Princess Ann sat in her private study, mentally pouring over a list of her ancestor's names, those good and ill alike. It was a simple practice, one common in her childhood as she grew curious of her people's history. Nowadays, locked up in this balmy (to her) city in the south, she spent the occasional hour transcribing what she knew of everything. The shelves of her study, which in her first years at the castle had consisted mainly of idiotic fairytales, were now painfully overburdened with journals and manuscripts. Still it _was_ her own bit of home, and it was devoid of court gossipers, so she ventured there when she could. Ann yawned. The subtle rustling of paper behind her alerted Ann to the blow seconds before it would have connected with her neck. Not bothering to dodge, the princess grasped the desk and kicked out the chair she had been sitting on. The piece of furniture battered the attacker and threw off his blow, buying Ann precious seconds. Picking up a feathered pen, Ann calmly stood and turned to her attacker, a short figure garbed in light armor. Ducking a second swing from his sword, the princess continued to move toward her attacker. Panicking, the assassin threw a hasty punch only to have his fist caught in the vice-like grip of the monarch's left hand. Freeing himself, the assassin cried, "Die Salian scum!" He unleashed a lightning-fast roundhouse kick, a move to which Ann responded to by jabbing the business end of the feather in his ankle. Crying out in pain from the assault on a pressure point, the assassin collapsed to the floor of the study in an undignified heap. Ann yawned. Frowning, the princess reach down and extracted the offending pen from her attacker's ankle. "Really," she chastened the pained figure, "when are you going to get serious about this?" "I'm s-sorry, ma'am," apologized the assassin. Ann sighed, and then tugged at the band of cloth encircling her face. Smoothing back a stray hair, the princess blinked as her eyes readjusted to light. "Get off the floor." The former-attacker, really just a pimple-faced boy, crawled off the colorful tiles of the study. Not bothering to dust himself off, the teen stood before his monarch, embarrassed at yet another failed test. "Plebe, you move with all the grace of a drunken Norseman." The princess threw the feather at the boy; thankfully, he was able to scramble quickly enough to catch the weapon before it drifted to the ground. "And you're technique with the blade is simply miserable. How do expect to protect my heir, and, more importantly, your future ruler if you can't fend off one blindfolded woman armed with a quill pen?" The pimple-faced teen said nothing. Ann narrowed her eyes. "Well?" "I n-need," he stuttered, a shameful blush spreading across his face, "to p-p-practice more, ma'am" "Yes." The boy swallowed, gathered his courage, and looked his monarch in the eyes. "F-five hours on the sword," he gasped, "six on the quarterstaff, ma'am" "Try seven instead of six," the albino recommended, "you'll need it if you still intend to be my child's bodyguard." "Yes ma'am." Reaching blindly behind herself, the princess grabbed a small leather-bound book. Playful, she tossed it to the nervous lad. After dancing over quivering fingers the bodyguard-to-be finally caught the book, he read the elegantly etched title. At least he tried to. "'Bah- rish-quo-hun' Dictionary?" Ann smiled. "Nice to see you haven't been neglecting your language studies; I wouldn't want some who can't speak my language guarding my firstborn. I expect you to have first ten pages translated into High Salian before we meet again. Dismissed." The teen saluted. "Fare thee well, ma'am." She returned the salute. "And also you." No faster than was necessary, the teen half-marched out of the room, much to Ann's amusement. It would take awhile, she thought to herself, but that rough boy would be polished into a diamond. Knock. Knock. "Enter." The door swung open, revealing a stocky woman in her late fifties. Her skin was also the color of absolute white, marking her as one of Ann's tribeswomen. "," said the woman, speaking in their native tongue, "." The princess sighed, letting the briefest flicker of fear flash across her face. "!" she cursed, speaking in the only language her lady-in-waiting knew. "?" "" chirped the woman, "." Ann let go the breath she had been holding; her fears of Trioth's unbrotherly actions now unfounded. "." She refocused herself on the stocky woman. "?" "." BAM! Ann slammed a fist down on her study, denting the wooden paneling. Her pale face tinted with anger, she hissed, "." "" "" the princess said, "" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The North A Tale of High Adventure And Low Temperatures Part 8: Ill Wind Created by Schneeble (Brian