The Conjured and the exiles

Leoff plunged his head in to the horse’s water trough and with a gasp emerged from the fresh water, dragging his hands through his hair, wringing the water from his now fairly long hair. He bound it back in a short warriors queue, though strands about his face escaped even slicked back with water. The back of his shirt clung to him with sweat and he pulled it free of himself, roiling the stiffness from his shoulders. His rangy chestnut who had been engaged in tugging up mouthfuls of grass now nudged him out of the way and lowered its lips to the cool water drawing in draught after draught its eyes soft and content. He looked up at Leoff vaguely and then lowered its muzzle to drink again its long ears lolling to and fro. Leoff patted his mounts long neck and waited for it to drink its fill, its rhythmic gulping soothing. Above him a sign with a rearing white horse swung gently in the spring breeze.

He had only just returned from a mission four days ago, and now he was back out on the road again. Leoff had offered his skilled as a scout to the captain hoping to get away from the fort and any decision he might have to make about Vas. He had often criticized his sister for running when things got rough, and now he was doing exactly the same thing. He had his wish, and the captain had given him a mission, adding him to a group of his own men as a tracker replacing a man who had been killed. If it had occurred to Leoff that the man’s sudden death was suspicious he did not voice his concerns. In fact Leoff strangled any voice of concern that he had, immersing himself in his job tracking down a loan horseman, a messenger. Leoff was a good tracker, a dammed good tracker, not that it was hard to follow a man on horse back when the ground was as wet as it was. He didn’t need to ask why they were following the man, sometimes it was better off not to know.

As they progressed Leoff realized that the man probably suspected that he was being trailed. The route he was taking was certainly not the fastest route to any destination, but the most unlikely. By mid afternoon of the third day they had spotted him some way ahead, the messenger turning his head spotted them and sprung his horse in to a gallop. With a curse the man besides Leoff drove his horse after their fleeing quarry and the rest of the group flowed suit with Leoff coming last. The messenger’s beast was a fine imperial animal, bread for stamina and speed; it was easily out running the soldiers who chased them.

Leoff lent up his chestnuts neck, despite its long legs it was not a quick horse without some encouragement, and Leoff sensing something was somehow amiss though to busy to wonder what was happy simply to follow the lead of his group and not push his horse to surge ahead. Before them the tree line broke for a few meters where a wide stream cut through the forest. The banks were steep, almost a gorge if it were not for the thick mud banks. The messenger hesitated at the lip, but looking back his face taught with fear he then urged his reluctant horse down the muddy slope.

It was a foolish thing to do, as the spring melt waters had swelled what was probably normally a shallow flow to a pounding rush. As they drew closer Leoff saw that the messenger’s horse was in trouble, the messenger had obviously thought better of such a maneuver trying to turn his mount back up the bank. However the sides were to steep and the mud was to slick and the horse was siding down ever further. Panicking the small horse tried to rear up only to fall over on to its side when his riders weight over balanced him. The messenger threw himself from his horse to try to scramble up the bank as the animal floundered on its side getting precariously close to the water.

Leoff almost threw himself off his horse to help the poor man, but before he could the man beside him had readied a crossbow and in the blink of an eye, and the twang of sinew a bolt had pierced the unarmored mans chest. The messenger tried to grasp the bolt in shock. Leoff could tell that it was a mortal wound, but not a quick one; he would bleed slowly in to his lungs and drown in his own blood. Driven by pity, Leoff flung himself from his saddle and skidded down the bank. Drawing his dagger he stabbed it deep in to the dying mans eye. The man spasumed once, and then moved no more.

‘We need to take care of the evidence.’ Someone said above him.

Leoff scowled, this was dirty work. In a fit of temper he yanked out the crossbow bolt and then pushed the body in to the stream. Looking up the dead man’s small horse had made it up the other side of the bank; he hoped that the men would let it be. He washed his dagger in the stream, regardless of how dangerous it was before sheathing it resolutely. He then with some difficulty garbing hands full of roots he managed to make his way back up the slippery bank.

