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(have you read the prologue and parts one, two and three?) “Looking back on it all now, after peace has settled again, having seen the best and the worst of the group known as the Lords of Rotan, I can honestly say that in the short time I’ve known them, I got to know them well. For it is as someone once said, ‘It is not about how long you know someone, but about how much you want to know someone’. I traveled a while with each in turn, and each is as different as they are similar. But above it all, they were a company of friends, and it was their trust for one another that gave them the purpose and vision to see it all through. Tibalt was hungry and he was tired. They had marched all day long. His eight-year old son was asleep in the wagon, little shoes long since torn apart by the stones. They had passed the valleys with their fertile farmlands and orchards, and had entered the ragged Death Dales. The walking was much tougher now, with the gravel loose and slippery from the recent rains. Some had fallen behind – too tired to get up (and were probably eaten by the roving packs of kobolds in the hills), and the few from his burnt village that still marched with him were all haggard sick, suffering from a week of poor rations. Fighting for food had grown intense, and Hog (and his cronies) refused to hear any more sorrowed tales of his hungry kid. The food distribution was fixed, and Tibalt knew long ago that Hog’s friends received more than their fair share to eat and share. Also, more than once he saw money and food changing hands, and there was a definite racket between the guards and some of the richer peasants. His own money was gone – someone had robbed him in his sleep on his second night under the stars, and they were too far from home to turn back. He had to do something now, while his son still had strength in him to walk. He got up quietly, listening to his own heartbeat for a while, before he was sure that no one had spotted him. He wrapped the cloak about himself, feeling the cold handle of a knife in his belt. The night was freezing, and his every breath sent clouds of white smoke like sentry signals into the night sky. He tried to keep to the shadows, but the flickering torchlight made it difficult. His breathing whistled loud in his lungs and he couldn’t quiet it for the fear of choking. The food-wagon for his camp was getting closer with each step, and he could see the guard – probably Berret - by the campfire slouch again until his head dropped down onto his knees. It was now or never! He covered the last distance with a quick sprint, the wheel covering his body as he threw himself down onto the gravel. Using his glove to cover his rapid breathing, he waited for his body to calm down. Sweat was trickling down his back making the furs uncomfortable and wet. Tibalt squirmed around to see clearer. The flames of the fire were obscuring his vision, and he could no longer see the guards. The food cache in front of him mesmerized him, holding his gaze with the intensity of a two-day hunger. He started to crawl towards the fire. Wood was wet from the rains, and it crackled as it burnt, hiding his passage. There were voices coming from his left. He had to hurry. He scurried as quickly as he could towards the packs. The voices were closer! He was almost there. He felt a tug on his hose and he panicked. He pulled harder, and his pants came loose with a loud rip. The conversation stopped, and as he looked up, the top pack of food came tumbling down on top of him, pinning him to the ground with its weight. From beneath the large rucksack he heard footsteps run up towards him. “Look Hog, I think we caught ourselves a scavenger rat.” With a grunt someone rolled the pack off him. “I’m sorry Hog, my kid needs…oof” The air left his lungs in a burning jab of pain as Hog’s boot made contact with his side. The impact flipped him onto his elbows. “Tibalt, didn’t I tell you that I decide who eats and who doesn’t?” He tried to draw enough breath to answer. Another jab of pain shot through him with a crack of his ribs, and he was rolling again. He bounced off something, and he opened his eyes, gulping air like a fish. He cried out, seeing Hog pull his boot back for another kick. “No!” Someone screamed behind Hog, causing him to lose balance. Something flashed in a streak, and suddenly it was Hog who was somersaulting through the air. The man behind Hog was shining in light. He had a stern, angry expression on his strong face. There was a white glimmer in his angry eyes. A hammer of light streaked from Hog towards him, coming to rest in the air by his side. “How dare you treat my people that way! I placed my trust in you – to keep order! Not to hurt them! Get