The sun was shining brightly and a stiff wind was blowing out to sea taking with it the stench of too many hot days. It was the perfect day for the ship to set out, the sails already billowing with the impatient breeze. The ship was creaking as it rocked to and fro while the men worked to release the ties that held it steadfast. The rising tide was already lapping at the barnacle-encrusted sides with her salty tongue, waiting to carry the ship away once more on her foam crested back.

It was a perfect day but not for Kelgar. He would be left behind when the ship floated out to sea, left to shamble his way back to the castle. Left to guard a half-finished keep while his brother was off having another adventure. Left to crawl into bed each night beside a wife who shrank away from his touch.

Sir Eanraig was bidding farewell to his daughter who was looking well. Her hair was starting to grow back, red and luscious and she had a healthy glow to her cheeks again. His wife stood beside with their oldest child who was clinging to her mothers plait and gazing at it with the avid attention that suggested she was about to put it in her mouth. The blonde haired young woman stood and silently stared at her husband’s tearful farewell and Kelgar thought he noticed a twitch of annoyance on her flawless face.

At the shoreline his brother, Osras was bidding his wife farewell. They stood locked in a seemingly endless embrace.

Kelgar did not think Polina lay rigid and silent, doing her duty as his brother moved above her. Not like Illewen. It was all he could do to bring himself to touch her.

He smiled, a smile so brittle he was sure his face would crack along the scars and fall to pieces on the sandy beach. He wondered if his heart already had. Each scene he saw was one more boot, thoughtlessly crushing another meaty piece beneath its heel so that it grew smaller and smaller and mingled with the sand.

Sir Arwaduhn was there, kissing his pregnant wife tenderly goodbye. Beside them her sister’s family said goodbye to their father Denel, kisses from both the girls and finally their mother. Tears and sniffles all round.

He had asked if Illewen wanted to come down to the beach with him. Perhaps he had thought she might hold his hand and stand beside him as his wife, to say goodbye with the rest of his family. But she had not come. She had said she was tired and the baby was kicking. She wanted to rest. The baby was kicking, Kelgar could even see its movements sometimes. He longed to reach out and rest his hand on her belly, to feel his child moving inside her but he couldn‘t bring himself to. And she had never offered.

Close to the water the Duke huddled together with his cousin who had carried his little daughter out to bid him farewell. He had heard the rumours about the Duke’s wife, and he deeply pitied the man. When he saw the haunted look in the Duke’s eyes Kelgar knew he had no right to be miserable at the path his own life had taken. He had a healthy wife and soon, God willing a healthy child.

The King and the Queen stood waiting to send their best wishes with the men who would do their work across the sea. The King was wearing his cheerful smile, the Queen regal as always despite the heat and her pregnant state. The new Father was climbing up the steps to give a final blessing to the ship before it set off on its important journey.

Beside him stood the wives of the captain of the fleet and his first mate. The captain’s wife stood sombre and elegant, while Eyvir, the First mate’s wife tittered and giggled beside her.

“Have you come to bid me farewell then wife,” the captain rumbled, his face solemn, his eyes sad.

“Perhaps you have been doing the cracking of her shell Rasmus,” Lekha’s twin grinned beside him, “I tell you, my sister, she is warm and soft but you not believing me.”

“I did not come for you,” Lekha spat at her husband, “I come to say the goodbye to my brother.”

“Not today then friend,” Mahavir winked at the captain and embraced his sister.

They murmured together in their own language for a moment and Lekha kissed him carefully on both cheeks.

“Husband, you bring him back alive,” she growled at Rasmus who shrugged impassively.

“No stupid things, you hear,” she said a little softer.

Mahavir murmured something gently in their own language and then turned to his wife.

“Now you,” he purred, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her passionately.

“Mahavir, you must be so disgraced?” Lekha hissed and then returned to their language spitting out what sounded to be very grave insults.

But Mahavir wasn’t listening as his wife lunged at him, tipping him off balance.

“Now then lassie,” Sir Eanraig called out with a chuckle, “please don’t maul him too badly, he’s an important member of my crew.

Suddenly Osras was barrelling into Kelgar’s arms with a grin on his face.

“Brother,” Kelgar cried as the air was squeezed out of his lungs.

“Brother!” Osras replied giving him a hearty slap on the back.

Osras released him and gave him a stern look, “Yew’ll take care of the place here won’t you while I’m gone, keep an eye on everything.”’

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kelgar replied quickly.

“And don’t yew sleep with my wife while I’m gone,” Osras gave him a wink that was almost a scowl.

“Osras!” Polina shrieked slapping at him and Kelgar’s brother gave a great guffaw.

Kelgar gulped. There had been a time when he had come extremely close to doing just that. But that had been before they were married.

“Yew rotter!” Polina gave him another hearty slap for good measure.

“Yew know I’m just joking,” Osras chuckled, “but if yew do I’ll skin yew alive.”

Kelgar finally laughed, “Keep yerself safe yew great lout.”

They were all leaving him behind in the stagnant life that had captured him on Mhalwae. There was not adventure for him here. Nor love. Just life, plodding along, trying to make it through each day and steel himself for the night. God he wished he were getting on that ship.

“Do you have a moment to talk now?” Lochan asked in exasperation.

He had been trying to have this conversation with Garrick for days but whenever Lochan had the time amongst preparation Garrick was nowhere to be found, or not to be disturbed.

“I don’t know, do we have the time Isabelle?” Garrick asked in a baby voice to the child lying calmly in his arms blinking curiously at Lochan.

Lochan ignored this, “I want to speak to you about Eallair.”

“Alright,” Garrick said his eyes on the baby, “Go on then.”

“It’s just,” he paused distracted for a moment by the baby which was looking up at Garrick with such a look of fervent adoration as Lochan had never seen on a child so small, “er, that is to say Garrick, you’ve really got to keep an eye out for him. He needs friends, friends with his best interests at heart and with me gone there will be one fewer.”

“Hmmm,” Garrick grunted.

“You’ve got to keep an eye out for him Garrick. With this peasant uprising things are more caustic than ever. Especially now there’s a chance people could actually leave Mhalwae. Before everyone had to band together because there was no other choice. But now… well, the last thing we want is some sort of civil war breaking out.”

Garrick gave no sign he had heard, swinging the baby into the air and jiggling her about until she chuckled and smiled.

