"Brandt, wait!" Brandt paused as he returned to his son, but did not turn. "I have nothing to say to you, Vadesh." "How did you find out...my name?" A low rumble of laughter shook the now-still air. "You always were clumsy, did you know that?" "You didn't answer my question!" Vadesh tried to yell, though the binding spell merely made his voice sound a bit shrill. "Well, the reason for that is rather simple, old *friend*...I don't intend to." With that, Brandt began to walk again, but paused once more, turned around and turned Vadesh onto his stomach. "What are you doing? Get your hands off me!" "You know what the problem with you always was?" Brandt asked. "You never could learn to" and Brandt carefully knocked his opponent into unconsciousness with a rock behind the ear "keep your mouth shut." "That should keep him," he muttered to himself as he went back to where his son had been. "Christov! Christov, where are you?" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The North A Tale of High Adventure And Low Temperatures Created by Schneeble (Brian Stubbs) Part 13: Broken Snowflakes Written by Sharyna Tran - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "You vile back-stabbing honorless excuse for a man!" Grael winced a little. "Please, there's no need for any of that..." "No need? What do you mean there's no need? I thought we were comrades! I thought we trusted each other! And now you're throwing that off so that you can arrest us and what, get a promotion? I damn well think there *is* a need!" "Ka--" "You *know* we didn't do it! You know we haven't been anywhere *near* the king! How can you--" "Look, you're only asked to come in for questioning..." "Questioning, eh?" Katria snarled. "Then why did I distinctly hear the word 'suspicion' drop from those lying lips of yours not two minutes ago?" "It's all right," Shalnay said, cutting off Grael before he could respond. Katria stared at her, dumbfounded. "What-" "We'll just go and tell them the truth. As you said, it's not like we've been anywhere near the king in the past few days. I'm sure we'll be able to get them to see things the right way." A long, feral growl came from Katria's throat, but she subsided a little. "Fine. We'll go see the stinking head of the blasted guard. But!" and she glared at Grael, who looked sorry, but didn't have the courtesy to be intimidated. "I'm not going anywhere near that wretch. He's not going to have the satisfaction of clapping me in chains." Shalnay sighed. "You'd rather have someone else have that satisfaction, then?" Grael replied coolly, raising an eyebrow. "I might mention to you that I happen to be quite possibly the only guard member who is *not* predisposed either to hate you two or hold you in suspicion." Without waiting for an answer, he went to the door and held it open for the two ladies as they left. As she passed him, Katria spat in his face. Grael shook his head and followed behind them as they walked down the halls. --- --- --- --- --- --- --- "You shall not pass." "What the hell do you mean, 'we shall not pass?' That order is signed by the king himself!" "Nevertheless, the gates to fair Sala shall not be opened merely on easily-forged credit! A band of ruffians such as yourselves-" "You stupid-" "That's enough, Misha." "That's enough, Mishakov." The two reprimands came almost in the same second. Half a beat of startled silence later, "Captain!" the two previously quarreling voices exclaimed, one in protest, one in surprise. More startled silence fell, only to be broken by Kesran. "Sorry, wait, excuse me...I think we're all having a moment of collective confusion." "I think you're right," the captain that had just arrived at the gate drawled. "Perhaps we can fix this by beginning as civilized people do, with introductions, rather than insults." Here, although he fixed his stern eye upon Mishakov, Misha looked a bit ashamed as well. "I am Captain Toravel of Sala. This is Lieutenant Mishakov, known for his intense dedication to his duty." And his intense disgust of anything resembling common sense, Toravel added silently. "And you are?" "Captain Farran, Captain," Farran nodded to his compatriot. King's soldier though the man might be, there was no way in hell he was going to salute to him. A captain was a captain whether he was mercenary or loyalist, and that was that. "And these are my people, Kesran, Misha and Keath. We're mercenaries." "I might have guessed," Toravel admitted, looking out at the bristling weapons held by Farran's band. "I believe I heard something about an order signed by the king?" "Misha, show him." Misha nodded and handed over the parchment, glaring at Mishakov all the while. Mishakov, conscious of his superior officer's presence, merely looked a little stuffed. "Hm...yes...interesting. Very well, this all looks to be in order. Go, but be warned that things are a little shaken up right now." A note of loss had entered Toravel's voice with that statement, and Farran looked him askance for a moment, but said nothing and continued on inside, his mercenaries