"There will be blood, King Jedidiah. Whether mere drops, or rivers or oceans I cannot say, but blood will be. Blood and fire. Beyond that I see little." Mareth's weekly meetings with King Jedidiah II were becoming more serious, and also less clear. No father wishes to hear that he will pass on only pain and war to his offspring. Aged and bent as he was, Jedidiah II was barely holding to the hopes of any father or king, the hopes of a long and fortuitous line, a peaceful kingdom, a stable world for his children and his grandchildren, if ever they came.

  Mareth continued, "The shades and shadows of a ravenous flame, shifting ever more with the breaking of the world, veil all else from my sight. Alas, even the Timeless are not all knowing. This is the portent of your son's ruby soul." Mareth's voice faded dismally in the final words.

  "You mean to say, that Theo will face great battles then?' The King, father to Theon IV coughed through weakened lungs.

  "Not merely great battles, my liege, he will face the weight of blood, its cost and its measure equal to, if not greater than, the power in his soul. Souls are not made lightly, are not given without cause or reason. They are made for a time and place, for a purpose, though we may not know it. For all the subtleties of Elohei Shir, for all his apparent silence, he works through every single soul he crafts. You know the histories as well as I, my King. Both previous Lords of Song that bore the Ruby soul saw more bloodshed than the rest of the line combined. One wiped out an entire race on the path to pacifying the six kingdoms, not one Kriegan remains in the mortal realm to my knowledge."

  King Jedidiah interrupted, "They were wiped out at your behest, Mareth. Or have you forgotten your own history?"

  Mareth hung his head, but continued as if he had not heard, "The other Ruby Soul caused the Culling of the Poet's City half a millennium ago with his brash attempts at still-greater power."

  "If only Benaiah had been born of Song... perhaps this might have been avoided." The king mused, playing with a signet ring on his finger.

  "Benaiah is a strong and capable man, already far the superior to Theon in wisdom, prudence, and experience, but he has not the Song. He cannot be King. His place in the Knight's Adamant is incredible enough, to be perfectly attuned to the weapon was a miracle. His keening was almost painless, his own will and the Sword's perfectly harmonized. His place is sure. But what shall we do with Theo?"

  King Jedidiah continued to play idly with his signet ring as he reclined in his oversized bed. he had not left his chambers in weeks, the sickness taking his body had spread slowly at first, but had come, over the course of years, to weaken him to the point of utter exhaustion. Even lifting his hands had become difficult. This fiddling was almost all the man could manage. "What do you advise, Timedodger?"

  "I advise advanced preparation for battle, Sire. General Zimossa should be returned to his post at Megiddo Stronghold and take charge of our forces there. The army must be ready and loyal for whatever is to come. This is a warning, we must act now, long before your passing, and before Theon is forced to take his throne." Mareth said, his wizened face contorted in urgency.

  "Anything else, Mareth, before I rest?"

  "Theon must be told the true histories. He must attune the Peacebringer."

  The King sat up in shock, a fullness of his exhausted strength used in the action, and gaped at Mareth with wide, fearing eyes. "You mean to have my young child meet them, to meet him? I was a man full grown with children of my own before I faced that trial!"

  "Yes, Jedidiah, but Theon has not that luxury. And he is hardly a child, though you may consider him so. He is a man full-grown. If not fully matured in mind, his body and his soul are strong."

  King Jedidiah, pushed past exhaustion, turned from fear to rage to continue, "No, I will not send my son to be rent and broken, possibly maimed and disfigured, by that monster! Not yet, not before he is ready."

  "None are ready my..."

  The King's roar was savage and long, belying the weakness of his frame. The last roar of a cornered lion. His quickening shattered windows and splintered wood, sundered stone, and left the tower quaking. "NO!"

  And with the fullness of his strength spent he fell into a stupor, mumbling to himself "my son, not my son. Don't let him... don't take him." And after a time the mumbling slowed, the King's breathing steadied and he was asleep.

  Mareth stood over the broken man, his own features ravaged by a pity that repelled all ability of speech. The sorrow in his eyes was depthless. From the newly formed crack in the chamber door, Theon was almost certain he saw the glistening of tears in the ancient seer's eyes. Then Theon blinked, and Mareth was gone, and only a faint shadow remained, and the sleeping form of his illness-stricken father.

  #

  King Theon IV awoke more tired than when he had slipped into oblivion. He kept having these dreams of the past, memories dancing through his weary mind. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were important, that the purpose of his soul was coming to fruition, that all the prophecies and portents given by Mareth and others were coalescing into something. The picture seemed to be becoming clearer, but it still wasn't whole.

  He was alone in his room, but outside he could hear the guardsman training, and the bark of an old familiar voice.