up!” Hog moaned and shook his head. He got up slowly, looking warily at Jarron. He flicked his hand and a knife slid into his palm from his sleeve. Hog threw it at Jarron with a vicious yell. It came to a halt several inches from his face. It hovered in silence for a few seconds as if deciding whether to leap forward or not, and then it dropped to the ground with a clatter. Hog turned to run, but Jarron just stretched his hand out. Tibalt heard a melody in his ears, haunting yet beautiful, and Hog froze in mid-step, muscles stretched at a strange angle. Jarron’s voice had deepened, becoming more powerful, louder and more penetrating. “I charge you Hog – I charge you to make one right for every wrong you have done in your life. In the name of Artafor I place this geas upon you. You shall not rest until all your sins are atoned for. And then, should you finish before you die, you shall come and kneel before Him and ask Him for forgiveness. Know that each week you dally, you will know pain. Pain of all the people who suffered under your tyranny, and the only respite you will know will come from further good deeds. I rename you Atlenn, which means ‘atonement’ in the old tongue, and give you to the world. Go!” Jarron waved his hand, and Hog fell awkwardly where he stood. His muscles were trembling and he was sobbing softly. Tibalt looked at Jarron. The light and the hammer had disappeared, and he was approaching him. Tibalt shrank back in fear. “Do not fear me. You have nothing to be scared of.” His voice was soothing, and Tibalt could feel his fears and pains fading. He trusted Jarron like he trusted no one else in the whole wide world. This man he could follow. This man he could die for. Hog/Atlenn got up, stumbling out of the light into the quiet circle of people. The crowd parted to give him passage. Suddenly, there was light in Tibalt’s vision, not as harsh as before, but soft and soothing. And then the rattle eased in his chest, and warmth filled his stomach. He was picked up gently, but he was past caring… “This is what happens when people usurp authority. This is what you get when you take the burden of leadership without preparation.” Roleen cocked her head up, looking at Jarron. Her disguise had worked perfectly – Jarron didn’t suspect anything. He was preoccupied so much with the events around him, that he hardly had time to sleep. As it was he rested two to three hours a day. He was frowning, unhappy with what had happened earlier. “But Helena, you’re speaking as if you were aiming that comment at me. Do you mean this to be my lesson?” She softened her voice, taking note of the pain and confusion written on his face. “Take it as you may, but you cannot just walk in and start ruling a country as if nothing happened. For one, what do you intend to do with all these people once we present our case to the king? Some of them have been marching for most of the week. And the capital does not possess the resources to feed them.” He looked at her, blushing. “We never spoke of it before…” “Do you realize that the people here expect you to replace Feroll's Council of Elders?” He visibly started at that. He really didn’t know… He was so innocent. She had to resist the urge of holding him and rocking him like a baby. “What do you mean? I have no intentions of ruling them…” “Are you sure? What if the king or the councilors turn out to be like Hog? You can’t force them to be good rulers, you know?” He glanced at her sheepishly. “It felt like the right thing to do at the time. Sometimes it just feels right. And he was kicking the poor man on the ground, and I felt my anger build and build…” She interrupted him, not letting him justify what he felt was right. “Jarron, you listen to me. You have grown and grown in power over the last month – more than I thought was possible. And the greater one’s power, the greater one’s responsibility not to abuse it. You cannot walk around shooting beams of light at everyone. While Artafor has more than enough power to spare you, you – as his channel – need to decide carefully on each choice, and take care of yourself as well. In the last week alone, you’ve lost more than ten pounds, and the rings under your eyes look like saucers.” He sat down, hunching his shoulders. “But they all need so much…” “You will not do anyone any good if you drop over exhausted in front of the city gates. You have to see the bigger picture.” She flinched as she saw her words register on him. She’d definitely mangled that one. “What do you mean? It’s the people looking at the big picture that have forgotten about us in this encampment. Monarchs set their sights so high they forget to look down at the people who make their dreams happen. The big picture starts by seeing each individual and caring for