Lord Kerras' voice was tinged with irony. "Eskin, ye missed the fun, my friend." His Kingsguard armour glinted beneath his crimson cloak.

  "I heard, Tadgh, that our new Knightly friend got a sound thrashing from the King. I am sure it would have been a good one to watch." Lord Marrak's demeanor seemed passive, exhaustion resting on his eyes.

  The two sat in the guardhouse on the Northwest corner of the castle grounds. A simple wooden table rested between them, and behind Marrak a ladder lead up to the guardhouse captain bunks while behind Kerras a small window looked out over the cliffs and across the starlit Sundered Sea. The room was plain, functional, and ascetic. The door leading into the main guardhouse was solid, and closed, as the two Lord's discussed over some Highland Ale. Each had a tankard of the strong brew and took gulps between speaking, no strangers to its wiles.

  "Ye heard from a guardsman with no eye, it seems. That boy was terrifying. The precipice on which he stood, between life and death, in order to not endanger the King was a blade's edge. It's almost miraculous."

  "What are you saying, Tadgh?" The scars on Marrak's face began to itch, and he pawed them as he contemplated.

  "That young man could have slain the King with ease, Eskin." He lifted the mug of ale and stared into it for a time, trying to read the future in the froth.

  "That makes my intelligence about this revolution all the more interesting, my friend. One among their council has suggested assassination."

  Lord Kerras' eyes projected indignation as he slammed his mug on the table, "That's madness! By the Void, any attempt would be akin to suicide."

  "Yet, you just told me that in this very castle lives a man capable of such a feat. Who else knows the truth?"

  "Myself, the King, the Swordsman surely. The Kings Consort no doubt. His daughter suspects, and now you. Six in all from what I could tell, though the King is not one to keep such things secret."

  The coldness in Marrak's voice was unrestrained. "Truly, his eye for subterfuge is all but blind."

  Tadgh Kerras took another swig of his ale, finishing his pint and glared at the emptiness, "We can't all be agents of subtlety and deceit, Lord Marrak."

  "No, but I could ask the King to be more circumspect in his revelations. Much of the power of a king comes in faith, not in reality. A loss of faith could lose him more than any loss in battle."

  "I know, my friend. You try telling the King that." The wave of Kerras' hand was wide sweeping, and he nearly knocked down an empty tankard in his expostulations, catching it at the last moment and continuing, "There was something else about the fight that sparked something in me. A memory of sorts."

  Marrak at last raised his own mug to his lips and drained half of it in a few seconds, "What else troubles my old friend?"

  "Do ye remember the case from about four or five years ago now? The tavern down in Old Towne had an explosion, the patrons knocked unconscious, no one remembering anything that happened?"

  Marrak scratched it his scars again, "Vaguely. No traces of any powder or otherwise explosive components. The Neturai Karta even examined it for traces of a mishorer's interference but found nothing out of the ordinary."

  Kerras stood, went to the nearest wall where a cask of ale lay unopened, breached it, and poured himself another drink. "Those sages may claim some knowledge of the POET's Gift, but they are charlatans at best. The King and his ilk, and a handful of other families throughout the realms, have kept the inner workings of the Shir almost entirely a secret."

  "The one secret it seems our King can keep. Though more news of strange events, children manifesting the Gift, and strange creatures in the wilds makes me wonder if power doesn't have a way of seeping through the cracks."

  "That's what I was getting at," Tadgh began, taking a sip to collect his thoughts, "in the fight I just witnessed, the King did something, released a power that exploded from him. It knocked people backwards, made others black out. The closer one was, the more powerful the effect. It was as a great tide of pressure."

  "You think this happening of some years ago was caused by a similar display?" Marrak leaned back, crossing his arms and balancing his chair on the two rear legs as he stretched his own.

  "It is at least possible. And, if so, there is another out there, somewhere, with power like the King's. Maybe not in strength. I do not feign any understanding of how this Shir business works, but there is someone out there."

  "Could it have been the Swordsman?"

  Kerras paused, sipped, made to speak then paused and sipped again before he sat and answered, "It is conceivable it may have been, but the Swordsman did not manifest such a display. His strength seemed focused inward, and he was unaffected by the King's power. But, again, I am no sage or priest nor certainly any Mishorer."

  "We could simply ask him. He may be powerful, but he has demonstrated only loyalty thus far. You say he risked his life just to protect the King in the midst of their duel?"

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Aye, he did just that. And more, he even made it look like he'd really lost to save face fer the King as well."

  "The level of skill required for that type of cognizance in the midst of battle is bordering on legendary. Are you sure it wasn't luck?"

  "There is no flavor of accident in any step the Swordsman takes." Here, Kerras drained his remaining ale, the warmth of the brew seeping into his body, loosening every muscle. He stretched and groaned like a wolf after a long chase.

  Marrak eyed his friend, his mind still sharp, "I trust your intuition, my friend. I will ask the Swordsman of this event. What shall we do if it was not he?"

  "We shall have another Mishorer to worry about, with similar powers, and of completely unknown allegiances."

  "As for the Swordsman, who trained him? It stands to reason those who did may also have the strength to challenge King Theon IV."

  Tadgh breathed a heavy sigh, "The list of possible threats yet grows, my friend."

  "As always."

  "I ought to let you rest, Eskin. Your journey has been long, and I am weary myself. I have to begin teaching the Princess the sword because of that little tussle."

  Marrak's eyebrows rose, "Oh? That should be fun."

