He’d answered the royal summons without delay although his mind cried for one, at least one long enough to open the missive that had arrived from Plesvar only moments before the messenger had come knocking.

Beneath his robe, the packet of wax-sealed leather pressed against his side. A letter from Gedren, it had to be!

But rather than read and know, here he was in Hothar Castle, accepting a chilled glass of the syrupy fruit wine so in the royal favor this year. A pleasant cool breeze blew in from the courtyard, where Queen Beris and several of her ladies listened to a colorfully-garbed troubadour.

“Your predictions of fair weather have held true.” Davore smiled amiably and sipped his wine, then tilted his chin to let an ever-present servant dab the sticky residue from his lips.

“The summer spirits are in a gentle mood this year. I fear their autumnal cousins might not be so generous. We may see strong storms.”

“Might we,” Davore mused, arching an auburn brow. “Winds of change and all?”

“Cry pardon, sire?” Cassidor felt a twinge of unease at the shrewd look in the king’s jade-green eyes.

“You’re not the only one to hear whispers of what may come, Cassidor. My ears may not be privy to the voices of the spirits, yet rumors of more earthly doings find their way to me.”

His first impulse was to quaff the dreadful wine, but he refrained from reaching for the glass. “Rumors?”

The jade gaze shifted away, fixing on flame-haired Beris as she nodded approval at the troubadour. “You don’t have children, do you, Cassidor?”

“No, sire. Gedren and I have never been so blessed. My former master, Hadric -- from whose bondage your gracious father released me -- once warned me that magic has many prices.”

“Mmm,” Davore said. “My queen is a young, toothsome, healthy creature, yet she has not sparked with life. If act and inclination alone were all that was needed, I assure you this castle would be brimming with babes ‘ere now. Yet I remain without an heir of my own body. My own brother turned traitor --”

Cassidor, remembering noble Prince Coric led to his death on the Day of Executions, tasted sourness at the back of his throat.

“And while I have an uncle and cousin to succeed me, I would rather see my crown pass to a son of my own,” the king concluded.

“Surely, your Majesty is far too young and hearty to be troubling himself with thoughts of age or infirmity.” That, at least, was spirits’ own truth ...

“No,” Davore said in a tone that assured him the king’s thoughts were dismayingly close to his own. “It is the specter of violence that troubles me. I have heard rumors, incredible as they may be, that there are those here in Hothar dissatisfied with my rule.”

“I find that very hard to believe, sire. You have accomplished much for this land.”

Davore waved self-deprecatingly. “There are always those who can never be pleased. I could reach my hands to the sky and reassemble the world-belt into a single moon as in days of old, and someone would find reason to complain. But these new rumors ... I am coming to believe, Cassidor, that I have enemies.”

“Your status and success must be bound to inspire envy in some,” Cassidor said carefully.

“It is not envy of which I speak. I believe that there are plots forming. That embittered barons seek to overthrow my reign.”

Cassidor didn’t have to feign his expression of surprise that the king could be so astute. “I suppose some may regard your Majesty’s policies as being ... on the stern side, but embittered? Overthrow? Strong words.”

“On the stern side, he says,” Davore laughed. “How generously put! But it is _necessary to show, firmly and forcefully, who holds command in Hothar.”

“You need not explain your methods to me, sire. From serving your father and yourself, I have well observed the demands of the kingship.”

Davore inclined his head modestly. “It is a trial, yes. But it is my duty.”

He motioned for the servant to refill his glass and then depart, leaving Cassidor to wonder who would be expected to wipe the king’s mouth now.

“My trouble is this,” Davore said, leaning forward. “I need an heir of my body. Yet the queen remains a ... a bountiful bedchamber but an empty nursery, if you follow me.”

“Yes, I see.”

“Thus, I would have you consult the spirits. Ask of them what must be done in order to provide me with a son.”

For a moment, something changed in the king’s face and made him only a man, a young man sorely worried and even entertaining to himself in the deep secrecy of his mind that perchance the flaw might not be in the soil, but the seed.

It saddened and bemused him to find himself feeling pity for Davore, of all people. But all he had to do to rid himself of that pity was recall the swoop and thunk of blades striking home.

“Once I have a son,” Davore said, “my enemies will realize the pointlessness of acting against me, and in so doing they shall spare themselves the repercussions that would follow. For any attempts would fail, Cassidor! And come next Day of Execution, the blood of those responsible would wash the flagstones ... with the blades at the half-setting, and low.”

Cassidor winced. Half-setting and low ... not even Coric had earned such a punishment! To have the blade set at the level of the belly rather than neck, and the swing checked so that the body was only partly chopped-through ...

“I will investigate as you ask,” he said, relieved that he sounded only a fraction so shaky as he felt.

“Fine.” Davore snapped his fingers, and a servant hurried forth. “A cloth, bring a padded cloth, and don’t dawdle!”

