Chapter One: Celeste

The steady downpour increased by the minute as Celeste de Loren bounded down several staircases, not bothering to be quiet. She knew that her stepmother and stepbrothers were heavy sleepers, and that she would be long gone by the time they awoke. Sensibly dressed in breeches, thigh-high boots, a loose-fitting button-down shirt, and wearing a staff, bow, and quiver strapped across her back, as well as many hidden weapons, Celeste slipped a water-resistant oilcloth cloak over her head, and adjusted it so it wouldn’t get in the way of her weaponry, taking special care with the staff. She stepped into the downpour, and headed for the stables, where her cinnamon colored mare, Fire, was housed. The driving rain obscured the gardens, statuary, and outbuildings in a pearly gray haze, so that they were faint shadows in a dim world. Celeste reached the stables, and whistled for Fire. Murmuring praise into the mare’s ear, she readied Fire for the ride, adjusting the girth and stirrups- apparently one of her stepbrothers, probably Jeren, had used her saddle and tack instead of his own. Celeste mounted, and guided Fire towards the woods, which in the dreary light of the cloud-covered moon were an ominous black, as if Omara, Lady of Darkness had ripped a hole in the fabric of the world. Urging Fire into a gallop, Celeste marveled at the sound, as she did every time. The mare’s gait, no matter how fast or slow she went, was as silent as a slow walk; such was Fire’s delicate step. Celeste knew well not to enter the woods, and kept comfortably to their very outer fringes, just barely under the grasping and claw-like branches of the border-trees.

In her head, Celeste went over her possessions: clothes for any type of weather she should encounter, a wide variety of non-perishable foods, wines and ales to drink, as well as many skins of fresh water; coins, jewels she could sell or trade, and the tools of her magic. The rowan staff she bore on her back; the far-seeing spheres in a golden box spelled for protection. The vial of phoenix tears, the griffin feathers, her father’s cloak of invisibility, parchment, quills, and inks were stowed away with care in her pack. She wore the ring that had been her mother’s, its known purpose being only to proclaim her right to the throne of Ynaria. The gold key her father had given her she wore on a chain around her neck, along with the stone Yeo, the fourth of the nine stones called the ruathnaraya. Celeste sighed, and took one last look at the castle, glimmering through the gloom of the night as if made of silver, lit from within with faery lights. It had been her only home, where she had lived all her sixteen years. Then she turned to face the road, and didn’t look back again.

***

"Running away too, I suppose." The voice startled Celeste so much that she nearly lost her balance and slid off Fire. The voice spoke again.

"Do not be afraid, Celeste, I’ll not harm you."

"Fire?" Celeste gasped, for although talking horses were not unheard of, they were extremely rare; the last of the species was said to have retreated to the fabled Isle of Llunet, which many had striven to find, and none ever succeeded.

"Yes, Celeste, I suppose I am Fire to you. But only to you. I have other names."

"How are you- I mean- how did…?" Celeste stammered as she addressed this new creature: no longer her beloved horse, but something else entirely, it seemed.

"I have always been like this, Celeste. It isn’t I who has changed, it is you." Celeste tried to understand this, but as soon as she thought she had it, the elusive meaning slipped away like quicksilver. It was like trying to hold water in your cupped hands, and watching it trickle away, and was most infuriating. "Now then," Fire continued, "why is it that you’re running away?" Celeste thought a moment, then stated,

"My stepmother and stepbrothers hate me."

"And why do you think that?" asked Fire with a very horsy snort. Celeste replied,

"Because Karinya does everything in her power to make me miserable! Because Miguel and Jeren-" Celeste broke off suddenly and shivered, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t even want to think of her stepbrothers. She still had nightmares. No one had done anything; no one ever suspected that the two tall, handsome young men could do such terrible- no! It was in the past. Besides, she was safe now.

"Fire, where do you come from?" Celeste’s query was hastily asked, changing the subject.

