The Talismans of Aerdrim

Wedding Day

“WAKE UP, D'LORIAD,” Kyla says, looking down at Adgar in the waning gray moonlight. “It’s your wedding day. If we make it back in time.”

They break camp before dawn, riding slowly so as to not strain their weary mounts. A few other riders drift past in the gloom on the great north road; Kyla watches each traveler warily for signs that it’s a bandit or d’Aramant sent to ensure that Adgar doesn’t get back to Lynar. Instead, just before sunrise, they crest a hill and hear a welcome voice from a stand of trees to their left. “Most auspicious of the Arawai!” Nurak emerges, waving enthusiastically, leading two well-rested horses. “A certain Sufza heard that you might be seeking strong steeds on this matrimonial morning.”

Adgar laughs jubilantly, then hesitates. “Where did he?...”

“Don’t ask,” whispers Kyla, beaming as she dismounts to greet the skinny rogue.

BACK IN LYNAR, a masked, black-clad Nina steals silently into Avric’s quarters. He checks to see that the sleeping draught he slipped into Avric’s drink the previous night had the intended effect. Satisfied, he doses the young d’Aramant’s sword with the poison intended for Atrix and withdraws as noiselessly as he came. At sunrise, Nina returns, this time dressed in his usual noble finery, and bangs loudly on the door. “Cousin! Time to get ready. You should really kill the d’Loriad before he’s married.”

Avric shakes himself groggily awake. “An... Anseron? I feel terrible.”

“Well, have a drink,” Nina says comfortingly, offering a steaming flagon of mixed herbs – including the antidote to the sleeping potion. “One of my uncles is a herbalist. This should help you feel your best for the duel.”

LATER THAT MORNING in the d’Loriad palace, Atrix is briefing Carwyn, Darren, and Meeshak on their parts in the plan when his father bursts in. “Where are your cousins?” he roars. “They’re supposed to be watching you. You’re to be married in an hour!”

“They vanished yesterday, father,” Atrix says mournfully. “I believe they were ordered to Aradur by General Athriam to bring back the Aradurn host.”

Marix d’Loriad eyes his son, skepticism and anger both plain on his face. “And who will be your ring-brother?”

“Do I really need a ring-brother, father?” Atrix inquires, sounding impatient.

“To keep an eye on you if nothing else. I’ll be back in a heartbeat with your cousin... er, Serif. Don’t move.”

“Serif?” Atrix says incredulously when his father has disappeared down the hall. “He’s perpetually drunk. Father must really be desperate. Let’s get out of here.”

They swiftly elude Atrix’s parents, and the plan rolls into motion. Carwyn goes to Avric and Agerain and informs them that the Merle Tower is too close to Atrix’s relatives, who are hunting for him... so the duel will have to be relocated to the distant west wall of the palace, above the library postern. She then goes looking for Ontaya, to tell her about the location of the duel, just after it’s due to start. Meeshak goes to prepare for the wedding service with Chancellor Eliduc – and to delay it by any means necessary. Darren goes to wait at the library postern.

FINALLY, ATRIX GOES to stand with Ash on the wall above the great library of Lynar. It’s a cloudless noon when Agerain, Avric, and Nina arrive. For once, there’s no large entourage of cousins around them; Agerain is taking no risks of the duel being discovered by the castellan. Avric steps forward, bristling with energy and confidence. “Atrix of the d’Loriads, are you ready for death?”

Atrix wrinkles his brow in scorn as he draws his sword and parrying dagger. There’s something irritatingly deliberate in the way Avric gave his name. To say that someone is “of” a Family means either that, like Ontaya, they were adopted into it or that they are illegitimate offspring. “That’s Atrix d’Loriad to you,” Atrix retorts.

“Poor boy. You don’t even know your own history,” Avric chuckles snidely. “Now you never will.” He brings his sword and dagger up, bares his teeth, and launches himself at Atrix.

After three swift passes where both take minor wounds, Atrix thinks he sees the chance to disarm Avric like he did in their last encounter. To his nearly fatal shock, Avric parries with a flawless Swordsmark technique designed to counter disarm attempts – batting Atrix’s sword aside and coming within an inch of taking his head off in the same fluid movement. Atrix falls back with a deep gash in his chest, and almost immediately feels his breathing and heart begin to slow. His eyes blaze. “Poison, d’Aramant? What dishonor is this?”

Avric’s elated grin falters slightly. “What are you talking about, d’Loriad?”

He’s distracted further by a deafening shout from the courtyard below: “Stand down!” Ontaya has arrived on the scene, brandishing her sword. “Stand down, both of you, or be taken down.” She charges toward the stairs.

Atrix lashes out at his adversary, and the slightly flustered Avric counters with a disarming strike of his own. He succeeds, sending the young d’Loriad’s sword flying. With a roar of triumph, Avric closes in for the kill – and with typical stubborn panache, Atrix goes for a final disarmament attempt, using his parrying dagger. He catches Avric by surprise and manages to twist the blond d’Aramant’s saber out of his hand. Atrix catches it with his free hand, sniffs the blade, then runs his tongue along it and recoils at the bitterness. “Poison!” he cries again.

“Ignore him!” Agerain shouts, tossing Avric another sword. The d’Aramant does his best to fend off a flurry of attacks from Atrix, but he is shaken by being once again disarmed by his rival – and the traces of poison remaining on the sword have begun to affect Avric, too. Despite struggling to breathe and remain conscious, Atrix finally manages to run Avric through with his own sword. The slack-jawed d’Aramant topples from the wall and falls twenty feet to land at Ontaya’s feet with a crunch. Atrix sinks into a motionless heap.

To the whole party’s frustration – not least Ontaya’s own – the murderous Avric is still barely alive, and her high ethical code forbids her to let him die. She pauses to lay hands on him, reviving him to consciousness. Meanwhile Agerain is the first to Atrix’s “corpse,” feeling for a pulse. “He’s dead!” he crows down to Ontaya. “Already beyond your powers, witch.”

Ontaya stares down with implacable rage at the groggy Avric. “You’ll pay before the law for this murder,” she vows, and punches him in the face with a mail-clad fist, knocking him out. Seconds later, she is by Atrix’s side, laying on hands – but her powers don’t affect Nina’s poison, and Atrix still shows no sign of pulse or breathing. Before Ontaya can do anything more, Agerain shouts, “To the wedding!” to Nina, and they run off.

“Quick – after them!” Ash cries to Ontaya. Ontaya snatches up Avric’s sword, and the two of them also charge away. A few minutes later, Darren and Carwyn emerge from the library and quietly remove Atrix’s body, shrouding it in a cloth and placing it in a small wagon brought for the purpose before trundling it down to the town of Lynar.