  "Keep your guard up wretches! You expect to defend this castle with such sloppy swordsmanship. Fifty pushups for dropping your blade, soldier, and one hundred more for losing your footing dammit. Is anyone here of any value to the King?"

  Theon arose and moved to his window, looking down he recognized the easy gait of his former sword master. He walked upright, his sword hanging from his right side, hands cupped behind his back. He yelled and carried on, but his was a true master's touch. This was a welcome surprise.

  The King dressed and made his way down to the courtyard. He had been avoiding the council meetings and general day-to-day running of the kingdom for weeks now. His responsibilities bored him, and he had implicit trust in at least a handful of the council members, enough to know that the people would be taken care of in his absence. And soon, that absence would be complete when he left to fulfill the quest Mareth had given him. Now he had yet another reason to skip those meetings. When he entered the outer courtyard he noticed the young Mikhail who immediately called the whole training ground to attention. "Stand To for the King of the Realm!" Those practicing their sword play paused and snapped into statued figures where they stood, some still facing awkwardly away from the king, not sure which direction to look.

  "Back at it, men!" Theon cried, his voice carrying a laugh along with it and the whip crack of General Zimossa's voice echoed out with a sharp "You heard him, lads. To work!" With that, the whole of the training area sprang back to life, battles re-engaged, and men resumed their conversations.

  General Zimossa strode over to Theon and knelt right before him, "My King, pardon my intrusion, but it seems your men have gotten weaker in the two decades since I commanded the Kingsguard." Theon bade him rise,

  "Oh get up you old fool, and take my hand." He extended his hand in sign of friendship, and the General took it by the wrist as he stood.

  "It's damn good to see you, Sire. How long has it been?"

  "You just said it, Blademaster, almost twenty winters. So why are you tormenting my guardsmen?"

  "Like I said, Sire, they've gotten weak. Flabby. Undisciplined. Simple-minded. Dare I say it, they've grown lazy. Your father would never have stood for this."

  Theon laughed, "My father would not have stood for much. His focus was never the guardsmen or the soldiery, but the day-to-day running of the realm. He was a far better ruler than I. What they lack in your kind of discipline though, they make up for in sheer grit, determination and toughness."

  Zimossa stroked his thin beard and tapped the pommel of his sword absent-mindedly. "Perhaps you are right. Gave that one, oh he told me his name but I forgot already, a pretty sound thrashing, but he's up and about and working on the things I told him. No complaints either." He eyed the king with a sly smile.

  "Care for a tussle yourself, Sire? Heard you have made a habit of dueling with one of your knights anyway. Humor an old general?"

  Just then the northern part of the training grounds stood to briefly and went back to their training. The Swordsman had entered and he began giving some directions to the training men, simple stance changes, grip modifications, and a recommendation to keep the head up, eyes focused on the opponent's torso, not the dancing blade in his hand.

  "No, Blademaster, I think I've been defeated enough for a few months."

  "Defeated? My boy," Zimossa caught himself slipping back into his old familiar habits with his student, "I mean, Sire. I heard you quickened and nearly killed the boy, forcing him into an abject surrender."

  "You clearly haven't talked to Kerras yet then. He knows better. That boy is something else. My brother chose incredibly well by putting him through the Keening. That, my dear teacher, is a true Adamant Knight."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Interesting..." The General's eyes flashed. "Do you mind if I challenge him then, sire?"

  "Do as you like my old friend, but it is likely he will simply refuse. I might have to order him to fight you if you really feel the need."

  "Is that so?" Zimossa mused to himself for a while before responding. "Perhaps some other time then."

  As he said this, the Swordsman entered earshot and began to head straight for the King.

  "Sire," the young man began, "I bring news from this morning's council. If you like I can give you all the necessary updates here or in private." Noticing the General, the Swordsman gave a polite bow, and finished, "General Zimossa I presume. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, and pardon my interruption."

  "Nothing to pardon, Sir, it's clear you have Kingdom business. I won't stand in the way of that." Looking to the King he smiled and said, "If you will excuse me, Sire, I will continue berating your worthless guardsmen until they are not so worthless."

  Theon merely laughed and waved him away with a simple, "We can catch up later, Blademaster, go do what you do best. Hone my men."

  "What news, Knight?"

  "Here, Sire?"

  "It's as good a place as any, I suppose. My guardsmen are privy to all the gossip anyway, may as well let them hear truth from its source before it's been poisoned by lies and half-truths along its route."

