Part 1

In the second month of her fourteenth year of life, Princess Gabriele LeSalle Basingame, lance-heir to the throne (that is to say, eldest daughter to the First Lance of a queen who herself had no heirs) and already known among the court as the Shining Sun of Eretria for her beauty, became a woman. That is to say, she had the first of what would be many monthly bleedings from her womanly area, and with it, her life began to change.

At her exclamation, her father Lord Doland Basingame, First Lance to Throne Queen Meralina of Eretria, came running; for she was heir to the throne, and assassination attempts had been known to occur. So he was relieved to find his daughter standing upright and alone in her chamber, though rather confused by the fact that she was also bare as the day she was born, staring with rather wide eyes at her womanly area.

"What's wrong?" he said. "Gabriele. What's wrong?"

She turned towards him and pointed. Faint streaks of red ran down the insides of each thigh.

Instantly Lord Basingame understood. Though he himself had no personal experience with this sort of thing, he had been warned by Nurse that this day would probably come soon. That day had arrived, then: with her first courses, his daughter had proved herself a woman in body, and now ready to take the steps towards becoming one in spirit.

For a moment, he allowed his eyes to rest on her; as was proper for a father, he had not seen her naked in quite some time, and probably would never again. She was not yet a woman in form, though clearly one in body, but her breasts had begun their growth, shallow and smooth-skinned, their gentle curves speaking of things to come. As well, her hips showed a nascent widening, beginning to swell from her waist. Her face showed the haunting beauty of her mother where it was not rounded with the curves of childhood; her large blue-grey eyes shone of a laughing intelligence, and her mouth was as quick to smile as it was to twist in anger. Her long hair, a deep lustrous gold, hung down her back, freed from its normal elaborate styling. For a moment, he stared, and was spellbound by the beauty she would become.

"Then it is time," he said.

"I will be known as a woman?" she asked.

"Yes," said her father, "it will be declared." Some had grown anxious, for some girls were already women at her age, and in certain corners of the Royal Court it was whispered that something was wrong. Now those whispers could be definitively laid to rest.

Assuming certain proofs were offered. "I will see that Nurse is informed," he said. "She will know what to do." Lord Basingame himself knew nothing of the methods women used to staunch their flow; that would have been Eleanor's lesson, had she lived. But now Nurse would have to do. Tomorrow's courses would be collected; the next morning, he would have a proof no one could argue with. The magicians (those few trusted within striking distance of Her Majesty) would be able to verify that this was, indeed, Gabriele's blood; and all would be satisfied.

"And I'm to have my First Lance," Gabriele said.

Doland Basingame thought for a moment. "Yes," he said. Thought for a moment--or perhaps was only lost in memory. "Yes, you shall."

If Gabriele had any thought of the course her life would take, she made no sign of it. As heir to the throne (cousin-side or not), her days were not her own.

On the same morning as Gabriele's menarche ceased, Lord Doland Basingame, Lord of the Echoing Vale, Marshal-Captain of the Silver Guard, First Lance to Throne Queen Meralina of Eretria, held up a scrap of cloth darkened with blood, and announced that his daughter was now a woman. After the court had been satisfied (the mages, as predicted, stepping up to do the job), he made his second announcement: that the screening process for a new First Lance would begin again, to resume for the first time since he himself had been matched to Queen Meralina, not long after her first menses. He remembered well the excitement and chaos of those times; it quickened his heart in a way that was part anticipation, part sheer nervous dread. It was always a bit unnerving, he consoled himself, to look one's own replacement square in the face.

The court, indeed the entire country, mobilized in a flurry of activity set off by his announcement. Thirty days, a full month of three weeks, had been allotted for the gathering and preparation of the candidates. On a steady horse, one could ride from one of Eretria's borders to another in just over a week, for it was a modest nation; and since the Silver City was in the center of the country, all would have at least two weeks to hear the news, set out, arrive at the capitol, register at the barracks being now specially prepared for the candidates (and their families, since a number of them would be children not much older than Gabriele herself, and possibly younger), and prepare themselves for the trials, for the Time of Testing in which one would be selected to accompany Princess Gabriele Basingame for the rest of her life.

Nobody begrudged the intensity of the testing, nor the carnival atmosphere of the proceedings. The First Lance was not just an advisor to the Queen; he was her chief bodyguard, the last and most indomitable barrier between her and danger; he was the leader of Eretria 's small but proud military; he was her most trusted confidant and closest advisor. So important was he that if the queen should fail to produce a suitable daughter-heir (as the present Queen Meralina had, through no fault of her own, as her only son had been tragically lost in an equestrian accident), his own eldest daughter would ascend to the throne, even if the queen should have nieces by blood (as the present Queen Meralina did). And the friendship between the First Lance and the Throne Queen was thought by the people to affect the state of the nation: the greatest queens of Eretria had made husbands or lovers of their First Lances; likewise, those between whom anger and emnity existed, had made bad decisions in policy, and were looked upon with disapproval by all.

