Full Circle

It was two weeks after the Dragon was defeated and Stormpoint – nay, Taeghas! – was liberated. The realm was safe, the people were free, and against all odds, House Fulcairn was victorious.

The city of Stormpoint was slowly returning to normalcy, but jubilance was still coursing throughout the city. Impromptu celebrations were still taking place.

Mara did not feel this exaltation. Though House Fulcairn had come so far, including herself, her heart still weighed heavy every time she went into the Astrolabe and Khorien’s old quarters. Though now proclaimed Archon, and the quarters were technically hers, she couldn’t shake off that feeling.

She was walking throughout Breeze Hill, full of thoughts. She could make herself blend in, thanks to her magic and cloak, and for that she was thankful. A journey throughout Taeghas would do her good, as she had to plan ahead. Not only would she reconnect the mystical ley lines to Stormpoint, but she wanted to explore the embryonic ideas she had thought of in the past. Most importantly, she had to find a reason to fully care again.

The glint of a store front caught her eye. It was a small corner store, with a small garden that had a lovely view of Lowpoint and Nesirie’s Gate. The sign, a handcrafted wooden child looking through a telescope, read “Moon & Stars”. Almost on cue, she spied a small telescope pointing towards the sky on the balcony above the store.

Walking inside, Mara saw beautiful maps, parchments depicting constellations, as well as ornate crafted glass to be used in seeing glass and the like. It was quiet, the only sounds being the wind blowing through the door and the creak of wood. But this place, it felt safe and welcoming.

Her eyes scanned through advanced cartography manuals, books detailing obscure celestial movements, and colorful lenses that when they caught the sunlight bathed the store in a multitude of colored light. She could smell light incense, and hear its crackle in the distance.

“Hello my child.” A voice echoed, full of sadness and love.

Turning around, she saw a father figure that by all accounts should not be there. Saying nothing, they embraced and held each other tightly as she could feel tears on her silver hair.

Still balanced...

The Shrine of Cuiraécen - perched as it is atop the cliffs in High Point - is surrounded by a low stone wall, and overlooks the mouth of the Straits of Aerele, where it meets the Miere Rhuann. Aerona is seated facing the ocean. Eye closed, she is relishing the the cooling touch of the wind on her sun-kissed face. For the briefest of moments everything - but the wind, the sun, her body and the crash of the waves - falls away. “Hail, Battle Sister.” The voice is strong, steady and deep. She turns to see a man standing behind her, near the Shrine itself. He’s tall and his body is ropy with muscle - he moves with the grace of a warrior, and tell tale scars criss cross his forearms. “ Well met, Brother.” The warrior is dressed in a plain tunic, and his hair - blond or light brown - is plaited tightly down his corded neck. “ Might I join you in the sun for awhile?”, he asks. His smile is radiant - Aerona’s breath catches in her throat when his intense blue-green eyes meet hers. She nods. “Of course - were you here for the storming of the city?” “Aye, I was. This is not something I could stay away from.” He gestures to indicate Stormpoint and the ocean beyond. “It’s been a long, ferocious struggle to get here.” Aerona’s laughter has a hard edge, and she looks away from him, staring out to sea. “You could certainly say that.” “It’s strange - what is preserved after a conflict like this. Historians and scribes seem to only ever focus on the victors - which noble, or tactic prevailed. Who wins a throne, or earned their share of glory. The always seem to forget that what is most important is the reason for conflict: who or what is worth fighting for. Battle is not the goal: it is to be utilized towards a noble one.” Aerona pushes away the image of Balros that forms clearly in her mind’s eye. “It still hasn’t lost its balance, has it?” She turns to see the warrior handling the Sword expertly - cutting the air with sharp twists of his arm, his body moving in place behind it. If anyone else had touched the bronze sword, Aerona would have felled them herself for the blasphemy - but the way he moved with it, like it was a part of him.... He slows to standing, bringing the sword up to admire its sharp edge despite the sorry state of the blade. “This, I think, it where it belongs.” His arms raise, muscles coiled - the hilt in both hands, blade down. Aerona can only watch, awestruck, as he plunges it down, embedding it deep into the altar stone of the Shrine, which yields like butter before it. “Remember, Battle Sister. For now, you’ve earned this rest. But the time will come when you need take up this Sword again - prepare yourself and your friends. And the realm. You’ll need it.” She blinks and he’s gone. The Priestess falls to her knees before the Shrine of Cuiraécen, and weeps in exultation.

Ballad of the Red Queen, Verse Three

At last, atop the tower,

The red queen stood on high.

Below her, all the kingdom,

Above her, only sky.

The dire marauding lion,

That near her borders drew,

She took aim at its vile heart

And skewered it right through.
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Cuinn, Leandra, and the children make their way slowly back to Islien. Cuinn does her best to hunt and forage enough to feed them; confused, they ask if Cuinn or Leandra are now their matron, and Cuinn explains that no one is their master except themselves now.

Back in Islien, they begin looking for Kelros White-Eye. Eventually the trail leads to one of the richer areas of Islien, where the former mercenary is employed as a steward of a minor noble house. Cuinn asks the other guards to see him, stating that she's an old comrade-- Brida of the Sons of Iron Mountain. Kelros comes to see her, and asks her why she isn't who she claims; Cuinn replies she was sent by her employers, a noble house, to reclaim certain stolen items that may have passed through his possession-- a ring and a cloak, sold to him thirty years earlier by the camp follower Sally. Kelros becomes nervous and claims he doesn't know of any such items; Cuinn can sense he is lying, but he refuses to impart more information, and they leave.

Cuinn decides that a more forceful interrogation is needed. She waits until night, sets Leandra as guard, and breaks into the manor house by climbing a tree, deftly leaping onto the roof, and picking the lock on a second-story window. She briefly searches the top floor before finding Kelros asleep. She holds her seax to his throat, covers his mouth, and repeats her query. He is terrified and panicks, wetting the bed; she lets him calm down. Eventually he tells her that he sold the items to a merchant, Velberic, known as a fence for stolen items, twenty-five years earlier. She advises him to go back to sleep and forget the conversation took place, and returns the way she came.

They get a good night's sleep at their inn, and search for Velberic's shop in the morning. It seems to be the main general store in town, run by a cheerful young man who is evidently the son of Velberic the elder. When Cuinn mentions she is attempting to track down some missing family heirlooms, the young man indicates that unlike his father, he deals only in honest merchandise. Cuinn describes the items and he retrieves an immense ledger; apparently Velberic extensively documented his illicit merchandise. After a lengthy search, he finds the record, leaves, and reappears with a small box. The cloak is gone, but the box contains the ring. Cuinn takes it and examines it-- it is a gold ring with two inscriptions: "Duty Above All", and "To Raesa, With Love". Her suspicions are confirmed-- she is, evidently, a Valmyrri. She attempts to pay the young man the rather hefty sum he wants for it, but Leandra manages to haggle him down, even getting him to throw in some lovely Islien woodworking souvenirs for the Fulcairns back home.

Cuinn decides to take the ring to the Valmyrri estates in Islien. Moerel and Duriand Valmyrri are in Islien, but Anuvier, the youngest brother, is overseeing the estate. Cuinn shows him the ring and asks who Raesa is. Anuvier, astonished, explains that Raesa is his aunt, who was abducted thirty years ago by a rival noble lord. Cuinn decides she needs to be honest with him, and explains that the woman she thought was her mother found her in the woods near a young deceased woman holding the ring. Immediately Cuinn asks if his uncle is still alive. He beckons her to come with him, and they ride to a small farmhouse in the Islien countryside (where, unbeknownst to her, the Valmyrri family first arrived from Wilder's Gorge hundreds of years earlier). There, he introduces her to an older man with silver-streaked auburn hair-- her father, Elias Valmyrri. The resemblance between the two is obvious to all present-- they embrace, and they both weep openly. The tale eventually comes out-- the rival lord abducted Raesa while she was with child, but she escaped, and died giving birth alone in the woods. Elias caught the enemy lord and slew him, but neither Raesa nor their child were ever found again.

Cuinn bids him to come to Stormpoint-- along with Leandra and a dozen orphaned children-- that they might make up for the thirty years together that they had been denied.

Ballad of the Red Queen, Verse Two

From shadows deep, and squalor
Emerged the Red Queen, hale.
So silent fell her footsteps,
Her bow struck without fail.

