Tyra meets her former love-slave and makes a decision. Frightened at her changes, and appalled at her sister's plans for her, Tyra forms a daring strategy to stay free at the cost of part of herself. Tyra's changes become complete, and she discovers what a being a sister means. Still, can a woman with the slave gene ever truly adjust to the world around her?

---

Viewing Note: This story should be viewed with the Papyrus font installed on your Windows platform in the c:/Windows/Fonts directory. Microsoft Word 2007 installs this font automatically. It may also be obtained on the Internet through free font sites

---

 
The Legal Stuff: The Warrior from Batuk  © 2004, 2007 Aardvark
 
This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Permission is granted for it to be copied and read by individuals, and for no other purpose. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited, and may only be posted to free sites with the express permission of the author.
 

 
Photo Credit: 3.bp.blogspot.com

---

 
Chapter 4
 
 
The streets were more crowded than I remembered. Women were now my size, some much larger, and I garnered no respect from them as we passed. The horses towered over us and seemed dangerous; their riders and those who drove the enormous clattering wagons down the cobblestone loomed high and far away. As a man, I used to look over the heads of most, and plot a path to my destination. The world was now intimate, and bodies surrounded us, jostling and pressing in the boisterous western market. This part of it, a street I’d rarely had cause to visit, contained mostly women in everyday woolens, much like what we wore, but a few men worked or shopped there as well, their hulking presence and roving eyes a constant memory of who I was -- and who I used to be.

“This can be pleasant if you allow it to be!” Tisa hissed.

“I will do as Mother says and bring back the necklace like a good little girl,” I bit back, “but I can’t pretend that this is anything else than what she intended, a punishment.”

“Poop!”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me! Come on, we’re almost there.”

The jeweler shop was on the next corner, in the heart of the women’s section, a two-story solid stone structure better finished than most. A constable in gray and green leathers maintained a post several yards away and watched all who entered as part of his routine.

We stepped inside the world of womanly delights. Lapis lazuli brooches, solid gold and silver bracelets, anklets, and rings for all occasions awaited the discriminating woman on the left. Jewel-encrusted belts and halters, nose rings, including an array with tiny embedded diamonds that promised, according to the display, to “glint at alluring angles,” were aligned on wooden hooks behind thick glass to the right. Filigreed headbands, bindi, spun gold and silver weave to accentuate a fine lady’s hair, and necklaces lined the center under a prism skylight designed to illumine at any degree of daylight.

A man of middle height and perfectly trimmed fingernails approached us softly across the polished floor. His gentle face had seen little sun, and long sandy hair fell evenly to both sides of his head. I thanked the Gods that I did not find him attractive.

“May I help you ladies?” he intoned, composing his hands solicitously.

Tisa kicked my ankle from behind.

“I’m looking for a necklace.”

I bought one, but I refused to wear it out, stuffing it inside the purse attached to my dress belt.

“What is the matter with you?” Tisa demanded after we had left the market behind. “You bought the cheapest necklace that mother would accept. There were others that looked better on you. Even you could see that.”

“Why in Hades would I want to look more attractive to men? I want to avoid them, not collect them like fleas.”

“We need to talk.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me onto a side path. I sighed and let her. The path led to a small dark marble obelisk dedicated to a not particularly popular minor god. The copse was isolated and allowed us a good view of both entrances.

When she was sure we were alone, she whirled and planted her hands at her hips. “All right! What is it? Why are you so angry?”

“I have a right to be angry about what done to me.”

“Yes, but not like this. I think that if someone had cut off your legs you would behave better! Goddess, I’ve never seen you so furious. We were just buying a necklace. Is it because you are a woman? I assure you it’s not…”

“A warrior must accept his fate. Life is long and…”

“Then what? Why do you approach everyone on the street as if they were an enemy? If it isn’t being a woman, is it Angel? I know you have feelings for her, but she will find a new master.”

Tisa was a young freewoman, I told myself, while conducting a warrior’s exercise for control; she could never understand the bond that Angel and I had shared. But trying to explain it to her now as a woman would be worse than a waste of time; it would be a mockery. “It isn’t Angel, nor is everyone on the street an enemy, only the men.”

“Oh!” she said, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Do you feel the urges already?”

“No. But they’re there, hiding in a dark corner. I found out this morning that stirring the coals of hatred for Met and for my diminution keeps thoughts of men from my mind.”

“So, that’s why you’re a royal rhadus this morning. It’s a plan only someone as stubborn as you could come up with. It might even work for a day or so, but no one can stay angry.”

“I’m aware of that -- now.”

“Then you’re not angry -- now?”

“No.”

“You know that you won’t be able to stay away from men forever, unless you want to remain a prisoner for the rest of your life. If the urges come to you, then they will come.”

“I think I can delay it by not seeing men so much.”

“Mm. Probably. Come on, let’s get back to Eagles.”

“Yes. I have something I must do.”

***

I knew the moment I saw Angel again that it was over. She knew who I was, of course. Although they had stayed in my quarters, having been given no contrary instructions by their owner, they still ate with the other slaves. They would have known what I looked like and my new name through gossip.

She bowed, along with Wanda as I entered.

“Rise, Angel, Wanda,” I said, the same words, but in my woman’s voice.

“Yes, Mistress.” They said in chorus.

I had known, but it was still a shock to see that Angel was now taller than me.

Like an idiot, I refused to admit it immediately. It had been a long walk and I needed a bath. I pretended for a while that it didn’t matter, that they were still slaves and, man or woman, I still owned them. They obeyed me, setting the fire and drawing the water, but when Angel saw me disrobe, she gasped and couldn’t hold back her tears. For my part, the sight of her was like a masterpiece that had lost its luster, still beautiful but lacking the ability to inspire. By the time the bath was ready, I decided that being a woman mattered greatly, and I sent Angel and Wanda to the slave quarters until I determined what to do with them, ordering them away in a shout before they could see their mistress cry.

I donned my shift and walked the length and breadth of my quarters. My slaves had not been idle in my absence; they had completely repaired and polished my armor and clothes. Everything on the rack and wall sparkled or seemed renewed. I passed my sword in its sheath five times before I mustered the courage to bring it out. It was far too heavy now, and the grip too large. My forearms and shoulders were pathetically weak; breasts shifted and tossed on my chest, distracting me; and my balance was all wrong. The shift restricted my movement. I needed two hands to wield the sword with any power at all, and the first swing brought me halfway around and would have left me open to a ten year-old boy.

