The Sigh Of Things (37)   …a bad thing is a good thing failing and a good thing is a bad thing coming to an end… "Whatever she asks?" "I believe you're late." She was concerned, of course. Yet Stefan couldn't see how re-visiting this issue would in any way ease her mind. A third explanation would simply initiate the same strain of argument she'd offered to dispute the second and the first. He supposed he should find her loyalty commendable and were it a different day, or even a different hour of this day, he might have unearthed the tolerance required to address these apprehensions with his customary patience and trademark restraint. It wasn't that he didn't respect her position, he did. He had. Clearly. This ground had been covered so well and so often that it lay like a glutinous muck beneath their feet. Another advance into the mire would prove them both to be fools - and her insistence upon doing just that was becoming tediously intolerable. He let out a pensive sigh. She'd done it again. Again he was floundering, half-dressed in the center of the room, forgetting what it was he'd meant to do next. This was unacceptable. "Sancia, come here," he ordered, leaving off his preparations for the moment. She responded with alacrity, no doubt discerning his frustration. His hand came to curve around her neck, his eyes diving deep into her own. "Neither one of us will die tonight. Might we continue this argument tomorrow?" Her expression darkened with discontent but he could see she would concede the point. He pulled her head forward and pressed his brow to her own. "You must go now, if only so that I may find the sense to remember where it was I hung my shirt." Yet as the door closed behind her he recalled it wasn't the shirt he'd been looking for at all. He needed the piece he'd strap beneath it. He needed Astaroth. He withdrew the burnished teak box from the rear corner of a bureau drawer and set it atop the dresser. Placing his fingers on either edge of the graded base, along the slats in their secret groove, he applied just enough pressure to slide them out and release the lock. The lid opened easily, revealing the blue velvet mount and the sinuous silver cuff that nestled within. Here, fashioned from a few solid ounces of sterling and polished to a ruddy luster, lay his cleverly crafted poisoning device. Astaroth, Duke of Hell, depicted in his earthly guise; the guise of an angel balanced on the back of a dragon, clutching a viper in his ready right hand. The dragon would ride the inside of his forearm, the viper dipping down to his inner wrist. A touch to the sleeve of his shirt would release the powder from a forked tongue at the base of his palm. He took a moment to admire the design, and thought it a shame the mastery of its smith would never be openly recognized. This was a praiseworthy piece. It was also extremely effective. As he snapped the cuff into place and adjusted its position on his arm, his mind traveled back to his true concern of the evening. Negotiations had proceeded predictably, with Aldo bristling at non-existent bias and claiming prejudicial intent - what any challenger's man might be expected to accuse in order to achieve himself the very same end. If Stefan took the slightest bit of umbrage, it would not have been for the accusations themselves but for the presumption that he could so easily be moved off-point. Still, it was comforting to know their obvious underestimation of his skills would work to his advantage at the last. And it had. Argos' final approval of the wording put a firm finish to all dispute - to the minds of the Romans, at least. There remained one pair of critical eyes that had yet to examine the content of this document and the minor changes made therein; changes introduced not only by the contesting party but by the bondsman himself. A single line, hidden thick in the body of the text, like the proverbial needle in its haystack. Would Stavros see it? Would he bother to decipher the crux of its meaning? The Cassadine Oath of Abjuration, an echo of the old English act, required its signators renounce their allegiance, both legal and material, to each contender for the course of the evening. A hypocrisy at best, yet it provided the insubstantial whiff of free choice and the recognition that, for a few long hours at least, there would exist no Cassadine Prince. Stavros, and Argos to a lesser degree, would relinquish their right to any privilege, honor or reward accorded by the pivotal positions they held within the current Cassadine family. They were to be men like all other men, and treated as the equal of every guest. Ostensibly. Yet what made the Oath relevant, what made it matter in the end, were not these first few ridiculous insistences. No. The primal power of the Oath rested in its subsequent section regarding the resumption of the Prince's rule. Here, in bold, black ink, was conferred the full measure of authority required to govern the Cassadine Empire; the designation of a prince's jus divinum, his "divine right" over this dominion, and the manner in which it was to be upheld. Here as well, secreted between one official line and the next, was Stefan's audacious addendum. Should the reigning Prince of the Cassadines prevail, the sovereignty of The Empire will revert to its original order, to be ruled as His Royal Highness did rule immediately prior to this Deciding in every detail and degree. Its original order. Immediately prior. In every detail and degree. Thus was Nikolas' position secured, Laura's fear attended and the wide world spared the decadent and most assuredly insane reign of his brother, Prince Stavros Mikkosovich Cassadine. Stavros would have to sign the Oath, of course, for the clause to take effect. Yet Stefan wagered that even if his brother scanned this passage and caught its strategic bent, the impendency of The Deciding itself would force his pen across that line. Argos would be standing at his side after all - and to balk in front of an enemy, for a man of Stavros' inordinate pride, would prove utterly unthinkable. As Stefan pulled the sleeve of his shirt over his arm, careful to prevent its snag on the device, he decided that of all the unthinkable acts that would occur throughout the rest of the evening, this would be the one he would pray to God they might actually manage to avoid. A gaggle of giggles could be heard outside the door as Garber's girls gathered once again to express their delight at the continual appearance of the Prince, in nothing but his black silk boxing shorts, condescending to accept yet another plate of food his mother had sent from the kitchen. Four sightings now and they were well past surprise, having graduated to a kind of lustful fascination for the form of their mistress' firstborn son. Straws had been drawn from an old yellow broom and used to determine the next lucky maid who would scramble down the stairs to offer herself for this room's service. Mother Mary grant his hunger would last until every yearning girl had got her turn. "Yes, Stavros." "If you would have your housekeeper herd her cattle from the hall? And Mother, please desist. I stopped eating an hour ago." His finger lifted from the intercom and a sharp clap sounded beyond the door. Silence descended. This was to be expected. Tonight his desires were all. There might have been a valet and, indeed, his mother had offered one. Yet he followed the family custom in this - viewing the preparation itself as a meditational act. Here a solitary hour delivered to the symmetry of simple labor as his mind reflected on his purpose and the vengeful bent of a fate that commanded his life be offered to the balance of another man's ambition. The title of Prince had always been an earning, something his brother could not respect, or perhaps simply couldn't perceive. That it might be what his son imagined it - merely a harness fitted at birth, groomed into, resentfully borne - was little more than a bittersweet illusion in the end; the entrancement with which could come this night at the cost of a father. A father who was already dead to him, two times dead, dead again - if only you would die, Father, please? His dressing begins with a pair of black elastic braces he positions at the top of each well-muscled calf. Next come the companion socks - two thumbs sinking through the mouth as their fellow fingers curl to bunch the ribbed black nylon to the toe. Each foot is capped and the stocking drawn over