The Death of Prince Kallyr Starbrow

Leika "Betty" Ballista Taraling, Queen Regnant of the Colymar alliance, looked out over the remains of the day, at the red banners and vexillae haggard in the light breeze as the enemy retreated, and thought of her glorious deeds. Lo! The Quivini stood querulous, absent administration- no. Lacking leadership, when the foe pressed upon them, they routed and broke, beleaguered and brittle-made by the Prince, but then the Colymar arose, the Black Spear flew free, and the blood-clothed- the blood-garbed- the blood-cloaked- "Fuck me, where's my bard?" she said aloud.

"Here," Donanarth said from behind her. He had at first tried to insist that he wasn't a bard, that his teacher and master had died so suddenly in the violence of the liberation that he had never been certified past poetry of the second order and humorous anecdotes of a historical character, that true bardship, of rattling off entire genealogies on command, of making remarks so cutting they sliced apart curtains- that all of this was improper to attribute to him. Leika had trained him via strategic ignoring to simply nod and respond when called.

"This needs commemoration," she said, pulling a bit of dried sausage from her hip pouch. She bit into it with an audible snap. "I'm thinking at least an ode, maybe even a canto in the epic form. Honor our glorious victory and the Sartarites who fought for it wisely and well." She chewed. "Or perhaps in the pastoral form, if the epic form is too unwieldy."

"That seems like it might be in bad taste," Donanarth said. "Is it a glorious victory? Even after-" he gestured silently.

"Oh, right, Kallyr's kicked it." Leika took another bite. "Guess you'd need the antistrophe to be elegaic then. Tastefully so."

"The Prince isn't dead yet," Donanarth said, "But King Ranulf of the Culbrea and Queen Amalda of the Malani are both fallen, and the Prince is sore wounded indeed."

Leika stiffened. "Turntail and Amalda?" She scowled and stood up. "How did they die? Were they at the front, passing heroically but tragically under the wavy, curvy blades of the moon-Tarshite-"

"They were both struck down by the assassins who attacked the Prince and her bodyguard," Donanarth said. "Amalda died almost instantly, so it is said, and Ranulf died with sword in hand." He paused. "I would possibly not call him "turntail" any more," he added.

Leika nodded gravely. "Then I must go and see the Prince myself," she said. "Pay my respects to the ailing Starbrow." She turned and began to stride up the hillside. Donanarth froze, then ran after her.

Prince Kallyr's own pavilion had been left behind at Boldhome, and so she was being treated in a more ordinary one, where only a few people could fit at a time. Kallyr herself lay, barely propped up by pillows, covered by a light shift tied behind her back. The bloodstained garb and armor of the Prince of Sartar lay to one side. The White Lady, Ernaldesta of the Elkenvale, formal doctor to Kallyr, also was present. And then Leika and Donanarth filled the tent almost all the way.

"Leave," Leika told Ernaldesta.

Ernaldesta looked up at her. "No," she said.

"Go ahead and go, Desty," Kallyr rasped, barely audible. Donanarth stared at her and thought, not for the first time, that you could be forgiven for thinking Kallyr and Leika were related, cousins perhaps. Long years of life in exile and on the road had worn their faces and bodies in similar ways, and their hair was the natural red-orange that showed the blessing of the Defender Storm, and they were both tall. But they were no kin, devoid even of the bonds of friendship. Kallyr confirmed this by adding, "I don't have much time left, let the bitch blow her load and gloat over me."

Ernaldesta stood up. "My Prince, this is a foolish decision, but not the first such you have made in the last hour. I will wait outside of the tent for your private audience to conclude." She sniffed and shoved her way between the two intruders.

Leika chuckled as she left. "Well, aren't you a sight?" The Prince of Sartar looked up at her, wan, pale, red stains over her solar plexus and her thighs. The star on her brow glowed as brightly as ever.

