The morning sun was unbearably hot, and the ground as dry and barren as the deep blue sky despite the mountains in the distance. The ground of the Chateau d’Chaverne’s practice yard was cracking, made up of an imported dirt lighter than the surrounding earth, and almost seemed like sand. Across it three pairs of boots danced a game of swordplay, and clashing blades clanged in rhythm, though the three men who used them wore little more than open linen shirts for protection.

Arian was one of them, and the youngest, yet despite his age he held his own. The other two were young knights and noblemen, though only one of them was particularly well known, and they fought together to try and overtake Arian’s superb skill. As though performing a demanding dance Arian moved with the flow of combat, each strike towards him parried or deflected, his own offensive moves of such fine form and strength that he was beginning to get the better of them.

“I reckon the lad’s got this,” said Sir Anselm, who sat on one of the spectator benches that rose around the chateau’s arena with a flagon of water in his hand.

“He’s certainly got talent,” replied Wulfsurd, sitting beside Anselm but lazily leaning back with his feet stretched out over the bench below.

The challengers closed in from two sides, and Arian moved quickly to poke one of them beneath his overhead strike, then pirouetted before the second could reach and caught him in the side beneath his arm. If their blades had not been blunted for training, blood would have been spilled across the arena floor. Yet the practice session was as much about endurance as it was lethality, and after a short second’s reprieve the combat began again.

“You fought with him, didn’t you?” Asked Anselm, and Wulfsurd nodded with no hint of pride. “How’d he fare?”

“He killed a Lavellan knight,” Wulfsurd replied. “Who was of some considerable skill from what I’ve heard.”

“The brother of the so-called Alaric Laurens. The one who managed to stick Caden.”

“Arian has always taken his swordsmanship far more seriously than Caden has.”

“Aye, but I think I’d still bet on Caden,” said Anselm, who watched as Caden spoke with the Lady Jaqueline on the far side of the yard. “I fought with Caden against the Kedorans… Who knows how many times? He outthinks his enemy, that’s Caden’s real skill. He’s like his father. Alaric Laurens must be a dangerous bastard.”

Wulfsurd went silent for a moment and looked across the yard at Caden’s white eyes. Even from so far away, they stuck out to him like stars in the night. “Apparently so,” Wulfsurd replied.

The two looked down at Arian again, and watched him as the swordplay came to an end and the three participants shook hands. They then walked to the arena’s edge to lean on the log fence that surrounded it, while Caden, Lady Jaqueline and several others gave them applause. Wulfsurd and Anselm joined in, their claps booming like drums.

“How’s your land doing, Wulfsurd?” Asked Anselm. “The trouble persists?”

Wulfsurd gave a nod, then ran his hand through his red beard. “It’s been getting worse since Valen died. Gray is pestering me like a fly, and now that Valen’s gone he believes there’s nothing to prevent him from simply taking it.”

“Have you spoken to Caden? He’d support you in an instant.”

“It’s more complicated than that, Gregory. Caden has enough to worry about right now and should Gray be forced to threaten or act we could see a civil war on our hands. There is always uncertainty when a new king is crowned, and I doubt Caden wants that uncertainty to turn to unrest.”

“So, do you have a plan?” Asked Anselm.

“Yes. I’ve told Gray to wait until this Lavellan business is over with, and we’re back in Sarkana. My land has been in my family for generations, and I have more of a right to it than his does. I’ll let the Sarkanian court make a ruling in my favour.”

Anselm gave a silent nod but began to feel as though continuing the discussion would ruin the mood for both of them. Instead he looked down at the yard, where another young knight approached the arena.

The knight had short, brown, curly hair, and brown eyes. He was short in stature, an inch or two under the average man, but he was well-built with muscles that showed even through his shirt. The knight walked around the log fence towards where Arian chatted with the two others he had fought, and then stopped by them with a slight bow of his head.

“Prince Arian,” he said. “Would you grant me the honour of a practice session?”

Arian stopped speaking and turned to look at the knight, whose lower face was rough with brown stubble. How old was he? Twenty, or perhaps a little older? He had a small green rose embroidered on his shirt too, and Arian couldn’t help but feel he knew it from somewhere. “I am still a little fatigued,” Arian admitted, “but I see no reason why that should stop me. What’s your name?”

“I am Arthur Ashfield,” he answered.

“Ashfield?” Arian asked, glancing up towards Harik and Gregory. “Your family is related to the Anselms, is it not?”

“It is. My mother is Sir Anselm’s cousin, and I have been serving with him since my father passed away.”

Arian looked at Arthur, then gave him a nod. Another who had lost his father. It seemed they were becoming more common than not. “I’d be happy to practice with you, Arthur.”

The prince took up his blunted sword again, and Arthur climbed over the fence and picked up one of his own from a weapon stand. The two then approached each other on the cracked ground, each readying himself for combat by entering a duelling stance. Arian held his sword high, ready to swoop low like an eagle; Arthur held his sword low and by his side, ready to strike up from an unexpected position.

“Are you ready, Prince Arian?” Asked Arthur.

“I am,” replied Arian.

Then suddenly Arthur stepped forwards and struck upwards with his blade, and Arian barely had time to bring his own down to defend. Arian then gripped his sword tightly, turning the blade back towards the direction it came from and thrust forward and upward towards Arthur’s exposed chest, but Arthur jumped back with a surprising spring. As he did so he brought his blade around in a full sweep over his head, then as Arian’s sword moved off to his right Arthur jumped forward again, his sword swinging towards Arian’s left shoulder.

Arian lowered under the blade and thrust himself into a roll, his body going over his shoulder and then stopping with a sudden halt as his feet kicked the ground. Then he turned himself slightly, thrusting the tip of his sword to where Arthur had now followed him. The thrust was pushed aside skilfully, but Arian was quick, and Arthur found himself unable to move except to defend against further thrusts Arian made. After three Arthur was forced to step back, and Arian used the chance to push off his legs and get back to his feet.

“That knight is quite skilled,” said Caden, wearing a similar white linen shirt. He too was dressed for training, his trousers dark and tight with a belt strapped around his waist, though he had done very little of it that morning. He was stood under a covered spectator’s stand with the Lady Jaqueline, who wore a modest cream dress and a light-brown laced bodice, and a similarly light brown cloak over her shoulders.