Stubbs) Written by Doublemint - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The courtroom of Fortress Sala was a glorious thing, dressed in all the splendor of the kingdom's rich heritage. Today, with the population of the castle gathered within its walls and a roaring fire tended to by the king himself, it was one of welcoming warmth in the frigid North. Prince Dmitri stood beside his brother, Trioth, and watched his father prod a burning log with a poker. Behind him, silently clustered together, his newfound companions watched one silently. They all understood that their fate might well rest in the prince's hands. "My son," said King Petroyv, his face glowing with the warmth of the fire pit, "my dear boy Dmitri... why do you vex me so? Is it not enough that you know my love but that you must know my power as well? I thought better of you, that you should value your Salaian heritage over any lingering desire in the support of Isoian independence. Now, at least, I can discuss this matter like civilized-" "'Isoian independence'?" burst in Dmitri. The king nodded slowly, fighting the terrible burden upon his shoulders. "Verily my son," Petroyv said. "Had you thought such... disloyalty... would not reach mine ears?" "King Petroyv, I have indeed heard of such unsavory plans but I -- - a faithful subject of the crown --- would never join my fate with such an unsavory lot, even if I did agree with their intentions (which I do not!). I have sworn to uphold to honor of Sala and would never slander it such." "Then why do I hear of rebellion?" asked the king, his face heavy with age. "Why do the people speak of Iso and your deceit, even when my heart tells me otherwise?" Trioth clenched his fists, then, upon realizing his open hostility, opened them. It all went unnoticed. Dmitri sighed, a great multitude would like to see the bastard son of the king disposed of and a few would prefer him to his younger brother; either faction could have sparked such a tale of treason. Unless he had proof it was better to not speculate before the court, it would just make him look desperate. "I do not know Your Majesty, but I do know that the Kingdom of Sala has many enemies. After all, where in the world do the weak not envy the strong? Or the lowly the mighty?" He shook his head. "In all my humble studies I have never heard of such a place." The king nodded. "True, the hearts of lowly men are easily corrupted with promises of power and wealth." "Indeed, but what of the men of this court?" All around the chamber, lords and ministers bristled and shared heated looks. Denouncing half-hearted rumors of treason was one thing; personally insulting the court was altogether different. "The boy speaks with a blithe tongue," hissed a faceless baron, "but can his words be so carefree?" "Silence!" called out the king, and it was so. Turning his sights back to his son he said, "Explain yourself boy, or you shall find yourself lashed for such disrespect." The bastard bowed down. "My king I do not speak ill of these men, rather I find true strength in them. These men have each in their own part contributed to the greatness of Sala. To slander them would be to slander Sala itself, a disloyal act I am incapable of rendering. I could no more raise voice, let alone my blade, against these men than I could the kingdom itself; these men, like you and your regal forefathers before you, have made Sala the power it is this day." "Pretty words brother," said Trioth, the spice of contempt overpowering his tone, "but how do you explain your recent actions? What of the reckless expenditures from your 'allowance', or the employment of an eccentric runesmith?" The king set down his stoking rod. "Yes Dmitri, explain." "Acts of a just man," he explained. "I meant to correct the wrongs made against an old friend. The runesmith was merely meant to provide a spell of discernment, in order to fairly determine the ownership of misbegotten farmland." Trioth laughed. "A farm? Ha! You expect us to believe that all this," he cast a arm back towards the motley collection of runesmith, soldiers, and odd brothel guard, "was so you could pay off a street whore with the promise of a farm?" Dmitri turned and glared at his brother. "Watch you tongue *brother*; I will tolerate disrespect of my sister!" A wave of whispering and worried bemusement washed over the court. Dmitri had a sister? Did this mean that king was even more virile than had long been suspected? The prince quickly explained himself. "Shalnay is... was... my foster sister in my formative years. Her uncle stole her family's farm after the death of the owner, her father. She was forced to live off the streets and was later sold into slavery in Kaddegh." "A sister...," said Trioth, smiling, "well, even such circumstances