Anon, there came a dragon
White-fang'd and fierce of eye.
The Red Queen did not falter,
But let her arrows fly.

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Cuinn finds her friend the next morning setting out food for the cats of Stormpoint; she is amused to see a softer side of Leandra. Cuinn, Leandra, and Callum depart for Islien. The journey is uneventful, and they soon reach the lush peninsula of Islien with its deep woods and artfully decorated city. Cuinn hasn't been to Isilvaere's lands since assuming Reynhild's identity, and their beauty stirs mixed emotions in her; she and Leandra bond over shared memories of childhoods of deprivation and hardship.

They find the Gilded Calf, a run-down dive remarkable only for how the gilding of the Inn's name has peeled almost entirely off its sign. Cuinn immediately recognizes the innkeeper from her days as a bandit, and asks Leandra to inquire about Sally's whereabouts, under the pretext of purchasing her services. With a long-suffering eyeroll, Leandra agrees. She learns that Sally and her flock are operating in a small hamlet currently occupied by sellswords that have drifted southward after the War of Independence, as they can conduct some of the more unsavoury aspects of their trade unhindered by the city and Isilvaere's laws. They eat a decent meal and rest, and leave for the hamlet.

The hamlet is tiny and deep in the countryside. To provide a cover story, Cuinn hunts a brace of hares to sell at the inn; Leandra, thoroughly a denizen of the city, both loathes the wilderness excursion and is grudgingly impressed at Cuinn's hunting prowess. They enter the hamlet's lone small public house to find it occupied by rough sellswords recuperating from the War of Independence, and a few harried-looking locals. Some boys and girls-- undoubtedly Sally's-- are present also; one of the sellswords is manhandling one of the girls. Cuinn calmly advises him to stop. He puffs up and picks a fight; she dispassionately knocks him cold with the pommel of her seax. The innkeeper orders her and Leandra out, and they leave.

Cuinn manages to catch the attention of one of the boys-- a sullen lad named Malcolm. She asks if he is Sally's, and he immediately replies "Are you going to kill her?" But he is conflicted and plainly frightened, and Cuinn and Leandra's coaxing gets nothing more out of him. He does, however, give them directions to the shack in the woods where Sally plies her vile trade. Cuinn gives him money and tells him to run away and seek lodging at the boarding-house in Islien.

Cuinn dislodges Callum from the grip of an overenthusiastic town child, and she and Leandra go find the shack. It is a stomach-turning sight indeed-- a two-room hovel in the woods that Sally evidently prostitutes the boys and girls out of. Leandra discreetly offers to wait outside. Cuinn quietly steps past the small sleeping bodies, and enters the back room.

The weathered old woman counting money and scribbling on scraps of parchment inside is, without a doubt, her mother, Sally. Cuinn comes to the cold realization that, if she had not run away, this might well have been her own future. She coldly greets her, and offers to buy the entire hovel full of children from her keeping. Sally, unbelievably, recognizes her instantly, and berates her for running away and abandoning her. Cuinn realizes that there will be no warmth, no reconnecting with her, not now, not ever, so she calmly asks for the information she came for-- the identity of her father. Sally demands money for the information, which Cuinn grudgingly pays.

Sally tells Cuinn that she did not give birth to her, but found her next to a dead woman in the woods, wrapped in a lavishly embroidered cloak and holding a gold signet ring.

Cuinn, stunned, attempts to maintain her composure, and demands to know more details, such as the insignia on the ring. Sally demands a truly extortionate amount of money for the information. Cuinn contemplates beating her for the information, but cannot bring herself to torture a old woman, and pays.

Sally says she sold the ring and cloak to a lieutenant of the Sons of Iron Mountain, a man named Kelros White-Eyes, currently in Islien. Cuinn states that she has given her enough money to purchase every child prostitute in the shack for life, and then some, and she will be taking them. She bids Sally a final farewell, and leaves with a half-dozen children. As she departs, she glimpses Sally out the window-- not watching her leave, nor the children, but counting the money.

Ballad of the Red Queen, Verse One

"Ballad of the Red Queen"

Through sorrows vast, and hardships,
Unbowed, the red queen came.
Drove out the lingering darkness
With thunder and with flame.

She found the griffon beaten,
Enslaved, chained to the floor.
The red queen broke its shackles,
Commanded it to soar.

[A certain Khinasi bard penned this song, its oddly melancholy melody belying its triumphant lyrics, and has been playing it here and there in her travels around Anuire. Other bards, only those skilled enough to play and sing its technically demanding notes, have picked it up and perform it to great applause.

Cuinn HATES it.] 
__________________________________________________________________________

Cuinn stood in the doorway, already cloaked and garbed for a journey. "Listen, Cathal. I spoke to your Northern witch friend before she left. She clarified something-- when she spoke of my bloodline when we met, she meant the one I was born with. I... I need to find my mother, or at least try. Hell, maybe she's long dead. But I need to know. 
"And truly, it's something more than that. If I'm ever to accept both parts of who I am-- the Fulcairn part, and the part that came before, I have to at least try and find out what became of her. So I'm not asking you-- I'm telling you. I'm going to Islien, I won't be gone long. But I need you and Mara and Aerona to be in charge of things until I return."

"I understand," Cathal replied evenly. "I had my chance to seek my answers, how can I begrudge you yours? I will be here when you return."

She paused, taken aback. "I... I was expecting a row, given what you said after the coronation."

"It's not that I didn't want to say the same, before, but... I will be here, but your people cannot wait long."

"Maybe I'm a fool to do this. Maybe these are not answers I even will want. Tell me, are you content with the answers you found? Even the grim ones? The truth of the Fulcarni-- does your heart rest easier, or uneasier, for having unearthed it?"

"It troubles me. What I felt, what we felt when I slew that disguised scion... it felt... good. Very good. But we need to rise above that temptation, just as we need to make sure our power is used to improve lives, not take them."

Cuinn frowned. "Aye. That's not what I'm asking, though. I'm asking... are some truths best left as secrets, buried in the dust of history?"
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Cuinn, driven by a desire to lay her past to rest, and haunted by Njorna's words, decides to seek out her mother, a camp follower from Islien she has not seen in almost twenty years after running away. Instead of riding directly to Islien, she decides to ask Leandra if her underworld connections can turn up any word of the somewhat disreputable mercenary company her mother once followed, the Sons of Iron Mountain.

She meets Leandra, again happy to see her old friend. She first asks her advice on navigating the intricacies of the power dynamics of the guilds, both overt and clandestine, in Stormpoint, wanting to use them to her advantage as newly-crowned Duchess. Leandra advises prudence and patience, and suggests she first speak to the guilder of the Taeghan Outfitters, Destrien Daene. Cuinn then asks her to try and locate someone for her: the captain of the Sons of Iron Mountain, Jaero Blackbones. It seems a long shot, but Leandra promises she'll contact her when she has news.

While she waits, Cuinn disguises herself and heads to the mercenaries' guild in Stormpoint, hoping to find some mention of the Sons of Iron Mountain in the registry rolls. To her surprise, the clerk does indeed locate something. Evidently, the Sons of Iron Mountain were disbanded shortly after the War of Succession, thirteen or so years prior. Jaero Blackbones does not appear to be listed as its captain, but Cuinn procures an incomplete list of the names of its members. Emboldened at having found some record of them, despite all odds, she leaves and waits for word from Leandra.

Leandra does not let her down; she has managed to locate an ex-member of the Sons of Iron Mountain, a man named Morak. No longer a mercenary, he is currently a pimp operating in Lowpoint, and one reputed to be cruel to those in his employ. Leandra leads Cuinn to him; Morak is as vile and greasy a man as she expected. Cuinn asks him if he knows the whereabouts of a camp follower named Sally. He laughs and asks if she owes her money; Cuinn replies that she does indeed. Morak says that Sally has moved up in the world and has her own girls and boys working for her now. He demands money for more information; Cuinn contemplates intimidating him, but decides she cannot afford a row and risk exposing her own identity. She grudgingly pays him, and he shocks Cuinn by telling her that Sally and her staff serviced the very same Taeghan army that liberated Stormpoint. Cuinn barely manages to keep her composure, having learned that not only is her mother alive, but they had in fact ridden in the very same army to the siege of Stormpoint. Morak states that Sally left after the battle and the only person who might know her whereabouts would be a former employee of hers, known as Bloody Mary due to the viciousness of her clientele, currently working at the Stormpoint docks. But then, Cuinn's less-than-perfect disguise job wears thin, and he recognizes her, yelling "ARE... ARE YOU THE DUCHESS? THE DUCHESS OF TAEGHAS?" Cuinn swiftly stabs him, nonplussed at ridding Stormpoint of scum of his ilk, and Leandra drags his body into an alleyway. They decide to meet by the docks and continue the search.