One of the men clapped him on the shoulder in a job well done. Leoff almost shrugged him off but managed to master his own feelings enough not to. He had some questions. ‘That man, he was wearing the emperors’ badge, he was a herald, not just a messenger.’
Leoff said blandly, everyone knew a herald was not to be killed, not even in times of war. The other men did not look surprised, or even aggrieved. ‘So it had not been a mistake.’

‘We don’t make mistakes.’ The man closest to him replied. ‘It was the captain’s orders.’

So that was it then. The men watched Leoff for his answer; he had no doubt that at any sign of dissention a bolt would be placed between his eyes. His fierce hazel eyes met the man opposite. ‘I understand an order is an order.’

‘Heart of a soldier this one.’ Came a laugh and he was once again heartily clapped on the shoulder again.

Leoff wondered if he had a heart, was what he just agreed to cowardly. He had done worse things. ‘We should unsaddle that horse.’ Leoff suggested. When he next had a chance to bath he had scrubbed his skin raw, and yet the muck still seemed to cling to him. However he grew accustomed to the situation, and began to take pride in a job well done. He was a killer; there was no shame in that. His kills were clean and swift. He felt no more remorse than a wolf dose for the dear. And with the small group of men he found the companionship and purpose of the shared hunt. That piece was soon to be shattered.

Leoff had spent a grate deal of time away from the base, but when ever he returned even he could not fail to miss the increasing hive of activity that buzzed about the place now. They were preparing for something, something big. Supplies were being brought in and then shipped back out in covered wagons. The armories were working flat out pounding steal and iron in to plate armor. There was the grinding of axes and sword blades as their edges were made wicked sharp, and in the milder days of spring fletchers sat outside making arrow after arrow. And the bowyer’s made the finishing touches on long and composite bows before placing them in racks ready for use. They were preparations for war.

Leoff had been called in to report of Captain Nadar. The last mission had been a success, another two messengers dead and buried in the forest covered by a shallow grave. He entered the map room and the captain poured him out a jot of brandy. Leaning back in his chair the older man appraised him as one might look over a horse that suddenly showed more promise then they were bread for. Leoff took a mouthful of the fiery liquor, swallowing it and enjoying how the heat spread through his body relaxing him slightly.

Nadar lent forward, his thick muscled arms leaning on the table between them. Nadar was a man that Leoff could respect, a real soldier. However experience had taught Leoff to be weary of the men most like himself. A wolf knows a wolf. Judging by the expression on the captain’s face, he was well pleased with Leoff, something that Leoff felt a small stir of boyish pride over. It was a shadow of the emotion he had felt when he had approved of something he had done.

‘Well Lieutenant Sheld, it seems that my men have been extremely impressed by your performance in the field.’

‘I already had experience tracking as a bounty hunter and in this whether it was hardly a challenge to follow a mounted man.’ Leoff shrugged humbly.

‘Still, I just wanted to thank you for all the hard work you have been put in. Its dirty work but someone has to do it. Sometimes people forget to thank the people who do the dirty work. I hope I will never bee one of those people.’ Nadar answered, he picked up the brandy bottle and shook it, the flask sloshed promisingly. ‘Another jot?’

Leoff grinned and slid his empty glass over towards the captain. ‘That’s very good of you sir.’

The captain looked pensively in to the golden liquid that swirled around his glass. ‘One tries to be. I have served under good men, and bad. You take what you learn form them and hope that when your time comes to lead that you don’t make the same mistakes that they made along the way.’

‘Sir if I might say so, you are one of the best superiors I have ever served under.’ Leoff said finally.

‘I never cared for a boot liker Lieutenant.’ The captain looked up the faint surjection of a smile hovering in the corners of his lips witnessing Leoff’s carefully bland face.

‘I didn’t mean…’

‘I know you didn’t, but you have to admit you walked right in to that one son.’ Leoff’s smile cracked his stony face. And he immediately looked years younger. Nadar smiled back. ‘I’m glad that you respect me. It’s welcoming to know that your own men like you at least. I have a job for you.’