  "Not the word I'da used fer it, but sure. She'll be a good student. Just a bit of a difficulty. Different sword, different forms. Ye know not one size fits all in a fight. I've some work ahead of me."

  "Indeed you do, friend, and I, convincing the King to take seriously the threats against his life and his Kingdom."

  Kerras drew up to his full height and smiled broadly, "Ye've the worst of it then, eh, Eskin?"

  "That I do. That I do."

  #

  The port city of Mizai bustled with traders from all over the six provinces, and Lord Gawn struggled to pass through. The masses of people encroached his carriage on all sides, and he would not able to walk with any efficacy. Sickness was taking him, slowly but surely, a wasting disease that stole his strength, though he looked fit enough to the untrained eye.

  "Just push forward as quick as you can." Gawn said to his driver through a slit in the cabin.

  "Aye, sir, we will get you there. Don't want to crunch anyone under my wheels though."

  "Agreed, agreed."

  It took another quarter of a day to make it through the remaining parts of town and actually reach the port where the Argo was moored. The Captain, a brash and impetuous man, greeted Lord Gawn with a wry smile. "Politicking and negotiating again I see. Well, maybe it'll work out better. Words move the world, right?"

  The sarcasm in his tone was thick as boar's hide, but Lord Gawn shook away its disdain with a casual tilt of his head.

  "Dear Captain, words do more than move the world, they create and destroy it."

  A hearty, cynical laugh was the only reply.

  "Shall we be off, then Captain? I am sure you have goods, and I have delayed you."

  "Aye, I've goods, but you pay well, and whether we agree on methods, we work to the same end. The Dragon rises..."

  "And the Lion will rest forever."

  "I prefer the Lion dead, but I suppose rest is good enough for now."

  The Captain made a wave toward the ship. His crewmen wore red leather hauberks with Serpents embroidered on the chest. Each looked ready for anything, and they had to be. Pirates, marauders, merchants, and mercenaries, these men were the rough type, the type to tip scales in the favor of whoever found them in their employ. For now, that was the Dragon, and they seemed very interested in keeping it that way.

  Lord Gawn's coachman took his small amount of belongings onto the ship, and then the Lord followed, and, within a few short minutes, the sailors had unmoored and departed for the Western lands.

  #

  Her scent drove a spearpoint path into Eskin's memory as she entered the guardhouse.

  "Lord Marrak, how were your travels?" Her voice was more strained than her usual sonorous tones. He opened his eyes and saw hers red with tears, cheeks stained with running makeup.

  "Nevermind my travels, Consort, are you well? What has happened?" Eskin's mind spun, a mixture of anger and fear coalesced into a knot in his chest. He noticed that she wore very little, only a bathing robe tied with a broad cloth belt about her waist.

  "I did a foolish thing, and now I cannot sleep. I cannot think." Her voice faltered.

  "What have you done? What happened, Emilia? Did the King harm you? I will not stand for such a thing!"

  "No, no no, brother, he did not harm me. He never does. You know he would never."

  "Though he does not marry you."

  "He cannot, in truth. I cannot bear him a child. And once wed he may not lie with another. To marry me would be to doom his house, you know this, brother."

  "As if kings would actually follow those archaic restrictions on marriage. Power always walks its own path." Here, Eskin spat. Holding back his disdain during his discussion with Kerras had been a feat harder than he had thought.

  "He would not. He refuses to be with another even now that we are not wed."

  "Foolish loyalty, brash honesty, and a total lack of cunning. What kind of ruler have we?"

  "Eskin! Do not speak ill of him. What he lacks in sovereign capacity he more than makes up for in more heroic qualities."

  The guffaw that escaped his lips was punctuated with startled silence. Both looked at each other, one with anger, the other with disdain. "Heroic? This nation does not need a hero it needs a king. Heroes die in glorious battle, they fall to idealism and na?ve dreams of better days. This kingdom is rotting under the rule of a would-be hero."

  "That's precisely why he needs men like you, brother. You are harsh, unkind, calculating, and prepared to do what is necessary. But do not speak ill of him. He will do what is right when the time comes." She still stood, her arms crossed, her feet together, her eyes downcast.

  "You've fallen for him haven't you, sister" as he said the word he dragged the sibilance like the hiss of a snake. "Have you forgotten why you became Consort?"

  "To spy, yes, but also to ensure the good of the kingdom. Whether you like his qualities or not, brother, he is a good man."

  "But is he a good ruler?" His response fired like an arrow, and his volume increased with his frustration. "There is a marked difference. He refuses even now to do what is necessary to ensure the continuance of his own Royal Line. He treats you like a cheap whore, knowing you'll never grow with child, and refuses every eligible noblewoman who might ensure a more lasting peace. He is a child. He thinks not of the kingdom, but only his precious desires."

  "Enough, brother!" Her timidity broke in a wave of white hot rage. "He is a good man, and I will no longer play your stupid game. I trust him, and..."

  Marrak laughed, his scars twisting his visage into something almost insane, "you love him. I know, sister. I know you do. Well go back to your love. I will be here, pondering the best way to keep this falling kingdom from crashing down around us, in spite of the King."

  Wounded, for another of countless times this evening, Emilia left, strode across the courtyard and re-entered the castle, tears streaming. I belong nowhere now. If only I could... A voice not her own slithered into her mind, creeping tendrils into each dark void she dared not think about, if only you could bear him a child, yes. That can be arranged...