“He seems to be holding his own,” agreed the Lady Jaqueline, though she did not try to pretend that she knew enough about the sport of combat to fully understand. Even so, it seemed obvious to her eyes that the two were on equal footing.

Arian and Arthur continued their fight, blades ringing out in the yard as they danced and crossed their swords. Every so often one of the swords would be angled just perfectly enough for the sun’s light to reflect from it, and flashes of even brighter light began to shine around and into the eyes of spectators.

Caden watched them carefully, noticing how the knight had a small green rose sewn into his shirt. “I know that rose,” he said to himself. “One of Sir Anselm’s knights. I fought with him a few weeks ago.”

Jaqueline placed her hand on the wooden railing by her front, then looked at Caden curiously. “You have quite superb eyes if you can see that from all the way up here,” she told him. “Yet should you not also be joining them? I fear we have wasted away the morning speaking of nothing and memories, when you were originally to exercise.”

Caden knew she was right and found himself smirking as he realized what he must look like, standing in the shade with the Lady of Lavell as his fellows toiled hard under the burning sun. “You’re right of course,” he told her, then turned and stepped out of the spectator’s stand and walked down a set of stairs to the arena ground, leaving Jaqueline without so much as a promise to return.

“You there, what’s your name?” Caden asked the two duellists, who stopped mid-bout and turned to him.

“My name, sire?” Arthur asked.

“Yes. We’ve met before, haven’t we? I recognize your green rose.”

“I’m Arthur Ashfield, sire. We fought together with Sir Anselm; we ran a Lavellan scouting party into a stream.”

Caden suddenly remembered him: the armoured knight with the green rose on his breastplate. “You’re quite skilled, Arthur. It isn’t often someone can match my younger brother.”

Arian, who listened to the conversation, sighed and lowered his sword. “Caden, we’re in the middle of a session,” he complained.

“Just wait a moment, Arian,” Caden said.

Arthur lowered his own sword then, and took the opportunity to wipe his forehead free of sweat. “Thank you. Arian is extremely skilled. I would one day like to meet his tutor,” Arthur said, looking around to see that the majority of those few who sat around the yard were now focused on him and Caden.

“Master Sigered,” Caden revealed. “One of the best swordsmen in the realms.”

“Is he here in Chaverne, with the army?” Arthur asked.

“No, he remains in Sarkana. He stays at the castle at Sovereign as a sword instructor, alas he’s too old to join us on campaign.”

“I see. It’s a true shame, I would have liked to have met the man who taught Prince Arian to use a sword. I assume he also taught you, sire?”

“He did, though I fear I haven’t practiced as hard as my brother has. Perhaps you’d like to see for yourself?”

Arthur paused at Caden’s question and turned to look at Arian as though asking his permission. Arian submitted and gave his blessing with a sigh and nod, then held his sword up by the hilt and tossed it through the air for Caden to catch. Caden did so, and Arian walked to the side of the arena and crouched under the fence.

There were no more words spoken. Arthur took up the same low stance that he had used against Arian, and Caden held his sword in a mid-stance; elbows bent, sword tilted so the blunt tip was on par with Arthur’s chest. After a moment Caden began to circle Arthur, looking for weakness, and Arthur turned with precise footwork to prevent himself from being flanked.

After several seconds had passed Arthur realized that he would not be able to land a strike, and suddenly changed his stance to mimic that of Caden. Caden smiled, and stopped, and Arthur began to inch closer.

Then, like a cracking whip, Arthur lashed with his sword to knock Caden’s away, then brought it down again to find that Caden had stepped back just out of range. Caden then moved his body forward, striking down in a diagonal fashion, but Arthur brought his hilt up by his face, and his blade parried the blow above his shoulder. Arthur then pushed Caden’s sword upwards, then quickly brought his own around his head and down on Caden’s unguarded side. Caden forced his elbows down to his side just in time for his sword to block Arthur’s blow, but as soon as their blades connected Arthur was pulling away again and bringing his sword around to the side that Caden’s wasn’t.

Caden moved across again to block, then turned his sword inwards and cut down beneath Arthur’s arm and inside his guard, only for Arthur to jump away. Immediately Arthur landed with one foot back, his sword grip by his waist and his blade tip turned up towards the chest of anyone who would rush into him. But Caden would waste no time – he moved into Arthur’s new guard without so much as a thought, and as soon as his sword was close enough to touch his opponents, he knocked it away to the side – then thrust.

Arthur was ready. As his blade was knocked away, he released his lower hand from the grip and turned his entire body sideways. Caden’s thrust passed him, and his body followed, and with an impossible ease of practice Arthur’s free hand pressed against Caden’s sword grip, preventing him from changing his blade’s momentum. The crowd gasped in anticipation, then Arthur’s own blade was brought around again, and moved over Caden’s own to draw right across his throat. It was a blow no man would be able to avoid.

But Caden avoided it. He quickly and suddenly raised his elbow, hitting the flat of the sword from beneath mid-swing and sending it upwards. Caden lowered his head too, and what should have been an unavoidable strike suddenly passed over him harmlessly. Arthur was shocked, perplexed, and brought his empty hand back to his weapon. He took a step around to face Caden’s rear, his sword’s swing direction reversing. But Caden rose again and brought his sword around his right side, grip high and tip low, and the two clashed. Arthur pushed on his sword again, trying to overpower Caden’s guard, but Caden slipped out and stepped away. He turned around Arthur’s blade and then, in the blink of an eye, Caden’s sword edge came around and stopped perfectly at his opponent’s neck.

Just like that, the practice duel was over. The knights and nobles in the crowd were utterly silent, in disbelief of what they just saw, until eventually a round of applause and congratulatory cheers began to sound, led by none other than Lady Jaqueline.

Caden stood again, and Arthur turned to look at him. “I-“ Arthur stammered and dropped his sword, not knowing what to say, or what had just happened.

Caden did not know what to say either, so he stretched out his hand, and after a while Arthur took it and firmly shook. “You are an impressive fighter, Sir Arthur Ashfield,” Caden told him.

“Thank you, sire,” replied Arthur, the disbelief still apparent in his voice.