his or her needs.” He stood up, buckling his belt. “Aren’t you going to sleep?” she asked quietly. “No, I have to show myself to these people. I have to show them that someone cares for their woes. Look, I know you mean well – but I just cannot stand idly by. Excuse me.” He brushed past her gently, and the flap closed behind him. She turned to the fire, thinking on what he had said. The tent flap moved again, and she turned, “Jarron…” The figure was much smaller, and the lantern light glistened off her mail. “No child, it’s me, Shanna. I need to speak to you.” Roleen froze momentarily, surprised by the old priestess. She recovered, and pointed her hand at the flap. “Get out! How dare you enter my tent without permission. Go, before I call the guards and have you arrested!” Shanna took off her helm, and eyed her calmly. “Girl, keep quiet. I know about you.” Cold sweat broke over Roleen. The old woman’s eyes were cold and icy, but her face was amused. She wasn’t in any danger yet. “What do you know?” Shanna approached her. That was worse. Roleen didn’t plan to be anywhere within the reach of her grip. “I know that you’re not Helena. I also know that you’re doing a better job of guiding Jarron than she was.” The directness shocked Roleen. “How do you…” “Heh, heh girl, I’ve been around a bit longer than you or Jarron. I see many hidden things. You’re asking me the wrong questions.” “Why are you telling me this? What do you want?” Roleen could feel the situation slipping from her grasp. The old cleric was just too dangerous. She needed to think… to contact Da… She straightened her back, clearing her mind instantly. “You almost had me. Very clever, Shanna. Put me off guard, push my back up against the wall until I think of nothing but contacting my superiors. And then you would know who they were. Close, but I’m onto you now, and you will know nothing more from my thoughts. Once again, what do you want?” Shanna muttered, looking pleased. Roleen felt an invisible hand slip from her thoughts. “Hmm, not bad girl, it wasn’t the reason for my visit anyway. I wanted to tell you why I’m tagging along with this rag-tag army.” She paused, noting the effect on Roleen. “There are two reasons. One – Artafor favors Jarron. He is pure, innocent, and hell-bent on restoring the rights of his people. Hell of a combination as far as He is concerned.” Shanna cackled at Roleen’s shocked expression. “So the first reason is to guide him. Jarron is an anomaly. Most of us never reach the levels of power granted to him. It takes many, many years of study of scriptures, people and situations to understand Artafor sufficiently to see His purpose. Jarron does this automatically, almost instinctively. And yet he hasn’t got those years that are needed to reach a balance between using his power directly – and holding it in check. He’s like a bull chasing a red cloth.” “…but what do you want from me?” Shanna looked directly at her, smiling. “Keep on doing what you’ve started. I could not do any more to guide him than what you’ve done in the short given time. Make him understand the dangers of usurping the throne, the difficulties of ruling, the importance of guiding our leaders, rather than replacing them. It does not finish when he sits on the high-backed chair. That’s where it all begins. I won’t interfere with you, but I want you to know who your allies are.” Roleen shifted her weight. Her left leg started to cramp. “…and your second reason for being here?” Shanna put on the helm again. Roleen could only see the slits of her eyes. “…the second reason would be to stop him if he tries to claim the crown. The Church would splinter and fade no matter what our actions were if that were to occur, but we were put here to see the rule of Law in the lands, and we would uphold that – even if it meant killing one of our own. Who knows, maybe this is Artafor’s test for all of His faith. We’ll have to wait and see.” She saluted and marched out of the tent, leaving Roleen with a storm of jumbled thoughts in her head. The floors were covered with cold, stark white marble tiles, interspersed with black wooden planks gleaming with polish. Grumplin walked as quickly as he could, his little feet making fading imprints on the stone. The man in front of him walked briskly, using his staff as a walking aid. It made dull echoes each time it landed. He wore a wet dark woolen cape that left puddles of water on the tiles with each of his steps. There was an official chattering excitedly at his side. “…and I wish to apologize in advance, but the Interim Government of Pirs decided that since you knew some members intimately, it would be best if they were to speak through a representative, rather than talk to you in person.” Souriin turned to face him, coming to