The Chalice of the Mother

Aaron Frangos

Chapter One

“Damn this rain!” Prince John shouted above the boom and thunder of cannon fire and the howling wind.  He slashed furiously at his eyes with his free hand, wiping uselessly at them, then returned the binoculars to his eyes, watching the enemy line.  The occasional flash of return fire and explosion lit the battlefield, but it was otherwise completely dark.  He was perched on a small hillock, completely exposed to the driving rain, but out of the range of the enemy’s rifles, especially in the inky darkness that cloaked the camp.  He wished he had not dismissed Whatley back to the tent, but his manservant was getting on in years and it would not do to have him out in the weather.

“Sire,” General Howard said, then coughed long and wetly.  When the fit had subsided, he resumed, his voice rough with strain, “Sire, it’s not wise for you to be out here.  The weather can kill as surely as an enemy rifleman and the Goddess knows that the weather is bad enough right now!”

The Prince stifled an angry retort as an officer approached them at a run, saluting sharply at the general and bowing to the prince. “Sir, artillery is reporting that the rain is soaking the powder charges faster than we can protect them,” he gasped.  “Half the charges the cannons are loaded with are duds, sir!”

“Have Captain Reynolds and a detachment go to each placement and see what they can do with their spells,” General Howard said, coughing after he relayed his orders.  The officer dashed back out into the rain and darkness.

Prince John stared after the young man for a while, frustration etched on his fine features.  Finally, he looked over at General Howard, who had taken a small flask from his belt and was taking a sip.  The old general offered the flask to the Prince, but he refused.  “Perhaps you’re right, General,” he said after staring through his binoculars at the dark battlefield for another minute.  “I’ll retire to my tent now.  But I want a report on my desk in the morning about those powder charges.”

“Of course sire,” the General said, bowing slightly.

The Prince walked the short distance to his pavilion, ducking inside.  It was curious that there were no guards attending the pavilion, but the nighttime attack had likely called them to more pressing duties.  The pavilion was outfitted for his royal station with thick carpets on the ground, a large desk with a heavy wooden task chair situated behind it, and several electric heaters powered from thaumic batteries situated around the pavilion.  He had insisted on using a military camp bed rather than something more ornate and comfortable.  It was good for the men to see that their Prince was roughing it alongside them.  “Whatley!”  The Prince called, unbuttoning the greatcloak which was now heavy with rain.

He hung the cloak up on a wooden coat rack situated near the entrance to the pavilion.  He unstrapped his silver helmet and tucked it under his arm and ran tired fingers through his hair, tousling it, then rubbing his eyes.  He walked over to his desk, switched on the electric lamp plugged into another thaumic battery,  and set the helmet down on it before seating himself in his chair and leaning back in it.  The Prince closed his eyes, just allowing the warmth from the heaters to sink in.  He sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, calling out again, “Whatley!  Man, where are you?”

The pavilion was silent.  The prince opened his eyes, irritation warring with worry.  I hope the old man hasn’t taken ill, he thought.  “Whatley?” he repeated, “Are you well, old man?”

No answer.  He straightened in his seat and felt a chill waft of air come from the far side of the pavilion where the main area was partitioned off from his sleeping area.  He stood slowly and drew his dagger, squeezing the mother-of-pearl grip with sudden nervous energy.  He walked slowly to the far end of the pavilion.  It was darker there, the lamplight from the desk only dimly illuminating the partition which divided the areas.  Prince John drew closer to the flap which led into the sleeping area and nudged the flap aside.

The chill breeze grew sharper and the sharp metallic smell of blood reached the Prince.  He readjusted the grip on his dagger as he tied the flap back and straightened his back.  The light from the desk lamp concealed more than it revealed as the shadows in the small sleeping area seemed to gain a life of their own.  Sprawled across his bed was the still form of a man at unnatural rest.  “Whatley,”  the Prince whispered.  As he hurried across the few steps to the bed and knelt down next to the old man, he saw that there was a long slit in the canvas wall of the pavilion.

A bubbling breath hissed from the old man’s lips and he coughed weakly.  “What happened old boy?”  Whatley was sprawled across the camp bed, one arm dangling.  The steady drip-drip of blood hitting the sodden carpet came from the underside of the camp bed.  The old man servant’s eyes fluttered open and only registered in the gloom as a slight gleam against the darkness.  “No, don’t try to move,” Prince John said soothingly as the old man stirred weakly, “I’ll send for a medic and we’ll have you patched up soon.”

He stood, turning to exit the sleeping area and saw that the way was blocked by a silhouette in the entryway and Prince John felt his blood run cold at the sight.  He raised his dagger, but before he had the chance to attack, something thumped into his chest and he felt an immediate and burning pain.  He stared down at his chest and saw the handle of a heavy knife protruding from his chest.  The silhouetted man walked toward him, its features still indiscernible from the general gloom.  The prince tried to raise his dagger again, but his legs suddenly went weak and he fell to a kneeling position.  He felt his hair gripped and his head was yanked back, exposing his throat.  A line of burning pain drew itself across his neck and the prince was suddenly cold.  With his vision clouding over, he tried one more time to raise his dagger, but his hand would not obey and he heard, as if from a great distance, the dull thump of it falling to the carpeted ground.

The Prince fell to the ground, still reaching for his dagger.  The man who killed him bent and picked up the dropped blade, tucking it into his belt.  He examined his work critically and after the prince had laid still for several minutes, he tugged the heavy knife out of the prince’s chest and wiped it clean, replacing it in a sheath on his belt.  The man then calmly stood and exited the pavilion through the slit in the back of the pavilion.  He ignored the piled corpses of the princes personal guard that he had dragged there earlier that night and disappeared into the confusion of the battle raging down below the hilltop.

~*.*~

Sara reigned in her horse and stared at the countryside which she had called home two years ago.  It had changed in remarkably subtle yet profound ways in the two years she and her father had been away in the South. Certainly the lay of the land was the same; Watchman's Hill was still there, and the Fenten River still wound through the landscape wife and brown and powerfully as ever. The sky had not changed. Even the pink twinkle of Rosewall's famous red granite walls, still miles away, looked the same. "Since when did Watchman's Hill have a fort on it?" She asked her father, frowning.

Peter Greyson out a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the glare of the sun off the Fenten and staring at Watchman's Hill. "Yet another troubling change..." He muttered. He pulled the letter that had called them back to Grevia only halfway through their mission from its place in his jacket and glared at it, letting go of his reins to stroke at his bristly red beard. "Simeon did say that the King was concerned about Reichlund. He said Draegan was on the move again, sending raiding parties into Grevia... Maybe things are more serious than his letter indicated."

"That would explain the barges we saw at the ferry filled with beans and corn... And the detachments of soldiers protecting them. The Fenten goes all the way to Reichlund, doesn't it?"

Peter folded the letter up and replaced it in his jacket, shivering as a chill breeze began blowing. "The sooner we see Simeon, the sooner we can get back to the South. I can't imagine anything more important than our work in the ruins of Oescus...there's just too much of value there!"

Sara shot her father a grin, "Oh, come now old man, Reuben can't be messing things up too badly in your absence. The dig will survive our absence for a few weeks."

"Just because you're sweet on the young fool doesn't mean he's a competent archaeologist! Why, just last month I saw him--"

"--reading the incantation to summon forth the ancient temple guardians. Yes father, I know. In his defense, he thought it was a song in praise of the god, Paien."

"He was reading it aloud, girl!" Peter huffed, "Even though you're only sixteen years old, I've never heard you reading Ancient Sulnarian aloud. At least you're aware that there are still things which listen to that ancient tongue."