“Garrick, where you listening?” Lochan asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

“Silly uncle Lochan, thinks we weren’t listening,” Garrick grinned at his daughter, “Of course I’m listening.”

There was something unsettling about Garrick’s behaviour. He hadn’t been like this when Atholt was born. With Isabelle he scarcely let her out of his sight. Lochan couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his friend without the small girl in tow. She was always there, lying quietly in his arms, sleeping in his lap. Lochan wondered that Cindra wasn’t jealous. He didn’t think he had even seen his cousin with the baby come to think of it.

“You worry too much Lochan, always have,” Garrick continued, lifting the baby to his shoulder, where she buried her face into his thick mane of hair.

“I’m worried for a reason Garrick,” Lochan snapped back at him, “You and I both know where Eallair’s strengths and weaknesses lie. Certainly, he’s picked up the reigns a bit more since Sigurd was killed. But we’re on a knife edge Garrick. A knife edge! One slip and it all falls apart.”

“Come now Lochan, calm yourself. You’re upsetting the baby. It’s alright my sweet, there now.”

The baby didn’t seem particularly upset but Lochan was certainly getting that way. It was impossible to discuss anything with Garrick these days. His attention was completely fixed on his daughter. Had he not been holding her at this very moment Lochan might have rammed his friend’s head into the bookcase a couple of times to try and knock some sense into him.

“You’ve got to take care of him Garrick. I can’t do everything. I will be his eyes abroad. You have to be his eyes here,” Garrick didn’t appear to be listening, staring into space, rocking the baby slowly in his arms.

“Yes, yes. Don’t you worry. It will be fine,” he murmured absent-mindedly.

“Garrick it’s just, well… he’s our friend. You’ve got to take care of him,” he sighed dejectedly his shoulders slumping.

Why couldn’t there be more than one of him?

“Just keep him safe,” Lochan mumbled, turning away and striding from the room.

Behind him he could hear Garrick cooing nonsense to his daughter.

“Hello my love,” Isaura’s husband murmured as he carefully sat down on the side of the bed.

Isaura started, causing a spasm of pain to run rampant down her spine. She had dived in deep, so deep into the realm of her own pain that she had been oblivious to her husband’s presence in the room. It was easier when she could lie there, floating in stasis. Then she could count the moments passing, focus on the twisting ache of her spine, count the bones in her body one by one. She came up gulping and spluttering.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” Lochan gazed at her with concern, the corners of his mouth drooping.

In response she lifted hers up in a difficult smile, “No, no… you just startled me that’s all.”

“Oh, good,” her husband sighed and leaned back against the bedboard.

His fine brows were knitted into a frown, the tension in his body evident from the way the tendons in his neck were standing out.

“Is everything alright?” she asked softly.

He sighed again, “No. It’s not really.”

“What’s wrong Lochan?”

He stared at her for a long time. She knew he was seeing the pallor of her skin, the dark hollows around her eyes. She had lost even more weight in the last months so that her dresses had to be tightened by the seamstress to prevent them falling off entirely. Her hair was falling out in clumps so, in order to cover the bald patches, her lady maid had to carefully arrange it. She wondered if he found her beautiful any longer. When she looked in the mirror all she could see was a spectre of her former self, as though she were long dead but her body refused to admit it and let her continue decaying above the ground.

Her soul was trapped inside this cocoon of pain and suffering. She would not be free until her body finally gave in and let her die.

“Please, tell me,” she murmured, reaching for his hand.

He took it in his own, slowly rubbing his thumb over the dry skin.

“Eallair wants me to go on the ship to Lomorrad and Fjaerland,” he replied dejectedly.

“He trusts you” Isaura replied gently.

She shifted position on the bed. Even this was a monumental task that required her to drag her numb left leg in to place. She carefully smoothed down her dress where it had crumpled and turned back to Lochan.

“I know he does. And he shouldn’t trust Eanraig. I certainly don’t. In my mind it would be madness to send that man off with the diplomacy of Mhalwae in his care. He doesn’t speak for the Kingdom. I’d send Garrick but the way he’s been since the new baby was born, I don’t trust him to keep us safe. And Radomir… well…”

“Then of course you must go,” she replied, “there isn’t any question. What are you concerned about? I’m sure things will run smoothly here without you. Madlenka’s got a head on her shoulders and she has no trouble reigning in Eallair if she needs to.”

But he was staring at her with such a look of devastation it nigh broke her weakly beating heart in two.

He would be gone for many months. It was a months travel to the Northern continent alone. And then there would be diplomatic missions to various allies. He would be gone a long time. She felt his hand trembling in her own and she squeezed it a little tighter, snuggling in close.

“You’re afraid something will happen to me while you’re gone,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes as she leaned against him, exhausted from merely shuffling across the bed. She was so very tired and so ready to fall asleep and never wake up. But she saw now that she could not give in to that desire. Not yet.

“Yes,” he choked and she felt his tears hot against her cheek.

He drew away from her, rubbing his eyes in shame. Then she felt his arms tighten around her waist. Her spine throbbed and ached sending pulsing shivers up her neck and down again to die out in her numb legs.

“I can’t lose you,” he mumbled and another tear spilled unbidden and ran down his cheek.

“Lochan, my dearest heart, but you are going to. I cannot stay like this forever. We both know how this is going to end. It’s been coming a long time.”

A ratcheting sob rose from his throat as clutched her to his chest.

“You are going to lose me my love and you must prepare yourself for that,” she said softly, “but I will always be with you. Always. Whenever you forget that just look at our daughter. I am with you in her.”

“And on the day you die I will be waiting for you at the gates of heaven.”

He was weeping openly as she had never seen him do, his mouth open wide gasping air, his lower lip trembling as he tried to control the sobbing.

She clasped him around his neck, pulling her meagre weight up by her arms so her face was level with his, “You must go with the ship Lochan. You must do this. For the Kingdom. You cannot think of me. This is more important than me.”

“Then you must promise me something,” his voice wavered.

“You mustn’t let go while I’m away. I couldn’t return…” he drew a rattling breath, “and find you gone. I couldn’t do it Isaura. It would be the death of me.”

“Promise me,” he squeezed her tighter, sending a bolt of agony through her body.

“Promise me,” he ground his teeth, staring at her with red rimmed eyes.

