The trainer snorted, and puffy white smoke flew out of his nostrils. These lame boys would never be knights, regardless of what these royalty people thought. Centuries of incest among cousins could not have produced a better bunch, he laughed to himself. Royalty indeed. They were lined up in a somewhat straight line as he glanced over them. He stopped short at one fellow. Scrawny little thing, he'd be begging to go home by the end of the day.

"My name is Sir Grath. You may only call me Sir Grath, nothing more nothing less. I shall be your instructor for the days to come. You will be trained from boys to men, but those who want to remain in the bosoms of their mums will speak now or forever hold their tongues and do as I say."

The "scrawny little thing" smiled beneath the shade of her shortened hair. So far so good.

******************

Prince Harry watched as Sir Grath bellowed out more orders to the soon to be knighted court of his own throne. He had no desire to be in their position today, for Sir Grath was known for his "discipline" and "training." Removing himself from the window, he paced in the confines of the room. The books on the table were not at all tempting to him, for he had read them more than twice and still the teacher refused to believe that he had read them. He tried the doors once more, but they stood still. Suddenly, he grinned mischievously at the sheets on the bed next to him.

**************

Of all the things she'd seen, this was a first. Out of the corner of her, there was a figure crawling down the window in the story above in broad daylight! She could not help but let out a snicker, for the figure reminded her of herself when she had escaped from father's castle more than a few times.

"Do you find my dictation to be amusing, boy?!"

Oh, how she wished the earth could have swallowed her up. The last thing she wanted was to be noticed right now.

"Answer me boy!"

**************

Harry flinched and turned in mid-air before realizing that the vicious yell was not directed at him. He would have thought by now that Sir Grath had noticed him. Of course, then he would be brought to the King, who would tell the teacher that he could already memorize the book that he had wanted him to read. But Sir Grath's wrath was not directed toward him, but toward a skinny young man who was under training. His heart pounded as he lowered himself closer to the ground. They hadn't seen him! He took a peek at the boy being bellowed at by Sir Grath and told himself that he would pay his savior a visit, for he had very well saved him from three whole hours of utter boredom!

Harry dropped to the ground behind the bushes to observe the scene. Sir Grath was lecturing a group of young boys who to be trained as knights . . . he recognized the scene, having gone through the same thing himself years earlier. Yet he had not been knighted due to his being the possible heir to the throne. He had to be trained in more "gentlemanly" ways . . . Harry rolled his eyes, recalling his tutoring in Latin . . . amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant. Whatever. Sir Grath was chewing out a short boy, quite obviously prepubescent as most of them were. The boy looked almost feminine -- fair skin, high cheekbones and forehead, delicate face . . . well, masculinity would come with time. Harry pushed a strand of his own jet black hair out of his face as he looked about for a way out into the stable, where he would take his horse Blaze for a ride in the woods. He snuck through the brush around to the back of the castle and made his way into the stable successfully. Unfortunately, he didn't notice the shadowy figure that was already inside . . .

The figure saw him and looked up abruptly. "Brother, what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be studying history back in your room?" Harry sighed. Sometimes his brother was *so* conceited.

"John, I've finished reading those books three times! I needed a break. I'll only be gone a bit, please don't tell anyone." Jonathon looked his mirror image directly in the eye. Harry felt the coldness of his gaze and shank beneath it -- he was sure his twin's intentions were not as noble as everyone liked to think. He picked up his saddle and started to walk towards the horse, but Jonathon's arm barred his path.

"I don't think you're going anywhere, Harold." His stare was like ice and his demeanor overpowering. Harry took an involuntary step backwards from the intensity of his brother's glare. Suddenly, something clicked inside of him and he shook his mind free of cobwebs.

"You have no authority over me. You can't tell me what to do." He gazed defiantly at his overly sure of himself brother, whose face was unreadable.

"Neither of us has the throne yet. You may not live to see the day *one of us* ascends," Jonathon said icily as he stalked out of the room.

***

Lanna shrank under the glare of Sir Grath. There was no way she could get through this!

"What's your name, boy?" She shivered. "Tell me your name!"

"My name is Lan, Sir Grath!" she replied nervously, hoping he would expect her high-pitched voice.

"Well, Lan, you had better learn to control your *giggles* from now on."

"Yes, sir!" She relaxed as he moved away from her and continued his lecture. He hadn't found her out! The training began.

Jonathon stood in the shadows as he watched his timid brother race out upon his horse. Harold shall never do as the King, he tsked quietly to himself. 'Though he has the right face for it,' he thought as he silently laughed to himself. A sharp pang to his right shin brought him back to reality. One of the boys hastily apologized and started to retrieve the fallen lance from his foot.

"Fool!" he yelled as he kicked the lance further out of the lad's reach. The boy looked up, startled but not frightened at his outburst. He then scrambled after the lance and joined the line of boys following Sir Grath to the stables.

Narrowing his eyes, Jonathon glared after the clumsy boy. There was something different, wrong about the way he had looked at him. 'His. . .' Jonathon paused at a realization and snorted. Any idiot could have seen this, and obviously, Sir Grath was THE idiot. A plan was concocted right at the moment, a splendid plan. A plan that would ruin his good brother forever; the throne would go to no one but him. What luck for this lady in disguise to fall at his feet right then.

Perhaps this wouldn't be a boring day after all.

***************

Night had fallen over the castle, and shadows crept despite the burning torches hung at every corner.

Lanna walked, no, more like crawled into her designated chambers, her muscles aching from grueling training she had received today. Nothing looked more tempting than the soft bed that welcomed her into the room. Yet, as she reached to lock the door, she find it would not budge. At first she was greatly confused, for why in the world would a door not close when the purpose of a door is to be closed?

"May I come in?" A soothing voice rang in her aching head. 'Twasn't much of a question, because whoever it was pushed his way through her stubborn door. She blinked, remembering the fellow to be the person that she had dropped the lance on this afternoon.

"What do you want?" she demanded, hoping her voice won't betray her apprehension.

With a swift gesture, Jonathon had his . . . no, her chin in his grasp. He tilted her head upwards slid his thumb across her throat. Fear paralyzed her as he brought his mouth closer and hissed in her ear, "You have an excellent disguise, but I do believe you're missing an adam's apple."

The smirk she swung back up at him was smug, resembling that of a self-satisfied tabby. "And where are you going to send me back to? You don't know my name, or the demesne I come from."

He grinned, a loose, easy flick of a smile. "Ah, but I do." Bending at the waist, he murmured a family name and the name of a dun on the seacoast. Jonathon leaned back, enjoying the emotions that flickered across her face, rage on the tail end of fear, hysterics after composure.

"But you know my father won't do anything to me," she said, voice steady although her hands were the ones that did the trembling. "I'm his only child, his heir, even if I'm a *female*. He can't kill me, not without losing the demesne."

"There's a benefit to keeping up on the family news," he drawled. "Three weeks ago, a male child was born to your father -- a healthy, squalling brat out of his new wife, the one you left home over. Looks like you've been displaced . . . If you go home, he'll marry you to the nearest low-level country lord, and if you're lucky, you might even survive your first pregnancy."

There was an abrupt silence in the room, a sound that in several centuries in the future would be known as 'small animal caught in headlights of oncoming Mack truck'. Lanna's hand kneaded her thigh, and her mouth puckered and released. Jonathon felt a slow, tiny spark of admiration; most wenches would have been in a gibbering panic, and she looked like she had just been told that her dress was not ready yet . . .

On the other hand, knowing some women, they would fly into a gibbering panic at that.

Leaning against the door, he saw a small muscle jump in her jaw as she continued to regard the activities in the court through the eastern window. When she turned back to him, her face was absolutely calm and completely devoid of any fear.

"Well," she said, lifting her head. "Well, what do you want from me?"

"What makes you think I want anything from you?"

"Because otherwise I'd already be home. And because you wouldn't give a spavined mare that I was violating your sacred arms traditions."

"True," he grinned. "Very true. What I want from you is simple."

"If it's so simple, then why is it taking you an ice age to come out with it, you dishonorable whoreson?"

"Rude little thing, aren't you?"

"I'm due in the Mess Hall in ten minutes, and undoubtedly, you're aware of the punishment Sir Grath metes out for being late to meals."

Jonathon grinned. "It's simple -- I want you to befriend my brother."

"It's useless to ask you why, of course."

"Of course."

"And just how will I gain your most esteemed sibling's trust?"

The pad of his thumb slid across her jawbone with a long, calculated movement, rounding the edge of her jaw and brushing her nose before slipping back down to flick across her lips. "You're a pretty girl. You'll figure something out."

***

Harry sighed as he wandered into the kitchen of the castle. Bustling cooks stopped in their tracks to bow to him, though they knew quite well he absolutely couldn't stand it. The master chef came up to him and bowed deeply, uttering a faint "M'Lord."

"Mendar, get up off the floor. You know perfectly well that I hate it when people bow." Mendar rose slowly.

"Is there something I can do for you, m'Lord?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you've seen Jonathon around."

"No, m'Lord."

"Right. Well. Shall we be dining with the new pages?"

"I believe it is customary to dine with them on their first night of training, m'Lord."

"Thanks, Mendar. Smells good," Harry said, gesturing to the food in preparation. Mendar began to bow but stopped when he saw the prince's disapproving look.

**

Once Lanna had suitably cleansed herself and cleaned her clothes, she appeared in the dining hall, quite nervous. Of course, Sir Grath was waiting for all the apprentice knights, rounding them up in two nice, straight lines. She lined up in the appropriate position, and waited for the command to sit down in the proper order. Lanna found herself seated next to the head of the table -- if the prince's brother sat there, she might be able to do as he asked. Once everyone had quieted down, the princes entered the room, elegantly dressed. Their status showed through the way they carried themselves, the way they walked, the way they gazed about the crowd of young boys (and a girl). When they seated themselves, one at each end of the table, Lanna couldn't tell which was which -- they were completely identical. A few slight differences presented themselves right away, however; one of the princes, the one next to her, smiled at them as he sat, while the other looked over them cooly and sternly. She was certain that the distant, somewhat treacherous one was the one she had spoken to earlier. If she only knew them by name . . . She abruptly realized that the prince on her right was asking her name.

"My name is Lan, m'Lord." He smiled warmly at her, the light sparkling in his dark eyes.

"I'm Harry. Pleased to meet you." She was utterly shocked. The prince wanted her to address him by first name? He was pleased to meet her?

**

Jonathon observed the scene. Harold and the girl seemed to be getting on quite well, just as he had planned. If everything went as he expected it too, 'Harry' would not be around much longer . . .

Jonathon almost hated himself for breaking the duo's fascinating conversation, but not enough to bring up his surprise guest to the dinner table.

"Brother, I believe we have a guest this evening. Sir Tavin," but while this was directed at Harry, Jonathon's eyes locked upon *Lady Lanna Tavin* sitting beside his identical brother. Oh if he only had something to capture the moment. Lanna's lips parted in genuine surprise at seeing her father standing so close to that vile man. The Lady herself quickly masked her astonishment, her fear, and shot a vicious glare at Jonathon. He, on the other hand, was clever enough to cover his amusement with a cough, but not until he made sure she saw his devilish delight at this turn of events.

