Cara held each of her younger siblings' hands tightly. The Hall of Light, a grand structure the size of a normal castle's keep, was filled wall to wall with people from both kingdoms. The few of their bannerlords that rode north were gathered with what remained of their households, along with all who served in the Tall Hill. Hale stood by their mother. She clutched at his hand and wept into his shoulder. She'd stopped her inane muttering, but her crying fits were almost constant, punctuated only by bouts of silent melancholy. Cara wanted to help ease her mother's pain, but she felt only a weak grip on the burgeoning return of joy was stirring in her own heart, so she remained distant from her mother for the most part, trusting Betha, Hale and the little ones to give her comfort.

The little ones came running to her when they all emerged from their chambers before the memorium. Each had their own rooms and servants aplenty, but doubtless felt lonely being separate from one another. Cara had enjoyed the solitude, as it granted her the peace she needed to heal, but she could not help taking Istan and Gislain into her arms then. Kylie was with them as well. Cara told Princess Joanevere that Kylie was her cousin initially, and she was granted the room they slept in their first night as her own. She had maids attending to her, for once in her life. Though truth be told, she seemed ill at ease with the ruse. "Suppose someone learns the truth?" she asked Cara. "Then I'll confess to the lie," Cara replied, "and beg their pity. Fear not, Kylie, we're among friends."

Ser Gammon and Ser Jarral stood on either side of the dais at the far side of the Hall of Light. Each was clad in gleaming ceremonial plate, though Cara had no doubts they could fight well in any armor, or even none at all. She'd observed Gammon closely, noting the controlled nature of his every movement, and that he was at all times alert. She remembered Halfur saying that Gammon seemed to know in advance when he was about to strike, and was beginning to see that what she at first took for nervous and furtive glances was in fact him staying keenly aware of his surroundings. She'd begun to develop a perverse desire to watch him fight in a true battle, but Castle Gwynd was as safe and guarded a place as she'd ever seen.

The Hall of Light was a circular building, with a high domed ceiling crowned by a tower of crystal. Light from the morning sun poured in through the tower, refracted in every imaginable color, and danced delicately on the many crystal candelabras and rush sconces. She remembered the many hues of glowing crystals ensconced on the walls of Thrond, and the beauty of the dancing stars. For a moment, she felt a sense of fondness, and even missed the dwarves, recalling their happy moments together. But the instant she pictured Ror, tipping her over during their dance, or gazing into his greenfire eyes by his father's hearth, the vision was replaced by her father's broken skull, and a shadow crept over her heart.

The dais was high, with a very steep stair, and atop it was a bier made of white jade and cushioned by a silver blanket. Her father would have been laid upon that bier, were his body present. She was happy that he lay entombed with his forebears, though. The white jade bier in the Hall of Light was for the fallen Arcadian kings, not the line of Gace. She imagined how Verrold's memorium must have been. She pictured Hale looking frightened and sad, with a whithered old man upon the bier, and a much smaller and more effeminate version of Derrion being coronated. Such was the practice in Eruhal. The new king always rose from the ashes of the old Derrion had offered to have Hale coronated after their father was duly honored, but he refused, stating that he needed time to prepare before wearing the crown. Derrion's disappointment had been palpable.

The King and his sister rose the steps to the dais, then beckoned for Hale and Cara. The light that beamed down through the crystal tower above cast an ever flowing river of colour beneath her feet. There was a golden threshold at the top of the stair that bordered the entire dais. She crossed it eagerly, while Hale hesitated. They took their places on either side of the bier, then turned to face gathered throng. Behind the ranks of their own were the Eruhali elite. Hundred of lords and their ladies, sons, daughters, masters at arms, valets, and a great many knights and retainers as well. The light from the tower shimmered on the armor of the knights as it had the steps.

Cara looked down fondly at the knights guarding the dais; her new brothers. It seemed to her that Gammon glowed with the golden fire of a newly risen sun, while Jarral was bathed in starry blue. At the back of the crowd was a row of people in strange robes, each a single, solid color. There were both men and women in their number, and ever last one of them wore a chaperon turban with a long tail, of an opposite color to their robe. Those in green robes wore yellow turbans, those in white robes wore black. There was one in all the group, an angry looking man with long white hair, who wore a blue robe with a red chaperon, and another who wore a red robe with blue. Something about them caught Cara's attention. They seemed to both be looking directly at her, and not at the dais in general.

Derrion's speech was kind, albeit brief. He spoke in plain terms of the ancient debt all Konistra owed the line of Gace, how all thinking peoples would be enslaved to the gnolls if it weren't for the bravery of Alden Gace and the hillfolk following the gnoll hordes all the way to the southern shores of Canthor, driving both them and the Whispering Fog into the sea. Derrion swore an oath the Eruhal would not let the ancient foes keep High Alden for long, and promised to lead a restoration of the Tall Hill and the city of Cavanal. Of Thrond, he said nothing, which was just as well. Cara was struggling with her own feelings towards the dwarves, so she could not imagine a foreign king committing his forces against them.

