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(A/N: I was going to wait until this book was finished before I started to post it, but you know what? I think I need help. I really love this story, a lot, but I would be willing to admit that it is beyond even my own usual level of weird. PLEASE tell me if I am smoking or what, because I think its amazing, but whenever I try to explain this story to someone they usually say; “Geez… that sounds psycho!”
Uhhh… Yeah! But is it a bad kind of psycho, or a good kind?!
Anyway, the loverly readers and writers of F.P. have helped me in the past… I was kinda hoping they could again! Please review and tell me what you think.)
Prologue
The Alabaster Queen was being constantly watched over, day and night, by a battalion of physicians and priests. It had been six weeks since she was meant to give birth to the royal child in her womb. The baby would not come, no matter how the life of the palace hub banded together to pray to the immortal figures of their Dynasty, no matter what incantations the hired magicians of Obsidian spoke, or what signs the priests read in the purple smoke of their incense. No matter what the physicians recommended, the royal child was coming in their own good time and would not be influenced by the opinions or agendas of anyone else. No matter the cost.
It was past midnight. The main hub of the castle was slumbering save for the sleepy guards on duty and a few maids getting a head start on the work for the following day. The Queen held her candle aloft, with the flame guiding her through the stone hallways. The only thing that kept her tiny gasps and moans and little footfalls from echoing through the cold tunnels was the dramatic drapery and soft rugs that helped to stifle all sound.
“Marguerite,” she whispered as she knocked on the door to her destination, taking care to pull her robe tight around her enormous belly.
There was an intake of breath from within, and some scrambling noises before Marguerite came to the door to meet the Queen.
“Lissa!” Marguerite’s blue eyes grew wide when she saw that the Queen had come to see her.
“Let me in Marguerite, I must speak with you,” said the Queen in a strained voice.
“You should not be wandering around the corridors at this time!” Marguerite scolded her, but stepped back to let her enter her chambers.
The Queen took a few heavy steps into the room then collapsed onto her knees, moaning.
“Lissa, oh no Lissa, is it time?!” Marguerite made to run get help, but the Queen protested and snatched Marguerite’s wrist before she could reach the door.
“No!” said the Queen through gritted teeth, “No, sit down, I must speak with you.”
“Later, we can talk later, we have to get help,” Marguerite said desperately.
“I am going to die Marguerite!” the Queen finally managed to get the words out, “I am dying, bringing this child into being will claim my life, now sit down!” Tears were beginning to come to her eyes from the pain, but still she would not relent.
“Lissa,” said Marguerite in a desperate whisper, “Oh! Please hurry!” she begged as she sat down, “Say what you need to say, Lissa, but do not claim death. I will not allow it.”
The Queen looked very much in pain now, as she said, “I am giving birth to a Princess.”
“You cannot know-”
“-I do know!” the Queen interrupted Marguerite, her beautiful face was a mess of anguish and grief. Outside, the rain was beginning to fall on the stones of the Alabaster Castle.
Marguerite looked desperate, “If it is a Princess, then that is alright!” but her eyes were filling with tears as well, because she knew it was not alright; a Princess would mean death and torment to the whole Kingdom, “Better than alright,” she continued to lie soothingly, “that is wonderful, and you and the King will surely have more children! You can try again and produce a proper heir to the throne.”
“I’m dying!” said the Queen firmly, “And I am leaving the King without an heir… you know what this means,” she was whispering now and seemed to have passed a bad moment, though her breathing was still labored, “This means that the priests will declare my Safron the end of the Alabaster line, it will ruin him, inside and out… The Little Kings will war with one another and one of them will take over the throne. This birth marks the end of the Alabaster Dynasty, and I don’t care!” tears were falling freely from the Queen’s eyes.
On some level Marguerite was fascinated by the seer sensibility of the Queen’s words. Obsidian was the largest chunk of The World of A Thousand Kings. The people were ruled by one greater King; Lissa’s husband Safron… and she did not care. He was not a King in her eyes, he was the man she loved, and the man whose life was being ruined by the very Kingdom he served and cherished.
“Oh Lissa,” Marguerite gathered the Queen into her arms, “Do not give up hope.”
“I am not, that is why I have come to you… When my daughter is born, and my husband, my dear King, is made mad and killed, I want you to raise this Princess as your own. You are so strong, Marguerite, I know you will be fine. You can escape the war that will ensue. I always wanted a daughter, Marguerite. That is why this misfortune has fallen on us. It is punishment, because I put my own will before the good of my kingdom-” Lissa stopped and let out a prolonged groan, she wanted more than anything to lie down, but she knew that would prompt Marguerite to run get help and then she would be unable to finished her last request.
