The dweorg paced his comfortable chambers, trying to come up with a plan, trying to even figure out what on Noor was going on. Something very wrong was happening in this kingdom, and Gor feared it may affect much more than just Alathea itself. What did he know so far? The dweorg used his fingers to count. One: the sleeping dragon in the woods that the king was hiding. Two: anyone who found the dragon was immediately done away with, or at the least severely excoriated, like Prince Sylvar. Three: Barthu Dal. That hardly needed explanation. Anywhere that Barthu went, a trail of deceit and devastation was sure to follow. Four: was there a four? Gor considered. Well, it was rather interesting that the only thing that could put the Colossus in such a sleep was a Mercy Tree, and the only place Gor knew of where there was a Mercy Tree is exactly where King Mathias was now. The dweorg did not wish to accuse someone, especially the king, of wrongdoing, but it certainly did not look good in Mathias’s favor right now.

So what was Gor’s next step? Did he have a next step? Gor sat heavily in an overstuffed chair by his glowing hearth and considered deeply. Perhaps it was best that he didn’t even get involved. This was a constant battle he had with himself. Half of him — no, more than that — wanted nothing to do with the Colossus and whatever the king had planned for it. He had not come here looking for trouble. Why did it always seem to find him? But his other half, the lesser half, could not help but wonder where this was all going to lead. Was King Mathias planning an all-out war? Dominion over the other orders? And where did Barthu Dal fit in all this?

Barthu Dal. Just thinking of him made Gor involuntarily clench his fists and tighten his jaw. The dweorg tried to relax, leaning his head back in his chair and closing his eyes. He just couldn’t seem to get rid of that man. He’d left Barthu in the Northern Sunder, for Dyrna’s sake. And here he was, somehow slipping his way into the king’s confidence and obviously looking for more ways to better his position in life. Even if Gor didn’t know what Barthu was exactly up to, he knew one thing: it was not anything good.

The dweorg tried to sleep, but rest would not come. Gor found himself worrying, not only about Barthu Dal, but about the young Prince Sylvar as well. The boy was getting himself mixed up with something far over his head. Sylvar was only fourteen harvests old…if he thought he was ready for certain war, he was sadly mistaken. And what was it that Barthu had told him, when they were alone together?

Unable to stay still any longer, Gor got up and stalked out of his chambers and down the halls. He really didn’t have any destination in mind, but he always could think better when he was moving. Gor walked briskly, not speaking to or looking at anyone. There were few servants still up anyways, and Gor had the halls mostly to himself. The dweorg let both his feet and his mind wander, and when he finally came to himself again, he had no idea where he was for a moment.

Gor paused and looked around. He had entered some sort of large room, leaving the doors open behind him. It was dark in here, except for the very faint moonlight streaming in through the single window. There was no one in here, and it did not appear to be a bedchamber.

The dweorg took another step forward and stared curiously at the lines of chairs, all facing the same direction, a podium at one end of the room. He had never seen anything like it before…perhaps some sort of meeting room? But it looked nothing like all of the many council rooms Gor had been in before. Something about this place felt different.

“The castle sanctuary.”

Gor flinched and turned at the familiar voice behind him. Barthu Dal stood in the open doorway. The Northerner stepped in and bowed. “I didn’t ever expect to see you in such a place,” said Barthu mockingly.

“I might say the same for you,” shot back the dweorg. He looked around the room again. Gor couldn’t remember the last time he was in a Christknight sanctuary. Perhaps when he was a very small Sunderling, in one of the few instances his parents bothered going.

Barthu Dal began walking about the room, but to Gor, it felt like he was circling the dweorg like a whitehawk. “I’ve never known you to be interested in the matters of the Christknights. You and I had always agreed: they are little more than slaves to a figment of their imagination and tales of an olden time. We know better.” He stopped directly in front of Gor, looking down on him with that familiar condescending smile. “What are you thinking, old friend?”

“We aren’t friends,” snapped Gor. “And we haven’t been for a long time. It’s none of your business what I’m thinking.”

But Barthu only smiled again. “It doesn’t matter. I know you too well. I know what you’re thinking. And I know why you are here.”

“I’m trying to get away from you and find some peace and quiet,” growled the dweorg.

The Northerner cocked his head. “Yes, I suppose that’s part of it, but you’re trying to escape something else too. Guilt, perhaps? Bad memories?”

Gor turned away, struggling to hide his rising anger. “Like I said, it’s none of your business.”

He heard Barthu take a step closer. “You know me, Gor. I like to make everything my business.” He moved past the dweorg and pretended to be staring at a painting on the wall. “So. Do Silas and Myr know?”

The dweorg started. “Silas who?” he asked, trying to sound confused. But Barthu Dal didn’t fall for it.

“Corf. Silas Corf. The father of the boy you killed. Just a boy. And you ran him through mercilessly.” Barthu clucked his tongue and shook his head like an old wife. “Such a tragedy. But I presume you have told them? You having turned over a new leaf and all.”

Gor didn’t answer. What could he say? No, he hadn’t told him or Myr. How could he tell them? Silas and Myr were the first people in his memory to really treat him like they cared. And then what? One day Gor just blurts out that he killed their son? He’d rather face a horned bear unarmed than look dear Myr in the eye and tell her who he actually was. And Barthu Dal knew it, too.

The Northerner stepped to the door, but turned back before leaving. “They may not know, Gor, but I do. And if you don’t keep your mouth shut about Sylvar and myself, I’ll see to it the Corfs find out everything.” He smiled and bowed mockingly before leaving and closing the sanctuary door behind him.

Gor finally remembered to breath and gulped in air. Oh, how he wanted to fling that man off the nearest cliff!

The writer, someone named Kree Nuvrend, had said, As far as I can see, the dragon (or in the ancient tongue, the Dar-goni, meaning “twisted beast”) was never meant to exist. It seems to perhaps have come from something else, like its original being was corrupted into something terrible and evil. I don’t know why or how, but I suspect it has something to do with Lucero. It always does, somehow. The Dark Prince doesn’t seem to ply his trade so blatantly as he used to, but seems now to work in a more subtle way. Perhaps dragons do not seem subtle, but the thought need only enter a man’s mind: “What if I could control it? What if I was actually strong enough? Think of the possibilties.” It is here, friend, that the Sunderling will fall into a terrible trap, from which he may never be able to return. At any rate, it will hurt far more than just himself.

Prince Sylvar squirmed and squeezed his eyes shut. But he could not help the thought, what if he really was strong enough? Was his father? Surely not, thought the boy scornfully. His father was far too…something…for that. Sylvar tried to imagine his father with a Colossus under his control. Mathias would be unbearable then. But there really was no worry of that. It had to be the Mercy Tree keeping it asleep, the Mercy Tree kept on a distant island, and supposedly guarded by fiercesome flying beasts.

As Sylvar slowly wandered back into the castle, he once again felt bitter towards his father, and yes, towards Soren and Rodrey. Logic told him that it wasn’t their fault he wasn’t included, but he couldn’t help it. They were always so good, and he, well, wasn’t. Not in his father’s eyes anyways.

Sylvar found himself in the library again, although he hadn’t exactly intended it, and stared at the short row of books on the dragon species. He ran his fingers along the spines, tracing the titles and Kree’s three-star crest engraved into the spine. Was this person the only one who had studyed anything about dragons? He started to pull one out.

“Not much of a selection, is there?”

The prince gasped and spun around, shoving the book back in guiltily. But it was not Master Gor’s accusing eyes watching him; instead, it was the man his father called Barthu Dal, and instead of displeasure, his expression was more of curiousity. Barthu moved closer and examined the books as well. Sylvar eyed his clothes; they were odd, similar to how Master Gor dressed. Instead of the light Alathean clothing, he wore dark robes lined with furs and strange markings embroidered on the hems. Sylvar wondered why a Man would want to wear the heavy, cumbersome clothes of a Northern Ynt rather than the more fashionable Mannish raiments.

“Why the sudden interest?” the man asked. “Perhaps you are learning of dragons in your studies with your new teacher?”

Prince Sylvar snorted. “Certainly not. All he wants to teach me about is geography and etiquette. I mean, what does a pirate know of etiquette?”

Barthu Dal glanced at him sharply. “What makes you think he’s a pirate?”

The boy hesitated, “I don’t know,” he admitted with a shrug. “He looks like a pirate.”

Barthu smiled. “He does, doesn’t he?” Sylvar thought he was going to say something else, but the man just pursed his lips and gazed at the prince with an unreadable expression. Then just when the silence was beginning to become awkward, the Northener said in a whisper, “I know something else that Master Gor will surely not teach you. But you mustn’t tell a soul that I told you.”

“What?” asked Sylvar eagerly. “I won’t tell anyone! I promise.” He nodded his head solemnly.

Barthu Dal turned abruptly and began searching the shelves of the library. For a moment, Sylvar thought his new aquaintaince had changed his mind, but then the man selected a particularly old work and flipped through the crumbling pages carefully. “Ah! Here it is. Come,” he beckoned, “and take a look.” He placed the book gently on the desk Gor had been sitting at a few days ago and pulled the always-lit candle closer.

“This” said Barthu, still in the confidential whisper, “was written thousands of years ago by a Sunderling named Gladwir. No one knows to which order he belonged, but he lived through the Sundering.”

“This book is four thousand years old?” gasped Sylvar.

“No, this is a translation of that book into Mannish, although it is still a few hundred years old at least. But look, here.” Barthu pointed out a particular passage and read aloud, “Now the orders remain separate, ruling only themselves. The lands themselves are separate, as if the Most High has banished each to their own corner of the world. But someday, someone will rise to bring the Sunder-lands back together, either in peace or in slavery. It cannot and will not be both. It is only a question now of which will come first.”

Even after Barthu had finished reading, Sylvar read it over again. The Northerner waited patiently, until the prince finally looked up and stared at him in confusion. “What does it mean?” he found himself whispering.

“It is The Prophecy of the Mending. Gladwir believed that someday, someone would bring the Sunder-lands back together, though as he says, there can only be two ways: in perfect peace with one another or all under the rule of one. Which do you think will come first, Your Highness?”

Sylvar thought. No one had ever asked him such a deep question before. “I don’t think perfect peace will ever be possible,” he said slowly. “We are all too…different. Those who do not believe in the Christprince hate those who do, and those who live in the trees ridicule those who mine in the ground. I don’t think we can all ever see eye-to-eye. Certainly not the Ynts and the Dweorgs,” he said, grinning at his own joke.

Barthu laughed loudly. “You are wise for your age; has anyone ever told you that?”

The boy grimaced. “My father says I am a fool.”

“Perhaps that is because your father is — never mind.” The man stopped himself and stood up quickly, returning the book to its rightful place on the shelf. He stood back to for a moment, and Sylvar wondered if he had said something wrong. He was relieved when Barthu turned back aroud with a warm smile. “I know that you have great things waiting for you in your future. I suppose the question is: how great?” He bowed and left the prince standing alone in the silence of the library.

“How were your lessons today, love?” Queen Lynora looked at her son hopefully across the dinner table.

“Fine.” Sylvar didn’t look up from his rapidly emptying plate.

“Did you learn anything interesting from Master Gor?”

“No.” Sylvar pushed down the hot wave of guilt rising up inside of him. He did not mean to be short with his mother. “I learned about Gladwir,” he offered suddenly, before clamping his mouth shut. Barthu Dal had made him promise not to tell.

“Oh? And who was Gladwir?”

“No-no one really,” the prince stammered. “I don’t remember.”

Queen Lynora eyed her son with obvious concern. Sylvar finished his meal quickly and got excused as soon as he could. He bolted for his chambers and locked the doors. The prince plopped down next to a window and stared out it, although not really seeing anything.

Barthu Dal had trusted him, and he nearly messed it all up. When was he going to learn to think before he spoke? He hoped the Northerner wouldn’t find out.

Sylvar lay for a long while, half-dozing, and imagining, or maybe dreaming, of himself as ruler of the Colossus. If someone could rule a dragon as huge as that, then they would naturally be the ruler of all the Sunder-lands. It would be as easy as that. Well, maybe not that easy; there would be the problem of training the dragon. The prince imagined himself as a grown man, a great leader (and ignored that Soren was next in line for the throne), marching into battle with the Colossus flying over his head.

An ear-piercing shriek sounds from the monster’s jaws. Fire soon follows it, and the enemy’s front lines is incinerated in seconds. The rest flee, or fall onto their knees and beg for mercy. Sylvar orders them to take his banner, not the owl of Alathea, but the dragon of Commander Sylvar. One by one the kingdoms fall to his command, each bowing before him and kissing the dragon banner. King Mathias watches him fulfill the Prophecy of the Mending with proud eyes. “Why can’t you be more like your brother?” But he was not speaking this time to Sylvar, but to Soren, who, in awe and fear, gives up the crown. Mathias steps down and declares his youngest son to be king. “What is the name of this great beast?” he asks, “Let his name and yours be written in the great books of history.”

“His name is Rinc.”

Sylvar jumped awake with a gasp. He blinked. Had he said that? It sounded like someone standing beside him had said it, but looking around, there was no one in the room and his door was shut.

With a contented sigh, Prince Sylvar leaned back again and reveled in his dream. Could such a thing be possible? Hadn’t Barthu Dal told him he was destined for greatness? It would be a lot of work, conceded the boy. And no one but perhaps the Northerner would help him.

As with sneaking into the Whisperwood, Sylvar let himself imagine how he would do it, were he going to awaken the Colossus.

The first order of business, he supposed, was to read every book he could find on the subject. There were very few in Iorwyrth it would seem, but it would have to do. The idea struck him that he could already do that. No one would stop him, except probably his father and Master Gor. But his father was gone, and anything outside the classroom was none of the dweorg’s business.

Quietly the prince slipped out of his room and once again made his way towards the room of books. He made a mental note to check for Master Gor before barging in and having to explain himself.

But the cunning dweorg caught Sylvar before he even reached the library.

“Where are you off to?”

“Wherever I want.”

“I spoke with your mother a few minutes ago. She is concerned about you.”

“Isn’t everybody?”

The dweorg’s eyes narrowed. “We did not learn of Gladwir in your lessons today, Sylvar.”

The prince shrugged. “I never said we did.”

“Have you been speaking with Barthu Dal?”

Prince Sylvar answered loftily, “It’s no one’s business who I’ve been speaking to, least of all yours.”

“Watch it, sassbucket,” snapped Master Gor. “If you think I’m afraid of you, think again.”

The prince opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. There was no use arguing with him. “Let me by.” Gor Grimbeard was standing the middle of the hall.

Master Gor silently stepped aside. As Sylvar passed, Gor said quietly, “I can’t tell you who to associate with or who not to talk to, but watch yourself around Barthu Dal. He acts charming and interested, but I promised he thinks only of himself.”

Sylvar eyed the dweorg, trying to look as dignified as possible. “He agreed with me that you look like a pirate.” The prince had no idea where that had anything to do with the conversation, but it felt good to say it.”

But it didn’t faze Gor. “Have you not noticed he looks the same?” And then the dweorg walked away, leaving Prince Sylvar looking after him in confusion. Was that confirmation? Was he saying both he and Barthu were pirates? Was Sylvar and his family in danger from them both?

The boy thought of his mother, and bit his lip nervously. He would be gone from home for days. Secretly, Rodrey was thankful to be away from his father. But deep inside, he worried for his mother and his sisters. Lady Via assured her son they would be fine. Lord Deric had abruptly left for a few days, where to, no one knew. It was a relief to his family, but Rodrey was more than a little concerned of what kind of mood his father would come home in.

“A Dagger for your thoughts,” boomed a voice behind him. King Mathias appeared at Rodrey’s side. He clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What’s got a dark cloud hanging over your head?”

Rodrey hesitated. He knew the king meant well, but he was also never sure how much he should share. Mathias was, after all, the one who demoted Lord Deric. He didn’t want to say anything that would make the king refuse to bring him on any more trips like this one.

But King Mathias had already guessed it. “Is it your father, lad?”

Rodrey nodded before he thought and instinctively touched the yellowing bruise on his face.

“And I reckon you didn’t get those by falling down a staircase, now did you?”

The boy flushed. It had been a stupid excuse that anyone with a brain could have seen through, but he hadn’t know what else to say. There wasn’t really anything else to say.

“I suppose it’s my fault,” sighed the king. “He’s really angry with me, you know. But he can’t hit me. Well, not without losing his head,” he chuckled. Rodrey glanced up at Mathias quickly, and the king stopped and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Humph. Anyways. It’s a terrible thing, drink is. But I don’t think I have to tell you that. You’ve seen it’s dangers first hand.” King Mathias touched the boy’s discolored cheek gently. “You’ve seen it closer than anyone should ever have to, especially at your age.”

Not knowing what he was supposed to say, Rodrey just nodded and stared at the ocean. He wondered dimly what it would feel like to stick his head in it, and what he would see. Were there really monsters in these waters? He could understand now his father’s love of the ships and the seas, and wished with all his might that Lord Deric would take a ship and set out across the sea and never come back. Was it cruel to wish his father would fall into the endless pit? But then Master Gor said that didn’t exist. Were there really other lands beyond the Sunders?

Rodrey turned to ask the king, but Mathias said first, “Where is that boy of mine?”

“Soren is below deck, sir,” answered Rodrey. “He’s not feeling…so well.” This was putting it lightly. Poor Soren did not have sea legs of any shape or form and had been violently ill all night. Rodrey did his best to make his friend feel better, but was glad when the prince’s personal manservant stepped in to take over.

King Mathias sighed. “I suppose I should go down and check on him.” This was said in a reluctant manner, but the king squared his shoulders dutifully and went off to ask after his son from as far away as possible. Queen Lynora very obviously did most of the caretaking of their three children.

Sylvaine. Rodrey’s eyes sparkled. Just one more year. And then he would be of age. They could be betrothed then, and married when she was of age in another year. That was another reason Rodrey was doing his best to stay on King Mathias’s good side. Nothing could stand in his way of marrying Sylvaine. He wished she had been brought along, too. She would have loved the ship and the waves and the seagrins squawking overhead. Sylvaine was the most adventurous out all of them, proudly more so than any of the boys. Sylvar would have denied it, but everyone knew she was far braver than her twin. And nicer, thought Rodrey.

He turned in time to see the nearby sailors snapping to attention as King Mathias reemerged from below deck. “As you were,” said the king, waving dismissively. “He’ll be all right,” he said to Rodrey. “I told him he ought to come up for a bit of fresh air.”

Just as Mathias said it, Prince Soren’s head appeared at the top of the ladder, and the rest of him slowly followed. The poor boy was holding his stomach, and his face was a particular shade of green. Soren lurched to the side of the boat and laid his head on the rail. “Are we there yet?”

“I told you,” said his father impatiently. “We’ll get there when we get there!”

Rodrey patted his friend on the back. “You seem to be looking a little better…maybe?”

Soren lifted his head and smiled weakly, before groaning after another waved lurched the ship. “Ohhhh, I hate this so much.”

“Get used to it,” said King Mathias cheerfully. He drew in a deep breath of the salty air. “Someday you’ll be king, and this will be your duty — going to Cruxor Island and meeting with the leaders of the Sunders. It is an important tradition that has been passed down for hundreds of generations.”

“But why does it have to be so far away?” moaned Soren, scrunching his eyes closed. “Why can’t we meet on a closer island? We have loads of closer islands.”

“Because none of those islands have the Mercy Tree. This island sits directly in the center of the New Sea. No one owns it. The leaders can meet in peace, knowing they can speak in safety.”

“But what if someone really wanted to betray one of the kingdoms?” asked Rodrey. “Couldn’t they just ignore the rules?”

“They could. But it is common knowledge that treason and bloodshed on Cruxor Island could very well lead to the end of the Mercy Tree. And no one knows what will happen to the Sunder-lands when it is gone. No. No treachery will take ever place on Cruxor Island.” But there was something odd in the king’s tone, almost like he didn’t quite believe himself, or perhaps like he was contemplating what would happen if the Mercy Tree was gone.

Rodrey glanced at him curiously and nearly jumped out of his skin when a sailor yelled, “Cruxor, ho!” from the top of one of the masts. Eagerly, the boy shaded his eyes with his hand and peered out over the sea. He didn’t see anything at first, and wondered if the sailor had been mistaken. But suddenly the mast of another ship poked up on the horizon, and then another, and another. Gradually the shape of Cruxor Island came into view, and Rodrey gripped the deck rail in excitement. Prince Soren gripped it, too, but only because his stomach seemed to have taken another turn.

