AALINA stood on the hill's edge and watched loathly at the Wyrmwood where the men had gone for their hunt. The forest was thicker and larger closer to it than it had been when they were at the estate of House Norheim.

Tall, dark green fingers of trees rose to the sky and stretched to the south and east. Slightly climbing the rough mountain that covered the side of the land in a small arc cast its dark dragon jaw-like shadow covering the glistening waters of the lake before it.

The hunting camp was built on the tallest hill, the tallest after the one on which the estate was built. Pavilion rose behind her in colours of deep red to bright yellow, all scattered about at the top of the hill and stretched away towards the slope. Banners of every House present danced in the wind atop the pavillions, and horses led by squires squelched through the mud around the camp. Children of nobles lords and ladies chased each other, screaming and laughing and dirty from head to toe with mud. Caking their fine doublets and dresses and hair while the nursemaids ran after them, shouting, trying to rein them in.

Knights who had not gone down to the forest for the hunt stood with their men, after the incident in the courtyard none would stand with men who were not part of their House, polishing shields or helms or guiding their squires on how to do it.

The lords had a table brought out and placed near the slope of the hill. Long and carved from dark wood inlaid with silver and polished to a sheen. Wine and fruits cluttered the tables, some lords nursed their wine while some focused on the boards in front of them. Sweating as they played their game of chess.

Ladies had their pavilion too. It had been raised on the less muddy side of the hill and it was grand, befitting the ladies themselves. In colours of indigo and black, inside the tent were cushions of the finest fabrics in colours of deep crimson or light blue and the ladies themselves gossiped about court, about men, about dresses, but Aalina had taken no part in that. She was tired of court already, the game of words that everyone played was tiresome. So she had left the pavilion and come here where she was to brood on how she wanted to be down there. In the Wyrmwood with a spear in her hand, the handle digging into her palm, while she hunted the boar.

She wanted to feel the rush of the wind in her hair, her lungs rugged and dry, and the feel of a good horse between her thighs. Could anything match that ecstasy? But the lords had made sure she would not have it, Lord Conan made sure of it of course. No doubt he had threatened to behead any knight to speak to her, even the squires stayed a good distance away from her.

The man was a thorn in her side, Seven Lords how she wanted him dead. At his burial, she would dance and not weep.

With an exasperated sigh, Aalina smelled the air. It smelled like sweating men, wine, and horses. It smelled like wet grass and rot and perfume. The smell of the wild would have made her smile, and soothe her throbbing nerves had it not been tainted by perfume and wine and men. Everything seemed a bane to her now, but she would suffer it. Suffer it until she had the crown on her head where she would do all that she pleased, her first decree would be to destroy all the High Houses and raise the Low Houses.

It was high time that it was done. The fools of the High Houses had grown too bold, bold enough that they plotted to kill her father and take the crown, that she did not doubt it. Ricardus would not have been able to slaughter all her father's staff without the help of some lord. And that night she recalled that after the Ufral left most of the lords had departed as well and even the lord of Bellbroke Keep had ridden to his estate in the countryside of Bore. No doubt that he was avoiding the bloodshed of his men.

But she would not fret about that now, no. For now, she had to gain the favours of the Houses and build herself for the struggle. Even if she had the crown Ricardus would want to fight for the crown, to the very bitter end and she would give it to him.

With another tired sigh, Aalina tugged the loose strains of hair behind her ears began to turn, and started back to the camp. As to where she was headed she had no idea, but she had to talk. Her legs had grown stiff and sore from standing there for the past hour. The servants she met along the way dropped into deep curtseys or bowed before running off to do what their lady or lord commanded.

As she walked deeper into the camp songs and whistles drifted to the air, battle songs whistled by the armoured men standing by the burning fires or sitting on empty barrels sharpening their swords with whetstones. One song she liked was known as The Bloody Sword in the Bastard's Throat.