Cuinn apologizes to Leandra for the trouble, and takes a risk-- knowing what it may entail, she confides in her that the camp follower she seeks is her mother. Leandra, after all, already knows that Cuinn was low-born and came by her current station less than honestly; Cuinn decides to trust her, stalwart ally that she has been all these years. She tells her the truth of her background-- that she is but a camp-follower's bastard runaway whelp, and that she needs to know the truth of what became of her mother. Leandra counsels her that whatever her origins were, she is now the Duchess and moves in circles with kings and lords, that trafficking in unsavoury matters is best left to commoners like herself. Nonetheless, Leandra seems touched by the disclosure and the trust, and their friendship seems strengthened.

As they look for "Bloody Mary", Leandra chides Cuinn for her impossible quest to save every urchin and dockside whore in Stormpoint; Cuinn replies that she has to try, and that her desire to do so is the thing that makes her more qualified to rule Taeghas than any other noble. They find "Bloody Mary" at one of the finer inns on the docks, the Fattest Whale. The innkeeper, a fatherly figure, is upset and demands they never call her that again. Mary, it seems, is no longer a prostitute, and is a serving-maid at the Fattest Whale. Cuinn takes the wary and frightened girl aside and asks her Sally's whereabouts. Mary says that Sally hated Stormpoint, and Sally and her flock have likely returned to Islien, where they usually stay between military campaigns, loosely based out of an inn called the Gilded Calf. Seeing that she is safe and well-treated, Cuinn gives her a handful of silver and wishes her well. As Cuinn leaves, Mary asks her what she could possibly want from Sally, as she is a bad woman, and no good will come of finding her. Cuinn replies that she isn't entirely certain what she wants from her, and she departs.

And The White Witch Spake, And He Did Reply

Cathal lay within his tent. He and his warriors, who had taken to calling themselves the Band of the Black Wolf, were but a day gone from the Wyrmrest Barrow, and from Queen Authild. They had left the barrow promptly, as demanded by the Queen of Rjuvik, but injury and fatigue demanded they make camp far nearer Viborg's walls than Cathal would have liked. Still, his bones filled his bedroll wearily, and the act of just laying down had felt as though he were bathing in the light of Haelyn himself.

Sleep took him quickly; a deep, lightless slumber that covered him like a deep tide. The moment consciousness left him, he was alone in a dark space, blackness roiling above and below, all around him. Not frightful, but warm and encompassing; a place of pure solitude. He stood upright, in a simple tunic and breeches he had left back at Fulcairn.

The shadow realm? His first thought. If so he was ready to face it. He had entered that cold place before and it had offered nothing he could not surpass. There was magic at work at least. He peered into the black as an image began to resolve.

"Cathal Fulcairn. I've been watching you." The voice was breath, light and cold, and when it came a chill but not unpleasant breeze seemed to brush past him, caressing his cheek.

A woman, breathtakingly beautiful, pale-skinned and dressed in a flowing gown of white samite, strode out of the dark to stand before him. Her eyes were bright and pale, like chips of ice, her hair a long, silken mass of spun white-gold. Potence radiated from her, surety in her every stride.

"I know who you are," Cathal replied, forcing his voice out from low in his stomach, as though an order on the battlefield. He tried as he could to match her presence, hoping his voice did not crack. "I think I have heard your voice before. You've found me, sorceress, after your fashion. What is it you desire?"

She smiled then, a smile that made his heart lurch with want. He recognized the falseness of it though, and it left his stomach and mind roiling. Something passed behind those icy eyes and she spoke.

"You entered the barrow at Wyrmrest and found a thing within it that has not seen the sun in some great time."

"The crown?" Cathal asked.

"The same. I want it, and you will want to give it to me."

"Will I? What reason would I have to want that?"

She strode toward him, her hands clasped at her waist. She grew close, her presence suffusing the air around him. "You said you know who I am, my lord," she said, with a coy half-grin, "Then you must also be aware of what I can do. I can offer you the power you need to claim all of Hogunmark. All of the North. You would be a king, and strength would be yours to do with as you will. You could even save your home. You could even save your family."

A vision flashed in his mind, barely cognizable; Mara and Cuinn in pain, hunted. Elena, Medwyn, Dolan, his home awash with sorrow. It tingled through his veins, sour and cold. The White Witch watched him, standing close as a lover, her bright, frozen eyes seeping into his. He wanted to rebel, to move away, but was frozen in place, his stomach a tight knot. He fought it down, and forced out a small laugh.

The Witch drew slightly away, sliding as though she floated inches above whatever floor was beneath them. He shook his head, and his mouth turned up in a grin of his own.

"You do not know me well at all then, do you?" he sad.

"What mean you?"

"That I would wish to supplant my friends? To rule in their stead? I have supped my fill of rulership and the meal sat ill with me. And even were I to desire such, even were I to take your aid and free my homeland from the encroachments of greedy lords, such power would surely turn to poison. With respect, lady, you are simply them writ large. Those who would usurp Taeghas and its people. You choose power over life. Nay, I say, I will not give you this crown, though my soul be rent asunder and left to wander this shaded place."

The Witch drew further away, an inscrutable expression upon her unearthly face. Then she smiled, and counter to all thought, it seemed genuine.

"Very well, Cathal Fulcairn. Return to your brother, 'King' Fulgrim. For as long as he remains such. We shall not parley again."

And she receded, back into the dark fog of that place, and true sleep finally took him.

Cuinn and Cathal, Later That Night

Several hours past midnight, the fervent throes of revelry still gripped Griffonsreach-- the frantic and almost desperate sort that provided relief and release for those at the end of a great and terrible war. What few casks of ale and wine remained in the keep had been drained in short order, and even the supplies carted in for the celebration from around Taeghas had not bolstered them for long. Someone had pilfered an antique lute from the display cases in the great hall and was, surprisingly passably, leading a chorus of drunken guests in a rousing rendition of "Thunder And Flame"; the revellers stomped their feet and thumped their tankards to the refrain, and the sound echoed throughout the Keep.

Other refrains reverberated down the halls, too, as folk-- from exhausted soldiers filled with the euphoria of victory, to scullery-maids and stable-hands-- found eager, drunken trysting partners; so rowdy had the celebration gotten that most barely bothered to conceal themselves in a shadowed alcove or doorway.

The strains of both off-key carousing and furtive rutting seemed a sweet melody to Cuinn's ears, a song of triumph, as it were, as it reached them, as she and Cathal lay curled on a luxurious four-poster bed in a vacant suite in the east wing. Beyond the window, the clouds parted, and a gibbous moon and a blaze of stars illuminated the room, limning their bodies against the darkness.

"Gods, we're both so scarred now, aren't we?"

For hideous burn scars, ridged and knotted like poplar bark, spattered Cathal's neck and shoulder. "These are from the dragon?" she asked.

He nodded. "And these?" Similar whorls of ugly, shiny flesh patterned Cuinn's chest and back.

"Some are from the magical bomb that the Dragon-- the wizard, that is-- sent to try and assassinate Mara. Others are from the last fight with Thaliere. We were in a dire situation-- she and a dozen Dragon Knights were upon Mara, Dorian, and I. We were outnumbered by far, and Aerona was pinned on the far side of the battlefield with the elite infantry. Out of desperation, I screamed at Mara to direct fire at Thaliere and I. The Dragon Knights were all but burned to a crisp, and Thaliere was sorely wounded too. My blood protected me, mostly, but the scars remain. And, as you know, that's where this happened."

Cuinn touched the scar on her face that pulled her already stern countenance downward into a permanent frown. She paused.

"This one's new-- what on Cerilia caused this?" She touched an odd round scar on Cathal's back, nearly the size of a saucer.

"Well, you know I stabbed a kraken, right?" He grinned. "It got a shot or two in of its own."

"I have so many questions about what happened in Hogunmark. We've had no time to discuss it. But I need to know more about what happened, and what it means for our House, and for Taeghas, and the future."