The servant was back in a trice, and spread a swatch of rich emerald-hued cloth between them before retreating to a discreet distance.

Cassidor rolled the velvet pouch in his hand, feeling the rounded smoothness of the cast-stones, heard them click and rattle against each other.

He tipped the bag and artfully poured the opaque, polished gems. Davore leaned over them anxiously, looking at the silver and gold marks as if he expected to read the meanings himself.

“Well? What do you see?”

What did he see? That was easy ... what he could tell the man across from him was something else altogether!

“I do see a royal child indicated,” Cassidor said. And he did, except the signs all indicated a fair-haired child, when both king and queen were fire-headed.

“You do!” Davore rocked back in his chair, beaming. “Tell me more!”

“The omens are clouded ... I believe there will be a bit of strife and difficulty before the joyous event arrives ...” At this point, Cassidor Ephes and the truth of the stones parted ways completely. “But these forces of opposition will blow apart like a morning mist, ushering in a time of favorable prosperity for your family.”

“Splendid!” He sighed. “So it is the will of the gods and spirits.”

Cassidor smiled. “I’m pleased to be of service, sire. And know that I will be the first to congratulate you when the happy news is announced.”

“You are a true and faithful man, Cassidor.” Davore stood and clapped him companionably on the shoulder. “And now, if you’ll excuse me ...” He dropped a wink and glanced meaningfully in the direction of his queen.

“I’ll be taking my leave, then.” Cassidor gathered his cast-stones, and by the time he’d returned them to their pouch, the king was already halfway across the courtyard.

He hurried for home, dwelling on what he’d seen in the omens. They were much the same as they’d been on the Day of Executions.

What troubled him most wasn’t the impending change and upheaval. There was a strange undercurrent to what the stones told him, of mystery within mystery, of old secrets suddenly and devastatingly revealed. Of success and failure combined.

When he was safely in his own study again, with the shutters closed against prying eyes as well as the afternoon sun, he finally broke the wax seal and folded open the packet of oiled leather.

There, within, were several sheets of vellum closely written in Gedren’s hand. Her script was thin and spidery as she was plump, and just seeing it made him think of her with a sudden deep ache.

His clever wife had anticipated that her letter might go astray, and had taken pains to seem innocuous with her news. After reading of the baroness’ slowly-improving health, a festival they attended featuring mountain-spirit dancers, and a description of the most delicious new-berry pie, Cassidor came to a passage that riveted his attention:

... and in the evenings, the baroness and her daughter and I often sit in the garden to watch the training of young men aspiring to knighthood.

Most of the candidates are highborn friends of Alkath, but there are a few promising youths not of lordly lineage. One of them in particular is quite entertaining; although raised a hog-drover, it was always his mother’s wish that he should make a gentleman of quality out of himself.

He’s been taken under wing by Alkath and one of the old soldiers, who see it as quite the challenge. Sometimes it seems a task doomed to despair, but the poor boy does honestly want to better himself.

Though I daresay part of that may have to do with his fascination with pretty Olinne! She even seems inclined to reciprocate, for the youth may be rough around the edges but is blond and strong and not unhandsome, shaping up to be a promising swordsman.

What the baron would think of his daughter and an orphaned hog-drover, I shudder to wonder ...

“Come on, then, boy!” Ithor Drok shouted. “This isn’t a harvest dance!”

Jerin armed sweat from his brow and snapped a glare at the old man.

The moment of distraction nearly did him in; Alkath Halan had been waiting for it and sprang forward with a sharp overhand swing.

He saw it coming and threw himself back, parrying the heavy wooden blade away from his skull. It glanced off of his collarbone instead, and Jerin heard the crunch, felt the burst of pain that not even his quilted leather jerkin could fully absorb.

With a snarling grunt of mixed shame and anger, he retaliated by turning the next strike on his forearm and punching Alkath just below the breastbone.

“Ufff!” Alkath cried, landing hard on his rear. He wheezed and looked at Jerin in irritation. “You didn’t pull your blow.”

“Like the man said, this isn’t a harvest dance.”

“Is that the way you want to play it, then?” Alkath vaulted to his feet, moving with eerie quick grace. “Ithor, bring steel.”

Ithor plunked his head into his hand. “I knew it’d come to this.”

“And about time, too!” Jerin kicked his discarded wooden weapon away. “I’m tired of these toys!”

“When we go into battle,” Alkath said, “steel is what we’ll be using. He needs to get used to the living weight of it, and to respect its edge.”

“You two pups want to carve each other up, go right ahead,” Ithor said, seating his crutch more firmly under his arm. He gave a weary nod to a pair of watching youths. “Fetch these two some real swords. And run for Gedren and tell her to bring her needle.”

“Needle?” Jerin asked.

“To sew your hides back together.”

