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PROLOGUE

3211 after dragons, in the Kingdom of Drakonia

“They can never live close to cities or civilization, can they?”

“Apparently not,” the prince’s bodyguard agreed, glancing around the small clearing. They were in the middle of nowhere, behind the back of gods and surrounded by forest. The night was drawing near.

“The cabin looks a bit shabby, doesn’t it? Perhaps the villagers fooled us, no one lives here. . .”

“They would not lie to a prince.”

“They have never met a prince, My Prince, not to mention an armored guard. You saw how they looked at us. I even heard a man to call us an army.”

The prince chuckled. The firelight cast shadows on his face. “Fifty armored guards, an army?”

“I would have preferred we had taken at least twenty more,” the bodyguard replied, throwing more wood into the fire. He felt uncomfortable, edgy. A couple of sparks rose with the smoke, floating towards the moonless sky.

“You are not frightened, are you?” the prince grinned. “Aren’t fifty men enough to keep you safe from the dangers that lurk about?”

“It is not I who needs to be protected, My Prince, besides, the location is odd,” the bodyguard shrugged. The metal of his armor clinked softly with the gesture. “Skygate is far away from everything and the woman lives apart from the village itself.” He kept a pause, gazing into the fire. “I half expect her to have red glowing eyes and fangs as large as a bear’s. Nails like a hawk, maybe. . .”

“Maybe we—”

There was a sound. A snap of a cracking branch. And soon, a figure of a woman walked out of the woods, remaining just outside the glow of the fire.

“I believe she’s the one we’re looking for,” the bodyguard muttered, sheathing his freshly drawn blade. Sweat had gathered at his brow and the suspicious frown did not leave his face as he called out, raising his voice, “A late time for a woman to linger in the woods!”

“I have nothing to fear,” the woman replied quietly. “There’s nothing dangerous out there, only animals.”

“She’s braver than you are, my friend,” the prince laughed to his bodyguard, before turning his eyes back towards the just arrived stranger. “Are you Sasha, the woman who lives in this cabin?”

“I am,” the woman nodded.

“Come then, approach! Let me have a better look at you. . .”

The woman did approach, stepping into the firelight. She was small, slender and fair, with pale skin and pale hair that shone silvery in the firelight. There was no telling what color her eyes might have been, thus she kept her gaze down, by now realizing she was spoken to by someone of great importance.

The prince gave an amused glance towards his bodyguard. “She’s quite different from the looks you described.”

His personal shield shrugged again, dismissing the jest. “Who would have guessed without seeing her first? Being described as the most beautiful woman of Ter Dregos sounds more like a bard’s tale, than the truth.”

“And have you seen all the women in the world?” the prince asked with amusement, turning his attention back to Sasha. He put a finger under her chin, tilting her head up. “Look at me,” he ordered.
And look at him she did.

GREAGON

 200 years later

  

Rain poured down from the iron colored clouds, making the road muddy and slippery. In other circumstances Greagon would have gotten off his horse and allowed it to walk without a rider, but he was in a hurry. The mist was especially thick today and it would be dark soon. Dangerous things lurked in the darkness and even though he had ridden the road many times before, he could still lose his way. He wished to reach the fortress of Mistwall before such things occurred.

 

The little girl was asleep before him on the saddle, her head swinging softly from side to side. 

  

It had been a rough trip for both of them, especially for Ana. She looked like her mother —especially when she smiled: Only her hair was different; pale, almost silver, while Nelya’s was brown. She had her father’s eyes, almost, at least. 

It had been over five years since Greagon had seen his foster brother Nevron. He had died in the Small War, along with many others. It had been a spear in the belly, just days before the war had ended. Greagon himself had gotten off with less; shallow cuts, persistent fever in his lungs and a touch of gray on his brown hair —and the fear. Fear that made him wake up in the night; gasping, whimpering: Waiting for the enemy to kill him. 

Ana mumbled something in her sleep and Greagon was able to recognize the word “mommy” from her senseless muttering. She misses her even more than I do, he thought, taking a slightly firmer grip on the reins. The rain had started to calm down; they just might make it before dark after all. 

 

SAFIRA

“Spying on father again?”

Safira jumped, letting a silent yelp of pain to escape her lips as her brother pulled her roughly behind the corner. Martius was nineteen, seven years older than she was and very tall. His hair was dark and slightly curly, his eyes a cold shade of gray. He looked at her expectantly, his head tilted to the side. From the Hall of Hearing, Safira was able to hear out her father’s voice and the sound of the Court Crier’s staff, as he signaled out his lord’s will. “Where is the Court Wizard? Bring me Magnifius the Dark!”

“I wasn’t spying on him! I was simply . . . watching,” Safira muttered, wrenching free from her brother’s grasp. By the feel of it, his fingers were bound to leave bruises. 

“If you were not spying, then perhaps I should tell father you were watching him, as you put it,” her brother spoke, his lips curving into almost pleasant smile. “We both know what father thinks about women and court business, don’t we? —Don’t we?” he asked again, grabbing her chin. 

“Court business— isn’t for ladies,” Safira managed to mutter, feeling her brother’s fingers tighten painfully at her jaw. Not tight enough to leave any bruises to her face, though. Bruises that father would notice. . . 

“That’s a good girl. Now, what will you give me to buy my silence? I am sure father would be displeased to find out you were spying on him, while he performs his lordly duties. . .”  

Safira lowered her gaze, unwilling to meet her brother’s eyes. His breath smelled of sweet wine. 

“I have nothing to give.” 

Martius took a lock of golden curls in his hand. It flowed slowly through his fingers. “Nothing? Nothing at all? Are you sure about that, dear, sweet sister?”

“I have nothing,” Safira repeated silently, unable to think of anything Martius could want. She had already paid him with most of her jewelry, two golden combs and a silver hairpin with emerald inlays in its decorative end. The rest of her jewelry she had hidden. Martius did not know they existed, did he? 

“How about your hair?” Martius asked, wrapping a heavy waist-length ringlet around his palm as if it had been a fine thread of silk.  

“You cannot have my hair!” Safira protested, gasping in horror. A short hair would mark her as a dirty woman. She could not leave the Palace for years; no one would wed her. . . 

Her brother chuckled to her childish tone. His fingers tightened torturously in her hair, stretching her scalp, as he pulled a jeweled dagger out of its sheath. “What’s there to worry about? You’ve got plenty of hair, don’t you? Surely you can give me some —besides it’ll grow back. I am only thinking what’s best for you; if father finds out you were spying on him, I am sure he would beat you bloody. . .” 

“Leave her alone, Martius! You are drunk, and it is obvious our sister finds your company less than desirable.”  

Martius stilled, turning to look at their just arrived sibling over his shoulder. “Brother” –he breathed out the word like a curse– “Had I desire for your company, I would surely have asked for it.” 

Darius shifted, hands clasped softly behind his back. He was a boy of fifteen and close to his brother’s height. His eyes were round, green and gentle. His hair black and long enough to brush his neck. 

“Father is looking for you and had me deliver the message. You should go,” Darius added, the lift of his brows hinting that Martius should hurry. Father’s nerves were already tight because of the Hearing. 

Martius left sheathing his dagger, gracing his brother with one last angry look as he went, to which Darius responded with nothing, but calmness. Such was his way.  

“Are you all right, did he hurt you?” Darius asked after making sure their brother was well on his way. 

Safira shook her head, just now realizing her hands were shaking. She hid the sight by folding her fingers tightly before her form. “No. I got startled, that is all. I did not see him till he was upon me. I thought he was still in King’s Town.” 

