Kindly edited by @CollinHarrison4

King Mansard Gregory walked down the stairs, pleased with himself. A report arrived detailing discord within his army. Many believed the Answer had come and the Goddess flies the sky. He dutifully corrected the captain who brought the news, sending him back out to make sure it was adequately explained. The more often, the better. It was an amusing ploy, one whose stink would hopefully not drift to the Brethren until the damage was done.

The candles in the hall sconces leading to the library were out, leaving the path in darkness. "Witch," Gregory sighed. He was sure it was Margarey. She had done it before, having the staff close off sections of the castle early knowing he would desire them later as he always did. A petty thing - almost as petty as when he had her horse running free after a rain, gathering mud before her ride. It was as if they were but five-winters-old and fighting over a toy. Loathing was a pitiful emotion for a king, and too weak for a husband who deserved true vengeance instead.

As expected, the library was unlit as well. The hearth still held the glow of embers, so he moved through the gloom to reset the wood. Gregory desired to be alone. To call someone would defeat that purpose and possibly allow his wife knowing gratification. Stir the fire, then ignite a few wicks. Simple labor now and again was good for the soul.

Gregory did not make it to the fire. A shadow grew from the wall and slammed into him, pushing him back into a chair. A well-placed blade against his neck silenced any call for help. The shock of it pumped fear into his core. He fought it with rising anger, his hands grasping at the wrist that held the knife.

"News has traveled." It was Striker's voice, and it was loaded with disgust. Odd he could not smell the man. "I will have the truth of it."

"Your blade may gain your desire, but you will hang for it," Gregory gasped. It was an idle threat. Striker had entered unseen, and could likely exit the same way, covered by the darkness he must have created. The staff would think the section closed; no one would enter until morning. Only Luran would miss him, and she would not risk visible concern. Striker held the blade and the King's secret of a son, granting him free access to Gregory's throat and whatever cooperation he desired.

"The Answer has killed and burned more," Striker said, his blade stiffening. The anger in his words seemed to struggle not to achieve rage. "There are words of a promise and what is done to the Chosen. Is it truth? Is this promise given to you?"

"He knows," Gregory said. Fear left him, and pride emerged. It was too soon, but better than never. There was so much more the boy needed, things he must understand. Time was running out. "What else is said?"

The blade's pressure increased. "Is this promise given to you?"

"End me, or not," Gregory said. "If you wish truth, then it is best you do not."

"I will have all of it."

"Aye," Gregory agreed, his hand pushing away the blade. Striker allowed it, though it did not go far. "Sit. I am no match for you, and that door is far from here."

Striker pulled a chair close. His eyes, reflecting the hearth's coals, never left Gregory. He sat less than an arm's length away, his knife relaxed yet still pointed at its target.

"The promise is mine by birth," Gregory said, "and the right of all Hold Lords. I shall never claim it now, for I will either fall with my son or die old in my bed. Your knife or your word will see it done sooner if you desire."

"It is true then," Striker said. "Your line lives in those temples."

"Aye."

"My sister and her daughter, you killed them," Striker growled, his blade moving closer.

"Nay," Gregory said. He rethought his reply. "Aye, I am part of it, as was my father before me." It was feeble to blame what was for what is. Still, he felt the need to push a portion of his guilt onto others.

"We are cattle," Striker said. Gregory nodded, though he was not sure Striker could see the acknowledgment.

"If the Answer had not come, would you claim this promise?" Striker asked.

It was a horrible question, one asked at the point of a blade. Gregory thought of lying, perhaps pretending he was a better man. The truth was something different. His reservations had always been deep, deeper after the loss of his first two sons. Yet each coming winter argued for it, age biting hard. He decided it was better to let the rain fall than to try and dodge the drops.

"Aye, I would have claimed it," Gregory admitted. "Now, I only desire to see the man my son has become. He is my eternity now."

Striker sat back, his blade settling on the arm of the chair.

