Winter shuffled idly as they waited. The Golden Gate remained still as a headstone for almost an hour. The guards were kind enough to them when they approached, and Howl had told them his outriders were also treated well. She wondered why they were now being made to wait, when the Arcadians knew full well that thousands of sick, wounded and tired people were languishing in pain of both body and of heart, desperate for a place to settle down. And I’m desperate for answers.

Cara looked at the gates to this great empire of her kin. The Golden Gate, as it was called, was in fact a gate of cedar. It was banded with blackened steel, and crowned by copper grotesques shaped like phoenixes. The only gold she saw painted on. There entire fifty foot gate was made the canvas for a great painting. In the center was a golden light, formed in a circle with rays pointing inward. The circle of golden light was placed in the axis of a great tree, midway between the branches and the roots. The branches and roots looked alike, and formed a circle about the tree. The tree itself was red, the branches white, the roots black. Three more circles were painted withing the border of root and branch; two above, one below. The circle on the right had three triangles above it, colored blue, red and violet. The circle on the left was broken on the bottom, forming a double crescent, and the bottom one had a solid white dot in the center.

About the great tree were many unrelated motifs. There were monkeys and pigs and cows, rams and ewes, sea birds and beetles, and bears who stood on their hind legs, as the bears of the walls outside Malgond. A pair of entwined serpents were painted along the edges of the gates. Cara studied the serpents while she waited. They captivated her. One was red and one was blue, a color pattern she found strikingly similar to the Titan’s Torch. The snakes were wrapped so tightly around each other it seemed impossible to tell them apart, until their heads split at the end.

At last the ambling silence was broken by the creaking of heavy hinges. Twenty men in long maille coats were pulling the bar away when the gate opened. Cara looked for Hale, who was gazing off at the eastern horizon. “Brother,” she said, as quietly as she could. She repeated herself twice before he turned to look at her, and then noticed the gate. He mounted his horse and bid Dennel to wind his horn. The people then formed up, slowly and painfully, into a long line seven rows wide, with the sick and injured, and the very old and very young in the center.

Two rows of mounted knights rode out to surround them. Alongside their horses ran squires and heralds, who took the lances from the knights and led their horses after they dismounted. The knights then helped hoist weary and injured people onto their horses, and shoulder people’s packs and offered their arms to those too hurt to be lifted onto horses. Ahead of them was a man in resplendent armor astride a honey colored destrier barded in gold painted steel. His closed helm crowned by a crest of blue feathers that caught even the slightest movement of wind. His cloak was deep blue with a golden sunburst, and his platemaille was gilded with lines of gold. Beside him, in soot grey platemail and a fur cloak, was another knight, much smaller than the other, on a stout, mottled roundsey with plain barding and a nervous gait.

Hale dismounted almost as soon as he'd mounted, and went to the knights and bowed. The smaller of the men vaulted off of his horse and quickly dropped to one knee before Hale. Cara couldn’t make out the words, but she heard the man whispering something to Hale, who promptly stood. Cara rode slowly forward.

The physician from Corn Hill had made a brace for her ankle out of three pieces of bound wood, a sort of splint. The smaller of the knights took note of it. “Princess Cara,” he said in a smallish voice. The other knight dismounted as well, bent the knee to Hale, then stood and offered Cara his hand. “Your Highness,” he said in a voice so deep it shook her ribs.

“My sister injured her ankle,” said Hale.

“Apologies, Your Highness,” the big knight said.

“My thanks, Ser,” she replied. “I beg respite and asylum for my people, and will be eternally grateful for all aid, as will His Grace.”

“Yes,” Hale said quickly, “of course.”

“Our realm is your realm,” said the smaller knight, “by decree of King Derion Arcadia.”

“Your people will be tended to Ma’am,” said the big knight. “Will you and your royal family accompany us to the Heavenly Keep? Our king and his royal sister are anxious to attend to your needs, and to give homage to your departed sire.”

Cara felt a lump rise in her throat. “I thank you, Sers, and I will be honored to be received by your mighty king and lovely princess. May I have your names, so I may thank you as well?”

“Ser Jarral Wade, the Orcsbane,” the big knight said with a deep bow.

“Ser Gammon Foss,” said the small knight, with an even deeper bow.

