The Verse:
What is it he seeks?
Surely he shall find only trouble.
The Vision:
It’s the night before my 50th birthday, and Evan is rooting through my underwear drawer.
Commentary by Archbishop Co’oal Venesti:
Absolutely no comment.
Commentary by Elma, High Prophetess of Skarsia:
Somehow, what starts as a politically sensitive matter turns into a sex-farce. Is that surprising? Religious revelation – turns into sex farce. Interplanetary war – turns into sex farce. Meet ultra-advanced sentient lifeforms – turns into sex-farce. This is what happens when you let a tree run the government.
Commentary by Archbishop Seth:
The story begins on Tara’s 50th birthday in 3604. To clarify: this was the grand celebration of the Matriarch’s 50th year of age on Eirelantra, not Tara’s real birthday on Dolparessa. By 3604, Tara had celebrated 57 such birthdays privately with friends and family. But for the sake of political and medical consistency, it was customary for everyone in the Domha’vei to count their years using the Galactic Standard. The arrangement was pleasing to both the women of Sideria and the women of Skarsia. Siderian women (and the Dolparessan year, of course, followed the Siderian one) were more than happy to count by the longer Earth-based standard, which made their numerical age appear younger – for youth was considered a hallmark of beauty on Sideria. Skarsian women were equally happy to count by the standard year, which was shorter than the Skarsian year, for it made them seem older – and age was considered a hallmark of power on Skarsia.
Tara was pleased to celebrate two birthdays, as she has a fondness for cake.
The context of the story: when the 5th Matriarch granted Tara’s divorce from Tenzain Merkht, allowing her to assume the throne of Empress of Skarsia, Tara was so overjoyed that she pulled the wedding ring from her finger and threw it wildly away. Merkht’s reaction to the divorce was a mixture of humiliation and relief, but given the mood of both Tara and the Matriarch, it was several years before he was to again meet his former wife face-to-face.
Busied with his own affairs – that being the seduction of his brother’s wife – it was not until the grand celebration of Tara’s birthday that he realized he, too, was not getting any younger. Of course, he was not getting older either – as Tenzain of Volparnu, he was a member of the High Council, and Ailann had always honored Driscoll’s promise. To be blunt: Ailann would rather have made a rabid squirrel immortal than the detested Tenzain Merkht, but Ailann is ethical to a fault.
Nevertheless, Merkht began to tentatively think of remarriage. Tentatively indeed, because were he to remarry, his son by his new wife, and not Ta’al Erich’s, would inherit the throne – a prospect which did not delight his immediate family. Erich’s first line of defense had always been Meliss, who, as most vacuous women are when put to the test, was quite capable of defending her own interests with a mixture of tears and nagging. But Merkht’s manly pride was at stake. He knew he was capable of producing a son; now he wanted spawn that he could flaunt publically. Surely prodded by the words of an advisor (for Merkht was no great thinker), he reminded Meliss that immortality meant there wasn’t going to be a succession, and the presence of a wife and son would draw his brother’s suspicion away from their liaison.
His brother, having installed an extensive surveillance network in Merkht’s stronghold, had, of course, known about the affair for years. Erich also knew how fond Merkht was of hunting in the wildest, coldest reaches of the Volparnian snowplains, far, far away from the protective influence of the Archon. In Merkht’s case, age did not necessarily lead to wisdom, and Erich had put his money on his brother’s eventual demise at the bloodied claws of a vicious frostbeast. So, for that matter, had Driscoll.
But now, faced with Merkht’s renewed determination to marry, he came up with another plan. Merkht could not remarry without a wedding ring – THE wedding ring that had been passed from Tenzina to Tenzina since the colonization of Volparnu. It was part of the crown jewels. When a Tenzin died, his wife was expected to give the ring to her son, who would only then be able to marry.
Merkht’s fiasco of a marriage had ended in divorce, and he hadn’t had the balls or the sense to ask for the ring back. And so, on the eve of Tara’s great celebration, Merkht arrived at the ipsissimal suite unannounced. Tara was at a fitting for the dress she would wear to the gala, and so Merkht confronted her current companion – Prince Evan.
Evan promised Merkht that he would obtain the ring. In fact, Evan was in haste to be rid of the man, knowing that his presence agitated Tara. Evan, gentle soul that he is, did not want her birthday to be spoiled. And how hard could it be, he reasoned, for someone with Cu’enashti senses to find a missing item?