‘I’m listening sir.’

Leoff sat up as the captain opened up a map for him. Marked upon it in grate detail was the whole of the Marchadians. Nadar indicated to the capital city. He used a knife point to indicate the woods that stretched between Bala and a small settlement in the woods surrounding the city. ‘Orders from above. I need you to set up an ambush somewhere between here and here. Our informant has told us that the duke of Bala has a sybilla, our master wants her killed.’

‘I know it’s not my place to ask sir, but why, what is a sybilla?’

Nadar shrugged. ‘Some kind of legendry prophetess.’ He passed a small leather bound book over to Leoff. ‘My master gave me this. It’s the legends of another sybilla, I found it rather dry reading but it might help you. In any case she had to be killed.’

‘I understand sir.’ Leoff took the book. ‘Who else is joining me on this mission?’

‘Two new men I’m afraid, but once is a crack shot with a cross bow, and the other one of the most disarming people you will have ever met. He should be useful when you gather information and creating a cover story for your presence.’

‘What about the men I have been serving with?’

‘I’m afraid not this time Leoff. I need them elsewhere.’

Leoff sat feeling little at ease. ‘I will need more details about the target.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have them right now. You need to go to an inn called the White horse on the grate north road just past the village of Hawnt.’ Nadar said with a sigh. ‘I wish we could use hired assassins from Nheim for the job, but there is not enough time. You have to kill her before the full moon in six days time. Oh and another thing, as soon as the jobs done I suggest you get yourself out of the Marchadians as quick as possible, loop about through Bre if you have to, but don’t go south.’

It was on that rather ominous note that Leoff left. The whole situation worried Leoff, the whole plan had more holes in it than a fishing net. Untried men, no real knowledge of what they were getting themselves in to right in the heart of their enemies lands. He supposed that he should have been flatted in his captain’s trust that he could get the job done.

Leoff suddenly found that the situation was much worse than he first thought when he found out who was going to accompany him. Vas and his cousin Blake. Fate must hate him, Leoff had thought when he discovered information, as glad as he was to have vas by his side once again, he could not bear that Vas was going to have to see him in this ugly work. What on earth had encouraged Vas to put himself forward for such a mission? And would have guessed that Blake was a crack shot with a crossbow?

The ride had been long but not practically arduous. Loeff had tried to keep to himself, riding just ahead of the two dark haired men. They had slept in wayside inns, as bush craft was not the biggest strength of the two city raised Clodden. The pale eyed golden haired people who served them were perhaps a little guarded, wary of strangers. Yet Leoff had a feeling this was a newly adopted attitude, as when Vas began to chat to them, and when his lyre came out the graded attitude was soon thrown aside, discarded like an ill fitted garment in favor of warm hospitality.

They had finally reached the White horse inn; right now he stood outside waiting for Vas to procure them a room or two. He had to admit it was much more comfortable to sleeping outdoors, and he had to admit Vas was an expert in subterfuge. Vas had settled on a story early on in the journey, that Blake and he were bards still seeking patronage and adventure, Leoff was their body guard and guide. Leoff at first dubious to this plan as it was hardly wise to draw attention to themselves but lacking a better plan had despite himself found himself enjoying the role playing. Vas played his part to the hilt. Bu then again he had always wanted to be a bard. In any case the dark haired man shone like a beacon when he preformed, like a spark kindled in to a warm fire people were drawn to him.

The man who dogged his thoughts now emerged from the Inn’s low doorway his stride hitched to hide his urge to hurry. ‘Apparently we were already expected, and there is a latter waiting for you Leoff from your cousin?’

Leoff raised his eyebrow at that but let his face remain impassive. ‘I expect that the message will be in our rooms or someone will come to us tonight to give us the rest of the information we need. Let’s go in and see about getting some food.’ The confidence that Leoff emanated seemed to calm Vas slightly and he meekly followed his orders. It was becoming more and more obvious that there was a gulf of experience that separated Leoff from the tow dark haired men. Yes they were soldiers, but they had never been involved with the darker side of that work, they never had to walk the thin line between assassin and soldier. Sometimes Leoff wondered if there was even a difference at all, both jobs required you to kill for money and loyalty.

