The Brooding Crown: The Second Book of Caledan (Books of Caledan 2)
Author: Cowley, Meg
Date: 2015-07-16
Keywords: fantasy fiction
Publisher: Meg Cowley

Contents

Books of Caledan Free Goodies

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Map of Caledan

Noble Landholdings of Caledan

Soren

Zaki

Eve

Myrkdaga

Dane

Eve

Soren

Zaki

Luke

Eve

Demara

Myrkdaga

Zaki

Soren

Demara

Zaki

Soren

Zaki

Demara

Myrkith-Visir

Zaki

Demara

Soren

Eve

Zaki

Eve

Soren

Eve

Soren

Eve

Soren

Zaki

Eve

Luke

Eve

Luke

Eve

Zaki

Luke

Eve

Myrkith-Visir

Luke

Myrkdaga

Soren

Thanks for Reading

About the author

Have you read the first book of Caledan yet? If not, read it for free today!

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First edition

© 2015 Meg Cowley

Cover design © 2015 Meg Cowley

All characters, places and events are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, places or events is purely coincidental.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored or distributed in any form, without prior written permission of the publisher.

www.megcowley.co.uk

For Norma and Ernie

Perseverantia at positivum cogitandi

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Tori, John, Dave, Dave, Deb and Andy for your constant support, feedback, and inspiration. Together, we are greater than the sum of our parts.

Thanks to Hazel and Thaleia for your eagle eyes and continued contributions.

Last and certainly not least, thank you to my wonderful editor and ‘secret weapon’ Sophie for polishing The Brooding Crown.

Soren

Talons pinned Soren to the bed, gripping his flesh. He twisted, crying out as he thrashed, but the claws did not relinquish their grasp. With great shuddering gulps, Soren surfaced from sleep to his dimly lit bedchamber.

Cautious faces loomed over him. The hands, not talons, which had held him down loosened. One of the hands stroked his own in comfort, whilst the other soothed his forehead with a cold cloth, wiping the sweat from his face. His clammy nightclothes clung to him, constricting his movements.

Soren’s breathing slowed to a weak flutter as he lay back into his pillow, his eyes slipping shut once more.

“Another nightmare?” Edmund’s voice sounded from his side.

Soren did not nod; the answer was obvious.

“The usual,” Soren murmured. “Zaki’s searching for me, hunting me through the castle dungeons. I try to run, but I cannot. It’s as if the air has turned to water and I’m drowning, but then all of a sudden everything turns to light and pain and fire searing through me. In that moment, I know he’s found me, and I know I’m dead.”

Soren opened his eyes as Edmund gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Edmund’s face was ashen with his own exhaustion. He sat with Soren, guarding him through the inevitable torture that returned every night.

“This will not last forever,” said Edmund.

Soren rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I hope you’re right. I cannot last on nightmares.”

Edmund did not reply, but Soren had a feeling he would be thinking the same. He had tried to send Edmund away for the man’s own health and sanity, but every night, when Soren awoke hyperventilating and in a blind panic, Edmund’s presence was the first thing he noticed.

With a flick of Edmund’s hands, the servants dispersed, though it took an extra shoo for the physician to retreat.

“You are safe here, Soren. Zaki is most likely dead, but if not, he would not be able to reach you.” Edmund shuffled to an armchair and sank into it with a sigh of relief. “It has been over two months since your uncle escaped. Rest easier in the knowledge that all of Caledan knows him for a traitor, a usurper… and a murderer,” Edmund added softly, his eyes flicking to Soren. “Zaki will find no shelter here.”

“I tell myself that daily, yet now I know what he’s capable of. The worst thing is not knowing where he is. I almost expect him to jump from behind the curtain or under the bed. Ridiculous, I know. And yet I cannot dispel the fear. I was so close to returning true peace and security to Caledan. He escaped so easily – what if he returns?”

“Zaki is long gone. The hundreds of armoured men crossing the border heading south, bearing no banner or crest, could only be him fleeing with his last supporters. The deserts will claim him before he reaches anywhere that he could survive.”

Soren could not help but question otherwise. Every shadow held his uncle waiting to leap out and kill him. Even at night, Soren insisted on the room being lit to give an extra shred of peace to his mind, for what it was worth, but the nightmares came as virulently as ever.

“What is it you fear the most?” Edmund’s hooded eyes regarded Soren thoughtfully.

Soren stirred, pulling the cover closer around him, despite the insufferable warmth it created. His eyes drifted closed again. They ached with such a fierce throb that it hurt to open them. “I’m not sure.” He’s a monster, and his absence only makes him grow more terrible. Soren could not think of his uncle’s face, nor his name, without flinching.

“I fear that he will never give up, that he will return, that he will hunt me down and that there is nothing I can do to stop it. I fear that he will kill me – I fear death.” Soren shivered as he thought of the blackened and contorted bodies left behind by his uncle. “I fear how he will kill me, what dark weapon he would use against me. Castle walls feel as thin as air when I know that he could escape from such a prison.”

“The entire kingdom hunts for him, Soren. He could not pass our borders, let alone reach Pandora or you. You have nothing to fear.”

“Yet Roher supplies him with military technology – so how sure can you be that he will seek to come alone?” Soren’s voice rose in pitch as his breathing quickened again.

Edmund paused. “I do not understand it myself. Lord Behan’s intelligence suggests that the incendiary device used in your uncle’s escape was almost certainly developed and produced within Roher’s borders, yet we cannot be sure Harad supplied it. Harad has remained true to his word: he left peacefully and has not returned.”

“Yet,” Soren said. The word hung ominously in the air.

“Perhaps Harad will return. However, think of the journey Zaki would have to undertake to even reach Roher’s borders, let alone its capital city. Why would Harad assist him, after trading him with us? Surely, he is a lost cause.”

Soren did not answer. His gaze drifted from the stone walls of his chamber to the flickering light of the candle on his side table. Once more, he wondered how fire could break stone. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Edmund.”

Zaki

The golden-domed watchtowers of Arrans, capital of Roher, blazed on the horizon under the punishing sun. Zaki ached. A deep-seated, dull, pulsing ache that encompassed his entire being: his bones, his muscles, even his head. At last…

Beside him, Reynard sank to the ground. “Thank you, Lord God, for blessing us with your divine intervention, by showing us the way to our salvation.” Reynard murmured fervent prayers to himself, his bobbing head bowed over shaking, clasped hands, and his eyes scrunched shut.

Zaki looked at him through narrow eyes, disdaining the wreck of a man kneeling at his side, but Reynard was still in a better state than most of the others who had survived the torturous journey. There is no God, you fool. After all ‘God’ has done to me, he cannot be. If he exists, then he has wronged me and should be damned to hell himself.

His eyes flicked back to drink in the vista before him. Where they had tramped for endless weeks through desert, now grass grew beneath their ruined feet. With every step they took, the land became lush, green and hopeful.

Before them stood the red stone walls of Arrans. Topped with triangular crenulations, they stretched into the distance, encircling the vast city within their protection. They snaked over the five hills on which Arrans was built, even spanning the river that carved through the city’s belly.

On each of the five hills stood a great watch-tower, a hundred and fifty feet high, an unlit yet blazing beacon reflecting the light from gilded brickwork and mosaic patterns. He could not see the detail he knew to be there – they were still miles away – but the flash of colour atop the closest towers was visible. Below the golden sun of Roher flew the banner of his father-in-law: the red rose and rampant lion of King Harad the Third.

Zaki’s only other visit to the city – to meet his bride-to-be and formalise their wedding – had been a grander and more pleasant occasion. Instead of a harsh journey through the desert, they had sailed to Bera, the sea-port and travelled at leisure to Arrans from there. The men had ridden in upon horses, with the ladies riding in palanquins, fanned by servants. All had been cheered into the city by rich and poor alike who lined the streets up to the royal palace at the top of the tallest of Arrans’s hills.

In contrast to the well-fed prince entering Arrans in triumph, Zaki was now a pauper and passed for a different person. His eyes had sunk into his burnt and weathered cheeks under unkempt, shaggy hair, and his soft skin had been hardened by the long duration of rough travel. His clothes hung off him – he and his men had long eaten all the horses, surviving on nought for days – and his body, which had been so well trained and fed, had melted away to a toughened, wiry frame.

They had little left – no money between them, nor armour. In the blistering heat, it was an unnecessary burden. Even Zaki’s royal armour, worth more than the annual earnings of all his men put together, had been dumped. Instead they survived like bandits, thieving food, drink and luxuries like blankets from those they passed, either through force or by silent theft in the night.

The sight before him made him forget the weeks – or it could have been months, he had lost track of the endless cycle of night and day – of hardship. Spurred on and reinvigorated by the sight he had so longed to see, he drove his men on, commanding them through cracked and dried lips.

His men followed in silence like sheep behind a shepherd. They had little energy to talk and no desire to rejoice after everything they had lost. More than one had died along the way through illness, starvation, dehydration or because their mutinous words and discontent had reached a ruthless Zaki’s ears. But Zaki was no shepherd. He watched them all like a wolf over prey. I will not let them betray me.

The hard, dry earth pained Zaki’s feet; they tingled and spasmed with every step, but he pushed on. It was still hours before they reached the gates. So huge were the towers and walls from afar that they seemed closer; a cruel illusion. But when he stepped under the cooling shadow of the gate at last, it was no vision.

The gate was open, but men barred the way with a makeshift barrier across the entrance to the city.

“Quis est iste?” one of them asked him. “Vade, pauper!” The man shooed him away, but Zaki stood his ground.

“Caledan,” Zaki said. “Do you speak Caledonian?”

“Caledonian?” The guard sneered. “Nulla. Non Caledonian.”

“I must see King Harad,” Zaki emphasised, wishing he could speak some broken words of their language, or they his. “King Harad – take me to him. I am King Zaki of Caledan. King Zaki.”

“King? Regis? Quod homo petit esse rex!” The guards burst out laughing, taking great pleasure in their amusement.

“Regis Zaki!” One bowed mockingly to him, sweeping his hand before him in a grand gesture, as the others continued their raucous laughter behind him. His balding head gleamed in the sun.

Zaki stepped forwards in anger, drawing his sword, the one weapon remaining to him.

At once the merriment ceased. The Roherii drew their own blades.

“I am King Zaki of Caledan. I command you to take me to King Harad immediately, or I swear upon my crown I will kill you all where you stand.” His sword point wavered before him as his arm shook with the weight of the blade, but Zaki’s blood boiled with fury at being so treated. After all he had endured, he refused to be turned away at the gate like a commoner. He stood, glaring at them, with his legs planted upon the ground and his free hand clenched.

Their leader looked him up and down, frowning, his eyes lingering over Zaki’s sword and the gold signet ring, which out of vanity Zaki could not bear to part with. Zaki tilted his ring so the gold flashed in the light, revealing the imprint of his crest upon it. The man turned to his companions, his expression one of doubt.

“Non certus sum… sed ut homo vera praedicat… Vide annulum? Vide viri eius?”

Zaki looked between them, but he did not understand their words. The man pointed to his hand and Zaki lifted it, showing his ring to the men, who were quieter and shifted upon their feet whilst sneaking uncomfortable glances at each other.

“Yes,” said their captain in accented Caledonian. He beckoned Zaki and his men forward, firing a rapid babble of orders at the Roherii men who scattered, their eyes wide. One returned, leading two horses – one for the captain and one for Zaki. He was thankful they had a mounting block, but even then he struggled, trying to conceal his involuntary grimaces beneath his hair.

His men remained on foot, limping along behind him, as they passed along one of the main avenues, bustling in the pre-evening rush. Men, women and children rushed about, some with baskets and packages, others with guards in carriages, but most on foot, weaving in-between each other.

The guards cut a column through the maelstrom before them. Zaki worried they were causing a spectacle and he slouched, flopping his hair across his face. He did not want to be recognised, but he need not have been concerned. Few batted an eye-lid at their passage – fewer stopped to stare. Zaki glanced at his dirty skin and tatty clothes. I look just like one of them. His lip curled with distaste.

The noise and smell of the city was overwhelming after weeks of near silence and nothingness. Zaki’s ears filled with an unbearable level of sound, worsening his pounding headache. The smells turned his stomach, especially the stench from the sewers and waste piles, and even the scent of food made him gag.

At last Zaki entered the palace compound, stopping for a moment at the gate as their guide spoke in hushed tones with those guarding the way, throwing many glances back towards the Caledonians. Zaki was beckoned through the gates, which clanged shut once his men had entered.

Peace returned. On the hill, away from the poorer districts of the city, the wealthy lived in quiet contentment, overlooked by the sprawling royal palace. Vast gardens opened up, and although the wealthier district’s streets on the slopes were more spacious than the crowded roads through the valley-bottom slums, the space in the palace grounds was most freeing.

Fountains babbled amid birdsong. Thirst rushed to the forefront of Zaki’s mind. He licked his lips in frustration, longing to dive into one of the gurgling ponds to drink, cool himself and cleanse the disgusting amount of grime from his body and clothing. It felt so ingrained Zaki feared he would never be purged of it.

They were led to Harad’s throne room, announced, and ushered through the golden doors. Zaki ignored the frescoed walls, the metal-plated and gem-studded marble carvings, and the rich tapestries. He did not even look up to the high ceiling, painted with scenes of the creation as told by Harad’s religion: it was a practice that worshipped many deities, which was strange to Zaki’s mind. Instead, his attention fixed on the figures at the far end of the room. Servants surrounded the king, who sat upon his grand throne.

They had last met in what felt like another life. Unbidden, Zaki recalled the moment when, stood before the gates of Pandora shoulder to shoulder with Harad, his father-in-law had betrayed him. Subdued and shackled like a common prisoner, though he tried with all his might to break free, Zaki had been handed over to Soren in exchange for the freedom of Zaki’s wife, Demara, and her unborn child. Instead of ascending in victory to Caledan’s throne, he had fallen to the deepest dungeon. Despite Harad’s assistance in Zaki’s escape, Zaki had not forgiven him that.

“Your Majesty.” Zaki was forced to greet Harad first, though he longed to stride up to the man and stab him in the gut for his betrayal.

“Your Royal Highness.” Harad returned the greeting.

Zaki felt a hot stab of anger. He dishonours me in public!

“Welcome to Arrans – at last! Let us refresh you,” Harad continued before Zaki could react. He clapped his hands: a sharp, short sound that reverberated around the large space.

At once his servants dispersed, returning moments later carrying trays piled high with sweet and savoury morsels and small glasses of pale yellow liquid.

His men fell upon them, so desperate were they for sustenance. Zaki longed to do the same, but forced himself to stand, waiting, until he was offered something, trembling as he suppressed his desire to move. He waved away the food, not trusting himself to eat with reserve, but he could not refuse the drink. I need a feast, not these pathetic scraps.

Zaki took – with meticulous steadiness – a glass between his forefinger and thumb, tipping its entire contents slowly down his throat, all the while with his eyes fixed on Harad. The liquid swirled around his mouth and swam down his throat, cool and refreshing. Zaki took another glass, and then a third, touching his lips with shaking fingers and savouring the wetness there. He waited for Harad to speak, to make the next move.

“You do not look well,” the king remarked, regarding him with veiled eyes.

Zaki could not control his temper any longer. “How dare you! How dare you betray me – abandon me to my death and pretend all is well!”

“I welcome you, do I not? I offer you good food and drink, no? What is past is past.”

“I nearly died! Look at me! I have travelled for who knows how many weeks or months through that God forsaken desert trying to stay alive – we ate every last damn horse and it wasn’t enough,” Zaki raged, storming around with frustration. The delicate glass shattered in his clenched fist and he paused, swearing. He dropped the shards to the floor and sucked his bleeding palm before he continued, his hand throbbing.

“My men are dead. My hopes are dead. You have crushed everything. You have stolen my future when it was there for me to take. I have nothing – and it is all your fault! And now, when I arrive here, starving and a wreck, you have the nerve to offer me sweets?” Zaki slapped a tray from the hand of a nearby servant. It smashed upon the floor, food and glass cascading everywhere.

Harad stood, snarling. Thunderous eyebrows sunk over narrowed eyes as his guards moved forward in synchronisation. The king waved them away with a slash of his hand and they melted into the shadows.

Around Zaki, a flurry of servants crawled upon the floor, picking up every last morsel in blank-faced silence.

“Take these men away to bathe, eat and rest,” Harad commanded, gesturing at Zaki’s ragged band. They were led away. Harad stepped down ever so slowly from his throne, though he kept a distance between himself and Zaki.

“There was no successful outcome for us that day,” Harad said as the door shut behind the last of the Caledonians.

Zaki didn’t need to ask which day. Us? Zaki noticed Harad’s choice of word.

“I made the best decisions I could based on the moves we could have made. You are lucky that I helped you to escape.”

“This is not a game, and your fire device almost killed me in the process!”

“Then you are lucky; I admit it is not perfected. However, I disagree. It is very much a game – of strategy – and that day, whatever had happened, we would have lost had I not acted thusly. I would have lost – and Roher does not lose. Roher is strong and Roher is feared. And why do you think that is?

“Because I always choose the battles we will win. We could not have won with the men we had that day. Yet, if I had retreated with you, my daughter and her babe – the heir to your claim – would still be in Pandora, and Roher’s reputation would be ruined.”

Zaki looked up, his eyes wide and mouth open. “I have a son?”

“No. You have a daughter.”

Zaki growled, an inhuman sound. “I did not risk my life for a daughter!”

Servants scurried away from him in fear.

“You have much to learn if you dismiss the value of a daughter,” said Harad. “In any case, you still have a wife to give you many sons. Stay, and recover. There is nothing to say that Caledan’s throne will not someday be yours.”

Zaki was thrown by the offer. He regarded Harad with suspicion. The older man seemed genuine and caring in his offer, which made Zaki more distrustful. Harad never gives something for nothing. But there was little to consider; no man in his right mind would choose to turn back into the desert, away from such a haven. “How do I know I can trust you?”

Harad shrugged. “You do not. I helped you escape with a gift of our newest and most expensive warfare technology, experimental as it may be. Make what you will of that. But you have my assurance that you will have a chance to redeem yourself here in Roher. I am impressed that you have made it so far.”

~

Zaki splashed absentmindedly in the bath; it was a huge depression carved in the floor of his room and lined with polished stone – a novel concept compared to Caledan’s wooden tubs. The warm water filled with oils soothed his aching body, and he could have fallen asleep there, drowning in the enticing scents and the sheer comfort of such luxuries.

He ate from the snacks offered to him by the tiny serving boy next to the bath for the sake of it. Despite gorging himself on a meal after his meeting with Harad, he felt the need to eat after his enforced starvation, as if the supply of food might soon cease again.

Not concentrating on what he consumed, Zaki chewed upon the latest bite whilst contemplating his father-in-law’s plans.

Why would he have me incarcerated only to then help me escape in order to come all the way here? The device was a brilliant contraption. I wish we had such technology in Caledan. Perhaps he knew I would escape, that I would reach him here. Perhaps he seeks to help me regain the throne of Caledan with all of Roher’s might, not that poxy guard with which Harad and I returned to Pandora.

He relished the thought, but it was not satisfying. He still did not feel confident that he had a grasp of Harad’s plans. All I know for certain is that he uses me for his own ends. I must work this to my advantage. It may be a game, but it is not his. I must use his resources to take back my kingdom.

As he hauled himself out of the cooling bath, a maid hurried to wrap a towel around him. Neither the woman nor the boy spoke. Zaki took a moment to appreciate her slender form as her uniform pressed against his skin for a moment. It had been a long time since he had remembered the existence of women, let alone enjoyed one. Her dark skin fascinated him. His was burnt from the harsh sun, but hers glowed.

Thinking about the woman reminded him of his wife: a much less tempting prospect. Zaki sighed. A wife and a daughter. What use are women? I suppose I must visit her.

~

It was mid-afternoon by the time he had dressed and followed his guide to Demara’s chambers. He wore Roherii clothes, far different to Caledonian attire and better suited to Roher’s hotter climes. Loose fitting, the finely woven, light material slithered across his clean skin, sending it tingling with pleasure.

To have new shoes upon his feet pleased him more than anything. The soles were so soft that he sunk into them, his newly scrubbed and tended feet relishing the relief. All of his old clothes had been disposed of; they were not even worth cleaning to salvage the fabric.

The palace was as different to Pandora’s castle as the garb was to his own. Pandora’s castle was spacious, yet it held a darkness to it that daylight could not shift. It was a true castle, built for war and only later converted for living in comfort. In contrast, Harad’s palace had been constructed purely for luxury.

Spacious, high corridors linked the various quarters and private apartments within the building, which were given over to various branches of the family. The palace sprawled over a wide space, and in places was several stories high, extended as needed.

Instead of windows were giant openings with drapes hung on the inner wall and shutters outside to protect against sun or rain if needed. Arrans had certainly never known the same winter snows as Pandora.

The palace was constructed from the red stone that had built most of Arrans, but most of the surfaces were marble or polished stone. Floors were laid in patterns, some even made of the tiniest coloured tiles to depict scenes. Wooden floors were all of the highest quality, laid in intricate designs – all far from Pandora’s simple stone floors or wooden boards.

Open dining areas, large courtyards with fountains and greenery, and frequent open mezzanine levels held up by the columns that seemed to be a staple of Roherii architecture offered chance glimpses at the scenery over the city, the countryside or parts of the palace and grounds.

Zaki shook his head at such opulence in disbelief that such a place could exist, but he was also envious of the lifestyle Harad surrounded himself with. At last his escort gestured towards a door.

“Hic est. Demara.” The man knocked on the door, which was opened by the tiniest crack. A young woman’s face peered out.

Her maid. Zaki recognised her in a flash, though he had never bothered to learn her name.

Her eyes widened as she looked him up and down, her mouth ajar. The escort must have introduced him, for he heard his name amongst the babble of Roherish, but instead of being admitted that instant, the lady withdrew her head and called into the apartments within. A muffled voice replied and the door opened, the lady moving to the side to allow him to pass. Zaki strode in, his guide following.

Before open doors that led to a stone edged balcony sat his wife. Demara held a babe swaddled in layers of colourful fabric and gazed into its face adoringly. As she looked up, her smile faded and her face closed.

“Husband,” she greeted him.

“Wife.” His reply was just as awkward, yet it was as if nothing had passed between them, that he had not endured the last months and she had not ridden away and left him to his fate. Her face showed no emotion at his unexpected return. Does she care? he fleetingly wondered.

She gestured for him to sit and he perched on the opposing chair. Silence fell.

“Would you like to see your daughter?” Demara asked him after the lengthy pause, shifting the babe in her grasp.

Zaki nodded curtly. If I must.

Without a word Demara passed him the girl. She was tiny, made huge by the cloths swaddling her, and so young he could not tell her gender. Would that you were a boy, he wished. He stared at her, but could not see the attraction that had caused Demara to gaze at her with such open love. It’s a baby. Unremarkable. He sighed.

Tiny eyelids fluttered open, revealing brown eyes matching her mother’s. They bored into him.

“She is called Leika,” Demara volunteered, shifting in her seat with agitation as if she wished to take the child from him again.

Zaki looked down at his daughter and thrust her back at Demara.

“Do you not love her?” Demara asked, indignant. She clutched Leika to her chest, stroking the cloths.

“She is a girl.”

“She is your daughter.”

“Yes, a daughter. What need do I have of daughters? None. I need a son. A daughter is nothing more than an insult.”

Demara’s mouth fell open at that, and her eyes flashed with rage. “You dishonour me with your callous words. Get out!” She stood and turned away, dismissing him with her body too.

“I will not,” he replied, incredulous that a woman should give orders to him.

But the maid stepped forward to add insult to injury. “Please, this way, sir.” She gestured towards the door.

Zaki stood. He prowled towards the girl with menace.

With no fear in her eyes, she clapped.

From seemingly nowhere, several guards appeared.

Zaki’s eyes flicked around the room.

“Please, this way, sir,” the maid said again. Her next words must have repeated her sentiments to the guards in Roherii for they crowded Zaki, forcing him from the room.

The moment the door shut in his face, he struggled against the guards, but to no avail.

“She is a woman! How dare she order me about! I command you to let me back in.”

The guards moved him along, blank faced, as if they could not hear him.

When he was alone in his own chamber, he stood white-faced, his entire body shaking with fury. How dare she! My own wife, ordering me around and throwing me out! He stormed around the room in a chorus of curses.

Eve

The door opened before her without a sound and her father beckoned her in. Eve entered with deliberate slowness, wishing she could be anywhere else.

“Have you made your decision?” He sat forward in his chair, his eyes fixed upon her expectantly.

“Yes, Father.”

“And?”

She took a deep breath in and exhaled. There’s no going back from this. The decision made her miserable, but there was no outcome she would be happy with. At least this way, I’ll get to go to Ednor. There, she could practise controlling her magical abilities, which had blossomed a few months before in a confusing incident while she had been rescuing King Soren’s sister Irumae from captivity. She could also visit her mother’s – and her own – ethereal kin: the Eldarkind.

Eve swallowed. The deep breath had done nothing to still her jumping heart or her shaking, sweaty hands. “I’ll do it.”

Her father raised an eyebrow, but did not speak.

He wants me to say it. Ice cold shivers crawled down her spine. “I will marry the man of your choosing,” she forced herself to say. It came out in a monotone, but she could not have managed any more. To say it was torture enough.

Her father broke into a wide smile, relaxing back in his chair, and then stood to embrace her. He clasped her to his chest, but she was wooden in his grasp and he soon released her. “Good, I’m pleased. I already have some suitable matches in mind. I will begin preparations.”

Her father’s uncharacteristic excitement was tempered by her growing feeling of nausea. I have to leave. She bade her father a quick farewell and rushed to the stables to saddle Alia, knowing a ride would calm her and clear her head.

Alia whinnied in greeting as she entered the stable. It was cool and quiet – a reprieve from the hot summer sun – but the darkness and enclosed space did nothing to ease Eve’s discomfort. As she fumbled with the saddle’s buckles, someone entered the stables behind her. She turned, expecting it to be one of the stable boys.

Luke. Damn it. She had avoided him in the days since returning to Arlyn. Her heart quickened.

“Eve,” he said, moving towards her. “Are you well? I haven’t seen you for ages. I’ve been worried.”

“Thank you, I’m fine,” she said. “I’m going for a ride.”

He scrutinised her face. “I can tell when you’re lying,” he said after a pause. “You know you can talk to me.”

I wish I could tell you, she thought to herself, leaning her cheek against the cool leather of the saddle.

“Eve?”

I suppose he’ll find out anyway.

“My father is arranging my marriage,” she said.

“No! It cannot be true.”

“It’s true.” She sighed. “I had to promise him. It’s the one way he’ll let me return to Ednor. I either agree to marry the man of his choosing, and he will permit me to go to Ednor to train, or I do not agree, but he will make me marry anyway, with no certainty of visiting Ednor.”

Luke frowned, shaking his head. “Lord Karn would never-“

“I don’t know anymore, Luke. At least this way he’s promised me that I may go – for as long as I need to – to be trained in controlling my… skills. I don’t understand them well enough. Sometimes I worry they’ll burst out of me again. There’s no one I can ask for help here. If they discovered my abilities, they’d shun me.”

“Please don’t do it,” Luke pleaded. “There must be another way!”

I wish I didn’t have to, she wanted to say, but instead she answered, “I don’t have a choice, Luke.” She made to move away, but he reached out to grasp her hand. She flinched as he touched her, but did not pull away. His hands were warm and clammy, matching her own.

“If you have any feelings for me, Eve, please don’t do this. We’ll find a way to make it work.”

She did not answer, closing her eyes to block the world out. Don’t make this harder for me, Luke!

Even the few days apart had left her feeling lost after they had spent so much time together in the months before. His sudden appearance had removed any notion of indifference. Nevertheless, her feelings did not mean she could change her father’s mind.

Even so, she still found herself stepping forward to lean upon his chest. He took her in an embrace, his warm arms surrounding her and hers encircling his waist.

“I know that you have feelings for me too,” Luke said, “even though you don’t want to admit it.”

Tears flowed from Eve’s eyes. This is so unfair! Why can’t I make my own choice, like Father did! “I wish things could be different,” she croaked.

“I’ll ask for your hand instead.” He leaned back, catching her eye before wiping the tears from her cheeks with a soft touch of his thumb. “If you don’t marry whoever your father wants you to. I will save every penny I have to raise a house and provide for you.”

“There’s no way he would agree to that. He wants me to marry at least a sir, if not a lord,” she said, and the tears poured from her cheeks as she held back sobs.

“I’ll try anyway,” Luke said. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a warm kiss to her knuckles.

Eve pulled away. Grabbing Alia’s reins, she ran from the stable without a backwards glance.

~

Her father had invited her to dinner; a worrying sign that meant something serious was afoot. He never eats with me. What does he want?

Eve slipped into her chair, opposite Karn. They were not in the main dining room, which was too large for the two of them, but instead in the small dining room, which gave beautiful views of the forested mountains.

The smallest smile flitted across her lips as he greeted her with unusual cheer, but it did not reach her eyes. She tried to covertly scrutinise him.

“I have something to discuss with you, Eve,” he said at last as they finished the main course.

It was her favourite meal – chicken breast wrapped in salty bacon rashers and served with sweet, roasted potatoes and vegetables – but she had not been able to enjoy it, worrying what her father would say. Please don’t let it be about marriage, please, she prayed.

Her father cleared his throat. “I have found a suitable match for you.”

No! Her heart sunk and her face fell in dismay.

“I am happy to announce that you will be betrothed to Dane Edmundsson of House Arendall. It is a good match, do you not agree? A familiar face to you – and Edmund, of course, is like family to us.”

Eve was silent. Dane Edmundsson? She couldn’t remember him well. It had been many years since she had last met him.

“What do you think?” her father prompted, his smile fading.

“Isn’t he really old?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Eve!” Karn stifled a chuckle. “You should not say such things! He is older than you, yes, but he is not old. I believe he is about thirty-two. I forget when his birthday is. A fifteen-year age gap or thereabouts is not so great, and not as large as it could be! Despite what you may think he is still young, but well established upon his lands and from a good family.”

Eve had stopped listening. Fifteen-years different! That’s almost double my age. She tried to imagine his face, but her memory of him was so incomplete that it was Dane’s father Edmund’s face she visualised.

She stared at her plate, which was still half full. The vegetables were growing cold but the chicken steamed. The meaty smell wafted into her nose, but she felt nauseated and pushed back her plate, taking a great gulp of water to empty her mouth of taste.

“Aren’t Arendall lands far from here, in the south?” Eve asked, realising the implications.

Karn nodded.

“Then we won’t see each other much?”

Karn frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ll be here and he’ll be there, won’t he?”

“Oh, Eve.” Karn shook his head, smiling with a tinge of sadness. “You will be expected to accompany him wherever he desires, perhaps to his own lands, to Pandora, or even elsewhere, should he so choose.”

“I’ll have to leave? No! Please, can’t I stay here?” Please don’t make me leave Arlyn! Eve’s heart pounded with the force of a horse kicking a stable door, and her mouth dried as though parched for days.

“It is the way things are. You will return. After all, these are to be your lands, but it may not be for some time.”

Eve swallowed, wetting her lips. “Is there no one closer?”

Her father shook his head. “You are worth far more than all the lordlings hereabouts combined. I would not have considered any of them.”

Eve slumped in her chair, wishing it would somehow swallow her up and take her to a land where she did not have to marry a stranger, and an old stranger far away at that. However, its wooden surface was hard and unyielding, offering her no comfort.

Karn continued to speak, but Eve’s eyes had glazed over as her attention drifted.

“Eve, pay attention,” he admonished. “Did you hear what I said?”

She straightened in her chair.

“I take that as a no. Within the month you will be betrothed at Arlyn chapel. The marriage will then be arranged at Pandora, or perhaps on Arendall lands.”

So soon. Eve’s belly lurched in fear. “Please may I be excused?” She stood up before he had finished giving his permission and ran to her bedchamber as swiftly as possible. She threw open the shutters, which the servants had closed, breathing in great gulps of the cooling evening air.

The room lay in the shadow of the March Mountains, and the familiar scent of pine wafting through the window reassured her. Her breathing slowed but her pulse was still erratic, and the fear coiled in her stomach refused to dissipate.

What have I agreed to?

~

Before long, the day of the betrothal was upon her; no amount of dreading could delay it. The dawn matched Eve’s mood. The weather was miserable. It was one of the first days heralding autumn. A deep mist clung to the ground, smothering everything with dew and coldness, permeated by drizzle.

It was dull, the sun too low in the sky and too weak yet to break through the haze, so daylight came late to Arlyn that morning. Eve woke, thick headed in the faint light, feeling as if she had woken in the eleventh month of the year, not the ninth. Shivering under the cooling water as she washed with deliberate slowness, she tried to steady herself for what was to come.

In the weeks since her father’s announcement, no amount of thinking and rethinking had managed to give her a solution. There seemed to be no honourable escape from her predicament. The fear she had felt that night over dinner had not vanished, instead returning with malicious glee to torment her again at whatever waking moment it could.

A dress had already been laid out for her. It was pretty, she could not deny it, but knowing what it symbolised made her want to burn it rather than wear it. Her skin crawled as the maid’s cold fingers buttoned it from the back. There had been no time to send for fabric to have a new garment made. Instead, an older dress had been altered, fitted with lace trims and resized to fit with perfection. I preferred it how it was. She fingered the lace with dislike.

Although the dress was not optional, breakfast was out of the question thanks to her roiling stomach. She turned away the plate, instead going to the stables – taking care not to catch her dress in the mud – to see Alia. Alia never failed to calm her, and, as usual, the horse moved to greet her with a gentle whinny, nuzzling her shoulder and nibbling at her palm for treats.

“Nothing for you today, girl,” Eve mumbled, leaning against Alia’s neck and closing her eyes.

Eve stayed there for as long as she could, until the inevitable occurred.

“Eve!” her father’s voice rang out in the distance. “Eve!”

“Wish me luck, Alia,” Eve whispered.

Myrkdaga

Myrkdaga somersaulted through the air, crowing his return. His joyful roars split the silence, overpowering the gentle sounds of waves lapping upon the Isles of Kotyir and startling birds into squawking flight below him.

“I return!” he shouted, searching the skies for his father’s presence as Feldloga and Feldith laboured to keep up with him. He will be proud of me for this! I have blooded myself in battle and restored the throne of the dragon kings to the rightful heir of House Balaur. He recalled with relish his part in the battle for Pandora.

A black dot rose from the horizon, growing larger as it approached.

“Sire!” Myrkdaga greeted Myrkith-visir as he drew close, expecting his father to slow or stop and hover in the air upon his gigantic wings. But the great, black dragon did not reduce his speed. By the time Myrkdaga realised his father’s intentions, it was too late.

Myrkith-visir slammed into him, crushing the breath from Myrkdaga’s chest and knocking him out of flight. Myrkith-visir’s clawed feet, each large enough to wrap around an entire limb of Myrkdaga’s, gripped him, as strong and unyielding as the volcanic rocks of their homeland.

Myrkdaga’s wings were useless as he and his father fell from the sky, crumpling against the rushing wind each time he attempted to open them. Myrkith-visir’s wings were tucked into a perfect diving position: sleek, streamlined and built for speed.

At the very last moment, Myrkith-visir’s wings snapped open and began to flap. Their speed slowed, to Myrkdaga’s relief, but then his father released him.

Myrkdaga plummeted from the sky and crashed into the ground. The impact felt like it had shaken him apart. Black beach sand, tasting of destruction and fire, choked him. He coughed and sneezed to expel it and rose on shaking limbs, but his father’s claws pinioned him to the ground by his neck. Their sharp points dug into the softer flesh under his chin, constricting his airways.

Myrkdaga did not struggle. To do so would be to challenge his father, and he had learnt long ago not to be so foolish. From the corner of his eye, Myrkdaga could see Feldloga and Feldith prostrated on the ground, the ultimate position of submission, but his eyes flicked back to his father, who growled with a low, deep rumble that made his head vibrate.

“You disobeyed my orders!” Myrkith-visir pushed harder on his neck.

Myrkdaga tried to breathe past the obstruction. “I worked around your orders, I did not break them! You said tha—”

His father’s growl turned into a sharp roar. “Enough! Explain yourself before I expel you from the clan!”

Myrkdaga choked, his speech prevented by his father, who pressed even harder on his throat.

Myrkith-visir reduced the pressure to allow Myrkdaga to speak.

“This is of my choice and doing. Feldloga, Feldith and I flew Soren and Edmund to Pandora. There, we discovered Zaki, the false king, absent. He was to return with many more men sent by the king in the south. Our presence intimidated the humans sufficiently to allow Soren entrance and welcome into the city.

“Later, we helped Soren breach the gates and secure Pandora. Those who resisted gave us good sport, but were no match. By the time Zaki returned, Soren’s strength was too great and the fortifications of Pandora were a deterrent to the pathetic amount of soldiers who came. It was easy – for us – but without our help, Soren would have failed.

“Had he returned alone, he would have been too late to take Pandora. Zaki would have already reinforced Pandora with the extra humans. I swear, without our aid, Soren would not be king of Caledan. Peace would not be restored.”

Myrkith-visir’s growl diminished.

“You do not lie?”

“I swear on my blood.”

Myrkith-visir slapped his tail against the ground. Loose twigs and debris rattled from nearby trees as he tossed Myrkdaga aside with ease. The young dragon choked back his pain and stood, a little unsteadily, watching and waiting. Myrkith-visir paced the beach before him.

“You fool! Do you understand what your idiotic decisions could mean for us? Not only have you disobeyed my orders, you have shown yourself to humans. We could be revealed to the world!”

“They would not find us here. We saved Soren and put him back upon his throne. We restored peace in Caledan, and without us, he would have failed. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Silence! That is not the worst of it! By straying from our territory without due permissions, the pact could fail and it would be your fault!” Myrkith-visir punctuated his words with his loudest growl yet; it pained Myrkdaga’s ears.

At that, Myrkdaga fell silent, a cold rush overtaking him as his father continued. Surely not…

“Everything we strove to create, the peace we have maintained for thousands of years, all ruined because of the actions of one foolish young dragonet who longed for a fight. It is not just us who will be unbound. I could banish you for this. I could kill you; I have done such a thing for far less.”

Myrkdaga swallowed past the lump in his throat. His heart wanted to beat out of his chest, but he stood up, straighter and taller. Dragons did not beg. He would not show fear, if that were to be his fate.

“And you – how do you explain your actions?” Myrkith-visir’s attention snapped to his two companions, still laid flat upon the ground.

Their reply was directed at Myrkith-visir and Myrkdaga could not hear it. He glanced between the two parties until Myrkith-visir turned away from them and paced once more.

“You are dragonets, it must be said – not full dragons yet. I am glad of that, as you are of my blood. My punishment will not be as severe, but you will be banished from the clan.”

Myrkdaga, Feldloga and Feldith cried out simultaneously in protest.

Myrkith-visir growled, smoke curling from his nose, and they ceased. “Henceforth, you and your companions are exiled to the northern edge of our territory. I will not expel you forever; you are my son, Myrkdaga. I do not want to see your faces until midwinter.”

“But that is months away!”

“You brought this upon yourselves. Go, before I change my mind to a punishment less kind!” Myrkith’s rumble was full of warning.

Myrkdaga wanted to argue, but he knew it would be futile. Anger boiled within him. Without another glance at his father, he took to the wing.

Dane

Arlyn was bustling as Dane rode into the town with his father by his side. As a newcomer, he observed it all with curiosity. His own estates were far quieter, containing villages, no towns. Arlyn in comparison was much larger, much grander and far busier, its population matching that of his entire county.

Everywhere traders hawked their wares, and women and men marched and idled with laughing children weaving though the mix.

Dane sneaked a sidelong glance at his father. Edmund’s smile grew with every hour and mile they drew closer to Arlyn. Now they were here, it stretched across his face. He is happy, at least. Dane still had no idea what to make of the arrangement.

He could not fault his father’s choice, for he had at last grown to respect the wisdom his father possessed. Arrow is a good house, with good lands. They had seen plenty of sheep along the road into the town – their wool and meat one of the staple incomes of the county, alongside metal ores from the mines hidden in the mountains and timber from the plentiful forests. He glanced around as he rode with continued interest as people moved off the street to let them pass.

They were welcomed by a flustered Lord Karn who greeted Edmund with brotherly affection.

“Dane, it is my greatest pleasure to welcome you to Arlyn.” Karn beamed at him.

Dane bowed in return. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Please, come in and make yourselves comfortable.”

They took refreshments in a vast dining room, Dane enjoying the vista over the town and Arrow Lake in the distance, visible through the diminishing mist. He shivered. It was unseasonably cold, but at least the rain had ceased.

Before long it was time to ready for the ceremony. Dane had still not seen his bride-to-be. Her father called her impatiently as they stood upon the front steps waiting for her. She slunk from the stables, her eyes downcast.

Dane recognised her, but he could hardly reconcile the woman before him with the young girl he had last seen. He appreciated her willowy form, although with her hunched shoulders and down-turned face, she seemed delicate too.

“Lady Eve.” He smiled at her.

“Lord Dane.” She flashed the briefest glance at him, curtsying.

“You have grown much since I last saw you,” he remarked, a vision appearing in his mind of a tiny girl hiding behind her mother’s skirts.

She did not reply, but then he could not fault her. She probably feels some nerves or shyness too, he mused. Even he felt anxious, though he was careful not to show it. In silence, they walked the short distance to the family chapel over crunching gravel and rough cobblestones.

Dane had to stoop, as most of them did, to fit beneath the doorway and into the small space. Pews lined the interior, so narrow they sat only a few people each. At the front, there was a small space to stand by the altar and a priest waiting in his white robes.

Minuscule windows – more like glazed arrow slits than church windows – set high in the walls allowed in the smallest rays of light. Combined with the dark morning, it made the space oppressively dim.

Dane was thankful that the priest had lit a multitude of candles to brighten the place up. The scent of burning string and wax was a pleasant overlay to the invasive smell of damp rising from the stone floor.

His gaze returned to Eve, stood next to him at the altar, but his smile faltered as he beheld her. She was rigid, her fists balled and her face pale. Even her lips held a bluish tinge. She’s terrified… He tried to catch her eye, but she stared at the wall in front of them, her eyes boring into it without even a flicker.

“I consent,” he replied to the priest, returning his attention to the ceremony.

“And do you, Lady Eve of House Arrow, consent to this betrothal, committing yourself to Lord Dane of House Arendall?”

Beside him, Eve did not reply, but her shaking was visible.

The pause yawned into a long silence.

“As her father and lord, I consent on her behalf,” Karn replied in her stead.

Eve shifted beside him, her hands shaking so slightly it was almost imperceptible.

~

“May I speak with my betrothed?” Dane asked as they filed out of the chapel.

Their fathers exchanged mutual grins.

“Of course,” Karn said.

Dane thanked them, motioning for Eve to follow him as he drew her aside.

“You need not fear me, Lady Eve,” he said gently, bending his head to try and meet her gaze.

She raised her face to look at him from beneath creased brows, her eyes wide, but did not speak.

Is she so fearful she has turned mute? Dane tried again. “I appreciate that an arranged marriage is perhaps difficult, but I will treat you well and we shall be happy together. You will love my estates. It is warmer and richer there. Everywhere is green and pretty, we have beautiful gardens and the food produced there is of the most appetising in all of Caledan. Does it not sound lovely?”

Eve did not reply.

“We do not have mountains there, but many green rolling hills. You would be able to have your fill of riding there too,” he added, guessing that she might like to ride after their meeting by the stables earlier.

Eve nodded, biting a lip. “Thank you,” she said, but then swallowed and said nothing more.

He smiled to himself, a thin-lipped grimace of frustration, before moving away to speak with his father as they strolled back to the manor.

“Congratulations, my son,” Edmund greeted him with cheer.

“Thank you, Father,” Dane replied. “I wish my bride-to-be were as happy though.” He lowered his voice before continuing. “She is altogether emotionless. I have barely managed to squeeze two words from her!”

“Be sympathetic, son,” Edmund cautioned as Eve marched past them.

Dane had not realised that she stood behind them so close and flushed, hoping she had not heard his words.

Edmund watched her stride through the front door. “Have patience. Think of it from her perspective; the poor girl must be terrified, having to marry a stranger and leave her protected world along with everything she knows. Be kind to her. She will soften.”

Eve

Eve’s breath came in shuddering gulps, her entire body shaking with anxiety and fear as she barred herself into the sanctuary of her room. Now she had seen Dane, her fears had been realised. This is real. There’s no way to escape.

Eve had never given much thought to marriage before, but the vague notion that one day Luke would be her companion had lingered in the recesses of her mind. The notion of being taken away to an unfamiliar place by a stranger was bad enough, but it was the first moment she had realised in fullness: I will never have that now.

Dane described his estates as pleasant, and he seemed kind enough, but in her mind’s eye she saw a dreary and dismal place, devoid of all she loved and far from anywhere she knew. It would be a prison, nothing more. How will I learn to control my magic there?

Her room was darkening again so she strode over to one of her lamps, fighting down the tingle of fear in her belly. Father will keep his promise and let me return to Ednor, I’m sure.

“Fang fram brun,” she commanded the candle to light. Nothing happened. “Brun leioss?” The candle remained dead. Eve growled in frustration. “Leioss fram brun!”

Still nothing. Eve had last accessed her magic weeks ago; her connection to it had been severed. The language of the Eldarkind still sat in her mind as familiar to her as Caledonian, but no amount of wishing the words alive had made them become so. The language fell dead upon her tongue.

Eve collapsed upon her bed, covering her face with her hands. What mess have I gotten myself into? I should have run away with Luke whilst I had the chance. Hang being honourable!

The sound of loud laughter rose through the house. Men’s – of the raucous kind she heard when they had drunk too much. It was louder and more wanton than before. A tingle of fear shot through her.

“I can’t go through with this. I can’t lose my home, my family, everything I know.” And Luke, her mind whispered. “I’ll go. They can’t stop me in such a state. I’ll never have to get married in Ednor. They can’t force me. Once I’m there, I can access my magic again.” And send for Luke.

She packed without much thought, taking the barest of essentials. She stole along the back corridor to purloin food from the larder and a knife from the kitchen. Her next stop was the armoury, where she collected her sword and bow with half a dozen feather flighted arrows. Had she not known the house so well, she would have stumbled and attracted attention, but she had spent years playing hide and seek honing skills that proved useful in the dark.

Alia will be the trickiest thing, she judged, peering across the courtyard towards the stables from the servants’ door. Night was falling, with clouds obscuring the moonlight, but the gravel was pale against the sky.

I’ll go around the edge. Beneath the walls she skulked, moving as smoothly as she could from one shadow to another, wincing and freezing every time her feet crunched on loose stones.

She made it to the stable unhindered, but she knew the night stable-hand slept upstairs to protect the horses and saddle them in case of any emergency. Eve was determined that no one should see her leave. They’ll be sure to follow. I must have a good head start.

It took what felt like hours to saddle Alia up in relative silence, with only the tiniest chink of metal on metal as she buckled the leather saddle across the horse’s belly. It boded well that the doors always remained well maintained, for they let her enter and leave without a sound. She had brought rags to quieten Alia’s hooves and was thankful she had, for their sound would have woken the sleeping man upstairs.

The silence overwhelmed her ears as she strained for any signs of life, hesitantly leading Alia around the courtyard. The silver mare seemed to emit her own light in the darkness. I wish I’d brought a dark cloth to hide her coat. Every sound of Alia’s hooves jarred Eve’s already fraught nerves.

After far too long, in Eve’s opinion, they entered the rear gardens. Eve mounted and let Alia progress up the hill to her usual exit from the town at its highest point. She paused at the boundary, already enveloped by the protective shadow of the forest, to scan her surroundings.

Silent. Deserted. Still. She turned into the woods and, trusting the mare’s agility, let Alia race north through the woods.

~

The end of the following evening saw her halt for the first time. Her heart still rattled against her ribs – a bird trying to free itself from a cage – and nervous energy rushed through her without pause, but she felt calmer, reassured that she had covered such a distance. Exhaustion rolled in waves over her, but nerves held it at bay.

They had not used the north road, instead following game trails through the woods. By always keeping the mountains on her left, she was sure they were heading in the right direction, but she could not be certain how far they had ridden.

Eve dismounted in the shadow of an overhanging cliff and tethered Alia, but she was not relaxed enough to unsaddle her.

Alia whinnied.

“I know girl, I’m sorry,” Eve murmured, patting her neck. “I’ll give you an extra rub down when we stop properly.” Who knows, we may need to move on. Eve looked around. The forest stood still around her, the slightest breeze rustling the treetops far above.

She sat down, nibbling on some cheese from her pack. Her limbs refused to relax and her eyes roamed around, darting at every movement or sound.

Night fell, but she could not sleep. Alia was content to rest after her hard ride. Her presence was a constant reassurance to Eve, even in the dark. Even so, she dared not start a fire, for fear of what she would attract. Instead, she sat with her back placed square against the rock face.

She must have slept, for a cracking twig awoke her. Immediately her eyes opened, scanning the pitch black wood. Alia’s pale form standing nearby in slumber was all that was visible.

Her ears strained for any sound. It was quiet. Where are all the animals? Her gut stirred, clenching. Unnerved, she shifted, overcome by foreboding. But when the whisper of a command came, she knew it was too late.

“Now.”

Men sprang forth from the foliage, tearing covers off lamps, which flooded the small space with light. Alia awoke, neighing in fear and treading about, almost trampling Eve, who struggled to stand. Men grabbed her arms and legs, some trying to pin her down, others to lift her to her feet, until she cried out in pain from being twisted and pulled around.

“Eve, we mean you no harm.” She knew Nyle’s voice even before he stepped from the darkness, yet she did not trust it. He had not forgiven her for her actions months before – he had been punished the last time she had run away. The grudge was easy to see in his closed body language and curt, sharp voice when he spoke to her or saw her. Even so, she ceased struggling, knowing that her father had found her.

“Is my father here?” she dared to ask.

“No,” Nyle replied after a pause. “He still entertains your visitors from House Arendall. Why did you run away?”

Eve did not answer.

Nyle sighed. “Sure. You wouldn’t tell me such a thing. I suppose you thought you would make it to Ednor? You were too easy to track! We know your patterns, Eve. Worry not. Your father is aware, but your betrothed and his are not. They think you’re ill in your bedroom.”

Eve shifted her balance. The men holding her forearms tightened their grasp.

“We must return to Arlyn. We can travel no other way, so I will permit you to ride, but you must promise not to break free. Do you promise?”

Eve sighed, her posture drooping. “I won’t.” I won’t promise.

“Release her,” Nyle said, misunderstanding her intentions.

Eve considered running then, but she would not have made it past the men, who surrounded her. In the dark, she had no idea how many Nyle had brought with him. There could be more hidden in the darkness. Instead, demure, with her gaze averted, she remounted Alia without a word.

Nyle led her for a while before they all dismounted and set up a camp for what remained of the night. The chase had been long and hard and the horses flagged.

Eve would have been glad, but her adrenaline levels still ran too high for her to even consider sleeping. Despite the short amount of rest she had had, she felt alert.

The men bedded down around her as Nyle, with an apology, bound her feet and hands. “I cannot take the chance.” To her surprise, he did seem sorry.

He was courteous enough to help her lie down, offering her a supporting arm to lower herself to her knees and then onto her side. She had forgotten how uncomfortable laying on the ground was. Roots and stones poked her everywhere, even through the thin blanket under her, which had been folded twice.

The camp fell into silence. Horses had been tethered in a wide circle outside the ring of men, with Eve in the centre. Slow burning candles in the shuttered lamps illuminated the camp with dim light.

Eve forced her breathing to slow. She still couldn’t sleep, but she heard those around her falling into slumber, the night air split by a rumbling snore, a lone snort, or the shuffle of someone twitching or turning in their sleep.

After a while, she opened her eyes a crack and watched them through her eyelashes. Nyle’s glittering gaze was fixed upon her from where he sat, several feet away, with his back against a tree. Eve closed her eyes again, hoping the movement had been imperceptible.

She had to wait hours before all of them, even Nyle, were asleep. Despite setting himself on guard, sleep had called him. Cautiously she looked around, moving only her eyes at first and then her head. All but one of the lamps had died. The men were barely visible in the dark.

