#jiyel!mc

Ria’s jaw dropped before her training and Jasper’s pointed look reminded her to nod pleasantly at such a statement.

In short order, the servants had her painted and dressed up properly, and they bustled her out the door.

As Huan faced the double doors into the great hall, she steeled herself.  This was the moment she had been waiting for ever since she’d been told she was going to the summit.  In fact, it had been the moment she’d dreamed of ever since she’d been a little girl, sitting at her grandmother’s feet and listening to tales of her ancestors.

Hers was a martial family, each member raised in the skills of the fighting arts.  The Way of the Sparrowhawk was the ancestral school of her clan, a style of swordsmanship as articulated and choreographed as the most exacting dances.  Its secrets and skills had been closely guarded for centuries.  And no member of her family had been a truer representation of their way than Huan’s great-grandfather, Rhoen.

Thinking of her great-grandfather, and her purpose in coming here, Huan pushed open the door into the hall.

She did not see him at first.  The man whom she was sure she was destined to meet here.  As Huan gazed around sharply, several obstacles interrupted her path.  Delegates with strange declarations of love and hate.  She handled these as best she could-- which was not well all things considered.  But she handled them and continued her search.

The hall was filled with people in their unwieldy gowns and suits, moving about with their unwieldy limbs and soft bodies.  Some were not so soft, and Huan filed these faces away for later.  Now, she must find him.  She was determined to fulfill her dream, her duty.

And then she saw him.

She felt her brows draw in and her face stiffen, the stiffness trickling down to the rest of her form.  Huan forced herself to relax.  Anxiety, anger-- any strong emotion was as deadly to the martial artist as any stray blade.  She calmed herself and refound her center.

Huan breathed, schooling her lungs in the pattern she needed now.  She let her distracting thoughts dissipate like smoke, and she slipped into the basic form for offensive action like a koi surfacing and diving beneath a pond’s silky skin.

And at the exact moment-- the very precise intersection of fate and timing-- when the many paces filled with the slow moving delegates, passing and dancing in their games of useless chatter, between Huan and him cleared-- the moment, the only moment there would be like this, like an alignment of the stars-- that moment, Huan tensed her feet and in the same instant launched herself thirty paces to lash at her target.

Ice Cracking in Spring.  A good move to test the waters.  But, just as she knew would be the case, he easily leaped away from her crashing palm.  A vase standing on a marble pedestal was not so lucky.

A lady shrieked as the vase and pedestal shattered violently.  Gasps and alarmed silence filled the hall.  Huan ignored it all, facing her opponent in the traditional stance of challenge.

“As a disciple of Sparrowhawk and a descendant of the master Rhoen,” Huan stated calmly, “I will redress an insult made by Geda of Mountain Fire, your ancestor.  Do you accept my challenge, General Falon?”

Murmurs followed her statement.  The middle-aged man across from her had already recovered his stance, and gazed at her in consternation.  Around them, whispers sprouted like weeds.  Huan ignored it all, feeling all of her sharpness and intensity welling in her gaze on the chaperone.  At the edge of her perception, she sensed the soft steps of approaching servants who stopped at a single glance from Falon.

The general turned back to her.

“No,” he said, shortly and firmly.

Huan paused.  She cleared her throat.

“As a disciple of Sparrowhawk and a descendant of Rhoen--”

“I heard you the first time,” Falon barked.

“Then you’re obligated to accept!” Huan snapped back.

She had not foreseen this.  It just didn’t happen.  Members of the martial world in Jiyel competed with one another constantly.  Challenges, if reasonable, must always be answered.  There was no law saying so, of course, but to shirk a challenge was simply shameful.  Especially if the challenge is meant to redress a perceived wrong.  It was a matter of honor.

“As a disciple of Sparrowhawk--”

“I said no,” the general practically shouted. “Look around you, this is not the practice yard.”

“I’ll let them move out of the way--”

“No,” Falon stated in a tone clearly meant to be final. “You are disgracing our nation.  The summit is meant to achieve international harmony.  Not satisfy personal vendettas from over a century ago.”

He studied her, his great black brows drawn down.  She stared back stubbornly.  He sighed.

“But it is not honorable for me to deny your request.  We will spar at a later time.”

Instantly, Huan felt her face light up, but quickly stifled her natural reaction behind a serious nod.  She snapped into a respectful bow, as a younger warrior to a master.  Falon returned his own bow.  And with that, the silence was gradually broken and the hiss of gossip and tittering renewed.

