Inspirare

midnight
She had very nimble hands, and every shift of her fingers, everything she did, was filled with a gentle care. They were a healer's hands, the hands of a doctor. They knew every inch of the body; they knew how to mend what was broken. But more importantly, they knew how to break.

In the nights, in my dreams, I feel her long fingers entwining with mine, and I hear her quiet voice in my mind. The memories are twisted and mad, I remember how good and how right it feels when my fingers pop and crack under her careful ministrations. There is an echo of her voice in my mind, telling me that I deserved it and that I still deserve it - but that is not what bothers me. What bothers me is the echo in my body; the certainty in the pit of my stomach that what she says is true. I would follow her until the end, if she asked, for just one brush of a kiss...

**

I wake, my fingers aching from the cold in the palace. Even with a fire popping and cracking in the fireplace, my room is cold and damp. Wind cuts through the hall and whips my curtains away from the windows. The moonlight shivers into my room for a moment, lighting the quiet figure in the doorway. They do not come into my room anymore. They know better now.

A messenger from him; the winter may cut at my twisted fingers, pain lancing through my shoulders, but I have felt it before and I can work through it. The young prince needs help, and he calls to me. Neither of us seems to get much sleep when the winds whip through the palace. I think he takes pleasure in my aches and pains, and is grateful for someone who will suffer with him. And I will - the messenger nods in satisfaction, slipping away as I stand and wrap my black coat around my bedclothes. I never bother to get fully dressed at this hour, and he no longer bothers to order it of me.

I see familiar figures in the hall, their soft whispers echoing down to me. The words are unintelligible, but their tones are those of lovers. Their postures are those of people with secrets. They see me, but they do not bother to hide from me; I am as much a servant in this place as the messenger who calls on me. I must do as I am ordered. I doubt, at this point, I could even leave to seek employment elsewhere if I so desired. Who would believe the word of a servant over that of a queen?

His door is locked, but I have the key. They put so much faith in me it is disarming, and any plans I might have had before I came here have been lost in past few months. I feel more guilt than hate now, and the loss that used to tear my soul to shreds has dimmed to a breeze, quiet and hollow. I do not think I could kill him, not anymore.

Haughty voice is laced with pain; his orders hold an edge of desperation. Spoiled brat though he might be, he has been hurt in his time as badly, and as lovingly, as I have. A part of me holds a smoldering anger at the careless way he treats other people. Another part, the healer in me, argues that he does not know any better, that it is my job to teach him. Still, all of me stiffens at the clipped conversation, and my jaw sets:

"Ah. There you are. It took you long enough." Him still curled on his bed, watching me with washed-out eyes.

"Forgiveness, my prince." Daring to meet his eyes for a lingering moment. He looks away first, and I move to fetch salves and pills from where I have stored them while he speaks.

"I understand it is difficult for you." That is as close as he gets to an apology, and my nod enough to show that I hear and understand. I settle on the bed beside him, gently pulling back the blankets to reveal the splendor of his wings. They catch lamplight and the flickering of candles to glow golden against the dark sheets; they make my heart ache, make it difficult to breathe, pulling at wounds that I think will never be healed. They were designed to make people long for flight. It strikes me harder than most.

I carefully undo the line of buttons down his back [her hands are nimble] to reveal bruised and knotted flesh. He tries to relax, head rested on folded arms, as I spread the sharp-smelling salve over his shoulders [filled with a gentle care] but I can hear him hissing against his arm, trying to smother quiet whimpers. He does not want to seem weak in front of me. I wonder why he bothers.

There is not much more I can do. A pill and a glass of water set on his bedside table, orders to take them if the pain gets worse. He will not take it unless pain overwhelms him, he hates the way it dulls his mind, he hates being put to sleep against his will. I would rather sleep than ache - I take my own pill without pause, moving away toward the door. I never wait for his dismissal.

A word stops me, frozen, twisted right hand against the doorknob. Stormy grey eyes turning back toward him, watching him agonizingly shift to stare at me. He fights with himself, on the verge of a thank you. But, he is a prince. He does not need to thank me. Again, he looks away, words muffled into his arm, tone sullen:

"Good night, Raven." 

lessons
In the mornings, things are different. We both shake off our midnight memories and pretend that the aches and pains have faded away. He is the prince and the heir, no longer a frightened child, his bruises and crooked spine hidden beneath royal finery edged in gold. I am a servant again, my own back and shoulders warped beneath the loose cloth of a black cloak. They assume I am a hunchback. I let them believe that.

I sit in on his lessons, and watch him fumble his way through mathematics, history, law, religion - I take a perverse kind of pleasure in watching his face twisted with frustration, the quill gripped so tightly in his hand that I am certain it will break, his jaw clenched as he crosses out number after number in his neat noble’s handwriting. He is sixteen, now, but he is still a child at heart, and probably will always be. 

I was always good at my schoolwork, when I was his age. Perhaps I was more grateful for what it meant, or perhaps it was because I was not as coddled, as sheltered, as he is now. Things fell into place for me - and when they did not, I worked until I could understand and explain, so that I could describe concepts or teach the complicated timeline of events to someone else.

Imagine a young man, the age of ten, sitting quietly behind a desk. He is the only student in the room, and his teacher is a strict old man with tight lips and a sharp nose, the kind of beady eyes that pick up on everything that happens under his watch, that nothing can escape. The boy isn't afraid of him. He meets those hazel eyes with his own mellow grey, eyebrows lifted and expression intent.

He knows how important this is, even when he is this young. They have tried to shelter him from who he is, where he came from, but his father doesn't realize just how much he hears. Whispered conversations about her crime, fears that he will turn out the same as she. Occasionally they dare to hiss her name between clenched teeth, but usually they call her "Two-Crescent." His aunt, his father's sister, his mother. The woman who delivered him to the castle while he was still a tearful child of three or four, terrified of being left alone.

No coddled young prince was I. An illegitimate, unwanted child of incest, it became very clear very fast that I would have to fight to retain my place; and even after my battles, my struggles, I was sent out into the cold and into her strong hands [her hands are nimble]. And if they knew now who I really am, I would be delivered back out into the wilderness. She is the only one who has ever wanted me.

Tumaire knows nothing of this. All he understands, all he can think of, is himself. He throws temper tantrums, he shoves his books to the ground and refuses to work, he flings quills and balled up paper around the room. He sits sulkily in the chair with an expression of decided indifference and ignores the long lectures on the needs of the common people. What kind of King will he be, if he does not understand what his subjects need? How can he make new laws if he does not understand the current ones?

His attitude makes me want to scream, or to slap him, but I know better. A harsh word and one solid blow would not be enough to teach him that the world does not revolve around him. All it would do would give him something new to whimper about, or to turn in my direction. Some new excuse not to do his work, not to attend his father's open court and to listen to the problems voiced therein, a way to lie in bed and complain about the ache in his crooked spine. Another reason to look down his nose at me, to attempt to break my mask and crack into those secrets he can see in my eyes. Perhaps he can sense that edge of hatred, perhaps something sneaks into my voice despite my attempts to keep it calm and flat, perhaps it is something about the way I meet his haughty stare. Perhaps it is blood calling to blood. 

complaints
The court is a blur. A wash of cloth and color covering the walls, far different from the comfortable muted browns and greys of wood and stone and faded tapestries and wind scratched floors. The banners of nobles, an array of every color imaginable, are a shock to the system, and something about it makes my stomache twist and my heart ache. The first time I stepped into this room, I wanted to sweep the artwork from the walls and wrap it about myself; I wanted to have those colors in my eyes, in my skin. They were the colors I imagined the wind should be, if I could only see it.

The faces of nobles lining either side of the main hall blend together in my eyes; they all look the same, pale and puffed up peacocks with ridiculous clothing and hair that makes me want to laugh. How many hours must they spend teasing sparse locks up into complicated cascades around their faces? And how long before the wind will blow it all flat against their heads?

Like his followers, Corbin wears an elaborate costume, coerced into it by his advisors and his timid, mouse-like wife. Unlike them, he has the poise and the looks to carry it. A large man with golden hair and a stubborn jaw, the beginnings of worry lines around his eyes and tugging at the corners of his mouth, he seems too guileless and controllable to be a King.

His wings, however, draw in the eye. They, like the young Prince's, make my heart ache and a slow throb settle into my spine. I crave them. I hate him for having them. I hate the mangled mess that is so easily hidden in the depths of my black cloak. I hate the fact that his feathers are long and the same shining gold as his hair, as opposed to a matted black, torn and twisted. I hate him. And I love him.

This is the time and place for the petty feuders and the bored petitioners to step forth, mingled with those few peasants who have true complaints and fears. Men quarrelling over ten feet of land, a musician whining that a friend sold his song, a woman complaining about the theft of her sickly old cow. Their problems do not matter, nor do his solutions - only the fact that for ten minutes, twenty minutes, they get to stand before the King and stare in awe. When they arrive, it is with the hopes that they will find out he is real, that he truly exists and that he is not merely a myth. When they leave, they are still not sure. There is something godly about the cut of his jaw, and that halo of gold.

I understand the importance of these meetings. I fear Tumaire passes them off as merely the complaints of pathetic peasants. He does not understand that one cow could be the difference between life and death for an old woman living on her own, or that ten feet of land is enough to plant another row of crops, could be enough for the poor to afford meat for dinner. If I were to tell him that some people eat potatoes every night for dinner, that they cannot afford shoes, that they huddle into corners and share beds not only because they have so few but because they need that shelter and that warmth, he would laugh at me.

I am forced to hover at his right shoulder and watch him stare off into space. His fingers twitch against his knee and his lips shift down into a faint frown. That edge of violence, something that has never surfaced in me before, swells and makes my heart pound as his eyes slowly slip close and it looks like he is going to nod off. These are his people, and he does not care about them. All he wants is to slip out of the room and run off to his rooms.

He hates the crowds, the eyes locked on him. I think it is because he knows they are judging him, and on a subconscious level at the very least he knows that he does not measure up to their standards. To him, it might just be because of the shadows under his eyes, the bony wrists and the pale, drawn expression. He might not understand the depths of his inadequacy, but he can wrap his mind about the idea that he does not look the part of a prince, and even less that of a King. But then, neither do I.

Tumaire is dreaming about the elaborate castle his father gave to him as a present a few days ago. I can tell by the faint smile that curves across his face, the way he ignores the slow, sideways stares in his direction and the obvious way that noble gossips whisper about how unhealthy he looks, about the fact that I hover behind him. His fingers scissor, walk idly down to his knee, the gesture subtle enough that it is only visible to the nearest obsevers, and could be passed off as an absentminded, unintentional movement. It makes me clench my jaw, my ears ringing with sudden anger.

My job is that of physician, not of teacher, but sometimes I feel it is my duty to educate him despite this fact. Today this is done with a slow pressure at the back of his neck, my hand settled cold against his skin. It is gentle at first, and I can feel him begin to tense, muscles jumping as he straightens in his chair. His eyes do not open, he pretends to be ignoring the contact, but I know the workings of his body to see past the lie.

Fingers dig into the skin at the back of his neck and he finally makes a tiny noise, his eyes slipping open and his head coming up. That easily, his focus shifts back to the meager peasant woman who is making some soft, timid request. His expression is still distant and uninterested; I will have to help him fix that, later.

He would not dare tell anyone, if I hurt him. On some level, I am sure that he is in awe of me, that he can sense something that quells his pride and his distain toward the common folk. Slowly, he is coming to trust and perhaps to love me. That is why he tries so hard to dig up my secrets, to push my buttons. He wants to know me, inside and outside. He wants to know me as well as I know him. 

secrets
It is easy to forget, sometimes, that there are other people in the world besides the young Prince. The past few months I have spent here blend together into a familiar routine. Early mornings spent at his lessons, afternoons dragged away to the open court or to play in his rooms, nights at his side, coaxing him to sleep and easing away his pain. I become an extension of him. I lose track of myself, except for that fierce, burning hatred - I am my mother's son to the core, and it terrifies me sometimes. But who would I be without that anger, that passionate flame?

Tonight is an early evening. Perhaps because of the court, perhaps because he knows that there are more long lectures on the importance of winning the hearts of his people, perhaps because he does not wish to speak to me tonight - whatever the reason, it is strangely easy to coax the pain pills into Tumaire's mouth, and the sleeping draught down his throat. He will sleep for hours, even if the pain lances down his spine, even if a war is fought outside of his bedroom window. I know my work well. I was taught by some of the best.

The halls are never empty at this hour. Servants scuttle from one door to another, carrying heavy loads of dirty clothing or scurrying away to do dishes, to serve meals, to light fires, an array of other idle tasks. None of them every pay me any heed, they flow past me with practiced easy, and I have learned how to ignore them. We understand each other; our jobs are easier when attention is not draw to us, we prefer it when we are out of the minds of those people around us. We do not want to be seen.

I am understandably surprised when a young woman draws herself out into the hallway before me, head cocked up and to the side to peer intently up at my face. She is petite - she barely reaches my shoulder, and she is so thin I could wrap both hands about her waist with ease - but she stands as if she were three feet taller and seventy pounds more massive. I can read her posture, that arch of her neck and flash in her eye, the way her hands settle on her hips. Despite her clothing, which is far too plain and drab to suit her, I can see that sharp edge of something noble in her. 

"Raven. Correct?" Said with a curt, familiar tone, something that rings at memories but I pass off as merely that of a noble. I can meet it with nothing but a slow bob of my head, a careful movement that is only half-bow.

A crook of her finger, the gesture obviously more than merely beckoning. It is an order, and as she turns back down the hall and away, leading toward my rooms, I am drawn into her wake. I should be afraid, but I cannot gather up the energy to care. Something in her face registers as familiar in my mind. Slowly, the curve of her jaw and the stiff downward slope of her nose settle into place, I can picture her eyes a vivid green, darkly lined with powder. Her lips curve up into a haughty smile, stained a dark crimson, and I can remember the expanse of emerald cloth that she had swept up about herself, shimmering in the lights of Great Hall.

"Lady Calidris? May I ask where you are leading me?" Attempting to sound suitably humble and timid, I do not dare let my annoyance creep into my voice. Her response comes as a sharp glance back over her shoulder, a faint twist of a smirk that makes my stomach flip and my heart jump. It does not matter.

The halls twist, we wind our way through passages that I do not recognize, areas of the castle I have never seen before. How does she know her way? I remember her arriving no longer than two weeks ago, amidst a bustle of gossip and a certain amount of awe from the male members of the court. I spent more than a decade here, when I was young, roaming the hallways and hiding in unknown corners with a burning anger in the pit of my stomach. How can she know this place better than me? 

A final turn and we slip into an empty set of chambers. Vast and ornate, I know where we are now. This is the right wing of the palace, the nobles' quarters, where the tapestries on the walls are still brilliant in color, where every surface is covered with velvet or silk, where the beds are larger than anyone could ever need. Behind us, the back of the bureau clicks quietly closed again. She slips out of the bedroom and away, toward her small sitting room, reaching up to unpin red hair and let it cascade down her spine as she does so. I follow her reluctantly, woodenly, my mind now beginning to race. I can taste how dangerous this is.

When I finally slip out into the sitting room, she's sprawled gracefully out on her sofa, fingers caressing through her hair, smoothing it down over her shoulder. She would look decadent and careless, it would be lounging, except for the attentive way she watches me with her eyes narrowed and head cocked to the side. Appraising, judging, I am not sure what that look means until she holds out a hand and smiles at me, one find eyebrow twitching slowly upward.

"Take off your cloak." An order. She expects me to obey but I hesitate, my heart jumping up into my throat, and instead stare flatly in her direction. Her smile tightens and that eyebrow creeps higher, her jaw slowly lifting. 

"I would rather not, My Lady." Keeping my soft, flat tone of voice, expression still carefully schooled into calm. The realization that this is a battle of wills I can never win slowly creeps over me as she rises to stand. Slow, creeping steps drag her up before me, a hand settles against the side of my neck and slides over my shoulder, catching at that cloak and dragging it carefully downward. I should stop her, but I cannot look away from her eyes, from that teasing smile on her lips.

Black cloth finally tumbles down my back to pool at my feet. Her gaze shifts away from my face to the mess of mangled feathers that is plastered at awkward angles against my spine. A hiss escapes between my teeth, shaky, and I realize that I have lost my mask, the anger and the frustration and the terror are starkly visible across my face. Elegant hand flutters against my back and I wince, tense, eyes falling closed as she works feathers between her fingers, taking in the rough texture, the awkward angles.

Then that touch is gone, cloak settles neatly back into my arms. I crack my eyes open and tilt my head slowly, carefully, to meet her steady gaze. She is smug, and rightly so. She holds all the power in her tiny hands. She has won whatever game she was playing. I want to ask her what she wants of me, why she has done this, but I barely open my mouth before that haughty voice kicks in again.

"Tomorrow night, as soon as you can, find your way back here." And I know a dismissal when I hear one. 

collapse
A slow panic settled into my bones during the night, leaving me chilled and flat. I took a hair too much of my sleeping draught when I finally returned to my room, shaking in reaction, and as I slowly drag myself up to the surface I feel hollow, the world blurs and swirls around me. Temples throb, my mouth tastes like cotton. It takes me far longer than usual to pull on clothing, to drag the cloak up over my shoulders. Hair falls wild and knotted to my shoulders, but I when I try to pull it back the world explodes into sharp lines and bright colors, everything too loud and too harsh.

I look like hell. I know because even Tumaire looks me over uncertainly as I slip into his rooms. Here, again, the colors are too bright. Blue shines from the bed, from cloths draped on the walls, from an assortment of small figurines that are settled on his elaborate gesture. The room is dim [the room is always dim], but the light is still piercing, painful. I can feel my eyes slip closed as I settle sideways in against a wall, listen to the idle sound of paper being shifted by the ever-present winds, of curtains whipping sideways against his wall.

When I blink myself aware again, the word settling in buzzily about me again, he is hovering in front of me, an expression of disapproval on his face. He is only half dressed. His shirt hangs limp against his back, a strap twisted about the base of one of those golden wings. His pants are twisted. His hair is uncombed. Some small part of me wants to smile and ruffle pale locks around his face. I take it as evidence that I should still be in bed, that I have lost all sense, and quickly twist him around so that I do not have to meet accusing eyes.

"...Raven, are you unwell?" As he peers back over his shoulder, watching my fingers smooth the cloth up around his wings, to do up the complicated set of buttons across his shoulder. There is something haughty and superior in his voice, something smug or satisfied. For once he has caught me in a less than perfect state, he is the healthy one and I am the invalid. For once he believes he has won.

If I open my mouth, I am sure the words will come out harsh, snapping. My answer instead comes as a slow shake of my head. While I would like nothing more than to crawl away, back to bed, and sleep until the world settles back into its normal place, I know that I do not have that luxury. I have responsibilities. 

Unsatisfied, he spins in place to face me. His head is tilted up and back, chin jerked upward into the air, so he can peer down his nose at me - a difficult task, since he is a head shorter than me. Since he is still thin and pale. Since he is so fragile. Since I know him so well.

One of his eyebrows inches slowly upward. I recognize that gesture; it is one of my own. Disbelieving and annoyed, I use it to hold an edge of a threat. I can feel something coiling inside of me, that familiar spark, that anger and frustration. My hand drops to my side, fingers curling into my palm and tightening into a fist, fingernails sharp points of pain against the inside of my palm. Control is slipping out of my grasp, I no longer control the world around me. She has pulled out the keystone.

"You're lying. How dare you?" With an edge of a dare, cocky. He is certain that he is safe, he either trusts me beyond all sense or is too dim-witted to know he should question me.

He pays for his lack of thought. There is something cold and distant about the way my hand moves. Not as if it is being pulled along by a string, but as if it was immersed in water and is abruptly free. I do not hit him very hard, it is just one solid blow upside the head, but from the look of shock on his face, I might as well have broken bones. No one has ever laid a finger on him before.

The room rings with silence for a moment. My hand is shaking, lifts to swipe across the front of my shirt, as if I can wipe the deed away. I want to turn time around, slip back a few days and twist events around. I want to go back a decade, to my rebellion. I want to go back three, to my conception. I want to go back to the beginning of time and tell whoever started this world that it is pointless, useless, that all it will lead to is hurt and fear and hatred. Love always tinged with an edge of bitterness. Life fleeting and nothing ever changing. 

I can watch his face crumble. He tries to stave of tears, but he has not had as much practice as I. As his fingers walk up the side of his face and a ragged noise - a cut off sob - escapes between his teeth, I lose my distance and my indifferences, and reluctantly gather him in against my chest. And he does not fight. Arms fold in against his chest and his head tilts in against my shoulder. He still tries to fight his emotions, but he is fragile, I know this...

"You need to grow up." Inwardly flinching at how sharp my voice still sounds. It should be edged with something understanding and something soothing, but I have never learned how to be anything but direct. I do not know how to be subtle and caring.

"I know." Muffled against my shoulder. He is still curled inward, I can feel his face wet through the cloth of my shirt. The sobs have died out, though, settled into a slow shudder. 

With some effort, I inch us across the room, to a chair, and push him down into it. Slowly sinking to crouch before him, one hand settled against his knee, my head tilted up to peer as his face. He attempts to hide it behind an arm, but I can catch glimpses of red-rimmed eyes despite his efforts. I wonder, in passing, if I will still feel guilty tomorrow, or later to day. Will I get over this moment of warmth toward him? Will he shift toward anger, will he tell someone what I have done?

"I was wrong to hit you, and I am sorry." Soft and hushed. This is not the right battle to fight, I know when I have made a mistake. 

His reply comes in a faint nod, the tiniest of sniffles as he swipes an arm across his face again. Tears drip down his fingertips, tumble, leave large, dark spots where they hit his legs. He will have to change, before he leaves his chambers. Before his lessons, before another tedious session in the court, before another lecture. I almost pity him for this moment. It strikes me that, perhaps, he does not want to be King. Perhaps he would hand over the position to me, if I merely gave him the option.

"I...you were right, I am not well. Do you want me to leave? Can you handle today alone?" Weary again, the idea of returning to bed and disappearing into the relative comfort of thick covers is appealing. But he shakes his head violently, a terrified glance cast toward the door - he is vulnerable, now. He could be twelve, and the idea of facing the world alone is horrible.

My head tilts town to settle against his knee, the cloak shifting and twisting around the mess against my spine. I settle slumped for a moment, waiting for the stomach wrenching feeling of helplessness to pass, before reluctantly dragging myself up to stand and holding out a hand to help him up. My mask is settled into place again. I am the picture of calm.

"We need to find you a new set of clothing. And you do not want to be late to lessons." 

summons
At the end of the day, when I am finally allowed to slip away to my rooms again, when I finally have the chance to breathe again, I am so weary that I would like nothing more than to collapse into bed. It is more than merely a physical exhaustion, the result of wandering down long and cold hallways, around the palace with him. It is an emotional exhaustion, my heart aching and my temples throbbing, idle aches and pains settling into the pit of my stomach. We have shared too much, it is hard to stay professional.

I am not allowed the luxury of rest. I have barely entered my room and begun to shed restrictive clothing, settling down into the worn chair in the corner, before a knock comes on the door. A cloak is thrown on, I jerk the door open to stare down at a rather baffled looking young girl who holds a sheet of crisply folded paper in her hands. She treats it with awe and reverence, barely holding it by the corners. This is an expensive kind of paper, thick and sturdy, scented faintly with flowers. I pluck it from her fingers to read:

Physician Raven: You promised to come to my rooms. I do not intend to keep you for very long, but I do want you here. Now.

The poor messenger winces, and I realize it must be at the expression on my face. My jaw has set into a tight line, it is beginning to give me a headache, and the paper is twisted in my hand. That bubbling emotion is back, somewhere between hatred and terror. I do not know how to react to her, I do not know what her desire to have me around means, I do not understand how she knows about me. 

I should find out, though. No matter how much I want to send the servant off to inform Lady Calidris that I am unwell and cannot come to her rooms this evening, I let my head bob in the tiniest of nods, handing the note back to the girl and beginning to pull back into my rooms.

"Let me dress more appropriately."

I could probably work my way back on my own, but it is more appropriate to follow the girl. She is something of a twitchy creature, and she keeps staring curiously back over her shoulder at me. Something meaningful in the way she arches her eyebrow, a hint of a question about those flickering glances and the way her mouth shifts. She wants to ask what it is her Lady wants with me, but does not quite dare. I have a way of making people double-think themselves.

Finally, I am delivered to the door, left to my own devices with one last lingering glance. I suspect that, tomorrow, there will be rumors spreading like wildfire. And I bet the Lady will enjoy them, will cherish them and use them. 

A sharp, rapping knock on her door. I want to stand rigid and glare down at her as she cracks it up, I want to meet her smile with a dark frown, I want to look annoyed and interrupted, but I cannot gather the energy. Instead I settle against the doorframe and blink wearily down at her, head inclining in something like a bow. 

With a beckoning finger, she draws me inward. The door clicks closed behind me with a sense of finality, something solid and real. She settles down into a comfortable chair, but I am not offered a place to sit - I do not really expect one. She is a noble, and like Tumaire, she does not understand the needs of the people. I doubt she understands anything besides her own wants, her own pain, her own hungers and her own boredom.

"There is really no point to that cloak anymore, Raven. You do not need to lie to me." Said with a slow roll of her hand, the implication that I should sweep it off and hand it over to her. After a moment of hesitation, I obey the silent order. I have been well trained.

"Why am I here?" Without my cloak, with twisted black feathers on display, I feel naked. Hands shift nervously at my sides, searching for some kind of distraction. My eyes turn down and away, so that I do not have to meet her steady, amused and fascinated stare, so that I can watch her sideways.