EMPLOYING HIS HIGH wisdom, Meeshak has managed to delay the Holy Chancellor with a theological debate on divine ends and means on the way to the wedding. They have only just arrived at the crowded chapel when the crowd from the duel storms in. “Atrix d’Loriad is dead!” calls Agerain to many gasps. “He was accidentally killed in a duel of his own choosing.”

“It was no accident,” bellows Ontaya, just behind him. “Avric d’Aramant killed him with a poisoned blade, which I have here. Any priest can confirm the poisoning.”

Marix d’Loriad rises to his feet, pale, while Atrix’s uncle Porphyry utters an earthy curse, and several young d’Loriads begin clamoring for vengeance. Young d’Nereins and d’Aramants start jeering back at them. Sarele, lovely at the altar in her wedding gown, looks merely perplexed. Ignoring Ontaya’s accusation, Agerain crows, “The wedding’s off!” – and Atrix’s cousin Kay goes for his throat. While he’s trying to fend Kay off, Ontaya picks him up and hurls him back against the chapel wall. To his dismay, Nina finds himself alone, facing an enraged, nearly berserk paladin in the center of a growing brawl.

The fracas is interrupted by the whinny of a horse outside. With Kyla close behind, Adgar bursts into the chapel and shouts, “This wedding is not off.”

The room falls momentarily silent in confusion. Sarele goes pale and cries out, “No – no, you fools! He’s not dead. He’s not dead!”

“Your grief is understandable, my dear,” Atrix’s roguish friend Jaron cuts in loudly, elbowing aside the d’Aramants to join Adgar, “but we all have to accept that our beloved Atrix is gone. And Adgar’s right – in the event of the groom’s death, the ring-brother is required by law to take his place.”

Cousin Adgar strides to the front of the hall, flanked by Kyla, Ash, and cheering young d’Loriad cousins. “The d’Aramants planned to kill Atrix and remove me from Lynar to prevent this alliance from happening,” he says quietly to Chancellor Eliduc. “It’s too late for us to save Atrix, but this wedding must continue before they find another way to disrupt it.”

Chancellor Eliduc raises his hands for calm. When that fails, Meeshak looms up beside him and grates, “Silence,” in his most witheringly Sistechern voice. This proves more effective. “Daughter,” Eliduc calls to Ontaya, “you agree with Agerain d’Aramant that Atrix d’Loriad is dead?”

“I saw his body and tried to heal him,” says Ontaya simply. “On my honor, he is dead.”

Ignoring a chorus of protest from the d’Aramants and some of the d’Nereins, Chancellor Eliduc places Sarele’s stiff hand in Adgar’s. “In the name of Ain and by the laws of the Five Families of Senallin, I declare you to be husband and wife. May your union be a source of harmony between your Families...” He looks up with a wry smile. “...however unlikely that may seem at the moment.”

A HOST OF d’Aramants and d’Loriads spill squabbling out of the chapel. Castellan Reynalt arrives with an inadequate detachment of guards to restore order. A troubled Ontaya returns to the site of the duel, and finds that the poisoned Avric has fatally thrown himself on Agerain’s sword from the shame of losing another duel to Atrix (and for fear of Shect, though only Nina knows that). Atrix’s body is gone without trace, which is strange... but Jaron and Carwyn, both master rumor-mongers, successfully spread the story that the d’Aramants hid it so their poisoning could never be proven.

Meanwhile, under close escort from Ash, Kyla, and Alan, Adgar d’Loriad escorts his stunned bride to a well-guarded chamber in the d’Loriad keep. He shuts the door behind her, and goes into a nearby room to clean up from the long ride. When he emerges, he looks weary and a little uneasy. “Well. I think it’s time I had a long talk with my wife.”

“You’ll make her a much, much better husband than Atrix would have,” says Kyla frankly.

Adgar gives a rueful laugh. “I hope she thinks so. Eventually.”

“I hope she thinks so tonight, coz,” says Alan with a grin. “In the morning we march to Arawai.”

The Arawai Ambassadors

ASH AND THE other squires are up early the next morning, preparing their knights’ mounts and pack animals for the long ride to Guardwatch. They hear distant voices shouting, look up at each other in confusion, and then make out the cry: “Arawai! The Arawai are here!” Abandoning their tasks, they grab their weapons and head for the walls.

It isn’t the warhost they momentarily feared. Three Arawai warriors have ridden up to the Palace’s front gate and drawn back their cowled cloaks to reveal clan scars, feathered necklets, and bandoliers of short flint blades. They have also unfurled a broad white banner. No Senalline will attack riders under a flag of truce – everyone knows that the curse of Ain is likely to descend on someone who violates such an appeal – but a crowd of angry Lynar-folk is growing around the riders, shouting insults.

“I am T’harai of the Red Kestrel, clan-chief and speaker for the tribes,” calls the tall barbarian in the lead. “We have ridden day and night through forest and field in hiding and at peril of our lives, Lords of the North, to hail you and bring you warning. Will you hear us before you slay us?”

The d’Aramant patriarch, Athagon, appears atop the wall, smiling beneficently. “Speak what you will, captain of the Arawai. Your lives are in no peril here.”

“Your preparations and your plans have long been known to the Arawai, kherasi lord,” states T’harai flatly -- using the Arawai word, “steel-folk,” for the people of the north. “You have raised a great army to slay our warriors and desecrate our ancestors’ lands. This will not be permitted. Know that we too have planned and prepared for your coming, and you shall not pass unchallenged.”

This causes a great chorus of mocking whoops, laughter, and hisses from the crowd both on the walls and below. A miserable Kyla wraps her own cloak even more tightly around herself. One of the other Arawai, a sinewy and heavily scarred warrior, stands in his saddle and roars, “By Keyashai, you shall not steal the land of the Arawai again!” The mockery turns uglier, and the crowd around the three horsemen begins to press in more closely, picking up rocks.

On the wall close to Ash and the squires, General Athriam d’Aramant turns grinning to Atrix’s uncle Sarquin and makes a small gesture with a question in his eye. General Sarquin shakes his head emphatically, leans over the battlement, and cries, “Keep the peace! Let no stone be cast at them. They stand under Ain’s banner, and Ain will protect them if we do not.”

Patriarch Athagon d’Aramant nods and raises his hands, and the crowd falls back again. “We do not come to steal, my barbarian friends,” he calls, sounding slightly wounded but still genial. “We come to till, and plant, and tame, and put your empty land to wise use. You do not see the goodness of this, but we shall teach you. So, return, and make your preparations. Welcome us as you choose, but know that we will come – and stay.”

T’harai shakes his head, grim-faced. “So be it. Your blood is on your own hands, kherasi. Kha! Kha!” He wheels his horse around and spurs it forward. The crowd parts, jeering, to let him and his two escorts pass.

“I hope I meet that one again on the battlefield,” comments Erivas, one of the d’Syrnon knights. “We’ll see whose blood is on my hands.” Turning back to the squires, he waves them from the wall. “Back to your preparations. We have a long ride ahead.”

