Chapter Thirty-Five: Heir of Defiance

On Earth, when a person displays particular empathy or compassion, we call that person humane. That's a bit self-aggrandizing, as humans have never been particularly empathetic or compassionate to one another. I once witnessed a French officer shoot his own soldier for refusing to leap out of the trench and charge toward almost certain death. By comparison, we fae are downright... 'fair' is the word we use, though it has broader meaning in Faeric. It means roughly the same thing as "humane" means in English, along with some other nonsense about the noble burden of being fae, which most fae nobles take seriously, but hardly anybody else does.

There are very few prisons in the fae realms, and iron-barred jail cells are reserved for those unfortunate souls who cannot be released into society under moderate supervision - the criminally insane, hopelessly violent, and irreparably fanatical. Most others are set to work for the realm to repay their debts, staying in modest work houses and paying off their debt to society doing whatever profession best suits them - it's a waste, after all, to have a talented stonemason languish in a cramped cell when his labor could be put to use building public works and a portion of his earnings paid to the victims of his crime. After a year or two of such servitude, most law-breakers gladly go back to their old lives and present no further problem.

There is no capital punishment in the realms, either - after all, it is quite difficult to consign fae and fae-kin to the 'great death', and even attempting to truly kill a fae is seen as monstrous by us. On the other hand, if you were to put a fae criminal to the sword, all you're really doing is sending her to a temporary exile to the near-paradise of Elysheim, and she isn't likely to turn up for the rest of her punishment when she returns to Alfheim's shores. Likewise, the fae rulers do not consider it their right to execute even the most maleficent criminal - partly because, were they to do so, there might be an increased interest in the manufacture of accursed poisons to put the fear of death back into the fae. Interestingly, part of being 'fair' means we sentence fae to longer terms than the mortals of the realm - a particularly violent and unrepentant human criminal (but one deemed eventually redeemable) might get twenty years of hard labor in a provincial work house, but his fae equivalent would get forty years. After all, when your life span is indefinite and you measure your age in douzans (a dozen years), forty years is still pretty transitory.

I mention all this to impress upon you how barbaric my brother's actions were perceived as and how draconian the punishment Queen Presimiwe dealt in response was viewed as being. Not that she didn't have good reason to be angry - just about any Earth monarch would have had Orealis before the firing squad tout suite... but there is no death penalty in the fae realms, absolutely no exception.

Presimiwe was back on her throne, back in her palace in Harvesthall. The traces of occupation were still plain enough to see - the invaders had lived it up within the palace halls, had crashed empty wine casks against amber floors, scrawled crude graffiti over ancient tapestries, had left whole courtyards smelling like vomit and piss. The servantry was hard at work bringing things back in order but, even in the Court of the Autumn Queen, it might be months before the decor resembled its pre-war state. Presimiwe sat upon her throne with her daughter, the wide-eyed and perpetually frightened-looking Princess Gilaeana, to her left. To her right, the throne of her son, Prince Chelaead, sat empty. He'd been killed in the fighting and spirited away to Elysheim. He would be some years in returning to the realm. And, of course, Calivar and I sat to either side of those small thrones. That's how the throne ordering went in the fae realms - kings and queens central to princes and princesses, local royals central to visiting ones, and all the arrayed nobles and non-nobles in the gallery below in their own complex seating arrangement.

Presimiwe wasn't beautiful by fae standards, but she had a unique look, a bearing that spoke of centuries of rule, as if the wings she no longer possessed were always carrying her back just a bit higher than it ought to be, her gaze flitting just above your eyes rather than gazing into them, as if it would lessen her to look you in the eye as equals. It was odd to think of how frail and powerless she'd been back at Mount Savryn compared to how she looked now, like a goddess - wounded, but still a goddess, placed among mere mortals. It was easy to forget that her realm had very nearly been crushed by the invaders. No wonder foreign kingdoms looked upon the fae with awe and trepidation - a fae monarch could be fearsome to behold.

"I have summoned this special session of the Autumnal Court to hold a reckoning for Prince Orealis of the Hibernal," she stated, her voice resonating through the chamber, past pillars like tree trunks, sending little gold and copper leaflets trembling like the rustling trees of autumn. "I say reckoning and not trial, for there is no doubt what has transpired, and we have in our presence two royals from two of the other fae realms present so there can be no question of legitimacy. Prince Orealis, you stand convicted of very serious crimes - of rallying an army of foreigners, of men from beyond our fae realms, and indeed from beyond Alfheim, and of invading our fae realm. Of presiding over the occupation, of the ransacking and pillaging of our lands. Of inflicting death, pain, and imprisonment upon our fair citizens. And of torturing and mutilating the queen of this realm. I, Presimiwe, Queen of the Autumnal, can attest to this last bit, for you personally ordered the wings severed from my body. In addition, you oversaw tortures upon various of my lords and lieutenants and plotted to inflict the great death upon at least several of us. Speak now to account for yourself, and you may yet see clemency."