It seemed like ages before they actually docked at the island, and by the time the gangplank was lowered, Rodrey was nearly jumping up and down with excitement. Soren looked relieved and heaved a huge sigh when his feet were on solid ground again.

“On second thought,” said the prince to his father, “you can just leave me here. I’ll live here now.”

Rodrey grinned. Poor Soren’s stomach was going to have just gotten over it’s ordeal, and then would have to go through it all over again. Rodrey wasn’t looking to leave anytime soon either.

A smooth stone path led from the docks towards the middle of the island. They followed the path, King Mathias in the lead, then Soren, then Rodrey, and with the Alathean guard following close behind. Rodrey peered around the guard to see another group fall in behind, a Dweorgan king and his entourage. The boy bumped into Soren ahead of him and realized they had stopped.

Rodrey craned his neck and saw that King Mathias was speaking cordially with another Mannish king, one with darker features and almost a Yntish look. Prince Soren whispered back that he thought it was King Cassian of Koldar, the easternmost kingdom of the Southern Sunder.

After a moment of speaking little more than pleasantries, which felt like a whole hour to Rodrey, King Mathias and King Cassian bowed politely to one another, and Mathias continued up the path. Rodrey struggled to keep up and see everything around him at the same time.

Green grass expanses lined both sides of the path. White and pink and yellow flowers of a kind Rodrey had never seen before sprouted all over. There were few trees, but somehow Rodrey didn’t find the scene missing them. Marble stones had been erected here and there, with words Rodrey didn’t have time to read engraved on them. The boy frowned in confusion at an odd-T shaped structure sticking up out of nowhere, with no obvious use.

He gasped and nearly fell to his knees when something gave an ear-deafening shriek over his head. A shadow and gust of wind passed over him, and Rodrey looked up, half in fear, half in wonder. A great flying creature landed on the T-shaped structure and stared directly into his eyes. Rodrey stared back, his mouth wide open. He had heard of gryphons before, and had been told that they guarded the Mercy Tree, but honestly he had thought the grown ups were teasing him.

But there it sat, still watching him with those piercing yellow eyes. It had a long sharp beak the size of Rodrey’s head, and talons as long as his hand. A long tail, similar to a cat’s, whipped back and forth, and it ruffled its white and brown feathers. It cocked its head at Rodrey, and then suddenly:

“What are you staring at?”

Rodrey gasped and fell backwards, landing soundly on his behind. “You…you talked!” Soren had jumped back as well, and both turned to the king for an explanation.

King Mathias laughed. “How do you not know of the Gryphons of Cruxor?”

“I didn’t think they were real,” admitted Rodrey, getting up and sheepishly brushing off his pants. “And I didn’t know they could talk.”

“Better than you can, I’m sure,” shot back the gryphon.

“Greetings, Krall,” said King Mathias cordially. “This is my son and heir, Prince Soren, and this is Rodrey.”

“The Ignorant One,” said Krall, with a solemn nod of his head. He bowed politely to Prince Soren, but smirked (as best a creature with a beak can) at Rodrey. To King Mathias, he said, “They are waiting. You and King Thane are the last.” He nodded behind them to the Dweorgan king Rodrey had seen before.

King Mathias nodded and told the boys to follow him, but to remain silent. He looked at Rodrey when he said this, and Rodrey wondered if that was a coincidence or not. They walked quickly, up the path that was leading over a gentle hill. When they arrived at the top, Rodrey saw that they must be in the center of the island. There were a great many stone thrones seated in a giant circle, and behind them, stood the Mercy Tree.

Rodrey held in a gasp, and he saw Soren do the same. It was so white it almost glowed. Even it’s bark was white. Bright yellow fruit dotted its branches, and Rodrey bet it was the best tasting food in all of the Sunder-lands.

King Mathias chose a chair with the symbol of Alathea — an owl bearing a broken sword — and sat down. He bade Soren and Rodrey to stand on either side of it. Rodrey looked around the thrones. Every one was filled with kings and queens, excepting one a few thrones down which was presumably King Thane’s, and Rodrey tried to study each one without seeming like he was staring.

There were several Dweorgs, a good many Men, and a few Ynts. But the one singular Drunnim captured Rodrey’s attention the most. The boy racked his brain for the Drunnik king’s name, but it took several minutes before it came to him: Ugo Ugornim. Rodrey had learned of him from the teacher they had had before Master Gor, although he had learned little of him besides his name.

King Ugo was dressed in flowing robes, dark green and scarlet and rich browns, and the crown on his head looked like deer antlers with ivies intertwined amongst the tines. His hair was white and his face dark as was the typical look of the Drunnim, and Rodrey had to stop himself from staring. But Ugo did not pay the boy any heed, nor did he seem to pay anyone any attention at all. The Drunnik king stared straight ahead with a cold expression, as if he was just waiting for it all to be over so he could go back to his forests.

The king of the dweorgs joined them and found his seat, and from somewhere on the island, a bell tolled loudly. King Mathias spoke first.

“Greetings to all, my friends and fellow Sunderlings. I praise the Most High to see that the winds have brought you all here safely.”

Rodrey saw the flicker of a frown on King Ugo’s face, but the Drunnim said nothing. The Drunnim did not care for the ways of the Christknights, choosing rather to follow their own deity, Drun.

“Does anyone have any grievances they wish to bring before the council?” asked the Alathean king. “Let them be spoke now, and with full honesty. They will be received with no offense and met with no hostility.”

A Yntish ruler stood up, one that Rodrey later learned was named Fa, and said loudly, “My people, the Ynts of Kaan Ka, made an agreement with the Ynts of Kaan Molv, to give goodly carved stone in return for lumber brought over on Mannish ships. It has been eight moon cycles, and we have not been given the lumber, as was our agreement.” Fa sat back down, and all eyes turned to Din, the leader of Kaan Molv.

He arose and bowed solemnly towards Fa. “You speak the truth, friend Fa, and I offer much sorrows. Great sickness has struck my family, and the families of many of my people, and I have not remembered our agreement. I will send word to my fastest ships, to bring you your lumber, as was our agreement. Take my sorrows with them.” He bowed again and sat down. Rodrey saw now that the tall Ynt’s face was taut, and his eyes heavy. The boy wondered if he himself was ill.

Murmurs of approval rippled around the thrones, and Fa nodded his thanks. King Ugo turned slightly towards Din and spoke for the first time, his voice low but with a tone of authority.

“Will you take fruit of the Mercy Tree home with you?”

“If it be the will of the council,” was the hopeful answer.

Rodrey raised an eyebrow. Did the entire council have to agree on whether or not someone received healing or help? Could they just turn someone away, if they decided they were not worthy? Thankfully, the council voted unanimously to send Mercyfruit home with King Din, but this still ate at Rodrey. But the next thing King Mathias said startled the boy even more.

“Perhaps someday we Sunderlings can learn to live without it. Perhaps there are times it does more harm than good to us.”

Everyone turned and stared at the Alathean king with wide eyes, even King Ugo.

You're doing amazing.

I'm so proud of you.

Finally, just as the dweorg was about admit to himself that the boys were not coming, the door flew open, and Soren, Sylvar, and Rodrey stomped in. They were having some sort of loud argument amongst themselves, something about a horse race, presumably one they had had themselves, and obviously the reason for their tardiness.

Gor cleared his throat loudly, startling the boys out of their disagreement. Prince Soren’s face turned red. “Sorry, Master Gor. We got…distracted. Please don’t tell Father.”

“That’s all I need right now,” muttered Sylvar, flopping down in one of the chairs.

But Gor waved away their concerns. “Sit.” Soren and Rodrey sat, Soren in the middle so as to separate his brother and his best friend. Gor did not miss the sour looks Sylvar gave the lord’s son whenever they happened to glance in each other’s direction. And neither did the yellowing bruises on Rodrey’s face and hands escape the dweorg’s sharp eye. He glanced questioningly at Soren, who shook his head slightly. Gor pressed his lips together. That was a problem for another day.

He turned to the map he had had pinned to the wall behind him. It was large and well-drawn, of the four Sunders. Gor gestured vaguely across the map. “What would you call this?”

“Um, the world?” ventured Soren, a little confused.

“You would call it that, and you would be wrong,” answered Gor flatly.

Prince Sylvar rolled his eyes, obviously thinking the dweorg a lunatic. “Everyone knows that’s the whole world,” he said, in a condescendingly patient tone. “No one who has ever gone beyond the Sunders has returned.”

Rodrey raised his hand. “My father is…was…is…the Steward of the Ships.” He stumbled over his words a bit, but quickly moved on. “He said anyone who traveled beyond the borders of the Sunder-lands fell over a great waterfall into a dark pit that had no end. They just fall forever!”

“Your father is a fool!” snapped Gor without thinking. There was an awkward silence, and even Sylvar looked embarrassed for Rodrey. There was something going on here with Rodrey that everyone but Gor seemed to know about. “Ah, right. Anyways.” The dweorg hesitated, then said quietly, “You’re going to have to get used to my style of teaching. I’m not pandering like your usual tutors, but I’d hardly say I was boring either, would you agree?”

The boys unanimously agreed to that.

“Good. Now what I’ve got to teach you, or rather, what I’ve been commissioned to teach you, won’t be tedious either, if you’re willing to listen and to learn.” Gor paused. “I’ve seen a good deal of the world, a great deal more than any teacher you’ve ever had before. I’ve been to each of the Sunders and the island, kingdoms, and I’ve lived in three of them. I’ve been in war, I’ve worked on ships. I’ve been stabbed. I’ve been shot with an arrow, kicked by a horse more times than I can count. I’ve killed Sunderlings, I’ve saved Sunderling’s lives. To you, it may seem that I’ve done everything possible in the Sunder-lands, yes?” He peered at the three boys’ faces in turns, all three filled with awe and excitement and wonder. “Yes. But in fact, I have done very little in my time. The Sunder-lands is a vast and perilous place, and even I have only seen a fraction of it.”

“Will we do all those things” asked Prince Sylvar eagerly, “learning under you?”

Gor snorted. “Not if I can help it.” Seeing their mutual disappointment, he added quickly, “But you never know where your life is going to take you. That’s why I’m telling you all this. Look at me. I grew up on a sheep farm on the Western Sunder, never suspecting that someday I’d become who I am today, and go through all I’ve gone through. It may sound exciting to you now, but let me reassure you, danger is no joke. War is not exciting. Slaying monsters,” he looked hard at Sylvar, “is not done for the fun of it.”

The prince looked annoyed. “Then what’s the purpose of all this? Why should we care about any of this if we’re never going to get to use it?” He slumped back in his chair, crossing his arms.

“Sylvar!” whispered Soren in a warning whisper, but Gor waved him away.

“I didn’t say you’ll never use it; in fact, with your lineages and titles, I can almost guarantee that for your futures. But,” he went on briskly, “your father wants me to give you a different sort of teaching. Not the kind that comes from books and scrolls and endless hours of memorizing useless dates and names. No, I’ll be teaching you how to survive in this world, how to live and work amongst the orders, how to be a man.”

“But you’re not a Man,” laughed Rodrey. Gor silenced him with a look.

“It was a figure of speech, Master Rodrey.”

“Right…sorry,” muttered the boy.

The dweorg was about to say something more when the door opened abruptly and none other than King Mathias stepped in. He surveyed the scene in front of him for a moment, his eyes coming to rest heavily on Prince Sylvar. Gor noted the rush of color to the young prince’s face, and how Sylvar immediately looked down at his hands. The king seemed to be the only person so far that Sylvar wouldn’t look defiantly in the eyes.

The dweorg cleared his throat. “Is there something I can help you with, Your Majesty?”

King Mathias took his eyes off his wayward son and fixed them on the teacher. Instead of answering the question, he said, “I hope the boys have been well-behaved for you, Master Gor.” And by this, Gor knew the king meant Sylvar. But the dweorg wasn’t going to let the king interfere already.

“They’ve been just fine, Your Majesty. Is there something I can do for you?” he repeated.

The king blinked at the dweorg’s brisk tone, but said, “I’m afraid I must take Soren and Rodrey away from you for a few days.”

Prince Soren frowned. “Why, Father?”

“The Sunder-leaders are meeting on Cruxor Island; I’m taking you with me. It will be an excellent experience.”

“For me too?” asked Rodrey hopefully. Gor did not miss that Prince Sylvar didn’t even bother asking for himself. He seemed almost to be expecting it.

“Yes,” answered King Mathias decidedly. “You as well.”

“And,” asked the dweorg quietly, “what of Prince Sylvar? Is he not to accompany his father and his brother?”

“No. He is not.” The answer was flat and final. “Soren, Rodrey, come. We leave tomorrow. You may continue, Master Gor.”

Prince Soren darted after his father eagerly, but Rodrey paused at the door, giving Sylvar a sympathetic glance, before following after his friend. Sylvar never looked up. Gor rolled his eyes. Did Mathias expect him to give all his lessons to just Sylvar? Gor was inclined to just let the boy go for the day, but then perhaps it was safer for him to stay in here, away from his father. After King Mathias left, the rope around Sylvar’s neck may loosen a little.

Gor Grimbeard let out a heavy breath, then turned to Sylvar. “Well, let’s continue on then.”

The dweorg poked his head into the library and looked around. The large room appeared to be completely empty barring a flickering lamp on a desk that someone had forgotten. Quietly Gor stepped inside and noiselessly shut the door behind him. The room smelled like a combination of old leather and paper and perhaps a bit of mildew. He stared around him for a moment, a bit overwhelmed by the hundreds —or perhaps even thousands— of books, scrolls, maps, and charts in the library. He had no idea where to even start. What was he looking for, exactly? Something about the dragon, or any dragon, to start with.

King Mathias and his two young companions had left early that morning, and Sylvar had been mostly out of sight all day. But as the king had ordered a careful and constant watch on the boy by the prince’ personal guards, Gor wasn’t too worried about him.

Gor began perusing the shelves and the titles lined up on them. The dragon sleeping in the Whisperwood was surely no ordinary dragon. The dweorgan warrior had seen more than one of the flying beast in his day; Gor had even helped take down one or two. But they had been nowhere near the massive size of this one, this one so large it looked like a hill. It must have been there a long time, he thought, as it was all grown over with moss and wildflowers. It would have been a beautiful sight if not for the fact that it was a dragon and the fact that the king obviously had plans for it. No good came of dragon dealing. If Gor had learned one thing from his eventful life, it was that.

The dweorg paused at an old book with the lengthy title The Complete Guide to the 14 Species of Dragon. The very next book, slightly newer and by the same author, was titled The 57 Species of Dragon and Their Attributes. Gor rolled his eyes. He wondered how many species they were up to now. He checked for the next book, but was surprised to see a space where it should have been. Someone had taken it out, and by the layer of dust on the other books and none in the absent book’s place, it had been removed very recently.

Gor pulled out the book on the fifty-seven dragons and opened it. It was dated over four hundred years earlier. The dweorg wished he knew if the next book was more recent, but this was the best he had at the moment. He took it to the desk and held it close to the lamp, flipping carefully through the ancient pages. It was full of dramatic sketches, with slithering, tusked creatures swallowing men whole. Gor pored desperately through the pages, hoping for something about a giant dragon, but there was no useful or recent information in the entire book.

Sighing heavily, Gor turned to return the book. He gasped in surprise as he nearly ran straight into Prince Sylvar. The young prince jumped and gasped himself, and they stared at each other in surprise for a moment. Gor noticed the book in Sylvar’s hand.

“Taking that out or putting it back?” the dweorg asked, glancing at the empty space on the shelf.

“Putting it back,” muttered Sylvar. He shoved the book roughly into its place, and Gor saw that the spine read The Colossus. Of course.

“Sylvar!” called Gor suddenly after the disappearing prince. The boy paused and turned expectantly.

Gor hesitated, then decided to change tactics. “I know you are at odds with Rodrey at the moment” — Sylvar’s eyes darkened — “but can you at least tell me what is going on with him? What are all those bruises from? It can’t be weapons practice.”

Prince Sylvar shrugged. “His father. Lord Deric…drinks. Everyone knows.”

“Well, apparently I wasn’t let in on the secret,” said Gor in exasperation. “Well, won’t someone do something about it? What about King Mathias? Surely he won’t allow Rodrey to be treated in such a manner. He could certainly do something about it.”

The prince shrugged again. “He sacked Lord Deric as Steward of the Ships. I reckon that’s where the new bruises came from. Had to take it out on someone, I suppose. He can’t hit Father.” A strange glimmer came into Sylvar’s eyes at the thought.

“Does he have siblings? A mother?”

“Yes, Lady Via. I suppose she probably has it worse than Rodrey does. And three younger sisters.”

“How young?” asked Gor sharply.

“I don’t know! Why are you asking me all this? Ask Rodrey! Why should I care?” Sylvar stalked out of the room.

Gor sighed and stared out the window above the desk. The city below looked so peaceful and quiet, with little cheerful lights bobbing here and there. But the dweorg was starting to get a feeling that something dark was hiding behind all that peace and slowly taking over the city. Already Gor felt a paternal sense of protection over the three boys, despite his deep dislike of royalty. Whatever was going on here, he couldn’t let it harm his boys.

As Gor pulled out The Colossus, he made a solemn pact with himself that he was not going to rest until he got to the bottom of this. And he decided at the same time that he was going to look into Rodrey and Lord Deric as well. The dweorg remembered his own little sisters at home; they were all grown up now and surely had families of their own, but when he had seen them last, they were young and sweet and innocent. Much like, he was sure, Rodrey’s own sisters. The boy was fifteen, someone had told him, so the girls must be quite small. Gor ground his teeth at the thought of a grown man beating his young girls, his wife, his son. If Gor caught him in the act…..

Gor opened the book and inspected the author’s name. “Kree,” he grunted to himself. “Never heard of ‘im.”

He flipped to the first chapter and read to himself:

“There are five stages of a normal dragon’s life. The egg, the hatchling, the fledgling, the wyrm, and the firegrown. The wyrms cannot fully fly yet, nor can they use fire to any great distance. They aren’t a great danger except to the most curious of explorers. Now the firegrown themselves are a terrible danger, and only a fool will get anywhere near them or their territory. But even the firegrown are nothing compared to the colossus.” Gor’s eyes lit up and he read on eagerly. “They are rare, only one or two born every century. They come from an Embyr Egg, and it must hatch in the heat of an active volcano. The colossus controls other dragons, like an alpha. They are usually cared for by smaller dragons, as they are too large to hunt enough food to give themselves enough energy to hunt more food. The colossus have very little energy and expend it only in times of great need. Hibernation for long periods of time is common, and, should it be anywhere near a Mercy Tree, will sleep indefinitely. Though it would not seem likely considering its great size, the colossus is quite susceptible to its power. Or perhaps, it just does not bother to fight off the effects as much as the smaller dragons do.”

Gor stared at the page in front of him. The Mercy Tree. That was what was keeping the dragon, the colossus, asleep. And the only one in existence that Gor knew of was on Cruxor Island, the no-sunder’s-land. Exactly where King Mathias was headed at this very moment.

Get off your phone.

Stop scrolling.

Go write.

Other than the eerie whisper floating through every few minutes, the Whisperwood was silent. There was no sign that anyone other than the boy was here. The only other people he had seen were the sleepy guards at the entrance of the forest; it had been nothing to sneak past them, and Gor was just as confident on getting out. But now he was faced with a new problem. Or rather, face-to-face with one.

Finally the dweorg said, “Well? Are you going to come down from there or are you going to just sit and stare at me?”

The boy shook his head vigorously. “No. You’ll chop my head off.”

So. This boy had seen what had happened in the field. “If you knew you could lose your head, why did you come in?”

The boy hesitated. “I thought I could do it without getting caught,” he admitted. “I knew I could do it better than that peasant anyways.”

Peasant. Well, well, this was becoming more interesting by the minute. “Who are you?” demanded Gor.

“I’m sure you know very well who I am. Who are you?” asked the boy arrogantly.

“I asked first, sassbucket. And I don’t know who you are, and probably I don’t even care.”

The boy scoffed. “If you knew who I was, you wouldn’t be speaking to me like that.”

“Really? And what are you going to do? Run and tell King Papa (you are one of his sons, I presume?) that a dweorg who’s name you don’t know smartmouthed you in the forbidden forest which you went in to? Be my guest.” Gor bowed mockingly and gestured back in the direction of the castle.