AS ASH IS descending to the stables, he is met by one of Marcor’s pages carrying a leather sack. “The general said to go through this saddlebag and make sure any necessary supplies get to Erivas.” Ash nods and takes the bag to a quiet corner of the stables, where he finds a note inside: The two men you spoke of have fled the palace. We will find them and confirm their guilt. You have my thanks.

After reading it, Ash runs to find Kyla -- who has retreated to her rooms, shaken by the display of Arawai-hatred outside the walls and torn anew about whether she can travel with the Army of the North. “Kyla... Aleander the Sage and Malchus the Cofferer have fled the palace, and the d’Syrnons are hunting for them. They should be unable to carry out whatever their plan of betrayal was – but they might try to attack you as they promised. You need to be careful.”

Kyla shakes her head bitterly. “Do I dare to even leave this room? Ash, I’m not worried about the conspirators, I’m worried about every Senalline out there.”

“You can’t stay in Lynar,” Ash points out. “You need to be with your friends – somewhere we can protect you.”

They fall silent as they hear footsteps approaching, then relax slightly when they see Adgar d’Loriad come around the corner, still looking tired but much less nervous than the previous afternoon. “Kyla! I’d hoped we could ride out together today. I’ve spoken to Uncle Sarquin – I had to explain to him that Gareth took my place going north, so he could sort that out with General Athriam – and I let him know that without you, our alliance with the d’Nereins would never have come off. He wants you out of the d’Syrnon kitchens and traveling with the Family.”

Kyla blinks. “Don’t the d’Aramants have something to say about that?”

“They’ll allow it if we take responsibility for you and for your actions.” Adgar shrugs. “I’m comfortable with that. So is Uncle Sarquin.”

After a moment, Kyla sighs. “Thank you Adgar. I’d be honored to ride with you and your family. How is Sarele?”

Adgar inclines his head thoughtfully, almost smiling. “I don’t think she’ll miss me while I’m gone. But I don’t think she hates me. That’s enough to start with.”

Dead Man Waking

AFTER WHAT FEELS like the deepest sleep of his life, Atrix slowly becomes aware of dull pains all over his body. When he tries gingerly to move, he finds that his blood seem to have turned into lead and is weighing down his limbs. His eyes flicker open to see a very relieved Darren and a tearful Kay at his bedside.

“Did it... work?” Atrix wheezes.

“It worked – you impossible, irresponsible idiot,” cousin Kay says with some heat, wiping rapidly at her eyes.

“He’s alive!” Darren cheers.

An exuberant Porphyry bustles into the room. Atrix recognizes the lavish furnishings as his merchant uncle’s style, and realizes with relief that as planned, Darren and Carwyn have brought him to Porphyry’s home to recover. “That’s my lad! It’ll take more than a bit of poison to do you in. I’m sure it helped that your skinny priest friend came down yesterday to have a look at you and do a bit of healing.” Leaning in, he whispers, “Brilliant work, my boy. Brilliant. As mad a scheme as ever I heard, and you pulled it off.”

“Then Adgar’s married?” Atrix says eagerly.

“Oh yes, we were witnesses to the blessed event,” Porphyry says. “Gave us all quite a shock to hear of your demise. Nearly as shocked as I was to come back and find that Carwyn had smuggled you in here in my absence. But that’s not the half of it.” He roars with laughter. “Lad, within the day you were the hero of Lynar. A young man poisoned by the rotten d’Aramants on the morn of his wedding, who still managed to make sure his ring-brother got back in time to frustrate their scheme. Give us a year and we’ll make you a legend – as long as you stay dead. Kendall and I had already convinced a score of the merchants of Lynar to cut the d’Aramants out of the Caragond trade; now more will be willing to join the trade war. The season of d’Aramant power is passing, nephew, and your story is one of the weapons we’ll use to bring them down.”

“I can... live with that,” Atrix agrees, settling back into his blankets.

Kay shakes her head. “And all because you couldn’t bring yourself to marry Sarele like any sane man would have done. Was she that terrible?”

“Oh, forgive him already, Kayene,” Porphyry retorts jovially. “You’d have been proud of her at the wedding, Atrix – she almost had Agerain d’Aramant’s eyes for the way he was talking about your death.” Kay turns crimson and waves him away.

“Thank you... cousin,” Atrix says.

“Atrix lad, the Army of the North moves out today, and you ought to move with it,” Porphyry advises. “There’s no safe place for you here in Lynar – too many people here know your face. Kendall, Kayene, and myself will be traveling to supply the army. We’ll keep you hidden in the wagons for a day or two while you recover, but we can’t have you with us for long – a lot of d’Loriads will be visiting our caravan, including several who can’t hold their tongues.”

“But I know a band of dwarrow who travel in the mercenary camp,” Darren chimes in. “You could easily join the camp as a lone mercenary. The sellswords mostly stay away from the rest of the army, and it’s rare for anyone from the Families to come round that way.”

“Excellent plan,” Atrix says appreciatively, feeling his eyelids sinking again. “Just tell me when... it’s time... to go.”

THE ARMY OF the North leaves Lynar at mid-morning, in a chaos of dust, creaking wain-wheels, nickering horses, and raucous cheers. Ash and Ontaya are still riding as squires, and Darren sticks with his dwarrow mentor Cannedun. Meeshak provides priestly care to the d’Syrnons and d’Loriads. Kyla is riding with Adgar in the d’Loriad host. Carwyn stays with Kyla, rather than returning to the kitchens; she plans to use her card winnings to set up a tent offering food, drink, and (most importantly) gambling on the outskirts of the camp.

Nina, of course, is riding with the d’Aramants, but not as a squire. Agerain dismisses any idea of squirely service with a snort. “If I need to learn anything from one of our knights, I’ll have him teach me, without needing to shine his boots first. And you -- you could outfight half of them already.”

At camp that evening in the forests east of Lynar, Agerain irritably chases away all of his cousins save “Anseron” and sits, snapping up sticks and throwing them on the fire. “I’m told that Atrix d’Loriad is turning into some kind of hero. The whole wedding story is irresistable, and the bards of Lynar don’t like poisoners.”

“Do we really know that he died of poison?” Nina offers. “I thought Avric cut him up badly enough to kill him. And there has to be some reason the d’Loriads hid his body.”

“You’re sharp, cousin,” Agerain says with a smile. “No, I never believed that Avric would use poison to kill the d’Loriad. It’s not in his nature -- and I saw the surprise in his eyes. He couldn’t feign anything that well. He was a good man, but not that bright.” He stands up and begins pacing. “Atrix had likely planned to denounce Avric as a poisoner if the duel started going badly. After Atrix died, I shouldn’t have left his friends in possession of Avric’s sword for even a second. That priest they keep with them, the one who prays and glares like a Sistechern – I warrant he knows a few things about poisons.”

