"Thrones born of blood shall crumble to ash,
As the Red Hand claims the seats of the past.
Five fires burn, yet embers fade,
And the fox's whisper warns: 'Peace is a shade.'"

-"The Five Gods and the Fox, Epilogue: Fragile Reality"

ONCE Guilhem Starkwit used to have a purpose in life. Once. When he used to carry the sword and be clad in heavy armour and sweat himself out as he cut down his enemies during his service in the Hills.

But after a spear to the gut and a sword on his hip that left him pissing red for weeks and ruined for life, he had to consider his choices. Retire to his estate and waste there or join the Servants of the Seven to seek more glory. Of course, then he was a young youth, full of vigor and pride he gave up his lands and titles and joined the mongrels only to find no glory in the order.

The only glory you found was raw knees from kneeling and a burning hip after all that kneeling and praying for miracles but they never came. It was then he realised the line between reality and fantasy. He'd loved a fantasy all his life and now at forty with his, once-good hair, withering away with age and his good looks fading with it he sort of purpose again.

Much greater purpose than preaching the Scribes to the zealots and fastings. He wanted something more, something that the dream he had the night before promised.

Peering down from his loggia he watched the hustle and bustle of the city Bore from the height of his chambers in the Citadel.

Some said Bore was the most beautiful city in the kingdom and others claimed that it was the most beautiful in the world. Though he didn't agree with the latter he could agree it was the most beautiful city in the kingdom. A city made of only white to rival the grim and dark city of Skarstad which now lay in ruins in this nameless age.

Houses of white marble and coloured tile roofs lined the white straight street that was packed with people, peddlers, and hawkers. Among the houses, farther back down the hill were domes of glass ringed with gold or silver and white towers that reached to the sky like fingers of prophecy.

Their witch hat roofs glittered in the pale moonlight as they would in golden sunlight.

In each window of the houses burned a candle or lamp like in the city where wires were thrown overhead so that lamps could hang and shops could stay open even during the nightly hours.

Of course, it wasn't the light they trusted but the Swords of the Seven which the fourteen towers in the city housed. Each tower had seven floors and each floor had about a hundred men in it. Twice as much as the men in the army in the Hills. But this not not the king's army but the faith.

They owed it to no crown only the Seven Lords. At that Guilhem snorted, irritably rubbing his gut where the spear had run through him twenty-eight years ago. The Servants would rather have the kingdom burn to ashes than kneel to the crown. The Servants considered themselves about the laws of men but the king made no effort to put them in their places and so the fools continued to believe it.

Guilhem turned at the sound of soft footfalls. They were too soft to cause much sound, but the hairs at the back of his neck had stirred and he knew someone was with him in the chamber. It had a wide and vaulted ceiling with a painted glass mosaic of great battles of the Age of Darkness. The one in his bedchambers used to be his favourite as a child.

The Battle of the Plain of Black Dawns. The forces of the Seven Lords on the west donned golden armour facing the forces of the Shadowborn and the Lord of Darkness donned black armour with shadows writhing around their legs. One side was day and one side was night. The battle between good and evil at its finest.

Guilhem knew the Shadow War Cycle saga by heart now, but that sort was not permitted by the Servants or anywhere in the province. An attempt to tell it to the people would not get you their love but a noose around your neck or a spike to balance your head.

Gliding towards him was a tall man-taller than any he had ever seen-with golden eyes and curling dark hair.

"Oddo, you've returned. With good news, I hope." Guilhem started for the pitcher of water sitting on the smooth gilded wooden table, polished to a sheen and inlaid with ivory. Wine was banned in the province. Anything that dulled the mind was.

The man offered a deep bow, the black cloak about him touching the white marble floor, shining in the silver light that came from the three sides of the bedchamber. Two tall windows, arched on the left and right and from his loggia.

"I fear not, Son Starkwit. I only bring more weary and troubling telling from all across the kingdom." The man said as he straightened. His dark clothing seemed to blend with the shadows of his chambers. He had not let the servants light it up for him. Bore was hotter than most of the kingdom even with the cool marble it was still hot and he would rather now have himself pouring sweat from every part of him.

Guilhem grimaced. He had sent the man to Gora to try and see if the lords there had any bastards that wanted to send to the Citadel and to root out rumours of blasphemy preachers. Seven Lords knew that city and province was a breeding ground for such. "Well lay out to me, man." He said sourly as he lifted his goblet of water silently wishing for wine.