“This will not be!”

I yanked off the interfering shift, threw my hair behind me, and naked, attacked an imaginary opponent. This had some effect, and I discovered that by allowing for my lowered center of gravity, I was not necessarily clumsy, just weak and overmatched in a way a talented boy trying his father’s weapons might be. So, I had retained some of my skill, at least, merely lacking the strength to put it to any use. Exhausted now and dripping with sweat, I slid my old sword back into place and waded into the bath, which had now cooled.

In the chill, my nipples had hardened -- the exchange for my lost strength I decided acidulously, but that wasn’t accurate. I had traded physical strength and power for serum girl beauty, a dangerous blessing in a world where normally only the most beautiful were abducted. The “strength” of this body had become an enemy to what I held most dear, my freedom, just as Vanora had intended. I watched the breasts extending from my chest, and shook them around in the water. They floated as well as pointed. If I looked at them in a certain way, it was almost funny.

A father’s son to mother’s daughter; hard to soft; strong to weak; handsome to beautiful; casting to receiving; protecting to being protected… So, what was the trade for my sword?

I laughed. I lay back against the bath and screeched. I had traded my sword for -- a necklace.

I went to lunch soon afterwards, but Tisa wasn’t there. Feeling restless, for the first time in months having nothing to do in the afternoon, I rearranged my quarters, gathering my armor and clothes together for storage or sale. I had learned my lesson from Angel and Wanda: I would not have the memories of what I was staring back at me from every wall and alcove. I visited Tisa’s rooms a couple of times, but she hadn’t returned from wherever she had gone. Still restless, but unwilling to chance the grounds, I ignored the men in the hall by fixing my gaze at the far wall until I entered the garden.

It was still and empty. The sun cast soft shadows through the trees and reflected from flowers and bushes that lined the maze. I left the den of roses, turned around the switchback hidden in the wall of dark green foliage to the space with the bench around the tree. The breeze rustled the leaves above and on my face. From the center, sitting on the weathered wood, I could see no sign of the outside, making it easy to imagine that I was somewhere else.

I took a chance and released the veil, figuring that few would visit at this time of day, and then removed the pin in back, freeing my hair. Herth Tarr had counseled that silence and peace had the power to bring either strength or weakness. “From a quiet place,” he had said, “a man might look forward to a goal or purpose, or stagnate into uselessness.” Although no longer a man, I judged that under the right conditions, it was still a universal principle.

“A man’s journey begins from where he stands. The most productive journeys start with both feet on the ground,” Herth Tarr instructed centuries ago.

That was the question and the problem. My hatred was not an ideal place to begin a journey, and to where? My destination was more a negative, to stay free, than to any place I wanted to be. There was one thing about it that was unambiguous: my journey would be strewn with battle wherever it led, as I fought to remain a freewoman. For any battle, one must be prepared; a warrior’s heart and mind must work together. To fight effectively over the long term, one must be serene.

But I hated this! I didn’t want to be a woman. How could I be serene as my very essence dissipated into femininity? Far from the “two feet on the ground” Herth had recommended, this was chaos. I pounded my fist into my hand.

“Come on, Tyra! Think of something, damn it!”

Serenity. What if I had been born Tyra twenty--seven years before? For whatever reason, women were generally pleased to be women; I would likely have been happy as well. Who would I have been? That way was barely acceptable -- if I could somehow imagine that all this had never happened, that I had always been Tyra …

“Women cannot be understood, only observed,” the old sage had said, and certainly many millions had agreed with him over the centuries. Even if I knew who this “other” Tyra was, I doubted that I could pretend to be her. Tisa had said that a woman grows from a girl. I had never been a girl, had never had memories as one. My only memories were of a man’s life that had been destroyed, my love lost with my manhood, dreams vanquished, fury, hatred for my brother… “Arrh! Stop it!” I shouted.

“Tyra?”

I had the veil halfway across my face before I realized that Tisa was alone. “Sorry. I was preoccupied. I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Are you all right? Your rooms were empty. Does this mean that you sent Angel and Wanda to the slave quarters?”

My heart clenched at the memory. “You were right, Tisa, it wasn’t the same. I have to sell them. Angel…” I trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. I managed a small sound trying to clear my throat, then nothing. I held off for only a few seconds before tears filled my eyes, coming faster than I could wipe them away, and I turned towards the tree, finally sobbing into my hands.

“Tyra.” Tisa’s hands went to my shoulders.

I shook my head, angry with myself. “I shouldn’t be crying! Angel will be far better off without me. She needs a strong man. She…”

“Tyra, turn around,” my sister said gently. After doing this twice the day before I didn’t resist as much as I might have. I didn’t really think about it until I was already in her arms. “I can’t make this better,” she said. “When I was a girl and I came to you with my problems, you would do your best to fix it for me. Sometimes you took some action, or interceded with someone, Mother or Father, or took me somewhere for a treat. Sometimes you and I only talked about whatever was bothering me. I can’t help you with Angel. I can only try to understand your pain and offer you my shoulder.”

I sighed, letting her go. “I know that, unless you have a way to change me back. I’ve lost her, but life is long. Angel will be happy again -- soon.”

“Good. If you need to cry again, I’ll still be here. Now what were you talking to yourself about?”

“A matter of where I am and where I’m going.” I explained my thoughts.

“Goddess, that’s sounds serious. But maybe I can help.” She smiled. “You know, you are the only woman I’ve ever heard who quotes Herth Tarr. That old buzzard hated women.”

“That’s a misconception. He spoke to men of life in terms men could understand. To him, you women were ‘splendid unfathomable creatures,’ and he could be right. If women were fathomable then you would have had your own philosopher to explain things.”

“Well, you’re on the ‘unfathomable’ side now. I have something for you in my quarters. Come on. Herth Tarr wouldn’t understand, but you might.”

“Another lesson?”

She turned back towards me, looking more devious than I liked. “Yes, but more than just that, I hope.”