She was so very, very tired.

“I promise,” she murmured and kissed his trembling mouth.

Lochan knew it wasn’t polite to eavesdrop on his wife when she was speaking with a physcician. Or… a medicine man, or whatever he called himself. He could not hear what they said anyway, his wife’s voice merely a croak and Bharata’s soft and coaxing. Occasionally he heard the wet, rattle of his Isaura’s cough, slopping up from the depths of her lungs.

These last months things had gotten worse. Unable to stomach food she had lost even more weight so that her body was all angles, bones beneath skin. When she took her bath he could see them, round and knobby beneath her translucent skin so that when she moved he was afraid they would tear right through. He couldn’t fail to notice the lump at the base of her spine that was growing larger every day, leaving her writhing in agony, bathed in sweat in the night. Her cheeks glowed with constant fever, a cruel mockery of the healthy flush of long gone years, when he had first noticed her blushing prettily across the room as she glanced at him.

He heard the creak of the bed as she lay down on it, and the jingle of the medicine man’s charms as he leaned over her.

He rested his head against the partition. He was so tired, he scarcely slept these days listening to the hollow sigh of Isaura’s every breath. If he did sleep he would awaken to the sound of a bout of coughing, or her moaning pain. His father had told him it would be like this, had warned him. And he had not listened, worse, he had shut him out of their lives. Now he realised that his father had only been trying to spare him the agony of watching his wife die.

But there was a flicker of hope. Lady Hrwatar had been at death’s door, knocking and pleading entrance and this man had managed to bring her back. Lochan dared to hope he could do the same for Isaura yet.

He jumped, startled as a large hand tapped him on the shoulder. Turning he saw the Medicine man, looming over him.

“Sorry… I did not scare?”

“No, no… it’s fine,” Lochan mumbled, embarrassed, “How is she?”

“Oh my kaibigan she does not do well. She has great sickness. And the sickness moved to the back,” he looked mournful, the charms in his hair tinkling as he slowly shook his dark head, “I made her to sleep.”

“But you can do something can’t you? Lady Hrwatar? You helped her. Can you help my wife?”

“Sorry, I can only help little. Movvenn, she had fire in the heart,” he thumped his chest with one hand, “I have fire magic. Different parts, different magic. Ayzorah she has problem with the air.”

His hand flitted gracefully away from his mouth as he mimicked air flowing from his lungs.

“There is water there also. You listen it when she does cough. She has earth in her back, growing big, hurting. I cannot do these magics. I help with the fire that is in her. I put it out though it can start again. But the rest. I am sorry,” his voice was thickly accented and sad.

“You don’t know the magics? Is there someone who does? Someone else who could help? If this magic exists and it works then there must be somebody who knows the others?” Lochan did not think he believed in magic, but he was willing to do anything if it might help his wife.

“Sorry kaibigan, I know not one who lives. N’kasha killed all, looked for magic and killed all. I am only one left.”

“But can’t you learn then! Learn the new magics? Help my wife,” Lochan was growing desperate as he felt the tiny flutter of hope that had wedged its way out of his locked heart crumbling away.

“No. I can not do this. We don’t choose the magic. The magic chooses us. One cannot do all. Sorry.”

“How long?” he gulped.

Bharata cocked his head strangely as though listening to a hushed conversation in the room next door. His eyes went blank, his body completely still.

Unnerved Lochan asked again, “How long?”

Bharata looked at him his eyes dull.

“They do not say. I listen again and tell you if they say. When I look, I do not think long. Maybe year, but likely much less. I will help all I can. I have potions, help with pain. I will help kaibigan.”

“Thank you,” Lochan wavered, “Now if you don’t mind I think I would like to be alone.”

He felt his world starting to shake apart, spinning wildly out of kilter as he desperately clutched at the pieces trying to stop the momentum.

“I understand, if she has pain and need me just ask,” he nodded sombrely but his eyes were full of silent compassion.

He stepped through the door closing it behind him with a silent click.

He slammed his fist hard into the bookcase, so that the books shuddered and shook, one or two threatening to fall from their perch and a fine shower of dust came free, coating his shoulders and hair.

Glancing at Isaura he was relieved to see he hadn’t woken her with his ridiculous display.

Her face was drawn and white, her mouth hanging open as she dragged air into the wet hollows of her lungs. She could have already been dead except for the rattling sound of her breath.

It was all falling apart, there was only him at the centre, trying to hold it together as everything reeled around him. And what if he fell apart too?

Lochan felt distinctly uneasy. It was Eanraig. The arrival of the boisterous older man, who carried authority as easily as he wore his finely woven clothes had thrown him. This man was a trusted advisor of the former King. A friend who had suddenly materialised, bringing news of the outside into their silent exile. It should have been a good thing. But Eanraig’s presence had sent Eallair’s new found confidence scattering like a flock of disturbed chickens, their feathered arses ruffling in the breeze.

Lochan was worried.

He gazed at the scarred face of the older man, the flickering candlelight casting ghastly shadows over the humps and ridges of his congenial expression.

“So lads, it’s a nice setup you’ve got yourselves here. You’ve done quite a job these last years, though I can see a few places where some assistance might be needed. And of course, I’m happy to offer my services,” he smiled with affected modesty, one leather booted foot jiggling as he spoke.

“Yes, of course Eanraig. That would be very much appreciated. I know you were a great friend of my father and it is an honour to have you here,” Eallair simpered and Lochan felt the dreadful urge to slap him.

“But please, you must have much news from the outside world and as you can imagine, we are somewhat desperate for anything you bring.”

Eanraig slowly uncrossed his legs, leaning heavily on his thighs and gazed intently at Eallair.

“Yes, please Eanraig. Has Lomorrad risen against Faldorn yet. Surely they must have. Can we go home?” Radomir asked softly, looking tired and old.

His face seemed to hang from the dark circles under his eyes, the corners of his mouth only held up tentatively with the coarse whiskers of his beard. It seemed all the fight had left Radomir and Lochan was suddenly not sure it was a good thing as they sat facing a man he no longer knew if they could trust.

“No… Radomir, no. I’m sorry. But the news is not good at all,” Eanraig murmured, a pitying look on his face., “You see, Faldorn is the least of our worries.”

“What do you mean?” Eallair asked tentatively, “What could be worse?”