Alkath pushed up the sleeve of his jerkin to show Jerin a long, faded scar that ran most of the way from his elbow to wrist. “My father gave me that when I was thirteen, the first time I tried to best him with steel.”

“I’ll try to give you a mate to it on the other arm.”

“I’ll try not to mark your face, for it’s a marvel Olinne can stand the sight of you as it is.”

Jerin grinned meanly. “And I’ll try to leave you enough below the waist so that you’ll be properly able to greet the king of Westreach’s sister at my coronation.”

Alkath glowered. “That’s hardly a gentlemanly way to fight, nor a gentlemanly thing to say.”

Ithor snorted. “All this talk of ‘gentlemanly’ fighting and ‘honorable’ combat ... let me tell you, when you’re out there in a real battle, blood flying and men dying all around you, the last thing you’re going to care about is being a gentleman. You’ll care about surviving, that’s all.”

“Hear, hear,” Jerin said. “From all you’ve told me, this Davore doesn’t sound as if he’s going to abide by any rules of honor. Why should I be hampered by them?”

Alkath flung his hands in the air. “As you will ... but I can’t bear to think that the war to restore the rightful Lendrin heir is going to descend into an eye-gouging, ear-biting, groin-kicking brawl.”

“You’ve never been in a real battle,” Ithor remarked. “You’ll see. Whatever it takes to get out alive. Wasn’t that how it was when you and that Westreach wench took on the rock-stinger?”

“Princess Idasha is no wench!” Alkath protested, a tide of red flooding to the very roots of his silver-blond hair. “She is a fine lady --”

“A leather-wearing, lhote-wielding lady,” Jerin said. “Who, unless I miss my guess, bedded you on second meeting.”

Alkath’s face went to a ripening plum hue. He snatched a sword from the approaching boys. “You’ll regret that!”

Jerin took up his own just in time to parry. Metal rang as they circled, drawing a crowd of spectators to the garden. He noticed Gedren among them, and the slim form of Olinne at her side.

She looked worried, and he hoped some of it was meant for him instead of all for her brother. Alkath’s flash of fury had lessened, but there was still a determined set to his jaw that told Jerin he was in for no easy time of it.

“First blood to Alkath!” Ithor called as Alkath cut a sizzling line across Jerin’s chest.

Spurred on, he planted his feet widely and battened at Alkath’s defenses. Despite all they tried to teach him of the Plesvaran and Hotharan styles of combat, he preferred to hold his ground, let his foe come to him, and make up for in strength what he lacked in speed.

Alkath got too close, and Jerin brought his sword around low, slicing into the side of his thigh.

“Blood to Jerin!” Ithor announced.

“Not bad for a hog-drover,” Alkath said through gritted teeth. He was limping now, and the leg of his pants was darkening with a red blossom.

“Call me that all you want ... I know what I am!”

“What’s that?” The tip of Alkath’s blade sank into Jerin’s left shoulder.

“Your king!”

He knocked the weapon from Alkath’s hand with one powerful swing. It sailed several feet and stuck point-first in the ground, wavering back and forth. Jerin set sharp edge along Alkath’s throat.

“Well done!” Ithor roared approvingly, moving between them.

Alkath dipped his head reluctantly. “Well done.”

“All things considered, I’d rather have a stave.”

“Forget it, boy,” Ithor said, gesturing for Gedren. “Stave’s a peasant’s weapon.”

Jerin pressed his hand to his shoulder. The chest wound was barely more than a scratch, but his jerkin and the shirt beneath were quickly turning a wet maroon. The pain wasn’t as bad as he’d expected, certainly much less than the time he’d been gored by a bad-tempered boar.

“Mannish foolishness,” Gedren huffed. “Hacking at each other, doing Davore’s work for him.”

“Nonsense, woman. It’s what he needs. To fight knowing he can and will get hurt, but can keep on going.”

Jerin endured and ignored their bickering, stripping to the waist to let Gedren examine his shoulder as the baron’s chiurgeon tended to Alkath.

He looked around for Olinne, and saw her walking one of the garden paths with that dreamy wandering way of moving that she possessed.

Beautiful Olinne. Until he’d met her, it hadn’t occurred to him that there were such things as truly beautiful maidens outside of nursery stories. Pretty girls, yes; even in his own village there had been a few of those. But their blond and buxom and apple-cheeked prettiness was a far cry from Olinne’s fair complexion, swanlike delicacy, and slender figure.

When Gedren was finished bandaging his shoulder and chastising all of them, Jerin was finally free. He used his torn shirt as a washrag to wipe the sweat and blood from his torso, wrung it out, and slung it around his neck.

As he started toward the house, he saw Olinne still out in the garden. Although he’d been here for weeks already, although they both knew they were pledged to be married, he’d never had a chance to talk with her, just the two of them.

