He was standing on the balcony, the last echoes of sunset on his face.  He was, as ever, slim, tall, and elegantly dressed, the note-perfect performance of a man who had been at court since long before she’d been born.  He had been appointed to his position by her grandfather and had not been young then, but of course that was nothing for the Tevalle.

Camilia joined him on the balcony and looked at him speculatively.  She was never quite sure how the Tevalle viewed her charms.  She strongly suspected that her mind was the primary attraction for them — she’d been told it was worthy of Maj Malai more than once — but she’d never figured out how the physical factored in.  She wondered briefly, irreverently, what would happen if she took a Tevalle husband.  That would be a first as far as she knew.

He was waiting calmly, a slight smile on his face.  She lifted her eyes to him, not trying very hard to suppress the mischief.  “Would you like to marry me, Alaiye?”

Alaiye, always exceptionally difficult to surprise, merely laughed.  “And spend the next several centuries in the palace quarters for dowagers?”

“Something could be arranged,” she said demurely.  The idea of her great-grandchildren still housing one of her husbands centuries later was irresistibly funny.

“My dear, you have a talent for pure devilry that your father and grandfather would have envied.”

“Thank you.”  She smiled and turned to look out over the dark city.  Of all the ministers, he was as safe an ally as she had, a sort of enduring family asset.  It was restful to spend a few minutes with someone she could trust.  She sighed and gently rattled the ruby bangle on her wrist.  “Shin Ai?”

“I don’t think Shin Ai is the issue at this point.”  He left unstated the real issue: whether she could trust the brother in charge of the embassy there.

“My father’s appointments.” In the distance, she could see the city marketplace limned in torchlight.  “Are you sure you don’t want to marry me?”

It was the mere suggestion of a laugh, a movement of breath that she felt rather than heard.  “If you are that bored, I suggest you observe your cousin.  She appears to have set the mayor of Maj Tacar after your sister Asila.”

Camilia gave him a sudden amused smile.  “Asila likes Maj Tacar,” she offered.  She laughed at the look she got in response, heart lighter, and went to look for Raicha.

This week’s Write at the Merge prompt at Write On Edge gave us a black and white photo and a song for inspiration (click through to see/listen).  For a list of the stories about Camilia and her family in rough chronological order, check out the Fiction page.  Thanks for reading! 

A delighted shriek pierced the air.  A dark-haired toddler was staggering after a fluttering scrap of yellow just out of her reach, waving her chubby arms and babbling as she went.  She had managed to take off her shoes, he noticed ruefully, and her feet and legs were coated with mud.  He levered himself up and went to the rescue.

Amaili put her head out the door of the council house, her eyes quickly finding their daughter.  He smiled and waved her off.  She flashed him a grin and disappeared again.  He was sure that whatever they were talking about was important.  Once, he would have known what it was.  Now he left that for others.  He was glad it was Amaili.  The Fall hadn’t broken her, and while his heart still sometimes whispered Asiri in the darkness, it was Amaili’s faith that sustained him now.  Amaili had gone out into the world again looking for their people almost right away, and he was glad.  After the long watch, seeing the City torn stone from stone and piled on the bodies of their dead, he found he just couldn’t any more.

He squelched through the mud toward the little girl.  “Come here, Mel-Mel.”

“Daddy!”  She pointed imperiously.

“I see it!  That’s a butterfly.”

She mouthed the word, giving him a dubious look, and he couldn’t keep from laughing.  He caught her up and pressed her giggling face to his, giving in to the joy that never failed to infect him when she was near.  This was his life now.  He knew he’d never forget any of what had come before, but perhaps — perhaps there was redemption in the world after all.

This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge calls for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word INFECT (verb):

3a : contaminate, corrupt <the inflated writing that infects such stories>  
  b : to work upon or seize upon so as to induce sympathy, belief, or support <trying to infect their salespeople with their enthusiasm>

This piece is a sequel to The Fall and to a lesser extent The Secret/Reunion.  (For a list of all the stories set in this series, check the Fiction page.)  Thanks for reading!

“Hey!” Lise bellowed.  “Get that out of the hallway.”  She stabbed a finger at the door of a workroom.  The student giggled, God help her, and stumbled through the door, the flame surging dangerously as she went.  Lise pulled the door shut behind her emphatically.

“Remind me again why we decided to take on a school?”  It was an extremely beautiful castle, and after the last year, it was amazing that every inch of it wasn’t covered with scorch marks.

James was laughing at her.  Not out loud, but she could tell.  “Enlightening today’s youth?”

“I don’t even like kids,” she grumbled.

“I know.”  His voice was far too placid.

“What?”