Cara looked at him with surprise. He was smaller than almost any other man she knew, even in full harnass. She had a difficult time imagining his gentle voice being heard over the din of battle. There was also a quiet sadness in his pale eyes. Looking into them reminded her of a still pond amidst a dense wood, its lonely surface undisturbed by insects or wind.

“I thank you, Ser Gammon, and you Ser Jarral.”

Cara felt her eyes moisten in the moments that followed their greeting. Most of their people were on foot, and what few beasts they had were pulling carts with the goods they managed to bring. So many people had limped along in sharp pain, unable to find any relief on the long march save their few brief rests. Now they rode upon tall horses, or were propped up by strong knights. The knights of Eruhal all wore gilded maille, and had helms crested with noble beasts that gleamed in the sun. The legends of this blessed land were not exaggerated. League upon league stretched before them, and every inch of ground was covered with golden wheat and tall grass. Mountains rose all about the horizon to the north and south, and ahead was an endless field of wind-tossed gold. Her people had suffered so much and so suddenly, with no warning or inkling as to why, and now they were given refuge in one of the mightiest kingdoms of their entire kin.

Castle Gwynd was still a half day’s journey away. Cara marveled at it as it grew ever larger. It’s curtainwall was told to be a hundred feet high and twenty feet thick. She almost thought that to be underscored, watching it rise higher and higher above the ground. The Golden Spires rose tall like gilded spears into in the sky, and were aptly named. Wether truly made of gold, or merely painted, they glowed like yellow fire; the tallest of them was almost blinding.

“Are they truly made of gold?” she asked, not to anyone in particular. She had been riding in almost complete silence, only speaking to offer encouraging words to her younger siblings, or to her mother, who most times stared blankly ahead. Ser Jarral had spoken to the poor widowed queen, but she only looked at him. When Cara spoke she would try to smile, but her lips could only twitch at the ends.

“Not wholly,” said Ser Jarral. He and Ser Gammon were now flanking Cara. Hale rode a little ways ahead with Dennel and Howl, and a few of their southern lords.

“They look beautiful,” she replied. “The tall one in the center, is that the Tower of splendor?”.

“Aye,” said Ser Jarral. “The highest tower of the west, and a beacon of hope. Its crenels are all made of gold, in the shape of phoenixes.”

“Thrond had walls of black steel with bear head crenels,” she said blankly. She didn’t know why she brought up Thrond. She wished she could forget about the dwarves, and forget about Ror.

“Thrond is a grand place,” said Ser Gammon. Cara had to strain to hear him.

“You fought in the Provings there,” she said, her voice flat and lifeless.

“Aye” said Ser Gammon. “They mentioned me?”

Cara nodded. “Ror and Halfur were impressed with your skill.”

“They honor me,” said the little knight. Riding alongside Cara, he seemed to be several inches shorter than her, and there was a nervousness to his voice, as if he were always on the brink of laughter, though nothing funny had been said.

“Halfur took particular note of you,” she added, unsure why she said anything. Speech was purely out of habit to her now. Everything she’d cared about had been wrecked or destroyed, and now that her people were being cared for she felt herself drifting away.

“That means a lot,” the little Knight carried on, his voice finally loud enough to easily hear. “Prince Halfur has a rare gift. He moves with utter precision, and seems to know your moves before you make them.”

“None of our men at arms could beat him.” Winter was nearing a large stone. Cara prepared to wince, but he artfully avoided it. Well done, Winter. Now if only you walked more smoothly.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” Gammon said fearfully.

“Whatever for?” She turned her head mechanically toward him. He’d taken off his helm and tied it to his saddle some time ago, but she was just now noticing his face. He had a narrow jaw and small chin, with soft skin and boyish eyes. His hair was dark and course, the sort of hair that no brush or comb could help, and he had a mole over his upper lip. His nos was long and broken in at least two places, and his head overall seemed too small for his bull neck. He must look frightful out of his clothes, she thought, imagining his thick neck atop such a narrow torso.

“It was thoughtless of me to praise those who attacked you,” he said. His voice went quiet again.

It took a moment for Cara’s thoughts to absorb what Ser Gammon was saying. She had such a different image of him in her mind from all Hales stories. She wondered if there were not two knights of the same name, and a tall and gallant Gammon Foss awaited them at the Heavenly Keep.

