THE NIGHTFALL was marred by gray clouds when Yvenne Hearst looked out the high windows of the fortress. The silver streams of the White Lake shimmery in the light of dusk eagerly met with her brown eyes. The tower which she peeked from was one of the four spectacular wings of the Cranmer residence.
The manor lacked not in a plush decor and cream yellow drapes breezed around her form staring out from the bedroom chamber.
She looked upon the crystal waters of the lake from a great height yet the springs seemed to catch the strength in her eyes. It mirrored the determination in their smoky depths. The secrets just swirling behind the captivating pine-colored orbs.
The Highborn cowards! Yvenne mused, laughing in her mind. They had no idea who she was. She walked amongst the Nobles and all they could see was fantasy. The old man she was married to thought she was some flower to be displayed before the eyes of his rivals. But she was no flower. She was the storm. The storm of her people. The Jewel of Mithos. She was their princess.
Yvenne had to take up a new name, different from the names of her people.
She chose the summerland name Rebelle as her alias, because it described her perfectly. The name signified who she was and what she needed to fulfill in Syveria. It signified the warrior in her. The name in itself meant 'The Rebel' in the summerland tongue.
The foolish lords of Calipsos did not even know it openly gave away her secret. Even a mad Mithosian man would not give away his daughter to a Syverian, yet the summer dwellers thought she was just some fair beauty rescued by Lord Cranmer. She noticed the men's eyes on her as she walked around in the ridiculous scarlet gowns Ladies were supposed to wear. She hated the skirts.
Back at home, on the virgin Isles, she wore breeches. It increased her speed and lifted her swiftly onto the back of her winged horse, Hearst.
It was the culture of her people that your beast signified your prowess. They were a warrior tribe and gladly bore the skins of their enemies as flaps on their shoulders, like the ranks of the syverian army. The name of a winged horse was gotten from the family line.
Rebelle was born Yvenne; the seventh and only surviving daughter of Jarah Kan, Warrior Chief of the Isles. His second name 'Kan' was given to his winged horse and he became one with the beast. Man and beast communicated one with each other, their minds linked by the sorcery of the Island's magic.
This singular feature made Mithos impenetrable to its enemies. No army dared fight the Mithosians on their own land.
Yvenne had just started to bleed in the way of women when she got her own horse. No man knew where the magical horses nested but it was said that the winged beasts had homes in mountains that reached into the heavens. That way no one could claim or breed the animals. They appeared whenever a child of Mithos came of age, and they remained until death.
Yvenne's horse, Hearst flew down straight from the blue sky over their land. Its hooves swept the water of the Carrean sea. Its sturdy legs played with the emerald waters surrounding the Isle as it glided over the mirror surface. The waves of its black mane brushed wet with sweat as it pounded across the brown sands of the shores to her.
She had stood under a large palm and watched it gallop to her, its black fur like the fury of a dark sky. It slowed before her and she petted its dark mane. Under the exotic sun of Mithos, she decided to give the horse its name. Thus, she became Yvenne Hearst; Crown Princess of the Warrior rider race. But here on the Summerlands soil, she was known as Rebelle Cranmer, Lady of the White Lake, the seductive bride of Lord Geralt Cranmer.
Yvenne missed Hearst. She longed to ride the skies once more with her horse, with his powerful wings stretched out over the clouds. The winged creatures were the true beauty of the Isles of Mithos. They did not pound the earth like the schooled cultured horses of Syveria, or roam the sky like the gray owls of the Seers.
No. The winged horses were wild and free. They ran upon the earth and also glided freely on the water. They flew high in the sky, tumbling so beautifully between the white clouds. Yvenne remembered all these and missed her home.
She was in Calipsos for only one reason. A man had murdered her father. A man who worked for the Crown.
The Great Jarah Kan was slain in the dead of the night. She needed to find the man and make him pay. Gossips spread said he was an Assassin from the desert lands. Rumors also called him The Bleeder.
Sailors often drunk claimed his palms were larger than the royal plates and his fists were strong enough to break bones with a hit. Her father's killer was a giant of a man, but in her travels, Yvenne found strength to be only useful to the wise. Afterall, Geralt thought she was a flower. He still did.
She had met Lord Cranmer during one of the tropical leisures he normally took twice in a moon. Mithos was an oasis of great natural beauty and many Highborns flocked in from time to time. This was how the warrior tribe maintained their coffers. The exotic environment attracted the Nobles.
The dazzling sunsets entranced them, and the enchanting rise of the sun over the Carrean sea at Dawn amazed them. When the Noblemen visited, they slept in woven mat beds out in the open, enjoying the coolness of the Island's wind.
They drank the fresh milk from the coconuts, and when a Lord's hand found its way into the bosom of a serving girl, huge bare-chested Mithosian warriors were always ready behind with sharpened scythes to cut off the roving hand.
After a few Lords lost limbs to the curved blades, the others learnt to keep their hands to themselves. It was a great honor to have visited the famed Isles of Mithos and many great Houses added this very interesting feature to the many titles they already bore.
Yvenne noticed Lord Cranmer never missed any of his visits so she made her plans. If she was not to be questioned at the ports of Syveria, she needed to have an in, and what better way than marriage to the Lord of a wealthy House.