"That and it shreds your throat to say a sentence in it,” Sara muttered. “I swear, Reuben was really just trying to show off. You shouldn't be so hard on him."

“When that boy shows half the sense you have, I’ll be softer on him,” Peter growled.

Sara blushed at the rare compliment.  It wasn’t that her father was a hard man or cruel, but he was very demanding and only gave out sparse praise, usually with a hidden barb.  “Come on father,” she said, “or we’ll have to spend another night on the road.  I don’t mind telling you that I’m looking forward to getting back to our apartment, if only to take a bath.”

Peter nodded, nudging his horse into a walk, “Fair enough!  You’ll take a bath and I’ll speak with Simeon about what was so Goddess-fired important that he had to call us all the way back here.”

The ride to Rosewall took another couple of hours.  Traffic increased the closer they got to the city, the road getting wider, but more choked with farmers, merchants, travelers, and a high percentage of uniformed soldiers.  They approached the city via the Saints’ Gate and Sara was struck once more by the beauty of Rosewall compared to other cities around the world she had visited.

Rosewall had an elegance of architecture that spoke of an economy of form to which the city planners centuries ago had adhered.  It was a city devoid of flourishes, but beautiful in the simple angles and curves of the houses and businesses.  No building tended to be over two stories tall and all were built with tall, gently curved roofs useful for preventing heavy snow buildup in the winters.  Gardens and plants grew in profusion everywhere, all carefully tended and landscaped.  Her father was fond of saying that Rosewall was a city aspiring to be a garden.  Even the poorer quarters of the city had an elegance that elevated it above the beggars’ warrens she had seen in the Southern cities.  And of course, the defining characteristic of Rosewall were the famous and ever-present roses.  They grew in vines and bushes on every available surface in every color imaginable.  Their sweet fragrance was a constant backdrop that the citizens of Rosewall had long grown used to, but returning to the city after two years, the smell was almost overwhelming to Sara.

The passed through the Saints’ Gate and turned up High Street.  They had to dismount and lead their horses through the throng, there were so many people crowding the streets.  The press of bodies, the heavy scent of the roses mixing with the smells of stale sweat, old food, and tree sap were beginning to tell a heavy toll on Sara’s composure.  She was beginning to hyperventilate and shake with panic when she felt a hand grip her shoulder.  She looked up and saw her father’s broad face, his pale blue eyes shining with concern.  Sara squeezed his hand and mustered her courage, pressing through the crowd once more.

It took an hour to go up High Street and Sara nearly had a panic attack at least once every five minutes, but her stubborn will and fierce determination won out and they finally broke free of the press and turned onto Blackwater street and the lane widened and traffic thinned to a few nobles going on business of their own or highly placed servants running errands.  The nature of the buildings became more and more outspoken as they got closer to the legendary Rose Wall from which the city took its name.

Blackwater Street led into the financial district and from there, to the manors and apartments of the nobles and wealthy merchants of Rosewall.  The buildings here all fought to exude the air of money while at the same time exude an air of simple elegance.  It was like being in a room full of bankers all loudly whispering about who was richer.  Their haggard and road-stained appearance  garnered many stares and haughty looks, which Sara did her best to ignore, but it eventually grated on her nerves so much that she hissed at her father, “What are they even looking at?!”

“Why, they’re looking at us, girl.  Don’t be simple,” Peter appeared lost in thought, eyes wandering over the city in an absent way that caused him to veer off into the middle of the street more than once.  

Sara rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at her father and decided that she’d just glare back   at those who stared at her.  Eventually, though, she tired of this and began reliving her memories of the Southern jungles and the lost city her father had found.  Oescus.  The city had been choked and torn down by the jungle, but the story the city told underneath the riot of jungle life was even more fascinating than the evocative statues and gutted buildings the jungle vines had not completely eradicated.  Honeycombed beneath the ruins were vast networks of tunnels and hallways.  Ancient pictographic writing covered the walls of these passages.  Although there was no existing translation, her father was a linguist and had begun the monumental task of translation as soon as he had seen the writing.

There were ingenious traps and puzzles which were still deadly in their effectiveness as more than a few unlucky graduate students had found when they decided to disobey her father’s strict instructions not to go exploring on their own.  Of the ancient people who had populated the lost city there was no sign.  No bones, no artifacts, nothing. Only the long winding passages which stretched, labyrinthine deep underground.  Her father, the great Professor Peter Greyson--anthropologist, natural philosopher, linguist, historian, archaeologist, and explorer-- thought that it was imperative to find out why the Oescans had disappeared and where they had gone.  They were only halfway through the time allotted them by the royal grant, and her father had finally begun to make headway in the translation when the messenger had arrived from Rosewall, the message he carried bearing the seal of the Court Wizard himself, demanding that Professor Greyson come back to Rosewall for a matter of utmost importance.

“We’re here.”  Her father’s gruff voice broke through her reverie and Sara realized that they had arrived at their apartments in Rosewall.

They brought their horses around to the side of the building where a stable boy took their horses and then entered the building.  Their apartment was warm--Mrs. Iversson had lit fires in the hearths and had freshened the place up.  Mr. Kilgaren, the butler, was waiting for them in the foyer.  “Welcome back, Lord Greyson,” he intoned in his dry voice, giving a short bow.  “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

Peter strode forward, taking his coat off and handing it to Mr. Kilgaren, “Damnable cold weather will give me a chill, I swear, Kilgaren!  I don’t know why I’ve been called back so soon, but there had better be a good explanation; have a coach ready for me in half an hour.  I don’t want to let this sit any longer than I have to. There’s important work to be done in Oescus and I have no patience for this administrative politicking.”

“As you say, sir.”  The butler bowed and turned to Sara, “Lady Greyson, I hope the journey was not too taxing for you?”

Sara shrugged and handed him her own coat.  “I miss the warmth of the jungle, but not the bugs.  There were insects there as big as my hand, Mr. Kilgaren!”

“Indeed?”

“They were absolutely dreadful!  But the work father’s doing really is very important.  Can you imagine an entire city completely abandoned and taken back into the jungle?  No bones or anything?”

“I try not to, Lady Greyson.”

Sara stretched, trying to work the stiffness from her lower back.  “Well it’s truly disturbing.  The implications are staggering, especially for our own civilization.  The Oescan’s were master magicians, and their architectural sophistication surpasses even our own.  Ah, but you’re not actually interested in any of this, are you?”

Mr. Kilgaren smiled patiently, “I endeavor to be interested in a great variety of things, Lady Greyson.  Perhaps you would care for a bath?  The strains of the road can be so trying.  It would be nice to wash it all away.”

“You read my mind, Mr. Kilgaren.  I’ll take a bath and then go to the palace to see how father got along with Simeon.  I’d like to see what all the fuss was before father has time to think of a way to sugar-coat it for me.”

“As you wish, Lady.”  Mr. Kilgaren gave her a small bow and strode off with her and her father’s coats.

Sara sighed and looked around the apartment.  Their building was atypical of the Rosewall aesthetic.  They had three floors, the top floor being taken up entirely by her father’s library and study.  It was comfortably appointed in old furniture, well-made and almost never used.  Her parents had gained their titles in their more adventurous and heroic days.  Her mother had been a famous heroine before she had given birth to Sara.  Their home was filled with memorabilia from their adventures.  In the foyer, there was a bas-relief of an ancient Itruscan devotional acquired from a temple in one of her parents’ more notable adventures when they had prevented the resurgence of some dark snake-god.  The alien script and vaguely menacing pictograms always made Sara shudder if she studied it for too long.

