Chapter One: Introduction of the Players

As the chapter title indicates, an introduction of the main protagonists: Raine Acadia and Prince Phoebus of Saladooran.

Polithia has many faces, and is commanded by many leaders.  Yet it belongs to no one, reveals its true intentions to no one.  Perhaps Rath intended it to be this way when he created the sacred haven for his followers.  If one does not have ultimate power, one cannot be corrupted by that power.  It was sound logic.  But the day Diamond was sacrificed to restore the crumbling planet, the sky went grey, and the Ageless Winter began.  Diamond, Rath’s most precious creation, had taken with her all that Rath had used to bring color and laughter into the world: The virtue of love.  It would be a full year before Rath saw fit to release his dearest child from His company.

It was a unusually warm summer day when Diamond returned to the world.  She rose from the crystalline waves of the Captanian Sea.  Her skin was pale, incandescent in the blazing sunlight that washed upon the beach.  The tide swirled about her alabaster ankles.  The silk of the heavenly robe Rath has bestowed upon her clung to her skin as she faced the whipping winds.

Ruby saw her then: An ethereal illusion he thought only in his mind, corporeal only in his deepest desires.  But when her lips parted, and the ageless song of memories long past swelled from her throat, the dream was banished.  She stood before him whole, touchable.  His legs carried him across the eternal stretch of beach.  His hand lifted to her face.  The moment their skin touched, Diamond’s sleeping spirit surged with light, and the Ageless Winter was no more.

 

            Isabelle Acadia giggled.  She pushed her long hair out of her eyes and snuck a glance toward the barn door.   The clucking of chickens and snorting of pigs sounded in the distance, signs of their daily feeding.  She calculated she had another five minutes of quiet reading time before her mother or sisters would realize she was not amongst them.  She was the baby, after all; thirteen and hands that were still soft despite her father’s insistence that a hard-working lady should be rough-handed by ten.  She bit her lip and hunched her shoulders over the open book.

A figure stepped into the doorway, a feminine silhouette haloed by the bright morning light.  The woman sighed and stepped within.  “What do you think you’re doing, Izzy?”

            Isabelle gasped and thrust the book beneath a bale of hay.  Her hands smoothed her hair as she ambled gracelessly to her feet.  She rolled her eyes and pressed a hand to her chest dramatically.  “Oh, Raine,” she sighed.  “You frightened me.  It was such a good nap, too.”

            Raine balanced an overflowing basket of laundry on one hip.  The eldest of the Acadia girls, she tended toward the more disciplined mindset, and it showed in her appearance.  Whereas Isabelle preferred her thick auburn hair to frame her face in loose, springy waves, Raine’s golden locks were plaited tightly.  She had a dancer’s posture, but her body was not soft and slender.  Her muscles were defined in a way only a farm girl’s could be.  And her eyes betrayed her poverty most of all, steely blue and forever guarded.  She looked her sister over and quirked a brow.  “Nap, eh?”  She sauntered further into the barn.  “Awfully early in the day for a nap, don’t you think?”

            Isabelle fanned herself excessively.  “The first wave of summer is harsh on a growing girl’s being.  You know how it was.”  She smiled.   Isabelle was famous for her smiles winning over even her greatest foes.  She had evaded many a lashing from local shopkeepers when her hands got sticky for their wares.  One look at her angelic face would cast irrevocable doubt in a peace officer’s mind of her wrongdoing.

            Unfortunately, Raine was immune to the gesture.  She observed the careless scattering of hay stalks.  “Yes, and at nineteen I’m just an old maid, aren’t I?”

            “Well….”

Raine heaved the basket toward Isabelle.  Isabelle screamed before catching the basket clumsily in her arms.  Clothes scattered around her.  Flustered, she knelt to gather the clothes.  “Are you mad?”

Raine ducked past and kicked the bale aside.  She grabbed the book and held it aloft.  “I knew it!”

Isabelle’s eyes widened.  She vainly attempted to balance the basket and grab for the book.  Raine whipped it from her reach and shook her head.  “These stories again?  Izzy, you have far too much to do to fritter your time away on this dreck.”

            “It’s history!”

            “It’s smut.”  Raine placed the book atop the laundry and pulled the basket away from her sister.  “Now, I expect those cows fed and brushed by the time I get back from the stream or father’s going to hear about it.”

            “Oh, don’t tattle on me, Raine: You know how cross father gets about his silly cows.”

            “Not nearly as cross as the Baron gets if he doesn’t have fresh milk for his supper this evening.”

            “This is why your hands are like sandpaper!” Isabelle fumed.

            Raine’s laughter pealed upon her exit.  Isabelle crossed her arms and sat on a bale of hay, pouting.  If there were one thing to be said about Raine, her laugh was one of her better qualities.

