Disclaimer: I still do not own it.
Note: Thank you all for your reviews; they are met with such excitement on my part. I don't have the patience to reply to each here, but believe me when I say, I am giddy.
I am leaving today for a week in Ireland, so I am not going to be posting for at least that amount of time. Sorry!
Enjoy
Mara
Cousin? Alanna thought, pondering the ramifications of the title. That would mean that the tall boy with dark hair would be the prince, it was good information to know. In Alanna's experience, princes were generally fawned over since they were in the womb, which made them exceedingly cocky and unbearable. She silently vowed to stay away from this one, for even in his familial grasp he seemed cold and prudish. The prince motioned his friends over, and quickly introduced them to the Duke.
"Cousin, you know Gary, of course," he said, gesturing to a tall stocky man, with brown hair.
The Duke's soft melodic voice carried to Alanna's ears, "Yes, yes, Young Gareth, Cousin." They grasped each other in a masculine way with somewhat less energy then the prince's embrace.
Is this whole place related to one another, Alanna thought, blatantly staring at the group by now. The tall boy named Gareth stepped aside, revealing a smaller, lither man, one that Alanna knew outright to not be directly related to the prince.
"Thom," the name died on her lips, as if she was forbidden to speak it. Anxiety rose on her suddenly, for she knew that she could not face her brother without embarrassment. Alanna stared at his face, no longer identical to hers, for he had a number of scars, where he had been cut or bruised during training, his face tan from the sun. Her features had grown more delicate and her skin was washed out, and very pale, as she spent little times outside the confines of university. She looked beyond the courtyard, searching for an exit by which she could escape, but found none. The carriage started to get stuffy and she pushed up the sleeves on her dress wanting temporary relief. Surely the Duke would remember her once introduced to her brother, and come to fetch her, but no salvation came.
Seconds ticked to minutes, stretching unimaginably long, as if each flit of a bird's wing was an eon. She needed to get out, into the open sky. Sliding to the opposite end of the carriage, she exited through the same door the Duke had, bypassing the small steps that she would inevitably fall off of, because of the heels on her slippers, without a steadying hand.
Walking quickly across the courtyard she made her way to the group of men, her traveling dress and hair flapping around her. She slid right up next to the Duke before he noticed her. "Do you think that perhaps one of you gentlemen, with you interminable good manners and exceedingly nice upbringings could have made your way to the carriage to assist me out?"
The group went silent; no one there had expected the Duke to be traveling with a young fiery-red headed girl in a dress. The girl in mention had an angry look on her face, as if everyone should have been at her beck and call. In the silence, Thom whispered her name, as if it was a prayer. She turned to him and turned her mouth up to smile, which quickly contorted to something else.
"I think I am going to be sick."
And she was.
All over the prince.
"It should be known that I blame this all on you." Alanna muttered as she took books out of the crates sitting in the study.
She had changed her clothes to a loose fitting robe over a simple day gown, so that she could have freedom of movement as she put away her books. Duke Roger was lounging in one of the chairs, looking at a scroll, that was no doubt a report about the state of the country. He barely looked up as she ranted about her afternoon, which had just gotten worse since she puked on the Crown Prince. It seemed, in perfect fashion, that half of her things were missing, namely an ancient text that she had nearly died for, just so that she could get it into her hands.
Furious that yet another thing had gone wrong that day and that Roger wasn't paying any attention to her, Alanna threw a large tome on the floor, her face red with anger. Roger looked up, finally, a questioning look on his face.
"It is customary," she began, "to look at people when they talk to you." Roger met her eyes, smirked, and then looked back down at the scroll he was reading.
Alanna had had enough. She stormed out of the room, mindless to the priceless books she had casually left strewn across the room. Roger called after her, "Don't forget to dress for the ball!"
No trip to Corus was complete without a walk down the grand staircase in the hall of the palace. Alanna wished that she could just melt into the floor. She tried to stay away from any ball when ever possible. The few she had attended, mandatory for students, were in no way preparation for what she was about to do. The events is Carthak, though garish and expensive, were massive, and she could easily blend in with the other students, or hide in a corner to read a book. Here, she was to be formally announced, and probably be asked to dance a million-odd times.
She didn't dance. Not a little, not a lot, not at all. In fact, if asked if she could describe the worst part of the Black God's realm in one word, she would not hesitate, dancing. It made no sense, shuffling around a floor in front of strangers, forced to make awkward conversation with a bubbling idiot, because he thought she 'pretty.' He'd ask her what her favorite colour was, and whether she preferred kittens or puppies. She wanted to talk about important things, like what the proper temperature was for gesticulating the rare goola plant, or how to choose the tense for a deponent verb in an ancient Phoegician text. They would part, and he would go back to his friends, claiming, untruthfully, that he had been able to cop a feel, and that she had promised to meet him later in the rose garden. Alanna, for her part, would have to do it all again with another man, from the long list of 'bachelors.'
It was precisely this reason that caused her to wish that she could disappear on whim. Shifting back and forth at the top of the stair, hidden by ornately covered doors, she snuck a glance at her companion. The Duke looked stunning in his golden tunic and hose, with dark blue trousers, carrying his wizarding staff, and a sword at his side. She was doubly envious of the sword hanging causally off his belt. For her part, she was dressed in a deep scarlet gown, full at the skirt, tight in the bodice. It was lower then she wanted, but things were done quickly, so she had to make due. As a bit of defiance she had thrown a cream robe, a sign that she was an apprentice at the Imperial University, on top of the gown, which hid a bit of the décolleté.
There was a nod from one of the guards at the door.
It was time.
Not as long as I hoped, but it's something. Both the goola plant and the language of Phoegician are made up on my own. Phoenician was the first language with a written alphabet; the Phoenicians had conquered some of Africa, where they had a port of Carthage, which would seem to be the base for the country of Carthak.
