The Coquette and the Thane

A/N: I wanna know who still thinks Alroy is good for Zyric after this chap.  :3

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PART II | Chapter XIV

2:14 | Tale of a Swan Princess

“You’re…as beautiful as yer mother…as always…” Alroy said, without thinking about it, but Rhyan’s frown only deepened, his lips—darkened by the cold—pursing together.  After his eyes drew a quick, cursory glance over Alroy’s frame, he bent his head, seeking something out in a satchel he held under his overcoat.

“I need your help, Alroy…” he said as he searched.

“A…’gain?” Alroy asked, surprised as much as anything, and Rhyan looked up, his mouth a flat line as he drew whatever he’d been looking for from his satchel.  Pills, of some sort, it looked like.

“That last time wasn’t even a favor,” he clipped.  “It was a job.  This is different.  This is…”

“Hey,” Alroy objected, mildly offended—if only because he felt he ought to be, “…Dean is a…great man, an’ I…I wouldn’ ‘ave gone fer him if it…hadn’ been for…if it hadn’ been that it was…” He lost his train of thought, his attention swiveling to focus on Rhyan’s fingers as he held out the pills.  “’M I s’posed to eat those?”

“Yes,” Rhyan responded flatly.  “They’re sobering tablets.”  He held them up an inch higher, motioning for Alroy to take them.

“You…carry these things with you…everywhere?” Alroy asked, bewildered as he reached up; he realized half way there that each of his hands was still full.

“No…I carry them with me now because I was coming to see you,” Rhyan answered, a mild edge of impatience in his tone. 

“Y’don’…trust me?”  The next moment, Alroy’s smoke fell from his hand, lit orange-red end going dull with a momentary hiss as a street puddle swallowed it up.  He frowned at it, confused.  Had Rhyan knocked it there, or had he dropped it?

“No, I know you.  Here,” Rhyan insisted, “look up.” 

Obeying, Alroy came face to face with Rhyan’s fingers.  Pretty, long, thin, dexterous little things—would be prettier if they were a more golden brown instead of so pale, though.  And maybe attached to a slightly taller body.  With blonde hair instead of black—or was it red?  In the dark, Alroy couldn’t tell, but it had been Melsinna’s self-same deep, burnt-ruby red every other time he’d seen the boy, so he assumed-

“Eat,” the youngest Merseille ordered, pulling him from his thoughts, and for a fleeting moment, Alroy thought he meant his fingers.  Then, ‘Oh,’ he thought and leaned forward.

He opened his lips against Rhyan’s palm—soft, sweet, salty skin—and his tongue darted out, surprisingly agile, he found, considering his impaired state, and was impressed as it successfully drew the pills into his mouth.  When he closed his lips and drew back, sinking his weight lazily against the nearest wall, his eyes landed back on Rhyan’s face.  So pink.

Was it pink before?

“You eat like a dog,” Rhyan accused, but it did nothing to cool his cheeks as he wiped his hand on his coat, refusing to meet Alroy’s eyes.  Definitely wasn’t that pink before.  Alroy raised an eyebrow. 

Interesting—he could feel his forehead again.

“You blush like that when a dog eats from your palm too, do you?” he asked, and Rhyan looked up.

“Don’t flatter yourself.  I blush because you were acting like a child or a fool, and I was embarrassed for you.  Do I need to ask you how many fingers I’m holding up?”

Alroy frowned.  “You’re not holding up any fingers…?” he replied warily, as if it were a trick question.

Rhyan eyed him, his expression unreadable.  “Astute of you to notice,” he commented at last.  “Good to see you have your wits back about you.  Now…”

“Shouldn’t you play nicer,” Alroy whined, “if you want my help?”

“Play nicer?” Rhyan retorted.  “I’m not playing at all.”  Alroy opened his mouth.  “Something happened to Baisyl’s ship, Alroy.  Something went wrong, badly, and he might be hurt or in trouble, I need-”

Whatever Alroy planned on saying evaporated, replaced immediately by, “What happened to the crew?”

“The…?  Why would I—I don’t know what happened!  I just know that something happened, I felt, I know it did, and I…”  When realization sunk in, Alroy’s eyes found Rhyan’s.  The boy’s expression was duly anxious, his eyes pleading.

“You inherited it too, then,” Alroy murmured at last, and the young Merseille waited some time before answering.

“I did,” he admitted.  “But this isn’t about me!  I didn’t come here just to tell you-”

“Does your family know?”

“No, of course not,” Rhyan clipped.  “Why would I-”

“Not your brother, your father, or-”

“No, Alroy…not even Baisyl.”