They found that they would be sharing one large room, there were two beds, and a plate made up by the small fireplace. After a quick coins toss over who the beds belonged to the men stowed there gear. Leoff had got the palate, when he pulled back the covers he found a small letter, waxed closed but with no seal addressed ‘To my cousin.’ Leoff wasted no time and read through the missive, he then passed it to the other two men to read before tossing it in the fire.

Leoff went to sit outside for a while and plan, he always thought best in the open air. He sat on a grassy bank off the road. So they were to ride within six miles of Bala, there way would be marked by a green ribbon. And they would wait for a small hunting party, where the target was marked for them. They were to be handed the sybilla on a plate. Someone must have really wanted the woman dead. The Inn sign stilled its gentle swinging and his attention was drawn towards it. The sign had obviously been touched up over the years, but in the strong midday light seemed to pass through the layers of paint reveling older levels. It seemed that the white horse had a horn in the center of its forehead many seasons ago. Loeff suddenly felt as if he should remember something but as he sought out the reason for that thought Vas approached him as silently as only Vas could.

‘The inn keeper had let me turn the horses out in his orchard.’ The dark haired man informed him, settling down beside Leoff sure of his welcome.

‘They will enjoy that.’ Loeff answered non committal.

Vas was not deterred by the younger mans surliness. He flowed Leoff’s gaze to the sign. ‘Apparently there is an ancient statue carved out of quarts not far from here that’s the inn’s name sake. I thought that if we are not leaving till morning you might want to go see it?’

‘May be.’ Leoff answered and let the conversation lapse in to silence. Yet infuriatingly Vas managed to make it seem companionable rather then uncomfortable. After a while Leoff could not help the question that bubbled forth. ‘Vas why by the gods are you here?’

‘Because this is where we were sent.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You know what I meant.’

Vas smiled, his dark eyes mocking. ‘Well a stupid question deserves a stupid answer. I promised you that I would be by your side helping you as much as I could. So I’m here.’

Leoff sighed in frustration. ‘This mission is dangerous.’

‘Life is dangerous.’ Vas answered almost sadly. He giggled, ‘I didn’t know you cares so much Leoff.’

Leoff growled, and stood up. ‘Have you ever killed anyone in cold blood?’ Leoff demanded of his friend..

Vas fell silent, and looked up at him in shock. ‘No but…’Vas began.

‘No!’ Leoff growled. ‘Don’t try to kid yourself, if you accept this job then you become an assassin, for that is what this job is, the murdering of an unarmed woman.’

‘Leoff I already knew that.’ Vas said softly in reply.

‘I don’t think you do. Killing someone like this is not like not like fighting an opponent to the death in the arena.’ He glanced at Blake, ‘Nor is it like shooting enemy as a soldier, this is the deliberate hunting down of someone. I can tell you I requires something quite different of someone.’

‘I’m are skilled…’

‘I was not talking about skill!’

‘Have you ever done it before?’

Leoff’s face hardened, as if he had retreated behind a wall of stone. For a moment he looked as if he had retreated behind a wall of stone. But he answered, his voice low, the answer reluctant, yet fierce as if it was ripped from him. ‘Yes, and they remain a stains on my soul that I must carry to the end of my days. But I am a killer, and I came to terms with that a while ago. But ask yourself, can you live with such a burden?’

‘You know you don’t have to carry the whole world as your mill stone Leoff. Others will help you with the burden if you let them.’ Vas as Leoff stormed away, in some ways the dark haired man thought Leoff was still very much a boy. One day Leoff would learn to trust others to aid him, until then however the only thing Vas could do was hope to be there if he ever needed help whether he wanted it or not.

