Chapter 1 - Scene 1

Chapter 1

            Rays of pale sun pushed into the darkness of Aleister L’Conte’s room. The intruders rudely forced their way into his squinted, emerald eyes. Motes of dust sparkled lustrously like tiny flecks of gold, drifting down out of sight into the dim confines below. He took in a deep breath, drawing in the scent of morning scones. No doubt Ramus was terrorizing the kitchens, wielding his spoon like a cudgel and shouting commands. He was a gruff one, but his food was second to none. The smell was almost enough to encourage Aleister out of his bed, but the feelings that lingered in his mind from his dream kept him still.
            His dreams had become fierce recently. Creatures of unspeakable nature bit at his heels, and something terrible watched from afar. The mere thought brought shivers to his naked form. The covers that guarded him from the crisp cold of the fall morning did nothing for him against the feeling. It permeated even the stout, northern wool and crept around him insidiously.
            He sat up with a loud sigh and tossed the blankets aside; his hair billowed about him in straight tendrils of bright red. It was almost like blood, some had told him. He glanced to the side at his body length mirror. Against his pale white skin it almost did look as though a fountain of red blood spilled from his head and ran its way to his hips. His lips were a similarly bright red and a dash of freckles peppered his face. He looked every part a little girl, and nothing like the seventeen year old boy he really was.
            He slowly opened his wardrobe and peered inside. It was a beastly piece of furniture, made of oak and adorned with heavy brass work and deep carving, and some mornings it took all the strength his small limbs could muster to open. A spilling of cloth organs fell outward from the wardrobe; it was a mass of lace and fine cloth in a multitude of colors. With a sigh he picked through a dozen or so dresses, but nothing seemed to catch his fancy. All of what he owned was of Destarian fashion, and while most certainly all worthy of Destarian nobility, in Phel’garian occupied territory it was almost a badge of shame.
            A heavy knock on his door broke the silence of his morning.
            “Aleis, you lazy bones, get up!”
            “Wait just a moment!” His voice squeaked and cracked terribly as he shouted.
            He thrust an arm into the tangle and produced a dress at random. It was a rather lacy affair, with a high neck, a bell shaped bottom, and intricate floral embroidery on green cloth. It most certainly wasn’t his favorite, but it would have to do. He began to dress as quickly as he could.
            “I can come help you dress.” The muffled voice was half giggle, and the door creaked open slowly.
            “No!” Aleister leapt towards the door, tripping on the hem of his dress and fell hard. His body slammed the door shut. After several moments of composing himself and donning his dress, Aleister opened the door and looked out with his eyes cast downward.
            An incredibly tall girl stood just outside of his door. She smiled down at him, her blonde, shoulder length ringlets bouncing as she shook her head. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, and she stood with one hip raised slightly. Ursta Tant was easily head and shoulders taller than he, taller than many men in fact. Her full lips were parted in a wide grin that resonated with a twinkle in her sky blue eyes.
            “Aleis, asleep late as always.”
            “Good morning,” he cleared his throat and tried to sound more feminine, “Fist Tant.”
            “Oh please, I have not been granted that title yet. You know that. Anyway,” she looked him up and down with that same, mischievous grin, “look at you. All disheveled. The mistress of the library would be most displeased if you showed up looking like that.”
            “Yes,” Aleister turned back and peered into his mirror again, his dress was slightly crooked and his hair was a mess, “I am not good with mornings as you somehow have always been.”
            “You also whine more than I ever have,” she all but pushed him into a chair, picked up a brush and began to make quick strokes up and down the length of his hair, “but I suppose being such a fragile lady you cannot help it.”
            “Ursta…”
            “You must take better care of yourself, if you’re ever to become a lady that a man would want… or a woman.” He could feel that grin on her face as if it emitted warmth against his back.
            “I have my books.”
            “Books, books. It’s always about books with you. Have you no interest in boys?”
            “Not really,” he squeaked and blushed, “books will treat me better.”
            “Perhaps you are right,” she set the brush down, “now come, you must eat breakfast! If you’re ever to have a worthy chest like mine, you’ll need to eat better.”
            He tried to ignore her brandishing of said assets and darted out of his door.
            The long hallway was bathed in orange sunlight that washed down from the tall windows lining the walls. All of the halls in the L’Conte manor were filled with windows. The architects of the past had obviously planned out the structure with incredible attention paid to how light came in. Even the deepest of alcoves, some baring lavish statuary or vases, were kept bright until the late hours of the afternoon.