Her expression shifts toward something coy, teasing, and for a moment I expect her to make me guess. She seems like the type who would enjoy a twisted game, here or there, and who enjoys having power over people. Instead, she drags her lower lip between her teeth and shakes her head, slowly falling back in her chair. Head rolls to one side, to watch me through long lashes, and red curls tumble wildly down over her shoulder. She has perfected the languid drape, the bored posture of a noble.

"I want to know who you are. I want you to tell me about your wings." 

memory
The pains kicked in when I was thirteen, the unpleasant sensation of bones shifting and morphing, muscles slowly reforming. Bone sliced through my skin, tiny tufts of down that grew in a matter of months into long, sleek black feathers. I ached constantly, as they stretched and grew. But they were worth it.

This was barely a year after I was sent away to be schooled, to be hidden from the public eye. Delivered unwittingly into her nimble hands, into her grasp. She was furious, when I first arrived, when news of my brother's birth spread through the kingdom. I was already a failure, in her eyes. Already she was calculating how best to use me, how best to make me obey her. I was no longer her beloved first and only child, but a tool against her brother.

The lessons I learned there were far different from those secular classes I had taken before. Theirs leaned toward teachings on poise and control. The avid priests, the Inspired, taught me how to make people believe what I wanted them to, how to coax people into awe and fascination. How to pitch my voice just so, to make it sound hollow and whistling, like the wind. It was all posturing and poising, there was no substance beneath it, no truth to the religion they claimed to believe in so strongly. It stole what little faith, what few beliefs I had, away from me.

She taught me skills with more substance behind them. She taught me how to mend bones, to treat illnesses, to write official letters. While they taught me how to stand out and command attention, she taught me how to stoop and disappear into the background. How to take care of myself in cities, how to survive in the woods. She taught me how to seem common, how to lose that haughty edge and bow. 

On occasion she would dig out huge tomes that she treated with reverent care. When she opened them, it was a slow and careful process, turning the pages with shaking fingers, as if afraid they would crumble to pieces. Diagrams were sketched neatly on the pages, I recognized it as her handwriting. I remember the ink as a rusty red, something faded and dark. At the time, I thought it was blood, though I never asked. These were forbidden books, books of dark arts that were meant to be long dead, books of blood and magic. She did not teach me much from these - only enough to show me how strong she was, how powerful.

Most importantly, she taught me to obey her before anyone else. Sometimes this was done with quiet words, the soothing smile of a mother and a gentle nudge in the right direction, but this was rare. Usually I was dragged along like a rag doll, swept up in her wake. 

I could not go against her will. Perhaps it was because she was the only person who ever loved me, even if it was in a twisted, mad kind of way. Or perhaps it was because I knew the consequences of biting back. I did not have any secrets, or any choices of my own.

Imagine him, this grey-eyed boy, at the age of fifteen. Again, friendless; again alone in the world, except for her. Those long black wings, while not new, are still fresh enough to be exciting. Perhaps, with training and effort, he will be able to fly. The Inspirare, the great winds that sweep through the country, are strong enough on occasion to catch in feathers and to draw the weight of a person upward.

She is understandably bitter. Her own back is marked with a pair of twin scars [stunning in their own right, they speak volumes about her past], her wings a thing of the distant past. Her shoulders are designed to support more weight. Her spine has settled into something crooked and stooped, it makes her shorter and he can tell that she always aches. She hides it well, but he has seen her wince with a gesture that is too sudden, or down far more valerian in her tea than is healthy. He worries, sometimes, but does not mention it. He doubts she would react well.

Sometimes, he sneaks out at night to climb partway up the massive mountain the city of Verra is built into. He does not get very far, he is too afraid of the fall to get to any dangerous heights. When he is several body lengths up, he waits for the winds to whip past and throws himself out and up, spreads his wings wide into the flow. Twice, he has managed to catch the gust, to glide back to the earth. Other times, he has tumbled his way down the mountainside, ended up bruised and battered at its base. He tries anyway.

This night, this imaginary night, he returns with a long scrape up the side of his neck, ragged scratches against his cheek. He ducks his head as he slips past her rooms, so dangerously close to his own, but she sees him anyway, drags him to a halt with a single word. He is trained to school his expression into something calm and superior, but it is hard around her. She is different.

"You have hurt yourself." As she inches idly up to the doorway, comes to rest beside him. It is strange; she barely reaches his shoulder, she has to crane her head up and back to peer at the blood against his throat, but she makes him feel three inches tall.

"I...I fell. It's nothing major, I just...fell." With a flinch. Her fingers have settled cold against the side of his neck, brushing over a particularly deep part of the injury. She does it on purpose, she smiles tightly as his eyes shift away, as his nervous fidgeting.

A pivot on her heels. She does not have to tell him to follow, her very posture and the way she moves is an order. She is so beautiful - he has thought this before, it echoes in his mind, it brings to the surface thoughts that he knows he should not be thinking. He has heard some of the other boys talking about the servant girls they have conquered, their language crude and their tones snickering, but he does not think that way about her. He just thinks she is beautiful, and wishes he could touch her.

The way she sits him down on the edge of her bed is almost affectionate. A physician's kit is opened and sanitizing tools produced with an air of familiarity. Her hands are steady as she wipes away the blood, cleaning that wound slowly and carefully [they know how to mend what is broken]. He is careful to sit very still, not to make a noise, even as she smears iodine across his skin. It is not bad, it is not deep. 

A soft rustling of cloth as she perches beside him on the bed. He still cannot look her in the eye, but he can catch glimpses of her expression, still settled into that tight smile. There is something dangerous about it, some threat that he cannot put his finger on.

"What were you doing?" Her tone sharp. It is not a voice that he wants to lie to, he can sense something bunched and angry about her. Perhaps her back aches tonight, or perhaps she has been thinking about unpleasant events. Whatever the reason, she is coiled like a serpent, prepared to strike.

But he cannot bring himself to tell her that he was trying to fly, not after having seen the puckered scars that sweep down from her shoulders, twin crescents. He stares down at his hands and chews on his lip, watching uncertainly as her long fingers twine in between his own. A rough pressure, it is uncomfortable but it does not hurt. "I was...I was just out for a walk, and there was a loose rock," and abruptly that explodes into a flash of pain, his mouth tastes coppery as bone bends and finally snap, he dissolves into a soundless noise. She is still passive, watching his face, gripping the broken finger in her own palm and watching him attempt to curl in on himself, to make that pain fade away.

"Never lie to me Corbett. Never." Her expression is still calm as she sets the bones back into place and begins the careful process of splinting and binding it.

"I am smarter than you, child, and I am not afraid to hurt you. Do not forget." 

She is right. And he never forgets. 

interlude
Lady Calidris has lost her laid back posture and her bored expression. Her fingers are curled tightly around the arm of her chair, there is no longer anything languid about her. I wonder idly at her wild-eyed, shocked and terrified expression for a moment before realizing just how much information I let spill. I join her, settling into a slow shiver and falling back to sit on the edge of her bed. All semblance of anything proper is lost.

Silence. Neither one of us quite knows what to say, to fill the air. I am still trying to find the place where I stopped thinking, and to remember just how much information I spilled to her. Stories I have never told; it makes my fingers ache just to think of it. She seems to be having the same problem. She rubs at her knuckles and finally clears her throat, with a flicker-glance in my direction.

"You are the bastard prince, then?" Far too calm about it. In that tone of voice, it could be light dinner conversation. 

"I hate that word." Almost without thinking, I have slipped back into my easy, near-monotone voice. I cannot help but be disappointed by the fact that the fire has gone out of her, that haughty superiority. It is too easy to defeat her, to crush her spirit.

Another ringing silence. She runs fingers through her hair, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that the quiet physician who fades so easily into the background, who they all assume is a simpleton, a commoner, is actually of noble blood. I can watch the gears turn in her mind, I can see her try to figure out some way to use this information to her advantage. She can make it into a game, perhaps.

I am expecting her to humbly apologize, or to begin bargaining. She seems like the type who would ask for favors in exchange for keeping her mouth shut. She should turn this into a game. Instead her face stays sober and serious, something calm and concerned.

"Why was...why would she do that?" Voice quivering with some emotion. I suspect it to be shock, or anger, or disbelief. 

The question is a surprise to me, it is something I have never asked before. Somehow, it never bothered me, it never really seemed wrong. Now I turn memories over in my mind, arms folding across my chest as I settle back more comfortably on her bed. 

"She is not really a bad person. She cares, in her own way. She just does not know how to show it, since no one ever explained to her." The best answer I can come up with on the fly. Fingers curl into the front of my shirt, inch upward to undo the top buttons, to make it easier to breathe. I feel like I am suffocating in here.

"What about your wings, though? I thought you were going to explain." Slowly regaining some of her confidence. Lady Calidris straightens, leans forward slightly in her chair. I cannot remember ever having such an attentive audience, no one has ever expressed this much personal interest in me. It leaves me flustered, I have to fumble for the words, that apathetic tone does not come as natural.

"Do you really want me to?" 

Her response is the slow way she drags herself up to stand, picking her way across the room and settling down onto the bed beside me. There is something strangely familiar about the way her hand settles on my knee, about the curious expression on her face, the way she peers up at me. She is carefully attentive and strangely supportive. It makes me uncomfortable.

"Did she do it?" A goad, as I find myself unable to find somewhere to start, a way to explain. Very gently, I reach down to remove her hand from my knee, to win back some space. I am not a child, and I do not need to be treated like a fragile creature.

"No. Yes. Not then." I am tempted to pull away, to flee from the room and retreat to my own chambers. But I am already this far gone, I am already committed, I have already blown my cover. There is no point in clinging frantically to the rest of my secrets. 

memory two
Seventeen. Quiet and alone. He is afraid of her, but he loves her; she hurts him, but only when he deserves it. These days, he is rarely allowed out of her sight; she sits silently in on his lessons, attentive and thoughtful. Sometimes, afterwards, she will give him opinions, will correct some of what the priests have said, to mold him to her.

He cannot help but begin to feel restless. They have long since run out of new things to teach him, and they seem to believe he will not notice if they repeat themselves. They speak in the same monotonous tone, and he is learning a new skill - he can ignore them, now, nod his head at the appropriate times while staring distantly off into space. He dreams of flying, but he has not dared it again.

She has him wrapped about her little finger. When she orders him to do something, he has stopped protesting or questioning, he merely steps into line. Some of her tasks are pointless, or dangerous, or upsetting, but he does not even wonder at their purpose anymore. What would be the point, if she is always right?

Something has changed, twisted, inside of him, though. It is a stomach-lurching feeling of loneliness and hopelessness. He does not want her to be his only rock in life, he wishes for friends and family, people who he can to go to, who would be willing to protect him. Even the Inspired, in their lonely lives, have positions in courts, or friends, or enemies.

The more restless he gets, and the more timid questions he asks her about his future, the more frustrated she becomes. He is not supposed to wonder, or hurt, or think. He should only obey. She has no patience.

"What do you mean, you want to go into town? Why? You have never wanted to go shopping before." Her voice takes on a sharp edge, eyes narrowing dangerously. He fumbles his way through some half-hearted reply and gives himself away. The more he wants something, the faster he backs out of it.

"You already take classes. Alone. Private classes. Why would you want to be thrown in with a dozen or more other students?" Exasperated, with a roll of her eyes and a comfortable kind of posture. He recognizes the schooling in her expression, and the cock of her hips, as barely-hidden anger. She taught him how to do that, he knows how to see through it, and immediately admits that she is right.

"You want more books? There are hundreds of books, here, and that should be enough. And you have classwork to do, correct? If not, perhaps I should tell your teachers to assign more." Coming out as a hissing threat, that he immediately jumps to shut down, with a shake of his head and the assurance that, yes, he has plenty of work.

Dozens of questions asked, dozens of others he does not dare to voice. He wants to go to the parties, or participate in events. He wants to eat dinner with all the other students, he knows that he is not the only one there. He wants to hold long discussions with other people his age on all these feelings that knot up his stomach.

There are other things that he wants, without even knowing it. He wants to make friends, to tell stupid jokes and laugh at them. He wants to meet girls, to go on long, wandering walks with them, to figure out how they work and how different they are. He wants to know that he can take care of himself, despite all her reassurances that he was only alive because of her. He wants to know if he's ever going to grow up.

"What does the future hold? What do you think it holds? You are going to work in the King's Court, their only priest. They are desperately in need of one who they can trust, who will be loyal - and who would fill the position better than you?" 

This one stops him cold. It is something in her voice, something sly and snickering, some edge of satisfaction. She wants him close to the King, because the closer he is, the closer she is. If he ends up in the King's court, he is afraid of what she will make him do.

"I don't want to." Soft and timid. He has never gone against her so completely, so directly before. It has always been in quietly doing something he has been ordered not to, or ignoring her words. In sneaking out late and night to stare up at the sky, or look longingly to the mountain and feel the wind whip about him.

She is suddenly silent and still, blinking up at him with eyes narrowed. Waiting for him to take it back, her arms fold slowly across her chest and one eyebrow inches upward. A well-trained part of him wants to flinch back, to shake his head and say he is only kidding. This one time, however, the rebellious teenager is going to win out.

"I don't want to." More solidly this time. He meets her eyes for a split-second before looking away, but that is a split-second longer than he can usually meet her stare. A nervous shift of weight - he moves unconsciously into an echo of her posture, except the clutch of arms is protective, his expression uncertain.

It takes her a moment to find her voice, to put together the right string of words. He can imagine the thoughts slowly coming together in his mind, he watches her lips twitch. She is imagining the way they will taste, and looking for the most bitter phrase she can come up with.

"You are not a normal child. You have responsibilities, things that you have to do, even when you do not want to. You do not know how the real world works, all you understand is court life, the intricate in and outs of nobles." So far it is nicer, calmer than I expected. None of this is really news, though it still stings some. I begin to reply, something about my ability to learn, but is silenced by a tiny gesture.

"No one else wants you, do you understand that? No, of course you do not." Sharper, with a sudden, deep frown. I blink away from her again, shifting uncomfortably.

"The wingless hate you, because you have wings and they do not. The other priests hate you, because you are noble - royalty - and they are not. The nobles hate you because you hold more power than any of them ever will, and are nothing but a bastard child. Your father hates you, because you were gotten by me."

There is a moment of utter silence, those sharp words ringing in the room, and in my ears. I am still staring away from her, but now her hand comes up to snatch at my chin, to drag my face still around, so that I can do nothing but meet her eyes.

"Everyone hates you but me. So stop whining and do as you are told." As she jerks her hand, throwing my face away from her, and shakes her head in disgust and frustration. 

persuasion
This is when Lady Calidris's hand settles absentmindedly on my knee, a gentle and reassuring gesture. It jerks me out of the story, a sudden intrusion on private memories. My head comes up, I lock her with a sudden stare, spooked. I must look angry, or upset - her hand jerks away and she blushes, struggles to pull on a mask of composure.

That touch was like an electric shock, something startling and uncomfortable. No one has touched me in ages. Even the young prince, needy as he is, has never asked for physical contact besides the necessary. It makes my stomach clench and my heart beat suddenly, it makes me want to run and hide.

"Do not touch me." Hoarser than I mean for it to come out. How long has my voice been getting deeper and rougher? Do I look like I am falling to pieces, does she think the memory upsets me? Perhaps it does, I cannot tell. Mostly, it feels like it happened to another person, someone simple and naive.

"I am fine. Alright?" A concerted effort to calm my voice to something soft and steady, its usual monotone. She nods faintly, hands folded in her lap, unsure of what to say. Perhaps afraid that she has truly made a mistake, this time, and I will not continue.

I have never told it this far before. I have never told the truth before. There was a time, when I was younger and I explained some of it to a close friend - but I was always careful to filter out the emotions, the names and the places, the minor details that could give away who I was and where I came from. I should have done that this time, as well, but it is too late now.

Dragging myself up to stand, I run fingers over my hair, smooth it down against my head. She is still staring at me with wide eyes, I can tell that she wants to add something, to ask something, but does not quite dare. I obviously need this moment to compose myself, to put some distance between myself and the story. I do not want to slip back into it, I do not want to get lost in it. That has happened to me too many times already.

There are flashes of memories, skewed images. The sequence of events is twisted in my head, and I have to figure out what the correct order is, how to rearrange them. When I glance back to Calidris, she still looks pale and surprised, perched awkwardly on the edge of her bed. I wonder how old she is, and why she is here, why she bothers with me. Why she seems to care so much.

"Am I upsetting you? Do you want me to leave?" Amazing how quickly I can turn things back on her. Or perhaps not - I was trained to make people feel the way I want them to feel, and to only see what I want them to see.

"No, I want to hear. Maybe..." The thought fading away as she shrugs, stares up at me, something expectant in her face and the way she shifts back on the bed to settle more comfortably into place. 

I decide not to sit back down. If I do, she might be concerned again, and feel a need to comfort me. Instead I settle into a slow pace, rolling my shoulders against matted feathers and seeking the right words. The story only gets worse, and she already seems so upset. I should leave, I should let her relax and forget about it. She does not need to care. I do not need to spill this, it is not eating away at me, I am not lonely... 

memory three
That hurts. Her words, instead of quelling me into obedience, start an angry fire in the pit of my stomach. Everything little thing that I was afraid to do before suddenly comes out in a rush. There is no point in keeping it all in, if she is all I will ever have. There is no point in hiding and waiting, if nothing will ever change. 

My rebellions start small, and gradually become more serious, less carefully hidden. I start out not paying attention in class, and eventually end up not attending. I sneak out late at night to stare up at the mountain, and eventually attempt flight again. I head out into town with a cloak swept over my shoulders, without her permission. I no longer speak to her, except in her role as my teacher. I stop calling her 'mother.'

At first, I am not sure she has noticed, I do not know if she is angry - but as days pass, a week, two, I can tell that there is something boiling inside of her as well. Barely suppressed rage. She probably wants to make me obey again, and is plotting how best to go about doing it. She does not want to spook me, and drive me to do something stupid. Not yet.

In secret, I dig up maps of the country, I draw up plans for where I could go and where someone might snatch me up. I am tempted to leave these out, for her to find, but I want it too much. Food is pilfered slowly and carefully from the kitchen. Bread, cheese, dried meat, water skins. I pull together bags, and hide it all in the chest at the foot of my bed. 

I come home one night with old scratches on my knees from tumbles, with half a loaf of bread hidden in one pocket, to find her sitting on my chest with a careful map in her hand. Like that, the jig is up. She knows what I have been working on, and there is no way I will be able to continue, to escape.

For a moment, there is a heart-wrenching feeling of disappointment, of hopelessness. Weeks of work gone to waste. There is no way I could slip out unnoticed, now, it is impossible for me to get away from this place. I am wrapped up in her grasp again. Forever.

"You...you were looking through my things?" Trying to take on her indignant tone and posture. A hand is still buried in my pocket, to hide the supplies I have hidden in there, but I try to make it look casual. Maybe she will not know.

"Are you planning on taking a field trip, Corbett? I do not remember giving permission for this." Her tone defeats mine, crushes whatever hope is left. Her eyebrows arch finely, stormy grey eyes lift to lock on my face, daring me to lie.

For a moment, I think I can tell her the truth and she will accept it, she will nod and point me toward the door, she will let me go. But then I take in the tightness of her lips and the tense shoulders, the fact that she looks like she's coiled, preparing to pounce, and I know three is nothing I can do.

"No, ma'am. I was going to...to run away. Wait until you were dead or captured before coming back out of hiding." Voice trembling, this time, I cannot hold that sense of indifference. I can feel my shoulders hiking up around my neck, I feel like I am still a child being scolded.

Her slow nod seems to say that she was expecting this, that she is not surprised. She still grips the map as she stands and steps forward, too close to me. There is a strange, thrumming feeling. Again I recognize how beautiful she is, and my breath catches as she grabs my arm and shoves me down beside the bed. 

She is tiny, but somehow she manages to make herself seem huge. She hovers over me, dropping the map to flutter down beside my hand on the ground. I blink down at it and wince at her fingerprints, smudging the crisp lines that took me hours to mark in and the careful labels on each of the towns. The tiny houses arranged in careful clumps. She has wrecked the cities, left them as piles of crumbling rubbish.

As I reach out for the crumpling sheet of paper, her toes settle on my hand - a gentle pressure, a warning. It drags my head up to stare at her. She is furious, I can tell now. Her calm of the past week has been a mask, one far better than she has ever taught me. I am sure my face has dissolved into wide-eyed, uncontrolled fear, and it probably only makes her more angry.

"How stupid do you think I am, child?" Low and dangerous. There is no right answer I can give to that.

"How long did you think you could hide from me? Did you think I would not notice?" Eyes flashing as she says it. That pressure slowly lifts, and I jerk back against the bed, hands folding in protectively against my chest. She sinks down to a crouch before me, arms draped casually over her knees. She knows that she is in control now, that anger is still flashing in her face but it is muted, she is using it.

There is a ringing silence, it stings my ears and makes my heart race. It takes me a moment to realize that she is waiting for answers from me, that she wants me to speak. I swallow hard, searching for words that will not get me in more trouble, something that will help me back out of this situation.

"I'm just tired of everything. I want to leave. I want to head back to Secular Verra, speak to my father - " Snapping the last shreds of her calm. There is a sudden blossom of pain across my cheek, and it takes a moment for me to recognize it as her hand, a solid slap. I should not have mentioned him.

But now it is too late. My mouth has opened, my thoughts come spilling out - I cannot swallow them, now that I have started. And I am angry, almost as much as she. This is my life, not hers.

"Why are you doing this? Just because you're bitter, because you made mistakes, because you lost your wings. It's not my fault, you know. You'll never be queen, and I'll never be king, and you have to take the blame for both. You made your mistakes." Coming out in a rush. She seems to get smaller in front of me, to slowly shrink and lose her edge, her control.

"You knew that I wouldn't ruin my life the way you ruined yours, so you decided to fuck mine up for me. What kind of mother are you?" There is anger and upset on her face as I speak, something crumbling about her expression. 

This is when the world bursts into black and golden stars. Perhaps I have blacked out the memory, or perhaps I lose consciousness. I only remember waking, hours later, with an agony of pain against my back. Blood and broken feathers. Grabbing my supplies and taking for the hills. 

exhaustion
There is more to the story. Of course there is more to the story. There are days of terror, running blindly through the woods, afraid to turn around or stop to rest. Throbbing pain down my spine, rattling my bones with every movement. Hunger and terror as I get endlessly lost in the sparse trees at the base of the mountain, nights spent huddled under a sparse wool cloak. 

I do not tell Lady Calidris about my savior, or my descent into near-madness. I do not tell her how sick I became, how many days I had to spent sleeping in a tiny, uncomfortable bed. I do not tell her that I cried.

Instead, I let the silence settle golden in the room again. It is not awkward, this time. I find it strangely reassurance, things are at peace now that I have stopped talking. I have been destroying the calm of the room, reviving old demons and upsetting both of us. We need this moment to think.

Slowly, I settle back on the bed beside her, too tired to stay standing. A bleary blink around the room, toward the curtained windows and the black of night beyond then - it is late, as late as it seems. If I creep back through dark hallways now, through hallways filled with scampering servants, there will be more rumors. More whispers and sideways glances. I am sick of it.

"Raven - Corbett - I am.." 

"Do not say you are sorry." The words come quickly to my lips, cutting sharply through the room. It is harsher than I mean, but I have a headache and I am tired and she has made me summon memories I had almost forgotten.

"Unless you can change things, do not say you are sorry." I am slipping away into exhaustion. I do not want to think anymore. I want to find alcohol, get blindingly drunk. I want to take too much sleeping medicine again, and spend the night sleeping like the dead. I want to visit with Tumaire, to take guilty pleasure in the fact that perhaps someone has it worse than me.

It takes her a moment to put together an appropriate response. I can see her gathering herself, pulling back on her careful mask of indifference, of superiority, and I cannot help but smile. I wonder if she has ever collapsed in front of someone like that before, if anyone has seen her wide-eyed and apologetic. Somehow, I doubt it.

"Well. Do you want to retreat back to your rooms, or spend the night? It is highly inappropriate, but I have a couch in the sitting room, and so long as you are careful when you slip out, no one should ever know." Having dragged herself up to stand, and glancing down her nose at me. 

I want to spend the night, I do not want to slip away to my rooms. I will settle lonely back into my bed and I will dream again of nimble healers' hands. Yet, somehow, I fear it would be worse to stay here, under her watchful, lustful gaze. So I shake my head and pull myself up to stand, stooping to snatch up my cloak and throw it over one arm.

"What are you going to do now, My Lady? Are you going to tell my father, or the prince?" Hesitant, nervous to ask. I do not know what I will do, if she says yes.

She looks uncertain for a moment, before offering me a faint smile. It is condescending, again, superior. I was afraid she would have trouble looking down her nose at me, now that she knows who I am and what my status is, but obviously it is not an issue for her.

"I will not tell unless you want me to. It will be our secret. But you should come visit me on a regular basis." Is it blackmail? I agree, whatever her reasons, and look her over one more time, unsure if that is a dismissal.

There is still a touch of hunger in her eyes, something unsettling. Her hands twitch at her sides. I think she wants to touch my wings again, feel the ragged feathers between her fingertips. Carefully, I reach back and gently slip one free, to settle cool against my palm. Extended out toward her - she takes it delicately between two fingers, unable to hide how pleased she is.

