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“Morning…” The dark haired woman purred up at him as Herbert stood in the middle of his kitchen. Sipping on a cup of coffee as he read the latest of the security reports he’d requested allowed him a few seconds to remember where she’d come from and why she was still there. Celeste City was a good enough place to live: calm, peaceful…but almost completely devoid of an open nightlife…unless you knew where to look. He’d only intended to flirt around, but the combination of liquor and pent up frustration had resulted in an invitation. Now he had to deal with it.

“Do you…want to go grab some breakfast?” She dipped under his bent arm and pressed against his bare chest. How had he managed to leave the bed, shower and make his coffee without noticing her? Eyes of darkened steel shifted down, over the voluptuous form covered in…his shirt. Well…that explained where it’d gone. Briefly, he considered another interlude…but then…today was the day he’d planned on returning to court. “I’ve got plans.” He replied, setting down his coffee and stepping away from her. One cool hand wormed its way from around his side and down his abdomen. Bold…and normally at least a little entertaining. But Herbert had already made up his mind.

“Plans that don’t require company.” He continued, turning around and removing the sole article of clothing she had on. “You’re free to use the shower if you need it. Lock the door behind you when you leave, all right?” The shirt made its way back onto its original owner who, no longer bare chested, located and slipped into the pants that had been so hastily discarded the night before. Herbert wanted to make as swift an exit as possible – so he didn’t bother with socks. The woman, whose name still escaped him, stood befuddled before him. This wasn’t the first time a woman had mistaken a one-night-stand for something more. Nor the last, if his sex love life continued on as it had since the year of the Princess’s debut.

For a second he was afraid that she would start to cry. That always managed to inspire a twinge of guilt in him – though certainly never enough to make him stay. What kind of woman thought something of substance could come from a drunken affair that begun in the back room of some underground club?

“I understand!” She replied, almost a bit too perkily. Still nude, her slender form slipped back into his bedroom. “Just give me a minute to get dressed. I ought to get to work anyway. We have a lot of prepping to do.”

“Uh huh!” Herbert called back, feeling a bit thrown aback by her quick acceptance. He spent the time finding and folding his military jacket, the one that marked him as a royal guard. It was tucked under his arm – no need for her to find out his occupation. Even though they were well away from the upper class area of the city, word traveled fast. The last thing Alarice needed was for her guard’s womanizing to do the rounds among the gossips. His side-holster was slipped on, guns already in place. Eventually she emerged and when he opened the door for her, she giggled and batted at his shoulder playfully. Not one of his better selections of the night…admittedly.

As soon as the two were out the door the woman stood up on her toes and placed a quick peck on his cheek. Before he could reply she began her retreat, her voice just barely carrying its message from the widening distance between them. “See you soon!” She’d said, making Herbert wonder what she meant.

Oh if only he’d known.

“It’s time, mon frère,” The tall, dark-skinned man murmured ominously as their ride came plunking to a heavy stop at their destination. “Are you ready?”

Francois chuckled softly as he checked, for the final time, his lace cuffs and neck-tie. As much as they may have suited him, they weren’t necessarily his style. For the time being, however—for the role he had been hired to play—he knew that it would have to be something he dealt with. In any case, Francois was confident he’d be able to wear his clothing as easily as he wore his suave, aristocratic façade. And at the Lician Palace, anything short would have been unacceptable.

“I’m always ready, mon frère,” he replied, in turn, smile playing upon his lightly tanned cheeks, framed by waved locks of tinted pinks and purples. “But was it really necessary to bring Reena?”

“Of course. She’s more memorable than your average carriage…and besides, who else do you expect to take care of her? You know how mother feels about Reena.”

“True enough.”

The elephant they rode upon let out an appreciative cry, curling her trunk to the sky as nobles left and right turned their heads to admire the animal—some with awe, and others with perplexed glances of distaste. If she were a woman, and not an elephant, Francois was sure that at this moment, she would have been batting her eyelashes in bashful delight at the attention, oblivious to the signs of blatant disapproval that dotted the crowd of her onlookers. Whether they were sneering at Reena, or the two dark-skinned men who rode high upon her back, however, was a question all on its own.