She was sitting beneath a trailing willow, on the banks of a pond. A litter of pale green leaves floated in front of her as she plucked them from the willow boughs and let them fall from her fingertips into the mirror-smooth water.

And she was ... weeping?

He would have left then -- what did he know about comforting women? -- if she hadn’t chosen that moment to fetch a sigh and raise her head, and see him.

Startled, she swiftly turned away, and dashed at the tears.

Jerin was frozen in an agony of indecision.

My bride, he thought suddenly, and that settled it for him.

“Olinne?” He moved into the shade of the willow. “Olinne, why do you ... is it because I hurt your brother?”

Her plait of dark hair swayed as she shook her head.

Relieved, Jerin sat on the bank a careful yard from her. “Then why?”

“Something that you cannot forgive,” she whispered.

“I don’t understand.”

She let the last leaf flutter to the pond, and her hands fell into her lap where they toyed with the ends of her woven sash. “You are so very brave, Jherion ... how could you understand fear? Or forgive it?”

“Fear? You’re afraid? Of ... of me?” He stretched out a hand toward her, but stopped when he saw it, large and work-callused and sun-browned ... a hand such as his had no business touching skin such as hers. “You ... don’t want to be married. I should have known. To a stranger, a hog-drover, it’s what Alkath’s been saying all along --”

“No,” she said, looking at him, and her clear blue eyes, the color of the winter sky, stunned him to breathlessness. “It’s not that.”

“Then why do you weep? What do you fear?”

“I cannot bear to die as my sister did.”

“What?” Jerin shook his head, dumbfounded.

“My father commands my life as he wills, and I shall obey. But in that, I would still _have my life, do you see?”

“No,” he said. “Well, in part ... but Olinne, neither of us have much say in whether we marry or not. It’s best for Hothar, and I ... I’d like to hope it can be best for us as well.”

“Soon it will be time for you to confront Davore Kathak. Fail, and we’re done for. Myself, my family ... our fates rest on you.”

“I don’t plan to fail!”

“He will find every last one of us, everyone involved in this scheme, and it will be the block and the blades.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering despite the warmth of the day. “The dungeons beforehand, long months to suffer in waiting, and then the block. And they’ll save us for last, as they did Coric and Arayse, and it will be sticky and hot with the blood of --”

“Olinne, don’t,” he said, resting his hands on her shoulders. “That will not happen!”

“Dame Gedren knows herbs and medicines,” she said, and her voice had taken on a high and faint quality, like the voice of a spirit. “She might also know poisons, wouldn’t you think?”

“Olinne, listen to me.” She was frightening him now. He gave her a little shake, enough to bring her eyes focused on his as if in surprise to see him there. “I am not going to fail. You must have faith in that.”

“It is madness and folly to challenge the Kathaks!”

“Yes, but it _has to be done. I admit, when I was told the truth about my parents, my first thoughts were for everything that being king would gain me. Wealth, and power, and respect ... that was all I cared about! But they’ve made me see more during these long weeks. I think of my mother, who spent all of her life dreaming of the day that I would avenge my father and take back what was mine. I think of the good people who have brought me this far, trying to make a peasant into a king.” His thumbs moved of their own volition to caress the sides of her face, and her skin felt silken-soft. “I think of you, and how much it would strengthen me to go into battle knowing that you believed in me.”

Olinne touched his arm, lightly, briefly, a flitting touch like the brush of a butterfly’s wing. A blush as pale as the finest pink rosepetals tinted her cheeks. “Then ... Jherion ... I shall.”

“A ... what?” Davore Kathak said, his eyes narrowed because he could not, could simply not accept what he thought he’d just heard.

“A Lendrin,” Nerrar repeated. “I know how incredible it seems --”

“Incredible? Impossible! The Lendrins were slaughtered! Man, woman, and babe-in-arms!” Davore caught himself as his fist readied to fly. “Were you not my wife’s only living kinsman, Nerrar, I would strike you for bringing these lies to me!”

“I am only the first to bring them to you! It is the talk of the land, Davore! The people whisper it one to the next -- an heir, a Lendrin heir! Grown to manhood, and come to take back that which belongs to him!”

The fist did fly, cuffing Nerrar smartly. “It belongs to me!”

Nerrar rubbed his jaw, his eyes glinting like pieces of ore embedded deep in the soil. “I am only telling you what people are saying.”

“Lies and more lies!”

“They say he is gathering an army.”

“Preposterous!”

“They say he has the support of half the barons already, and more each day.”

“My barons would never dare --!”

“Wouldn’t they?” Nerrar broke in sharply. “Edmoran of Trevale already dares, or have you forgotten sending your uncle and cousin and half of your forces to quell the rebellions in the south? And do you know what more, my king? My auguries hint to me that what I’ve told you is indeed so!”