Nina is about to speak, but hears a noise in the woods and looks up as twelve lightly armed men emerge, some limping and bloodied under their black cloaks. The lead man nods wearily to Agerain, who frowns and nods back silently. When they’ve passed, moving toward the generals’ tents, Nina asks, “What was that about?”

Agerain looks keenly at Nina for a moment and seems to come to a decision. “Huntsmen. Athriam sent them after the three Arawai spies to catch them and find out what they knew.”

Nina nods. “No fear of breaking their flag of truce?”

“Barbarians can not offer a true embassy,” Agerain says with straightforward contempt. Then he shakes his head ruefully. “They can fight, though. Athriam sent twenty men after them. I wonder how many of the Arawai got away.”

A Paladin Among Rogues

THE ARMY OF the North moves eastward at a crawl, with over two thousand Senalline pikemen, three hundred fifty cavalry, nearly six hundred mercenaries, and well over three thousand camp followers of various occupations. (The Generals have actively encouraged as many Senallines as possible to follow the Army, hoping they will remain as settlers after the conquest of the Arawai plains). Two hundred priests of Ain from all Orders also accompany the vast army to keep the troops orderly, create emergency water and food, and stop outbreaks of disease. It will take three months for this great host to reach Guardwatch; a small party traveling hard might make the same journey in three weeks.

For the party of friends who met in Rim Square, the long months of travel are a chance to hone and expand their skills. Ash spends most of his time with the army’s scouts and hunters, a taciturn bunch who teach him how to read the signs of the wild in the forests and grassland of lowland Senallin (subtly different from the mountain forests he’s used to). Ash passes some of this tracking knowledge along to Kyla, on the days when she’s not practicing close combat with the d’Loriads. Meeshak is one of the most effective younger priests keeping order in the camp; he acquires a reputation among the soldiers for being tough (indeed, terrifying) but fair. His authority is not hurt by publicly practicing his fighting skills with a whip.

IN HER DAILY sessions of prayer and contemplation, Ontaya begins to sense that great challenges lie ahead which she can not face alone; the time has come for her to summon her paladin companion. She fasts for a week in preparation, retreats to a nearby hill, and cries out mentally – come – a summons beyond language, which leaves her feeling as though she has just hurled a boulder over the brow of the hill. When she wearily opens her eyes, she sees a luminous, snowy white warhorse galloping toward her. The great mare thunders to a halt and stands in proud expectation. “Dorma,” Ontaya says decisively. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

When Ontaya returns to camp atop the massive white horse, it permanently cements the awe that most of the other squires feel for her. She hand-picks six of her young peers and begins drilling them into shape every day at the end of their march. By the end of the journey, “Ontaya’s squires” are fighting as a skilled unit, fiercely loyal to their Sword-Priest leader. The brightest and most charismatic of the squires, young Corim d’Orbis, emerges naturally as Ontaya’s lieutenant.

THERE IS ONLY one hiccup in their training. Ontaya arrives one afternoon for practice to find her wayward trainee Santor d’Nerein with only half his armor on. As she dismounts from Dorma, she regards Santor coldly. “If you don’t show up prepared for these sessions, Santor, there’s no point in you showing up at all.”

“I... I’m so sorry,” Santor blurts, mortified. “I lost the rest of my armor.”

“Lost it?” Ontaya repeats incredulously. “Where?”

“In a game of Imperium,” the squire mumbles. “Along with my month’s allowance. To a man named Lune.”

Ontaya purses her lips and beckons Santor to join the rest of them on the field. He leaves an hour later groaning from the relentless battering he’s taken on his unarmored torso. Ontaya dismisses the other squires and, with Corim at her side, stalks to the outskirts of the army camp.

Carwyn has set up a successful gaming tent where, every day, dozens of Senalline pikemen and squires stream in to try their luck against the lovely proprietor. The scruffy Lynarman Lune has become a regular fixture at the main table; behind his charming panache is a ferocious player with a keen eye for his opponents' foibles. Carwyn’s initial annoyance with him shifts a little closer to attraction every time they game with each other. Today the two of them are gambling with the cheery Nurak, an increasingly impoverished knight, and four other soldiers when Ontaya pushes aside the tent flap.

“Welcome, Ontaya,” Carwyn says, almost managing to keep the guilty irritation from her voice. Not for the first time, she wishes she’d never dallied with the paladin, who seems to have taken it as a license to try improving her character. “We don’t see you down here often.”

“Thank you,” Ontaya replies, a little stiffly. “I wouldn’t be here now, frankly, but one of your... new friends has stolen my squire Santor’s armor.”

“Stolen?” Lune says lightly, letting Ontaya’s disapproving stare roll off him. “That’s strong language.”

“Gambling is theft in the eyes of Ain,” growls the paladin.

“Untrue,” Lune retorts. “Why, Ain himself is described as playing dice with the fates of mankind in the psalms of Saint Stephen.” At this, Nurak lets out a hoot of laughter.

“A ridiculous analogy,” Ontaya says indignantly, caught off guard. “It’s not meant in any way to justify human gambling, which...” She searches her mind for the right ethical text. “...is roundly condemned in the Index of Nurinn, along with other forms of preying upon the poor.”

Lune smiles lazily [making the INT check that wins the theological duel]. “But the Council of Oletto clarified that games of chance are not inherently wrong, since it’s essentially a process of trusting one’s wealth to Ain’s judgment. In a way, it’s an act of reverence. Besides, your squire was hardly poor. You should quote the Index of Nurinn to him -- coming down here with his Family gold to try winning silvers from pikemen and commoners like me.” He casts his eyes over to a corner of the tent, where Santor’s breastplate is sitting. “Honestly, though, I don’t have much need for armor. You can bring it back to your boy, as long as he doesn’t try coming back to my table. And tell him that he tenses up his hands when he thinks he’s got an advantage over an opponent. That’s got to have some application to... whatever it is he does when he’s not losing at cards.” He glances down at Ontaya’s clenched fists with an insolent grin.

A fuming Ontaya’s mood is made even worse when she sees her loyal but slightly roguish squire Corim trying to hold down a grin. She curtly gestures at Corim to retrieve Santor’s armor. “Don’t worry. I won’t have any of my trainees corrupted by your... twisted interpretations of sacred texts. Santor won’t trouble you again.” Ontaya looks over at Carwyn, trying to find words for her sense of betrayal. “And Carwyn – I can only advise you as a friend to be careful about the company you keep.” Without waiting for an answer, she storms out of the tent.

Carwyn turns admiringly to Lune. “Where did that come from?”

Lune shrugs. “My father sent me to train for the priesthood. I couldn’t help picking up a few things before I escaped.”

“Mmm. Impressive.” Carwyn shifts a little closer to him, squeezes his knee, and takes advantage of his smug distraction to fleetly glance over his cards. “Back to the game?”

