IT WAS A LITTLE PAST MIDNIGHT at the tavern when Marsil decided his group of teenage friends had drunk enough.
The newest addition to their table, Hemlock the Handsome had been regaling the young ladies to tales of his many 'exploits' defending many a damsel.
...and also stories of horny perverts that normally visited the whorehouses.
"There was this one Lord who asked a maiden how many tits she had. The girl replied two and the Lord frowned. When she asked why, the man said he wanted three—two for his hands and one for his lips..."
A great roar of laughter erupted from all corners of the pub at Hemlock's cheeky joke.
The few men and women remaining in the tavern had inclined their ears to the young man's comedy while gulping down great cups of ale.
Esabel and Ferra sat giggling beside Marsil. The Prince sat rigid, only a small smile playing his lips. Hemlock's words were funny, but clearly the intoxication of wine added to young women's excitement.
"Alright, that's enough for one night," Marsil said, rising to his feet.
More wine would only cause them to make a fool out of themselves.
Esabel was still the Summerland Princess and it was his duty to protect her not only from bodily harm, but also her standing in the society; that meant not letting her ruin her image in a downtown pub, and that also meant no more wine.
"Oh come on, big brother. Can't we just stay a little more?" Esabel pleaded with swirly eyes.
"No," Marsil growled. "All of you, Up!"
"Yes, Lord Silverheel," Hemlock declared with a taunting smile as he rose to his feet.
He caught a dark look in the Prince's eyes and the cheesy smile faded. Esabel was next on her feet and wavered a bit. Ferra completely lost her footing and stumbled. The Keeper's daughter was clearly new to rich liqueurs.
She would have crashed to the floors but for Marsil's strong arms that wrapped around her, holding her firmly to his chest. Obviously, the Vampire Prince was the only one not 'drunk to his eyes'.
With a growl, he grabbed hold of Hemlock's hand and bundled the girls to him. Once they were all secure in his strength holding them from stumbling, he started across the pub, from their dark booth to the wooden steps leading up to the Inn chamber he had rented for the night.
His friends were definitely in no position to make a night's journey.
Marsil was ascending the steps with his drunken group when the Barkeep called in a light voice to Hemlock.
"Hey! Redhead! What happened to the Lord in your story?"
The tattooed young man slurred his reply just before Marsil dragged him away.
"The whore told him to go fuck a cow..."
Another round of crackly laughter erupted down from the pub. It came as diluted rumbles to the Prince who was now striding across a dark hallway with Esabel, Ferra, and Hemlock in tow.
On reaching the small upper chamber he had rented, he pushed the door and walked in.
The smell of cheap room scents and musty wood floors immediately hit his nose. His drunken friends happily fell to the bed, Esabel and Ferra instantly winking out.
Hemlock was the next to go under, muttering some indiscernible speech before he blacked out to the wine flooding his body.
The Prince picked the sheets by the hem, draping it across their now sleeping forms. He watched them for a while then turned away.
Marsil sighed, peeling off his silver mask as he walked to the open window by the adjoining wall.
Now that the girls and Hemlock were safe, softly crooning under the sheets, he could finally let his mind wander to other thoughts. He pushed aside the dark curtains and pale moonlight flooded into the room.
The eve of the Costume Carnival had passed and tonight was the full moon of a new month.
The bedchamber nested at the upper storey of the tavern so Marsil was granted a stunning view of the streets below.
Candles still flickered on sconces, drunken men still stumbled across the cobblestones, and wanton women still gyrated with frenzied Blue Cloak Patrols against the walls of dark alleys.
This was the plight of Calipsos, the capital of an Empire that had known no great war since the bloodbath of the Night Wars centuries before.
The summer dwellers had almost forgotten the great horrors and carnage of those gloomy weeks, the rivers of blood that colored the fields, and the corpses of the slain that had formed pyramids of buzzing flies and a feast for crows.
...This was the Syverian Capital hundreds of years later. A beauty men who'd lived in those Dark Ages would've thought impossible. The Night Wars was almost the annihilation of the South.
Marsil stared into the night, inhaling the cool passing wind blowing in from the Emerald sea. His idea on the Wytcher's current location had filled his head during his second drink, and since then he had tasted no more ale, which explained his sobriety.
The Vampire Prince knew the Wytchers had to be brilliant to be equated with the Syverian Seers. Gryther obviously knew the lay of the Summerlands.
The only place the Blue Cloaks would need a petition to access was a Lord's Signory, and the only Lord who possessed such great land that one could completely disappear in was none other than the Lord of the White Keep, Lord Geralt of House Cranmer.
...or as Marsil liked to call him, Old man Geralt.
He was sure he had found Gryther the Whyte. The next thing was to reach him before he vanished once more.
In the morning, the Prince mused.
...In the morning, he would begin his journey.
He only hoped that he would be clear-headed enough to face the man that had kept him chained for eighteen summers of his life—for the old man's sake. All it took was one swipe of his hand and he could send the man's scrawny head rolling off his shoulders faster than he could blink.
Marsil silently shut the drapes and the moonlight vanished behind the curtains. His moon eyes stared into the mild darkness as he moved for an upholstered chair by the corner.
Lifting it, he placed it at the foot of the bed, close to the door. Then he settled on the cushion, with eyes where he could spot any intruder. There! he mused...
He had sworn on his life to both Arlon the King, Esabel's father, and Olean Savaeros, Ferra's father that he would keep their daughters safe, and he was nothing if not a man of his word.
Only with his eyes on their sleeping forms was he calm enough to drift into a light daze, his vampire senses still very keen on his environment.
