Author's Note: First of all, please
stop the lynching threats. ^_^ I'd be flattered if you weren't so
frighteningly persistent .. *please*, give me a chance to have a life, remember
that I have school [or at least I DID! it's SUMMAH now! I can say
goodBYE to my ugly old private idiotic school and say helLO to my precious new
public high school! *g* although in summer I have a job, so remember
that], family, columns, a website, RP clubs, forums, and a magazine to deal with
alongside writing here .. I haven't forgotten. ^_^ Just to reassure
you, I've added a "Works-in-Progress" section to my ff.n profile, and y'all can
check that to see how I'm getting on with certain fics. Okay? Thank
you very much.
Second announcement . . . this chapter is
a little weird. It starts "Book Two" of this whole saga . . . yes, and I
realize that technically there was never a "Book One". But pretend there
is, and pretend it was called "Tortall", and then we'll get somewhere.
You'll understand. It's not really rocket science.
^^
I'd like to personally extend warm hugs
and huge glasses of cranberry juice to y'all -- we've broken 100
reviews!!!! WOO! I love you all for being such great
reviewers. You RULE!!
Enjoy the fic.
I'd been distracted at
first, but it didn't take me long to notice that Christan had a cast on his
right arm -- his knife arm. It appeared to have been well attended to,
although he admitted wryly that it would have been too dangerous to go to the
healers', so he'd had to do it himself. So, in one way or another, we did
end up telling each other about our lives, and hoping that we could force them
together somehow; but all to no avail. After I was a knight, I could sort
things out. After I was a knight, we would get married. After I was
a knight, I could stop living a lie.
Until then, I was in a constant state of
flux.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
While I still had a day
left of Midwinter, I decided to do something that I had been meaning to do for
far too long. I wondered if I hadn't been putting it off on purpose, and
knew that it was already quite late for this. Nevertheless, I forced
myself to get up on the morning of the seventh day of Midwinter, disguise myself
as a strange girl for a change, and march to the Moon of Truth temple in
Corus. I had to apologize to the Goddess, and beg forgiveness for my sin
-- I had gotten married in Mithros's temple, but I had only ever prayed to the
Great Mother before and didn't intend to stop now.
Once inside, I gazed up at the
frescoed ceilings of the Goddess's temple. The plaster patterns were
beautiful, and the paint seemed to blend in with them until the pictures and
plaster became one solid, powerful image. It was a trip across history --
early priestesses defended girls from tyrannical tribesmen, a young druidess
held up, an orange stone that glowed like a coal as she deflected the blows of
what looked to be an abusive husband, and an elderly woman crouched around her
gnarled walking stick as she screamed to someone not in the picture.
Grayish, picturesque mountainsides; gorgeous sunrises and sunsets; tints of
color across the various skies where these stunning scenes took place: I
had seen it all before, but it seemed too much for me to drink in this
time.
As
the immense organ in the corner started up, I felt a deep pressure rise in my
heart, and push against my skin from the inside; the holiness was almost too
much to bear. I let a tear slip down my cheek. I felt so guilty now,
thought about consequences I hadn't even imagined two years ago -- was it that
long? -- when I fantasized about escaping my father and disguising myself as a
page. My wedding had been a fake, it was a farce, and it had been
committed in the courts of the gods themselves. Of all the places to
sin!
Control yourself, I ordered silently, slipping back into my commoner
façade. You are here to correct that wrong, you are here to atone, and you
had best hope for the Goddess to forgive you.
Light poured in from the
stained-glass windows, and that somehow gave me the strength to continue towards
the altar. Bathed in reds and purples, I knelt, lit a candle in each of
the seven rows before her statue, and prayed with all of my heart. I tried
not to seem like too much of a helpless supplicant -- on the other hand, it
wasn't at all good to be an overconfident louse. I just wanted the
Mother's permission to move on with my life, so that I could attain my shield
without guilt and know my place in the universe. It was too confusing to
be a princess anymore, even undercover.
I used to think it was wonderful
to have servants waiting on me hand and foot, awaiting my every beck and call;
it was glamorous, after years of being looked askance in the Yamani emperor's
courts. Being noticed everywhere I went was fun at first, too. I
used to receive poems from village boys, composed to a stray lock of hair on the
right side of my head, or the way I looked as I rode my horse. Yes, it
would have been lovely if it was real -- if those village boys really had
admired the way my hair fell over my eyes, and not the way the jewels piled up
in the royal treasury or the way my future husband would be
treated.