The speech ended with an oath of friendship to Hale, and an announcement of his impending coronation. "In one fortnight," Derrion announced, "High Alden shall bend the knee to King Hale." Cara smiled broadly, and did her best to hide the ire she felt when she looked at her brother and saw his brow was covered in sweat. His eyes were darting about, as if he were searching for a door to run through. Hale, you fool. Stand tall and look strong, even if you feel tiny and afraid. You have to be their strength, their courage, and their pride. Even Istan knows that. She looked down at him and Gislain, and her heart swelled with pride at the ruddy little boy. He was standing tall as a king, with his chest out and his chin up. His endless mop of red hair was clean and brushed, though a single, stubborn curl had tumbled down over his forehead. On his face was a look of resolution, and Cara noticed with joy that his little fists were clenched. Now that, is the son of Salimod. I'll have to make sure he doesn't have any of dad's scheming nature in him, though.

After Derrion's speech, a bell was brought out by two servants, and struck with a hammer by a third. The bell was rung fifty four times, one for each year of Salimod's life. He was too young. Only half the age of his own father. After the final strike, the assembly bowed their heads and an aged woman sang Farewell to Kings, an old dirge Cara hadn't heard since her grandfather's flame went dark. The woman's voice was deep, and low for a lady's, but beautiful and emotive. Cara felt a trickle of moisture run down her cheek. The song ended, and all departed for the Great Hall, where the fallen king was to be further honored by mirth and feasting.

Cara had never seen so much food in all her life at the feast. Not even in Thrond, though their Great Hall was double the size. There were entire tables of meat of every sort, and heaps of potatoes a person could hide in. They all sat at the King's Table. Hale sat on Derrion's right hand, and Cara sat to the left of Princess Joanevere. Istan and Gissy were seated with a cluster of noble Eruhali children, and her mother had insisted on being taken to her chambers to rest.

A woman named Lady Jayna Archemond sat where her mother would have been, on her left. She was a widowed heiress to a swath of land that once covered half of old Provosa, and from her gown and jewels Cara could see that she was unfathomably rich. She was a handsome woman, for her age, and though she was old and quite rotund, Cara could see evidence that had once been shapely and beautiful. She smelt of rose petals and sweat, and spoke in a very sweet, but very commanding voice. Rings adorned each of her fingers, and all bore gems the size of grapes save one, a small band of a black and shiny substance that glimmered different shades in the light of the hearths. She wore the ring on her right index finger.

"You must be devastated, child," Lady Jayna said sweetly. She took Cara's right hand in her left and squeezed it. Cara returned the squeeze.

"We've only just begun to heal from own loss," the lady continued. "All of Gwynd was drowning in tears for weeks after His Grace passed on, and no sooner than out tears began to dry, they flowed anew when our Second Son marched on the keep. Such a dark and bloody day that was."

Cara looked to Joanevere. Her eyes were so deep, so dark, so pretty, but Cara could not read any emotion from them. "It must have been awful," she said to the older princess.

"Marcas was an utter ass," she said bluntly. "All of Konistra is best off without him. But it was indeed a dark and bloody day. I lost my betrothed."

Cara put a hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry. Did you love him?"

Joanevere laughed. "What a silly question! Of course I loved him. I'm not the daughter of some petty landsman, good only for bartering a middling dowry."

Cara leaned back as if she'd been slapped. "Forgive me."

Joanevere's face softened. "No. Forgive me. You come from a smaller realm, and your sire was committed to strengthening it by any means. I imagine you worried over whom he might have married you to."

"For a time," Cara said. Her heart was beating hard. She'd barely shared more than two words with the princess since they arrived, and had assumed her to be as kind as everyone else had been. The woman's sharpness struck like a spear thrust that knocked aside a shield.

"Well," the princess continued, "you shouldn't have any trouble with that moving forward. I'm sure Hale won't put through the horror of a bad match."

"Derrion's a bachelor," Lady Archemond said with a snort. "And a king."

"She just lost her father, Jayna. Now's hardly the time to talk of courtship."

"Says you. You still have your castle. This poor creature's kingdom is broken in half. Choosing a powerful husband should be the first thing on her mind. If only I had a son."

"Have you daughters?" Cara asked.

Lady Jayna made a rude sound and gulped down half a glass of wine. "Seven of them. And all of them useless. A flock of hens that run from every cock that comes to crow."

"You could devote them to the College," Joanevere said vacantly. She too was gulping her wine.

Cara took a sip from her own glass and almost choked. It was spicy, and terribly strong. "What vintage is this?".

Both the other women laughed. "That's not wine, Your Highness," said Lady Archemond.

Cara wrinkled her brow and sniffed the glass. It smelt sweet, though the flavor was of powerful herbs.

"It's red rum," said Joanevere, "from Primus of Drow."