Marching East

DARREN SPENDS MUCH of his time in Cannedun’s traveling workshop, which is also on the outskirts of the main army. The young Senalline has always been an inventor, but his gadgets have been fairly simple – spring-driven noisemakers, for example, to entertain children or distract guards. During the long march east, he devises a more ambitious invention: a small but powerful spring-loaded needle shooter, which he can attach to his arm and hide under his sleeve. When he’s not repairing saddle or armor fastenings, he practices his aim with the concealed device, sometimes wearing his dwarrow medallion to sense the air currents and increase the distance at which he can hit a warm target with a needle.

One evening, while Darren is laughing at Mullod’s banter with Cannedun, he suddenly hears a familiar tentative voice that sends his heart into his throat. “Shipboy?”

“Calla!” Darren jumps up, beaming, to see the blonde d’Aramant girl hovering at the edge of the firelight. “Welcome! Are you all right? It’s... I haven’t seen you since the Ball.” His own efforts to locate her have been fruitless; the young d’Aramants have been particularly nasty to outsiders since Avric’s death, and Nina has advised Darren to keep his distance from the whole clan.

“I’m fine,” Calla says, glancing around. “I don’t think my cousins will come down this way, and they’re used to me wandering off in Lynar. And my uncle... uncle Mercon... is with the outriders.” Her eyes search his face to see if there’s any fear or reluctance when she mentions her formidable guardian.

Darren’s grin never falters. “I’m so glad you found us. You haven’t met my friends. This is my teacher, Cannedun, and Mullod of the gray dwarrow.”

Mullod chortles as he sweeps into a bow. “Honored to meet you, lass. I saw you down at the docks in Lynar. Looked like you were talking a lot about the ships, but our lad here seemed a bit distracted – I would wager he was looking more at you than at anything else.”

Calla smiles but reddens, while a flustered Darren ushers them all into Cannedun’s workshop. Over the next few weeks, the diffident Calla visits them there as often as she can steal away from her family. She and Darren talk for hours about everything that excites and fascinates them in the world – while studiously avoiding any mention of her family, General Mercon, or any of the other reasons that they can only meet in the safety of the dwarrow workshop.

MEANWHILE IN THE mercenary camp, an anonymous Atrix has restrained himself from too much sword practice, lest his reputation get up to the main camp. With his health fully returned, though, he is chafing at his inactivity. Then one day he spots a graceful young mercenary who wears not only a pair of sabers similar to Atrix’s, but a bandolier of thick steel rings – which Atrix realizes with a start are torcs exactly like the one worn by Shect.

The muscular, black-haired swordsman turns sharply when he senses Atrix’s eyes on him. “Yes?” His fluid accent places him as a Caragond, from the easternmost of the civilized nations. He can not be more than two or three years older than Atrix.

“I’ve never seen a man wear more than one of those,” says Atrix mildly, gesturing at the torcs. “Or wear it like a trophy rather than a collar.”

The youth regards Atrix warily but with obvious pride. “Then you have never before encountered a di Ferrau.”

“Ferrau?” The name sounds extremely familiar, but Atrix can’t quite place it.

“I am Lucian di Tosca di Ferrau. Three of these were taken by my grandfather Ferrau, two by my father.” Lucian shrugs. “So far I only have the one. There are fewer Scarth-masters afoot than in my grandfather’s day. But then, I am still young.”

Two things occur to Atrix at the same time. The first is that before Atrix’s birth, his d’Loriad grandfather was killed in a duel by a Caragond sellsword named Ferrau over some obscure point of honor. The second is that Atrix feels an instant liking to this Swordsmark-killing, arrogant young mercenary. It only takes a moment to shrug off the ancient family history that might have separated them. “I might have to start a collection of my own. I inconvenienced a Swordsmark some months ago, and I understand he’s still looking for me.”

“Really?” Lucian regards Atrix with a new interest. “If he’s looking for you, he’s likely to find you eventually. Are you ready?”

Atrix shrugs. “Perhaps you can tell me, di Ferrau.” The two of them head to a sheltered depression outside the camp and spar – Lucian with twin sabers, Atrix with his saber and parrying dagger. Atrix realizes at once that his opponent is an extraordinary swordsman: quick, nearly as strong as Ontaya, and clearly benefiting from years of intensive practice with experts. Only Atrix’s exceptional dexterity and the tricks he learned from Kemeras allow him to hold his own. He also catches Lucian off guard with the hidden spring-loaded prongs of his parrying dagger, which flick out to trap one of Lucian’s blades.

“A clever little ploy,” Lucian laughs. “With a bit of luck and a lot more practice, you might come out alive when your Swordsmark finds you.” He and Atrix begin meeting regularly on the outskirts of the mercenary camp for sword exercises and sparring. Atrix doesn’t share his true identity with his new Caragond friend, but he does introduce Lucian to Darren, Carwyn, Jaron, and Kay on the rare occasions that his old friends sneak away to visit him.

NINA IN THE guise of Anseron has become one of Agerain’s closest confidants. The two young men spend most of their time together – except when Agerain goes to confer with a family elder, such as one of the Generals, who might see through Nina’s cover identity. The other young d’Aramant cousins begin quietly approaching “Anseron” when they have a favor to ask of the increasingly snappish Agerain. Nina continues to ply Agerain with questions about his vision of a Senallin where the other families are subordinated to strong d’Aramant leadership. While Agerain’s comments and responses are often somewhat brutal, nothing he says indicates anything as grand as a plot to kill General Marcor d’Syrnon.

As Nina spends his days sharing Agerain’s frustrations, jokes, and plans, he realizes that he has become the closest thing that the young lord has to a genuine friend. Their initial encounter, when Nina so spectacularly beat Alan and Atrix at the fencing ground, left Agerain with a respect for Nina which undercut his usual bullying arrogance and made a real friendship possible. Nina finds himself troubled by guilt over the scale of his betrayal, and uncertain about the rationale for remaining in his disguise. If it isn’t the d’Aramants who were trying to kill Marcor, what’s the point of continuing to exploit Agerain’s trust – and how long can I keep it up before someone sees through me?

An Unexpected Knife

A MONTH INTO the long march, where the fertile Senalline low country begins rising into the dry, rugged grasslands of Arawai, a delegation of border villagers holds an audience with the Generals. Nina and Ontaya are both there with their respective Families when the lean, dusty village elders are admitted to the Generals’ presence.

The head of the delegation spreads his hands in supplication. “Lords, as you know, we do not fall under the protection of either Wildengard or Guardwatch. With no soldiers to keep order, this region has been troubled for years by a robber named Athos – Tur Athos, lord of the plains, he calls himself. By now he has a hundred-odd thugs and barbarians at his command, and a tribeless Arawai as his lieutenant. They camp in the rough heights to the south and emerge to prey on all the villages and traders in the region. Your passage through our lands is an Ain-given chance to restore law and end Athos’ banditry forever!”