She walked up the stairs, her hand trailing along the dark cherry wood balustrade.  Her suite was on the second floor, along with her father’s.  The tall windows from the main hall provided more than enough sunlight for her to navigate her way upstairs without the need for a lamp or candle.  Her suite was decorated much like her father’s library with trinkets from previous expeditions displayed on shelves along with stacks of books and loose papers everywhere.  Mrs. Iversson had tidied everything up in her absence so that her bookcase was organized and her papers had all been filed in the wooden filing cabinet situated next to her desk.  She disdained the typical trappings of the young noblewoman.  She detested fashion except as it pertained to practical matters and avoided social engagements where she might interact with peers of her own age and social standing.  She felt most comfortable delving the depths of forgotten temples or uncovering the cobweb-veiled remnants of long-dead civilizations.  She flopped onto her bed, closing her eyes and wrinkling her nose at the perfumed powder that puffed up from the bed as a result.

She heard Mrs. Iversson moving around in the bathroom, filling the bronze tub with hot water from the magically supplied taps.  As she laid on her bed, listening to Mrs. Iversson, she idly played with the amulet her mother’s old amulet.  It was a small piece, not very fancy or gaudy, but it was the only thing Sara had of her mother that was truly her mother’s.  It was a small silver medallion depicting Saint Antonia giving a benediction, the Eye of the Goddess set as a small amethyst.  Her mother, Molly, had been a very faithful devotee of the Church, even going so far as to go to seminary school.  She had almost joined the clergy and all who knew her back then had known she would have been a great priestess, but then she had met her father and they’d gone off on an adventure in the North and, well… the rest was history.

Sara often thought of her mother, pressing her father for details about her and delighting in the rare stories he would tell her about their adventures.  Being back home was a painful reminder that she’d never know her mother.  Her stamp was on the house and its decorations.  Sara thought it was one of the reasons her father was always scheduling trips far away.  Of course, being a famous and celebrated archaeologist and anthropologist had its own duties, but he could have taken a post with tenure at the Rosewall University and settled into a life of comfort, performing his research from his desk, but Peter Greyson was an adventurer at heart, even if he did less monster fighting and more artifact cataloguing now than he did in his youth.  Sara huffed out a breath, banishing her daydreams and sitting up.  She didn’t have the patience to wait for the bath to get filled up.  Being in this house made her feel like she was slowly suffocating.

She paced around her room, finally stopping in front of the full-length mirror and looking herself over, trying to decide if she was presentable enough to go to the palace as she was.  The girl she saw in the mirror was definitely in the awkward stage of her young adulthood.  She had bright red hair that fell to her shoulders, currently tied up so it would not get in her eyes.  She had a longish face with big blue eyes and a profusion of freckles.  Her shoulders were wider than most girls’ her age, her arms more muscular too.  Her father told her that she was beautiful, but Sara just didn’t see it.  She thought she was rather plain looking; not a great beauty or terribly ugly.  Her cheekbones were high and rather sharply defined and she had no upper lip.  She hadn’t filled in her curves yet, and tended to walk like a boy.  But she was more or less clean and her clothes only looked a little travel stained.  She was wearing loose trousers tucked into her boots, her favored short bladed sword hanging from the sword belt at her hip, its handle worn and comforting.  Her white shirt was a little dirty, but if she put a vest on over it, no one would be able to tell.

Sara hunted around in the chest of drawers until she found a comb, then untied her hair and dragged the comb through it, wincing as the tangles snapped and pulled at her scalp.  After a while, she gave it up as a lost cause and tied it back up.  “Mrs. Iversson!”  she called.

The portly house servant popped her head into her bedroom, smiling and red-faced.  “Bath’s almost ready, milady!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Iversson, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to skip it,” Mrs. Iversson’s eyebrows climbed up her forehead.

“Ah, milady, it ain’t my place to be askin’, o’course, but what else would you do?”

“I’m going to the palace,” Sara announced.  “I just cannot sit around here.  I feel like I’m going to go crazy in here!”

“But milady!” Mrs. Iversson protested, “You’ve only just arrived!  Don’t you want to take some time to unwind from your travels abroad?”

“No,” Sara shook her head emphatically, glaring at her room, “I can’t stay here a moment longer.  I’m so sorry for the trouble, but I simply…”  she suddenly found that her breath had caught in her throat and felt the hot sting of unshed tears in her eyes and wondered at the sudden outburst.

“Of course, milady.”  Mrs. Iversson’s head disappeared from her doorway.

Sara stood in front of the mirror, gripping her comb so hard her knuckles were turning white and fighting back a flood of tears she’d had no idea were coming.  She looked away from the mirror and her eyes came to rest on the small portrait of her mother resting on her chest of drawers.  Molly had been painted in a noblewoman’s dress, her round face and blonde hair done up in the latest fashion of the day.  She looked uncomfortable in the finery and Sara’s eyes sought out the detail about her mother the painter had caught with unfailing honesty.  Her mother’s hand had been gripping the hilt of her longsword, almost out of the frame of the painting, but had been gripping it hard enough to make the tendons stand out.  Her eyes looked irritated and there was a cast to the angle of her neck that made it look like Molly was just waiting for the word to shuck the confining dress and head for the hills on yet another of her famous adventures.

Eventually, the tears dried up, still unshed in her eyes, and Sara was left with an aching throat and feeling wrung out, though she hadn’t cried.  The source of the tears was still a mystery to her, but she was grateful it had passed.  She hated feeling helpless and weak.  She heard her father clomping down the stairs, probably heading out to the palace and resisted the urge to chase after him.  She wanted some time to herself, to reconcile herself to the city again.  She had the feeling that their stay would not be a short one, despite what her father believed.

Chapter Two

Walking through Rosewall on the way to the palace was a completely different experience than riding into the High City.  The High City was much more sedate than the Low City, and there were much fewer people on the streets.  Those who were walking on the broad avenues were typically well-dressed and well-to-do.  The shops and buildings lining the streets tended to the exotic and ((something that means high-dollar)), with a heavy concentration on tailors, liveries, and fine furniture or curios.  The ever-present roses were more subdued here and much more carefully tended by the city gardeners.  Sara was largely ignored during her walk, most of the pedestrians too involved with their own business to take note of her presence.

The palace itself never failed to elicit a feeling of awe for Sara, though.  It was constructed of the same red granite as the famous Rose Wall and executed in such precision and artistry that it seemed almost eternal in its beauty.  Indeed, the palace itself had stood since the founding of the city a thousand years ago, constantly and painstakingly in various stages of restoration and repair.  The palace was surrounded by an expanse of paved courtyard with public parks and statues in proud display.  Sara approached the palace through Saint Anne’s Courtyard, passing the saint’s statue and kissing her medallion almost by instinct.  The palace was segregated from the courtyards by a wall of white granite, grown over with white roses, the only points of entry two gates: the St. Anne’s Gate, and the Queen’s Gate.

Sara’s route took her to the St. Anne’s Gate, which stood open by common tradition.  The two uniformed palace guards stared stoically ahead, gripping their halberds at a precise angle with military discipline.  Sara hurried through the gate and found herself within the palace grounds.  The paved road from the gate led in a circuitous route with many branchings to the People’s Courtyard where commoners could bring their complaints or requests for arbitration by the Crown.  Sara had only been to the palace one other time that she could remember clearly, but she had a good head for directions and was rarely ever lost.