“Worse… worse is the God King N’nkasha. Yes I see you’ve all heard of him. Well my friends, it seems that the warlord Faldorn was only paving the way for him. He has risen up from the southern continents which are almost entirely conquered and now sits on the throne of Branwhuld,” Eanraig intoned with the morbid enthusiasm of someone relating a ghost story, his fingers absentmindedly tapping his velvet-clothed thighs.

He stared directly at Eallair as though judging how the King would respond to this news.

Eallair’s face crumpled with worry and disbelief, “N’nkasha? What could he possibly want with Branwhuld?”

“Think of it young Eallair,” Lochan flinched at Eanraig’s offhand tone but nobody corrected him as they listened intently, “Branwhuld is the gateway to the Nothern continent. If you hold those ports you can supply a war that could last for all time. It’s the perfect staging ground for the war to end all wars.”

“Good God,” Garrick mumbled underneath his breath, coming to life for the first time that evening.

“Yes, you may say that my red-haired friend. Indeed,” Eanraig nodded, looking round at the confused and frightened expressions of the men around him. Only Lochan kept his emotions hidden.

“But what about Lomorrad? Ulanbaat? Have these places fallen too? Has he taken the archipelago of Fjaerland? God… that’s our last defense before he could come here,” Eallair’s panic was audible as he stumbled through a list of their allies.

“Calm down now lad, take a deep breath,” Eanraig said evenly, “so far they’ve only taken Branwhuld. It is not so easy to wage a war with a spine of mountains like that rearing up before you. It will take a lot of timing and planning. But I can tell you, it will be on the cards. Lomorrad and Ulanbaat are holding strong and making ready lest the hordes of N’nkasha come pouring down the mountainside. But at least when we left things were still quiet.”

“Have you been in contact with Lomorrad at all Eanraig, Ulanbaat? How about Fjaerland? Did you tell our allies about your suspicions that we had survived?” Lochan asked.

“Indeed I did and what’s more I have messages and news from each of them to share with you. I’ve even had contact with some rebel groups in the southern continent. Our friend Bharata in fact, has relatives in many of the tribes. And of course you should be happy to know my lovely wife Tiatny is in fact a princess of Fjaerland, the twin of Ingskel who is married to your Queen’s very own brother. As you know Queen Inaris is a great friend of mine and seeing as she had a few spare daughters hanging around she was happy to offer me one which only makes our alliance stronger. And I tell you, Inaris did not take kindly to the news of the murder of Kaysa,” he gave a sympathetic glance in Eallair’s direction at the mention of his brother’s wife. Lochan could not help but think of their four pretty children… all murdered and gone.

“It’s no good to outlive your children… no good at all,” Eanraig tutted shaking his head, “Everyone is up in arms my friends. The known world isn’t going to sit back and wait while N’nkasha just takes it all.”

“Then you don’t think you could have been followed? Since everyone now seems to know of our presence here,” Lochan’s tone was cold as he scrutinised the older man’s face.

“What sort of fool do you take me for Lochan,” Eanraig’s face suddenly twisted in anger, “of course we weren’t followed. It took every precaution imaginable. Mhalwae’s location is secret as ever.”

“No, no, of course Eanraig… we understand. You’re a clever man. I’m sure you did everything necessary,” Lochan couldn’t help staring as Eallair apologised to the man who had just all but shouted at him.

“But then we must send an envoy,” Garrick suddenly interjected, “if there’s some possibility of retaking Branwhuld we’re going to need the support of our allies.”

“Yes, indeed Garrick… I was just getting to that. Our friends in Lomorrad were hoping if I found you, you would send some men to begin to plan a resistance. Queen Inaris would very much like a word too and I believe the Ulannbaatese would appreciate a visit. I’ve heard tell the Talmasians are stirred up too and you know the Itruskans are so intermarried with Ulaanbatese we can surely ask for their assistance. We are all going to have to bond together if we want to overcome this. Though the Inadden and Kimorese still seem to think this is not there problem, stubborn idiots and I haven’t heard news from Tassril or Ewori. We simply have to hope they hold to the peace treaty and don‘t break ranks and join with N‘nkasha.”

He smiled congenially, “I will off course go, and I can offer my ship… she’s much faster than any of yours with the adjustments I’ve personally made.”

“I’ll go too if Your Majesty permits it,” Lochan said, not looking at his cousin who was staring at him in confusion, “you’ll need someone who knows what’s happening here on Mhalwae and what we can potentially offer by way of assistance.”

“Fine idea, fine idea indeed. We’ll have to leave sooner rather than later if we want to make it back before winter begins,” Eanraig clapped his hands together heartily.

“Your Majesty,” Radomir droned with a miserable look on his face, “I’d like to request that you send me along as well.”

“But Radomir, I need you here,” Eallair said looking unsettled, “I can’t have all my good men sailing off during the harvest season. I’m sorry but you’re going to have to stay.”

“I understand,” he sighed, “it would have been nice to get away for a while, that’s all.”

“It’s not going to be a holiday Radomir,” Eanraig said snippily and then turned to Eallair, “we’re going to need some good men. Of course, I have my own crew but if you have a few trustworthy men we could use that would be very helpful. If possible it might be a good idea to get in contact with the underground rebellion in Branwhuld and see if we can’t smuggle out a few more refugees to swell the ranks on Mhalwae. We’re going to need to start preparations immediately. We should probably leave early next month.”

“Now… if we’re done, I do believe my lovely wife has probably delivered a baby by now and I’d like to go and check what type it is. Goodnight gentleman.”

And with that he strode from the room.

“But how did you find us here?” Eallair asked softly, the worry that Lochan felt apparent in his voice.

Lochan stared at Eanraig, awaiting the answer. What if they had been followed?

“Come now young Eallair, you do know I’m a genius don’t you?” Eanraig quipped, a wide grin on his scarred face, “If anyone could work out the secret of Mhalwae it was me.”

Lochan suppressed a grimace of irritation, “It’s Your Majesty now Sir Danachold.”

“Oh right… of course. Takes a bit of getting used to I imagine. Well then Your Majesty…. it wasn’t easy if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve spent the last years researching in libraries from one end of the known world to the other to find you. I’ve been searching for you ever since I caught rumour that you had fled to the mythical island of Mhalwae. Turns out it wasn’t so mythical after all eh? And there was evidence of it, though dispersed.”

