"Brother Sun and Sister Moon C: 18-19" by Sandra Leigh Wagner

      It was late afternoon when Brian found his way to Silouan’s study. He was feeling that mix of fatigued languor and invigoration that comes after exercise. The light lunch in the baths and the well practiced hands of Norly had refreshed him. He was once more in his jacket tunic and trousers, the cloak buttoned back over his shoulders. Tuweal had had them cleaned while they bathed. Apparently dinner was to be a formal affair that evening.
      The princess was seated at her desk with a large book open in front of her, a quill to her left and a young woman with a book of her own seated on her right. She looked wan and tired. He hesitated in the open door. She looked up, saw him and nodded towards the sitting area in front of the fireplace, asking him to wait. He politely crossed the room and settled on one of the couches.
      Apparently she was dealing with matters of state. “All right, delegate matters of temperature between Deliah and Fordan and that should do it.”
      The woman nodded, made a notation in her own book. She frowned, reading something there. “Um, there is one other matter we should attend before closing the books.”
      “Yes?” Somehow she managed to sound politely interested, though Brian suspected she was ready for a hot soak and rubdown of her own.
      “There are complaints of drought conditions in the western farmlands.”
      She flipped through her book, “I believe Lady Intandra and Lord Folwyl have that jurisdiction. Folwyl is in charge of rainfall there. Have them…”
      “Begging your pardon, your highness, but he is the one issuing the complaint.”
      She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
      “Apparently the river is running low. The fishing is poor and there’s begun to be squabbles over watering rights for livestock.”
      “It’s not so deep into summer that it should be a problem. Didn’t it swell in spring after the thaws?”
      The lady jotted something in her book, waited, then read back, “apparently not, your highness. And that, I believe is the heart of the problem. He can only make rain if there is enough water in the area. Lady Intandra is doing what she can, but there is only so much without greater magics being applied. I told them it was not something you had the strength for at the moment but…”
      Silouan waved her hand. “That is not an issue. The issue is why….” she mused, turned to glance at the map on the wall. She traced the line of the river back to its source, cross checked something in another ledger. Her expression turned to one of exasperation with an old problem. “Send a missive to Lady Yskandra. Don’t use the books. Send an actual messenger with full livery and royal banner. Inform her that while she may wish to keep winter tucked up around her skirts, the rest of Kerowain needs Spring to follow eventually. She is to release her frosty grasp on the territory at once or I will be forced to have my brother request her prolonged presence in the Fields of the Sun for the duration of the summer and autumn seasons. She may keep a mile of her upper peak around her keep as ice-bound as she wants, but she’s got to let the snows melt everywhere else. Let her know the consequences in the valley of withholding the spring thaw. And make sure she understands that if she doesn’t listen to reason I will be forced to send my brother for a visit. Let’s see what happens to her icicles then,” she humphed, closing her book.
      The lady grinned as she took notes.
      “Have the letter drawn up by tomorrow and I’ll sign it before I leave. Pick your messenger well. Make sure they won’t have any trouble keeping themselves warm, if you know what I mean.”
      “Aye, your majesty. Anything else?”
      “No. That will be all for now. Thank you, Felise.”
      The lady rose, bowed, and flitted from the room obediently and Silouan drifted over to the sitting area and dropped gracefully onto the couch beside Brian.
      “Did you have a good day? My brother wear you out?” she asked with a smile.
      “We wore each other out. Speaking of which, you look… drained. Perhaps you should rest a while?”
      She sighed. “I only wish I could. So the spell works?”
      “In theory. I think there are some application holes, but we’ve discussed it. It did what it needed to, teach me how to defend you.”
      There was a mild look of confused surprise on her face, “What you need to rescue your sister,” she corrected.
      He blushed. “Yes. That too. But aren’t they one and the same?”
      “Not completely.” They sat in awkward silence for a few moments. “Are you certain, about what you told the council? About there being things we haven’t considered? And making plans once we get there?”
      He sighed. “Not about all of it. I am certain there are things going on we haven’t been able to consider. Whether we will have time to plan once we discover them… that I don’t know. But it is the only thing we can do right now. I cannot see how we can plan an assault when we have no intelligence.”
      She frowned. “We have some of the greatest minds on Kerowain at our disposal…”
      He chuckled. “No, princess. I meant… ‘intelligence’ is also used to mean information gathered about one’s opponent. Scout reports.”
      “Ah. I have three scryers doing what they can to spy out the terrain and the keep. They are consorting with our military leaders to come up with the best way to approach. Once we reach a certain point we will have to travel by night and take special precautions in the day.”
      It was his turn to frown. “Why? From what?”
      “The hell. They only come out when it’s light. They fear the darkness. We do not know why.”
      “Ah, that explains Dame Peri’s remarks. I understand now. But what are these hell?”
      Silouan shivered. “They are nightmares given birth. There are many kinds, but they’ve never been categorized.” She rose, drifted to a shelf and selected a book. She sat closer to Brian and opened it upon both their laps. She flipped through it until she came to several woodcuts of wyvern and dragon like things in various scenes, attacking livestock and men. There was even one illuminated page of a maiden chained to a rock as one reach for her, protected by a man wielding both sword and spell. “These are the hell. Wyvern, chiroptera, dragon,” she pointed each out in turn. “There are many species, but all haunt the daylight and fear the darkness. We do not know a great deal about them. Before the Ord succeeded in driving them to the edge of the land we lived in a literal Dark Age. We have little recorded history and what oral records survive have been corrupted over the centuries so that we can no longer separate fact from embellishment. Our ancestors found a way to drive them back and keep them there. That was when our way of life began, with the ord elect and Mandayn council. Life was reported to have been erratic at best, with the weather itself our enemy.
      “The county of Night became a hereditary one largely because no one else wants the responsibility. That and the skills needed to maintain it are taught, passed down from generation to generation and the type of magic needed tends to be inherited. There have been a few times when dynasties have come to an end there. My own family at one time held that keeping, though briefly. But an ancestor was born sole heir who had not the necessary power to keep the hell at bay and another was found who did. The keeping changed hands and my family has never looked back. Ranish’s family on the other hand…” she sighed. “They’ve held it jealously for nigh on three hundred years. They will not give it up lightly.
      “At one time the place was even a prison. Only the worst, irredeemable of criminals were sentenced there. But we’ve mostly evolved beyond that need. No one has been sentenced there since before my grandmother’s time.”
      “Must be a hard life, having to live in the dark all the time,” he mused.
      “It makes for hard dayn. From what I witnessed there are only two kinds of dayn there: victims and those who make them. …I hope your sister is all right.”
      Brian set his arm around her shoulders to comfort her and felt an electric thrill as she set her head on his shoulder. He searched within himself for some connection with his sister. “She is a tough girl. I don’t think she’s entirely happy… but if she were less than well I think I would know.”