“And yet you divulge this information to me?” Alroy reiterated, aghast.  “You trust me, a traitor to my own blood, with information that could so easily be used against you for my own benefit?  Do you realize what anyone on the council would give—stars, forget that—what your own mother would give, to know-”

“Clearly, I am trusting you, Alroy,” Rhyan said.  “Time will tell me how foolish I am, but in this moment I can’t bring myself to care…nothing you tell them will sway them to accept you back in their ranks.”

Alroy scoffed, and he turned, spitting into the street.  Beside him, Rhyan frowned, but when he lifted his head, Alroy met his disapproval with an even stare.  “That…” he said flatly, “…is what I think of our brethren…”

“Your brethren-”

“Our brethren,” Alroy snapped.  “If you’re wielding magic, then dragon blood runs strong enough in your veins that you dare not fail to acknowledge it!  However well your father may have foolishly and pridefully taught you to deny it, ours is your history too whether you want it or not…and given the way events have been unfolding as of late, it might be wise of you to pay it some mind.”

In silence, Rhyan waited, and eventually Alroy sighed, his brief spark of anger winking out again as quickly as it came.

“How long have you known?” he asked.  “About your magic, Dale…” he explained, when Rhyan looked confused.

“Years,” Rhyan answered, frowning.  “This isn’t new…and it isn’t what I came here for-”

“Longer than Lucerik?” Alroy looked surprised.

“Yes, longer than Baisyl,” Rhyan said.

Alroy snorted.  “And all this time, you’ve managed not to tell anyone?” he mused.  “A Merseille that knows how to keep his mouth shut…” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head, “…unheard of.  Are you sure you’re related?” 

Rhyan held his frown without comment.

Finally, Alroy shrugged, saying, “You may breathe easy, you know…” and looked up, examining the skies as if reading an aged map, squinting as his eyes tread over the constellations.  “I made my important decisions nearly a century ago now, and after that long to mull over every step I took back then…I have yet to regret a single moment.”  He lowered his head, leveling his eyes with Rhyan’s.  “To whatever extent that it is in my power to do so…I will not betray you.  But,” he smiled wanly, “you will have to tell me what has made you so desperate as to resort to seeking out such an old and defaced renegade such as myself…”

“It is still strange to me to hear you speak that way,” Rhyan said, and Alroy tilted his head, inquisitive.  “Like you’re old, and wiser still beyond your years…”

Alroy laughed—robust and genuine—and it was no wonder to Rhyan in that moment how he passed himself off daily as just one more overly carefree human amongst the rabble. 

“Old,” Alroy agreed with a smile, once his laugh died to a chuckle, “…but not wise.  Never wise.”

“Alroy…”

“Tell me what you need, my little dragon lord…” Alroy teased, “…and I’ll get to helpin’ ya whatever way I can in right short order.”

“Your versatility is…impressive,” Rhyan observed.  Then, grateful to get to the point, he said, “I need you to help me cast a spell.”

Alroy’s eyebrows shot up, clearly not expecting that.  “A spell?  And whatever deranged notion made you think I could help you with that, unh?  I haven’t practiced magic since…Mele, I don’t even remember.  What vein of magic are you looking to use?”

“It’s a seer’s spell.  I need to find out where Baisyl is-”

Alroy’s laugh this time was clipped and short, disbelieving.  “No, no, no, listen now, and listen well…I know, to a human growing up in an even remotely natural fashion, being able to warm one’s hands without a fire, mend a busted lip in a quick few seconds, or even sense a family member’s distress must seem like an impressive feat…but the kind of magic you’re talking takes time, time…centuries of practice learn, depending on the spell, and multiple able-bodied magic users to execute.  You can’t possibly hope to-”

“Alroy-” Rhyan attempted to cut in.

“-achieve such a thing on your own, and even if you could process the spell, I’m sorry to say you certainly lack the physical energy.  Magic draws off of life force, and as a mortal you are sadly lacking in that department…even a far weaker spell could sap you enough to kill you, and-”

“Alroy-” Rhyan insisted again.

“-I will not be the one to stand by and watch while you commit magical suicide and be left with not only your dead body but the responsibility to explain your family, human and otherwise, how the event transpired and why I let it come to pass-”

“Alroy!” Rhyan snapped the name this time, and insisted immediately after, “I’ve done it before!”

“Y—what?” 

At least it shut him up long enough for Rhyan to get a word in.

“I’ve done the spell before, Alroy…I’ve cast it most of the way, but I get lost, and then lose focus somehow and the connection breaks…I need your guidance, not your magic.  I want you to shepherd my spell…train it.  I know you can do that.”

Alroy stared.  “You expect me to believe…that you, a lone, teenage—how old are you?” he demanded abruptly.  “You’re human!  You couldn’t possibly—where did you learn about spell guiding?”

“I’ve…done some reading?” Rhyan said tentatively, and Alroy narrowed his eyes.  “I found some old legends,” he said, this time insistent, “…ones that talked of human mages, centuries past-”

“Which are just that,” Alroy scoffed, “legend.”

