*~*~*
Neneya hadn't exerted herself any more than walking across the city, but she felt as tired as she did after a day of hunting. The same weak-kneed, shaky feeling overcame her as she had after any close call―with bandits, fierce prey, or the long fall that was usually below her. But there was a warm and gratifying rush in the wake of danger, too, one she'd sought again and again for years.
Even so, being escorted back to the palace gates, she looked at Tekelei and felt a hollow disappointment. She'd helped a beautiful princess and earned her gratitude... though surely the idea that Tekelei found Neneya attractive or at least intriguing was wishful thinking. She ought to be grateful for this extraordinary experience, rather than sad that it was over. She was certainly grateful for the gold coin the king had pressed into her hand, not to mention her head still being attached to her shoulders.
Near the entrance hall, Tekelei held up her hand. The eight guards escorting them all halted to listen. "I would like to speak with Neneya the hunter in private for a moment," she said, and the guards assented.
She motioned to Neneya to follow her.
The side room where Tekelei led her was a small guest chamber with a wardrobe, two beds, a writing desk, and four fine chairs that faced one another. It was so quiet Neneya nearly expected Tekelei to hear her heart pound.
"I'm not sure how to say this, but…" Tekelei took a deep breath. "If you get the chance― if you want to― I'd like to see you again."
"Of course, Your Highness." Neneya dropped to one knee and bowed low.
Tekelei's fingertips gently lifted her chin so that she was looking into Tekelei's eyes as Tekelei bent to meet her. "I've always wanted to ride a fenyara," Tekelei said softly. "If you'd like to see me again, come to the balcony at the north side of the palace of Kunaka seven nights from now. I'll be waiting." She paused. "But only if you wish to. If you don't, you're still welcome in Kilibara and still have my gratitude and my protection."
Overwhelming joy swept over Neneya, like the day she'd been accepted for her apprenticeship or the day Akafu had placed a new-forged harpoon in her hand and declared her master hunter and his equal. "I'll be there, Your Highness."
Tekelei smiled, took her hand, and lifted her to her feet. Tekelei's hand was small, soft, nervously sweaty and hot. Then Tekelei looked behind her, as if to check that no one was watching, and leaned forward slowly, hesitantly, in silent question. Neneya leaned down a few more inches in reply―and Tekelei closed the last of the distance between them and kissed her.
It was an anxious, unsure, chaste kiss, and Neneya wondered if it was Tekelei's first. For a protected princess subject to stifling rules of propriety, perhaps it was. But warmth suffused her from the lips out, and she couldn't stop a foolish grin.
Then Tekelei smoothed her poor woman's clothes and patted her hair, stood up very straight, and led Neneya back out to the waiting guards and the palace gate as if nothing had happened.
*~*~*
On her way to the port and the private skycoach that would take her to Kunaka, Tekelei―arrayed in the silks and jewels of a princess again―stopped at Momosha the potter's shop. With only Meli and a single guard accompanying her, she went in.
Momosha's hand went to her heart.
Tekelei handed her a bag of coins, which she'd acquired by having Meli sell two of her father's gifts. She had realized those could be of discreet use; it was not as if he were likely to notice that she was not wearing them. "Momosha, please accept twice the money I lost you before―and the gratitude and apologies of Princess Tekelei of Kilibara."
Momosha fell back into the chair behind the counter, mouth open. "Your Highness," she managed in a voice lacking breath.
Tekelei did the same at the free kitchen near the port.
Tharo's eyes grew huge at the sight of Tekelei's silver lattice necklace hung with sapphires. "Tela? What…"
"Princess Tekelei of Kilibara," she said quietly. "You've done great good for the people of my city, and you are worthy of a reward." She held out another bag of coins, twice what she'd given to Momosha.
Tharo caught himself against the kitchen counter, then fell to his knees. "Your Highness, forgive me," he said, bowing nearly to her feet. "I truly apologize for having treated you as a common woman so long."
