Title: Her Years of Endless Frustration

Summary: Clever, thrifty Cyphonia knows what she wants--money, power, a thriving economy--and exactly how to get it, but all of her plans are spoiled when she rescues a cursed murder who, vexingly, only she can save. Now she must make that age-old decision: the poor and charming prince, or the mad fairy that will destroy everything she has ever wanted?

Other: You do not need to read the Jewel to understand what's going on here, but nor does doing so put you at a spoiler disadvantage (except, you know, the obvious).

A/N: I thought, in honor of the Jewel getting nominated for SKOW contest, I would write a brief, related story to go with it. 'Ah,' I thought, 'why not the tale of Sebastian's parents? It could be a short thing, maybe fifteen pages or so.' The rest of my thoughts waved in vain towards another story that was supposed to be short called the Crowned Jewel, but I blithely ignored it. Long story, er, long, this one isn't as short as it was supposed to be. But it is fun, I hope, as the story of Cyphonia and how she came to own a world-famous brothel turned out to be much more involved and interesting than I had realized.

Enjoy, and if you'd like to check out the other contestants' stories, http:// skow . byethost18 . com / index . php .

Lady Cyphonia of Parcado was in her fifteenth year of endless frustration when she approached her father and said: "I demand to have a dress of red silk."

"No," her father replied without looking up from the scroll he was scratching over. "We do not have the money."

"You had the money to buy Blaesus a stallion this season," she pointed out patiently. When her father glanced up with a weary look, Cyphonia folded her hands against the waist of her green robes and attempted to appear as maidenly demure as possible. This was foiled by three things: that her mahogany eyes were far more calculating than those of the other maidens in her town; that the color of her robes was once white, before the incident with the cattle herder, the grass, the pond, and the subsequent parental explosion; and that her father had in fact made her acquaintance well before this current conversation.

"This is because your brother needed a horse for the army," he replied in a long-suffering tone. "Also because he is a man and therefore has a chance of earning this home income someday. You, on the other hand, need to be paid for, and the going rate for brides this year is eighteen cattle. Eighteen."

We have eighteen cattle, Cyphonia would have pointed out, had she not already made that response in the past and known what the reply would be. Her father pressed on just as if she had spoken anyway. "We have eighteen cattle only if we count Thyreus, and he's worth at least eight cows by himself. I will not be overcharged in this matter."

"I too could earn this house some income," she replied through a forced smile. It would not do to snarl, not when asking for favors. "I have a better head for business than Blaesus does, and moreover, I can string together more than four words in a row."

"Which is why someday you will be in charge of a household and make your husband a very pleased man," her father replied with stressed patience, "but not this one. And my dear, I must point out that your weaving is acceptable at best. How do you propose to make money, exactly?"

"As a courtesan," Cyphonia replied promptly. That at least earned her father's full attention, as well as a sharp brow raise on his paling face. "Courtesans get to read and write whenever they want to, and speak with the scholars, and they make money."

Her father's voice was both horrified and amazed as he said, "This isn't what you want a red silk dress for, is it?"

"Of course not," she replied with a toss of her head. After all, she did not yet know how to be a courtesan—once she did so, the dress could certainly be put to such an acceptable use, but not yet. "I want a red silk dress because mother says I must have one."

"Oh," said her father, relaxing and looking back to his parchment again. "In that case—wait." He frowned suspiciously, adding, "This isn't like the time where 'your mother' also said you must have a fox pup now, is it?"

"Of course not," Cyphonia repeated again, loftily. "That was a childish trick I played in my youth that I would not consider employing in my elder years. She says I must have one because the prince of Arcadia, recently of-age, is visiting the court next week in his search for a bride, and his favorite color is red."

"Hmm," her father said. "If this is a well-known fact, then isn't it likely that every maiden at court will be wearing red? It's not like you to go with the crowd, my dear."

Cyphonia had to admit that her father, though terribly miserly, did have a good head on his shoulders. She had no intention whatsoever of marrying the prince of a kingdom with a population less than a thousand and whose chief export was mud bricks, and so her plan exactly had been to blend in with all the other hopeful suitors. "You make a thoughtful point," she conceded. "In that case, it had best be a dress of linen. In my humble plainness, the prince is sure to pick me."

"Mm," her father replied. He didn't need to mention that she already had the plainness down to a tee; Cyphonia knew that depressing fact already. "I disagree. Silk it is. No, wait—we can't afford it. You should just wear—" he glanced up, winced, and forged on anyway, "—what you have on now. Green will offset the red like leaves offset the rose... except, perhaps, in reverse, this case. Now go outside and leave me alone; I must really get this done before the duchess returns." Her father was the duchess's auditor. Cyphonia doubted the flighty woman would really care to look at tax records the instant upon returning from a trip, but in her ire at her father did not point this out to him. Let him stress over unnecessary work, for that is what she would have to do now. Cyphonia knew they had the money for the dress, if her father would only stop drinking every night in town and her mother would stop betting it among her friends. But if they didn't give it to her, she would not be stopped—she would just find work to earn her own money, and buy it herself. Brothel-work should do it.

