Part 1

A great cry filled the hall. It was winter solstice—the Great Pestilence was twenty years gone. A smaller second bout had past just a decade ago and on the border rumors that Wufei Chang, a duke of the Eastern plains, was aggressively taking over villages plus another outbreak of the dreaded Black Death was being whispered about. Yet such dire tidings seemed to have little effect on the revelers.

Trumpeters and musicians danced in front of the servers carrying huge platters of dishes. Cakes stacked high were covered in garlands and cherries. Whole ducks stuffed arranged to look like they were still in flight. Each display was more extravagant than the other.

Duke Dermay sat with languid elegance at the high table, watching critically as the musicians herald the first course. On his right sat Prince Quatre Rabberbera Winner, his most high and honored guest.

Prince Quatre overlooked the proceedings with bored indifference. Dressed in his usual colors of aqua and white he stood out next to darkly dressed duke and his somberly dressed granddaughter. The dukes colors were gray and black.

“Does his highness like our marvelous entertainers?” Duke Dermay asked leaning closer to the prince.

Prince Quatre gave him a cool glance. “Marvelous?” He murmured in a bored tone. “I expect no less than an acrobat or a juggler before the sweets.”

The duke grinned as he signaled for a page to fill his wine cup. “A street performer too commonplace. No, give us a more difficult task, my prince.”

Quatre hid his annoyance. The duke was trying to impress him for his granddaughter, Lady Dorothy Catalonia. The lady sat quietly next to Quatre seeming a pale blond shadow to his rich blond tones. It was a pretense that was not lost on Quatre. The woman was a shrew, a harridan in dove’s feathers. Quatre was not interested even if he could marry. Yet the duke would not be snubbed and he would not be put off. He took his coldness as a challenge, his reluctance as mere princely hauteur.

“Then, sir give him my royal colors,” he said smoothly. To his vexation the duke laughed out loud.

“An acrobatic performance you shall have,” he signaled to an attendant and leaned back to speak in the servant’s ear. He gave Quatre a sidelong smile. “Before sweets, my prince.”

Prince Quatre sipped his wine. Already he knew the extravagance of this festival in his honor would have spread across the countryside. The duke was an old man but still full of energy. His son was dead leaving him only a granddaughter. If she married a strong willed man the duke would lose power to control his own holdings. No, he wanted a weak husband, a flop, yet a highborn with enough wealth to discourage gossip. Everyone expected even accepted it but to court Prince Quatre?

He could almost hear the whispers as he sat there next to the duke on the dais. He was considered effeminate and sterile. He had never once begotten his wife of several years with child. He was also so beautiful that many thought him female. He was said to possess such a beautiful continence that other princes had approached him for marriage.

Quatre had heard it all, knew what they spoke as well as if he sat among them. Still the Duke paid him homage with barely concealed interest in his attentions. Quatre knew what they were saying about that to. Some believe that the duke was interested in Quatre, that the duke wanted a dalliance with the beautiful prince.

Quatre let his glaze wander to two knights sitting on one of the lower tables. They had been trying not to openly gawk at him. He gave them a long dispassionate stare and had the pleasure of watching them blush and squirm under his attentive glaze. He was please his reputation proceeded him.

The satisfaction did not last long. He could not marry Lady Dorothy. Before the feast was over he had to find some excuse, some way to spurn the match. When he looked out upon the trestles, Quatre saw the assassin who watched him, silent and deadly in his own household colors of aqua and white.

Heero Yuy was spawned from the Wufei Chan clan. A secret warden placed upon him. Only by the mastery of long practice did he maintain the cold exterior against the frantic beat of his heart.

As the platters were brought out the duke allowed Quatre to choose first from the delicacies to serve his grandaughter. Quatre swallowed his anger. Had the man no sense. His father already forbade him to remarry. He was the 29^th child and very far removed heir gathering too much land and wealth was dangerous to him. He had told the duke so but the old lord was determined to try. None could truly blame him for that. A marriage to Lady Dorothy would be a brilliant match for the tip of his southern border march together with the Duke’s lands. The sum of their lands would rival his oldest siblings.

The Chang man, Heero, stood up from his seat, mingling with servants as they passed up and down the hall. It was a game of hints and inklings between him and Heero Yuy—a language of act and counteract. Heero moved closer, warning him, reminding him of his agreement with Chang and his peril if he thought to wed again, especially into as powerful a family as this.