Francois had to bite back a cheeky grin at the thought. Now that they had successfully begun the first part of their mission—a small one, but an important one nonetheless—it was time to quit talking to each other as brothers. Francois was now a sophisticated young suitor from the Third Realm, and Fernand was now Edouard: the quiet savage Francois kept as his bodyguard.

Before too much longer, the two had descended, allowing a few attendants to escort Reena to (what they were assured was) the most elegant of stables, then continuing on their way—Francois in front, naturally—to the castle. The young man kept his head held high and proud as he made his way to join the rabble of suitors that had already arrived to give the Princess their well-wishes. And quite a rabble, it was. Francois supposed he should have expected no less than a line (which is exactly what it was) to wait in before he was permitted to have his audience, practically flanked with guards, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a touch disappointed. It was going to be a long, tiresome wait.

This wasn’t an exaggeration.

Hours passed, Francois trying hard not to be disgruntled at the realization that he was one of the last to have arrived (the problem with traveling by elephant—they weren’t necessarily the fastest mode of transportation), and that by the time he actually stood before the Queen-to-be, she would have most assuredly been thoroughly and utterly bored. It dashed his hopes at being particularly memorable—or at least it would have, if they didn’t have a failsafe, courtesy of their employer, waiting to ensure Francois’ good graces (or at least familiarity).

And wouldn’t you know? The fool stepped forward as if upon cue, when it was nearly Francois’ turn to give his introduction. Tripping forward, shaking with nerves, he scrambled awkwardly to retrieve his scattered belongings amongst quiet scoffs—scoffs which were abruptly silenced when the Princess, herself, lowered herself to the polished floor in order to assist the fallen boy. Maybe it was because he was a master at sleight of hand or simply because he knew what to look for, but the needle that slipped so craftily from his sleeve was almost too painfully obvious to Francois for him to watch. But what was obvious to Francois was clearly not obvious to the guards that surrounded them—an observation made clear by the fact that none of them made a move.

The plan was simple: be the one to capture the assassin. It was a set-up to make Francois look good—whether or not the Princess was harmed was of no concern to them, as the assassin hadn’t been armed with any lethal poison to begin with.

But, regardless of simple, the plan wasn’t what happened.

Francois couldn’t quite explain it. Or rather, he could have, if he was better in tune with his subconscious, but undoubtedly wouldn’t have cared to try in either case. A shiver—no, it almost felt like a cold wave of dread—had passed through him the second he saw the scenario before his eyes. There she was: so unaware, so unprotected…her pain inevitable. And Francois knew—was the only one in a position to prevent the act from being carried out.

Before he could think for another instant, Francois’ body went into autopilot, and he launched himself forward, quickly closing the gap between where he had stood, and the two kneeling figures on the floor. And, before the would-be assassin had enough time to register the suitor that had come flying from the sidelines, his arm was already descending toward the Princess—or rather, where the Princess had been, and where Francois now dove.

Everything had slowed, something cliché but accurate. Francois hissed in a breath, instantly grabbing at the burning pain that had stabbed into his upper arm as he fell only somewhat-gracefully, but hard, upon his knees. Only somewhat aware of the hustle and bustle about them, the doorways being blocked as the assassin made a move to escape—and was quickly restrained by Edouard—Francois found his eyes going only to the Princess, his face set but filled with more genuine concern he should have allowed himself if he had been thinking rationally as he asked, “he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Several things happened at once and in retrospect it would amaze her that she was able to register them all.

Before the chaos she had been gathering a number of papers on the floor. Next came the sound of bone hitting marble with a sickening thud. Then shoes skittering across the floor, a few gasps, metallic swords being drawn, shifting bodies, slamming doors. Immediately, her hands reached out to steady the form before her. The edge of her gloved finger found a solid cylinder, embedded unnaturally in the man’s upper arm. He was grasping at it, causing the needle to shift in its position. With a mental hiss she brushed his hand away, fearing accidentally lodging the instrument deeper. Next came his voice, rich and smooth with the faintest hint of an accent she could not quite place. The exotic nature of the tone was matched by the striking color of his eyes, which were fixated on her. The reason for his actions clicked into place with his inquiry, the cylinder, the sheen of sweat that had appeared on the tanned man’s forehead, the bumbling courtier making a break for the exit of the room. And then there were the guards, strong handedly attempting to pull her away and into a protective cocoon. Years of escaping panicky situations kept her from attempting to explain the situation – such an act would cost precious seconds of confusion that the man on his knees might not be able to afford. Instead she found the muscle of her mind flexing and their hands moving away as the wave of energy swept across the room – pushing them back. “No.” She replied, softly as she knelt back down by his side – feeling a bit faint herself now.