-

Huan was pulled aside before the delegates were released to the formal dinner, and Jasper gave her a thorough dressing down over her actions.  Dangerous, unbecoming of a lady, and impolite.  Nearly worth sending her home over.  Huan took it stoically; she was used to getting told off by tutors and her family.  It would be worth it in the end.

-

A few days later, Falon was stewing in silent resentment and his own manly fortitude.  Princess Jaslen and young Lady Avalie had somehow roped him into a garden tea.  The table was full of chirping young women, fragile flowery china, and little cakes.  Jaslen had convinced him his attendance was beneficial to the summit, so he had stayed.  But Falon was hard put to find how debating the merits of white or brightly colored petticoats would ever prevent war.  In fact, the most exciting thing to happen to this garden party was the introduction of Jaslen’s nephew and that pirate prince, and the subsequent wave of giggling (giggling) that washed over the table.

And so, it was perhaps with a touch more relief than annoyance that Falon found himself one moment holding a teacup and the next-- the teacup quietly exploding with clinking slivers of porcelain and lukewarm tea falling into his lap.  A stick-- an ordinary little twig-- spun around on his saucer sitting on the table.

And then, beside the silver teapot and the delicate tiered tray of cakes, there were two feet.  The table’s chatter broke into little alarmed screams and gasps as the young women pushed away, some falling over their chairs and skirts.  Falon looked up to glower at Huan, the last minute delegate from Jiyel, standing on the tea table in the stance of challenge.  She glowered back.

“As a disciple of Sparrowhawk--”

“Young lady,” Falon barked. “You--  This is not the time--”

“Now, now,” Prince Zarad said, tone dripping in amusement.  He sipped at his tea, calmly seated with his long limbs casually tossed about. “General, you did make a promise to Lady Huan, did you not?”

“Yes, and what sort of example would you make to us delegates of Jiyel if you did not uphold one of our greatest virtues?” Lady Avalie mused over a plate of finger sandwiches. “Honor, my lord General.  Is not honor worth your consideration?”

Falon spluttered. “On a tea table?  In front of--” He trailed off, gesturing at the young women who stood about slack-jawed and half-witless.

“Oh, the table can be moved,” Hamin of Hise said lightly.

“And these are not ordinary ladies,” Zarad added, winking at the group of girls. “They are noblewomen of stiff character who would certainly not shy away from a display of Jiyel’s greatest skills.  They have the good taste to appreciate such artistry, no?”

One of the girls recovered herself to smile back at the Corvali prince. “Of course, your highness.  We would be delighted for such a diversion.”

“Yes,” Princess Jaslen exclaimed, popping up. “It should be such a divine show!  Come, General.  Be a dear.”

Falon had half a mind to balk again; martial skills were not meant for ‘shows’ or ‘diversions.’  They were serious disciplines that took a lifetime of dedication to master.  But he was not so old or so distant from the happenings of the martial world to be immune to the fire of a challenge.  Huan was right.  He was obligated to accept, and although he aimed to achieve international harmony, he could not bear it if he went home with personal disgrace.

He stood, and met Huan’s gaze.  She smoothly pulled into a bow, and he bowed in return.

The tables and chairs and china were whisked away, and Huan of Sparrowhawk and Falon of Mountain Fire faced one another.

They bowed again, and as Huan smoothly poured herself into a stance of offense, she gazed back at him.  For Falon, her eyes recalled a time before his service to the king, before the military exams.  The endless hours of devotion to your school’s teachings, the burning ambition and the faith in one’s potential.  The general planted his feet and brought his palms up.

“I will defeat you within a hundred movements,” Huan stated calmly, her breathing tranquil and deadly.

Despite himself, Falon grinned.  Huan of the Sparrowhawk had some nerve.  The general had not gotten to where he was on military tactics alone.  He was widely regarded as the best warrior of his generation, and only three people of the previous generation had defeated him.  The best, Master Nenne of the Black Cloud, had forced him into submission at the hundred and fourteenth movement.  And Huan, no matter her skill, was too young to be anywhere near Master Nenne.

But it did remind him of his own boasts as a youth.

Lady Avalie took on the role of officiator.  As the tension and intent bloomed between the two opponents, and the silence spread out into the far reaches of the sunny garden, Avalie smiled charmingly at all.  Slowly, she raised her hands before her, slipped back her sleeves to bare her slim fingers and-- crack went her hands with the commencement clap.

Huan flew.

She was fast.  Falon had already known that from her whipfire attack during the welcome feast.  He’d been able to see it in her light build and the way certain muscles in her legs were defined.  He’d known it, yet it was another thing to endure the endless barrage of blows from dagger-like fingers.

