King Gregory stood high on the wall overlooking the trees. A carpet of green that stretched far with a calming softness. He sipped his tea as a breeze undulated through the leaves. Waves, he thought, the trees were like a gentle sea when examined from afar.

The lack of clouds promised a hot day to come, though the morning still held the night's coolness. Gregory stretched his neck and rose on his toes to flex his tired old calves. It was his favorite time of the day, when the sun broke over the horizon, returning color to the world.

Gregory smiled at the stiff sentries standing tall on the corners of the walls. There was little doubt they disliked his morning visits. Guards could not lean against the stone to ease their feet when the King was around. He moved toward a lad, a soldier looking barely a winter into service, who seemed to strain to remain still. Gregory had seen him before when reviewing training. He suspected it was the man's first time on the wall—boring duty at night.

"What is your name, soldier?" the King asked. The question surprised the man, and Gregory smiled as the mental fumbling began. An unexpected question from a royal had that effect on the young.

"Quil, your Majesty," the soldier replied after an aborted first-attempt. His eyes turned to Gregory, then he thought better of it and snapped back to their rigid guard position. Gregory saw the loyalty in the movements, the man's desire not to disappoint. It had been a long time since the King thought he deserved such a thing.

"Did I not see you training with the Northerns?" the King asked.

Quil's lips leaked a smile, then back to seriousness. "Aye, your Majesty." Everyone enjoyed being noticed. Everyone except the King, who sometimes wished no one noticed.

"I saw you sparring with the sword," Gregory continued, thinking he had spent too few days thanking his men with his attention. "You have impressive footing. Your opponent struggled to remain square to you."

"It has come natural, your Majesty," Quil said. "The blade fits me well." His body relaxed as he let his pride show, then it corrected back to position. It made the King smile. Quil was all soldier, but still a man.

"Anything amiss last night?" Gregory asked. He expected nothing but felt it important to take interest in the mundane duties. Boredom was less so when shared with others.

"A still night, your Majesty," Quil said. "The only movement was the Queen's departure."

It was the King's turn to practice at being stoic. He had known nothing of the departure, not that Margarey kept him well informed. The witch had her own agenda that seemed to be premised on raising his ire. Leaving the castle grounds without notifying him was a new tactic. Now, even her location was pulled private. An insult to further erode his authority. Once again, he thrust an imaginary blade into her heart.

"I shall test your eye then," the King said lightly, so as not to panic Quil. "What was the composition of the Queen's party?"

"Ten riders, counting the queen, Sire," Quil replied with pride. "One leading far ahead, one trailing behind. The Queen rode behind two, with two more following. Two more were on her left, and one on her right. The Queen was well protected."

Gregory had not expected Margarey to be atop a horse. She meant to move fast, unhindered by wagon, or perhaps the destination was off the usual roads. The woman had too many secrets, though he knew most and could guess at the others. Maybe luck would be on his side, and she will meet her end on the tip of a bandit's blade.

"Who leads her travels?" Gregory asked. He smiled as if it were a difficult question and didn't expect an answer.

"It was darker than now, your Majesty," Quil responded. "I would guess it to be Captain Norgainen whose voice I heard, though I can not be sure."

Gregory was very sure. Norgainen was using the Queen in more ways than one. They both deserved each other as they strove for their desires. The Queen would never receive hers, but the promise to Norgainen would be honored as long as he remained Magna'est's lap dog. Gregory wondered if the Norgainen cringed each time he mounted the Queen or if he cared not whose legs he was between.

"A sharp eye," Gregory said. "I must speak to your commander and compliment him on his training. You do him proud."

"I thank you, your Majesty," Quil said, his voice filled with flowery glee.

Gregory moved off with a light step. To know the King had seen you is one thing. To have those you spend your days with know you pleased the King was altogether another. He decided he enjoyed lifting Quil's mood. The pressures of politics were easier to bear if he could feed off the smiles of those who had no such worries. For a moment, the deed covered the ills he helped propagate throughout the land.

"Your Majesty," a page called as Gregory descended the stairs.