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Koto packed up the last of his gear. It was a long journey to the west, three weeks on a fast horse. It would have been quicker to journey up north a bit and then down to the west on the ancient but still well kept trade road built between two cities which no longer existed were still in good repair. It ran like a border marking between the uncivilized Northlands, and the even less civilized Hys-b-dri with forts strung along it like beads on a piece of string. However for years the forts in the north had been undermanned and often abandoned completely, the emperor not interested in maintaining them when the threat of the barbarians from Hys-b-dri had diminished. However there were rumors that they had found a new Khan. In any case, they would not chance traveling along such an exposed and potentially dangerous stretch of road. Instead they planed to head south, through the Northlands, then the Midlands, and finally west to Bre and onwards to the Marchadian’s, pretending to be merchants.


Koto finished stashing his gear in to his two now fairly heavy saddlebags hefted them over his shoulder and left without waking his mother. He didn’t want to say goodbye, he didn’t want to see her cry again, or the veiled accusation in her eyes. He glanced down at his chest where the top of his bind rune was visible over his shirt. He was doing the right thing he was sure of it as only the young can be sure of their decisions. He decided to take a short cut through the halls, and ducked in to a darkened passageway. It was one of four passages that surrounded the feast hall, part of the oldest bits of the grate house and temple. However this whole passageway was cavernously dark, the windows blocked up long ago, and there were no lamps ever lit in this passage. With three other ways in to the hall what was the point. However of you ran your hands along the walls you could feel the remains of runic glyphs. However many of the words had been scratched out of the stone. When Koto raised his lamp the defacement was more obvious, as whole passages had been obliterated, scratched from the face of history itself.


Koto was not naturally very imaginative, he was intelligent, but he never saw much point in asking questions that you were never going to get the answers to. Quite unlike Daen, who had been prone to regular flights of fantasy. It had been she as a child who had first drawn his attention to the destroyed writings. He hadn’t even realized that they had been there, years of walking down the passage, training his fingers over the strange uneven surface, and he had just assumed that it was poorly rendered, after all it was old. But she had been right; someone a long time ago had destroyed vast tracts of ancient writings. Koto wondered why this suddenly bothered him so much; he had traversed these halls hundreds, no thousands of times and never before spared a thought as to the motives of those erasing the runes.

He stepped into the Hall of Spirits and was pleased to see the multitude of lamps in little alcoves representing all of his clan’s ancestors. The dim lighting in the room was calming. The wall of alcoves towered above him, but he didn't feel intimidated as he stood before the many candles. In fact he as always felt awed and humbled by the spectacle. Each of the hundreds of flickering flames was a warm reminder of those who had come before him. As he gazed at the candles, Koto wondered what histories and lessons had been lost with the passing of each generation. What had his grate-grandfather and great-grandmother known that they hadn't imparted to their children? What mistakes had been made that could have been avoided? Sometimes he thought that he could even here the whispering voices of those who the flames belonged to. Did they watch those who lived now and despair at the same mistakes been made again and again. Pain built on centuries of hurt and betrayal if his mother was to be believed.


More and more things seemed to be bothering him at the moment. Like having to pretend to be Northern traders. It chaffed his proud nature no mater how his uncle tried to explain it. Apparently even though been a witch hunter in Nheim was a very respectable and influential position, the empire was hostile towards them. Koto thought that this was very hypocritical, for centuries the emperor had hired Nheimian witch hunters as his personal assassins to take out magically powerful nobles. The cryptic secrecy of this particular mission was making Koto uneasy, though of what he could not say.

The two experienced witch hunters were already mounted, their wide brimmed hats pulled low over their faces, as spring rain began to fall in a gentle but slightly annoying shower. Sods law for it to rain just as they meant to set out. Koto swung up in to his saddle, as at home on a horse as he was on his own two legs. Lanre soon joined them, walking across the muddy walled court yard and jumping up on to his own mount. Without any more demure the four men set out.


They rode through the familiar canyons, sometimes watched by the villagers whose homes were carved in the rock faces above them. Occasionally the mountainous landscape broke in to wide open planes, cleared of lose rocks by the laborious work of century’s to make way for fields and pasturelands. Eventually they reached the western border of Nheim, a long wall of rusty brown mountains with near vertical walls on both sides. Their were only two feasible ways through the impenetrable wall of rock, towards the north a long tunnel carved out of the rock centuries ago, and to the south the serpent trail, a wining road carved up the mountainside like a wriggling snake. The Serpant trail then crawled along the spine of the mountain passing just under a watchtower to then climb and wind just as steeply down the other side.

