A few other notes .. NO! Christan is *NOT* dead! *lets out a horrified gasp* Thank goodness. g> Also .. please don't lynch me for not getting chapters out! *snorts* I'm just busy, is all. I'm on spring break now, so school shouldn't be taking me away from my lovely fans for at least two weeks. ^_^ Yay. Anyways. Go read. And review, like I know y'all will or I won't write another chapter.
Christan hadn't
slept in peace since the attempt on his life the night after Andrea left. His right arm had been partially healed by one of his rogues, but the thief
hadn't been quite skilled enough to fix it completely; he still couldn't
use it very well. This left him feeling crippled and defenseless,
which addled him. He had a harder time than ever keeping his injury
a secret, hiding his arm in his cloak or using only the fingers when he
was in public. It was difficult and painful, but otherwise he'd be
dead. The scar on his neck was bad enough: rumors were flying everywhere
about how he had met his match, he would lose the throne within days. The Rogue highly suspected that more than a few thieves were taking payoffs
-- first, there was the attack on Andrea, and now this Jewel Swiftfingers
the assassin had mentioned.
The rogue who'd
healed his arm had been loyal since before Christan had even taken the
throne, but he still felt uneasy about trusting him. One careless
word, one meaningful glance, one whispered phrase, and suddenly the entire
Court of the Rogue would be taking advantage of his weakness.
This was the
mood in which his enemy finally faced him. Christan sat up straight
and pushed off his bed the instant he heard the faint scratching sound
outside. When a small, catty woman came in through the window, he
had both her hands behind her back in his strong grip and his knife at
her throat. She had closely cropped, very light blond hair and cold,
calculating brown eyes that clearly said: "Whatever I want, I get."
"So you're the
elusive Aaron Linnus," she purred, unfazed by his knife or his grasp.
"So you're the
elusive Jewel Swiftfingers," he returned coolly, pressing the sharp point
of the dagger to her neck, so that a thin bead of crimson blood showed. Jewel didn't seem to care; she kept staring up at him hungrily.
"Quick boy. I've been watching you, Aaron," she informed him with a sly smirk.
He raised his
eyebrows. "How closely, Swiftfingers?"
"Well, I know
you've been having some nice little trysts with Her Highness Andrea of
Tortall," she said smugly, pressing herself to him.
Christan's knife
pressed into her throat, and a thin line of red trickled down her shirt. He shoved her back into the wall and away from him, repulsed; the dagger
point stayed against her neck. "Do you now?" he asked roughly.
"I dispatched
my loyal band of thieves to watch you and your sweet young princess
walk back up to the royal palace on those days after her -" Jewel's eyebrows
gave a mocking quirk at the next word - "wedding almost three weeks
ago." Christan breathed an inner sigh of relief: she didn't know
any more than he'd suspected from his meetings with his own loyal band. According to their information, her rogues hadn't agreed to come any closer
than sixty yards to the dangerous King of Thieves. Jewel couldn't
have heard the full plan. Andrea was safe.
"Actually, that's
old news," he told her, shrugging ruefully. "Your thieves talk too
much." He paused to watch the bewildered look flit through her eyes,
and then added: "Why do you think I walk with her?"
"Too bad you
won't have any thieves left after too long," Jewel snapped nastily, her
confidence returning as she came to her secondary weapon. "I've got
a very extensive list of the names and descriptions of thieves in
your Court. I'm going to let the guards know about one more of your
loyal rogues for every week that you stubbornly hold on to your title. Why, I might even let the name of this place slip." She gestured
around Christan's quarters and the sturdy Night Dragon Inn.
"Vicious," Christan
remarked nonchalantly. Jewel's neck was bleeding quite freely now. She hadn't managed to get her hands out of his viselike grip, either --
good, he thought grimly. Mithros knows what she'd be doing with them.
"Come on, Aaron. You're smart enough to guess what I want from you." She was smiling
now, still apparently unaffected by the open cut on her throat area.
"Since when are
we on first-name terms, Swiftfingers? And no, you won't get either
me or my throne."
