Losing Hope

Nearly a month after,

The absence should solidify.

Should close.

Should heal.

But the wound remains raw,

The void left behind open.

Still I wait,

Listening for the door.

For the jingle of the bell

On the collar as she flicks her head.

Listening for the wail

Begging for food or attention.

Listening for the gentle pad of

Steps on the carpet.

For the throaty purr rumbling

From the warm ball at my feet.

Still I watch for her

When I arrive home.

But her tiny frame never sits

At the corner of the house.

Her corner where she waited.

Her agile body does not race,

Trotting across the street,

Tail an exclamation mark behind her

As she talks to me

About her day.

About the mouse she devoured.

About her brothers leaving

A mess around the food dish.

About how I am never home

As much as I used to.

How I hoped and prayed

For God to bring her back

To me.

What I would not give to see

Her lapping water elegantly

From the fishbowl.

Or bossing her brothers.

Or sweeping up after them

With a dainty white paw.

What I would not trade to

Feel her curled behind my knee,

Her motor rumbling.

To have one final conversation.

To say goodbye.

How I pray to God to,

By some miracle,

Return her to me,

My companion for seven years.

But the void lingers.

The grief still too new.

It seems that I lost

Hope

In more ways than one.

The Mark of the King: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sighing audibly, Catrain crossed her room, a well-worn path marked through the dust and dirt from where her feet traveled for the past hour since the sun peeked over the horizon and flooded her room with golden light. That early in the morning, it was atrocious. Yet there proved little she could do to smother it before her body adjusted to the prospect of day and, despite the sleep lingering in her eyes, and forced her to awaken.

Flynn confused her. He posed an enigma, a puzzle demanding to be solved. Something about him failed to add up, and she sensed something about him of which she unsuccessfully named. His story rang true, but she knew he omitted much of it. She never thought well remaining in one place. So she began to walk back and forth from the window to the opposite wall, a path she now traversed with her eyes closed and her thoughts elsewhere.

Why Corrthaine? Why run to Lord Joran? Why would Lord Joran accept him and promote him to his right hand for that matter? The answers she sought, no matter how many times she turned them over in her head, eluded her. More than once, out of sheer frustration, she punched the wall, the pain exploding across her bruised knuckles offering momentary clarity and an escape from the thoughts cycling in and out of her mind in a ceaseless tirade of images and connections that never yielded more information than what she already possessed.

She swiveled hard on her heel near the inner wall next to the grate above the floor.

“Cat, are you pacing?” Muriel’s muffled voice wafted between the walls.

“Nay,” her footsteps stopped. “Aye.” They resumed again.

            A groan sounded from the next room along with the muted whump of a body falling back against a mountain of pillows. “You will wear a hole through the floor, and then where will you be?”

            The princess smirked. “One floor below, I suppose.”

            Another groan, louder this time, and Catrain snickered behind her sleeve.

“Cat.”

Startling at the closeness of Muriel’s voice, she wheeled about and stared at the grate, which Muriel’s unamused, sleep-laden face filled almost entirely, her temple pressed against the floor stones. Catrain dropped to her knees and crawled to the grate, laying on her stomach on the ground with her chin resting on her hands.

“When did you and Oliver plan for us to meet with Morfael?”

“Mid-morning.”

Catrain nodded. “I have a few questions for Skandar that I hoped to ask of him before.”

One of Muriel’s dark brows arched with curiosity. “Of what nature?”

“Tiem nobility,” she sighed and rubbed the heels of her palms against of her eyes until sparks of light appeared amidst the blackness. “It is rather boring, actually. While in the dungeons, Flynn mentioned his childhood in Tiem, and I wondered…”

“It poses an intriguing coincidence if he and Skandar are somehow connected.”

“Coincidence or a divine plan? Personally I choose to believe in the latter.”

“Alright, you piqued my curiosity,” Muriel scooted closer to the grate.

“You are welcome to accompany me if you wish.”

Muriel beamed and lifted herself off the floor. Catrain heard footsteps walking away from her as her friend called back, “Allow me to dress and I shall meet you in the hall.”

Popping onto her knees, and then to her feet, Catrain discarded her night clothes and tossed a dress over her head, pulled her hair into a loose plait that hung down her shoulders, and waited outside her chambers for another minute before Muriel emerged. Together, they strolled down the walkway and stopped before Skandar’s door.

Glancing over her shoulder, Catrain noted the sunlight streaming through the iron-lattice window and knew that Skandar was more than likely awake. She knocked, and at a welcome shout hollered from within, they entered.

They blinked as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Skandar sat with his back facing the window, over which hung a thick blanket that dampened most of the sunlight. All the candles, misshapen sticks of lumpen wax and sitting on metal holders, had long-since cooled and likely not tasted the consuming bite of the fire since the night before.  

"Skandar, how are you?"

Grimacing, he rubbed his sore arm. "According to the physician, I fare better than I did yesterday. Thank you for asking."

“He visited you already?”

“Earlier this morning, aye.”

Moving to the window, Muriel began to pull aside the blanket, a crack of light shining on Skandar’s face.

Sharp needles of pain stabbed Skandar behind his eyes. “Leave it!” he barked, his hands flying to shield his eyes, and she froze. “Sorry,” he apologized softly, “Alasdair believes the fever weakened my eyes, making them sensitive to light. He believes it will pass as I recover.”

After dropping the blanket back in place and returning the chamber to darkness, Muriel sat on the edge of the bed and touched his shoulder gently, wary of his wound. “Still, if it persists—”

“You will be the first to know,” he promised, flashing her a quick, but genuine smile. Skandar’s gaze shifted past Muriel and combed Catrain, taking in her weary face, plaited hair with wisps framing her head like a halo, and the simple dress that fit her too loosely before focusing on her hands, more specifically, her fingers, which she fidgeted with.

His vision narrowed. Does she mean to kill me? Paranoia seeped in, wrapping its cold tendrils around his bones, and his vision threatening to gray. Now, while I remain in a weakened state? Was that the reason for meeting Flynn in the middle of the night?

"You wished to inquire something of me?" He guessed, pushing aside the doubts lest she note his hesitation and perceive his innermost thoughts.

"Aye, I did."

Idiot, he berated, she extends her hand in friendship and you see nothing but a cloaked dagger. Skandar sat up and mustered a smile, patting the edge of the bed near his legs. "Sit," he offered, and she complied. "I've been dying for someone to ask me something other than how feel, or what I wish to eat, or treating me as an invalid."

"Well I can assure you,” her mouth tugged into a smug grin, “you will not receive any coddling from me."

Amused, Skandar chuckled, then instantly regretted it as the action sent needles of pain stabbing through him. When the spasm passed, he propped himself up once more and turned an attentive ear to Catrain, who stared at him with concern. Rising, Muriel strode to the pitcher on the bedside table and poured a mug of water which he accepted gladly.

"Thank you,” he smiled at her when he regained his breath. “Go on,” he urged Catrain eagerly after sipping the drink and tasting instant relief. “Make your query; I am well."

"If you are certain," she folded her hands in her lap, fidgeting with her fingers nervously. "Who were the higher families in Tiem? And what of the nobility? Do you remember?"

This concerns Flynn. I knew it. He suppressed the ire roiling in his stomach, wetted his suddenly dry mouth again, and scrunched his face in concentration, mentally compiling a list of names and people he saw regularly at market and counting on his fingers. "Well, Lord Joran presided over the shire, but his Steward, Bernard oversaw his personal lands in his absence. Since Peter and Elaine owned their land instead of slaving over his, we hardly ever dealt with Bernard. Fawkes, the sheriff," an involuntary shudder rippled through him, "we encountered more often. One could easily mistake him for the lord of the manor,” he added under his breath, disdain evident in his bitter tone. “The thanes were," he listed several names, folding down a finger for each of them, in addition to those for Bernard and Fawkes, until only two remained. "Merchants traveled through, but never stayed long. Craftsman we had too, but none I recall off hand."