"By all means, ask."

Her brow furrowed. "Where to start. Gods. Why did you come back? Why didn't you take the White Witch's offer? Why didn't you become... I don't know, some magical king of the tundra with her help? You've waxed poetic at such great length about how much you love Rjurik--"

"Aye. But I love you more."

"More than being the magic king of the tundra?" Her face was wry for a moment, then impossibly tender for a moment longer, but she continued. "What did the White Witch want in return for the boon she offered?"

"She wanted the Barrow-Crown, though I don't doubt she would have made a lackey of me as well."

"How fare the Yngvi now, after all this, with Fulgrim leading them after Freila's death?"

Cathal released a long-held breath, slowly. "Hogunmark was wounded, but on the mend. Fulgrim held control, but he had enemies, much as we do. He's well-liked enough; he must have more allies elsewhere in Rjurik."

"And this Authild... this Fulcarni? What do you suspect her endgame is?"

"I suspect she wants to unite our long-sundered family. But I believe she wishes to run it. I think she'd be just as happy draining the powers of our blood as working with us. If she shows her face here, it's to come claim your crown, or die trying-- she promised as much."

"This worries you?"

"If I were to gauge her prowess as a warrior, honestly, she is better than I."

"That may be, but no one is better than us together."

"Aye. No one." He pressed his lips to her brow, and they lay silent for a moment, before Cuinn continued.

"I cannot help but wonder if it is better to give that woman half of the trinket rather than to go to war again... though, in truth, I would have thought that a better plan before I... felt... it... resonate... at the coronation."

Cathal shook his head. "When I say she wants half of it, I believe she means at least half. In truth, I think she has more in common with our malevolent ancestors, the Godkillers, than do we."

"Why does Authild want to consolidate the family? She's doing well enough in Rjuvik; what does picking a fight half a continent away serve?"

"Control. Power. I think she is like Avan in her need to control. But seeks it like Boeruine seeks pleasure. I met her only briefly, but I sensed that she felt life more through conquest. As Aerona wishes to spread her word, Authild wishes to OWN."

Cuinn grinned. "Ah, yes. About Aerona. I've been meaning to address the... reservations I sensed from you earlier. You're not wrong; the woman's as touched as a goat who's gotten into the moldy rye grain. But we wouldn't be here without her, and she would lay down her life for House Fulcairn in a heartbeat, and I trust her as I trust you or Mara."

"I don't distrust her loyalty, I distrust her institution. Some of her dogma gave me pause, but as long as the thunder priests serve the people, protect them, let her churches stand, I say. And she fights very well; I'm glad you had her with you."

"As a rule, I don't trust institutions... they need to have a watchful eye on them at all times. And as we are now an institution, so do we, lest we become lax, or greedy, or fail to keep our promises."

Cathal smiled. "I could not have worded it better... Besides, I think you'll have a hard time parting her from Arturo from here on."

Cuinn nodded with mock solemnness, and stifled a yawn. Outside the window, Stormpoint's buildings were silhouetted against the first touch of the grey that preceded dawn. "Why did Freila construct this elaborate ruse? Why not just tell you of the Godkillers? Why die in some frozen barrow far from her hall and her son?"

"I think she didn't quite know what she was searching for. She was having visions, or so she said, and the word of the gods is never direct, even when they are speaking directly to you. In truth, I don't know why she picked me. I've always been a better mediator than Fulgrim, and she probably knew he'd need a friend when she had gone."

"I am so damned tired of oracles, and gods, and visions," Cuinn muttered.

"Hunh. That makes the both of us. We shall make our own fate. Praise Haelyn, but damn his plans for us."

Cuinn raised an eyebrow; this was the first time she had ever heard Cathal blaspheme. "I know that your official duty to the Yngvi is concluded, but I can't help but feel that we may need to aid Fulgrim again, out of love, if not obligation. And is there friction between him and Authild's horde that need concern us?"

"I've felt the same pull, but my place is here with you. If I am to go to him, it will be at your side or not at all... As to Fulgrim and Authild, I'd thought to tell him to marry her. In fact I was going to pen a letter to the effect."

"Is that wise? I fear it would be a mere power play, with him at a disadvantage, and effectively hostage. And how would that turn if she decided to make a play for this crown? Would he dissuade her or merely be dragged along against his will?"

"Hogunmark is no wilting lily. Its only match in the north, other than the Witch, is Halskapa, which is in no shape to challenge anyone at the moment. Its might still dwarfs Rjuvik's, and they share common foes."

"So it's only Authild's lust for power you feel is a threat, not her military might?"

"For the nonce her army is no great thing. Will it remain so? She shares my line's fierce magnetism, and she wins battles. Many may flock to her banner. Yet Fulgrim is as great a warrior as Rjurik knows, and a match between the two is, in my opinion the most obvious political move in the north."

"If she has done right by Rjuvik and its people, it would be a damned shame for us to cut her down for some fool lust for power. Perhaps you should pen that letter after all, Cathal."

"Perhaps. Perhaps you should pen one to her." He grinned; his teeth flashed white in the gloom. "I think she'd like you."

Cuinn's countenance grew stony. "I do not suffer threats to me or mine or that which is under my protection. Not even implicit ones. If I treat with her, I will tell her this plainly; I will not disguise it with pleasantries."

"Which I think she would like. And besides, she is our cousin. In truth, I think Authild is complicated. I do not think her evil."

Cuinn yawned, and Cathal did likewise a moment later. "There is so much to be done. We've won a great victory... the one I'd thought was the final victory... yet it seems like we've barely started. It's... overwhelming."

"It is, but it's exhilarating too, because it's with you."

She pressed her head against his chest. "Don't leave me again."

"Nothing will ever part us."

They both closed their eyes, as the first golden rays of sunlight slanted through the window.

Memento

8 months after the coronation, a message arrives at Fulcairn Keep addressed to Cuinn Fulcairn. It is marked with the seal of House Goeryne - a sword of white platinum in a blue field.

"Lady Cuinn,

my name is Kristina Goeryne, the younger sister of Varyan Goeryne. You knew of my brother, and he spoke of you and your family with fondness: Cathal, Mara and Aerona. The war raging here in Alamie has claimed many lives and has wreaked devastation all over the realm. Boeruinese, Avanese, Alamiens and Tuors are all embroiled in this conflict. Ignoring Duke Alam's command, Varyan did not join the war and tried to help the common folk survive the atrocities that are still taking place.

The last news we received is that he got between a band of soldiers that demanded a small village to turn over food and livestock. When the villagers refused, the soldiers began to slaughter them, and my brother intervened. The villagers told us that he stood his ground and drove soldiers out, killing and wounding many of them, but he was gravelly wounded in return. Instead of helping himself, he used his divine gifts to save another life.

Villagers wrapped his body and brought it back to us. There was a small scroll that Varyan had entrusted to me with instructions of what to do if he passed. He wanted me to tell all of you of his fate if he didn't make it, and also to send you a small memento; he claimed you would understand, and that he had the utmost faith in all of you.

I could never fully understand why my brother did what he did, but whatever you can tell me about him would be greatly appreciated. This war is claiming more and more of Alamie and our people, and our families are what matter in the end. I miss him dearly.

With regards,

Kristina Goeryne"

Wrapped in simple cloth to protect it, is a small wooden figurine of a rearing horse.

SESSION 40 RECAP-- PART TWO

Cuinn presents Cathal to the Taeghan command, and leaves to scout the situation at the plaza. It is empty, though Cuinn glimpses soldiers stationed on the walls of Highpoint. Cathal and Dolan go to greet the Wilder troops, and are warmly received. Shortly thereafter, Mara and Dolan step outside for an uncharacteristically tender conversation, and Dorian goes to inventory the magical supplies. It is cut short when assassins' arrows from the rooftops strike all three of them; Dolan shields Mara with his body. None of them are mortally wounded, and Aerona heals them, but morale is shaken.

Cuinn returns and is furious that assassins were able to strike the camp; she insists they can brook no further delay, and the army marches to attack the Zephyros Gate. She attempts to overwatch their route by taking the rooftops, and brings down one assassin; the others evade her as she cannot spare the time to follow them. The army takes the plaza and reinforces it with artillery and spearmen from the rear, fearing an attack from Lowpoint, then presses forward along Errol's Walk to the Zephyros Gate. Mara conjures a mighty earth elemental, and it leads the way.

