He scrubbed the floor like it had never been clean. It was absolutely spotless whenever Zvan was finished with it, but sure enough half a moment later the Lord and his sons arrived in their carriage and stomped around on the stone floor tracking in all manner of mud from outside. Zvan wasn't even sure that there was mud to be had - he was often convinced they dropped water on the dirt before exiting the carriage and gleefully messed up the clean floors on purpose.

He was positive that Lord Jlean was doing it on purpose, anyway. With the look that the puma man had in his stormy green eyes on entering the kitchens, he sneered down at Zvan his 'son' cheetah, who didn't raise his eyes to meet the man's.

"It's not clean here," Jlean announced flatly, but with a coldness that meant something at their meeting had gone awry and he was not happy. Zvan kept cleaning, scrubbing with the brush until all traces of passage had been removed again. The young men that posed as Zvan's elder 'brothers' had tromped through moments before, leaving their pawprints everywhere for their father to notice. They had chosen the dry places, too, where Zvan had long since finished.

With a sigh, well into the evening, Zvan cleaned. Perhaps in the morning, he would only be beaten a little, because the place really did shine. Zvan crept into his bed, which at that point he was happy to have. Even if it was halfway outside, stuck under the pantry where the kitchen met the carriage yard. A pile of stones and old hay stood where the wall had collapsed a little, and any shred of material Zvan could find he put up to seal the holes.

And he was halfway convinced that sometimes Jlean kicked at the loose rubble, just to tear it a bit down again.

The cheetah male was a few years younger than his adopted siblings, and considerably smaller in build. Pumas were the largest of the so-called 'small' cats, and cheetahs the smallest of the 'big' cats, however Jlean's build was much closer to a lion, and his sons the same. Zvan's father had passed away during the great cold winter eight years before, and his mother was wooed by this grey-green man quickly enough. They married, and within a year Zvan's mother was dead too.

Though he was close to sixteen at this time, Zvan was not as tall as he should have been, nor his limbs as full and muscular as they could be. He was hardly nourished by the scraps he was able to sneak from the kitchen. He had to cook for the family, their last servant had been let go some time before, and Zvan was for some reason expected to pick up the slack of cooking, cleaning, and tending to Jlean's needs.

He had an appetite, and was used to superb food. Zvan learned quickly how to make what his 'father' enjoyed, and at least when full from a feast the man didn't jump up to beat Zvan for some other imagined transgression. The young men - aged twenty and twenty-two - who still lived with their father had failed in every way to secure themselves wives, but Jlean refused to punish them for it. Even though they could well afford to live with servants, he insisted that every penny had to go to a dowry or to woo their potential mates. Or Jlean's next, or perhaps just to buy another bottle of wine.

Zvan felt they were rather a pack of liars, a group of bachelor lions who had no intention of 'settling down'. He himself missed his real family. He had had a brother and sister, both gone though he knew his brother might still be alive. He missed his mother, who was somewhat round bodied for a cheetah, and a much better cook. Zvan thought absently while he tried to sleep, that he was lucky he inherited that skill from her at least, it was serving him well.

Before he slipped into blissful sleep, he heard Ohrn, one of his step-brothers, speaking to Jharn. "And you think she'll choose one of us? What if she does not? Father will be furious."

"Let him be, we will try harder."

What could they be talking about? She who? Choose?

With such wonder in his mind, Zvan fell asleep and all but forgot about the conversation he'd heard by the morning. His slumber as always was broken by the rooster in the yard declaring itself awake, and the sound of Jlean upstairs grumbling about how some day he'd kill the little beast. Scrambling to his feet and bolting into the kitchen, Zvan lit a fire and began making tea, he'd have to bake some biscuits since they were almost out. When he looked into the pantry he saw that which he dreaded most: they would run out of flour by the week's end. He would have to ask Jlean to buy some more. That would require Zvan to endure a lashing or two.

It might get the man out of the house, though, to buy more. Zvan steeled himself, and while the tea pot boiled he had assembled a short list of items that he had to have before their household could eat another meal. At least this way, Zvan pondered, he could be beaten once, instead of five times.

With great fear and a lump in his throat, Zvan served breakfast, which was hot herb tea, thick warmed biscuits with heavy butter and strawberries and then a serving of cold ham with scrambled eggs. When they were almost done, and Zvan was picking up their dishes (and upon bringing them back to the kitchen, licking them practically clean and hastily wiping his muzzle of the evidence), he crept back out to ask for Jlean to buy their supplies.

The puma let out a long low belch, instead of a growl, which was in itself a good sign. Zvan added to his plea, "I was hoping to make the chicken curry dish you like, and we've no more spices, you do like it hot."

"Yes, yes I do!" Jlean exclaimed. "Go on, I will join you, it's an excuse to buy something better than this for it," he said after pausing a moment - whatever 'it' was, he didn't intend Zvan to know what it was. So today, Zvan got away without being beaten.

Breakfast for the men had been uneventful if a little quiet, the brothers went out almost immediately into town on foot. Wherever Jlean and they had been the day before had required the use of their carriage, which Jlean commanded. That meant it had to have been much farther than the township nearby. Their house was a large stone building of three stories, framed by a forbidding and rather tall stone wall. Jlean must have fancied himself a little king, that's how the place always looked to Zvan, like a small squat castle.

Every inch of the place had been at one point or another, cleaned by the cheetah. He liked having to go outside and wash the windows, clear the roof of whatever had fallen on it, or chase animals out of the attic. He got to go outside, then. At almost all other times, he was required to remain indoors and be unseen by anyone. If he was seen, it was as a dirty servant.

If anyone did spot the boy, they only saw a grey-black blur of motion covered in a fine layer of ash from the fireplaces. The flash of burnt-orange or bronze occasionally came through, the glimpse of a spot might give away that he was of big-cat blood, but nothing else. Jlean never mentioned him to anyone, certainly, and the boys were less inclined to speak in kind terms - they often mocked him or taunted him. Sometimes they threw things at him, which Zvan was adept at dodging. He never tried dodging Jlean's whip, not after the one time.

Zvan breathed a sigh of relief when Jlean exited the house and went to town to locate the supplies and later his sons. And most likely, to visit the tavern and flirt with the girls - he always challenged his sons to find a better catch than he, when they came home after nights whoring. Zvan was expected to have dinner ready and the beds clean when they got home, of course, so he started the roast (the curry chicken would have to be another day naturally) and got to work upstairs.

It was actually a wonder that Zvan didn't track any dirt around himself, being that he had to clean the furnace in the back, dig through ashes in the kitchen, clean the flue of all three other fireplaces, shine the mantle of the hearth in the main hall, beat the rugs outside, and all the other grungy work that went with cleaning a small castle. Not one footprint did this cat leave behind. Even when he furtively tried to brush some of the ash off his coat, the dirt didn't seem to go anywhere - certainly not on the floor.

Upstairs, Lord Jlean's room was specifically off-limits. He didn't enter, didn't even look inside. Not even when there was a bad smell coming from it, Jlean always seemed to tidy up after himself - perhaps his one secret. Zvan suspected he'd kept dead bodies in there, but what the man did with them after they'd turned ripe was a mystery even the cheetah didn't want to know.

The brothers' rooms were just above the kitchen, with a window each above the outside carriage yard. Their rooms were cluttered with clothing and bits of this and that. The people of this world didn't wear all that much clothing of course, being furred and finned, feathered and scaled. But they did enjoy dressing up sometimes - covering bits of themselves with clever articles like gloves, anklets, belts, sashes and robes. They adorned their heads with hats, their shoulders sported cowls and capes.

That was for the rich, of course. Jlean and his boys weren't poor, by any means, but they were seemingly out of touch with fashion today - and they required something more modern for whatever 'it' was that Jlean had mentioned. Zvan picked up Ohrn's leggings, folding them carefully and putting them into the closet. He had stacks of odd clothing, sometimes they would be all scattered around, and others they were hardly touched. Moody creatures, those boys. In Jharn's room, after making the bed and tidying up the window sill which had several wine glasses on it and some spilled down the wall, Zvan was just about to leave and clean the glasses, when he saw something.

He blinked, holding the wine glasses and two shirts that needed mending. He brought those things into the kitchen, quickly cleaned the glasses and set his sewing kit up to work. But what he'd seen distracted him. It was the corner of an envelope, he was positive. Ivory colored paper was hard to come by, usually it was a kind of dingy grey-brown shade, and so this envelope was from someone rich - and probably far away.

As Zvan sewed distractedly, putting a small patch onto a shoulder and hemming up a wrist band on another shirt, he considered the facts. Ohrn said 'she' and 'choose', they'd been out somewhere farther than the local town, and Jlean asserted they needed to impress 'her' with something. He was done with the sewing. He had to bring it back into Jharn's room, didn't he? Of course he did.

He knew how to put things back carefully, so that no one knew he'd been there. He had read much of Jlean's library that way - in the few times when he had time, he would sit by the fire place (without a fire, that would be a disaster because Lord Jlean let no one in his library) and read. Jlean didn't really know his servant-stepson could read more than a few words - he didn't question that the boy knew weights and measures, and simple words for food supplies. And Zvan was careful not to let out that he did know rather advanced things.

The shape of the world. The many species in it. Maths that Jlean's boys couldn't do. Exotic tales of faraway places, ships and magic. He wasn't sure he believed in magic. But a lot of books mentioned it. Jlean was not a religious man, but there were religious texts in his library. Zvan didn't feel like choosing one of those, either, to pray to - not publically, not in front of Jlean. How would he know about such things if not by the library?

So upstairs, Zvan went carefully. He knew it had only been about an hour - and the men wouldn't be back in the house until at least late afternoon. They never went to town and came right back. He placed the shirts in their cupboard, arranging them so that if Jharn noticed it at all, he'd see they had been fixed. And then Zvan's bright blue eyes went to the table where a pile of papers and books (which he was always instructed to leave alone) sat. Under them, rested the piece of telltale ivory paper. It was thick, heavy paper, folded, he could see where it had been ripped open on the edge. Zvan licked his muzzle. He would be in so much trouble if he...

He kept looking over his shoulder, of course. His ears were flat, moving backwards and forwards to detect any footsteps into the house or past the creaky iron gate. His tail, usually well-behaved, lashed a little. He picked up the envelope. It was tucked under but not securely, that stack of paper. It would be quite easy to get just right, under it. Zvan made memory of which way the paper inside was folded, everything.

It had a smell to it, something he'd never .... no, there had been once, Zvan couldn't recall where he'd sniffed this scent before. He took a deep whiff of the envelope and the paper inside before opening it to read. It was a musky scent, something with a dash of ... orange? Weird.

The paper inside was thin, lacy, embossed with an invitation to a party. Not just a party, apparently, but to a courtship dance. The Queen's daughter Dvrinne was of age to be married, and she had to pick a suitor from among the men invited. Perhaps there would be hundreds coming to this ball. It was, the invitation said, the first of three such events. If one was chosen for the second, another invitation would be forthcoming. And so on.

It was a strange sensation, creeping through Zvan's body. He carefully placed the invitation back into the envelope, and the paper back under the sheets of language studies that Jharn had piled on it. Zvan gently shook.

They were trying to woo a princess?

Three men who went whoring on weekdays? Trying to doll themselves up to impress the Queen's daughter?

It was suddenly the most ridiculous thing that Zvan had ever heard. And for the first time in years, he burst out laughing so hard he almost cried. His step-brothers and father, trying to win the princess!

***

When the men came home, there was a feast - albeit slightly singed because Zvan had put the fire a bit too high - ready and waiting for them. He'd scampered through his day with a half grin on his muzzle for the while, though they they got home he had to keep that in check. As the family enjoyed their meal (and Zvan had to move into the kitchen to give off a belch, he'd managed a full meal himself before they got back) they muttered about materials, about wigs, about things that Zvan knew but couldn't say. Finally he asked, "how did your shopping trip go? What were you looking for?"

His step-brothers began listing off items like bows, ribbons, ties, scarves. Their father made a menacing growl, narrow eyes warning them not to say too much. "None of your business, little cat," he said. "We were successful. That is all you need to know. And next time, don't burn the roast."

They exited to the den, where they played cards and chatted in more bright words thinking Zvan couldn't hear them. They were going to dazzle her, woo her, sweep her off her feet. They made a 'gentlemans' agreement that if their father was chosen he would be the one to make any moves. He would call all the shots anyway, but just in case, he put the boys in their place by casually threatening to beat them like he beat Zvan. Though he heard the pair chuckle nervously Zvan knew he was serious - as did they.

He went to bed with a full belly and a full mind.

Life for a while was a bit hectic. Zvan was ordered to sew up some costumery for his brothers and father, which he did with zeal. They had selected the most gaudy things: green and violet ribbons, red dotted white fabrics, stripes in yellow and red. At least Jlean had selected more muted tones of yellow and beige, which he apparently wore per habit, he didn't much care for brighter shades or other colors. After being smacked several times for accidentally poking Jharn with a needle or two, and kicked in the belly for commenting about the contrasting colors, his stepbrothers seemed somewhat content with their outfits. To Zvan they looked like clowns. But apparently it was all the rage in high society, and what would Zvan know about that?

Then came the dangerous task of outfitting his stepfather. Carefully, the young man looked over the materials at hand, and tilted his head. Jlean stood impassively in the center of the fitting room, near the landing of the second floor. He chose to make a cape from one large piece of material, framing it in the brighter yellow ribbon, and a pair of sashes in white and beige would decorate the man's muscular midsection. They covered his loin, which was something that Zvan knew was always in fashion - to be an animal and show one's parts was crass anywhere. They were people, after all, not beasts.

While Jlean appraised the cat's work, in silence, Zvan couldn't help but wonder why his stepfather would be trying to woo a girl who couldn't be more than Zvan's age herself. But he couldn't bring it up, he bit his tongue. He did however, ask, "I cannot help wondering, you all look so fine, is it a party? Or a rally? You will look your very best."

"Yes, we will look our very best," Jlean said flatly, his eyes mirroring his words with flat tops and his ears slightly back. Zvan nodded, eyes down. "Your curiosity is well-founded, boy. But do not forget. You are a servant in this house, and nothing more. We will be attending a dress ball for the Queen and her daughter, so if you are on your best behavior you may even be allowed to dress us for a future dance. We will need better than this," he waved his arm at the finely sewn armlets that framed his fingers. "Practice if you must, we will spare no expense on this dance."