Davore froze with his mouth opened to retort. He slowly closed it.

“Oh, yes,” Nerrar said.

“Cassidor Ephes has mentioned nothing!” Davore found his tongue.

Nerrar’s eyes glinted again, craftily, oh-so-craftily. “Perhaps he has reason.”

The campfires breathed their smoke in thin spiraling threads as the two armies faced each other across a field already strewn with the bodies of the fallen.

On the thumb of his left hand, Avar Kathak wore a carnelian ring. He tapped it on the table impatiently, making the markers denoting their positions on the map jitter. “Well?”

“It seems,” Felin Kathak said, “that Edmoran has been busy this past year. These men of Trevale are no longer the disorganized militia of farmers and herdsmen. I never expected such resistance.”

“I can see that.” Avar sighed. “Winter will be upon us soon. You were the one to boast to Davore that you’d have this settled before the harvest, but we haven’t the supplies for a sustained campaign.”

“Then what do you advise?”

He spoke with bitter annoyance; his father had many times made it clear that he resented the office that had been his being passed down to Felin.

“We must end this quickly. Attack now, and pit every soldier we have against the Trevales. Use your riders.”

“The ride-beasts are nearly as much a danger to our men as to our enemies, you know that! They are ill-trained and well-nigh uncontrollable!”

“You didn’t bring them just to look at. The Kathani wolf rushes at its prey; not sit in siege outside the rabbit hole.”

“We are not Kathani wolves, Father, we are Hotharan royals!”

“That stance is why you’ve not already overrun those dirt-grubbers! You were born in Kathan, you played in the straw with wolf pups as a child.”

“But to attack now --”

“That, or slink back to your cousin and explain to him how Trevale slipped through your fingers.”

“Very well.” Felin strode from his tent, settling his helm firmly atop his close-cropped red hair. He signaled to the nearest of his under-commanders. “We attack in one hour. Send the captain of the riders to me at once.”

“Yes, High Commander!”

The camp came alive with activity as every able soldier mustered for the battle. Felin sent word to his counterpart on the other side offering a perfunctory surrender, had it roundly rebuffed, and at the end of the hour he was in place. The white and red banner of Kathak unfurled grandly from the standard.

Felin raised his arm high, and when he dropped it the hornsmen split the air with their strident cries. The Red Sword Army began its charge.

His riders, mounted on swift reptilian ride-beasts from Narluk, swept down on the first rank of defenders. Felin saw one man in the blue-and-white of Trevale impaled on a rider’s lance and lifted off his feet, before the war-maddened beast caught him in its scything foreclaws.

A horn blared in alarm from the western flank. Felin looked to see what the trouble was, for from his vantage point they were pushing them back, about to break through --

Another army was pouring over the ridge, a hodgepodge army made up of livery of a dozen different lords and barons, but flying in their midst was a black flag upon which a golden eagle shone bright in the battlefield gloom.

Felin stared, at first too astonished to realize the danger. He was fixed on the flag ... where had he seen it before? Astonishment gave way to incredulity.

“Lendrin?! It can’t be!”

His father was suddenly near, eyes alight and beard bristling in rage. He looked so eerily like his brother Oldered that for a moment Felin thought he had somehow fallen twenty years back in time, to the massacre that had taken place when he himself was a boy of eight.

“Felin! We are lost!” Avar called.

“The Lendrins are dead!” he shouted back. “It must be a trick!”

But if so, who was that in their midst, the tall and strongly-built man in gilt armor and black surcoat? The golden eagle blazed on his shield, and eagle’s wings angled in gold from the sides of his helm. He had the bearing of a king and fought with fierce purpose, and as he and his troops advanced, a cry went up from a thousand throats.

“Jherion! Jherion!”

Avar tore the mantle of High Commander from Felin’s shoulders so hard he spun the younger man around. “Felin ... go! Save yourself, and warn Davore!”

“I won’t leave my command!”

“Go now, or it will be all of Hothar instead of just your command!”

The men of Trevale raised a mighty cheer. Felin saw many of his own men throwing down their arms in surrender, or joyously turning traitor.

Hating himself for cowardice, he fled the field. At the edge, he looked back to see his father engaged sword-to-sword with a young blond man whose shield proclaimed him heir to Plesvar and Ryannt.

He saw his father’s helm split asunder by an overhand blow that drove him to his knees.

“No!” Felin meant it to be a thunderous roar, but it came out a weak moan as a second blow bit into the side of his father’s neck.

It wasn’t a decapitating strike; Felin was spared having to witness his father’s head tumble through the air. But he did watch as Avar Kathak plunged face-first to the earth, and did not move again.

Three figures, hooded against a light autumn rain, climbed the steps of the Ephes house. One produced a key, and with it they hurried inside, closing the door behind them.

Gedren pushed back her hood. “Cassidor? Cassidor, I’ve come home!”