Ice Cracking in Spring.  Bamboo Thicket in a Gale.  Diving on Prey.

Relentlessly, without pause, Huan attacked while Falon defended.  It was not that he couldn’t attack (although if he had not maintained his form over the years, even he would be hard-pressed by her speed); it was the difference in their strengths.  Huan was light and fast;  Falon heavier and far stronger.  If she wanted to avoid a blow from him, she had no choice but to press him as hard as she could.  And if he did not time his blow (and it would certainly come, he was already sure of it) she would strike a touch.  With the way her flashing palms hit his defense in all the correct moments and places, he knew even her small strength on a precise spot could cripple him.

Unacceptable.  He had not gotten to where he was, respected by His Majesty and regarded as a great military mind, just to be shown up by some upstart Sparrowhawk with a chip on her shoulder.

At the thirty-third movement-- her Lynx Spinning over Scree against his Birch Sapling Bending-- Falon saw his opening.  A sudden twist of his torso up toward her palm, instead of away, surprised her, and the imbalanced and undulating form required for her move left her exposed to a confident switch in Falon’s palm.  He bore down on her with a surge.

Huan spun away, dancing back to the other side of the circle their spectators had cleared for them.

She kept form, arms so perfectly defending they could have been sculpted into place.  But, to the trained eye, a miniscule contraction in her left forearm revealed where Falon had scored his touch.  She would have an enormous bruise tomorrow.

But he was impressed; she had, in mid-motion, instantly changed course.  He’d been aiming to dislocate her shoulder, not glance off her forearm.

“Is it over?” one of the noblewomen hissed.

“My dear, I’m afraid it’s only just begun,” Zarad answered, amused.

It was true.  Huan’s intense, large eyes had not wavered once through the whole exchange.  There was no pain or distraction within her mind now.  She was nowhere near finished.

Good.  Because Falon had just warmed up.

He lunged toward her.  And Huan, rather than bend backward to avoid his shovel-like palms, leaped forward to meet him.

Time faded away.  All worldly concerns drifted off.  It was merely two beings, skilled in a dance equal parts violence and beauty, clashing and whirling together.  Falon had met many people in his time, but he had found over the years that there were fewer ways to better understand another human than by crossing blades or fists.  In the meticulous control in her breathing, he saw the bottomless well of determination within her, fuelled by a well-trained endurance.  In the particular twist of her feet, he saw the habits of an old master he’d encountered once years ago.

At the sixty-eighth movement, Falon scored another touch.  At the ninety-sixth movement, Huan scored her first touch.  A stab from her fingers, formed into a striking knife, on his inner wrist that if she had used more strength and if Falon had not adjusted minisculely for the blow would have ruined his hand for life.  As it was, it would be numb for at least a day.  At the one hundred and twenty-third movement, Falon tangled her elusive footwork and closed on her.

They both froze.

Falon’s hand rested in the hollow of her throat.  If he actually struck the blow, she would be dead.  The bout was over.

After what seemed an eternity, they stepped apart.  Huan bowed first, and deepest.  Falon returned her respect.

He straightened. “I would much welcome another match, when we both have our partners again.”

‘Partner’ in the martial world referred to one’s sword, or weapon of choice.  Sparrowhawk and Mountain Fire were both schools of the sword, and though all schools were grounded in hand-to-hand skills, Falon had to admit he was curious about an armed bout with the girl.

Huan stared at him.  She frowned.

“That will take too long,” she stated. “Please be prepared.  I will challenge you again during the summit.”

“What,” Falon said loudly, startled. “How many times are you planning on doing this?”

“As many as it takes,” Huan said matter-of-factly.

She bowed again, and stalked off.  Behind her, the young noblewomen were attempting-- attempting-- to speak intelligently amongst themselves about the match, Jaslen and Avalie where gossiping loudly, and Hamin and Zarad appeared to be sniggering about Falon’s expression.

-

My Lord General,

Our family, as well as all of Jiyel surely, bears an immense respect for your achievements both on and off the field of battle in the name of our mother nation and her king.  We are surely smiled upon by the heavens to have not only a fellow countryman but an exemplary member of our society acting as a chaperone at the Summit.

As chaperone, we know you will look upon our best and brightest, our most accomplished sons and daughters, as charges to be guided down appropriate paths for cooperation amongst the seven nations.

That being said, my wife and I can only beg your magnanimity in regards to our deficiency as parents.  Our daughter, Huan, we know has few rights to serve as delegate.  Although she has some skill in swordsmanship and sparring, she did not take the exam for consideration as member of the summit, and we very much doubt that she would have distinguished herself if she had.  I am embarrassed to admit it, but we have not been able to cultivate in her much ability as a scholar.

