OoOoO

Closing the door to the banquet hall behind them, Rhadu A'Khet turned to his intended.

"So?" He hadn't meant to sound quite so tentative, but Princess Ellorae was a difficult woman to read. "What are your impressions of my family?"

Fresh off a dinner with Rhadu's relatives, both immediate and extended, Ellorae hardly appeared perturbed. If anything, she had conducted herself throughout the meal as if she had known the nobles of Clan A'Khet her whole life. That was not to say that the princess had been overtly warm and friendly toward her future kin. Rather, her demeanor had been one of utmost security in her right to sit at that table. Never once had Ellorae exhibited the subtle eagerness-to-please, the anxious desire for acceptance so often characteristic of young brides. She had addressed each and every member of Rhadu's family directly, asking and answering questions with neither hesitation nor reservation. The sun was barely set upon Ellorae's first day in The Weeping Keep, and already she knew more about the inner workings of Clan A'Khet than most of its common-born clansfolk, if only thanks to the sheer volume of blunt questions she had plied upon Rhadu, his aging parents, and the rest of the A'Khet leadership over entrees. Thirty-four years of insider's experience told Rhadu that his family was both intrigued and somewhat perplexed by the Amentherian princess. He had no such intimate understanding of Ellorae though, and so could only wait for her to tell him her thoughts...or not.

"Clan A'Khet has done well for itself in the five years you have held The Weeping Keep. I am reassured that your family stands unified enough to contend with the presence of the other six clans for our wedding."

"To be honest, I am not entirely comfortable myself with the notion of such a gathering. Are you entirely sure about this? Inviting all seven clans to Derbesh at once? There are deep rivalries between many of the eimirs...enmities, even."

Ellorae cocked her head up at him, setting the clustered garnets dangling from her ears twinkling. Rhadu was a tall man, while the princess was short and slight, but somehow, she managed to look him directly in the eye without so much as craning her neck.

"I know. Nearly everyone west of The Teeth knows how famously at-odds the seven clans are. That will have to change though, if the east is to claim its status as a self-governed province. My brother will be quick to exploit any weaknesses in defense of his crown."

"And you think our marriage can do that? Overcome centuries of grudges and bad blood? The Hanara Desert is a harsh land, Your Highness, and it has crafted harsh histories between our people. Lord Kirben G'Hesh is also angry twice-over, now that the crown has rejected his eldest son's pursuit of your hand in favour of my own."

Ellorae shrugged. Crossing the floor of the parlor – her slippers making barely a dent in the lush, fabulously intricate carpets – she claimed a seat on the low sofa and signaled for wine.

"Word will spread quickly of my speech today," she said as a servant filled three goblets. "Do you truly believe that the clans will be so determined to quarrel inward amongst themselves with an enemy like the King of Goran looming large? You yourself saw how the people reacted to the notion of a Wal ruling once again from The Weeping Keep."

Rhadu still had his doubts. He had grown up in the nomadic encampments of the Hanara Desert. Although Clan A'Khet enjoyed a large span of coastline territory, as well as a border onto the Hiisa Oasis, that also meant that they were forever having to defend their lands from incursions against the other clans. Clan G'Hesh and Clan R'Tor were among the most aggressive when it came to border disputes, and he could still remember a stand-off at the oasis when he was a boy which had claimed the life of his favourite uncle. As much stake as Rhadu himself had in a united east, the thought of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Kirban G'Hesh still rankled him.

"A Wal is a fine thing..." Rhadu began slowly, choosing his words with care. "...but the problem with having a Wal is that there can only be one. In our letters, we agreed that with our marriage, I would become the foremost candidate for the title. We never discussed though how I might retain it. The other clans might be convinced to accept my claim, if only because Mahir's wrath will be a far more immediate concern. Once your brother is defeated though, I can name six names right here and now who will happily turn against me for the title of Wal."

"Once my brother is defeated, I will be Queen of Goran. With me as your ally, you will have all the support you need to retain The Weeping Keep. As the years go by, your power and influence will grow, and you will find that maintaining your rule becomes easier."

"You seem very sure of this," said Rhadu as he accepted one of the wine goblets from Ellorae.

"It has certainly been the case for the Amenthis dynasty. Look at us; nearly a thousand years of absolute rule, and even now it will take a royal rival to truly break the bedrock. Rest assured, that which outlives history becomes the future."