The assault begins. The enemy priest of Cuiraecen exacts a heavy toll on the attackers with celestial lightning, but the earth elemental manages to damage the gates. The the Dragon appears atop the mage tower, intoning arcane words, and a horrifying sight emerges from the sea-- a massive white dragon, which swoops upon the Taeghan army. Aerona, Cathal, and the majority of the troops are terrified, but attempt to hold firm; Cuinn fires arrow after arrow at it, yelling at the army to hold fast. Its frost breath devastates the army. Only after a dire toll has been taken in Taeghan lives does Mara realize the truth-- the Dragon is not a mage of sufficient power to command this beast; it is an illusion. Demoralized and battered, the Taeghan army retreats to the plaza.

The mood is grim at the Plaza, and it takes Aerona's most rousing oratory to reawaken the will to fight in both the army and its commanders. A small urchin child appears, asking Cuinn to follow to the teahouse; Cuinn realizes it is her old friend Leandra who has survived. Cuinn and Cathal follow the child to the teahouse basement, where to her surprise, she finds Leandra along with a guilder of the Taeghan Outfitters, and to their surprise, Noelen Bhaine's daughter Leonora, who turned against her father and has mounted a resistance within Stormpoint. She pledges half a unit of soldiers to the army. Leandra mentions even the House of Wind has aided the resistance.

The assault resumes the next day, and the Taeghans are met with yet another grim discovery-- the Boeruinese soldiers are holding Taeghan civilian hostages atop the walls. Tychon and Ukko are both horrified, but uneasily state they may have no choice but to attack nonetheless. Cuinn and Cathal refuse to accept this, and discuss treating or attempting subterfuge. A third option is decided upon-- Mara will use the final mystical essence of the caermebhaigl to summon Catriona Fulcairn's shadow ravens to attack the soldiers atop the walls, hopefully giving the civilians at least a few moments to escape.

She casts the spell, and the shadow ravens attack, as the Taeghan soldiers assault the damaged gates with their makeshift ram. The billmen manage to break through the gate, and yet another horror greets them-- hundreds of magical shadow-fiends. Mara destroys most of them with a powerful ball of flame; Cathal's huscarls go over the walls, and the Fulcairns break through the gate and glimpse Balros, Aerona's mentor, and two figures that appear to be the Dragon and the Archduke on the other side.

The fighting continues in deadly earnest. Aerona hammers the enemy with divine lightning and the attacks of her spirit warriors; Mara conjures another earth elemental, and it attacks the elite cadre of knights defending the Boeruinese commanders. Cuinn fires arrow after arrow at Balros as he shouts at Aerona, praising her for executing the will of Cuiraecen so beautifully; Cathal finally breaks through and savagely attacks Balros, immobilizing him and making him vulnerable enough for Cuinn to finish him off.

They advance on the Dragon and the Archduke. The Dragon magically conjures multiples of herself; Mara, suspicious because of her powers as an illusionist, strikes all the multiples with magical missiles, and they all dissipate. Thunderbolts streak the sky above the astrolabe in the mage tower; the real Dragon is evidently undergoing some manner of ritual. Cathal closes with the Archduke, and slays him with disconcerting ease, not before using his newly-acquired mystical ability to steal his bloodline. The Fulcairns shudder in horror, then pleasure, as the power courses through all four of them. Cathal removes the red helm, and it is not the Archduke, but a decoy.

The Fulcairns race to the tower. The illusory forms of the Dragon and another mage are within; the Dragon tauntingly reveals that it was her machinations that had Cullan and Corrac murdered, as she wished to control the caermebhaigl. Cuinn ignores her, and asks Mara to dispel the magic in the entire chamber. She does, the illusion is dispelled, and the last battle begins. The Dragon and her ally wizard attempt to cast spells, but Mara, exhausted from spellcasting, draws her own blood again and again to counter their magic, draining herself to her last iota of strength. Then the Dragon uses magic the likes of which none of them have seen before-- she draws forth the hideous bloodthirsty power within all four of them. Mara falls, incapacitated, and hovers near death; Cathal writhes in horror, unable to move. Aerona and Cuinn withstand it; Aerona heals Mara, saving her from certain death. Cuinn desperately lobs arrow after arrow at the wizards, but it is only when Cathal uses the last of his strength to give Cuinn an opening to attack that she is able to fell the Dragon with a single deadly-placed arrow.

The Taeghan army, while having lost nearly half their number, is victorious; the hosts of both Boeruine and the Empire have been driven out, and Taeghas is a free and sovereign nation once again. The Fulcairns leave to greet them and the citizens of Stormpoint; the people are exultant, but a shadow has fallen on the hearts of the Fulcairns, and it is with great effort that they attempt to muster the cheer expected of them. 

Authild Fulcarni, the Reaver Queen

Special guest artwork by Pierre Ravenaeu.

SESSION 40, RECAP-- PART ONE

In Seamist, Cuinn deposes Caron Duene and installs Moerel Valmyrri as count of Seamist; an investiture is held and his regency is made official. The army marches on Stormpoint. They decide to assault the northern gate, Boreas, on the grounds that the other gates breached by the Imperial army are likely fortified stronger than they were before, and Boreas will give them the most direct access to Midpoint and the great central plaza.

Cathal sails south with his Rjuven warband. He and Dolan, disguised as traders, land briefly in Tariene once again to gather information about their home. They are able to determine that there is full-on civil war in Taeghas, but the Imperial army has been driven out by a coalition led by an upstart House from the north, and that they next mean to liberate Boeruine-occupied Stormpoint. He decides to aid the Taeghan army by attacking Stormpoint from the sea. The seer Njorna augurs that his warband is likely to succeed via the switchback path up the sea cliffs, but at a high cost in blood.

The artillerists of Brosien, led by a brilliant siege engineer named Rhathwyn, begin the attack, ravaging the Boreas gate with a hail of fire from the ballistae. Mara summons her magical firehawks to harry the defenders on the gates, and soon after, the elite heavy infantry from Bayside storm the walls with their ladders. But a powerful priest of Cuiraecen is evidently among the enemy ranks, and the terrifying lightning that Aerona herself wielded in previous assaults descends from the sky, exacting a terrible toll from the soldiers of Bayside. Not long after, a second wave of magic destroys Mara's firehawks.

Cathal arrives almost simultaneously. He rams his longships into the dockyards and he and his warriors disembark. They fight savagely to gain ground on the switchback stairs up the sea cliffs. They are heartened by the sight of a glowing scarlet sky and the sound of artillery coming from the north-- the Taeghan offense has clearly begun. They manage to make it to the top, but their disadvantage due to the lower ground hampers them-- heavy casualties are sustained among the Rjuven infantry. However, they are successful, and they enter the sea gate, Nesirie's Kiss. They enter Midpoint, and Cathal glimpses a white-robed figure upon the walls of Highpoint. Fearing it may be the Dragon, he orders his warriors to take cover and make stealthily as possible for the central plaza.

Aerona, desperate to neutralize the threat posed by the other priest, summons a magical storm of hammers to shatter the enemy unit's morale. They manage to hold their ground, but are deeply shaken and terrified. This, plus the cover provided by the artillerists' tortoise, turns the tide, and the Taeghan army manages to smash through the Boreas gate. They fight their way to the Temple district, and take cover in the deserted temple of Haelyn.

Cuinn climbs to the top of the temple to gain a vantage point on the city, and glimpses a band of what appears to be a host of black-clad Rjuven warriors approaching. She calls a challenge to them in Rjuven, but it is Cathal who answers her. She makes her way down, and is torn between shock, her anger at his perceived abandonment of the House, and bewilderment, but their bonds of love and family prevail, and she embraces him.

They enter the temple along with the Rjuven horde, where Cuinn presents Cathal to the rest of the Taeghan heads of the houses. Afterwards, Cathal endeavors to summarize the events of his journey-- the Yngvi clan summoned him to locate the missing queen Freila, he tracked her to a mysterious barrow deep in the Rjurik wilderness, he and Dolan fought and slew the terrifying ancient dragon guarding it, and within, he found both Freila's body and a message from her, and discovered the dark truth behind the history of House Fulcairn. A withered draugr within the tomb arises and speaks to Cathal. Their ancestors, evidently, were ruthless Rjuven kings whose power was built on the sinister ability to steal the blood-powers of Scions. Eventually they were brought to heel by the other clans and given a choice-- either cease use of their dark power and bloodthieving ways, or be exiled. The group who chose exile in Anuire were the first Fulcairns of Taeghas. The draugr gives Cathal a circlet-- the twin of the one currently worn by Cuinn, that they have been calling the Crown of the Kings of Taeghas. Upon his exit from the tomb, he is surprised yet again. The Reaver Queen of Rjuvik, Authild, whose deeds the Fulcairns had heard of even in Taeghas, greets him. She is, apparently, Authild Fulcarni, a descendant of the branch of the family that chose to remain in Rjurik. She promises him that someday, she will come to claim the crown he bears.