"I will definitely come and visit you. And find out who you are, win some of your secrets." It is strange how light I feel, as I slip out of her rooms and carefully down the hallways. A weight has been lifted, and while I am not happy, some of my tension and fears have slipped away. 

intrigue
Another long day, another chilling night; they blur into two days, three, a week. Things settling back down into a familiar, monotonous routine. Lessons, court, time spent with the young prince. I have to coax the sleeping potion down his throat, I have to convince him to take something for the pain. I down more than my share.

Pulling out of his room and into drafty hallways. There is a familiar couple at the end of the hallway, anyone would recognize the figure he cuts, with broad shoulders and huge golden wings. I pause in a corner, three-quarters hidden in darkness, to listen to the whispered conversation, to look her over.

"...worst times, Corbin." Hissing, nervous. Her eyes shift in tiny, flickering motions, too brief to actually take anything in. All they do is give her away as suspicious, the fact that she is doing something she knows could get her in trouble.

I cannot make out his response, but I can read the slight shift of his body, the way he steps in closer to her. Even without words, he is persuasive, and her anger or nervousness begins to melt away. In flickering torchlight, I can see a smile ghosting across her features, something vaguely teasing in the way she lowers her eyelashes and leans to the side.

"No, of course I can't say no, but..."

There is something in her tone, in her coy manner, that makes me want to hit her. Realistically, I know this could be because she is my father's mistress, but there is more to it than that. It is the sneaky way that she plays reluctant virgin, no matter how many times he has visited her rooms in the past few months. It is the smirk that spreads across her face even as her eyes are wide and demure. It is her posture, shoulders curled up and hands folded innocently before her, with hips cocked lustily forward.

Amazilia. She hovers somewhere between servant and Lady. The low ranks of second generation nobles, of too high rank to get her hands dirty but still too low to settle comfortably into the court. She has done a fine job, though - her goal was to get close to the King, as so she has, crushed under the force of his ego and his self-confident grin. 

I settle back against the wall and wait for the whispers to fade away into silence, my eyes pressed closed. The sound of shuffling feet against the ground, a quiet murmur of a laugh, the wet sound of lips pressed against lips and rough breaths. For a beat, there is nothing. Another moment before I let my eyes open again, before I shift away from the wall to peer down toward her door.

There are no more golden wings, glowing in the torchlight. She stands alone, fingers lifting up to smooth dark hair back from her forehead, that easy flirt going out of her posture. There are masks around every corner, in this city. No one tells the truth, every opinion is twisted and obscured, intrigue piled on intrigue. It is no wonder that Tumaire knows nothing of how common folk work. They are too direct for him to comprehend.

It takes me a moment to realize that black eyes are locked on me, that there is something angry in her expression. She thinks I have been lurking, spying, and she is not too far off the mark. 

We are at a standstill. I, settled back against the wall at the corner of the hallway, too tired to move or to try to explain myself. She, hovering in the open doorway to her moderate rooms, feigning pride and indignance to cover that edge of fear and uncertainty. She is new to her power, she does not know how to order me over, or how to properly chew me out. 

"What are you staring at." Dull and flat, as she stares down the hall in my direction. Now that she has given up trying to keep young, I can see the shadows under her eyes, the exhaustion in the way she slumps against the doorway. 

It has been a while since I laughed. It comes out as a dry noise, rough and humorless. Finally, I push away from the wall and continue my journey up the hallway. My door is just around the next corner, I can almost feel warm blankets curling up around me - but first I have to get by her, I have to get out from under that steady gaze.

"Hey. I asked you a question." Hand shooting out as I step too close to her door, snatching a hold of my wrist and dragging me back. She realizes too late what a bad idea this is. I am five inches taller than her, even with my slight slump, and am colder, more confident. She has perfected the resentful glower, but it has no effect on me.

"How old are you, Amazilia?" Surprise flashing across her face at the name, she snatches her hand away. She had not expected me to be so calm, or to bite back. Usually the servants play along with her games, smile and patronizingly bow down to her rank. She does not know how to react to one who brazenly meets her eyes and speaks to her by name.

"Twenty, twenty-one? Not older than that, I am sure. And what are you wasting your life on, a King who will never marry you and does not even care about you?" Casually, as I swipe at my arm, where she touched me. As if to brush away any lingering bits of her, any memory. 

"He cares. He does." With a 'but...' in her voice. Perhaps she is not as stupid as I assumed, she does recognize how hopelessly this situation is. At least she knows that she will never be queen, she does not cling to hopeless dreams of love and marriage. She is only playing the game.

"He cares about you as much as he cares about his dogs. But I will let you in on a secret, shall I?" Tonight, I am sick and tired of the intrigue. Power plays and secrets. I want something real to happen, something solid and horrible.

"Something you can use to get just a little closer." A beckoning finger - she leans in obediently, head cocked back and eyes fixed with awe upon my face. She could not be more attentive, she will hang on my every word.

"The Queen is no more faithful to him than he is to her. Wander your way stealthily into the eastern wing, at some point, and you will catch her playing this same game." Lives could be shattered this way. I could ruin the careful balance that is kept here, the delicate arrangement of power. And it feels really good to push that over, I slip away down the hall feeling better than I have in weeks. 

games
"The trick is not just to blend in."

An evening free. The prince is spending tonight eating dinner with his father, dedicating his time to a delicate meeting of feuding nobles and power hungry young men. I am not invited to join them.

"The trick is to blend in without vanishing into the background." My words blurred, muffled around a mouth full of pins. These are the final touches on a careful peasant costume, that of a servant. The Lady Calidris is completing her transformation into simple Cali before my eyes.

She is still too proud and too pretty to be common. Her skin is too smooth, especially on her hands. Hair shines too brilliantly, even in pale light; it curls too wildly down the back of her neck and over her shoulders, despite my attempts to turn it lackluster and flat.

The clothing is perfect, however. I settle the hem of her skirt into place - too short, it seems to be an ill fit - and pull myself up to stand. A smile, at the faint smudges of dirt she has traced delicately across her nose and cheek. I set immediately to adding more, a fine layer of dirt and grime and oily fingerprints to hide that pale, noble skin. 

"I can hardly disappear into a crowd, no matter how hard I try, but that does not mean that people always know I am there." Distant and absentminded. I have been doing this for so long that I cannot see the difficulty in it, or the skill. But there is something strangely wide and awed about her expression, fascinated. It is a look that turns on me far too often, these days.

I pause to smooth the skirts over her hips one more time, to adjust the neck of her shirt, to put everything in order. She tilts her head up and back, a jaunty angle. It is probably meant to be coy, or teasing, or demure - I am not sure, she just comes off looking the way she always has. A mask of noble superiority is all she owns.

"I never tried to blend in; I merely asserted the fact that I did not care what anyone had to say, nor was I a danger." Stepping back to admire my handiwork, the fact that she now looks less noble than I do [except for that gleam in her eyes at the set of her lips, she has to train that out of herself]. 

"So now, it is not that they cannot acknowledge the fact that I am there, or that they overlook me. They merely do not care if I hear what they have to say, or see their clandestine meetings late at night, or if I watch them exchange bribes and bits of gossip. Who would listen to me, anyway?" 

Fingers smooth up through my hair, pulling it back into a neat braid. Then the faintest brush of hand across feathers, attempting to rearrange them, to lose that crumpled and broken look. I have gotten used to shedding my cloak at her door, but I still cannot stand comfortably under her stare. I want to keep them hidden for her sake, so that she does not have to look on and imagine the story, to protect her from her own imagination.

"You know.." Almost timid. I am not sure if she is trying to settle into a role, or if she is honestly uncomfortable As I glance up to her face, it becomes more obvious that this is a game. There is a twinkle in her eyes, something teasing despite her tone.

"For someone who hates intrigue and the games of court life, you certainly are good at them." As she steps forward, fingers at my collar. Pulling me together even as I pull her apart, drag a sleeve down on her arm, crooked, a flash of skin. More dirty fingerprints, down over her collar.

"You...ah. Is there anyone you do not have gossip on?" Her voice has turned a hair breathy, she fumbles over the words as I slide fingers across her throat, leaving dark, dirty lines.

:"Mm. I only know what I need to know. I do not investigate into private affairs unless they affect the public." Pulling back, finishing. I reach for a cloth to wipe my own hands off on. Then I hand it to her, a brief jerk of my chin, almost an order. "Wipe off your face, make it look like you tried to clean up."

It adds just enough color to her skin that she looks worn, that she does not look quite so smooth and noble. It roughens her, steals away some of that porcelain finish, that sense of something not quite real. I prefer her like this. 

"Just dinner, you said? I will take you to the kitchens to eat, we will see if you can pull off keeping your head down and your mouth closed?" Careless, absentminded. She looks mildly hurt - but I do not mean anything by it, and she should know that.

Finally a nod, a brief roll of her shoulders in a shrug that seems vaguely uncomfortable. She wipes dirt from her hands and drops the cloth on her dresser, fingers sliding up to fix her hair - and coming to an awkward halt a moment later, she is supposed to leave it down and a mess.

"This is just a game to you. You are bored, it serves as something to fill the time?" Not so much annoyed with her as vaguely amused. I try not to sound condescending, or angry, but she bridles and turns a frown on me.

"I should know these things. We all should know. If every noble took the time to learn how to blend in with the common people, perhaps they would better understand how to make laws, how to pass judgments. It would be good for us." A holier-than-thou attitude that I want to cut down. I want to tell her that, perhaps, the common folk do not want nobles meddling in their business. Perhaps they prefer privacy. But I bite my tongue.

A pause, in the doorway. Her hand settles on my arm, dragging me to a halt, and she blinks up toward my face. Smile flashing across her lips, head cocked to the side.

"I want you to go to an event with me. A party. It is in three days. We will need to get you appropriate clothing." No question in her tone of whether I will be attending or not. I wonder, vaguely, if this was the whole purpose of tonight's game.

whispers
The truth of the matter is, if this is a game, she is good at it. The second we are out of my rooms she loses some of that cocky edge [though by no means all of it] and settles into something calmer, more demure. I can still see the noble under the bowed head and the sideways glances, but only because I know her.

The King and Queen, the prince, a hand full of close relations and allies and enemies who need wooing eat in the Great Hall at night. The servants cluster in a small room in the back of the kitchen, settling down in ones or twos to chat quietly or snatching food and retreating back to their tiny rooms. We are not important enough for the rich meats and fine meals they consume; ours are more often stews made up of a mixture of old meats and vegetables.

It is not bad, but I can tell she is shocked by the way people settle in the kitchen, clustered in corners to chatter between themselves or dragged away to eat alone against counters. In an hour, they will kick into motion, scuttle out of the room bearing platters of food for the nobles - fine foods they will never in a hundred years get to taste. I can see something in her jaw tense and clench, some righteous indignation. As if she has never eaten dinner with the King.

We settle into the line for stew, her hovering nervously at my right elbow. Sideways glances are cast in her direction, curious and thoughtful. It is not because she has that proud edge, or because of the wealth of hair that curls down her back, or because of her flashing eyes. It is because she is new. And because she is with me.

People have a way of making room before me. No one wants to stand directly beside me, no one ever meets my eyes. They are a superstitious people, and they believe I am a hunchback; perhaps they fear that if they touch me, their own spines will twist and warp, and they too will be cursed. I know that a hand full of them have deemed me death, something about my silence or the fact that I always seem to be wandering the halls at night. Whatever the reason, it does not really bother me.

With bowls full of thick stew in hand, we pull away to an empty corner. It is carefully chosen, near enough to the other groups of people that we can pick up on strains of conversation, even the one that has dropped to a hushed murmur. She wanted to know what this life is like, and now she will find out.

"...just don't like the way he's always sneaking around, y'know? He's so quiet, and...and just downright sneaky. It weirds me out..." I wonder, sometimes, if these people realize that their voices are loud enough to be heard, that I can pick out the meaning behind the words.

"Yeh, well, he's alright. You know, just, go to his room if you're sick, and he'll patch you up. It's like magic..."

My eyes lift to Cali, who is picking at her soup [not actually eating any, merely pushing it around in the bowl] as she attempts to listen to another conversation, one that has been dropped to an even more muted whisper. She is not terribly good at subtlety. I can tell by a flicker of her eyes, by the cock of her head, which people she has her focus on. 

"...not the point. It's all but war. They're trying to get rid of each other. They're gathering allies, and trying so hard to ruin each other. Did you know he yelled at me, yesterday, for wearing a hair ribbon that was in her color?" I believe this is what Cali came here to listen to, to pick up on - strains of murmured conversations about the nobles, things she can use against them. Idle gossip. Dirt.

"It's more than that, though, you know? I don't understand nobles. I mean, they act like they like each other, at events and meals. They're civil. Some people even think they're lovers. But then there's all this backstabbing, these stupid games. If we had that kind of free time, I definitely think I'd use it on something better..." There is blatant surprise on Cali's face, a hint of a flush on her cheeks. As she blinks back up to meet my eyes.

This is not turning out how she intended. She was probably expecting the same kind of court circles as the noble meals, people clustered at tables having conversation that was strained, laced with innuendo. Would you be so kind as to pass the salt? Of course, my dear, we all know how you love your salt. 

A smile flashes across my face at how awkward she looks in here, how surprisingly helpless. I do not think it is more of her act, I do not believe she is doing it intentionally. It is strangely amusing, vaguely endearing. I creep in close enough to her that we can whisper without being overheard, a quiet and private conversation.

"They are not like nobles. What few games they play are direct and hard to misinterpret. They do not spread vicious rumors about each other while smiling pleasantly. Instead they steal and play tricks, they have loud verbal battles that put all their emotions on the table. They fight, and then they fix things, instead of chattering about what is broken."

She blinks up at me, suddenly, surprised by how close I am. Another bright blossom of color comes to her cheeks in a rush as she nods and looks away. Perhaps she is embarrassed by her own games, or her own inability to be this direct and honest. I am not sure.

"We have been here twenty minutes; I believe you get the idea. If you are going to eat your stew, please do so. I would like to leave." As I shift away again, settling back against the wall and peering out at the rest of the servants. I do not like it in here. They cast me too many curious, sideways glances. It is always awkward.

After a moment, Cali actually sets about eating the stew. The rest of the conversations are pointless gossip or the servants bragging about their families. Someone is now a grandmother. Another's daughter was just married to a blacksmith. Tiny victories, and they are so proud of them.

We slip away, back toward my rooms to pull her out of her costume and to wash the grime off her face. It is much easier to put her back into her guise as a noble; it is no longer like trying to force a square peg into a round hole. It fits her.

She lingers for a moment before bidding me goodnight. I think that perhaps there is something else she wants to do or say, but she settles for a dismissive gesture and a shake of her head, a request that we go out into town before the party, so that she can make me respectable. Naturally, I agree. 

tiers
Tumaire's lessons today are on taxes. His teacher, an ancient man with sparse hair and thick whiskers, rambles on about the importance of money in keeping a kingdom running. The prince nods faintly in agreement, staring off into space and drifting away into his imagination, as usual. 

The rambling turns to a rant on peasants and their unwillingness to pay their share. Peasants are simple, he says, they do not understand the importance of contributing to the costs of the country. They are greedy and lazy, and must be forced to give up a percentage of their crops or wares. They are incapable of understanding why. A good King must know how to convince them.

This is not the first time this teacher has gone off on a long rant about the stupidity of the people. He himself is a noble, albeit a low one, who has never done a day of hard labor in his life. He has not lived in a drafty cabin in the woods, he has not needed to wear shoes scraped together from worn out old shirts, he has never lived for months on nothing but potatoes.

This is his way of making his own place in the world more stable and secure. He may be from a freshly noble family, and he may not have much money, may have to work to survive - but at least he is not a peasant. He is still one of the privileged few.

"They're too stupid to realize - " He is taking a wicked pleasure in cutting down people who are worse off than he is, perhaps he believes it proves his own worth. He has been surrounded by nobles for too long, people who look down their noses at him in disdain.

"That is not true." I have never spoken out in here before, I have always left the teacher to do his job. I know that I would not want him interrupting me in the midst of a potion with advice or snide comments. Now, however, I am sick of this, I cannot stand the idea of having a king this ignorant, this prejudiced. I think I have finally started to resign myself to the idea of Tumaire in charge.

"Peasants do not get the same education as you do, but that does not mean they are not as intelligent as yourself." Biting my tongue against some nasty a comment on how little this means. It probably would give the man a heart attack. Though, he and Tumaire already look shocked, turning stares in my direction.

"They are not the problem, you nobles are. Do you even know how taxes work? There are tiers, layers. The king asks the highest level of nobles to collect enough money to maintain the kingdom, and that is fine." Dragging myself up to stand and cross to the expensive piece of slate the man writes upon. I snatch the chalk from nearly limp fingers and begin a careful diagram.

"These higher level nobles either need or want some supplies and currency of their own, to maintain their plots of land and their fat families, so they ask those beneath them to collect more taxes, they bring the percentage up."

The king perches atop my diagram, lines beneath him forking down into the names of half a dozen old noble families, the wealthiest and the most powerful. Each of these splits down into a scattering of lesser noble names, those with new money, those who must pay dues, who only have small towns in their control.

"Again, these lesser families take the sums that the nobles above them request and tag their own fees on. Again, many of these requests are reasonable and fair, but on occasion there are abuses. Payment for parties, for rich food and high entertainment, things that affect only them. They do not think, but pass their numbers down for the magistrates to collect."

I only have met a hand full of tax collectors, in my time, but I fill in what names I know beneath those of the lower nobles. By now, there are fifty names or more on the slate, each of them taking a dip into the pocket of the names beneath them. It is a vicious chain, it makes my voice take on an edge of anger and frustration, despite my best efforts.

"The magistrates need to eat as well, and they assume that no one will know or care what they do, so long as they hand over enough money. They add more to the amount of taxes they are supposed to collect, and pocket the extra."

I finally turn from my mess of names, my many-branched tree, to frown at the pair of them. The teacher has gone near-white with shock and anger. Tumaire is watching me with wide and clear eyes. I think this is the closest attention he has ever paid in class. I would be please with myself, except there is a touch of awe or hero-worship in his face, something I have caught before and which makes me uncomfortable. 

"So the poor peasants end up charged at least twice what the King expects. They hand over the majority of their crops with legitimate complaints, and are left with just enough to survive. On top of this, they have to fight for their festivals and their rare free time. They are not stupid, they are abused." Pitching my chalk down into the sideboard, leaving it for future use. I swipe dust off my hands and blink out at them mildly, waiting for them to recover their sense and their voices.

"Any questions?" Unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice as I lock eyes with the floundering old man. He has shifted more toward fury, now, instead of surprise - but he still does not know how to react, he did not prepare for this.

Tumaire's hand creeps slowly up, a faint smile coming to his lips. He is strangely excited, he has never actually been interested in class before today. And he has never heard me speak out like this before, I am usually careful of what I say.

"Raven? Will you teach me all the time?" Words that make the teacher pale further and lose whatever he had been pulling together, preparing to confront me with.

Abruptly, it seems like a good idea to get out of here, and fast. I shrug my cloak more comfortably into places and nod toward the door. I have blown my cover, I have shown that I am not some simpleton, and now I fear that people will begin to pay attention to me. I can no longer slip past their attention.

"You will have to ask your father, my Prince." Slipping across the room to help him out of his chair. There are ten or fifteen minutes left in his lesson, but I doubt the teacher will have much left to say.

"You look a bit pale, allow me to take you back to your rooms for a break." And quickly I usher him out of the room, leaving the poor old man floundering. I will certainly hear of this again. 

birth
I do not go to Lady Calidris's rooms this evening. Instead I spend the time wandering the gardens, huddled against the harsh chill of the wind, terrified that I will receive a summons from the King, regarding my brief explosion during Tumaire's lesson, or in response to the young Prince's request for me as a new tutor. I have not spoken to him directly since I returned to the palace. I do not know if I would be able to do it.

When I return to my room, there is no angry servant stomping his foot outside my door. There are no stern looks or deep frowns. At first, I do not think there is even a note or a message, a summons. It is strange that neither the teacher nor Tumaire has said anything.

It is not until I am undoing the intricate series of buttons down my back and shrugging off my over shirt that I see the small sheet of paper on my bed. It is cream, a faint off-white edged in black. My name, or rather the name I have assumed, is printed in neat letters on the front. Raven.

My fingers tremble faintly as I pluck it from the center of the bed and slowly unfold it, peering in at the careful note inside. It seems I am not important enough for a summons, or a conversation. It tells me that I will be teaching Tumaire, from now on, in the mornings. It is assumed that I will have no problem with this. I do not know how I feel about it.

But the handwriting is familiar. There is something stiff and forced about it, it comes from the hand of someone who prefers action to planning. The letters are dark and straight, proud. They are the King's.

It is now that I realize I was hoping that I would be summoned into the royal eye. I have been here for months, virtually unnoticed. I have disappeared into the background, I have done everything I was supposed to do. I should be pleased, this is a sign of how capable I am at blending in, despite my differences.

Instead I feel ignored, unsure of my place in the world. It has been a creeping feeling, one settled in the pit of my stomach since long before I took the position as the Prince's physician. Since before I ran off into the woods, before I sprouted wings. 

Here is that young boy again. The age of eleven, now. He has lived his whole life in the vast hallways of the palace, mornings spent in classes and afternoon watching the workings of the court. He participates in ceremonies, he attends parties and celebrations. He sits at his father's right hand.

He is privileged, but sometimes it is hard to tell. There are murmurs all around him, rumors and nasty smiles. People doubt that he will become heir, because he is not legitimate - but what choice does the King have? His wife, the product of a carefully arranged marriage, has proven strangely barren. Something washed out and pale about her, she never quite looks well. Some believe it is poison.

Those sideways glances, the snickers behind his back - he notices them, but they do not bother him, not anymore. The other whispers are the ones that sting. Those who know who his mother truly is, those courtiers who have been confided in. And, most importantly, his father.

He has become accustomed to the word 'bastard,' it is part of his every day life, but the word 'incest' still stings.

Corbin does not mention the boy's mother, and he almost never calls him by name. They hardly ever interact, except for brief, stiff conversations. How are you classes? They are fine, father. Is everything well? Yes father. Neither of them knows how to initiate a conversation beyond that. They have no common ground.

He is privileged, but he is not loved. Any emotions the king might have for him are tainted by the circumstances of his birth, by how similar he looks to his mother. He has her sharp, grey eyes. He has her black curls. He has her poise and her careful movements. He has almost nothing of his father in him. He makes people uncomfortable, but it seems he is their only choice.

This is when his ruin comes kicking and screaming into the world. Twelve years of marriage, no one expected Queen Limosa to give birth to a living, breathing creature. She has had three miscarriages and a stillbirth, each of them has made her more wan and pale, more sick. This time, however, her stomach grows round and a hint of color appears in her cheeks, something healthy. A glimmer of hope slips through.

Six months pass, and she still looks well. The baby's pulse comes strong, he kicks and shifts inside of her. Excitement grows, rumors spread, the palace is abuzz with gossip and hopeful conversations. Everyone has forgotten our boy, struggling so hard to learn everything he can and to grow up into a leader. They do not need him anymore.

A little under nine months and the child slithers out of her, slimy and pink and hideous. The boy is not allowed into the room to see it, but he stands outside in her sitting room and waits, rigid and attentive, for someone to bring it out to show to him. It is his half brother. He should love it, they should be friends. No one remembers him.

The world melts around him, after this. The simple method of doing as he is told - going to classes and court, working as hard as he can - fails him. People forget he is there, or no longer care about him. They do not need him, he is not their only hope.

In a little less than a week, things have calmed down. People are beginning to gather their wits, to think again. They remember he exists, and quickly make plans to get him off their hands. They do not tell him anything, merely pack up his things and send him down the road. It happens so fast that it leaves his head spinning, he does not know how to react. His purpose in life has been stolen away, and he has been cast out alone into the world. 

textures
I do not start teaching right away. The old man is given a few more days before he must return home, leave the job to me. He looks tired and worn, his lower lip quivers as he speaks. I would feel sorry for him, if he were not so prejudiced, so incompetent, if he did not deserve all that he gets.

I have requested, and been granted, this afternoon as free time. I travel the familiar twists and turns to Lady Calidris's chambers, and am met with one of her more winning smiles. She is dressed for traveling outside, for spending time tossed around by the harsh winds. Obviously she was very serious about taking me out for new clothing, something to wear to her party, and there is only one day left.

We slip wordlessly out of the palace and are hurried down into her carriage. She does not ask me any more questions about my past, about my family, about my present, and I am grateful for that. At the moment, everything has settled into a strange kind of calm. I can feel things clicking into place, it is the lull before a storm. Things are going to fall apart, and soon.

I am not sure how she plans on dressing me up. Any clothing I wear must be custom tailored, carved to curl around the twisted bases of my wings, to lay against my back, not-quite-flat. It must have that endless line of buttons, that complicated series of closures. I cannot imagine anyone being able to make it in one day - and, even if they could, I would not want to bare myself like that. My secrets are mine to keep.

"Black and red. You always wear black and red." Soft and distant, as she stares out the window at the streets that slip lazily by. She is still smiling, a faint echo of her previous expression. It is almost smug, she seems entirely too pleased with herself.

"They are physician's colors. People recognize me by them." We are slipping out of the clusters of large homes clustered near to the palace and into the very beginnings of shops and stores, smaller slanted buildings.

She leans forward, head poking out to stop the carriage, and beckons me out through her door. We step into a busy street, full of those people who have enough money to buy expensive clothing, to spend idle afternoons wandering up and down business streets. They are nobles, a variety, ranging from the new to the old families. All of them walk with their noses in the air, paces clipped and attention always focused forward. No one stops to stare, here.