After awhile, friends -- even acquaintances -- became an impossibility. It
was too uncomfortable: I was constantly wary of their ambitions, and what
they wanted from me, and I hated having to be nice to the slimiest of creatures
just because my father appreciated their fashion sense. Once I started to
drive myself crazy with worries and apprehensions, I drew into myself and grew
as shy as I had been in my Yaman days; not because I was disliked this time, but
because I was liked too much. Or was it because I really wasn't liked at
all, yet it had to seem that way? There's a certain element of disgust in
that as well.
Christan wasn't confusing, or unsure of himself -- at
least, it wasn't the kind of insecurity that led to dangerous ambition. I
always knew where I stood with him, and he didn't treat "Princess" as though it
were part of my name, just some foolish title that a bunch of madmen had come up
with and decided to pin on me. I suppose it was his slightly skewed idea
of royalty; the King of Thieves had a more active job than public
relations. Unfairly, I think, it was also comforting to me that Christan
would rather spit on my father than bow to him.
The gigantic temple bells snapped
me out of my musings, and I'd barely finished jumping in surprise before I took
off to the palace. It was time for me to train, and train hard. I'd
had enough time to laze.
* -- * -- * -- * -- * -- * -- * --
*
Book Two:
Yaman
* -- * -- * -- * --
* -- * -- * -- *
The prince knocked.
"Andrea, we will be late," he called urgently. More importantly, his
parents would be angry, although that was not prudent to say.
Behind the dark,
elegantly carved door, Gazali panicked. She had been practicing a dance in
front of an audience of no one, being silly, and now look what it had cost
her. No matter how much she missed being a true Vanisher, she couldn't
forget to live; she had forgotten the first rule of espionage.
Pathetic. Pitiful.
"I'm almost ready, Kamo," she yelled back, forgetting
in her rush that true noble ladies did not raise their voice in such an
unbecoming way. You have obviously spent too much time in Tortall,
she heard Meimei-sensei tell her sternly, and shook her head.
Kamokuro stepped back in
surprise as Gazali shoved the door open, tying her bright yellow obi hastily
around her waist. Her kosode, patterned with deep orange nightingales, was
a short-sleeved kimono, commonly worn among married ladies. Young girls
wore furisodes with long sleeves, and Gazali was still getting used to her
changed wardrobe. Called a haori, her short coat struck a gorgeous balance
between the color of her obi and her kosode, which brought out a stunning shade
in her eyes. Gazali's thick black hair was tied in her favorite braid
behind her head.
As she twined her hands nervously in front of her,
the prince remembered that she was supposed to be his wife, and took her hand in
his elegant purple one. He was rather stunning himself in light violet
skirt-trousers over a full-length ebony kimono. A rich purple haori coat
of his own covered the rest of his upper body, and gave gorgeous accents to his
rich, dark hair.
"We don't really match, and I'm not dressed very
formally," she fretted, snatching at her hair with her free hand.
Kamo shook his head
reassuringly, if unsmilingly. "We won't be the center of attention," he
replied. "Nobody will notice." Especially if you turn on your
charms, he added mentally, remembering how well she typically acted at social
functions. Besides, she looked as though she was dressed extremely well --
he supposed that Gazali had that effect on whatever she was wearing.
Clothes did not fit her; she fit herself to them, which was a talent that
Kamokuro found thrilling. Additionally, it made their masquerade that much
easier: if the princess was more interested in eight years of grueling
struggle than a bond with him, at least another beautiful woman was willing to
take her place.
Beginning the usual flurry of bows and greetings upon
their entrance to the emperor's elite ceremonial hall forced other musings out
of the prince's head. He concentrated on being the picture of politeness
and perfection, so that he might make a favorable impression on his
family. Tonight the Yamani court was celebrating the christening of the
emperor's nineteenth great-niece, who was wailing in the middle of the
room. Surrounded by laughing, garrulous mothers, fathers and uncles with
proud smiles on their faces, bored cousins and siblings, and embarassed
well-wishers, the baby had cause to make a scene.
Watching with amusement and some
concern, Gazali touched Kamo's arm lightly; in the midst of pleasant
conversation they'd let their hands drop. "Look," she pointed out softly,
leaning over to speak to him. Kamo allowed himself a slight, rueful grin
before his face morphed into a mask of casual distress.
"Poor child," he remarked.
Nodding absently, Gazali turned to a tall window and gasped.
"Kamo, the sun's gone
down," she told him in the same low tone. "We've been here at least an
hour."
"It
was bright when we came in," he acknowledged.
"Can't we sneak out?" she muttered
rebelliously. All she got in return was the tiniest of winks, which
shocked her, coming from the prince. They left, and were not noticed by
anyone but a maid carrying dirty dishes in the hallway.
"I thought you enjoyed being with
so many people," Kamo commented, sounding as though he were just trying to
continue the conversation; it was a very artfully disguised
question.