Once inside her quarters Tisa gestured to the bed. I sat and she made a space for herself beside me, crossing her legs underneath her dress. “I know you, Tyra. You’re a fighter. You’ll fight your urges to the end and, if you win, you'll seek revenge against Met. With you it’s like night following day. I approve. But you hate too much. You fight yourself and it’s hurting you.”

I shook my head. “The idea of enjoying myself as a woman, discarding part of myself … it may be that only when I have the urges under control could I accept myself enough to enjoy life as a freewoman.”

She nodded then rose to her feet. “Come to the mirror. I have something to show you,” she said, holding out her hand.

I left it hanging in the air. “I don’t need a reminder to know what I look like.”

“Perhaps not. Nonetheless, I ask that you come to the mirror, and to leave your hatred behind for the moment -- unless you are afraid of what you might see,” she added, walking off towards the bathroom.

I cursed, then followed her in.

She held her hand out to me, palm up, as soon I arrived. “Where is your necklace?”

I pulled it from my purse and gave it to her. “Put it on,” she said.

“I don’t see what this will prove.”

“Maybe nothing, but it won’t hurt, either.”

When it encircled my neck, she hauled me in front of the full-length mirror. “You, Tyra, are one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, with a necklace just this side of tawdry. Don’t you agree?”

I shrugged my pretty shoulders. “Sure, I’m beautiful, just as Vanora intended, so that men might abduct me quickly and make me their slave. What’s your point?”

“Just this.” Tisa removed a box from a bathroom drawer and opened it. “This is the necklace you should have bought this morning. It's my gift to you. Put this on.”

“You bought this just to show me how it looked on me? Tis’, this was expensive.”

She took my hand, hung the necklace across my palm and closed the fingers around it. “If it proves what I think it will, I’d pay for it again. Put it on, but before you look in the mirror, I want you to empty your mind. Release your hatred for Met for the moment. It’s just you and me now: Tyra and Tisa, your sister. When you can do that and relax then open your eyes.”

This necklace was heavy with gold. It lay cool against my skin, contrasting the olive well. I shivered the moment I saw myself. The necklace was startling: it enhanced me somehow. The oddest girlish tingle coursed through me, a mix of nervousness, confidence, and what had to be -- femininity. The girl in the mirror looked back with startled black eyes and reached for the necklace with slender fingers, brushing its surface just above her breasts. Her lips moved as mine. “This is me?” I whispered in wonder.

Tisa nodded rapidly and brushed away a tear from the corner of her eye.

“Do you see? It’s happening. You enjoy the way you look, as any beautiful woman would.”

“But, I… I,” I stammered, a slack-jawed idiot, albeit a beautiful one, staring at herself.

Tisa dragged me away from my reflection all the way back to the bed. Her mouth formed a smile of sorts. “It must be a shock to truly see yourself for the first time, but it is not a bad thing to be beautiful, just dangerous.”

I put my hands to my face, the soft skin, the outline of expressive eyes, and higher, to my hair, black and lustrous -- and remembered. “But I tried, Tisa! I don’t want to like what I am. Hades! I fought it when I could. I thought it was working…”

She took my hand and pressed it between her own. “I know you did. I saw your interest in the necklace in your eyes at the shop. You admired it for a moment before you snuffed our your desire like a bucket of water over a flame. It’s plain that your body is simply too strong for you to fight it the way you do. If you think about it, this is a natural progression — like learning to walk or controlling your limbs. It would be unnatural for any woman who looked like you to be displeased with her appearance. That is now corrected.”

I reached behind me and undid the clasp, fumbling in my haste. When I had it, I tossed the necklace on the nearby counter as if it were on fire.

“But I don’t want to be a woman!” I shrieked.

“Deep down, you enjoy being her, at least looking like her. You hate that you’re a serum girl, a natural slave, and can hate enough to cover what you feel most of the time, but I saw you move, Tyra. You enjoyed it. For a moment you felt -- a thrill?”

I whipped my head around to stare at her, conscious again of the mass of hair behind my head, the way my breasts moved. “Why did you show me this? Are you so interested in getting the sister you’ve always wanted?”

She stiffened, and for a moment I thought she might slap me. “That was unfair. I didn’t do anything to you. I wasn’t sure myself what would happen. I only showed you something we had to know. I have very mixed emotions about this. When I watched you at the mirror, my happiness for your pleasure was curtailed, wondering if a part of Tyr had died as a result. And yes! I want a healthy, happy, free sister if I can’t have my brother back.”

The gleam in her eye was unnerving, but I had been destined to become her sister since Ruk’s serum had entered my veins. Tisa was doing no more than making the best of what had to be.

“Forgive me. You were right to show me this. The more I know about what’s happening to me, the better.”

She bound forward to kiss my cheek. “Forgiven. We know now is that your body is too strong for you to fight. You should save your strength for the real fight -- when your urges emerge -- and in the meantime allow your femininity to come forth and blossom as it must in any girl becoming a woman. You will be a woman for the rest of your life, sister. You mustn’t be stunted in any way.”

By the Gods and Overlords. I stared at her, appalled. “I don’t want to ‘blossom.’ Even if I do like this body, a little, it’s still Tyr inside. You want me to pretend I’m a little girl, skipping and giggling through the fields? I’d feel like a fool and look like an idiot!”

“Well…” Her reddening complexion told me that I wasn’t far off.

“Tisa, I won’t do it. Gods! What if it worked? I might be killing what’s left of Tyr.”

“If you can save your strength to fight the urges, even by risking some of yourself now, then I say do it! At least you’ll learn to be a woman, the right way, and then you won’t have to worry about that part anymore. The important thing is to stay free. A slave is not a sister, only an owned creature.”

“Staying free is everything, but releasing my will would cost me myself. You can’t be serious.”

Tisa sighed, reached forward, and smoothed back a misbehaving lock of my hair, as if I were already that girl she wanted. “You’re terrified. I understand.”

I understood that, for the moment, I didn’t want to be anywhere near her. “I’ll be outside until dinner. I have some thinking to do.”

“Of course.”

There was no peace in the garden; Tisa had a point, damn it. I would almost certainly be stronger in the upcoming fight against the urges if I were content to be a woman, at ease in dresses, halters, and with the woman’s life. It fit with my thoughts earlier about strength in serenity. Tisa’s plans to turn me into a girl and “raise” me made perfect sense -- to her -- but she had no idea what it would mean to me to give up my identity. Her idea of saving me would mean that I try to become a girl molded in her image, a sister for a girl who had always wanted one.

