Early August, age 15

Near the desert there is a castle, and under the castle there is a woman.

The woman is a queen who dresses befitting her rank, her gowns finely brocaded, crystal-bright and lovely. Her hair, the color of a starless night, trails long and loose on the floor of the underground halls that she has come to call home, yet never appears dingier for it. Such a thing would be improper, after all; even in the ugliest places a true lady must be a thing of beauty. And she is beautiful: her eyes are the gray of a stormy sea; her skin is the white of a cherry blossom; her lips are the red of rubies, and the words that fall from them are as subtle and delicate as spun sugar. She moves graceful as a deer through her home beneath the earth, and the shadows around her are brighter for her presence.

She has a visitor this day.

Or rather, she corrects herself, a gentleman caller. The term visit implies that he is not regularly in her presence, and this man will come whenever she calls him. He is a punctual sort, which the queen can appreciate almost as much as his obedience. In these days of spaceships and skyscrapers and merchant-mechanics who fancy themselves princesses, it is difficult to find individuals who know their place in the world. Even this man required a bit of persuasion before he became her vassal, but really, what is a jewel or two in the grand scheme of things? And he has proven himself time and time again.

She enters the largest room in her subterranean palace—the area which, with its high, curved ceiling and spare, echoing magnificence, she affectionately calls her throne room, though it holds no throne and pales in comparison to her old one's opulence. Ah, but she misses it some days: the dutiful guards lining the wall, the obedient handmaids catering to her every whim, the gentle trills of koto and zither flitting through the air for no one's amusement save hers and her husband's. Those were beautiful times. And yet have not the poets said that a breath once spent can never truly be drawn back? A shame, that. But there are things she rues more than the loss of her onetime luxury, things that began long before the castle above her crumbled down.

Her vassal kneels before her, sharp eyes obediently turned downward, away from the star of her face. She draws up to him and asks, her voice musical in the dark, "How fare they?"

"The woman yet lives, Lady Natsume."

"Oh?" The queen's plucked brows rise up on her fine white face. "She has taken far longer to die than I expected. Does she yet sicken?"

"Yes," replies her vassal, voice slightly sardonic as always. "She sickens. The time she spends training with the boy each day grows shorter and shorter."

The queen momentarily longs for her fan, that she at least might hold it before her mouth in modesty as she presses: "Is…Is there pain?" She so hates asking these sorts of questions, yet her sharp-eyed vassal is the literal sort; he is no courtier to sift through subtlety and respond in kind.

"There is pain. She coughs through the night and spits up dark blood." He gives a smirk. It reaches his mouth but not his eyes.

"Ahhh," sighs the queen Natsume almost regretfully. Then she smiles in such a way that made the most powerful of men weep once. "How wonderful."

Her vassal, sensing her will that he respond, mimics her smile and says, "Indeed."

Allowing herself a moment to enjoy this information the way one might enjoy a subtly-flavored cup of tea, Lady Natsume paces delicately before her manservant, her layered gowns and long hair shifting as she does. "And the boy?" she asks at last. "Tell…no, no, do not speak. Rather show him to me."

For a long interval the vassal stares at her as though he does not comprehend her order. But then his hand goes to his chest. A verdant light begins to beam from beneath his shirt and coat; it filters through his gloved fingers, growing in intensity until, when he moves his hand away, the power of the green jewel embedded in his chest coalesces into a hologram-like projection before him. The image, displayed in shades of emerald, shows the subject of her curiosity moving determinedly through martial arts kata after martial arts kata, bare-chested and bare-footed on the desert sand. His hair has grown almost to his shoulders by now; he keeps it bound back at his nape.

"How vulgar," she breathes, yet her gaze remains transfixed. "He uses that woman's forms. Disgusting. And yet…" Pale, smooth fingers reach up reverently, as though meaning to catch the image and trap it like a firefly between her palms. "He looks so much like his father…"

For that bare moment her concentration wanes. It is enough. Her vassal's face tightens; one of his gloved hands goes to his forehead. Through gritted teeth he gives a low, hissing gasp, and his spine curls. "You," he snarls, voice raw, angry, uneven. "You bitch-!"

Still focused on the projection, Lady Natsume's lips draw together in a small moue. "This again," she sighs, butterfly-light. "I have no wish to be insulted at this moment. Cease your pointless resistance; it will be better for us both."

"Give me…back…my…"

Regretfully the queen steps back and raises one hand. A flickering glow coalesces in her palm; the image fades, and the jewel in the sharp-eyed man's chest responds to her command, drawing its light back inward. She allows herself to glare at her disobedient servant, though it does not befit a lady to do so. The pained cry that issued from his throat in response to her manipulation of that which controls him morphs into a scornful laugh:

"You think…you're scary, bitch?" he grinds out. "Clearly you haven't…seen my sister…when she's…pissed!"

"Silence," commands the queen. "Your orders are as usual. You will watch them. All of them, especially the woman and the boy. You do this for your own reasons. No one controls you. You will not remember me until I call you; you will not notice the jewel until I command you do so."

Still he struggles against her. "That connection of yours…works both ways, you know…I saw everything…" He laughs wildly, like a dying man laughs (and the lady Natsume would know; she has seen men die). "No wonder…he didn't want you…you hag…of a witch!"

"Silence!" The shriek tears from her throat and brings with it an extra burst of power. Giving an ugly cry, the sharp-eyed man convulses onto the floor, back arching, limbs flailing. Then he falls silent at last. The green glow at his chest curls and fades. Soon the only sound in the underground chamber is Lady Natsume's harsh breathing. Her vassal once more, the man rises to his knees, resuming by degrees his position of obeisance before her.

"Go. Return to your task and forget me," snarls the queen. Blank-eyed, her servant gives a low nod. Then he rises and leaves the room, taking the hall from the chamber which will lead up to the ruined castle and beyond.

The lady Natsume takes a series of deep breaths, waiting for the angry red flush to leave her face and the rage to leave her body. It does not take long; she is proficient at regaining control. "Ah, me," she murmurs to herself after doing so. "It seems I overexcited myself a bit. What a silly woman am I." She giggles like a bell. "I shall play the koto now," she decides. "It always serves to calm me. Tis a shame there are none to appreciate its song such as I do…" So musing, she turns elegantly and exits her throne room on soundless feet.

Near the desert there is a ruin, and under the ruin there is a woman. The woman is a witch who dresses as a queen, her gowns finely brocaded, crystal-bright and lovely. Her hair, the color of a never-ending night, trails long and loose on the dirty floor of the catacombs that she has come to call home, yet never appears dingier for it. Such a thing would be natural, after all, and she is unnatural: her eyes are the gray of a tomb; her skin is the white of a corpse; her lips are the red of fresh blood, and the words that fall from them are as subtle and delicate as poison. She moves as gracefully as death through her lair beneath the earth, and the shadows around her are darker for her presence.