      She nodded. “You would. Once, Sol got hurt at the academy, he finally found a swordsman who was better than he was. He had gotten into a fight over a girl and the battle had been terrible. When he was stabbed I felt it as if it were me. I was frantic. I had a pain in my side for weeks until he healed completely.”
      Brian frowned. “But you have magical healers. You were healed in a matter of hours. How come he took weeks?”
      “Severity. Our healers are not miracle workers. They don’t snap their fingers and instantly reverse the damage. Would that they could. They can only begin the mending, stop the damage from killing, speed the natural process. That is partly why I am still weak… well, weaker than I should be,” she corrected. “And it depends upon the dayn they work on. Some ords’ magic interferes, some enhances. With Men… it is easier as they have no magic at all to work around, but it takes more effort in time and tending, since the magic will not linger in them to keep the pace.”
      “I find it interesting how much magic can’t do. I mean, there are things it can do that science can’t, but so much vice versa. And I’m finding things that neither can do.”
      She chuckled. “There must be something left for nature to manage on her own I suppose.”
      He sighed, “I only wish my world were as responsible with its resources as yours.”
      “Oh, pardon me,” came a familiar, grandmotherly voice from the doorway. They looked over the couch back to see Dame Daseth standing there with her hands folded in front of her. “Am I interrupting anything?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.
      Suddenly self-conscious of his physical familiarity with the princess, he pulled his arm away and stood, bowing his head briefly to the woman. “Uh, no, Dame. Please,” he stammered, then realized this wasn’t his room to extend the invitation. He looked pleadingly to Sil who thankfully rescued him with her waterfall laugh.
      “Not at all, Dame Daseth. Please join us. I take it the council has reached its decision?”
      The woman practically flowed across the room and settled with a mild groan and creak of ancient bones into a well stuffed chair. “Thank you, your highness. And yes, we have.”
      Brian sat down again as Silouan reached up and gave a light tug on his sleeve.
      “The council has agreed to the proposal. We realize that you are in no condition to do much of anything at the moment, what between your recent injuries and it being that time of the moon, so we do not expect you to mobilize and move out over night. We have summoned up the army and mobilized it. They are to gather on the lower Veldt at the edge of the Wildwood and await the troops from Silvertown. I would suggest you wait no more than three or four days, however.”
      “And the advisor?” Brian asked.
      “Actually, several of the council will be in attendance, though only one will have the power of advisor. Sir Telwyth is going to provide his keen observational skills and ability to interpret information. Sir Ulath is going only because his wife will be.”
      Silouan mused. “His wife… Melana? Tall brunette, fiercely protective?”
      Daseth nodded. “Yes. You remember her.”
      Sil’s brown arched. “How could I forget. She has a most… forceful personality.”
      “Ulath will, of course, be merely a camp follower, not a combatant. He is going to oversee the supply lines.”
      Brian felt the need to ask. “Why would his wife come if he’s not going to fight?”
      Silouan smiled softly. “His wife is a formidable fighter. But most werewolves are.”
      He nodded, though he didn’t really understand. “I keep applying my own world’s standards to yours. My mistake.”
      “How so?” asked the dame.
      “Well, in my world women, of the last several centuries anyway, have had to fight with politicians to be allowed to join armies and fight alongside the men. In a lot of ways they are still fighting for equality, even though in other respects they want to be treated differently,” he shook his head. “It’s all so confusing.”
      “I can only imagine,” the dame mused.
      “And the actual advisor?” Sil asked, redirecting the conversation.
      “Korak.”
      “Oh, Sol will be pleased. And he’s so innocuous and unassuming that Ranish will not think twice about him.”
      “That was our thoughts as well. Telwyth will advise him on military matters and he will authorize the prince as necessary. All very diplomatic.”
      “Has Sol been informed?” Silouan asked.
      The old woman smiled. “Korak is doing that now.” She turned to Brian. “Now, perhaps I can get to know our outlander a little now that we can be a little less formal?”
      Brian resisted the urge to fidget under her scrutiny as a servant brought in a tray with tea and served everyone. “What… what would you like to know?” he asked.
      “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, stirring her tea. “How you met would be a nice start. I know the princess’s part in things, but you… what have we taken from your world in bringing you here? What, besides your sister, are you fighting for?”
      He stared into the depths of his cup, watched the pale red liquid swirling with the fine grains of poorly strained tea. “In short, who am I.”
      Silouan smiled knowingly at him over the rim of her cup.
      He cleared his throat, trying not to be shy about this. “I am nothing so significant as Sister Moon. I have no title, perform no service a million others could not do. I, madam, am nothing more than a farm boy.” He stopped, seeing the lie in that statement now, even in the way he spoke. “No. I am not just a farm boy,” he sighed. “At least not any more. My father is the county vet. That’s a healer for animals,” he added. The dame nodded. “We live on my grandfather’s farm. We don’t do much farming any more, just feed grain and personal crops, but we keep a few cows, horses, hens… the usual. We often have boarders or sick animals that need longer term care. Dad runs his practice out of our barn, though he’s just as often out as in.
      “My sister… my sister is the wild one. The one who ran off to the university to experience life and find out what ever it is she wants out of it. I don’t know if she’s figured that out yet or not. If she has, she hasn’t told me. Me? I like old movies and a good book, classics. I like country dances and county fairs. I like the hard work and feeling at the end of the day like I’ve accomplished something. I like to dream of adventures, don’t get me wrong. But I’d almost rather read about it than go off to explore parts unknown. Though I guess this qualifies as an adventure,” he chuckled ironically and the ladies laughed politely. “And I’m not half mindin’ it. Though it’d be nice to know I can go back to the quiet life after the excitement dies down. I guess… I guess I want what my father has, and my grandfather before that.”
      “And that is?” Daseth asked him quietly.
      He met Silouan’s silvery eyes and seemed to lose himself in them. “A place in the world. To know without a doubt what that is, to be able to go out and do it and still come home and know some kind of peace after the excitement. To have the love of a good woman to come home to, to support and be supported by. I could never spend my life in an office pushing papers or performing a town job where every day is a carbon copy of the last. Part of why I couldn’t spend more time in college than I did, though I don’t regret a thing I’ve learned. I like a little variety, a taste of the unexpected. A puzzle to solve…” A touch of color sprang to her ivory cheeks and Silouan broke their gaze to stare into her cup. Brian looked over at the dame. “But I like my quiet, too. I love the land, and animals… they’re simple and they don’t lie to you or demand more than their due. They give what they get and then some, be that good or bad.”
      He finally fell silent, emotionally spent from the self revelation, musing on what he had said. After a few moments the old woman spoke up again. “May I ask you a question, my lord?”
      He nodded.
      “I have noticed something, a pattern to your speaking. At times your choice of words and your tone and manner are quite… educated, sophisticated almost, yet… I noticed during your speech that you wax almost rustic. Why is that do you think?”
      He scratched his head at that. “Never noticed. Though I think someone pointed it out once. Or twice. My mother was very metropolitan,” he paused, noticing a frown at that word. “Um… high society? Educated, city raised… Soliel, the prince is a very metropolitan individual.”
