OoOoO

Daybreak in Hashodi saw Jath, Yidu, Lhara, and Reyson making their way through the frost-slicked streets, following after Zhaiden like goslings after a mother goose. Their breath came in chilly little puffs of white, the northern air rushing crisp and sharp into their lungs. Despite the cold, green still surrounded the city on all sides. Hashodi stretched along the bottom of an ancient gorge, carved over centuries by the swift waters of the Wengdu River. Here, approaching the oldest parts of the city, the pines which sheltered Hashodi's southernmost entrance grew intrepid, stretching up the rocky sides of the gorge until it seemed impossible that their roots should find any purchase. Mist hung low overhead, shrouding the ridges of the rocky cradle – long eroded by time into rounded, almost eerie shapes – in which Hashodi sat. Birds nested along these mossy walls; dark shapes which alternated between perching by their holes and gliding across the gorge on silent wings.

At the front of the group, Jath and Zhaiden were speaking in low voices. Lhara and Yidu walked side-by-side, clutching their cloaks about them for warmth, leaving Reyson to bring up the rear. Lhara's arms were covered in goosebumps, but it was only partially due to chill.

So much was at stake here; the fates of all the people she had come to know and love since leaving Trosk now hung upon a single meeting with a stranger. This Vállin White-Fox was an enigma. Although Sonak and the twins had spoken more or less well of him, the Regent of the North held incredible power over the fate of Goran. With over sixty-thousand people living within the bounds of The Night Forest, northerners made up a considerable portion of the Gorian populace. Only the clans of the Hanara Desert could possibly do more to sway the balance of power against Mahir. If Lord Vállin was loyal to Mahir though...

Over the course of the last few days, Lhara had slowly but surely been coming to the realization of their party's true purpose. The only way to know if the Regent of the North could be swayed to siding with the rebellion was to ask. There simply wasn't time for any elaborate games of intention, or otherwise playing coy about their Factionist ties. The four of them were very much the proverbial canary in the coal mine. If Lord Vállin could be swayed to join with Undor against the capital, then he would be. If not, then Lhara wasn't naïve enough to imagine that they would simply be sent along their merry way back to Moaan.

'No wonder Konnah and her family didn't want to be seen entering the city with us.' Lhara sighed aloud, breathing out a long stream of misty breath.

Yidu's hand caught and held hers. The younger girl's dark eyes gleamed unusually bright beneath her hood. "Hey. It'll be alright, you'll see."

"It's hard not to be nervous," said Lhara.

"Too bad we don't have Lieutenant Gideo here with us. Or Madame Kiiss. Either one of those two could probably just walk in and charm the pants straight off the Lord Regent!"

Despite the tension, Lhara couldn't help but snort and laugh.

"You mean like what's happening with those two?"

She wiggled her eyebrows toward Zhaiden and Jath, who were murmuring together so intently that their hair – snow white and raven black – nearly touched as they walked. In contrast to Lhara's anxieties over their present destination, a smile could just be seen at the corner of Jath's mouth as he turned his head to speak to Zhaiden.

"Jealous?" asked Yidu.

"Not at all! It's nice to see Jath with a friend, especially someone he knew from before. And before you say it, no, that whole thing in Blue Stone with Darenel Tremaris does not count."

"Did Jath ever meet your brother? The one you said you were trying to rescue from the royal army?"

Lhara winced. "No, Jath and Tarun never met. At least, not as far as I know. Tarun's very different from Jath, I don't know what the two of them would make of each other. Tarun...he doesn't make friends easily."

"I hope I'm there to see it when they do eventually meet. Do you think I could visit your home in the mountains someday, Lhara? I always wanted to travel when I was little, and Trosk sounds interesting!"

Lhara was just promising Yidu that of course she was welcome in Trosk at any time when a sudden turn in the street stole everyone's attention. There before them, emerging from the mist like a towering sentinel, stood the famous StarSpire of Hashodi.