“No,” she said, “no Halfur stayed with us, he and his younger sister. He fought with our men in the yard, and he moved just as you said.”

“Oh good,” said Gammon. She looked at him curiously. He was smiling, but obviously tense.

Has he never spoken to a woman before? She then remembered his other name, the Hay Knight. This was no noble, no highborn son of a lord, or prince or courtier, but a peasant boy, a bailer of hay and stitcher of trousers. Cara felt a sudden wave of guilt. I can’t hold him to our standards. The poor lad. He has no knowledge of courtesy, but he’s trying to converse with me all the same.

“I find your story very inspiring,” she told him. Ser Jarral grunted. She looked to her right at the bigger, nobler knight. He was everything she’d expected Gammon to be. He was tall, broad of shoulder and thick of chest, with a waist leaner than her own. His jaw was chiseled and his brow deep, and his blond hair was cut close to his round head. Instead of a mole, his lip bore a thick moustache that led to a long and well trimmed beard. Ser Gammon’s face had a few whiskers, but no more than three of them grew in a row.

“Mind who you say that to at court,” said Ser Jarral.

“Why?” Cara asked, indignant.

“Because many at court are bumstruck over over a farmhand giving their sons orders. But say all you like to me, Your Highness. I’ve fought beside this runt pigling, and I’ll follow any command he gives, no matter his breeding.”

She looked back to Gammon. His nervous smile was gone. “How did you earn your name?” she asked Ser Jarral, turning back to him. She had to strain her neck to look at his face.

“All respect, Your Highness, it’s not a complicated story. Nor is it a pleasant one.”

Cara felt a strange urge to hear it. Before the attack on the Tall Hill, her stomach churned at tales of gore. “My father kept much of the world hidden from me. Much that was grim, and sad to hear of. Had he not done so, I may not have been so shaken by his death.”

“Death shakes us all, Highness,” Ser Jarral replied. “At least it should. Some of us get shaken up, some shaken down, but it’s a cold heart indeed that takes no note when a candle gutters.”

“What do you call the new star?” she asked suddenly, not entirely sure what triggered the thought.

Ser Jarral looked past her to Ser Gammon, but the farm boy said nothing. “Ser Erudan dubbed it the Returner, but Pigling here insists on calling it something else.”

“Who’s Ser Erudan? Is he a knight at court?”

Ser Jarral laughed, a warm and pleasing sound. Cara felt her heart starting to beat again. She hadn’t heard laughter since before her father died, and was drowning in tears the whole journey here, her people’s and her own. It was a good thing to hear sounds of mirth.

“Gamling here has more rights to knighthood than that coot! Erudan Penwright is exactly what his name suggests, a maker of pens. His grandfather made a fair bit of coin crafting fine quills and styluses, and both his lads carried on the tradition. When nearing his end, King Verrold; may starlight fill his tomb, tells old Erudan that the pen is the deadliest of all weapons, and says that he’s either to be knighted, or dubbed a blacksmith. Erudan’s an ornery old dog, so he just grunts and says he doesn’t care what people call him. So King Verrold tells Prince Derrion to put his sword on the old man’s neck and knights him.”

“Strange,” Cara said. “Is he highborn? Does he own land?”

“No, Highness, he doesn’t own anything but a shop in the inner ward. But he’s one of those Esperians, and the late King Verrold really took a splendor to the College in his autumn years.”

“My father spoke of them on occasion. He said they were the authority on ancient texts. I never heard him mention this Penwright fellow.”

“He’s a hermit. Hates everyone, even others at the College. Odds are nobody outside of Gwynd or Esper have heard of him, unless they’ve read one of his books. See, he’s sort of a warrior smith. He isn’t content just making swords, so he swings them too. The Bailer Knight here reads them as best he can, which is better than most of his breed. Always reading something, aren’t you Gam?”

Ser Gammon finally smiled again, though faintly.

“What do you cal the star, Ser Gammon?”

He opened his mouth, then quickly shut it and shook his head. The nervous grin came back.

“I’d like to know,” Cara insisted. “Prince Halfur calls it the Red Candle, even though all of Thrond and High Alden call it the Titan’s Torch.”

“C’mon Gam, answer the princess. It’s always like this with us. I pipe up, and he clams up.”

“You can tell me later if you like,” Cara said.

That seemed to make him feel even more embarrassed. “I call it Orvar,” he said at length and through great pains.