“Shouldn’t I send word to my father?” Olinne Halan asked, removing her cloak.

Ithor Drok sank onto a bench in the front hall and grimaced as he massaged the stump of his left leg. “Can’t risk it, girl. Half the barons are under suspicion of conspiracy already. That’s why we brought you here. To hide out until you’re needed.”

“I still don’t much like it,” Gedren said. “She’d be safer in Plesvar. Would it make that much of a difference, a delay of a few weeks to send for her after the coronation?”

“If it was up to me,” Ithor said, “they’d have been married already, and Jerin wouldn’t have gone off to war until it was a surety there was a babe on the way.”

Olinne smiled wistfully; Ithor’s preference would have been hers too. But the chance to strike at half of Davore’s army in Trevale had been too tempting.

“But since that wasn’t the case,” Ithor continued, “next-best is to have her here and on-hand. Our young king will fight all the harder knowing his pretty bride is waiting.”

Gedren started up the stairs. “Make yourselves comfortable, and once I check his study I’ll see what’s in the cupboards. Not that Cassidor will have shopped; he’ll eat what’s set before him but when it comes to cooking --”

They heard her footsteps in the hall, followed by a startled exclamation.

“Dame Gedren?” Olinne called.

A mailed fist hammered on the front door, making her jump.

Ithor lunged from the bench. “Shh, girl! Not a sound!” he hissed.

Gedren leaned over the railing, eyes wide. “The study --”

The fist hammered again, and the door shuddered in its frame. Olinne pressed her back against the wall, hands curled in front of her mouth.

“Run! Out the kitchen!” Ithor ordered in a low voice, slowly drawing his sword.

Gedren rushed down the stairs and seized Olinne’s arm. The door burst inward, and men in the scarlet uniform of the king’s guard came in. Another was behind them, and Olinne recognized the sharp features of Nerrar, Queen Beris’ brother.

“Gedren Ephes!” Nerrar said cheerily. “I had a feeling you’d come home.”

“What have you done with my husband?”

“He’s under arrest for conspiracy. As are you and your friends.”

“Not yet, we’re not, boy!” Ithor snarled, brandishing his sword.

The guards laughed scornfully at the crippled old man. Nerrar’s lip curled.

“I don't know who you are, grandfather, but put that away ‘ere someone gets hurt.”

“And I know just who it’ll be!” Ithor plunged into their midst, laying about on all sides with both crutch and sword. “Run, woman!”

“This way!” Gedren pulled and Olinne followed, and they raced through the kitchen. The door was bolted and the bolt was stuck, and as Gedren swore and yanked at it, Olinne cast around desperately for something, anything to help.

Gedren had been right; her husband wasn’t much of a cook and even less of a housekeeper. A pot of cold tea sat on the unlit stove, and as a guard came in, Olinne grabbed and threw in one motion.

The pot clanged against his mailed chest, the contents sprayed into his face. He yelled and pawed at his eyes, and it took him several moments to realize he hadn’t been scalded after all. By then, Gedren had gotten the bolt open, and they escaped into the alley.

“They know!” Olinne gasped.

“Yes. They know. They’ve taken my Cassidor.” Gedren showed her a smooth rock with a gold mark. “These, his cast-stones, were all over the floor.”

“What shall we do?”

For that, Gedren had no answer, but someone else did. They rounded a corner, and three guards were waiting for them.

Gedren reacted faster than Olinne would ever have believed, hurling the small cast-stone. It struck one man squarely between the eyes and knocked him back a step. But the other two easily overpowered them, and dragged the struggling women around to the front of the house.

Ithor was there, bloodied and battered, hanging semiconscious in the grip of the guards. Nerrar smirked as Gedren and Olinne were presented to him.

“So it’s Baron Halan’s daughter, is it? I should have guessed he was a part of this. What role are you to play, Lady Olinne, hmm? You’re the prize, aren’t you? A tasty morsel promised to the usurper.”

Olinne looked at him with loathing. His smug expression faltered and he almost seemed ashamed, then flushed with anger.

“I’d have you all killed here and now,” he said, “save that the law is very clear on this point. Come, Dame Ephes ... I’ll take you to see your husband.” A vicious smile twisted his mouth. “At the Ministry of Justice.”

Jherion Lendrin stroked the square of black silk. His roughened fingers rasped on the fine weave, bumped over the golden threads that made up the eagle.

He smiled as he recalled how her eyes had looked when she’d tentatively offered it to him, this gift that she’d embroidered herself. It was unfinished; she had meant to include a border of gold and his initials, but there hadn’t been time before the urgency of the campaign forced them to say good-bye.

His old life now seemed very far distant, as if it had happened to someone else and he’d only heard tell of it. The hogs, the mud and the slops, watery pottage ... all things that had been a part of another man’s world.