Cara's heart hardened into a lump of coal, and she set the glass down.

"Not a lover of rum?" asked the older princess. "Or are you not a lover of drow?"

"I'm not overly fond of Primus," Cara said softly. Jarral's warnings of how to speak at court echoed in her mind, but she'd spoken, and there was no reclaiming those words. "I've been to Protus," she said loudly, hoping to switch to a more positive tone. "I loved it there. We stayed with one of their Nine Matrons. House... Af'zana? Af'zasa? No, that's not it..."

"Af'zisi?" said Joanevere. She looked at Cara with a piercing gaze.

"Yes," Caa blurted gratefully. "Yes, that's it. Matron Odessi. She had a very kind husband, and a handsome younger brother, and the most adorable little girl."

"I've been to Protus," Lady Jayna announced. "Lovely place. Rustic, but lovely."

"Were you there long?" Cara asked. A pair of minstrels walked by, and she didn't hear Lady Jayna's reply. Behind the minstrels trotted a tall, dark skinned fool in red and white motley. He was very thin, with long arms and legs, and a long face to match. His hat had more dangles and bells than a kraken had arms, and he shook his head from side to side as he trotted along. The baubles on his hat were of every color. Some were black as jet and caught every hue of light as he shook them from side to side. He held a pair of symbals in his hands which he clashed together. As the minstrels passed the table he stopped, then hopped on the table between Derrion and Hale.

"Clash, smash, bash!" he chanted as he banged his symbals. "Rash, dash, flash! Rumble, crumble, tumble! Turn, spurn, burn! Black, crack, attack! Grey, stay, away! White, flight, right! Red, bled, fed! Moors, wars, doors!". He then leapt off the table and clashed his symbals over Hale. "Shun, done, run! Sing, sing, king!". Hale covered his ears, and the fool trotted away to catch up with the minstrels. Cara reflected gratefully on the absence of jesters in High Alden.

"That's Caliban Shem," said Lady Jayna. "King Verrold, may splendor paint his tomb, brought him back from an excursion to Golani Palace. He was a boy then, only a few years older than Marcas. He was a mute beggar-boy, hopping on one foot for coppers. Marcas wanted him whipped for begging near the palace, but Derrion insisted they take him in. Am I right, Joany?"

Joanevere took a long sip of her rum and smiled thinly. "Aren't you always, Jayna?"

Jayna snorted. "More of than I care to be!"

Cara watched the fool as he trotted about the Great Hall, crashing and chanting, but only to certain people. He was at the table where the robed people were, and they all crowded him and listened intently to his chanting.

"Verrold had his two favorite advisors work day and night to teach poor Shemmy to speak. Those funny little chants are all he can manage, poor creature."

"Yes," said Joanevere, "poor Shemmy."

Cara noticed for the first time that there were a half dozen or so dwarves among the robed bunch. Shemmy was clashing his symbals over their heads, leaning down as he did so. "Brow, drow, row!" he chanted at them.

"Who are those people?" Cara asked.

"Aha!" Jayna snorted. "You've noticed our little cult, have you? Verrold's legacy, some call them. Those are the men and women of the College. If you're ever in need of a good laugh, go visit their library. Just say the word 'tide', and they'll flock to you, spouting more foolish rhymes than poor Shemmy."

Cara almost mentioned her father's interest in the College of Esper, but she caught herself. "What is it they do, exactly?"

Jayna held up her glass and a young elven boy in a servant's tunic came to refill it. She swished it around for a moment before taking a long swig. "They rewrite old stories so they fit their theories on the nature of the world and the history of the stars."

"And murder kings," Joanevere said.

Cara looked to her suddenly.

Joanevere returned Cara's look and laughed. "You poor sweet girl, you look so shocked."

Cara blinked and shook her head. "I am confused, Your Highness."

"My father was a vibrant, healthy man; venerable and in his prime. Then two of the Esperians came to him late at night, fussing over some revelation in one of their tomes. My father then went where none ought; to old places long forgotten, and soon he spent more time in those dead towers than he did in his living castle. That's when our trouble with the orcs began in earnest, and that's when my father, a hale man of sixty, began to rot away to nothing. The worst part of it, though by far the most humorous, is he knighted those old dunderwhelps. They should have been flayed in the outer ward on the summer solstice, and hung from the Tower of splendor for all to see. But here they are, in this very hall, feasting and drinking our ale, and wearing their false titles in mockery of the good man they slew."

"Which ones, Your Highness?"

Joanevere finished her second glass of rum, then looked Cara deep in the eyes. "Are we not both daughters of kings? You will not address me as a peasant does, unless we be in the eyes of peasants."

She remembered Ror telling her much the same thing, and how she floundered, calling him 'Dread Ror'. I worried what he thought of me then. "I'm sorry, Joanevere. I'm not in the habit of addressing other royalty. In High Alden, all save my family call me Your Highness, so..."