"Though they are no preachers and bastards I heard a rumour from the Black Marches of a Shadowweaver." The water went down the wrong pipe. The goblet slipped from Guilhem's hands and spilled the water over the floor as he coughed, choking on the few drops of water he'd sipped.

"You should not jest like that man," he said after a while, breathlessly.

Oddo grunted and strode for the goblet and picked it up. He produced a wineskin from his cloak pocket and uncorked it and dark brown liquid sloshed into the goblet.

"I never jest, Son Starkwit. I heard this rumour from a man I trust with my head and he would not lie to me. He says a village near the Consea Woods had a herb man killed by Shadowweaving and the Shadowweaver ran but those are far from it," he gave him the goblet half filled with beer. Guilhem took it from him with a trembling hand.

Shadowweavers were supposed to be gone. Their gift vanished from the world when their Lord was given to the Tall People. But it seemed not. It wasn't the fact that a Shadowweaver was seen in Ustela that frightened him but his dreams.

He dreamt of the world ending in bloodshed and fire. Spires had fallen into ruin, dead lying everywhere for the crows and vultures to pick, and a man whose face he could not see but the shadows writhed around him like a cloak of darkness. Not once had he dreamt like that. Dreams and nightmares were caused by fears and expectations of life, never truly a reflection of it.

Or so said the book "Philosophy on Dreams" by Scholar Roget Marl. And Guilhem Starkwit feared no Shadowweavers, they were supposed to be tales from the past. Some of them are supposed to be nothing but fancy but that dream made his bones cold.

He grimaced as he tipped the goblet to his mouth and drained it to the dregs. It was a good beer. Aged well enough too.

With his mind calming slowly he recalled Oddo's say. The man would stay silent until he asked again. A virtue and vice of him. "And what's the other?"

"There is strife at court. The kingdom maybe we split apart."

Guilhem laughed bitterly. "The strife there is nowhere in the world where you would go and not find strife. The kingdom was bound to burn sooner or later." He laughed again, mirthless laughter it was. Just to soothe his nerves.

"That true, but the strife is caused by the return of the princess or so my informant tells me," Oddo said with a shrug. At that, Guilhem paused and looked at Oddo. He wasn't of the order, none in the ranks of the Servants knew about him and the man was far from religious.

He was like Guilhem was in his youth but Oddo's purpose was not the sword but gold. His nose was big enough to smell it on you and he could give you word from across the kingdom for the right price. Not much you could do with it but it helped being intelligent about the happenings of the kingdom.

Oddo was a thief before he came to Guilhem's service. Found by the Swords trying his luck with the folk of the city and was to lose a hand too.

So being a good man Guilhem set the man free for his services of course which were useful to some degree but that was utter nonsense that the man had just spoken.

The princess...was dead. Or he would like to think it so. Her body was never found how could a girl of ten escape the massacre of the Hollow Night? Everyone believed she was dead even without the corpse.

It was just logic that she was...

....but now Oddo stood in front of him saying it was the latter, that the princess was alive. He almost wanted to laugh.

"Are you sure, lad? 'Cause the last time I heard was that the girl was dead if not sold as a slave to the Ufral."

Oddo frowned and nodded slowly, too slowly though as if doubting himself. "I'm sure. She declared for the crown and there is to be strife if not civil war with each House against another trying to claim her hand if not her head just to wear the crown."

The memory of the dream stirred at the back of his head. Spires burning and dead lying everywhere. Guilhem's stomach boiled. If what the men said was true then the Servants needed to meddle then. They could not let civil war break out now or the kingdom was nothing but ashes soon.

Damn, he thought fingering the rim of the goblet with a thick thumb, I need more. He let out a sigh and started, "Slip into court and establish yourself there. I want news from you every end of the week," he paused wondering if that would be enough, no it wouldn't. The Swords would be needed to quell this. A smile started to break on his face. "I'll have a word with the Council of the Seven Brothers. The Swords may march. Sleep for the night lad, you must be tired but before the next day is done I want you riding out towards Birk as if the Shadowborn were on your tail."

Oddo smiled, he couldn't see it but Guilhem thought he must have. Oddo was an odd man, the most odd that Guilhem had ever met in his life. A common folk who could speak properly. He bowed again and turned to the window. The shadows seem to billow around him and his dark clothing. One moment he was there and the next he wasn't. Guilhem stared after him for a while before starting for bed.

Limping as he went and cursing himself for not letting the servants light the fires. It was starting to be chilly. Damn, he thought again sliding under his furs.