following. The second they were out of earshot, Mishakov whirled to face his captain. "Captain Toravel, what were you thinking? Just look at them! They are obviously persons of unsavory character and as such can not be trusted!" Toravel sighed wearily. "Don't tell me you've never looked in a mirror after coming back from a campaign, Mishakov. Dirt's not a measure of a person's worth." His eyes trailed to the hulk of the palace behind them, filled with a host of questions and suspicions. --- --- --- --- --- --- --- As they neared the more populated areas of the palace, Katria and Shalnay began to hear the mass wailing and hysteria, some of which they could see echoed in the streets outside as they looked out of the windows. Suddenly, upon nearing the king's private chambers, a most unexpected, but not unwelcome, voice broke out. "Jotan's teeth, get away from me! I'm not dead!" A spate of hacking coughs followed this declaration. "But your Majesty, in order to truly bleed off the effects of this heinous poison-" "Get away, I said! I'll have none of your leeches, none of your butcher-surgeons! Now get out of my sight!" A mousy-looking man in "traditional" physician's wear scurried out of the king's chambers, his retinue following. Katria glared at Grael. "It seems that rumors of the king's death have been just a little exaggerated." Grael, for his part, had the decency to look very confused. "But we all saw him..." "Who's there? I thought I told you to get out!" Grael moved into the doorway and the sight of the king. "Sergeant Grael, your Majesty. At your command. Um..." He eyed the king's form uncertainly. Petroyv was still dressed in his royal robes, but he seemed disheveled and disturbed, and his eyes were stern, moreso than Grael had ever seen them. "Don't stand there gawping like a townsman," Petroyv snarled. "Your Majesty..." Grael hesitated. "We all saw you lying like the dead. No breathing, no pulse that anyone could find. How...?" "My guess is that her blasted poison failed, or there wasn't enough of it...or something." The king's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Poison?" Katria asked. "It must have been," Petroyv answered, wondering at the back of his mind why he was answering a commoner. "That tonic she gave me...I'm certain that was it. And she was acting oddly beforehand, as well." Katria had stopped listening and was muttering to herself. "Lying like the dead..." She turned back to the king. "Your Majesty, was this tonic in any way...sticky and sweet, with perhaps a slight bitter aftertaste?" "Now that you mention it," he mused, "Yes, I suppose so, although I believe she may have mixed it with wine." A small, somewhat self-deprecating smile broke out on his face. "Of course, I know my wines. I knew she'd added something, but I had no idea it was poison." He shook himeslf back to the moment. "What's the significance of that, girl?" Katria was nodding. "Vogtisk's Curse," she said firmly. Shalnay gasped. "The Twice-Death?" "Exactly." "Will you stop this peasant lore nonsense and tell me what's going on?" Petroyv demanded irritably. "Vogtisk's Curse is a very powerful poison, your Majesty," Katria explained. "Its main ingredients are the roots of the asperel plant--the one some call devilweed--and the venom of a fifesnake. A thimble's worth can kill a man." Her voice fell into a distinctly didactic cadence. "It's not just a powerful poison, though, but a cruel one. Within about an hour of administration, the subject begins to suffer from wracking coughs, then falls into violent convulsions, going from those to a stillness resembling death. Several hours later, the victim regains consciousness and a false sense of well-being, but that's an illusion. Final death occurs within a day of the victim's having ingested the poison, often preceded by muscle tremors and coughing fits that release blood." Grael and Shalnay, who had been staring at Katria as she delivered her unexpected lecture, switched their gaze to the king, whose robes were spattered with blood. Noticing their wide-eyed stares, Petroyv scowled at them regally, moving his slightly-shaking hand behind his back. "And how exactly do you know so much about this poison, girl?" he rumbled. "My mother was a physician," Katria admitted. "At Iso Castle. That's why I was allowed to live and work there after she died." At the king's disparaging snort, she added "She was an actual healer. She never used leeches or hacked off any body parts. And almost everyone she treated lived." "And those that she failed, she poisoned?" the king asked dryly. "No, of course not!" Katria replied, insulted. "Vogtisk's Curse is a poison used a lot in Iso, mostly for political assassinations. My mother saw it many times, and treated it too." "So there is a cure?" the king asked, his eyes intent. Katria nodded, her own eyes taking on a distant cast. "Tavelwood, 3 parts; snowroot, 2 parts, ground finely; foxbane, 2 leaves; mix in a solution of anisolde and red wine. Taken within an hour of re-awakening, this will forestall actual