the arch, the heel, the ankle and up the entire length of the shin, then fastened to its brace to secure its stretch and prevent an unsightly retreat. You evil bastard. Two stays slipping neatly into collar points, the starched white shirt unbuttoned and lifted stoically from its hanger. One arm dives through the crisp cotton sleeve, then another as his shoulders roll the seams into alignment. Four oval onyx studs, inserted in ascending order, come to fasten the placket closed. A thumb unhooks the wooden rod and gravity slides the slacks into his hands. A sturdy shake to relax the pleat before his foot steps through the trouser leg. I hate you for torturing my mother. The fine-tooled alligator belt threads through its loops until its mouth meets its tail; a long golden tooth sinking into the meat of a hole, the excess sliding cleanly through the buckle. And now to the mirror for the tie. The collar starkly raised and chafing at his ears, he circles the black silk around his neck and drapes its ends to his chest. The top button fastens to close the shirt over his throat, choking the last full breath from his lungs and his neck arches to resist this. His fingers return to the silk. Over, around, under and through - the knot comes right on the first attempt. He teases the bow, taunts it, tempts it flat to his taste, then draws that collar down. And I swear by everything I have… Nergal. He charges half a face to a cuff, resolute as he locks the sleeve into place - his poison now ready at the wrist. The horn, like a crop in his hand, inserts to ease each heel into its shoe. Tight, the feet scream finding their position; the cold leather warming as he shifts his weight. The jacket, black and heavy as armor, encases one arm then swings around his back to greet the other. He settles it twice through the glass, customizing its line to his stance. And last the sash to formalize his role. The satin falls true, cutting his torso like a bloody blade, crosswise from collarbone to waist. An eye lifts to his reflection as his fingers slip his ring into place. …I will never let you come back to life. "From your lips, my beloved son," he expends on a sigh, "to God's Most Merciful Ear. For your father is well and truly done." Helena stood deadly still as the seamstress stitched the last of the roses to the bodice of her gown. The hue of the petals came precisely to match the shade of crimson she'd chosen to wear. So even was the tone that all would assume the blooms were simply fabricated fripperies designed to enhance the line of the dress. Only those drawing close would detect the scent of the living flowers. Instinct would pull them closer still to inhale the full bounty of their fragrance. And who would be ripe for the plucking then? The girl tied her knot, tucking the velvet neatly into place as Helena turned to examine the effect in the glass. Lovely. Stunning, in fact. The dynamic floor-length skirt flared from a waist cinched tight to accentuate the slender frame of her figure, its embroidered body rising like a snug scarlet glove that branched at the breast to encircle her shoulders and fall in a drape of concentric folds down the span of each arm. Her fine golden hair had been swept up from the delicate column of her neck and spun into a single, elegant twist; her ears bedecked with rubies, on her hand a single, magnificent blood-red gem that would sparkle in any light. Kali-ma, though hidden, was a comfortable warmth against her skin. "You called for me?" Her brow arched at this intrusion, yet Helena found herself not quite ready to pull away from her glorious reflection and instead eyed the girl through the glass. "What is it they say? Ollie-ollie-oxen-free? Time for the players to reveal themselves. Remove the covering from your arm, my dear." Her order was obeyed with dispatch. She crooked a finger and motioned the girl toward her, taking the wrist in her hand. She examined the band carefully. "Well, he's had his fun with this, hasn't he? What say we go have our fun with him?" The girl bowed her head as Helena swept past to turn sideways through the portal and glide gracefully down the hall. Her accomplice readjusted her sleeve and followed at a discreet distance, careful not to step on the trailing curve of that velvet train. Pausing at Stavros' door, Helena rapped a knuckle to its grain and waited for the knob to turn. Once he appeared her knee bent swiftly, her arms drawing the grand skirt back as she descended in obeisance. Her son nodded brusquely in response then took the lead, heading toward the two-bedroom suite. A sharp knock before he entered with Helena on his heels, her left hand extending to direct her confederate to a shadowed corner of the inside wall. Sancia obliged. "Regret. You look captivating, as usual," announced the Prince, inclining his head as she sank to a curtsey before him. More so, thought Helena, inspecting the final version of this bedeviled dress. Perhaps it was the couturier's continual bout with interruption that led him at the last to produce a garment so free of construction. The copper-colored silk shantung dropped in a column from her breast to the floor, leaving her shoulders bare beneath billowing flounces of metallic bronze tulle; the fine silk net surrounding her from throat to foot like a delicate, diaphanous cloud. The arbitrary placement of gold, silver and verdigris leaves at her ankle, hip and chest became a theme they'd carried through to her hair, its curls now tumbling from a jeweled clip of identical design. A goddess of the earth emergent through an iridescent mist, this was her effect - an effect that on any other night Helena might work toward diminishing. Not this night. This night she would present as yet another treasure owned by the rightful Cassadine prince. Finding the girl's attire suitable, her eye then strayed to Laura who was dawdling before a full-length mirror brought in by the dresser. What Regret's gown lacked in complexity, this other more than made up for. The gold satin pleats of the skirt were so sharply defined they seemed all but carved into the material running from her waist to the floor. The bodice came tight through the ribs, its intricate tucking pressed flat like a series of burnished ribbons rising to her breast. The satin sculpted all the way to her shoulder then dropped down each three-quarter sleeve in a cascade of elaborately pillowed waves. The pannier, while altogether unnecessary, lent the back an elegant style; its bow just as sharply carved into the seam at the base of the spine as were all the rest of the decorative devices. This gown was a masterpiece worthy of Marie-Antoinette herself. Such a shame it would be wasted on a catatonic dullard who would not know the difference between this divine creation and the shift she'd worn to breakfast. "Stavros," announced Stefan, appearing at the door. "Your guests have arrived." With this he bent at the waist to offer a stiff, formal bow. "All are in receipt of their powders and all, save Argos of course, have consented to sign the Oath. They await you at your leisure." Helena watched him rise and cast a glance in Laura's direction, his eye narrowing its notice to the obvious absence he found. He immediately crossed to her side and grasped her wrist, lifting it in his hand. "Where is it? What have you done with her band?" "I had it removed this morning," Stavros responded icily. "You couldn't imagine I'd allow her to appear in that shackle. She is my wife. She is the mother of the heir apparent. The kin will find the inheritors of Mikkos content to meet this challenge unfettered by any and all familial discord." Laura pulled her arm from his brother's grip and returned to her entrancement with the mirror. Helena marked his agitation and smiled. "If the sight of such a bracelet will set you at ease, Stefan, well then we simply must provide you with one. Never let it be said your mother cares nothing for your peace of mind. Sancia," she called, gesturing the girl from out of the shadows. "Why don't you show my son what he so desperately needs to see?" Sancia dropped the trim black jacket off her shoulders and carefully draped it over her arm. Her fingers rolled back the cuff of her shirt to reveal the band she wore, for the first time bared in a public light. Helena studied the expressions of her sons - Stavros, his gaze amused, his mouth quirking to a grin, and Stefan, his look charged with a furious