Rhadu had one more question. "What of heirs?"

For the first time since they had met, Ellorae had no immediate answer. Her nimble fingers found the charms of the bracelet which she wore, and she raised her goblet for another sip. Rhadu had known this would be a complicated issue; it was partially the reason why it had taken an Amentherian princess until the age of twenty-six to secure a formal engagement.

At this hour, with the sea gleaming black out the eastern windows of The Weeping Keep, the ship lanterns aglow on the darkened Beson Inlet far below, most noble ladies would either be retiring to their apartments or indulging in a quiet evening surrounded by minstrels, storytellers, and silken cushions. Princess Ellorae still had one formal engagement before the end of the day though. Neither she nor Rhadu were caught by surprise when a Guardian of the Keep – one of the few easterners who claimed allegiance to no clan – knocked on the parlor door.

"Captain Jerriod of the Fourth Company, as invited, Lord A'Khet and Princess Ellorae."

"Send him in," said Ellorae. With a flicker of her leonine brown eyes, she indicated the seat next to her on the sofa. "Sit down, Rhadu. It will not do for you to stand hovering behind me like a butler in front of Jerriod."

Realizing that he was, in fact, still standing awkwardly between the sofa and the hall door, Rhadu was quick to follow Ellorae's advice and take a seat. Somehow this diminutive woman with thin lips and auburn roots showing beneath her dyed-gold hair had managed to put him entirely off-guard in his own house. Just as the door handle began to turn, Ellorae even went so far as to slide closer to Rhadu, wrapping a hand around his knee and pressing up against his shoulder. It was entirely acceptable behaviour between an engaged couple, but unnerving coming from Princess Ellorae after the purely conspiratorial nature of their previous letters and interactions. Rhadu, although by no means a blushing boy, still almost choked on his wine.

Rhadu was not the only one ill at ease; Captain Jerriod's posture as he entered the room was so stiff, his spine could have been used as a ruler. Although the captain had shed his dusty armor and travel-stained cloak in favour of the Royal Army's emblazoned tunic over clean shirt and trousers, he did not look at all comfortable. Beads of sweat clung to the tips of Jerriod's close-cropped salt-and-paper hair, despite the cool ocean breeze blowing up from Beson Inlet.

"Your Majesty." Standing before Ellorae and Rhadu in the center of the parlour, Jerriod's bowed respectfully (if somewhat jerkily). "Lord A'Khet. You summoned me?"

Princess Ellorae waved a hand airily. "Invited, Captain. Please, have a seat. Would you join us for some wine?" She indicated the third cup on the side table.

"No, thank you, Your Majesty," replied Jerriod.

"Pity, no one makes wine like the clansfolk. Except perhaps the Dorwiniel family of Syrion. Please sir, sit."

No matter how rattled by the day's events Jerriod might have been, only a fool made an heir of Amenthis request something a third time. Bending as sharply at the knees as a child's toy, Jerriod lowered himself onto a simplest chair he could find. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing as he eyed the noble couple opposite him.

After nearly two weeks on the road, the exquisite opulence of The Weeping Keep was almost hard to take in. Ribbons of incense smoke unfurled from every corner of the room, rising to entwine amongst the delicately carved teak wood ceiling panels. Wall hangings covered all sides of the parlour – save the open balcony doors – and threads of spun silver and gold could be seen winking along the edges of mountain peaks and griffin wings. Even the straight-backed chair on which Jerriod sat boasted a cushion of peach coloured velvet, as soft as a kitten's cheek. Rather than put Jerriod at ease, the richness of his surroundings only served to heighted the man's discomfort.

Jerriod's thinly veiled unease made it possible for Rhadu to recover at least some measure of his own authority. "By the rains, Captain, we are not here to put your own personal politics on trial. Princess Ellorae and I merely wish to discuss the future of the Fourth Company with you."

"The Royal Army has always served the line of Amenthis and the throne in Amenthere." Jerriod was well aware that, despite Rhadu's reassurances, he was walking on eggshells here. "The Fourth Company is part of the Royal Army...as are the Knights of Amenthis. What of Lieutenant Neel and the ten men who accompanied you from Amenthere, Princess?"