"Far away." Fire’s voice was lilting; she spoke the word as if they were a prayer, melting like honey from thought into speech. She paused, and then added, "Far, where the hills and valleys are emerald, the plains and fields topaz and saffron, the mountains and cliffs obsidian capped with diamond snow, the waters jade and sapphire, bursting into ruby flames as the golden sun sinks into the sea, and indigo Night spreads her velvet cloak sewn with diamonds over the world." Fire was silent for a time, then asked, "If we are to go on a long journey, Celeste, you must be prepared. What have you brought with you?"

Celeste told her of the main contents of her packs, and then paused- should she tell her faithful horse-and this new and different being- of the tools for magic she carried? Yes, she decided, and proceeded to relay them to Fire. After Celeste finished, Fire asked,

"A staff? Of rowan wood? How came you by it?" Her tone was amazed, awed, and fearful, all at once.

"My mother gave it to me, before she… died." Even now, years after the shock and grief, she could hardly speak the words, and stumbled upon the last.

"I am sorry for your loss," murmured Fire. They cantered for a while in silence, and then Fire asked,

"Celeste, what do you know of magic?" Celeste reply was unconvincing:

"A bit- not much- my staff, it- I’m not supposed to…" her voice trailed off into silence.

"Do not fear, Celeste, you may tell me anything you wish to." Fire’s gentle voice was reassuring.

"My true parents were-" Celeste bit her lips against the lie she was about to utter as bitter tears coursed down her cheeks. Sorrow, free again after many years spent locked away in ice, was pushed back into darkness. "I am sorry, I cannot say. My grief is still too great to speak of them." Suddenly Celeste jerked the reins, causing Fire to protest at the sharp pressure. The indignant mare was about to ask why they had stopped so abruptly when her rider spoke urgently. "Fire! I’ve forgotten the sword!" Confused, Fire asked,

"What sword? What are you talking about, Celeste?"

"My brother’s sword! He gave it to me before he went questing! We must retrieve it!"

"Where is the sword?" asked Fire.

"In the woods…"

"The woods?! And you blithely suggest we go after it? You’re crazy! No one can return unscathed from the forest!"

***

The woods. No one ever went in and came out- except Celeste, and others she knew nothing of. Of course, there were stories. Stories of sylphs, pegasi, minotaurs, and shades, creatures of fable that walked abroad on moonless nights.

The woods were dark. Dark and cold. Girl and horse heard no other sounds than the barely distinguishable, bell-like tap of Fire’s hooves and the occasional howl of a wolf- or something more sinister. Sometimes Celeste thought she heard haunting music, or voices, singing songs that were beautiful, yet shrill, and eerie in the night.

"We’re almost there." Celeste’s voice was nearly indiscernible from the silence around them as she dismounted.

"You’re sure you’ll be all right?" asked Fire worriedly.

"I’m sure, Fire."

As she crept onward, deeper into the impenetrable blackness, Celeste could feel icy breaths of wind that made her spine tingle unpleasantly and the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up. As Celeste got farther and farther away from Fire, a chill settled over her, sinking into her skin like a tide of frigid water. She could barely see ahead.

At last! The boulder! Celeste felt with her hands in the crevasse until they reached cold steel and leather- the sword. Even as she pulled it from under the rock, Celeste felt as if someone- or something- was behind her. She swung sharply around. As she did so, a blinding flash of pain took her. Celeste fell, and as she hit the ground, she thought, vaguely, some adventure! I’m not even a mile from the castle, and now… Coherency vanished from her mind as she sank into the welcome, gentle embrace of unconsciousness.

***

"Celeste?" Fire’s anxious voice floated down to the girl’s motionless form.

"What happened? Where am I?" Celeste asked dazedly.

"In the woods by the boulder, where you said you’d be all right. Celeste, what happened?" When Celeste answered, she was evasive in her words.

"I was… frightened," she said haltingly.

"Come, Celeste, you cannot deceive me." Fire’s tone was hurt and reproachful. "You may have had a scare in the forest, but that is not why you lost consciousness. Tell me the truth- what really happened?" The mare’s voice was pleading. Celeste sighed.

"If I must."

And the story spilled out, far more than Celeste had planned to tell.