She could hear Herbert’s steady, even voice from the back of the room and it drew her gaze. Another man, even more out of place than the one before her, was holding onto the would-be assasin. “The dungeon.” She called out, in the ancient Deamone language that would go mostly unheard among the crowd of Licians. Herbert gave no reply, only took hold of the now-prisoner from the dark skinned stranger. His large hands grabbed the courtier’s wrists and kept them firmly behind him as he shoved him towards the exit. With several guards in tow, the doors opened and the figures disappeared from sight.

Now her attentions were free to be focused where they were most needed. Brushing the cold sweat from his forehead she implored the kneeling man to “S..stay calm. You’ll be all right…” She promised, hoping that her eyes weren’t betraying the panicking rhythm of her heart. A quickened heart in her caused her words to fumble a little…but a quickened heart in him would only speed up the spreading of the poison that was undoubtedly housed in the tip of the needle embedded in his arm. Faintly, she could hear the King calling for medics. They would be no good if enough of the poison hit his heart.

With a warning glance at him she grasped his hand and held it down with her own keeping as much of his arm below his heart. “I’m sorry…this might hurt a little…” She murmured, as her free hand reached up – grasping the barrel of the syringe. As she pulled it out she took extra care not to toggle the plunger, no doubt enough poison had entered his system as it was. Removing it elicited only a slight tensing of the muscles in his upper arm. Her eyes went apologetically to his face, oddly calm given the circumstances. Already, he had proved himself to be braver than most.

Then there were other hands helping, taking his temperature, flashing lights in his eyes, grabbing the discarded syringe and dripping its contents into a vial. The medics had arrived and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. If anything could be said about the Lician court…it was that their medics could keep even death at bay, at least – they had for her mother for several years past when it should have arrived. Of course- there was only one thing to do about poison. And the only person with the information necessary was currently headed for the hidden dungeons on one of the bottomost floors of the palace. A necessary evil, Orion had once said to her – when she was very young. Because not all punishments needed to be public.

The young man was floating on his back, someone’s suspension charm raising him as if upon an invisible stretcher. Realizing that she was still grasping his hand, she let it go, leaving it to hang off to his side and away from the rest of his body. Depending on the poison, there were only precious few minutes of time. “Don’t let it reach his heart.” She heard her voice say, before she broke off into a run and headed for the dungeons. Too many people had been hurt, or died in her name. But for the first time, she was in a position to do something about it. Alarice cursed the cumbersome gown out loud as she hurried past guards and courtiers alike. At some point the shoes on her feet had flown off – letting her slide along the floor and causing her to nearly fall more than once. The bodies, golden, yellow, silver, blue in various degrees of dress became blurs. Her stomach was churning with a combination of nerves and the exhaustion from the sudden use of her power – which she had admittedly not trained as well as she should have over the course of the summer. Sooner than she would have believed she was standing in the middle of the dank stone room.

It was not the one she had been held in…but they all looked so alike that it gave her cause to stop and take the next few steps with more hesitation. Herbert had already chained the man to the wall; he was suspended by his arms inches above the floor. A part of her felt sick with flashbacks and memories of dislocated shoulders. The rest of her was feeling another emotion entirely; the darklore, which had remained silent until now was hissing like a predator about to strike.

“Leave us.” She commanded the guards in the room, her hand grasping Herbert’s arm fearfully as he began to protest. “Not you.” She snapped. Orion would be on his way shortly and he would not spare a second thought of ending the man’s life without getting the information she needed. Yes, there were a million questions to be asked of this man. But only one mattered right now.

“The antidote?” The Princess asked, her voice timid and unsure and eliciting a scoff and a turned head from her would-be assassin. “I serve my employer and noone else. You can kill me now half-breed…I won’t…” The rest of his sentence was interrupted by Herbert’s fist connecting with his jaw. The fury in the guard’s eyes matched only by the depth of his hatred for the slur. It didn’t seem to affect the courtier at all – he spat out a few bloodied teeth and raised his head defiantly towards them both. “You’ll get nothing.” He finished. “So you may as well kill me now.”

