Arell stood on his favorite hillside overlooking the northern shore. He could hear the drums of the warriors on the beaches below. They’d been on guard ever since Erika left, worried that King Tobias would send his soldiers to the island, or that more skura would appear. Despite Cho Nisi having been at peace with all of its neighbors for more than half a century, the people expected trouble now. Even Chief Silas had suggested Arell pick up a sword and learn to fight like his ancestors, the Casdamians.

“You never know if someone greater than the king’s daughter will challenge you. They know our magic. Maybe they have spells to counter our charms. They know about you, that an heir sits on the throne. You must protect yourself. Our magic cannot be everywhere.”

With the trial and banishment of the murderer of his father, came a sense of urgency. Silas called it “maturity”. Arell spent more time at the library in Moaton learning his people’s history and their war strategies, talking to the immigrants who lived there, learning their names and who his father’s people were. He tired of emotional pain and had grown weary of wrestling with his sentiments. He spent less time on the beaches, having less desire to flirt with Silas’ daughters and her friends. Erika had done something to him, planted a distrust for women in his heart. Either that or distrust of falling in love. He missed her terribly, but whenever he thought of her, he trained himself to think of his father, instead. The struggle proved difficult, but to survive the emotional whirlwind of passion, he had to nullify his love for her. So far with little success.

He tired, also, of depending on the Cho Nisi to be the sole protectors of the island. Their magic hinged on whether they believed in their cause. What if in the future there was a disagreement? Had the elders executed Erika—and that had been a decision they had wavered on—he’d have been devastated. Even that they had considered her death caused him to mistrust them and made him question his allegiance to the tribe. Was he really more a Cho Nisi than a Casdamian? Or was he influenced by neither, ready to take the Crown into his own hands and challenge the islanders?

He still respected the Cho Nisi, yet he needed to defend himself against predators, be they of the devil, or Potamian, or female.

He sighted no ships in the distance that morning, and so Arell walked into the village. Robed in his regal cloak and gold embroidered blue doublet, he marched the streets as a king, his boots tapping softly on the cobblestone road.

He nodded to an elderly woman sweeping leaves from her doorstep. She bowed and whispered as he passed. “Vasil. May your passage be safe and your life long,” she added. Chills ran up his spine as if her prayers were an augury, words that needed utterance to avoid some tragic fate.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

The heavy smell of metal melting drew him to the blacksmith’s tent, and a man named Osage. A muscular fellow, in his middle years. He wore only a vest on his upper body, his biceps sweating from the heat of the forge. With thick leather gloves protecting his forearms, he maneuvered the forceps artfully. Arell watched him move the block of glowing metal back and forth between an anvil and a hot coal furnace, pumping the bellows alternately. When Osage finished, he lay the blade back in the coals, wiped his head with a rag and nodded to Arell.

“Vasil.”

“I’ve come to learn from you,” Arell said.

“What? Blacksmithing?”

“The long sword, sir. And quarter-staffing. Defense.”

Osage pulled off his gloves, wiped his face again, and then his hands, stepping away from the fire. “I’m not a master, but I can show you some technique. We have had no one interested in sword fighting since we left Casdamia. I build these mostly for collectors. But, as a king, if you feel it is necessary….”

“It is necessary. And I would have you come to the castle if you please. We’ll work in private.”

“All right, Vasil. I will oblige. When?”

“As soon as possible. In the morning?”

“That’s possible.”

“Perfect. And please, bring a couple of your best weapons. I will purchase them from you.”

Osage bowed and Arell acknowledged the honor with a cordial nod, moving on. He would visit the library again. Books pertaining to Casdamian’s history lined the shelves, and he hadn’t had the time to indulge before this, being preoccupied with lesser matters. Erika, for one.

He had questions about his heritage and suspected he could find the answers in those tomes. Questions such as why his grandfather left the region in such haste with hundreds of other immigrants. Had he been part of the insurrection? And why had they traveled as far as they did to an island when they could have migrated a short distance to the Potamian province? Who drove them away? Perhaps he would discover the reason his father fought alongside King Tobias in those books.