This idea was almost foiled as soon she left the house, for Blaesus was standing on the colonnade with his stupid friends. Each swiveled their heads her way as soon as she passed the door, and then swiveled them right back to stare at her brother, who grimaced showfully, doing his best to be manly in front of his gang. Blaesus called to her, "You aren't allowed out if you aren't collecting water, Dunce-onia."

"I am collecting water," she replied with a toss of her head. Unfortunately, she couldn't get any real enjoyment out of the confused stupor that passed over her brother's face, since baiting Blaesus wasn't much sport. Her mother would make subtle, cutting remarks for the next week if she heard a rumor of Cyphonia doing such a thing, anyway, and it wasn't worth the bother. "But first I need to find an amphora to put it in. Do you have one?"

Her brother recoiled as his friends snickered, his face red. "Do I have a pot?" he sneered uncertainly. "That's woman's work."

"Exactly," Cyphonia replied brightly. "That's why I'm going to go get one, by myself." There; now none of the boys would be tempted to follow her or make terrible comments like they usually did, and indeed she walked down the steps and out the gate without further notice from them.

As she started down the road towards town, her heart began to thump wildly with excitement. Cyphonia was hard pressed not to begin skipping for the joy of it. She had never been allowed to leave the house unaccompanied for a task that didn't involve fetching water, and suddenly the world seemed wide and spacious and full of possibilities for her.

She would go into town, she decided thoughtfully, and just observe for today. There was no point in moving hastily, and Cyphonia wanted to have a thorough idea of what jobs were available before trying them out. While she did not have much experience in the realm of courtesans—particularly, she thought with annoyance, with their most fundamental action—she was by no means a naive girl, and indeed spent much of her day looking for the dark and shadowy parts of all silver-lined clouds that passed her way. She would learn what she was committing herself to before making any hasty life changes.

It was still early morning, so the roads were empty, the citizens either out in their farms or preparing to open their shops for the day. Glittering rice fields lined the roads, and the path was misty and ethreal before her. Cyphonia couldn't imagine a more lovely sight, she decided, except perhaps if the road was also covered in golden coins with her name ingrained upon them. That would make the scene absolutely perfect.

She was most annoyed when her lovely landscape was ruined by sharp male shouts and hands roughly threw her to the side of the road. Cyphonia narrowly avoided landing a rice patty that would have added yet another deeper shade of green on her robes. Maybe I'm being abducted! she thought, and wasn't sure whether to be afraid or excited about this: the abductor could be a god, after all—or a goddess in disguise, she thought hastily. (Her best friend Sofia was quite progressive and adamant about those sorts of things, usually while giving Cyphonia extremely significant glances. Cyphonia had dutifully taken note of these, but had decided to withhold action until she had decided what sort of courtesan she would be.)

The matter turned out not to be an abduction after all, but rather a very strange occurrence indeed. The man who had shoved her aside was a soldier, one of a cadre of ten with their hair in topknots. They had hilt-less swords hanging down at their sides, which swung sharp and dangerous with each step they took, but even with their fierce weapons they bore expressions of such sharp terror that Cyphonia realized the man in the lead had not even noticed that he had knocked her down. Each of the soldiers carried a very thick steel chain that oozed magic all over the road, and every eye was focused on the figured bound at the other end.

This was peculiar, Cyphonia noted, because what was at the other end was a naked boy: an emaciated lad with impossibly pale skin and too-long white hair, whose wiry muscles bulged even though his ribs stood out plain on his chest. He was quivering under the weight of the shackles and strained backwards against them with every step the men took—the soldiers were literally dragging him along, she saw, and all ten were barely making headway against this one boy. His teeth were bared, his lips pulled back in a hideous snarl. Strangest of all, Cyphonia decided, were the wings that arched out behind the boy, pathetic things like wet silk cloth that bore more holes than her mother's worst scrubbing dress. As she watched, the boy flashed his wings forward in his fury, then jerked them back when they hit the chains, hissing and shuddering with pain as further tears ripped through them.

Or no, she decided again—it was the constant, furious, hissing growling he made that was strangest of all. That was truly unnerving.

Curious and perturbed, the young lady picked herself off the ground to watch them pass, absently brushing dirt from her backside while she did so. A more foolish or impulsive girl might have called out a question to the soldiers, but Cyphonia put great stock in her ability to observe all aspects of a scenario before speaking, and so she merely looked on as the men dragged their captive by. Actually, she would have at least given a warning to the men about her troublesome family ability, but they had nearly pushed her into a rice patty after all and so she kept silent.