Cuinn recounts the events of the past months in Taeghas for Cathal, who listens intently. When she is done, Cathal gives her the second half of the crown, and the two fit together perfectly. The company retires to make ready for the assault that is to resume on the morrow. 

Dawn

The rolling hills of south Bhaine arched their backs against a sky still deep grey, awaiting dawn's first light over the sea to the west. The shore was close enough that Cuinn could smell it faintly on the breeze. The morning air was warm, gentle. All around, larches and elms unfurled vividly-coloured buds; underfoot, the grasses awoke from a season of slumber. She always treasured the silent hours before dawn, when the rest of the Keep was still asleep, and the sky seemingly held its breath in anticipation of the first light of morning; the world seemed then a silent and peaceful kingdom where she alone held watchful dominion.

She sat on a log outside her tent, going through the motions of maintaining her gear. Her bow, the strange black bow from Melehan's hoard, Hjärfindur-- Heartseeker-- never seemed to need it. Oh, it needed to be restrung, and the strings given a sheen of beeswax, certainly, but the thing had been through a dozen battles now and not a single nick or dent showed on the dull black curve of unfamiliar wood.

Her armour on the other hand... She'd needed a new cuirass since Legate Thaliere had cut the old into unsalvageable scraps; the Wilders had spared no expense in making a magnificent new one for their Countess. The new one bore a cunningly-worked hawk rampant that spread its wings across her chest. Even the spaulders, made of wax-boiled leather, had been crafted to suggest the shape of hawk wings. It was magnificent, a tribute to the skill of the leatherworkers of the Gorge, but it was still a bit stiff, unlike her old serviceable one, which she'd been sweating and bleeding on since she'd borrowed it from the armoury and ridden into the woods alongside Cullan and Corrac for the first time.

Truly, that seems like another lifetime ago. When she stopped and attempted to retrace all the steps that had led the House from this point to here, it was bewildering, baffling. Only three years ago, and things were so different now, she was so different now, that remembering it seemed like recalling a tale about a stranger.

Things were so much simpler then. My greatest problem was trying to maintain a convincing Rjuven accent day and night. Now, look at us-- from a minor House in charge of a remote forested backwater, to wresting freedom for a nation, and then ruling it, if we succeed. And here we are, on the morning of what well may be the final battle. Either we win, or we perish.

A rustle of tent flaps and an honest-to-gods giggle broke her perfect pre-dawn silence. One of the women-at-arms-- a fetching young lass with a riotous shag of dark blonde hair-- burst out of Aerona's tent, attempting to straighten her disheveled uniform. Her gaze lit on Cuinn's from across the embers of the campfire, and she blushed beetroot red and scuttled away. Aerona followed a moment later, clad only in a half-undone gambeson, and grinned broadly at Cuinn.

"A good morning to you, Countess!" She strode around the fire and parked herself on the log. "A fine day to bring Cuiraecen's will down on the heads of our foes, yes?"

Cuinn raised an eyebrow-- almost exactly as she had when she witnessed Athelan, the Haelynite priest formerly in service of Thaliere, make a similar exit-- and they both managed to keep a straight face for at least a few moments before Aerona doubled over laughing.

"'Tis a fine thing for a warrior, to enjoy some companionship the eve before battle, no? It rallies a soldier's constitution, puts fire in their blood! Cuiraecen is, after all, a god of many hearty appetites, is he not?"

Cuinn half-smiled despite herself. "I have no particular desire for...companionship... these days."

"Aye, Countess, if you would forgive my presumption... I've served you for nigh on a year now, and to my knowledge, you have remained quite... solitary in that time." The priestess grinned broadly. "It seems a shame; the ranks of the army you have gathered contain so many doughty warriors of such skill and stamina..."

 Cuinn picked up an arrow, examining its fletchings. She did not care to discuss such things, usually, but she had always been able to relax her guard around Aerona for some reason... or perhaps it was comforting to speak of such trivial things before the enormity of the task ahead of them. "I had the finest of men for a husband. I will never meet his like again. I brought justice to his murderers, and eventually I even made peace with his loss, and moved past it. But I find I would still prefer to go without, rather than tarry with a lesser man."

"But Countess, do the holy scriptures not speak of love as being perennial as the grass? That it shall inevitably return, blessing the land even after the darkest and coldest of winters? It seems to me that you are like the man in the parable who stood gazing for years at his prize oak, fallen and burned in the yard after a lightning strike... when behind him and unbeknownst to him, fine saplings were growing in the fertile ash of its wake."

"Ah, but are there not other kinds of love? I loved Corrac more than I have ever loved anything... but since he passed, I have not lost that greater capacity for love that grew from loving him, and that love has flowed into other things. Love of country, love of the Wilders, love of the people whom are sworn to serve me, and who I in turn serve. Love of the ideals we have chosen to fight for. Love of you and Mara, who are all the family I have left, as far as I know."

For a moment, she thought of Moerel Valmyrri and his strange sword, but she quickly put the thought from her mind.

"And if Cuiraecen grants us victory today? A great many eligible lords will flock to woo you. Will you turn them all away, because they cannot equal what you lost? Is this even what he would want for you, lady? I doubt it... I knew him only from afar, knew him only as Baron Fulcairn's handsome heir who made all the girls swoon... but I believe he would want you to live your life, and find joy."

And Cuinn found that tears were welling in her eyes, not out of sadness, but out of gratitude for this large, loud, ginger-haired priestess, and her friendship.

"To be honest, Battle-Sister, I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"Aye. There'll be plenty of time to vet eligible bachelors for the ladies Fulcairn once we've won this war." She grinned, cracked her knuckles, and flexed the majestic bulk of her sword arm. "Let's go wake up Mara and see if she can warm up the stewpot with a ball of arcane flame, eh?" 

Letters Home [A collection]

Dear Adair,

   I miss you very much. I’ve been asking around and have managed to hear word of a monastery of Haelynites who may be able to help me to find where I need to go. You can tell Mother that I’m safe - and you can tell Nieve to go to hell. I’m not coming home. All my life she’s tried to control me. I can’t be like her, and I can’t be like you - I’m shite at woodscraft. You can range free in the Gorge!

 I wish that being married well was enough for me. I know what it could do for our family. It makes me feel a bit crazy to leave it all behind. But what happened to me was real, Adair. I relive it every time I touch the Sword. I know He chose me.

 I’m worth something.

 I’m meant for more.

-----------------------------------------------

Dearest Adair,

  Thank you for the coin to get me through - things were truly desperate, and I know I haven’t been vigilant with my letters. I’m so grateful that I can still count on you.

 I’ve found a cloister: some priests from the Northern Imperial Temple who hint they know more than they are willing to share for free. I’ve been sleeping on the floor of the temple, doing the tasks of an acolyte to earn my keep.

  These men guard their tongues closely around me. I’m trying to prove my loyalty and gain their trust - I must learn their secrets. I will find the Way.

-----------------------------------------------

Adair,

 I killed a man today. We were beset on the road by brigands. One tried to touch me. The Sword is still sharp, and I am stronger than I look. All but one of the priests survived.

 Tonight I learn their secrets.

-----------------------------------------------

Brother,

I have received your letters informing me of Mother’s passing.

I can only hope this missive can convey some small degree of the despair that I feel at this news.

She loved us all, and placed all over her children before herself in all ways.

 I regret that I cannot return to the Gorge for her rites - but know I mourn her within the Temple of Cuiraécen. It is forbidden to leave once entrance has been gained; at least until one has passed into the ranks of initiate. The temple’s location must be kept most secret.

 My mentor has sent a Priestess of Nesirie to visit you all in my place. It is my hope she may bring you comfort.

 I know Nieve won’t understand, and I don’t expect her to forgive me.