Seemingly oblivious to the exchange, Prince Harold approached the elderly man. However uncomfortable he felt at Sir Tavin bowing at his feet, he did his best to hide it. After all, etiquette required as much, especially among these soon-to-be-knighted pages. With the formalities done, Harold warmly congratulated Sir Tavin on his newborn child and wished him a good stay at the castle.

"Brother Jonathon, may I speak with you?" Harry's request was terse, and his stiff manner almost made Lanna wonder just how sure she was that the man who had accosted her was Jonathon and not Harry.

But Jonathon's short reply was just as, if not more, venomous. "But of course, brother." The identical princes went into the servant's stay and out filed the confused servants, unaware of what has just happened.

Once the door had stopped swinging, Harry approached his brother in a scolding manner. "How could you drag that man half way across the country to participate in this routine training of the pages when you know that his wife has just borne him a son, his only heir?"

Jonathon had prepared for his older twin's lectures, and as usual, nothing Harry said had any affect on his nonchalant attitude. "I did not acquire the knowledge of his newborn heir until now, *dear* brother. And what of it if I knew? He is a knight of the our court and when requested, he can hardly deny to serve his duty."

Exasperated as usual at Jonathon's attitude, Harry retorted, "Have you no compassion for the man?" Then, remembering that he had claimed to not know of Sir Tavin's newborn, Harry added, "Perhaps you should try to more knowledgeable from now, for I have no desire to bring about a proud knight's sorrow." With that said, Harry departed to enter the dinner hall.

"It shall be late to send him back," Jonathon said, smirking behind Harry's back.

Harry sighed, not even looking back, he knew that Jonathon had some perverse amusement about this. "Of course, do find him a suitable chamber, brother."

Dinner went on without further incident, but Harry was no longer in a particularly jolly mood, and by no means calm enough to notice the fidgeting of the page sitting next to him. Only when Lan had hurriedly fled to his quarters after dinner had Harry noticed. "I must not be good company," he muttered.

*********

Lanna had not but to step into the threshold of her chambers when she noticed a shadow standing behind her. Her hand struck out, only to be grasped by Jonathon's iron hands. She twisted her wrist, but found it to be useless against his hold. So she turned to another tactic and demanded to know the reason her father was here tonight.

"Insurance, my lady," he replied as they stepped into the room, the door unlocked. "And why dost thou worry? He's obviously not a good enough father, not even bothering to search for you. Why do you worry?"

Breathing rather heavily, Lanna exclaimed, "I am made of his blood. And unlike you, I have not to harbor any murderous intentions toward my own blood. He is my father and that is reason enough." Lanna wrenched her arm from him, nursing the red marks that he had brutally left on her white skin.

"Murderous intentions? What makes you think I have any intentions for my darling brother at all?" Jonathon inquired, rather annoyed and pleased at the same time that this little girl had figured out half his plans.

Not even bothering with a reply, Lanna rolled her eyes at him.

Jonathon smiled without mirth. "You're right of course, m'lady. Enough of this fiasco, I want you to kill my brother."

To hear him hinting at it was one thing, but directly saying it to her was another. Bile rose to her throat at the though of even harming the kind prince. "Why did you pick me to do it? And if I don't? What shall you do with me?"

Smiling, he took a strand of her auburn hair and hooked his around his fingers. "Inquisitive, aren't we?" he said. "Why you, you ask? It shall be far easier to kill him when he's . . . distracted. And I do believe you can be quite a distraction," he said as he circled her waist with his arm, his dark eyes glittering. And for that moment, as she gasped at their close proximity, his face softened at the sight her soft lips. Then as if a switch turned off, he continued, his voice menacing. "If you don't, I can assure you that your father shall return home in a casket." He drew her face closer and hissed, "Do not doubt my abilities, for you will find that I am quite able to do whatever I want. I will give you peace after it is done." And two lovers committing suicide would be such a perfect cover, he thought, having absolutely no intention of letting her or her father escape after the deed had been done. Still . . .

"You cannot threaten me," Lanna bit off, willing her fear to scatter for it confused and distracted her.

Grappling at her throat, Jonathon retorted, "I already did." Something flashed in his eyes as the vein in her neck pulsed erratically under his fingers. He tilted his head and, to her horror, proceeded to smell her. "Hmm. You know, if I wasn't so bent on taking over the throne, you would be a marvelous little dish for me," he chuckled as he buried himself further into her throat. "How would you like to be queen, Lady Lanna?" Before she even registered his motive, Jonathon's mouth crushed upon hers, and an assault of foreign emotions and reactions overwhelmed her as she stood frozen in his embrace.

Even more abruptly did he extract himself from the web of softness she seemed to have woven around him as he did when the idea of kissing her became reality. Some distraction, he though blankly, trying to gather his thoughts before this little wildcat broke out of her trance. He pushed her back into her bed and declared not so nicely, "The country will be mourning not more than seven days from now." Jonathon slammed the door open and walked carelessly out of her chambers.

The sound of the slamming door startled her into reality. Never, ever, had someone kissed her like that, Lanna though furiously. And no one ever will again, she vowed silently to herself.

**

Harry mulled about his chambers, pondering the events of dinner. What was John trying to do? Why had he brought that man in? And Lan -- who was he? There was something odd about him, but Harry couldn't quite put his finger on it. Lan had seemed to have an intense reaction to the presence of Sir Tavin . . . perhaps he knew the man. The prince did admit to himself that the page was a nice boy, he'd be a good friend. Harry believed in getting to know the pages; some of them would eventually be his closest advisors, when -- if -- he became king. However, Jonathon couldn't be up to anything good . . .

***

Lanna stood fuming in her quarters. How dare he? How dare he take advantage of her like that? Yet, through all her anger, something showed through . . . some tiny bit of her perhaps yearned for him, wanted to be abused, wanted him to take advantage of her and kiss her harshly and make her his evil queen. It was a lust for madness that had haunted her all her life, yet had only become apparent recently. She knew in all righteousness that it would never do to fall for such an evil man who was probably scripting her death at that very moment, but the lust . . . oh, the lust made her dizzy. And then there was Harry -- he was the sweetest, kindest man she'd ever met. Add to that that he was a prince, and that he appeared to like her, and . . . but he thought she was a boy. She sighed; it didn't hurt to dream. And dream of him she would -- the handsome twin brothers, their silky black hair, their heated black eyes --

She shook her head to free herself of the improper images running rampant in her head. Erotic fantasies of darkness and light, mixing good and evil. On the one hand, there was the charming Prince Harry, the one she had been ordered to kill under consequence of the death of her father (which would not at all do, what with her baby brother and all), and on the other hand the sadistic Prince Jonathon, the one who had ordered her to kill his brother, the one who had kissed her so harshly it hurt, the one who gave her the oddest feeling in the pit of her stomach whenever she saw him -- a mixture of desire and disgust. Who to side with? Should she do all in her power to protect the good prince, or should she do as the evil prince said and brutally murder one who almost trusted her?

Lanna pulled the sharp dagger out of her boot and ran her fingers over its sharp edge. She had made her choice.

**

In the bleak dawn of a new day, the pages stood assembled in the large, misty meadow behind the castle, trying not shiver under the frosty glare of Sir Grath as he outlined the morning's exercises. Lanna could barely concentrate on the gruff knight's bellowing as her mind was clouded with thoughts of her impending actions. Stiffly, she shook her head and banished the nagging doubts that plagued her.

Grath was planning to observe the young page's skills with the sword before he began training them himself -- before he would have to undo all the bad habits they had picked up, more to the point. He tossed each of them an epee carved from wood, noting the somewhat offended and indignant glances of some of the boys, who saw themselves above such games. He could not trust their awkward bodies and untrained skills combined with their lofty aspirations of knighthood. For now they would just have to pretend.

Each of the pages paired up with another and began the mock combat but Lanna found herself on the edge of the group, alone. Grath spotted her after a few moments and her heart sank when he began towards her, ostensibly to partner her himself. She would have to curb her desire to trounce him soundly, for she knew she could do it, even if he was a knight. Growing up with the servant boys as she was without siblings, Lanna had learned at an early age the finer art of fighting. She was an expert at picking an opponent's weakness, and she knew that Grath's undoing would be the poor sight in his left eye. Lanna knew the exact moves that would see the tormenting instructor flat on his back with her wooden sword poised at his throat. Though she knew this might raise her in the estimation of her fellow pages, it was a sure way to make Grath an enemy for life. She had already made one of those yesterday, and was not about to repeat it.

"Perhaps I may be of assistance?" Lanna was startled by the gentle words in her ear, and she whirled around to find Harry by her side. His dark eyes twinkled at her momentary fright, his lips parted in a faint smile. She was frozen at the sight of him, for right before her was the man who had consumed her thoughts all too obsessively that night. She hastened to compose her face, lest he read in her nervous stare the gruesome task that awaited her.

"My Prince," she bowed her head respectfully, unable to utter his name loud.

"You are without an adversary, I see," he commented evenly, picking up another sword from the thick grass. He waved off the approaching Grath and turned to face her once again, the harmless weapon raised.

"I would not wish to encroach on your majesty's valuable time," she murmured, eyes downcast. Lanna prayed he would return to the castle, and save her from her malevolent duty . . . to save himself from her. "Ah, but I am challenging you to a duel, Lan. Surely an honorable page in the our King's order would not turn it down."

Lanna saw that there was no persuading him, and steeled herself for the battle. Her eyes narrowed coldly as she buried the good within her that might cause her courage to fail. Her emotions were forgotten as her sword met his, her jabs slight and defensive at first, testing his will and sincerity in the duel. She lunged once, but with an apparently effortless feint Harry avoided the blow. Grinning, he returned the attack, obviously enjoying the game. With bitter regret, Lanna knew this was no game.

Slowly, and with careful forethought, she drew them away from the rest of the pages and towards the edge of the forest that surrounded the meadow. Grath was busy inciting the others and berating their poor sword play and did not notice their retreating forms. Harry was so entrenched in the battle of wills with the young page that he too failed to see that they were no longer with the other trainees. The dappled shadows of the trees fell upon them, but their eyes were locked together as wooden swords met again and again, the only noise they heard was the sound of their own heavy breaths.

Lanna had not planned to take him today, but the opportunity had presented itself. If she killed him now she could run into the woods and hide to avoid detection. It would mean she would never be able to return to the castle, or the life she had made for herself there, but her father would be safe. She would be confronted by Jonathon again -- a thought which relieved her despite the unsettling yearning she had felt for him, with his cruel eyes and hands. Lanna would flee and begin all over again . . . to begin to try and put behind her the evil she would commit this day. Before her nerves could fail her, Lanna's eyes widened and she let out a deep, menacing roar, then she grasped her sword with both hands and thrust it with all her strength at Harry's chest.

