The Prince

Tyset I: Chapter 1

Chapter 1





Leaning on her desk, Tyset stared wistfully out at the street.  Nobles and rich merchants riding in sleighs pulled by teams of antlered reindeer, the poorer commoners ran and slid in the snow to get out of their way.





She was waiting for her father.  He had promised her a new tattoo today.  But first, he would get his.





Intricate, complex designs carved into the skin with inks made from secret recipes were what produced the magical tattoos.  Tattoo Artists studying for years before being allowed to actually practice their art, they were the only ones, by law, allowed to service the masses of Avalla with their mystic symbols.  Her father purchasing one to increase his eyesight, it was incredibly expensive and would grow smaller each time he used it until, after maybe its twentieth use, it faded completely.  Then he would be back, a new one to acquire.





At thirteen, Tyset already possessed several tattoos herself.  One on each of her arms, calves, and one on her belly, she wanted even more.  The commoners outside, none of them could afford tattoos.  Not if they wished to buy food in the morning.  No, tattoos were only for the rich, the powerful, the nobility.  For people like Tyset.





Bringing her small, portable writing desk along to practice her letters while she waited, Tyset wondered what her name would look like if written in the commoners’ style.  Her pen of wood, inset with crushed, compacted lead—a fairly new invention properly called a pencil—scratching across the parchment she wrote ‘Tyset Meridian’.  She stared at it for a moment, contemplating.  It didn’t look right, she decided finally.  Crossing it out Tyset rewrote her name in the noble style.  ‘Meridian Tyset’.  That was better.





She smiled and pushed a fallen lock of jet black hair back behind her ear.  Her hand dropping, hair came with it.  Tyset looked at the cuff of her sleeve—it was fraying, again.





It was so odd to see, fibers parting, cloth unraveling.  Even stranger to touch.  Tiny little squares, a close knit net, she had hardly ever seen an unfinished piece of cloth.  Apart from her own knitting, that was.  The benefits of being a Baron’s daughter, she supposed.





Dropping the pencil she fingered the frayed edge.  Black, black as the rest of her clothing it was.  But between the squares, the fibers, she could see white skin.  Skin.  The thought brought back bad memories.  Red and swollen, bloody skin bulging, heaving.  A woman crying, screaming as she pushed out the new life even as hers fled from her…





Tyset twister her wrist.  She could no longer see her skin.  Just the black sleeve of her dress, whole and finished above the thin, black wool gloves on her hands.  Though a different dress, it was the same as that which she had worn the day before.  And the day before that, and the day before that, and the dress she had worn all last week, last month, last summer and last spring.  Simple and unadorned, the black of mourning.  Tyset had worn it ever since that horrible day, when her brother had come into the world.





“Tyset.  If you continue to do that, I will have to inform your governess.”





“Yes, Father.”  She had been teasing the threads of her torn cuff.  Sighing, she slumped back against the waiting room’s cushioned chair.  The street no longer entertaining, she had long since grown bored with her writing.  She was a decent writer, after all.  And she could read even better.  Her father just wished for her to be exceptional at both.





He was a great man, her father.  Baron of the Meridian, the district named for the street which ran through it which, in turn, was named for their family, he governed fairly and justly.  Sometimes he had to be tough with his subjects but, for the most part, he was a good, kind ruler.  She had overheard people say her father was rude, unforgiving of mistakes, even cruel.  But she never listened to these things.  Her father was the best man in the world!  When she was little, before her mother died, he had always carried a sweet for her, always laughed at her jokes, and even told her a story at bedtime every night, no matter how busy he was.  He was simply the best of Avalla’s ruling nobles, and his district the best of all the districts.  In the middle of the city, it was easy to get to anywhere from the Meridian.





Tyset tried to keep her fingers to themselves but, eventually, she recognized the frayed thread between her fingers again.





“Put on your gloves, Tyset,” said her father.





“But, Father, it’s so hot!”





“I don’t care, Tyset.  If you cannot wear the clothing I purchase for you without ruining it then you must be punished.  Put on your gloves.”





Closing his eyes he sat back and therefore did not see her scowl.  Then she saw his lips tighten.  If he could endure the needles, then surely she could endure warm hands for a bit.  Rising, she retrieved her gloves from the pocket of her cloak where it hung on a hook near the door.





The Artist’s Parlor was hot.  So much that she had felt like she had been walking into a furnace when they had first entered.  Immediately she had begun stripping off her outer garments, allowing the Artist himself to take them from her as she did.  Her thick down-stuffed coat, the fur-lined cloak beside it and the boots beneath them…all looked so dark and grim beside the bright, almost vibrant colors of her father’s garments.  A dark gray cloak, a green coat, and red shirt, she longed to wear such colors again.  But then, she was still in mourning.





Returning to her seat, her fingers sheathed in their downy prison and already starting to burn, Tyset neatly folded her hands and waited for the Artist to finish his work.





“There you go, my lord,” said the Artist presently.  Jumping to her feet, Tyset rushed to her father’s side as he rose from his chair.  Turning to her, the Artist smiled.  “Ah, and what do you think, miss?”





Her father turned his right arm to her and she gave it a critical look.  Red and slightly swollen, she saw that he’d gotten two of them.  One on the wrist and one on the shoulder.  A long, curving black one around his right wrist, it had a big loop in the middle and two smaller loops to each side, each one with a big black dot in the middle.  The one on the shoulder was less intricate than this, though; twin yellow and blue lines swirling, twisting to form the shape of an eye.  It was the latter one, she knew, that had caused him to wince so much.





“I like them very much,” she said.  “But which one’s which?”