As the duke honored him, Quatre had to personally serve the duke’s granddaughter. As he placed the choicest pieces into their shared trencher Quatre caught a glimpse of a slim figure in aqua and white hose amongst the throng below. Duo Maxwell lounged at the edge of the hall, near the great hearth, his chestnut hair and bright hues blending into the shapes and figures around him. The young man was looking towards the dais. As Quatre fed the lady a piece of meat, Duo smiled directly at him.

It was his sweet smile, charming and sly. Quatre stared at him a moment.

He had done something. Quatre looked again for the assassin wearing his own colors. Heero was still there still observing from a distance. Duo had not slain or expelled him. That did not mean that the young man had not bloodied his hands in some other way.

Quatre was torn between anger and relief. He had his own agreement with Chang. He did not acknowledge Duo with more than a brief nod reserving his pleasure. Duo made a face of mock disappointment, then lifted his chin in silent mirth. A pair of servants bore huge platters past him. When they had moved on he was gone. For such a loud person his stealth was surprising.

The trumpeters sounded.

Quatre looked up startled. They could not yet herald the last course. Over the hum of gossip and feasting came the shouts of men outside the hall. His hand dropped instinctively to his dagger as the slap of hands and feet on tile rang against walls. People dashed servers scattered out of the way. An apparition burst thought the thong dressed in aqua and white. A slim young man half his face covered in a mask leaped over tables. He jumped and flew though the air his feet and hands landing effortlessly on the tabletops and chair rims. Nothing could catch him as he flipped and dived toward the dais. No one hampered him as he somersaulted on to their table. His costume was form fitting but modest with bright streamers of Quatre’s colors. He bow low then back flipped off the table. His fluid movements were nearly inhuman.

Quatre’s hand relaxed slightly on the dagger as he realized that this was no attack. He also realized that only he was standing. It was too late to sit down and hide his reaction. Everyone stared and after their first startlement, no one appeared dismayed. At the edge of his vision he could see the duke grinning.

“My prince,” the duke said in the utter stillness. “Your acrobat, your royal colors, as I promised.”

“As you promised,” Quatre said.

“My prince,” said the acrobat. His soft melodic voice was pleasing to hear.

“A good fighter, he came for the tourney.” The duke informed Quatre with a lazy gesture in acrobat’s direction. “He keeps to himself and will not share his true identity with anyone.”

“Duke Dermay I made a vow,” the acrobat replied.

“Yes, I remember. Not until you are proven worthy, was it? At least removed your mask and grace our guest with an unfettered face.”

The acrobat hesitated for only a moment. Then he seized his mask and pulled it off. The aqua and white streamers fluttered as he placed it under his arm. Quatre got a glimpse of two dark green eyes before a fall of reddish brown hair covered half his face.

His face was narrow and clean shaven. He was tall and whip cord thin but not skinny. The duke claimed he was a good fighter. Quatre had an abiding respect for someone with such a slim stature being able to contest against much larger fellows. He felt the urge to smile but he stifled that response and did not do it.

“Your desired acrobat. I give him to you,” the duke said in high good humor. “He is yours to command.”

The man lifted his head slightly. His face was immobile. A faint tickle of significance stirred in Quatre. A fleeting thought he could not catch. The acrobat had a looked of extremity on him, some pent up emotion far more intense than mere playacting for a guest.

“What will you, my prince,” the duke asked. “Shall we have him balance on one hand or juggle the candelabras?”

The acrobat glanced at Quatre for an instant, then away, as if the contact burned him. With an abrupt move he yanked one glove from his hand and threw it down before the company. “A challenge!” he shouted. He turned about the hall addressing the room. “For the honor of serving the prince.”

The duke went stiff at the announcement. “No sir,” he snapped. “Such is not your place to appoint yourself his champion.”

The acrobat ignored the duke. “Is this the court of Dermay?” he said. “Who will fight me for the honor of my prince?”

His voice echoed in the stunned silence of the hall. They stared at him as if he had lost his senses. But comprehension stirred upon Quatre. This was the source of Duo’s mirth. The wretch had orchestrated this.

“Cease this nonsense!” the duke roared. “It does you no little credit, sir!”

The acrobat had dropped his veneer of submissive respect. His gaze hit Quatre and skewed away again. He went down on one knee before him. “My prince!” Over the edge of the table Quatre could see that he held his bare hand against his heart. The streamers of the mask dangling down his arm. “I crave of you, do me this ease—give me something as a sign of your welcome—so I may prove my worthiness to you.”

“You shall not do so!” the duke declared his voice rising. “The Dermay family carries the prince’s favor, impudent scoundrel.”

Quatre seized the moment. He slanted the duke a cool look. “Is that so?” he questioned softly.