"You treated a common woman with extraordinary kindness." Tekelei motioned for him to rise; he did so clumsily, his face grayish. "The coin is for your kitchen, and anything you wish to do for the people of Kilibara, your family, and yourself."
"Thank you, Your Highness, thank you!"
*~*~*
On Ilaka's back, Neneya banked and descended toward the northernmost balcony of the Kunaka palace. Tekelei waited, enjoying the warm night and the urns of flowers. At the gilt railing, she caught sight of Neneya and waved wildly. So much for regal dignity.
Tekelei stepped back to make room, and Ilaka landed, her wings folding gracefully.
"You came," Tekelei said quietly, her voice restraining a world of joy. "Your fenyara is beautiful."
Neneya grinned. "Thanks, on Ilaka's behalf. Um, Ilaka being the fenyara. Your Highness."
Ilaka stretched out toward Tekelei, sniffed her hair, and touched the tip of her nose to Tekelei's shoulder.
"She likes you, Your Highness."
Tekelei smiled, and cautiously patted Ilaka's head.
Neneya dismounted and straightened her leathers. Tekelei stepped forward and gave her a second awkward, nervous kiss―then put her arms around Neneya's waist. Tekelei was small, delicate, and elegant as a songbird in flight but stronger than she looked.
"Your Highness… you don't owe me anything for rescuing you," Neneya said softly.
"I'm not… giving myself to you as a reward." Tekelei stiffened a little. "That sounded very improper." Neneya's skin heated at the idea of Tekelei being improper. "I mean… this is my choice. As long as it's yours. I'm not Prince Darim, and neither are you."
"Good thing," Neneya said into Tekelei's hair, braided now in elegant rows and gathered in a knot bound with silver. "He has bad aim."
Tekelei laughed quietly.
"Your Highness… would you like to ride on Ilaka with me? You're small, and she can carry two."
Tekelei's arms squeezed tight around her. "Yes! Yes, I would!" She paused. "Away from the city, in case anyone spots me. Though it's dark and it would be hard to tell who I am."
Neneya helped her mount―Tekelei's small blue slipper in her cupped hands―and strapped her tightly into the saddle, then fastened herself in front of her. Tekelei gripped her waist; Neneya stroked Ilaka's head, shook the reins, and they lifted into the sky.
*~*~*
Terror and glory surged through Tekelei as solidity fell away beneath her. Each beat of Ilaka's wings was a slight descent and then a thrilling rise. She held on to Neneya, eyes squeezed shut until she finally worked up the courage to open them.
Above, below, all around was what she'd always dreamed of: land receding away beneath her, clouds below, the shadow of a tiny island coming into view above, and all the world before her.
"It really does feel like freedom," she said in Neneya's ear.
"Would you like to land on that little island above us and see what's on it, Your Highness?" Neneya shouted.
"Yes!"
They ascended, fortunately not as steeply as Tekelei feared. It was scary, but not too scary to be wonderful. Tekelei felt the air rippling past, Ilaka's strong muscles shifting beneath her, Neneya firm and warm between her legs, and felt a thrill of heat beneath the coolness of the wind.
On the islet, they drifted down, far out of anyone's sight. Stars and the three moons gleamed high above. The islet had nothing but rocks and grass and a few wildflowers, but it was theirs alone.
Neneya unfastened her and pulled her gently out of the saddle into her arms. Then, Neneya leaned down and kissed her―first a soft brush of lips, then more open, more… improperly… as Tekelei responded.
"I can be gone a coup
le of hours without bothering anyone," Tekelei murmured into Neneya's mouth. "Meli knows I want privacy. She doesn't know why, but she won't tell anyone."
"Good. Your Highness." Neneya's low rich voice vibrated through Tekelei's lips, and they kissed again.
"Don't be formal here," Tekelei murmured. "We're alone, and you've certainly been more familiar than a lack of honorifics."
"Yes. You are the princess; you command, and I obey." Neneya's voice spoke of still closer familiarities, new to Tekelei but known to her.
"I told Father I'd come here to look for a husband, but Lanisa won't push me. She's always been my dearest friend since I was a baby, and we respect one another's wishes."