Geralt Cranmer fit right into her plan. He also fell over his heels when he saw her rise wet and slick with waves from the ocean. She of course planned everything. She knew when he took strolls to the beach, and she knew the exact time of his passing. She knew he liked younger women, and she also knew even though he would never openly admit it, Geralt loved darker skins too. The bronze shine of the Mithosian race. So she acted like she went for a swim and waited for him to pass by.
Then she rose up from the water, with white waves of the sea lapping at her curves. Her silk white slip had clung to her flesh and she walked with a confident wanton stride. No man at that point could keep his mouth from dropping to the beach sands.
The very next day, a throng of suitors called at her house—not her house, actually.
Her house was the Palace of Mithos, on a rugged cliff area with buoyant evergreen trees. She planned a merchant's residence as her house, and when Geralt eventually came knocking, her false father strode out to meet him. The man acting her father was actually her second bodyguard, Nimran.
Like the easy glide of a swan, she traveled across the emerald sea on a great ship, past the colossal golden gates of Calipsos on a lord's arm, and straight into the residence of a wealthy Noblehouse.
Princess Yvenne Hearst officially became Lady Rebelle Cranmer.
She laughed as she stared into the shimmery surface of the lake. Men always underestimated the brilliance of a woman, and it was always their downfall.
Lord Geralt Cranmer in all his 'great wisdom' had all but paid a warrior princess to become his wife. Not only was she robbing him of his coins, she was easily the richest woman in Syveria, and undoubtedly the richest in Mithos.
She controlled so much power right under his nose. She trained with her scythes at night. She wielded swords heavy with steel made by the Seers. She also wondered if Geralt was just a stupid old man. It was either the man knew exactly who she was or he feared her leaving him.
Yvenne had already birthed one daughter for him, Aleah. She was glad her daughter took after her for she feared Aleah wasn't his. She could be the King's. A Princess of Syveria. At this thought, she smiled.
Yvenne had never loved or admired any man. Until Arlon. She had always enjoyed female company, found it more pleasing than the raging egos of men, but Arlon was different. He made her laugh genuinely and feel womanly. She felt sorry for his wife, the Queen.
Lorraine Pierran was a willowy beauty, with green smoky eyes and the kind of soft body Yvenne liked. In the past, she would have made a move on the Queen, but Arlon made a move on her first.
Arlon Pierran was like one of those single spotless eggs born to a wild fowl. He was a good man born in a family that settled every little thing with blood. He was great. She could see it in his sky eyes. He also loved her.
She could tell in the way his eyes always roamed over her figure, and whenever he was in the room, she discovered her heart beat faster. Arlon almost made her forget the reason why she was in Calipsos. His pink smile, his brilliant blue eyes, his heroic nature, his lean muscle mass that was not overly ripped but almost effeminate. Most of all, his brave heart. Yvenne liked men who could see past their own noses. Arlon was one of such few men.
Her lovers in the past had been women, and she admitted one of the major reasons why she was first attracted to Arlon was because he looked a little bit like a woman, with his fair looks and slim build. Also, it couldn't hurt to have a King.
The darkness of night fully claimed the land and Yvenne spotted the faint glow of an appearing moon. She moved away from the windows and pulled back the drapes. The night air whispered softly outside as she walked across the bedroom chamber, leaving lit candles shining in her wake.
She slowly pulled away her clothes, revealing the dark shift underneath. She smiled in front of the mirror; a gift from Geralt. His face began to encroach into her thoughts but she hurriedly pushed him aside.
She looked around the room. It was beautiful, with the orange glow of the candles, the soft push of gilden tapestry, a sultry ambiance; everything comely and lady-like. Everything she needed to act like she loved in order to succeed in her mission.
Yvenne sighed and closed her eyes. When she opened them once more, she became Rebelle.
Rebelle walked to the bed and pushed apart the covers. She scooted up to the headrest and picked up an old parchment to pass the time. Some moments later, she heard the loud voices of Geralt and Arlon from the lower storey of the manor. They seemed to be arguing about something.
Rebelle noticed the men had started spending more time in the underground chamber of the house. She wondered at their behavior but assumed it could be the drums of ale they brewed.
Geralt growled a name but Arlon quickly hushed him. She heard her husband wobble to his room. Then quietness. She smiled then. It won't be long now, she mused.
Not a beat later, the door to her bedchamber slowly creaked open and a figure walked in. The first thing Rebelle noticed was his height. The man before her was certainly not her husband. Geralt was not tall.
The candlelight illuminated the intruder's golden flowing robes. Rebelle dropped her book and lifted up her bespectacled eyes to him.
"Arlon, don't tell me you're still shy?" Rebelle sang to him. Arlon just smiled at her as he silently shut the door behind him.
He walked to her on the bed and Rebelle dissolved into his blue eyes. His golden robes fell away and her black satin came apart. The next moments were full of hushed breathing and whispered words as they groaned and tangled together in the sheets.
Rebelle moaned as he moved down her body. His skin was fire on hers and a coy grin played on her lips.
"My King..." she whispered just before his lips took her under.