Other than the ballad, composed as a birthday gift and reproduced below, this tale has been kept secret from Tara until now.
Comment by Prince Evan Finlay-Cole:
This is a ballad about a lonely musician who must save a lady, attend a dance, and seek the help of three magicians to find a ring.
On a night so dark, under stars so bright
In the whirling arc of the dome
An ogre came to display his might
Singing hey-a nonny nonny hey-o.
And a bard he met, sitting all alone
Strumming to compose a song
Till the ogre’s roar drowned the fasharp’s sound
Playing nonny nonny hey hey-o.
“I fear no beast,” said the gentle bard
Continuing his song
But the ogre screamed, in a rage so hard
No no no no no way-o.
The beast did make demand of him
In the whirling arc of the dome
A missing magic ring to win
Singing hey hey nonny nonny-o.
“My ring I shall have back by chance
In the whirling arc of the dome
Or I’ll seize your lady at the dance
Singing hey-o nonny nonny oh-oh.”
The bard searched high upon the wing
Abandoning his song
But there was no sign of the errant ring
No no no no no luck-o.
The bard searched low underneath the bed
In the whirling arc of the dome
But he could not rest his weary head
Singing pain in my rum-rum-rump-o.
He took up his harp; the strings did bend
As he raised his voice in song
And called for aid from a mystic friend
Singing hey-a help help help-ho!
A handsome prince did then appear
In the whirling arc of the dome
The ring’s return he did swear
La la la la la lo.
His visage lifted to the air
Listening for the wisp of a song
Or a scent to lead to the ring so rare
Sniffing nonny nonny no no nose.
But a thief was all that he could smell
In the whirling arc of the dome
Who had seized the diamond as it fell
Singing that baby is long-gone-oh.
The next to appear was a god of might
Well-praised in word and song
He saw nothing with his perfect sight
Saying, “Let’s all just go get drunk-o.”
The third, a craftsman keen, did sing
In the whirling arc of the dome,
“I’ll make another effing ring
And we can all get laid-o.”
He closed his eyes, imagining
To the melody of the song
On his lady’s hand the missing ring
Singing nonny nonny hey hey ho.
The ring was of vast antiquity
Such had ne’er been seen in the dome
From the legendary CZ Pennee
Twas a piece of crap-o
He plucked a cinder from the ground
Lifting up his voice in song
A new old ring in his hand he found
Ha ha ha haha ho.
The ogre’s fury did dispel
At the sound of the bard’s new song
The new from old he could not tell
Singing dum dum du-dum dum dumb.
The bard went to the dance to meet
In the whirling arc of the dome
His lovely lady he would greet
Hell-o yo yo yo yo.
He played with skill beyond compare
And he praised her well in song
For to loose the bodice she did wear
Singing bring the curtain down-o.
Commentary by Her Eminence Tara del D’myn, 6th Matriarch of Skarsia:
Evan was waiting for me in the music room. He was playing the ancient piano. It was the right time of day for the light to catch his long, golden hair and for the shadows to accentuate the fineness of his fingers. Evan is beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful, next to Dermot. He was also my closest companion during a very difficult time in my life, and I don’t see him often. Perhaps it is an added benefit of the blue amrita: when I have a vision and subsequently request to speak with an emanation, Ash has never refused me.
But this vision was peculiar, to say the least. When I entered, he looked up from the piano. “Milady,” he said, motioning to rise, but I signaled for him to finish the piece.
I sat next to him on the music bench. When the melody ended, I allowed the last note to fade before leaning towards his ear to whisper, “So why were you looking through my underwear drawer?”
At first, Evan looked confused; then he paled. “Milady?”
“It was the strangest vision, Evan. It was most definitely on Eirelantra. I also had the sense,” I said, leaning closer, “that it was something which had already happened.” In fact, I knew exactly when – I’d glimpsed several birthday greeting bouquets arranged atop the cabinet.
“I know nothing about it,” he replied, his eyes firmly on the piano keys.
“Really, Evan?” I pressed. It was clear to me that he was lying. “You can be honest with me. If there is some reason…”
“Perhaps it is a future vision. I must have been looking for something. Perhaps something fell in the drawer.”