“Easily arranged.” Herbert growled, one large hand wrapping around the man’s neck and pulling him higher above the ground. “Let him go!” Alarice called, to immediate obedience. Thinking quickly, she found her eyes boring into those of the man now struggling for air. “I promise you Sir that you will live a long, long, life in this dungeon. As many others have. The crown is patient…we can wait as long as you for you to break. And believe me…I will make sure you break. Even if that man dies I will have the antidote…and who knows? Perhaps the years will lessen your regard for your employer? Lord Duncan certainly does not do well when willing witnesses are available…do you think his life will be spared a second time?”

Of course, it was a partial shot in the dark. Her uncle was the most likely to have sent an assassin in such a bold, calculated move. But even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone loyal to his cause. By threatening the head of her enemies she’d hoped to tear one precious piece of information from this man before her stepfather decided other actions would be more appropriate.

“The antidote!” She repeated, her voice no longer trembling. When silence was his continued response she reached for Herbert’s holster and aimed – her finger pulling hastily at the trigger and sending the bullet through the wall between the man’s legs. “There are plenty of things to be removed that will allow you to keep your life Sir do not make me show you what they are. The antidote.”

“C…C…Calabar!” He blurted out, as she’d levied the hot barrel of the smoking gun against his earlobe. Just then, a bevvy of golden-armored guards entered the room with Orion in the center of them. “Calabar!!” He repeated desperately, as wisps of lightning began to emerge from the tips of one of the guard’s fingers. “Who sent you?!” The King asked, his voice eerily cheerful amidst the subsequent howls of pain. “Who are you working for?” He repeated – and the Princess once again found herself running away. “Wait!” Herbert called out after her, but she did not hear.

—

Calabar Beans were non-existent in Licia and difficult to find even in Deamone. Her Uncle had chosen his poison, whatever it was, well. She’d never thought to need the small bush her father had bequeathed her but she was glad to have it nonetheless. Not bothering to pluck the berry-like legumes individually, she grasped the potted bush and continued her dash around the castle. Had it not been for the deep, swirling green of her eyes she was sure she would have been detained as a madwoman. Her shoes were gone, there was a tear in her skirt where it had caught on some statue or another. Her crown had gone askew in the middle of her run and the intricate braids had come undone, leaving her hair a wavy mess around the edges of her face. The berries would be most potent if picked only just before they were injected and so she held the plant like a newborn child. Finally she was able to find a maid who was sufficiently coherent in directing her towards the room where the “third realmer and his savage“ had been taken.

When she entered the room it had already picked up a distinctly medicinal smell. The normal furnishings had been pushed out into the hall as various monitoring machines, tools and at least half a dozen white-coated individuals occupied the space. They had ripped off the majority of the man’s clothing in an attempt to combat the slow swell of muscle and tissue at the injection site, along with what appeared to be a quickly rising fever and tremors. He was propped into a sitting position in the middle of the large bed, the silk sheets slowly becoming drenched in sweat. The man who’d captured the assassin stood silently in a corner of the room – his large form looming over them all but completely focused on the man now beginning to exhibit the first signs of gut-wrenching pain. She could see where fluids were being administered to dilute the poison, another drip with a label of a medicine she did not recognize…the outskirts could never have afforded such luxuries.

A part of her wanted to scream when, upon her entrance, the medics stopped working and swept into respectful bows. Certainly even the palace had breaches of protocol for situations like these? Apparently not. Muttered the darklore as a disapproving glance was directed from one doctor to the man in the corner when he did not bow. Before she could reprimand him another, female, doctor approached her with a grave expression.

“We have slowed his heart enough to buy some time, Princess. But without the antid…” It was then that a few people seemed to notice the potted plant grasped firmly in the Princess’s shaking hands. “Injected.” She managed to gasp through panted breaths. “Prepare…Injection…” When uncertain looks passed between them she tacked on a more powerfully spoken, “Now!” and the white coats began to work.