Moaton was a tightly built and tightly knit settlement with narrow streets and tall flats constructed of cut stone built one upon the other. So tall were the apartments that three or four families lived in them comfortably.

The residents seldom wandered past their yards and rarely traveled to the beaches. Seclusive by nature, and unlike his mother’s people, Moatons kept to their own, which is why he rarely saw the residents on the streets. They gardened from their windows with large pots on hangers supporting both flowers and vegetables. They kept a pasture on the slopes of the castle for sheep and goats. Young men from the village enlisted in the king’s guard and supported their families with their wages. Moaton, however, did not depend solely on coins for their economy but worked in the barter system. Moaton merchants were the only class of their people who reached out to the Cho Nisi, bringing carts to the beaches to trade fabric for seafood. That so many Moatons had showed up at his father’s grave to feast had been a surprise, for the two ethnic groups got along hollowly at best.

The narrow door to the library creaked when he opened it, and the ring of a bell disturbed the silence. Immediately the smell of books filled his senses. All shapes and sizes of leather journals tied shut with lacing lined the walls. Trunks of scrolls stood upright against them. Some writings were carried by mule over the plains and shipped to their new home on sailing vessels half a century ago. The immigrants had been on the island fifty to seventy-five years, arriving the year that Arell’s grandfather fled the war. He’d been a leader of some sort of rebellion, Arell didn’t know the particulars, his father never told him. Now would be a good time for him to discover his roots.

“Vasil,” a boy no older than thirteen years bowed cordially, feather duster in his hand, his doublet a fine garment of red linen, not the quality of royalty, but handsome nonetheless. “May I help you, sire?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ve come to research, and I believe there’s a master librarian who works here who can help me. Do you know where he might be?”

“Yes, Master Oliver. I’ll fetch him for you.” The boy disappeared through another small door beyond the many aisles of books and documents. Arell browsed through the shelves, looking for titles or indications that would suggest history, hesitant to touch the fragile parchments for fear they’d crumble and turn to dust.

“Some of those journals are older than your grandfather would be if he had lived to this day,” a feeble voice informed him. A small man, Master Oliver barely reached above the top of the desk, his face wrinkled, white hair thinning on the sides of his head, yet thick as a cap on the top. He wore spectacles that balanced on the tip of his nose, and he had a cleft in his chin that several whiskers tried to hide. “Vasil,” he added. “I wondered when you would come to talk about him. Better that you inquire of these things before they carry me to my grave. Leastwise there are few who can tell you all there is to know.”

“You knew my grandfather?”

“I didn’t just know him, I fled the country with him. Crossed the plains of Casdamia and boarded that old merchant ship The Rendezvous with him.”

“Why hadn’t Father told me?” Arell questioned, fascinated that all this time someone in Moaton had known his grandfather personally. Surely his father would have introduced friends from the old country to him. That Oliver had never been to the castle to tell his stories puzzled him.

“Could be your father wanted to forget his roots. Don’t blame him. It’s a dark past, and he and your grandfather never got along since they arrived on the island. Oh, for the public’s benefit they were cordial with each other, but your granddaddy he told me some things about that relationship you might not want to know! He didn’t want rumors to spread, so he hid away after he relinquished the throne to your father.”

“Grandfather gave up the throne?” Arell had thought his father had inherited the Crown when his grandfather died. “May we talk? I mean, some place more comfortable?”

Master Oliver chuckled. “You’re a lot like him, you know, Old Win, your granddad. From what I’ve heard of you. Come on, I have a study in the back room.” He waved Arell to follow and, with a cane and a limp, led the young king into a dark but cozy flat. A cook stove heated the room, and an iron kettle steamed. One small window let a hint of light inside, hindered by a dirty blue curtain. The boy who had greeted Arell had just finished eating cake when Arell entered.