“Lissa, you will live! You are strong too!” Marguerite was crying now too, because she was beginning to see the wisdom in the Queen’s words, and the desperation she felt was overwhelming both of them, “You must not expect the worst. Please Lissa, for me, say that it could be a son who comes to you tonight and say that you will live through this!”
But the Queen merely shook her head and finally, with a shrill cry, she lay down on her back.
“I am going to get help!” Marguerite was out into the hallway before every syllable had time to fall from her lips, she raced through the castle, crying out frantically to anyone who could hear her.
It took her far too long to gather the physicians and priests. They seemed to have been constantly flanking the Queen, until, of course, their presence was really required and then they were no where to be found. Marguerite led the precession through the hallway and back to her bedroom, where she had left the Queen to travail.
They entered her room at a run. Marguerite looked stunned at the spot on the rug where she had left Queen Lissa.
“Where is the Queen?!” demanded the head physician.
“Search everywhere! We must find her!” Marguerite ordered to the bewildered room. All of them were wondering what would possess a woman in labor to hide in her very hour of need. The Duchess Marguerite searched with the rest of the servants on her way to the King’s chambers. Safron must be informed of what had gone on.
The Queen had seemed so desperate. Uneasily, Marguerite wondered if the Queen was a prophetess after all. Had she predicted the ruin of the country? This pregnancy had been a relief to the kingdom, because it meant hope that the Dynasty would continue to survive after all. The unrest in the territory on the outskirts of The Kingdom of Obsidian had caused a lot of speculation that the ten thousand year rule of the Alabaster family was coming to an end. The worst opposition was from the Salth Kings, who were known enemies of the Dynasty. The bad luck that Lissa and Safron had experienced while trying to conceive a child had not helped. Their first son had died when he was only two weeks old, and then the Queen had given birth to three stillborn girls. This baby was viewed by many to be their last hope, before the patience of the Cult Kings of Obsidian ran out.
The Queen was convinced that it was a girl and that she was going to die and never get the chance to give the King a proper heir. For ten thousand years, the family of Alabaster had reigned without threat to their existence, the consistency of their family had established tradition and now, the Kingdom lived by their traditions, without them, Obsidian would fall into chaos. Obsidian was the world.
It always happened the same way. The King only ever had one wife. Remarriage was not an option. The Queen usually died before the King, but never, ever had there been a single incident when the Queen died before giving the King a proper male heir who would survive to produce his own heir in a similar fashion. It had gone on this way since the beginning. Now, in the very year 10,000 of their Dynasty’s rule, it was all falling apart.
Would Lissa and Safron really bring about the end of the great Alabaster Dynasty?
Marguerite entered the King’s chambers without knocking, she walked through his receiving hall, her reflection was frightened and disheveled in the dark marble floor, as she skirted through his personal drawing room, past the library and into the King’s personal bedchamber, where he should have been fast asleep. But he was not. A candle was lit and propped up on the floor, casting glowing orange light over the Queen’s shinning white body.
She was clearly dead. Unmoving, with her large black eyes focused on the far corner of the room. There was blood and afterbirth on the ground. Her sleeping gown was soaked and stained with sweat and blood, her black hair was spread out all over the floor beside the still burning candle.
Shaking badly, Marguerite fell to her knees with one hand on her mouth and the other one gingerly setting her candle down beside the Queen’s, which was almost spent. She stared in agony at the face of her dead Queen, and curled inward, the first sob of grief escaping her mouth, before she was able to pull herself together.
Still shaking, and unable to stop her tears, Marguerite arose. She could hear no crying. Where was the baby? She heard a noise and looked up to see that she was not alone after all. The King was sitting in the far corner of the room, wrapped in his arms was a bundle of blankets. The baby whined a little, but was not crying.
Wearily, Marguerite rose to her feet and made her way toward the King. His face was obscurity in the darkness, but what little light could be gotten from the candles was illuminating the baby’s pale face from without the cloth around it.
“It is a little Prince,” said the King in a horse whisper, “She gave me an heir, before she passed… as an Alabaster Queen always does.” He did not sound relieved at all.
Marguerite was more than a little surprised. After the Queen’s horrible prediction about her own death had come to pass, it had seemed perfectly appropriate to Marguerite that she would also be right about the child being a girl. She gazed down at the baby, entwined in the King’s arms and swaddled in his robe. A few messy tuffs of black hair were sticking out around the tiny skull. The King pulled the child closer as Marguerite instinctively reached forward towards the tiny baby fists.