Gazali raised her eyebrows briefly and sighed. "Not these people,
really. I'd forgotten how tedious this court --" Stopping
midsentence, she covered her mouth and glanced around, eyes widened. The
maid, around a corner ahead of the pair, nearly dropped her plates. If she
had been more cautious and proper, she might have forgotten about what she had
heard, and turned back the other way, but that was not to be.
Letting himself smile at
his "wife", Kamo put a hand on her back and answered, "I quite agree, although I
can't say I enjoy Tortall any more. I'm used to it, I suppose. Don't
worry, no one's listening."
Still nervous, she suggested, "Let's go
outside." She was being far too careless. What was the matter with
her? She was trained for this.
"Nobody heard us," the prince repeated. "That's
why we left, isn't it? You're doing very well. I wouldn't
worry. At this rate, we'll finish these years with ease." Suddenly
remembering that his hand still rested on the small of her back, he led her to a
bench in the menagerie with all the airs of a gentleman. After leaving her
dishes in a flowerbed, the maid took off her inside slippers and headed out
after them in her bare feet. They had not even thought to change their
shoes before they ran off!
"You're doing very well, too," Gazali told him,
recovering from her slip in the hallway and heightening her senses as she had
been taught. "Honestly -- I thought you might have given us away by now,
but I'm taking care of that, aren't I?"
"You are fine," he finished,
almost vehemently, and that was the end of the subject. "I barely met
Andrea, and I never knew you well enough to truly remember your real name.
I just think of you as Princess Andrea, and that is enough." The maid was
dumbfounded, speechless. What was this?! Surely the prince was not
being disloyal to his wife! Fervently, she wished she had kept the dirty
dinnerware and gone back to the kitchen -- where she belonged! -- without a
second thought. Who was this pretender?
"I remembered you more than you
remembered me," she reminisced. "That's how it is with royalty, I
suppose." Kamo didn't know what to say: was that a compliment or a
suggestion at betterment? A bitter declaration of evil in the world of
wealth and fame? "Excuse me, Kamo," Gazali hissed, putting a strange note
of sudden violence into a polite request -- he soon found out why. Jumping
up from the bench, Gazali twisted around, catching her cheery-colored sleeve on
the side of the iron bench, and grabbed the hem of the fleeing servant's
skirt. Her kosobe ripped, and she tackled the maid. As Kamo watched
in shock, bouncing to his feet himself, the two women rolled over a flowerbed,
crushing poppies and tipping over a tiny bonsai tree.
"Who are you, if you are not
Princess Andrea?!" the maid screeched. Bonsais required meticulous care,
and if that one had been destroyed she might find herself in a dank Yamani
prison for long months.
Gazali clapped a hand over the girl's mouth and
snapped, "I am Princess Andrea, and your doubts can cost you your life."
She would never mean such a threat, but she could say it fiercely enough to
incite belief -- sometimes. Not this time.
Intoxicated with purpose, the
servingmaid snatched at Gazali's face. "Dirty foreigner!" she cried.
"You wear a mask, and you are not a princess. I will expose you before the
emperor for tainting the integrity of our country, and --" As she talked,
cursing and screaming by turns, Kamokuro hurried back to the emperor's guests to
divert suspicion. If anyone asked, he would say that his wife had felt a
touch of exhaustion, and had gone to their rooms to catch her breath. It
had been a tiring week, to be sure.
Meanwhile, Gazali struggled with the maid, who seemed
to be convinced that her glorious country's prince was in danger. Her
persistence was so alarming that Gazali wondered if it wasn't spell-induced; why
would a servant, treated as one of the dregs of Yamani society, have pride in
her country's integrity?
"I will find you work elsewhere," Gazali promised
hastily and threateningly, daring the maid to stop yelling for a moment and
inquire as to what sort of work it would be.
"FRAUD!" the maid screamed as if
she were dying. Her eyes seemed to blaze, and her groping hand found the
hilt of Gazali's hidden knife. She pulled the dagger out and jammed it
into the top of Gazali's shoulder, tearing off an entire layer of skin.
The sweating Vanisher clenched her teeth to keep from shouting and quickly
reclaimed her knife. She slashed blindly at the maid's arm, aiming well --
the cut would hurt her enough to silence her now, but in time it would heal, and
it was certainly not life-threatening. In a flash, Gazali snatched her
identification pin and work verification badge, and after a second's thought
stole her palace regulation headscarf as well. Dumping her outside the
gates was an impossibility, but that would not matter. The maid would not
find work in or even near the palace again, and she would be thrown out as an
impostor. Her identity was effectively gone, and she would have to move to
another city and reregister herself there. Nobody would listen to the mad
yammering of a stranger without even a taste of validity. Gazali was safe
from discovery -- and most likely imprisonment -- for another day.