Her father pointed at the blue and yellow one.  “Well, this one is for better eyesight because mine is not as good as it could be.  See?  Yellow for the light of a candle and blue for the color of my eyes.  On the outside the lines are far apart and in the center they are close.  That means that the light and my eyes will work better together to improve my vision.  And this one,” he pointed to the other one, high on his shoulder, “this one is for balance.”  Before she could ask what he meant by that, her father had turned back to the Artist.  “Now, how much shall I tell my chancellor that he has lost this week?”





“Ah, Baron, your Chancellor has an appointment with me tomorrow afternoon.  I can discuss the bill with him then, if you’d like?”  He handed her father an ice bandage and helped him set it over his raw shoulder.





“Just fine, Master Jenier, just fine.”  Going to where his clothes hung he donned his shirt and pulled his coat on over it.  “Come, Tyset, there is much still to do today.”  He glanced out the parlor’s front windows.  “And not much time in which to do it.”





“But I want a tattoo too,” she said.





He slung his cloak around his shoulders.  “Perhaps another day.  This has taken much longer than I expected, though through no fault of yours, Master Jenier.”





The Artist bowed graciously.  “I understand, my lord.  Thank you.”





“But you promised,” Tyset said, starting to feel again that pain of loss that had been with her all year long.





“That’s enough, Tyset.”  Grabbing her clothes and boots he seized her by the arm and pulled her towards the door.





“Father, you promised,” she whined.  She dragged her feet and when her father squeezed her arm and yanked her forward she shouted, “Ouch!  You’re hurting me!”





The door opened and a blast of freezing air struck her.  Her father pulling her outside she heard him call over his shoulder, “Good day, Master Jenier.”





“Good day, Baron Meridian,” she heard the Artist call just before the door banged shut.





Walking through the snow to the waiting, covered sleigh, Tyset tried to get her father to stop.  Cold and wet, her stockings, though made of thick caribou wool, did little to keep the snow from reaching the skin of her feet.  As for the rest of her, she was shivering almost immediately.  There had been two fires going in the Artist’s Parlor, one in the small waiting area and another in the back room where the man lived.  And with all that heat there had still been a warm brazier standing near the man’s chair.  Compared to this it had been like a furnace.





The sleigh door was open for them when they reached it.  “Ow!” she screamed as her father thrust her roughly inside.  Scrambling forward, she barely got out the way as he climbed in behind her.





She was just sitting up when he threw her clothes at her.  “Get dressed,” he said, his tone low and angry.  She dared not disobey it.  With a sniff she turned her back on him and began untangling her thick, outer garments.  The sleigh began to move forward, the reindeer picking up speed as the driver lashed them with his whip.  Even here, inside and with the doors shut, she could hear the snap of it.  Balanced precariously on the edge of the seat, she fell forward slightly before managing to recover.  Doing so, she shot a wary glance over her shoulder.  Her father was staring at her.





Never let a man touch you, never let a man see you.  The only man who should ever see you in your underclothes is your husband.  No one else.  No one.





That was something her mother had taught her, years ago it felt now.  But it had only been six months.  Only six months since the Baroness Meridian Celine had passed from the world after giving birth to her husband’s son, to Tyset’s brother.  She had lingered for several days afterwards, however, knowing from the moment her son was born that she would not survive to see him, or even Tyset, reach adulthood.  God had allowed her just enough time though to instruct her daughter in those most crucial lessons about being a woman.  And while she had not understood them all completely at the time, Tyset recognized her mother’s words in her father’s tones.





He made her feel naked.





More for this than for the autumn’s cold did she hastily draw on her coat and cloak.  When she was done she turned back to sit demurely, guiltily, her knees pressed together, her hands in her lap, and her head bowed.  “And your boots,” the Baron said.





“My stockings are wet,” she mumbled.





“What?  Speak up, girl!”  She repeated herself, little louder than before.  “And whose fault is that?  Put on your boots.”





He was using the same voice he used when speaking to his subjects in court, the same one he used when addressing someone who had just refused him.  The one he used on people who later said he was mean.  She had never understood before why everyone was so ready to do his bidding after he spoke like that.  Now she did and was thankful that she was already shivering from the cold or he might have seen her quail at it.  Slowly she put on her boots, hating the way her feet squelched as she slipped her wet feet into them.  She had liked these boots.





His eyes never left her.  Leaning back in the seat she saw that.  Feeling a bit warmer now, she still drew her cloak tight around herself.  She would not meet his eyes.  Instead, she just stared out the window, silently watching as her father’s barony slid past outside.





“You have embarrassed me, Tyset,” said her father presently.  Her stomach clenched and she had to bite her lip to keep from looking up.  He continued.  “Behaving like a commoner, throwing a tantrum when you don’t get what you want.  Like a child—”





“I am a child,” she said, her voice still soft.





“You are a noble child.  You are my daughter.  A Meridian.  Not some filthy peasant brat.  You have responsibilities, Tyset.  To me and to this barony.  The people look to me to govern them and, with your mother dead, our subjects look to you for leadership.  I have been shielding you from it thus far but, as you grow older, you will need to start taking on more responsibilities.





“Think Tyset, what must they think seeing you acting like that?  Their leader?  And what must they think of me?  Your actions, Daughter, reflect directly back upon me.  Consider them more carefully in the future or there will be consequences.”





Tyset swallowed, not saying anything.  And she had been so set on going with him today, to get a tattoo for herself but, too, to spend time just with him without the baby somewhere nearby.  Now she wished she were anywhere else than in his presence.





Silently, they continued on their way.  Outside the snow began to fall once more.