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Chapter Twelve

Moralann Will Be Bathed in Fire

CONNAL SAT IN Orthen’s hall, watching the king hold court. Today he would tell Orthen. Today he would leave for home.

It had been far too long already—nearly a month since he had entered Gallodel, bursting with righteous fury. The weeks that followed had seen the simple clarity of that anger fade, as his mind clouded with intrigue and mysticism. It was time to go. This would be the last he watched the king dispensing justice in his hall.

The supplicants were of the usual sort. A middle-aged knight of low rank whose lands had been encroached upon by the late Earl of Blackstone, a mighty bloodquencher, who fell with Branok at Aderyndol. A fisherman’s widow from one of Gallodel’s poorer districts facing eviction from a ruthless landlord. And a young peasant of Esting, outlawed years ago for poaching royal quail, driven desperate by his hunger.

The young king dealt with them swiftly, returning land to the knight, settling the widow’s debt, and pardoning the young poacher. One and all they thanked him, heaping praise on Orthen the Merciful.

Then came a pause to the procession, unusual at this hour, and those gathered began to stir.

Joffrey the herald entered, the same who had announced Connal’s entrance weeks ago. He strode towards them and bowed before the king, speaking in a low voice, as if he did not want to be overheard.

“There is a visitor, your highness, waiting to speak to you in the hall.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” demanded Orthen. “Bring him in.”

“But my liege,” the herald’s face was pale. “It is Moreana.”

The king’s eyes widened and he bowed his head, saying nothing for a few moments. Then he leaned forward. “Show her in.”

As the doors opened, the hall fell silent. The woman who entered was like none Connal had ever seen. She was tall and striking; long black hair fell uncovered and unfastened down her back. Her face, lean and angular, as if chiseled from marble, demanded his attention. Beauty seemed too delicate a word for her, yet the stern face that swept the room with dark, piercing eyes was not unbeautiful. She wore a simple robe of smoky grey edged with an intricate knot of golden thread, which hung loosely from her shoulders, adorned only by a simple girdle of tawny rope. In her hand she carried a long smooth staff, carved from the heart of an ibar tree, a pale and ghostly wood that, with each tap along the tiled floor, sent shimmering echoes throughout the hall.

Connal tore his gaze from her to look about him, where it seemed the eyes of every man and woman were riveted upon her. He leaned over to his right, whispering in Kierran’s ear, “Who in Drog’s name is this?”

Kierran’s eyes remained fixed upon her as he spoke. “A sorceress, it would seem.”

That much was obvious. Connal had lived his life among the island conjurers and knew them by their robes and staves. Over a month ago, he had battled the sorcerers of Halgar’s crew. And, despite the priests’ complaints, Craedon had kept a handful of seers on the nearby islands, seeking their auspices before major decisions. But this woman who stood before them seemed a different sort altogether.

“Moreana,” the king said at last, breaking the spell of silence. “What brings you to my court?” His face was hard and grim, the spark of merriment gone from his eyes.

“King Orthen.” Holding him with her stern gaze, she neither bowed nor lowered her eyes in deference. “You have no joy at my coming, I know. Yet from my master you took much counsel.”

Orthen frowned, the furrows of his brow deepening. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not so long,” she said. “Yet I do not blame your misgivings. I have let you be these several months, keeping from Eburneum as Adhlac required of me. Yet there are happenings now that have compelled me to come to you despite his wishes.”

“What do you speak of?”

“Destruction, my king. Greater than any Branok wrought before you, greater than that begat before the walls of Gallodel. You won a battle against Daras, it is true, but your brother is not defeated. Do you know where he is now?”

Orthen nodded. “He is in the west. My scouts tracked him as far as the River Arveon.”

“And he is well entrenched in Logren now. You should have slain him when you had the chance.”

“I have no wish to hunt my brother like a wounded beast! We have fought and he has lost. Let that be enough. Let him keep some dignity and carve for himself a kingdom there. Perhaps in time we will be reconciled.”

“The time for reconciliation is long past.” Moreana punctuated her statement by striking her staff against the floor, the clack reverberating all about them. “As is the time for half measures. You have usurped your brother’s throne, have taken from him both pride and title, and have broken with the traditions of your father. Can you really be so foolish as to think Daras will forgive you? If ever he were to, it would have been before he raised the barons against you. Now that you have added the humiliation of defeat to the insult of taking the crown, he will never relent.”

Orthen bowed his head, and again Connal saw him as a man in pain, not an impudent youth nor a crazed ascetic, but a grieving son, a wounded brother, struggling under the burden of family pain and social obligation.

“Is this what you came for?” the king murmured. “To tell me how I have wronged my brother and disgraced my family name?”

“No.” For the first time, Moreana’s eyes betrayed a glimmer of softness. “I have come to complete what Adhlac began before he fled into obscurity. I have come to guide you. You are brave but you are young, and the forces which rise against you are old beyond reckoning. Aged as the land on which we stand.”

“What forces? I have crushed Daras’s league of barons. They follow him no longer. And Norick still lies trapped in Slephold.”

“I speak not of barons but of dragons, my king. Of the eldest guardians of Moralann, from which the first men learned to tame and cultivate the land. The source of the wyrmcrafter’s power.”

“Dragons?” Orthen’s voice rose in disbelief. “What do dragons have to do with Daras?”

Moreana sighed. “Daras has fled into the wilderness of Logren, a ‘wounded beast’ as you said, and, in his desperation, he seeks new allies. For now the lords of Eburneum, ever mindful of strength and power, seeing he is wrapped in failure, have withdrawn from his cause. They watch from the sidelines to see what manner of king you will be. The march lords still follow him, but their support is not enough to take the throne. And so, it is not with men that he shall swell his army but with monsters, the accursed creatures that haunt the darkest depths of Logren.”

“Wodwos,” Orthen said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Perhaps, but the wildmen are loath to form allegiances with our kind. He will raise up worse than they, worse even than the Uthag, their mighty cousins who once made their dwelling upon the rocky heights of Mynythang. For Daras has bound himself to a powerful wyrmcrafter: Nivan, the Third Acolyte.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes, my sister. A necromancer of great skill. She joins herself to Daras’s cause, as does another of the Athwyr: the stormkindler Caelran. And even now, to the farthest west of Logren, she leads Daras, beyond the march forts, away from Ffairdin and Llanwel and Turòlas. It is through the peaks of Mynythang, along a long-forgotten path that they will go, until they reach the abandoned city of Marbhglyn. And deep within the mountains, beyond the Telian baths and villas, an antique city lies, one buried beneath the earth by heaven’s wrath. Cêldinas, doomed by God to undying pain, sealed by Athewain’s might. There are legions there of untold number, the Scalthir, restlessly pacing their shadowed prison, slavering for mortal blood.”

Connal shuddered and saw Orthen pale.

“Nivan plans to free these creatures?”

“Only as a last resort. Even she fears the erratic cruelty of Rhiun, king of Cêldinas, lord of the Scalthir. She will begin with dragons. For the mighty beasts went to rest among the Telian tombs, world-weary and wounded. She will raise them to be vanguards of Daras’s host. He promises a mount for each of his Talons; every one shall ride a wyrmsteed into battle.”

The room was silent as she spoke and silent when she stopped. It was as if every person held their breath, weighing her dark and mysterious words, strewn with the mention of awful names, of dark powers and those who strove to master them.

Orthen rose slowly from his throne and rounded the table. Clasping his hands behind his back, he paced in silence before the dais. At last, he stopped and fixed his gaze on Moreana. “But if the dragons serve Daras,” he said, “how are we to defeat him? How will mere swords and arrows fend off such an army?” He spoke slowly, as if trying to process the enormity of this information.

“The dragons will not serve him.” Moreana stepped closer to him. They were of the same height, though she seemed taller. “Perhaps a younger wyrm might submit for a time, but the elder Drakau will not be bound to any mortal man. They have each their private feuds and will no doubt visit destruction on any who now dwell on their ancestral land. It will mean death and desolation for all of Moralann. Yet all hope is not lost, not if we act now. For it will take time to raise them, and Nivan must throw all her strength into the task, rousing them one by one from deathly slumber. You must strike now, my king, while there is still time. With every passing day, Daras’s strength grows. Soon, all of Moralann will be bathed in fire.”

At this, a tremble ran through Connal’s limbs. He reached for his goblet, then set it down as he saw the shaking of his hand.

Moreana seemed to sense it, for she turned suddenly, held him with her steely eyes. “Yes, Lord Connal,” she said in his own tongue, “Cregeirann too will be razed by wyrmfire.”

An angry murmur arose among the Ellani: Fionn, Veruc, and the others. Connal sat and watched her, stunned.

“Lies and treachery,” Kierran grumbled. “The sole virtues of this accursed land.”

“You think I lie, Lord Kierran?” she asked, turning on him. With long, deliberate strides she came to stand before their table. Moreana spoke still in the island tongue, and many of the Eburneans in the hall looked about anxiously, unable to follow her meaning. “You think the waking of the Drakau no threat to you? Then let me ask you if the name Gabhail holds any meaning?”

“Gabhail,” Connal answered, “The Lord of Avarice.” It was a name every child of Cregeirann knew, a name engraved upon the hearts of his people. He knew that long ago, when the Ellani were but a migrant people, the Iron Rock was Gabhail’s. After defeating the mighty serpent, Wealan founded the city of Dumóir, and raised Rigtalla’s lofty beams.

“The wounded Gabhail fled south,” Moreana said. “And does your lore say where he went to rest?”

Connal shook his head. But by now, he could see her point. “To Marbhglyn?”

“You are cleverer than you appear, Beastmaster,” the sorceress said, betraying the hint of a smile. “And when Nivan wakes him, as she surely will, where do you think the old dragon will go? What feud has lain dormant in his heart, moldering in the grave for centuries?”

Connal was silent and Kierran too.

Moreana turned from them, stepping back towards the center of the hall. “And Cregeirann shall not burn alone,” she said in her grim, even voice, now in the common tongue of Eburneum. She scanned the room, binding every lord and lady. “Every city in Eburneum and Logren will fall beneath the dragons’ shadow. Again I say, you must act now, while the time to act presents itself. A week’s delay might see Daras’s power grow unstoppable.”

Again a heavy silence reigned. Orthen had resumed his seat, and, leaning against the back of his throne, he clasped his hands as if in prayer, bowing his head low. In that stillness, Connal could hear his breathing, heavy like a man in pain.

At last Orthen spoke, “Alas that it should come to this. My own brother.”

“You are a king,” Moreana said. “You cannot afford the luxury of sentiment. For your subjects, for the people you would rule, you must destroy him. There can be no mercy now.”

Orthen sighed, hunched forward in his throne. And in those few moments, it seemed to Connal as if the young man aged several years. He raised his eyes to Moreana’s. “And there will be none. The crown weighs heavily upon my brow, yet I am unable to tear it from me.” He rubbed at his naked chin. “And you, Moreana, why have you come to me with this news? Surely, I am no friend to your kind. Why betray your sister to aid me?”

“I do not lightly turn against her.” Moreana’s voice grew quiet and her eyes fell to the floor. “Yet I have seen too much of this world’s misery, the violence and desolation wrought by wyrmcraft. Adhlac saw it too, and it drove him mad, so slick with blood already were his hands. Nivan and I both heard our master’s final words. And now we both strive to honor them. Yet she follows one path and I another. Thus fortune goes. I cannot throw my lot in with Nivan and her Dragon Prince. Like you, I too must raise a hand against my own flesh.”

“My liege.” The Aonemb Goran came to stand beside his king. He placed a possessive hand on Orthen’s shoulder. “You cannot join with this heretic. Remember your mission. The Purification of Moralann. Leave Daras to his own devices. Let Aonel deal with him as he sees fit.”

“Careful, priest.” Moreana turned her grave countenance upon Goran. “Best not to make an enemy of an ally.”

“Sire,” the Aonemb persisted, glaring contemptuously at Moreana. “I warn you. Pay the witch no heed. She can bring nothing but doom upon us.”

Orthen brushed away Goran’s hand. “You have spoken, Goran.” He cast his eyes over his assembled lords. “Now hear my word. What chance do I have of purifying this land while my brother and his sorcerers raise up the very symbols of evil to our west? Moreana has come to us with warning. We are of the same purpose. I see that this union must be. It was Adhlac himself who set me on this path; let it be Adhlac’s acolyte that helps me see it through. We will make haste to leave Gallodel.”

He clapped his hands and Joffrey jumped to attention. “Gather the heralds. Proclaim it in the city and throughout every fief: we leave at the first thawing of snow in six months’ time. Let every vassal, every knight and yeoman, make ready for war!”

“In but two months,” Moreana interjected, “Nivan will have raised a dragon. In six months, she will raise yet more. You do not have till spring, my king.”

“But what can we do?” Orthen threw his hands into the air. “The levies have returned to their villages. And I dare not strip the city of its garrison.”

“Take what men you can,” she said. “Raise the levies and give orders to follow you into Logren. But do not wait for them.”

“It takes only a few days to sail to Marbhglyn,” said the king.

“No. You must not go by water. Caelran watches the seas, and from his wild gales your ships will find no escape. It is by land you must go, over the Arveon and through the fortress of Bryngoch.”

At this, Sir Baldren rose from his seat at Orthen’s left. “But Bryngoch is a stronghold without peer. It was built to stand against the fiercest assault and the longest siege. It might take years to breach it.”

“Even so,” Moreana countered. “That is your only path. You must find a way to take it.”

Orthen sighed. When he spoke, his voice was bitter. “It seems I have no choice then. Sir Baldren, how many men do we have at our disposal?”

“Not many, sire.” The knight sounded wary. “Within these walls are seventy knights and a thousand men-at-arms. And barons, hostile to your rule, surround us still.”

“Choose fifty knights to follow us. And three hundred archers. The rest shall remain in defense of our walls.”

“My liege.” Baldren rose from his chair, bowed, and strode from the hall.

“Chancellor Goran,” Orthen said, turning to the Aonemb. “Send word to my Earls Winock, Lircaster, and Eorland. They must follow us with whatever retainers they can quickly muster. There is no time for a full levy.”

Goran grimaced, his hands with their jeweled fingers clasped together, knuckles white. He looked as if he would protest further, then at last he bowed. “It shall be done, my king.” Casting one last malevolent glare at Moreana, he swept from the hall.

By now, the Ellani had risen from their seats, forming a tight knot at the end of the table. “Bloody madness,” Kierran murmured. “All of it. The sooner we’ve left this land the better.”

Connal nodded, but within him two opposing forces struggled: the draw to stay with Orthen and the pull of home. “And yet,” he said, “I am troubled by all this. Didn’t you hear what Moreana said?”

“The sorceress? Gaillag take her and her lies! Surely, you do not believe her?”

“I do not believe she lies,” Connal said.

Kierran sighed. “I feared all this time with Orthen would only cloud your judgement. We must return before the Suid elects a new king without us. Or what if Ganwae returns?”

Again Connal nodded. Yet he was not so sure. If Gabhail should rise again, then it would not matter what king sat on Cregeirann’s throne. But he could delay their return no longer. His mother’s warning lay always below the surface of his consciousness, stoking his fear.

“Come, Connal,” Fionn urged. “We’ve done all we came to do and more.”

“Aye,” Connal answered. He saw Orthen leaning against his high seat, his head bent, conferring with a small huddle of knights. Moreana stood as before, in the center of the hall, watching the splintered conversations with the stillness of a pillar.

As Connal headed for the door, the king lifted his head and strode towards him. Orthen’s face was drawn and haggard, laden with stress. “Ah, Lord Connal. I’m afraid I must prove an uncivil host after all. We leave for war.” He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Have you given thought to my offer? I could surely use your help with this campaign.”

“I have.” Connal’s stomach churned. “But I cannot accept it now. I must return. Perhaps when we are both more secure in our power.”

“Perhaps.” Orthen’s countenance clouded. “Though fortune is ever changing. There may not be another time.”

“Aye.” He felt a sharp pang of guilt.

“Farewell, Lord Connal.” Orthen sighed and stretched out his hand. “May Aonel bless and keep you on your life’s road, wherever it takes you.”

Connal clasped his hand. “Farewell, Orthen. Urient be with you.” He turned away, feeling sorrow for the foreign king who had become his friend. And there was something more, something he could not quite express. It was as if he turned his back on destiny.

Connal followed his shipmates from the hall. As they crossed the world’s-map floor, he passed by Moreana. She stared at him with a face like the carved marble of Orthen’s statues.

“Safe journey, Lord Connal,” she said. “We will meet again.”

Connal shuddered, averting his gaze as he hurried from the hall. The sea awaited them. It would bear them to his people, soon to crown him king.

END OF PART ONE

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Chapter Eleven

The Ninth Worthy

A TORTURED WAIL tore through the night, echoing across the castle courtyard.

“Blood of Gallos!” Connal swore aloud, tossing aside his blanket, as he rose to his feet. Since the first cry had roused him from sleep several hours ago, he had struggled in vain, lying still, squeezing shut his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing, to let himself drift away into slumber. It had led to nothing but frustration.

Again the cry of torment sounded, like claws raking at his soul. Torak the sorcerer, imprisoned in the Crimson Tower. The man he himself had given over to Orthen’s torturers.

Connal shuddered, pushing the thought away. If I can’t sleep, I might as well walk.

He pulled a fresh tunic over his head, woolen breeches and trousers over his legs. Stumbling through the darkness of his room, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the tower window, he found the door latch and let himself out. The turret that housed his room lay at the end of a long, empty corridor, branching off from Marrok’s Keep. He walked along the rug-covered floor, the way familiar despite the darkness.

Coming to the end of the hallway, he opened another door, emerged upon a corridor, high upon the tower’s northern wall. At regular intervals along the outside wall were high, arched windows, the light of the full moon streaming through their polished glass panes, bathing the hallway—with its tapestries, banners, and mounted weapons—in ghastly pallor.

Connal paused before one of these windows, gazed out at the castle grounds beyond. He extended his hand gingerly before him and pressed it against the cool glass. It was strange—they had no such material in all the Ellthiar. Rigtalla’s windows were open to the wind, shuttered only in the fiercest storms. But all throughout Gallodel, he encountered windows paned with glass. Some, like those in the King’s Hall or the Cathedral of Saint Yldegrance, bore windows of stained glass—works of art in and of themselves—while those in this hallway functioned as simple, sheltered portals through which to watch the wider world.

The thought of the cathedral brought forth in a wild rush that day’s events. How Orthen had brought him to the cathedral, asking his opinion only to insinuate he was an untutored pagan. Then the violent chaos of the attack, the arcane chanting of Torak the sorcerer, the stench of burning flesh, the look of demented malice in the eyes of the bloodquenchers Connal had slain. And now the cries of the firecaster echoing through the night.

He realized suddenly that Torak had been silent for some time. Had the king’s questioners learned what they needed from him? Or had his body finally broken, giving up his spirit?

He felt a sudden, desperate need for air, here in this close and musty corridor. Fumbling at the window latch, he at last got it free and pushed open the window.

The air was a pleasant cold, refreshing for the lateness of the summer. He leaned out, letting the breeze play gently through his hair as he inhaled deeply.

Beyond Marrok’s Keep, a lone turret rose. He knew that by light of day the Crimson Tower bore the ruddy hue of faded blood, but in the depths of night it was black as the Bodtha’s heart, a dark and brooding shadow upon the pallid visage of the moon. Dark save for a single fire, flickering like a lighthouse beacon from the uppermost window.

Torak screamed again. A horrid wail, louder and more anguished even than before.

“Good god!” Connal muttered aloud, a chill slithering down his spine.

“These heretics certainly can scream,” a quiet, amused voice sounded from behind him.

Connal spun round, reached for his belt, realized with a savage curse he had left both sword and seax in his room.

“Forgive me, my lord.” The man before him, dressed in a cleric’s white robe, held up his hands to show he posed no harm. “I did not mean to startle.”

Connal relaxed a little, though his fists remained clenched, ready for a fight. The stranger did not look like an assassin. His voice was unfamiliar. Though there was something about his face…

“Brother Aldwin,” the priest offered, as if reading the confusion in his eyes.

“Aldwin,” Connal echoed. “You were there?”

The priest nodded. Advancing slowly, his face came into the light. He was a young man, near Connal’s age, his face shaven and head tonsured. His eyes crinkled slightly, and his lips quirked upward as if on the verge of grinning.

“I was,” Aldwin said.

Another scream tore through the darkness. Connal turned his head instinctively to the window. “Is that…?” his voice trailed off.

“The heretic, yes. Torak. The firecaster. Perhaps one of the Athyd Harron’s disciples. Or a disciple of his disciple.” Aldwin dismissed the speculation with an extravagant wave. “Whatever the truth, the Aonemb will have it from him… eventually.”

Connal could not help from shuddering. He was no stranger to death and battle. Only recently, at Feóthán, he had reddened his blade with the blood of the Brònish. But this business of torture, high atop a lonely Eburnean tower, deep in the dead of night—it chilled him to the bones.

“Goran seeks to find out why they attacked the king?”

Aldwin did grin now. “We already know why. They are wyrmcrafters. Bloodquenchers. Servants of the heretic Adhlac, of the fallen Bárdor themselves. His Highness has declared crusade against their kind, burning all their heathen wares and driving them from the royal city. They hate him.”

“Then why torture this Torak?”

“There are other things he may tell us. For instance, are there others of his order in the city? Were they aided by any within the royal household? Where is Adhlac now, and what are his Athwyr plotting? Before Goran gives Torak’s body over to be burned, he will wring the truth from him like filthy water from a dishrag. They will rack his flesh until his spirit breaks.”

Connal cringed at the priest’s callousness. And Aldwin seemed to notice. “My lord is not squeamish, surely? I saw you wield your blade today, working destruction upon the heretics. A righteous and bloody feat.”

“That was in the heat of battle.” Connal shifted his stance and muttered, “I did only what I had to.”

Aldwin laughed. “My lord is too modest. If not for the strength of your arm, we would all be food for worms. The king. The Aonemb. Even myself, if I might list myself in such august company.”

Connal said nothing, keeping his eyes upon the priest. He felt there was something treacherous in this Aldwin, lurking beneath his laughing exterior.

Aldwin only smiled under this scrutiny. “His eminence would never express such gratitude, of course, not to one such as you, but it is true all the same.”

“Why?” Connal snapped, remembering the way the Aonemb had reviled him. “What does Goran have against me?”

“It is not personal. But there are differences among the Faithful, especially between the churches of Eburneum and Ellthiar. The more fiery among us would go so far as to say your people are little better than heathens.”

“Heathens?!” Connal was an Ellan, one of Aonel’s Faithful, a staunch defender of the light and truth of God against the infidel. True, some among the Ellani were less consistent in their practices, more willing to offer sacrifice to Gallos and the Bodtha before a battle, to Helfar and Lirgan when voyaging upon the stormy seas. The priests censured such practices, saying that the Sutathar were false. Wicked. Luring men to the woeful gates of Anturr. But the old gods endured—everyone knew that—even if only as wrathful spirits haunting this mortal realm.

But even such compromises were hardly comparable to the bloodthirsty heathenry of Brón. King Ganwae and his forbears had forbidden the missionaries to preach among their people, had tortured those who disobeyed, roasting them upon their hearths for cruel Gallaoachra to consume. It was a grievous insult to suggest even the faintest kinship between their peoples.

“I am no heathen!” Connal snarled. “And Orthen seems to have no qualms about allying with me.”

“No,” Aldwin said. “But his Highness and the Aonemb do not see eye-to-eye on everything.”

That caught Connal’s interest. So there was tension between them. He had noticed the hint of Goran’s irritation with the king. “What is the nature of their disagreement?”

Aldwin’s face lit up at the question. But he shook his head. “It is not for one such as I to speak of. Kings and prelates—their ways are too great and mighty for this lowly brother.”

Connal grimaced, choosing to ignore Aldwin’s unctuous speech. “They seem to share the same fervor for the Purification of Moralann.”

“Of course. On that they have always been in agreement.”

“What then?”

Aldwin let out a mighty sigh, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “Very well. If you must know. Theirs has been a marriage of convenience, their wedding night the very hour that word of Branok’s death reached Gallodel. Daras was still in the north, battling the rebels. And Goran the Aonemb—”

“Goran was already Aonemb? Before Orthen took the throne?”

“Of course.” Aldwin cocked an appraising eye at Connal. I wonder—what have they told you of King Branok?”

Connal merely shrugged, and Aldwin took it as invitation to continue. “You have likely heard that Branok was a godless infidel, a madman who despised the Church of Aonel and worshiped at the temples of the heathen gods of old. Am I correct?”

Connal chuckled. “Something like that.” His father had thought highly of the old king, but Orthen and his court held Branok in disdain.

“It is not entirely untrue,” Aldwin conceded. “But he was a mighty king also. The barons went always in dread of him. The princes of Logren paid him tribute—at least until the Liberator’s revolt. There was peace across the whole of Eburneum. And still he upheld the office of Aonemb. It was he who appointed Goran.”

“What?”

Aldwin laughed. “I told you. Branok was no holy king. It is true he went after the Telian heresy, led astray by Adhlac, his friend. But he did not persecute the Faithful. Whatever Goran says.”

“Huh.” Connal scratched his bearded chin. “Why then did Goran aid Orthen?”

“Goran was Aonemb. But the office had lost much of its luster over the years since Marrok the Vile shed the holy blood of Yldegrance. Branok refused to give the High Priest the power and influence he craved, nor the gold to restore his churches. And Prince Daras would have surely followed in his father’s steps.

“That is why, when the word of Aderyndol reached us—how Cawrad had fallen and Branok also—the city fell to turmoil. Orthen and Goran conspired, acting before the aldermen had time to respond.

“In the dusty shambles of the old Cathedral of Saint Yldegrance, the very same we visited today, Orthen held his coronation. Goran placed the crown upon his head, anointed him in the name of Aonel. In return, the king has poured great riches in the church’s coffers, and given Goran greater power besides. He is Royal Chancellor as well as High Priest, wielding the power of church and state.”