It was a strange thing to look at my fae brother, whom I hardly knew, because it was very much like looking into an amalgamation of Folstolas and Alathea, my fae father and mother, and very much like looking into a mirror, albeit with some changes in gender and color palette. He was nearly as fair as me, with long, tightly-braided hair that was green in the same way mine was blue. Behind his eyes, I saw the same intensity I knew from Alathea and am told I also possess. Unhappy, his brow furrowed down the same way mine did when I was angry or deep in thought. He stood, bound in chains but with the bearing of one who might simply shrug them off and walk away. He seemed comfortable with the silence in the gallery, sneering and taking a good look around before deigning to speak.

"What could I possibly say that would lead you to grant me clemency, Presimiwe? You have observed with your own eyes the invasion of my armies and the defeat they brought… was it not for the other fae realms, you would have been crushed and I would soon be sitting upon your throne. It was this throne I was promised and this throne I shall reclaim when he returns with an army five times the size and with mages to put my dear sister to shame."

Orealis looked to me, a strange look flitting through his eyes, as if he was looking for the spark of the old Laeanna and had failed to find her. And, while Orealis may have heard stories of my magical exploits from his men, he had never seen what destruction a spellsword could cause in the hands of a decent sorceress. My spell repertoire was still pretty limited - I was still very green when it came to magic - but my energy was pure and my mana pool was almost as vast as my mother's. Still, I couldn't rain death from the skies all day and night and a big enough invasion force would soon exhaust my mana. I realized I was biting my lip, my own brow furrowed in worry, and Orealis chuckled at my reaction, confidence glittering in his pale blue eyes.

"That's right - my lord, the King in the South, is assembling a far larger army, no doubt. An army to capture the other realms. So, if you wish to avoid the worst depredations of an unstoppable horde, then I suggest you show leniency upon the king's favored advisor. Otherwise, he will see true death upon the royalty of all the fae courts…" he looked me up and down. "Even the ones I am related to. Do you really want to risk that?"

"Insolent boy!" Presimiwe shouted. She coupled this with a propuls blast strong enough to send Orealis tumbling backwards, his chains whipping around and slightly injuring a few nearby people - a link of human-forged iron zipped past my cheek, barely avoiding contact. "I will not be threatened in my own court. Are there any here who would defend this man as innocent? Speak now to defend him…"

Nobody said a peep. One fae noble cleared his throat but quickly shook his head, not wanting his queen to mistake a dusty throat for defense of the traitor. The queen stood, which meant everybody stood - that's how things work in court. "Very well. I will pass sentence. Let it not be said that Queen Presimiwe is unmerciful. I have every desire to have my alchemists brew up a potion that would snuff the life out of this toad permanently, but it is against our way, no matter how severe the crime. The fae and their subjects do not kill outside of self-defense. This is our law. You have seen me in a low place, my friends and my subjects, but I will not let my anger drive me to foolishness. Therefore, I will offer a decision to the sister of the traitor, to Princess Laeanna, to whom I owe my kingdom. Do you accept, princess?"

I nodded uncertainly. All eyes in the court were upon me, and it was frankly a bit intimidating having the queen look at me with such intensity - she could give Alathea a run for her money. "Whatever your majesty wishes," I said. "What would you have me decide?"

"You will decide between the punishments I have decided upon, princess. A part of me wants what righteous justice demands: that I sever all four of the traitor's wings, just as he did to me, and then consign him to a pit in my deepest mine. There, he will be chained so as not to harm himself, and he will be cared for so as to subsist until his soul absconds to Elysheim centuries from now and he can threaten us no more. Or… another part of my soul pleads for tender mercy, that I should have only two of his wings, severed by your hand, and then send the traitor back to his mother, my friend, Queen Alathea, to deal with as she sees fit. What say you, Laeanna?"