Up in the seating stands, Harik Wulfsurd and Gregory Anselm sat in silence, having refrained from participating in the applause. “Did I just see what I thought I saw?” Anselm asked, unable to believe his own eyes.

Wulfsurd stared at Caden, his eyes wide in trepidation. “A man can’t move that fast,” he said. “It’s impossible.”

“Then what in the void was that?” Asked Anselm, his voice fierce, and frustrated that he could not explain it.

“That was something that is no longer human,” answered Wulfsurd. “And it terrifies me.”

-

The news of Caden’s victory had spread throughout the chateau by lunchtime. From lords of the realm to lowly maids, voices whispered in the halls not of politics, but of the supposedly unnatural nature of Sarkana’s future king. Words were spun like webs, and pre-existing rumours coagulated and were woven with tales to form a tapestry of truth and nonsense. Caden was bewitched or returned from hell with devilish abilities. He was possessed by magic and demons, a harbinger of the void; evil itself. He was a half-breed, his true mother some Valkyrie, or giant, or she-wolf of different lands. He was a sorcerer. He was nothing but a prince, and people saw only what their imagination wanted them to see.

Harik Wulfsurd, the bear of Sarka, joined Caden’s younger brother for midday meal. Harik sat himself on a bench in one of the chateau’s smaller guest dining halls and leaned over the wooden table with a quarter loaf, a small block of cheese and a thick slice of pork on a metal platter.

Arian watched him from the opposite side, amazed at how Harik could eat so much. Harik had always been large, but it was only in the previous few years that middle-age and ale brought with it a growing belly. Harik’s size had come from his exceptional strength, and it was often said he was known as the bear because he could outfight one.

“Harik,” said Arian.

“What?” Harik asked, his mouth full.

“We need to talk.”

“We are talking,” Harik muffled, his hand reaching for his flagon.

“I mean a serious, real talk.”

Harik paused a moment, then swallowed. With a sarcastic smile he gave Arian the attention he desired. “Very well then, tell me of your serious business.”

“My brother.”

“What about him?” Harik asked, taking a gulp of ale.

“Harik. Don’t play games.”

“What games? I play no games.”

Arik leaned over the table then and whispered, “I overheard one of Lady Jaqueline’s handmaidens call Caden a revenant and a demon.”

Harik shrugged his shoulders. “Better a demon for a king than a gremlin.”

Arian looked around to make sure no-one listened too closely, then gave Wulfsurd a glare. “This is not a time to joke. We are trapped in a foreign city with an enemy who will kill us the moment they get the chance, and the only person who can get us out of this, the rightful king, is being plagued by accusations of… Unholy descriptions. And the worst part is that I’m not sure whether I should believe them.”

Wulfsurd suddenly seemed far more serious. “I asked you if you had not made an agreement with the Philosopher King’s witch that you would come to regret. You said that you hadn’t.”

Arian was taken aback slightly. “I did not do this. Besides, Ethelyn is not a witch, just a woman.”

“Is she not?” Wulfsurd asked him. “She has known Caden for not even three weeks, yet he places as much trust in her as he does us. And she is always there – always. She stands and watches, and listens”, Wulfsurd paused and looked around them, just to make sure. “And men do not notice she is there, right in plain sight. It is as though they never form memories of her to forget.”

Arian suddenly felt vulnerable, as though everyone and everything was watching him and listening. “You are paranoid, Harik. She saved my brother, remember that,” he whispered.

“How?” Harik asked him, his own voice a surprisingly calm whisper. “We saw what happened to him, Arian. He was dead. As dead as your father is now; the father that has yet to be buried. I fear we will soon see Valen too walk amongst us again, as though his body still contained life.”

“You speak as if she is some necromancer, or evil-doer. Caden wasn’t dead, he can’t have been. Before she took him, Ethelyn said something about… There still being time, but that my father was too old. Perhaps in the court of the Philosopher King they have discovered more about medicine and death, enough to bring back a soul before it is fully taken. Perhaps his body was reinvigorated before death was final, perhaps she repaired his heart enough for it to beat again. Not magic, but healing; science.”

Harik looked at Arian with probing eyes. “And yet you wonder if you should believe the accusations,” he said, his voice now as deep as it was low.

Arian paused a moment, then sighed. “He’s different. His eyes, for one. And he’s no longer warm, or as welcoming. He’s growing cold and distant; barely speaking to me since it happened. And he’s growing more ruthless, and he sees victory not just in battle but in schemes and plots. And beyond all that, he’s now fighting with… Unnatural speed and skill. Speed and skill that he should not possess.”

“We have to help him, Arian,” Wulfsurd said. “We have to help him remain true to who he is. He needs to be the clever king who hates war, not the unbeatable mind who plays it as a game. Your father had thought Caden too sensitive and fearful, but now he becomes something else I see what a strength it was.”

“A strength?” Arian asked.

Wulfsurd looked at Arian and grinned; that same grin he always made when he was about to reveal some innate wisdom. “You cannot have courage without fear,” he said. “I do not feel fear when I eat this bread, so then rightly I am not courageous for doing so. Courage is not to act in the absence of fear, it is to act despite it. And what is a king if not a man to find courage for his people?”

Arian had not expected Wulfsurd’s wisdom to be so profound. Usually he could think of some obvious flaw in it, some way that he could play the smart one and argue his way through a loophole until Wulfsurd laughed and admitted defeat. Yet now Arian was defeated, and he felt bewildered at how he had never realized that truth for himself. “We should remind him of that,” he said, deep in thought.

“I don’t think he’s forgotten,” Wulfsurd replied. “I think that he knows such things instinctively, even if he did learn them to protect his own pride. Emotions – love, fear – they are powerful. I do not think he would give them up without a fight, even if he seems to be trending in that direction.”

“I don’t understand you, Harik. You seem to both convey that you fear my brother and think him some unholy puppet of a foul witch, and yet also place your trust and respect in him.”

“It’s strange how life is so contradictory,” Wulfsurd replied, straightening his back. “I simply believe he’s going through a difficult time and will need our aid overcome it in one piece.”

“In one piece,” Arian quoted. “So, you have your final mind on Ethelyn.”