a halt in surprise. Grumplin had to dodge his leg (yet again), to avoid hitting his head. “What nonsense is this Cayan? I know all the government members, and none of them invite me to their tea parties.” Cayan swallowed loudly – the mage looked irritated, and he had a terrible reputation. Tales of frogs and mysterious disappearances dogged him persistently. “It’s nothing personal, my Lord. It’s just that you represent a large industry as much as your country, and since some of the members of the government are in direct competition to your interests…” “Good gods man,” interrupted Souriin, causing the messenger to jump. “I do not confuse such matters, and the suggestion that the government sees it that way is insulting.” The seneschal folded his hands in an effort to stop them from trembling. “They want this meeting to be as impartial as possible. There are sensitive issues at hand. As it was, the Councillors had to retreat from the celebrations of the city in order to meet Rotan’s wishes for an audience.” Grumplin ducked as they started walking again. He was getting tired of avoiding booted feet. People simply did not look down enough. The doors ahead opened, and a voice boomed out: “Lord Souriin Draco of Rotan. Grumplin Ardenbuck of Waterloaf.” They strode into a large, near-empty room with a high ceiling. There was a thin, balding man dressed in an immaculate suit standing by a pair of high-backed armchairs. Souriin spoke, smiling warmly, “Cecil, I see Pirsian Government made their choice well. One couldn’t ask for a more neutral party.” The thin man smiled back, shaking Souriin’s hand. Souriin pointed in Grumplin’s direction. “This is Grumplin, another impartial witness in the events that unfold.” He took his coat off, passing it to a servant. The man turned to Grumplin, offering his hand, “A pleasure to meet you, sir. I wish it was in happier circumstances.” He pointed for them to sit. Behind, a man offered Grumplin a smaller version of their armchairs. “I’m afraid that the current danger to Tillon and Feroll forces me to be direct with you, Cecil.” The mayor nodded, clasping his hands on his lap. “It now looks likely that the man known as Jarron Tilessin will reach the Feroll gates in the next four days. He is followed by approximately four thousand people, and since King Loren and the Council are reluctant to use force against their own people, it looks like he might succeed in taking the crown. If things settle down, what is Pirs’ voice on the matter?” “Pirs supports the current government in Feroll without question. If this man, Jarron, were to take over the government, we would be forced to place an embargo on all trade to the North. If help – in form of military aid – was to be requested by King Loren or the Council of Elders in Feroll, the city of Pirs would readily supply it by sea. King Loren himself and any elders could seek sanctuary within our city until such time as he could reclaim the crown.” Grumplin was growing colder with each word. War? He didn’t even want to consider such a possibility again. The invasion of the Lizard People left him and his people homeless and travelling the lands in search of a new refuge. Souriin’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “What if the other nations felt differently to Pirs?” The man shrugged, lines creasing his brow. “Then we would consider the Ivrean Council to be a failure. Souriin, frankly speaking, we agreed to be part of the Ivrean Council only because it offered greater stability to the region. If we bow before each country bumpkin that gathers a crowd and heads for the capital, then we all might as well quit. If this anarchy spreads through the lands, we’re all doomed. This has to be stopped, and hard. I must warn you that the Brotherhood of Brador has already threatened to start hiring mercenaries. They do not want to lose a trading partner as large as Feroll to Artafor's Church.” Souriin shifted his grip on the staff. “There are many factor involved in this one, Cecil, and those people are desperate. Which brings me to the second point. Pirs, notably the merchant sector, has been very lax in sending supplies North. You are far behind schedule. Why?” The man sighed, scratching his head. He looked up, measuring Souriin. “I’m sure to get into trouble for this…but I feel we’re not direct enough in this matter. The year has been very tough, Souriin. The rainfalls came too late and spoiled rather than helped the last crops. We didn’t want to appear as paupers, and so we gave a figure that was far above one which we could possibly meet. We’re out of resources, I’m afraid.” Souriin frowned, thinking. “Could you provide the coastal transport for any more grain?” “We would have to speak to the merchants involved…” Souriin halted