“You just really like magic.”  She huffed.  Didn’t everyone?  “Just think of all the people who would not be finding out how amazing magic is if we hadn’t agreed to do this.”

She looked at him sideways and tried not to be struck by that.  A cluster of teenagers caught her eye.  They were vibrating with hilarity and glancing toward her, waiting to see if the headmaster was going to go off in some entertaining way.  She straightened to her full height (five feet, one inch, about the same as the twelve-year-olds) and gave them a withering glare.  The group started to break up, except for two fifteen-year-old boys, who straightened in unison, snapped her an exaggerated salute, and ran off grinning.  She considered that.  James was watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“Well.  At least they understand who’s in charge.”

His laughter rang through the hallways, and she couldn’t keep herself from smiling.

This week’s Write at the Merge challenge at Write On Edge gave us two photos for inspiration (one of a castle, one of a bubble near a lake, click through the link to see them).  Thanks for reading!

Cahlila, expression unchanged, took a sip of wine.  A sitting room full of her husband’s other wives might be hell, but it was a form of hell she was accustomed to.  She was mildly surprised by Dahla’s latest move, although she shouldn’t have been.  A naming ceremony, to designate Dahla’s son as the Emperor’s heir.  Of course she was pushing for one, indecently early.  Dahla was that sure she’d won.  He should have married Dahla first.

Seven years of marriage, three other wives, and four imperial children born to other women, and it turned out that sitting here and pretending that nothing had changed was the hardest thing she’d ever done.  Cahlila had been born to court politics, raised to show only what she chose, but her control was gone.  She was sure the knowledge of the secret under her ribcage must be blazing from every pore.

It had been too many years, too many digs and slights over her supposed failure as the Emperor’s first wife for openness.  She wouldn’t expose herself until she was sure, sure she could keep it.  She had told Temash only last week, in the quiet of his bedchamber.  He had greeted the news with a mixture of affectionate pleasure and amusement at the upheaval it was going to create.  Then he’d kissed her forehead and told her he had always had faith in her.  He probably had.

As for this precious thing Cahlila was carrying?   Her left hand curled into a fist despite her best efforts.  Just let Dahla try to hurt it.  Just let her try.

Cahlila relaxed her hand deliberately.  “You’re right, Dahla, it’s past time Temash had an heir,” she agreed.  She gave Dahla a light smile and turned to address Sala, leaving Dahla to wonder.

This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge called for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word TIME (noun):

3a : an appointed, fixed, or customary moment or hour for something to happen, begin, or end <arrived ahead of time>
b : an opportune or suitable moment <decided it was time to retire> —often used in the phrase about time <about time for a change>

For those who’ve been reading along with Camilia and Raicha, Cahlila is Camilia’s mother and Raicha’s father’s cousin.  For a full list of the stories about them, check out the Fiction page.  Thanks for reading! 

“So you finally came.”  Her voice, light and clear, took him off guard after the hour of wandering and shouting for his men.  He opened his mouth, but then she gave a smile that struck him dumb.  “Do you know where you are?”  He scowled.  Lost.  He was idiotically lost on his own lands, a ridiculous indignity for a man like him.

She tilted her head.  “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?  I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to forget something like that.”  She made a sweeping gesture, and the next words froze his heart.  “This is where you buried them.  All of them.”  No.  He could not possibly have wandered there.  “Well away from your castle, but we knew you’d come eventually.  It’s been a lot of years for you and me, perhaps, but the trees are patient.”

She stretched out her legs to dangle over the edge of the boulder — fine legs, he noticed through the roaring in his ears.  “It was probably a mistake to let the forest grow up over your burial site,” she remarked in a conversational tone.  “Lord of all you could survey from the Rock of Ercale, wasn’t that the promise?  But once the forest crept over your terrible acres, you couldn’t see them from there any more, could you?  The trees have been speaking for some time now.”

He refused to consider the horrible implications of that, and started forward purposefully.  She obviously knew the way out.  She was going to show him.  “I wouldn’t.”  Her cool voice cut in.  “You buried my brother just there” — she pointed to a spot a few feet in front of him — “and the trees are very alert when I’m here.”  She turned a bright-eyed gaze on him.  “Actually, all of the trees seem alert now that you’re here.  I wonder what they’re planning to do.”

She hopped down off the rock.  “You’ll have to let me know when you find out.”  She considered it for a moment.  “Or perhaps the trees will.  In a few years.”  Her eyes met his, and they were full of the damp dark of tangled roots beneath the earth.  “Good luck.”  And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving him along among the creaking branches.

