Men filed into the large, airy ballroom under the watchful eye of the white tunicked guards of House Markvist. Specially made curved tables had been arranged into a large circle in the middle of the room, and placards indicated each man’s seat.

Atri glanced over at the tables and saw that almost everyone had arrived. There were seats for one hundred and thirty-two, enough for all the most powerful men in Gothria. He then looked back down the hall where Lepon, his brother Listel and his father greeted each man in turn as they filed past. Listel was a tall, handsome man twelve years Atri’s senior. He was the eldest of Prince Solon’s sons and heir apparent had been recalled from Siaro where he was serving as an advisor to their king.

A powerfully built man with an ample belly who stood half a head taller than Atri stopped in front of Lepon and glared at him from beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows.

“Good day, Baron Lest,” Lepon replied, unperturbed, “I am honoured you decided to come despite the situation in your province.”

“A situation you have precipitated,” the baron was in his late fifties, but his voice still carried the power of his youth. He was dressed as a cavalryman, spurs and all, and wore a straight sabre at his side, “you have a lot to answer for, Lepon Wilvest.”

Lepon blinked, the picture of innocence, “I hope you don’t think that I or House Markvist have anything to do with the unrest in the south-west.”

“Well, your chickens have come home to roost,” the baron said dangerously. He exchanged brief, but polite greetings with Solon before entering the room.

“That sounded ominous,” Atri remarked.

“The baron does like to bluster,” Atri’s father said softly, before breaking into a tired smile. He looked down the line of men and was relieved that it was thinning at last.

“Any sign of the Haroways?” Solon asked, addressing Stevio.

The thin man shook his head tiredly. As the prince’s personal butler, it had been his responsibility to find lodgings for their guests who did not maintain homes in Gradja. Many of the prince’s vassals had been happy to host guests, but it had been a trying affair, attempting to match available lodgings with the stature of their guests and addressing the complaints of the many who found their accommodations inadequate.

“It seems they have not deigned to send anyone, my lord,” Stevio replied.

That the Haroways were in Vetory for the coronation of their new emperor was no secret. However, for them not to even send a representative when a meeting of the Nescovian League was called was strange, to say the least.

“Good,” Solon breathed, “perhaps that will simplify things.”

“I doubt that my lord,” Lepon remarked.

Solon gave his chancellor a sideways look and sighed. “I expect you’re right. As usual”

Once the last of the guests had entered, Solon entered the room with the others in tow. Their guests rose and waited until Solon was seated at the head of the table before sitting themselves. Atri took his seat close to his father and observed the table. He was impressed at the lengths Lepon had gone to. The table was a near replica of the one in Vindel. Normally, meetings of the Nescovian League were convened there, but with the lords of Nescovia absent, the meeting was being held here in the Markvist capital.

A guard closed the door and Solon cleared his throat, “I declare this meeting of the Nescovian League in session.”

The room was silent except for the sound of Lepon’s pen as he wrote the minutes on a sheet of paper. More sheets stood in neat stacks close at hand. At length, Baron Vilnist niv Salini spoke, “are the Haroways not even sending a representative?”

“It appears they are not,” Solon replied.

There were a few murmurs around the table. “That is most irregular,” Doriny’s father observed, “can this even be called a meeting of the Nescovian League without the lord of Nescovia present?”

“The law states that all we need is a majority of members present,” Lepon said without looking up from his work.

“I think you all know the issue at hand,” Solon said, as his eyes scanned the room, looking for reactions and trying to gauge where they stood on the matter.

“Why should we care that Stovan is crowning himself emperor of a backwater like Vetory?” someone asked, “what’s of concern to me is the insurrections that have already spread to my province!”

“Yes, we should be mustering forces to retake our provinces!” Sir Fetis cried. Lord Coriso and the other ousted lords nodded in agreement. Despite being deposed, they still qualified for a seat at the table until the next review which would be in three months.

“In fact, we should be more annoyed we weren’t invited to the coronation!” someone else quipped.

“You fools ought to know full well why none of us was invited,” Vilnist said, slamming his fist on the table. He was a thin man who had a reputation of being more a scholar than a fighter, which made the others take his outburst seriously.

“The fact remains,” Baron Lest said, speaking slowly but forcefully, “for many of us, the ambitions of House Haroway are secondary to the fact that our so-called brothers in the League are standing idly by while our livelihoods and our Houses are being threatened.”

