then opened her eyes and began.  She started with a weave that placed an image before her eyes, an image only she could see, of her own back.  It was a view some twenty feet away, letting her see all four of them on the platform.  She absolutely had to be able to see the whip to make this believable.  Then she assembled the energies she would need to weave Illusions, and stood ready for the first lash.  The appointed punisher reared back with his whip, sized up Keritanima, then snapped it at her.
	Crack!
	To everyone watching, the whip left an angry red line across Keritanima's back, stripping her fur out and sending it scattering to the platform.  The angry line was raw and bloody, but Keritanima did not so much as flinch as it cut across her.  In reality, the bloody line was an Illusion, hastily woven by her the instant the whip struck, while a razor-thin weave of Air created a skin-deep slice across her back.  It was barely enough to cut the skin, but it bled liberally, causing that blood to issue forth from the whipline.  That blood would get into her fur and create a physical assurance that the whip was hurting her.  She had to be able to see the whip to create the proper image and cut, and by studying how the punisher moved as he prepared to strike, she knew how deep or severe to make the complementary Illusory wound.  The fur laying on the platform was a powerful reinforcement of the Illusion she created, a physical sign that the whip had certainly hit her.  It made the magically created "wound" that much more believable.
	What she was doing was tricky.  A Sorcerer usually couldn't weave weaves on herself, but Keritanima was weaving on herself in an indirect manner.  She created her weave to manifest in a physical way, and that physical effect was what was causing her wound.  She had to be very careful not to let the physical manifestation go too deep, or the flows powering it would merge with the magic inside her, and make all her weavings fizzle.  The Illusion would drop, and it would probably also disrupt the Ward, leaving her open and vulnerable to the remainder of the lashes.
	The second lash hit her just above the first, making more fur fly and forcing her to conjure up another Illusion and slice.  This was why it was going to be such a challenge to her, to create an Illusion, then alter the existing Illusion ninety-nine more times while at the same time weaving a cutting spell of Air to coincide with each Illusion, and do it so fast that both were complete before the lash dropped from her back  Then she would have to hold the Illusion for the long walk back to the Palace.  Again, she did not flinch at the lash, and it seemed that the onlookers were beginning to notice that.
	Resolutely, her face nearly meditatively serene, Keritanima stood there and remained completely motionless as the punisher methodically applied the lash.  To the onlookers, her back became a bloody zigzag of long wounds, and her fur laid around her feet in thick clumps.  But the immense drain on her was beginning to make her sag slightly, a drain that was only amplified by her overextension the day before, and she began to react to the strike of the whip.  That was only logical for anyone watching, as the compounded pain from the lashings took their toll on her body.  The platform became peppered with bloody clumps of fur, and it began to stick to the whip, forcing the punisher to pause to clean it off between lashes.
	After what seemed an eternity of counting, Keritanima counted the hundreth lash.  It struck her squarely in the buttocks, right over the base of her tail, and he had aimed there on purpose.  She was forced to conjure the appropriate Illusion and cut herself right across the backside.  The indignation of that roused her from her bone-weariness, an exhaustion that had caused her to get lost in the seeming endless repetition of altering her Illusion and slashing herself with a razor-edge of Air to bring out real blood from the inhibited whipstrike.  After that hundreth lash, her entire back burned and throbbed.  One hundred cuts created a patchwork over her back, and almost all the fur had been stripped off by the whip.  It made moving her arms or tail a painful procedure, and she could feel the blood oozing through the fur on the backs of her legs and down her tail.  She gave the punishing Wikuni an evil stare, then crossed her arms and looked at the witness expectantly.
	"Well?  Make your declaration so I can go home," she told him impatiently.  The pain of the cuts she'd put in her own back was merging with her exhaustion to draw her face, and make her pant heavily when not actively speaking.  Her tongue lolled out from the side of her maw for a moment, but she recovered herself and put on the appearance of a Princess, a supposedly super-Wikuni figure impervious to such things as mortal pain.