"Yes, sir," Zvan said. "I could... I could embroider something, when will I need to--"

"When you are told," Jlean said, backhanding his stepson hard across the face, knocking him into the stairwell. "Not before. I expect you to practice, not to anticipate. And not one word about this from now on." Jlean walked into the corridor leading to his third floor suites, swishing his tail under the cape - which Zvan actually was proud of - it looked good. He rubbed his jaw, and then went back downstairs to clean.

The dance was in two days time, which gave the men more time to shop. Their own heads of blond hair were apparently not quite enough for this type of thing, so they came home with boxes containing frilly feathery wigs. They didn't go at all with the outfits and accessories that Zvan had created but they didn't care. The young men bragged about how many birds it took to create each of their wigs. Zvan was positive he saw a whole wing in there somewhere, and stifled a giggle about there being a nest of birds already still alive in one of them.

"What are you laughing about?" Demanded Ohrn, "what?"

"I - I was thinking how there might not ... be enough birds around to fit onto other wigs, when someone else comes along to buy one, that's all," he lied lamely, but the young man didn't care. He kicked at Zvan with a clawed foot, Zvan took it with a typical grunt, and they moved on to do whatever they did all day. They should have been studying, testing each other on their maths and grammar, but instead they played cards and practiced dancing.

The ball would be in the early evening of the next day now, so the men would have to travel from midday on. They would be staying in an inn on the way home, and Jlean gave specific instructions on what he wanted Zvan to have done by the time they arrived home. "In that time you should have this list done," he said, and Zvan looked despondantly at the list. It was at least thirteen items long, and many involved doing things like deconstructing bed frames and oiling springs. Dirty things, complicated, time consuming things.

"Yes, sir," he said, quietly. "I ... Hope you have a very good time, sir. Will... will you get to meet the Queen?"

"I said, I never wanted to hear another word about this from you," Jlean said in a breathless growl. Zvan's blood went cold - he had forgotten, what a stupid thing to do!

He felt the strong hand of his stepfather gripping his neck, forcing him down to his knees, and as always there was some object within easy reach to beat the boy with. Ten minutes later, his anger mostly sated, Jlean left Zvan on the floor and went back upstairs to straighten himself out. Zvan hadn't moved in the time that took, even the brothers didn't come near him to mock him. Salty tears rolled from Zvan's eyes. He really did wonder, what was the Queen like? Her daughter? He didn't even know what species they were, were they cats? Stoats?

But he could never reach them, he could never know. He was positive that his step family didn't stand a chance of actually wooing the girl. They'd never come here. But these things on the list, they were almost in preparation for a visit. Royalty coming here? Never. But... the only way to keep himself alive, Zvan knew, was to start on the list and just get it done. He was fast. He was thorough.

He was wounded, his shoulder was broken, he was sure of it. He could hardly stand, he could barely see. His stepfather had bruised his face so badly that his eyes were halfway swollen shut. Zvan went outside carefully, to bathe himself in the horse trough and try to fix his shoulder. Every movement was brilliant pain, he could flex his fingers, but he could not raise his right arm at all from the shoulder. He found a torn blanket and made himself a sling, with great difficulty putting it on and settling his arm into it. He stayed out there for a while, choosing to begin the chore list somewhere in the middle, while he was outside, sweeping with one hand was very hard.

Zvan realized around nightfall that his family would want breakfast - and he could hardly move. They would want something hot - but that was almost out of the question, if he went to bed and tried to sleep he might not wake in time. His body kept telling him to rest, to sit down. Zvan was in shock, most of the evening, but he made bread and crushed berries for jam, carved what he could of the roast into slices to be warmed in the morning.

Zvan realized that if he went to sleep, he would wake being beaten. So he didn't sleep. Instead, he kept working. Blindly, without even a candle, he scrubbed the pots carefully and quietly. At least he could hold things down with his right hand - still in pain - they didn't clatter around on the marble surface of the kitchen sink.

Zvan was thoroughly thankful that this world, advanced in some ways and backwards in others, had indoor plumbing and a furnace. The furnace would need to be cleaned, but that would have to wait. He didn't have to pump water from a well, in other words. That would probably have caused him to collapse. He worked well into the predawn, the whole kitchen was spotless and smelled fresh of bread and berries. When Jlean, Ohrn and Jharn exited their rooms prepared to doll themselves up, breakfast was already set for them. Zvan wobbled around, picking up plates as they finished, and did his routine without a word. Ohrn gave him a strange glance - it was almost pitying, that was a first.

But then he said, "Father, there's no way Zvan can help us dress if he only has one hand to use. We'll have to do it ourselves."

Zvan was in the kitchen, leaning against the wall in silent pain, when he heard Jlean say, "I daresay we will. Not to worry boys, when the night is through, all we'll have to worry about is which of the Queen's servants to have dress us in the future."

They laughed, and went on their merry way. When noon came, a hustle in the house brought the trio into the courtyard. Zvan was almost on his last breath when he brought the carriage out to meet them, their horse waiting to be nipped with the whip a little often and antsy.

"Have that list done, or you'll meet your doom in my den, boy," Jlean warned as he mounted the carriage and grabbed up his long horse whip. Instead of hitting the horse, he aimed one blow at Zvan which struck him on his injured shoulder, then urged the horse into a trot out of the courtyard. Zvan cried, openly, clutching his shoulder with his good hand, staggered to the gate and closed it.

He thought absently about locking it somehow.

Staggered back to the house, which loomed like a big solid rock before his swimming eyes. He was in a daze of pain and shock, still, exhaustion and hunger had all but overcome him.

Zvan passed out, falling onto the floor in the kitchen, and did not even rouse though he'd fallen onto his injured shoulder.

** had been ashen2.htm **

Zvan had a strange dream while he was on the kitchen floor. Perhaps it was part fever, or something more. Normally he did not remember his dreams, if he got enough deep sleep to even have any. But this time he saw very clearly his mother and father, beckoning him from the entry way of a large stone room. Now, his mother had always been a bit rotund for a cheetah, but his father was tall and lean, and Zvan took after him clearly. They both wore some clothing, mother in a cooking apron with her dark brown hair in an untidy bun, his father was in a strange robe, one which was open on the full front, but draped all the way to the floor on both his sides, yet Zvan could tell his tail was able to move about without much cloth over it on the back.

His father stood with a serene, patient and somewhat regal expression on his face. His mother, with her smiling muzzle offering him her hand. Suddenly Zvan took it, in the dream, and was carried as though he was an infant into the big stone room. It was brightly lit, but from no particular place since he didn't see any windows. He swirled around as if they were dancing, and then his mother set him on the floor. "Your father has something important to say, you listen well to his words."

Zvan nodded, and in the dream his father was much taller than he - Zvan was still a child when he'd died after all, it was the only way he remembered the man. His father knelt and whispered words, but Zvan didn't quite hear them. He was still somewhat confounded by his odd look - he looked... He looked like royalty, he looked regal in a true sense, not arrogant like Jlean and his sons. As though he had a proud heritage and was confident in himself. But try as he might, Zvan couldn't make out what he was saying, and wound up crying in his sleep - wondering what was going on. He wanted to ask for the words again, but he couldn't, nothing came out.

When his father rose again, he put on a strange mask. His father nodded once more, took his mother's hand and they vanished into a bright light.

The afternoon sun pierced the open windows of the kitchen, and suddenly Zvan was awake again. How long had he been here? His shoulder and whole body ached terribly but it seemed he hadn't been asleep all that long. Perhaps two hours, since he'd collapsed?

He sat up carefully, wincing with his arm dangling out of its sling. He could see a smirch where he'd fallen - it was the first time he recalled getting anything dirty with himself. He'd been crying, that was it, and ... the tears dropped from his eyes to his dirty muzzle, onto the ground. Something interrupted the bright orange sunlight briefly, it might have been a bird but it was quicker and ... closer?

Zvan turned carefully, and saw in the window there was a creature, something like... a bird? No, it wasn't but it was something he'd never seen nor had any words to describe.

It sat on the windowsill and watched him, head tilted slightly with the beautiful lacy frills dancing in the sunlight. But then, Zvan saw in the corner of his eye the list of things he was expected to do - only a third complete. His heart wanted to break, or race, or leap from his chest. How could he do this now? How could he possibly even escape further injury? If he didn't complete these things by tomorrow when they got back, he'd surely be beaten to an inch of his life - or more, because he remembered this time, the warning that Jlean gave him. If only he'd recalled it earlier.

Bitterly he picked up the list, and turned away from the window. He had work to do.

"You should rest instead," said the creature in an oddly bright voice. It was the voice of sunshine dancing on snowflakes. Which seemed exactly what this creature was made of. Or perhaps moonlight. Either one.

"Di...did you just speak? To me?" Asked Zvan with hesitation. Perhaps he was still dreaming. Or maybe he'd hit his head much harder on collapsing to the floor. Maybe he had a fever and was hallucinating.

"I did," it said, head tilted. "You are exhausted. Get some sleep. I will see about these things you need to do. Why do you not fight back when he hits you?"

"... How do you know about any of this? What are you?"

"I will explain later, for now, you should find a place to rest. You have a ball to attend, after all, and you've got to be feeling and looking your best."

With that, the creature lept into the air and fairly vanished in what appeared to be a puff of glitter. Zvan wasn't sure what to do. He was now positive that he'd started hallucinating, after all there were no such talking creatures out there. Were there?

Maybe in a weird book, perhaps in a fairy story. But this was real life, not some fancy tale!

He walked upstairs because something attracted his attention, and there he saw several ... pieces of light? Light it seemed that danced on the air, like dust motes only a hundred times bigger. They were coming from Ohrn's room, where he peered in carefully.

Ohrn's room needed to be painted. But that meant the furniture needed to be moved, covered, and paint brought in. Buckets from the shed outside walked in of their own accord.

"I'm dreaming," Zvan muttered. He swiped his left arm across his face to clear his eyes. He expected himself to be standing in a plain room, with no ... dancing furniture. Certainly not furniture which rearranged itself and paint which applied itself to walls.

And dried, almost instantly, he noted.

It was magic. Perhaps he needed to believe in magic more. Because every time he blinked, he expected there to be something more mundane happening before him (ie: nothing) but instead he saw the same event unfolding. The room was bright and smelled of fresh paint, the furniture carefully moved itself up to the walls which were quite dry and safe to touch. The bits of light fluttered into Jharn's room and did approximately the same thing.

Zvan swallowed once or twice, blinked, and found his head gently turning back and forth in a little shake. "No, this isn't... happening." He breathed. "I ... magic doesn't exist, it's not real. I just know I'll be killed for this, I'm asleep on the kitchen floor and probably bleeding internally."

"No you're fine, you need to get that arm fixed, though," said the little white silver creature, who'd appeared on top of one of the light fixtures on the hallway wall. It tilted its head again, lace and sunshine crinkling around its neck. It seemed to be wearing a mask of some kind, but if it was, it wasn't anything other than a perfect beautiful one.

"How can I fix it? It's broken, my shoulder hurts so." Zvan finally broke inside, finally gave up fighting the magic. He sighed, his shoulders both going limp and his hands fell to his sides. He started crying again. "Everything hurts."

"We will fix it," the creature said. Whoever this 'we' was, Zvan suddenly looked up to see them. More bright lights, only this time, since he was crying, he couldn't see that they had shapes within, almost like tiny firebugs, but they were hardly bugs. He closed his eyes, and felt as though all the weight in the world had been lifted from him. His shoulder mended, perhaps for real. Perhaps. Maybe there was magic.

"We'll get you cleaned up, you're in need of a bath!"

"I'm not allowed to take baths, they say I am always to be dirty." He muttered.

"Then they will certainly not know you when you're there!" It chittered and Zvan didn't have the energy to protest. He did worry - hard. What if his step-brothers and father saw him? He would have to...

Wait.

"Wait, what?" He opened his eyes, shook his head and tried to wave away several of the little glowing sprites. "You ... I can't go to the ball, it's late already! I don't even know where the castle is! And I have nothing to wear, no wig or anything. It's ridiculous! I can't--"

"Of course you can," said the flittering creature. "Her invitation was for all the young men in the land, was it not?"

He looked down, it was true, the invitation wasn't just directed at his brothers. It had perhaps been delivered to every household in the land? Then he could go, even if he wasn't supposed to leave the house.

How would they know? Movement caught his eye, and the little glowing dustmotes were busy in the hall fixing a banister rail that had been scuffed. Another bunch of them were on the roof, while a third group was busy with the most openly impossible task downstairs of removing 'all the cat hair' from the furnishings.

They were cats. What else kind of fur would there be embedded in the cloth? Yet there was a growing pile of cat-floof, discarded hairs from years worth of his stepfamily sitting on the couches and chairs. (Zvan had barely sat in any of them himself, he wasn't allowed.)

"Sleep now," the flitter bid the young cheetah. Zvan stumbled over to the library, where he dropped into a deeper slumber than before. Bathed in warm light, healing quickly, he was also being tended to by the cleaning spirtes. They combed down every piece of fur on him, lifted every hair on his head, made his whiskers gleam. They polished his nails, which were a bit broken and worn, and put soft salves on his damaged paw pads. When the sun had almost vanished under the horizon, Zvan was awakened by a slight tingling sensation.

"There you are, all better," said the flitter. Every time Zvan saw it, it was in another place in the room, usually high up or clinging to a surface that creatures ought not to be clinging on. "Well, stand up, you need to see yourself. Come come. We found a mirror."

"I'm not-- Allowed," Zvan said, protesting a little more strongly because they were leading him into Jlean's chambers. "I cannot go in there, I can't, it's forbidden. Even Ohrn and Jharn don't go in there."

Again the flitter tilted its head, and then gave an odd little shrug. "Well then we will bring it to you."