 I know I’ve hurt you too, Adair. For that I am sorry. When I left the Gorge, I don’t believe I truly understood what it meant, when I did it.

 But being here is what I need to do.

-----------------------------------------------

Dear Adair,

 I have passed into the rank of Priestess, and defeated all foes before me. Your littlest sister has earned the divine gifts of the Storm God.

 The funny thing is - it still feels the same way to touch lightning as it did that day in the Cradlewood.

-----------------------------------------------

My dearest brother,

 It has been fifteen years since last I saw your face.

 I have been dispatched to the Gorge, and will arrive by months end.

 Please say nothing to Lady Morgenstane.

-----------------------------------------------

Adair.

We travel through Bhaine to Stormpoint.

I know that Cuiraécen rides with us. The hearts of the Taeghan forces are undeniable. A Haelynite has joined us, and still more allies rally to our cause.

Lady Mara and Countess Cuinn fare as well as they can, but the stalwart faces of the men and women who stand with us and fight for their countrymen buoys us all. How could we not rise to fight for these people?

But allies too have fallen. I want you to know that through all the years with little word, I still remembered my family. Your letters were a constant reminder of the sacrifice I had to make in order to be in this place, now, doing what is asked of me.

I’ll make you proud. I hope to see it in your face when we meet again - be it the Gorge, or Cuiraécen’s Feasthall.

I love you, take care of our home.

-----------------------------------------------

Nieve,

 There’s too much to say in this letter, and much of it is best left unwritten.

 I will say that I did not really know you until I could see you as a mother. Please kiss my nieces and nephews and tell them I love them all.

-----------------------------------------------

Balros,

Mentor - please pray to the Storm Lord on behalf of your student. She rides to victory or ruin.

The Northron Skein - Part 5

Cathal and Dolan ride south with Fulgrim's blessing.

Cathal sets outriders to watch their flanks, and organizes watches in which the number of Yngvi among the waking always outnumber those from other clans. They descend on Rjuvik through the dense taiga of southern Hogunmark.

There they cross rolling moors and dark forests, avoiding the scrutiny of any of Rjuvik's hardy peoples. Cathal is determined not to cross any of the Rjuvik queen's warriors.

They catch sight of a fairly large village on a river in the moors. Cathal sends Egil into the village with a few of his more discreet warriors. They disguise themselves as nomadic traders and mingle with the Rjuvik villagers to gather information. Cathal and the rest of the band circumvent the town and make camp. Egil and his spies leave the village the next morning and rendez-vous with the band.

Egil tells Cathal a tale of Authilde, the Rjuvik Queen, that counters those whispered in the south. Since Authilde seized the crown, she has defeated and killed or driven out the bandit lords of Rjuvik and has restored order to the kingdom. Cathal orders his warriors to raise a white flag of truce, just in case they cross any of Authilde's newly mobilized patrols.

Despite his concerns, they manage to cross the kingdom without drawing attention due to their superior wildcraft. The land slopes upward and turns too treacherous for the horses, so Cathal orders his people to make camp and continue on foot. He leaves some ten of his warriors behind to guard their mounts.

After a short trek, they come to the Wyrmrest barrows, a cluster of low, rocky hills covered in fresh snow. Cathal ascends the steepest of them, finding a portal of worked stone at its apex. The door has been long sealed, however, and the Hoguns take to it with pickaxes. As they work, the sky begins to rumble. It worries the Hogunr, but Cathal takes up a tool himself and strikes a crack in the barrow door. As soon as the small breach is made, a soulpiercing roar splits the air, and a shadow falls across the barrows. The Hogunr look up, and see death.

A great winged serpent, a wyrm from out of Cerilian legend, its black and grey scales shimmering in the dying afternoon sunlight, descends on the warriors of Veikanger. Its gorge pulses and throbbsd, and its maw spread wide, seeming to engulf them all in blackness. That blackness only to be lit with the furnace heat of dragonfire. Cathal and his huscarls are frozen in place, overcome by the beast's awesome presence, and many are seared by its fearsome breath. It descends among them, clasping men and women in its sword-like talons, and rending them asunder to be flung wetly through the air as the dragon ascends.

Cathal shakes free of the binds on his mind and screams out orders, telling his warriors to disperse and take cover. He rushes to the top of the main barrow, and throws his arms wide, screaming at the serpent to fight him. It pays little heed, and continues to dart and dive like a hunting bird among the Hogunr. Cathal continues bellowing orders, and eventually manages to shake loose the wits of some of his warriors, who gather bows and begin peppering the wyrm with arrows. They have little effect, but do force the creature to land, only to unleash its breath once again. Cathal dives over the side of the barrow, taking cover, but some few are not so lucky. Dragonfire melts swathes of fresh snow to vapour, and scorches the dead grass underneath. The Hogunr who are caught within its infernal deluge meet a similar fate.

Cathal yells in fury, invoking Haelyn to judge him worthy, Cuiraecen to guide his sword, and Laerme to guard him from the dragon's flame. Other Hogunr take up the call, and rush to the fight. Cathal, his Anduiran blood boiling within him, attacks the winged monster with uninhibited ferocity, darting under its lunging jaws to rake its underside with piercing jabs of his ancient blade. The wyrm's scales are marred here and there with ancient scars; chain marks, as though it were some sort of monstrous guard animal. Cathal screams to his warriors to target the scars, and sure enough, Dolan rushes in to flank the monster, his glaive drawing dragon-blood at its stroke. The dragon, enraged that it has been wounded, rears back and buffets the air with its vast wings, casting Cathal, Dolan, and the nearby warriors tumbling through the air. As they regain their feet, and make to rush back into battle, the beast's gorge expands once again, and liquid flame pours forth. Cathal raises his shield to defend, though he is at the center of the conflagration.

Just as the flames are about to envelop him, Egil and two other Yngvi interpose themselves, and their stout shields, taking the brunt of the fire. Cathal calls out to Egil, but can only watch as the brave thegns' lives are burned away. He sees Ysgerda, attacking the dragon from the side, impaled on a great horn at the tip of the monster's tail, then tossed heartlessly into a nearby snowbank. At least half of his warriors are dead or dying.

Cathal tosses his shield, useless and ruined, to the ground and begins loping toward the dragon. It has to take some time to regain its ability to breath hell, he surmises. Dolan falls in at his side and his heart rises. The two of them raise their arms to the sky and shout together.

"EYES!

EVER!

ON OUR PREY!"

Two Songs

The most beautiful woman Trevard had ever seen had been at the Red Stag for about a week. She didn't look like anyone he had ever seen. Her skin was very dark, much darker than even the farmhands after a summer of field labour, and spring had barely started. They cleared out a space by the fire for her every night. She sat on a stool and put a fantastic thing on her lap. He wasn't sure what it was, but its wood was dark and shiny and beautifully carved, and it was covered in thin metal wires and strange knobs and holes, and he knew instinctively he wasn't supposed to touch it. But when she touched it... oh, when she touched it, with her tiny hands the colour of the Red Stag's oaken bartop, they flittered to and fro like small birds, and the magic happened.

Trevard had seen the music people before. Bards, Cedric called them. He liked them and got very excited when one passed through Portage, because everyone would flock to the Red Stag to hear them make the music. People loved to hear music. They would buy plenty of beer and sing along and stomp their feet. They would yell the name of their favourite song at the bard, and if they liked the song, throw coins in the basket at the bard's feet. Trevard loved the music too. He didn't understand how it could change how everyone in the room felt at the same time, he just knew it was magic. The bard would sing a stompy yelling song of battle and everyone in the room would hoist their tankards and holler as though they themselves were soldiers afield. The bard could sing a sad song and he would feel tears welling up in his own eyes and see them in everyone else's.

But none of the half-dozen bards he'd seen in his life came close to the strange dark-skinned lady. She talked a little funny and some words sounded strange when she said them. But when she sang, chills ran across Trevard's skin. Her voice was like honey, or moonlight, or like the flapping of the wings of swans that flew back north at winter's end.

Right now they were cheering for her and silver coins were raining into the big box at her feet, the box she carried her magic wooden string-thing in. She had just finished a song-- a funny light song that had the whole room roaring with laughter. This was a bit unusual, Trevard noticed, because most, almost all the songs she'd been playing, were very sad.

"Oi, Khinasi, play another, would ya?" a stout man at the bar hollered. "Play 'Thunder and Flame' so we can wish our boys and girls good fortune against the Imperial dogs!"