Could a serum girl stay free and retain her personality? The few free serum girls I’d seen had a haunted, incomplete look about them, as if they had fought themselves to an unsatisfying compromise. But I’d gladly be haunted and incomplete if the alternative was losing the last of me.

I had awoken, as all serum girls did, fully formed with my urges dormant, and my true nature altered from male to female; my essence was now a natural slave female. It was only a stubborn ex-warrior named Tyr that prevented this body from doing what it was made to do, something that a combination of time and proper stimulation would accomplish.

The Slave Trainers Guild was the expert in this. They forced a girl to confront herself by enervating her female senses, permitting no disobedience. The man within, already disorientated with her softer body and different set of responses and emotions, was ill prepared to counter their compulsion; she fought not only the slavers, but also her true self. One by one, the trainers ripped away her male bonds until only the natural slave female remained.

The results varied from girl to girl, but it inevitably changed her personality. Flower was petulant, a holdover from Halter’s bad character, but I wouldn’t have recognized her otherwise. As Rita had said that Kitten, the former warrior, Kedlos, was a “silly girl.” All three were trained slaves, but only Rita had kept most of who she used to be, and only that by completely embracing what they had made her. Still, the submissive slave girl Rita was a far cry from the warrior she had once been.

My body was telling me that I was a beautiful woman, and that of course I should feel wonderful about it. The feminine twinge of pleasure as I admired myself in the mirror was simply a manifestation of it. All this was perfectly normal for serum girls, it said, and it had always been that way. I just hadn’t discovered it until now.

It was a lie. It was normal now, but yesterday it wasn’t. This morning my reflection was more of a woman I inhabited. This afternoon, the image was me. It wasn’t alarming, which alarmed me. I had changed. I was less Tyr than before.

The speed of the changes frightened me. When I awoke, I desired my sister. A couple of hours later the feeling was gone. Just now in the mirror, I’d felt as if this was my true form, and I was proud of my body. Depending on the individual, the urges could strike a free serum girl at any time, from days to several months. If this was any gauge, the urges would be with me sooner than later. What was next, enjoyment as men looked at me -- or an attraction to men?

I imagined a battleground when the urges struck, both fighting my desire to submit and to keep my self as Tyr. It would be like fighting an endless battle with a powerful man determined to enslave me while his dog nipped at my legs. From a warrior’s perspective, it would be far better to get rid of the dog beforehand. It would mean, though, that I would have to fully accept myself as a woman, a terrible compromise, but one that might save my freedom in the end, and, as Tisa had said, that was the only thing that really mattered, the only honorable result.

My skin crawled at the choices, but at least they were in terms a warrior could understand. I had already changed. Parts of Tyr were already gone, and more would follow no matter what I did.

I sat on the bench and cried, breaking into wracking sobs so deep that I sank to the soft grass, pulling on the blades with my fingers. I took some solace that Tisa wasn’t there to see her formerly strong brother, now just a weak girl, crying over things she could not control. Despair turned into fury at my brother and at the Gods who permitted this.

I lifted my head from the ground and wiped my eyes when I had nothing left. Tisa would see that I had cried, but I no longer cared so much. I looked to the sky; it was almost time to get back. I made it to my feet, brushed my dress off, smoothing it out, and checked the blouse for grass stains. I fixed my hair, redoing the barrette and pin, and started off before I realized what I had just done.

It felt normal. Another change? It was an odd moment of clarity: after crying so long, my hatred was used up, and I was suddenly weary of being “upset” at everything. Women wore dresses and had long hair. I forced myself to admit it: the dress actually felt good against my legs at the proper pace. If I had to have breasts, the halter did its job well enough, keeping them secure and comfortable. It was better than the alternative, flopping around like fat fish in a boat. None of these things were bad. These were clothes, not pieces of my soul! It was what half the world wore. Even admiring myself in the mirror seemed now inconsequential in hindsight: there would be something wrong with anyone who hated their own appearance. All I really had to do was follow whatever customs women followed: a few words changed, a slightly different attitude. Hades, even some women don’t follow the “rules.” There was nothing to fear -- like Rita said.

This would be a strange kind of battle, I decided after a long moment’s reflection, with compromises and changes, but an army never fought a war unscathed. I would ultimately win this. On my terms.

***

Tisa only saw it on me at the door, just as we were about to leave for dinner.

“You’re wearing the necklace I bought?” she gasped, her hands coming together before her face. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

I grinned, feeling better than I had since I awoke in Tisa’s bed. “Don’t expect me to ‘blossom,’ but I’m not as afraid as I was. Now what are you crying about?”

“That’s the first time I’ve really seen you smile as Tyra. You have a nice smile.”

“Thanks. I always thought you did, too.”

Dinner was easier than the previous night. Any dinner might have been -- I had publicly killed my warrior self the night before, after all, but I was in a better mood, more sure of myself. Plus the curtain was closed for privacy, as it was most of the time; except for father and Ron, there were no men to avoid.

As expected, mother inspected the ornament she’d ordered around my neck. “Your necklace is beautiful. Frankly, I expected something far inferior.”

“Thank you, Mother. Tisa chose it, but I like it very much.”

She was silent for a time, but continued to watch me. “And your attitude has improved remarkably,” she added presently.

“I’m trying harder.”

“Your work with the veil is better, as well.”

”I practice when I can. I hope I can take it off soon, though.”

“We’ll see. What do you intend to do tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure. I think Tisa is preparing lessons for me.”

“Tisa, is this true?”

“Yes, Mother,” she said. “Tyra is making excellent progress.”

Mother looked between the two of us suspiciously. I didn’t mind. I had nothing to hide, and continued to guide small bits of meat under the cloth while taking care to keep my jutting bodice away from drips.

“Very good, Tyra. Keep up the fine work.”

“Yes, Mother.”

***

“Leeks, beets, and turnips!” the vendor, a florid man in everyday browns and a white apron, bawled into the crowded, noisy market air. Leeks were last on my list.

“Are you going to be all right?” my sister asked, her hand on my sleeve.