He was not expecting the deadly move, but his quick wits saved him from being skewered by the weapon. Instead the sword caught him on the shoulder, tearing his tunic and the soft flesh below. He looked down in surprise at the wound, then his confused eyes met Lanna's. Though he was at a loss to explain why, he knew as sure as he was standing there that the page he hoped to befriend had meant to kill him with the blow. A piercing scream reverberated inside Lanna's head as she saw she had failed. Her hands shook and her heart wept under his hurt, incredulous gaze that seconds before had been trusting. With a moan that almost sounded like a whimper, she turned and fled into the woods, flinging the bloody sword behind her.

Harry gave a yell and ran after her, his sword forgotten as well. Ducking and weaving amongst the trees that grew thicker with every step, he managed to catch a glimpse of her up ahead as she flew blindly onwards. He called her name but she did not stop. Spurred on by the anger growing within him, Harry surged forward and within a few seconds he had caught up with her. He lunged forward and made a grab for her feet, tackling her into the ground with a thud. Lanna was momentarily winded by the weight of him on her back, but as soon as she came to her senses she squirmed with all of her might to get away from him. Harry held fast though, his iron like grasp on her arm as he flipped her on her back to face him.

Pinning her down to stop her wild struggling, Harry yelled at her to calm down. Sweat was pouring from his face after their chase, his dark hair falling into his eyes. Still, this damn page would not cease, and when a flailing knee caught him in the pit of the stomach he fell forward with a groan. Lanna continued to writhe as he pressed against her, her head ground into the dirt and leaves of the forest floor. Tilting her gaze she could see the sheltering trees behind her and longed for their protective safety, but Harry was still holding fast. When she looked back at him though, and their eyes met, all of her struggling ceased. She was tired, not just physically, but mentally exhausted. He could do with her whatever he wished now, she did not care. She just wanted to die.

She was acutely aware of the sensation of his strong chest against her own, their entwined legs and his fierce hands on her arms. Her eyes darkened with the same desire she had felt with Jonathon the night before; a strange, uncontrollable feeling that surged hotly through her veins. Her expression softened visibly as Harry's eyes roamed her face, growing more confused with every moment. She relaxed her muscles and gave into him completely. Harry looked deep into her, almost to her soul it felt like, and then he recoiled in shock. Stumbling off her hastily, he scurried back a few feet, his eyes never leaving hers. His broad chest rose and feel with each breath as he tried to understand what had just happened, what he had just realized.

"You're a . . . you're a girl . . . " he panted, disbelieving. Lanna's head dropped back heavily on the ground and she placed a weary, shaking hand to her temple.

Harry just stared.

The morning fog drifted between the trunks of the beeches, rendering them pale, luminescent and ghostly, while an owl called mournfully through the last stands of what had once been a wild forest. Under the dim illumination of a slightly post-dawn sun, it still retained an element of mystery, of danger.

Of course, reflected Harry, there was plenty of danger in the slim frame across from him. Crouched between the roots of a forest giant, she regarded the ground, her shoulders slumped and entire body curled into a shape of utter dejection. One finger traced vague patterns in the loose humus, while the other hand drooped wearily at her side. It was as if all the life had simply disappeared, and the fierce, snarling creature who had nearly killed him had fled into the mists.

A girl.

Who had tried to kill him.

Just the thought set his throat dry again.

Murder attempts -- nearly successful ones -- had the bad habit of doing that to you.

And to think, Lan -- the girl -- had nearly pulled it off. Not only had she masqueraded as a boy through Grath's strenuous training, she had drawn him into intense single combat, no quarter given or asked, and she had near killed him. With an epee. Which was supposed to be impossible. Women were not supposed to be in training. Women were too frail to withstand the rigors of combat. Women were justly kept at home; their place was with children and the home.

But that was secondary to the fact that someone had tried to kill him. The concept of an attempt on his life was not particularly new, as he had been raised amidst court intrigue all his life, but the stark reality of steel piercing flesh was . . . jolting to say the least.

The girl did not appear to have any sort of personal vendetta against him, and the sheer logic of her attack on him precluded any chance of madness. Harry was not involved with his father's politics, nor did he participate in religious debates: therefore, he concluded that the only logical cause of this attack was an attempt on the succession to the throne. To push reasoning another step, the only parties with an interest this early in succession would be a foreign power and/or his brother.

However, a foreign power would choose someone more skilled: a member of the legendary Assassin guilds, or, at the very least, someone who would have been equipped with more than an epee and be able to dispatch him with more secrecy and finesse than this. An extra-national influence would have succeeded, and no amount of reflexive training would have saved him. Poison would have been more subtle, more deadly, and allowed for a quicker, easier conduit to power.

However, Jonathon had never been noted for subtlety.

"Get up. We're going back. You're going to rejoin training; they'll have a search party out after us."

Her head swung up, eyes glittering. "Why? I just tried to kill you. You could send me home. You have me flogged. You could have me hung, and my father would allow it."

The edge of a boot prodding into her thigh, the voice unnaturally casual, contained, smooth yet with the threat of extreme violence underneath. "Get up. "

Rising warily to her feet, she watched him from beneath half lowered eyelids, legs tensed to spring at the first sign of a beating.

Instead, he said: "Sir Grath won't flog you, as I'll tell him that I attempted to teach you how to thrust, telling you that your manner was ineffectual. I told you to use your greatest strength and attempt to wound me, believing that you couldn't do anything. However, you managed to allocate your strength so that you did manage to wound me. Hence the bloody shoulder."

"But--"

"The other pages will respect you; I'll make it clear in no uncertain terms that you are under my protection, my prot‚g‚. We will not mention this incident further, and you will become my agent, follow my orders and report to whatever Jonathon divulges to you."

"Sir--"

"Tonight, before dinner, that dishonorable one will undoubtedly visit you and ask you for the explanation of my wounded shoulder. Tell him whatever you wish: that I was trying to bed you, that it was a lovebite. Something of that sort -- then, it would only be natural that you respond to my summons to come to my apartments after dinner."

"Won't they--"

Pressing her against the trunk of a beech, his voice grated low, dangerous, the very expression of his expression more menacing than an overt slap, his eyes blazed at her. "Listen to me good and listen to me well, Lan or whatever the Nine Hells your name may be. You betrayed me once: you made an attempt on the life of a Prince of the Blood, one of the most heinous crimes any person may commit against His Majesty, our sovereign. I do not take kindly to assassins. From now on, you are *my* creature, and you will follow *my* orders. Betray me again, and I will have you hung like a common horse thief and your body left on the wall for the ravens to peck. Is that clear or not?"

The words struggled in her throat, twisting with fear and the sudden reversal in the nature of a man she had thought to be sweet and kind.

*But that was /before/ you tried to kill him, you stupid wench.*

"Clear, sir."

"Good." Even as he said that, Harry stared into her tortured eyes and was amazed that he could be the subject of her terror. 'When in Rome . . . ' he thought sadly. Somewhere in his speech with this little devil he had almost wished she denied that this was all his brother's doing. Did the throne really mean that much too him? If the throne was something he could share, he would have gladly shared it with Jonathon. Why did he hate him so much? And her. Did she even realize what he could have done to her when her attack at him failed? Was she a simple peasant his brother had hired? To even disguise herself as a man . . . though he was pretty sure that she would have looked nice in a gown -- with her auburn hair flowing about . . .

'Enough!' he thought to himself as he hastily released the heathen from trunk. "Let us make haste before my dear brother grows suspicious," he continued softly, half-heartedly hoping to erase that look of fright from her eyes. He sighed, for she was as jittery as ever. "Perhaps you would care to walk in front of me, I have no masochistic desires to be wounded again," Harry said, somewhat sarcastically. Adding an emphasis to his statement, he groaned at the pain of the wound on his shoulder. The blood was flowing rapidly out of the deep cut due to the heated chase that had occurred only moments before.

Lanna paled at the sight of blood, his blood. Only then did she realize the consequences of her actions. She tore a piece of cloth from her pants and gestured wordlessly for her to bandage him. He flinched at that, but a flicker of familiar trust flashed in his suspicious black eyes and he muttered, "Only if you promise to behave."

She nodded sheepishly and slowly circled the coarse fabric around his shoulder blades, painfully aware of Prince Harry's scrutiny as she did so. He was studying her, and cursing himself for not seeing that she was a girl before. Her brow was almost shaped to perfection and her face seemed too delicate for a boy's and . . . and, she had no adam's apple! How could he have not seen it before?! And her lips looked much too soft and pleasing to be those of a man . . . Damnation! Not even hours after her attempt on his life and here he was, growing more infatuated with her by very second. When she reached to tighten the fabric so that the blood would not flow as fast, a freakish wind blew through the forest floor and she sought out the momentary shelter of his hard chest. Blood pounded through his veins as he spied her from above her lashes, looking so vulnerable and delicate that he actually lifted her chin and probed her face as her eyes slowly opened.

Her skin felt warm where he had touched, and it felt so much as if his fingers belonged there, that she did not gasp in shock at the initial contact of his flesh against hers. And as her eyes opened, the morning sun behind the prince gave him an almost heavenly glow that she felt she was being ravished by an angel. She reached to touch his unearthly handsome face, hoping to keep it with her.

Reality slammed into him as Harry realize that if she continued to look at him like that, he was very likely to do something ungentlemen-like. In fact, being a gentlemen was the last thing his instincts told him to do. Harry halted her hand and squeezed so hard Lanna thought her bones would shatter.

"Begone!" he yelled, hoping distance would dull his attraction to her. Lanna needed not another word to fly away from this intriguing man whom she was suppose to kill. Harry found himself shaking his head in confusion as he followed her footsteps back toward the castle.

"Your Majesty!" came Sir Grath's wild call as they entered into the area of the castle, "You've been wounded! Someone summon the doctor! Lan, do you realize what you have done!?" Sir Grath looked like he was about to yank Lanna off by her ears and wring her neck. Lanna stood with her face blank, not even flinching under the big man's harsh words and just plain ignoring the looks of cruel amusement of the other pages.

"Silence, Sir Grath. It was a mere mistake on my part. This page has potential and I'd like for him to become my prot‚g‚," Harry said, hinting that his words were final. The onlooking pages' faces fell and their bemused looks were quickly displaced by those of enormous jealousy.

"But-"

"Is that understood?" Harry cut him off.

Sir Grath knew what he was up against and replied a curt "yes" before Prince Harry was carried away by the Doctor's assistants. He then faced Lan and with an even voice he ordered for him to go clean off the blood on his clothes and await for lunch.

"Yes, sir." With much relief, Lanna nearly ran toward her chambers, knowing without a doubt that Jonathon would show up and demand to know what had happened. She swallowed, her throat filled with a lump the size of a melon. A girl could only face so much for one day, and the sun had barely reached midsky!

**************

"Brother, you're hurt."

Harry stiffened at Jonathon's voice and turned to see him in the doorway. He reminded himself that despite Jonathon's aggression toward him, he was still his brother, and perhaps this little incident would discourage him from ever trying to harm him again. How he hoped there was at least a little regret in his voice, though he knew there was none.

"Yes, a little something one of the pages gave me during training. Do you know of him, this Lan?" Harry asked, carefully watching his brother's expression.