The Wizard’s Tower was one of the more prominent features of the palace, rising above even the copper-domed roof of St. Rebeccah’s Cathedral.  As she walked, Sara saw a number of nobles playing at various games on the palace lawns.  There was a tennis match on the courts near one of the decorative ponds.  There was a garden party in full swing with a string quartet playing in the apple orchards and several nobles and palace functionaries tarried along the path in private conversations or in private meditations.  Sara made sure to give short bows to those she passed, never really sure of their station, but assuming everyone to be ranked above her and attempting to avoid notice or comment for as long as she could.

As she drew nearer to the Wizard’s Tower, Sara’s interest was piqued by a crowd gathered in a small paved courtyard.  The crowd surrounded a pair of fencers in full tournament attire, complete with facemasks and blunted rapiers.  Sara found herself turning away from the Wizard’s Tower to approach the crowd and find out what was happening.

When she got closer to the courtyard, she could discern two distinct crowds: one full of well-dressed and chattering nobility and the other consisting of athletic youths practicing lunges and ripostes in furious concentration.  Sara examined the crowd critically, searching out someone who wouldn’t turn her away on sight.  She spotted an elderly noble with a well-trimmed grey beard and wearing a purple hat with a pair of peacock feathers.  He had a jovial smile and a twinkle in his eyes, and those with whom he spoke seemed genuinely pleased by his company.

She carefully approached the man and waited until a lull in the conversation before she bowed to him and said, “My Lord, an it please thee, what is happening in the courtyard today?”  She used the poetic and--in her mind--overwrought speech patterns the nobility favored.

“I’m sorry, my dear girl,” the noble said with a tolerant smile and a patronizing tone, “but the People’s Courtyard is on the other side of the palace.  I could send a servant for you if you wish…?”

Sara blushed, and cursed inwardly, but plastered a smile on her face and said, “Oh, no my Lord, I am Sara Greyson, daughter of Baron Peter Greyson, Royal Archaeologist and Linguist.”

“Ah!” the old lord seemed appalled by his mistake and shook his head sadly, “I must apologize to you my dear.  I have not seen your father in years and back then you were but a babe.  I am Richard Belgrave, Count of Belgrave County, and I am humbly at your service for my grave mistake.”  He bowed to her with a flourish that made Sara laugh.

“No debt, my lord, I’m afraid my state of dress would have fooled anyone.  I am but recently returned from the southern jungles with my father.  I had intended to join him in conference with Wizard Simeon, but on my way, I saw the crowd and felt compelled to observe.  Is there some kind of tournament happening?”

Count Belgrave nodded, looking over his shoulder at the two fencers in the Piste.  “Indeed, dear girl.  They have not begun yet, but there are rumors that Princess Miriam will be participating.  She’s a very good fencer by all accounts.”  He eyed Sara critically, particularly the short sword at her hip, “I’m more than a passing fancier of fencing myself, and it looks like you have the grace of the fencer in your step. Perhaps you would be interested in competing?  The tournament has not started yet and the rolls have not yet been closed.”

Sara considered the Count’s suggestion.  She was a fairly indifferent fencer, but very quick on her feet.  She never had really studied fencing, but had done her fair share of fighting in the field against various monsters and savages intent on her life.  She smiled to herself, it would be fun to compete.  “I would love to, Count Belgrave, but I’m afraid I did not bring any fencing attire.”

“Not to worry, my dear!”  The Count looked around the crowd and waved over a boy in servant’s livery.  “Boy,” he said peremptorily, “go to my coach and fetch the large leather bag there.  Bring it here within five minutes and there’s a silver florin in it for you.”  He turned back to Sara, smiling.  “My grandson was going to come with me today, but thought it would be more politic to play cards in my parlour.  He’s about your size, so you can use his fencing accoutrements in the tournament.  Now, go to the desk just over there,” he pointed to an area of the courtyard where a rather pretty but obviously long-suffering woman was listening to a young nobleman who seemed to be in the middle of describing a fantastic move, “and sign yourself up.  It will be a wonderful welcome back to Rosewall from the savage wilderness in the south.”

Bemused, Sara bowed to the old Count and walked over to the desk.  She hadn’t planned on joining any kind of tournament, but the Count seemed so enthusiastic that she didn’t really know how to tell him no.  Besides, it did sound pretty exciting and just the thing to work out that suffocating feeling that being back in her room had inflicted upon her.  The young nobleman had just finished demonstrating his lunge for the fifth time when Sara reached the desk and its harried occupant.  

The nobleman glanced at Sara and immediately dismissed her, turning his attention back to the woman behind the desk.  He was taller than Sara, perhaps twenty years old, and wore his blonde hair long, down to his shoulders and obviously took great pride in it.  He had straightened from his lunge and was leaning up against the desk, posing so that his ridiculously tight trousers displayed his...legs.  Sara decided that must be what he was trying to display.  The woman behind the desk was doing her best to be polite, but Sara could tell that she was at the end of her patience.

“Is this the desk to sign up for the tournament?”  Sara asked the woman, pointedly ignoring the nobleman’s posturing.

Before the woman could answer her, the nobleman said, “The tournament rolls are closed.  Now go away or I shall tell your master that his serving girl has left his bed to fraternize with those above her station.”  The sheer cold dismissiveness of this insult shocked Sara.

She gaped at him and before she could form a rejoinder, the nobleman spoke again, “If you’re looking for a cock to put in that mouth, I’ll gladly oblige, though you’ll have to wear a sack over your head.”  He laughed at his own repulsive joke and even began fiddling with his belt.

Sara suddenly felt that same urge to cry that had overtaken her back at home, but this surge of emotion was a hot rage.  She felt her face heat to an almost unbearable degree and before she quite knew what she was doing, she had drawn her short sword in a fluid motion and had its tip poised right above the nobleman’s crotch.  She’d slipped forward in a short lunge and grabbed the young man’s hair and yanked his head down to her mouth.  “If you ever,” she hissed, “speak to me like that again, I’ll cut your balls off and stuff them down your throat.”

The nobleman tried to shove her away, but her grip was like iron and she pressed the tip of her sword into his groin, making her point more eloquently than words.  “You’ll regret this!”  He croaked at her, “I’ll see you hang, commoner whore!”

Once again, that rage rose in Sara, clouding her vision and making her head feel stuffed.  It demanded action.  And blood.  Sara gritted her teeth and fought back the murderous impulse.  Instead of ramming the two feet of steel through the nobleman’s groin, she settled for a quick knee to his crotch, a careful pirouette around his crumpling form followed by a savage blow to the back of his head with the butt of her sword.  He fell to the ground, insensible.  It was then that Sara noticed that the crowd had fallen silent and there were several dozen pairs of eyes staring at her.  She sheathed her blade and stepped over the unconscious noble and addressed to the woman sitting behind the desk, “Is this where I sign in for the tournament?”

The woman blinked at her and glanced down at the paper in front of her.  She nodded and handed a quill to Sara, saying, “Do you have any idea who that was?”

Sara dipped the quill in an inkpot and wrote her name on the roster, shaking her head.  “No, and I don’t much care.”

“Perhaps you should,” the woman said, looking nervously at the crowd who had stopped staring and were now muttering to each other.  “That was Ambrose Arcleone, son of Duke Arcleone!” At Sara’s blank look, the woman leaned closer and hissed, “The King’s cousin and one of Prince Harold’s best friends!”

Sara looked over her shoulder at the young noble.  She carefully considered her next action, then thoughtfully spat on him.  “He’s impugned my honor in public.  He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”

“He’s a duke’s son.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the palace guards were already on their way to clap you in irons.”

Sara turned to the crowd, some few of which were observing her with more than a little interest.  “Who here would vouch for me against this man?”