Joanevere gripped Cara's arm, silencing her. The woman's hand was burning hot, and her grip was as strong as a man's. Rum wafted through the air from her lips and into Cara's nose. "High Alden must have been a blessed realm before its fall," she said, her voice slurring just a tiny bit. "I must visit when my brother puts it back together again. One takes quaintness for granted, when cut off from the wider world. Here, royal courtesy is a scarce commodity. Cara, Your Highness, I task you, as a could-be sister, with the reviving of royal courtesy here in Castle Gwynd. But! Do not, call me 'Your Highness'. Joany. You call me Joany. Hey! There's a clever notion." Joanevere stood, climbed over the table, and strutted into the middle of the hall. The minstrels had gathered around the center and several lords and ladies were beginning to dance.

"Gammy!" shouted Joanevere. "Dance with me, Ser!"

Cara watched as Derrion said something to Gammon, and the knight stood and went to the middle of the hall. He and Jarral had both changed out of their armor, rather quickly, and Gammon looked awfully uncomfortable in his velvet doublet and satin breeches.

"He dances better in maille," Jayna said.

It was a comical scene, the Hay Knight dancing stiffly with the drunken princess. Joanevere howled and cheered, and kicked her feet high whenever Gammon twirled her. His face was a nervous shade of white, and his brow glistened with sweat like a sunlit brook. Joanevere's samite gown hung low on her smooth shoulders, and one of her breasts almost spilled out when Gammon dipped her back. A roar of laughter filled the hall, and Joanevere guffawed loudest of all.

"How dare you, Ser!" she shouted, playfully striking him on the chest.

"There's another bachelor, Your Highness," Lady Jayna said.

Cara blushed. "Gam? Oh no, I couldn't possibly."

"Because of his birth? Cara dear, don't be such a simpleton. Joany is being kind to you, not a common thing, I must say. But she's trying to clue you in on a very important truth. High Alden is an old kingdom. Some even say it's the oldest. And when the kins first went their separate ways after dealing with the gnolls, High Alden was a land to be feared. Those days are gone, precious girl. A small band of dwarves brought your entire castle down, after they themselves were defeated. Tell me, Cara, were there any of their number amongst the slain, the following morn?"

Cara shook her head.

"The quaint ways of the corn country and hollow hills won't serve you well at Gwynd, or anywhere, to be honest. Leave your old ways behind, child, and embrace the world around you, or I promise you with no joy, that you will drown in the tide."

Cara sighed. She looked around the great Hall at all the lords and ladies and knights. Her father promised to teach her how to keep the dogs in the throne room fed. But hose were country mongrels. She was surrounded now by mastiffs and pit bulls, gentle breeds of high pedigree, and seasoned war hounds covered in scars. She looked to the nearest table at Dennel, weary and old, his long and violent years catching up with him. Then she looked to Jarral, a man so great and strong he was dubbed the 'Orcsbane'. She laughed when she looked at the massive knight, as he was bent over double to dance with Gislain. It came time for him to tip her, and he scooped her up in one giant hand and held her over the ground. Her face turned read and she laughed loudly. Cara's heart warmed.

"Will you look after me, Jayna?"

The old woman smiled broadly. "Yes, precious girl. Joany and I both. Oh, look! You're brother's making a play at Joany right now."

Cara's eyes widened and she turned to the center of the hall. Hale was not at his seat, but it was Istan who had approached Joanevere. He was in the middle of a low and courteous bow, and Joanever planted a kiss atop his thick mop of hair, then put his one hand on her hip and took the other in hers.

"That cheeky little gnome!" Cara said with a laugh.

"Gammon's not dancing with anyone." Jayna was leaning close and giving Cara a knowing look.

"I'm not going to wed Gammon. He's too silly, too... well, I'd expected him to be more comely. There, I said it."

"He's very rich," Jayna raised her brows and looked intently at Cara. "And he owns more land than any other knight at court. The wind in the willows is that Derry means to make him a lord, once his rule is secured."

"Once it's secured?" Cara was incredulous. She looked about the Great Hall at the small army of guards posted along every wall and at every door. "He has soldiers everywhere. How could his rule not be secure?"

"He needs soldiers everywhere. Verrold had a few guards here, a few guards there, but no one questioned his reign, at least not openly. And if anyone did at all, they kept it very quiet. I promise you, if it weren't for the Hay Knight and the Orcsbane, Derry would be wearing his armor to sleep. Now that I say that, I'm reminded there's a rumor that Gammon does. I'm certain you could break him of that habit, though, should you be wed."

Cara sighed and shook her head. Her mouth couldn't help parting in a smile. No Lady in High Alden ever spoke to her so freely, and so engagingly, nor took such an interest in her happiness and welfare. "I can't marry Gammon. I can't explain why, I just, I just don't see him that way. And I know somehow that I never will."

"It's the mole, isn't it? I suppose next to Grar and Halfi's sons the Hay Knight looks rather plain. Are those little princes as handsome as I hear? I like dwarf men, myself. Most men of our kin are too spindly. Dwarves are nice and meaty."