Were she a young and naive girl she would have run from its haunting tune, but after all she had seen in her lifetime. The song was nothing compared to how life truly moved.

As she passed Aalina stole from pieces of the song and swung them as she walked with no sense of purpose.

"That's a men's song, my Lady." Aalina whirled with a start, her hand on the hilt of the dagger she kept hidden in the dress, then she relaxed a bit and dropped her hand.

"Lord Ardenor. I thought you would be hunting now, I know you do love your sport." She muttered in a low voice for Ardenor only. The lordling grimaced but said nothing but stare towards the north. He was dressed for the hunt, Aalina noted as she watched him from the corner of her eye. In black boiled leather armour and a sword belt strapped to his side, his boots polished though there was mud caking then now.

"Phethahaehr forbade me from hunting. He fears the strife in the courtyard might lead to my death. That Colin Tarrencaller is known for his impulses, he might have my head off my neck or have someone do it for him and we cannot have that can we now?" He turned to Aalina, grinning. Aalina rolled her eyes, stifling a sigh as she stepped around a puddle of wet mud. That would ruin the bright blue dress she wore and no doubt her handmaidens and seamstress would have her head before the day was done.

"And how are we to handle their men, my Lord? As you have stated Colin's impulses have earned him a name and should he grow bold enough to-"

"He wouldn't dare." Ardenor cut her off, proudly stating what she knew. "I doubt he wants his titles and lands stripped away from him or worse cast into exile or the Brothers of the Seven." He sounded sure of himself, but Aalina had her doubts. There was more than one way to kill a man, if swords did not work well then a whispered name and gold to cloaked men or poison in the food could do the job quite well. And with court alliances shifting faster than the weather every House could see an opportunity in the death of Lord Conan and his son even and that would leave her open for an attack.

She despised House Wyncoll, but she could not deny that they were helpful. She would endure her skin crawling and gut-clenching for some while until the crown was hers, but until then she had to hide behind its banners.

Silence filled the space between them, save for the screaming clanging, and singing of the camp. Ardenor guided Aalina to the ladies' pavilion, he stopped a good twenty paces away from it, staring at the sky or he seemed to be.

"My Lady," Ardenor said abruptly Aalina was startled, she looked at him but he was still staring at the flying banner atop the pavillion. "At the feast tonight you are to announce your betrothal to me. And my Lady, should you try to escape it this time phethahaehr promises...well he promises." A ghost of a smile twitched the edge of his lips. Ardenor looked at her now, eyes hooded and face plain like a mask. He bowed and started walking away, the flaps of his padded boiled leather fluttering at each step.

Aalina glared at him as he walked away, her fingers itching for a dagger or sword, but instead, she drew in a deep calming breath opened the flap of the pavilion, and stepped inside.

Aalina had to squint her eyes so she might not get blinded when she stepped into the pavilion. Candles burned everywhere, in candle holders of silver or gold and the light glinting off casting an even brighter light. In the centre of the pavilion burned a great fire, sparks flurried into the air and vanished.

Seven Lords it's hot enough already. Are they trying to melt their skin off? The air in the pavilion smelled of wood, smoke, and fire but it also smelled of cedar wine and perfume. Ladies sat around the flames on coloured cushions, nursing finely carved glasses of wine and biting into apples or grapes or peeled oranges while they gossiped and joked.

Their handmaids sat on their cushions and played with their needles while they gossiped and cast wary eyes on their ladies.

"Wine, my Lady?" Asked the page, a boy of ten standing by the entrance of the pavilion holding a pitcher of burnished bronze and full of wine. He was liveried in the colours of House Norheim.

"Yes, please," Aalina answered as she slipped out of her silk-padded slippers and walked barefoot across the carpeted floor of the pavilion. The page followed after her and poured her wine after she had taken her glass on the silver trencher placed behind the circle of women. "Thank you." She settled herself on a cushion on the left side and further from the ladies as possible.