It did occur to her with a wince a moment later, when the boy came abreast of her and halted abruptly as all of his chains disappeared, that her thinking had perhaps been both hasty and unwise: Cyphonia's family ability, a condition that had passed down through the generations, dissolved all magic spells in a certain proximity. This made her scowl. Cyphonia hated making hasty and unwise decisions. Now she was damp, dirty, annoyed, and standing opposite what had to be a very dangerous criminal who, thanks to her inaction, was now very free.

For now, he was standing very still, only his icy blue eyes moving as they flicked left and right. The men screamed—very shockingly, given that they were all at least her father's age—and dove off of the path, flinging themselves into the rice fields. Cyphonia stifled another mental oath and amended her personal statement to include "alone and defenseless" as well. All right, she thought grimly, her mother always had told her that her tongue was better than any sword, and twice as dangerous. She just needed to ignore the fact that the men had had ten swords, and therefore she needed to have her tongue sharpened by a factor of five for it to work at all.

She opened her mouth to say something, then paused like that when she realized the boy had not even appeared to have noticed her yet. Instead, she watched with annoyed curiosity as he turned his head exactly away from her and slowly stretched out an arm that direction. He stopped the gesture in midair, hand splayed as if pressed against an invisible wall, and then began inching it ahead of him, slowly shuffling forward as he followed the path of his hand. The boy's path started to turn him towards Cyphonia and she opened her mouth a little wider, but still he did not look in her direction whatsoever. He simply walked in a very clear, perfect circle all the way around her, gaze never leaving the end of his fingers.

This infuriated Cyphonia more than anything else ever had. She very carefully was not one of those people that needed to be in the center of attention all of the time, and indeed prided herself on her ability to blend into the background when needed (for instance, when spying upon her parents), but this was too much. Thanks to her magical powers, a criminal had been freed, his captors had fled who-knew where, she was placed in extremely close proximity to said criminal, and then he was proceeding to ignore her completely. What kind of story could she tell Sophia about this later? she wondered despairingly. She had to say something to him, or risk being teased for her misadventure.

"Excuse me," she snapped. The boy's face snapped towards hers faster than she had ever see anything move, and she swallowed at the sight of the pale, empty gaze that stared at her both more dispassionately and intently than she had ever been looked at before. Cyphonia wished suddenly that she was either much more beautiful, much more invisible, or much more holding a very large, invincible shield than she was. But after a minute had passed and the boy had done literally nothing else, his chest not even appearing to rise and fall with breathing, she just began to feel annoyed again.

"It's rude to stare, you know," she told him. The boy tilted his head to the side, his dark lashes rising against his shockingly white skin, and then meekly turned his gaze towards the ground. It reminded Cyphonia very much of a scolded fox pup, so much so that she started to reach out and ruffle his hair and tell him she didn't really mind that much, but then she realized again that he was in fact very naked, and snatched her hand back. Since she had the opportunity, though, she did make a point of observing what a nude male did look like, and stored that helpful memory away in her mind beside the rest of the courtesan information she had been gathering.

"Miss," she heard hissed from the rice field, and she glanced over her shoulder to see a very gray-faced soldier standing behind her, his gaze darting back and forth frantically between her and her subdued criminal. "How are you doing this? Even our most powerful mages could not bind his madness."

Cyphonia opened her mouth, then shut it again. While she was not by definition an impulsive person, she could recognize the opening for an opportunity better than most could. Thrusting her chin upwards, she said in a low, austere tone, "I suppose that your most powerful mages are not myself, then. I am Lady Cyphonia of Parcado, the town you are passing through. Tell me, good sir, where are you taking this prisoner?"

"The gladiator grounds at Kyorou," the man replied, very slowly edging forward towards them. On either side of the path, the other soldiers were rising from their hiding spots, sheepish expressions on their faces as they straightened their muddy clothing and dried off dirt-specked swords. Cyphonia raised a brow in her best impression of her father and motioned for the brave one to continue to speak. She was rewarded with, "This foolish demon fairy challenged Phinaeus to a duel yesterday. Stabbed him right through the heart, the Demon did, quick as anything, and with his dying breath Phinaeus cursed him. We haven't figured out what the curse is yet, but the Demon killed twenty men before we got those chains on him, frothing at the mouth the whole time."

"Berserker," Cyphonia breathed, fascinated. She had heard the term laughed about by her father's friends when they described battles, but hadn't realized the fearsome condition actually existed. Then she startled and said, "Phinaeus, as in Phinaeus the Impassible?" The nodding man had named by far the land's most proficient swordsman, a legendary fighter who accepted challenges only by other figures of similar status. Apparently, the man had just been surpassed. The one that had done it, Cyphonia noticed, still had not moved from his demure position, nor had shown the slightest bit of notice that they were discussing him or that the increasingly emboldened soldier had called him a demon. All of this, too, annoyed her.