***

"My true parents, Caranas and Ranella de Loren, were the crown King and Queen of Ynaria, and it was said that a truer sorcerer and sorceress never ruled the lands of youth. Since my mother’s death is the cause of all my strife, (I do not and never will hold her accountable for my torment), I shall tell my mother’s history only.

"My mother had a twin brother, Vance. Vance, from his childhood, was spiteful and manipulative. He was subtle in his cruelty, but when found out was excused from his mischievous antics as not knowing better. As Vance grew older, he grew even more cunning and intelligent, and wasn’t caught at his acts again until he was sixteen. A serving girl whom he had assaulted reported him, and Vance was given fair trial and found guilty. He was then banished from Ynaria, and was never seen from or heard from again.

"My mother met my father when she was nineteen, and they fell in love, got married, and had Gabriel, or Gabe, as I called him as a girl. When Gabe was eight, I was born. I loved my brother dearly, and was his constant shadow. We were inseparable, even though we were years apart in age. I was his jester, making him laugh when he was depressed or angry, and keeping him young when he would’ve turned out cynical and serious. When I was ten, my mother took ill, and died. My father was never the same, though he remarried, and died not over a year later.

"When my father married Karinya, she was kind and eager to give us children our every whim and desire. Gabe wanted nothing to do with her, and on my tenth birthday gave me his sword, which I had yearned for always, having been trained in swordsmanship my self, but lacking such a fine weapon, and went questing. As soon as Gabe left, Karinya turned mean. When Gabe was there, she had done nothing to harm me, lest risk his wrath, but now that he was gone, she turned my life into a living nightmare. I no longer had the protection and love of my lifelong companion. There was no one to stop Karinya’s sons, Miguel and Jeren, from hurting me. And hurt me they did! I have scars, nightmares, and horrible memories. My childhood was gone, and my mature years began all too soon. My knowledge was the only part of me that flourished, and what I saw, heard, experienced, and learned in those years I wish I had never known. How I endured that torture I’ll never know, but what caused me finally to try and escape was worse than all the bullying and cruelty I had ever witnessed and borne, and I shall not speak of it- not now, not ever, unless circumstances demand, and there is no other alternative." Celeste bowed her head, willing the memories to be gone, and swearing vengeance on her half-brothers and all who had tormented her and ruined her childhood. When she had regained her composure, she silently mounted her mare, and directed Fire out of the forest.

Celeste did not speak again until some time later, and probably would have kept totally silent, had it not been for the events that followed.

***

A flaxen-haired boy dressed in colorful attire strode jauntily down a highway, singing a merry, nonsensical ditty, accompanying himself on a harp, and paying no attention whatsoever to his surroundings. This was probably the reason the bandits (for whom the road was named: Bandit’s Highway) decided to ambush him, although he was alone and held no apparent worth in money or ransom. As the youth began climbing up the somewhat steep hill the bandits were situated on, they prepared for the skirmish. None guessed, however, that the boy would put up a fight.

***

Tristan Conteras was a carefree, intelligent, dishonest, crooked, daring, and mischievous soul, born to wander across the lands, serving no one. He had never had an opportunity to settle somewhere and put down roots, but this suited him fine. Tristan had met many people on his travels, fair and foul, but none so fair as the Princess Celeste. He had met her only once, but the princess had made a lasting impression on him, (on his chin, to be specific; well, actually, he had made a lasting impression on many people during that visit, including several ill-tempered palace guards- they’d probably have those bumps all their lives- when several of Lady Karinya’s jewels had ended up in his possession…) and he had promised himself he would return. Now he was near the castle again, and would soon fulfill his promise.

***

The bandits grinned roguishly at one another. One, a burly redhead, commented,

"Arh, ‘e’s got ‘isself a sweet voice, may ’aps ‘e’ll sing more ballads if we persuades ‘im." He fingered his weapon, a wicked looking mace lovingly as he spoke. His neighbor, a lanky blonde cuffed him soundly.