“There is only one thing you should remember about her, Arian. She does not serve your father, or Caden, or Sarkana. She does not serve the Southern Realms, or knightly virtues, or the oath of medicine. She does not even serve herself. She serves one thing, and one thing only: The Philosopher King. If he is our enemy, then so is she.”

-

There was to be a banquet that night in the main hall of the chateau. Caden would be there, as would Armand, the lady Jaqueline, Arian and Ethelyn. Indeed, anyone with a name of note, whether they be the highest lord of their respective realm or little more than a knight who had distinguished himself in battle, was expected to attend.

There would be more than a hundred people dining, both Sarkanian and Lavellan, both fierce warriors who relished in battle and wealthy nobles who fainted at the sight of blood. It was to be a spectacle, a celebration of victories of the past and a commitment to peace of the future. It would mark the beginning of the official negotiation period, and the first step to formally bring their war to a close, and Caden knew that it would be as treacherous as any battlefield.

Just the seating plans had taken hours of careful thought, and Caden, Lord Colbert and Lord Gray had strategized the careful positioning of guests like they would plot the positioning of soldiers on a battlefield. A thousand navigational pitfalls had to be avoided; dozens of rivalries and old wounds to consider, and many more prideful hearts to satisfy. But the planning was done now, and as the evening approached there was naught left to do but put it into action.

Caden was in his room and in front of a mirror, carefully flattening any creases from the tunic he had chosen to wear. It was a regal black with gold accents, impressive enough for a future king, but not so ceremonial that he would look a fool for wearing it. The colour choice was important too – black was the colour of the griffin on the Sarkanian flag, the ancient protector of his house, but also of mourning for his father. There was no red, for he wanted to avoid the connotation it held with blood and passion, but the gold symbolized the power and wealth he held.

He brushed his brown hair back behind his ears with his fingers, then looked down to his dresser where a six-inch-wide white ruff waited for him. Apparently it was a new fashion in Chaverne, and some of the Lavellan nobles had started wearing them about their necks, but as Caden picked it up to examine it he found it as pretentious as it was frilly. “Ridiculous,” he huffed to himself, shortly before there was a series of raps on his door.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened, and from behind it appeared Ethelyn, her mahogany hair washed and freshly scented. She wore a beautiful velvet dress of violet, with wide cuffs, a bottom that completely covered her feet and dragged along the floor, and a neck that opened out onto the wide parts of her shoulders and stopped partway down the top of her breasts. Caden watched her curiously, his white eyes looking into her gold, and turned to properly greet her.

“Good evening, lord king,” Ethelyn said to him, curtseying slightly.

“I’m glad to see you will be attending the dinner, Lady Ethelyn,” Caden told her. “It would look unusual for there to be an empty seat so close to my own.”

“I am sure you could fill it quite easily,” Ethelyn replied, and Caden could almost detect a hint of jealousy in her voice.

Caden looked to Ethelyn’s dress then, gesturing to it with a slight movement of his hand. “Your dress is beautiful, Lady Ethelyn. I was not aware you had such a wardrobe in your possession.”

“I went into the city and bought it especially for tonight.”

Caden paused a moment at her explanation. Chaverne still held a precarious atmosphere, and tightness of mood, since Sarkana’s occupation of it. There had been several incidents reported to him of confrontations between Sarkanian citizens and Lavellan soldiers, but more than that he had given strict instructions for those under his protection to not stray from the safety of the chateau lest tempers began to boil. He had heard nothing of Ethelyn leaving, or returning, and could not help but wonder if she had even been noticed doing so.

“How is the mood of the city?” Caden eventually asked, deciding a first-hand account would be invaluable.

“Tense,” she replied. “They worry for their king, but mostly for Lady Jaqueline. They suffer the humiliation of defeat and there are those who would not see the only heir to their kingdom come to harm.”

“I see. Then I suppose that tonight I should put their minds at ease. Several important Lavellan from the city have been invited and can see her wellbeing with their own eyes.”

“That would be wise.”

Caden sighed. There was an unavoidable air in the room, a just barely uncomfortable atmosphere shared between them. It was slowly grinding them both down, slowly becoming more apparent the more that they were in the presence of one another.

“Something strange happened a few nights ago,” Caden began saying, wanting to know how she would respond, if she would admit to the source of what was between them.

“Just a dream, I’m sure,” Ethelyn replied.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it was something more.”

“Perhaps it was your imagination, Lord King. These are difficult days for you, and the stress must be quite severe.”

“Ethelyn, stop it. I am not a fool; I can feel the same that you feel. When I am at rest, when I concentrate, I can feel your presence. I can feel your mind, your heart.”

“It is just a temporary side-effect, Lord King,” she replied to him, avoiding his eyes.

“A side-effect of what? What is happening to me? What did you do?” Caden asked, the volume of his voice rising slightly.

“Please do not shout,” Ethelyn said. “I merely did what I needed to save your life. The specifics are not important, nor are the side-effects you may be feeling. They will fade in time.”

“Side-effects?” Caden asked. “Something more is happening to me, Ethelyn. I am changing. My eyes, my body, my mind. I feel colder, I feel myself losing the only family I have remaining. I find myself moving faster than should be possible outside of tales, and because of it my friends and subjects are starting to fear me. I hear what they whisper in the corridors and back rooms, I hear what superstitious stories my soldiers tell about me no longer being a man. And I dream of a pale woman, and I feel her black eyes watching me when I go.”

Ethelyn suddenly seemed uncomfortable, disturbed. She tried to hide it with her diplomatic smile, but Caden could see the miniscule tremble behind her golden eyes. And then she asked what he thought she would ask; “a pale woman? Black eyes?”

She knew something. “Who is she, Ethelyn? What sorcery have you conjured upon me? Why am I haunted by her face?” He asked.

Suddenly Ethelyn calmed, and the tension and tremble lifted free of her like a bird taking flight. She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “I do not know, Lord King. Perhaps you are more stressed than I thought; I shall prepare an herbal drink that should bring sleep more easily to you. The importance of rest cannot be understated,” she explained with her sweet smile.