With the plant removed from her hands she was free to peel off the now dirty white gloves, baring her arms as she shoved the sleeves of her gown above her elbows. Another glance of disapproval from the doctor and she made a mental note to fire him when she was Queen. The medics of Licia were trained well, by the time she had removed her gloves sevearl red-liquid filled syringes were placed on the tray beside the poisoned man. As the critical doctor approached to begin the injections she brushed past him and grabbed the first one. Her hand moved the hair gently out of her patient’s face as she stared down at him. She sat besides him on the bed, trying not to shift its weight too much “Hello.” She said, softly…her tone as light and calming as she could manage. As she spoke, she slid the first syringe into the red-hot skin right above the wound.

“I don’t believe.” She continued, her eyes flickering from injection site to the man’s glazed-over gaze and back to the next injection site, “You’ve been at court before?” Slim, soft hands cooled the skin of his bare arm and chest as she carefully pierced a trail of liquid antidote along his upper body. With each injection she let her hands linger a little, trying to counteract what would have undoubtedly felt like an injection of more liquid fire into his veins. Poison…to counteract poison. “Might I know your name?” His reply was met with a smile, serene and as thankful as she knew she should feel for the man who’d saved her life.

When the last syringe was empty and placed back on the tray – she found one of her hands sliding into the hand of his poisoned arm. “Well then Francois…welcome to Licia. Now squeeze.”

The floors at Deamone palace were not made of gilded marble; but smoothed basalt stone. The walls too, where they had not been upgraded to walls of dark woods were stone. The tapestries throughout the palace did much to insulate the place, but this hidden hall had no such fineries. The result was something of a cave-like echo and what was currently echoing were two sets of feet walking purposefully down the hall. One was a sure, strong stride and one a flittering, clacking series of steps. What did not echo was the whispered conversation held between the owners of said footsteps.

“The girl?”

“Has been well my Prince. The Princess has become quite enamored of the chess set you sent her most recently.”

“Lord, darling. We mustn’t forget that.” A soft chuckle. “Did I do that?”

“Yes, M’lord.”

“And the boy?”

“Master Rubin reports that he has been working diligently on his studies, but that the Dowager Empress has attempted to enter his quarters twice in the last few weeks.”

“Yes well…I suppose she’s still quite upset that she learnt of his existence through the announcement.”

“You’ve sent her an apologetic gift.”

“A good vintage, I imagine?”

“Yes my Lord. There is…one other matter regarding the Prince.”

“And that is?”

“Master Rubin has not wanted to push the boy too harshly…but he informs me that the Prince has yet to develop a real control over his powers. It is…a discouraging effort thus far. Though he does note that the boy is trying…merely…”

“Merely failing? No matter. They will teach him that at the school. What we need to focus on his keeping him in line…and throwing the half breed off. Tell Rubin to focus his energies on his history and lessons on protocol, behavior. The boy may be an urchin but he is still of noble blood and we cannot have him scurrying about as he did in that…place.”

“Yes my Lord.”

The footsteps came to a stop before a door. They passed through the door by activating a hidden charm along the wall, or at least the man did. The woman had flickered through on her own and by the time Duncan Deamone had entered the next hall a number of black armored men were on their knee. A least half a dozen…all guarding a single door. Without so much as a word of acknowledgement he continued his stride, opening the heavy door and entering the room behind it.

The girl, if nothing else, had excellent taste. The walls were covered in black damask, each piece of furniture had an elegant touch to it – all done in black wood. A large four poster bed was at the frontmost center of the room – with black and gray satin hanging bunched at each post. Although there were no windows, plenty of paintings a large television adorned the walls. But Duncan’s goal was not near any of them. Instead she was curled up in a large, blood-red chair with a book of chess strategy on her lap. For a second he considered the regrettability of her gender. Already she showed so much more promise than her simpering, sap of a brother. But Duncan knew which cards to play and when…she was his little fail safe.

“My darling.” He called, opening his arms as he approached her. A shudder of pride fell past him as she stood and approached him in neat, dainty steps. Her hug was neither too long, nor too tight and he managed to enjoy it a little before he bent down to press a quick kiss to the center of her forehead. “It has been far too long. Come let me look at you.”

She had inherited much of her mother’s coloring, but his superior genetics had improved them greatly. His fingers brushed down the thick, soft, fiery tendrils as they fell just above her elbows. Her delicate, if overly-youthful features looked even more prim encased in the fair skin of a lady of breeding. He stared down with pride at the clarity and crispness of her eyes – none of the swirling weakness his brother, mother and the half-breed had.

