[Calaethis Dragonsbane]

Rylvira paced. Hands balled into fists, the reflection from the mirror was as grim as her thoughts. Her long dress trailed behind her, its train sliding noiselessly across the castle’s flagstones. She had just received news; her father and brother dead, an ambush. The serpent she was due to wed had not even waited until they said vows. As soon as he had acquired her, lulling his ‘long time ally’ with assurances of new prosperity, he had shown his true nature. His guile sickened her; she always knew he wasn’t to be trusted, this minor lord of this wretched fief. She had expected poison, but no – ‘raiders’; borderland bandits. On the way here, to her wedding. A wedding she did not even want, a wedding arranged by her father to this – this …there were no words harsh enough.
There was no one left now – except perhaps a distant young cousin, one whom this bastard could manipulate. Her father, her brother – gone. Her mother dead – eight years to the next moon, and now? Now this – this vile snake would inherit her family’s lands, adding to his estates her father’s soldiers, his people and doubling his realm. She had seen the ‘peasants’ of this fief, seen the cruelty and oppression. She would not stand for it.

But what could she do? She was trapped in here, locked away in these wretched chambers; he wished to ‘civilise’ her, to ‘educate’ and ‘train’ her; she wasn’t a dog, a mere hound! She was the daughter of a chieftain! Her brother should have ruled after her father, her young, strong proud Rylen. He would have been a master of the horse, had he five more years. With seven, he would have been as formidable as her father’s most loyal swordbearers. And now? Now he was dead.

She shrieked and cursed. She would have cut his throat, poisoned his wine and drank from the same cup on their wedding night, had she not a duty to her forebears. They would want her to be strong, proud; not to take the coward’s way out. Her kinsmans’ shed blood called out to her own, and fire stirred within. She would have vengeance.

But how? How to get away from here… how to smuggle a message. She would have to be willing to fight, to be a warrior like her brother and father. To cast off this ‘civilised’ dress, to invoke the ancient blood rites. She was a maiden, dedicated to the man her father had chosen for her. Obedience for her father meant she would suffer so their line could continue. Now – she would have to use all the tools at her disposal. No longer would she be above using her body. It was her greatest weapon, along with her wits. This fief would burn in blood and fire. But with guile she must move, wearing subterfuge as a cloak, becoming as sly and as cunning as the serpent she was to wed. She could not be caught; adultery would be punished severely. The snake might choose any number of ways, from depriving her of light, food and water, or flogging, or by burning. She could be tied to a stake and left exposed to the elements. No, she did not fear death, but she was the last; she must preserve the bloodline, not contaminate and taint it with his seed, but what good were hollow promises if she was dead? She had to move; there was little time. The wedding would take place in two days. Any number of ‘hunting accidents’ would be suffered before, during or after the feasting; she was sure of it. But who to trust? All the maids here were in his service; she was permitted none of her own. She was a ‘barbarian’ after all.

She would teach them why barbarians were feared; she would raze all of this, stone by stone. Nothing would be left unscorched. Death would reign in fire and blood; vengeance would be hers.

Her reflection nodded back at her, silent in its grim agreement. Something had to be done. Perhaps… the soothsayer? A barbarian custom, but time honoured; to prepare her for her wedding night, to see if the omens were fit for child. Perhaps a potion to disguise herself? With bindings, rags and her face washed of the paints she was forced to wear, paints not of her own. Yes; that might work. If she could not take poison, perhaps she could be smuggled back to her people. It galled her to be a ‘hostage’, no better than a slave, to live or die at his whim.

The snake would regret ever crossing the Ilrenci.