Jonathon showed none. "Perhaps you might want to brush up on your fighting skills, brother. How do you wish to punish this . . . what was the name? Lan?"

"I do not. He shall become my prot‚g‚, I do believe he has some skill, though there's something odd about him that I can't quite put my finger on. But I do believe we have many things in common and I shall look forward to being his mentor," Harry added.

Snorting rudely, Jonathon replied, "Only you would want to become a mentor to someone who has you beaten in battle. Must you always be so kind? Oh, I *do* hope you get better, Harry, after all you have *such* a bright future ahead of you." With that said, Jonathon stalked out of his room, leaving Harry rather depressed at the animosity he had left in the air.

"How kind of *you,*" Harry said lifelessly as he stared into his mirror.

*************

Lanna had done as he said. Obviously she had Harry's confidence, and the more easier that made it for her to kill him. It did not matter to him whether Harry liked her or not, or how friendly they could become toward each other. Lanna was only acting to gain Harry's affection. It was clever of her to gain his affection by wounding him. He should be pleased. Yes he should be. When he visited her that night, he would tell her that. And maybe give her a damn award for her acting abilities.

Jonathon's fingers pressed into the golden goblet of wine and when he had left it on the table, five small marks were etched into the gold.

*************

Lanna shivered as she waited for Harry to summon her after dinner. And what would Jonathon think? Would he be so cruel to her that she had failed to murder his brother that he would kill her himself? And how would he do it? She found herself thinking of all the possibilities, and she was not in the least frightened. For some reason the thought of being killed by Jonathon didn't seem so awful . . . she was sure he could torture her for the rest of her life and it would be far the worse.

But what was this other side of Harry? He had been angry, the sweet prince had been *angry.* He had been enraged -- yet then, with the sun rising in the east, he had lain his hand on her face. Lain his hand softly, gently on her smooth skin, and leaned towards her with his surrealistically beautiful face, perchance to lay those sweet lips upon her own, to hold her gently in his arms . . . And she had looked up through her dark eyelashes into his eyes, those dark coal eyes with the depth of his pure soul, and she had felt elated, felt as if she was floating on the very air. But the moment had faded. He had cast her away. And he was to send for her, tonight . . .

Sir Grath would think of it as blooming friendship -- Jonathon would think of it as dangerous to her disguise perhaps. Yet what with Harry knowing her true nature, what if something as what had happened that morning happened? What if the warm stirring inside her for him grew to something more? What if her disgust of Jonathon overpowered her desire? Her willingness to obey? Yet she had to obey on consequence of the death of her father, which was completely unacceptable. But to kill Harry, to let evil win over good -- but was the good good? Was the evil evil? There was the thought of Jonathon's harshly erotic kiss . . . The idea of him as king, with her as the queen, was exciting beyond all reason. To lose her purity to this utterly impure man -- not man, even, demon -- 'twas something she thought of often. For him to dirty her, to cover her with his darkness . . .

But enough of that. She couldn't fall in love with so evil a man. However, his twin was not evil, but he was quite charming, and he had passion in him, buried deep inside. He had --

Jonathon threw aside the door and barged into her chamber. Surprised, she didn't fight when he pulled her roughly to him by the waist and caught her chin in one hand. A sinister smile cracked his face as his unfeeling eyes gazed upon her youthful beauty. "My dear, I am proud of thee. Wounding him with a play sword . . . gaining his affection . . . Tell me how you plan to kill him. I want to hear the bloody details. I want to see it in my mind." Lanna shivered.

"I -- I was thinking, perhaps, that I might use . . . this?" She pulled her dagger out of her boot and showed it to him. He nodded his approval and motioned for her to sheathe it.

"I must admit, I am quite impressed with your resourcefulness, little one. You may yet be of use to me . . . " He had bent his lips very close to hers, and he whispered against her lips, "Kill him," and left her shocked at his swift departure.

****************

Hours later, Lanna found herself in Harry's personal chambers. The extravagance and elegance somehow did not seem to suit him. He was sitting on the large chair in the corner, and motioned for her to sit on the sofa across from him. She graciously accepted the position as he rested his elbows on his knees and looked at her searchingly. "Jonathon came to visit you." She nodded uncertainly. "What did he say?"

"He wishes me to kill you, m'lord, as you most certainly know." Harry stood and began to pace about the room, picking things up and putting them down in all the wrong places. Abruptly, he came about and crouched in front of her chair, looking her straight in the eye.

"What's your name? Where do you come from? Who is your father? Why are you working for my brother?" he asked harshly. She squared her shoulders and looked at him defiantly.

"My name is Lady Lanna Tavin, eldest daughter of Lord Tavin of Gelbury, knight of your court. What does it matter why I do your brother's bidding? Perhaps I want to. Maybe I like it. Maybe I like working for him." Harry shook his head and leaned towards her, catching her chin just the way his brother had earlier and causing a rush of remembered emotions to flood through her body.

"He's got you swooning over him!" he snorted. "He's got you imagining yourself at his side ruling over the kingdom! Well I've got news for you, *Lady* Lanna. As soon as I'm dead he'll kill you without a second thought." The coldness in his voice made her shiver. She pulled her chin out of his hand.

"No. He wouldn't do that! You can't prove it!"

"It's true. He has no more feeling than a stone wall." Harry looked up at her from his crouched position. "You deserve better than that. I can give you better than that." He found himself enchanted by her fiery demeanor, her sweet misunderstanding of the world around her, her strong beauty . . . She found herself leaning towards him, her lips and his coming together undeniably . . .

Their faces hovered inches from each other, their warm breaths cloudy in the cool bed chamber air. Harry's eyes explored every part of her face, every minute detail of her visage that was already etched on his brain from that morning in the woods. Seeing her as he did now, he marveled how she had ever fooled him and everyone else thus far by pretending to be a boy. With each moment she grew lovelier to him, her beauty and strength consumed him. He raised a soft, gentle hand to her cheek and caressed it, the movements agonizingly slow. She shivered under his touch, leaning into his broad palm and closing her eyes as if it were a dream. If it was, she never wanted to wake up, never wanted to face the reality of her predicament. She had to do it, she had no choice. Perhaps Harry was right, perhaps Jonathon would kill her when she had carried out the execution, but if she did not then her father . . . They would both die, and that she knew for certain.

When Harry bent further to kiss the sensitive skin below her ear she offered no resistence. She played her part and moaned in pleasure. Encouraged by her response, the feather touch of his lips continued down her long neck and around to the other side of her face. She leaned further into his embrace, but while her left hand tightened around his own in apparent desire, the right was stealing towards her ankle where there was strapped to her leg the knife she had shown Jonathon. With a deft, smooth movement she withdrew the glinting blade and ran the back of her hand up his spine.

Lanna held her breath as she raised the knife behind him, poised above his neck. With on quick jab it would be all over. All it would take would be one jab . . . She froze when she realized that while she had been composing herself for the dreadful deed, Harry had raised his face to look into hers once more. She saw his deep, dark eyes upon her, swallowing her whole with their endless fathoms. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight, her mind blank, her heart thudding painfully in her chest and ears. He smiled slightly at her, eyes twinkling in the candlelight, and with gentlemanly poise he raised her left hand to his lips and kissed it. Without thinking of the consequences nor the circumstances, Lanna pulled him to her roughly and planted her lips on his in a deep, passionate kiss.

Moaning softly, Lanna slid into a pool of sensation, heat and delight: the grainy feel of Harry's tongue against hers, the movement of his shoulders underneath her arms, smooth silk underneath her fingers, the brush of his nose against her cheek as his head turned slightly, the smooth bending of his back as she felt herself falling, being laid down upon softness . . . She whimpered softly, holding close, even as her fears and doubts were swept away by the sheer sensual pleasure of their bodies flowing, melding into--

And suddenly it was one again.

Bolting upright in the bed, she found Harry leaning against the bed rest, panting, cheeks flushed and eyes glittering with an undefinable emotion. The look he flashed her was sudden, apologetic, and ashamed. "I can't," he whispered, leaning his head back and not daring to look at her directly. "I can't. I'm a gentleman, a noble and I can't take adva--"

Her quirked eyebrow cut his words off.

"I can't." He fiddled with the pillows, face crimson. Then the words hissed out of him like air from a collapsing bellows. "Lanna -- I'm betrothed. I've been betrothed, since I could speak the words, Lanna. Not only would I be dishonoring you, and me, but her . . . And I can't do that."

"But, Harry what--"

Laughter bubbled out of the lips that had so recently been on hers, and she felt like something had died in her stomach for the second time in a day. "Lanna, if you think that we could . . . that we could do something this stupid, then you're the one lacking in wits. We've got commitments, responsibilities, honor. And I won't dishonor you or myself by tumbling you like some kitchen maid, when you're not. And I won't dishonor Savanna, my betrothed, by . . ." His hand gave the general idea as he uttered one of the biggest lies of his life. He then followed it with three truths that barely qualified as such: taking a deep breath, he then uttered "I love her, and I love my honor. And I won't sacrifice either, no matter what the momentary pleasure."

Keeping his back carefully to her, Harry worked his way back to the scene of the initial kiss. His guts roiled and twisted, and he felt himself dangerously close to crying like a wee lad after a spanking. He looked into the fire, mastering the constrictions that threatened to unman him and make him toss away everything, all the principles and morals he had ever believed in to bed, this slip of runaway girl who, for all her mannish qualities, somehow attracted him. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply and said, "Go back to the barracks -- I'm expecting my father and your lover, my black hearted whoreson brother in a few minutes."

Behind him, he heard a rustling, the noises of someone sliding off the bed and walking to the door. Gritting his teeth, he forced down the urge to yell, to cry out and alleviate some of the hurt that flowed from her slim figure.

"And take this," he snapped, voice unintentionally rough as he tossed the forgotten dagger onto his study table with a clatter.

Out of the corner of her eye, he glimpsed a flutter of motion that was her creeping towards the table, retrieving the dirk and sliding it back into her boot. As she moved towards the door, he called, suddenly, "Don't ever pull one on me again, Lanna. It was a stupid, idiotic, untrained and undisciplined thing to do. I expect better."

The slamming of the door was the most painful sound he had ever heard.

***

The hammering of her heart was louder than the echoing of her footsteps as she departed from Prince Harry's chambers. Lanna's face was flushed with shame, anger, and perhaps just a little bit of defiance. What?! Wasn't she good enough for a prince? Wasn't she pretty enough? For all those days that she was maturing into adulthood, her father had always said she was too much of a tomboy. Girls shouldn't engage in sword fights, girls shouldn't do this, girls shouldn't do that. Well obviously, she had missed a lesson that would have taught her to stay away from these rotten, no good, godforsaken royalty!

And yet despite of herself, a flood of tears threaten to trickle their way down her cheeks. NO! She would not cry for him, she would not cry for either of them. Though her heart was being twisted out of recognition by the two brothers that had fed her both hatred and love, she was going to survive.