“Renfy is threatening war,” Penolith pointed out, attending in his capacity as the Duke of Nevowise.

“War on Vetory,” Lest retorted, “we in the southwestern provinces simply do not have the luxury of concerning ourselves with the Haroways and their dreams of reviving their empire.”

Solon narrowed his eyes, and his voice had a dangerous edge to it, “are you saying that you will only support action against the Haroways if we in turn provide assistance against the rebellions in your lands?”

“Take it how you wish,” Lest said, “but the fact remains that we are in no position to look beyond our own provinces at present.”

Atri looked around the table and saw many nod in agreement. Not all of them were lords of the southwestern provinces. Those were likely to be supporters of the Haroways.

“What action do you propose we take against the Haroways?” Lord Disnost asked.

Atri turned his attention to the diminutive man with scraggly whiskers. He was a known Haroway lapdog, and he was surprised that he hadn’t been invited to the coronation.

“Condemnation of their violation of the treaty of Convention of Noretor,” Solon began.

“They have done nothing to violate the convention,” Disnost objected.

“Perhaps not the letter of the convention, but certainly the spirit,” Vilnist pointed out, “the Archduke declaring himself Emperor of Vetory certainly upsets the balance of power here in Gothria.”

“So do the insurrections,” one of the southwestern lords pointed out, “and yet none seem keen to lift a finger to help.”

“The insurrections are not being instigated by a member of the League, nor by an external party,” Lepon pointed out.

“A technicality,” Lest scoffed, “an even flimsier one than your reason to condemn the Stovan Haroway’s ascension.”

The baron’s eyes bored into Lepon. “Now, why won’t you tell us the real reason you refuse to permit the League to interfere in the insurrections?”

Lepon looked up from his work and returned the baron’s baleful gaze serenely. “Baron,” the old chancellor paused to polish his glasses meticulously with a piece of cloth. Atri saw the baron’s neck turn crimson as Lepon checked the lenses to ensure they were clear. Satisfied, put them back on again, his every movement slow and deliberate.

“Baron,” Lepon continued, “one of the reasons I have been advocating for non-interference is because we have long advised you, and the other rulers of the southwestern provinces, to treat your people better, in particular, to honour the old Calfurion law of taking no more than seventy parts out of a hundred in tax.”

“The Treaty of Vindel takes precedence over that ancient law!” Lest roared, slamming a meaty fist onto his desk, “our fiefs are ours to do as we see fit.”

“That is true,” Lepon replied, unmoved by the outburst of violence, “however, you are now reaping what you have sown.”

“You are siding with peasants against us?” Lest asked, his voice was calm now, but the veins in his neck were popping as he struggled to contain his rage.

Lepon looked Lest in the eye and replied, “the days of knights in shining armour being the backbone of an army have gone. The armies of today are built around peasants.”

“I’d take a dozen bannermen over a hundred conscripts,” Lest scoffed.

“Then you’re a fool,” Lepon said. His voice was as quiet as ever but there was a sharpness that made his words a lash.

The veins in Lest’s neck bulged as Lepon continued, “our neighbours have realised this. Fluvia, Renfy, Siaro, soon, they will raise armies in such numbers we cannot hope to match. If we attempt to turn to our common people, they will rightfully ask themselves what they are fighting for. We need a new banner to rally all Gothrians around.”

“Such as?” Lest asked suspiciously.

Lepon shrugged and sank back in his chair. “I cannot think of anything, for now. We have neither a royal line nor a concept of nation that we can rally our people behind.”

“There’s House Haroway,” Disnost pointed out.

Atri struggled to hold his tongue. He had told his father and brothers about what happened in the forest, but he got the sense that none of them would have believed him had it not been for Lepon’s support. The realization of that stung a little, but it couldn’t be helped. All of them had decided that the events there should remain a secret for now. The tale was so farfetched that sharing it would undermine them more than help.

“We would all be worse off with the return of the Calfurion Empire,” Solon snapped, “highborn and low.”

“Would we?” Disnost pressed, “the Haroways of today are not the same as the Haroways of two hundred years ago. The Archduke is a wise man.”

“The Haroways care only about the longevity of their House,” Vilnist said, “Stovan Haroway is no exception.”

