Arell greeted the morning as solemnly as he had addressed the night. Reality slowly came into focus and with it, a responsibility that weighed heavily on his shoulders. Added to the grief of losing his father, his nation tottered on the brink of war.

Chief Silas sat in Arell’s room. Cho Nisi sentries stood at his door. The chief stared out the window while Arell sat on the end of his bed, half of the covers spread carelessly on the floor. He hadn’t slept.

“I don’t know what to do, Silas,” Arell confessed. “I’m at a total loss.”

Silas didn’t answer, but his sympathetic eyes and grave expression offered no solution for him either. Arell looked up, his hair disheveled from pulling at it. His eyes puffed with misery. Worry had tormented him as he grazed over the tragedy that might happen should the island take arms against the legendary King Tobias. The foreign ruler would have allies. Perhaps the empire Casdamia would stand by the king’s side. Hundreds of fully armored soldiers with state-of-the-art weapons and a fleet of battleships might invade them. Cannons perhaps, and magicians who could more than match the feeble charms of their remote island.

Were the chant-induced spells powerful enough to ward off such an onslaught? Could they disguise their isle from the human eye and hide their homeland from the rest of the world undetected? For how long?

One truth stood out concerning the magic of Cho Nisi. Spells would last only as long as the strength and passion of the men who chanted. Should any of the champions who chanted become tired, or doubt, or lose interest, the spell would falter. Others could stand in the gap, and that has happened before. But a doubter could also influence those in his circle. So, war with a kingdom such as Potamia proved as risky as if the Cho Nisi had no magic.

“How do we discover the truth? How do we find out if King Tobias ordered the murder of my father?”

“The warriors believe he did. They’re waiting for you to retaliate.”

“Retaliate? How? Declare war?”

Silas shrugged. “I understand your hesitancy. It would be difficult.”

Arell let out a cynical laugh. “Difficult? Our barefoot warriors against the king’s multitude of armed soldiers? And while there’s a war with demons burning hot over all of us?”

“We have powers which the king does not have,” Silas reminded him.

Arell studied his friend, puzzled. “Do we know the capacity of those powers? Have we ever tested them to their end?”

Silas shook his head.

“You’re advocating war against the greatest nation on the mainland? King Tobias has been our ally for years. Father trusted him. What happened? What if my father’s death were an accident?”

Silas glared at him. “The first shot killed your father. It was no accident.”

Arell rubbed his head again. He couldn’t think anymore. He hurt inside. The ache of betrayal battered his heart and wrenched his gut, becoming a physical throbbing he couldn’t escape.

Silas gazed outside again as if the answer to their trouble hung in the air above the castle. “Your father stood brave and strong. He loved you, your people, and our people. You will be strong like he was, I have no doubt. Understand this, though. Cho Nisi are proud. They do not take being wronged well. They expect you to stand up and demand justice. There must be retaliation. How you do it, that is for you to decide. You’re king now.”

What a mandate! “I need time to think about this, Silas.”

The chief nodded and rose. “I sent warriors to watch over you when they brought your father home. They still keep watch. I will send more if it eases your mind. When an heir sits on the throne after one assassination, there is often another. Be wary.”

Silas slipped out the door. Arell took off his nightclothes and dressed carelessly, leaving his shirt unlaced, the tail hanging over his trousers. He slipped into his doublet, more for warmth than for show, and left it unbuttoned. The need for fresh air beckoned him outside. He needed to be alone in the elements. If only he could feel the physical world. An icy wind, a warm sun, salty sea air—something besides this numbness.

He made his way down the corridor and slipped out a side entry that opened to a stony trail. As sincere as Silas’s intentions were to keep him guarded, Arell sought solitude in order to consider the dilemma.

A war with King Tobias? Arell had never met the man, but he had heard stories regarding the Potamian family and how they stormed after the dark lord years ago and chased profane beasts from their borders. How they conquered creatures of inscrutable abilities. King Tobias doesn’t have Cho Nisi magic, but he has powers of his own—wizardry, sorcery. He is a rich man and can order any catalogue of spells he needs. It would be foolish for the island to declare war against him.

As a new king, he couldn’t lose favor with his people at such an early period in his career. It was the elders’ job to impart wisdom. Many of them witnessed his father’s death and wanted to avenge him. What sort of son would Arell be if he didn’t also want reprisal?