Why hadn't she thought of this before?! She should just go find her father's quarters, rescue him, and never come back to see the conniving Jonathon or the two faced Harry again! But as the plan started to take form in her mind, she stopped and turned, her eyes searching into the streaks of candle light that glowed beyond the ajar door of Harry's room and her fingers touching the swollen lips that had been in a heavenly lock with Harry's own . . . she sighed. If she could have only stopped father time and lived only in that moment . . . but alas, reality was so much harsher. So as she stalked out of the edifice, she comforted herself only with the thought that the twin brothers that had tormented her so, had truly deserved each other.

***********************

The majestic King of Laconia was deeply troubled as he entered the chambers of his eldest son, Harold along with his younger son, Jonathon. They both knew what was to be discussed tonight, Harry's impending marriage to Princess Savanna. This was to be a typical marriage, one where the power of one kingdom was to be transferred to another by the joining of the two heirs. Of course, he did not want his son to get the short end of the deal when he was to consummate his marriage with this Princess, so he had made sure that this princess was of good looks and was capable of bringing to his son an heir or many heirs. That much he had already told him, and he didn't think it was even possible, but at this moment, Harry looked even more miserable than he had when he was old enough to understand that his life had already been determined without his input.

Jonathon, on the other hand, did not even try to hide the fact that he would be happy to marry Princess Savanna. However, that was hardly an efficient use of such an opportunity. Perhaps if he had been the one born two minutes earlier, this would not have been such a torturous affair. But, though the King himself hated to admit it, he was more inclined to have Harry be the heir to his throne. Jonathon was rather unstable and unorthodox in his ways, and he had even caught his own son, smiling secretly to himself when Harry had became drastically ill last summer. He was not to be scared by his own son!

"Princess Savanna shall be arriving in six days, I'll expect the both of you to be on your best behavior, especially you, Jonathon. I will not have Princess Savanna speak a bad word about us when she writes to her father of her safe trip," the King said, staring hard at Jonathon. "But of course, father, I shall be the perfect gentleman," Jonathon replied, adding emphasis on the "the" as if to stress his point. 'Because when she arrives, I shall be the heir to the kingdom, *I* shall be the one she's to marry, and my brother shall be cooling off in the ground somewhere, assuming room temperature!' he delightfully thought to himself.

"Harry," the King called out, but his son seemed as if he was a million miles away. "HARRY!"

Harry jumped and threw a dirty look at Jonathon who was smirking most disagreeably at him. "Yes, father?"

The King sighed before he spoke, "My son, you are heir to my throne, you will marry a Princess the likes of a Greek Goddess, why must you be so glum?"

Before Harry could conjure up a coherent reply, Jonathon laughed and spoke up.

"Perhaps he does not want to marry Greek Goddess, because he knows he is not manly enough to even satisfy a mere mortal girl, much less a Goddess!" Jonathon said, now grinning widely as his words hit a most painful bull's eye. He knew what reaction it would cause, just the fact that Harry was still alive meant that he had not succumbed to Lanna's seduction. Now why was he both angered and pleased by that?

Harry's eyes grew as wide as saucers, but before he could leap across the room and wipe that infuriating smile off Jonathon's face, the King rose from his seat and directed his anger at Jonathon, speaking so low that only he could hear, "Do not speak to your future King in such a manner; he may tolerate you, but I will not."

Paling before Harry's eyes, Jonathon muttered a 'yes sir' and asked to be excused. The King had seen sibling rivalry for one day and decided to retire as well.

Harry tried to shake off his anger. If Jonathon had said it before, he would not have been so enraged, but . . . it would seem that this Lady Lanna had gotten under his skin and even now, he could remember the way she had suddenly reached for him with unrestrained passion and kissed *him* as no proper lady would! Of course she had also been trying to kill him, and if she had not kissed him, he was about to grab the knife himself and finally take her into official custody for trying to assassinate him.

Tomorrow, perhaps his mind would clear for proper decisions tomorrow. But for now, he had to be content with his own memories.

*****

It was pitch black outside as Jonathon crept stealthily down the dimly lit corridor towards the pages' chambers. Finding the cell of his *favorite* page, he slipped through the door quietly and knelt by the cot Lanna was sleeping on. He gazed at her, momentarily letting down his guard and immersing himself in her -- her soft auburn hair neatly trimmed above her ears (as part of her disguise), her milky smooth skin, perfectly clear and warm, her long, dark eyelashes, high cheekbones, full red lips . . . her set jawline, the warm blush in her cheeks . . . He longed to feel those lips with his own, to gently brush her cheek with his long fingers, to hold her tightly in his arms and feel her petite form against his larger frame, her coiled strength against him. If only he could just have her with him, just one kiss, just one night -- but he couldn't. He couldn't fall in love with the girl, it went against everything he believed in. Her death was impossible to avoid -- and having the daughter of a lowly lord as queen was simply out of the question. Especially a murderous daughter of a lowly lord.

She shivered and turned in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent and stretching her legs slightly. Jonathon couldn't help himself as he leaned over her and pulled her blanket up about her shoulders, brushing her cheek with his own and her lips with his own ever so lightly. But it wasn't light enough. Lanna's eyes fluttered, and she woke up with a start, just barely giving him time to pull away from her. She drew herself up into the corner, her hazel eyes blazing with yellow flecks at him.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"I see you are awake, *Lady,*" he hissed, slipping back into the evil twin stereotype he usually fit so well. "I want to know exactly what happened tonight. I see you've . . . gotten the attention of my brother." She looked at him curiously, but relaxed just a little, that familiar desire coming back into her eyes. The same desire began to grow unwanted inside himself as he tried desperately to wall it back.

"Isn't everything going as you'd planned?" He smiled at her, showing his teeth and sending prickles down her spine.

"Indeed it is. Forgive my interest in details, but I want to know just *how* interested you've got him in you. And I want to make sure you're not letting feelings get in the way. You know that would make me . . . . angry." Jealous would be a better word, he thought, but he wasn't about to say that to her. She stiffened at his question, but put on a calm expression as she replied.

"Well, I went to see him -- he found out my disguise this morning as we fought -- and everything went just as planned. I've got him begging at my feet. Of course, he still wants to be a . . . gentleman. The opportunity for a kill simply didn't present itself." He leaned close to her.

"You keep him wanting you. Princess Savanna, his betrothed," she nodded, and he noticed her features tighten as he continued, "will be arriving in six days. I want him dead before she gets here."

"So that you can marry the Princess?"

"The Princess has nothing to do with it," he said harshly. "But she will make a good queen, I believe . . . " Lanna glared at him.

"You want her as your queen?"

"My desires don't matter in the political equation." She looked down at the bed, which she was the sole occupant of.

"Is she prettier than me?" Lanna asked, drawing yet closer to him and gazing up at him through her eyelashes. Jonathon found his hands creeping around her and her scent overpowered him. He lost control of his faculties and, kneeling at her bedside, pulled her into a long, passionate kiss.

"Nobody is prettier than you . . . " he murmured against her neck as his kisses traveled down from her jaw to her shoulder and back again. Lanna felt the same haze of lust that overcame her with both brothers coming back as he kissed and nipped at her neck, leaning her down onto the cot. They were so alike that she could almost believe it was Harry kissing her, not Jonathon . . . . Then again, she wasn't sure she even *wanted* Harry to kiss her. The sounds of heavy breathing filled the air as he pulled up from her neck and she took the incentive to return his kisses while tugging at the collar of his shirt in a very un-ladylike manner. He moved off of her only long enough to remove the inferior blouse; she attacked his smooth, muscular chest with her mouth and her hands. Lanna's slim fingers delicately kneaded his muscles as her tongue teased his nipples. His hands groped about her, struggling to find a way to remove her clothes without ripping anything and still keeping control of the situation.

Suddenly, the door swung open and a shadow filled the doorway.

***********************

A gush of cold air permeated the room, and the couple on the bed jumped from their previous position. And even as her eyes searched for the person that had interrupted she and Jonathon, she realized that her tunic was open, exposing the tight cloth, or rather, the remains of the tight cloth that she had wrapped around her chest as a part of her disguise. It was torn open, and was exposing a large expanse of her generous bosom.

And that was the first thing Harry saw as he stepped into the room. Heat rushed through him, but that was before he spotted the man in her bed, looking as bedraggled as she was. Blinding rage and jealousy slammed into him like a brick wall and he staggered backwards, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. He was watching himself in bed with Lanna. But . . . but it wasn't himself, even though he looked exactly like him. It was . . . his twin brother. The brother who had shared the womb of their mother for 8 months and 14 days . . .

'NO! NO! NO! NO!' Jonathon's mind screamed, 'This wasn't the way it was suppose to happen!' Lust had blinded him and he had lost total control of the situation! Surely his brother would never fall under Lanna's spell again . . . his plan had failed. He would never be king . . . his brother would have everything, just like before . . .

The shock on Harry's face was nothing compared to the utter and complete humiliation that Lanna felt when she met his eyes. She was exactly what he said, a moralless kitchen maid who jumped into bed with the next available man. Shaking, she tried somewhat unsuccessfully to salvage her torn clothing about her, unable to meet any of their eyes.

"How could you?" Harry whispered so softly that she barely heard it. Though unsure whether it was addressed at her, she swallowed hard and lifted her head in an as dignified a manner as possible. All the anguish she had felt when he had rejected her hours before came flooding back into her, and she defiantly challenged him with her stormy eyes.

"How could I what?! How could I leap into another man's arms when you said yourself that you loved another?!" she was practically screaming. "It's relatively easy, Prince Harry!" Inside she shuddered so hard that she thought she was going to collapse right then and there.

Harry took another step forward and replied with a disgusted expression, "And you will be content as my brother's whore?"

Falling backwards, her fingers grasping at the sheets beneath, she yelled back, "I am not a whore!"

She didn't think it was possible, but Harry's face darkened even more as he asked, "You love him then?!"

"I -- I don't KNOW!" Her words were true, more truthful than she cared to admit; her feelings for them both were jumbled in a helpless heap, and the current situation wasn't exactly helping her sort things out.

"Enough of these theatrics!" The previously immobile Jonathon grabbed Lanna's ankle and drew out the deadly dagger. If his plan wasn't going to turn out as he planned, he might as well act now . . . if he ever wanted to be King! With a crooked grin, he launched himself off the bed and on to his brother. The both of them landed with a heavy thud, with the dagger inches from Harry's throat.

Lanna stood frozen, unable to decide who's side she should take. She slowly got off the bed and staggered toward the doorway. Perhaps she shouldn't do anything at all . . . just let them battle it out. Then, she wouldn't be guilty of anything! But as she turned to see the both of them, their differences became clear as day. Harry was resisting Jonathon's brutal strength, while Jonathon was aiming directly for his brother's throat. There was no mistake from the crazed look upon his eyes that he hated Harry and that this hatred consumed his entire being. But Harry just wanted to survive. He didn't harbor the menacing look Jonathon did, and to see his double holding a gleaming dagger at his throat was beyond his nightmares; that much Lanna understood. Good and evil had never been so clear, and at that moment, she saw that she had an obligation, if not to herself, then to the people of this country.

She carefully approached Jonathon's backside, her footsteps inaudible from the sounds of their struggle. Lanna raised her elbow to knock Jonathon unconscious, just one blow would do it . . .