Just outside the Inn chamber where the Prince and his friends lay asleep, a large black horse gruntled past, it's heavy hooves clunking down on the paved streets. The walkway was mostly empty as people had retired for the night. Afterall, it was the next day and the Costume Carnival had come to its end.
A shrouded figure sat astride this lonely steed, guiding it on its path straight to the steepled monstrosity of the Ivory Castle shadowed in the dark night.
Most Blue Cloaks sat snoring in their posts. After their exertion earlier, they were weak with post-coital fatigue and didn't take much notice of the horse trudging past the empty streets.
The figure halted the animal a good distance away from the castle gates, pulling at the reins. Unlike the local patrols, the Castle guards weren't sloppy. They had eyes that shined as owls, searching and scanning the area for the slightest movement.
This mysterious figure creeped along the walls, blending with dark robes into the areas the torches didn't cast light upon.
A single leap in the air and the entity was high up on the stone walls, crouched against a small balcony, one of the lower stories of the Castle.
It was in this skillful jump that the cowl fell away and the lights shined on the face of this mysterious person.
...The shadowed enigma was none other than Rebelle Cranmer, the Lady of the White Keep.
While she should be asleep a good distance west in the Cranmer Manor, she was donned in her signature black apparel of boots and breeches.
The Mithosian Warrior Princess was the only one capable of eluding the highly-trained guards of the Ivory Castle.
She hopped the next height with absolute ease in what could only be described as feline fluidity. She continued leaping across walls, landing soundlessly on verandas like a cat until she came to the very one she sought.
The one she had memorized many times upon her secret visits.
The Queen's bedchamber...
The window was a large opening, wide as a small door with velvet drapes billowing in the night breeze. Artfully pushing aside the veils, she slid quietly into the room, crouched low on the balls of her feet.
When she lifted her eyes up, the Queen stood before her, a heavy mantelpiece clutched tight in her upraised hands.
On seeing the palace intruder was none other than her Lady lover, Lorraine's grip slackened and the mantelpiece clattered down to the floor with a dull sound.
Rebelle rose to her feet and Lorraine placed both arms around her, pulling her in for a hug.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know it was you. I thought it was some Iron Clan thief, but then they are not brilliant enough to evade the Castle guards and execute such articulate climb... Then I saw you and I'm sorry—"
"It's alright," Rebelle said, easing the Queen of her anxious words.
She pulled away, looking over Lorraine. Her pine-colored eyes fell over her figure clothed in only a night shift and Lorraine blushed under her stare.
"I didn't know you were coming else I'd have put on something more provocative..."
"You are provocative enough," Rebelle said into her bright emerald eyes.
The Queen smiled and went on.
"...a costume for you. Maybe a Lady Knight...a Lady Seer—"
Rebelle silenced her then, with her lips. It wasn't fierce or wild. It was soothing, and passionate in a way.
A kiss of Love.
When Rebelle pulled away, the Queen narrowed her eyes, immediately sensing something was wrong. She wasn't complaining but Rebelle never kissed her like that.
It was always streaks of lightning between them. Chemistry neither of them could control.
"What's wrong?" she asked, gazing at the Lady with intense aquamarine eyes. "Tell me."
Rebelle pulled away, moving across the wide bedroom for the sprawling 'queen-sized' bed. Lorraine followed shortly, sitting with her at the bed's edge.
"Rebelle?" she nudged. "Please tell me."
Lady Rebelle Cranmer had been contemplating about what she was about to do now for days. What she was about to say could change the course of her relationship with the Queen.
She was about to tell Lorraine all about her past, her two identities, and the real reason why she had come to the Summerlands.
The big question was Why?
Why would she risk everything she'd struggled to hide? Everything she'd struggled to build and culture? Her Esteem? Her title?
Why would she risk it all?
Rebelle knew the answer.
It was quite simple and clear as day.
It came to her when she first saw Lorraine's green eyes light on her. When she'd watched those pink lips dazzle brilliantly in a smile. When she'd heard her soft laughter from across the room.
The answer came when Lorraine had first held her tight, making love to her like none other. The answer had been why she couldn't sleep that night and had creeped during the dead of it to tell the Queen how she felt. Everything.
The answer was Love...
And it was in the light of love that she was about to confess all her secrets.
"I'm not who you think I am..." Rebelle began.
Just like she planned, she told Lorraine everything.
From her false set-up at the Isles to get Lord Cranmer's attention to her fake home—which was actually the Mithosian Palace, to her fake father—acted by her bodyguard.
...To her hidden royalty as the Princess of the Isles, to the reason for her journey across the Carrean sea; revenge on her father's killer, Illishan the Bleeder, to her alias, Rebelle Cranmer.
Then finally to her real name, Yvenne Hearst.
The beautiful Queen listened to all these with calmness. Not once did she laugh. Not once did she smirk, gloat, frown, or glower. She just stayed still as Rebelle, now Yvenne told her tale.
"...please say something," Yvenne said once she finished.
She was stunned when Lorraine leaned across and gripped both her hands in hers. Then the queen said the most tender words and Yvenne wondered if she could love her more than she already did.
"Your story only makes me admire you even more. From your brilliance in tricking that old man. Your courage in braving those waters to a land you've never journeyed to before. Your fortitude in creating an enigma of yourself. Your calm in wading through your father's assassination. And most of all, your absolutely fucking beautiful mystery...
...Rebelle or Yvenne, you will always be YOU to me."
Yvenne nearly cried at her words and Lorraine pulled her in for a lover's embrace, whispering softly into her hair.
"In the light of love, I love you too, Yvenne Hearst."