Chapter I

“One hundred tribes answered the call. The leaders of each tribe had seen the prophetess, Erelah, in their dreams. She beckoned them to travel to the land in the valley, a land surrounded by a crown of tall mountains. Half of the tribes found the path too dangerous, and so gave up before they'd reached the valley. After months of travel they finally saw her, the prophetess, with her silver hair in braids and her ancient face welcoming them with a smile. She stood before the ancient stone obelisk, on which was written 'The Law.'

“And she said unto them, 'Behold! You are the faithful ones who have heeded the call. In faith you followed the words spoken to you in your dreams and sought out this place. Now, hear what I say to you. This land is a sacred land, and in it you will thrive and prosper, so long as you obey The Law of the land. This Law was not written by my hand, but by God's. The God who dwells deep within the ground, who created all of Erets, has called you here that you may be blessed.'

“But many of the tribal leaders began to grumble and protest, 'But how can we obey a Law we cannot understand? It is written in words we know not!'

“And Erelah, the prophetess, said to them, 'I will interpret the Law for you, and from among you I will choose priests. And I shall teach the priests how to read the Ancient Script written upon the stone. In time you will not merely obey the Law, you will become one with the Law, and its strength shall flow through you.'

“At the sound of this many of the tribal leaders became disheartened, and another twenty tribes left the valley, because they did not want to swear themselves to a Law they could not read themselves. Now there were only thirty tribes remaining, and Erelah began to teach them the Law.

“'Do not murder, but rather respect life, and do what you can to protect others.' At this one tribe left. 'Do not steal, but rather respect the property of others. Return to your neighbor what is lost.' At this another tribe left. 'You shall only have one wife or one husband, and you shall love him or her with all your heart, more even than you love yourself.' At this ten tribes left. 'Do not take vengeance for yourself, but rather forgive those who have wronged you and seek justice for those who have been wronged.' At this four tribes left, and Erelah was far from finished with teaching the Law.

“Once she was done reading to them everything that the Law said she said unto them, 'Now it is time for me to crown a king from among you. This king shall rule over the fourteen remaining tribes, uniting them as one, and his descendants shall rule the land in the valley. This king was not chosen by me, but by God, who revealed to me in a vision who would be the best possible ruler for this land.'

“Then the prophetess chose Melech as the first king, but two of the other tribal leaders were upset, jealous that they had not been chosen, and so they left the valley, going to the plains in the east, which have been desolate ever since because of their betrayal.

“We are gathered here today, faithful brethren, to witness the crowning of Queen Aryn, a descendant of Melech, that first king.”

It was hardly typical for the Archbishop to tell the full history of the crown of Arx during a coronation ceremony, but Livana thought it was important, given the circumstances surrounding this particular coronation. It had been sixteen years since the martyr king gave his life to save the kingdom of Arx from the soldiers of Nihilus. During those sixteen years the late king's wife ruled in his stead, all the while with the understanding that she would pass on the crown to their daughter when she came of age.

Sarahi was a much beloved queen, but because she'd inherited the crown through marriage rather than by birth many of the noble houses feared for their own power, which was based purely on the belief that blood gave you the right to rule. Archbishop Livana thought it important to remind the nervous nobility that the queen being crowned that day was royal by birth, why it was that bloodline was so important, and what their scriptures had to say about the importance of backing the crown. If the land two tribes traveled to was cursed because of the tribes' betrayal, how much more cursed would any noble house who turned on the new queen be?

The grand cathedral was filled that day with representatives of every noble house in Arx standing in wait to see Aryn crowned. Guards stood in the aisles, at the doors, and even in the midst of the crowds. Typically the commoners, who rarely had a chance to bathe and often smelled of hardship, were left outside the cathedral only allowed to look on through the windows. Those commoners who could afford it bought seats in the balcony. This coronation was different. Aryn had insisted that the commoners be given seats every third row, and said that any lords or ladies who couldn't bear to be near their people could buy seats up in the balcony.

