The sun gleamed from a cloudless sky, dressing the day in a dry summer heat.

Alex shadowed his eyes as he looked across the fields, sitting astride his moa at the crest of the hill. The forest had been thinning for the past day of travel, and after a short lunch beneath the branches, they had emerged from beneath the trees cool embrace. The fields that stretched out before them across the rolling hills were in full bloom. Filled with golden wheat swaying in the wind, and the flat green of potato leaves. Trees—both solitary oaks and willows, and bundles of aspen and maple—dotted the landscape. Through this picturesque view the road stretched like a snake slithering through a tranquil sea, smaller branches jutting out now and then; narrower roads turned avenues by the flanking trees, leading to tiny villages of a dozen or so houses—and the occasional windmill spinning lazily in the fresh breeze—clustered atop hills across the horizon.

The moa chirped, not unlike how a horse would neigh, and Alex reached out to pat its long neck. Riding the bird had been strangely familiar. And despite the strange way it boobed up and down—so different from a horse—he had fallen into a comfortable and familiar rhythm after just a few minutes in the saddle. It helped that the bird responded in much the same way as a horse would to his usage of he bridle and stirrups, and that it had clearly been trained for battle, giving it a calm and easy temper.

Charles came up beside him, reining in his moa with a pull on the bridle. They had barely been able to speak since after the attack two days earlier. Charles had been quite occupied with his duties after the sudden loss of both soldiers and confidence, and Alex had been much too tired to do much other than sleep. It had been his first time getting a proper night’s sleep since before his battle with the gods, after all, and the only thing he had missed, was Emily. During the day he had ridden at the back of the column, as was proper for a stranger, though he had heard some mumbled of displeasure among the soldiers at that, and had been given an extra helping of food, and good accommodations for the night; a sign of their appreciation for his acts, no doubts.

Behind them the soldier’s were finishing up preparations to ride across the open fields, by raising banners and redying trumpets to herald the prince’s passing. They may have been in a hurry, but there were limits to how unassuming they could be.

“You seem lost in thought, stranger,” Charles said, using the nickname Alex had been given by the prince.

“Just reminiscing,” Alex mused. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen farmland untouched by war or plague. Or hills green with grass and golden hay, and not sot and blackened dirt.”

Charles expression was unreadable, but there was a hint of curiosity in his voice as he spoke. “You come from a pale world, I gather.”

“You could say that,” Alex said, his eyes seeing things long past. “It was dying, for most of my life. I just hope I did enough before I left.” He shook his head, and smiled to Charles. “Sorry, this is not the time nor place for such darkness.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Charles gazed out across the fields and the rolling hills, admiring the same views as Alex, but perhaps for a different reason. They sat in silence for a moment, before Charles spoke again. “We’ll reach Blackstead by evening, from there roads lead to all corners of the kingdom. If you wish to part ways, this will the best opportunity to do so, since beyond Blackstead the road south only leads to Spellhedge, and he ancient forest Alveria.”

Alex hummed, and turned to face Charles. “This town, Spellhedge, why is the princess there?”

“It houses an ancient academy of magic and science, the oldest in the kingdom, perhaps in the world,” Charles explained, and shifted upon his moa. “Every princess has received their education there, it’s tradition.”

“I see,” Alex said. An academy of magic did sound interesting, however, the great forest of Alveria, there was a tug at the name—a suggestion. He recognized it for what it was; a thread of fate. “The great forest of Alveria?” he asked.

“It’s an even more ancient place of magic,” Charles said. “It’s why Spellhedge is on our southern border, as close to the forest as it could get.”

“Do you know what sort of magic place it is? Elemental magic? Holy?”

Charles looked a little lost, then shook his head. “I’m afraid not much is known about the forest. And it’s said no one that’s entered has ever left.”

“Of course,” Alex sighed, magical places were usually protected. But he still felt the tug of fate, the thread that would guide him; that had guided him throughout his life. “I’ll come with you to Spellhedge,” he said. “A town of magic sounds just up my alley.”

Charles smiled. “I thought so. It’ll be another week of travel beyond Blackstead, and if you wish to stay, then that is your prerogative. Though, I’d always welcome a man like you to the royal guard.”

Alex couldn’t help but chuckle. “That may be, but I’m afraid I can already decline your offer. I’ve fought in enough armies in my life.”

“Still, the offer stands,” Charles said with a shrug, he wanted to say something more, but was interrupted as the prince rode up behind them on his purple moa, flanked by two soldiers on black moas.