The Time of Testing was a time of hope; the people looked to the future with bright eyes, praying to Kyrei, She Whose Hand Shelters, for continued prosperity. But despite the festivities and optimism, Lord Basingame's eyes-and-ears within the city brought back whispers of discontent. For Queen Meralina and Lord Doland were friends, but not good ones; there was as often dissatisfaction between them as agreement, and though the nation still prospered by the wit and wisdom of its dual rulers, many felt that a wiser and wittier man might have been chosen. He had even been foolish enough to allow mages--mages, those vile creatures steeped in magic, who had banded together fifty years ago and brought an onslaught of death down on Rascine... Not that anyone really cared what happened to the Summers, but what sort of fool allowed such dangerous people into the Royal Court? And look, you, for Queen Meralina had no heirs, and instead we will have a daughter of this Basingame on the throne? Loduur will soon rule over us all, and there will be blood and fire. The First Lance heard these whispers and sorrowed, for he knew that his name was not one to conjure with, and because of this he worried for his daughter.

But there were other things to occupy his attention, other things to worry about. His duties to the queen had been slackened slightly, to allow him to supervise the Time of Testing, but the trials themselves needed to be arranged, as well as spaces around them for spectators (for the Trials were watched avidly by any citizen who could bring him- or herself away from daily duties to spectate), and also lodging, food and provisions, and proper training facilities for the candidates; and then there was the fete to be held after the selection, which would involve the manhood and womanhood ceremonies of Princess Gabriele Basingame and her new First Lance, so that Gabriele, once she had become a woman in every sense of the word, could be invested by Queen Meralina as the official heir to the throne. The fete would involve food, drink, entertainment fit for a queen, decorations for the royal banquet hall, official invitations to most if not all the lords and ladies of the land, appropriate garmentry for both the cousin-heir and her lance, and so forth.

There was, in short, a lot to be done. Lord Basingame was so busy during the thirty days that he barely had a chance to see his daughter, this young woman, private name Catheryne, who was now the center of the whirlwind. Of course, she too was busy, learning those things which a young girl learns before becoming a woman; but in the few moments he had to himself, he regretted immensely that they could not see each other. His little girl was taking yet another step away from him, taking a big stride towards becoming a woman in her own right, and he would have liked to cherish the remaining time with her. It seemed only yesterday that he had first held her in his arms, a tiny baby, her eyes surprisingly alert, her grip surprisingly strong, and had decided with Eleanor that her private name, their little daughter's private name which only the most trusted and intimate would know, should be Catheryne; but then, only a few years later, the consumption had taken Eleanor from them, and he had thrown himself into his duties. He could remember as if it were yesterday the last time he had held Eleanor's hand, as her breathing rattled and wheezed and slowly stopped; at times it felt as though it had just happened yesterday, for sometimes he thought he remembered nothing that had happened between then and now, and Catheryne should still be a toddling little three-year-old when she entered the room, not this tall demi-woman with her monstrous bleeding. He did not, in short, know where the time had gone; and with all his heart, he wished he did.

But the thirty days passed quickly, and the Time of Testing began. Lord Basingame, busy man that he was, was not able to watch the trials; the Princess Gabriele did, and chafed under the imposed boredom. It was all the same thing--young men and boys and even grown men running through the same hoops, tackling the same obstacles, failing at the same places. The dress she wore was ornate and abominably heavy; it seemed to strangle her. And because it was in public, with lords and ladies and the common folk watching them, watching her (and not even noticing whose elbows they rubbed; what person of proper breeding would allow such consorting?), she could not even kick her heels beneath her chair to alleviate the boredom, or shift in her seat to bring ease to her slowly-numbing legs. No, she must sit still and prim, a perfect lady in a dress built by a coffin-maker, while inside she wanted nothing more than to jump up and run away.

And so, absorbed in her own annoyances, she totally missed the run of the boy who would eventually become her lance.

He had not gone last, but close to it; the parents of candidates would jockey for their son's order in line, believing (rightly) that the judges would pay more attention to those who went first; believing (rightly) that judges would pay more attention when not dozing off. But this boy did not need to go first; from the moment he stepped onto the obstacle course, he commanded all attention. He was short, perhaps only a few inches taller than Princess Gabriele herself; he wore dark clothes that would not encumber his speed; his hair and eyes were dark, and his cold face burned with determination. And though he was allowed his choice of tools and (practice) weapons from among a pre-arranged selection, he brought nothing with him at all.

Some among the royal court recognized him. His name was Marcus Demitri, and his mother had been the Lady Violet Demitri, last remaining scion of the family, before her untimely passing due to grief over the loss of her husband. As such he was heir to a distinct fortune, but he had no parents and no family, and not a noble house could be found who would deign to even supervise him, much less take him in. He was, after all, half-Summer; his mother had somehow gotten taken with one of those barbarians from the other side of the Spring Lands, and refusing to listen to reason she had wed him and even borne him a child. It was rumored that he had been a peasant in his own lands, and many speculated about the increase of estate he had acquired by marrying into such a prosperous family, and how he had somehow tricked or blackmailed poor Violet into such a marriage. He had died under mysterious circumstances, and none were truly sorry to see him go. But his legacy lived on in young Marcus, the boy nobody would take in. As such he had become almost a child of the court, sleeping in spare rooms in the castle, taking lessons as he could; the children of the court befriended him as they might steal an apple or try to trip the Silver Guardsmen--because they knew their parents would disapprove, and that made it all the more worth doing. About three years ago he had simply disappeared... And most, as with father and mother, had called it a good riddance. But recently he had returned--right about when the Time of Trials had been announced, come to think of it--and here he was.

