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In all the stories she had ever written, Donella could never have imagined a place quite like the Shikander Valley. There were steaming hot springs and misty waterfalls and wild blue hills covered in brightly-colored houses rising so steeply it was a wonder they didn’t come tumbling down. She smelled saffron and pepper and the incense of the temples drifting on the breeze. In the early morning, she could hear the shopkeepers at their market stalls crying out for customers, and she could hear the droning chants of wandering monks. She would have dearly loved to go exploring for a day, but Vikker Sarassen told her there would be “plenty of time for that later.”
He had brought her over the hills in the middle of the night, stopping down the valley from the city at an old shrine teetering on the banks of the river. The walls were cracked, with most of the paint peeled away, and moss had nearly covered the sagging tile roof. Inside, however, it was neat and clean, with fresh coats of bright paint on all the idols. The largest of them was a huge, looming figure of a purple-faced creature with long fangs and huge arms grasping a flaming sword and a bloody dagger.
“What on earth is that?” asked Donella.
“Niryana, god of death,” said Vikker.
A closer look revealed that the figure had four enormous breasts, half-hidden under garlands of neem leaves and faded carnations.
“Are you sure he’s not a goddess?”
“There’s some ambiguity with many of the Zraddhan deities.” Vikker laughed. “I’d like to say I chose this place for its thematic significance, but actually we’re here because it’s deserted. Not a lot of people come to the death god’s shrine for fun, you know. Now then,” he clapped his hands, “let’s see how you’re coming along.”
Donella took a deep breath, then turned her ring so she could touch the stone. She whispered, “Viparit Vanao,” and in moments, she was a man. Vikker had been making her do it at least twice a day, because he said she needed to get used to the feeling. It was still a bit awkward, though, and she spent a second or two rearranging the front of her trousers before she remembered he was watching.
“Yes, try not to do that too much in mixed company,” he said with a smirk. “It’s generally frowned upon. Now walk around a bit. I want to make sure you’re ready. You’ll be going to a party tomorrow night.”
“A party?” she said anxiously. “You mean like this, as a man?”
“Exactly. I’ve arranged for ‘Sir Donald’ to get an invitation to the Earl of Hyrne’s Summer Solstice party.”
She bit her lip. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s too soon.”
“Nonsense!” he cried. “You need to learn to project confidence.”
“Even when I have no idea what I’m doing?”
“Especially then. That’s the essence of acting like a man.”
Oddly, he was right. The more she practiced with him, learning how to strut and swagger, the more confident she really did become. And it wasn’t just confidence in her ability to pull off the deception. It was a more general confidence in herself. The kind of confidence she had often noticed in the men of her family, like her brother and father and her Uncle Lukas. It was a breezy self-assurance, a sense there was nothing they couldn’t handle, because obviously they knew what they were doing, because they were men, and that’s what men did.
By the following evening, she could believe Vikker when he told her she was “as ready as she would ever be.” She transformed herself, dressed in some new party clothes—all blue velvet and gold lace—and rode alone up to the Myrcian compound at the Pradivani Palace. She had been a little nervous that she might miss it in the evening twilight, but she needn’t have worried. There were torches along the walls, and little tin lanterns in all the trees, and she could see the garden glowing on the hilltop like the great glass dome of Wealdan Castle.
Once inside the gates, she found the lawn full of people. Mostly they were Sahasrans in long, flowing gowns and robes of silk. But there were a lot of Myrcians, too. The exiled ladies had nearly all adopted the closer-fitting, brilliantly colored dresses of their host country, though a few persisted in the heavier style from home. The men were generally more conservative, and wore tunics and tabards embroidered with their family arms.
Following Vikker’s instructions, Donella wandered around, from buffet to drinks table and all around the central fountain, greeting everyone and passing a few words now and again about the weather. Everyone seemed friendly, and whenever she introduced herself, they would nod and smile and say, “Ah, of course,” as if they recognized the name “Sir Donald Graham” from somewhere.
She saw young King Edwin—much older and taller than when she had last seen him—and even shook the hand of the Earl of Hyrne, which made her feel very daring. She spotted Princess Elwyn, too, watching the party with a bored expression from an upstairs window. But she had to enlist the help of a housemaid to find Andras.
He was past the house, in a quieter part of the garden, drinking by himself on one end of a long marble bench. It looked like he was waiting for someone—maybe Elwyn—but Donella squared her big shoulders and walked over to introduce herself to one of her best friends.
“Graham?” said Andras, jumping up to bow and shake hands. “Any relation to the Graham baronets of Keneshire?”
It didn’t surprise her that he knew people by that name—Andras enjoyed parties and socializing. He knew everyone. Of course, if he had ever bothered to read that romance she had written for him, then he would have recognized the name instantly.
“Um, no, sorry. Severnshire, actually.” Right after she said it, she wished she hadn’t. Severnshire was widely known as a hotbed of Gramiren support.
But Andras didn’t appear to care. “Well, it’s marvelous to meet you, all the same, Sir Donald.” He reached down into a bucket of ice water and pulled out a dripping bottle of golden wine. “Care for some Argitis? I was saving it for...well, for someone I was supposed to meet here. But it looks like she’s not coming.”