There were murmurs of approval around the table and Atri sighed inwardly with relief though he was distressed to see more than a few frustrated faces and wondered what promises the Haroways made them in exchange for their support.

“May I suggest a vote?” Vilnist ventured, looking at Solon, who was chairing the meeting.

“Let’s hear it,” Solon said.

“I propose we vote on condemning the Haroways claiming the throne of Vetory and to distance ourselves from that House when the rest of the Continent rightfully comes crashing down on them,” Vilnitst declared.

“Seconded,” Lest said, with his eyes levelled on Lepon.

There was an uncomfortable silence around the table and Atri wondered what the baron had planned. Solon cast an eye on Lest and sighed. “The motion carries, all in favour?”

Atri raised his hand and looked around the table. There were fewer hands raised than he thought there would be. Matters in the Nescovian League were decided on absolute democracy. Every lord large or small’s voice carried the same weight. Lepon counted quickly and then counted again. “Forty-two in favour,” he declared.

Solon raised an eyebrow and Atri tried to curb his rising unease. Fence-sitters were to be expected and forty-two in favour wasn’t bad.

“All opposed?” Solon asked.

Hands were raised, mostly by the southwestern lords and the Haroway’s traditional allies. Lepon counted the raised hands. And then counted them again. And then for a third time.

“Forty-six are opposed,” Lest said with great satisfaction on his face.

Solon frowned. “The motion fails then.”

He narrowed his eyes and set them on Lest who was clearly the ringleader of the southwestern lords. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

To lose the vote with the Haroways not in attendance was a blow. Many of the fence-sitters would have voted against the motion in their presence, and the prospect of the Nescovian League being drawn into a war to protect Haroway interests in Vetory had suddenly become very real.

“I’m securing our legacy,” Lest replied evenly, “some of us have already lost everything while you sit here and bleat about winning the hearts of the very people who cast us out. If this is the only way to gain the assistance of our so-called brothers in the League, then so be it.”

“Are you saying you will change your vote if the League comes to your aid?” Solon asked bluntly.

“That would be blackmail,” Lest replied, “we are merely saying that while our livelihoods are threatened, we don’t think it is in our interests to concern ourselves with what is shaping up to be a conflict between Vetory and our traditional rivals.”

“Perhaps we should vote on sending forces to retake Boverlind,” Fetis suggested, and then shrank under Lest’s baleful gaze.

“Seconded,” Solon stated flatly, “all in favour?”

Fetis meekly raised his hand as did the other southwestern lords.

“Twenty three in favour,” Lepon announced.

“All opposed?”

“Eighty one opposed,” Lepon declared.

Atri lowered his hand as Lest glared at Fetis. The lord of Gofeldin had just shown the baron’s hand and undermined their cause. However, the fact remained that if the League wanted to take action against the Haroways, they would have to win over the southwestern lords. Was his father willing to condemn the rebellion to do so?

“I suggest we call this meeting to a close,” Solon announced, answering Atri’s question.

“Seconded,” Lest added quickly.

“Any objections?”

There were none.

“How was the meeting?”

“A disaster,” Atri sighed, as he and Doriny walked arm in arm through the herb garden. It was late in the year, and most of the trees were bare, but it was the only place they could be alone.

Atri turned around and looked back towards the palace. It was early evening, and the lights were on in his father’s study where he was holding council with Listel and his other advisors on the appearance of Baron Lest’s new voting bloc. The fear was that they would go over to the Haroway’s side in exchange for their help in putting down the insurrections. Such conversations were far too important for the likes of him to participate in for now, and so he had sought out Doriny who had come to the city with her father.

“Unification of Gothria seems farther away than ever,” Atri sighed.

“That was always going to be a marathon, never a sprint,” Doriny shrugged. She looked up at Atri with her hazel eyes and furrowed her brow with worry, “you look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Atri looked back at her, and his heart skipped a beat. He wanted desperately to tell her about the forest and the elves and the bizarre creatures they’d fought but didn’t think it was the time. She’d probably think you were mad, he told himself. Instead, he said, “I lost most of my men in the last battle with the Renfians, it still weighs heavily on me.”

“I remember,” she said compassionately, “it must have been awful. I’m so sorry.”