He took her two small hands and brought them to his lips, kissing them each in turn. “Such a lady. You grow lovelier by the second my sweet.” With a sigh he took his seat in the red cushioned chair, pulling the girl onto his lap with a gentle tug. “Do you know what is happening, at this very moment?”

“I do hope it involves a murder.”

Her response elicited a bark of laughter, and he cupped her cheek as he replied. “Something of the sort my dear. The two savages have arrived at the Lician palace and should be making quite the impression on the half-breed wench right about now. If all has gone according to plan she shall be suffering by nightfall. This is the first step in restoring our honor. Does this not please you, my little Princess?”

“It pleases me thoroughly, Father. I wish for nothing more than our untainted bloodline to take its rightful place upon the throne.”

“And it shall my sweet. Perhaps…once the mutt is disposed of we can arrange for your brother to…well…shall we just say I’d much rather have you on the throne?” His tone lowered in a conspiratorially friendly tone. “You are such a bright girl. Milina tells me you are enjoying your chess set?”

“Yes Father.”

“Excellent. You do know how I wish to please you. It has been such a chore arranging this entire business. With your brother off soon I shall be free to spend more time with you. He shan’t keep me from you for much longer. Would you like that? Perhaps we shall take a trip to the sea…have you ever seen the ocean? ”

He didn’t wait for her reply, instead reaching inside of his breast pocket and pulled out a long, silver chain. Attached to the end was a rose carved out of a ruby, the facets glistening in the light of the room. With a smooth smile he opened the locket showed her its contents. On one side, his visage. On the other, a miniaturized map of Deamone. “It…and all of this belongs to us, Helen. And I intend to get it back.”

Allora, qual è il valore dei desideri dei morti?

Quando saturo d’acqua sono vita fuochi freddi?

Con alghe capelli e ossa dei cirripede

Nella trono conchiglia

The smooth, husky voice – a little too deep for a man of 19 seemed to float away, carried on the breath of someone who would always have a little bit of the ocean in his blood. He hadn’t even realized he was singing until the mention of a throne – the very object he was currently striding down the halls of the Deamone palace towards. He had to stifle a laugh as guards in carbon black armor pulled their swords out, a few of them noticing his presence as a vaguely fuzzy light. He unveiled the invitation before his own appearance, ensuring they had stood down before he was able to be seen. Not that he’d needed to. His appearance disarmed the men immediately…no wonder the Prince ended up dead. With guards like these.

The nicest clothes he’d had, aside from his dealer uniform was the school uniform he still fit into, one year after graduating. Even in Deamone, where power and money spoke more than appearance – he knew his everyday clothes would not do. Still, Leto knew he looked out of place with his light hair and his aquamarine eyes. One was common enough if rare. But his eyes? They were entirely his mother’s. He remembered asking her where her coloring had come from once and being answered with a heavy sigh. The mostly-forgotten treasonous undertones of the shanty should have clued him in…but they never had. No. That disappointment had come years later – enough time for him to love his family enough to regret rejecting them.

The Deamone Council met in war rooms, protected enclosures deep in the core of the Earth. The room he was walking into was not the main throne room, but it was the one (of many, apparently) he’d been asked to come to. The guards moved aside wordlessly, swords sheathed, and he strode in. As Leto approached the occupant of the seat he stopped and bent himself over one knee. His silvery head tucked downwards as his arm crossed over and hand balled into a fist against his chest.

 

“Dowager Empress.”

 

Leto had moved to rise when he heard two more voices, one of which caused his knee to drop instantaneously.

 

“This is your man, then, mother?”

“Indeed.”

“And you vouch for him as well, Milina?”

“As far as my word carries in my Lord’s eyes.”

“Well then,” went on the amused voice. “Rise.”

 

Leto’s body did, but his gaze remained steadfastly on the ground at his feet. Anyone who lived under the looming shadow of the Deamone palace would have done the same – for this was the voice of disgraced former Prince, Lord Duncan Deamone.