The mirror apparently wheeled itself out into the hall, and Zvan stood before it in some amount of shock. He'd never seen himself, at least not like this. He'd caught glimpses of his reflection in pots and pans, water, or shiny dishes but they weren't meant to show you details. If anyone saw him now, the only possible way they might recognize him would be his eyes, which were still sad and sullen though bright evening-sky blue.

There was not a speck of dust upon him, from head to tail tip. His ears, though wary at first, started facing forward. They had spots on the back, his markings were vibrant against orange-buff fur, small spots on his arms and legs, tear-marks on his face. He didn't quite know what to make of himself. Only he said, "I can't stay like this, when they come home they'll know."

"Don't worry," the flitter said, "though you will have to speed home, you're a cheetah. You will not need any cart or carriage - but you must return before the first dawn's light. When you get home," the flitter continued even though now there were bits of cloth floating in the air toward Zvan and he accepted them placed around him like decorations on a cake, "you must head to bed immediately. Do not dally. Sleep as much as you'd like, and don't worry about their breakfast. But do not mention anything you've done this day."

"How could I, I barely believe it myself..." Zvan said. "You've healed my arm," he said in wonder, moving his hand up over his head and putting on the red and white vest which complimented the wrapped white colored skirt which went around his waist. He had a pair of bells on his tail, which made delicate noise and perked his ears. On each hand he had gloves which covered only his middle finger, to his elbow, made of what looked to be red netting. In his long black hair, he sported several feathers but no ostentatious wig. Finally around his neck was a fluted soft material collar, in white. He thought he looked quite dignified. Now... how would he possibly act in front of the Queen and her daughter?

"Be fleet. The ball will start soon, everyone will be there, and do not forget what I said. Be home by the break of dawn." The flitter warned. Then was gone in another puff of glitter.

Though cheetahs weren't known as long-distance runners, Zvan knew that he could run fast. But ... how fast? And where? He felt good, physically, he knew he had to run. Where to? To the east, into the hills and through a pass. Beyond it was the Queen's castle. So out he went into the evening, with the bright moon above to guide him. He ran faster than any cheetah ever did into the town, and past it in a blur. He could barely see the landscape but knew where he was headed somehow.

Up through the pass, without breaking into a hard breath, Zvan ran. He spotted the brightly lit castle, surrounded as it was by dozens of carriages and carts, caravans and steeds. He sped into the castle grounds, they were wide open and welcoming. He was sure that someone in the courtyard spotted him, but he slowed down around a corner and arrived to the wide steps up to the castle itself without panting. He made sure that all of his 'finery' was still with him (it was) and not a bit out of place. Because the whole day had been a bit dreamy, Zvan just accepted that this would be the way it is, held himself taller than he'd ever stood, and walked into the ball.

Though he was nervous, it didn't look as though anyone else was absolutely calm here either. Every available man in the country had been invited, and there were a goodly number of ladies waiting dance partners already. Zvan had never attended anything like this in his life, though he'd read about a few fancy dress parties in the books he was forbidden to touch. There was a gigantic banquet table running the entire length of the main hall, and apparently people were meant to pick up a plate and enjoy their food while milling about. It would be ridiculous, he realized, to have a sit-down dinner with this many people.

Was he hungry? Zvan felt as though he should be - he'd hardly eaten in months anyway, so he was used to the feeling of light-headedness. But there was food, good food, and lots of it. People walked by him eagerly munching on cake, roast, pastries, and steamed vegetables, so Zvan decided to find a plate and dig in. If he looked a little over-eager to eat, it was nothing compared to a few of the rather rotund guests who apparently did nothing but eat at their well-appointed homes. He didn't stuff himself, but he did gobble down a whole game hen, two servings of potatoes and carrots, and had one slice of the single most delicious chocolate cake ever made.

He found a restroom, cleaned himself up, and happily accepted a little mint from one of the servants who stood in the room. It wouldn't do to have garlic breath when meeting dignitaries, now would it?

And then he entered the ball room. The place was at least three stories high, the ceiling in the castle was much higher and clearly had further floors to it, but this room was gigantic. Oddly, though there was no good reason as it looked nothing like the simple bright stone room of his dream, Zvan was reminded of his dream walking into the room.

Fineries decorated every surface, though they were not so ostentatious as a church or a bigger kingdom's. It was more pretty and functional than just dazzling, lace fell from the ceiling in long drapes, and shone with bits of glitter when the lights hit it. There were gas lamps here, placed cleverly near windows which would allow the smell to pass - and not smoke up the place. Perhaps... it was ... a bit of magic? Everything was bright, white, almost without shadows. Where was all this light coming from?

Tables dotted the edges of the dance floor, large round tables with heavy white cloths over them, and matching chairs of ivory and lace were were dozens of people sat. Zvan estimated there were a thousand people in this room alone, the kingdom was all here as his little flitter friend advised.

With his belly full, and feeling lighter than he'd ever (was it that much dirt on his fur? was it just the pressure of living with three horrid men? who could say?) Zvan walked toward the dance floor, and was immediately brought up short by three young ladies. A boar, a giggling songbird, and a ferret girl, all dolled up with fancy skirts and glittering lace around their necks, came up to him.

"You'd like to dance?" Asked the boar, "would you dance with me?" He started to raise his hand if not to offer her a dance then to protest, but was interrupted by a jostling form.

"No, me! He's looking for someone more delicate!" Said the ferret, "isn't he?" Zvan's eyes widened a bit, and he pursed his lips, now he had to choose?

"He doesn't need to dance with either of you when I'm here!" Said the bird girl. The trio of girls (none of them perhaps older than thirteen) began bickering among themselves.

Struck by the absurdity of this, Zvan smiled brightly and said (quite off the top of his head), "ladies, ladies, the night is young and I would dance with each of you, but I've barely even arrived! And look there, a pair of young bucks much stronger and more handsome than myself just arrived. Surely they'd be able to take your hand with more confidence."

While the trio looked downcast at first, this was a ball- there were two young deer who'd come from the edge of town, there were ample opportunities to dance with whomever they chose. While they were chittering to one another, Zvan slipped into the mass of dancing folk.

The orchestra played a fast-moving, upbeat tune that Zvan faintly recognized. It must be a popular song, something one of his step-brothers came home whistling. Before he knew it, Zvan was dancing with an ostrich lady, much older than he. He wasn't sure where to put his feet, and the woman laughed a few times at his fumbling dancing, but they both enjoyed it immensely. The tune changed to a more sedate song, people changed partners, Zvan wound up beside a pretty ocelot girl. She was very shy, much more shy than he ought to have been, and he even considered stealing a kiss from her, but he realized that might be in very poor taste. Her mother and father were nearby, he could tell by their appraising look at him when they passed each other in the swirling dance.

So ... people... thought highly of him? This surprised Zvan so much he almost choked. When that dance was over he begged out off the dance floor and went to the side of the room where large windows were opened to a balcony overlooking the courtyard below. Here it was darker and cooler, lit by torches and a few candles. Glasses of water were everywhere, refreshed constantly by the castle's diligent staff. Zvan helped himself to one, and thought hard about what would happen next.

He heard something that made his fur stand on end, Jlean's low sly voice. It wasn't near, he was a third of the way across the room inside, talking to someone who might have been royal. From outside on the balcony though, Zvan casually looked over the dancers. There was Ohrn, with an otter girl, and eventually he saw Jharn who was scarfing down another plate of something and looking like he'd already had a few too many glasses of wine.

It was indeed a good thing they would be stopping at the inn at the edge of the hills before coming home.

Zvan looked back at Jlean, who might have offended the tall zebra-woman he was talking to, for she had a strange wary look on her eyes. She walked away from him and he took it in stride, moving on to another woman - he was at least keeping to people more his age - and starting up another conversation.

But something about the way he kept looking toward one part of the room made Zvan wonder: what was he looking at?

It wasn't him, he hadn't been recognized in the slightest, he was just another arrival. No, it was... a pair of canines, some kind of hound if Zvan's haphazard education could be trusted, with long narrow noses and frilled ears, long necks, and slender bodies with fringed thin tails. One was a fair buff color, while the other a mottled mix of red-brown-black-gold.

The Queen and her daughter.

Zvan checked where Jlean was again, and noticed with distress that he'd made his way halfway across the room toward them. The women remained aloof and polite, but did not dance with anyone just yet. The night was young still, Zvan was somehow sure that they would start sometime.

And on an impulse that he was never quite sure where it came from, Zvan strode back into the ball room, and across the floor toward them. He deftly avoided all the dancers, even though this new song was brightly playing and lots of people were being tossed up into the air by their partners. He could see in the corner of his eye as Jlean was still making his way toward the pair himself. There were at least three young men of varying species before Zvan in a kind of greeting line, but he moved in behind them and waited his turn. He came to the Queen first, cautiously bowing (low as he was used to doing for Jlean) to her and seeing the little crook of a smile form on her long face.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, I never expected to be here." He said, honestly, and she nodded.

"This is a pleasure indeed," she replied, for some reason. Her eyes had dwelled upon Zvan, but he didn't realize why - and would not for some time. "This is my daughter Dvrinne, perhaps she will like to dance with you, she's denied it to so many," she said in a pointed way toward her daughter, who deflated a little.

But Dvrinne looked up at Zvan with a tilt to her head, and almost made him laugh because like most canines, her eyebrows were quite expressive. "I... I would like to dance, if that would please you mother," she said without glancing at the older woman. Zvan caught a little wiff of suprirse from the Queen, whose own eyebrows were more under control as any royal with experience ought to have.

So Zvan took the girl's hand, delicate it was and at the end of a long slender arm, and escorted her to the dance floor. Before they reached it people were stepping out of their way, and Zvan leaned in a little to whisper, "I don't know how to dance very well, I'm afraid," to which Dvrinne giggled.

"Neither do I, but I think we'll learn pretty quick."

Zvan grinned, and they found their place on the floor easily. People did come back to dance, but the pair were offered a little more space, no one crowded and no one tried cutting in. When Zvan and Dvrinne passed in a swirling daze where Jlean stood (joined now by one of his sons) Zvan could see the pure hate on his face. But he hadn't recognized the cheetah, no - he would have never allowed a moment to go by if he had. Zvan felt another weight lifted off his shoulders, and picked up the princess when the other dancers did so, set her down deftly like they did. By the end of the song everyone clapped for them - and both young dancers bowed and clapped in appreciation.

Over the course of the night, Zvan and Dvrinne danced two more times, though she did finally start accepting offers from others. She must have been a bit worn down by the end, as was the orchestra, and guests were starting to bid the ball farewell. It was well past midnight, but nowhere near dawn, and Zvan took a wild chance.

"Would you like to go outside, there is water and a nice breeze," he asked the princess.

"I would love to," she said, a bit out of breath. Together they headed to the balcony and just stood quietly together. Zvan watched her without staring, something he'd been quite good at at home. He had to know where everyone was, what everyone's mood was, without establishing eye contact. To do that was to be beaten. So he did have a bit of trouble meeting the canine's eyes, when she turned to look up at him.

She was perhaps fifteen, about the age that any princess was to be married off. But why would the queen want just any man to come to her daughter and ask her hand in marriage? Wasn't it up to princess and counts and earls to do that?

"So... what is your name?" Asked the princess, and Zvan went cold. If he told her his real name he'd be sought out - and known, that was a risk he just couldn't take, or more likely, wasn't ready to face.

"... Izzy," he said after a bit, "it's ... more of a nickname, but no one ever calls me by my name." He wasn't really ready to lie to her like this, it felt bad. But, he did recall faintly when his father was still alive, being called that. It was such a distant memory, but a good one. He kept it near to his heart after remembering.

"I ... kind of like that," Dvrinne said, "my mother calls me Davi sometimes."

They made small talk, but it was clear that Dvrinne was exhausted by the evening. "You should retire for the night," Zvan suggested. "It's been a very long day, probably longer for you than anyone." Except him, maybe, he thought.

"You're right, I just wish I ... didn't really have to do this all. It's silly. I want to marry someone but I want to marry because I love them."

Zvan blurted out, without thinking, "that may be why your mother invited everyone in the kingdom instead of just a few princes," and saw her face change from tired to bemused.

"You know... I think you're right. My mother loves me, she didn't really force me to do this, but she said it might be a better way than stuffy meetings with men I won't like."

"Then your mother is a blessing," Zvan said. "For she allowed me to meet you."

Zvan, still holding the girl's hand (they had never quite stopped holding hands even after exiting the dance floor) raised it to his muzzle and gave her fingers a light kiss. "I should go, myself. I wish you good dreams, princess."

Without meeting her gaze, Zvan bowed low again, and walked casually but with purpose away.

His heart was pounding by the time he got past the banquet table, which was still being pounced upon by hungry party goers though it was all but gone. He'd ... he'd kissed the princess' hand? He'd talked to her?

He had interrupted Jlean in line once to do it! The puma gracously bowed out, turning to speak to a hedgehog lady in waiting, but he could tell that Jlean had plans he'd thwarted.

Good.

Zvan heard Ohrn's voice slurring out commands to the coachman that had blocked their carriage with his own, and Jharn was all but passed out on his brother's shoulder. Standing off by the side of the wide steps, gazing westward, he saw Jlean stalk out of the building, chide his sons, and whip at the coachman who hurried to move the cart so they could leave. If Zvan's memory of the blurry trip here was to be trusted, the inn was about halfway between the castle and their home. He began walking slowly away from the ball, still hearing music in fits and starts, but even some of the dazzling lights were being put out now. It was time to go.

The carriage passed him and he looked at it calmly. Maybe he was exhausted, or perhaps he just no longer cared whether he was to be beaten in the morning. He had run out of worry. The thing left in his heart was hope.

** had been ashen3.htm **

After Zvan reached the halfway point between the castle and home, if anything to make sure that his family had stopped there for the night, he decided to run the rest of the way. Once he'd established that the carriage was in fact there (and he heard Jharn's drunken snoring from one of the open windows of the inn) he felt better.

He still had to get home before dawn. What would happen to him if he didnt? The night was too bright and dazzling in his mind to let him think of too many dismal outcomes, but he did remember the little flitter's words - and he obeyed them. He sprinted home, almost ten miles, in just a few minutes. He had time to make sure that everything on his step-father's extensive list was done (everything was, from polishing the fireplace tools in every hearth to that silly cat-hair on the furniture - though where the glowing sprites had put the cat hair was a mystery to him, and he wouldn't feel like looking for a pile of fur anyway) but he didn't look. The flitter's words were to go straight to bed.