"Shut yer trap, Gregory, ye lunk ‘ead!" he growled, with a northern accent. "Th’ boss wants all ‘is prisoners jes’ plain dead, nae tortured! Tho’, Ah s’pose Ah fancy a ‘nuther ‘ymn from th’ bonnie songbaird, lahk y’sself!" Their leader, a lordly fellow, turned on them savagely, brandishing a long, curving saber.

"Silence yourselves immediately, you blithering idiots!" he hissed. "Do you wish to give our presence away?" Unlike the others, he spoke like a cultured gentleman. As soon as he diverted his attention, the others muttered rebelliously behind his back.

"Lookit ‘im, singin’ away ‘s if ‘e ‘adn’t a care in th’ world!"

"Bah gum, that there hyodeler wouldn’ notice hiffen we paraded hacross the ‘ighway, the way ‘e’s larkin’ habout bee-you-tee-ful maidens."

"Doubt ‘e’d stop singin’ if da road fell from ‘neath ‘is feet, prancing as ‘e be."

"Betcher I could stop ‘i’s singin’ - jes tickle ‘is throat wi’ me blade! That’d make ‘im shurrup quick-like!"

***

Oblivious to the danger, Tristan crested the hill, walking straight into the villains. He found his way blocked on all sides by brawny, ragged, and menacing highwaymen. He smiled disarmingly, swept a dashing bow, and said,

"Morrow t’ ye, my good fellows, ‘ow may I be o’ service t’ ye?" The bandits grinned in a threatening way. Their leader, the gentleman, swept off his hat and returned the bow.

"And a good day to you, lad!" he answered. "I’m dreadfully sorry to inconvenience you in any way, my friend, but, you see, this road belongs to me. Therefore, if you wish to go, you must pay the toll." Tristan winked at the leader with his usual show of bravado, but inside he was worried. He asked,

"An’ what, pray tell’s this toll?" The leader’s smile was full of cold amusement as he replied,

"Your life!" And with that, he drew his saber and advanced towards Tristan.

***

It happened that another traveler was traveling on Bandit’s Highway at this time. The wayfarer was cloaked, despite the heat of the afternoon sun, and his (or her) hood was pulled down, casting his (or her) face in shadows, so it was impossible to tell whether he (or she) was a man or a woman. The figure was riding a reddish-hued mare, but the red, upon closer examination, proved to be an almost cinnamon color. A vagrant breeze tugged the rider’s cowl, and before the traveler could pull it down again, a fleeting glimpse of golden tresses was visible.

***

Celeste de Loren trekked upon Bandit’s Highway for one reason: it was the shortest route away from the castle. Wishing to attract no unwanted attention, (as she would if she rode openly: an unaccompanied woman would draw predators, especially one who bore an uncanny resemblance to the princess) she rode heavily cloaked, with her cowl hiding her face from view. She knew of the dangers the Highway presented, and considered them preferable to what she would face in the castle. Besides, she had heard news that an old friend was traveling this way, one by the infamous name of Tristan Conteras, master of disguise and deception.

***

"Did you hear that, Celeste?"

"What?"

"That sound."

"I’ve been hearing sounds all day, Fire. Why should I notice this one?"

"Because it sounded like a battle cry!"

"What?! Where did it come from?"

"Just beyond that hill!"

"Well, let’s have a look, shall we?"

"Just what I was going to suggest, milady."

"Yes, but let’s go quietly."

"As you say, Celeste."

"Hush."

"My lips are sealed, milady."

"Be quiet!"

"I’m as silent as the night winds, milady."

"What did I just tell you?!"

Fire wisely chose not to answer this.

***

Meanwhile, beyond the hill, Tristan’s battle was not going well. The bandits had managed to back him down the hill he’d climbed, which was the opposite way he wanted to go. They also outnumbered him eleven and a half to one (one of the rather unintelligent ones didn’t look to present much of a threat), and though Tristan would have been a match for two or three, or even five of them, he was slowly being defeated by the bandits’ superior numbers. Furious at being overcome by scum such as these, Tristan called out his battle cry:

"Conteras! I am master of disguise and deception, unconquerable, undefeatable! Conte- oof!" He was momentarily winded and silenced abruptly as a highwayman landed him one in the gut, cutting off his cry, but not for long. Soon he regained his breath and was shouting insults at the brigands while waving his arms theatrically and dealing out quite a few nasty blows.