Under her thin blanket, Eve wriggled with deliberate slowness, making no sound as she tried to work her arms free of the bonds. It was to no avail. The knot was too tight and would not slide over her hands.

“Nyle,” she whispered. Across from her, his eyes flicked open in an instant. Though she could hardly see him, his eyes gleamed in the darkness. “I need to relieve myself.”

Nyle rose in silence, untied her legs, hoisted her to her feet and walked them past the edge of the clearing.

“Here will be fine.”

“You’ll need to undo me,” Eve said, keeping her tone as normal as possible. “I can’t relieve myself like this and I won’t have you undress me.”

Nyle sighed. “Fine.” He complied and stood, arms folded, watching her.

She paused, waiting, but he did not move. “Turn around at least, or go over there and turn around, for the sake of decency!”

“Do not run away,” he warned her.

But no sooner was she sure that his back was turned, she tiptoed off in another direction. After a minute, she heard his shout, still too close for comfort, and froze. She could hear him, crashing around in the dark, but couldn’t tell quite how close he was. Shrinking into a tree trunk, Eve shook, mouthing a silent prayer that he would not find her.

“Boys, rouse yourselves! She’s gone!” she heard him call, and he crashed through the foliage again, this time in the opposite direction. She forced herself to move, taking one quiet, deliberate step at a time away from the sound of his voice.

Before long she was jogging, and then running – a slow run with her hands outstretched before her, for she could not see. The moon had risen and the clouds cleared, but in the dense woodland, darkness still held sway.

Eve’s limbs shook, the adrenaline ebbing as exhaustion took its place. Each footstep became less controlled than the last. She did not see the hollow, landing so hard upon the ground her knees jarred, and in the next step she had collapsed upon her ankle.

It bent, she could tell even in the darkness, in a way it should not have under the full weight of her body. After a moment of shock came the pain, lancing up her entire leg, an internal scream from her body. Eve cried out, stifling sobs. She could not even move the ankle or try to remove the boot, let alone put weight on it. Even hauling herself up onto one foot using the tree before her proved too much.

Sinking back to the floor, she knew she could not go on. I’ve failed. It’s over. Tears spilled down her face as she sobbed into her hands.

It did not take long for them to find her, but she did not care anymore. She said nothing as Nyle hoisted her up onto her feet, but screamed in pain and fell once he removed his support.

“Where does it hurt?” His voice was quiet – with anger, not sympathy.

She replied by pointing with a shaking hand at her ankle.

“Fetch me some cloths, some study twigs, and find me a crutch,” he said to his men.

Eve almost fainted as he loosened her boot and had to bite down on her sleeve to suppress her cries. Foul tasting dirt filled her mouth. Nyle was not rough with her but neither was he gentle as he fashioned a makeshift splint.

The grimace upon his face seemed to be one of concentration, yet Eve had no doubt that he was furious with her. He did not speak to her, nor did he look at her as he offered her his arm to get her to her feet. He passed her a large branch to act as a crutch.

She was glad not to have to bear his scrutiny.

~

It was dawn a full day later that they arrived in Arlyn. The town was deserted, as was the manor, for which Eve was thankful. She did not want to bring any further shame upon herself or her family. It had been a torturous ride home.

Every jolt made her ankle shoot pain up her leg and through her body again, but Nyle refused to slow the pace. She was tired too, having been kept awake every minute by the punishing, unceasing pain, and was glad to reach home, despite whatever fate awaited her there.

The moment they reached the courtyard, Eve was whisked off horseback and rushed to her bed-chamber by two maids. A physician waited there, ready to examine her. He tutted, shaking his head as be beheld her poor state and then her ankle. Prodding and poking it, he muttered to himself, ignoring her discomfort.

“It is broken, but will heal,” he said after his examination. He bound it up, but after the initial unbearable increase in pain, it did feel better for having the support. He bowed and left, allowing her maids to bathe her by hand.

Eve lay in bed, numbed by her experiences, but before she could fall asleep her father strode into the room, emanating fury. His white face took in her poor state and he shook his head in disgust, regarding her through narrow eyes, his mouth thin lipped.

“What were you thinking?”

She did not reply. There was no need to.

Karn huffed. “I cannot decide whether I am furious with you, or glad you are safe, if not well. That is your own fault. In any case, you are confined to your room until further notice. You are lucky you have not disgraced our family with your actions. Be thankful Edmund and Dane remain unaware of your transgression.” He turned to leave.

“Can I still go to Ednor?” Eve managed to croak, still clinging to the hope.

Her father halted, twisting to meet her eye. “You are not travelling to Ednor under my authority. You may not, and you will not, leave. The commitment has been made for you to marry. You will do so and follow your husband wherever he commands.”

Without waiting for her response, he left. For the first time, she heard a key turn in the lock on her door. Part born of exhaustion, pain and despair, tears leaked from her closed eyes.

I’ve ruined everything.

Soren

Soren awoke to a still morning. He blinked, clearing his eyes of sleep, before he realised. I slept through the night. A relieved smile crossed his face and he closed his eyes, leaning back into the plump pillows once more. He calculated the dates. For the first time in months, he felt well rested.

Soren was grateful to no longer be waking up several times each night drenched in sweat, struggling to breathe or, even more embarrassing, screaming or crying in panic. The worst embarrassment was the need to have a physician and Edmund keep him safe from injury during his thrashing and watch over him as he slept, ruled by his inner demons.

And all for fear that Zaki will return and kill me in my sleep. He’s dead, Soren told himself again, as he did every day. He had not managed to convince himself it was true yet, despite the improbability of Zaki surviving to reach safety.

Reassuringly dry, still wearing his bedclothes and with the covers laid over him, not tangled around him or tossed upon the floor, Soren savoured the comfort, idling as shafts of morning light beamed through splits in the curtains. He did not rise until a soft knock on his door roused him from his daydreams.

Petitions were to be heard that day and he could not be late. He left the sumptuous bed with reluctance.

~

After a hasty breakfast, he sat straight backed upon his throne in the royal courts. Pews of noble subjects and law readers lined the long walls. Near the far end of the hall, where petitioners entered, was the standing area for the commoners to look on, but it stood almost empty. Autumn’s arrival meant the harvest was in full swing, and there was no time for dawdling.

To either side of him upon the dais sat those members of his council who were able to attend. Edmund had returned, but most of the other chairs were empty. He never rests, thought Soren as he greeted his most trusted advisor.

Aside from Edmund, Lord Asquith of House Bryars, a convert to Soren’s reign who Soren did not trust in the slightest, and Lord Willam of House Walbridge, also of dubious allegiance, were present.

The secretary called for quiet and Soren turned his attention to the great doors, which had been opened to allow the petitioners to stream in. They had already been organised by rank – most important first – and queued behind the man who wore what Soren thought was a pretty ridiculous plumed hat. Dyed peacock feathers, honestly.

Soren sighed, feeling self conscious, as the secretary turned and bowed with everyone as one to him. Will I ever get used to being the centre of attention? Being under so much scrutiny was an unpleasant experience.

“Petition number one, sire. Lady Varan.”

A lady stepped forward. She was not old, but worry had prematurely aged her. Thin lines carved permanent sorrow upon her face. Her hair was pinned back and she wore a demure, almost simple, black dress. Mourning whom? Soren wondered.

Lady Varan motioned behind her. Two young boys moved forward. The smaller, just a toddler, hid behind the folds of her skirt, peering up at Soren with wide eyes and a thumb in his mouth. The older boy stood next to his mother, inching forward at her prompt, to stand staring at the wall behind Soren’s head, chin held high.

“Your Majesty,” Lady Varan said, curtsying as her elder boy executed a neat bow. “I petition you today to recognise the rights of my sons and legal heirs to the lands and titles of House Varan, whose inheritance has been taken by the crown.”

Soren frowned, looking between them. “The lands and titles of House Varan were seized due to their father’s and kinsmen’s treasons.”

Now he could place them. Their father tried to kill me. He recalled the moment his life had shattered, stood beneath the portcullis of Pandora castle, when the men of House Varan had attacked him without warning. One of them must have been her husband.

“The action taken complies with the law that all those guilty of treason have their assets and titles frozen, claimed in the name of the crown.”

“I understand, sire,” Lady Varan replied, but she wrung her hands together, her eyes worried under a creased brow. Her desperation was clear to see. “I only mean that I am penniless and cannot provide for my children. We reside with my own kin, of House Orrell, by their kindness and generosity. Yet I fear that when my boys grow older, they will have no means to live themselves.

“Would you see the noble House Varan destroyed and two boys’ futures ruined for the treasons of their father? I beg that you consider them.” She dropped to the floor then, kneeling and dragging the younger boy from behind her. He stood, quivering, with wide eyes fixed on Soren.

The older boy dropped beside his mother onto one knee, his head bowed.

Soren regarded them. He paid little heed to the younger boy – too young to know what was happening – but was impressed by the elder. He’s well composed. “Boy,” he called to him upon a whim. “What is your name?”

The older boy looked up, surprised. “Your Majesty. I am Ricken Ivorsson, of House Varan.”

“How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“Rise.”

The boy stood without question.

“I have heard your mother’s requests, but I ask you – what do you wish for?” Soren tilted his head, his eyes fixed upon the boy.

Ricken looked to his mother.

“Answer him,” she hissed at Ricken, her voice barely audible to Soren.

Ricken looked back toward his king. “I wish for my mother to be happy, Your Majesty.”

“A noble desire. Be that as it may,” replied Soren gently, “your father committed treason against my mother, the queen. How can I be certain that, in time, you would not do the same thing?”

Ricken looked to his mother, unsure how to answer. She stepped in to fill the gap.

“If I may, Your Majesty. Please allow us to serve you. We will prove our loyalty with deeds, not words.” She clamped her mouth shut as Soren shifted in his chair – the throne hard and uncomfortable – as if fearful that she had spoken out of turn.

He turned to his councillors and asked for their opinions. Asquith and Walbridge’s views he cared not one whit for – after all, he felt that such hypocrites should not pass judgement on one of their own who had fallen from grace – but Edmund’s whispered view he listened to keenly.

“I will offer a solution, Lady Varan.”

She looked up, her eyes filled with hope.

“I will grant your eldest son, Ricken Ivorsson of House Varan, some of his hereditary lands and titles upon examination of the records, in return for the fealty of your family, his unswerving loyalty and his service in my household from his eleventh birthday. What say you to this?”

Her face faltered at his last condition. She does not wish me to take him from her, yet she will know it to be necessary. Soren waited for her response.

She stood once more. “I thank you, Your Majesty, for your clemency and generosity. It would be my greatest pleasure to agree to your terms.” She pushed Ricken forward and he knelt upon the steps of the dais to swear fealty to Soren in front of the court, repeating the words of the secretary.

While Lady Varan and her boys left, Soren instructed the secretary to bring him comprehensive lists of all property and titles held by the house so that he could decide what assets to release.

After that, commoners came in to petition, and Soren found himself distracted, reminded more than anything else just how crucial mending, making and strengthening alliances with the twelve noble houses was.

When he could take no more of farmers’ arguments and traders’ disagreements, Soren stood, relishing the relief in his numb bottom, aching back and sore shoulder as he stretched his stiff body. He beckoned Edmund to follow suit. Lord Behan, the steward of Pandora, was summoned to continue proceedings, as Soren left, taking a curious Edmund with him.

~

“We need to discuss the restructuring of the court, Edmund,” Soren said, massaging his forehead with a hand as he sighed. “I’m concerned as to who I can rely on.”

The desk before him was covered in piles of papers, all requests requiring something from him: approval, money, favours, time. I don’t know where to begin with all this. He swept some papers to one side to create a gap, shivering in the disruption of air. His clothes were dampened with drizzle from the brief walk to the castle, which had permeated his collar and cuffs enough to chill his skin.

Soren waited for the serving boy to set the fire before he spoke. As the youngster left in silence, Soren shook his head. “Where to start,” he muttered, turning to warm his hands in the feeble blaze.

“Well, let us think in terms of houses, perhaps?”

“As good a starting point as any.” Soren raised his hands in a wide shrug. He stood to rummage through piles of books and parchments, coughing through the dust clouds.

“You need to let the servants sweep your study out more,” Edmund said, wafting the cloud away from him.

Soren ignored him, instead dropping a framed map onto his desk with a thud. It showed Caledan split into land owned by the twelve noble houses of the realm.

“Well House Balaur is of no concern,” Soren began, glancing over his own family’s territories that followed the Lowen River south from the Great Lake to the sea. His mother’s cousins and their relatives governed the southern Balaur lands from Lowenmouth.

“Lord Andor is a great support, though distant. House Arrow is loyal, though it is too small to be of any difference politically.” Thank goodness my own relatives support me. Soren was relieved to have some semblance of an alliance within his family, though he did not dare probe too far into their actions during Zaki’s takeover of the throne.

Edmund’s agreement reassured Soren. “My son’s house also.” Edmund’s son Dane had inherited the titles of House Arendall through his late mother. “I do not think any of the lesser branches would disagree; they benefit too much from a close royal association.”

“Kinsley is also of unquestionable allegiance, which makes four houses.”

“Excepting Sir Loren,” Edmund interjected.

“Mmm. But a loyal house cannot be responsible for one dead traitor, and we need their lands to remain open to us for the trade routes south. Varan no longer concerns me.” Soren traced his fingers to territory bordering both Arendall and Balaur lands. “They are too small to be a threat and now bound to our cause. Perhaps we can use their copper mines more to our advantage from this strengthened alliance.” Soren’s fingers drummed upon the desk. “What else do they produce?”

“Little, but the ore is lucrative enough,” Edmund said. “What of Rainsford?” Edmund’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the border lands on the southern edge of the map.

Soren continued tapping his fingers on the desk, frowning. “I cannot decide. They seem all for the monarchy, but I would not count them amongst my friends.”

“I think you may be correct there,” Edmund replied after some thought. “Lord Bron goes to no great lengths to prove allegiance to any one cause, but rather fades into the background. Perhaps he cares not, as long as he may continue to extort taxes from land trade coming across the border under the protection of the crown.”

Soren let out a hollow laugh. “We shall have to watch him. Lord Verio too; House Denholm is most definitely our enemy.” Soren rested his chin on steepled fingers. “I confess, I don’t know what to do with Verio.”

Edmund snorted with derision. “That old pretender. A few hills yielding some half decent silver and lead and he thinks he should be king. Verio is ambitious and full of his own self-importance, and his sons are no better. Disregard it. Pay him respect – but not too much, for it will inflame his ego. Buy his metals and praise the quality of his region’s seafood. That is the best way to keep him happy.”

“I don’t think I’d be happy if I had his lands – metals and fancy fish or not.” Soren grimaced as he remembered how dull, damp and miserable the lands east of the Grey Mountains were.

“Verio’s land to the south is not so unpleasant. He does not have to live as they do in Harring.”

“Even so. I think I would rather visit Harring again than Verio himself!”

“You may one day be required to do both,” said Edmund wryly. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Soren dropped his gaze to the map, hoping he would not have to do either.

“Oh, here’s another tricky one. House Walbridge, Lord Willam; what do you think?”

“One to watch,” Edmund said, scowling. “An altogether untrustworthy man. The family has never been on the losing side of any battle, and for good reason. Walbridge is always clever enough to side with the obvious winner, or wait until such a time that it becomes clear who will succeed before declaring his position. Treat him warily.”

Soren regarded him from beneath raised eyebrows, surprised at the strength of dislike in Edmund’s voice. “Do we have need of him?”

“Definitely.” Edmund’s voice was grim. “As much as I hate to admit it, the man does have an impressive, well-trained retinue and his forgeries are of the highest class.”

“He keeps that hidden well,” said Soren, troubled. I regret assuming he farmed only sheep for textiles. I should have paid more attention when my tutors taught me of the houses.

“He neighbours Balaur and Duncombe however, so do not be disheartened. Andor and Finihan’s son would not see him grow too big for his boots.”

“I suppose not. Lord Finihan was a reliable advisor to my mother.”

“Indeed. His son is still of excellent use to the crown.”

“On the other hand, he is bordered by Lunder and Bryars, who are both not friendly to my reign.”

“Well, Lunder may not be receptive, but Bryars is a tangled family with opinions as divided as their lands. Many of them recognise the benefits that trading their assets with the crown brings – no matter who wears the crown. They too suffered under Zaki, and I’ll wager have lost their taste for war.”

“And last of all, there is Orrell,” Soren said. “Unquestionably against us after the fall of their brightest star.”

“Aye. If Reynard is not dead, he will never be welcome or successful in Caledan again. They waged much on his success, to their regret.”

Soren leaned back in his chair, worried by both the dwindling perceptions of his allies and the prospect of Zaki’s right-hand man, who had also disappeared without a trace. His fingers rattled on the chair arm like rain hitting the floor. That’s an awful lot of Caledan that is unfriendly to my rule, he thought, totalling it up. “Five loyal houses, four not so and three of questionable allegiance. That does not bode well.”

“I would disagree, with respect.” Edmund tilted his head, sucking on the inside of a cheek. “If we say you have six loyal houses – Balaur, Arendall, Kinsley, Duncombe, Arrow and I would include Varan – then there are Denholm, Orrell, Lunder and maybe Bryars to oppose you. Rainsford will not care either way but will support you as long as you sit on the throne, and Walbridge does not matter unless we have a war on our hands, so he is yours for the time being.”

“So. I need to favour Denholm, Orrell, Lunder and perhaps Bryars and Walbridge too?”

“Yes, but you do not want to disenfranchise your supporters by just favouring your enemies. You could risk their loyalty – even those whose support for you seems unwavering.”

I have so much to learn. Soren sighed, propping his head up on his hands and elbows.

“You will soon handle these things with little effort, Soren.” Edmund caught his eye and smiled to reassure him.

“I hope so,” replied Soren, feeling glum. He exhaled loudly. “So the gist is to give favours to everyone fairly, within reason, even if such boons are not earned, all for the sake of keeping smiles and peace that are most likely fake anyway.”

“There – you’re learning already.”

“Without somehow offending anybody, provoking discord of any kind, or emptying the coffers.”

“Naturally.” Edmund laughed. “You can use alliances to strengthen your position, as you have the power to arrange marriages over and above anyone else, should you so choose. The Orrell’s for example, however despicable, seem to be a veritable spring of beautiful young ladies, just as the Walbridge’s are blessed with strong sons. Choose their marriages well and you can bind them to your causes.”

“How… devious,” said Soren.

“Politics.”

“Can I trust anyone in this?”

Edmund paused. “No,” he said frankly. “The sons of your enemies could be your friends, yet the sons of your friends could well be your enemies. Judge each person on their own merit, but be careful in whom you place your confidence.”

That sounds far too much like a riddle.

Zaki

Since his humiliation at Demara’s hands, Zaki had struggled to reconcile with the role reversal of having less power than his wife. He was already fed up of Roher and its hot climate, strange customs and, most of all, the unfamiliar language, which isolated him from everyone.

For the fifth time, he sat in on the petty court listening to the day’s petitions. He had hoped that by doing so, he could discover the power players in his new court and glean useful information on who wanted what. Yet it was as useless as before. These damn Roherii speak too fast. Why can’t everyone speak Caledonian?

He had learnt one phrase of Roherish, “regis mendicus”, which had been uttered many times by many mouths around him until he demanded that someone reveal its meaning to him. “The beggar king,” he had been told. They did not say that in his hearing anymore. One had made the mistake of doing so since he had learned its meaning, and he had taught them a painful, humiliating lesson for their mockery.

He did not turn when Reynard sat beside him; no one else would choose to sit with the beggar king, so he knew who it would be.

“Sir, I have someone you should meet,” Reynard whispered into his ear.

Interest piqued, Zaki twisted in his seat to see a small, dark-haired young man. He was of slight build and, with his eyes cast to the floor, a timid figure. He cannot be anyone of importance, Zaki judged, scrutinising his plain clothes.

“Tobias Collado,” Reynard said.

The man looked up at Zaki, executing a short, sharp bow in his direction before replacing his gaze upon the ground. “He is a translator who speaks Caledonian.”

Zaki regarded him with refreshed interest. Good, my window onto this world of Harad’s, at last. “Well done,” he praised Reynard, impressed at his ingenuity.

“Tobias, you shall begin now. Translate their words.” Zaki gestured towards the lone figure standing before the king in the centre of the throne room.

“Yes, ser. This man, he is the Ser Mertillius who is working in… How you say… Buying? Selling?”

“Commerce,” said Reynard.

“Yes, yes, commerce. He wants to reduce his taxes.” Tobias paused as Harad burst into laughter. “To thirty parts of every hundred from fifty, because he works so hard to keep the valuable ports at Bera open and they cost much money to do so. His Majesty does not wish this to be the case. His Majesty decrees that his taxes may be reduced to forty parts on account of his good work and invaluable services. You see that Ser Mertillius bows and leaves, but he is not happy. Ah, and here is a farmer—”

“I do not care about farmers,” said Zaki, his eyes following the unconcealed scowl upon Ser Mertillius’s face.

“As you wish, ser.”

A man prostrated himself upon the floor, of so low a rank that he was not even allowed to raise his head to address the king. Zaki turned away from the view before them.

“This was a brilliant notion,” Zaki muttered to Reynard. “We can have eyes and ears within the Roherii court. However, I will need money – and plenty of it – before I can hope to be of any influence here or in Caledan.”

I refuse to be a beggar king, but I need more power here and money before I can be anything else. Demara’s dowry and income – his by right – was not enough. He turned to Tobias with a spark of inspiration. “You will teach me the Roherii tongue.”

~

It was weeks before Zaki saw his wife again; in his stubbornness, he refused to submit to her authority. However, eventually he relented, knowing that, with his insecure position, he needed a son.

He visited her in the nursery whilst she played with Leika. He was gradually becoming more comfortable around the two of them. I will admit, the babe is not uncomely, he thought one day as Leika stared at him with bright eyes, her rosebud mouth pursed open.

Wispy hair was beginning to find purchase on her head, hinting at curls. Her warm, honey skin glowed with good health, whilst her red-tinged cheeks gave her a seemly hue.

Her minuscule nails intrigued him most. Tinier than even the smallest jewel he had seen, they sat upon the ends of her kicking toes and wiggling fingers. He caught himself daydreaming with a tut. Demara looked up at him from the floor where she tickled the babe, but he did not speak to her.

I grow soft in the company of women. He felt irked with himself for being so pathetic and was glad neither Reynard nor any of his men were there to see him at that moment. I need some prospects to occupy my time lest I turn into one! He regarded his daughter again. At least she will be a useful bargaining tool in the future. I will make a good marriage with her. Would that I had a son.

He stood to leave, Demara rising with him, Leika in her arms. She stood in silence, waiting for him to speak.

Zaki forced down his pride. “Will you come to my chamber tonight?” The feeling of asking, of submitting to her authority, was repulsive. He had to make the words march from his reluctant mouth.

She looked at him, not quite blank-faced but with an imperturbable expression, her eyes seeming to analyse him. After a pause, she replied. “I will come.” She turned away with Leika, handed her to the maid and motioned to the door with no hint of emotion.

Dismissed again! Swallowing, Zaki strode to the door before his anger could get the better of him.

~

After that night he did not see her for another week, but for that he was glad. It was a duty and a chance for a son, nothing more. On the other nights, he revelled with the other younger lords of Roher, finally included in their circle with his increasing knowledge of the Roherii tongue.

Tobias was the best asset he had, accompanying him anywhere. The young Roherii lords had even learnt some Caledonian – though Zaki was careful not to educate them too well.

“After all, they must not know when we talk about them!” he said to Reynard through a fake smile as they gambled on the cards in his favourite tavern. His new friends mirrored his grin as Reynard murmured his agreement, but his Caledonian men took care not to react to his words.

Zaki bet again – it was easy to deduce the Roherii were fond of gambling. Behind him, Tobias praised him in Caledonian.

“This is a good hand, ser, and a large bet. You will not be a beggar king if you can afford so much!”

Zaki smiled smugly, his eyes not leaving the playing surface as the cards were dealt. This was his strongest game and he always won at this table. If only my wife had brought a larger dowry, I would be even richer still.

Luke

“I’ve tried to be lenient,” said Nyle, looking at Luke pityingly. “I really have. But I’m going to have to issue you a final warning if this keeps up. This is no fit behaviour for an Arlyn guard.”

Luke stood before him, but instead of being straight backed, he slouched, fixated upon the floor.

“What’s gotten into you?” Nyle tried again.

Luke did not answer. He had stopped listening, in any case. Nothing mattered.

Nyle huffed, shaking his head. “Look, Luke. I can’t keep allowing this. Turn up on time, in clean uniform. If I smell beer on your breath in the morning again, you’re done.” He turned away and marched off.

Luke started at his departure. After a pause, he turned and headed for home.

~

“You must try to accept it, love,” his mother said to him, as she did every day. “The daughter of a lord, the cousin to a king, would never be able to marry someone of our standing.”

Every day his reaction was the same. With hot tears burning at his eyes, he would storm off to the public house to drown his sorrows so far they could not see the light of day. It never worked, though. The best he managed was to feel nothing for a little while.

I still want her as much as I always have done. Luke sat in the corner of the public house, at what had become his usual table, given a wide berth by the other patrons there who had learnt he was in no mood for laughter or jest. One hand grasped the handle of a tankard half-filled with frothing beer, the other held his face as he heaved another deep sigh.

He sat up to drain the tankard and wiped his mouth with a filthy sleeve, not troubling to subdue the resulting belch. Within minutes the barmaid had whisked away his empty tankard and replaced it with a full one, swiping a few more of the coins he had abandoned on the table as payment. She did not bother to speak to him anymore.

He did not have many coins left, and after his conversation with Nyle it sounded like he would not have a job for much longer either. Yet he felt nothing when he considered it – no sadness or worry or anger at the thought of losing his position.

Luke stared at the wooden vessel, tracing a thumb across the surface worn smooth by years of handling. He was glad he could not see his reflection anywhere. It would be a mess. He had not bothered to shave or trim his beard or hair in weeks. Luke knew he was being difficult and should feel guilty, but he could not force himself to care.

A wave of laughter erupted from the bar. Luke did not glance up – it would be one bawdy joke or another and he was no longer amused by such trifles. It was only when he heard Eve’s name that his ears pricked up.

They make jokes about her honour! He stood, knocking the table so hard in his rush that his tankard jumped of its own accord. It crashed to the floor, spilling its contents far and wide.

Luke lurched towards the men, clutching tables and chair backs for balance as he stumbled. His head swam. They were laughing so hard they did not notice him – until Luke shoved one in the back, almost pushing the man forward into his own drink. “Oi!”

The man turned, slow and deliberate, fixing Luke with beady eyes.

Luke was dwarfed in his presence. He did not feel afraid, but further emboldened.

“What’s up, boy?” the man sneered at him, looking him up and down with disdain. His friends, who had turned to see the challenger, chuckled amongst themselves.

“How dare you speak of the Lady Eve thus,” Luke growled at him.

“I will say whatever I please, boy.” He pushed Luke back as his friends crowded around. Luke stumbled, overbalanced and fell backwards. He hauled himself upright with the aid of a table to the laughter of those around him.

Using his momentum, Luke lurched forwards. “You will not dishonour her!” He lashed out with his fist, connecting with the man’s temple.

The man crumpled to the floor.

A moment of astonished silence fell as those around him absorbed the change of events. Hands grabbed Luke; he swung his arms and flailed his feet as they carried him outside and threw him to the floor. Then they set upon him, punching and kicking his prone body.

Each blow paralysed him. They seemed to come from every direction, but the numbness brought a relief from the pain. In the dark street, he could not see his attackers and was in no fit state to defend himself.

He fell into unconsciousness where he lay.

~

Cold water drenched Luke and he awoke with a gasp, sitting up. He groaned and lay down again, closing his eyes. It hurt far too much to move.

“Boy, wake up.”

Constable Sameth appeared, peering down at him, as Luke opened his eyes again.

“I didn’t expect to see you in trouble, young Lucan,” said Sameth, disapproval radiating from his thin mouth and accusing stare.

“Where am I?” Luke swallowed and licked his lips. He looked around. It was still dark.

“Exactly where you were. In the middle of the street, like the drunken idiot you are.” Sameth bent down to pull him into a sitting position.

“Off to the cell for you. You’ll be there until the man you assaulted decides if he’ll be pressing charges, but seeing as you received a lot worse than you gave, I doubt he’ll think it worth it. You need to sober up before I’ll let you leave. Can you walk?”

Luke struggled to keep up, his head moving at too slow a pace to decipher the man’s words. Before he could answer, he sunk into blackness again, to the sound of Sameth’s cursing.

~

When next he awoke, he was inside and propped against a wall. His surroundings were warm, dry and dimly lit. He could not see out; there were no windows and the door had a covered peephole. What time is it? he wondered as he clutched his pounding head.

He looked up at the door as the grille opened. Eve’s face peered through it, sending a shock across Luke’s body. He shook his head.

“Leave me alone, let me sleep,” he mumbled. “Stop haunting me.”

Her reproachful face disappeared, reappearing moments later when the door opened.

“You’re not dreaming, Luke,” she said sadly. “Your mother sent me. She’s worried about you.”

He was awake in an instant, as if another icy blast of water had drenched him. He staggered to his feet, clutching the wall for support.

“Please don’t marry that man, I beg you. See what this torture has made me?” he gestured around the cell helplessly. “I cannot eat. I cannot sleep. I cannot work. All for love of you. Please don’t choose him. Please.” He gaped, open mouthed, not knowing what else he could say.

She stepped back, betraying a slight limp. Beyond her, Luke could see daylight. Her posture was drooped and she clutched her cloak about her.

“My feelings and what must be are two separate things, Luke,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I am honour-bound, and I cannot break that. When you leave here, forget me.” Without looking at him, she turned and left.

Luke’s head lolled onto his chest. The door was shut and locked once more. The stone floor was so cold it pained him, searing against his skin, but he did not care.

Eve

The shutter rattled. Eve glanced at the window, annoyed. “Go away, wind!” She concentrated on her sewing, her fingers struggling with the needle.

“Argh, why must I learn how to use this stupid thing!” she exclaimed as it pricked her finger and she stitched in the wrong place again. She stabbed it into the cushion and tossed her project aside in frustration.

At the sound of a knock Eve rose to answer the door, wincing as her ankle twinged with pain, but no one was there. She paused and glanced around the hallway. It was empty. Another knock sounded and she froze. Someone is outside my window.

She rushed to the fireplace, grabbed the poker and held it ready before she approached the shutters with caution. After opening the window from the inside, Eve unlatched the shutter, pushed it and retreated. As it swung out, the poker wavered in front of her and her mouth dropped open.

Luke grasped the sill, red faced with effort as he struggled to keep his grip, feet lodged in the trailing ivy and upon the rough stone brickwork. Without thinking, she flung the poker onto her bed and rushed forward to grab his arms and haul him in.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

He stood, closing the window behind him.

Eve was glad, for it let in a cold, pervasive wind that chilled the warm room, though her own shivering had not entirely been caused by it.

She looked over him. He was a different man to the Luke stewing in the gaol cell a few days prior. He wore his best clothes, which had been patched in places and meticulously cleaned. His hair had been trimmed and his beard too. He stood with ease – no hint of alcohol upon his breath or in his movements.

Realising his effort, her face coloured and her pulse raced as she met his bright, glossy eyes that were fixed upon her.

Luke fiddled with his collar, smoothing the fabric on his sleeves as his own cheeks reddened. He took a deep breath and crossed the room to take her hands in his own. This close, she could smell the fresh, woody scent of the soap he had used to wash.

“Eve, I had to see you. I’m sorry you saw me in such a state the other day, but it made me realise why you left so quick.”

She made to reply, but he held up a hand to stall her.

“Please. I was in no fit state to ask for you then, so I shall do it now. Eve,” he said, raising a hand to brush the hair from her face and stroke her cheek, sending thrills across her and causing her breath to catch. “I love you. I’m not ashamed to say it. I can tell that you have feelings for me too, and I know that the betrothal is not what you want. It’s so clear to see. You know I’m right.” He searched her face.

She could not respond, captivated by his touch and his words. Her breathing stalled.

“Be mine instead. I’ll provide for you, keep you safe, and together we’ll be happy. We don’t have to stay, if you fear your father’s disapproval. I can turn my hand to other trades and find a job elsewhere, but I promise I’ll keep you well.” His hands jumped to smooth his hair again. “Will you marry me?”

She stilled, taken aback by his unexpected question. Her eyes flickered as she faltered, knowing that she could not say yes, however much she might wish to. She couldn’t resist the urge to draw nearer to him however, though her eyes closed as if denying the action. Her move betrayed her feelings.

All of a sudden, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her so hard that she could not breathe. She savoured his lips upon hers until she pulled away and they broke contact.

“I want to, Luke, but I cannot! I do not want this betrothal, but I cannot escape it – my father has proved that.” Eve explained her previous attempt to run away. “I failed in my bid for freedom, and I bear the consequences of my choices.”

Eve froze with surprise when he embraced her.

“I thought you had been avoiding me. I felt so miserable that you would hate me so.” The relief in his voice was clear. “I would keep you safe. Your father would not find us,” Luke promised, kissing her again, softly this time.

“He would,” she replied, miserable. She rested her forehead against his shoulder, exhaling. “I couldn’t do that to him, and there’s no one else to keep Arrow county – just me.”

She pushed him away. All emotion stilled within her in a few moments of clarity. It was easier to bear if she could not see him, so she turned away. “I can’t be with you, Luke. There’s no way for me to escape from this. I wish there was, but it’s my own fault; I agreed to it.” She shook her head, more at herself than him. You’re such a fool, Eve.

“Is that your decision?” Luke asked in a low voice.

She did not dare turn around. “Yes.” Her voice caught. “Yes,” she repeated more strongly.

She heard Luke swallow behind her. “Very well,” he replied, but there was a strange tone in his voice she could not identify. “I’ll leave. You won’t see me again.”

She turned around full of sorrow, but his eyes, fixed on hers, seemed empty.

“Goodbye, Eve.”

“Goodbye, Luke.”

He opened the shutter and clambered out of the window without a further word. She heard the thud as he dropped to the ground, and then his footsteps as he stole away in the dark.

~

It was his mother she saw next, at the market-place as Eve rode past.

“Lady Eve,” she hailed.

Eve reined in Alia, looking down from the horse. “Good morning, Nora,” she said, trying to smile.

“Good morning, my lady. I’m sorry to bother you, but I haven’t seen my Luke in days, and I wonder have you seen anything of him? He’s not been home and I worry. He’s not been so well lately.”

Eve froze. “No, no I haven’t, I’m sorry. If I see him, I’ll let you know.” Her cheeks felt aflame as she shifted in the saddle, uncomfortable.

Nora’s face fell. She looked to the floor, biting her lip. “Thank you, my lady. Sorry to bother you. Good day.”

Eve rode off, geeing Alia along. Shivers crept across her skin. If she hasn’t seen him, he didn’t mean to avoid me. He meant to leave.

Demara

Leika smiled, a sight Demara could not bear to tear herself away from. It was a new ability for the little girl. Demara stood, excusing herself to use the privy.

Seline raised her eyebrow. “For the third time today?”

A knowing grin flitted across Demara’s face.

Seline broke out into an excited laugh. “Mistress! You are not?”

“I believe so, and the physician is confident it will be a boy this time.”

Seline leapt to her feet and hugged her with joy, a gesture she would not have accepted from anyone else. “Congratulations, my lady!”

When Demara returned, Seline greeted her with orange cakes – her favourite. Demara favoured Seline with a kiss on the cheek and hauled Leika onto her lap. She shared the treat with her daughter, letting her try a few crumbs of the tangy sponge.

“This is wonderful news, mistress. I wish you had told me!”

“I did not want to presume.” She shrugged, smiling.

“It will be wonderful for your husband to have a legitimate son too. At last he may leave you in peace.”

Demara paused, frowning, her mouth open with a question. “A legitimate son? What do you suggest?”

Seline bit her lip, eyes wide. “Nothing, mistress! As I said, it will be good for him to have a son.”

“No.” Demara’s voice was flat as her eyes probed the young woman. “I know you well enough to know when you are hiding something from me, Seline. Tell me.”

Seline squirmed in her chair, her hands clenching together. She looked at her mistress from under lowered eye-lashes, a worried expression upon her face. “I wish to protect you, my lady, but I have ever done as you commanded. There are rumours that your husband is less than faithful to you. I hear that he often visits certain… establishments with his men.”

“You mean that he seeks the company of courtesans.” She was blunt.

Seline nodded, her lips clamped shut as though she did not want to admit it.

Demara swore. “Take Leika. I will go to see him. I am a princess – a queen in his country. I do not want him, but I will not share him!” Fury rose within her.

“Mistress, please do not go,” Seline begged her. “Calm down for the sake of the child. You must remain restful.”

“I did not ask you.”

His chambers were deserted when she reached them. It was early evening and she had no idea where he could be. She dithered on the threshold. Within, his rooms were pleasantly cool, though darkening in the fading day. He had not been given the nicest chambers, she noted; they did not face much daylight. Good. He deserves it.

She sat on his long couch, waiting, fidgeting and listening for any sound of his return. After a while, she had to admit that her anger had cooled, replaced by misgivings.

Perhaps Seline was right. Am I wise in confronting him? I never would have dared to do so in Pandora. She knew his temper and feared it. Nerves stirred in her stomach.

The sun must have set, for she sat in the dark gloom, ages later. She chewed on a nail, playing with some beads on her clothing in agitation. I will go. This is of no use. She stood to leave, but froze at sounds outside. The scrape of a boot upon the tiled floor. The twist of the handle. The click of the door opening.

He’s here! Blood and adrenaline rushed through her. Her cheeks felt at once as if they burnt red hot, and her hands shook with a tremor. Fury had ebbed during the long wait, replaced by doubt, but even so, Demara knew she must not appear weak. She smoothed down the folds of her dress, bead fringing rustling and clinking against her bangles.

“Hello?” Zaki stopped as he beheld her. His gaze paused on her one fist.

She blazed determination at him, wishing she felt as confident as she must have looked.

“Leave us,” Zaki said to his companions.

His entourage shuffled outside and closed the door. A round of muffled laughter filtered through.

Demara had not moved. Her eyes followed Zaki as he used a taper to light some of the lamps around the room. He motioned towards the bed, assuming her purpose.

She huffed in disgust. “I would not touch you.” Her mouth curled with distaste. “I hear where you spend your time! I will not share a man with courtesans.”

His hand dropped to his side. Understanding crossed his face, before anger seized it. “It is none of your damn business where I go. I shall do whatever I like, whenever I please, with whomever I choose.”

“You would shame me? You would shame our children, our family, even my father?”

“You shame me by not bearing me a son!”

Demara opened her mouth, but indignation made her pause. May he rot. I will not tell him.

He took her pause for his victory. “Get out.”

“You presume to order me?”

“I am your husband; you will do as I command.”

“You have no authority here. I will not leave.” She raised her chin in defiance, standing taller. She struggled not to shrink into herself as he approached. He was more powerful than she, of that there was no doubt.

Zaki stood in front of her and looked down upon her – a deliberate intimidation. “You will get out, or I will make you leave. Your choice.”

She did not move.

He swore. It was Caledonian – he never deigned to speak Roherii with her – but she did not need to understand the meaning to know his feelings. “Fine. Forget it. Stay. I will go.” He shouldered her aside.

In a moment she had lost her balance and, within the folds of the dress, could not gain it again. She crashed into the table, its corner burying itself deep in her midriff. Crying out in pain, she scrabbled at the structure in a failed attempt to right herself. She thudded onto the floor.

The door slammed. The room fell into silence. Moaning, she curled into a ball and wept.

~

That night, she tossed and turned for hours. The cover constricted, catching her at the throat and pinning down her limbs, yet the faint breeze stole all warmth from her skin and left her shivering.

Not even Seline’s presence next to her was reassuring, though Demara was often glad for the company of her bedmate. When she did manage to sleep, her slumber was haunted by twisted nightmares filled with Zaki that woke her.

After he had pushed her into the table for what seemed like the tenth time that night, Demara woke again. She turned over, trying to get back to sleep, when the pain stabbed at her.

Her eyes snapped open. That was no dream. She stroked her stomach, which had already bloomed in bruises. It was sore and the pressure of her hand worsened it. In fact, she slowly realised, it cramps…

With a gasp she tore back the cover and sat up, whimpering at the pain. Even in the night, she could not miss the dark stain on her pale bedclothes. She screamed.

Seline awoke next to her, thrashing in panic.

“Mistress! Are you alright?”

Demara jumped from the bed, tearing off her nightgown, and stared at the dark stains upon it and the bed sheets with horror. Seline fumbled with the oil lamp, lighting it. Colour and light flooded the room.

Red. It’s red. Blood.

Seline swore and shouted for help. The door burst open as the guard tumbled in. “Fetch the physician!” she screeched at him before he could speak or even look around the room.

He ran as if the devil himself pursued him, whilst Seline leapt over the bed to Demara’s side to support her as they made their way into the bathroom.

“Come mistress, come.”

“It’s gone, I think it’s gone!” Demara mumbled to herself in shock, shaking.

“Your skin is so cold, mistress,” Seline said with alarm, feeling Demara’s arm and then her forehead. She ran a hot bath. “Thank the gods and goddesses that the furnaces burn all night. Worry not, mistress, I will tend to you.”

Demara let Seline sit her in the bath – it felt at once too hot and too cold. She stared blank-eyed, unthinking, at the blood upon her thighs as Seline gently dabbed it away with a dark cloth. The water took on the faintest pink tinge.

Within minutes the physician burst in. His hair was a wild mess and his beard uncombed. “I came as soon as I could.”

He took one look at the bed, the discarded bloody garment and Seline’s tender ministrations of her mistress and tutted, sighing.

“You must describe your symptoms, mistress. Any pain or discomfort? Where?”

Demara answered his questions in a dull voice.

“Have you suffered any accidents of late?”

She replied without thinking or caring. The physician’s eyes were hard as he listened.

“Why did you not tell me!” Seline’s face was aghast as she grasped Demara’s hand.

“I must inform His Majesty of this transgression,” the physician said.

“What of my son?” Demara forced out, leaning forward.

The physician paused, but could not find any kind way to phrase it. “I am afraid that there is but a slim hope he will survive, my lady.” Demara slumped back in the bath, not caring what he said next.

All for nothing.

She did not listen as he spoke with Seline, prescribing her bed rest and constant care, nor did she protest when Seline drew her from the bath, dried and dressed her, and put her to sleep in a clean bed. She lay, staring into the distance far past the ceiling, unthinking and unfeeling.

Myrkdaga

Myrkdaga’s jaws crushed the goat’s neck with ease, snapping the brittle bones. He tore out the flesh, hot blood spilling from the wound and dribbling down the scales on his chin. Behind him, Feldloga and Feldith waited for a moment before diving in to each rip off a limb.

Meat was scarce this far north. Birds were barely a bite and anything bigger was few and far between. The dragonets were too hungry to waste energy bickering over their share of the meat. They all ate as much as they could: bones, fur and all.

“This is ridiculous,” said Myrkdaga with a growl as he cleaned his claws with a barbed tongue, still starving. “It’s too cold this far north, there’s not enough food and it worsens as winter creeps upon us. I like it not.”

Feldloga huffed. “It’s no fun, but I cannot imagine that returning to Kotyir under banishment would be either.”

“I don’t care. I’m going south at least, where there’s better hunting. Are your wings with me?”

His two companions shared a look – the identical dragons mirroring each other’s movement.

“We will come,” replied Feldith.

~

Still on the northern edges of the clan territory, Myrkdaga, Feldith and Feldloga dropped out of the air the moment they saw dragons in the sky, landing and crawling under foliage to hide themselves from view. It would not do them well to be seen by any of their kin.

They waited in silence, eyes watching the skies, for them to pass by.

The dragons flew low and with no hurry in a northern direction. Their conversation was unguarded, shouted over the distance between their wheeling forms, but it was too far away to distinguish.

Myrkdaga hissed, flexing his claws as they crossed overhead.

“The silver dragon must be Cies. There’s no other as large as that in the clan.”

“What business does he have here?” Feldith wondered aloud.

“I’d like to find out.” Myrkdaga’s narrowed eyes watched them pass. “I know my sire distrusts him.”

A slight tremor shook the earth nearby.

“They’ve landed,” Myrkdaga said, slithering towards the vibrations on his belly as his two companions followed suit.

Cies basked upon a rocky outcrop for what little warmth there was in the light. He was joined by a red dragon Myrkdaga did not recognise. Myrkdaga and his companions retreated well out of sight, lying without a sound upon the forest floor.

The wind threw most of the conversation between the two dragons elsewhere as Myrkdaga strained to understand.

“We shame ourselves by following one so weak.”

The wind changed direction, and Myrkdaga twitched as he heard their last words, his mouth open in a silent hiss. They speak of my father?

The other dragon replied. “It may be so, but you would have to challenge for clan chief position. Are you ready to do so?”

“As ready as I will ever be,” Cies replied. “I have my methods, and many to support me.”

“What will you do?”

The wind blew north again, wiping out the conversation. Myrkdaga heard nothing further. He was forced to retreat in silence, but he longed to roar his anger. Feldloga and Feldith slunk behind him like shadows until they were all well out of sight and sound of their elders.

“I’m returning to the clan. I must warn my father.” Myrkdaga paced, kneading the ground with his claws and leaving furrows in the earth with each step he took.

Feldloga stirred, glancing at his brother.

“What of the penalty? Would you risk that to tell your father of Cies’s malcontent? It could be nothing.”

“And it could be something. I won’t let my father down again, and I won’t see that traitor become clan chief.” Myrkdaga rumbled, smoke falling from his nose and ajar mouth.

Feldloga shared a long look with his brother.

“We cannot come with you. The price is too high and the need not great,” Feldloga said, averting his eyes from Myrkdaga.

Myrkdaga looked between them. “Fine. Do as you will. I will not be allowed to stay in any case, and I plan to arrive in the dark. If I am lucky, only my father will encounter me. I cannot ask you both to risk yourselves too in this.”

~

The crescent moon shone through hazy clouds as Myrkdaga flew low over the Isles of Kotyir. It felt good to smell his home, tasting each scent in his mouth. He moved with silence, gliding where possible. Dragons by no means slept at night, but he was counting on his father to be alone at his usual haunt: Brithilca’s pool.

Sure enough, Myrkith-visir stood, keeping his night-time vigil over the water.

“Father,” Myrkdaga called out in a low voice.

Myrkith-visir’s head snapped round to fix the young dragonet in a penetrating stare.

Myrkdaga was certain the only reason his father did not kill him upon sight was their kinship, but even so, Myrkdaga backtracked as he landed, pressing himself to the ground in submission as Myrkith-visir reared onto his hind legs.

“Wait, I don’t seek to return. I bear news you need to hear.”

Myrkith-visir paused, low rumbles emanating from his throat. Myrkdaga took this as a sign to continue and explained all that he had seen. Myrkith-visir lowered himself onto four legs.

“I thank you for your warning,” Myrkith-visir said, his rumble changing to a lower frequency as he stared into the distance; Myrkdaga knew his father was pondering his news. “Cies is ever discontent, but never has he dared to challenge me. Perhaps that time has come.”

“You can defeat him,” Myrkdaga said.

“Of course I can,” Myrkith-visir replied, almost arrogant in his self-assurance, but Myrkdaga knew him to be speaking the truth. His father was far stronger and faster than the silver dragon, though who had mastered slyness and cunning most could be argued. “Thanks to you, I will be on my guard henceforth.”

Myrkdaga rose from the ground, unfurling his wings to leave, but a warning growl from his father halted him.

“You know the penalty for returning from banishment is death,” Myrkith-visir said, surprisingly softly.

Myrkdaga froze.

“Yet I cannot help but falter when it is my own blood, who returns to warn me of this.”

Even Myrkdaga’s breath had stopped in anticipation of his father’s judgement.

Myrkith-visir turned away from him. “Go; tell no dragon of this and be seen by no dragon, for you would weaken my position beyond repair. If you are caught, I will be forced to act. I did not see you – you were never here.”

Myrkdaga-visir did not question nor thank his father. Instead, he took a running leap into the air, flapping at twice his normal rate in case his father changed his mind.

Zaki

As usual, the guard refused to allow Zaki immediate entry, but his behaviour seemed even more unfriendly that day. He stood in front of the door, his chest and chin jutting out, glaring at Zaki.

Zaki shuffled on his feet, impatient to get his apology over and done with. I was wrong to push her, he had to acknowledge, but he was still angry that she presumed to lecture him. Reynard had persuaded him to apologise, for diplomatic reasons, but he was having a change of heart.

Her maid glared at him with open hatred as he entered. He was surprised to find Demara abed. She did not greet him or look at him as he entered.

“Is she unwell?” Zaki looked at the maid with confusion, but was stunned into silence at her insubordinate reply.

“Thanks to you,” she snarled at him.

Zaki looked at her, his eyebrows rising. He barged past her without a word.

Demara turned her head, regarding him with no expression upon her face.

“I have come to apologise for my actions yesterday,” Zaki said, stiff backed and staring at the wall above Demara’s head. “I was wrong to act thus.”

Demara watched him still, but her face filled with dislike. “You pushed a pregnant lady onto the floor – your own wife – and left her there alone in the darkness. You cannot make up for that with an apology!”

Zaki’s heart stopped for a second before it kicked back into life and hammered against his chest, blood rushing to his head. What did she say? “I beg your pardon? You are with child?” A smile widened upon his face as he processed the information, but before it could fix there, she replied.

“I was.” Her tone was scathing and she regarded him with pure loathing, her lip curling. “I was. Now I am not, and it is all your fault!” Her voice caught and he could see her eyes glisten with tears.

“I do not understand,” he forced out, bewildered.

Tears spilt onto Demara’s cheeks as she recounted her experience, but her face remained a mask of anger. “My baby – my strong son, for I know he was a boy – is dead, and you are to blame! No apology could ever repair that.”

Zaki’s mouth became a parched desert and speech failed him. He stood transfixed. “We can make a new son,” he said, but that enraged Demara.

“I do not want your murdering, lecherous hands anywhere near me!” she screeched at him.

Her maid moved between them and batted him away. “You are upsetting her. I will not have it,” she said, her own anger blazing at him. “Out! Leave!”

Zaki stumbled backwards, turned and fled as he tried to understand what had happened. His feet carried him out of the palace, through the grounds and outside their boundaries by one of the lesser gates.

The guard let him pass without question.

Zaki took the usual turn down one of the smaller alleyways of the wealthy districts. It soon ejected him into the less affluent area where seedy businesses hawked their services down shaded back alleys.

~

It was still light when Reynard found him, but Zaki had already downed more tankards in the past hour than he would on a night.

“Thank God I found you!” Reynard exclaimed, dropping his voice as the other patrons in the dingy bar turned at his entrance. “Come, we must leave. This hole is no place for you.” He gestured to the door, not daring to lay a hand on Zaki, but Zaki did not move and remained hunched over the grubby wooden cup. Reynard fished the vessel out of his reach, gagging as he smelt the contents. “Piss would taste better than this,” he muttered. “At least let us find a place more savoury to drown whatever ails you, sir. I do not like the look of this place.”

Zaki leaned forwards to snatch back the cup. He downed the contents and tossed the vessel onto the table, where it rolled onto the floor with a clunk. “Get me another one.”

Reynard bowed and strode to the bar without a word, returning with another wooden cup. He perched upon the stool opposite Zaki, his lips pursed in distaste.

Zaki scowled at his right-hand man. “You won’t join me?”

“No, sir.”

“Join me or get out. I have no need for anyone’s judgement tonight, least of all yours!”

“I would prefer not to leave you in this district, sir. It seems unsafe.”

“I can take care of myself. Go.” Zaki waved him away. “And get me another drink on your way out.”

He did not look up as Reynard left. His corner of the bar grew duller. Candles burnt out and left him and his growing collection of drinking mugs to the darkness until even the bartender had had enough of him and threw him onto the street with the rest of the late night drinkers.