Cara remembered how waifish and fragile she felt in the company of Klar and Yemi, and then she remembered scolding Keelie for calling Ror her little prince, and for using the men's privy. She smiled to cover the wave of sadness that washed over her. "They're both handsome men. And strong. Especially Ror."

"So I hear. Gam and Derry spoke excitedly about them when they came back from their tourney, or whatever it is they call it. Gam said it took all his tricks to beat Halfur, and dwarf or not, that Lobuhl is a doughty little brute to beat our Derry. His Grace has all his mother's blood. Verrold was a bold man, but not robust. Queen Miranda though, she had old Provosi blood in her veins. We Provosi women are tough as nails."

"Yet childbirth took her."

"You see how big Derry is! And he wasn't much smaller when he was born. Imagine a fierce beast like him tearing his way out of you. Oh, I jest, but her loss was a tragedy."

"Were you close?"

"As close as sisters. I had my eye on Verrold, but he chose silver over gold. Miranda's eyes looked as silver as the sea when lit by the moon. Now, before you tell me how poetic I am, you need to look yonder."

Cara turned and saw Derrion coming towards her.

"There's your dancing partner," said Jayna. "Though, he too dances better in armor. Here..."

Jayna handed Cara the glass of rum she'd been ignoring. Cara laughed and took a long sip. The rum burned her throat, but once she managed to choke it down it filled her veins with a soothing fire. Derrion came to her and bowed stiffly, then extended a mammoth hand. She stood and took it, and walked with him to the center of the hall. His hand was stone hard and rough as salt. Cara wondered if there was any counting how many weapons it held, and how many throats it had closed, or teeth it had shattered. Orc teeth, most like. She remembered Hale's confusion over the orc totem at Riverwood. He seemed genuinely saddened by the fallen orcs. Her thoughts were interrupted when Derrion stopped and put his other hand on the small of her back. He pulled her close, very close, and maneuvered her away from the thick of the crowd. She was grateful for the rum, as she felt its soothing energy calming her quickening heart.

"Has Lady Jayna chosen a suitor for you yet?" Derrion asked.

"Uhm," Cara stammered, "she's mentioned it."

"There are good men here. Joany will steer you towards them, if you can learn to sense her cryptic hints."

"I suppose it makes sense..." Derrion dipped her, a full two steps before the time. She almost bit her tongue off when her head snapped back.

"Forgive me," he said in a wooden tone. "This is not the kind of dancing I'm trained for."

"It's all right." Cara's thoughts went back to Thrond, and how much she enjoyed dancing with Ror. Then she remembered the first dream given her by the Voice, when she'd seen Ror dancing with her father. Derrion and Gammon both danced better with armor. The Voice tried to warn me. It knew. How? She felt a sudden desire to hear the Voice again, and to see another waking dream, even if it were the Black Sun, or Castle Othomo being devoured. There were answers in those visions, answers to questions that had not yet been asked. But she hadn't heard or seen a thing since the night their castle fell. And on that night, the Voice had caused her pain. Hinges creak when a door first opens.

Derrion dipped her again, this time on queue. "There will be time for suitors later. There are others I would have you meet first."

It came time for him to lift her and twirl. She may has well have been a feather in a storm. He hoisted her off the ground without no effort at all, spun, and set her down without so much as a breath. "Who am I to meet? And why?" she asked, after he pulled her close again. When he spoke, his voice was lowered, and it seemed he was waiting till there were fewer people around them.

"I'll speak plain," he said, as if he spoke any other way, "Hale will not rule High Alden. I know you're brother better than you, and he is even weaker than my brother was. Had he even a notion to wear Alden's crown, he'd be wearing it now. He told Gammon that Salimod named you his heir, or at least intended to. Your father was not highly regarded abroad, but my father took note of him."

He dipped her again, spun her around, and led her even further away from the crowd and closer to a group of knights in indigo surcoats. "My father was one of the shrewdest men alive. If he thought a man worthy, then that man was worthy. Salimod judged rightly in choosing you, and I will not back Hale, even if he were to make a claim. But I know he will not."

"I know as well. I feel for him, but he's still a child. I'd like to know from you of his time here. He told me some things, but I think he left a lot unsaid. Perhaps things he didn't want any of us to know. Did he really go with Gammon to see the King of Grav..."

Derrion puller her in hard, so close that her mouth was pressed shut against his tunic.

"There are names you must not say openly here," he muttered warningly.

"I'm sorry," she said when he let her pull away.

"Yes," he blurted while turning stiffly into the next step, half a beat too late. She stepped on his boot and almost fell.

"Yes?" she asked after she recovered her footing. It was the most difficult dance she'd ever suffered through. His grip was impossibly strong, and his arms only bent when he wished them too. The whole time she struggled to keep on her feet, and struggled to hear his hushed words.