            Raine made her way through the tangle of fenced livestock and thriving produce.  She smiled as she passed her father’s farmhands.  The men stopped, if briefly, to stare after her; the women returned the gesture gladly.  Raine, though merciless in her divvying of the seemingly endless tasks, commanded a great deal of respect over those who aided her.  She was the mouthpiece of the farm, always quick with a word of encouragement or sharp correction.  Her mother, father and sisters were loved as well, but their leadership was diluted by distance.  Her mother, head cook for the Baron, only dallied in the fields or pens to oversee the pickings for semi-annual banquets.  Her middle sister, Alorna, specialized in horse training.  She was often travelling Jarbor to participate in races and shows.

            As for her father, Giorge Acadia, there was no denying his charisma.  As the duke’s personal farmer, page, and blacksmith, he shouldered a heavy burden, but he managed it with such grace and good humor that it was impossible not to admire him.  Never one to raise a voice or hand unnecessarily, he boasted of how he spoiled the women in his life.  Nothing brought him greater joy than the adoration of his wife and daughters.  However, he often worked long hours to maintain the household, which left an absence in the head of household role.

            Raine fit the mold better than any man ever could.  She had watched her father closely from a young age.  His easy smile, his smooth gestures; they were two simple assets, yet so powerful over any who encountered them.  She adopted them secretly, held the power of them close to her heart.  When at last the day came for her father to hire on an overseer, many men laughed at the sight of her amongst the candidates.  They laughed as she shed her soft cotton gown in favor of sturdy linens.  They chortled when she wiped mud across her brow as she slicked off the sweat from a dozen runs to and from the water well.  They whispered amongst themselves as she lassoed a full-grown steer and brought it to its knees.  And when her hands bled from tilling three acres of farm in one afternoon, they were silent at last.

Her father scolded her for her stubbornness as her mother wrapped her wounded hands that evening.  “I am in the market for an overseer, not a slave,” he chided.  “That you would drive yourself so hard that your hands are raw….What must those men think of our family?  Of me?”

Her mother finished dressing her wounds.  “What those men think should be of little concern to you, dear.  Spare a thought for your daughter, wouldn’t you?  She’s twice what any of those other men could be on the field; she simply wanted to make that clear.”

“She has made it abundantly clear that she has no head for business or politics.”

Raine’s mother sighed.  She kissed Raine’s forehead.  “Good night, dear heart.”

Giorge stood in the doorway with his arms crossed.  Raine’s mother touched his arm lightly as she passed.

“Father…”

Giorge held up a hand.  He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a key.  “Do you know what this is?”

“No.”

“Of course you don’t.  No one but me has had this key since we built this farm.  It’s for the document room, behind the cowshed.”  Giorge sat at the foot of Raine’s bed.  He placed the key on the coverlet between them.  “I don’t need this anymore.”

Raine’s eyes lit up.  “You mean�"“

Giorge smiled.  “Your mother is right, as always.  None of those men could compare.  But I had to give them the chance.”  He patted her leg and left Raine staring, awed, at the large, rusty key.

It didn’t take long for her hard work and dedication to influence the wary farmhands.  Three years later, she needed only to gesture or glance in order for her will to be done.  She lived for her father’s praise of her conduct, and he praised her often. 

Raine took the narrow, winding dirt path at the rear of the farm that led down to the stream.  It was a peaceful walk most days, but today the fairies were scattered and excitable.  Raine narrowly avoided trampling one weaving vines across the path.  It jingled angrily before resuming its tireless duty.  Raine sighed.  Another seasonal festival would soon take place.  The frost was all but gone, leaving a swampy mess for the tiny creatures to spin into a beautiful canvas of spring blossoms.  The loveliness was not lost on Raine; she often spent long days gathering elusive dragonfruit flowers and trimming the climbing roses just off the trail.  But the business of the fairies was distracting, and largely hindering in her attempt to quickly and safely finish her morning duties.

After several near-incidents, she drew back a tapestry of weeping willow branches to clear the way to the gently churning waters.  She set the basket down and sighed.  The day had been long already:  Two carts were filled with wheat before dawn, and the piglets had been wrestled still and washed so that the potential buyers would not be turned off by their natural state of disarray.  She splashed some of the sweet, cool water onto her flushed face.

A warm light emitted from the forest.  Raine turned toward it.  Her lips tugged into a smile.  “Oh, Fengar…”

A small, snow-white creature whisked out of the trees.  It very much resembled a baby dragon that had somehow grown a coat of fur.  Like most Hybrid creatures, it had two differently-colored eyes: one blue, one gold.  It approached with a trill.

“You shouldn’t play in the woods for a while.  Those fairies mean business cleaning up the winter leavings; they may well carry you off to the Captanian as well!”

Fengar trilled warily.  It zipped to Raine’s side and huddled into her lap.

“All right, all right.  I hope you don’t mind getting a little damp.”