A young man stepped forward from the crowd.  He was maybe sixteen or seventeen years old with a head of curly blonde hair and a studious look to him.  He had the air of someone who would rather be reading and was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, laced all the way up.  Sara bowed to him, “I will vouch for your actions, Lady.  Ambrose was being a jackass and particularly disgusting.  None could fault you for your response.”

Straightening from her bow, Sara cleared her throat,  “Ah, thank you.  Pardon me for asking, but what is your name?  I think I’ve missed something.”

The boy looked startled by the question and then laughed to himself.  “My name is Jarrod,” he said, as if that would clear up her confusion.

The name sounded familiar, but Sara still could not place it.  “Jarrod…  Oh!  Jarrod!”  She said, hoping to avoid the awkwardness of having to explain that she still had no idea who he was, “Right!”  The boy smiled and walked up to her, taking her arm in his and leading them through the crowd, which parted to let them pass.

“You still have no idea who I am, do you?”

Sara blushed and shrugged, “No, I’m afraid I don’t.  Still, thanks for offering to vouch for me.  I hope it doesn’t get you into too much trouble.”

Jarrod laughed, “Oh, I imagine I’ll hear about it at some length from my father, and Harold might be a bit put out about it for a while, but it’s no burden I’m unwilling to bear, if only to see that impious idiot brought down like that.”

“You seem to be on rather familiar terms with Prince Harold, Jarrod,” Sara remarked.  “Is he a friend of yours too?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Jarrod said airily, “more like a forced acquaintance.  We’ve never really gotten on very well.  I see that you’ve signed up for the tournament.  Are you a fencer then?”  He suddenly blushed, “Of course you’re a fencer.  You wouldn’t have signed up for a fencing tournament otherwise.”

Sara laughed, “I’m not much of a fencer, to be honest.  I’ve found that fencing lacks the practical application necessary in a real fight.  But it’s a good distraction from… well, homecoming was more difficult than I expected it to be.”

Many of the people in the crowd were still surreptitiously watching them and Sara felt more than a little exposed by their stares.  “Did I grow an extra head while I wasn’t looking?” she said nervously, “Or maybe I acquired breasts all of a sudden?”

Jarrod burst out laughing, then choked and blushed, glancing at her chest and then back up at her face, his face reddening even more.  Sara laughed and waved a hand in the air dismissively, “Oh, don’t pay too much attention to me, Jarrod.  I say things like that all the time.  I tend to say and do whatever comes to mind first.  It’s gotten me in more than a little trouble in the past.  My father is always telling me I should exercise some self control.”

Jarrod coughed and nodded, making the nod a little bow of acknowledgement.  It was only then that Sara realized that they had circled the Piste and made their way back to Count Belgrave who was smiling.  A large leather bag lay at his feet and the Count bowed to them and gestured at the bag, “Your Highness, Lady Greyson.  Lady Greyson, here is the fencing equipment I promised.  The tournament should begin shortly, so I advise you to prepare yourself at your earliest possible convenience.”

Sara cocked an eyebrow at Jarrod as she bent down to rummage through the bag and get the chest protector, gloves and face mask.  “Your Highness is it?  That means you’re a prince, yes?”  Jarrod nodded and Sara yanked out the epee from the bag, giving a few experimental swings, only narrowly missing Jarrod’s face.  “And I’m guessing,” she dropped the epee back into the bag and pulled out a saber, hefting it and nodding to herself, “that means you’re probably Prince Harold’s brother.”  Again, Jarrod nodded, leaning as casually as he could away from her immediate reach.  “I thought so.  I don’t appreciate the deceit, Prince, but I really do appreciate your willingness to stand up for me.  It’s gallant.”  She graced him with a smile, then dropped the smile to regard him coldly and her voice lost any warmth it had left, “But gallant or not, I do not appreciate the lie.  Even if it was one of omission.”

“You would speak to a prince like that?”  Prince Jarrod said, mildly shocked.

Sara shrugged, “We’re all the Goddess’ children, even princes.  I tend to be very direct in my dealings, your Highness.  It’s one of those things about me that people tend to either love or hate.  Which is it for you?”

The prince opened and shut his mouth a few times, words failing to come to him.  “That wasn’t fair of me,” Sara said apologetically.  “I set a trap for you… Oh, Goddess!  I’m sorry, Jarrod.  Your Highness, I mean.”  She took a deep breath and buttoned the chest protector on.  “How about we forget the last few minutes happened and just start over?”

Prince Jarrod smiled and nodded.  He then gave a florid and extended bow and held out his hand.  Sara stared at him for a moment, then giggled and dropped into a low curtsey, spreading invisible skirts as she placed her hand delicately in his.  He brushed her knuckles with a light kiss and helped her rise to her feet.  “Greetings to you on this fine day,” he said formally, “I am Prince Jarrod, third in line for the throne and youngest son of the Grevian royal line.”

Still smiling, Sara said, “And I am Sara Greyson, daughter of Baron Peter Greyson, Royal Archaeologist.  It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person your Highness.”  She looked around at the milling crowd of people and the fencers readying themselves. "Tell me, does this kind of thing happen often? I mean usually tournaments take weeks to set up and there are prizes and all kinds of pomp and ceremony."

"These kinds of informal tournaments happen all the time," the prince waved a dismissive hand at the nobles. "I imagine the boredom of government drives them to such pasttimes."

Sara was about to reply, but was interrupted by a musical ringing from the direction of the piste. "That's the signal that the tournament's about to begin," Prince Jarrod said, "Everyone expects my sister to win, but I hope you do.  It would be quite...entertaining to see you win the prize."

"Your sister fences?"

Prince Jarrod laughed, "Of course!  Good luck and Goddess' blessings go with you!"  He then left her to don her face mask and walked back into the waiting crowd where servants had now set up several benches.

“What prize?”  Sara muttered as she looked around for the rest of the contestants.  She found the other competitors standing in a loose crowd close to the piste.  Sara spotted Ambrose glaring around the area, presumably looking for her and was glad for the heavy wire mesh which hid her features.  Two contestants were on the piste in guard positions and there were four judges seated on the far side, all watching them intently.  A referee now stood between the two fencers and he wore the traditional yellow coat and hat of fencing referees.  He looked to each fencer and they gave a salute and stood in the on guard stance.  The referee then nodded and pulled the yellow flag from his jacket.  He held it still for a second, then whipped it back and stepped out of the piste, signalling the bout’s beginning.

The two fencers, one with a golden bell guard and a woman’s or a girl’s lithe form and curves,  and the other with a set of green chevrons and the blockier, more masculine stance of a man on his chest protector, advanced on each other cautiously, each probing with their weapon, seeking a hole in the other’s defense.  Sara had never participated in a tournament before and had thought that tournaments typically disallowed the more martial aspects of bladework, but the two fencers facing each other now used their bodies in attack and defense as she would expect to see them used in a real fight of life or death.  The fencer with the golden bell guard seemed especially adept at using the momentum of her opponent against him and more than once, a point was scored following a brutal throw to the ground.

The match was over fairly quickly; the fencer in the green chevrons only managing to score two points against his much more dextrous and nimble opponent.  When they saluted to each other at the conclusion of the match, the fencers removed their face masks and the young man in the green chevrons bowed formally to the girl with the golden bell guard.  The crowd clapped appreciatively and Sara understood then that the girl with the golden bell guard must be Prince Jarrod’s sister.

Of course, Sara knew of the Princess by reputation.  She had been repeatedly lauded by poets and bards as being the most beautiful girl in the kingdom and, though Sara had her doubts about that claim upon hearing them initially, the girl in fencer’s gear certainly seemed to fit that profile.  She was lithe and athletic, with long lustrous black hair almost certainly inherited from her mother.  She had piercing brown eyes that flashed in triumph and her smile, which she gave in sardonic acceptance of her opponent’s bow, gave her face an angelic cast that impressed Sara with its honesty.  Though the princess was still a girl--twin to Jarrod, Sara now remembered--she would one day grow into the curves already beginning to show and would no doubt one day be the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.