Ellorae sipped from her wine. "Lieutenant Neel's first loyalty is to the realm of Goran. It is for this reason that he and his knights have pledged themselves to me. Ultimately, when I am queen, their previous oaths to the crown will still hold true. The decision before you is therefore a simple one, Captain. You can either swear for me, pledging yourself and the Fourth Company to my claim as Queen of Goran...or you can interpret your oaths as still binding you to Mahir."

Jerriod swallowed hard. "And what are the outcomes for myself and my men, if I should choose King Mahir?"

"You saw the reaction in the plaza this morning," said Rhadu. "I anticipate Clan A'Khet to sway hard and fast in favour of Princess Ellorae's claim. Clan S'Dir is friendly to us, and is rumored to have offered support to Nadathan N'Shar and Sula G'Hesh and their band of Factionists."

"The very same Factionists which the Fourth routed rather brutally at the village of Trosk, if I recall correctly," Ellorae added.

Rhadu nodded. "Clan G'Hesh was reportedly happy enough to disown their Factionist daughter. However, Nadathan N'Shar's uncle, Lord Vashoul, is by all accounts very angry that his nephew has yet to be seen alive since Trosk. That makes three clans – A'Khet, S'Dir, and N'Shar – that are likely to be hostile toward Royal Army soldiers. These same three clans also happen to hold territory along The Running Road between here and The Teeth. Between Clan A'Khet here in Derbesh, the S'Dirs, and the N'Shars, all of whom are plenty stirred up already, it will be very difficult for soldiers loyal to Mahir to make it to the mountains unscathed."

"So, by your reckoning, the Fourth Company's choice is not between you and your brother, but between you and death," concluded Jerriod bitterly. "I am to turn my back on my vows as an officer of the Royal Army, my vows to Goran...or else you will see to it that we're killed along the road, is that it? Congratulations, Your Majesty, it appears you have us trapped quite neatly!"

Rhadu's dark eyebrows shot up, equal parts disapproving and privately impressed. It took significant gall to speak so nakedly to a royal heir. Princess Ellorae for her part took Jerriod's outburst much as she had everything else since arriving in Derbesh; absolutely straight-faced. She did however resume toying with her charm bracelet. Rhadu made a mental note to gift her another trinket to add to it, if only to show Ellorae that he had noticed.

"You say you wish to honour your vows to Goran, Captain Jerriod?"

"I do."

"Then let me put this argument to you. Factionist sympathies are not diminishing, not in the slightest. If anything, they are gaining traction not only from their birthplace in the south, but now amongst the clansfolk of the east. Even Trosk, a tiny mountain village of scarcely a few hundred peasants, sided with the Factionists when pressed. How long before Factionism begins to find allies amongst the nobility of Goran? What of the north? What do you think will be the ultimate outcome, if things proceed along their current path?"

"They will not," protested Jerriod. "The king is drafting new soldiers from every corner of the land daily. It may not be long before he is able to rebuild the Third Company. We've also turned our attention to the seas; fighting the southern Factionists on their own battlefield. King Mahir could attack Moaan from both land and sea, if all goes-"

"You do not account for the clansfolk at all in your rebuttal, Captain," interrupted Rhadu. "Certainly, reviving the Third and building a fleet of warships will be strong elements in Mahir's favour against the southerners, but you have never seen the clans in their full fury. You know of us only a tiny skirmish outside a mountain village and a brief stand-off along The Running Road. Have you ever seen a midday sun hidden behind the wings of a thousand griffins though? Have you ever heard of anyone laying siege to The Weeping Keep? What army could even make it past the bottleneck of The Old Mountain Road without being slaughtered in tidy single-file by the waiting blades of the seven clans?"

Ellorae leaned forward, quick to capitalize on Rhadu's point. "Amenthere is powerful, yes. A dynasty does not rule for almost a thousand years without amassing both wealth and strength. I was born and raised in Castle Armathain, weaned on a steady diet of the might of my bloodline. And so, you may believe me when I tell you that, if the Goran turns against the blood of Amenthis, there will be no saving Goran from its own end. The world as we know it will splinter and crack, divided into pieces with no common purpose and no future. Goran needs an heir of Amenthis on the throne, just as it needs its shared history."