The prince hesitated. Gor Grimbeard saw the struggle playing out on his face. Then the boy said, “I’m Prince Sylvar.”

“Ah. The youngest prince. The one who must do something dangerous to get any attention from his father the king. That prince?”

Sylvar nodded reluctantly.

“Come down from there,” said Gor, a little gentle, “before you fall and kill yourself.”

“Aren’t you just going to chop my head off anyways?”

“No. Unless you tell on me. Then I will.”

The prince’s eyes widened and he slid down the tree trunk. “You’re not supposed to be in here either!”

“Shhhh!” warned Gor. “No, I’m not supposed to be in here either, but then I’ve never been very good at doing what I’m told.”

“Neither am I,” said the prince proudly. “I do whatever I want.”

The dweorg raised an eyebrow. “A bit young for that, aren’t you?”

Prince Sylvar frowned. “I’m fourteen years old! In two years, I’ll be a man.”

Gor snorted. “Age doesn’t make you a man, boy.” He looked around. The forest was still quiet except the occasional whisper still floating through. “What do you know about all this?” He gestured vaguely about them. “Why did your father block it off? What is so secretive about it?”

The prince’s eyes lit up. “You haven’t seen it then?” he whispered.

“Seen what?”

Prince Sylvar put his finger to his lips dramatically (even though he had just been half-shouting a moment ago) and beckoned the dweorg to follow him. It occurred to Gor Grimbeard, as he was blindly traipsing after the boy, that he could be walking headfirst into a trap. He touched the dagger at his belt. It was a Mannish dagger, which was nearly a full-length sword for a dweorg. But used against a Man, it was still just a dagger.

But Prince Sylvar only led him the edge of an oddly cleared out glen and crouched down behind the heavy underbrush. He pointed.

The dweorg stared at the green hill in front of them. “What am I looking at?”

“Watch,” was all Sylvar whispered.

Gor had nearly decided that the boy was out of his mind when the low whisper came again and — what? Had the hill…moved? He glanced at Prince Sylvar who smiled triumphantly, and then back at the hill to watch it again. Yes, there it was again, moving upwards every so slightly, and then back down. “What on Noor?” Gor gasped.

“I heard them talking,” said Sylvar, “before they saw me. It’s a dragon!”

Gor stared at the prince. “Impossible!”

“Why? It’s right there; you can see it with your own two eyes, can’t you?”

“Watch your mouth, sassbucket,” growled the dweorg. “I don’t have to answer to you.” The dragon moved up again with its breath. “Come on. We need to get out of here and I need to think.”

“Think about what?”

“Never mind.”

This time Gor led the way, through the annoyingly thick ferns and roots and leaves. They might not have been moving quickly, but his mind was racing. A dragon, here, in the South? Dragons were rare even in the cold mountains of the Northern Sunder, but here? Gor had seen a few in his day, but this one was the size of a hill. He could have climbed it and not realized what it really was if it were not for the breathing. The earthquake must have unearthed it somehow. Or perhaps brought it out of a deeper sleep. But the more important problem was, what was King Mathias intending to do with it?

Something Sylvar had said came back to him, something Gor had paid any attention to before. He stopped kicking through the ferns and turned to stare at the prince. “What do you mean, ‘before they saw you’?”

Prince Sylvar shrugged. “I don’t think my father saw me. But the strange man did; I’m sure he did. He looked right at me. That’s when I ran and hid in the tree.”

“When? I haven’t seen anybody in here except you and the guards.”

Sylvar hesitated. “Yesterday evening,” he admitted.

Gor gaped at him. “You’ve been out here all night? In that tree? How is all of Alathea not in here looking for you?” He spun around in a circle, scanning the wood around them carefully. Still no sign of anyone.

The prince trudged on ahead. “I suppose Father knows exactly where I am and he’s waiting for me to finally come home. He didn’t see me, but I’m sure that man told him what I looked like and he figured it out.”

The dweorg grimaced. “Well, it’s not like your father will execute you.”

Sylvar let out a heavy sigh. “Nigh on to it.” He flailed his hands. “This was supposed to be my big chance. I was going to prove that I was just as good as Soren, that I could join him and stupid Rodrey in their combat lessons. I’m definitely as good as Rodrey.” He stopped. “This is all Rodrey’s fault, too! He was the one who told me I should do this. Oh, I’m going to get back at him…”

Gor raised an eyebrow. “He told you to come in here?”

“Well, not exactly,” admitted Sylvar. “But he told me I should figure out someway to prove that I was mature and strong enough! I never would have come in here if it wasn’t for him.”

“I’m sure,” muttered the dweorg. They were almost to where he had entered the Whisperwood. “And how exactly were you planning on proving yourself? By sneaking past the guards? A blindman could have done that.”

“No. I thought there was a terrible monster in here and I was going to slay it?” The last part was said sheepishly.

Gor choked back laughter. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! What is wrong with you? If that thing woke up, we both would have been ashes!”

“You don’t know that,” said Sylvar defensively.

“Yes. I do.” The dweorg stopped and faced the boy. “I’ve been a warrior for decades. Longer than you’ve been alive. Maybe longer than your father’s been alive. And I know that I wouldn’t have been any match for that dragon, or any dragon for that matter. It takes a special kind of warrior to slay monsters, and you, sassbucket, are not it. Now come on. We might as well not bother sneaking back out. They must know you’re in here.”

Prince Sylvar reluctantly followed Gor out of the Whisperwood. The guards spun around and drew their weapons, but upon seeing the prince, they paused. The captain glowered at the dweorg, but motioned them on ahead. King Mathias must have give them orders to allow Sylvar through. He was a little surprised at their letting him through as well.

The prince didn’t say a word the whole way to the castle. Gor didn’t know why he was going along with Sylvar. Logically, he should go back to the Corf’s and hope nothing ever came of his adventure into the forest. But something in him was curious as to what was going on in the Whisperwood and couldn’t resist the urge to get a closer glimpse of the king.

The courtyard was as busy as the city usually was, servants and soldiers bustling here and there. Everyone avoided looking at Sylvar and the whispers stopped suddenly as he passed by. No one bothered hiding their stares at Gor. A young boy around Sylvar’s age caught his attention, holding scrolls and fully engrossed in them. He glanced up at Gor as they passed by him. A large bruise covered part of his face, and his hand was wrapped in a clean bandage. His lips were pinched together in pain. Gor saw the pain in his eyes, both physical and emotional; he knew the signs of a beating when he saw one.

Sylvar made a horrid face at the boy as he walked by and the bruised boy quickly looked back down. That must be Rodrey, Gor thought. He wondered who had treated him in such a terrible manner, and why no one around seemed to be concerned about it.

Gor followed Prince Sylvar inside the castle, still thinking about Rodrey. His attention was caught by a woman dressed in fine silks and with a circlet about her head rushing to them.

“Sylvie, darling, where have you been?” she wailed. “I have been worried sick about you!”

“I’m fine, Mother,” muttered the boy, cringing away from her kiss.

Gor raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. This was Queen Lynora. She glanced at him and he offered a clumsy bow.

The queen lowered her voice. “Father is very angry with you, Sylvar. I’m afraid you’ve done it this time. What on Noor were you thinking?” She brushed a hand over his forehead, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face.

“It’s nothing, Mother,” he said, pulling away. “I didn’t do anything.”

Gor rolled his eyes.

Queen Lynora nodded, but she didn’t look at all convinced. Gor imagined this was a pretty regular occurrence. “He’s in his study,” she said quietly. “He wanted to see you as soon as you came back.”

“I need a bath,” said Sylvar sulkily. “And a change of clothes.”

The queen hesitated. “He said immediately, Sylvar. I wouldn’t….push him anymore than you already have. Go. Please.”

Prince Sylvar shrugged and turned away, walking up the nearest set of stairs. Gor stood awkwardly for a moment, not sure what he should do now, until the prince called down, “Aren’t you coming?”

“Sylvar, I don’t think…” his mother started, but Sylvar interrupted.

“It’s fine, Mother! You’re as bad as Father!” And he stomped up the stairs.

Gor glanced at the queen; her face was very pale. “My apologies,” he said to her. “The boy is…difficult, I can see.”

She buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know what to do with him. And I fear what Mathias will do.”

Gor hesitated. He despised royalty. He always had. Why was he doing this? “Perhaps I can help?”

Queen Lynora looked up. “Why? How?”

The dweorg sighed and said, “I haven’t got anything else to do. I’m a newcomer to this Sunder. But I’ve taught a young idiot a time or two in my life.”

“And…did they turn out all right?”

“That, or dead,” was his blunt answer. “Either way he wouldn’t be your problem anymore.”

Queen Lynora gasped, but nodded. “Speak to my husband. He’s up there. Just follow the yelling,” she said with a wan smile.

Gor nodded and bowed again before going up the stairs. The yelling was, as the queen said, very easy to follow and the dweorg found himself standing outside a closed door, listening to the one-sided conversation taking place inside.

“What is wrong with you?! Do you have any idea what could have happened to you in there? Any idea at all? Do you even think? Is thinking something you even do? Do you know how to think?” The boy tried to say something here, but his father cut him off. “No! Don’t speak; you don’t get to speak! I am so done with you. That’s it. I’m sending you away. Where? I don’t know where! How about the mines of the North? Maybe a little hard labor would do you good!”

Gor steeled himself and pushed the door open. Sylvar stood dejectedly in the middle of the room, and his father faced him, his face red from anger. The king’s eyes fell on the dweorg. “Who are you?” he snapped.

“I’m Gor Grimbeard, Your Majesty. I…found your son and brought him out of the Whisperwood.”

King Mathias’s eyes narrowed. “So you were in there as well?”

“I’ve been speaking with the queen, and I think I may be able to help you and your son,” he said hurriedly.

“Lynora?”

“As I told her, I’ve taught an idiot or two back in the Northern Sunder. I’m a tough teacher, but I think I can whip your son into shape, metaphorically, more or less.”

The king stared at him, obviously thinking deeply. “I already have teachers,” he said. “None of them have worked.”

Gor snorted. “You have guards too, and they aren’t working either. Besides, I can almost bet that none of your teachers have ever even been out of the kingdom. What do they know about warfare? What do they know about dealing with other orders? What do they know about the world? I’ve been in war. I’ve dealt with every order you know and some you don’t know. And I’ve been to every Sunder and island kingdom in Noor. If anyone in this kingdom can teach your son about life, it’s me.”

The king wavered. “What do you want in return? Bed and board, I presume.”

Gor waved his hand. “ I have that elsewhere. I’ll take whatever you pay your other teachers. And I’d like to not get my head removed either.”

“Can anyone speak for you?”

“I can.” A voice came from behind the dweorg.

Gor spun around and his breath caught in his throat. A man was standing behind the door; Gor didn’t see him when he entered the room. The man was tall with a black beard and crafty black eyes. He wore Northern clothes. The man smiled down at Gor.

“You know this dweorg, Barthu?” asked the king.

“I do. Very well. We worked together for a spell in the Northern Sunder. If anyone can teach the ways of life in the Sunder-lands, it’s Gordain Grimbeard.”

“Well!” said Gor, letting his breath out suddenly. “Barthu Dal. You were the last person I was expecting to see here.”

Barthu Dal bowed. “I am at the service of the king.”

“I’m sure you are.”

King Mathias broke in here, pointedly clearing his throat. “And would you teach my other son as well? Soren?”

“If that is your wish.”

“Yes,” said the king decidedly. “And Rodrey.”

“Not Rodrey!” Sylvar protested, but his father silenced him with a look.

“Good. When can you start?”

“Tomorrow?”

King Mathias shook his head. “Tomorrow is Sovereignday. We have sanctuary services. The next?”

Gor nodded. “Marketday is fine.”

“Good.” He turned to Sylvar. “And if you step so much as a toe out of line, it’s off to the North you go. Dismissed.”

Sylvar moved swiftly out of the room and was out of sight by the time Gor stepped out into the hall. Barthu Dal stepped out behind him and shut the study door.

Gor spun on him. “What are you really doing here?” he hissed. “Don’t think for a minute I believe that ‘service of the king’ stuff.”

Barthu Dal merely smiled in that obnoxious way he always did. “I might ask you the same thing, Gor. What are you doing in the land of Men?”

“Settling a debt, not that it’s anything to you,” retorted Gor. “I could leave anytime I wanted to.”

“And yet you haven’t. And you’re not. You’re teaching spoiled princes how to behave. Well,” he stepped closer, his eyes gleaming. “if anyone can teach them the ways of life — betrayal, deceit, backstabbing — it’s you, Gor, isn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, Barthu spun on his heel and walked away, leaving Gor staring angrily after him.

To Whomever Has Come Upon This Letter,

You must be terribly confused and frightened. To be suddenly whisked away to a world wholly unlike your own is certainly unsettling to the nerves. I should know. I’ve been in the Sunder-lands now for two years, two months, and twenty-five days; who knows how long it has been when you find this, or if I am even still alive. Although it has felt like a lifetime, I’m not sure that I would leave now, were I given the chance. This world is perilous to be sure, with strange creatures and stranger lands at every corner, but I have found a certain Light here in this broken world. I plan to study it closely. Here I have found that hope, however small it may be, is never truly lost. (That is, not the virtue — I have befriended a dweorg named Hope, and I believe he could get lost in his own house. I’ve nearly given up on him.) I hope that you will meet at least one Christknight here. That is what they call the followers of the Christprince here (we call them something different in our world, but they are the same sort of people). To watch one use the Armor Luminous is an experience you will never forget. I have learned to use it myself; it has helped me through many a dark moment.

Do not dismay or panic about your current state (Really, quite the worst thing you can do when lost; I have to remind Hope of this constantly), but sit down and read through this letter carefully. I will do my best to guide you through the world you now find yourself in.

Most likely you awoke on the Southern Sunder, or Dina, as the Mannish people call it. At least, that is where I awoke and where I am leaving this letter. (If you are, by chance, a Sunderling and not at all from the Urthlands, kindly put this back where you found it. It does not belong to you. If you are Hope, mind you take a good look at the map before you leave it. I’m sure you’re already terribly turned around. What are you doing out here? Come and find me directly; you are untrustworthy by yourself, old friend.)

Anyways, where was I? Oh yes, the Southern Sunder. You are not in any immediate danger — unlike if you had found yourself in the Northern or Eastern Sunder — but you will want to keep your head about you all the same. The Mannish people are quite similar to those in the Urthlands (that is to say, you and I) and in some ways, are even more so. They will not hesitate to flatten a forest in order to raise a city and would break down a mountain to expand it. I fear greed is amongst their greater vices, and pride is certainly not the least either. When you deal with them, keep one hand in your pocket else you might find somebody else’s in it.

When I awoke from whatever terrible storm had brought me here (Was it a storm that brought you as one did me?), I was in the Dinan kingdom of Alathea, although I did not know it at the time. Is this a terrible lot of names for you? It must seem overwhelming, I’m sure, and the map will do little for you until you truly understand the grand world you really have found yourself in. Really, you should consider this quite an honor; I think everyone should have to be transported to a new land at least once in their life. If nothing else, it teaches you to appreciate your own home better. Although for me, I have found this world to be more of a home than my own in Urup ever was.

But now — forgive me — I’m rambling. You don’t care about any of that; you care about surviving here. From where you are, find the sun and head directly northwest. If it is night, I would suggest you find a very good hiding spot. Horned bears still lurk in the South, despite the lack of forests. They have found new ways of living, and let me tell you, an encounter with one of them will have you questioning your life’s choices. This one time, Hope and I…no, never mind. That’s a story for another day.

At the first village or city you come to (the village I’m thinking of could very well be a city by now), ask for directions towards Iorwyrth. Do not forget that name: Iorwyrth. It is the crown city of this kingdom, and you will be safe there. When I am writing this, it is probably the safest place in all of the Sunder-lands. Evandyr the Great sits upon the throne and all is well now. I have so many stories I could tell you about him, but now is not the time. After you have reached Iorwyrth and are safely out of reach of the horned bears and raiders, you must take some time to think on what you will do next.

Of course, you could always remain where you are, desperately waiting for every storm that blows your way, standing out in the rain, and almost getting struck by lightning while shouting at the thunderclouds to take you back. If this sounds very specific…well, just take my advice. It will not work, and your hair will take nigh on a month to recover.

Or, you could dig out that map that someone so kindly and skillfully drew for you (it was me, I cannot lie) and decide what adventure you’re going to go on next. You’ve already been on one, although being dropped here may not have felt like much of an adventure, but in retrospect it was a little fun, yes? (If you’re answer is still no, it might be best if you stayed in the city and did not move. You’ll not survive in the wild with that attitude.) If your answer was yes…huzzah! You’re in for a jolly time. Perhaps we might even run into each other somewhere in this crazy world. Perhaps I’ll be a king by then, or perhaps a prisoner in some nasty dungeon (this is probably more likely).

Should I tell you my name? I had a name before I came here, of that I am certain. But I don’t go by it anymore. The Men and Dweorgs simply call me The Traveler, and the Ynts call me Kree, which the Drunnim have taken up as well. I’m sure it means something along the same lines. (Hope, who is annoyingly reading over my shoulder, has just now seen fit to inform me that Kree is Yntish for talks much. I would prefer to do my own translating, thank you, Hope.) Perhaps someday we will meet, and I can learn whatever name they have given you, preferably a nicer one than mine.

What else? Let’s see…you could of course spend your time entirely traveling throughout the Southern Sunder. There’s plenty to see there; it has been split into four kingdoms — Alathea, Leander, Lochlan, and Koldar — and you’ll find an endless amount of entertainment and adventure in them. But remember what they say: Never trust a Lochlander. I’ll let you learn that one the hard way, as I did (more than once, embarrassingly enough).

But I would encourage you to find your sealegs and set sail for one of the other Sunders, or perhaps for an island kingdom. The Western Sunder is extremely pleasant. It is full of fat dweorgs growing vineyards and wheatfields and sheep. You won’t find much adventure there, unless you spend some time in the markets. Those are an experience in and of itself. It is here that I met Hope, and he had been my companion ever since (when he isn’t lost). The northern part of the Western Sunder is when things start to get odd. Ynts from the Northern Sunder sailed there many centuries ago, and decided to stay. Now the fiercest, tallest order and the jolliest, shortest order live together and make for a land that is completely unpredictable.

The Ynts (from the Northern Sunder as I already said) are said to be giants, and some of them are. But most of them are just tall and dark and have an altogether angry presence, so I suppose that makes them appear larger than they are. They call their land Ish. When Man first met them, they kept saying Yntish, which Man apparently thought was a description of themselves. But what they were really saying was “Ynt Land,” trying to tell us of course, that it was theirs and to stay off it. But now we use ish to describe all sorts of things — Mannish, Yntish, even Dweorgish sometimes. Strange how some misunderstandings can lead to something completely new.

And ah, the Eastern Sunder. Beautiful, untouched, dangerous. The order living there would just as soon sacrifice you to the moon as make friends with you. Beware the Drunnim. You’ll know one when you see it: dark skin, white hair, piercing blue eyes. There’s something ethereal about them (Hope, if you’re still reading this, that means heavenly or otherworldly; I know how you are with big words) and something almost frightening to them as well. They would rather cut off their own arm than hew down a tree and live in houses built alongside and in them. But their houses aren’t made of wood! I haven’t gotten the chance to examine them closely (the only time I was in one of their villages, I was blindfolded with a sacred knife to my throat), but I have heard their architectural skills could almost put Man to shame.

If you are willing to risk life and limb, you will find many quests to fulfill, people to meet, and knowledge to learn in this world. I have learned much since coming here, but am sure that I have hardly begun to scratch the surface. Did you know that four thousand years ago, the Sunder-lands were all one? (Hope, who’s reading over my shoulder again, says that’s a stupid question. How would you know anything of the Sundering? He has a point I suppose) Someday I may write more about it, but I must end this letter here. King Thane Thunderfist of Leander has invited me to visit Leander’s famous dye factory, and I simply must know how they make that shade of purple he wears. It would look splendid on me, I’m sure (Yes, it would too, Hope. I wasn’t asking you).

Christspeed to you, my friend

The Traveler,

also known as:

Kree Talks Much (Hope insisted.)

Rodrey Doon chided himself bitterly as he spurred his horse towards home. The sun was already sinking quickly into the west; he had not meant to be at Caer Darren so late. He had only meant to give Princess Sylvaine the beaded Drunnik necklace he had picked up in the marketplace and then leave. But as always, the princess had begun on some lively conversation, and Rodrey had found himself thoroughly outside of time itself. Now it would be dark by the time he got back to Caer Doon, and his mother and sisters would be alone with his father.