	He gaped at her.  After one hundred lashes, she should have been laying unconscious on the platform!  But there she stood, obviously in pain but trying to look only mildly discomfited by the flogging.  It made her seem super-Wikuni, larger than life, and it made him forget his duty for a moment and stare at her in shock.  She could see what he was thinking in his eyes.  That she was obviously hurt, but she wasn't about to give her father the satisfaction of seeing her faint, grovel, beg, or in any way knuckle under to his punishment.  Her standing there after one hundred lashes was a defiant display, a testament to the intense, passionate hatred she had for her father, a hatred so intense that she would push herself past her physical limits just to spite him.
	"I declare the punishment to be rendered," he called in a startled voice.
	That was when she noticed the silence.  She turned partially and looked out over the crowd, looking at their faces.  Fur, leather, scale, and feather, as the old saying went about Wikuni crowds.  Those faces stared at her in surprise, in awe, and then someone in the back shouted her name.  "Keritanima!" he called.  "Keritanima!"
	More than one took up the call.  In seconds, nearly the entire crowd was chanting her name rhythmically, pumping their fists in time with the cadence.  "Ker-ree-TAH-nee-MAH!" the crowd shouted in unison, clamoring forward against the guards there to keep them from the base of the platform.
	She had no idea why they were doing it.  She stared at them in genuine surprise and dismay, staring down at thousands of faces fervently chanting her name.  Why would they do such a thing?  They should be afraid of her, afraid of her being able to withstand a punishment that would put the hardiest man on his knees.  But there they were, chanting her name, surging forward against the guards in an attempt to get closer to her.  Why, for the gods' sake?  Why?
	Then it hit her.  These were the common people, the masses which had struggled under the heel of her father's oppressive rule.  The people who had to endure the crushing taxes, the long hours of labor for noble-owned companies, the people who saw their children go hungry in order to pay the crown its fair share of their bounty.  The backbone of their nation.  And they saw her as something of a heroine.  The defiant daughter of the king, who wasn't as bratty as she pretended to be all those years, who was willing to stand up to his punishments and his power, to spit in his face and do the one thing that all of them wanted to do.
	To tell Damon Eram to go piss up a flagpole.
	She may not be their savior, but at least her defiance gave them a feeling of satisfaction, and that was why they were chanting her name.  They knew that Damon Eram would be livid that he had failed to break his daughter, and the people took great satisfaction from that simple truth.
	"Well then," Keritanima said lightly to the witness over the din.  "Now that we've entertained the people, I think I'd like to go home now."
	The royal servant stared at the chanting people in surprise, then looked at Keritanima and nodded solemnly.  "Bring up a coach!" he shouted to one of the guards.
	"No," Keritanima said, trying to keep her knees from wobbling.  "I walked here, I'll walk back, and I'll be damned if I give my father an excuse to say that I didn't accept his punishment."
	Keritanima found herself surrounded by guards, who were themselves surrounded by a throng of accompanying citizens, escorting the princess home as they shouted her name and called to her.  Keritanima tried to ignore them, focusing all her concentration on fighting off the pain and retaining the Illusion that her back resembled ground meat more than a living body.  She put one foot in front of the other, repeating it over and over again, letting the guards guide her home.  Those guards didn't wander around as they escorted the princess back home.   The shouting crowd caused them to turn straight up the Boulevard, the fastest way back to the Palace.  She was drained, exhausted, in considerable pain--but a great deal less than if she'd really been whipped!--and had to struggle to maintain the Illusion.  But she made it back to the Palace, leaving the crowd behind, escorted right back to the door to her apartment.
	Back in Market Square, those who watched the flogging talked about it to each other the rest of the day.  Some of the more daring rushed onto the Block and collected up tufts of Keritanima's bloody fur, rushing away with them.  Word spread throughout the city about the Crown Princess, how she had stood on the Block, naked as the day she was born, and took one hundred lashes without fainting.  How she had stood in defiance to the King by refusing to fall to the whip, then had bravely refused to be carried home, deciding instead to finish her father's punishment by walking back to the Palace.  Her statements also were recanted over and over, about how a father could possible order his own child flogged, and dimming the already dark opinion the people had for their King.  Damon Eram was notorious for his ruthlessness and viciousness, and his crushing taxes and oppressive laws made more than a few of his subjects grumble and mutter when his name was spoken.
	To them, Keritanima's display of outright defiance was bolstering, was heartening.  It told the people that at least one person in Wikuna wasn't afraid to stand up to Damon Eram.

