The Melting of the Snowflake The harem-mistress had belonged to the old king, who gave her to his son. By then she was past her prime of beauty. Prince Sharvic had dismissed her from his bed and put her in charge of his small flock of young concubines. It was her duty to keep the women cleaned, plucked, dressed, and made-up to the prince's satisfaction, fed but not too much so, and empty of children. The prince's latest acquisition would be a challenge on most counts. The mistress eyed Valmere, the former queen of Fel, where she stood in rent armor, dripping mud and a little blood onto the delicate Keshlan carpet. Valmere was tall and ice-pale, with cropped hair the color of fire-lit gold and eyes like cloudy gemstones. Her body, when the women had stripped her and washed away the marks of her last battle, was lean and taut as a bow. Her hands were nearly spoilt with calluses, and her skin marked by the steel claws of war. It was a waste of such rare beauty, thought the mistress, to send this woman into battle. "Mind you please the prince," counseled the mistress, as two women trimmed the nails of Valmere's hands and one woman between her legs singed off her immodest brush of pubic hair. "Be pliant. Keep your eyes on the ground at his feet. Don't speak unless he asks of you. Endear yourself to him, and he will ask for you again and again. Defy him and he will have you beaten." Through all of this Valmere was silent. The mistress began to doubt that the barbarian woman could even understand her speech. The servant women dressed her in a gown of pale yellow, and softened her severe face and short hair with a fine net of gold and pearls. A string of pearls was hung also at her throat, and her rough hands encased in white gloves. They left her barefoot, for she was nearly as tall as the prince, who was himself not small. He might see her lofty height as an affront. "Hurry," the mistress urged her women. "We must present her to the prince before sunset." They had Valmere completed, like a confection from the kitchen, just as the soldiers pounded on the outer door. The mistress stepped back to appraise her work. She called for a bit more powder to cover the cut on Valmere's cheek. Then as the mistress once more opened her mouth to admonish her charge, the words died unsaid. The once-queen's eyes had returned from the distance. Her gaze cut the mistress with such bitter-edged contempt that she stepped back, stammering. Then the men outside were pounding upon the door again. The women of the harem opened it up and, hastily pushing Valmere out into the hall, slammed it shut before they could be seen. The soldiers formed rank around Valmere, two in front, two behind, and four on either side. Their weapons were sheathed, for the once-queen was unarmed and barefoot, no threat to them now. Valmere had slain many of their comrades with her own hands, shaming the army utterly. Any of the soldiers would have given gold for the chance to shame her in turn. Well, that was the prince's privilege. They looked at her sideways to see if she would struggle and give them an excuse to lay hands on her. Silent yet, Valmere stepped forward with them through the stone hallway. A heavy door separated the living quarters from the rest of the palace. As they proceeded, their boots rattling on the floors and her bare feet making no sound, the inner walls of the small palace began to open outward. Great stone planters of winter trees grew larger and more elaborate. The unglazed windows, open to the cold sun, gave way to arched gateways of ivy and holly. The ceiling vanished. The paving stones beneath their feet bloomed into a delicate pattern of garden path, lined with small evergreens. At last the winter garden spread before them up to the very edge of the two-hundred foot cliff that overlooked a frozen lake. Only a low stone wall separated tended walkway and fatal fall. Prince Sharvic of Teluron awaited them on the terrace, framed by sunset and storm clouds. He wore black leather and chainmail under his red-emblazoned surcoat. His hair, a dark stallion's mane of it, stirred in the slight breeze. He was strikingly handsome and wanted everyone else to know it. Sharvic was only twenty years old and already owned the world, or as much of it as he cared to. He had built this isolated castle into an impregnable fortress and trained the largest standing army seen in centuries. His father, the old king, would not approve. The king, however, was wintering on the coast, two week's hard ride away. His army was a mere ceremonial guard. If the king were wise, he would lend his retroactive blessing to Sharvic's ventures. The blood of Sharvic's heart heated as he looked upon Valmere. With the conquest of her country, at last he had some land other than that grudgingly given by his