death. However, side effects of coughing fits and muscle tremors may continue for the rest of the victim's life." The didactic tone left her voice and she stared seriously at the king, the unspoken question in her eyes. "I came to consciousness...not too long ago, or so it seems," Petroyv squinted, trying to remember. "It can't have been more than an hour, though, if that mess is still going on." He waved vaguely with one hand at the hysteria still audible outside. "You know how to prepare this antidote, girl...take Sergeant Grael and your friend and gather the ingredients. And don't dawdle about it--if she finds out I'm still alive..." "Yes, your Majesty," Grael saluted. "Er...if I may ask, sir...who is this 'she' that you're speaking of?" Petroyv favored him with a fierce non-grin. "Who do you think?" Grael blinked, and left with the others, worried. --- --- --- --- --- --- --- Ann frowned in her room and would have paced, if she didn't consider pacing to be a useless waste of energy. There could have been no doubt of the poison's success, she was certain, but...servants running up and down the halls had been gabbling garbled news of the king's "miraculous return," and really it wasn't hard to tell if someone had been returned to life from the dead. She pushed the thought from her mind. Miracles like that did not happen. Mistakes, though...she glanced at the chamberpot where she had tossed the small vial of Sliu's Fall. "Jal!" she called. The boy who would be bodyguard to the as-yet-unborn king appeared within moments. "Yes, your Highness?" "Do you remember those roots I asked you to gather last week?" "Yes, your Highness," he answered, pouting slightly as the memory of the task he'd thought to be beneath him came back. "What did the leaves of the plant look like? Were they black, with pointed tips?" "Umm..." Jal hesitated. "They did have pointed tips, and they may have been black..." "May have been?" Ann asked sharply. "Well...when I was slicing them, they looked red for a while in the light, but went back to being black..." Jal bit his lip, sensing that this had probably been the wrong answer. For a long while Ann said nothing, her eyes, blue as ice and cold, drilling into the boy. "Leave. Now." He gulped. "Y-yes, ma'am..." "And when I say 'leave,' I mean...leave. Leave this palace, leave this city. Go back to your pathetic village and remain there. You are no longer fit to be anyone's bodyguard." Her voice was calm, steady...and absolutely frozen. Jal fled, tears forming in his eyes. Ann took a few moments to compose herself. Devilweed. Devilweed, not demonwood. The fool had gathered asperel instead of satalpel, and she'd given the king a good dose of Vogtisk's Curse rather than Sliu's Fall. Angrily, she allowed herself the luxury of a heartfelt curse. It did not matter, she reminded herself. Vogtisk's Curse was every bit as fatal as Sliu's Fall, albeit nowhere near as elegant or as quick. Not to mention the danger of someone discovering or knowing the antidote... Ann pushed the thought from her mind. Twice-Death was not a Salian poison, and the physicians she'd seen at the castle were all as much incompetent plebeians as the boy she'd just dismissed. She was Isharanti. There was no failure. --- --- --- --- --- --- --- "It tastes foul." "The cure is often less desirable than the disease, your Majesty," Shalnay told him softly. "More of that peasant lore?" Petroyv snorted in distaste, then sneered at the goblet containing the antidote before taking another gulp. He glanced at Katria. "Sala's thanks, young lady. You've done well. I can already feel myself getting stronger." Katria noted the new use of "young lady" rather than "girl," but didn't mention it. "Sala is welcome, your Majesty," she replied a bit archly. "Does that mean I'm not under arrest any more?" "Under arrest?" the king quirked an eyebrow at her. Grael cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, considering the connections these two had to Iso, the captain of the guard ordered their arrest, on suspicion of your, er...murder." Petroyv raised his other eyebrow to join the first. "Well, Sergeant, considering the connections these two have to just saving my life, I think it's time to clear them of those suspicions, don't you?" "My thoughts exactly, your Majesty." --- --- --- --- --- --- --- Ann waited until the next day to begin going about in the castle again. By now the poison would surely have followed its entire natural course. It was just a matter of when to hold the coronation ceremony now. Although, oddly enough, not one servant or officious lackey had reported the news to her yet. Hm. They were probably too consumed with grief at the foolish old man's death. "Ah, just the woman I wanted to see." Ann whirled, only partially out of the shock of being followed and not knowing it. "King Petroyv!" she squeaked, before clearing her throat and repeating herself in tones more appropriate for a warrior of the Isharanti. "King Petroyv. It is good to see you up and about." Her emotionless gaze betrayed none of her