It didn't take me long to deduce Presimiwe's thinking here. By now, everybody knew about Princess Laeanna's Vernal army marching through Autumnal, liberating town after town and calling down spells of almost-unprecedented power. My reputation was a threat to Presimiwe's standing, and she could recover some of that reputation by forcing me to bend to her will in front of the whole Autumnal court. It was brilliant and manipulative in the way that only centuries-old fae rulers can be, and I admired her thinking, but I also resented her for it. I couldn't possibly choose her 'righteous justice' punishment. Even though I didn't know my fae brother from Adam, I could not consign any man, no matter how guilty, to a dank underground pit for centuries upon centuries until his spirit could no longer sustain him. In many ways, it was a punishment worse than death. My only other option was to carry out the gruesome part of the punishment myself.

"I… I humbly request mercy on my brother's behalf."

"So be it," Presimiwe said. "Let justice be observed."

+++++

I was never a soft man, and I don't buy for a minute that women are more emotionally fragile creatures. As a woman, there are certain emotions that you can express more freely (and, if I'm being honest, there are emotions that men can express more freely, chief among them anger). But my inner emotional landscape never changed much between being Larry Born and being Laeanna of the Vernal, even though I inhabited a body with a lot of leftover old-Laeanna, all of which had gradually become incorporated into new-Laeanna. So I was never a soft man, and I was not a soft woman, no matter how much I let Meliswe dote on me when I was feeling down. Even so, cutting off Orealis's wings took something out of me.

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In her benevolence, Presimiwe let me choose which wings to take - it didn't really matter, since no fae could hope to fly with half of their wings missing, regardless of which half that was. I, in turn, asked Orealis, who pretended not to be afraid, even though I could tell he was terrified from the way his already-pale face blanched bone white.

"The…" he cleared his throat. "The lower ones."

We did it right there, in front of the Autumnal court. A faun in military garb shuffled in, scraping and bowing at the throne before handing me what I assume to be the same implement used to sever the queen's wings. It looked a lot like a big bolt-cutter, but it had fae sigils engraved into the metal of the tip to more easily accept heat enchantments. With a little pulse of mana, the tip heated to yellow-hot, and then I clamped the wings right off at the base with a sizzle and the smell of burning wing (which is a lot more like burning hair than burning flesh). The silvery, jewel-encrusted wing settled to the floor in an almost beautiful way, even as Orealis groaned and whimpered. I'll spare you further gruesome details except to say he screamed at the loss of the second wing, unable to take the pain any longer. I can only imagine what Presimiwe felt, having all four severed - apparently while refusing to unfold them, meaning Orealis would have had to cut into the flesh of her back where the little magical wing-sinews reside.

Orealis cried out, but I put on a brave face. My vision shimmered with tears, but I sat back on my little princess throne when I was done and I waited for Presimiwe to adjourn court. Then I scurried back to our room and burst into tears, bawling like a child with chest-heaving sobs. Here I was, a warrior-princess who'd slain who-knows-how-many enemies on the battlefield. But I didn't have it in me to be a torturer, and I must have been bawling away for a good two or three minutes before I realized that Meliswe had made her way to my side, rubbing my back and whispering "there, there," as she tried to calm me. Which, maddeningly, worked. I wonder whether there isn't a bit of actual magic to that technique of mine.

"I can't believe sh-she made me do that," I sniffled. I tried to smile as Meliswe wiped at my tears. Further back, Calivar watched us with worry, clearly concerned for me but unsure what to do. I would have found it adorable - brash, cavalier Prince Calivar thrown into utter uncertainty over my tears - if I hadn't been so broken up.

"Go run a bath for her," Meliswe said, and Calivar quickly complied, glad to have something to do. Imagine that - my former chambermaid ordering around a prince of the fae! She held me close and whispered, "you did the right thing, my princess."

My princess… at some point, that had snuck back into Meliswe's vocabulary. It wasn't that she was regressing to her old formality. Far from it - from the way she said it, my princess, it was pretty clear what she meant. That, among all the princesses in the world, this one was hers. Plus, as a side-benefit, she could use that tone when addressing me in formal settings and nobody could say she hadn't observed propriety even though nobody else got to say my princess in quite that way.

After the bath was drawn, Meliswe sat in the tub with me, sudsing me up and whispering reassurances while Calivar rubbed my back in stoical silence, knowing he couldn't do as good a job as Meliswe at calming me down. Then, when I was dry, he carried me to bed and laid me down as if he was treating a fragile thing - which I suppose I was, emotionally-speaking. I lay there, sighing, between Calivar's larger, harder body and Meliswe's similar-sized, softer one… both of them were very warm, and part of me resented feeling so comfortable after doing something so horrible not two hours before. And, when I was pretty certain they were sleeping, I wept silently, needing to feel the burden of what I'd done alone without anybody rushing to comfort me.