anger. "Sancia, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded, striding forward. "When did she…" "Come, come, Stefan," clucked his mother in disapproval. "Let's not pretend you haven't known all along." Helena warmed at the sudden disquiet she saw passing over his features. "Yes, she's told me of the many tests you've done on my device. All for naught, it seems. I must thank you for this. Your diligence has provided me the proof I require to assure myself of the weapon's invulnerability. Such a band will be placed on Laura in the morning, after which I will proceed with my original intent. I find this childlike behavior of hers dreadfully tiresome," she lamented, nodding in the direction of her foe. "Her son responded so well to his psychological realignment, I have no doubt she will accustom herself with an equal tractability. Perhaps I can create a wife and mother worthy of the Cassadine line. If not, well, she will still have enough life left in her to re-occupy that hospital bed." Stefan refused to acknowledge any of his mother's words, instead offering a stony eye to her newly-revealed confederate. "You've worked against me from the start, I imagine?" "Oh no," argued Helena, her voice a lilting remonstrance to his mistaken apprehension. "I must say you choose your agents well. A high compliment, Stefan. I suggest you mark it. You receive so few, after all. No, she resisted to the very moment she realized that band was not coming off. Until it became a matter of life and death. Prior to this I could only trust Mrs. Garber to operate on my behalf. It was Mrs. Garber who kept Laura from awakening in your care, Mrs. Garber who facilitated Regret in her betrayal, Mrs. Garber who kept watch over Stavros on the chance you sought to do him harm. Sancia came to me only at the last, and begrudgingly at that." Helena drew a finger to call her operative forward, then spun that talon to point toward the simpleton playing before the mirror. "You will guard her through the night," she instructed, "as my own men will be guarding you. And if such supervision should fail to inspire your steadfast compliance, just remember this." A tiny black box was plucked from a hidden sleeve sewn into the velvet at her waist. "One touch to the button and your life is forfeit. Don't imagine for a moment that a sense of decorum will stay my hand. This is a Cassadine function, my dear. A few fleshly fireworks, while a bit startling, will not go too terribly amiss." The loudly descending note of a yawn drew Helena's head sharply up. Stavros tapped his hand to his mouth with a weary resolve. "I've waited through the gloating, Mother. And I must say that forcing me to stand through these last minute instructions to the servants is unseemingly gauche, even for you. Stefan," he enjoined, cocking his head in the direction of his brother. "You have been outmaneuvered. But take heart. Advantage is an asset forever in flux." All watched as their prince crossed to the woman idling before the mirror and saw her shrink from his extending hand. "Come now, darling," he cooed, his tone smooth and certain of its effect. "I've kept my part of the bargain and remained at a distance. The time has come for you to honor your word or submit to the penalty of breaking our pact." Her lower lip pulled back from its churlish protruding and her mouth pressed into a line. "That's right," he encouraged. "This is one of those very few nights we have nothing to fear from the people in this room. Strangely enough, they are on our side." The room grew suddenly still, the moment stretching out to an unendurable length. Not a breath could be heard, nor the sound of a single foot shifting in its place; a single muscle moving in the space of that silence. And then, in an instant, it was done. Her spine slowly straightened, her shoulders arching back in defiance, her neck rising to lift her head. Her face began to change, to build, to reconstruct itself - altering its features to enhance its aspect as she added layer upon layer of cognizance to its increasingly adult expression. Once she had regained her original countenance she tossed her would-be husband an imperious glare. "I despise everything about you," she proclaimed remorselessly. Stavros broke into a ready grin. "And there's the Laura I remember. Shall we?" he said, offering his arm. Her palm came to rest on his sleeve with an undeniably regal poise. The couple strode through the door, followed closely by Stefan and Regret. Helena, struggling with her own feverish fury and dismay, was left too far behind to catch the warning her prince delivered to his bondsman on the current of an agitated breath. "You will keep that rook in play," he seethed, tipping his head toward a trailing Sancia. "I will not have her entombed. Unlike you, dear brother, I have no desire to reside in a state of perpetual check." The Sigh Of Things (38)   The world is a man after all. The small string quartet began its introductory march from an alcove beneath the stair. Its first strain fell well below the chatter of the guests assembled in the receiving hall. Its second managed to raise a sonorant finger to the lips of those standing closest to the rail, and soon those voices hushed; this wordless silence expanding like a ripple in an ardently anticipatory pond. The thrum of each mellifluous chord came to echo throughout the chamber as the bodies stilled and the faces rose, their eyes seeking out the very first glimpse of the senior member of the ruling line of the august Cassadine family. They knew who this would be, so the questions filling each restive mind became: How had she aged? What would she wear? Did she still take her tea with the Devil himself? Two of these questions could be answered from afar. The last might require a braver heart than many in the room did currently possess. A rigidly implacable Louis, impeccably attired in a flat, black tuxedo, drew a breath from his station at the bottom of the stair and announced with a stiff formality, "The Dowager Princess Helena Cassadine." The matriarch of the Cassadine Empire emerged like a striking slash of blood from the dark sunderance of a shadow; her scarlet gown flowing forward, her ivory fingers extending to grasp the rail as she surveyed the scene below. Her rubies glittered like the embers of a fire flaring on ice; the chill of her features all too apparent as she cast a patient, predatory glance across the expanse of the hall. It was no imaginative fancy to find every head she marked twisting away, every eye distracted by a sudden trick of light dancing along the chamber floor. Only when that stately countenance withdrew and its attention fixed to descend the stair did her audience dare to turn back - some of these, admittedly, devout in their desire that she tumble to her death and relieve them at last of her infernally treacherous terrors. "Count Stefan Darius Mikkosovich Cassadine and his consort, Contessa Regret Derniere." The steward of the Cassadine Empire strode forth imperiously, his aspect stern, his gaze glowering at the impudence of a family that could demand his presence on such an injudicious occasion. His elegant ebony suit cut a figure so scathingly sharp it seemed to slice into the air around him, its shoulder carving a cruel incision as he squared his stance and brought his contempt to bear. The burnished gold of his profile, chiseled like an ancient Spanish coin, revolved with a grim grace, his blue-green eyes charged to spark with cold castigation and a dull devastational disdain. The beauty he drew forward to stand at his side seemed somehow to enhance his furious glory; her mild manner and neutral mien serving to amplify the thrust of his displeasure, her dignified composure intensifying the force of his scorn. From the delicate drape of her hand over his, to the reverential tilt of her head, to the seemingly incidental alignment of her gown's metallic net at just the right angle to cast him in relief - she appeared in every way subservient to his power and, in so doing, magnified it. His relatives marked him well; this second son, this sly steward of their precious holdings, this maneuverer, this intriguer; the arrogant architect of the lese-majeste that had called them here this night. None wondered at the breadth of his rapacity or the arching ambition of his scheme. That he might attempt to seed the succession with a scion of his own making was, at its heart, a respectable design. What else to expect