Jewel smiled
-- it was chilling. "I haven't given up yet, Rogue," she told him
prettily, and vanished. She didn't look Gifted, but she'd probably
hired some minor mage to get her out of Christan's quarters once her work
was done.
Christan laid
traps at every door, window, and other opening in his rooms. He'd
have to be careful from now on. She was a persistent one.
As winter season
approached and the cold air crept into my room as I read by the window
every night, squires also began to appear at the tables of the dining hall. I wondered when Kander was coming back, and if he really would be able
to guess my plan. He would have written -- of course Christan still
handled all my mail so it wouldn't get searched by palace servants -- and
kept me informed on his doings, like Gazali, but he'd told me before he
left that he was a terrible letter-writer. I'd grinned and
told him it was fine by me, but now I was wishing he'd agreed to write. I somehow felt I couldn't appreciate surprises right now -- after Maxwell's
brief flirtation with dagger-fighting, he'd kept out of my sight, but I
knew he had to have something up his sleeve. Being constantly on
the alert for one of his backhanded tricks was getting to me. I had to juggle training, my studies, Maxwell's animosity, keeping myself
safe from discovery, missing Christan, and wondering about Kander on top
of all that. I was exhausted.
One night, a
week and a half before Midwinter, I finally saw my brother. He strolled
in with Sir Mawren, who was looking highly superior and far too important
for petty conversation with his lowly squire, and Kander immediately settled
himself down at the squires' table. Mawren sauntered over to sit
across from Lord Saxen at the instructors' table. I shot a glance
over at Kander, but inconspicuously; he had wanted to guess, after
all. He seemed to be listening more than talking, but I could tell
that most of the boys regarded him with very high respect: when he did talk, everybody else shut up. This was quite a change from the babbling,
excited boy he had been when I'd first met him three years ago. I
smiled in spite of myself, and then sobered quickly as I looked back at
my plate. It wouldn't do to carelessly reveal myself now!
"Twelve golden
nobles for your thoughts, Christan," Farrell's voice announced, cutting
into my reverie. "Is it a girl?"
I laughed. "Not at all, silly boy. Get out of your romance novels."
"Ah, he's got
your number now," Evan informed Farrell as a blush swept over his cheeks.
"Ho then, I bet
it is a girl," he retorted, more quietly because of his embarrassment.
"I was only funning,"
I told him lamely, feeling a bit guilty. My attempts to deflect the
conversation away from myself had been far too successful, it seemed.
Samson of Meron
saved us. He settled his tray down between Evan and another first-year,
Mellin of Dunlath.
"How goes it,
boys?" he asked with a wide grin. I noticed with amusement that Evan
had apparently beaten the shyness out of him.
"Fine," I answered,
shooting a quick, reassuring smile Farrell's way. He rolled his eyes
at me, still blushing, and ate. Sighing, I dug into my own plate,
telling myself to give him time to get over it.
After dinner,
I was on my way back to my rooms to study mathematics when I caught sight
of Roald up ahead. It was unusual for him to be in the pages' wing,
as he considered himself above them, and I worried if he somehow knew. Had he come to find me specifically?
I needn't have
worried.
"My greetings
to you, page," he said, nodding to me with a pompous air as he passed. "I trust you're a credit to your training?" I stifled a laugh at
his obvious attempts to win this inferior lad over, and as a result I gasped. Roald took it for an exclamation of awe. "I understand," he told
me knowingly. "To stand in front of your king! I perfectly
understand that you'd be dumbfounded, but don't be frightened, dear boy,
don't be frightened." I gulped and smiled up at him, feigning reverence. He patted my shoulder -- I turned to ice at his touch. "Serve Tortall,
my boy, and you can never go wrong."
Once he was out
of earshot, I jumped in triumph and whistled as I headed through the halls
to my rooms. Unfortunately, I bumped right into Maxwell of Disart
and the ever-faithful Eryk of Spedret.
"Use only your
fists this time, Christan," he growled as they backed me into an even more
deserted hallway. I cursed inwardly. Why had I allowed myself
to get into this mess?