Atri felt a twinge of guilt. The affair in the forest and its connection to the Haroways as well as their current machinations had distracted him to the point where he’d scarcely thought about the men he’d lost or about Carodin and now he’d used their deaths to divert a lady’s attention.

“My father is going to be here for a week,” he heard Doriny say.

“Oh, yes, I believe he’s arranged a meeting with my father tomorrow,” Atri said, “I expect we’ll be dining together at some point.”

“He’s dying to meet you, you know,” Doriny said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Atri laughed uncomfortably. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy her company, but things with Doriny were moving quickly. A little too quickly for how little time they had actually spent together.

“Perhaps I should arrange a quick meeting in private so you can state your intentions, then perhaps we can make an announcement,” Doriny continued.

“Yes, that sounds fine,” Atri said, struggling to control the pitch of his voice.

“You’ll be fine,” Doriny laughed, crinkling her nose in a manner that Atri found pleasing, “I’m sure father will love you.”

“As much as a father can love someone who is about to spirit his daughter away,” Atri blurted. He recalled the way Prince Ingolin’s face changed whenever Kotro, his son in law, entered his line of sight.

Doriny laughed again. “It can’t be worse than charging into a Renfian gun line, can it, Atri niv Markvist?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Atri said tiredly.

“Aren’t you excited?” Doriny asked as they walked through the garden.

In the summer, it would be full of flowers in bloom, but even now, the fragrant and refreshing scent of the herbs filled the air, invigorating them. Servants discretely went about lighting lamps along the path giving the garden a fairyland atmosphere.

“I suppose it hasn’t really sunk in for me yet,” Atri confessed.

Doriny couldn’t help but pout. “I suppose you have a lot on your mind.”

“Is my brother here?” Atri heard Kotro ask.

They turned around to see his brother striding up to them with precise, military steps. That meant it was official business, Atri sighed to himself.

“Good evening brother, Lady Doriny,” Kotro said with a slight bow of his head. He then turned to Atri, “father sent me to fetch you.”

Atri raised an eyebrow, “already?”

Kotro nodded. “It seems that Baron Lest’s little group caught everyone off guard, and you know how father is. He won’t act until he has more information.”

“What’s this really about?” Atri asked, as their footsteps echoed off the marble-floored halls of the Markvist palace. Doriny had gone to find her father, and most of the other guests had long since left. The palace was empty except for the servants who were cleaning up and getting everything ready for the next day.

“I don’t know,” Kotro said, as he struggled to keep the smile from his face, “we’ll just have to find out.”

“Brother, I don’t know how you’ve risen to vice general while being so transparent,” Atri sighed.

Guards stood at attention as Kotro knocked on the door to their father’s study. The door opened a moment later and they walked in to see their father seated behind his heavy mahogany desk. The rich reddish-brown wood had been brought at great expense from across the ocean and was a gift from a Renfian prince. Listel and General Penolith were seated in chairs facing his father. Lepon would normally be in attendance at such a meeting, but he was hard at work lobbying the fence-sitters in the League to come over to their side. Atri and Kotro saluted the general smartly.

“You sent for me, father?” Atri said.

“Yes, I’ve spoken to the general, and he agrees that you merit a promotion,” his father began.

“Thank you, father,” Atri said, bowing his head deferentially. He’d expected this from the moment he saw Kotro.

“You are to be promoted to major,” his father continued, “and you will be part of the general’s staff.”

“You are on the path to becoming a general in your own right,” General Penolith added, “congratulations, Major Atri niv Markvist.”

Atri swallowed. This was unexpected, he was expecting to be placed in command of a new squadron, perhaps the Second.

“So I’ll be off the front lines,” Atri gasped as his brain connected the dots, “you think commanding a cavalry squadron is too dangerous for me.”

“You have the experience for the new role,” Solon said soothingly. There was a familiar finality in his voice, and Rovie knew it was useless to argue. There was nothing left for him to do but accept the promotion with grace.

“Thank you, father, general, I will not disappoint your faith in me,” Atri said, inwardly in turmoil.

“You’ve grown, young Atri,” General Penolith remarked, “rest now, I will work you very hard indeed during the next campaign.”

“And when will that be, general?” Atri asked.

“That matter is still being discussed,” the general replied brusquely.

Knowing that they had nothing more to say to him, Atri asked to be excused and left alone while Kotro stayed behind to discuss matters above Atri’s station.