The d’Aramant High General, Athriam, eagerly slams his fists together. “If we do not break Athos’ thieving rabble and bring back his head, let us not call ourselves men and Senallines. General Marcor, what say you? Will you join me to lead an expedition against him?” A cheer goes up from the assembled knights.

“Yes – but not too large an expedition,” Marcor d’Syrnon replies judiciously. “We can’t slow down the main force’s progress toward Guardwatch. If we lead half our cavalry against this bandit army, along with a share of the strongest mercenaries, that should suffice.”

General Sarquin d’Loriad speaks up. “For this aid, elders, we will require you to send a share of your villagers along with our army to help us settle and farm the plains after the great conquest.”

The elders exchange relieved glances. “Of course, m’lords. Only destroy Athos, and a tenth of our people will follow you to Arawai.”

The knights spend the rest of the day arguing over which of them will join the excursion against the bandits. All the party members end up being part of the force, and prepare to ride out the next morning under the joint command of Athriam and Marcor. Atrix ties a length of cloth firmly around his lower face to conceal his identity, but shrugs off with a “Don’t be silly,” his friends’ suggestion that he might want to sit this fight out.

BEFORE DAWN, ASH goes ahead with several scouts to locate the bandit camp. Tur Athos’ men are not hard to find, camped at the height of a field of massive boulders and caves; they have heard about the coming army, and have chosen a vantage where cavalry charges are impossible. Ash stealthily moves between the boulders, taking out enemy scouts and opening up a vantage for the coming attack.

When the Senalline cavalry and mercenaries arrive, the bandits shower them with poisoned arrows, while barbarian spearmen and axmen descend into the stone field to meet them. Tur Athos, a huge man brandishing a battle-hammer, steps to the top of a craggy outcrop with his shield-guard and bellows his half-crazed defiance to the approaching knights. “This land is not yours and never will be, weaklings of Lynar!” General Marcor and a cluster of knights from all the families wend their way toward him, shields held above their heads to fend off arrows; Atrix and Lucian also start fighting their way through the boulder field.

“Cover me,” Kyla says shortly to Adgar and Alan d’Loriad, and spurs her horse forward until she’s within bow range of Tur Athos. Then she begins firing a flurry of arrows from horseback, striking the bandit lord with ease despite the raised shields that surround him. Athos howls to his men to take “the Arawai archer” down. Adgar and Alan ride beside Kyla, shielding her from arrows, while Meeshak stays close to heal the wounds from any missiles that make it through. Carwyn stands beside her friend with a crossbow, and Ontaya and her six squires form a wall of swords in front of them, felling dozens of bandits as they break from the rocks. Ash joins them, along with Darren and the gray dwarrow.

Without warning, Athos’ second-in-command, a renegade Arawai, emerges with several dozen hard fighters to plow into Darren and the dwarrow. Darren manages to duck away with a nasty head wound, firing back with needles coated in a sleeping potion. The bandit Arawai stumbles, his muscles suddenly sluggish, and has no time to recover before Ontaya and Dorma burst through his spear guard to strike him down. At almost the same time, one of Kyla’s arrows finds Tur Athos’ eye. The over-confident bandit lord topples from his crag to groans from his own men and wild cheers from the Senallines.

There remains some intense combat between the desperate bandits and the conquering knights. Capping off her achievement in killing Athos, Kyla saves the lives of two squires who have been persecuting her since Wildengard. Nina and Agerain fight back-to-back when Agerain loses his horse. The masked Atrix and Lucian mow through the bandits, each a bit miffed that Kyla stole his chance to strike down the bandit lord in single combat.

Through the fray, Atrix is surprised to glimpse his cousin Serif d’Loriad, the cheery drunkard his father proposed as a substitute ring-brother. Serif is looking glassy-eyed and walking with jerky movements into the circle of knights surrounding General Marcor d’Syrnon. Drunk again, cousin–here? he thinks incredulously. No. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters to Lucian. “Something – ah, Ain!” He is too far away to do anything as the pudgy Serif pulls a knife and plunges it into General Marcor’s leg. The d’Syrnon commander shouts in surprise as much as pain, then goes pale and sags in his horse as he is stabbed again.

Atrix’s old friend Jaron d’Syrnon cries out in rage and rides Serif down, killing him almost instantly. Marcor clutches at the air, gasping for breath, his face the color of ash. “The General is hurt – get him to the priests!” Jaron screams, and the circle of knights begins pulling back through the boulders. Atrix and Lucian charge over to cover their retreat, along with several other knights. In the confusion, Atrix is able to drag Serif’s trampled body away into a rocky alcove.

The dwarrow arrive moments later, charging past Atrix into battle. Darren hangs back when he recognizes his masked friend, and grabs Meeshak as he is about to run past them. “What just happened?”

“My harmless, drunken cousin stabbed General Marcor with a poisoned knife,” Atrix says with bitter bemusement. “The way he was moving, the way he looked... he wasn’t himself, I’d swear it. There’s some deviltry involved here. Some plot to dishonor the d’Loriads.”

Meeshak looks around, then speaks in a low voice. “It’s possible for a priest to control a man’s mind and movements. The Sistecherns know how to do it, and are freer in using the charm than other Orders.”

Atrix’s face is taut, furious. “No one can know that it was a d’Loriad who did this.”

Meeshak looks clinically at Serif’s battered body. “Well, we’re halfway there already. Give me a minute.” Darren and Atrix queasily avert their eyes while Meeshak goes to work. “Right. No one will recognize him now. Leave him – quick, back to the fighting, before any of us are missed.”

THE BANDITS ARE soon routed, with only a handful of survivors straggling out into the plains. The Senalline victors are grim and subdued, however; Marcor d’Syrnon is dead, his heart stopped by poison and his soul fled beyond Resuscitation before he reached the priests. Jaron d’Syrnon swears hotly that he killed the murderer, but hesitates when asked if he saw who it was, and admits he didn’t get a clear view of the man’s face. They ride back through the evening and are back in the camp by nightfall. The initial burst of revelry is soon quenched as the news of the General’s mysterious murder spreads through the camp.

“Darren!” Calla bursts from the crowd, pale at the sight of the many injuries on Darren and the dwarrow. She begins cleaning their wounds, ignoring Darren’s protests that he’ll be able to get that taken care of by a cleric soon. Then Calla straightens, going even paler.

Feeling a certain déjà vu from the Grand Ball, Darren looks around to see Mercon d’Aramant regarding them with implacable displeasure. The sandy-haired General walks up to them and says stonily, “My niece is to be courted by a dwarrow?”