"Know that my death will end nothing," Gregory continued. "The Queen has been given the promise, though it will never be honored. Her remarriage will identify a new line of kings, one chosen by the Brethren. Had the Answer not come, I would already be wearing the white. They smelled growing reluctance long ago and desired the end of my line. Best not to pass such reservations down the line."

"It is said that Lord Ogden and four Brethren fell to the Answer's swords in a tavern," Striker said. He flipped his knife absently, spinning it in the dark and catching the grip in a practiced way. "Answer or son; he will see evil in you. How is your swordplay?"

"Four?" Gregory asked, ignoring Striker's warning. "I would not think so few would test him again." Magna'est should have sent hundreds. It seemed out of character.

"The Answer's words travel too far and too fast. All will know of his plans before the next moon," Striker continued. "Mayhap, they goad him with victories as one would bait a trap."

"His plans are known?"

"Aye," Striker replied. "He means to gather at Goddess' Grove and then take the port."

"Goddess' Grove? Is that where you ..."

"Aye. It is the place. He claims it now and intends to don a crown - your crown. Then move on the port."

"And he tells others this?"

"Victories have swelled his mind. He tempts the Brethren by claiming they have seen their last winter," Striker said. "It is foolish to toy with them."

"Or not," Gregory said, a smile forming. One decisive battle or winters upon winters of battles and rebirths. His son has chosen too soon, but wisely. He rose from his chair, startling Striker. "Do you mean to end me or allow me to stir the fire?"

"Stir," Striker replied, his shadowy arm waving toward the hearth.

Gregory took the iron poker and turned some of the coals, pushing unburnt wood back on top of them. He leaned the poker back against the log bin and added some fresh wood. It took only a moment for snaps to emerge and new flames to grow. He sat back down, Striker's image gaining color.

"You bathed," Gregory observed, though his nose had sensed the first evidence.

"When I hunt, I must smell like the surroundings," Striker said with a shrug. "One must bathe when the quarry is a king." He flipped his knife again. The confidence of it was irritating.

"Ask, and I will answer," Gregory said. Striker already knew too much. Adding more was not going to make it worse.

It was a long conversation. The King explained what he knew of the promise and how it worked. He did not hide the damage done to the Chosen, though he possessed only incidental knowledge of the teaching and had only seen a rebirth once. It was challenging to discuss with a man on the edge, one who still felt loss so profoundly. Nevertheless, Gregory powered through and ended without lies or omission. A first.

"Had I not heard the Answer's words, I would have thought you addled," Striker said. "Now, I struggle not to seek my vengeance through you."

"If you wish another under the crown, then end me," Gregory said, tired of the killing game. Striker's visits were becoming more dangerous than Magna'est's.

Striker flipped his knife one more time then buried it in its sheath. "Mayhap another day. Is there more you hide from me?"

"Nay," Gregory replied. "Our meetings task my heart. Can we not speak first and draw blades later next time?"

"You are evil, and then you are something less." Striker shrugged. "Mayhap we have the same goal. If you desire the end to the Brethren, then I am your servant." He smiled. "You will never be my king again."

"Will you help me push the curse of the crown onto my son?"

"I would die to see it done," Striker said, his smile disappearing. There was more than determination in his eyes - a horrible vengeance grew there. If the rest of the land felt the same, perhaps Kelton was not moving too fast.