from a prince in shadow who had slaved all his life at the table's leg of Empire, never to be tossed a single scrap? How long could one imagine the leash would hold? He turns his pup to power. An old dog's older trick, and deftly done. The more practical among them found fault only in his failure to kill the sister; that bantling bitch whose bungled swipe at a share of their empire had exposed the underpinning of his ruse. Why she was still alive, or at the very least possessed of the ability to speak, was a mystification to many of the kin. Some suspected he might have been sleeping with her. Others sighted a measure of mercy, which stamped him weak to their calculating eye. In the end, however, none of this mattered a whit. The fact remained that the hound was now atop the table for everyone to see. This was an indecency in need of address. When, finally, the contriver moved to take the stair, their regard lingered not a moment on his back. More than a few turned away to bend their heads to their neighbors and whisper their review. The true poseur had been presented, after all. Their masterful manipulator had been unmasked. The whelp waiting in the wings was nothing more than a prop; a puppet; a Pinocchio proffered to deflect the eye from his Geppetto's fastidious fingerwork. It was, for many in attendance this night, virtually impossible to believe Nikolas Cassadine had ever been anything more than a camouflage set to cover his father's intemperate aspirations. And not an effective one at that. All could point to the telling absence of the boy's formal ascension ceremony - a ritual requirement for the assumption of power of every Cassadine prince. Here their lord would stand eye-to-eye with those over whom he would enforce his rule. Here they would take his measure, and he theirs, as he accepted the traditional Vow of Fealty. So it had been for Cassadine princes throughout time immemorial. Until, apparently, now. Add to this his hesitance to travel the world to meet with those beholden to his sovereign authority, instead choosing to be caught like a moon in the orbit of a small suburban town in northern New York. What could be the reason for that? No one doubted the perspicacity of his supposed "steward"; a man who knew the importance of fortifying through alliance - that subtle, strategic dance whose steps were reckoned in favors curried and loyalties exacted. Why did he not send his prince to perform this political pas de deux? The answer seemed clear. Had he done so his pretender's puppet strings would have been revealed. And so it was with an air of definitive disinterest that the Cassadine family waited on its prince. Most found the hush of the strings as the musicians finished their introductory march to offer a pause before beginning the Prince's Processional tedious in the extreme. All knew what was coming next and the only question, carried somewhat obscurely through the minds of the more cunning of the kin, was why. Why had their Count called this Deciding? Why did he bring his son forward, knowing as he must that the boy would die? Where would he find his power then? What did he have up his sleeve? The steward was the man to watch, they decided. Stefan Cassadine, while not a subject of the choice they made this night, was most certainly the man to beat. Louis cleared his throat quite loudly to quell the conversation in the hall. Once a proper silence was restored he turned to the stair; drawing his breath and stretching his body to its full, formidable height. His baritone voice released the announcement with all the thunderous stridence his attendants could desire and the occasion did demand. "Ladies and Gentlemen, His Grace…The Rightful Prince of the Cassadine, His Royal Highness Stavros Nikolai Mikkosovich Cassadine and his wife, the Lady Laura." Upon the final syllable of Laura's name the processional began. The man, of course, had made a mistake. These things happened - although not, as a general rule, on the cusp of such a material moment. The purists cast a scowl and the rest the beginnings of a grin as they imagined the woeful punishment Helena Cassadine would exact on the heels of such a flagrant annunciatory faux pas. It wasn't until a startled cry came discordantly through the air - expelled by a biddy from the Luxembourg faction (a matron old enough to recognize the face from a series of youthful nightmares) - that their heads turned and their eyes rose up to hunt for the lord at the top of the stair. A revelatory instant ensued during which two truths were proven out to every guest's satisfaction. The first, that the legend of his deadly allure had been no legend after all. Even from a distance, striding as he did with an indolent ease from the pitch of a divergent shadow, one could discern that savage charm and note - with a certain discomfort - that this was more than a visual perception. One could actually sense him moving forward, in the same way a gazelle grazing on the grass of a verdant plain might sense the leopard stalking through a nearby thicket of brush. He triggered the identical instinct of fight or flight and it was just as the compensating dose of adrenalin surged into their systems that the second truth came clear. Their prince was alive. The strange nature of this being a second thought was not given over to rumination; too busy were they with the two-pronged shock of this incomprehensible disclosure. What was supposed to be dead was now advancing to the rail upright, breathing and astoundingly fit for a man who had stumbled down a flight of stairs and broken his neck some two decades past. Must have been a myth, that pit they'd talked about - laughed about in passing these last few years. How…but he was so…vital, so very animate, so very, God help us all, young. And here, the final and most determinative sticking point: The man standing above them, in all his preternatural substantiality, was indeed the Cassadine prince. No son, no pretender, no puppet on a string. This was the full-blooded scion of Mikkos the Mad, the vanquisher of Cyrus, the rightful inheritor of the Cassadine throne. The ramifications of that fearsome fact would confound those who survived this night for the rest of their natural lives. His Grace, the devil incarnate, object of this sudden, transfixative scrutiny, took advantage of the silence his subjects offered to draw his lady to his side. To say she sparkled was to understate the case. This woman burned with the fury of a blazing sun; the gold of her gown radiating a light so bright it forced the eye to blink or go blind from the sheer brilliance of its flame. She seemed, in truth, the product of some celestial seduction; the glorious yield of a union of immortals - Aurora, the goddess of the dawn perhaps, and Apollo whose job it was each day to draw her beauty across the sky. Hers was the reflection of divinity. From the shimmer of the satin to the halo of her hair to the pristine pools of Prussian blue that glistened on a glance - she appeared no less than the embodiment of an angel; resplendent, ethereal and wondrously sublime. Of course none came insensible to the deliberate juxtaposition of the Sacred poised aside the Profane. Had she smiled she might have broken the spell of this strikingly clever counterpoint, yet she did not. Instead she adopted an expression of complete and utter boredom with all that met her gaze. She surveyed the chamber only once before she turned to her partner with an arching brow, caught his eye and sighed. Her demon prince smiled, turning to mark the faces of his family - each one still perplexed, still perturbed, still paralyzed by the staggering truth of what appeared at the rail above them - and then he did a most unexpected and bone-chilling thing. He began to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. He's falling. This is what she thought as the echo of that laughter bounced along those chamber walls. He's falling straight into the center of this pack of wolves and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. "You're sleeping with him then?" "As you've been sleeping with her? Tell me, Stefan, how long have you known?" She watched his eye skirt away to examine the expressions of the guests surrounding them, looking for a sign those words had been heard. "That's not important," he replied, his voice hushed to a whisper. "To you," she declared, her tone louder than he might prefer. "I've been caring for her all this time. More