Fengar purred and rolled into a tight ball.  Raine shook her head.  Hybrids were known for their abject loyalty, despite their purpose for creation.  If Raine had not known the history of the Pretenders, she would never have guessed that tiny creatures like Fengar had been bred as weapons of war, capable of the most devious and deadly tasks.  She looked down at his snoring face in amazement.  Whatever he had been bred for, his only visible talent was the ability to fall into a fast sleep within seconds.  Raine sighed and began to scrub.

Thirty minutes later she sat at the water’s edge with a basket full of washed clothing, waiting for Fengar to stir.  She hated to wake him; he had the most piteous whine when he was sleepy.  But the sun was almost at full noon, and Raine had to set the laundry up on pins before it began to take on a mildew scent.  She nudged Fengar with her fingertips.  He unfurled lazily.  His golden eyes opened fractionally to peer up at her.  A quizzical sound garbled in his throat.  “I have to go now,” Raine murmured as kindly as she could.  Fengar trilled low.  He stretched on her lap and took to the air before her.  Hie thin, serpentine tongue tickled her nose.  Raine giggled and batted him away.  “Go, go, before someone sees you.”

Fengar darted off into the trees.  Raine sighed and hefted the heavy basket up.  It was a shame that Hybrids were so feared.  If her father knew she kept one as a pet, his hair would surely turn white.  She had been warned as a child of the wily charms of the Pretender’s pets.  They were used to spirit away innocents to the dens of Pretenders, where they would be brainwashed in the dark ways.  And if they could not be lured, they were consumed by the seemingly harmless creatures.  Raine didn’t know about the other Hybrids, but Fengar was the gentlest being Raine knew.

He had come to her after a great storm ravaged the land.  She was washing her horse, who had slipped in the slicks of mud that covered the fields in great patches.  As she dunked her washcloth in the water, she noticed a dirty mass of fur.  She had thought it a cat, and unfortunate victim of the swollen river.  But when she lifted it in her hands, it unfurled and stared longingly at her with its telltale eyes.  At first, she debated leaving it.  But then it mewled, ever so softly, and Raine’s heart melted.  She cleaned the mud from his pale fur, set his broken wing, and snuck him into her room.  For five days she snuck little bits of meat and vegetables from her plate into her pocket to feed the weak Hybrid.  She tucked linens against its coat to keep it warm.  When at last it had the strength to reveal its incandescence, Raine decided it was time to set him free.  She took him to the river.  She told him that he could not go back to the farm; that they would not believe that he was good.

A remarkable thing happened then.  Fengar winked and trilled affirmatively.  He understood, and from that day on, he came out only when Raine was alone at the riverside.  She did not know where he made his home, but it didn’t matter.  He needed no summoning; he sensed her every time.  Still, whenever she had to leave him out in the woods alone, Raine felt a small stab of guilt.

Raine had nearly made it out of the woods when a voice called out to her.  A stable hand rushed into the mouth of the woods and grabbed the basket.  “He needs you, Miss.  Right away.”

“Calm down, Warren.  Who needs me?”

“Him.”

 

Raine entered her office and curtseyed.  “Duke Errin.  This is an unexpected visit.”

“I apologize for my urgency, Miss Acadia.  I’m afraid it couldn’t wait.  I find myself in a bit of a bind.”

Raine gestured for the Duke to sit.  She seated herself behind the great oak desk.  “I’m sure you know we are very much at your service, whatever you may require.”

“I seem to have taken on a banquet at the last minute.”

Raine felt a cold tickle of dread on her spine.  Last minute banquets almost always translated to day-long harvests and a shortage of livestock for the markets.  Training her expression to one of careful indifference, she pulled out her ledger.  “How last minute are we talking?”

The Duke cracked a charming smile.  “Tonight?  If at all possible?”

Raine stared, pen frozen in the air.  “Tonight?” she croaked.  She cleared her throat and tried again.  “This evening, tonight?”

“Tomorrow’s yesterday, and yesterday’s tomorrow, yes, tonight.”

Raine took a deep breath.  A pounding began behind her eye, dancing in time to the quickening of her pulse.  “How many shall be in attendance?”

“Twenty, perhaps thirty.”  He paused to consider.  “No more than forty.”

Raine abandoned all formality and glared at the Duke.  “My lord,” she said sternly, “You desire a banquet and yet can give me no more firm details than tonight for twenty, thirty, or forty?”

“I realize it is a hasty and inconvenient proposition.  Believe me, if I could put this burden upon another, I would spare you.  But I trust no other with this task.  You will take this on, won’t you?”

Raine sighed.  “For you, Duke Errin, I find myself quite unable to refuse.”

“That’s my girl!”

“I will require my father’s assistance.”

“Yes, of course.  I would be remiss to expect you to man this alone.  He is on his way as we speak.  Now, the entertainment arrives at seven, and dinner is to be served by 8:30---”

“So our wagons will be at your kitchen doors by six o’clock sharp.”  Raine stood.  The Duke rose as well.  He doffed his cap and smiled.  “Always a pleasure, Miss Acadia.”