Zaki stumbled out into the air. It was barely fresh, the heat of the day still sweltering between the crooked buildings, but the breeze caressed his skin and he drank it in.

Staggering through alleyways, Zaki was soon disorientated with a swimming head. He sagged against the wall for support.

“Oi!” he cried with slurred indignation as he was jolted by someone shouldering past him. He tripped forwards, but his feet did not find the ground fast enough and it rushed up to meet him.

The blinding pain of his elbow breaking the fall was blurred by his intoxication, but his entire arm jarred from the impact. Zaki rolled over, groaning. He propped himself up on his other shaking elbow only for it to be kicked out from under him.

Laughter circled Zaki as he fell back to the ground once more, sodden in the stagnant contents of the gutter. In the darkness of the alley, lit by the faint light spilling from windows far above him, he saw dark shapes looming over him, silhouettes against the stars.

His mouth tried to frame words, to tell them who he was, to command them to assist him to the palace, but an unintelligible sound came out.

The laughter started again, but this time a blow to his side joined it, and then another and another, until they rained down upon him from all directions.

Hard edges dug into his soft flesh or crunched against his bones as he hunched into as small a ball as possible to avoid them. Feet stamped on him, heels driving the wind from his lungs and toes crushing his hands into the hard stone, twisting them without mercy until his fingers cracked.

He had no weapon, nor the coordination or even the consciousness, to respond. Hands grabbed him, prised open his closed form and slammed him against a wall, which trickled dust and debris into his eyes from the impact.

Eyes gleamed beneath the hood of the figure before him, but the fist smashing into his face shot his gaze to the floor, and then the other way as another blow made his teeth crunch.

He spat out a globule of blood, the rest dribbling down his front. They dropped him. Zaki cascaded to the floor, limp.

Several disjointed kicks later, the torture ended. He sunk into oblivion, away from the pain and the overwhelming smell of the gutter’s excrement smeared upon his face.

~

Pain greeted Zaki before light did. He moaned, wincing and whimpering as he uncurled, each movement sending hurt searing through him. His eyes opened, or tried to. One was fixed shut by blood and swelling. The other fared little better. His nose pulsed upon his face – an angry, red mess.

What happened?

Through the tiny slit of vision left to him, Zaki saw that the fine fabrics of his robes were ruined: torn and soiled by waste part-solid and part-liquid, and by dark burgundy splatters of his own blood. The night before rushed back to him, or what little he could remember.

Who did this?

“Unnhhh…” he groaned, trying to sit up, but this made him more aware of his pounding head. He gingerly touched his crown with hands contorted like claws, but everything hurt and filth matted his hair. Zaki could not tell whether the pain was due to head injuries or hangover. Swooning dizziness did not help answer.

His mouth was parched. Zaki wished for a cooling drink, but he did not know where he was, let alone how to reach the palace. He turned his head with care, up and down the street, and began crawling uphill towards where he hoped the palace would be, feeling grateful that the city had not yet awoken.

It was cold in the new dawn, colder than he had yet experienced in Roher. It did not help distil the stiffness and chill infused in his body. He was more glad than he dared admit that the streets were empty.

The quiet did not last long. The city awoke around him, to his great embarrassment. Thankful that no one would recognise him in his pitiful, humiliating state, he continued to inch uphill until his knees bled and his palms were cut from the debris upon the ground.

Zaki tried to rise to his feet and walk, but after a few staggered steps he fell down again. People avoided him as if he were a rabid dog or a plague-bearer. The hardness and contempt in their eyes frightened him more than he cared to admit. I will find no help here. His will pushed him on, for his body had little left to give.

“Help me,” he said to the guard upon the side gate, when at last he reached the palace garden boundaries, collapsing onto the ground in relief. The smooth paving was clean here, and pleasantly cool and soothing upon his tender, overheated body.

Zaki looked up when he received no response. The guard stared out over the courtyard. His eyes were visible under the shadow cast by his ornamental helmet.

“Succurro,” Zaki said, repeating his request in the Roherii tongue.

The guard’s eyes flicked down, but caught before they met him, returning to their forward gaze.

“Regis ego sum.” I am the king. Zaki attempted again, gasping with every breath. “Regis Zaki. Vos opem!” You must help me! “Ego praecipio tibi.” I command you.

The guard shifted and took a small horn from his belt. He winded it in a trilling pattern. The sharp, rich sound carried and was met with another identical to it.

More men soon appeared. They stopped when they saw Zaki upon the floor and raced out of sight. They returned with a palanquin and helped him into it with as little effort as they could.

Zaki’s cheeks burned with the shame of being carried like a woman, but as he sat in the soft, pillowed chair, his eyes closed in sweet relief.

~

The pain was both soothed and unbearable as he soaked in a scented bath. “They did not rob me,” Zaki mused, staring at his cleaned signet ring. My pockets still had all my effects and money, so they were there by intent or malice.

“Too skilled in thuggery to be petty thieves in any case.” He tapped the side of the bath, chewing on his lip. He stopped as his stiff, battered fingers sent lancing warnings up his arms. They must have been paid to target me. Perhaps someone tires of the regis mendicus.

The physician had bathed his wounds with care – and a stinging liquid to ward off any illness or bad spirits – and reset his broken nose. He could do nothing for Zaki’s bruised and battered body, cautioning rest, as if it were not obvious enough. Zaki glanced down his black and blue form. Not an inch seemed to have escaped notice. The hot water helped lull his form into a relaxed state. However, his mind remained keen.

He had yet to see anyone – not even Reynard had called upon him, though the hour was still early – but for that, he was glad. It gave him time to reflect, though the more he did so, the more suspicion gnawed at him.

It is too convenient. He thought back to the events of the previous days. Would she order such a thing? Zaki shook his head, dismissing the idea that his wife could have hired the strangers to attack him. Where would she know such people? Could Harad have done so? He would not put such things past his father-in-law, knowing well the ruthless streak within the Roherii king.

Surely he would not know so quickly. Would she even tell him what has passed? Who else could be my enemy? He sighed, unable to solve the riddle, his head still pounding. Both his eyes were open, but even looking around was painful.

As usual, the boy stood nearby in silence, ready to tend to him. Zaki tried to scowl in disgust, fed up of the hostile servants, but he winced instead. “I’m done,” he said, rising from the bath and grimacing with every movement. The boy unfolded a luxurious soft cloth to dry him by hand, yet every soft dab poked yet another bruise. Zaki waved him away with a growl, snatching the towel from him and finishing the job as briskly as he could bear.

He chose robes looser than usual, holding his breath as the smooth fabric slid across his skin, but the fabric was of such fine quality that it did not aggravate him.

A rap on the door heralded Reynard, who charged in wide-eyed. He swore as his eyes raked over Zaki’s pitiful state. “Thank God you’re alive.” Reynard sagged against the wall and let out a rush of breath. “What happened?”

Zaki recounted everything since his meeting with Demara the day before. Reynard’s frown deepened as he spoke.

“Are you – are we – safe here?” Reynard whispered, glancing around the empty chambers.

Zaki scoffed. “Of course not – we never have been. I need to discover who dares to target me.”

“Demara? She has the motive.”

“She’s a woman.” Zaki looked at Reynard scornfully. Though I would not put it past anyone of Harad’s blood. Could she have arranged it?

“Harad?” Reynard’s voice distracted him.

“I doubt it. He does not notice my existence, it seems.” Zaki huffed as he belted up the outfit and slipped on shoes of soft, patterned leather. “Let us talk no more of this. Come, I have a mind for pleasure tonight.” I am sick to death of bowing and scraping to these foreigners!

~

It was early evening by the time they wended their way out of the square filled with market stalls and a colourful array of Roherii that paraded through the upper districts. Zaki was content after a lazy meal sampling some of the finer delicacies that had travelled the world to reach Arrans.

He hobbled along, turning down Reynard’s support just as he had refused to make use of a walking stick. Every step sent jolts of pain shooting through him, but he was determined not to appear weak. Alcohol with the meal had helped to numb him somewhat, to his relief. As a result, he had drank generously.

They stumbled through the door of his favourite courtesans’ house. It was a discreet establishment tucked behind an arch draped in exotic flowers and lit by a single lamp, the light of which was blocked from the street by the hulking doorman whose eyes followed them.

“Good evening, sers!” greeted the mistress of the house, Meera. A gleaming smile fixed upon her face as always as she swept into an exaggerated curtsy. “How good of you to visit us again. Please, this way.”

No extra words were needed. Reynard handed her the usual purse, already counted out, and sidled off to try his luck whilst Zaki made his way to the bar where the free ladies waited for custom. The house was as tastefully decorated as could be expected, though Zaki would not have lived there. The lady of the house had added the finest ornaments and decorations she could afford in a show of wealth.

A small flurry of motion greeted his entrance; the ladies shifted from slouching to lounging provocatively, or stood to show him their best features, which they had not even attempted to hide under strands of gauzy material and strings of tacky beads. Some could not conceal their revulsion at his appearance.

It was the olive-skinned beauty in the corner who caught Zaki’s eye most of all, for she made no effort to put herself forward to him and regarded him almost insolently. She smiled at his attention, but it was not the smile of a woman won, more the smile of a challenge to be accepted.

“What is her name? Over in the corner,” Zaki asked.

The mistress regarded him with twinkling eyes. “This new gem is Tulia. Feisty. Most satisfying.”

“I’ll take her.”

In response, Meera beckoned Tulia with a sharp motion. Tulia rose, unhurried, her eyes still fixed upon him, but imperturbable as she moved across the room with the languid grace of a predator.

“I will make you feel nothing but joy,” she purred at Zaki, transfixing him with green eyes half hidden by shaded lids. Her plump, painted lips parted as she reached towards him.

Soren

Snow gripped Caledan, bringing light dustings in the south but impassable ways in the north. It purified the land, shrouding it in a cleansing white layer. Even the lake froze near to the shore, heralding a harsh winter.

The great hall thrummed with life. Caledan’s nobility packed into it for the ten day midwinter celebrations of feasting and revelry, whilst across the kingdom, Caledan’s citizens indulged too.

Soren enjoyed such things, but it was the first Christmas since his mother’s passing and his first time sat in the throne upon the dais that she had made for the celebrations. Carved from one single piece, the wood flowed around him, yet he could not find comfort and fidgeted, memories of prior winter festivals involuntarily drawn forth from his mind.

The warmth and noise was almost overwhelming; outside the chill permeated a body, but great roaring fires, combined with the heat of so many people, made the vast space too hot for Soren’s liking.

In the hall, it was simultaneously darker and lighter than usual. Candles and lamps burned everywhere in an endless carpet of twinkling light before him, yet dark greenery above him and decorating the walls and trestle tables absorbed their light. Holly sprigs, evergreen boughs littering needles, and clumps of winter berries somehow found room between dishes of all shapes and sizes crammed upon the table. Scraps falling to the floor were snapped up by the dogs; they slunk and dove between tables, occasionally snarling and fighting to snatch food from each others’ jaws.

The smell of the fires and food clogged the room, both intoxicating and inviting, yet cloying and overpowering. Once Soren had had his fill, he waved the rest of the dishes away, grateful for the ice-cold water that kept his nausea at bay.

Many came to present themselves to him throughout the course of the evening. Soren could not remember all their names but, since they sat in house groupings, it was easy to see which of the houses attending were the largest.

He had not realised in his prior conversations with Edmund how large House Walbridge was, or how withered House Varan. I must have new family trees drawn up. His eyes swept across the hall again, calculating. There doesn’t seem to be enough of a margin for me to be safe upon the throne.

Even so, the houses’ oldest men were well outnumbered by youths. Such was the price paid for my uncle’s actions. Again, he wondered just how many had died when Zaki had usurped the throne from Soren’s mother. Soren still could not decide whether to be glad for the bounty of young, strong men to swell up through the ranks or disheartened from the loss of their fathers’ irreplaceable experience. There were notable absences of those still incarcerated in the dungeons for their part in events, but their kin seemed to have no shadow of this upon their mood.

Edmund’s words had stayed with him. “The sons of your enemies could be your friends, yet the sons of your friends could well be your enemies. Judge each person on their own merit, but be careful in whom you place your confidence.”

Edmund is right, I cannot afford to discriminate against those whose fathers were against me, or supported Zaki. This must be a clean slate for us all. Soren sighed, his fingers tapping upon the table. It would be more than difficult to determine who was loyal, he was certain. The only other man close to his age that he knew well was Edmund’s own son, Dane, but he was too busy to attend this year’s festivities.

Before he could sink further into his own company, the musicians struck up a bright tune and, as one, the crowd rose obligingly and wheeled about the room in time with their partners. Edmund hauled Soren to his feet, ignoring Soren’s protests, and placed his hand into that of a blushing young lady.

“Lady Elsa of House Bryars,” Edmund introduced them.

Soren bowed as the girl sank into a curtsy, giggling. He danced around the room with her, using the space in the centre of the hall that had been kept clear of tables and rushes. Their feet tapped with many others upon the stone floor as they weaved amongst the other couples.

She was pretty, albeit a few years too young for his liking, Soren acknowledged, but that made him worry. Soon I’ll be expected to wed and produce an heir. Twenty-one and not even betrothed is not a good thing for a king. He dreaded picking a consort. Whoever he chose would aggravate at least several of the houses, and he did not relish a political marriage of any kind – to an allied house or not.

Then there was the small matter of his sister, for whom he was also responsible. She could hate me, whatever I choose for her. A small sigh, lost in the noise and movement, escaped Soren’s lips.

After Lady Elsa, Soren danced – or was forced by Edmund to dance – with seven other eligible ladies, until at last he found himself with his sister. Her eyes sparkled over rosy cheeks, and her mouth was open in a permanent grin of joy. It was so infectious that Soren smiled too. With two hands around her waist, he picked her up and placed her feet upon his own to lead her in the dance as he had done since they were young children.

“You’re enjoying yourself?”

“So much!” Irumae’s reply increased her smile. “I’ve danced with all of our cousins from Lowenmouth, though Uncle Andor was too busy drinking to join in, and did you know cousin Ilyas’s new wife was so beautiful? She has told me all about the most fashionable gowns, and she promises she will teach me some new dances!”

Soren chuckled as his sister babbled on, filled with quiet contentment at her open happiness. It has been far too long since I saw her smile this much. “She will be one of your ladies-in-waiting, if you desire it,” Soren promised his sister.

He retired to his chair with relief as his sister galloped off to ask Ilyas’s wife to wait upon her.

Edmund answered Soren’s glare with an unapologetic grin.

“You know it is your duty to entertain your guests,” Edmund said, winking.

“Hmm.”

Edmund’s voice dropped to a murmur no one else but Soren could hear. “You sister is well, in any case. I am glad to see her so recovered.”

Soren also lowered his tone. “So am I, Edmund, but I still fear for her long-term health after all that she has endured.”

“We must hope for the future to be as bright as the present.”

“I hope that she will still be so happy when I find her a suitor.”

Edmund’s fixed him with a sharp gaze. “You think of this already?”

“I think I must consider it so soon, for both of us – though I’d rather not. There seems too much else to do. However, my own betrothal fell through after my uncle’s actions and I’m not secure until I have an heir.”

Edmund paused before replying. “An heir would help strengthen your position somewhat, yes, but marriage brings more immediate alliances. Have you given any thought to potential consorts for either of you?”

“Not in any detail. As both our marriages will have to be beneficial for our house, I wonder which houses are best to ally with. There are still a few to choose from. Which is the better house: Arendall, Kinsley or Duncombe?” Soren picked at a dessert, plucking off glazed fruits and eating them one by one, sucking the sweet sticky mess off his fingers after every bite.

“I would caution you to widen your choices,” Edmund replied, glancing around them. “Perhaps it is best that we talk of this further somewhere more private. Suffice to say, strengthening alliances is crucial, but especially with those most alienated to your rule. Consider those options too. Perhaps your cousin Ilyas’s choice was, in fact, most wise.”

Soren glanced up, searching for his cousin. Across the hall, Ilyas twirled his wife back into her chair, both breathless and laughing. Of course, Lady Nance is of House Orrell, how could I forget? Famous for producing beautiful daughters, and an old house with wealth and good lands. “Maybe Ilyas has secured House Orrell for me,” Soren mused aloud.

“Indeed,” said Edmund, a satisfied smile upon his face.

“Walbridge is of dubious alliance and blessed with sons – perhaps one of their boys could be a suitable match for my sister.”

Edmund started to reply, but was cut off.

“I beg your pardon!” Irumae’s shrill voice sounded behind Soren and he twisted in his chair with haste. She stood with her hand upon the back of his throne, her mouth open and eyes accusing.

She overheard us.

“Irumae, you should not eavesdrop,” Soren chided her, but he felt guilty. I should not have spoken of this here.

Her voice had carried to those nearest, who looked up with piqued interest. Soren signalled the musicians to increase their volume and turned back to his sister.

“We will talk of this later. I promise you I won’t rush into anything, but it’s something that I, as your brother and your guardian, need to arrange.” He stood, reaching out for her, but she shrunk from him, her lip trembling, before turning and fleeing the hall.

Edmund said nothing. Soren sunk back into his throne, but knew Edmund would be biting back a comment.

“I’ll go and speak to her tomorrow,” Soren said, knowing it was his duty to stay, though he would have rather followed his sister. He fixed a fake smile upon his face for the benefit of his guests, some of whom were less than slyly observing him.

“Wise choice,” Edmund murmured. “Don’t forget to greet those at the table over there.” He pointed discreetly. “Some more of House Bryars have come to sup and eat your winter stores, by the looks of it.”

Soren sighed and rose to mingle.

~

“Do you see why I’m concerned?” Soren finished.

“I do,” Behan, Pandora’s Lord Steward, replied.

As usual, Soren’s office was a mess. Soren dumped his desk clutter upon the floor, which resembled a paper maze, in favour of twelve large parchments, which he shuffled between.

Each detailed the current family tree of the twelve noble houses, but Soren had not expected some to be so sizable.

“I realise both myself and my sister need to somehow strengthen ourselves from our betrothals, but how do I begin to choose the houses, and to whom should we promised?”

“How is your sister?” Edmund asked.

“Better.” Soren grimaced. “She didn’t appreciate the surprise and was worried I would sell her off to the highest bidder – can you imagine that! I know our alliances must be well chosen, but she is my sister and I want her to be happy above all else.”

“So she is open to the idea?” Edmund asked, leaning forward.

“Unexpectedly so. I think she’s rather taken with how well married life suits Lady Nance, who it’s clear she adores. I must be careful that Nance doesn’t influence her too much – after all, she is of House Orrell – but it seems she has inspired my sister to become a ‘great lady’, as Irumae says.”

Edmund chuckled. “She is a girl who loves finery. Give her a pretty dress and she will love you, but give her a new jewellery piece and you will be forgiven anything.”

Soren let out a small laugh. “I don’t think that’s true of all women,” he replied, thinking of his mother, who had been the opposite. “In any case, I feel that whatever I choose, the effect of the alliance will be but a drop of water in the ocean. How can I possibly ally myself with all of these people?” Soren gestured at the maps, feeling helpless as he slumped back into his chair.

“Moreover, there are so few of them actually here at court. How can I know what any of them are doing with their time? This makes me worry that there is far too much of Caledan plotting against me whilst I sit here in complete ignorance.”

Soren also worried whether or not one of these houses hid Zaki – he saw how it could so easily be done, now he knew the vastness of their families – but he did not say that aloud.

Edmund and Behan shared a look.

“What?”

“There is a way for you to know what is happening in each noble house in every county, every day,” Behan offered.

“I don’t follow.” Soren’s brow creased. Short of flying on dragon back – and it’s not as if I can do that anyway – there’s no way to travel so fast! The dragons had appeared out of myth and legend to help him regain the throne and vanquish Zaki, before disappearing. He had not seen or heard of them since, but that did not stop him wondering if and when they would return.

“A network of informants.”

“Oh? Oh!” Soren’s reverie was broken. “You mean to spy on my own people?” Soren shook his head at the thought. “I couldn’t do that – it’s immoral!”

“It depends how you look at it, sire,” Behan said, his expression neutral. “You would not be using the information gathered for your own ends, per se, but more for safeguarding the good of Caledan – to prevent strife in your own kingdom.”

“And to ensure my own position upon the throne is secure.” Soren regarded the older man through narrowed eyes, but Behan remained unruffled and shrugged.

“I do not wish to alarm you, sire, but do not mislead yourself into thinking your noble stance the same as any other man’s. The other houses use informants of their own – part of my duty remains weeding them out.”

“There are spies in my own household?” Soren said, stiffening.

“Not at present, but yes, these things are commonplace. Do not be alarmed!” Behan added, raising his hands. “My men monitor such things well and are proud to say we are excellent at what we do. You are in no danger.”

Even so, Soren looked around the room with shivers creeping up his spine, wondering if the walls had ears – or the floor, or the tapestries.

“Behan is correct,” Edmund added. “There is little reason for you to abstain on the grounds of morality or to respect others’ privacy. They do not have the same consideration for you.”

“Because others do it, does not make it right for me to.”

“Of course not,” said Edmund, “yet there are benefits for you. Think of the peace of mind you will have knowing that if anything amiss occurs you will be the first to know, not the last. Your forewarning and swift action could curtail treasonous plans that threaten the safety of Caledan and its people.” Edmund lowered his voice. “If your uncle is still alive and in hiding in Caledan, we may also yet find him.”

Soren’s hands tightened upon the chair arms, his knuckles whitening. He swallowed, persuaded more by the fear of that than anything else. “Say, then, that I did agree to this; is it not an impossible feat to infiltrate every single house worthy of note in Caledan?”

“Not at all,” Behan said. “Your mother sanctioned such actions, as her forebears did before her. The network I managed under her reign is intact, though inactive. It would not take long to reinstate it and recruit extra bodies for those I have lost.”

“I struggle to believe that people are happy to spy both for and against their own king.” Soren massaged his creased forehead.

“Every person has their price,” Behan said.

Soren stood, drawing closer to the fire to rid his body of the chills that had overtaken it, as he considered what to do. His eyes were fixed on the mesmerising flames dancing in the grate, but he was not watching them, instead lost in his thoughts.

A breach of privacy, but safety for the kingdom… and safety for me. Are they one and the same? He bit his fingernail as thoughts of his uncle resurfaced. He could be here still, hiding somewhere. Who would shelter him if that were the case? Soren glanced at the pile of family trees.

There are so many places he could be. The fear of his nightmares returned and his breathing started to quicken. Before another thought could cross his mind, he turned round and met Behan’s gaze.

“Do it.” He sunk back into his chair, the cold tingles still not gone, not listening to what the Lord Steward said to him as Behan bowed and strode out.

“You’ve made a good choice, Soren.” Edmund nodded with approval.

Yes, but at what cost?

Demara

Their eyes met across the courtyard, and Demara paused with shock at her husband’s appearance. She moved towards him, gliding down the stairs and across the turf, fascinated though she did not want to see him. Zaki met her at the fountain in its centre. He limps…

“What has befallen you?” Demara asked, her face crinkling with confusion. He looks like he has been involved in a brawl. If it is so, my father will not stand for it! What an insult to his hospitality.

She was surprised by the scowl he returned her.

“You would know, wife.” He almost spat the word at her.

Demara stepped back, affronted.

When she did not respond, he continued. “Do not plead innocence! The day we have a major… disturbance” – he seemed to struggle to find the right word to describe what had happened between them – “I am set upon by professional thugs, beaten senseless and left for dead! I see no coincidence there!”

Demara’s mouth gaped. “You dare accuse me of such a deed?” she said, her voice quiet and incredulous.

“You are the spawn of Harad. I know you all to be capable of such things.”

Demara drew herself up, standing tall and proud, with her chin raised. “I have wished you harm – and worse – for your misdemeanours, but I would not act upon it. It would be beneath me, and you are still my husband.”

Without waiting for a reply, she strode away. Zaki did not follow. Upon reaching a secluded corridor, Demara leaned against the wall feeling cool relief against her palms.

He was covered in cuts and bruises. She wondered what other injuries his robes hid. And that limp. Who would do such a thing to a man under the protection of my father? Suspicion stirred. If the physician informed my father of Zaki’s transgression, would my father act upon it? Harad was famed for being ruthless, even to his own kin when he saw fit.

She dashed to her father’s quarters, slowing to a sedate walk as she turned the last corner and requested admittance, out of breath.

“My daughter!” Harad greeted her as she entered, rising with a smile to kiss her on both cheeks and enquire after her health.

She greeted him in return, adding her own kiss to his signet ring as she dipped into a curtsy. Before he could turn to sit, she stood to address him.

“Zaki was attacked in Arrans this previous night.”

“Was he?” Harad sounded bored, with no trace of surprise.

“You knew?”

“Hmm.”

Demara waited.

Harad sighed. “Yes, I knew. I know many things, my daughter, such is kingship. I must know everything to remain safe and secure.”

“If you know everything,” Demara began, clasping her shaking hands and taking a breath to still her nerves, for she had never been so forward with her father before, “then you will know who committed the crime.”

Harad inclined his head, but did not comment.

“Who?”

“Demara, my dear, you need not concern yourself with these things. Such is the ugliness of life and such is my burden to deal with it, whereas you are lucky enough to live under my protection in bliss and ignorance.”

“Did you order it?” Demara asked, glaring at her father.

Harad looked at her, eyebrows rising in feigned innocence before he met her hardened glare and abandoned his false surprise.

“You are my daughter,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at her. “Yes, he deserved a lesson for his insolence. I will not have anyone assault you – or any other member of my family – as he did. I was merciful to let him live after his deeds, was I not?” he said.

Demara nodded. It had been enjoyable to see him in pain, a small, dark part of her was forced to admit.

“You must make more strong sons and then we shall have no need of him.”

I wish that were not my duty! He is a vile man. But Demara did not voice her thoughts and instead curtsied again. It was her place to obey her father and husband. One day, at least I will be free of Zaki, she hoped.

With her father’s words occupying her mind, Demara waited for Zaki that night with trepidation, passing the time with Seline in her chambers. It had long since grown dark, even though the nights had not yet lengthened to the peak of midwinter, yet he had neither come himself nor called for her, as she worried he would.

The coil of tension and nerves in Demara’s stomach diminished with each passing hour until, at last, she surmised that it was not to be. She smiled at Seline in relief.

“Come, let us to bed. Thank the Gods, he has no need for me tonight.”

“Long may it be so!” Seline replied, extinguishing the lights one by one until a only few candles remained scattered about the room.

Demara settled into her sumptuous bed with a sigh of pleasure, closing her eyes as the fabric enveloped her. Seline clambered under the covers next to her, pulling an additional thin throw over them both to ward off the autumn chill. The weather here was nothing compared to Caledan’s harsh autumn gales, permeating fogs and driving rains, but they had both reacclimatised to the much warmer, drier autumn in Roher, glad to have returned to their homeland.

~

A week later, Demara had neither seen nor heard from Zaki. Her days were spent with Seline: playing with Leika, walking around the vast palace in conversation or recreation, and visiting the nicer areas of the city with guards to attend shows or markets. She steered clear of Zaki’s chambers, not wishing to cross paths with him even in passing, but even so, she grew curious about his disappearance.

“He should at least come to visit Leika,” Demara said to Seline as she bounced the baby on her knee. She held Leika’s podgy hands safe within her own slender grasp.

“It is a shame.” Seline frowned, offering Leika mouthfuls of sweetened yogurt before laughing as it dribbled down her chin.

Demara deftly switched her arms, catching the mess in a silk napkin. Her face darkened. “I would, however, like to know how Zaki spends his time and, no doubt, my dowry.

“Glad though I am that he chooses not to spend it with me, he should see his daughter more. I worry his actions will sully our reputation, if it is not already tarnished enough, being the women of a kingdomless king!”

“I can arrange to have him followed, if you wish?” Seline suggested, reaching out for Leika to wind her.

Demara stilled, her eyes flicking to Seline’s. “You would do this for me?”

Seline dipped her head, lowering her eyes.

“Underhand, admittedly,” murmured Demara, “but necessary. Arrange this for me and I will be most grateful, Seline.”

~

Seline took messages daily from her source – a small rap on the door, a whispered conversation and the clink of coins – with Demara craning her neck, eager to hear news.

Yet every day Seline would say the same when she returned. “He has done nothing much today, it seems.”

After the third day, Demara was impatient for more. “This cannot be it! The man seems a hermit! Surely there is more – do you have him followed at every minute of the day?”

“Yes, of course,” Seline answered. “My man is very good at his job.”

And yet you avoid my eyes at all cost when you answer me, thought Demara. “I doubt that very much. He must be going out at night-time, at the very least.”

“He is.”

“But this you do not report to me?”

“Well, no ma’am. His business is not fit for your ears.”

Demara stiffened. She transfixed Seline in a glare. “He still sees courtesans.”

Seline twitched.

“Do not lie to me. Do not seek to protect me. Is that the truth?”

Seline nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, I did not want to cause you further pain.”

“You do not cause me hurt.” Demara rested her chin on steepled fingers. “It is he that does so, yet I feel anger that he insults me thus. Not only does he squander my dowry on gambling and drink, but fornication too? By the gods, I wish him dead more than ever. Will they not rid me of him!” She took deep breaths to calm her racing pulse and paced out onto the balcony, shivering as the cool evening breeze stole the warmth from her skin.

“Do you have any more news of him? More details of his transgressions?”

Seline stole up behind her, slipping her arm into Demara’s to link up with her. “If you wish me to tell you.”

“Tell me already!” Demara’s voice carried a snap, growing impatient. “I apologise,” she added. I know she seeks to protect me.

“My source has reason to believe that he visits the same place and the same woman each night. The House of Cherished Flowers, it is called. He also said that it is impossible for any other man to have relations with this woman.”

Demara stiffened, turning to look at Seline, aghast. “He has made her his concubine? So soon?”

“They do not live together as such. But it would seem so.”

“Find out more about her. I want to know everything!” Demara snatched her arm away from Seline and stormed back into her rooms. “I will not share my husband with a concubine,” she muttered angrily to herself as she undressed for bed. “Nor my dowry!”

Zaki

Zaki sighed in bliss, uncurling beside Tulia, who surfaced from underneath the sheets.

She smirked at him, capturing his gaze with her sultry, dark eyes. They were always so lazily half-open and framed by long, curling lashes.

Irresistible.

Around them the city moved as it always did, but in that room was stillness and peace. Draped fabrics hung from the walls, covered the window and dressed the four-poster bed, made up with gold-embroidered linen and silken pillows, though many of them slumped on the floor where they had fallen or been tossed.

Recovered from his beating – in part due to Tulia’s tender ministrations of nightly massages – he could at last sleep through the night without waking in pain from leaning on one sore spot or another.

“You have been good to me,” he murmured.

She snuggled up to him, her hand sliding across his chest. “And you to me, my king.” She kissed down his throat, tracing his collarbone.

“How would you like to leave this place?”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly that – leave this house, leave this life behind.”

She stopped tracing patterns upon his chest with her silky smooth fingers and propped herself up on an elbow. “Why do you ask?” Her tone was guarded, her eyes hard.

“Would you like a house of your very own, full of servants and fine things, to be mine alone there?”

Her lips parted. “You jest?”

“I would do no such thing to you, my queen.” He caught her still hand in his own, gathered her fingers and kissed them one by one. “Would you like this?”

“Such generosity would be a gift beyond anything I could want or deserve.” Her expression softened.

“Then it will be so. By the end of the week, you will be here no longer. You will be mine alone, and I yours.”

Tulia threw her arms around his neck, kissing him on the lips, before wriggling back under the cover to show him her gratitude.

~

The house he led her to was a two-storey dwelling plastered in cream with ornate shutters covering the windows and a ridged, terracotta roof in the heart of the higher districts of Arrans. Set back from the cobbled road, it hid in its own sanctuary of green behind high walls. Their plastering matched the building, and a row of citrus trees peeked over the terracotta tile-topped boundary.

A wrought gate under a stone arch opened onto a path paved with shaped stones slotted together like pieces of a jigsaw. It led to the front door through green gardens stuffed with blossoming flowers, such was the generosity of Roher’s winter clime.

Tulia, hand entwined with his, pulled him inside, delight and awe evident upon her face. A row of five servants standing in a line within the hallway, men and women of varying ages, bowed to her in unison. She exclaimed in delight.

“These are your servants, Lady Tulia,” Zaki said to her, smiling. “They shall tend to your every need.”

Tulia flashed a smile at them before rushing around to explore the many rooms.

Zaki followed her at a slower pace.

Light flooded in as she opened the shutters, leaning out of the window to cast them wide, revealing well-proportioned rooms filled with luxurious furnishings.

“You have somewhere to live that befits your beauty and your importance to me,” Zaki said.

“You will not live here too?”

“My place is at the palace, but I will visit as often as I can. You will not care – you will have more than enough to keep you entertained, running a household.”

It was weeks before he did return to his own bed in the palace; her company was so appealing he did not wish to deprive himself of it. Each morning he awoke feeling carefree and refreshed, though in the back of his mind grew a niggling guilt that he strayed from his true path.

Even so, he was relieved to be away from the political mire that was the Roherii upper class: their petty squabbles, power games, the language that he still found impossible to master, and the still poor state of his own affairs. He had been in Arrans for months, with still no prospects of regaining Caledan’s throne on the horizon.

~

By the time the new year arrived, he had not seen Demara in many more weeks, nor visited Leika in her nursery – both of them long forgotten, a distant memory and someone else’s family – yet his return to his wife came about far sooner than he had anticipated.

“How could you do this to me!” he raged, storming around the room and kicking over a potted plant in his anger. “You were supposed to be careful!”

“I’m sorry, my love!” Tulia wrung her hands, regarding him through wide, tearful eyes from the cushioned couch upon which she sat. “I am sorry for failing you, yet shouldn’t you be happy? The love I bear for you has created a child, and you will gain a son from me that you will otherwise never have!”

Zaki paused. “How can I be sure that it is mine? Who knows what you did before you met me.”

“It can be no one else’s, I promise you,” she said. “You do not see your wife anymore. She has not given you a boy. I will give you the strong son you need.”

I will not find an heir elsewhere. The thought plagued Zaki, as it had often done before. The room felt warm and stifling all of a sudden.

Zaki loosened the collar of his robe with a tremulous hand and strode from the room, away from the house and through the gates, ignoring Tulia’s imploring wails behind him.

I need space! God, what mess have I gotten myself in to?

Soren

Soren paced around the room with his hands clasped behind his back. Each lap he stopped, sat, and rose again, unable to still himself.

A rap on the door announced his visitor.

“Come in.”

Behan slipped through the opening and bowed. Soren gestured towards the chair and Behan sat.

“Your Majesty, thank you for your time.”

“Welcome, Lord Behan. I received your note. What’s your news?”

Behan sat up straight in his chair, and presented Soren with a thick wad of parchment. Soren glanced across the outermost pieces. All were covered in a tiny script that he had to squint at to decipher.

“My informants send me word from certain houses – those are their more detailed reports.”

“And?” Soren froze, even his breath stilling.

“Orrell, Walbridge and Bryars conspire against you.”

Soren’s breath escaped in a whoosh as he sunk onto the corner of his desk for support.

“Only some members of the houses are responsible, you understand, sire. This is the perfect time to nip it in the bud, before it becomes widespread.”

“Before what becomes more widespread?”

“They plan to restore Zaki to the throne.”

Soren clutched the edge of the desk, his eyes widening. “He is alive?”

Behan nodded.

“In Caledan?” Soren’s voice rose an octave.

“He resides in the Roherii capital, Arrans, under the protection of Harad. Certain members of those houses have been supplying him with funds and working towards reprovisioning their arms to hasten and support his return. Asquith of House Bryars, most notably.”

Soren heaved a sigh of relief. Thank goodness he is not here. “And you are certain of this – beyond any doubt? I don’t understand, Asquith swore loyalty to me; he renounced his support of my uncle in public!”

“Unfortunately so, sire. It was not difficult to discover this. They have grown complacent, thinking themselves safe or above such notice. Here are the names of the key conspirators.”

Behan passed Soren a list of about a dozen names. “They had tried to be thorough, squirrelling money away under false ventures, but their deceptions were not skilled enough to stand.”

So many… Soren’s heart sank. Asquith of Bryars, Harl, Lord Willam of Walbridge’s own brother, Lord Royce, the heir to House Orrell, brother to Reynard…

“I cannot ignore names of such power,” Soren said, biting his lip. “Nor can I forgive them.” He took to pacing once more, the list rumpled in his fist. “This treason cannot go unpunished – yet how do I prove their guilt and set a fit punishment without destabilising the court?”

“Every monarch has to deal with at least one such plot,” Behan said, shrugging. “These people understand the risks they take, even if they are so cocksure that they will escape detection or punishment. The best thing to do is to make an example of them, swiftly, before this escalates. Others sensing any sign of weakness may perhaps question your rule and choose to join these rebels.”

“How can you prove their guilt?”

“The documents I gave you earlier show sufficient proof – copies of correspondence, household accounts, witness accounts of conversations, meetings and so on. Any court would find them guilty with the weight of evidence.”

“And you think I should try them in public rather than private?”

“Most definitely. A show of strength, if you will. They will perceive any private attempt to meddle as insecurity, which will spur them on.”

“The penalty for treason is death.” Soren stared into space.

“It is,” Behan replied. After a pause, he added more. “It is unpleasant, yes, but necessary for Caledan. Think of that, sire.”

Soren gave him a hesitant smile. He thanked the steward, who left, before departing himself, hurrying to find Edmund.

Edmund’s views were much the same as Behan’s, but even so, it was with reluctance that Soren called for the trial of Lord Asquith of Bryars, Sir Harl of Walbridge, Lord Royce of Orrell and some of their less noble supporters.

That night he lay awake, pondering his choice. By the small hours, he was exhausted and no further decided in the best course of action. I can see the sense in making an example of them, he considered again, but I balk from taking the lives of men I have known since I was a boy.

Yet they are traitors and would betray me, given the chance – have already betrayed me. They need to be punished, as the law decrees to be fair and so that others will also be dissuaded. However, should I go so far to make an example of them? Is that not selfishness? Soren growled, punching the pillow beside him with a soft thump.

“What else can I do?” he asked the ceiling, heaving a great sigh.

~

When morning arrived, Soren threw back the covers, dressed in a hurry and sent messages to summon Lord Behan, Sir Edmund and Lord Heligan. As they arrived in his office, he rose to greet them.

“Sire, you look well,” Lord Behan said.

“Much better than yesterday,” murmured Edmund.

Soren flashed him a quick smile. “I have a solution that is amenable to both the law and my conscience. All those so accused will stand trial for the deeds which they may have committed. Those deemed to be the leaders in any such plot will be sentenced in line with the law, by its harshest penalty, to serve as punishment – nay, atonement – for their crimes.

“Those who are also found guilty, but could be mistaken for being ill-led by their liege lord, will instead surrender members of their households as surety of their commitment to Caledan’s future of peace and prosperity. I see this as a fair punishment that will ensure the ringleaders of any rebellion are crushed and an example set to others. What do you think?”

Edmund nodded, looking surprised. “I would see that as a very reasonable solution, Soren. Neither too harsh, nor too light-handed.”

Soren looked to Behan and Heligan, who gave their agreement.

“Lord Heligan – may I charge you with managing the trials?”

“Yes, sir,” said Heligan, sweeping into a deep bow. He collected the packet of evidence from Soren’s desk and departed.

~

Winter worsened much more before the trials began weeks later, though it had abated by the time they concluded. The snow still drifted deep about the walls of Pandora, but the streets had begun to thaw and the winter storms had turned to sleet, heralding the spring rains to come.

Soren shivered with fever, his nose and eyes streaming, but he sat in the freezing courthouse nonetheless, perched on the throne and glad for the furs that shrouded him, protecting him from the deathly cold of the stone. Lord Heligan stood before him to deliver the verdict. Those accused knelt to one side of the vast room, their heads bowed. The court was warmer than usual, the lofty room stuffed to the brim with everyone who could fit in, and louder as their murmurs accumulated.

“Your Majesty.” Heligan sunk onto one knee, casting aside his ceremonial cloak. “Lords, ladies, sirs, men and women of Caledan, we gather here on the fourth day of the second month to learn of the verdict in the trial of these men before you.” He gestured to the subdued men.

Standing, he pulled a scroll from within his deep sleeves, the lips of which trailed upon the floor. “Lord Asquith of House Bryars, stand.”

A bedraggled figure struggled to its feet and moved forward. Soren was surprised to see the poor state of the men before him. They had not been maltreated within the royal dungeons as far as he knew, yet they seemed haunted, with dark shadows upon their faces. Perhaps they know their fate and fear it.

“You are charged with high treason, for instigating rebellious thoughts and acts and leading others to follow. You are found guilty on all counts. You are sentenced to death by beheading in three days.”

“Mercy!” cried Asquith, crumpling to his knees. “I pleaded not guilty – I appeal!”

Soren looked away, feeling nauseous. This is no easy thing, he still thought, yet the cowardice of the man disgusted him.

Asquith had already crumpled to the floor. Royce made no sound as Heligan read his charges and verdict.

“You are found guilty on all counts and sentenced to death by beheading in three days.”

Royce bowed his head and his shoulders sunk.

Soren felt a twinge of respect. At least he is honourable in his defeat.

“Sir Harl of House Walbridge.” Heligan waited for the next charge to stand. Harl rose, a hulk of a man compared to his peers. “You are charged with treason, for conspiring with others to overthrow the king.”

A murmur arose within the court before fading as Heligan opened his mouth to deliver his verdict.

Soren’s interest had also piqued at Heligan’s charge. Not high treason? Still, House Walbridge could yet ally with us. I fear our bridges with Orrell and some of the Bryars are well burnt.

“You have been found guilty of treason, and by the graciousness of His Majesty King Soren have been sentenced to house arrest under the care of your brother until such time as is deemed fit. Lord Willam, do you accept this charge?”

Willam stood, his face bereft of expression. “I do accept this charge.” He executed a short bow towards Soren and sat once more, regarding his brother with a thoughtful stare.

Heligan progressed onto charging and sentencing the rest of those standing in the dock, reading from the long parchment before him that held the courts decisions after much deliberation of the evidence. Almost a dozen others from lesser houses were charged, and all but one found guilty of, at the very least, following others in treasonous acts. The punishments ranged from hangings to whippings and imprisonments, which would be carried out in the castle dungeons on the decreed dates.

Last of all, Heligan retired with Lord Behan, Sir Edmund and Soren himself to discuss which strategic wards should also be exchanged to ensure good conduct from the houses.

“I prepared a list of possible candidates,” Heligan said, offering it to Soren, who took it.

Soren read through it, placing each name on its respective family tree. “This is most thorough,” he said to Heligan, impressed, before reading out those he most preferred.

“Two daughters from Orrell to serve under Irumae – Lady Nance is already a fast companion to my sister, but her family is hostile to us. Lady Elsard might yet see the value in allying with Balaur, if she can further her daughters’ positions.

“A son, but perhaps also a nephew, from Walbridge could shore up our alliances. One man each from Harl and Willam’s broods. A few Bryars, definitely including Asquith’s sons. They must be under our watch henceforth in case they are anything as untrustworthy as their father.

“A son from House Denholm too, though there are not many – I will not have Lord Verio think he is above reproach or beyond my reach for this. Perhaps a marriage can also be arranged there, to bring him into the fold. Do I have any Balaur cousins who would suit a match with House Denholm?”

Edmund tugged at his beard as he thought. “One step at a time, perhaps. Let us see how they first respond to the summons.”

~

It was with relief that Soren learnt of Asquith’s and Royce’s deaths three days later, after an anxious morning of pacing around his apartments. They had been beheaded upon the new scaffold Soren had inspected that morning, but he could not bring himself to watch, though he questioned the wisdom of that decision. Soren hoped this would not set a bad tone for his rule and mar his subjects’ opinion of him, but Behan informed him the event was well attended and the crowd enthusiastic to see the traitors’ punishments.

He ordered both bodies to be given over to their families. Some of their co-conspirators had already been punished and released, some were still to be hanged the following day and others were beginning lengthy sentences in the dungeons. Harl had departed and was travelling south along the River Lowen to be confined on his estates. Behan had already promised Soren to monitor his every move. Soren would not be naive enough to trust a Walbridge again.

The day did not bring the closure Soren sought, however. No sooner was the evening upon him, than he had already turned once more to thoughts of Zaki. A sleepless night followed, as he worried about this uncle. Is he a broken man? Does he gather his strength? Does he march here at this very moment?

The following morning, hollow-eyed, Soren ordered Behan to discover as much about his uncle as possible.

Zaki

Reynard waved the parchment above his head as he crossed the flower gardens to join Zaki, who sat basking in the sunshine of the palace grounds. Spring had long since arrived in Roher, the mild chill of winter dispelled and the sun strengthening daily.

Zaki had returned to the palace, distancing himself from Tulia and working without rest on plans to retake Caledan. This included reconciling with Demara in the faint hope of securing an heir to his yet-to-be-gained throne. Their relationship was still full of tension and wariness, but at least he had a husband’s rights. He suppressed any guilt at cutting off his mistress.

Zaki’s spirits rose as he noticed Reynard. More news from Caledan! He knew Reynard carried correspondence of how Asquith’s plans progressed apace – no one else wrote to him. He slipped the letter from between Reynard’s outstretched fingers, tore through the seal and scrabbled to open the parchment, eager for the weeks old news. This letter would detail when forces would be ready for him to join them in Caledan to retake the throne, but the breath that had caught in his chest with anticipation escaped in a gasp of horror.

“No!”

“What news is there?” Reynard leaned forward.

Zaki stood. Rage rose within him. He re-read the letter, pacing around. “We have failed.” He tossed the letter to Reynard, unable to read its contents aloud, and stood silent as Reynard scanned it.

It was not from Asquith, but from his son, describing his father’s death at the hands of the king for high treason. No detail had been spared of what had passed in Caledan. Soren had dealt with his discovery as he would have done, Zaki thought with grudging respect. But now, Zaki hated Soren more for spoiling what he had believed to be a flawless plan and his best hope of retaking Caledan. Discontent lurked in the pit of his stomach as Zaki realised how hopeful he had been that this plot would succeed.

“This is grave news, sire,” Reynard said in a subdued tone, frowning as he looked up from the letter.

“We have lost yet again, Reynard,” Zaki said with a scowl. “Not only are my hopes for regaining the throne gone, but we will have no supply of funds from Caledan.” I will be the regis mendicus, the beggar king, once more – whether I wish it or not.

He sunk onto the stone bench, cradling his head in his hands. Reynard joined him in silence, staring out over the lawns.

“I must go to Harad,” Zaki said at last, with a sigh of reluctance.

~

His father-in-law seemed unaffected by his news – as imperturbable as always. Zaki watched him, as distrustful as ever towards him, masking his own frustration.

“Will you assist me in this?”

“No,” replied Harad. “It is the perfect season for a campaign, but I have my own affairs to manage. My neighbours in Ladrin seek to rise above their station and I must teach them a lesson. Janus, my eldest son, leads my banners. If you are short of things to occupy your time since your latest plans have failed, you may accompany him and see how the Roherii battle. You will learn something valuable. Perhaps if you return successful, I may reconsider.”

Zaki, about to refuse, paused and thought of how unfamiliar Roherii weaponry and technology was. I could find here the weapons that will help me take back Caledan. He thought of Harad’s incendiary devices. If I had even ten of those, think of what I could do…

“I would be honoured, Your Majesty,” Zaki answered, sinking into a low bow.

Zaki retired, with Reynard in tow, feeling cheerful as he explained his motives.

“You are happy to not even be in the chain of command, though?” Reynard said, his eyebrow raised.

“For once, yes. I will see how the Roherii operate. I confess, Harad is a force to be reckoned with and I am curious to see how he manages this.”

~

Zaki met Janus the next day as preparations to leave were made. He expected Janus’s resemblance to his father – albeit a taller, slimmer, younger version of his dark-haired, dark-eyed, imposing sire – but was surprised by the severity of his disposition. A scowl was etched upon his face, and he snapped with no provocation at those about him.

Even his greeting to Zaki was brusque and impolite. The servants scurried about him without a sound, averting their eyes as if to escape notice.

He is feared, Zaki thought, eyeing him with caution. I wonder if it is with good reason.

Reynard was to remain behind to manage his affairs, so Zaki was to travel along with his remaining men, who had grown soft in their stay in Arrans and longed for the excitement of a battle and the chance to regain some status. Janus accepted their company, though from the scorn upon his face it was clear he thought they would be of little use to him.

Before Zaki departed, he bade farewell to Demara – though not to Tulia. Demara seemed surprised to see him leave, as he had not told her of his planned trip, but she seemed impressed that he was making something more of himself and said as much to him.

“Return triumphant,” she said, without any sentiment in her words or warmth in her voice.

He bowed and left, his glance lingering for a moment on Leika, who played on the rug near her mother’s feet.

~

The journey to Ladrin took weeks, riding on horseback southeast from Arrans. Once outside the lush river valleys, the green land gave way to arid terrain. It was, though dry to the point his lips cracked and chapped, far better than Zaki’s travels to Roher, given that they had the comforts of horses, foods and fine supplies to make camp with. Despite this, Zaki still missed his feather bed. They stopped to camp and water at oases on the way – brief jewels of humidity and life – but these were few and far between.

Janus invited Zaki to dine each night, but only out of politeness, it seemed. Janus took no interest in his brother-in-law. Zaki, on the other hand, was far more curious about the next king of Roher and took the opportunity to glean all he could of the man.

He could not deduce much, but it was easy to see that Janus was an unlikeable person – too feared by those around him for any reproach about his manner. He was ruthless and efficient, effective in everything he did, yet perhaps this was why he seemed so arrogant.

He probably thinks himself far above me, Zaki thought, irked by the younger man’s complete lack of respect for him.

~

The edge of Roher was signalled by a ridge of low mountains that rose in dry desolation to the sky. As they crossed the horizon, the land fell away. Ladrin sprawled before them: green and fertile lands stretching as far as the eye could see. In the distance, Karan, the jewel of Ladrin, stood. A city older than even Arrans, it lay in the river-rich land, protected on three sides by water. Once glorious, it had crumbled into decay, and its once bright golden stone was faded to dirty ochre.

Each village they passed was empty – their inhabitants visible in the distance, fleeing before Janus, who had made no secret of his presence, blowing the Roherii horns to carry over the wind. Janus burnt the villages, devoid of any mercy towards his fellow human beings.

Zaki observed the results as he passed. He seeks to send a message. These people already have nothing, yet he takes it from them anyway. As he rode past, a shack collapsed in a whoosh of sparks and a puff of smoke. Zaki liked to consider himself ruthless, but Janus seemed unnecessarily cruel.

As they drew closer to Karan, emerging from the woodlands and marching across the plains with renewed vigour, Zaki saw how the fortifications had been weathered by wind and rain. Their carvings and sharp edges had been long lost to the elements and the grandeur of the entire place muted by a sense of tiredness. Even the gates were old, their metal frameworks and studs rusting into their wooden surfaces.

“Who visits our gates with weapons?” a voice shouted down in accented Roherii.

It seemed Janus intended no terms were to be made, nor greetings exchanged. He ordered the Roherii to form up, and set about bellowing commands to be passed back through the ranks.

With nothing to do and no one to command – for his men had been given the humiliating task of manning the baggage and weaponry trains – Zaki stood about with Janus and his command in nervous anticipation.

At last, the mysterious waggon that had travelled with them from Arrans was unveiled, revealing hundreds of the fire-devices that Zaki had used to escape Pandora. They were each the size and shape of a lemon, one of Roher’s speciality fruits, and hollow, filled with powder that would explode once exposed to a naked flame. A fuse of thread, sealed by wax, fed through to the deadly contents. They were handled with extreme care.

At once, men distributed them to the front ranks, where the men had already begun digging holes set a few feet apart into the ground. The strange items on their back became apparent to Zaki as giant slingshots, which they stabbed into the earth. They were staked deep and packed in with tamped down earth.

Each man worked as a pair, one stretching back the fabric of the slingshot almost half his own height, whilst the other, with steady hands and a grim face frozen in concentration, used flints to create sparks to ignite the small wick extending from the single fire-device each pair had. It seemed the line of men moved in synchronisation, the second man loading the device into the hands of the first man, who strained to hold back the material.