      She nodded, suddenly understanding. “Ah, yes. Go on.”
      “She raised me to be a gentlemen. I can speak well when I need to, I’ve even been to formal dinners, though it’s been a long time. She used to take us to the museums when we’d go to Chicago to visit our grandparents. They’ve since passed. She met our father when they were at college, and she always said it was his old fashioned manners playing varnish to his bad boy country ways that charmed her. She wanted my sister and I to be able to choose which world, if either we wanted to live in, to be able to blend in no matter where we were. My sister is better at it than I am, but she’s a chameleon. Me… I suppose it just sneaks in, depends on the situation… who I’m talking to…”
      “How comfortable you are,” Silouan remarked quietly.
      He laughed, feeling his face heating up. “Yes, that too.”
      “Well, Aunt Dina did call you a mirror.”
      “Oh she did?” exclaimed Daseth, in that age-old manner of bored society women hearing a bit of juicy gossip. “That would explain a lot of things. You didn’t strike me as the theatric type, though you did put on a good show in the council room,” she grinned. “Sol couldn’t have played it better himself. Very clever keeping yourself silent, standing behind her chair like that. Everyone, myself included, took you for merely a bodyguard.”
      Now he blushed completely, “Yes, well,… I had wise advisors.”
      They spent a few pleasant degrees in idle conversation, mostly the dame asking Brian about his home world, before a servant came to fetch them for dinner. Brian was torn as to which to offer his arm, the elder out of politeness or the princess out of…. In the end, Sol rescued him by showing up, dressed to the nines like a glowing golden peacock to escort his sister. To Brian’s amusement, he mimicked his taking of the elder woman’s arm almost perfectly, and Silouan glanced back at them and giggled as they led the quartet down to the great hall where the feast was to be held.
      The dinner was a grand affair, like something out of the Scarlet Pimpernel. There was music coming from somewhere, soft and sweeping, with reedy winds and softly strummed strings. The guests were elegantly dressed, lords and ladies, men and women of various stations mingling freely. Brian found it difficult to tell the lords from the men, but the women were easier, as they tended to dress their hair with braids and coils. The ladies wore their hair free, occasionally covered by a fillet and veil.
      One half of the ballroom was occupied by two long tables to which the guests flocked in the wake of Brother Sun and Sister Moon. Brian noticed that the back table was a step higher up, permitting those seated there a chance to see the ballroom floor over the heads of the nearer table. The Prince and Princess were seated in the center of the back table, able to oversee the whole room. Dame Daseth was directed by a servant to sit to the right of Brother Sun, while Brian was given the honor of Sister Moon’s left. Apollodine was seated beside him and the old man from the council, Karak, was seated beside Daseth. Everyone else fell into place along the tables and the wine was poured and the food served.
      The food was plentiful, brought out on great platters and shared out in modest portions. A little bit of everything to each plate, which suited him, allowing him to try everything without wasting anything. He was constantly surprised by the flavors and presentations. A food would seem familiar, yet the taste was usually not what he expected. Even the meats had under and over tones he couldn’t quite describe or place, and nothing tasted even remotely like chicken.
      Quiet conversations filled the next few hours, and Brian found himself the object of curious questions by everyone near enough to be heard. Everyone wanted to know where he was from, what he could do, what his world was like. Some even asked about his sister. It was full evening by the time desserts began to circulate, along with a light, pallet cleansing tea which Brian assumed was the equivalent of after dinner coffee. During this course, some of the guests left the table to dance in the other half of the room and others switched seats to converse with dayns they had not had opportunity to earlier. Many from the other table came to meet Brian and glean what information they could for themselves.
      Soliel took his turn out on the dance floor with several young women and ladies, flitting from one to another like a golden hummingbird. Brian covertly watched Silouan as she watched her brother, wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms out on that dance floor and yet knowing that right now that was an impossibility. Not to mention impractical. The lady was nearly out of breath just watching the dancers, though he could tell she longed to be out among them.
      Suddenly, Sol dropped into the seat on Brian’s other side, which had been vacated by his aunt, and poured himself a glass of wine. The oracle had moved to the lower table to chat with someone, and Tammerlaine was out on the floor cavorting and twirling like a frenzied butterfly, thoroughly enjoying herself.
      “You have not asked my sister to dance.”
      The statement was abrupt and made Brian more than a little uncomfortable, as if the prince suspected something and was fishing for confirmation. Brian kept his eyes on the werewolf dancing with complete abandon as he answered. “No. I have not.”
      “Why not?”
      “Sol…” she warned.
      Brian glanced at her, gave her an apologetic smile, silently telling her it was all right. “For several reasons. Her health being the first of them.”
      “And the second?”
      Brian looked over at him, uncertain whether the questions were displaying hostilities or not. He looked at the goblet in his hand and wondered if the prince was a mean drunk, if he even was drunk. “The second is that I don’t want to embarrass her.”
      The golden grin was devilish. “You don’t know how to dance?”
      Brian flushed, rising to the bait. “I do not know how to do this dance,” he corrected, waving a hand towards the busy floor.
      Soliel frowned, watching the swirls of colorful gowns and the quick steps of well dressed men. “But there are no set steps to this dance. It is free-form.”
      The blush immediately turned to embarrassment. “Yeah… that’s when my sister says I get into trouble,” he mumbled.
      “What was that?” Sol asked innocently.
      “I know how to dance… just not how dayns dance.”
      Silouan leapt to his rescue. “What kind of dances do your people do?” she asked, placing her hand on his arm.
      The touch felt like an electric shock, numbing him for a second. “Well… I know how to square dance. That’s where you have a caller, usually the guy with the fiddle, who calls out the steps as part of the song. And I like line dancing.”
      “You dance on lines?” Sol frowned.
      “No, in lines. Everybody gets in rows and does the same steps. It’s usually kinda bouncy. And I know the waltz. Mom made sure of that. Swore to me ‘Son, if you can do the waltz, you can dance to almost anything’, though I’ve found quite a bit it don’t fit.”
      Silouan looked interested. “Please, what is this waltz?”
      “What kind of music does it require?” Sol asked.
      “Just a steady three count. It’s what you call a box step.”
      “Box step?” she frowned.
      Sol scowled. “Your people certainly love their geometry,” he growled, taking a long draught of wine.
      “Well,” he chuckled, “it does seem that way. It’s called a box step because you have a set of basic steps and move in a box-like pattern. Everything beyond that is merely variation on a theme.”
      “Can you teach this?” Sil asked brightly.
      Brian felt his ears burning again. “Well… I… could, but …I wouldn’t want to do it here, in front of everyone. I’d feel too self-conscious and would not like to embarrass you.”
      She took his hand and rose from the table, drew him away from everyone and out a back door. Brian glanced back to see Soliel grinning to himself as he poured more wine into his cup. She pulled him into a wide, side hallway where no one was and they could just hear the music. She stopped and turned to face him. “Teach me.”