This week’s Write at the Merge challenge at Write On Edge gave us two Dr. Seuss pieces: a quote from The Lorax (“I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees for the trees have no tongues.”) and an  illustration of Yertle the Turtle captioned in part “I am the ruler of all that I see!”  Admittedly, the place I took this was not very Seussical, but thanks for reading! 

It worked for everyone, especially the girls, but they tried not to be too obvious about their exploitation of it.  There were only so many painful teas with Aunt Chenna that could be coincidentally preempted by shopping emergencies before Looks started being passed around and someone got sat down and stared at by Raicha’s grandfather or Lady Cahlila.  Nobody wanted that.

“What are you missing this time?”  Camilia was curled on a silk sofa with her feet under her.

Raicha pulled her own feet up.  “The annexation of Chandej.”  Her history tutor was a thousand years old and lectured like it.

Camilia waved a dismissive hand.  “Countries on the brink of war, Alenchou princess steps in, marries the Demanu emperor, Chandej joins the empire, princess becomes co-ruler for the only time in the history of Tacar,” she rattled off.  A mischievous look crossed her face.  “There’s a moral to that story.”  She had been named after that empress.

Raicha snickered.  “Don’t mess with people named Camilia?”  Camilia gave her a broad grin.

“Speaking of messing with people named Camilia…”  Sai murmured from a side chair, her eyes sparkling.

Raicha whipped her head back.  Camilia was blushing.

“Camilia!”  It was only just under a shriek, and she hurriedly turned the volume down.  “Did something happen with Daneish Asano?”

Camilia, still blushing, tilted her head at a deliberate angle.  “I think you’ll find that nothing has happened between me and Daneish.  Ask anyone.”

Raicha dismissed that as the irrelevancy it was and aimed a kick at the bottom of the sofa.  “Tell!”

Chandej was rapidly forgotten.

This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge calls for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word JUGGLE (verb):

3: to handle or deal with usually several things (as obligations) at one time so as to satisfy often competing requirements <juggle the responsibilities of family life and full-time job>

For more of Camilia and her family, click on the Tacar category on the sidebar or try The Newlywed.  Thanks for reading!

She pulled the crimson cloak closer around her against a cold she barely felt.  It had been a gift from her grandmother, a token of an affection that now made her skin crawl.  Under the sun, the cloak flamed, impossible to miss.  Here, under the trees at the last tail of dusk, it faded to the color of old blood, melting into the dark as if it belonged there.  The obscurity was strangely comforting.

She knew what waited for her at her grandmother’s house, but even now, she could hardly believe it.  Perhaps that’s why her feet kept moving, kept treading the familiar path.  They’d always told her she could trust blood, but they’d never said which side of her blood to trust.  She might have known the ones with words to say it were the ones whose lies would slice at her, so subtly that she didn’t even know she’d been cut.

A mournful howl from the wolf broke the air, and the suppressed tears were suddenly painfully close to the surface.  She pushed at the tears and the wolf, and gritted her teeth, thinking of the woodsman they planned to sell her to and trying to be angry.  One overheard phrase this morning, and all those half-heard conversations had suddenly made terrible sense.

She could go, alone, and accept her fate, or… Her boots squeaked on through the snow, her feet getting colder with each reluctant step.  She thought she’d been loved, the chancy lineage that had come to her through her mother forgotten.  Years.  Years, and she’d never for a moment suspected.  Who were the beasts, then?  The ones who roamed the dark woods, or the ones who walked upright and did such things as this?

She staggered to a halt and swayed, the snow falling white around her.  She thought of the sharp eyes and brittle smiles, the lying embraces and treacherous affection.  She looked at the crimson cloak, faded almost to black in the darkness.  Then she stepped off the path, raised a hand, and called the wolf in.

This week’s Write at the Merge prompt at Write On Edge gave us a snow fall and a secret revealed for inspiration; so here’s another retold fairy tale for you.  Thanks for reading!

The thing had stank from the beginning.  Find the secret in three nights or be put to death?  What sort of offer was that?  But the king was a father and fathers got desperate.  He hadn’t been far from desperate himself — out of a job, out of money, about to exhaust his options.  No one seemed to want his nicked and battered sword or equally battered self.

So he’d offered himself up, and things had only gotten worse.  The princesses’ quarters had given him a bad feeling of the kind he hadn’t had in years, not since that disastrous campaign that still hurled him out of sleep in a sweat at night.  The girls’ faces.  The bars on the windows, the poisoned spikes.  Were they meant to keep people out or in?  He couldn’t have slept there for the throne itself.  Dumping the drugged wine and following them out of that hellhole had been something out of a dream or a nightmare, he wasn’t sure which.