She may also be harboring inconvenient notions of her duty to our family with regards to you personally, General.  If this is the case, I can only again ask for your generous nature to regard her with an open mind.  She is a young girl, naive to the ways of the world, and has yet to forgo her childish idealisms.

Again, if our Huan offends you, my Lord General, we can only offer our profuse apologies.

Sincerely,

Lord Ru, assistant magistrate of the ninety-third district

Falon frowned at the letter in his hand.

It wasn’t exactly what he was expecting.  Nothing about its contents was improper, exactly, but its sentiments rang untrue for him.  He glanced at the other letter on his desk.  Pulling it towards himself, he cracked its wax seal marked with the same insignia as the seal on the first letter.

Falon,

Forgive my presumption for taking the liberty of not using your titles, but I knew your grandfather when he didn’t have a thread of gray hair and I met you when you were still cutting milk teeth.  Besides, I’m too old to be mincing words with a kid like you.

My third son is useless and will try to tell you that my favorite granddaughter, Huan, is as well.  But she has more talent in her little finger than he will ever exhibit in his entire miserable life.  She has the potential to be the greatest martial artist our nation has ever produced.  I suspect you may already know this by the time my letter reaches you.

She has a good nature and is a very sweet child, but she needs to see more of the world.  Unfortunately, the opportunities for her are slim in Jiyel.  She is no doubt challenging you at every turn.  I want you to answer her challenges.  It will help her grow, and it won’t hurt you to get your head out of your scenarios and actually sweat a little for your victories again.

Ulla, of Sparrowhawk

By the way, I was the one who told her to get revenge for my father, Rhoen.  Better keep an eye out, you Mountain Fire scum.

Falon peered at the second letter.  It’s tone was all too familiar, somehow.  He wondered if this was some practical joke by the Matchmaker.

Inept scholar.  Naive, idealistic girl.  Good-natured and sweet.  He was struggling to resolve these terms with the determined young warrior he’d crossed fists with.

And ‘Mountain Fire scum’?  Falon snorted and threw down the letter.  This certainly was a matter of the martial world.  He couldn’t remember the last time someone insulted him to his face; his time at court had been long and tedious, indeed.

His hand unconsciously went to his belt, where his sword would usually hang.  The Isle could at least allow steel in cases of show bouts.  Maybe he should start carrying a wooden practice sword.  No matter how embarrassing carrying a child’s weapon would be.  But it wouldn’t do to appear as if he was concerned about Huan of Sparrowhawk.  No.  He was General Falon.  He’d only been defeated properly three times in his life.  The next six weeks certainly weren’t going to change that.

-

At luncheons, private dinners, and suddenly in the middle of hallways, Huan began a hunt whose sole target was painted on the back of General Falon.  She would burst from cupboards and drop from ceiling beams to attack the man, and begin the rapidfire exchange of blows that were quickly becoming a favorite entertainment for the delegates.  The general was suddenly inundated with invitations in the hopes that Huan would make an appearance as well, kicking aside wine goblets to aim at Falon’s face.  You were considered a bit out of touch if you hadn’t attended at least one event where the pair from Jiyel crossed fists.

Betting pools began on how many touches the general would score, if Huan would score any at all, and how many movements it would take to defeat her.  Because, like clockwork, Huan would eventually make some misstep and be forced to submit.

Some bouts she did not score a single touch.  Her worst defeat came at a match with a mere sixty-eight movements.  Her best showing lasted for one hundred and ninety-two.  But without fail, no matter the results or General Falon’s admonishments, she promised to attempt the challenge again.  Her eyes perpetually burned with a fierce resolve.  Falon had a theory that she slept with her eyes open, lest that gaze burn holes through her eyelids.

-

Palm of the Fishing Bear.  Palm of the Fishing Bear.  Palm of the Fishing Bear.

A thrust of the rigid palm, fingers crooked like claws, down and curving out and inward to cripple an opponent’s shins.  But it was a training dummy she’d dragged into a quiet corner of the castle grounds that her hand lashed out at, the wood groaning with each strike.

Huan jumped back, stretching her limbs to cool them.  She wiped sweat from her brow and considered her hand.  Calloused from years of training, some fingertips cracked and rough, the shredded sheet she was using to bind her hands for hand-to-hand work.  A stubborn paper cut that would not move on.  Rolling back her sleeve a little, she considered her wrist.  If she was not imagining things, the tendons were swollen.

She glanced back at the dummy.  The scars she’d placed in its oaken surface were not as deep as she was accustomed to.