Aryn knelt before Livana to signify that while she was about to be crowned the ruler of the realm she was still a faithful servant of their God. Already she had received the other symbols of her office; the decorative sword from the Grand Duke, leader of the military, and the signet ring from the Chancellor, who'd been elected by the people. With the last symbol she would effectively have support of all three members of the Council, and this would make her Queen. She looked up at Archbishop Livana with her silver-colored eyes, her face solemn, but with a hint of affection.

Standing nearby, hands folded in front of her lap, was Aryn's mother, Sarahi, her black hair in a braid. She wore an appropriate dress for the occasion, but she wore a strong, rough leather belt over her silk dress, with a diamond-headed mace hanging from the belt. It was a necessary precaution, she felt, even if it was distracting.

Also not far away, with his eyes scanning the crowd, stood Milo, the bodyguard of the royal family. Milo was a paladin, a holy knight of the church, and as such wore bright white armor with sky blue trim. He was a very large man, muscled like a bull, with long black hair, a short beard, and a hook-shaped nose. The sword he wore on his back had a blade made of diamond, and the daggers at his belt were the same. Only paladins, who were sworn to a strict moral code, were capable of wielding diamond weapons effectively. In the hands of anyone else such weapons were too heavy and would shatter whenever they struck a target. Such was the enchantment upon them.

Livana raised the crown in her hands high over her head and shook it lightly. All of the little bells worked into the metal rang, and then Livana placed the crown on top of Aryn's black curls.

The crowd applauded the moment the crown touched Aryn's head, and the commoners roared with encouraging words and shouts of joy, full of hope for this new queen.

In the crowd stood Duke Jachai, who ruled over the Duchy of Nihilus. Sixteen years ago Nihilus had been its own kingdom, ruled by a vicious king. When that king started a war with Arx Queen Sarahi struck back, conquered Nihilus, and Duke Jachai was given control over the land. The years had not been kind to the Duke. The near constant battles with rebel Nihilites had left him scarred and disfigured. His nose had been broken more times than he could count, his lips bore a scar from a would-be assassin's knife, and his jaw on the left side was swollen because the bones never quite healed properly. While everyone else around him, save for the guards and the commoners, dressed in their finest clothes, Jachai wore his armor, which was battered and dented all over, and had his sword at his back. In his eyes this whole matter was not a party, it was a target, a tasty treat for rebels, and he had to be ready to cut them down. Beside him was a beautiful young woman, one whom many had cruelly said was far too beautiful to be married to a man so disfigured as Jachai was, and yet indeed she was his duchess. She had golden hair, green eyes, fair skin, and womanly curves that couldn't hide even in the most modest of dresses. She looked like every painting every Arxian artist had ever created when trying to make an image of feminine beauty.

Jachai kept his voice low, whispering to Liat, his wife, “I just hope the crown makes her wiser.”

“What do you mean?” Liat whispered back.

“She invited the commoners to gather here in the Grand Cathedral, gave them free seating. That's all we need, a lot of disease-ridden, filth-covered peasants all crammed together in one place. The stench is unbearable. Dozens of them will be dead of sickness after this, and they'll take some of their betters with them, mark me.”

Liat kept her head turned toward the stage, where the coronation ceremony took place, as she said to her husband, “They live such hard lives. They could use a day off from their troubles, a day to feel good about life.”

“They live at all because their betters shed blood for them,” Jachai said. Whenever he'd heard the argument that peasants had life so hard, so much harder than the nobility he wanted to spit on whoever spoke those stupid words. Oh, yes, the peasants worked hard and walked through streets filled with sewage, but how many of them had to go to bed every night worrying that they might not wake in the morning because of poison or an assassin's blade? How many of them had to go into the thick of battle, cut down enemies of the realm, suffer the blades and clubs of soldiers who would like nothing more than to see them dead? Only in times of extreme need did commoners ever see battle, for the nobility it was a way of life. Every peasant who complained about how hard it was to work the fields was ungrateful in Jachai's eyes. He would spend every waking minute of every day praising God if the only signs of hardship his body bore were calloused hands and a sore back.