“Orvar?” Cara remembered the Stars of Casimir and their performance after her aunt’s wedding. He wore blue armor, and rode a red chariot. “I see it. The blue light in the middle, that’s him in his blue steel. And he rode a red chariot.”

“I never read that,” said Ser Jarral. “Was that in the Book of Tides? I don’t remember that bit, and my copy’s Esperian approved.”

“It’s how he looked in the play,” Gammon said.

Cara smiled. “Do the Stars come to Eruhal often?”.

“They’re in Eruhal right now, Your Highness.”

Her heart pulsed with life. Her days had been black on the long road from home, but a white light was flickering in the darkness, and the blood in her veins felt cool, like a stream of snowmelt. “I’d like to see them,” Cara said. She felt warmth in her breast, and her fingers felt the cracked leather reins they gripped.

“Then you shall,” Ser Gammon said, beaming sweetly.

“And is there a gallant knight to escort me?”

Ser Gammon turned wintry pale.

“Thousands of them,” bellowed Ser Jarral. “And their mums and dads will be redder than Orvar’s pram to see this hay bailer on your arm instead of their landed sons!”

“It’s decided than,” Cara laughed, “the Hay Knight shall escort the Hill Queen to the theatre.”

The two knights laughed along with her. Hale turned his head the moment she called herself the Hill Queen, and his face drooped pitifully. She ignored him. She was feeling warm and alive, and was not going to let that be spoiled. Weeks ago, she thought joy would only be a memory. But now, here, she could feel it creeping into her veins and spreading through her body. This is what he wanted for me. Father wanted me to enjoy life, and he would be glad to see me now. Hale continued to glance over his shoulder at her, but she refused to meet his gaze. He also wanted me to be queen.

After some time Gammon rode ahead to accompany Hale. Cara watched as they rode together, trying to picture Gammon leading Hale to meet with the Red Eyed Goat and the King of Graves. She just couldn’t see this little man in combat. He was built like a farmer from the feet up, with short limbs and a short torso, and only his neck showed any signs of muscle. Granted he was in full armor, but so were all the other knights. Ser Jarral was as stark a contrast as he could be to Gammon. He was taller and broader than any man Cara knew. He rode between Dennel and Howl for a time, and they looked like toy knights compared to him.

Everyone seemed to have their spirits lifted as they rode to peace and security. The sun was now descending to the hills and fields to the west, sending long black fingers of shadow towards the massive castle. Red light gleamed behind the white snows of the Towers of Wind, and the waning rays of the sun cast a curtain of gold onto the Tower of splendor.

Whether due to its height, or its location, the Tower of splendor seemed to gather the sun’s fire first, then pass it down to the castle and the endless fertile fields of wheat and corn. There were hundreds upon hundreds of people working those fields, though the afternoon wore on. Massive bundles of wheat were heaped onto carts, and all around there was a sense of life and strength to the kingdom of Eruhal. Castle Gwynd was impossibly large. The walls blocked the sight of all things beyond when they came close. Its main gate was open and throngs of people were coming and going, and everywhere Cara looked she saw men at arms in stone towers watching over the people. She found herself wondering if Hale even wanted to go back to High Alden after living here. She wondered even if she would, then she felt silly. Of course she would go back. They all would, and they would rebuild the castle the dwarves sunk into the ground, and she would honor her father by being a shrewd queen and learning from his mistakes. She would have her own Dyer, but he wouldn’t be a criminal. She’d hire some big young orc and win his loyalty, and she would find Noxi and forgive him for leaving them, and knight him, and he and Dennel would be her guards and follow her everywhere. The Pillar of Autumn would be rebuilt twice as tall, so that it rose higher even than the Tower of splendor, and there would be stone walls all around Cavanal with armed men posted at all hours of the day. High Alden would rise again, taller and stronger, a beacon of defiance to taunt those who spurned them before.