"And you figure that that heir ought to be you, simply because you have the nerve to seize the crown?" Jerriod had grown careless with his words, but at this point it was too late for tact. "You certainly have the drive to rule, Princess, I will give you that much. The fact stands though that you are secondborn. What gives you the right to usurp your elder brother for the throne? What about Prince Hithon, for that matter?"

There was an animation to Ellorae's face, a hidden excitement which before now Jerriod had never seen. It was the face of ambition, pure and unfiltered. Jerriod knew and understood such ambition, the passionate inner drive to rise above the masses at all cost. It was what had put him through officer's training at The Academy, what had earned him a Medal of Mastery with Distinction at the tender age of thirty. That small spark of understanding was the first crack in the captain's resolve.

"It is not a question of right, Captain, it is a question of necessity. Mahir is losing the world of Goran. With every passing day, the vision of a united kingdom slips further and further through his grasping fingers. The south has passed the point of ever being willing to return to the way things were, and I suspect that the east is not far behind. Short of brutal, nation-wide domination – which I doubt the Royal Army has the numbers for – my brother has come to the end of his road as king. There is only one way to save Goran now, and that is by allowing it to change. Mahir either cannot or will not see that, and if he remains on the throne, our world will be torn asunder forever. My nephew is only a child, and will not come of age for another ten years. Only I can save our world now. Pledging fealty to me would not be an act of treason, but of deepest loyalty to Goran and its people."

Jerriod chewed his tongue, the iron-grey stubble on his chin rippling as his jaw worked. Avoiding Ellorae's too-intense stare, he instead chose to question Rhadu.

"You knew about all this? Before we even arrived?"

"I did. Princess Ellorae and I have been corresponding for nearly a year now, ever since Mahir decided to intensify the search for a suitor for his sister. Our 'love letters' have been quite unlike any other between a princess and her long-distance suitor, I will tell you that much."

"You would be surprised how many laws and edicts throughout history have been written perfume-scented paper," quipped Ellorae.

"And what do you stand to gain here?" pressed Jerriod.

Rhadu's answer was prompt and confident, but Jerriod did not miss the brief flicker of the other man's eyes toward the princess. "With Princess Ellorae's backing, I will claim the title of Wal of the East, first held by Anders U'Krell at the founding of Goran. It is not just for my own gain that I am working here, though. As the princess has said, under her rule, the east will become an independent province, accorded the rights and freedoms to proclaim our own laws, fly our own flags, and bear our own name."

"Spoken like a true Factionist," grumbled Jerriod.

"Factionist, no!" Rhadu was quick to correct him. "I am not like the south's fire-tongued BlackPearl, who fights not just for independence, but complete separation. I have no wish to see the east sundered from Goran entirely. Besides, why would I, with the High Queen as my bride?"

Not to be spoken over for long, Ellorae cleared her throat. "There is one more thing. Something which you may weigh most heavily in your decision."

"Oh? And that is?"

"When I am queen, I will return the Obads to their proper places. There will be no further talk of sorcerers as warriors; they will take up their books and quills once more, never again to wield waking magic. This I will ensure by banning the practice altogether, as it is both dangerous and dishonorable. Obads are scholars, no more and no less. The art of warfare belongs to those who are trained in it...most especially those who have devoted themselves to its study through many hard years spent at The Academy."

Nothing else that anyone could have ever said would have hit the mark quite so squarely as that. Although Jerriod had done a better job of hiding his disdain than Pedrum and the foot soldiers, the Red Obad Frandel's presence among the ranks of the Fourth had been nothing less than an outrage. Effective though Frandel might have been in bringing a swift end to the skirmish at Trosk, it had burned Jerriod's pride as an officer of the Royal Army to see a fight so lopsidedly won by sorcery. He made his decision.

"It seems...Your Highness...that you have argued your case well."

Slowly, Jerriod rose from his seat. When he drew his sword, sudden movement from the corners by the doorway gave away the presence of Guardians of the Keep, ever alert to danger. Both Rhadu and Ellorae held up a hand though, and the guardians remained where they were. Turning his sword over in hand, Jerriod sank the tip into the plush carpet, bowed his head, and sank to one knee.

"I, Captain Jerriod Brin of the Fourth Company, do swear myself to the service of you, Princess Ellorae-"

"Queen Ellorae," she corrected him.