That thought gave Connal little comfort. The few times he had been in Goran’s presence, the priest had struck him as truculent and sanctimonious—not a man to be given power.

“Why then is there conflict? Has Goran not gotten all he wants?”

Aldwin snickered. “That one? His hunger will never be sated, not till all of Moralann falls beneath the shadow of his holy see. And although Orthen has given him power as great as the Aonembs of old—perhaps even greater—he infringes also upon the role of the church.”

“How?” Mere moments later, the answer came to him. “His visions.”

“Indeed. In days of old, the division was always clear. The King of Eburneum wielded the sword and scepter, meted out Aonel’s justice in this physical realm. But it was the Aonemb who spoke with God, who relayed the oracles of the divine and ruled on all religious matters. But now… now Orthen himself has heard from God. He is king and prophet both, holding the scepter and holy stave. What need has he for the Aonemb?”

“And yet he honors Goran.”

“He does. But not of necessity. Perhaps only because it is tradition. The High Priest must know his place is precarious, that he sits his position before the God Stone only at the king’s behest. That is why there shall always be contention between them. A pious king is both a blessing and a curse to the prelates of the Faithful.”

“And you? Do you also resent Orthen’s prophetic gift?”

Aldwin held up his hands as if in protest. “I told you, Brother Aldwin is too lowly for such as kings and Aonembs.” He rested a long, thin finger against his chin. “But no, I do not share Goran’s fears. He is trapped in the past, still holding to the legends of Arfast and Yldegrance. But the world is changing, and Orthen—the mystic king—is but the beginning.

Connal felt a thrill run through him. Like Orthen himself, this Aldwin spoke as if they teetered on the precipice of greatness.

“The beginning of what?” he asked.

“You know of the Worthies. I heard you tell Goran as much this morning. He insisted there are but eight?”

“He did.” Connal thought back to that unpleasant moment. Orthen had lured him into a false sense of complacency, only to humiliate him, remind him that he was but an unlearned foreigner. But perhaps that was unfair. Orthen had been nothing but gracious during Connal’s stay in Gallodel, taking him into his confidence, telling him all about his visions. It was Goran who had pounced on Connal at his use of the word “Worthies” to describe Athewain and Briga. Orthen had merely seemed dismayed at Connal’s lack of knowledge.

But there was something in Aldwin’s question that stirred his curiosity. The priest had been there when Goran shrieked of heresy, so why was he asking what the Aonemb said? “Is that not what the Eburnean church teaches?”

“It is,” Aldwin gazed out at the moonlit citadel, picking each word as if a slippery stone along a river ford. “And has been for the last two hundred years. Not only in Eburneum but the continent as well. There are many saints among Aonel’s Faithful, but only eight are counted Worthies. Nine is the number of holy perfection, of the Holy Fathers of Aonel’s dominion, the crown-wielding Princes of the winged Caurim. But God, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to limit the Worthies of men to a vile number. Profane. For along with the Bardor and their monstrous children, we men fell also. That selfsame sin of pride runs deep within us. And we are to be forever reminded of our imperfection. Our failure. At least, this was ruled by the Holy Fathers and bishops convened at Louren.”

“And yet…” Aldwin stared queerly at Connal. “There are those who believe there is another.”

“Another? Who?”

“That we do not know.”

“What?”

“This last Worthy is yet to be. His coming was foretold by ancient mystics. There is an oracle, contained in the Dream of Norasus. The manuscript has long been lost, burned by order of the bishops. But a fragment survives—a copy of a copy of a half-burned copy. I have seen it once only. Yet the words are seared into my mind like a herdsman’s brand. There is a part that reads:

        “‘…is overrun, and black 
the sin that festers in the wound.
	Gods, fallen gods, wield dominion;
the host of the wicked multiplies.
	Where is the strength of the holy? 
What might does the godfearer hold?
	Are we to altogether fail?’
So I questioned, my heart sick and
	full of great, unrelenting dread.
Then spoke in answer Za’el, bright 
	among holy, warlike Caurim:
‘Hear, Son of Denos, the decree
	of Aonel, high and mighty.
Nine are the Worthies heaven appoints,
	nine the number of fulfillment.
Three of the ancient burning sands,
	Mystic, Lawgiver, Seafarer.
Three of the empire vast, unending,
	Martyr, Scholar, and Emperor.
Three of the valorous, savage west,
	The Warrior and the Healer.
Last of all, the Deliverer comes.
	He shall arise in blackest hour,
 When boil the teeming oceans foul, 
	 and stars like swooping falcons fall.
Signs of heaven and Anturr both,
	signal the Day of Anointing.
When he Pridaeron’s remnant breaks,
	and lays Undying in the grave.’”

Aldwin finished, staring all the while through the open window, at the spear-like Crimson Tower. Connal remained silent, struggling to grasp all the fearful imagery of this Dream of Norasus. It had been but a brief fragment of poetry, yet it was more complex, more richly-woven with arcane symbols than any lengthy lay he was used to hearing.

“And that is all?” he asked at last.

“All that survived the inquisitor’s fires. It raises many questions more than it can answer. Who is Norasus? Who is Za’el? An angel, it would seem, yet his name does not appear in any scripture. We do not know what great apocalypse Norasus has seen to prompt his question, nor the beginning of his speech. And, most frustratingly, we do not know what Za’el says next.”

Connal furrowed his brow and ran a hand through his hair, scratched at his scalp. It was too late in the night to puzzle through such enigmas, especially after such a day.

He realized that Torak had fallen silent again, sometime during Aldwin’s recitation or in the preceding conversation. He could not recall precisely, had lost awareness of his surroundings. The thought made him uneasy.

“So the… Deliverer,” he began, “he is yet to be born?”

Aldwin turned from the window to regard Connal with interest. “So some say. Heretics of course. Others argue he is here already, waiting for the Day of Anointing.”

“And do you believe in this Ninth Worthy?”

Aldwin put a finger to his lips, but his smile belied the gesture. “Men have burned for confessing such a creed. But… I do.”

“Why do you tell me then? Do you not fear I will report you to the Aonemb?”

“No. I know you will not. And I believe, as does the king, that you have a part to play in that which is to come. Stay, help us to cleanse this city, this kingdom—and you will see God work wonders in all of Moralann.”

“And if I do not stay?”

“Then you are not the man I hope you to be.”

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Chapter Ten

The Cathedral

“AND HERE, SIRE, on the westernmost arc, the builders have nearly finished setting the stones for the new archivolts.”

Goran the Aonemb strode beside Orthen, his jeweled hands clasped behind his back, white robe swaying with every movement. “The master builder swears he shall have the portal finished by winter, but you know how these workmen can be…” He chuckled heartily at his own jest, joined quickly by the two clerics who trailed behind him.

The king offered a polite smile, but Connal was silent, staring up at the newly-renovated cathedral. It had been built in the new Eburnean style: a perfect circle, containing four doors—to the north, east, south, and west—with the altar placed directly in the church’s center, bathed in the variegated light of the dome’s stained-glass crown. At regular intervals, round towers rose from the outer wall, nine dizzying spires segmenting the cathedral’s circumference into equal arcs of forty degrees, their bells sounding the coming of every hour.

At least, that is what Goran had told him, in his haughty, condescending manner, arching a black, bushy brow as if to intimate that an Ellani barbarian could have little appreciation for Eburnean architecture.

Connal had nodded knowingly, stroked his freshly-trimmed beard, and murmured his approval. In truth, he did lack understanding; he knew nothing of circumference, arcs, or degrees. But all the same, the magnificence of the church was not lost on him. The Cathedral of Saint Yldegrance, seat of the Aonembs of Moralann, seemed built to impress, its perfect roundness, soaring towers casting the viewer in its mighty shadow, an awesome reminder of Aonel’s power, and that of the Eburnean magnates who claimed to wield it.

They had been walking around its lengthy perimeter, beginning at the southern door, moving to the west. Orthen and ten of his household knights, along with Sir Baldren, Goran, and two of his clerics. And Connal. Orthen had extended a warm invitation, telling him he would behold a mighty work. Sir Baldren’s welcome had been cooler and Goran’s positively icy.

“Is the ‘Beastmaster’s’ presence necessary, sire?” the priest had asked. “I doubt we shall be waylaid by any ogres or sea monsters in the city.”

Connal had scowled, but Orthen laughed the priest’s comment aside. “Connal is of the Faithful. And all God’s children delight to see him honored.”

That had settled matters. Heading out from the citadel, Baldren had insisted that Orthen bring more guards than he and Connal to defend him—even in Gallodel the king could not be certain of his safety. Accompanied by ten chosen men-at-arms, they rode out from the citadel, moving west along High Street. The crowds made way at the sight of Orthen’s blue banner with its golden axe, parting to either side of the broad street, murmuring excitedly amongst themselves. A few cried out, “God save the king!”

Orthen had turned and smiled benevolently upon them. Baldren was less pleased, scanning the crowd with frowning eyes, his body taut and tense, one hand gripping the reins, the other resting on his swordbelt. His great helm hung by a leather strap around his neck, bouncing against his back with every step of his horse.

Drawing up to Connal, Baldren leaned in his saddle and muttered. “We both know you’re handy with a blade, Ellan.” The respect seemed to come grudgingly to his lips. “Keep your eye sharp as your sword. If it should come to a fight, we’ll need every man to defend the king.”

“Is there really such danger?” Connal asked quietly. “This is Orthen’s city.”

Baldren smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Haven’t you heard? We Eburneans are a treacherous lot.”

Connal chuckled as Baldren trotted to the front of the party. He had begun to grow somewhat fond of this Eburnean knight. Beneath the facade of haughty contempt, Baldren was a worthy warrior, a man who served his king with fierce devotion. Such loyalty was prized as the highest virtue among the Ellani; it was impossible not to respect it even in an Eburnean.

Regardless, Baldren’s suspicions had been unfounded. The crowd had offered nothing but adulation, and soon the king’s party had passed through, turning north onto the Way of the Blest, which led them towards the towering cathedral, its walls flanked by wooden scaffolding. When they reached the church, they dismounted, leaving the horses in the care of a single man-at-arms.

“Each door is made of the finest oak, plated with beaten bronze, on which the artisans are even now working the reliefs,” Goran was saying. “Brother Aldwin. You have the sketches?”

The cleric Aldwin stepped forward, unfurling the scroll in his twitching hands. He was a young man—tall, gaunt, and nervous.

Connal moved closer to peer at the illustration depicting an arched door, divided down the center. On the left was a charcoal drawing of a man dressed much like Goran, sporting long vestments and a bishop’s miter. On the right, a king richly adorned with robe and crown, clutching a scepter in one hand, an orb in the other.

“Heed, islander,” Goran said, casting a knowing look at Connal. “These are—”

“Erodius and Justidian. I know.”

Connal enjoyed more than he probably should have the various reactions parading across the prelate’s jowly face. Shock. Incredulity. Indignation.

Connal may not have known of Yldregrance or the Silence, but every somewhat pious Ellan knew the Worthies. True, Erodius was petitioned primarily by scholars and clerics, but Justidian was the patron saint of every prince, every man born to rule and desperate for the wisdom to do it well.

“Ah, yes. Well then.” Goran composed himself, turned again to the parchment. “Each door depicts two Worthies. Tenan and Agrum to the east; Farrion and Herriah, the south, Erodius and Justidian, the west; and Urient and Abria, the north.”

Connal nodded and said nothing. Orthen was also silent, though he felt the king’s eyes upon him, appraising as he often did, with that same ghostly hint of a smile that had so enraged him when he first demanded the Rigsról.

What was the purpose of this discussion? Was it for Connal’s benefit? Surely the king already knew what figures would be depicted on the cathedral doors and had not needed to come all this way for the Aonemb to show him schematics.

“There is still the matter of the tympanum, sire.” Goran pointed to the semicircular space above the door. “You shall have to make a decision soon. Or I can, of course.”

The High Priest’s tone was surprisingly demanding, but Orthen seemed not to notice.

The king rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Yes,” he muttered. Then turning suddenly to Connal he added, “What think you, Lord Connal?”

“Me?” Connal was taken aback. “For the tym … tym…”

“Tympanum.” Goran’s grin was savage. “A scene perhaps? Or a symbol? Something to complement the Worthies. But why ask—”

Orthen held up his hand to silence Goran. “I wish to hear the sealord’s thoughts.”

Connal felt all their eyes upon him, awaiting his opinion. Why did Orthen care what he thought? He was a foreigner, a man unaccustomed to cathedrals or other Eburnean finery. What could he contribute that Gallodel’s host of priests and artisans could not?

He allowed his mind to entertain the oddly pleasing notion that Orthen sought his counsel because of his vision, in which Connal had figured as one of three heroes divinely ordained to smite the dragon and bring an end to the Divine Silence. If the vision were true—and he had begun to find himself assuming that it was—then Connal held a position of great spiritual significance in Orthen’s kingdom. Consequently, his opinion might matter very much indeed.

“Athewain,” he said, surprising himself with the name. But even as he said it, he recognized the wisdom of his choice.

“Athewain?!” Goran seemed aghast.

Connal paid the blustering cleric no mind. His eyes were fixed on Orthen, waiting for the king’s reaction.

As usual, Orthen’s face showed little. “Why do you say that, Lord Connal?”

“He was of Moralann. A saint of the people.”

“Not our people!” Goran hissed. “You would decorate this holy place with a Logrenian idol?!”

Connal felt a strong desire to strike the Aonemb. But he restrained himself, kept his focus on the king.

At last, Orthen spoke. “Above all four portals?”

Connal shook his head. “A different Worthy for each one. Athewain. Nadara. Celdain and Briga”

“That’s heresy!” Goran shrieked. “There are but eight Worthies as decreed by the Council of Louren. None of these savages should be mentioned in the same breath as Tenan or Herriah!”

“The Aonemb is right, I am afraid.” Orthen shook his head. But although he spoke gravely, there was still that ghost of a smile, the hint of amusement. “The Church does not recognize any of these as saints.”

Orthen’s words struck Connal as if an axe-blow. His pride, which had swelled at being consulted by the Eburnean king, receded, leaving him feeling foolish and uncouth.

“It would be heathenry,” Orthen continued, “to adorn a church with such figures. Little better than carving Gaillag or Sathis above the door.”

Connal felt the blood rush to his cheeks. How was this possible? Athewain had fought with Aonel’s blessing against the heathen gods themselves. Celdain had burned the Cuarri’s sacred groves, was martyred for his faith and courage. They were heroes, each of them, saints of the Moradii, forerunners of the Faithful.

“Of course, I am certain you did not know this.” Orthen’s voice was conciliatory, reeking of condescension. “Ellthiar lies at the furthest reaches of Aonel’s dominion. Remain with us and you will learn sacred truths that even Cregeirann’s most well-meaning priests cannot teach you.” Orthen turned to Goran. “Now, what of Saint Agrum’s axe? The same above each portal?”

Goran clapped his hands. “An excellent suggestion, my king. A symbol, both of the sainted Worthy and your reign. It marks a new beginning for Moralann, a revival of—”

“Waer thi, tena, eyn gal o ney!”

The strange, shouted words stopped the Aonemb’s speech. The air was heavy with the stench of sulfur and burning flesh.

Connal spun towards the sound, drew his sword in one smooth motion. And froze. On the far side of the square that lay before the church’s western portal, one of the king’s guards was ablaze, his body wreathed in green fire. He screamed and ran towards them, swinging his arms like a frantic, drowning swimmer.

“Protect the king!” Baldren shouted.

Swords scraped against sheaths, as the knights gathered to form a circle around Orthen and the clergymen, keeping their shields together.

Eleven figures emerged from the dim alleyways surrounding the cathedral square. Each wore cloaks of grey or brown, unremarkable in appearance. All had weapons—short swords and gleaming daggers. A squat, bald man of middling age stood at their center, right hand stretched before him, a ball of fire dancing above his palm.

“Losc thi, cunuin gwor!” The firecaster shrieked, stretching out an open palm. Flames leapt from his hand, shooting towards them.

Connal leapt aside, felt the blistering kiss of heat upon his hands and face. He heard a scream, cast a quick glance to see another guard wreathed in eerie flame, the poor wretch howling as his skin crackled and roasted. The wall of knights had broken, pushed apart by the firecaster’s blast.

Then all turned to chaos.

Howling, shrieking, the assassins rushed upon them, fanning out as they did. They moved with inhuman speed, darting like flies.

Before the knights could reform, the attackers were upon them, stabbing with daggers and swords. Connal saw at once what they were doing, driving a wedge between the king and his guards. Baldren and the knights fell back before the ferocity of the assault, leaving Orthen and the clerics exposed, with none but Connal to guard them.

Three of the assassins broke away, their knives flashing as they rushed for the king and Goran.

“O merciful Aonel!” Goran wailed.

Connal grabbed the Aonemb by the back of his robe, jerking him away. The priest stumbled and fell with a groan. Connal stepped in front of them. “Stay behind me!” he roared. “And keep well beyond the reach of that bloody sorcerer!”

He stood with sword raised in the Pilianese Guard of the Wolf, keenly aware that at any moment he might be set ablaze or pierced by a sudden dagger thrust. He wore no armor, carried only his father’s sword. Manimo the Exile’s instructions came rushing back to him. Speed and precision were to be his allies now. One needed little force to bleed or kill an unarmored man.

The first assassin came directly at him, as the others rushed to right and left. His attacker cycled through the movements of a strange dance of blades, every step graceful and practiced, twirling his knives as he approached.

Connal did not wait to see more of the assassin’s art. He lunged ahead, lashed out with his sword, the blade cleaving the knife wielder’s chest. The weapon cut through skin and bone, lodging deep within his chest. The assassin gasped as his eyes went blank.

“Blood of Gallos!” Connal cursed, tugging on his sword. He had put too much force into the blow, enough to kill even a mailed warrior.

“Back, you servants of Anturr!” Goran wailed again. Had he been wounded?

There was no time to check. Sensing the approach of his attackers, Connal pushed hard against the dead assassin’s chest, ripped his sword free, and pivoted to the side, even as the second assailant lunged for him. Connal delivered a swift cut to the side of the assassin’s neck, severing the artery with a spurt of crimson blood. He back-stepped as the third attacker swung, shortsword swishing through the air where Connal’s head had been. His opponent followed after, pressing his attack with quick, frenzied swings.

Connal let him come, parried a fast cut, then countered, plunging Glámaire through the doomed man’s belly, all the way to the long sword’s guard. Again, he had used more force than required. The assassin emitted a strangled, gurgling cry, as blood leaked from the ragged wound, soaking Connal’s hands and arms. Up close, Connal could see his face more clearly. The pale skin. The red, maddened eyes. The reek of the grave.

A bloodquencher.

The assassin began to laugh, a demonic cackle. His mouth, wet with leaking blood, opened wide, as his head lurched forward, jaws snapping like a rabid dog for his assailant’s throat.

“Aonel’s blood!” Connal jerked back, as the madman’s teeth clacked together. He ripped free the sword, and the blade came loose with a sickening squelch.

Still the assassin did not fall, though blood gushed from his opened belly. The shortsword remained in his hand, and, with a wild, howling laugh, he committed his strength to a powerful thrust. Connal barely moved aside in time, frozen in horror.

Then, all at once, his training returned to him. As the cackling, bleeding madman lunged again, Connal pivoted away, then spun and hacked the blade into the bloodquencher’s back. It bit deep into his flesh, severing his spine.

The assassin’s blade fell with a clatter to the cobbled square. His body jerked, spasmed, and collapsed.

Connal paused, breathing heavily as he looked about. Behind him, Orthen stood with his sword drawn, his face pale with horror. Goran had risen again to his feet, scowling and leaning on the trembling cleric Aldwin for support. And the other priest lay prostrate upon the cobblestones, limbs twisted, a dagger protruding from his back.

Further on, the king’s knights battled the assassins, forming a twisting, roiling mass of men. Many were down—Baldren and three knights alone remained against five of the bloodquenchers. And the firecaster stood apart, still chanting his arcane words, spheres of swirling fire forming in his hands. Several of the knights had already tasted his flame, their bodies blackened and charred upon the ground.

Even as Connal watched, the fire-caster hurled another fireball, setting the clothes of a knight aflame. The poor man dropped his sword and fell to the ground, rolling back and forth in a vain attempt to extinguish the flames.

“The king, you fools!” the fire-wielder screeched. “Go for the king!”

Two of the assassins broke away, making their way for Orthen. But Connal barred their path.

“Keep moving,” he ordered Orthen. “If that firecaster comes in range, you’re dead.”

The assassins spread out to Connal’s right and left. Would they both attack at once, or would one engage him while the other murdered the king? Orthen did have a sword but seemed less than skilled in its use. If one of these trained killers reached him, he would surely die.

Connal watched as they slowly advanced, waiting to see what they would do. Quickly, subtly, he loosened his sword belt with his free hand.

There was a sudden burst of movement. The assassin on the left let out a fearsome howl, brandishing his short sword as he headed straight for Connal. The other sprinted towards the king.

Connal ripped his scabbard free and hurled it into the swordsman’s face. Then he darted to his right, intercepting the second assassin. He lashed out with Glámaire just as the bloodquencher flew past him, slashing him just below the buttocks. The man groaned, lurched ahead, and fell upon his face at Orthen’s feet, a thin, oozing line where Connal had hamstrung him.

Orthen had gone pale, looking aghast at the wounded assassin, and at Connal with his bloodied sword. The king stood frozen with his own unused weapon clutched in his thin white hand.

“Finish him, you stupid bastard!” Connal shouted, spinning round to face the swordsman, bringing his blade up just in time to deflect the other’s blow. From behind he heard the kiss of steel and flesh, the groan of a dying soul.

Back and forth, Connal and his opponent fought, striking and defending, each searching for an opening. He was good, this assassin, had surely trained under some manner of swordmaster.

Suddenly, the bloodquencher leapt back, farther than was humanly possible, and screamed, “Now, Torak! Strike him!”

Connal heard the chanting, chanced the briefest of glances to see the sorcerer Torak only a handful of paces away, weaving his hands through the shimmering air. Mere moments remained before the fire struck.

Connal rushed for the swordsman, snarling as he ran. The assassin’s eyes went wide, but he brought up his sword in time to parry the thrust.

But Connal did not thrust. Changing his attack at the last moment, he swung upwards, slicing through the assassin’s wrist.

The swordsman froze, silent as his weapon fell to the ground. Connal seized him by the cloak, dragging his opponent to himself as Torak formed a swirling cloud of fire. Only then did the assassin scream, his body registering the pain of a severed hand.

“Waer thi, tena, eyn gal o ney! Losc thi hwi!” Torak bellowed, the blazing ball of fire launching from his outstretched hands.

Connal ducked his head behind the assassin, the heat scorching even from behind his human shield. The doomed man howled again as the flames consumed him. He reeked of burning wool and searing flesh.

Connal pushed the burning, writhing wretch away before the fire could spread. “For Cregeirann!” he cried as he raced ahead, charging like a maddened bull. Only a few paces separated him from the firecaster. Torak was chanting again, and a spark ignited between his twisting hands.

The sorcerer fixed his blood-red eyes upon Connal, face black with soot. He stretched forth singed hands and screamed, “Waer thi—”

Connal struck, his shoulder colliding with the firecaster’s arms, feeling but for a moment the bite of fire. The sorcerer fell, cursing as he landed hard upon his back, Connal teetering above him. Torak sat up, reached for the sword at his belt, and Connal kicked him in the chest. With a groan and a crunch of ribs, the sorcerer’s head flew back and struck the stones. Yet somehow he had managed to draw his sword.

Planting his boot upon Torak’s wrist, Connal ground his foot until the man released the hilt, moaning all the while. Connal gripped his sword with both hands, the point hovering just above the sorcerer’s throat.

“Should have reached for the sword to begin with,” Connal huffed between panting breaths. Trying to form a fireball was a mistake. One that would cost this Torak his life.

“Lord Connal!” Orthen cried. “Stay your hand!”

Connal darted a look back and saw the king racing towards him. The tip of Orthen’s sword was red.

“Have you lost your senses?” Connal kept his eyes upon the sorcerer, meeting his hateful glare, watching for an attack. Who knew what other tricks this conjurer possessed? “This one killed half your men.”

“And he must be questioned.” Orthen came to a halt at Connal’s side. “I will know who sent them.”

“Question the others,” Connal growled.

“They’re all dead.”

Connal risked another look and saw what Orthen said was true. The fight was over. Sir Baldren and one other knight still stood upon their feet, swords bloodied to the hilt. Another two were wounded. All of the assassins were dead.

“Very well.” Connal said. “But you’d better bind his hands and mouth.” He slammed his boot into Torak’s head, knocking the firecaster senseless.

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Chapter Nine

Eburnean Pageantry

IT WAS NEARLY a week before Connal regained full consciousness and his raging fever subsided. For weeks more, he lay in bed, a forced guest in Orthen’s hall, tended by a host of surgeons and leeches. They bled and bandaged him, mixing up strange herbal remedies, some of which they dabbed upon his wounds, others poured down his throat.

To all of this, he meekly submitted, powerless to refuse. Even Kierran’s objections were overruled. If Orthen wanted him dead, his blood poisoned or his organs punctured by a surgeon’s knife, there was little he could do to stop him.

But Orthen employed no treachery, and, in time, Connal healed. After six days of battling infection, of fading in and out of consciousness, his fever broke. Weak though he was, he could hold brief conversation and focus his tired mind on a single task. He even allowed the king’s servants to pare back his wild beard and trim his hair, now that he had fulfilled his oath.

He still lacked strength to walk, but, with help from his men or from Orthen’s pages, he would sit in the garden or high upon the wall, overlooking the South Sea. A deep yearning stirred his soul as he watched the waters roil below, the waves rising and lashing the sea wall with foaming rage.