By the time they had reached the top of the Serpent trail and were riding along the spine their horses were sweating in the warm spring sun now broken from the clouds. In the dazzling noon day light Koto could see for miles in either direction to his left was Nheim stretched out below him, a symphony of red brown rock, and green, with the sea sparkling like sapphires in the far distance. To his right the unknown landscape, the mountain range’s foot hills was a brief rusty band below him, but it was soon swallowed by the verdant rough green of the Northlands, and somewhere beyond that would be the Marchadians, he almost fancied he could see the snow caped mountains, but like as not it was just cloud on the horizon. This was the furthest that Koto had ever been from home. It would be the first time that he had ever left Nheim. And although he felt nervous about this, his natural youth lent him excitement at the prospect of seeing new places.


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Spring rain was pattering against the windows of Daen’s room. She lay still for a time, listening to it. The large chamber was chilly, its stone walls never truly allowing heat to stay trapped in any room for long. However the cold contrasted pleasantly with the warmth to be found in her blankets. She did not want to get up, not just yet.

Caught between her dreams and wakefulness, laying on soft clean linins her mind wandered out of her control. Her musings tripped back to an earlier time. To when she was a young girl sleeping in her crib like bed, carved out of porous stone, a mattress of fragrant grasses and bird feathers, and a blanket made for her buy the woman in her clan. But that time was no more, no family, not even Leoff who she let go for his own good. To a Nheimian family was everything, your world and your identity. Despair washed through her. By an effort of will she let it pass. She had survived this grief. But from time to time her memories and the reproductions of that reality ambushed her with its pain. When it did she reminded herself she had survived it, she had gone on, carving a life out for herself independently, wounded, alone, but she had gone on.

She felt the bed shift and a strong arm warp about her waist. Perhaps she was not so alone after all. Darcia drew her supine body to his, in the morning light his eyes were a multitude of colors that shifted like the shadows over his face, from glacial blue, bright gray, sliver and deeper depths of inky blue. The same colors of the lake this dawn Daen confirmed to herself glancing out of the window at the prospect below. His warm palm cupped her cheek. ‘You looked so very lonely just now.’ Darcia said his voice thick and low from the night’s disuse. Daen did not answer; she had not realized that he had been watching her in her private moment of reminiscence. His dark elegant bows drew together in a frown. ‘Daen are you happy here?’

The question surprised her, catching her off guard. Darcia continued to watch her with his piercing blue eyes. ‘I’m happy.’ She finally answered, and found that once she said the words they were the truth. And she smiled an expression that he reflected, before kissing her in benediction. Daen suspected that Darcia had hoped that she might share with him the reason for her moment of melancholy but he knew better than to pry in to her past, just as she did not pry in to his. They offered what they could bare to part with a bit at a time. For now they were both content with what they had of each other, and that was enough, for this morning at least.

A knock came on the study door, servants leaving a tray with a pitcher of coffee and breakfast pastries no doubt. Since all the lakes and the locks between them had now thawed, traffic had floated up the swift flowing rivers again brining goods from the southern ports; including exotic spices and bitter aromatic drinks from across the sea in return for rich furs and good timber from the bountiful forests if the Marchadians. The end of the season by slowly, snow fall changing to sleet, and then cold rain that washed away the last of the snow that lay on the ground. Winter was chased away by spring, just as night was chased away by dawn, as Luis, the month represented by the rowan tree its namesake, gave way to Nion, the month of the Ash tree. Spring was usually greeted with cheer in most parts of the land, renewed hope at the sight of green grass. However it was also often a time of famine, as the stocks from the winter grew thin, and the new food was yet to have grown. In Bala the situation was not felt so keenly, but the meals were fairly bland, and the only meat to be had was wild game, or what was left of the salted meat stored over winter. It seemed that most of the meals some how composed of egg, and so the return of the flat bottomed trade barges was very welcome.