"...Do swear myself to the service of you, Queen Ellorae Amenthis of Goran. To you I offer my blood, my breath, and my bones, to be laid to rest only at the end of a life lived in your name. Never shall my blade be sheathed at your peril, and no dawn shall I see unless you have endured the night. Call when you have need of me, ask what you will of me, and always I will come. I am, now and always, yours to command."

Ellorae's smile was pure satisfaction. "As I am, now and always, yours to follow. Rise, Jerriod, Captain of the Queen's First Company."

OoOoO

Housing for the soldiers of the Fourth had been provided in a large boarding house less than a block from plaza below The Weeping Keep. To the road-weary men, it was nothing short of luxury. They had the entire five-story building to themselves – save the staff who kept the place running – and that combined with real beds and hot (if somewhat spicy!) food had spirits generally high that evening. Pedrum and the other officers made it clear that no one was to go out wandering in Derbesh, but for tonight at least no one was inclined to complain. After Princess Ellorae's declaration in the plaza and the resulting uproar, most of the soldiers of the Fourth were somewhat hesitant to be out and about in a city full of easterners anyways.

As per usual, the men of Trosk and the lowlander soldiers kept their distance. The boarding house was four to a room, and many of the mountainfolk were gathered in the room assigned to Borse, Joar, Erland, and Isbjorn the wainwright. They were packed in nearly thirty to the room, and men sprawled everywhere from across to beds to perched atop the narrow wash basin. Someone had snuck bread – the flat, rounded kind baked by the clansfolk – from the kitchen, and the younger men were playing knucklebones with Andris's set from home. Tarun sat squashed (somewhat irately) in the middle of it all, having been dragged along by Garrit. He was just thinking how he would have preferred to be back in their room, either checking up on his still healing whip welts or reading Secondborn, when a thread of conversation caught his attention.

"-figure we could leave as soon as tomorrow, if the Bear goes swearing for Her Ladyship."

"Better make it day after, we'd need to gather supplies for the trip back."

"Trip?" Tarun interrupted, lightly pushing Andris out of the way to better see Thyge and Joar. "What trip?"

Thyge looked at Tarun as if he'd just asked why The Teeth were tall. "Back to Trosk, of course. Jerriod was called to meet with the princess and Lord Rhadu up in The Weeping Keep earlier this evening. Word is that she's going to want him to pledge the Fourth to her, in which case I say the terms of our 'agreement' at Trosk are hog slop."

A chorus of emphatic agreement went up around the crowded room. "They were already slop, but what could we do then?" Erland's words were met with even more accord. "Hengar managed to get away...I say we do the same. But this time, we'll leave all together, at once. What can Jerriod do now, here in the midst of Derbesh? The clansfolk have always been friendly to us mountainfolk. If the Bear and his dogs try to stop us with force, I'm willing to stake my fate on it that at the very least Oshaher and his S'Dirs will step in."

Again, more cheering from the men of Trosk. The thought of going home had broad smiles on just about everyone's face. Everyone, that is, except for Tarun.

He hadn't forgotten what the Fourth had done to Marden...or to him. In the weeks since Tarun had left Trosk though, his horizons had broadened in ways he'd never even imagined possible. Yes, he had been reduced to a nameless, faceless foot soldier, ordered about, harangued, and even whipped. But, on the other hand, he had met the Princess of Goran in person, and not only had she spoken to Tarun, she had given him a priceless book and hints about at future at The Academy. After wishing for more all his life, could he really go back to the life of a shepherd in the mountains...? Even if it meant not going back to Lhara? Wasn't that what his plan had been in the first place, in another life when his greatest concern was finding a way to Amenthere?

Pretending that he had to step out to relieve himself, Tarun slipped out of the room. Garrit of course saw Tarun leaving, and gave his cousin an exasperated look before the door closed between them. Alone in the only slightly quieter hallway, Tarun let out a long breath.

"-not as bad as the others are always saying. They actually make for really good conversation, once you get them talking."

The increasingly familiar voice of Derrian Bel reached Tarun from around the corner. The last thing Tarun wanted tonight was to deal with that pesky, over-friendly inlander. Casting about in desperation, Tarun dove for the first escape he could find; the servants' stair at the end of the hall. He barely managed to slip inside and shut the door before Derrian came into sight, a gaggle of dubious looking inlander soldiers trailing behind him. Derrian was headed for the room where the men of Trosk were gathered, and Tarun breathed a sigh of relief that he had made his exit when he did.