Other times, he sat in Orthen’s hall, watching a minstrel sing, or a troupe of actors play out a drama rooted in Eburnean lore. It was like nothing he had seen before, and he found himself captivated, drawn into their strange pretend world, seeing the costumed and painted players embody great kings and queens of old, falling in heartrending tragedy, triumphing in blood-stained battles of make-believe.

Church afforded a different kind of pageantry. As a follower of Aonel, he knew the doctrine of the Faithful, and had attended Cregeirann’s church with a fair amount of regularity. But for Orthen, nothing less than every day was sufficient. The king met with his priests before the breaking of every dawn—and often again at dusk—to worship. Connal accompanied him on several occasions, marveling at the splendor of the royal chapel, an ancient building abandoned for generations, now reconsecrated to the divine. There or in one of the larger churches in Gallodel, he would sit and stand and kneel, taking in the beauty of the stained glass windows, the sweet harmonies of the singing priests, and the rich aroma of burning incense. And there he listened to Goran the Aonemb preach powerful, fiery sermons, calling the people to repentance, to cast off their false loyalties and join the Purification.

“Have you not heard what the scriptures say?” Goran cried in one such tirade. “That between the darkness and the light there can be no friendship! No half measures! No compromise!” At that last word, he slammed an open palm against the pulpit, against the very holy book itself, eliciting gasps and looks of consternation from the congregation. “Yes, no compromise! My sons and daughters, I exhort you—choose now while the time for choosing remains. We must cleanse our land while it is still in our power to do so. For the hour is fast approaching when Aonel above shall pour out his wrath upon our wayward kingdom. Like a river undammed, he shall rush upon us, washing away our iniquities. Then every sinner shall be cast into the depths of Anturr’s flaming sea—every lusting whore and God-denying heathen who pollutes our land, every wretched soul who sought a ‘middle way’ between good and evil! There they shall weep and writhe and howl without end, held in the bitter, agonizing embrace of the Drakau whom they served in the place of almighty God!”

On and on the Aonemb preached, invoking a litany of frightful images, a host of terrible punishments lying in wait for the unrepentant sinner. Connal found himself unnerved by the holy man’s sermons, by the wrath and terror of which he spoke with such conviction.

Yet he was reminded also of the dramas performed in Orthen’s court. Goran’s thundering voice possessed much of the lilting, exaggerated cadence of an actor. Raging there before the altar, the Aonemb was not unlike the doomed hero of the Tragical History of Horsgar, who, standing upon the stage, railed against unbending fate as his enemies laid waste his kingdom.

Orthen’s court offered other diversions less dire than Goran’s homilies. Often there was jousting, seemingly the Eburneans’ favorite sport. Knights from all over Orthen’s realm would gather for a grueling day of tilting, running their snorting destriers at one another, shattering lances and hurtling opponents to the dirt. He saw Sir Farras, the dark skinned Telian he would have faced before the king’s intervention, fight masterfully with sword and shield, besting many with skill and power.

Among the Eburneans, there was no greater champion than Sir Baldren. To Connal’s surprise, the Knight of Splinters, as he was called, was a terror with the lance, felling every challenger set before him, claiming the champion’s wreath to thunderous applause. Connal had to admit, though only to himself, that his judgement of Eburnean valor might have been hasty.

But of greatest interest was the king’s justice, held in the very hall in which Connal had battled for the Rigsról. Truly, it was as Kierran had told him; from the morning bell to the day’s end they came, an endless procession of subjects. Noble and common, man and woman—they knelt before the throne, presenting their grievances, seeking justice from the young king.

It was madness, really, to turn the workings of justice into a pageant, like one of the dramas acted out by the King’s Players in the evenings. Craedon would deal with such cases at times, but so too would the Elders of the Suid, or one of the many stewards of the isles. Only the most important disputes or petitions would reach the king himself. Orthen, however, seemed to make no such distinction, giving equal attention to a land dispute between knights and an argument between peasants over stolen cows.

“What think you of our justice, Lord Connal?” Orthen asked him as they sat in his chamber at the end of a particularly long day.

Over the preceding days, Orthen had addressed many such questions to him. Despite his former rage, Connal now found himself warming to this strange, pious king. After reclaiming the Rigsról, he felt empty and confused, a ship adrift without bearing or direction. And here was Orthen, brimming with holy purpose, with righteous zeal, his very certainty unnervingly compelling.

“I think you’re mad,” Connal replied.

Orthen smiled, raising a brow. “How so, my lord?”

“You spend all your time listening to these bitter farmers and jealous husbands. You have no time for real kingship.”

“And what is real kingship?”

“Make laws. Train armies. Defeat your enemies.”

Orthen laughed. “You sound like my barons. But this too is important. The people must see that I am not like my father. Nor my brother either. For too long, the commoner has gone unheeded, the figure of justice trampled underfoot. They must see that I am different, that my duty is to the people. And they will see that I was right to take the throne.”

Connal studied him carefully, saw the haunted look in the younger man’s eyes. Orthen’s certainty had weakened Connal’s antipathy; now his self-doubt made him rush instinctively to the king’s defense.

“You don’t need to justify it, lad. The crown is yours.”

Orthen lowered his eyes. “There are many still who deny it.”

“Gaillag damn them and their opinions! You are king. What use is doubting your right to rule?”

“I do not say there is use to it.”

“Then cast it off! What is done is done. Wishing it otherwise will only drive you mad.”

Orthen sighed. “I only wish it were so easy. That I had your singleness of mind. Your confidence.”

Connal shrugged. “It is easy. You told me yourself of your vision. Was it not true?”

Orthen shifted in his seat and stared into the low burning flames of the hearth. “It was. Yet sometimes I wonder, Connal. I wonder if what my enemies say is also true. That it was naked ambition that saw me take the throne. That all the talk of God and the Silence is but a holy cover for unholy greed.”

“Herriah’s bones.” Connal shook his head. “What is there to wonder? People will always talk. But you alone know your own motives. It is no use to entertain such ignorant speculation.”

“Yes,” Orthen said. “Yes, you are right. Sometimes I think it is a curse—this mind, this conscience of mine. I do not think my father ever doubted himself. Nor does Daras. He has always been so sure of his place, of his every action.”

For a while they said nothing, staring into the fire.

“Where is Daras now?” Connal asked at last.

“West,” Orthen said and again his eyes trailed back to the fire. “In Logren.”

“And that does not concern you?”

“Why should it? He is beaten.”

“Beaten but not killed. That makes him dangerous.”

Orthen’s eyes twitched and he shifted again. “Again you sound like my barons. But I will not pursue him. I never wanted war. And perhaps in time he will settle for Logren.”

“And what of your plan to break the Silence? Do you not need to rule Logren too?”

Orthen looked down again and Connal could see the war raging within him. He was torn between a saint’s zeal and a brother’s guilt.

“Perhaps,” Orthen finally said. “But perhaps Eburneum alone would be enough.”

“But you don’t even hold Eburneum.”

“I know, Connal. I know.” He stared at Connal with despair. “But the barons will come round.”

Connal said nothing, but he had his doubts. The longer he had spent in Gallodel, the more he learned of this strange land, of its customs and beliefs, and where its power lay. There were sixteen earldoms in Eburneum and in the marches of Logren, held by Eburnean lords. Only four of these earls had pledged fealty to Orthen, and, after the defeat at Gallodel, only three remained with Daras. That left nine unaccounted for. Some, the king’s men conjectured, were truly neutral and would join Orthen after he gained a more decisive victory. Others, however, were hostile to any monarch’s rule, wishing to be kings in their own right.

The northern earldoms—Norgyle, Cuarrland, and Montfair—collectively governed by the Duke of Norick, Orthen’s uncle, were among these. As soon as word reached the northern clans that Orthen had made himself king, they rose in open revolt against any and all Eburnean authority, slaughtering the garrisons of the major cities and trapping the duke himself within the castle of Slephold. This, Orthen welcomed, at least for now, for it meant that Daras’s greatest ally, their uncle, was unable to help him, unable to march south and wreak havoc on Orthen’s holdings. But it also meant that unifying the country would be extremely difficult.

Even Orthen’s mother, Elienor, the late King Branok’s widow, had turned against her younger son. As Orthen seized the city of Gallodel, she slipped across the South Sea, to the province of Salnou, which she ruled as countess. Even now, reports reached the court of her intrigues, how she treated with the princes of Breviny, using her considerable diplomatic influence to raise support for her eldest son.

Yet for now, Connal chose not to challenge Orthen, not to shatter this hope, for even false confidence was better than the self-doubt which habitually plagued him. Instead he asked a different question.

“When I came to you for justice, why did you deny me? In all the matters I have seen you judge, you are fair to the point of madness. Yet I had better cause than many whose crimes you freely forgive.”

Orthen looked up and seemed to be trying to suppress a smile. “Did you really think I would return the banner without a fight?”

“No. I thought you were a spiteful tyrant. But now that I’ve witnessed your justice firsthand, I wonder.”

“When you first entered my hall, I knew that Aonel had sent you, that you were the warrior from my vision. Yet I needed to see your power for myself. And more than that—your courage. There are few men alive who would dare what you dared. It is such courage that will bind the forces of evil, bring holy order out of chaos. You understand this, do you not?”

Connal nodded. But he was not sure he did. The king flattered him, stroked his warrior’s pride. Yet it troubled him also, the way Orthen had let his knights fight and fall, all for a mere test. It felt like betrayal. Though how it was, he could not say. His thoughts were muddled as he left for bed, dreaming of home.

♚ ♚ ♚

“Good to see you on your feet again,” Kierran said as they strolled together along the impossibly high walls of the citadel. Far below, the ocean roiled, waves lapping against the weed-crusted seawall.

Connal nodded. At last, his wounds had healed and he had grown strong enough for the briefest of walks. Though he was finding even this leisurely stroll along the wall a tiring effort.

“I suppose we are ready to sail home then?” Kierran looked at him expectantly.

“Soon.”

“Why wait? You are returned to good health. And the men grow restive.”

“Oh?” Connal paused, leaning against the battlements as he caught his breath.

“Aye.” Kierran gave a look somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “While you’ve been living the high life as Orthen’s guest, they’ve been taking in the local ‘culture.’”

“How bad is it?”

Kierran let out a deep sigh. “Bad. Every night, they frequent Gallodel’s vilest districts. Whoring and gambling, drinking and brawling. Men flock to this city from every realm, and Gallodel offers them every pleasure. I’ve never seen so many brothels gathered in one place. Imagine Olcheól, but ten times more depraved.”

“The king allows this?” Connal wondered aloud. He had heard the Aonemb Goran railing against the ‘whoredom’ of the people, had assumed the priest exaggerated, that such things could not take place in Orthen’s own city. “I would have thought he’d forbid it.”

Kierran scoffed. “If he has, the whoremongers have taken little notice. And it’s all in the districts furthest from the citadel—the docks, the Auronian quarters. The kings’ justiciars must turn a blind eye.”

Connal said nothing, and Kierran went on. “Regardless, it didn’t take long for our men to find them. And Fionn and Roras, Delar and Roal—they spend their silver like it’s their last night on earth. The men’s discipline is spent. Fionn and the others have started fights with the other patrons—Eburnean men-at-arms, Auronian mercenaries, Telian merchants. We’re one bad tavern brawl away from a bloodbath.”

Connal remained silent for some time, staring out at the waves below. The sea looked cold and grey. It reminded him of home. His mother. Ada. The grieving people of Cregeirann. He should heed Kierran’s advice—he knew he should. Return to lead his people. Yet, he found himself reticent, unable to tear away from the fascination of Orthen and his court.

“This city is diseased.” Kierran interrupted his reverie. “And the men are sick with its excess. It’s gone to their heads like the strongest mead.” He put a hand on Connal’s shoulder. “When do we leave?”

“Soon,” Connal said again. “Can you not forbid them to leave the ship?”

“Blood of Gallos!” Kierran swore. “I’ve tried. But these are free men. There is only so much I can do short of chaining them to their oars. We must go. Once the pleasures of this Eburnean hellhole are behind us, order will return.”

“Aye,” Connal said. “Aye, you’re right.”

“Yet you are loath to leave?” Kierran frowned at him.

Connal shrugged.

“Why?” The grim warrior’s voice strained with exasperation. “You’ve gained the Rigsról. What else is there?”

“Orthen has many interesting things to say,” Connal replied sheepishly.

“What is it you talk about with him?”

“He made me an offer of … of alliance.”

Kierran snorted. “And did you tell him to shove his offer up his pompous asshole?”

“I said I would think on it.”

“What’s there to think on? Would you betray your people, betray your own father’s memory, to help the very men that killed him? The king who seized the Rigsról and displayed it from his walls like a trophy! What happened to your righteous anger?”

“It is no betrayal,” Connal insisted. “The Rigsról is ours once more. Justice has been won.”

Kierran grumbled inaudibly. Then he added, “Don’t let the Suid hear you talk like this.”

The Suid. Again Connal felt a surge of panic. He remembered their censure, their threats of exile. But he remembered too the assurances Tassach had given him. Good old Shrewdtongue would keep the Elders in line, prime them for Connal’s return. And receive his reward when Connal was king.

He clapped Kierran’s shoulder. “We’ll leave soon. I swear it.”

♚ ♚ ♚

In time, Connal began to tour the city, walking amongst its crowded, suffocating lanes, mingling among the citizens and travelers from a hundred realms. He grew accustomed to the noise, the people, even the stench of excrement in the lower districts.

Everywhere, he saw the signs of Orthen’s new regime. Ancient churches that had fallen into disrepair during previous reigns were being restored, their facades polished, their interiors fitted with shining marble tiles and altars of glittering gold. The greatest among these, Orthen’s pride and joy, the Cathedral of Saint Yldegrance, dominated the skyline, its nine turrets soaring far above the city walls.

But with restoration came destruction also. The signs were clearest in the district of Larfeld, where whole streets, formerly bustling and prosperous, now lay desolate. Healers, booksellers, smiths, potion-crafters—all plying the trades of wyrmcraft, were now boarded up, their owners forced to abandon any profession that profited from heresy.

“Not a single shop left,” Kierran said, walking beside him. “He’s ruthless, your king.”

“He’s not my king.”

“You know this was said to be one of the wealthiest streets in the whole city? Look at it now.”

Connal shrugged. “They’ll find a new trade.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is your point then? You think Orthen should let these people carry on poisoning his kingdom? He should tolerate them?”

“Your father did.”

“My father did many things. Some less wise than others.”

“At least he did not drive people from their homes for practicing enchantment.”

“Maybe he should have. A land should not be divided. How can we worship Aonel with one breath, and with another openly defy him? At least Orthen is consistent. He is unifying his people. One faith. One purpose.”

“Is it consistent that he tolerates brothels, but not enchanters?” Kierran shook his head. ”And besides, forced unity doesn’t seem much of a virtue to me. Who can make such a choice for a whole people?”

“A king,” Connal said.

♚ ♚ ♚

In the morning, Connal rode out from the city itself. He was no natural rider, having little use for horses on the islands, but he managed to keep himself in the saddle, holding his mount to a leisurely trot.

Eventually, he came to the site of the great battle, where Orthen’s cunning had brought his brother’s force to ruin. The place where Craedon fell, a pawn in a foreign war. There was little sign of that slaughter. No bones or weapons lay upon the grassy field or the cobbled Telian road. It was as if it had never happened, as if the earth bore no memory of the brave men whose blood had poured out upon its rich soil.

Only a single monument stood, and it was for this that Connal had come. Kierran told him of this place; here his father was buried, together with the rest of the Ellani dead. It was a simple structure, a rough-hewn stone serving as rustic altar. And all around the stone, nine spears stood upright, driven headfirst in the dirt, ringing the tomb with a martial fence.

There were no names engraved upon the stone, for few were the Ellani who could read. But he knew it was the place, knew it as a tomb of island warriors. Deep within the earth his father’s body lay. He tried to picture him lying there, but could not. It still seemed unreal.

Connal remembered the last words they had shared, words of foolish anger. Standing before his father in a private audience, Connal had warned him not to go to Gallodel, urging him instead to strike against their true foe, Ganwae. Word had just come of how Ganwae’s captain, Halgar the Fearless, had raided Cregeirann’s ally, the large, fertile isle of Edòrn, and Connal urged his father to take decisive action against the enemy, to leave Prince Daras to fight his own war.

“I don’t trust the Eburneans,” Connal had said. “Why ensnare ourselves in a war that means nothing to us?”

“It may mean nothing to you,” his father had said. “But Branok was a good king, bringing peace and stability to Eburneum and Logren. Under his reign, trade between our islands and the mainland flourished. If this wild Prince Orthen takes power, he will throw everything into chaos and jeopardize the fragile peace of Moralann.”

“You don’t know that!” Connal shouted. “And we have a chance to shatter Ganwae’s power once and for all. He broke the treaty, just as I said he would. And now we can break him. Not just at Edòrn, but on the very shores of Bròn itself. Would you throw away that chance?”

“I throw nothing away! Ganwae’s vassal Halgar has broken faith and must be chastened. But I will hear no more of your bloody talk of conquest and destruction. Cregeirann and Bròn have been since the days of Wealan, and they shall continue long after we are dead. We must find a way to live in peace with our neighbors.”

“Peace!” Connal had raged. “There can be no peace with the wolves at our door! Age has weakened your resolve, father! You’ve lost your stomach for war!”

“And you!” His father had risen from his throne in equal rage. “You know nothing of real war! You are but a child! When you have stood in the wall of thousands, have heard the shrieks of the dying, and returned to face the grief of widows and orphans, then I will heed your ‘counsel!’”

That had stung Connal, as his father’s rage often did. “I know of duty, father. And honor too. And I say you shrink from both.”

“You dog’s turd!” Craedon seethed. “You are not worthy to be my son. Others will accompany me to war and take their share of honor. But you—you will stay amongst the women, and boast to them of your mighty deeds!”

Connal had stormed off, wallowing in smoldering wrath. Many days had passed before they spoke again, and when they did, it was in the halting awkward manner that always followed their quarrels.

Neither apologized. There could be no admission of wrongdoing. Eventually, Craedon had asked his son if he would sail with him to Gallodel. And Connal, proud and angry, refused, saying he would stay and deal with Halgar’s raiders himself. Craedon agreed at last and Connal left him before anything further could be said.

In the morning, when the Ellani ships departed for war, Connal had remained in his chambers. Swatting aside his father’s last attempt at reconciliation, he had nursed his wounded pride.

And now, kneeling before his father’s grave, the grief welled up within him. All his rage had long since fled, leaving desolation in its wake.

“You never should have gone,” Connal said at last. He wanted to say more, but even in death his father stunted his speech. He felt awkward and foolish, grieving before the tomb.

“Farewell.” He rose to his feet at last. “May your soul find rest.”

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Chapter Eight

The Escape

Moreana tore across the Fields of Dygoneth, racing her horse against her pursuers, against time itself. Behind her the men of Ffairdin gave furious chase. For over an hour they had hunted her, beginning the moment she had passed by the unwalled city — its skyline dominated by the mighty dome of Adhlac’s library — across the rushing waters of the Afon Praidd. From the grey of her cloak and the white of her ibar staff, they had known her for one of the Athwyr, a defiler and oppressor. Alarms were rung, horses mounted, and the mad Lord Ylnir’s minions pursued her south along the Telian road. It was darkening now, yet they showed no signs of giving up the chase.

It had not taken long for Moreana to escape captivity. The enchantment on her dungeon’s door was not complex, and Adhlac had, after all, taught her all but one of the mysteries of Turòlas. But the lack of her staff had added to the challenge, costing her days rather than minutes. By the time she broke free and reclaimed her staff, she found the tower nearly empty, save for the few disciples and Duridir who had been left to guard her. Those were easy enough to evade. Nivan and Caelran were gone, joined with Daras.

She had cursed the delay, knowing it would be days of hard riding before Gallodel was in sight. And Logren was hot with strife, ruled by petty lords like Ylnir who feuded with each other and with their Eburnean oppressors. Yet all these were united by their shared hatred of the Athwyr.

Casting a look over her shoulder, Moreana saw three of Ylnir’s men, who rode upon faster mounts, break away from their companions. They were gaining on her, the pounding of their hooves like thunder in her ears.

How easy it would be to turn their bones to water, to blight their flesh with corpse’s pallor. She need only smite one of them and the rest would lose heart, an example of terror to fill Ffairdin’s people with dread for years to come.

She brushed the thought aside as the unworthy thing it was. Bending low, she whispered in Seithan’s ear, urging the stallion in his own speech to greater speed. The black horse shot out under her like a loosed arrow, his hooves clattering against the stones, widening the gap between Moreana and her pursuers.

But it could not last for long. Seithan, enchanted though he was, had ridden for restless hours before reaching Ffairdin, and these were fresh mounts. When she looked again, the three men had gained on her. She would have to face them.

Tugging at the reins, Moreana wheeled abruptly, holding up her staff like a jouster’s lance.

“Defiler!” one of them screamed, drawing his sword. He looked like a knight. His dark cloak streamed behind him, but, aside from his sword, he carried no arms.

She whispered to Seithan and the stallion leapt forward, heading directly for the swordsman. His horse shied as the warhorse bore upon them, turning the man’s shield side to her. But he carried no shield and her staff leapt like a living thing, catching his naked temple. She heard the weapon’s thud and the pursuer’s groan, as her enemy slumped back in the saddle, tumbling over his horse’s rump.

The other two were close behind. Both carried spears, but, like the first, they wore no armor. One had long, black hair that streamed in the wind behind him; the other was older, with a head covered in grey stubble.

“Begone!” she called, brandishing her staff. “I would not harm you.”

“Bitch!” the long-haired warrior shouted, cocking his arm for the throw. He hurled it, and Moreana gave her reins the slightest tug, nudging her horse to the side as the javelin flew past her.

He cursed, drawing a dagger from his belt, spurring his horse towards her. On her right, the older man charged with a leveled spear.

Moreana knew that what followed must have seemed instantaneous to the men, though to her they all moved slowly, like figures trapped in mud. She parried the bald man’s thrust, shattering the shaft of his spear with the rod’s hardened wood. Then on her left, she struck, using the staff like a spear, ramming the jeweled head into the young man’s ribs. Several broke with a sickening crack. And back to the right she whipped the weapon again, striking the other man’s neck. It was a vicious move, though she held back, taking his consciousness rather than his life.

In a moment it was over. Dropping their weapons, falling from their horses, they were a threat no more.

She spoke to Seithan again and the stallion whipped round, continuing south. Ylnir’s men would lose heart, seeing three of their number reduced so easily to agony. And she would be free to ride on, through the heart of war-torn Logren. She would rest when she could, though nowhere was safe. Not here, not even beyond the rushing Arveon.

Not till she reached King Orthen’s court.

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Connal has survived the ordeal against Orthen’s champions and reclaimed the Rigsról, the banner of his people. But Orthen is more than he seems, and is about to reveal his divinely ordained mission.

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Chapter Seven

The Divine Silence

CONNAL RIPPED INTO his meal like a wolf its kill. The people of Gallodel dined well, he had to admit. This was better by far than any feast held under the arched timbers of Rigtalla. He wondered between hearty bites of greasy pheasant and thick beef stew whether it was this luxuriant fare that led to their softness. For in the same glorious hall in which Connal had bested nine of Orthen’s strongest knights, they now sat to dinner, the floors scrubbed clean of sweat and blood, sword and shield giving way to silver fork and silken serviette.

He sat at Orthen’s right hand, a place of honor. To Connal’s own right sat the whole of the Ellani crew, save for a few whose task it was to guard the ship. For a while, neither king nor warrior shared a word, leaving Connal to sate his ravenous hunger with the seemingly inexhaustible platters of boar and venison, eel and pheasant. The king exchanged pleasantries with the lords on his left, occasionally casting a searching glance Connal’s way.

“How are your wounds?” Orthen asked at last.

Connal grunted. “They are fine.”

“Good, good. You did not accept my offer of a physician?”

“No,” he said. “I have no need.”

Connal had examined himself already when he had washed before dinner. Changing from battered mail to a fresh tunic, he had checked his body for wounds and saw only scrapes and bruises, hideous and purple like grapes trodden in the vineyard. The mail had done its work. And with Kierran’s warning ringing in his head, he would not trust himself to the king’s physicians with their knives and potions.

“And your knights?” Connal asked. “How do they fare?”

“They will survive. Though some with more pain than others.”

Connal laughed and took a hearty bite of the king’s white bread. He had never tasted anything like it—so soft and airy. He noticed most of the knights he had faced sat at table. Baldren was close to the king, just a few seats to his left, dining beside the other beaten and battered champions of Gallodel.

“You fought well,” Orthen added.

“I know,” Connal said. He took a long deep quaff of the blood-red wine.

The king smiled at his response. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Connal shrugged. “The islands are a hard teacher, king. And when you’ve fought with creatures such as I have faced, then fools such as these knights pose little challenge.”

Orthen frowned. “These are not fools, Lord Connal. They are Gallodel’s finest, the flower of chivalry.”

“That may be so.” Connal flashed a smug grin. “But your ‘flowers’ were fools to face me.”

“If you had faced Sir Farras, you might sing a different tune. He is a fearsome swordsman, a knight of great honor.”

Connal stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Swallowing loudly, he responded, “I would have cut your Farras to the ground, same as his fellows.” He took another drink of wine. “And I did not need your interference. I would have defeated all twelve. And any others that would face my blade.”

Orthen smiled. “So you would have.”

Connal felt a building irritation. He did not like this boy’s patronizing smile. Turning away, he indulged in a large bite of succulent pheasant.

“And what is next for you?” Orthen asked.

“Next?” Connal said, his mouth crammed with meat. “I return home.”

“And what awaits you when you return?”

“The bloody crown awaits me. With the Rigsról in hand, I will be hailed king of Cregeirann.”

Orthen’s look was puzzled. “You are not king already? I thought you were the Craedon’s son?”

“We do things differently in the Islands, lad. The Suid decides on the next king. A man does not receive the title merely by birth. It is his deeds that speak for him.”