Her head throbbed like it had been hit by a morningstar, the iced wine did little to those the stabbing at her temples. It is good wine, she remarked in her head, well aged and brewed well much better than the Eshan wine. That filth tasted like copper. The Eshan were good in warfare and making silk and jewelry, but they came second to Ustela when it came to wine. But sadly they were never to trade with Eshan again until Ricardus was deposed off that it and she managed to convince the Eshan that she was her father's daughter.

Just the thought of it was tiring.

"...have you heard?" A lady's voice rose over the voices of the others. All eyes, save Aalina's, turned to her.

"Heard what?" Another demanded, her speech slurred and the words dragged out. She was drunk.

"Well, I heard that Lord Conan plans to wed his son to the self-proclaimed princess." That made Aalina sit up straight and lean in to listen. The ladies had not noticed her yet, surely they haven't or they would not have been gossiping about her while she was behind them.

One of them giggled, childishly. "An utter fool she is, wedding a snake and thinking she could rule. The Houses would crush her before she assumed the crown."

"And no doubt she's not the true princess. Her body was never found and she was presumed dead and if she is where was she hiding for so long?"Another asked.

"Probably with a man." a different one suggested.

"A lord or someone from the Dragon Isles." Another agreed. Soon they all chatted, each one trying her view of the story. Each and worse than the last but never truly striking the truth. Their words melded together into a storm of voices that filled her head and haunted its caverns. Laughing and chatting and speculating, each one making her heart try to beat its way out of her chest.

"Ladies," a familiar voice chimed in causing utter silence suddenly. "When you speak ill about someone, make sure that it is where they cannot hear you." It was Lady Avin. Confused looks passed between the ladies before one finally spotted and gasped.

"What is it? What is it?" Three or four asked in unison, the lady did not speak only pointed at her. Then slowly all heads turned to her and eyes grew wide, ready and ripe to pop out of their sockets.

"Oh." Was all they could muster. When they started again in their chatter, trying to justify themselves Aalina raised a hand cutting them off and bringing forth silence again.

Her hands and knuckles hurt from clutching the glass in her hands too tightly. Her breathing was dangerously low and cold, but she felt no rage within her. Odd was one this but this frightened her, only she thought she was frightened but not really. She could never make herself this cold when she wanted to. As she opened her lips to speak, a ruckus from outside the pavilion cut her off and soon they were all on their feet, shuffling towards the entrance and out to the hot air.

Sweat ran down Aalina's face and she could feel herself boiling even more. The places where she felt damp and cold most were the places she sweated, and there were too many places to mention. In the chaos outside there was a scurry of squires, all carrying pieces of armour and servants carrying clothes and buckets towards the tight circle ahead. Aalina and the other ladies made their way slowly toward it and shoved their way through the shirtless knights and nosey servants.

In the centre of the circle lay a man with a large stake piercing his guts and some of them spilled to the muddy ground. Entrails, bloody and purplish and ugly, out of the belly and clutched by the man who lay there. He was still alive though, but barely. His skin was pale and he sweated much, his dark eyes kept rolling into his before he mumbled gibberish and wakened again.

Red blood ran down his fingers, flies started to surround him as if he was dead. Then from the other side of the circle, two men broke through. They wore simple clothes that if you did not know them you would mistake them as common folk, but they were not. One of them, the younger of the two kneeled beside the dying man and took his hand. Healers in all their glory, though there was no glory there only lingering death.

The Healers started prodding at the dying man. Feeling his head, poking him with a silver stick they produced from their long sleeves and muttered themselves in silent voices. Then one of them stood and positioned himself over the man lying down and grabbed the stake with both hands. The man let out a hoarse, terrible scream wrenched from the depths of him. He began thrashing and kicking, weakly trying to slap the Healers hands away from the stake.