After a quick adjustment to aim the contraption over the walls of Karan, each pair released with not a moment’s delay. Men grasped each other’s forearms in celebration, grinning with unconcealed relief, before plugging their ears and watching expectantly.

Arrows and then stones began to fly from the walls, but fell short of their position.

Have they no longbows? Zaki questioned.

The Roherii men stood in rank, armoured and unmoving as they waited for their command.

Zaki covered his ears, remembering how loud one device had sounded at close quarters and expecting this to be a thousand-fold worse, but he barely heard the explosions, shielded as he was from them by the stone walls of Karan.

They punctuated the air as a hail of booms, some striking the walls and exploding upon impact, some finding targets behind it and out of sight. Tendrils of smoke arose. Zaki had expected a great wall of fire, smoke and debris, but the result was underwhelming.

Janus appeared to agree, for he punched the unfortunate man next to him, howling swearwords, causing the man to crumple to the ground without a sound.

“They must have been damaged on the journey! Damn it all! I will gut whoever is responsible!”

“They still contain the fire powder, though?” Zaki said, leaning towards Janus. “If we shoot fire arrows, we could yet ignite them.”

“I can manage my own siege!” Janus snapped, wheeling on Zaki.

Zaki narrowed his eyes, but stepped back without another word, not intending to become Janus’s next casualty.

“Next wave!” Janus ordered.

The pairs of men repeated their tasks, setting off the second wave of incendiary devices. These fared little better than the first, to Janus’s evident anger, for he paced with a dark face whilst muttering a continuous string of curses under his breath.

His nervous men paid the price for their fear; two devices exploded when they were loaded into the slingshot. Men were torn to shreds with the force of the blast, dying in that instant, others mutilated but clinging to life.

Zaki averted his eyes as those moaning on the floor were killed by their comrades for mercy and the honour of a quick death, glad that it was not his job to risk his life using the experimental weapons. He looked up as Janus addressed him.

“Sometimes these things happen!” Janus smiled, as if jesting.

Zaki hastened to smile back, though he felt disturbed by what he had seen. These Roherii are barbarians. At least in Caledan we give men a chance to fight with weapons and honour.

“Archers, ready the oil!” Janus shouted.

A flurry of motion sprung up as barrels of oil were rolled forward and unsealed. Arrows, pre-made with rags wrapped around their points, were unbundled, dipped in the oil and passed along the lines.

Zaki could not help but be impressed by how organised Janus was, though he was frustrated to dither about doing nothing.

Bows were strung and arrows set alight and shot at will into the city. Archers ran forward into range, loosed their arrows and ran back to their rank out of danger of Ladrini missiles. Janus seemed unconcerned about a synchronised attack. At last, he turned to Zaki.

“Do you wish to fight?”

“Of course,” replied Zaki, certain it was a trick question but desperate to prove himself to Harad on the faint promise of gaining men to retake Caledan.

“Take the north section, by the river. Do not let any pass. You must kill all in your way – men, women and children. Do you understand?”

Zaki nodded.

“If I see anyone escaping, I will hold you responsible. You would not wish my father to hear of this.”

Janus knows what is at stake for me here. The thought concerned Zaki. Usually he was the manipulator, not the pawn. Nevertheless, he was relieved to be given any command – it meant something to do as much as a chance to prove himself.

Zaki relieved his men of their dull duties and they marched around the rear of Janus’s ranks to watch the unguarded northern side of the city. He repeated Janus’s instructions to his men.

“Our lives will not be worth living should we fail in this,” Zaki added with a scowl.

Night fell as they waited, watching the walls and the numerous small gates and window holes set into them, separated from the main body of Janus’s men, who had continued their assault. The west side of the city burned high into the sky: a funeral pyre for those trapped within, for there were no gates out over the land.

Instead, inhabitants had taken to the water. Numerous small crafts dotting the darkening river were easy targets for Janus’s men, who delighted in picking them off one by one with arrows, flaming arrows and well-thrown rocks that tore holes in the delicate crafts.

Zaki longed for the Caledonian longbow his own countrymen took for granted – here, they were non-existent. The Roherii favoured shorter bows that could be shot from horseback, but their range was pitiful. The Ladrini seemed to have no better bows, instead using slingshots. It was too easy for Zaki to remain outside their range.

It seemed as night fell that the Ladrini had decided to make their stand. The main gates opened and men poured out. Zaki saw them spilling into the empty zone between the walls and Janus’s men, before he was distracted with those emptying through the smaller gates nearer to him.

Their poor state was an extension of their city. Few were fully armoured, some not at all, and the weapons shared between them were anything from swords and pikes to shovels and hoes. He called his men to engage and ran forward with his sword drawn. The first man he cut down came at him wearing a helmet and brandishing a stick with a nail in it.

These people are fools!

Some were younger than he cared to think about – boys poured out with their fathers, wide eyed and skinny legged, flailing their weapons about them. Zaki cut them down with the rest of the men, blocking out the horrors he committed.

The Ladrini outnumbered his men by several to one, but before he knew it, silence fell. In the sick, flickering illumination from the growing city fires, he could see a sea of dead before him.

“Leave them,” he commanded. “Find our own.” There would be no picking to be had from these poor souls, Zaki knew, and he did not care to count how many they had slaughtered.

Despite the difference in numbers, few of his men had perished after being overwhelmed. The rest had survived, due to their superior equipment and training, Zaki was sure, though they all shared the same look of dull-eyed exhaustion. His men carried their comrades reverently out of the piles of bodies, setting them down by the river in solitude and murmuring a prayer over them.

“Who’s there!” cried one of his men.

Zaki looked over to see him pointing towards the city, where shadows skulked by the wall.

“Fetch your bows and shoot at will,” he commanded.

His men hurried to pick up their borrowed weapons. Many of their arrows missed, but enough found their mark. Soon one person remained standing, a young girl a few years old. The last man standing with an arrow nocked and ready to draw hesitated.

“Do it,” urged Zaki.

The man paused. “I cannot.”

“She will either die with mercy at your hands, be burnt alive in the city, or worse still butchered by Janus’s men. Give it here.” Zaki stepped forward. “Never let it be said that I ask of you what I would not do myself.”

He took the bow, drew it back to his cheek and, stilling himself for the moment of aiming, released. Well practised, his aim struck true. The girl crumpled to the ground without a sound. He thrust the bow back at the man, who looked at him with revulsion in his eyes.

“Do not judge me,” said Zaki. “If we are to meet the dawn alive – nay, if we are ever to set foot in Caledan again and call it home – this is what we must do. Be glad these people had a kinder end at our hands. At the very least, we are not barbarians.”

Morning arrived, but the blaze of Karan was brighter than the sun itself, which skulked behind the veil of black smoke still belching from the city. It brought a slight illumination to the carnage of the previous night. Zaki had done battle before – had seen death – but not to this extent. Bodies carpeted the ground, twisted, bloodied and blackened.

Exhausted, Zaki sat a distance away with the rest of his men where they could watch the wall but not smell or see the bodies before them. He could not help but contemplate on his actions that night. What in life has led me to this godforsaken place?

From the smoke, Janus approached on horseback the most cheerful Zaki had seen him yet.

“A good night, brother!” Janus said with a gleaming smile.

Zaki grinned back, playing along.

“I can see that you had great sport last night.” From his high vantage point, Janus surveyed the carnage. “Come watch for the finale!”

Zaki grinned and nodded, but as Janus rode off, he turned to his men with a grim face.

“Come. Watch when you are told, do what you are asked without question, fear or repugnance, smile or laugh as the others do and soon we will be free of this madness.” He looked at the men surrounding him. Their eyes held fear, doubt and exhaustion. “I promise to lead you home,” he vowed.

They met Janus before the main gate. Zaki rode forward, away from his men, still armoured. Janus had removed his. Is he so confident?

But then Zaki realised why Janus was so cocksure. The gates had been destroyed and the burning city no place for anyone living.

Janus saw Zaki gazing into the city. “We had much to do! We ransacked the city before the dawn – wherever was not burning, in any case – and took what we pleased. We killed anyone we saw and spoiled their food and water stores. Anyone left will not find sanctuary in this nest of rats.”

“So the city is empty?” Zaki dared to ask.

“Oh no, the principal rats are still alive, having hidden in their little ratty holes all night,” Janus chuckled. “Let us see them run for the light. Come, look at them!”

Janus beckoned Zaki to follow him, to where they had gathered a pitiful group of aged and bearded men before Karan’s gates. Sandy coloured robes, blackened with soot and ash, garbed them. Their dark skin swam with sweat. Huddled together, they were surrounded by a group of Roherii, each with swords drawn and pointing towards them.

“I believe you wished to discuss terms,” Janus said brightly as Zaki watched on.

This is a sport for him, no different to hunting animals, Zaki realised.

One man stepped forward, but was prodded back into place by the sharp end of a sword, which tore the belly of his tunic. He winced, stepping back.

“We wish to be left in peace. You have no right to bring such devastation on our people – what have we done to you?”

A soldier strode forward and struck the man with a backhanded blow to the face.

“You are in the presence of High Prince Janus, First of his Name, son of His Supreme Majesty King Harad, Third of his Name, King of Roher, Ladrin and all the lands of the West.”

The old man shrunk from the force of the strike, but his eyes sparked with defiance at the man’s last words.

“We have no king in Ladrin. We are an independent nation and we will not be enslaved and exploited by your barbaric king!”

Janus nodded to his soldier, who sprung forward, stabbing the man in the gut with a long knife that had a cruel, twisted blade. It drew out with a squelch as the man sunk to his knees, crying in pain.

“You shall die a slow, agonising death for your insolence,” promised Janus. “As for the rest of you, the so-called leaders of the Ladrini, the free peoples of the West, know this. You have lost. Roher is victorious and we will have our prize. You can choose – you may surrender, or you may not. Karan is lost to you regardless of your choice – she has been utterly spoiled and destroyed. I will give you a moment to choose your path.”

He fell silent. The men glanced at each other, fear flickering in some of their eyes. Their comrade lay curled on the floor, cradling his bleeding stomach in his hands as he wept and moaned.

“I will surrender,” said the first, a middle-aged man with hooded eyes.

“As will I,” croaked an old man, so hunched he was almost half the height he should have been.

Janus nodded, gesturing for them to move to one side.

“I cannot surrender the freedom of my people,” said another man. His eyes bored into Janus with an expression Zaki recognised as pity, to his surprise.

Over half of the men surrendered in the end, with the others remaining in a sombre huddle. They were aware of their fate, but stood tall, ready to receive it, though Zaki could see their chests heaved with deep breaths and their nostrils flared below widened eyes. Hands clasped in brotherhood.

Janus turned to those who had surrendered to him. “You chose wisely. Go, you have a chance to find your freedom.”

Janus’s men parted behind him, offering a clear passage through their ranks. They stood silent as the men walked, at first, before breaking into a nervous jog and then a run, with the old bearded man getting left behind in moments as he struggled to keep up.

“Shall we shoot them?” Janus’s deputy asked.

Janus cocked his head as he watched them retreat, contemplating. “Hmm. I feel merciful today. Let them live. They will be dead within the week. How can those old, fat cowards survive in the wild?” He turned back to those who had not surrendered to him. “You, my friends, can run for your lives. Archers, ready.”

Without a backwards glance, the men scattered. Some ran the same way as their freed fellows, others made for the river. Some stumbled and fell before picking themselves up. Those who made it first dove without any thought for their safety into the river and tried to swim either across it or downstream as fast as they could.

“Loose!” came the command from Janus.

Screams erupted as Janus’s men peppered the fleeing Ladrini with arrows. The Roherii rode alongside the river picking off their targets from horseback with ease, trusting their well-trained horses to find sure footing. Soon, there was silence.

Zaki forced himself to watch, unblinking and unthinking, trying to neither see nor hear anything before him.

Janus clapped his hands, breaking Zaki’s reverie. “Bravo, bravo! That was well done.” He laughed. “We shall have the spoils. Douse the main way and we will see what treasures we can find in this pitiful palace of theirs to show off to the people of Arrans and my father when we return.”

He turned to Zaki, clapping him on the back. “I will battle with you again, brother. Take what you wish.” He gestured towards the city.

Demara

Demara scooped Leika up into her arms and blew wet kisses on the girl’s belly as she attempted to wriggle free and resume her adventures. The babe was crawling, pulling herself up onto furniture and babbling away in indecipherable noises. She was growing rapidly too; even her hair was beginning to form more solid curls.

“She is the most beautiful,” said Demara proudly. She handed her to Seline.

“She will make a lovely big sister to her brother,” replied Seline with a glance at Demara’s once more growing stomach as she took hold of Leika, who stopped squirming to take the bribe of a candied apple piece to suck and chew upon with her single tooth.

They emerged from Demara’s room to begin their daily walk around the complex, soon finding themselves outside Zaki’s apartment having promised to bring Leika to see him at some point. Since his return from Ladrin a few moons ago, he had been much more tolerable.

Seline raised her hand to knock on the door, balancing Leika on her other hip, when Demara thrust out her arm to stop her.

“Listen!” she hissed. They tiptoed closer to the door and leant their ears against it.

“Get out! Be gone!” Zaki’s voice said from within.

“I will not leave until you recognise your son!” replied a woman’s voice. It was unfamiliar to Demara, but the woman was crying. “Look at him!”

“He is no son of mine,” Zaki said, his voice so cold that Demara shivered. She knew that cruel tone.

“He can be no one else’s and you know it! Every inch of him is you – pale skin, dark hair, blue eyes. Recognise him!”

“He is base-born. Mongrels are not recognised by kings. I have a wife, and she bears me a legitimate son – what do I have need of yours for?”

“I cannot go!” Her voice was plaintive as she begged him once more to recognise his son, to care and provide for him, and asked why he had neglected to visit her for so long.

“What does it matter?” was his snappy response. “You are your own mistress – you have a house, servants and luxuries beyond your wildest dreams, paid from my pocket, as I promised you. Why do you care?”

“Because it is nothing without you,” said the woman, sobbing so hard that Demara could not understand her next words. She crushed her ear closer to the door. Her breath held in suspense as Seline mirrored her, bouncing Leika on her hip to keep her quiet. The smooth wood was cool against her face, but the action did not help the conversation within come into sharper focus.

Zaki gave an indecipherable reply.

The woman burst into a long wail – of happiness or despair, Demara could not tell – but her voice was cut off by Zaki.

“Silence, woman! Would you bring the guard upon me! Leave, before you compromise my position and reputation more than you have done! No one must know about this. You are to tell no one that this boy is mine.”

Seline tapped Demara on the arm and motioned for her to move, lest they be discovered. Leika had begun to gurgle again, her mumbles getting louder.

“Come, mistress!” Seline whispered, backing away.

Demara took one last look at the door and, with Seline, ran down the corridor and out of sight. Her heart hammered as she returned to her chambers.

~

The pair of them collapsed onto a plump couch in the peaceful warmth of Demara’s rooms. A light breeze ruffled the translucent drapes shading the room from the mid-afternoon sun. Leika hauled herself around the room on unsteady feet, clinging to furniture as she tottered about.

After a while, Seline spoke. “Are you alright, mistress?”

“No,” said Demara dully. “It is worse than I feared.” She rubbed her forehead.

“Please do not go to speak with him,” said Seline, leaning forward to grasp Demara’s hands.

“Worry not.” Demara extracted her hands. “I know what he is capable of – I would not risk my child again.”

“What will you do?”

“I do not know. But it would appear that he has a son – illegitimate or not. What if I have another daughter? Would he recognise a base-born child over his daughters, over any sons we may yet have? I cannot see it of him – he takes great pride in his pure lineage – yet I know he seeks to secure his future with an heir.”

“I am sure he would not recognise the child – can you imagine the child of a courtesan being acknowledged as the heir to a kingdom, especially by Zaki?”

Demara chuckled, though her face was grim. “When you describe it like that, it does sound ridiculous. Perhaps I fear nothing. I should instead be angry that he tarnishes my own reputation alongside his. As if it is not bad enough; I was once a queen and now I am nothing. Though I much prefer living in Roher, I know he gambles my dowry away and spends it providing for a courtesan. Even worse than all of that, he has fathered a child with her! How can I rid us of this nuisance?”

Seline had no answer.

Demara pursed her lips as fury rose in her. “I refuse to be humiliated like this.”

Myrkith-Visir

The sun grew in the sky as the season passed from winter to spring. Its welcome energy allowed the dragons to return to strength after the cold, harsh months when they were at their weakest, when the fires within them burnt slow and dim and their prey diminished.

Myrkdaga, Feldloga and Feldith had returned from their exile and Myrkith-visir was pleased to see that they now followed the rules of the clan with fresh vigour, no longer straying further than the coast of the mainland.

Nothing had come of Myrkdaga’s warning about Cies, who had not spoken to him since long beforehand, but the silver dragon was more distant than usual from the clan core and Myrkith-visir, living a secluded life on the northernmost of the Isles of Kotyir.

Myrkith-visir soared above the islands on his daily patrol of the dragon territory. The colder air forced him to fly low, in the more sheltered pockets around the islands. The seething sky was dull and threatened rain. Master of all he surveyed, he enjoyed the view regardless.

Turning south as he wheeled in the sky, he noticed a dragon rising to meet him. The gleaming silver scales could only be Cies. Myrkith-visir roared in greeting, but Cies failed to answer in kind, instead replying with the low, carrying snarl of a challenge.

“Do you seek to contest me?” said Myrkith-visir, gliding towards Cies.

Cies roared in reply with a gout of fire springing from his mouth.

Smoke oozed from Myrkith-visir’s nostrils with relish. I will put you down once and for all, worm.

“Let us settle this!” Myrkith-visir changed direction, making for the crater lake that was the cradle of his species and where any challenges for leadership of the clan were conducted.

It was clear that Cies had no such intention, for rising ahead of Myrkith-visir were two other dragons: a red dragon half the size of Myrkith and a blue dragon almost the same size as Cies, slightly smaller than Myrkith-visir. Cies, behind Myrkith-visir, crowed to signal the attack.

Myrkith-visir growled in anger. “Dishonourable, underhand, scaleless coward! You bring shame on your clan, Cies!”

He had no choice but to meet the attack. Myrkith-visir kicked out at the small red dragon, catching him in the back as he rose to snap at his belly. It bought him moments of extra time. He roared as loud as he could before engaging with the blue dragon.

“Cease this madness, Arun!” Myrkith-visir said, recognising the dragon, but Arun did not reply, instead opening his jaws to snap at Myrkith-visir. Myrkith-visir dodged out of the way, raking his claws along Arun’s side as he flew past. They skittered off the hard, smooth surface, not finding a point of weakness.

Arun’s snaking tail glanced Myrkith-visir’s cheek and he snarled before somersaulting in the air to catch the tail in his teeth. Arun tumbled many dragon lengths from the air before regaining his balance as the red dragon rose to meet Myrkith-visir.

Myrkith-visir kicked out, but the red dragon – Brun, Myrkith-visir remembered – avoided the attack, dodging through the air. He was fast, Myrkith-visir acknowledged, but for one of his size, a minor annoyance. Myrkith-visir lunged forward and grasped him with all his claws, clamping his jaws on the smaller dragon’s neck.

Brun shrieked, a piercing sound that carried far – ear-splitting to Myrkith-visir. He struggled in Myrkith-visir’s grasp. Myrkith-visir tightened his teeth a fraction and the young dragon ceased moving, except to continue flapping his wings in a desperate attempt to remain airborne.

Myrkith-visir released Brun and kicked him away with contempt. His legs pushed so much force onto Brun that the young dragon fell from the air and smashed into the ground hundreds of lengths below with a crash.

Cies must have decided the odds were less in his favour than he preferred at that point, for he joined the fray as Arun re-engaged with Myrkith-visir. They became a flashing, writhing ball of blue, silver and black scales. Myrkith-visir roared and keened in pain and wrath as claws scrabbled into his scales, nicking into the softer flesh underneath, and teeth clamped into his tail and his vulnerable wings.

He lashed out, his claws extended, his eyes shut to protect them, building the fire in his belly until it grew too great to bear. He bathed them in a great swathe of fire; they were forced to release him. Raining hot drops of blood, he pumped his wings harder than he had ever before, driving into the heights with the rush of the battle upon him and a red mist before his eyes.

Members of his clan appeared on the horizon, speeding towards him as the clouds above them dispersed. With every ray of sunshine Myrkith-visir flew through, he became more energised, his rage fuelled.

Myrkith-visir dove from the sky, through the clouds, tucking his wings in to create a sharp dive. He descended on Arun in wrath, knocking him from the sky with a sharp blow to the base of the skull. Using the other dragon’s body to push off from, he propelled himself towards Cies with a howl of rage.

Cies turned to flee before him. With more energy, the silver dragon outstripped Myrkith-visir with ease.

“I banish you from the clan, coward, oath breaker, Cies of the silver scales! Never return, unless you wish to meet your doom!” Myrkith-visir roared after him before dropping to the black sand for a brief reprieve.

He was greeted by a barrage of questions as clan members surged forward.

Myrkith-visir answered them in little detail, his voice grim as he flew towards the crater pool. His body was sore, but that was nothing compared to the pain in his punctured and rent wings, which would take several weeks to fully heal.

Landing with a painful thud upon the unforgiving stone, he summoned Brithilca’s spirit, the fury still burning within him. The image of the blue dragon swam upon the face of the still pool.

“Brithilca-visir,” Myrkith-visir said, lowering his gaze respectfully.

Brithilca rumbled. “I know why you seek me,” he said. “But I cannot find the silver dragon. I no longer possess the power.”

Myrkith-visir raised his head, opening his jaws to question Brithilca as his anger ebbed away and was replaced by curiosity.

“The pact is broken,” Brithilca said.

Myrkith-visir stilled. He couldn’t put his claws on it, but something had felt different for a while.

“I can no longer move beyond our lands – I have not the energy needed – but you will be able to stray. The bonds that once held you here are gone.”

“Is that not a good thing?” Myrkith-visir asked. “We can expand our territories as we need, for these small islands become too crowded, and I can hunt down the coward Cies myself.”

“No,” replied Brithilca, with a low growl. “For there are also other, less fortuitous consequences. We are unbound, as are the Eldarkind. Unbound, we are also alone – isolated from each other. We can no longer contact each other, unless by meeting physically. Our two races must remain united to protect all others from those who sleep. You know of whom I speak.

“If they – if He – should awaken, the balance of power will shift in the world, and not in our favour. The breaking of the pact has already begun this process. Already, magic seeps into the void. For the good of all, they must remain asleep. He must remain asleep.”

Zaki

Aside from the annoyance caused by his mistress, Zaki had enjoyed returning to Arrans at the head of a victorious army, riding in pride of place beside Janus, the king’s own heir.

He had reaped the rewards, taking a cart of treasure as his spoils from the destroyed city. A satisfied Harad had bestowed more gifts upon him: Roherii titles and land near Bera, on the coast, promising it to be some of the most beautiful land in all of Roher.

Zaki was under no illusion that he and Janus were companionable, nor that Harad had no agenda involving him. However, he was content to enjoy the favours at last, not least because it meant escaping from under the watching eyes of the palace to his own residence.

No longer the regis mendicus, he was pleased to confirm.

Zaki had retired to his palace chambers on the day of his return with a spring in his step, glad that he had done what was needed to secure Harad’s support for a campaign in Caledan. Harad was, for once, in favour, agreeing that he had proved himself in Ladrin, pleased with Janus’s reports on him.

Demara, however, was another matter. It was clear she thought little of their success was attributable to him. Though she did not say it to his face, her views on his return to Caledan were clear.

“It is a foolish idea!” Demara said when Zaki informed her that he would not be there for much longer. “Autumn will be coming soon, and then winter – the weather becomes too unfriendly for you to travel all that way and fight your way to Pandora.”

“All I must do is defeat Soren’s army.”

“Nonsense. I know how your people would react to an army of foreigners entering their kingdom, for they would do the same in Roher. They would fight to the very death to keep you out.”

“I am their king,” said Zaki, scowling at her, “whether I have a borrowed army or not. Your father has promised me twelve thousand men, and I am sure I can count on thousands more joining me in Caledan. I will return victorious.”

“Must you go so soon?” she asked.

There was no warmth in her tone. He dismissed any notion that she said it out of sentiment. He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.

“I worry for your safety, as it also means my own safety and the safety of our children. Will you rush to go before you should even meet your son?”

“What son?” he said, his mouth drying and his heart leaping in his chest.

“Ours,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

Good. She does not know. He nodded, relief flooding him. “Oh, of course. The longer I wait, the stronger Soren grows. I must oust him before he becomes too secure in my throne, before he has time to turn my allies to his cause. He will not expect an attack in this season, which makes it even more advantageous. He will be unprepared – I can sweep through Caledan before there is even an army to defend it. I cannot risk waiting to attack until the spring. But I will admit, I will sleep a great deal easier once I have an heir.”

“I will call him Thai,” Demara said in a tone brooking no disagreement. “It means ‘unyielding’ in my tongue.”

Zaki smiled, satisfied. “It is a good name. Thai.” He tested it on his tongue. “His enemies will cower before him. But you are wrong to be concerned. I will succeed.”

“I beseech you, if you bear any love for your children, not to go yet.”

“I have no choice. Even if I did not wish to go, I would be duty-bound to. I was born to be the king of my country, not to languish in exile in someone else’s court, living as a pauper. Now I have money, influence in court and your father’s support in men and arms, I must try.”

~

Men were mustered, armour and weaponry allotted, and Zaki stood at the palace gates ready to ride in a grand procession through Arrans and all the way to Bera to board the fleet of boats conscripted to take him and his men to Caledan via sea.

As was her place, Demara waited at the palace door with Leika and her woman servant attending her; Janus stood in place of Harad to bid him farewell and success.

As he left, he paused first to bow to Janus and accept his token of a royal Roherii sword, an extravagant gold and jewelled piece. Ceremonial or functional, he was not sure, but it was a beautiful weapon nonetheless.

“Do not leave,” Demara said as soon as he turned to her. She spoke in a low tone that Janus, retreating back into the cool gloom of the hallway, could not hear.

He sighed. “I have already spoken of this with you. I am going to reclaim my throne.”

Demara raised her chin, her mouth set with defiance as she stepped forward, looking up into his eyes with blazing determination.

“If you leave, I will kill your mistress.”

Half surprised that she knew, half amused, he laughed, incredulous that she would threaten him. “No you will not.” He smiled at her, as an adult would smile to a naive child, but that seemed to anger her more and her cheeks blushed.

“Then I will kill your bastard boy.”

Zaki’s amusement turned to shock as a cold rush overtook him. How does she know? His surprise turned to anger as he realised how she intended to manipulate him. He stepped back, glaring at her. His fingers twitched. But he would not strike her and cause a scene. Not here, not on this day.

“I will do far worse if you lift so much as a finger towards that child.”

Demara turned and stormed inside the front door. The maid, carrying Leika, followed. On silent hinges, the doors slid closed with the smallest thud as the guards stood to one side.

After a moment’s pause, Zaki unfroze. He fixed a glowing smile upon his face, turned and walked down the steps to mount his horse and join the front of the parade.

Demara

From the sweeping balcony of her father’s quarters overlooking Arrans, Demara watched her husband leave, standing in seething anger with Seline beside her. As the great column of men wended its way down the hill, disappearing between the tall buildings, she deliberated, drumming her fingers upon the balustrade.

As if reading her mind, Seline moved forward to stand beside her. “Will you do as you threatened him?”

Demara shrugged. “I dislike him – nay, perhaps I still loathe him in parts – for he is as selfish and self-serving as always. I feel a fool for ever thinking otherwise, for ever softening towards him. He thinks of his own goals – Leika and I are nothing but pawns to him. Yet perhaps I spoke in haste. Should I punish another for his sins? Especially a child?”

Demara fell silent for a moment. “If I know anything, it is that a child should never be held responsible for the choices of their parents,” she muttered. Her own mother had been banished by Harad when he grew tired of her and desired his fourth wife – Demara had never seen her again. It was not something she liked to dwell on.

“A child he may be, but he is a threat to you and yours,” Seline replied.

Demara knew she was right, but it was impossible to condemn another babe to death when the comforting warmth of her own was cradled against her chest. She handed Leika to Seline, folded her arms and turned away.

“I know I cannot tolerate that, nor appear weak by not carrying out what I threatened. I fear I have backed myself into a corner.”

“When Zaki returns, if he finds you have not raised a finger, your strength will be lost. You must follow through on your promises, or he will never fear you again, nor take you seriously. If you wish, I can make the arrangements – it will wash the guilt from your hands in some part. Would you like me to do this for you?”

Demara considered. How easy would it be to be rid of this faceless woman and her babe? But the face that swam in her mind was the face of the son she yearned for, with her own eyes, skin and hair. She ground her teeth in frustration.

“I cannot do it. But I will be rid of her one way or another. Let me consider it.”

It consumed her that day. She was unable to go forward with her threats, but unable to distract herself either. At last she found a solution.

“Seline!” she called her maid, who ran from the other room.

“Yes, mistress?”

“Come, sit! I have an idea. I do not have to kill him. Her I worry not for, but I would save the child from his parents’ follies if I could. I can ensure they are no longer a threat to me.” Her eyes glittered and her smile was wide with enthusiasm.

“I will exile them,” Demara said with a smug smile. “What think you? I will confiscate all her goods – as they are doubtless paid for with my dowry, they are mine by right anyway – and cast her and the babe out of Roher altogether. Then, her fate is in the hands of the gods.”

Seline did not answer, but Demara could tell that she pondered something.

“What?”

Seline frowned. “She will die – they both will. I do not criticise you, lady, but how is this any different to having them killed? If anything, perhaps it is more cruel, as they will both suffer at your hands – and you wish to avoid harming the boy. Will your conscience be clear?”

“The gods have been good to me,” explained Demara. “Their blessings brought me – us – back to our homeland. They have given me a beautiful girl and a boy soon to follow. Why, they have, in a strange way, even rid me of my husband. Perhaps they have given me everything I could dream of.

“Praying every day to the Mother to protect me has brought me what I sought – if this woman is as devout as she should be, then she will survive or quickly perish. I have asked for the Mother’s understanding and blessing in this difficult matter. I am sure that She will continue to favour me.”

And if She does, then this woman and her babe will die by the gods’ own hands, not mine. Who could survive outside Arrans with no food, water, money or shelter, and with a babe? Even the gods could not grant her that much favour, unless by a miracle. If they are of a mind to be merciful, they will grant her a swift end.

“As you wish.”

“I cannot wait another day – ready the guards.”

~

The translucent veils of fabric shrouding the palanquin and hiding Demara from view rippled in the light breeze as she sat up for a better look, peering through the fabric.

Before her was the house Seline had spoken of – the maid accompanied her upon horseback, mounted in silence to her right – but Demara had not passed it before. She looked over the tall, painted walls topped with their clean, ridged, terracotta tiles and draped in green, leafy boughs with a twang of envy. It was far more pleasant than she had expected.

Guards blocked her view as they opened the gate and barged up the path. Minutes later, servants fled in a ruckus, running this way and that in confusion as they encountered the still and silent rank of soldiers upon the street, without a glance in her direction.

Demara saw a green garden space through the gate and the hint of a beautiful house within. Annoyance surged within her that she had not been able to enjoy such a nice home with her husband and had instead been shut up in a cold and dreary castle in Caledan.

So, this is what my dowry has been squandered upon.

Demara watched, all sympathy lost, as a woman was dragged out by several men. The moment they released her, she threw herself back through the gate, ran to the house and tried to shut the door. Before she could, they were upon her again, with grim faces this time as they marched her out.

She was beautiful, Demara begrudgingly admitted, but that, she had expected. She was almost naked too, for Demara had ordered that all of the woman’s possessions be taken; they belonged to her since she owned the coin that paid for them.

As the men pulled the woman onto the street, they ripped the few remaining fabrics from her figure. The clothes were damaged beyond repair and Demara would not have touched them in any case, but that was besides the point. It was the principle. Demara smiled in cold satisfaction.

Hunched over and shrunk into herself, the woman tried to conceal her modesty with her hands. Demara heard her wailing, begging the guards to stop.

The head of the guard stepped forward with a scroll of paper and read from it in a loud, carrying voice so that all around could hear.

“You, of the name Tulia, belonging to no house or family, are hereby exiled from all of Roher and its territories with immediate effect. You may not reside in any place within the state henceforth and must exit the country immediately, never to return. You may take your possessions with you, but any land and property you hold is forfeited to the crown.”

“You would not even let me have my clothes?” Tulia shrieked. “You would rather tear them off me than see me wear them?”

“These possessions are not your own but bought with the coin of another, and no doubt tricked from that person. Be glad that you are not charged with other crimes for which you are most likely guilty! I’ll have your jewellery too. Your earrings – give them to me before I rip them out.”

Demara could not see the man’s face, but his voice was flat and altogether un-compassionate.

Tulia paused for a moment, her mouth gaping as she looked at him with wide eyes.

He started towards her, but she edged back, holding up her arms before extracting her dangling earrings – gold and jewel studded, Demara noticed – with shaking hands and handing them to him along with the matching necklace and anklet.

Another man stepped forward, thrusting the naked child at her.

“Take your mongrel and get out.”

She cradled the babe to her chest, sinking to the floor, but as the men drew their swords she cried out and ran away barefooted, disappearing down a side street. Several guards gave chase to make sure she left the city boundaries.

Demara heaved a deep sigh of relief, reclining back onto the sumptuous, plump cushions. Coldly satisfied, she gestured for her bearers to return her home. Seline remained behind to ensure nothing went missing from Demara’s new house.

Soren

Since Asquith’s deposition, Edmund had taken charge of the royal accounts. They were well kept; for all Asquith’s shortcomings, he seemed to be an excellent accountant. As Edmund presented the finances to Soren, he pointed out the lone error that had outwitted his problem solving.

“Every month, the same amount – yet I cannot figure out where it goes,” Edmund said, frowning.

“Forty-seven silver coins. By no means a small amount,” Soren relied.

“No. Such an error is of no matter to the crown, yet it piques my interest that it is an identical amount and has been taken every thirty days for over half a year.”

“No receipts or notes of any kind to explain its purpose?”

“None at all, sire. I have been through the records with a fine comb several times. Not a trace to be found, except in one case, where a paper details the money’s passage south – nothing more than that.”

Soren tapped his fingers upon the desk. South. South of here could be anywhere, for anything. “Who has access to that fund?”

Edmund paused before he answered. “Behan.”

Soren’s eyes widened.

“I cannot fathom it. He has no need of this money, if he is indeed responsible,” Edmund mused, worrying his beard with a hand. “Theft seems unlikely.”

Soren ordered for Behan to be summoned, but a messenger returned bearing word of Behan’s absence and with no idea when he would return or where he could be. Soren gritted his teeth, frustrated after the wait. “As soon as he arrives, send him to me,” he said. Once the man left, he continued. “Have you the note?”

Edmund flicked through the sheaf of papers, slipping one out from their midst. “Here.”

Soren scanned its contents. “‘T. Collado. South, by hand of’ … scribbled out ‘to’… scribbled out… ‘by order of’… that is blacked out too. Hmm. What does ‘Collado’ mean?”

Edmund chewed his lip, staring at the rough script. “Perhaps a name, as it’s capitalised. T. Collado,” Edmund said, sounding the name out. He froze. “If I am not mistaken, that name is Roherii!”

Soren’s head snapped up. “Does this mean that our own Lord Steward sends funds to Roher – to Zaki?”

“It could, I suppose,” said Edmund, but he fell silent, staring at the note.

“We crushed any hope of Zaki regaining the throne with help from Caledan. Why would he do such a thing? He has status, power, wealth. What more can he want?” Soren’s breathing quickened.

“I do not know. Perhaps more of the same. Men can be greedy. Or perhaps he believes Zaki should sit the throne.”

“I would believe it of others, yet not of him.” What are his motives? Soren tapped his foot upon the floor without thinking. Would he betray me too? It seems I can only trust those in house Arendall, or perhaps everyone crosses me. No, it’s not healthy to think like this. What do I do?

“Without Behan here to answer for himself, it is difficult to say.”

“Call the council,” Soren said with a heavy heart. “Perhaps someone else knew of this.”

Edmund glanced up from his reverie. “Are you sure it is wise to share this?”

“My council is there for times of crisis. Perhaps they can shed light on this before we rush to conclusions – I cannot wait with the burden of this knowledge.” I cannot bear to think that the person I trust most after Edmund could deceive me.

~

Everyone besides the Lord Steward appeared at the council. They listened without a sound as Edmund explained his findings and asked them for any knowledge they had of the matter. Blank faces exchanged glances; shoulders were shrugged.

“Collado is a Roherii family name,” said Lady Felra with confidence. She represented her mother, Lady Elsard, the head of House Orrell, on the council.

Beside her, Lord Heligan nodded, murmuring his agreement but looking troubled.

“So he is sending money to Roher, then,” Willam of Walbridge said.

“Well, we cannot be sure,” answered Edmund. “Perhaps the recipient has an unfortunate sur—”

“No Roherii would be welcome in Caledan,” Felra cut in. “He is betraying the crown.”

As you would know how to, Soren could not help but think as his eyes flicked towards her. He was about to speak, but Heligan’s mouth opened first.

“Lord Behan is a great friend to the crown, as you should all know,” he said with indignance. “Throughout Soren’s absence, Behan remained loyal and was the first to welcome him home, even putting his own life in danger to do so. He may have many different agendas, many different responsibilities, many different purposes, but he remains throughout all of them devoted to Caledan.”

“Devoted to Caledan does not infer devotion to our king,” Felra said snidely.

“He shall, however, be given the chance to explain,” Soren said, glancing around the table to each person. His voice was quiet, but Felda’s words had riled him. So eager to condemn others when your own house was guilty! Heligan’s devotion to his friend Behan had reassured Soren that he was not wrong to trust the steward, though Behan still had questions to answer before Soren could be sure his confidence was well placed.

At that moment, as if fate had summoned him, Behan burst in, red faced and wheezing, his apology for tardiness punctuated with many gasps. Behan seemed surprised to find the mood of the council sour, though as Edmund explained again for his benefit what he had found, he became more unfathomable. He watched Edmund though half-lidded eyes and with his hands clasped across his belly as he sat listening.

Edmund invited him to speak.

“The council will know nothing of this, for I acted alone,” Behan said without fear or shame.

Felra sat forward in her chair, a predatory smile upon her face. “You admit treason!”

“I admit no such thing,” said Behan, glaring at her. “If you will listen.” He made a point of waiting until she subsided back into her seat before he continued.

“I have been sending funds every thirty days to a man named Tobias Collado, a Roherii national residing in Bera, outside Roher’s capital. A gem of a find, he is one of my finest spies in Roher. Collado sends me word of Zaki’s movements and any plans of Harad’s that he can discover. He is situated within Zaki’s household, acting as his interpreter.”

“I knew you were not guilty of any scheming,” said Heligan, beaming at his friend.

Soren frowned, however. “Be that as it may, why did you not tell me of this before? Why have I heard no news from Roher?”

“There are problems with the line of communications, in the first instance,” said Behan. “News often goes amiss or arrives weeks later than it ought to. The Caledonian ambassador sends news back monthly, but I know his words are censored as his letters are checked on Harad’s orders and, as a result, never contain anything of real use. We dare not use codes.

“Tobias is far more open – hence why we pay him so well, for all the risk he takes – and sends us monthly reports by sea, which arrive more reliably than the land caravans do. I have not spoken to you thus far as there has been little to report.

“Zaki is well, and has been away campaigning with Harad’s eldest son in Ladrin of late. I have yet to hear of his return, safe or otherwise, though I expect Tobias’s next correspondence any day. I’ll admit that I did not wish to disturb you with any news of your uncle,” Behan continued, his voice dropping in volume. “I do not wish to cause you distress.”

“Your consideration is appreciated, Behan,” Soren replied after a pause, “but unwarranted. Please keep me informed henceforth.”

“Yes, sire.”

Soren let the council go, keeping Behan back for a quiet word, feeling guilty about his handling of the matter.

“We did try to summon you to speak in private,” Soren said to Behan, feeling as though he needed to make amends. “I did not mean to escalate this, but discover if the council had any information to support you, though it becomes clear some of them wish to harm others to feather their own nests. I apologise for ever doubting you and hope that this will not cause any ill feelings between us.”

“Well, I must confess I feel somewhat stung to be thought a traitor by some, but I know you act in Caledan’s best interests. I understand the pressures you are under to surround yourself with strong council,” replied Behan. His tone seemed cool and his glance veiled, with little warmth, but Soren took his words at face value.

“Thank you, Lord Steward, for all that you do.”

Behan bowed and left without another word.

~

“Your Majesty!”

Soren heard Behan’s voice before he saw him. The old man ran up the corridor as fast as his short legs would carry him, his beard bouncing on his rounded stomach with each step. Behan stumbled to a halt before him, bent double as he caught his breath. All Soren could see was the top of his bright red scalp peeking through his thinning hair.

“Your Majesty, urgent news,” Behan forced out, straightening up. “Zaki is coming.”

An icy coldness flooded Soren’s body. “W-what?” he stammered.

“Zaki is coming, Soren,” Behan repeated, aghast. “Tobias sent word – but it is weeks old – we must act! Harad sends men with him – many thousands – travelling by sea all the way from Roher. Zaki plans to land near to the border on the isthmus to open the land route and hold the town of Braith and, with it, the border.”

Soren swore, sinking into the wall for support. Its cold stone made him feel worse.

“Assemble everyone,” he said as his belly lurched. “I will ride out tomorrow with whatever company we can make. Muster everyone who can fight and have them follow!”

~

Soren did not sleep that night, plagued again by the nightmares he had been so glad to be rid of. When the dawn came, he was already dressed and about his business organising supply trains, armour, weapons, men and mounts – everything he would need to reach Braith and the border before Zaki.

I’m not ready for this. The thought taunted him. It had, he realised with a jolt, been almost a year since he had been crowned. A whole year and still I feel no safer, still I am not rid of Zaki.

His mind drifted to members of those houses who were less than supportive. He feared their actions, though all had agreed the previous night at an emergency council meeting to accompany him and pledge men, arms and provisions.

At least they are with me – where I can watch them.

~

It was a long march south, hindered by those on foot and the slow, oxen-drawn waggons of supplies. But with every town they passed, more joined to swell Soren’s ranks as the news of an impending Roherii invasion spread. If nothing else, his enemies would be united with him to repel an invasion by foreign soldiers, even if led by Zaki, Soren hoped.

His small company of hundreds of men from Pandora grew to a host of thousands; Arendall, Varan, Walbridge, Duncombe and even Lunder joined him as they followed the River Lowen through Edmund’s county.

Soren looked back at each high point they crested to see a line of men trailing into the distance beyond the horizon through the sleepy rolling downs that were hazy in the heat of late summer. He could not help but feel a twinge of awe that they followed him.

As they crossed the hills into Balaur land, approaching Lowenmouth, Lord Andor himself rode out with a force of almost a thousand men drafted from his county, leaving the same amount to keep Lowenmouth, which was to be their strategic retreat if needed.

Heartened by the support, Soren marched on, feeling somewhat reassured about his chances of repelling Zaki and the Roherii from Caledan, but they had taken too long to muster and too long to travel. Andor confirmed his worst fears.

“I have been watching, as have all my vessels in the bay. Zaki will have already arrived at the border. I have no news from Braith this week, but I suspect it will not come.”

“Perhaps they can hold him off.”

“Perhaps.” Andor said no more, but Soren knew what remained unspoken. Zaki brought a great host upon a small town, possibly from their own side of the border and without the safety of the wall that closed off the isthmus from the mainland.

They have no chance of victory if Zaki attacks.

~

Within a few more days they were close enough for Soren’s mounted scouts to bring back news of Zaki’s forces – sighted at last – as the main bulk of Soren’s nine thousand men made their way up and over the last high hill pass into Rainsford’s border county.

The news was grim. They were too close for comfort. Soren halted his men and gave word for them to retreat. Here, there were no bridges to destroy, such luxuries reserved for more well-travelled routes. The fords would cause Zaki little hindrance, Soren knew.

Beyond that the scouts could give little detail, but the column of smoke rising high into the sky told its own story. They were many miles from Braith, but its fate was clear. Soren’s heart sank at the sight as he watched it bloom, stony faced, with Edmund as ever beside him.

“The border has fallen,” said Soren. “We must make a new one that he cannot cross.”

“The passes,” replied Edmund as Soren thought it.

“Is the one we came down though the easiest, largest and most direct?”

Edmund nodded, his eyes still fixed upon the smoke.

“If we direct Zaki to that pass, then we will have the best chance of holding the hills, and Caledan. Have everyone fall back to the valley. Who shall hold it?” Soren asked Edmund.

“Give me the charge,” said Edmund. “I will see that Zaki does not pass.”

Eve

Eve’s ankle had long since healed, but she was more ill than ever before, bedridden and wasting away with depression. Her father had given up on trying to rouse her each morning, and left her in quiet solitude. The maid came in to open and close the shutters, set the fire, light and douse the lamps and feed her, but Eve was so unresponsive that even the maid had stopped talking to her.

Her days were spent inside, in bed, and she rarely rode Alia anymore, having become fed up with being followed everywhere she went by her father’s men, who called her back if she strayed too far from home. Gone were the solitary trips to the moors and beyond that fed her joy.

Her marriage loomed ahead, first months away, then weeks. A dress had been made, the ceremony and feasting afterwards planned and paid for. There was nothing left but to travel to Pandora for the celebration – not that Eve associated that word with her upcoming nuptials.

It was the best news she could have hoped for, hearing of the coming invasion, for it meant that all events were cancelled. Eve struggled not to smile when her father informed her with a drawn face, but her relief faded when her father revealed he would be going to fight.

“Must you?” Eve had never experienced battle, but she knew enough to understand it placed her father in grave danger.

“It is my duty to protect king and country, Eve. I wish it were otherwise – I’m too old for this – but I cannot ask my men to fight when I do not.”

“Am I to stay here?”

“Of course!” Karn seemed shocked that she would think otherwise. “I am most certainly not allowing you accompany me. You are my heir – the only heir – to house Arrow. I must keep you safe.”

“Perhaps I would be safer in Ednor?” Eve dared to suggest, holding her breath as she waited for an answer.

Her father scowled. “I thought we had put this to bed,” he muttered. “Who would run Arrow county and oversee Arlyn?” he said in a louder voice.

“Your steward – he knows far more than I do and can manage everything in your absence.” Karn remained silent, so Eve pushed on. “I need to go there to train. How else will I manage my skills? Artora warned me they could be dangerous if I remained uneducated,” she improvised. “Please?”

“I worry that you will become someone else if I let you go there again.”

“Consider it, Father – please.”

Karn nodded and left. Eve jumped out of bed and punched the air, a wide smile fixed to her face. This is the best day! Please, Father, please let me go.

She did not have to wait long for her reply; her father summoned her that evening.

“I will let you go,” Karn said with no preamble, though his voice was less than enthusiastic, “because I sense I have no choice. The moment I leave, I have a feeling that you will be upon a horse riding north whether I like it or not.” His accusing glare penetrated her.

Eve coloured. I had considered that, she admitted to herself whilst widening her eyes in feigned innocence.

~

Her father had mustered in two days, and so it was then that they parted at the gates of Arlyn. Karn was not dressed for battle – to ride so for weeks would be too tiresome – but his saddlebags bulged with his armour, freshly polished and maintained. His newly sharpened sword hung from his waistline – a long, slim blade in a scabbard of new blackened, tanned leather.

Karn had trimmed his hair and beard for the occasion and rode in his finest outdoor clothes with a light cloak to keep the late summer morning chill away. A silver arrowhead, the mark of the family, clasped his cloak close about his neck, glinting as it caught the sun.

Eve rode similarly outfitted, her armour – gifted to her by Artora on her previous trip to Ednor – stowed in her own panniers. Her bow and quiver hung from the pommel; it had been months since Eve had used them, but it felt wrong to ride without them. Belted at her own waist was Artora’s dagger, and hidden at the very bottom of her baggage was the scrying mirror in its dark case.

Eve drank in all the details of her father before her. Time seemed to slow. Reluctant to part, they stood there as Arlyn’s men assembled around them, women and children milling around as they said their farewells, passed on last messages and gifted tokens of luck onto their loved ones.

Yet they could not delay forever. Karn called for his men to assemble and rode to the front of the column, Eve beside him upon Alia. Karn leaned across to clasp her in a one-armed hug, kissing her upon the top of her head.

“Be safe, my little dove. I will return soon. Make the best of your training, for we do not know where the coming weeks will lead us.”

Eve said goodbye to her father, feeling unsettled, and watched as they left. The column marched past her for ages: a long line of men – some mounted, some not – followed by donkey-led carts of provisions that rattled as they rolled along. Despite still being cut off from the powers of the old tongue, she could not help but mutter a blessing in it.

“By all the powers that be, keep him safe.”

Soon, there were two left beside her: Nyle and another guard, Olly, whom she knew by sight, to accompany her to Ednor and then return to Arlyn. Eve had not been anticipating this.

Nyle had suffered a demotion at the hands of her father after her last Ednor adventure. Despite her setting things right by reversing this, Nyle had not forgiven her, and the incident in the woods after her betrothal had served to anger him further. Nyle, ever professional, was never rude or improper, but his icy demeanour towards her was unpleasant to bear.

~

The ride to Ednor was spent in silence. Eve was glad when, days later, they crested the hill onto the secret valley. Nyle halted at once, unwilling to set foot inside the place, a shadow upon his face at the view, whilst Olly stared in open-mouthed awe at the unexpected sight before him.

Somehow, it had already been over an entire year since Eve had bid farewell to her Eldarkind kin at Pandora, and even longer still since she had set foot in Ednor, met Artora, the queen of the Eldarkind, and learnt of the significance of her kinship to their race.

She thought of Ednor most days, but her memory of this place had faded and the sight of it before her so brilliant and vivid she could not help but stare with Olly. Her recollection did not do Ednor justice.

“We will leave you here?” said Nyle, breaking her reverie. It was veiled as a request, but Eve knew that Nyle would go no further with her. It did not matter, in any case. Free of them, she could race to Ednor and her kin. Her safety in the valley was no issue.

Eve nodded with a wide grin. “I thank you for your services and release you both to ride home. Watch Arlyn well for my father. Please send word the moment he returns, if I am not already there myself.”

As Nyle and Olly trotted back down the mountain following the trail they had arrived by, Eve urged Alia on and thundered over grassy meadows that rolled all the way to the forests across the valley. As she drew nearer, excitement shot around her body, sending nerves tingling as her anticipation grew.

Eve could not decide who she was more eager to see: Nolwen and Nelda – the sibling Eldarkind who had accompanied and safeguarded her on her quest to rescue Soren’s sister Irumae from the hands of Zaki – or Artora, the queen of the Eldarkind.

Her fondness for Nolwen and Nelda, after their shared adventure, was tempered by her desire to ask Artora for help in restoring and honing her magical abilities. Whilst she had spent most of her life without them, their loss was still a great and bewildering blow she could not understand.

The grass rolled under her feet as she raced through fragrant flower patches, birds wheeling high overhead and calling out as if to greet her. The further Alia cantered, the more Eve could feel the tingle within her head growing – the faintest connection to her magic returning. Whether it was her own relief at her changing fortunes or perhaps some resonating presence within the valley, she did not know or care, such was her joy.

Her fear that she had lost that part of her forever had been as great. She whooped in relief, startling Alia, but things fell quiet when she met the deciduous woodlands at the other side of the valley some hours later, and her excitement tempered. There was little bird song here. Eve was sure she remembered a cacophony of choruses when she last passed through.

When she reached the first of the sprawling buildings that marked Ednor, the sense of wrongness grew. The light had faded, the brilliance and vividness of the colours drained, though the end of summer was still a while away.

Perhaps autumn comes early here, Eve mused. The word sombre sprung to mind as she rode up and through Ednor. At last she met some of her kin, but they did not laugh and converse in lilting voices as they had a year ago. Now they were subdued and quiescent, watching her pass with inscrutable faces.

Eve’s excitement waned, drained away with every length she rode Alia, until only a sense of foreboding remained.