“Caerleon,” murmured the King, his eyes were wet and his voice sounded raspy and harsh, “Prince Caerleon VI of the Alabaster Dynasty; my Alabaster Prince, my heir. We are saved,” but he did not sound at all comforted.
Defeated by her own grief again, Marguerite found herself laying next to the Queen’s body. She stayed beside her until the priests arrived and insisted that she leave.
The King would not let the child alone. He said he would announce to the people in the morning that the Queen had given birth to his heir before she died, and then he went to clean and care for the baby himself. The baptism would happen the next evening. King Safron IV stayed with his baby Prince Caerleon VI all night, refusing to let anyone else hold the creature that killed his wife.
Chapter One: The Alabaster Dynasty
The Year 10,018 of the Dynasty. Eleven days before the beginning of Summer.
The Kingdom looked like a vibrant green quilt under the golden sun of the dying Spring. Little patchwork designs of farms and peasant homes created interest underneath the swaying trees. The Prince’s steed recklessly shook its charcoal mane into its master’s eyes.
At the crest of the hill, the Prince could see much of the Kingdom, the mountains in the east and the bay, a ways off, where the clouds gathered together in counsel, away from the glaring sun and the massive steamships and smaller wind-vessels glided along below the birds.
The horse, called Bangle, seemed to recognize that it was time to go before the Prince did, it turned around daintily on its hooves and trotted back down through the moors and the patch of forest. In contrast to the green landscape on the east side of the hill, the west from that point was a scene of large black and grey stones, reaching up forever to heaven defiantly, as if any man could reach the Celestials. The turrets and spiraling towers twisted their way into what looked to the Prince to be the darker side of the sky, and consequently, the darker side of the world.
The Prince lived in the oldest part of the castle, commonly called the hub. It had been built over ten thousand years earlier, by the first Alabaster King. Since then, more and more stones had been added, more corridors and walls connected more castles spanning out for miles, until the Alabaster Castle constituted of a substantial amount of the country.
“Your Highness,” a messenger had come to greet the Prince.
“Is he waiting for me?” the Prince asked without meeting the man’s eyes.
The messenger inclined his hat forward, “Yes, your Highness… in the courtyard.”
Bangle was forced around by the reigns. The plain black riding coat trailed after the Prince as Bangle returned to the palace at speed, with the messenger in tow.
The oval-shaped courtyard was accented with three water-fountains, all of them tinkling rhythmically and casting glittering stars over the vibrant purple robed figure in the center of the garden. The Alabaster King had his back to his child, his hair was stark-white and hung heavily down past his waist. Trimmed with gold and velvet, and covered in jewels, the King certainly looked the part, even if the Prince did not.
“Father.”
“We have a very important event tomorrow Caerleon, I trust you have not forgotten?”
“…No.”
The King turned to face his Prince, he surveyed the young creature, who was wrapped from head-to-toe in black, with no jewels and no sign that there was royal blood in those pale veins. He looked critically, for a long moment, then held a many jeweled hand up to his pale eyes as he moved to sit on the edge of the fountain, “Have a seat, my boy,”
Caerleon cringed a little inwardly at being called ‘my boy’, but sat down all the same, letting the black coat fall over the edge of the fountain.
Choosing a bride is a particularly delicate situation, for you. I am sure you have already tried to think of a way to solve our little problem?”
“I doubt it is as thorough as any idea you might think of, but yes. I will have to be careful about the woman I choose…”
“You’re greatest weakness has always been your mercy, Caerleon; your immediate wish to always deal reasonably with situations that never demand reason. It does not matter who you chose. She will never discover anything…” the King was impatient with the Prince’s inability to think more like royalty, “The martial chamber is dark, send a man in as a pretend Prince.”
“…Should she conceive?”
“Easily taken care of.”
“I think not.”
The King looked angry enough to hit Caerleon, but instead he rose to his feet and began to pace.
The Prince understood, but did not speak out loud. The King had backed himself into a corner with his schemes, and now he needed Caerleon’s help, whether he would admit it or not.
“And if she discovers my secret?”
“We’ll say she has gone mad.”
“No one who has ever lived in the palace would disbelieve it,” said Caerleon, “But I rather think that should not be necessary… Can I ask a favor father? Will you occupy your mind with other matters? Let me handle this unfortunate situation with the future Queen, all on my own. I believe I can produce a result that will not require any violence or further involvement of other parties.”