Time to dispense with niceties. “You were sniffing my panties, Evan.”
Evan turned completely red. “But the scent…it would help me to locate…”
“Locate what?”
“There would be residual traces of anything that had been in contact with…”
“And what, exactly, comes in contact with my panties?”
He looked as if he would explode.
“Do you have some kink you’re not telling me?”
“Milady, I assure you…”
I hoisted up my skirt. “What do you think of these?”
He stared.
I hooked my finger through the waistband, pulling them down towards my knees. “Milady!” he cried. If a servant should…”
I swung my legs free of the music bench. The panties slid past my ankles. A slight kick and they were on the floor. “Pick those up, would you?”
Evan froze, caught between the fear of touching my lingerie and the fear that Lady Madonna might come in and think entirely the wrong thing. Well, not entirely the wrong thing.
For a moment, the panties gleamed in the sunlight, white silk shining against the red Oriental rug. Then Evan leaped from the bench and snatched them.
“Would you like to try them on?” I asked, sidling from the bench.
His eyes darted from the archway to the window. The music room was open to the hall – there was no door. The curtains of the window were also open; its panoramic view looked far down the coast. Whether he was looking for help or terrified of interlopers I was not sure. We saw nothing except the enormous figure of the Atlas Tree, far in the distance.
“I…uh…I…”
“I think they’d fit you. After all, you’re quite thin, and I’m rather womanly. Come on, strip.”
The poor boy was mortified. Perhaps it was an evil thing to tease him so, but then again, at the bottom of his rotten heart, he likes it. After all these years, he’s still shy with me – or playing coy. It was part of his charm.
He sat on the couch, his eyes on the ground. “Milady…”
I knelt near him, tugging at a boot. “Look at me, Evan. You’re not Callum.” He looked. His eyes were shocked and miserable, but his lips wee moist and red. I pulled the boot loose. “Am I going to have to do all of the work here?”
He did not move until I reached for the buttons on his breeches. “I can do that,” he gasped.
“How long have we been married?”
“It’s just…this is so…exposed…”
“But you can smell if someone is coming, can’t you?”
Silence.
“Evan, where are the people in this wing?”
“Lady Madonna is in the garden. Lord Danak is in his study. There are three members of the cleaning staff – one in the Palisade room, one in the verdant guest room, and one in the laundry. There’s an SSOps agent at the side entrance.”
“Take off your fucking pants, Evan.”
His skin is pale and creamy, like a young girl’s. He’d make a beautiful girl, if it wasn’t for the goatee. Oh, and one other thing. “They don’t fit that well in the front,” I said. “You’d need a Prince Albert. But the lace looks good on you.”
Ah, they were fitting less well in the front by the minute. Little pervert. “So were you trying on my underwear that day on Eirelantra? Did you try one of the corsets?”
“I would never do that. Your corsets are expensive and conform to your figure over time.”
“So you did try on my panties?”
“No! That isn’t what I meant at all!” His hands flailed helplessly in the air. Then his eyes widened. “Lady Madonna is coming this way…”
“Quick! Put on your breeches.” I snatched them up, a velvet heap on the floor, and tossed them to him.
There was no time for the boots. I kicked them quickly under the music bench, and we sat. Evan began playing – not up to his usual standard, as his hands were trembling.
As Lady Madonna entered the room, I burst out laughing. Under his breeches, Evan was still wearing my panties. I thought I might leave him like that for a while. I leaned over to him and whispered, “Oh no! Now I’ve got no underwear on!”
I do believe he missed a note.
And now that I’ve read Seth’s comment, I realize the poor boy was trying to protect my feelings. He should’ve told me from the start. Lady Madonna recovered the ring shortly after I’d thrown it. A week after my divorce, I returned it to Ta’al Erich at his request.
Of course, since Ta’al Erich had been keeping the ring from Merkht all those years, he could hardly reveal that his brother had been duped by Driscoll’s duplicate. How amusing!
Comment by Prince Lorcan Fearghus:
Tara need not feel concerned: Evan quite enjoyed wearing her underpants. Not that he particularly fancies wearing woman’s clothing. She is correct – he does like humiliation. Also, by that point, the panties had been steeped in all sort of fascinating organic secretions.
For the record: Evan does not rummage Tara’s drawers, sniffing her underwear. Cillian does.