 

“My Lord. I am at your command.” He heard himself say, in a tone more subservient than he had ever heard come out of his own mouth. Even the Dowager Empress didn’t command as much respect as her displaced son. And with good reason. She, in all the time he’d known her, had been a charming, agreeable sort of woman – if not a little sad. But Duncan Deamone’s cruelty was legendary…and Leto did not particularly want to experience it for himself.

 

“Oh my.” Mused the Dowager Empress, a smile playing on her ruby red lips. “Leto I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you be quite this formal!”

 

Any other day and he might have smiled. The last time he had seen the Dowager Empress he had been shoving her down a narrow alleyway, as a band of what could have been reporters just as easily as they could have been mercenaries chased them out of the Casino in which he held employment since the (illegal) age of 15. Just as his invisibility would provide no more disguising (a dead end) another one of his regulars had grabbed their hands and transported them to the basement of an old hotel. Imagine the displaced citizen of northern Deamone, finding out in almost the same instant that one of his regulars was none other than the Dowager Empress Nicolette and the other was Duncan Deamone’s personal assistant, Milina Skala. His ears had been filled with a buzzing hum as the two women thanked him for his assistance, handed him a small purse of coins and disappeared. A few days later, the invitation had arrived.

 

“Do you know why you are here, boy?” Asked Lord Deamone and Leto’s ears burned at the word.

“Not entirely, my Lord.”

“You were offered a position here in the palace, correct?”

“Yes my Lord.”

“And do you desire, to work for the Royal family?”

“I am a man who understands the value of hard work. And a citizen who would gladly die for my country. If I was to be offered a chance to fulfill both then yes, my Lord, I should desire it greatly.”

 

Gracefully, the Dowager Queen brushed a tendril of hair behind her ear. It was one of her tells; she’d won this hand. Milina too, was unconsciously showing her pleasure – a long fingertip was twisting the ruby ring she wore on her right ring finger.

 

“I understand you have some talents in the veiled arts, young man. Is this so?”

“I possess the gift. But whether I possess talent is for my Lord to decide.”

 

Duncan Deamone’s smile could have melted the flesh off a newborn child, if he’d wanted it to. Leto knew it instinctively and yet he couldn’t help but feel a flush of pride that he’d pleased him. It was strange, as if his own father was patting him warmly on the back. He couldn’t break away from the fog of joy even as the nobleman went on.

 

“I’m in need of a trustworthy young man to guard a…very special possession of mine. …However I understand you are of…mixed breeding?”

That snapped him out of it.

“Yes my lord. My mother is…”

“Yes.” Duncan continued, his lip curling in distaste. “But Milina informs me you are no longer in close contact with your family.”

“No my Lord. …I visit them sometimes…but I do not agree with their views.”

“I should hope so. Normally this process would be…more tiresome. However I am a busy man and my mother and Milina have both vouched for you. I leave the explanation of your employment to them.” The feeling of joy washed over him again as Dun…Lord Deamone approached him. It became like a fuller weight in his chest as he got closer and was near to bursting when the former Princes’ hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Your family may have the views it wants, it is of no consequence to me. But if I find that your sympathies change…”

 

Leto’s eyes rose – his sight leveling with Duncan’s chin. The implication disgusted him…and he didn’t need to hear the threat that came after it. “Dishonoring myself by adopting their…way of life would be the greatest harm that could befall me, my Lord. You have my loyalty…there is no question.”

 

“Good man.” Was his reply, before he strode out.

 

Leto turned around and knelt again, not rising until the older man had left the room. By the time he was back on his feet, the Dowager Empress had slipped her arm into his.

 

“No time to waste.” She practically sung, her bright red eyes blinking excitedly. “We must present you at once! Aaah, how lovely to see her again.”

“Begging your pardon, Empress…but…who? And what job was the Lord D…”

“My son is a bit long winded, isn’t he?” Nicolette mused, her steps never touching the ground as she practically glided down the hall with Milina in tow.”

Milina chimed in, prim voiced and a bit sharp but never rude. “My Lord has many matters to attend to. Perhaps we should explain, Mr. Garth. We require the use of your abilities in guarding a rather…special individual.”

 

A guard? Well…he couldn’t do as bad a job as the fools he’d encountered in the hall. Then there was the ultimate question.

 

“To whom?”

“My granddaughter.” The Dowager Empress whispered into his ear, before winking and pulling his stunned body along with her.”