“And we weren’t followed, if that’s what’s causing that dreadful frown Lochan,” Eanraig nodded in his direction.

The boisterous, small man gave a sudden shudder, “and we arrived just in the nick of time eh? For my poor little Morven that is. I had a feeling something bad was going on.”

“Yes, dear father, I wanted to thank you profusely, from the very depth of my heart for saving the life of my dearest and most treasured wife. I owe you a debt of gratitude which I shall spend the rest of my life repaying, a thousand thanks, a million blessings…” Alexis stammered with the most humble look Lochan believed the man had ever managed.

“I didn’t do it for you, you moustacheod hussy,” Eanraig grunted in irritation, “so save your pretty words.”

Alexis gave a surprised braying laugh, like a donkey kicked in the behind.

“I wasn’t joking you moron. Besides, if you want to thank anyone Bharata here is your man,” Lochan followed Eanraig’s gaze to the tall, dark man, standing silently graceful at Eanraig’s side, “If it weren’t for his healing magic Morven would surely be dead.”

“Then sir, I am forever in debt to you,” Alexis bowed deeply to the sombre man who merely narrowed his eyes. Small flecks of chalky white paint were still visible at his hairline.

Healing magic…. he tried desperately to stifle the bubble of hope that had risen unbidden.

“You might want to be careful what you say Alexis,” Eanraig chuckled, “Where Bharata comes from one does not make such promises lightly”.

Alexis swallowed hard, turning a pale shade of green.

“You must have much news from home. Has… has Faldorn fallen? Is it safe to go back?” the look of hope on Eallair’s face was heartwrenching.

“No Eallair… pardon me Your Majesty. It is not safe to go back. I have much news indeed. You should gather your men together and we can discuss the manifold news I bring you of the last few years,” Eanraig replied, his face crinkled and earnest.

Lochan did not like the look on the older man’s face. He too had held a little hope in his heart that perhaps the army of Lomorrad had come to Branwhuld’s aid, cascading over the mountains to smite their foes and restore their country to its former glory. But perhaps Lomorrad had fallen too.

The baby in Garrick’s arm gave a soft whine and Lochan grunted in exasperation.

“Garrick, do you really think this is an appropriate time to be dragging around the poor baby. She has a mother and a nurse. Don’t you think they would be more suited to look after her than you?” Lochan snapped.

“She’s alright Lochan, she promised not to be loud,” Garrick looked down at his red-haired daughter with dull-eyed adoration and Lochan found himself disturbed again as he had been many times since Garrick had proudly told her the name of his newborn girl.

“She’s a cute little mite isn’t she,” Eanraig smiled, staring down at the wide-eyed baby, “best not bring her along when we meet though Garrick, if you don’t mind.”

Garrick look crushed but Eanraig ignored him.

“So Gentleman, I suppose it would be best if we just keep it to a few upper level types. Sorry Alexis, I believe that doesn’t include you. Who else have you got here? Is Radomir lurking around here somewhere? Of course, if that’s alright with you, Your Majesty,” he sent a hearty wink in Eallair’s direction.

Lochan thought it prudent not to remind Eanraig that he was only a knight. Eanraig had been, however, the old King’s chief science advisor.

With a great heaving clunk the door swung open with a gust of hot summer air. Blinking at the sudden light in the gloomy throne room Lochan could make out a slender silouhette with a large belly.

“Eanraig!” an outraged voice demanded, and the form of a heavily pregnant woman with long, flaxen plaits and a glare on her face swam into view.

“Tiatny my love, my treasure. What seems to be the problem? We are rather busy here. Men’s business you know,” he chuckled uneasily.

“Men’s business,” she spat, “Perhaps you would be kind and show to me the women. I am getting the baby and if you do not be fast it will be here on floor.”

Arran thought he was going to die. Surely he would die right here right now. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, his mouth was dry and his palms sweaty. He was going to die, right here, right now in front of all this people. There really was no justice.

“Yew alright lad,” Steen chuckled, give him a hearty slap on the back, “Yer about the same colour as yer tunic.”

“I’m being fine,” Arran hissed, noticing the people in the front row beginning to stare, “yew just be keeping’ yer mouth shut alright. I didn’t ask yew to be a groomsman to have yew mouthin’ off the whole time. Just be keeping yer trap shut alright?”

Steen laughed heartily but at least he stopped teasing Arran. Arran stared fixedly ahead afraid to look from side to side. Everyone was looking at him.

There was a sniffle form the front row.

“Yew alright then Gena?” Engin muttered with a grin.

“Yes I… it’s just… well… I’m being so happy is all,” Gena replied her voice choked as she wiped away a tear.

“I think we are all Goodwife Ulcar,” the Baroness called over to her.

Arran was so happy. He was so happy he was probably going to die.

“Oh I love weddings Garrick,” Cindra cooed from the front, “It’s always so happy!”

So very happy. They wouldn’t be so happy when he died right here in front of them from lack of air or dehydration from sweating too much.

There was a hushed murmur from the crowd and they turned to crane their necks as the bride and the Duke came working up the centre. She was barely visible behind the flaming red hair of her bridesmaid which was hanging in soft curls around her face. For a moment Arran was struck by the fact that he had never even seen Maire with clean hair, let alone clean clothes. She looked fresh and almost… well almost pretty.

Suddenly she was upon him, wrapping her scrawny arms around him in a fierce hug.

“Why Arran Barran. I cannot be believing things turned out his way but yew know, I’m so glad they did.”

She clasped him to her again, “Yew better not be hurtin my ‘graney or I’ll be hurtin’ yew, yew hear me.”

“Yes,” he choked and she released him, trotting over to stand beside the priest.

And then there was nothing blocking his view as a beautiful, blonde girl with flowers in her hair slowly walked up the aisle towards him her arms clutching the Duke’s. He couldn’t help the fleeting memory of another beautiful, blonde girl who had swayed up the aisle her arm in her father’s on her face a bright smile.

Igrayne’s smile was more tentative and shy, her green eyes on his face as though searching for signs of confusion or discontent.

“Is this yours,” the Duke drawled, “because I found it on the way here and it looked lost. I thought she might need a home.”

Arran gulped and nodded.