      “Are you sure you are well enough?” he stalled.
      “We can take it slow,” she smiled. “I want to know.”
      Brian took a deep breath and gave in. “All right, then. Watch my feet and do the opposite of what I do.” He took a step forward with his right foot. She came backwards with her right, and he narrowly avoided stepping on her left. They laughed softly. “No. Use the same foot, but when I go forward, you go back.”
      “Oh. I am sorry.”
      “It’s not a problem. Just do what I do, just remember to go back when I go forward and forward when I go back.”
      “All right.”
      He spent the next few degrees showing her the basic step and gathering the courage to actually place his hands where they should go and lead her into the rest of it. Finally, she had the basic step down with no hesitation and without looking at his feet and he could put it off no longer.
      “This is really very simple,” she said. Perhaps he imagined the disappointment in her voice.
      “This is just the basics. Now you’re ready for the next step.” He held out his hand for hers and she shyly gave it to him, watching him with interest. “Now,” he began, taking a deep breath, “I hope this is not being impolite, but it is the way the dance goes.” He placed her other hand on his shoulder and tentatively set his hand at her waist, half curled around her back. When she did not flinch or slap him he grew brave enough to continue.
      They did a couple of simple boxes, very basic. She was smiling, beginning to enjoy herself when he swept her into a quarter turn, spun her and brought her back. Her eyes lit up. “What was that and how did I know how to…”
      He grinned. “Mom always told me I knew how to lead. In dancing at least,” he added quickly. “If you trust me, and just follow, I’ll signal you into any changes. That’s part of the fun.”
      “Yes. It is fun.”
      They could faintly hear the music filtering into the hallway, and Brian could just make out a perfect three count beat. Drawing her just a bit closer, he swept her down the corridor. She was as graceful as a flower drifting on a pond, and as delicate. She followed his lead with few mistakes, her eyes never leaving his. Brian felt himself beginning to tumble headlong into an abyss from which he had no desire to extricate himself.
      They danced for several degrees before he had no choice but to stop. Her hand in his was trembling and her steps beginning to falter. She was winded and he felt suddenly like a complete cad for overexerting her. He took in their surroundings, found they were in completely different corridor with no trace of the music. The hall was lined on one side by great paintings and on the opposite by tall windows which overlooked the mountainside and the sea. At the base of each window was a padded bench. He brought her immediately to one of them.
      As she sat, she drew him down beside her. “Thank you. That was wonderful.”
      “You are a marvelous dancer,” he said. “Though I think you overdid it a bit,” he added with a smile.
      “We overdid it,” she chuckled. “But I am glad.” She half turned to face the window, nestled her back against his chest and leaned into him, sighed contentedly.
      He was almost frozen with joy and fear. What if they were seen? Was it even permitted? Brian Abernathy Valentine, he chided himself, the lady is a princess for crying out loud. If she makes the first move, it has to be ok. Just shut up and enjoy it. …Just don’t get too forward.
      He leaned back against the window frame for support and wrapped his arms around her. She set her head back against his shoulder. He laid his cheek against the crown of her head, felt the edge of her diadem against his chin and breathed deeply of her silver hair. The fragrance was intoxicating, light and airy, like lily-water. Her hair settled itself out of the way, the strands that lay against his arm, partly wrapping themselves around him. She shivered slightly. He moved to pull his cloak down from his shoulders to wrap around her and the fabric unbuttoned from his shoulders and immediately flowed down and around the both of them. He saw the reflection of her soft smile in the window and found himself in heaven.
      “It will be gone tomorrow,” she said softly.
      “What?” he asked.
      “The moon.” He followed her gaze, saw the thinnest sliver of silver hanging in the dark, star flooded sky.
      “Ah.”
      “And with it my strength.”
      “Then I will have to be your strength.”
      She was silent for a moment, turned her head away from the window, her forehead against his cheek. “Dare I say it?” she whispered.
      “What?”
      “That I’m glad I was kidnapped?”
      He chuckled. “Just don’t tell the council. Or your brother.” Dare I feel the same way? he asked himself. I mean… are my feelings worth the cost to my sister?
She must have felt or sensed his indecision. “Of course, I do wish your sister had not been taken. I sincerely hope she comes to no harm.”
      Brian closed his eyes a moment, thought about his sister, reaching towards that tenuous thread that felt like a distant heartbeat drumming in time with his. He focused harder, and was finally able to sense her emotions as easily as he used to be able to do when they were in the same room. She was bored and frustrated, but in no pain. Thinking about it, he remembered half waking in the night from the throes of a nightmare, something that had terrified him… her. Something terrible had happened.
      “Think of touching her,” came a soft voice. “As with your hand but not.”
      He reached out, imagining he had set his hand on her shoulder. Give me time, he thought. I am coming for you.
WHEN? he felt, heard.
      Soon. It will take an army and armies take time. As the moon swells, know I come.
      He opened his eyes. He wasn’t certain she heard him, felt him, but there had been a spike of anger born of frustration and he had fled from it.
      The princess was looking up at him. “Is she all right?”
      “For now,” he sighed. “Though I pity the Duke and his people. She’s getting bored, and that is when she is at her most dangerous.” He noticed the circles under her eyes and something beneath her natural alabaster skin that reminded him just how weak she was. “You need rest. Let me take you to your room.”
      She merely nodded, leaned up to let him stand. He took her hands in his, though he hesitated before helping her to her feet. He bowed over her hands, pressed a tender kiss on that place where a ring would rest, his eyes never leaving hers. “Thank you for the dance, princess. And the evening.”
      She blushed. “I… you are welcome, my lord.”
      Feeling braver, he pulled her to her feet and escorted her down the hall, making sure to keep hold of her in case she should stumble. She felt very light against him, as if there were no substance to her at all. By silent cues as subtle as leading a dance she directed him to her chambers on the upper floor.
      She stopped before a large door of a dark, burnished wood heavily decorated in gleaming silver. She leaned back against it, gazing up at him, as if reluctant to open it and end the evening. He found himself suddenly too close to her, afraid to make the first move, terrified to disappoint her. Every fiber of his being was screaming ‘kiss her, fool!’ while every brain cell violently objected, threatening to make him ill with fear of the consequences. She’s a princess and you’re just a farm boy! But here I am a Lord, he countered. Here I can dare anything!
      Quickly, he kissed her, before he could change his mind, pressing his lips to her rosepetal soft ones with more force than he had intended. He eased back, become more gentle and her lips parted to allow him a taste of her. She was honey-sweet, but lightly so, and like a fine wine she went straight to his head. The moment was eternal, yet all too soon he felt it pulling away, heard the door and opened his eyes as she retreated within it. It seemed as if, she too, were reluctant to end the moment, drawn inside by some unseen matron. She left him with a sweet smile that melted his heart and left his heart trying to escape the confines of his chest.