Caden could do naught but sigh and turn away, knowing then that he would get no answer from her that she did not want to give him. He moved to his dresser again and began to tidy several odds and ends, and while doing so he looked at her reflection in his mirror. “Why did you come, Lady Ethelyn? You did not say.”

Ethelyn nodded. “I received a message earlier from the Philosopher King. He is in Lavell and shall reach Chaverne within the next few days. He asks that you keep his visit unannounced and do not prepare ceremony, but also offers his congratulations for your victory over King Armand and asks me to convey how he looks forward to meeting you. He also offers his deepest sympathies and commiserations for the death of your father, King Valen II.”

“I see,” replied Caden. He was anxious, but also relieved that the moment was finally going to arrive. It was such a bizarre thing for the Philosopher King to visit the Southern Realms, and surely even more bizarre that he made such a journey across the world solely to see the royal house of Sarka. Caden had been so pre-occupied with solidifying his father’s victory that the worry they had shared over such an ‘important’ visit had begun to slip his mind… But now it was there again, front and centre.

“I will see you at the dinner, Lord King,” Ethelyn said, turning then towards the door and pulling it open with a pale hand.

“I am not a king,” Caden said as he watched her. “Not yet.”

“One of the many things you will learn in this life is that time is relative.”

Caden looked down in confusion, not entirely sure what she had meant but still determined to learn it. “I suppose so?” He concurred hesitantly, but when he looked up again, she was gone.

-

Caden was late to the feast. At least, that’s how it would appear to the waiting guests. They sat drinking, talking and laughing at long tables set lengthwise along the main hall, with a space between them for a blue carpet that ran from the main doors to the most important table in the room. This table was set at an angle to the rest, running widthwise instead, and seated a select few of the most powerful people in two kingdoms.

It also seated Ethelyn. She sat there politely, hands on her lap, and smiling at the conversations being held between those who she felt truly out of place being around. Directly opposite her was Sir Gregory Anselm, who had already drunk a little too much Lavellan wine, and had spent at least ten minutes recounting tales of fights he had been in. Not noble battles or virtuous crusades, but street and tavern brawls as though he was a common thug. The others seemed to enjoy his stories but Ethelyn’s golden eyes were focused on the main doors to the hall, where at any moment she expected the future king of Sarkana to appear.

He should have arrived at least twenty minutes ago, but Ethelyn had suspected he would not. He wanted to be fashionably late, to have all eyes on him as he walked the blue carpet. There was a cunning strategy in it; what better way to solidify his authority than to have men of extraordinary wealth and power wait for him? But he would not be much longer, for there was a fine line that separated dominance from discourtesy and Caden was a man who knew how to walk it.

To her it could not come soon enough. She knew very few of those sat at the table, and most of them distrusted or actively disliked her. In addition, King Armand was growing impatient, his finger tapping against the table on the other side of Lady Jaqueline, who was seated to Ethelyn’s right. She and Jaqueline had not spoken, but Ethelyn could sense that Jaqueline felt similarly estranged by the way she only spoke when spoken to, even beyond the subservient expectation of someone of her status.

The seating arrangements themselves were simultaneously tact and annoyingly expected. Ethelyn and Jaqueline, the only two women at a table of men, had of course been seated together for company. Jaqueline was also on the left side of her father, as opposed to the right side which would denote an equal or favoured status. That seat was for Caden, and empty. To Caden’s right sat Arian, and to Arian’s right sat Harik Wulfsurd. Ethelyn was glad of this – Wulfsurd was open in his distrust, and unafraid of uncomfortable confrontation. Then to Wulfsurd’s right sat Duke Edmund Gray, and to his Lord Colbert, and it continued down for several more nobles who Ethelyn did not know.

The Sarkanians outnumbered the Lavellan at the table, and it was lost on none of them. They were in a Lavellan chateau, drinking Lavellan wine, but there were twice as many of the conquerors than there were of the conquered. The only lords of Lavell she knew of were Armand and Guillaume Bescond, the commander of Chaverne in the king’s absence who now sat to her left. The other Lavellan she had no knowledge of, but she found it somewhat amusing that they drank the wine far more freely than the Sarkanians did. She supposed that she too would be wary of poison if she ate in the hall of her defeated foe.

“ – the man was drunk and started pressing against him, and he kept asking ‘so you think you can fight, do you?’ And my father kept looking at him, giving him a shooing glare with his eyes like there was a fly buzzing on his shoulder. And still the man kept asking him: ‘so you think you can fight? You believe you are a warrior?’ And I suppose my father must have finally had enough because without saying a word he raised his ale with his hand, took a sip and then smashed his face with his elbow!”

Gregory was still telling his stories, though Ethelyn had missed most of this one. Several of the knights and nobles began to lose control of themselves, erupting into bouts of genuine laughter that made Ethelyn almost regret not paying earlier attention.

“ – and he fell backwards on his arse, and my father took another sip of his ale and turned towards him. ‘Does that answer your question?’ – but of course, the bastard didn’t answer.”

More laughter, louder and fierce.

Ethelyn sighed a little, finally taking up her own wine and taking a sip of it. It was quite sweet, but surprisingly flavourful, and she began to ponder if she could get such wine delivered to the Philosopher King’s court when she returned.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer suddenly called out along the full length of the hall, “I present Prince Caden Sarka, firstborn son of King Valen II and heir and future king of Sarkana!”

Black armoured guards pulled open the double doors to the hall, and all noise suddenly stopped as a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on the figure who stood beyond them. After a short pause Caden stepped in, and did not pause a second time as he walked the full length of the Lavellan blue carpet, then around the left side of the table and to his seat besides King Armand. Then, with nod to a waiting servant, he sat himself down in front of a Sarkanian banner.

No-one made a sound. They watched as Caden brushed the slightest wrinkle from his tunic, moved his knife and fork to the other side of his platter, then took a cup of poured wine and took a small sip to taste. He seemed to enjoy it and took another, longer one. Then Caden raised his head to look at the waiting crowd, and his cup followed into the air.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” He asked, his tone changing suddenly from solemn question to inspiring, boisterous encouragement. “This is a feast, not a funeral!”

They cheered and began to drink, from noblemen to merchants, with the knights at Caden’s table shouting their encouragements the loudest. All except Armand, Jaqueline, Ethelyn and several of the Lavellan ‘guests’ who were still too sore from defeat to find any enjoyment in what was, to them, a humiliation.