The moment his head hit his hard pillow of rags, Zvan began to sleep. He had dreams of the ball, of his parents, and of distant places that he'd only read about in forbidden books in Jlean's library. He didn't remember any of them when the light of day came to greet him, but he stretched greatly and noticed with a hard twinge that his shoulder wasn't completely healed after all.

Maybe that was the magic. It could disguise, delay, but not really fix? That was okay because he realized that he'd never be able to explain how in merely one day he'd healed. He found his sling and put his arm gingerly into it, and noticed with a dismal thump of his stomach that he was completely dirty once more.

And he had to go to the bathroom something fierce. All that food last night, of course!

He heard in the other room, past the kitchen and dining room, that all three men had arrived and were for some reason complimenting the meal Zvan had made for them, where was the little fuzzball anyway? Well at that moment the little fuzzball was outside squatting in his loo, wondering just how much food one person could hold?

He finished up, stood, and then turned to enter the kitchen. He was not certain what to say or do, he was confident that, because he'd been told not to worry about it, he didn't need to wonder whether the items on the list had been done. They were - and Jlean's voice grumbled about it. Because now he didn't have anything to beat the cheetah over.

Except that boy at the ball, what gall, he complained bitterly but with a bit of a happy note. His son Jharn was hung over fiercely and that at least took some of the pressure off Zvan, because Jlean delighted in the torment of just about anyone. He clearly was speaking too loud for the young man, who grumbled something incoherent and staggered back up to his bed. Which had been reassembled and oiled, so it didn't squeak. ("Like a whole nest of mice the thing squeaks! Fix it!")

Before Zvan made it into the kitchen, however, he saw a shadow approaching. It wasn't Ohrn, who he could hear speaking to his father, and it wasn't Jlean himself, because it was too small.

It was Zvan. A shadow of him, at least, a grey-tinted dirtball with a tail. Hunched slightly, wearing the same rag (or... maybe a different one, rags were everywhere) on his arm, and with soul-pained vacant blue eyes. When Zvan met those eyes, he saw nothing, not even a mirror of himself. He glanced sharply at himself, he was dirty, but he wasn't like this was he?

Maybe he was. The pain in his arm grew a bit, as he reached up to touch this doppleganger.

It dissolved into a million pieces of ash and ...

"Cat hair," Zvan breathed. "That's where it went..."

Leaving only the real thing standing just outside the kitchen. For the next half hour he busied himself with cleaning it up, as the doppleganger had left a big smurch and cat fur flying in the light morning breeze. Zvan gathered the dusty fur into a half-cracked barrel, and placed the rag on top of it. He didn't even know why he bothered, but then again he didn't quite know where to put such an amount of fur either.

He had little to do for the rest of the morning, because now everything was basically done. All he really needed to do was make sure that if Jlean yelled for something, he was there with it right away. Dinner would be curry chicken - that at least he could make with his arm in a sling, and he knew he could do it well enough to keep Jlean off his back for the time being.

He did not mention the ball, nor any fineries. He did not ask any questions. This time, Zvan knew better than to open his stupid mouth.

He'd spoken so well last night. He'd actually said things that people found witty! People - they looked at him, and they looked like they liked what they saw!

Zvan spent a while preparing the dinner, allowing the scent of curry to drift through the house before serving it. Might as well enjoy it, because the scent was about all he'd be getting to eat. Chicken had precious few scraps, in this house. Several times during his life, Zvan had resorted to chasing mice and eating them, but when Jlean found out about that, he put down poisons and tainted the mice and rats. That left roaches, and Zvan wasn't big on eating bugs.

Maybe with a curry sauce.

He chuckled to himself, and continued his day in relative peace.

***

A week later, as his shoulder continued to heal at a reasonable pace, Zvan mended clothing, cleaned wine stains from Jharn's outfit, picked gnats out of the wigs, and made certain that any imperfections in their costumery was fixed. They wouldn't be wearing the same outfits again, the boys complained bitterly when they realized it, because they'd worked hard on those things.

Zvan didn't roll his eyes until they were out of the room, at that.

If they weren't going to wear the stuff again, why have it in the first place? Zvan wasn't certain where his own finery had come from but he did know it had gone with the light of dawn that day. If he never saw it again he wouldn't be surprised, it might not have even been real.

He'd actually began to doubt that he really attended the ball after all. The dry dullness of pain and the endless torture of serving his step-family began wearing on him again, until one day when a post carrier arrived with a second invitation. Since the others were in their rooms and Jlean was upstairs not to be disturbed, Zvan took the letter. The postman was a white mink, who glanced up at Zvan with an odd expression, smiling, and he winked. Zvan wondered what that was about, but the mink vanished into his carriage to deliver others' letters. Zvan realized, they'd been selected to come back? After the brothers behavior, and Jlean's annoying of the dignitaries? Well that was something, wasn't it.

It was in the beautiful ivory paper again, with a seal from the Queen, and weirdly the symbol upon it looked ever so faintly familiar to him. Not because he'd seen it on their crests in the ball room but ... Something else.

The mask. The mask on the tiny flitter thing, that's what it looked like. A scribed loopy thing, meaningless unto itself but, for some reason filled with a queer mix of hope and dread for Zvan.

He left the letter, unopened, on the round table beside Jlean's library where he often had parcels delivered. Zvan wondered... Why the wink? Why did a currier seem to look right through him? It was perhaps just odd that someone met his eyes. He wasn't used to that kind of thing here at home. By the end of the ball last week he'd actually gotten to like it, meeting even the Queen's regal yellow eyes with confidence. She returned a smile to him, she did seem to like him, she did seem to notice that he'd danced with her daughter more often than any other attending the ball.

The Queen liked him.

And the seal on her letter had an image that only he might recognize.

Was it more magic? Was it something else? He didn't know. But once the evening came and the men were picking at the remnants of their dinner Jlean announced that they would be going into town to find more for even better outfits for a second ball. The brothers started plotting right away as to what their clothing would look like this time. There was still only the hint that it was formal and required nice attire, and that it was certain fewer people would be at this ball.

Narrowing the field, it seemed. Zvan, without asking, determined that the next ball was merely another week away. That did not leave much time, if he was going to be fixing their outfits up. He knew perfectly well there were good tailors in town - one of them had attended the ball with his own teenaged son (a pair of weaverbirds, who else would be such good tailors?) and had spoken highly of the boy's abilities as seen on half a dozen of the patrons of the ball. But Jlean would never hire someone else when he could have free labor in his own home.

Zvan didn't ask, he merely obeyed, when the family arrived from their shopping trip the next day. He was all but silent the whole week, doing the cleaning chores, cooking, mending and in the daylight hours working on the men's clothing. Each of them were slightly more gaudy than the last time, though Jlean's was still in the same color scheme of yellows and beiges. Ohrn's was a dark green and bright yellow, while Jharn's chosen outfit was sky blue and pink of such a hue that a butterfly might like it.

While working, Zvan wondered that the only difference between this outfit and the songbird's that had tried to dance with him at the ball, was that the bird had a skirt. Girls wore skirts, men wore sashes and kilts, why did it matter suddenly? As long as the right parts were covered again, that's what counted.

But this time, when he began fitting the brothers, nothing was working for them. Jharn yelled sharply that the sash just didn't fit him right, make it work! He had to unstitch, rework, even repair it because Jharn managed to throw it off himself so violently he ripped part of it. Ohrn's was a little less harried, but the headpiece was heavy and kept sliding down over the puma lad's nose.

Jlean was barely satisfied with the work on his own outfit, but fortunately decided not to take out too much of his anger on Zvan. After breaking his shoulder last time, he realized they'd never be able to replace their cook, wait staff, cleaning person and beating bag so easily. Zvan did have to endure a stomp to his thigh when he slipped and nicked Jlean's arm with a sewing pick, and apologizing profusely he fixed the wrist band without another incident.

The men would do almost the same thing they'd done last time, leaving in the early afternoon and coming back in the morning after a stay in the tavern.

And this time, the list of things for Zvan to do was not only longer, but seemingly impossible.

For Jlean had demanded venison for his homecoming meal the night after the ball - and deer was something that very few people in the town could afford. No money was presented to Zvan to buy it, he certainly wasn't going to be able to do much about that but maybe hunt - and that was almost impossible for a house-raised boy.

He also wanted a rug re-sewn, in fact he wanted something embroidered into a thick leather chest piece. Embroidered. Into leather. Surely Jlean knew that wasn't possible. Zvan could embroider - anything some girl might be expected to do, he could do well enough. But he lacked the sewing equipment to even pierce leathers, let alone make delicate work in them. Perhaps the rug could be done, started at least, the edges of it were frayed and could possibly be braided together... The 'digging a new cesspit' was right off the list, entirely, in Zvan's mind. No way. Even if his shoulder was feeling better, he'd done that twice before and the things he'd found in the old one had given him nightmares.

"I wish my little glittery friends would help today," Zvan sighed loudly, staring at the list. It was noon, the family had just left and the carriage was jingling away. "I hope Dvrinne does not have to dance with my stepfather."

Why would he say that? He knew he didn't stand a chance of attending this ball, let alone any other - without aid. But Zvan had never had to rely upon anyone else before, and he didn't even consider what he'd said as a 'wish' so much as a wild prayer.

"You needed but ask," said the glittering mask-wearing flitter, perched atop the stair bannister. A flurry of pale colored lights went by, and apparently began working on the tasks on this list of Jlean's.

"We cannot help you with the food, this time," the flitter said, "but you might try your hand at hunting, you may find it easier than you think. You are a predator after all. Aren't you?"

Zvan licked his lips, "I've never hunted anything but mice before."

"Mice are much harder to catch than deer," said the flit.

"Mice also don't kick back with hooves," countered Zvan with a grin. "But... I'll trust you - everything worked so well last time, so perfect. I thank you, I didn't get a chance to thank you before. I got to dance with the princess, I kissed her hand!" He said excitedly, and the masked flitter gave off what appeared to be a proud grin.

"Good for you, lad. Get going, deer are still elusive enough. But there is a forest full of them right here, and if you've got it in you to hunt a deer with your bare hands, you will certainly have something to talk to the princess about this evening."

Zvan nodded, and a silly grin went over his muzzle. "So I still have to hunt with my bare hands, is that it?" He flickered his eyebrow and sped off into the nearby woods. The house's tall stone wall was nothing to Zvan, he scrambled over it - though he'd have to remember to use the gate when coming back in, if he had a deer over his good shoulder anyway.

As he went through the woods, carefully and quietly, Zvan wondered at how easy it was to fall into the madness of this magical task. It had to be magic. It had to, because logic failed him. There was the lingering memory of the smell of Dvrinne - and suddenly Zvan stopped cold in the middle of a faint deer-trail.

The letter. It smelled of her. An orange-tinted musk, vanilla and citrus. He closed his eyes and remembered that scent, it had barely come to him while they were on the balcony alone - without all the dancing and food smells, it was hers.

Thusly encouraged, Zvan picked up a scent of animal, he hoped it was deer. The trail was thin, but had hoof prints leading downward to a small glade. There was a doe and two young - perfect.

He would only need one of the young, he felt that it would be doing the doe a favor in the long run. Predators picked off prey that were sickly but unfortunately a sick deer would only make the family ill - and it would be death to Zvan if he brought back tainted meat.

Zvan thought hard about how he had to do this. He wasn't a real four-footed cheetah after all, he didn't have the turning speed or the talent for knocking prey off their legs that a simple cat did. But what he had was a big brain, and plenty of spare thumbs.

He picked up a stick and a rock, after looking around carefully. Fortunately for him the wind was with him and the doe didn't detect him. Or perhaps, he simply smelled too much of ash and dust to worry about. He selected an area that gave him a little room to pounce, and threw the stone and stick in disparate directions. That startled the doe into running, and he let it bound past him. The two young however followed just after, and he sprang upon the second of them in a flash. It kicked, but Zvan held its neck in his hands until it stopped thrashing. He heard the other animals rustling away into the woods, and then finally stood to claim his prize.

Dangling in his hands was a deer, no more than two months old. Veal on the hoof. A perfect prize, a perfect meal in the making. Zvan headed home to gut and clean it, he assumed he would be responsible for those things anyway. And he relished it, from start to dirty finish, because he'd done it all himself. No magic, really, could match that feeling.

Once done, he entered the kitchen properly and saw that the little shiny sprites were still dancing around here and there. The slight crack in the entranceway's ceiling had been patched and was invisible. All the doors (except for Jlean's) were re-hinged and oiled and re-hung. Zvan looked out and saw that in fact there was new upturned dirt outside where the plumbing was diverted.

"I'll actually enjoy making this dinner," he commented to the air, realizing that the flitter was watching him from the hanging pots rack.

"I am sure you will, tomorrow will be a big day. What would you like to wear for this ball, Zvan?" It asked, and Zvan rolled his head around.

"I don't know, nothing like my brothers, though. Why did they have to choose head gear that weighs so much it falls of every time they turn their heads?"

"That is their problem, is it not? You do not want a wig?"

"No, why would I? I think my hair looked good as it was. Maybe I should braid it, that's it, a ribbon for a braid?" He went with the braided idea, and his flittery friend manifested from somewhere a number of cords, braided and lace items. These were all in dark shades, rich crimson and dark indigo, even a black that he had no idea how it could be so dark. A loin cloth that almost reached the floor decorated his waist, while a collar rested around his neck and was connected in wide crimson swaths behind his back, onto wrist bands.

All this was after he bathed, of course. With the bloody innards from the deer still crusted on his nails he didn't dare touch one thread of cloth. The sprites observed and kept watch as he tidied himself up, very possibly to take the muddy residue from the bath and use it for another doppleganger.

Zvan didn't ask about that, he merely enjoyed the feeling of hot water on his fur, cleansing himself of what felt like decades of dirt. The sunlit sprites dried him, keeping his fur warm and making his hair fly up as though in a hard wind. He narrowed his eyes to it, enjoying the way it felt, it reminded him of his run to the castle.