The young man spurred his horse faster down the cobblestone street. Perhaps he could make it back before his father stumbled home from the tavern. Men and dweorgs scrambled out of his way; Drunnik slaves bowed as they stepped back. Some that moved aside gave Rodrey a sympathetic look and each other meaningful ones. Lord Deric’s drinking problems were not any hidden secret in the city of Iorwyrth, and although it was politely never spoken of, everyone knew where the occasional bruise on Lady Via’s face came from and why his three daughters were as skittish as colts.

Lord Deric Doon was one of the few lords who actually lived within the crown city; his primary duties involved the docks and the coming and going of ships and barges. Many dignitaries, merchants, and important travelers came to Iorwyrth by way of boat, considering the largest river in the realm flowed directly through the middle of the city. Lord Deric oversaw the arrival of the foreign lords and ambassadors, as well as the inflow and outflow of trade, and the caretaking of the docks. In his younger years, the lord had been a naval officer and excelled at the management of men and ships, catching the eye of King Matthias. Now Lord Deric had indulged far too long on the various Sunder wines, and was far too easily bribed to look away from certain illegal goods brought into the city.

In recent years this had brought him several chidings from the king himself, and most recently, a threat of displacement. This had only served to greatly anger Lord Deric, and drive him even further into his drinking and bouts of anger. He could not strike the king, but he could certainly strike his wife and daughters. Rodrey himself had been the brunt of more than one beating, although as he had gotten older and bigger, his father had turned more to the women as his target. The lord’s son did his best to shield them and deflect his father’s anger, but Rodrey had his own duties to attend to. He could not be there every moment of every day, and Lord Deric knew it. Often the lord had used the safety of his wife and daughters to keep his son in line. One day, Rodrey told himself, he would kill his father and take his mother and sisters far away. But that day still had not come, and he still was doing the old man’s bidding.

Caer Doon, a tower almost as old as Caer Darren, sat overlooking the banks of the Thunderrush. The bridge to the Lower City was just a moment’s walk away, and the Cup and Crown a moment away from that. Lord Deric seemed to spend more time there than he did anywhere else, although he insisted that socializing with the sailors and barge captains was an important part of his duties. This Rodrey highly doubted, but he never argued with his father; no one in Caer Doon did.

Rodrey pulled up his horse outside the tower’s stables, and a boy ran out to take his mount. The boy read the question on the young lord’s face and gave a slight nod, jerking his towards Caer Doon. Lord Deric was already home.

Deric’s slurring voice could be heard from anywhere in the tower; as soon as Rodney opened the door, he flinched at the harsh curses echoing down the stairwell. Quietly the young man slipped to the spiraling stairs and hurried up them. He came upon his three sisters huddled together part way up.

“He’s awful today, Rod,” whispered the youngest, Verity. Her lower lip trembled.

Rodrey glanced to the oldest, Lucia, who was comforting the middle sister, Mila. She nodded her head wearily. “He came home only a few minutes before you, but he’s already all worked up.”

Without another word, their brother stomped past them and up the stairs. “Be careful, Rod!” called Mila. Rodrey did not answer. The voices — those of his angry father and pleading mother — became louder as he neared the room they were in. His mother’s chambers. Deric must have sought her out when he came home, which means he must really be upset. The young man stopped outside the slightly-ajar door and listened a moment.

“And he wants to dismiss me, ME, and you don’t care at all!” Lord Deric’s voice was raspy and slurred, and getting louder by the sentence.

“I do care, Deric—”

“Don’t you lie to me, woman!” Rodrey heard something crash against the wall, but there was no cry from his mother so whatever it was must have missed its target. “Don’t you lie…” The rest of the sentence was a garbled mumble. But then the lord’s voice picked back up again. “I’ve worked for King Matthias for nigh on twenty years. I’ve never stolen…never stolen one…single…Dagger from him. Not one! And he dares to” smash “dares to tell me I’m unfit for duty! Ungrateful wretch!”

Rodrey was unsure of who the last roared sentence was directed at, but from the sound of a blow and a shriek from Lady Via, he could guess. The young man flung the door open and rushed into the room. Lady Via lay on the floor, her hand raised to protect her face, and her husband standing over her, breathing heavily and clenching his hands into fists.

“Father, stop.” It came out as less of an exclamation or a command, and more of a quiet request. Rodrey wasn’t even sure his father had heard it at first. But then Lord Deric slowly turned to face him, wobbling unsteadily. The intoxicated man peered at his son through squinted eyes.

“Are you talking to me, boy?”

Rodrey swallowed, hard. He was just now noticing the broken wine glass in his father’s hand. The trickle of blood dribbling down Lady Via’s forehead indicated that he had already made use of it. “Yes. Please, I know you’re angry-” He didn’t have time to finish before the broken glass came hurling at his head. Rodrey ducked and scrambled out of the way as it smashed into a hundred pieces on the wall behind him.

“Angry?” shouted his father, looking around wildly for something else to throw. “I’m not angry! I’m betrayed! I’m wronged! After everything I’ve done for Matthias! Everything I’ve done for this kingdom!” Deric’s fumbling fingers grasped his wife’s hairbrush and flung it at the boy. But his drunken aim was far off and it bounced off the bed frame. Rodrey moved to stand in front of his mother, who was holding a kerchief to her bleeding temple and crying softly.

“Father, listen to me,” begged Rodrey in his most diplomatic voice. “Hurting your family is not going to help out your situation any. Why do you think the king doesn’t want you working for him anymore? He knows well how you treat your wife and your children. Everyone knows.” This only served to infuriate Lord Deric even more. Roaring like a horned bear, he charged at his son, swinging both fists.

Rodrey stepped quickly away from his mother, drawing his father farther away from her. He did his best to ward off the blows, but Deric was bigger and stronger. Punch after kick after slap struck the boy’s body — not his face; even the drunken man knew better than to make physical evidence — but his back and arms and legs and stomach until the boy vomited from it. As he lay on the stone floor, darkness quickly enveloping him, Rodrey wondered if he was actually going to die today. He found himself surprised that he did not mind the idea so much.

Only the piercing screams from his mother and sisters that probably could be heard in the streets stayed Lord Deric’s hand from killing his son. Fury at what he considered his betrayal made his eyes bulge and his hands wave nonsensically in the air as he stumbled out of the room and out of the tower. The last thing Rodrey heard before giving in to unconsciousness was the great door of Caer Doon slamming shut.

The morning sun awoke Rodrey from his stupor. For several moments, he lay unmoving, unable to even open his eyes, but enjoying the warmth of the sun streaming onto his face through the window. The young man tried to remember what had happened, and where he was. Pain shooting through his ribs and back acted as a sharp reminder of last night’s happenings. His eyes fluttered open; he was in his mother’s room still, but somehow he had been lifted onto her bed.

Rodrey moved his head to look around, sharp jolts of pain shooting through his neck and down his back. But he managed a small smile at his mother, who was sound asleep in a chair beside his bed. Dried blood was still on her forehead and temple, and tears stained her pale cheeks.

Rodney tried to move without waking her, but her eyes flew open the second he attempted to sit up.

“Don’t, baby,” Lady Via said softly. She ran her hand over his forehead. “Just rest. He’s gone for now. Where, I don’t know.” The woman laughed bitterly. “To the tavern, I suppose.”

Rodney grimaced in pain as he continued to sit up despite his mother’s urging. There was no supposing; The Cup and Crown was the only other place besides the docks that Lord Deric frequented. And there was no reason now for him to be at the docks.

“The king actually dismissed him this time?”

Lady Via nodded. “King Mathias called your father before him yesterday morning and told him he would no longer require his services as Steward of the Ships, and that he would be appointing a new lord. Mathias did tell him,” Via went on, “that he could continue to live here so as to have a home for his family and keep the title of lord as a remembrance of his service in the navy. But that was not enough for Deric,” she finished sadly.

Rodrey sighed and lay back on the pillows, then sat up again, sending another shock of pain into his side. “Where are the girls? Did he hurt them too?”

Via shook her head. “Lucia hid Mila and Verity until he left. They are unharmed. Unlike you, poor boy.” Tears streamed down her cheeks at the pain on his face.

He reached out a shaky hand to brush the wound on her head. “He was unwise to strike your face. Everyone will know where that came from, no matter what you say.”

His mother smiled faintly. “Everyone already knows, son.”

Rodrey swung his legs onto the floor, wincing as he did so. “Soren will be wondering where I am. I can’t be late for lessons.”

Lady Via put a hand on his chest to push her son back down. “You are in no shape for that, Rod. You need sleep and rest. Please.”

But Rodrey shook his head. “If I miss today, Soren will come asking after me. I don’t want him anywhere near here or Father.” He hesitated. “I don’t want Sylvaine here either.”

His mother’s eyes softened. “You will be a much better husband to her, I know. I am just grateful you are not a man like him.”

Rodrey squeezed his mother’s hand. “Father is no man, Mother. He is a coward and a bully. One day,” he said in a quieter tone, despite the fact that his father was gone, “I will take you and the girls far away from here. Far away from him.”

But Via only shook her head. “He would find us, wherever we went.” She fingered the linen bedspread absentmindedly. “He’s told me that many times. Deric knows too many people in too many places.” She looked up at her son sadly. “He told me once if I ever left him he’d track me down and kill you all in front of me.”

“Not if I killed him first,” said Rodrey flatly, as he pulled on his shirt. Every muscle in his body hurt, and he was sure he had at least one cracked rib.

“Oh no, Rodrey, you mustn’t!” gasped Via, staring at him with wide eyes. “They would hang you for certain!”

“That is the only reason I have not,” said Rodrey grimly, kissing his mother goodbye. “You and the girls would be outcasts from society and uncared for. But, Mother,” he said, turning back to her. “Should he ever try to do to you what he did to me, I will kill him and we will flee.” He left the room before he could hear her fearful protests.

Rodrey came face to face with Lucia on the stairs. It was evident she had overheard, or rather, deliberately listened in on the conversation. On her face was an expression of determination and anger that reminded Rodrey a little too well of Deric.

“I will do it,” she said firmly. “When the time comes, you will take care of our mother and sisters, and I will take care of our father.”

“I would not let you,” said Rodrey gently. “Though I do not doubt your bravery. Were you a boy, you’d make a finer soldier than me, Lu.”

Tears welled into Lucia’s eyes. “I hate him!” she cried. “I just hate him and I hate it here! I wish we could leave now and never come back!”

Rodrey took his little sister into his arms and held her close to his bruised body as she cried her bitter tears.; he could not help but add a few of his own.

The young prince walked quickly along the halls of Caer Darren, the castle he had lived in his whole life, along with his parents, King Matthias and Queen Lynora, his older brother Soren, and, more importantly at the moment, his twin sister Sylvaine. It was never difficult to most of his family — they were nothing if not predictable.

King Matthias was always either in his private study, the Great Hall, or the throne room on special occasions. Recently, the king had been spending a good deal of time out of doors and on long rides; Sylvar suspected that it had something to do with the so-called Whisperwood. But his father would never answer any of his son’s many questions, instead fixing him with a stern look and ordering silence on the subject. Queen Lynora was always in motion, in one way or another. Overseeing the servants in a garden project, looking over her daughter’s lessons, embroidering a new pillowcase…Sylvar’s mother never seemed to rest.

Soren was usually found in their castle schoolroom, in the training arena outside, or in the stables. And whereever he was, the young Lord Deric Doon was sure to be there too. If Sylvar did not care much for his older brother, he outright disliked Deric. He wasn’t really certain why, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with the starry-eyed looks the lord gave Princess Sylvaine every time he saw her.

Now Sylvaine was the unpredictable one. Their father often joked that he really had three sons and loved announcing that she would be a man before Sylvar ever was. Everyone except Sylvar found this hilarious, especially Soren. That only deepened Sylvar’s dislike of his brother. Princess Sylvaine had a knack for not being found when she was needed, but Sylvar knew most of her haunts. Today she was in the loft of one of the stables, tucked in behind a bale of hay, with several kittens in her lap.

She looked up, startled, when he sat down in front of her, but relaxed when she saw who it was. “Oh, it’s just you. I thought Mother had sent someone to drag me back to those horrid needlepoint lessons.” She shuddered. “It’s a wonder I haven’t poked myself to death by now.” The girl picked up a black wiggling kitten and plopped it on Sylvar’s legs. “Look at these darlings. I want to bring all of them into my chambers.”

“I just saw what would happen to you if you did.”

Sylvaine frowned at him. “What?”

Prince Sylvar described to his sister, in great and exaggerated detail, the beheading he had just witnessed. Sylvaine paused in her petting of the kittens, her eyes wide with both horror and intrigue. “You should have seen him,” finished Sylvar, “his dead body convulsing like this.” The prince collapsed on the creaky loft floor, rolling his eyes back in his head and jerking his whole body wildly about. This was in fact a lie. Sylvar had not seen the unfortunate man after his death, as the body had fallen into the long grass of the field. But it certainly convinced Sylvaine.

She gasped and covered her mouth with both hands, dropping the startled kitten into the hay she was sitting on. “Stop! Stop it, Sylvar! That’s just horrid.”

Satisfied that he had gotten the reaction he wanted, Prince Sylvar sat up. Spots danced in front of his eyes; he may have taken the convulsing a little far. He started to tip over and put a hand down to catch himself. Sylvar’s palm landed squarely on the tail of the black kitten, who spit and swatted the prince’s royal hand, leaving three long red scratches. Sylvar yelped and angrily reached out to grab the kitten, fully intending to fling it as far as he could. Sylvaine knew here twin too well and stopped his hand. “No, Sylvar!” she cried. “Don’t you dare!” The black kitten scurried away to safety, and Sylvar sat back, nursing his hand and scowling.

“Little monster,” he growled. “Ought to teach it a good lesson!”

“You ought to be taught a good lesson,” shot back his sister, returning the rest of the kittens to its mother before her brother got any more ideas. “Sometimes I think you might be a monster, Sylvar.” She looked at him seriously, her big blue eyes studying his face. “Deep down inside.”

“I am not and you know it. Leave me alone or I’m going to tell Mother where you are.”

“You were the one who found me to tell your horrible story! I bet it’s not even one bit true.” The princess rose and brushed the bits of hay from her skirts, then planted her hands on her hips, in a way very much like Mother. “You’re always telling such dreadful tall tales.”

Prince Sylvar felt his face growing hot. “It’s not a tall tale. I saw it all myself!”

“Did anyone else see it? Did Soren and Deric?”

“Who cares about Soren and Deric,” the prince muttered. He stomped down out of the hayloft and back through the courtyard towards the castle. But seeing his mother standing in the doorway speaking with a servant made him change his mind; he skirted around the wall to a side door and wandered out towards the ring where the young men were practicing their swordplay, Prince Soren and Lord Deric included. Sylvar himself had his own practice, but seeing that Soren was two years older and recently of age, his practicing sessions were far more interesting and exciting.

Instead of hours of drilling stances and positions, the older boys got to actually practice hand to hand combat. Sylvar watched them enviously. He had begged his father to let him train with the older boys, insisting that he was just as capable as any of them, but King Matthias had remained firm.

“Prince Sylvar,” called the trainer, an old retired soldier named Brom. “Shouldn’t you be in your own classes?”

The prince shrugged and moved off. Soren’s class ended a few minutes later, and the older prince ran to catch up with his brother. “What are you wandering around for, Sylvie? Skipping classes again?” He ruffled his little brother’s hair genially, but Sylvar pushed him off.

“Don’t call me that! And those lessons are stupid,” he muttered. “I already know all the stances. I even know some of the older boys’ moves.” Sylvar demonstrated by pretending to slash a sword at Deric, who stepped out of the way with a laugh.

“It’s like Master Brom says, if you learn it wrong the first time, you have to work doubly hard the second,” put in the young lord cheerfully.

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Of course it does,” said Soren patiently. “It means you need to learn it the right way in the right time. Jumping ahead when you’re not ready can actually put you farther behind than you were before. Take your time, brother,” he said, putting a hand on the sullen prince’s shoulder. “You have a lot of it.”

Prince Sylvar pushed him away again. “Oh, stop trying to sound like Father. Because you don’t.”

Soren just shook his head and walked away. Deric stayed back a little, not liking to leave the younger boy upset. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “if you really prove yourself to King Matthias, then he might consider moving you up in the classes. He did with me, and I’m a year younger than Soren.”

Sylvar’s ears perked up at this. “Prove myself how? What did you have to do?”

“Well, I don’t know,” shrugged Deric. “I just worked really hard on my lessons and did what I was told and, well, I don’t know,” he said again. “I guess they just thought I was ready. Where’s Sylvaine? Have you seen her?”

The prince rolled his eyes at the change of subject. “No,” he lied and left Deric to search for the princess. But the lord had given him something to think about. Perhaps, if he did something really big and brave, then his father would have to see that he was strong enough to be like his brother. They didn’t really believe he could be anything, Sylvar was sure, but he was going to change that somehow. But for now, he needed to think.

What could he do that would prove to his father and his teachers that he was destined to be a great warrior? As Sylvar mused this over from the top of the castle wall, his eyes wandered to the field behind the castle and the Whisperwood beyond that. He counted the soldiers he could see — twenty-three. He knew there were more that he could not see. Casually Sylvar looked over the field and considered where he would try entering, if he were going to try such a thing.

In less than five minutes, the prince had worked it out. There was a mucky pond on the left side of the field. Only one guard stood near that, and as far away as he could without abandoning his post. Sylvar wasn’t afraid of getting wet and dirty. He could crawl through the muck, and the dark dirt would serve to disguise himself even more. Then he could make his way into the wood, completely unseen. What he would do after that, he had no idea. Mostly because he had no idea what was actually in that forest. Was it perhaps a great monster, threatening to attack the city? Or perhaps a treasure waiting to be found?

Sylvar imagined bringing back the head of a black slimy monster to his father, and the look of pride Matthias would give him. Or perhaps the excitement from his mother and sister when he brought back jewels and gold from a long-hidden hoard.

The prince glanced up at the sun. It was not even midday yet; surely he could go there and be back before dinner that night. Even better if he arrived back at dinner. Then everyone would be in one place when he brought in whatever it was he discovered in the Whisperwood.

Sylvar put his plan into action before he could think better of it. It went even better than he expected. The guard in the mucky end of the field, barely looked over it and never once saw the boy crawling through it and then up into the forest. The prince sat behind a fallen tree for a moment, gripping the sword he had stolen from the armory and grinning madly to himself; he wanted to celebrate his cleverness with a cheer. But he obviously couldn’t do that, so he just sat still, drinking in the forest around him, before quietly rising and slipping farther into the Whisperwood.

The forest was silent. There were no unusual sounds whatsoever, whisperings or otherwise. Although Sylvar did notice the distinct lack of birdsong, although that could have been due to the amount of soldiers wandering in and around the wood. The prince kept a careful eye about him for any sign of either guards or monsters. So far it was feeling like a bit of a letdown. But Sylvar shouldered his weapon, that was admittedly a little large for him, and plunged on into the thicker parts.

Sylvar had been in these woods a time or two on hunting trips with his father and brother, but he still wasn’t exactly confident in finding his way around. But the prince was worried that if he stayed too close to the border, he was sure to get himself caught. And getting caught and brought back to his father with nothing but a stolen sword was about the worst thing he could imagine. Sylvar thought he’d rather get eaten by a monster.

A soft sound caught his attention, and a cold shiver slithered up his spine. The whisper was almost too quiet to be heard, but it blew softly through the forest. Sylvar froze. It faded away, and silence fell again. He waited another couple of minutes, spinning around in a circle and seeking the source of the sound. The whisper blew by again, and although the prince was expecting it, he couldn’t help shivering again. There was something horribly eerie about the noise, but also something that drew him in. He desperately wanted to know what was making it. This may be his only chance to find out; especially if he got caught.

Prince Sylvar waited for it again, and then moved quietly in the direction he thought it was coming from. It was difficult to tell, as the whisper was very soft, but he made his best guess and started off. It was far more difficult than Sylvar expected to follow the source of the sound. The wind blew one way, and the boy was certain that was where it was coming from. And then the breeze would change, and Sylvar thought the sound’s direction changed with it. He turned around several times, until Sylvar suddenly realized he didn’t know which way was back to the castle.