      Stunned, he turned, facing back down the corridor. He had taken two steps when he noticed the grey figure with white paws sitting at the end of the hall, mouth open in a wide, panting grin. He swallowed, stood straighter and got himself back under control. With effort, he walked towards the wolf-girl who was crouching in half form by the time he reached her and grinning like a Cheshire cat. He stopped in front of her. “Am I… Am I even allowed to kiss a princess?” he asked warily.
      “Someone has to,” she chuckled. “Better you than the Duke.”
      “Yeah,” he breathed, “Better me than the Duke. Still… let’s not tell her brother, shall we?” he said, turning left down the hall.
      “Like he doesn’t already know?”
      “God, I hope not,” he sighed. Suddenly he looked back. The girl was still sitting at the intersection. “What? Are you coming?”
      “Going to bed?” she asked, cocking her head.
      “Well, I’m not going back to the party. Not after that.”
      “Then wrong way.”
      He looked over his shoulder the way he had been going, failed to recognize anything. “Um, ok then you lead.”
      She hopped up immediately, wagging her shaggy tail and dancing in a circle before bouncing over and taking his hand, then pulling him in the right direction. He laughed at her antics.
      “Are you sure she didn’t mind? I’m not going to catch hell for that?” he asked, more than a little worried.
      “Oh, she liked it!” she beamed.
      “Really? You sure?”
      She set her finger against her snout. “Nose knows. Can’t lie,” she yapped.
      Suddenly he felt like crowing. Beside him, the wolf girl continued to skip in circles, expending her excitement with the endless energy of the young. She kept shifting from half to full wolf form, making all kinds of noises until she finally let loose a howl. Her mood was infectious, and Brian finally gave vent to everything boiling up inside him, loosing a howl that echoed through the vaulted chambers and ran after the pup, feeling more full and complete than he had in years.

      “I could see it, I tell you,” Layla exclaimed to Eighfa. “It moves through the very air like ribbons of….” She stopped abruptly. She sat down, feeling something strange and yet familiar creeping over her, like someone was watching her or trying to. There was a sense of waiting to it, or an attempt at communicating a request to wait. It was Brian. It had to be. It felt like when they were kids, sitting on either side of their parents in church and bored to tears, communicating silent thoughts and impressions about their surroundings; how they could finish each other’s sentences as if they were thinking the same thoughts. Coming. The thought was almost clear.
      WHEN? she demanded. She got the vague impression of ants gathering into military rows, taking forever. Something about a swollen moon. She felt as if she were going to explode. “I’m not going to wait that long!” she shouted, jumping up. “I can’t hold out that long,” she added, much more softly.
      “Do I want to know?” came Eighfa’s soft voice.
      Layla whirled, suddenly remembering the woman was there and became angry with herself for being so incautious. “No. You don’t.” She paced to calm herself, caught a glimpse of the Ammit’s shadow draped over the seat of the couch, telling her the creature was curled comfortably upon its back. “What… what was I ranting about?”
      “The magic. In the air,” she prompted, unable to deny her own interest.
      “It was amazing!” she breathed. “Is that what you see every day?”
      The old woman shook her head. “I only see what is inside of dayns. Which is why I find this news so hard to believe.”
      Layla suddenly felt a breathless surge, like an emotional hiccup, followed by a physical sensation she remembered all too well. She was also very aware that this too stemmed from her brother. “Oh, for crying out loud!” she snapped.
      You are going to give yourself away yet, holding two conversations at once.
      She spun to glare at the spot she knew the beast was reclining. She managed to refrain from saying anything, though she could somehow tell the infuriating thing was grinning at her. “I am sorry, I wasn’t aiming that at you.”
      Eighfa merely nodded, though she cast a wary eye around the room, perhaps suspecting she was speaking to the ammit again. “It must have been terrifying, seeing the hell up close,” she said, carefully changing the subject.
      If she thought it would have a calming effect on her, she was wrong. Layla’s eyes lit up with excitement. “It was, but… oh my God it was… just… Wow. I mean, I was so close I could smell his breath! But… it was awesome. Its head was easily the size of a plowhorse. And the scales where kind of like a lizard’s but huge and…,” her thoughts shifted almost violently as she remembered the encounter, “no,” she said, shifting the subject, “what scares me wasn’t being so close to a dragon, what scares me now is what I remember. The thing breathed in the magic, but when it breathed out again… there was no magic.”
      It seemed to take Eighfa a second before she realized what Layla had said. “I still don’t understand how you knew… wait… it ate the magic?” she asked, worry clear on her face.
      “Something like that. Whatever it breathes with filters the magic out. At least that’s what I’m guessing. I remember seeing magic flow in, but none ever come out.”
      The ammit turned his head, blinked slowly, like any cat who just discovered something disturbing but refusing to get excited. Now that even I did not know, he said mildly.
      “This does not bode…” Eighfa was interrupted by a soft knock. Both women looked towards the door, then at each other. She inclined her head towards it in question and Layla nodded. The older woman got up and went to it, lifting the latch and pulling it open. “Ah, Lady Namuraco, come in. Your timing is… welcome,” she said, casting a glance at Layla as the rather petite lady skittered into the chamber followed by a young woman with her arms full of cloth samples and other things.
      Layla frowned, but tried to remain polite. This small creature bore no resemblance to the imperious Lady Tamasi, but Layla had to question her arrival. “Another teacher?” she asked coldly.
      “N-n-no, Lady,” she stammered, bobbing a tiny curtsey. “I am Lady Namuraco… the the the seamstress.”
      Layla’s attitude did a full one-eighty. “In that case, be welcome. Can I offer you anything? Tea?”
      The lady shook her loose, ruddy-brown waves. “No, thank you, lady. I am here to dress you. …To adjust?”
      Layla took the lady’s hand and drew her to the sitting area before the fire. “Adjust? Unless you can magically stretch the fabric, I think adjustment is out of the question,” she said. “I would change things as I like them but someone made me swear…” she growled.
      Spoilsport. The ammit growled.
      “I brought samples of fabric…” she began, gesturing for her servant to set the bundle on the coffee table. She began sorting through them, spreading them out. Layla noticed the slight hunching of the girl’s shoulders, a faint roll to her gait as she obediently backed away from the ladies. Layla frowned, another victim of rickets… and so easily cured. So impossibly easy…
      Her attention was drawn back immediately as Namuraco held up a band of fabric against Layla’s bare arm, draped another up by her cheek. “Hmmm, you favor darker colors… though…”
      “Jewel tones,” Layla interrupted. The lady stared, shocked and a little confused. “I like dark but vivid colors where possible.” She fished a deep wine red out of the pile, chased it with a strip of royal blue damask. “Like these,” she said, tossing them on top of the others but prominently. “And emeralds. I love emerald.”
      “Oh! The color of jewels!” Namuraco exclaimed. “What about peridot…” she began, pulling out an off-gold brocade. The moment she saw it against Layla’s golden skin she tossed it aside. “No. Makes you too sallow.” She began to assemble a small collection of fabrics in front of her. Layla seemed pleased, which made the lady smile. After a few minutes she took a notebook from the girl and a stick of coal and began to sketch, looking up at Layla frequently. “Hina, take her measures,” she said without looking up.