The duke glanced at him, his face glowing red. “I—” His jaw went taunt. “If my prince pleases?”

Quatre gave him a cold smile. He completely ignored his granddaughter. He caught the loose folds of his silk belt. As he slipped the material from around his waist the little bells graced the end of the cloth chimed gently. He looked at the duke for a long pregnant moment then tossed the favor to the kneeing man. The bells chimed softly as they landed in front of him.

“I give thee for a keepsake, to prove your worthiness to me.”

“I challenge for it, on my duke’s behalf!” cried Duke Dermay’s best fighter. His voice was echoed as others shouted for the honor.

“Enough,” shouted the duke. “It shall be arranged tomorrow. Rise then insolent fellow,” the duke said to the acrobat. He waved a hand dismissing him.

The acrobat came to his feet. His eyes down cast again. He bowed but before he could leave Quatre addressed him.

“I look forward to such a spectacle. Go and refresh yourself then attend me in chamber when dinner is done.”

“As my prince wishes,” he intoned automatically. He bowed and in a breath slipped passed the fighters below.

“A most marvelous acrobat,” Quatre said with amusement. “My grace is kind to put him at my service.”

* * *

He didn’t remember me, Trowa thought.

As Trowa viciously bit into an apple, small bits broke and dropped onto his bare chest, causing his horse, Hawk, to nuzzle him for the treat. Trowa pushed him away gently. He had been force to bath and dress in the stables. The kitchens were too hectic to service him with such an impromptu request. He had no time to sit down to a proper meal. His prince—his liege lord, the owner of his heart—commanded him immediately after the dinner. He barely had time for a bath before the trumpets signified the lords’ retirement from the hall.

He felt light-headed. The apple seemed to choke him. It was almost too fantastical to believe that it was him. That he was here. He hardly knew how to fathom the fact, or what he had just done for him. Hie! The duke’s face, Trowa could not bear to think of it.

That he didn’t remember him he couldn’t settle that in his mind. His young courtier in the aqua and white tights had said he sent him a command to challenge the duke for his favor. He had looked upon him in the hall as if he knew his vow. As if he expected his obedience. He had a wild thought that he had known all there was to know of him since that day he had first seen him, that his every move for ten years had somehow been open to him. Those eyes of his had knew.

“Ho, lo! See,” said a feminine voice. “He is not some sprite from the forest.”

Trowa looked up from belting his hose to find a pair of ladies leaning in the stable door. He didn’t know either of them. He dropped the apple from his mouth and caught it in one hand. As he bowed, he grabbed his tunic hoping to cover his bare chest. “A common man only, madams.”

The one who had spoke giggled. The other a dark brunette came on, she was interested bold, she traced him with her forefinger from the base of his throat to his waist. “Your form gives lie to that, sir. You are uncommon strong and brave to proclaim such a challenge.”

He lightly clasped her hand and lifted it away from him. “Only for the honor of my prince,” he said evenly. She was not put off.

“Such wild daring,” she murmured lifting her mouth. “We have heard much of your ferocity in battle. Stay and tell us more.”

He looked down on her offered lips, the soft smile tempted him not. He was already pledged. He held up the apple, brushed her cheek with the rosy smooth skin and pressed the fruit into her fingers, setting her away from him. “Accept this and I will know I’ve share a sweet with a gracious lady.”

She looked piqued but she stepped back. “The prince you know him,” she asked taking a bite of the apple.

“I know him,” he said.

“Then know to accept no apples of love from that one. His wife die fleeing from him and his open relationship to a powerful Eastern lord.”

Trowa stiffened. “Madam—it were better that you spoke truth on your tongue.”

“Oh, I speak true enough,” she said airily. “Ask anyone. His father, the king, banished him from court for his indiscretion.”

“They say the queen could only produce daughters.” The other woman chimed in. “Many believe he is not truly a man. That is why he’s a sodomite.”

“He is unnatural,” said the dark haired one. “He’s a sorcerer. He bewitched a prince to steal his manhood.”

“No,” he objected as he pulled on his tunic. “He is a prince. I am his man.”

“Have you sworn to him,” the brunette asked stepping back.

“Yes, I am his man.”

“No, you don’t mean to be serious in this?”

Trowa stared back, eyes level showing nothing. “I am sworn to him. I am honored with his gift. I fight for him.”

The women withdrew with sidelong glances. Trowa finished dressing. He threw his mantle round his shoulders and stabbed a pin though the cloth. When he looked up he was alone.

“He is not unnatural,” Trowa snapped. “He is my prince!”

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