the fool me." "Perhaps you should take your complaints to Stavros. He, too, has kept you in the dark." She could hear the ire cutting through his scorn and took this as confirmation she was not alone in her ignorance of the pact they'd made. "If I complain to anyone I can assure you it will be Laura. Or have you forgotten who composed this piece?" "He forced her into it," Stefan seethed, his anger besting his resolve. "Of course he did," she scoffed, turning back to the couple now moving to the head of the stair and leaving him to stew in the truth. Stavros took his position at the top of the steps and awaited his lady-wife's arrangement of her gown. A graceful hand swept up the hem and they began their fluid descent. "You must admit you enjoyed that," he taunted under his breath. "You're mistaken, as usual. I could never enjoy anything at the side of the man who killed my father." "And saved you the trouble," he countered with reproach. "That camera came perilously close to cracking open his skull. Or will you tell me now you were simply trying to take the poor man's picture?" "I would never have killed Rick Webber," she fumed, continuing down the stair. "Contrary to your ridiculous conviction, you cannot read my mind." "Very well. The next time, and I think we both know there will be a next time, I will simply sit back and observe. You have my word." As the couple reached the landing the music stopped and the crowd began to part; the expressions on their faces a myriad mix of alarm, trepidation and a conspicuously keen curiosity. Louis stepped several feet into the chamber to gesture the stragglers off and open a space wide enough to begin the progress from the hall. From here they would proceed through the great room and into the salon where the Oath of Abjuration lay awaiting the hand of its principal signators. Once he'd cleared his path, the minion fell back and allowed the royals to advance. The Prince and his wife took the lead, followed by the Count and Contessa, with the Princess Dowager pulling up the decidedly lethal rear. Hers was the most strategic positioning of all, for once the Prince had passed and the attention of his subjects had bounced from his aspect to the countenance of his more familiar brother, their faces had a tendency to relax and reveal their underlying opinion. A wealth of information could be garnered in the moment it took for those eyes to stray to the third consequent Cassadine and their concealments were once again brought to bear. She marked every mood she witnessed, with more than a few realizing this a slim second too late. The first draft of her "List of the Condemned" would be compiled by the time they arrived at the salon. The procession had reached the heart of the great room before meeting an obstacle of men at whose chevron point stood the challenger, Argos, and his principal advisor in this matter, his padrino Alberto Cassadine. The Prince halted his progress and took a moment to study the upstart who'd had the gall to force a Deciding. Argos permitted this cursory exam, holding firm as his nemesis ran a gaze up the length of his fine silk suit, the stiff standing collar at his neck, the saturnine aspect of his hooded glare and the severe style of his hair; its infamous bounty tightly swept back into a clean knot at the nape of his neck. "And you are…?" inquired Stavros with an apathetic air. "We share the same question," the challenger replied as the room grew suddenly still and the crowd ominously quiet. "You look very much like my cousin Stavros, but far too young and far too alive to have me concede this is true." "Why, if it isn't the little dog himself! I recognize that yapping." The Prince's eye widened in mock surprise. "My Argos, how you've aged! What are you doing away from home? Shouldn't you be keeping vigil? Your father might return at any moment." He leaned forward impetuously, his voice pitching to a whisper. "I speak from experience when I tell you this. Death is not as final a state as one has been led to believe." His challenger stiffened on that remark and thrust his chin out angrily. "I have my memories of the man you claim to be. Sift through yours for one we share." "A test!" exclaimed Stavros, smiling with delight. "I might have thought the one challenge enough. Who could know my uncle's by-blow would produce them by the dozens? Hmm, a memory of you, you say?" A finger was brought to tap his lips as he pondered the request. "This may prove difficult. You weren't exactly a memorable child. Wait, wait. There was that day you admitted to me that you'd never learned to swim. I recall giving you a hand with that. Actually, more of a push. And it was old Alberto, wasn't it, who had to strip to his cottons to pluck you from the lake? Still, I must admit, you had an extraordinary aptitude for sinking." The Roman bull looked ready to charge until the frail hand of his padrino came to rest upon his sleeve. "Yes, Stavros," inserted the man in a voice graveled by age. "It was as you relate. My memory is not as sharp as before, but I recall the day. What I do not recall, and this is perhaps the proof of a failing mind, is the moment you re-ascended the throne." A dark silence fell between the padrino and his would-be prince, its stillness fraught with tension and a cold, unspeakable rage. She broke it cleanly with the clucking of her tongue. "Berto, Berto. How lovely to see you on your feet again!" Helena moved forward majestically and offered her hand to the man, waiting for the moment his lips would press to the cool white surface of her skin. "Did you try the remedy I sent? I had no idea it would prove so terribly efficacious! We are fortunate to have you walking among us, so close were you to your hour of death." He attempted to pull his hand apart but she refused to let it go. "I see your Maria is absent tonight. Is she ill?" He raised a chary eye to hers, his mouth pressed to a stubborn line. "A touch of fever, that is all." "Ah, well, one must take care of one's health, don't you agree? We are, none of us, young anymore." Her posture took a sprightly bounce and she turned to cast a smile toward her son. "Stavros, if you will permit, I would very much like dear Berto to be my companion for the evening! We share so much history between us. Our stories are dusty things and would surely bore the rest of you. But shoulder to shoulder, we may indeed find a way to entertain ourselves." The Prince nodded curtly, providing his leave. His arm rose once again to his wife and she placed her elegant fingers upon it. They were on the very verge of moving off when Argos called them back again, tenacious with his dispute. "My padrino makes an excellent point. It is Nikolas who is Prince. It is he who must face this challenge. He has the running of The Empire, has he not?" The reply came from the quarter least expected. "His father gave him a toy to play with. Can you blame him for coming forward when someone attempts to steal it away?" Laura offered a steely glare to the man who would presume to call out her son. "The boy must learn, after all. Is it your intent to disparage the manner in which we train our child?" Stefan took the cue and engaged. "Everyone in this room is aware that my nephew was never formally installed. His ascension ceremony has yet to take place. How could it, while his father lives?" He lifted his head and delivered a stern gaze to his cousin, one that fairly skipped down the length of his nose. "If you imagined you came to confront Nikolas then you have sorely misread the workings of this family. You will pardon me, Argos, for asking this, but if you cannot reckon the structure of The Empire's governance, how is it possible for you to believe you possess the skill to rule it?" "Enough!" pronounced the Prince, aggravated by the continued coddling of his challenger's contentions. "You will either sign the Oath or not. I can waste no more time divining the depth of your every inexplicable ignorance." With this he brushed past a speechless Argos and the bulk of his impertinent entourage, escorting his lady-wife directly through the door of the adjacent salon. His family followed close on his heels. Stavros skirted the rosewood desk and took his place behind it. The Oath lay centered on the surface of the table, waiting to be signed. He snatched the pen from its side and tipped it toward Helena. "Mother," he trumpeted, and stood at her shoulder as she bent to write her name. She