anxiety or dismay. Who could possibly have known the antidote? "Is it now?" the king drawled. He looked, somehow, more vigorous than he had before she'd poisoned him. More robust, more focused, and not at all foolish. "Why, of course, my lord," Ann replied, her mind racing through reasons and excuses, before stopping short in its tracks. Isharanti did not use excuses. "I quite enjoyed that tonic you prepared for me yesterday, you know," Petroyv continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Very...relaxing. I certainly must say that." "I...am glad you found it so, my lord." "In fact," the king went on, "I've been giving it a lot of thought, and I think it's time we made some changes around here. To your position, for one thing." "Oh?" Ann asked neutrally, wondering how many guards she was going to kill while escaping from the dungeons in order to call her people to war against these smirking barbarians. "Yes, indeed. Therefore, it is my distinct honor to award you the position of my top advisor, and to declare you my direct successor. My grandson would have to wait a few years before taking charge of things in any case, wouldn't you say?" Ann stared in disbelief. The man she had just tried to kill was offering her a top place in his government, the loudest voice in his ear, and the highest honor in the kingdom. He was most definitely insane. "I see you're too pleased to speak," the king blathered on. "Well, I hope you'll have regained your voice by the time of the ceremony today." "Ceremony?" Ann asked, still a little flummoxed. "Your coronation ceremony, Crown Princess Ann. We do, of course, request and require your presence. It would hardly be polite for you not to show up." With that, he turned and walked away from her, hearing her swear quietly in her own language, and then mutter something along the lines of "This isn't over, old man." With great willpower, he resisted the urge to tell her that it had just begun, although in this case it was true. --- --- --- --- --- --- --- The guard Katria had browbeaten into watching over Christov's side while she visited Shalnay started as the boy's body jerked. He stared wide-eyed as it happened again, once, twice, before the red-haired child's frame shook with convulsions and then fell back into that weird un-slumber. Trembling, the young guard checked the boy's pulse and breathing, sat back, and tried to relax. It didn't come easy. --- --- --- --- --- --- --- "Christov, my boy, what did he do to you?" "I-I don't know, Father," the shade answered. He shuddered. "So...so cold..." "Have you tried runes of warmth or comfort?" The blue form nodded miserably. "Nothing works...so cold...and they don't stop coming after me..." "They?" Brandt asked sharply. "They who?" "The...the restless...they think I'm one of them, but I'm not! I'm not!" "Hush, Christov. I believe you. Just calm down..." --- --- --- --- --- --- --- "Warbride Ann, do you accept the duties and responsibilities you must take up as a princess of the Salian line?" Inside, Ann shrieked with disgust at being thought of as part of the Salian line, but her composure held firm. "I accept," she answered. "And do you swear on your name's word loyalty and obedience to Petroyv your King and Sala your people, unto death?" This gave her pause. They hadn't gone through this part when she'd wed Tiroth. Still, perhaps being the heir to the crown did entail greater oaths of loyalty. It made sense, but...something still struck her as wrong about it. She contented herself with thinking of ways to change the coronation ceremony after she became queen, following Petroyv's next and final death. "I so swear." "On your name's word, Warbride Ann. Do you swear loyalty and obedience to Petroyv your King and Sala your people unto death?" A corner of her lip twitched, about to resolve into a snarl, but she stilled it. "I so swear," she repeated, her lips tightening, "On my name's word, loyalty and obedience to Petroyv my King and Sala my people. Unto...death." "Then rise, Crown Princess Ann, and receive the crown which is your due." Ann's eyes met Petroyv's as he made ready to set the crown on her head, and for just a moment, she saw something in them--a flash of satisfaction, or of victory, she knew not why--that caused her to almost flinch back. But a warrior of the Isharanti did not flinch. She raised her chin proudly and-- The pain seared through her like a burning poker. Only her well-drilled reflexes kept her from showing any reaction beyond a clenching of her jaw and the flickering of one eyebrow. Concentrating on controlling the pain, she hardly noticed when Petroyv spun her around for the people to cheer for, and wasn't even able to push him away when he "escorted" her off the balcony and back into the castle. Once out of sight, Petroyv snatched the crown off of Ann's brow. She took a deep, shuddering breath as the pain began to recede, then recovered herself and glared at the old man. He was holding the crown with a look of amusement in his eyes. "Something wrong, Ann?" "What have you done