She yawned, even if her mind was busy with the concerns of the day she was still comfortable, and Darcia’s gentle toying with her breasts was very distracting. A maid would be in the next door dressing room soon to dress her hair before she met with some of the nobles. She supposed that waiting half an hour would not kill them and she opened to her lord like a flower unfurls with the touch of the sun upon its petals.


After a brief, but none the less welcome morning interlude with her noble lover Daen sat down in the duchess’s dressing room having her hair coaxed in to something that might resemble ringlets. Darcia stood leaning on the doorway, a cup of steaming coffee in his hands as he watched her, his eyes smiling over its rim. It was good to see him smile. Recently he had been more prone to falling in to dark brooding moods, weighed down by his responsibilities and worries as a ruler. But this morning she had been reminded that like the pine branches bent down by snow, with the spring melt he sprang back again still a young man in his prime.

She pointedly ignored his tigerish stare and looked at her own reflection in the mirror. He had already delayed her once this morning; she was not going to give him the satisfaction of distracting her once again. Daen had begun to perceive Darcia’s faults more clearly over the past few weeks. She now had come to a better understanding of Marchadian politics through her own involvement. He was not evil incarnate as she had first believed when he had captured her, but neither was she blinded by the blossoming emotions that she held for him. Confusingly his worst character faults were often part of his character strengths. He was stubborn, ruthless, single minded, relentless, had a will of iron, he rarely if ever brooked any opposition, he was often terribly high handed, and was often closed mouthed about his intentions. It was no wonder that much of his nobility were wary of him. She had released that what made Darcia such a good military leader was not necessarily virtuous in a politician. She allowed herself a half smile and glanced back at him, as often those were the traits he brought to the bed room, with devastatingly delicious results.

Daen had learned it would be a full two months before the snow high in the mountains had melted enough to allow the passes to be traversable again. Normally during this month the population of the Marchadinas were fairly relaxed, but as the news of the raid on Cyrch spread like ink through water, the atmosphere of the towns folk and villagers was colored by wariness, and anxiety, anxiety that only depend when no more evidence came to light as to who was responsible for the massacre. Everyone wondered who was next and gossip was rife.


This gray tension seemed to soak in to every part of life, even within the safe white walls of Bala. Daen couldn’t help but notice it, and the oppressive fear began to grate on her nerves taking much of the pleasure from her day. Fear it would seem was contagious, as after hearing tales of shadows in the forest she found herself listening with her hart in her mouth when she herd an unaccountable branch snap. Standing Thuharu up she would sit still and listen to the wind through the trees until she was sure nothing was amiss. Then with a snort of disgust she would try to put aside such stupid fears, everyone knew they were safe from attack here. Even if the snowdrops, the brave little advance guard of the spring time flowers now pushed up through the thawing ground it didn’t mean that the snow had melted from the passes. That is if the true danger really was in that direction.


Still life was not so bad. Daen had finally found herself a position in which she could be useful, helping to entertain and subtly influence Darcia’s nobility. Of course she had Darcia himself, when ever he was not busy with the running of his lands. Even Vespa had become considerably less of an irritant, they still often disagreed, but the snap of their words had less bite to them and were more habit than malice, they were not friends, but neither was the scout captain her bitter adversary any longer.


The orphan baby boy had settled in well with the Tann family, Kef although initially reluctant had soon warmed to the idea of having a boy to rise; however little Cira was a different story. Daen and Avis had hoped that the company of girls her own ages would help her to recover, but she seemed more scared and shy in their company. Cira only seemed to find any measure of peace was at the temple. One morning Daen had taken the girl with her on her rounds, not really having a better idea of what to do with the six year old child. Cira though still not speaking seemed content within the holy walls, and even smiled when she helped Daen with her weaving in the sanctified atmosphere of the temple. ‘Safe, peace.’ Daen caught the single thought of the small girl. And she concurred. There was a kind of ancient stillness that conveyed itself in the atmosphere of the temple and its grounds.