delivered back the pen. "Brother," he called and watched as the ink scrolled across the page. "Darling," he inquired, "if you would?" And Laura's name found its prominent line. "Is there a Roman left on the premises possessed of the courage to challenge me?" he thundered through the door. "If so, he best put his foot forward and bend to make his mark." Argos slipped through the entryway, his forceful stride betraying his fury at finding himself outplayed. He plucked up the pen where the prince had thrown it and began to leaf through the pages of the Oath. Once he was certain the document had not been altered in any way, he leaned over and signed his name, then offered the pen to Stavros. Stavros pulled a pen of his own from inside his jacket's pocket and began his review of the Oath. His eye caught on the seventh page and lifted to fix on his brother. "I suppose we should all console ourselves," he announced cryptically. "No matter the strength of the storm tonight, there will be no reign tomorrow. Had you asked me, Stefan, I could have told you as much." With this, his signature launched across the page and effectively sealed their fate. The Sigh Of Things (39)   I would buy that sheaf of suicide notes, if you've kept them… A modest yet careful cut of smoked salmon, engorged with shredded Dungeness crab and crowned by a dollop of the finest Russian caviar - known to the world of the discerning gourmet as a choice example of an amuse bouche - was the first dish served at the formal dinner of Stavros Cassadine's Deciding. Three bites in all, perhaps four for the women, yet the guests at his table seemed content to make it last. Better a mouth consumed by this sampling from the sea than busy betraying its anxiety for any ear to overhear. The unexpected resurrection of the royal abomination had come as a shock, this was true. Yet it was nothing a bona fide Cassadine mind couldn't manage to wrap its reason around. This was, after all, the same lunatic limb of the family tree that had sought to freeze the world and, on a different day, might well have succeeded. So too were these the irrational relations whom, it was whispered, bore a demented devotion to the darker scientific arts. How many rumors had run rampant through the years; terrible tidings of clandestine experiments in the fields of biochemical warfare, mind control, and the possible applications of their carbonic formula in the areas of stasis and human hibernation? Who was to say they didn't own the skill to reanimate the dead on a whim or, at the very least, regenerate whatever corporeal part had been damaged in his fall from the top of those stairs? That the impossible was possible was not an issue that merited a moment's disputation. No. The source of the kin's agitation was much more concrete and true to form. In fact, it would not be overstating the case to acknowledge that every soul held the same concern, every heart the same apprehension, every mind the very same calculating question. What does this mean for me? Some found the courage - as their plates were pulled away and their salade nicoise set before them - to lift an eye to his lady-wife; this golden apparition now seated at his side. Hers was the hardest truth to swallow. Here was the woman who had run from him, denied him and forsaken him in trade for a bourgeois life as the concubine of the criminal Luke Spencer - a man reviled by all true Cassadines as a killer beyond the pale. Why, after twenty years apart from a family she devoutly claimed to abhor, did she suddenly and quite deliberately set that false foot forward to reassume her role? Noses rose to sniff for a reason, suspicious of the scent the scene conveyed. More than a few surreptitious looks were cast to the faces of the men who flanked her; their Prince holding court at the table's end, and their Count whose finger currently hooked to call for the twisting of a pepper mill. How was it possible this traitorous trinity could find the restraint required to dine in each other's presence? They were, were they not, a cuckolded husband, his fornicating bride and the brother who betrayed him? Considering the sin and the sinners involved, it was remarkable they all still lived. And since they did…seeing that they did…one was left to wonder at the accuracy of the tale that was told; that report of an ancient infidelity; that supposed indiscretion resulting in the child all sought this night to deny their prestigious Cassadine throne. If this Nikolas was not a Stefanovich but in fact a pure-blooded Stavrosovich, well… Suffice it to say these waters grew murkier by the minute. And substantially more treacherous. Argos Antonovich Cassadine marked the unease of his family with an equal measure of fury and chagrin. While he would admit the resurrection of his singularly psychotic cousin qualified as more than a mere parlor trick, it simply didn't rise to the level of miracle that demanded he sink a knee in obeisance and invest the beast with the homage due a properly-sanctioned Cassadine prince. Had he run The Empire through the last twenty years? Had he performed the duties his station obliged? Had he emerged from the shadows just once in all that time to rule these people; this clan; his kin? Stavros no more deserved the title than did any male seated at this table. Any male but one, he allowed, ripping his slice of bread from the loaf and returning the basket to the table. It was a game they were playing, the three of them; these cousins and this aunt. Sounds and furies bereft of significance. And were his padrino seated at his side, instead of chained to that gorgon thirty chairs down, he might have had his nod of agreement along with two courses of shrewd observation already under his belt. As it was he kept his judgments to himself, nodded with confidence to each eye possessed of the mettle to meet his own, and tried to hold this rich cuisine at the bottom of his belly where it rightfully belonged. "I was saddened to hear of the death of your father," relayed Alberto Cassadine, setting his silver to the rim of his plate and bringing his napkin to his lips. "A confusing business. I hope you will convey my sympathies to your son. The loss of a grandfather can be genuinely heartbreaking." "True enough," agreed Stavros, parrying the question for his wife. "It is one of my greatest sorrows that Nikolas was never afforded the opportunity to know his paternal grandfather. I've always felt the benefit he might have derived from that relationship would have proven strategically significant. Why, the value of his warcraft alone might have spared us the need for this evening's sport! My father, as you well know, preferred to nip these adversarial gambits in the bud. Alas, his genius in the field of la guerre a mort has been lost to us forever." "Ah, but he has left you with the master of la guerre de plume," riposted the older man, his head tilting toward Stefan. "And look at where that's gotten us!" The Prince smiled and tossed his brother an indulgent nod. "A paper warrior, much like a paper tiger, is all bark and no true bite. Oh, he may rob you of everything you value in a matter of seconds, but the hand that comes to take your life will inevitably be your own. Stefan has far more faith than I in a man's inherent suicidal impulse. I suppose you could call me a tactical atheist. If you want the job done right, you really must do it yourself." "Of course, a dead man is a dry well," inserted Stefan, leaning back to allow the servant to remove his plate. "And you'll pardon me for noting this, Stavros, but you find that paper biting enough when it's tendered for you to spend." Laura drew a weary smile. "You have stumbled upon an old argument, Signore Cassadine. Shall we cut to the chase and grant each brother his point?" "A wise course, I think," acknowledged Alberto, bowing his head in acquiescence. When his eye rose it turned to the woman seated to the left of the Count; his current consort Regret Derniere; the redoubtable angel his countrymen had grown so terribly fond of. "Contessa," he advanced, marking the moment it took to tease her focus from the Prince's wife. "My godson sings your praises with every other breath. We are surprised to find you here." "But not displeased, I trust?" "No, no," assured the man, his lips pursing to perish the thought. "You knew, though, didn't you? When you met with Argos last night, you knew the Prince was alive." All marked this a direct