A Noble Childhood

At seven years of age, the child was the finest specimen of court life to be held. Unlike most children of noble birth, the girl, named Nysa for new beginnings, was silent and often melancholy; she seemed only happy when around her mother and father. She was more apt at sword fighting with her father in the courtyard on fine evenings then at sewing with the Princess Sharla. She listened to politics with a rapt attention, though indifferently told her father how boring it was.

"You should have been born a boy, Nysa," Fler told her one night after sparring as he wiped the sweat from his face.

She smirked, something too grownup for her thin face. "No, father. I would not have liked being a boy. People expect you to be sneaky if you're a boy." And with that, she launched another attack on her father, thin rapier coming in a dangerous arc.

Fler parried, thinking –and not for the first time- that this little angel of his was quite the demon. She had a wicked aura to her, something that made others on edge even when she was smiling and batting her eyelashes prettily.

And not for the first time, Fler wondered if a demon had touched her tiny back as a babe, not a God.

…

Her life has been a quiet one, Fler thought to himself one day in the market. He pretended to listen to the merchants as they squabbled amidst themselves, but was in deep thought. She is just turned fourteen and look at her… as lovely as the Princess and as sharp as a blade's tip.

His little girl, now almost able to be considered an adult, danced around the maypole, something normally only for the peasants. She wore flowers in her long, dark hair, shimmering coal black in the sunlight. Her pale gray-blue eyes were alight with mischief as she danced; her skirts swirled around legs both trim and fit from running and sparring with her father.

Fler noticed that every male passing cast longing looks at the girl. The girl he had raised for fourteen years as his own. He sighed, turning his gaze away from Nysa and back toward the palace. The outside looked ominous, as if there was a singular rain cloud that simply hung low over the turrets. Fler sighed again. The king was in weakening health and would not last much longer. Yet, even though he suffered in bed, his reign had become more erratic, more focused on killing heretics than ever. The jail floors were never cleaned of blood –there would be no use. It would only be sullied again within the hour.

His thoughts enveloped him to the point that he didn't notice Nysa come up to him, her alien eyes peering up at him solemnly. "I think mother will die soon," she said softly, breaking Fler out of his thoughts.

He looked down at her, startled, as if seeing her for the first time. "What?"

"I think," she repeated slowly, "mother will die soon."

A cold feeling fell upon Fler then. He placed his hand on Nysa's back, guiding her toward the palace. "It's nearly time for my audience with the king. We should go back."

…

Katrina was looking drawn; her thin face was more along the lines of sunken. Her emerald eyes met Nysa's as the young girl entered their entry room. Katrina stood from parlor settee, murmuring, "You were never a child of God, were you?"

Nysa's eyes betrayed her confusion as she stepped into the room, cheeks flushed from the spring heat outside. "Mother?"

"You might as well know," Katrina laughed coldly, "that I am not your mother. Your mother was an insolent wretch –a peasant. A slut, too. You are a bastard child, did you know that? Your real mother wasn't married, but those eyes… I've only seen eyes like those in one other person. One."

Nysa's eyes widened slightly at the information. "But you are my mother… you raised me… you loved me."

Katrina nodded, her emerald eyes gazing past Nysa. "You are right, little one. I did love you. Once."

Nysa turned, slowly. The King stood in the doorway, sick and sweating, pale gray-blue eyes gleaming unnaturally bright. Eyes just like hers… "I told them to kill you," he whispered, voice rasping wetly. "I told them to kill you when I found out that damn woman was pregnant with you. She was never a heretic, the stupid woman –wasn't smart enough to be one."

Nysa backed away slowly, eyes wide and staring. Her mother caught her around the waist. "Now," she murmured. "Now, I have her."

The King stepped toward her, his rapier so close to her skin. With one slash her bodice was sliced down the center, a thin line of blood rising on her sternum.

Nysa, too scared to even cry out, looked past the King, praying for her father, praying form someone. And someone was there… Princess Sharla, four years older than Nysa and looking as regal as one could, held a knife in her left hand. Her normally dark brown eyes gleamed red. She mouthed something, something Nysa somehow understood. The word seemed to echo in her brain. Left. And then Sharla threw the dagger.

Nysa jerked to the left, her eyes closed tightly. Wind whistled past her ear and she heard the dagger land with a sick, wet thump into her mother's neck behind her. Another word somehow engraved itself into her mind. Duck. She did, quickly. The swipe of the King's rapier grazed right over her.

Lie still. Nysa did, finding every bone in her body trembling with fear. There was a sick crunch and a heavy thump.

Open your eyes. Nysa did, slowly, and saw the bleeding form of the king on the ground, run through with his own sword and neck twisted grotesquely to the side. Her mother lay close by, blood gurgling in her throat.

"Give me your hand," a deep voice murmured. Nysa, without thinking, reached out. The stench of blood and released bodily fluid stung Nysa's senses.

A cool, thin hand gripped hers, the flesh much too soft to be a man's. The Princess looked down at her with those alien eyes. "Listen to me, girl," she spoke in a masculine, deep voice. "You are needed alive. Quickly change into your plainest dress, take your father's sword, and run. Become strong. Fate will lead you back here one day."

The Princess' lips brushed across Nysa's before she turned. "I will say you were taken away. Do as I said, now, and make haste. You have three minutes."

The Princess glided out and Nysa ran to her closed, finding a change of clothing, tears streaming down her face.

…

The guards came to the Princess, who was sitting on the throne, tears on her cheeks. She seemed calm, though, and her eyes held a hint of red. "My father… Lady Katrina… they are dead. Whoever did it seemed to have taken the girl, Nysa… go find them. Hunt them down, please. Oh, my father… who could do this?"

The guards noted something odd in her voice, something rather masculine, yet gave only thought to the dead king. They rushed away, not noticing as the red drained from the Princess' eyes and she limply fell back onto the royal throne.