      Layla stood as the girl came towards her with a measure, let herself be turned and posed as her dimensions were taken. Hina reported each as she took them, and the lady wrote them down in her book. Done, the girl again melted back into the shadows.
      “Do you like your cinching overtight or just snug?”
      Layla frowned. Namuraco looked up, saw her confusion and stood. She ran her hands along her own corseted bodice. “I like mine snug for support. Some like them really tight, to make them look smaller than they are.”
      Layla shook her head. “It’s a lovely dress, really,” she said, and meant it. The dark brocaded skirt with golden swirls and the beaded corset bodice was a breath-taking creation, but she wouldn’t want to wear it for the world. “But, I don’t like corsets. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve wore them on occasion, but in general I don’t like them. I find them too confining. Too restrictive.”
      The lady seemed crestfallen, sank back down onto the couch. “But… it is the style here… You wish… wish to be fashionable… don’t you?”
      Layla leaned forward and said in a conspiratory tone, “I’d rather set my own trends.”
      “What,” the lady began when she found her voice again. “What do you like?”
      Layla jumped up, held out her arms and gave a little turn. The black-purple fabric swirled out nicely. “Well, this, obviously. Though I’d like it in red, …with black lace sleeves… and no train. I wouldn’t mind it being a little shorter, for that matter.”
      The gasped intake of breath, told her all she needed to know about the level of female modesty in this society.
      She rolled her eyes and went on, ignoring the dayn’s horror and the coughed chuckle from Eighfa. “I like more flowing clothes. Hippy chic,” she gushed.
      “Hippy…. Cheek?” she stammered, trying to keep up with her note-taking.
      “Never mind. I like things that are clingy, but not tight. Flowy, sheer fabric drapes and flirty sleeves. Skirts that are kinda long, but not necessarily to the floor, but that either belle out and swirl or cling with a slit.”
      “Slit…”
      “I like to show leg every now and again,” she grinned. “And backless. I like the back bare sometimes, or the shoulders… nice low necklines…” She fetched the red dress from the wardrobe door and showed it off. It caught the lady’s interest even as it seemed to scandalize her. She ran her hands over the fabric and the sequins and beadwork, fascinated.
      “How did you…”
      “Something I’m not allowed to do any more,” she growled. The lady pulled back, immediately changing the subject.
      “Do you not like sleeves?” she asked meekly.
      “Sometimes. I like them snug and long or long and loose, what we call angel sleeves,” she said, plucking at the lace sleeves of the dress she wore.
      “Bell sleeving?” she offered.
      “Whatever. I don’t like feeling confined by my clothes. I like my jeans slung low and worn with crop tops…”
      “Jeans?” she stammered again. “Cropped top…” she shook her head, unable to make herself picture them.
      “Pants. And shirts that only cover the breasts…” she tried not to smile at the lady’s obvious discomfort.
      “I… I will do what I can, my lady… but… the scandal…”
      Layla leaned in close. “Let the gossips wag.”
      She swallowed, her nervousness obvious, either from Layla’s nearness or her words themselves. “I… I shall try. Do you… do you pre-prefer solids or contrasts or…”
      “I like all kinds of patterns, combinations,” she answered more gently, stepping back out of the lady’s personal space. She pulled out a few swatches that had pleasing patterns on them. “These are nice. I like ginghams too, but I don’t see anything you’d make looking good in it. I don’t mind layers, either. Just remember… loose and flowing or low cut and slinky.”
      “S-s-slinky,” she repeated, her eyebrows arched as she jotted it down.
      Eighfa handed her a cup of tea, which she took gratefully. “Remember the dress that Sister Moon was wearing when she came here?”
      The lady nodded. “Apparently something like that,” Eighfa told her.
      This she understood, made that notation in her book. “And the s-s-slinky?”
      Eighfa shrugged. Both women looked over at Layla. She held her hand out for the book. “May I?” she asked. The lady hesitated. “I can draw you an idea.”
      Somewhat reluctant, Namuraco handed her the book and the coal. The page handed to her had a penned female figure in the center with numbers at certain points, which Layla took to be her measurements, and the margins filled with notations. She turned to the next page and saw another female form, this time with no writing around it. She decided this was what it was for, sketching dresses onto, and hastily drew what she referred to as a ‘Jessica Rabbit’ dress, but with a halter top, instead of the strapless bodice. She guessed it would take more than magic to hold that dress up in real life. She passed it back to the lady and Eighfa looked over her shoulder at it.
      That would cause quite a stir, hummed the ammit. I hope she makes it. …or you do.
      The lady looked helplessly up at her.
      “That’s what I mean by slinky,” Layla said. “It clings to the body and legs. I saw something like it once in a sequined snake-print and it was totally smoking!”
      “I…I… will do what I can. I have some idea of what you are …are asking. Some will be easy. Others…. Close-fitting without being tight…” she mused, mostly to herself as she closed her book. She gathered the selected fabrics and with a wave of her hand bound them together in a bundle. Hina immediately began to gather the others together. “I should have something together by tomorrow night, the rest within the week.”
      “I sincerely hope I am not still here when they’re done,” she frowned.
      The lady looked crest-fallen, then guilt-ridden. “Of… of course, my lady. We all wish a swift end to your captivity,” she stammered quickly, throwing a swift glance at Eighfa. “I did not mean to imply….”
      “Don’t sweat it. You have nothing to do with Lord Bone-head and his nocturnal plans to take over the world,” Layla snapped. This seemed to both horrify and confuse the lady, so Layla just smiled and walked her to the door. “Thank you for coming. Good night!” she chirped with false cheer. Once the door was closed behind her and her servant she turned to Eighfa. “Are you sure that’s a lady?” she asked, leaning back against the heavy wood.
      Eighfa smiled. “Not all women are mice, my dear. Nor all ladies harridans.”
      Layla rolled her eyes and nodded a brief ‘yeah, well’. “Where did he find her?”
      The old wytch shrugged. “The usual way.”
      Layla smirked. “What, he kidnapped her too?”
      Eighfa actually laughed. “No. All evidence to the contrary, he is not accustomed to kidnapping. He doesn’t usually need to. He seduced her.”
      Her brows arched as she pointed over her shoulder in surprise. “He slept with that mouse?” she exclaimed. “She didn’t strike me as his type.”
      One of the wytch’s brows rose as well. “And what would you know of his ‘type’?” she asked casually.
      Layla refused the bait, moved back to the couch. “I’m a fairly good judge of people’s ‘types’. Take you… I believe you would like a strong, confident man, but not one who is domineering. One who can be surprisingly tender and sweet, but for the most part is a good worker and provider… not to mention a gentle and generous father.”