"If you would please step back," the other Healer told the people in the circle. Healers were valuable Asemon, most to the army in the Shadowed Hills mainly because they could heal just about anything, even some near death but it came with a cost, or so Aalina understood it. Their magic was much similar to those of the Necrosist, only they did not heal raised the dead by drawing a piece of the soul and binding it to the corpse and themselves and thus you were neither alive nor dead. Healers were the same that way, they drew life from something else to give life into another. Most of the time they drew it from the land, taking life from it but that proved costly if the land was tainted.

The circle moved them and the Healer turned his attention back to the man. The other Healer pulled the stake out of the man, blood flew and splattered and sprayed at the Healers, staining their grey robes trimmed with gold. The man stopped thrashing, his breathing came out slow and laboured now, wheezing as if he fighting to breathe.

The Healer kneeling by his side rolled his sleeves and touched the man's wound with one hand while the other held his companion. Silence fell then, hushed as if the world listened to the voice of the Eshan gods. Suddenly black veins started marking the other Healers hands and face, the veins drew rivers and streams, ever-growing like the branches of a tree. Of course, Aalina thought finally understanding. The Healer with his hand on the dying man was drawing life from his friend, with no clear source of life they could not be sure if the land was pure or tainted and would give them the life they needed to heal.

The entrails spilled out starting reversing, moving slowly like a snake, crawling back to the gut wound. The other Healer, the one being drawn from, paled. His eyes went wide and white and his fair skin paled. Blood ran down his nose, and the other Healer stayed still his hand on the wound. It was a wonder, grim yet wonder. Aalina seldom saw other Asemon at work, she often read about their magic but never truly saw it and even Britius was reluctant to use his magic.

The entrails were halfway into the wound and the other Healer collapsed and started spasming, shaking and his teeth clattering like a thousand bones. Foam, red as blood, oozed from his mouth and his eyes rolled over until they were white. The black vines across his skin grew more and faster, each trying to cover more of his skin. Sweat beaded the kneeling Healer, his expression had changed from serene to strained. His hand was the first to tremble before blood oozed from his nose and veins began crawling up his neck. His breathing quickened and laboured.

A tension of dread and death settled on the shoulders of the circle. The stench of blood magnified by a tenfold, Aalina knew then it was over. Death had come and no mortal power could keep it away.

Finally, she could not watch anymore she pushed through the circle, backing away. Seeking fresh air, the blood, the wounds, it fall reminded her of that night. It was one night she would rather not remember. Her head felt light and heavy at the same time, her eyes hurt as if someone had pulled them with hot tongs. She pushed through the circle and started to wander the camp, seeking what she did not know but she wanted something.

Around the camp, she dodged screaming children and nodded at the bows of servants and knights until she found where she was going. It was the southern side of the camp, four horses, all brown and saddled. Tied to a pole.

Aalina smiled and walked toward them. They were beautiful, just groomed she mused from the sheen their mane held and how soft to the touch their skin felt.

She gave each one a pat on the muzzle and a kiss on the neck. Inhaled their smells, they smelled of many things. Perfume and mud and oils, all wonderful smells filling her nose. She felt herself relax, shoulders slumping with the weight that had been weighing her ever since they left Thorn Castle eased off.

The throbbing pain in her temples soothed as well, it eased away as if carried on by the wind. Casting glances around the camp, Aalina grabbed the reins of one horse and hoisted herself up the stirrups and onto the saddle. As she bent down to untie it from the pole, she heard mud suckle on a boot. Her heart throbbed in her throat and she shot up straight, glaring at the squire walking towards her.

When he saw her looking at him the squire stopped, jaw-dropping and eyes widening. "Uhmm ...good morning, my Lady. A fine day it is, how do you do, my Lady?" The boy greeted briskly, no doubt frightened, but he wasn't paled. Only he had a red tinge of colour on his single dimple.

Aalina did not answer him, she only nodded and bent over to untie the rope. There was a cluster of shields and shafts slapping as they fell. Out of the corner of her eye, Aalina caught sight of the boy, slowly stepping toward her. "Can I help you?" And immediately after she winced, she had not intended her voice to sound so cold.