“Are you sure you want him dear, he seems to have lost his capacity for speech,” Lochan murmured a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes,” Igrayne said softly, a shy smile spreading across her face.

“Well then, what are you waiting for,” the Duke quipped, gently pushing her towards Arran.

What was he waiting for, he reached out and grasped her warm hand in his. Her fingers were strong and sure, twining around his warm and comforting. His heart slowed to a normal rhythm. He sucked in a shuddering breath and felt better.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” the priest began but Arran barely heard him.

Suddenly it didn’t matter that all these people were watching. Suddenly it didn’t matter that his priest was possibly an adulterer. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the small girl standing beside him who had so well and truly captured his heart even when he had thought it broken beyond repair. All that mattered was her warm hand clasped in his.

The priest droned on, Arran barely heard him. He had heard it before but somehow that didn’t matter either. It was as though this were the first time, fresh and new. He was starting again, his heart brand new, the scars faded and gone.

“Repeat after me Arran,” Harndall continued.

And he did all the while fixated on her glowing smiling face, “I, Arran Barran, take thee, Igrayne Woolforth, to be my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, fer better fer worse, fer richer fer poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

She repeated the vows all the while her green eyes flitting over his face as though memorising every curve, every freckle, every flaw.

“Does someone have the rings?” the priest asked tentatively.

“I have them,” Noah’s voice was deep and reassuring. He placed a warm hand on Arran’s shoulder and handed him the rings.

Arran repeated after the priest, “With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, an’ with all my worldy goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, an’ of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He carefully slid the ring up over her rounded fingers.

As she said the words he watched her mouth move, the way her tongue flicked out when she said thee, the way the scar that ran over her lips tugged at the soft corner. She was so divine, even the scars that marred her face. Somehow they made her more beautiful, like the tiny white star-shaped flowers that grew over the marshes, made more special by the rudeness of their surroundings.

She awkwardly giggled as the ring caught on his knuckle as she tried to push it up his finger. He noticed that her hands were trembling and gave them a quick squeeze as she managed to fit the ring on. It sat comfortably on his finger, somehow right where it should be.

”I now pronounce you, man and wife,” Harndall said with a slight smile.

The sun suddenly passed behind a cloud but it did not matter because his wife stood before him, radiantly beautiful, a glorious smile on her lips.

”You may now kiss the bride.”

”Well come on then,” Maire whooped, ”this is the bit we’ve all been waiting for.

He gently clasped his wife around the waist drawing her close to him.

”Igrayne,” he murmured.

”Yes,” she replied with a shy smile.

”I love you,” it was so simple to say all of a sudden and he wanted to say it again and again for as long as he lived, ”I love you.”

Before she could speak he drew her to him, pressing his lips softly against hers. She tasted sweet like honey, and fresh like rain. She was everything there was and the rest of the world fell away. There was no dry chuckling Noah, no clapping cheering Steen, no giggling Maire, no murmuring crowd. There was just Igrayne and her soft, warm mouth.

”Enough already,” Maire groaned, ”now it’s just getting boring!”

They broke apart, Igrayne giggling in his arms.

He looked down at her upturned nose, her wide, startled eyes.

”I love you.”

”I love you too,” she murmured softly, kissing him again.

“Well now, you don’t look sleepy at all princess,” Lochan cooed to his daughter who was smiling up at him with wide eyes.

Eallair was standing silently by the fireplace. Lochan could barely look at him. In the past month his cousin had changed in ways that Lochan could not even begin to fathom. He knew he should be pleased that Eallair was finely showing signs of taking up the reigns to his struggling kingdom. Garrick couldn’t have been happier. Lochan felt as though he had lost a friend.

“I just can’t believe that was the end of it Lochan. Where did the warrior come from? Shouldn’t there be some repercussions from her death. I just feel like this isn’t over,” Eallair sniffed with a scowl.

“Your Mama certainly won’t be pleased if you’re still wide awake little sparrow. She’ll say that papa didn’t do his job properly and I’ll get a sound talking to.”

Yvaine nodded up at him still smiling all newly cut teeth and gums.

He knew it wasn’t true. In all likelihood mama wouldn’t even notice if Yvaine were still awake when she retired. She was so exhausted these days even her daughters whimpering cry would not wake her. And so Yvaine grew more and more silent, almost as though, aware that her crys could do no good she had decided against bothering anymore. Lochan would sometime find her, fat, silent tears running down her soft cheeks as she sat ignored in her crib.

He had taken to having her with him during the day when he could. When he was working she would sit with her back warm against his booted calf playing quietly with her dolls. If he went riding out to the farms she was tucked cosily into his tunic, lying still against his chest her wide eyes gazing in wonder as the fields sped by. But of course he couldn’t take her everywhere so there were days she spent with her sickly mother. Lochan had asked Maeve to keep an eye on her when she had Yvaine but Maeve couldn’t be everywhere at once.

“You had better get sleepy fast little miss. Because it is most certainly after your bedtime.”

He glanced at Eallair and was unnerved to see him staring at Yvaine. He didn’t like the predatory look his cousin was giving her, like a fox that had crept into the chicken coop and was gazing down into a nest of downy, yellow chicks.

He carefully deposited her into the crib. She smiled up at him and he thought his heart would stop from the sheer, overwhelming force of his love for the tiny girl. He bent down to kiss her forehead and searched around for her doll.

“Go to sleep now princess,” he murmured as he pulled the blankets over her. She lay silently, her dark, dark eyes unblinking, “Go to sleep.”

He strode across the room, uneasy with Eallair’s presence. He still hadn’t mentioned why he had come to visit at this time of night. He began to put away some books that were lying messily on his desk. Eallair followed, so that Lochan was cornered between his desk and the bookcase.

“Can I do something for you Your Majesty?”

Eallair did not correct him as he usually would when he called him majesty. Lochan swallowed, trying to clear the lump that was fast forming in his throat.

“Yes, Lochan. There is something you can do for me. Not just for me. For the Kingdom,” Eallair was gazing at him mournfully. He looked older than Lochan had ever seen him, his face had somehow hardened and set like drying plaster so that Lochan almost expected to see cracks forming.

“I almost died Lochan,” Eallair murmured.

Lochan felt his heart stutter. It was the thought that woke him sweating and panting in the night, the nightmare that stalked his dreams. The ultimate failure, the death of his young cousin, his failure as the older and wiser to take care of his friend, of his Kingdom. He sucked in a long shuddering breath but Eallair was not finished.