To the Eldarkind guarding the way at the height of Ednor, she held up her hand in greeting before sliding down from Alia.

“Good day, sir,” she said in the Eldar tongue. “I am Lady Eve of Arlyn. I request the pleasure of an audience with the queen, if I may.”

He looked at her, frowning. “Have you not heard, sister?” he said. He executed a smooth bow. “Forgive me, I do not mean to speak out of turn. Follow me.” He whistled and called for someone to lead Alia to the stables before marching through the gates of Artora’s abode with Eve in tow.

Eve hurried to keep up with the tall Eldarkind’s large strides as she thought over his words. Have I not heard what? she asked herself, feeling apprehensive.

~

Despite the strange feeling lurking in the pit of her stomach, Eve expected her distant aunt to greet her, but when she at last arrived at Artora’s office, the guards stepped forward to bar her way.

“None may pass,” said the first.

“I beg for audience with the queen,” said Eve. “I am Lady Eve, come from Arlyn to seek the refuge and training she once offered me.”

“None may pass,” said the second.

“Let her through,” a low voice called from within.

In synchronisation, the guards bowed and parted before Eve.

As she entered, Eve saw the tall, airy room that she remembered, with high glass-paned windows looking out over the alpine meadows, but a diminished figure sat in Artora’s place, hunched over the desk.

The person looked up – limp, pale hair trailing over her shoulders – as Eve entered. Her face rose from the shadows, and Eve realised with a jolt it was Artora who sat before her. She sunk into a deep curtsy before the queen.

“Your Majesty,” she murmured, pausing in the curtsy to compose herself. Her voice was steady, but her heart pounded. What has happened to her?

“Lady Eve.” Artora smiled, but it was a weary smile that soon faded from her face. Artora rose with care from behind the desk and shuffled forward to greet Eve, but her usual languid grace was lacking, and instead Eve could see that each movement pained her.

The once radiant glow of Artora’s skin had gone. It was now sallow and pale, almost grey in pallor, sunk into her cheeks and eye sockets. Her bony fingers reached out to clasp Eve’s hand. Her skin was cool to the touch – too cold, sapping Eve’s own warmth away from her – and hard, the healthy plumpness of the queen’s figure gone.

Even her eyes seemed to belong to another – no longer wells of light and laughter, but pits of weariness and something else Eve could not identify. Pain? Fear? Despair? Eve struggled not to stare at her in morbid shock and fascination.

“Eve, you are most welcome.” Artora kissed her upon the forehead.

They sat, Eve supporting Artora back as they made their way to her desk first, and Artora rang a small tinkling bell at her fingertips. Moments later a tray of food materialised upon the desk, forming from nothing, and next to it, a steaming pot and two cups.

Eve would have revelled at the sight of magic once more, after so long, but her jubilance was drowned with concern for her sickening relation.

Artora enquired after her health and that of her father, picking at small morsels on the tray of caramelised nuts and small cakes. Eve answered her, but did not dare ask Artora after her own health. Eve explained why she had come, and Artora reiterated her offer of help.

“You are free to stay as long as you wish. I will see to it that you have the training you need to manage your skills,” Artora said. “I would oversee this myself, but as you can see – and as you are far too polite to mention – you do not find me in the best health of late.”

Eve held her breath, not daring to comment one way or the other.

“I have been ill a while, alas,” Artora murmured. “It began almost a year ago, though I did not notice it at first. It grows worse each passing week.” She shook her head. “None could have foreseen, of course. The pact has broken and the consequences manifest.” She looked up at Eve, her gaze full of sadness.

“How did it happen? What does it mean?” Eve asked, confused. Surely it is an agreement, nothing more? She could not remember what Artora had said about it the year before. She dove into her memory for any recollection.

“The dragons strayed too far from both their territory and their agreement not to intervene in the bloodline of the throne’s business. It began with Brithilca’s removal of the crown from Pandora, but the young dragons leaving their lands to restore Soren without permission were its death knell, though he would have failed without their assistance. The pact unravels as a result. All our magic, in place to protect our own races, the humans, and others in the world, crumbles.

“The consequences are more dire than can be imagined. If I thought I felt a darkness growing within the world a year ago, it is nothing compared to the desolation I see before us. Things are waking which should have forever remained asleep,” she said, her voice so quiet that Eve had to strain to hear her.

Artora shivered, clutching at her cup for warmth. “Our old enemy rises; He waxes as we wane. His kith and kin will grow stronger as we fail.”

“Who is He?” Eve could not help but ask, unable to imagine a person more dangerous or powerful than the Eldarkind, or even dragons.

Once more Artora turned her baleful look upon Eve. “He is Bahr of the fire, a being of pure energy and magic from the days of the formation of the world itself. An elemental, we name His species to be.”

Eve’s lips parted as she heard the word. An elemental. That word she remembered from her last visit to Ednor. The creators of all upon the earth. But wait, Artora said the elementals diminished to unknown places. She repeated this thought aloud.

“Not all elementals were as noble as those who gave their energy to create life,” she said, her tone dark. “Some were dangerous – too dangerous – but with the power to kill them by magical means gone with the fall of Death, who had not limited the life force of the elementals themselves, only the power of binding remained. And so we bound them, together with the aid of the dragons.

“Into the pact we sung their binding – forever were they to sleep, unrising, unless the pact itself were broken.” Artora shook her head. “The breaking of the pact was something we had never considered could happen, such were the wards and guards we put in place – but the dragons have doomed us all.

“As the keeper of my people, I bear this burden the greatest, but my people begin to weaken and fail too, and there is nothing that I can do to prevent it.”

“Can you not replace the bindings – remake the pact?” said Eve.

“If we remained at our full strength, then yes – but alas, we do not. Our magic has faded over time, but with the breaking of the pact it seems what remains spills away. My ability to scry outside Ednor’s borders wanes, and I cannot contact the dragons anymore. Every member of my kind that I send to pass word to them, to scout in Caledan or to confirm that Bahr still remains bound does not return. I fear the worst.”

“What will happen if he – Bahr – rises?”

“It sounds like a prophecy of the worst kind, but it would mean death and destruction for us all. His retribution will be swift and terrible, yet we cannot stand before him, though we must try. The Eldarkind and the dragons will be gone forever. I fear who will catch his attention next, for they will also be doomed.”

“Is there no hope?” Eve said in a small voice, wondering why Artora had chosen to share this with her.

“There is always hope,” Artora said, favouring her with the warmest smile she could muster.

Eve remained unconvinced.

“If we can prevent him from rising, it will go a great way towards protecting all of us,” Artora added. “Perhaps, if we are fortunate, we may yet even prevent the entire loss of our powers.”

“How can that be done?” Eve latched on to the idea.

“I cannot be sure, though I have my ideas. The binding needs replacing, but those with magic cannot venture near Him. We have already tried and failed. If my theory that our magic is our undoing is correct, then one of mortal blood could succeed where we have failed,” said Artora. She shook her head. “Yet who would undertake such a great task for us when few humans know of our existence? And how can a mortal stand before Bahr and live? I have even thought of asking you in the hope that your human blood would be enough, but I shrink from asking you to risk yourself.”

“If I were to volunteer,” Eve said slowly, “what would I need to do?”

“First, we need news of Caledan.”

“I can give you that with ease,” Eve said, and reported recent events to Artora, who looked more troubled as she spoke, which Eve did not think was possible.

“If Caledan is once more in danger from war, it is more urgent that Bahr be stopped so we do not face perils on two fronts. Bahr sleeps far in the north. The snow and ice lessens his power, you see, but that is not enough to keep him in slumber should his bonds weaken too far or break.

“We need information – does Bahr still sleep? How deeply? Then we could use that to try and find a solution.” Artora stilled for a second, a light flickering in her eyes. “Perhaps your magic could aid us as much as your mortal status. If indeed your human blood protects you from weakening as my kin do, your magic might also remain undiminished. Perhaps you could deepen the bindings upon him.”

Eve hesitated as Artora looked at her with expectation. “I haven’t been able to access my magic for many months,” Eve admitted.

To her surprise, Artora smiled. “And you are afraid that it will never return?”

“Yes.” Eve chewed her lip. The faint tingle was still there, but it felt so remote it was as intangible as smoke.

“Never fear,” said Artora. “I can feel it within you. It is strong and very much alive. You will have to coax it forth again; once we commence your training, you will feel it blossom once more. Worrying about it will not help you.”

Eve’s stomach unclenched, the knot of worry that had built within her for months, becoming heavier and heavier with its burden, easing. It did not disappear – for Eve did not dare hope too much at Artora’s words, after her own failed attempts to reconnect with her magical abilities – but she trusted in Artora enough to entertain the possibility.

“Do not decide in haste,” said Artora, perhaps mistaking Eve silence for thinking about Artora’s need for information. “You may of course stay here. You require much training before you are ready to harness your powers, let alone to lay a binding.”

Zaki

The fleet stretched to the horizon and beyond as crafts of all sizes carried Zaki’s twelve thousand men to Caledan. Zaki was glad when the isthmus, the land bridge linking Caledan to the continent, was at last sighted stretching north, for it meant the end of weeks of unpleasant sailing on rough waters. His own ship – the finest of them all – stunk of the vomit and excrement of hundreds of men, and the fresh water had long since run out, meaning that many of the men drank brewed drinks, which caused no end of fights on board. The food was terrible – they had no fire, so all rations were cold and, by the end of the journey, soggy too. All combined, Zaki felt permanently nauseous.

Zaki could not have been happier to put his feet on land – but it felt even better to step onto Caledonian land, even if for the first few steps he stumbled, still swaying with the motion of the ship, although he was no longer upon it.

His men marshalled with what little they had as the vessels withdrew. Zaki did not allow them a comfort stop. They had been doing little enough on the voyage, and he counted rowing as menial work that only some of the crew could do at any one time. The weather was colder than Roher and made him loathe to tarry. Zaki had grown soft in his time away, forgetting how biting the winter winds could be.

It took a day’s slow march to reach the town of Braith, which guarded the border, but Zaki was in no rush. After Janus’s successful use of the strategy in Ladrin, Zaki planned to attack under cover of night, and he wanted his forces fresh. It would be an easy task with so many men – he would require but a fraction of them – but even so, they had a long road ahead of them and battle after that, and he could not afford to fail again. It weighed heavy on his mind.

Waiting for the early sunset and concealed behind nearby hills, he sent scouts out that afternoon. In the distance, the dark grey band of the border’s wall was visible. There marked the narrowest point of the isthmus, where the seas had gnawed the earth away over the many years until the wall sat upon deep cliffs that, near the edge, were at a terrible risk of erosion. Parts of the wall were at the bottom of the sea; in the hundreds of years since its construction, the pounding waters had claimed some of its length.

What remained guarded the way: a tall wall, several men high and thick, which would require an army with siege warfare to break. It had not fallen yet, because on the other side of it lay vast plains and then deserts that would not support even a man, let alone an army, as Zaki had discovered from his own experiences.

There was a single entrance – a series of three gates guarding the way – but Zaki did not need to concern himself with them. He had already foiled their defences, for they were meant to prevent a land approach from the south, but could not stop him landing ships far to the north of the wall itself. Braith, on the other hand, lay defenceless before him. To the southern side of the town a stone wall rose – the predecessor to the border’s defences and shadow of their glory – but on the north side, as the town expanded, a series of wooden palisades was all that defended Braith.

It was too easy for Zaki, who after sunset set out with two thousand of his men armed with bows, rag-tipped arrows and small barrels of oil, in addition to their short, thick swords. He wasted no time. They set the palisade afire with flaming arrows as soon as they were within range. Some kindled, though much remained smoking, too damp to catch. Where it didn’t catch, they battered it down to force a way through, instead setting the thatched roofs on fire.

Swords out, his men advanced through the town, sacking it as they went and cutting down anyone they encountered who resisted them, indiscriminate of age or class. Zaki ordered his men to allow women and children to flee. After the cruelty he had witnessed in Ladrin, he was loath to deliver more.

Civilians streamed across the countryside, fanning over a wide area in their desperation to escape. The element of surprise was key, but Zaki knew they would be of little harm or consequence to him. They won’t make it past the next village. He watched them disappear into the darkness beyond the glowing area lit by the growing fires.

When the morning came, the town was gone; a charred wall and the blackened remains of buildings were all that remained. Those with stone walls had survived, but they were few and far between.

Zaki had already left. After a brief respite for those who had marched, he led them north.

~

Zaki rode towards the pass, which rose as a cleft between the two hills. There were many that he could have chosen, but this was the easiest – the lowest, the widest and the most travelled, though not in the winter months – and would allow quick passage into mainland Caledan.

Of those who had fled before them the night before, he had seen nothing, but the few villages they passed were emptied of people, livestock and possessions – in hiding, Zaki presumed, but he cared little either way. Every avoided delay was an advantage to him of speed and surprise.

The pass was unguarded to his knowledge, but he sent men before him, for which he was glad, for they returned with word of others in the hills. He pressed them for details but they were few – they could approach little closer before being spotted.

Reynard was quick to panic. “Do they know we are here? Does Soren already send an army to meet us?”

Zaki shook his head. “It is impossible. It could be those we let free from Braith, those fleeing from the villages, or a small guard in the hills. At worst it could be Rainsford or perhaps Arendall men – we outnumber them. I guarantee that Soren is sat ignorant in Pandora. How could he know we are here? And if he does, he would not have made it in time. Even if he did – we would have met him at the border, no doubt. Worry not.”

“Should we at least change our path?”

“Why bother? A detour would cost us valuable time and the other ways north are harder than this one. No wonder they watch the easiest way; Rainsford does so like collecting his tolls. To go further by sea would be an intolerable exercise and even more time consuming.

“The men need to be blooded in battle. Winning so easily will serve to motivate them, and in any case, if we have been spotted, we need to eliminate those who have seen us so that news of our presence does not travel. The more unaware Soren is, the simpler this will be.”

Upon his command, the vanguard surged ahead, led by Reynard, overtaking the body of his forces as they went to dispose of the men up in the pass. Zaki was content to wait for their return in the valley bottom, but Reynard had soon returned.

“Sire, there could be as many as a thousand in the pass. I could not see, but they hold the best positions. I fear they will pick us off at leisure. What are we to do?”

“Damn it!” Zaki swore. He leapt upon his horse – one of the few which had travelled with them – and rode to see what he faced. It was clear to see that, without a leader, his men were already becoming disorganised.

“To me! To me!” Zaki shouted, forcing his way forward. He drew his sword and held it up in the air for all to see: a beacon rallying his men towards him. As he drew closer to the pass, the gradient of the hill becoming steeper and steeper and the valley sides closed in around them. In the surging mess of men around and before him, he spotted arrows flying down from upon high where archers, concealed upon the ridge, shot them one by one.

He yanked the reins of his horse, stopping it so suddenly he had to brace backwards in the saddle to stop himself tumbling forwards over its neck. “Reynard, move the rest of my men on. If we cannot defeat them with tactics, we will overwhelm them by number.”

Without a backwards glance or a reply, Reynard bolted down the hill winding his Roherii horn. Its twisting sound echoed around the valley as he blew it once, twice and thrice. He held the third blow as long as he could before it trailed off into silence.

Zaki scanned the heights around him. He could not see a trace of those who shot down upon his men, but before him, some way up the hill, lines of pike men held the pass, stretching across the entire valley. Behind them the banners of Arendall, Kinsley and Varan fluttered in the growing breeze surrounded by many mounted men. Highest of all, he was dismayed to see the royal standard rippling. Zaki barked a choice curse. Damn it all to hell! How is this possible?

He searched those on the hill for any sign of his nephew, but he could not find him anywhere. The men before him were indistinguishable in their grey armour – though many of them wore incomplete suits and some leather-made fittings – but he would have been able to spot that made by a royal smith. Instead, his eyes fell on a rare, bare-headed man. Edmund!

Zaki bared his teeth in a snarl. I will kill you! He was filled with hate and frustration at the sight of the man who had helped to foil everything time and again.

“Charge!” he bellowed at his men, who were beginning to lose enthusiasm. Together, they ploughed forward as one, reinforced by those rising from the valley behind them. Zaki leant down from his saddle to grab one of his men’s bows from his hands – a bow meant for those on horseback, though its wielder had no animal to bear him – and an arrow from the quiver on his back. He pulled back on the string before he raised it to his eye level. Used to the heavier draw of a longbow, the bow snapped in his hands, shattering into pieces. The string narrowly missed his face as it snapped back from the force. Cursing, he flung it away and yelled at those around him.

“Kill him above all others!” He pointed towards Edmund, whose green surcoat was visible from this distance. With a knot of men around him, including the lucky few also to have horses, he pushed forward again as his men at last broke the line of pikes. They were through, fighting hand to hand as Caledonian men swept through their ranks. The wave of silver water crashed against the swell of golden fire in an overwhelming cacophony of metal screeching and clashing upon metal as weapons met.

The longer Caledonian swords outreached the shorter Roherii blades, but in the confined space they were unwieldy, giving advantage to the Roherii warriors. Those on horseback fared best, having the room to sweep their swords down upon those below them. The Caledonian men had the upper hand, being on higher ground, so they pressed down upon the Roherii, forcing them back, as the Roherii dodged under their reach and undercut them.

Back and forth they swayed, in a sick dance, as men fell to the floor dead and dying to be replaced with more who stepped in to fill the gaps. Soon the ground – grass and stones bound together with moss, offering firm footing – was dangerous and seemed determined to trip men up as they stood on the fallen and lost their balance or slipped on the slick blood washing down the hillside. The cliffs hemmed them in from both sides, offering no chance to encircle the Caledonians.

The men on horseback around Zaki fired arrows up the hill towards Edmund whilst those on foot protected them with swords. Some unfortunate souls were shot from the saddle from those on the clifftops – easy targets for a well-aimed arrow or bolt – falling into their saddles. They were dragged off in short order, others jumping up to fill their places – a horse was a valuable asset in a battlefield. Zaki knew the Roherii placed their own lives above the dignity of their dead in such a situation; as he would do.

He turned back to face the hills. The world slowed. An arrow whizzed past his face, as if he had shot it himself, and dove straight into the shoulder of Edmund’s horse. The animal reared. Edmund struggled to keep balance. The horse crashed back to the ground, jolting him in the saddle.

“Again!” Zaki shouted, meeting a blow from his right hand side. Without thinking, he stabbed down, so driven to reach Edmund, who was temptingly close. It was as if his men could read his mind, for more arrows followed in quick succession before the word had even finished leaving his mouth.

Once more, they struck the horse, but as it turned, presenting side on, one struck Edmund’s unguarded thigh, another glanced off his shoulder and a third nestled into his side, finding a chink of weakness through his guards. Zaki saw him cry out, though above the noise of battle – Zaki was sure he was deaf – he could not hear the sound. Edmund retreated, those about him pressing close.

Filled with impatience and reluctance to see him escape, Zaki grabbed the bow from the man next to him, demanding his arrows too. Careful not to draw too far back with this bow, he loosed an arrow. It went wide. In quick succession he shot several more, snatching the arrows from the man’s trembling fingers, until at last one did not skitter off Edmund’s back.

With the force of this blow, Edmund rocked forward in his saddle, but the arrow held, lodged in his lower back with its barbed point. Zaki’s men were still shooting, almost out of arrows. The men around Edmund fell down from their horses or slumped in their saddles as they were hit instead. And then Edmund was out of range, but Zaki could see that he was worse for wear, trotting away up the hill surrounded by others and leaning forwards in his saddle with his head bowed low.

Zaki’s shoulder and arms throbbed; out of practice, with bad technique and overexerting unused muscles, he had no doubt he had torn or ruined them, but he did not care. It was worth it to see Edmund suffer, and worth it ten times over if it killed him.

He pressed forward. Those before him crumbled with the loss of their leader, but before him another man stepped up, wielding the Arendall standard. He was armoured and helmed, his voice ringing through the mouth hole.

“To me! For Caledan, to me!”

The Caledonians rallied, but it was to form an orderly retreat back down the pass as darkness fell. Stood at the head of the pass as the Caledonians fled before him, some in panic, Zaki looked down from the horizon with glee that turned to surprise when he beheld the army before him in the valley. It sprawled further than he could see, meandering around the base of the hills.

Reynard rode up beside him.

“What orders, sire?”

Zaki looked him up and down. Reynard was dirty, grubby and looked exhausted. Zaki realised his own poor state. A sudden wave of tiredness overtook his adrenaline.

“We cannot press them through the night. Not with forces that size. Soren is here. The royal standard was raised.” He explained what had passed, including his wounding of Edmund.

“May his wounds rot,” said Reynard, spitting upon the ground.

“Indeed. I will set men up in the pass overnight – you are to oversee them. We will retreat to the valley. In the morning, we advance.”

Eve

Eve was to be housed in a different wing of Artora’s sprawling dwelling on this visit, in a secluded room on the ground floor overlooking one of the many meadows carpeted in flowers whose heady scents floated in through the open window. Before she had the chance to rest too long, two familiar figures burst in.

“Well met, cousin.” Nolwen grinned, enveloping Eve in a one-armed embrace before passing her to his sister Nelda, who squeezed her tight and kissed her upon both cheeks.

“Nolwen, Nelda, it’s so good to see you,” Eve replied in the old tongue, realising she had forgotten how infectious their warm personalities were.

They chatted, sharing all their news from the past year. Eve was as surprised to learn that Nolwen and Nelda had not even set foot out of Ednor as they were to learn that she was betrothed to marry someone she did not know – a bizarre notion to the Eldarkind, who, they explained, did not believe in such concepts.

“We were waiting for you to return,” said Nelda.

“Not that staying here was a punishment,” Nolwen chipped in, winking at Eve.

Eve looked at them with a raised eyebrow.

“We are to teach you the ways of the Eldarkind,” revealed Nelda. “Of course, we don’t have to be your tutors, you can always ask for someone else, but our offer is there.”

“Yes,” said Eve before Nelda had quite finished speaking. “You’re going to teach me how to use my magic?”

Nelda nodded, her eyes warm. “Artora wished to teach you herself, which is most unusual, but, well… her health of late does not permit that, as you have seen. In her stead, we hope that we will suffice.”

“When do we start?” Eve said, her eyes wide in anticipation.

Nolwen and Nelda shared a look. “Well we have nothing else to do today so – now?”

Eve grabbed them both in an excited hug. “Yes please!”

~

In the middle of a gently sloping meadow far away from any buildings they stood amongst the swaying grass and nodding blooms.

“First, we would like to see what you can already do,” said Nolwen.

Eve faltered. Of course, I haven’t told them. She explained her lost skills to them and the reappearing sensation of her connection to the energy stream within her.

“We can help you,” said Nolwen. “Until you come back into your powers, we can emulate them. Even our presence working magic near to you will stimulate its return. See?”

He muttered under his breath something Eve could not hear. In the palm of his hand a spinning flower grew from thin air, its delicate petals blooming and pulsing open and closed. As he did this a tingle overtook Eve, racing from her torso out to the extremities of her body and leaving her fingers and toes fuzzing and warm. She gasped at the unexpected response.

Nolwen gave his usual lazy grin in reply.

They joined hands at Nelda’s instructions and Eve ran through what she could remember. She had learnt much of healing with Nelda the previous year at Pandora in addition to a little of making and growing, but not much of the knowledge remained.

“You have remembered a surprising amount,” Nelda acknowledged. “Little used is oft forgot,” she added with sympathy in her voice. “We shall practise such things once more, cousin. I am to train you in my strength – magery. We will learn much more than what you already know or remember about energy, magic and how to use it with skill and precision.”

“Meanwhile, I am to train you in my strength – physical endurance,” said Nolwen. “I will show you how to build your physical strength to aid your use of magic. We shall train together as we once did, though this time, little cousin, your sparring partner will show you the full potential of your body.”

Nolwen insisted then that she fetch her sword. Eve ran back to her room to retrieve it from where it lay abandoned in her saddlebag. Nolwen examined it at great length, turning it this way and that.

“How do you find this blade?”

“It’s good,” said Eve, not understanding. “I’ve practised with that one for a couple of years.”

“Hmm.” Nolwen stood and drew his own sword – which Eve could have sworn appeared from nowhere – before returning Eve’s to her. “Let’s practice.”

In better fitness than their last attempt, Eve was confident she could do better this time, but it was not to be. The meadow provided good footing beneath her, despite the sloping surface and long grass covering the ground, yet Nolwen was too skilled and too strong.

Soon she was sweating and red-faced, with an aching arm and sore leg where he had stung her with the flat of his blade after a poorly defended attack.

“It is as I thought,” Nolwen said. “That blade is not fit for you.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Eve asked, regarding it with raised eyebrows. It looked fine to her – one sword was the same as another at Arlyn, where the forge turned out identical iron blades that were either one-handed or two, with a straight edge, a fuller, a rain guard and a leather wrapped grip under the cross-guard. Eve had customised hers with new leather: now well worn in. Only her father had a steel sword with precious metals in the hilt – that had been forged elsewhere and was an heirloom of the house.

“It’s too heavy for you, too short and too wide. It does not suit your balance, your weight, or your reach,” said Nolwen. “No, this will not do at all. Come with me.”

He marched so fast that Eve had to jog to keep up with him whilst Nelda followed at her own more unhurried pace. He led her into Artora’s home, which Eve still did not know what to name. Too large for a house, yet too humble for a manor, mansion or palace, it was an abode the likes of which she had not seen elsewhere. Through it Nolwen walked, down corridors, staircases and across balconied walkways until Eve was lost.

He pushed open the last wooden door to reveal a cellar. It was an unremarkable room with vaulted ceilings and its contents piled up on shelves wrapped or covered in cloths. It was the one dusty room in the place that Eve had seen. Everywhere else was spotless – without even a fleck of dust Eve suspected – but here spiders were permitted to weave webs.

Nolwen grabbed several of the wrapped long, thin objects – swords, Eve realised – picking one up and either replacing it in a puff of dust or keeping it in his arms. Dirt smeared over his embroidered shirt, but he did not seem to mind or notice.

He passed the bundle onto Eve, who stumbled under the sudden weight and sneezed as the dust shot up her nose. After a few more caught his attention, Nolwen chivvied her outside, back through the door, up the stairs and outside into the sunshine. Blinking in the bright light, Eve found herself in a stone-floored courtyard. Ivy covered walls surrounded them, punctuated with windows: some open, some shuttered.

Nolwen took from her the bundle of objects and placed them with care upon the ground. He unwrapped the first – it was indeed a sword – and offered it to Eve. It was the same length as her own, but slimmer.

As she took it, she felt the weight difference in her hand. “So light!” she exclaimed. She moved the blade and it glimmered as it caught the sunlight on it’s pale grey blade. “There are ripples in the metal. Is it broken?” These are like the patterns in the dagger Artora gave to me.

“Ha, no.” Nolwen laughed. “It is stronger than any blade you will have ever seen – the match of ours. Our craftspeople have a different process of working, but our swords use folded steel. We can make them much lighter because they are so much stronger than conventional steel or iron blades.”

“They’re beautiful,” said Eve. She trailed the sword through the air in a loop. Despite the tiredness of her arms, it sailed through the air with almost no effort at all. The bound handle seemed moulded to her grasp.

“They are, but that one is not for you,” said Nolwen, frowning. “Give me it. Here, try this one.”

The second blade he handed her was even slimmer, but longer. Again she tested it, cutting through the air.

“No. Next.”

In total she tried six blades, but though each felt much lighter and easier to use than her own, they dissatisfied Nolwen. The seventh one he gave her was a little shorter than the last.

Compared to her own sword, it was a hand longer but thinner and much slimmer. The blade was a stormy dark grey, highly reflective despite the fact it had laid wrapped in a cloth and left for a length of time. The same ripples flowed down its length like the other blades – some darker and some lighter. The cross guard was small on this sword, though large enough to cover her hand and the grip one handed, wrapped in plaited black leather. The pommel was shaped like two ivy leaves meeting and set with green enamel that once rubbed to clear of the dust, was smooth and unblemished.

Eve felt the edge – razor sharp. She raised it once more and moved around the courtyard as she parried invisible enemies: blocking, lunging, stabbing, and defending. The blade sliced through the air with no resistance.

“That is the blade,” Nolwen said and clapped his hands together. Eve held it out to return it to him, but he stepped back and held up his hands to refuse. “It is a gift from Artora to you. Keep it.”

“I cannot,” Eve said, her mouth agape. “This is worth more than I could imagine – it is far too good to give to me!”

“It is already done,” said Nolwen. His easy grin emerged. “We have no need to fight with swords anymore. We create them as a labour of love to keep the art alive. The owner and forger of this blade has long since had no need of it, so you are to enjoy it instead. Does it not feel perfect in your hand?”

“It does,” Eve admitted. She fingered the leather grip in her hand and slid a finger over the glossy surface of the enamel pommel.

“Much better than your current blade?”

“Without a doubt. It’s so much lighter! The length is better too – I never realised how short my blade was, but I’ve always had to overreach. It will take some getting used to though.”

“All blades do.” Nolwen shrugged. “Give it a try with me – if you like it afterwards, it is yours and I promise you – you will like this blade. It will become an indispensable extension of your own body, as any good weapon should!”

Impressed, Eve returned the blade to its green scabbard, which was bright, vivid, woodland green in colour. She had no idea how the Eldarkind had managed to make it such a beautiful colour, but then it looked like no material she had ever seen before.

Nelda stirred from where she had stood in silence. “Are you quite done bashing each other with swords?” she said to her brother in mock disdain.

“I suppose so, you can have her,” Nolwen replied. He scooped up the unwanted swords in his arm and bumped into Nelda on purpose as he passed her. She shoved him back – almost sending him sprawling – and skipped out of his reach. Eve could not help but laugh.

“Come with me,” Nelda said, her eyes gleaming with mirth. Nelda led Eve through the building until they reemerged on the meadow. Eve followed as Nelda climbed higher, past a ridge of trees and onto a secluded hillside that overlooked a small valley dotted with copses. On the other side of the valley, a goat herd grazed.

Eve watched them, captivated by an even more beautiful sight of Ednor until Nelda caught her attention.

“Nolwen will teach you combat and physical strength,” Nelda said, “but I will be teaching you endurance of a different kind. With me you will learn to be at one with the world and to use its strength as your own.

“I will teach you how to safely extract energy from the environment to fuel magic greater than you are capable of alone but also how to respect what is around you so that you do not abuse it and as you gain strength, you also gain the knowledge of how to use it well.

“Let us begin.” Nolwen cast her eyes around until she saw a boulder, large enough for them both to be seated upon. She leapt onto it, beckoned Eve, and seated herself cross-legged at its peak. Eve clambered up and sat. She fidgeted as the sharp, unyielding surface dug into her thighs.

“As it is your first day here with us, I will be easier on you than my brother was!” Nelda smiled at Eve and folded her hands in her lap. “I will start to teach you magery tomorrow. Today, we shall meditate.”

Eve cocked her head to one side, but did not dare question Nelda. Meditate? What’s that?

“Contemplation, deep thinking, joining ourselves to the world,” explained Nelda, catching her look. “Close your eyes.” Her voice changed to a softer volume. “Breathe deeply in, slowly exhale. Breathe deeply in, slowly exhale.”

Eve took a deep breath before expelling it all until it felt like her chest would crumple from lack of air. Her bottom was sore and her legs and back ached from sitting so awkwardly on the uncomfortable surface. She could not help but feel impatient, but tried to refrain from moving. What’s the point of this?

They continued until Eve lost track of time, before Nelda’s instructions changed.

“And be still. Open your other senses, keeping your eyes closed. What can you hear, feel, touch, taste?”

A really hard rock! Eve thought to herself with annoyance. She straightened up and her back cracked each time she moved. Without opening her eyes she leaned back and propped herself up with the palm of her hands.

In the late afternoon, the stone’s rough surface was warm beneath her hands – pleasantly so – and pitted. Her hand slid over its crumpled form, feeling in nooks and crannies, caressing the soft mosses that found purchase upon it and crumbling dead lichens that crawled over it.

A breeze picked up, sighing up the valley. Grass rustled, a feather-light sound, whilst the tree branches bent and creaked in their own dance. The air smoothed her skin as it passed by, a cooling touch that broke the warm sun baking her skin and brought with it the scent of the coniferous trees intermingled with the sweeter notes of the meadow’s flowers. Small birds soared past in a joyful cacophony of chirps and if she strained, Eve thought she could hear the loose stones being dislodged by the grazing goats at the other side of the valley.

Its beautiful even without looking, Eve reflected, but all I can taste is my own empty mouth. Distracted from the moment, she sighed, reminded how long and demanding a day it had been. I’m starving.

“And open your eyes,” Nelda said in such a quiet voice that Eve was sure, had her eyes been open and her other senses as unobservant as usual, she would not have heard. “Come.”

Eve unfolded her petrified legs and they strolled around the clearing twice in silence. Eve’s limbs loosened – though the aches of her sparring earlier with Nolwen would not fade – but this did not distract her from the newfound beauty in the place.

As if reading her mind, Nelda said, “By freeing all in your mind but the awareness and needs of your body, your capacity to sense and use magic also becomes greater and keener. The more that we practice this, the easier you will find it to reconnect to your powers.” Nelda offered her hand to Eve, who stretched out her own. The moment they touched fingers, a jolt of energy leaped between them, travelling as fast as a flash through Eve and leaving her breathless.

For a second, Eve felt as alive as she had ever been, full of energy, free of pain and most importantly, tingling with the power of magic flowing through her veins. She drew herself up tall, exhilarated, but the instant passed through her and outside her skin with the weirdest sensation. All that remained was an empty, aching shell. Disheartened, she faltered.

Nelda smiled at her and motioned for her to sit down again. Eve sank onto the soft cushion of the grass, which rose about her to almost shoulder height in place: a comforting wall of stalks and hidden blooms. Nelda’s face appeared before her as she parted the grass and peered through the gap.

“Try again. Familiarise with your surroundings and then I would like you to reach out with your mind and sense what other living things surround us.”

Eve did not understand what Nelda meant in the slightest, but the Eldarkind had already withdrawn behind the curtain of grass. Eve shook her head and shrugged. I might as well try.

She stilled for a moment and focused on her breathing. When it steadied, she concentrated on her other senses. Once again, she heard the birds, the trees, the goats, the breeze. She threw all her attention towards the goats, the most obvious and noisy signs of life – of Nelda she could feel nothing and the birds had not yet wheeled round for their next pass over the valley – but to no avail.

They didn’t seem any closer or any louder and she could not feel them with her mind. She scowled and cast her attention elsewhere. The trees were silent. The grass had no presence. When her hand tingled and she opened an eye to see an insect crawling over it, she could no sooner feel it with her mind than shrink herself to its size.

Frustrated, she scowled. “It’s not working. I don’t feel anything!” Her frustration welled up into her eyes, which stung with un-shed tears.

Nelda’s disembodied voice sounded from her right. “It’s alright,” Nelda said. “Don’t become angry or disheartened. It’s a very difficult task. I doubt that anyone ever achieved this on their first attempt. Like anything worth doing, it requires time, patience and persistence to achieve. Perhaps I push you too far in any case – I forget how long your day has been. Come, let us rest until tomorrow.”

They returned to Artora’s abode, where Eve found a steaming bath awaiting her in her chambers. She sunk into it, embracing the scalding water as it stripped the scum from her skin and the aches from her body.

The sun was on its descent towards the horizon and they had missed the evening meal, so Nelda had promised to have food sent to her. Eve’s gurgling stomach had little patience and she fell on the meal as soon as it arrived, devouring it in a most unladylike manner within the privacy of her room.

Warm and full, Eve sat on the cushioned window seat. The mountains darkened above her, the flaming sky behind them shedding its colours as the light faded to lilac. She reflected on the day – a strange one, to be sure. She did not know what to make of Nelda’s instruction at all – still an enigma – but the sword she had received from Nolwen was a thing of beauty. It lay on her bed, the river-like blade hidden in its green sheath.

Training with Nolwen had brought back memories of the last time she had raised a sword in true combat the year before in Pandora, the night she had almost died and the night her magic had awakened. Inspiration struck her and she slid off the seat to fetch the scrying mirror that Artora had gifted Eve on her last visit to Ednor.

“Enchanted to work without my magic!” She remembered with a smile. Extracting it from the case with a steady hand, she wiped the surface with her sleeve to clean it.

“Leitha isa,” she said. She shivered at the slight tingle that ran through her on uttering the words.

Her father’s face swam onto its surface. It rippled until the image fixed itself. Karn still rode, despite the late hour, and seemed in good spirits: laughing and jesting with someone Eve could not see. He is still safe yet. I should check every day, to make sure.

“Lessa,” she murmured and the mirror faded to reflect her own shadowed face.

Next, Eve scried Soren, who appeared to be in some kind of shelter surrounded by other men she did not know in a huddle over something on a table. He looks grim, Eve reflected, and so much older. It had been an entire year since they had last met. He looked even more haunted. The night light did not help: shadows pooled under his eyes and in the creases of his worried face.

Irumae could not have been more different. She appeared to be at Pandora surrounded by ladies – her ladies in waiting, Eve presumed – laughing and talking. Unlike Soren, she seemed to have no cares. Eve was glad to see at least one of her cousins in good health.

The image disappeared at her command. Each time she spoke, the tingle passed through her. Perhaps I begin to reconnect with the old tongue at last! Who can I scry next. Inevitably, Luke sidled into her mind. Should I? Should I not? Eve deliberated. She clutched the mirror to her chest. It’s been so long since I saw him and I do miss him… but I dread to think where he is. Unacknowledged thoughts raced through her brain as she chewed her lip. Maybe it’s better not to know.

“Leitha Dane,” she said instead. He appeared on the other side of the same huddle as Soren. She shook her head with confusion, for her cousin had come into sight as Dane leaned forward and the mirror’s image moved with him. “Lessa.” She felt strange all of a sudden, her emotions jumbled. “It’s been a long day,” she muttered. “Time for bed.”

Eve awoke well rested the following morning having forgotten her scryings the night before and full of anticipation to begin her training with her Eldarkind cousins.

Nelda knocked on the door to take her to breakfast. Eve was so excited that her stomach quivered. Was the tingling upon her skin anticipation or magic?

Soren

Soren suppressed a huff of impatience as the young squire’s fingers slipped in the buckles and clasps again.

“Careful, Ricken,” he chastised. The young boy nodded, wide eyed and still too awe-stricken in his presence to speak. “Take your time, there’s no rush.”

It was ridiculous, Soren reasoned, to be dressing in armour when he was not even to to do battle, but all of his advisors, Edmund most of all, had insisted he be prepared.

“Just in case,” they cautioned. Already, he grew hotter under it. It was winter, so at first he had been glad to wear the padded undercoat. The leathers over it were not a burden, until the restrictive chain-mail was placed on top.

It dragged him down the ground and he found himself wishing that he had thought to bring a vest instead of a knee-length tunic. The weight of the plate armour on top was unbearable. With every step, Soren felt like he would step right through the earth itself, he was so heavy, or that his legs would snap with the weight of it.

“Take it off,” Soren said with a scowl. “I draw the line at wearing the full thing for no damn reason,” he muttered to himself. With deft, practised fingers, he helped Ricken remove the plates where he could reach and stomped out of the tent once he had been divested of them.

Weak sun penetrated the leaden sky, though it did not seem to reach the valley bottom. The colours were bleached as if life itself had been sucked away from the place.

Miserable.

Soren far preferred the leafy lands of home – and the comforts too for that matter. He was one of few to possess a tent. Most of the men slept rough on the heathers and mosses of the low moors with a blanket if they were lucky, a pillow of anything they could find – a rolled up jacket, or a rock – if they were exceptionally so, or in complete misery if they were not.

There were at the very least plenty of rocky outcrops to shelter behind and hollows to sleep in. The same terrain that made for dangerous riding off the road was the best they could find short of cover in the woods, but the nearest forests were far away from this windswept land.

He searched up the valley, but could see nothing of Edmund and his men who were at the other side of the hills. They had had to move quite far down from the pass to find any sort of shelter and space. Soren wondered how Edmund fared. Nerves gnawed at the pit of his stomach as he contemplated that Edmund and a thousand men stood between himself and Zaki. Zaki and his army, he reminded himself. As he turned, a flash of colour caught his eye – a white speck moved upon the hillside.

A grey horse. A rider in green. House Arendall. He bolted towards his tent and called for Lord Andor.

The other noblemen, too nosy not to interfere, poured out of their own shelters whilst Soren explained what he had seen to Andor.

“Best saddle up, we’ll ride out to meet him. It will do us no good to fret here waiting,” said Andor.

They met the messenger far from camp and rode with him down the valley as he relayed his message.

“Sir Edmund sends word that Zaki advances towards the pass. The size of his forces are still unknown. We have engaged on the front line and expect to hold the pass.”

“We should send extra men in case,” Soren said.

Andor agreed.

“Assemble the cavalry from Kinsley and Lunder and send them up to the pass.”

Andor sped away as if Zaki himself gave chase whilst Soren quizzed the messenger on all he had seen. The man relayed what positions the men had been arranged in, the arrangement of those they faced, and the brief sightings of Reynard.

Soren was surprised at that, for in Behan’s reports there had been no mention of Reynard, so Soren had assumed he had died, though he was aware some of Zaki’s Caledonian men had made it to Roher alive – if not well. It kindled the apprehension rising within him, though he suppressed it with positive thoughts and a dose of denial where his insecurities were too large.

When Soren returned to camp he consented to be strapped into his armour again: wearing the blue and gold surcoat of House Balaur over the gleaming metal surface. He was sweating – an unpleasant feeling that gave him chills as it cooled on his skin, even though he was hot enough perspire in the first place. He had not eaten for hours, but was far too full of nerves to do so. His belly cringed at the thought of food and roiled as the scent from small cooking fires wafted past him.

It took far too long in Soren’s eyes to assemble the men, most of whom had assumed they would be staying there for a while. Soren’s frustration grew with his impatience, but Andor counselled him not to ride off without the support of his men behind him. Instead he paced around the camp, chivying men along himself and lending a hand to prepare horses. All nerves were forgotten in his annoyance at the delays.

At last they were off and Soren cantered ahead of the others, who struggled to keep up. It had been hours since the messenger had been sent, but no more had come. It was only when Soren began the final ascent to the pass in the narrowing, steeply rising valley that he encountered another man in great distress. He wore no identifying marks or arms and his armour was poor, but he spoke with a southern accent.

“Sir, sir, send for the king at once!” he cried out to Soren, before pulling his horse up short and leaping from his saddle to bow low to the ground when he saw Soren’s surcoat. “I beg your pardon, I mean no offence, Your Majesty sire!”

“What news have you?” asked Soren, unsettled by the man’s distress.

“Sire, Sir Edmund has fallen in the battle.”

“But he lives?”

“No, sire, dead. Lord Dane leads in his stead.”

Soren swallowed. The ground seemed to fall away from him. But he cannot be dead. He’s always there. I need him… He steadied himself and clutched at his reins. “It cannot be. Take me to him at once. What has passed?”

The exhausted man struggled to remount. Andor rode up beside him.

“Sir Edmund has fallen,” repeated Soren in a hollow voice, not looking at him.

As they made for the head of the pass, they were met by Soren’s own forces retreating: a straggling line of men and horses streamed down the hill.

“Where is Lord Dane?” shouted Soren. His voice carried enough to be heard by all those nearby. They bowed to him, but continued to move down the valley.

“Sire.” Lord Dane rode forward through the ranks of his men. “They have taken the pass.” His eyes were red.

Soren grasped forearms with him. “Where is he?”

“He follows.” Dane did not need to ask who he spoke of. “We had no time nor the materials to make a bier so he is slung over a horse like a sack.” Dane’s voice cracked.

Leaning between their horses, Soren pulled him into an embrace.

“I would not ask it of you if it were not urgent, but I must know the situation. Why do we retreat?”

Motioning for Andor to join them, Soren turned and rode with Dane down the hill.

Dane spoke in a dead monotone. “When my father fell, our men faltered. Zaki gained the upper hand even when I stepped in to command. We could not regain our position. He held the best part of the pass. I thought it better we retreated rather than died. He has thousands of men. I could not see an end to them.

“I had hoped we could also save my father, but it was not to be. His wounds were too deep. When we drew out the arrows that had pierced him, their barbed heads caused more damage. Those Roherii are barbarians.” Hate filled his voice. “Zaki did it. I saw him from up the hill. With a cluster of men, he shot arrow after arrow at my father until they had no more.”

“We will avenge him,” replied Soren grimly.

They rode in silence thereon, each consumed by their own thoughts. Soren still could not believe his mentor dead – the man felt like his last connection to his upbringing, his parents and the comfort of childhood – but the body upon the horse was indeed Edmund. Soren had told himself not to look, but could not help himself. He did not have to see the face to recognise Edmund’s clothes.

“What is to be our strategy?” Lord Andor interrupted his thoughts.

Soren struggled to pull his thoughts back to their present predicament. “If we have lost the pass then we must retreat to a more favourable location, I suppose. We cannot hold our position here.”

Soon they entered the camp amid a sombre mood. News had already travelled ahead of them with those at the front of the retreat. Soren met with the rest of the noblemen, each responsible for leading their houses. The sun had almost set – the grey skies fading to black above them – and the tent was dull in the limited lamplight.

Soren explained what he knew of the retreat to save Dane the pain. They stood as the horse bearing his father came forth, led by two men, who lowered the body to the floor. They laid Edmund on a borrowed blanket to save him from resting in the churned mud.

In the torchlight he looked asleep, albeit with a sickly pallor upon him. His face was slack and his body limp. The dark stain of blood – already bloomed and dried – coated his green surcoat. A lump formed in Soren’s throat.

A man stepped forward to kneel before Dane and offer him his father’s sword.

Dane’s lips disappeared as he clenched them tightly together to suppress his emotions, before he took the scabbarded blade and held it in limp hands.

A poor substitute for a father, Soren could not help but think. Soren’s rested his hand upon the handle of his own sword, which had belonged to his father many years before.

“Come,” Soren said in a low voice to those around him. They filed into his large tent, to allow Dane some time alone beside his father, whilst they discussed their next move. Soren longed to be out there with Edmund – after all Edmund had accompanied him through, he was as dear as a father to Soren too – but it was not his place. He looked up, to find himself fixed in everyone’s gaze. I am needed here whether I like it or not.

Last of all to enter was Andor, clutching three sticks. On closer inspection they were arrows, but not made by Caledonian hands. Each arrow head had three barbs carved into it. They were covered in blood – Edmund’s, Soren realised with a shock – and their cruelty was clear to see.

Soren held a shaking hand out for them.

Andor hesitated, but passed them to him.

Soren clenched his fist around them. Seeing the arrowheads made him angrier. “These Roherii do not build clean weapons of war, to put a man out of misery fairly, but devices of torture.” With an impulse, he snapped them over his knee and threw them to the floor.

“I will not stand for this! My uncle was ousted from Caledan and has the gall to come back with foreigners to claim a throne that is not his. Caledonian lives are being lost to prevent him from doing so, yet unless we end this here, many more must die. I will not stand for it!”

At that moment Dane slunk into the tent, his eyes downcast.

Soren turned back to the lords stood before him.

“We cannot remain here – our position is too weak – yet I cannot allow Zaki to advance into Caledan as he pleases and I will not draw him further in unless I must. Far too much is at stake and we have already lost more than what we ought to have done by his hands. It ends here. We will assassinate him. Tonight. If we cut the head off the beast, it cannot survive. The Roherii have no place here in Caledan by themselves.”

“Are you not concerned that without a leader they will run rampant over our lands, taking what they please and destroying what they will?”

“I would rather conquer them divided, than united under one cause.”

“I think it a fine idea,” said Andor.

Soren flashed him a quick smile, grateful for his support.

“I also agree,” said Lord Willam. “It is a winning strategy.”

Soren bowed his head in thanks to the Lord of House Walbridge, not at all convinced of his sincerity.

But the others counselled against it, until Dane at last spoke up.

“We owe it to my father and those who died with him to day to avenge them. I will not see that murderer enjoy another day alive. If none of you should support this, I will see it done myself.”

“You have my support,” said Soren. “I’ll go with you.”

An outcry arose at his words.

“You cannot risk yourself, Soren!” exclaimed Lord Karn. “Caledan needs you to remain safe.”

“Edmund was as good as a father to me, Lord Karn. How can I not share Dane’s feelings, when Zaki is also responsible and unpunished for the death of my mother and so many more people whose names I will never know. I will go.” His tone brooked no argument, but the men shuffled.

Andor watched him with keen eyes before he spoke. “It is clear we all think it unwise that you go yourself. But if you are unyielding in this, then we beg of you to take more men with you – the finest that we have – to protect you and aid you in this.”

Soren nodded. “I will consent to that. I do not wish to fail.”

The lord discussed amongst themselves who would go, comparing their strongest, fastest and most skilled soldiers and decided on four others to accompany Soren and Dane – few enough to escape detection, yet enough to protect the king whatever happened.

~

The men were soon assembled and briefed on their mission – Soren had met two of them before, though not well enough to know them by name – and set off without delay. They dressed in light armour and in the darkest clothes they had – borrowed and begged where needed. Armed to the teeth with daggers, swords, knives and bows, they mounted horses as dark as the night to bear them.

As they rode up another valley, for there were many ways through the hills, Soren could see their own camp in the darkness: a mass of fires stretching out like a glowing lake of stars across the valley floor. He was unprepared for the scale of Zaki’s forces.

A terrifying sight awaited them when they crested the last horizon before the land dropped down onto House Rainsford’s county. Before them a sea of fires sprawled. In the dark, they could not see what else lay before them, but the campfires spread far into the distance and to either side.

In synchronisation, they halted.

“By God, how many are there?” asked Soren in hushed tones.

“Many thousands,” answered a voice from his side, but it was not Dane and he could not recognise it. “I would wager more than ten thousand.”

Humbled and unnerved by the vastness of Zaki’s forces, the anger which had been sustaining Soren faltered. It shrunk away to be replaced by apprehension.

What am I doing?

Eve

“What is it?” asked Eve, her mouth open in awe as she felt the invisible barrier.

Nolwen stood before her grinning.

She held his sword in one hand with her other feeling the blade – or trying to. Yet for all she tried, her fingers could not touch the metal, instead finding an unseen barrier a finger’s width away from it on all side. It was the same temperature as her skin and hard to the touch and when she pushed, gave way with a slight amount of cushioning.

“Your protection!” Nolwen chuckled. “I have created a block on the blade – it will not slow it or weight it down, but it means that the cutting edge is rendered useless.”

“How is it done?”

“I make the air around the blade compress into a barrier to allow nothing else to touch the metal. Once you know how, it is simply done, though it does take some practice to achieve the correct thickness and hardness. You cannot make it too hard you see, or if you hit someone with it, it will crack their bones even if it does not cut them! We want to avoid that, of course.”

Eve nodded. Definitely no broken bones.

He took the blade back and muttered some more words to it that she could not hear, cradling it to his chest as if a precious bundle. “Try it – this block is the hardest to achieve and maintain. We will not use it, but it amuses me to no end. Touch the blade.”

Eve took the blade with a frown. Is this a trick? As her hesitant fingers brushed upon the surface, she yanked them back, but nothing happened. Eve touched them to the blade again with more confidence. The folded steel felt cold and silky smooth beneath her hands.

“I don’t understand,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Feel the edge.”

Eve gave him a quizzical look. The blade was sharp – of that she had no doubt. She touched her finger to the edge, but pulled it back before she felt it cut into her skin.

Nolwen tutted. “You can trust me, cousin. I would not sever your finger off!” He beckoned for the blade and, when Eve passed it back to him, offering him the handle first, wrapped his hand about the blade instead.

Eve gasped and her hand rushed to her mouth.

Nolwen snorted with laughter. “Look! There is no damage, see?” He spread his hand wide before her and indeed, his skin was unblemished and uncut.

Eve’s face screwed up with bafflement. Trusting him, she reached out to touch the blade by its edge. It felt like she pushed her hand into butter – dry, not wet or sticky – as the edge of the blade gave way to the pressure from her fingers, but when she pulled her hand back, the blade was whole again and its cutting edge straight and true.

“That’s amazing,” she said.