“Jamie, watch the library, will you?” Oliver asked.

“Yes sir,” the boy bowed to Arell on his way out.

“I came looking for books that might tell me what happened in Casdamia that drove my family away. Why did they immigrate to Cho Nisi of all places?”

“There are some books out there. Diaries and journals. Most of them slanted, written by people who’d rather change history than record it. All but one that I keep locked away.”

“I see.” Disappointed, Arell glanced through the open door into the library. “May I see that one?”

The old man shook his head. “Too dangerous. If you want to know what happened, I’ll tell you. I’ve been writing a book about it myself, though I’m not sure I can get it all down before I die.”

“That would be fascinating, sir. Perhaps I could have a scribe sent to help you.”

He waved the notion away. “I’ll tell you and you tell your children and grandchildren.”

Arell shifted in the rickety chair at the mention of a legacy. One must be married to have children, and his romantic life had taken a fall off the highest cliff on the island. His wounds were far from healed, so much so he had sworn to stay away from women altogether.

“Your granddad was nephew to the late emperor of Casdamia. His father’s brother. Wouldn’t know it by the way they acted. I think there’s a story in that too, but I don’t know enough to tell it. Rumor is all. Nothing you want to know about if you’re edgy.” He looked Arell up and down.

Arell immediately positioned himself against the chair, hoping he didn’t look uneasy. Being a king, now, he should be able to manage any truth thrust at him, especially if it were about his family.

“When Win’s uncle Bahldi took the throne, he started making a lot of changes in the kingdom. Dangerous changes like taxing the people for more than they had. I remember my mother complaining about a bushel of millet once and the tax she had to pay for it—more tax than the earworms that came with the grain was worth. Poor farmers didn’t see any of that money. Never satisfied, old Bahldi. The man turned on his family. Had his sister’s son been executed for a remedial offense? Too close to home for Win, being a nephew himself. We figured something underhanded was going on. No emperor in his right mind executes a family. Win, he came to me, of course being his best friend, we confided in each other, so he came to me through all of this. He suspected an outside influence. I told him not to do anything until we knew for sure. You don’t accuse an emperor of wrongdoing.”

Oliver shook his head and scratched his whiskers as a distant look glazed his eyes. He nodded and mumbled and then continued.

“So, me and Win went sneaking around late one night and watched your granddad’s uncle take off on horseback to Casda de Moor. You know what’s up, there don’t you?”

Arell shook his head. He knew little about the continent. He’d seen the mountain from the distance—knew its name and that the valley bordered by Casda de Moor and Mount Ream was where his father lost his life.

“Lord Skotádi,” the man said.

“The dark lord?”

“Some people call him a dark lord. He’s a wild man, I can tell you that. Once was a Casdamian wizard, but his magic got the best of him. Only certain kinds of people should be wizards. Ones that can contain themselves. Unfortunately, that’s not how life works, though. Old Skotádi graduated to Vouchsaver and made a vow, blood sealed with the emperor. Called the demons to serve him. Made him close to immortal, some say. No one knows, but he hasn’t died yet. Anyway, it became pretty apparent that his uncle had made a pact with the devil up there on Casda de Moor. You won’t find that information in any of those books. They blamed the battle on your grandfather.”

“Battle? My grandfather fought against the Emperor of Casdamia?”

“Not only fought against his uncle but killed him dead. That’s what got him run out of the country. It wasn’t safe to go the Potamian nation either. They were allies at the time. Those treaties are gone, but they held weight back then,”

“My grandfather killed an emperor. His uncle?” Arell asked, his voice a bit louder and more emotional than he would have liked. The shock overwhelmed him, though. Here he had just finished banishing a woman for killing his father, a king, only to find out his grandfather had done something similar.

“Had to, son. Someone had to stop the insanity.” The old man gave Arell a sympathetic frown and shook his head.

“I know, it’s hard to take. Your dad was ashamed of it too.” Oliver stood, shuffled to the cook stove, and poured himself a cup of granatus. “Want some?”