Darius frowned, his brows coming together as two dark melancholy lines. “You should be more careful, sister. What if he takes you unaware at a wrong time? I will not always be there to protect you.” 

Safira lowered her gaze, ashamed. “I am sorry, brother. I should have paid more attention. I am glad you were here. . .” 

Darius sighed. He offered her a stiff smile, along with his arm. “Come. I’ll escort you to your chamber; the hour is growing late.” 

Safira took the arm her brother offered, following him more than willingly. At least like this she wouldn’t have to face Martius alone, if their paths happened to cross once more till the eve was done.   

“I hate him, I really do,” she muttered after a while, gathering her skirts at the stairs.  

Darius gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Do not hate Martius, he is your kin. Besides, father wouldn’t approve.” 

Sometimes, Safira hated her other brother, too, especially when he told her not to hate Martius.  

“You shouldn’t say what you do not mean, brother,” she breathed. “I know that even you dislike him at times.” 

“So I do. I keep that to myself; we do not wish to anger him, do we?” he asked softly, not expecting an answer from her. Safira knew as much. Still, she wasn’t ready to give up.  

“You could oppose him, you know. Even once in your life. If you fought him, I’m sure you’d win.” 

“Doubtfully. And if I did, Martius would come and take his revenge on me later. He has done so before, and will likely do so again.” 

“We should go to father with this —we should tell about him, about how he treats us.” 

Darius chuckled. It was a joyless, hollow sound. “I am sure father will interfere, if I end up having blackened eyes and broken bones too often, to be passed by as accidents. . .” 

Father knows, Safira thought, her spirit falling like an arrow. He knows and does nothing. That, or Darius is too frightened to tell on Martius. . . 

“You are afraid of him. . . ” 

Darius gazed at her from the corner of his eye. “You screamed once, alerting father when Martius was pursuing you in his drunken state. He managed to talk his way out of it and had his revenge on you later. Now you rather keep your silence, than risk another beating.” 

His words were true. And shameful. Making Safira’s lips stretch as a thin line, as her hand closed into a fist. “I wish he would die,” she spat. 

Darius stopped, turning to look at her. There was grave seriousness in his green eyes.  

“Do you know the tale about Lord Rados?” 

“Our ancestor? The younger brother of Prince Morfius—”  

“—The very one. Refresh my memory about him.” 

Safira hated these moments, when Darius questioned her about their ancestors. His memory did not need any refreshing; he only wished to see if she had done her duty, and studied out the family history.  

“Prince Morfius, or the Prince of Blood as the common folk calls him, burned down a village in the north while hunting down a witch. The act earned him the nickname, for he butchered down all the villagers, including women and children, who had been enchanted by the witch. Lord Rados was his younger brother,” Safira knew to tell.  

“And what did the curse say?” 

“No King or Prince shall father but one living child at the time, until the time of men comes to an end.” 

Darius nodded. “That is correct, even though your knowledge seems to be more of a bard’s tale about Morfius, than family history about his brother. ‘The Royal Blood-line of House Farell’ could offer you much, you know,” he spoke. 

Safira blushed, lowering her gaze. “It was mother’s tale about him. She used to tell it to me, by the fire. She oft braided my hair while talking.” 

Darius’ eyes softened and he let out a deep sigh. Four years had passed since their mother’s death.  

“Very well. I shall strain you no more with my questions. Lord Rados, as he called himself after inheriting the throne, fathered only one son, just as the curse predicted.” 

“Prince Rados gave up his title, to avoid the curse?” 

“He certainly did not do it to honor his dead brother,” Darius told. “Now, did you know that it was Lord Varius, Lord Rados’ only son and heir, who gave the Weeping Stairs their name?” 

Safira shook her head, gazing down the stony steps they had climbed.  

Darius shifted, his mouth twitching slightly. “Lord Varius wasn’t as lucky with the curse, as his father had been before him. After many miscarriages and stillborns, his wife finally managed to give him a child; a baby daughter. It is needless to say, that a daughter wasn’t fit to carry on the family name. . .” 

“But— we’re Farells,” Safira interrupted, curious. “Varius must have found a way around the curse.”

“He did and trust me: He did so with heavy heart. He tried everything, of course; lovers, kitchen wenches, whores; but none of the women got heavy with child. And if they did, the children were born dead without exception. In the end, Lord Varius knew what had to be done, if he wished his royal blood line to continue.  He killed his baby-daughter, and year after, his wife gave him a son. It was at the top of these stairs, where he put his baby-daughter to the blade, and it was her blood, that made the stairs weep.” 

Safira looked at her brother wide-eyed, taking the arm he offered as their way continued through the Palace. “I did not know our family history was so . . . bloody. You make it sound much more exiting, than in the books.” 

“I did not mean it to be exiting; I simply told it how it is. Now, what do you think was the teaching behind this story?” Darius asked, stopping by her chamber.  

“It is good I am the youngest, because I’m a girl,” Safira teased.  

Her brother graced her with a brief smile, before growing serious again. “The teaching behind the story is that our family has seen enough blood and tragedy. Do not wish for Martius’ death. Lord Varius wished his blood line to continue, but at what cost?” 

“But—” 

“—Be careful what you wish for, Safira. That’s all I am saying.” Her brother sighed again, laying a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “It will not be many more years, till you are old enough to wed. Then you’ll get rid of him, for good. Now, go to your chamber and bar your door for the night. Martius will no doubt be vengeful, after he realizes father wasn’t looking for him, after all. And in his drunken state, he won’t be too picky who he takes his revenge on.” 

“I will. Thank you again, brother —for escorting me.” 

Darius nodded, kissing her brow before taking his leave.  

Safira watched him go. Her green eyes followed him till his back disappeared at the end of the corridor.  

Darius would make a good Prince. Better than Martius, anyway, she thought entering her chamber, barring the door, like her brother had advised.  

The chamber was almost dark, illuminated only by the glow of the rising moon, but Safira knew her way. Besides, there weren’t much furniture to dodge; everything had been set to the wall sides, except for her mother’s old chair that had been placed in front of the fireplace, next to her abandoned doll collection.  

The chair, as it happened, was the only worn piece of furniture in the room, soft and draped in dark blue velvet, looking like it did not belong there. Yet, Safira would rather have died than parted with it. It was set just as it had been in her mother’s chamber, and she had oft spent hours sitting in that chair, watching the flames, remembering the time she had sat on her mother’s lap, listening to her stories. Things had been better back then.  

“So much better. . .” the young Lady Farell whispered, laying her hand on the back of the chair. It was then, when something hard hit the back of her head. 

 

GREAGON

“Wake up, Butterfly, we’re here,” Greagon spoke softly, shaking the girl’s shoulder. She woke up slowly, her eyes still foggy from the sleep. Before them, the three colossal fingers raised from the fog, their knuckles laced with dots of flickering orange light: the windows of Mistwall.  

The men announced their arrival at the gates, opening them just enough for a single rider to fit through. Then, the gates closed again with a metallic bang.

“Welcome back, Lord Commander. I hope your journey went well,” Ser Bran greeted, waving a younger knight to take his horse. He was a man graying, same as Greagon, and his oldest friend in the fort. 

“As well as it could, Ser Bran, long as it was. I trust things have been well here?” Greagon asked, his boots splashing into the mud as he dismounted. He raised Ana to his arms, unwilling to have her mess herself up. The mud was ankle deep; too deep for a small elven child like Ana to make her way to the tower without getting covered waist deep in splatters.  