“You need to ask the blade to help you and help you it will. We need to incant in the old tongue as follows. ‘Make a shield of the air so that nothing else may touch the blade.’ When you speak, picture the barrier you have seen and felt – the thickness, the texture, the hardness, the consistency.”

He placed his hand on the blade, asked her to do the same and told her to say the words with him. As she placed her hand upon the sword, his fingers inched to touch hers at their tips. At the moment of contact, like the day before, Eve felt a whisper of energy rush through her. She closed her eyes and threw the weight of her mind out-wards, searching for the energy stream.

“Efla rond a lofti sa att ingeth annao kan sverd taka,” they said together.

The blade seemed to move of its own accord underneath her hand. It pushed her away with unyielding force as she sought to keep contact with the metal. In a few seconds it stilled.

Nolwen ran his hand up and down the blade. “Not bad at all. Of course, you had my help, but not a bad block at all, well done.”

They sparred with the two blocked blades all morning, until Eve ran with sweat and shook with tiredness. Nolwen at last allowed her to leave the courtyard, barely out of breath to her frustration and showed her a refectory where she could eat. She was thirsty more than anything and gulped down two delicate glasses of water before diving into her plate of thin bread, butter and game meats dressed with what looked like leaves.

“Eat them,” Nolwen said. “We call it salad – it contains many nutrients to help keep you strong.”

Eve wrinkled her nose but ate them despite her doubts. She was too hungry to argue and in any case, had already learnt that life in Ednor was far from ordinary.

After she had eaten, it was time for meditation with Nelda again. Eve felt relieved by this – she was tired and longed for a rest – but Nelda would not let her sleep. They sat again for the whole afternoon in solitary peace with Eve no closer to feeling the energy stream by herself than before.

~

For two weeks Eve continued in this routine. She rose early to spar with Nolwen and spent her afternoons in the meadows and forests with Nelda. Time seemed to flow faster in Ednor where it had dragged in Arlyn, but Eve could not be sure whether this was due to some strange magical phenomenon or because she enjoyed every day in fullness.

The sparring had become easier. It was clear that she was still no match for Nolwen. Still, she was quicker, more accurate and more effective with her new blade than she had ever been before. After each session she ached a little less and for the next session, had a little more endurance.

Because of the hours of meditation she had also begun to feel the pull of the magical energy at last, which grew stronger every day though her powers were still weak. Despite this, she was relieved to have any kind of abilities again; it felt like a part of her once lost had returned and with it came her own deepening sense of satisfaction and contentment. Her concentration was also greater and she found herself not irritated, bored, or tired.

As her connection with her magical abilities grew once more, she could at last feel what Nelda had spoke of: pulses of energy dotted in the river that marked the life energy of creatures and Eldarkind around her. Before, the new rush had been so exhilarating that she had been overwhelmed with the force of its power, but Nelda taught her how to find other things within it.

Nelda was pleased with her progress and promised her that they could soon move onto working with magic. “If you can sense things you can learn to identify them, to analyse them and to harness their energy or choose not to.”

They visited the same clearing every day at first. Eve became quite familiar with her surroundings even when she closed her eyes. The slow, sonorous, looming life force of the trees surrounded them, interspersed with much lighter, brighter, faster and more energetic bursts of energy as other creatures moved. Without looking, she could feel things around her though she could not sense what they were.

Next, Nelda moved them into new environments. Sorting through the deluge of new information was impossible at first – despite her surroundings being not much different to what she had seen before with open eyes and ears – until she managed to slow her breathing and look through what surrounded her in a meticulous order.

Eventually she was able to do this with ease and so as promised Nelda allowed her onto the next step of her training. Eve grinned with excitement when they paused from their wanderings amongst the trees.

“Here will be sufficient, I think,” said Nelda with a glance around. “You can already heal well – I will not discuss this again with you for there are other skills you should master first. But I am glad that you already know how important the wordings you utter are. You recall how specific you need to be?”

Eve nodded. Her excitement was tempered with solemnity as she recalled those she had tended to at Pandora – some with horrific injuries and wounds. She had healed many of them with great success, but not without making the mistakes of a beginner too: healing the wrong layer of skin or muscle first, forgetting to numb the area, setting bones incorrectly and taking on tasks far too demanding for her skills or energy levels. She suppressed a cringe at the memories.

“You remember, I see. Lucky for those you healed, the energy to heal them came from your own. If you had happened to draw too large a reserve from them instead and not ceased your enchantments, they would have perished.”

“I would never have allowed that,” said Eve.

“Not knowingly but still, you must see the consequences to understand what destruction this wreaks.”

Eve did not understand, but there was no time to question her mentor.

“To use the life force of another thing, you can name it in your incantation, or you can feel for it in the energy stream to draw down from its energy. Initially you will use worded incantations, moving to the latter, for it is far more effective – you can draw down precisely what you need, not a drop of energy more, for it is easier to feel what is remaining. Try this, here. Lift this stump from the ground adding to your instructions ‘with the energy of this sapling’.”

“Risa frama a feld yta a ethera ro a ungr etre,” Eve said and focused her energy on the fallen log. It was far heavier than she could have picked up with her own hands and should have required all her energy even try to lift it, but to her surprise, just a trickle of energy leeched away from her once she finished speaking. “Sitya!” she commanded the log to stay as it rose in the air. It floated upon nothing: still. “This is so easy!” she turned to Nelda, surprised and impressed.

But when she turned back, something had changed. It was autumn, so the leaves were already beginning to turn, but she watched them change hue before her, from pale green to yellow and orange, and then a dull, papery brown. A few seconds later, they began to fall from the tree and tumbled through the air in an almost silent dance.

“Lessa!” she said to release the magic, aghast at what she had done.

The log fell to the ground with a mighty boom that echoed around the still hillside.

Eve ran to the tree and reached up to touch a withered leaf on one of the lower branches. It fell off and tumbled past her outstretched fingers.

“What have I done?” Eve turned to Nelda in concern.

“You took too much from the tree,” replied Nelda. “That was my intent. I apologise.”

“Will it be ok?”

“Nelda stepped up to the tree and placed her palm upon its surface. She closed her eyes. Her mouth moved in silence. Before her the tree grew new buds, flowered, grew leaves and within minutes had returned to the same state it had been before Eve’s incantation. Nelda stepped back. She sagged with exhaustion. “There are no ill effects.”

Eve would have been furious had she not seen Nelda’s own sacrifice to the tree. “Why did you have me do that?”

“You cannot imagine what you cost another living thing until you see it with your own eyes and it is necessary to know so that you understand the balance between all living things, for it is fragile and once disturbed and hard to remake.”

Eve was relieved that she had somehow not managed to overexert herself to the point of danger before.

Nolwen’s sessions were much simpler in a way, because the sword practice was much more familiar to her. However this did not mean they were any less frustrating at times. Nolwen was a good tutor and an expert at all he taught her, but he was a perfectionist and insistent on her mastery of everything he showed her.

Every day they practised fighting positions and moves, sequenced them together in slow mock battles and then forgot all semblance of alliance and fought for real. Eve had had more than one blow from Nolwen’s protected blade. She was glad it did not cut her, though she still flinched each time it touched her from the expectation that it would, but she could testify that the blows hurt. She had the bruises and stiff, sore limbs to prove it.

Even so, her precision and strength grew. Muscles were hard beneath her skin where it had been soft in their absence and her stamina had improved. Even if she never needed her physique to be so well exercised or used her fighting skills, which Eve hoped she would not have to do again, Nolwen insisted that it was a necessary part of her progress and training. He lived by his principle of having complete control over one’s own body.

Her mentor was pleased with her progress too. Nolwen was never over generous with his praise, but always doled it out when deserved. Her blade blocks had become more effective, especially since she could draw magic from the environment to sustain them and she had already shown promise at spelling her blade to renew and strengthen the enchantments that stopped it from dulling, chipping and breaking.

Nolwen had even taught her minor ways to spell the blade so it flew true to its target. It did not work every time, for spells could not overcome poor form, he explained to her, but such things had helped him over the years in tight spots.

He also helped to enhance Eve’s archery skills, though she would not let him replace her beloved bow with one of Eldarkind make. Her magic helped in this, for he taught her how to enchant her arrows to always find their mark.

Eve found archery much more enjoyable than sword fighting and the novelty of being able to shoot in any direction and have her arrow bend through the air to bury in its target a fascinating occurrence. It drained her energy, the further the arrow had to change course, but she could not resist the temptation.

Whilst it amused her at first, she did however slink off in the evenings after Nelda’s mentoring to shoot – just her and the bow – with no magic. With magic making the perfect shot every time, the fun had been taken out of it as well as the skill and she missed the calm moment of true aiming before the release and the satisfaction of hitting her mark, knowing that years of practice honing skills were behind it.

“I’ve not lost my skills,” she said to herself with a relieved smile. “Perhaps I won’t use magic in this unless I must.”

Soren

“Where will Zaki be? How can we reach him?” Soren said to distract himself. His eyes were transfixed on the scene before him.

“If I were him I’d place myself right in the middle,” replied Dane.

They scanned the camp again.

“See there.” Dane pointed – but in the dark, Soren could not see his hand. “There, not quite in the middle, a little to the right, a little further, yes there, where there is a concentration of fires? I’d bet that he is there.”

They gave the camp a wide berth and picketed their horses on the south side. Soren reasoned this would be where they would be least expected. It was impossible to spot the guards, even though the entire camp was ringed by fire, but in the shadows it was easy for the six of them to pass unseen into the tangled maze. They could not use the stars for guides, covered over as they were by the dark clouds which even deprived them of moonlight to ride by and instead had to guess as best they could which way to go.

Soren moved as one with the group over uneven ground and between dark and silent mounds that were men sleeping rough under the winter night’s sky. The flickering light illuminated their path, but they still had to move carefully. Debris littered their way: discarded boots, cooking pots and travelling paraphernalia.

On several occasions Roherii men loomed out of the darkness. Soren’s companions leapt forwards to silence them. They were chillingly effective assassins. Soren could not help but think back to when he had been the victim of such an attack – and lucky to escape with his life.

His heart pounded and he moved with care. The low lying smoke stung his eyes and the stench of it, mingled with the body odour of the thousands about him, made him see men in every shadow or twisting tendril of smoke. Whilst he and Dane watched, their companions one by one slunk into the uniforms of their victims, shrugging on Roherii tunics and wrapping Roherii cloaks over their shoulders. In the dark, they abandoned helmets – which would restrict their already restricted vision – but they were glad for the night that added to their cover.

As they moved closer to the centre, pockets of the camp were still alive – throngs of men raucous in the night. Guards changed and soldiers ate and drunk. It was hard to stroll past them at such close proximity with confidence. Soren’s hands shook and his breathing was unsteady.

They pushed towards the cluster of lights ahead. In a clear area, backed up against a rocky outcrop, lay a single structure so large it could only belong to one person. Every instinct inside Soren cautioned him to run the other way.

“He travels in style,” muttered Dane.

They sneaked to the back of the tent for the front was guarded by two still forms and, squeezing between the rock and the fabric, lodged themselves out of sight.

“Here,” breathed Dane. He looked through a small slit in the fabric below eye level. In silence he worked his knife free and cut the fabric from the ground up. He struggled not to bump against the side of the tent in the confined space. Soren caught a glimpse of the warm glow of lamplight within – it shone through the widening hole – as one of the others watched and signalled for Dane to stop when they heard a sound.

Dane stood at last, but kept his knife in hand. A hand belonging to someone Soren could not see peeled back the flap and Dane slunk inside without a sound. Soren followed. His eyes darted about. His knife was ready in his hand. Their companions waited outside, ready to follow should they be needed.

Inside it was dimly lit. A single space – not like Soren’s tent which had a separate sleeping and living area – was stuffed with equipment and spoils – from Braith, Soren presumed – right down to a chamberpot, a luxury even Soren did not have.

Halfway between where they had entered and the front of the tent was a figure rolled over in slumber. It was impossible to see who it was, they were so bundled up in blankets. Soren’s breath caught in his chest as adrenaline rushed through him. They crept forwards.

A shock of dark hair came into view. Soren was sure his breathing was too loud, but when he held his breath, the rasping sounds emanated from the sleeping figure. Distracted, Soren bumped into the chamberpot with a clang.

The figure moved. Dane and Soren froze. The man rolled over – with his eyes closed.

Zaki!

Zaki’s eyes opened as if Soren had called his name aloud. Before he could open his mouth, Dane leapt upon him. Dane clapped a hand over his mouth and wrapped him in a stranglehold. It was not tight enough. Zaki worked free enough to bite Dane’s hand.

Dane grunted and refused to release him. He readjusted and tightened his grasp on Zaki’s neck. Zaki battered Dane with his hands. He clutched and scrabbled for release until his eyes locked with Soren’s.

Zaki’s eyes widened in recognition and at that moment, he gained a breath and some freedom. A cry escaped his lips. The sound was indistinguishable as a word, but it did not need to be.

Two men burst in, took one look at the scene, and charged. Soren’s companions rushed to meet protect him. In the close confines it was a mess of flailing limbs and noise.

The guards were soon dispatched, but Zaki was already stumbling through the rippling tent flaps. Dane sunk to the floor. His eyes glazed over. He rolled over onto his back to reveal his own dagger plunged into his side.

Outside Zaki cried out in a tongue unfamiliar to Soren. A furore arose.

“We need to leave,” said one of Soren’s companions. He grabbed one of Dane’s arms and hoisted him upright with the help of another.

Dane groaned and his face contorted with pain.

“Nothing for it, Lord Dane,” said the man. “If we stay here, we will die. We must try to get you to safety before we see about that wound. Stay with us, you’ll be right.”

Bolting away as fast as they could, they left the way they had arrived whilst the camp awoke around them. In their uniforms, the men carrying Dane blended in. Soren hoped he was nothing more than a moving shadow. Men stumbled around them. They headed the other way, stupefied.

~

They somehow managed to find the horses and mounted, but Dane was limp and unconscious. Soren mounted behind him and clung onto his friend with grim determination as they fled. He could not see or feel if Dane breathed and with the jolting motion of the horse, his clumsy fingers could not detect a pulse.

West and north they rode – back into the hills and through the passes. It took far longer than Soren hoped, for they had to be careful since the moon had forsaken them. Winter’s frost was already reclaiming the earth and with every hoof beat, the ground crackled and crunched with their passing. They no longer held caution, determined to get Dane home alive.

One of the other men had also obtained a nasty slash on his forearm in the attack, but he bore it with silent determination much to Soren’s admiration. With every yard they rode more recklessly into the darkness. Soren prayed their horses would not stumble. A growing fear masked all other emotions within him as he wondered if he had lost his mentor and his closest friend at once.

You fool. How could you be so stupid?

~

When Soren and his men returned to camp they were faltering with weariness. Soren’s arms burned from holding Dane’s weight onto his horse and he had not drunk in so long his mouth felt as parched as a desert. His eyes stung – though from tiredness or smoke from the fires, he could not tell.

They rode into the centre of the camp to the hollow eyed lords who awaited their return and were welcomed with cheers and praises. The merriment ceased when Soren halted. Dane slumped forwards upon the horse’s neck. Hands lifted him from the horse and supported Soren as he dismounted.

They laid upon the floor. Andor bent down. His face was deep in concentration as he placed his hand above Dane’s mouth and then two fingers to his neck. Back went the hand to Dane’s mouth – and then the fingers pressed upon his neck once more. Andor frowned. He lifted Dane’s hand up, clasped it within his own, looked up and shook his head.

“He is not…?” Soren could not bear to say ‘dead’.

“I am afraid so,” said Andor lowering his eyes.

Soren swallowed past the lump in his throat. His vision blurred with tears. Exhaustion did not help his composure as a wave of despair and sorrow rolled over him.

Andor stood and grasped him in a one armed hug. “Do not blame yourself,” he murmured in Soren’s ear. “Dane chose to do this and Edmund died a good death on the field of battle. We have no choice but to continue. We will mourn later.”

Soren nodded. He knew Andor was right, as much as it pained him. “We must retreat,” he said, managing to keep his voice from breaking.

Soren left it to one of his companions to describe Zaki’s camp. The council was shocked by the size of the forces opposing them.

“How did he come to obtain so many men?”

“How did they all travel here?”

“Can this be true?”

Soren held up his hand – even that tired him – and the hubbub ceased. “We must retreat. We’ll not hold this valley against any force as large as our own – or larger as it seems to be. If we had retained the pass it might be a different tale, but we do not. If we remain here, we’ll be at their mercy whilst they pick us off from the higher grounds. Where can we go? Where can we defend ourselves?”

“There is nothing hereabouts but more of the same: hills, moors, valleys, rivers,” said Kinsley.

“Lowenmouth,” said Andor. “It is the closest defensible location. The terrain is favourable for attack and defence, I can promise you, and the city can withstand siege for months. We will certainly succeed if they have no seige weapons.”

“You are right,” said Lord Willam Walbridge in a voice so quiet all others had to still to hear him. “But we should not retreat yet.”

The others turned to listen to him. The Walbridge’s were famous for their winning strategies after all.

“If we fall back, this will become a chase and we will fall into chaos as they nip at our heels. We should retreat tactically. It will cost more lives but it may save more and allow us to reach a more defensible position where we will be at our leisure to take advantage of our surroundings.

“We should send a company back up in a feigned attempt to retake the pass. In engaging Zaki’s forces there, we will allow the rest of our men to begin the journey to Lowenmouth. By the time Zaki realises we are gone, it will be too late. He will follow the last of our rearguard – straight into our trap – but far enough behind so we may manoeuvre ourselves first.

“If we have men in position to engage them by dawn, we could be a day ahead of them. If our men can hold the pass until dark we could gain even more time.”

“How?” Soren could not help but ask.

Walbridge smiled: a crafty smile with narrow eyes, that gave Soren a chill. “Did you see all of Zaki’s ten thousand men?”

“No, of course not. It was dark.”

“Then how did you know they were there?”

“All the fir—” Soren halted. His eyes flicked to meet Walbridge’s. Willam’s sinister grin widened.

“Exactly. I doubt he is clever enough to think of this strategy himself, but who knows! He may have a few thousand men for all we know, though what we have already seen makes that unlikely. But there is no reason that we cannot lead him to believe where we are. If we build the campfires before sunset and set them ablaze, for all he knows we could be here until dawn. It is of no matter whether he advances on our current position then. By the time he finds out we are no longer here, it will be too late.”

Soren pondered Willam’s words along with those others in the tent. The man had never spoken so much to him before. Usually he dismisses my presence. Perhaps I have earned some of his respect at last – better to have it than not if so. He might remain on my side.

“How many men would we need to leave as the rearguard to hold the pass?” Soren asked. He was reluctant to lose more men.

“Two thousand,” suggested Andor. “Whilst you were absent we sent scouts into the hills. A small force commands the pass. It we take them unawares before dawn, we could have success with that portion of our men.”

So many. “But how many would return alive?” said Soren with concern.

Andor could not answer.

“I believe Lord Walbridge’s strategy is sound,” said Lord Karn. “The sacrifice of a few will save many more of our men – and in turn many more Caledonians. It will give us the best chance of fighting Zaki on our own terms – and winning.”

Others nodded along to his words as Soren glanced at those around him.

“Very well. We shall do as Lord Walbridge suggests. Arendall, Varan and Kinsley have already served well. Let Balaur men stand with Walbridges to execute this.”

“I beg leave to remain in the vanguard,” said Andor. “I offer my son in my place to manage our rearguard so that I may ensure we have favourable positions surrounding Lowenmouth when we arrive – if you will trust our arrangements to me.”

“Of course,” replied Soren. If so much had not been at stake and the past day not been quite so devastating, he would have been enthusiastic to learn about positioning their troops and which strategies to apply. He yawned as another wave of exhaustion stifled his senses for a moment.

“Get some sleep, Soren,” Lord Karn suggested. “We will see to the arrangements.”

Soren gratefully agreed. Despite the noise of the camp awakening around him – the shouting, crashing and banging of men packing up and moving around, greeting their fellows and marshalling – Soren sunk into a dreamless slumber.

~

Soren’s snatched few hours of rest still left him feeling out of sorts. The camp disappeared around him: the area left flattened and muddied. Whilst Soren dressed and ate, his shelter was also was dismantled around him until only he remained, sat on a stool in the middle of his rug, eating dried meat strips and drinking fresh tea so hot it scalded his mouth with every sip.

Fires were built around him as far as the eye could see using everything available – small twigs upon the ground, dried mosses and heathers, small bushes and even broken arrows and pike staffs.

The morning fog lifted into the grey skies, which threatened snow and rain, but held it at bay. It would not do well if their fires too sodden to light. Soren hoped Walbridge’s idea would work to allow them a safe retreat.

Karn reported to him that Andor’s men had gone into the hills with Walbridge’s. Soren hoped that Walbridge would return on his side and not with Zaki. He did not trust Walbridge’s oath of fealty in the slightest, given the man’s dubious, evasive character and his family history of treachery. A betrayal would also do far more damage than the loss of men, he knew. I pray have done enough to keep him.

His thoughts turned to Walbridge’s brother, still under house arrest and then to Behan. Soren had heard no news from the capital – but then, it would be impossible for Behan to know where he was. He made a mental note to send word to Pandora the moment they reached Lowenmouth.

At the very least he will need to know of our movements and Zaki’s, but there are also the dead to report. Unbidden, his mind settled once more on the loss of Edmund and Dane. It opened the yawning void inside him again as a dull ache settled in his chest.

“Cannot dwell on this,” he muttered to himself. He finished the last of his tea. It had cooled in the winter air and was lukewarm. Soren’s feet were already frozen blocks of ice, so he walked around the camp with Lord Karn.

There were far fewer men than before, because the exodus had begun. Already, a long line of men trailed down the valley led by Lord Andor. Those on foot led the way whilst those on horseback dallied to bring up the rear.

There was little left to do but wait for news sent back by scouts who described the scene at the pass. It was a bloodbath, by all accounts. Balaur and Walbridge had indeed taken the advantage. They had surprised Zaki’s forces and pushed them back down the pass. They succeeded with heavy losses, but it was not long before the main body of Zaki’s force roused to join their fellows. The Roherii attacked – savage and relentless – and wore down the defence. The pass was holding, but only just.

“It’s time,” said Soren as the light began to fade in the mid-afternoon. The boredom was frustrating, but he did not want to leave. He felt as though when he did, he would be forsaking all those who remained behind. The few mounted men who remained set to the giant task of lighting all the fires.

It was not the first time Soren wished for a dragon to make the task easier. He thought back. He had had neither sight nor sound of a dragon since Brithilca’s apparition at his coronation. Yet again, he wondered how they fared before Karn distracted him.

“We’re ready, Soren.”

The rest of his men were already hours in front of them, but on horseback they could catch up with the marching men overnight. It would be a long, dark ride, but at least they had the road.

With a last look back towards the pass and a muttered prayer for those up in the hills, Soren mounted and led his men away.

The valley burned bright behind them, spotted with fires and ringed with large pyres that would burn long into the night. Soren hoped their ruse would succeed.

Eve

Eve scratched the dried wax with her nail, to add another identical mark to the other thirteen. This was how she kept track of the days in Ednor, for each merged into another.

There seemed to be little routine here. Each person came and went as they pleased and completed whatever tasks they wished to. One more she sat at the window seat, as she did every night, to watch the stars above the mountains and daydream.

Her scrying mirror sat on the small table nearby. Before each bedtime, she scried those that she cared about, in their special order. She abstained from thinking of them as her loved ones, for Dane was also on the list and she scried him more out of curiosity than anything else. Today, it was far later than usual. She had lost track of time wandering in the woods to find sticks suitable to make new arrows with and then she had had to eat her supper late too.

Hopefully it isn’t too dark yet. “Leitha Dane,” Eve said. She always scried him first to get it out of the way. Today though, the mirror remained dark. She tilted it to catch some of the lamplight from her room. The surface, which had reflected her own face back at her moments ago, was an inky blackness with nothing in its depths.

“Lessa. Leitha isa.” Yet the same held true of her father – no image came to the surface of the mirror. “I cannot believe they sleep already,” she said.

“Lessa. Leitha Soren.” Again the mirror plunged into darkness. This time however, a faint light emanated and she could see her cousin’s face.

Soren seemed to be moving through the darkness, his face lit by a small flame, but other than that she could not tell. A tingle of apprehension crawled through her.

Last night, the three had been together with many stern-looking, armoured strangers.

“Lessa. Leitha Irumae.” Her cousin revelled in the royal palace at Pandora. The sight cheered Eve as it did every day, for the young girl seemed so much happier of late. “Lessa.”

She held the mirror in her hands and contemplated what she had seen. Her sights of recent days had been worrying. They were harrowed: more tired, worn and grim than she had seen them before, even her father. She was glad he thought he was to be in the rearguard and hoped that was where he found himself. No harm will come to him there. What of Edmund? She had not scried him for days. But when she spoke, the mirror sunk back to black. She looked outside again. Clouds marched across the skies, hiding the stars from view.

They must be asleep, she decided. It is well past sunset, after all. I should not have tarried so long outside.

She undressed and sunk into her soft bed with relief, for she was exhausted from her long day. Her eyes snapped open in the early hours of the new day. She lay immobile for a few seconds, confused and wondering what had awoken her. Silence. She turned over, but could not get comfortable. A niggling feeling burned at her.

For the remainder of the night she tossed and turned until at last she dragged herself from the bed after dawn. Instead of leaving for breakfast, she sat once more on the window seat with the mirror clasped between her hands, still unnerved by her scryings the night before.

She scried them all in quick succession again. Once more the mirror remained blacker than the night when she commanded her father, Dane and Edmund to appear. Shaking, she commanded her cousins to appear. Irumae was asleep in her chambers. Soren slumbered in what looked like a tent.

A third time, she called the images forth. Her breath caught in her chest. It cannot be. She knew what it meant – her first meeting with Artora had told her that no one could see beyond the black veil of death. They were alive yesterday. They cannot be gone. On an impulse, she called Luke forth on the mirror – something she had avoided so far, for fear of what she might see. There has to be someone left. Nothing but darkness appeared. The fear that had taunted her unidentified all night solidified into tears that slid from her eyes and spattered on the mirror. They cannot all be gone!

“Leitha isa! Leitha Luke! Leitha Edmund! Leitha Dane!”

But the mirror revealed nothing. She dashed it onto the floor with all her might and it smashed, shattering into thousands of pieces. The frame broke too. The cascade of pearls scattered across the floor.

Eve opened the window, slipped through it, and fled into the hills. She ran until she could run no more and collapsed upon a cushion of grass on the fringe of an unfamiliar meadow. Sobs heaved her chest. She buried her face in her arms and shut the world out.

~

It was almost dark again when she wended her way back down the valley again. The window to her room was ajar, hooked from the inside. She undid the catch and climbed back in.

A cold jug of water awaited and a slab of fresh bread with cheese. Her stomach rumbled – she was starving – but her appetite had deserted her. All traces of her smashed mirror had vanished. Instead she washed from the ewer and brushed her hair. The rasping sound of the brush and the cold shock of the water did nothing to ease bleak emptiness inside her.

Sleep would not come. The sheets stifled her body. Eve cast them off, to be overcome with chills. Miserably, she went and sat by the window once more with her head propped against the cool pane of glass, until she fell asleep at last.

~

Nelda woke her with a soft touch to the hand. Eve opened her eyes. Her head was dull and slow. She blinked blearily.

“What has passed, cousin?” said Nelda softly. “I scried you yesterday to see you far from here and in great distress.”

Eve welled up and hot tears spilled from her eyes once more. “I scried my father and others. They’re dead,” she croaked. “The mirror was black.”

Nelda pulled her into a tight embrace.

“Can it be wrong?” Eve said into her shoulder, her voice muffled.

Nelda held her tighter. “I am afraid not, dear cousin. I am so sorry for your losses. My heart aches for you.”

“Would you like to train today to distract yourself?” Nelda said after a long silence.

“I don’t want to train. I want to leave, but I don’t want to go home! There’s nothing there for me.”

Nelda stopped to make sure she ate and drank something, before she left.

Eve nibbled on her food to be obliging, but she did not taste it, nor did it stir her appetite. On an impulse, once Nelda had gone, Eve pushed back her plate. She opened the door and turned the opposite way from her cousin, to seek Artora.

~

Artora's grey skin fell from her in folds, creased and wrinkled upon her face, which frowned, even in sleep. Eve faltered on the threshold, taken aback by the sight. Artora no longer worked it seemed, but was bedridden instead, confined to her chamber by her growing infirmity. It was cool and dim – a perfect resting place. A window open by the tiniest measurement let in a small breeze that dispelled the cloying, moist heat of illness that suffocated the room.

The queen of the Eldarkind stirred as Eve entered.

"Your Majesty,” Eve said, trying to keep her voice level. More upset brewed as she beheld her distant aunt’s frail state.

"Welcome, Eve. It is good to see you. How do you keep?"

They shared small talk, but Eve did not dare enquire after Artora's health, for the answer was easy to see.

"Why have you come?" said Artora. She regarded Eve through alert eyes.

Eve told her of what she had seen in the mirror – hoping that Artora would tell her that it was a mistake, a fault, and reveal to her her father and Luke safe and well.

Artora's eyes softened. "There are no lies in the mirror. The magic will spell true."

Eve nodded past the lump in her throat. It had been the faintest hope in any case.

I have nothing left. She stared at the floor. My father is gone. Luke is gone. Even Edmund is gone – and Dane. At least I won’t have to marry him. She would have felt sad for his death too, had it not been eclipsed by that of her father and Luke. I thought I’d see them both again. I thought there’d be a chance to make amends.

“I can offer you little comfort,” said Artora, “only our companionship here.”

“I have lost all joy,” said Eve, her eyes cast to the floor. “I came to ask if you still sought a volunteer to journey north. I will go if you wish.”

Artora’s eyes widened. She sat up with much effort and reached for Eve with bony hands. Artora clasped Eve’s hands in her own. Her skin the feel of paper against Eve’s.

“Thank you, Eve.” Her voice was filled with fervent gratitude. She coughed and her face scrunched in pain. The rasps subsided and she sagged back into her pillows dragging her hands from Eve to tuck them back under the coverlet.

“Nolwen and Nelda have told me of all your progress,” she continued in a weak voice. “They see that I am updated each day. They are most impressed with you – it would seem you have progressed much since I last saw you. I am glad that the connection to your magic waxes once more.

“You are welcome to stay and train for as long as you like, but if you wish to undertake the journey to see if our fears are founded or not, there is but one more thing that you may need to learn. I will have to teach you how to place a binding upon Bahr of the fire. Please return tomorrow – I have no energy left for the present. I will send someone for you.”

Eve bid her goodbye and left, unnerved by how sick Artora was. Will I have no one left?

She spent the rest of the day in solitary confinement. Each moment was a torture spent drifting from contemplation to blank thoughts. Nolwen and Nelda both knocked on the door at different times and called to her, but she had locked it and did not answer. To talk made it true.

~

Artora had reached a chair the next day, thick blankets tucked around her lap as she sat by a gentle fire. The window was closed and rain lashed against it heralding the true autumn’s arrival. Eve sat before her on the shaggy rug, her back warmed by the flames.

“You will journey to the east first,” began Artora, who sounded much stronger, “with some of my own kin – Nolwen and Nelda, amongst others. At the northern monastery you will gain more men and provisions for protection along the way. The abbot will not refuse us in our hour of need.”

“Continue east along the tracks through the forest with the Helm Mountains always on your left shoulder. Eventually, the forest will end and you will come to the northernmost edge of the great plains that sweep through central Caledan, but your path will take you further north still. This is where you need the expertise of my kin and the monks; we know where Bahr is located, but you will need their help to reach him for the north is a harsh and inhospitable place.

“It is better to travel in numbers for there are great wolf packs that roam the frozen tundra, little food and no shelter to be had. We are expert hunters and can source all that we need to sustain ourselves, but as you draw closer to Bahr and the power of my kin fails, the mortal men will be your protection.

“When you have journeyed for many days and nights, you will at last sight the white peaks of the Kirkus Mountains on the horizon. The smallest of them is Juska. In her bowels sleeps Bahr of the fire. All I ask of you is that you journey close enough to see if ought stirs. Venture into the mountain only if you must. Lay the binding if you are certain that Bahr slumbers – an extra hold upon him will help us. If he stirs, or worse if he roams, leave with all haste. Return to me at once so that I may do what I can to stop him. It may require the sacrifice of many, but I would not ask you to do this. I wish to keep you from harm’s way if I can.” Artora paused and glanced at Eve.

Eve nodded.

“I will give you the words of the binding. You must not speak them in the Eldar tongue unless you utter them in all sincerity for they are such powerful words they will draw the magic forth from you whether you intend it or not.” Artora slipped a small scroll from her pocket and gave it to Eve.

“The binding will restrain Bahr if he awakens. It will still his thoughts and his movements. If he slumbers, it will deepen his rest. Long may he sleep.” The words were intoned almost like a prayer.

“If you can give us news of him, perhaps we will find a way to send more of our strength and reinforce the binding in greater numbers if it is needed. It may yet hold. You must use all the energy available to you, should you use the binding. I have a gift which will help you. It took many years in the weaving, but it is yours.”

From her other sleeve, Artora pulled a bracelet. At first it looked to be made of a strange metal unlike anything Eve had seen before, for it emitted a strange light. When Artora held it out to her, Eve could see that the smooth surface tumbled over itself, rippling like water driven by a current.

The moment it contacted her skin, she gasped. It felt like she had fallen into the river of energy itself. She blinked and the bright dizziness cleared. Artora returned to view before her. In her hand, the bracelet seemed to buzz against her skin – it hummed with vitality. On closer inspection, it seemed to be made out of no solid substance at all.

“It is pure energy, woven together.”

Eve watched the band without reply. The raw power of it set her nerves on edge – though she was not sure she was frightened of it. If she closed her eyes and looked to the river of energy, she was sure she would not see it, blinded as she would be by the overwhelming power of the bracelet.

“The north will be cold,” Artora said with a shiver. “Colder than you could ever imagine and many times worse than the harshest of our winters. You must take care on your journey not to let it take your limbs from you, nor to sap the energy from that source. We cannot make another. If you use it, use it well and if you do not, return it to us whole.”

Artora gestured for her to put it on, so Eve stretched it over her hand and onto her wrist where it contracted to fit her. Next she looked at the parchment. It had been written in a flowing script using the Caledonian alphabet, but the Eldar tongue. Eve read it out in Caledonian.

“Bahr of the Fire spirit, I command you to sleep, unmoving, unthinking, unchanging, unyielding in the ice. I bind you with this, my energy and the energy of all living creatures everywhere until the end of time.”

“The simplest wordings are sometimes the most effective,” Artora said. “You must memorise this exactly as it is – in the Eldar tongue – in case you need to use it. It will be easier for you to do this if it remains short.”

Even in her own tongue the words sounded ominous. Eve stared at the handwriting and held the paper at a distance as if it would bite her.

Soren

Tired and aching after a ruthless march and days in the saddle, Soren sighted Lowenmouth upon the horizon. To their left the cliffs and grey sea disappeared into the hazy distance. To their right a low line of hills crowned with thick forests hid the mainland. It had been a miserable ride. The rain had begun on the first night of their travels and had not ceased since; it could have been snow, but Soren thought the freezing, driving downpour far worse.

Soren longed to sleep upon a soft bed, wash in hot water – or in fact, wash at all – and eat fresh meat and vegetables, all of which had been nonexistent since they had left Pandora. It was not to be. There was too much to do to idle and the city was to be their last retreat, though Soren did not intend to use it. There had been no word from the rearguard, who had not caught up with them yet. Soren feared than Zaki would soon be upon them.

They rode close to the coast where the cold sea winds stole the warmth from their skin. It numbed their faces and stung their eyes, but the endured it; to move inland was folly. Andor had already warned Soren that the ground there was marshy, so they were forced to stick to the coast road and made slow progress. It was even worse than Andor had described; an inhospitable mess after the fresh rains, however given the part it was to play in their plans, Soren was glad.

A straggling trail of men announced the rearguard’s arrival. Andor’s son and Walbridge himself rode at their helm. Their ranks had been decimated to Soren’s distress. Soren had never been gladder to see anyone of house Walbridge. Only those who were on horseback remained; Soren knew that meant there were no more to follow. He could not believe that thousands had left and hundreds returned.

Andor had already left his men to destroy the last bridge to Lowenmouth. The rearguard arrived just in time to cross it. The bridge’s destruction was key to luring Zaki away from the easy passage of the coastal road.

The wooden structure floated in pieces down the river to the sea, battered and chopped to pieces by hand. It was a regrettable loss, for it had taken a year to build not that long since, but it would force Zaki to ford the river to the north, where the direct approach to Lowenmouth would draw him straight into the clutches of the marsh.

Andor had intended they fight upon the plains to draw Zaki into the bog, but had realised upon seeing its state that they too would be mired and stranded in it. The swamp could be their own downfall – a risk too great to take. Instead, upon reaching the city, Soren and Andor directed and led men out into the hills to fight around the valley.

Men lined up on the hillside and retreated into the woods for cover. Here, Soren stationed all the archers and many more came from the city to join them – local hunters who used the woods to feed their families. The mix of deciduous and coniferous trees blazed with colour before the bleakness of winter and offered his men dappled camouflage.

Cavalry also positioned here, though feed stored in the city had to be brought out for them because of the sparse grazing in the woods. The remainder of the infantry waited in the rain upon the gentle slopes, with the protection of the swamp before them and the city behind them.

Soren and Andor stayed with them whilst their ranks were swelled by the guard from Lowenmouth. Meanwhile, Walbridge went to join what remained of his men in the woods and command the cavalry. Karn accompanied him to manage the archers: many of whom were from Arrow county.

The rearguard gave valuable news despite their sad return. Zaki was hours behind them and with the delay caused by the broken bridge, at best guess half a day away. Soren’s stomach somersaulted at that. His nerves needed no encouragement to build. The time seemed to drag and race by at the same time, because they seemed to have waited forever and yet no time at all before Zaki’s men arrived from the east.

The rains had lifted and weak sunlight filtered through the clouds, but it was still cold. Soren shivered along with the rest of his men, who could light no fires int he damp conditions to warm themselves. The flash of gold in the distance was the first clue and whispered word soon raced from the tip of the forest, where Caledonians lay concealed, all the way along its length and through his men to Soren himself.

“Good, they come from the right direction,” said Andor. He smiled a grim smile of satisfaction. “He will know not to use the road – it leaves his forces too thin, too vulnerable. He will use the plain.”

Zaki’s forces fell into the trap. The mounted men rode forward, specks in the distance, past the arm of the forest. Soren could not believe their luck, but success was not his yet.

“Where are the rest? There must be three thousand men there, if that?” Soren was surprised at how many had horses.

“They will be the first. I think the rest will follow sooner than we like,” replied Andor.

Feeling agitated, Soren mounted his horse. Andor did the same. “Now?”

“Not yet.” Andor’s eyes remained fixed on their foes. The tramp of their feet could be heard as a deep rumble – so many passed upon the land. “A little further.” They waited. “Now!” He raised his arm and waved it twice.

A horn rang out to his right in two short blasts and all of a sudden, arrows rained down from the north to pepper the Roherii.

Their ranks roiled in confusion and turned to face this new challenge even as they strove to face Soren’s front.

“Now.” Andor grinned at Soren. A maniacal smile that was almost a grimace crossed his face.

“Charge! For Caledan!” Soren bellowed at the top of his voice.

“For Caledan!” The reply was roared by thousands of voices around him.

The horn rang – long and clear and strong. Soren surged forward with his ranks. To ride forward brought a strange sense of exhilaration as he lowered the visor on his helmet, even though he knew he should have been terrified. Andor kept pace beside him. The Roherii cavalry were forced to meet them by riding through the mire.

They floundered as the wave of Caledonian men and horses crashed into their midst and cut through them left and right. Men fell from horses, which bolted riderless, as a new wave of men – this time on foot – crested the hill.

The clash and clang of weapons meeting, men screaming and shouting, horses shrieking and mud squelching overpowered all as Soren stayed with his knot of men with Andor to his left hand side and his standard bearer behind him. He did not get much chance to fight, whilst those around him surrounded him in a protective shield, but as their positions changed, he was able to lash out and deliver blows to the Roherii before him.

Three short blasts of a horn sounded, cutting through all else. Soren searched for the source. He swore as he saw the solid front of men running towards them.

“Come on Walbridge, where are you!” he shouted, though it was useless. No one could hear him over the deafening sound of battle. “God damn it, he had better not betray us!”

A frisson of fear and doubt gnawed at his anticipation and exhilaration. Will Walbridge fail me? Instead of rallying to my banners, would Willam watch us fight and lose? Would he rally to Zaki’s cause?

Soren and his men floundered in the mud with their enemy. The scene had grown even more terrible as the already sodden grounds were washed with blood and the men grouped around Soren grew fewer.

Although the slight valley had forced Zaki’s forces into a thinner band, they still seemed to be never ending, bolstered by their infantry reserves, though Soren’s own ranks were helped by their own reinforcements who joined the chaos. Soren could not have counted the seething mass of men about him, but he knew they numbered many thousands. Again, Soren looked to the trees. Arrows flew from disembodied bows to bite into Zaki’s arriving ranks.

At last, and not a moment too soon, Willam answered his call. A line of riders emerged from the trees. They descended from the hills in a streak of movement. The charge was swift and effective.

Zaki’s men scattered. They fled to the sea, where the sneaky sinking sands of the beach and icy water of the high tide awaited them. Some retreated to the east, their organisation in turmoil from the attack, as Walbridge’s command cut into their ranks and broke what little formation remained.

Many became stuck in the mud as Soren’s forces drove forward with renewed vigour. Soren felt buoyant with relief that Walbridge had not failed him. What remained of Zaki’s cavalry was destroyed, the riders powerless and abandoned by their comrades as their mounts floundered.

The Roherii infantry fared little better. Many of them threw up their arms in surrender with fear in their eyes when the line of horses surged upon them. They were rounded up, weapons confiscated and sat in well guarded huddles, whilst Soren congratulated the men about him.

Andor clasped arms with him as they circled together. “Well met, Soren.”

“Well met, Andor.”

“I have not seen or heard sign of Zaki yet,” Andor said. He wiped blood and grime from his forehead with his sleeve – but it was so dirty it smeared more across his face.

“Myself neither,” replied Soren. It was a troubling thought.

“We have broken the first wave. I think Zaki may have spent more than he realised there.” Andor glanced around them. “By the looks of it there are thousands dead, hundreds fled and hundreds our captives. He cannot have many more, surely.”

“Can we survive if he does?” Soren’s relief and exhilaration at their success was tempered. It faded when he looked about and saw the extent of devastation.

Andor shook his head. “I cannot say, but we can withstand whatever he has left. He would be foolish to come at us again.”

They turned back to where Caledonians guarded Roherii prisoners. Soren was about to command that they be taken and held within the city for the present time, when a foreign bugle rang out from over the horizon.

Andor swore. “He attacks again, perhaps with all his remaining strength. You – ride out and scout.”

At his command, one of the Balaur standard bearers handed his banner to another and rode as fast as he could across the unstable ground. He soon returned, with wide eyes. “M’lord, I can see many footmen marching towards us. They stretch all the way back to the river and beyond. There could be as many as eight thousand! There seemed no end to them and they filled the width of the valley.”

Andor met Soren’s concerned gaze. “Eight thousand? They outnumber us by far. We must regroup.”

Soren nodded, but he frowned when he looked at the Roherii sat at their feet. “What are we to do with them? There may not be enough time to escort them to the city, and we cannot leave them here.” The answer had already manifested inside his head, though he refused to admit it. “Summon my council with all haste.”

~

“The rest of his forces advance – who can count how many we have already defeated – if he has as many as eight thousand men, can we succeed?” asked Soren. “We started with barely more than that and think how much our own ranks have been decimated by our battles thus far. We have five thousand men left at most, according to your estimates.”

His counsellors remained silent, stood in a ring around him on the mud. They were at the furthest point in the valley away from Lowenmouth and vulnerable to Zaki’s approach. Soren shifted, agitated by this, but he was unwilling to move until they had a solution.

“I do not speak from cowardice, but common sense. How can we win against almost double our number?”

“With difficulty,” Lord Karn answered. His voice was as grave as his expression.

“We could withdraw to the city,” Andor suggested.

“I would rather not bring war upon our citizens if it can be helped,” replied Soren. “In any case it could become our prison not our sanctuary. I will withdraw to before the city. Perhaps we can operate the same trap upon Zaki’s approaching forces? They may not know of our strategy.”

“It would be difficult to do so,” said Willam. “I have near no cavalry remaining to me for the charge. We could round up the horses that roam free and allocate them to other riders, but I would estimate that we do not have the time.”

“Our archers have already exhausted their arrows,” Karn added.

“Well then. It would seem that we have few options left to us,” Soren replied. A flutter of panic rose through him. “We will regroup before the city and draw Zaki across the mire. We will wait for him to exhaust himself coming to us before we charge out to meet them. A retreat into the city will be our last resort. I hope that it will be our triumph, rather than our last stand.”

At that moment, a scout interrupted. “I beg pardons, Your Majesty, Lords, Sirs.” He bowed. “The Roherii draw close. We have little time remaining before they are here. I would urge that you reposition.”

“That’s settled, then. Let us away,” said Soren.

“What of the prisoners?” Andor asked.

Soren paused. “Ah, yes. Do we have time to see them inside the city?”

“It does not seem so.”

Soren paused. “What else can be done with them?” His heart sunk – there was one outcome.

“I think you know the truth of that, sire,” said Walbridge. “We cannot take them with us. We cannot free them. We cannot leave them here. They must be… removed.”

“There must be another way. I cannot slaughter unarmed men in good conscience.”

“So you would give them arms, do battle to the death instead and call it honourable? We have neither the men nor the time for it, sire.”

Soren did not reply.

“You know it would be folly to release them,” Walbridge said as the foreign bugle sounded, much louder and closer this time.

Soren’s heart palpitated in his chest at the sound.

“You must decide quickly, sire,” Walbridge urged.

Behind them a scuffle broke out. One of the captives broke free and hurled himself at his guards.

“Roher!” he cried. He had no weapons – it did not stop him head-butting a guard. He bit another and used his hands and feet to batter through their ranks.

The sharp blades of Caledonian swords cut him down where he stood and he dropped to the mud, dying and then dead. His comrades rumbled in discontent, with dark looks and spat curses at their guards, but when they attempted to move forward, they too were faced by drawn blades.

Soren stared at the man’s body, transfixed. We may yet still win or lose. But against eight thousand? We do not need these extra mouths to feed, if it comes to siege, if we can get them into the city before Zaki arrive. There are too many ‘ifs’!

Frustration filled him, followed by stress when the Roherii bugle sounded again. He could hear the Roherii – an approaching rumble. Panic rose in his body.

“Do it,” he ordered. “Kill them or we shall all die here and Caledan will fall! Mount up. Sound the retreat!”

The dying cries of the first man were multiplied by hundreds as his orders spread and they were cut down. It filled his ears and burnt itself into his memory. He rode from hearing as fast as he could with bile rising in his throat. Their bodies carpeted the ground. Soren wished he had not looked back.

He was soon before the city once more, with what remained of his men behind him in a great wall of armour. They were fewer than before, but their ranks built up by the remaining men of Karn and Walbridge who had joined them from the woods.

They had formed up when the Roherii crested the horizon. They advanced at an unrelenting pace.

Soren watched them with a heavy heart.

Andor leaned over. “You did the right thing for Caledan,” he whispered and gave Soren an encouraging smile. “That was no easy decision.”

But Soren felt no better. Guilt multiplied within him. “As long as it will save Caledan,” he replied more confidently than he felt.

Zaki’s army spread the entire width of the valley’s opening: matched by Soren’s at its opposite end, spread before the walls of Lowenmouth. A nervous tension hung in the air as the last of Zaki’s men crossed the horizon.

Soren frowned and glanced around at his own men to compare. “They cannot have eight thousand men,” he said to Andor.

Andor shook his head. “Nay, they do not. It must have been some ruse, or our scout made a grave calculation error. There can be no more than our own number of men there, but I am sure we may still have more.”

They watched as Zaki’s men halted, and a party swarmed by those slain on Soren’s orders.

“They will see the carnage,” Andor said. “I doubt they will engage – not with the stronghold of Lowenmouth behind us, unless they have many more men on the way.”

Contrary to his beliefs the Roherii charged forward despite the fact that they were outnumbered. The vanguard remained upon the hillside. Soren presumed they waited for their orders to advance.

Soren sent his own forces forward to meet the Roherii with reluctance – it seemed such a waste for more to die in vain, when he was certain the Caledonians would prevail – but from within the eye of the storm, a small pond of calm in a raging sea and surrounded by his protectors, he saw the rearguard turn tail and vanish. Nowhere could he see any sign of Zaki, or a standard bearer of any kind. He yelled at Andor, who joined him within the circle of blades.

“They flee!” Soren pointed at the Roherii vanishing over the horizon.

“Then Zaki flees with them, I would wager!” Andor replied with a growl. “Coward.” He spat on the ground and scowled. “I can see no sign of him anywhere. I think he knew that he could not win upon seeing our strength and so sent his men to die for him and delay our pursuit.”

“Can we give chase?” Soren said, but he knew he was too hopeful. There were still a thousand men upon the battlefield to defeat first.

“We cannot until our foe here is vanquished,” said Andor. With a great cry, he charged forward into the fray.

Soren nudged his own horse, drew his blade and joined in with a howl of frustration. Will he ever answer for what he has done!

~

Darkness had fallen by the time they had slain the last foe. Many had surrendered upon seeing the remaining Roherii flee. Soren ached from head to toe and was dizzy with exhaustion. He had no choice but to stay awake. He rode with Andor and many others across the battlefield to search for injured friends amongst the dead.

Any Roherii they came across, they helped. Soren was indiscriminate in his aid, too full of remorse for his earlier actions to deal out more death. He sent the injured back to Lowenmouth, carried or supported as needed. Healers in white robes – that were soon blood and mud stained – moved amongst them to tend to those they could.

Moving amongst his men, who all shared the same grey face and slouched posture of spent energy, Soren knew that none of them were fit enough to pursue Zaki. It already burned in his heart that he had been so close to the man who had caused to much strife, harm and grief, but could not put an end to him.

If Zaki has learnt his lesson he will not return, Soren considered. However, it was hard to believe that the man who had been captured, miraculously escaped, survived and returned stronger than ever – like a weed that refused to die – would not return again.

Soren was welcomed into the city of Lowenmouth by cheering men, women and children who packed onto streets that were flooded with light from those who held burning brands and lamps. He smiled and waved as he rode at the head of the procession into the city – as was his duty – but he longed to scream at them all to be silent instead.

You should all be filled with sorrow, grieving for your lost kinsmen, he wanted to say. You should even grieve for those fallen Roherii. For when he recalled the moment he had ordered their deaths, every face he observed in its dying moments was no monster, but a man. A man fighting under the orders he had received.

It is the orders that are evil, not the man, realised Soren – but it was too late. The actions – his actions – could not be undone. As the false grin widened on his face, his cheeks ached even more from the gesture and his mind threw self-loathing at him. You’re a monster.

That night he dined with Balaur cousins who he had not seen since his coronation well over a year before. It was hard to celebrate along with them, for he felt the payment required for their victory was too great to justify laughter and joy. His own actions haunted him too, so out of character that he found it hard to believe what he had done. His extended cousins did not share his troubled thoughts, for they feasted and revelled until late into the night, whilst Soren drifted to sleep in his chair, jolted awake by raucous laughter and shrieking.

Zaki

What is the boy doing? Zaki wondered as he forded the river, annoyed by the hour’s detour they had been forced to make because of the broken bridge. His vanguard were already upon the battlefield, but when he crested the final hill, Lowenmouth was revealed before him. He paused in shock.

Not a man of his remained upon the battlefield. Instead, the area swarmed with Caledonians and worse, a sea of the dead.

“Good, they are almost spent,” Reynard said from his side. “Let us attack them at once!”