	Keritanima gasped and flinched from the cold cloth soaked with vinegar placed on her back.  Binter seemed unimpressed by her display, continuing to very gently wash out the cuts that Keritanima had inflicted upon herself during the flogging.  She lay on her belly on her bed, a pillow under her chest and propped up on her elbows, holding as still as she could to get it overwith.  Kalina, Azakar, and Miranda attended her, Azakar keeping his back turned modestly and making a show out of watching the bedroom door.  Keritanima was still nude.
	"Ow!" Keritanima barked.  "Binter, you don't have to be so rough!"
	"I barely touched you, Highness," Binter chided in his deep voice.  "Hold still.  I don't see how this can hurt more than what I see here."
	"The wine stings, you blockhead!" she snapped.  "Why did you soak it in wine?"
	"Vinegar," he corrected.  "It cleanses the wound and prevents infection."
	"It's going to kill me!" she declared in a woeful voice, flattening the bridge of her muzzle on the bed and hissing as he applied the cloth again.
	"What possessed you to let them whip you, Keritanima?" Kalina asked curiously.
	"I didn't let them whip me," she said in a hissing voice.  "But I had to make it believable.  I had to make sure they believed they were whipping me."
	"So what are these?  Love bites?"
	"Slashes," Binter said.  "Done by something like a razor, from the neatness of the wounds."
	"Something like that," Keritanima winced.  "I used Sorcery to do that."
	"You cut yourself?" Kalina asked in shock.
	"It was the knife or the whip," she replied bluntly, sucking in her breath and flinching against the cloth.  "If I'd have chosen the whip, I'd be ten times worse off."
	"Keritanima used her magic to make it appear that they were flogging her," Miranda explained.  "The loss of her fur and the blood were vital to making that performance look real."
	"I can understand that, but to cut yourself up," Kalina said with a shudder.  "You're a better man than me, Keritanima."
	"Thanks," she drawled.
	"Why don't you just heal yourself, like you did for Miranda?"
	"I can't heal myself," she grunted.  "Believe me, if I could, I'd be doing it right now.  Sorcerers can't use their magic on themselves."
	"Why?"
	"Do you really want the explanation?" Keritanima asked pointedly.
	"Uh, no, nevermind," Kalina said.  "I'll take your word for it."
	"Good.  Ow!" she gasped, flinching from the cloth as Binter placed it on her buttocks.
	"I've been bitten there, but never cut," Kalina remarked absently.
	"I'm sure my world would have ended if you wouldn't have told me that," Keritanima snapped waspishly.
	"I think you should go before you upset her Highness," Binter suggested to the fox Wikuni.
	"She already has!" Keritanima said with a hiss.
	"I'll go now," Kalina noted calmly, then scurried out.
	"Fine!" Keritanima snapped.  "Ow!  Binter!"
	"Hold still," he said adamantly, putting a huge hand on her shoulder and pushing her down into the mattress.  "The more you move, the more this will hurt, and the longer it will take."
	"I saw the crowd from the window," Miranda mused.  "What was that all about?"
	"Beats the bloody hell out of me," Keritanima replied in a curiousy amazed voice.  "They were cheering me at the end.  I think it's because they're starting to get very unhappy about the new taxes and the rough treatment they're getting from my father.  I think they saw me as a rallying point to voice their displeasure."
	"That's good for us."
	Keritanima nodded.  "It'll give my father something else to worry about."
	"Now what happens?" Azakar asked from the door.
	"Zak, you don't have to be so modest," Keritanima told him.  "If I was so worried about you seeing my butt, I'd have a sheet drawn over it."
	"Someone has to watch the door, Kerri," he said calmly.
	"Be that way then," she giggled, then she hissed.  "Ow!  Binter!"
	"I am nearly finished," he said calmly.  "These require bandages."
	"I know.  It's how I'm going to hide the fact that I'm not as hurt as it looked," she agreed.  "It's going to itch like crazy."
	"Better itch than pain," Azakar remarked from the door.
	"At least they didn't take any fur off my tail.  A girl has to have at least one vanity."  She put her muzzle on her folded arms and relaxed a bit.  "Anyway, Zak, as to what happens now, the answer is not much," she replied.  "I need out of this room to start the next phase.  After whipping me, my father will probably keep me in here for a couple more days, then lift my restriction and demand I attend court."
