Miriamele shivered as she entered the cathedral, though the room was warm and stuffy. Great roaring fires rose in the braziers around the room, curling tendrils of smoke leaving great sooty stains on the soaring buttressed roof. They said N’nkasha had come from the desert, roaring out of scorching depths like a sandstorm, flaying all unfortunate enough to cross his path. It was hot there, on the Southern Continent and so the fires were tended till they flared higher and higher and always he cried, “not hot enough” in his rasping tongue.

A trickle of sweat snaked down Miriamele’s brow as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. N’nkasha had chosen the Cathedral as his throne room, profaning the sanctity of that room with death after death and every rampant fury of his insatiable lust. It was told he had taken the first wife, his moon wife on the very altar of their God.

Shapes loomed at her through the smoke and the shadows, scantily clad dancers twisting and writhing obscenely. The gleaming oiled bronze skin of the guards, cruel curving blades in their hands and tattoos obscuring their faces. And seated before the altar was the God King himself.

The eunuch jabbed her sharply in the back, “Stand up straight little star, the God King does not want to bed a hunchback.”

Her trembling hands fell to her side. They had dressed her in thinnest of silk, all but transparent so that no curve of her adolescent body was hidden from view. She longed to cover herself, to curl up and hide but the eunuch was pushing her forward into that room with its rank, charcoal smell and its hundred cruel eyes all fixed on her.

She crept ahead of him, past the dancers and to the front of the room where the God King and his night sky regarded her impassively. Akana, his moon wife was swollen with his child, her huge belly painted in gold with strange symbols, bells from a vest that barely covered her heavy breasts jingling as she shifted her weight. Akana had borne him child after child, four girls and a boy but never the Sun child that he awaited.

Beside her were the star wives, Lubaya from the conquered Jungles of the South and Nagale, a peace offering sent by the Tassril to ensure the God King’s favour. It was said that Lubaya had once been a great beauty but when the son she bore was stillborn the God King had torn her eyes out in a fit of rage. The child had not opened its eyes and so she never would again. The ruined mess of her face was hidden under a heavy veil. Miriamele was glad she could not see it.

“God King, my sun, my golden light. Please allow this pathetic worm to speak,” the eunuch intoned in the language of the Kerthqua, his voice high and weak.

Miriamele had been trained in their words, deep in the sanctuary of the harem, preparing her for the night when sun and star would dance. That night would come soon she had been told, on all hallows eve when the people of her culture said the dead walked the earth. The Kerthqua believed that on this day night stalked through the daylight, dragging her ragged cloak of destruction behind and bleeding the land as she walked. To save the world from eternal night the God King must pierce a star flooding the sky with light once more. After coming of age and choosing his moon wife, the Sun King would take a new star wife each year to protect the world from endless night.

N’nkasha gave a slight nod of his head.

“The third star is rising great Lord. She comes before you now to bathe in your boundless light.”

“Hallo Mirri,” a voice called from behind the throne.

“Shut your mouth maggot meat,” the fat usurper Faldorn growled from his plush seat.

She had tried not to look at the wasted man tied to a crucifix, another mockery of their religion that N’nkasha had profaned the church with. But she could not help it, her eyes finding the face of the man she had known, Estan, cousin to the King, brother of her sister’s dearest friend. His face was a ruined mess, scars new and old streaking across the skin. His left eye was gone, N’nkasha had plucked it out and thrown it to the dogs. His arms were frail where muscles had once been strong enough to wield a great sword. Pale scars snaked across his chest and open, ragged wounds weeping pus and blood. He should have died when he was supposed to. It would have been a merciful fate.

She fell to her knees before the God who walks the earth hoping he would ignore this indiscretion from his very favourite plaything.

He gazed down at her, his golden eyes glowing with unholy light. Such eyes were the inheritance of the Sun King, only the child that had such eyes could take the throne when the final fire took him. She gave a shudder, suddenly afraid that child would be hers.

He rose slowly to his full height, towering above her. He was the tallest man she had ever seen, all long, slender limbs, angular, like some great golden insect waiting to tear her apart with his slavering jaws.

But he turned and went to Estan, hanging weak and exhausted on the cross.

“You would speak to my star in this way pink dog?” he rasped in common, bringing his huge head close to the broken man’s face.