his speech with his hand. “Yes or no? No time for games, Cecil.” “If the Ivrean Council were to lighten the burden of grain, I’m sure we would be willing to accommodate such transport to Tillon and Feroll.” Souriin sat back, watching Cecil. “Good. Rotan has had a bountiful year, and some reserves could be made available, but our caravans have been sabotaged on the northern route. We need your ships.” “We would do all this provided that the stability in the North is maintained. The Interim Government refuses to help any usurpers.” “They’re just starving people, Cecil. They don’t care what goes on in the rest of the world.” Cecil leaned back, determination written on his face. “I understand that, better than you think. Rotan wasn’t hit by disasters like Pirs. Together we have recently formed this governing body, remember? And this is also the reason why we must stand firm on the issue. If we allow such precedents, these lands will dissolve into disorder, with little pockets of civilization surviving. How long do you think even Rotan could last in such isolation?” Souriin stood up, causing Grumplin to jump up. “Thank you for your time, Cecil. I appreciate your honesty. Forgive me if I flaunt your laws, but time is of essence. Fare well.” They appeared on a hill. A caravan burned in the distance. Souriin spoke softly, his gestures precise and complex. Magic crackled like energy around Grumplin as the spell took effect. He flapped his hands wildly, rising several inches above the ground. Souriin floated above him impatiently. “We don’t have much time Grumplin. Stop moving your arms – you’re just unbalancing yourself. Think on where you want to go. Just watch yourself on landing.” Grumplin concentrated, and with a wild shriek, he shot through the treetops, collecting small branches and a bird’s nest on the way. Souriin floated up carefully to meet him. “The more desperately you want to be somewhere, the faster you travel. You come to a stop if your mind clears. It takes some getting used to, but it’s easy. Try it.” Grumplin envisioned the caravan, and he started to accelerate towards it. Sure enough, once he knew the procedures it was easy. Next, he realized he was above some very tall trees, with no support for his legs. When his perception cleared, Souriin was shaking him. They were still in the air. “Don’t worry. You blanked out. It happens to most people. It’s just too much at first.” They were closer to the caravan now. The merchants were trying to fight off bandits, but the bandits were mounted and there were flaming arrows streaking into the wagons from the trees. Every so often, a caravan guard would try to put out the fires, and a rider would cut him down before he could retreat. “Look at the raiders, Grumplin. What do you see?” Grumplin looked closer. He absorbed everything hungrily. “They’re wearing uniforms…” Souriin nodded. “The symbol…? A head of a tiger? Why are they killing the guards?” There was a white flag waving among the wagons, but the bandits were ignoring it. Suddenly lightning erupted with a crackle next to Grumplin, and he shot up in fear. It stretched in a lazy arc from Souriin’s hand, scorching the bushes by the road. He saw five archers emerge, their clothes on fire. More shots erupted from the trees, aimed at the mage, but they deflected in the sudden gusts of wind erupting around him. He spoke some words, and dark shadows detached themselves from his staff, like sheets of pure malevolent darkness. Grumplin felt a strange cold permeate his body as they passed near him, and he could hear their hiss as they descended hungrily into the trees. He looked down, but once in the brush, they disappeared from sight. And then a bandit screamed. Grumplin could see one of the shades enwrap itself around one of them. It shrouded his head, and he could hear whispers – even this far away. The bandit struggled, but it stretched and swayed with him, until he fell over, moving slower and slower. The horses panicked sensing the creatures. Fear made them uncontrollable, and they galloped as fast as they could down the road. With satisfied sighs, the shades faded like wisps of smoke, brightening the day. Some bandits were struggling to get up off the road, but the guards surged forward, and fighting renewed. The bandits were retreating. Grumplin watched Souriin approach him in the air. He wasn’t so sure of this man anymore. Those shades did not belong to this world. He wasn’t so sure he wanted this man’s knowledge anymore. “Did you see it all?” Grumplin’s mouth moved open and closed without any sound. “Did you see?” He finally found the breath to answer. “Y…yes.” “Good.” This time the translocation made Grumplin queasy. He was amongst the food wagons. Souriin was standing next to him and he was pointing