Atri was exhausted by the time he arrived at the door to his private chambers. The day had been mentally draining, from the meeting of the League to his surprise promotion. Not to mention having the prospect of formally meet Doriny’s family as a suitor.

He opened the door and saw that the sheets on his large four-post bed had already been turned down and beckoned him, but Atri decided against it for now. He had a lot to think about. Perhaps a bath would help put his thoughts in order. As he was about to close the door behind him, he sensed something amiss. The window was open.

Before he could back out of the room, a flash of movement appeared to his right. Atri’s hand went to the sabre at his side. It was half out of its scabbard when he saw the glint of steel in the hands of a shadowy figure. Knowing he hadn’t the time to draw his weapon, he launched himself towards the figure.

“Assassin!” he managed to cry as he crashed into his assailant, who was lighter than he had anticipated, sending them both crashing into a heap.

Aware that his opponent was armed, Atri smashed his elbow into his opponent’s face and scrambled away.

The shadowy figure leapt to its feet and Atri saw that it stood a full head shorter than he and clad completely in black. A mask and hood obscured the figure’s face. Atri stood with his arms outstretched, ready to ward off any attack, knowing that he could not afford the time to reach for his sword.

“My lord, do you require aid?” came voices from outside the ajar door.

The figure cursed and lunged for Atri. At the last second, his opponent nimbly tossed the blade from one hand to the other, catching him off guard. His reflexes took over, and he managed to narrowly avoid the blow by twisting his body with agility he didn’t know he had. Off-balance, Atri began falling but managed to grab a chair and hurl it towards his attacker.

The figure dodged it easily, but the chair crashed against the bed, which was all the invitation the guards outside the door needed to burst in with their weapons drawn. The figure cursed again and ran for the window.

“Halt!” a guard cried as he fired his pistol.

Atri heard a grunt as his assailant disappeared out the window. Guards ran to the window but soon fell screaming, their feet punctured by the caltrops the masked figure had left behind.

More guards poured into the room, looking confused but alert. “What happened here, my lord?” one of them asked.

“An assassin,” Atri managed as he was helped to his feet. He carefully examined his clothes to see if he had been cut. He’d heard that some of them used poisoned blades, “I think it was a woman. Seal the exits and detain all the servants.”

The guard nodded, ashen-faced, and rushed off. Assassination attempts like this were almost unheard of on the Continent, not that assassinations didn’t occur. It was far easier to poison someone or to have them betrayed by someone they trusted than it was to infiltrate a home and lay in wait.

Atri made his way to the window, careful not to step on any of the caltrops. It was late into the night, and streetlamps lit the winding path that led to the palace gates. It was unlikely that the guards would be able to catch the assassin. The entire compound was surrounded only by a wrought iron fence that would be easy enough for a determined person to scale unseen.

“My lord, it’s not safe for you to stand by a window,” one of the guards said worriedly.

“You’re right, of course,” Atri replied. He cursed his carelessness as he stepped away from the window.

He was a marked man. But why? Who would send assassins after him? Could it have been the Haroways covering up the events at the forest? They would be mad to risk an assassination here in his own home. Unless the risk was too great. And if they knew Atri knew, what if they knew who he shared the information with?

“We need to get to my father at once,” Atri breathed as he dashed out the door. Guards who were waiting outside were hot on his heels.

“What’s going on, my lord?” one of them asked.

“Assassins are after me and possibly my father and the chancellor,” Atri replied as he raced down the hall on shaky legs.

They soon arrived at the door of his father’s study and the two guards stationed outside stared wide-eyed back at him. Atri brushed past them and urgently knocked on the door, praying that he wasn’t too late. He opened the door without waiting for a reply and to his relief, saw five surprised faces looking back at him.

Kotro was the first to recover. “Did you… forget something, brother?”

“Thank god you are alright,” Atri panted, almost collapsing from relief.

“What’s all this about?” Solon asked, still seated behind his desk.

“I was just attacked in my room,” Atri replied, and told them what happened while Kotro fetched him a glass of whiskey from the sideboard.

Solon’s face grew grave. “Summon Covin,” he ordered, and a guard rushed off to comply.

“Why would you be targeted by such a cowardly attack?” Solon asked.

Atri glanced at the general.

“If you could give us a moment in private, general,” Solon said apologetically.