"Why the gladiator grounds?" she asked, and the soldier laughed in a way she didn't especially like.

"Crowd's pleasure," he replied, grinning. "The boss has been trying to get Phinaeus to fight in the rings for years—Kyorou will draw crowds for leagues if we exhibit the man who killed him." His grin faded as he looked at Cyphonia with a more critical air, and then asked, "Did you say you were Lady Cyphonia? Where's your amphora, then, if you were out fetching water?" A respectable lady would only leave the house for that purpose. It was one of the main reasons Cyphonia wanted to become a courtesan, since they weren't expected to be respectable at all.

To his vexing statement, Cyphonia narrowed her eyes and snapped, "If you would like me to leave you alone with the berserker, you only need say so. I would be more than happy to continue on my way."

All of the men took a step back, the speaker hastily holding up his hands. "No, no," he said quickly. "I'm sure you just dropped it when we so rudely knocked you off the path earlier. Please forgive us, honored miss, and come with us to Kyorou. We will escort you back personally, and I'm sure there would be some sort of monetary compensation for your time."

Only one word caught Cyphonia's ear, and that word was in the shape of a beautiful red silk dress. "But of course," she replied. Kyorou wasn't that far away, after all, only an hour's walk at most based on things she had heard her brother say—and in for a calf, in for a herd, she thought firmly. The girl studied the fairy for a moment and realized that she was going to be in big trouble if he didn't listen to what she said, but that she could scarcely back out now. "Come along, then—what is your name?"

The fairy said nothing, but he did take a slight step towards her. He was very naked, Cyphonia noticed again, and took a slight step back herself. "Very well," she said grandly, "have it your way." She turned and began walking, praying to any god—or goddess in disguise—that the boy would follow her. The gods must have been listening, for he took a step for every one of hers, in perfect unnerving silence. The men walked behind them both in formation, anxiously placing their hands on the hilts of their swords whenever the wind stirred the boy's hair or his pathetic, tattered wings.

Cyphonia was hot and sticky by the time they reached the gladiator rings and her dress had started to smell depressingly of stagnant waters, but she was too curious and satisfied with her luck to be annoyed with those normally troublesome facts. The fairy hadn't said anything the entire trip, but the soldiers had decided to treat her as a sort of magical mascot and kept her entertained with wild stories of their past exploits. Despite their rough looks and coarse jokes, they weren't a bad sort—they even embellished her criminal taming abilities to the guard at the rings' entrance, so that his eyes widened and he gave her quite a bit more money than she would need to buy even a very fine silk dress. The girl was in quite a good mood, therefore, when the soldiers gripped the arms of the unprotesting fairy and led him into the holding pens, where criminals were kept before their battles.

The moment they lowered the gate behind him, the fairy's head snapped up for the first time, his muscles tensing across his body. The soldiers very quickly took a step away from the pen and Cyphonia felt more than one hand push her in front of them. The boy whipped around to face her, the once blank eyes now filled with an emotion that she, not a fairy, could not hope to decipher, but that filled her chest with a quiet aching pain all the same. He stared at her face for a moment, then swallowed and, appearing to recall her earlier words, turned his gaze to the ground again. "No," he whispered. She was unsurprised to hear his voice was as unsettling as the rest of him, dry and haunting. "Please don't go."

"Um," Cyphonia replied uncomfortably, "I really can't do that. I'm sure you'll be just fine here, though, because you're such a good fighter, right? I've heard the boss here always makes sure his best ones survive. And—they'll give you some clothes and food, I'm sure." She glanced at the guard, who nodded emphatically, and then turned back with a somewhat sickly smile. Cyphonia had just realized that, after all, she might very well have led this strange creature to his death. Murderer or not, she wasn't quite sure how she felt about such a thing. The line of his shoulders was so pathetic again that she was moved to say, "If you win a few battles, I'll come and visit you again, if you'd like."

Again his face snapped up towards her, and this time she could clearly read his expression as utter anguish. "You have to promise," he whispered. "Humans can lie."

Cyphonia took a breath and hesitated. She had meant her words, but, now that she thought about it, they were clearly impossible. After this day her father was unlikely to let her leave the house ever again and certainly not to visit the gladiator rings. And yet—the money she had just earned would be enough to purchase a cow and save the precious Thyreus, which would undoubtedly make her father forgive her brief foray into the outside world. But a red silk dress! her mind cried, and she severely shoved the thought away. Perhaps next year, she told herself; surely there would be other criminals to tame and more money to be had later. "I promise," she said sharply. "I will be here."

The fairy closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bars, saying nothing to her gesture, which Cyphonia found to be quite rude. She even bowed to him a little, just to emphasize what she thought of his manners, and then walked with the soldiers back towards the road home.