Calidris easily adopts this posture herself, setting one foot in front of the other and sailing quickly down the street. She has an air of determination about her, she is only here to buy what she needs and then to get out. There is no dawdling, she does not even cast a glance back over her shoulder to make sure that I am following, she merely assumes.

I would like to linger, myself. I have not left the palace in months, I have not been in a crowded city in years. I lived too long in the forest to the north; the smell here is different, it is harsher, I am not sure if it is more alive or less so. It is the sharp and sour smell of too many people clustered in one place, of stone and old fires, of horses and old sewage. It is not my decision, however, and instead I am dragged after her.

A bell jingles as she pushes the door to a shop open, nudging it inward with a slight shift of her hip. The store is simple, rolls of cloth standing upright in one corner, an array of every color and every texture I could ever imagine. The other side of the room is a careful arrangement of cloaks, pants, dresses, shirts. Every cut and every style I have ever seen at court.

Her hands slide easily over lush velvet shirts and over shirts, absentminded brushes of fingers over silk pants. She toys with the hem of a dress that crackles between her fingers, easily distracted by the different sensations. I do not see a single garment I can wear, but she seems to have a plan.

It is with some effort, a sigh, that she drags herself away from the corner filled with clothing and toward the woman in charge. This is a matronly woman with a pinched nose and tight lips, who manages a distant cousin of a smile in Lady Calidris's direction. I believe she can smell the money in the air, she recognizes the posture of a noble.

"I have a reserve. Custom made." Astoundingly haughty and in control. Calidris has never spoken like this to me, she does not look down her nose like this. But then, I never nod my head ingratiatingly, I never scurry off quite like this woman does.

I do not ask her what she has on reserve, or when she decided to come down here to have something made for me. I do not dare to ask her why she did it. I already know that she put in the order before she asked me to come to the party; either she was certain I would agree, or she was planning on a gift anyway. Both ideas make me vaguely uncomfortable. I feel strangely like a prized pet.

The woman returns with something black draped over her arms. To my great relief, it is simple, cut almost identically to the worn over shirt I wear every day, except that the black here is not faded away to a dark grey. Only when it is this close can one see the careful red embroidery on the sleeves, down the front. Slim feathers, curled ones, wild in every direction.

Most importantly, she holds it up to display the back, the buttons on the back that she must assume are merely decorative. I pray she assumes they are decorative. It seems like she is about to ask me to try it on, so that she can see how it looks, but a glance from Calidris stops her in her tracks. Instead she smiles and names a price that makes my heart jump and my stomach lurch. 

It is paid quickly and without pause. Such a sum of money is more than I would ever be willing to spend on an over shirt, a pair of pants, but I do not argue. She would say something about looking respectable, about representing her, about the fact that I will be in the public eye.

A box is produced, it is all packed up and settled into her grasp. I do not think one word was offered to me, or one glance cast in my direction - but that is how I like it. We slip out of the store without a single awkward question or uncomfortable moment, and disappear down the street, back toward where the carriage is waiting.

"You will have to come to my chambers to try it on, to make sure everything fits right. I gave her one of your shirts for measurements, so it should sit properly, but it is always best to double check." Now an edge of excitement in her voice, a glitter in her eyes. Amazing how quickly that noble edge fades away.

"Tonight. When we get back, I will try it on for you. You can tell me if it is acceptable or not." Strange how cold that sounds to my ears. There is something bright and cheerful about her face, that fades away at my icy tone. I want the smile back on her face, I want to laugh along with her. I just do not know how. 

preparation
My night is dissolved into the memory of the smug expression on her face as I try on the over shirt and it fits perfectly, the way her eyes glitter as she watches me. It is strange, this is not the kind of clothing that I generally would wear. I usually would be uncomfortable in it, I would feel gaudy and awkward. She seems pleased with it, however, and for some reason that is enough of a reason to wear it. I do not know what to make of this.

In the morning, the palace is abuzz with activity. Servants scurry through the halls, from one room to the other, dragging out tapestries and coat of arms, countless costumes and huge platters. They are digging out the fancy supplies, the party supplies, the things that are used to impress and appease nobles. 

Lessons in the morning are a hectic affair. Tumaire is excited and attempts to act sullen and annoyed at the same time. He pretends he does not want to go to this event, even though he is barely able to sit still, he bounces enthusiastically in his chair.

Lunchtime, the kitchen has exploded into chaos. There are dozens of people coming in and out, there are complicated dishes already being cooked. The meat will take hours, it must be started immediately. The deserts are prepared and put aside, they will be cooked later.

This afternoon's court has been postponed, for obvious reasons, for a few days. Everyone who does not have a job around the house, who has this time free, has retreated off to dress for the event. Hours spent on hair and face powders, on carefully hiding the signs of age. Every event here is a masquerade.

I plan to retreat to my own rooms, for some time alone. I round the corner and stop cold; Amazilia is in the hallway, holding a hushed and angry conversation with one of the servants, a timid young man with wide, deer-like eyes and an edge to him that makes me worry; he is preparing to leap away at any moment, to bound away down the hall and hide in the underbrush.

"I don't really give a shit, honestly, if he wants me there or not. You can tell him I'll be delighted to attend, just like that, polite and nice." It is obvious what her birth was like, where she was raised, what her background is. Her family may have money now, but they did not always. She is a noble, but not noble.

The poor young man, wide eyed, bobs his head in a nod and dashes away down the hall. He will deliver her message in a stammer, likely be yelled at on the other end for the bad news there, as well. As if it is his fault.

"You should not punish the messenger." A hiss, casual, as I wander past her. Her head jerks up and she turns that vicious, accusing frown on me - she must assume that I have been lurking again, intentionally listening in on her conversation. For some reason she assumes I care what happens in her life.

"King's advisor told me it wasn't wise to invite me to the party, and that he strongly suggested I don't come." Something sing-song in that tone. She is mocking, she is quoting him, still frowning deeply up at my face. She is pretty, when she smiles and pastes on that coy expression, but when she glares like this, she loses her beauty and merely looks angry.

"I think he's afraid I'd make a scene or something. And, what? Telling me to stay hidden away in my chambers is going to make me less likely to spill the King's secrets? Not very likely." It occurs to me that she is nothing more than a petulant child, scowling and wanting and never worrying about the consequences of her actions.

"Obviously not. Allow me to guess. You plan on going to the party and making a scene, to show them that you would not go to the party and make a scene." Tone dry and drawling. I have paused to speak with her, settled with hands in my pockets and eyes locked intently on her face. I would love to see her bite back, to be bright enough to come up with an appropriate response.

Instead she flounders, mouth opening and closing, and glares at me. Her displeasure is not expressed in elegant words, or even in a snapped, nasty comment. Instead it comes in a gesture, something rude and direct, before she turns around and disappears back into her room with a slam of her door. I can imagine her throwing things around and throwing a tantrum in there, one that no one can see.

When wandering steps finally bring my back into my own room, I find the Prince perched on my bed, blinking up at me expectantly. For a moment, I am too surprised to react. He has never been in here, before, he has never taken the time to come wandering down the hall to find me. He has always sent a servant to do it for him, and has had me ushered back to him.

"I, um. I need help getting ready, and no one knew where you were." One of his legs is dragged up onto the bed, hugged against his chest. He seems strangely uncomfortable, he doesn't have that same indifferent air about him. He is too intense and excited, watching me with wide eyes.

"You could have left me a note. You did not have to come all the way out here." Equally uncomfortable. I pull my cloak carefully back into place and stare down at him, not quite sure how to deal with this strange situation. After a long minute, I blink away from him and toward the door, avoiding that fascinated and attentive stare.

"Do you want me to go back to your room with you? Are there clothes there for you?" Uncertainty can be tasted in my voice. This situation makes me fidget, it makes my stomach flip and my head buzz. I do not like the fact that he is in my room, invading my private space and coloring it. And I am afraid there will be something, somewhere, that will give me away to him. 

"There are a couple changes of clothing, and they are all nice, and I do not know which one is best. Will you come help me decide?" Fidgeting on my bed, weight shifting to one side and then the other, lower lip dragged nervously between his lips. I have never seen him quite this edgy, he has never had this much energy.

When I agree, he hurries away down the hall and to his rooms with me in tow; shows me the four changes of clothing that have been spread out neatly on his bed. It takes me a moment to figure out why they seem so familiar and so disconcerting - they are all red and black, my colors. Is he trying to mimic me, or mock me?

"You should wear blue, I think." Frantic to fix this, to make sure he does not grow too attached to me, that he does not trust me too much. The closer he is to me, the more he will want to know, and I hate lying.

There is a touch of disappointment in his face, but he must be able to read something in my expression. A glance from the clothing to me and back again before he nods. The movement is almost reluctant, and his lips shift into a faint pout. For once, I do not mind. I would far rather he sulked than emulated me.

From here, it is easy to get him dressed and ready. Blue and black clothing, a long over shirt embroidered in gold. Those long lines of buttons up his back, around golden wings. He looks much better than this than he would ever look in my colors. This is what he was designed for.

I make sure that he has something on hand for if those aches and shooting pains kick in at some point during the party. I will be there, but he does have an image to keep, and it would be best if he did not have me treating him in the public eye. It seems to me that he searches madly for any excuse to keep me around longer, ranging from help with his hair to a small injury on the side of one arm, but I am finally able to escape out of his rooms and back out into the draft of the hall.

Now, of course, I must return to my own rooms, and pull myself together. There will be no intricate hairstyles for me, no difficult clothing choices. I will instead deliver myself into Lady Calidris's capable hands, allow her to do what is necessary. She knows better than I what is appropriate and what is not - and I like watching her smile, some small part of me rejoices when she is happy. 

party
I have been to a few common parties in my time. They are rowdy affairs with alcohol and heavy food, loud songs and jokes and conversations. People cluster around tables and have conversations that occasionally explode into uproarious laughter. Voices rise into loud and joyous songs, enjoying their moment of prosperity and freedom. There are contests, arm wrestling and dancing and storytelling. Everyone is relaxed and content.

Noble parties are nothing like this. No one settles back and relaxes, there are no overfilling glasses and greasy foods. Any dances are tight and stiff and carefully organized affairs, slow movements of feet and straight backs, minimal contact between people. Those laughing, clustered conversations are replaced by lounging nobles at tables, watching and calculating and gossiping. All music comes from the bards, quiet and tame.

I was never comfortable in those common festivals. I could not settle into the easy flow of the events, I could never settle into quick and energetic dances or tell loud jokes of questionable taste. I could not bare myself and disappear into their conversations, I was not suited for their games.

This is even worse. I sit at the high table, at Lady Calidris's right hand, listening to her make idle conversation with an ingratiating young man across the table. She laughs, a flat and toneless sound, at some quiet joke. I seethe inwardly with some unfamiliar emotion and look away from the pair of them.

There are eyes locked on me. Strangers who view me as an outsider, who wonder how I managed to wriggle my way into this event. Servants who slither past with trays laden with food, who make sure glasses are kept full, give me glances that almost seem betrayed. And, of course, near the end of the table, the pale blue eyes of the Prince narrowed in accusation.

I feel as if no one wants me here. Somewhere between common and noble, I am too high in rank to settle into the role of servant or to provide entertainment, but also too low to be seated at the main table. My two allies are of no use. Lady Calidris is too busy with the affairs of court, plotting and manipulating, and there is something dark in Tumaire's expression. He is angry with me. I do not know why.

That creeping, twitching sensation that creeps up the spine and makes shoulders set rigidly is just starting to set in. There is a foul taste in the back of my mouth that no amount of wine can wash away, and I have already had enough. Calidris has not looked at me once all night, it seems having me there as her escort is enough. She just wanted to drag me out and put me on display.

This is when Amazilia arrives. Her costume is not the elaborate, over-done neck to ankle outfits most of the women here wear, there is nothing elegant and proper about her appearance. Instead she has slithered into something slinky and simple, something cut low enough to flash a pale expanse of chest, high enough to show off the curve of her legs. Hair is down, wild and dark about her face, and her lips are brilliantly red. If she is going to be the King's mistress, it seems, she is going to look the part.

She does not steal the attention of the entire room, but almost immediately I can feel eyes shifting away from me and onto her. That hatred is diverted, that disgust and frustration. I am not the abomination here anymore, I am quiet and unobtrusive - she is the one who comes sauntering into the hall with a provocative twist of her hips. The men cannot look away. The women are jealous. The King is furious.

No one else will understand the slight set of Corbin's jaw, the narrowing in his eyes. It is a muted fury, it takes a friend or an advisor or a son to recognize the danger in the slight roll of one hand. He blinks mildly from her, up to his right hand man, and then to his wife. Eyes lock briefly down upon Tumaire, who merely looks puzzled, and for a heart-jerking second I believe they fix on me.

Amazilia has sauntered her way across the center of the floor, navigating smoothly through the interrupted dance, offering a smile at several of the bards, who immediately kick back into song. They are payed to fill the room with music, and they know how to ignore drama. Her swaying steps have brought her to the lower of the noble tables, to claim her empty seat. People settle back into their conversations and pretend not to watch her out of the corners of their eyes.

At the moment, she is relatively safe, but she has set a snare and any little nudge could set her off. If I were in the King's position, I would let her be, try to ignore her. I can read the look in her eyes - she wants to be pushed, she wants an excuse to make a scene. She has tricks up her sleeve.

Corbin is too hot-tempered to sit idly by, however. He watches her with a dark frown on his lips, something moody, I can imagine him seething over the fact that she disobeyed an order. This is the realization that he does not have as much control over her as he believed, and it is as much fear as anger.

The King's advisor is a man by the name of Rallus. Tall and thin, with a sharp nose and sharper eyes, with a frayed around the edges appearance. He is the one who deals with all the dirty work, the things no one else wants to touch. Right now, he is the one who settles into place behind Amazilia and sets a hand on her shoulder, whispering something in her ear.

I do not know how conversation can continue at that same unhurried pace, how people can stay involved in each other. I can almost taste the air changed as her expression shifts from mild and vaguely curious to something nastier. She is suddenly smug, she was waiting for this.

"You think I should leave? Why?" Voice pitched just loud enough that the surrounding tables can hear the edge of indignance, that she can interrupt conversation. Rallus whispers something else, too soft to pick up on, and she cocks her head to the side. Feigned innocence on her face.

"Everyone who is anyone is here, I don't want to miss out on my chance to meet people." Looking up toward the King, whose eyes are still flashing dangerously, whose fingertips are tapping out a slow pattern on the table in front of him. His hand twitches and clenches, I think he is beginning to realize that this was not the best idea.

Amazilia's eyes narrow at another soft whisper in her ear. Slowly and dramatically, she pushes her chair back and rises to stand, looking indignant. Injured. She is quite an actress, I like her better when she has a touch of power in hand. 

"He doesn't want me? He's never been bothered by my low stature before." Quickly accelerating this into a scene, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. She is beginning to look like the abused as opposed to the one in control, she is making him look bad. Rallus's soft voice is frantic, panicking, he is rapidly losing control of this situation.

"I'm not some ignorant peasant girl, you know. I have rank, status. He can't just sleep with me and treat me like common trash." Trump card. That strikes a nerve in half of the people here, those who fear the power the King has over them, who are always searching for more power. A dozen or more minds store the information away for further use.

"Well, fine, he doesn't want me here, then I'll leave. Quietly and peacefully, because he can turn his status on me and banish me from his presence." Eyes flashing and a smug smile touching her lips as she shoves past Rallus and sweeps elegantly, carefully from the hall. 

This was designed, it was probably rehearsed. It did not shock me, but the nobles are left with wide eyes, blinking after her. The Queen is pale and silent. Corbin still boils with anger, eyes flashing a challenge to everyone else in the room. No one speaks out against the King, not ever, and now there are seeds of rebellion planted in every one of the nobles. If he takes action, they will accuse him of being too strict; if he takes none, they will know they can get away with going against his wishes. His hold on them has begun to decay, and it can only get worse from here. 

party two
There is one of those moments of dead, flat silence. Then chittering whispers, darkly amused, begin to spread like wildfire. The Queen drags herself up to stand, sweeping her skirts elegantly about her, and makes a dignified exit. Who can blame her?

The music kicks into something lighter and more decidedly cheerful. Gradually, conversations kick back into action and people slip out to dance. I can taste tension in the air, people forcing upbeat attitudes and energy. Their minds are racing, they take a petty kind of delight in the King's discomfort, the fact that he is glowering at the head of his table.

"Dance with me." An order, as opposed to a request. Calidris's hand has settled upon my arm; the young man she has been conversing with is gone, disappearing out onto the floor with a rosy-cheeked young woman in tow. 

I want to refuse her. I have not danced in over a decade, and I am not sure I can pull it off without losing my cloak and spilling my secrets. And I do not like the fact that I am her final resort, that I am giving her something to do, that she comes to me when all other options have wandered away. She does not give me a choice, however - she tugs insistently on my arm, dragging me out into the careful line dance, settling into place opposite me.

Once again, I am the stranger and the outsider. I feel awkward on the floor, standing out in simple black clothing. I am not as carefully done up as the rest of the nobles, I feel drab in comparison. A crow nested in among the peacocks.

"You look like you are at a funeral. At least pretend to enjoy yourself. For my sake?" A murmur in my ear, as the line moves into synchronized motion and she steps in close against me. I must be frowning intently, trying to mask nerves with indifference and struggling to figure out why I suddenly care what all these strangers think.

I try to smile and relax, for her if nothing else, but it is hard. Especially when I glance up and catch a number of eyes on us, when I blink over and meet a steady, angry stare from Tumaire. I wonder if that is directed at me, but why should it be? It is more likely a lingering reaction to Amazilia's scene, it is spill over from his father's bad humor.

The dance is long and lingering. It continues, after I am tired of it and ready to sit down. A dull ache has settled into the small of my back, and the cloak feels far too heavy over the dead weight of ruined wings. The stares from the sidelines make it feel heavier still. I realize now that, while I was careful to give the Prince his potion, I forgot to down one of my own. 

I feel like an invalid, limping to a halt and wincing as I bow the end of the dance. Her expression shifts to something I think is concern, she makes it worse by reaching out to support me and lead my back away toward our table, our seats. I can tell she feels guilty, responsible, and I want to explain that I know it is not her fault, but I do not know how.

We settle down into our chairs and I attempt to ignore the stab of pain and at lea st look comfortable. Her hand is still settled gently against my arm, and it helps. The touch is oddly electric, I imagine I can feel every swirl in her fingertips. People do not touch me often.

"Do they always hurt? Yours seem to, and the Prince's, and you said your mother..." Tone soft, fading out into nothing. There is no one near enough to listen in, but she still keeps her voice soft and this a quiet secret between us.

"Healthy wings do not hurt. Our bone structure is supposed to be different, our muscles develop differently," I hate how pained I still sound, how gritty my voice has become. I do not want to seem this weak in front of her. Clearing my throat, hoping to drive it back into something solid and steady, I shake my head and lift one shoulder in a tiny shrug.

"Mine are not healthy, nor were my mother's." A flat laugh, shuddering, escapes between my teeth and I immediately look away from her, toward the door. I consider getting up and retreating to the comfort of my rooms and a sleeping drought. When I turn back to face her, an apology and a request to be excused on my lips, I realize she is staring at the Prince in thought and confusion.

"And him? They are stunning, they look healthy, but everyone knows that there is something wrong with him." I follower her eyes to blink at Tumaire, and it takes me a moment to realize that he is watching us out of the corner of his eye, he has noticed our attentions. It is too late to pretend we have been watching something else, now, so I do not bother trying.

I let her question hang in the air for a moment, struggling to find some answer that will not break the oaths of secrecy I have taken, the promises made to my King and country. Those wings were designed to be stunning and flawless, to keep people from noticing that they sprouted a full two years later than they should have, that they grew in too fast and too large.

"He...he is built the same way you are. His bones are not arranged properly to support them." Vague enough that it does not give away the secret. Years of designing, of leafing through forbidden texts. Wings build from feather and bone, given life through blood and magic. The process itself is treason on a high level, even when performed by a King; the incantations used are punishable by exile, or worse. It took months to graft them to the Prince's spine and shoulders, but it was worth the effort.

"Ask me later, I will explain as much as I am allowed. For now, go dance, I will be fine on my own." Her mouth is opened, prepared to ask another question, but she can read my expression well enough to realize that I can take care of myself. I just need some time to breath, or an opportunity to escape, and she allows me to have it. 

party three
I am alone for a few minutes, the party whirring around me, the conversation getting louder and more energetic as people consume more wine and more food. I linger, instead of ducking immediately out the door, because Calidris is still watching me. If I make any move, she will be back in a second to stop me, to drag me back down into a chair for more conversation. She really wants me here tonight, for some reason.

Just as she is looking away, just as I have the opportunity to dart for the door and away from this mess, a quiet hand settles on my shoulder and the Prince sinks down to sit beside me. He is smiling a wide smile, but there is something tense and strained about it. He has an air of forced civility about him; he is restraining himself, there is something nasty and angry buried below the surface.

"Raven? You did not tell me you would be here, tonight." Absentminded conversation, but I can taste the accusation beneath the words. It is frustrating, it makes me want to put him in his place. I do not have to tell him my plans, I have every right to keep my secrets. I can feel my lips pressing into a tight line and am careful to keep my own tone neutral, not to look him in the eye.

"I was not sure I was coming." Mostly true. True enough that I am not lying. I stare moodily out at Calidris on the dance floor, watching her laugh at something her partner says and settle into a spin beside him. Despite all my arguing that I do not dance, abruptly I wish I were out there with her. 

I can feel Tumaire's eyes on me, I can feel the way he shifts in his chair, the way he fights for words. We have never had long conversations, or any conversations outside of his lessons and midnight visits to soothe away pain, to put him to sleep. We have no common ground, that he knows of, and nothing to share.

"Who is that woman?" Tone starting to settle into something familiar. It takes me a moment to register the emotion: jealousy. A slow, startled blink and I look in his direction - now he is staring away from me, out at the dance floor, where Calidris has paused to fix her skirts before the next dance, looking flushed and excited and beautiful.

"You should know, my Prince. Lady Calidris is one of the wealthiest and most influential of your nobles, someone you most definitely want as an ally." Not quite able to keep a condescending edge out of my voice. I do not like the way he is meddling in my personal affairs.

Another moment passes between us. His cheeks have gone red, though I cannot tell if it is from anger or from embarrassment. He would quite like to chastise me, to put me in my place, but knows very well that I am right. It only makes things that much worse. Finally he shifts in place, lips now set into a tight line, and glowers at me.

"You were talking about me, with her. I could tell, I could see you. What were you saying?" Thin arms fold across his chest, smoothing his over shirt down into place. It is blue; it is the one I dragged out of his closet, it is the one I told him to wear. This is not entirely reassuring, I do not know why it worries me.

"She inquired as to your health." Blinking away, out onto the dance floor. The dancing has paused for a moment, but Calidris is not returning to the table. I want her desperately back here, to save me from this line of questioning, but instead she settles down beside her dance partner, still chattering quickly and excitedly. She is having more fun with him than she had with me.

"And? And what did you tell her, Raven." Exasperated, as if I am the petulant child and he calm and in control of himself. As if he has a right to know every detail about me, as if I am not allowed to have a life outside of his hands.

"The truth." No more. I cannot sit here for any longer without snapping at him, or smacking him again. He never changes. He is sixteen, but he still acts twelve. I wonder if he will ever grow up.

I push myself out of my chair, wincing slightly at that dull ache between my shoulders and down my spine. Perhaps it is not something physical, but an edge of memory, a symptom of thinking too much. Either way, I am sure sleep would make it go away, a long night's rest and time. 

"You are avoiding giving me a straight answer. Did you tell her something you should not have? Or...or were you talking about something else entirely?" He is on his feet in a second, starting to reach for my arm to pull me back, but obviously thinking better of it. Instead fingers clutch into fists at his sides, voice rising just a hair. 

"Where are you going? Stay." Accented with a little stomp of his foot. He is loud enough to attract the eyes of a few neighbors, but still personal enough that it does not capture the attention of the whole room. Some part of me wants to keep this from turning into a scene, but mostly I rebel at that sharp order.

"No. I am going to go back to my rooms. I am not a peasant, nor am I a dog, I will not obey idiotic and juvenile orders from a spoiled young prince." Soft and hissing, for his ears only. I would take a step closer, I would intimidate him into backing down, except that there are still several pairs of eyes on us. It is bad enough that he pales and then flushes, fumbles for a retort.

I have half-turned away from him when he finally recovers, I have taken a step away toward the door. I can feel his hand settle against my side, fingers catching up in the cloth of my cloak, an attempt to pull me back, and something snaps inside of me. I cannot explain what comes over me. I know that I must turn back to face him, to keep that cloak on my shoulders and my secret my own.

I am winning, right now. I have power, in my hands. I have Lady Calidris on my side of things, she is my ally. I am to be the Prince's teacher, I can carefully explain to him the difference between the way things always have been done and the way they should be done. I have knowledge of the King's treason as a tool, should I ever need it. Things are all going the way I wanted them to, everything is right.

But there is that something snapping. Instead of pivoting back around to face him and bearing the brunt of that temper, I let the cloth slide away into his hands. Cool air shivers over broken feathers and bent bones; the sight steals words out of his mouth and turns his expression to something stunned, shocked and silent.