“Uncle,” Calla says breathlessly. He cuts her off with a gesture. Two smirking northern d’Aramant cousins appear and escort Calla away; the mocking note in their whispers to her is obvious. Darren opens his mouth to speak, but Mercon shakes his head. “Be silent, boy. She’s meant for higher things than you can possibly offer. It will go hard with you if I hear that she has been seen with you again.” Darren remains silent as the General walks away.

UNDER COVER OF night, Atrix takes the risk of finding Adgar (along with Kyla) and telling him that it was Serif who killed Marcor. Adgar is floored. “’Trix – I can’t believe it. Serif was the least violent person in the Family, even in his cups.”

“That’s what I’d thought,” Atrix agrees. “He wasn’t even a squire, was he?”

“No, he’d been studying with the Sage of the Merle Tower – Aleander.” Neither of them see Kyla’s knuckles whiten around her bow.

General Mercon’s Game

THE NEXT MORNING, Nina wakes to the sound of violent curses. He recognizes the voice of Athriam, the High General. “Worthless dogs! Treacherous swine! Marcor died for this?”

“What’s going on?” Nina asks Agerain when he finds him outside the tent.

“The village elders gave us their tenth to settle the plains,” Agerain says, looking both angry and amused. “Most of our new settlers are obviously cripples, senile, or diseased; I’m sure the rest are lazy, weak, or criminal. In short, they’ve given us everyone they want to get rid of.” Then he shrugs. “It’ll just be more work for the priests, healing them so they can keep up with the rest of the army. We aren’t going to turn anyone away. We’ll just see how many survive being planted in Arawai.”

The host resumes its long march under a pall. Now there are only three Generals for the Senalline army – the two d’Aramants, Athriam and Mercon, and Atrix’s uncle Sarquin d’Loriad. Dozens of rumors run through the camp about who is responsible for General Marcor’s assassination, with d’Aramants and d’Loriads both painted as the culpable Family. Kyla reluctantly informs Ash that Serif was linked to Aleander the Sage. He passes this tip on to Meeshak, Nina, and Darren; the friends hunt through the entire camp for any sign of the traitorous scholar, but find nothing.

Aside from her anxiety about Aleander, Kyla finds herself happier than she has been since the fall of Rim Square. By shooting down the bandit lord, she won the respect of the other soldiers; the old harassment and dirty looks are now replaced with waves and smiles when she rides past. She’s not wholly comfortable with the soldiers referring to her affectionately as “our Arawai,” but it’s better than the alternative. Her happiness reaches its height on the afternoon when the Aradurn army finally joins them, and a dusty, weary Gareth d’Loriad rides into the archery range to find her. Atrix’s quiet cousin dismounts, sweeps Kyla up in his arms, and covers her with kisses. The soldiers who would have greeted this with contempt or even violence a month earlier erupt into whistles and cheers.

The Senalline knights, who have fought often against Aradur in the past, also accept the arrival of two hundred sixty Aradurn knights and more than nine hundred spears with good grace. To preserve goodwill and reduce suspicion between the nations, the Aradurn host under General Malecot has skirted the Senalline heartland around Lynar, marching instead through the free city of Shayard before turning south toward Guardwatch, and collecting a company of seventy Shayardene mercenaries along the way. Carwyn and Lune, who by this point are sharing a bedroll (but not yet their winnings), are elated at the massive influx of new gamblers.

SOME DAYS LATER, when Ash returns from scouting, he is approached by a nervous-looking Calla. He recognizes her as the object of Darren’s affections, and greets her gently. “What can I do for you?”

“My uncle’s eyes are all over,” Calla says with hushed urgency. “But the men he has looking out for me are mostly watching the dwarrow camp. I don’t think he knows who you are. Is there any way you can arrange a meeting between me and Darren, somewhere safe?”

Ash tackles this challenge with his usual quiet reliability, working with a couple of other trusted scouts to identify General Mercon’s spies, separate Calla from them, and get her to the outskirts of the camp where she can meet with Darren. They manage to arrange four or five fleeting rendezvous as they travel, which Darren and Calla find all the more precious for their briefness.

Ash and Darren are not the only Rim Square friends to find themselves pitted against the northern d’Aramant General. Carwyn has been staying on top of the current of rumors in the army, and has heard a number of disturbingly catchy stories discrediting the d’Loriads. For example, one slander states that Atrix tried to force himself on Avric d’Aramant’s betrothed, and that the duel that killed Atrix was revenge for the attempted rape. Another rumor has it that General Sarquin d’Loriad has been trying to dispose of his rivals, and may have been behind the death of General Marcor. Using her Rumor-mongery skills, she tries to trace these stories back to their source. It isn’t easy, but Carwyn eventually finds that a few apparently go back to Mercon d’Aramant. She tries to spread equally catchy counter-rumors, discrediting the d’Aramants, while covering her tracks so they can’t easily be traced back to her.

One evening, General Mercon shows up in the gambling tent and strides up to the main table, where Carwyn and Lune are in the middle of a game of Imperium. A soldier hastily gets up and offers his place at the table to the sandy-bearded d’Aramant. “You are far too generous, favoring us with your presence, General,” Carwyn says, caught slightly off guard.

“I’m fond of games,” Mercon says mildly, his eyes locked on Carwyn’s. “I’ve heard there are some interesting ones being played from this tent and thought I’d see what my men have been talking about.” He tosses a coin of Patriarch’s Gold into the middle of the table as his ante. Lune and Carwyn bring all their skills (except cheating) to bear against him, but the stone-faced d’Aramant General outplays them with apparent ease. After winning several rounds of Imperium, Mercon stands, smiling. “It’s been a pleasure, but perhaps we should all play in our own league.” Inclining his head to Carwyn in warning, he walks out of the tent.

When Carwyn mentions this episode to Nina, it reawakens his suspicions that the d’Aramants were somehow involved in Marcor’s assassination. He tries to bring it up with Agerain around the fire a few evenings later. “Something’s going on that you’re not telling me. Not just the war. Some play for power between the Families. Am I wrong?”

Agerain looks doubtfully at his friend. “Anseron... If it were up to me, I’d tell you more, but I’d need to have a talk with Mercon first.”

Nina hastily backpedals, not wanting to have his cover ruined by an elder of the northern d’Aramants. “No, I don’t need to know the details. Just know that I’m here if you need help with... anything. No questions asked.”

Agerain smiles with genuine affection. “Don’t worry. I know we can trust you.” And despite everything, Nina feels a pang of guilt.

Yay!

Thank you for more Aerdrim - and more details about the part I've never heard in full detail! Even though I'm looking forward to getting to the next section, it's awesome seeing things like the first appearance of Lucian.

Is the duel between the Ferrau and D'Loriad grandfathers for the reason that I think it is?

Would it have been possible for the PCs to prevent the assassination?

Orichalcum said:

Thank you for more Aerdrim - and more details about the part I've never heard in full detail! Even though I'm looking forward to getting to the next section, it's awesome seeing things like the first appearance of Lucian.

