Amid a village of high-rise flats pinned together tightly along narrow alleyways, the settlement surrounding King Arell’s castle contrasted against the quiet beaches. The Moatons who inhabited the city were as dissimilar to the natives as their abodes were from the native villages. While a child, Arell never got comfortable among the closed-mouthed Moatons, perhaps because his mother raised him as a Cho Nisi rather than a prince. Even after she died, Arell often felt ill at ease in the palace when people from Moaton were around.

Since his grandfather’s day, the Cho Nisi elders had worked in collaboration with the king, but Arell wanted nothing to do with politics. The sea, the tide pools, canoeing, and spearfishing pulled on his heartstrings. He spent evenings in the warm sun and lingered on the white sands long after daylight dimmed, and shadows chilled the villages.

Before his father died, there had been gossip about the prince living with the Cho Nisi, but his father’s counselors advised the king to let him be. Some said a boy half-native could never rise to be a monarch. Arell hadn’t cared. He had no ambition to be a ruler. The small island and introverted residents needed little governing. Perhaps boredom and search for adventure prompted his parent to go to the aid of King Tobias.

Now Arell, more somber than he had ever been, donned his father’s fur-lined robe, gilded with gold and silver threads, and sat on the throne. The time had come for him to query the men who had seen his father die.

Serena, Bena, and three other native maidens fixed his mantle in a perfect circle at his feet. Such graceful women, slim, dark, sleek black hair bouncing over their shoulders. Dressed in chitons, they wore anklets and gold bands on their arms, gifts Arell had given them. Had they been home, they would wear beads, but he liked the way the gold contrasted against their skin. The fragrance of ginger blossoms calmed his temperament. How could he be anxious amid their charm?

“Is there anything else, Vasil?” Serena asked.

“When this meeting is over, yes. I will have you fix my bath for me.” He took her hand and kissed it.

“As you wish.” She curtsied.

Blood crept into his cheeks as he watched her leave.

“I didn’t realize my father enjoyed so many amenities,” he told the chief sitting by his side. “Your daughters know how to soothe a nervous king.”

Silas grunted.

A valet opened the door to the throne room and four Cho Nisi warriors entered, bowing before him. They wore the after-battle ceremonial garb of their sect, the Bombadons. Blue tunics, crow feathers on their belts, and a string of Umbonium shells around their necks.

“Vasil, you wanted to speak with us?”

“Yes,” Arell rose, shed his robe, stepped off his pedestal, and ushered the men to a table nearby.

“Wine?” he offered. The natives looked at each other. They seemed intimidated, to Arell’s disappointment. He hadn’t meant to discourage them from speaking their hearts.

“Come, sit. I’ll have the servants bring fruit.” He nodded at an attendant who left the room. “Let’s not be formal, soldiers. You fought with my father, and I respect what you’ve done. Thank you for bringing him back home. The journey must have been long and difficult for you.”

They sat at his table silently.

“I have some questions.” Arell waited in silence until the servant returned and set plates of fresh vegetables and shellfish before them. So rigid were the fellows that Arell gave Silas a puzzled look, and immediately the chief spoke in their native language. They nodded and served themselves. No one poured themselves a chalice of wine, though.

“Please, tell me how my father died.”

“An arrow,” a man responded, looking at his plate.

Arell knew that. Who? How? He would have to construct his questions differently.

“What is your name?”

“Tema,” he answered. He had long hair tied neatly in back, his frown seemed fixed, as if life had not treated him generously.

“I appreciate what you and your friends have done.” When Tema looked up at him, Arell placed his fist over his heart, the Cho Nisi sign of honor. “Please talk to me. Tell me exactly what happened? What point in the battle did my father fall? Were there human volunteers of Skotádi’s in among the skura? An enemy our warriors should know?”

“No. No men.”

“No?” That surprised him. “Possibly another form of demon who can fight like a man, use a man’s weapon. Or a new breed of monsters?” he asked.

“No. Just skura.”

Arell sat back in his chair and watched them eat.

“Are you suggesting that the enemy didn’t kill my father?”

“We only fought against the skura. We saw no other enemy. Only beasts from the sky, the Potamian knights and Lord Garion’s militia. No others.”

“But King Rolland died from an arrow wound.”

“Yes. To his heart.”

Arell sipped his wine while digesting this news. Who would have killed the king of Cho Nisi if not Skotádi? Surely not any of King Tobias’ soldiers. Never had there been any trouble with the mainland. Never! His father trusted King Tobias. Lord Garion, he had never met, but why would a nobleman kill an ally? He clenched his fists and then opened them, breathing deeply to control his angst.

“Then my father’s death was an accident. Had he been in the way of Potamian crossfire?”

Tema said something to Chief Silas. The two exchanged words in their language. Silas kept nodding toward Arell, and then Tema stood and looked straight into Arell’s eyes. The other men stopped eating.

Arell held his cup to his lips without drinking as his eye’s met the warrior’s. His heart raced.

“Our king, your father, died before the battle began.”

“Before?” Arell stuttered, the shock sinking into his soul as if someone had plunged a sword into his heart and kept it there. “Before?”

An assassination?

He bolted from his chair and dropped his chalice. Wine splashed on the floor, the goblet reeled in a circle, and tottered at his feet. Its gold rim, brilliant from the sun, blinded him. He said nothing. Words wouldn’t form, nor could he move. The light that leached into the throne room glowed brilliantly, seizing him from reality. He stared at the herald but did not see him.

Silence.

“King Arell?” Silas sighed.

The world may have ceased rotation, it mattered not. His mind spun away from reality. Chief Silas said something to the men. The people in the room stood and one by one they bowed, moved away as if disappearing into space.

“Vasil,” someone whispered. A hand took his shoulder and shook him gently. “Arell, my king. The elders will confer. There is much to discuss.”

In the radiance, his father’s pale and lifeless body lay on the deck of a boat.

Assassinated?

Time passed. Eternity.

Another voice sounded in his mind. A woman’s tone. Sweet, melodious.

“Vasil. Come to your quarters. Your bath is ready.”