The other matches went fairly quickly and it was all too soon that Sara found herself across from another fencer whose name she missed in the general confusion of the match’s beginning.  Her opponent had a family crest emblazoned on his chest protector of a yellow stag rampant over a field of scarlet and was just a little taller than her.  When the referee signalled her match to begin, Sara advanced slowly, holding her sabre in a neutral guard position and cautious of a fast lunge from her opponent.

The first point happened almost too quickly for her to follow and left her massaging her belly from a fierce and sudden lunge that had slipped under her guard when she had been fooled by a convincing feint.  The formality of the setting and the eyes of the crowd had made her nervous.  She had been paying too much attention to external things.  She had to focus!  Just pretend you’re in a dripping dungeon passageway and there’s some drooling devil coming at you, she admonished herself as she walked back to her spot.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

The second point was almost as quick as the first, though much more painful.  She had decided to try for the attack and her opponent had read her completely, sidestepping her lunge and punching out with his saber, the bell guard numbing her hand and causing her to drop her weapon.  He had then come in with a turning kick at her back leg which caused her to fall unceremoniously on her back and the wind was knocked out of her.  Still choking and gasping for breath, she had struggled to her feet amid the titters of the amused crowd and watched her opponent swagger back to his corner.  That familiar anger began bubbling in her belly and she took a great shuddering breath in, willing her diaphragm to stop its spasming.

Matches were to five points, and if she fell behind any further, she knew she wouldn’t be able to come back.  But she wasn’t going to fall behind any more.  She had the measure of her opponent now.  He was quick and his reactions were very good, but he was definitely very showy.  And if she could prevent her nerves from betraying her, Sara had the feeling that she could handily defeat him.  Once again, she decided that she would take control of the point by going on the attack.

When the referee signalled the point to begin, she dashed forward, running at her opponent.  He lunged at her in a perfect fencer’s lunge, but Sara expected it and savagely bashed her opponent’s blade away, still coming at speed.  She buried her knee into his gut and let her opponent crumple at her feet, gently tapping his chest with the tip of her saber.  The crowd around her clapped appreciatively and she went back to her side of the piste smiling under her face mask.  A knee to the gut would take a good deal of the fight out of her opponent and she could count on slower reflexes from him from now on.

The rest of the match went well for Sara.  She won three quick points in a row, but on the cusp of winning, her opponent regrouped and seemed to get his wind back.  He scored a point with a slash across her chest that stung, even through the chest protector.  She ended up winning the round with a disarm followed by a quick lunge to his chest.

The referee declared her the winner and she bowed to her opponent and removed her face mask.  Her opponent turned out to be a handsome young man in his early twenties or late teens with curly black hair slicked down by sweat.  He bowed gracefully and complimented her on her technique saying, “I’ve never seen a fencer use the tactics you employed on the piste.  It took me completely by surprise, though I thought you easy prey early in the match.”

The tournament progressed through the afternoon, with Sara winning her next two bouts handily, never getting scored on more than twice.  The princess was doing just as well, though her form and technique seemed more suited to the piste than Sara’s more practical and brutal approach.  She kept expecting to face Ambrose in the piste, but found out that he had withdrawn from the tournament before it ever began, apparently pleading pressing matters at home that required his attention.  Finally, Sara stood across the piste in the final round of the tournament facing the princess.

She was tired now, but it was a good kind of tired.  She felt looser and that suffocating feeling was gone.  It was like delving into a new tomb, excitement mingling with a bit of nervousness and flavored with a touch of tiredness from the journey to get there.  The princess seemed to be in fine form, the day’s exertions not seeming to have made any mark on her.  Sara felt a moment’s hesitation at the thought of kneeing the princess in the gut--if it came to it--but quickly decided that if the princess was going to enter a fencing tournament where such tactics were allowed, then she would expect their use against her.

The bout started with the fencer’s salute and the princess went on the attack immediately, trying to overwhelm Sara with her speed and ferocity.  In truth, Sara was hard-pressed to defend against the princess’ furious assault and found herself on her heels parrying wildly.  The princess was certainly a better technical fighter: her ripostes were quick and precise and her feints were masterful, but Sara’s reflexes let her keep the princess’ blade from her.  That first point, though, had to end up with the princess.  Her tactic proved effective and Sara had not expected such a fast and furious opener.

The second point, Sara went on the offensive at the same time as the princess and they met in the middle of the piste, sabers crossed and straining against one another.  Sara let the struggle continue, knowing that she had the body mass to overmaster the princess, but suspecting that the princess was accustomed to such a struggle, so she feigned a little weakness, allowing the princess to press her more than she really should have been able to.  Then, with a grunt of effort, she grasped the princess’ wrist and leaned back and down, kicking her foot into the princess’ stomach, catapulting her head over heels to land on her back behind Sara.  Sara leapt to her feet and scored the point with a touch to the chest.

The rest of the bout was a very back-and-forth battle.  Sara would score, then the princess would retaliate with a point until the stood at a tie, four points to four.  Sara was breathing hard by now and even the princess seemed a little winded from their extended and often brutal points.  Sara was limping from a vicious kick to the knee the princess had scored to weaken her lunge and wouldn’t be able to rely on it for a good lunge in this last point, but Sara had struck the princess’ elbow with a nerve-numbing pommel strike that she knew the princess was still feeling.  As the referee signalled the last point of the tournament to begin, the two fencers approached each other cautiously, each having learned hard lessons from the bout.

The princess led with a feint, but Sara read the ruse and spun down with a sweep to her legs.  The princess leapt nimbly above the kick and slashed out with her sabre, only to find Sara within the saber’s reach, having jumped up from the sweep with her good leg.  Sara grabbed the princess’ sword arm and flipped her over in a quick hip throw, but the princess landed on her feet and performed the same move on Sara.  Sara was in no condition to land on her feet, and thudded to the ground, but she had never relinquished her grip on the princess’ arm and she ended up pulling the princess down with her.  As the princess’ startled cry rang out, Sara dragged her saber across her opponent’s chest guard and the point was won, with Sara the victor.

Chapter Three

As Sara stood up, she offered her hand to the princess to help her up.  The princess was laughing as she did, and took her hand and pulled herself up, still laughing.  “What’s so funny?”  Sara asked suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing,” the princess said, stifling her giggles, “congratulations on your victory!”  She pulled her face mask off and Sara saw that up close, the princess was sweaty and her hair dishevelled from her efforts.  She had slightly canted eyes and her dark hair clung to her forehead, but she was still laughing, her face red from the effort of holding it in.

Sara cocked an eyebrow at the princess and bowed, giving her a fencer’s salute.  The princess bobbed a little curtsey, eyes sparkling with mischief.  The referee walked up to the two fencers, bowing to the princess and hiding his own smile.  The rest of the crowd had amused little grins and some were laughing outright.  Sara felt a blush beginning to creep up her neck, but since the source of her imminent humiliation was still so nebulous, she was confused as well.  That kindled the spark of anger in her belly and she suddenly felt a churning, nauseating mix of confusion, embarrassment, and unfocused anger.  The referee took hold of her wrist and lifted it into the air and announced, “Your winner, my lords and ladies!”  The crowd applauded, and the referee waited for the noise to die down before he continued, “And, of course, the prize!”  The crowd tittered, “Lady Greyson has the honor of accompanying Princess Miriam to the Millennial Ball and Feast!”