+++++

The next day, we rode back to Estival and beyond - we had to deliver Orealis to my mother for whatever punishment she deemed appropriate. I'd cried myself to sleep the night before and had gotten chastised for it by Meliswe in the morning, who could tell from the tear stains on the pillow. That next day, I'd recovered to the point where I didn't feel like crying anymore - in fact, I felt utterly empty and suspected it would be some weeks before I let myself feel anything without reservation. However, that gutted, hollow feeling came across as unfeeling stoicism, or at least that's how Presimiwe treated it as she saw us off.

"You're made of stern stuff, Princess Laeanna," she said, smiling with maddening genuineness. "Send your mother my regards."

"Of course, your highness."

We stayed in Estivalia for two nights, with Orealis under constant watch and confined to the tiny palace prison, which consisted of exactly three well-appointed cells. Apparently, there had been a trio of fae nobles in centuries past who were utter adversaries and known for getting into shouting and shoving matches in court. Eventually, Alvaelic had gotten fed up and sentenced them to the cells whenever they got out of hand. Being so long-lived, the trio of nobles were still around but their centuries-long grudge had eventually dissipated, as they sometimes do.

Being back in the summer heat of Estival felt strange after weeks campaigning against the invaders in Autumnal. It felt like… well, not quite like being home again, but like returning to a friend's house after some time away. The streets weren't my home streets, but they were familiar - humid and sun-baked, palms and cypress trees soaking in the noonday sun beside babbling fountains, white-clad merchants listless in the afternoon heat, destriers and scaly charobs easing down the streets.

I made my way to Master Dhyr's dojo - with my security detail, of course, because I was now a VIP. The dojo wasn't too far from the palace, so we walked, taking in the little dusty district and noting how its economic fortunes seemed to be shifting.

"Do you think it's the coffee?" Meliswe asked. The district was where Beanheim, the realm's only coffee house, was located, after all.

At first Meliswe had only humored me in trying the stuff and had found it unpleasantly bitter - but, somehow, she'd decided it wasn't so bad, and then she'd grown fonder of the stuff than I was. Even now, she'd order some coffee, sip it experimentally, and then nod as if she found the stuff barely tolerable. But if she was fooling somebody, it sure wasn't me. From the way she bounded up to the counter to the way her eyes fluttered as she took her first sip, I was pretty certain that coffee was her new favorite beverage.

"I don't think it's the coffee," I said, though I noted that there was a pretty decent line. Fortunately, princess privilege and being part-owner meant I could skip the line and nobody would make a fuss. "I doubt it's the coffee, but it probably doesn't hurt."

She blew at her cappuccino and sipped, eyelashes batting over her emerald eyes. "What then?"

I strolled back out to the street and pointed down the way where, under a broad dark tarp that shielded the worst of the sunlight, at least a hundred people were going through combat drills in the dojo courtyard. Spotting us from afar, Master Dhyr sprang into the air and bounded a few excited strides toward us before remembering they were a Master of the Fang School and assuming a more dignified gait, their tail swishing behind them like a little streamer.

"I am pleased to see you, princess!" they said with a little bow.

"Thank you, Master Dhyr." I bowed back. "It looks like the dojo is doing well!"

"Very well!" they said, a glint of pride in their amber feline eye. "Very well, indeed. There was great interest among the women of this city in learning basic defense as the fear of war mounted and, now that the war is over, most have continued their training, especially the younger ones. The king has continued your initiative to support the dojo so we can supply free lessons - a very wise king, if you ask me!"

"Pragmatic," I said. King Alvaelic and I didn't always see eye to eye but, like every fae monarch I'd ever met (and I'd now met all of them), he had a calculating shrewdness to put Machiavelli to shame.

Dhyr strolled with us to the front of the class formation, gently correcting students as he did and swatting one poor girl with a switch of bamboo for getting too aggressive with her practice partner. "Precision, not power!" they snapped. Dhyr turned back to me. "Tales of your battle exploits made their way to my ears on the regular, princess. Reports of great victories - which surely must be true, as you return to us victorious. Reports of great magic. Yes, very good! But, tell me, are there also reports of the exploits of the Fang Style?"

"Um…" I looked to the class - a hundred or so students being led by a sylvast woman, though not one I recognized. But she had Fang School robes, which meant she was at least a mentor, and a series of intricate tattoos in Pis script, which meant she'd probably come to Dhyr's dojo from faraway Pispistria. That was a good sign - a school prospered or faded based on its reputation. "There are men in the group!"