At its base, it was a house not unlike Zhaiden and Io's family estate, albeit much larger and far grander. It sat nestled against the farthest side of the gorge, with many of the house's wings seemingly carved straight into the rocky face. The hour was still early, and a warm orange glow filtered through slanted shutters in many in the windows. Much like the rest of Hashodi, the house's tiled roofs curled up at the corners like ferns, the better from which to hang bundles of long, silver windchimes. Thick pines and moss grew all around, beside, and in some places above and across the house at base of the StarSpire, giving the place an aura that was simultaneously cozy and ancient.

What truly gave the StarSpire its name, however, was not the house, but the tower which grew upward from it. Black stones cut with veins of shimmering mineral twisted and interlocked together up the tower's sides, creating the illusion of spiralling even though the StarSpire itself stretched straight and true for the heavens. Even at its top, so high above the gorge that Lhara had to crane her neck to properly take it in, moss clung to the tower in trailing curtains. A ring of golden light encircling the column of the tower at it's top caught Lhara's eye. To her delight and disbelief, she realized that the floor atop the StarSpire must have been built at least partially of glass. The thought of standing there, peering down past her feet through a floor of glass at the city below, was dizzying even to a born-and-bred child of the mountains.

"Are we going all the way up to the top?" Lhara asked aloud.

"Not today," answered Zhaiden. "Your audience with Lord Vállin will be in The Cold Palace, the hall at the StarSpire's base."

"Good," said Reyson emphatically, the sling in which he continued to carry his arm a near-fatal reminder of their group's last encounter with heights.

They left the street where it ended at the city's edge, now following a wide gravel pathway up the side of the valley toward the main entrance of The Cold Palace. Beds of frost-white flowers, thorny shrubs with leaves as black as ink, and tiny lanterns encased in bulbs of crystalline blue glass decorated the path on either side. A short set of stairs brought them up to the front doorway just as the first blush of sunrise began to tint the mist around the rim of the gorge a demure pink.

A pair of guards flanked the doors, keeping watch over the entrance to The Cold Palace from behind draconic visors and gleaming spears. Zhaiden greeted them with a bow, and the guards admitted the group with no further questions.

"Vàllin White-Fox awaits you and your party in the River Room, Zhaiden-mir."

Zhaiden nodded. "This way, everyone. The Regent of the North is expecting you."

OoOoO

Dark and stony and ancient as the outside of The Cold Palace was, the inside presented a different atmosphere entirely. The front doors slid soundlessly shut behind them, leaving the chilly blue dawn outside, replacing it with gleaming wooden floors, golden light, and the scent of powdered incense cones. It was not unlike the inside of Zhaiden and Io's family home, albeit larger and quietly grander in design. The front foyer featured a ring of low couches, arranged around a large central brazier. A servant leaned over the polished rim of the hearth, stoking last night's coals back to full flame. She acknowledged their arrival with a nod, before returning to the task at hand.

As Zhaiden led the group across the foyer and down a hallway on the far side, Lhara basked in the fine details which her eye glasses now afforded her. Everything about the inside of The Cold Palace was beauty through simplicity. The beams which lined the halls and spanned the ceilings were uncarved, leaving every knot and whorl in the grain of their richly stained wood on full display. There were no ornate tapestries or plush carpets like what Lhara might have imagined a palace would hold. Every so often though, in one of the expanses between timbers, a showcase of northern artistry could be found on display. On one wall, a painting of running water beneath broken ice, with brushstrokes that glittered as if laced with silver. At the end of another corridor, a statue of three khyaru deer stood, their long coats trailing behind lithe, galloping forms, forever frozen in streams of pale alabaster.

"This is the place." Zhaiden stopped before a set of embossed metal doors. A nameplate on the wall nearby read 'The River Room'. To Lhara's surprise, she could indeed hear the sound of water gurgling faintly on the other side. "Anytime you're ready."

Everyone looked at one another. This did not feel like a dangerous place. Something about The Cold Palace put Lhara at ease, even though they had yet to even meet the all-important player in their purpose here; the Regent of the North. Reyson, Jath, and Yidu all stood waiting upon the threshold around her, apprehensive...perhaps even tense, but oddly unafraid.

Yidu stepped forward. "Let's go. Best not to keep Lord Vàllin waiting, yas?"