“Yet you are certain of the crown? Do your deeds speak so well?”

“Yes.” Though in his heart Connal felt the cold bite of fear, remembering his mother’s warning.

Orthen nodded. Was he impressed? Skeptical? He was hard to read, this young royal. But why should Connal care what this beardless youth thought? He pushed this foolishness from his mind and drank more wine, enjoying the warm sensation spreading through his limbs. Wine was a rarity in Cregeirann, even for those of royal blood. He would have to remember to bring some home with him

Connal looked about the hall, surveying the revelers as he took in the minstrels’ soothing music. He turned to Orthen and studied him a moment. In truth, he was not really a boy, only a few years younger than Connal himself. Yet his shaven chin, the thinness of his body and his long, curled hair gave him a fragile look, like a man with but one foot in this earthly realm.

“And what of you?” Connal asked, shifting attention from himself. “What do you do now that you’ve squashed your brother and taken his throne?”

Orthen winced and looked away. Yet it was only a moment. The young king met his gaze once again, and his eyes were ablaze with zeal.

“There is much work to be done. Evil does not rest and nor can we. The War of Princes, as men call it, is over, but the war for the soul of Moralann, of all the world, is just beginning.”

“What war is this then? You going to conquer the world? Overthrow the Telian emperor?”

Orthen smiled. “Perhaps. Whatever it takes to end the Silence.”

“What silence?”

Orthen squinted at him incredulously. “The Divine Silence. Surely you know of it?”

“Honestly, lad, I have no bloody clue what you’re talking about.”

Orthen stroked his chin. Then he rose suddenly from his chair. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“I have something to show you.”

Connal watched as the king dismissed his guards’ protests with a smile and a wave of his hand. Then Connal downed the last of his wine and got up to follow. He saw Kierran shoot him a warning look but chose to ignore it.

He followed Orthen away from the circular hall and into an adjoining cloister. Soon, Connal found himself in a long corridor, opening on his left to a spacious green courtyard. It was quieter here, away from the din of the feast, and, compared to the hall, it seemed a small space. Yet for all that, it was vast, high arched, and wide as a ship. The floor was of polished marble, reflecting the light of the mounted torches like glassy pools. Along the stone wall to his right, there were statues: grim, lifelike men in liquid, flowing robes. Before one of these figures, Orthen halted.

“Do you know who this is?” he asked.

Connal squinted at the statue before him. It depicted an older man, perhaps in his sixties, clean-shaven, with narrow, disquieting eyes. He wore long billowing robes and carried in his right hand a staff, topped with a sphere from which rays of light seemed to emanate. And on his head there sat a pointed miter, like the ones adorning the saints in the stained glass windows of the hall.

Connal shook his head.

Orthen’s eyes went wide. Then he smiled. “Of course. I must remind myself you are not of our people. Every Eburnean youth with a smattering of education knows this image.”

Connal shrugged. “Was he some kind of priest?”

“That’s putting it rather mildly. This is Saint Yldegrance, Aonemb of Gallodel.”

Connal shifted his gaze from the king’s expectant face to the bishop’s statue, then back again to Orthen. “Should this name mean something to me?”

“Heavens, yes!” Orthen’s voice trembled with characteristic passion. He paused a moment, visibly struggling to master himself.

“And why’s that?”

“Well for one thing, he was the last to hear the Voice of God.”

Connal raised his brows in exaggerated astonishment.

“For over a hundred years,” the king began in a haughty, scholarly tone, “the Aonembs were a conduit for the Divine. Through them, God spoke, revealing his mysterious oracles, wisdom to guide the kings of the land. Arfast was the first with the gift; a blessed saint, he led King Athelbreg to the Faith. Then the power of the High Kings grew. They subdued Eburneum’s petty kings, bringing even Logren under their dominion. And so too did the influence of the High Priests grow.

“Until at last, in the wicked days of Marrok III, as Yldegrance burned incense on the God Stone, the Voice spoke to him, bestowing a word for the impious king. Yldegrance came before the throne of Marrok, rebuking him for his sins: how he cavorted with harlots and dabbled in the arcane mysteries of the Telian heresy. It is said the king grew hot with wrath and drew his sword. And there, before the drooling sycophants and drunken whores that thronged his court, he set upon the blessed saint, cutting his head from his shoulders.

“For his crime, the king paid dearly, and with him the whole of Eburneum. Within five years, he had perished, his body wasted by a dreadful pox. And as the flesh fell from his bones, so too the kingdom fell to ruin. For in the days of Daras I, his son, a would-be pleaser of all men, the barons rebelled and Logren fell away. The High Kings of Eburneum were high in name only, ruling over a shadow of their fathers’ kingdom.

“Yet this was not the greatest calamity to befall our people. For with the martyring of Yldegrance, King Marrok had brought an evil more far-reaching than his wine-clouded eyes could ever see. The office of Aonemb sat empty during those five years, as open debauchery was celebrated across the halls and castles of Eburneum. And Daras his son continued to tolerate the impious magic of his father while also seeking to please the Faithful by installing a new High Priest. This he did, choosing Celegan, a man of good character by all accounts. But what was done could not be undone, and Celegan found no answer to his prayers. No Voice communed with him. All prophecy had ceased. And so, cursed of Aonel, our vassals rising up against us, we descended into Silence.

“Under the shadow of a silent heaven, the people turned with greater frenzy to their sins. Soon, the dark arts of our godless ancestors proliferated. And new depravities emerged, inspired by the arcane scholars of ancient Telum.

“It was amid this hotbed of strife and iniquity that Branok, my father, rose to the throne. He brought to heel the rebellious lords of Eburneum, the stubborn giant-kin of Norick, even the wild heathens of Logren. Yet he did not reform the wicked ways of Marrok his predecessor. Instead, he sought to harness the powers of evil, using Adhlac’s new sorcery to crush his enemies, to create a new class of knights more powerful than any that had come before. Wyrmcrafters, they came to be called. Bloodquenchers. Sorcerers. Drunk on dragon’s blood, wielding charms of scales and powdered wyrmbone, they outstripped one another in feats of strength.

“But it was the sorcerers who held the greatest esteem. Of these, the most revered were Adhlac’s Athwyr, the first of the wyrmcrafters, able to summon fire and raise the dead. With their aid, Branok trampled his enemies underfoot, and soon all of Eburneum yielded to the High King once again. The wild men of Norick too paid us tribute, swearing oaths of fealty to Gallodel. And Logren, troubled Logren, with its ancient superstitions and savage beauty, even Logren he subdued through the power of the acolytes. King Branok raised up great fortresses to cow the native people while Adhlac erected monuments of his own, queer edifices for the furtherance of his occult study. There was peace now, for a time.

“But this new order was unsustainable. For evil’s appetite is ravenous, and those who have tasted its wine thirst for ever stronger drink. And so, the knights of Branok turned upon each other and upon their liege lord, as their desire for fame and power grew. In the tournaments that stood in place of warfare, bloodquenching knights unleashed the full force of their hellish powers. Gone were the days of chivalry, of honor in the lists. Many a nobleman fell in those contests, never to rise again, his body crushed beneath a demigod’s blows. And the Athwyr, those who professed the greatest mastery over the mysteries of the Drakau, turned maddest of all, their wills bound to a false god’s reckless hate.

“Adhlac himself came to recognize the trouble, the festering rot within Branok’s kingdom. He came to me one evening as I sat reading in the library. He told me what I had already come to fear: my father had lost all reason; the Drakau had too strong a hold upon him. Adhlac had witnessed it firsthand among his own acolytes—and in his own tortured soul. The power the Athwyr had harnessed was no passive thing. It bent them to its relentless will with a strength no one had guessed.

“‘You must be king,’ Adhlac told me. ‘If there is to be any hope for the people of these lands.’

“For my brother Daras is his father’s son—brave, noble, yet lusting after the same false and wicked power. That is why, you see, I had to take the throne. It wasn’t for ambition, as the lords of Eburneum presume. I would gladly have let Daras inherit the crown, have contented myself with a life of quiet contemplation. But that was not the burden I was chosen to bear. No, Aonel has a purpose for me, outside any monastery. I must break the power of evil in this land and cleanse it of all idolatry.”

♚ ♚ ♚

At last Orthen had finished his story. While the king talked, they had strolled along the cloister, passing a colonnade of Eburnean statues. They found themselves in the courtyard now darkened by dusk’s lengthening shadow. And Connal took it all in silently. Bits and pieces of this story were familiar, yet, to hear the whole tale laid before him was something different entirely. He wondered at the youthful king, so eloquent, so full of passionate intensity, so unlike the boy he had thought him. He turned his gaze again and found that Orthen’s eyes were upon him. Measuring. Probing.

“So there you have it,” the king said. “My burden. My purpose.”

“By Gaillag,” Connal cursed. Then after a pause, he added, “What do you mean you will ‘cleanse the land’?”

“God does not speak to us, because we have fallen away to serve the Bardor. Our offense is so great, the stench of our sin so pungent, that he will not draw near to us. We must cleanse the land of all heresy, every trace of wyrmcrafting and Dragon-worship. Only then can we break the Silence.”

“And how do you know this? I thought your priests couldn’t hear him?”

“They can’t.” Orthen was nearly giddy with excitement. “But I did.”

“You?”

“Once. More than a year ago now, while my father still reigned. I was riding in the woods alone, when a great force knocked me from my horse, and I lay there for some time, a full day before the squires found me. But in that time, he showed me something.”

“What?”

“I saw this island, all of it stretching before me like a map. And I saw a beast—a dragon. It was vast beyond measure, the tips of its wings stretching to the farthest reaches of Moralann. It had three heads: one reaching to the west, one to the north, and another to the south. And I heard a voice from heaven, saying, ‘Behold your foe. A serpent of many names: Defiler, Seducer, Avarice, Pride. Arise, take up your sword and slay.’

“I rose and found myself standing amid a vast desert, an endless stretch of grey and barren rock. In my hand was a shining sword and before me the fiery beast. For eons it seemed I battled, defending against the sting of its fangs and the blaze of its breath.

“Then I heard the sound of trumpets, like the singing of heaven’s angels. And on my left and on my right, three men came riding upon steeds of radiant white. One was bedecked in a coat of burnished mail, brandishing a sword in both hands. Forth he went with boundless courage, cleaving one of the Serpent’s snapping heads.

“And another, wearing blood-red surcoat and gleaming helm, drove his horse like a man born to the saddle, a champion of tournaments. He whirled about the writhing devil, piercing his scales again and again until at last the second head was slain.

“And the third, he was a man of righteous fury, teeming with holy violence. He fought the dragon’s middle head, the greatest of the three. Deep in the monster’s throat he lodged his sword, then with his mace he beat the dragon, again and again, until the creature’s body turned to dust. And for a moment, he turned upon me, bearing a terrible aspect, the ferocity and evil of the beast itself. But it was only a moment, a fleeting instant. Soon he was man again.

“In the twinkling of an eye, I stood upon the heights of Gallodel, looking over the City of Kings. The heavens opened and I saw light stream over all the earth. And the Voice spoke again, clearer and louder now: ‘Hear my words again O renegade people. Cast off all iniquity, and I will draw near to you.’

“Then darkness fell and I awoke to find my squires at my side, rousing me from that glorious vision.”

Silence followed Orthen’s words. Faintly, Connal could hear the faraway strains of the minstrel’s lute, the muffled hint of merrymaking.

“Your dreams sound dramatic,” he finally said.

Orthen smiled. “Let me tell you something else, Connal. The first man of my vision, the one who severed the dragon’s western head: do you know who it was?”

Connal felt an eerie tingling in the back of his neck. He shook his head.

“What if I told you I see his face again? Here and now.”

Connal swallowed. He felt his thoughts clouding. “I’d say that’s quite a coincidence.”

Orthen smiled. “There are no coincidences. Only the will of Aonel.”

The king took a step towards him and murmured, “And now, Lord Connal, tell me: when you are king, have you given thought to your allies?”

Connal met the king’s gaze as he continued. “Moralann is changing. Since Branok’s death, Eburneum has fractured, as divided as it was before the unity of the High Kings. The old alliances, the old loyalties, are passed away. And not only in Eburneum. Logren, Norick, even your very own Ellthiar—all these are thrown into chaos, a wheel without a hub. I hold the throne through battle, yet the kingdom lies divided by the barons; untethered by fealty, they look only to grow their own power and wealth. They will wait to throw in their lot with whoever emerges as hegemon of the realm. But I have need of real allies, men of honor and of courage. Men like you, Connal.”

Connal snorted. But he felt a strange thrill run through his soul. “I will be no man’s thrall.”

“No,” Orthen said. “I would expect nothing less. An ally. That is what I put to you.”

“Why? My father sided with Daras against you.”

Orthen waved his objection aside. “That was of the past. And unfortunate. For you have more in common with me than my brother, I assure you. But through this all, God has seen fit to cross our paths. And I believe we will accomplish great things together.”

Again, a chill ran down Connal’s spine. “And what use has Cregeirann of such an alliance? It is the custom of the Iron Rock to tend to the islands and leave mainland squabbles to the mainlanders.”

“And yet you are here.” Orthen laughed. “Do you think mere chance has led you to Gallodel? Besides, I have made study of your people. When first Adhlac put the burden of kingship upon me, I knew I must learn as much as I could of the lands surrounding Eburneum. And I know that there is discord among the islands. Between man and Cuarr. Between Cregeirann and Bròn. You have a rival in the West Isles, yes? Ganwae?”

“Ganwae,” Connal spat. “He is a vicious cur. A heathen devil. My father did not stamp out his people when he had the chance. But I will make no such mistake. One day I will burn his halls to cinders and put his strong men to the sword. And mount his pagan head upon a spear.”

Orthen was unfazed by the violent outburst. “And if such is your goal, you have need of allies. Do you think this Ganwae is not, even now, himself engaged in diplomacy, in forging a web of fealty with the princes and barons of Moralann? Honor and courage you have in abundance, my lord, but honor and courage alone will not protect your people from harm. A man cannot stand alone in this world. He needs allies. The future of these lands will be built upon a web of loyal fellowship.”

Connal paused, weighing the young king’s words. “My people would little care for such alliance, I think. After all, the blood of Craedon is on your hands.”

“As much mine as Daras’s. He is the one who led your people on a doomed campaign. And is the blood price not yours to exact, Craedon’s son?”

“It is.”

“Then if you are satisfied with the ordeal of this afternoon, it is paid.”

Connal nodded, then frowned again. He did not like how quickly this Eburnean king moved, how expertly he breached his guard and rushed in. It made his head, already dazed with violence and with wine, reel like a drunkard’s.

“I will think on it,” he said at last. He felt his vision clouding, his feet swaying uneasily beneath him.

Orthen smiled. “That is all I ask of you.”

They stopped in the middle of the courtyard, standing before a fountain at whose center rose the statue of a great warrior. Long tresses and a curling beard fell over his hauberk, and he leaned his right hand upon a tall axe while his other rested an oval shield against the granite base.

“And who’s this then?” Connal asked. “Doesn’t look Eburnean to me.”

Orthen laughed, looking up into the marble warrior’s face. “This is Bordcina, king of the Eormen, father of Eburneum. Have you heard the tale of how he first threw off the Telian oppress—” Orthen spun round, his eyes wide. “My lord, are you well? You look ashen!”

“Aye,” Connal said, “I am well.” But as the words left his mouth, he stumbled to his knee. Pain throbbed all along his side, beside his liver. It radiated outward like the tributaries of a river, flooding his whole body in agony. He opened his mouth to speak again and found himself falling into a black and endless abyss.

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Chapter Six

A Well-Laid Snare

THE ELDER RUARCH’S house was simple, unadorned by the foreign fineries of Tassach’s own home, save for a high-backed wooden chair that looked distinctly Brevin in make. The old man slumped into the plush cushion, his wrinkled hands folded, his grey beard drooping to his knees. He smiled weakly as Tassach entered.

“Ah, Tassach, my boy. Good to see you. Please, come in. Take a seat.”

Tassach bowed, taking the hard stool that sat before the elder’s chair. The use of “boy” rankled him, but he did not correct Ruarc. He could not afford to rile the old man.

“Are you hungry?” Ruarc asked.

“No, thank you,” Tassach said.

“Ale then.” The old man clapped his feeble hands before Tassach could desist. Then, raising his wobbly voice, he croaked, “Terin! Bring ale.”

Terin rushed into the room, bearing a tankard and two eOrthen goblets. She was young and pretty, plump in the way Ruarc seemed to prefer. From Tassach’s earliest memories of the man, he had employed only girls — young, unmarried, plump. That he was now ancient as a rock did not bring this practice to a halt.

“Is that all, lord?” she asked.

“Yes, my dear.” Ruarc leered at her. “Go on.”

She bowed awkwardly to the two men and scurried from the room. As the swish of her skirts died away, Ruarc chuckled quietly, bringing the cup to his lips.

Tassach fought back his revulsion and sipped his ale. It was typical Ellani swill — strong, hoppy, the favourite of every loud-mouthed, half-witted warrior in Cregeirann. Nothing like the rich red wines of Auronia for which he had acquired a particular taste.

“So,” Ruarc said at last. “You asked to speak with me?”

“I did. And Brona too. Is she coming?” He had hoped to bring them together for this talk. Though the two almost always butted heads, they were far and away the most influential leaders on the Suid.

“Agh, you know Brona,” Ruarc said, pawing the air with his hand. “Always busy. Always put out by the least little thing.”

Tassach paused, waiting for the old man to go on. He didn’t.

“So is she coming?” he asked at last, trying to keep the irritation from his voice.

“Brona?” Ruarc sounded surprised, as if he had forgotten what they were just talking about. “Oh, yes. But who knows when?”

A mischievous twinkle glimmered in the elder’s eye. “But why don’t you tell me what this is all about first. We can fill her in later. Whenever she deigns to show up.”

Tassach sighed. This wasn’t at all how he had planned it. How it played out in his imagination, night after night as he lay upon his bed, contemplating the unthinkable.

“Well, my lord,” he said hesitantly. “You see, I am concerned.”

“Concerned? What ever for, my boy?”

“Our people. I fear we are adrift in a sea of troubles, like a beleaguered vessel — mastless, rudderless, at the mercy of every peril.”

“What? Is it truly as bad as all that?”

“We have no leader. It’s been nearly two months since Craedon’s death. And still we are without direction.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. There’s still the Suid, of course.”

“Of course,” Tassach said, taking a sip of the bitter ale, trying not to grimace. “But with so many voices, so many wise heads, it is hard to make a decision quickly. We are unable to respond swiftly to crises.”

“True,” Ruarc admitted.

“That’s why we need a king. Why we’ve always needed one. A man who heeds the Suid’s counsel yet strikes fast and true as only a single man can.”

“Hmm, I see what you mean,” Ruarc stroked the tangled hairs of his grey beard. “We do need a king. Connal I suppose?”

“I’m not so sure. Connal is a good man and a brave warrior. But he left against our counsel, against our orders. As his friend, it grieves me to say this, but he put his own needs over the kingdom’s. We can’t wait for when he decides to return. If he ever does.”

Ruarc opened his mouth to respond when a knock came at the door.

“Terin!” he called. “The door. Hurry, girl!”

Terin scuttled back into the room and opened the latch, revealing Brona at the threshold. The gaunt woman said nothing as she entered, fixing Terin with a steely, disapproving gaze. The young girl shrank from her, retreating into the adjoining room.

“Brona,” Ruarc said. “You’re here. We wondered if you’d ever come.”

“As I told you. I would be here by the fifth hour. And it is the fifth hour now.” Her voice was quiet and brittle. It seemed the two elders were destined always to quarrel.

Ruarc shrugged. “Well you didn’t miss much. Young Tassach here was just talking about choosing the next king.”

“Was he?” she arched her brow, then sat on one of Ruarc’s stools, forming a nearly equidistant triangle with the two men.

“I was expressing,” Tassach said, feeling annoyed at the old man’s hasty summary, “my concern about the lack of leadership in Cregeirann. The people are uneasy. Only recently, our allies were raided by the brothers Halgar and Nalgrim. If we should be attacked again, we’ll need a leader to respond.”

Brona nodded. She sat still, her face expressionless. Tassach noted Ruarc had not provided her a drink and wished the elder had offered him the same insult.

“And whose name did you put forward?” she asked, eying Tassach. He felt a knot forming in his stomach.

“We did not get that far,” Ruarc said. “But we were just discussing the Lord Connal when you arrived.”

“Ah, and what of him?”

“Tassach here thinks the poor lad’s unfit to be king.”

“Hardly my choice of words, Lord Ruarc,” Tassach said, raising his hands. “Connal is a dear friend. And none can deny what immense service he’s rendered our people.”

“Of course,” Brona said.

“However,” he continued, “in the past while, he has shown a worrying lack of good sense. Insulting the Suid, openly denouncing us to the people, sailing away on his quest for revenge — these all demonstrate a concerning lack of maturity. Perhaps, had Craedon lived into old age, young Connal would have had time to come into his own. But we can’t afford to wait for that.”

“No, we can’t,” Brona agreed. “Besides, he abandoned us before the election. If he were here, perhaps, but we can hardly elect an absent man.” It was exactly what he had hoped she’d say. He knew Brona had little love for the brash, arrogant young warrior who, time and again, defied the wisdom and authority of the Suid.

“A shame,” Tassach said, shaking his head, feigning sorrow.

“What of Kierran?” Ruarc asked. “I’ve always thought that fellow had a good head on his shoulders.”

“Kierran is an excellent choice,” Tassach said. “Strong, cunning, a favorite of Craedon. And yet…”

“And yet he went with Connal on that preposterous mission,” Brona said, finishing his thought. “A bunch of blood-crazed fools, risking the peace and security of Cregeirann to prove their manhood. It’s reprehensible!”

“Quite,” Tassach said. He was immensely pleased by how well this was going.

“But if not Connal or Kierran, then who?” Ruarc asked. “What other noble warrior is there who did not fall with Craedon or leave with Connal?”

“Perhaps it need not be a warrior,” Tassach said, as if the thought were only now occurring to him. “A diplomat may be just what these islands need.”

“Who do you have in mind?” Brona asked, eying him again with what he thought was wariness.

“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his short beard. “What about you, Ruarc?”

“Ruarc?” Brona snorted. “He is far too old.”

The old man glared at her. “You’re no young lamb yourself, Brona. But no, my boy. I feel these days I lack the energy for such a role.”

Tassach pretended to look disappointed. “What about Esca?” He could barely contain his laughter. The man was such an enormous fool, he could not imagine him as an elder, let alone a king.

“I think not,” Brona said simply. Not even Ruarc questioned her appraisal.

“Who then?” Tassach threw up his hands in mock frustration. “We need a man to lead us in these dark, unstable times.”

“Or a woman,” Brona said. She cast a defiant look at them both.

“Or a woman,” Tassach allowed. The knot in his stomach tightened. He had not counted on this. Did Brona, too, harbor ambitions for the crown?

“Ha!” Ruarc spat. “There’s never been a woman on Cregeirann’s throne!”

“Maybe that should change,” she said.

“Sure,” Ruarc said, chuckling into his scraggly beard. “A woman on the throne. Just what we need with the enemy at our door. Suggest that to the Suid and you’ll be laughed from the hall.”

Brona glared at him, obviously readying a tirade of anger. Then she sighed, relaxed her jaw, and slumped a little.

Tassach breathed an inward sigh of relief. That was that.

At last, Brona turned to Tassach. “What about you?”

“Me?” He was beginning to worry they’d never get there.

“Yes,” Brona said. “You are young still and wise, and you have the respect of the Suid. And you’re a man.”

“Yes,” Ruarc said, sitting up a little. “By Drog, why didn’t I think of that? You’d make a great king!”

Finally. This was the moment he’d dreamt of.

“I don’t know,” Tassach said. “I’ve never thought of myself as a leader. I wish only to serve my people.”

“Ah, you see, my boy, that’s exactly what a good king should say,” Ruarc said. He nodded knowingly at Tassach. “To lead well, one must serve well. Already you sound like a monarch!”

Of course he did. For weeks, he’d rehearsed this speech, laboring over it, sculpting it like a block of marble.

“On this, I agree with Ruarc,” Brona said. “I can’t think of a finer choice to lead us. You’d have my vote.”

“And mine, of course,” Ruarc said. “I’ll talk with some of the others on the Suid. See if I can’t persuade them to get behind your candidacy.”

“As will I,” Brona said, clearly unwilling to let Ruarc gain more influence with the future king. “By the time we call the Suid together, you’ll find many eager to crown you.”

♚ ♚ ♚

The seer Gnora lived on the island of Olcheól, a half-hour’s boat ride from Cregeirann. The very existence of this island was one of the many hypocrisies that had marked Craedon’s reign. Technically, all manner of divination outside of Aonel’s church was strictly prohibited, punishable by death. But Craedon had compromised, landing on a solution to half-please both priest and pagan: the seers and devotees to the old gods were banned from the main island, limited to the many smaller tributaries that surrounded the Iron Rock. Yet everyone knew where to find the seers, located in the same dingy alleys where harlots plied their trade and disreputable merchants sold stolen goods.

It was not strange then that Tassach should go to her, yet he felt the need for concealment all the same, taking his private boat under cover of darkness, covering his head with a long black hood. Only a deaf and dumb boatman accompanied him. In his own mind, he seemed unable to separate this minor sin from his conspiracy to take the throne.

He left the boat with his servant, picking his way through the moonless dark, following the now familiar path to Gnora’s door. It was silent, too late even for Cregeirann’s whoremongers and black-market patrons, and the hundred or so people who lived on this wave-beaten rock would be inside, asleep. All but Gnora, sleepless as the gods whose oracles she revealed.

Tassach knocked lightly at her squat hovel’s door and waited a few moments for her to open. She was old, ancient as time itself. No one could tell of when she was born or to what parents, nor what land had first seen her draw breath. He could imagine no time when she was not thus: ancient, wrinkled, wise.