A crowd stood on either side of the road leading into the castle. People were throwing blue, white and gold rose petals into the air, and laying lengths of silver cloth on the ground before them. Young maidens came rushing to give kisses to young children and old women, and the knights of Eruhal were tireless as they continued to carry their burdens through the gate. Inside the outer Bailey of Castle Gwynd was a sprawling city of stone and timber houses, stables, smithies, and shops of every kind. Every league of the place had a guard house, and there were towers as well, and the curtain wall bristled with trebuchets and mangonels. The Heavenly Keep seemed like like a mountain of smooth stone blocks, hewn so smooth it seemed the keep was one solid piece of granite. The Golden Spires looked like a hedge of pikes around an embattled camp, and the Tower of splendor rose like a great arrow nocked in a giant’s bow and pointed towards the sky. Cara saw three more towers in the distance, beyond the curtainwall.

“What are those towers?” she asked. "They look very old."

Ser Jarral heard her and slowed his horse. “Those towers, Your Highness, are a sad story. And yes, they're very old indeed. Far older even than old Provosa.”

“What happens in them?”

“Nothing anymore. King Verrold spent more time in those towers than he did with his own sons, in his autumn years. And he wasn’t the first to lose himself in there. If ou must know their names, they’re the Tower of the Waning Moon, the Tower of the Waxing Moon, and the Tower of Distant Stars.”

“Have you ever been in them?”

“Ha! Me? No. Only the king may go there, and anyone he invites. Now, obviously I don’t know what’s in them, but legend says each has a library of forbidden tomes, and the words of those books drive men mad. I’m sure it’s rubbish, but I recommend you don’t ask either His Grace or Her Highness about them. Or anyone at court, for that matter.”

Cara let out an exasperated laugh. “What can I say at court?”

“Anything you like, so long as it isn’t true.”

Cara laughed, then took in the sights around her. Cavanal was a shanty town of midden heaps and hovels next to Gwynd. The peasants dressed like lords, and the lords like kings. She could only wonder how Derrion and Joanevere were adorned. The sun was now leaving the waking world, and an ocean of purple light washed over the sky. The storm heads had gone, leaving a blanket of rippling clouds that looked no thicker than a horse’s mane. The world was alive, even if her father was not, and yet this land too had recently been touched by death. A king withered and gone before his time, a brother slain by a brother, and armies of orcs gathering to the east, teetering on the brink of war if this usurper king misstepped. Her father could no longer hide anything from her or her from it. She was out in the open now, a woman grown and stricken with grievous pain. But that pain would give her strength, she knew. Nothing that lie ahead could be worse than the horror she had already endured, and she was not alone in her suffering.

They passed through the outer bailey and came to an immense portcullis. A moat circled the inner bailey as well, channeled in through an underground tunnel from the outer moat. There were rows upon rows of murder holes in the vast gatehouse. The gatehouse itself was almost the size of High Alden’s keep. Cara remembered the immensity of Thrond’s entryway, with the braziers of untold size set in the rock high above, and the fathomless depths beneath the bridge where the air burned. She remembered how much she enjoyed having Hale by her side as they approached. That was when he shared his secret feelings about King Derrion with her. She spurred Winter forward and rode by her brother.

“It must be a comfort for you to return here,” she said gently. Gammon was riding on Hale’s other side. A nervous twitch had taken his face.

“There’s no comfort in running from home a second time,” Hale replied.

Cara felt angry at his reply, but she stifled that anger and nodded in agreement. “True, but we have strong friends here. Have you made plans for our people? I imagine you’ve already seen our return home in your mind. Your petition for aid from King Derion will surely carry great weight.”

Hale was quiet, so Cara contented herself to observe the gatehouse and its high, arched ceiling and many murder holes. When they passed through to the inner bailey, she’d expected to see the Heavenly Keep in all its glory. Instead she saw yet more homes and markets and stables and forges, only now they were far larger and more grand. There was a central road of deep yellow bricks that ran directly through the inner town. Two mansions the size of large holdfasts flanked either side of the road at its end, and behind them rose the Heavenly Keep.

“His Grace is sure to grant whatever help you ask, Hale,” said Gammon. His voice took on an entirely different aspect. He was calm, sure, almost authoritative.

“That should please the Hill Queen to know. She likely has her own plans in place, and I’d hate to disrupt them.”

Cara’s heart sank. She was angry at his bitterness, but sad too. Is a crown worth a brother?

She felt a finger the size of an elbow tapping her shoulder. She turned and saw Ser Jarral looking at her with a child-like grin. He slowed his destrier and pointed to a small building in the shadow of the keep. Its diminutive size was conspicuous next to the grand houses around it. Its walls were bare and windworn, with only a few small windows to give it any texture. The building attached to a small, fat turret covered in vines and moss. A shield was painted on the door to the house, quartered in black, white, red and yellow.