Zhaiden chuckled. "Best not to keep Io waiting. She's had the cooks working since yesterday on your Birth Day dinners. But first..." Reaching out, he pushed the doors of the River Room inward.

OoOoO

To anyone who had ever been in the Hall of Thrones in Amenthere, the difference between it and the seat of power in the north was immediately apparent. The River Room earned its name in the most literal sense; unseen from the front of The Cold Palace, its entire northern wall was absent, allowing the entirety of the Wengdu River to be seen as it flowed through the valley. Without full enclosure, this far into autumn, it was uncomfortably chilly in The River Room. Frost clung to the walls and floor, casting the black tourmaline tiles in a glittery sheen. No furniture ornamented the space, save for one chair. The seat of the regent was carved directly into the furthest wall, set in stone opposite the open north wall. From there, the leader of the north could see not only the length of the room, but the grey river and sharp, mossy gorge beyond. The River Room struck Lhara as a place meant not for comfort, but for clarity. Unlike the rest of the house, everything here was cold, hard, and crisp as black ice.

There was one soft thing in The River Room though. Lord Vàllin sat waiting and watching from his unyielding stone seat. In his lap he held something small and furry. When Lhara realized that it was a tiny grey rabbit, she had to bite her tongue to stifle a coo of delight. Then Zhaiden bowed low before the regent, and Lhara and the others were quick to follow his lead.

"Good morning, Vàllin-mirzin. I bring to you the four travelers who presented themselves at the city gate three days past. They are Reyson Hollistor, Jatheryn Saurivic, Yidu BlackPearl, and Lhara Miradaughter. I have, until now, vouched for them as my guests. May their own words and actions now speak for themselves in your presence?"

Lord Vàllin did not speak. Instead, he simply inclined his chin in a brief nod. He was unlike any man Lhara had ever seen before, except perhaps Zhaiden. It was impossible to tell how old the Regent of the North was. He wore no mustache or beard, which to the eyes of a mountain-born woman made Lord Vàllin youthful. His face was smooth and unblemished, beautifully so. His hair was long and black, tied up high upon the regent's head in a multitude of braids bound together into one. There was a stillness to his hands, a heaviness to his eyes, and enough frost at his temples though to suggest that Vàllin was not a young man. The robes which he wore were heavily encrusted with fine silver embroidery at the wrists and throat. The quality of his shoes alone would have been proof that, old or young, this was a person of great power and esteem among his people.

"Lord Vàllin, we are here to..."

It came as a shock to Lhara to hear Reyson hesitate. After all the distance they had traveled, all the obstacles they had overcome to get here, why would he falter now? Reyson glanced back over his injured shoulder at Lhara, Jath, and Yidu. Was it Lhara's imagination, or was there something protective in the way he was looking at them? The swordsman shifted his weight, subtly placing more of himself between Vàllin and the rest of the group.

It was Yidu who ultimately led the charge on everyone's behalf. Slipping forward around Reyson, she planted her boots firm and square on the frosty tiles and met Lord Vàllin's gaze directly.

"We're here to ask that you and your people stand by the people of the south against the crown. The people of Undor – my people! – have shed their sweat, tears, and even their blood for almost two years now. We've stood alone against Mahir's fury, facing magistrates, the royal army, and our own fears. All we want is to rule ourselves, as we did once before in the days before Amenthis. Lord Xolani and Lady Oesu can lead us, they want to lead us, and they have the support of others, like General Vinie and Lieutenant Gideo. Undor has everything that we need to live by our own terms...except allies, which we're going to need if Mahir keeps trying to hold us in his power. If the Obads join the fight – and a lot of people are worried that they will - then our folk really will be outmatched.

The north wasn't always ruled by Amenthere either. Before you were just 'the north', your people had their own lands and laws. We're here because we're hoping that, out of all of Goran, you'd understand why we're fighting against Mahir. Most of all, we're hoping that you'll be willing to help us. We need your help, especially if we're going to stay Undor, and not just go back to being 'the south' again. And if we lose...if Mahir takes us back by force...let me tell you that he's not the sort who forgives. So even if you're the king's man, and you decide you have a duty to arrest or kill us for coming to you like this, I'd rather die now, at your hand...than live long enough to see my country taken back by Mahir."