      She had her until that last remark. The wytch had a look of astonishment on her ancient face until then, when it was replaced by a gruff manner as she began to pick up the dishes from that morning’s tea. “Well, unlike some, I have duties to attend to. If you would like, I can have some books brought in, to keep you busy, but I cannot spend my whole night in here gossiping like some farm hen or town wife.”
      Layla watched her go. “Yeah. Books would be great,” she muttered sullenly. She knew she should have been nicer to the old woman, but she was really not in the mood to be nice to anybody.
      
      I’m getting bored.
      Layla sat up, glared at the two green balls of light lying at the foot of the bed. The over long tail performing sinuous ‘waves’ as it rippled and thumped on the coverlet. It had been two days since she had made the promise to the Duke and she had already regretted it twelve times over. She growled. “You and me both.”
      So, do something about it, it purred. Make a few changes.
      “I promised,” she groaned.
      So?
      She threw a pillow at him. It merely sailed through him, though it made his edges curl a little with the breeze of its passing. “A Valentine never breaks their word.”
      And I thought you were going to be interesting, he simpered, tucking himself into his paws and turning his face from her. Somehow she could tell he was lying. He was still interested. VERY interested… or he wouldn’t still be here.
      “Damn it, Ammit, I am just as frustrated and bored as you are.”
      He bristled.
      “What now?” she said with a growling sigh. She was beyond exasperated.
      The thing stalked its way up her legs to perch on her thighs, glaring at her. My name is not Ammit.
      “But you said…”
      I said I was an ammit.
      She closed her eyes a second to get herself under control, opened them again. “Then what is your name?” she said with a calm that surprised even her.
      It remained quiet a long moment, a startled expression on its face. Finally, I don’t have one. No one has ever talked to me before.
      She frowned. “What do the other ammits call you?”
      They don’t. When we speak to one another we know who we mean.
      “And when you talk about another ammit not present?
      The green glows narrowed. We don’t gossip.
      “But what if you want to talk to a particular ammit or find one who’s not around?”
      We don’t think like that.
      Layla smiled. “How chaotic.”
      He smiled and sat down. Exactly.
      “So, you don’t ‘think like that’, yet you object to being called Ammit.”
      Would you not object to being called ‘lady’ all the time?
      She gave him one of her looks. “They do call me ‘lady’ all the time.”
      He tried a different tactic. Or if they called you ‘woman’ or ‘human’?
      She couldn’t argue with that. “That maybe, but Lady has a different meaning than just what you are. It’s a title and a word of respect. If I can’t call you ammit, what do you want me to call you?”
      He thought about this for another while. You will have to give me a name, he decided.
      “Fine. I’ll name you Dammit.”
      The eyes narrowed to mere slits. All you did was put a letter in front of what I am.
      “So? That’s what people say when you’re around,” she smirked. “This way when they say it, they’re actually talking to you. They might as well be anyway.”
      He turned his face away in a very feline manner, fanning himself with the tip of his tail like some highborn lady having to deal with a guttersnipe. Flady.
      “What?”
      Yes, Flady? Why, whatever could you mean, Flady? Is something wrong, Flady?
      She growled at him. “Fine. What kind of name would you like?”
      It has to mean something, he simpered. And reflect my inner chaos.
      “I hate to break it to you, fuzzy, but your chaos is all external.”
      He grinned. Why, thank you, he hummed.
      “How about Random?”
      He glared again. Now you’re just being silly.
      She rolled her eyes, began tossing off all the weird names she could think of. They were mostly the names of familiars in books or comics she had read. “Piewacket? Aloysius?”
      Wishous? he frowned, one eye globe rising higher than the other.
      “Allergnon? Salem?” He shook his head to all of them. “You are the most persnickety… I ought to write up a list and make you pick it,” she snarled.
      His ears perked up immediately. Wait… picket?
      “I said persnickety,” she corrected.
      You also said Picket. I like Picket. It’s prickly. What’s it mean?
      She sighed. She had to think about it. “In two words as I had meant it, it means to choose. But, there is a word with multiple meanings: the noun is a type of fence made of wood slats set an inch or so apart cut to a point at the top. The verb means to protest.”
      Oh lovely. I’ll take Picket.
      She groaned. “I think I prefer Dammit.”
      Not your call, he simpered, began washing a paw. And speaking of calls… here comes yours.
      “What?”
      The curtains were thrown open at that moment and Eighfa, seeing her sitting up, began to usher her from the bed. “Good, you’re awake. Hurry.”
      “Why?”
      “The Master would see you.”
      She immediately began to move. “Finally!”
      As she jumped out of the bed, she noticed that Eighfa had already lain out a dress for her, a new one. Layla shed her nightgown swiftly, threw the new dress over her head and looked at it in the wardrobe mirrors. The gown was floor length, not that she had expected anything shorter, and a deep sapphire that only flickered blue in the right light. The neckline was a deep V, ending an inch below the crevice of her breast. The sheer, angel sleeves were almost too long, with the diaphanous hem coming all the way down to her knuckles when her arms hung at her sides. It was a simple princess cut, not that she had seen anything here with darts, and, with the aid of back laces, was very snug at the waist and belled out to the floor, where it turned up just a touch to show off a paler blue underside. When she took the first step towards the door, the fabric parted over her left leg, opening to just above her knee. She turned back to the mirror, exposed the leg. She sighed. It looked as if the dressmaker had added the slit as an afterthought.
      As she turned back to where Eighfa was urging her to hurry, the gown billowed out around her ankles and reminded her of those floaty ballroom dancing dresses: mostly respectable but with just a hint of sass to spice up leggy numbers. Note to self, she thought. Deepen that slit later.
      They passed almost no one in the halls on the way to the throne room except for one young girl who looked rather faint being helped along by another. Rya, the one assisting, looked pointedly up at Eighfa who muttered that she’d be right there. Rya saw Layla and scowled blackly, paused to get a better grip on her friend. Eighfa picked up the pace.
      “What’s wrong with her?” Layla asked quietly once they were out of earshot
      “Nothing for you to worry about. It is common enough around here. Nothing a strong tea and a few days rest won’t cure,” she muttered. She stopped just in sight of the throne room doors and pointed for her to continue alone. “You understand. Duty and all.”
      Layla nodded, “I hope she’ll be all right.”
      “She will be as long as he didn’t overdo it.”
      Layla gasped, and Eighfa realized she’d said too much. She shuffled quickly away and left Layla alone facing the guarded doors. Gathering up her anger, she strode towards them, her smouldering eyes making the guards open up faster than they would have under normal scrutiny. Feeling the comforting shadow weight of the Ammit settling on her shoulders, she stormed into the faux night sky of the throne room, stopping far closer to the throne than she had the first time.
      The Duke was seated, though less casually than before. He was leaning forward eagerly, his wrists hanging limply from the arms of the throne. “Welcome, my dear,” he purred.
      “What did you do to her?” she accused.
      He merely raised a brow, taken aback but getting better at not showing it. “What to whom?”