"Will I get to run again?" He asked.

"Like the wind, Zvan," replied the flitter. "And take this," it said and deposited something on the table nearby. It was a small box, in it there was a smell of chocolate. It made Zvan's mouth water.

"What is it? It's for the princess, right?"

"It is for whomever you decide to give it to," the flit said. "It is a delicacy."

He tucked the small box in his waist cloth, where he trusted it to remain until the right moment. Then, Zvan sped out of the house, as sun set, toward the hills and the castle.

** had been ashen4.htm **

Zvan arrived before his stepfamily's coach did, he passed it on the way and almost turned to laugh. He was positive he had not been seen, nothing else noticed him as he ran. Even rabbits stayed where they were by the side of the road, so he felt sure. He again arrived at the wide steps toward the castle, made sure the box was in his sash, and that his hair was acceptably still braided. Not a hair out of place, and he sauntered inside.

The place was as brightly lit as before, but in a kind of yellowish theme, more sunset than midday. There were markedly fewer people here this time, Zvan noticed. But since he had arrived before his step father and brothers, he would situate himself comfortably and not worry about them. He had barely spoken a word in the last two weeks, even less in the time during his sewing, so if they recognized his voice it would be highly unlikely. Besides, he realized, he'd adopted a more rich, louder tone here at this party than he'd ever used before.

His voice had changed from a youngling's to an adult's years before, but he'd so rarely spoken more than a few sentances at a time he didn't realize the tone of his own voice. He struck up a conversation with one of the ladies at the banquet table, and she even commented (to her daughter) how charming he was.

He was charming. And apparently, rather attractive too. The way young women and particularly felines would look him over was gratifying.

Zvan noticed that few of the bigger species that had been at the first ball were here. Apparently, Dvrinne had pared down the list based on physical compatibility before all else. Zvan could hardly blame her - he could not imagine the girl with anyone bigger than himself, and even he would be pushing it if anything because of their slight but noticable age difference.

There were a few hooved folk, slender of limb and delicate in face. They looked noble - in fact, Zvan considered that a large portion of the re-invited people here were of higher-class than the broadly invited mass who had come before. There were, he estimated later in the evening when most had arrived, perhaps three hundred rather than more than a thousand. Still an admirable party!

The costumery on most was gaudy, bright, even some which towered above in improbable wickerwork from supported headgear. Zvan was positive that he saw Dvrinne giggle at them. He caught her eye early, but there were already a dozen suitors badgering her to dance, which she at this point felt obliged to do. She would surely be dead on her feet later, so Zvan did manage to cut in on one slightly-too-old man while they danced.

Dvrinne eagerly took his hand, and they spun around as though she hadn't started dancing an hour before. She was wearing a dark blue shawl, a corset in deep grey, and a skirt that fell to the floor in waves of red - they complimented one another almost eerily. The women in waiting, framing the Queen's corner as she watched from a dining table, spoke to one another in praising terms.

"I have something to give you, later," Zvan said, as they parted and another dance began. She nodded, and grinned at him, looking over the shoulder of her current dance partner.

"She's a catch worth having," said Jlean from beside Zvan - making him stiffen. But Jlean's hungry grey-green eyes were feasting upon Dvrinne, occasionally switching to the Queen herself. "It is a pity that the Queen has decided to remain a widow dowager."

"We are all honored to be here, they are indeed generous," Zvan said without looking at his stepfather. He was positive that he hadn't been discovered, but that worry plagued him the whole night. But not even a sniff from the older man and his body language said he couldn't possibly have noticed.

Plus, something quite odd: Zvan was taller by half a foot, than Jlean. When had that happened? Was he always like this? Or was it the magic that grew him out to his full height? Zvan knew that his growth had been a bit stunted in the last few years, and he always looked upward toward Jlean, not down on him. Still it was frightening to have spoken anonymously to the man. And he saw suddenly that Jlean was a predator of a different sort indeed: he would conquer a woman and move on. He would whore until the morning light but no one ever saw hair nor whisker of these women. Even his sons occasionaly verbalized that they wondered where she'd got to in the morning.

Something gnawed at Zvan, because of that. Something inside him started to darken. He had a strange feeling he knew what was in the chambers where he and his brothers were never allowed. He'd started to connect things, given that item on the list of his duties - the midden pit - it was just no coincidence...

But that all paled and faded when Dvrinne approached around the banquet table, herself munching on a rolled piece of lettuce and meat. "I got away, it's so exhausting in there."

"I see, and yes it is, it's a wonder you haven't collapsed yet!" Zvan said. "Is there somewhere we could talk? Or just sit? I do not know what your mother expects of you tonight, whether she wants to keep you in her eyes or if you'll be allowed to have a private moment."

"Well, I want some privacy, so let's find somewhere." Dvrinne pulled him along (he was still holding a plate with food, and he kept it from spilling expertly, and noticed that Dvrinne had grabbed two tall glasses of wine in the process of passing the tables) until he was well lost in the castle.

Slightly out of breath, more because they were scampering around avoiding detection than because they'd run far or long, Dvrinne and Zvan arrived at a higher balcony which was more toward the side of the castle than the front where the one they'd stood upon before rested. They could still hear the music clearly, and the light from the party below illuminated everything from underneath. They sat at a small round table, one which wasn't fully frilly and decorated, it just was someone's breakfast table at the castle.

They shared the wine and the last of Zvan's meal from his plate, chatting about costumes and silly hairstyles, and then Zvan patted his waist cloth. "Here, I have this for you, I hope you like it."

The box was hardly two inches across, but it was enough to widen her eyes. "It smells delicious!" She said.

"That's what I hoped you would say," Zvan said quietly. He watched her open it, it was a small truffle-like pastry which had a pair of scents - chocolate and coffee. She bit into it with her front teeth and closed her eyes in an expression of pure culinary delight. She offered to share it, but Zvan waved it off saying that it was hers, now, she countered with 'if it is because I've slobbered all over it, I'm still the princess shouldn't you want princess slobber?' and they began laughing quite hard at one another.

Maybe it was the wine, too.

Zvan leaned back a bit and tilted his head, and asked, "forgive my ignorance, but I do not know what species you and your mother are. You are no greyhound, they don't have such fringe on their ears."

"Saluki," she said simply, "they use four-footed saluki to hunt in grass, like your four-legged kin the cheetah. We're... we're a good match, both runners, right?"

Zvan had to admit, a swift canine with the same build as he and an appreciation for silliness ...

He gulped, and said quite frankly, "Princess, I do not deserve you. I'm not at all what I appear."

"Oh I think you are, Izzy," Dvrinne said, "and my mother thinks so too. She couldn't stop talking about you all week."

He gulped again, "really?" It came out as a squeek, and Dvrinne giggled at him. Nodding, she assured him that he was well-liked at the party. He held himself properly, didn't drink too much and become boorish, didn't eat instead of paying attention to the guests, and danced politely with other people instead of waiting like a vulture for the Queen or Dvrinne to dance with them.

Zvan had never, in his life, been so praised. He looked down, his dark nails polished again by magic and his gift procured from who knew where. "Then... I thank you and she for your kindness. I've ... I have lived a harder life than you know, Princess. I am not used to this," he waved his hand. Laughter from below erupted, someone might have done something silly or accidental. "My family ... is here, but ..."

"Shh," Dvrinne said. "You're not comfortable with it, you don't need to talk about it. Talk about me instead!" She said, brightly, and he obliged because it made both of them feel better.

The night progressed, they did have to come back to the ball room. Dvrinne was summoned by a frantic servant, and Zvan followed after her more slowly. In the darkness near a corner beyond which was the ball room, he saw the Queen's distinct and noble outline.

He bowed low as he had before, "my Queen, thank you for allowing us some time alone. Your daughter is precious, this choice she must make is being made easier by your accomodation of her desires."

He felt a cool paw on his chin, and lifted his head when she held it up. "You speak with such sedate words," she said. "Do you love her yet?"

Zvan blinked, again blinked, and then nodded quietly.

"I have not seen any other cheetah here," she said a moment later, "yet I know you are local. I will not ask any questions, that will be left for the masked ball next time. Do not worry. You will be invited. I do hope you've got a true costume - we both appreciate your simple garments here, because Dvrinne and myself both hate the others," she glanced around the curtain into the ballroom where the wicker-headed mongoose had tripped and gotten entwined with one of the draperies in the wall. "But the last ball will be quite formal. You'll do your best, but I feel there is something more to you, I do hope to find out what it is."

With that, the Queen turned into the ballroom and took the hand of an elderly elk, to dance and distract everyone from the poor mongoose man.

It was getting hard for Zvan to resist blurting out, "Jlean is my stepfather!" He did not, of course. Jharn was at the drinks again, but his brother was making him water them with juice, wisely. He was too busy himself to ask for any dances, and Jharn hadn't bothered to try. They were having too good a time with everything else, to worry about it.

They were easily distracted. Jlean on the other hand was not. He was dancing with Dvrinne when Zvan entered the ballroom again, and Dvrinne clearly wanted to be elsewhere. But she politely danced, until the song ended, and all but bolted into Zvan's arms again for the next. The glaring look that Jlean gave them was almost enough to melt through the magical 'disguise' that Zvan believed he had. But instead, standing a head above Dvrinne as they danced to an elegant and slow march, Zvan found Jlean's eyes and glared right back. It was the first time in eight years that he'd met Jlean's eyes and not been beaten for it.

This would be a challenge, this would be a warning. It was clear that only certain men would be asked back to the final ball - and it was to be a masked event? What would Zvan be forced to make this time? Those things echoed in the back of his mind, but for the moment, he was happy to escort Dvrinne back to her mother's table in the corner, and bid them a good night.

This time, he went home only after securing himself what amounted to a sack full of food from the banquet table. It would doubtless come in handy later in the week, when he would be too busy to even try getting table scraps for himself. He sped home, tucked the food away, and waited for sleep to come.

***

He had a nightmare, one which he'd had before. The memories of having to clean the cess pit below the house when he was younger... He had to do it twice before, and each time not only was he terribly sick afterwards from having to slosh about in the dung and mess, but he had found things in the waste that hadn't quite dissolved yet. He had thought once that he'd imagined a hoof, a tail, a spine. But now he knew. He just knew. It wasn't his imagination, it wasn't just the smell and sickness doing things to his young mind.

They had been body parts. Real, actual, parts rendered from people. His dream held him bound above the pit, unable to move, practically unable to breathe, as dead people rose from the slime and waste. They caressed him, touched him with their smelly hands, whispered hoarsely into his ears words which he didn't understand. Why was it in his dreams, he hardly understood words when they were important? Did he think the words of the dead were important? But by the end of the dream it wasn't so much a nightmare as a learning experience. Zvan wanted to hear what they had to say - he found himself wanting to touch back, wanting to hold on to them. They were dead women, a dozen or more of them, weren't they?

As the winged creature had told him the first time, Zvan didn't need to worry about getting up early, though he was faintly awake by dawn as he often was. He heard his doppleganger in the kitchen making breakfast, and later cleaning up. Eventually he got out of his bed, sore and achy from the lumps. It wasn't a proper bed after all, never had been, it was just piled dirt and rags, some spare hay. It was no fitting place for anyone to sleep. Not even stable hands had to sleep in their stables all their lives.

Today was the day Jlean expected - or maybe didn't - to have venison for dinner. And venison he was going to get. He saw the slaughtered deer carcass hanging in the kitchen when Zvan was begining to stoke the fire, and Zvan saw the man's eyes narrow. It was not in recognition, it was in anger.

"I do not know how you did it, boy," he growled. "This ... bothers me."

"I hunted, I am sorry it is not good enough, sir, I'll try harder next time." Zvan said, well aware that he had his hand on a butcher knife and could in fact take it to his master's body.

"... The house is in perfect working order," Jlean announced, "and for that I will not beat you. This time. But I will be watching you closely, boy. I do not think you alone fixed everything on my lists."

Zvan nodded, not looking up. When he knew Jlean wasn't in the kitchen any longer, as the door swung shut, he glanced toward it and slammed the butcher knife down onto the deer's neck, hard, in a bit of anger.

Why didn't he fight back when hit? Why did that little creature ask such things? Zvan was beaten, he had known only this life for so long, he had never had the strength or the will to do so.

But now? Now? He had successfully impressed the Queen and her daughter - along with a good number of ladies and lords if their pleasant smiles at the parties were any indication. Jlean had charmed his way into their company, but he wondered for how long? The man was not royalty, he merely thought of himself as such.

The disdain that grew in Zvan's heart for the man blossomed as he thought about it. But he was not about to give away his hatred, he was certainly not in a position to do much about any of this. He had a strange, magical benefactor - he believed now there was some deeper reason and rhyme to it all. The image on the seal, the mask on the creature, they matched. But why? To what end was this all?

He cooked, finished cleaning what little needed to be done from the night before, and Zvan's step family gloated about their conquests not just at the party (which had been few) but at the inn afterwards (which had been several). When evening came and the dinner meal was served up, Jlean was actually able to belch out that he had enjoyed this meal and was impressed at the luck which must have helped catch the fawn. It was as roundabout as a compliment as Zvan was ever going to get, from Jlean.

The brothers were more impressed, Ohrn in particular. "Did you really hunt that deer yourself?"

"I did," Zvan said, not looking at the blond haired puma. Ohrn had darker eyes than his brother or father, approaching a more teal colored green than grey like theirs. "You believe me don't you?"

"I have no reason not to," Ohrn said. "Father's not going to be happy - even though... you've done a good job. We might seem like we don't care, but ... if you weren't here, we'd have to do all this work. Before you came, we did."

Zvan wanted to ask about their mother, but then thought the better of it. He nodded and wordlessly thanked Ohrn, it was strange. Coming from him, this sort of compliment... He wondered if it was a trick of some kind to get him to say how he'd done it. It was not exactly true but in a way, when Jlean snidely commented to his sons that their servant had managed to do something neither of them ever tried before, it brought out a strong competitive streak in both the older brothers.