"Stranger," Elliot said haughtily, with none of the respect Charles had used the nickname with. "You may be riding with us, but you are not a part of the royal guard, as such you'll have to find your own lodging when we reach Blackstead. For we will be lodging at duke Alistair’s estate.”

Alex bowed his head, and said simply, “Your highness.” It had become quite clear during the short time Alex had spent with the entourage that the prince did not want to be there. A feeling that must have increased considerably after the unexpected attack. Still, Alex could not entirely blame him for not wanting to be there. Especially not if his mother had recently passed away. He should be home mourning, not riding across the nation to collect his younger sister.

Charles tracked the prince as he left, with a strange look in his eyes. Then he turned back to Alex. “I must see to the preparations. We’ll ride as soon as they are complete.”

Alex nodded as Charles brought his moa about and rode back to where the soldier’s had made temporary camp. Something was afoul, he’d had the feeling for a while. On the surface everything seemed fine, but as soon as he peeked underneath, there seemed to be a mire of conflict, he just couldn’t seem to grasp its source. Perhaps he just didn’t know enough of the kingdom and its political situation to decrypt the subtle hints, but if he was to spend the night in a town, he might get the opportunity to fill in some of his missing blanks.

He turned back to gaze across the fields, when a realization suddenly struck him; he still did not know the princess’ name, for she had only been referred to as ‘the princess.’ He couldn’t be sure if there was a deeper meaning behind the omission, or if it was a simple mistake. But it sure seemed strange.

He shook his head, and took a deep breath of the fresh air. He shouldn’t get to embroiled in politics, he’d already spent one lifetime fighting in court, he did not want to spend a second doing the same. Besides, he thought, it was probably just a careless mistake. And did his best to ignore the part of his mind saying: as if.

***

The sun hung above the western horizon when Blackstead spread out before them, its origin and purpose clear to see as the smoke rising from its many cooking-fires. For the town was arranged around four roads, one from each cardinal direction, all terminating in a large circle, within which lay a field, filled with carts and stalls and people, so many people. People from all of southern Nydawin, if Charles were to be believed. Blackstead had always been a trading hub at the center of the country’s southern heartland, and had over the centuries grown from a small collection of houses and tents, to a full fledged town, and the seat of the fief’s duke, and in another century or two, the field might even have been cobbled. But they were still a little early for that, and the field was nothing but packed dirt. Alex was glad it hadn’t rained since his arrival to this new world, or the field would probably have been as muddy as a pigsty, and even less clean.

They rode into Blackstead along the northern road—the king’s road that crossed the country from north to south—drawing eyes and whispers alike. Charles had told Alex news of the queen’s death would have preceded them, and it seemed he had been right. For people lined the street as they rode into the town, clearing the way to the circular road and beyond, flocking to the banners displaying both the royal sign and the princes personal one, held by riders at the front and back of the column announced their passage. Some bowed or otherwise showed their respect, others—strangely enough—stood with frigid expressions, watching with eyes that held suspicion and distrust.

The royal procession would not be stopping within the town, but at the estate to the east. So when they reached the field the column made a sharp turn left. It was at this point Alex held his moa. Charles had given him the name of a reputable inn close to the town’s center where he could stay the night, before catching the procession as it passed through the town the next morning.

He watched them ride around the field, along the circular road, the last soldier turning left again to leave the town before Alex dismounted. With a fast grip on the moa’s bridle he lead it through the quickly thickening crowd around the field, but to the east, not the west. He looked over the field with curious eyes as he passed, but found most of it be nothing more than a farmers market—much like any in Mónvell—where farmers came to sell things they produced, be it potatoes, wheat, meat, or wool; and purchase things they did not, like pans, pots, hoes, and clothes. Had he not been weary from almost two days in the saddle he might have perused the market for a bit, if only to see if he could find other ways it differed from those he knew.

He stepped to the side as a dalama passed, pulling a large cart. The creature looked much like sheep, if the sheep had been the size of a cow with a neck twice as long, and from their heads sprouted wide, flat antlers, like those upon a moose. Their fur had been cut short for the summer, but Alex could see the hints of wool on some of the animals, and it wouldn’t surprise him if they grew a lot fluffier during the colder months. They had passed many on the way into town, and Alex had grown more or less sure the creature was the only large barnyard animal in the world, or at least the only one in the country. Which was a pity, for they smelled horrendously and had a nasty habit of spitting at everyone and everything.