Penolith cleared his throat and rose. “Gentlemen, it’s late, and I shall take my leave here.”

“Guards, please escort the general to his carriage,” Solon said, “will you need riders to escort your quarters?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Penolith replied, “I have my own men for that.”

“Guards, please give us some privacy,” Solon said once the general had left.

“But my lord, there could be other assassins in the palace,” one of them protested.

“We are all armed and, on our guard,” Solon said, “and you will be right outside. You are to come in unasked if you hear anything suspicious.”

“Yes, my lord,” the guard said.

Once the door was closed, all eyes went to Atri who took a large gulp of whiskey. The fiery liquid burned his throat and warmed him. He took a deep breath and said, “if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it was because of the business with the elves.”

“You suspect the Haroways were behind that,” Solon observed.

“They would never be so bold as to order an assassination here,” Kotro scoffed.

“We’re still not sure they’re behind that affair,” Listel pointed out, “it would be unwise to jump to conclusions.”

“It was unfortunate you were not able to apprehend the villain,” Listel remarked. He paused briefly before adding, “but you are unharmed and that is all that matters.”

“The guards are on high alert. I also ordered for the servants to be detained,” Atri said, “but I fear we stand little chance of catching the culprit.”

“I agree,” Solon sighed.

“They must be very desperate, whoever they are, to attack us here,” Listel pointed out, and turned to Atri, “perhaps you should consider the worst possible party behind this attack.”

Atri raised an eyebrow. “Family?”

Listel chuckled and shook his head. “No, brother. A more plausible party.”

Atri thought it over for a moment and then broke out into a cold sweat. “The church,” he gasped.

Listel leaned forward and nodded grimly.

“That’s quite the accusation, my son,” Solon remarked grimly.

“Indeed,” Kotro added as he shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s just a theory,” Listel pointed out as he sat upright, “but as you’ve always said, father, it is best to prepare for the worst.”

“But why would the church involve themselves with such unholy things?” Kotro protested.

“Now this is all speculation,” Listel said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “but the church and House Haroway have always been close bedfellows ever since the church granted the first Calfurion Emperor their Divine Mandate. It’s no coincidence that the church’s loss of influence throughout the Continent has gone hand in hand with the Empire’s decline.”

“We need concrete proof, or all this speculation is worthless,” Solon said gruffly. He was a devout member of the church, and his sons knew it.

“Quite,” Listel agreed, “I have already mobilized my spies. I must confess, that while I was well informed of the Haroway’s and the church’s machinations in Vetory, this whole business with the elves has caught me completely off guard. It must be a well-kept secret indeed.”

“I would not have believed this elvish business had I not seen the book myself,” Solon added.

They were interrupted by a discrete knock at the door.

“Covin Bornil is here as ordered, my lord,” came the captain of the guard’s voice from the outside.

“Enter,” Solon said.

A heavyset man opened the door. His eyes were bleary but alert, and he stood at attention in front of the prince.

“I apologize for the lapse in security tonight,” he began formally, “rest assured it will not happen again.”

“No one could have seen such a brazen attack coming,” Solon said gently. The captain of the palace guard was a ceremonial role in these relatively peaceful times, and the appointee was typically a retired lowborn soldier who had served the prince with distinction. However, no one took his job more seriously than Covin Bornil.

“Time is of the essence now,” Atri chimed in, “the assassin was well trained. Short in stature, possibly a woman. I have ordered all the palace staff to be detained. I suggest you look at new additions to the palace staff in your investigation.”

Covin nodded. “It will be done.”

He paused before adding, “do you think such a viper could be hiding amongst the staff?”

“There were a lot of people coming and going from the palace today,” Listel pointed out, “any one of them could have brought an assassin in with them, knowingly or unknowingly.”

Solon levelled his eyes on Covin. “Have you accounted for all of our visitor’s staff throughout the day?”

The colour drained from the captain’s face. “No, my prince but every person in each guest’s entourage left with them.”

“There were hundreds today, distinguished guests all,” Kotro said gently, “accounting for all their actions throughout the day would have been impossible.”

“I think you’ve done well to note that everyone who arrived, left,” Atri said, truly impressed.

The rulers of the League had brought their hangers-on to the palace, as befitted their station which had turned the Markvist home into a veritable beehive of activity throughout the day. The lesser lords had come with at least a servant or two, while the more powerful ones had entourages numbering in the dozens.