Arell shook his head.

“That’s why you never met me, or some of the other old folks that live in Moaton. Your father stayed clear of us who knew the story, and us? Well, we didn’t want to shake things up either. Let bygones be, we’d say. Folks got used to staying to themselves in this village. Not one of us who came over on the ship were proud of what your granddad done, but we supported Win. Had a temper, but that didn’t mess with his standards. In the end, he did the country a favor. Just wished it were the old wizard he’d killed instead.”

The room grew silent. Arell couldn’t meet the man’s eye. Too much raced through his mind. Kings and emperors getting killed, rebellions, and dark lords. Arell could hardly believe his own flesh and blood took part in an assassination.

“Did the Cho Nisi know?”

Oliver shook his head. “They’re good folk. We told them we needed a place to live, and they gave us this hill up here. We worked out a trade with them. Built them some roads, made some carts for their goats, traded them linen for their baskets—things like that. They never asked questions. No one ever offered the information either.”

Arell leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

“Shouldn’t make any difference to your rule here on the island. Most people have forgotten those days or tucked them away in their closets and threw away the keys. You’ll be a righteous king. We’ll support you just like we did your granddad. That’s how we see it, anyway.”

“What about Casdamia? Who sits on the throne now?”

“His grandson. Barte. Your cousin.”

Arell’s eyes popped open. “Does he have a vendetta against his grandfather’s murderer?”

Oliver swished his brew around, either contemplating the answer or contemplating whether he should tell Arell the answer.

He took a drink and looked Arell in the eye. “Don’t know.”

Arell had Osage demonstrate the moves before he himself picked up a sword, circling around the man, watching his feet, his arms, his rhythm. Like a dance, Osage called out the footwork, the stance, the way he held his weapon and Arell listened. Arell learned rapidly. The best of lessons Arell remembered when he was younger were the ones that taught him how to learn—to free his mind of anything he already thought, and to open it to new ideas. This skill kept Arell dexterous and attracted him to mentors such as Chief Silas and the elders. His regard for Osage heightened as he watched the man. Dressed in the plain Moaton garb, a loose-fitting shirt, cuffs clinging to his large wrists, his knee pants buckled over wool stockings and pointed shoes, Osage handled his sword competently.

When Osage finished his demonstration, he bowed to Arell, catching his breath. “Vasil, there you have the foundation. All others are based on these moves. Learn these and you have the fundamentals of swordplay.”

“Thank you. And I shall learn them hopefully as well as you have exhibited them.”

“Better, perhaps. You’re much younger, and more agile than I.”

Arell laughed, “But you, sir, are the epitome of strength.”

“Strength gives in to speed and flexibility. You’d be surprised. Let me show you.”

Osage tossed him a practice sword and wrapped Arell’s fingers around the hilt in the proper position. “Lightly,” he said. “Don’t grasp it tight unless you’re expecting to decapitate your foe.”

Arell cringed. He may be young and agile, but he had never killed a man before. The idea of severing a head from a body made him shudder. If Osage sensed his hesitation, he didn’t say. He merely assisted Arell in finding the proper handhold and then had him position his feet for maximum balance.

“Always be aware of your feet. Attack first with your lunge and let your body carry your sword forward. Keep your balance. Your enemy’s goal is to make you stumble. A man is much easier slain on the ground than on his feet.”

“You’ve seen battle?” Arell asked as Osage instructed him.

“Many.”

“In Casdamia?”

“Yes, Vasil.”

“Did you fight alongside my grandfather?”

Osage paused and met his eyes. His were brown, deep, and troubled. “I fought alongside your father, Vasil.”

Arell saw clearly that the man didn’t care to elaborate.

Sweat trickled down Osage’s forehead. He looked away and closed his eyes. “There are many things you don’t know about your family. I should not be the one to tell you.”