“Yes, well, that does little to change the fact that their methods worked for me!” Rhyan snapped.  “If I channel emotion into the spells and draw off of that as opposed to life energy, I can cast spells I wouldn’t have dared attempt before, and-”

“I see, and you did it like in the legends, did you?” Alroy asked, his tone dubious, on the verge of mocking.  “Harems of men and women to fuel your lust so you could channel it into an earth-shattering-”

“I channeled my fear, Alroy…” Rhyan clipped flatly, his eyes betraying the depth of the truth behind his words, riddled with countless more things unspoken, “…my fear, and my…hope…” The last word wavered, “…and my…” 

For the first time, Alroy’s expression truly softened.  “Dale-”

“Please call me Rhyan…” Rhyan entreated.  “Only you and she call me that, and…I hope you’ll understand, I’d rather not have you draw her to mind every time you speak it…”

That, Alroy understood too well.

He sighed.  “Very well…these things are what they are.”  He shifted his weight, fitting his hands into his pockets as he said, “So…where do you want to have this little adventure of yours, then?”

Rhyan’s head lifted, a spark of something akin to real hope lighting in his eyes for the first time that evening, “So you will help me?  I don’t know how to thank you-”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Alroy cautioned, and Rhyan bit his lip, but nodded.  “I’m going to run a wild guess and assume your place is off limits, between your father and brother, hm?”  He didn’t need Rhyan’s guilty look to know this was true, and turned his head towards the horizon.

Oh, dear, the faintest hints of changing hue already.  Was it that late, or rather…early?

“So be it…my humble abode it is,” he said.  “Just be ready to, eh…ignore any strays that might be lingering.  My place isn’t exactly the tidiest.”

“Strays?” Rhyan repeated, confused, as they started to walk.  “Cats?”

“No…women,” Alroy corrected; Rhyan’s face heated, “…or men, too, actually…” Alroy added, as a secondary precaution, and his companion turned his face forward, stubbornly training his eyes to the path as they walked.  Grinning, Alroy elbowed him, teasing, “I’m kidding, little dragon…” and then tacking on, when Rhyan looked up, “…mostly.”

The younger man huffed, his breath making its mark in the air.  “So…what do you know about this strange man you picked to guard my brother?” he asked, determined to redirect the line of conversation, and Alroy raised his eyebrows.

“Who, Dean?  Kedean, Kedean…”  He paused thoughtful, and then smiled—a curious smile.  “I…probably know more about Kedean than the man does about himself,” he said at last.  “What do you want to know?”

“You’re sure he’s trustworthy?  He’d get along with my brother?”

“Trustworthy, certainly, but…” Alroy laughed, “…get along?  I didn’t realize I was supposed to play matchmaker.”

“No, that’s not what I—I just meant, what is he like?  Will they be able to stand each other, if things went for the worse…would he stay loyal?”

“Think of your brother,” Alroy advised.  “His habits, his interests, his personality…”

“They’re alike?” Rhyan asked.

“Everything that you just thought of…” Alroy said, “…think of the farthest opposite you can…and there you have it.  Kedean in a nutshell.”

Rhyan’s countenance drooped slightly.  “Oh.”

“Ahh, but don’t fret so,” Alroy counseled cheerily, throwing a brusque arm over Rhyan’s shoulder—much to the younger man’s surprise and discomfort, “…Kedean is nothing if not stubborn and dedicated.  Sure, they’ll hate each other’s guts…” It annoyed Rhyan how amused Alroy sounded when he said this, “…but Kedean can bear a lot.  I’m sure we’ll find them before they do each other any permanent injury.”

“I’m…reassured, really,” Rhyan said, not sounding it.  “And you didn’t think of this before you sent them off to-”

“Oh, I did!” Alroy insisted.  “But see, I didn’t think they’d have to spend much time together…and I thought they complimented each other rather well, aesthetics wise, you know…the petite and delicate, but fiery and boldly sexual young dragon lord and the giant, dark, mild-mannered and reserved—what?”

“Did you just call my brother ‘boldly sexua-”

“He’s a beautiful woman!” Alroy defended himself.  “And you have to admit, he is quite sexually…‘confident’-”  Clearly, that had been the wrong thing to say.

“Can we talk about something else?” Rhyan suggested desperately.

“Pick a topic,” Alroy invited him, and Rhyan shook his head.

“At this point, I don’t care…anything but my brother’s sex appeal.  How did you come to know this guard?  Kedean?”

“Ahhh, now that…” Alroy said, smiling, “…is quite a story.”  When Rhyan waited, Alroy chuckled.  “Alright, well…it all started some, oh…eighty or ninety years ago now, my memory fails me…when I came across this absolutely ravishing young creature in the great wildlands far south of the East Kingdoms.  Her name was Zytana Akuwa…”

Trade Road, Six Miles East of Rochve Village

Something clattered, gently, about a foot or two away from him, sending a brief vibration through the wagon’s floorboards, and Baisyl, feeling it despite still being bundled up in all the bedding provided to them, opened one eye, squinty blearily at the source of the disturbance. 

