall I walk you home now? My carriage is near by."
"I'm not going home."
"Of course you are," The other soothed, patting her hand with her white gloved own. Then she lowered her tone, "I know you saw him, and I'm not letting you chase after him."
"You can't – you know him?" Eyes alight, she stared up as the same mysterious, knowing smile returned.
"I can take you to him, if that's what you want."
"R-really?" Then suspicion replaced dry-mouthed awe, "Why would you do that?" She blurted.
"I want us to be friends," Cythandria said simply, taking both her hands. Her green gaze sharp and reflective, she confided, "Sarevok and I will be married soon; that will make us sisters, of a sort. Sisters should be friends, shouldn't they?"
"Sisters?"
"Of course. Now he's Grand Duke – he will be, you know – and you being Entar's daughter, well, we need to stay together. The others, fawning lackeys, they're not like us. They hang around their father's skirts, chasing after husbands, but you're not like that."
"But you–"
The laugh stopped her short.
"Oh, my dear, you think? You're – that's so sweet, but no."
"You mean…"
"Of course not. It's all for show, something you should learn," Her forefinger lifted the girl's chin, and dragged along her cheek thoughtfully, "I can teach you, if you want. It's all a game, you see."
"I know the game," came the stubborn reply.
"Not this one."
"What do you mean?"
Cythandria smiled without warmth.
—
Later, as Skie sat on her bed, she reflected on their conversation. How had Cythandria known about her nightly excursions? And who would have thought there was a secret passage from the Iron Throne's cellar to the Undercellar? It was all so exciting!
She sniffed, remembering the stench of Black Lotus, and wrinkled her nose; Cythandria had not even offered her a taste of that, but steered her far away from it. The peddlers there knew better than to say a word, taking one look at her and retreating. Clad in silks or not, they were still filth, Cythandria had told her, preying on others' misery for profit. Skie didn't like to mention the city was founded on trade, mostly because she more or less agreed. She had heard whispers of what it did to a person's mind…
Cythandria led her by those who sold their bodies for coin, whether their tongues sang pretty words, or their hands massaged others, or less savoury activities, and into what appeared to be a private audience. It was actually quite pleasant, in modest tastes, a woman's touch, unlike the rest of the Undercellar, which was a clash of dank cobblestone and brightly coloured tapestries, curtains and drapes. And, most of all, it wasn't a cloud of sweat, perfume, Black Lotus and other smells she couldn't identify.
It was strange, because she was sure she recognised some of the patrons, even if they had all worn carnival masks; most of them lacked clothing and she had seen both men and women. It was all so new, and so… base. Debauch only began to cover it! But Cythandria's room was spacious, and while the same platters of fruit and sweetmeats, pitchers of wine and bottles of spirits, occupied low legged tables, it somehow seemed a cut above the rest. The divans were clean, for one thing, and the drapes weren't garish.
Instead of the nude male slaves she envisioned, Cythandria kept a lyrist, a girl who sang so delightfully that she thought she had died and found herself in Mount Celestia. Then they had spoken about girly things, court life, and made polite conversation. Between this, Cythandria confided in her, speaking of gossip, scandals, and how to behave, all while explaining how she could make herself look pretty. It was nice enough, if a little boring, until the flaxen haired young woman told her of… other things. Things that made her eyes go wide, in ways she had never before dreamed of.
Strangely, Cythandria hadn't mentioned the odd young man…