. . . the training of his younger years came back to him, and without even realizing he was turning, he shoved his forearm deeper into Harry's throat, at the same time shifting the dagger in his hand, driving it backwards. The painful gasp brought him out of his childhood reverie, and the sticky liquid gathering on his hand abruptly caused his heart to skip a beat as his brain registered who was wounded by the automated thrust of his dagger. He rolled away from atop of Harry, and saw Lanna standing over the both of them, her face exchanging between the expressions of pain and surprise, and her hands clutching at the dagger that was still embedded in her flesh. Her knees gave out then, and she fell on top of Harry, unconscious. "Lanna?" he whispered. He stiffened as he felt the warm blood seep into his own robe. Harry jumped up, gaping at the bloody mess, and his eyes flickered toward Jonathon. What he saw was a shock to him, because Jonathon wasn't rejoicing at her unmoving form, but he was shaking, his eyes wide with fear . . . and something else. Swallowing, a chill ran down Harry's spine as he recognized that 'something else.' Regardless of what Jonathon showed on the outside, Harry thought, there was something in his eyes that could only be anguish . . . he had feelings for her! It hadn't all been part of Jonathon's plan . . . Lady Lanna Tavin certainly hadn't been part of it.

Taking her limp body into his arms, Harry glared at Jonathon, unable to find the words to speak to his would be assassin. "You . . . you never saw us, you never saw this. Do you understand?"

Jonathon looked up blankly, his eyes reserved only for the blood dripping from Lanna's wound and the peaceful expression on her pale face. Finally, she had escaped from their sibling rivalry . . . He laughed, unable to comprehend why he felt this way, why he did not wrench the dagger from her and kill his brother too.

Harry hissed in exasperation and replied, "I'll take that as a yes." He took off, heading for the only safe place he knew.

As they neared his chambers, Harry struggled with the decision of bringing the castle's physician to see Lanna or not. He paused in mid-step as he remembered that the physician and his apprentice had been summoned to Lord Valz's castle, the reason being that he was one of the important political figures of the King's court and he had started to cough up blood. The King had kindly sent his personal physician to see him only a half a day ago.

"Perfect, perfect," he muttered to himself as they entered his chambers. Moving quickly, he lay Lanna down on his bed and started a roaring fire to heat the ice cold chamber. When she groaned, he was instantly at her side, watching as beads of sweat trickled down her face. He would have to do everything himself, he decided. Taking everything out of his personal medicine chest, he brought out the necessities. The first step was to get the dagger out of the wound. Squeezing her hand tightly, he tightened his hand around the dagger and yanked it out. Lanna nearly jumped off the bed as crimson started to spread in the sheets beneath her. She moaned from the suddenly explosion of pain in her side, still too dazed to be conscious.

The tunic itself was too long and dirty to work around, and Harry knew what had to be done. Sitting her up and turning her back to him, he slowly lifted her tunic and the remains of a white cloth from her, until her bare back faced him. Rubbing the foul smelling medicine into his hand, he reached around her and covered her wound with it as gently as he could. She stiffened, and Harry roughly drew his hand away from the wound, his hand brushing against her cold bare skin.

"Get it under control, Harry. You can't lose it now," he told himself as he started the painstaking task of wrapping the bandage around her waist. He pulled too hard once and she fell back against him, making him fully aware of her nakedness. God, if he didn't know that she was unconscious, he would think that she was doing this on purpose.

The bleeding had stopped, but she had started shivering. Harry pulled up the clean sheets around her and put her to bed, covering her with as many blankets and furs as possible. She snuggled closer and shrunk to a fetal position beneath the sheets, and her shivering finally stopped.

Sighing with tremendous relief, Harry drew himself closer to the fireplace, though he was anything but cold at the moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lanna lay on the bed, half asleep and half delusional with the pain in her side. She vaguely remembered Harry carrying her somewhere, and taking off her clothes, but nothing was clear to her. Had it been Harry carrying her or Jonathon? Had somebody died? She closed her eyes and willed the world to go away as she sank into a fitful sleep.

The man pressed his lips to hers, holding her tightly about the waist with his strong arms. His bare chest was pressed against hers as he leaned her back on the luxurious bed, still kissing her. Lanna moaned into his kiss and pulled him closer as his lips moved to her neck then down further to her breasts, where he tenderly took her nipples into his mouth. She slid her fingers into his thick black hair and heard him breathing heavily as she flipped them over so that she could reach his muscled chest with her lips. This was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, the man she wanted to have children with, the one man she loved with all her heart and soul and who she could never, ever betray, not again . . . Lanna gazed down at his angelic face, the tanned skin smooth and unflawed as she ran her hand over his cheek; his lips were slightly parted and his breathing labored as a bead of sweat trickled down his face. Lanna looked into the dark eyes of the one she loved, the dark eyes of --

Lanna shot up in the bed before she could find the answer. The blankets and skins dropped off of her revealing her naked body to a very surprised Harry, who rushed to her bedside to help her relax. He felt her forehead to see if there were any signs of fever, and his mind was put to rest when her temperature felt normal. However, her chest was heaving and she cringed at the pain in her side.

"Are you alright? What happened?" he asked, concerned.

"I'm fine . . . I think. I just had a -- a dream, is all." They both suddenly became aware of her nudity, and she began to pull the blankets back over herself. She was stopped by Harry's hand on her arm.

"Lanna . . . when -- when I told you I was in love with Princess Savanna, it was a lie. I never felt anything for her, I've only met her once. She's beautiful, but that's all; she's just another empty- headed princess with nothing but dancing and embroidery on her mind. But we are betrothed -- since we were born. Oh, Lanna," he said, cupping her cheek in his broad hand, "I'd do anything to change it all . . . to have *you* as my betrothed . . . I love you."

And she laughed.

And she laughed, a long, full-throated chuckle that would have warmed him if it weren't for the fact that she was snickering over his confession. The first time he had ever said 'I love you' to anyone, hell, anything since he was three years old and in love with his nurse, and she was laughing.

Smiling out at him, her fingers traced the edge of his jaw, sliding down the far edge of his throat and lingering over the Adam's apple, the little bit of anatomy, that had revealed her true sex. Tracing his skin, she grinned lightly. "Harry, even if you loved me, what would you do?"

"I'd marry yo--"

Her eyebrow quirked, and the merriment in her eyes was a terrible thing to see, a whisper of happenings to come and griefs to weep. "You fool. You bloody fool--you'd tear your kingdom apart, plunge your populace into civil war, break with your most powerful lord just to bed a rebellious country wench?" , he nodded, covering her hand with his own.

And she wept, her hands burning runes and letters into his skin, the slap of hot flesh, twining together of bodies and the lock of their hands and legs and bellies, the soft cadence of her tongue whispering 'I love you' in his mouth tugging him down into a whirling kaleidoscope of taut coffee and silver spirals.

***

Jonathon stared at the small pool of blood on the ground, and knelt to touch it. The thick red fluid coated his fingers as he brought them toward his face. He smelled the blood, and he tasted it. Tasted the coppery liquid, and in it he tasted Lanna, the way the inside of her mouth rubbed against his tongue, the way her neck arched to his lips . . . But he had hurt her. He had stabbed her. And if she did not recover it was on his hands . . . Would she have a better life with Harry? Would she be happy with him? She would make an excellent queen . . . and an excellent wife. But not to him. Not to this -- this cruel murderer he had become. Jonathon found the sword that had hung on his belt -- it had been hastily flung off in his lust for the girl -- and unsheathed it. He contemplated the cold, hard steel, and how it would feel if he thrust it into his bare chest. Only a moment's pain . . .

And there was a moment, a second where he contemplated the slice of steel across skin, the gush of red and the stink of fresh blood covering this tiny room. A moment when he could see himself falling and dying in a puddle of crimson, lying face-down and staining his cheeks with color, laid out for the castle watch to find him. A moment of pain, a bare flicker, and this stupid charade would come to an end with the purifying simplicity of a bard's romantic tale.

And then that moment passed with the sad ruefulness of a speculative eyebrow.

His nimble finger slipped around the gleaming steel, hands gliding up the planes and back down to rest around the self-hewn wooden haft. Lifting it to his mouth, he thought he could he could almost smell, almost taste her sweat on this thing that had laid next to her. Gently, he slid his lips across the smoothed wood, almost in a kiss, and then, quietly, he slid it into his sheath.

Jonathon straightened, smiling, eyes quiet as he left the room, striding down the narrow steps with a coolness that reflected the peace that had fallen over his personal waters. Tightly, he held the memory of arms practice, of seeing his twin at the end of his epee, and hearing the solid thwack of wood against flesh, the desperation in Harry's eyes as he was battled into a corner. . .

For an old fox has many tricks, many beguilements, but he always keeps one wile to himself. One, a single wending that kept the one alive just a little longer, for a moment longer, long enough to achieve his goal, the ultimate glory. A last dart into the thorn forest to bring his hound into the fox's domain, a taste of revenge, a last act, the revelation of his last card to enable him to snatch the victory out of the hunter's jaws.

And Jonathon was a very old fox indeed.

And his last card was something indeed.

* * * * *

Harry was befittingly hazy, properly woozy as he staggered into the main hall for breakfast. Smiling, he risked a possessive glance at Lanna who hovered in the corner of his eye, attending him like a proper page. As he admired the proud curve of her back, the slimness of her neck underneath the short-snipped cut, their eyes caught for a brief moment, her dark ones glittering with an unidentifiable emotion, as her lips curved into a gently mocking grin, admonishing him for being so greedy after last night.

Last night.

After . . . afterwards, they had lain together on the cot, entwined underneath the cool moon, listening to the rush of the castle moat. Her head had pillowed upon his shoulder, and they had whispered love to each other, and they had lain their plans. Still nebulous, but specific enough to make both cold chills and hot anticipation settle in Harry's belly; to give up his demesne, to give up his name to go adventuring on the High Road, to step out of this life and assume another one easy as riding out before dawn and never looking back, to spend the rest of his God-given days with her, riding in the Hunt, the Long Road of a silver dag--

And then: "My lord, have you mind for a bit of the hunt this morn?" in a soft, mild voice at his elbow. Whirling around, he caught the edge of pale blonde hair and soft, trembling blue eyes, a pink rosebud mouth set in Madonna oval face, soft white hands on his arm and a green dress stamped with the blazon of a rampant stag.

"Savanna?" he choked, sputtering and spitting ale across the table, his face turning brilliant red.

"Yes, m'Lord." All sweet mildness, sky eyes downcast and peeping up through the thick fringe of her lashes.

"What are you doing here?"

"My entourage arrived a slight bit early, m'Lord, last night, round the third watch. I asked my servants not to wake thee, sir." A dainty cambric handkerchief sopped ale off his chest, and her voice was all demureness. "Your brother has told me that you quite enjoy a chase before the sun has reached its zenith, so perhaps, when you go, might I accompany you?

"Won't you?" came a cool, suave voice.