"Did any of them by chance have a son? A few years older than you at the most...?" She asked hopefully.

"Oliver, obviously."

Frowning, she folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. "Besides Oliver."

"Cat, it was only in jest."

She smirked.

"Well then, Bernard was old, his wife too. Far past the age to bear children.

“So their son, providing they had one, would be Sir Reuben's age or older.”

“Aye,” Skandar concurred, “Most of the thanes who married were too young to have a son the age you say. And Fawkes," he spat the name like acidic poison, "was the last person to have a child let alone love it."

Something that Flynn said in the dungeon struck Catrain as odd in that moment, and she pondered, Flynn described his father as loving, caring for both him and his mother. Yet he never joined them in Tir O Niwl unless...

"What about illegitimate children?"

Skandar scoffed, "If one conceived a child out of wedlock, I do not believe it would be common knowledge. Tiem was a relatively private community; people never questioned what you did not say. If a father acknowledged his bastard within the confines of his home, tongues would not wag unless permitted."

“Sounds lovely,” she mused.

“They were silent out of fear,” he stated, unceremoniously ending her daydream. “The nobles maintained a tight grip on the common folk, even those not directly subject to them. We feared stepping out of line, else we suddenly discover ourselves indebted in some manner to them and forced to repay them more than what we needed to survive.”

"How did I not know this? All this time and I was never aware of the happenings of my own country," she sighed, then voiced a new idea, "Did any of them die? The nobles, I mean."

Skandar scratched an itch beneath his hair, then stilled and answered somberly, "One thane died in the first bought of the Plague, the wave which stole my mother; the second, coming a decade later, killed another thane, a couple knights in the sheriff’s manor, and Sheriff Fawkes himself succumbed eventually."

"I see," she muttered glumly.

"Why the sudden curiosity, Cat?" he asked, although he knew the answer already. Flynn.

Rising from her seat, she smoothed her skirt and shrugged, "No reason. As you said, it was merely curiosity."

"Then why do I sense you concealing something? Come, Cat, do you not trust me?" he prodded.

“Do you not harbor secrets of your own?” one of her eyebrows raised condescendingly. "I suspected so. But if all reveals itself the way I believe it might, we may have one more ally than we thought. For the time being, rest, Skandar," she advised, "You must be hale and fit to continue your quest." Silently, she added, Both of them.

She was nearly out the door when she turned and poked her head into the room. “We planned to meet with Morfael in two hours.”

“And you hoped I would join you for moral support?”

“We hoped you would join us because you are a member of our company. A critical one, at that.”

“If that be the case, I shan’t miss it,” he winked, but felt no mirth inside as his mind roved to find the connection around which Catrain’s questions revolved before she produced it. He yearned to be one step ahead, to maintain at least a semblance of advantage in one miniscule area. To know his enemy entailed knowing Flynn, and already, Catrain ran far ahead of him. But he resolved to catch up. To catch up and to defeat Flynn before they turned against him.

Feigning another coughing spasm, he assured them that he only required rest and promised to see them soon and in better condition than the present. When they departed, he leaned back and retreated into his thoughts when the answer he knew all along struck him. “Ally? Oh Cat, you could not be further from the truth.” He balled the sheets in his fists, his body quivering with rage. Loathing erupted within him, coursing through his veins from a bottomless well.

King Morfael, with Princess Brynna and his wife seated at either hand of the large table in the great hall, leaned against the hard back of his chair and listened, stone-faced, as Oliver explained to him in little detail the nature of their quest. He recounted their flight in the dark hours from the Capitol in Corrthaine, their journey across the country, and their ambush by bounty hunters, but omitted Skandar’s eyes and Catrain’s bloodline. Whether Morfael chose to acknowledge Catrain as a servant as presented earlier or a lady such as Muriel, Oliver left for the king to decide.

            From time to time, the others interjected and commented bits and pieces of forgotten information to Oliver’s account, but for the most part, they stood silent at his sides with the exception of Skandar and Flynn, who, exhausted from the walk from their chambers to the hall, sat at the table, a fair distance from each other.

When Oliver completed their tale at the point of their imprisonment and release, they all held their breaths, waiting.

            The fire crackled in the hearth and the speckled falcon grazed its talons across the platform of its perch, but otherwise, the hall remained utterly silent. Morfael’s scowl deepened with every second that passed, seconds in which no one moved lest some spell break and judgement fall. Brynna cast questioning, curious glances at Aidan as though seeking his confirmation to their story. The queen, ever wraith-like, stared ahead, her gaunt countenance pale and wrought with worry.

            Then Morfael shifted, startling the Corrthainians, and stroked his chin thoughtfully as a dark glimmer ignited in his eyes and spread throughout his expression. The falcon spread its wings, beating them against the still air, opened its curved beak and let loose a screeching cry that resounded throughout the stone chamber. Even with the hood cloaking its beady eyes, Skandar felt threatened by the bird and its master.

            Any moment now guards will be summoned to drag us away to the dungeons, no doubt, Skandar grimaced, certain of their failure and resolving himself to death. If he barely survived prison once, he surely would not see release a second time. Swift execution, he reasoned, would be a mercy. The longer Morfael contemplated, the more antsy Skandar grew. I cannot survive another night among the mold and rats. I cannot. Then all this would be in vain. His legs bounced against the bottom of the table, urging him to summon whatever strength he retained and fly as far as possible before being stuck full or arrows or spears from the guards. His gaze shifted around the expanse of the hall, not daring to settle on any one particular thing, drawn immediately to any sudden movement.

            Instead, no knights with clanking weapons and heavy footfalls appeared in the doorway to haul them away. Thrice, the king tapped a finger on the table, the dull thuds echoing faintly off the stones. “What you say, provided its honesty, unravels much of what I did not comprehend. But by your story, you do not sound as those who are friends of Corrthaine, and seeing as though I am a friend of Corrthaine, I cannot directly aid you without breaking my alliance with King Fendral.”

            “Do you fervently believe in your friendship with Corrthaine? A country with leaders who would just as soon manipulate you and therefore assume control over Tir O Niwl,” questioned Oliver.

            A sly, if sober grin tugged at Morfael’s lips. “Do you think me a child that I do not know when I am tethered by strings growing ever taut? My awareness of the noose around my throat became present the very minute my father died.”

            “Then speak plainly, Morfael, and end your ceaseless riddles. They are tiresome and a waste of precious time,” demanded Flynn.

            Morfael’s smile curled and his fist tightened where it rested on the notched face of the table. “As I said before, I cannot help you directly. What I can do is have the memory of your stay slip my mind if and when questions arise from our mutual friend. After all, you have embarked on an honorable venture, and I feel as though I should atone for delaying you. What a mighty feat the discovery of Bródúil would be. Many passed through Tir O Niwl during my father’s reign. Unfortunately for some of them, they did not request my father’s gracious permission beforehand and were struck down in our market squares. I am not my father, and I am willing to extend protection to you from my soldiers as long as you tread within my borders. What say you to my offer?”

            Before the travelers agreed to a decision amongst themselves, Oliver said, “We accept, but ask what you desire in return. Such an offer cannot go unrepaid and we would be rude guests to not inquire your price and endeavor to pay it to the full extent of our purses,” he patted his sides. “Although we appear to be at a loss of funds in our treasury at the moment, courtesy of our bounty hunter friends. They helped themselves to all our supplies.”

            “I require nothing save that, when you locate Bródúil and return, you elevate my reputation as king among my people. Rumor spreads through my country that I am incapable of leadership equal my father’s.”

            “And are you?” Flynn goaded.

            “That remains to be seen. Merciful and helpful, I wish to be at times, and just and fair at others,” said Morfael. “Now appears a time to exercise the former, to forgive past wrongs in order to accelerate a better cause and a future. Tell me, please. What are your plans once you attain Bródúil?”