“That’s the Feather Knight’s keep,” said Ser Jarral, leaning close. His breath smelled of mint.

Cara looked again at the door and spotted a cracked oaken sign above. The paint was faded, but the carved words caught the shadows cast by the sun. It read: Into the candle bloomed in dark, the scholar dares to gaze, while singers sing from sea to ark; 'Ascend me, heaven's flames'.

Beyond the house was a pond fed by a source Cara couldn’t see. A large swan hopped out of the water and waddled ponderously to the house. It pecked furiously at a window, so hard that Cara thought it would break. Instead it opened and a fist sized lump of bread was flung out of it. “Now go away, Balthazar!” cried an angry voice from inside.

“I suppose he won’t be at court,” said Gammon.

Cara laughed, until they too passed under the shadow of the Arcadian’s palace. The Heavenly Keep was twice the height of her father’s, and many times as wide. The Tower of splendor rose high from its rear. It was not quite as tall as the Pillar of Autumn, but it was far more grandiose. It was made of white stone and banded with copper and gold, and its spire was crested with a large sunburst of gold striped with silver. The last rays of the sun gleamed off of it, giving it the look of a great torch in the early night. The keep itself was made of the same white stone, and the stained glass windows were framed in every hue of metal. The doors were ebony with a violet sunburst painted on them. Within the sunburst were the Twelve Lords of Night, and around it were the Wandering Eight, the brilliant stars of varied color that traversed the sky like celestial vagabonds. Flanking the sunburst were two tall figures; a man with the head and wings of a phoenix, and a woman with the head and wings of a dragon. The phoenix man held a red torch aloft, and the dragon woman held a white torch down.

The handles of the door were of sculpted silver. The left was the head of a wolf, the right was the head of a ram. Twelve guards stood in rows on either side of the doors in black armor with white cloaks with greatswords strapped to their backs. When they drew close, Ser Jarral raised his hand and the guards nearest the doors opened them.

The inside of the Heavenly Keep looked dark from outside its massive doors. Cara felt a presence next to her. She turned and saw Istan, riding a horse he was barely tall enough to sit. As one both Gammon and Jarral dismounted, and after them Cara and Hale, then all the others. An army of servants came from the keep to take their horses, then the two knights escorted them into the keep. Istan clutched at Cara’s hand.

“We’re safe now,” she told him. He nodded, but did not let go, so she clutched his hand back. Soon Gislain was hanging on her other arm. She looked about for their mother. She was walking slowly with Betha on her arm, a few paces behind.

The Heavenly Keep would not have fit within the Tall Hill’s walls. It seemed large enough to house a village, with a vaulted ceiling in the center wing over a hundred feet high. Marble statues of tall men with stern faces lined each side of the central walkway. They stood on pedestals of different colored metals, and each wore a different colored crown. There must have been dozens of them.

“Are these their past kings?” Istan asked.

“The kings of the Petty Lands,” Jarral said, looking back over his shoulder. “The kings our past sires defeated. The Arcadian line is saved for the Great Hall, where you will meet King Derrion ‘Second Son’.”

“Dare we call him that?” Hale asked nervously.

“He likes it,” said Gammon.

Cara heard the faint sound of Gislain sniffling. It echoed loudly in the cavernous hall.

“We’ll take you to your apartments once the King has seen you,” Jarral explained. “He wants the court to see you as you are, before leaving you to finish your mourning. Preparations for a Passing have begun. Eruhal will honor High Alden, as all realms of our kin should.”

“I never thought I’d see the Pillar of Autumn fall,” said Dennel. His voice was not quiet, but it was emptied of its usual worldweary cheer. For the first time in Cara’s life, he sounded like an old man.

“But you will live to see it rise anew,” Jarral said. He reached out and clapped Dennel on the back with his monstrous hand.

Dennel looked to him and smiled. “We’ll be sure to name a lintel after you, Ser.”

“And a crenel after Gamling,” Jarral said joyfully. Gammon smirked.