“My dear man, you are the only one I have. Who’s left? My father’s gone. My mother was an islander, she’d never been to the mainland. Only you and a few people in Moaton know what happened. Shouldn’t I know as well?”

The man sighed and bowed in obedience. The sort of bow that agrees without really wanting to. Arell met his sigh and resigned to his wishes. “Teach me to fight today, and then we will dine together this eve, and you can tell me all you know”

Osage returned from Moaton that evening, dressed in what were probably the best clothes he had. A dark tunic with his grandfather’s insignia. Perhaps the same outfit he’d worn in battle when the Emperor of Casdamia fell. Serena introduced his arrival and showed him to the hall which had been set with their finest silver, and hand-woven napkins her sisters had made. Clay bowls with fruit and fish as well as petite sandwiches, olives and pomegranates were spread out before them.

Arell followed Serena and Osage into the hall.

“I must admit, Vasil, I’m not used to dining in such elegance.”

“I’m not either, Osage,” Arell nodded at Serena as she bowed and left the room. “I spent little time in the castle, I prefer the beaches, walking barefoot in the sand and paddling a canoe. Spear fishing, clamming.” He picked up a decanter of wine, and Osage lifted his flask. Arell poured.

“It’s true, the villagers speak of how much time you spent away from the palace.” Osage admitted.

“In criticism?” Arell led his guest to the table.

“No, Vasil. In amusement. Until your father’s death, you were a youngster and thought of affectionately. We wished the best for you and still do.”

“Yes, well, I have to admit, inheriting a kingdom is difficult. I had no preparation for this,” he held out his arms, signifying the castle, and the responsibility. “It might not be wise to be so candid, but Father ruled in a time of peace on a beautiful island with little to no worries. He died, and now it’s as if the world itself wreaks havoc on us. I’m not prepared, and I don’t want to see you, the Moatons, or the Cho Nisi suffer because of my lack of ability. Please be seated,” he offered.

“I will do all I can to help, Vasil.” Osage sat across from Arell.

“I must learn sword fighting so that if the time should come when I need to use a weapon, I’ll know how. However, should there be a battle, I’ll need more than just …me.”

“You need an army, Vasil.”

“Help me build one, Osage.”

The man met his gaze. Arell leaned over the table, his dark eyes wide. Not fearful, but excited.

“The world darkens. I’m afraid my father’s death is only the beginning. I don’t know who we must fight, or what. The Cho Nisi protect our coasts with their magic, but the dark lord’s underlings swarm in the skies. What with King Tobias’ daughter, the murderer of my father, the mainland’s allegiance remains a mystery. Chief Silas suggested I learn to fight, but I don’t want to brawl alone.”

“I understand your concern, sire. But what of the natives? They do well to take care of their own.”

“The natives are archers, and they fight with magic, but they cannot be everywhere, nor can they drum forever. I want swordsmen.”

Osage nodded, “I will help you build your army.”

Arell sat back, took a sip of wine, and put the cup down. “How many can you muster?”

Osage shrugged and scratched his beard in thought. “Several hundred young men live in the village. Some more seasoned men would be willing, as well, I’m sure.”

Arell let the conversation die as Serena and her sisters brought in a hot platter of crab cakes smothered in wild mushroom sauce. He thanked Serena when she scooped a serving onto his plate. She had such a natural island beauty. Arell must heal from the loss of his father, wipe his mind free from the red-haired princess, and settle in his position as king before he can spend more time with her. She gave him a dimpled smile, teeth white against her golden skin, her dark eyes glistening. Yes, he would make more time for her, despite having sworn from romance.

“Osage, have you met Serena?”

Osage nodded to her.

“Chief Silas’ daughter.”

“I’m pleased.” Osage stood and bowed politely. Serena curtsied in return. When she left, the man took his chair and gave Arell a puzzled look. “You treat your servants as equals. That’s unlike your father.”