“He’s the third man today, Tisa. I’m fine.” I gave her hand a fast squeeze and moved off, readjusting the veil with my free hand. That was true as far as it went, but I suspected that I would always be nervous talking to men. Finding them attractive was just a matter of time -- and afterwards….

He spotted me watching him, and broke his cadence to address me. “Yes, Miss, what would you like?” He gave my veil a quick glance, which everyone did, including the women, and another glance at my figure. After several days I was nearly used to it; all men did it to some extent. By that time, if he hadn’t, I would have wondered why.

“Two pounds of leeks, please, trimmed.”

He sliced the leaves away swiftly with a large flat blade. Weighing them took only a few seconds more. In fact, what he wrapped and handed me was a good quarter pound overweight. He winked when he saw that I’d noticed.

“That’ll be eight coppers, Miss.”

He would have been disappointed if I added the extra copper. What he was really after was a smile, a connection -- no matter how transient -- with a woman pretty enough to have to hide her face. I didn’t feel I deserved it, after all, any woman could be beautiful if she wanted to, but I was flattered despite myself. Blushing just a little, I met his eyes and bowed my head modestly, something I had learned to do since no one could see a smile behind the cloth.

“Thank you, sir!” I replied, and took the package, stuffing them away into the sack with the rest.

“How was that, little sister?” I asked after we began the walk back.

“Not bad. You’re less nervous than you were. Now if you would just wear that dress I picked out for you at dinner…”

I shook my head, remembering how I looked in the mirror; I’d nearly been hanging out of it. “I tried it on. It’s not want I want to wear.”

“You’ll never be well rounded until you conquer your modesty. You told me once that women’s clothes were just clothes.”

“I was wrong. Do all women enjoy wearing garments that might fail when they stretch or bend over?”

“Well,” she grimaced, and I knew I had her. “You have to be more careful, but there is a time and a place for it.”

“I don’t hate your dress, I just don’t want to wear it. As long as some women agree with me, then that should be enough for you and Mother.”

“Uh huh. And what about yesterday? You stopped at the vendor on Castle St. and practically drooled on his display of knives and swords, hardly the act of an lady.”

“Some women carry daggers. If the sight of a fine weapon bothers you then try thinking of it as cutlery.”

“Tyra! Is this the way it’s going to be, trying to have it both ways?”

“I learn whatever you teach me with an open mind; I won’t fight anything, but I’ll choose what I like and don’t like. It’s the only way I know to stay satisfied with who I am.”

“I know; you do it to stay free.” Tisa’s tone made it clear that didn’t completely approve.

I stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Don’t think that I’m not grateful for what you’ve done. Seeing the world from ... our point of view is sometimes hard for me. I wouldn’t trust anyone but you to guide me through it.”

She reached over and smoothed back hair that probably didn’t need it, all the while searching my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m being selfish. I can only imagine what you’re going through. You have changed. Most of the time it’s hard to believe that you were once a man. It’s just once in a while that a movement or a few words gives it all away, and Tyr is suddenly staring back at me. What you’re doing is working, and I should be overjoyed that you accept yourself as much as you do.”

“Good.”

She smiled. “Come on, I have to make a stop at the potter.”

While Tisa was looking for a planter for her room, I looked in at the shop across the street, where a slim foreigner with dusky skin and bald head painted a scene from a copy. Mildly interested, I stepped inside. The room, a small studio, contained racks of paintings, mostly landscapes and buildings, pictures that would likely fill a space in a den or living room, although done better than most I’d seen. I sniffed a sweet, acrid smell, and found the source by the painter’s side, a faint wisp of smoke rising from a pipe.

The artist turned as he heard me enter. His pupils were strange, like black pools.

He smiled expansively and bowed. “Lovely Lady, welcome to Rani’s shop.” he said, speaking in a sprightly cadence I couldn’t identify. He waved his brush like a wand towards the various racks. “Please, find your desire.”

A glance informed me that Tisa still sought the perfect pot, so I decided to look around. As an artist, Rani was confident, with a bold style. A picture caught my eye, an eagle, the symbol of my family and Batuk’s adopted bird, the first bird our founders saw when they came to the North so long ago. Eagles still nested in places cut away for them high in the rock of the fortress.

He left his easel when he saw where I was looking. “Ah, that one is special, lovely lady.”

“Indeed?” I asked, suspecting a sales ploy.

“Oh, Yes. I’ve made copies, but none are as fine as this. Here, I’ll bring it down. Look closely and you will see.”

An eagle in flight is a common theme in Batuk. It symbolizes freedom if soaring, or fierce pride if the claws are extended for the kill. This eagle did not simply soar; its wings flexed in motion; it had purpose, a destination. The bird’s yellow eyes did not look down at prey but glared directly back at the viewer, the artist somehow breaking the rules of nature to create a nearly human, defiant mien without changing the eagle’s dimensions. It was brilliant, mad, or both. I loved it. In a way, it symbolized my own struggle.

“This is superb work, Rani.”

He bowed. “Innovation, lovely lady. Other artists paint from within themselves. I apply myself to the canvas then paint myself.”

That was the kind of thought that made you bang your head against the wall to get it out of your brain before it did any permanent damage. I took a hard look at the pipe, still producing a thin trail of smoke. Behind it and to the side lay an open bag I’d missed earlier. The contents stamped on its side, a painkiller normally used in tea. Rani smoked it. Temporarily mad, then.

“How much for the painting?”

“For my finest work? I might part with it for two golds, although it would break my heart.”

As a woman, it would have been unseemly to laugh in his face. I left with the painting wrapped under my arm only three silvers lighter, under ten percent of his asking price, and worried that I had paid too much.

I showed it to Tisa outside the shop. I don’t think she saw what I did in it, but she was happy to see that I was happy. She placed her hand on my arm and asked, “Tyra, do you miss your old life so much now?”

The question reopened wounds that were just beginning to heal. Tisa understood her error immediately and blanched, but the words were already in the air. I reached automatically for the necklace Tisa gave me, and used an old warrior’s trick to channel my anger into it. Although I didn’t tell Tisa, I wore it mainly for that reason.