With the crown placed on Aryn's head she rose to her feet again and turned to face her applauding subjects. She gave them a slight bow with her head to acknowledge that she was their servant as well as their queen, and a wave with her hand to show them that she also considered them her friends. She'd been worried in the days leading up to the coronation ceremony. Not of assassins like Milo was, but of her own nerves. She'd been studying and training for years to be the Queen of Arx, reading books about politics, economics, theology, and strategy. She'd spent summers in a remote peasant village to see how the commoners lived, springtime in abbeys to see how the clergy lived and to study the scriptures with them, and winters with the Grand Duke's soldiers, to hear their war stories. Still, with all of this preparation she'd always felt nervous whenever she stood in front of large groups of people. Knowing that there would be hundreds, maybe even a thousand people at her coronation had made her feel uneasy. To her surprise she found that when the crowd was so big that you couldn't pick out a single face her nerves were calmed. Thirty faces passing judgment on her every action and word were far more intimidating than one enormous, faceless crowd, cheering for her just for being herself.

After the ceremony was the feast, a banquet which only the nobility could attend. Aryn would have liked to invite the common folk to that as well, but, as her mother pointed out, there was neither enough food nor room at the table to invite everyone living in the capital.

Aryn thought back on the conversation. “You can't please everyone at all times. The commoners will be happy enough that they got to watch the coronation from inside the Grand Cathedral this time.” Sarahi had told her. “Besides, some of the lords and ladies might feel insulted to have to share a table with the common folk.”

“They'll already be sharing the table with at least one commoner,” Milo chimed in, “What's one or two more?” Milo was referring to himself. He'd been born a commoner, but when he was very young a traveling paladin selected him for training at Caelum Academy, and Milo became one of the most famous paladins in Arx.

“That's different,” Sarahi said, “You had humble beginnings, but you rose above them, and you bled beside many of the knights who'll be at that table.”

“And many of the common folk's hands have bled so that those knights could eat,” Aryn said. “I understand I can't invite everyone to the banquet, that's just impractical, but I would like them to feel like I am their friend.”

And so, against her mother's warnings, the young Queen Aryn invited two beggars to sit beside her at the banquet table. She had the castle servants bathe these beggars, give them new clothes, and pay them in enough coin to feed them for a year. The crown could not afford to feed every starving beggar in the realm, but Aryn wanted to do what she could.

“Look at that,” grumbled Jachai to Liat at the banquet table, his lip curling up, “She invites those layabouts to sit beside her while those who bleed for her realm are so far removed from the seats of honor.” Liat simply ignored her husband. She filled her mouth with wine so that he wouldn't expect her to answer his complaints. Besides, over the years she'd found alcohol helped her deal with his constant grumbling.

Jachai wasn't the only one unhappy about the seating arrangement. Milo felt uneasy, to say the least, with a total stranger sitting between him and the Queen, whom he was sworn to protect. Milo remembered what it was like, sixteen years ago, before Nihilus invaded Arx and started the war. The Nihilites had spies and assassins everywhere in Arx, some living amongst the common people, some working as servants in the royal castle, and some even infiltrating the military, soldiers in the Grand Duke's army. Aryn trusted strangers way too easily. Sure, Milo was happy to see common people brought to the table and included in such an important event, but he would have preferred Aryn use more caution.

“You might want to eat a little slower, Milli,” Aryn said to the girl sitting on her right side, touching her forearm. She'd made sure to learn the names of both of her guests before the feast. The common girl looked up at Aryn, and mumbled something with her mouth full of bread and beef. “I understand this is more food than you've ever seen in one place...maybe more food than you've ever seen at all, but you need to pace yourself or you'll be sick.”

“Fank you. Thorry.” Milli said, her mouth still full.

“It's alright. Take your time,” Aryn replied, “The food's not going anywhere. Except...in your belly.”

“So friendly with the dregs of society,” Jachai mumbled to his annoyed wife. “I know what my prayers will be every night, that she'll grow a damned brain!”

“Be careful what you mumble when you think no one can hear you,” said the man with gaunt features across the table from Jachai. The man had short, dark hair and pronounced cheek-bones on an almost emaciated face. If one made eye contact with him they hardly had time to see what color they were, for there was an intensity in them, a piercing gaze that made it feel as if he could see your every thought, your every memory, in a glance. He wore a dark purple tunic, almost black, with a high collar that stopped just under his jaw.