Raine smile wryly.  “Let’s hope so.”

The Duke took his leave, closing the door behind him.  Raine rapped her pen rapidly on her desktop.  She strode to the door, opened it, and called out to a nearby field worker, “Take one of the horses and gather all of our men from town.  Tell them we will pay them double for any time they work.”  As the worker ran off toward the stables, she looked down at her cotton gown.  “I just did the laundry, too,” she mumbled.

 

“No, no, no!”  Raine placed her full bushel of potatoes amongst the overflowing mass of produce.  “The turnips in the third field are the ones ready to pick, not the first!”

A farmhand stared at the perfect white vegetable in his hand.  “It looks fine to me, Miss Acadia.”

“It is fine, it’s just a quarter of the size it should be.  Plow in the third field.”

The farmhand shrugged and moved on.

Raine sighed.  Then she gasped and shot forward.  She waved her hands.   “Not the piglets, Jarell, we need four adults.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Acadia.  I’m a milk man; I can’t tell the difference between these squealers.”

Raine shook her head.  “Take them back to the pens, I’ll pick them myself.  Give Izzy a hand with the milking.”

Jarell reentered the pen.  Raine wiped the sweat from her brow, leaving a streak of grime across her forehead, rolled up her sleeves, and entered close behind.

Giroge Acadia emerged over the crest of the horizon astride a sturdy, midnight-black stallion.  He took in the sight of his three dozen workers tirelessly toiling in the gentle spring sunlight.

Raine tromped out of the pen, dragging four slightly plumper, infinitely more resistant pigs.  “Come on,” she grunted.  “You knew this day would come eventually.”  She struggled toward a waiting caravan, step by labored step.  Finally, she threw the door open and ushered the panicking animals within.  She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, breathing deeply.

Giorge dismounted and closed the distance between himself and his disgruntled daughter.  She espied him and lit up.  Then she scowled.  She crossed her hands over her chest and thrust her foot out.  “Giorge Acadia, what on Earth took you so long?”

Giorge held his hands out in supplication.  “Forgive me, dear one.  I was tied up in in-house preparations.  I begged my leave as soon as the staff was underway.”

Raine let out an exaggerated exhalation.  She tapped her finger to her chin and rolled her eyes skyward, pondering.  “I suppose I could find it in my heart to forgive you if you would help me gather the eggs.”

Giorge grinned.  He slung an arm around Raine’s shoulders.  “Anything for the manager of this great estate.”

 

Raine snapped the reins of her workhorses.  They ambled along at an acceptable pace, but Raine’s nerves were becoming quickly frazzled.  After hours of harvesting, her body was sore, her skin and clothes were mottled, and her head pounding.  She had never been as unsatisfied with a banquet reaping as she was at that moment.  Upon reflection, the whole execution had been sloppy at best.  Almost none of the workers had been assigned to their areas of specialization, resulting in Raine’s having to toil three times as hard to clean up after or monitor their work.  She had panicked, and had reacted with chaotic domineering.  She swallowed her disappointment and took in the feeling of the cool air blasting on her skin.

Giorge led the procession into the gates of the Duke’s colossal manor.  They rounded a corner and proceeded along the gated home to a large set of doors.  They opened from within.  A petite, fair-haired woman swept out to greet them.  “You’re just in time; the stoves and ovens have just reached the proper temperature.”  She gestured, and a line of kitchen aids streamed out.

Raine and Giorge dismounted and approached.  Vera Acadia, wispy and wan in appearance, glided forward to take her husband’s hands and kiss his cheeks.  She turned next to Raine and greeted her similarly.  She tucked a wild hair behind Raine’s ear and sighed.  “Dear child, could you find no time to bathe before you came?”

“I’m afraid not, mother.  We just barely managed to reap the barley before we had to leave to keep our deadline.”

Vera stared at her daughter.  Her emerald green gaze snapped to her husband, suddenly steely.  “Giorge, you didn’t tell her, did you?”

Giorge flinched visibly.  “It must have slipped my mind, love.”

“Slipped your---!“  Vera pursed her lips.  She shook her head and took Raine’s hands.  “Come with me.”

“But the crops�"!“

Vera stomped into the manor, Raine helplessly in tow.

 

Vera guided Raine through the tight corridors that comprised the manor.  She came at last to a door.  She unlocked it and pulled Raine within.  The interior was modestly appointed with cherry wood furnishings, offset by a solid marble vanity and mirror.  “Over there,” she instructed, nodding toward the bed.  She bolted the door and placed her keys on the surface of the vanity.

Raine ventured close to the bed.  A flat white box bearing a name in silver script laid upon the simple down coverlet.  Raine touched it hesitantly.  The name boasted upon it was that of one of the finest tailors of Southern Jarbor.  She looked at her mother.  “What is this all about?”