  "As you say, Sire. The council is increasingly worried about the apparent revolution growing in the East. That was the primary concern for today. Itaru has all the notes for you, but the basics are this: two revolutionary encampments have been raised; the Forge in the northern area of the Furrato plains, just south of the Abunai forest, and the Gathering to the southeast, closer to the edge of the badlands, almost upon the silent sea. Additionally, some supply routes from Feumant to the south and north have been waylaid, and two cargo ships lost to pirates on the Great Loch. The details are more," the Swordsman paused and looked around, noticing the intent gaze of Mikhail among other guardsmen, clearly curious, "the details are more sensitive, Sire."

  "Fine, fine, say no more, young man. We can retire to the council chambers. They should be clear now, yes?"

  "Likely, Sir. Please lead the way."

  The King turned to leave but paused momentarily looking straight at the young Guardsmen who was standing watch, actually on duty while everyone else trained, and said, "Don't call the training grounds to attention for me again, Mikhail, was it?" The guardsman nodded. "Good. The men have work to do. Let the propriety remain in the castle halls, this courtyard is for real work. Understood?"

  "Yes, My King!"

  With that the King left the courtyard, the swordsman following close behind. As they made their way through the corridors servants and visitors moved in and out of sight, one moment being there, the next slipping into some side passage so as to make way for the King. The Swordsman mused aloud, "Who sponsored that guardsmen's ascent from the city watch? He seems pretty green, Sire."

  Theon laughed slightly, "Says the youngest full-blown Knight I've ever met."

  "I meant no offense, Sire." The swordsman said, his politeness slightly grating.

  "Only a joke, young man." The King said with a long sigh, "only a joke."

  When they arrived in the chambers, Itaru was the only one remaining. A large, thick six-sided table dominated most of the room. On the leading edge there was engraved at each seat the name of the province there represented. And on the top of the table, carved into the wood were the names of every representative who had ever been assigned those seats. Dozens of names extended out to each province, the most current member's name for each region resided on a small piece of metal that slid into grooves on the table. When a man or woman had served their terms thee name would be added to those engraved in the table proper. The tradition of the council stretched back hundreds of years, born during the reign of Theon II. Within the span of one-hundred fifty years the Order of Adamant was fully born after Telopali and his Grandson Amitai each crafted two adamant blades. After that time the ruling council and the order became one in the same. The names closest to the center of the table, in tight formation represented the first Knights Adamant, and the King. Bolvar of the Giants Blood, Benaiah the King's Guard, Himura Truesword, Xarius the Immortal, High Lord Darion McCrae, and King Telopali the Giver who passed away shortly after the Order was established, the crafting of two Adamant blades being too much for his body to withstand. Though still readable, their names, all except the King's himself, were stricken through, the apparent sins of Knights of 500 years ago reaching back to mar the image of what they once were, what they might be again.

  The Swordsman was stunned every time he entered this room. To be allowed to be a part of this history, to see the name of his forbearers the original Knights alongside the King, was a great honor, one that he could not repay. One he knew he did not deserve. He lingered as Itaru folded up the last of his papers and glanced up to see the King and his Knight standing there.

  "Oh, dear. Apologies, Sire. I will have your notes ready by midday. I want to get them all tidied up." The steward was not a handsome man, and he fumbled and bumbled about as if he were an idiot, but what he lacked in confidence or poise he made up for in pure brilliance. He had a mind for numbers, tactics, philosophy, medicine, almost anything really. He quickly grasped even the most complex of problems and presented clear, concise, and reasoned advice to the King at all times. He was simultaneously healer, scribe, advisor, spymaster, and not a bad poet, though without the magical effects of his Lord. Yet, despite all this, perhaps his most incredible quality was his total lack of ambition.

  "Not a problem, Itaru. Your work is ever of the highest quality. Thank you." The King replied.

  "Thank you, Sire. It's nice to be appreciated. Now, off to another meeting. I swear some of these councilors are going to be the death of me. Food shortages in Buthani lands should not be a concern for the Highlands in the short term, I've tried to explain the simple economics to them but they insist on fighting about how we engage the issue. Though it will have to be monitored. And to top it all off, the Islanders claim that melting ice at the Northern Pole above the Orias lands are sinking their islands, and I quote 'one grain of sand at a time.' Honestly, Sire. I even demonstrated displacement with a bit of ice in a glass of water, but Councilor Manaka just must have her way. I did, promise to look into it though, through our other networks. I cannot claim to know in the way I would like." The steward continued on mumbling to himself about the various arguments from the councilors, some good, some bad, some merely confusing or inane as he gathered all his things and left the chamber, oblivious to the fact that no one was listening any longer.

  "I swear. If that man wished to take down the whole kingdom, he could do it." The King mused.

  "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, Sire. But I think you are right. I shall have to keep an eye on him." The swordsman said soberly.