“A great ill lies upon Corrthaine,” Skandar said after a moment’s hesitation, “I wish to avenge those fallen in its wake of death and ruin.”

Learning forward with interest, Morfael concluded simply, “You desire to kill King Fendral and Lord Joran. Fear not,” he chuckled upon observing the color drain slightly from Skandar’s ruddy complexion. “this conversation, also, will conveniently slip from memory.” He settled back in his chair again, exuding comfort and calmness. “Understand, though, that should Corrthaine call for aid during your conquest, as an ally, I am duty-bound to honor our treaty and give it. To deny so, I risk pouring Corrthaine’s wrath upon my people.”

“It is not Corrthaine’s wrath you should fear,” mumbled Catrain.

Cocking an eyebrow, his scar puckering, Morfael inclined his head in her direction. “Pray, good lady, if not Corrthaine, then whom should I fear?” He maintained an air of skepticism, although Skandar perceived the king knew more than he let on, in fact, he appeared to test Catrain, to evaluate her bluff.

Staring him unwaveringly in the eye, her gaze cold and dead, Catrain responded, “Our mutual friend, as you so name him.”

As though an arrow skewered him to the high back of his chair, the young king sat bolt upright, the color draining from his tanned cheeks. Smug pride inflated inside Skandar at the shift in the tables, but it quickly evaporated with he noticed how Brynna surveyed her bother with wide and fear-filled eyes, tears brimming in their depths and shining in the flickering firelight. The weight of her concern for her brother touched him; these people, same as himself and his companions, struggled to survive however they could in the moment, seizing every opportunity to gain the advantage. Over them. Over their mutual friend.

No one but Lord Joran instilled that aura of terror. Anger replaced smugness and boiled within Skandar, festering inside him upon the realization that to this exact moment in their quest, Lord Joran had them on strings, pulling and tugging, manipulating them like wooden puppets in a child’s story in the middle of a market square for all to see.

Recovering, Morfael said softly, “Then I suggest you gather your belongings and ready yourselves to depart as soon as your companions,” he indicated Skandar and Flynn with a finger, “are well enough to travel. If our mutual friend is to be feared and the outcome predetermined despite our efforts, time is essential and I swear on my father’s grave I will help you however I can. We all are slaves to this man, whether we realize it or not, and I believe this present situation we now find ourselves addressing may be tailored to benefit us all,” he rose and made for the door, beckoning them to follow. “Whatever you require,” he continued, “I shall bestow it to the best of my abilities. Forget our arrangement. My reputation among my people matters naught in light of this. After all, of what use serves a favorable reputation for a dead man?” He chuckled in spite of the situation and stood, crossing the distance between them in a matter of mere steps. “Compile a list of all the bounty hunters stole from you with as much detail as possible, and I shall endeavor to recover them and return them to you before you are ready to resume your journey.”

“If you care not about your reputation, yet you claim to see mutual opportunities, what then do you name your price from us?”

Morfael paused at the doors, “Freedom out from under the thumb of a tyrant. I did not become king to become subject to another man’s authority, nor subject my people to his rule. Your success on your Quest is all I ask. Succeed, and you free us all.”

“Succeed? One minute he sought to deliver us up to True King knows who or where, and the next, he burdens us to succeed, saying it will deliver him. We have not numbers! We do not even possess our weapons, because our weakness and the traitor among us,” Skandar shot Flynn a wicked glare and wished his sword hung at his hip so he might smite the knight, “caused us to lose them.” His hands trembled and his vision darkened as his grip on his anxiety and rage slipped. “How are we to face Corrthaine and Tir O Niwl’s armies combined—because Fendral or Joran or whoever rules at the time will call upon Morfael for aid and Morfael already declared himself his obligation to supply it—when we could not even fend off a band of thieves?” His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he struggled to calm his inhalations. Panic escalated within him and he began to pace frantically across his chambers, ignoring the pain shooting through his shoulder. They needed to leave. And he needed answers.

 Flynn shot to his feet. “Traitor?” he hissed, reaching for a dagger, but he grasped only air and his hand fell back to his side. “I ran to try to spare you, to draw them away! I ran to protect you imbeciles. Your capture is on your own head! Your injury on your head because you failed to listen to my instruction!”

“You call beating me and belittling me training and instruction?” Skandar’s voice rose along with his anger.

“Only because you refused to listen like a petty child!”

“You killed my friend!” roared Skandar, the world flashing black. “You cut him down when he was defenseless, and you expect me not to despise you for that with every fiber of my being? If my only crime is pettiness then so be it! You murdered the innocent. You left children fatherless.” Just like your father.

Before Skandar’s eyes, something inside Flynn broke. The fire died in his ice-blue eyes and his shoulders drooped, his appearance withered and weary. “I am a murderer. That sin I confess to you and to the True King. But I have not betrayed any of you since stepping foot outside the Capitol walls. That I swear to you on my life.”

“You might have to give it before I could ever trust you,” Skandar muttered, the world returning to normal. He became aware of the others’ as they stood warily around the room, poised and ready to drag Flynn and Skandar apart should they resort to blows.

            Uncomfortable silence settled about the chamber, thick with tension as Skandar and Flynn retreated to their respective sides, locking eyes and glowering at each other with unspoken malice.

            Then Catrain cleared her throat. “I realize now that I should have told you about this sooner. Forgive me for the delay.”

            “Told us what?” asked Eoin, his query supported by curious nods from the others.

            “Not a fortnight before we left Corrthaine, a messenger arrived from Tir Thuaidh with a letter for Sir Reuben.”

            “What has that to do with anything?” said Skandar.

            “Patience. The letter was from my father.”

            Skandar’s jaw dropped and his attention snapped from Flynn to her. “I believed Prince Garren was dead.”

            “We all did,” Oliver agreed, “Cat? The Prince is alive?”

            She smiled, and it irked Skandar that she had not seen fit to trust them with this information until now. “It was necessary for certain people to believe he was dead. In truth, he has been amassing a steadily growing force in Tir Thuaidh. For over two decades now refugees on the run from my grandfather have been smuggled out of Corrthaine north into Tir Thuaidh and west into Tir O Niwl. Those in the north are gathering, preparing to march on Corrthaine at summer’s end. Those hiding in Tir O Niwl are waiting to receive the message to begin their exodus.”

            “Why continue on the quest for Bródúil? Why not, when Skandar and Flynn’s strength return, travel instead to wherever your father is? We would join his army. If the prince is alive, Corrthaine is saved!” Aidan rejoiced, his face alight with eagerness and hope. “Who has need of a legend, after all, if the True King is on our side?”

            “Bródúil holds no significance to me aside from presenting an intriguing tale,” admitted Catrain with a sideways glance at Skandar, “but Edmund is still lost, and my father’s letter mentioned nothing of him.”

            “What did the letter contain, Cat?” Oliver shifted his weight, leaning toward her with interest.

            “Instructions. He and other refugees forced to embark on the Quest are scattered about the clans in the north, but are slowly congregating. Others will join him, but my mission is to warn them and urge them to begin to move. We have precious little time to act as it is. If given to the right person, the one my father names the Wolf, word will spread to the other sanctuaries.”

            “Do you know who this Wolf is?”

            She shook her head. “He was from before my time. And if he was charged with the Quest, his name is forbidden to all in the castle save the Keeper, but Reuben told me that to protect the Wolf, he would not speak his name. Walls have ears, as I am certain you all are well aware.”

            Eoin lifted his hand. “Where hide the refugees?”

            “I cannot disclose their exact locations to you. Unfortunately,” she continued, her expression downcast, “I myself know not where they all lie. Which proves a hefty problem if we aspire to achieve success of this mission. Due to the manner of its orchestration, no one person knows where they all hide. Specific people in Tir O Niwl who express sympathy to our cause aided and supplied some locations, but others were lost.”

