Chapter II: Tortall
Zira was sitting in Lord Wyldon's office when he came in. She was alone dressed in breeches and a loose linen shirt. Her hair was down, according to Antithian custom she had taken the knife and its sheath out of it and had lain them upon the desk.
The first impression Lord Wyldon had of her was her long straight jet-black hair and rigid back. Zira turned and faced him. He stared at her tiny frame.
"Mithros, I could break her in two," he thought.
"You are going to cut your hair," he said as he sat in the chair across from her. It was a statement not a request.
"No," her amber eyes were hard and unsettling. Wyldon was not used to being refused.
"What?" he replied all too calmly.
"I will not cut my hair."
"Then you will not become a knight," he said his eye meeting hers.
"In Antitheos a woman's hair is her honor, if she cuts it then she is no longer considered a woman." Wyldon stared at her in disbelief.
"I don't care about your foreign superstitions. Your hair will be the first thing that any attacker will grab and so it is coming off," he said in a dangerously low voice. It was now Zira's turn to stare at him.
"Of course I won't wear it down," she said. "I'll wear it in battle style."
"Oh, and so every time someone attacks you, you will be wearing this hairstyle," Wyldon said sarcastically.
"Yes, or I could put it up into it," she said patiently.
"In the five seconds which you may or may not have between life and death?"
She nodded, then pulled her hair firmly up into a complex series of twists. Every strand of hair was out of her eyes and tight against her scalp. Lord Wyldon blinked, she had put it up quickly. He walked around to the back of her chair to inspect it.
"It is done with one hand," she said. "So one always has the fighting arm free."
Lord Wyldon pulled at different loops of hair, but still it stayed firm.
"There's a trick to it, of course," she said with a faint smile.
"What, do you hold it up with your gift? Because if that's what you're doing then you'll be drained before the fight begins," he growled.
"I don't have the gift." Zira stated frankly, and she deftly untwisted her hair, letting it fall back down. Wyldon sighed defeated.
"Have you trained with any weapons previously?" he asked.
"I'm a fair shot, and I am good with a knife."
Lord Wyldon let out a short bark of laughter.
"Knife fights are for thieves and barbarians. They are not suitable for nobles, nor practical." Zira fingered the scars on her hands.
"A knife is faster than a sword and more deadly than hand to hand. Why would that be barbaric?" she asked head high.
"Because," Wyldon sputtered "Because it is."
Zira raised her eyebrows skeptically, but before she could reply there was a knock at the door, and Wyldon rose to answer it.
"Your Majesty." Lord Wyldon said and bowed deeply. Zira stood and inclined her head towards King Jonathan; hatred flamed in her amber eyes.
"Do you not bow when your King enters?" Wyldon asked.
"I did," was Zira's cold reply. Jonathan walked up to her and smiled.
"Welcome Zirabetti," he stumbled over the last syllables, and Zira looked at him with mocking eyes, but answered with a steady voice.
"Jonathan."
"Do you not know how to address a king, wench!" Lord Wyldon shouted angrily, but Jonathan merely held out his arm.
"This isn't her first language, perhaps she misunderstood," he said patiently. Zira looked at him, eyes laughing.
"I knew what I was saying. Did you? I am a princess, but you neglected to address me as such, so why should I address you as a king. We lowered each other equally."
"I have conquered your lands so I am your king." Jonathan replied, meeting her eyes evenly. "It is a fact which you will have to learn to accept."
"Antitheos can only have one king and that is my father, King Lari," she said coldly.
"Your brother tried to steal something from us, something this kingdom needs. I invaded to save my own country."
"Abi only tried to take back what is ours by right." Zira placed her hand over the ring her father had given to her.
"Many countries have felt that way, but I still won't give it up." He looked at her sternly. "You are ten. You do not understand." Zira up to this moment had remained cold and proud, but at these words rage filled her.
"I am too young to understand!" she shouted "What? To understand that because of Tortall, my country has no food or water, that both my mother and my brother are dead. That hundreds of my fathers best troops died, and hundreds more were wounded. All because my brother tried to use his gift to regain what is ours, what is connected with the very soil of Antitheos, what was created by the blood of our first kings…" The king stared at the young princess, as she suddenly collapsed, put her head in her knees and began to weep.
"Zira," the king said gently. "Lord Wyldon and I must discuss you in private." Zira stood up carefully wiping away the evidence of her temporary hysteria and walked out of the room. Neither King Jonathan nor Lord Wyldon noticed that where her tears had fallen to the floor they looked like drops of liquid amber.