"Yes he accompanied Ser Gammon to the Dawnwood and met with some dignitaries."

"I see. Am I to meet these dignitaries?"

"No. You know fear already. I want you to meet two people, friends, people that can be trusted with all things."

"May I ask who they are? Or must I wait?"

"One is here, the other you already know. Dance with Gammon when we're done, then tell him you're ready to retire for the night he'll see you secretly to my solar."

The dance went on a moment longer, then was done. When she found herself dancing with Gammon, she was greatly relieved. He stepped off time, as Derion had, but his smaller size made him much easier to move with. He held her less firmly as well.

Cara felt safe in his arms, safe and protected. She even was becoming used to his mole, though it moved whenever he spoke. Instead it was his eyes that were drawing her attention. They were honest eyes, and seemed at once both happy and sad, hopeful but wary, frightened but bold.

"You're not at all how I pictured you," she heard herself say.

He blushed. "Everyone expects me to be tall."

"That's only part of it. Hale and the dwarves all spoke of what a skilled warrior you are, and so I imagined a grim and war-weary man covered in scars."

"I've a few," he said nervously.

"I've no doubt. But you don't carry yourself as other men do. Even other farmers. I've known many men who work the land. I've even worked beside them."

"Have you? Well, Your Highness, you're not like other queens I've met."

Her smile faded at the word. "Does Hale know he's not to be crowned? I mean, does he know you and Derrion have decided so."

"Begging your pardons, Your Grace, but we've decided nothing. We just sort of know. You learnt o see the measure of a man, when you've been at war as long as Derry... His Grace and I."

Her smile returned. "I won't be offended if you call him Derry, nor if you call me Cara. What wars have you fought? I know so little of the world past our hills."

He lifted her and spun. It took this little man who was two inches shorter than her no more effort than it had taken Derrion. How is a man so small so strong?

"The first war I was in broke the day I was born. They called me Warchild before they called me Hay Knight. I was born outside the Towers of Wind, in a little village named Ramasad. It was part of old Provosa, in Lady Jayna's lands."

He dipped her, much too soon, and pulled her up so suddenly their faces almost touched. She laughed, a little at first, then more, then she was laughing so much they had to pause their dance. Gammon laughed with her for a good moment. When they stopped she was out of breath, and three times his feet found their way under hers. It was as she told Lady Jayna. She thought of Gammon as she thought of a brother.

"So you were born in Lady Jayna's lands. Did she know you then?"

"No one knew me then. I was just a halfbreed orphan working for scraps."

"Halfbreed?" She pulled back and looked him up and down. "Half what?" Then it came together. It was his face that threw her off. He was as clean shaven as any man of her kin, and his hair was thick, but it was cropped short.

"My ma was the dwarf. You don't get the extra beard if your ma's the dwarf, only if it's your pa."

"How did your parents meet?"

"At the Rambasl. It's an old fortress from the Age of Storms. No one knows for sure who built it. Though, if you've been around dwarves at all it's pretty easy to tell they had a hand. There used to be a village nearby, until after the war."

"I know very little of the north, I'm afraid. You must have been close to Ronehelm."

"Neighbors. Though not very neighborly. The war that birthed me was with them. Verrold's sire thought he'd have a go at the Shieldlands. It ended even worse for him than it did for old King Pyrus."

Cara wracked her brain for any tidbit of history she might remember. She knew the broad strokes of Ronehelm's history, but not many of the details. "Is Pyrus the king that tried to conquer the Marches?"

"That's right. And old Rone the Red brought the Marches together to beat the Arcadians back, and they fought so well together they stayed that way."

Cara nodded. She was embarrassed at how little she knew, especially with her being the daughter of such a well read king as her father was. She felt a twinge of shame in her tummy, and tried hard to think of anything she might have heard her father say of Ronehelm. "And his helm was split," she said eagerly, as a morsel popped into her mind, "by a catapult, after the Arcadians sounded the retreat. He died, and they kept the three pieces of his broken helm as an heirloom. And they call him the first High King, even though they weren't truly a kingdom until after he died."

"That's right." Gammon dipped her and then stepped back. The dip was well done, for once, but the backstep almost caused them both to topple backwards over a bench.

"I'm afraid one of our helms will be split soon," he said. They both laughed.

"So King Darlyn attacked the Shieldlands," he continued, "and did a decent job. March King Tor was wounded, and then his son Arn came raging down after us. That's when I was born. Pa died defending fighting outside the cave ma was birthing me in, and she joined the fight after I popped out. My sister picked me up and ran, and the rest is history."

"Where's your sister?"

He looked down for a moment, and they almost tripped over each other's feet. "I'm sorry."

Cara stopped and put her hand on Gammon's cheek. He turned deep red at her touch.

"No, Ser Gammon, I am sorry. I shouldn't ask such questions. I was so crushed when my father died, at the sight of battle on a night I thought to be like any other, save being told I was to be queen, of course. But I'm seeing here that tragedy is everywhere in the world, and I have no more claim to it than anyone else." She took her hand away and Gammon's face turned white again.