“Yes, Lord Commander. I will give you a full report after you’ve gotten your hands free,” Ser Bran promised. He glanced at Ana curiously.  

Greagon understood his curiosity well. The girl bore strange looks, even for an elf.  

“It won’t be long,” Greagon assured. “I shall take care of this, then we’ll talk.”  

Ser Bran bowed, watching him leave.  

It was good to get inside and out of the rain. The weather had gotten chilly: It wouldn’t be long till first snows, should they reach the eastern headland of Drakonia. Here, the mist tended to block even the real cold, unless it was rain. In Winterwood it had probably started snowing weeks ago. Greagon decided he would write to Nelya as soon as he’d get to his office and tell they had reached the fortress safely. She would be pleased, just as she would be pleased to hear from her daughter through her own words, as soon as she’d learn her letters. Ana was a bright girl; Greagon reckoned it would not take long.  

The Juniors’ Tower was quiet. Most of the mages must have been either dining or caught up in their practice. It was good, and meant Bran had kept order well during his absence.  

Lanterns and chandeliers cast shifting light to the corridors as Greagon made his way up the spiral staircase. He stopped as he reached the third floor, to catch his breath. The climb hadn’t been a long one, but made him well aware it had been easier a few years back.  

The little elven on his arms looked up at him, squeezing the fabric of his long red tunic between her fingers. “Are you all right, Da?”  

He nodded, giving her a reassuring smile. “Just tired; it was a long trip, we made.”  

Ana nodded, leaning her chin to his shoulder. “I miss mommy and I’m tired.”  

“I know, Butterfly, I know. You’ll get to rest soon enough. First you’ll be marked and then you can go to bed.” 

“Marked?” 

Greagon felt his boots grow heavier with her question. Still, he made an attempt to smile. “That’s right. All new mages get a mark to their shoulder; the star of five. Do you know what it is?”   

Ana nodded slowly. “Will it hurt?” she asked.  

“A little bit,” Greagon replied, knowing he had just lied.  

The infirmary was almost empty as he entered. Only two young mages, almost children, were sitting on a bed. The other one looked like a visitor.  

Clora noticed him quickly, approached with her sister, Carmelia. “Welcome, Lord Commander; we’ve been waiting for your return. Is the girl a new one, meant to be marked?”  

Ana shifted uncomfortably in his arms; studying the women with weary eyes. Greagon could easily empathize with her unease; even he got creeps from the Twins.  

They were two identical sisters and the ugliest women Greagon had ever seen. Both women had gray and messy hair and twisted smiles, showing a crooked line of yellowed teeth. The worst detail, perhaps, was the large mole at their noses, with hair growing out of it.  

“She is,” Greagon agreed. “Mark her quickly if you may. I’ll take care of the rest.”  

“Yes, Lord Commander; we shall do our very best,” the Twins answered in unison. It was a habit of theirs which kept making people uneasy, even if they had known them for years.  

Greagon lowered Ana down, giving her a small push towards the women. “Go on; No need to be afraid.”  

She followed the Twins unwillingly to the back room, gazing several times over her shoulder. She didn’t speak a word; not even her name. Greagon followed at her heels, trying to look calm and encouraging. He hoped the Twins would be quick with the marking.   

The rod waited already in the fireplace, hot and gleaming. While the Twins began the preparations, Greagon knelt down by Ana’s side. He studied her face for a moment, feeling bitter by the questioning and fearful look in her sky-blue eyes.  

“I’m going to take the sleeve off your dress. You’re going to get your robes on the morrow,” he told matter-of-factly, grabbing the left shoulder of her dress. The fabric ripped easily enough, leaving most of her clothing undamaged.  

Ana looked at him with wide eyes. “Mommy will be angry. . .”  

Not as angry as she’d be, if she were here to witness what comes next, Greagon thought. Against better judgment, he stepped back, turning his gaze. The Twins worked swiftly. There was just one objecting cry, till Ana screamed. Then, it was over. There was only the sound of her weeping and Clora’s hushing, as she wrapped a wet rag around the girl’s arm.  

“It is done. Bring her here on the morrow and we shall see the wound is completely healed.” 

“Is there something you could give her for the pain?”  

The Twins changed curious looks. It was not customary to give mages any pain relief after the marking, because of the limited supplies, but Greagon couldn’t listen to the weeping and do nothing. She was Nelya’s child, almost like his own daughter; he would not have her suffer through the night just because she had happened born with the ability to shape elements.  

“Some nightshade, we’ll give it to her in tea.”  

It soon became obvious Ana would not agree to drink anything the Twins gave and with the sound of her increased crying, Greagon finally lost his temper, snatching the pouch from Carmelia’s hand. “I’ll give her the herb myself,” he grunted.  

Fighting the urge to curse, he lifted the elf to his arms, starting to carry her upstairs.  

She’ll forgive me. She hates me now, but one day she’ll forgive me.  

They had just made their way through the third floor and to the next staircase, when. . . 

“Lord Commander! We have a situation in the North-Tower!” It was a group of three knights, pale, frightened. One had smears of blood on his breastplate.  

This time, Greagon couldn’t stop himself from swearing. “You,” he glanced at the youngest knight. 
“Go fetch my sword; you three shall go back to the Tower and keep the situation under control! I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

No other words were needed. The men obeyed, all on their way to do the duty given. Greagon himself decided it would be best to give Ana into the care of some elderly female, who knew how to calm her and keep her safe. But as there was none to be found and the lad had already returned with his blade, he dumped Ana on the arms of the first mage that caught his eyes.  

“You, boy! Come here and take care of her!”  

The mage startled, but obeyed. He was a boy of about thirteen summers, brown haired and sickly shy. Greagon did not recall his name, but he remembered the boy had tutored some of the younger children. He would have to do. Snatching his blade from the knight, the Lord Commander made his way to the Senior Mages’ Tower. And there, the face of death awaited. 

 

SAFIRA

She woke up sore with a thumping headache. Slowly, Safira rose to sit on her bed, wincing. The pain was hot and dull, like a knife taken from the forge, stabbed deep in her lower belly. Her mouth was dry, her lip swollen and slightly cracked. Her left cheekbone was almost too sore to be touched. And, there was a wet feeling between her legs.

Rising the covers, Safira saw red stains on the sheet, right there between her legs, soaked into the fine white linen. She had bled, still was. Why was she bleeding? Why was she hurting so oddly? 

A memory of the last night flashed behind her eyes, faint but cruel. It had been Martius. He had waited within the darkness of her chamber, hit her, knocked her down on the floor; gifted her face with the back of his hand. He had silenced her while pulling at her hair by pressing a sweaty palm over her mouth. . . 

Safira remembered she had bit him, fought him hard enough to struggle free. And then he had hit her. Hard. And she could remember the happenings no more. Not much. Just that she had woken up on the bed, watching how the light of the blue moon had illuminated her brother’s frame as he left her alone into the darkness. 

Had. . . Had Martius. . . ? 

Safira made a choking sound, placing a hand on her belly. It felt as if someone had stabbed her from the inside. 

There was a knock on the door.  

Startled, Safira pulled the covers back up, lying down just as a red-eyed maid servant entered. 

“Beg your pardon, M’Lady. . .” She grew silent with the sight of her.  

“I fell, last night,” Safira told, tightening her grip on the blanket that hid the fact she was still in her yesterday’s gown. “I bumped my head on the chair.” 

The maid glanced at the padded chair, her mouth slightly slack.  