Such an impassioned speech from someone so young, so generally offhand and carefree, took Lhara's breath away. To watch Yidu stand boldly before the Regent of the North, fire in her eyes, and declare her willingness to die for her people's cause, convinced Lhara once and for all that she had made the right decision in coming to Hashodi, no matter what might happen next. Both Reyson and Jath were also staring at Yidu, as if seeing her clearly for the first time.

With a soft rustle of silks, Lord Vàllin rose from his seat. Opening a large pouch hanging from his belt, he slipped the rabbit into it. A pair of curious grey ears remained poking up out of the bag though, listening.

"Come with me."

When no further answer or explanation was forthcoming, the four of them could only shrug helplessly and look to Zhaiden. To their bewilderment, Zhaiden was standing to one side, a hand held to his mouth. If Lhara didn't know any better, she would've imagined that Zhaiden was trying to hide a smile...or even outright laughter. He quickly schooled his expression into a mask of calm though, and gestured for everyone to follow Lord Vàllin through a side door of the River Room.

"Where is he taking us?" Lhara whispered to Jath.

"I don't know. I've never been inside The Cold Palace before," he said. "Zhaiden?"

Zhaiden just quickened his pace, moving ahead of their group to just behind Lord Vàllin.

"Why do I get the feeling that we're walking into some kind of trap?" murmured Yidu.

Reyson wrapped his good hand around the hilt of his sword. It struck Lhara as odd that both he and Yidu had been allowed to keep their weapons for an audience with the Regent of the North.

"A trap...or..."

They stepped outside into a narrow courtyard, fenced on both sides with high stone walls. A vast structure loomed above them, rising directly out of the gorge and straddling the Wengdu River. Vàllin led them through the courtyard, into an outer door, and up a long ramp which zigged and zagged upward inside the walls of the structure. When they emerged out into the clear golden-pink light of daybreak above the mists, a sight beyond all expectations awaited.

"Welcome to The Dancing Bowl of Hashodi, the original stadium upon which The Lair in Amenthere was modeled." Lord Vàllin swept an arm outward toward the vast arena before them. "I am pleased to tell you, Yidu BlackPearl, that we the north have not only been expecting your arrival; we are prepared for it."

The Dancing Bowl was a marvel of engineering. Rounded in shape, suspended high above the rushing torrent of the river below, it sported two rings. The inner, a circular space upon which hundreds if not thousands of men could stand, was filled as far as the eye could see with groups of armoured figures. Everywhere there was activity; some drilled with blunted practice swords and spears, others shot at white-feathered arrows at targets or threw light axes. In the outer ring, which spanned the tops of the gorge on either side and housed circular rows of spectator's seats, there appeared to be a sort of informal combat school. Groups of people sat facing chalkboards set around the inner railings, listening with military attentiveness to instructors who dissected the machine of war.

Everyone wore similar uniforms; black, wide-sleeved tunics atop grey undershirts and pants. Adding to the sense of shared purpose uniting the gathering, all the tunics were stitched with the same emblem; five white snowflakes, arranged in a star over the wearer's heart. This was not simply the city guard of Hashodi at their training. This was an army. The five white stars even flew on a flag atop the northernmost point of The Dancing Bowl's outer ring, proudly proclaiming the presence of a nation.

"This...but...you... How!?" Yidu spluttered, eyes wide and darting all around her.

Reyson was of much the same mind, only slightly more coherent. "How have you done this? We saw royal soldiers riding south from Hashodi along the main road! How can you have hidden the makings of an army from the capital for so long?"

"Ah, that is the beauty of Hashodi, Reyson-mir," answered Lord Vàllin with a smile. "Could you or anyone else see what is inside The Dancing Bowl, from the city below? There is no higher place in all the north, save The Gardens of the Colossus."

Zhaiden was grinning from ear to ear, dark eyes sparkling. "Most people do not even notice The Dancing Bowl, even from the bottom of The Cold Palace. You would have to climb to the top of The StarSpire to even see the walls of The Dancing Bowl, set inside the river gorge as it is."

