Beatriss's Apprentice Bayan

When Bayan was reassigned from her post as a lady-in-waiting to the harem, it was seen as a quiet demotion. She had never mastered the careful obedience expected in court. But the Emperor, noting her strong thighs and restless poise, saw something else. He offered her to Beatriss— an apprentice to be trained as an undercover guard.

Beatriss accepted the task with calm curiosity. She began with combat: footwork, unarmed throws, and the deceptively graceful techniques of Blackbird Style. Bayan was a fast learner—eager, focused, and already proud of her physical strength. Beatriss taught her how to use it without a blade, and how to make her touch as precise as a strike.

Beatriss trained her in martial technique, with an emphasis on unarmed combat. Bayan took quickly to the movements, learning to fight from a seated or reclining position and mastering efficient kicks and throws. Beatriss also introduced her to the subtler forms of control—how to carry herself, how to observe while being observed.

Adapting to the layered expectations of palace life was more challenging. Bayan’s first summons to a party in the Emperor’s chambers was a quiet disaster—not because of scandal, but because she didn’t know how to belong. The other women moved with practiced grace, their gestures part of a ceremony she hadn’t been trained for. Bayan stayed clothed, stiff, uncertain, preoccupied with the dagger concealed under her dress, as she had been prepared to protect, not perform.

She stood apart, unable to participate, unable to act, and unable to leave.

Afterward, in Beatriss's chamber, she turned to her teacher and said, not with shame but with resolve, “I
can’t be the only one who doesn’t fit.”

Beatriss nodded. In the days that followed, she began to train Bayan in Blackbird-style martial arts—a fighting style focused on balance, speed, and precision. “You shouldn’t need a weapon to be dangerous,” she told her. Bayan trained barefoot, learning how to move quietly, strike swiftly, and recover from falls with control and grace.

But Bayan wanted more. She asked Beatriss to teach her how to navigate courtly presence—the language of movement, posture, and stillness. The art of holding attention without speaking. Beatriss agreed, and their lessons became a blend of discipline and subtlety.

By the time Bayan was summoned again, she walked in with quiet confidence. “I am not shy at all,” she told Beatriss when she returned. Ironically, that was the problem. New arrivals were expected to be tentative. 

Beatriss requested an audience with the Emperor.

It was granted—but the meeting took place in the palace dungeon, not the audience hall. The Emperor waited in a stone chamber dimly lit by braziers, no guards visible, no formalities offered. A conversation, teasing and edged, questioning Beatriss about Bayan’s transformation.

Beatriss answered with performance and precision. She turned Bayan’s body toward him—presenting her balance, her poise, the latent power in her thighs. And while the Emperor watched, amused
, Beatriss scanned the shadows.

In one sudden motion, Beatriss stepped away from the light, seized a hidden man by the collar, tripped him with a sweep, and pressed her sword to his throat.

“You have many enemies, Your Imperial Majesty,” she said, cool and controlled.

The Emperor smiled, unshaken. “He’s one of mine,” he said. “Perhaps he misunderstood the dagger under the girl's dress.”

He praised Beatriss for her boldness and made his expectations clear: Bayan would continue training, in all disciplines—but if she were ever summoned again, she would play the part of a shy, silent observer.

They trained in secret, in forgotten courtyards and behind shuttered screens. Blackbird-style martial arts came first: grapples, throws, balance. Bayan learned to move with silence, to disappear into a fold of silk, to strike with her elbow while bowing.

Then came Cynadicean arts—more dangerous in their subtlety. How to breathe to draw attention, how to smile without surrender, how to beguile without being touched. Beatriss taught these reluctantly, always with a warning: “Power can be offered with a look—but never given away.”

By midyear, sword practice began. Bayan trained with both the katana and a short stabbing sword, one made for close quarters and palace walls. She practiced indoors and out, drilling until her knuckles bled, until her legs no longer trembled from the weight of her stance.

Beatriss tested her constantly. Sometimes in the middle of a ceremonial dance rehearsal—sword! Sometimes at night when Bayan thought she was alone—strike! Sometimes with whispered riddles during drills: If your master falls, who do you serve?