“And I stumbled at the stairs, earlier. I am not feeling well. I’d like to stay in bed a while longer. Why are you crying?” Safira added, trying to draw the maid’s attention away from her flawed story. 

The maid sobbed, bowing her head. “I’m so sorry, M’Lady. It be your father, the lord. He’s ill: Even the wizard doesn’t know what to do. His lordship just sleeps, unable to wake and growing weaker still. Your brother, Lord Darius is with him. He fears that Lord Thedonius will not live to the eve. . .” The girl sobbed again, making Safira close her eyes for a moment. 

It was Martius. Had to be —And he had poisoned father. All was lost now. With father dying, there was no one she could go to. No one to punish Martius. No one to tell about what had happened. 

The dull pain returned, and she must have frowned, too, for the maid asked, “Should I fetch the wizard, M’Lady? Your cheek looks rather painful.” 

“No!” It was close Safira did not yell. “Don’t,” she spoke again, more quietly. “My father is ill. He needs the wizard. I will be fine, I wish to rest a moment longer, is all.” 

“Does M’Lady wish anything to eat?” 

“No. Leave. Just leave me be,” Safira told, her voice rising as a despaired whine. 

The maid curtsied hesitating, and fled. From the hallway, Safira was able to hear her sobs, slowly growing more distant.  

She waited a while longer, breathing, squeezing her eyes shut, before lifting the covers again. 

The blood was still there, plain and red. Some had stained the hem of her gown, looking almost black on the green.  

It’s my maiden’s blood, and it is the handmaiden whose eyes burn raw with tears, Safira thought, rising from the bed, But she has no reason to weep. She’s not hollow like I am. Not dirty. 

She washed herself by the basin the maid had brought for her, tying an underskirt between her legs, as if she had been a babe in her swaddling rags. Then she pulled on a fresh gown, a red gown, hiding the old soiled one beneath her mattress. Then, the young Lady Farell left her chambers. But not to see her father. She made her way down into the cellars instead.  

A friend waited for her there. A friend she had come to know soon after her mother’s death, while hiding from her brother. A friend who might be able to help her. 

The stairway down was dark, and so she snatched a torch from the holder, to guide her steps. The air got colder the further she went, fondling her cheeks with cool fingers. Her breath steamed.  

She was angry. 

“Help me! You have to help me! He will not get away with this —not this time!” Safira cried, busting in the room. The torch she carried fluttered slightly, casting shadows on the walls. It was the only light in the room, as it always was.  

Her friend dwelled in the darkness, masking himself with it. It was easy here, in the furthest room of the many —far away from everything that was oft needed, wanted or remembered. No one bothered him here. No one knew about him. About the voice in the darkness. . . 

“Ah, My Lady. . . What brings you to me in such anger?” 

She hesitated, wondering how much she’d dare to share. “My brother, Martius —he poisoned father. He was in my room —He, I think he. . .” Her voice died down as the choking feeling in her throat returned. It felt as if she were still bleeding. 

“Speak no more. Of what you have told about him, I can guess. . .” 

“It is wrong— it is so wrong; I am his sister! He is family; I am his blood! And he poisoned father, so he would never learn of what he did to me! I will not let him get away with this, I won’t! I hate Martius, I HATE HIM!” 

“And you have every right to hate him,” the voice from the shadows replied understandingly. “He has defiled you. Spoiled his own blood . . . and soon, he shall have your father’s throne.” 

“No. . . No. NO!”

“No?” the voice asked, almost amused. “Then perhaps you should take revenge.” 

“How?” 

The voice smiled. “Bring your brother to me. Bring Darius here, and I shall help you.” 

“How?” 

“It depends on what you wish to happen.” 

“I wish him dead,” Safira said, her voice cracking from anger. “I wish Martius, to die.” 

“Then tell Darius to stand before the mirror and I shall show him what must be done.” 

Safira glanced at the mirror in the corner, now studying it like she had seen it for the very first time. Its glass was pale, veined and shining in the shades of blue like an opal or a moonstone, but did not reflect her image.  

“What does the mirror got to do with this?” Safira asked, wiping her nose to her sleeve. 

The voice was silent for a moment, considering. “If you’ll have your brother touch the glass, I promise I shall slay Martius through his hand.” 

Safira heard the conversation in her head over and over again, as she climbed down the dusty steps, leading Darius deeper into the cellars. He had finally agreed to come with her, after long lasted persuasion. 

“We should be with father, Safira, not wasting our time to nonsense,” her brother pointed out, bowing his head a bit to dodge a spider web. He had been at father’s side since the early hours, the shadows under his eyes told a tale of night poorly slept.  

“It’s not nonsense! It will help us. It can help father! I promise you,” Safira spoke hastily, grabbing her brother by the sleeve, leading him on —all the way to the furthest room, located at the end of the deepest of tunnels. It was there, where Safira snatched the torch from her brother’s hand, placing it to a holder. 

“Look there, the mirror.” 

“Mirror? How can a mirror help our father, Safira?” Darius asked and for the first time, there was an edge in his voice. 

“It will. You have to trust me! Come, closer —just, stand before it and look!” 

“We don’t have time for this. . .” 

“Just look at it. Just —please, look at it. It’s not an ordinary mirror: It’s magic, the glass doesn’t reflect your image!” 

“It is not magic Safira. They made a mistake while crafting it, that’s why it doesn’t reflect anything, that’s why it’s stored here in the cellars,” Darius spoke, his voice rising. “We’re leaving.” 

“No!” 

Safira panicked, grabbing her brother’s hand, pressing it against the opal-like glass. And for a moment, she could have sworn the mirror glowed, its more transparent parts flashing blue, till it cleared, cracking. 

With a suffocated yelp Safira stepped back, covering her face just in time as the mirror shattered, sending needle sharp shards scattering across the room.  

When she finally dared look, she found Darius lying unconscious before the golden mirror frame. Through a miracle, he appeared to be mostly unharmed, except for a few shallow cuts to his face, and his bleeding hand. 

Horrified and holding her breath, Safira moved closer to her brother, cupping his cheek. His skin felt slightly cool under her touch.  

“Darius. . .” 

There was no answer. 

She pushed him. “Darius. . .” 

There was no answer. 

She shook him. “Please, wake up. . .” 

There was no answer.  

She slapped his face. Once. Twice. She yelled out his name. Begging. Pleading. 

There was no answer.  

And it was then, when Safira accepted the truth. Darius, did not breathe. 

It was the end. Everything lay in ruins.  

With no one else to take out her anger on, with no one else there to talk to, Safira turned her green eyes towards the empty mirror frame. It looked almost like a doorway, being empty, as it was. 

“You promised to fix things,” she whispered, almost accusingly.  

It was silent. So very silent that for a moment she thought the gods had made her deaf as a punishment for her actions, till Darius moved, couching. 

The sudden sound was enough to scare her nearly witless. 

Darius coughed again, sucking air into his lungs like a man saved from drowning. Then, he opened his eyes. They were gray: Cold and piercing. Pale, like polished silver. 

He sat, stretching, raising the bleeding hand before his eyes, studying it. Then, he chuckled. A bubbly sound of joyful hysteria.  

Never before did Safira remember being so afraid, as she whispered out the fatal question. “Darius?” 

The man looked at her slowly, a small hint of a smile dancing on his pale lips. “Morfius, My Lady. I do believe you have made a certain wish. . .”