She bid him enter the night-black room, lit sparsely by the low-burning embers of a hearth. She crossed her legs and sat by the coals, and he came and did the same, sitting across from her as he always did. For a while they sat, silent as stones.

Then she held out her open hand. He reached into his cloak, producing a purse of clinking silver, which he placed into her palm. She gave a toothless old smile and tucked the purse into the billows of her robes. She reached for a small clay pot that sat beside her, pinching the heady dust with a withered hand.

The seer cast the dust into the coals, and the flames leapt in a sudden blaze. Tinged with green they were, and from them wafted an intoxicating scent. Tassach watched the fire and felt his vision daze as she began her cryptic heathen chant.

Then she spoke in the Ellani tongue. “Behold, the spirits attend. Griannan opens the portal to knowledge. Luanag readies her song of wisdom. What would you know?”

Her words broke his trance. He looked up from the dancing flames to her wrinkled face, saw her eyes closed and her body swaying. He swallowed and asked for what seemed the hundredth time, “Will I be king of Cregeirann?”

He waited for her answer with bated breath. Each time he had asked, and each time the answer had been vague: promising yet uncertain. He needed more.

“I see a high-backed throne,” she said, “and you upon it. I see a golden circlet on your brow, and men of honor bowing to you.”

His heart pounded wildly. These words were new, terrifyingly hopeful. He chose his next question with caution, fearing her answer.

“And this throne: it is Cregeirann’s?”

“It is.”

His spirit soared. He could hardly believe what she said. He feared to wear out his fortune, but could not refrain from one more question:

“And the Lady Ada.” His voice wavered, nearly cracked. “Will she be mine?”

Gnora paused, looked him in the eye. “Like the plundered goods of a conquered people she will be to you, a fierce mare bound and bridled. Your hand shall grasp the reins.”

For a moment, he puzzled over her wording. But it was only a moment. This was the seer’s way, always indirect. But surely this was affirmation. Ada would be his. It was beyond belief. Ada and the throne. What more than this could a man desire?

Then a dark thought crossed his mind, threatening to mar his joy.

“And what of Connal?” he asked.

“What of him?”

“Will he die?”

She snickered. “All men die. But you needn’t have paid silver to learn that.”

“I mean, what will happen to him? Will he return? Will he take the crown?”

“Ah, young lord, such clarity is not given to me this side of death. The gods are stingy, revealing our destiny in bits and pieces. Otherwise, what fun would be left them?”

“So they reveal nothing of Connal?”

“No, there is always something. But that was not your question.”

He sighed. It was always thus. He had to word his questions with precision or else learn nothing of use.

“What do you see of Connal then?” Sometimes the open-ended question worked better.

“I see the life-path fork before him. And at either end the dragon waits.”

“Dragon? What dragon? There are no dragons left in all of Moralann.”

She laughed again, a sickly, ancient cackle. “A foolish man pays for knowledge, then claims he already knows better.”

He grimaced. “Apologies.” Often her words came as riddles, layers of symbolism difficult to untangle. Perhaps the dragon was a symbol of peril? Of death? “You said both paths lead to a dragon?”

“Fierce battle awaits him, but the end of it I cannot foresee. But either way, fall or triumph, his destiny is linked to yours.”

A pang of fear shot through him. He wanted to argue with her again but thought better of it. What did she mean their destinies were linked? In what way? If Connal lived, did that mean the warrior would destroy him? And if Connal fell, surely that must mean Tassach would triumph.

She had fallen silent, and he knew from experience this meant the consultation was over, the portal to the spirits closed. He would learn no more from her tonight.

He rose slowly and pulled his cloak around him, heading for the door. But as his hand was on the latch, she muttered to him, so quietly he almost missed it, her words like ice in his veins.

“Your cunning makes and unmakes you, Tassach, son of Brion. A well-laid snare may catch its framer. Tread with caution.”

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Chapter Five

Twelve Oaths

THE AUDITORIUM WAS a world apart. Where before Connal had stood in the light of the afternoon, here it was neither night nor day, a world illuminated by stained-glass windows and burning rushes. And while the air had been warm and wet outside, here it was dry and cool. All about, higher than the tallest Cuarr, the windows stood, depicting scenes of saintly piety and martial glory. In some, a holy man or woman, wreathed in hallowed light, witnessed to the multitudes, fed the hungry, healed the sick. In others, the Worthies writhed in postures of agony, on flaming pyres and wheeling racks, while about them a throng of heathens clamored for their blood. Here were mailed knights at war with dragons, piercing their scaly hides with lance and sword. And armies, mounted and on foot, locked in gruesome melee, stretching infinitely into the horizon, while, in the foreground, the severed heads of the fallen looked up bloodied and aghast.

Higher still, the ceiling bore the semblance of sky, of blue heavens teeming with mighty Caurim and fallen Bardor, warring with spear and bow, their chariots wheeling from cloud to cloud. The stars gleamed in one corner, black with night, while in the center shone a painted sun. The planets ranged here, bright and glowing, in hues as various as those which adorned the windows.

Under Connal’s feet, the marvels continued: the world, as the cartographers conceived it. He trod upon lands of green and brown, whole kingdoms reduced to mere tiles, islands surrounded by grey-blue oceans. His eyes wandered high and low, left and right, dazed by the panoply of art, wonders in every direction.

Up above, a balcony ran along the rounded hall. Common people, much like those who had gaped at them on their way in, gathered there, looking down on the proceedings below.

Beneath this balcony, raised just above the ground, stood the tables, arranged in a C-shape and draped in white silk. Around them, lords and ladies sat, dressed in rich tunics and dresses of material as glorious as that which covered the table. And there at the center, upon a throne of wine-dark mahogany, sat the king. There was no mistaking him—even with his lean, boyish face—even if he were not wearing the crown that sat on his head of long, thin hair, Connal would know him. For in his eyes there was neither weakness nor youth. Orthen watched him with burning coals, his look impenetrable, mysterious.

Along the wall behind the king, banners hung, depicting the trappings of Eburnean heraldry: lions and leopards, dragons and eagles. Many, Connal suspected, were of Orthen’s own vassals, others taken through bloody conquest. And in the very corner he saw the one he sought—sullied and tattered, the banner green with two crossed white swords. The Rigsról.

A gaily-dressed herald broke the silence. His voice boomed. “Welcome, visitors, to Gallodel, to the court of his Royal Grace, Orthen I, High King of Eburneum, Lord of Logren and of Norick, Ruler of the Western Isles. Orthen, the favored of Aonel, scourge of the heathen, and cleanser of iniquities. State your name and your purpose.”

Connal cast a brief glance at his companions and wondered idly if he should also have a herald, to show he was as much a prince as this Orthen. But a look at their blank faces disabused him of the idea. No, he thought. Such is not for me. The Ellani kings have a voice of their own.

“I am Connal of Cregeirann, son of King Craedon of Ellthiar. And,” he added hastily, “I am the Beastmaster of Iarlir.”

The hall awoke with a sound of murmuring, as Gallodel’s lords and peasants conjectured loudly about him.

That was better. It seemed these names had power yet, whatever the arrogant Baldren might have insinuated.

“And I have come,” Connal added, shouting over the din, “for justice!”

At this, the murmuring grew to an indistinct wall of noise. A chill ran down his spine. But Connal did not look at the lords of Eburneum, nor at the commons; his eyes locked only on the young king, studying his impassive face for the trace of a response. But there was none, only that inscrutable, studious gaze.

“Connal of Cregann,” the herald mispronounced in his snooty Eburnean accent, “you have called upon the king’s sacred justice. What is it you would ask for?”

“The Rigsról.” He pointed to where it hung from the stone wall, left of the throne, the green cloth frayed and blood-spattered. “It is mine, as a lord of the Iron Rock and the next King of the Ellani. And I will have it before I leave.”

The crowd grew ever louder, shouting excitedly and pointing, all eyes falling to the king. But still, Orthen said nothing, only watching with dark and hooded eyes.

“That is impossible, Lord Connal,” the herald said. “Your father forfeited that banner when he took up arms against his Grace, in support of the usurper Daras. Here it shall stay, a token of your defeat, an assurance of fealty to your rightful liege lord.”

“Gallaig take your tokens!” Connal growled. “And Drog your bloody liege lord!”

“An oath of fealty was sworn,” the herald replied testily, raising his voice. “By twelve Ellani lords. After his Grace showed mercy.”

“Damn your oaths! And damn your mercy!” Connal took a step forward and saw the courtier flinch. “I swore no such oath. And it is to me the Rigsról belongs. Not this half-grown bastard with a herald and a crown.”

“Silence!” the herald gasped. “Your request has been weighed upon the perfect scales of the king’s justice. And you are denied. Accept the consequences of defeat.”

“Then a pox on your king’s justice!” Connal spat, the wet gob landing in the midst of the East Sea at his feet. “You have another custom also, I have heard. One that suits me better. For the scale’s balance may be tilted by the sword.” He held aloft the weapon in its sheath. “I challenge you, Orthen of Gallodel. Face me in open swordplay, or let one of your thralls defend you!”

He stared into the boy-king’s eyes and at last saw them flicker, the ghost of a smile passing over his youthful features. Orthen raised his hand and all went silent. At last, he spoke, his voice surprisingly “Twelve oaths were sworn, Lord Connal. One fight alone cannot dissolve them all.”

“Then let twelve come! One by one, I will overcome them. Who among you is first?”

Baldren was first to leap from his seat. Before the throne he knelt, striking his right fist against his heart. “My liege,” he said, “if it please you, let this fight be mine. This savage has given insult, not only to your royal person, but to the whole of Eburneum. I will teach him manners—his stiff knees will bend before your throne when I have finished with him.”

The king nodded, his eyes lit by a strange glow. “I grant it, Sir Baldren. Be our champion.”

Sir Baldren bowed and rose quickly as squires rushed to him, dressing him in padded cloth and gleaming mail. The knight regarded Connal with a look of haughty contempt.

“Hail, Sir Baldren,” the herald sang out. “The Knight of Splinters, undefeated with lance or sword.”

Connal laughed. He reveled in anticipation of the fight, the certainty of victory. He tossed back his head, and his ruddy locks shook with his joy. “At last,” he said, “we will see what mettle your knights possess!” He drew his sword and tossed aside the scabbard, gripping with both hands. “Behold, Glámaire! The sword of Craedon. See how it hungers—how it sings for blood. Are you ready to feed it, splinter knight?”

Baldren did not flinch nor cower at his boast, but held the warrior still with icy disdain. He was armed now with sword and a long kite shield, on which was depicted a falling knight under splintering lance. His head was guarded by a mail coif and flat-topped nasal helm.

“You boast,” Baldren said, “but the sword did Craedon little good when he fell in the siege of Gallodel. And it will fail you too!”

Connal roared, goaded by these words. He pulled up his mail hood, slammed the steel cap over his head, feeling the cold bite of the nose-guard on his skin. The others—Kierran, Veruc, Fionn, and Roras—withdrew to the corner of the room, giving the warriors space to fight. Along the dais, the courtiers leaned forward in their seats, while above them the balcony swelled with common folk.

“Lords,” the herald called. “Are you ready?”

They both nodded. Connal was more than ready. The rage of Gallos was upon him—his veins coursed with the war-god’s power.

“Begin!”

Connal flew at his opponent, cutting at the knight with a wide, sweeping arc. Baldren deftly parried his stroke, but Connal gave him no time to counter. On and on, he drove him back, with blows heavy and quick, hammering his shield like a blacksmith his anvil.

Baldren wheeled and pivoted, trying desperately to evade him, to catch a moment’s pause. But wherever he turned, the long sword found him, cutting off his escape, the force and shock of each blow preventing any offensive maneuver of his own. Connal herded him into the corner with well placed strikes, pinning him against the white silk dais. He saw the king’s champion stoop a little, knew that beneath the iron he panted. It was time to end it.

Connal swung high and Baldren raised his shield, catching the blow that would have sundered helm and skull. He stumbled against the table board, slow to regain his guard. And Connal gave him no quarter. He crouched and brought Glámaire low, sweeping Baldren’s legs from under him. The knight cried and fell gracelessly to his back, his shield and helmet clattering against the tiled floor like a stack of cooking pots.

Connal placed a foot on the fallen man’s chest, and let the tip of his sword rest on Baldren’s throat.

“What say you, Knight of Splinters?” He squeezed the words between deep breaths. “Shall I cut your miserable throat?”

Baldren breathed in fast, labored gasps. He looked into Connal’s eyes with hatred still, but where contempt had been, now there was fear. And awe too, Connal thought.

“I yield,” Baldren said at last.

“Good.” Connal lifted his sword and his foot from his conquered foe and walked slowly back to the center of the room, conscious of all eyes upon him. Some were silent, and many booed, but behind him, he heard his comrades’ raucous cheers.

He grinned. But this was only the beginning.

Connal stretched out his arms and held Glámaire aloft, again facing down the Eburnean king. But in Orthen’s face he saw neither anger nor fear, just that same ghostly sliver of a smile.

Damn him.

“Is that all, my lords of Gallodel?” Connal roared. “Is this the might men sing of? This the vaunted courage? I had hoped for greater showing than this!”

Galled by his words, more than a dozen Eburneans sprang forward, begging the honor of defending the throne. Orthen nodded and smiled, and another was armed. Sir Tyban, as the herald named him, lord of Berenstead, a decorated veteran and tournament champion.

“Your luck has run out, barbarian,” Tyban sneered, twirling his blade to resounding applause. “You’ll see presently there’s more to swordsmanship than waving your weapon about like an oaf with a cudgel.”

In less than a minute, Tyban was down, groaning pathetically, his head lolling against the Auronian isles. Connal had lunged for him the moment the herald gave the signal, beating down his guard in a succession of deadly strokes. The final blow landed squarely on Tyban’s chest, denting iron links and cracking ribs. The proud knight would find breathing, let alone boasting, a painful activity for months to come.

Still more knights awaited, armed and outraged, eager to redress the savage Ellan’s insult. Connal watched them and grinned. Let them come. Urient was with him, the martial saint blessing his every stroke. Let them come.

“Fine work, Connal,” Kierran approached and spoke beneath his breath. “Rest now. I’ll fight this next one.”

“No,” Connal growled. “This battle is mine. I alone must right this wrong. And avenge my father’s fall.”

Kierran began to object, but Connal cut him off, turning again to face the dais. “Who is next?”

One by one they came, boasting and posturing, knights with fine titles and finer armor. And one by one, he cast them down, flinging them aside like a child’s doll. There was Sir Olar the Brave who squealed like a piglet as Connal felled him. And Valin and Vala, brothers from Eorland, sons of the late Lord Vanor. Both brought dishonor to their father’s name, for neither landed a single blow before yielding to Connal.

At first, the crowd, its numbers growing as the contest wore on, booed him, calling out encouragement to the Eburnean knights and hurling insults at the Ellani. But as Connal struck down his sixth assailant, the hardy Sir Cambras, a heavy, depressive silence fell over them all. Indeed, they were as silent as Cambras himself, his large unconscious body dragged away ignominiously by two laboring squires. In the fights that followed, only the clanging of steel on steel and the groans of the injured disturbed the deathly hush.

Sir Imbran fell next, caught beneath his great helm by Glámaire’s crossguard. It was a skillful move, straight from the teachings of Manimo the exile, fencing master of Piliano. Two years the lean, grey-haired Auronian had spent at Craedon’s hall, teaching Connal what he could of the swordsman’s art.

“Not is the blade only the part of the sword to strike,” Manimo had said in his thickly accented Eburnean, training sword resting casually upon his shoulder. In all his time at Cregeirann, he never learned more than a few phrases of the Ellani tongue. “Nor is the crossguard only for the protecting of your hand. You come close, a quickly strike—WHAM! He finish.”

Imbran did look finished. Connal grinned as his opponent fell sputtering to the tiled floor with mailed hands clutching at his neck. He paused to revel in the glory of the move, this artful exemplar of Pilianese tradition. By Gallos, but it was well executed! If only Manimo were there to see it. Imbran, choking and groaning, was in no position to appreciate much of anything. And the ranks of silent lords and commons offered nothing but sullen resentment.

Yet Orthen sat still and watched with rapt attention, leaning forward on his mahogany throne. The humiliation of his seven knights had not wiped away his smile. If anything, it had made it deepen.

“You enjoying this?” Connal shouted, his anger growing with each bout. “Then send me another!”

Sir Esgar was next, a knight who favored the warhammer, a grisly weapon meant, not for the chivalry of the lists, but the blood and grime of battle. Unlike the others, he did not wait for Connal’s attack, choosing instead to take the fight to the wild warrior himself. He landed a strike on Connal’s hip—a good blow. A painful blow. But while Esgar paused to roar and the crowd resumed its cheering, given at last some hope to cling to, Connal limped through the searing pain, landing the knight such a buffet that he reeled, stunned, unable to protect himself from the shower of strikes that followed. Then he too was down.

“A mighty stroke, Connal!” Fionn cheered.

“Water,” King Orthen called, waving his hand. “Bring the brave lord water.”

Connal nodded. “I’d rather something stronger,” he grunted, though he drank it all the same, great long draughts to cool his thirst. Then he wiped a sweaty hand across his mouth, and took up his father’s sword once more.

“Another!” he cried.

The next knight came with none of his comrades’ assurance, walking like a man destined for the gallows. Sir Peron, he was called, another fool whose land and title made him knight. Connal snarled and the poor fellow started. This would be easy.

Yet before Connal could knock him to the ground, the hapless Peron managed to land several clean blows, striking the sealord’s chest and head. Connal brought him down at last, but he knew he was slowing. The pain in his hip grew worse, throbbing even when he stood still. And now his head swam, his ears ringing with the echoes of clanging steel.

The tenth knight took even longer to defeat. Sir Riddard, learning from Peron’s marginal success, danced about like a maiden at a feast, keeping always just beyond the long sword’s reach. Connal’s wild swings wasted strength and breath, his sword cutting the air where the prancing Riddard had been. Yet such a dance alone could not bring a warrior down, and Riddard was forced at times to draw closer, probing Connal’s guard with quick thrusts and rapid counters. Many landed—the great sword grew slow and heavy in Connal’s hands and blood streamed beneath his bruised and battered mail. But the warrior gritted his teeth and willed his weakening legs to hold, keeping his sword aloft and his mind from the pain that wracked his every limb.

Riddard, then, as if sensing his opponent’s exhaustion, grew bolder. Lengthening the time he spent within Connal’s reach, he chanced two or three strikes where before he’d dared but one. In he stepped, slashing one, two, three, four times, throwing the full weight of his body into the attack. Connal took them on the blade, the guard, the arm, ignored the eruption of fiery pain running up his left shoulder. When the fourth slash opened his armor and flesh, he stepped forward, gritting his teeth against the flood of pain, lashing out in a wide arc. There was no escaping that attack, no place the knight could dance that Glámaire would not find him. It caught Riddard across his chest, caving metal rings like a wicker basket, lifting the knight off his feet. Riddard flew through the air and smashed against the dais. Then came the scream, the groaning in shock’s wake. He would dance no more before Ellani prince.

Yet Connal too would find it hard to carry on this dance of blood and iron. He leaned his arm wearily over the sword’s crossguard, its point digging into the mortar between tiles that depicted the desert lands of Al-Qartan. He gasped for air with rapid, shallow breaths, his heart pounding like a Cuarr’s drum. His long hair, slick with sweat, hung over his face in disheveled locks. Sweat ran down every inch of his skin, mixing here and there with blood. He was beyond strength, a panting shadow of the man who strode into Orthen’s hall. Even his rage had subsided, drowned by a tide of pain and exhaustion.

But there were three more to defeat before he could claim the Rigsról. Three more Eburneans to cast from lofty pride, three more to humble. Could he do it? The question was useless. He must.

Straightening, he looked into Orthen’s eyes, saw the boy king smiling no more. That’s it then, he thought. The humiliation of his knights has finally wounded his wretched vanity.

Connal gritted his teeth, too weak to taunt or boast, too tired to pretend the fight still held any thrill.

Another knight stepped before Orthen’s throne. “Sire,” he said, “pray let the honor of this fight be mine.” He spoke no other words, added no boast. It seemed the Eburneans, too, grew weary of this contest.

“No, Sir Farras,” the king said, holding up his hand. He rose from his throne, and every man and woman fell to their knees before him. Orthen’s look was kind as he bid them sit.

“Lord Connal,” he said, fixing the sealord with his piercing eyes. “You have fought well, like nothing this court has ever seen. Is it not so, my lords and commons?” He swept the balcony with his hand, drawing meager applause.

“Oh come now, good Eburneans.” Orthen laughed, revealing a set of perfect teeth. “Let us not be stingy with our praise. The sealord has fought like a man possessed, like a hero of song. Do not begrudge him the honor he has earned because he is an Ellan.”

At this the commoners in the gallery cheered a little louder, though the lords and ladies round the tables sat with folded arms and dour frowns.

“Your majesty,” the herald intervened hesitantly. “The ordeal is not yet over. The island lord has defeated but nine of the twelve he is to face.”

“I think we have suffered quite enough humiliation at the Ellan’s hands.” Orthen chuckled. “Don’t you? No, I make my judgement now, the word no man shall defy.” His smile vanished, and his voice grew hard. “Connal, son of the late King Craedon, Beastmaster of Cregeirann, take now the banner of your fathers. I see now that this can belong only to you, possessed of such valor as you are.”

He clapped his hands, and two attendants hurried to take down the Rigsról. They rolled it carefully, then brought it to Connal. He took it with a disbelieving hand. A cheer went up among the four Ellani, though it filled the echoing room as if from a crowd of hundreds. In the midst of his celebration, Connal caught Orthen’s eye, and the young king shot him a knowing look.

“Fine work, lord,” Roras said.

“Herriah’s bones,” Kierran muttered. “You did it, you mad bastard.”

Old Veruc beamed at him. “There’ll be songs aplenty of this day, lord.”

“Aye!” Fionn swung an arm around Connal’s shoulders, nearly knocking him off his tired feet. “And songs of mourning in Gallodel.” He cackled madly as he clapped Connal’s back.

“That’s it then,” Kierran said. “We’ve got what we came for. Let us leave this place.”

Connal nodded. What else was here for them now? Yet he did not feel the satisfaction he had expected. The fire of vengeance had burned to ashes, yet in its place a vast and hollow chasm gaped.

But as they turned to go, he heard Orthen’s voice call out to him. “A moment, Lord Connal?”

Connal turned slowly, consious of a dawning tremor in his legs.

“You have acquainted yourself with two of our customs: the scale and the sword. Yet, lest you think us a cruel and stone-hearted people, I would have you taste a third. Perhaps you will find it more to your liking. Will you stay and break bread with me? Tomorrow, you can return to your ship and sail home, after you have eaten, drunk, and slept, taking full advantage of our hospitality. What say you?”

“Don’t trust them, Connal,” Kierran muttered. “‘Treachery lies beneath an Eburnean smile.’ It’s not a proverb for nothing. Let us leave now. This place holds only enemies.”

Quickly, the others added their agreement to Kierran’s warning.

Connal looked again in the young king’s face. And again he felt the stirrings of fate, compelled by a power beyond himself. Was this too woven in the fabric of his life, the destiny he could no more outrun than death itself?

“We will stay, Eburnean king,” he said, the words springing as if from some other source.

Behind him he heard the others curse. Orthen smiled again and clapped his hands.

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Chapter Four

Sailing to Gallodel

The sea was calm, strangely so. Connal could hardly remember a time when the Iarlir did not seethe with rage, her billowing waves threatening any vessel foolhardy enough to pass over them. It was a sea of dangerous mystery, the domain of monsters lurking beneath the waves and dwelling on jagged rocks. A sea of angry gods—Gaillag and Drog, Lirgan and Ifryn—hungry for the flesh of mortal men, glorying in the sacrifice of drowned sailors.

But not today. Today the sea was still. Glassy blue. And a strong breeze filled Wave-Tamer’s sail, blowing them south to Eburneum.

“She mourns her king,” Veruc said, breaking his reverie. Connal turned to see the greying sailor just behind him pointing to the great expanse of water. “The Iarlir. She knew no greater master than Craedon.”

“It’s a good omen,” Fionn said. “The oceans themselves are with us. Even if the Suid is not.”

At Fionn’s words, a gloomy hush fell over the crew. They bore a double burden: their king’s death and their council’s displeasure. Yet here they were, rowing Connal’s oars, riding the seas for vengeance. He must speak to them as his father did, inspire them to greatness. Bear the heavy mantle of kingship.

“The Suid be damned,” Connal said. “Their threats are as empty as their hearts. Fear not. We will have our revenge, retrieve the Rigsról, and return triumphant. And when I am king, I will raise you all to glorious heights. Wealth will be yours, and those who stayed will envy your noble fortune!”

For a moment, their gloom seemed to dissipate. Men cheered and stamped their boots along the deck. Yet dark sorrow soon returned, hanging over them even as they sailed all through the afternoon.

That evening, as the sun set in an orange blaze, Connal sat beside Kierran along one of the oar benches.

“This Orthen,” Connal began. “You met him, yes?”

“Not met,” Kierran said. “But I was there when he seized the Rigsról and sent us home.”

“What is he like?”

“He doesn’t look a boy. There’s a weight about him. Like a man of valor.”

“He is a warrior?”

“No. In Prince Daras’s camp, they scorned him. Said he was no better than a monk. A pale scholar, fitter for the cloister than the battlefield.”

“And is this true?”

Kierran shrugged. “He trapped us like a fighter. With more cunning than many a lord of war. He is skilled beyond his years.”

“Perhaps he has good advisors.”

“Perhaps. He claims his advisor is Aonel himself. God sends him visions and Orthen obeys. Daras’s barons—they mocked him as a lunatic. But I’m not so sure. An idealist maybe. They said when he took the throne, he passed new laws, many on behalf of the commons. Any man or woman who enters his hall may petition him for justice. High or low. Doesn’t matter.”