“Spies? The knight who died…” understanding dawned in Eoin and his mouth opened to query again, but Flynn, who sat beside him, raised his leg and brought his heel down hard upon Eoin’s foot. The younger man yelped, falling into the wall as he massaged the top of his boot and stared at Flynn, his face twisted with befuddlement. “Right, ears everywhere,” he mumbled.

Muted whispers ensued, planning, questioning, examining every contingency possible in the time that followed in vague detail as they all wondered how much Morfael ordered the guards to relate to him during a debriefing council later. Only Skandar feared not the guards stationed outside who undoubtedly eavesdropped with the intent to report back to Morfael. No, he feared the ears inside belonging to Flynn and the information he sent to his master.

           

For two days they plotted and schemed, devising traveling actions and scouring the castle maps for directions, which Princess Brynna readily provided, along with anything else they requested. She often stopped by their chambers, offering up what information she knew about the terrain and travel time, and delivering extra food upon Aidan and Eoin’s frequent requests.

Skandar recalled the spare hours in his youth spent bending over maps of the Four Kingdoms, however incomplete his supply, and enjoyed adding more information of the plains, forests, and mountain ranges to his memory. So far, their plans consisted of traveling further west into the heart of the forests. Although Catrain refused to show them the framework of Sir Reuben’s plans until they were miles away from the castle, she appeared confident about the general direction and that it contained what they sought.

Skandar slowly regained his strength, although his sensitivity to light lingered on. Muriel and Oliver asked about it each day, and every time he responded, “It has not changed.” With each acknowledgement of his condition, his heart sunk deeper into confusion and discouragement, and he itched to run.

The second night, he crept out of bed and walked the length of the hall, pushing his stamina to the limits. He strolled from window to hall entrance, smiling feebly at the guards who otherwise left him be, stopping to rest only twice during his five laps. Exhausted, he slunk back to bed and promptly fell asleep as soon as he dropped onto the mattress, too tired to dream.

The following afternoon, Princess Brynna arrived at their doors with summons from Morfael. They gathered in the hall eagerly, their spirits rising when they beheld several servants standing silently along the wall with large bundles cradled in their arms.

“My men recovered your weapons and other effects in several outlying villages yesterday evening. It appears they wandered about attempting to sell them. I fear they consumed your rations and spent your money on ale among other articles of leisure,” a bemused look transformed Morfael’s countenance from its usual glower. “Perhaps the latter helped you. They were all too drunk to protest or resist. Tis also fortunate the craftsmanship of your weapons is so magnificent, especially this sword,” he reached into a pack and withdrew Skandar’s sword. His heart leapt at the sight of it; the gold knotted cross weaving itself intricately around the hilt and crossguard glinting in the torchlight, familiar, and bringing back a flood of comforting memories of Sir Reuben and his family, of a better time and a better life.

Holding it aloft, Morfael examined it, caressing the blade with a gloved finger. “Utterly magnificent,” he breathed. “To whom does it belong? You?” he pointed at Oliver.

Skandar stepped forward. “Me. It was a gift from a mentor and friend.”

“You are fortunate to know such a man,” Morfael sheathed the sword and handed it to Skandar. “Never lose his favor. A handful of close friends is worth more than an entire army.”

“My thanks, your Highness,” Skandar bowed, and then fastened the sheath belt around his waist, smiling as the comforting weight rested against his thigh.

“You need not concern yourselves with the rogues again,” added Brynna as the servants relieved their bundles on the floor and Skandar and his companions scurried to dig through them for their belongings. “Bounty hunters we pay. Thieves we imprison.”

Skandar stared at the young woman. For all her softness and grace, she possessed a hidden ferocity and determination that mirrored her brother’s. A grin crept onto his lips, and he followed her line of sight to Aidan, who beamed at her even as he unfolded his axes and tucked them into his belt.

“Seems the princess fancies your brother more than I thought,” remarked Flynn to Eoin as they rummaged through a bundle beside Skandar.

Eoin choked on air as he inhaled sharply and his eyes flicked to Catrain, who was elbow-deep digging around in a bag. “What?”

Flynn smirked and nodded at Brynna. “That princess.”

Eoin threw a glance over his shoulder at the blonde-haired woman lingering behind him, her attention riveted on Aidan with timid curiosity,

“You are mistaken,” Eoin argued, steadfast in his denial.

“It appears losing one’s heart to royalty is common in your family.”

Eoin’s eyes bulged, and Skandar fought the urge to laugh, ducking behind his hand. Chuckling, Flynn rose to his feet and snatched up his ebony sword, strapping it to his side.

For the better part of half an hour, they swooped upon various piles, sorting through the mess and trading others’ property for their own, making quick work of the haphazard assortment.

“I have five daggers unaccounted for,” Flynn declared when the large pile dwindled into smaller, organized stacks of folded clothes.

“How large?”

“Small. The length of my hand.”

Sweeping the room lazily, Skandar said, “I fear they are gone. Something so small would sell for a lower price while a sword would be too expensive to purchase, thus the reason most if not all peasants are defenseless,” he spat the last word, envisioning Peter.

“You think I have not known poverty?” Flynn uttered hoarsely, so low only Skandar, who sat closest to him, heard. And ignored.

“For one with such a weapon himself,” Morfael implied the sword resting beside Skandar’s embroidered cloak at his legs, “how came you by such personal wisdom?”

“I was raised in a farming village. I learned to barter, how to ensure a greater profit, what common people tend to purchase and what they overlook and dismiss as too great a cost for something they would not use in their lifetime. As I said, many peasants spend their lives providing for their families as well as possible. They cannot defend themselves, especially against mercenaries who abuse their power.”

Morfael stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder, what would happen if I trained those interested in learning to fight? Imagine the prospects if an entire country knew how to defend itself as a military unit. You pose an interesting idea; one I hope to pursue with every faculty available to me.” He cleared his throat, “Five daggers, is that all you lack?”

“I believe so,” replied Oliver after receiving a general tacit consensus from his companions.

“Good. Whatever happens from this day onward, please remember the aid I have provided you and the hand I extend to you in alliance. Remember me as I am here, for I cannot promise the same the next time we meet. These only I request of you. Succeed, and remember me.”

As always, comments are welcome and appreciated if you have any thoughts or questions. 

I would love to read what you have to say!

Thank you for reading!

-Abigail

QUESTION NEEDING ANSWERS

Sorry for the all-capitalized title, but, as it states, I have a quick question that requires feedback from you, my lovely readers.

I am considering taking the advertising option in order to make some money off this blog (because Heaven knows I need it), which would also require me posting more often, which means more chapters and random ramblings. However, my question to you is as follows:

Would the addition of an ad here and there be distracting and/or annoying to you? 

I haven't conducted much research on the matter, and am just considering it for the time being, but I doubt they would pop up very often. Probably at the initial visit to this blog page. Anyway, PLEASE comment your thoughts. Your feedback matters to me.

Also, stay tuned for a chapter by the beginning of next week! My apologies for taking so terribly long.

-Abigail

It's Been a Long, Long Time...

It's May.
It's May, and I feel as though I'm just emerging from beneath a rock. In a sense, though, I am, if a rock is synonymous for college. (College is actually wonderful, if time consuming. Then again, I suppose everything consumes some fragment of time.)

The past however-many-months-since-I-last-posted flew by in a flurry of papers and exams, and I wrote little outside of assignments, thus the reason for my temporary drop off the face of the sphere of blogging. Which I know wins first place among lousy excuses.

Moving onward to the purpose of this particular post. Tomorrow marks the beginning of finals week, and with the extra time, I will begin writing The Mark of the King anew and in earnest and power through until its completion.

Long story short: I'm still alive and will have a new chapter here sometime in the near future (within the next couple weeks at the most).

The Mark of the King: Chapter Twenty-Six

For once, I have nothing other to say than 'enjoy'!