"It's true" he said, still looking down. "Tragedy is everywhere. I suppose I should be better at talking about it, that being the case."

"You don't have to."

"She was cut to ribbons," he looked up as he said it, "by a great big orc. Some of us saw some of them, didn't like the way they looked, and stirred up wild tales in the village. So a dozen of us went out and killed the orcs. They were just scouting ahead for their tribe, to make sure they didn't come up on a village like ours and frighten them. They found out what some of us had done to some of them, and came for revenge. Fair enough, only it didn't stop there. We sent men to another village, and they sent men back, and we killed more orcs together. Then the orcs had two villages to strike back at, so twice as many of us died. I was running around crying, being just a little runt and all, and my sister was trying to catch me and get us away from all the killing. Then their Chieftain shows up. My sister shot an arrow into his neck, and his son slashed her to pieces with his bare hands. Fair enough."

"Was it... him?"

Gammon looked at her confusedly, then shook his head. "No. No. Not him. Someone almost as important, though. Mars'Akka, Chieftain of the Goreharts. He's not so well known this far north. The Goreharts stay east of Obrus these days. But he's one of the big three, so to speak."

The dance ended, and Cara told Gammon she needed to lay down for the night. He offered to escort her to her chambers, and they left the great Hall and he took her to a stair hidden behind a tapestry on the inner wall of one of the inner turrets.

"Does this lead to one of the Golden Spires?" she asked.

"This leads, eventually, to the Tower of splendor. Derrion uses this stair when he doesn't want to be bothered, which is more or less always."

The stair wound on forever. Cara's feet were sore and her ankle throbbed. Gammon offered to carry her on his back, but she insisted she make it on her own.

"I don't doubt your strength," she said. "Tell me, how well known is your dwarven heritage?"

"I don't speak of it. I was raised by humans, so I tend to think of myself as a human. Just oddly shaped, and a bit on the small side."

"Do any dwarves know?"

"There's a sellsword halfer that lives in the Dawnwood. He has a room at the Green Lion Inn, and keeps a house nearby. We cross paths from time to time."

"What of the dwarves of Thrond? Do Halfur and Ror know?"

"Like I said, I don't really mention it ever. I always feel a sort of kinship with dwarves, though. Even if I'm just meeting them. Last time I saw the brothers Narhim..."

He was silent, as if he'd cut his sentence short. "It's alright," she reassured him, "If you can speak to me of your sister, then I can speak to you of my father, and even of Ror and Halfur."

"Ror's your Mars'Akka, in a way."

"Yes," Cara felt a lump in her throat, and her stomach tightened. Only you weren't falling in love with Mars'Akka.

"Gammon," she said, wanting to change the subject, "now that we're away from the crowd, will tell me of the time you took Hale to see the Red Eyed Goat and the King of Graves, and why Derrion doesn't want me to speak of him openly?"

He was quiet for a time, as if thinking of what to say.

"Is there something wrong?"

"It's a difficult thing to speak of, for many reasons. I'll let Derrion answer your last question, but, well, I don't mean any insult by this, but your brother had a difficult time here."

"How so?"

"He's very soft, and not inclined to do much besides play his cittern and sing. Being of royal blood, he had value for people looking to scheme, or get some influence, but he wasn't good for much else. He's a marvelous bard, though. He and I used to sit atop the battlements on splendor, and I'd listen to him play and sing till dawn's end. But he just never showed any motivation, or impetus, as Dan says."

"Who's Dan?"

"Erudan, who I'm taking you to meet. Oh, mayhaps I wasn't meant to say that. I'm such a dolt."

"Derrion said I wasn't going to meet any of these big three orcs, because I already know fear. What did he mean by that?"

Cara was panting, and her ankle felt as if it were about to sprain again. Without asking, Gammon pulled her up the stairs and slung her over his back. She felt the mountainous muscles dwarves all had atop their shoulders and between their shoulder blades, and he didn't lose his balance or slow his pace with her clinging to his back like a sack of onions.

"I don't rightly know what he meant about you," he said, "but he wanted me to bring Hale to meet Aze'Zul because he felt Hale needed to see how dangerous an enemy we faced."

"Can you tell me how their meeting went? Please? He's my brother, but I hardly know him. I want to know all I can, before the matter of succession comes up between us."

Gammon sighed, but not because of her weight. "Hale was always hiding and running. Whenever it was time to train in the yard, or run drills with new conscripts, or meet lords' daughters, I'd have to go hunting for him. One time he'd slipped passed all the castle guards and made his way up to the curtainwall. Had he meant to run away altogether, he probably could have. So when I see Aze'Zul, he just starts laughing. Well I knew right away why. I turn around and lo!, I'm all by myself, and Hale's disappearing into the Dawnwood. Aze'Zul found him quick enough, hiding under a fallen oak."

Cara laughed. "Did he wet himself as well?"