            “You always run away when things are getting interesting.” Ursta laughed as she caught up to him.
            “Doesn’t it seem odd that this manor is so wealthy in appearance?”
            “Aleis,” she said, frowning at his abrupt change of subject, “you know this isn’t a topic I like to talk about.”
            Truthfully, it wasn’t one he favored much either. The walls were lined with beautiful paintings and elaborate tapestries, but dust coated more surfaces than it should have. In fact, a great deal of the manor was falling into disrepair. They had little enough money and were low in status in recent years. Most of the servants who stayed did so out of loyalty to the L’Conte family, which were only Aleister and his mother now. His father had died in the first battles of the Phel’garian occupation and with his death much of the family wealth had been confiscated.
            “You’re right,” he pushed open the large door to the dining hall and breathed deeply of the aroma of scones and grilled yanoff, “let’s just eat.”
            He approached the large, highly polished table at the center of the dining hall. It was covered in a great variety of dishes that Ramus had spent a lot of care preparing. The man was quite a perfectionist, especially when it came to cooking. Aleister gingerly picked up one of the honeyed scones that sat on a silver platter and took a nibble before setting it on his own plate. It was light and flaky, with a perfect sweetness that was not too overpowering. A moment later he washed it down with a mulled wine that Ramus assured him was good for his stamina.
            “Ramus is a saint,” Ursta said around a mouthful of boiled egg, “his dishes would be fit for the gods.”
            “Ah, don’t you mean the goddess?”
            “You know I don’t believe in such things,” she shot him a glare, “I’m in the Fist because I have to be, not because I worship Yetere.”
            “Forgive me. I’m feeling a bit off this morning.”
            “I can see that. Hand me that scone and I will forgive you.”
            The door opened at the end of the dining hall and a middle aged woman surrounded by a group of servants swept in. His mother was a small lady, shorter than even he and every bit as small framed, yet she had a powerful presence. Her face was soft and had weathered the years well, but her gray eyes were sharp, intelligent and commanding. She waved the servants away with a quick motion and came towards them at the table.
            “Aleis, my daughter, good morning,” she said as she sat at the head of the table, “I see you still have a healthy appetite, Ursta.”
            “Sure do, Lady Alba.”
            “If only my daughter had the same. Perhaps she would fill out that dress better.”
            Aleister poked his fork at the yanoff fish he had put on his plate but had not yet eaten.
            “You know that will never happen, mother.” He said without looking up.
            “Aleis,” Alba put a heavy emphasis on that name, “you mustn’t have such an attitude.”
            He looked at her without raising his head. Her eyes were narrowed and the strain was visible on her face. She wasn’t often so open with her anger, but when she was it was best to pay attention.
            “I am sorry, mother. I spoke out of turn. Perhaps I will after all.”
            “Good, please see to it that you do not let it happen again. You understand your place.”
            He knew all too well. Ursta wasn’t aware of it, but there was much more to that exchange than she would've ever imagined. He was a liar; his whole existence was a farce. Other than his mother, only Ramus knew his secret. Most everyone was convinced that he was in fact a she. It was something he had been hiding since before he could remember.
            “Are you ready for the ball?” Alba said suddenly.
            The thought soured his stomach a little. He never cared for the pomp and circumstance of the balls the Phel’garian governor held. It was all little more than a lavish spectacle for her to show how much power and control she had over the people of Valis De.
            “I don’t know what to wear. I always seem so out of place with my Destarian dresses.”
            “Aleis L’Conte,” Alba’s jaw was set in that look she always got when she scolded him, like she was about to chew stone, “you will not mock our house or our history. I refuse to gallivant around wearing the shameful clothes that the Phel’garian nobles wear. Those audacious women have no morals.”
            Not to mention that if he wore them it was much more likely his secret would be discovered.
            “I don’t care much for those clothes myself,” Ursta said quietly, her face reddening a little, “I prefer you in the clothes you normally wear.”
            “Just the same, I have a new dress for you. I had it specially made for the ball.”
            “Thank you, mother,” he felt a wave of guilt, here he was being petty and his mother had likely made some sort of sacrifice to have this dress made for him, “I am sorry for my behavior this morning.”
            “You are forgiven. Now, off with you. I will not have you late for your duties.”

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