“Well?” he charged himself as he jogged a mountain trail to an overlook. The morning air filled his lungs and calmed him as he inhaled. “What sort of son are you?” he asked himself aloud. He stopped, closed his eyes, and faced the sun, arms outstretched, absorbing its warmth, petitioning its powerful rays for healing from the pain within.

Atop the tallest hill on the island, from the castle he could see the entire span of ocean and the continent that bordered it. Far to the north, across the sea, stood Mount Ream and Casda de Moor, two snowcapped peaks facing each other, and where Tellwater Valley stretched. That mountain range bore witness to his parent’s death.

Arell breathed deeply as he looked at those mountains, only tiny white dots in a field of blue. Betrayal? Vengeance? How had the fate of the island so suddenly come to rest on his shoulders? The wise thing to do for the welfare of everyone would be to let it go. That’s what he wanted to do. Just let it pass. Bury his father and all the ills attached to his death. End the violence.

Across the sea, coming from the north, sailed a ship. Arell pulled the spyglass from his doublet and focused on the skiff. His heart skipped a beat. A banner, red and gold, a destrier as the insignia—King Tobias’ standard.

The Potamians would not let him bury his father in peace. How many more ships had stolen to their shores in the night? Perhaps King Tobias had already raided and pilfered his shores. This legendary king might have ordered his execution, and these ships carried men to kill him and claim his throne. Arell quickly tapped the spyglass closed and raced back to the castle. Opening the door, he hurried past the scullions, the servants in the hall, and glanced briefly at the young chamberlain whose duty it was to dress him.

“Sire,” the chamberlain called out after him.

“I know,” Arell answered and grabbed at his doublet buttons to close them on the run. “Where is Silas?”

“On the study balcony,” the young man answered. “Let me…”

Arell pushed open the doors to the balcony. Chief Silas recoiled in surprise. Arell halted, panting. “They…they’re coming. King Tobias’ soldiers.”

Arell needn’t say anything else. Silas grabbed his coat and growled at him as he left. “Tuck your shirt in. Button your doublet.” The chamberlain met him in the hall and handed him his hat as Arell rushed out after the chief.

Arell raced to catch Silas, pushing his shirt into his trousers, and brushing the creases out of his doublet. By the time they reached the pathway to the beach, his feathered hat crowned his head. Silas signaled to every warrior they met on the way—the sentries, the guards, the Cho Nisi singers.

“Get your drums,” he ordered. “Gather the weapons. Prepare the catapult.”

When they arrived at the beach, the men there, having seen the boat nearing shore, were already beating their drums and manifesting a spell. The warriors who had followed Arell and Silas skipped down the hill to the sand and joined them. Other warriors ran up the shoreline, the throb of their song resonating loudly. The wind stirred and blew sand into the air, which slapped against Arell’s cheeks and into his eyes. A twister appeared offshore, lifting sea water as it rose, becoming a dark tornado swirling over the waters.

“Don’t destroy their boat,” Arell cautioned. “Not yet. See if there are more vessels than this skiff that heads our way. If so, shift their bearings, get them lost. Make them retreat. Drive them away, but don’t kill them.” Arell said, his temper rising the nearer the boat came.

“We see no others, Vasil,” a warrior called out.

“What is this they’re doing? Only one skiff? I don’t believe it,” Arell asked Silas.

“A parlay perhaps?” Silas replied.

“Maybe.” Arell paced up and down the shore watching everything—the tempest, the ship rocking, the darkening of the skies, the warriors drumming. Who are they to approach like this, waving the banner of Potama? Killing his father and now bringing one small fishing craft to parlay? What do they want? Do they mean to insult him?

“Bring the skiff ashore. Let them come. Have archers ready and don’t let up the magic. Watch them closely.”

Silas whistled to his men and held up one finger. A tunnel of calm appeared in front of the vessel. Silas took Arell’s arm. “Go to the top of the hill. Do not be down here on the beach when they arrive.” He tugged Arell away and up the trail to the cliff that overlooked the beach. Arell followed, stumbling—more captivated by what he saw approaching than concentrating on his footing. When Arell reached the higher embankment with Silas behind him, he dusted his clothes and fixed his hat. Pulling out his spyglass, he watched the banner-waving skiff as it reached the shallows.

“I see only one soldier and a magician.” His frown slowly formed into a bewildered smile. “And that’s a woman at the prow—a pretty red-head.”

“Is it?” The chief nodded with a half-smile. “Then you will be more a threat to her than she to you,” he whispered.