“We’ve known each other since she was a child,” Estan replied boldly.

Please, please Estan, please stop.

She rose trembling to her feet.

“No one may know the star but the Sun King,” he purred drawing a razor sharp golden knife across Estan’s belly, opening up the flesh behind it.

Estan gritted his teeth in pain but did not cry out. He looked up at the God King, defiance written on his mutilated face.

“Now dog, there is no pleasure in your silence, the third star wants to hear you scream.”

He jammed his long finger deep into the oozing wound and Estan cried out in agony.

“How I wish I could pull the feeding snake from your belly but then you would die and that would be a shame,” he drew his finger along the bleeding cut as Estan writhed and groaned.

Please oh please stop.

“Please,” she moaned out loud and then frightened went completely silent.

N’nkasha went rigid, slowly drawing his finger from the wretched man’s belly. His knife flicked out and for a moment Mirry thought he was going to kill Estan. But he was only cutting the ropes that bound him to the crucifix and the injured man fell heavily to the ground in a crumpled heap.

“Come to me little star,” he beckoned with one bloody finger. From the corner of her eye she saw the Tassril star shudder. The moon wife was looking steadfastly ahead.

“Would you plead for this man’s life my star?” he crooned.

He reached up to stroke her cheek with his soft fingers, leaving a bloody trail down her face.

She was paralysed with fear, repulsed by the slithering of his finger as it slid over her cheek coming terrifyingly close to her eye. She tried to answer but she had lost her voice.

His other hand darted out like a snake and closed over her throat. Squeezing the air from her he lifted her bodily from the ground, struggling in his grasp.

“Who are you to ask me anything?! I am the God King. Perhaps this man has already pierced you?!” the Sun King roared shaking her like a ragdoll.

“If I find your light already spilled I swear you will suffer like no one ever has. I will flay the skin from your flesh alive star-child!”

Her vision was growing dark, the blood vessels in her eyes bursting as her struggles grew weaker. Her hands pawed ineffectually at his arm, which, strong as iron, closed tightly around her windpipe. Just as she was losing consciousness he released her.

He caught her in his strong arms as she fell.

“There now little star, you must not anger me so. Shh now.”

He pulled her gasping and spluttering for air to his chest. Her face scraped across the jagged medallions that covered his oiled chest. Her nostrils filled with the acrid scent of his sweat, the sickening sweet smell of his perfumed hair. She choked and coughed, tears running down her face.

“Shhh shhh, little light, little star,” he murmured.

He was running his hand along her spine, pressing her against his body.

She felt one of his hands closing over her breast as the darkness engulfed her.

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.

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.”

“A girl,” Garrick murmured reverently, gently cradling the newborn Lisbet had placed in his arms.

Cindra did not reply, did not even glance up at the baby. Lisbet didn’t like it. Of course Cindra was exhausted from the birth, but she was a strong girl and it had been nothing like this with Atholt. From the first moment she had been unable to take her eyes off the boy and had cried big, silent tears when they took him away to be washed. Now she lay back on the bed, apparently uninterested in the tiny baby lying quietly in her father’s arms. Lisbet didn’t like it at all.

“A girl,” he whispered again, hoisting the soft bundle up onto his shoulder with a father’s grin.

She glanced at Cindra again, her hands lying listless on her belly, her cheeks still flushed from the exertion of birthing. Something felt wrong. The whole thing just felt wrong. She knew Hepsie felt it too. The baby had slid silently from Cindra’s womb, never making a sound, not a single cry though they tickled her feet and poked at her to try and make her. Hepsie had finally declared her healthy, despite her odd silence and all the while the baby had stared up at them with a strange intensity in her wide, green eyes.

But Garrick seemed not to notice and was gazing down at the baby with a father’s adoration.

“Why, isn’t she the most beautiful thing you ever did see,” he exclaimed, holding the baby up so that he could peer at her, his big, bristly, red face close to her small, pink, wrinkly one.

“She looks just like her,” he sighed sadly.

The baby was staring up at her father with that same intense look, her green eyes barely blinking. Covering her head was a soft red fuzz, not unlike the stubble that grew untended on her father’s neck. Lisbet didn’t agree… the baby barely resembled Cindra at all, perhaps she had her mother’s chubby cheeks. But she was the very image of her father.

Lisbet awkwardly maneuvered her swollen body onto the bed, perching on the edge. She gave her friend a gentle pat on the leg.

“Are you alright honey?”

Cindra blinked as though coming out of a daze.

“Lisbet,” she whispered, her voiced wavering, “could you please have Atholt brought here.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep now sweetpea? You must be exhausted.”

“No,” Cindra mumbled, her eyes beginning to fill with tears, her lower lip trembling, “I want Atholt.”

Lisbet glanced up at Garrick, but he seemed entirely unaware of his wife’s distress, cooing at the swaddled bundle in his arms.

“Igrayne dear, could you please go and get the Baroness’ son for her. Don’t mind if he’s asleep. Just bring him please.”

“Of course your ladyship,” Igrayne replied scurrying off to the adjoining nursery.

Cindra was scrambling towards the bedside, wincing in pain as she swung her legs over the edge.

“Are you certain that’s a good idea,” Lisbet said softly, looking to Hepsie for assistance.

“I’m fine,” Cindra muttered.

“Yew just take it easy now Yer Grace. Yew’ve just popped out a baby and it certainly isn’t being the easiest thing in the world to do,” Hepsie chided, “Yew can get up if yew want but just take it easy, alright love.”

Cindra didn’t seem to hear her as she launched herself from the side of the bed, propelling herself towards the door where Igrayne was standing cradling her curly-haired son.

Where Cindra’s face had been dull and lifeless before, now it was all sparkles and rosy-cheeked joy.

“Atholt!” she squealed, gathering the sleepy boy into her arms, “There’s my darling boy.”

Garrick did not even seem to have noticed the entrance of his son.

He was reverently kissing the top of his daughter’s head, his lips brushing against the red fuzz on the crown of her skull.

“So much like her,” he whispered again, clutching the infant tightly to him.

“Cindra love,” he called out to his wife, “can we name her Isabelle?”

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.

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.”

“Could pirates really venture this far north? Why?! What possible reason do they have to come up here?” Eallair muttered, massaging his creased forehead with an unsteady hand.

Garrick’s eye glanced over his friend’s face, noting the deep line forming between his eyes from too many worried frowns, the dark pouches beneath his eyes from too many sleepless nights. Eallair had aged visibly in the years they had spent on Mhalwae, his face crinkling and folding like the map that had led them there. He was only young, though the enthusiastic boy Garrick had once known had all but fled. Now Eallair sat, hunched over, his back humped like an old man’s, his shoulders sagging wearily.

“I suppose they could be evading capture by some fleet by skirting north into the Draldor. We don’t know what is happening back home, it is possible Faldorn has his fleets patrolling further south. He may even have taken Lomorrad, who knows if they could stand firm against his armies,” Garrick shifted in his chair, rubbing his stiff legs. He had walked long that day in the cold, checking the patrolling men for any sign of ship on the horizon bearing the ominous black flag.

“Or they may have been avoiding foul weather. Who knows what drove them this far north,” Lochan added.

“We aren’t strongly fortified,” Eallair murmured, chewing nervously on his bottom lip, “What if there was more then one ship? I don’t think we could withstand a full scale attack. We simply don’t have enough men.”

“Let’s worry about that if we have to Eallair. We’re doing everything we can to protect the people. The scouts on higher ground will spot any ship before it even gets close to the harbour. Rasmus is on alert, the ships are manned and prepared to block the mouth of the harbour if necessary. Our position is better than you think. The men are ready for battle. And it is unlikely that a passing ship would spot us at all. The harbour is hidden from view. Remember, we didn’t see it ourselves until we did a second pass,” Lochan’s voice was both reassuring and commanding.

It worried Garrick that Eallair was so reliant on their counsel. It had not gone unnoticed that every decision made lately on the island had come directly from Lochan or from his own self. It frustrated him that his King could not step into the shoes of a leader. At first Garrick had believed it was only teething pains as the newly crowned Eallair got his head around the duty he had inherited. Garrick still held hope that Eallair would finally come into his own and be the leader they needed. He knew Lochan had given up that hope.

Eallair was lucky he had such loyal friends. A lesser man would have taken advantage of the situation.

“But do you see what this means. We are not the only ones who know about Mhalwae. If pirates maraud this far north surely they know of the location. They cannot have been far out if the little girl managed to swim in to shore. And if they know about the island, well, surely it is only a matter of time until Faldorn does too,” Eallair looked over helplessly at Garrick.

“If only the poor, wee lass could tell us. I’ve no idea what tongue she is speaking though. Never heard it myself before now. Even Rasmus couldn’t recognise it and I did believe till now he had travelled the whole known world over,” Garrick shifted again, trying to relieve the discomfort in his hip joints.

“Where could she have come from? Do you think she’s from the Borderlands? Do you believe those lands even exist? And how did she end up here? It makes no sense!” Eallair crossed his legs with a soft thud as his heavy boots clumped together.

“It’s a decent question. Perhaps the rumours are true. Maybe the Talmasians are to be believed and there’s something out there besides deserts,” Garrick replied.

“Drat the fire has gone out,” Eallair whined, but Lochan was already standing to address the problem, “Oh, thanks Lochan. What would I do without you?”

What indeed, Garrick thought as he stretched his aching legs before him, feeling the rush of blood tingling down through the cramped muscles and into his booted feet.

Lochan poked aggressively at a hulking log until the thing crumbled in two to reveal a hidden, glowing, red center. The fire crackled and spat, as some smaller logs caught, dusty, dry bark peeling back in blackened curls.

“Well done Lochan, it was getting a bit nippy in here. When’s this bloody weather going to break. It feels like it’s been winter for an age,” Garrick shivered slightly, crossing his arms a little tighter against his chest, “it makes me miss Branwhuld. At least then you knew it was going to be bleeding cold for a month but then it would be over. Here it feels like summer never even happened before.”

“We’re lucky to be here Garrick,” Lochan mumbled, rubbing at his bad arm staring into the fire, the flames casting eery shadows on his face.

He went to sit beside Eallair who had resumed rubbing his forehead vigorously with calloused fingers. Garrick was reminded that those callouses were not the product of war, but built up from the etiquette of peacetime tournaments. Eallair was a skilled swordsmen though he had never had to test it. Eallair had not waded into battle as Lochan and Garrick had. For now his sword remained unstained. Garrick’s had run with blood that had worked its way into the grooves of the hilt so it would always be a dark, rusty red. He was sometimes surprised it was not the same with the palms of his hands.

“What if Faldorn comes here? What if he finds us? He will kill us all,” Eallair’s hand floated before his mouth which hung open in a terrified gape.

Garrick felt a surge of rage, fiery and hot in his belly, “God’s teeth he had better not come here or I’ll have his balls for a money bag! Just you see him try.”

Eallair snorted suddenly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something… a little less hairy?” he choked and began to cough.

“Need a pat on the back their Eally, something go down the wrong way? Hope it wasn‘t black and curly.” Lochan pounded heartily on Eallair’s back which only ended with him coughing even harder between guffaws.

“Quit it you two,” Garrick growled but he couldn’t help but grin, “from what I hear Faldorn hasn’t got anything big enough to hold a decent amount of gold anyway.”

“Perhaps you need to start a collection then Garrick. You can hang them all around your belt. One in every colour so to speak,” Lochan snickered, thumping Eallair on the back as he choked again.

“Oh you be quiet before I decide to start collecting right now!”

Valeriya perched unsteadily on the chair they had offered her. She felt tired and weak but at least her head was clear. Everything had been fuzzy and dull for such a long time. The air in the throne room was chill, but it was refreshingly crisp on her sweaty skin. How long had she lain in that room? They had told her it had been nigh on a year. A year. She had gone in there on a snowy morning and it had been long enough for the icy winter to melt, the seasons to march ever onwards, changing the world from white to green to gold. Now everything was white again. She had hazy memories of the colours and she knew she had not been only in the room. There had been trips outside. But all she could remember was the dark brown of the planks of wood, woven together to form a prison for her, a cage.

“Are you alright Valeriya love?” Radomir asked softly, “maybe you shouldn’t be up.”

She gazed at him. The lines of his craggy face were drawn into an expression of concern, his thick brack brows creasing. His hands were reaching out towards her, as though he wished to hold her, clutch at her. She did not know this compassionate face he wore. He had only ever shown her rage and contempt, his lips curled up into a snarl or a sneer, never drooping and trembling like this. She did not know him.

“Please Your Ladyship,” the Duke was saying, “you required an audience with the King. What have you got to tell us?”

“Be gentle with her Lochan,” the man who was her husband was saying, “she has had a tough time.”

She knew what she had to do. She cleared her throat and began, “I have been told by my lady maid of a crime committed against me. I have been told that the man who is supposed to have committed this crime is to be punished for it.”

She glanced over at Radomir, leaning forward on the edge of his chair, his entire body straining towards her, his grey eyes full of sorrow and guilt.

She turned her eyes to the King, “I am here to tell you that there was no crime committed by the Priest.”

“What are you saying Countess?” the Queen asked softly, her eyes wide.

“I am telling you that there was no crime committed. Yes, Father Harndall is the father of my baby. That much is clear to anyone who looks upon her.”

The atmosphere in the hall was like an indrawn breath, holding for long seconds. The lack of oxygen was stifling.

“But it was not without my consent.”

“No,” she heard the man, her husband’s sharp intake of breath.

She dared to peek up at him. She wished she hadn’t. For some reason she had not imagined this, the look of utter betrayal on his face. His teeth were firmly champed around his bottom lip and she could see the beginning of a trickle of blood there, so hard were they biting down. This was a face she knew. She had seen it once before but only after he had beaten his child out of her with his meaty fists.

“Valeriya, you didn’t… did you?” it was a whispered plea, a final denial.

She had to be strong. For him. For the Priest.

“I did. The crime committed was mine and it was the crime of adultery”.

He stumbled out of his chair, staggering towards her. His hands were outstretched, fumbling like a blind man. He collided with her, his heavy body knocking into her unsteady one, so that she had to spread her feet wide to stop from falling.

“Valeriya no, it isn’t true,” he sobbed, his brawny hand finding her waist where it lay heavy and unpleasantly warm.

He pressed his face against her neck and she felt the sudden warmth of wet tears on her cool skin. His breath was hot and rapid, the pant of a hungry dog the heat of it sticking the feathers of her collar down against her flesh.

His heard jerked up and he pulled her towards him, towards his hulking body. The strong metallic smell of his sweat was in her nostrils, the heady warmth of his body making her dizzy. She froze, terrified by his proximity. He tried to look her in the eyes but she would not meet his, could not meet them.

“Don’t you love me?” he murmured pitifully.

She did not answer him.

“Of course you do, of course you do silly,” he pulled her roughly towards him, so that the entire length of his sweltering body was pressed against hers. Her large breasts were crushed uncomfortably between them as he held her tightly to his muscular chest. Her heart was thrumming like a panicked bird as his crude hands squeezed her fragile body.

She felt dizzy, trying to gulp in air that was slowly being expressed from her lungs. With every breath out he would only hold her tighter so that when she gasped again there was no more space to fill. She felt her slender bones creaking with the force of his embrace. Her body hung weightless in his arms like a sparrow soaring high above the ground, gliding motionless in an updraft.

She beat feebly at him with her flapping hands but he only held on tighter. The room was starting to waver again, darkness pressing in on her from all sides, the sounds growing dull with the roaring in her ears. She didn’t want to go, to descend into that nothingness again and a guttural cry rent from her silken throat.

“Let her go Radomir,” she heard the faint sound of men’s voices and there was an unpleasant tugging sensation on her arms.

“Christ Radomir! Your hurting her. Get off her.”

Suddenly she was ripped from his grasp, floundering in the frigid air, gasping for breath. She felt herself tumbling towards the ground, careening through the air but before she could fall a pair of strong arms caught her. She dragged heavily on them, her knees collapsing from under her but they did not release her. She was not frightened because the arms held her gently but firmly so she knew she would not fall.

She heard a ragged sobbing, and she turned feebly to see her husband struggling in Sir Arwaduhn’s strong grip.

“Enough of this, all of you,” the King intoned, “it seems that the need for this trial has disappeared. The Priest has committed no crime, except that against the church which will need to be assessed. Mistress Ylder, I think you should take the Countess back to her chamber and make sure she is not injured.”

“Sir Arwaduhn, will you be sure the Earl does not follow her. I do not want you to see her for a time Radomir. And you are to stay away from the Priest. If I hear of anything different you will have to face my wrath. I am sorry for you Radomir. But for now it is for the best.”

Her husband was hunched over and gave no indication that he had heard.

“That is all. You may go.”