 ANA

The fortress of Mistwall was a curious place, though not quite what Ana had expected. It was a large structure of gray stone with tree tall towers, two of which she wasn’t permitted to go. One of those towers was only for the knights; the other was meant for the senior mages. She’d get to the Seniors’ Tower eventually; as soon as she’d reach the age of twenty-five summers. Greagon had said it would happen soon enough. Ana thought he was silly; eighteen year was going to take forever, rather than be “soon enough.” She wasn’t bored, though. There was plenty to see in the Juniors’ Tower, with its five floors which kept in the dorms, dining hall, classrooms and the biggest library she had ever seen. Or been able to imagine. She could have sworn it kept in a million books, but one of the older students had told her there were only a bit over fifty-three thousand, and the senior mages’ library was half the bigger. Ana wasn’t sure if she believed her; the girl was a junior herself, which meant she hadn’t ever been in the other towers. Not with permission, at least. . .

A week had passed quickly in the fortress and Ana had already made some new friends, including Dan, whom no one else liked. He was a shy boy with neck length dark brown hair and midnight blue eyes, who liked to withdraw to a dark corner with his books and be left alone. He wasn’t popular like Adrian, but he was kind and sweet and very skilled in magic, or that’s how Ana saw him. It was one of the reasons which made it so hard for her to understand why others avoided him. Even now he was sitting alone at the corner table, his nose buried in a book. 

“Hi Dan, what are you doing?”  

He was startled by her sudden attention, closing the book he had been so interested in a mere moment ago. “Nothing . . . Reading.” 

“I can see that; so tell me, what book is it?” Ana demanded taking a seat next to him. Dan sifted a bit further, obviously uncomfortable about her presence.   

“I know you took care of me only because Daddy-Greagon told you to and gave you one of his or else-looks, but if you don’t want me here you can just say so,” Ana snapped, crossing her arms. She was already seven and knew how the world worked. She wasn’t going to intrude; especially with the feel her presence was unwanted. 

“It’s not that! You— can be here, if you want,” Dan said slowly, still avoiding her gaze.   

“Then tell me what the matter is; I can’t help you if you don’t,” Ana offered, starting to swing her legs under the table. It was easy, thus most of the chairs were still too high for her, and even climbing to take a seat didn’t happen without an effort. In a few years, she believed the problem would fix itself. 

“You would laugh at me, “Dan said quietly, his cheeks flustering slightly. During her short time in the fortress, Ana had learned that Dan blushed rather easily, especially when he was embarrassed of something. He had also taken a habit of leaning his head forward, so that most of the dark brown hair flowed down on his face, hiding him from the world. Or so he seemed to hope.    

“No I won’t; I promise,” Ana swore, raising a hand to her chest and other one in the air. 

Dan smiled slightly to her gesture. “I’ve been reading a book about the Old People. It says that thousands of years ago elven, also called as the mountain people, ruled Ter Dregos. The book also said that once in every generation a child was born, who had special powers. Children of the sky, they were called.” 

At this point Ana was already so fascinated by Dan’s story that she couldn’t help, but lean closer and listen quietly. She didn’t even encourage him to continue, when he took a break to catch his breath, but waited quietly, giving him all the time he needed. 

“The power they possessed was called attraction. Whenever a person looked into the eyes of this certain child of the sky, he became attracted to her. . . or him. It meant the person who became attracted also became obsessed of this elven and would do anything for her.” He blushed again, deeper this time.  

Ana looked at him, her head tilted to the side. “Dan,” she began very gently, just as her mother had done when she had told her something of importance, “I am not one of the old people and as fascinating as that story was –and I hope I could somehow magically make people do my history presentation for me– I can’t do that. I can’t make people like me more than they wish to.” 

“But I have a description about the children of the sky and they look just like you! Listen to this: ‘Most of the knowledge has been lost in the currents of time, but it is confirmed that children of the sky, who possessed the gift of attraction, wore hair the color of snow and silver and eyes as blue as the summer sky.’ Do you believe me now?” Dan asked, getting so excited by his discovery that he forgot to be careful and raised his gaze.  

“Very impressive, Danfius—” 

“—Don’t call me that!”  

“—But I got this hair color from my grandmother on my father’s side, and she most definitely wasn’t one of the Old People,” Ana added, now glaring at Dan over the table. Sometimes, he was the most irritating human she had ever met, especially when he got some idea stuck in his head like this. 

“One of her ancestors could have been one of the Old,” the boy insisted, also leaning over the table. “Besides, old people have naturally white hair; there’s no telling what her hair color was before she aged.” 

“Don’t be a fool, Dan! You are staring in my eyes right now, just like you did a week ago on the day we met, and are you charmed yet, or attracted or whatever?” 

They were so caught up in the moment that they did not see the small group of approaching elder students. Adrian was one of them. He was almost a late junior mage, a young man of sixteen summers and almost head taller than Dan. Ana had met him about a week ago, soon after her arrival. Dan had been doing his best to calm her, when she had gotten the news about Greagon’s injury. She had wept, demanding loudly she wanted to go see him at the infirmary. It was also then, when Adrian had taken interest in her, willing to know if the rumor was true and she was actually Greagon’s daughter. In fear of punishment Dan had told him he did not know, which was probably the reason why Adrian now followed them around, persistently repeating his question till he’d get his answer.  

He approached Dan from behind, placing his hand on his shoulder with unnecessary force, which made the brown haired boy shrink a few inches. He gave them a questioning, cocky smile. 

“And what is going on here; a fight?” 

“Nothing is going on, Adrian. Now, please, go away,” Ana said looking at the older boy under her brows. Adrian wasn’t a bad person. Arrogant and irresponsible perhaps, and he liked to get in all kinds of trouble, but he had never caused actual harm to anyone, if Dan’s word was to be believed on it. For some reason Ana even believed, that deep down, Adrian was kind and gentle, and would offer his help to people in real need.  

“And who are you to tell me what I should or should not do, young lady?” Adrian asked running fingers though his blonde hair. Dan had once said he was growing it out whenever he was “available,” so to speak, and cut it short every time he was in a serious relationship, which wasn’t often. Now, his hair was so long it almost reached down to his shoulders. 

“I only asked you to leave, Adrian, I didn’t tell you to do anything,” Ana said quietly, hoping he would let go of Dan soon, which he did, walking around the table to take a seat next to her. His two older friends remained standing.  

“I heard there was talk about something called as ‘the Old People’ and then about your family tree.” He gave her a pleasant smile. “Please, Ana dear; do tell us more about your family.” 

Ana had nothing to hide. She knew well enough that none of her family members were the so called “Old People,” but Adrian’s request had made her slightly nervous. “There isn’t much to tell; my mother is a healer in the village of Winterwood and my father died in the Small War. Before that he was a woodcutter,” she finished, trying to read Adrian’s face to know if this information was enough to satisfy him.  

“How very interesting. Now, tell me about Daddy-Greagon, or about your other grandmother, the one from your mother’s side; or do you have something to hide?” Adrian asked, crossing his legs. He leaned casually back on his chair. 

Their conversation had started to gather looks around the library and some of the students had already started to move closer. It only made Ana more nervous. “There isn’t much to tell. Greagon is human, so he cannot have any relation to the children of the sky, can he?”  

Danfius shook his head, so Ana continued, “What comes to my other grandmother; I have never met her. She died long before I was born.” 

It was true, but made her wonder. What if her grandmother had been one of the Old People? What if there was some truth in Dan’s words and all her friends were with her only because they had to? Dan was the one to wake her from these dark thoughts, reading aloud another part from the book. 