Caden raised his cup again, beckoning for silence, and over the next few seconds the tables began to quieten. “But we do not gather here for an idle reason,” he began to say when he had enough of their attention. “It is to celebrate a period of healing, and renewed friendships.”

There was deathly quiet now.

“Sarkana and Lavell have been good friends for many years, and like any good friends we have had our disagreements. These disagreements led to quarrel, to combat, and to blood. I say this is the way of things with men of honour – that sometimes our differences must be settled, and our feelings truly shown, with the use of the sword rather than the tongue. And no matter the outcome I say that both have proven themselves valorous, that both have once again earned the respect of the other.

We are not here to simply to feast, but to officially begin talks of peace between us. According to the laws of realms we who sit here tonight are still at war with each other, but the time for conflict is gone. Now is the time for us to shake hands, to congratulate each other on a fine display, and to move on.”

It was not immediately apparent that Caden had finished speaking, but after a short while men began to clap, and this volume kept rising and was soon joined by further cheers. Caden knew that his words were of their kingdom’s vanities, that they were ideological, and that they ignored all the true horrors of the battles that many of them had just fought in. Yet still they were rousing, and succeeded in raising Caden’s respect in their eyes, though he could spot a select few who rightly noticed Armand’s absence. They spoke of becoming friends, but one of them stayed silent.

“And now, the food!” Caden called, and suddenly the main double doors and the side doors swung open, and dozens of servants carrying large platters of roasted chicken, boar, venison, vegetables, breads, fruits and yet more wine began to fill the tables with food. And there was still more to come: fried salmon, pike and trout; huge, golden-crust pies containing hare and pigeon; there were even rolling carts which contains jellies, creams and sweet pastries for those who decided it was time for dessert.

It was the most lavish of banquets. They had enough to feed three times their number, and the greatest cooks in Chaverne had been hired to prepare it in the expansive chateau kitchens over a period of several days.

“How very diplomatic of you,” said King Armand, his tone thick with sarcasm, as Caden took his seat again.

“Come now Armand,” said Caden, leaning over to him so that he could keep his voice down, “this will work much better if you try and get into the spirit of it. We are here for peace after all.”

“And yet, Prince Caden, it is not lost on me that Lavell has no choice in the matter. I am a prisoner in my own chateau, and entirely at the mercy of my enemy. This is not peace, this is domination.”

Caden sighed at him, then leaned back as a large platter was placed on the table in front of him. People were already eating, but Caden had no appetite quite yet. “We are both injured, Armand. Let us work together to heal, rather than stay at each other’s throats,” he suggested.

“Yet you have all the medicine, and thus I rely entirely on your charity. I begin to wonder, truthfully, just what good can come of this for Lavell,” Armand replied.

“Lavell will be fine,” Arian suddenly said from Caden’s right, pausing a moment as he sipped his wine. “But the situation you are in is of your own making, so you will accept whatever deal we damn well wish to offer.”

“Careful, young Prince Arian. I would not want your biting tongue or steel to once more bring injury to your brother,” Armand said slyly.

“And I would not want your forked tongue to drip burning venom in your mouth,” Arian replied. “You should be thankful to me that I did not cut off your head that day, when we were still unsure of my brother’s survival.”

“Survival?” Armand asked, leaning over and turning to look at Arian with a single raised eyebrow. “I was led to believe your brother is dead. Perhaps I should send a messenger across the mountains, to the countries of the Philosopher King, and see what he thinks of his forgotten vassal states arguing amongst themselves.”

Caden closed his eyes then, trying to stay calm through breathing. He wanted to say something, to slap Armand around the head or stuff something into his throat so he would choke, but thankfully another spoke in his stead.

“Father, please,” said the Lady Jaqueline, her smile clearly faked for the benefit of others. “Gentlemen, we are here to heal and grow together. Let us stop this bickering.”

They all seemed to retreat at Jaqueline’s words. Armand leaned back in his chair and took a chicken leg to eat, while Arian began drinking away his frustration. Caden took a small tomato and popped it into his mouth and ate it in momentary silence as the knights at the table spoke between themselves.

“Sir Arthur,” Caden said to one of them, the same young knight with short, curly brown hair that he had practiced with that morning. Arthur was sat opposite Caden but several places down to the left, and he was next to Sir Anselm. “How are you this evening?”

“I am well, my lord,” Arthur replied, simultaneously raising his cup and bowing his head. “And might I say you fought with superb skill, sire. I have never been beaten in such a manner.”

Armand suddenly seemed interested in the conversation, but Caden ignored this and kept speaking. “You are a superb fighter yourself, Sir Arthur. I cannot help but believe that destiny is in your favour, and that great wealth and fame awaits you.”

Arthur blushed fiercely, barely able to contain his pride. “I will not disappoint, my king. But I could not have done it without Sir Anselm, lord. I have improved greatly under his instruction and guidance.”

“Well of course y’have,” Anselm said gruffly. He took a big gulp of wine, then clapped Arthur on the back. “I’m Sir Anselm the Iron Ram, and I wouldn’t leave my poor cousin’s child to a fate of lowly tax collector or some other such nonsense.”

Caden smirked at this, wondering if Anselm realized he had just insulted agents of Caden’s future crown. Probably, he thought, and Anselm probably didn’t care. He had always liked that Anselm would speak his mind where lesser men would fear to lose their heads, because Anselm correctly understood that a man worth his station was a man who appreciated honesty.

“I actually have a proposal for the two of you,” Caden told them, and both Arthur and Gregory turned with the exact same motion to look at him. “The Kingsguard has no knight-commander. My father took that duty on himself. Yet I… Do not believe I can spare the time, and honestly do not wish, to continue his tradition and take direct command of them myself.”

Both Gregory and Arthur leaned forward, their anticipation eager.

“If you would agree, I would like the two of you to join the Kingsguard. I would like Sir Anselm to take command of them on my behalf, and I would like Sir Arthur Ashfield to be his adjutant. You may of course bring with you all of the knights and men-at-arms who serve in your company, for I have fought with your company in the past and believe they are all deserving.”