father. He had acclaim, notoriety, all the riches of plundered Fel, and women other than his father's cast-offs. He'd caught himself a queen. Sharvic extended a hand. One of the soldiers prodded Valmere, who stepped forward. She seemed to Sharvic more translucent than the snowflakes that had just begun to fall about them, silvering the terrace. She, once the Ice Queen, the leader of armies, was now merely another ornament in Sharvic's garden. And if this one lacked the soft and pretty looks of his other concubines, then perhaps she would be well compensated in spirit. Valmere was a warrior. Breaking her would be a most delightful challenge. Her feet left wet prints where the snow melted beneath her. She stopped a foot away from the prince's extended hand. Her eyes, he saw, were empty. Dazed. "Welcome to the presence of your new master," Sharvic said. "From now on your only joy is to serve me. My smile is your sun. My displeasure is your darkest pain." He reached for her face. Valmere snapped forward like a bough released from a weight of snow. One fist hammered Sharvic's ribs with a force that he felt even through the chain. The other slammed into his crotch. Sharvic howled. His guard had drawn their weapons and rushed forward. Sharvic knew with a cold certainty that he had to finish this before they reached him, or be shamed forever in their eyes. His fists were mailed with steel, and one of them broke her shoulder. She kicked. Sharvic seized her and slammed her head down against the wall. A single drop of blood flew loose and vanished in the distance between terrace and lake. "Yield, or I'll slay you now," he said. Valmere spat. Sharvic looked into her eyes, really looked for the first time. In them he saw the gleam of something burning, of steel, of fangs, and in fact nothing at all he wanted in his bed. As the guard reached him, he heaved Valmere over the wall. The ice of the lake gave a thunderous crack, but held her body. A dark stain filled the fissures in the ice, sketching a bloody snowflake in the vanishing evening. "My lord?" said the guard captain, then stepped back hastily as Sharvic whirled upon him. The captain swallowed and began again. "Would you like us to retrieve the body?" "No. Leave her there." In the silence, Sharvic took a couple of steps toward the castle. "Send someone to bring my meal to my chamber," he called over his shoulder. "I'll dine alone." Queen Keluria of Avel was nearly six feet tall, though so proportioned that one didn't notice her height until standing beside her. Her hair was red and cut to shoulder length. She was not old, but her face was too worn with care to be pretty. Her subjects adored her, foreign armies feared her worse than plague, and the gods smiled on her with favor. Fair and generous, she had never been known to slay the bearers of ill news. At least, so the messenger hoped. The messenger was panting hard, dripping sweat in the frigid hall. She knelt and handed a scroll to the queen. Keluria thanked her. Attendants stepped forward to usher the spent woman off to a bath and some food while Keluria read. Artere watched her open the scroll. He was as pale and golden as Valmere, though a little older, and he lacked her warrior's grace. Artere struck the observer as decorative, but painfully nervous, as if he always expected to be beaten, and all the more so as Keluria's hands began to shake. The expressions that twisted her face made him want to sneak away into some dark corner to hide. Instead he waited for her to finish and took the scroll in turn. Fel was taken, it told him. Sharvic slew Valmere. Artere's world had effectively ended. Artere slumped against one of the glazed windows. His cheek melted the patterned frost. Behind him the queen let out a long sigh. "I will avenge your sister," she said. When Artere did not answer, she lay gentle hands on his shoulders, and her lips on his neck. She smelled of horses, hay and leather, he thought idly. "Come with me." Artere followed his queen a measured two steps back, which wasn't easy since her legs were longer than his. She brought him from the hall up to the living quarters, and even to the threshold of her chamber. The attendants hastily awoke and pulled open the door for them. One ran ahead to light torches and a fire. The cold room came to life. Flames splashed from the mirror and the crystal. The attendants vanished swiftly, shutting the door behind them. Any other time Artere might have rejoiced at being invited to Keluria's bed. But grief was too sharp, and he wept when she kissed him. Her fingers skillfully undressed him upon the fur-covered bed, and at last she found means to still his tears, and make him cry in another way. It was a most diplomatic transaction, Artere thought afterwards, when the queen thought he slept. She