“It is the least a captain of the guard should do,” Covin replied gruffly, not displeased.

He then turned to the prince. “My lord, with your permission, I shall begin by interviewing the staff.”

“Perhaps I should oversee,” Atri suggested.

“If you think you’re able to,” Solon agreed.

There was a knock on the door and an excited looking guard burst in once Solon gave permission to enter.

“We caught her, my lord,” he beamed.

Solon jumped to his feet and the others whirled around. “Alive?” he demanded.

“Yes, Sire,” the guard said, “she’s been brought to the guardhouse.”

“Let’s go,” Solon said, as he stepped out from behind his desk.

“Are you sure, my lord?” the guard asked, looking worried, “she’s already killed four of our men with hidden weapons.”

“We’ll be careful,” the prince replied, after exchanging looks with his sons.

“Perhaps you had better stay back, my lord,” Covin suggested, placing a hand on Atri’s shoulder, “she already failed to kill you once. No sense in giving her a second chance.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Atri said, “please concentrate on protecting my father.”

Covin nodded curtly and led the others out the door. They marched quickly down the empty halls. The normally ubiquitous servants were nowhere to be seen, giving the palace an eerie feeling.

“Where are the staff being kept?” Atri asked.

“At the barracks for now,” Covin replied, “Stevio and my men will be able to keep order for the time being.”

“Hopefully they’re all innocent,” Atri breathed. The prospect of turncoats flitting through his home turned his stomach.

Soon, they arrived at the guardhouse. Ten guards were standing at attention outside while more were inside, keeping a close eye on a young lady who was in one of the five iron-barred cells. Her arms and legs were manacled, and she glared at them with hate-filled eyes. Her face was pale, and she wore the long blue dress of a palace maid. Blood seeped from her side from where a guard had shot her.

“Any idea who she is?” Solon demanded as he looked at the girl, whose right arm hung limp at her side, “and what’s wrong with her arm?”

“None, my lord,” one of the guards replied as he snapped to attention, “she fought like she was possessed despite the wound, we might have broken her arm getting her into the manacles.”

“Who do you work for?” Solon asked the girl, “why were you sent to kill my son?”

The girl merely looked past the prince and glared at Atri.

“Curious that she was captured alive,” Listel remarked, as he examined the weapons laid out on one of the tables. There was a stiletto, several smaller blades, and a large hollow needle, “I thought assassins were supposed to kill themselves if they faced capture.”

“Perhaps some of the alchemists can discover what poison she’s using,” Kotro suggested, “that may give some clue as to who employed her.”

Atri’s eyes zeroed in on one of the items on the table. “These were all taken from her?”

One of the guards nodded, “yes, my lord.”

Atri picked up the small wooden cross and walked over to the cell. He held up the cross and saw the girl’s demeanour change. “You’re from the church, aren’t you?” he ventured, “that’s why you haven’t killed yourself.”

He saw the girl’s face change momentarily before becoming a mask once again. Atri examined the cross thoroughly before placing it carefully inside the cell. “I’ll be returning this to you.”

“Do you really think she was sent by the church?” Listel ventured.

“Perhaps,” Atri allowed, and remembered his misidentification of the ‘bandits’ near the woods, “but we can’t take that as solid proof.”

“Perhaps we should prepare ‘church techniques’ to get some information out of her,” Kotro suggested, “we’ll have to treat her wounds beforehand, though.”

“I will permit no such barbarism in my lands,” Solon roared, and Kotro bowed his head, “our forebears risked much, banning the church from performing their revolting inquisitions in our lands two hundred years ago, and I have no intention of repeating that shameful chapter of our Continent’s history.”

Atri suppressed a shudder. He had read illustrated books on the inquisitions, and they turned his stomach. How men could inflict such indignities on one another was beyond him. And in the name of God no less.

“I’m sorry father,” Kotro muttered.

“Has someone summoned the doctor?” Solon asked, “it doesn’t look like she will last long at this rate.”

“One of our men is on his way to summon Doctor Thurm,” one of the guards replied, “but we have wounded of our own to see first.”

Solon clucked his tongue and looked at the girl.

“She’s fading fast,” Atri observed and his mind churned.