"Then we are as one," Gregory said.

~~~~~

The shared-wind dampened Magna'est's anger. He closed his eyes and let the movements bring clarity to his thoughts. The story of the Answer was only ancient words, not the red-headed night terror that infected the other Brethren. They could not see the transient nature of the demon, a boy who dreamed of greatness only to be quashed by the overwhelming supremacy he faced. Only a moment was necessary, a flash of time when the boy's head left his shoulders, before order returned. The bliss of eternity should never be interrupted by a fool who played with fire.

Magna'est faltered, his blade moving before it should, the thought of fire shattering a pattern that had survived for winters beyond measure. Ti'gorin grunted as Magna'est's blade nicked his leg, drawing a red line above the ankle. Magna'est had been a child the last time he had fouled the shared-wind. Vol'abor smirked as all lowered their blades.

"It is the fire," Ti'gorin said, his foul mood and pain of the cut apparent. Magna'est, Ti'gorin, and Vol'abor were the last of the Nagada the Brethren housed. They were the three who had survived the winters and the long learning of the use of daughters.

"Aye," Magna'est said. He quelled his embarrassment and the desire to push the blame on Ti'gorin. It had only been a few moons since they had resumed the shared-wind. Prior, it had been many winters since it was last done. There had been no need, and the Nagada ways were annoyingly strict. "It weakens our hold and sends minds elsewhere. Why would they teach him the twin-tails?"

Ti'gorin knelt and examined his ankle. It did not look deep; it would heal in short order. He used his robe to blot the trickle of blood that developed.

"You should send a force," Vol'abor said. "Take his head before his words spread - a hundred or so Brethren will end him with ease, no matter his skill. There is only one of him, and he has no daughter."

"I have heard he moves with demon speed," Ti'gorin said as he sat on the ground and added pressure to the cut. "Mayhap the Goddess feeds his strength."

"Stories," Magna'est said, shaking his head. "The Goddess is greedy, nothing more. She acts for us and no others. We feed her desires, and he attempts to end them. She will find him as foul as we do."

"A force then," Vol'abor insisted. "I will lead them." He stepped out and swung his twin-tails as if in a mock battle. Magna'est saw the lack of practice in the maneuvers, something only another Nagada could see. Their skills were fragile, a weakness of winters living without threat of death and the will of the tribe.

"Your Eminence," Livari said, announcing his entrance to the practice field. He was an annoying fellow; short, squat, and sparse of hair. Once a ruler of a tiny kingdom, his family was weak and held only a single port of mercantile interest. Livari's face was grim as if he had been sent against his will to bring unpleasant news to Magna'est.

Magna'est sheathed his swords, lest he kill the messenger. "Livari, your words had better brighten the day," he said, knowing it was a false hope.

"They do not."

Magna'est sighed, then straightened. Leadership demanded a show of strength. He raised his hand and beckoned the words forward.

"The promise is known, and word of it spreads," Livari said. He intended to say more but was cowed to silence when Magna'est's hand formed a tremoring fist. Livari took a step back.

Magna'est closed his eyes and took a deep breath through tight lips. When he released the air, he forced his fist open, letting the stress burrow inside and not display itself outwardly. Livari was a talker, and it would not serve to have him drive panic in others. Best to appear calm.

"How is this known?" Magna'est asked. He forced tranquility into the question.

"Two merchants," Livari replied. "One came to us, the other was ... encouraged for verification."

Magna'est battled to keep a twitch from repeating in his left eye. Knowledge first, then anger. He held forward an open palm pointing toward a bench on the edge of the practice field, forcing a smile to ease Livari's mind.

"Later," Magna'est whispered when Ti'gorin and Vol'abor tried to follow. They nodded and headed inside, Ti'gorin with a slight limp.

"Start at the beginning," Magna'est said after they had sat. He placed one leg over the other and folded his hands on his lap - a picture of peaceful contemplation.

The tale Livari told roiled Magna'est's gut. He had to close his eyes and dream of solitude as if Livari's voice was disembodied and floated without ramifications. A problem was easier to solve when you forced it to become impersonal. In the beginning, the promise was known. It took a generation to make it fable, another three to see it fade away. It could be driven back to obscurity with the correct measures. Of course, there were few Brethren back then. The commoners were also less. Perhaps five generations would be necessary.