A bowl, it looked like.  He shut his eye again.

“Breakfast,” Kedean confirmed a moment later, and a much more significant vibration followed as his guard joined him in the wagon.

Baisyl scrunched his eyes tighter shut, briefly, and then opened them both at once, reluctantly pushing himself onto one elbow to better examine this so called ‘breakfast’ of his.  “You brought me food?” 

White, semi-translucent, and runny, he deduced, and pushed the makeshift spoon around once before lifting a portion and tilting the utensil experimentally.  As the runny substance dribbled back into the rest, he grimaced. 

“Ugh, no…you brought me semen.  I’m not eating it.”

Some hybrid of a choke and snort came from the far side of the wagon, and he looked up.  Kedean was wet; it must have been raining still, if only lightly, as he could barely hear it overhead. 

“It’s not semen, milord, I assure you,” his guard said, shaking his head.  “It tastes nothing alike…there’s not nearly so much flavor.”  Baisyl pursed his lips, but looked warily back to his ‘breakfast’ in any case.  “It’s rice…you might find the texture somewhat akin, though.”

“Mmnn…joy?”  He poked the spoon with the air of a child poking a dead animal: as if he expected it might leap up and bite him at any moment.  “People actually dare to put this stuff in their mouths?”

“Some even swallow, milord,” Kedean provided helpfully, and Baisyl weighed the costs and benefits of slinging a spoonful at him for his cheek.  Maintaining some guise of maturity won out by a fine margin.  “I’d suggest you do too, as it’s all you’ll get for several hours, and you’ll be uncomfortably hungry by lunch if you don’t eat now.”

“I’m strongly considering fasting for the sake of vanity…does this vest make me look plump, you think?”

“At least eat enough so that it doesn’t spill over everything when the carts pull out,” Kedean advised, ignoring him, and Baisyl sat up further, pushing himself all the way upright.

“When will they-” 

A horn sounded, and Baisyl lifted his steaming bowl of ‘rice’ just in time to save it from just such an ill fate.  An hour later, the rain had stopped and started twice, and Baisyl was prodding as disinterestedly as before at the same bowl, less than half of it gone, his eyes on the damp path behind them and one leg folded beneath him, the bowl in his lap.

“Talk to me.”  He made it an off-handed command, and to his far right, Kedean gave grunt, but didn’t move from his spot, propped back against one of the boxes of silk and eyes shut. 

“Could I get a prompt?”

Baisyl considered a moment.  Then he said, “Tell me a story.  I’m sure you know many, I’m not picky when I’m bored.”

“I’m a terrible storyteller.”

“You told me that once,” Baisyl responded, unconcerned.  “It was the same night you assured me you were a terrible liar and then proceeded to give me a bone-chilling account of the vicious, human-eating eels that inhabited the seawaters there-”

“Alright, first, I didn’t ‘make up’ the eels,” Kedean cut him off.  “Those eels do exist, they simply…don’t swim those waters.  You’d have to go much further south, where the water’s warmer.  Otherwise the breathing kelp can’t spawn fast enough to keep their victim’s alive…but I’m not that creative, I promise you.”

“Mm.” 

A pause ensued.

At length, Kedean said, “You do remind me of a story, though.”

Baisyl waited.  When it seemed that his guard didn’t, in fact, plan on continuing, he glanced over, prompting, “Oh?” and he watched Kedean frown, slowly.

“You won’t like it.”

Baisyl blinked, not expecting that.  “And why ever not?”

Kedean looked his way.  “It’s about a princess,” he said, as if that explained everything, and Baisyl let the words sink in, working over them like trying to put together a puzzle before his guard handed over the answer sheet.

“I’m the princess,” Baisyl guessed, and Kedean smiled wryly.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Tell me.”

Kedean took a moment, sitting up slightly and glancing back, briefly, to the retreating path behind them as he gathered his thoughts.  Then, “Legend has it…” he started, “…that centuries ago, when our earth was younger and all the empires of the world were ruled by powerful mage lords…there was a queen amongst the kings who’s power alone allowed her to stand with the very greatest of them without question and bring all others crumbling to their feet at the very sight of her…”

Food forgotten, Baisyl set his bowl aside, turning in his place to better face his guard as he listened.

“The queen called an impressive, sweeping empire her own, and ruled it without qualm,” Kedean continued, “…until one day, she came upon a prophecy.  It foretold of her fall, brought about by the rebellion of her eldest daughter against her for the love of a man, and furious, but unable to bear slaying her own child…she put a spell on the girl—at all times except under the full light of the moon, the young princess would look like nothing but a silent, beautiful turquoise swan.”