The King knew that the Prince was more intelligent than made him comfortable. He did not like to admit when he needed Caerleon’s brain or charms, but then again, this was a recent development in their volatile relationship… The King usually did not have to rely on Caerleon to do anything except continue to exist.
“I will be keeping an eye on the situation,” the King finally relented.
“I would expect nothing less, sire.”
“You may go.”
Caerleon gave a stiff bow and returned quickly to the Prince’s private chambers, where the Duchess Marguerite was waiting. The circular bedchamber was usually off-limits to anyone but Caerleon these days, but Marguerite was well known as having no sense of propriety, so Caerleon was not surprised to see the woman sitting on the large bed, framed between the crimson drapes.
Marguerite and Caerleon’s late mother shared the exact same birthday, but you would not guess it by looking at her. The Duchess’s skin was free of wrinkles and spots, the colour of milk and cream, her long hair was still thick and pale, and she had none of the grey and white hairs that usually began to show up in the scalps of women her age. She was dressed in pale yellow and white to match her hair, while her wide blue eyes matched the jewels around her neck.
“Good evening, Princess,” said Marguerite quietly.
Out of habit, Caerleon glanced towards the deserted balcony and locked bedroom door.
“We’re alone,” said the Duchess firmly, she pushed a blonde plait over her shoulder and adjusted the lace on her top.
“I worry, that’s all,” said Caerleon darkly, she went and sat down next to Marguerite on the bed.
“I’ve had many words with him, already, you know that,” Marguerite spoke more quietly now, and reached up one slender hand to push a lock of black hair that had fallen from the tie at the back of the Prince’s neck. She stroked her cheek and gave a forlorn sigh, “Such a beautiful young woman too, it is a shame.”
“It is too late,” Caerleon said roughly, “It was too late when I found out I was really my father’s daughter and not his son, this lie traps us all now. I am as good as a boy.”
“Never say that,” Marguerite glared and stood up from the bed, straightening out the extravagant gown and running her hands over her golden bodice, “Whatever you may be forced to pretend, never forget what you are… You are a woman.”
Caerleon had never felt like a woman, so it was hard to take this statement, especially from Marguerite, who looked like the idealized picture of feminine perfection. It was especially sad, when compared to Prince Caerleon, who was always dressed in very nice, but dark and plain men’s clothing.
Since Caerleon was old enough that she did not fit in her white baby-gowns anymore, she had been forced into clothing that helped to play down her soft features, blacks and grays and browns, with her long black hair tied at the back of her neck, and thick black boots that were several sizes too big, to disguise how small and dainty her feet were.
“You are an exotic beauty, like your dear mother… I know she never would have stood for this. She would have insisted that the law be changed so a woman could take the throne,” Marguerite imagined wildly.
“If my mother had lived through my birth, then my father might not have lost hope. They might have had a son… a little brother for me, and I could be a proper Princess. There would be no need to change the law. It is there for very good reason.”
“How can you, of all people, say something like that?” Marguerite demanded harshly, she crossed her arms, her blue eyes furious at Caerleon’s black ones.
“The people will not accept the rule of a woman,” said Caerleon.
“They will, they just won’t know about it… or perhaps, I can offer another alternative?”
“Not again,” Caerleon sighed.
Marguerite frowned, “You really look like a man when you do that.”
“When I do what?”
“When you look cross.”
“I’ll have to do it more often then.”
“No, no… that will ruin my plan.”
Caerleon leaned back against her headboard and laced her fingers behind her skull with a drowsy yawn, “What is this one then?”
Marguerite looked very excited as she framed herself between the bedposts at Caerleon’s feet, “Oh, you will want to hear this, it will work splendidly… I am going to start a lovely little rumor.”
In spite of herself, Caerleon opened her eyes and looked at Marguerite with renewed interest, “A rumor about me?”
“No; about your sister.”
“I have not got a sister.”
“You are the sister.”
“Everyone knows I have not got a sister.”
“Everyone thinks you have not got a sister. I am going to change their minds. I shall create a rumor that your mother had twins-”
“-A lie you mean, there was only one baptism that night, everyone knows I was the only child born!” Caerleon was beginning to get a little exasperated, but she calmed herself down and let Marguerite finish.
The Duchess kept going with her plan, ignoring the fact that Caerleon had spoken at all “-but the King kept the existence of his daughter secret and had her sent away to be raised in safety, in a remote part of the palace, because he was afraid of what the Cult Kings might try and do with her.”
