Of Explanations and Sneak Attacks
In Ruthiorn, there are exactly three ranks under royalty. The lowest are the peasants. To be a peasant, you must not come from a pure-bred noble family. You could be a blacksmith, weaver, seamstress, farmer- as long as you are not wealthy or come from a noble line, you're a peasant. The next level up are the nobles. Dukes, duchesses, lords and ladies. Wealthy, with a long line of nobles before them. Above that are the ladies-in-waiting.
Within the ladies-in-waiting, there are, again, three ranks. There are ladies of the bedchamber. These are the young -and old- women who tend to the royalty's material needs. They prepare the baths, make the beds, ready the clothes, help with dresses. In the guardian system, these are the ones who check for hidden threats, secure the areas.
The next are the courtiers. These women give advice, steer the royalty away from rocky terrain. In the guardian system, they act as the peacemakers, lawyers, and social balancers, making sure no one will bring about the royalty's downfall through more cunning means, and the ones who ensure the royalty has a good reputation. The publicists, of sorts.
Next are the escorts. They accompany the royalty to events, act as companions and friends in times of need. Within the guardian system, they're a different type of escort. They act as bodyguards, protectors. They were chosen for their skill as fighters, taught to be well-mannered and polite, raised to act like any good noblewoman should. But underneath it all, they are there to protect and defend.
I am one of these escorts.
My name is Caedyn. I'm... what would Dion say... ah! I'm arguably pretty, but not as striking as Fina, or breathtaking like Dion. Heaven forbid not as flat out gorgeous as Princess Creea. Just the typical nobleman's daughter's looks, not hideous, even more-than-averagely attractive in some eyes, but nothing that would make me stand out terribly. It's a good thing, don't let Creea tell you otherwise.
My older sister Tiffa, who works as a courtier, says my hair is a sandy sort of brown, just long enough to brush the bottom of my shoulder blades. I'd just say it's on the long side and light brown, but a big don't in my life is 'don't argue with Tiffa when she's feeling artistic'. I will say my eyes are rather nice, though, a rather pretty shade of green. If you look closely, they even look like the cut emeralds I wear sometimes.
I suppose I'm rather tanned, having been outdoors for a good part of my childhood, but not terribly brown. Just a tinge of color to my skin. I'm rather tall, which feels rather awkward sometimes, as I'm close to my father's height and, as Fina frets, quite thin. Dion, probably my closest friend in my team (another guardian system thing), says my muscles are more wiry, and I don't let her forget it.
At times I almost wish I looked more like Fina, or Dion or Creea. Fina with her beautiful, waist length red hair and deep blue eyes, petite, slender, but curvy. I just don't have curves at all. It's a truth that Creea often tries to 'fix', with complexly made dresses and sashes and girdles and, basically, things I often abandon as soon as she's turned her back.
Where Fina is often very noticeable, with a very bright, bold look to her, Dion is subtle, but stunning. Her hair is like black silk, a touch longer than Fina's; she often has it braided and tied up though, which doesn't take from her looks at all. Her eyes are a steely gray, and sometimes I swear they're the exact same color of the blades she has tucked away at all times. She's not quite as tall as me, but still has a very slim figure, only a shade less curvy than Fina.
Princess Creea... I don't even want to talk about Creea's looks. She's got these beautiful golden corkscrew curls, and she near always wears them down. Her eyes are absolutely the most exquisite shade of hazel you've ever seen, and she's small and curvy, and not like me at all.
Each one of them -well, not the princess, obviously- is trained to fight. Fina can hold a fencing fight with just about anything she can hold, from candlesticks to spoons to a loaf of bread (long story, little time). She prefers swords though, which is why we often have knights around. Not so they can fight, so Fina can steal their swords.
Dion, as I mentioned, handles knives. Slim blades; stiletto daggers are always her weapon of choice. She throws, stabs, cuts and makes art. Not in flesh -that's not the Dion way- but rather, wood. She can carve anything, out of anything. Her entire bed frame is covered in ridges and grooves, forming patterns and scenes and just... beauty. It is rather scary though, what she can do. I've seen her throw a knife seamlessly, without it even being seen, and killing a man twenty yards away through a thicket of trees.
Me? I just fight. Pure, natural, hand to hand combat. This means I can't really function in dresses, even really loose one like Fina wears. I wear what I like to call deceivers. It's one piece, like a dress, but there's not a skirt. There're a pair of very, very loose pants that appear as a skirt. You have to be looking for it very carefully to tell they're pants.
It makes it a lot easier to move around, not to mention it makes me feel incredibly free. And there's no place freer than playing tag or horseback riding in the fields, while Fina and Creea fawn over the knights-in-training and Dion and I chat and make jokes that Creea wouldn't get as long as she lived.
"You know she still thinks she can run away with Levy. Or was it Piers? I can't remember." Dion always spoke in a low, uninterested voice. Her trademark was her nonchalance, and now, propped up on her elbows, gazing with half lidded eyes over the field, it was showing violently.
"We'll find someone," I insisted, eyes closed and head tilted back. There was a flare-up of giggles from a few yards away, and Dion lifted one eyebrow in annoyance.
"Cause."