At the exact same time he was wondering if he was lost and stuck here for the night, the prince heard hoofbeats coming towards him through the thick forest. Quickly he ducked behind a large tree. Were the soldiers patrolling the thick forest on horseback?

But it wasn’t a soldier. At least not an Alathean one. A strange man rode into view on a gray mare. Sylvar peeked at him from around the tree trunk as the man rode past without noticing the boy. The rider was not familiar to Sylvar, nor did he even look Alathean. His hair was black with streaks of gray, and his face pale. He wore a strangely shaped sword, and his clothes looked more of the dark Koldarian style — or even Yntish — rather than the lighter colors of Alathea. What on Noor was he doing here then? How did he get through without being seen by the guards? Making his decision at once, Sylvar set out to follow the rider and abandoned his search for the source of the whisper. Perhaps the rider was searching for it himself and would unintentionally lead the prince there.

Sylvar stayed a good distance back, using the wide tree trunks and tall ferns to hide himself from view as much as possible. It really wasn’t necessary; the strange man never looked back once as he rode steadily through the forest. Where was he going? Was he meeting someone? The prince hoped he was not following a false lead; it was already early afternoon, and if this man was in here coincidentally, Sylvar had just wasted so much time in the wrong direction. The prince desperately hoped he would not have to spend the night in these creepy woods.

The whisper flew through the forest steadily every few minutes now, and after a while, Sylvar hardly noticed it anymore. But it did occur to him once that it might be getting louder; perhaps they were nearing the source of the sound. The prince had already given up the prospects of finding the strange whispers, so this development excited him.

Finally, after following the man for what must have been nearly two miles, Sylvar saw the gray mare’s ears prick up and she whickered loudly. An answering call came from another horse farther in the forest; so he was meeting someone after all. The rider urged the mare into a trot, and the boy quickened his own pace so as not to lose them.

The dark forest opened suddenly into a glen, this one much larger and cleared out at the bottom of one of the great hills in the Whisperwood. Sylvar thought it looked rather odd and out of place, having all around the hill be completely cleared out. They couldn’t just be in here for the timber. And clearing out forests happened all the time in the Southern Sunder; there was no reason to execute people for that.

He crouched behind a huge oak tree and watched the scene in front of him. The rider was not meeting one person, but a whole company of people standing around the green hill. Sylvar recognized, with a start, his father, King Matthias, waiting there as well. Something very strange was going on here at this hill.

The strange man joined the king and soldiers, and they began to have a quiet discussion amongst themselves. From his position behind the tree, Prince Sylvar couldn’t hear a word that was being said. He was just considering trying to move closer along the border of the glen, when the dark-haired man broke off from the group and moved closer to the large hill, inspecting it closely, and even climbing up it a little ways before rejoining the king.

The interest in the great green hill confused the boy. He had been expecting some sort of terrible monster, a great treasure, or perhaps even a secret weapon being constructed. But here was stick-in-the-muck King Matthias, his closest guards, and a stranger all standing around staring at this hill. It made absolutely no sense.

Feeling a little disappointed at finding nothing, Sylvar turned to creep away. If he left now, he might just make it back into the castle before dark. But suddenly the whisper sounded again, this time loud and clear, and from the green hill. Sylvar stared at it, and then he realized. It wasn’t a whisper at all; it was a breath.

The hill was alive.

A choked gasp of astonishment fell unfortunately out of his lips before he could stop it, and the stranger spun around and stared directly into the prince’s eyes. Sylvar was found out.

The dweorg really did dislike the city, and every night he went to bed, in Rubin’s bed in Rubin’s room, Gor told himself that that was his last night in Iorwyrth. The next day he would pack up his few belongings and catch a barge out of the city. But the next day would come and Myr would need help with something, or Silas would ask him to come along on an errand in the Upper City. And, of course, it would be rude for Gor to refuse. (Never mind the fact that Gor had never bothered before with being rude or not.) So he stayed, and night after night stared at the ceiling and fought with himself, willing sleep to come quickly so that he might not have to dwell on his memories. But even when sleep did come, Rubin was there, too.

On the morning that marked two weeks since Gor’s arrival in Iorwyrth, the dweorg was sitting at the little table in the middle of the house, sipping Myr’s special herbal tea she made every morning. He set the cup down and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. Myr had gone out to visit a friend, and Silas was in the shop pounding away on whatever it was he worked on day after day. The house itself was empty and Gor felt the same.

Yes, he had a warm meal in his stomach; he had two or three of those a day now. And the tea was certainly good for the headaches he got frequently. But they did not calm his mind or his memories. Faces flashed in front him, so vividly that Gor instinctively closed his eyes; it didn’t help. He took another gulp of his tea. All that did was scald his tongue and throat. Gor stared down at it accusingly. Then the brown liquid inside began to tremble.

At first the dweorg thought his hand must be shaking, and then he realized he wasn’t holding on to it. Then he thought he must be losing his mind. But the next second the ground beneath him began to rumble loudly and everything in the room shook violently. A clatter came from the shop outside as Silas dropped his tools and limped as quickly as he could into the house.

“Earthquake!” the man gasped. “Get under the table!”

“The table?” Gor looked down at the rather flimsy piece of furniture. “That’s supposed to protect me?” But the next minute a book came flying off the top of a wardrobe, nearly striking Gor in the head, and he changed his mind. He dove underneath the table and huddled next to Silas, feeling very out of his element and just a little frightened.

“Myr!” cried Silas, starting to leave their place of refuge. “I have to find Myr!”

“Not yet!” yelled Gor as he grabbed the man’s arm and dragged him back under the table. “It’s not safe yet.” The world was still rumbling and roaring beneath them. “You’re more likely to get killed looking for her than she is wherever she’s hiding. You’ll be no use to her now.”

Silas hesitated, unsure whether to follow Gor’s advice or his own feelings, but decided to wait another few minutes. The earthquake went on for a few more minutes before everything went silent all of a sudden.

“Is it over?” whispered Gor, peeking out from under the table. The house was in a state of complete disarray.

“Wait another moment,” answered Silas. “Sometimes it comes back.”

Gor looked back at him. “Sometimes? How often does this happen?”

The blacksmith shrugged. “We get a couple every year. This was the worst one we’ve had in many harvests thought. I pray no one was killed.”

The dweorg grunted. “With everything falling everywhere like that, I think you can save your breath.”

Silas just smiled at him indulgently, as one might to an ignorant child. “Thank you, but I will continue to pray. The Most High is more powerful than whatever it is shaking the realm.”

“Must be because of the Sundering,” mused the dweorg, not really listening. “When Noor split apart, it must have weakened the Southern Sunder. I have never known the others to shake and rumble, and I have lived in all of them for many years.”

“The Sundering was four thousand years ago,” protested Silas. “How could that still be affecting us?”

Gor shrugged. “I’m not sure…but what else could be causing it? If you’re going to pray, pray this whole realm doesn’t sink into the sea and disappear forever.”

“Could that happen?”

Gor crawled out from under the table and stretched. “I’ve come to the conclusion that most anything can happen.” He looked around the house. Books, plates, chairs, and other household items were scattered around, some broken and some lucky. Silas picked up a painting of a woman and small boy — obviously a younger Myr and Rubin as a child — and tenderly hung it back on the wall. Then he left quickly to search for his wife.

The dweorg stepped outside after him. Surprisingly, not too many of the houses seemed to have very much damage. Gor realized that the Alathean people must be used to such earthquakes and built their houses accordingly. But he did spot two or three collapsed roof and there were several loose and frightened horses running through the streets. A big crack ran through the cobblestones, and little boys and girls ran along it, peeking inside for any sign of buried treasure or other fantastical worlds underneath the city.

Gor walked slowly up the street in the direction Silas had gone. Mothers called anxiously for their children to come home, a call most of the young ones seem to be ignoring. The dweorg caught one young rascal by the back of his neck and delivered him to his grateful mother, who immediately began scolding the child. The boy glared at Gor, who grinned back at him.

Rounding a corner in the city he met Silas and Myr on their way back to the house. A quick look confirmed that Myr was pale and frightened, but otherwise unharmed. She looked Gor up and down anxiously, but he waved away her concerns. Silas helped her back to the house, and the dweorg followed them. It would be a few days before the city is back to normal.

But it took even longer than that. A few days later, a rumor began to slither around the city, that the earthquake had done something in the forest bordering the northern part of the city. It had awoken something in there, the woodsmen said. It had started the day of the earthquake; low whispers that seemed to float with the wind. At first, nothing had been thought of it, but four days later, the whispers had not stopped and someone had gone to a lord who had gone to the king. Skeptically, King Matthias sent out a few knights to look into it. No one really knew what happened after that, except that suddenly the forest became forbidden ground, and no one was allowed to enter, under pain of severe punishment.

“They must have found something in there,” mused Silas over supper. The house was finally back to its neat state. “The woodsmen are calling it the Whisperwood.”

Myr sniffed. “Sounds like a lot of nonsense to me. What do they think it could possibly be, a monster? I’m sure the earthquake did something to the trees and it’s just the wind. More carrots, Gordain?” She never called the dweorg by his preferred nickname. She was the only person Gor could ever remembered that he allowed call him that.

Silas winked at him. “Sensible one, that.” He pointed to his wife with his fork. “She’ll be right, you’ll see.”

But as the days passed, the guard on the newly-named Whisperwood tightened and eventually it became so normal that the cityfolk eventually forgot why the soldiers were even there. But Gor didn’t. He disliked being told what to do, and he especially disliked royalty telling him what to do. Once he rode his borrowed pony to the edge of the city and looked out across the fields towards the guarded wood. It looked like an encampment of war. Knights surrounded the wood on all sides.

As Gor watched, he saw a man dragged out of the forest dressed in the plain clothes of a peasant. He was dragged before a commanding officer and forced onto his knees. Before the dweorg’s eyes, the man was beheaded while pleading for his life. Gor didn’t blink at this, but he did raise an eyebrow at it. There was more going on here than just the wind. There really was something in that wood, and something either so terrible or so valuable that the king couldn’t have anyone find out what it was. Perhaps both.

Slowly Gor rode back to the shop. His mind was working quicky. Every instinct was telling him not to get involved, to leave while he still could. But something else, deeper inside, was worried that if he did, something bad was going to happen to Silas and Myr. Gor couldn’t let allow that, not after what happened with Rubin.

He stood at the front of the barge, out of the way of the sailors and out of speaking distance with the other passengers. Not that anyone attempted conversation with him anyways. The other dweorgs and manfolk stayed safely at the back and guessed amongst themselves what business he might have in the crown city.

“Up to no good,” murmured one old man, with a significant nod. “He’s got trouble written all over him or I’ll eat my boots.”

His companions agreed emphatically, and one whispered that perhaps he was a spy for the North or even an assassin. By the time the walls of the city came into sight, the entire barge — sailor and passenger alike — had decided that the mysterious dweorg was entering into Iorwyrth to murder a noble and hide their body in the river. The dweorg in question gave no sign he heard any of it, except perhaps a small quirk of his mouth. But he offered no explanation or reassurance, nor bothered to adopt a more friendly demeanor.

The Great Gates of Orabora stood tall in front of them, open and beckoning. Both doors were many feet wide, one on land for those on foot and the other in the river for the boats. The bottom of the river gate was built with iron bars that allowed the river through, but no one else could enter unseen. Each gate was delicately carved with the grand figure of a man, his hands open, as if to show the city’s welcome to weary travelers. The dweorg gazed up at them for a moment, then looked back down. Their welcome was not for him.

Iorwyrth was already the largest city in the kingdom of Alathea, but still constantly expanding. Another section of forest was being laid low so a new healer’s ward and an apprentice school could be built. Four thousand years ago, before the Sundering, this entire realm was covered in thick green forest. Now there was very little left in the Southern Sunder; some remained untouched along the northern and southeast borders, but the rest was ruthlessly chopped down to make way for cities and palaces and progress.

Gordain Grimbeard shifted in his position at the front of the barge. After living for decades in the heavily forested mountains of the North, cities and people and flatlands made him uncomfortable. He disliked the constant chatter of his fellow dweorgs and hated the condescending looks from the men. But this was Gor’s life now; he couldn’t dare go back to the North and he would be unwanted in the West, the land of his people. Looking around him at the city as the barge entered, Gor already decided that wherever he settled it would not be here. The dweorg was here to complete a mission, and then he was going to get as far away from people as possible, although here in the South that was becoming increasingly impossible.

The barge passed under one of the bridges connecting both sides of Iorwyrth across the Thunderrush River. From what Gor had heard, there were three such structures in the crown city; Manfolk certainly liked their bridges. The dweorg had already seen the beginning of their new venture: connecting the Southern and Western Sunders via a giant bridge across the New Sea. It would never work, of course, but it kept Manfolk occupied for the time being.

A very official looking man was waiting when the barge put in at the crowded docks. He had a very long nose that he used for poking about in other people’s business; quick jerks of his head and hands and sharply spoken orders made him an obviously obnoxious person.

Gor disembarked the barge and started walking away from the docks before anyone could speak to him.

“You there,” called the official towards Gor. “Where are you from?”

Gor didn’t answer, but kept walking away.

“Sir!” said the man, louder this time. “I am speaking to you!”

The dweorg turned around. “And I am ignoring you. Good day.” He started to walk away again, but this time the official ran after him.

“You have not paid the toll, sir. One Dagger.”

Gor stared at him. “What are you talking about? That is not my barge, and I paid my way onto it.”

“It is the new law. All foreigners traveling our waters and taking refuge in our cities must pay a Dagger tax. I ask you to pay it quietly and make no trouble.”

The dweorg worked down his rising anger. “I have visited all four Sunders. I have been to dozens of cities and never have I had to pay extra for using a river. Did Manfolk make that river? Did you guide its way? Absolutely ridiculous!”

Now the tollkeeper was beginning to look nervous. “Please, sir, I don’t make the laws. If you want to complain, you can take it up with King Matthias himself. Just pay the one Dagger and be on your way. It’s not like you can’t afford it,” he added, eyeing the fine furs and leather trappings.

Inwardly grumbling, Gor pulled out a single silver coin and fairly threw it at the man. He stalked off into the Upper City. He was going to stay as little time as possible here. Paying to use the river after he already paid the bargeman? Most thieving thing he’d ever heard of. Well, not really. But for it to be done to himself was unacceptable. Before his mission was complete was not a good time to get arrested, but Gor made a mental note that should he be in danger of getting apprehended by the law in the next couple of days, he was going to come back here and make a very loud fuss about the river tax first.

Gor marched into the city and took a good look around. As he had told the tollkeeper, he had visited dozens of cities in his life, maybe even hundreds, but this was the largest and busiest one he’d ever been in. Gor planned to leave as quickly as possible. But his mission was looking to be a little more difficult than he had originally intended; there were thousands of people in Iorwyrth, and he was looking for just one man. How on Noor was he going to do that in a day?

Slowly he walked through the bustling streets. Men bumped into him, children ran out in front of him, dogs snapped at his ankles. The constant noise left a buzzing in his ears. Gor studied the signs of the shops lining the road. One that caught his eye had a picture of a bull pounding a horseshoe over an anvil. Not really certain what this was meant to imply, Gor managed to push and stumble his way through the crowds towards the blacksmithing shop.

The forge itself was under a lean-to roof, the sides open. Little boys and girls gathered around watching the huge man working the red-hot metal underneath his hammer. They gasped every time sparks flew up, and the boys would dare each other to catch them.

Gor Grimbeard stepped under the roof and in front of the anvil. The ringing of hammer against metal was not helping his increasing headache. But now he understood the bull on the sign; this man looked like a bull in Manfolk skin. Standing at what must have been nearly seven feet tall, the smith’s shoulders were nearly as broad as Gor was tall. His hair was black and dripping with sweat, and his skin was dark with soot and dirt. The dweorg wondered if he actually might be a Ynt from the Northern Sunder, or descended from one anyway. This made Gor a little less wary. He knew the Ynts well.

Speaking loudly so as to be heard above the hammer, the dweorg said, “I’m looking for a Silas Corf. Do you know him?”

Instead of answering, the huge man dropped the hammer with a bang and dunked the metal into a bucket of water. A cloud of steam rose into the air, blocking the man almost entirely from view. Gor was about to repeat his question when a booming voice from inside the cloud said, “What of him?”

“Do you know him?”

“And if I do, what of him?” repeated the blacksmith. The steam dissipated, and Gor saw two green eyes staring down at him. This was definitely a descendant of the Ynts. The smith went back to pounding vehemently on whatever it was he was making.

“I…have something to give him.” Gor unconsciously reached behind him and touched the bottom of the swordsheath. The smith noticed. His brows furrowed darkly.

“We don’t like trouble around here, dweorg.” He paused in his pounding, holding the hammer in mid-air.

“Trouble is my business and always has been,” said Gor wearily. Suddenly he was feeling very tired and very hungry. “Do you know the man or not?”

“We all know Silas Corf. Best smith in Iorwyrth. And we all like him too.” The giant man glowered down at the dweorg. “If anything happened to him, it would make us very angry.” He emphasized this last word with a single, jarring wham of his hammer.

“Who’s us?” Personally, Gor thought this one man might count as an “us.” But the blacksmith stopped pounding again and tapped a dirt-coated medallion pinned to his leather apron. “Smithing guild. Silas is the best of us. Cause trouble with him and you cause trouble with all of us.”

“Noted. Where can I find him?”

The smith looked perturbed that Gor was still insistent on meeting Silas, but said gruffly, “He works in the Lower City; his shop’s next to the Cup and Crown. If you were at the docks, you probably saw it across the river. You can’t miss it.”

Thinking back, Gor had seen the tavern. All of the sailors were eager to leave the barge and meet there for cards, dice, and a drink. It’s location was quite strategic.

Gor left the smith shop with a nod of thanks that the smith didn’t reciprocate. As he walked away, the dweorg could feel those sharp green eyes boring a hole in his back. Gor refrained from looking back and was thankful for once to have crowds to disappear into.

He made his way back to the docks, keeping a close eye out for that annoying tollkeeper and crossed over the bridge into the Lower City.

Once in the Lower City, which was not quite as magnificent as the Upper but much older and more worn, Gor found the tavern easily. As the smith had said, it could not be missed. It was built quite close to the docks, probably as a convenience for sailors looking for a cold drink and a hot meal. As tempting as a hot meal was right now, Gor walked past the crowded and noisy establishment and found himself staring at the blacksmithing sign at the shop next to it. The name of Silas Corf was written on the sign as well.

For the first time, Gor actually began to feel a little nervous about his mission. This was unlike him. He had carried out many in his lifetime, although perhaps none so personal as this one. Just do it, Gor told himself. Just get it over with. Get it over with, and then he could leave, and never come back.

The first thing Gor noticed about the smith shaping a red hot bit of iron was the wooden leg. He wondered vaguely if there had been some sort of blacksmithing accident. A horse perhaps? Quietly, the dweorg entered the shop. It took a moment before Silas noticed him, but when he did, he greeted Gor with a warm smile. He was altogether unlike the bull of a man Gor had just dealt with. Silas did wear the same guild medallion as the other smith had, although his was shining as if regularly cleaned.

“Good morning, sir! What can I do for you?” There was none of the suspicion displayed by the previous smith, and for a moment, Gor’s resolve weakened. But he had not come all this way to give up now.

“You do not know me,” said the dweorg. “But I know that you are Silas Corf, the father of Rubin Corf. Is this correct?”

Pain entered the eyes of the smith. “Yes,” he said quietly. “But my son has been gone a long time. We have given him up for dead.”

Gor’s stomach twisted. Slowly he reached down to his back and pulled out the long sword, the one far too long for himself. “Do you recognize this?” he asked quietly.

Silas stared at it a moment, then reached to take it with trembling hands. “This is Rubin’s. I made it for him when he joined the Seasoldiers. How came you by it?” Silas searched Gor’s face. “Do you know my son? Is he dead or alive…speak! And spare me nothing.”

A woman stepped out of the little house adjoined to the shop, her face white and eyes transfixed on the sword. “Silas?” she asked softly. “Rubin?”

The smith did not turn to her. He remained staring at the dweorg. “Tell me where my son, my only child, is.”

Gor swallowed. “He is…dead.”

A piercing cry came from the woman and she ran back into the house, covering her face. Sobs echoed through the shop. Silas swayed a little on his feet. “How?” he finally asked in a hoarse voice.

“He and his crew got into a skirmish with a band of river pirates,” answered the dweorg. “Your son bravely took on the first mate with that very blade, but fell beneath one himself. He was given to the river to bury,” Gor finished lamely.

