A/N: I hope this is soon enough for you. Disclaimer still applies, etc. etc.

Sandry raced her heartbeat down hallways breathlessly, and nearly knocked over the guard trying not to look in her uncle's bedchamber. Too hurried even to apologize, she flung herself down beside the bed. On the opposite side, Yasmin, the duke's wife of eight years, her four-month pregnancy barely showing through her loose nightgown, had her husband wrapped in her arms, her cheek to his. His grace, Duke Vedris of Emelan, struggled for air. Hastily, Sandry tried to wrap her magic around him, as she had twice before. This time, it was neither hold nor bind. Horrified, she clung to his hand and began to weep.

"Sandrilene," he managed. His lips were slowly turning blue, and often he stiffened in pain, but, as always, he fought his body to make it bend to his will. "My dear…girl…"

"Yes, Uncle, I'm here," Sandry urged him.

"Take…care of my people. Watch over them. Keep them from harm."

"I'll do whatever I can," she promised, hoping that she would manage to keep enough of an influence over her cousins to keep her word.

"And…of my darling," his eyes flickered to the tiny dancer, whose tears were now beginning to streak down her face.

"That, I can do," she said, softly, following his affectionate gaze with one of her own.

"And…I don't want to force him on you…but…should you…require an heir…consider…my child…our baby…"

By now, Sandry's emotions were so wound in her thoughts that she simply nodded, kissing the pain-knotted hand she held. Duke Vedris smiled, forced out a soft, "I love you," to his wife and niece, and stopped struggling for air.

Sandry's tears strengthened, and she reached her other hand across her uncle's body, groping for the tiny, well-muscled hand that soon found hers. They clung to each other in their grief.

***************************************************************

Two weeks later, the storm of sadness had passed. The country was in mourning. And the Duke had been buried. In the small office where Sandry had spent so many pleasant hours sorting out the realm with her uncle and the Baron, a small crowd was gathered. Relatives that neither Sandry nor the duke had seen in years…even a few that Yasmin had never met…sat in rows, talking quietly amongst themselves. Sandry sat, back still straight, eyes firmly fixed forward, between her aunt and the duke's oldest son.

The Baron Erdogun fer Baigh, Lord Seneschal to Duke Vedris, stood in front of the room, waiting for the murmurs to die away. To the credit of the propriety—or perhaps merely the greed—of his audience, the crowd quieted almost at once.

"It is a very sad occasion that brings us together today," he began, eyes still shadowed by his loss, "But his Grace would have wished us, I think, to go on with our lives, with caring for his people, whom he loved, as quickly and as kindly as possible. So, I bid you welcome to the reading of the last will and testament of His Grace, Vedris fer Tureno, Duke, Sole Monarch of Emelan. I will proceed,

'I, Vedris fer Tureno, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare the following document to be my last will and testament, to insure that my last wishes be carried out, that my family be provided for, and that my people be cared for to the best of my abilities. Said document to be considered as the lawful disposition of my responsibilities and possessions and attested to by my own signature and seal, as well as those of the witnesses selected by me. I include also for the proof of the court the signature of the healer who examined my mind in order that this will might be considered in the eyes of the law to have been made in my right mind and, as such, incontestable on any grounds…"

The formal phrases droned on. Finally, the legal phraseology came to a close and the disposition of property was announced. To several of Vedris's personal servants went sums of money, personal possessions; to grandchildren went furniture; to his wife, Yasmin fa Tureno, known as Hebet, a large income; to his youngest son, Alan fer Yorkig, a small estate; to his unborn child, to be named by his wife as she chose, a prospering trade venture, a country manor, and a good income; to his daughter, Amalie fa Krandlen, a mirror he knew she admired; to his other children, various holdings and personal possesions; to his great-niece, Sandrilene fa Toren, also known as Spindlespun, his title and responsibilites as sole ruler and protector of Summmersea, Emelan, and the waters and lands connected with that province. Thus did he dispose of his worldly possessions and hope that, as he left this worl—

"What?" Lord Fratsen fer Tureno, Vedris's eldest son, was on his feet, red-faced. His wife, next to him, was the color of chalk, her limp hair sausage-rolling down her chair back as she stared up at the seneschal in horror. Sandry was shocked at her cousin's behavior—surely he had better manners than to…her ears caught up with her mind, and she stared at the baron herself, mouth hanging open. Beside her, her aunt gave a tiny smile, and squeezed her hand.

"To my great-niece, Sandrilene fa Toren, also known as Spindlespun, my title and responsibilities as sole ruler and protector of Summersea, Emelan, and the waters and lands connected with that province," the baron repeated, his eyebrow raised, daring the man to say a word.

Lord Frantsen, never a man of prudence, took the dare. "He can't do that. I am his heir. I'm his oldest son. Of course I will inherit the throne. This isn't right. It isn't even legal—"

A small, dessicated man who had been seated unobtrusively in the corner rose. "Actually," he said, firmly, "according to the Laws of Succession, which have been in force in Emelan, and, indeed, in most of the Easterm lands, since the year 300, the ruler may leave his duties and privileges to any member of his own family whom he deems worthy to assume the throne and competent in those matters related to it."