“Children of the sky have not been spotted on Ter Dregos since the Towers of Mist -meaning this fortress- were built over two hundred years ago. It is also important to be noted that attraction only works to the opposite sex with rare exceptions, and feelings of attachment are often needed before this ability can be used—” 

Ana snatched the book from him, hitting it firmly shut.  

“You heard him! Now leave me be!” She had gotten enough attention for one day. Even if she wasn’t one of the children, the book had made her uneasy. Or perhaps it was Adrian, who now looked at her with narrowed eyes, a slight smile curling his lips. 

They were all startled by Master Warren’s voice, speaking suddenly from behind the crowd, “What is this noise? Why are you children gathered here? —Danfius, has someone given you permission to read that book?”
 
Master Warren was one of the senior mages, who visited the Juniors’ Tower to teach the younglings. He was very old and most of his sight was gone, but he still seemed to know everything that happened within the walls of the southern Tower. 

Danfius was the first one to get his mouth open, though his voice shook a little as he spoke. “No, Master Warren. I found it from the history section. I wasn’t aware it needed permission to be read,” he explained quickly, handing the book to the old Master. He frowned as he leaned closer to have a look at the worn title, worry glinting in his blurry eyes. 

“This book isn’t meant for students at all. It isn’t even supposed to be here, but locked safely in the upper library of Seniors’ Tower. I wonder if someone brought it here by accident,” he muttered to himself, slowly making his way towards the door. 

“I hope I am not in trouble,” Danfius whispered quietly after the old man had gone on his way. By the sound of his exhaustion, he had been holding his breath.  

“You didn’t do it on purpose. If someone comes to question you, I’ll tell them you didn’t mean it,” Ana said, taking his hand. “Come,” she added. “Let’s go see if Daddy is awake yet; perhaps the Twins will let me see him this time.” 

GREAGON

Pain. He felt pain. It must have meant he was awake . . . and alive.

Nelya. . . No. She was safe and far away, so the Lord Commander called out another name instead.

“Ana . . . is— is—”

“The little elven is all right, Lord Commander,” a familiar voice spoke. “The boy you left her with is looking after her.”

Greagon blinked for a couple of times, seeing a blurry figure of one of the Twins hovering over him. His tongue felt dry and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. The taste of blood, he realized.

“The girl tried to come see you, but we didn’t let her,” the voice spoke again.

Good, Greagon thought. Ana does not need to see me like this.

He made an attempt to rise, causing the room to spin as the second wave of pain washed over him. He would have yelled, had he had the strength.

“Do not try to move— rest.” Rest . . . rest . . . rest. . .

Clora’s words echoed in his head, till the darkness consumed him again to its peaceful embrace. 

SAFIRA

Safira stirred, raising a hand to feel her head. Her fingers met a sore lump, risen right next to the old one. 

“You are awake. Good.” 

Safira shifted, realizing the observation was made by a shadowy figure, sitting on a barrel, a shiny piece of metal in its hand. A dagger.

“I assume you are all right. You were out for a while,” the figure continued, laying the weapon casually across its lap. “Can you stand?” 

Safira didn’t know. Her legs felt numb, wobbly, but she could move her toes. Yet, she made no attempt to rise. Please step into the light, she thought. I want to see your eyes. I want to see them and know they’re green —that Darius is japing me.  

“Is—?  Are you—?” 

“I am not your brother, if that is what you’re asking,” the figure spoke, stepping into the light of a freshly burning torch. His gaze was pale, gray.  

The room took another spin, but Safira kept her consciousness. Barely.  

“Am I dreaming?” she asked weakly, already knowing the answer. Answer, the man in her brother’s skin confirmed.  

“No, though doubtlessly you wish you were. Can you stand?” he asked again. “I assume you still wish your other brother dead?” 

“I do,” Safira nodded, her anger flaring up again with Morfius’ words. It was what he had named himself —Like the long dead prince from the tales.  

“Then we shall go.” 

Safira rose as swiftly as she dared, following Morfius into the out leading tunnel and then to the spiral staircase. The torch he carried smoked a little, making her cough a couple of times. She did so silently, though, in fear of making loud noises. They felt inappropriate somehow —Like they’d awaken something in the dark. Something that was better of left asleep. . . 

He looks like Darius, but he is not my brother, Safira thought, stumbling again as she fell too much behind from the torch light. She had to walk with her hand against the wall, to keep the world steady. 

The man before her did not turn to look whether she was all right or not.  

Darius died down there, when he touched the mirror. I saw he did not breathe, yet he walks before me, flesh and blood. It is his body, his looks, just not . . . his soul. He is no more. And I am to blame for it. There may be no blood on my hands, but I led him down there. I am the one who pressed his hand against the glass. . . A murderer. . . 

The thought squeezed in her chest. A painful stab of a knife, twisting. It was difficult to breathe. I should have felt this doubt sooner, before bringing him down here, the Lady Farell thought, her corset suddenly too tight. I should have thought things before trusting the voice, the mirror. Darius might have been able to handle Martius. He might have found a way, some way. Or father could have— no. . . No buts, ifs and whats. There is nothing I can take back now. The only thing I can have is my revenge. But at what cost? 

After fifty-five steps, their walk ended.  

The corridor of the first floor was silent and lit by torches. The hour must have been late; no servants walked the halls anymore, and guards had withdrawn to their nightly post at outer walls and entrances. Oddly enough, Safira found their lack comforting. The less witnesses they had, the better. 

The dagger Morfius carried with him glinted as if in agreement; a quick flash of an ill omen.   

Dark shadows bring death, Safira thought out of the blue, remembering the old Castian saying from the book she had read about the Shadow Priestesses. Someone will die tonight, that much is certain. I only fear it is I the Keeper comes for, instead of my brother. That is, if he is even in the Palace anymore. . . 

He was, though, almost running into them at the top of the Weeping Stairs. He appeared from a side corridor, drunk as always, a purple stain decorating the front of his white silken shirt —most likely spilled from the very same bottle he was still nursing in his hand.  

It took a while for Martius to recognize them. He squinted his eyes, till a broad mocking smile spread on his lips. 

“Siblings; how lovely to see you! Sweet Safira, as ravishing as ever. . .and my good for nothing of a brother. . . Our sister is a woman now, did you know?” he asked, laughing.  

Safira felt her face redden. How does he dare speak of it —of an act so vile it’s judged in the eyes of both, men and gods? He truly is a monster. . .  

Morfius turned to look at her with a brief rise of his brows. “Is this him?”  

Safira nodded, her hands fisted so tight that her nails dug bleeding marks on her palms. 

Martius looked at them as if they both had lost their minds, as the situation probably appeared to him. 

“What are you babbling about?” he asked, again squinting his eyes. “Is this –hick– some stupid game you two are playing?” He took a fumbling step, unsteady on his feet. “I will not –hick– be humiliated by you. I deserve— your respect. I am your lord!”


Safira hoped his words had been a lie, but the truth glinted boldly on Martius’ left middle finger.  Father’s signet ring . . . he would not have parted with it willingly while he still lived. He must be dead, then. . . 

“Did you kill father?” 

Martius looked at her in silence for a while, till the cocky smirk appeared back on his lips. “He is dead, what else matters?” 

Morfius looked almost amused, as he stepped past Safira, approaching Martius while eyeing him up and down, most judgingly. “I must admit I am slightly disappointed,” he spoke, stopping just an arm’s length before him. “The way your sister spoke of you, I half expected to see a man twice my height, with red glowing eyes and fangs of a snake growing out of his mouth. . .” 