  "Oh come off it, Young man, or I shall have you properly named Anus, and your continued title will be 'the tight.'" The king said, half-joking, half-frustrated with the ever-serious demeanor of the young man.

  "It is your prerogative, Sire, but perhaps 'the clenched' would be better?"

  The King paused, turned to look the Swordsman in the eye. "Am I going mad, or did you just try to make a joke?"

  "I suppose, Sire, the key word there is 'try.' My apologies," said the swordsman blankly.

  Theon began to laugh. He didn't know how to deal with this boy. He moved to his seat around the table and sat, buried his head in his hands and continued to chuckle. After a short time, he looked up, the Swordsman standing still, expressionless, and said. "Well, it's a start at least. It only took what, six months? Maybe in another six you'll actually be funny, but let's get down to business, Sir Knight. I caught some of the gist from Itaru, but give me the details. I think they are well in hand with you, but since you insist that I must still know, tell me."

  "Yes, Sire. I have asked Lord Marrak to come give his full report. He ought to be here shortly, but in essence, his time in the Eastern lands bore much fruit. He was able to insert himself into the trust of the revolutionaries there. He is the one who brought the news of the encampments, as well as of other threats. He claims that Lord Gawn of the Gaels will be headed here to entreat you for rights and freedoms for the people. There was something else, he did not wish to share with me alone, so I will allow him to tell you when he gets here."

  "Rights and freedoms? What is it the people lack? Or is this the pressure of Lords and Ladies?"

  "The revolutionary leaders appear to be a conglomeration of peoples from high to low, though the lowborn are fewer by far in leadership. Over taxation is a primary concern amongst them, as well as the increasing disciplinary issues within your army."

  "I know we have had some, but we have dealt harshly with them to try to set an example."

  "With respect, Sire, nearly a quarter million men make up your army spread out across the six provinces. Nevermind the Kingsguard and the Irshirana City Watch, that is an extremely dispersed and large force. The contention is that there have been largescale desertions to mercenary companies, some outposts have taken to being brigands, extorting the people around them. I fear, Sire, that your inaction during this long peace has allowed unravelling of discipline and purpose."

  As the Swordsman continued to speak, the King's face grew more grim. His lips pursed, and the clenching of teeth could be seen in his prominent jaw. His hand gripped his sword, white flesh blooming through the bronzed skin of his knuckles. "They would dare destroy those they've sworn to protect? If this is true, I want the names of those outpost commanders. There will be justice, by my own hand if necessary."

  The man who then entered the room was tall and gaunt, his attire that of a simple traveler. He pulled down his hood to reveal long braided hair and a face covered in ornate tattoos surrounding his eyes and cheeks. His left ear was missing, and scarring took the cheek below where it ought have been.

  Interrupting, "You have my utmost agreement, Sire. I have a handful of names to start but will certainly find more as I endear myself to this revolution. General Zimossa will certainly have the matter handled."

  Theon IV looked at the new man, the anger in the King's eyes was writ plain, but his tone was steady, "Thank you, Lord Marrak. To think that my men would do this, would stoop to brigandry and extortion."

  "You are one man, Sire." The Swordsman asserted, "Who has too long allowed the daily rule to fall to those who, to be abrupt, are more interested in their fetes and status than in any person, regardless of origin."

  "Well, said, Swordsman, but perhaps you should not speak so openly with the King. Disrespect is but a hairsbreadth from your tone." Marrak smiled, the scars on the left side of his face marring the intended purpose of the motion.

  Theon broke in, "The truth, spoken plainly, is about as close to true respect as I can ask, Lord Marrak. What other news do you bring to sully this day? I have neglected my duties for too long it seems."

  "Peace is a harder time than war, my King, but the easier time is sure to come. These revolutionaries want nothing less than the abolition of your throne."

  "War would devastate the very people they claim to want freedoms for?" The Swordsman's tone was confused.

  "Indeed, but I sense that there is something more here. One of the revolutionaries, a former blacksmith named Corbin, is extreme in his plans. He desires true equality for all. He is willing to do anything to get it."

  Eyebrow raised, Theon spoke, "Anything?"

  "He recommended assassination, My King."

  Marrak saw, the Swordsman stood straighter, his back rigid, his fists clenched, and jaw taut.

  The King stood, a deep sigh gliding from his lips, and walked towards Lord Marrak. "That would be the least bloodshed he believes? My death for the sake of the thousands upon thousand who would die in war."

  "He believes so, yes."

  The Swordsman interrupted, "He is mad. My King, your death would only serve the purpose of driving the realm into madness. In the great void of power, the scramble for that power would be..."

  "Bloody. Yes, my young Knight. Regardless of the path we take now, there will be blood."