“A man gave his life for me Lochan. He died… for me,” for a moment Eallair looked helpless and frightened, the mask he had worn more and more often the last year, “ and all I could think about was my son, my tiny son handed my Kingdom at the age of a year. My baby son.”

Lochan thought he knew where this conversation was headed and he was suddenly desperate to forestall the conclusion, “ It would have been alright Eallair. Garrick and I, we would have taken care of him, helped. And Madlenka, she’s tough woman and she knows how to rule. If something happened, God forbid, we know what to do.”

It wasn’t true. If Eallair died the people on Mhalwae’s spirit that had already sunk to such low depths might have been irretrievably crushed, like a tiny chick’s body under the boot of a farmer as he rushed into the coop to find the fox’s carnage.

“But Lochan, I almost died and left him with nothing. No plan. Nothing to help him. Nothing. What did Sigurd leave for his son? Did he leave him with some plan to manage the lands he would inherit? Did he plan a wife for his son? What did he leave him?”

And there it was, Eallair had said it. Lochan knew what would soon follow.

And yet when his cousin said the words it still felt as though he had been slapped in the face, “What I wanted to ask you Lochan, my cousin, my friend is if you would do me the honour of granting your daughter’s hand to my son, Kendrick, Crown Prince of Branwhuld and the island of Mhalwae.”

The fox glanced up, its muzzle stained with blood and tiny yellow feather plastered to its fur. Lochan saw that its eyes were grey and sad.

He tried to speak calmly but found he could not, “But Eallair, she’s only a baby!”

He saw his daughter, her tiny body grown, breasts budding from the top of a corset, flowers in her long, brown hair, he saw roving grey eyes following her every sway as he walked her down the aisle. He saw her maids stripping the gown from her pale body, those wide eyes peeping frightened from above the blankets as a man with grey eyes pulled them from her clutched fingers. He saw the man, pushing his daughter, his little Yvaine down on the bed as tears of pain ran down her pink cheeks.

“She’s only a baby Eallair,” he whispered.

“So is Kendrick. He’s only a baby. But he deserves to have a father who has planned for him and so does Yvaine. There isn’t a better match for my son, nor one I desire more. I know that Yvaine will grow into a beautiful, gracious woman and I sincerely hope that my son will be a good man, a good ruler though perhaps it is too much to ask for with a father like me. Please Lochan. Won’t you please do me and my son this honour?”

Eallair’s face was hopeful and questioning in the candlelight, the closest thing to a smile that Lochan had seen in a month tentatively flickering at the corners of his mouth.

How could he refuse? He would have done anything for this man. Anything. He would have thrown down his life to protect him. He could not refuse him his daughter.

“Yes,” he choked, fighting back hot tears, “The answer is yes okay.”

With a sudden and brilliant grin Eallair threw his arms around his cousin pressing him close against his chest.

“Thank you Lochan. Thank you.”

Lochan pushed the heavy door open gently and they silently filed in. Eallair sat motionless, his head slumped on arms which were draped heavily on the sturdy oak desk. His shoulders sagged as though the weight of his responsibilities had become too much to bear. His long hair dangled over his face, matted and snarled. Faint traces of rusty red stained the links of his mail and Garrick well knew also the creases of his hands.

Garrick knew because his hands had once been stained by the blood of a friend, of a sister, of his mirrored other half. For days now Eallair would find the dried remnants of Sigurd’s death, caked on the tip of his boot, crammed beneath a fingernail, tarnishing a link or belt buckle. Garrick remembered how it had run into his very fingerprints as though he had dipped his finger in her blood and pressed it to the page to sign the death warrant. He felt a pang of sympathy for Eallair, and a shudder of raw sorrow for his own loss. And Sigurd, he had been a good man who didn’t deserve the hand fate had dealt him. A brave man in the end and Eallair should not forget the sacrifice he had made. Garrick just hoped it would not break him.

“Eallair…” Lochan murmured.

Eallair did not move.

“Eallair, are you asleep? Wake up please.”

Eallair’s head jerked up as though a ghostly hand had tweaked the puppet string. Garrick saw that if he had slept it could not have been for long. His face was ghastly white, dark rings rippling away from bloodshot eyes. He rose woodenly from the chair, sliding it back into place with a neat thud of oak against oak as it hit the table.

“Any news,” his voice was hoarse from sleep and Garrick assumed, sobbing.

Poor lad.

“We’ve got patrols scouring this side of the island but none has turned up anything so far. The watch on the sea say there’s no sign of any ships out there. She seems to have appeared out of thin air, we can’t find any trace of how she got here,” Lochan’s voice was dry and calm.

“We’re going back out again,” Garrick added, “expanding the patrols further into the forest.”

“Good, I’ll come with you,” Eallair’s voice took on a recognisable tone.

Probably do the lad some good to get out. Nothing worse than staying cooped up inside and thinking. Garrick knew. He had been locked in his room for weeks after she died, with nothing to do but think, over and over how things would have been different if he had only just…

“No,” Lochan replied bristling, “It’s simply not safe out there for you Eallair. What if you get hurt?”

Garrick snorted in irritation. There was nothing he hated more than Lochan babying Eallair. The lad was a King and sooner or later he was going to have to live up to that reality, but his overbearing cousin made it too easy for him to take the safe route out.

“But Lochan,” Eallair wheedled, “I think I could be a great deal of help. I’m doing nothing sitting here. I need to help.”

Correction, there was one thing Garrick hated more and that was Eallair playing the sniveling child to his cousin. Sometimes Garrick couldn’t help but wish he would grow a pair. The Kingdom would be better for it. Either that or Lochan simply take the reigns and be done with it. This charade had gone on long enough. It was painful to watch a King pandering to his subjects.

“No!” Lochan almost shouted, “I simply won’t have it. The last thing I need is to be worrying about you getting yourself killed out there. I have enough to concern myself with all that’s going on.”

He jabbed a finger towards the King, “I won’t allow it.”

Garrick thought he had gone perhaps a teensy bit too far. He glanced at Eallair whose face had gone from pale to an ominous red.

“Ah Lochan…” Garrick began but was interrupted by Eallair suddenly snapping to life.