They had only gone a few feet when the howling started. It wasn't a crying-howl, Cyphonia thought as she slammed her hands over her ears alongside everyone else in hearing range—judging from the sound, the whole world—and it wasn't a wolf-howl; it had to be something more like a dragon-howl, a sound that set the air on fire and made the earth itself scream its rage. When it stopped, the sound was followed by the plop, plops of birds as their bodies tumbled out of the air and hit the dirt of the the gladiator ring. Then the screaming began. The soldiers grabbed Cyphonia and fled, blood streaming from their ears.

Her father received the greatest shock of his life when his daughter returned home from her adventure, her dress even more stained than before and now spotted liberally with blood, and then dropped a pile of gleaming gold in front of him. "Cow," she said without a further word of explanation as she left the room, and he heard a thunk a moment later, as of a large object abruptly toppling over. His mouth dropped open when she was followed by a cadre of the Emperor's personal guard, who thanked him for having raised such a fine sorceress and informed him that if he ever needed a favor of a military sort, they would be only too glad to fight for his side. He managed to stammer out his thanks, then spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out who his daughter had killed to get so much gold, and how much taxes he would have to pay on it.

It turned out that the coins had been worth more than a cow after all. The day of the prince's visit, Cyphonia wore her new dress, a white silk kimono heavily embroidered with bright crimson roses, and stood out pristinely as a lotus blossom among the uniformly red-blooming crowd. Only Sophia had elected to choose a dress of another color, a dark emerald wrap that set off her fair hair nicely. "Together, we are a complete flower," Cyphonia told her. "You are the healthy, fruitful growth and I am the aspect that smells and fades quickly." Cyphonia had learned the merits of humbleness and elaborate compliments long ago, and wielded them as calculatingly as all else.

"Right," Sophia, who didn't much care, replied. "Now tell me again who you think the boy on the road was."

"We know he defeated Phinaeas the Impassible, and that the guard said he was of fairy stock," Cyphonia told her, "but I've yet to find another in this town that knows anything of fairy bloodlines. I must get to the city, Sophia."

"And you must take me," Sophia said eagerly, reaching out to grip her friend's hands. "I heard that Verdant Unicorn is doing another tour there, and it's so close to Kyorou that you will be able to show me this criminal you've bested. You do meant to keep your promise to him, don't you?"

"I must," Cyphonia said solemnly. "I could not lie to such a doomed soul."

Sophia sighed deeply and swooned on the bench seat. "It's so romantic," she breathed. "You don't suppose there's any hope he's a goddess in disguise, do you?"

"No, I'm quite sure he's male," Cyphonia replied delicately. She had neglected a few parts of her tale in the telling, since she couldn't be sure how much of it would get back to her father. Sophia was loyal, but some stories were too good to keep to oneself. "But I also don't believe that it's such a romantic story. He is a murder, after all, and—oh, great, here comes the prince." Her voice slipped down to a mutter as the reed piper played a complex greeting, and Sophia scrambled back upright again as the others girls in the room straightened to attention and the front gates opened.

The prince and his retainers entered the courtyard still on mounts, their horses blowing steam from their run. Cyphonia's eyes narrowed—brick-exporter or not, Prince Martin had an excellent horse, a great blood red stallion with white spots across its back. Perhaps there was some reason to try for his hand after all, providing his father had not actually bankrupt the kingdom to pay for such an animal. She was not the only girl the room who noticed this fact, she saw, and Cyphonia raised her head a little higher in silent challenge. The day might prove to be interesting after all.

All of the eligible maidens of the surrounding lands were allowed to meet with the prince for an interview so that he could learn about each one personally, and they him. It was a very peculiar arrangement and the town had muttered all week about what a man the king of the tiny Arcadia must be like, but it suited Cyphonia fine. Her best weapon was her tongue after all, and she was quite sure she could use it to capture or dismiss this prince equally, given the chance.

When it was her turn into the room, Cyphonia sat down across the table from the pale, thin young man as directed and asked him, "How do you plan to revitalize the economy of your kingdom?"

"The going rate of cows is of course sufficient," the prince, who had been fielding questions appropriate to his answer for days now, replied tiredly. Then he blinked in startlement as he actually processed her words. He was handsome enough, she noticed, a bit on the short and slim side with thin blond hair and some gleam of intelligence in his narrow green eyes. "My plan to revitalize the economy?" he repeated, shocked.

An excellent point, Cyphonia conceded with a nod; how could one revitalize what had not been vitalized in the first place? "I think, at the very least, silk would be a start," she told him, steepling her fingers together. "The climate of your country can support the worms well enough. However, that would not be sufficient—other countries, too, produce silk, and your people must eat, particularly if the land formally plowed with food was producing silk instead. Therefore, to obtain a greater income, you should also inspire clothiers to come to your land. I have decided that the best way to do this would be to have a fashion contest, with the announcement that the winners will be given a plot of land of their choice so that they could design outfits for neighboring royalty in comfort. That would give them the incentive to come to a place they would normally turn up their noses at and assures that, once there, they stay. The outfits they make can then be sold for a much greater price than the silk alone would bring."