Silas gripped the sword tightly in an effort to stop his hands from shaking. “Were you there? Were you fighting alongside my son?”

Gor hesitated. “I was there,” he said quietly. “I was fighting with your son.”

“Christprince, help us!” gasped the father, sinking down onto a wooden bench.

The dweorg started. “So were the last words of your son,” he said. “They echo forever in my ears.”

Silas nodded. “He prayed unto the last. I am glad for it.” He glanced into the house, from which sobs were still coming. “I must thank you for coming all this way to tell us. Perhaps you believe that you have caused us hurt. But you have brought us a peace of mind instead. For two years now, Myr and I have had no word and wondered where our son might be. We know now that he rests in the White City, and that we might see him again someday.” He stopped, choking on his words, and glanced down at the blade. “It is a fine sword,” he said, with a short laugh. “Perhaps the finest ever made. I spent many hours, making sure that it would not fail him in his time of need. But perhaps I have failed him instead.”

“You did not,” Gor hurried to say. “It was not the blade that failed Rubin Corf, but instead his pure heart. I-I do not think he knew how wicked Sunderlings can truly be.”

Silas nodded. “I know. I spoke to him of this many times. Rubin always saw the good in others, and always wanted to give them a second chance. I suppose it was this very trait that got him killed.” Silas rose and wiped his face with his dirty sleeve, doing little but smearing the smoke stains with his tears. “But it is this very trait of his that would let him forgive his killers. I forgive them as well. Do you know the name of this first mate, the one who killed my son?”

Gor Grimbeard hesitated even longer. “He…is dead as well. Or as good as.”

The smith almost looked disappointed, but then he nodded. “It is just as well, I suppose,” he murmured. Then suddenly he asked, “Have you eaten? If not, you must join us for our lunch.”

The dweorg took a step backwards involuntarily. “No, no,” he stammered. “You wish to be alone with our wife, I am sure.”

“It is no intrusion,” insisted Silas. “You have come a long ways to bring us this news and my son’s sword. Perhaps our company will not be as jolly as you’ll find in there—” the smith pointed across to the tavern “but the cooking is just as good.”

As much as he wanted to decline, Gor found himself unable to deny the man who showed him such good will in the face of bad news. He took a deep breath and stepped into the house.

Myr must have heard their conversation, for she had already dried her face and was bustling about the kitchen preparing the meal. Gor sat awkwardly at the small table in the middle of the room and tried to look nowhere. It was a humble home, but there was something truly homey about it. Cheerful blue flowers sat in an old vase on the table; a chip was missing in the rim, but the flowers were carefully arranged to hide it. Neatly folded clothes were stacked on a chair, and a jacket thrown across the back. A few old books collecting dust sat in a corner; Gor wondered if they were Rubin’s.

As he sat waiting for his lunch, the dweorg fought inwardly with himself. Bringing them the sword had not been the only part of his mission. But now that he saw the relief of closure and their gratefulness towards himself, Gor could not bring himself to finish what he had set out to do. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. They know he’s gone and that’s all that matters. But deep down Gor knew someday he was going to have to tell them the truth.

The Dweorgs were the smallest of the orders, but carried the greatest hearts. Courage and loyalty to kin were traits highly prized amongst Dweorgankind. They were masters of the earth, of planting and tilling and harvesting, and vast advances were made in medicine because of them. It was their (loudly voiced) opinion that all of Noor should be dedicated to farms and gardens and the tending of forests.

The Drunnim were perhaps the most peculiar of the orders. At least, that was one of the words used to describe them. Peculiar. Strange. Different. Dangerous. (The others are too impolite for a Christknight to say in the presence of the Most High.) Perhaps it was their eyes, starry and always far away, that unnerved their fellow Noorians. Or perhaps their soulful, emotional music annoyed their neighbors. But most likely it was due to their nocturnal culture. The Drunnim had been quick to abandon the ways of the Most High and instead sought out nature as their deity. They revered the moon the most, naming it Drun and themselves after it, and believed all of Noor ought to follow it as well.

Manfolk, with their clever minds and thirst for knowledge and progress, wanted to build. Tear down the forests, they said, and put a city in its place. Dam up the rivers, break down the mountains. Noor must look to its future and leave its past where it is.

The last, but surely not least, of the four orders were the Ynts. They were the biggest and the strongest of the Noorians, and naturally believedd the leadership of the realm belonged to them. The Ynts are said to be giants. Many of them are. But some of them are just tall and dark and frightening. The other Noorians avoid them almost as much as they do the Drunnim. The Ynts’ love was that of the mountains: stone and coal and gems. If they had their way in the realm, they would mine it all and dig up every hidden treasure Noor kept just beneath its surface.

And so the orders found themselves at odds with each other, century after century. Diplomats of all four orders would bring the leaders together and try to speak of peace and treaties, but more often than not the diplomats themselves would begin to argue. Peace would never be found this way.

Quickly words dissolved into actions. No one remembers who struck the first blow nor who led the first attack. It didn’t matter. All took part in the war that followed. The Dweorgs left their fields, the Ynts their mountains, the Drunnim their forests, and Manfolk their cities. Fields were tilled with marching boots and harvested with fire; forests were laid low for their timber to build war-wagons and outposts. Mountains became strongholds and hiding places for all orders, and the smaller cities emptied into the larger ones. Year after year the war raged on with no resolution.

One day, when the battles seemed especially fierce and loud and lingering, a great thunder rolled under the earth. Cracks rent through dirt and stone across the realm. The full wrath of the Most High was recognized as Noor and its peoples began to split away from each other. The earth in the center collapsed with a roar, sending the frightened armies into the sea.

And so were the four orders separated, because they could not — or would not — live in one accord. Noor was rent asunder into four great kingdoms, one at each point of the compass, with a vast sea in the middle.

The Dweorgs settled in the western land, which was fertile and lush, and called it Dwyrganfyrdd. The Drunnim took readily to the dark forested eastern kingdom, naming it Drundu after their deity. Ynts went to the cold north and its mountains, a land they would name H’voktar, and Manfolk settled in the south. There the land was fairly flat, with scattered lakes and woods and a few pleasant mountains, perfect for whatever progress they could manage. They called it Alathea.

Nothing remained of the center of Noor but one singular island that stood in the very middle of the New Sea. When the island was investigated closer, it was discovered that a great white tree and its roots alone held it together in its distinct shape. Those in the north claimed it to be a sword, but those of the south stated that it was a crux. The wisest of Noorians (which at this time were really not many) nodded solemnly at whatever meaning they derived from this argument.

Curious eyes were turned to the great tree. No one remembered it being there before, but then no one had stopped to admire the growing things in quite some time. The tree was pure white, and although it may have been only the sun, it appeared to have a faint glow about it.

Thus was the first Mercy Tree discovered, although its mysteries remained so for generations to come. The island was deemed free and safe land to all members of the four orders, and the leaders met there, albeit infrequently, to discuss matters of trade and tariffs and travel. Those who loved war looked to a time when someone from their order would bring the realm back together under their rule, and those who loved peace looked to a time when someone from their order would bring it together under the Most High again. But which would come first is a tale for another day.

“Kate? Kate Blackburn?”

Turning, I saw an elderly woman with a worried face approaching me. She walked quickly and as she neared, I saw a certain fear in her eyes.

“My dear girl, stay away from there. Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?” I asked in bewilderment. “What is going on over there?”

The old lady’s eyes widened dramatically. “Murder.”

An icy chill slithered up my spine at the solitary word. Murder? On the very same train I had been traveling on for two days? A morbid curiosity urged me to approach the growing crowd, now joined by several policemen desperately trying to shoo them away. As the men and women reluctantly backed up, I saw him. Not the body, which must still be inside the railway car, but the man peering inside the car. He alone did not back up when the officers approached, nor even seemed to notice them. They did not shoo him away, but stood back, allowing him to look.

The man was tall and sharp, sharp elbows, sharp nose, sharp eyes. His suit was immaculate, and his shoes shiny despite the dirty platform. His hands moved quickly and deliberately as he spoke to the police officer. I knew from my father’s many descriptions that this was him. This was Uncle Ben.

Uncle Ben turned, and we locked eyes. He stared at me for a moment before the officer said something and motioned for him to enter the railway car, where the body presumably was. My uncle glanced from him back to me before disappearing into the car.

“I’m Mrs. Ruth Kent.” The lady took my arm. “I’m your uncle’s housekeeper; luckily for you I was already in town doing some shopping. You’d be waiting here all day for your uncle.”

My uncle’s house was much larger than my father’s had been. Father had accrued some debt when I was a child, and so I had grown up in a relatively small house with modest necessities. Uncle Ben appeared to have no such impediment and did not deny himself the finer things in life. I wandered around the long halls and grandiose rooms, restraining myself from touching the ivory elephants, Chinese vases, and other expensive trinkets scattered about the mansion.

I paused at a small table decorated only with a flickering candle and a simple picture frame. Picking up the frame, I stared at the face gazing back at me solemnly. Jace Blackburn, Esquire. My late father. The illness had come on so suddenly, and the doctors and I watched helplessly as he faded away in less than a month. If I were a son at my sixteen years of age, I would have been sent to a trade school or apprenticed to a craftsman. If my father had money, I would have been sent off to a lady’s finishing school. But I was just a girl with no money and was promptly shipped off to my next of kin: my father’s younger brother, Ben Blackburn.

Growing up, my father told me many stories about his little brother. Some were spoken of with pride; others seemed to have a touch of disdain or disapproval, especially the last ones he told me. Something had gone on with my uncle while he was in India that Father didn’t approve of, but he never said anything more about it.

I wandered aimlessly around the mansion until I found myself in the kitchen watching Mrs. Kent chop vegetables for some sort of soup. Being the middle of summer, it was terribly hot in the kitchen, and I couldn’t help pushing up my sleeves and fanning myself with a flyer from the grocer’s. But the prim and proper housekeeper wore a perfectly pressed gray dress with long sleeves and high collar and showed no discomfort.

“My dear, would you get the gardener Roberts to take you into town in the buggy? I completely forgot that we’re nearly out of sugar. I’ll be needing it for those pies I want to make later.” She winked at me. I agreed immediately.

It took me several minutes to find Roberts, as the mansion gardens were huge and I got lost twice.

Roberts glared at me. “What is a little girl like you doing here? Go back where you came from. This isn’t a place for children.

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. I was completely taken aback and confused by the gardener’s obvious disdain for me. What had I done to him? But Roberts didn’t say anything more and took me into town in the buggy as requested, remaining stubbornly silent the entire time.

When I stepped inside the small grocers, I saw several men lingering around, talking eagerly about the murder. They stopped politely when I entered and quickly dispersed, promising to meet later to talk about it more. Several seemed confident as to who the murderer was, but said no more when I approached the grocer.

“Did you know the murdered man?” I asked shyly after giving the man my list. Such topics of conversation were not proper for a young lady, but then again, I was a very poor model of a young lady. But the grocer wasn’t the polite society sort of man and was always eager for a bit of gossip.

“Nope, I didn’t. Never seen him before in me life. Your uncle knew him, though,” said the grocer significantly as he weighed the sugar into a bag. “Or so I hear.”

I picked up the bag slowly. “What do you mean?”

The gossipy old man looked around, then leaned forward and said, “Well, you didn’t ‘ear it from me, but the dead man’s name was Leroy Hall. Captain Leroy Hall, no less. He served with your uncle in India, and I heard through the grapevine that he’s the one who got your uncle booted off the force.”

I gave a start. “I just saw Uncle Ben working with the police this morning.”

“Oh yeah,” said the grocer, counting my money and tucking it into the register. “He’s some sort of private detective now, and they’ll call on him for the most mysterious murders and things like that. But there’s something that went on betwixt him and the police, and that Leroy Hall had a hand in it. I reckon him and yer uncle were two of the only people who knew what it was.” Another customer came in at that moment, and the grocer stopped gossiping and left me to go attend to them. I left the shop bewildered and not a little upset. What did my uncle know about this man? Did Mrs. Kent know anything about it?

After dutifully delivering the sugar to her, I sat at the kitchen table, munching a ginger cookie.

“What do you think about all this?” I asked.

“About all what, child?”

I gestured vaguely. “You know, the murder.”

Mrs. Kent looked shocked, as only a polite lady could. “That is not a discussion for a young woman!”

I shrugged and went back to my cookie.

“It does worry me though,” sighed the housekeeper as she peeled an apple.

My ears perked up. “What does?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s just…your uncle has been acting so odd lately. He received some sort of letter the other day and has been almost frantic since then. Almost makes you wonder.” She gave me the same significant glance the grocer had. But after that, Mrs. Kent refused to say anymore and shooed me out of the kitchen to let her work in peace.

I desperately wanted to know what was in the letter Uncle Ben had received. A daring plan came to me, and I acted on it without a second thought. After finally finding my uncle’s private study, I pushed the door open softly. It creaked loudly, and I froze. There was no sound from within, however, and no one came to investigate, so I pushed the door the rest of the way open and slipped inside. The door creaked again as I closed it; Uncle Ben really needed to oil that.

It was pretty dark in the study, the only light coming dimly from the curtained windows. Even though I was pretty sure no one was around, I still didn’t dare light a lamp. I crept across the room to my uncle’s desk and looked briefly through the papers lying scattered on it. Except for some dim hope of finding a clue to Uncle Ben’s past, I really had no idea what I was looking for. There really wasn’t anything of interest here, just some bills, the telegram announcing my father’s death, and several boring letters from what must be clients. Nothing that gave even a mention of Captain Leroy Hall, and no mysterious urgent letter.

I pulled open a couple of the drawers and gave them a cursory glance. Again, nothing of interest. The last drawer I opened was the thin one in the very middle of the desk, and something about it struck a chord in my mind. It wasn’t from what was in it, which was really just a haircomb, a few pens, and an almost empty bottle of ink. It was the handle of the drawer that drew my interest. Where had I see this strange knob before, a silver snarling dragon’s head? It came to me suddenly; Father had had the very same knob on his desk at home…the one with the secret compartment. He had shown it to me when I was quite young as a source of amusement, but I had quite forgotten about it until just now.

My hand trembling slightly with the excitement of it all, I poked a finger into the dragon’s mouth and pressed the tongue firmly. A quick snap sounded from inside the drawer, and I yanked it open. There it was; the false bottom of the drawer had popped up, revealing something hidden underneath. Was it the letter? Carefully, I lifted up the bottom and pulled out not a letter, but two files, ones much like a police officer would have of suspects and victims. Closing the secret compartment and the drawer, I moved closer to the window to see what was in the files.

Opening the first one, I saw a picture of a man I did not recognize. But the name underneath the portrait I did: Leroy Hall. The information about him was printed, but written across it in red ink and a scrawling hand were the words “dead.” That was all.

Quickly, I opened the other. A horrified gasp choked me. I struggled to breathe as I stared at a portrait of Mrs. Kent. Dear, sweet Mrs. Kent. This was it, I thought. She was next. The elderly housekeeper knew too much about him, and he was going to kill her before she could go to the police. Another terrible thought came to me. Was I on the list as well? Uncle Ben would surely find out that I had been asking questions, and then he would kill me before I could say anything.

I stumbled backwards in fear at the very thought and brushed against the curtain covering the window. It blew back slightly, and I glanced out to see two men standing on the lawn, conversing quickly. I immediately recognized the one facing the house as my uncle, and I wasn’t quite sure about the man standing back to, although he looked familiar as well. My uncle glanced upwards as the curtain moving caught his eye, and he stared at me. The other man whirled around; it was the gardener. They both glared at me angrily, then began running towards the front door. We need to get out. Now.

Running as fast as I could through the unfamiliar house, I found Mrs. Kent dusting in one of the parlors. I gasped out the story as best I could, and although it was anything but coherent, the housekeeper understood immediately. Fear flashed momentarily across her elderly face, but the woman gathered her sense at once.

“Come.” Mrs. Kent took my arm firmly. “We go out the back door.” As we fled, I heard the front door slam open.

“Kate!” shouted a man’s voice. It must be Uncle Ben. “Kate, come here right now!”

I ran.

We fled out the back door, not even stopping to close it. My uncle was close behind us, his boots pounding against the ground. I grasped the hem of my skirts, lifting them up to my knees, and holding desperately onto Mrs. Kent’s arm. She couldn’t outr run him. Neither of us could.

Into the gardens we ran, surrounded by tall hedges and stone benches and burbling fountains. Perhaps we could lose him in here.

“Kate!” my uncle shouted again. “Kate Blackburn! Stop!”

I gripped Mrs. Kent’s arm and ran faster, fairly dragging her alongside me. But alas, this was not my home and I did not know these gardens. I took a wrong turn and found myself staring at a dead end creating by a wall of hedges. Turning to run back, I saw Uncle Ben standing a little way behind us, panting heavily.

“Kate, step away from her.” I saw now that he held a revolver in his hand. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I stepped in front of Mrs. Kent. “Uncle, no! Don’t hurt her, please. She won’t tell anyone about you. Neither of us will, I swear it! Just please, let us go,” I pleaded.

Confusion came over Uncle Ben’s face. “Child, what on earth are you talking about? Tell anyone about what?”

“The murder. We won’t tell anyone that it was you, I promise!”

A short, angry laugh burst from my uncle. “You thought I was the killer? What, because Leroy and I have a little history? My dear girl, you are protecting the very one who stabbed that man. Now move aside before I move you myself.”

But before I could even comprehend what he had just said, a strong arm grasped me around my middle and something cold and sharp pressed against my throat. A frightened squeak was squeezed out of me as Mrs. Kent pulled me closer to herself.

“Put the gun down, Ben.” Her voice was cold and measured; the sweet elderly housekeeper had completely disappeared. “I don’t want to hurt her either.”

“Let her go, Rebecca. That’s your real name, isn’t it? Rebecca Keller, the Red Flower.”

Mrs Kent, or Rebecca, whatever her name was, laughed loudly. “Yes, my dear, that is me.” What had once been words of endearment were now mocking and cruel. “The Red Flower Killer. No one ever suspected a dear old lady, did they?” I glanced down at the hand holding the knife; her long gray sleeve had rolled up, and I saw the rose tattoo on her wrist.

“Leroy Hall did,” said my uncle quietly. He still had not put down his gun.

“The fool!” spit Rebecca Keller. “I thought I did him in when I fled France for London. I don’t know how he found me, but when I saw his face in the train window, I wasn’t about to let him blow the cover I’ve maintained for years.”

Now I understood. I understood why she had seemed so fearful and nervous at the railway station. I had assumed it was only the fright a murder naturally caused an elderly woman, but now I saw that it was because she had just murdered in broad daylight the one man who knew who she actually was. My memories were cut off almost literally by the knife being pressed closer to my throat. I flinched as it cut a little into my skin; I felt a drop of blood dribble down my neck.

“Put it down, Blackburn. I’ll kill her, you know I will.” Rebecca gripped me tighter until I could barely breathe.

Uncle Ben took a step back and lowered his revolver. “All right. All right. I’ll put it down. See? I’m putting it on the ground.” Slowly he bent and placed the gun on the grass before standing back up with his hands in the air. “Now let her go.”

“I will,” said Rebecca Keller maliciously. “After I make sure of my escape. Now back up.” The murderer dragged me forward, the knife still against my throat.

“No!” I cried.

At that same moment, a shout sounded from above us. We both looked up to see the gardener in mid-air over the hedge. Rebecca gasped and dropped the knife as he landed squarely on top of her, pinning the old woman to the ground. She screamed and fought angrily, but in the end, she was still just an old lady.

Shaking, I grabbed the knife off the ground and held it in both hands, pointing the blade at her. I knew she wasn’t going to escape the gardener’s hold, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. A gentle hand grasped my own and took the knife. I looked up to see my uncle, a man I had feared until right now, smiling down on me.

“Hello, Katie,” he said softly. “You have your father’s eyes; did you know that?”

Bursting into tears, I threw my arms around him. Strong arms gripped me once more, but this time, they brought comfort instead of threat and love rather than lies.

glimpses of far-off lands

there is someone else in my smile

flashes of another's laughter

i flourish a pen

and see a shining sword

i spin a solitary pirouette

and bow to a handsome prince

are these all just shadows in my mind

or could they be pieces

broken and shattered

forgotten and scattered

fantastic almost drastic

pictures

of me

After leaving Beggar’s Row, Alystair made a quick decision as to how he would leave. He needed a horse; he would get one from the Christknight stable boy and leave through the gates. Hopefully he would be back before they were closed and locked for the night. Camping out in the Whisperwood didn’t sound like the most fun, although he couldn’t lie, he was curious about what he was going to find in there. And getting to go somewhere forbidden with the permission of his teacher? Even better.