Gammon was silent.

"No," she was aghast. Poor Hale. Poor miserable Hale. "It's not his fault. He was always an emotional boy. He thinks and feels very deeply. And our father sent him away, hoping he'd toughen up, rather than grooming him himself. He must have felt terribly alone, and terribly worthless."

"It got worse every day he was with us after meeting the orcs. DId he tell much of them at all?"

"He told me of Aze'Zul's band, the Deadhands, and that the King of Graves is enormous, but spoke calmly."

She felt Gammon nodded his head. She was in awe of how tirelessly he kept climbing. They were high above the ground now. Cara saw the lights of the city through the narrow windows they passed on their way up. The moon was shining down on the Towers of namesake, and the Tower of Distant Stars rose like a black spike into the night.

"Derry can be harsh at times. He often puts people in situations to shake them up. He means well, but he doesn't understand that what works for soldiers doesn't work for others. You'll see that yourself, soon enough, so be prepared."

"What do you mean?" Something in his tone made her nervous.

"Well, Hale had heard all about Woten'Ku in the castle, and everything he heard was bad. Woten'Ku is, well, he's not a man, in the proper sense. It's hard to understand until you've met him, but he's more of a force than a person. And it's not just because he's eight feet tall and powerfully built. There's a meaning to every move he makes, and every look on his face. It's almost as if you feel his heart beating in your chest. And it's true, all the things Hale heard. Woten'Ku came on a warmarch towards Gwynd, and all the half slaughtered tribes our outlying folk left alive flocked to him. Soon his numbers were in the tens of thousands, all half mad and angry orcs, coming to us for blood, with him leading the charge. They butchered our kin wholesale, and now only a few small villages remain outside the mountains."

"We came upon a butchered village, on our way from home."

"What village?" his voice was strong and sharp, his tine commanding and direct. Cara felt compelled to salute him and await orders. it was strange, and unexpected. Gone was the nervous half breed farmboy orphan, and in his place was the Warchild, one of the most famous warriors of his day.

"Riverwood," she stammered. "There were bodies everywhere, and a totem with three orcs from the Windfang tribe."

He stopped instantly. "Windfang?" his head cocked to the side. "In Riverwood? Three Windfang orcs, on one totem?"

"Hale said the totem was wrong..."

"It's all wrong. I'll have to tell His Grace. he'll question you, and Hale, and anyone else who was with you. Were there others?"

"Dennel, and my friend Howl Bray, and some outriders."

"His Grace will question everyone."

Gammon was silent the rest of the way. They eventually came to a landing with a guardhouse and a row of benches. Gammon paused at the door and stayed the guards with a wave of his hand. He turned to her and looked her in the eye. The nervous orphaned farmboy was back.

"Cara, as I said, Derrion means well, but he doesn't understand that some hurts are too great. You may know fear, but he wants you to know something else. I don't ask you not to be angry with him, but I do ask you to be open to what he wishes you to learn. There are greater storms than any any of us have faced looming overhead. We all need to steel ourselves if we're to survive. Derrion is doing everything that can be done to avert complete disaster, but there are strange things happening, and all our efforts may prove to be nill. Please, will you promise me not to despise his lessons, even if you despise him?"

"Gammon? You're scaring me. What's going on? Whos the other person Derrion wants me to meet? Who besides Erudan?"

"There's three. I'm telling you this because I want you to trust me. You'll meet two tonight, including Erudan. The third... you'll likely forget there even is a third after tonight. Please, will you trust me?"

"I trust you Gammon. I have no reason not to. Why do you want me to trust you so badly?"

"Because from the moment I met His Grace, I've seen him turn the softest people into steel. Had King Verrold not have died when he did, your brother would doubtless be one of the hardest men alive by now. He sees great ability in you. We all do. But he wants you hardened, toughened, tempered. And you don't forge a sword by caressing and swaddling it."

Just when I was beginning to feel safe and secure. "Allright, Gammon, I'll trust Derrion and learn his lessons." What worse thing could I go through than I already have?

Gammon sighed, then opened the door. They walked into a long hallway that wrapped around the top of the Tower of splendor. Cara could hear the wind hollowing like a pack of dreadwolves outside, and even louder than that was the snapping of heavy banners. Derrion's solar was easy to pick out from the many doors that lined the inner wall. The doors were rich mahogany, and painted with a crest that looked shockingly like the Crest of Narvi, with triple sphere devices that were very similar to the Autumn Triske bordering the crest instead of read wolf's heads. Gammon led her passed the solar to another pair of smaller doors.

"I'm sorry, Cara," he said, then he opened the doors and stood aside. She entered the room and heard the doors close behind her. It was sparsely lit, with only a few candles offering a dim glow to see by. There was a table by the far wall, just passed the light of the candles. Cara could see the outline of a smallish figure seated at the table. The figure rose from its seat and slowly stepped into the light. Cara's heart stopped. It was Ror.