"So you've run away from home in a way." Neneya smiled. "I did that a long time ago. Though I was a farm girl, not a princess."
"You did?" Tekelei led Neneya to a patch of wildflowers, the softest part of the islet, and knelt, drawing her gently down. "Tell me about it."
Neneya's smile turned rueful. "I'd think my life would be boring to a princess."
"Not in the least. I really would like to get to know you."
So Neneya told her life and listened to Tekelei's―and eventually, under the stars on an island all their own, they sought a different knowledge: beyond words but reminiscent of flight.
The Last Petal on the Rose
Stephanie Rabig
"It's over!" Mariska cried, pulling her stepson into her arms. "Janos, the war is done!"
Janos hugged his stepmother back, unsure which surprised him more; the news, or the physical contact from Mariska. Normally she and his brothers barely acknowledged him at all, much less pulled him in for a hug.
But then, it wasn't every day that a war that had been raging for the past year came to an abrupt halt.
"What happened?" he asked.
"We captured their Queen's son, and a truce was signed right away after that," she said, a wide grin on her face. "They're bringing him up to the castle now."
"Why?" Janos asked. "If a settlement has been reached, then—"
"Leverage, Janos," she said, and there was the condescending smile he was used to. "We're to keep him here from now on. That was your father's idea," she said proudly. "If those brutes act up again, we'll send them their Prince's head. Come on. Let's go watch the parade! Ambrus and Abel are already there."
Janos winced at the idea of being at a celebratory parade with his family—the last time that had happened, Ambrus had offered repeatedly to lift him up onto his shoulders so that he could see properly, while their father had roared with laughter. But given the circumstances, perhaps all of them would be too distracted to spend much time teasing him.
It was something he could never understand, how two tall, robust, golden-skinned people like his father and mother had produced him along with the twins. He had been sickly since birth, still walked with a slight limp from an illness that had tried to warp his very bones when he'd been a boy, and no matter how much time he spent in the sun, his skin insisted on darkening in random spots rather than all over.
Mariska grabbed his hand in one of hers and lifted her heavy skirts slightly with the other, running down the hall toward the front doors. Janos scrambled to keep up with her, nearly tripping once and trying to focus harder on keeping his feet moving properly when she cast him a derisive look.
It was over, he thought as they burst through the front doors and looked down at the city below at the throngs of cheering people who lined the streets. The war was actually over.
The guards were at their sides in an instant, one of them taking Janos's elbow to help steady him as they hurried toward their spot at the end of the parade route. Janos almost told Vernat to let go, that he didn't need the help, but in the end stayed silent. Vernat had been guarding him and his family since he was an infant; no matter what Janos said, he would always see the skinny, ill boy with the body-rattling cough.
They reached their spectator's box and Mariska greeted the twins with a pleased grin and a kiss on each of their cheeks. King Lorand pulled her to his side, and then continued speaking with Burchard, the Chief of the Military, a tall, broad-chested man with a tight-lipped smile.
"Janos," Burchard said, when he caught sight of him edging into his place in the box. "Haven't seen you in a long time. Volunteer for any more fights lately?" he asked, casting a conspiratorial smirk around to his father and siblings, who all laughed.
Ordering his face not to darken with shame, Janos tried not to remember the feeling of humiliation he'd gotten when the war had first started and he'd volunteered for one of the battle divisions. He had no head for war strategy as Ambrus did, no skill at combat like Abel, and he wasn't confident enough in front of crowds to give rousing speeches like Mariska. So when he had asked his father for permission to join the fight itself, to train, to teach his body how to be something other than clumsy, he had expected and received a shrug of approval.
He'd had high hopes of what military training would do for him. Of finally finding a skill for himself, of coming home a hero.
Instead, he'd lasted in training camp for two weeks before Burchard had evicted him out of pity, telling him that he would not be responsible for the death of a King's son, however useless.
"Of course I did," Janos said now. "Why else do you think they surrendered so quickly?"