Anselm wanted to answer but was so taken aback he began to stammer. The Kingsguard! The most elite, most respected order of knights in not only Sarkana, but arguably the Southern Realms! Seeing his elder struggle with his tongue, Arthur raised his cup again and spoke in his stead. “We would be honoured, my king!” He said, and took another drink.

Anselm stopped trying to speak then, and took a drink himself, and soon a small round of applause was given to them.

“About time you were lifted from your filthy rat nest,” Wulfsurd said from besides Arian, his tone jesting and congratulatory. “I know of very few more deserving!”

King Armand seemed to lose interest, and though he momentarily joined the round of applause he soon went back to eating. After a while Armand seemed to grow increasingly interested in Ethelyn, who had stayed quiet the entire time except for the occasional word she shared with Jaqueline, and he turned his head to greet her.

“And who might you be, my dear?” He asked, his daughter turning to look at him.

“My name is Ethelyn, lord king,” she replied to him as she brushed strands of mahogany hair back behind her ear so they would not obscure her view.

“I see. And what role do you play in the Sarkanian court, Lady Ethelyn?” Armand asked. It was not lost on him how she seemed to have appeared rather out of nowhere, yet now held a place important enough in Caden’s entourage that she now sat at his table. It was especially strange that he had never heard of her, that his spies had been unaware of her presence.

“I am an advisor, and practitioner of medicine and herbal remedies,” Ethelyn lied. She had no reason to tell him her true purpose.

“I see. Have you replaced Erleath then? I remember him as Valen’s own surgeon, but I have yet to see him here.”

“No, I merely work with him. Erleath is preoccupied tending to those who still endure rather serious wounds as a result of the Battle at Vaise,” she explained.

“I see. Then, should you not be working alongside him? He is absent this feast, yet here you are,” said Armand.

Ethelyn shook her head slightly and took a small sip from her glass. “There are reasons I must stay close to Prince Caden. Erleath and I have differing areas of expertise, and though he is greatly recovered Caden still bears the wound of his battle.”

“Ah, so you remain here to treat Caden’s injury,” Armand concluded. Armand began to wonder if Ethelyn was the reason for Caden’s strange predicament. He had no way of knowing, of course, but if she was Caden’s personal physician as she claimed, then surely she had some hand in how Caden seemed to have been brought back from what the rumours were saying was death. Armand’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he looked at her with growing suspicion. Could she be a sorceress? The magician he had come to suspect was now part of the Sarkanian court? Furthermore, what kind of relationship did she have with the future king?

“Were you aware, Lady Ethelyn, that Prince Caden and my daughter are to marry as part of our peace?” Armand asked her.

“I was not, lord king,” Ethelyn replied, noticing how Caden and Jaqueline were now both listening rather intently to their conversation.

“Will this be an issue, Lady Ethelyn? I understand that you and Caden have grown rather close these preceding weeks, so I merely wish to ensure that Caden will not waste considerable time and expense taking my daughter’s hand when, in reality, he wishes for your own.”

“I do no-“ Ethelyn began, but she was cut off by Jaqueline.

“Is this true, Caden? Is there fondness between you and the Lady Ethelyn?” Jaqueline asked, her voice a hint of jealousy.

“Of course not, Lady Jaqueline,” Caden replied, trying his best to reassure her. Damn that Armand.

“Is this true, Lady Ethelyn? Is there a closeness between you and Prince Caden?” Jaqueline asked again.

Ethelyn closed her eyes, answering only that, “there is more than one way to be close, Lady Jaqueline.”

“I see,” Jaqueline replied. “If you will excuse me, my lords, I have grown weary. I believe I must retire.”

Caden watched as Jaqueline rose from her seat and a handmaiden walked from the side of the room to collect her. They whispered together, then the handmaiden led Jaqueline from the hall as Caden stared down at the half-eaten roast chicken in front of him. Was Ethelyn trying to sabotage his betrothal? Armand he could understand; it might not have been in his interest, but it was in his nature. Ethelyn, however? There could only be two reasons for such a thing on her part: love, or orders.

“I apologize to you both,” Armand lied. “I seem to have caused upset to both the two of you and my own daughter. It was not my intention.”

“Your apology is accepted,” Caden lied instantly. His voice was cold, and blunt, and he began to eat the food in front of him.

The conversations continued, as did the laughter, and the music played by several of the bards began to grow louder as the banquet entered its next stage. A large portion of the food was eaten by that point, but the night was young and there was still plenty of drinking left to do. It would not surprise Caden if there was a fight or two before the end, but his kingsguard stood ready to intervene.

Next to him, Arian and Wulfsurd were whispering. Caden did not pay much attention to hearing them, but when Wulfsurd stood from his chair he could not help but look up. “What is wrong, Harik?” Caden asked.

“I’m merely moving to a more comfortable seat,” Wulfsurd replied as he walked behind Caden and Armand, “where I can perhaps discourage further behaviour of a certain kind.” And then Wulfsurd sat down in Jaqueline’s previous seat between Ethelyn and Armand, the two people at the banquet he openly disliked. “Much better.”

Armand rolled his eyes and Ethelyn looked away, and Caden thought for a moment if he should make Wulfsurd return to his previous seat. He decided against it, knowing that Wulfsurd would certainly prevent Armand from further interrogating Ethelyn, though it was far more likely that his true purpose was to stop them from colluding.

The banquet went on. Caden grew bored and tired, as did those at the table. Even Anselm’s stories began to fade, and Arian was half-drunk and lulled back in his chair. “More wine, my lords?” A servant asked. Several of them nodded yes and servants began to walk around, filling their cups from large jugs of wine. One of the jugs ran out, and the servant quickly left to get another, then returned to where Wulfsurd sat.

“More wine, Lord Wulfsurd?”

“Aye, go on then,” Wulfsurd answered gruffly. The wine was poured carefully from the jar, filling Wulfsurd’s cup to nearly the brim. Wulfsurd took it in his hand and then, looking across the hall at the banquet’s guests, raised the cup towards him.