Duke Jachai was startled at the stranger's words. He was sure that with all of the noise that only his wife, whose ear was so close, could hear him. “I'm sorry, did I offend you?” Jachai said. He wasn't good at hiding his disdain at eavesdroppers.

“Everyone has an opinion,” the gaunt-faced stranger said, “I may not agree with yours, but that doesn't mean I take offense to it. In any case, you should be careful what you say. Talk of politics tends to...anger people.”

“Are you threatening me, sir?”

“Not sir. I am neither noble nor knight.”

“Another commoner at the table?” Jachai sneered, “Fine, then are you threatening me, sirrah?”

“Not at all, I'm warning you. I'm actually rather fond of the work you do in Nihilus, stopping the nigh constant rebellions there, giving the scum what's coming to them.”

“Really?” Jachai gave an unconvinced snort.

“What is your name, sirrah?” Liat asked, interrupting what looked to her like a brewing argument.

“Grigori, my lady.” Replied the gaunt-faced stranger.

“Grigori?” Jachai's eyebrows raised when he heard this name. He knew it well. Though this man was not nobility he was a renowned war hero. He was the one who slew Cory, the warlock who killed the Martyr King Hadar. Grigori was famous as the man who saved the capital city and all of Arx from a legion of demons under Cory's command. “I apologize for my harsh speech, my good man! I had no idea who you were.”

“You still have no idea,” said Grigori.

“You're a war hero! Other than the Martyr King himself the greatest war hero of this generation!”

“Then you have no idea,” Grigori repeated.

“Wait, you're THAT Grigori?” Liat asked, “The former inquisitor who helped King Hadar root out Nihilite spies in the capital? The one whose efforts saved the city not once but twice?” It was true; Grigori had twice saved the city, once when he killed Cory, and another time when he caught a witch who was spreading a plague. His recollection of the events, however, was entirely different from the version told in the stories; it was nothing like the bards' songs.

“That's what they say,” Grigori shrugged.

It was then that Jachai finally got a good look at Grigori. He could see the circles under his eyes, the bags that suggested either that he never slept or that he cried often, perhaps both. He had very little food on his plate and ate it particularly slowly. Yet his glass of wine was full to the brim, and as Jachai watched Grigori took the goblet and gulped down every last drop of wine in a matter of seconds, immediately gesturing to the nearest servant that he would like another. Jachai recognized every sign. Often times he'd seen this happen to soldiers he'd fought beside, after whatever war they'd fought was over they were broken men. They fell into a terrible sorrow that would not go away. Truth be told, Jachai was one of the few in the realm who really understood that the war heroes in the songs rarely had happily-ever-afters.

Jachai never really had much talent for comforting those who were hurt or for mending those who were broken, so he changed the subject, “You said you approve of what I do in Nihilus?”

Grigori finished off another glass of wine. “Someone has to. You do what's necessary. One of the few people who would. The Nihilites were once ruled by a king so terrible that he executed his own people en masse, oftentimes only on the mere SUSPICION that they were disloyal. He starved the peasantry and taxed them into the ground to fuel his damnable crusade. Then came Cory, the warlock lord of fools, who murdered his own people in cold blood, enslaved an entire city in his own homeland, and then came here and murdered our beloved king. How do the Nihilite people remember these scum now that they are gone? I've heard the reports. Cory and King Therion are spoken of as heroes, martyrs to the cause, and the Nihilites practically worship them. Well, I say send them all to meet their so-called heroes in the grave!” Grigori slammed his fist down on the table. He'd forgotten that he still had his wine glass in his hand, and it shattered. The broken shards of glass cut his hand badly, but he barely seemed to notice.

“You're bleeding!” Liat said, pointing to Grigori's hand, “You should see a physician, immediately!”

For a moment Grigori ignored her. He continued to stare into Duke Jachai's eyes. Jachai caught his breath as he saw the utter anguish in them. It wasn't the pain from the cuts in his hand, but the pain of one who had spent years in bottled-up fury. His lip quivered, a sign that Grigori struggled to hold back tears. Nearly a minute passed in silence before Grigori let out a deep sigh, “You're right, my lady. I should treat this wound. If you'll excuse me.”