She wasn’t imagining things.

She was getting weaker.

-

Huan paused at a corner within the castle’s grand library, hidden from sight.  She listened carefully.  The librarian was busy pushing a cart laden with books through the stacks, and the perpetual resident of the library-- Duke Lyon -- was breathing in the steady, slow rhythm of deep sleep.  His little fort towered several paces away, far beyond hearing range of Huan’s soft steps.  Even if he were awake, and even with his moderate training, Huan doubted Lyon would notice anything beyond his scrolls and books.

There was no else in the library, so Huan rounded the corner.

She gazed up at the high reaching shelves.  Full of leather and paper and learning.  Not knowing where to start, she pursed her lips and began at random.  There were tall books, thick books, thin and squat.  She pulled a couple out, here and there, and flipped them open.  She stared at the pages for a long time.  Sometimes she turned to a new page, sometimes she only peered at the paper surfaces with hard eyes.

Things had not changed since coming to Vail Isle.  The black marks on the white pages, meant to signify words and sentences and ideas, merely squirmed and jumped over one another when Huan glanced at them.

It was as if the writing bore her some personal grudge, knew exactly when she was looking at them, and chose those exact moments to gambol about.  Sometimes, if Huan was patient and used her fiercest glare, she could tame the letters long enough to eek out a few phrases.  If she was particularly persistent, and willing to sacrifice long, arduous hours, she could even tough her way through several pages.  But it was so hard and tiresome and never as rewarding as sword practice.

And.  It was… upsetting.  It reminded her of the worst of the tutors, the ones who smacked her hands with their little rods even though she had always been sure it wasn’t her fault.  It reminded her of the nausea that rose in her throat whenever she sat in the great testing halls as a child, staring blankly at her blank exam pages.  It reminded her of her older siblings, all with their own minor or major scholarly accomplishments and therefore loved by their parents.

She hated it.  But.  She could not avoid it this time.  She was sure her survival rested in these leather volumes, spiteful and hateful things as they were.

Huan spent some time quietly battling with obtuse script.  When she heard Duke Lyon stirring in his corner, she slipped the volume she’d been holding back into its place and left the library without a sound.

-

When several days passed by quietly, Falon found himself at loose ends.  He had not heard even a whisper of Huan’s expert footwork, not even the smallest breeze from her lightning fast lunges.  It surprised him that he actually missed being abruptly forced into a fight.

Therefore, on a sunny day strolling through the castle’s solariums when Falon found a long thin object hurtling toward his face, he struggled to keep a grin from his lips as his hand automatically flew to catch a wooden practice sword before it could brain him.

He frowned at Huan, standing before him with her own practice sword.

“You never learn your limits,” he scolded. “To be ambitious is one thing, to be a fool is another.”

Ignoring his statement, the girl bowed.  The solarium’s other occupants perked up at the sudden scene, and began to titter amongst themselves.

Straightening, she glowered at him. “I’ve been reflecting.  I want you to accept me as a disciple.”

Falon raised a brow. “My disciple?  Will you then abandon the Way of the Sparrowhawk you’re so proud of?”

“No,” Huan answered firmly. “I mean, teach me for the remainder of the summit.”

“Why would you want that?  You have all the skills you need.  Anything I could teach you would be incompatible with your style.”

She stared at him with burning eyes. “So I can learn all your secrets and defeat you with them.”

A snort of laughter went up in the sparse crowd strung around them.  But Huan held no shred of irony or duplicity in her gaze.  Her words, like all her words and actions, were sincere.

“I see,” Falon stated.  Then, he couldn’t help himself-- he laughed. “You upstart, presumptuous punk.  What makes you think I’ll accept such reasoning?”

“I’ll prove myself,” she stated. “I will gain a touch within fifty movements.  If I can, make me your student.”

The general paused.  It was not impossible for her. In fact, the touches she had been scoring had been coming more and more quickly.  But the past few bouts had a touch of urgency in them that they had not begun with; he’d been surprised, therefore, at the period of respite where she disappeared.  He studied her for a moment, and raised the wooden sword-- little better than a stick really-- and gestured toward her.

“Come,” he said.

-

She did not know what to do.

Her hands were starting to shake just holding a teacup.  The things that defined her, the things that filled her with purpose-- her strength and agility -- were slipping away like fine snow in the wind.  If she could see the person that had done this to her, she could have it out of them.  If she could cut with a blade the poison that ran through her, she could defeat it.

As it was, her furtive forays into the library and the alien world of research were useless.  Worse than useless, since they wasted energy and sparked anxiety and anger in her.