	"Why would he want to do that?"
	"To look at me and know he had me beaten, for one," she replied calmly.  "He'll also want to see who I talk to and what I do, since he can't rely on spies to watch us in here.  He knows I'm up to something, so he'll allow me to carry on with it so he can get an idea of what it is and try to put a stop to it."
	"Just like sending scouts to determine the size of an opposing army," the Mahuut reasoned.
	"Something like that," she agreed.  "Bringing me into court is exactly what I want him to do.  So far, he hasn't disappointed me, so I doubt he will over this either."
	Azakar looked in her direction, then blushed and turned away again.  "How can you manipulate him like that?" he asked.
	"I'm not.  I just know my father," she replied.  "He's actually a rather clever person, but he's somewhat cautious when it comes to political intrigue.  The most cautious thing to do in his position is let me out of my room and let me plot, so he can see it coming.  The only way to completely stop me is to throw me in prison, and that's something that he won't do.  At least if I'm out in the open, he knows he has a chance of intercepting my plans and countering them."
	"So, you're making your plans based on what you think he's going to do."
	"Exactly."
	"And you have plans in case he does something else."
	"Of course.  An unprepared general usually loses, Zak."
	"Why wouldn't he throw you in prison?"
	"Because I'd just break out of it, Zak," she smiled at his back sweetly.  "He knows he can't hold me, and if I break out of prison and vanish, then I'll be on the loose and he'll have no idea what I intend to do.  He'd much rather have me where he can keep an eye on me.  There's an old saying that--"
	"'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,'" Azakar interrupted.
	"Exactly.  I'm too dangerous to let loose unsupervised.  He'll want to keep me where he can have people report every word I say in triplicate."
	"I guess that makes sense."
	"I'll make a spy out of you yet, Zak."
	"I hope not," Azakar grumbled.  "I don't have the patience for this stuff.  I'd rather just march up to someone and stick a sword in them.  It's much simpler."
	"True, but that's what makes anarchy different from civilization," she chuckled.

	In one respect, Damon Eram surprised his daughter.
	She sat in her room and stewed for nearly a full week.
	She needed the time, she had to admit.  The cuts weren't deep, but one hundred of them had taken their toll on her.  She had trouble moving around, and it made her short tempered.  She had refused repeatedly any attempt to have the Royal priests heal her with magic, instead allowing them to believe that she had healed herself.  She couldn't do that, but they didn't know that, and a bit of artful misinformation worked in her favor on that matter.  They had seen her up and about the very next day, wearing a robe tied very loosely and obviously having bandages on underneath.  It was obvious that she was in pain, but she wouldn't allow them to inspect the wounds, so they had no idea how badly she was still hurt, but had obviously done something magical to herself to allow her to be standing so soon after taking such a brutal punishment.  She had politely refused their invitations to heal her, and refused them three times a day for the next six days.  They came with each meal brought to her room, to offer their assistance to her.
	That surprised her.  She thought that her father would leave her to suffer, and would bring her into court just as soon as she could stand without fainting as a very visible reminder to everyone that he was in charge, and that he could deal with his daughter's disobedience.  That he would back off and give her time to mend, even allow priests to come and offer healing, was unexpected.  It seemed to her that he was jeopardizing his position by doing it, so she had to sit back and think about it for quite a while, imagining the situation through her father's eyes and considering all the information she could get from Miranda.  Though punishing her more would indeed reinforce his power to court, she realized that now he was dealing with much more serious issues.  The public reaction to her flogging had been a political disaster, she'd found out from one of Miranda's many excursions to gather news and gossip.  The people had taken a very ugly view of the Crown Princess being so blatantly humiliated, and there was even some disapproval from the noble houses.  Not that Keritanima was punished, but that if Damon Eram had the nerve to do that to the heir to the throne, then he wouldn't have any mercy to anyone else.  Damon Eram had been trying to establish his dominance, and it had backfired on him on more than one level.