Oliver, Muriel, Catrain, and the brothers waited outside Skandar’s room, hesitant, each looking to one another to enter first, shifting from side to side as they stood. Then Muriel separated from the small huddle and pushed open the door. Those waiting in the hall heard the muffle of voices and the muffled rustle of heavy fabric along the light airy breeze that wafted through the stuffy chamber and into the corridor. One by one, they filed after another and each strained for a glimpse of their recovering friend as they crossed over the threshold.

Skandar sat, propped upright by several pillows, and groggily examined the room, his mouth pulled tight in a grim line and his eyes wide and confused. Woolen blankets covered his legs and rippled around his waist. His bare chest rose and fell shallowly as he breathed the fresh air floating in through the open windows, layered with the earthy scent of grass.

        Alasdair, who up until that point had been bustling about his patient, proceeded to gather his belongings into his arms and, with a dip of his head in respect to Oliver, sidled past them and left them alone.

       “Skandar?” queried Muriel, uncertain whether, in his apparent delirium, he noticed their presence or not. He snapped to attention at the sound of her silver voice and stared at them, his gaze hard and piercing. Then it softened, and the corners of his pale lips tugged faintly upward.

      Muriel stepped to his side and, ignoring propriety, threw her arms around his neck in hasty embrace, which Skandar returned, albeit limply.

      “Forgive me,” he croaked, “it seems my strength has yet to return.”

      “Nor did I expect it to,” said Muriel as she filled a mug with water and held it to his mouth, tipping it as he drank.

      “It is good to see you again with the living,” Oliver reached across Muriel and clapped Skandar’s uninjured shoulder, a hearty smile parting his face.

      “Tis good to be awake, however,” Skandar glanced at the bandage around his arm and grimaced, “while asleep I did not feel the pain.”

       “While asleep, you nearly died.”

        “So they told me,” he replied flatly, unsurprised by his brush with death. His legs twitched beneath the blankets. “How much time passed? The last I remember was the dungeon.”

       “You slept the past two days,” supplied Catrain, who leaned against the wall alongside the brothers. “Rest as long as required; we shan’t leave until you are hale and whole again.”

        Restless, Skandar readjusted his position again and breathed deeply, impatience filling him as readily as the air inflating his lungs. Every moment he spent recovering, he lost in his quest.

        Reading his concerns, Muriel rested a hand on Skandar’s buried leg and said gently, “If we leave prematurely, while you are yet weakened, you do nothing to help yourself or us. You hinder your mission. Patience comes not easily to you, I know, but when you feel ready to resume our travels, we will do so and then retake the time.”

        Skandar sighed, knowing that she, so like Sir Reuben, spoke reason he could not deny. Her presence in that moment, her attentiveness and serenity, reminded him of the Keeper and a raw emptiness formed a cavity in his chest. Although he knew Sir Reuben for a matter of months, Skandar missed him, the mentor who in a short time closed gaping questions that had followed Skandar since childhood.

       Then something cold slithered into the hole inside him, and an eerie sensation similar to that elicited by the tendrils of mist in his dreams coursed through him. Skandar shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, his fists balled at his sides.

        Warm fingers pried open his hand and slipped into his palm. “Is it the pain?” asked Muriel, her voice layered with anxious and concern.

        His eyelids flew open; the room flashed gray, but returned to color with such speed Skandar questioned whether he imagined the change. His heart thumped and blood pulsed in his ears, momentarily drowning out all other sounds. No one else moved. They stood rigid, garbed in hues of reds, blacks, and browns. He blinked, and his attention flicked to Muriel.

        “My shoulder,” he lied, “but it has passed.” A calm, composed smile pulled his lips taut over his bared teeth in such a manner that sent tingling chills dancing up the backs of his friends. The irises of his eyes, once so purely silver, darkened another shade, but only Muriel, sitting on the edge of the bed, noticed.

           

       While the others were occupied in conversation detailing events of the past days to Skandar, Catrain stole out of the room and entered her chambers to retrieve a couple items she discovered earlier in one of the table drawers. Through the corridors, she paced herself so, to the guards stationed at the entrance, she appeared neither too fast nor too slow, but determined if aloof, and with a destination at the forefront of her thoughts.

       Minutes later, she arrived before the dungeons where the guards admitted her, but not without regarding her with much scrutiny. With two unexplained visits in one day, this time unaccompanied, one if not both men would talk. Gossip presented the likely reason for wagging tongues, but Catrain refused to reason out loyalty or personal gain when considering the motives behind how information traveled to the ears of the king. In this case, Catrain favored the latter. Often in Corrthaine, she discovered that, to win favor with those in authority, people suddenly remembered even the most obscure details.

       Flynn reclined on his back in his cell, studying the ceiling with disinterest.

      “I need your help.”

       Flynn eased himself into an upright position, wincing and clutching his broken ribs. “For all that is worth,” he grumbled. Then an eyebrow arched in mild intrigue. “About what?”

       “The Legend of Bródúil- have you read it?”

       “Indeed,” he frowned. “Lord Joran required it of me before this frivolous endeavor, for all the good it did.” He inched forward, his shackles scraping the stones. “What concerns you, Kate?”

       Shivering, Catrain vigorously rubbed her arms before folding them around her lean waist to ward off the damp draft. “Skandar concerns me. Something is happening to him… something the legend warned about those who bear the Mark.”

        “So it is true,” he grasped the bars and pulled himself closer, his face mere inches from hers. “I regarded it as myth. A fantasy. Truly you do not believe the darkening. I do not. However, I admit I witnessed things with Lord Joran that rivaled my doubt.”

        Catrain’s arms dropped from her waist and her hands found each other. As was her habit, she began twisting her fingers. “Lord Joran?” she prompted, but Flynn set his jaw and refused to elaborate further.

       “Before leaving, Sir Reuben entrusted to me a copy of the legend to give Skandar when, he directed, I deemed it necessary he read it. I fear I waited too long. I fear I missed the opportunity entirely. If things go awry, it will be my burden to bear.”

       Catrain’s lament confused Flynn. Her words spoke volumes of remorse and worry, but her manner of speech and the tone in which she said them held little to no amount of regret. It was as if she thought aloud and followed a trail of musings, mumbling them to herself without regard to anyone else in the room. She reminded him of himself, and a part of him wished to protect her, if he possibly could, from becoming cold and calloused like he so easily did. “I doubt you are to blame,” he responded after a while, knowing nothing else to say that might draw her out of her mind. He knew what a dangerous place, what a prison it could be when one resided in it too long.

       “Regardless,” she sighed, “whatever the outcome may be, it rests the hand of the True King. Do you believe in Him, Flynn?”

       He pondered his reply, examining it thoroughly for several moments, during which Catrain waited patiently, statuesque in her stillness. “I admit to not knowing much about such a being. Yet through the course of this quest, I find myself encountering things, feelings, stirrings in my soul foreign to me, that I cannot explain. I cannot refute nor can I ignore their existence any longer. If there is a True King, as you call Him, a Creator God who does indeed oversee and judge all that occurs in the world, I believe that when He sets in motion His plan, we can do nothing to corrupt or hinder it. We play the role He intended of us. There isn’t much we can do to mar the course that He cannot remedy, considering the stories are true,” he chuckled, bemused by his reasoning. “Odd how prison alters one’s perspectives about faith. Until this time, I gave it little contemplation. But time in solitude provided more than ample time to reflect. I admit that more than once I hoped for His mercy upon my past deeds.”

      “You need not pine for His mercy as though observing from afar. You ask.”

      Sly girl, Flynn nearly laughed, but the conclusion she tricked him into revealing lifted his heart so unexpectedly it shocked him. He would have to remember her skill of sliding past his defenses in the future. Though undeniably, the weight crushing him no longer drove him so deep into the mire of his guilt that he feared suffocating. It was as though she threw him a rope, a life line he need only grab hold of. Still, trepidation loomed as his sins burned holes through his soul. “I would ask, but…”

      “But you are afraid,” she completed his sentence. “You have yet to relinquish your pride. You wear both it and arrogance the way I wear confidence: as a cloak to conceal the brokenness and insecurities beneath. We both wish to instill intimidation lest others draw too close, become too comfortable, and thus glimpse our true colors, our vulnerability.”