Now Sara understood the laughter at least.  But instead of feeling embarrassment or more anger, she found herself smiling, joining in on the joke.  It was actually pretty funny.  No wonder she hadn’t seen any other girls or women in the tournament.  The only remaining question was why the princess herself had entered.  An added bonus was now Sara finally remembered the princess’ name: Miriam.  It had been tickling on the edge of her mind since she had found out that Prince Jarrod had a sister.  Princess Miriam gave her a courtly bow, that half-mocking smile still on her lips and Sara answered in kind, giving her lowest and most obsequious curtsey in response.

“It would be my honor,” Sara said melodramatically, “to accompany you to the Millennial Ball and Feast, your Highness.  Together, we shall make the entire court jealous of me!”

The princess’ laughter, which she had successfully stifled, burst from her in a loud guffaw and she clapped her hand over her mouth which caused her to overbalance from her bow and she teetered on the edge of falling over.  Sara rose from her curtsey and caught the princess’ elbow, steadying her and helping her regain her balance.  “Already you protect my honor, fair lady!” Miriam giggled.  “Oh, I simply cannot wait to tell father!”

Now that was something to consider.  The nervousness that had left her when the announcement was made suddenly came fluttering back.  When Princess Miriam said Father, she was referring to the King.  As they walked off the piste, Sara still limping and Princess Miriam massaging her elbow, Princess Miriam continued, “It will create such a scandal!  Oh this is just perfect.  I am so glad that you decided to enter the tournament!  Honestly, I’ve never even heard of House Greyson before, so you must be from a fairly minor noble family, though that’s certainly not a bad thing, though I wonder why they sent you instead of a brother?  Are you...attracted to girls?”

Sara blinked and opened her mouth, but the Princess interrupted, “Oh la, it doesn’t really matter, does it?  A minor noble house doesn’t really have any sort of chance to join in the royal line, so your preferences are really no concern of mine--”

“I should think not!” Sara interjected, but Princess Miriam just continued on as if Sara had not spoken, handing her face mask and saber to a servant and tucking her fencing gloves into her belt, “Though that would be an added layer to the scandal cake now wouldn’t it?  Can you just imagine the rumors even now flying around the court?  The Princess courted by the scion of a minor noble house, and it’s a girl!  Oh this really is too rich.  Perhaps I shouldn’t tell Father… he’s really not in the best of health and this might put him over the edge.”  She ran a hand through her sweaty hair, brushing it off her forehead, eyes far away, not even really talking to Sara.

Sara just trailed after the Princess, mouth working like a landed fish and unable to break into the seemingly endless monologue.  “But what will you even wear?  I mean, we’d have to match of course, and I don’t suppose that a minor noble house would really have the wardrobe to match what I have.  La, I suppose that’s really of no concern, you can come with me to Madame Isabelle, she really is a wonder with a needle, the premier seamstress of the kingdom of course.  And I’ll have to arrange the playlist for the orches

Main Characters

Sara Greyson

Quick Description: Sara is sixteen years old and the apple of her father’s eye.  She’s pretty, tough, and competent.  She’s been going on adventures with him since she could hold a knife and he’s poured all his not inconsiderable knowledge into her ever since her mother died in childbirth.

Physical Description:  Sara is taller than most girls her age, standing just above five and a half feet tall.  She has bright red wavy hair that she keeps tied back in a short ponytail which, when let down, comes to just past her shoulders.  She’s pretty, but she’s been in and out of several tough scrapes and has seen her share of terrible and horrifying things in her adventures.  That has left its mark on her both in physical scars and a general worldliness and cynicism which generally isn’t present in sixteen year old girls.  This tends to put people off a bit and it’s an undefinable way in which she remains somewhat of an outsider.  She likes wearing practical clothes and has an almost sneering manner for more feminine clothes, though she does like jewelery.  She has blue eyes and freckles.

Manner/Personality:  Sara tends to be a quiet girl for her age, not taken with the giggles or flights of fancy.  She’s seen too much that others would believe to be fanciful--and been nearly mauled by many of them--to take those daydreams lightly.  She has a dark, dry sense of humor and is well-spoken when she talks.  She’s an expert on dungeon architecture, ancient civilizations, world history, and biology--especially on how to use said biology to most expeditiously kill a monster.  She can speak a dozen different languages, most of them long dead.  Sara’s quite good with a blade, preferring the practical short sword and shield because of that combination’s practicality in narrow hallways and close quarters.  She’s become rather adept at repelling unwanted advances with brutal ferocity and has no patience with men who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

Sara loves the thrill of adventure, the wonder of finding something unseen for hundreds of years, and the heart-pounding terror of waking something which should never see the light of day.  She desperately wants to live up to her mother’s memory and is constantly seeking approval from her father.  She’s pretty much cut herself off romantically and believes that she’ll be single her whole life because the thrill of the open road is much more attractive to her than raising a pack of brats for some slobbering ass.  She tends to be very direct and honest with those she meets and expects the same from everyone she meets.  In social situations outside of dungeons, ancient temples, or dealing with long-forgotten treasures, she’s a bit of a fish out of water.  She tends to turn inward and become more than a little defensive.  She gets very self-conscious and then becomes more brash and direct with anyone who she perceives to be judging her.

Princess Miriam

Quick Description:  Princess Miriam is the fourth in the line of succession to the throne of Rosewall and a bit of a precocious child.  She’s sixteen years old and training in the diplomatic arts and in the church.  She has great faith, though she identifies with the Goddess’ more independent and warrior-like aspect.  She’s fiercely patriotic and takes her role seriously, though she has a secret yearning to have adventures like the heroes in stories she’s read.

Physical Description:  Princess Miriam is a beautiful, slight girl with long brown hair the color of chestnuts.  She has brown eyes and an oval face.  She is widely regarded as the most beautiful girl in the kingdom and has suitors from many other kingdoms.  She’s graceful and light on her feet, which comes from her fencing training (which she loves).  She wears intricate gowns while she’s in the palace, but prefers more practical dresses when she’s out of the palace (though these ‘practical dresses’ would cost any commoner a season’s wages).

Personality/Mannerisms:  Miriam is a bit of a firebrand.  She’s always got an idea about something and forms and delivers her opinions on everything.  The fact that she’s usually right only makes her more infuriating to those who don’t know her.  Miriam is extremely intelligent and a very astute observer, especially in social situations.  She can read those around her and manipulate them with consummate skill.  In temperament, Miriam is warm, though her passions run hot.  She has almost no sense of humor because she’s also extremely self-conscious and has a rather low self-esteem.  She wants to impress her father, the King, and so she tries as hard as she can to be the best at everything.  Because most things come easily to her, she has a difficult time not giving up when things don’t come easily to her.  When that happens, she tends to dismiss them as unimportant or beneath her.

Although she is fiercely patriotic and dutiful, Miriam does not really want a life of politics.  Her imagination has been captured by the heroes of the stories she reads.  She wants to be an adventurer out fighting monsters and discovering lost cities and buried treasure away from the political pressures of palace life.  She is constantly going on expeditions in the lower basement levels of the palace and dragging her twin brother, Prince Jarrod, with her.  

Miriam is a devout churchgoer and her faith in the church and the gods is strong.  She has the makings of a scholar of scripture and an intuitive understanding of the doctrines of the faith that few people her age do.  Her faith is more than lip-service.  She has a firm belief in the gods’ existence and of the power and effectiveness of prayer.  It is her reputation as a devout member of the church along with her incredible beauty that has given her the popular name of Princess Miriam the Blessed.