thrust to the most vulnerable member of the royal entourage. Few were prepared for her equally direct reply. "As did he, Signore. I clearly recall his annoyance at finding the Prince absent from that negotiating table. Should I have asked which prince he meant? It is my understanding there is but one." She cast a troubled look to Stefan and offered a despairing sigh. "Have I blundered again? This Cassadine Way of yours can be profoundly disconcerting." Her Count's gaze fired for an instant with wry amusement before he swiftly schooled his features to a mask of solemn authority. "We will have to work on that," he allowed, lifting a hand to rest atop hers in the spirit of encouragement. "Are we receiving an entrée or not?" inquired Laura, sending an intemperate frown to her prince. "You've read my mind, darling," he responded, pulling his glance from Stefan and Regret. "The service does appear to have suffered a delay. Mother, perhaps a trip to the kitchen…?" Helena's eye narrowed at the presumption that she might be the hound sent to fetch the fare, yet just as her rejoinder reached her lips the doors of the butler's pantry swung wide. A stream of black-clad waiters emerged, balancing broad oval serving trays flat to the shelf of their shoulders. Each sped down the length of the table to his duly-appointed station, drew his collapsible stand from the wall, pitched it apart with a solid thrust and set his tray upon it. A moment was given for the stragglers to amend before a deep nod from the master steward began the formal service of the primary course. The silver hood covering each dish was removed to reveal a meal still steaming from the cookroom ovens. A trio of tournedos crowded the plate; tender medallions of filet mignon wrapped in strips of smoked bacon and slathered with a creamy béarnaise. Tucked to the side and neatly contained by the canting lip of the china lay a sweep of garlic-roasted potatoes and a soft assortment of corn, baby carrots and peas. The aroma alone quieted the crowd; its seasoned savor bending the mind away from contention and more toward the matter of which tauntingly succulent spoil might be conquered first. Were it not for this decisive silence there is no doubt the following exchange would have passed unheard. "Giggy, I can't! There should have been a choice. There is always a choice!" "Lisette, I am telling you to eat! You will pick up your fork and do as I say!" Eyes lifted somewhat reluctantly from their plates, and silverware dropped once again to the cloth as every guest noted that, yes, the attention of their host had been drawn. "Gregori?" quested the Prince, his sonorous voice traveling halfway down the table. "Shto sluchilas? Razrishitye pamoch?" "Ach! Izvinitye, Stavros. Vy ochin' dabri. It is a matter of her taste," explained the man, his fat face reddening as he saw he had halted the meal. "Skol'ka vryemyeni mnye nuzhna zhdat'?" "Not long, no. No," assured Gregori, sweating now and throwing an angry glare to the extremely young and extraordinarily beautiful woman seated at his side. "Do you see? Everyone waits. Take the potatoes. Or these," he insisted, pointing to the carrots. "It is not all of it meat." But the girl had been diverted by the Prince, her lips projecting in a puffy pout. "I think it's very rude to speak in a language the rest of us don't understand." "You do, do you?" Stavros smiled and settled back into his chair, bemused by this child's impertinence. "Gregori has not once offered you his tongue? Even after dark, in the hollow of your ear? Russian, while not a romantic language, has been known to take a woman from here to there." Lisette's nose wrinkled as she struggled for his meaning. "That makes no sense. No sense at all. What is he saying, Giggy?" "It does not matter," seethed Gregori, but not quite under his breath. "Well, I mean, of course it matters," he added quickly, turning to his prince. "I am…she is…" Stavros waved the man away with the flick of a wrist, intent on his companion. "You have a problem with the food, Lisette?" he probed with a sparkle in his eye. She huffed impressively, her pendulous breasts nearly rising out of her dress. "I don't eat meat. I'm sorry, I simply don't. There should have been a choice. Chicken. Fish. Something for those of us who have convictions. Which I do." "There's nothing like a pair of convictions to keep one warm at night, eh Giggy?" Several of the men laughed at this, while the Russian flushed red as a beet. "I must extend my apologies, Lisette. I thought to feed only carnivores tonight. We have no fish, no fowl. Is there anything else that might meet with your taste?" Content with what she thought was his sincere consideration, Lisette found her conceit and promptly fell to patronizing him. "Oh, just have your chef prepare me a vegetarian plate. I'm sure I'll be able to get by on that." Stavros nodded earnestly, his grin growing wider by the second. "Louis," he called, and waited for the man to move into position at his back. "Lisette would like a plate of vegetation. Please go out to the lawn and pick some grass. The good grass, now. Nothing that looks like it's been trampled upon. Take it to the kitchen and toss it with something, oh, I don't know, light. A vinaigrette, perhaps. Once you've finished you must serve it immediately. We want it to be fresh. You may go." Louis departed quickly through the doors and Stavros drew himself straight in his chair. "I'm afraid we must begin without you, Lisette. But never fear. You'll catch up. Gregori will make sure of it. Won't you, my friend?" "Kanyeshna! Yes, yes my prince," the Russian responded obsequiously, clapping a hand to his sweet Lisette's mouth before she could voice another word. Adopting an expression of regal benevolence, the Prince offered one last smile to the pair, then ran his gaze from face to face down the rest of the table and up the length of its opposite side until he came, at last, to Alberto. To the padrino, now studying him with a clearly critical concern, he conferred a complicit wink - which served less to appease the older man than it did to unsettle him. Stavros' head bent then to his dinner, his hands taking up the knife and fork. His blade carved a slice through one of the medallions and the meal's delay was done. Long accustomed to these formal banquets, Alberto Cassadine took his cue and submerged beneath the surface of the feast. His body, old as it was, still possessed the ability to fall to the rhythm of eating with a habitual ease. His utensils were wielded with a minimum of effort; each morsel of food scrupulously speared and scraped and scooped into his mouth with a tidy, automatic grace - the benefit of which was that, while he appeared to be mindful of the meal, his attention could be given the freedom to wander wherever its application might serve him best. Or, as it happened this night, his godson Argos. Difficult at first to get past the ruinous rhetoric of the harridan seated at his side. The witch had loaded her every remark with double and sometimes triple meanings - all riding so merrily atop the tone of polite conversation; all designed to slip quite viciously underneath his skin. This was to be expected, though. She was not the kind of woman who would mellow with age. Throughout the years he'd known her, Helena Cassadine had somehow managed to become truer to herself; her tongue sharper, her calculations more corrupt, the wreckage of her wisdoms distilled over time to a venom so pure he was sure it could scour the sanctity from a sinless soul. The seeds of this had been present from her youth and she, her grubby green thumb gone black no doubt with the labor, had tilled them straight to harvest. More than once did he give thought to his cherished wife Maria, half in longing for her presence and half in abject gratitude that she was not there. Such a family to have married into! Such a burdensome bond to bear. And this, of course, was the reason he had come to their ridiculous "Deciding." To cut that atrocious ancestral tie once and for all. He wasn't eating. This Alberto reckoned of the Prince almost immediately. Oh, he had toyed with that crab and tossed about his salad - a chunk or two of his filet had actually found its way down his throat - yet the bulk of the banquet set before him had simply been maneuvered around the plate, then cleared to the kitchen untouched. The padrino didn't for a moment entertain the idea that the meal had been tampered