Nothing Altered: A Short Story Read online



  Nothing Altered

  a short story

  by

  Beth Powers

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  Copyright 2013 by Beth Powers

  Cover Design by Beth Powers

  First Printed in Plasma Frequency Magazine, February 2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Nothing Altered

  “Can I help you, uh, um…” he floundered, grasping for the proper term with which to address me and my lack of feminine attire. His dark blue eyes held all of the confusion that his polite manner attempted to hide. Without sympathy, I watched him as I struggled to keep my own emotions from reaching my expression. It was hardly my fault that he didn’t know what to do with a woman who refused to wear wasteful, not to mention cumbersome, extra folds of cloth wrapped around her lower half. Finally, the poor gentleman stumbled on to, “…ma’am?”

  “Yes, sir.” I had no such problem. As a warrior in the Prince’s Legion, Duke Daevarren had to be addressed with the proper respect. “I heard that the Crown is now accepting commoners as candidates for the Legion. Is that true?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral with some effort.

  Traditionally, the Prince’s Legion consisted of an elite fighting force comprised of any sons from the landed gentry who had hopes of military careers, as well as many who did not. The Legion’s counterpart, the King’s Army, was where commoners, voluntary or conscripted, fought for the realm. When the southern portion of the kingdom decided to stage a rebellion, the Crown became more desperate to obtain well-trained warriors for the Legion and began taking candidates regardless of their background. My information said that Duke Daevarren had been one of the more vocal nobles in favor of allowing commoners a chance to earn their colors in the Legion, which is why I had come to him with my request.

  The duke nodded a confirmation, “That’s right. We are,” and leaned his elbows on his polished oak desk, lacing his fingers together in front of his chin. “Are you asking on behalf of a brother or a friend?” he suggested with polite interest.

  Shaking my head, I told him, “No,” and met his questioning blue eyes. “I thought maybe if the Crown was willing to take commoners, you’d be willing to take a commoner woman. I was asking for no one but myself,” I added as a note of defiance leaked through my carefully controlled voice. I had always struggled with keeping my emotions in check. The combined efforts of my foster-mother and the community of scholars who raised me had failed to stamp my temper out entirely.

  The duke’s eyes, which had begun to wander over to the stack of parchment on his desk, snapped back to mine, once again giving me his attention. “Is this some kind of a joke, ma’am?” he bit out in icy politeness, “Because if it is…” trailing off as his eyes hardened to match his voice.

  With a deep breath to douse my temper, I responded as calmly as I could, “No, sir, I want a chance to earn my colors. Would the Crown be willing to allow a woman to fight for it?”

  “Absolutely not,” he shook his head emphatically.

  “Why?” I asked with all of the politeness I could muster. I touched my fingers lightly to the plain brass bracelet on the opposite wrist. Losing my temper had the nasty side effect of unleashing my magic. If I couldn’t control my emotions, I couldn’t control my power. The bracelet helped me to maintain a tight leash on the magic even if I was on the verge of losing my temper. The duke’s answer wasn’t entirely unexpected, but I wanted to hear the reason from him. I needed him to tell me to my face.

  With a weary sigh, the duke ran his fingers through his dark hair and explained, “Women just aren’t capable,” he dropped his hand and looked up at me again, “not meant to be fighters. You’d only get hurt.” His blue eyes were softened with kindness, and his words made me want to punch him in the face.

  Resisting the urge and wrapping my fingers tightly around my bracelet, I persisted, “Are you sure you won’t reconsider, sir?”

  Shaking his head, the duke selected a piece of parchment off of the stack, and said in clear dismissal, “I’m sorry, ma’am, no.”

  My shoulders hunched in defeat as I turned away and crossed the small room to the door. The duke’s refusal made me think that I should have carried out my original plan. Before I had come to the palace that morning, I had stood before the mirror, knife in hand. I had been fully prepared to create the greatest deception of my life. To wipe myself out of existence. To replace myself with someone else, someone acceptable, someone, to all appearances, male. With the knife in one hand, I had taken a hunk of my thick dark hair in the other. Glancing up, I met my own dark eyes in the mirror and froze. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie to everyone. I couldn’t lie to myself. I refused to be someone I was not. Tyna I was, and Tyna I would remain.

  My hand rested on the doorknob to the duke’s office, which I had pulled open a couple of inches. “No,” I told him firmly. I would not let this man shut me out and make me ashamed of being who I was. At least, I wouldn’t give up without a fight. Letting the door click back into place, I turned around. In a clear quiet voice, I announced, “I challenge you to a duel,” adding calculatingly, “You have insulted my honor, and by your honor, you cannot refuse.”

  That caught his attention more completely than anything else I had said during the entire interview. He dropped the parchment from his hand and rose, asking, “Are you mad?” His eyebrows descended in concern, “Rescind your challenge,” he advised as though trying to decide whether or not I was serious, “Someone could get hurt.”

  I would not be so easily deterred. “I cannot,” I raised my chin stubbornly and insisted, “You have insulted me. I intend to redeem my honor and prove you wrong.”

  He studied me for a moment through narrowed eyes before gritting his teeth and agreeing, “Fine.” Stepping around his desk, he continued briskly as though he wanted to get this ordeal over with as quickly as possible, “As the one being challenged, I say we fight as soon as I can find a reliable witness. With swords. If you don’t have one—” he looked questioningly at me.

  “I do,” I supplied.

  His eyes narrowed to glittering slits. Commoners weren’t allowed to own or carry swords without special permission from the Crown. I doubted that the wording of the law included commoner women because it would not have occurred to the lawmakers that they would have reason to carry any weapon, much less a sword. Apparently, the duke decided it wasn’t worth pursuing at the moment because he nodded and went on, “Good. I’ll find a witness who can ensure that neither of us cheats with magic, unless you wish to exercise your right to choose an additional witness or a second?”

  With a shake of my head, I waived the traditional right. It was easier than trying to explain that I knew no one who would serve in either capacity. I didn’t think it was necessary to drag a stranger into this affair by soliciting the presence of the young soldier from the King’s Army who had directed me from the stables to Duke Daevarren’s office that morning. The soldier, whose name I didn’t even know, was the only person besides the duke himself that I had met in the capital city. The duke’s witness would have to suffice as apparently my opponent didn’t want or need a second either.

  “My squire can direct you to the practice yard, then,” he finished, “Unless you’ve changed your mind…” the duke stopped, looking back at me, with the door open and his hand on the knob.

  I brushed past him, “Absolutely not.”

 

  “Is m
y witness acceptable?” Duke Daevarren asked me with such a combination of patronization and annoyance in his tone that I thought he was merely humoring me with the formalities.

  We stood in the middle of the practice yard where we had met after I had picked up my blade, and he his witness. I glanced over at the gentleman in question. His grey hair marked him as older than either of us but not so old that I thought he was leaning against the fencepost for support. Even from the distance, I could tell his clothing was expensive and well made, which meant that he was probably a noble.

  It didn’t really matter who he was as long as he kept his eyes open and his memory honest. It’s not like I had anyone more suitable to