	So, taking that into account, she could see the logic in her father's actions now.  He was being considerate to her needs to mollify the noble houses and try to establish some damage control with the commoners.  Her father didn't fear the possibility of a revolt, but for him, any distractions right now were major.  He was still reeling from the assassin's scythe she had swept through his more trusted advisors and servants some months before, and the current major events were making his precarious situation even worse.  Damon Eram had, on the average, about three plots against him by various noble houses to topple him from the throne and rise a new house up to the monarchy at any given time.  Those too were probably wearing at him, forcing him to work with fewer resources to protect himself.  The fact that he he had raised taxes so high was a clear indication of how desparate he was.  House Eram's trading business was sagging, due to some major losses of ships and their cargos over the last few months, due to sabotage.  Some other house had begun to attack Damon Eram through the ability of his noble house to make money.  That was another reason he raised taxes so high.  Without the income of the house to help fund his political operations, he had to find that money from somewhere else.
	And now Keritanima was back, and it was clear to him that she was going to fight him.  She established that in the throne room, and at first her father's pride and anger had caused him to make the decisions he did.  She had counted on that.  But now his reason was starting to reassert itself, and he was beginning to show signs of getting back to the shrewd, cunning policital manipulator that he was.
	She was also counting on that.  That political cunning would cause her father to bring her into court, where he could keep an eye on her.  If he reacted out of anger, he would have her thrown in prison.  Then again, prison was no longer an option.  He would suffer a serious loss of face if he imprisoned her now, something that he wasn't in a position to afford at the moment.
	The time let her heal, but it chafed at her.  She would often pace angrily, furious at the delay, yet unable to do anything about it.  The information Miranda brought in was all she had, and it was usually enough.  There were the usual hints and rumors of this or that plot, of who had on what gods-awful dress at the last party, who had been caught ruffling fur with whom in secluded corners, who had said what about whom in the endless war of rumors and innuendos meant to sully reputations and reduce status among the noble social circles.  There was a great deal of talk of new maneuvering around the King, about how many felt that Keritanima's appearance was the perfect opportunity to do something about Damon Eram.  After all, any plot that failed could simply be blamed on the Princess.  It would make those with eyes on the throne very bold, and that would make her father very defensive.
	That was what she wanted.
	She needed her father to be upset and out of position to counter those plots.  It would keep his mind off of what she was really doing.
	The next step in her plan dealt with the nobles.  They had to both present a challenge to Damon Eram, yet be in no position to threaten her when her plan succeeded and she took his crown.  There was a very delicate balance in arranging that, and it hinged on keeping them too busy with each other to worry about the crown.  The business of arranging that had already begun.  Miranda had delivered a series of instructions to Ulfan about what she wanted done, and she had also begun to plant certain vague rumors about several noble houses.
	The noble houses of Wikuna had a very regimented rank system, that was based on the size of the house and the amount of money it had.  The house of Eram was considered highest ranked, because it was the Royal House.  Without the Royal status, house Eram would rank about tenth among the assorted houses.  House Eram had a very lucrative business, but the house was smaller than it had been in many years.  And Damon Eram was the reason for that.  By killing off anyone who could challenge him for the throne, he reduced house Eram from twenty members to four.  Damon Eram, Keritanima, Jenawalani, and Veranika.  Rank was important, but it had nothing to do with holding the throne.  When it came to holding the throne, that was when raw military power and political jockeying came into play.  A house held the throne because it was backed up by other houses, or it had utter control of the military, or both.  House Eram had been in power long enough for Damon Eram to have that control of the military, even though he lacked the support of the other noble houses.  The army and navy was loyal to the crown, and that made them loyal to Damon Eram, because he was the undisputed ruler of Wikuna.  That meant that anyone who wanted the crown had to fight the military to get it.  No noble house had the manpower to face Wikuna's military in a coup, and that would plummet Wikuna into a bloody and savage civil war.
	Things were already tense.  The largest houses, Zalan, Tarn, and Alagon, had called up much of their private armies to Wikuna, reportedly to protect their interests.  Other houses, rivals of those houses, called in their own armies to protect themselves from their forces.  That placed a very large hostile force at Damon Eram's doorstep, so he had called in the army to counter any ideas of an alliance between the houses to topple him.  It was a powder keg waiting to explode, and Keritanima had already given Miranda the matches to light it.  As soon as Keritanima was let out of the room, she would set the fuse to go off at a time of her choosing, then stand back and watch the fireworks.