with (an inadmissibly arbitrary ploy) or that the Prince feared a poisoning himself. (That would be happening soon enough.) Nor did he give credence to the notion that the man was in any way anxious; his hunger confounded by tension or misgiving over what had been put into motion this night. Stavros was much too complaisant, too capriciously agreeable to assign such grounds to his absence of appetite. A thought niggled at the back of his brain and, as he teased it forward, he confirmed it a memory. Mikkos. Mikkos in Greece fifty years past. He had done a similar thing. The same thing, in fact. Which meant this was a strategy. But to what end? It was then Alberto shifted his attention down the distance of that dining room table. There sat the guests, his kin, and even his godson Argos, to a man pitched forward over their plates - their jaws slack, their forks shoveling food into their mouths at a furious pace; as if they imagined this the very last meal they would ever be permitted on earth. The diffusion of the powder, that was their motive. They would lay a buffer down, a barrier of victual; meat and vegetable and buttered bread to obstruct, absorb and hopefully hamper the digestion of the poison to come. He watched this manic devouring for a time, noting every so often the lift of a pair of eyes to the Prince - or, more precisely, to his plate. And suddenly his design became clear. It was a show of strength, of fortitude, of confidence; as if this man came dauntless to the danger, secure in the knowledge that his system would prove impervious to the toxin; as if he needed not a single trick to counter its effect. A subtle tactic, and not at all decisive, yet it would win him points in the end. The kin would remember this certainty of his, which was really just a mask for his courage. This Prince knew the formula of power. His father had taught him well. The servants soon came to carry off the plates, most barren of beef and surprisingly clean - even Lisette's, who had taken to her grass by the force of her Giggy's bulldog grip of a thigh underneath the table. Once the clearing was done, the traditional crystal goblets arrived to be set at the center of each guest's place. A chime was heard and all heads turned as the Prince rose from his seat. "And so it begins," he pronounced, stepping aside to allow the first pouring of the vintage chosen to be his Deciding's ceremonial wine. This would be the glass he'd hold throughout the course of the evening; the vessel betokening his life or death. He barely gave it a glance as the steward finished and moved on to serve his lady-wife. Upon the completion of the royal family's pouring a phalanx of waiters emerged to tend to the goblets of the rest of the guests. "Some of you have been through this before, and a few I see are old enough to have shared this rite with my father." Here the Prince offered a salutory nod to the elderly Alberto. The padrino responded with a languid blink of his eyes. "The rest, I'm afraid, have been subject to the tales told by their relations, their enemies or their well-meaning friends. Perhaps that recounting was far too outrageous to believe. Perhaps it was not outrageous enough. Whatever your impression, the truth is this: You come tonight to cast your vote. Argos, if you would?" At the Prince's gesture his challenger stood to meet the gaze of his relations. Stavros granted a moment for all to mark the opponents well, then continued with his statement. "If it makes a difference who runs your empire, you will cast your vote against Argos or myself. If not, you may cast your vote as you please. Your only obligation here tonight is to deliver that vote. Deliver it or die." The Prince's hand extended to his mother and she rose from her seat with a cold hauteur. The room grew silent enough to hear her train sweep across the carpet as she made her way to his side. His lips fell first to her left cheek, then her right before pulling back to offer his formal acknowledgement. "Thank you for giving me life," he stated, then strayed from protocol to take her chin in his hand. "On more than one occasion," he added, gaining her smile in response. Stavros then turned to his bondsman, a curl of his fingers bringing Stefan to his feet. The Count skirted the table and moved to accept his brother's hand. "Thank you for standing at my back," the Prince allowed. His bondsman nodded tersely and attempted to retreat from the grip, but Stavros pulled him forward once more. "Without a weapon," he appended, clapping Stefan on the shoulder. "This time," warned his brother with a smile that seemed to surprise his face. And then, on what was considered by every witness to be a uniquely notable moment, these three eminent Cassadines, long-reputed to have despised one another with a viciousness wrung from hearts so hard that stone fell to softness by comparison, turned their heads as one to regard the ignominious fool who had imprudently seen fit to trespass against them. "Argos," said their prince in so peremptory a tone it directed every eye to the table's end. "Are there acknowledgements you would offer?" The challenger, to his credit, gave not an inch to this titanic triumvirate. And where one might have expected him to square his shoulders and cock his head in an attempt to reflect an equally imperious pose, he instead rocked back on his heels, sinking one hand casually to his pocket while the other drew a leisurely finger to call his padrino forth. The old man rose from his seat by the Prince and began his journey down the table's length. He has the right of it, Alberto thought as he shuffled up the aisle behind the chairs. Give no quarter to a majesty that gives no quarter to you. The lack of response to their power and prestige sent a message to these calculating kin. He cut a path through the forest of their fear and gave them a trail to follow. And were it not for the fact that this champion had summoned such a feeble old man to stand at his side, the play might actually have carried. As it was, the padrino came cruelly cognizant of each carefully measured step, each halting foot he traveled down that carpet, each catch of breath he drew as he struggled to maintain a bearing befitting his rank as advisor to the next Cassadine prince. This took too long though, he knew, and those retrograde royals just stood at the wait, giving no distraction to relieve the sight of his pitifully painful progress. Damn them. Where was that insatiable greed for attention when one could profit from it most? When finally he reached his end, his beloved godson set a hand to his shoulder and looked him in the eye. "There are no words, mio caro amico, that would contain the fullness of my gratitude for your limitless patience and unending support through all the years of my life. Fortunate are we to require no voice to know them in our hearts." With this he delivered a kiss to both cheeks, as was the custom, then drew the man into a meaningful embrace. Alberto felt the moisture in his eyes as plainly as he did the patting of his back by this cherished almost-son. Yet by the time the men pulled apart their emotions had been firmly suppressed. Stavros took his goblet from the cloth and thrust it into the air before him. Argos lifted his own in response. As if on cue, the room filled with the muted thunder of sixty chairs pushing back from their berths beneath the table. Every guest rose from his seat, clasped his glass and joined in the ritual toast. "In honor of my father, Mikkos Cassadine, Prince and Protector of the Cassadine Realm, I give you his instruction in its native Greek. E pithi e apithi. Either drink or depart." "E pithi e apithi," echoed the voices of the many Cassadine kin as the first sip of wine splashed over their lips and The Hand, somber in the silence of a score of shadows, were at last brought to their stations. Russian Translation: "Gregori?" quested the Prince, his sonorous voice traveling halfway down the table. "What's wrong? Can I help?" "Ach! Excuse me, Stavros. You're very kind. It is a matter of her taste," explained the man, his fat face reddening as he saw he had halted the meal. "How long do I have to wait?" "Not long, no. No," assured Gregori, sweating now and throwing an angry glare to the extremely young and extraordinarily beautiful woman seated at his side. "Do you see? Everyone waits. Take the potatoes. Or these," he insisted, pointing to the carrots. "It is not all of it meat."