“Ridiculous. My father cares nothing for his daughter… only his son.”
Indeed, as an infant Caerleon had been cared for by a deaf-mute, who did not know her identity and died before Caerleon was six. For the first eleven years of her life, Caerleon had been convinced that she was a boy. She played with other young boys and was visited periodically by either her father or the tutors and nurses who did not suspect anything strange about the Prince, but went about teaching and cleaning and feeding the Prince, each of them assuming that it was another servant who was assigned to help the Prince bathe and dress.
When Caerleon was eleven, she had met her cousin, Marguerite, for the first time. Usually, the Duchess Marguerite lived in an extended wing of the palace, closer to her own immediate family. She had not been to stay in the hub of the palace since Caerleon had been born. Marguerite had met the Prince and informed the bewildered Caerleon that the King had lied to the entire Kingdom, and that the Prince that has saved the Kingdom was, in fact, a girl; a lie.
The Prince had a hard time believing what Marguerite said, and finally appealed the King, who admitted that he knew he could not keep it from her forever.
Still, he might have tried to. Caerleon thought bitterly to herself as she began to undress for sleep that night. Cousin Marguerite had left a few hours before, leaving the Prince to study and think more about her task the next day.
The clothing disguised Caerleon’s feminine body as effectively as could be expected. She just appeared to be a very thin boy, when compared to those around her. She was shorter than the others too, though her boots were made to push her a few inches taller, so she was not so noticeably small. She removed the painful bindings around her chest gingerly. She had often speculated that her stiff movements were probably the result of her inability to breathe with full lung capacity. Her physical development had begun earlier than was normal, which greatly compromised her father’s plans. At eighteen years old, she was a full grown woman, but she had gotten quite good at strapping her chest down so tightly that even without her thick black cloak, it was hard to tell that there was anything womanly about her body.
Her biggest hurtle was her hips and hands. Those features were distinctly feminine. She had finally resorted to wearing gloves whenever possible, and padding the thighs on all of her trousers so that her hips looked narrow in comparison. There was nothing that could be done about the face, except to use high collars and a harsh expression to disguise any beauty that dared to escape from her dark visage.
She pulled the whole thing off quite well. No one suspected that the King’s moody, astonishingly pretty son was actually a moody, astonishingly pretty daughter. But there was a problem that they had all three foreseen. Traditionally, the Princes had to be married before their nineteenth birthdays.
Caerleon had often speculated that the time around her birth must have been very confusing for the King. He acted rashly, he was torn by fear of the wolfish nature of some of the Cult Kings that were circling his throne and living in his very Kingdom, pretending to serve their King or not. He was distraught by grief at the death of the only person he ever truly cared for. Without thinking of long-term problems, the King had opted for an immediate solution; a lie.
But now there was the problem that he had no way to get grandchildren. The Prince needed to marry, but she could not give seed.
The King needed to discover a way for his daughter to conceive and hide the pregnancy, while simultaneously hoping the baby was a boy, and also that whatever fool the Prince chose as a bride was either too frightened to tell anyone the truth, or too stupid to realise that the child she was raising was not her own.
Caerleon crawled under the sheets and shut her eyes tight, thinking about how her father’s rash and unwise decision during a moment of grief had changed her life completely from what it should have been. He was putting them both through a lot of trouble, and why couldn’t a woman rule anyway? Caerleon knew better than anyone that the differences between men and women did not affect intelligence, which was possibly the most important trait of a ruler. Her father was a moron, and Marguerite was quite brilliant, though it was hard for most people to see anything past the gold around her neck and the sparkle in her eyes.
Caerleon was an average swordsmen and an excellent horsemen. She sometimes wondered how her comrades would react if they knew how many times they had been beaten by a woman, or how many times one had outstripped them in a race. Of course, as far as women went, Caerleon was sufficiently built. She had to learn the art of combat, after all, which had trained her body to be stronger than any real women she had ever come across.
If she had been raised as a girl, it would have been different. She never would have been let near any sort of weaponry, though she might have persuaded her father to let her learn to ride. She would be dressed like Marguerite and spend her days on soft pursuits that challenged creativity and attention to detail and emotion, rather than physically demanding tasks.
She saw the women of the court daily and could not help but wonder if she really would have been anything like that. Vapid and always smiling and giggling, moving so gracefully, as if they were afraid that any uncalculated movement would result in their glass forms shattering, all down their stiff glittering gowns. They were always dripping with precious metals and jewels and fine fabrics; their hair done so extravagantly and their faces and bodies soft.