He found the inn at the crossroad of the circle and the western road. The prancing moa, it was called, and it stood three stories tall upon a foundation much older than the rest of the building, made of large, square cut stones of a strange bluish color that Alex couldn’t identify. The first floor was brick, and above it the second and third floor jutted out a good three feet, throwing the street below into shade. The upper stories were made from wood, and the roof from red tile. It was one of the few buildings that did not have a thatched roof, and the tiles glittered in the light from the falling sun. Smoke rose in light strands from some of the inns many tall chimneys, and a scent of cooking wafted out through the open shutters on the bottom floor.

Alex made his way to the end of the inn along the western road, where a wide alleyway led to the back. There he found a stable boy to take care of his moa. Since he didn’t know the local prices he gave the boy two copper, which might have been to much, since boy lit up when the coins dropped into his palm. He led away the animal with a spring in his step, and Alex, not caring much if he had overpaid, found his way back to the inn’s entrance.

The inside was surprisingly spacious, and clean enough, considering the circumstances. It seemed the somewhat upscale nature of the inn kept the riffraff at bay, and the customers enjoying their meals and beers around the many tables were either regulars, or more successful merchants, many in visible good humor. Alex made his way to the bar, and leaned upon the thick slab of oak.

“What will it be?” asked the girl behind the counter. She was pretty, with large almond eyes and ruffled brown hair that reminded him of Emily.

“Dinner and beer for the evening, and a room for the night,” he said, and after a moment’s thought, he added, “And a bath, if it is offered.”

“That would be three copper,” she said, and began filling a tankard from under he bar. “That includes breakfast.”

The only copper coins Alex had were the ones he had brought with him from Mónvell, and he didn’t feel like spending them. Instead, he pulled a silver coin from the pouch Charles had given him, and put it on the bar. The girl vanished the coin with deft fingers, and replaced it with eight copper coins. Alex gathered them up and put them back in his pouch, making a mental note of the conversion rate.

“Thank you,” he said as he accepted the tankard, and made his way to an empty table by the far wall, from which he could see door and the entire clientèle. The din of conversation hadn’t even hitched when he’d walked through the door, and he supposed strangers were quite common in a town like this. He took a sip of the beer, it was lukewarm, but tasted well enough. It was no Gordian Ale, fermented in the deep caverns of the hidden city Amagani, nor Frillin Mead, brought by the first traders to cross the frozen seas with the coming of spring. But it would do.

Alex took another sip, and from his position at the wall he cast his eyes around the common room. There were a good score of customers beside himself, all engrossed with their own food and conversation, and lit by flickering candlelight, and what little sunlight still found its way through the open shutters. Some playing games of cards that seemed mighty similar to ones played throughout inns and taverns of Mónvell. As he sat, sipping at his bear, he picked up snippets conversation, but nothing that piqued his interest.

There were talk of the latest harvest, of the crops that would go up in price after a lower than average yield, and those that would go down for the opposite reason. Of the lack of farmhands and the overabundance of youth traveling south to try their luck at adventuring on the great plain; this did catch Alex’s attention, but the stocky merchant quickly moved on to speak of windmills and their inherent inefficiencies compared to the old-fashioned hand-operated mills, and Alex tuned him out.

Then he heard a mention of the late queen, and his ears perked as he subtly turned his head towards a group of three men a couple tables away. They were a motley group, two dressed in understated garments of brown and gray, and the third in a flamboyant cape of patched colors that seemed to dance in the candlelight. Alex had a sneaking suspicion the man might be a troubadour, one that was all but confirmed when he spotted the hard-leather case at the man’s feet.

“It’s terrible, what happened to the queen,” the troubadour said. “Rumor says she was poisoned, poor woman.”

“Probably by her husband,” one of the plain-clothed men mumbled into his tankard.

The third—a clean-shaven man—slapped him on the back, beer wetting his beard. “Watch your mouth,” he grunted. “Didn’t you see the prince pass through with the royal guard?”

“I did,” the bearded man said and dried his beard on his sleeve. “They are on their way to collect the young princess, no doubt. But they left for the count’s estate. There won’t be any soldiers in the inns tonight.”

“Still, you never know where the Queen’s Shadows might be hiding.”

“Looking for dissent against the king-regent? They serve the queen, and now the princess, not the acting king.”

“Humph. You should still watch your mouth, the ale loosens your tongue more than it has any right to.”

“Comrades, comrades,” the troubadour said and took a sip of his ale. “I have another rumor to recount. ”

“Pray, do tell,” the bearded man drawled and took another gulp of ale.

The troubadour cleared his throat. “I heard this at the court of duke Elmond of Norlyn, where I performed at the celebration for his son’s thirteenth birthday. Between the songs I caught Elmond and the old sir Boulet, whispering over their Sunday roast. They were careful, but after they’d had a few glasses of Hazelbar’s best wine, I caught a word or two. And let me tell you, it was not pretty. They spoke of war, my dear comrades; of war with Eztrenya, and with the Avanian Empire.”