It was halfway amusing to Zvan to be suddenly compared favorably to Jlean's sons. Not that he even mentioned Zvan's name - merely 'the servant'. But still. For two more good meals they had venison and would smoke the rest for later. Zvan seriously considered just telling them it was in the smoke house, and eating it himself. They wouldn't find out until later anyway. And suddenly, for the first time in his life, 'later' no longer had a feeling of pure dread associated with it.

Another few days went by and Jlean seemed more and more on edge. He knew that his sons had failed to do much more than glance at the Princess, and it was known in point of fact that the girl herself would be choosing who went to the third and final ball. So if not them, he could only hope for himself to be the one...

It never seemed to occur to the puma man that Zvan would be called upon, he hadn't been at the balls, he had been here at home working himself to death.

Or perhaps he hadn't. Zvan could hear, late into the night a week after the ball, Jlean stomping around in his suite. Jlean was an early riser, he rarely stayed up this late unless it was with a woman, and even then the activities didn't often bring him into the hall or downstairs. From a secret nook that was barely big enough for even Zvan's slender form to snuggle into, the cheetah watched unseen through a hole in an archway by the hall. Jlean held a book in one hand, open, and a candle in the other as he walked around the house. He paused at several places, and suddenly Zvan realized that they were where his benefactor's little glowing sprites had fixed ceilings or done chores for him. Zvan couldn't make out the title of the book that Jlean held but why in the world would he be pacing around like this, in the dark, with a tome?

Perhaps he'd lost his mind at last, Zvan thought. When Jlean exhausted the possibilities of his search and went back upstairs to his chambers, Zvan did the same and huddled on his small cold pile of rags.

Some day, perhaps soon, he thought, he would get to sleep upon a soft bed. It would be made of the finest satins, soft to the touch, filled with down and fitted with fine cloth sheets. Blankets would adorn it, draped to the floor, lace and embroidery in perfect condition...

Zvan was roused roughly from his sleep in the very early morning by hard hands, Jlean's.

"You! Up!" The puma demanded, his eyes wild and bloodshot - Zvan trembled at their appearance: Jlean had been up all night!

The cheetah scrambled out of bed, holding his hands over his head protectively and submissively. But that hardly helped, it merely gave Jlean something to grab onto and drag him into the kitchen. He roughly threw Zvan down, it was barely even dawn yet but it looked as though Jlean had more energy now than he had the prior night. He was large in muscles, his frame built for strength. Not at all like Zvan's lithe and long-boned speedy form. In a contest of build, Zvan would lose and quickly.

So he waited, crouched on the floor waiting for whatever was to come. But this time he waited with anger in his heart, bile rising in his throat until it burned. He did not deserve whatever was--

"You have used magic to do this work," Jlean exclaimed, harsh, "you have been in my chambers, my library, you used forbidden magics! Ones even I would not touch!"

Zvan was confused, Jlean ... knew magic? Believed in it? Since when?

"Sir I don't-"

"Silence!" Jlean bellowed, striking Zvan across the back of the head with something, probably the book he'd been pacing around with the prior night. "This is unacceptable, in my home, you have broken my rules! You need to be broken!"

Zvan knew that to utter even one word would be instant death. He suffered before, he would live through this... He swore to himself he would. And where was his little masked benefactor now? Now that he needed help most?

Zvan felt a hard, cold rod land on his shoulder, the one which had barely begun truly healing. Jlean was using whatever was at hand, and that happened to be a cooking ladle. It broke on the third hard smash against the boy's back, so he went for another object, a heavy pan. By this time with the yelling (he had not stopped yelling, it was a constant punctuation of his actions) his sons timidly came downstairs to see what was going on. When Jlean was about to move to a cast-iron skillet Ohrn moved in.

"Father, stop this now." He said, and though his tone held a strong warning, it was still shaking. He was terrified of his father, but knew - or at least hoped - that he would never become the object of Jlean's wrath. Ohrn reached up, holding on to Jlean's arm before he could swing the heavy black skillet down onto Zvan's already bleeding form.

"You dare!" Jlean yelled, and Ohrn stared him down.

"I do dare, father this is madness. You've no reason to kill the boy, he's our only servant. He may have disobeyed but you said yourself the house is in perfect order. I say - keep it that way. I've no urge to learn to sew." With his other hand he took the skillet away, tossing it with a clatter onto the floor.

His anger was hardly spent, but Jlean somehow detected that he would possibly lose any argument he would have with his son. Ohrn was by far the smartest in the family, if not the stronger of the pair. Jlean turned his storm-green eyes on Zvan.

"Get up." He said. Ohrn protested but saw, amazed, that Zvan was able to stand. "Upstairs. To my chambers. Now."

"Father," Ohrn warned, but Jlean growled so fiercely that Ohrn backed away.

"You wanted to use magic, then you can use it in there, all you like. If you dare." Jlean said, shoving Zvan into the hallway and hurrying him into the stairs. Zvan had to crawl part of the way up, he had long bloody streaks on his dirty shirt, and blood ran from his scalp and from one long gash in his ear. But his legs worked well enough, he stood at the top of the stairs and continued on his own. He never looked back, never tried to look down.

He would have to thank Ohrn for saving his life, though. Two weeks ago that might have galled Zvan. But today it seemed that even the despicable offspring could grow a conscience.

Up to the third floor they went, Zvan was halfway aware that Ohrn and Jharn followed their father with urgent worry on their breath. Zvan had balked at entering the man's chambers before, when the little flitter tried to show him his reflection. But now the door was open, he had to step in or be beaten yet again.

Jlean's den was at the end of the hall, his bed chamber nearer the stairs, and his library across from the bedroom. They went to the den, where Zvan had smelled bad things - and now he ...

"Enter, you'll be there until I decide to let you out. Make yourself comfortable." Jlean said. He shoved Zvan into the dark room, pulled the heavy door shut and locked it from the outside. Zvan had never noticed: the door did lock from the outside. Meant to keep things... in?

It was dark, there were no windows in this room, and had an odd smell. The scent drove a hard shudder up Zvan's spine, but he could not place it.

Though he had slept for several hours, the only thing that Zvan wanted to do was collapse. He fumbled around near the floor until he felt a couch - a real couch, and he climbed into it. It smelled of his step-father, but he didn't care. Zvan slept again, not knowing how long he was unconscious. When he woke there was light at the crack under the door, he became aware that there was a shadow upon it.

"Zvan?" Ohrn hissed, quiet but urgently. He tapped the door once, not daring to make a true knock.

"I am here," Zvan said, listlessly.

"Father has gone into town." He paused, "I'm sorry for-"

"Why are you sorry?" Zvan said, trying to sit up. "You saved my life. I will never forget that, Ohrn. Thank you."

There was a little chuckle, and then, "is it true? Did you use magic?"

"I did not use any magic," Zvan said, "magic was here, though. It was. I think it's gone now. It can't help me."

Clearly, Ohrn thought perhaps his step-brother had been injured a bit much, to say such odd things. But he shrugged it off, and then left Zvan alone.

Zvan did not feel alone. He wasn't sure why - and he was not certain it was a good feeling. He got no comfort from this feeling...

** had been ashen5.htm **

After sleeping another long while, perhaps into the next day, Zvan roused himself with the smell that came from below in the house. They were trying to cook, but someone had burnt the food and Jlean was yelling at Jharn about it. Zvan reserved a chuckle about that. It was pitch black in this room, but he figured there had to be a candle somewhere. He moved his hands to the side of the couch, where he encountered a small table, and on it sure enough was a candle and a tinderbox.

The light blinded him for a moment, but his blue eyes got used to it soon enough.

And very rapidly he wished he had never lit the candle. Zvan almost doused it, but then he also almost threw up. On every wall, lit eerily as it was from this one single flickering flame, were eyes.

In heads.

Women's heads. There had to be a dozen of them, different breeds of 'thrope, from a small mouse-like rodent girl to a moose ... Zvan remembered the moose woman, a prostitute certainly but one that had complimented him when she came into the house. He never saw her leave: of course. Parts of her had landed in the midden pit below the house, to decompose like the rest of the waste. Her head, preserved somehow - was it with magic or with plain old chemicals? - rested on a plaque beside others like it. Some of them looked... a bit worn. Some had their mouths slightly open, while others had been sewn shut. Their hair fell limply and unadorned on some, while others had a ribbon or braid still pulling it away from their face.

Zvan clutched his eyes shut. He knew, with a certain pounding dread, what he would find if he turned around and looked at the other wall. But by now he had no choice. He was here, this was his life, this was his lot. He would have to deal with it.

So when he turned, and saw the brownish-black topknot and yellow-orange with black tear-markings... His mother's head, he did vomit, hard and with so much pain - he had nothing to void, not for two days at least. He cried, until he had no tears left in him. Perhaps he'd bled from his wounds again, too, for his back felt wet. He could make no sounds beyond faint mewling, as he lay curled up next to the couch.

He glanced at the candle which had landed on another table and dripped on it. It was a shame, he thought, that the house was made entirely of stone. He couldn't burn it down from in here.

It was more than an hour before he moved again, stiffly. The candle was almost out, halfway burnt on the side and with a puddle of wax on the table. Zvan reached into a table's drawer and found another candle, though why he would want to light it even he wasn't quite sure. But he did, and found it in himself to sit down on the couch. He stared at the candles, twin flickers hypnotising him.

It was night again, somehow he could tell now. How long had he been here? A full day? More? This was worse by far than any beating he'd ever had. Sitting here, alone, in this smelly room with dead eyes staring at him. Judging him.

There was no sign of Jlean, and he hadn't heard any footsteps or shutting of the bedroom door up the hall. Maybe he had gone somewhere, who knew. The brothers were apparently not in the house either. Maybe they went to an inn.

Jlean would never allow him out of the house again, if he ever let him away from this very room. Zvan realized that. He now knew more than he ought - it was obviously the secret which Jlean needed to keep even from his own sons. Had they known abou the contents of this room, perhaps they might have come to Zvan's aid a little earlier.

"Where is my aid now," Zvan said quietly. "Where is my little masked friend, when I need help? I cannot escape from here, I am not strong enough to open the door, and where would I go? I don't even know anyone."

He sobbed into his hands, hands hardened by years of work. How could the princess have held those hands? How could she have looked at his broken body and thought he was anything less than disgusting?

"You know where you can go," said the flitter, shining in the candle light, and sitting on the table. "You only need but ask, Zvan, as I said."

His ears twitched back, angrily. "Well... I'm not used to asking. I'm used to getting beaten when I ask anything." Zvan said. He said it a bit harshly too, but he made no apology. "He said I used magic - how would he know? What was he doing?"

The creature tilted its head, and asked, "what was he doing?"

Zvan described Jlean as he had walked around the house, and the flitter nodded. "The candle he held possibly showed him remnants of our magic, visible only to his eyes - he had probably cast a spell to see things unseen."

"Why didn't you tell me he could do that?" Zvan demanded.

"I neither knew, nor did you ask me to find out. He does not seem the type to use magic." The creature walked forward, stepped in a cool portion of the still sticky candle wax, lifted its paw and gazed at it curiously. He made Zvan give off a desperate chuckle at that. "I am sorry you were beaten again, Zvan. We did not mean for that to happen."

Zvan sighed, "it would have happened whether you finished my chores or not. If I'd done them, I'd have never finished and I'd be beaten. They were finished too well, I was beaten. That's how he is. And... this." Zvan waved his hand upwards, indicating the heads. "He's... a murderer, he's killed all these women."

It was the only moment that Zvan could say the life drained from the little creature before him. The mask's frills wilted a little, as though they were alive and part of it's neck. It kept looking around the room, each wall containing more evidence damning Jlean as a serial killer. People were known to do such things, barons and inbred kings for instance. Normally people might accidentally kill someone in a fight, or a duel, or even purposefully murder someone for a goal. But this... was just sickening. This was a goal in and of itself, Zvan was sure.

Jlean's words came back to him: she's a catch worth having. He meant to have the princess? Or her head on the wall? Or even the Queen's?

"Little friend," Zvan said, urgently, "I will have to get out of here. He'll starve me to death in here. I know you can open the door for me... But I must not ... um, I can't leave. You've made a double of me twice now, and they've believed it was me. Can you make another, to stay here? They don't... I mean... It's not a real person, is it?"

"It is merely a shadow," the creature explained. "And that is an excellent idea. I will make one, while you escape. But though I will send you to a place you won't expect, you must speak to the Queen first. And," the flitter glimmered again, "you will be expected at the third ball and there you must most likely confront your worst fears as well as your greatest desires."

Zvan nodded. He realized Jlean would crash the party without an invitation, he'd be angry anyway. Would he have come there after killing Zvan here?

The flitter nosed at something, "here is your invitation to the ball... And another to a different event. Go on. Open it."

While the flitter caused some sparks on the outside of the door, opening it, Zvan opened his invitation to the ball - it was eerie, because it was his. He'd never had anything delivered to him, before. He wanted to ask, but wasn't sure he'd understand the answer, about why the Queen's crest was the same as its little mask, or what this other 'event' was.

It was another masked ball, apparently, and Zvan pursed his lips.

"Little friend," he said, and the creature peeked in from around the now-open door. It was probably dangling from the wood itself. "What am I going to wear for this? Either of these?" He held up both invitations, and shrugged. "I have no clothing, let alone a fancy dress. And the Queen told me to do my best."

"She did indeed. What are your ideas? Have you ever seen a masked ball?"

"Only in the fairy tale books," Zvan admitted. "But they aren't like the dances I've been to, are they? Everyone is supposed to pretend they don't know who's behind each mask, and that way they can ask questions or say things they wouldn't normally say."

"That is true. What could you go as?" The flitter asked, as its little paws worked on something. It was using the spare wax on the table to assemble its third doppleganger. It appeared briefly on Zvan's shoulder and plucked a hair, one which was covered in blood. "This will give more life to your double, but you should not worry about that. It's life is only as long as is needed, and like the others will dissolve into parts when you ask it to."

"I remember, the first one fell apart - I still have the dust and fur in a bucket downstairs."

"Oh do you?" The creature brightened up, "I'll need that, come on out of here. This room," it shivvered, "is creepy."