had done the one thing that might reassure Artere of his position at her side, though likely she wouldn't bear a child out of this lying-down either. Her orgasmic cries had been, as always, artfully faked. His hadn't. Artere's life and happiness depended on his ability to please someone else. His mother had made that clear as soon as he could understand, and she had made sure he knew that someone wouldn't be her. She had wanted a daughter to take up her crown, and when Valmere was born, she had sent Artere out to foster. After mother's death, when Valmere was queen, she had gotten her brother the best marriage in the land. Queen Keluria of Avel wanted safe passage to Fel's seaports for her rich caravans, and so Artere had been packed off to a foreign court to seal the bargain. That Artere could not please Keluria made his hands shake with worry. She was fair enough to him, never beat him, and saw that her consort had almost anything he wanted. And if she did not often lie with him, she at least encouraged him to take lovers. He did, sometimes, preferring the men or the very young girls, who would be awed at the attentions of the queen's consort, and less likely to laugh at him. Valmere was dead. This left Artere as the nominal heir of Fel, or what was left of it. Since he was married, the land would pass to Keluria's hands. Therefore she didn't need him anymore. She had borne no children to him. She was free to cast him aside and make another marriage. Valmere had been kind to Artere. He missed her. The queen had dressed and left. Artere stretched under the blankets, then leaned over the edge to snatch up his tunic. A tray of warm bread and meat had appeared at some point during their passion, or afterwards. He picked at the food as he dressed. Keluria's chamber was rather small, the better to hold heat in the winter. Artere built up the fire and looked around. There were the usual piles of fine horse tack that she cleaned and oiled herself. There were boots against the wall, and bits of silver, and a row of whips hanging from pegs. Artere took down one of the whips. It had a short, silver handle and supple leather tails, nine of them. Artere drew them through his fingers. That was odd. Keluria was an avid horsewoman, and he'd never seen her strike an animal. Carefully returning the whip, he shrugged and got his cloak. Keluria would be back that night, probably with her preferred bed companion, and would want him gone by then. Weeks passed, and Avel prepared for war. It would be a just and fitting war to free the sister land of Fel from cruel bondage and to avenge the death of a queen. The priestess read favorable omens from the entrails of dead animals. The gods were pleased. The people were taking no chances. Avel's armies were small, at best, so Keluria saw to the hiring of a company of Keshlan mercenaries. Though some of her captains expressed distaste, Keluria had chosen wisely. The Keshlani were brave and loyal to those who paid on time. Though her armies disliked fighting on the same side as men, it was men who could negotiate best with Sharvic of Teluron. He had been known to dismiss unheard women sent as heralds. Besides, some of the Keshlani could be left to guard the stay-behind farmers against bandits and the desperate flank actions of a defeated army, leaving Avel's forces the glory of open battle. Artere saw little of the arming, and less and less of Keluria. When she visited the palace, she would eat with him once, then vanish into her chamber. He passed his time with the bored mercenaries assigned to guard him, sparring with wooden swords. Spring arrived. Unnoticed, the ice of the lake, no longer stained red but now dirty gray, broke apart in the warming sun. That which had been Valmere slipped through, into the water, vanishing without a trace. "If you'd been born into another life," said Sandry, "You'd have made a fine swordsman. You have the reach, and the eye. Look for me in Kesh if the queen ever tires of you." "That isn't funny," Artere said, putting aside his wooden sword. The day was unseasonably warm, and both men were panting hard. Sandry shrugged. "Suit yourself." "Even if I'm not happy here, I won't leave for some place where men keep women like sheep and cattle." "Not all lands on the other side of the river are like Teluron, and not all men are Sharvic. In some places I've seen men and women fight and farm and love as equals. I must say, I like those lands best of all. I'd rather have a girl please me for her own joy than out of fear. And the cavalry women always have the strongest legs." Sandry grinned widely. It was hard not to like him. Like most of the Keshlani mercenaries, he was adept at blending into local custom, and drawing kind laughter in any language. Rumor had him bedding with a couple of the