The prince stared at her for a very long time, long enough that Cyphonia's heart began to wilt as she realized the man was a dunce after all and no better than her brother's insipid friends. Then he said, tone wary, "But the fashion designers surely will want to live in the manner which they are accustomed to. My people are farmers, not bakers and makers of fine furniture."

"Oh, that's the second part of the plan," Cyphonia said breezily. "You must also attract the finest chefs in the world, of course. It can be done in much the same way: announce that you have a health condition and will pay well if only they can make—well, I can't do all the thinking after all—some impossible dish. Perhaps a fish pie that is burned on the bottom and soft on the top and warm only in the center. Then announce you cannot possibly choose among the competitors, but to thank them for their efforts you have created inns for them so that all the world can taste their fine cooking by visiting one location."

"Won't people become suspicious of contests, if there's so many?" the prince asked, leaning forward and looking much more awake than he had earlier.

"Oh, that's easy—simply change your family motto to 'The Land of Challenges', or something similar to it. It sounds impressive and encourages other ideas, too. For instance, in regards to the furniture makers—"

The guard at the door cleared his throat loudly and said, "Your highness, the next girl is ready."

"Huh?" the prince said, then shook his head and settled back into his seat, eyes weary again. "My apologies, Lady—Cyphonia, was it? I do have a strict schedule today. But perhaps you would be willing to tell me more about your plan on the morrow?"

"Of course," replied Cyphonia. She had decided that the prince was not such a bad sort after all. Not her type, but perhaps Sophia, who went for the slim, small ones, would appreciate him. On that thought— "Before I go, honored prince, one more question: you don't happen to be a goddess in disguise, are you?"

"No," said the prince cautiously, "no, I really don't think so." At her frown, he hastily added, "Perhaps I could try to be one?"

She rewarded him with a bright sunny smile. Yes, he would do quite nicely indeed.

Cyphonia woke up in sweat a few days after that, a pair of pale blue eyes staring into her soul as an agonized voice cried, "You promised!" She tumbled out of bed, shaking, threw on a mostly-white day robe over her sleeping garments, and sprinted out the door. Her mother found her in the kitchen, stuffing a loaf of bread and a few apples into a bag as she tried to brush out her hair with one hand and pull on shoes with her other.

"Dear, what are you doing?" her mother asked, perplexed, as Cyphonia whirled around, fastening her bag at her waist.

"Fetching water," her daughter gasped breathlessly. "I am suddenly so very, very thirsty." She fled to the doorway, her mother trailing after her.

"The amphora is still in the kitchen," she informed her, brows raised skeptically, but Cyphonia did not appear to hear her. In a lower voice, the woman asked, "This isn't some kind of nighttime liaison, is it?" She considered this momentarily, then added, "With someone that isn't the prince?"

"No," replied Cyphonia, "just water," and ran down the path before she could be delayed further.

Sweaty and shaking and out of breath, she arrived at the gladiator grounds just as the sun was appearing on the horizon. The guard straightened and grinned when he saw her.

"Well, if it isn't our Lady Enchantress," he called out as she approached. "Here to look in on your demon summon? We gave him clothes and food just like you requested, miss, although I can't say he's touched any of the later."

"I know," she panted. Then she took a few deep gulps of air and lifted her head, trying to remember that she was a fierce and powerful mage, and that she had to behave as such. "I request that I be let in to see him."

The guard raised the grate and told her to be his guest, and the girl walked into the dark, dim cage-filled room with a sudden apprehension. Surprisingly, the cells she could see were all empty, but the air was filled with the sound of hisses and growls as of a million angry lions. Cyphonia tightened the grip on her bag and walked forward, placing her feet down carefully as she walked across the blood and filth splattered floor until she found the one occupied pen.

Her criminal was laying on his side in the dirt, and as she neared she could also hear a pained, raspy sound in the growls that tore at her chest. The fairy's wings were so many threads now, poking out through two rough holes ripped in his grime-covered shirt, and even through the cloth she could see his ribs and the sharp curve of his shoulders. Cyphonia held still for a moment, then pressed as close to the bars as she could, crouching down to his level. "Pst," she whispered. The fairy's eyes snapped open to meet hers and his growls changed to a soft, pathetic noise that caused her stomach to lurch, but he made no other movement.

"I've brought you food," she said, trying to keep a faint waver out of her voice, and Cyphonia reached into her bag, took out a chunk of bread, and held it out through the bars to him. The fairy's pale gaze slid that way, then closed again in a silent no. "Why not?" she demanded, suddenly angry at his helplessness. She had come all that way, after all, and was not about to be turned away. "There's nothing wrong with it."