"Eh, new boy. Duke's son, I'm guessing. Decided it was too warm too keep his tunic on. My guess, the princess was upping the heat for him." I could almost hear one corner of her mouth twitch upward. It was well within the nature of Dion to make remarks like that. Not exactly snide, but cool and a little back handed.
I rolled my head over to see. It looked like Dion was right. How could I tell? It's all in the aura and posture. See, Creea seems to float, and radiates a lightness. She stands straight, but she can never stay still, her head swerving around every two seconds. She keeps her chin lifted and shoulders dropped, with seemingly perfect balance. A royal, you can just tell.
Dion slinks rather than floats. She just glides over everything with those half-lidded eyes, shoulders rolled back and spine straight. A high-ranked noble, from a very long line of ancestors. One of the old families. Fina sort of... bounces. She bustles and scurries, shoulders back and spine slightly arched, eyes alight with a fire. An active noble, maybe a newer one.
Him? He had his shoulders rolled back, head tilted and eyes half-shut, hands on his hips and his back, however straight it was, at a leaned-back angle. Smirking, with an air of confidence and very potentially arrogance. A noble's son. Dion has it down to a science, right down to whether it's a duke or knight, archer or scholar. You don't know how hard it is until you try it yourself.
"If he takes one step forward, I will dismember him," I muttered, feeling my eyes turn to slits.
"I'm sure you will, tiger," Dion replied, twisting a blade of grass in her fingers, bored. I rolled my eyes and sat up, shooting a glare at him. Blonde, tall. Broad shoulders. I memorized his face for later, when I'd have to confront. Possibly. If all went well, Creea'd forget him by sundown. Speaking of which-
"What time is it, Di?"
"Well I don't know, how old is that daisy you're crushing?"
"Touche."
"Agreed."
Ah, the feisty banter of female bodyguards. Fascinating.
I squinted overhead. The sun was directly over me; obviously, it was noon. Way to completely not notice your surroundings, Caed. I snorted at myself -honestly, you'd think I'd have learned by now- and flopped back down.
Exactly when Creea screams bloody murder.
Dion and I are the first to take action. She follows Creea's line of vision and shoots two steel stars in that direction, while I'm running, running, then arching my body out and rolling over Creea, her tiny form guarded by my tallness. Fina's got a hold on a training foil, her ginger hair rolling out from its tidy bun. I loop an arm tightly around Creea's shoulders and slam the other arm behind her knees, so I've got a loose carrying position on her. I shout for Fina to follow me, and Dion to scope out what happened. The changing room for the knights-in-training is the only place of shelter I can think of. I slide one hand over Creea's eyes.
"All men and boys to the fields! Fetch the head of guard and physician!" I bellow. The stable-like building empties in less than five seconds. "Stay with her," I order Fina, sprinting back to the hill we were lounging at. Dion's already made it back from wherever Creea had been looking, holding a still warm bow. She's the only one out of us who's a more than decent archer, so I raise my eyebrows meaningfully.
"No way to tell who shot it. Can't see any smudges. Shot recently." She's gone into level-five mode. Dead serious, precise, quick. Nonchalance gone, eyes fully open. I nod and scour the hill. Where Dion and I were sitting had gone untouched, the girl-shaped indentations in the daisies and grass still smushed down. My eyes trail to where Fina sat- nothing. A strand of ginger, which I quickly grab up, a loose thread that I leave. And right where Creea's torso had been before I'd tackled her and rolled to the side... I growled and stalked forward.
The shaft of an arrow, buried six inches in. I yanked it out with a strong pull and inspected it carefully; a light brown wood, with a black feather fletching and a needle thin point on the arrowhead. Dion runs a finger on the flat of the arrowhead, and her fingertip comes away dark blue. She holds it to her nose and sniffs lightly.
"Poison," she confirms.
I hold a hand to my mouth and try not to swear. A flash of gold strikes in my peripherals, and with a level five having been staged, I'm sprinting towards the wanderer before Dion can take the poisoned arrow from me. My vision, not adjusted to being still again, is still whirling when I latch onto the wanderer's arm. I yank back and strike the center of the person's chest, stunning him briefly. Just enough time for me to jam my forearm under his jaw and a knee into his stomach. He's effectively trapped against the changing room's wall. It's only then that I realize he's the boy who made Creea launch into giggles.
Up close, I only see minute differences. A pale scar curving around his right eye, from under the eye to above the eyebrow. Deep blue eyes that would've sent me reeling, had I not been thinking that he was at the scene of a level five attack and had distracted the princess. A tiny cut on his cheekbone, a light, well treated bruise on his inner forearm. Somehow, he manages to find air (with difficulty; I can see the labored pattern of breath) and speaks the last words I'd thought he'd say. Cliche? Yes. True? Another yes.
"My name is Michael Rochester. I was sent by my father, brother of your head of guard. I was told to find a Caedyn Bennet and assist her."
"Caedyn Bennet." My voice is stoney and dead.
"Uh, yes- could you point me to her?"
I tighten my jaw, step back, and turn my index at my sternum.
His jaw drops. I roll my eyes and grip the arrow that nearly killed Creea. Dion, who's managed to catch up, sighs.
"Don't kill him, Caed. Creea'd never forgive you."
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