The Christknight made his way quickly through the streets to the stable and the stable boy let him borrow an old farm horse Alystair had used on a number of occasions that didn’t really belong to anyone. A Bjorran sloth moved faster than the “Old Man” as everyone called him, but at least it was a little better than walking the whole way. Alystair rode towards the city gates at the slowest trot known to mankind, and as he passed a horse trough, he saw a man stopped over, drinking from it alongside a very confused mare.

Bartof. On a whim, Alystair pulled up Old Man alongside the trough. “I think you’ll find better water by the fountain, Bartof.”

The madman looked up, a silly grin on his face and dirty water dribbling down his chin. “Water is water, isn’t it, son of the king? Beasts are men and men are beasts.” Bartof laughed at himself and fetched his tall walking stick. It occurred to Alystair that such a lunatic should not be allowed with such a thing. He could kill someone with it.

“I was in the castle yesterday,” said Alystair. “The royal castle.”

“Your royal castle.”

Alystair ignored him. “I saw something while I was in there, a picture. There was the queen who died of the Scourge-”

“During.”

“What?” Alystair paused in bewilderment.

“What?” echoed Bartof.

The Christknight ignored him and continued on, “There were three children with Queen Lynora in that portrait. One of them…”

“…looked familiar?” Bartof laughed again, throwing his head back at the sheer joy of the moment. “He is you and you are he, not what you are but who you’ll be!” With these last riddling words, Bartof the Mad spun around and danced towards the city square, using his staff for a partner.

Shaking his head, Alystair urged the Old Man on towards the gates. He should have known any sort of conversation with Bartof was a waste of time. It was already noon, and if he wanted to be back before the gates closed, he needed to move, which, on the Old Man, was difficult.

The Christknight approached the Whisperwood with caution, watching in front and behind him for anyone watching or following. He stepped inside it quickly, leading the Old Man, and listened for a moment. The forest was silent. Alystair found himself a little disappointed; he was hoping that he would get to hear the infamous “whispering” the Whisperwood was named after. But instead he didn’t hear a thing, whispering or anything else.

Alystair considered whether to bring the Old Man or not with him, but decided to leave him in a secluded place where he could find the horse easily, but didn’t have to trample around the whole wood with him. The Christknight still hadn’t sense any sort of movement in the forest, but he did notice that the Old Man was a little nervous as he tied him loosely in a grassy glen. Alystair took note of it; the steady farmhorse was frightened by very little. There was something here that was making him nervous, which meant it had to be something pretty serious.

Quietly, the young man stepped out of the glen and back into the thick forest. He hesitated a moment; the Whisperwood was not a small area. Alystair really had no idea where to start. He looked around for any indication of activity in the woods, foot or hoof prints, but the dense underbrush made it difficult to see much of anything.

A soft sound caught his attention, and a cold shiver slithered up his spine. The whisper was almost too quiet to be heard, but it blew softly through the forest. Alystair froze. It faded away, and silence fell again. He waited another couple of minutes, spinning around in a circle and seeking the source of the sound. The whisper blew by again, and although Alystair was expecting it, he couldn’t help shivering again. There was something horribly eerie about the noise, but also something that drew him in. He desperately wanted to know what was making it. This may be his only chance to find out; perhaps it was connected to whatever High Priest Bannasar was doing in here.

The Christknight waited for it again, and then trudged off in the direction he thought it was coming from. It was difficult to tell, as the whisper was very quiet, but he made his best decision and started off. Alystair didn’t bother trying to walk silently. The dead leaves and dry twigs crunched under his boots, and ferns swished around his legs. There was no sign of anyone nearby anyways, and after walking for several minutes, Alystair realized that there was no sign of the famed Mercy Trees. Their protection was the reason no one entered this forest, and now there was not a single indication that there was a single Mercy Tree living in here.

It was far more difficult than Alystair expected to follow the source of the sound. The wind blew one way, and the Christknight was certain that was where it was coming from. And then the breeze would change, and Alystair thought the sound’s direction changed with it. He turned around several times, until Alystair suddenly realized he didn’t know which way was back to the Old Man. Although the young man did wonder if the whispering had frightened off the horse; he probably had run back to the city at the first sound.

At the exact same time he was thinking about the farmhorse and wondering if he was stuck here for the night, Alystair heard hoofbeats coming towards him through the thick forest. Quickly he ducked behind a large tree. Perhaps it was the Old Man, but it didn’t sound like the heavy farmhorse.

It wasn’t. A strange man rode into view on a black mare. Alystair peeked at him from around the tree trunk as the man rode past without noticing the Christknight. The rider was not familiar to Alystair, nor did he even look Alathean. His hair was dark, and his face pale. He wore a longsword of a foreign make, and his clothes looked more of the dark Koldarian style, rather than the earthy colors of Alathea. It struck Alystair that perhaps this man was connected to the Arena event and the Lochlanders who were still in the city. What on Noor was he doing here then? Whatever it was, the Christknight was certain it must involve Bannasar somehow.

Making his decision at once, Alystair set out to follow the rider and abandoned his search for the source of the whisper. There was no need for him to try to walk quietly here either; the mare made so much noise crashing through the brush that Alystair’s footsteps could not be heard even by himself.

Alystair stayed a good distance back, using the wide tree trunks and tall ferns to hide himself from view as much as possible. It really wasn’t necessary; the strange man never looked back once as he rode steadily through the forest. Where was he going? Was he meeting someone? The Christknight hoped he was not following a false lead; it was already mid-afternoon, and if this man was in here coincidentally, Alystair had just wasted so much time in the wrong direction. He had already decided that he would probably not be back by the time the castle gates closed and would have to spend the night in these creepy woods.

The whisper flew through the forest steadily every few minutes, and after a while, Alystair hardly noticed it anymore. But it did occur to him once that it might be getting louder; perhaps they were nearing the source of the sound. The Christknight had already given up the prospects of finding the strange whispers, so this development excited him.

Finally, after following the man for what must have been nearly two miles, Alystair saw the black mare’s ears prick up and she whickered loudly. An answering call came from another horse farther in the forest; so he was meeting someone after all. The rider urged the mare into a trot, and the young man quickened his own pace so as not to lose them.

The dark forest opened suddenly into another glen, this one much larger and cleared out. A huge green hill sat in the very middle of it, and Alystair thought it looked rather odd and out of place in the forest. He crouched behind a huge oak tree and watched the scene in front of him. The rider was not meeting one person, but a whole company of people standing around the green hill. Alystair recognized High Priest Bannasar triumphantly, and with a start, saw King Sylvar waiting there as well. Something devious was definitely going on here.

The strange man joined the priest and king and soldiers, and they began to have a quiet discussion amongst themselves. From his position behind the tree, the Christknight couldn’t hear a word that was being said. He was just considering trying to move closer along the border of the glen when the dark-haired man broke off from the group and moved closer to the large hill, inspecting it closely.

The interest in the mossy hill confused Alystair. He had been expecting some sort of terrible weapon, something huge and deadly, or perhaps an armory or weapons forger. But here was Sylvar the Savage, his right hand man, and a stranger all standing around staring at this hill. It made absolutely no sense.

Feeling a little disappointed at finding nothing, Alystair turned to creep away. If he left now, he might just make it back into the gates before they closed. But suddenly the whisper sounded again, this time loud and clear, and from the green hill. Alystair stared at it. It had risen with the sound. It wasn’t a whisper at all; it was a breath. The hill was alive.

He crouched back behind the tree, his own breath coming quickly. Something was inside that hill, or perhaps the hill was the something. He needed to get a better look. Alystair skirted around the border of the glen, staying low behind the trees and the underbrush. He noticed the group of men were particularly interested in the opposite side of the hill from himself, so he slowly made his way around the entire hill and company of men. This time the Christknight moved with utmost caution, desperately trying to avoid the crunchy leaves and sticks covering the forest floor. It took him several minutes, but finally he arrived at the other side of the hill and stared at it, his eyes wide and mouth open.

The green breathing hill was in fact not a hill at all. It was a gigantic sleeping dragon.

Alystair held in his sudden gasp, and it choked him. A strangled cough escaped him involuntarily, and everyone turned to look in his direction. Abandoning his caution, Alystair jumped up and ran. They had horses; they had to move slower through the wood than he did. He ran for his life, the men shouting at him as they gave chase, some forgetting their horses and running on foot.

Alystair gave a quick glance back and was surprised to see the king on his steed joining in the chase. A root grabbed at his foot and tripped him up. He scrabbled for his footing, but landed hard on his face on the ground. Immediately he was surrounded by the soldiers who pulled him to his feet and held him tightly.

King Sylvar rode up to inspect his prisoner, and the moment they made eye contact, the king’s face went white. He seemed almost to choke himself, and the soldiers looked at their king curiously. Alystair took his opportunity of distraction. The Christknight kicked one of the soldiers as hard as he could and wrenched himself away. Alystair threw himself in an empty horse saddle and galloped away as fast as they could through the woods.

With an angry cry, the soldiers gave chase again, but when Alystair made it out of the Whisperwood, he clapped his heels to the horse’s side and fairly flew across the fields towards the city. He would leave the horse outside the city and disappear into the tunnel opening along the outer wall. They would never find him. Another glance behind showed Sylvar amongst his pursuers, but a look of panic rather than anger upon his face. Was this connected to his past? Did Sylvar know him, know who he really was? What on Noor was going on?

As he practiced patiently and methodically, Dragonsbane considered what sort of champion fights Yorgen Maal may use. He knew that it would not only be the simple staged fights, but the champion challenges would become much more frequent. If Bane had not been so valuable, then he would have thought that his master was trying to get rid of him. Perhaps he was still. Perhaps Yorgen was looking for a new grand champion amongst the new swordslaves, which would give him an excuse to destroy Bane.

When the champion was finally through with his own training and pausing to catch his breath, he heard whispers from the slavehold. Bane turned and saw the younger boys watching him through the partially open doors. Dallion and Colby stood there as well, watching with just as much intrigue. Roli clapped loudly, and Bane couldn’t help a small smile. He was used to the rousing cheers of the spectators, but Bane was not used to being watched while he practiced and certainly not being applauded afterwards.

The young slaves came tumbling out of the doors, all speaking at once. Colby followed behind them, laughing at their eagerness. Dallion remained in the hold doorway.

“How did you become so good?” asked Roli excitedly. “Will we become that good someday?”

“Perhaps,” said Bane with a shrug. “If you pass the Trials.”

The young boys looked intrigued. “What are the Trials? Did you pass them?”

“I would not be a champion if I did not.” The champion wiped the dust off his blade and turned it to catch the rays of the sun on it. In its reflection he saw Dallion watching him closely from the doorway. “If a swordslave wishes to rise in rank from a Number to a Champion, he must endure the Trials and then the Challenges every year after that.”

The new slaves had about a million questions concerning those things, and Bane decided now was as good a time as any to educate them on the structure of the Games, especially seeing how they would soon be right in the middle of them. Bane didn’t know how soon Yorgen planned on using them, but knowing the master, he would introduce them as quickly as possible.

“Every new swordslave is assigned a number; you already know this. And you know that you are not to call each other or yourselves by anything but that number. Your old names are dead to you.” Bane gave Roli a severe look, and the boy looked down red-faced. He had been guilty a number of times of forgetting this and received a cuff from the overseers more than once.

“If a swordslave never becomes a champion,” went on Dragonsbane, “he will only ever go by his number. Only the champions are named.”

“Like you?” asked a boy.

“Like me. Names are earned, usually within the first season of being a champion. I earned my through the challenges that we champions must partake in every year to prove our worth. I slew two dragons that year, one that I was meant to fight and one that broke out. From then on I was called Dragonsbane.”

The champion realized that Dallion had stepped out of the shadows of the hold and drawn nearer, listening. “What exactly are these Trials?” he asked. “What does a Number have to do to enter them?”

Bane glanced at him sharply. “A lot more than you have done.”

“And who are you to decide that? How do you know that I am not ready to be a champion? I think that I am.”

“Anyone who thinks himself as great rarely is.” Bane sheathed his sword. “You are not ready and will not be for a long time. Focus on surviving your training and gaining the approval of the master. That is all that should matter to you right now.”

Dallion’s eyes narrowed. “And what would it take? What would it take for you to think that I was ready?”

Bane did not want to answer, but all the younger boys’ eyes turned to him for an answer. So he said, “The day you can hold your own against me in a duel, then on that day I will recommend to the master that you partake in the Trials.”

“Then I challenge you.” The slave’s response was so quick, almost as if he had been expecting that answer. Bane thought for a moment that he hadn’t heard him correctly. But he had. Dallion stood in a ready position, similar to how Bane had stood during the beginning of his practice. “Give me a sword, and I will hold my own.”

If the younger swordslaves were not standing there fully expecting Bane to accept the challenge, then Bane would have refused. But his pride pricked him; they would think him a coward if he said no. How could they respect him then?

“Get your own sword.”

Dallion’s eyes lit up, and as he ran into the hold to find another practice sword, Bane wondered if he had been expecting the champion to refuse. It was too late now. The other boys scampered back into the doorway of the hold where they could watch but also be out of the way. Colby turned to Bane with a concerned look, but didn’t say anything and joined his friends in the doorway. The champion gave him a reassuring nod. Bane was certainly not concerned about losing to Dallion, but he was very tired of the slave constantly pushing the boundaries.

Dallion finally reemereged from the slavehold holding a dulled practice sword in one hand and his other clenched into a fist. His eyes were gleaming, and his breathing came tense and excited. All signs of an overconfident and under-ready swordslave. Bane stood quietly, holding his sword at his side. He did not have to attack first; Dallion would do that and probably wear himself out pretty quickly.

The newer swordslave did exactly that, attacking the champion with a ferocious yell and a powerful swing. But Bane had already seen it coming and stepped to the side out of the way, not even needing to lift his sword in a parry. Dallion immediately slashed his sword sideways at Bane’s stomach, but the champion was ready for it. He blocked the blow and leapt forward in a sudden movement, throwing Dallion off balance. One more strike, thought Bane, and Dallion would end the fight on the ground as he always did.

But Dallion had a trick of his own up his sleeve; or rather, in his hand. His clenched fist opened, and a cloud of dirt struck Bane squarely in the face. The champion stumbled backward several paces, his eyes burning. Hot tears streamed down his face. Bane dashed his hand across his eyes, but that only made it worse.

He heard Dallion gain his footing again, and immediately Bane’s sense flew into survival mode. Dallion didn’t have a sharpened sword, but it would certainly still do some damage. He listened intently; the younger boys were shouting angrily, and Bane thought he heard one of them leave the doorway.

“No!” the champion commanded fiercely. “Stay back.”

Bane heard Dallion’s quick footsteps as the younger slave came running towards him, probably reveling in what must be his triumph. But Bane was quicker. He stepped aside, making Dallion pause enough to turn, giving the champion the time he need to execute a quick strike. Dallion blocked it poorly, and the dulled blade glanced off from the slave’s shoulder. Bane heard him grunt in pain.

Dallion quickly regained himself and attacked again. But Bane, even in his current blind state, remained perfectly in control. The champion ignored his burning eyes as only someone highly trained could, and instead gave his entire focus to the rest of his sense. He could feel Dallion’s steps in the ground. He could hear him lift his sword. He could smell his sweat. Bane lashed out with his foot, catching Dallion in the knee. The swordslave yelped and jumped back; Bane pushed his advantage.

By the time the overseers ran into the Arena to break up the impromptu fight, Dallion was on the ground, his sword several feet away, and Bane’s boot squarely on his throat. An overseer pushed Bane off. “What are you two fighting over? This is not the Numbers’ training time! And what is on your face?”

Bane didn’t answer, but turned and walked slowly back towards the hold. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear the excited whispers of the boys watching. Roli ran towards him and took the champion’s hand. “That was a dirty trick Dal played on you!” exclaimed the boy. “I’ll help you.” Bane allowed Roli to lead him into the slavehold and to his cell where a skin of water was waiting for him. The champion washed his eyes and face with the cool, refreshing water and took a long drink. He wiped his sleeve across his face and it came back wet with what was now mud.

Tiredly, the champion sat down in his cell and leaned against the wall as he always did. Roli sat down beside him. Bane didn’t protest as he usually might; he was too tired to care. They sat there in silence for a few moments, Bane trying to calm his thoughts and Roli thinking of, well, whatever small boys think of.

Eventually, Roli couldn’t keep quiet any longer and said, “You were wonderful out there. I thought Dallion was going to have you dead for sure!”

Bane grunted. “It’s going to take a lot more than a little dirt to kill me. It’s not the first time I haven’t been able to see in a fight.”

Roli sat up. “What were the other times? Tell me!”

But before Bane could think of a reason not to, a reason was given to him. A horn sounded from somewhere outside the Arena, and he heard the large doors open. The rest of Yorgen Maal’s swordslaves were here. He rose and left his open cell, hoping he would find Golden Boy amongst them. He knew it was beyond hope to think that Naranil had come.

Bane watched silently as the swordslaves and servants trooped in. None of them were new; they all knew where to go, and they all knew their posts. What concerned Bane the most were the three large cages being taken into another part of the large hold. They were completely covered, but the champion knew what was in them: dragons. So Yorgen was planning on holding challenges. And more than one, considering he had brought three dragons with him. There were other cages holding large boars and a couple of drugged horned bears, but none of them were covered, only those three.

Someone grabbed Bane from behind, and he spun around defensively. Sparkling blue eyes laughed and golden hair whipped him in the face from the wind. “Have you missed me, old man?” cried Golden Boy.

Bane couldn’t help smiling. He gripped Golden Boy’s arm. “I’m glad you’re here again.”

The other champion feigned a look of shock. “Well, now that might be the first time I’ve ever heard you say such a thing! It can’t have been all bad; you being here all by yourself. Rather like a nice holiday. I certainly haven’t been on holiday. You wouldn’t believe-”

“I haven’t been alone,” cut in Bane. He nodded to Roli standing in the doorway, watching the swordslave procession with intrigue.

“Who is that?” whispered his friend. “What did the master get a little one for?”

“Not just one. A whole bunch of them. And then charged me with training them. It’s been a nightmare, especially the biggest boy.”

Golden Boy laughed. “What, you can’t handle a few sprouts? You can face down a mighty dragon but a baby with a wood sword has you quaking in your boots?”

“You don’t know this one,” muttered Bane, but his friend couldn’t hear him over his own laughing. Impatiently Bane hissed, “Stop that. Have you seen Naranil?”

“What?” Golden Boy wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Naranil. Have you seen her? Where is she now?”

Golden Boy’s face grew serious. “So it is true,” he said quietly. “You two really are…?”

“Yes,” answered Bane flatly. “Where did Yorgen send her?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her. No one has. It’s rumored he sent her back to her own people.”

Bane’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?” he gasped.

Golden Boy shrugged. “Just something I heard someone say. Or a few someones. They said he was tired of dealing with her, so he sent her back to her mother’s people, a group of Drunnim in the mountains of Koldar.” The champion hesitated. “I’ve heard some awful stuff about them, human sacrifice and such.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s one of them, so I’m sure she’s perfectly safe.”

But Bane was far from convinced. “She’s one of them, but her husband isn’t. That is strictly forbidden amongst the Drunnim, punishable….by death.”

“I think ‘really’ might be an understatement,” answered the man. “You stole his favorite dagger, lost it, and then almost got a lot of information tortured out of you. I’d say furious is the better word.”

The young girl grimaced. “I didn’t lose the dagger; I traded it. And I’ll get him another one. And how do you know they were going to get any information out of me?”

Alystair gave her a withering look.

“All right, fine,” she admitted. “They probably would have gotten everything they wanted almost immediately. But they didn’t! You rescued me, and we got some of our own new information. All’s well that ends well, right?” She glanced up at the Christknight walking ahead of her, but he didn’t answer. Lucia thought he seemed lost in his own world, probably thinking about what could possibly in the Whisperwood. She wondered herself, although there was nothing she could do about it so the girl really didn’t give it that much thought. Right now, Lucia was more concerned with the reception Master Gor was going to give her than anything else.