The boy's lips parted without a sound and he made a few choked rasps she was unable to decipher. Suddenly, Cyphonia's mind was filled with image of flowers. Petals floated in the winds as they covered their sweet prize, the perfect golden grains that made her mouth water with longing and her stomach seize with want—

Cyphonia jerked away from the bars to fall back onto the dirt, eyes wide as she stared at the boy. "Goodness, telepathy," she said to the air, then shook her head firmly in an effort to regain herself. Quickly she rose to her feet. "I will be right back," she said, and sprinted off before the growls that immediately resumed could haunt her too badly.

"Flowers," she said sharply as she reached the guard and slapped her hands down on the stone table in front of him. "He only eats the—the stuff in the middle of flowers, whatever gardeners call that—so go and get me some. Please," she added, to be polite, and the startled man nodded and sent off a messenger to get exactly that. The boy returned a short while later with an armful variety, which Cyphonia took and marched back into the pens with. None of the blooms appeared to be the exact kinds the fairy had put into her mind, but she wasn't sure how much it would matter at this point.

Her criminal managed to lift his head slightly at the sight of what she carried this time, but he collapsed again completely when she dropped them in a pile in front of the door and left again. Cyphonia was back a moment later, however, with a ring of keys that she used to open the pen door, and then she crouched beside him, lifting a flower to observe it with a critical eye.

"I have no idea how you're supposed to eat this," she said to him. "Should I peel the petals off for you? Do you lick the centers?" With a shaking hand the fairy took the blossom from her and, to her surprise, snapped off the entire head in one quick bite. He started coughing an instant later, though, in great choking heaves, and after Cyphonia nearly thought she would go mad from helpless fretting, he spit out a wad of crushed green and white.

"Peeling petals it is, then," she resolved with a faint voice, and began doing just that, smacking the boy's hand away whenever he sought to grab for one before she was done. Slowly his weak tremors began to lessen, and the expression in his eyes became meek as he accepted each naked flower from her hand, whispering words Cyphonia decided to pretend were thanks each time he did so.

When he had finished with the last one the fairy sat up, slowly and gingerly, pushing back his filthy, torn hair from his face as he stared at the ground again. "You know," Cyphonia said at last, "I didn't mean to imply earlier that you couldn't ever look at me. I just meant that it's rude to stare into someone's eyes without—without blinking, or something, every now and then." Immediately he raised his gaze to hers, so quickly that Cyphonia found herself blushing under his fierce attention. A few moments later he very deliberately closed and reopened his eyes again, and the girl had to laugh, a sound that made the boy jump and edge away from her slightly. "Oh, I'm sorry," she added hastily. "I didn't realize—do fairies not blink? I'm afraid I don't really know anything about them." She had to scowl at the very thought, but when the boy rounded his shoulders defensively and ducked his head with a worried expression, she softened again. "It's not your fault," she said. "I'm not angry at you. And even if I was," she said firmly, "there's no reason for you to look like that. If I was angry at you I would expect to hear a concise explanation for your actions that resulted in my anger, not for you to look so apologetic."

The boy only nodded and Cyphonia sighed at his vague reply, deciding to give up on a lecture of manners for now.

"Did you win your fights?" she asked instead, pulling off a chunk of her bread to eat. The memory of pollen's sweetness in her mind left an uncharacteristic hunger in her.

At her question, the fairy tilted his head to the side and looked distinctly confused, an expression that seemed to cross species without effort. "You came," he said. Cyphonia paused mid-chew to puzzle that one over, then sighed and shrugged.

"Right," she said. "Well, about that—I mean, I promised to come if you won, but I didn't promise to not come if you didn't. Not that you should take that to mean I want you to lose fights," she added firmly. "Just that, well, I would have come either way." The boy was staring at her with suddenly huge eyes and an expression that made her feel uncomfortable. "What is it?"

He said nothing though, but only turned his head towards the ground and began cleaning up the leaves and petals scattered there. For lack of anything better to do, and feeling distinctly out of her element, Cyphonia helped him, sorting them automatically in two piles. The fairy quickly changed his own cleaning methods to match hers, although when they were finished the girl realized she had been silly, for they were all trash together as well. This made her laugh a little, and, to her surprise, the fairy smiled slightly in return.

"I'm afraid I still don't know your name," she said, leaning against the uncomfortable bars of the pen and pulling her legs underneath her. "But you were perfectly right in not telling me yours earlier, since I was remiss in introducing myself to you first. I am Lady Cyphonia of Parcado." She held out her hand for a kiss, but since the fairy recoiled immediately when she started to reach out his way, made a grand bowing motion instead and tried not to feel too hurt about it. "You may call me Cyphonia." The boy only nodded with a great look of wariness, so she added lightly, "I would be most grateful if you told me your name in return."