What if she died like this?  Would they say, oh serves her right, how apt, when she didn’t try hard enough at her studies?  Would they remember her efforts at all at perfecting her family’s Way?

If she could at least defeat General Falon, at least there would be that left of her name.  But even that possibility was becoming slimmer and slimmer.  Score a touch within fifty movements?  Ha!  She barely avoided defeat until the hundred and eighth!

And she had not been able to muster the strength to challenge him again.  She was afraid she would reveal her ailment to the general, who now, after so many bouts, knew her almost as well as her grandmother.  She did not know the cunning ways of court, but like any battle she knew it was beyond dangerous to ever show your weakness.

She did not know what to do.

-

“I will show you my sincerity in fifteen movements.”

Falon studied her.  It was the same fierceness, the same unwavering determination, but something had changed since she’d declared she would be his student.  A stillness beyond stillness, a certainty beyond certainty.  A slowness that spoke more of depth, of commitment than any quenching of her fire.

It was a rare afternoon when the ballroom stood empty but for the long shadows cutting the polished floor and the silken rustle of the tall drapes at the cavalcade of windows.  This time, there was no nuisance of an audience with their vulgar curiosity.

Falon nodded.  They paid their respects, and began.

She careened toward him, her feet eating up the glossy tile of the ballroom like a stone skipping over a lake instantaneously, a collapse in the fabric of the world that made time obsolete.  She was there, now she was upon him.  All at once.

At first, Falon did not know what had happened to him.  She struck a touch at the first movement, one that he barely deflected from becoming a defeat.  The next string of paired maneuvers seemed to occur with him mired in a sludge.  He was forced to bend and twist in ways that recalled the broken rhythms and scrambling of his three defeats.  What had happened?  It was like a sense he didn’t even know he’d been using had been cut down.

And then, as she flew backward from him releasing a blow, weighted with the iron defense it had sprung from, he saw it.  The way she planted her foot, and the contortion of her leg muscles as she prepared to fly back into the furor.

It was the first he’d seen it.  He’d heard of it.  But never would he have believed her to be so foolish.

He had to stop this.  Now.  Fifteen movements would be too late.

Falon waited.  Or rather, being that this fight, somehow only milliseconds in length, gave him no room to wait, he sharpened himself.  With the whetstone of his will, he found the razor-edge stillness with which to cut down the outer world.  He observed, and he saw it--

Falon groaned with the pain of releasing the tension in his calves and thighs, the feverish spring of his arms in the aftermath of the motion that had sent Huan crashing to the marble tile and skidding, prone, several paces away.  She was silent.

The general heaved with heavy breaths.  Still, he moved toward her with a quiet fury in his eyes.

“How dare you,” he said. “How could you be such a fool.”

The girl pushed up from the floor, her arms shaking.  She did not meet his gaze.

“These things,” he continued, “are meant for war.  For real battles.  Where lives are at stake.  Not show bouts.  Not trivial, stupid pride.  Show me your sincerity?” He made a sound of disgust. “You have only shown me the paper-thin depth of your character.”

“I know,” Huan finally said, her head still down. “I know.  But--”

Her hands on her knees clenched and bunched her tunic. “I know, but I don’t have any options left.  There’s no time.”

Falon frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Huan glanced up at him, then back down.  She shook her head and remained silent.

The general sighed heavily and winced.  The move to stop her had taken a lot out of him, and he would certainly pay for it in the morning.  He could already feel a jittery sort of numbness in his limbs.

“I don’t know what is weighing on you,” he said quietly. “But you are alive and young and strong.  You are fully capable of conquering many obstacles, so there is no need to resort to such tactics.  You have time.  And if you don’t, make time.”

Huan, her head still bent, knelt silent for a long stretch of time, as if absorbing his words carefully and fully.  Then, she bent in the most respectful bow possible; one meant for the subject to her king, or the child to her parents and masters.

Falon studied her for a moment, and then made her get up and go on to bed.  He needed sleep, too, desperately.  Maybe a hot bath first.  To loosen his muscles a bit and make his morning at least incrementally less excruciating.

-

“...if, for example, we take Nadya’s proposition to the fifth emperor of the Jurri dynasty in Corval, Emperor Perr Deut Zhardent, for the establishment of a social construct wherein the tenets of Grae’s aesthetic theory were followed to a letter, and the subsequent disastrous results which culminated in the horrific Red Canvas Movement, insulting the Dowager Queen Benice of Revaire as--”

A hand interrupted any further progression through the text.