Cara felt a tear escape her eye and flee down to her chin. These two men warmed her heart. Already they seemed like brothers to her and her people. She could see why Hale spoke so fondly of the place, and why it so shook him to see it torn apart from within. But one would never know of the bloodshed that occurred here unless they were told of it. The high halls of the Heavenly Keep were splendid and serene, its tapestries unslashed, its walls unstained and unscored, its marble floor gleaming like a river of freshly fallen snow.

The walls were covered in tapestries, each bearing a scene of Eruhal’s past conquests, or a scene from the Book of Tides. The high ceiling was painted in a mural of the Lords of Night. They all spiraled outward from Ferenrar and Emvolo, and in the midst of those two was a golden sun with silver rays. But while the keep was resplendent in rich hues, it was the white of the marble floor that Cara saw most clearly. She felt as if she were walking though a shallow stream bordered by soft mist. Her ankle felt better, as did her heart, and her thoughts felt like they were being lifted above the fears and confusion that had surrounded her on their painful journey. She would never see her father again, or her handmaid, who was also her friend, but she would not dishonor their memory by wallowing in sadness. She stretched her shoulders back as she walked, and lifted her chin. They will look to me, all of them, and I shall be all they need me to be. Autumn may have passed, but there will be no winter on the Tall Hill. We will rise, as Jarral said.

A thought then occurred to her, as she saw in her mind their castle being raised again. The Pillar of Autumn had fallen, so let it remain. Cara would see a new tower raised in its place, a tower that would herald their future, not pine over their past. She walked with the Voice, and it led her to their healing and renewal. She would continue to walk with the Voice, and it would see them through the storm, no matter how wildly its winds howled. The new tower would need a new name, worthy of the thunder and lightning that struck its forebears down. Its foundation would be wider and stronger, and it would rise higher than any other building made of stone. She decided that its merlons would be made to look like a crown, and it would capture both the splendor of the sun and of the moon, and no thunder would shake it.

The entry hall ended in a grand stair that rose to all three levels of the keep. In front of the stair was a fountain made of sea green crystal shaped like a rearing horse. “Sybella,” said Istan. He must have learned that from Audun, Cara thought. Her father had only taught Istan of jousting and falconry, and courtesies at court. Her thoughts went to Noxi’s Book of Tides. She’d forgotten of it during the journey. She hoped it had been gathered with her other belongings, in case she saw him again. I can always see Ser Erudan about a replacement, if Noxi's didn’t survive the sack.

The two knights led them around the fountain of the Sea Foam Mare and to a large doorway behind the grand stair. This door was not painted, rather it was plain and banded in iron, with a black archway covered in grotesque faces of fearsome beasts. Six guards stood in front of it, three to a door. They parted and the group passed through into the Great Hall. Cara’s heart nearly stopped, and she and both her younger siblings let out a gasp.

The walls of the entire hall were covered in gold, and the ceiling had massive hanging candles of pink crystal the glowed orange in the light of the braziers that dotted the floor. They rose like black iron hands from the white marble floor, and a carpet of deep red ran straight as a river of blood to the throne. No less than twenty hearths lined the walls, and there was a hearth the size of a cottage set into the farthest wall behind the throne. The fires within it roared and crackled as they snapped their way through a thicket of logs piled ten feet high.

About the great hearth was the head of a phoenix carved out of bronze. Statues of phoenixes rose from tall pedestals on either side of the carpet, and as they walked slowly though them, Cara saw that their heads were the heads of bearded men with long hair wearing winged crowns set with rubies. The Arcadians. Obrus is the World Dragon, and we’ve sought shelter with the Phoenix King. Perhaps there will be blood smeared on Malgond again. With that thought came a terrible memory. Blood was smeared on Malgond; her father’s blood, on the Malgond wielded by Ror. Ror, she thought sadly. She wanted to ask him why again, with her mind’s breath, but Dennel had told her enough. Each time she thought of Ror, she tried to forgive him, but the warmth she once felt toward him had frozen over.

Derrion’s throne was all gold with red cushions and set with blue gems. Two silver statues of spears rose up from the ground, their points forged to look as if they were stabbed into the floor. They rose outward from each other, and across their hafts was slung a chain of a beautiful blue gems, much like the chain Ridzak won from the dwarves when disguised as Noxi. Instead of a dais, the throne sat upon a tall platform with steep stairs. Derrion did not need to sit upon a raised seat to loom over his subjects, however. He was easily of a size with Jarral, if not thicker of limb. His crown seemed too small for his head, which was covered in an unkempt mop of shaggy blonde hair. Instead of kingly robes, he was glad in heavy plate, ungilded and strapped with cracked leather bands. His breastplate was dinted in several places, and his left rondel hung loose. He did wear a cloak, though it was a plain, ruddy brown. The only royal device he wore, other than the crown, was a gold signet ring on his right forefinger. Hinds here the size of a bear’s paws, and his fingernails were grimy with dirt.