     “By others, you mean Eoin? Days in the dark yield light into many past interactions, especially between the Twin Archers.”

       She shot him an icy glare that turned bitter cold at his use of the nickname.

Softly and with drudging reluctance, he whispered, “You are not wrong.”

      “Request the forgiveness of the True King; in it lies the remedy to your condition. As you yourself declared, He will grant you mercy without hesitation. With that comes peace and courage to request forgiveness from others.” She paused thoughtfully. “The True King softens the hearts of those He wills. Have faith.”

     “Perhaps another time,” he shrank back into shadows. “I deserve this prison.”

     “This physical prison, perhaps, but remember that this prison of guilt you resign yourself to is of your own decision. I will fight for your freedom.”

     “I do not think your friends share your enthusiasm.”

     “Regardless, we need you.”

     “So this is a matter of aim and ambition?”

     “Nay,” Catrain refused, but rethought her denial. “In a manner, I suppose it is.” She changed the subject as another thought of interest sprang from the depths of her mind. “A cook today mentioned that they have not received word of any kind from Corrthaine officials or the Niwl ambassadors. Do you know why that may be? Is it possible Lord Joran’s plot involved confining them to the Capitol to control Niwl royalty?”

     “He told me little, only what I needed to know to fulfill the orders given me. Truthfully, I do not understand why he sent me with you all when he could have easily commanded someone else. He understood the dangers of my appearing in Tir O Niwl,” he sighed and stretched out his legs, leaning back on his elbows. “Holding hostage the Niwls would betray the accords agreed upon in the peace treaty; its youth weakens it already, and Lord Joran would not jeopardize it further. Nay, more likely, something happened to keep them there.”

     “The death of a knight?” she implied Sir Rupert.

      His face turned into the shadows. “The death of a king. Or the rapid ailing of one at least. With the prince presumed dead and the princess disappeared, the crown and rule falls-”

      “To the lord possessing the majority of the court’s support,” she finished. “My grandfather was a mercenary. People feared him and swore their allegiance to him when he conquered. But even fear can be swayed and won through a snake with a silver tongue.”

      “Aye. Lord Joran rallied supporters among other lords and peoples in lesser positions of power often overlooked by King Fendral, each with warriors in reserve to back him.”

      “Why him? Why Lord Joran?”

      “You read the legend. I only saw it myself a short time ago,” replied Flynn with a hint of smugness. “You will understand without my telling you.”

      Chewing on her lip in concentration, her fingers twisting rapidly in her hands, Catrain mulled for a time before her eyes widened and her jaw slackened. “How did I fail to see that before?” she berated herself for her blindness. Of all the puzzle pieces she overlooked, that proved the most vital to completing the picture.

      “Mayhap you saw, but tried to understand the landscape rather than observe the flicker of a flame burning a blade of grass.”

      “What of Corrthaine?” she asked, her tongue thick and her mouth suddenly dry. “My people. My home.”

      “Speak with Morfael,” Flynn suggested, sitting upright once again with renewed interest. “Tell him the truth, or as much as you deem necessary. He may be a reeking rat, but I believe that he will grasp the gravity of the situation at hand, and once he opens his eyes, he may be willing to aid us.” Flynn shrugged. “As king he answers to the people of his country, therefore he is duty bound to seek their best interests.”

      “About Lord Joran,” she said, pulling a quill, inkwell, and parchment from the satchel draped around her shoulders.

       Flynn eyed them, asking, “What will you have me do?”

       Inhaling deeply, she replied, “Compose a letter to Lord Joran. Explain to him all that transpired during your journey with us. Omit nothing, save our conversations and plans.” She slid the items between the bars, holding them out until Flynn reached for them, lay them on the floor, and brushed damp straw over them. “I intended to bring them this morning. Eoin accompanying me was an unforeseen delay.

      “Tell Lord Joran in what direction we travel—west toward Talahm Glas—he studied the maps, yes?” she waited for him to confirm her presumption before continuing, “he will no doubt send a small force to track our progress from here, is that not what he commanded years ago? A force to slay the dissenters among the groups or reinforce the loyalty of those under his control. On horseback, the journey should not take them long.”

      “Less than a week behind us, by my estimation. To where do we voyage?”

      “To one of the locations drawn on the map, although to complete it, I will require your copy.”

      Flynn heaved a great sigh, “Which you shall have once I reacquire my sword. Be careful. You underestimate Morfael’s cunning. He laces spies in every village, every town, who report back to him everything they see and hear.”

      A dark brow quirked upward. “As you yourself laced spies to observe and report Sir Reuben’s movements?” Color drained from his already ghostly face, and she sat back, smugly satisfied with his astonishment and his momentary panic. “Alas, even I know not what the maps hide, so I doubt Morfael’s dimwitted, ale-sodden fools who listen for coins-” she paused for a breath as Flynn smirked “-will achieve much more. I have suspicions, formed through whispers, but…” her voice trailed off, her gaze growing unfocused as her sight turned inward. “I will return at dawn to retrieve the letter and send it when you finished.”

      “What then?” he asked turning his back to her. Then dipping the quill in the inkwell, he began to scratch the nib along the surface of the parchment, leaving scrawling black letters in its trail that, when wet, shone silver in the sunlight before drying. “You play a dangerous game, one filled with uncertain wagers. If plans go awry, and trust me- they will, what price are you prepared to pay in recompense?”

      She shrugged, indicating that, while she considered the various outcomes, she forgot to weigh the cost. Swallowing, she said, “You play your role, Flynn, and I shall play mine.”

      “And what part is that?”

      “The part I’ve played since my childhood when I began to see things not as how they appeared, but as how they were. I trust you. Betray me,” she added, lacing her tone with steel, “and you will rue that day for eternity. I shall not kill you, but neither will I prevent your death.”

      “I would expect nothing less,” the scratch of the nib paused. “Your trust I hold in the highest regard. I understand you give it not without careful consideration.”

      Catrain nodded curtly, “Until the morning.” Pivoting on her barefooted heel, she strode away, the distant scratching of the quill echoing faintly in her ears.

      “Wherever did you slip away to?”

      Catrain whirled around, her hand flying to her plait and swinging down again, a long hairpin clutched fast in her grip, and hissed when Eoin emerged from the concaved portion of the corridor wall that marked a door.

      Eoin’s eyes focused on the bone hairpin and widened. “They allowed you that?”

     “They provided me with it.” She slid it back into her hair, wincing as the sharp point scraped across her scalp. “Kind, was it not?”

      “Foolish on their behalf, beneficial on ours. Kind, however, even I recognize as a stretch of the truth.”

      She glared, her green eyes catching the light streaming through the iron grate window in the perfect angle that it appeared they glowed, igniting feline ferocity that contrasted with the fairness of her skin and the rich brown of her hair. The image stole his breath away, for standing there, she resembled not a human but one of the faerie folk of legends that enrichened his country’s culture.

     Noticing his lingering gaze, Catrain stepped away as in the heavens, a cloud drifted over the sun and the light vanished from her eyes, breaking the enchantment. She turned completely and walked to her chamber, more to prevent him from spying the dark red that flushed her cheeks than to enter them.

     “Forgive me,” apologized Eoin when he realized how uncomfortable she became. “My intention was not to… Cat,” he reached out and laid a hand on her arm as she paused to fumble with the latch. At his touch, she flinched and bit her lower lip, and he withdrew.

     Clearing her throat, she said, “Eoin, do you trust me?”

     Taken aback by the abrupt query, he paused. “Aye.”

     “If I requested your support, do I have it?”
      “Always,” he replied, void of hesitation. “Is this about where you vanished to? And about your conversation with Flynn this morning?”