The sun was beginning to rise when the girl breathed her last. Atri gave her body one last look and wondered if the church had raised more assassins like her. He was then reminded of an urgent matter.

“Where are you going?” his father asked as Atri went for the door.

“Into the city,” Atri replied, “I am overdue to collect something important.”

“Can’t it wait?” his father asked.

Atri paused. His father was right to be worried. “No it can’t,” he said at length, “don’t worry, I’ll be careful, and keep a low profile.”

His father nodded reluctantly, and Atri took a cloak from one of the guards before riding out of the palace and into the city.

The traffic on the well-paved roads was light and the air was brisk which helped clear Atri’s head. He took his mind off the assassin and the attempt on his life and focused on how he was to go about investigating the church. Perhaps a visit to his future in-laws was in order.

Atri soon arrived at a low stone building built close to a stream on the edge of the city. A thin wisp of smoke spiralled from the chimney and the furnace glowed from within. Clovas was an early riser and Atri knew he was up as he knocked on the door.

“State your business,” came an irritable voice from inside.

“It’s me,” Atri said, keeping his voice low.

Atri jumped as the door opened suddenly. A tanned, deeply lined face poked out. “It’s about time you showed up,” the man snapped irritably, “I told you I didn’t want to hold onto these for a minute longer than I had to.”

“I’m sorry, I was busy,” Atri said sheepishly, “may I come in?”

Clovas Brogav grunted and ushered Atri in. “Such humility is unbecoming of a Markvist prince,” he grumbled.

“Things have been busy at the palace,” Atri said, as he stepped into the workshop. He glanced at a half-finished suit of armour on a stand in the corner and wondered who would commission such a thing in the age of gunpowder warfare.

“So I’ve heard,” Clovas said, raising an eyebrow, “all the lords of Gothria are here, or so they say, which explains why there’s been a line out my door demanding my work.”

“Well, you are the most trusted blacksmith in Gradja,” Atri remarked.

“Bordin is far more artistic than I,” Clovas sniffed, as he unlocked a large chest hidden beneath a floorboard, “which is why I don’t understand why you didn’t go to him to commission this.”

Clovas took a long item covered in heavy canvas out of the box and passed it to Atri who uncovered it to reveal a cavalryman’s sabre with a silver blade.

“I don’t understand why you’d want it made with silver,” Clovas groused, as Atri tested the sword’s balance, “you could get the same effect with polished steel.”

“The blade is silver over a steel core. The silver is not alloyed, as requested,” Clovas continued when Atri didn’t answer, “the edge won’t last, and it will tarnish easily.”

“I understand,” Atri replied.

“I don’t,” Clovas sniffed, “as I said, if that thing is decorative like you claimed, Bordin’s the man you want.”

Atri inspected the blade and handle. Both were simple, but functional, as he requested. “As I said, you’re more trustworthy.”

“Here’s the other thing you wanted,” Clovas said, handing Atri a large pouch.

Atri hefted it in his hand and nodded. “Thank you.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you want to use that as musket shot,” Clovas remarked.

Atri tied the pouch to his belt and smiled.

“I can’t imagine why you’d want to use silver shot,” Clovas continued, “silver’s harder than lead so it’ll wear the barrel out faster. Can’t say if it’d be any better for killing a man. Maybe if you wanted to be ostentatious.”

Clovas paused as he scrutinized Atri, “but we both know you’re not that kind of man, are you?”

“I appreciate your discretion in this matter,” Atri said.

“I had to work on this personally, you know,” Clovas groused, “can’t trust apprentices to handle raw silver like that. They’d probably nick it and replace it with steel. Wish you’d tell me what this is about.”

“I’m afraid it has to be a secret for now,” Atri said apologetically, “but if I am ever able to tell, you will be one of the first to know.”

“Fine,” Clovas sniffed with a wave of his hand. He produced a small wooden box, “the shavings from sharpening the blade and whatever was left over from the silver you gave me. I’ve borrowed a jeweller’s scale so you can check if everything adds up.”

“No need,” Atri said and placed a pouch of coins on a cluttered table, “you can keep the leftovers as well.”

“That’s mighty generous of you, your lordship,” Clovas said.

“I have to warn you again,” he added, “that sword won’t last long if you intend to use it as a weapon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Atri said, wishing that he’d asked the elves a little more about their weapons, “thanks for the hard work.”