They sat and started drinking in earnest, glass after glass. Donella didn’t usually drink so quickly, but she was nervous, and she also thought this made her look more masculine. They talked about the party for a while, and about Briddobad. Then Andras stopped, peering over his wineglass at her. “Have we met somewhere before?”
“I...I don’t believe so, my lord.”
“You...,” he frowned, “you remind me of someone. Can’t think who at the moment, though.”
Soon they were fast friends. It helped that she already knew him, so she knew exactly what topics to bring up, like jousting and archery and Atherton.
The very mention of the beloved old boarding school made his eyes light up. “I was there from ’47 to ’50,” he cried, as he opened the next bottle. “Don’t tell me we were there together and never met!”
“No, I was there a little earlier,” she said, trying to do math in her head to make her lie convincing. “I was there...um, ’43 to ’46.”
“You’re older than you look,” observed Andras. Then a corner of his mouth twitched up. “That means you were there at the same time as Princess Elwyn.”
“Er...yes. Yes, I was.” Oh, Earstien. He wasn’t going to start asking her a bunch of questions about people she supposedly went to school with, was he? “I didn’t really know her very well.”
“I don’t know that anyone does,” he sighed. “I’ve been trying and trying, but I don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”
“I’m sure it’s not your fault,” said Donella loyally.
“Yes...and no. I feel like,” he sighed again, “if we could sit down like this and get drunk together, she might relax a little.”
“Drinking does help,” said Donella.
He grinned. “That it does.”
Then he yawned and stretched on the bench, so he was leaning up against her. Wobbling a bit, he put an arm around her shoulders. Perhaps he was trying to steady himself. But perhaps.... Oh, holy Finster.
“It’s a beautiful night,” he slurred, looking up through the branches at the bright stars. His head slumped onto her shoulder.
In her trousers, she could feel that...thing stirring. Growing. Stiffening and pulsing with her rapid heartbeat. It was uncomfortable. In fact, it was soon almost painful, like a blister that might pop any moment. It was alarming and upsetting, but it was also dreadfully exciting. She knew she ought to do something—try to kiss him, maybe. But she couldn’t make herself do it. She was afraid of what might happen, and the fear overruled everything else.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. Jumping up from the bench, she said, “Pardon me, but I’ve just remembered I was supposed to meet someone by the...um, fountain.” She had to hunch over as she walked, because she was terribly aware of the way her pants projected in the front.
The moment she was back on her horse and riding down into the valley, she whispered the termination spell. Getting rid of the big, stiff thing was a relief at first, but she kept thinking about it, and about Andras sitting so close to her, and she started to feel all wet and twitchy, which was just as bad. When she got down to the bottom of the valley, she stopped at a little stone bridge over a rocky stream and dunked her head in the cold water. That helped a lot.
Vikker was waiting up for her at the Niryana Shrine, seated on a mat by a little cast-iron stove. He had a pair of brocaded silk trousers in his hands, along with a needle and thread, and he appeared to be altering the pants to fit her.
“So, how did it go?” he asked.
“Poorly,” she sighed, and she told him what had happened.
“He got drunk and sat close to you,” Vikker summarized, “and your cock got very, very hard. So your response was to run back here as fast as you could. Is that right?”
“Um...yes.” When he said it that way, it sounded like she’d been uncommonly stupid. “Sorry.”
He heaved a sigh and set the trousers aside. “If I’m going to all this trouble for you, Donella, I would like to think you’re making a real effort.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I got nervous.”
“You can’t be nervous,” he said, standing and coming closer. “You have to know how to approach a man. You have to know how to make him respond.” He snapped his fingers. “Use the ring. Right now—use it and transform yourself. I’ll show you what I mean.”
She did so. The mere sensation of that thing brushing her thighs was enough to arouse her, and it started to stiffen all over again.
“You need to be direct,” said Vikker, grinning. “I learned that from a young lady I once knew. A princess, as it happens. This was back in Krigadam, my home country. I was at the court in Kvinnastad for a while, and I got to know beautiful young Frytha, second daughter of the queen. She was very mature for her age, I’ll have you know, and it was most instructive for me.”
“Your first great love?” Donella asked.
“Perhaps. Later, of course, she made certain misrepresentations about what had occurred between us, which made it necessary for me to leave court in a hurry. But that’s neither here nor there. At the time, as I say, I learned a great deal from her. And what I learned is that men appreciate a direct approach. Women in my homeland—especially Princess Frytha—are not burdened by notions of maidenly modesty. It’s an attitude you would do well to cultivate.”
With that, he reached out and gripped Donella through the front of her trousers—gripped her hard, so she let out a yelp of surprise and recoiled. But he held on, squeezing even more tightly, and he bent down and started kissing her neck.
“This is what you ought to have done,” he whispered, pausing for a moment. “This is what you need to do next time.”
Turning one way, then the other, she finally managed to twist out of his grip, and she slapped him across the face.
He massaged his cheek, laughing. “There we are. That’s it. You see? It works, doesn’t it?”
For a few moments, she stood there, quivering all over, hands clenched at her sides, panting. Then she changed herself back and ran down to the riverbank to splash more cold water on herself.