"You're a rat," Kallyr said. "A fucking vole. A rodent. A shrew. A watermouse. A burrowing weasel." She coughed.

"What does that make you?" Leika knelt down, looking over Kallyr triumphantly.

"I'd say it makes me someone who got fucked by a rat," Kallyr rasped. "But..."

"But?" Leika leaned in closer.

"But I know that if you tried to fuck me I wouldn't even feel it." Kallyr spat in Leika's face, blood and saliva mingled. "So there's your triumph. You finally got me, but only with someone else's spear." Leika recoiled and stood up. Kallyr laughed, a horribly wet sound.

Leika snapped, "Get over here, bard boy." She wiped her face with the sleeve of Donanarth's tunic.

Kallyr cackled, each hacking sound accompanied by the spread of red stains on her shift. "Was it that pirate's cabin boy? Did you contract with him? Or that wide-reading fuckface?" She choked and gagged.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Leika said. She leaned back down. "Any last words from the last Prince of the lineage of Sartar?" She cupped a hand to her ear.

A long silence.

Leika paused. She fished around in her pouch, pulling out a little mirror of polished bronze. She held it to Kallyr's mouth, looking to see if it fogged. Nothing. "The Prince is dead," she said. She paused. She lifted the shift, looking underneath, between Kallyr's legs. "What a vulgar size," she muttered, letting it fall. "Could you even fit it in anyone smaller than a troll?" She sniffed.

Ernaldesta burst into the tent, neatly dodging around Donanarth. "You utter brute," she snarled at the two figures generally. "I told you not to strain yourself."

Leika looked up, her face curling into a smirk. "Hey, I thought the Prince's unhealing wound was a cut to her thighs from a Lunar sword dancer, but it looks more like a hickey that broke open." She stood up. "Was our Prince playing both-"

"Shoo," Ernaldesta said. "You remember the time when you were caught in flagrante delicto with Enerian Scarlet, wearing one of her pearl necklaces? You remember how you had to immediately flee for the Holy Country to pretend you weren't an eager bottom for the moon goddess?" She glared up at Leika. "Get out of here. Go mourn the fallen king and queen. Lest old memories boil up anew and unspeakable accusations meet unspeakable accusations."

Leika looked wounded. She opened her mouth.

"Git," Ernaldesta said. She made shooing motions with her hands. "The Prince's body must be cleaned and prepared to travel."

"I'm going," Leika muttered, and stormed off, Donanarth preceding her in a daze. "Rude people," she commented once they were well away from the tent. "She should learn some manners."

The precincts of Ty Kora Tek, the Shrouded Lady, had had spaces cleared. King Ranulf and Queen Amalda looked almost peaceful, lying in repose. Another ruler attended them, Ivartha Skinner Redcow, Queen of the Cinsina. She looked up as Leika approached, practically shoving Donanarth in front of her.

"A sad day indeed, though it were won by the valiant arms of our people," she said. She was older than Leika, her face slightly lined, her body softer with age. "But to have my friend Ranulf and poor young Amalda fallen on the field, and at the hands of vicious assassins, who even mocked the secret magics of Orlanth himself- ach, my heart grieves." She swept a hand across her brow. "Oh, for a comforting hand and gentle words of reassurance," she murmured.

"Glad to see you're still alive, you old drama queen," Leika returned, striding up to the stretcher on which Ranulf of the Culbrea lay. She looked him over. "Well, you fool, at least nobody will ever call you Ranulf Turn-Tail again." She paused. "In public, at least." Donanarth looked from her to Ivartha, who smiled at him warmly.

Leika moved to Amalda. "Amalda, Amalda, Amalda. Why did it have to be you?" She threw herself across the queen's still form and let out a great racking sob, then rose back up with dry eyes. "Now how will I win the support of Malan's vile thieves, eh? Where will another pair of tits like yours be found in councils of war?" She stood there, then threw her arms up.