      She lowered her voice barely above the hum of a whisper. “I sought Flynn’s counsel on a matter and he suggested we tell Morfael the truth. Part of it, at least.”

     “Which part? I do not know it all, Cat. Do you not trust me with the truth?”

     “I do, but I fear the burden will harm you.”

     “Harm me? I-”

      “No, not harm you…” her fingers flew together, knitting and unknitting themselves in her anxiety. “…change you. This is where I need you to aid me and convince the others so we may determine, as a whole, what we disclose to the king. Will you do that?”

      “Aye, but why not you?”

     “You speak more convincingly than I.”

      “You convinced me to address them.”

      “One person,” she said flatly, “not a group. You asked to be included this morning…” she trailed off, effectively transferring his attention from her to himself.

      Eoin stared at her, and she resisted the urge to wither beneath his keen scrutiny. At long last, a boyish grin split his lips and he agreed, adding over his shoulder as he walked away, “But I shall not be the one to stand before King Morfael!”

      Smiling, she called back, “Nay, that responsibility we defer to another!”

           

     “Allow me one inquiry for the sake of clarity,” Oliver ceased pacing across the width of Skandar’s chambers, his composure slipping, slightly ruffled in his attempt to understand the proposition Eoin presented to their gathered group. “Morfael is to be told what we collectively know? That is not much.”

      “With embellishments, it will be adequate,” Catrain assured.

     “Adequate? Embellishments, Cat?” Oliver and Muriel spoke over one another.

     “Fine then,” Catrain resolved, “no embellishments. The truth in its roughest form.” She strode swiftly from one side of the room to the other, and stopped beside Muriel, her skirts swishing.

      Muttering to herself, Muriel glanced at the floor and then frowned. “Cat, are you barefoot?”

      “Yes.”

      “Catrain Garrendaughter!”

      Eoin hid his snicker behind his sleeve.

      Skandar, who had grown restless lying in bed, sat leaning against a pile of pillows stacked beside him with his legs hanging over the side of the bed. The meager effort strained him, proving enough to produce a sheen of sweat on his pallid face. Nonetheless, he spoke hoarsely in the following silence. “I concur with Cat. It is our only option to avoid further detainment and continue on our quest.”

     “The truth frees us from bondage,” Aidan mused aloud, the first he uttered in a long while. “We prayed to the True King to reveal to us a way out. Mayhap this is it.”

      Simultaneously, the two undecided members sighed, defeated.

      “We tell him,” said Muriel. Oliver sidled to her and dropped his folded arms.

      “And Oliver is our designated speaker,” Eoin announced jovially.

      Oliver’s eyes bulged. “I think not!” he sputtered. “This is Cat’s plan and therefore, ‘tis only fair she present it to the king.”

      “Correction,” Catrain raised her first finger in the air. “It was Flynn’s idea, and he currently sits in the dungeon. You by far are the best orator among us.”

      Flashing a dark glare, Oliver jutted out his jaw in her direction, “There are times when I detest the tutoring my father forced me to suffer.”

       “And there are times when you appreciate it?”

       He jerked his head to the side and scrunched his face, as though the admonishment left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Occasionally. I see a particularly blazing problem, though.”

        “And what, pray, might that be?”

        “None of us here collectively shared anything with another worth mentioning to the king to clear us and prompt him to release us from here, other than my paternal lineage.”

       Everyone in the room found sudden immense interest in drab details- the reflection in the metal water pitcher, the cracks and veins webbing through the floor stones, the birds dancing in the sky outside the window; none forthcoming in their reasons, no one willing to break the uncomfortable silence until Eoin piped up:

        “I came for adventure. A quest on which no one succeeded? Cursed, says some. Ill-fated say others. I thought it fascinating, more than sitting around the confines of the castle and endless training. There,” he leaned back, resting his shoulders against the wall, “I yield to you my reason.”

        Aidan followed, “I came to watch over that one,” he pointed to his brother, “and to return to my homeland if the True King wills it.”

       “I came to support my friend,” said Muriel, looking to Skandar, and then to Eoin, “And because I also craved adventure.”

       “To end my father’s tyranny and bring about his downfall.”

       “I seek vengeance,” confessed Skandar, “And I seek my father or in the least, I wish to uncover his remains. I quest for the Sword Bródúil, with which King Fendral and Lord Joran will pay for their treachery and the ruin they brought upon Corrthaine,” Skandar fairly growled the end through gritted teeth.

       Then after a long pause, Catrain, the final to admit her purpose, said softly, “I came to right the error done by my grandfather, and to fulfill that mission bequeathed to me by my father.”

       Another silence, and Oliver crossed his legs and lowered himself to the floor, understanding that no short time would pass before they puzzled out the entirety of their story, and he entertained no intention to endure that time standing. “Right then. Let’s begin, shall we?”

       With that, they circled around and discussed in detail their journey thus far, talking until their stomachs clawed at their bellies with hunger and the light through the window dimmed. At last, they settled back, satisfied, when a knock sounded on the door and Alasdair entered, flanked by several maids carrying trays with platters and bowls. The heavy aroma of roasted meat and the earthy scent of baked bread filled the room, and mouths watered as they breathed deeply and savored the various smells.

       “King Morfael thought you might wish to take the evening meal in your chambers, seeing as you neglected to appear in the Hall,” noted the physician with some disdain.

       “We beg his forgiveness and hope he understands that we had urgent matters to review now that Skandar is returned,” said Oliver cordially, slipping back into his role as the son of Lord Joran, although with less arrogance than when in the presence of the king.

       Nodding, Alasdair directed the serving girls to deposit the food items on the bedside table before he conducted a brief examination of Skandar, declared him well enough to manage solid foods, and promised to return in the morning before he and the two women departed.

       The minute they were alone, Muriel set about carving slices of venison from the platter and laying them on plates along with brown rolls, distributing them to each member of the group before sitting down herself to eat.

       Skandar’s hands shook as he raised the bread to his lips, and he silently thanked the cooks for not sending up something such as soup or broth. After he first awoke, the physician coaxed him to swallow simple broth, feeding Skandar who, in his befuddled state, could tell neither the handle of the spoon from the utensil’s bowl and would have succeeded in sloshing the broth all over himself. Even now, while regained most of his motor abilities, his shoulder ached acutely and caused his entire arm to quiver.

       The door flew open, cracking against the stones; the abrupt sound echoed long after everyone in the room snapped to attention, startled. Their mouths dropped at the sight of the figure standing in the doorway. All but Skandar staggered to their feet.

       Morfael entered, cloak billowing behind him, his head lifted proudly, brow sloping over eyes that passed over them with condescending authority. Aidan and Eoin bowed while Muriel and Catrain curtsied; Oliver, assuming his façade, dipped his head, as did Skandar, unable to display more reverence from his position on the bed. But he managed a nervous smile, and awaited the young king to address them.

       Sweeping the folds of his cloak over his squared shoulder, expression grave in the dying light and the scar along his brow adding a ferocity to his composure, Morfael announced, his words forced, “I hope you find your meal adequate.”

        He paused, and silence ensued. If Skandar listened carefully, he heard the dull clang of swords and the thwack of arrows from a distant training field, and he longed to join them, not dally any longer in a cramped chamber. On with it, he urged, sensing his energy draining as the seconds passed.

       Clearing his throat, Morfael continued, “After much consideration, and at the request of my sister, I decided to release your final companion.” Turning to the door, he waved his hand and ushered in a man lingering outside. Skandar’s blood boiled as he recognized the tall frame of Flynn limping inside.

       Flynn halted just inside, hesitated, and swayed as though intending to retreat back into the corridor as an uncomfortable and nearly tangible chill swept through the air. 