      She pointed behind her. “That girl I saw Rya helping down the hall,” she demanded.
      He sat back, languidly, watching her with amusement. “What makes you think I did anything to her. Someone else might have. She might have fallen, hurt herself,” he suggested. His very tone told her differently. He was playing a cat and mouse game with her and enjoying it.
      “There is nothing else down this hall,” she glared. “And no obvious injury.”
      “No obvious injury,” he pointed out. “So you have no proof I have done anything, have you? Only speculation and preconceptions that I am a bad dayn,” he grinned. She continued to glare, not giving up though she knew he was right. “Would you really like to know what happened to her?” he purred, leaning forward hands steepled on his knees, eyes narrowed, his expression almost lustful.
      “Yes,” she answered with more conviction than she felt. The Ammit’s tail tightened warningly around her throat, leaned protectively closer to her head.
      He chuckled. “Some day I may show you. But not today,” he finished, leaning back, suddenly all business. “Today is for other things.” He frowned suddenly, looking at something just past her face.
      Picket had twitched his tail and she had felt her hair move by her ear. Picket froze and Layla somehow knew she needed to distract the Duke quickly.
      I should not have come, the ammit whined.
      “You know, we have spoken,” she said, catching the Duke’s eyes. She grinned, “I have upheld my end of things, and frankly… I am sick of being a blonde.”
      She reached within herself, tapping that inner effervescence that had been annoying her for days waiting to be shaped and spent. She willed her hair to return to normal, smiled as she felt her scalp tingling and hair touching her shoulder.
      The Duke smirked, “Curls,” he commented. “How appropriate.”
      Layla reached up and brought a lock forward so she could see. It was almost her natural color, but with a deeper red tone, and instead of being straight, it looked as if she had gotten a spiral curl. Though it was no where near her original length, at least it came to her shoulders now. She decided she would fix that later… if she still wanted to.
      “I summoned you here to solve our mutual problems,” he continued. “I have a gift for you.”
      She gazed warily at him, suddenly unsure if the ten feet of marble floor between the two of them was enough. “A gift? How is a gift going to solve ‘our mutual problems’?”
      He smiled, moved his arm off the throne and pointed at something on a stone stand just beside him. With a flick of his wrist, he flung his fingers in her direction, and something on the pedestal obeyed, flying across the intervening feet at her. With an inarticulate curse, the ammit vacated his perch and Layla instinctively backed off, throwing up her hands to ward it off. Whatever it was, it hit an invisible wall just in front of her, but did not stop. Instead, it unraveled into long black ribbons and slithered around the ‘shield’ and her to seize her. From somewhere near the ammit hissed.
      The ribbons were about an inch wide and felt like wet silk and just as strong. They wound around her arms, pinning down the billowing sleeves, slipped around her throat without choking her and down her bodice to bind her more firmly than any corset. A second found its way up her skirt, to crisscross up her ankles and thighs. Layla felt an abrupt emptiness; yet somehow overfull; as if she were some great river which had been suddenly dammed. She collapsed on all fours, her chest heaving, her eyes white rimmed. Pale, nerveless fingers scrabbled uselessly at the ribbon at her throat. She might as well have tried to claw off a tattoo. She looked up at the smirking lord on his throne, growled, “How did you…”
      “Ah, so it works,” he smiled, content. “I was counting on your chaotic element, your distaste of ‘restrictions’,” he purred, enjoying the word.
      “You bastard!” she gasped. She felt cut off, incomplete, helpless.
      “Yes. Yes, I am but that is hardly the point.” He gestured again and the ribbons slithered down to her wrists and ankles. “Now, get up and try to cast.”
      She glared at him, feeling the constriction ease off a little, the ‘faucet’ turned on low. “What?”
      “Anything,” he said innocently, as if she had just asked him what he wanted her to cast instead of questioning his sanity.
      She staggered to her feet. She was tempted to feel for her brother, but felt it too much a risk here, in front of the Duke. She paced the room, looking for a rivulet, a thin thread of magic that she knew had to be somewhere. Walls didn’t seem to stop them.
      “There is no way out of this room but the way you came in. And that door will not open without my word.”
      “I’m not looking for a way out,” she snapped. “I’m looking for… ah hah!” She found one, thin but present, drifting lazily near the floor by one wall. “I want to see you,” she said, reaching out and immersing her hand in the thread of magic, though this time she was thinking of something more physical than just making it glow, something less dangerous than light. It took more of her concentration, more effort, but after a moment, the rivulet burst into a shower of flower petals. It was brief, but obvious, displaying the path the current took, up and over their heads to disappear through the wall behind the throne.
      His smile was almost sinister. “Good. Now cast at me.”
      The thread was still there, pulsing, waiting. She reached into it, tried to pour all her anger and hate into a physical dagger to hurl into his laughing heart, but nothing would come. She tried again. This time the dagger was created, but when she grabbed for it to throw it at him it dissolved at her touch and the ribbons began to feel tighter at her wrists, to creep up ever so slightly, threatening.
      “Even better. You can cast, but not with the intent to harm me. Now we can begin your lessons,” he said, rising from the throne and crossing towards her.
      She felt as if all the air had gone out of her. “Lessons?”
      “Are all females of your world such parrots?” he asked, his eyes laughing. “Your lessons. Now that you are partially contained, we can work on discovering your abilities and practicing control.”
      “But…” she began, holding out her bound wrist.
      He reached out and took it in his cool hand, brought it to his face and breathed deep. “I couldn’t very well run the risk of you turning your power against me, now could I? It would leave my people helpless.”
      She frowned, suppressing the shiver that ran through her as she felt his breath against her skin. “But I was bound in your little room… I still cast…”
      He shook his head, gazed deep into her eyes. “You weren’t ‘bound’, just restrained. No more good than if I had done this,” he purred, taking her other wrist in hand and pulling them gently but firmly up to the small of her back. “You couldn’t break free, but you could change the format. I suppose,” he began, looking down at her. She felt trapped by more than just his hands. “If you truly exerted yourself you might be able to change what they looked like. Turn them to bracelets of gold and diamond… or shackles of cold iron,” he grinned. “But bound you would remain.”
      She felt more than bound at the moment, she felt constricted… devoured. She pulled away with a jerk and he let her go. “Personal space, Duke,” she snapped, trying to regain her composure.
      “Yes, of course,” he rumbled, deeply amused. “The lessons. I have sealed this room. No magic cast in here will extend beyond here. So it is safe to do whatever you feel you need to up to shaking the very stones. Which I would not recommend. It is a very long way to the bottom of the ravine.”
      “What…” She stopped, clearing her tightening throat. “What do you want me to do.”
      “Well, first, I thought you might do what you did on the parapet. Light up those streams of magic. Then we can study them.”
      She was unsure if this was a good idea, but she failed to see where she had any real choice. She turned to face the thin stream as he came to stand beside her and she began to concentrate on that thread as she had before, as Picket had encouraged her to do.