And here he crouched behind the brambles in a cavern where no brambles should grow, watching the princesses dance.  There was an eerie beauty to it, but it wasn’t the grace but the sense of purpose that riveted him.  He had one more night.  From the way the power was building, he wouldn’t need it.  When tomorrow night came, the king would have other things to worry about.

He looked up again, and found the oldest princess’ eye on him, finding him again and again through the whirl of the dance.  He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded gravely and turned back toward the castle path.

This week I’m combining prompts for the first time: Write on Edge‘s Write at the Merge challenge gave us a Degas dancer and an Ayn Rand quote about slaves and masters, and Trifecta Writing Challenge gave us the word EXHAUST (verb):

3a : to consider or discuss (a subject) thoroughly or completely  
  b : to try out the whole number of <exhausted all the possibilities>

I was pretty convinced slavery and dancers were going to stump me, but then another fairy tale happened.  Thanks for reading!

The girl had been such a beautiful child, and her father so kind, Elanne had thought on her wedding day that it would all be fine.  And when she’d been little, yes, she’d been trouble, but weren’t children always?  But then she’d become a teenager and the extent of the damage that her late and entirely unlamented mother had done became clear.

Running away with that woodsman had been bad enough, but at least he’d seemed honest.  Abandoning him in the forest to take up with those seven miners had made the whole thing unutterably worse.  The leers the seven of them had given her when her father had finally come to drag her back to the castle had made it clear that they were all better off not asking the girl what she had been up to there.

Putting about that Elanne was a witch — well, that was a laugh, wasn’t it?  Elanne would still sometimes come across one of the old queen’s books and marvel that her husband had lived long enough to sire his daughter.  But if the girl didn’t listen to the whispers in the marketplace, it was all the better.  Her knowing what her mother had been and done wouldn’t have improved the situation.

Elanne picked her way through the outer room, trying not to cut herself.  Had the girl left anything?  She touched a careful fingertip to one of the slicks and lifted it to her tongue, where it greeted her with a bitter zing.  The willowbark tincture for fever.  She sighed.  She’d have to make more.

As she reached the door to the inner room, the old queen’s stillroom, a sharp scent of apples greeted her.  Elanne froze.  She had never made that particular formula, but she recognized it.  It had been in one of the books, the one she’d burned.  The old bitch had made that?

She threw open the half-closed door, and what she saw put a knot in her throat the size of a fist.  Her stepdaughter, lying on the floor, skin white as snow, lips red as blood, with an empty bottle a few inches from her hand.  Heedless of the glass, Elanne sank to the ground.  The girl was alive.  Barely.  That formula wasn’t meant to kill, but…  Dear God.

Elanne buried her face in her hands, and waited for the world to tell her what to do next.

This week’s Write at the Merge prompt at Write On Edge gave us the sense of smell and the word “elixir” for inspiration, so I took another pass at classic fairy tales with this one.  Thanks for reading!

Dahla was crying.  Camilia’s own mother Cahlila, who had actually cared for him, was exerting an iron focus on a cup of tea in her hand.  Sala, sitting with her two oldest children, merely looked grim.

Camilia lifted her chin and turned.  “Dahla, I know that you miss my father, but try not to dwell on it.  It would be so bad for your health.”

The look she gave Dahla was sweet, but she held Dahla’s gaze just a little too long, until the older woman reared back slightly and a touch of fear showed.  Camilia smiled and let the contact break.  Cruel, perhaps, but necessary.  Dahla had never moved against Camilia because Temash would not have hesitated to execute her.  But now, her father’s protection?  Gone.  And until Camilia had an heir, Dahla’s son stood right behind her, ready to take the throne should something happen.  She wasn’t stupid enough to think that Dahla wasn’t thinking it too.

“Sai, will you direct the arrangements for the funeral?”  Her half-sister looked up from beside her mother.  “It will be good practice,” Camilia added.  She saw that register.  The post of the Empress’ personal representative was a plum — and she was going to need someone she could trust.  Sala, a sudden satisfaction showing through the grimness, gave her daughter a light touch on the back to send her off.

Sai met Camilia’s eyes and gave her a hint of a smile. The knot in Camilia’s chest relaxed a fraction. “Of course.”  She rose and left the room.

Camilia took a seat across from her mother.  “I believe I’d like a cup of tea.”  She could hold this together.  She could.

This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge calls for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word DWELL (verb):

3 a : to keep the attention directed —used with on or upon<tried not to dwell on my fears>

b : to speak or write insistently —used with on or upon<reporters dwelling on the recent scandal>

For more of Camilia and her family, start with The Inquisition or click on the Tacar category on the sidebar.  Thanks for reading!