"What a fucking mess," she said, rejoining the other two. "What a nightmare. Three at least struck down by assassins, and two of them worthies." She closed her eyes.

Ivartha snorted. "You should learn to quell your tongue. I certainly won't miss the Starbrow, consorter with the Telmori, defender of the ducks, self-righteous prick that she was, but she's a martyr now, who gave all of herself for the freedom of Sartar." She idly tapped her foot. "Assuming we can keep that freedom now."

"And why wouldn't we?" Leika swept an arm in the direction of the remains of the Lunar camp. "The Tarshites fled before us, and with only this scratch force. United,"

"Which we won't be," Ivartha said. "The Telmori's oaths are to Sartar and were renewed by his descendants- marvelous that Temertain was able to do so, by the by- and without a descendant of Sartar to have at hand, they might demand, say, a chunk of the old Maboder lands as a price. Or more concessions. Or simply tell us all to shove off and accept mutual non-involvement." She yawned. "What's more, who's to say some child of Kallyr's doesn't stir in the womb of some fetching young wolf-runner lass? Or hasn't been raised among them in secret for some years, waiting only for the stability of Sartar to be assured before being brought out in public-"

"Kallyr shot blanks," Leika said. "You know that, I know that-"

"We don't know that," Ivartha said. "We have simply guessed based on the character of that woman that she wouldn't be careful about controlling her fertility." She shrugged. "And even if she was, there are surely many Telmori who could be counted as descendants of Sartar. Easy enough to present one as Kallyr's child and there you have it- a werewolf Prince." She shuddered. "I might suggest that the death of Prince Kallyr at this time may be a bit of an inconvenience. One wonders at the sudden ability of the Lunatic Menace to grasp the subtleties of Sartarite politics without a dozen accommodationists whispering in their ears." She looked at Leika, whose eyes had flown open at the mention of Kallyr's child.

"Indeed," Leika said, shuddering herself. "It's a pity we can't interrogate the assassins."

"Why not?" Ivartha smiled.

"Surely the bodyguard of Kallyr cut them all down," Leika said. "They wouldn't have-"

"They took two of them alive and reasonably intact, and another won't survive the night but still breathes," Ivartha said. "As it so happens, they are confined in the next tent over, if you wished to-"

Leika ran to the tent in a blur. "How dare you?" came from the tent, muffled but just barely distinct, moments later.

"Well, that's youth for you," Ivartha mused. "Well, what's a fine thing like you doing in a place like this?" she asked, turning to Donanarth.

"I'm the chosen singing companion of Queen Ballista," he said, avoiding her gaze.

"You were supposed to wait until she was-" Another outburst from the tent, followed by a meaty thud.

"A pretty lady like you?" Ivartha grinned, covering it halfway with her hand. "Doesn't Leika know how to treat artistic and sensitive souls? She brought you to the battlefield?"

Donanarth stammered, "Lady Cinsina, I... I'm not a lady. I'm a man. I'm wearing trousers, I was taken by the wicked uncles at my coming of age-"

"Oh, you must be very new to her companions," Ivartha said. "You still haven't figured it out yet." Donanarth gawked at her. "I don't know how Betty Ballista does it, but amazingly, whenever she tries to add a man to her court, to her personal guard, to her companions, they turn out to not be a man at all, though they might not have recognized it themselves until time spent in her company." She regarded her hand. "But take heart. She doesn't know she's doing it either, whatever it is she does. So perhaps you're an exception."

The wall of the prison tent bulged, dots of red staining it. "Your tattoos are already running, even! Just how-" Leika continued to rant. Ivartha laughed.

"Well, if you ever want to experiment, know that you'll always be welcome at the spas and boutiques of Red Cow Fort," she said. Donanarth looked at her. "Regardless of your gender," she continued. "One of my most loyal thanes is an out-and-out femboy." Donanarth looked at the tent. The red stains were spreading. He shivered.

"You're sure?" He asked.