“Justice.” Connal thought of the stories of Eburneum on which he had been raised—frightening tales of barons mad for power, sorcerers soaked in the blood of innocents, and jealous knights vying for fame. By all accounts, they were not a people given to justice.

He struggled to form a clear picture of this Orthen. “So he is a crazed mystic who loves displays of justice and spurns tradition. And the Eburneans suffer such a king?”

Kierran shrugged. “Not all. Most of the country was with Daras. But the ones who follow him are zealous.”

“Why?”

“He’s not as weak as you might think. They say he loves heroic deeds of arms just like his father. He has surrounded himself with brave knights. And he continues many of the old ways.”

“Like what?”

“Trial by arms, for one. And he keeps the feast days. It is just the Telian heresy he hates. They say he aims to restore the old virtues.”

“Virtues,” Connal spat. “And what does the Eburnean pup know of virtue? My father was a greater man than he could ever dream of being. And for that, Orthen disgraces his legacy, stealing the banner of his people. I will teach him virtue. And justice too.”

Kierran shrugged again, looked out to the rolling sea. There was fury in his eyes, only barely concealed. “We will do what we can, Connal.”

♚ ♚ ♚

They slipped among the islands of the Ellthiar, drifting or rowing by day, stopping at night among the many islands that comprised the distant holdings of Cregeirann’s kings. Many of these places, barely more than sea-worn rocks, could offer no hospitality, and the crew kept close to the ship, dining on salted haddock or boiled oats.

On one early evening, as they reached the edge of the Ellthiar, Horan pointed to an island in the near distance. It had low, gently sloping mountains and a surprisingly large settlement for an island this far from Cregeirann.

“We’ll have comfort tonight, lord.” Horan grinned. “There’s a real tavern there.”

But Connal shook his head. From the moment he first caught sight of the island, a cold dread had gripped him. “No. We’ll keep going.”

“Lord?” Horan looked at him in disbelief. “It’s the isle of Dán. One of ours.”

“I know,” Connal snapped. “But we’re not spending the night there.”

“What’s this?” Kierran asked. “Why not?”

“Just keep us to the south, Horan,” Connal insisted. “We’ll find another port.”

“There isn’t one, lord. Not till we hit Logren. We’d have to spend the night aboard the ship.”

At this, a chorus of grumbling arose from the men. His command was highly unusual, Connal knew. A crew did not sleep among the oar benches unless absolutely necessary. But he could not relent.

Kierran approached him by the stern, and leaned in, speaking quietly, “Connal, what’s going on? You’re not making sense.”

“I made an oath,” Connal said.

“What oath? What does this have to do with where the men sleep?”

“There is a woman,” he blurted, feeling the color rush to his cheeks. “She lives in Dán. And I swore never to come to her again.”

Kierran shook his head, but the hint of a smile crossed his grim face. “You dumb bastard. What’d you do? Rob her virtue? Get her with child?”

“Never you mind. Just know that we cannot land here. It is a question of honor.”

Kierran sighed. “It always is with you, isn’t it?”

Then Kierran turned to the rest of the crew who still sat muttering and complaining. “Alright, keep this ship going. We sleep aboard tonight. And if I hear any of you whoresons so much as hint at grumbling, I’ll toss you to the Iarlir myself!”

♚ ♚ ♚

The first of Logren to come into view was a tower, black against the sky, cutting the horizon like the sinister fin of an enormous shark. At Horan’s warning that it was a place of evil Eburnean magic, they gave the tower a wide berth, continuing due south.

Soon, the coast of Logren revealed itself more fully. Towering mountains rose from the sea, green against the bleak greyness of the sky. And all around, the thick tangle of the forest sprawled, filling the gaps between the peaks and extending deep within the inner country.

They found shelter along the stony beaches, passing sleepless nights at the edge of the wild forest. Strange beasts called to one other amid the pitch-black dark, and the woods seemed to teem with hordes of rabid man-eating monsters.

Tossing restlessly on his blanket, Connal fought his wandering, erratic thoughts. To calm himself, he offered prayers to Aonel, asking for peace, for direction, for any sign at all. But he felt nothing, no sense of the deep communion with the divine presence promised by the priests. It was like speaking to a stone. Nor did his appeals to the saintly host fare any better. Warlike Urient, seafaring Farrion, healing Abria—all these and many more he adjured, yet no prayer could lessen the raging fire in his soul. His thoughts flitted through a series of violent images: his father’s death, the battle at Feóthán, the Suid’s obstinate cowardice, the vengeance he would take at Gallodel. Even in long-sought sleep, scenes of wrath and blood filled his nightmares.

♚ ♚ ♚

As they rounded the western horn of Moralann, the rugged green peaks began to taper off. A wasteland lay before them, a dry, brown country absent trees or grass. Even the mountains were brown and dusty, the buildings a ghostly white, like the sun-baked bones of a long-dead colossus.

“Marbhglyn,” Kierran said. “The Valley of the Dead.”

“Are there people here?” Connal asked.

“Some. But none we would wish to meet.”

“Did you stop here when you sailed with my father?”

“Aye. But we had many ships then. Now, we have but one.”

“If it’s abandoned, what do we have to fear?”

“There are stories of this place, Connal. Of ancient evils dead and buried. We won’t land here.”

“But—”

“You had your way at Dán. I shall have mine here.”

Connal shrugged. “Very well.”

But as they slipped by the ancient ruins, he felt a curious longing. It called to him, this strange place of death, as if entwined with his destiny.

♚ ♚ ♚

Connal shot from the water like a speeding arrow, his head bursting through the surface of the gently rolling waves. Falling to his back, he gasped for breath, then lay there floating upon the water, his bare chest heaving with the effort of his breaths.

“Did you touch it?” asked Fionn, his words coming halting between shallow breaths.

Connal shook his head, raised himself slowly to an upright position, treading water with arms and legs.

“Too deep,” he said. “You?”

“No.” Fionn brushed his long black hair from his face, plastering against his neck and back.

Together they had swum out from where the rest of the men paddled and waded into the water. Wave-Tamer lay berthed upon the shore of the island of Meday, situated between the eastern shores of Logren and the Eburnean earldom of Wessing.

Every thirty feet or so they had paused, diving beneath the waves, seeing if they could touch the bottom. The contest would continue until only one of them could touch, or, if neither could, the victor would be whoever stayed underwater longest. It was a game they had played since they had been boys of seven, on the rough and wild seas by the shores of Edòrn, testing the limits of their budding courage and growing bodies, the endurance of lung and limb.

This last time, the fifth attempt, Connal had been underwater for what felt like hours. Filling his lungs, he had dived as deep as his breath would take him, plumbing the ocean’s murky depths. The sea had grown dark and cold, yet the bottom lay beyond his reach. As his lungs began to burn, he had flipped around, pressing his hands together above his head, kicking to propel himself upwards. The burning intensified as he had sped toward the flickering light broken upon the shimmering surface of the sea.

“I suppose you win,” Fionn said lightly.

Connal laughed, sweeping his long hair back from his forehead. “Always.”

Four years he had spent on Edòrn, living in the hall of Rodin its lord, his foster father until Connal reached his eleventh winter. Rodin had taught him much, building on Craedon’s teachings. Fionn, Rodin’s youngest son, was of an age with Connal, and the two had formed a fast and immediate friendship. Many joy-filled days they had spent in Rodin’s ship, learning to master the Iarlir’s waves as best as any mortal could, sparring with Edòrn’s warriors, hunting wild pigs and monsters across the jagged islands of the north.

“Shall we?” Fionn said, waving a hand across the beach in an overly dramatic gesture.

Slowly, they made the swim towards the crew, riding the waves towards Meday’s shores.

Compared to the vastness of Logren, Meday seemed dwarfish, though it was no smaller than many of the Ellani islands Connal had once thought large. There were no great towns or castles here, but plumes of smoke rose from further in, grey against the reddening sunset, announcing the presence of villagers. They had not seen any of the inhabitants. If the locals knew of the foreign ship on their shore, they were wisely keeping themselves hidden.

Many of the ship’s crew were in the water, floating lazily upon the waves. Some, like Connal, stripped down to their linen breeches; others wore nothing at all.

Many more had returned to the shore, dressing themselves and gathering by the newly kindled campfires.

Kierran stood in his breeches, water to his knees, his broad muscled torso lined with scars old and new, grey mingling with the black hair on his chest. He held a fishing line, a basket floating upon the water beside him, tied to his waist.

It was strange, this, for a ringed and worthy Elan lord to catch the ship crew’s supper. When Kierran had first thrown a line over the ship, a few days into the journey, Connal had hinted to him that they had best let another—a man of lesser status—do the fishing. But Kierran had smiled and shaken his head, saying the practice suited him, helped him clear his mind.

“How goes the fishing?” Connal asked him now.

“Good,” Kierran said, never keeping his eye from the line. Even as he spoke, he began to tug, reeling in a skipping, thrashing seabass. “We’ll eat well tonight.”

Connal shook his head. Kierran Wolfsbane, fishing like a common peasant. There were things in this world he would never understand.

He rose from the water, striding for the beach, the air cold and bracing to his wet skin. Connal shivered and sighed contentedly. He welcomed the cold, the clarity it brought, how it hardened a man to fear and worry. And it was not so cold yet. The Moridea—South Sea, as the Eburneans called it—was warmer than the Iarlir, and it was still late summer, a pleasant time for swimming.

“How was the water, lord?” Roras called. He squatted before the nearest fire, cloak draped across his bare shoulders.

“Refreshing.” Connal said. “You did not swim?”

“No, lord. Waded only to my knees.” Roras rose stiffly from his squat. His cloak was splayed open, his round hairy chest and bulging belly hanging over woolen breaches. “I cannot swim.”

Connal had always found it hard to believe—the Ellani were islanders, surrounded on every side by water. But there were some among his people and his crew, who had never learned to swim, never braved the Iarlir’s tempestuous seas.

“You of all men needn’t fear drowning.” Fionn laughed, holding out his hands before his own lean belly. “With all that fat, you’d float like a barrel.”

Roras shook his head and grinned at Fionn’s jab.

“Every man should fear the sea,” Duer said in a flat, nasally voice. He stared blankly at them all with large, sad eyes, his broken nose slightly crooked. “Even the strongest swimmer can drown, should his limbs tire—or Lirgan betray him.”

Roras nodded, his smile fading. “My brother was a swimmer,” he said hoarsely. “Confident in his skill. He used to swim between Dumoir and the surrounding isles, often under cover of darkness.”

“What warm-blooded Elan hasn’t made that voyage?” Fionn laughed, a few others joining in.

Connal knew what Fionn alluded to, even if it was only through hearsay. The islands surrounding Cregeirann were notorious for illicit trade—prostitutes and soothsayers, smugglers and hired killers. Craedon had banished all such business from Dumoir itself—though not so far that a short boat ride couldn’t take you there. It was an open secret, allowed to continue so long as the sordid trade did not work its way into the royal town.

Roras did not share in Fionn’s amusement. “Whatever his destination, one night, the Iarlir took him, a current sweeping him out to sea. We never found his body.”

A gloomy hush suddenly fell over the crew. Even Fionn. It seemed no matter what, they could not outrun the gloomy specter of death.

“Gods!” barked Delar, slapping his brother Duer across the back of the head. “What in Anturr ails you? Why’d you have to bring up drowning? You’d make a funeral of a feast!

Duer frowned, his face becoming even more dour. “It’s true though.”

“Lots of true things in this world,” Delar replied. “Don’t all make for good conversation.”

Duer held his tongue, and for many moments, all was quiet, save for the crackling of the campfires, the gentle crashing of the surf on shore.

Then Roras gave his belly a resounding slap, pulled the cloak tight around himself. “Delar is right. No more of this grisly talk. I, for one, shall never swim. And so I need never fear to drown! Now, let’s prepare the meal, shall we?”

He returned to the fire, began rummaging in a sack for salt and spices.

As he did, Fionn reached into his belt, drew out a small sharp knife. He gestured to Connal, then pointed to his own beard. “Shall I? You’re starting to look like a he-goat.”

Connal considered a moment. It had been weeks since he had taken a knife to hair or beard, and when he saw his reflection in the water, a hirsute savage peered back at him, red-gold hair disheveled and unkempt. It made his normally angular features full and wild like a thornbush. He did not look like the son of a king.

Yet he shook his head. “No knife shall touch this beard—not till I have fulfilled my oath.” Only then would he desrve to look the part of an Ellani prince. Craedon’s son.

♚ ♚ ♚

“My lord. It is Esting!”

Connal woke to Horan’s exultant cry. Rubbing his eyes, he followed his pointing finger over the portside. There lay before him the shores of Esting: stony beaches bathed in the rosy glow of dawn’s first light, giving way to steep yellowed cliffs and rolling fields of green.

Yes, Esting, the earldom governed by Gallodel itself. For days, they had tracked the Eburnean shoreline, drifting past a series of towers and castles and villages, dotting the cliffs and shores of Wessing, Sutting, and Eorland. As of yet, their presence had raised no alarm. The South Sea teemed with ships—merchants from Logren and the Brevin kingdoms, the Auronian city-states, even faraway Telum. Wave-Tamer was but one ship among many, joining the great concourse wending towards Gallodel.

Connal gripped the wale with iron fists. The lands of the usurper Orthen, contested by his brother, watered by Eburnean and Ellani blood. Along the ridges, smoke rose in fat grey plumes, and beyond the trees, the rich and vulnerable hamlets lay. There was wealth here undreamt of in the islands.

Kierran came to stand beside him, leaning against the wale. “I think it time we discuss strategy.” Kierran said. “How will we, with fifty-some men, do what Daras could not with thousands?”

Connal stood tight-lipped, watching the shore pass slowly by. That was a good question, he had to admit. Rage and honor had carried him this far. Yet rage and honor were seldom enough. A man must be cunning too. His father had taught him that much. Cunning in strategy and fierce in execution. No such strategy had come to him, however, and he knew Kierran could read it in his face.

“We could pull in there,” Veruc said, indicating a small bay. Above it stood the cottages, thick and newly thatched. “If we pillage his lands, the king is bound to send men to their aid. He’ll think us easy prey.” Tapping his sword hilt, Veruc grinned. “We slaughter a company of Eburneans, and the deaths of King Craedon and our brothers are avenged.”

Connal shook his head. “I did not come all this way to butcher farmers and loot cottages. And besides, what chance is there that the king himself would ride from Gallodel to fight a band of raiders? At best he would send out riders, and, if we slay them, still we are no closer to retaking the Rigsról.”

“Then what would you do?” Kierran asked. “Lay siege to Gallodel? Fifty thousand might perish in the attempt.”

Connal shrugged. “All I know is I am drawn to this Eburnean city. My fate compels me and honor too. And if death at the gates is woven in my life’s thread, then I will face it as a man must, as my father did. Yet I do not believe God would lead me here, far from home, only to die beneath the city walls. A strategy will come.”

♚ ♚ ♚

It was midday before the first of Gallodel’s towers came into view, a white turret upon the sea, nearly a small island unto itself. Alone it stood, some miles south of the rest of the city, buffeted by the ocean’s wrath.

Seaguard. On a clear day, Roras said, you could look out to the lands across the South Sea, the cold, grey coasts of Breviny.

It was such a day, Connal noted, cursing Drog. No chance of drawing close to the city without being spotted.

Soon enough, a few of the Ellani warriors cried out, and Connal looked out over the bow. A ship approached, larger than any vessel he had ever seen. Triple-decked, it rose from the water like a primordial beast, more castle than ship, its single mast towering like the oaks of Logren.

“Gaillag strike us,” Veruc muttered. “What is that thing?”

“A cog,” Kierran said. “Merely the waves of its passing could capsize us.”

“Your orders, lord?” Horan asked. There was fear in his voice, and his hand trembled slightly upon the rudder.

“Steady on, Horan,” Connal said. An idea was forming in his mind, and he cast a silent, grateful prayer to the heavens. God and his saints did not leave him without recourse.

“Lord?” the steersman asked.

“I said steady on.”

“Connal, this is madness!” Kierran said. “You think we have any hope of fighting such a ship?”

“No,” Connal said.

Kierran threw up his hands in frustration. “What then?”

“We’re going to talk to this Orthen.”

“Talk? You took us all this way to bloody talk?”

Connal nodded. “We shall try the king’s justice.”

♚ ♚ ♚

The Eburnean ship had drawn closer, and Connal could see the archers aboard and the rows of oars rising and falling in unison. From the top of its mast streamed the royal banner: an azure field on which was raised a golden battle-axe, the spike of its haft driven into a coiled red serpent’s head. Below it another flew showing a knight falling from his horse, a shattered lance looming over him. The western wind was against them, carrying Connal’s drifting ship towards the lumbering cog.

Soon, Connal thought. A few more moments and they’d be in speaking range.

On Wave-Tamer’s mast flew Connal’s own banner, bearing the same black stork that blazoned his shield. Absent the Rigsról, this would have to suffice. Let the Eburneans know that a son of Cregeirann had come—let them tremble at the thought.

Connal had armed himself as the west wind drove them on. Now he stood at the bow, clad in mail, Glámaire and a seax sheathed at his belt, round shield slung across his back. If there were to be fighting, he wanted both hands for the sword.

At last, they were close enough for voices to carry. A man, high atop the forecastle, called out to them, demanding their names and their business in the king’s waters.

“I am Connal, son of Craedon,” he shouted in stilted Eburnean. The words came thick and awkward to his tongue. He had learned the language long ago at his father’s orders but had not used it in some time. “I am come to talk with your king.”

It was a good introduction, he thought. The name of Craedon, if not Connal, carried weight. It was a name men bowed to. It commanded respect.

“I know of no Connal,” the man replied. “Nor a Craedon. Nor do I recognize the heraldry you fly. From what kingdom do you hail?”

Connal fumed. The insolence! And from this royal lapdog. He could see the man more clearly now, the curls of his short auburn hair running a little past the nape of his neck. He wore a tightly fitted bright blue tunic and a contemptuous sneer.

“Your king knows the name well enough,” Connal said, trying to keep the anger from his voice.

“Perhaps he does. And perhaps not. But you will not gain an audience until you answer the question: what land are you from? And what business do you have with the king?”

“I hail from Cregeirann,” Connal said, his anger bubbling. “And I did not sail all this way to bandy words with you. I am a king’s son and will speak to your king.”

“Not unless I allow you to pass, ‘king’s son,’” the courtier replied.

That was too much for Connal. “Allow me? You insolent dog! I dare you try to stop me. Why, in the battle’s heat, I have cut down more men than you have hairs on your shiny, perfumed head!”

“Connal,” Kierran whispered, laying a hand on his trembling shoulder. “This isn’t helping.”

That was true, though he hated to admit it. Insulting this fool would get him nowhere, satisfying as it might be.

The Eburnean lord remained in the same position, hands on his hips, glaring disdainfully. Quietly, the royal archers, in their checkered livery of blue and gold, lined along the fore and stern castles, nocked arrows to their strings. Connal inhaled deeply, checking his rage. He could not afford a bloodbath now. A cool head must prevail.

“I have come to seek the king’s justice,” Connal said. “I am told that he turns away no man or woman, regardless of their station.”

At this, the Eburnean frowned and turned to one of the men standing behind him. The two conferred some moments together, before he addressed Connal once more. “Very well,” he said. “We will escort you into the harbor. But no more than five of your people—” he nearly spat the word— “may come ashore. The rest will stay on your ship, under guard of our archers, an assurance of your cooperation.”

“Connal, is this prudent?” Kierran whispered.

Connal shrugged. They had abandoned prudence when they first set sail from Cregeirann.

“What other choice is there?” he muttered.

Kierran sighed and nodded slowly.

“I agree to these terms,” Connal said. “Now take me to your king.”

♚ ♚ ♚

Beyond its white, towering outer wall, Gallodel was more impressive still. The narrow, cobbled streets teemed with life, as people and animals rushed to and fro. The heavy scent of foreign spices filled the docks and markets, and the pungent stench of excrement assaulted them as soon as they came ashore. And the noise—it was like nothing Connal had ever heard before, a ceaseless din of shouting, laughing, cursing—the chorus of thousands of souls and a dozen languages. It filled his head like the strongest wine, the rush of bodies, smells, and voices overwhelming his senses.

As they passed along the narrow lanes—Connal, Kierran, Fionn, Veruc, and Roras—escorted by Eburnean guards, the citizens stopped to gape. They pointed and prattled, speculating on who or what these strangers were, these wildmen from the western seas. Connal did his best to ignore them, to maintain his dignity and composure before this gawking rabble. But he was unaccustomed to such numbers, and he found his gaze darting from face to foreign face amid the crowd.

Kierran spat, eying the mob like a cornered beast. “So this is a city.” His deep, rumbling voice was nearly inaudible under the weight of noise. “Bloody madness. A man’s got no room to stretch himself. To think. To grow.”

“Explains their shortness then,” Connal said with a laugh. But his was an empty mirth, quickly smothered by the babble of the crowd. Kierran was right: a man lacked space even to think in all this tumult.

The royal hall, when they came to it at last, was a thing of wonder, a dizzying masterwork of stone and timber, interrupted only by beautiful, intricate glasswork. These windows were gorgeously colored, with blues and reds and greens, and every other color under heaven, the Creator’s palette captured by the craft of man.

Connal stared up in awe as a guard went inside to announce them.

“Who built this?” he asked of his guide, whose name he had found out was Sir Baldren. In his wonder, Connal forgot his disdain for the Eburneans. “It’s magnificent.”

Baldren smiled and lifted his brows. “Generations have built it. The kings of three peoples raised it from the dust. The Moradii were first, hauling stones the size of ships from the quarries of Uainlann to create the Judgement Circle. Then the Telians came, and with the knowledge of brick and mortar, raised up the Magisterium. And at last, under Marrok III, Eburnean engineering completed its construction, setting the marvel before you now, the glory of all Moralann, unparalleled by the decadent empires of the east or the savage isles of the west.”

Connal ignored Baldren’s insult, his eyes fixed on the Eburnean hall. There truly was no parallel. At least none he had seen. How many Rigtallas might fit in such a building, swallowed whole like the leviathan’s prey, hapless ships devoured by Lirgan’s cruel sons?

The guard returned, holding open the great iron-studded oak door. This was it—the moment he would face his mighty foe. Orthen of Eburneum, a tyrant who dared malign Cregeirann’s honor, who bade the Sea Kings bow before him, humble vassals to a foreign king.

It was time to confront this Orthen with a truth learned by the conquerors of ages past, a lesson of blood and death and fire. Other peoples might submit when threatened—the Ellani did not.

Connal drew a sharp breath and stepped forward, into his enemy’s den.

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Chapter Three

The Acolytes

MOREANA STOOD ATOP the open platform of Turòlas. She leaned over the battlements and eyed the dizzying drop below, as the winds howled and lashed her, fluttering hair and cloak. Far to the south, the land of Logren sprawled, with its craggy peaks and dark, dense forests, while to the north, the Iarlir seethed with characteristic discontent. Just beyond the Strait of Dryliad, she could see the town of Llanwel. But now, as it often had been in the days before King Branok’s peace, the land betrayed the open wounds of unrest. Pillars of smoke rose from the ruins of villages and from the wreckage of the march lord’s manor.

Logren was in revolt.

The people had risen at the first rumor of Branok’s death, the first hint of war between his princely sons. Mere months ago, they had marched under Cawrad’s banner, watched him die upon Aderyndol’s blood-soaked fields, and submitted again to the yoke of Eburnean rule. Now, they seized their chance again, punishing their foreign overlords by looting their manors and burning the churches of Aonel’s Faithful. They slaughtered the priests whose message of love and mercy was but a silken glove over the iron gauntlet of oppression.

Moreana watched the distant fires and felt as if her feet would give. No matter how many times she had come here, she could not grow used to the unnatural heights.

For Turòlas was a tower no mortal hands could raise. It was the work of a deep and arcane craft, the product of Adhlac’s unbending will. Adhlac—her master, the man she’d loved as a father, vanished into the night like a wisp of smoke.

“I thought I’d find you here,” a familiar voice spoke behind her. She needn’t turn to know it was her sister Nivan.

“Llanwel’s burning,” Moreana said. “Again.”

Nivan came to her side, her gaze following her sister’s. “They’ll never come here. Their fear is stronger than their hate.”

Moreana nodded. It was true. The people of Logren had regarded Adhlac with reverent awe, even as they had derided him as the Defiler.

“But even so,” Nivan continued, “we cannot wait here forever, trapped in this tower like prisoners. The time for action has come.”

Moreana turned to regard her sister, seeing the simmering rage in her eyes. “What action?”

“Come,” Nivan said, taking her hand. “The others are gathered in the auditorium already.”

♚ ♚ ♚

The auditorium felt strangely empty. Not long ago, Moreana could remember how Adhlac’s students had filled the seats, attending his lectures, drinking in his wisdom. There were broad easels of slate on which he mapped new formulas and a table at the center stage for dissections. As a young girl, Moreana had been one of those in the tiered seats, spellbound, watching her master’s craft with ravenous hunger, trying to absorb as much as she could. Years later, she’d stood on the stage herself, holding forth to younger students from foreign lands—Breviny, Auronia, even Telum itself, the founder of Adhlac’s science.

Now it sat desolate, all but unused since Adhlac’s flight and Logren’s unrest. Turòlas was alone, a sinking ship, manned only by the few too stubborn to leave.

Those few now gathered along the empty seats, five in total, slumped in silent, sullen postures.

Nivan left her sister and stepped onto the stage. Then she clapped her hands, the sound echoing through that spacious room.

“On your feet!” she said. “I’ll tell you when to sit!”

The handful of acolytes rose hurriedly to their feet, and Moreana smiled. That had always been the rule: to stand when the lecturer entered the room and sit only at her command. But the observance of protocol had slackened lately.

Moreana herself stood by an empty seat and watched. Nivan was slight and pale with jet-black hair, shorter than her sister by a couple of feet and slim as a reed. To a stranger, she would seem a delicate creature. Fragile, even. But Moreana knew better.