Would Caerleon have allowed them to do that to her? Keep her shut up where nothing hard could ever touch her and she could pursue needle-point and music and think all day about what to wear that night? Was the fate she had found herself trapped in any better? Was it any worse? Perhaps it was all just the lots of life.
Caerleon did not sleep that night. When she was finished brooding about her deceptive childhood and the mess she now found herself in, she began to review her plan to improve things. Tomorrow she was to select a wife, on sight alone. This was a break in the usual tradition. Her marriage should have been arranged since her infancy, but her father had not been willing to face that problem so quickly after his unwisely announced lie to the Kingdom that he had a son. He elected instead, for the somewhat controversial older tradition that had not been used since his great grandfather King Safron III had been unable to marry his childhood bride, and cousin, as she ran away from home to elope with a rather dangerous and famous pirate.
The families of lower nobility had been searched for eligible fair maidens and those thought to be most worthy and beautiful were to be brought before the Prince, when a bride would then be chosen.
Caerleon dressed as the sun came up, praying silently that nothing happened to make this horrible mess even more complicated and deadly.
The day passed leisurely for the nobility of the palace, while the servants scrambled to clean and prepare for the great assembly that night, when the Prince would chose a bride.
Caerleon sat with Marguerite in one of the smaller courtyards for much of the afternoon, while the Duchess sketched pictures of flowers lazily and talked encouragingly of her dreams of finding a talented soothsayer or witch who could correct this entire situation with magic. She did not mention her cunning plan to introduce the Princess through rumor and legend, but the Prince thought about it much while she sat with Marguerite.
Caerleon tried not to listen to her too much and instead stared up at the sky or at the flowers she was drawing, or at the vibrant blue fabric of Marguerite’s day-gown. She wondered how likely it was that the King would get his way again, and manage to carry on this charade for the Prince’s entire life. Even in death, would she be remembered as the man who ruled?
The King stood up to call the room to silence, while the Prince remained seated in her mother’s vacant throne.
“My son, Prince Caerleon VI of the Everlasting Alabaster Dynasty, today makes a very important decision… Twelve young ladies have come here today, and one of them, will be your Queen…”
Caerleon let his attention waver and did not immediately notice when his father asked him to rise and step forward. He froze for a moment while the room drew collective breath. They were all backing away to clear a space where twelve young ladies were being led by Marguerite into a straight line before the thrones.
The Prince finally stood up, not yet looking at the girls. Instead, she let her eyes meet her father’s briefly, before she defiantly turned away to look down at the women.
Everyone watched in silence, as the Prince took a calculated step towards the first girl on his left hand side. She was lovely, with rich red curls and very large lips, but Caerleon only needed to look into her eyes to determine that she was far too cunning a girl to be trusted immediately. The second girl was so young that Caerleon was appalled they brought her here in the first place, she looked up at the Prince with a vibrant blush from underneath a wreath of flowers that someone had placed around her crown. The third girl was very tall and stunning; Caerleon thought to herself that she seemed like the sort of obvious choice that a real man would make. The next two girls looked like sisters, it seemed unwise to separate them; they were holding hands… They probably confided everything to each other.
The next woman looked something like Caerleon herself, if the Prince had not been made-up like a man. She caught Caerleon’s eyes with a coy smile, her chest jutted out in front of her as if she was very proud of it. She, along with the next two girls looked far too eager to be there, so Caerleon knew she could not choose them.
The next woman looked positively terrified. Her beautiful hands were shaking and Caerleon could tell she was biting the inside of her lip, her blue eyes refused to look at the face of the Prince. She looked something like a young Marguerite actually. She was dressed in a blue gown that showed off her young body, her blonde hair was left down, and it hung over her shoulders in a futile attempt to hide her own beauty.
The Prince thought that she had never seen a more reluctant bride, or a more pathetic animal. Ignoring the last three girls who were more of the same eager-types, Caerleon took a step towards the little blonde girl and held up one gloved hand.
The collective holding of breath in the room seemed to release, a few people made audible noises of approval, while the girl herself seemed to have not yet noticed what had happened.
“Lorinda, daughter of Samle of House, hereafter called Princess Lorinda,” Marguerite took the liberty of announcing her identity to the room.
“All hail Princess Lorinda!” the room echoed, around the marble pillars.
Lorinda had still not taken Caerleon’s proffered hand, slowly her delicate finger’s came to reach the Prince’s, and she was shaking worse than ever.