Dhyr nodded. "The Fang Style is well-suited for limber and agile fighters, but there are many limber and agile men. I welcome them if they will accept commands from a woman like Professor Gilauvao."

"Professor?" Meliswe asked.

"A dojo prospers or fades based upon its reputation. She served under me back in Pispistria and arrived here, enthused at the prospect of assisting a vibrant new school. So, tell me - and do not avoid the question this time, princess - will tales of the Fang School be heard throughout Autumnal, or are these only tales of a sorceress princess, as most seemed to be?"

"Well… I am a princess. If close fighting gets to me in a battle, that means things aren't going very well…"

"But?"

"But things didn't go well several times. There will be tales among our prisoners of large men being bested by the fae princess. And Meliswe and Alfina, for that matter. Alfina told me she killed four men and injured a dozen others in one of our battles."

"Sixteen is a good number," Dhyr agreed. "Very auspicious. You will dine with me tonight?"

"We're dining with the king," Meliswe said.

Dhyr's ears twitched. "Excellent! I will wear my finest robes. Now go join the class so you'll not have wasted a trip down here!"

+++++

One does not become a master of the Fang school without cultivating a certain nimble-minded penchant for deception. After all, deception is our bread and butter: we expect that our enemies will be larger and stronger than us and endeavor to use their own momentum and power against them to secure victory. So it wasn't really any surprise that Master Dhyr had an ulterior motive for dining with the king: to insist that they accompany me on my travels to spread the renown of the Fang Style. King Alvaelic, having decided to underwrite the dojo's expenses, was not entirely enthused by the notion.

"Are you not indispensable to the operation of your… what do they call the thing, Calivar?"

Calivar cleared his throat. "A dojo, father. It's a Pispistrian…"

"I don't need the history, thank you. Mister Dhyr, are you not needed for the operation of your dojo?"

Dhyr nodded enthusiastically, apparently unruffled at being called 'mister'. "An excellent observation, your majesty. Yes, I am absolutely critical to the long-term development of the school. However, I am not needed for the day-to-day or week-to-week training of Beginners and Siblings, which is almost all we've got now. My majordojo, Gilauvao, can handle that. In times like these, a Master needs to roam the land…"

That piqued Alvaelic's curiosity. "Oh? Why must a Master roam?"

"The Fang School's philosophy is cut in stone - literally, if you were to go to Old Pis and… well, that is unimportant. The philosophy is put, but our technique built about that philosophy is ever-evolving, you see? I am already kicking myself for having missed live combat with these ryfles, which surely change a great deal about battle. How can I teach a student how to best defend herself against a man with a ryfle when I myself have never been in mortal combat with a ryfleman? How do I approach a kannon to disarm the beast?"

"It's an 'alchemical' device, not a beast," I corrected.

Dhyr cocked their head. "I thought you said they roared?"

"Figuratively. They make explosion sounds."

They slapped their paw against the table, scattering candied dates and sloshing expensive wine all over the place. "Yes! See, these are the things I miss by being holed up in the dojo. In a time of change, a master must see battle to decide how best to develop techniques to defend themself and the realm! I think only of the realm, your eminence!" Then Dhyr brazenly winked to me in full view of everybody.

King Alvaelic looked Dhyr in the eye, and the two engaged in a five-second staring contest before he decided the master was unlikely to flinch. "Yes, well… I sincerely hope Laeanna doesn't encounter any combat on her way back to her mother's palace. That would bode poorly, indeed."

"All the better reason to…"

"Yes, yes…" Alvaelic waved the interjection away. "You've made your point, Dhyr. You have my leave to depart your academy, provided full training services are still provided - I'll not provide another white mithrin to underwrite you if you become a stranger in your own dojo."

Dhyr bowed their head, taking a last-second glance in my direction. "Your majesty is most… pragmatic."

We left the next day, headed back to Vernal, the throngs of Estivalia once again turning out to cheer our departure. Really, the people of Estivalia just liked any excuse to celebrate and King Alvaelic did not dissuade them from this. And, while part of me wanted to wave and cheer - and I hope I looked the part of a gracious warrior-princess as I did - my heart was heavy because I was returning with a burden.

My fae mother would have to sentence my brother, and I had brought that burden on her because I couldn't sentence somebody - even somebody as malicious as Orealis - to centuries of miserable torture. Did that make me weak?