with his finger. Grumplin looked in that direction. There was a fight breaking out. There were several women fighting for scraps of bread and meat. Suddenly, one woman grabbed a branch on the ground. With a gleeful laugh, she struck one woman, and then another. She raised the branch in a triumphant salute, and then looked around. The other women were lying still on the ground. She dropped the branch, and then collapsed crying to the ground. All around, similar fights broke out near the wagons, some crying Jarron Tillessin’s name in their vicious attack. The world became hazy… …They were flying above the Market Square. There was a speaker in the center of the throng of people. He was gesturing wildly, and accenting each statement with a thump of his walking stick. The crowd counted several hundred men, women and children. They all listened attentively, clapping their hands from time to time. “…And so you have proof now. Proof that Jarron and his followers made dark pacts. That evil spirits possess their souls. Maddie over here…” He pointed at a hunched over figure rocking at the side of the ‘Lion’s Paw’ inn. Everyone followed his finger. “…Maddie was also charmed by his evil, and sickness took her baby daughter. She died of boils and fever, and Jarron laughed before her. Ask her how she feels about those that are coming, and only then criticize me for taking up arms.” He took a pause, sweeping the crowd with his scathing gaze. Grumplin realized that nobody could see them. They were floating in the sky, and they were invisible. He looked in wonder at Souriin’s face, but it was hidden by the shadows of the hood. “I’m barricading my house, and I’m defending it with all I’ve got. If you do not want any of those beggars inviting themselves into your house you’ll do the same. Make the mark of Artafor on your door, and none shall enter. I won’t be like Mary over there. I won’t lose my kids… Grumplin turned to face the hooded figure floating next to him. He was shocked to the core by the speaker’s words. “Souriin, the man lies. Jarron has done none of those things. Why does he carry on like that?” Turning slowly, Souriin removed his hood. His gaze was penetrating and it made Grumplin feel like hiding. “Because he’s afraid. And having others around him that feel the same. It makes him feel like he’s not alone. You’ll find that most evil deeds in the world are committed out of fear – it makes us irrational, it keeps us from acting objectively. Have you seen enough?” “Enough of what?” “Can you remember it all?” “Yes” “Good.” His eyes cleared, adjusting to the darkness. They were standing in a huge chamber. The curtains were drawn, giving shadows life. He looked at the robed mage next to him. He had a finger on his lips, indicating for Grumplin to be silent. They were standing in an empty lecture hall. Grumplin approached the dais silently, treading lightly on the carpets. There was a figure sitting there. A bent crown was lying at his feet, covered in shards of a smashed wall-mirror. The king was staring at it silently, frozen in a pose as if by a medusa’s gaze. “Why, Artafor? Why do you punish us all like this?” The handles on the double-doors turned with a squeak, revealing a regal, elder woman standing there. The king sighed, straightened his back, and wiped his hands on the top of his pants. He looked at the woman sullenly, his gaze adverse. The woman swept into the room, and the doors closed with a muffled bang behind her. “Come, my son. A king never sulks. It’s not in his repertoire.” “Mother.” She came closer, opening one of the curtains. With a blaze of color, the room filled with light. She turned towards him, her face sympathetic and yet hard. “What’s wrong, son?” He looked at her, his face alternating between anger and amazement. “How can you ask that? After all that’s happened? I’m about to be executed. You’ll most likely be exiled.” The lady crossed her arms, critically scrutinizing him. “Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself. If your father were alive, he would not want to see you looking like this. It’s not over yet, and I will never let anyone execute you. You have allies, and although they might seem distant, they’re doing the best they can.” He looked at his mother, who straightened his hunched shoulders. “Mother, am I evil? Are the people being punished because of me?” His mother looked at him, pride mixing with concern in her eyes. “No, my son. Bad things happen whether you’re good or bad. It’s what a ruler does in such a crisis that determines his character. In this case, you could not have changed how the events unfolded. But it’s up to you to deal with the consequences.” “But it’s not fair…” “You, my son, are not only a ruler in privileged times only, but also in