The courtiers of Castle Gwynd was as stark a contrast from their king as they could be. All gathered were dressed in finer clothes than Cara knew existed. Even Malaad’s opulent gowns and robes paled to the ermine shawls, sable doublets, purple jerkins and cloth-of-gold dresses these people wore. And next to Derrion, in a chair or gold banded oak, wearing a ruby colored gown and silver circlet, was the most beautiful woman Cara had ever seen. Her eyes were emeralds, her hair red-gold, and her lips painted with saffron. Her skin was smooth and light, with no blemish to be seen, and her bare arms were banded in gold and as strong as they were graceful.

The two knights led them to the throne, then took their places behind him on either side of Derrion. Cara wondered why he would need any guard at all, as strong as he was. He looked a warrior in his face as well as his body, as was not in any way a handsome man. All the beauty of their blood had gone to his sister, it seemed. His brow was thick and low, and his lantern shaped jaw was thickly jowled and ended in a sloped chin. His eyes were as brown as the dirt under his nails, his nose was both too long and too thick for his face, and where an appealing man would have a beard, he had patches scruffy whiskers that looked as coarse as a horse brush.

Hale was the first to drop to his knee. Cara shook her head as if warding off sleep, then followed suit. She heard a rush of muffled whispers filling the hall. Her eyes darted back and forth, as if she could see who was whispering what. Instead she saw only ornate footwear and the bottoms of expensive gowns. Speckles of dust hovered in the pale light that lanced downward from windows in the ceiling, and Cara felt sweat beading on her brow in the heat of the great hearth.

“Rise, children of the Green Hills,” Derrion said. His voice was deep and booming, almost like a dwarf’s.

At his command they all stood. Hale looked down to the ground. He’s terrified. Cara looked at Derrion. His face and forehead were scarred in several places, including a gash directly across his cheeks and nose just below his dirt-brown eyes. She remembered then that this man murdered his own brother to take the throne, and she too began to feel afraid. The comfort she’d felt before faded quickly, as she now noticed the amount of guards posted in the Great Hall, and how each one was geared as a soldier ready for battle, partisans in hand and visors down.

The usurper king rose and stepped down the stairs and bowed. All his courtiers did the same. When he rose he took Hale in both arms and embraced him firmly. Hale seemed to disappear between the bigger man’s shoulders.

“Look at me, boy,” Derrion said. “You’re a king now. Your eyes need to look upon your people, not your feet. I know the pain of loosing a sire. Do you see me searching for him under the ground? Look upward, and see the road ahead. All hail High Alden’s king!”

All gathered shouted “Hail!”, even Cara, though the word leapt from her mouth on its own. In happier times she might have smirked at the thought of shouting hail to Hale, but she stood silent, waiting for this strange king to address her. Instead he looked passed her to her mother.

“Your Majesty,” he bowed again, followed once more by all the court. “Princess,” he said to her. He then stepped over to Istan and Gislain and stooped.

“You’ve lost your father, but have much left to be grateful for. We’ll train you to be strong, and you to be cunning, so that you may have your vengeance.”

His armor clinked as he stood. He took the stairs three at a time and sat back on his throne. “You’ll be shown your apartments, where you may bathe and rest. Tonight we feast, in honor of King Salimod. Words will be spoken, then all to bed. Tomorrow we will discuss the road ahead.”

He nodded, and a wizened old man in a purple robe led them back out of the Great Hall and to their rooms. The apartments were much larger than their home, and all of them were attended to by a flurry of servants. Cara had introduced Kylie as her cousin, so that she would not have to work that night. The poor girl lost her sister, and the only friend she had besides Cara. Gislain and her both were quiet the whole time they were scrubbed in their bath. Not until they lay in bed did either make a sound. They both curled up on either side of Cara and wept. Cara’s tears were all spent, so she held them tight and sang songs of home.