"Rabble! Cads, scum, mud-sucking vermin! You’re cowards, you half-baked excuses for soldiers! Don’t like a taste of your own medicine, eh? Take this! And this! Leeches, swine, bet your mothers were warthogs, considering the way you lot look! Although some of you rather resemble possums! Hah! Betcha you’ve never met a real warrior before, or you’d recognize one! You lot wouldn’t know a good fight if it walked up and spit in your face! That is, that deformed thing stuck to your big fat neck!" At this, the rabble, which had before been staring in shock at Tristan’s surprising eloquence (and occasionally doubling over in pain when they connected with Tristan’s fists), went positively wild! (Well, all of them, excepting their leader, continued staring at him in a glazed sort of way until the insults were comprehended, which took a while). Screeching madly, they were beyond words as they attacked Tristan, who, though fighting bravely, was overwhelmed!

***

Celeste and fire crested the hill just as Tristan went down under the enraged bandits. Freeing her sword grimly, Celeste muttered,

"Guess I’ll have to attract some attention after all!" And with a bloodcurdling cry, she directed Fire straight into the fray.

Pandemonium broke out! Vagabonds went flying from Celeste’s sword flat, aided by Fire’s deadly flailing hooves. For a moment, everything was forgotten in the heat of battle. But then, as things calmed down, (the bandits had long since vanished from the highway), Celeste remembered Tristan. Even as she neared his prostate figure, he groaned, then propped he up on one elbow, and addressed her sternly.

"Lackaday! That was some stunt you pulled there, missy, rushin’ in t’ a fight wi’ out so much as a word o’ warnin’! You could’ve been killed!" Then he caught sight of her in the sun’s full light, and gasped, "Celeste de Loren?! What the devil are you doin’ here? And on Bandit’s Highway, no less?!" Celeste didn’t answer, so Tristan repeated his question slowly. She faced him, and snapped,

"I’ll tell you in my own time, not before, not after, so don’t ask me again, Tristan! I’m really not in the mood!" Tristan, seeing that she meant what she said, mumbled,

"Sorry." He sighed, and continued, "It’s just that I haven’t seen you for so long, and then our first meeting happens to be on a veritable battleground. I was worried about you, that’s all." He paused, then added, "Whenever you want to tell me what happened, I’ll be there to listen, Celeste. I promise."

"Thank you," whispered Celeste.

"Think nothing of it," he replied.

Neither of them spoke again for a long while.

Tired as she was, Celeste could not sleep. She tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, and not succeeding. And listening to Tristan’s steady breathing (Taram be blessed- he didn’t snore) did not help. When she at last drifted off, her dreams were far from pleasant…

She was in the Great Hall of the castle, a cathedral like chamber with tall, arched windows of stained glass latticework, a golden floor covered in illusory swirling designs and pictures, and a domed ceiling of clear glass and richly carved wooden beams, with a single prism at the apex.

The room was used to hold public gatherings, town councils, holiday celebrations, and balls- or it had been when Celeste’s parents lived and reigned. Now Karinya, the chosen monarch, deemed it only suitable for balls, which to her mind were an excuse to show off wealth in extravagant finery, a pastime she loved to indulge in.

The gilt chairs and lounges had been gathering dust for months, as Karinya never allowed servants into the room (for fear that they would steal things), unless a gala was impending; and even then she never took her suspicious gaze off of them. Running her finger along a golden banister (part of the stairs leading upward to the balcony, which Karinya had built, so she could sweep down them for a dramatic entrance), Celeste remembered sliding down the much longer banister in the entry hall with her brother Gabriel. Her mother disapproved of such things, worried that her children would hurt themselves, but Celeste’s father always defended them, saying, "Let them, Rani, they are children only once."

***

Celeste had a sudden yearning to slide down a banister once again. She climbed the stairs, smoothed out the blue silk gown she was wearing for some odd reason, seated herself on the thin metal railing, and pushed off.