"Oh," was all the boy said as he leaned in and untied the horse she mounted with quick fingers. Aalina sat up straight in her saddle and looked down at the boy. He was plump, yet fit for his age and large too. He could not have been more than eight summers and he was already training to be a knight. He was either a bastard that some lord didn't want or a second son.

"Thank you..." Aalina raised a brow.

The boy fumbled a bit, standing straighter as if trying to show off his chest, " Oger, my Lady."

"Thank you, Oger. Now would you mind lending me a lance?"

"A lance?" Oger asked, brows rising. He cast a glance at the ones lying in the mud along with a shield. He would have to polish that again or his master would have his hide, poor lad.

Aalina nodded slowly, "Would you be so kind please." She added a smile. Oger flushed, his eyes jumped from her face to her chest. Aalina rolled her eyes, grinding her teeth. She was near yelling.

Over walked over to the spear and picked one up, gingerly, as if they might jump and bite him. Best of luck to whoever was ordered to turn him into a knight. The boy was afraid of something in his hand! He walked back to Aalina and handed her the spear. It felt good in her hands, light and heavy at the same time. The head of it gleamed with the light of the sun shining upon it. "Thank you,"

"Pleasure, my Lady. Anything else, my Lady?" An eager Oger asked, he licked his lips wet now and then. Prick! Aalina shook her head, then it came to her. Lord Conan would undoubtedly try to stop her if he knew, best if he did not then.

"Tell no one you saw me, none."

The boy bowed and swore oaths to be his loyal servants. She needs only ask of it and it would be done, but Aalina did not pay him any heed. She did not need boys who still smelled like their mothers, she needed men. Holding the shaft carefully in her hands Aalina spurred the horse forward, turned it towards the Wyrmwood, and sent it into a trot. At first, no one paid heed to her, but then suddenly men started calling to her. Servants in aghast called to her too, Aalina took the reins of the horse firmly in her hands while she held the spear and kicked the horse into a gallop.

The land gave way quickly, muddy, messy land turned into a steep slope and grass. The wind filled her hair and nose. The world sped past before she was swallowed up by the darkness of the Wyrmwood, Aalina felt free.

Ricardus scanned the rolling lands while he sat atop his great horse. To the eastern north side was the hill of the hunting camp, from this distance, he could see the raised pavilions and burning fires sending smoke to the grey-blue sky of mid-morning. Then further north it was the hill where the estate of that imprudent, disobedient lord was built.

From there Ricardus would see how the walls were weakest at which side. From the gates the walls sagged a bit on the slope, like the breasts of an old whore finally going wet like clothes to the southern side, the walls were too short on that side, short enough to be climbed over. But he did not risk himself coming here just to sightsee some lands, he had come here with a purpose that would rid him of that troublesome girl, for good this time.

The morning air shifted his cloak about, tugging at it as if to carry him to the sky and toss him where the world would not find him. Ricardus cast a wary glance at the Wyrmwood where the hunt always took place as a tradition for the nobles. Each year just after spring they would come here to hunt, but this year game had been scarce and they had to take from Argrand's shed. The bastard had not been too pleased about it.

"I should put him in his place soon. He's grown too bold it would seem." He muttered to the wind. Aalina had just ridden into those woods fifteen minutes ago, carrying a spear and riding like a man. She still attacked as she thought not as she must it seemed, if she wasn't such a threat to his claim. He would have enjoyed breaking her into his will, turning her from what she was into a true noble lady. One who curtseys and listens to men. A lady who was a lady, not some barbarian. What a waste of good sport.