to me?" she demanded. "Now, now, that's no way for a would-be assassin to talk, now is it?" The amusement fled his face, to be replaced with an implacable expression. "Did you really think no-one would find out, Ann? Did you really think to place the blame on those two girls? One of them isn't even *from* Iso." Ann stiffened. "My lord." Her tone explained nothing, admitted nothing. "I do like the way your new marking looks on you, Ann," the king continued, gesturing to her forehead. "It's really very striking. But then you Isharanti were always a striking people." As Ann felt her forehead, realizing in horror just what had been done to her, Petroyv went on. "All the world knows the reputation of the Isharanti. Did you really think I was blind to your potential? When my sons were alive"-and here the only softness she'd heard yet in his voice was apparent and sad-"I didn't fear. I knew that it would be impossible for you to gain power by killing me; the crown would go to Tiroth, and even if you killed him, it would go next to Dmitri. But then you began growing heavy with Tiroth's child. Yes, of course I noticed. I'm not as continually drunk as I tend to look. That was when I knew that I needed to start watching myself. Now your chances of getting the throne were much more secure." He paused, looking at her. "I know that you didn't plan Dmitri's murder, and that you did not approve. And Tiroth's death was his own fault. So will yours be." "When is the execution?" she asked dully. "Why, what execution?" Petroyv asked, the picture of innocence. Ann glared at him. "Traitors to the crown would not simply be set free. It is an offense to the very foundations of monarchy." Petroyv chuckled. "Yes, but that's the beauty of having a cretin like that Svarog character around, trying to wreak havoc. I've put the blame on his head right now. As for you..." He stared her down. "You have a great deal of potential, Ann. You have the ruthlessness that Dmitri lacked, the common sense that Tiroth lacked, and the ambition that I now lack. I can use that, and I'd fully be the fool most give me credit to being if I didn't. Your new seat as my top advisor, my grand vizier, is a genuine offer. Much more so now that I know I can trust you." He gestured to the ward against oath-breaking, twin to the one on his throne, which had been burned into Ann's forehead by the rune Katria had carved into the crown for him. "Of course, if at any time you wish to decline my offer..." He tossed her a small red vial, which she caught automatically. "I believe this little concoction should solve those problems. And any others you might have, really." --- --- --- --- --- --- --- "But we're here to see the king!" Misha protested. "I'm sorry, but he's in conference right now," the guard repeated. "Why don't you go to the quarters we assigned you and, I don't know, freshen up or something. Then he's fini-" "Freshen UP?" Misha snarled at the guard. "What are you trying to imply here, you sniveling little-" "Misha!" Farran snapped, although there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Reluctantly, and with a last growl at the guard, Misha subsided. Just then, the doors to the throne room opened, and King Petroyv stepped in, looking unusually hale and hearty for a man whose kingdom was to be falling into civil war any day now. "Captain Farran and troops reporting as ordered, sir," Farran said, saluting and handing him the parchment with their marching orders on it. "We, who are to serve you at reduced rate, salute you," Kesran continued dryly. A dig from Misha's elbow stopped him from continuing further. "What are your orders, your Majesty?" Farran continued, ignoring the byplay behind him. --- --- --- --- --- --- --- Crown Princess Ann strode through the halls, eyes flashing. A small red vial hung on a chain around her throat, waiting for the day when her loyalty to her people would finally win over the shameful ambition and power-thirst that lingered in her heart. --------------------------------------------------- Author's Notes: People! No offense intended, but is it so hard to keep the character's names straight? Princess *Ann*. Prince *Tiroth*. Prince *Dmitri*. There aren't that many parts to reference; I don't know why "Anna," "Trioth" and "Dimitri" show up so often. If we can't keep continuity in *names*, why is it surprising when people mess up the story's continuity? *sigh* Even when two of the three are dead, people still keep spelling the names wrong. Honestly, I know most of the people who've written for the North, and you're all smart enough to look things up. Okay, enough with the ranting. Now for the thanks. Thanks go to Calc for being understanding enough to give me an eleventh-hour deadline, which I desperately needed due to compy problems. No prereaders for this one. Hopefully it passes muster anyway. :P Oh, and the "We, who are to serve you at reduced rate, salute you" line is from the English video version of "Asterix and Cleopatra." Any complaints or questions to be sent to maianh.tran@richmond.edu.