The clean-shaven man snorted. “The council would never allow it. They are too split between their endless squabbles; and only a queen has the power to start a war without a council majority.”

“You are right, of course,” the troubadour conceded. “But they had cleverly devised a plan around that little obstruction.” He paused for dramatic effect, though it was completely wasted on his audience. “The princess!”

“She’s a princess, not a queen,” the bearded man said. “And she won’t be a queen for another five years.”

“But there’s where you are wrong,” the troubadour said with a glint in his eye. “Because she will be a queen, and quite soon at that, just not a queen of her own. They’ll have her marry the king, you see, and have her hand her sovereignty over to him.”

“Marry her own father,” the bearded man grunted. “You must be joking.”

“Oh, but I’m not.”

“It’s not so far fetched,” the shaven man said and took a sip of ale. “Remember the rumor that used to circle around the princess?”

“Don’t tell me you believe that old rumor,” the bearded man sighed. “The princess is not a bastard, there is no way.”

“And why not? You’ve seen all of them, I know you have, because I was there with you. The princess looks nothing like the king; she doesn’t have his face, his hair, his eyes—”

“But she looks like the queen,” the bearded man interrupted. “There is no way she isn’t her daughter.”

“I’m not saying the queen isn’t her mother; I’m saying the king is not her father!”

“Comrades,” the troubadour cut in. “It matters little whose daughter she is or is not. She is of royal blood, and she is still young. She’ll be used by the older nobles, one way or another.”

The bearded man grunted in agreement. “I feel for the poor girl, but either way, I’ll be glad to leave this country, that’s a storm brewing, and a big one at that.”

“Aye,” the troubadour said and swung out with his arm, almost hitting the barmaid as she walked past, balancing a plate of food and two tankards. “Ah! Sorry my dear. But worry not for my health, for I have heard the king of Aelia seeks a new court bard.”

“We were never worried,” the shaven man said and emptied his tankard.

Alex sat straight as the barmaid arrived at his table, placing the plate of food and a full tankard of beer before him. He thanked her, and watched her make her way back to the bar whilst he organized his thoughts. He’d pretended to be sunken in thought, slowly sipping on his beer whilst he listened in on their conversation, but now as they moved onto other less interesting tracks of conversation, Alex found his mind jumbled.

The food before him looked lovely, and its smell was just as delightful, he dug in, and found the taste to be as fantastic, at least compared to what he’d been eating the last few years. He didn’t have any trouble with appetite for when you lived in an army camp, minutes from battle at any time, appetite was something you learned to manage.

He ate slowly, outwardly disinterested in his surroundings and engrossed in his food, and inwardly he worked on putting what he had heard into context with what little he knew. The queen died unexpectedly and an escort was quickly assembled to collect the princess from a distant academy; that much made complete sense. But why would the prince be sent with the escort? And why did the commander of the royal guard seemingly despise one of his charges? Alex sighed to himself, he supposed what he had heard were just rumors; hearsay at best, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had contained a grain of truth. Perhaps more than grain.

He finished his food and leaned back in the chair. There was still too much he didn’t know; too many missing pieces to the puzzle. Then a thought struck him; I could just ignore it. It was a strange thought, but it was right. He had no investment in this nation’s politics, no reason to care about these people or their nobles. For the first time in his life, he could walk the other way. He could live on the money he had already been given for quite a while, given the exchange rate, and finding work with his skill set would never be difficult. He could travel the world, go wherever struck his fancy, hopefully he would even find Emily along the way, whenever fate could be deigned to bring them together. He could live a life devoid of conflict, a peaceful and quiet life, of calm and probably some opulence.

He didn’t need the sudden tug of fate upon his heart to know that he wouldn’t; that he couldn’t. He had dedicated his life to helping those who needed his help. He had helped Reginald create an empire where the sun had never set; one where he had been free to create programs and social reforms to help everyone. And when it had become clear the only way to save their world was to rid it of the malicious gods, he had dedicated his life to doing just that. But now that he had succeeded in saving one, could he really stop? Was one world really enough, when there were so many more? So many more people that needed help, so many children that—just like him—had no one to turn to; nowhere to call home?

He rose from the table, collecting a key from the barmaid before heading upstairs to his rented room. He needed a bath and a good night’s sleep. He’d find out the truth, and he’d make sure it came to justice. He just hoped it could be done without much violence; he didn’t need a second lifetime filled with blood.