“NO!” shouted a voice from the startled crowd as Caerleon touched the hand of her intended wife.
There was a blur of golden hair and the swish of a cloak and Caerleon was separated from Lorinda by a tall man with vibrant blue eyes very similar to the girl’s. His hair was at least as long as Lorinda’s but it fell straight, in thick locks down his back, “I cannot allow this, my sister is married!” he cried, looking at the Prince imploringly.
The scandalized crowd were bustling about to get a better look at the confrontation, making it difficult for the guards, who were now forcing their way roughly through the well-dressed crowd. More of them advanced from behind the throne as well, but Caerleon gave no word yet and instead raised her gloved hand to caution them; the man was just talking.
“Is this true?” Caerleon asked quietly and looked to Lorinda, the bride, who simply buried her face under her brother’s protective arm.
“No, it is not!” another man had pushed his way from the crowd, he was shorter than both his children, but there was no mistaking the identity, “Your Highness,” he faced Caerleon bravely, but shrank a little under the Prince’s royal gaze, “My daughter was recently pursued by a deviant and an enemy to this country, he kept his identity secret-”
“-They are married,” the son interrupted his father, while putting some more distance between Lorinda and the Prince, his long blonde hair swished back in an elegant curtain over his caped shoulder as his gaze darted with undisguised loathing between his father and Caerleon, “I bore witness to the ceremony, I cannot let this offence against the First King and all the Celestials continue!”
“An enemy to this country, do you mean he was from Salth?” Caerleon guessed.
“Yes, your Highness,” the father said and in a scandalized growl added, “The Thief King of Salth.” One of the Cult Kings, but not one that held any sort of threat against the Alabaster Dynasty, Cerleon had a hard time keeping the interest that had suddenly leapt into her mind from entering her visible continence.
“Then the marriage in void,” said Caerleon simply, “She will be my bride, I have made my choice.”
“No!” said the son again, just as his father began to look triumphantly at his cowering daughter.
The next thing Caerleon knew, there was a rather sharp dagger against her throat. The enraged brother had taken his cause a step too far, and had revealed a silver dagger from inside his cloak. For a split second the Prince’s black eyes met the brother’s pale blue ones and Caerleon knew that the man only hesitated because he had never killed anyone before. The guards took their positions frantically as the room panicked, but Caerleon yelled over them, and in a calm voice.
“I understand your feelings, but the law is not broken,” said the Prince to the blonde brother of his bride whose hand was quite steady as he held the dagger with the sharp point barely touching the delicate flesh between her high collars where an Adam’s apple should have been.
One of Caerleon’s good friends and a higher officer of the guard called Van Buren advanced and the son found himself with a blade pressed again his own throat.
“I cannot let you,” Lorinda’s brother pressed the blade more firmly against the Prince’s skin, so Caerleon cringed just a touch, but there was no blood yet, “I am sorry to say; I find that my sister’s honour means much more to me than this Kingdom.”
“What about your life, boy?!” shouted the father over the appalled crowd.
The incensed Van Buren pressed his own sword harshly to the brother’s throat and a trickle of blood did appear.
“Van Buren!” said Caerleon resolutely, “My good friend… Do you really intend to kill my brother?” she added more quietly so only those very close could hear her words.
The silence held for only a moment, before Van Buren took a chance and forced the man backwards into the arms of two waiting guards, Villian and Hoven. They hauled him off, and Caerleon watched with badly suppressed admiration, as six more guards proved necessary to restrain the violent and passionate brother, including the Sword Master Halo. The blue-eyed brother continued to yell over the horror-stricken crowd of nobles.
His sister, on the other hand, watched tearfully and silently. Caerleon thought that hopefully the one brother had all the fight in the family and Lorinda, all the submission. The Prince was counting on her being easy to control.
There was a slight pause in the festivities, while some food was brought out and the King ordered a band of mistrals to play up-beat tunes that would perhaps distract the crowd from talking about what had just occurred. Lorinda sat down at the table beside Marguerite and ate nothing; she looked stricken into the thin air where her brother had been. Caerleon and the King held a conference alone, outside in the hall, away from the feast.
“Fine choice you made, boy,”
“Maybe if I was really a man I would have chosen someone more to your liking, but alas, I had to base my decision off whatever careful analysis I could manage, rather than gross physical attraction.”
“I meant it. She is quite beautiful, and having a lover already will prove to our advantage.”
“The Thief King of Salth though? Come now father, what would you do with any Salth baby you find yourself in possession of?”