Burchard laughed and clapped him on the back, which nearly sent him sprawling over the edge of the box and out onto the ground. "Gods love you, boy. Might not have an ounce of strength but you do have your sense of humor."
And a good thing, too, Janos thought. He'd discovered over the years that people made fun of him less if he made fun of himself first.
Then the sound of the crowd rose to a roar, and his father moved to the front of the box. The others followed, nearly leaning over the side in their eagerness to get a look at the prisoner.
The man stalked around the cage he was being carried in, and despite the fact that Janos knew how sturdy those bars were—the cages were stored in an underground room of the castle, which he had first explored when he was ten years of age—he was still abruptly nervous for the guards surrounding it.
He had never before seen another person without their shirt on-- at least not in public. Most people would no sooner show themselves out here without a shirt than they would appear without pants. Considering that, Janos expected the man to be cowering, trying to cover himself. The fact that he was pacing around instead spoke of the fact that this state of undress was normal to him. Janos had heard, of course, that the warriors off to the west were barely human, fighting with their hands and with blades rather than long-distance weapons like their own bows and arrows, and that they ambushed soldiers with such savagery that there was barely enough left to bury. So he had realized vaguely that they wouldn't fight in the crisp, clean uniforms and polished shoes that he saw the soldiers here march in, but seeing the evidence in person was a little overwhelming.
More than a little, he amended, as the guards brought the man closer, and he looked directly at their box.
"Where will he stay?" Mariska whispered. "I don't like the thought of him being on the castle grounds, Lorand. Look at the brute. He'll kill us all in our sleep given half the chance."
"No need to worry," he said blithely. "He'll have run of the First Castle, which will naturally be guarded day and night. You won't even know he's there. Unless, of course, you'd like to join one of the tours I'll hold," he said, grinning.
"Tours?" Mariska asked.
"For the Lords and Ladies, and eventually anyone else who can pay for the privilege of seeing an enemy combatant face-to-face. We will be surrounded by guards, of course, but enough people are curious that I think we could make quite a bit of gold from this."
"I'm curious," Janos admitted, as the guards marched the cage past their box and onto the castle grounds.
"And curious you'll stay," King Lorand said. "The guards will protect everyone, yes, but I'm only sending in people who can r
un if need be, Janos."
"I can—" he began, and then realized the futility of it and fell silent.
*~*~*
The first tour wasn't held for almost two weeks. Up until that point, they were still preoccupied with the celebrations after the war's end, Lords and Ladies and other dignitaries from villages at the other end of the Kingdom coming to the palace for a visit. The feast lasted for six days straight, the kitchen workers barely having time for sleep before they were called to another shift; the servants did their best to keep the rooms of celebrating guests clean before they returned to them, inebriated, and sullied them again; music rang throughout the halls day and night.
Janos, well aware that he wouldn't be missed at the party, stayed up in his room and alternated between reading and looking out the window, staring across the grounds at the First Castle.
It had been abandoned decades upon decades ago when this superior home had been built, and much of it had been boarded off. Not that that had stopped him and the twins from exploring, until the fateful day when he had stepped on a crumbling stair and fallen, breaking his wrist in the landing. After that, every entrance and exit had been secured off, and Janos was doubly sure that was true now that the ruins held a prisoner.
Still. He couldn't help but wonder if his old secret entrance had been found. He'd never breathed a word of it to his brothers, after all, and it wasn't something that sat out in plain sight like a door or a window.
Of course, he would tell his father about it. Whether it was well hidden or not, such a thing wasn't safe to have around anymore, considering.
But first, he wanted a look for himself.
He watched a large group of Lords and Ladies, along with the King himself, follow the guards into the First Castle. Nearly an hour later they came back out, talking and laughing, and he went downstairs to hear what they had to say.
"There will be another tour soon?" a Lord asked, taking a small, white-iced pastry from a tray offered by a passing servant. "My wife is still out on her horseback ride and insisted I wait for her to go see the prisoner. We have to leave for home tomorrow afternoon, so—"
Fairytales Slashed: Volume 8 Page 23