	With the noble houses embroiled in inter-house squabbling, it would keep them too busy to really do anything against the crown.  The key laid in arranging things so the fighting began just before she made her run at her father's throne.  That wasn't all that difficult, because to make the noble houses bite on her bait, she had to have a reasonable amount of time to lay down rumors and innuendo, then plant certain evidence here and there to back those rumors up.  She had to make it subtle, so it would look like the house's spies uncovered a secret plot, rather than having everything laying out in the open and obvious.  The longer it took them to uncover the "plot," the more believable it would appear to them.  It was a game she had played before many times, and it was a game at which she excelled.  The easiest way to neutralize an enemy was to give them another, more immediate, enemy to fight.  It worked at a personal level, it worked at a group level, and it worked at a noble house level equally well.
	It would all start with a simple note.
	The note was easy enough to write.  Keritanima took care of that on the sixth day of her convalescence, a short note written in a bold, flaring style to the new head of house Zalan, Sheba Zalan.  Miranda had told her that Sheba was not taking well to her new role, and that her uncles, aunts, and her great uncle all were considering supplanting her and taking control of the house.  That meant that her life was in very serious danger.  Without her doting father to protect her, she couldn't go back to piracy, and the large bounty on her head in the East would make taking a commercial ship to trade suicide.  That meant that her only way to maintain the money and high life she liked was to be a decent house matriarch.  The note, written in a perfect imitation of her father's writing, invited Sheba to the Palace for a personal audience.  The term "personal audience" where her father was concerned was a notorious statement.  It meant that he either had a sexual attraction for the recipient of the note, or he or she was being invited to his or her own murder.  Damon Eram wasn't unknown for dalliances with the more attractive noble ladies, whether they were married or not.
	It was a perfect situation for Keritanima.  With Sheba's control of her fortunes--her very life--at stake, she'd jump at the chance to talk to the King.  House Zalan had been in secret negotiations to form an alliance by marriage to house Eram anyway, so the note would have a sharp ring of truth in it.  Since the note specifically said for Sheba to come after court and meet him in his chambers, she would probably take it as an invitation to wrestle in the sheets.  And Sheba would find it irresistable.  Sheba lived for danger and excitement, and the opportunity for such an unknown, exciting experience would draw her like bees to honey.  Even if she found her father repugnant, the idea of a midnight interlude with him would be powerful for her, powerful enough for her to show up, even if to just tell him no.
	The result of that would make it look like house Zalan and the King were close to an alliance.  The other large houses would take exception to that, and begin plans to drive a wedge between Damon Eram and Sheba.  The smaller houses would increase their mercenary forces because of the activity, and that would heighten the tensions.  It was an all-around perfect situation.
	Keritanima had little else to do but make plans for those seven days.  On the morning of the eighth day, the Chamberlain arrived with the morning meal, as had become the custom.  But this time, he handed Keritanima a wax-stamped envelope.  "His Majesty hopes you are well enough to attend court this day, Highness," he said simply.
	"Is this a summons?" she asked, holding up the envelope.
	"No, your Highness, that is a letter that was delivered to the Palace this morning by messenger.  I'm afraid I don't know who sent it."
	"Thank you, my Lord Chamberlain," she said absently, tapping the envelope in her hand as she pondered its contents.  "I'm well enough to manage court.  Tell my father I'll be there."
	He nodded calmly and beckoned the servants to hurry with the setting up of breakfast, then took his leave.  Keritanima followed Miranda and Azakar as they carried the meal into her bedroom, where Kalina and Binter waited for them, tapping the letter against her muzzle curiously.  She sat down with the others and let Kalina take her pick of the morning's plates as she opened the letter and quickly scanned it.  "Good news," she said, pausing to touch the Weave and sweep the area for unfriendly ears or unusual concentrations of magic on the Weave.  She'd discovered that those magical concentrations were Priest spells, and it had been a simple task to learn how to disrupt them.  "It's from Ulfan.  He'll be ready."
	"You expected him not to be?" Kalina asked.
	"It was a big job I asked him to do, Kalina," she replied.
	"He must have a code if he sent you a letter," Azakar noted.
	Keritanima nodded.  "We worked it out a long time ago," she replied.  "This letter reads like it's from a young g