Baisyl’s brow furrowed, and he drew a leg up to his chest, folding his arms around it.

“The queen then sold her daughter to a king in a far off land—a connoisseur of birds, who collected all rare types—who would keep the princess caged up as a rare treasure, alone, and voiceless for the rest of her life…but there were some parts of fate that the queen could not account for.  On his long journey across the land, the merchant sent to deliver her happened to bring his wagon to a halt one night in a moonlit field, and after a desperate effort…the princess managed to reveal herself to him in her true form.”

Here, Kedean finally looked his way, and as their eyes met, Baisyl was reminded potently of those first few moments, atop the pirate ship, when the thunderstorm finally swept over them—the look in his guard’s eyes when the magic took over.

“She begged him for her release, and for his help and protection,” Kedean continued, holding his gaze this time, “…and, enamored by her beauty and bound by a sense of duty to protect such a troubled woman…he agreed.  They travelled together, far and wide, searching for a cure to her curse, and in their time together…they fell desperately in love.”  Baisyl’s gut knotted, coiling in tight on itself, and he suppressed the urge to swallow.  “Unfortunately, things were not meant to be…”

Baisyl’s heart tripped over a beat.  “Wait, what?” he demanded, cutting his guard off.  “What do you mean things were not meant to be?  This isn’t a tragedy, is it?”

Kedean raised his eyebrows, looking annoyingly amused.  “A tragedy?” he repeated.  “Why do you ask?”

“You said ‘Things were not meant to be…’” Baisyl insisted, indignant.  “That doesn’t usually spell well for lovers.  What happened?  Did they ever find a cure?  Was the curse lifted?”

“It’s only a story,” Kedean consoled him.  “I don’t even remember where I heard it first, but I don’t think you need to let it worry y-”

“Look, you started, so if you could finish, please?” Baisyl pressed, trying without much success to mask his impatience.  Kedean smiled.

“Yes, milord, of course,” he said.  “So, the princess and the merchant-”

Their wagon jerked to a halt, and Kedean stopped, both of them raising their heads.

“Why-” Baisyl started to ask, but his question never made it, cut off as a ruckus of raised voices and frantic activity erupted from not far ahead of them: men shouting, a woman’s scream, something crashing, and—snarling?  Baisyl made to get up.

“Stay here,” Kedean said, already halfway up and clearly planning to investigate.

Baisyl turned a frown on his guard.  “‘Stay here?’” he parroted, incredulous.  “What in the stars’ names do you think I am?  A woma—?”

That moment, something rounded the corner behind their wagon, tossing up mud, grass, and gravel in its wake.  Four-legged, filthy with grit and massive—about twice the size of an ordinary wolf and more rugged—the creature stood stock still for a fraction of a second, hackles raised and fangs bared.  Then, eyes on Baisyl it moved.

A single leap propelled it upwards to land flat in their wagon without an ounce of effort wasted, and when drawn claws drove into his shoulders, shoving him back, and he jerked his body to the side, skirting a lethal attempt at ripping his throat open by maybe a half an inch, Baisyl realized with terrifying clarity that in all likelihood, he’d be dead in the next few seconds.  As he thought it, the fur on the creature above him rippled, its shape changing and contorting, and a moment later he found himself face to face with a man, his sneer wicked, dagger raised, and-

Dark fingers closed around the man’s chin, a sickening crack, like wood splintering or a thin limb snapping under too much weight, sounded, and Baisyl gave a startled grunt as the dead weight of his attacker collapsed atop him the next moment, neck broken, body limp as a cut puppet and eyes glassy.  Arms shaking with an overdose of fear and adrenaline, Baisyl scuttled messily back to pull himself out of the way, willing his heart to calm as Kedean lifted the corpse’s shoulder and rolled it off him and over.

Fantastic.

Now he owed the man his life…twice.

“Do you recognize him?” Kedean asked without inflection, and Baisyl looked up, first to his guard—where he found empty, unreadable brown eyes studying the would-be-killer’s face—and then to the dead man.

“Ah…”  He shook his head.  “No, I’ve…never seen him.”

“Are your shoulders alright?”

Baisyl blinked, having forgotten about that little detail, and raised a hand to said body part, prodding it curiously before rolling one shoulder and then the other.  It hurt more than he expected, but they both moved capably, so he nodded.  “I’m fine.”

“Good.”  Kedean stood, moving again to get out and ordering flatly, “Take his weapon, and…” He hesitated, eyeing the outside.  It hadn’t yet started to rain again, but he knew as well as Baisyl that the on and off drizzling could start back up at any moment.  “Either stay here, or come with me,” he said at last, “whichever you prefer.”