They were camped less than a day’s march from the castle. News of their coming had preceded them. Davore was holed up behind the city walls, but with less than a third of his former army to support him. Most of those were of Kathani descent; the prospect of a return to Lendrin rule had fired the hearts of the Hotharan people and they flocked to Jherion’s banner in ever-growing numbers.

Shadows moved on the walls of his tent, cast there by the firelight. He recognized one -- Alkath Halan, who had gone from being someone Jherion barely liked to being dearer than brother after months of shared adversity.

Alkath swept aside the flap and came in, and at the look on his face Jherion shot to his feet.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“A messenger from Davore. Here. Now. In the camp. And ... Jherion ... he says they have them. Olinne ... Gedren ... Ithor ... they’ve been arrested.”

Jherion slowly closed his fist. “And?”

“He hasn’t said. He wants to speak to you. I’d guess it was because of Cassidor Ephes. Davore must have finally realized he was involved, and set a watch to intercept anyone that sought to contact him. They mean to use them to bargain --”

“I know. Bring him.”

“Jherion ... what are you going to do?”

He smiled coldly. “Something not very gentlemanly. Bring him.”

Alkath etched a quick salute and hurried to do so. Jherion carefully folded the cloth of silk and tucked it inside his shirt, close to his heart.

The messenger was a youth of no more than seventeen, with dark russet hair that should have lent his pointed features a foxish aspect; instead, perhaps because Jherion was predisposed to hate him, he found the man altogether ratlike.

He was not alone, but accompanied by two guards in red. They had left aside their weapons as a gesture of peace, and were clearly unhappy about it. Alkath and a pair of Jherion’s own men took up ready posts nearby.

“I am Nerrar,” the messenger said. “Brother-in-law and court magician to King Davore Kathak.”

“I am Jherion Lendrin,” he replied with that same cold smile. “Rightful heir and future king of Hothar.”

Nerrar grinned fitfully. “I’ve not come to debate the validity of your claim --”

“I know why you’ve come,” Jherion interrupted. “You’ve come to tell me that unless I surrender at once, there will be a Day of Execution several months early.”

Alkath paled, and his blue eyes turned to ice.

“That is the message I bear, yes.”

“And Davore considers you an acceptable loss.”

“What?” Nerrar blinked, discomfited. “What?”

“He sends you to me with this news, and expects you back in one piece?”

“The custom of immunity --”

“Bollocks.” He flicked his gaze to Alkath and his soldiers. “Kill those two, leave the ratling for me.”

His tone left no room for discussion.

The grand hall was largely empty, and silent but for the crackle of torches and the occasional murmur of hushed voices as the few remaining courtiers didn’t even bother pretending that all was well.

Davore Kathak slouched indolently on his throne, nibbling at a tray of meat-rolls, drinking too much wine and scowling so ferociously that not even his mother dared try and speak to him.

Verana sat in her accustomed spot with her back straight as a post and her head held high, yet disapproval radiated from her like a tangible glow. Of the other chairs at the high table, Avar’s and Felin’s were draped in black, Nerrar’s was currently unoccupied, and Beris was leaning over to listen to her ladies.

That it had come to this! Davore’s blood seethed in his veins whenever he thought of his city, nearly as empty as the hall. To think that so many of his people, his people, preferred the usurper to him! That even his own most trusted friend and advisor, Cassidor Ephes, had been a conspirator!

Well, Ephes would be regretting that by now. He and his wife, and the traitorous old Kathani soldier, and even the innocent-looking Halan girl, would all be regretting it!

Come noon tomorrow, whether the usurper surrendered or not, they would be chained to four sides of the massive wooden block he’d had erected in the Great Square that very day. And come sunset, just to give them ample time to beg and plead beforehand, the blades would fall. Half-set and low, just as promised.

“Shouldn’t he be back by now?” Beris asked, reaching for a sweet. “You said he would, and that they wouldn’t dare harm him.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” Davore said, not liking the implied criticism in her voice and liking even less that she’d chosen to air it here in front of what was left of his court. “He goes under the immunity of the messenger.”

A clatter and commotion outside preceded the opening of the double doors, and several of his gate-guards rushed in. They were trailed by an excited group of commonfolk and livestock, and carrying someone slung between them on a blanket.

Davore stood. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Sire! It is the queen’s brother!”

“Nerrar?” Beris glimpsed him as they settled the blanket onto the floor, and she who had watched many Days of Execution come and go went curd-white as she looked on her brother. Her ladies screamed, and some of them fainted from the gruesome sight.

“What ... what is this?” Davore demanded strengthlessly. “What’s been done to him?”

“It’s a clear wonder he’s alive, sire!” the guard said. “They’ve beaten him nearly shapeless, torn out his tongue --”

Ladies screamed and fainted again, and more than a few of the other guests turned from their chairs to rid themselves of dinner.