"We certainly didn't notice it," admitted Jath sheepishly. "And I knew from my schooling in Vaelona that it was here!"

Yidu turned her wide-eyed stare on Lord Vàllin. "So, does this mean what I think it means? Will the north help Undor fight against Mahir?"

"Yes...and no. We will go to war against the crown, as has been the intention of my office ever since the first whisperings of Factionism made their way north from Moaan. Our aim is the independence of our own lands and people though, first and foremost. If our challenge to Goran draws Mahir's ire away from Undor though, giving your folk the time and respite necessary to prevail, then that will be a very happy side-effect indeed."

"I suppose that's fair," said Yidu. "And pretty much all that we ever hoped for in coming here!"

The ringing of a hammer on metal pricked up Lhara's ears (as well as the fuzzy grey ears poking up out of Vàllin's pocket). The blacksmith struck with a cadence that sang an oddly familiar song. It was a rhythm that was unique to only one smith that Lhara knew; the distinctive mark of a self-taught craftswoman.

"Halna?"

Leaving Jath's side, Lhara threaded her way through the bustling groups of soldiers filling the arena. The clear note of the hammer continued like a siren call, beckoning Lhara back to memories of home.

"Halna!"

She found what she sought along the far side of The Dancing Bowl, surrounded by weapons and armour for servicing. The blacksmith of Trosk looked up in surprise. Halna's mouth widened in an 'O' of shock, and her hammer fell to the ground when Lhara threw herself at the older woman in a hug.

"Halna! You're here! You're alive!"

"Lhara!? But...but how are you here!? Is my mother alright?"

"Yes, yes, Magda's fine! Or at least, she was when I last saw her! What happened, Halna? When you and the others disappeared after the Fourth Company attacked, we didn't know where you'd gone!"

"Lhara?"

Jath and the others had managed to catch up, and just as Lhara was about to start making introductions, more familiar faces began to emerge from the crowd in The Dancing Bowl. Lhara recognized Alred the shepherd, Bjorn the carpenter, and dozens of other mountainfolk who had been unaccounted for after the attack at Trosk. Her joy at being reunited with so many old friends and neighbors went beyond words. Tears were shed, embraces were held, and finally everyone calmed down enough to begin telling their stories.

Halna explained that, when the tide had turned in favour of the Fourth Company, followed by the wounding of the Factionist leader Sula G'Hesh, the rebels had chosen to flee, and live to fight another day. Some of the Factionists, realizing that the people of Trosk would be left to face the wrath of Captain Jerriod of his soldiers, had tried to rescue the mountainfolk. Those who were able had offered a seat on their griffins to any villagers nearby. Halna, Alred, Bjorn, and many others had accepted the offer of escape.

"There have been so many nights when I've laid awake, wondering if I made the right choice, Lhara." Halna leaned against her anvil, wringing her work-worn hands. "I've worried for my mother, for you...for everyone who was left behind in Trosk. You're sure my mother was unharmed though?"

"Yes, I promise. Magda led the way through those terrible days, as she always does. She'll be so happy to hear that you're alive! Have you been able to send any word back to Trosk? I left shortly after you did, you see."

Halna shook her head, stray strands of grey hair sticking to her sweaty brow. "I've tried. I sent two birds...everyone here has sent at least one, trying to let everyone at home know we're alright. We've never gotten anything back though, and we couldn't let on where we were. They wouldn't let us, you see."

"Who wouldn't let you say where you were?" asked Reyson.

"Those two."

Halna pointed toward the back of the crowd, which had been slowly growing around them ever since Lhara and Halna's emphatic reunion. Lhara, Jath, Reyson, and Yidu were amazed to recognize yet another pair of familiar faces. They were seared into Lhara's memory, along with all the other details from those fateful hours leading up to the attack on Trosk.

"You!" she cried out.

"Us," agreed Nadathan N'Shar. Next to him stood Sula G'Hesh, looking alive and well despite the half-dead state in which she had fled Trosk. "We have a great deal to talk about, it seems. How the four of you came to be traveling together is a story we could certainly stand to hear. I'm particularly glad to see you alive, Jath."