Follow at the heels of the man who snapped the necks of those who tried to hurt him, at the risk of having his curse found out by a bunch of rag-tag merchants?  Or keep the company of a corpse, at the risk of being subject to another attempt on his life with the likely result of some stranger painting the wagon floor red with his blood?

Baisyl scrambled to grab his deceased attacker’s weapon, very briefly ruffled through the rest of the man’s clothes in search of anything else useful, and then quickly donned shoes and hastened after his guard. 

Unfortunately, the half minute it had taken him to grab a weapon, frisk a man, and pull on shoes was apparently ample time for Kedean to disappear completely.  Baisyl scowled down the empty line of wagons, but tread carefully through the damp grass nonetheless, unnerved by the sudden silence after such an outbreak of commotion so recently.

Seconds later, fate justified his nerves.

When the body first toppled into him, he spun without thinking, slinging it against the nearest solid mass—surprised to find it light enough that his female body could sling it so—and raising his dagger to its neck, but jerking to a halt the instant his eyes made out the identity of his ‘attacker.’

“P-p-please don’t—don’t—don’t kill me, I ‘aven’t done anythin-”

Baisyl relaxed his grip, lowering his weapon and wincing as the movement shot a spike of pain through his shoulder and down his side.  “Breathe…” he advised, ignoring the discomfort.  “I have no intention of harming you…”

“M-m…milady?”  The servant woman’s eyes—tightly scrunched shut before—blinked widely open, overrun with surprise.  “You’re…y-”  She frowned, reaching trembling fingers out.  “Milady, are you-”

“I’m fi-”

“Lookout!”

He whipped around, dragging the unsuspecting woman with him and shoving her behind him as soon as he made it full circle.  Just in time.  A dagger buried itself in the wood a foot from his left ear.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” Their attacker leered, teeth bared as if he were still an animal, and he licked his lips, an old, dying language dropping from his tongue like gravel ground up with growls and the gnashing of teeth.  Then he said, “Pretty, pretty, pretty little red witch…so good at running, but not fast enough…”

Baisyl struck, and metal met metal in a sharp, grating collision.

A cackle like wild dogs erupted in front of him, as well a startled, meeker yelp of shock from behind, and “Oh,” the thing before him taunted, “…it bites, too, does it?  How fun…” 

When it attacked, Baisyl swerved—feet skidding in the mud like a washbasin on wet ice—and he heard the maid behind him take a few scrambled steps backwards.

“Milady-”

“I’d run,” Baisyl clipped, “if I were you…” and barely got the sentence out before the other moved in again.

The man—creature?—moved like an animal on two legs, fast and agile as a beast of prey, but unpredictable as a drunk, and Baisyl found himself fighting for balance as much as his livelihood. 

“Oh, oh, oh, such an amusing plaything…but what color does it bleed?”  The thing swung wide, and Baisyl grit his teeth as jerking himself sharply out of the way of it sent another jolt of discomfort through his body.  “Green, like its fire snake mother?  Or red…” Baisyl made a flash decision and stepped in, “…like its dirty, weak, human father…”

Well, that answered some questions.

Foot propped between his opponents legs as he moved in, Baisyl caught the weapon arm that struck out to counter him, twisted to put his weight on the other’s elbow—using his joints against him—and turned, throwing his attacker sharply off-balance and sending the significantly heavier body to the ground a moment later. 

It sputtered when it hit the mud, startled, and Baisyl wasted no time bringing his booted heel down on its exposed forearm, sparing the thing no pity as bones splintered under the force of the blow and a piercing cry, like a wounded mutt, cut the air.  He kicked the blade from its limp hand into the mud. 

Pressing the hilt of it deeper still into the soil with his heel to keep it both out of reach and inaccessible, he demanded, “Who sent you?” and bleary, unfocussed eyes rounded to face him.  It pulled its lame appendage in, cradling it to its chest.

When it spoke, it used its ancient tongue, spitting its words and slurring them together as if slobbering on them; Baisyl grimaced.

“I suggest you make yourself useful,” Baisyl cut in as soon as it paused, “…and speak Common before I bore of letting you live…” 

The creature laughed—or gargled or spat, Baisyl couldn’t quite tell—and then smiled nastily, the look keen and inhuman. 

“You, kill me, son of a human?”  It licked its lips again, slowly and wetly; was its tongue longer than before?  “Try…”  It rasped the last word at about the same time Baisyl realized that its skin was rippling, much as the last one, and contorting.

He should have guessed.

When it lunged for him, shoving off its back paws and advancing with fangs bared—its human guise completely gone—Baisyl didn’t move quite so fast as he planned, and he grit his teeth to stifle an outcry as canines caught his leg and dug in.  Though his boot reduced the damage, sparing his muscles and tendons, it couldn’t protect him completely, skin still breaking under the bite, and a sharp whip of the beast’s head dragged him off his feet and to the ground.  He kicked.  Cold mud soaked through his vest at his back, and he vaguely registered someone screaming again, from off to the side.