Looking up, Harry found Jonathon leaning against a buttress. Attired in hunting garb, one of Jonathon's deerskin gloved hands rested upon the pommel of his sword, and intent gleaming out of slitted dark eyes, age-old challenge burning and the age-old hum of fraternal rivalry, intensified by a society where your brother was both your closest ally and your deadliest enemy. Harry's mouth was dry and his voice was harsh, grating and carefully cold as he called upon Lan to prepare the mounts.

* * * * *

Lanna followed the hunt at a respectful distance with the other pages and squires, though her true place was by Harry's side. She was Lady Lanna Tavin after all, it was her birthright. But pretense denied her her heritage, the desire for freedom forbade her from revealing to the court her identity. It was bad enough that both Jonathon and Harry had discovered her secret . . . she blushed slightly beneath her dark wispy hair. She could not rid the latter from her thoughts after the forbidden night they had spent together. She could still feel his lingering caresses, the soft touch of his lips on hers. The pain of her wound and the anguish she had felt since her charade was discovered were forgotten as they conspired together about the future. The promises and plans they made had given her hope that no matter the interference from Jonathon or his wicked threats, somehow they would work things out. They would be together and all could be put to rest . . .

But that was before the arrival of her, Lanna thought with bitterness, as she watched Princess Savanna riding beside her betrothed. She was a picture of loveliness in her silken riding gown, demure as to befit her station in life, but noble of spirit and kind of heart. If she had been vain and conceited, haughty and proud then Lanna would have had no cause for concern. But despite Harry's assurances that it was not Savanna he cared for, that she was just like any other princess, Lanna could not bury the jealously that burned within her every time she looked at them together. Since her arrival Harry had barely even noticed Lanna, as he attended to Savanna with utmost attention and care. The hunt had separated Harry and Lanna again, and she was beginning to despair that the princess's unexpected arrival would be the ruin of them both and the life they had so wanted together only the previous night.

Prince Harry and Princess Savanna rode in the presence of his father and King, with several other knights including Lanna's very own father who made up the lead party. The hounds had lost the scent of their prey so the riders slowed to a walk, allowing the promised pair to strike up a conversation, about what Lanna could not tell from her distant position. Harry smiled graciously at the beautiful woman and she laughed behind a slim, gloved hand, then reached to place it playfully on his arm.

"They make a charming couple, don't you think?" came an unwelcome voice beside her. She glanced, startled, at Jonathon who had drawn his horse up next to hers, shadowing her. Lanna tightened the reigns and stared steadfastly ahead.

"They were betrothed at birth," he explained as they rode on slowly, his menacing voice quiet so as not to draw attention to them. "Savanna was raised to be his wife from childhood, trained in all the womanly arts befitting a queen and mother of the future heir of Laconia. Though she may look sweet and innocent to you, don't be fooled into believing she would allow that to be taken from her, by the dishonored daughter of a lowly knight no less."

"I do not know what you are talking about," she replied stiffly, as up ahead Harry leaned closer to Savanna, whispering something for her ears only.

"Oh, I know about you treasonous liaison last night. Harry's steward always was susceptible to a generous bribe of gold . . . Do not presume to think you could unseat her, my dear, no matter your feminine wiles. Harry would be a fool to choose you and sacrifice everything he has wanted his whole life."

"I thought you were the one who wanted to be King," she spat back venomously, eyes blazing. "Is than not why you plotted to kill your brother in the first place?"

"It is true, I have been somewhat . . . distracted from my mission, but my plans will not be thwarted forever. I have learned to bide my time, Lady Lanna, and in the meantime I still have you."

She frowned at his words and the thinly veiled threat which loomed over her like a darkening cloud, ruining her chances of happiness. She knew she could not simply forget what had happened with Harry, and any feelings she had had for Jonathon sickened her now as he sat cockily in his saddle, probably plotting her demise as he rode beside her. Lanna wished she could turn to Harry, but then there was Savanna . . .

Suddenly the hounds who had been snuffling unsuccessfully after the fox's trail began barking excitedly as they picked up the scent once more. The lead party gave a cheer and the King spurred his horse on and took after the racing dogs. Lanna and Jonathon watched the other riders disappear from view over the crest of a hill, as the other pages and lackeys hurried to keep up. Lanna went to follow suit and kicked her mount in the ribs to urge him forward, but Jonathon shot out a firm hand and grasped her reigns, holding her back.

"You would do well to heed my words, Lanna," he said evenly, almost as if he was giving her a piece of friendly advice. His disturbing dark eyes were staring at her intently, piercing her heart. "Harry will not desert Savanna now that she is here. But you will find there are others who can take his place."

She would not listen to him, and violently wrenched back the reigns. Before she could escape his evil presence, they were both startled to see one of the pages racing back towards them at breakneck speed. Jonathon opened his mouth to question the young man, but he continued past them in the direction of the castle like the devil was after him. Lanna threw a puzzled glance at her tormentor but he was already away in the direction of the rest of the hunting party.

The two of them rode quickly in silence until they saw the group of riders up ahead, most of them dismounted and huddled in a group by a felled tree trunk. Jonathon pulled his horse up sharply and dismounted, pushing his way through the small, stunned crowd. In the center, Savanna stood supported by Sir Tavin, weeping silently. Lanna, still by Jonathon's side, followed his line of vision to Harry who was seated on the ground, supporting in his lap the head and shoulders of his father, the King. The old man's body seemed unharmed, just dirty from an obvious fall from his horse. But Harry's eyes were full of tears as he hugged his father to him, cradling his face in his hands. The King's noble visage was stark white, his mouth open in a mute plea. But it was eyes that struck Lanna, the same dark eyes she loved in Harry and loathed in Jonathon were open but devoid of life. A trembling hand flew to her mouth as Harry looked up at both her and Jonathon. His haunting words, spoken to his brother but aimed at her, were heartbroken.

"The King is dead."

And it was distantly, as through a fog that Harry heard the massed voices, the low, solemn cry of the courtiers as they acknowledged him as the new ruler. Even Savanna's cool soprano, the weight of her hand on his shoulder pressed itself through the mists vaguely.

It was also through this haze that he saw his brother, his . . . rival . . . inspecting their father's horse. There triumphant cry of Jonathon as he lifted the sabotaged tack into the air and accused Harry of murdering his father: for, had Harry not been the one who prepared his father's saddle? Had Harry not spent a great deal of time alone in the stable? There was a slow-motion Jonathon whirling around to fix his weeping kindred with eyes that were strangely alike yet not so. All of this, the gasps of the massed hunting party, Savanna's questioning face came through muddled by grief.

And it took Jonathon's eyes to slam the world back into crisp, hateful focus. It took Harry a moment's year to decipher the glittering hatred in Jonathon's eyes, and to envision his twin's hands guiding the dirk that slashed the stirrup moorings. But when that time was over, there was the rasping of his sword rising from its sheath and the cadence of a formal challenge upon his lips.

* * * *

There was no surprise in Jonathon's eyes, in fact, he looked like he had prepared for such a statement. Jonathon took a step toward Harry and it seemed like nothing else in the world had mattered but the hot, boiling lava of hatred that existed between them. He smirked in a way that only Harry understood and replied, "I accept your challenge. Winner takes *all.*" Harry understood what he meant right off the bat. Honor was not the only thing at stake here, it was the kingdom, the country, the castle, the throne, Princess Savanna, and last, but definitely not least, Lady Lanna Tavin.

Taking advantage of their proximity, Harry whispered so that only Jonathon could hear. "You did not have to kill our father!" he hissed.

Jonathon grinned almost wickedly and retorted, "I'm not the one that did it," and turned his eyes toward Lanna as she stood watching beside her horse, watching. "She was most *bothered* by Princess Savanna's presence," Jonathon paused, watching an array of emotions flash through Harry's pale face. "After all, she had planned to be queen. She thought she had a better chance with you, but then she decided to come back to me now." With that said, Jonathon turned away and got on his horse. "To the fields, Brother, for all to witness the consequences of murdering the King."

As Jonathon rode off into the forest trail, Lanna slowly approached Harry, who had his back to her.

"Harry?" she called softly as she reached to touch his shoulders. She knew that he did not kill the King, he would NEVER have killed the King. Only the both of them knew the truth, they would have to work together to fight Jonathon . . . She stared wide-eyed as Harry started walking toward his horse, not even acknowledging her.

"Prince Harry!" she called out again, trying not to look too suspicious under Princess Savanna and the knights' looks.

He mounted his horse, staring ahead. Lanna reached to touch his hands, but to her surprise, he shook off her touch and glare at her as if she was the most vile thing on this earth. "I thought I could trust you, Lanna, I really thought I did. I thought after what we had been through -- " Harry then turned his horse to follow the path but Lanna held on.

"Lanna?" Sir Tavin had heard Harry's not so discreet conversation and tried to accost her. She shrugged off her father's recognition and pursued Harry further.

"He told you something about me, didn't he? DIDN'T HE?!" she managed to say evenly though painfully aware that her disguise was exposed and the Harry that she knew was no longer the same man in front of her. She had trusted and loved him with all her heart and this was how he treated her? Was he not even aware that every time he looked at her with such venom in his eyes that she felt that she was watching her own heart blacken with death.

"Lanna! Leave the Prince alone! You'll have to explain to me what in damnation are you doing here?!" Sir Tavin yelled, excited and angered at the same time, finally finding his daughter, here, of all places. He dragged her stiff body away from the Prince's horse, Blaze, and was surprised to see tears brimming in her eyes. For all her adolescent years, he had never seen her eyes wet, much less starting to cry. She had always been so defiant and strong . . . so much like him. Then as if she had heard her father's words, Lanna straightened and though she did feel very much like crying, she did not, not even when Harry had rode off, leaving her in his dust. "Come Lanna, we shall have to get you out of this disgusting garb," Tavin said, somewhat gently. Lanna allowed her father to lead her away. Being a knight didn't matter anymore . . . there were things more important, far more important . . .

******

Princess Savanna had watched all of this happen without a clue. But something told her this Lady Lanna was entangled in this somehow. She wasn't surprised to find this Lan to be a woman in disguise, but she hadn't found out sooner because she wasn't paying attention to her. Savanna had been talking with Harry. All her life, she had imagined him to be like so, for though she only saw him once as a child, she had taken a liking to him the first time she saw him. Tall, with glittering black eyes, silky dark hair and a playful smile reserved only for her. But if she didn't know better, he took a liking to her too, just as a brother would. She had confided in this only with her best friend, her personal servant, Kathy. Kathy in turn, had told her that perhaps marriage was not on the prince's mind yet and maybe when he saw her again, grown and tall, that he would grow to love her. Anticipation had filled her heart when she finally arrived at the castle and awaited to greet Harry. He had seemed . . . distracted at first, but soon became the big brother she had remembered from her last visit. She had also belated realized that she was in love with him, his eyes, his face, his smile, his heart, his entire being. If they were to marry, she had no doubt that Harry would remain loyal and love her with all his heart when they do marry. Everything was going to be perfect . . . until the King suddenly fell off his giant horse and died. Death had not been a stranger to her, her mother had died during her birth, but watching someone die was another matter. Grief had immobilized her, and tears had ran down her cheeks, knowing how Harry and Jonathon must feel to lose the King. But she had watched in confusion as another disaster played out. Now her betrothed and his brother were going to fight each other, while this Lady Lanna comes out of her disguise and talks to Harry like . . . like . . . a broken hearted woman. She had seen Jonathon and Harry looking at Lanna with the strangest expressions on their faces. Could it be possible that they were both in love with her?!