"Last we knew, you were bleeding your brains out on a mountainside," added Sula bluntly. "Have you gotten any better with guarding your blind spots since then?"

Jath flushed, reaching up self-consciously to touch the scar hidden beneath his hair.

Yidu came to his rescue. "We decided Jath was better fitted as a diplomat, now that the rebellion is big enough to need representing to others."

Nadathan looked both amused and intrigued. "Good to see you as well, Reyson. I trust you're the one in charge of this little expedition here?"

"More or less. Meet with me later, and I'll bring you and Sula up to date on everything that's happened with Vinie and the rest since your last message."

"All this talk of why we're here," interrupted Lhara. "But what about the lot of you? How did you come to be all the way up here in Hashodi, after you escaped from Trosk?"

Lord Vàllin, who until then had been silently watching as events unfolded, moved to stand beside Sula and Nadathan. "They came to us seeking refuge. It is not every day that a party of clansfolk on griffins are desperate enough to fly over The Teeth. I was first informed of their presence when they landed in Kotan, to the northeast of here. The decision was made to offer Sula G'Hesh, Nadathan N'Shar, and their followers sanctuary here in Hashodi, in exchange for all the information they could offer regarding the state of the rebellion and its players. With their assistance, we are now ready to begin at any time."

"Then why don't you? Begin, that is? Mahir has already been hard-put to keep a handle on the Undorian rebellion. If the north were to attack, his forces would be split. We could fight him from both the north and the south!"

The excitement in Yidu's voice was infectious. Many people looked expectantly to the Regent of the North, including several of his own northerner soldiers. Even Zhaiden appeared caught up in the atmosphere of anticipation filling The Dancing Bowl; he picked up one of the arrows leaning against Halna's makeshift smithy and began fiddling with its fletching.

Lord Vàllin was not one to be caught up by the emotions of others. Taking a sprig of basil from another pouch, he held it over his pocket until the rabbit's little head popped up into view. Only after his pet was happily munching on its snack did he answer.

"There is just one more thing, one final condition to be met before we are ready to reveal our true intent to the king."

"Which is?" asked Reyson, raising an eyebrow.

"The armies of the north will make no move against Amenthere until we receive the blessing of our High Obad."

Jath, Lhara, Reyson, and Yidu all gaped, united in disbelief at what they had just heard...or thought they had heard.

"Of your what?" Yidu spluttered.

"Our High Obad, the head of the north's Magicol, and my chief advisor."

Turning, Lord Vàllin raised his eyes to the outer ring of The Dancing Bowl, to a previously unoccupied section of the spectators' seating. Where once the seats had been empty, there now sat a small group of roughly half-a-dozen people. Most were children, some as young as eight or nine. Others were closer to adulthood than childhood, but not quite fully grown into their simple yet elegant robes of indigo, maroon, pine, and steel.

It was not the Ovates who commanded notice though. Standing silently at the head of the group, delicately-boned hands wrapped around the guard rails, was a woman. She wore midnight blue, accented with gossamer silver threads woven into both her clothes and her long, jet-black hair. Like Lord Vàllin, it was impossible to guess the age of the High Obad, but for a different reason. Although the narrow set of her jaw could be seen, the entire top of the woman's face from the nose up was hidden behind a mask of polished silver. Beaded chains draped across her cheeks, and precious gemstones winked from along her hairline. Most striking of all though were the eyes...or rather, the painted eyes resting above where her own should have been. Traced with a master artisan's touch along the metal, one lined in black and the other in white, those mismatched eyes seemed almost lifelike. Eerily so, as if the High Obad could actually see them all where they stood below her on the arena floor.

"Honoured guests, this is Margáli-nimir, although to some she is also known as 'The All-Seer of Hashodi'. It is on her say-so that the armies of the north shall move, and not a moment sooner."

Margalee spoke then, in a voice which resonated with an undercurrent of power without any need of harshness or volume.

"The time is coming, Lord Vàllin. Very soon, the north will make itself known to the world. Soon, Mahir will know the truth of his reign; that it is coming to an end, and the world of Goran along with him."

OoOoO