Ethelyn’s nose turned up slightly, and she turned her head towards Wulfsurd. What was that smell? Him? The wine? Something suddenly felt off, and as Wulfsurd brought the cup to his mouth it was suddenly flung out of his hand and over Sir Anselm’s head with an unnatural jerk of Wulfsurd’s arm. The men at the table suddenly fell silent, watching as the cup clacked and rolled on the blue carpet of the banquet hall and its red contents were spilled across the varnished floor.

“What in the void was that?” Wulfsurd asked, not quite believing his arm had jerked so violently.

“Poison,” Ethelyn said, her voice clear, concise, and unusually loud.

Suddenly realization began to hit them, and each person began to drop their cups to the table or floor. On the blue carpet the wine from Wulfsurd’s glass began to sizzle and rot away what it touched, and the servant who held the jug immediately lowered it to the floor and dropped to his knees.

“I swear my lords, I did not know!” He cried, lowering his head to the ground to beg for mercy as men from all tables began to violently stand and draw daggers.

“Fucking Lavellan cowards!” One Sarkanian shouted, his dagger held outstretched towards a Lavellan noble’s throat.

“This is Sarkanian honour? You would poison our wine and plot to make us appear the criminals,” called out Guillaume Bescond, who stood up from Lady Ethelyn’s left and took up one of the knives for his own protection. “Come my King Armand, let us slay them where they stand.”

Armand began to stand too, about to call out something to his countrymen, but Caden stood sooner and shouted for the kingsguard. Before Armand could say a thing, the black armoured knights who wore the Sarkanian griffin drew their swords and readied their halberds, and stepped in from the edges of the room and began to flood in through the opened doors.

“Calm!” Caden shouted. “There will be no violence here! We will discover the perpetrators and there will be justice, but there will be no bloodshed! We will not tear down the foundations of the peace we wish to build!”

Faced with the overwhelming superiority of the kingsguard, men on both sides began to lower their weapons. Guillaume too lowered his knife to the table, while Wulfsurd merely sat there and pondered how close he had just been to death.

“I think it’s time the guests went home,” called out Sir Anselm.

Caden agreed. “Go home, go back to your beds. We will not let this crime go unsolved.”

The tension, fear and anger in the air was palpable, but despite their continued protests the guests began to leave escorted by knights of the kingsguard. Armand stood, as did Lady Ethelyn, and Caden pulled Arian around towards her.

“Brother, will you escort Ethelyn back to her room?” Caden asked her. Ethelyn looked at him but did not protest.

“Of course,” Arian said. “Will you be alright here?”

“I’ll be fine,” Caden said. “I will stay with Harik.”

Arian nodded at him, then took urged Ethelyn to follow him. She did so, and Arian led her out of one of the hall’s side entrances.

“Take the servant and lock him away,” Caden then replied, pointing at the man who began to protest until a quick thud to the stomach silenced him through deprivation of air. “We’ll need to question him.”

“Yes, sire,” one of the guards said, and together he and another began to pull the servant away.

“Escort King Armand and the Lavellan nobles back to their rooms,” Caden told members of the guard. “And send some men to check on Lady Jaqueline and guard her.”

“How well this bodes for our future peace,” said Armand, who rolled his eyes as he, Guillaume and his fellows were escorted away.

Within minutes the hall was almost empty. Several guards remained, but the rest of the Sarkanians and Lavellan, including Anselm, Arthur, Colbert and Gray, were gone except for Wulfsurd, who remained seated as Caden stood behind him.

“Harik, we should leave. You must go to a place of safety, at least for tonight,” Caden told him.

“S’ppose you’re right,” Wulfsurd groaned as he stood. “Been nearly killed by a lot of things, but never poison. Can’t fight poison.”

“Not yourself, but you can reverse its effects if you have a good herbalist,” Caden said.

With two guards following them, who Caden waved back to a considerable distance at Wulfsurd’s insistence, the two men left the hall and began to walk along a quiet corridor towards the eastern part of the chateau. It was dark, lit only by the light of the moon and the occasional candle. “I promise you, Harik, I will have Armand’s head for this,” Caden said.

“Armand?” Wulfsurd asked, smirking loudly. “This was not Armand, Caden. Even he would not risk poisoning his own daughter. And he was awful close to drinking it himself – his was the last of that previous jug of wine.”

“Whoever it is, I will find out,” Caden assured. “Some Lavellan, no doubt.”

Wulfsurd stopped then and turned, his red beard like fire in the dim candlelight. “This was not a Lavellan. It was one of ours.”

Caden’s brows lowered slightly, his white eyes shining in the moonlight. “You have drunk too much wine. One of ours would not do this.”

“There is one,” said Wulfsurd. “One who prefers to avoid open conflict, is clever enough to plot a crime and make it appear to be the doing of Armand, and whose family have for generations attempted to take over my own family’s land.”

“Lord Gray?” Asked Caden, shocked at the accusation. “Edmund would never do this. He has always been loyal – he respects our country too much, he respects my father too much to go against him.”

“Exactly. He respected your father. Valen has died, and it was the king who prevented Lord Gray from acting against me.”

“I cannot believe it, Harik. There is no proof, and I cannot act against the Duke of the Midlands without proof. I may not yet be the king my father was, but Edmund will come to respect me the same. This could cause civil war, and I cannot risk such a thing while we are still so preoccupied with Lavell.”

“I understand, Caden,” Harik replied. “But officially you are not yet king, and there are many who question you. The royal house is no longer in a position to protect my own – but I am. In addition, you saw how he acted during the banquet. He barely spoke, barely let his presence be known – as though he was only there to watch.”

Wulfsurd had a point. Gray hadn’t spoken to Caden at all during the feast, and seemed quite content to mind his own business and remain largely unnoticed. Caden sighed, and said, “at least allow me to conduct a thorough investigation. With the Kingsguard, and Ethelyn’s aid, we can get to the bottom of this.”

“Perhaps, but I am afraid I trust Ethelyn little more than I trust Lord Gray. I will do nothing before the investigation concludes of course, but in the meantime, I must focus on my own self-preservation. When someone wants you dead, Caden, you must get lucky every time. They only have to get lucky once.”

Caden watched him, knowing nothing he could say would sway Wulfsurd from his future course of action. “What will you do then?” He asked.

“I will go to my men,” Wulfsurd told him. “And I will prepare.”