Her stomach twisted nervously as they approached the large lit cavern. Lucia knew that the dweorg was in there waiting for her, and as Alystair had said, that he was furious. She had probably ruined any chances she had of becoming a warrior now. After this Gor Grimbeard would never trust her or probably even want her around. Lucia’s throat clenched at the thought. Would he throw her out? Would he refuse to protect her anymore? Perhaps it would have been just as well that she had remained in captivity. It wouldn’t be much longer before she was again if Master Gor banished her from his sight.

Taking a deep shaky breath, Lucia stepped into the cavern. There was Master Gor standing in the middle, his hands on his hip. A scowl made his usually stern face look even more frightening. Not really sure what to say, Lucia stood there in front of them and said nothing. She stared down at her boots and waited for the yelling to begin.

But before the dweorg could start on his tirade, Alystair stepped by Lucia and bent down to whisper to his teacher. Gor listened to him intently for a moment, then glanced back at the girl. She looked away quickly. The dweorg’s gruff voice startled her.

“Exactly what did they say about the Whisperwood?”

Lucia hesitated. “Well, they just asked if I or the Christknights knew anything about it, or what was in it.”

“And?”

“I said I didn’t know.”

“What else did they ask you?”

The girl thought a moment, trying to remember everything. There had been a lot of shouting from both her father and the soldier, so it was a little difficult to recall exact questions. “They wanted to know where you were, and who the leader of the Christknights is. I didn’t tell them a thing,” she said quickly. The girl reached up and touched her sore cheek that was still a little red. “Not even when he hit me.” Her lip trembled a little. Her father had never hit her before, but the man who had tried to kill her in the Arena and then struck her was not even recognizable to her anymore

Lucia thought Gor’s face softened, at least just a little. Then he asked, “Where’s my dagger?”

“Ummmmm…..” The girl bit her lip. “I don’t have it anymore.”

Gor sighed. “Did they take it when they arrested you?”

“Well, no,” admitted Lucia. “I didn’t have it before then.”

“Then who does?” demanded the dweorg. “That’s my favorite dagger!”

“A temple boy does,” said Lucia hesitantly. “I traded it for these.” She looked down at her temple clothes.”

Gor’s green eyes flashed. “You did what?!”

Alystair put a hand on his teacher’s shoulder. “I’ll try to get your dagger back, master. I think the more important thing right now is to figure out what is going on in the Whisperwood. Do you think they are trying to build a weapon in there?” The dweorg forgot his dagger momentarily, and Lucia was grateful for the subject change.

Gor Grimbeard crossed the cavern to his table with the map on it. He bent over it, studying it carefully. Lucia sat down quietly at the same box she had been sitting on when she was in here last. Alystair stood beside Gor. He winked at Lucia, and she gave him a small smile. She knew he was trying to tamp his teacher’s anger and perhaps aim it in a different direction. Lucia wished she had the money to buy him a new dagger. But she had fled without a purse or a single coin. The only bit of wealth she owned was her engagement ring on the silver chain about her neck. She touched it hesitantly; perhaps she could trade it for a new dagger? Lucia was loathe to part with it, but the girl supposed she was not really engaged anymore. There was no use in her keeping it. A small part of her wondered if Prince Barrett still wore the emerald ring she had given to him, or if he had long since thrown it away.

Alystair’s quiet voice broke into her thoughts. “We need to know what it is, Master. More than likely it’s some sort of weapon, and who else would it be used against but us? Who has King Sylvar waged war against but the Christknights.”

The dweorg hesitated, but seemed to have no reason why they should not investigate. “I know, I know,” he sighed. “But it is going to be incredibly dangerous. I should go.”

“No, master,” said Alystair, shaking his head. “Let me. I am capable, you know that. I am not afraid. Besides, it is better that I am captured than you. The Christknights need you more than they need me.”

Lucia listened in awe to this quietly courageous statement and watched the dweorg for his reaction. A strange look came into Gor Grimbeard’s eyes, and in an equally strange tone he said, “You do not know what it is you say, Flower.” But before Alystair could protested, the dweorg nodded his consent. “Go. Be quick, and be careful. Remember my teachings.”

“I always do,” said Alystair as he took the skin of water and pack of food Gor handed him.

“You do not.”

“I always remember them; I just don’t always follow them.” Alystair grinned.

The dweorg sighed and shook his head, but smiled lovingly at his foster son as the man left the cavern. Lucia watched Alystair go. He seemed unconcerned with his own safety, and she could not understand this, but when he glanced at her just before he left, she saw behind the smile something else. A look of fierce determination and doom. She found herself praying that he was going to come back. After all, who else was going to keep Master Gor from killing her?

The girl unconsciously turned to glance at the dweorg and started when she found him standing in front of her with his arms crossed and scowling again. Lucia felt her cheeks growing warm and the lump forming in her stomach again. Gor studied her face and then reached up a hand. She flinched, thinking that he was about to strike her, but instead his calloused fingertips brushed her cheek gently.

“You have a bruise,” he said simply. She watched in surprise as he brought her a wet cloth and told her to hold it to her face. “It may help the swelling go down,” he explained. Lucia did as he said; it felt good against her throbbing face and growing headache.

Gor went back to his map and sighed deeply as he studied it for what was probably the thousandth time. Lucia sat in awkward silence for a moment, then asked softly, “Aren’t you angry with me?”

“I am displeased,” was the dweorg’s reply.

“It’s just…I expected you to be shouting at me and to throw me out. If you want me to go,” she hastened to add. “I’ll go. I understand. And I’ll get you a new dagger.”

Gor turned to her with an exasperated look. “When did I say you had to go? What have I ever said to put that thought in your brain? I’m the one who sent Alystair to bring you here.” He glanced at her sharply. “Twice. But I would not throw you out for making a mistake,” he continued. “Does the Triune disown us when we make a mistake? Does He throw us out?”

She felt her face burning again. “No…I-I’m sorry. I just…I wanted to prove to you that I could be a warrior. But I guess you were right.” Lucia looked down at her hands, twisting the damp rag between her fingers. “I’m not warrior material.”

“I did not say you would never be; I saw you weren’t now. There is a difference.”

Lucia looked up at him. “What?”

“Being a warrior is not what you think. It is far more mental than it is physical. Yes, I could train you physically and teach you to use a sword and shoot a bow and ride a horse. But if you do not have the mental strength of a warrior, then you will never be able to withstand the storm that we Christknights face every single day.”

The girl frowned. “Then how do I get that strength? What do I have to do? Is there training for that, too?”

Gor Grimbeard peered at her through squinting eyes. Lucia feared that he would deny her this too, but instead he asked, “You are determined then? You are determined to forsake a life of luxury and begin one of hardship and pain? Once you start down this path, you cannot turn back. I will not allow it. I do not tolerate quitters.”

“I have already started down many paths that I cannot turn back upon,” answered Lucia bravely. “What is one more if it means that I can protect those I love, and be relied upon myself instead of constantly relying upon someone else?”

“Your training will be strenuous; I am not an easy teacher,” countered Gor.

“Your teaching will be strenuous; I am not an easy student,” shot back Lucia.

The dweorg’s eyes gleamed, almost in the excitement of having a new student. He really does love teaching, thought Lucia. She wondered if he had ever done anything else. Humorously, Lucia wondered if he had been teaching since he was a baby dweorg.

“Then to you I am Master Gor, and you will answer to me and me alone. Your training beings now,” said Gor briskly. He beckoned Lucia to stand up, and he opened the box she was sitting on. Instead of weapons or food or other survival supplies as she had been expecting, there was a single object inside wrapped in black velvet cloth. The dweorg lifted it carefully and reverently. Lucia followed him to the table and he put it down on the spread-out map.

Gor pulled off the velvet, and Lucia saw that the object was a great Book, old and worn. “Do you know what this is?” asked the dweorg in a hushed tone.

“No,” answered Lucia, also whispering although she didn’t know why.

“This is the Holy Writ, and perhaps the last complete copy in Alathea. King Sylvar banned it along with the Christfollowing, and anyone caught with one is sentence to lose their head, and anyone heard quoting it will lose their tongue.” He glanced up at Lucia, whose face had gotten a little whiter. “Having second thoughts?”

She gulped, but said, “I am a Christknight. Let what will happen to me happen.” Lucia spoke these words in her boldest tone, but there was a measure of fear inside her that she tried to ignore. She hoped that with Gor’s training, it would go away on its own.

Master Gor opened the Book, showing the girl its well-worn pages. She had no idea how old this copy of the Writ was, but it looked as if it had lived through centuries. Some of the passages were tear-stained, and some pages had obviously been read more than others. The girl felt a quiet awe as she stared down at, watching the dweorg slowly turn the pages. These were the words of the Triune, the words that He had given to Noor. How could any mere man outlaw them? How could the Triune let such a man live in his treachery.

She said this to Gor and he gave her a sad smile. “How quickly man forgets that he is not really in charge of anything! Power goes to our head so fast; what we cannot see we forget.” He closed the Book and rested a hand on the faded cover. “I do not know why the Triune lets him live.” Lucia knew he was speaking of King Sylvar. “I know that if I were the Christprince, I would kill him in a moment for his treason, and that is why not one of us is worthy to be the Most High. We do not have the power of perfect mercy; our Agapē is not strong enough to forgive that deeply or to give so many chances. Every new day given to the Condemned is another chance to be Pardoned.

“And I do not know,” he went on, returning the Book to its box, “how someone could be so hateful, so arrogant, as to forsake the love of the Triune and proclaim themselves to be the most high. All I know is that I would rather die a thousand faithful deaths than live to betray the One Who died for me.”

Lucia stared at her teacher. She had never heard him speak so long, nor had she ever heard anyone say something so powerful. She knew that out of what would surely be many future years of lessons, this first one would stay with her forever.

He crossed the bridge into the Upper City and continued quickly towards the Temple of Farra. Alystair tried to calculate how far she would have gotten by now, but it was impossible to know. She could easily be captured and in a cell of her own by now, or she could have gotten scared and be hiding out somewhere. Frankly, Alystair hoped for the latter.

The Temple of Farra stood gleaming and proud as usual, and there was no sign of Lucia anywhere around. Alystair ducked into a couple of the alleyways, looking for any sign of her. His stomach dropped when he found the leather pouch with her dress and the long locks of hair. Alystair groaned audibly. She had been far bolder than he had thought she would be. Lady Lucia must have disguised herself as one of the temple boys and sneaked in that way. Pretty smart, he had to admit. But how had she gotten the uniform?

There was no time to wonder about the details, Alystair told himself. He needed to find her before High Priest Bannasar; although if she was captured, it was probably too late for that. Alystair went back to the white stone path around the temple and entered in the way he had before. But he did not have time to borrow the priest’s robes before he heard voices coming his way.

Desperately, Alystair glanced around and then dove into a tall wardrobe, barely shutting the doors before two temple boys entered into the room.

“For the last time, Pell,” said one of them in an annoyed tone, “I did not get into any fight and I certainly did not get a girl to help me get new clothes! I have no idea what you’re talking about, and you better not tell anyone that nonsense either.”

“All I know is what she told me,” the other temple boy insisted. “She said a temple boy had gotten into a scrap and ruined his clothes. He was too afraid to come back, so he asked her to help and she asked me. That’s all I know.” This servant, called Pell, paused beside the wardrobe Alystair was hiding in, and the Christknight held his breath. He did not want to have to knock out a twelve year old. But Pell didn’t open it and moved on to the rack of shiny black boots beside it. “Maybe she had you confused for someone else. I guess she never really confirmed that the boy’s name was Jonys. I just assumed it was you.”

“That better be it,” growled Jonys. “If any of the priests hear about this and think it was me…”

“They’re not going to hear about it,” assured Pell as they left the room with whatever gear they came for. “I’d be in trouble too, so you’re safe.”

Alystair heard Jonys mumble something, but by now he was too far away to understand. With a sigh of relief, the Christknight jumped out of the wardrobe and quickly changed into the priest’s clothes before he could be surprised by anyone else. He knew, of course, that that girl the temple boys had spoken of was Lucia, and that it all been a ruse on her part, and a clever one at that. Perhaps there was more to this girl than even he had thought. Master Gor would have to admit, even if she had been arrested, that she had more brains than he had given her credit for.

Once again, Alystair descended the stairs to the dungeon doors. He hoped the guard was changed regularly, because if it was the same soldier, he was bound to get suspicious. It was, in fact, the same soldier who was in the same snoozing position he was a few days ago. Alystair sighed and cleared his throat.

The soldier once again leapt to his feet, a bit of fear in his sleepy eyes at the sight of the priest in front of him. “I wasn’t hardly sleeping, sir. Not hardly at all!”

“You looked pretty asleep to me,” said Alystair, putting on his coldest voice.

“That little rat of a boy told you, didn’t he? Why if I get my hands on him!”

“Which boy?” asked Alystair sharply.

“Well, I don’t know! They all look the same to me. Just like you all - ah, I mean, he was sent her with a message of ultimaty or something like that,” said the soldier hastily. “But the two he was looking for had already been taken to the castle for questioning and they ain’t been brought back yet.”

“That’s the boy I was looking for,” said Alystair. “Did he go to the castle?”

The guard shrugged. “I told him where they were and he left. That’s all I know.”

“Fine. Don’t let me catch you sleeping again.”

If he was a real priest, he would have rebuked the soldier for cursing at him under his breath, but Alystair ignored it and hurried yet again back up the stairs and out of the temple, still wearing his priestly garb. He imagined that Lady Lucia had kept on her servant boy uniform to get into the castle. There was no reason that a priest’s robes shouldn’t do the same.

This was going to be a bit trickier for Alystair; he had never actually been inside King Sylvar’s castle, and certainly did not know his way around. He was sure that Lucia had at least been in it a few times and would have a general idea of how it was laid out. She certainly had an advantage over him in this situation. For the first time, Alystair was beginning to think that maybe she was going to be just fine.

By the time he made it to the gates of Caer Valeska, Alystair was out of breath and sweating despite the cool afternoon breeze. Although the Christknight worked out and exercised every day, these robes and headdress were incredibly heavy. Alystair bet he was carrying thirty pounds extra with all these trappings.

At the gates, the guards nodded to him politely and let him by without question. A page boy hurried across the courtyard and up the stairs to open the castle doors for him. Alystair had to hold back a polite thank you; the priests were never polite except to the royals. The inside of the castle was certainly not as fancy as the Temple of Farra, but it was elaborate and beautiful in its own way. In looking around, Alystair could see Queen Giazina’s Florian touch on the decorations and design. It was certainly a beautiful place to live in, Alystair had to admit. He had to force himself not to stare at everything as he walked through the halls.

The portraits intrigued him the most. Alystair paused by one of King Sylvar sitting regaly in a chair and staring off into the distance; the artist had perfectly captured the king’s haughty expression. The Christknight walked slowly down the hall, gazing at each individual painting. Here was Crown Prince Ronan with Princess Ilda and their three small children. Alystair thought the princess looked exhausted even on canvas. Prince Barrett stood proudly next to a black stallion, with one foot on a dead hog who’s proportions had surely been exaggerated for the portrait. Lady Elarya was next, although her painting was not as large as the others, and she was simply sitting by an open window and holding a flower.

Turning a corner, Alystair saw the hall ended, and certainly not where he wanted to be. But on the wall at the end was another frame covered in black cloth so that the portrait could not be seen. A table sat underneath it with two tall candles burning steadily. The Christknight looked behind him. He knew he should not be wasting time snooping; a priest of Farra peeking at paintings would be sure to draw unnecessary attention. But Alystair could not resist the feeling that there was something here he needed to find. Something that would tell him who he was and where he belonged.

Softly, the young man moved down the dark hall, aware that his pure white robes made him almost glow in the dark. He reached out and lifted the cloth up, revealing a large portrait with not just one person, but four. A woman arrayed in royal garments, presumably the late Queen Lynora, sat smiling on a stone bench in the castle gardens. Her hands were in her lap and holding a young girl. The girl was not looking at the viewer as was her mother, but down at a boy who looked to be around the same age as herself. He was making a face at her, and she was frowning in disapproval. But Alystair hardly gave them a passing glance, or the queen. It was the boy standing proudly next to her that caught the Christknight’s attention. He looked to be a few years older than the other two, and his hair and clothing were immaculate. Alystair looked straight into the boy’s eyes, and saw his own. The man had never had a portrait done of himself, of course, but looking at this prince was like staring in a looking glass at himself when he was much younger.

The man dropped the cloth back and took a step back, drawing in his breath shakily. Bartof must have been right. Was that Prince Sylvar? Or was the younger prince the king now? Alystair’s quick ear heard a step approaching somewhere close. Quickly he left the dark corridor and presumed his slow walk down the previous hall when a tall man rounded the corner quickly.

He jumped when he saw the priest, then mumbled something, and began to move past. But something about the man seemed familiar to Alystair and he asked in his most condescending tone, “I’m looking for a temple boy. Have you seen one wandering around here?”

The man snorted. “I found a girl pretending to be a temple boy.”

Alystair’s stomach dropped. “A girl?”

“And not just any girl. My sister, Lucia.” The man shook his head. “She’s been no end of trouble. Going to give the family a bad name.”

This must be either Lord Geordie or Lord Geoffrey, then. And considering that Lord Geordie had helped Lady Lucia, this must be Lord Geoffrey. Thinking quickly, the fake priest asked, “May I have a look at this girl? There’s been a servant causing great trouble in the Temple, and now I wonder if it was her. She will be in terrible trouble if it is.”

“She’s already in terrible trouble,” said Lord Geoffrey grimly. But he called to a guard in a room adjoining the hall and ordered him to escort Alystair to the cell Lucia was being kept in.

When they reached the dungeons, Alystair ordered the guard to wait outside, as he wished to speak to the prisoner in private. The guard shrugged and assumed his post outside, and Alystair slipped through the large doors into the dim and musty dungeons.

There was Lady Lucia, sitting on a stone bench in the very first cell, wearing a servant’s uniform and pouting childishly. If it were not for the danger they were both in, Alystair would have burst out laughing. Later. Right now he needed to get her out of here before he got caught.

The Christknight tapped on the bars. “Lady Lucia!” he whispered.

Lucia’s head popped up, and she stared at him a moment, not recognizing the young man in the priest’s garb.

“It’s me, Alystair!” he said impatiently. “Come on! We have to go!” He drew two slender metal sticks from his robe and poked them into the lock.

“Alystair!” Lucia jumped up, all smiles, and ran to the bars. Then, seeming to remember exactly what she’d done, her grin faded. “Oh…..Alystair….I’m sorry… but I was this close!”she whispered quickly, trying to get ahead of the scolding. “If it wasn’t for my stupid brother…”

The young man finished picking the lock and swung the door open. “Explain later. We need to get out of here.” Alystair turned to make a hasty retreat, but Lucia grabbed his arm.

“What about Silas and Myr? We can’t leave them here!”

Alystair hesitated. “Are they down here?” He scanned the nearby cells; they were all empty.

“I don’t know,” admitted Lucia. “I didn’t actually see them.”

The man grimaced. “Sorry, but we don’t have time to look around. They’re going to discover you’re missing pretty quickly. You’ve put yourself in danger enough today; let’s go.” Alystair said this with a note of finality and ushered her to the door. Telling her to wait a moment, he poked his head out and told the bored guard that he could leave; the “priest” could find his way out himself, which the soldier gladly did.

Lucia tried protesting further, but Alystair planted a hand firmly over her mouth and pushed her out the dungeon doors. “I saw a side door when we were coming here,” he said to her quietly. “I think we can get outside from the dungeons instead of having to go up into the castle itself.” He pulled Lucia down a dark tunnel not unlike the ones he knew so well back in the Lower City.

“They kept asking me such strange questions,” panted Lucia, struggling to keep up with Alystair’s long strides.

“Who did?”

“My father and one of the soldiers, the captain, I guess.”

Alystair frowned. “What did they ask you?”

“Well, of course, they wanted to know where you were. Thankfully you came when you did. My father said that when he returned he was going to wring the truth out of me, and that doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

Alystair rolled his eyes. “What else?” He could see the door up ahead.

“They asked one question the most, and I just couldn’t understand it. They wanted to know if the Christknights knew what was really in the Whisperwood.”

Alystair stopped so short that Lady Lucia ran into him. “What do you mean, what’s really in the Whisperwood? The Mercy Trees are there, of course.”

“I don’t know, but from the way they were talking, it must be something dreadful, like a weapon of some sort. And Alystair, I do believe they mean to use it on us.”