Click to expand...

Thanks! I'm also looking forward to reaching the bit where you joined the party -- sorry it's taking so long, but I wanted to add enough detail to give people who weren't in the campaign a sense of the characters' development. Ladybird, we'll get to you sometime before 2011, I promise.

Is the duel between the Ferrau and D'Loriad grandfathers for the reason that I think it is?

Click to expand...

Almost certainly.

Would it have been possible for the PCs to prevent the assassination?

Click to expand...

Not really. In retrospect, I would have played it differently and given them a fair shake, but at the time I was more interested in having them avenge General Marcor's assassination than prevent it.

Guardwatch

AFTER THREE MONTHS on the road, the host finally arrives at its destination, Senallin’s most southeasterly outpost. The great castle of Guardwatch is built on a broad, flat outcrop of stone above a small river. Its mighty walls and hidden spring have allowed it to withstand countless sieges by the barbarians (and occasional attacks from the northeast, during the rare occasions when the merchant guilds of Velnar have fallen out with the Five Families). Normally, three hundred men at arms would be stationed here. Today, the dusty vale to the north of the river is a solid expanse of tents, and the smell of smoke, sweat, and horses is everywhere. Human voices merge into a dull roar that can be heard from miles away, as though the ocean had extended itself into the plains. The armies of Velnar, Kedris, and Caragon arrived days ago. With the addition of Senallin and Aradur, there are ten thousand warriors here, poised to descend on Arawai. The camp followers and merchants are innumerable.

Kyla’s cheer has been fading as their time on the road has been drawing to a close; Gareth has been surprised and upset by her ever more frequent silences and black moods. Now as they ride through the outer camp, she stiffens at the sound of insults she thought she’d left behind: “Arawai whore! What do you think you’re doing here?” When she realizes they aren’t addressed to her, she spurs her horse through a knot of people and finds an exhausted-looking Arawai woman brandishing a long flint in one hand and cradling a thickly swaddled bundle in the other. Four grubby Caragonds are circling her, bludgeons and knives at the ready.

Kyla’s steel daggers fly into her hands. “Get away from her. She’s no risk to anyone.” Gareth and Adgar reach her side moments later, swords drawn. The thugs decide they don’t like the odds and shrink back into the crowd, muttering about barbarian-loving Senallines. Kyla pulls the Arawai woman up onto her horse and they rejoin the d’Loriad knights.

The woman speaks in Arawai; then, when Kyla doesn’t respond, whispers, “Thank you, sister,” in Northron.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Kyla says stiffly in her strongly accented Arawai.

“I am Tevrala, sister of T’harai, clan-chief of the Red Kestrel.”

“The speaker for the tribes?” Kyla queries incredulously, remembering the proud Arawai who had ridden to Lynar to threaten the Patriarchs. “If you are spying here, woman, we’re both dead.”

“I am no spy,” Tevrala replies wearily. She unwraps the bundle to show a sleeping newborn with the translucent skin and colorless hair of an albino. “Two days ago I was cast out among the kherasi for breaking the tribe-bond by bearing a child whose father was not Arawai. My brother could not stand against the will of the elders on this, when so much else is changing.”

Kyla’s brow furrows. “How were they sure... was your child’s father really not Arawai?” Albinos are born among the plains tribes, as anywhere else.

Tevrala laughs softly. “He certainly was not. I told them.” She falls silent, and Kyla doesn’t press her. Then she cranes her head back to look at Kyla and speaks almost inaudibly. “I am cast out for my son’s sake. But for you, sister – the door is open for you to return, if you choose. The Great Peace is in effect, and all are welcome. Our war-chieftain, T’airan of the Notched Talon, is a believer in the Third Gift. He leads us, and much has changed.”

Kyla’s jaw clenches. She doesn’t understand half of what Tevrala just said, but it throws another twist into her already painful tangle of allegiances. “You should get down here. I can’t bring you into the castle.” She points curtly to Kendall and Kay Perigord’s wagon. “Those merchants should be willing to shelter you and your son, if you tell them you are known to Kyla.”

“Thank you, sister,” Tevrala repeats, sliding off of Kyla’s horse. “May Keyashai and Rawa give you a clear mind in these dark times.” Kyla rides on without acknowledging either Tevrala’s blessing or Gareth’s quizzical glance.

THE NOBILITY OF Senallin ride into the massive keep of Guardwatch, which has been cleared to house them along with the highest generals and lords from the allied nations and a large contingent of priests. As they ride in, Meeshak notes to his dismay that the welcoming party includes two dozen forbidding-looking clerics wearing the iron needle. Astacius the Sistechern – whom Meeshak has been studiously avoiding since their encounter at the Grand Ball in Lynar – walks forward to join his brethren, his flinty face very nearly smiling in satisfaction.

The Senalline generals meet their counterparts from the other nations, and head into the high tower to confer for two days before marching out to Arawai. Morgant and Erivas, the d’Syrnon knights, speak briefly with their squires Ash and Ontaya about what the generals will be discussing. “Both sides know the battlefield already,” Erivas says. “The fight will be on the sacred plain of the Arawai, a days’ march from here. The Arawai usually don’t gather for an all-out battle, but if you make any incursion onto their sacred burial ground, every tribe in the endless plains will show up to try to push you off. Eight years ago, a Velnaryn general named Zeresc discovered it by accident, and barely managed to retreat with his life. Ten thousand men should be enough to break whatever they throw at us.”

“More than enough, I would have thought, sir,” Ontaya says. “Even allowing for a reserve force to protect Guardwatch. How many barbarians can there be?”

“We don’t really know. There are rumors that some of them have broken their taboo against steel, which might make them harder to fight. But something else is afoot on our side, too,” Morgant says in an undertone. “Sarquin d’Loriad added a scheme which will use some two thousand men. I mention it only because I know both of you can keep your mouths shut – and because we will likely be part of it. We should know for sure in two days.”

MEANWHILE, AT ATRIX'S request, Kay and Carwyn find his younger brother Jonathan at Guardwatch and bring him out to the mercenary camp. Carwyn feels an immediate fondness for the serious young Jon d’Loriad – a younger version of Atrix who’s desperately trying to be responsible and dignified. When the brothers are reunited, Jon’s composure is shattered by delight and relief. “Atrix!”

“Hello, little brother,” Atrix says, beaming as they embrace. “Keep it down, they don’t know me by that name around here.” He relates the whole story of his duel with Avric.

“I had hoped it would sound less irresponsible with a little more time and distance,” Kay whispers to Carwyn.

Jon still looks stunned. “And Father, Mother, they still don’t know?”

“Well, I thought I’d wait until the war’s done to get word to them,” Atrix says diffidently. “Gives me enough time to think of how exactly to explain it all to Father...”

“Yes, I certainly agree that you’ll want to be selective in how you do that,” says Jon, shaking his head.