Vera sighed.  “Your father was supposed to inform you when he reached the farm that you are to be presented today.  As the official manager of the Duke’s farm estate.”

“But that’s father’s title.”

“It was.  He has been promoted to head of the Duke’s home estate, and I to kitchen head.  Furthermore, he has offered us a place to stay in his home: A wing committed to our family’s needs.  This is your new room.”

Raine looked about with fresh eyes.  The sunlight streaming in illuminated the marble vanity, making the mottled colors dance.  The wood was too polished, the linens too white.  She looked down at her soiled hands and drew away from the box, leaving a smudge.

“Raine?  Are you all right?”

Raine shook her head.  “It’s just….It’s very sudden.”  Raine pressed a hand to her linen pants.  “Who will stay at the farm?”

“The Duke has entrusted you in selecting three overseers.  You will manage the farm’s affairs as you have on site; you will only need to travel a little ways daily.  The Duke will provide you a horse.”

“I have a horse,” Raine said a tad defensively.

“You have a crop horse, not a runner.”

Raine set her jaw.  Tears pricked her eyes.  She blinked them back, furious at herself for getting so unreasonably upset.  The Duke was giving them a better life.  They could never refuse such fine offerings.  Still, she felt as though the floor were sinking beneath her, and the paneled walls closing in.  “But the harvest today. . . Everything went so terribly awry.  I could hardly keep my wits about me.  How could the Duke possibly think me capable of managing the lands alone?”

“He has every confidence in you.  Your father assured him that you would be the most suited to the position.  It is a great honor, Raine darling.  You aren’t thinking of refusing?”

Raine shook her head and managed a wan smile.  “Of course not.”

Vera clapped her hands giddily.  “Oh, good!” she sighed.  She glanced at her pocketwatch.  “Oh, no, I really must be getting back to the kitchen.  There’s a bath three doors down; you should probably start getting ready now.  I’ll be up in an hour to help you lace your gown.”  Vera picked up the keys.  She slipped one off and set it on the vanity.  “You won’t regret taking this opportunity, dear.  It will change your life.”

Vera slipped out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.  Raine looked around with a furrowed brow.  “I’m afraid you’re right,” she murmured.  She gazed at the pristine white box.  She dusted her hands off on her pants and gingerly lifted the lid.  Her breath caught in her throat.

 

            Raine stood before the vanity mirror, fresh from a steamy hot bath and swathed in a course white cotton towel.  She examined her reflection closely.  Her lips, rosy and full, pulled downward instinctively at the corners, giving her a displeased look.  Her eyebrows were full, well defined and deep brown, a sharp contrast to the golden wheat of her hair.  Her cheeks held a certain plumpness, slashed by unexpected hollows to create a unique definition.  Her frown deepened.  How could she even begin to wear the finery in the box?  She was unrefined to the core.  Presentations only occurred when a person of vast importance was calling, someone who was deeply fiscally involved in the production of the estate.  Her head swam with the possibilities.  A head minister?  A president?  A king?  She couldn’t imagine standing before any of them in the costume of royalty.  What if she insulted someone?

            She poked the fleshy part of her cheek and set her jaw.  Her deep blue eyes bored into the mirror.  She had nothing to fear, she reminded herself.  Her father would be close.  She could always count on him for guidance and stability.  He would never let her make a fool of herself.  She ventured a tremulous smile.

            Vera entered in a rush.  “You haven’t got your gown on.”

            Raine clutched her towel close.  “I’ve only just returned.”

            Vera smiled knowingly at her daughter.  “Sweet child,” she said.  “You aren’t by any chance afraid to put it on?”

            Raine sighed.  “I am quite weary of change, mother.  Dawdling makes me feel as though I have some semblance of control over this quagmire of a situation.”

Vera pulled the dress from the box.  Midnight blue and encrusted with tiny gems, it sparkled in the fast retreating sunlight.  She faced her daughter and pressed it to her.  “Darling, it’s only taffeta.”

Raine smiled, then laughed outright.  She embraced her mother.  Pulling away, she took the dress in her hands, tangling her fingers in the confusion of corset strings.  “I’ll need your help figuring out what goes where.”

 

“Aha!”

The sound of triumph rent the air, alerting a grazing sounder of wild swine to fast approaching hoofbeats. They grunted and became a panicked mob, pushing and trampling to escape the sun-drenched clearing. Arrows and spears rained down from above, silencing and stilling a great majority of the herd. A few lucky ones managed to escape the throng of fallen bodies and sprinted for the trees. Their squeals faded into the silent, shielding forest.