“They are not so,” said Zaki, “merely disorganised. Do not forget that they have the city to fall back upon if they need to – we would starve before they did.” Campaigning in winter was a poor choice, he reflected. What a miserable affair without the element of surprise. He thought he had missed Caledan. Now he found himself longing for the warmth of Roher. I’m sick of being cold, tired and wet.

They rode closer at the head of his men, none of whom had horses, for all the cavalry had gone before.

“Wait,” said Reynard all of a sudden. He stood in his saddle. “They have Roherii prisoners. Hundreds by the looks of it.”

“The cowards surrendered?” Anger flared within Zaki. “I did not come all this way to be let down by cowards!”

In the next moment, a flurry of motion occurred and the Caledonian men fled towards the city.

“They flee before us as they should!” exclaimed Reynard with satisfaction.

“Will you be silent!” snapped Zaki. “They do not flee – can you not see? They have slain every last man.” Zaki stilled for a moment. “They would not have done that had it not been ordered by Soren.” I did not expect such ruthlessness from that sap of a boy. Zaki felt a twinge of very grudging respect – he was even a slight bit impressed – but it did not reassure him. If Soren can make such decisions, he is not the boy that I last faced.

“I have a new plan.” He surveyed the scene before him. The last of the straggling Caledonians joined their comrades in a huge block before the walls of Lowenmouth, which were as grey as the sky and the sea and dulling in the early evening.

“We do not have the numbers to defeat them. These Roherii are cowards – I fear we have lost almost a thousand to desertion already and the cravens could have made the difference. I hope they die and rot. As it stands, we will not see success and I am not prepared to die this day in vain, or at all.

“I will send in what Roherii remain and hold back a small rearguard. When Soren is engaged with our men and unable to stop us, we will retreat.”

“To Roher?” asked Reynard in a low voice.

“To Roher. We do not remain in any number great enough to be a threat and I will not find support here, after Walbridge has betrayed us. I had expected him to rally to my cause, but it is clear he has lost his mind and supports the boy instead. I hope he has paid for his treachery.”

“Why would he not support your cause as he always has done?” asked Reynard. His face scrunched in confusion.

Because he did not believe I would succeed, Zaki’s thoughts replied. “He is a traitor, nothing more and he will pay with all the rest of them!” he snapped instead, to silence his own doubts as well as reply to Reynard.

“We will retreat to Roher,” repeated Zaki, “where I will bide my time and campaign again next season. We will return in the summer, when I can live off the land. Soren will not be able to rally this number again. We have exhausted his support. He will retreat within his poxy castle and I will starve him out and grow fat from his land whilst he withers away.” Zaki laughed, a short bark of satisfaction, at the thought.

“Will Harad support you in this?”

“He will have no choice. I am his son-in-law and the closest he will get to Caledan’s throne. He is no fool. I am confident he will appreciate how close we are. One more push and Caledan will be mine and through me, his. It is a prize too great to refuse.”

Zaki signalled for his men to advance and they rushed past him in a wave that rolled down the hillside and over the valley bottom. Their golden armour was covered by dull, brown mud as they ran into the arms of their death-dealers. He saw how the silver armour of the Caledonians mixed with the gold until the scene was a mess of mixed men, but his mind was already elsewhere planning the quickest route back to the isthmus, where he could steal boats – for he doubted those who had brought them to Caledan would have waited – and how to sail back to Roher. The desert route was unthinkable. He was lucky to survive it the first time and he doubted his fortune would hold a second.

With a silent gesture, Zaki signalled the retreat. His rearguard, made up of those Caledonians who had survived with him all the way to Roher and back, moved with him as he rode over the horizon. For all they had endured with him, he cared not at this point if his men lived nor died – not even Reynard, after the disappointment his second-in-command had proved to be – only that he himself would reach safety.

Eve

After two days of preparations, Eve left Ednor accompanied by four of the Eldarkind; Nolwen and Nelda, and two others that she had not encountered before: Iara, a burly, muscled hulk and Tolthe, as tall as Iara but much slimmer. She said her farewells to Artora early that morning, for they had to depart swiftly to outrun the storm clouds that chased them over the pass. It was with a heart growing in heaviness that Eve departed.

The smell of sickness upon the queen was sweet and cloying, a scent that would not dissipate from her nostrils until well after they had left. Artora could not rise from bed that day, so Eve instead leaned down to kiss her on the forehead in farewell. Her skin was as hot as fire and clammy to the touch.

Several days later, they reached the monastery and were admitted through open gates. The weather was cooler outside Ednor’s valley. In the mornings and evenings, the air became bitingly cold – painful to breathe – and a frost had begun to creep upon everything about them when they awoke. Eve was glad for the warm clothes she had been outfitted in – woven fabrics that were spelled so wind and water could not penetrate them. Fur lined boots adorned her feet. They kept her toes toasty warm and she even had mittens made from a hide with fur so fine her hands felt like they were cushioned by silk.

The winters in Arlyn were snowy and cold enough, but they did not warrant such measures and Eve was beginning to think what they were to encounter would be far more severe than she expected. She realised that it was the worst time of year to travel north, now winter marched south and worsened in the extreme heights of the world.

That morning, Artora had impressed upon her the need for haste. “There is no time to waste!” she had said with such a fervent determination in her gaze that Eve was frozen in her glare.

The abbot soon appeared to meet them, though he did not rush. He was a tall and thickset man: a dark haired, dark eyed match of Iara it would seem.

Iara, their natural leader, greeted him and introduced their small group and purpose.

Hador welcomed them inside what appeared to be a new gatehouse, out of the rising wind that nipped at their exposed faces. He was worried by their news, but reluctant to become involved.

“The winter is no time for a man to be away from his home – or her home,” he added with a glance towards Eve and Nelda, “and a journey past the gap is more treacherous. Would you have me send my men to icy deaths, never to return? Besides that, we are already so few after the attack last year. You have not seen the fullness of our graveyard and the emptiness of our beds. We cannot even rebuild with any speed, because there are not enough men to quarry, lumber, build and eke a living. We will see our second winter though without the protection of our home.”

“We would not ask unless the need were great, abbot,” Nolwen said, leaning forward. “This is a threat far beyond any of our ken, but if the worst is to pass, your brothers will not be safe here. The devastation shall not spare you. We must work together to ensure our success.”

“You mean to kill the beast?”

“He is no beast,” said Iara in his deep voice. “He is the very essence of life, of fire, of energy. Bahr controls unimaginable power that no man could stand before. No human – not even an army of you – could destroy him.”

Hador sent them to eat whilst he deliberated. Eve enjoyed the first human meal she had eaten in weeks. The Eldarkind’s food was exquisite, but she had missed game meat, potatoes and vegetables drowned in a hearty gravy and accompanied by a crusty bread roll for dunking and mopping up the remainder of the plate.

After they had eaten, they returned to hear Hador’s judgement.

His brow was creased and his arms folded as he stood before them. “I will not order my men to do this for you. I cannot ask such a great thing of them. I will however, let any volunteers who wish to go accompany you. I will send some of my brothers to ask if there are any willing to journey with you, with instructions to gather by dawn to leave. We will aid you with provisions – you will need more horses to carry shelter and fire materials and food too. Those things we will gladly give you in your time of need.”

“Thank you, abbot,” said Iara. He bowed low – the others copied him.

With the rest of the pre-evening free, they were able to explore the walled compound of the monks. It was a pleasant and green place, even in the winter, with lawned gardens well kept, though the flowerbeds were bare and the trees stripped of their leaves.

The patch of greatest disturbance was the extended cemetery, where bare earth ruled kept free of the grass by careful tending and adorned with green wreaths and small tokens of remembrance. It was a peaceful place, but full of sorrow and empty too. They rarely saw large groups of monks anywhere and the brown-robed men were few and far between.

There was no denying that the monastery itself was a shell of its former self. The canteen they had eaten in was a wooden cabin and the monastery a set of broken stone walls, almost like a large drawing on the ground that had never been made into the full sized model. From what they could see, log cabins were the only completed structures.

Rubble was piled near the walls: a giant mixture of pieces large and small, some seeming too huge to move. Reconstruction projects had begun on the central chapel first and foremost, but it seemed to have newly begun, or not progressed. Eve suspected the latter.

Buildings took lots of men to construct she knew, and there were not enough here. She could see from what remained that the building had been huge. They spend too much time trying to live from the land, as they must, she observed. Men moved in silence in their duties: gathering winter root vegetables and chopping firewood on large stone flagged courtyards that were out of place with nothing to surround them.

~

A week later, the warmth had deserted them as they crossed out of Caledan into the wild lands of the north that were unmapped by men, who could find no use for their presence. They had left the last of any shelter behind with the wood’s end and the days and nights merged into one as they rode under the vast white sky that had begun to snow daily upon them. It turned the land into a white mirror of the sky that stretched in all directions. They used the Helm Mountains to their west and then to their south for navigation. The peaks soon shrank behind them, until they too had disappeared in the distance.

The nights were the worst. At least upon horseback during the day’s travels, they could stay warm from the exertion of riding, or run where they needed to stretch stiff limbs. But at night, all they had for shelter was a large canvas made from several hides sewn together and propped up by a series of sticks. They huddled under it each night, wrapped in their blankets, still fully clothed. They had to lay on the folds of the skin to keep it flat to the ground. It was unpleasant to say the least, sleeping on hard ground in such close proximity to each other. Eve had lost all thoughts of grief, her sole concentration being to gain warmth and stay warm: a constant battle of a different sort.

The horses had to be dressed for the weather too, with skins, furs and cloths wrapped around their legs and neck, especially at night, where they tried to huddle out of the wind behind the tent in misery, their heads down and tails between their legs. Each morning, the company would awake to find snow banked on one side of the skin tent, with the world whiter than it had been before.

Eve thought snow was beautiful in Arlyn. Here, it was a menace that would not leave them alone.

~

The Kirkus mountains rose in the distance: a brilliant white against the rare blue sky that dazzled them that morning. They were already coated in snow and ice from their highest peak to the lowest.

It had been a long, hard week of riding in a direction-less landscape that was flat and white as far as the eye could see, broken by low rolling hills. There were no woods, it seemed, in this part of the world, nor life, for they had not seen another living being or sign of life – smoke rising, dwellings – and even struggled to find animals to eat.

It was said that the north men of old, a hardy but primitive race that had not survived, came from beyond these mountains. The original reason the northern monastery had been constructed was as a defensible position to keep them out of early Caledan and defend against their raids. No one lived north of the gap any more.

They had resorted to rationing the dried meat strips given to them by the monastery, together with flat, round travelling biscuits from the Eldarkind. Their water was found from melting the snow over their small fires, made from the fast dwindling supply of wood, for there was nothing to be found here, not even the smallest bush.

Eve was glad for the horses, for without them their progress would have been too slow, and for her warm attire, which trapped her warmth next to her skin in a way she had never before appreciated. One of the older monks had already shown them his several missing toes, claiming that the frost had eaten them many years ago.

The monks prided themselves on quiet solitude and rarely spoke to Eve or her Eldarkind companions, who were much more sociable.

“Why did you come?” she asked them one morning.

“To see the wonder of God in places new,” said one, who Eve took to be very devout.

“To explore the world,” said another, whose youthful face lit up at the prospect of discovery.

“For the greater good,” said a third, who seemed troubled. “Our abbot insisted this was a task of vital importance for the safeguarding of all humanity.”

Eve had begun to question her own belief in God. The revelation that magic existed and dragons – amongst greater forces – had turned her away from the idea of an all-controlling deity. Not to mention, the loss of her loved ones. What God would do such a thing? She feared the answer. It was easier to believe in what she could see. But she held her doubts to herself and nodded politely at their words.

They could already see Juska – ‘the little spur’, Nelda told her it once used to mean. A dark line ascended from its base: a tear in the side of the mountain that led to the secret within. Unanimously they decided not to camp near to the peak for its presence already fostered an unnerving fear upon them, like the atmosphere itself held evil. The sun was not yet near to setting, but they did not want to venture closer.

Eve sat with her Eldarkind companions on rocks brushed clean of snow, observing Juska whilst the monks behind them sung their daily hymns. A narrow cleft hundreds of yards high, was visible from where they sat, shrinking into itself until it closed.

“That is where He sleeps,” Nolwen muttered in a dark tone, nodding towards the cavern.

“Who is Bahr? I don’t know much of him,” asked Eve.

“Do not speak His name so close to the mountain,” warned Nelda. “In itself, it carries power.”

Eve shivered.

“He of the fire is one of the oldest and most potent elementals that we know to still remain,” Iara said. “Those that do are all bound as He is, in the element most debilitating to them, to sleep through all time in many far flung locations across the world.”

Eve wondered how big the world was. Caledan was all she knew and even its borders seemed huge and distant.

“Yet of all the others, He has awoken. Perhaps because He is the closest to the pact’s breaking point, its weakness aids him first. Who knows what His counterparts do in their shackles. We believe in no Gods, but even we pray for their unending slumber.

“He of the fire was, in legend, a cruel and vindictive spirit, of a fiery temper and quick to judge and condemn others. He delighted in playing tricks and hurting others if He could for his own amusement.

“Elementals are witty, clever and sly, creatures to be wary of, careful around and never trusted. They are ones to twists words and muddle meanings and promises. Never give an elemental your word, it is said, for you will never have it back.

“They are powerful too, more than you could begin to imagine. Even we would struggle to conceive of such might, had we not the memories, magically retained, to see for ourselves the devastation they can wreak.

“Bahr had to be bound by the first of the Eldarkind. He was too dangerous, too unpredictable, and too selfish to risk remaining free. He burned for sport all in his path. In those days, He was so powerful that He had to be bound by an entire race, as all the elementals did, a collective gathering of magics from all mouths and minds, focused in one task.”

“How can we bind him, if He is so powerful?” said Eve, scared by Iara’s words.

“We do not bind Him starting from nothing. Asleep, He should be much easier to re-seal. He will have lost much of his power in slumber – or it will be suppressed, at the very least.”

“He may yet sleep,” Nelda whispered to her, squeezing her in a one armed hug and smiling to reassure her, but Eve could not help but wonder if Bahr slept at all.

This may not have been a good idea.

She struggled to sleep that night. It was like she could feel the chasm as a baleful pressure over her and a presence behind her. The skin of the shelter seemed no protection at all that night. By the morning, she was exhausted and plagued by growing doubts.

Why am I here? I cannot presume to succeed.

Luke

The robes itched against Luke’s sweating skin. They were too big, made for his wide shoulders but drowned the rest of his body. Luke suppressed a loud curse, muttering it into his own hearing instead. He wiped his ruddy face with a hand, hitched both sleeves back up his arms again and took a fresh grasp on the axe. The rhythmic thock of chopping firewood dulled his mind as it did every day.

He had been out with the brotherhood in the woods collecting firewood for a week. It was almost time to return and he was anticipating a softer bed that night and a proper hot meal in his stomach. Being as young and strong as he was, he was often volunteered for the most demanding tasks.

The previous week, he had been further up in the hills, quarrying what rock they could from the mountains. It was a dwindling hoard. They needed more men and warmer weather to succeed. They had returned with not enough to show for their hard work and the unwelcome news that the mountains would soon be closed to them for the winter.

The horses were loaded with panniers of wood, with most going into the precious two carts that had been repaired time and time again. The wood clattered as the carts bumped over the ground, a happy tune to accompany them back home as he chatted with his brothers. His smile grew when the familiar wall appeared through the trees.

As the most junior brother, it was his duty to care for the horses before himself. Luke turned them free in the paddock once he had deposited their load in the carpentry station, fed them and reported back to the abbot. At the carpenter’s bench, the wood needed to be sorted into that fit to be crafted, and that fit to be firewood – but that was a job for another day.

Luke clambered up the wooden steps into the dormitory, where a pail of water sat in the corner. It was cold, but he was grateful to be able to have a brisk wash, even if he had to put the same robes back on again. He no longer smelt himself – or his brothers – for which he was glad.

“Aaahhh,” he groaned as he stretched out his muscles. Time to eat, at last.

The dining hall – a grand name for a poor place – was too small to hold everyone at once, so he joined the freezing queue and waited for his turn. Soon he was in the warm, dry space, with a piping hot bowl in his hand. With the other, he collected a wooden beaker and scooped up a cup of home-brewed ale: the monastery’s special brew and his ration for the week. He looked around for a space and slotted between two of his brothers with a grin.

“Well met, brother Luke.”

“Good day brother Ormund.”

Luke muttered a small grace over his meal before he ate, sinking his spoon into the bowl as the last word faded from his lips and replacing it with a mouthful of hot meat and gravy. He ate in silence, half listening to the chatter about him. It was good to return. The monastery was a simple place, but homely and full of kindness; they had taken him in in his hour of need and cared for him since.

His ears pricked up at the unfamiliar chatter – normally his brethren spoke of little else but the rebuilding of the abbey, but today many spoke also of the strange visitors they had received that week. Luke paled as he put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Blond hair… inhuman beauty… special mission… Could it be the Eldarkind? He could not help but interrupt and leaned across the table.

“Eldarkind? Lady?” he said to a brother several seats down from him.

“Well aye, did you not see them? Ah, apologies brother Luke, I forgot, you have been elsewhere. Aye, we had visitors, the Eldarkind from beyond the mountains – straight out of myth if you please – and with them a Lady of Aryn.. Alana…”

“Arlyn!”

“Yes, something like that."

"The lady of Arlyn?" It cannot be.

Aye," replied the monk, his tone growing more disgruntled from Luke's questions. "That's who she said she was."

"Where are they?" said Luke. He stood and struggled out from the trestle bench.

"What's your hurry, brother Luke?" asked Ormund. "They're long gone."

"Gone? Where?"

"Off up north on secret business. Dangerous, we heard, but nothing more. Volunteers was wanted for the journey to safeguard them on the way. Not surprised too! Two slight ladies and some weedy men. On’y one of them had any look of strength about him. They wouldn't have lasted alone in the north."

Luke knew the skills of the Eldarkind better, but he did not say, preoccupied with thoughts of Eve. He closed his eyes for a moment. She was here and I missed her.

"Do you know anything else?" Luke said.

Ormund shook his head. "That's it."

Luke sunk back onto the bench, before gobbling down the rest of his food and gulping his drink. He no longer wanted any of it, but to leave it would be an insult to the cooks and committing the sin of wastefulness.

He rushed out after washing his wooden plate and mug and handing them to the next man in line and made his way to Hador’s hut. The abbot had a cabin of his own: a small space for him to work in. It was crammed with books upon crude shelves. Most of their precious resources were stored in the cellar, but with winter's approach, the books had had to make way for the food stores: the meagre amount of grain they had bought and bartered for and the years worth of cured and dried meat.

Hador answered his frantic knocks upon the door. His eyebrows rose when he beheld Luke.

"Brother Luke, is all well? Come in." He stepped aside to let Luke out of the cold and paused when he saw Luke's troubled face.

"Was the Lady Eve of Arlyn here?"

Hador regarded him with keen eyes. "Yes, why do you ask?"

"I… I knew her, once."

Hador pursed his lips. "It is not for me to comment upon such things. Each man's past is his own before he enters our sanctuary. But on your entry into our brotherhood, you should have forsaken all former ties, forgotten and erased as you dedicate yourself to God, king and country. I feel that it may not be wise to rekindle memories of your old life by discussing this with you."

"I beg you," said Luke. He explained in halting words what had passed before he had entered the monastery, all the way from his part in helping rescue Irumae to his feelings for the lady and how they had caused him to cast off his old life in an attempt to escape. "But if she needs assistance, I would give it all over again. I could not see her come to harm. It would torment me for the rest of my living days if I could have helped her and did not."

"You forsook women when you entered this place, Brother Luke," Hador said, his eyes serious as they probed Luke. "Do you wish to break that?"

"No, father, though I still bear feelings for her. Regardless of those, I feel a great duty to her after so many years in her father's service. Please let me aid her."

Hador turned away from him, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed forwards.

Luke waited, in absolute silence. He did not dare move though his agitation grew. What if he says no? What will I do. Would I run away? I would have to steal to succeed. I could not do that in good faith. He must say yes...

At last, Hador turned to face him once more. He sighed. "You may go. I cannot deny you in good faith as I allowed your brethren to volunteer themselves, especially given you are so driven to help. I can guess the distress that it would cause you if I denied you. Are you sure you wish to risk yourself? Travelling alone is foolish beyond belief. You might not return."

“Yes.” Luke nodded, filled with determination.

Hador sighed. “We cannot really afford to spare one more horse for we are already short of them from our generosity to those who travelled north – but I will support you, brother. I will send you with what provisions we can afford to give you, with warm clothes too and I will draw you a map for your direction. Perhaps you can catch up to them. They are two days ahead and may be riding more slowly than you, as burdened as they are with supplies. Leave at dawn.”

“Please may I leave now, father?” said Luke. I cannot stay another minute!

“What use it setting out in the dark? You could become lost, or hurt. Get a night’s sleep – for I suspect it may be your last good one in a while – and set out at dawn, refreshed.”

Luke bowed his head, though he did not agree with the abbot. “I will do as you say, father – thank you.”

Eve

Vomit sprayed across the snow as Nelda grasped her brother for support. Her face was an off shade of grey, but her brother fared little better. He bent over double and retched. Eve halted in concern.

“It’s alright, go on,” said Nelda. She staggered behind them, but vomited again and sunk to the ground in a heap. Soon her brother was on his knees too and Iara – even Tolthe.

Eve regarded them with consternation – she was unaffected, as were the monks. She halted the monks and retraced the footprints in the snow back to Tolthe so she could help him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“What’s wrong?” Eve’s brow furrowed.

“I feel so unwell,” said Tolthe. “Waves of… nausea.” He paused and clamped his mouth shut for a moment. “A headache so strong I can barely see. And the taste of metal in my mouth, hard and tangy.”

“I feel this also.” Iara shuffled forward.

“And I,” Nolwen called in a low voice from where he sat in the snow.

Nelda, still retching, did not respond.

Eve felt fine – though when she concentrated, there did seem to be a pressure upon her, almost like the fuzzy beginnings of a headache, but nothing on the same scale as her companions.

“Do you feel any of this?” she asked the monks.

They shook their heads in bafflement, their faces blank.

“The closer we travel to the mountain, the worse it seems to become,” Iara growled. “I was of good health this morning.” He turned around and walked away with a grimace. “I fear there is more to this than meets the eye. Let us retreat.”

The Eldarkind retreated in their tracks, shuffling with hunched shoulders and heads down. Eve followed in silence, though she was bursting with questions. They walked for hundreds of yards before they halted.

Iara closed his eyes and his face filled with relief. “It is as I thought. I feel much better. How fare you?” He turned to his companions.

Nelda nodded. “I feel improved, but though much has been taken from me.”

They rested awhile before attempting the approach once more. This time however, they were even further away when the nausea started. This time it brought stomach cramps with it.

Again, they drew back.

“It is like something weakens us,” Nolwen said. “I feel worse for doing less.”

Nelda had once more sunk onto a rock for support, not even bothering to clear the snow from its surface.

“What could cause it?” asked Eve.

“Perhaps this is His effect,” Iara replied. “Perhaps He strains against his bonds, waiting, poisoning them. The energy of this place feels wrong.”

Eve realised that he was right.

“It’s darker,” she said, after probing the depths of the river of energy.

“Corrupted.” Iara scowled.

“I feel a malign presence sitting upon my shoulders like a dead weight,” said Nelda. She seemed short of breath.

“What should we do? Should we approach?”

“I must,” said Iara, gritting his teeth. “For my queen, for my people, I must do what I set out to, as was promised. I will return with news of Him. If this is His evil will, I will triumph.” Iara set off again. They passed where they had stopped before and pressed on.

Eve could see from their scrunched faces and erratic movements that they were being overcome. When they were within a stone’s throw of the cavern, Nelda collapsed for good. Nolwen bent to help her up, but fell down himself. The pair sat shuddering with their eyes closed. Tolthe was even quieter than usual, which was something to be said.

As before, the monks followed them, unaffected and perturbed by their companions ailments. One muttered prayers under his breath whilst glancing about with suspicious, narrowed eyes.

Iara almost made it to the very entrance before he too fell, unconscious upon the ground. The men rushed forwards to support him. They carried Nolwen and Nelda away from the cave. Eve helped to support Nelda, whose face felt burning hot to the touch. Tolthe waved away their support and shuffled away by himself.

“You fainted,” Eve told Iara as they revived him with a trickle of water between his blued lips.

“It cannot be done.” Iara said. He cursed in a language Eve did not understand. “If we are to succeed, you must go ahead, Eve. You are the only one of us who is unaffected and possesses the magic to protect themselves inside Juska.”

“I’m scared,” Eve admitted.

“Eve.” Nolwen leaned forward to grasp her hand in his. He smiled at her and though it was warm, it was also wan and without his usual vitality. “We have come so far, for this. Artora asked you for a reason. Eldarkind have failed in this – and now we know why – and these men cannot hope to understand what they face. It must be you. Remember the binding Artora taught you, but do what you must. Do not take unnecessary risks and do not perform any magic. Find him and make sure he sleeps. Do nothing more unless you have no choice.”

“We will come with you for a way,” said one of the monks. They broke from their separate huddle as their muttered conversation ceased. “Brother Sirus wishes to see inside the mountain and others are curious too.”

“But it could be dangerous,” said Eve, not understanding why they would volunteer. Do they not understand? Even I cannot fathom the true peril of this and I already wish to leave this cursed place.

“There is a creature in the mountain,” said the monk, “but it sleeps and with God’s will it will continue to do so. With the protection of our Saviour, nothing can harm us unless it be His will.”

Eve nodded. “As you wish. Thank you,” she added.

There seemed no reason to delay. She embraced Nelda and Nolwen with fondness, taking confidence and comfort from the contact. Iara and Tolthe bowed to her with grave faces.

The yawning presence of the cave loomed over her. Its pitch black depths wanted to swallow her up. Eve shivered, unsettled. She swallowed and looked around her for support. The monks surrounded her. They were serious – solemn faced as always – but not as grim as Iara, who looked at her with an imperturbable expression. Their solid presence reassured her as she stared up at the fissure. It rose far out of sight above them.

Eve turned around to see her Eldarkind companions well out of the way across the snow. They raised their hands to her and she replied in kind. She paced forwards, her steps slow, deliberate and reluctant. Darkness swallowed her.

The blinding light of the sunlit snow behind Eve was in great contrast to the void they had stepped into. Daylight shrunk behind them with every step, until it had almost vanished and any helping hand it gave them was lost. The blue stone, flecked with silver and glistening with ice, reflected golden light back at them as the monks lit brands, prepared with the last of the wood and material torn from all their clothes.

It revealed a flat path – that Eve reckoned had been formed with magic, for there were no marks of working upon it and it bore straight into the mountain with not a single twist or turn – guiding them forward between two uneven walls that rose out of sight and into darkness above their heads. The way was three men abreast in width. At once, it felt constricting and huge.

Eve fingered her bracelet. Its warmth was reassuring and touching it was a bond to the pure energy stream she knew, not the darkened version that flowered about her. Her nerves hummed with energy.

She kept her hand upon the bracelet as they continued. The monks muttered and whispered amongst themselves, amazed by what they were seeing, but each word was magnified a thousand fold and each footfall was an advancing army, echoing many times over. Every sound made her wince.

There was no hint of day in Juska’s bowels. Their barrier to darkness was the warm, comforting glow of the torches. With each ragged breath, clouds plumed before them. The air was still, with no hint of a breeze, but not stuffy. Rather, it was a freezing air that was so cold it sapped the warmth and life from them.

If Eve had been there by herself, she would have panicked. She was not afraid of the dark, but in a place this confined and lifeless with that strange sense of pressure growing the further they went, her instincts screamed for her to run. Even the presence of strangers reassured her, though they halted here and there to look at strange formations and features in the rocks, which forced Eve to stop too. It gave Eve the chance to try and feel ahead with her senses, but Juska was unwilling to reveal her secrets yet it seemed. Dark, empty silence awaited them.

As they progressed, other ways began to snake off the main passage. Up and down they tunnelled into the mountainside – some wide, some narrow, some tall, some so small a man could not fit through them. Yet none were made by nature, but some device of man or magic, for the surfaces were smooth-faced, almost polished in appearance. Each time they passed one, Eve’s chest constricted and she held her breath. But nothing stirred in the darkness and no sounds emanated from within these new passages, not even the whisper of a breeze.

She continued with her torch – having taken it from one of the monks who wished to examine the rock – but could see that already it had begun to dim. She had no idea how long they had been in the mountain – it could not have been hours yet, but their progress was slow and time lost in there without the passage of the sun to mark it.

Eve looked back at her companions and froze. She was alone. A whimper escaped her as her body locked in place, rigid with fear. Eve strangled a cry. She dared not move. Her eyes darted about her and above her. There was nothing there – that she could see – but the darkness taunted her with spectres.

Eve sunk onto the floor and tucked herself into the wall, trying to stop hyperventilating. She tucked her head between her knees and squeezed her eyes shut. At last, her breathing slowed as her internal monologue rolled over her fears.

You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine, you’ll be fine, you’re fine.

Eve forced herself to move on. She touched the wall for comfort and stayed close to it, whilst the torch burned lower. With every few steps, she glanced behind and around herself with agitation. She walked sideways with her back scraping along the wall, reluctant to turn it on empty space. Ahead, a light grew.

Have I made it outside again? she wondered, feeling a twinge of relief at the prospect. It was blue, the colour of the sky, but it seemed to lack the same intensity of the day she had left behind. Nevertheless, it drew her towards it. It could be the way out.

The fissure narrowed ahead, to the width of a single person and then thinner still. Eve had to squeeze through. It was so tight the stone tugged on her furs. It spat her out into a huge space. She hovered at the entrance to a grand chamber that was illuminated of its own accord in an icy blue.

It stretched hundreds of yards above her and seemed almost circular. The floor was polished smooth, but it seemed to be glass, not stone. On closer inspection it was ice, frozen over the stone in swirling patterns.

But when her gaze circled from the blue, glowing walls, to the dizzying heights, to the intricate floor, it fell on the single subject of the space. The sight of it gripped her. Eve was unable to look away. A dark figure sat upon an icy throne at the far end of the cavern. Three times the height of a man it sat, gripping the arm rests of the stone chair. Its legs and arms were rigid and its head looked forwards, unmoving.

Eve’s breath caught. It was no human. Its skin was almost pure darkness and yet full of light, emitting an eerie, red glow that countered the blue of the chamber as if eating away at it. The skin – if it was skin – was so dark that she could see no features upon it – no lips, no nose, not even eyes.

Vestments shrouded it, but they seemed to be made of darkness, rather than cloth, for they fell as wisps of translucence to the floor and clung in places, like armour, to its torso. Atop its bald head soared a pointed crown – both there and not there, it disappeared as she squinted – made of no metal she had ever seen, but a substance that sapped the light from around it into its tall, cruel spikes.

When she squinted, ethereal chains also sprang into focus, bright silver bonds much stronger than any forged links that held their captive in place. It was terribly beautiful she thought, yet harsh and brutal looking. It is Him. She shivered – part with cold and part with fear. Relief welled in her that he still slept. She shuffled backwards and prepared to leave.

With a sound like breaking rock, his head snapped around to look at her. He fixed her in his penetrating gaze with eyes burning like fire. Now she could see his face. His black lips split. Heat roiled out.

“Welcome, daughter of the Eldar race,” he said to her in the Eldar tongue, in a voice that sounded like the roar and crackle of a thousand fires.

Eve froze with dread, paralysed.

“Goodbye, foolish one, who dares to look upon the face of Bahr.”

As he said his name, the energy around her surged and buzzed.

I need to bind him! Eve wet her lips, about to speak, but unsure whether to communicate with him or launch straight into the words Artora had given her. She was deliberating when he spoke again.

“Come forth.” His commands cracked like a whip over her. “Submit yourself to me, sacrifice your life energy, that I may come yet closer to my day of freedom.”

A strange tug grabbed her, like someone had grabbed her arms and was pulling her forward, whilst pushing her from behind. However, it was not a powerful enough compulsion to obey, though she stumbled forward involuntarily, almost tripping, before she caught herself.

Bahr paused, surprised by her resilience. “You resist me,” he pondered aloud. “Are you a daughter of the Eldarkind, or an impostor? I command all magic, all guises to fall from you.” He waved his hand. Nothing happened. To Eve’s surprise, a wide grin split his face, revealing the hot, orange glow of his inner fire.

“Ah! Here you stand before me as I foresaw! Daughter Eve,” he said. His eyes narrowed with menace, though his words overflowed with glee.

“How- how?” Eve’s mouth opened.

“Throughout time, I have known that one would come to free me. I foresaw your passing and when your life changed course, I tricked you here.” Bahr’s grin widened further. His mouth was an inhuman maw upon his face. “I shrouded your magic with my own. Where is your father?” he asked. A lighter note of innocence entered his tone.

Eve paused. She did not understand, however she did not wish to speak before him again, mindful of Iara’s words not to arm Bahr with information.

“Come,” Bahr said with sadness. “Will you not speak with me?”

“He is dead.” Eve replied.

Bahr waved his hand across the floor, transforming it into a living mirror. On a huge scale, she could see her father. Karn feasted with Soren and many others she did not recognise. “I had you think your most dearly beloved had fallen into the void. Only then would you despair enough to follow your path here.” A note of pride crept into his voice. “Even though I sit here in chains and weakened, I am all powerful.”

“You lie,” she said. Anger curdled in her stomach.

Bahr shrugged. “As you wish. Believe me, do not believe me, I care not. All I did, I did to draw you here, to me. Like a spider in a web,” he said. Bahr clapped with excitement. The harsh sound echoed.

Eve did not know whether to believe him. The sight of her father had stirred up emotions she had buried – albeit without resolving. She turned to leave on an impulse, but an invisible barrier held her back.

“You cannot thwart me,” said Bahr, angry. “My freedom has been long planned and longer awaited. I will not be denied!”

Luke

There were horses ahead, stamping and champing in the snow with their breath pluming white. Luke hurried his own horse along: a stocky, hairy cob called Sam that he had managed to beg and borrow from the smith. Sam was perfect – unrelenting even in the harsh surroundings – though Luke himself felt exhausted, starving and worse of all, frozen. The abbot had allowed him provisions and warm clothing, but no fires or warm food only helped the cold creeping through him.

He had not seen anyone in days since crossing the Caledonian border at the great gap. He knew that he had not turned back on himself, because the stark mountains before him were nothing like the forested Helm Mountains he had left behind. As he rode closer, a flash of relief coursed through him.

Brown robes. It is them!

They seemed to be in a huddle. When he drew closer, dismounted, and ran forwards to meet them, they turned in surprise.

“Nolwen! Nelda!” Luke exclaimed. He saw them prone upon the floor. “Where is she?”

The men turned towards him, drawing whatever weapons and blunt, heavy things they had to hand, but relaxed as they saw him. He did not hear his brothers’ greetings – they exchanged looks of confusion, as did two other Eldarkind that Luke did not recognise.

“Who is this?” said one sharply.

“This is our brother Luke,” said Sirus.

“You’re a monk?” said Nolwen, confused, but he remained unheard by the others.

“I do not understand, Luke,” said Sirus. “Why are you here? Is all well?” His eyes filled with concern.

“Don’t worry, Brother Sirus, our brothers and the monastery keep. I come to aid the Lady Eve. Where is she?” he repeated.

His brethren swapped looks, but did not answer.

“She is inside the mountain,” Nolwen said. He struggled to prop himself up on an arm. Nolwen looked terrible, Luke realised, like he had been ill for a week, but then he noticed Nelda, who looked much, much worse. Their skin was a deathly shade of white, their lips blue and their eyes pale. Nolwen’s hand shook as he reached forward to grasp Luke’s. He took it, afraid of how weak Nolwen’s grip was.

“In the mountain?” Luke said.

Nolwen nodded.

“I don’t understand. Why?”

“There is something in there that the Eldarkind seek. We cannot enter – the place repels us. Your brothers accompanied her inside, but they returned without her. In the darkness, they became separated.”

“She is lost in there?” said Luke, gaping at the cleft in the mountainside.

“We fear so,” said Sirus.

“I must follow her,” said Luke without a moment’s hesitation.

“I must caution you Luke. What she seeks in there is a creature of incredible danger,” Nolwen said.

“All the more reason for me to go to her,” Luke said. “She may need my help. I would do anything for her,” he added in a low voice.

“I know that,” said Nolwen. “I do not doubt you. I know that you will not be swayed, not where she is concerned. Take my sword – it will be unfamiliar to you, but it is spelled by our people and much stronger than any blade you may carry. It will help protect you.”

Luke took it, thanking him. He weighed the blade in his hand. It was indeed light, and the made unlike anything he had ever seen before, but he trusted Nolwen’s choice. He looked around at his brothers, who stood, subdued. They did not seem enthusiastic about joining him.

Luke snatched one of his brother’s walking aid, a carved piece that had taken years of whittling and tore off a rag from his own hem. His brother looked set to protest, but Sirus gave him a sharp shake of the head and he stilled, looking disgruntled.

“I will return.”

Nolwen and Nelda and their Eldarkind kin murmured good luck and farewell to him. Without another word he marched into the mountain, his borrowed sword drawn and his makeshift brand lighting his way.

Eve

It has to be now!

Eve took a deep breath, before Bahr could speak again and shouted out the binding. Her eyes were scrunched closed with concentration as she held the parchment in her mind’s eye and read every word from the paper.

“Brun anda Bahr, ia kaskea uan att aslura, inge flytte, inge tenkir, inge endra, inge eiende i a isen. Ia sinuar uan yta detthe, mina ethera ja a ethera ro navan lifanti kaperur kallikkiala asti a lok ro timi!” She shook with huge, jolting motions as energy rushed through her: her own and that from the bracelet. It arced across the gap between her and Bahr with a blinding light.

Into the energy she sunk, until she could feel nothing more. The dark stream was not devoid of life. Through the vortex swirling around her she sensed another power: Bahr, whose energy resources were so vast that it felt as deep and vast as an ocean.

Too late, she realised that hers was an impossible task. Her concentration wavered, for Eve was nothing more than a speck of light against the overwhelming blot that was Bahr. Even the extra power of the bracelet, which contained thousands of times more power than her at the very least, was insignificant.

She pushed power towards Bahr with all her might as she cried the binding again, but failed. Exhausted, drained of magic, she severed her ties to the energy stream and dropped to the floor. It was as if a blanket had been thrown over her, smothering her magic.

Eve’s breath came heavy from the effort. She had failed. There was nothing left – no other energy to command, save for his, which was far too powerful for her to wield. The magic faded into dark and silence. From her position, drooped, Bahr looked to be sleeping, but she knew she had failed. As if to answer her thought, he opened his eyes and fixed them on her once more.

“That was well tried,” he said, “but of no consequence. One so small as you should never presume to trouble Bahr of the fire. But I admire you your fortitude. Perhaps you and I can aid each other. Would you like that? I could give you powers greater than your wildest dreams.”

His voice lowered, his tone persuasive. “Come, daughter of the Eldarkind. Together, we could be great rulers, she of the lightness and I of the darkness, together as one.”

Eve was too exhausted to resist or rebuff him, though she was sure he was toying with her. She lay still on the floor as it froze her.

Suddenly, a figure burst in. Eve craned her neck to look up and her heart stopped. A man paused, frozen in Bahr’s glare, but there was enough of the sickly blue light to recognise him.

“Luke?”

Luke looked down and cryed out as he saw her. He rushed over and bent down to her. “Eve, thanks be to God that I found you. Come on, I need to get you out of here.”

A thunderous laughter rolled around the cave.

Luke paused, still trying to lift her up. Fear flashed over his face as he turned to face the elemental.

“How quaint,” said Bahr, the volume of his voice rising. “A gallant rescuer here for his lady love.”

Unbidden, tears slid from Eve’s eyes. “What new trick is this?” she said.

Bahr laughed. “No falsehoods!” he promised. “I told you that I manipulated your magic. You thought your most beloved dead and yet here one stands. Now do you believe me?”

Eve looked up at Luke. He looked real enough. She reached out to feel his clothes and then his hand. He felt real enough. Coarse fabric slid under her fingers. His skin was smooth and warm to the touch.

“Is it really you?” she asked in a whisper, hope rising within her.

Luke nodded.

“Touching,” said Bahr. His voice faded into boredom. “We have dallied long enough. Shall I kill you both? Shall I see one suffer whilst the other is forced to watch on? Oh, the choices.” Bahr tutted. ”Young man, your arrival has complicated matters,” he chided Luke.

Luke bared his teeth and placed himself between Bahr and Eve, his eyebrows furrowed with determination. “You will not harm her.”

“Do you know who I am, human?” said Bahr.

“No and nor do I care, dark spirit. We’re leaving.”

Bahr relaxed back in his chair as Luke backed towards Eve and waved his hand as if inviting them to go.

With his eyes never leaving Bahr, Luke scooped her up in his arms.

As he did, Bahr began to speak in a language that Eve did not recognise. Older than the Eldar tongue it felt and even more potent.

Luke stumbled backwards. He tried to find the crack in the wall, but the light distorted around them. In a moment, a flash of the purest darkness spread across the cave and plunged them into the void.

When light returned, Eve and Luke found themselves in the middle of the vast room.

“I demand that you release us,” Luke said. He drew his borrowed sword.

“You may demand nothing,” said Bahr. Anger crackled in his voice. “You presume to challenge me?”

“If that is what it takes, then I will.”

Bahr laughed incredulously. “What a fool! He has no idea of the danger he places himself in,” he said to Eve.

“Luke, go,” said Eve. “This is not your cause. He cannot be defeated. I have tried and failed. There is no reason for you to lose your life on my account.”

Luke looked at her with a strange glint in his eye, before he turned back to Bahr. “I beg that you release her, then. I will stay in her stead if you desire it.”

“Begging, good. Much more appropriate,” praised Bahr. “But see, you have revealed your weakness to me in its fullness.” He grinned with relish. “Your simple human mind amuses me, boy.” Bahr flicked his gaze to Eve.

“I will not kill you,” Bahr said.

A flicker of relief surged through Eve, but she still did not trust Bahr’s word.

“I will not even kill the human. His life is worth nought and below the effort. But a daughter of the Eldarkind is too pure, too good to waste. I will not sacrifice you needlessly.” His tone was honeyed and dripped with softness. “I took much of the energy I needed from your little display, your misguided attempt to bind me anew. I thank you for that.”

Shivers crept through Eve. What have I done?

“I require only a minuscule amount more to be free. So I will take my due and leave you here in the dark with your pet human, to see how your love helps you to survive.” His voice rang with cruel glee and a jarring laugh escaped him.

“What does he mean?” Luke hissed at Eve, but she did not know. A growing sense of foreboding and danger rose.

All of a sudden, she was plucked from the ground to dangle in mid-air, as though seized by an invisible giant. She resisted the urge to vomit as she was moved through the air, thrown by the empty space beneath her, her balance and any control over her body gone. She writhed, unable to right herself.

Luke cried out and jumped up. He could not reach her – as if to make sure of it, Eve was jerked yet higher from the floor.

She squeaked in fear. She drifted towards Bahr as deafening cracks and rumbles emanated around them. Bahr’s arms were already free, but as she watched, with morbid horror, his legs tore free of the throne, fracturing the stone beneath them. He wrenched himself forward to free his back from where he had become one with the stone.

He reached out towards Eve. The heat from his open mouth scorched her face and the brightness from within caused her to close her eyes. She threw up her arms to shield herself from him, but it was of no use. He plucked her from the air, almost cradling her in his giant arms. The heat coming from him was unbearable. Her furs singed and caught alight, sparks stung her skin and smoke choked her lungs.

Eve could see nothing but the fire glowing around them, an angry, fiery red light that consumed her, mixed with a warming honey that soothed her burning skin. Eve felt the strangest tug as dizziness overcame her. In a moment, darkness and absolute silence fell. All her senses were extinguished.

When light returned, she was all the way across the cave and high up. Sat down, she realised, on Bahr’s throne. Dread grew within her. NO! She tried to move, but could not. Every inch of her body from the strongest muscle to the softest strand of hair was frozen. Her blackened clothes seemed fused to the stone. Panic fluttered in her chest.

A stain of pure darkness occupied the centre of the chamber. She could not see Luke. Bahr flexed and stretched his limbs sensually, the smile wide upon his face and his eyes closed in bliss as his movements threw shadows and light against the contours of the room.

“Free,” he crooned. “At last…”

Zaki

It was strange to walk through the gates of Arrans to such little response, Zaki considered. They had commandeered a large trading vessel on their way home by terrorising the crew. It had taken weeks of poor sailing from Braith to Bera filled with seasickness as winter raced in from the north. Zaki sent word from Bera to the Roherii palace the moment they docked, so Zaki was more than surprised that they had no welcome party.

Once more he returned with no horse. They had eaten the few beasts remaining to them on the voyage, for the ship’s food stocks were soon decimated by Zaki’s men. It was not the return he had expected or hoped for; at the worst he had hoped to return with half the men he had set out with and at best triumphant, already crowned king at the head of a victorious army of Caledonians and Roherii.

Nevertheless, he was glad to have returned alive, though malnourished and ill, not to mention dirty and travel stained.

When they reached the palace he was taken in to meet Harad, but this time his welcome was less than warm. No refreshments awaited him, though Zaki was parched and starving, just Harad’s clear, radiating disapproval.

“Your Majesty,” Zaki said. He bowed low and deep.

Harad did not greet him in return. “I expected better news from you.” He glared at Zaki. “I hear that you return with nothing – that you have lost twelve thousand men!” His voice rose to an unrestrained shout. “And now, you have the nerve to return to me here and greet me, like you have not destroyed everything Roher stands for!”

“We lost this time,” said Zaki, scowling. “Campaigning in winter was foolish, but we are so close. The next time we will—”

“There will be no next time!” Harad’s booming yell blasted across Zaki’s voice. “If I ever give you anything again, you will be lucky! Count yourself the most fortunate man alive that you are my son-in-law, or I would kill you where you stand! You escape with the gift of your worthless life!”

Harad’s rage was in full flow. He stormed about the room, his hands taut claws as he shook them at Zaki to emphasise every word.

“Roher will be a laughing stock the moment this news travels! The nation who lost twelve thousand men to a boy king wet behind the ears! How many other countries will step up to face us, emboldened by the fact that a child has defeated us? The nation whom no one dared challenge, whom no one could triumph against, is ripe for the taking! You have given them a taste of weakness and though it was your own, because you led my men, it will be mine. You leave my reputation in tatters!

“In the time you have spent dallying on your return—”

Zaki’s anger flared, for it had been another hard journey to Roher, but Harad was in full flow and would not be broken off.

“—I have already had word from King Soren with demands for an affirmation of peace between our nations. I have no option but to accept! Roher, accept equal terms with another nation! How ridiculous! He talks of a peace treaty – promises not to invade, tax bargains – you would not believe the humiliating concessions he would have me make.

“With Janus squandering my most precious weapons in Ladrin and you spending my men’s lives as if you gamble at the casinos with my daughter’s dowry, I have nothing left. It will take years – YEARS – before I can return my weapon stocks and men to such great numbers! It may not happen in my lifetime. As it is, I have barely enough left to defend my own borders. I blame you entirely.” Harad stopped and fixed Zaki in his piercing, chilling gaze, before continuing his tirade.

“You have exhausted my patience. I have been nothing but generous, understanding and supporting of you, for the sake of my daughter. I gave you my blessings. I handed you Caledan on a plate and you could not even prove yourself in that.

“I am of a mind to grant Soren his deepest wish and hand you over as a hostage of goodwill,” Harad finished. He glowered with anger.

Zaki stiffened. “You would not.”

Harad’s eyes narrowed. “I can offer him others in the hope it would placate him, but he has requested you for good reason. I doubt he will be denied. You did kill his mother.”

“You were not blameless.”

“No, I am not. But I am not his uncle and I did not commit the act.”

Zaki’s breath stalled. He waited for Harad to speak again. Will he send me? I have not journeyed all the way here to be betrayed. His heart stopped in his chest at the thought. After seeing Soren’s actions upon the battlefield, he had no doubt what would happen to him if he returned to Caledan as a captive. A cold chill settled over him. His clenched hands became clammy.

“I may yet agree to his treaty. It will give me perfect cover to restock my weapons and perfect my incendiary device technology with fewer of his spies in court.”

“He does not have spies here! He is a boy.”

“Your translator worked for Caledan, sending messages back to his master. I had him tortured and killed,” Harad said, with no emotion in his voice.

Tobias was a spy? Zaki could not believe it. But then, when he considered, where did a lowborn Roherii learn almost fluent Caledonian? What a fool I have been. Soren knew everything. Anger filled him at his own shortsightedness.

“Without me, Caledan will never be yours! You do not have the right,” he snarled at Harad.

Harad laughed, to his surprise, a hard laugh of someone who knew better. “Who needs right when you have might? Remember Ladrin, Zaki. Right means nothing. In this world, in this life, you have to earn or take what is yours. Even money is but a tool. Power is everything.”

~

Zaki received the summons with surprise.

“Harad has not admitted me into his presence since I returned,” he mused aloud. He had laid low for weeks, not even leaving his rooms.

“Perhaps all is forgiven,” Reynard said. You know Harad’s temper, but after all, you are the heir to Caledan’s throne and you are gifted with your own son.”

Zaki smiled. He had forgotten about Demara and Leika on his travels, but was pleased to find he had a son at last. Unlike Leika, who had her mother’s brown eyes, Thai had inherited deep, sea blue eyes from him. “Thai is a strong boy, he takes after me. We will weather this together – perhaps this is a new start.”

Zaki had not been impressed to find out of Demara’s poor treatment of his mistress, but a legitimate son ruled out any need for an illegitimate one. Tulia will be fine, he told himself.

“This could be the welcome back into the fold, the pardon you have been waiting for.” Reynard’s smile matched his own – for Reynard’s success rose and fell with Zaki’s. Zaki knew Reynard was aware of that.

Zaki nodded. He looked himself up and down in the mirror to double check he was impeccably dressed. He thought of how disdainfully Demara had treated him since his return, filled with the same resentment and brooding disappointment as her father, but Zaki was confident. My station is so high they cannot desert me. Thai’s birth has strengthened me – I am safe with an heir.

When he reached the open chamber where Harad managed his affairs, the throne room was packed with rows and rows of seated men. They sat as silent and still as statues, but for their eyes, which followed him as he walked through their midst to face Harad upon his throne. If he had not known better, it would have looked like a trial.

Reynard walked a pace behind him and guards shadowed them. Zaki glanced behind, moving his head fractionally to observe them, before his eyes slid back to Harad, who sat impassive upon his throne before them. His face was shaded. His eyes loomed from the darkness. A tingle of fear stroked Zaki’s spine. He quickly suppressed it.

“Your Majesty,” Zaki greeted with respect. He held a bow for several seconds. Behind him, Reynard knelt upon the floor with his eyes cast down – too unworthy to look at the king of Roher.

“I have made my decision regarding your fate,” said Harad.

Zaki could tell nothing from Harad’s face nor his voice, both of which which were impassive and emotionless. He stilled, waiting for Harad’s next words.

“I will yield you to Soren. I have no further use for you.”

Zaki held himself for a moment, sure he had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Soren has demanded you as a hostage and I consent to his wish. You are to be returned to Caledan with all haste.”

“You cannot do this!” shouted Zaki, his eyes wide with shock.

“I can do what I please and I will,” said Harad through thin lips. “I have already expressed my immense disappointment in you and I realise that, since you have an heir, I no longer need you for me to have a claim to Caledan’s throne. Thai shall be brought up in the Roherii way, to become a strong and fearless warrior who will succeed in everything he does. I will win Caledan’s throne on his behalf and rule until he is of an age to succeed to the throne.”

“Caledan will never be ruled by a foreigner,” said Zaki. His lip curled with contempt. “There is no surer way to fail than to raise him as a Roherii prince.”

“You think I am a fool!” Harad laughed. “He will be educated in fluent Caledonian, the ways of their court and all else he needs to know. To them, he will appear to be their perfect king, ready-made and waiting to ascend to the throne.”

“They will know – you think they will be satisfied by your offer of peace? A Caledonian will never trust a Roherii, as sure as the sun sets each day.”