Did someone call his name?

The teeth on his leg released their hold, claws scrambling up his leg, fighting for purchase against his struggles, and Baisyl’s spare hand searched blindly for the second dagger he’d driven into the dirt—where, where, where?

“Baisyl!”

There!

He wedged his knee up moments before the thing reached his face, vicious incisors snapping close and fast, an inch from his nose, and he made a face at the bombardment of damp, sordid breath that came with it, dragging his first weapon up and around.  He buried it in the first thing made available—a shoulder blade, a bad hit, mostly bone—but the beast yelped, sharp and angry, and Baisyl made the most of its distraction, rolling to shove it to the side as he brought his weapon around again.

Teeth sank into his shoulder at the same time he landed his second hit, and Baisyl faltered as his vision blurred, his weight sinking dizzily against his attacker.  But he overrode the pain shock, forcefully dragging his weapon down through whatever he’d hit—ribs, he’d hit between its ribs—ruining vital organs as he drew the blade through.  The teeth in his shoulder spasmed, the body under his twitched and claws dug painfully into his skin through his clothes, spittle and blood mixing with mud and filth.  And then very suddenly it was all but over.  Stillness.

A hand out of nowhere steadied him, catching his less injured shoulder, and Baisyl didn’t realize he was shaking until he nearly collapsed into the support of the body behind him as it tried to lift him.

“Baisyl…Baisyl-”

“It…bit me,” Baisyl blurted, trying not to think too much about the hot, sticky slickness on his fingers that coated his hand as much as the hilt of the dagger it still clutched, or the fact that he dare not put weight on his left ankle for fear of toppling over on it or fainting from the pain.  Luckily, his guard did most of the work holding him upright.  “Am I…going to turn into a…uhh…”

Oh, what were they called?

The chest at his back rumbled with a sound that might have been a chuckle under less dire circumstances.  As it was, a hand came to support his waist, another gently prying his weapon from his fingers, and he felt Kedean shake his head. 

“No, milord,” he said.  “Those were most definitely not lycans…” 

‘Well, that’s a relief…’ 

“…but I’m afraid we have other, larger issues on our hands.”

‘…or not so much,’ Baisyl mentally corrected, and sighed aloud, wincing a second later.  “And these would be…what vein of ‘issues’…?”

“Ah…”  The rumbling of voices approached, many of them raised, bursting back and forth in tangled disagreement.  Their fellow travelers.  “Issues of the…angry, torch-wielding peasant sort, milord…”

Baisyl’s brow furrowed.  “Angry, torch-wielding…?”

“Those creatures were after you,” Kedean said, and Baisyl nodded, letting on that he’d figured that out.  “They killed seven women, and nearly killed two others, all dark haired, and all around your age and stature…”  Baisyl’s stomach lurched.  “A large portion of our party is now thus convinced you are a witch.”

“Oh,” Baisyl said, his voice smaller and more tired than he intended to let on as he shut his eyes, “…is that all?  That’s…that’s perfect.  Of course they are.”  Clearly, someone in the seven heavens had a vendetta against his soul. 

“There she is!”

The most childish and weary part of Baisyl wanted to curl into Kedean’s arms until he disappeared completely.  He shifted, forcing more of his weight onto his good foot and lessening his dependency on his guard’s support.

“Ivvan, don’t be ridiculous,” a woman defended him against the first man’s outburst.  “She’s as innocent as the other girls!”

“Have you looked at her?  She looks like she walked through a bloody slaughtering house-”

“Ivva-”

“-and yet, she’s with us!  With no one to protect her, she survived.  You gonna explain that?  She shows up outta nowhere, comes with nothin’ to her name but some dark, wildlands brute with Mele knows what lineage…joins our caravan, and then not a full day in and our own are bein’ torn apart-”

“Look, Ivvan…” Another man joined in, “…it’s not like we don’t all see where you’re coming from, but she hasn’t done anything to us.  We’ve got no proof, and she’s just a woman…as much as we all wanna shove the blame somewhere, it won’t do us any good to go shovin’ daggers in the faces of random innocents to make us feel better…”

The argument went on, heating up as other’s joined in and growing more vicious as emotions were thrown into the mix.  Men’s wives had died.  They didn’t want someone who would lure in more danger staying among them.  But then, others didn’t see needless injustice as fair recompense.

In the midst of their banter, Baisyl saw the first drop of rain hit Kedean’s skin, breaking like a crystal teardrop against dark marble, and he let his eyes fall back shut.  He felt the second drop tap his cheek, gently, and roll down, as humble as any tear, and he heard the arguments of the other travelers slow and hush as magic tingled through his veins, rippling over his skin and transforming him before their very eyes.