By late spring, Bayan could pin Beatriss in a clinch, disarm a guard without drawing blood, and speak three different meanings with a single gesture at court. Her thighs were strong, her arms lean, her back unbent.

The Emperor noticed, or seemed to. He had a new assignment.

One of the Emperor’s newest concubines,

Jiaohu, purchased from the Monastery of the Two-Fold Path, had come forward with a strange tale about a woman she had seen who looked like Beatriss: “The monks had another pale girl,” she whispered to the Khan. “Younger. Prettier. With strong thighs. They’re keeping her hidden—for someone more important than you.”

The Emperor was amused, then annoyed. He sent messengers with gold—thousands of taels—and received only a parade of forgettable girls. None of them Cynadicean.

When Beatriss was summoned, she listened without emotion as the Emperor described the monastery. Jiaohu, bold and smiling, repeated her tale. She even gave Beatriss a password—a phrase that would identify her as a friend to someone named Xing, a prisoner still within the monastery, who could lead them to the girl called Ciuciu.

The Emperor’s offer was clear: Find this girl, and I will release you. You may build your castle in the south.

Beatriss did not agree immediately. She returned to her rooms, sat with Bayan, and said nothing for a long time. Then she stood.

“Get your sword,” she said. “We may have to kill some monks.”

Wolfgang and the Lake of Lost Dreams

Having spent most of his money, Vulpio gave up his room at Gold Hill Inn and took to sleeping rough, hunting his food in the surrounding forest. One day in the gray light of dawn, hews roused by the sounds of whinnying horses and then solemnly musical voices. A group of elves explained that they sought his assistance. Something of theirs had been stolen, and although they knew where it could be found— on an island in the Lake of Lost Dreams— strong magic prevented the fey races from landing on it. Vulpio admired their fine mail shirts and their graceful horses. The elves promised one of each if he were successful. 

Vulpio convinced Mardiuw, one of the deputies of Gold Hill to join him in his quest and then went to Hommelet to seek out the assistance of his friends Wolfgang, Gerrilynn, and Chickie. Together, the party traveled to the Lake of Lost Dreams and met with the elves. The elves explained that they were looking for a bronze-and-silver statue—and maybe something else that they would describe if the party found the statue. The elves provided the party with two boats, and warned them that the island was inhabited by invisible beings that might seek to cause them harm. 

As the elves predicted, with no warning other than the sound of buzzing wings and an obnoxious cackle, the party was set upon by unseen foes. Wolfgang imbued them with a purple glow, making their general forms detectable—they were pixies, little people with wings like butterflies. Gerrilynn called on divine assistance to freeze two of the pixies in the air and drop them into the water while warning the others that they would suffer the same fate if they continued their attack. The other pixies swooped down to save their drowning comrades and flew away to the forest on the south side of the island.

The party turned their boat toward the north end of the island and landed in a thinly-wooded meadowland. Gleaming white marble stood out among the trees. At the white marble building, the party found both the missing statue and a ladder leading down into a dark hole.

The party returned to the shore of the lake with the statue, plus the news about the battle with the pixies and about the darkness beneath the marble ruins.

The elves gratefully welcomed the return of the stolen statue, rewarding the party with the promised treasure.

The elves were impressed that the party had driven off the pixies without killing any of them. They agreed that perhaps they could be rehabilitated and offered an additional reward for any pixies captured alive.

But the leader of this band of elves, Aemornion was most interested in what lay beneath the temple. He told the party of the human sorcerer who had lived on the island centuries ago. “The impatience and ambition that marks your kind once again followed magic into madness.” An elven prince visited the sorcerer, laden with gifts, hoping to persuade him that the arcane arts were best left to those whose lifespans allowed for deep mastery by slow accretion. But it was much too late. The sorcerer had already made another pact with darker powers. In the dungeons beneath his white marble palace, the sorcerer killed the elven prince and stole his crown.

The sorcerer’s demise, less than a year later, was wretched and complete. Most of his palace was destroyed, everything he owned—including everything he’d stolen— was sealed in the dungeons beneath, and the land itself became cursed.

Aemornion and his people hope to leave Alyan before the end of the next century, but not without the crown that had belonged to his brother.