A trio of men broke into the clearing on horseback. They were led by Prince Phoebus, an exuberent young man with a shock of auburn hair and warm brown eyes. He wore a course wool tunic with no undershirt, which would have been considered a shameless ploy for female attention had he been engaging in any other activity besides hunting. It was well established that Phoebus, with his unapologetically angelic smile and hard-won warrior’s physique, was fully aware of and utilized his charms in the art of wooing innocent young maidens into committing not-so-innocent indiscretions.

Accompanying him were his cousin Wesley Artine, Archduke of Saladooran’s mountainous province of Tohl’rah, and his childhood friend Salvatore du Plaidre, second son of the neighboring kingdom of Plaidre.  They drew up behind him and dismounted.  “You arrogant little ponce,” Wesley laughed.  “We could have had all of them if it weren’t for that overzealous yap of yours.”

“Oh, come undone, Wes. Fifteen out of twenty in a single sweep is more than you could reasonably net going solo.”  Salvatore ripped one of his signature silver-hilted arrows from a carcass.  “Besides, you can hardly expect Phoebus to shut up about anything.”

Phoebus yanked his spear from a boar, planted it in the ground, and jumped from his steed.  “I resent that implication, Sal.  When have I been anything but discreet in matters of importance?”  He collected a few red-wrapped arrows and slid them into his quiver.

Sal’s lips twitched into a smile at the corner.  “I have no idea what you are implying.”

Phoebus quirked an eyebrow.  “Oh, so?”  He turned to Wes with a smirk.  “Perhaps I had overestimated the weight of the news bestowed upon me just three nights ago.”

“Three nights----You can’t mean the first night of the Hunt?”

“The very same night a certain young Prince of Plaidre’s persuasion had three too many glasses of burgundy rodongo wine.”

“I recall a dance involving knives and scarves, unless my memory of the night is too distorted.”

Sal was fast turning white.  A laughed bubbled from his lips. “Enough, enough!” he pleaded.  “I was somewhat overserved, that is correct, and perhaps did a dance or two, but I would remember, son of Saladooran, if I had let slip a closely guarded secret.”

Phoebus nodded and sighed.  “I guess you won’t be marrying the Kaishran, then.”

Sal paled further, until the stark black of his short-cropped hair was startling in contrast to his drained face.

“Lera?  Third daughter of King Yeide?”  Wes slapped Sal on the back.  “Fine work, my boy.  You came out head and shoulders above anyone who lays claim to the other three dogs he calls daughters.”

Sal and Phoebus shot Wes reproachful glares before joining in a peal of laughter.  Sal shook his head.  “I can’t believe I let that slip.  Mother will reel at the thought of her announcement being spoiled.”

“Mum’s the word, friend.  Believe me, I wouldn’t want to put thoughts into my mother’s head.”

“Speaking of which, when are you getting married, Phoebus?” Wes pulled his last arrow from the last hog and wiped the tip on a handkerchief.  “There is a very limited amount of ladies of noble blood who aren’t fast resembling the Great Queen Isabelle, all respect intended.”

“You needn’t be in a hurry,” Sal said.  He knelt in the dirt, nudging away bodies to clear a small area.  He pulled a small flare from his waistband and lit it with a pen-sized flamethrower.  “Women depreciate like fruit: Firm and juicy when first plucked, but wrinkled and withered before you realize time has passed.  Whereas men only become stronger and more desirable, like fine wine.”

The flame sped up the foot-long wick.  Upon contact with the flare, it shot skyward and emitted an impressive light and sound.  Wes and Phoebus chuckled.  Wes glanced at Phoebus.  His smile had faded into a look of contemplation.  “Ahhh,” Wes said slowly.  “Methinks Prince Phoebus is withholding information.”

Phoebus looked up, smiling sheepishly.  “What?  That’s absurd.”

Sal’s eyes lit up.  “Ohhh.  This is interesting.”

“Not interesting.  Nothing interesting.  I don’t understand the sudden shower of excited attention.”

“Phoebus, word of advice.  You are a terrible liar.”

“Awful.”

“Were you to commit a crime, you would hang based on your completely transparent expression alone.”

“All right, all right,” Phoebus laughed, holding out his hands.  “This is getting ridiculous.  There is nothing to tell, honestly.”

Wes and Sal eyed him speculatively, but before they could utter another word a fourth horseman broke into the clearing.  Phinneus Finn was Prince Phoebus’s mentor and advisor, a stocky and short man of forty with a distaste for all things rugged or unrefined.  He was a fish out of water in the woods astride his massive steed adorned with the bright colors of Saladooran’s flag, his lovingly placed toupee askew on his head.  He was flushed and breathing hard.  “My Lord, thank goodness.  I have been searching all over for you!”

“Phinneus, what a surprise.  Are you participating in the Hunt as well?”

“Heavens, no,” Phinneus sputtered.  “Such barbarism; it’s unsightly for a man of order.”  He tugged at his rumpled overcoat.  “I have come to fetch you away from all of this.”

“This is a bad time, Finn.  We’re awaiting the caravan to load up our kill.”