"Aye, R'na."

"There is one who waits for you in the kitchen, Sire. It is Striker, and claims he has news for your ears." R'na wrinkled his nose. "He carries an unpleasant odor."

"It is his normal scent, R'na," the King said. He handed the page his empty mug. "Have tea sent to the meeting room, and have Striker meet me there."

"You wish him bathed, your Majesty?"

"Aye, but after I hear his words."

Gregory tried to guess Striker's news as he walked to the meeting. Perhaps the Queen's travels meant more than he thought. He shrugged that idea away, Striker was a survivor and would play both sides, informing on either would weaken him with the other. Maybe, more lashings were stirring the commoners. He smiled; perhaps there was news of another Brother falling. It wouldn't bode well for those who accomplished such a thing, but it grew fear in the Brethren. Too much of that sort of thing would weaken the promise, and with the birth rate, it was fragile enough of late.

Luran followed Striker into the library, carrying tea. As she placed the tray on the table, with her back to Striker, she gave Gregory a tantalizing smile. He struggled to remain kingly as memories of the night past returned. She was his nightly cloak, the pleasure of her in his arms shielded him from the problems of the world.

"Do you desire anything else, your Majesty?" Luran asked. Gregory grimaced, thinking Striker heard the flirtation in the request. She made love easy, yet so costly. Her coin was the redding of his face and in the knowledge of how easily she stirred him. Vengeance would be his, but she enjoyed that as well. A game where no one ever lost, though Gregory felt the weaker.

"Nothing else, Luran," Gregory replied. "Let all know we are not to be disturbed."

"As you desire, your Majesty," Luran said as she bowed low, exposing ample cleavage. She enjoyed torturing him in front of others. A lovely skill that had only improved over time. He waited until she was gone before confronting Striker.

"You have words for me, Striker?" the King asked. The man's scent had already filled the room—a mix of rotting leaves and unbathed skin. Strikers leathers soaked in it, only to expel it whenever unsuspecting noses appeared.

"A courtesy only, to see your eyes when you are told," Striker said. The normal honorific was missing from his cryptic words. The King ignored the slight, and poured a mug of tea from the pot Luran had brought. He gestured to Striker, who declined with a shake of his head.

"I find tea softens the day," the King said. Whatever was coming would not be to his liking, of that he was sure. Maybe, it was news of the Queen and that the Brethren will move on his throne. It was too soon, he thought. Then again, it will always be too soon. He brought the mug up to his lips and sipped, wondering why Striker didn't continue. "You would have me wait for this news?"

"Nay," Striker said, his head tilting as if he studied his King. "It is news of that boy, the one you sent away on a ship many winters ago. He has returned." Gregory had to lower his mug when his hand began shaking.

"What a foolish thing," Gregory said as if the boy mattered not. His mind was spinning; the one problem he had thought solved had become unsolved. "The Brethren will give no quarter to the boy."

"He is no longer a boy," Striker said. "And he gives no quarter to the Brethren." It took every bit of strength for Gregory not to demand an explanation. To seem needy would bring questions he wasn't yet prepared to answer.

The King forced a chuckle, "Dodges them well, does he?"

Striker stalled a moment before he replied. It was if the man knew the secrets that lie deep in the King's mind. "Kills them well."

"What?"

"Three have fallen," Striker said, his eyes scanning the King's face. "He has earned the demon title the Brethren gave him. Those I spoke with say he swings two swords as if the Goddess steers his hands."

"Three?" the King said. No longer could he hide his surprise, nor fears.

Striker nodded, "A witness has been declared. His marks grow upon buildings, and men have begun to gather in his name." A sly smile grew on Striker's face. "Some wear your colors."

"Marks?" the King asked, forcing his eyebrows upward to show mere curiosity. The ramifications of what Striker was saying was beyond anything he was prepared for. Kushiel's Answer was an ancient tale, not reality.

"Odd lines joined in a formation." Striker held out his arm and pulled back his sleeve, upon it were fat lines drawn hastily with a greasy finger. "Young ones have done the same, marking themselves with tar so it can be done again and again."