There are too many eyes upon us, now. A young couple off to one side, curious and wide-eyed. Calidris's attention has shifted back onto us, her expression one of concern, she has half-raised out of her chair. A blur of nobles and rich cloths. And Corbin, the King and my father, focuses the brunt of his lingering anger and frustration on me. I will have to pay for this dearly. I wonder if he recognizes me.

It takes me a while to register that things have kicked into motion, that there is noise all around me. A buzz of conversation, a betrayed young Prince. Lady Calidris struggling to get across the room to help me, but it is impossible. A hand clamps down on my elbow and I realize I have had far too much wine, that I ache too much, that it is too hot in here. Everything fades out into an explosion of stars. 

irrational
I am awake for ten minutes, blissfully aware of the fact that Tumaire has no classes today and I do not need to get out of bed for a few mor hours, before the strangeness of the room starts to get to me. I should be spread out in the small bed in my drafty room, not sprawled sideways in an unfamiliar chair. Somewhere surprisingly warm and comfortable, except for my bent position.

Wings are bared to the open air; this is what brings the party and my stupidity coming back to me in a rush. They have not given me back my cloak, and i do not know if that is a good thing or a bad thing. I would be more comfortable with it on, if only because I hate the sight of those bend feathers, the feeling of a draft stirring through them.

Something is settled cold about my wrist. It is a heavy weight, dragging my hand down against the arm of the chair, pinning me there, keeping me from slipping off. There are no guards around me, no hawk like eyes and angry attention, but a quick pull on the cuff and a rattle of chains makes it very clear that I am not going anywhere. I tricked every noble in the city, and now I imagine they are angry. 

Where am I? the room is swathed in deep colors, purple and black and rich royal blue. It is huge, a good three times the size of my chambers, and I can see another room off to the side and through a doorway. There are soft voices coming from that direction, too quiet to be recognizable or for me to pick out words, but I believe I can guess who at least one of them is. There is something deep and familiar about that tone.

My mouth tastes thick and cottony. I try to swallow, to summon the courage to call out and coax someone out into the room. I do not like to be alone, waiting for another person to pan my future for me again, I do not like being left out of the loop. I do not like the secretive way they whisper back and forth in the other room, or the fact that they have forgotten me here.

"Is anyone there?" Rough and harsh, even to my own ears. I sound so close to panic, so young and abandoned. I feel twelve again, forgotten and sent away into unfriendly hands. I wonder if my expression has shifted toward something equally nervous and excitable, and try to school myself toward calm.

The voices have puttered to a halt, but no one comes slinking through the door to check on me. I can imagine their heads lifting, perhaps I can hear someone whisper a question [did you hear that?] and a deep response I clear my throat, an attempt to recapture my voice, but my throat still feels rough and harsh. I need water.

"I can hear you talking." Somewhere between an accusation and a plea. I want it to be sharp and unforgiving, I want to sound like the young Prince when he carelessly orders people around and assumes they will obey, making them feel like monsters when they do not. I cannot quite pull off that tone.

A scuffing noise, someone rising up out of a chair and moving across the soft rug. It is a matter of seconds before he appears in the doorway, tall and strong and golden. Of course these are Corbin's chambers; no one else would have curtains this richly violet, or a backless chair designed carefully for someone with wings.

Not a word out of his mouth. He stands in the doorway glaring in at me, lips set into a line that is tight and angry, challenging. It makes my stomach leap up into my throat, drives away any confidence I have in myself and transforms me back into his young and disobedient child. I have never gotten over my awe of him, he will always be intimidating to me.

More slow steps, picking his way across the room to come to rest in front of me. Even barefooted and dressed in simple clothing, as op posed to elegant court costumes, he looks regal. It is something in the way he holds himself, or the expression on his face, or the huge, golden wings sprouting from his shoulders. It is the solemn way he stares down at me.

A hand settles under my chin, tilting my face up toward him, to meet flashing blue eyes. Absently, he swipes several strands of hair out of my face and behind my ear. There is something thoughtful and familiar about it. He recognizes me.

"You look like your mother." Hard to read tone of voice. I cannot tell if he is angry or exasperated or if he honestly does not care. But I do not like the way he studies me, takes me in, compares and judges. I would look away, but those fingers are too tight about my jaw. 

"You tickled something familiar in my mind, when you first arrived, but I passed it off as my imagination or as paranoia. I thought there was something sneaky or underhanded about you." Finally releasing me and shifting in place, arms folding across his chest. He looks severe and disapproving. I cannot meet his eyes any more, I look away toward the door, wondering who he was talking to in there.

"It seems you really have taken after her. You come sneaking into my palace, you spend time with my son, who knows what else you have done to him." Touched with anger, now, He speaks as if I am a dangerous criminal, as if his trust has been betrayed. The fact that he refers to Tumaire as his son, but treats me as a stranger, drags my head back up and summons that dull burst of passion, frustration.

"Why did you lie to us, Corbett? Why did you come in with a false name and story, when you could have just come to me? What were you trying to achieve?" Sarcastic and condescending. He treats me the same as he did when I was young, he still expresses no interest in me until I do something wrong.

I assume he is going to continue his rant, I do not think he truly wants an answer - but the moment fades into silence, and when I blink up to his face there is something exaggeratedly patient on his face. He is waiting for me to respond. Anger bubbles again, my lips twitch into a frown and words spring unbidden to my lips.

"Who are you to lecture me on rational behavior? The last time I was in the palace was when I was twelve, and you were packing me up with every garment and every book I owned, delivering me into the hands of half a dozen heartless priests and...and to her..." Tugging on that cuff again. I have a sudden urge to stand up and storm out of the room. 

One of his eyebrows twitches upward, lips curve into a smile that is vaguely amused, as if he is merely humoring me. He casually disregards that as too emotional to be serious, rolling his shoulders in a slow shrug. When he shakes his head and makes little of me like this, even I have a hard time believing what I have to say.

"No. No, do not shrug this off. You pretend that you sent me away for my own good, or for the good of the country, but you know that is not true. You did not want me; you were ashamed of me and of yourself, and you were afraid of what it all meant. Why would I want to come back here to face more sideways glances and snickers, more thin-lipped glances from you? Especially while that creation of yours, that spoiled brat, is in line to be King." Not mentioning the fact that I do not want Altair to know where I am, that I am terrified of her coming to find me and turning me against him. I let this boiling rage, this anger of more than a decade, boil over instead.

He has gone silent and still. I realize that it is a mistake to bring up the topic of Tumaire half a beat after the words escape past my lips; but by then it is too late. Corbin looks furious, expression cold and posture rigid. I let my eyes wander toward that doorway, the other room, and I am suddenly overcome with the certainty that the young Prince is in there and that he has heard every word.

I am not given time to apologize, or retract. He is too furious to settle into a calm line of questioning, or even to stay around and speak to me. I take it as a good sign that he bites his tongue at all, that he does not cut into me, pick me apart. Although, as I am left alone again, I wish that I had some company, even be it angry. 

unmasking
I have no idea how long it has been. Hours, perhaps, nearly a day. Light was shining brightly through the windows, at one point, but I this was when they dragged me out of the King's chambers and into a nearby room. They are taking a ridiculous number of precautions against my escape, as if I am a rabid murderer as opposed to a prince in disguise. Corbin still lacks sense and turns first to his emotions for solutions.

A door slamming knocks me out of another sideways, uncomfortable sleep. I must have nodded off, again, I am too tired to stay awake and worry. It is out of my hands, anyway - nothing I could possibly say would change anyone's opinion at this point, I have lost all my allies but one.

Dazedly, I lift my head and blink away toward the door. I am expecting another guard, to wrestle me away to another room, to keep me from getting too comfortable. It could be the King, preparing to berate me for my mistakes and my cowardice. Or perhaps Lady Calidris, come to help me wriggle my way free of the situation, to come rushing to my aid. 

The pale and washed-out face of the prince comes as a surprise, partly because I expect him to be too angry or upset to come visit me and partly because he looks so unwell. I manage to drag myself up straight in my chair, at attention, arm rattling the chain about my wrist again. He needs a potion, or a salve, to drive away that throbbing pain and to unknot tense muscles.

He stands awkwardly, just inside the door, and stares at me with wide eyes. He is shocked at my appearance, perhaps, he still cannot get over the mess sprouting from my shoulders. I would do anything for my cloak, now that he is in the room, to hide my wings from his sight and to keep that expression off his face. It is disgust, or pity, or concern, I am not sure.

"My...Tum...you need a potion." Unable to bring myself to call him 'my Prince,' now that nearly half the court must know who I am, and what our relation is. My eyes flash down to the metal about my wrist, something of an apology or an explanation. I feel guilty for being caught up in this, I want to help him. It is my duty.

"My father says I should not take anything from you. You will do something to me. Poison it, perhaps." Almost a plea. He wants me to apologize, to prove the King wrong, to put things back the way they were. He does not want to deal with a stranger, or the fact that I have been lying to him since I arrived. He just wants Raven back, to help him with lessons and to dress and to sooth away those aches and pains. 

But I cannot pull the wings back into my body, I cannot erase the memories of several dozen nobles. I linger too much on what could have been and what should have been, already. I do not push forward enough, force new events. I blink away from him, back down to the cuff about my wrist, willing it away.

"Who are you, then?" Trying to reclaim his voice and to straighten, to pull a regal air about himself. It contrasts with the slight bend in his body, the way he winces and pales further, the fact that he can barely hold himself up straight.

"He did not tell you?" I cannot help but be surprised, my head jerking back up. Here I had been thinking the King and Tumaire had been in quiet conversation, that the Prince had been listening in on our argument. He does not even know who I am, there have been no horror stories. I may yet be able to win another ally.

"He does not tell me anything. I am too young, he says, or else he does not even say that much." With an absentminded shrug. He is used to being ignored and left out of the loop. People have assumed that he did not care so often that he has stopped caring, he no longer fights for their attentions.

I need a moment to gather myself, to come up with the best way to tell the story. It hurts to spill any information about her, it hurts to think about her, but he does have a right to know. And if I do not tell, how can I sway him to my side, coax him into helping?

"The King and Queen were betrothed, it was not a matter of love. My mother tells the story this way, and I cannot guarantee that it is the truth, but it explains well enough. She starts with the memory of the celebration of their engagement, of the signing of treaties that settle their futures. She is always careful to mention that the King was nervous, that he had had a bit too much to drink." Words are reluctant and slow. I know that he is old enough to understand, in theory, but he still looks so young, and acts so young.

"She was there in disguise. It...it was an illusion, it changed her almost completely. He had no way of knowing it was her, and he was in his drink and she was willing. It was his last night of freedom, so he took advantage of it and her, pulling her back to his chambers." This is indelicate, it tastes unpleasant in my mouth. Tumaire has taken several creeping steps inward, slipped down to kneel at my feet, uncomfortable but attentive.

"He was too young and naive to worry about bastard children, and she knew exactly what she was getting into. There were no precautions, no second thoughts. He wanted, so he took - that is the way he has always worked, and continues to work. Except it backfired on him, he woke in the morning and found himself in bed beside a dark-haired young woman with twin crescent scars on her back, as opposed to the buxom blond maid he had taken to bed."

The Prince is still too uncomfortable with the idea of his father bedding anyone for that to register. Lips twitch into a frown and he blinks up at me, unsure what to make of my expectant expression. I am about to give him a goad, a coax, when I see the light go on his eyes, and the shock flicker across his face.

"But there have only been two people in all of history who have committed crimes resulting in the loss of their wings. The first died a little less than a century ago, and the other is his sister." Sickened and surprised, not quite willing to deal with this, he wants me to tell him he is wrong and explain it differently. I cannot.

"His sister, my mother; and if you had never been born, I would be the one preparing to be named heir on my eighteenth birthday. That is why he thinks I am dangerous to you, and why he warns you off." Sighed, as I try to relax back against the chair, to find some comfortable position. My back aches and my arm aches, my shoulders, from the lack of movement. I could use a potion myself.

"Tumaire, go to my rooms and find my kit. If you bring it in here, I will try to mix something up to deal with your aches. I will even take some of it, first, just to prove to you that it is not poisoned." An edge of exasperation creeping into my voice at the end. The idea of poisoning him now is ridiculous. If I have not done it so far, why would I do it now, with nothing to gain from it?

I expect some argument from him, or some flash of uncertainty, but he merely nods and drags himself up to stand. Wavering on his feet, struggling with his balance, it takes some effort for him to get across the room and to the door. He is still absorbed in thought, I suppose, too shocked and concerned to concentrate on anything else.

He pauses, just as he is about to step out of the room, to blink back at me and frown his disapproval. For a split second, it strikes me just how much he is like his father in that haughty expression. He cannot make people feel quite as small, he is not as effective as the King, but I can taste the potential. It merely needs to be honed.

"I am trusting you, but do not expect anyone else to. You lied. We trusted you and you lied." Gone before I can respond, try to defend myself - and that is best, really. I cannot come up with any way to defend myself against that. 

goad
The pain potion makes time pass more quickly, in a blur. At one point they bring me food, something dull and tasteless and familiar which I eat sluggishly. No one comes in to visit me, or to check on me. They have no need to.

I am beginning to grow restless, nervous, I would like to know what they are planning for me. I would like a chance to defend myself against someone sensible, who will not get so emotional and so angry. I would like for Calidris to come visit, to explain things to to the king of the young prince or to me. I would just like for something conclusive to happen.

It is a game, perhaps. A test. They are waiting for me to become so panicked and sick of this that I will agree to anything. I do not want to crumble and gave in, but at the moment I want nothing more than to wash, to escape outside into the sun and the winds, to see something beyond these four walls. It has been nearly two days.

A jingle of keys, the click of the door. It opens as I tilt my head back and around, and I am met with the sight of tight lipped Rallus, flanked by a broad shouldered young woman. He looks like he would very much like to be anywhere else, as if this is some distasteful task he is being forced to perform. Corbin has probably sent him to win more information from me, or to deliver bad news.

He is turning the keys in his hand as he steps in beside me, searching slowly and carefully through them. Taking his time about it, steeling himself in preparation - I believe he is going to release me, and I sit up straight in my chair, attentive as he finally finds the key and lifts his head to meet my questioning stare. There is something sharp and furious about his expression, as if I have wronged him deeply.

"We are going to uncuff you and move you out to the conference room. This way, you will only have to tell your story once, and everyone will hear." Not moving to actually unlock the heavy cuff about my wrist, not yet. He lets the keys dangle from one hand, a threat or a promise, a warning to be good. 

"If you attempt to run off, or make a scene - "

"I will not." Coming out sharper than I intended, it is snapped and annoyed, a sign of how frayed around the edges I am. They are all treating me as if I am a rabid animal, or as if I have no common sense. I know how to take care of myself, how to plot successful strategies, when is the best time and place to act out. And I have no reason to run off - I have not done anything wrong.

His jaw sets and clenches, his eyes narrowing slightly. He does not like my tone, but it is not his duty to make me polite or calm, his job is merely to drag me out and to make me talk. All the same, he looks meaningfully back to the guard behind him before leaning down to release me.

Metal falls away from my wrist; it leaves a dark indentation, skin that is sore and sensitive. I let my fingers wander across it, not yet rising out of the chair. He is looking for an excuse to put me in my place, some vindication that I am out to get him. I do not give him anything, instead staring up at him, waiting for some kind of direction or permission.

"Not a word or a single movement unless someone asks it of you. No outbursts of emotion, or pleas. Do not even look people in the eye. Now stand up, and follow me." Keys disappearing back into his pocket. He turns on his heel, starting away toward the door, without casting a glance back over his shoulder to see if I am following.

I have to force myself up out of the chair. I still feel muddy and unfocused, somewhere between awake and asleep. For a moment, I sway in place, dark spots blossoming into my vision and stomach flipping. But it only takes me a moment to recover and trail slowly after him. The guard falls into place behind me.

"They have some of the story. Lady Calidris was reluctant to give any details, but they managed to coax most of it out of her." Sounding so bored, so indifferent, that I wonder if he was there when she was explaining. From the way he glances back over his shoulder at me, I suspect he knows. He seems to be expecting frustration or indignation from me, but I merely nod my understanding. I am grateful that I do not have to tell it again.

"It is not complete enough, however. You disappeared a decade ago, you were missing when your country needed you, and you came back without offering any explanations. They want you to defend your actions, give evidence that you are not dangerous." Looking away, again, vaguely frustrated that I did not make a scene. He is obviously not worried about how dangerous I might be.

"This is likely your only chance, so you had best make your story as convincing as possible. You deceived the King, which is an act of treason. You hid your wings, you did not commit to your duty as one of the Inspired, which is a crime worthy of high punishment. The only thing keeping you from exile at the moment is your parentage, and even that is tainted."

We drag to a halt, outside the conference room, him spinning in place to face me. There is a challenge on his face, the smallest smile curling at the corners of his mouth. It is cruel, he is looking forward to this. I do not understand why he takes his so personally, or why he is so spiteful.

"You are going to have to be very convincing. Noble pride was damaged quite a bit, and while you were not truly to blame, you have the potential to be a perfect scape goat. It should be quite interesting to watch." And then he is done, slipping away from me and in through the door. I am urged in after him. 

conference
There are only a handful of people clustered around the long table. Somehow I was expecting more, I was expecting a crowd as opposed to this calm and serious scattering. The King is at the head of the table, Calidris at his left and the young Prince at his right. The Queen does not grace us with her presence, but there is representation from the four wealthiest and most powerful noble families, looking bored and impatient. Rallus points me to a chair, a safe distance away from the rest of them, before sitting off in his own corner.

I am acutely aware of the eyes on me, taking in my ragged appearance and the ruined wings, the way nervous my my hands shake, how hard it is for me to sink down to sit in that chair. I refuse to look up and see the disgust and shock on their faces, instead stare intently down at my hands. I am used to the horrified fascination with my wings, but that does not mean I like it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see two of the nobles lean in close to each other, share a secretive murmur and a restless shift. The woman smiles faintly, almost rolling her eyes, and swats the man away. There is another moment of awkward, fidgeting silence before the King clears his throat, drags my attention upward.

"Lady Calidris has told us much of what you explained to her. We...ah. We know why you ran away, and...understand your reasons for vanishing from the public eye, and understand to an extent the past. What we do not know is where you went, and what compelled you to come back to the court." Fingers lacing together against the top of the counter, something flat and careful about his tone. He is struggling not to burst into a snarl and chew me out again.

I let my eyes wander sideways, to Calidris. She looks almost apologetic, almost pitiful, some of that noble attitude sapped out of her. Eyes are wide and brows knitted tightly together in the middle of her forehead, lips shifting absentmindedly. She is afraid that I will be upset with her for having given away my secrets, and that nervous edge makes me smile faintly. I do have one ally, at least.

Another flickering glance, to the right, to Tumaire. He is still looking pale and tight-lipped, but I am not sure if this is from pain. He looks at me with something dangerously akin to pity in his eyes, something shocked and awed and uncomfortable. He was there when the story was told, he heard it. For some reason, this upsets me more than anything else.

"Technically, we should exile you, but we understand that on occasion there are mitigating circumstances." Corbin's voice drags my attention back to him, to the hands clenched tightly before him and the light in his eyes. His tone is deep and gravelly, he is reluctant to admit any of this, he is still so passionately angry.

"I want you to do your best to explain your actions, and prove to us that you are not a danger. Show us that you can do some good in the palace, and that you are not under her control, and perhaps we will find some other way to deal with you." Shrugging and settling back in his chair, meeting my eyes steadily and easily. I am forced to look away, to the attentive nobles clustered in his corner of the table, to the tapestry on the far wall.

"Where do you want me to start?" Voice still harsh, it rips through my throat, the sound of it makes me wince. I want to seem strong, in front of them, even though it hardly matters. I do not want them to know how this all makes my heart flutter, that I can sense the walls closing in around me. I am almost painfully conscious of the lack of window in the room.

"Start right after you ran away. Make it clear that this was not an act of cowardice, but that it did some good. Tell us what you know, what you can do. We want to know who you are, not who you were." 

memory four
Pain. This memory is mostly engulfed in pain. One night spent out in the harsh winds, my back aching too much for me to move on. The only thing that keeps me from stopping, that eggs me on through the scattered woods and across flat, dusty stretches, is the thought that she could be several steps behind me. I hope I have surprised her enough that she does not yet realize I am gone, that she thinks I am hiding and nursing my wounds.

The nearest town is three and a half miles away, farther than I have ever walked before, farther than I have been on my own. The only other time I have been there, I was with a group of priests, and under her watchful eye. I know that I will not be able to take care of myself, and that I will likely get into trouble. I do not care.

Another night spent out in the woods. A gnawing hunger in the pit of my stomach, exhaustion dulling my senses and confusing the world around me, sending thing skewing sideways, confusing. I realize that I have no way of knowing which is the right direction, and that I could be walking in circles. I am hopelessly lost, and have nothing to go on but faith.

Even that begins to fail me. My steps slow and my thoughts turn dark and hopeless. I second guess myself, almost certain that I have seen that tree before, that the knot on that branch is familiar, that I have seen this arrangement of rocks before. I plot wearily onward, vision blurring and thoughts turning fuzzy and unconnected.

I do not remember much of the walking. My back is still throbbing with pain, every little movement sends daggers down my spine. I pause more frequently, slumping down against rocks or trees and wait for the stars to clear from my eyes, unable to catch my breath. I sprawl out against a soft patch of dirt and drift away into restless, uneasy sleep. I dream that she is following me, that she has found me. I dream of her hands and of her smile and of her deep voice.

When I wake, I find the world has become a far more pleasant place. There are no harsh winds cutting across my back and every inch of exposed skin, there is no rough dirt beneath my hands and cheeks, I am no longer conscious of every aching nerve in my back and along my wings. Thick blankets are bunched down around my waist, and there is a thick smell of spices in the air.

Daring, I crack my eyes open. Light sears my vision, sharp and far too bright. I have to squint against it to take in the room. It is small, with walls that are bare wood and a floor that is mostly dirt. There is a fireplace in the far corner, a healthy blaze alight in it, a pot set over the flames to heat, to stew. The source of that soothing smell.

I try to straighten, to sit up and get a better look at the place, to figure out where I am and how I got there - but there is something restraining me, something heavy against my back that makes it hard to move. It is probably for my own good. The moment I move it hurts again, and doing so likely will cause more damage.

There is a stirring, from behind me, and a soothing hand is set on my shoulder. With some effort, I drag my head around to catch sight of the woman who has taken me in. She is not old, but neither is she young; she is matronly and plump, pleasant. Her hair is salt and peppered, her clothing torn and stained, her smile warm and soothing.

"Drink this, and don't move." Pushing something against my lips before I can protest, forcing me to gulp down something that is bitter, but not entirely unpleasant. It settles warm in my stomach, heating me up from the inside out.

"Where am I? Who are you?" Voice reduced to a soft whisper. I am not sure if this is because of the potion, or because of my exhaustion, or some combination of the two.

"I'm the town's physician, Doricha. I found you in the woods. We're right outside of Fereana." Something careful, planned about her tone. I wonder if she has been preparing herself to answer my questions, if she has rehearsed on her own. This drags up a sudden shock, a concern. How long has it been? How close could my mother be..?

Again, I try to sit up, and am stopped by her hand against my shoulder. A careful tilt of my head, a squint of my eyes, and I can barely make out the crude splints that have been set against my wings. She has done her best to set them, to line things up properly, but she is used to putting together simple bones. There is nothing she can do to make my wings work again, she can only aid in healing them, in taking away the pain.

There is another burst of hopelessness as I settle back down, face burying into the pillow and breath wrenching out between my teeth. My thoughts are confused again, distant and unconnected [she has given me a sleeping drought, she has drugged me]. I can only latch onto one idea at a time, and at this moment it is the fact that I will never fly again.

"I'll take care of you until you're patched up, and won't ask you any questions until you're feeling better. Right now, you need to lay still, and you obviously won't do that unless you're asleep. Young people never do." The way she rattles on is strangely relaxing, it puts me at easy. She is friendly and harmless, she is only trying to help. I can feel my panic beginning to melt away.

"You're safe, for now. Safe, and warm, and under my protection." Softer, sweeter. A motherly brush of fingers against my cheek, and then she is gone, leaving me to fade away into sleep again. 

memory five
The world comes and goes for the next few days, a week, perhaps more. I sleep most of it, a drugged and dream clouded sleep. There is nothing else I can do; wings are still tied up in heavy splints, and even tiny movements make me ache. She does not let me out of the bed, she brings food and drink and potions to me.

Much of the time, she sits beside me and talks, working on her seeing or putting together salves, washing bandages. She lives alone, she is unmarried and childless, though she speaks frequently of her fine, strapping nephews. They never stop by. No one ever comes to visit, they only come to knock on her door and ask for her help with a broken bone, or a sick child, an infected wound.

There is no prodding for my story. She asks for my name, and I tell her to call me Raven. I can tell by the way she smiles that she knows that is not really my name, but she goes along with it. No more questions are asked of me, she reads rightly that I cannot answer, or will not, or do not want to. 

If Altair has come after me, or sent someone in search, she does not take notice of a small cabin in the woods. I suspect, however, that she is sitting and plotting, assuming that I will come back to her sometime soon. She has never believed that I am capable of taking care of myself, she has trained me to rely on her. She has never expected rebellion, or a spark of self-confidence. Whatever the case, she does not find me.

Eventually, the pain fades away into something fainter, more tolerable. It becomes steady and familiar, I am able to ignore it, and almost even forget about it. Doricha stops giving me pain killers so often, she no longer mixes them into my food and my drink. My thoughts clear and my curiosity peaks. I begin to ask what different potions do, where certain herbs come from, how to mix and concoct.