Its presence also reassured me that Tisa had my best interests at heart. I held it when I saw myself in the mirror, and, especially in those first days, before lessons -- lessons that I couldn’t have abided otherwise: feminine mannerisms, which I learned to Tisa’s satisfaction, some of which I still refused to use without a good reason; the daughter’s place in the family, one of natural obedience to her parents and special respect to her father and brothers, who would risk their lives to protect her safety and honor; and deportment, a catchall for anything that didn’t look right to Tisa’s eye.

I also wore the necklace, I had to admit, because I liked the way it looked on me.

Did I miss my old life? Mine had been a life that most men only dreamed of. I remembered it all. I missed my men and the bond of warriors who had risked life and death together; I missed my strength and hard-earned skills, a world where I could defend myself and others; and most of all, I missed Angel. Hades, yes, I missed my old life.

I could never again be a man’s equal, only his female counterpart, and then only if I adopted the role society expected of me.

And yet, I had changed. With each passing day, I was more the woman in the mirror. I felt normal and healthy. The space between my legs no longer seemed to be lacking, but properly formed. Somewhere along the way, my body and I had reached an accord: I had not rejected her, and she, in turn, had accepted the stubborn warrior into herself. My heart beat as Tyra, and I no longer feared to be a woman.

Each time now, it took less effort to subsume my hatred for what had been done to me. Like the eagle in the picture, I was on my way; I had a destination.

“Tisa, I don’t miss my old life so much, and I owe everything I am to you.” I slapped her on the back to show her the kind of woman she’d created. “Come on, Tis’!” I said, now laughing at her expression. “Let’s get back. I have a picture to hang and you still have to show me how to cook all this.”

***

I opened my eyes three days later with a peculiar all-over tingling. I took a bath, which normally relaxed me, but when I dried off, I felt the same. When Tisa knocked on my door to go to breakfast, she knew that something wasn’t quite right.

“Is something wrong, big sister?”

“I’m not sure.” I described how I felt, and had a horrible thought. “Gods! Is this the start of my monthly cycle?”

“I don’t think so. If you have signs, they’re usually more profound.”

“Oh, that’s just wonderful.” The tingling passed after breakfast, but left me restlessness with nothing to do, and Tisa was busy that morning with the family accounts.

Taking a walk wasn’t enough. After changing to a split riding dress, I headed down to the stables. Nemesis didn’t know me any more. His nostrils flared at my unfamiliar smell, and the stallion’s huge brown eyes watched me suspiciously. But I knew him. A few reassuring words and slaps to the same places granted me his probation. The saddle was a struggle this time around, even using steps, and I had to adjust the stirrups twice, but I made do without the stableman’s help.

Except that Nemesis seemed huge now, riding him wasn’t too different, the greatest change being my bottom, which no longer fit the saddle properly. I turned right down the Wall Road towards the Lion Gate, paying little attention to the men and women who stared, some of whom recognized the notorious Eagles’ serum girl from my description, or who knew my horse.

I passed the string of houses and estates lining the road, and then the shops and vendors at the Lion Gate that, even at this early hour, penetrated the cool air with cries of food, drink and other products. Soon I was through and clear, just a freewoman outside for a ride. On impulse I headed east to the less traveled road to the coast. Nemesis, I think, sensed my mood, and the warhorse eased into a mile-eating trot. I passed a column of lumbering trade wagons and a slow moving quartet of riders, then took off the veil. With a cry, I jabbed Nemesis with my heels and let him loose.

“Aaiiee!” I yelled into the wind. This, at least, was the same -- my stallion’s effortless strides, his strength -- and I didn’t let up until we’d put the sounds and smells of the city behind us in the dust. By then, Nemesis was hot, sweaty, and breathing like a bellows. I pulled off the road to a creek bed we’d been to before. I dismounted and led him to drink, keeping a watchful eye for visitors.

I didn’t expect any, but, as I was acutely aware, an unarmed woman, alone, was vulnerable. Most men coming across the scene would stay a discreet distance away and ask if I needed assistance, politely leaving unasked why I was out unprotected. Unveiled as I was, many seeing my face would suspect me of being a serum girl. A daring foreigner, if he were in the mood, might see me as a girl ripe for abduction.

I allowed Nemesis to drink his fill, but stayed by his side the entire time, ready to mount him at the first sign of trouble. When we emerged from the bed, a mounted man, one of the four I’d seen together on the road, waited, his arms casually crossed in front of him leaning on the pommel. His three companions had halted about fifty yards further down the road. His green and tan riding leathers were cut in Batuk fashion, and his dark brown hair was trimmed neatly, a little longer than the style for warriors. I barely remembered him as a son of another Batuk house, although I didn’t know his name.

“Peace!” he called to me, raising his right hand. “I am Tristan t’Sed of Fox House. I offer you escort back to Batuk.”

I recognized him now. Honor demanded that I reveal my name, although I was loath to give it. I reddened in embarrassment, for if word that I had been riding alone so far from Batuk’s walls ever reached Mother or Father’s ear, I would get a stern lecture on my duties as a daughter.

“I’m Tyra l’Fay of Eagles,” I admitted. “I thank you for your kind offer, Sir, but won’t your friends be delayed?”

He made a small bow from his saddle, emerging with a broad grin. “I thought it might be you, Miss Tyra l’Fay; I recognized your horse. It’s no trouble at all. It’s a two-day trip to Gaster, and I’ll have no problem catching them this afternoon.”

With that, there was no reason to refuse. By custom and courtesy I should have been grateful for salvaging a measure of honor for my family, my city, and me. “Then I accept.”

He waved goodbye to his friends and we started off back to Batuk at a walk.

“I should thank you, Sir…”

“Please call me Tristan. Two members of Batuk’s finest houses should call each other by their first names, especially as we have been introduced already.”

“Yes ... Fara’s engagement party, if I remember correctly. Call me Tyra, then, Tristan.”

“I will. I’ve seen you several times since then, mostly riding down the Wall Road past our estate with the men from Eagles to or from some exercise. I’m not a warrior, but I’ve always admired those who fight for Batuk. This last raid, of yours, for instance…”

I shook my head, cutting him off. “Tyr t’Pol, the warrior, is dead.”

“I see. Then Tyr is gone forever; there is no memory of him; and if Tyra rides the same horse as if she were riding into battle, screaming like a demonness, well,” he shrugged, “that’s just a coincidence.”