"Goddess!" The King stood and moved across the room. The symbols were unmistakable to the learned eye. Kelton's name was being blazoned across the land. If it were all true, and Striker had never been false in the past, war was coming, and it would ignite the Brethren. Gregory would be forced to act. To not do so would be the end of his throne, and him.

"You have seen the symbols before," Striker surmised.

Gregory paced, ignoring Striker's statement. Had he a few moon's to plan, maybe something could be done. There were the split armies, the Brethren, and now the commoners would grow teeth and create a forth. Add in the Hold Lords, and chaos will reign. Few knew the breadth of what the Brethren were capable of or why they will fight to the end. There would be no retreat. Kelton had stirred a pot, not knowing its ingredients, and it was a recipe for hell. Quil, and others like him, would feel the brunt of it. So many, and so young.

"You know the side I will choose," Striker said.

The words struck at Gregory's heart. Striker could topple him with a word. If the Brethren leaned all Striker knew, the promise would be least of the King's losses. He stopped pacing and turned toward the man, who now held a blade across his lap.

"You mean that for me," Gregory asked.

"If you call out," Striker replied. "I desire to leave in one piece. If not, we both breathe our last in this room."

"Put it away," the King said, waving it away with his hand. "I know which side you choose, and still, I will allow you to leave as you came. The crown owes you that much." Gregory sat down, ignoring the fact the blade remained exposed. "Are you sure of your words?"

"All of them."

"And how many died to take down the three?" Gregory closed his eyes, knowing the numbers it took for commoners to end a single Brother. Three would exact a much larger toll.

"None," Striker said.

Gregory's eyes opened. It was not the answer he expected.

"The Answer has come," Striker said. "He faced four alone. Three perished, and one ran." He smiled. "Mayhap, he has come to do his own Choosings." There was a sparkle in Striker's eyes, vengeance for his niece and sister was vivid in them.

"Four Brothers," Gregory said. A smile grew on his face before he caught it and pulled it back. "Even an Unseen would have to possess great talent." He stroked his chin. "I thought his witness dead."

"Aye, as did the Brothers," Striker said. "It is their taunting of that deed that enraged him so. It is what drives him this day as well." He smiled again. "The first witness was but the mother. A boy of hers witnessed both the first and the last. Born of the cursed, thus cursed since birth."

"Convenient twist of words," the King muttered.

Striker chuckled. "The Goddess works in strange ways. Did she not convince you to save him many winters ago? Now she has returned him to save us all."

"Do you believe the Brethren will surrender or flee? Nay, there will be blood, rivers of it." Gregory sighed. "They will seek me to strike the first blow and end this before it grows. Many will die. It is folly to think commoners will fare well against soldiers, much less angered Brethren." There had to be a better path. If only he had time to think, maybe a winter or two.

"Aye, many will die," Striker agreed. "And many more will live without the yoke of the Brotherhood on their necks. A storm is coming, and it has no room for old Kings."

Gregory smiled. The idea that his throne was newly in jeopardy almost made him laugh. He could not remember when last he felt his seat secure. Magna'est decided what was and what will be, and that man had no qualms about ending legacies. The promise was all that mattered, and it required stability. Kelton was poking a stick into a hornet's nest.

"Hope is a powerful thing," the King said. "I see it in your stance and hear it in your voice. I think you meant to turn me to him as an ally, as if I had some choice."

"Aye," Striker said. He stood and sheathed his blade. "A wasted effort it would seem. Know that I do not see you as I do the Brethren, but if we meet in battle, I will do all to end you." His eyes dropped. "And it will be a sad day."

"And our past doings, the ones that can undo me, they will be known to all by your words?" Gregory thought it best to know his standing and see if loyalty remained.

"Nay," Striker said, shaking his head. "I turn on you as of this day and ignore what has come before. In that, I will remain loyal." He grinned. "Without you, the Answer would never be."