difficult times as well. You have to be strong in such times. And even if the world crumbles around you, even if it feels like your insides are tearing apart, you have to show strength and confidence. For often, it’s only a single person who stands between success and failure of a nation.” “But mother, it is so hard. Every day I hear the laments and the complaints, knowing that I cannot bring an end to their pain. I feel responsible for every cry I hear. It’s all I can do not to cry right there and then.” The lady hugged him, kissing his forehead. “That’s why I think you’ll make a great ruler. Sometimes listening is all we can do. And you have to. Even if you can do nothing. A good king is always there for his people…” Grumplin wanted to hear more, to help them, but Souriin had started his enchantment and the king and his mother slowly faded… “How dare he? HOW DARE HE? Who does he think he is, to order me around like that? I’m not his little girl anymore. Aaah!” The thin crystal Sunhaven vase flew past Pierce’s head, smashing into a rain of glass on the column behind him. He brushed the pieces out of his hair calmly, watching her flustered face with pleasure. The letter had arrived on his father’s estates on schedule. He was furious. Not only had the Clan barely recovered from the previous fiasco with the eastern kingdoms, but his father strictly forbid them to take any aggressive actions without his direct order (a fact that Claris apparently forgot). Also, their own caravans were being attacked regularly now, and a lot of fragile goods had been lost (now that the devil-pirate-elf knew which caravans were easiest to raid). He decided that he had watched her tirade enough. He calmly got up, walked up behind Claris (who failed to notice him in her rage), and slapped her as she turned towards him. She sat down heavily in the cushions, silent and open-mouthed in surprise. Before she could sputter, he replied. “Actually he can. As our marital law states, a widow returns into the care of her father. All of the deceased spouse’s possessions become family property, to be overseen by the widow’s father until such a time as she selects another husband, at which time an appropriate portion of her possessions become her dowry. Yadda, yadda, blah, blah.” He lowered himself next to her still body. “So you see, sister dearest, he can do as he pleases.” And then he smiled coldly, his eyes holding hers. The effect was devastating. It was like a quick, sobering shower. Pierce stood up. He poured himself a glass of southern wine, and he stood there for a while, appreciating the subtle spicy sting on his tongue and the ruby red color of the swirling liquid. “What are we going to do?” He snorted, almost spilling the wine. “We, sister? We will do nothing. You, on the other hand can pack your bags and go home.” She stood up, angry. “What do you mean? I gave you a chance to remain in pow…” He turned towards her, scouring her with his eyes. “You gave me nothing! You treated me worse than a dog running in circles at your beck and call. Well, you know something – it’s all coming back to haunt you.” He approached her, pointing the glass at her, “If you had given your plan a minute’s attention you would have seen the holes in it. Why, you completely misjudged your opposition. They do not play by the same rules you’re used to, and quite frankly, neither do I. Go home sister, before I’m forced to hurt you.” “…when we’re this close? Brother, we could have the treasury of two governments at our disposal.” “…what treasury?” Pierce could see the mocking mirth back in her eyes. He hated her, but not enough not to be curious. “I’ve bribed all the officials in the right places. Helena would gain those keys in the confusion of the revolution. Some of the hereditary jewelry pieces had been in the Tillon vaults for generations. Made by the Dwarves in their mountain halls of the most precious of gemstones. The ‘Morning Dawn’ – being the gem in the scepter - is said to be the biggest cut sapphire known to exist. And that’s just one of the invaluable showstoppers on display.” He recovered quickly, but in his mind he was already holding the sapphire. Claris knew his weaknesses well. “We’ll talk about the rewards later. Now that I’m back in charge, some things must be done first. Somehow the Lords are able to target our most valuable caravans. We must set a trap for that so called ‘Pirate’ and put a stop to his raids. It has drained us of too many of our resources already. We’ll spread a rumor of a shipment that is to make up for our losses so far, protect it with more troops and wait for him to strike. When we spring our trap, it will be sweet revenge for our past humiliations. No captives, no hostages – just one dead elf!” (Now read part five.) |