Those of the royal court, including those in the judging box, wondered what he was doing on the field. Had he really signed up for the trials? From whom had he learned statecraft, strategy and tactics, swordsmanship, leadership? Was this a dare some brazen young lordling had put him up to? It was ridiculous--a halfbreed barbarian? with no tools or weapons? What did he expect to accomplish?

But then the gong sounded, and Marcus Demitri began to move through the obstacle course, and all opinions changed.

His footfalls were silent; he moved with the speed of one far wiser than he in the arts of stalking. He surmounted obstacles with breathtaking speed, contorting his body in ways no one had thought possible. He bypassed some of them in ways the designers themselves had not even anticipated. And when he reached the end of the course, where the Queen's most skilled knight awaited in ritual combat readiness with a wooden shield and practice sword of bundled wood lathes--

The gasps and cries and cheers were what brought Princess Gabriele back from her musings. From her raised position in the box she saw the judges scrambling down onto the field; and Lord Faustos supine on the ground--not retreated with swordpoint to the sky in the ritual signal of defeat, but on the ground!--and a dark-haired boy in black clothing standing over him... Wait, was that Marcus Demitri?? Everyone said he was dead! By now soldiers were hastening down into the field as well, and ignoring the cries from Nurse and from her bodyguards, Princes Gabriele followed them down.

"... Totally inappropriate!" Lord Gevardos was yelling; he was senior of the five judges. "You are meant to show discipline! You are meant to pull back and avoid causing harm!" Behind him, the other four judges stood abreast, their arms crossed, identical expressions of censure on their faces; off to one side, a soldier knelt over Lord Faustos, slapping his face to ill effect.

It was Marcus Demitri. He had always had twice as much nerve as he ought to, and now he didn't quail beneath the stern eyes of the judges. "I did it on purpose," he said. "You would never have believed me if Lord Faustos had yielded; and besides, he would not have known how to yield to this sort of strike. I did it to prove that I could disable an armed man without killing him and using only my hands."

They had seen her. "Princess," said Captain Molthouse, captain of the Silver Guardsmen. "You should not be here. This man is dangerous."

"If I really wanted to be dangerous, I would have killed Lord Faustos," Marcus Demitri retorted. His eyes gave a cold glare. "It's relatively easy when your man is on the ground. Stomp on his stomach, make him vomit--he'll choke to death on it before he wakes up."

"You are not helping your case, young man," Lord Gevardos snapped.

Marcus Demitri turned to Gabriele with a formal bow. "Your Highness."

"Sir," said the soldier bending over Lord Faustos. "He's coming round." All gathered about the supine man, waiting to see what happened.

Lord Faustos did not look hurt. He wore only a leather jerkin to protect against errant practice-sword strikes, and his hairy arms and thick, corded neck and his entire head were all exposed, things that never would have been allowed in a true battle; but, aside from a lump rising on his left temple (forgivable for a knockout blow), he looked well and healthy. His eyes opened and stared above him for a moment, unfocused; then he saw Marcus Demitri and smiled. His voice was that unmistakable low-pitched, gravelly growl. "So, you've learned more than swordplay since last I saw you."

"I'm sorry if I hurt you, my lord," Marcus Demitri said, inclining his head in the slightest. There was a murmur, and Gabriele herself felt shock: this upstart young boy was not showing the deference he ought to. He was addressing Lord Faustos as an equal! But Lord Faustos simply shook his head and chuckled.

"No more'n I deserve," he said. "'Twas my own actions as much as yours laid me down." He turned to the others. "He kicked me in the head. Can you believe that? I swung at him and he stepped inside my guard, knocked the sword from my hand, and..." He grinned. "There you go. Boy's a foot and a half short my height, but he just jumped and spun and... Oh, and I think he punched me to make me back up too. Before the kick, you understand. Give him some room to move."

"That clearly constitutes a violation of the rules," Gabriele said severely. The rules of the Trial were clear: any physical harm to any of the Trial participants was grounds for immediate disqualification. Her father said that this was an important test. Any man, after all, could swing and hit; it was much harder to swing and then deliberately pull short. "He should be disqualified."

"I agree," said Lord Gevardos loudly. "Lord Faustos is hurt."

"Not hurt enough," Lord Faustos said, grinning. "If he had been in to kill someone deep in the palace and I was on the outer guard, I might've woken up before the job was done. You didn't go full force, did you, you could have kicked my head clear off my shoulders, I wager."

Marcus Demitri said nothing, but a slim smile crossed his face, one that did not warm his eyes.

"The boy's not to be disqualified," Lord Faustos said, sitting up (the entire ring of people moving to accomodate him). "I taught him the blade and he was always a deft hand with it; if he's got such a touch with his hands and feet, he'd be walking death with a sword."