Daen had never really considered why this might be; it was just something she had accepted about the place, just as one accepts that a stable will smell of horse and straw. It had taken the attention of a small girl to point out the obvious. And Daen when she should have been meditating was left pondering as to why the atmosphere in this temple was so still, not silent, but still, still like a cold pool of water. The spirit Samigina in her ring decided to answer her unspoken questions. ‘This has always been an ancient place of worship, long before men decided to build a structure here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just as a place can be tainted by years of evil, so a place can become sanctified by years of good.’ Samigina explained. Daen wanted to argue this, Samigina and she often debated points of philosophy. Daen had thought that she had been educated fairly thoroughly back in Nheim, but her time spent in the empire had reveled just how narrow and stunted her education really had been. Samigina supplemented her avaricious thirst for knowledge with her own almost alien concepts, and broad knowledge. When Daen thought of the blood works in the city arena, how the very walls seemed to breathe out misery and despair she knew that Samigina was right.

‘Veione told me that the towns folk, when they found Cyrch they marked it with a sign against evil. Is that why?’

‘No they did it as a human superstition against evils spirits.’ Samigina almost laughed. ‘But it’s a superstition stemmed from old knowledge.’

‘Most superstitions are. Though I wish some superstitions did not exist.’

‘When knowledge is left without understanding it is very dangerous.’ Samigina concurred, ‘That is what happed to the girl.’

‘The town’s people thinking she was tainted by the events she witnessed.’

‘Yes.’

‘But I suppose if a place can be tainted by events, then so can a person. One belief leads to another logically.’

‘I suppose that is true.’ The sprit conceded. ‘However a place remembers, because of death, it’s the sprits that remember, the spirits of the dead taint the place. Human’s unless they are possessed cannot be haunted in such a way.’

Daen almost smiled. ‘That’s not entirely true, people can be haunted by the past, by their own actions and those that others have done on to them. Some monsters are made, not born.’

‘And you count yourself among that number?’

There was no point in hiding things from Samigina, she knew the answer already, but they enjoyed speaking to each other in such a way, framing their thoughts for each other. ‘I suppose that I do. Some of the things that I have done, and am capable of doing were…are monstrous. I’m sure that is how my family views me, a monster.’

‘I expect the same could be said of much of what they have done.’ Samigina said mysteriously.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Nhiamins corrupted their purpose.’ She clarified.

Daen fought the urge to argue back, misplaced loyalty making her angry that the spirit would insult her people in such a way. They were not her people anymore. She sighed out her tension and carefully worded her question, trying to keep the edge out of her enquiry. But try as she might she sounded defensive. ‘The Nhamian’s have always been witch hunters; since they first worshiped the good god Helu unnatural practices have been banned. To practice magic is to sin against nature itself. Man was never meant to have control over such forces.’

Samigina was thoughtful for a moment. ‘In a sense they are right, human kind were never meant to do magic. But it was introduced in to your bloodlines long ago as a way to keep a part of an old way of life going. Dose your magic feel unnatural to you?’

‘No.’

‘Well of course it dose not, you discovered the spirits as a young hound knows how to sent, it is in built, instinctive.’

Daen sat quietly for a moment. ‘I think I have a lot to think on for the time being.’


She returned to the plaice to walk in to Veione. ‘Hello filly.’ He greeted her cheerfully. ‘Do your remember that wager you made with me about your Thuharu been able to out jump my Buck?’

‘I remember.’ She smiled.

‘Well since your free right now..’

‘How do you know that?’

He winked a blue eye at her, ‘Timor told me. In fact he was tacking up your horrible mountain pony as I left. In any case you have no excuses not to come hunting.’

‘Alright, I see I have no choice in this.’

‘None what so ever.’ He grinned.

‘Give me a minuet to get changed then.’ She laughed and ran off, her mood instantly lightened by the prospect of a good race.



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a/n; Hey sorry I have been so long in updating, my computer died. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and it should be business as usual form here on out.