I shot him a look. “Of course Tyr and I ... share, but it’s not quite true, and awkward, to refer to Tyr as alive, or to speak of things that ‘I’ had done, when ‘I,’ Tyra, could obviously have never done them.”

He reached behind him and produced a flask from his saddlebag. Twisting off the cork, he raised the bottle. “I find that siolat often clarifies the mind on such matters. To Tyr t’Pol, whether he is here or in the afterlife!”

He brought it to his lips, emptied a fair amount, wiped the top clean with part of his shirt, and presented the bottle to me.

I blushed. It was a gesture of the field, but done with courtliness that reminded me of our relative places. “Thank you, Tristan. I’m not going to deliver myself a eulogy, but I am thirsty.” I drained about a cup’s worth of the potent drink and wiped the top off on my dress before handing it back. “Since my life started only about a week or so ago, why don’t we talk about you? How is your family doing?”

Men generally love to talk to women about themselves, even when they know they’re being set up: I had, and Tristan was no different. He was good company, and funny, enough to make me laugh. I nodded or said the right things for him to continue, and gradually I think he forgot who I was, or used to be. He had affixed my place, and had no doubts of his own. Within his conversation, Tristan played the ancient game that requires only a man and woman, and where anything is possible. His words were flattering, if sometimes insulting to a former warrior, but he played well, and if I didn’t respond the way another woman might have to a handsome son in a good house, it wasn’t his fault. I decided that I liked it, mostly, and the ride back was swift.

Just outside the gate, he grinned in a certain way, and I knew something was coming. “If you drop your veil and reveal your beauty to me, I guarantee your parents will never hear of your wild ride alone this morning.”

But by then I had his measure. “A pity that we both know you’re too much of a gentleman for that, Tristan.”

He was crushed, but only for a second. “Yes, a pity,” he said, and then smiled, having miraculously recovered. “I enjoyed our ride together, Tyra. If you decide you need a reasonably sized horse and a woman’s saddle, then be sure to see me. I’ll give you a good deal.”

Horses were Fox House’s main business, as I recalled. “I will, Tristan. Thank you again.”

With a final wave, he left the way we came, breaking into a trot, and I turned Nemesis back towards home. I couldn’t risk that again, I decided. If Tristan and his friends had been men of a different sort I could have been abducted. I’d been reluctant to ask for escort from one of my former warriors, but it was something that I’d have to face sooner or later. After Tristan’s kindness, I had no excuses anymore.

After taking care of Nemesis, I remained at the stables, watching the men practice from a window. I was there, I told myself, to decide on a man to ask the next time I went riding. With my brother still not speaking to me, it would be the best way. On the practice field, the men danced the dance of death with the skill, grace, and power born of years of dedication. At one time, I had been one of them, had been among the best.

By the Gods, watching them I felt so small and weak! I’d grown accustomed to my size; my woman’s strength; the way I looked, even proud of it: beautiful face; trim waist that swelled naturally to wider hips, separating to shape firm, slim legs; my breasts that were neither too big nor too small; the space between that tapered smoothly and formed a recessed channel beneath, all correct and perfect for a woman! It was who I was now, and yet, I used to be one of them. I remembered; I used to be strong, a warrior, a man.

This time I felt the change coming, and quickly grasped my necklace, pouring my terror inside. This would be the last of it, but, by the Gods, what this would do! Don’t fight it! These are not the urges, just the final step in the process; let your body be your guide. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Let it be.

I opened my eyes when my heart stopped threatening to beat itself to death against my chest. There is no fear. Let it come. And while I looked, a curtain that I’d no idea existed faded to mist and scattered, and my world changed forever. They weren’t just men anymore; these men exuded maleness.

Der’s shoulders were as wide as before, but were now male width, protective -- and pleasing. My old second stood straight and tall, firm and muscular -- the same but different. I waited nervously, but nothing else occurred: I didn’t feel the need to rip my clothes off or submit to anyone. In most ways, it was like admiring a fine-looking woman in reverse -- nothing unusual, and safe enough -- except for the uneasy feeling that I was now much more the bait admiring the fish than the other way around. Even for Zhor, this was an exceptional group of men, and I blushed at thoughts that Tyr had never had.

But, while I liked to watch them and the way they moved, they were unacceptable to me in the way that mattered. We’d been like brothers. We’d fought together, and wenched together. Most importantly, though, I’d led them. I still had enough Tyr in me to reject men whom I had commanded for years.

It was a relief, for a sure way to the urges was to be taken to the silks. If Tisa could avoid temptation, then so could I. I walked past the practice field, aware that eyes were on me. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I strode by them all until I approached Ron and Ketrick, who stood together too close to the path to ignore. Suspecting that my brother’s wish was the real reason I had to wear the annoying veil, I glared at him as I walked by. Ron stood tight-jawed and impassive, as if he only endured me. Ketrick, however, raised his hand in greeting, and grinned -- a lopsided affair, friendly and predatory. It wasn’t the first time a man had looked at me with interest, but it was the first time I’d truly felt it.

When I made it back to my room, I took another bath to get rid the horse smell. Checking myself in the mirror before leaving for lunch, I looked for changes, but didn’t find any. Once again, it felt normal, as if I had always felt that way. I supposed that it was because I hadn’t met anyone I was truly attracted to. I would have to learn to talk to men all over again; my reactions would be awkward at first until I learned to be impersonal. But it had to be more than that. Some part of me had come to life, else why did I keep thinking that Ketrick had a nice smile?

***

“Goddess! You like men now? Tell me all about it,” Tisa exclaimed, her blue eyes wide open and staring, bouncing beside me on her bed.

I raised my hands helplessly and let them drop to my knees with a slap. “What can I tell you? It happened this morning, when I was watching the warriors practice, and suddenly the men, well, pleased me in ways they hadn’t before, and … I’m sure you know how it is. The changes are finished. You’re looking at Tyra.”

“Do you really like men?” she asked, a plea for it to be true.

She said it so much like a girl I reached out and took her hand in mine. “Yes. It was inevitable.”

Tisa looked up in silent prayer. When she looked my way again, there were tears in her eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you to become complete,” she said, her voice wavering.

Complete. Now there’s a word. “Is something wrong, little sister?”