“It matters not. They will be trapped by their own promises and by the time we rise, it will be too late for them. I will have perfected my incendiary device and rebuilt my forces. They will stand no chance – I will make certain of it.”

“I could tell Soren of this, to bargain for a pardon.”

Harad chuckled, a strange sound that Zaki had never before heard him utter. “You are a fool if you believe he will ever pardon you. Go and say farewell to your wife and children. You will leave today.”

“Am I to take my men with me?”

“No. They will remain here and serve me.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, your servant here can set an example for them to follow. Will you serve me as faithfully as you serve him?” Harad asked Reynard, who looked up to meet his gaze.

Reynard looked to Zaki. His face was far more drawn than when they had feasted together in Caledan and toasted to their success, all that long time ago. “I would not forsake my king,” he replied. “I have travelled through through hells and back to serve him.”

Zaki could not deny that he had been faithful and for the first time felt grateful for his unending support. I wonder where I would be without you, friend. He smiled at Reynard with open appreciation.

Harad shrugged. “That is noble, but a shame.” He flicked his fingers.

Reynard was hauled to his feet and stood before Harad in the grasp of two burly guards.

“The other choice is death.” He flicked his fingers again.

“No!” cried Reynard, but it was too late. A curved blade had already crossed his throat. He gurgled as they dropped him onto the floor. Face down, he convulsed. After a few moments he was still.

Zaki’s face had paled as if his own blood had been drained. “That was unnecessary,” he said. Hate bubbled inside him.

“I do not care,” said Harad in a patronising tone. “I tire of you – get out.” Zaki stood his ground, so the guards dragged him all the way to the door, outside and then to Demara’s chambers. They escorted him inside, jostling him.

“Get away from me!” he snarled at them, but they ignored him. “Have you heard what your father plans to do with me?” he asked Demara.

She nodded but did not speak.

“Tell him to undo this madness! I am the rightful king of Caledan! I will not be treated with such disrespect.”

Demara shrugged – unresponsive, like her father. “Goodbye husband.”

Zaki paused, his mouth agape. “You care not?”

Demara regarded him as if evaluating whether she should answer. “No,” she said. “I thank you for my beautiful children, but in all else you have brought me misery.” She left the room. The two children remained with the maid – who refused to look at him.

Leika had grown visibly in his absence. Her hair had grown and darkened yet further and she could speak, stringing nonsense words together with Roherii words and snatches of phrases. She did not come to him, but looked at him like he was a stranger. Her pudgy hand clasped one of the maid’s fingers.

The boy, Thai, looked up with liquid eyes from his regal crib. He stared at Zaki with curiosity as he chewed on his hand, spit dribbling down his chin and arm.

Zaki felt a hard lump in his throat. This could be the last time I see them. His gaze hardened. My own children. My prince and princess.

Zaki moved forward to pick up his daughter, but she hid behind the woman’s skirt.

She bent down to comfort the girl, but did not offer her to him as she should have done.

I have no influence here. Struck by inspiration, Zaki searched his person for something of his to leave her.

He undid the golden bracelet on his left wrist. It was borrowed, like most things of his were, but it was the one thing he had left to give her. The maid took it from him and showed it to Leika. Leika grabbed the shining object, distracted from her apprehension towards him.

Tuning to Thai, he scooped the boy up in his arms. Zaki savoured every detail of his face and appreciated the handsome beauty of dark blue eyes against his deep olive coloured skin. Thai gurgled at him and Zaki smiled. Placing the boy in his satin bedding, he removed his most precious remaining link to Caledan – his golden signet ring. It was so large that Thai would take many years to grow into it.

“Make sure this is kept safe for him,” he said to the room at large, his eyes still fixed on the boy. He tucked it into the bedding and turned away, steeling himself for what was to come.

This will not be the end of me. I will return to take you away from this monstrous place.

Luke

Bahr clapped his mighty hands above his head and vanished in an instant. He left nothing behind but the fading smell of smoke.

Disorientated, Luke struggled to his feet. He was still for some seconds whilst he tried to comprehend what had happened. He looked around for Eve but she was nowhere to be seen on the ground. His heart leapt in his chest when he saw her, yet even as he watched, her head slumped forward onto her chest.

Luke rushed forward to the great seat, which rose above his head. He could barely touch her boot. She looked like a doll sat upon a human chair, so huge was the throne. He tried to grasp it to tug her from the seat, intending to catch her as she fell, but her frame was immovable and rigid.

A golden glow seemed to illuminate her. Then it faded to nothing and she was lit only by the cold blue surrounding them.

“Eve? Speak to me, Eve! What do I do?” he asked her. He tugged upon her feet again. He glanced around for anything that might help him, but the space was empty.

She is so pale and still. Luke chewed on his lip. What do I do? He deliberated leaving her, but in this cold, dark space, he could not think of her remaining here whilst he sought their companions. It would feel like he had abandoned her. I did not come all this way to lose.

Luke grabbed hold of the stone chair, which seemed hewn from a single block, and climbed up onto the seat, finding plenty of handholds to haul himself up on. Using his weight, he tried to move her and then, shoving with all his might, but to no avail. He cried out in frustration, slapping the stone.

With a sigh, he sat beside her. His legs dangled off the edge. Eve’s face was still and her eyes closed as he looked at her. Her skin was ice cold to the touch. Luke murmured in her ear, but there was no response. No breath came from her mouth or nose even when he waved a hand before her face.

She cannot be dead. He said he would not kill her. What good would it do to bind her here dead?

“Magic,” he spat the word out like a curse. I need help. He leaned over to Eve for one last time. “Forgive me,” he whispered in her ear, and squeezed her still hand. “I will return.”

With that, he jumped down from the seat. The impact jarred his knees and he slipped onto his side when his feet found no purchase on the icy surface. His hip crunched. Luke pulled himself up and limped away. As he slipped through the crack, he allowed one last look back. The blackened bundle of furs and pale flash of skin were tiny.

He dove straight through the mountain in as straight a line as he could with his arms outstretched before and around him so that he did not bump into anything. Before long the black faded to grey and then red as up ahead the fissure came into view. It revealed the beginnings of a glorious sunset. But as he left the cave, he paused for a moment blinking in the light. Where is everyone?

“Sirus? Nolwen? Nelda? Brothers?” he called. There was no answer.

He moved away from the opening, towards where he had last parted with them. As he approached the site, it appeared as if the snow had been melted in a great trail, right down to the bare earth beneath, and refrozen again in smooth, swirling ice patterns. Footprints, he realised. Their scale was terrifying to behold.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he crested a small horizon. Laid out like the rag dolls the girls of Arlyn played with, were all those who had accompanied Eve. There was no sign of the horses. Mingled amongst brown robes were the fair-haired Eldarkind. As he paced through them in shocked silence, nothing moved. He bent down to check them. They all held the same, wide eyed look of fear – or the men did at least. There were no traces of blood, but they had no pulse or breath either. It was as if they had died of fear. Bahr did this, Luke realised.

He paused at the Eldarkind, but they had no life in them. Their glassy eyes held a different emotion – anger, Luke thought. How could Bahr kill them so easily? Luke wondered. They seemed invincible to him.

Last of all and furthest away lay Nolwen and Nelda. He cradled his sister in his arms. Nelda looked to be sleeping against him, but they were so still that Luke assumed the worst. A lump formed in Luke’s throat, but he inhaled when Nolwen stirred.

“Nolwen, you live!” Luke rushed forward to kneel in the slush around them.

“Not for long,” Nolwen regarded him with half open eyes. Pain was written in the lines upon his face.

“What happened?” Luke asked.

“We tried to fight him – to stop him. It was foolish of us. He is gone. The pact is broken.”

Luke did not understand. “Nolwen, I need your help,” he said, but as he said it, he realised how foolish he was. They were in no state to move. No one would be coming with him back into the mountain. “Eve is trapped in the mountain, upon a great stone chair. Bahr was sat upon it, but he’s gone and she is and I cannot free her.” His message was garbled in his haste.

Nolwen closed his eyes. “I cannot help you free her. I used what little energy I have left to try and heal my sister, though it did her no good. I will not rise again.” His face was sorrowful.

“I can help you,” Luke offered, but the tiniest shake of Nolwen’s head stopped him.

Nolwen opened his eyes again, this time looking at his sister’s still form, tucked against his chest. “I am dying. It is cold and painful, my body is broken. You can help by easing my passing. I can do one thing for you. My sword.”

Luke fumbled at his waist. He pulled the blade from its scabbard and handed it to Nolwen, handle first.

“I will give my remaining life energy to the sword. Touch Eve with the blade. Perhaps she will be able to free herself.” He was unable to clasp the sword. His hand fell into the snow beside him with his fingers trailing upon the pommel.

“Goodbye, Luke,” Nolwen said. His blue eyes pierced Luke’s. He closed his eyes as glowing energy trickled down his arm and sunk into the blade. With a sigh, the last life of Nolwen left him. His head tipped sideways to rest atop Nelda’s.

Fighting back tears, Luke surveyed the scene. He knew he should try to bury his fallen brothers and pay respect to the Eldarkind, yet the earth lay frozen, packed beneath ice and snow. He had nothing to dig with but his hands and besides that, Eve waited for him, alone in the darkness.

The sky blazed red as the sun slipped towards the horizon. The first stars already reveal themselves in the sky between the gathering clouds. It would have been beautiful were it not for the devastation surrounding him.

He looked to the sky and asked God to guide him – the only reason he had managed to survive to far was his faith. As his cheeks turned skyward, flakes of snow settled upon his skin. They were cold kisses that brought no answers.

Aching, exhausted and demoralised, he clambered to his feet with Nolwen’s blade in his hand. His eyes were downcast to the snow and he tramped back to the door into the mountain with his shoulders hunched against the deepening flurry.

Eve

Eve awoke to the blue light. Her eyes flickered open, but though they rolled in their sockets and blinked, the rest of her body could not even twitch. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, though she could not take a full breath, her paralysed form stopping the expansion of her lungs. She could hear the silence of the mountain around her. Its empty bowels reflected solitude towards her.

The faint smell of burning lingered in her nose. She strained her eyes towards her body and saw with great relief that the blaze was extinguished. Her clothes were ruined and blackened. Strands of hair falling across her face were singed. With every breath, she could taste ash on her lips. Eve recalled the fire. She was cold now, but not pleasantly so. The chill was numbing as it wormed its way through her still body.

What do I do? She strained but it was of no use. Her body did not move. Eve concentrated on bending a finger with all her might, until she growled with frustration. Nothing. I don’t want to stay here. Will I die here? I don’t want to. The cold would kill her if she didn’t suffocate or starve first. It was already a painful burn creeping through her. Eve could see the dark slit in the wall that taunted her with freedom, yet she could not reach it.

Magic. Eve licked her lips – or tried to, but her tongue was frozen. Her lips were dry and chapped. A moan of annoyance escaped her lungs, though she could form no words.

Instead she built a spell in her mind, picking and choosing words with care from the Eldar tongue that might free her, comforted by the light touch of the energy and the stronger pulse of the bracelet. Its remains were pitiful – she could see it faint and thin upon her skin with a small glow to it, like it had disintegrated – yet it held enough energy to bring her hope.

Maybe, just maybe.

Nevertheless it was a dangerous idea, for the spell could free her – or drain her of her remaining energy, which would result in certain death. As she strung the spell together and rehearsed it, she filled her mind with fervent hope that she might succeed.

A clatter at the cave edge distracted her with a jolt. The world, that had disappeared before her in her focus, reappeared once more as she saw Luke standing before her.

For a moment there was a lull. Time froze whilst she blinked her eyes several times, trying to determine if what she saw was real. The sight of his face brought a warm relief that blossomed inside her, fighting back the cold a little. She was surprised that he had returned, but a part of her did not understand why anyone would choose to come back to this cursed place, or follow anyone so far on the promise of nothing.

The spell dissolved before her and in its place she conjured up one to free her voice. Her mouth remained silent as she screamed it inside her mind. At once, pressure lifted from her chest and movement returned to her head and upper torso. She breathed deeply for a few seconds, not caring that the freezing air burnt her lungs with an ice-fire. The bracelet buzzed against her wrist.

Luke crossed the cave to stand before her. He exclaimed as she moved her head up to look him in the eye.

“Luke,” she said, her voice hoarse. “You came back.”

“I promised I would,” he replied with a smile stretching across his face. He held out his hand to her. “Jump, I’ll catch you.”

Eve shook her head, the movement slow and laboured. So tired… “I cannot move.”

His smile faltered.

“How did you find me? Why did you come back?” Eve asked.

“When I found out that you had passed the monastery, I couldn’t think of anything else that I needed to do more.”

Eve looked at him and frowned. Brown robes. “You’re a monk?”

“I was. Well, yes I suppose I am. I’m not sure, but I’ll have to go back.”

“You don’t want to?”

A rueful smile crossed his face. “I’ve found you again – not a chance. I’d forgotten how beautiful you were. I’d forgotten how sweet your voice sounds. Seeing you again makes me feel everything that I sought to escape.”

Eve spoke – or tried to – but her throat was sore and it came out as a bark that turned into a fit of coughing. So thirsty.

Luke scrambled up onto the throne beside her and offered her a drink from his water skin. With little movement in her body, she tilted her head awkwardly as he held it before her. Much ran down her chin, but a sweet trickle slid into her throat and relieved her scalded mouth and lips.

Silence fell as he put the stopper in the the gourd and hung it from his belt once more.

“It’s been so long since I saw you, I don’t know where to begin,” said Eve.

“There’s nothing much to say,” Luke said with a shrug. “I ran away. I thought I could escape my problems – but as it turned out, you followed me.” He grinned at her before returning his gaze to the polished floor. “I didn’t know where else to go, so I wandered, and one day I turned up on the doorstep of the monastery. I’ve been there ever since, helping them to rebuild.”

“Are you happy there?”

Luke paused. “In a way. It is a simple life. What about you? I thought you had big plans.”

“They didn’t work out,” Eve said. “War came first, so father sent me to Ednor so that I could be safe.” She told him what she had found when she had reached the home of the Eldarkind.

“May she recover soon,” said Luke, when she mentioned Artora. “You did not marry, then?”

“No. I managed to escape that.”

“Won’t you have to when you return, when the war is done with?”

Eve froze. What if Dane isn’t dead? What if it was another cruel trick of Bahr’s?

“Leitha Dane,” she said without hesitation, thankful for the polished floor, which acted like a giant window into the visions. The surface shimmered in colour and darkened, but nothing else happened.

“Lessa. Leitha isa,” she said.

The black faded. Her father appeared, almost transparent upon the floor.

Luke gasped upon seeing the giant image before him.

“He’s alive!” Tears pricked Eve’s eyes. “Thanks be. Lessa. Leitha Edmund.”

Once more the surface faded to darkness.

“Lessa,” she said.

“What is it?” Luke said, his forehead creased. “I don’t understand.”

“My father is safe,” Eve said. She closed her eyes and sighed with relief. Her eyes opened as a tinge of sadness returned. “But Edmund is not. Neither is Dane. They are both dead. I do not know how, but I cannot see them anymore. In truth, I thought you dead also, but Bahr played a cruel trick on me from afar.”

Luke shook his head. “I don’t follow. But Edmund is dead? How can it be so?” He sat in silence with her for a few moments. “Wait, if Dane is no longer alive, does that mean you are no longer to be married?”

“I consider it so.” Eve shivered, remembering how she had felt. “I will not be put in that position again.”

She could sense an awkwardness between them as once more they lapsed into quiescence. So much has passed since we last met, she considered. Do we even know each other anymore? She could not deny it was a relief to see him, especially since she had believed the worst after scrying him to find darkness in the mirror. But hope was slow to come, even though he had travelled so far to see her. She knew that she could not return to the childish naivety of assuming anything between them would flourish.

After a while, when she had begun to notice the cold creeping through her again, Luke spoke.

“How can I help you escape this place? Nolwen gave me his sword to free you.”

Eve’s heart sunk. “You cannot. I’m stuck fast and I don’t have enough magic to escape. The sword will be of no use. The solution is to do as Bahr did and switch my place for another. There’s no way to leave.” She hung her head.

“What if I stayed?” Luke said in a low voice.

Eve turned her head and fixed him with a stare. “You would do that for me?” she said, touched.

Luke sighed. “You know I would. I’ve come to what feels like the end of the world to find you. What does that tell you?”

“I wish I’d run away with you,” said Eve.

“No, you don’t. You’d never leave your father, you know that.”

“I can’t ask this of you, though.”

“You don’t ask me – I choose this.”

“But what if I try to free you, but it’s impossible?”

Luke shrugged. “I trust you to do the right thing, like you always have done.”

“I haven’t always done the right thing,” Eve admitted. “I never should have agreed to father’s proposal, for one.”

“You thought it was necessary – don’t be angry with yourself. We all make mistakes. Mine was not asking for your hand sooner, first.” He placed his gloved hand atop her own, but Eve could not feel anything.

Not for the first time, she wished things could have been different.

“Are you certain you want to do this?” Eve said. She searched Luke’s face for any sign of uncertainty.

“I am,” he said. He met her stare without a flicker.

“Alright.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to put you into a deep sleep, one that you won’t waken from. The sleep must be undone by a spell caster, or the breaking of the original bonds that bind a sacrifice to the chair. Are you ready?”

He nodded and his eyes softened. “Promise me you’ll return,” he said.

“I will.” She strained, leaning as much of her upper body to him as she could, to plant a soft kiss on his lips.

He gathered her in a tight hug of warmth that she savoured, unable to move to embrace him back.

“I love you,” she whispered, feeling a thrill as she admitted it for the first time.

“I love you more,” he murmured, before drawing back. “Make it quick.”

Eve closed her eyes and sunk into the stream of energy that was faint about them to draw from the remaining power of the bracelet. After seeing Bahr perform it, she understood what she had to do. Bahr was cleverer than she had realised. The energy cost of breaking the binding was so huge it was impossible without more support.

To switch places however, required much less energy, because the binding remained true though the subject was substituted. The energy was not broken: it was bent. It might be possible and then I can return with help to free him. Maybe with Bahr gone, Nolwen, Nelda, Iara and Tolthe will be able to enter this place and use their magic to help me free Luke.

The spell complete in her head, she met Luke’s gaze. Without a pause Eve ordered the switching of their bodies. Light grew around them until it was so bright that she was forced to shut her eyes. It grew even further until it pierced through her eyelids. It felt like she was shaking herself to pieces. And then with a sudden snapping feeling, like she had hurled herself through a window into a calm place, it was over. The light vanished and she opened her eyes. She still sat upon the throne, but she could move. Next to her, slumped against one of the giant arms, was Luke in a breathless, dreamless slumber.

She fixed his face into her memory, before she clambered down from the high seat and raced across the chamber, whilst conjuring light to lead her from the dark place, fuelled by the fast dwindling supply of energy from the bracelet. Eve could not help but feel guilty and selfish as she fled, haunted by sacrificing Luke’s freedom for her own. It will not be for long, she promised. Her limbs were stubborn to obey and she shuffled across the cavern, forcing her body to coordinate and shuck the cold that had seeped into it.

~

It was still dark when she reached freedom, so much so that when she stumbled from the cave entrance, she did not at first realise she had left the cover of the mountain. As her eyes accustomed to the little light, she made her way from the mountain. On an impulse, she grabbed a handful of snow and swallowed with delight the water it formed when it melted inside her mouth.

Progress was slow as she searched around for her companions, until dawn at last arrived to banish the darkness. The clouds remained, making the atmosphere dull and seething. Discovering the devastation, Eve stopped in her tracks. Her companions’ bodies lay crooked, like discarded rubbish on the ground. She swallowed. There was no life here – she could feel it – not in Iara and Tolthe, who had died grim-faced, nor in the monks, whose empty gazes stared into forever. Pain cut through her heart when she found Nolwen and Nelda.

“No!” she said and rushed forward, but it was of no use. They were cold and frozen, in a sleep from which they would never awaken. Eve shivered herself, her damaged clothing no shield to the freezing temperatures and biting wind. Yet she would not take the clothing of the dead. It was too disrespectful to bear contemplating, even if they had no further use for it.

Tears rolled down her face and froze in trails upon her cheeks as she stood. I cannot stay here. She glanced around, but there was no sign of the horses. No food. No shelter. No water. Eve swallowed.

I have to get to Ednor and warn them that Bahr is free. It’s my chance to survive and free Luke. I cannot forsake him.

She touched Nolwen and Nelda’s hands one last time, muttered a blessing to them from her childhood, and shuffled away. Her limbs were already stiff from tarrying.

Away from Juska Eve walked, one footstep after another, until the mountain dwindled behind her and the day had spent itself. When darkness fell again, she spied ahead a bulky shape in the fading light. As she squinted, it moved.

A horse! she realised. With renewed energy she strode forward. Drawing closer, she realised that it had far too many legs and was in fact two. She could have cried with relief, for they were oddly shaped – still carrying saddlebags. As she caught them and held onto their slack reins, she stroked their noses, thanking whatever power had led her to them.

She rummaged through the bags to find some spare furs and a little food. The furs would not give her a new outfit, but she could at least replace her burnt hat and gloves. It was a start. The food was nothing more than some cracked biscuits and the remaining dried meat strips.

Eve ate one, but had to stop herself falling upon the rest – she knew well enough to save them. She was a long way from help and with no certain idea about where to go. There was no wood, nor water, but one empty skin lurked at the bottom. She packed it with snow and put it back in the bag, in the hope that it would melt.

~

The horses were as listless and starving as she when they first sighted a dark smudge on the horizon days later, but Eve was overjoyed, for it, along with the receding snow, meant that she had found the Helm Mountains once more. She forged south east to the great gap with all the vigour she could muster. That night she stopped to rest on mossy ground, not snow, and the horses ate to their contentment.

It still took her days from there to plod to the northern monastery, the closest point of human contact. Eve trembled with weariness as she passed under the shadow of the gates, still atop one of the horses, whose necks drooped with tiredness.

Brown-robed men rushed towards her. Hands lifted her down as she staggered on her feet and leaned upon them for support. Her head swam. They plied her with questions, but she could not answer, not least because she could not distinguish the words.

She noticed the absence of the winter air and looked around as they sat her in a comfortable, padded chair, in a warm room, peeled her hat and gloves off and called to each other to fetch this and that. Before long a meal steamed before her and a drink of refreshing cordial.

Without a thought she tucked in, eating as ravenously as she had ever done. Her stomach was so full afterwards that it hurt, but she did not care. It felt so good to be warm and content, even if she was still exhausted. When she looked up, there was one person left in the small log cabin with her – the abbot himself.

“Welcome, Lady Eve,” he said. “Where are your companions?” he asked.

Eve’s lip trembled. Her fatigue left no energy to keep her emotions under control. “They’re all dead,” she croaked. “I am the last.”

Hador sunk back into his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. “That is ill news indeed, mistress.”

“Luke survives,” she said. “But he is trapped. I must reach Ednor, for they are his only hope of freedom.”

“Lady, please forgive me, but you are in no fit state. You must rest!”

Tears spilt from Eve’s eyes. “I cannot abandon him, sir.”

“We can send a message on for you, if that should ease your troubles. It will reach Ednor quicker than you will.”

Eve sniffed, wiping her eyes. A sudden thought had struck her. “Do you have a mirror? Or a smooth surface of some kind? Anything will do. I can contact them from here. Please, I beg you, too much time has already been lost.”

Hador frowned at her, but nodded his head and sent someone to fetch something from the stores. They soon returned with a small shaving mirror. It was made crudely, and was small, but it did not matter.

Eve whispered the command to scry the queen of the Eldarkind, but instead of Artora’s face, another Eldarkind appeared in the mirror.

“Let our voices pass through the mirror,” Eve commanded. “Hello?”

He turned, unable to see her, before conjuring a mirror to levitate before him from nothing. “Who speaks to me,” he said to the empty air, in the Eldar tongue.

“Lady Eve of Ednor.”

He muttered an enchantment and the mirror’s surface rippled. His face appeared: he had linked the two scryings.

“Who are you?” Eve asked. “I meant to contact Artora, I have grave news that she must hear.”

“I am Tarrell,” he said, replying in Caledonian to match her. “I am the keeper of the Eldarkind. Artora passed away nine days hence.”

Eve stilled. No! No more sorrow! It cannot be – but he would not lie.

“Then it is to you that I must deliver my news.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Artora’s face was strong in her mind – as she had been the first time Eve had seen her, not the last, when she had been sickly and unrecognisable. She gave me so much. I should have shown her far more thanks for it, returned her kindness. It is too late to repay it... “But forgive me, I must ask. How did it happen? I cannot understand it.”

“We could do nought to heal her and she could no longer hold on,” Tarrell said. “We made her as comfortable as possible,” he added. “She felt no pain at the end. I am tasked with continuing her duties. You are still welcome here, Lady Eve.”

Eve did not reply. She closed her eyes. It did not ward off the wave of fresh grief that threatened to crush her.

“What news do you have Lady Eve? Where are your companions?”

At that, Eve burst into tears. “They’re all dead.” Eve saw the obvious question upon his lips. She did not want to talk of it but knew she must. She fought back her tears and told him what had passed since they had left Caledan’s borders in as few words as possible.

“That is terrible to hear. May Iara, Tolthe, Nelda and Nolwen rest in eternal peace for their sacrifice.” After a lengthy pause, he continued. “I will send a party to find them. They shall be brought home, for a proper farewell and a resting place that befits them, under the stars of their homeland.

“Will you return to stay with us?” he added.

Eve shook her head. “Please, I must go north again – will you help me free Luke? I cannot leave him to the mercy of Bahr, if he returns, or to spend eternity in that awful place. Please help me!”

But Tarrell also shook his head. “It is with a heavy heart, but I must say that it would be almost impossible to do so. A binding of this magnitude, on an elemental no less, is hard to undo. The combined power of our race and the dragons would be required, and even then it might not be successful. The only certain way to break the magic is for its original subject to die. As you well know, we have no way to kill Bahr. I apologise with all my heart, but I cannot help you in this.”

“I’m begging you, please! I will not give up after he has sacrificed so much to help me.”

Myrkith-Visir

Sheets of fire soared into the sky as they advanced from the north. Smoke clogged the air and shielded the sun, plunging the Isles of Kotyir into darkness.

Myrkith-visir watched the approaching flames with the tingle of premonition and nerves mingled.

“What is it, sire?” Myrkdaga asked him.

Myrkith-visir turned to his son, regarding him gravely. “One who could be our doom, my son.” And there is not time to prepare. Myrkith-visir glanced up at he sky. Would that this happened in summer, at our full strength.

He let out an urgent, bellowing roar to summon the clan and launched off the heights of the peak. His keen hearing could already detect the crackling and spitting of the burning vegetation miles away as the fire leaped from the mainland to the first island, an impossible distance away. A new column of black, acrid smoke spiralled into the sky as it burnt.

Trying to ignore rising trepidation, Myrkith-visir wheeled down in gentle circles to the crater lake, where dragons were already arriving amid much commotion. Myrkdaga landed behind him and dived through the throng to take his place with the smaller dragons at the back of the gathering.

“We have no time, be silent!” Myrkith-visir ordered.

The dragons before him subsided and turned to face him, though many could not help but keep glancing at the smoke that encroached upon them.

“The pact is broken. He of the fire, whom some name Bahr, is free. I do not understand his enmity, but it is clear he bears us no goodwill. We must repel him, for he will destroy us all if given the chance.” Myrkith-visir’s words subsided into a growl, for the earth beneath them shuddered from some great force.

Destruction surrounded them as the entire peak seemed to erupt in flames. The fire bothered the dragons little – Myrkith-visir instead felt refreshed from the light and heat – but the smoke was suffocating. The temperature soared so high that the lake bubbled and boiled around them, disappearing into thin air as it escaped liquid form.

Materialising from the smoke and flames, Bahr stepped from the air into the shallows of the lake, which hissed and evaporated around him with each step. Dragons backed away from him.

Myrkith-visir held his head tall and showed no sign of submission. With any other, he would have shown aggression, but Myrkith-visir was aware of Bahr’s far superior strength and wary as a result of his conduct so far. Already he could feel the thrum of Bahr’s powerful magic vibrating through the air and earth.

Bahr moved forwards with predatory grace to stand before him. His face was twisted in a sinister grin. Behind him, a silver dragon of gigantic bulk thudded into the earth. To Myrkith-visir’s surprise, Bahr did not flinch or show any reaction at all. With a shock, Myrkith-visir realised it was Cies who had landed, though twisted in form.

“We greet you and extend welcome, Bahr of the fire.” Myrkith-visir lowered his head into a bow, before raising it to offer the softer, fleshy underside of his jaw – a sign of friendship and mutual vulnerability – but for the briefest moment, before he returned his eyes to watch Bahr. It was a gesture of mutual trust, though he had none for the elemental. He had even less for Cies, though he felt safe here, surrounded by his clan.

“You are not welcome here, outcast,” Myrkith-visir said to Cies. “Begone unless you wish to die.”

To his surprise, Cies roared defiance at him in response as his wings snapped open.

He is changed, thought Myrkith-visir, confused. It was as if Cies was a different dragon, no longer light, sleek and powerful, but bulging with corded muscles that did not balance his form. Myrkth-visir wondered how Cies’s wings could even support him.

Bahr did not reply. Instead he smiled lazily with half lidded eyes. He toyed with a fireball, rolling it in and around his palm with ease, where it lit up the dark surface of his being – for he had no skin – with embers.

“Why do you burn our lands?”

Bahr’s face soured. “All should burn,” Bahr hissed,” for the wrong that you have done unto me.”

“We wish you no ill will, Bahr of the fire.”

“And yet you bound me in ice to lie for millennia.” Bahr’s scathing tone cut Myrkith off.

“That was not of our doing,” retorted Myrkith-visir. He suppressed his rising temper.

“It was the doing of your ancestors and as their blood, you must pay my price!”

“Unless you offer our great lord Bahr your allegiance,” Cies said in a carrying voice so loud that all the clan could hear him. He drew up with pride. “Let me be the first to offer him my support as the true head of our clan.” He bowed before Bahr before raising up his chin and holding it there.

Cies stood fixed for a length of time so great that others muttered to each other, shocked at such a gesture of submission.

Myrkith-visir growled. “Do you hear yourselves? Cies is a banished coward, drawn to a power that raises him to be greater than he is, nothing more. Bahr has shown that he is in no way inclined to befriend us. Would you trust him with your lives?

Kin of Arun and Brun, the two dragons who had also been banished as a result of their part in Cies’ treason, stepped forward.

“Your leadership has brought us nothing but shame and sorrow,” their matriarch said, before moving to stand before Bahr and pledge their support.

“You brought your dishonour upon yourself,” snarled Myrkith-visir. “Let it be know that any who join Cies and Bahr of the fire will be forever excluded from our clan, cast out until the end of time! You will never be welcome to set foot in any dragon-held lands across the world.”

“There is a new clan,” Cies said with a grin that revealed rows of gleaming, sharp teeth.

“I have heard enough of your treachery, dishonourable worm! I will not suffer my clan to be destroyed by the guiles of one so low as you, even if an elemental lies in my path. You die here, Cies, I promise you that. I call you all, my clan to me, to rid us of this coward and this evil!” Myrkith-visir bared his teeth as he crouched on his haunches. As he prepared to launch himself at the silver dragon, Cies mirrored his movements.

Faster than he could move, a swirling mess of flames engulfed them all, to the tune of Bahr’s maniacal laughter. The fireball did not hurt Myrkith-visir as such, for in the fire was their life, but the power it burned with was so potent it was painful it sent his body tingling. Each scale ached from the force of it and Myrkith-visir was forced to shut his eyes to shield them, for even his protective inner eyelids could not withstand the fireball.

“To your wings!” he called and thrust off from the ground to escape the storm. “Cast down our enemies!”

Myrkith-visir broke free of the fire and roared with relief as the pains subsided. The smoke surrounded them still, but the higher they rose, the more it dispersed.

As he rose, his clan soared with him. They wheeled through the sky, but the darkness shrouded their glittering scales and instead, they were a maelstrom of blackened teeth and claws, fighting with their clan members. Myrkith-visir dropped from the sky to where the fireball subsided and bathed its location in a spurting jet of flame whilst wishing death and destruction upon Bahr and Cies.

From the flames rose Bahr, untouched, on the back of Cies. At last, Myrkith-visir understood that he must have enchanted the silver dragon, for there was no way that his wings could lift both their bulks, though Bahr was perfectly sized to ride upon Cies’ back.

Other dragons copied Myrkith-visir and descended in to bathe Cies in fire before darting away – some daring to come in close enough to rend him with claw and tooth, or buffet them with gusts of wing. Others had the strength to carry and drop projectiles onto them.

Cies flew unmarked. The sharp points skittered off his tough scales, though he shook from the turbulence and impacts of small objects dropped and thrown at him. Those who got too close or flew too slow received a painful punishment from Bahr and retreated yelping to a distance.

As Myrkith-visir dove into the fray, intent on defeating Cies, more fighting erupted around him in pockets as dragons changed allegiances back and forth, swayed by one power show or another. Worrying numbers had already defected to follow Bahr. As a collective body they drifted south, away from the Isles of Kotyir and over the steel-grey sea. Dragons fell from the sky. Some recovered and flapped with all their strength to regain the heights.

Others not so fortunate could not save themselves and plunged into the depths. With a hiss, the water turned to steam around them. Their death was almost instant. Others were already dead when they hit the surface of the ocean with a crash and sunk, never to be seen again. Myrkith-visir shuddered as he saw their fates. Death by water was the worst fate a dragon could endure.

Bahr was in his element. He flung fireballs in all directions, which incapacitated or killed those they hit. When his aim was true, dragons dropped from the sky like a flock of birds roasted by dragon-breath.

Myrkith-visir gave chase. He avoided Bahr’s deadly projectiles with years of practised agility, though at times, Bahr’s attacks grazed his scales. Already he began to tire from the constant weaving and ducking, but anger from the deaths of his clan-mates fuelled his attacks.

Myrkith-visir spiralled up at Cies from beneath and dived at him from above with his wings tucked in to achieve maximum speeds. He nipped Cies and tore at his wings, tail and legs until they were rent and scored with wounds. Myrkith-visir did not notice his own growing injuries, so focused was he.

It seemed to be of no use. The further they flew, the more tired Myrkith-visir and the dragons became, yet Cies continued to fly with strength, despite blood raining from his many wounds. He should have been incapacitated. To Myrkith-visir, it was more frustrating that Cies cheated than Bahr’s attack. Bahr’s anger he could understand, through reasoning. Cies was a coward and a bully.

The sun had emerged once they were far from the blackened islands. Smoke still rose from Kotyir in the distance, like a great beacon. Myrkith-visir felt the boost to his energy and was spurred on as the rest of his clan found renewed vigour. Unfortunately the same effect was true on those he struggled against. Cies roared with joy, almost basking mid-flight in the heat and light.

Thinking with a clearer mind, Myrkith shouted the order. “Swarm Him!”

Myrkith-visir dove forward to tackle Cies in mid air. His clan-mates did likewise, forsaking their other foes, for there could be only one that Myrkith-visir referred to. Their weight buffeted Myrkith-visir and for a moment, dislodged him from flight, but he suppressed the automatic response to re-stabilise and instead folded his wings away. It was against all instincts.

Do what must be done. Myrkith-visir was resolute. No trickery would defeat him. He gripped Cies with claws, teeth and tail from his belly. Other dragons did the same, until Myrkith-visir was almost smothered with their weight and mass. He could not see Bahr, but he knew his clan contained them in a living prison. He could hear their punishment – yelping and snarling.

A moment came, when the entire bundle wobbled. Myrkith-visir knew he had achieved his aim. Not even Bahr’s magic could keep them flying under the combined weight. Myrkith-visir’s stomachs lurched as they plummeted with no control. They fell for seconds that felt like minutes and yet an instant, before a great impact shook them. With a force great enough to blow a mountain apart, Bahr scattered the dragons.

Myrkith-visir alone remained latched onto Cies, who regained controlled flight. Cies kicked Myrkith-visir off whilst they were both still falling towards the sea, but Myrkith-visir dropped back onto him, this time wrapping his great bulk around both Bahr and Cies.

The heat from the elemental was enough to cause him pain. It was hotter than any fire he had encountered, even the heat belching forth from the molten fire rocks of the earth. Howling through the searing agony he clung on whilst Bahr clutched and grappled with his bulk.

They were mobbed again by dragons, but Myrkith-visir could not tell whose side they were on, for the biting, clawing and heavy blows indiscriminately rained down upon him also. Once more they had begun to fall – much closer to the sea. Myrkith-visir now knew that he would not survive, but was determined to end Bahr and Cies so that his clan could live on. There would be no good leadership from Cies, he was certain.

At the last moment, for he could see the ocean rushing up to meet them, he ordered his clan members to release them. Many of the dragons released, though a few stayed clung on, attacking both him and Cies.

As the inevitable end came, Bahr gripped Myrkith-visir’s head with iron like strength, forcing the dragon to meet his fiery gaze. He grinned at the dragon and bared his own pointed teeth. “You think you have saved your pitiful lizard family but far worse comes for you and yours, dragon.”

Myrkith-visir did not know whether Bahr’s threat was empty. He struggled and tried to free himself to fly away, to kick off, but Bahr’s grip upon him was unyielding. The world turned upside down as Cies somersaulted, turned upside down and snapped his wings open to brake.

NO! Myrkith-visir panicked, for the first time. Cies had tricked him.

Bahr fell from Cies’ back with a scream like a thousand sword blades screeching over each other and Myrkith-visir fell with him.

They plunged into the sea.

Luke

His world was nothing: devoid of both light and dark and empty of senses, where a second before, she had been with him, frozen upon the throne as he beheld her. In the dim light he could see that he sat alone atop the icy throne, but Eve was nowhere. Had it been moments? Or had it been minutes, hours, weeks, years? He forced down panic and breathed, in and out, and repeated the motion until his heart quietened.

He waved his hands before him, because lights danced in his eyes and he could not be sure if they were real. Sure enough, his mitts crossed his field of vision, paler than the darkness around them, in light that had a blueish tinge. Luke wondered with a jolt, was he old and wrinkled?

Luke paid no heed to the cold that already bit at his face, tore off his mitts and searched his cheeks and forehead with his fingers. His beard still covered his chin, but it did not feel long. He cheeks were smooth and his forehead also, once he had uncreased it from wrinkling with worry. Luke sighed with relief. Perhaps no time had passed at all.

“Eve?” he called.

“EVE, EVE, EVE, Eve, Eve, Eve,” the echoes answered, before fading into whispers, but he could not hear her voice in the replies.

I have to get out of here.

Using the advantage of the high seat, he examined the dark nooks and crannies of the cave, but he could not see an exit. Luke shuffled to the edge of the chair and prepared to leap down. With both hands, he searched his belt for his equipment – if it could be called that for he had Nolwen’s sword and little else. As his hand grazed the sword’s handle, warmth flowed from the blade, replenishing him with energy. He paused for a moment appreciating the feeling. Thank you, Nolwen.

After a pause, Luke jumped into the dark void. His feet slammed onto the cold, hard surface. Bones juddered and knees crunched from the impact. Suppressing a howl of pain and a string of curses he straightened up, stretched his legs out and hobbled to the wall. With one hand trailing upon the cold stone, he walked around the edge of the giant space until at last the wall vanished into a breath of air. Luke wobbled, almost falling into the hole. He had found a way out, though he did not know where it led to.

Nevertheless he followed it without question and crept forward as he searched through the darkness with his hands. Time ran without end or measure. Thirsty, hungry, tired and weak, he faltered and eventually fell to the ground unable to continue. He lay upon the floor, panting. The cold seeped into him.

So cold. So easy to fall asleep and never wake up. But as his eyelids drooped to send him into slumber, the cold tickled his skin. Air… A breeze! Luke staggered to his feet and used the last of his reserves and followed the minuscule current of air, pausing here and there to feel it upon his face.

Before long he found what he sought. Pale moonlight bathed the land in an ethereal glow. After the completeness of the darkness, if was so blinding and bright that Luke’s eyes watered as he emerged from Juska. With aching legs, he stumbled away from the mountain, towards where his companions lay. He soon found them and, abhorring himself for what he was about to do, prayed that he might be forgiven.

With a deep breath, Luke rifled through their robes, bags, pockets, whatever they had, to find food. He managed to find a full water skin and some remnants of biscuits, but nothing else. Muttering apologies to the dead, he swapped his damaged mittens for theirs, took a fur scarf that would cover his face and a hat that had flaps to cover his ears better.

Luke’s cheeks burned with shame, even though he took no more than he needed and what they no longer had use for. His skin crawled in the darkness, as if others watched him, so he finished as quickly as he could and walked away with many a backwards glance, unable to shake the feeling of a baleful glance upon him.

All around the landscape was identical and stretched away in unbroken rolling hills of white in all directions. He struck out, always keeping Juska at his back and hoped that it would lead him home, if he could survive that long. He didn’t want to sleep near the mountain – or near the dead. He would walk all night to escape their presence.

Luke trudged all through the night and the next day, because there was no reason to stop. The movement became ingrained. He was unwilling to halt, knowing that if he did, it would be many times harder to start walking again. Juska was already lost in the white behind him. Luke had no idea whether he was still heading true, but his two choices were to continue or to die, and he would not give himself up to the latter yet.

Red pricked the snow around him. His feet stopped. He brushed the snow, swiping it away with his mitt. Red berries shone before him, their glossy surface gleaming and boasting juicy prizes. Luke swallowed. I’m so hungry, but they’re probably poisonous. With a great effort, he turned away from the berries and resumed his plodding march.

That night, a fire burnt in the distance. Luke was almost spent, but it spurred him on. Impossibly far away, it seemed to never draw closer, and it was almost morning again by the time he reached it. It had almost died, a tiny ball of warm light against the overpowering darkness.

Still forms slumbered around it. They were so close. He needed to move another few yards, but his feet could go no further. Luke tripped and fell. Try as he might, he could not rise again. So close. He moaned in frustration and exhaustion, before slipping into the void.

Myrkdaga

Back at Kotyir, the fires had burnt out. The lands were desolate and scorched, scarred by the fire. What life there was had deserted the havens or died in the blaze.

Myrkdaga flew with Feldloga and Feldith by his sides. All three were in silence. The moments kept replaying in Myrkdaga’s head of his father’s brave actions and his sacrifice to protect the clan, yet how he had been tricked by Cies.

At least Bahr is no longer a threat.

The silver dragon led them all. He crowed his success to the skies as he alighted in the crater lake – or what remained of it – taking the place of the clan head.

“You have no right to that place!” Myrkdaga began.

Cies leapt upon Myrkdaga and pinned him down with his great bulk. His teeth closed around Myrkdaga’s neck and shook him like a prey animal, before tossing him aside with ease. Myrkdaga gulped in deep breaths after his choking and struggled to his feet.

“I am clan chief,” Cies said. He growled his dominance as he surveyed them all.

Farran, the sire of Feldloga and Feldith, stepped forward. “I agree with Myrkdaga. You have not the right. You won through trickery and deceit – we are a clever race, but we are an honourable one. We do not use magic to achieve our means. Besides this, you were banished from the clan. You have no place here at all. May Myrkith-visir’s flame burn long in our hearts to remind us of his sacrifice to save our clan from Bahr of the fire.”

Dragons all around rumbled in agreement.

“In light of present circumstances, I assert my claim as clan chief through kinship with my brood-mate Myrkith-visir. I am strong and fierce, but honourable.” Farran glared at Cies. “I will lead our clan well – back to a flourishing homeland.” He surveyed the devastation around them.

Myrkdaga took a place behind his uncle.

Some of the elders rumbled behind him. “What of the present?” one said. “We need to widen our hunting grounds in order to survive – there is nothing left for us in Kotyir. The pact is broken, so there is nought that prohibits us doing so.”

Farran bared his lower jaw in agreement. “Be that as it may, we cannot stray too far, especially into human territory. We do not want to start a war.”

Cies laughed and a roar escaped his throat. “Farran, you worm! You fear the humans? We cannot allow this coward to lead us!”

Farran snarled at Cies. “We may not be bound by the pact, but would you, the remnant of a race, start a war with one so huge it could wipe us out?”

He was both cheered and booed. Some stepped towards Farran to support him, whilst others sidled towards Cies.

Cies barged past him into the centre of the ring of dragons.

“I challenge you all!” Cies said. He puffed out his chest and flexed his wings. “I challenge you all to be dragons, not sheep. Dragons should hunt, burn and take what they want, when they want – so we shall! We have grown feeble and soft. I tire of living off tough mountain goats, wiry horses, bears at best. I want to taste well fed, plump sheep, cattle and fowl as and when I choose. I want to roam free, not be confined to a miserable island at the corner of the world. I want humans to fear me, to respect me – us. Who chooses to be a dragon?” He roared at Farran in defiance.

Farran roared back. “Listen not to this madness! We can move, but we should not act without cause! The humans and Eldarkind have long been our allies. I will not forsake them on a whim! By earning their trust and friendship, we can earn greater rewards than by stealing and burning.”

But many of the clan had sided with Cies and formed an impressive line before him of teeth bared and claws extended.

Myrkdaga stood behind his uncle still. I would rather die than serve Cies, he thought.

Farran must have realised what he faced, yet he stood taller and prouder. “I will not suffer this madness. Those who wish to continue as we have, living in peace and harmony for millennia, ally yourselves with me. We leave. I will not associate with oath-breakers, outcasts and cowards.”

He turned, ran, and leaped into the air. Myrkdaga hurried after him, flanked by Feldloga and Feldith. Many other dragons rose with them; they were flashing jewels in the sky as the sun ricocheted off their scales. Many more remained behind on the ground and roared their challenge into the sky.

“Worms!” Cies’ parting shot followed them.

Soren

The crowd looked towards Soren with stern faces, huddled together in the cold. It was silent. Only a breeze blew through the courtyard with a disrespectful whistle. Snowdrops lined it, bulging out of flowerbeds where elsewhere, the bare stone was covered by patches of dirty snow.

Soren shifted so that his cloak would fall further around him, glad for the fur lining around the neck.

“We are gathered here today to see the passing of the sentence deemed justified by our highest court of law. His Royal Highness Prince Zaki, son of King Thoren the second of Caledan and her fairness Queen Solana has been found guilty of high treason, regicide, the murder of his sister, the murder of many unnamed others, ordering the murder and unjust imprisonment of many unnamed others, embezzlement…” The list continued. “He has been sentenced to death by public beheading. Bring forth the prisoner.”

Soren moved to the side of the dais and swept his cloak around him as he turned. He had not seen his uncle since they day Zaki had been returned to Pandora a week earlier under heavy armed guard. Even then, he had watched from afar, behind a drape from a high part of the castle as his uncle was handed over to Caledonian soldiers to be sent straight to the dungeons.

Messages had been sent by Zaki; he begged for an audience, but Soren had denied him on every occasion. The requests became more frequent and more desperate, claiming of a plot by Harad to break the peace treaty. Soren took no heed from the words. He already knew Harad was not to be trusted.

It did not redeem Zaki in his eyes, who asked for his life to be spared. He did not beg in that regard, Soren acknowledged, but Soren did not understand how Zaki would expect him to fulfil the request after all that had passed. In a rare moment of what seemed total clarity, Zaki had promised he did not lie and would not see Caledan be destroyed by Harad and fall to an outsider. Soren reckoned that it was one of the few truthful words uttered to him by his uncle, but it would not save him.

Zaki stood before him. It was the closest they had come to each other since Zaki’s had last been in chains before the gates of Pandora, handed over by Harad in exchange for the safe passage of Demara. Should he have expected that Harad would betray him again? Soren wondered. His uncle seemed a changed man. He was white faced – the first sign of fear that Soren had ever seen from him.

The crowd were agitated. They booed and called for Zaki to be punished. But it was as if Soren had gone deaf. All his body and senses were frozen but his eyes, which were fixed upon his uncle. Soren’s heart pounded as if it wanted to leap out of his chest, though he wasn’t sure why. Residual fear lurked – Zaki had become a creature of his nightmares, after all – but they were both surrounded by armed soldiers. Soren was as safe as he would ever be.

There was anxiety too, in his tremoring fingers that refused to be still. Soren was glad his cloak concealed such a sign of weakness brought out by the culmination of the years since that fateful night of his mother’s death. It had been a long journey to get here, but never had Soren played through this scenario in his mind.

What did I imagine would happen? Who knows.

Soren could not decide how he felt towards his uncle at that point. So much had happened and yet a man, a simple man, stood before him. There was hate and contempt for Zaki’s cowardice, but in that moment it faded to indifference, like Soren watched a stranger – not the man who had murdered Soren’s mother, kidnapped his sister, and caused irreparable damage to so many other lives including Soren’s.

Time seemed to slow when the black-hooded executioner stepped forward. Up onto the wooden stage he climbed. It creaked under his weight. A new wooden block had been prepared with a place for the chin crafted from the solid lump of wood.

The executioner was a hulk of a man made of pure knots of muscle. Zaki, thin and diminished, seemed puny in comparison. Soren was glad that he did not have to wield the sword himself, for he would have faltered and done a terrible job. He did not embrace that feeling and shrunk away from the cowardice, but it seemed wrong to kill an unarmed man, even if it was justified by the law – and all that Zaki had done. It seemed more of a performance than a carriage of justice. The pathetic form before him looked so pitiful.

Nevertheless, Soren felt a twinge of relief, glad that in moments it would be over. Soren would be king beyond doubt. He would have avenged his mother and all those who died or suffered under Zaki’s orders. Peace would be restored for certain in Caledan, and a truce with Roher binding. It had cost a great deal to get to this place, but it would not be wasted. Not for the first time, his thoughts turned to Edmund and those nearest and dearest that he had lost. He swallowed. It was too hard to think about them.

The roar of the crowd cut through his reverie as the guards drew Zaki forward and pushed him to his knees. The collar of his shirt was loosened for him, because Zaki’s own hands shook too much to untie the knot at his throat.

Zaki glanced at Soren and paused.

Does he still think I’m bluffing? Soren wondered. It was as if Zaki expected that it was a charade and for Soren to call off the punishment. Soren betrayed no emotion – but his face was frozen, whether he liked it or not.

Zaki did not bow his head to pray, as the executioner muttered a swift blessing, echoed by most of the people assembled before them. Instead, he held Soren’s gaze and searched his face. Soren realised with ironic humour that all that had happened had cost them both their faith in any higher power. They had both realised the score; those in power did as they pleased, whether it was right or wrong.

Zaki shuffled forward and placed his chin on the block. His hair fell past his eyes and hid his face. Cold touched on Soren’s face and made him start. He looked up to see the smallest snowflakes start to fall. They settled in Zaki’s hair. Soren was so close he could see them melt in an instant. The executioner drew back the ceremonial axe, sharpened and polished for the occasion. One sharp, short ‘thock’ sounded. It was done.

Crimson gushed forth upon the gathering snow.

Thanks for Reading

I hope you enjoyed The Brooding Crown! If you loved the book, I would really appreciate a rating and review on Amazon and Goodreads. These help other readers to find and enjoy my stories too.

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Meg

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About the author

Meg is an author and illustrator living in Yorkshire, England, with her partner and their cats (overlords) Jet and Pixie.

Meg has her parents to thank for her vivid imagination – they fed her early reading and drawing addiction to the point where Meg spent years inhabiting the school library and hiding under the covers at night with a torch, unable to stop reading. The first story Meg remembers writing as a child was about a clever fox (but thankfully that tale is long lost). At school, if she wasn't reading a book under her desk, Meg was getting told off for drawing in her classwork books!

Mostly Meg is inspired by nature and great works of art and fiction. She likes to experiment with new ideas and finds being an author and illustrator tremendously exciting and motivating! Meg usually works best when fuelled by earl grey tea, margherita pizza and characters who won't do what they're told. Generally, Meg prefers to live in her own or other peoples' fictional worlds (where bills and chores don't exist).

In the real world, Meg has a BA (Hons) degree in Primary Education and previously worked in accountancy after leaving school. She has completed a variety of private commissions and personal design projects since 2004, mainly digital fantasy/semi-realism paintings. In her spare time, when not writing, reading, drawing or fulfilling her other duties, Meg enjoys recurve archery, hiking, sleeping and cooking.