“I’m afraid it cannot wait.  Your father is quite put out at you for forgetting your presentation for Duke Errin.”

Phoebus cursed under his breath.  “That’s tonight?  Finn, why didn’t you tell me before I went on the Hunt!  You know how the days meld into one when I am hunting!”

“I assumed you would be aware of and take responsibility for your duties, your highness.   Clearly I was overconfident in your abilities of rentention.”

Phoebus sighed and turned to his companions.  “Don’t take all the credit, boys.  If I come back to unmarked kills, I will be very put out.”

“Go on with you, slacker,” Sal teased, kicking the air behind Phoebus as he mounted.  Phoebus shot them a boyish grin before following Phinneus into the woods.

Wes rested an arm over Sal’s shoulders.  “Think he’s in trouble?”

Sal shook his head.  “He’s not coming back for the rest of the Hunt, that’s for sure.”

 

As Phinneus gestured for the great double doors of Saladooran’s great white palace to admit them, Phoebus felt a cold trickle of dread from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.  None of the servants met his gaze as he passed them in the Great Hall en route to his private bedchamber.  They stilled, eyes downcast, and performed stiff gestures of welcome; a forced curtsey here, an awkward bow there.  He strived to ignore the clear signs of his father’s rampant displeasure.  Holding his head high, he entered his bedchamber.

“So nice of you to return, Prince Phoebus.”

Phoebus jumped.  A wiry man with hollowed features slipped out from the shadows behind the door and stood at attention.  Phoebus let out an exasperated breath.  “The hell, Davin?”  He slipped his quiver and holster off and slammed them on his bed.  “Can’t you announce yourself in a way that doesn’t send my blood pressure sky high?”

Davin took two careful steps and stood stiffly.  Phinneus gestured at the door, and several maids swept in.  “I apologize, your majesty.  Your father sent me to oversee your preparations.”

“I thought that’s what Phinneus was being paid for.”

“Your father expressed concern with Phinneus’s competancy.”

Phinneus faltered only slightly before mutely commanding a pair of maids to gather Phoebus’s attire.  Phoebus turned his back to Davin and rolled his eyes.  He lifted his arms dutifully.  An older maid undressed the unresisting young prince and tossed his used clothing aside.  She led him to the connected bathroom, where another maid was running a hot bath.  Davin followed with all the warmth and intensity of a wasp.  The maids guided Phoebus into the massive porcelain tub and scrubbed him vigorously.

“I’m sure you realize your father is not currently in the most favorable mindset.”

“I’m sure my father will get over it.”

Davin sputtered.

Phinneus bustled in and took Davin’s elbow.  “Excuse his highness, Lord Davin.  The trials and tribulations of the Hunt must have gone to is head.  If you would just wait in the drawing room�"“

Davin shrugged Phinneus off.  “Prince Phoebus, his Majesty will require your presence immediately upon your return tomorrow evening.”  He glared down his nose at Phinneus.  “I trust you will see to it that your charge is where he is expected to be for once.  After all, it’s what you are being paid for.”  He performed a swift, formal bow and exited the steamy bathroom.  Phinneus, tight-lipped, stood by.

Phoebus sighed.  The maids rinsed his body and helped him from the tub into two warm, fluffy towels.  Ten seconds of brisk rubbing yielded a dry, clean body.  He shrugged into a large white robe.  “He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.  I can speak to my mother about him.”

“No need, sir.  We really must be seeing to your wardrobe.”  Phinneus snapped his fingers and led the way into the bedroom.  The maids were pressing a military dress uniform and pinning bars and war medals to it with rapid precision.  Phoebus stood still while the maids whipped the robe off of him and eased him into his undershirt and pants.  While Phoebus went through the motions of being waited on hand and foot, his gaze wandered to Phinneus.  Though there was no obvious emotion on the man’s face, Phoebus knew his advisor well enough to read the hard set of his jaw; the agitated bob of his Adam’s apple.  His mouth filled with a bitter taste.  The ladies slid Phoebus’s jacket over his shoulders and retreated, eyes downcast.  Phinneus nodded and smiled toward the door.

As the ladies took their leave, Phoebus turned to Phinneus.  Phinneus eyeballed the placement of the war medals with an expert eye.  “Everything seems to be in order,” he concluded.  He frowned and plucked a long strand of hair from Phoebus’s shoulder.  “There we are.”

“Finn--”

Phinneus shook his head.  “Your highness does far too much worrying about things that should be inconsequential.  I am more than capable of dealing with Davin in my own way.  I will be quite incensed if you utter one word to your dear mother, do you understand?”

            Phoebus laughed.  He clapped Phinneus on the back.  “I was going to ask you if you had my saber, but all right.”