The criminal opened and closed his mouth, pressing his lips together tightly and turning his head to the side. Cyphonia started in surprise, then frowned when he continued to say nothing. She must have said something that was terribly offensive to a fairy, she was sure, but could not hope to determine what.

When the silence grew too uncomfortable, she said, "Perhaps another day, then. I—I really must be getting home, before father wakes up and found out what I've done again." She climbed to her feet and tried to ignore the way the fairy's stricken face had lifted to hers, the horror back in his pale eyes. "I'm sorry," she blurted out. "I really am. But I can't take you home with me because there are rules about that, serious ones, and anyway you're a wanted murderer, so they won't let you go just because I say so. I'll come back though, I promise again, and this time I'll try to do so much more quickly. And I'll make them give you pollen instead of human food, so please don't be sad."

If he heard a word she said, his face gave no indication, and Cyphonia swallowed a painful lump in her throat as he very carefully closed and opened his eyes, just for her. "I promise," she whispered fiercely, for both their sakes.

"It is a difficult scenario," Cyphonia told Sophia with a sigh, straightening the hem of her nice white dress. "You see, he relies on my presence for his sanity, and that's fully unacceptable for a number of reasons. How can he hope to be his own person, with his own thoughts and ideas, if he can only have those thoughts when beside me?" Proud but practical, Cyphonia was willing to admit that she did tend to trod on ideas that differed from her own, and regularly shoved people into little boxes of perfect order through sheer force of will. "And of course, I cannot see him very often." It was such a drearily typical tale as well, she knew: the wild-beast man tamed by the well-meaning damsel. Cyphonia had not yet figured out a way around that problem, but she was determined to find one. She ripped into the piece of meat the prince's servant had supplied them with and glared thoughtfully into the distance as she chewed.

"I still cannot believe you went without me," Sophia sighed, tearing more demurely at her own meal. Four girls had been called back to talk to Prince Martin again; Cyphonia because he wanted to hear more about her ever-increasing plans for the kingdom, and the other three because she had told him that, out of any of the girls in the surrounding lands, these were the only ones he could possibly want. Or really, as she informed her friend, he should only want Sophia, but the girl ought to be given the chance to shine in front of others. Sophia didn't care much either way, although she did appreciate the effort. "You really must let me meet him next time, if you go at a reasonable hour."

"Meet whom?" the prince said, coming up to them. The other two girls immediately preened and smiled, but Cyphonia and Sophia just laughed and waved him over. There wasn't any more room on the bench so he crouched at their sides on the ground—he had some odd mannerisms for a prince, but the pair wouldn't have liked him much if he didn't. Since the first interview the three had become fast friends; Cyphonia liked his quick mind and wry humor, Sophia adored the perplexed look he bore when confused, and Martin appreciated any company that didn't jump to do his bidding.

"My mass-murdering criminal," Cyphonia told the prince. "I snared him with my magical ways last week, and thereby have made him your main competition for my attentions, your highness."

"Goodness," Martin replied, looking mildly alarmed as Sophia giggled helplessly. "That will be quite a personage to overcome for me. How could I, a prince about to hold a baking tournament, hope to beat him?"

"Oh," Cyphonia gasped, her eyes shining as she leaned forward, "did you really send out the invitations? Do your parents think it's a good idea, truly?"

"They do," he replied, looking pleased and embarrassed simultaneously. "Lady Sophia kindly helped me design the wording on the invites, and Mother believes the plan has a good chance of success."

"Invitation writing?" Cyphonia asked Sophia with her brows raised, and her friend blushed and waved her off. "Well," she declared, "I think it's splendid, and insist on tasting the winners' dishes. Have you decided yet what they'll be ordered to make?"

"Not quite yet," the prince admitted, then cleared his throat and rose to his feet again, including the other two girls, who were beginning to look quite put out, in his gesture. "But there's something else I wanted to announce—my parents would like to meet all of you. They think that it would be a start to these competitions if... if everyone here partook in one as well." Martin looked distinctly sheepish, as he tended to whenever he said something that might even be mistaken as an order, or about the upcoming marriage. "It would be a three-part contest, with a manners test, a political interview, and a talent show at the end. Whoever won would become the, ah, my bride."

"Interesting," said Cyphonia as the other girls began to murmur, and then nothing more for a few minutes, her eyes taking on the steely gleam of a hawk as she thought this over. The prince began to look anxious until she finally moved again and replied grandly, "Of course we'll participate. I think it's an excellent way to choose a bride, your highness."

"Oh good," Martin said, looking relieved. "It will start a week from tomorrow, then. I do hope you will all be there."

"I wouldn't miss it," Cyphonia murmured. She spent the rest of the day in a contemplative, plotting silence that made everyone sidestep her in terror except Sophia, who was used to her friend's variable moods. By the end of the night, she could confidently assert one thing: all was going according to plan.