       A sly twitch tugged at Morfael’s smug lips as he surveyed the expressions of those in the room. The younger two men, the brothers, he thought, looked indifferent; the vain Joranson appeared truly shocked, as did his betrothed. The recovering man with the curiously colored hair seethed and ire glinted in his black eyes. The serving girl amused him, however, as she appeared neither shocked nor indifferent, rather half-amused and pleased and with a coldness seeping into his chest, deep-seeded fear, he wondered if she also lived beneath the thumb of Lord Joran.

His son, his son’s betrothed, his lieutenant and assassin, and a meager handful of guards. Theirs was no ordinary quest, to be certain. Swallowing hard, Morfael maintained his composure, forcing himself to remain hardened and unafraid. His concerns fled to his family—his sister, his wife, and his sons, mere infants. Did the visitors intend to usurp his throne by regicide?

Their stares unnerved him; tension thickened in the air and his throat tightened as he fought the urge to flee from his own guests, in his own castle. He released Flynn. Surely he proved his loyalty; surely Lord Joran would dismiss him as a threat and spare his family. He swallowed again, and without further reflection, nodded and strode regally from the room.

      Flynn remained long enough to meet Catrain’s eyes and tap his vest, still splattered with mud and blood from traveling and yet to be washed, before he, too, departed and wandered to his own personal chambers, guards not two steps from his heels. 

      When the knight was gone, Skandar gawked at his companions. They all shared the same bewilderment as him, all questioning to themselves what incited that change of mind, and each answering the silent query with a single name. Then he yawned. His hunger satiated, he suddenly felt the weight of exhaustion bearing down upon him as the flame of rage at the sight of Flynn flickered and snuffed out, and his eyelids drooped. Serving girls appeared and gathered up the supper items as Catrain and the brothers excused themselves for the night.

Swaying, he leaned back against the pillows, barely aware of the rustle of movement around him until Muriel lifted the bowl from his hands, saying, “You seem quite finished, Skandar, not to mention spent. We kept you longer than we should.”

“Nay, forgive me,” he replied, his words slurring together as though his tongue were weighted, “I make poor company. Perhaps tomorrow I shall act more myself.”

Muriel smiled and squeezed his hand affectionately, her fingers cool against his skin. “Sleep well, Skandar. If you need anything, hesitate not to call, regardless of hour.”

“Thank you,” he said, allowing his eyelids to fall shut. To his ears came the faint click of the latch as Muriel closed the window, and the thin membrane of his lids darkened from red to gray as Oliver extinguished the main torch, leaving a candle burning in the holder on the bedside table.

“Good night,” whispered Muriel from the doorway. “May the True King bless you, Skandar.”

Once outside, Muriel slipped her arm through Oliver’s elbow, resting her head against his shoulder. “’Tis been an odd day,” she murmured.

“Odd indeed,” agreed Oliver, kissing the top of her hair. “For a moment earlier this morning I feared Morfael would strike me. I was almost astonished when he didn’t. Then he releases Flynn.” Oliver sighed and massaged the back of his neck. “I don’t like acting this way. I worry that…” he trailed off. They stopped outside Muriel’s room and she circled around to face him.

       “You worry that acting like your father, while temporary, will change you, will turn you into him,” Muriel finished, voicing what he could not. With tender affection, she wove her fingers through his and squeezed his hand tightly.

Oliver gazed at her with burning desire before he threw propriety aside, encircled his arm around her waist and pulled close, pressing her against him in a tight caress. Her head nestled into his neck, and he stroked her thick black tresses that hung in loose curls below her waist.

“I love you, Oliver. You. I know to whom my heart runs, and it knows the truth,” she whispered tenderly and brushed her lips against his sparsely stubbled jaw. Pulling away, she cupped his face; he leaned into her delicate, but calloused palm. “Sir Oliver of the Silver Axe.”

“Silver Axe?”

She smiled shyly, “I thought it befitting. More so than Joranson.”

“And you, milady? Will you take this Silver Axe as your husband?”

“I gave you my answer once and I shall not revoke it.”

Heart gladdened, Oliver embraced her once more and bade her good night as they parted ways, she entering into her chambers and he into his, each pining for their reunion come dawn and dreading it, for soon after that, they must face Morfael with the truth.

Skandar awoke to a sound outside his chambers.

The room was dark, save a candle, little more than a lump of wax pooling around the candlestick, burned on the bedside table. He lay prone, listening, unsure whether he dreamed the noise or not. Curiosity besting him, he slid off the bed and onto the floor, the stones cold against his hands and knees as he crawled, following the hazy glow of the grate in the wall. Dropping onto his belly, he pressed his temple to the floor and peered through the iron crossbars to the exterior passage where a figure moved.

She stood with her back to him; her hair hung loose to her middle back, and she wore a dressing gown, her bare feet dampening all sound as she walked. Catrain.

She stopped before the door to the chamber facing his. Softly, she rapped on the door facing his, then knocked again when no one answered.

After a long silence following the second knock, she detected the pad of footsteps hurrying toward the door, then the turn of the lock, and she stepped back as it swung inward.

Flynn, pale and bedraggled for want of sleep, stared at her foggily, violet circles rimming his eyes. He heaved an exasperated sigh, folded his arms, and then accompanied her in the hall, but not before sweeping it up and down for movement in the curtains of shadows covering the walls. “’Tis the middle of the night, Catrain,” he grumbled crossly, “Careful or people may talk. Tongues in every castle fly when fed a rumor or other nonsense, and this one provides no exception.”

“I apologize for the hour, but I had a question for which I required an answer.”

“I will fetch the letter,” he made to reenter the room, but she stopped him.

“Later,” she continued. “You said your father was nobility, yet your mother worked here as a maid regardless of the papers of credibility he sent with you. After promising to join you and her in Tir O Niwl, he did not, nor did he send for you to return when the plague passed.”

“Kate-” he cast a shifting glance toward the guards stationed at the mouth of the corridor.

“You and Magge lived as commoners, starving during the winter with, as you claimed, no position to your name.”

Magge? thought Skandar, utterly confused. He never heard the name mentioned before.

“Catrain-”

“You knew Lord Joran would provide you with protection and position in Corrthaine. I know Lord Joran, mayhap not as well as you, but for him to act so welcomingly toward a stranger contradicts everything of his character.”

 “Princess,” Flynn hissed, reverting to her title to gain her attention.

In response, she shot him an indignant glare and continued bluntly, “Who was your father, Flynn?”

Expression dark, emphasized greater by the sleepless shadows and bruises in the valleys of his face, Flynn leaned forward, hissing, “Not Lord Joran if you imply that.”

“In that case, who are you?”

His lips curled into semblance of a snarl as he replied, “I am nobody. Goodnight.” Abruptly, he backed inside his chambers and closed the door, leaving her to continue puzzling in the hallway, their conversation unheard by anyone save Skandar.

She sides with him, he thought, unable to banish the malicious doubts from his head, recalling the phantom Flynn from his fevered dream. His heart pounded with memory of the fight; he opened and closed his fist around an invisible sword, envisioning Bródúil in his grasp, the sword’s power flowing through his veins. On trembling hands and knees, his strength yet to fully return, he crawled to the side of his bed; the distance short, but to his weakened perception, he may as well crawl the breadth of the Capitol’s vast training field. Once again lying among the feather pillows and thick blankets, he mused angrily, “If the princess sides with him, who else will she rally to them? Aidan and Eoin? Muriel?” Not Oliver. “Nay, his disputes with Flynn ensure his loyalty, and with him, Muriel. Cat and Flynn intend to steal Bródúil. Why else would they whisper at night? They desire it for themselves. They seek to gain its power. She has legitimate claim to the throne, but Flynn… that is why she concerns herself with his parentage. He either poses a threat or an ally to her.” He balled the sheets in his fist until his fingers ached and then numbed. “They cannot steal it from me.” His breathing stilled as an ominous calm crept from the shadows and filled him, allowing his focus to narrow to a point. “Bródúil is mine.”

            Quieting his mind with his resolution, Skandar retreated into the realm of dream and mist. 

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