A real, three-dimensional hand, that is, placed upon the page in front of Lyon’s nose.  He looked up, his bones creaking from disuse.

Lady Huan scowled back at him.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for a long time,” she accused. “What if I had been an assassin?”

“Then you would have killed me,” Lyon replied.

Huan’s frown deepened. “Weren’t you trained by Master Ideer from Brass Palm?  She would be appalled.”

“If you had really been set on killing me, I probably would have reacted,” Lyon answered.

“Probably?”

“Look, is there something you need?”

Huan closed her mouth against whatever outraged statement she was about to express.  She released a stream of air from her nose to disperse her annoyance.  Pulling out a chair at the table where Lyon sat (she assumed there was a table underneath all the texts), she perched herself across from him.  Huan stared at Lyon with her hard eyes, and he pushed his spectacles up.

“I have a puzzle for you,” she stated. “I can’t solve it on my own, so I need your help.”

Lyon straightened to focus on her fully, rather than let his eyes sidle to the open books before him.

“I’m listening,” he said.

4.  Siblings - Revaire

LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT CHRETIEN.

Chretien is the second oldest after Sabine.  He’s four years younger than her.  He is the ‘good guy’ that everyone deserves in their life.  He has an easy-going and amiable personality that adapts pretty easily to any situation.  He smiles easily, and is an impeccable gentleman.  A sweetheart.

Chretien grew up largely protected by Sabine from the worst of his parents’ nonsense.  But he’s not a fool, and like his older sister has mixed feelings about their parents.  But unlike Sabine, he hates confrontation and generally stood back whenever a fight occurred.  He harbors some guilt from this, that he let his sister take on the entire burden of their siblings and the entire responsibility of pushing their parents into occasionally acting like parents.

When Sabine got married, she was able to send him to university.  He spent some time studying economics and trade, and then took a job at an investment house despite his sister’s attempts to persuade him otherwise.  Chretien is aiming to ultimately pull the Guyenne family up by its bootstraps, and repair the estate and their reputation.  However, it puts Chretien himself in a strange spot.  Some of his noble friends cannot imagine associating with a person employed in trade.  A proper nobleman should be idle, and not work like some merchant’s son.

After Sabine remarries, I imagine Zarad will make many attempts to help Chretien out, but he will refuse of course.  So Zarad will find some ways to have proxies invest in Chretien’s company.  And his proxies will end up competing with Sabine’s.  Chretien himself will be blissfully unaware, just thinking that he’s having a lucky streak finally.

Roselin is the next child in the family.  She is altogether too much like her mother, too silly to be as pretty as she is.  At eighteen, she’s already run away from home four times.  Two times with girlfriends, two others merely because she was told off by Sabine.  She doesn’t have a spiteful temperament, but she has a terrible victim complex and thrives on drama.  She’s their parent’s favorite.

I’ve mentioned Victoire before in another ask, but Sabine considers a sister as well.  She’s a few years older than Sabine, and carefully maintains a mysterious air.  She is very good at being a lady’s maid, running a household, and digging up things that people would rather be left buried.

The others are works in progress, but imagine a gaggle of cute puppies with pretty dark curls.

16. Friends - Current

Sabine is generally close to everyone with a special fondness for Ria, Cordelia, and Penn.  She can’t help adopting the big sister role with them.  Her need to mother people is pretty irresistible.  She has had some small conversations with Clarmont about certain writers they are both mutually acquainted with.  She pretends to dislike Hamin on principle, since he and Zarad gang up on her.  The exchanges with Avalie have been terribly amusing and an enjoyable challenge; she looks forward to what their relationship will become in the following years.

She’s of course exchanging letters with her dear Victoire and Guillaume back home; she’s heartbroken that it may potentially be some time until she sees either again.

Huan let Ana down pretty instantly when they met; she’s planning to live in Jiyel forever.  But that just opened the way for them to have a great friendship wherein they try to punch each other a lot.  She and Sayra probably haven’t said more than a dozen words to each other, but they can tell just meeting each other’s eyes that they are the same type in many ways.  Zarad finds Huan’s actions incredibly amusing/admirable; Huan finds him to be a bit of a pest.

19. Rivalry - Past

Sabine first came into court with few friends.  Her now friend Guillaume Comtois hated her, but they resolved their differences.  There was a later incident in which Sabine and Guillaume had to confront a ghost of Alain’s (the Baron Namaire’s son’s) past– his once fiancee.  It’s one of those things that’s on my long list of things to write.