“You won’t allow it?! You?! Who are you to allow me anything?!”

Lochan’s mouth dropped open in surprise as he backed away from Eallair who was stabbing the air in front of him with an accusatory finger.

Eallair’s voice suddenly went cold, his features pulled into a taut grimace, “you forget yourself cousin. Remember who is King here. Now go and get my sword. I’m coming with you and I expect a full report on the status of all the patrols on the way.”

Garrick felt like cheering. He had to clap his hands against his thighs to stop them from applauding on their own.

The lad had balls after all.

Lochan looked ill, “As you wish Your Majesty.”

The snow had been melting for days so all that was left were muddy patches that sucked at Sigurd’s boots. In the valley everything was dank and wet and streaming, the rigid pine trees dripping with rain from every needle as a mist rolled up from the sea to settle at the foot of the mountains.

Sigurd was cold and uncomfortable, mud splattered up to his knee and soggy socks crammed into squeaking boots. He longed to go home to Varda, thaw out his feet in a bucket of steaming water and crawl into bed beside her hulking, warm body.

The King, who Sigurd suspected had developed a little cabin fever from the long winter cooped up inside the drafty castle, had insisted they go out to survey a new building site at the first sign of thaw. The morning had been relatively warm, a weak sun shining through a thin guaze of clouds but the day had grown progressively grimmer. Now, faced with the long trudge back to the castle, Sigurd wished they would soon turn towards home.

“See Lochan, wouldn’t this make the most perfect place for your castle?” Eallair smiled knowingly at the Duke who was looking entirely unimpressed.

“Your Majesty, if you permit me saying so, we have not even begun to finish the fortress. It is madness to even begin to consider a new phase of building. You need not be concerned on my behalf, I am quite content to remain in my lodgings in the castle. There are docks to be built, and barns to be finished. We are sorely lacking in men. We should not even be entertaining the thought now,” Lochan huffed, his face grim, “I believe Your Majesty needs to focus on more important things.”

An icy drop of rain slopped down from the branches above and trickled down the back of Sigurd’s tunic, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He reached up to rub some warmth into the back of his neck and froze as he heard a soft crackle.

He swung around, eyes scanning the forest but there was nothing there. The rain was growing heavier, making pattering sounds on the mossy bracken and he turned his attention back to the King.

“But come now Lochan!” the King grinned, spreading his arms wide as thought to embrace the Duke and the surrounding forest, “look around you. Would this not be a fine place for a castle. The mountains to your back, a steep climb from the sea. Plenty of available wood. Certainly a bit damp today, but nothing a snug fire wouldn’t fix.”

Lochan stared at his cousin in trepidation, “I don’t know why you are even thinking of this now Majesty. We have not the resources nor the men. We must stay focused on defending the shoreline. Perhaps in a few years, maybe more. We just do not have the manpower.”

There was a faint rustle from the forest. The hair on the back of Sigurd’s neck stood on end as he peered into the gloom trying to determine the source.

“Did anyone else hear that?” he wavered.

“But have you not thought of the defensive possibilities Lochan?” The King went, apparantely oblivious to Sigurd’s concern, “What if the shoreside fortress were to fall. Where would we retreat to? There’s nowhere but the forest and a few scattered farms. They would have us surrounded in no time. But if we had a second line of defense, a fine, strong castle at the foot of the mountains we could make a stand. Even survive a siege. You must see the sense in it.”

It was probably just a frightened squirrel. He was just on edge because Varda’s time was so soon. Every little sound she made would wake him the night as he lay by her side, counting her breathing, terrified to hear a cry of pain.

“Well, Your Majesty. You certainly do have a point there,” Lochan gazed at the King appraisingly, “a second line of defense would certainly serve us well. But I stand by my point, there is no sense in beginning building on a second project when the first is not even near done.”

Sigurd was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable, though he could not say why. He peered again into the forest, heart pounding, looking for the squirrel, scanning the dark surroundings. Something felt wrong, his skin was tingling with it.

“Your majesty,” he mumbled, “I really think we should be heading home…”

“What’s that Sigurd?”

The King began to turn when suddenly the bushes exploded as a dark figure launched itself towards them in a blur of black and the frightening glint of silver.

Sigurd’s ears rang with the whistle of cold steel slicing through the rain as it struck out towards them. His heart thudded, a frightened creature shuddering in the depths of his chest and without thinking he tumbled into the King, awkwardly knocking him out of the path of those terrifying blades.

With are horrifying pressure, then release the blades sliced through Sigurd’s flesh, tearing and grinding against his ribs to skewer the hysterical creature leaving it twitching and jerking.

All around him was the clamour of angry shouts, the singing of swords ripped from their sheaths, guttural words spat in a language he could not understand. And there was pain, a great gushing torrent of it that spattered against his spine and burnt up to his brain. With a sickening slither his attacker dragged the clawed weapon from his chest in a welter of his own blood.

Blurry flashes as Lochan and Cordell’s swords carved through the mist, plunging into the dark figure again and again until he sank to the ground.

Sigurd coughed, blood foaming on his lips and dribbling into his beard. He saw the dark blots dropping to form fat splots on the ground at his feet. With trembling fingers, head spinning he felt the ragged edges of the wound, the meaty flesh ripped open.

“What in the blazes?” Lochan growled, “it’s a woman!”

He knelt just clear of the pooling blood that was gushing from the fatal wounds in her body, a tide that was waning since her heart had ceased to beat. With every spasm of his own, Sigurd felt thick blood oozing out between his clasping fingers.

“What the hell is wrong with her face?!” Cordell exclaimed, peering at the hagged, rotten green of her skin.

Lochan gingerly ran a finger across the dead woman’s cheek, “It’s paint is all, see underneath. She may be pale but she’s human enough. Only human.”

Human. Only human. Sigurd was human. Sigurd was torn, Sigurd was shredded, his blood pouring out of the hole he futiley tried to stop with his slender hands.

He sank to his knees, toppling like a felled tree as everything slowly went black. Beneath him the ground was slick with rain, mingling with the oozing mess that was his blood. Above him the menacing pines peered down their, needled heads bending ominously in the rising wind.

“Lochan! Lochan! Sigurd’s been hurt. Please Lochan! Help him!” Eallair whimpered somewhere far above, where the pine trees were.

“Oh God. Please help him.”