“That’s what you always asked me when you were Tyr. You were the best big brother a girl ever had, but there were things I couldn’t say to you. But you aren’t Tyr anymore, you’re Tyra, and you would understand, where he could not. There’s nothing wrong. I just want you to sit and listen to me. Goddess,” she groaned, “it’s been a long time since I could actually talk to anyone.”

I sat up and tucked my legs underneath, getting comfortable for a long stay. “Tell me as much as you want and take as long you like. I have nothing more important than to hear what you have to say.”

As the daughter of one of the finest houses in Batuk, she’d had to be cautious with her girl friends, and after a bad experience, she trusted no one completely. Confiding in Mother was out of the question. As Tyr, I had been her best friend, but as a man, the depths of Tisa’s young girl’s heart had been out of bounds.

No longer. She spoke to me for hours. I’d known some of it: I’d seen her talk to young men every now and then, but I’d never known her dreams or desires from the inside. I understood most of it, or empathized. I wasn’t her, nor could I be; I’d never been a girl, after all. When Tisa spoke of her first love, finally able to tell someone, she glowed with an inner fire. I tried to understand. Through her passion, I ached with her, and comprehended what I had never desired but what she wanted most of all: to someday be joined with a man who would be her guide and partner, lover, and father to her children.

She wanted me to listen, not fix anything, and I knew enough now not to try. I held her hand sometimes, and told her I understood, even crying bright tears when she brought me to it.

“You know,” she said during a quiet time, “I was in love with you. There were days that I wished you weren’t my brother so that we could marry. It’s silly to think of it now, but you were so strong, brave, and commanding….”

“I’m glad that I didn’t know about it. It would have made things awkward. Just out of curiosity, if I hadn't been your brother and we had married, would you have let me keep Angel?”

She grinned crookedly and sniffed with her nose very deliberately held high in the air, “Absolutely not! Maybe Wanda, if you’d insisted. She would have been a good servant.”

I didn’t remind her that Wanda was a superbly skilled passion slave. It made no difference anyway. “So, you admit that you were jealous of Angel.”

She sighed. “Yes, a little. She’s a beautiful slave and was devoted to you. She came to me late that night when you changed, and knocked on my door, weeping, begging me to help her master. Your slaves and I lifted you onto my bed. It was a terrible time, and we shared tears. I brought Father and Mother, who both wept, and Ron, who took one long look, and left, unable to bear the sight.”

“And Met?”

She covered my hand with her own, gnawing on her lip while she decided what to tell me. “He came. He saw you, seemed surprised, maybe because he couldn’t believe his plot would work, or…” She shrugged wearily, as if she’d been through it in her mind a hundred times. “Who knows? We all watched him. He said a few of the right words, but he wasn’t the picture of a grieving brother. Mother’s eyes were on him like ice-blue daggers, and Father told him to leave. Please, Tyra, that’s all in the past.”

It was, and I had just ruined a wonderful moment. “Well, why did you bring him up, then?”

Tisa looked up, frowning. “I didn’t…” she started, before she had a good look at my face. Then she grabbed a pillow and smacked my head with it. “You are such a bitch!” she shrieked, laughing.

Being called a bitch was suddenly the funniest thing I’d ever heard, and I laughed so hard I fell sideways on the bed. Tisa beat me with it one more time, then joined me, putting her hand to the side of my head to smooth back a few strands of my hair.

“You aren’t anything like I’d imagined you’d be! You love sharp objects. When you speak, sometimes it sounds like a military campaign, and you aren’t very feminine.”

I smiled right back at her. If I’d followed her advice, I’d have been leaping through fields of flowers in a flowing white shift and playing with dolls. “Well, I’m happy with how I turned out.”

“So am I. Are you happy, Tyra, really?”

I reached up and touched my sister’s cheek, a natural gesture, although it didn’t used to be that way. My darker hand contrasted with her pale skin and blonde hair, and her hand over my ear must have looked the same to her. Black eyes, blue eyes, Tisa and Tyra: real sisters now and forever.

I couldn’t protect her anymore, but I understand her more than I had, and through her, something of myself, something of who I might be someday. We not only shared physical form, function, and needs, but also the women’s bond of vulnerability in a world of powerful men. We are sisters. I closed my eyes and inhaled her fragrance like wafting a fine vintage, willing myself to absorb the flavor of our relationship. I couldn’t and wouldn’t forget I’d been her brother, and I still had much to learn about being a woman, but with the last changes, it was time to let go, to drop the differences between us.

I was proud of her -- my teacher, friend, sister, and I wanted her to be proud of me. I opened my eyes and smiled. “This is one of those feminine pleasures you talked about in the garden. I wouldn’t give up this feeling for all of Zhor.”

She looked back fondly, a tear in her eye. “Neither would I. Tyra,” she said quietly, her face as open and hopeful as her heart would allow it to be, “would you want to be a man again?”

“I can’t, so why worry about it?” I must have hesitated too long before replying because her face fell.

“I see.” she said.

“Tis’, I’m not unhappy, especially right now, and if it weren’t for the urges….”

“Truth,” she replied, trying on a brave smile for me.

“And yet, ‘Introspection should eventually give way to action’ and ‘A man should celebrate what he has, not despair at what he does not.’”

“My sister still quotes Herth Tarr,” she groaned. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“For now, it means to Hades with everything. I’m going to enjoy myself, go out tonight and visit a tavern. Are you with me?”

“I’m willing, but father would insist on an escort.”

“But you’re over the age of majority. Why would they…”

She shook her head. “Not for me. Even with the veil, you’re too pretty. Unless you wore a sack over your head, some men would suspect what you are, and some of them might act on their impulses.”

“Right,” I sighed.

“During the day it would be all right, but at night, when the men drink and the lights are low…”

“Tisa, I understand. I suppose we’ll have to endure it, at least for the time being. Ron still won't speak to me. Could you ask him for me?”

“Of course. This will be such fun!”

“I wanted it to be just the two of us, though.”

“I don’t mind an escort so much. So, we’ll sacrifice some privacy. Isn’t it so much better to know that you're safe instead of worrying about being stolen?”

I had no answer to that.
 
 

 
I'd love to read what you think of this epic so far. There's a lot of action, romance and intrigue to come. Hope you all stay for the ride. ~Aardvark