officers of the forward army, and those women had their choice. Artere enjoyed his company because he need do nothing to please him, only be well and safe. Sandry pulled three knives out of his pile of cloak and clothing. Tossing them spinning into the air, he wove them into breathtaking patterns. "Aha!" Sandry declared, raining knives about his feet with seeming carelessness. "You do smile. And here I thought all royalty had their sense of humor removed at birth." Artere's smile, suddenly made self-conscious, vanished in an instant. "I must bathe and dress now." "In a hurry to leave?" "The queen may ask for me tonight." Sandry heaved the elaborate sigh reserved to address the self-deluded. "If you insist. Come by the weapons yard tomorrow, or the next day, and play." After Artere had left, loneliness settled about his throat like an executioner's cord, cutting his breath and dimming his sight. The queen, as usual, would not be asking for him. But Artere had a plan to follow now, and even if it didn't work, it was something to do. Whom did Keluria bed, and what did she do with them? Chances were, most of the palace except Artere knew. He had only to persuade one of them to tell him. So he spent the next two days in and out of the kitchen, the laundry, the stables, asking innocuous questions, waiting for someone to come to him, and at last someone did. Artere bought his precious information face-down upon the bed of one of the bakers. The man was rough, but not unkind, and he seemed to enjoy Artere more than Keluria did. After the payment was tendered, the baker brought Artere up a back stairway, through a narrow hall, and up to a small slotted screen. There the baker left him, telling him to wait and watch. There was no light from the room on the other side of the screen. Artere crouched uncomfortably in the passage. Well after dinnertime, when his fingers had gone numb in the cool air, there came a noise of doors opening. Someone lit torches. Artere blinked, startled. He was looking into the queen's chamber, through a latched doorway to one side of her bed. This was clearly the passage by which the kitchen staff made food appear or disappear, and perhaps where the laundry took the sheets away. Artere leaned forward and adjusted his eyes to the light. The queen entered, and with her one of the young captains, a tall woman with long, thick, dark-bronze hair. Most of the soldiers wore theirs cut short, though this one was clearly no less a warrior for her hair, which so much enhanced the beauty of her face. The two of them were speaking too softly to be heard. Both wore riding clothes. Keluria walked towards the fire, out of Artere's line of sight, possibly to sit in one of the chairs. The captain stripped off her clothes. She was broad-hipped and small of breast, the sort of figure favored by artists who painted nymphs and young goddesses. It seemed she undressed for herself, for the mirrors to adore her, and for the firelight to caress her body. She brought her hands up towards her own nipples, which were already small and hard in the night air. A word of command stopped her. Grinning, she turned and stood at the foot of the bed, reaching up to hold the loops of the decorative rope that dangled tassels from the ceiling, and incidentally providing Artere a breathtaking view of the front of her body. Keluria appeared then behind her shoulder, holding the same whip that Artere had handled. She reached over to tickle the woman's breast with the tails, and to fold her hair forward over her shoulder. Already the woman's head was thrown back, her breath deep and steady. Stepping back, Keluria measured the distance, and struck. Artere covered his mouth with his hand. Clearly the blow had upset him more than the woman, for she was grinning widely. He couldn't see her back, but such a light tap might hardly have reddened her skin. Keluria struck again and again, alternating blows with caresses. Her face was rapt, eyes narrowed and gleaming. The other woman panted. Her legs were spread wider now. The cords of the whip wrapped around and between her thighs, leaving pink stripes. Keluria began to hit harder. Her partner sobbed. When the queen took that as a signal to slow down, the other said clearly, "More." That word was repeated twice more, between screams and ragged gasps. The arc and snap of the queen's arm entranced Artere, who had never seen such beautiful cruelty. And when the woman at last let go of the ropes and collapsed into Keluria's arms, Artere was far more aroused than frightened. The two of them tumbled onto the bed out of Artere's sight, leaving him with nothing but their rising moans for company. "Artere, greetings. It's been near a week since I've seen you." It was raining outside, and the queen was seated by the fire, drinking