‘Decisions, decisions…’



Behind him, Kedean’s pose subtly shifted—to protect him, if need be?  Baisyl wondered as his mind worked—or to abandon him with all due swiftness as soon as the caravan turned against them?

His mind made up, Baisyl made to step out.

“Milord, are you sure-”

“I’m always sure,” Baisyl said, as certain as a heartbeat, and this time his guard didn’t stop him.   “My name…” he said, speaking crisply and clearly with no sense of urgency as he stepped forward before the crowds, making sure that he had their utmost attention, “…is Baisyl Lucerik Merseille.”  Though amply aware of every eye on him, he kept his face schooled into a perfect mask, completely siphoning out the pain that every step wrought on his body.  “I am the firstborn son of the dragon witch Melsinna, and heir to her legacy…as well as a wanted sorcerer for several accounts of crimes against the Council of Dragons…”

He studied the faces of his audience, his expression passive on the surface but intent underneath, gauging their reactions before continuing.

“I had hoped that, guised as a woman, I might pass peacefully, undetected, through this stretch of land and lose their trail in the process.  Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case.  Thus, with my cover already blown, I have no driving reason not to take everything I need from you now, your lives and livelihoods be damned…”

He watched emotions flit through the faces and body language of the crowd—fear, surely, and anger; was there doubt?  It was impossible to tell for sure or read them all at once.

“…but, in a rare act of mercy as recompense for your hospitality towards me thus far…I am willing to strike a deal.” 

Feeling childishly tempted to cross his fingers, Baisyl fit his hands neatly into his pockets instead, chin aloft and eyes hard. 

“Provide my guardian and I with two of your fittest horses and a sum of no less than three thousand aupels, and we will depart from your company peacefully with no further bloodshed…refuse, and the lives of seven women will feel like lost pocket change by comparison to the sea of loss you’ll come to face in miraculously short order.”

The message was simple enough: let me go, and we both win; cross me, and I burn you and everything precious to you into cinders so infinitely fine that even the most renowned of the world’s professional archeologists won’t be able to make heads or tails of what you once were. 

Of course, Baisyl wasn’t in any condition to get into so much as a fist fight with even one of the men he currently faced, and couldn’t have burned a wheel off their caravans, even in perfect health.

But they didn’t know that, and that was the catch.

---

A/N: Ah, so, yes.  Some fifty or so years before Kedean was born, Alroy was happily tromping around in his homeland making goo-goo eyes at his grandmother.  Yay fun?  Safe to say, Alroy wasn't kidding when he said he knew more about Kedean than Kedean knows about himself.  There's a lot of backstory there, and I'm not sure when or how much of it I'll be able to get into, but hopefully some soon.  :3

Wait, you say, if Alroy's known Rhyan/Baisyl/the Merseille family for so long as well as Kedean, why would he make the mistake of telling Kedean that Baisyl was only a young girl?  That will be answered, but in short, he didn't want Kedean backing out to avoid "attending" to a noblewoman who might have a different idea about what his job was than he did (he didn't escape that, did he?).  Anyway: Alroy lied.

If you're wondering, Lucerik and Dale are Baisyl and Rhyan's middle names, but more importantly, they're their dragon names, given to them by their mother, and they are the names any dragon familiar with their family will use when referring to them.

Also, Allanasha asked, but I figure some others of you might also be interested in knowing: Kedean is seven foot several inches (somewhere between 7'1" and 7'3").  Very tall, but not inhumanly so.  Baisyl, as a man, is about 6'3"/6'4" and almost exactly a foot shorter as a woman (5'3"-ish).  So, you see, he's not a small man, and he WAS quite used to being taller than most and reasonably intimidating.  Kedean, of course, makes him feel small no matter what body he's in (if Kedean comes up behind him when he's male, he can fit his chin atop Baisyl's head without lifting it - a perfect fit...:3), but it doesn't bug Baisyl as much as he thinks it should - in fact, it gives him a rare sense of security...not that he'd admit that to anyone at this point.  :D

Zyric is 6' (maybe 5'9"), and Rhyan is 5'5".

Oh, and I've upped Kedean's age by three years.  He was twenty-six, but I'm now going to go back and put a tiny edit in the only piece of dialogue that mentions his age and make him twenty-nine.  Baisyl is twenty-two, almost twenty-three.

Finally!  To give credit where credit is due, my ideas about magic as of late have been heavily influenced by Katica Locke (another author here who's has written some pretty wicked awesome stories), but I think the idea that emotions can fuel magical energy are actually pretty common.  In this story, I'm distinguishing between drawing from a life force - a sort of internal energy - to cast one's spells, and the idea of drawing from the more wild, fluctuating and unpredictable force of powerful emotions.  Hopefully I'll be able to get into that more later, too, but for now this A/N is already too long.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter!  :3