“We will worry about that when she has the child… We must make it easy for the Princess and her Salth King to be together, with any luck, you will conceive around the same time-”
“With whom, exactly?” asked Caerleon icily.
“Anyone you like, you’re a Prince… go in disguise to any man that appeals to you.”
“So, you want my wife and I to be with child simultaneously, so we can switch out her baby for mine? Well, you don’t want much, do you…”
“I won’t tolerate your absence of faith.”
“I won’t tolerate your wickedness, or your heavy reliance on chance… chance that she will be pregnant and chance that I will in the same instance, chance that I will have a male child and chance that someone won’t find out what we’re doing.”
“There is no other way,” the King hissed.
“Yes there is. Allow the Alabaster line to carry on in name only. Relinquish your obsession with blood. Let the girl and her true husband be together, and allow their child, my adopted child, to grow up as the future King after my own rule ends.”
“A Salth King?! A Thief Prince take over the rule of Obsidian?! You’re mad.”
“You’re mad for thinking that fool plan will work.”
“I could never allow a Salth to take over the Alabaster rule!”
“I know, better than anyone that the way we are treated and raised determines our true nature and not our blood and body.”
The King looked Caerleon right in the eye a low growl escaped his voice as he said, “You’re more of a girl than you think.”
“You’re more of a fool than anyone knows.”
The King struck Caerleon hard on the side of the face, just as a Servant came upon them outside the throne room and said mechanically, “It is now nine o’clock sire.”
“Is the priest ready?” the King turned away from the Prince and the servant answered in the affirmative. The two of them reentered the throne-room. The tables at the back were now deserted and everyone had gathered again, before the thrones, where an elderly priest in white robes was standing in front of Lorinda, who looked numb and pale.
Caerleon took her place beside Lorinda without looking at her.
The ceremony was mercifully short. The crowd seemed to have forgotten the distressing events of earlier as they cooed and made joyful exclamations after the wedding kiss.
“I think I have an arrangement to suggest that may greatly appeal to you,” the Prince started as she stepped around the ugly ornamental rug to face the new Princess. The honeymoon suite was a garish sight to behold. There were half-blooming flowers and rose coloured gold everywhere. It was all so bright that it hurt your eyes to look at for too long. There were so many candles lit that Caerleon thought that the room must prove something of a fire hazard. Fat cupids and bathing water-nymphs peered down at them with jarring enthusiasm from the intricately painted ceiling of glass and more rose-gold. The walls were much of the same, only with soft silk lining and tapestries.
Lorinda’s eyes were shining with tears, and she barely seemed to hear Caerleon who was trying to get the message across as quickly as possible. The little Princess walked around the side of the bed, looking at the Prince with a barely disguised expression of devastation through the pink and purple lace curtains and drapes of sheer silk that were thrown about the flower-covered canopy.
“In spite of my earlier declarations, I think the law has it wrong about foreign marriages… As far as the Celestials and I are concerned, you are still very much married to Salth Thief King, and would I be correct to assess that this is your heart’s true desire?” Caerleon looked expectantly at Lorinda.
Slowly, it seemed like something was getting through to her, her catatonic state slipped slightly from her continence as she looked up and reviewed what the Prince had just said mentally, “You mean… you…” but she did not dare say anything yet.
“Your husband can be brought here, under my protection and with a false identity to fool the palace. You would have to be careful, but I am very willing to allow you two to live as husband and wife under my patronage,” said Caerleon, “I only insist that you continue to pretend to be, in fact, my wife, as far as the law and Kingdom is concerned.”
Lorinda blinked back the blue tinted tears which were now falling freely, though not from sorrow, “Do you earnestly mean that?” her voice trembled, “Your Highness?” she added carefully.
“I do.”
There was a pregnant pause and then, without prelude, Caerleon found herself bodily embraced by Lorinda who was now sobbing uncontrollably into the Prince’s coat. Unable to express her thanks in words, she simply held tightly onto Caerleon and gave her an awkward kiss on the cheek, “You are truly a wonderful Prince, and even better, you are a good man!”
All restraint seemed to have left Lorinda and she laughed as she pulled herself free of Caerleon and spun in a circle, looking more jovial than Caerleon thought she had ever felt before. The Prince watched her in amusement for a few moments while she danced about, then she froze and looked curiously at the Prince, “Why?” she brushed the last of her tears away from her shimmering blue eyes, “Your Highness.”
Caerleon smiled and said firmly, “I have very good reasons, Princess… and if it becomes necessary, you shall know them.”