do not excuse her choice of bedding." "'Circumstances'?" asked the elder prince. "'Circumstances'! Who are you Trioth to lecture me on circumstances?! Shalnay would not have defiled and tortured before my vary eyes by *YOUR* runesmith if it had not been for-" Trioth backhanded Dmitri, who in turn responded by sweeping a leg down and knocking his younger brother to the floor. Grabbing a handful of clothing, Trioth pulled his unbalanced sibling down with him. Crashing to the ground the two princes began to wrestle. A great roar washed over the courtroom and it was not long before the king rose to his feet. "Dmitri! Trioth! Cease this unkindness!" Dmitri punched his brother in the head. Trioth responded with a headbutt. King Petroyv strode over to his boys. Reaching down with two meaty hands, he grabbed the siblings by their collar and hoisted them into the air. "I. Said. CEASE. THIS. UNKINDNESS!" His sons stared at one another. Trioth spat blood in his brother's face. Dmitri lunged, or at least he tried to. With great anger, the king cast his sons down, throwing them at the floor with palpable disdain. "Children!" he cursed. "That's all you are!" Unsure of themselves, the two brothers cowered on the floor. Then, slowly, the two picked themselves up. "ON YOUR KNEES!" screamed the king, a fire long forgotten once again burning in his eyes. Quickly his sons complied. "Sport! That is all you are fit for: sport!" The king cast his eyes towards Dmitri. "You... you should remember who your master is, who you serve! Never has my heart truly doubted your loyalties, but now I know you do not have faith in your brother and it fills my breast with a great pity. Your kindness is benefit of a great man, but you fail to realize your place." "True words father," slurred Trioth, "that is why-" "SILENCE!" commanded the king, and it was so. "Of all here Trioth, you should be the fairest and most wise for you are to rule Sala after my demise. Have I seen your wisdom today? Nay, I have seen nothing save contempt and anger. Must you and I depend on your bride in order to guarantee a capable reign of 'King Trioth'?" No one dared say anything. "Trioth," said the king. "Stand." The prince did so. Unsheathing his ornamental sword, the king leveled it at his youngest child. "Trioth, my son, do you accept the birthright worthy of my heir?" He nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty." Petroyv turned to Dmitri, who was still kneeling. "Dmitri, turn towards your brother." After he did so, the kind went on. "Do you pledge your undying loyalty to your king, your prince, his wife and unborn child, and, most importantly, to Sala?" Dmitri placed a hand over his heart. "I pledge so, on my honor." He looked up Trioth. "Brother." "Stand." The two siblings, once again eye-level, stared uneasily at one another. The king pointed his blade at the younger one. "Crown Prince Trioth," he dipped the pointed weapon, "on your knees." Any attempt to not kneel on Trioth's part was quashed as he studied the emotion in his father's eyes. Slowly, one knee at a time, the Crown Prince knelt before his bastard brother. The king once again leveled the blade at his youngest son. "Trioth, do you pledge on your life to honor your brother and the blood that flows through both your veins?" "Yes," the prince said, his voice dead, "I pledge so." "Stand." King Petroyv raised his sword into the air. "Lords of Sala!" he cried out. "Do you pledge your loyalty to Petroyv Sala, your king?" "Yea!" replied the crowd. "We do so!" "Do you pledge your loyalty to Dmitri Sala, your prince?" Less enthusiastically, the crowd shouted, "Yea! We do so!" "Do you pledge your loyalty to Trioth Sala, your prince and future king, and his child?" "Yea! We do so!" "Then let us go celebrate the return of my wayward son," said Petroyv, sheathing his sword, "and the new head that shall adorn these walls, the head of 'Svarog the Serpent', in the coming days." A great cheer went up as the doors to the courtroom opened and the king led a procession out to the feast hall. Lingering behind, the two princes eyed one another silently as the room emptied. Finally, all that remained were the two. "This isn't over," said Trioth, his face burning with humiliation. "No," replied Dmitri, his mind once again filled with the cries of Shalnay on that terrible day, "it's not." Soon both brothers would come to know their words were truer --- and more terrible --- than they could have ever known. ============================================================= Author's Notes: Jesus, this is almost late. No time for prereaders this time around, I'm writing this sucker at the last minute (thank you writer's block). Bah, I didn't even get to make Katria pregnant! Well, Happy 18th Birthday to me! Yay! I'm (almost) legal.