 

            The road to Duke Errin’s estate was longer than Phoebus remembered it being from the summer trips of his childhood.  The trees had grown large, creating a dense canopy over the wide, compacted dirt path.  He did not fear the shadows that passed over the narrow windows of his carriage.  They were preceded and followed by a troop of Saladian soldiers, the finest of Jarbor’s warriors, arguably the finest in all of Polithia.  Phoebus was proud to be counted amongst those ranks as a Captain First Class.  To be able to lead such brave, upstanding men in maintaining the safety and peace of Saladooran.  Though he abhorred being thrust into the stuffy confines of Presentations and Balls, he enjoyed wearing the attire; the proof that he, though a man of privilege, strived for the good of the country.

            He resented that the same could not be said of his father.  The King of Saladooran was a distant, deeply political man.  He had served in the army as a General, his duty as King, but he never considered the role to be more than a requirement of his position.  He had never led a training exercise, nor a front against a wave of Pretenders, the dark occult brethren of Chaos.  His indifferent approach had led to more than one falling-out between father and son.  Once, after a particularly brutal verbal bout, Phoebus had decried his father’s ability to lead the troops he so clearly looked down upon.  He recalled, with a rush of hot anger, his father’s icy reaction.

            “Perhaps I may never be as great soldier as you, but you, my son, do not have the strength required to be a great king.  I fear you may never.”

            Phoebus clenched his fists.  Had his mother not broken in, tears streaming, he would have laid hands on his father.  Phinneus had scolded him later that evening, but the words did not sink in.  Phoebus’s mind was made up.  His father was a coward.  And he, when his day came, Phoebus would be the better king.  A king of the people.

            It was difficult to imagine it.  Though friendly with members of the military, Phoebus hardly spoke a word to anyone without royal blood save Phinneus and Davin.  He did not intended to snub anyone.  He had been raised to stand still while servants dressed and undressed him, to nod or snap his fingers when he required another morsel of food or refill of wine.  Any requirements he had of the servants who were going into town were to be left on a list by his bedside.  When travelling between towns, he was ushered escorted in a solidly-constructed carriage.  There was little opportunity for contact.  He could have strived to reach out, but since his youth he found remaining inconspicuous lessened his contact with his domineering father.

            Phoebus glanced at Phinneus.  He was staring out the window uneasily, jumping at a particularly ghastly gnarled tree that passed.  Phoebus scoffed and smiled.  Phinneus, though nervous and prim, was a good man.  He had been with Phoebus for nearly a decade, and in that time had softened toward the young Prince.  It was not obvious when they were in mixed company, nor often when they were alone.  But there were times that his fatherly intentions were made known.  When Phoebus was too weak from dysentary upon his return from a scouting mission in Eughno, Phinneus relieved the Queen often at his sickbed, spoon-feeding him his gruel when the nurses could have very well done it themselves.  When Phoebus defied his father’s summons to dine with a particularly venemous potential young bride and went hunting with Sal instead, Phinneus invented a highly contagious sickness in order to restrict access to his abandoned bedchamber.  Phoebus did not have to ask Phinneus to defend him against his father’s displeasure and looming wrath; Finn did so gladly.

            Phinneus grunted as the carriage crested a hard bump.  “You’d think they’d pave this road, as much as it must be travelled.”

            “You know my father’s position: Why spend money on roads when you can harbor it like a miserable hermit?”

            Phinneus pulled a scroll from his overcoat. “I’ve written you a speech, unless you’ve come up with your own in the past two hours.”

            Phoebus stowed the scroll with a grin.  “You are always looking out for me, Finn.”

            “Don’t I know it,” Phinneus muttered.

            Phoebus leaned back and peered out the window.  “I haven’t been to the manor in years.  I wonder how it’s changed.”

            “I hear the farm’s been thriving under the care of a new overseer.”

            “Hmm.”

            “A young woman named, umm, Raine Acadia.”

            “Mmm hmm.”

            “Eldest daughter of Giorge and Vera Acadia.”

            “Very good.”

            “The family you’re only an hour away from acknowledging, if it’s of any importance to you.”

            Phoebus’s brow furrowed.  He nodded.  After a tense moment, he slipped the scroll out of his jacket.  “I think maybe I should do some studying.”

            Phinneus chuckled.  “Yes, perhaps.”

           

The procession rattled down the road.  As the sounds of hoofbeats and spinning wheels faded, a dark beast pulled out of the shadows of the forest.  It stepped into the sunlight and became a horse, with a coat and mane as black as the midnight sky.  A hooded figure shimmered astride it.  They watched the carriage turn a corner in the road ahead and vanish.  The horse reared with a snort.

“Shhhh.”  The sound was a caress.  Slender, feminine fingers peeked from the dark robe as the figure stroked the beast’s ear.  It calmed instantly, enraptured by the touch.  “Soft, now,” the figure whispered.  “They mustn’t discover us.”

The beast whinnied softly.  It took off after the caravan, its hooves giving off no sound as though they made no contact with the road.