That still left one small problem; the servants' door only opened one way without keys. Several unsuccessful attempts at the handle confirmed that Tarun was indeed stuck in the darkened stairwell. With nowhere to go but down, he picked his way down five flights of creaking wooden steps. A distinctly rat-like skittering somewhere in the dark made him pause, but only briefly. In a city like Derbesh, rats were bound to be everywhere.

When Tarun found the doorway at the bottom, a wash of salty-sweet night air was waiting to greet him. Colored lanterns shone high and low throughout the city, a contrast to the simple white light of the stars overhead. A sliver of a crescent moon hung over The Weeping Keep, briefly blotted out by the silhouette of a passing griffin.

"I gave orders for everyone to remain in the boarding house tonight, Thrymmson."

Jerriod's voice directly behind him pulled an involuntary flinch from Tarun. He had forgotten about the Fourth being confined to quarters. Without any good explanation to offer, all Tarun could do was turn around and face the captain.

To his surprise, Jerriod did not look particularly angry. If anything, he seemed more casual than Tarun had ever seen him before. Without his armor, his tunic concealed beneath a cloak and walking alone in the street, it would have been easy enough to mistake Jerriod for a simple pedestrian. The hilt of his sword peeked out though, and a wild notion crossed Tarun's mind that Jerriod could easily kill him here, if he so wished. There were certainly no clansfolk present in that dark alley at the moment, either to witness or to come to Tarun's aide.

Perhaps such a thought lent Tarun a bit of recklessness. Rather than fall into bowing and saluting and apologizing, he faced Jerriod directly.

"What did Princess Ellorae want?"

Jerriod's first reaction was to bristle at Tarun's insubordination. Just as quickly though, he frowned, his gaze sliding past Tarun to The Weeping Keep towering over the plaza at the end of the alley.

"You may as well know, if you don't already...I saw how 'Lady Elowen' took an interest in you during the trip here. I have sworn myself and the Fourth to Princess Ellorae's service. We will now carry her banners and the title of the Queen's First Company."

Tarun had suspected as much, but hearing the news from Jerriod's mouth directly made it altogether real. It also solidified the quandary he now found himself in.

"The men of Trosk will leave when they hear that," he said bluntly. "Just the idea of you turning on Mahir was enough to start them talking of home."

Taken aback, Jerriod stared strangely at Tarun. Then he cast a dark look upward at the cheerful raucous coming from the open windows of the boarding house.

"If you have any love for your kinfolk, do not let them leave. As the princess made abundantly clear to me this evening, soldiers loyal to Mahir will not make it out of Derbesh alive."

"They're not Mahir's soldiers, they're mountainfolk. The clansfolk won't harm them if they want to go home."

"You are many things, Tarun Thrymmson, but everything I know about you tells me that you are no fool. The S'Dirs might let you pass through their territory, but do you really think the R'Tors will let you even get that far? After they saw you march uninvited through their lands with the Fourth and a S'Dir escort? What about the N'Shars? Even if Lord Vashoul doesn't harm the mountainfolk, he will definitely be looking to detain you for answers around the disappearance of his nephew, the Factionist ringleader. With only a couple hundred of you altogether, you simply don't have the numbers to fight your way all the way back to Trosk." Then, all of the sudden, Jerriod leaned in close, eyes narrowed tight with scrutiny. "Unless...you don't want to leave. Why else would you tell me what the others were planning, am I right?"

Tarun remained stiff-lipped in stubborn silence, unwilling to agree with Jerriod but unable to refute him.

Jerriod seemed to have his answer regardless. "The world is turning on its head, and it seems to me that it will be the strong, the clever, and the lucky who come up right-side. I've yet to decide if the princess's interest in you makes you lucky, Thrymmson...or very, very unlucky. For now, if you still hold any hope of winning a place at The Academy someday, I suggest you heed my warning. Do not let the men of Trosk leave Derbesh."

With that, Jerriod turned on his heel and strode away down the alley, leaving Tarun where he stood, alone in the dark with his warring loyalties. 

OoOoO