“She has volunteered to assist me. A friend. I offered her a place here in the castle under Silas’ suggestion. He insists I have support. Close friends, Serena, her sisters, and other members of the tribe. They like it here. It’s their home. I do not treat them as servants. They come and go as they please.”

Osage nodded with a peculiar smile on his face. “One can never have too many…friends.”

“It seems odd to you?” Arell asked.

“Your affairs are your own.”

Arell offered the platter of fruit to Osage and then helped himself.

“So now we come to the questions. What battles did you fight with my father?”

“What do you know already?”

“Only what Oliver told me. That my grandfather killed the emperor of Casdamia.”

“Your father fought in that battle as well. He was a junior commander, your age, and I fought alongside him. You have a cousin who’s inherited the throne, you know?”

“So, I’ve been told. Do you…” Arell sat back in his chair. “Does anyone from Moaton have any correspondence with anyone in Casdamia?” Arell referred to the merchant and fisher ships that crossed the sea from the mainland to the island, carrying letters back and forth and tradable wares. Even his father sent such correspondence by boat, though Arell never felt the need, nor did he really have anyone to write. In fact, he hadn’t visited Northport in years, and then only at his father’s bidding. To him, a few ships coming and going seemed disruptive to the peace of the island. Coming to the throne showed him just how isolated he’d been.

“There may be some people who send letters. Many of the Moatons have relatives, grandparents in Casdamia.”

“What do you think of my cousin? Has anyone mentioned what sort of emperor he is?”

Osage shook his head. “Either the reign of Barte son of Moshere is uninspiring, or he keeps such restraint on his people they are afraid to speak. I’ve heard no news.”

“And yet King Tobias is legendary, and he’s been on the throne for how long?”

“He took the crown a year before Barte’s father took the Casdamia’s throne.”

“Casdamia, according to my father’s maps, covers more territory than the Potamian dominion. More cities, more villages. More farmland, nobles and serfs.”

“Yes, Vasil.”

“Why?” Arell asked.

“Vasil?”

“Why is the reputation of King Tobias more highly regarded than this incredibly extensive empire?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. Perhaps King Tobias has done greater things for the people.”

“And perhaps Casdamian’s emperors have been tyrants.”

“It would seem so, according to your grandfather.”

Arell set his knife down. “I would think that Barte son of Moshere would be more of a threat to Cho Nisi than Tobias. And yet Tobias’ daughter came here to conquer the island. Were it not for our drums and the Cho Nisi supernatural protection, there would have been a fleet of ships arrive from the Potamian kingdom.”

“All nations that are not allies are potential enemies, my King.”

“And my father had aligned himself to King Tobias and still lost his life to a Potamian arrow.”

Osage shook his head slowly, his eyes sympathetic. “I am sorry, Vasil.”

“So am I. Such a short time wearing the Crown, and already I find the world is against us. We have so many enemies, and potential enemies.”

“Yes.”

“Several hundred soldiers will not be enough.”

“We’re a small island. The potential of being invaded and conquered is ever present. I’m surprised we’ve held out as long as we have. Casdamian armies could easily have followed our people here.”

“And yet they didn’t. Do you think Lord Skotádi had something to do with that?”

“Of course, he did. Casdamia may be larger, but the region is closer to Casda de Moor, and hence more open to invasion by the dark lord’s monsters. They fight continually against the evil that comes from that mountain, that is, if they don’t give in to his wishes. Attacks were common. But then you have heard the rumors of the uncle your grandfather killed and his dealings with the demons.”

“Could they have carried those treaties with Skotádi down from one generation to the next? To Barte, son of Moshere?”

Osage shrugged and studied his chalice. “All things are possible.”

Arell stood and walked to the alcove, a concave window overlooking the sea. He knew so little about the world, and about the people who lived in other lands. He had missed so much while being carefree and blithe—to the point of foolishness. No wonder Chief Silas corrected him constantly. No wonder he needed an adviser like Silas. Arell felt inadequate, and unprepared to confront Skotádi’s armies, those winged beasts, and those unknown kingdoms?