“They cannot! He was acting as my messenger!”

“Seems the Lendrin heir sent a message back to you,” someone muttered.

“Fetch a chiurgeon!” Verana said imperiously.

“He got most of the way to the city on his own,” the guard continued. “Then this man found him on his farm, and brought him to us at the gate.”

Davore looked where the guard pointed, at a large slope-shouldered fellow in stained woolens. A herd of pigs had come in with him, and he prodded one aside with a stave as it snuffled too close to the table.

“I think he’s simple,” the guard confided in a whisper. “But he did the right thing.”

“You, there.” Davore beckoned. “Come here, peasant.”

The man took a hesitant step closer, as if suddenly realizing that he was in the presence of the king. “I should tend m’hogs ...”

“Forget them! It may be the first time pigs have been in this room without being on a platter, but forget them! Tell me, was this man alone?”

“Yessir,” he mumbled.

“The misbegotten son of a pack-beast murdered my guards!” Davore said in amazement. “Maimed and abused my messenger!”

“That’s not the worst of it,” the hog-drover said, straightening, his voice carrying clear and strong. “Now he’s come for you.”

The stave smashed into Davore’s ribs and sheeting agony engulfed him. He was conscious of nothing else until he hit the high table, breaking two ribs on the other side, and tumbled to the floor. His flailing hand caught the tablecloth and pulled a torrent of dishes and food down on top of him.

He struggled free, every movement sending hot stabs through him, and saw that many of the ‘commonfolk’ that had come in as part of the excited mob were throwing off their tattered cloaks to reveal swords, and descending on his startled guards.

The hog-drover was coming toward Davore, one hand idly twirling the stave as he reached into his shirt with the other. He drew out a piece of cloth and tossed it into the air, where it unfolded and floated delicately to the floor, giving them all ample time to note the golden eagle shining on black.

Shrieks and pandemonium erupted all around Davore. He got to his feet without knowing how he did it, but he was up, a corset of pain cinched unbearably tight around his body, but up and on his feet as the Lendrin heir shifted his stave to a two-handed grip.

One offended corner of his mind protested furiously upon comprehending that his foe meant to beat him to death with a stave; the rest was too concerned with survival.

Splintered sticks of bone poked at his lungs with every step, but he staggered around the table and closed his hand around the hilt of the ceremonial red-bladed sword mounted over his throne.

The Lendrin continued toward him, and when a pair of guards managed to break from the melee and attack, he whipped the stave this way and that, driving one man’s knee sideways and then thrusting behind him to shatter the nose of the other. The one with the broken knee stayed upright long enough to make a clumsy swing. The Lendrin parried with ease, and slammed the center of the stave into the guard’s throat.

He collapsed, clawing at his neck, and Davore knew that the man’s breath-pipe was crushed surely as a reed beneath the heel of a boot. He also knew that something warm and wet was trickling down his chin; he fervently hoped that he’d bitten his lip in his fall, but knew better.

The alarm-bells in the high towers began to toll, signaling that the city was under attack. It was the least of Davore’s concerns.

The red sword had never felt so heavy before. He heaved mightily at it, and cried out in triumph as he raised it over his head.

A lance of fire pierced him as the sharp end of a rib punctured his laboring heart.

The sword fell from nerveless fingers. His legs went weak and spilled him into the seat of his throne.

Each hitch of his chest made the lance slide deeper, and through the crimson fog that was blowing across his vision, he saw the Lendrin’s cold smile of victory.

Cassidor Ephes felt his wife stiffen within the circle of his arm as Alkath Halan led them into the grand hall.

Small wonder she did; the floor was strewn with bodies, Davore was sprawled in the throne staring lifelessly into the distance, and first in the line of captives the guards were preparing to escort to the recently-emptied cells below the Ministry of Justice was the dowager queen Verana. Her gaze was flint-hard as it fell on Gedren, who had once been one of her own ladies in waiting.

“What will become of them?” Gedren asked.

“The block,” Alkath said. “As is fitting.”

“But they are women,” Cassidor protested, looking from Verana to Beris to the sobbing ladies behind them.

“So am I, so is Olinne, so was Arayse,” Gedren countered.

“Forget them,” Alkath advised. “We’ve won. The city is ours, the castle is ours. And look there!”

Cassidor did, and for the first time saw Jherion Lendrin. Someone had draped a royal mantle over the peasant’s garb he still wore. The girl standing before him wore the plain grey robe of the condemned. Neither of them seemed the least bit concerned, or even aware, of either their clothes or their surroundings.

Jherion gently took Olinne’s face between his palms, and bent to kiss her.

“Well, there you have it,” Ithor Drok said, and the rest were bemused to see tears glimmering in the tangles of his beard. “We’ve made ourselves a king.”

Continued in Vol. IV -- Court Jester

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