Gliding down, Celeste felt a rush of sadness for her brother and parents, all beyond her reach. She closed her eyes, lifting her arms as if they were wings, sailing downwards, flying down-

She rammed into something. Celeste’s eyes flew open, and she drew in a sharp breath- Jeren! Her stepbrother must have entered the room while she had been lost in memories, and had watched her slide down the banister with her eyes closed. Maybe he feared she would fall.

Celeste flushed with embarrassment. Jeren regarded her oddly as she straightened her dress and smoothed her hair.

"What are you doing here, Jeren?" Celeste asked, at length.

"Mother told me to make sure you didn’t break your fool neck with your atrocious behavior, little sister," Jeren replied infuriatingly. Celeste rolled her eyes, and replied,

"Well, I apologize for not fulfilling your expectations of ladylike conduct, stepbrother," she said sarcastically. "If I had known you were watching me, I would have picked up my needlework!" Jeren acted as if he hadn’t heard her.

"I’ll tell mother you’re all right." He walked off.

The room spun away in a sea of golden light, and Celeste let the dream take her where it would…

The haze cleared, and her feet were on firm ground again. Colors and images rippled, and set: she was in the lesser Hall of Dancing, and it was night. Stars could be seen twinkling through the hundreds of narrow windows, and the candles burning in their spiked sconces were dim, their low yellow light waning as the gibbous moon waxed in the eternal halls of the sky.

The blue gown was gone, swept away with the Great Hall. In its place, to Celeste’s deeper dismay, was a frothy affair of rose-pink chiffon, a narrow-waisted, scoop-necked, off-the-shoulders, double, nay, triple-layer-skirted dress. It was far worse than its predecessor.

Well, Celeste thought, it’s certainly better than nothing.

The great oaken doors to the hall swung open with a bang, and Miguel walked, strutted, into the room. He stopped, swaying slightly, and peered at her, squinting. He laughed raucously at nothing in particular, holding his sides, and then, just as abruptly as he had begun, he fell silent. He was drunk. Very drunk.

It was not an uncommon sight; between Miguel and Jeren, at least one of them came home from the city in such a state six out of seven nights in a week. Karinya turned a blind eye to this, and if it was ever undeniably witnessed, she would simply prattle on about the ways of young men: At least they aren’t going about and bedding every other barmaid and flower-seller they meet…

How little she knew.

Miguel tottered his way over to Celeste, peering at her.

"Little shishter?" His voice was slurred from ale; his breath reeked from it, and Celeste, almost imperceptibly, backed away. He loomed closer. "What’re you doin’ out of bed at thish hour of the night? Oughtent you to be ashleep?" Her voice, when it came, was less commanding than she wished it to be.

"That is none of your business, stepbrother. Does Karinya know you were drinking?"

His eyes narrowed, and he shoved a slightly wobbling finger at her face. That stench!

"Now, shishter, don’t be goin’ shpreadin’ talesh about thish, y’hear?" Celeste shoved his hand away, wiping her fingers where they had touched him on a silk handkerchief which, for another strange subliminal reason, was tucked into the dress’ bodice.

Miguel looked at the hand she had thrust from herself, and then at Celeste herself. His face took on a certain coldness; a detachment of sorts, and the stupor from the ale seemed to drain away, leaving him coordinated, intelligent, and angry. Not a good combination, and Celeste backed away. A Miguel who was intoxicated was an entirely different story from a Miguel who was sober, and Miguel was dangerous to deal with when he was simply moody. Now he was angry, and Celeste wanted to put as much distance between them as was possible.

The idea might have worked, had Miguel been drunk. But he was not.

She backed away. He stepped forward. She went to her right; he mirrored her path. She darted to his right, to his left; always, he blocked her. She backed away, searching, praying, for a way to evade him.

And so it went: step back, step back, step back, lunge, retreat, back, back, back…

Her shoulder hit a wall. She followed the line of it to her right. Surely, surely, there must be a door…

And she hit another wall. She was in a corner.