"That is my mother," Zvan said - oddly though. He was not crying when he said it, it simply came out. He stared at his mothers head - it had been there for almost eight years. Right here. When Zvan thought he'd cry - instead he steeled himself. There were no more tears in his eyes, no more breaking down. There was nothing he could do about that now. But he could prevent anyone else from meeting a similar fate. The flitter creature clung to the banister in the hall, scampering down and meeting Zvan under the kitchen. The barrel with his dusty fur doppleganger vanished when he looked at it and then the flit urged him to rest up.

"Sit there on the couch, we'll clean it up. Your double will act just fine, and you will be far from here. Now," it asked again, "what would you go to a masked ball as?"

"Well - I've been thinking," Zvan said with a chuckle, "I might just go exactly the way I am now. Dirty, bloody, covered in grime. No one would recognize me."

The flit chirped in surprise with a little laugh. "That... well, that's one option, but I think you'll be better recieved if you do have a costume of some kind..."

"Wait, wait," Zvan closed his eyes. When he did, the disembodied face of his dead mother hung in his mind, but he purposefully replaced it with a memory of her. The one from his dream several weeks before. When she was happy, round-cheeked, holding him in her arms safe and sound. His father: he wore something incredible, a mask and a robe.

"I have a picture in my mind," Zvan said, "but I do not know if I can describe it in words."

"Hold out your hands," said the flitter. "Ah - no, wait a moment... Let us get you clean first. We cannot have this costume ruined by your wounds."

It took another ten minutes of spritely cleaning, and a liberal amount of stinging pain when his wounds were cleaned and apparently healed up. Zvan hadn't opened his eyes, he actually liked the feeling of something happening that felt good, he didn't want to ruin it by seeing it. That would take away the magic. It could have been half a dozen beautiful women, or slave boys, or an old crone, or wild cats licking him dry, for all he cared. It was warm magic, it felt good. He was clean, and felt healthy again. His shoulder still twinged him, that second great blow to it would harm him worse than a few glowing sprites could fix in a few minutes.

"Now," the flitter said with confidence, "hold out your hands."

Zvan felt a weight descend onto his outstretched hands, but it was light. Cloth, and something else?

He opened his eyes, and saw a glittering silver and diamond mask, framed with feathers that were long and white, tipped in grey. Under it was a cloak of some kind, feathery in layers and with some odd mesh added. On looking at the mask he said, "this is my father's mask, in my dream. And the robe he was wearing?"

"Yes, indeed," said the flit. "Try it on. And this time, you may want to look at yourself, you know there is a reason the Queen appreciated your presence. Royalty always enjoys company."

"I'm not royal," Zvan said, while putting the robe on. It was open in the front, having a small feathered loincloth, and on the sides it was all white feathers. The back was a black mesh, see through, woven of some fabric he'd never felt. It rested on his shoulders like wings, this robe. It had long sleeves, and the ends of them were tipped in the same grey ended feathers as the mask.

The mask itself, though merely an outline around the eyes and a frame of silver around ivory on the beak, was of a predatory bird's head. A hooked beak, wide oval eyes, and a crown of splayed feathers. A harpy eagle, though Zvan didn't know it. It had a slender cord which would keep it on his head - though it was reasonably heavy it was also well balanced. And covered in diamonds. At first, Zvan refused to believe it. But they looked so pure, white, with rainbows that dazzled his eyes.

"Is this real? Or will it dissolve to dust in the morning too?" He asked. He almost dreaded the answer, he felt it must be magic and therefore only temporary.

"You said yourself, this is your father's mask and robe."

"But that was from a dream, it wasn't real."

"Of course it was, your dreams and memories are one in the same. Perhaps it was a distant memory. Perhaps you made up whatever else was in your dream, but this, Zvan, this is real. Your inheritance, I believe. Hidden, even Jlean did not know where your mother kept it. We had to look hard for it, actually," the flitter muttered.

Zvan was going to say something, but then couldn't find words. "But how ... why would you call me royalty? I mean... I'm just a cheetah!"

"You are a king cheetah," the flitter said. Then it tilted its head, "didn't you know that?" It bounced into the air, hopping and scattering silver glitter everywhere. "Go look! Go look at yourself in that mirror! Go on! And this time, turn around and look at your back!"

Zvan did as he was told, with burning curiosity. The robes swished around his ankles, but it felt good on his arms. He went to Jlean's bedroom and found the mirror - this time he was not afraid to enter, why should he be? Jlean wasn't in the house. And even if he found out - by then he couldn't care less.

Zvan's face was bright with wonder, the whiteness of the robe was very pretty. It made him look... regal. Like his father? In the dream? Then he turned his head a little, moving around the mirror and craning his neck around. "How odd," he said. "I've got stripes."

"Cheetah have spots," the flitter said, appearing on top of the mirror frame. "But only king cheetahs have those markings. They're quite rare. But it means you are of royal blood. We do not know why your father did not keep his title, though he must have been royal as well. Those are his robes, his treasure."

"Then... maybe..." Zvan said, growing a strange hotness in his gut. "Maybe I do deserve the Princess."

The flitter merely laughed in a high musical tittering.

***

For three days, Zvan would have to find a place to stay, the ball wasn't until then, and he had no way of presenting himself toward the Queen or her retainers without the invitation - and it was clear that during the times between balls, no one was given much of an audience. It was a bit of an emergency, but Zvan felt he could survive out and about in town without anyone knowing. He could claim he was a visitor from a neighboring village or town, from across the kingdom, and he'd been at the ball - now he was a tourist. Zvan really was a bit of a tourist as well, as he walked around town.

He'd taken some material from his brothers' closets and the flitter and its attendant shiny helpers had made him a decent set of travel clothes. However, they did insist he wear a hat with his hair bundled up in it - he might be recognized too easily with it, and one didn't really want word getting out that a cheetah was in town when another might have gone missing.

The flitter could not accompany Zvan but could arrive at times of need and when asked for. Only once, Zvan realized he'd had no money and needed something for a stay at the in on the other side of the hills. He carried his costume in a simple leather bag along with (he chuckled) the deer meat and the bread he'd baked a few days before.

Jlean would blame Jharn for having eaten the meat - probably in a drunken daze, as that was how the boy was spending a lot more of his time after the balls. Zvan wondered though, what about Ohrn? He feared for the more brave brother's life, now. For even if Jlean didn't strike his born son when he was enraged and in a fury at Zvan, what about when he was calm, sensible and completely insane?

Zvan steeled himself and bought some writing paper and a quill, and sat in the tavern of the next town over - he'd walked but his walking was so fast that some folks exclaimed about that huge bird that just passed them. Was that his own magic? He didn't know. He didn't ask, if it was magic, indeed it was his own.

Sitting at a well-lit table, with a fresh glass of water and a bowl of stew (he'd eaten so well in the last day he was sure he'd be too fat to fit in the costume later!) Zvan carefully penned an explanation of what he'd seen in the house, what had been done to him over the years. People he had seen, body parts that he thought once he'd imagined. He knew where they had been reburied, too, and detailed that carefully. Jlean didn't know where the other midden pits were, once the stuff was out of his basement he didn't seem to care at all. Carting that stuff from one hole to another hurt Zvan's back as a child but now he realized it was one of the most important moments of his life. He remembered: fifteen child-sized paces away from the stone wall on the west side of the house, below a rock which had a tree growing over it. It would be more overgrown now, in fact he almost recalled as he hunted that he recognized the tree and stone from its twisty base.

There, officials would find remnants of people who had been murdered over the last ... decade? Longer? Who knew how long Jlean had been doing this?

Ohrn would probably have told Zvan if he'd known, and Zvan made it absolutely clear that the brothers were not obviously party to the crimes. Why blame them? They'd been raised as cruel masters, true, but they knew nothing more. Zvan knew nothing else as well - they all expected their rough behavior.

It occurred to Zvan that his handwriting could use some improvement.

It occurred to him about a moment later that he'd never penned anything other than grocery lists before. How did he even know how to spell some of these words? Well, he read perfectly well upstairs, didn't he? It was a mystery, it was magic. He was a bright young man.

Who planned on, however improbably, marrying Princess Dvrinne.

The day of the ball arrived, and Zvan had heard rumors come from his town that the crazy puma man was on a rampage - something had happened, and he was on a tear. Women chuckled, saying that perhaps one of the local whores had turned him down, or that perhaps he hadn't been invited to the final ball that the Queen was throwing.

That was far more likely - added to the fact that Zvan's double must surely have perished by now, either because of starvation or because Jlean willed it so. Zvan felt a pang of guilt - but he was wise to remind himself that the other dopplegangers just dropped into dust - they were nothing more than that. Zvan was almost wondering if he ought to start finding out about magic, if Jlean used it to detect that it'd been what fixed the house up, maybe his library held secret books?

Maybe he could go back to the house and find out, after this was all over.

For some reason, though he knew the flitter's words had been a warning and he would be confronting Jlean tonight, he was calm. It was as if all the bad times he'd been through had worn away and he was left with his own self again.

Where there had been fear, was now pride. Where there had been tears was now a strength that would grow as time went on. Where wounds danced across his back, his muscles were firm.

Zvan had to actually bathe, for whatever magic had cleaned him up the first day slowly wore off the farther he got from home. But he enjoyed sitting in a long tub filled with hot water, and he paid the inn's staff extra because he knew how hard it was to get fur out of drains. He would run the short distance to the castle in his costume - he knew it wouldn't get dirty now.

He paid for the room to be locked, safeguarding his few items, but he brought with him the invitations (both of them) and his deposition for the Queen's guard to read. When the sun began to set, he bolted from the inn when no one was looking. He ran just as swiftly as before, and somehow the costume of a bird lifted him over mud and stream without hint of a splash.

Zvan arrived as he had twice before, to the bottom of the wide curving steps of the castle. In the light cast by the almost-set sun, the highest towers glowed brightly orange-yellow, the same color as his fur. Below in the courtyard there were fancy coaches and large carriages pulled by finer steeds than he'd seen before. No hay carts here, nothing like the simple family carriages that had been present in droves from the first ball. But that truly had been a party that none in the land could ever forget.

This time, there was a guard and his attendant standing in the center of the steps, and a carpet which was draped down from the entrance of the castle to there. It was framed by ropes, no one was going to get in without an invitation, it seemed. A number of the people attending seemed to be parents and family of those who had been at prior balls - they were older and dressed not in ridiculous current day fashions, but in a parade of feathers, masks and ruffles that all but hid their personages.

An elk man and his slender wife entered, both wearing what looked like bat wings. Their son came up behind - Zvan recognized his elegant shoulder and neck line, but otherwise he was pretending to be a fish of some kind. A ferret lad and his accompanying family all went inside, having a fantastic array of reptile scales dancing over their fur and painted masks on their short faces.

Zvan's turn came, and he stood alone. The guard looked him up and down, as he took the invitation, nodded once, and as Zvan passed he asked where his family was.

"That ... is kind of hard to explain," Zvan said simply, and nodded as he entered. Before he could do so, though, he heard a commotion in the courtyard behind him.

Jlean had arrived. But it wasn't just that the puma was here - it was that Jharn and Ohrn were there trying to stop him from trying to enter. Zvan continued, everyone turned to look so he was hardly alone in that. But he did not want to see this embarrassment. To have to admit that those were the people who'd raised him?

They apparently didn't even have masks - Jlean might have had one, but it'd come loose and was dangling around his neck facing backwards. In the sunset light, Zvan could still make out that Jlean was attempting to put on his best 'king cheetah' appearance: he'd doused his back in pitch or soot, with rough lines dripping down his back and fingerpainted-spots everywhere else. It was unmistakable, to Zvan, that he was trying to ... be him.

The horrible realization that it might have been a real person's face Jlean was wearing caused Zvan to almost lose interest in the food that he smelled. He continued inside, and sought out a place to sit. The ballroom was segmented out now with a place for dancing that was much smaller than before and a contingent of tables set up for family members and invited guests that was clearly set up for fine dining. There was no huge banquet table, for this time it was a smaller affair. Perhaps twenty men had been officially invited, and their families were allowed to come along. For a kingdom which had a rich forest and a good supply route between other lands, a true banquet was easy. This was a drop in that bucket.

Zvan knew that Dvrinne would have to come out sometime, but everyone was in costume. He could be sitting beside her... No, he would recognize her scent. Something about her smell was so distinct and beautiful, he could never possibly be mistaken. But what would she be wearing? How could anything possibly disguise her fine shape and delicate face?

Now, it was true that if she'd been a solid color she might be that much more attractive - but mottled markings were so much fun to look at! Zvan even told her that on the night they spoke alone. Her hair was a light brown color and cut fairly short for a woman's. Her mother's hair was clearly long and full, and a darker brown shade. Zvan wondered what Dvrinne's father had looked like, then.

The costume on Zvan's shoulders and face made him feel more comfortable than he'd been before, he understood that it was easier to be anonymous this way. He did still see the interest on people's eyes as they looked at him. Was it just the sparkly appearance? Or the way the feathers gleamed? Or just that they felt they knew who was wearing it and thought it looked good?

The food that was served was delicious - fish that Zvan had never tasted (the sea was a long way off), and breads that were dark and rich. Creams topped the soup, dollops of it just cold enough to float and warming up spreading a thin sheen of grease over the broccoli or potatoes in the bowls. Each course was followed by a pleasant glass of water and a dipping bowl which got passed around the table. Zvan was sitting at the table with the ostrich woman he'd danced with the first time, she must have been a resident of the castle, as well as a trio of strangers who had costumes of technological items (one was a spyglass and Zvan thought that very clever indeed).

Finally the Queen and her daughter arrived in full view. They had been there all along, but it was clear now who they were. The Queen had a mask that looked just like the one on the flitter, with rings and loops that soared above her head. Her dress was similarly looped, spiralling down to the floor in wide circlets. Her daughter on the other hand had an odd arrangement of red and orange ornate gauze which rose from her head and shoulders - she was fire?

Her mask was gauze but did make it almost impossible to see anything but her eyes. Her arms and body had drapes of jagged yellow, red, gold and white flame, and her dress trailed on the floor a bit in the same way. The girl's careful gaze looked at each and every man at every table, appraising them all. While she had indeed narrowed her choices, tonight was the night she was actually going to have to make a choice. It seemed a bit unfair, really, that such a thing was demanded of a girl who was so young. But then again, as he'd realized before, Zvan knew that it was far better and more entertaining this way, than to simply ship her off to some faroff land and hope she didn't mind whatever she had been given.