Huan, as a pretty devout student of the Way of the Sparrowhawk, spent a lot of her childhood getting into fights with rival schools.  Her parents would chew her out for these incidents; her grandmother would only half-heartedly scold her.  Challenges in the martial world are par-the-course, and the childhood spats are seen as stepping stones.  Huan led the other Sparrowhawk children around like a gang of little terrors.

20. Rivalry - Current

Sabine of course has the standard silly thing with Blain, and she enjoys the frenemy-ness between herself and Avalie.  She maintains a careful distance from Gisette and Jarrod, and has done her best to keep their attention from herself.

Huan has successfully pissed off Blain, Gisette, and Jarrod.  To a lesser extent: Jasper (over her unmanageable behavior), Woodly, Jaslen, and Avalie.  I’m half tempted to write some sort of incident between her and Jarrod because I know she would  d r a g  him.  Literally.  By his silly little reverse-rattail.

Surprisingly, she dislikes Clarmont.  Even if your intentions are good, she intensely disapproves of people who never say what they mean.

-

Name: Lady Loriela of Jiyel (nicknamed Loriel)

Hair: Black, straight, and shoulder length. She probably doesn’t bother with it too much, usually just putting her hair in the simplest possible half updo and securing it with an enamel barrette (I imagine she has a fairly nice collection of these) to keep her hair out of her face. If she needs a fancier style, she’ll put it up with hair sticks or a comb (kanzashi, anyone?) Her hair isn’t particularly thick, but it’s very shiny.

Eyes: Gray, almond-shaped with an upward slant. Her eyes are incredibly intelligent and give you the feeling that she’s always observing.

Body: Alabaster skin with a willowy build. She is on the tall side of medium with long limbs, torso, and fingers. (Basically, she has my figure, but is probably a couple of inches shorter.)

Style: Functional. Some of her outfits have a bit of a military feel to them, with double rows of buttons and a stiff raised collar with embroidery. I noticed some military elements in what Lyon was wearing and since there is an appreciation for strategy and seems to be a long military history in Jiyel, I figured having her in skirted military wear wouldn’t be out of place and would probably be fitting for Loriela. Otherwise, she wears a lot of ao dai (some with pants underneath and some with a second skirt) as a compromise between the need for pretty clothes and practicality. She also wears ruqun and I imagine that Jiyel has a female version of daopao, which is a traditional Chinese outfit that is worn by (male) scholars, since Jiyel has more equality between men and women than Song Dynasty China. She avoids anything with a train or overly long sleeves if she can help it. They might get in the way of reading books, after all! The horror! As for colors, she tends to wear darker ones like blacks, navy blues, and dark greens. She likes to go with more subdued colors in general, so you’ll also find some olives and blue grays in her wardrobe. She wears mostly cool colors and tends to avoid anything that’s overly bright.

Personality: Well spoken and logical. She has a somewhat dry sense of humor, but she likes to laugh and can be charming when she wants to. Incredibly intelligent and sensible, she’s capable of great imaginative thinking, but knows there is a time and a place for it and isn’t the type to let her imagination run away with her. She prefers to be subtle in most cases, rarely commenting on things she finds displeasing beyond a raised eyebrow. However, she loves a lively debate and when it comes to academics, she is engaging, quick witted, and equally quick to share her views. Somewhat surprisingly, she reads just as many novels as she does factual texts and she has a romantic streak that believes in true love and the existence of selfless heroes. In addition to enjoying the tales, she also thinks there are often just as many things to learn from fiction as there are from fact and consequently, her knowledge is vast and varied. Loriela finds great value in innovation and will never turn down a new idea thoughtlessly.

Despite her faultless logic, she is spontaneous and thrives in chaos, relishing the challenge of tight deadlines. When combined with her compassionate nature, this often means that she is quick to act when it comes to helping others. She has a strong sense of justice and believes it is the duty of those in power to help those who are not. Loriela’s greatest weakness is her extreme introversion, which makes politics a somewhat trying experience for her. Like Lyon, she enjoys the solace she can find in libraries and if she doesn’t have at least half an hour to herself to read in bed before she sleeps she tends to feel twitchy and anxious the next day. She also enjoys escaping into the gardens, especially right after it rains. Rain always makes her feel more peaceful and her favorite place to be when it rains are idly reading by a window or watching under the cover of a gazebo or a building’s eves outdoors.

Initial stats: 50 charm, 50 eloquence, 25 beauty, 25 leadership, 25 self-defense, 25 charisma, 25 courage, 85 intelligence, 30 etiquette, 25 poise, 50 cunning, 25 history, 85 academic, 25 people, noble, subtle, sensible, compassionate, logical, romantic, innovative, spontaneous, ethical