She was trapped!

***

Celeste turned over in her sleep, alerting Tristan, who was watching the surrounding darkness of the forest in case someone should decide to try and rob them. He looked at her. How small she looked; how vulnerable. The lines of tension and pain were smoothed from her pale face, and she looked utterly calm and at peace.

But only for a moment. She gasped, moaning something softly. Curious, Tristan skirted the embers of the fire, and bent close to hear the words she whispered.

"No," she murmured. And then, louder, "No, let me pass, stepbrother." Her voice rose. "Stop! Let me go!" She twisted and flinched. Then she screamed, a sound that came suddenly and was cut off. Tristan, extremely startled and worried, reached out his hand to awaken her.

***

Miguel blocked Celeste’s path with his body, fencing her into the corner with his arms.

"What do you say to your older and stronger brother? You will apologize."

"No," Celeste whispered. Then her voice strengthened. "No, let me pass, stepbrother." She shoved against him, and, when he would not move, she slapped him with all her might across the face.

He stared at her, lifting a hand to touch his red and stinging cheek. Immediately, Celeste dashed forward. His arm lashed out, catching her roughly about the waist, and slamming her into the unforgiving stone of the wall. The sudden sharp pain brought tears to her eyes. Miguel, his shock replaced by anger, brought his fist back, and landed her a glancing blow to her jaw. Her head followed the force of the blow, crashing into the wall. She screamed. Miguel clapped his right hand over her mouth, muffling the sound.

Using his right elbow to pin her arm to the wall, he pulled the shoulder of her dress, ripping the fabric.

The scream, which had been stifled by his hand, died as Miguel punched Celeste in the stomach, winding her. He yanked at the neckline of the pink gown, and she drew breath again. He shook her viciously.

Celeste opened her eyes, awake. She saw Tristan, and, not recognizing him, screamed again.

Strong hands gently but effectively stifled her. Celeste, fully awake, stared at Tristan, and saw the concern in his bright green eyes.

Sensing recognition, Tristan removed his hands.

"Are you all right, Celeste?" Tristan’s voice was anxious.

And he was alarmed when Celeste’s blue eyes filled with tears, and she burst into tears.

"Celeste? Lady?" And he put his arms around her (rather nervously, for the last time he had done so, she had blackened his eye… but that might have been because of the pot-maid…), drawing her to him. She leaned into the warmth of his embrace, resting her head against his shoulder. He relaxed, softly stroking her hair. A very addicting activity, he son discovered.

"And what exactly do you intend, master Conteras?" The voice was wry. Tristan looked about the camp, warily.

"Who said that?" he asked. Celeste’s mare nickered, a horsy laugh. He looked at it, raising an eyebrow unbelievingly.

"I did," the mare said.

Tristan would have yelled, but for Celeste, still weeping into his shirtfront.

"You did?" The mare twitched an ear at him.

"Dust out the space between your ears, master Conteras, perhaps then you will be able to fill it with something." Tristan felt his face grow red and hot. He glared at the pretentious beast with rancor.

"I don’t appreciate the implication, madam horse, that the only reason for the existence of my head is to put something between my ears!" Fire looked at him, calculatingly, out of one eye.

"The only reason your head echoes when you knock on it is because you never took the time to fill it with anything. Knowledge, perhaps, or intelligence…"

Tristan flushed to the tips of his ears.

"Now, I say again, madam, that I will not stand here and be insulted!"

"Master Conteras, you’re sitting; if you wish everlasting praise, for the Lady’s sake, hire yourself a fool or ballad-maker. I am neither, and see no reason to be impressed by any action of yours." Tristan was just about ready to tell that mare what he thought of her attitude, never mind Celeste, when the princess lifted her head from his chest, and looked at him curiously.

"I see you and Fire have become acquainted with each other," she remarked, blue eyes inquisitive.

"In a sense, my lady," Fire replied dryly, as Tristan hotly denied anything of the sort. The interest in Celeste’s eyes turned into amusement, and a smile formed itself on her tearstained face.

"I can see I’ll never get a straight answer out of either of you."