Martius stared at him, his mouth wide open. From the way his nostrils flared, Safira guessed his anger was rising with each sharp inhale he took. “How dare you— to speak to me in that manner?” 

Martius breathed out, his eyes wide with rage.  

Morfius’ mouth twitched. “Rather easily,” he spoke, and slid his dagger gently across his throat.  

Martius gasped. The bottle he’d been nursing in his hand slipped from his grasp, smashing to the floor. And soon, blood started to flow through his fingers. Fingers he had so tightly pressed on his throat, trying to keep the life from leaking out of him.  

In torch light, his blood looked almost black.  

Martius made an attempt to speak, reaching towards the man he thought as his younger brother. His lips moved to form a silent word, something that was somewhere between a plea and a curse.  

Morfius narrowed his eyes, taking a step forward. It only took him to straighten his arm, and push.  

Safira watched her brother bend, slowly, like a slender willow in the wind. He tried to keep his balance till the very end, to struggle for the last shreds of life, but the Keeper had already come for him.  

He fell, rolling down the stairs. His head met stone almost immediately after the fall.  

He rolled faster still, all the way down; spreading trails of blood with every crunch he hit the steps.  

At the bottom, his speed stopped, leaving Martius lay in a slowly spreading pool of his own blood. His leg had twisted into unnatural position, making him look more like the monster he was. His eyes were still open, wide and staring at the wall next to his body.  

Morfius cleaned his dagger; like he had done nothing out of ordinary, walking down the stony steps to kneel down next to Martius’ body. He slipped the dragon signet ring off his bloodied finger, putting it on his own.  

“What happens now?” Safira finally dared to ask, after a long moment of silence.  

Morfius turned to look at her, correcting the bandage around his injured hand. “We clean up and burn his body in a pyre. That is what happens.”  

“No,” Safira hurried to say, correcting her tone after realizing how harshly she had spoken. “No. I don’t want him to have a proper burial. Not him.” Martius did not deserve it. He did not deserve such honors. Even without the three day wake, his burial should be something hideous, blasphemous, something utterly disrespectful that would defile him in the eyes of the gods.  

“Then we shall feed his body to the forest beasts,” offered Morfius.  

“And after that?” The young Lady Farell asked with caution. She was on strange ground, with her entire family gone, with no knowledge of what consequences Martius’ death might bring with it.  

“Then, we shall rule. I shall continue my life as your beloved brother Darius, who shall now inherit the throne. You are fit to wed in a few years, if I am not mistaken?” 

Safira bit the inside of her cheek, shaking her head. “Someone has seen the sheets by now. They. . . they know I am worthless. . .” 

Morfius raised the steps by her side, tilting her head up. His fingers brushed her cheek gently, almost with affection. Almost like Darius could have done. “Worthless? Hardly. You had your first bleeds, that is all. You’re a woman now.” 

“I do not wish to be married!” Safira blurted out; biting down her tongue after realizing what had left her lips.  

Morfius looked at her for a while, studying her features. He stepped back. “Then you shall not. I think I owe you as much.”  

Safira nodded briefly, a gesture that did as a thank you for her in the puzzling situation.  

“We require a sheet to wrap him in. A cloak will also suffice,” Morfius spoke, making his way back at the bottom of the stairs. He looked so much like Darius that for a moment Safira felt sick, wondering if anyone would ever notice the difference between the two of them. Not servants likely, thus they never looked their lords and ladies in the eye. If someone was to see something was off, that would be the lords and ladies, or the wizard; if any bothered to remember the eye color of a silent boy, who had been second in line to the throne.  

“There are sheets in the laundry room,” Safira spoke, her voice sounding strange and metallic in her ears. “No one will notice if one is missing; I can get one.” 

Morfius nodded as briefly as she had done a moment ago, turning his attention back to the body. It didn’t seem to hold any particular interest to him, but was merely something to look at, while he waited.  

Safira climbed the steps down carefully, holding her skits up to keep them from sucking in her brother’s blood. He had bled a lot already at the top of the stairs, when Morfius had slit his throat, and now the blood had pooled with the spilled wine, starting to flow down the Weeping Stairs.  

And so the stairs weep bloody tears again, but at what cost? Safira thought, glancing at her brother’s corpse as she passed him by to get to the laundry room. The expression on his snow pale face was horrified, at the very best. A thing to melt away some of the hollowness she had felt. 

A reasonable one, the Lady Farell decided, feeling a warm tickle run down her thigh.  

She was still bleeding. 

DANFIUS

10 years later. . .

Her hair is the color of ripples, Danfius thought, watching his elven friend at the other side of the round library table. Ripples in moonlight. 

He watched the elf to flip a page, wetting her finger in her mouth before pressing it on the thin yellowed paper.  
Why had the gods been so cruel, he wondered shifting on his seat, to create a creature of such perfection, and make her so utterly unknowing about it? —And why had they made him so craven, that he would never dare tell Ana about his feelings? He wondered when it had happened, that he had realized he loved her. 

It must have started out as brotherly at first, Danfius reckoned, watching the elf’s blue almond eyes, running on the pages, following the words intently as her chin rested against her cupped palm. And then, something has prickled his interest, lighting a flame within his chest. When it had happened? Dan had no answer. Last year, the one before that? Or at the very moment Ana’s body had begun to show signs of curves beneath her robes, and he had begun to wonder what it would be like; to cup and fondle her sweet soft breasts? 

Dan didn’t know. Like he didn’t know how to avoid such thoughts, especially when Ana had grown up as something that was desire made flesh. And apparently he wasn’t alone with his thoughts. He had seen the way men looked at her. Especially Adrian. Lucky for him, Adrian had reached the required age of a senior mage and had been transferred to another tower.  

He had been replaced by a worse option, though: A recently arrived knight, Mark. Dan had seen the man around quite often lately —perhaps more often than he should have.  

And had seen the way he looked at Ana.  

Even worse, he had seen the way Ana looked at him. . .  

What does he have to offer that I don’t? Dan asked in his mind, shooting a sharp look across the room.  

There he was again, in his shining armor, nodding to a knight he changed shifts with.  

Had he asked for this post? Danfius wondered, watching Ana turn her eyes towards the knight, gazing at him over her book with just a hint of a smile on her lips.  

Ser Mark answered to her gaze, gracing her with a small nod and warmth in his baby blue eyes. Dan never remembered seeing as annoying eye color, on anyone.  

“He’s been around often lately, hasn’t he?” 

“He has?” the elf asked, not removing her eyes from the knight. “I haven’t noticed.” 

Danfius fought the urge to groan, rolling his eyes. I have no reason to be jealous, he told himself, holding back a glare. They’re only looking at each other. There’s no harm in looking. Besides, Ser Mark has taken vows; he’s not allowed to lie with mages. . . And yet, he wouldn’t have been terribly sorry if the knight had slipped at the stairs.  

Ser Mark was . . . tall. Taller than he was and sturdily build —as were all the knights, who wore heavy mail and plate day after day. His beard was the color of golden sand, same as his hair, and neatly trimmed. He was better looking than he was, Danfius knew that. 

While concentrating on cursing the knight in his mind, Dan almost let a surprising opportunity to slip through his fingers. Luckily, he noticed it in time.  

“Look, Ana, the sun!”  

The elven turned around, disbelief reflecting from her sky blue eyes. “By the gods, you are right!”  
It had been several months since Ana had seen the sun. Since anyone in Mistwall, had seen the sun. But there it was, glowing so bright it was painful to look at; a sure sign of spring.  