something hot. She wore a court gown half-unfastened, as if she'd spent all day in the company of diplomats and courtiers, and only just had the chance to sit down. Artere bowed, formally. It had taken him days of patience to get this audience, and he wasn't about to spoil it by being hurried. "Are you well?" asked Keluria. "I am most well. I missed you sorely." She nodded. "The war is days away at this point. I'll be in the field tomorrow, and until we have won. This war is for your family's honor as well, so I appreciate your patience." "I am patient, and I only ask one favor before you ride into battle." "And that is?" Artere went to the wall when the tack was hung, and took down the silver-handled whip. The tails swished as he turned. His breath quickened as he steadied body and mind against the pain he would demand. "Let no one say say I cannot please you as you wish to be pleased." Keluria's jaw dropped. She shot him a look of utter confusion. "Artere, no." "Don't you understand?" he asked, his voice rising to an inelegant shout. "I'm nothing if not yours. If you turn your head from me, I may as well be dead as Valmere!" Keluria's eyes were sad, her manner once more controlled. "You are not what I want." Artere stepped forward and knelt at her feet. He lay his head on her knee and offered up the impossible weight of the whip with one shaking hand. "Then punish me for my failing." In a whisper of fabric, Keluria stood and slipped from under him. Moments later he heard the door click shut. Only then did Artere raise his head and look at the mockingly empty room. He replaced the whip on its peg and left by the servants' door where there was, thankfully, no one watching. The war was fought in three days. Though many had denounced the prince of Teluron, none could fault his courage. Sharvic's armies were caught in Fel, unable to retreat past the river rising in spring flood. His supply trains were rapidly decimated, and the hostile land yielded him no provisions. Still he fought, desperately and deviously, until his last troops were surrounded on a little wooded hill with no water or food. One fine and breezy morning, Sharvic rode out, unarmed and unarmored, to surrender himself to the captains of Avel. His men were all paroled. Sharvic himself was bound and tossed into a wagon for transport to Avel palace. That was where Artere saw him at last, standing alone in the midst of the Avel hall of state. He was surrounded by a broad ring of armed women, who acted more to keep the furious citizens from rending him apart than to prevent an escape. Escape was the last thing they need worry about. Sharvic was caught, and he knew it. Ever vain, he had no wish but to die in a manner that might inspire an epic song. He would sooner be gelded than turn tail and run from his proper and destined end. Artere watched from a place in the lower balcony of the hall with Sandry and the rest of the men who cared to watch, but need stay out of sight. The Council of Barons were seated in full ceremony. Every woman who could fit had packed into the floor, hoping for a display of legally sanctioned violence. Keluria herself was seated on a bench at the sidelines, dressed in a simple tunic, britches and boots. Anyone who didn't know to look for her would have missed the queen completely. "They are the law-keepers," Artere whispered to Sandry. "The whole Council is needed to pass judgement on a murder case." "This is not much of a trial," Sandry remarked. "Yes, but he surrendered, and that's a legal admission of guilt. Shhh." The Council president stood up and tapped a scroll on the table before her. When she spoke, her voice carried to the furthest corners of the perfectly-shaped hallway. "Your father, the august king of Teluron, has declined to intercede on your behalf." There was a wave of laughter from the assembled crowds. The king had other sons, and must be delighted to have such a troublesome heir removed from the picture. The president glared about in warning, and continued. "This court has heard no pleas for clemency from any citizen. The oracles are silent. You are granted one final chance to speak in your own defense." Sharvic raised his eyes. "I'll have no words with whores, and less than none with the queen of whores." Not a word, not a gesture, not a brush of fabric on skin broke the stillness in the hall. Artere saw Keluria lean over to whisper to her captain, the same woman he'd watched her beat in the bedchamber. The captain sped around the perimeter of the room up the back of the Council dais. She whispered in turn to the president, who nodded. Then the captain raised her hand in a signal. Two soldiers seized Sharvic's wrists and bound them in heavy leather straps, then in turn to ropes that trailed from the center columns of the hall. They tightened