“Sit,” Nivan commanded and they obeyed. “For too long, we have waited for Adhlac’s return, for a sign, for something that would tell us what to do. But Adhlac is not coming back. And we have all the signs we need. The time for action is now!”

“What are you suggesting?” Caelran asked. Dressed in a dark blue robe, he was much taller than Moreana, dark-skinned, brooding, and reserved. Of the original Nine, he was the one who had learned to tame the lightning and the thunder, earning the title of Stormkindler. And, apart from the two sisters, he was the only one still here. The others had left for distant kingdoms, offering their unusual talents to foreign princes.

“War brews,” Nivan said. “Eburneum is split between its two princes. And Orthen, the usurper, seeks to destroy our work.”

“We know all this,” Caelran said, waving his hand. “But you tell an old story. The war is already over.”

“The war is not over,” Nivan said. “Daras may have lost the battle for Gallodel, but he has not given up. He still fights to honor his father’s legacy and protect our craft. And while we sit and sulk, the prince shames us with his devotion.”

“But I heard the earls abandoned him,” Anysel, one of the lesser disciples said. He was older, having joined them at an advanced age, and his voice sounded hoarse and weary.

“Most did,” she admitted. “But a few remain loyal. And Daras possesses the strongholds of Logren.”

“Not all,” Anysel replied, gesturing in the direction of where they all knew Llanwel burned.

“He holds the south,” Nivan snapped. “Dafadridh, Brenhewl, Bryngoch — these are the greatest of Logren’s castles. And with these he can mount a counterattack.”

“But he still has no army,” another said. “At least, nothing to challenge his brother’s might. Even if we join him, we can’t make up for that lack.”

“Oh but we can,” Nivan said, and something in her voice made Moreana shiver. “As I said, Prince Daras holds the south. And what lies in Logren’s south?”

They were silent, trying to guess her meaning. But Moreana knew.

“Dragons,” she whispered, wishing as she said it that it were not true.

“Dragons!” Nivan echoed, beaming at her sister. “We will raise the dragons and destroy the fool Orthen and his priests!”

“How?” Caelran asked. “They are dead and buried.”

“I can raise them,” she said. “And Moreana too. Have you forgotten the nature of our power?”

A hush came over them and Moreana felt their eyes upon her. After Adhlac’s flight, many of them looked to her for guidance.

“Can it be done?” Caelran asked at last. He scratched at his balding pate.

“It can,” Moreana said. “But it is wrong.”

Nivan started, rounding on her sister. “What?”

“It is wrong,” Moreana repeated, coming to her feet. “And it is madness. One does not bind the Drakau. You had sooner tame the sky itself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What you suggest is wrong, Nivan. You know it is.”

Nivan scowled. “You are frightened. And your fear is no virtue. You give up black robes for grey now and think you can undo the past? Where were these moral scruples before? You came willingly enough to Celdinas, eager to learn Rhiun’s secrets.”

“Do not mistake wisdom for fear, Nivan.” Moreana felt the anger rise within her. “We were all foolish once, believing in Adhlac’s vision. But in the end, he saw the truth. Have you forgotten his last words?”

“I remember,” Nivan said, quietly now, but no less furious. “And you would twist them now? For what? Adhlac lost his mind. We all know it. Why else would he murder Urwain?”

Moreana closed her eyes at the painful memory. Urwain, the first and brightest of the Athwyr. A brilliant star, handsome, charming, the first and only man she had loved.

“It was Urwain who went mad,” Moreana said, fighting tears. The Drakau’s pull had been too great for him. Like a confident swimmer, he had risked too much, pulled deep with the swirling madness of an evil power. “Our master had no other choice.”

“I cannot believe you of all people would defend it,” Nivan said, prodding the wound. “It was a crime against our order, against the very rules Adhlac himself gave us. I reject his last words. He betrayed us in the end, betrayed the very foundation of our craft. That was not the Adhlac I followed. He is not the master we served these many years.”

“But he was wrong,” Moreana said. “Don’t you see it? You do not honor his memory if you forsake his final wisdom. The foundation of our craft is rotten.”

“Don’t speak to me of honor!” Nivan raged. “You would spit on everything we are and side with those lunatics in Gallodel who hunger for our destruction!”

“I spit on nothing,” Moreana said softly. Her sister might cow the others but she could withstand her wrath. “Orthen was Adhlac’s choice. He is the one who set the young prince upon the path to kingship.”

“What are you saying?”

Moreana measured her words, knowing as she spoke them they would cleave their bond, driving a bridgeless chasm between them.

“To serve Daras would betray our master’s final command. It is Orthen with whom our loyalty lies.”

“You can’t be serious. Orthen?”

“I am. But we are to stay away. From both brothers. That too was Adhlac’s wish.”

“And if I choose to help Daras? What then?” Nivan stalked towards her. “Will you go to the usurper?”

“If you force my hand. But please—” she touched Nivan’s shoulder. “I beg of you don’t do this.”

“Don’t beg me! I will force your hand! Choose now: the Athwyr or Aonel. Me or Orthen.”

“It’s not that simple,” Moreana insisted.

“Choose!”

“I choose what is right.”

Nivan sighed and her head fell to her chest. When she lifted her face again, the rage and defiance were gone. “Then you are dead to me.”

“Nivan,” Moreana began but her sister turned her back on her.

“Leave us,” was all she said.

Moreana looked around the room but saw no support in the faces of those gathered there. Clearly, Nivan had reached them already.

Sighing, she headed for the door. But she had gotten no more than half-way there before Nivan wheeled on her.

“Stop!” she said, and for a moment hope leapt within Moreana’s breast. But it was just as quickly dashed.

“You will not leave this tower. Duridir, come!”

Into the room entered four hulking knights, clad in jet black armor, each bearing a long and fearsome glaive. These were the Duridir, knights of Turòlas, bloodquenchers sworn to silence and a life of frenzied devotion to the order. Each one was a match for the greatest Eburnean champion, yet even four could not hold Moreana were she armed with her ibar staff.

Unfortunately, she had left it in her room, little suspecting she would need it tonight.

“Nivan,” Caelran protested. “Surely, this is unnecessary.”

“She will not be harmed,” Nivan said. “But I will not have her interfere.”

Then, to the Duridir, she ordered, “Bind her and cast her in the dungeon. In time, when the Drakau rampage over Orthen’s holy kingdom, she will see what a fool she has been.”

Moreana bowed her head, letting herself be led away to prison.

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Chapter Two

Departure

THE DAY HAD just begun to dawn, the sun a thin bleeding cut across the cloudy heavens, as Connal readied for his journey. Standing on the dock, he threw his provisions of spare clothing and food into the bottom of his ship, Wave-Tamer.

Even as he worked, his mother and sister’s words ran through his mind.

“If you carry on with this heedless plan of yours, you will never be king,” his mother had warned. And Ada had joined their mother in her pleas to stay, insisting that Connal’s place was here, that sailing for Gallodel would only see him replicate their father’s mistakes.

But how could he stay? All around, lay the painful reminders of his people’s grief and shame. Maimed warriors thronged Dumoir’s infirmary. Smoke still rose for Craedon’s death. And the Rigsról hung in the hall of a foreign king.

How could he assume the throne under such conditions? Pretending to govern while his father’s bones moldered in distant Eburneum. Would it not be Orthen who truly ruled, extending his long, meddling fingers to the islands, commanding the Sea King like a common thrall?

No. He would not allow it. He would have retribution. Would see the name of Craedon cleared, preserve the honor of Cregeirann.

Connal shook his head, wiped a sleeve across his sweaty brow. His long, red-gold hair fell about his face, covering his eyes. Swearing softly, he brushed it back, tying it into a loose knot. He ran a hand through his beard, bright gold with streaks of fiery red. It had grown long of late—there had been no time to trim during his campaign against the Bronish sea-wolves. Nor since he had returned.

The night had run late, and his head still reeled from countless horns of mead and beer, the hours of shouting and arguing and oath-making.

It seemed as if every warrior in Ellthiar had heeded his summons. The Black Wale was the largest of Cregeirann’s taverns, lying upon a little island only a short boat ride from Dumóir. Yet within the hour, the tavern’s benches had quickly filled. Hundreds of warriors stood along the walls, pressed shoulder to shoulder as if arrayed for battle, while others gathered beyond the doorway.

Connal stood upon a table, mead horn in hand, surveying the boisterous crowd. Men argued and cajoled, jested and laughed. Yet their eyes were never far from him, their late king’s son, the man who had summoned them. Grizzled Veruc sat by Connal’s feet, as did lean, black-haired Fionn. They had been the first to assure him of their loyalty, before the rest of the fighting men had thronged The Black Whale. Their unswerving devotion heartened him. But two men were not enough. He needed a ship’s crew—or better yet, ten—to strike at the Eburneans.

Connal drank deeply of the sweet, heady mead, wiped a hand across his mouth, and sighed. Then he raised his voice to be heard above the tumult. “Warriors of Cregeirann!” He swept his horn over the gathered men, waiting as a hush fell slowly over the crowd.

“Warriors of Cregeirann!” Connal shouted again. “Sons of the Iron Rock! I thank you for coming.”

“It’s bloody crowded in here!” Roras complained. He was a big man, fat and strong, his tunic tight around his barrel chest and bulging belly. “Why couldn’t we meet in the mead hall?”

“Because,” Igan MacArran interjected quickly, “Lord Connal fears the Suid’s displeasure.” Igan stood beside his younger brother Drogan, both of them tall and golden, their hair long and beards short. The brothers had been high in Craedon’s favor, members of his household guard. Gold and silver rings adorned their arms, and their tunics were of the finest weave. Igan flashed a knowing, derisive smile at Connal as he continued. “The Elders disapprove of his intentions.”

“I didn’t ask you!” Roras turned hotly on Igan. “What would you know of his intentions? Does a MacArran speak for Craedon’s son? Or for the Elders?”

Igan scoffed and shrugged. “I am a housecarl. Drogan also. We know much that is beyond a common kern.”

Roras’s fist tightened on his horn and his face grew red. “Common kern?! You’d better watch your tongue, MacArran!”

Igan flashed a fierce grin, equal parts threatening and contemptuous. His hand crept to his belt, rested upon the gilded pommel of his Brevin-forged sword. “And if I do not?”

“What are your intentions, lord?” Horan Surehand asked before Roras could respond. He was well into his forties, blond hair peppered with grey. The veteran of over a hundred voyages, he had been steersman for Craedon’s ship, Hull-Breaker, and had accompanied the king on the fateful voyage to Eburneum.

Connal met the steersman’s gaze, thankful for his question. “I intend to sail for Gallodel! There to break King Orthen’s power. And reclaim the Rigsról!”

He had hoped for shouts of acclaim, but found only murmurs of confusion as the warriors talked animatedly amongst themselves.

“How, lord?” Roras asked at last. “Gallodel is a mighty city. I was there when Orthen felled us. Its walls are high and thick as the steepest cliff, the towers vast as mountains.”

A chorus of assent met Roras’s declaration. Many here had been present at the Battle of Gallodel, and did not seem eager to return.

Fionn scoffed and rose to his feet, his legs unsteady from drinking. “Walls!” he spat. “Towers! Neither can shield this Orthen from an Elan’s fury!”

Horan shook his head. “They are no ordinary walls, lad. Built of stone, not wood. And there are three rings.”

“Three rings?!” Fionn’s voice dripped with mock awe. Swaggering forward, he raised his right hand, presenting five arm-rings of beaten silver that glittered in the rushlight. “Behold! I alone have more rings than the mighty Gallodel!”

Veruc laughed at Fionn’s jest. A few others joined him. The rest were quiet.

“You weren’t there,” Horan insisted, voice low and rumbling.

“No.” Fionn suddenly grew serious. “I was at Feóthán. Laying waste our foes.”

“Aye, aye!” Several of Wave-Tamer’s crew called out, stamping their feet.

“You are a fool, MacRodin,” Igan said, gesturing with his earthen goblet, “if you believe that ‘fury’ will bring down castle walls. How vast is Gallodel’s garrison? Even if every man here were to go, you would be outnumbered fifty to one!”

Fionn’s eyes blazed with fire. “At Feóthán, Lord Connal had but one ship. And our enemies three. Yet we made slaughter of their mighty crews. Connal himself fought hand to hand with Halgar the Fearless. Our lord ran the heathen pirate through upon his blade, and burned his vessel where it lay moored upon the beach. Nalgrim Manbreaker fled from us, the oarsmen of Storm-Rider beating their retreat as if Gaillag herself had sent a tempest against them!”

Veruc laughed, and others joined in. Among them, strong, silent Duer and short Tavin. Both had sailed with Connal to Feóthán.

“If Connal says he will humble the Eburnean king,” Fionn shouted over the clamor, “then I have faith in him!” He turned suddenly and fell to one knee before the table on which Connal stood. “Lord Connal MacCraedon, I swear to be your man. I swear to follow you to Gallodel and not to rest until the Rigsról is in our hands once more! Upon Nadara’s veil and Dernan’s sword, I swear it. Let death and dishonor take me if I should break my vow.”

Connal looked down on his friend, fierce joy welling in his breast. He descended from the table, placed his hands on either side of Fionn’s, and spoke the expected words. “Fionn MacRodin, I accept your fealty. Let God and men bear witness to your oath. Rise!”

“This is madness!” Igan sneered. “You think two men can accomplish anything?”

“Not two.” Veruc rose slowly from his bench, knelt before Connal and swore the same as Fionn. The hall was abuzz with shouting.

“A stirring display,” Kierran’s deep voice rumbled from across the room, “yet you have not answered Roras’s question.”

A hush fell over the room. Connal glanced up to see Kierran standing at the doorway, looking nearly as haggard as he had that morning in Rigtalla. Warriors parted as he advanced with slow, lumbering steps, his dark eyes fixed upon Connal. His black hair was pulled back in a warrior’s braid, and his beard was long and uncut. He wore only a simple grey tunic and brown trousers.

“Lord Connal,” Kierran said evenly. “How do you intend to retrieve the Rigsról?”

Connal faltered at the question. Kierran Wolfsbane was a big man, tall as Connal and broad of shoulder. A decade older, Kierran had won renown in a score of battles, had earned a giant’s weight in silver rings. Yet he forwent their display; his scarred and muscled arms were bare of any finery. There were few warriors Craedon had trusted so well as Kierran, few men so feared across the windswept islands of the Iarlir.

Connal shook himself, patted the hilt of the sword sheathed at his waist. “With this!”

Many hooted their approval. But Kierran did not so much as blink. “That is no answer, man.”

Connal had no better answer. The anger swelling up inside him gave no space for reasoned thought. “It is the only answer worthy of a man! There will be time for tactics later. On the long sea-road to Gallodel. But now is the time for courage. For rage!” He drew his sword and held it aloft. “By the edge of the sword was our honor taken! By the edge of the sword it shall be restored!”

Men cheered—a greater number than before. Connal found himself warming to the task. These were his people. Ada had said they needed healing. This, this was to be their healing. Let them join in common anger. Unite to restore the sullied honor of their people.

But as the cheering subsided, Kierran stood with arms crossed, eying Connal. “How will you restore it?”

Connal bristled, gritted his teeth. “Destiny shall lead us, Kierran! Aonel above shall guide our steps. As the poet sings, ‘God strengthens the hand of the daring’!”

“Aonel?” Igan’s brother Drogan guffawed, flashing his white teeth, hands upon his hips. “I did not take you for the pious sort, my lord. Shall prayers break King Orthen’s sword arm? The chanting of priests tear down his walls? Why then did you summon us warriors? The sisters of Saint Nadara would make far better shipmates!”

Many laughed with Drogan, his brother Igan foremost among them. But Kierran did not so much as smile. He kept his gaze upon Connal, a constant challenge. But before he could ask another question, Connal preempted him, addressing the MacArran brothers directly.

“Mock if you will, Drogan. It seems my father’s wealth and favor have rendered you soft and lazy as an aging sow!”

Igan and Drogan scowled, but Connal’s taunt drew many laughs. He turned from the MacArrans and addressed the assembly. “Aonel shall guide us. But let us leave the priests to bring their prayers. We men of war shall bring the bite of iron to our foes!”

Connal was forced to pause as a wave of cheering met his words. He smiled and took a large swig of mead. Then he ascended the table again and pointed his sword to the east.

“Warriors! Your swords are sworn to the defense of Cregeirann, the defense of your king! And yet…” his voice faltered, suddenly overcome by grief. He cleared his throat and continued, “And yet your king is dead. His body molders in Eburnean soil. His banner stolen by a foreign tyrant. The bodies of our comrades lie with him. Yet the shame is not theirs—not they who died. The shame is ours who live.

“Men of Cregeirann, are you men indeed? Have your swords rusted from disuse? Have your spear shafts splintered and decayed? How many nights did you sit in my father’s hall and drink my father’s mead and swear to serve him unto death? Yet he is dead and you still live!”

Connal stamped the table with his boot, rattling the cups and platters. “Serve Craedon still, if you be not oath-breakers! Avenge him! God above bore witness to your oaths, as did the fearsome spirits of the depths. Your duty is not accomplished. Not while blood still fills your veins!

“Sail with me to Gallodel. Tear the crown from Orthen’s head. And cleanse this stain of our dishonor!”

A thunder of boots stamping upon the rush-strewn ground, the clatter of horns and mugs upon the tabletops. Warriors shouted their approval, many taking up his name. Soon, they had formed a rhythmic chant, shouting to the steady beat of stomps and claps.

“Connal! Connal! Connal!”

The memory of what followed remained trapped within a haze of mead and glory. Men fell to their knees before him, vowing to avenge their fallen king and kin. They placed their hands between his, swore by holy relics and heathen totems, from Nadara’s veil to the Bodtha’s spear.

It had seemed then as if all Cregeirann would sail to war.

But now, on that quiet morning, his head still reeling from the night’s revels, Connal stood alone. He stared out at the homes of his people, as the smoke drifted lazily from Dumóir’s hearths. And Rigtalla, his father’s hall, mounted atop the highest hill, looming like a silent grave.

Would they come? It was easy for men to boast of valor in the depths of night, warmed by a roaring hearth and horns of mead, surrounded by the press of rowdy comrades. But could such courage stand the sobering light of day? Battered by the pleas of loved ones and the awful censure of the Suid, would their resolve falter? Would they forget the oaths they’d sworn him, sworn to the memory of his father?

As Dumóir slowly wakened, Connal determined in silence: he w0uld go alone to Gallodel, if must be. Cregeirann’s honor would be defended.

He crossed into the ship and began wrestling with the ropes that bound the vessel to the pier.

“Connal.”

He looked up to see Kierran, standing on the dock, his arms at his sides, an item in his hand, cloth-wrapped, several feet in length. Violence lurked within the warrior’s drooping, tired eyes, and his long black hair seemed greyer in the dawning light.

Connal turned away, and set again to work at the rope. He had no desire for further argument.

“You’re really going through with it?” Kierran asked.

Connal turned again and glared. “I am. And if you’ve any sense, you’ll not try to stop me.”

“Stop you?” Kierran arched his thick black brows. “I’ve come to join you.”

Connal stopped and stared in confusion. Kierran Wolfsbane, the man always matching him step for step, always vying for Craedon’s love, for the Suid’s approval. For the throne itself. Last night, he had been among the loudest voices of dissent, along with the MacArran brothers.

“You?” he asked at last. “Why?”

“Last night you spoke much of rage. Of oaths and honor. Do you think that because I questioned your plans I do not share your anger? You are not the only one who loved our king. Nor the only man with honor. I would have given my life to save him, had fate not played a foul trick on me.” Connal saw hurt in the warrior’s eyes, and he remembered how, in his ranting before the Suid, he had mocked Kierran for surrendering.

“I believe you would have,” Connal said. Goaded by a mounting sense of shame, he added, “What I said before, in the hall, I… I did not mean it.”

Kierran stared in silence.

“You…” Connal faltered, “you are no coward, Kierran. And I am glad to have you with me.”

“Aye,” Kierran answered. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking as awkward as Connal felt. Then he held up the cloth-wrapped object. “Figure you’ll be needing this.”

Kierran peeled away the wrapping and let it fall to the wooden dock below, revealing a scabbarded sword, four feet from point to pommel. No ordinary weapon either: it was Glámaire, Dernan’s sword, wielded by the kings of Cregeirann.

“Drog’s breath.” Connal’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Where did you get it?”

“The Eburneans didn’t think to take it. Ruarc and the rest of the Suid bade me hand it over. But I reckoned Craedon’s son should have it.”

Connal took the sword with quiet reverence, feeling the awful weight of it in his hands. His father’s sword. As a boy he had tried to swing it, had found it heavy and unwieldy, taking all his strength. The sword was heavy still. But he was a boy no longer. As Craedon’s son, he would wield it with his father’s strength.

Connal drew the sword from the black scabbard, held the glinting iron to the morning light. Along both flats of the blade were ancient runes, running from the ricasso to halfway up the blade. Symbols of strength and power. On one side, it was said, was etched a blessing of protection to the wielder—the other a curse of woe to Glámaire’s foes.

Tears sprang to Connal’s eyes again. But he fought them down. He would not weep. Not here. Not now.

“Thank you,” he said.

Kierran nodded, his own eyes creased with sorrow. The moments passed in silence.

Then Connal slapped the flat of the blade against his open palm. He looked at Kierran again and forced a grin. “The two of us, then. By Fearg, who would have thought it?”

“More will come, Connal. Give them time to sleep off their drink. The Suid has forbidden it, yet there are many here would follow you and me to Ifryn’s gates.” He smiled grimly. “Though let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I did promise my wife I would return before the harvest.”

♚ ♚ ♚

By mid-morning, the dock and ship swarmed with warriors bearing weapons and provisions, grizzled old veterans and fresh-faced youths, ringed men some and others untested. Veruc and Fionn were first to arrive, shuffling along the dock with heavy sacks slung across their shoulders. As they neared the ship, Veruc smiled ruefully and massaged his forehead.

“Drank too much, lord. Apologies.”

Connal grinned and clasped Veruc’s hand. “I reckoned you’d wisened up. Decided to stay and feast with Drogan and Igan.” His jesting tone belied his fears. As the morning dragged on, he truly had wondered if even his most faithful comrades would desert him.

Fionn made a disgusted face. And Veruc slapped Connal’s shoulder. “What, and miss out on all the glory?”

“What’s he doing here?” Fionn questioned, glaring at Kierran, who stood upon Wave-Tamer, examining the condition of the oars.

“Kierran sails with us,” Connal said.

“I thought he was opposed?”

Connal shrugged. “Apparently not.” Whatever his reasons, it would not hurt to have the mighty Wolfsbane along. “Now stow your belongings and claim your bench before the others come.”

A steady stream of men followed after. Fat, bellowing Roras, one thick arm clutching a loaded sack, the other an ashen spear. Tall, silent Duer, with his flat-face and crooked, broken nose, and Delar his always-laughing brother. Tavin, a short, thin lad of sixteen winters, wiry fingers fidgeting at the copper disc he wore around his neck. Black-bearded Roal, from the twin isles of Culsiorc. A jagged white scar ran from forehead to temple and most of his left ear had been shorn by a Bronishman’s axe. And Horan Surehand, Craedon’s grey-haired old steersman.

“Don’t know how you intend to do it, lord,” Horan muttered darkly, “but I do aim to be there when you make the Eburneans pay.”

Connal greeted them one by one, clasping hands, and clapping shoulders. As Horan took his place at Wave-Tamer’s steering oar, Connal beheld his crew and felt a swelling pride. Just over fifty warriors. Nowhere near the number who had filled The Black Whale and loudly proclaimed their loyalty. But it was a fair showing. A lord could do much with such a company. Strike back for Cregeirann’s honor. Bring the Eburnean tyrant to his knees.

Veruc touched Connal’s shoulder, waking him from his musings. “Look, lord.”

Esca had taken up a perch upon some barrels on the far end of the dock. Watching and frowning, he scribbled upon his tablet. Counting the lawbreakers.

“Bloody snake,” Veruc mumbled. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “And what are you writing?”

Esca paused his scribbling and squinted at Veruc. “I am acting on order of the Suid, Veruc, son of Doral, recording the name of every man who acts in defiance of their will.”

Veruc muttered a string of obscenities in response. “Didn’t take that rat long to jump from Craedon’s ship.”

Connal grimaced, tried not to let his anger show. Esca had been his father’s man, faithfully serving the royal household. But with Craedon dead and the throne unfilled, it seemed he had abandoned the old king’s family for the Council. Who among the Suid held his leash now, he wondered? Brona? Ruarc? Tassach?

“Oy, weasel shit!” Roras bellowed. “You better not be putting my name down!”

Esca looked up again and smiled crookedly. “And what if I am, Roras MacRoran?” He held up the tablet. “Could you even read it?”

“Craven wretch!” Roras shouted. “I’ll break that bloody tablet over your shiny little head!”

“Easy, Roras,” Connal said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let him bait you.”

But even as Connal spoke, Fionn leapt from the ship, axe in hand. He strode towards a now trembling Esca, weapon whistling as he twirled it.

“Fionn!” Kierran barked. “Call him off, Connal. The Suid’s furious already. Last thing we need’s a murder.”

“Fionn, stop!” Connal called, striding after him. His friend’s blood ran hotter even than Connal’s own, and he was deadly quick with those short-handled axes.

But Fionn did not stop. He advanced on Esca and plucked the tablet from the scribe’s trembling hands.

“You think you can scare us? Naming us and our fathers? I know where you live too, Esca, son of Oreg.”

Fionn hurled the tablet into the habor. It splashed and swiftly sank. Grasping Esca by the front of his tunic and holding the axe-head close to his cheek, Fionn continued. “And when we return, if I find you’ve touched a single one of my possessions, I’ll flay the skin off you myself!”

Connal reached Fionn and put a hand on his shoulder. “Come, brother,” he said quietly.