When I am well enough to get out of bed, to sit up, I take to helping her with her every day tasks. I sew, peal potatoes, crush herbs into paste and apply the mixtures to bandages. We do not talk often, but it is usually enough to merely share company, to not be alone in the cold and empty house.

Another week, and I am able to limp out of the bed, to take a slow and careful tour of the house, with her help. It is small, but it is pleasant, warm and comforting. Living here is simpler, easier. I could see being happier here, than in a huge house with vaulted windows and drafts, isolated chambers. This place is more real.

An unspoken agreement is made between us. Neither of us admits that we like having the other around, we do not say it aloud, but we both know that we do not want to be alone. She will not kick me out of her house, send me packing to make due for myself. 

She even starts to teach me, the basics of potions and of herbs, of human anatomy. She has no books on the subjects, she can only give me what is in her head. It takes me some time to realize that, while there are several slim books on her shelf, she does not know how to read. I take it in my head to help her learn, and her teaching turns to an exchange of information between the two of us, it is fair.

My life has never been this calm and this settled into a routine. There has always been stress, whispers and gossip, I have always had too many duties. Now, there are times when I must look for something to do. I have free time that I do not know how to fill.

We have taken to each other. We have long, low conversations regarding favorite songs and stories, the state of the country. She provides a simple and direct peasant approach to life, something I have never experienced before, and she teaches me how complicated laws work on a very basic level. I explain the reasoning behind taxes, and the customs that old laws spring from, I try to make her understand the noble side of things even as she explains the common plight. I probably learn more with her than I ever did in lessons.

It takes over a month for my wings to heal well enough that the splints can come off, and I am able to walk without any aid. I have barely left the house in this time, and now that I have the opportunity, I find that I am restless and uncomfortable inside. I long for fresh air and other company, even though I have never wanted them before. I want to get out, to find the faint memory of the smell of a garden, to hear voices, but I cannot leave the cabin. Someone might recognize me, or at the very least question the wings on my back.

Doricha is the one who comes up with the idea to disguise me as a hunchback. She has not had the training I have, but she does know that the best place to hide is in plain sight, and that no one takes notice of a cripple. She has amputated enough limbs and seen enough permanent damage to know how people react, to be familiar with the way people are not comfortable with looking someone disabled in the eye. 

I become just another one of her distant relatives. She does not expect anyone to question this, and when we finally have my cloak complete, when my disguise is believable enough, she takes me with her into town. Not a word, not a single curious glance. They deliberately look in the other direction and take care not to stare.

So I become her assistant, her apprentice. She teaches me how to set bones, how to judge illnesses, how to soothe away pain and how to mix potions that will put people to sleep without killing them. Those town folks who rely on her grow used to me, and are no longer quite so uncomfortable. I am still an outsider, but at least I am part of their lives. 

lies
I need a break from the story. This is one of my most pleasant memories, and I do not want them to ruin it, I want to be able to remember it with joy. My eyes are closed, I can still smell the spice in the air of her house, I can still feel the fire that blazed hot in the fireplace in the winter, keeping us from freezing to death. I can muster a smile when I think about it, something distant and dreamy.

A throat is cleared, and I lose that warm and comforting memory. I am dragged back into this harsh and sterile room, walls that are bare of tapestries, half a dozen pairs of eyes on me. They all look vaguely uncomfortable, they are beginning to realize that they have dug at something personal and private, that they might be doing something wrong.

I let them sit in uncomfortable silence before lifting my head to meet Corbin's questioning eyes, to take in a note of jealousy on his face. Is he upset that a complete stranger could raise me better than my birth father? I hope this is the case, some wicked part of me smiles smugly at the idea, but I keep that to myself.

"It was not that eventful. Mother never sent anyone to find me, or never tried hard enough, and I do not expect that you even noticed I was missing." There is a nasty edge in my voice that I do not mean, that settles in of its own accord. I should apologize, but I cannot bring myself to do it.

It is strange, I expect him to be angry or frustrated, I expect him to glare or to shout at me. I am not prepared for the way he pales and his lips go thin, the fact that he looks almost embarrassed or ashamed. It is somehow worse that I have hit the nail on the head, and that I was right, he never did care even a touch about what happened to me.

"We sent a search party. The priests said that you ran off, that you were tired of your lessons and that you vanished without reason. We did not know which way to look, or even what to look for." It is true, but it is uncomfortable. Likely, the priests told him I was petulant and sullen. Altair probably had her hand in it, telling some story about how I snapped at a teacher, or how I sulked, or how I complained about the work. They all believed her, because I am the bastard child, the illegitimate one. It is expected of me.

No one speaks for a moment, again the silence is a tangible thing. I glory in it, in the fact that it proves Corbin's guilt, the fact that they all know I was wronged, even on a minor level. It lends weight to my side of things, I have turned into an abused and abandoned young adolescent in their eyes, it will be hard for them to get over the image of a broken man turning to the hard work of a peasant's life for escape.

"Well, ten years of that, living in that tiny cabin and helping the people in the town, always nervous that someone would show up to snatch me away again and ruin it all. And then you sent out that...that announcement, the request for a trustworthy physician." Shrugging, blinking back down to my hands, watching them out of the corner of my eye. They still have that guilty edge to them, I am winning this battle.

"I do not see who would have been better suited to the position." No need to clarify, or to explain that. I will let them come up with their own reasons for why I am best, as the Prince's private physician. They are more likely to believe the conclusions that they come to on their own.

"Except you lied to us. You gave us a false name, and lied about your wings." Edge with annoyance. Corbin frowns across at me, leaning forward on the table, fixing me with that intense stare. Yes, I am winning, but somehow that look still makes me feel small and pitiful. I have to fight for the right words.

"I did not. I did not tell you my name was Raven, I told you that I preferred to be called that. I never claimed to be a hunchback, you merely assumed it. If you had asked me to remove my cloak, if you had prodded for my real name, I would have obliged - but you wanted someone secretive, someone who knew how to keep his mouth closed."

This has kindled some more anger, but mostly because they know I am right, that this is fair on some level. I was sneaky, I did fool them, but there was nothing direct about it. On a subconscious level, this registers as worse, but on the surface they cannot figure out why, and so cannot act on it. And my tone is so flat and neutral, so carefully emotionless, that they do not even know how I feel or how to provoke me into an attack.

"We need to discuss." Corbin looks weary, blinks toward the nobles and then the guards, turns a stare on Rallus. The advisor nods his head absently and responds sluggishly, almost sighing, to nod that female guard over. She snatches me up by the elbow and leads me away toward the door, to escort me back to that uncomfortable chair and heavy metal chain.

"You are too much like your mother, Corbett." Coming from behind me, words falling limply from the King's lips, completely without passion. I have overturned his life, he does not know how to deal with this evidence of his mistakes. 

I am halfway out the door, when I blink back over my shoulder toward him, and offer a tilted smile. While my mother has hurt me, while I hate her on some level, I still cannot tolerate the hint of disappointment in his tone. My voice is turned carefully calm and gentle, with sharp barbs laced into it.

"Better than being like my father." 

bare
Waiting again. It seems that I am always waiting, these days, that nothing happens quickly or easily. I am left in a cold and bare room under the silent gaze of that guard. She does not look like she is interested in conversation, so I do not try to initiate any.

I do not like being left to my thoughts and my memories. I do not like having old wounds reopened, having to explain actions that I never truly understood in the first place. I hate being treated as if I am incapable of thinking for myself, or taking on the world. I would rather they attacked me.

Time ticks by too slowly. Moments hang in the air. I am too tense, now, to go to sleep; I want to get up, to pace the length of this small room, to investigate the hangings on the wall and the small cracks in stone, but I doubt that the guard would allow me that much space. Instead I am forced to sit and wait.

It is hours, at the very least, before there is that same sound of a key rattling in the door, and Rallus pushes it open. Nodding meaningfully to the guard and to me, lips pressed into a tight line and expression closed off. I cannot read it, I do not know if this is good news or bad news. He does not explain, merely gestures for us to follow him out of the room and into the hall.

That same sea of eyes as we enter the conference chamber and I drop back down into that chair. I try to sit still, to seem unconcerned, certain that I am in the right and that all will turn out well, but I cannot stop the nervous little shifts, the sideways glances to their faces, the way my fingers tap together in my lap.

Of course, they are not much better off. There are glances exchanged, an air of expectancy, everyone looking to the King. He stares down at a sheet of paper and runs a hand over his forehead, studying the words on the page, perhaps trying to figure out how best to explain them. They have reached a decision, they would not have called me in here if they had not, but no one wants to admit to it. This is not a good sign.

"We are not going to exile you." Coming after a soft sigh, as Corbin's head lifts and he meets my eyes. I am not reassured by this statement; everyone is still twitchy, not quite willing to look directly at me or each other. And he does not continue, he lets that statement hang in the air for a moment, keeps me waiting.

"What are you going to do, then?" Not able to wait any longer. The Kings eyes do no flicker away nervously, but neither do they give anything away. I look instead to the young Prince, the only one in the room who is not hiding his face. He seems strangely bright, intense, there is a hint of a smile on his face. I still am not quite sure what to think.

"They are going to keep you here, as my teacher, but they are going to find another physician." Almost bouncing in his seat as he says it. Tumaire is obviously excited, delighted, leaning forward in his chair and on the table. I suspect that this is mostly his doing, that he is the one who convinced them to let me stay. He likely whined, or pouted, or pleaded, and won them over. They obviously still do not trust me.

"Under certain conditions. We are going to move you into a different wing of the castle, nearer to Lady Calidris. She has agreed to take responsibility for anything you do from here on out, so her duty will be to keep an eye on you." Looking sideways to Lady Calidris, Corbin's voice dull and flat. He is not comfortable with this arrangement, but it is merely on a personal level. He does not want me here for his own sake.

"You are not to go anywhere without telling her; no wandering away into the city, or into a far wing of the palace. I want her to be able to find you, in case anything happens, so that we can guarantee the safety of the Prince." The implication behind the words makes me boil, it makes me want to fight back, but that would only prove him right, to an extent. I can remain calm and neutral, if I need to, no matter how hard he pushes me.

"No more cloak, no more hiding what you are. And I want you to sit beside us at the daily courts, to feature as the other prince, so that no one thinks we are keeping you here in secret. I do not want them to think you are a danger, or for rumors to spread." Standing before I have a chance to answer, nodding a dismissal. If he sends me away quickly enough he believes that I cannot argue or plead, I cannot attempt to coax him out of his decision.

I have gone tense, panicking at the thought of those wings being bared all the time, always under the public eye. They are hideous and I hate them, I need to be able to hide them. I want to jump up and beg him to give me my cloak, so that I can keep my past to myself, but I force myself to sink down in the chair, to grasp at its arms, tense and trembling. I must remind myself that this is better than what it could have been, at least I still have my wings, at least I have not been sent away again.

The rest of the nobles rise and follow Corbin out, Tumaire moving reluctantly. I believe he wants to rejoice with me, he is proud of his small victory. While I appreciate the fact that he was willing to defend me, I also wish that things had turned out differently. I did not come back to fill the role of a prince, I never wanted to be seen. Now I do not have a choice. 

linger
I look up to find that Calidris has stayed behind, that she is still leaned back in her chair, staring at the King's sheet of paper. There is something about her, something upset, pale and frustrated. I wonder if they blamed her for this, for the mere sake of a scapegoat, or if she defended me. I wish I could have heard them fighting, discussing, deciding my fate. It would be nice to know who stands where and who I can turn to.

We do not speak, at first. We merely sit in similar slumped positions, fighting with emotions and uncertainties, trying to figure out where we should go from here. Both of our lives have been turned upside down, I understand that. I am used to it, but she is not. it is possible that nothing has ever changed for her, before, she does not know how to deal with this.

I cannot take the silence and the distance anymore. I finally drag myself up to stand, pick my way across the room to perch on a chair beside her. I have ruined things for her, it is my fault that she no longer is free and privileged, lacking responsibilities. I feel like I have stolen something away, and now she looks so young and so small.

She starts as I settle a timid hand over hers, her head jerking up to blink at me. There is something torn about her expression, she is at least as frustrated as I am. And I am taken aback at the flicker of guilt in her eyes, the apologetic edge in the tiny smile that creeps across her face.

"This is my fault, I should have let you keep out of sight, I should not have dragged you out into the open." Stealing the apology away from me. I do not know how to respond to that, other than an awkward pat to the back of her hand, a slight shake of my head. I fumble for words, something reassuring - but there is that small part of me that would like to believe her and place the blame elsewhere, I do not want to take responsibility.

After a moment, her head drops again, she begins to shift away from me. Perhaps to slither outside, to escape from this mess, to pretend that everything is normal and that nothing has changed. I do not just let her go; my hand tightens about hers, I pull her back down into the chair, leaning in and tilting my head so that I can meet her eyes.

"There is no fault. Things turned out the way they were meant to turn out, there were too many circumstances to blame one person. Perhaps I should not have hidden, Tumaire should not have allowed his temper to get the best of him, I should not have gone along quietly with everything you said just because you seemed to care, and had a pretty smile." Words escaping before I can stop them. I do not even realize what I have said until a split second later, when I notice the hint of a blush on her cheeks, the curious way she relaxes into her chair.

There is a slight shifting of hand under mine, a delicate little gesture. Smooth, slim fingers tangle in with mine, her other hand coming to rest lightly against my knuckles, an electric little touch. I have won another smile, something less apologetic and sweeter. I do not know what to make of her expression, or the way she shifts in her chair, inches fractionally closer.

"It is not that bad. Things will be alright. This just means that some of my time is devoted to keeping an eye on you, and I was already doing that, was I not?" Her fingers slowly kicking into motion, tracing absentminded shapes against the back of my arm and across the inside of my wrist. I can feel that shiver of fingertips, it is distracting, I can only nod my response.

"If we just ignore that this is an order, and instead...it will be fine. Everything is alright. Neither of us has lost anything." Sliding in her chair again as she speaks, voice softer and more distant. Her knee bumps against mine, we are huddled close together. Both of us are tense again, my heart has settled into a dull pound.

"And I believe they will be putting you in the room next to mine, it is nicer than where you have been living." Almost sighing now, her voice faded out into a murmur, a whisper. She is very close now, I can feel her breathing and escaped strands of red hair tickle against my cheek. This close, I can see just how brightly green her eyes are, pick out the tiny flecks of gold.

I am not sure exactly who moves, who closes the rest of that distance, but abruptly her lips are against mine, one of her hands coming up to rest against my cheek. She is timid, nervous, it is a tiny and chaste kiss that ends as quickly as it began. We linger, faces half an inch away, to catch our breaths. I am nearly thirty, but this is my first kiss.

We are both waiting expectantly for the other to react, unsure if this is right, if we have ruined something. But when neither of us jerks away or breaks contact, when she does not seem disgusted or frustrated, I lean in for another. I let my hand wander to brush against her hip, let this linger a hair longer, making certain that it was not a fluke or an accident.

When I finally pull away, fingers trembling and breath shuddering, a smile spreads across her face again, green eyes crack open to peer up at me. It is content and sweet, there is no anger or accusation in her face. Palm smooths across my cheek, fingertips brushing under my lip before she drops her hand into her lap.

"We should go find your rooms, and...and not keep people waiting. I believe Rallus is supposed to give us direction, and I do not think he would appreciate having to wait." Rising to stand in one smooth motion. Her fingers are still entwined with mine, gently she pulled me up to my feet and leads me toward the door. Things do not seem nearly as bad as they did ten minutes ago. 

diplomacy
Tumaire is waiting in the hall way for us to come out. There is something bright and cheerful, excited about him. He can hardly stand still, he flashes a bright smile to us as we step out of the conference room, looks prepared to say something - but it splutters out into silence as he glances down to our entwined hands, our own contented half-smiles. Disappointment slips into his eyes and he looks away for a moment, down the hall, plotting escape.

"I just...um. Rallus was going to...to show you to your new room, but I said I would do it." Stumbling over the words, shifting uncomfortably in place. There is a hint of a flush creeping over his cheeks, something embarrassed and upset. He will not look me in the eye.

He can fidget all he likes, he can make it painfully clear that the contact between Calidris and myself makes him uneasy. I am not about to pull away for his sake, I will not let go of her merely because some young boy does not like to see us together. But her hand slowly slips out of mine, leaves a cold vacuum in its place. She is kinder than I am. 

"That is very good, my Prince. I know that the room is near my own, but I am not sure exactly which one it is." Not quite so soft and warm, now. That edge of haughty noble, something proper and official, has slipped back into her voice and into her shoulders. She is not as open. I wish I could have her alone and sweetly smiling again.

He not quite so timid, so hopeful and shy, with her. Something hard comes into his eyes, echoing her noble edge as he nods curtly in direction. Clicking into motion, he starts down the hall and we follow after him obediently, no longer touching or even looking each other in the eye.

It is slowly becoming obvious that he is jealous of her, and the fact that I spend time with her. I wonder how I could have missed this before. His head has dropped, slightly, he looks downtrodden and abandoned, still fighting with some kind of hatred toward her. He is being irrational, and he knows it, but all the same he wants me to belong to him again.

A hand on her arm urges Calidris to stay back, and she nods her understanding. I move delicately to fall into step with the prince, matching his pace and blinking down at the set of his jaw, his tense posture. I should ask him what is wrong and offer some kind of consolation or apology, but cannot figure out how to do so. I know what the problem is [though I do not know why he craves that power over me so much] and I will not apologize for what little happiness I can win.

"I wanted to catch you alone, kind of." Fidgety again, risking a glance up to my face. A crooked smile touches his lips, arms fold tightly across his stomach, he struggles with words and feelings. He has never had to express himself carefully before, he is not sure how to explain without being direct, blunt. This is one of his first lessons in real world diplomacy.

"Because, um. I like you, you do not treat me quite like some stupid kid, and you...you do not skirt around my emotions." Working his way toward something. His eyes flash across my face, and I try to school my features into something calm and reassuring. I fear that it comes out flat and cold, the indifferent expression I have so carefully cultivated.

"I mean, and we are brothers, now. Or we were always brothers, but now I know, and I want to know more. Except that, for some reason, they think that you are going to kill me, so I can never catch you alone." Rushing out, words falling over each other. He has come full circle, expressed some confusing opinion, it is half a question. And he blinks up at me expectantly, waiting for a response, for some matching feeling.

I do not know how to respond. Years of learning how to hide from people, how to fade out of notice, and nothing to teach me how to react when they come to me for advice. Baffled and confused, I blink back toward Calidris, but she is distracted, as well, staring off down the hall, swept up in her thoughts.

"Rav...Corbett. Corbett, why do they think you are going to kill me?" Soft and subtle, his head coming up and eyes locking on mine, something wide and concerned about them. He rubs at his arms, at the junction of neck and shoulder, trying to sooth away some long ache. He looks small and afraid and alone, all he wants are some answers.

"It is because of my mother." Soft and rumbling. It sticks awkwardly in my throat, comes out roughened and confused. I can give him answers - I have to, even if they make me twitch, even if I will have dreams of them afterward. I cannot keep them secret from him, he will find out from someone, and I would rather he could hear the full story and the true story.

"Who is she? No one will tell me, they all dance around her name and...and keep it hushed like some great and important secret." At least his voice is shifting toward frustration, now, it is no longer that pitiful little murmur. He wants answers, he does not want to be left out of the loop, he hates the fact that he is being protected from all this information.

I let him wonder, for a moment, the words hanging in the air unanswered. I run fingers across my forehead, up over my hair, and look back to Calidris again. This time, she lifts her head and blinks her eyes, expression goes questioning and concerned. She has not been paying attention, she cannot come to my rescue. 

"I will tell you all about her, once we are in my rooms." Escaping as a sigh. It comes out weary and frustrated, gritty. This has been a long day, a long week, and I suspect it is not going to get much better. It seems that everything has conspired against me, a careful tower of plots has come crashing down on my head.

At the promise of an explanation, a light comes to his eyes, and he moves more quickly through winding hallways. There is a muted excitement about him, something barely restrained. And I dig up old memories, putting them in order as I trail after him. 

magic 
The way Altair tells her story, she was merely young and curious. The way the priests say it, the way the King and the Queen and all the people murmur her name, she was never anything but malicious and dangerous, a criminal at heart. I try to accept a truth somewhere between the two; I try to give her some benefit of the doubt. Perhaps because she is my mother. Perhaps because no one else ever has.

She, like me, was the less desirable choice between two possible heirs. The elder of two children, but she was female, and while this society likes to pretend that there is some kind of equality between the sexes, everyone has a chance, they always end up leaning toward the men. Their feet are more stably on the ground, their heads are less in the clouds.

Corbin, her brother, was born when she was three - some say that this was when her temperament changed, when she went from a sweet faced young girl to a spoiled brat of a princess. She sensed that something in the air, she knew that people were paying more attention to him than her, so she went out of her way to fix that. She threw temper tantrums, she made scenes. 

It only got worse as she grew older. She would sit and pout at court events, throw food at fancy dinners, refuse to speak to common folk. Her nose grew farther into the air, her tricks sharper and nastier. She put her young brother out in the cold, or convinced him to try putting his hand on the stove, or smilingly told him that no one loved him and teased him until he cried. No amount of punishment could make her stop, nor long talks about the difference between right and wrong. They could not coax away that jealousy.

They sent her away before she hit puberty. Like me, she came into her room to find that everything was packed up and was ushered away into a carriage, a long journey to the religious capital. Publicly, their hope was that the priests would be able to show her the light, to bring some sense to her. Privately, perhaps, they just wanted to get rid of her.

It did not help. With no younger brother to pick on, no court to order around, no nannies to traumatize or court events to ruin, she was left with too much free time. The priests taught her lessons in humility, they taught her how to school in her emotions - and she feigned interest, pretending to learn control, while in the background she dug up dangerous and illegal books.

Magic has been forbidden for over a century. The tomes have been carefully hidden, tucked away into hidden rooms and back shelves, scattered so that no one person has them in his control. Somehow, she managed to find them, to dig up half a dozen or more volumes. Enough to learn more than anyone ever had, to cause real trouble.

The fact that she needed blood did not phase her. She started small, pricking her finger or catching small animals, performing small and simple spells. Dragging something across the room and into her hand was one of her favorites, as was making feathers and quills and other small objects float. She relished the control it gave her, and she relished the fact that no one else knew she could do it.

She should have stopped, when she hit puberty, when the first blossoms of feathers began to sprout. Instead, she grew more fascinated with it, she began to work her way up toward more complicated spells. No longer did she sacrifice baby birds but foxes, wolves, other animals that were hard to catch, wild and free. She learned to put simple orders into simple and unfocused minds, to bend servants to her will.

She was still young, though, a girl in an awkward and uncomfortable body, as she puts it. Too flat, with hips that were too straight and hair that was too curly, with a chin far too pointed, with long hands that she did not see as elegant but as spindly, ancient. She did not think herself beautiful, and she assumed no one else ever would.

So when this warped and amoral creature developed a simple crush on a young man, someone older and wiser, it did not take on the form of a giggling schoolgirl or a simple child. When he seemed utterly uninterested, when he was unable to read her mind and he did not coming running to catch her up in his arms, it took on a more dangerous edge. Her pride was injured, whether he knew it or not.

Wolves were not enough, nor any other animals, no matter how wild and free. Her goal was control, complete control, coaxing him into her hands so that he could do nothing but love her. It was a more complicated kind of magic, it toyed with deep-running emotions, it played with fundamental beliefs. She needed a more complicated kind of animal, a more twisted and complex mind.

The woman she chose was friendless, a servant girl who did laundry and swept floors, who she assumed no one would miss. The girl was not bright enough to realize that Altair's smile was false, that promises spilled that easily could never in a million years be true. My mother did not tell me how she coaxed the girl back to her chambers, even less so how she managed to cut her, to kill her, and I do not want to imagine. But she was always convincing, anyone who has met her has found it difficult not to believe her. There is something sweet and honest in her smile, if not in her eyes.

She was mistaken, interrupted. Someone came creeping into her room while she was still halfway through the incantation, and broke her concentration with a scream, a shriek. It woke the entire house, brought servants and priests running, to stare wide-eyed at the careful arrangement of the body and the complicated symbols drawn on the ground.

The punishment for magic is heavy. The punishment for murder is heavy. The two together were treated with such shock and hatred that she never even had a true trial - not that she could have explained, or talked her way out of it, not when she was found with blood coated hands and crimson splattered clothing.

She was only fifteen when they sentenced her to exile, when they put her under the knife to remove the dark wings that were very much a part of her. When they packed her up in a carriage and shipped her out into the wildness, abandoned her in the middle of a familiar expanse of forest to find her own way, back still wounded and aching, heart broken and frustrated. When she dropped the name 'Altair' and began calling herself 'Two-Crescent,' a tribute to the twin scars on her shoulder blades.

They assumed that she would never be seen again, that they had taken care of her as neatly as they could. They should have killed her, should have finished the job, instead of leaving it to the wild animals and the weather. They should have assumed that she was strong enough to find her way out of that forest and back to civilization. They had taught her to blend in, and she had learned well.

The worst part was her spell had failed, and no one had ever loved her. 

promise
Neither of them knows what exactly to think of the story. Tumaire sits perched on the edge of my new bed, staring at me with wide, shocked eyes; Calidris is in the chair in the corner, looking away, out the window at the world outside, her lips pressed into a pinched line. I believe I am the only one who feels sorry for Altair Two-Crescent, who pities her for her losses and for her failures. I do not voice this feeling.