the bonds until he stood nearly on tiptoe with his arms spread out widely. One of them ripped off his tunic. They left him standing there in a square of late sun, with the sweetly proportioned muscles of his body racked and straining to best advantage. Sandry tapped Artere's shoulder. "What are they doing?" "Shh." Someone had brought out a brazier set up on a tripod. It was filled with coals and glowed ever hotter as a soldier worked the bellows. At last the captain took up the long handle of the iron brand that rested in the fire. Sharvic could not see, and neither did he try to turn. When the captain laid the brand against his shoulder, he moved only as much as someone stroked with a feather. An aroma of burnt flesh wafted through the hall. The assembled crowd murmured in disappointment. The president spoke: "By the authority of this Council and the will of the gods, you are branded a murderer and remanded to the perpetual custody of the queen." "How utterly barbaric," Sandry muttered. "They should have hanged him." The captain handed the brand to someone who carried it away. She drew a long, curved knife from her side and laid it against Sharvic's throat. His head turned involuntarily as the blade stroked his skin. The audience was rapt, for so many of them would have begged to trade places with the captain. How many, ashamed and silent, would have wished for the fate of the captured prince? How many would have traded their souls to be so beautiful and brave, adored and hated? The knife made love to the curve of Sharvic's shoulder before vanishing beneath his luxurious mantle of hair. His eyes opened wide with abrupt understanding, and he made a soft sound of protest. The captain flicked the edge of the knife backwards. Sharvic screamed, as if the hair she severed short had nerves. The captain spoke: "That is payment for the insult you rendered the Council." She retired into the circle of warriors. Keluria rose then, unadorned and splendid in her commanding height and manner. She stood before the bound prince and took from her belt a heavy, braided length of oiled leather. Forcing up his chin with the handle, Keluria said: "This is payment for your insult to me." Sharvic met for the first time the eyes of the queen who had staged this entire scene, the woman who owned him now. There passed between them a moment of complete understanding. For were they not alike? They each loved cruelty, and a challenge. And each had found the one person in the world who truly deserved his or her most devoted attention. Sharvic dipped his head and kissed the whip handle in a gesture that passed unappreciated by everyone else in the hall. Except for Artere. "No," he said. "Not Sharvic. Not Valmere's murderer." "What?" Sandry whispered. Keluria had ducked under the binding ropes and uncoiled the whip with a snap. Sharvic let his head hang down and tensed his exposed, branded back. Crack. Sharvic went up on his toes, breathing a ragged gasp. Crack. The audience cringed. Crack. Sharvic was grinning, his body arched and eyes shut tight. He gleamed with sweat and the transfiguration of pain as the blows grew harder. His skin gave way and bled well before he broke and cried. But by then Artere had pushed his way back out of the balcony and down the stairs. The sounds of Keluria's whip and Sharvic's screams grew fainter as he went. Sandry was beside him in a flurry of footsteps. "What's wrong? I don't understand." Artere sighed. "I do. It's only about time for it." The gods consented to the annulment, and the legal details were swiftly hammered out. Artere was given a substantial amount of gold, most of which he left with a trusted trader who could provide him a note of credit. Sandry's company was discharged shortly thereafter. "I meant it when I told you to come to Kesh," he said. "It's quite nice this time of year, before the heat sets in." His horse pulled at the bit as its companions formed up in line in the courtyard. Artere considered. "I'm going first to pay my respects at Valmere's resting place. It's quite safe to travel, and someone should say the prayers over her, even if she didn't get properly buried. But after that, who knows?" They parted in a cloud of dust and galloping horses. Artere had packed, and the only thing between him and leaving was a final farewell to his queen. She received him in her chamber, which was exactly as he remembered, save for the smouldering-eyed prince who sat at her feet, collared in black leather and diamonds, like some treasured pet. Keluria stood and gave Artere her hand. "I'll miss you," she said, "But I cannot tell you I'm sorry." Artere shrugged. "I wouldn't want you to be. Shouldn't everyone get what they want thus, and be so happy with it?" When no one answered him, Artere bowed and took leave of the queen.