Ricardus dropped his reins and unmounted his horse. A twig snapped like bone when he stepped onto the grass and it shuffled like feet. Droplets of water glistened like diamonds from the grass, but they did not capture Ricardus' eye. He started towards the lake to the left of the Wyrmwood. The sun's glow on the water turned it into a mirror or glass, it was how it earned its name. The Lake of Mirrors. Foolish name, Ricardus thought, bitterly as he strode towards it followed by two of his most trusted men in the King's Guard. His Lord Captain, a purple-eyed Metalist Asemon who barely spoke unless spoken to, and a brown-eyed fellow, the Captain Lieutenant, a man who saw nothing but gold and women. Both were from Low Houses, but they were trusted Houses. Especially the one of his Lord Captain. The boy's father had been the one to let him into Bellbroke Keep for the slaughter, but the sons were not the father.

That he had learned from himself and his usurper brother, Adame. As a boy Ricardus used to favour Adame more than anything in the world, favour him more than his wife. When his little brother sent word that he needed him he would ride out of his castle in haste, ride his horse near death just to get to his brother. If he had wings he could have flown at some point. And Ricardus never asked anything of him, the only thing he did ask was when he was crowned. Let him rule for the year then pass over the crown to him, but Adame.

Adame, he hissed in his head then kept repeating his name over and over like a mantra. Ricardus smiled wickedly and laughed. Adame deserved to die, he and his son, daughter, and wife. But Ricardus only managed to get the wife and son, not the daughter. The daughter has returned, no doubt sent by that King Regent whom Adame had Ricardus sign that after his death or should anything happen to them and Lief or Aalina survive, that slave would be King Regent until they met a certain age to take the crown.

At the shore of the lake, Ricardus bent down and picked up a small stone. He played with it between his fingers, feeling the rough and smooth textures of it. Aalina was causing problems for him now, he had enough of them but the girl was setting fire to everything.

Two of the High Houses supported him openly, but the rest acted as if they supported him and were scheming against him. Then came the Low Houses, not as powerful as the High but they were troublesome. If Aalina were to rally them to her cause then-the trot of hooves cut off his thoughts, Ricardus cast the stone over the water and it bounced three times before sinking. To his left came a black warhorse ridden by a rider dropped in a long black cloak that covered him from head to boot and only a gentle wind shifted his cloak.

He had his face veiled by a dark, blood-red cloth that covered his mouth to his nose leaving only the eyes open. Ten strides away the rider reined in his horse and unmounted, the clatter of his arms rang throughout the empty land. The stench of blood suddenly hit Ricardus as the rider came closer, he must have had another client. As he came closer, Ricardus felt his guards tense behind him. The heavy air of dread hung with bloodlust in the air.

The rider stopped a step away and stared at him with his dark, narrow, and angular eyes with the skin folded at the inner corner, of his eyes.

"The money," he said gruffly through his veil. He spoke Ustelian but his accent was light, almost as if poetic, slow, and crisp named him an Eshan. Though the Empire was a fool to let a woman rule them, they had one of the finest assassins in the world and they had their honour and discreetness.

Ricardus made a glance to his guards, they nodded and walked back to their horses and returned with two sacks, plump like a full belly, with coins. Ricardus returned his attention to the man as he reached for the parchment hidden in his cloak. It was folded so small and sealed with black wax. "You'll get the rest of your gold after you disposed of her, but here is some. One hundred gold crowns," he gestured to the sacks after his guards dropped them at the Eshan's feet.

The Eshan kicked them, and the coin inside clicked. Even if he did not see it, Ricardus imagined that he must have smiled. The Eshan bent down and picked up the sacks after he took the parchment from his hand and turned back to his horse. He tied his coin to the horse's neck lifted himself over it and kicked its ribs, riding towards the way he came. After he disappeared, Ricardus let out a heavy sigh of relief. One more problem was out of his hands now, he turned and marched back to his horse. Today there was going to be a wonderful feast. He felt it in his bones.

After climbing his horse, Ricardus spurred it into a gallop towards the hunting camp. Hunt the hunter, the words of a long gone House echoed in his head. The House of his mother. She was the last of their line and she died and now there was no more House Mordwyn. Life was utterly cruel, it was not the first time Ricardus witnessed it but it would be one of the many and few times he would act as the executioner.