Asher Sanleone:  Asher is the second son of Count Madrigal Sanleone and is a student of one of the fighting schools the village has.  He’s the top of his class and specializes in sword and dagger fighting.  He’s a smart young man, educated by some of the best teachers in the nation.  His father’s holdings are extensive, but as the second son, he doesn’t stand to inherit unless his elder brother dies.  To strengthen his house, he’s undergoing fighter training in Hero’s Home.  His tenure as a student is nearly done.

Physically, Asher stands taller than most men and he has a muscular frame.  He’s handsome with grey eyes and a noble bearing.  He wears his black hair a little longer than is socially acceptable and tends to wear his clothes a little sloppily.  His training in the village has exposed him to a more egalitarian view of the world than he had when he arrived, but he still can be an arrogant ass sometimes.  He has his eye on Miriam and is utterly flabbergasted that she seems to have no interest in him whatsoever.  Asher’s a flirt and considers himself a ladies’ man.  He enjoys hunting, hawking, and nights at the pub, though he’s always conscious of his family’s image and reputation.

Kayleigh Lindholm: Kayleigh Lindholm is the daughter of a High Wizard, though she conceals it and has, in fact, run away from home to Hero’s Home so that she can take an apprenticeship with Drystan Rowan, a retired bard of fairly great renown.  She’s been in Hero’s Home for seven years now, having run away from home when she was only twelve.

Kayleigh’s a free spirit who loves the outdoors and hates politics.  She ran away from home to get away from the political atmosphere that her father’s position and ambitions engendered.  She’s a pretty girl with pixie-cut blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes.  Kayleigh loves singing and playing the mandolin; she also delights in storytelling and embellishing her stories with magical illusions.  She’s one of Luke’s best friends aside from Samuel.  She and Miriam are a bit of an item, though they hide their affection from others.

Murkaitse:  One of the four Guardian Dragons and guardian of the Coral Key.  Murkaitse is a great black dragon who lives in an enormous underwater cave.  She is an ancient dragon and quite sickly--over two thousand years old--and has become quite insane in her infirmity.  Despite her great age, Murkaitse is still extremely dangerous.  She’s become paranoid and sickly, believing the world is out to steal from her.  She’s the terror of the seas and frequently hunts whales for food, though she doesn’t begrudge the occasional merperson as a snack.  Her hoard is a mess of real treasure and trash scraped up from the bottom of the sea.  She’s two hundred feet long from nose to tail and stands a hundred feet tall.  She’s covered in barnacles and underwater skin parasites.  Murkaitse’s dragon breath is so hot it can cut through solid stone.  She uses her breath to instantly boil the water around her prey, killing it almost instantly.  Her wings are a tattered mess which she no longer uses for flight, but rather to swim through the water like sea serpent.  

Suabihotza:  Suabihotza is a large brown dragon who lives in a cave at the top of Aerudel Peak.  He’s a mature dragon who has survived for three hundred years in his lair, emerging only at night as the world’s view of dragons shifted toward the negative.  He hunts in the deepest parts of the Deepseed Forest where there is no human habitation.  Suabihotza is a bitter and resentful dragon who is just looking for an excuse to exterminate the humans who have infested his hunting grounds.  He hates that he’s been forced into hiding, but, up to now, prudence has ruled that he be cautious.  He’s forty feet long and stands twenty five feet tall.  He’s a consummate tactician and uses the terrain to his advantage in any situation.

Tukstantis:  Tukstantis is one of the Four Guardian Dragons and guardian of the Ivory Key.  He’s the youngest Guardian at only eight hundred years old, and still in excellent health and possession of his mental faculties.  He’s a great green dragon who has become a god to a tribe of forest elves known as the Cythreuliaid Pren.  The Cythreuliaid Pren feed him and worship him, are fanatically loyal to him, and do his every bidding.  Tukstantis is a hydra, a flightless dragon who has multiple heads which grow back when they’re cut off.  He has twenty heads now and is eighty feet long.  His blood is a strong acid and his lair is a huge clearing in the forest littered with the bones of his kills.  He’s largely inactive, preferring to sleep on a pile of the Cythreuliaid Pren’s offerings and the rotting corpses of his meals.  He does not have dragon fire, but his speed and physiology make up for that shortcoming.  Tukstantis is greedy, cunning, and mean.  His long guardianship has made him resentful of humanity and he finds the longevity granted to him by his status to be a blessing and a curse.  He enjoys being a god, but hates how far he’s fallen in his own estimation.

Argent Wing:  Argent Wing is one of the four Guardian Dragons and guardian of the Iron Key.  She is a beautiful silver dragon who has lived for fourteen hundred years.  She is mute because of a terrible injury she suffered in her youth during a fight to protect her young.  She considers herself an artist and sculpts massive boulders into works of art so detailed and fine that people the world over clamor to possess even one.  She is reclusive and shy, but fiercely protective of her Key.  She remembers the devastation wrought by the Witch Queen and knows the harm that would come to the world should she fail in her duty as Guardian.  She is a hundred and twenty feet long and stands just under sixty feet tall.  She hunts in the Ucca Parbata mountains for her food and prefers to be left alone, though she occasionally allows artists or merchants to visit her where she will either teach her craft or sell her pieces.  Argent Wing uses her dragon fire as an artistic aid and it is the most focused and finely controlled use of dragon fire the world over.

Suurmadu:  Suurmadu is one of the four Guardian Dragons and guardian of the Obsidian Key.  He is the oldest of the four Guardians at almost three thousand years old.  He has seen the glory of the last global civilization crumble to dust in ancient wars and watched over the current civilization struggle up from infancy to its current state.  He was the one who created the four Keys in conjunction with the Council back when the Witch Queen was the highest candidate for apocalypse.  He hand-picked the other three Guardians, instilling in the Keys powerful magic to enhance the growth and health of those chosen.  Since dragons do not die from old age, they seemed to be the perfect guardians for such powerful artifacts.  Suurmadu is a massive creature, easily the largest creature in the history of the planet standing over three hundred feet tall and five hundred feet long.  The wind of his passage changes weather patterns.  He has gone into hibernation in the caldera of an inactive volcano called Tulekahju Magi to while away the past thousand years.  If any of the Guardians come to harm, he would be awakened.  Suurmadu is contemplative but acts decisively.  He tends to view events in the extreme long-term.

Miriam Neri:  Miriam Neri is a young woman who lives in Hero’s Home who is apprenticed to the Guild of Dungeon Delvers, an offshoot of the Adventurer’s Guild which specializes in scouting, mapping, trap-disarming, and stealth techniques for use in the many dangerous dungeons and ruins which lie scattered all over the world.  She has been an apprentice for five years and is just entering her Journeyman standing, which requires her to join an adventuring group and report on the adventures they have, including all lore that is discovered as well as maps she created and plans for traps she disarmed.  Physically, Miriam is short, a little plump, and has long, straight black hair which she wears in a braid.  Her eyes are bright green and her full mouth is often smiling.  She has a quick wit and easy humor that goes along with a very extroverted personality that enables her to make friends very easily.  

Miriam is in a relationship with Kayleigh Lindholm and has delayed her Journeyman project for several months in the hopes that Kayleigh will soon go on her own adventure so that they can be part of the same adventuring party.  She’s loving and physically affectionate, which is a little irritating to Kayleigh, who’s a much more private person.  Miriam is very skilled at scouting and stealth, but hates fighting and avoids combat when possible.  When she’s forced to fight, she is skilled enough in bladework not to stab herself, but she prefers using a pair of hardened wooden fighting sticks as they aren’t usually lethal.

Samuel Kinlan: