“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.”

Eallair’s head snapped up as the steward announced in a low voice, “The Earl of Moraghdu.”

He carefully shut the door behind Radomir’s back.

Radomir hesitated at the doorway. Eallair sat stiff backed in his chair, his eyes which had briefly passed over Radomir now fixedly staring into nothingness. The room was murky, lit by a single candle that hissed and spat as though fighting to light the cavernous space.

Radomir tiptoed forward, a superstitious fear settling on him. He had never seen an Eallair who did not turn nervously to the door, awkwardly push himself from his chair to greet a visitor. Radomir had always wondered if it wasn’t a trick to appear more confident. He had met many a faltering ruler who insisted on standing tall above his subjects, or perched high above them on a dais. It was the ones who could project that kind of power while seated that were truly confident.

Eallair sighed and slumped back in his chair.

“Well Radomir. What can I do for you?”

“Your Majesty, I have come to ask that I be allowed to take my wife back now. It has been many months in which I have been denied her company and I wish it to end. I would like her to move into my chambers in the castle.”

Eallair stared at him unblinkingly.

“I suppose the baby can be given to one of the peasant families to take care of. I do not wish it harm, but I will not have it my rooms.”

He heard his voice shaking as he mentioned the accursed child. He coughed to clear the lump in his throat and growled, “I simply won’t have it.”

Eallair leaned forward resting his weight on the front of his chair. There was a coiled tension in the set of his shoulders, the jut of his jaw and Radomir was oddly reminded of a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

“I don’t think it’s a very good idea Radomir,” Eallair murmured, his eyes not meeting the Earl’s.

Shifty bastard, it was just like him to look away as he handed down a man’s sentence.

Radomir felt the anger surging and roiling in his stomach. Who was this snivelling wretch to deny him his rights as a husband? He had been patient for months and months, through Valeriya’s long illness, through atrocities and infidelity, punishment and seeing his wife with another man’s baby lying in her pale arms. He had been through it all.

And yet he still loved her.

He still loved her achingly and horribly, a twisting knife in his gut so painful it kept him awake at night as he bit down on his pillow to stop the tears from coming.

“She’s my wife! I have the right to see her!” he heard himself suddenly shouting as Eallair stared at him.

Well, he would see how this Majesty did without his beloved Duke to tell him what to do.

“You cannot deny me my rights as a husband. It is against the law. If I desire my wife to return to me then so it should be,” he scowled.

It was his right. His Godgiven right as a husband to see his wife. They could not keep her from him. His wife, the filthy priest couldn’t take that from him though he may have taken so many other things. The joy of seeing the first child lying in his wife’s arms as his own. The sanctity of their marriage. Her body. Perhaps even her mind.

“My rights,” he hissed, “my wife.”

They had kept him away from the priest. They had threatened him with all kinds of punishment lest he lay a hand on the dirty beast. None of them meant anything. Not a thing, but the worst threat of all. That he never be allowed to see his wife again. So he had been patient. He had waited. But he had waited long enough.

He was startled from his internal rant by the jarring sound of the King’s voice.

“Your rights? Your rights Radomir? What rights would those be? The right to beat your wife into a bloody pulp at every chance you get?”

Radomir stared in shock at the King. His face, normally so docile and forgiving was twisted into an angry sneer. His eyes usually soft and understanding were hard as glassy marbles.

“Your rights? I decide what your rights are do you understand. Don’t you dare come in here and tell what you are entitled to and what you are not. I decide.”

He took a deep breath and continued, “Now. I do understand your predicament. And you have behaved as I requested. She is your wife, but I have a few conditions.”

Radomir nodded, defeated, swallowing the tears that were embarrassingly threatening to work their way up his throat.

“I do not give permission for you to live with your wife now, but I will grant you visiting rights. You may see her a number of times a week. She is still ill and the restoration of your marriage will not be easy on either of you. Later it may be that you live together once more but for now this is the concession I am granting you.”

The King scowled, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“But so help me God, Radomir, if you lay a hand on her you will have me to answer to.”

“That is all. You may go,” The King dismissed him with a disgruntled wave of his hand.

Radomir bowed deeply, “Thank you Your Majesty, I am in your debt.”

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.”

“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.”

“Could I please have some silence,” Eallair asked, his voice barely audible above the low murmur of conversation that filled the echoing throne room. Now that outdoor building had ceased for the winter, Madlenka decided it was about time they set to paneling the hall. She knew a few men that would be up to the task.

Madlenka longed to interject, to call out in her loud, clear voice for some order. To demand the subjects show some respect for their King. But in doing so, they would only respect Eallair less. She remained silent, her fists clenched against the soft material spread across her lap.

Eallair continued resolutely, despite the fragmented ends of conversations drifting around the room.

“We are here to discuss the unfortunate matter of the Earl’s wife. I have gathered you all here because I want you to listen to the evidence that Lochan has gathered with regard to the matter. My decision will be final but I will take into account any opinions that are ventured forth here today.”

They had gone over this little speech together this morning, her head cradled in the warm nook of his shoulder, listening to him sleepily recite the sentences they had agreed on. She was glad to hear he neither stumbled nor stuttered over the words. He sounded like a man in control of his Kingdom.

“Discuss… discuss. What is there to discuss,” Radomir barked across the echoing hall, half rising from his chair, “The man raped my wife. He should be executed.”

“Radomir,” Cindra piped in softly, her voice soothing, “We must go about this in the proper way. Shouldn’t we hear the evidence first and let the King make a decision. If he is found guilty then I am sure His Majesty will decided on a just sentence.”

But Radomir was in no state to be soothed. Mostly people had spent the last week trying to stay out of his way, but there was the unfortunate servant who ended up with a swift cuff on the ear for no more indiscretion than getting in the way. Madlenka understood that he must be there, it would have been cruel to leave him out but she despaired at the idea of the King reaching a descision while he was berated and bullied by the Earl.

“A just sentence… there can be no just sentence but death for what he did. He has no right to lay a hand on another man’s wife. No right. Creeping in and taking her while she was ill. Filthy bastard.”

Lochan interjected, “Radomir, I must remind you that it was not so long ago we sat here deliberating over what your punishment she be after you drove your fist into the face of another man’s wife. Would you please be silent and allow this discussion to proceed.”

Radomir grimaced briefly as he glanced over at Sigurd and nodded briskly.

Madlenka glanced over at her husband noting his lost expression. She would have to prod him a little.

“So it seems to me that we have two issues to deal with. First, did Father Harndall actually commit this crime, what is the evidence? What is the proof? Second, if so, what should his punishment be. Your Majesty, I would like to suggest that we hear the evidence The Duke has gathered on the matter so that you can make your descision.”

Subtly, she passed the command over to him. She had prompted him and knew full well he would seize on her words and continue the line of reasoning like an actor, his prompt muttered from the wings.

“Yes indeed, Your Lordship, would you be so kind as to outline the conversations you have conducted in the previous days.”

“Of course Your Majesty. To begin with I would like to say that I do not think it is enough to condemn a man based solely on the appearance of a baby. We all know that babies look different when they are newly born, their eye colour and hair colour can change drastically. So I would like, first of all, to ask for us to be reasonable, and put the child‘s looks aside and look at the cold, hard facts.”

“First, I have a statement from Mistress Ylder, The Countess’ lady maid stating that she did not allow any men to enter the room during the specified time other than the Earl. More concerning is the statement from Lady Inbar which reveals that she did in fact allow the Priest into the room with the Countess for the period of one hour in order that he might pray by her bedside.”

“She what,” Radomir roared, half-rising in his chair “How dare she. That meddling bitch. Against my expressed wishes she let that man into the room.”

“Don’t you dare speak about my wife in that way you monster,” Sigurd was already rising from his seat, his face twisted in anger, “You have no right.”

“Silence,” barked the Duke, “Sit yourself back down Sir Inbar, I won’t allow your wife to come to any harm. And you, Your Lordship. Don’t you dare speak of Lady Inbar in that way. And if you so much as look at her funny I will have your hide. Do you hear me?”

Madlenka’s eyes slid over to Eallair, who was sitting there looking sheepish. She longed to reach his hand over and give it a reassuring squeeze but there was no way she could. She didn’t know how much longer she and the Duke could keep up this dance of covering over Eallair’s insufficiency as a ruler. She had hoped for so long that he would step up and take charge with a little encouragement, but lately he seemed to be folding in on himself. It was a desperate circumstance when the people had no one else to turn to.

“Now, as I was saying. I have also spoken to the Priest and…”

There was a hollow knock on the huge, iron doors. The King’s steward hurried over dragging them open. There standing in the rectangle of light was the Countess, her face as pale as the glimpse of snow behind her.

“The Countess of Moraghdu,” Garald solemnly intoned.

Though he sat in a room surrounded by people, the noise of laughter and clinking glasses all around him, Radomir had never felt so alone.

Christmas had never been a particularly happy time for him. He always felt, no, knew that there was something magical and special if he only tried a little harder and reached out a little further. It would be there in his hands, a warm mince pie or a small piece of mistletoe.

He had not had such things in his house, though there was always the dinner, his mother and he sitting opposite, picking at the roast pork. But it had been special, the proximity of his often distant mother, seated, not with an acre of wooden table stretching between them, but right there, so that if he so wished he could reach his small hand out to her. But then father had always come home, swaggering drunk and the moment had been smashed like the glass decorations he had never had.

Now he sat alone though his table were full. Opposite him was an empty chair. He understood that noone had wanted to sit there, but it unnerved him. He half expected his long dead mother to come creaking through the door, her rotted gown twisting in the chill breeze as she took her rightful place. No, he shook off the memory, the chair was for another, young and beautiful with creamy, white skin and long, long golden hair. His heart clenched painfully in his chest. Even if she had been there she would not have looked at him, nor reached out her graceful long-fingered hand and taken his. He would have been just as alone. Perhaps more so.

“But surely you know Captain, I mean alone at sea without women for such a long time… surely…” the steward’s wife was conducting some vulgar conversation down the end of the table.

“No madam, I can assure you. We simply wait,” the fleet’s captain drawled with an incredulous look on his face.

“Though I for one can admit that on the odd occasion on the battlefield, us menfolk must huddle together for warmth,” Alexis chimed in, “but only for warmth mind you, nothing else. What say you Garrick?”

“Ah, well now Alexis, you’ve let the cat out of the bag. It does get mighty cold sometimes though and that’s all I’ll say on the matter,” he agreed with a great booming laugh.

The steward’s wife was gazing at Alexis like a hungry cat before a large plate of cream. She had been strapped and hoisted into a dress that was much too small so that her large breasts were threatening to spill out and over onto the table amongst the pork and the breadrolls.

Vulgar, dreadful woman. The sound of her voice made his ears grate. If he caught his wife looking at another man like that he would…

What would you do? Beat your fists against her like the brute you are.

His wife, lying alone in the quiet, swollen with another man’s child. He was no better than the man who had done this to her.

“But you know dear ladies, that we always have you in our heart when we go away to battle or sea do you not? “ Alexis continued.

He was a ridiculous, pompous man, wrapped up in brocade and velvet like a big strutting peacock. What kind of shirt was that anyway? He could almost see the man’s navel. And yet, the steward’s wife seemed to find the whole affair quite diverting.

Radomir pictured for a fleeting moment what he would look like in such a getup, dark hairs curling through the ties, the tight shirt bowing out when it reached his thickening waist. He shrugged off the image with digust, why was he even thinking of such a thing?

“No matter where your hands may be?” the queen interjected with a sly look.

The baron let out a great roar of laughter, breadcrumbs spluttering from his mouth in all directions.

“Goodness me Maddy, you’re in fine form tonight. It’s a good thing you didn’t catch me with a mouthful of wine or I fear poor Lisbet would be drenched.”

“Yes,” Lisbet added, “I for one am quite glad you didn’t have a mouthful of wine.”

She carefully brushed breadcrumbs from the front of her dress.

“Oh,” she cried, gazing down into her corset for a moment before looking up again with a blush.

“What’s wrong Lisbet,” Alexis asked a look of mock concern on his face, “is there something I can help you with. Perhaps you needed an extra pair of hands.”

“No, no, I think I’m fine thanks very much. But Garrick, would you mind very much laughing in a different direction next time.”

“You can laugh in my direction Garrick,” the steward’s wife purred.

Radomir snorted in disgust. The evening had become entirely wine-soaked, the conversation vulgar and the people he sat with were behavig in a ridiculous manner.

He clasped his own cup in his meaty hand. Perhaps he should simply join in. Maybe they would not talk to him, but at least he would feel less alone.

But then a picture of his fist colliding with Valeriya’s pretty face surfaced out of the muck. He had been drunk then as he had been so many nights.

He shuddered away from the reeking cup.

He supposed everybody else was enjoying themselves. He craned his neck around to view the people seated at the King’s table.

Then again perhaps not. His eyes fell on Morven, her uncomfortably swollen body draped in a curtain of dark fabric to disguise the contorted belly. It was too soon for her to be so very large. She looked ill, her face flushed red, her eyes drooping closed. She looked in pain.

There had been many times that he had considered that he would have made a better husband for her than that the strutting upstart she had chosen. He pictured her soft face staring up at him in horror as his fist was swinging down towards her and he knew he had been wrong.

But if she had been his he would not have made her come to this party, sick and swollen and tired. He would have been content to have a small table set for two, where they could sit opposite each other, picking at the pork. He could have reached out his hand and taken her fevered, clammy one in his.

The captain’s wife did not look like she was having a good time either. Her face wore a constant mask of confusion as she tried to follow the conversation. If she had sat opposite him he would have made the effort to speak slowly.

If only Valeriya were here. If she was well again he would make things right somehow. He would be a different man, a better man, a man who protected her and cared for her. He would take her delicate hand in his and solemnly promise to be a good husband. And he would do everything in his power to live up to that promise.

There was a soft knock at the door. Radomir almost leapt from his chair to answer it and then remembered he was an Earl and there were other, less important people who answered doors. Besides, the steward was already carefully sliding from his chair as he went to get the door. He supposed the man was accustomed to listening for such knocking, however faint it was.

He carefully opened the door, a chill breeze blowing into the large, warm hall. It was dark outside, a small figure shivering in the doorway. Though he could not see her face, he instantly knew her, from the shape of her boyish body, from the defeated slump of her shoulders, from the lank hair that straggled in front of her face.

The steward quietly ushered her inside and they stood talking in the doorway. Radomir did not think anyone else had noticed them as the raucous laughter and loud conversation did not cease.

Radomir watched them closely though. Lyiss was not wearing a coat, and she was shaking from the cold. Her soft, sweet face bore a look of concern as she hurriedly whispered to her brother.

Radomir strained to hear their conversation but her voice was too quiet, like the soft rustle of mice inside the wall cavities which had always kept him awake as a child. It was not the noise itself, but the thought that if he only listened hard enough he could hear them, discussing cheese and nest-building in their high, squeaky voices.

Garald was nodding and gesturing over at the King’s table. Lyiss nodded in timid agreement.

He turned and walked over to the other table, leaving Lyiss hovering nervously by the door. His long legs carried him surely over to the Baroness, where he stopped, gently tapping her on the arm.

After a moments whispered conversation she also rose, trotting surely over to his table.

“Well hallo Cindra,” Lisbet grinned at her, “sad you got put on the boring table are you. Thought you better come over here for a bit more lively conversation.”

“Er, yes, can I talk to you for a moment.”

Their heads close together they began to loudly whisper, but once again not loudly enough for Radomir to hear anything more than the rise and fall of their conversation. Lisbet’s eyes widened and she nodded.

They both walked gracefully towards the door, gliding past the table like regal swans on the surface of a still lake, their long, flowing gowns giving no indication of the movement of their legs. Then Lisbet turned to stare at him as she passed and he felt as though something was very wrong.

They went out the door, with Lyiss following hurriedly behind.

He dashed after them, his long legs catching up easily with Lyiss who was straggling behind. Outside the air was chill, the warm haven of the party not touching the frigid winter night. The door slammed shut behind him and with relief he gulped in the fresh air though it seared his throat and nostrils. He had spent too long cramped up inside with suffocating conversation and the heady, smell of mulled wine and roasted pork.

“Mistress Elmvarn, please wait,” he called out to her.

Her shoulders slumped even further, her head gazing at the stonework beneath but she stopped and waited. He could see how cold she was and he thought of offering her his cloak but then realised he had none. He suddenly longed to draw her to him, crush her against his chest and hold her until she was warm again. He shook off this idea in horror as she turned to him.

“I’m sorry, I see that you are cold. I won’t be long. But please, please tell me what is going on.”

He could not see her face in the darkness but he heard her breath coming fast through her chattering teeth. He thought if he leaned a little closer he could have felt its warmth tickling his face.

She sighed, “I wasn’t supposed to tell. But my Lord, it’s your wife. She has begun travail.”

A great fist of fear grasped his heart and began to squeeze, “But it’s too soon. The midwife said it would not be till next month.”

“She is there now My Lord, don’t be afraid, sometimes babies come early,” she reached out a tentative hand and patted him lightly on the arm, “I’m sure she will be alright.”

From that simple touch Radomir felt such a rush of warmth and sympathy that he thought he would cry.

“Do you think they would let me wait outside?” he asked softly.

“We can ask,” she murmured, “but we must go now.”

Kelgar stood before the door for a long time before he finally had the nerve to open it. He was not the sort of man to hesitate, to think before he acted. Kelgar was a man who barged in, who took what he wanted with both hands and did not relax his grip until he so chose. That was the only way, he would grow bored or it must be wrestled from between his strong fingers. So it had been with Polina. Osras had ripped her from his clenched fist like the favourite toy horse, or the tastiest morsel. He had always taken what Kelgar wanted most. But it was never without a fight.

But for some reason now his grasp was weak, feeble like a man who had just woken from a deep slumber. He tried to flex his fingers, to curl them into the shape he knew they must be to hold as tightly as he could but they were limp and he knew it was all sliding away. There was nothing he could do about it.

He took a deep breath and knocked roughly on the heavy, wooden door.

“Come in,” a soft voice called and he pushed it open.

She was sitting beside the fire, her knees curled up against her chest as she watched Rothdyn weakly kicking his newborn legs while Kendrick patted ineffectually at his chubby, velvet-clad knees. Her dress had ridden up to reveal one perfect, milky-white ankle above the top of her boot.

Kendrick gazed up at him with a drool edged smile, his grey eyes curious.

Kelgar did not like to look too long at those eyes, so similar where they to his own. Perhaps he should be glad, apparently he had royal blood in his veins after all. But that would only mean that he was not his father’s true son, that Osras had finally taken that away from him too. Everything was slipping, slithering through his fingers like ash.

Lyiss half-turned to see who had come through the door. He tried to smile but failed, simply unable to remember which muscles must tense in order to make such a thing occur.

“Mistress Elmvarn,” he acknowledged her with a simple nod, his fingers curling into tiny shivering fists beside his thighs.

She hastily rose to her feet, stumbling on her dress which had tangled around her slender legs.
He strode across the room, eager to close the gap between them. In that space lay too much uncertainty, empty hands stretching hopelessly towards her.

But once he stood before her, though he could have reached out his arm and taken her soft, warm hand in his own, he found he did not know what to do.

“Terrible weather we’re having ain’t it,” he mumbled, inwardly thumping himself for being such a lout.

So Osras wasn’t here to do it, no matter, he could do it perfectly well all on his very own.

She nodded silently, her eyes wide.

He leaned forward, “It seems we’re going to have a cold winter. The red berries were out on the trees yew know.”

What the hell was he talking about? Housewives gossip, where had he even heard that?

She shrank away from him, her back bumping up against the screen behind her so that it lurched ominously and he thought for a moment it would clatter to the floor. It did not, and all that was left was more of that pesky silence he seemed so ready to fill with mindless drabble.

“A lot of babies hanging about here aren’t there,” he said ineffectually.

More mindless pratter, he had lost his balls after all. Perhaps Osras had finally taken them too. His brother probably needed a new set since his own were so tightly gripped in Polina’s relentless grasp.

“Anyway, I thought yew might be wanting some company.”

Something was wrong with him. He knew how to talk to women, how to make them giggle, how to make them swoon and finally how to take them in his arms and hold them for a while. With Lyiss it was different. All his arsenal of charming lines and smouldering gazes availed nought. She only shuffled timidly further from his desperate grasp.

“Oh,” she nodded, her eyes lowered, not meeting his, “that was kind. But really, I have plenty of company with these two. They are better company that you would expect.”

He watched her as she spoke, the shapes that her mouth made as she carefully sounded out the words. Her long hair slid limply from her shoulder falling strand by strand to curtain her face. Her shoulders were hunched upwards, shortening her slender neck as though she were a turtle trying desperately to hide in a shell that had suddenly gone missing.

He couldn’t stand it, this feeling of uselessness. Kelgar was used to knowing exactly what a women wanted from him, and knowing that he could deliver it. He did not know what she wanted.

He took a deep, rattling breath and leaped, both hands blindly outstretched.

“The thing is, Mistress Elmvarn. I care for you a great deal and what I would like to know is whether, perhaps yew thought yew might care for me.”

There, he said it. No winking, no sly grins. Just him, Kelgar and his stupidly pounding heart.

She did not reply, her expression turning inward, her body curving away from his so that if possible she seemed even smaller.

His hands floundered in the hollow space, grasping at the air, coming back empty and cold.

There was a heartrending wail which for a moment he strangely thought was his heart screaming, but then he realised it was the high-pitched cry of the baby.

He stared down at his feet where Kendrick was gazing up at them with wide, innocent eyes though his foot was kicking at the baby’s soft, exposed belly.

“Oh,” Lyiss cried, as though suddenly awoken from a deep slumber, “Kendrick no!”

At the sound of her chiding voice Kendrick began to shriek too, and the sound of their wailing voices mingled into a dreadful chorus that rang in his ears and all but set his teeth vibrating.

“I’m sorry, I have disturbed yew from your duties. And mine await me. I will take no more of your time.”

He fled from the room, from the sound of their cries, from her awkward expression, out into the icy cold. It had begun to snow, tiny flakes swirling from above and melting on his face like wet kisses.

He was so stupid, he thought with a sudden grimace, his hands clenched finally into angry fists. How could he think that he could have ever been part of her world. He had strode in there, into the warm where there were velvet-clad babies and rich tapestries, his muddy boots leaving a trail on the fine rug beneath his clomping feet.

He was not part of her world and he never would be. He stumbled down the stairs, striding through the gate.

He gazed up at the grey sky with a filthy look. Now he had guard duty. What a festering sod of a day.

There was a timid knock at the door.

“Come in, “ Madlenka called out softly, reluctant to wake Kendrick.

The door creaked open, admitting Nyawe. Since when had Nyawe ever knocked timidly? Her knocks were an assertion, a defiant thumping of the door announcing to the world that she, Nyawe was entering the room and they had all better take notice.

“Sorry, did I wake you,” she murmured, half hidden by the thick folds of the drapes.

“No, no. I was just lying here thinking a bit. Kendrick is still asleep though”, she nodded towards the cradle.

Nyawe shuffled to the centre of the room, positioning herself in front of the bed. Nyawe did not shuffle, she swayed, she paraded, she strutted.

She stood now, in the centre of the room, her face crumpled like a tragic mask. The curtains framed her, an actor on the stage moments before delivering the sorrowful monologue of his career.

“Nyawe dear, whatever is wrong?” she cried softly, hurriedly climbing from the bed and rushing to her friend’s side.

She was hunched over, her shoulders slumped defeatedly. Nyawe did not hunch and slump, she stood tall, proud and defiant. Something was very wrong.

“I think,” she mumbled, “that Garald is having an affair.”

Her hands flew up to her mouth as though to trap the words that every woman dreaded hearing. But it was too late, they had already slid from her mouth in a mournful phrase and now the room was still with their weighty significance.

Madlenka was frozen in place for a moment, unsure of what to do, trying to organise thoughts that were flitting between pity, anger and guilt at her own happiness.

Nyawe stood before her, statuesque, an expression carved out of grief by hands that knew all the right tools to use.

Suddenly with a heartrending sob, her face crumpled, hand flying up in shame to hide the cracks and warps.

“Oh honey,” Madlenka cried, rushing to put her arms around her friend’s shaking shoulders.

She was deeply unnerved. Madlenka could not remember a time when she had ever seen her friend like this. Even when they had fought as teenagers, huge raging arguments. She would shriek and rant and sob until her eyes were puffy and her nose was red, but Nyawe would only grow ever more icy, her words becoming harsher and colder until they pierced like icicles exactly in the very softest spot.

She knew what to do with that Nyawe, knew that she would be the one to apologise first and then everything would be fine again. She had never realised how brittle indeed ice was, and how one sure strike in the right place would fracture it into a thousand, sparkling pieces. She had never realised how soft and fragile the inside was, all melt water sloshing around.

“Are you sure honey? Did you catch him at it?” suddenly she realised that if there was an affair, then there must be another person involved.

Nyawe suddenly stiffened, freezing beneath her touch, pulling away with only a slight sticking as Madlenka tried to hold her.

“No I did not,” she scowled, “but he as good as confessed it. He has to abstain for a month as penance for some sin he has committed. What else could he possibly have done?”

Madlenka tried to come up with something but couldn’t. It did indeed sound like he must have committed some indiscretion though she had no knowledge of the workings of manly sins and the type of penance they might require.

“I just feel so stupid,” Nyawe snarled, “all this time thinking he thought me ugly when all the while he’s been getting his jollys with some slut on the side. No wonder he didn’t want me. He was all used up by the time it came to me.”

“And to think. I could have done it to him but decided not to. Because I didn’t want to hurt him. How stupid was that?”

Madlenka’s eyes widened, “What do you mean, you could have?”

“Well… I had the opportunity, well and truly thrust shall we say at me in a quite repetitive manner. I should have just done it. Lord knows at least I would have had a bit of fun.”

Madlenka felt rather awkward and out of her league with this but she had to ask, “Er… who was being repetitively thrust at you?”

She had an idea of who it might be. There was that guard, the handsome one that had been scarred so terribly who had been hanging around Nyawe like she was a dog on heat.

Nyawe actually blushed slighty, “Oh well, you know… it was that Sir Hwratar.”

Madlenka tried to contain an unbidden snort of laughter but it did her no good.

“Alexis”, she giggled, “but he has such a ridiculous little moustache.”

“I’ll have you know, he is a rather handsome man,” Nyawe snapped, puffing up like an angry cat, “and a rather good kisser.”

“You kissed him!” Madlenka squealed, “What was it like?! Oh Nyawe, did his silly moustache tickle your lips!”

Nyawe stared grumpily at her and then suddenly she burst into giggles.

“Yes, yes it did tickle most monstrously. I wished he would have shaved the bloody thing off and be done with it.”

“Ugh, oh really ugh.”

“But you know honey, sometimes there is something to be said for a tickly moustache depending on where exactly the man is kissing”, she drawled.

“Oh no Nyawe no!” Madlenka shrieked, shaking with helpless laughter, “now I shall have simply awful nightmares!”

“Maddy,” Nyawe stopped, suddenly sombre, “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

Madlenka threw her arms around her dearest friend, “Only every other day sweetie.”