The beautiful lady smiled and in her strange voice said "I beg your forgiveness, good sir, but I am quite tired. I've need of a cool drink, but after that I've imposed on your fine Portagean hospitality long enough, and must be on the road!"

Trevard almost fell over, he got up so fast and ran to the barrel of cold fresh wellwater behind the bar. He dunked a goblet in it and rushed to bring it to her, trying very hard not to spill. She was busy scooping the silver coins into a bag and returning her wooden string thing inside the box, which fit its odd shape perfectly. Too timid to reach out and tap her shoulder, he cleared his throat and said "Excuse me, lady, I brought you some water."

She turned around. "Oh, goodness, thank you very much, young man! Exactly what I needed." She smiled so brightly he felt something warm and twitchy stir in his heart. He tried to summon the courage to say something else to her; what she'd just said sounded a bit like she meant to leave Portage, maybe forever, and the thought made him very sad.

"Why are you leaving?" he blurted out. "Don't go. You're the best music person who has ever played music here."

Different feelings flickered across her face, like sunlight turning into many colours as it shone through the stained glass in Haelyn's temple-- genuine pleasure at his words, sadness, regret, and something he didn't completely understand.

"Thank you, young man, your words honour me. You and your master have been very kind to me. The Red Stag is a lovely inn, and Portage is a lovely city. But I must go."

"But why?"

"My friend came here with an army. I received news that the army lost. I came here to try and find him, or at least learn what happened. He is not here. I am... I can't be sure, but... I think he is... gone. So there is no reason for me to stay."

"Is that why you mostly sing sad songs?"

She stopped short, and looked at Trevard for a long moment, speechless, as though she were surprised he or anyone had noticed.

And then, without really knowing why, or understanding how the silly notion overcame him, he opened his mouth, and started to sing, one of her songs-- the saddest of all of them. Maybe his heart felt so full of her songs that it needed to overflow. Maybe he wanted her to hear how beautiful her songs were, as though he were a mirror reflecting her own beauty back at her. He was very good at copying how other people sounded when they talked-- so good it startled people whenever he did it-- and he found to his own surprise that copying the sound of her singing was just as easy. He copied her high, pure tones, even copied the strange way her words sounded.

"The boughs are gnarled and grey, still
The furrows, barren, stand
Though spring's vivacious paintbrush
Illuminates the land

Our garden, dark and silent
Stays ever desolate
For want of your dear fingers
Upon the garden gate."

He barely noticed that the crowd had fallen completely silent and were staring at him, open-mouthed. Some had leaned forward eagerly, eyes on the lady, because they had thought it was her singing again. And the beautiful lady was staring, too, her eyes wide with surprise. But she only stared a moment... and then she did something so magical that he knew he would never forget it as long as he lived. She started singing along with him, but a little differently, higher in some places, lower in others, so their voices wove together, a seamless, perfect harmony. The beauty of it shivered up his spine.

"The streets bustle and prosper
Gold banners fill the air
The King's victorious soldiers
March home to bright fanfare

And yet a shadow lingers
Upon our lonely home
For want of your dear footsteps
Upon the paving-stones."

And everyone in the room was silent and still, watching them, and tears were streaming down the lady's cheeks, and Trevard realized he was crying too, and not a few of the people in the crowd were weeping like babies in their mothers' arms.

"Outside is laughter, sunshine
The sweet passage of days
The golden glow of summer
And autumn's scarlet haze

But in these walls is winter
Now and forever more
For ne'er again will you step
Through yonder lonely door." 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


Scarlet foam bubbled up between Thea's lips, and Daevin, who'd been trying so hard to remain strong and brave, lost control, and tears leaked from his eyes. "Stay with me, Thea! Stay with me!" he pleaded. "The Captain said another healer just arrived in the camp. He's coming any minute now. Just hang on for me a little longer. Please... Please, Thea, oh, please, Haelyn, Haelyn protect us, Haelyn save us..."

Daevin didn't know very much about wounds, but the sight of the three arrowshafts piercing his little sister's cuirass filled him with a cold, grim dread. Hell, Daevin didn't know the first thing about war... at least not until the soldiers from Boeruine killed his and Thea's parents and burned the farmland their family rented from House Oswin. They'd robbed everything they could carry from the granary and torched the rest, a harvest's worth of stores for both feeding them and paying tribute to House Oswin. So, with no other real options to prevent two orphans from starvation, they'd both signed up for the peasant levy, despite Thea being not quite old enough--not quite fifteen-- and Daevin barely older. The recruiters were not being choosy. So many Baysiders had fallen in the siege that they couldn't afford to.

They'd marched all the way here, a few days' ride west of Seamist. They'd heard Countess Fulcairn's ringing speech to the assembled Imperial army. Taeghans had turned to fight with them, and they'd charged the enemy infantry, the great ginger-haired priestess from Wilder's Gorge leading them. They had been assured that the peasant levy would play a support role only to the heavy infantry, but within moments, they were surrounded by enemy fighters, swinging their barely-trained swords to and fro, just trying to stay alive. While the priestess and her ghost-warriors had fought bravely to try and protect them, the battle had gone poorly for them. Daevin saw Baysiders cut down in droves. He was certain they would be annihilated, but the priestess sounded the retreat, and then moments later the Imperial force pulled back... not before sending a last defiant volley at their unit, including the arrows currently jutting from Thea's torso.

Oh, gods. Her lips were blue. Her eyes were open, but unfocused. With every breath came another surge of pink and red foam at Thea's lips. Blood had overflowed from her cuirass, and he now knelt in a pool of it. Where is the priestess? Daevin had seen the casualties, waist-deep piles of corpses on the battlefield. He knew she would try and save everyone she could, but there were so many of them, and so many more important than some untrained peasant teenage girl from Bayside. Please, Haelyn, Cuiraecen. Anyone. I'll do anything. If you save her, I'll join your service. I'll become a monk. I'll devote the rest of my life to you. Gods know I'm not a very good soldier. Please. Please, gods, please...

Then the infirmary tent flap opened, and two women entered. One was small, in long white robes, pretty in a sweet, shy way, with long dark hair braided back from her face. The other Daevin mistook for a man at first; she was tall, broad-shouldered, short-haired, clad in chainmail and bearing a vicious axe, but her fine features were unmistakably a woman's. She hovered protectively over the smaller woman as she immediately went to her knees next to Thea, unconcerned as her white robes immediately became saturated with her blood.

The small woman's eyes were gentle as they met Daevin's. "It's very bad, I'm afraid," she said softly. "Are you her brother?" she asked, no doubt noting their matching reddish-gold hair and elfishly pointed chins.

Daevin nodded, unable to speak.

"I will do everything I can. I promise. But her fate is in Haelyn's hands now. Will you pray with me?"

Daevin nodded. She held out her hands, and he took her hands, and they rested their interlocked fingers just above Thea's chest. The small woman began to sing softly, a hymn he knew from Haelyn's feastdays, and though his voice was small and shaking, he sang with her.

"Praise be, praise be, O Haelyn
O Lord of Law and Light
All that is foul and darkness
Shall flee before Thy might..."

Between their joined fingers, a strange and sourceless light began to shine, warm and gentle like the hearth of their farmhouse beckoning through the cold gloom of a winter's day. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the words of the hymn, stumbling occasionally, sobbing sometimes. Please, Haelyn. Please. Cuiraecen. Anyone. I'll do anything. Please. 

And then after what seemed like an eternity, Thea coughed and spluttered, and half-sat up, and the arrowheads with their half-broken shafts fell to the floor as her healing flesh rejected them.

Daevin stared at the small woman, speechless, unable to find the words to express his awe and gratitude.

She smiled back at him. "She'll need to remain still. Her wounds still need to be poulticed against infection and then bandaged... Dreya, could you please pass me some rags?" The tall woman reached into an enormous pack and pulled out a swath of clean linen. She passed it to Daevin. "I'm sorry, I cannot stay. I have so many others I need to try and help. But I believe she will be alright. Haelyn will bless both of you for your courage."

She took the tall woman's hand and they walked out into the evening.

Daevin burst into exhausted, relieved tears and squeezed Thea's hand, as she feebly turned her head to and fro in confusion, hovering in and out of consciousness.

I'll keep my promises. I'll keep my promises to the gods.