The Queen happily announced that once dinner was digested the dancing would begin. The orchestra played dinner music which was so sedate that Zvan wondered if it might put several tables to sleep. The big heavy meal would indeed need to be digested a little before any dancing was attempted.

Little did he know the dances were a bit different this time, too. They were lines, formal things which he had to merely keep up on. He placed himself somewhere at the end of each one, because that way he could see from the corner of his eye who did what. Hold arms together, arms apart, grab this partner, then that one, turn and clap, this was all so much more stuffy than the first dances!

He much preferred them to this!

Apparently, so did Dvrinne. Eventually as sisters or aunts paired up with the other boys from around the country, the music changed to a more festive romp and the formalities were dropped in favor of the dancing from the last balls. Dvrinne was involved with dancing beside one of the ferret-fish, and Zvan found himself beside ... the Queen.

"May I have the honor of this dance, masked one?" Zvan asked while bowing. He had his left arm behind his back, as he'd seen the other royals do, as he took her hand. She nodded and smiled faintly under the mask. As they danced, Zvan leaned in a little and said, "I have urgent news but I could not give it to anyone save you," and she nodded as they parted. Another dance was begining, and Dvrinne was somewhere across the floor.

"You will let me in this instant, I have an invitation!" Jlean yelled from the doorway, causing a number of people to gasp and look over. His voice was raised in the same angry way that he'd done a few days before when beating Zvan senseless. The commotion continued, he was quite strong, and had apparently knocked down the guard's assistant and lept over the rope barrier. His sons followed behind, but were shoved away as easily as he'd done to the guard.

The music fell to a halting silence, the piccolo player had to be shushed by the bass viol's. Jlean stomped into the room, panting and growling. He waved what appeared to be an invitation around, but it was Zvan's correct guess that he was trying to pass off one of the first two as the third.

Zvan turned to the Queen, his head high, and nodded a little at this event. "You clearly did not read the invitation," the Queen said in a strong voice. It was odd that she could project so well, she was such a slightly built thing. "For each and every one of these people has one with their name upon it."

Blustery, Jlean stammered and ground to an angry halt. Then abruptly, he started a strong run right toward the Queen! There were no people between them, a long stretch of open space where everyone saw him gain purchase on the wooden floor.

Zvan stepped in, so fast like he'd run. He held his hand up, blocking Jlean's attack and holding his hand in midair. Jlean shuddered into a full stop, brought up short by this event. But his other hand flailed around, also caught easily by Zvan's. The cheetah's burning blue eyes did not blink.

"Queen, this man is a multiple murderer. He has kept evidence in his home proving it, at least one dozen women lay dead because of him. I believe he meant to have your head as a trophy as well." Zvan said calmly and coldly.

Jlean looked angrily at Zvan, and suddenly realized who he was. His storm-green eyes went wide in fury, but as he gained strength to push the slender cheetah man off his feet, half a dozen more guards arrived and pushed him away at pole-arm length. Incoherently, screaming, Jlean was led away. It looked as though the guards were about to do the same to Jharn and Ohrn, but Zvan held up his hand.

"Stop, those... those are my brothers. I would have them here - even though they're not dressed for the occasion."

Another silence came from the room, and the Queen nodded after a time. It took a few minutes for everyone to get settled, for music sheets to be shuffled and arranged, and for Dvrinne to weave her way toward Zvan.

They danced, but everyone was still distracted. Such a thing was hardly ever done, even in fairy tales. Attacking the Queen? Madness. But everyone felt safe, everyone was talking about Zvan's bravery and speed. "Are they really?" Dvrinne asked.

"Not in blood, no, but they aren't madmen like their father." Zvan admitted softly that when he'd said he wasn't all he appeared, he had no idea what he really was all along. The rest of the night, Dvrinne danced with no other.

** had been ashen6.htm **

Zvan and Dvrinne were clearly the only match that the Queen would approve, though she had wondered about the stoat boy over there or perhaps even the coyote lad. But none of them were really the royalty that she accepted. The Queen and Zvan discussed things at great length, long into the morning, with the captain of the guard there, and a judge who read the words of Zvan's deposition.

It took only a few hours more to confirm not only the presence of the heads in the den, but that of the broken bones and spare parts left undecayed from the middens. Ohrn and Jharn were kept for questioning, but allowed to leave eventually. Ohrn assured Zvan that if he wanted to come home he wouldn't have to cook or clean ever again.

And Jlean would be put to death within the month. It was as simple as that, though it felt more complicated. Over the next few days, Zvan wanted to ask him, to get real answers - why? Why him? Why his mother? Did he want one of every species? What kind of madness was it? The Queen commented that it surprised her that he would have such intellectual curiosity instead of rage. After all, his mother was dead at the man's hands. It would only be fitting if Zvan wished to exact revenge.

"It is enough that his sentence will be carried out," Zvan said. "I've no taste for that myself." He looked down, then back up at the Queen's even gaze. "Though I will say I will sleep better for the first time knowing he's gone."

She left him alone with Dvrinne in the large room - one which reminded him much more of the stone room from his dream. He still wore the feathered robe, but had removed the mask and entrusted it to one of Dvrinne's handmaids to put in his - his - new chambers. They would retrieve his meager leather bag from the inn, as well.

"You like it here?" Dvrinne said, of the castle. Zvan nodded. "Good, because it's yours now. Well," she winked, "once we're married."

Zvan held her hand, not looking at her. It seemed that tears of joy weren't all exhausted from his eyes - only those of sorrow. "Is this ... is this a happy ending? Is this happily ever after? Do I get that?"

"Do you want it?" Dvrinne said, pressing up against him. "I like this costume," she whispered aside. "I think you deserve a happy ending, Izzy."

He chuckled. "You know... I couldn't tell you my real name, but it's on my invitation. How ... is that possible?"

"Probably mother's magic?" Dvrinne said simply. She shrugged, as though saying such a thing was the most obvious fact in the world.

"Your mother sent the ... thing?" He wiggled his hand and Dvrinne giggled.

"Of course. There are dozens of those things around here. I think she summons them so they'll do the work for the servants. No one does hardly anything around here..."

"Then in that case I think I do like it here," Zvan said.

***

The flitter arrived to remind Zvan that he needed to attend this other ball - and Zvan held out his hand to his new wive Dvrinne. "May she come along? Or does she need an invitation as well?"

The flitter merely laughed musically, and vanished again in a puff of glitter.

"Wait, wait," Zvan said, to the air where the thing had been sitting against a hinged door frame. "How will we get there?"

"You will run," the flitter's sunlight-on-snowflakes voice said.

They did not forget that this too was a masked ball. Their costumes had been preserved with normal human care, and the treasured mask that bore Zvan's legacy and bounty had to be taken from the treasury vaults. "Should we ... wear them?" Zvan asked, and Dvrinne shrugged.

"Why not?" She said. "We'll make sure they're fixed if we need it, when we get ... wherever it is we're going."

"Lantessama," Zvan said, "it is apparently ... an island, so I don't know how we'll get there, really. But... Let's go."

A saluki princess and a king cheetah bolted out of their shared quarters, down the tower, through the empty ballroom and into the sunrise toward -- where ever their feet could take them!

***

name: Hataru (firefly)
gender: male
size: large
bond: Drvinne
personality: bold and clever, like his colours suggest, Hataru is a true helping soul. No task is too big, if there's trouble, he'll want to fix it. His favourite passtimes include duelling and knotwerk (laugh, but know that his ropes will be secure)
distinguishing feature: his beautiful orange-ochre wings which seem to have indecipherable scribbling on them.
favourite place: dusk
power: Light

---- 

name: Inago (grasshopper)
gender: female
size: large
bond: Zvan
personality: calmer and dare we say, more intelligent than Hataru, Inago takes things slower, but is equally passionate about doing the right thing. Philosophizing and accounting (dry, but a well-oiled machine needs funds to keep running) can be considered her hobbies.
distinguishing feature: her pure-white skin and again those elaborate scriptures that have got to have meaning.
favourite place: dawn
power: Foresight

They were hardly bored, Zvan and Dvrinne. The Queen allowed Dvrinne to ascend to the throne, making for quite a ruckus when Zvan's extended - and unknown - family arrived from their own homeland deeply to the south. They had heard tell of a mysteriously marked cheetah, and really, how many king cheetahs were out there? Certainly fewer up in the northern woodlands and mountains, than down in the scrub plains and hot equatorial areas where his breed was known to congregate.

But they were welcomed with open arms. The family he had never known, cousins mainly as most of their older generation had died off over time, were a fascinating crew indeed. Inventors and explorers, a mage and a priest (twin brothers!), educators and mechanics. Many of them did sport striped sides and tails, but only Zvan's markings covered both back and shoulders, rump and tail.

And Zvan's markings in herited in his half-saluki son, Mtan! Those mottled brindle stripes on Dvrinne? They worked themselves flawlessly into their daughter Brinn's short fur. Both to an extent had a mixture of the royal couple's features: longer fur than a cheetah on their tails and longer ears, somewhat kinked body fur as well; where a cheetah's face was more blunt, they had longer saluki-like noses; their coloration was more bold than Dvrinne's, slightly less bright than Zvan's, but all still shades of red, rust, orange, brown, black, and white.

They would probably head off to their own adventures, but one last remained for this pair before they settled into "happily ever after".

Inago and Hataru had been chattering to each other animatedly, Inago positive that she saw 'something important'. Hataru wasn't sure how they would deal with this, but wouldn't say what 'this' was.

Not until 'this' showed up in front of the royal couple. Right there in the massive main chamber of the castle, a modestly sized ... dragon? Smaller than both of the masked pair, but no less elegant. Brighter than Zvan's orange-colored coat, the white-topped cheetah dragon displayed her horns and folded her wings up in respect, flashing more white feathers that rivaled the diamonds on the king's mask.

Without pause, they felt a mind seeking attention. Over the years that the couple had been in charge of things, they learned more about the Nexus, about other worlds with dragons, but had had their own claws full with running their country. They knew about telepathy, they didn't know what to expect when she said, I brought someone else, you should see! But they're outside, in the lake.

"In the..." Dvrinne stammered, "we don't have a lake, we have a reflecting pool!"

Oh that's why he thinks it's awfully shallow...

Zvan chuckled, "I thought I heard something splash, let's have a look, shall we?"

Brinn and Mtan both desperately wanted to see whatever this new twist would be, and it was Hataru who took them, while Inago gracefully allowed both royals onto her shoulders. They exited via the wide balcony that overlooked the more hidden inner courtyard of the keep, where the smooth oval-shaped - and only-waist-deep - reflecting pond was. It was definitely reflecting something.

Another dragon, obviously, and what a sight he proved to be? Spotted and striped, like his brighter friend, but with no wings - rather he was finned, an aquatic type? Here? Far more rust-tan than his companion, with added faded markings that made all the family members squint: almost like they went in and out of visibility, was he boldy striped with blocks of black over the tan? Or was it all spots? Or nothing? Quite dark at the spaded tail tip, though, and that tail splashed a generous amount of the normally smooth water around.

He gave off a chirp, actually a series of what sounded like birdcalls. And this brighter yellow dragoness responded with her own caterwaul.

Dvrinne nudged her husband. "D'you think we ever sound like that when we're talking over a crowd?"

Their children scampered over to the edge of the pond and were doused with a wave, but laughed delightedly.

Neither of these dragons would truly bond the people around, it was clear they had already found each other's company to be worthwhile. How they had found this place, no one, not even themselves, knew.

"We're going to need to make that pool deeper," Dvrinne muttered, "the nearest real lake is half a day's walk..."

Name: Vaehika Onnissian
Gender: Female
Size: medium-small (wings) 8'7"s / 55' l / 80' ws
Build: delicately catlike, with very long tail and strong but long legs, wings actually make them 'medium' since their size otherwise would be smallish
Physical Features: Avengaean Daemon / Alevahari mutt, with cat, equine, dragon, and birb features mixed liberally with daemonic ones as shown; furry skin, prefers live birth afaik
Colors: Brightly yellow with vivid black markings, pale grey floof, and bright white feathers; emerald green eyes; dark horns, light claws

From Akelara's library regarding these colors: South: Golds, yellows, light browns. They are often seen as very childish, they enjoy playing and are very trusting. Nevertheless, they're very self-sufficient and often have hidden strength of will. Their powers rest in those of purification - of anything - and their telepathy/empathy grades are often very close together, they prefer the warmth of summer and prefer day to night, generally unaffected by heat; West: Blacks, the non-conformists of the feline colors, prefer to do things their own way, which may be considered backwards or contrary by others. They have very active imaginations and enjoy using their illusion powers to express themselves. Quests and journeys of any kind interest them, and their (usually) compassionate nature often wins them many friends, they prefer autumn nights to anything else

Stats: Strength 1, Speed 5, Endurance 3, Agility 5, Health 3, Intelligence 6
Abilities: Winged Flight (strong, loves to fly and be in the air, and can pick up things in her deft paws to carry quite a bit of weight)
Teleportation (exceptional, local and nexus both easily available)
Verbal Speech (poor, tends to slur some sounds and doesn't like that, so keeps her voice for singing wordless tunes with her partner) and Telepathy (exceptional, with a markedly broad and strong range, can reach telepathic minds more easily), Empathy (good, close range only)
Magic Leeching (very strong, and can sense where even minor bits of magic have been put into place as in enchanted items or a spell cast up to a week later - obviously can only 'consume' existing and not remnant magic)
Illusions (visual, is it her magic that is causing Vakeel's coloration to become brighter or dimmer?)
Purification (limited, can keep bodies of water free from toxins or bacteria, and can shoo what equates to evil spirits away from good minds; probably can do more, but tends toward other abilities)
Heat Tolerance (strong, a natural side effect of her South West nature)
Parents: Dams: Silver-Grey Rainbow Avengaean Daemon Belareese Onnissian and Red (Draconic East) Alevahari Tilara
Origin: Fur and Feathers Frenzy Redux by Dray and Phe
Bond: Vakeel Nightspark