"And why would Lord Ogden make such an offer?" Magna'est asked. It wasn't a bad idea to move the demon from savior to Brother, but it was done without orders or proper preparation. The man deserved the finality of his death. Livari did not answer, and his eyes cowered. Magna'est sighed. There was worse news that also needed to be held at arm's length. "Why?" he repeated with more firmness.

"The demon has seen. He has taken two daughters, rescued in the eyes of the commoners," Livari said, his words spoken to the ground. Magna'est could tell there was more to come. He sensed the next words before they arrived.

"He has been in temple Havinor, your Eminence." Livari wrung his hands and squeezed his eyes shut. "Guided by another."

"Rolic," Magna'est said. The name came out unbidden, wreathed in fury.

Livari nodded. "Rolic drew his sword in Feller's Crossing. Brother against Brother."

Magna'est rose from the bench and walked a few steps away, his fists tight. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun, letting it warm his skin as he thought. Rolic was not just assisting the demon; he was steering him. There was only one reason Rolic took the monster to Havinor.

"Barl?" Magna'est asked quietly of Livari. The-first-to-fall exposed by a traitor.

"A final death, your Eminence."

"Then he has no doubt," Magna'est said mostly to himself. An Unseen Nagada was running about with retribution painting his blades. Talented, if the stories were true, and burning Brothers with impunity. Add a traitor's knowledge, and power begins to shift in the eyes of a commoner. It had to be held in check, destroyed visibly so no one would dare doubt the Brethren again.

A memory Magna'est thought long gone resurfaced: the glow in Kushiel's eyes when his last words declared the Answer. It was not the happiness in Kushiel's face that bothered Magna'est; it was the eyes. The light that emanated from them was unnatural as if the Goddess herself was speaking. Yet, it could not be, for she was greedy with need - not reprisal. An uncomfortable twinge traveled along his spine, weakening his legs. Kushiel was not alone at that moment. Another enemy, one far more potent than an Unseen boy, was at work. Perhaps Rolic was infected as well, something feeding the man's irrational guilt.

"There is one more thing," Livari said. "I am uncomfortable repeating the words, for they sound more story than truth."

"I will hear them," Magna'est said.

"The demon is said to move with the Goddess' speed. Both merchants spoke of swords that were too quick for eyes, and steps none could ever match." Livari took a deep breath. "They thought he flew above the tables."

"Story," Magna'est proclaimed with a discounting wave of his hand. "As we present as more than we are, so does he. The Knowing is a powerful thing."

"Aye," Livari agreed, though Magna'est sensed reluctance.

"It is this burning we must battle," Magna'est continued. "No more can we travel with less than ten, mayhap more. I will need your eyes and ears to find this demon so he can be ended. Knowing or not, we will find the limit of his swords." He included a strong, confident smile, something the Brethren would need to see. He felt none of it.

"Aye, your Eminence," Livari agreed, his expression less foreboding.

Magna'est gestured for Livari to rise and leave, adding a pleasing nod to further the man's conviction that all was in good hands. It was not. There was another power at play, perhaps the same power Magna'est had sensed in Kushiel so long ago. An odd thing, for if it were strong, it should have struck when the numbers were less. Perhaps it is weak, working only with luck and the Brethren's ignorance. That has ended.

Lord Ogden may have had the right of it, though his methods were flawed. Magna'est paced across the practice yard, heading toward the north wall with hands grasped behind his back. It seems this demon has a soft heart at times. The risk of pulling daughters from the temple was a foolish one - a weakness that can be exploited. Perhaps an army, one not cloaked in white, could broach Ogden's terms again. Unknowing men who posed no immediate threat, yet men enough to end all who surrounded the demon. A different decision may be made if presented by a king backed by an army. If the demon risked all for those he did not know, then he would undoubtedly take the white to protect those he did. His skilled swords would not be a horrible addition to the Brethren, and his capitulation would help sway the commoners. Once rebirthed, he would find the Brethren a palatable group worthy of spending eternity with.

Magna'est shrugged. And if the demon chose unwisely, they would at least know where he was. The army could expend itself, and knowing Brothers could follow behind. Either way, it would be over.

He smiled at the small blessing that would be Rolic's demise. The man needed a final end, and it would be a pleasure to deliver it.