"Sit a moment more, then," the King said, gesturing to the chair. Loyalty was not something so easily thrown away. What was to come needed to be managed, and Striker was a particularly useful tool. "I wish to add to your burden with more words that can not be shared. They will be of great interest to you."

Striker's indecisiveness made itself known in physical hesitancy. Gregory had never seen Striker move as he did then, half leaving - half staying. Typically, he moved like a predator, always forward with no deviation.

"Trust a moment more," the King said, again using his palm to indicate the chair. Striker's body calmed, his shoulders relaxed, and he took the seat. "It is a long tale, mayhap, some tea before our friendship breaks?"

Gregory knew to call him a friend would slow Striker. A meeting of equals, now that Striker meant to disown his King. Striker nodded, and Gregory prepared him a mug. Being served by a king was another step upward. There was no time to develop sound plans, so hasty ones would have to do. In this, Gregory needed a partner, not a soldier. Striker took the mug and sipped it with a nod of thanks.

"My mind still swirls with this news. Never did I expect Kelton to return." Gregory brought his mug to his lips and sipped. "I admit, I am not ready for him, nor the Answer. I wished only for his safety, and now you tell me that he returned a warrior and builds an army." He smiled as the idea gave him a sense of pride he no longer wanted to hide.

"You wished him safe?" Striker asked. "I thought you toyed with the Brethren."

"There are two who know what I am to tell you," the King said. "Three if you count the one who knows only the start of it. And I count myself in that number." Striker leaned forward. "It is not a new king you wish to join...it is the prince."

Striker looked shocked for a moment, then surprised the King with laughter. Gregory was about to insist it wasn't a joke, but Striker put up his hand and cooled his humor.

"There is much that makes sense now. I had always thought the sum you paid too large for such a task." Striker said, his eyes wandered toward the door. "The red-head, the who served us tea and turns your cheeks red." It was worded as a question.

"Obvious, is it?"

"That she wishes your bed, aye," Striker replied. "That you desire it as well, less so."

"She knows not where her boy is," Gregory warned. "Only that he was taken as a babe and would not return."

"She will not know it from my lips," Striker said. His body settled into the chair, the secret dissolving his desire to leave—a welcome sight.

"It began after the deaths of my first-borns," Gregory said. "The queen was...not receptive to further babes." He shrugged. "Luran was comforting at first, then more so. When her belly began to grow, I sent her away. She returned with a babe whose hair shone red like hers. A handsome lad I intended to claim. It was a visiting Brother, one I meant to ask to bless the babe, who altered my view. He sensed Luran in the other room but made no mention of the babe. I realized the boy was Unseen, and to reveal him was to kill him. That I could not do." The King sighed. "It was a day later when I saw my boy last, given to one I would trust with my life. I had thought I had only granted my boy his youth. It was more than I could have hoped that he has seen manhood."

"Claim him," Striker said. There was excitement in his voice as if all things were easy and falling into place.

"To do so now would destroy us both," Gregory said. "There is much you don't know and cannot know. My reign would end before the sun fell, and a new King would emerge without my reservations. You will find no sympathetic ears in the Hold Lords, and the merchants who serve the Brethren wish to maintain their wealth. Too many with power enjoy the world as it is."

"You will abandon him?" Striker asked. It sounded as if he intended to pull his blade again.

"Nay," Gregory said, frustrated. "I have had no time to think. I never expected my son to return." He paused a moment as more of a hasty plan formed, swimming in a thick fog. "If it can be done, I intend to give him his rightful place. The commoners are the key, and the soldiers as well. Time is needed to sway such things. When all speak with one voice, the few dissenters, powerful or not, will be silenced."

"And defeat the Brethren," Striker said.

The King stood and took a deep breath. He moved across the room, his hand stroking at his chin. He turned back to Striker. "Aye, defeat the Brethren. But do not look at it as a simple task. It is horrible to contemplate. At best, five trained blades would fall to each of theirs. Untrained, ten, or more." He was about to add that it must be done in a single battle but thought better of it since the reason would have Striker cutting Gregory's throat, father to the Answer, or not.

"Or one prince," Striker said. "And he did not fall."