Instead, wearily, I settle down to sit beside the young Prince, pulling a hand through my hair to tug free its tie, to let it fall loose about my neck. My temples throb and my back aches, there is a dull pounded in my heart. I would like to sleep, even if the dreams will come, and she will haunt me.

"It is believed that she is the one who curse your mother, the Queen, who kept her from giving birth. I do not know if this holds any truth or if it is merely another fairy tale, something said to scare children at night. Be good, or she will come to get you. Do not speak up, or you could end up like her." I cannot help the sarcasm and the frustration I feel at the words, I cannot keep it out of my voice. I want to protect her and defend her actions, no matter how wrong they are and how much she has hurt me. She is still my mother, and I love her, if no one else does.

"She is still out there, somewhere, I believe. I can feel it. And now she likely knows where I am, she will come looking." Equal parts fear and hope, some fluttering in my heart. The past decade has been plagued by the fact that she never hunted me down, that she never wanted me enough to drag me back. It is sick and twisted, but I have missed her sharp glances and sharper words, I crave her touch.

"That is why they think that I want to kill you, Tumaire. I am her creation, her child, and no matter how harmless I may seem, they believe I will turn out like her. They have never given me the benefit of the doubt, either." Sorrow creeping into my tone, my heart still pounding. I want them out of my rooms, now, I want some privacy to work out my thoughts, but I cannot bring myself to voice the desire. I merely let the uncomfortable silence kick in.

The only sound is a soft rustle as the Prince shifts in a place, a soft sigh escaping between Calidris's lips. Something about her expression, the sad tilt to her eyes and the set of her jaw, gives me the impression that she might understand me, if I explained in detail. She understands that craving for power, perhaps the loneliness. If I tried to put my feelings into words, would her eyes go hurt and sympathetic, or would she leave me, would she be disgusted?

I finally cannot take it any more, I wave wearily toward the door, trying to get them out and away. I have not slept well in days, a week, and I have not had time only for myself in longer than that. I crave this night of solitude, look forward to sleeping in the morning. I want to take advantage of this one last day before lessons kick in, and the time when I must join them in court, put myself on display.

"I am going to sleep, so I would appreciate it if you would both leave." Not the order of a prince, but something soft and timid, monotonous. It is not quite polite, but neither is it the command it should be. It is somewhere in between, as I have always been.

Tumaire, for a second, looks like he is going to argue or put me in my in my place - but then a dark flush settles across his cheeks and he nods his understanding, rising and crossing quickly toward the door. A quiet farewell escapes between his teeth as he slips out into the hall and leaves us be. He does not linger, perhaps he is uncomfortable with me now that he knows. Or he, too, might need some time to work it out.

It is another long moment before Calidris brings her head around to watch me, to take in the stoop of my shoulders and the bow of my head. I believe she can sense the sorrow and the pity and the desire. She is beautiful and kind, I am becoming more and more aware of just how infatuated I am with her.

She drags herself slowly and elegantly out of her chair, crossing to stand in front of me. Warm fingers settle against my jaw, dragging me face up toward hers, to meet her eyes. There is a gentle, timid smile on her lips, something meant to console. She wants to ease away that pain, but does not know how.

The gentle kiss she presses against my lips, a sweet and timid gesture, is a glorious start. The slow caress of fingers through my hair, against the nape of my neck, is even better. She drags in closer, arms slowly wrapping about me, a loose and gentle embrace. I can smell her hair, I let my hands smooth across her waist and settle against the small of her back, savoring this moment of warmth. If nothing else, I can store it away as a happy memory, something to look forward to.

"I live just down the hall. Do not forget that." A soft murmur in my ear. It is almost a promise, she is giving me something - an offer for more comfort, for more of this warmth and this tight embrace. Then she is slipping away, smiling and slipping out through the door, leaving me to the solitude that I asked for. 

solitude
The next day passes quickly; a day for rest, for calm, to brace ourselves for changes, to figure out new and confusing feelings. I down something strong and sleep through most of it. There are dreams [there are always dreams] but they fade out to something hazy and unfocused, brief flashes of color and distant, muted voices.

It is late afternoon when I drag myself out of bed. I find my simple clothing replaced by something far more ornate, in some soft and rare fabric, something a hair too big for me and far too fine for my tastes. Someone has decided that a prince should dress like a Prince, even a bastard one. I wish that I could have my black and red physician's over shirt back, but I suspect that this is on Corbin's orders, and I cave in.

Calidris is supposed to know my every movement, she is supposed to know where I am at all times, so I slip out of my own room and creep down the hall to hers. I hesitate outside for a moment, smoothing back my hair and adjusting clothing, before I knock solidly on her door. There is a soft murmur, unintelligible, and a shifting inside - it is a few minutes before she appears in the doorway, still dressed in her bed clothing with red hair loose and wild about her shoulders.

"What...? Is something wrong?" Her voice is deepened by lingering sleep, her eyes are vacant and tired. I feel a small twinge of guilt for having woken her, even if it is already so late that it is beginning to grow dar, and even though I do not really have a choice.

"I, ah. I was planning on finding something to eat, and I thought I should tell you." Suddenly uncertain, glancing down the hall and to my room. It has just occurred to me that I do not remember where nobles eat, or when. I only know the bustle and noise of the kitchen, but I cannot go there in this guise of prince, with my wings bared.

She can read the realization and the concern on my face; her fingers brush against my arm and she steps back, gesturing me inside. She is not decent for company, and prying eyes would lead to widespread gossip and sideways glances, but neither of us cares anymore. There are already rumors about us, one more would not make our situation any worse. I follow her inside and the door clicks closed behind me.

"I will ring for someone to bring us food, and something to drink. It will be fine. Let me dress first." Sweeping inward, to her bedroom, to dig out something more appropriate to wear. I am left hovering uncomfortably just inside, blinking around these familiar chambers and wondering if she intends for me to follow her.

"Come in and sit down. This will not take me long, I promise." Muffled, from the bedroom, off to the left. I creep further inward, settle perched on the edge of her comfortable chair and wait for her to emerge. I wonder if I should be flattered or upset that she is so carelessly comfortable with me that she is willing to change with me there. Or is this normal for nobles?

She is quick, reappears soon after with hair swept up off her neck, dressed in something close cut and high collared. Smiling at me, she twists in place to put the long line of tiny buttons, only halfway finished, into my grasp. It is an obvious request, or an order, and I move obediently to stand, working those buttons closed with trembling fingers.

"You look noble, Corbett. Except that your clothing is too big, we need to get you some that fits you. At the very least, I can find what you wore to the party." Smile still audible in her tone. It takes me ages to close the last button, to smooth the cloth into place against her back and shoulders. When it is finished, she shakes down her hair and spins about to face me.

"I do not really want that back." Hands hovering in the air for another split second before I drop them to my sides. She blinks up at me in confusion, as if she cannot imagine why I would not want my clothing back, and finally nods slowly. She does not understand that, but she is willing to respect my decision. And I would not be able to bear the memories those simple garments would drag along with them.

"I think I would rather find something to eat than drag a servant out of his daily routine to bring it to me. Where could I go?" Nothing condescending or disapproving in my tone. I am very careful about that. She can eat in if she likes, I just need the walk, I need something to do, to distract me. I hate feeling useless.

"An hour after sunset, formal dinner is served in the Great Hall. Or, I suppose you could hover in the kitchen doorway and wait until you catch someone's attention. They would give you something to eat. They would also give you nasty looks, but they would not deny you." Puzzled and confused. Her eyebrows knit together in the middle of her forehead, it looks like she would like to ask why I do not want to eat with her, but she bites her tongue.

"I am going to take a walk in the gardens, and...and I will either be in the Great Hall for dinner, or in my rooms. I promise." Unable to meet her eyes, I blink up and away, toward her door. I can still catch the almost hurt expression on her face, out of the corner of my eye, and the disappointed way she bobs her head in a nod.

Feeling awkward and uncomfortably, guilty again, I offer her half a bow and a smile, an attempt to show her that is is nothing personal. I must be very unconvincing, the look she gives me is glazed and somewhat flat. Then I start away; I am almost out, my hand has settled on the doorknob, when her voice drags me to a halt.

"I met with the King this morning. He wanted me to tell you that you are to teach the Prince tomorrow morning, to be suitably dressed for court in the afternoon. I believe he sent out a request for physicians in the city, today, and they are going to interview some tomorrow. He wants you there." Not a request, but another order. I nod my understanding, blink questioningly in her direction again - but can find nothing to say. Instead I slip out into the hall, and away toward the gardens for some more time to myself. 

stares
The morning classes are simple, dull. I explain to Tumaire the way I am going to teach him, I explain to him that he is going to actively learn, now, instead of just sitting back and being taught. I assign him one of those long and pointless assignments that I always hated when I was his age, and settle back to watch him struggle to complete it. It gives me an idea of just how much he knows.

It is amazing that he has been taking lessons all his life, but has never been required to complete a written assignment. He grips the quill awkwardly in his hand, his letters are formed crooked and slanted, he has to fight his way to the end. His grammar is atrocious, his spelling is impossible, he does not know any dates, and he only has a bare skeleton of knowledge. I wonder what his teacher did, if not teach him.

After discussing his paper, after I point out errors and read back sentences, after I put things up on the flat board for him to look at, to understand why the word he used here is inappropriate, there is no time to move on to a new assignment. Anyway, he is left looking worn and upset, endlessly frustrated. He has never been told he was wrong before, and he does not like it.

We each lunch together, him nursing his injured pride and me shuddering against the sudden hawk-like eyes all around us. I am new, and while word of who I am and why I am here has spread in whispering, timid voices, I am still strange. The wings alone, settled flat against my back, crooked and bent, are enough to stir conversation.

"Just ignore them." A soft whisper, murmured almost in my ear. I blink, look down to Tumaire with a startled expression - I did not expect him to recognize the tension in my shoulders, to understand how uneasy this makes me. He has never been conscious of anything but himself, before.

"It is not that simple. Just because I ignore them does not mean that they will disappear, or that the whispers will stop. It does not mean that they will start trusting me. And they are a reflection of the nobles, they decide my future, as you have seen. I have to care about their opinions." Gently as I can speak, but still there is that dull, flat edge to my voice. He does not try to comfort me again.

It slithers into afternoon, and we find our way into the Great Hall for the King’s court, to listen to the petitioners and the complaints. I am asked to settle at Tumaire’s right hand, settled appropriately into a lesser position. Farther away from him, so he does not have to touch me or look at me, or focus on the matted feathers at my back. I think he feels guilty, and I hope I am correct. The idea make some sadistic part of me rejoice.

There are more long stares from the nobles, and the common folk who have come to ask for the King's aid begin to stumble over their words, when they see me. Eyes migrate immediately to the stranger beside the prince, soaking up the possibility for rumors. Each wants to be the first to tell his or her home town that there is something happening at the palace, even if they do not understand what it is. 

It drags on and on. I have been to court a dozen times, or more, but I have always been unimportant, I have blended into the background and been ignored. Now there is nothing I can do to avoid their eyes. I understand why Tumaire fidgets and lets his thoughts wander; while I feign attention, and I pretend I am listening, my own mind is racing and I listen to the way my heart pounds in my chest. I want nothing more than to escape to my room. 

When it is finally finished, and the peasants and the nobles are dismissed from the hall, the King's hand settles light on my shoulder. I am not allowed to escape, not quite yet. It is obvious that he wants to catch me alone, and the thought is terrifying, but I allow him to lead me away into the small room across the hall, the one where he holds private courts. Like a child, I tremble under his hand, allow myself to be guided down into a chair.

"We are interviewing new physicians, this afternoon. You are to help, and Tumaire will be there to look on and see if he likes any of them. I want people who are subtly, quiet and trustworthy." An edge coming to his voice at that last word. It is almost a challenge, it is an insult, it is meant to bite and me and drag up a response. I do not go for the bait, but merely nod and wait for him to continue.

"I doubt we will have many applicants, so far, but we will have a few. You should interview them to see if they are competent, Tumaire to see if he can stand having them around, and myself to make sure they will not cause any more trouble for us." Sarcastic, still trying to get a rise out of me. It does force my eyes down and away, brings to the surface a dull guilt. I almost apologize for turning the castle inside out, even though this is not truly my fault.

"Will we speak with them separately, or all at once?" Keeping my tone carefully flat and neutral. Except that now that I want to wash away emotion and to sound dull, uninterested, it trembles and catches in my throat. I wonder if I will ever be able to stand as an adult, before him, or if I will always be a tentative teenager.

"Together. Do you really think I would send you off alone to talk to these people?" The idea is impossible, in his mind, he makes it clear just how ridiculous he thinks it is. And then he is standing, starting for the door, intending to escape before I have a chance to respond and defend myself.

"An hour and a half, and we will be meeting here. Do not be late, that would not be proper, and it would give them ideas." And then he is swishing out of the room in an elegant and noble way, leaving me to deal with the flush on my cheeks and that pounding fury.

interviews
I am calm, by the time I have to return to his eye, to settle in to interviewing half a dozen physicians. I ask them how long they were trained for, why they came into their positions; I give them an example of an illness, or a problem that Tumaire often has, and I check down to make sure they have the correct answer. The King is warm, the Prince is excited and wide-eyed; I feel that I am the dull and cold one, the efficient and uncaring interviewer. I wish I could be comforting as I ask questions.

Dinner is in the Great Hall, I finally force myself to the formal affair. It is easier when I settle at Calidris's side, when she flashes me a bright smile. She is grateful that I have not given up on her, and that I finally come to sit beside her, to speak with her. I am grateful for the support she provides against more curious stares. Our knees bump under the table, the contact small and reassuring.

This day settles into the routine. Mornings spent teaching Tumaire just how little he knows, afternoons interviewing the multitude of physicians who seem to have come pouring in at this request. I wonder if there were this many people fighting for the position that I won, and would not be surprised. I was exactly what the King wanted, subtle and quiet and secretive. 

Some of them are impossible, low nobles who answer questions with a haughty edge of superiority, who are so sure that they know the answers that they stumble and miss. Some are common folk, with simple smiles and wide eyes, too naïve too spend much time in the court and too timid for Tumaire to appreciate. And some of them have eyes like hawks, that miss nothing and make the King uncomfortable.

It is on the third day that a decision is made. The girl comes slipping into the room quietly and slowly, and for a moment I believe it is something timid, she is another uncertain peasant. But then she blinks up to meet each of our eyes in turn, and I am stricken by the self-confidence in her expression, in the subtle smile at the corners of her mouth.

She is attractive, in a stark and efficient kind of way. Blonde, with long, straight hair swept up into clips at the back of her head, out of the way, and a sunny tan on her face and shoulders. She is short and slim, but holds her head up and sits carefully on the edge of her chair, prepared to meet our volley of questions.

"What is your name?" It is obvious that Corbin's opinions are swayed by her pretty face, by the cold and elegant way she moves. He is taken with the cold blue eyes, the very hint of a smile that plays at the corner of her mouth, the way she arches her neck and tilts her head to listen. For that matter, I suppose I am equally taken. She is endlessly calm, she claims attention as her own.

"Sialia of Zonotrichia. It is a small town, near the southeast border. It was a long way to get here." A muted soprano, it is endlessly calm, carelessly comfortable. I get the impression that she would fit in anywhere, without putting any effort into it.

"Age?" The King casts a flicker glance in my direction as I write it down, making sure that I am doing my part. Her eyes follow, lock on my face, then down on the shifting pen. I have to quell a sudden urge to cover the page and hide what I am writing about her.

"Twenty-eight." Questions and answers line the left side of the page; he tosses them in her direction and she quickly and quietly answers, as accurately as possible with as few words as possible. While some of the other physicians fidgeted and twisted nervously in that chair, she merely sits and waits, watching our shared glances.

A sideways flicker of eyes to Tumaire; I can tell that he likes her, perhaps he is smitten with her. It is strange that I feel a disappointed twinge at how easily his affections shift, and how quickly he has lost that attachment to me. All we have to do is dangle a new prospect in front of his face, and his feelings twist and turn on something new.

When the King is done getting basic information and analyzing her personality, trying to find out if she will fade out enough or be an asset to the court, it is my turn to ask questions. I leave through the sheet that I have prepared, looking for a particularly difficult one, twisting my quill between two fingers. Her eyes never waver from my face.

"How much training have you had?" Fingertip settling on a question three quarters of the way down, I finally blink up to meet that stare. There is something unsettling about it, I feel a moment of twisting panic, my stomach doing a violent flip. I do not know where the reaction comes from, except that it makes me uncomfortable, I want this interview to be over.

"More than fifteen years." A smile comes to her lips, something edged and cruel about it. I am the only one who notices the twitch of her eyebrow upward, the challenging light in her eyes. She is playing some kind of game, here, singling me out as the one who is easiest to toy with.

Uncomfortable, I make a tiny noise that is not quite believing, and instead of asking her one question, I give her all of them in rapid fire. The King twitches beside me, a frown flashing across his face, and Tumaire gives me a sideways, uncertain look. I do not know how they could miss the way she is playing with us, the lies that pull at the corners of her mouth.

All that they recognize is that she answers every questions quickly and correctly, that she sits quietly until she is dismissed, that she is pleasant and subtle. They both give me dark expressions, as if I have gone mad and done something terribly wrong. She does not make them uncomfortable, make some small part of them twitch in a familiar manner. They do not recognize that predator's gleam in her eyes, the sadism lurking beneath the surface.

And in the end, she is the one they chose to put closest to the Prince, to live in the room next door and give him potions, to treat his aches and pains.

thoughtless
Late at night. I find it difficult to sleep, the past few days, but I refuse to take a sleeping drought. I am not comfortable with the idea that someone might come into my room while I am asleep, I am afraid that I might miss some movement in the game and lose my position, or my name, or my life.

Slow and wandering steps drag me out into the gardens. I spend a lot of time, here, between the wind-bent trees and the hearty flowers that cling to the earth, struggling to keep themselves rooted and alive. I used to come out here when I was young, to sit and work in the sunshine, or to lay flat on my back and listen to the hum and bustle of the castle around me.

I am weary of the attention and of the struggles. I must fight with Tumaire to get him to do his work, to pay attention in lessons - he would rather stare vacantly out the window, and his writings often turn to twisting, twining doodles. I must endure ever curious eyes in the Great Hall during means, or in the rest of the palace during the day. I must watch that new physician treat my Prince, my brother, with an easy competence that drags up some boiling frustration.

It is relieving to escape out into these empty gardens, to settle down in a bench and tilt my head back to stare up at the sky, the spattering of stars. In the Religious Capital, they explained that these are Inspired who have learned how to clear their minds and their hearts, to become light enough that they can fly upward forever. I never believed that, I always imagined them to be something flatter and less mystical, but they are still soothing and comforting.

A rustle in the grass to my right. My face turns just in time to catch glimpse of her before a hand connects soundly with my face, with a dull thud. It comes around a second time, but I catch it before it touches me, fingers tightening vise-like around her wrist, winning a tiny whimper. 

I yank her harshly into a small glimmer of light to see who my attack is, and am met with the bright and angry eyes of Amazilia. Her shoulders are twisted upward, her jaw set slightly, and her chin tilted arrogantly. It is a feigned confidence, a challenge, she is daring me to strike back even as she winces about the tight hand about her wrist.

For a moment, I am tempted. All the tiny frustrations and uncertainties are boiling inside of me, and I can imagine how good it would feel to take them out on someone else. To break something, or hurt something. To ruin something beautiful. But instead I slowly loosen my grip on her arm, not quite releasing her, and lock her with a steady stare.

"May I help you?" Dark and mild, daring her to come up with a good explanation for this. Her arm jerks out of my grasp and she rubs at the abused wrist, scowling up at me. There is something young and angry about it, as if I hurt her needlessly and I am the antagonist, as if I attacked her and not vice versa.

"You. You, I hate you. You ruined it for me, you know that? First you gave me something to go with, and you let me get my hopes up and everything, and then you appear and you just steal the spotlight. I planned it out, I was going to make a scene and force him to do something - " Escaping in one long rush, harsh and hoarse. There is no thought in it, it is merely a stream of consciousness, and when she comes to a halt it is only to suck in a deep breath of air.

"And now where am I? Back to where I always was. He hardly even comes by now, you know that? He's too busy thinking about you, I guess, or comforting the Queen." Jaw setting. This has the air of finality, I do not think she is going to continue, but I allow a moment of silence to hang in the air. It serves a dual purpose, gives me time to come up with an answer and gives her time to listen to just how ridiculous she sounds.

"I did not plan anything. You might have noticed that I was chained to a chair for three days, and that now I am just as much a prisoner." I cannot force my voice back into a steady calm, now. There is something twitching and trembling about it, it is rough and crackling. Perhaps I have not realized, before, how trapped I feel. I have been deluding myself, pretending that it is merely a change, that it is not a step backward and downward.

"I would kill to be chained to a chair. Do you think he ever gives me that much attention? He doesn't think I'm that important, I'm just a bit of skirt, like you said." Her own anger has faded away, into something muted and upset. Her eyes are wider and brighter, a glimmer of tears as she sinks down to sit on the bench.

"It just seemed, you know, like he cared for a minute. Like I'd made him angry enough that he was going to actually do something about it. Except then you came in with all your secrets and your broken wings." Trailing off, her hands clenching into tights fists in her lap. She honestly believes that this is my fault, or she has at least talked herself into believing it. So long as she does not have to blame herself, it does not matter whose fault it is.

I struggle, for a moment, trying to find some way to make her understand. I sit beside her, settled as comfortably as I can in the bench, and bring fingers up to my still stinging cheek. I should just let her deal with that hurt and that anger, that bubbling frustration, but I do not want it to come around and bite me again.

"He is not worth it. All he cares about is himself. If you make him happy, and you make his life easier, then he cares about you, perhaps. If you cause trouble, then you have to deal with that sharp stare and that stern frown, the way his voice goes hard as iron and his eyes flash." Dull and flat. I am surprised by my own voice, by the bitterness in my tone. I have been lying to myself as well.

"If you seek his approval, then you are weak and needy, and you do not deserve it. If you do not care about what he thinks, then you must think that you are better than him, and you must be put in your place. If you settle somewhere in between, he ignores you, because you are not important enough to win his notice." Blinking over to meet her startled eyes, my hands twitching and clenching in my lap, a harsh smile tugging at my lips.

"You would be better off packing up and moving out to the country. Find someone gentle and sweet, who can take care of you and who will give you the attention you crave. You do not want to be his gilly girl." It is amazing how hurt and how pitiful she looks, abruptly. A far cry from the angry way she stormed across the gardens to attack me, and the accusation in her expression is gone.

"But I…I can't. I don't want anyone else. I want him to want me, because I want him, and I want him to love me, because I love him." Voice getting softer and softer as she speaks, the last two words barely a breath. It is a great secret, the one thing she has never wanted to admit, not even to herself. A violent flush comes to her cheeks, and her eyes flash away.

I hate him. He does this to people, he wins them over and pretends to care about them, and then drops them in one careless, elegant gesture. I wonder if he will take the new physician to bed, if he will win her over - and I wonder how long it will be before Tumaire is too much of a hassle for him to deal with, and he forgets about his son.

I force myself up to stand, fingers smoothing hair back out of my head and setting cool against my temple, trying to ease away a sudden headache. I do not want to be alone in my room, but I want even less to sit here beside her and worry about her love, her desire, her hopeless life. I need to escape.

"Do not love him. Do not give that to him. He will take it, and swallow it up, and give you nothing in return." For a moment, it looks like she is going to protest. But her eyes go dull and flat, and when she blinks away, I escape back down the path, toward my rooms. Or perhaps to find Calidris, to see if she is awake, if she will smile at me and curl up in my arms.

passion
Again, when she answers her door, Calidris is in her bed clothes - but this time there is no grogginess in her face, no distance in her eyes. She is sharply awake, despite the late hour, and blinks up at me curiously and attentively. There must be a desperate look in my eyes, or in the set of my mouth, because the moment she takes me in, she drags me back into her room.

A sweet smile is offered up at me, comforting. She does not ask me what is wrong, she knows me better than that; if I want to tell her, I will, but the more she pushes the more secretive I will become. Instead, she gently strokes the back of my hand and leads me back to sit on the edge of her bed.

I do not know why I am suddenly so desperately lonely. Just a few hours ago, I felt that I was starting to settle into this routine, that I was beginning to get used to snapping Tumaire into shape and was beginning to ignore all the people around me. Lunch in the great hall was uneventful, the afternoon court slipped easily past. 

It might have been something in the starved way Amazilia looked up at me, or the fact that some part of me, however small, wanted to drag her into my arms and comfort her. Or in the fact that we share a bond, that hopeless and unreturned love for the King, the feeling that nothing we do will ever be good enough. Or that no one cares about us unless we are doing something wrong, we escape their attention, otherwise.

This feels better, though. Her hand entwined in mine, her fingers smoothing gently across my wrist, trying to drag me down out of this panic. I let myself lean in against her, my fingers uncurling and hands going limp in her grasp, my eyes beginning to fall closed. This is relaxing and soothing, and I need it desperately.

"Are you alright?" Now voicing the question, in a timid whisper. She is not pushing, I do not have to tell her, she is just giving me an opportunity should I want to. Fingers trail up the center of my palm and slowly back down, nothing more than a simple, gentle touch. I wonder who else she has soothed like this, and I realize that I know nothing of her family. I should know if she has brothers or sisters, I should know about her parents, I should have more than some general idea that she is wealthy. I know the noble families inside out, and yet somehow, I cannot even remember which one she belongs to.