Fionn continued to glare down at Esca’s sweaty, ruddy face. Then he shoved him away, knocking the portly fellow to his back.

“Go on then!” Fionn jeered, as Esca rose. “And spread my message to your masters! I’ll flay the lot of them!”

Esca wobbled as he ran from the docks and up the narrow road, followed by the cheers and hoots of Wave-Tamer’s crew.

As Connal walked with Fionn back to the ship, he found he could not join in his men’s rejoicing. It was satisfying to see Esca humbled, his tablet sunk beneath the sea, but what good would it do? There were only fifty men aboard Wave-Tamer, and the Suid would surely know their names, with or without a written record.

Still, he dared not voice this worry to his men. Let them enjoy the feeling of victory. When they returned, and Connal took the throne, he could easily reverse whatever penalties the Suid had imposed.

At last, every man had taken his place and stowed his possessions. The oars were set into their locks, the green and white sail unfurled.

“We’re ready, lord,” Horan told him, standing at the rudder.

Connal nodded. This was it then. As he shaded his eyes and scanned the shoreline of his beloved Cregeirann, a deep, sudden foreboding shuddered through him. Was this to be the last he would look upon his home? Eburneum was a distant land, full of treachery and peril. Would he share his father’s fate?

As he froze, gripped by the icy hand of this premonition, a man approached, coming to a halt upon the docks. Tassach, the young elder, the one men called Shrewdtongue. A cunning voice in the Suid, a wise counsel to Craedon. In the hall he had thwarted Connal. Did he desire the throne? Would men follow a leader with cunning only and no strength?

“Connal,” Tassach called, motioning with his hand. “A word?”

Connal frowned and eyed him warily. But with a sigh he disembarked and strode towards him. Tassach was not a big man, and Connal towered over his slight frame. That was good. It was good to remind your enemy that you could break his neck at will. If Tassach were, in fact, an enemy.

“I see you’ve found men to follow you,” Tassach said. He scratched idly at the black stubble on his chin.

“Does that surprise you, Shrewdtongue?”

“No, not really.” Tassach’s laugh was light, disarming with its charm. “You always did command an unreasonable amount of respect among Cregeirann’s fighters. I am surprised to see Kierran though.”

“Well, your man Esca was keeping tally. What’s your plan? To threaten these men’s land and status if they follow me?”

Tassach chuckled again. “Esca? That doddering fool is no servant of mine. Look, Connal, I’m not your enemy.”

“That’s not how it looked yesterday.”

“That?” There was a glimmer in Tassach’s eye, as if he thought the whole matter a mere farce. “I had to censure you to keep up appearances. But indeed, I sympathize with your cause.”

“The Eburneans must pay,” Connal growled.

“And I agree. Go extract that payment. And I will ensure the throne stands ready when you return.”

Connal nodded. He recalled his mother’s words. “You don’t… you don’t think the Elders will elect some other king? To spite me?”

“What? No. Of course, a few may want to, but they wouldn’t dare. You said it yourself: what other choice is there? We may not pass on kingship through blood by law, but it is not by chance that Craedon’s father was king and his father before him. The people expect the dynasty to continue.”

“And you don’t think Ganwae will attack, do you?” Despite his mistrust, Connal found himself looking to Tassach for reassurance. The elder was renowned for his wisdom. If he agreed that Connal should proceed to Gallodel, then it must be right.

“After the thumping you gave Halgar?” Tassach smiled, his thin face open and reassuring. “No, of course not. That’s fear-mongering. Connal, Cregeirann will be safe. Your mother and sister will be safe. I swear it. I’ll personally look after them until you return.”

Connal felt a surge of relief. He clasped Tassach’s arm, pulling the elder into a hearty embrace. “Thank you, Tassach. You’re a good man.”

Tassach shrugged. But when he spoke again, his smile had faded and his voice was hard. “Make them pay, Connal. Restore our honor. Soak the streets of Gallodel with their arrogant blood.”

Connal nodded. “You can be sure of it.”

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Black Tidings

THE HORN SOUNDED from the deck of the Ellani warship, pushed low on the water by the weight of men and plunder. A melody of five notes, long and clear. It called out over rolling waves to the rocky shores of Cregeirann beyond, the land these battled warriors called home.

From the bow of the longship, Connal listened, anticipating the fanfare that would acknowledge their triumphant return, the end of the weeks-long campaign of blood and death.

No fanfare came. Though it was only late morning, the town of Dumóir, a bustling hub of fishermen and merchants, lay wrapped in silence.

“Sound it again,” Connal said, feeling a strange unease. “Perhaps they did not hear it.”

Again Veruc brought the horn to his lips, ringing the melody out across the Iarlir. Yet still, no horn replied. Only the mourning wail of the gulls and the percussive lapping of waves against the hull.

Bringing his hand to shade his eyes, Connal surveyed his homeland more closely. They were nearer now, and still he could see no movement along the docks that lined the port. Vaguely, he could make out the rough outline of Rigtalla, his father’s hall, the seat of Cregeirann’s kings. And from it rose a single plume of black smoke. The sign of a noble’s death.

Connal shivered. It seemed a poor omen—this chilly welcome, the rising smoke. The hairs on his neck stood on end.

“Wonder who it is,” Veruc said. He was old for a warrior, well past his fiftieth winter, his once black hair now all but grey, skin ruddy and wrinkled. Two score were the years he had braved the open sea, flesh bared to the relentless lashing of wind and wave.

Connal shrugged, running a hand through his long red hair. “Probably one of the ancients on the Suid.” The casual tone sounded forced even to his own ears. “Most of them have one foot in the grave already.”

Veruc chuckled. “Shall I sound our approach again?”

“No,” Connal said. “No, we’re almost docked now.”

Not a soul was there to greet them as the longship drifted into port. There should be droves of children clamoring for a look at the victors home from battle, eager to handle the dented weapons and plundered treasures. Men and women to cheer them, warriors to clap their backs and hear the tales of battle. That was how it had always been.

Connal sighed. He leapt from the ship, striking the wooden platform with leather boots, his legs nearly buckling as they found themselves on solid ground once more. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the thatched homes, a rumbling anger rising within him. There was little chance their ship could have approached unseen. What kind of welcome was this for men who’d risked their lives for the honor of Cregeirann?

He turned to the pillar of black smoke once again, a chill running down his spine. Anxious dread clutched at his heart, a fear unknown and unnameable.

Around him the warriors disembarked, ringed men of proven worth, forged again in the fires of war. Grumbling and cursing, they too gave voice to their disappointment.

“Easy there, Fionn,” Connal said as the thin, wiry soldier cast a sack of clattering iron weapons onto the dock. “All this belongs to Craedon, your king.”

“It was our swords that won it,” Fionn muttered, holding his gaze. Hair black as a raven’s wing fell about his wind-bronzed face. He was of an age with Connal, and stood nearly as tall.

“You’ll get what is deserving,” Connal said. “My father is no hoarder of wealth.”

“If he’s even here,” Veruc put in. He leaned on his spear, its butt wedged between the dock’s wooden boards. “Where in Gaillag’s name is everyone?”

Connal said nothing. He looked to the mead hall again and frowned, wondering if his father had returned. War in Eburneum was said to be a long affair, a matter of months, not days. It was likely he was there still on his fool’s errand, marching alongside Prince Daras’s forces, putting the usurper’s troops to flight. All for a distant, foreign people.

Yet what a celebration there would be when at last he did return. The greatest feast the islands had ever seen, men and women toasting the twin victories of father and son.

Finally, the goods unloaded, Connal strode from the dock, leading his men up the sloping road to Rigtalla. But he had gone only a few paces before clapping eyes on Esca, a portly houseman of the royal family.

Esca bowed. “Good morning, my lord.”

“What’s going on here?” Connal demanded. “Why was no one here to meet us?”

Esca paused a moment and scratched at his balding scalp. “Forgive the poor welcome, lord, but I’m afraid that amid the calamity of these past days, things have nearly ground to a halt.”

“Calamity? What calamity?”

Esca’s eyes fell to his feet. “Alas, my lord. The sea has brought grim news from Eburneum—black tidings of defeat. The king is dead.”

Dead.

The word resounded within Connal’s head, yet he fought against it, armored himself against its meaning.

Esca looked up again and cleared his throat. “If… if you are ready, lord, I will take you to the hall. Your mother is there, and the Suid too.”

The houseman led and Connal staggered after, pushing silently along the cobbled streets. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. His father could nor more die than Cregeirann itself.

Connal paused at the doors of Rigtalla, steeling himself for what he would face within. Two guards stood watch, yet he did not address them. He pushed open the great oak door, stepping into the hall of kings. The air was dark and stuffy, heavy with the weight of mourning.

He blinked, adjusting to a darkness broken only by the pale light streaming through thin windows. About the low-burning hearth stood the Elders, men and women clad in black and sorrow. Their heads were bowed, their hands folded as if in meditation. At their head, his mother, Queen Enna, her face concealed by an inky veil, dressed all in robes of black, seated on her queen’s chair. And to her left, at the center, the royal throne sat empty, absent its lord.

“My son.” His mother’s voice was hoarse. “You are home.” She rose stiffly from her seat and awaited him.

“Mother,” he said, going to her and taking her hands. “I heard…” his voice faltered as the words caught in his throat.

She squeezed his hands and nodded. Through the veil he could see her tears, could feel them escape his own eyes.

“How did…” he began again. “How did this happen?”

“My lord Connal,” a raspy voice interjected. It was the Elder Ruarc, a man burdened with age, his grey beard drooping to his belt. “We have waited for your return. It is good to see you back alive and well. How did you fare?”

Connal’s head ached, and he reached for his words like a shipwrecked swimmer seeks land. “It was a victory. Ganwae’s servants will trouble the people of Edòrn no more. We came upon them by the shores of Feóthán, and there, by the full moon’s light, we slaughtered their crew. Halgar I slew, and Nalgrim his brother fled like a startled hare.” It was warm in the hall, and his heart was beating wildly. He wiped the perspiration from his brow. “But what of my father? How did his death come?”

“King Craedon fell in battle,” Ruarc said. “Lord Kierran was there and bears witness to the king’s courage.” He gestured to the dark, and following the Elder’s finger, Connal noticed the warrior, darkened by shadows, leaning against a wooden pillar. Slowly, Kierran pushed himself upright and came into the light. Tall and wide-chested, he stood with shoulders slumped. His face was haggard and worn, freshly scarred, his black beard ragged and untrimmed. He caught Connal’s eye and gave a curt nod.

Connal only stared. “How did it happen, Kierran?”

“It was a bloodbath. The bastard tricked us.”

“Orthen? They said he was a weakling.”

“So we thought. And Prince Daras was sure of it. But Orthen laid a trap for us before the mighty gates of Gallodel. They killed us with arrows from the walls and with lances in the fields, and soon, our courage broke. Daras was among the first to flee, rushing from the battle like a beaten dog. And in his wake, the Eburneans ran, following his royal banner.

“And we fled too as best we could. We fought our way through the press, holding our ranks with shields to every side. But against those wheeling bands of mailed knights and nimble hobelars, we stood little chance. Your father fought as if Gallos himself possessed him, Connal, even as the arrows pierced his armor and the horsemen bore upon him. I fought at his side till, in the chaos, I fell, brought low by a blow to the head. By the time I awoke, the fighting was done and our king slain.”

Kierran fell silent and with him the entire hall. Connal’s heart still pounded and his mind clouded. A king of Cregeirann—to fall like this? A pawn in a foreign war, caught up in the feuding of Eburnean princes. It was shameful; it galled him to think of the waste.

“We should never have gone,” Tassach murmured, a thin handsome man with watchful eyes. He was young for an elder, having only fifteen years on Connal, yet his reputation for shrewd counsel had seen him elevated before most others. “The intrigues of the Eburneans have little to do with us.” Connal found himself nodding in agreement. “Fortunately, Orthen’s peace was generous.”

“Peace?” Connal demanded. “What peace?”

A shadow passed over Kierran’s face, as the warrior averted his gaze.

“Orthen showed mercy,” Tassach said. “Once King Craedon fell and our men lost heart, he accepted their surrender. He showed mercy.”

“Mercy.” Connal spat the word. “And with what price did his mercy come?”

“Allegiance.” Ruarc’s voice was pained. “The next king of Cregeirann must return to Gallodel and kneel before the High King. For now, Orthen holds hostage the Rigsról, and will return it only after fealty is sworn.”

“Kneel?!” Connal echoed. “Since when have the men of Cregeirann bent the knee to any foreign king? Even when the Telians came, the islands held fast. We burned their galleys and slaughtered their mighty legions. And now this beardless pup thinks he will claim the Iron Rock? Hold hostage the banner of kings? Never! I shall bow to no king of Eburneum!”

“Connal,” his mother said. “Please.”

He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. The pain in his head was building.

Then Brona spoke, a lean, grim-faced old woman. “Need I remind you, lord, that we have not appointed our king? We have delayed, waiting for your return and for the days of mourning to be fulfilled. But the decision is not yet made.”

“Who else would it be?” He swept the hall with an open hand. “I am Craedon’s son! It was I who saved you from the kelpie’s torment, who tore winged Banilur from his heights. I burnt the great barges of the Cuarri and wrestled scaly Svalung from the sea. And even now, I bring you victory again, having saved our allies from Halgar the Fearless. I am Beastmaster of Cregeirann! Who among you is worthier than I to sit on the throne of the Iron Rock?”

His breast heaved as he spoke, anger and pride swelling within him.

All were silent, until Brona spoke again, her face as set and grim as before. “Even so, young lord. You are not yet king.”

Connal snorted and glared, but she did not shrink from him. “No?” he said. “You would prefer another? Kierran perhaps? The man who let his king die and surrendered to the Eburneans? Or you, Ruarc? Tassach? You have all grown soft under the protection of warriors! Well know this: I am the only man among you, if you can bear the shame of this Orthen’s ‘mercy.’ For as surely as Craedon was my father, I swear by all the saints in heaven and the spirits of earth and sea that I will not rest until the boy king pays in blood, and I hold the Rigsról in my hands!”

Tassach gasped. “You cannot go to Gallodel! Too many have fallen on foreign soil already, and you are not king. The Suid will forbid any warrior to follow you on such a venture.”

“Then Gaillag devour you all! You are a pack of rotting corpses! Old and useless—you are toothless grandfathers and senile crones!”

Queen Enna took a step towards him and raised her hands. “Connal—”

“No, mother! I will not suffer my father’s pride to be trampled underfoot. I go to Gallodel, and if there be any true men left on the Iron Rock, any loyal warriors who loved their king, let them come, and together we will bathe our swords in Eburnean blood!”

Connal rushed from the hall, the tail of his cape brushing against the floorboards. He struck the door with his fist, sending it flying open, and strode into the light, where his fighting crew stood stunned by his grief and rage.

He flew past them, blinded by a field of tears, and found his quarters in the low stone building adjoining the hall. Entering, he found it just as he had left it—walls lined with woven tapestries, bed covered in furs, a chest of woolen tunics and trousers. And there, returned by his men only a short while ago, was his armor, the hauberk still crusted with the salt of the sea and the grime of war, his round shield—green, divided by a white bar, blazoned with a black stork—and his sword in its leather sheath. He had not thought to need his arms again so soon. Yet fate had its own will, and what man was there could gainsay his destiny?

He stooped to gather these belongings when a footfall, soft and cautious, arrested him. He turned to see his mother, shadowing the threshold. Her veil was up now, revealing eyes tired and bloated, raw from weeping.

“Mother…” He did not know what else to say.

“Connal,” his mother chided. “That was unwise.” She fixed him with her stern eyes, the expression of reproof he remembered when as a boy he had lost his temper, striking another or uttering some newly-learned vulgarity.

He hung his head. Though he was nearly twenty-four years old, her disapproval still rattled him.

“You disrespected the Elders.”

“But mother,” he complained. “They are weak! They want us to serve a foreign king. They dishonor Father’s name!”

“Your father,” she said, raising her voice, “would never have spoken to the Suid like that. He respected his people, from the least to the greatest. Were he among us still, he would be ashamed of your behavior.”

That stung, and Connal felt a surge of guilt and anger. “They would never have spoken thus to my father. And when I am king, they will learn their place again!”

Her face softened. “O my son. Did you not hear them? Brona, Ruarc and the others? If you carry on with this heedless plan of yours, you will never be king.”

“They would not dare elect another!”

“They would dare. Your father did not win the crown by arrogance and entitlement. No, he gained their respect; he earned the love of his people.”

“But I have earned it! No warrior has been as tireless in defense of our people.”

“And what if Ganwae returns? Who will defend us then?”

“He will not return! I have seen to it. The old wolf’s men fled chastened with their tails between their legs. I have safeguarded us from our enemies. That is why I must rule Cregeirann.”

“There is more to rule than fighting, Connal. And if you leave now, before you have secured the title, they will give it to another. Believe me, I have been both daughter and wife to a king. And if I am to be mother to another, you must choose your actions wisely.” She held his shoulder and looked into his eyes. “Leave bravado and boasting for the battlefield, my son. The people want a king who can lead them in peace as well as war. A cool head, a reasoning judge. Show them that you are more than a wildman.”

He took her hand in his. “And I will, mother. I will show them that I am a true son of Cregeirann, that I am as wise in the craft of peace as in war. But before that, I must do this. My destiny drives me, like a ship borne by the tide. I must go to Gallodel, to take back the Rigsról. I must show the Eburnean lords that the warriors of the Iron Rock are not to be trifled with. I must do this for the very people I would rule. Else what would I be king of?”

Enna sighed and fell silent. The fight was gone from her. Slowly, Connal slung the shield over his back, strapped the sword to his waist, and heaved the burlap sack containing his armor and clothing over his shoulder. He kissed her forehead and slipped past her.

At the doorway, Connal paused, looked back, and said, “Pray for me, mother. To Aonel and all his saints. I will return and be the king you speak of. But first I must do this.”

She kept her back to him, did not turn to see him off. “I will pray,” she murmured.

♚ ♚ ♚

Connal paused at the doorway of the infirmary, his hand upon the latch. He had intended to pay his respects to those of Cregeirann’s warriors who had come back maimed by Eburnean swords, to offer them encouragement. It’s what his father would have done.

Yet now that he had arrived, Connal’s resolve faltered. He knew what awaited him within, the wounded and the dying, a grim spectacle of desperation and defeat.

As he stood wavering, the sound of singing rose from beyond the door—a woman’s high, ethereal voice. It lent him the strength he needed.

Quietly, Connal pushed open the wooden door, pausing again at the threshold to listen. Ada, his sister, stood with her back to him, swaying gently, her long golden braid rocking as she moved among the cots where the Ellani wounded lay.

She was no songweaver, yet there was power in her voice to soothe the mind. Even before their father’s death, she had tasted the pain of battle’s loss. A husband fallen to Ganwae’s raids, a son to the monster Banilur.

Ada sang now to the wounded of Aonel’s kingdom, of the green and pleasant pastures, of the day when death and violence would be no more, when spears and swords would be abandoned, and all men live in gentle harmony.

Like the wounded, Connal hung on her words, his spirit lifted by the gentle song. He thought of their father, of all those killed at Gallodel and those who fell at Feóthán, and wondered: were their sufferings truly over? Did death at last free men from violence? Tears sprang to his eyes, but he fought them back.

Slowly, the song died away. A deep quiet reigned.

Ada turned, noticing him for the first time. “Connal? I didn’t know you had returned.”

He nodded, saying nothing lest his voice betray his sorrow.

“Then you’ve heard.” She crossed the room, and pulled him into a tight embrace.

For a while, he struggled to master his grief. Then he pulled away, sniffling and rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. Looking about, he beheld the rows of bloodied men, some groaning in agony, others still as death. And seeing them, anger overthrew his sorrow. He would avenge them—the living and the dead.

“You’re still carrying a shield,” Ada said curiously. “And a sack. Did you only just return?”

Connal turned again to face her. “A few hours ago.” He inhaled deeply and sighed. Somehow, he must break the news of his departure. “But Ada, I… I am not staying long. I leave on the morrow.”

His sister’s eyes widened. She crossed her arms and gazed concernedly at him. “Leaving where? You only just returned.”

“For Gallodel.” Connal forced himself to meet his sister’s challenging gaze. “I have unfinished business with its king.”

Before Ada could respond, Deom, one of the wounded warriors spoke.

“My lord?” Deom wheezed. “Did you say you were going to Gallodel?” Thick bandages covered the man’s head and torso, and he was missing his shield hand, the limb ending in a cloth-wrapped stump.

“Aye, my friend,” Connal said, coming to stand by the warrior’s bed. “You were at the battle?”

“I was, lord. It was…” Deom’s voice faltered, “it was awful.”

Connal nodded. “I know. And I am going to avenge our loss, to make things right.”

“Make things right?” Deom echoed weakly, staring with haunted eyes.

“The Rigsról,” Connal said. “I will reclaim it. I will show that bastard king what manner of men he thinks to humble. And prove there is still strength and courage among the warriors of the Iron Rock.”

“It wasn’t lack of courage doomed us, lord.” Deom lifted the bandaged stump of his arm. “We gave everything. Our bodies broke to defend our banner and our king.”

“Of course,” Connal reassured him. “You fought well, Deom.”

“Connal.” Ada placed her hand firmly on his shoulder. “This is not the kind of talk these men need now. They are weary of war.”

Looking around, Connal noticed the others watching him, and realized his words might have sounded like a reproof. He would have said more, but Ada pushed him away, guiding him towards the corner.

“Are you really going to Gallodel?” she whispered.

“Yes. I must.”

“At a time like this? Look at them. Our people are hurt. They need healing.”

“Revenge will heal their wounds!” At her glare, he lowered his voice. “Our people must have their honor restored.”

“Our people have come back reeling from war. You cannot lead them out to it again.”

“I’m not. I shall take a single ship. Or two. And any men who’ll come with me.”

“What?”

“The Suid forbade me. But I’m going anyway.”

“Connal…”

“Save your warning.” Connal forced a smile. “Mother already gave me an earful.”

“You should listen to her.”

“Bah! You know mother. She worries.”

Ada rolled her eyes. “With good cause. This sounds like another of your reckless adventures. Stay, Connal.”

Connal’s smile faded as he shook his head. “I cannot. Not while our honor bids me go. The shame of swearing Orthen fealty will never be undone. The bards throughout all of Moralann will sing of it for generations—how an Eburnean king forced the Ellani to their knees, how he conquered what even the Telians could not. Our father’s name is already tarnished, Ada. His body lies in foreign soil. Orthen’s soil. If we should lose his kingdom also, it would be… would be…”

“Dishonor,” Ada said. “I know.”

“Then you know that I must go.” His words hovered between statement and question.

Ada shook her head and looked away. “I… I don’t know. There is more at stake than reputation. Let the Eburnean poets sing what they will of us. So long as we are safe.”

Safe. The word gave fuel to his rage. “We shall be safe only when we are free! And as for the poets—I will give them matter for a hundred lays. Songs to chant in the halls of lords. Let them sing of Craedon’s son, of how he defied the Eburnean king in his own bloody city, and won back glory for his people!”

Ada stared sorrowfully. “I don’t see the glory in it, Connal. It was for honor that father left. For honor that he fell. Now you would throw away your life for honor also? I think your place is here. Cregeirann’s people are wounded, not just in body but in spirit. They need leadership.”

Again Connal forced himself to meet her gaze. Ada’s words pricked him. But he would not change his mind. He could not. “And I will lead them. To Gallodel. And to glory.”

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THE SHADOW OF WAR DARKENS MORALANN, AND LONG-DEAD DRAGONS RISE AGAIN.

Connal MacCraedon, son of Cregeirann’s king, stands watch over the western isles, battling monsters and sea raiders across the storm-wracked seas.

Then tragedy strikes. Connal’s father falls in battle against King Orthen, a pious conqueror waging holy war against an order of sorcerers who derive their power from the blood of dragons. Grieving and enraged, Connal abandons his post, leading a small band of warriors on a quest to restore his people’s honor by challenging Orthen’s fiercest champions.

But while Connal is away, Cregeirann is betrayed, overrun by the very raiders he fought so hard to repel. They seize his mother and sister and declare him a traitor to the realm.

Now, Connal is a prince without a kingdom, a warrior in exile. To reclaim his crown and save his people, he must form an uneasy alliance with the zealot Orthen, wandering ever further from his homeland as he becomes embroiled in a holy war that will test the limits of courage and conscience.

If Connal fails and proves unsuited to the challenge, he will forever lose the chance to atone for his foolish pride. And his beloved Cregeirann will be lost forever.

War of Princes is an epic fantasy of mythic conflict and theological imagination, blending immersive worldbuilding, high-stakes action, and moral consequence.

Release Schedule:

• Chapter One launches Friday, April 17

• There will be a new chapter every Friday

• Free for all subscribers

• War of Princes is broken into five parts of roughly 8-12 chapters each.

  • Think of each part as similar to the season of a streaming-based television series like Breaking Bad or A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.

  • There will be short breaks between the release of each part

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Table of Contents

Map

Part One: The Eburnean King

Chapter One: Black Tidings

Chapter Two: Departure

Chapter Three: The Acolytes

Chapter Four: Sailing to Gallodel

Chapter Five: Twelve Oaths

Chapter Six: A Well-Laid Snare

Chapter Seven: The Divine Silence

Chapter Eight: The Escape

Chapter Nine: Eburnean Pageantry

Chapter Ten: The Cathedral

Chapter Eleven: The Ninth Worthy

Chapter Twelve: Moralann Will Be Bathed in Fire

Part Two: The Exile’s Path

Chapter Thirteen: Manbreaker

Chapter Fourteen: Wrath and Blood

Chapter Fifteen: Banished

Chapter Sixteen: The Songweaver

Chapter Seventeen: Fearg’s Scourge

Chapter Eighteen: I Sing of Fire

Chapter Nineteen: Adhlac’s Dial

Chapter Twenty: Shards and Fragments