"When will you
tire of this?" I wondered softly as Eryk's fist jammed into the side of
my head and I felt Maxwell's hands shove me up against a wall. I
twisted out of his grasp, ducked, and brought my knee sharply up to Eryk's
stomach. He staggered back, the wind knocked out of him, as Maxwell
elbowed the back of my right shoulder. I wheeled my arm around and
slapped him in the face, then firmly smashed my hand into his nose. Eryk, who had recovered somewhat, came up behind me and put both of his
huge arms around my neck. I struggled to breathe, but everything
went black soon enough.
I came to as a
servant splashed water over my face in Lord Saxen's office. Oh
no, I thought in panic. What have I done? I should never
have let myself get cornered by Maxwell!
"Christan of
Hiera," Lord Saxen told me icily, "you were found in a --" he paused for
effect -- "scuffle with two other pages." He gestured to Maxwell
and Eryk, sitting on either side of me, and I struggled with my self-control
to keep myself from glaring at them. "Eryk of Spedret, being a third-year
page, you should know better. Three bells of time at the stable lofts
tomorrow, and an extra hour of chores on the Midwinter feast days." My insides curdled. What would my punishment be? "Maxwell of
Disart and Christan of Hiera, you dishonor the training program. If I catch you fighting again I will not be merciful. You lose your
first Midwinter vacation day, and let it be a lesson to you."
I could barely
think. My first Midwinter vacation day! I wouldn't see Christan
until at least the fifth day of the holidays! Right then, I could
have killed Maxwell, but I controlled myself as Lord Saxen disdainfully
told us to leave. I tuned out anything Maxwell said to me in the
corridors, and locked my room door once I was in. I cast a helpless
glance around at all my belongings, and threw myself on my bed, unable
to stop the tears stinging relentlessly against my eyelids.
The Midwinter
feasting days were a distaster. On the first day, still blind with
rage over losing an entire day with Christan, I spilled an entire fish
platter all over Farrell. I thought the master of ceremonies was
going to behead me, but instead he had me handing plates to Eryk the rest
of the evening -- which may have been worse than decapitation. I
hated that stupid oaf, and shuddered to think what he'd do if he found
out I was a girl. I'd known about him before I'd come into knighthood
training because he'd made a point of torturing Kander as well. Apparently
he'd been held back a year more times than anybody could count, and most
of the pages wondered why he wasn't sitting in Spedret picking daisies,
since he obviously didn't have what it took to be a knight.
Fortunately,
Evan caught Eryk being a brute the second night. Farrell detained
Maxwell while Evan, who was bigger than any of the pages by a long shot,
gave Eryk a stern beating outside. Thankfully, nobody got caught
this time, and on the third feasting day Eryk was too shocked and scared
to do anything but moan and rub his blackened eye.
The fourth day
of Midwinter, which was to be my first vacation day, found me in misery. I tried to concentrate on practicing, but my mind was already at the Night
Dragon Inn. I finally satisfied myself with writing a letter to Gazali,
although I never sealed it because the mood was far too depressing. If Gazali had read that letter, written in my throes of despair, she would
have been so worried about my health that she'd have left Yaman to come
cheer me up. At least it made the time pass.
I couldn't sleep
that night after I'd taken off my Christan disguise, and I had lain awake
for hours until I finally bowed to the inevitable. Early in the morning
-- or was it still late at night? -- I crawled out of bed, emotionally
charged, and stole away to Corus through the royal menagerie. The
city seemed asleep, but I knew the kinds of people who roamed the streets
at this time of night and kept my knives in their hidden sheaths. As the sun's faint tint began to show over the horizon, I snuck up to Christan's
quarters the secret way and tapped three times on the windowframe before
climbing in.
Christan's arms
were around me the minute I got to my feet, and I pressed my face to his
linen shirt. "Andrea," he whispered, stroking my hair. I hugged
him tightly, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes again. I didn't
trust my voice.
He lifted my
face up and brushed the hair lightly away from my eyes, smiling down at
me so lovingly that I found it hard to breathe. I reached up to kiss
him, and we were locked in an embrace until the sun had gotten much higher
in the sky.