"Oh?" Lord Frantsen looked perilously close to exploding like a squeezed pustule (in point of fact, he was a squeezed pustule).

"Yes. And unless you can prove that he was insane at the time of the signing of the will, which will be quite difficult when he had the…er…foresight to have himself confirmed sane by one of the most eminent healers available, there is very little you can do."

Lord Frantsen stormed out of the room. The Baron looked pointedly at Sandry. "Shall I continue, your Grace?"

Weakly, she nodded.

"Now, where was I…oh, yes. 'Thus do I dispose of my worldly possessions and hope that, as I leave this world, I leave behind me no worse memories than I carry with me. Signed, Vedris, Duke of Emelan, and witnessed by Jamson fer Yornan and Clara ei Gathron, with an addendum attesting to his Grace's mental health signed by Moonstream, Dedicate Superior of Winding Circle Temple.' If there are any questions, I will be happy to answer them. For now, I thank you for your time and bid you good day."

Sandry had pulled herself together. With an icy calm, she stood up and left the room, totally missing the daggers her second-cousin-by-marriage was throwing at her. Everyone instinctively moved out of her way as she headed for the door. The servants, passing by her, pressed themselves against walls. One of them was stopped, and relieved but puzzled to have a stack of crude crockery gently taken away from her. The lady went into a small room that led off her chambers. Originally it had been a closet, but it now stood empty. She closed the door, set down her pile of plates, picked one up, and hurled it at the walls.

Her maid, startled by the crashes that were coming from behind the door, called in vain, "M'lady? M'lady?" Her knocks going unanswered, she finally fled, looking for someone who could make herself heard.

*************************************************************

Tris had been sitting with a book, giving half her attention to the words and half to idle scrying. She caught a glimpse of black-draped streets, of the newly sealed tomb, of a butterfly sunning itself on a rock…"Mistress Stormspun?" a timid voice asked. She jumped, and Chime, who had been sunning herself, hissed a little.

"Yes?" she asked, shaking her head to clear it and wiping her eyes before pushing her spectacles up her nose again.

"It's…Lady Sandrilene…she's…"

"Well, what is it, girl?" Tris demanded sharply. "What's wrong with Sandry?"

"I'm not sure. But she's been…throwing dishes."

"What?" 'Sandry?' She demanded silently, 'Sandry, what is—' She was shut out, but she could sense fear, and anger, and a terrible weight. 'Daja, go up to Sandry's rooms, I don't care what you're doing, this is important.'

'What's going on?' her sister demanded, startled.

'I don't know, but…feel for her. The maid says she's been throwing dishes.'

'SANDRY?'

'That's what she says. Briar? Briar?'

'What?'

'Get up to Sandry's room! She's really upset about something!'

'Coming!'

As the three quickly made their way to the royal family's wing, they continued their anxious conversation.

'What's been going on? What could have upset her like this?'

'The will was being read today. Maybe something…'

'Do you honestly think Sandry would mind if her uncle didn't leave her any money?'

'Not Sandry.'

'But maybe if that awful cousin of hers wound up inheriting after all, or something…'

By this time, they had arrived at the door. Inside, they could hear crockery smashing. 'Try all calling together. One, two, three—'

'SANDRY!!'

'Go AWAY!! I don't want to talk—how could he DO this to me?'

'How could WHO do WHAT—' "Oh, just get the lock open for us, Daj. We need to talk to her."

A few moments later, the door was open, and a saucer narrowly missed Daja's head. Tris pushed past her sister, who was staring in shock, and snatched the last jug before Sandry could fling it, too. Daja recovered from the sight of the bravest person in the world in angry tears, and reached out to gather her sister to her. Briar, too, stepped into the small space, and Tris, after setting the jug on the floor, reached to stroke the emerald-clad silk back.

'Sandry?' Daja ventured, 'what is it?'

'It's me, Daj. He left it to ME. All of it. I'm the Duchess. I'M the Duchess. He made me the Duchess…"

'Your uncle?'

'Oh, Sandry…'

'I don't WANT to be the Duchess…I'm too young…I can't be responsible for all those people…I can't…I just can't…'

'Oh, saati…I'm sorry…I know it's a big responsibility…'

'But—Sandry—you didn't want any of those other people to rule, you know you didn't.'

'I know, little brother, but…'

'No buts. You have a duty. You have to protect the people. None of those other people in there will do that. You have to. There's no one else.'

'Oh, Tris…I suppose you're right.'

Having cried her cry and thrown her dishes, Sandry slowly stepped out of her sibling's arms. "Thank you," she said softly.

"What are we here for?" Briar asked with a grin.

"Time to face the music," she admitted. There was a coronation to schedule. Squaring her shoulders, she went to go speak to the—her—seneschal.

*************************************************************

HAH!! I did it!!

Superalicia: I'm highly flattered by that! Here it is!

Seraphin: I'm glad you think I've got my fave TP char. down. I adore Tris, but I've never written her before…

Andrea: That…wasn't a very nice thing to do to you, was it? Sorry about that. But it was one of those pre-ordained by the Fates (or rather, the author) things.

TGCoY,

El