Many turned to stare as Grigori, who clutched his bleeding hand and held it high to keep blood loss to a minimum, stood from the table and left down the nearest hall. Further down the table Sarahi and Milo exchanged glances with one another, both worried for their old friend. Sarahi gave Milo a hand gesture which he recognized as the “stay here” signal before she got up and walked out of the banquet hall to follow Grigori.

Aryn turned to Milo. “Is he alright?”

“Probably not,” Milo said. “Grigori's...he's not a happy man. Your father, King Hadar, was his first friend, and Grigori was there when your father was murdered. He saw the whole thing.”

“You grew up with my father, didn't you?” Aryn asked.

“Well...yes, I did. Your mother and I both trained with him at the paladin academy of Caelum since childhood, why?”

“Odd...”

“What's odd?”

“You and my mother grew up with my father, were best friends for as long as you can remember, and yet neither of you are as much of a mess as Grigori is...” As she spoke the words Aryn could see Milo's hands clench up, a clear sign of someone under stress, perhaps hiding something. Sure enough his eyes glanced off to the left and his nostrils flared up slightly, clear signs that he was about to fabricate a story. During the summers Aryn had spent in that peasant village Grigori was often there to watch over her, and he taught her how to tell when someone is lying. Isu, the other man assigned to taking care of her during the summer, had dismissed Grigori's teaching as superstition, but Aryn had seen these methods proven time and again.

“Some people don't handle grief as well as others,” Milo said. “Grigori is...rather emotional.”

“He doesn't seem it,” Aryn said, “Usually his face is so empty, so blank, and his voice...he talks so monotone. I don't think I know anyone who keeps their composure better than he does.”

“That's because he bottles it all up,” Milo said. This was clearly truth. Milo was looking Aryn straight in the eye again. “He holds back his emotions. And then, every once in a while something happens or someone says something that sets him off, and then he explodes. Sometimes he shouts and breaks things, sometimes he weeps and sobs. You've been around him for years, but you still don't know him.”

Aryn shrugged. While she certainly knew her bodyguard wasn't being totally honest with her and it was against the law to lie to royalty she didn't really want to press the issue. As far as she could tell Milo was always hiding all sorts of secrets from her, but her mother trusted him completely, so she knew that even if he wasn't entirely honest he was certainly loyal.

Meanwhile Sarahi followed Grigori back to his guest-room. As he wrapped his hand in cloth, Sarahi walked in and shut the door behind her. “Your Grace,” he said, his back still turned toward her.

The fact that such a good friend used such a distant greeting stung, but Sarahi wasn't going to mope over it. “I can heal that wound for you,” Sarahi said. She'd trained as a paladin in her youth, and she still retained the holy magic she'd learned.

“No need. It's not that deep, it'll heal soon enough.”

“Look at me,” she ordered. Grigori slowly turned and faced her. His face was stern and strong, but his eyes glistened with the tears he held back. “How long are you going to let this go on, my friend?”

“Let what go on?”

“You know what I mean,” Sarahi said, “It's one thing to grieve for a loved one, it's another thing entirely to let that grief take such control over you. You haven't been eating, that much is obvious. I'd think you'd gone back to being an inquisitor if it weren't for all the drinking. Have you been taking the whip to yourself again too?”

“What business is it of yours?” Grigori snapped.

“I'm your friend,” Sarahi said, approaching him with her arms outstretched. Grigori stepped away from her attempted embrace. “Let me be here for you.”

“Don't touch me.”

“I just want to help you.”

“You can't help me. You and Milo have tried for years, but the pain never goes away.”

“I understand what you're going through. I loved him too.”

“Not like I did,” Grigori said. He gave her an almost threatening glare, a look that said, “How dare you compare my pain to yours?”

Sarahi lowered her arms. “Then what? You'll just continue to stew in your misery? It's been sixteen years! How much longer are you going to mourn and blame yourself?”

“When eternity ends I'm sure the pain will be gone.” Grigori and Sarahi stared at one another for a few moments, both of them silent, but both knew the other's mind. Eventually Grigori broke the silence, “With your leave, your Grace, I would like to retire for the night, sleep off the wine.”

“Very well,” Sarahi said. She opened the door again, and just before she closed it behind her she looked back at her old friend one more time.