Lanna's approaching figure disrupted her train of thought, but as she passed her, a look of anguish beckoned at Savanna's sympathetic nature. But as Lanna's eyes met hers, she felt as if she was meeting some sort of opponent, going after the same goal.

*****

Harry and Jonathon stood at opposite ends of the field, while on the outskirts of the field sat the many those who came to see who was to be the next King. They sat or stood under a rough canopy, watching. Princess Savanna had a seat, sitting there like the queen that she was destined to be. Lady Lanna stood by Sir Tavin, wearing a simple blue gown that showed off all her curves, unlike the tunic that she used to wearing. The both of them each at their unique qualities and Jonathon and Harry had both seen it when they came into view.

Even as Jonathon's thoughts ran from the throne then to Lanna, Harry's thought had been solely occupied by her image. She had betrayed him. That sentence had been repeated over and over in his head. Lanna had succumbed to Jonathon's seductive reasoning and betrayed him. His father was dead. He would never see his stern face, his approving looks, or a simple pat on the shoulder. It was as if his world and crumbled into bits.

"Give it up, Harry! You have nothing to fight for!" Jonathon yelled, adding the perfect addendum to Harry's thoughts.

Above their heads, grey clouds flowed in and blocked out the sun. And as it rumbled overhead, Harry's rage and despair boiled into one. With a horrific yell, he ran to meet his opponent.

Metal clashed with metal, each blow deadly and each defense accurate. They were similar in both appearance, and in the way they fought. There was a storm brewing, but the brothers were oblivious to it. Globes of rain fell from the sky and winds like a hurricane blew across the field. The canopy collapsed in a rush of wind and rain. Still they could hear the clings and clangs of swords near by, signaling that the rain did not stop their duel.

Lanna crawled out beneath the rubbish and despite the cries of her father, she ran toward the brothers. She could not see two feet in front of her, her dress was soaked and her skin clammy. But she could not let Harry be killed without letting him know the truth, that she did love him and did not betray him.

Savanna ran after Lanna, thinking to herself that she was every bit as concerned about the brothers as she was. Her servants tried going after her but the rain completely obstructed their vision, as if to enclose the four of them in another world, a world that no others could enter.

The brothers were indeed in their own world. Jonathon had waited for this for years, he knew that Harry would soon have nothing to run on, his strength from his anger would soon give out . . . soon, it would be soon. Harry knew he was going to lose, but his honor bid him to fight till the end, and it would be some fight indeed.

"HARRY!!!" The brothers turned and in the rain with them was Lanna, emerging like a ghost, calling Harry's name. Lanna herself couldn't decide who was who in the pounding rain so she yelled, pouring her heart out into the rain. "Harry! I love you and I would never betray you! Somewhere in your heart you know I'm telling the truth! I will follow you even to death! Let the heavens and the earth be my witness! I LOVE YOU!" Still the rain fell harder, singing into the air, drowning out her words.

Dare he hope, dare he? Maybe Jonathon had said it just to infuriate him, Harry thought, as he caught whispers of Lanna's confession. He stabbed forth with unexpected strength and Jonathon backed away.

Lanna's heart was in her throat as she saw the opportunity. Her action would be foolhardy, but she did not think twice as she stumbled toward one of the brother and kissed one of them deeply, hoping she had made the right choice. When she looked into his eyes, she knew she had.

"Lanna?" This word and the way he said it warmed her despite the icy rain, and whether it was rain, sweat, or tears that flowed down their faces, it was not important. She had risked her life for him and he had learned to trust her again. Falling against him, wet clothes and all, she kissed with all her retrained desire out in the open, hot and burning.

Not to say that Jonathon had watched all this calmly. Every time, his brother would get the best, be the best, have the best . . . Oh, he was so sick of it! What did Harry have that he didn't have?! And now, the first woman that he ever . . . fell in love with, was back in his brother's arms. This was not happening . . . not again . . . not again . . . not again. With a howl, he ran back to them, his sword aimed, and cried, "I SHALL GRANT YOU YOUR WISH!"

****************************************

Princess Savanna watched in horror as her love's brother ran to skewer Prince Harry and Lady Lanna both at once. She had seen the girl's -- woman's declaration of her love for Prince Harry, and she saw in her eyes that this was a pure love, much, much more than the attraction she had for him. There had to be an end to this deadly love triangle, and if she didn't do something about it it would only end in tragedy.

Savanna threw herself in front of Jonathon's sword, both to protect the man she loved and because she knew that if Harry and Lanna were in love her future married to him would be a mask, all her emotions hidden beneath the queen on the surface, his emotions locked away in a far closet but still affecting him every day. The man she married would not be the man she fell in love with, and if she didn't marry into this family there was nobody for her to be wed to, no kingdom for her to rule over. Her kingdom would lose all its power, and she would be reduced to working as a seamstress for pennies, all her elaborate gowns and elegant decorations gone with the throne. When the sword ran her through, she felt no pain.

******************************

Three pairs of eyes stared in shock as the beautiful princess fell to the muddy ground, her white gown splattered with crimson blood. Harry gripped Lanna tightly to him as she looked away from the fallen princess, trying to protect her from the murder before them. The bloody sword fell from Jonathon's hand as onlookers emerged slowly from the ruined canopy, their eyes wide and confusing murmuring in their throats. Sir Tavin didn't -- couldn't believe that he saw his daughter, his poor daughter who he had thought he would have no hope of marrying off, locked in a tight embrace with the Prince -- one of the princes -- of Laconia. And the blood -- the blood of Princess Savanna, no longer betrothed to Prince Harry. Despite the gruesome circumstances, Sir Tavin couldn't help thinking that there was hope for his little daughter yet. Jonathon was the one to break the silence.

"This isn't finished yet."

And so, the two twins slammed together, mirror images whirling in a dervish of movement, wrapped in the early morning mist that still lay upon the field. Sparks flew where their swords met, as fine-booted feet stamped back and forth.

But, in the end, Jonathon was the outsider and Harry was the beloved heir; he was a lover and loved, while Jonathon only remembered the long, aching hungriness of watching your brother gleaming in the light of universal approval, when the only thing you had ever experienced were the starkness of the practice ground and the intrigue of a powerful court. Only loss and the emptiness of being the 'spare', the memory of walking two steps behind a man graced with two minutes more of age. And so, with the memory of Lanna burning in his veins, Harry drove Jonathon back: step by step, foot by foot, forcing the man who would have loved in his place, putting him on the defensive and weakening him until it was such a very simple thing to send an inch of fire-hardened still into his ribs.

There was a low, breathy grunt and the grunting of a sword being withdrawn from a tight, hot body. A thud then, as a dying man fell to the ground, blood spouting from between his ribs as his mouth twisted horribly and the color drained from his face. Jonathon's limbs thrashed, the wound drenching his tunic, and with a short, rasping cry, the bubbles trickling down his chin, he died as suddenly as he had lived.

And curiously, his last expression had been a smile, and as Harry closed his twin's eyes, he couldn't resist one either. An ironic, bitter one to Jonathon's triumph, but a smile nonetheless. Straightening up from the cooling body, Harry kissed B'Elanna, his tongue parting her teeth as she pressed herself tightly against him, her hands interlocked over his nape as the lovers tried to meld into each other, even as Harry yanked himself out of spiraling universes and the liquid rush of her mouth in his.

"One." he croaked, his lips brushing against her cheek. "There's only one of us left now, Lanna." he whispered, his head digging into her clavicle with a painful intensity. "I can't . . . I can't go . . ."

And so, she hit him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. "Yes, I'll marry you, you stupid little whoreson."

"What!?!" Harry choked, holding her at arms length and giving her a sudden, shocked look. "But -- "

"Pages disappear all the time, don't they? They quit. They walk away. They . . . go back to their families. Some of them, they come back to court a couple months later, whole different people."

"But -- "

"I'm the betrothed of his direct lord. Do you *think* he's going to beat me, when he's just gained an important alliance, high influence with the court, tying his line to the throne? I'm his most treasured jewel, as I most certainly expect I'll be yours once you've got that damned deed of property men insist on holding of their wives."

"But -- "

"Look, I certainly *hope* you won't expect me to eat from your hands. I *know* where they've been. I'll wear a dress, but I *won't* eat from your palm, alright? Not even for the Lord of Hell himself, I won't."

"But -- "

The admonishment she gave him was fierce, proud, and exceeding possessive. "You've said 'but' four times now -- for all your bloody scholarly fame, can you think of no *other* thing to do with that pretty little mouth of yours? It's a bad habit, makes people think you're slow-witted, something I'm going to have to cure in our marriage bed."

"Marriage bed?" His voice skittered up a few octaves.

"What, you intend to re-consummate our marriage on a cot? Think again, O Lord, Prince and general ruler of all the universe. A nice big down bed, with draperies and a strong headboard."

"Headboard?"

* * * *

Tavin jogged up the final hill just in time to have a slim, mounted thing streak across him, cape flying and horse pounding forward. He could just barely make out his daughter's pinched features as she crested the next hill, moving towards the main hunting party. Half-running, half- rolling down the slope, the good Lord came to a stuttering halt beside the Prince, who was quietly wiping his bloody sword off on his pants.

"Where is she?" demanded Tavin. "What is she doing?"

"Savanna?" said Harry, his expression surprisingly loving. "I assume she's in Heaven right now, telling St. Peter that he has the most wretched fashion sense and that white is absolutely no color to go with hair like that."

"I meant my daughter!"

"You have a daughter, Sir Tavin?"

"But you were just -- "

"I suppose that sometime in the next few weeks, a young, rather rebellious page will make their way back to your demesne, Tavin. They'll be rather . . . headstrong, I assume, but I'm sure you and . . . the page . . . will be able to mend relations; after all, Lan loves you more than she realizes, and I think you'll find a fondness for the child."

"You mean La -- "

"And you'll be bringing your daughter to court in a few months, you know."

"Court?"

"My court, preferably. Gelbury isn't very friendly to us at this moment, so, I would think my court, yes. I think I'm going to marry that little vixen of yours."

"Marry?"

"You know, that whole bit about union between two souls, tying of bloodlines, yadda yadda yadda?"

"But -- "

"I'd really appreciate it if you'd uh . . . how shall we say it? Hold my . . . potential betrothed in the highest of esteem, for I'd be very upset if you didn't. And get her a dress, will you? A frilly, disgustingly fancy dress -- I'd love to see her face. "

"But -- "

"Six months should be about right -- I think Savanna would agree six months is . . . appropriate . . . mourning for her."

"But -- "

"Tavin, you've said 'but' three times in a row now. It's a nasty habit -- makes people think you're slow-witted."

***
END
***

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