Again, my world is thrown off-kilter. Eyes flash up to her face, searching for some flicker of deceit, no matter how small, and finding nothing. Her expression is wide and honest, even when I am looking for some lie in her eyes I can find nothing. Immediately that disjointed moment of uncertainty twists back into something calmer and more familiar. I cannot doubt her.

"I do not know. I just…I did not want to be alone. And I could not sleep." Thoughts shifting instead to other concerns. She knows all about me, about my family and my past, but I have never taken the time to learn about her, or ask her questions. Does this mean that I am using her, that the only connection we share is the fact that she will have me?

If I am, she does not mind. Another smile comes to her lips, she tilts her face in to brush lips against mine, her fingers still moving in a slow pattern against the inside of my wrist. It is exactly what I need, and she knows it. Any last worries fade away, and I smile back down at her, meet those lips in a slow kiss.

She lets it linger for a moment, her lips parted so that we share a breath, that I can taste her. Then, gently and carefully, she pulls her head back away, the tip of her nose brushing teasingly against mine. It wins a sigh, I do not want it to stop, I want to let my hands wander and to settle close against her.

"Do you want to sleep here? Would that make it easier for you?" More than an offer to sleep. I can tell by the way she pulls my hands around to settle against the small of her back, to feel the ridge of her spine through that thin nightdress I can tell by the way she tangles her own arms about my neck and settles closer, leans into me.

I almost want to protest, to protect her dignity and her reputation - but she is a grown woman, she has a right to make her own choices. And she already is certain that I will not say no, her fingers wandering over my shoulders to undo the long rows of buttons down my back. Cloth slips away from the base of my wings, and hands smooth warm against bared skin. 

There is no more question; my arms settle tight about her waist, dragging her in tight, to fit her against me, and I catch her mouth in another kiss, hard and hungry. It is only a matter of time before we are a tangle of limbs and searching hands in her bed, comforting and warm under her soft sheets. And I am sure that no one knows her as well as I do.

fury
Calidris is still curled up warm in my arms when I wake in the morning, that red hair tickling against my throat and smooth skin under my fingertips. There is no flicker of uncertainty, or regret, but a flash of relief at the fact that it was not a dream. I smile and slide my palms up her spine, tracing up the contours of her spine. The curve of her lips and the hint of a flush on her cheeks makes her look sweet, young.

After a moment, her eyes crack open to peer up at me, a sea of green in her face. There is something vaguely puzzled about the expression on her face, as if she is not sure why I am there. It makes my heart wrench, for a moment terrified that she does not remember, or that she is about to panic. Instead her voice comes as a soft murmur, rumbling across my skin.

"What time is it? You should be teaching the Prince." Flickering eyes to the light that washes in through the window, then back up to my face. She makes no movement to pull away, or to get up. She is too comfortable in my arms; if I want to get up, I am going to have to extract myself out from under her.

"It is not that late, is it?" Following her eyes to blink out the window, trying not to be distracted by the fingers smoothing against the side of my neck, and the way she sweeps stray locks of hair back behind my ear. I savor these idle touches, I crave them.

But I am suddenly, acutely aware of how late it is. The stream of light from the window is not the first hints of dawn but a solid, steady light, and I can hear the palace moving around us. Some selfish part of me argues that it is too late now, that I have probably missed his lesson and that I might as well stay here where I am warm and happy. Some other part, the obedient part that has been trained into me, heaves a sigh and I delicately pull out of the bed.

After that, I click into motion, dragging on clothing as quickly as I can and shoving my hair back into a tie. A split second spared to lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, to smooth fingers across her cheeks before I slip out. She murmurs something quiet and unintelligible after me, dragging the blankets up about her in an attempt to make up for the vacuum I leave behind.

I am not terribly late. Ten, fifteen minutes perhaps; I have to stop by my own room to snatch up papers and three books for class, and then I half-run down the halls to the room. Sweep inside, and blink down at the accusatory glare of Tumaire. Something about the way his eyes flash over me [taking in the messy hair, the fact that I am wearing the same clothing as yesterday and wrinkled] gives me the feeling that he knows.

"You are late." Sharp and annoyed. It has that familiar feeling, one I have no missed - he is the Prince and I am the servant, no matter who my father is. He is the one settled and waiting in his chair, a quill and ink in front of him, hands folded neatly against the desktop, and I am the one who comes half-running in with clothing askew and sleep still in my eyes.

"The sun did not wake me this morning." Perhaps I should apologize, but I cannot bring myself to do it. Instead I drop books down on my own desk, stack papers carefully in one corner. I am careful to move as slowly and deliberately as possible, to get rid of that panicked and rushing edge. I can be calm, it does not matter that much if I am a little bit late to one class.

"I have still been waiting for twenty minutes, you know. I was wondering if I should stop by your room and knock on your door, to make sure you got out of bed this morning." The sarcasm in his voice strikes me, all of a sudden. He was never sarcastic before, he did not know how to pull it off, he was not nasty enough. He learned that from me.

I am caught off-guard, too surprised to respond immediately. I stare down at him, trying to read through the anger in his expression, trying to figure out how much I have changed him. Before, he was naïve and careless, he did not understand how people felt. Now he is beginning to learn, and use it to his advantage.

"I was not in my room." It comes slowly, a challenge. I meet flashing eyes, deliberately answering the question in his face, allowing a small smile to slide across my own lips. I do not elaborate, but let him draw his own conclusions. I would not want to ruin her reputation, I cannot come out and say where I was, who I was with.

He knows, though. A sudden furious blush comes to his cheeks, I break that haughty expression and make him drop his eyes. His jaw is set into a tight line, hands gripped into fists on the desk. He is still jealous of me, he wants my time and my attention to be his. He hates the fact that I am closer to someone else, that she holds sway over me.

It is strange, but I feel no twinge of guilt at the way I have broken him down, only a certain flash of satisfaction. I move on to the books that I have brought with me, the lesson I have prepared, and he does not protest or question me again, but focuses intently down on his paper and on finishing his work as quickly as possible so that he can escape, and forget.

action
Gradually, I win control over my life again. I spend my nights with Calidris settled warm in my arms, and after a little over a week I lose my novelty, some of the stares fade away. This is not to say that they disappear entirely - there are still sideways glances, people who do not know what to make of the broken wings, the fact that I am not a priest.

Tumaire loses his petulant edge and does as he as told, in classes. We no longer have any closeness between us, whatever feeling of brotherhood had been growing has now disappeared entirely. I am his teacher, I am an annoyance at his court, at his meals. Some part of him wants to be rid of me, but some other part wants to prove that he is as good as I am, if not better.

It is nine days after our argument that I realize how unwell he looks. His cheeks are pale, almost the color of a sheet of paper. There are dark shadows under his eyes, making him look sunken and tired. He cannot sit up straight at his desk, but hunches in over it, shoulders caved forward and downward. He hurts, I can tell, but he has not said anything.

If he does not want to admit to it, I do not want to pry. I continue with the lesson, putting paper in front of him and opening the book to an exercise, settling back to watch him work. He fumbles with his quill, his hand shakes as he struggles to get the words down, his lips pressing tightly together. 

I cannot sit back and watch as he makes it worse. My instincts take over, a hand splaying across his forehead and across his throat, sliding behind his ears to check for infection. His skin is burning beneath my fingertips, his neck swollen, and he leans gratefully into cold hands as they settle against his cheeks. Something is seriously wrong, beyond mere aches and pains.

This is no longer my job, but I cannot help myself, I need to know what is wrong and to help him. Even if I hated him, I doubt I could keep my fingers from wandering to the buttons about those golden wings, to strip cloth away from sticky skin, and to run fingers across the angry bruises on his back. It is a motley of purple, black and blue, and he makes a tiny whimpering noise as I touch him.

I need to ask him what has happened, why his new physician has not helped get rid of this, but I do not know how to put it into words. As my mind races in search of something to do to fix this, I let fingers wander up to the back of his neck, a comforting little touch. He leans into it, he is desperately in need of this contact.

"Tumaire, you need to explain to me what is happening. If you would like, I will take you back to my rooms, and I can put something on your back to make it stop hurting." No matter how angry I have been, or how much I have snapped at him, or how cruel and cold my tone has become, I cannot let him hurt. Either a physician's or a brother's instincts kick in.

"Can we go to your room? Please?" His head still bowed beneath my fingertips, voice coming strained between his teeth. He has been trying to hide how much this pains him, but now that I know he drops the pretense. He needs someone to cut in and take control, to fix things for him.

"Do you need to be carried, or can you walk?" Serious, concerned. He struggles to stand on his own, taking that as a challenge, perhaps - and he pulls it off, standing shakily with the support of the desk and blinking up at me. He is not quite able to suppress the tiny, pained noise.

Before he can protest, before he knows what I am doing, I lean in and scoop him up into my arms. He is light, too thin and small - those wings weigh more than the rest of him, I believe, they drag him off balance. It is awkward to settle him in my grasp, to keep him curled in against my chest, but he helps by wrapping an arm up about my neck. Hurting too much to argue.

I move as quickly as I can down the halls, slipping past curious servants who almost certainly will go and inform the King. He will be furious, but it does not matter. He can rave at me all he likes, he can yell and glare and I will still be in the right. He is the one who hired that physician, who has proven as dangerous or as unreliable as I expected.

In my room, I settle Tumaire gently on that unused bed, and he immediately sprawls out on his stomach with a sigh. This feels familiar, in a strangely pleasant way. I move to mix herbs and perch on the bed beside him, fingers smoothing that sharp-smelling salve across his shoulders and over angry bruises. I do not give him anything for the pain, not yet; it would put him to sleep, and I want him to explain himself.

"Has she not been treating you? Or have you been refusing her potions, the way you refused mine?" A hint of frustration in my voice, now. It slithers in there despite my best attempts, this is upsetting me. Perhaps I care about the young Prince, about my brother, more than I am willing to admit.

"She makes my head go fuzzy. I do not trust her. Sometimes, when I look at her, I imagine that there are two of her, and they look different." Staggered and hushed. It is a strain for him to speak, to tilt his face out of that pillow to blink over at me. Already there is some relief in his eyes. I am not sure if it is because I have treated his injuries, or because now he knows that I will help, that he has an ally of sorts.

I mull that over for a moment, trying to decide why it is so familiar, and why it makes my heart skip a beat. The answer is obvious, but it is something I do not want to admit to; if I voice my fears, will that make them come true?

"What does the other one look like? I imagine that one is her, correct?" Fingers still splayed across the back of his neck, reassuring. His head shifts in a tiny nod, and he starts to sit up - but then obviously thinks better of it and sprawls flat on his stomach, wincing at the shooting pain up his spine.

"Older. The other one is older, and she has black hair and grey eyes. She looks angry all the time, and...and her chin is sharp." Fumbling for some way to explain an elusive face, something he has never had a good view of. He blinks up at me, hoping that it is enough, unsure how else to describe her to me.

I believe it is more than enough. A fine tremble has set into my fingers, my mind has gone foggy with an old terror. With a nod, I force myself up off the bed, across the room to mix something that will put him to sleep, that will drive away that lingering fever. He does not protest, not today, but downs it immediately, in a rush.

"I am going to go find Corbin, I need to speak with him. I will send Calidris in here to keep an eye on you, to make sure that nothing happens." Panic has settled into the pit of my stomach, now, but I try to keep my expression calm and my voice clear. He is too distant, drugged and tired, to notice what flashes of fear are in my face. He merely nods and lets his eyes drift closed, he slips away into much needed sleep.

blame
I am just slithering down the hall and around a corner when I nearly collide with a furious, glaring Corbin. There is something heavy and dangerous about him, that makes me drag to a halt and flinch away. Not fast enough, however; in a split second his fingers are tangled in the cloth of my shirt, he has me by the scruff of the neck.  Like a troublemaking youth, like I am twenty years younger than I am.

"Escaping, are you? Ducking off so that no one knows what you have done, to get out of the palace and off to report to your mother?" Gravel in his tone, something dangerous. He gives me a hard shake, something sharp and angry. It is obviously an order, he is daring me to try to explain all of this away.

I should go limp in his grasp and allow him to hold control over this situation. I know how much he craves to be in control, and how much he hates feeling powerless. However, I am the same way, and despite myself I fight against that hand. Even though he is almost twice my size, and even though the more I thrash the tighter his fingers become.

"That is nearly a confession, Corbett. I am stronger than you, and you would be better off speaking. You are good at wiggling your way out of things with an elegant word here or there." Shaking me once, hard enough to rattle my teeth. I finally go still, sucking in several deep breaths and frowning up at him, struggling for my familiar calm.

"I hate you. You always assume the worst." Words escaping in a burst. I wriggle again, attempt to shrug away that hand, but his eyes have hardened and his fingers locked. I am thoroughly trapped, by the angry expression on his face as much as the hand on me.

"And I am always right. I was right about you, I knew you were keeping something from me." Smug, self-satisfied. He drags me to the side of the hallway as servants stare at us, clearing a path for them to slip past. It sets me off balance, I have to clutch at the wall and his arm for support.

"Maybe, but I was also keeping your one and only son alive and well. Better than he is right now, I am sure of that." Hissed out between my teeth. Instead of convincing him to let me go, this only makes his jaw set and his eyes narrow. He is looking for some kind of excuse, and he takes this as a challenge; I cut in before he can stop me, order me off out of sight.

"He arrived at lessons today so unwell that he could barely sit up. I do not know what is wrong with him, but I have tried to treat the symptoms. He is in my room, now, and I was coming to look for you." I do not know if he is even truly listening. He glances sideways to a passing servant, his eyes still sharp and angry, his fingers unyielding in the back of my shirt.

"He is asleep, but perhaps you could wake him and he could tell you the same story, if that is what you need." Sarcasm, frustration slipping into my voice. It drags his head back around, and for a long moment he looks me over, trying to decide if I really am lying. Finally reaching a decision, bobbing his head in a nod and shoving me down the hall in front of him, back toward my room.

I lead the way down the hall with his hand still at the back of my neck, a warning and a threat. There is a familiar hot feeling on my cheeks and my ears, something I recognize as the beginning of a flush, a touch of embarrassment. How does he manage to make me feel so small and so childish, certain that I have done something wrong even when I have not?

It takes me a moment to get the door open, I seem abruptly unable to work the handle, to nudge it open with my shoulder. I cannot do anything right. Finally I urge it inward and lead him into the room; Lady Calidris is still perched in a chair beside the bed, she blinks up at us as we enter. Concern is etched onto her features as she drags herself upward to bow at the King, then to turn bright eyes in my direction.

"Corbett, he is hardly breathing. Is he going to be alright?" Something small and pitiful about her tone. It is enough to surprise the King, to make him loosen his fingers, to let me slip out of them and cross to the bed. He is still hovering in the doorway as I sink down to kneel beside Tumaire, to test his pulse and his breath.

"He was not this bad when I left." I cannot keep a touch of panic out of my voice, despite my best efforts. The beat at his wrist is faint and his breathing slow. He had been doing better when I slipped out in search of the King, until I put him in her hands.

"What is wrong? What did you do to -"

"It obviously was not me, father. If you want to be some help, you should go find the physician, Sialia. She is the one who has been in charge of his health, and she is the one you should shout yourself hoarse at. I have had enough of it." Dragging myself up to stand and across the room, in search of anything that could help. Except that I do not know what is wrong, I cannot find the source of this.

There is anger again, in Corbin's eyes, but also a muted kind of confusion. Perhaps because I called him father, a word that rarely slips out of my mouth, or perhaps because I do look like I am trying to help. He shifts uncomfortably in the door for a long moment, all but grinding his teeth as he blinks down at me. 

"Where are her rooms? How could I find her?" Finally reaching some kind of decision, however temporary. He clenches and unclenches his hands at his sides, weight shifting from one foot to the other as he waits for a response. I wonder if, perhaps, he cares about Tumaire exactly as much as he pretends to. More than he ever cared for me.

"She lives in my old rooms, but if she is not there, try actually putting some effort into this. Deign to speak to some of the servants, or look elsewhere. I do not know, just find her." The authority in my voice surprises even me, it actually snaps him to attention and makes him spin about in place, slip out through the door in search of the new physician. Leaving me, with Calidris, to attempt to patch together the young Prince.

solutions
We sit waiting on the edge of the bed, neither of us saying a word; I am too busy checking on the prince, dragging down that fever and easing away that pain. She is too distracted, turned worn and pale, unable to help. I wonder why all of this seems to upset her so much.

Eventually, she slips away to sleep in my chair, off to one side, and I begin to nod off where I am sitting. I am just beginning to shut down into an uncomfortable, sideways sleep when there is a commotion at my door and Corbin comes charging through, dragging the young physician along by her collar. I cannot help but wince at the way he throws her around. We have not proven anything yet, we should not hurt her.

I do not dare tell him this, though. Instead I lean down to check on the Prince once more, as Corbin pushes Sialia down into one of my worn chairs and binds her to the arm, making sure she has no chance to escape. He has already convicted her, in his mind, and has probably even acted out some horrible punishment.

Tumaire's breathing has turned somewhat steadier, his heartbeat does not falter anymore. There is something healthier about his sleep, now, something even and healthy. It is no longer because he is drugged, or because he has passed out, but merely because he is still unconscious. A hard shake would probably wake him up.

"Is he alright?" Rumbling from my left. I lift my head to blink up at Corbin, who is strangely calm and gentle with me, watching the way I take care of his son. Maybe this is because now I am the only one who has proven himself trustworthy, the only one who has fixed things. Tumaire never had a fit like this while I was still his physician, and the King knows this.

"I think he will be." Eyes shifting down toward the struggling girl, then across to Calidris, still sound asleep in the corner. I finally drag myself up to stand, sweeping a hand over my hair and tucking it neatly down into its tail, making sure it is all pulled back out of my face. I am tired, but this must be dealt with first.

It is strange - the physician fights with her bonds, but it is a weak, confused kind of struggle. She looks more disoriented than afraid or angry, like we have just waken her from a deep sleep and she does not know where she is. Her eyes shift from Corbin to me and back, she licks her lips and searches for words, for an explanation, but cannot find them. Instead she sits staring up at the pair of us, fingers curled into her fist.

"Father, why are you always so quick at the draw? She is not dangerous enough that she needs to be attached to the chair." That length of metal makes me uncomfortable. I remember what it is like to have it clamped about a wrist, it makes my own arm and back ache. I rub at my right hand, trying to ease away some phantom cold, and fight against the shudder down my spine.

"It is better safe than sorry. Do not question me, Corbett."  Standing back to glare down at her. He is not swayed by her confused expression, the flash of fear across her face, the way she blinks around the room and over to the Prince and does not seem to recognize any of us. Likely all he sees is a suspect; he watches her without seeing her.

She does not say anything, at first. This might be because everything she has to say is so ridiculous and so crazy. She might not know what is going on, but she recognizes the sting of cuff against skin, and the hostility in his stare. She knows that there is something wrong with Tumaire, sprawled out across my bed as he is. She is very convincingly baffled, and I wonder briefly if this is just another act. I do not think it is.

"What is going on? Why am I here? Why did you drag me all the way across.." Her voice softer and trembling. It does not hold the mocking edge, the game edge, that it had in the interview. She seems tiny and terrified, with wide and shocked eyes and a nervous frown on her lips. It is impossible for me to hate or fear this shivering creature.

"Your name. What is it?" Cutting in before my father can say something else to terrify her. She looks up at me with a mixture of surprise and confusion, as if that is something I should know; so she recognizes me, she is not completely lost. It is merely the situation that makes her uncomfortable.

"Sialia of Zonotrichia. The same as it was the last time you asked, and...and the same as it has always been." Her eyes go fuzzy, unfocused, and for a moment she stares up at me in completely confusion again. The flash of recognition is gone, I might as well be a complete stranger. There is something wrong, in her voice and those distant eyes, which makes me suspect something darker involved, and makes my heart leap up into my throat.

I turn back to my father, and carefully navigate him across the room to stand in a far corner. Our wings block us in, making this private and secretive, closing everyone else out. My voice slithers down to a barely audible whisper, I do not want anyone to overhear.

"Tumaire said something which made me...made me think there is something more here than merely a slacking physician. I think there might be some magic involved, and.." It hisses away into silence at the light flashing in his eyes, in the dangerous frown on his mouth. He does not want to believe it, or even think about it. There has been too much magic in his life.

"So we should execute her immediately?" No attempt to keep his own voice down. I can see Sialia, out of the corner of my eye, stiffen in her chair and begin to fight at her bonds. I can hear the tiny terrified whimper that she makes.

"No. No, I think we should get rid of the spell, and see if we can figure out what is going on. I remember enough magic to do that." A small part of my life that I have never truly admitted to him until now. His jaw sets tightly and he stares down at me, trying to ascertain if I am serious or if I am toying with him, if it is an honest offer or not. He wants to say no, and condemn me as well, for even mentioning it - but he instead bobs his head in a reluctant nod and shoves away from me, picking across the room.

"You have my permission to do whatever you need to do, and my pardon."

blood
This is one of the most complicated spells I know how to do. It is more than merely a pinprick to draw blood; it requires a long slash from the tip of my pointer down to the heel of my palm, deep and angry, crimson welling up to coat my hand. It terrifies the girl, who has never seen magic of any kind before, it turns her eyes wide and her cheeks pale. It has a similar effect on Corbin.

I am endlessly grateful that Calidris is still asleep, curled up sideways on her chair, tucked under a thin but warm blanket. Her head is lolled to one side, her breathing slow and steady, there is a tiny curve of a smile on her lips. She is not part of this anger and this blood, the violence. She does not have to taste the magic in the air, coppery and sour.

I keep my voice low as I whisper an incantation, I try to keep my expression neutral so that Sialia will stay calm [assuming that this is not an act, that she is honestly afraid of me]. Her eyes meet mine and slowly she begins to relax, shoulders slumping down and ex pression shifting toward confusion again. She merely waits for me to finish, to explain what is happening.

The spell is designed to drag forth truth. The intent is that she will only be able to speak the truth, but it is more than that; she must speak the whole truth, even things that she should have no way of knowing, everything will be revealed. My mother never had any use for these slow words, these careful gestures. She hated the truth.

There is a tension in the air, like a piece of string stretched to his limits, like two pieces of machinery grinding against each other. I have to grit my teeth so as to continue the incantation - I am fighting against some other spell, I can feel that now. This is not as pointless as I thought it was, I have not gone out on a limb. There is definitely other magic around, done by someone sharp and angry. The signature is familiar, it tastes right on my tongue, I recognize it but refuse to admit it. I do not tell Corbin.

As I strain against this unseen force, I lift my eyes slowly up to Sialia's face, expecting it to change, for those baffled features to melt away into a familiar grey-eyed glare. I have not allowed myself to admit it before now, but I expect her to transform into my mother, dangerous and furious. This does not happen, there is not so much of a flicker change in her features. I have worked things out wrong.

A moment of confusion as her eyes shift away from me, off to her right. I drag my head around, still speaking and carefully around a tongue that feels swollen. I am fighting for every word, for control over my mouth and my mind. Things have gone a hair fuzzy, I am almost certain that some trap was set on this spell, that is supposed to cut down on any attack. It slows me down.

It takes me a moment to realize that she is staring at Calidris, curled sideways in her chair, and a moment longer to recognize the sweat beading on sleeping eyelids, across cheeks. Calidris is shivering and drawn up tight, as if she is having a nightmare. Her fingers twitch against the bed, and her mouth shifts down into a deep frown. A strangely familiar frown, perhaps because I have seen it a hundred times before, or because I know her so well. Somehow I do not think that is it.

This is when Tumaire awakes, sleepy-eyed and confused, to stare over at us. He is too tired and unfocused, still drugged, to understand what is going on. His voice eludes him, and after a moment's struggle he merely settles back against the bed to watch in confusion and uncertainty, to take in the blood-stained scene.

That tension is crackling in the air, something grinding and aching in the back of my head, making the cut across my palm throb in time to my heartbeat. In a matter of moments, one of these spells is going to snap and give way to the other. I know enough about magic, she taught me enough, that I understand how much this will hurt, how dangerous it is.

There is a grind and a crack. It is so loud to my ears and echoes so violently in my mind that I am certain it was audible to physical ears - except that no one else jumps, except for Calidris, in her dreams. Everything grinds to a halt for a moment, this scene is frozen. Her asleep in the chair, Tumaire pulled up onto one arm to stare across at us, Corbin in the corner glaring at all the going-ons, and Sialia and myself watching with wide eyes, tasting the lingering effects of that spell in the air before it dissipates entirely.

Lady Calidris's eyes snap open, and suddenly they are no longer a vivid green but an icy grey, something angry and familiar. The flesh seems to melt away from her bones, the curve of her hips and of her breast, to leave her slim and flat and straight. That mess of curly red hair darkens slowly to a pitch black, the curls tightening into near-ringlets, thick and shiny. Her hand tightens into the cloth of the chair and she shoves herself up to stand, bolting for the door.

I can see Corbin snatching at her arm and dragging her back around through a haze. He recognizes her, of course he recognizes her. She is his sister, dark and dangerous. She is his enemy, the strongest he has ever needed to deal with, the only one who has ever defeated him so thoroughly. She is the father of his child, the one who plays all kinds of games with his mind, who knows exactly which buttons to press to make him panic, to turn him furious. Altair Two-Crescent, beautiful and wild and dangerous.

I am weak with blood loss, thick red dripping down off my fingers to stain the floor at my feet. My world is spinning, and I sag in against Sialia, tumble bonelessly sideways onto the ground; I want nothing more than to stay awake and watch, to interrogate her, to find out how this happened and why she toyed with me again, but instead I fade away into sleep.