Dan watched her. Watched how she walked to the window, pressing her fingers against the cool glass. She missed her freedom, missed the days of her childhood, when she was allowed to walk in forests and swim in the river. Dan couldn’t give Ana back her old life, but he could give her something similar, a little piece of freedom she so badly yearned for.  

“Come, there’s something I want to show you.”  

The elf hesitated, glancing longingly at the sun for one last time, but followed him at any rate, allowing Dan to lead her out of the library and up the tower. 

There had always been secret passages in Mistwall and Dan happened to know one of them. He had found it by accident, when being pushed by a passing by knight.  

“We’re almost at the top,” Ana observed. “Above are only Greagon’s chambers and we’re not allowed to go there, nor could we without a key.”  

Her words made Dan smile. “Just make sure no one sees us,” he told, starting to study the wall by the stairs. To Ana it might have looked a solid stone wall, but Danfius knew better. He knew one of the stones was a hidden switch and just when his hand hit it, a part of the wall shifted behind the green and blue tapestry.   

“And you are showing this to me now?” the elf said, hands at her hips, failing to pretend she was angry with him.  

“If I had shared every secret with you on the day we met, what fun would there be now?” Dan asked, waving his hand for Ana to go in first.  

More stairs lay behind the hidden passage, but it wouldn’t be much further now.  

“Keep your hand against the wall while you go,” Dan advised, taking lead in the dark. It had been some time since he had been here, but he still knew the way. Now he just needed to find the hatch and hope it would still open. It did, though it was a bit stiff after the winter. 

It was windy at the top of the tower, forcing Ana to hold onto her hair to keep it from flapping on her face as Dan helped her climb up the hatch. She looked around, eyes wide with wonder, till a child-like expression spread on her face, making her eyes shine like two blue stars. 

“Oh Dan, it’s amazing!”  

She used the same words when I gave her that elk star-mark necklace on her first nameday, Dan remembered, watching his friend dance around the flat top of the tower. The wind caught her skirts, making the blue robe tangle around her legs. Over it she wore a shorter moss green rank robe, which told her position as a junior mage. Dan wore the same colors himself. Only his rank robe was replaced by a hoodless mantle, worn by all the male mages.  

“This is wonderful, Dan! You have given me something no one else ever has; a piece of freedom,” the elf laughed dancing to his arms. “Thank you.” Her lips brushed gently over his cheek, leaving behind a tickly burning trail. It was the sweetest feeling Dan had felt in a while and it left him yearning for more.  

It had been ten years. Ten years, gods damn it, and he had never told Ana he loved her. He had never held her in his arms or kissed her sweet, sweet lips. He wanted her. So badly he ached for her at nights —but it would never happen, would it now? She dreamed of her knight, whose hair was like golden sand and sunlight combined . . . 

Dan was bitter, but his dark thoughts faded away quickly as he came up with a thought.

“We could come back later, when it’s dark,” he suggested. “We could come to watch the stars.”  

The elf smiled, looking almost excited. “Let us hope it won’t get cloudy, then,” she said.  

And when the night darkened, there they were; climbing the hidden stairs to the top of the tower, carrying a small packet of food with them. Just bread, cheese and wine; nothing fancy. Ana had “borrowed” the wine from the kitchens, because it was a special occasion and needed something more than water. Or so she had told. 

The night was a bit chilly as they reached the top, but it didn’t matter; Dan had brought blankets with him. If Ana was up for it, they could sit at the top whole night. Dan would have preferred to romance the elf, there, in freedom under the stars, but he knew better than to get his hopes up, including what hung between his legs. Ana might have been his closest friend for years, but she had never given as much as a hint she would have wanted any romantic affection from him. Not even a kiss.  
They sat down next to each other, wrapped in blankets. Dan liked it, just being alone with her. Ana had never hurt him, like others had. She had never talked behind his back, told lies or mistreated him. 

They had fought a couple of times over the years, but it was a part of their friendship. Once, Ana had stopped talking to him because he had embarrassed her before Adrian, who had given her silver earrings as a nameday present. Ana had turned thirteen that day, which meant she was almost a young woman. Dan had told Adrian he would never allow Ana to pierce her ears, and that had angered the elf. Dan wasn’t her guardian, like she had pointed out a few moments before the silence had begun.  

There had been moments Dan had feared she would never talk to him again, but luckily enough he had accidentally managed to poison himself with blackfire —a result of his failed cooking at the potion class. Ana had taken pity on him, even saved his life, or so he had heard from the others afterwards. He had been sick for days, lying in the infirmary feverish and in pain. Ana had come to see him every single day, even though the Twins had told her not to. The thought of her stubbornness still made Dan smile; he would never be able to forget her kindness.  

“It has been a long time since I saw a full a moon . . . Do you know the tale about the moon lovers?” the elf asked.  

Dan shook his head.   

“A man and a woman fell in love—” 

“—I think I know what comes next,” the brown haired mage grinned, feeling a sharp, yet playful shove of an elbow at his side.  

Ana grinned as well. “I heard this story from my grandmother; it doesn’t have any dirty details in it. Now where was I? A man and a woman fell in love, but their families didn’t approve their romance, so they had to see each other in secret. Every night of a full moon they sneaked outside the village, to show their affection. Everything went well for months, but then the moon goddess grew jealous.  

“She had watched the lovers for a long time and wanted the man for herself. The moon goddess, Asha’karak, believed the man would bring her happiness with his touch, just like he had brought happiness to his lover. Asha’karak flew down from her silver nest, willing to seduce the man, but he refused her, telling his heart belonged already to another. Asha’karak was furious, and it is never wise to anger a god. . . She cursed the man, forcing him to turn into a vile beast with every passing full moon, till nothing human was left in him—” 

“Riiiight. . . a bedtime story then, to keep children nice and quiet in their beds. . .” 

“Don’t mock the story, Danfius. Everyone knows Walhar was the first werewolf ever made.”  

“Werewolves do not exist, Ana. You grew up in a small village in the middle of nowhere; did you ever see a werewolf?” Dan asked, lying down on his back in frustration. The story had been nice, exciting even, but it was a bard’s tale. He was more interested in things that were proven true. 

“I didn’t,” the elf defended, “but that’s because we don’t have werewolves here in Drakonia. For some reason they don’t come across the mountains.” 

Dan couldn’t help himself anymore and so he laughed. “Are you seriously telling me there are werewolves in Morgonia?” The whole thought was absurd! Of course there were things that remained hidden and unknown, but werewolves? It just sounded too farfetched.  

“Walhar killed his lover, you know. Ripped her to pieces and ate her heart and liver while the moon goddess watched. . .”  

“Are you planning to do the same to me? Should I worry?” Dan asked, getting another playful shove. He grabbed the elf, laughing; rolling with her on the roof till she lay on top of him. They had drunk perhaps a bit too much wine. Playing like this was something they hadn’t done since they were children —and neither of them was a child no longer.  

She was close. So very close he could smell the sweet scent of wine from her breath and see the hypnotizing blue of her eyes. All he needed to do was lean in, and kiss her.  

This is the moment, he realized, as the elf’s smile started to fade along with his own —the only moment I might ever have. 

He had just begun to close the distance between them, when Ana shifted, looking past him somewhere to the darkness. “Look Dan, there’s light by the sea!”   

And so she was out of his reach again.  

“So it seems. . .” 

“Where is it coming from; it’s too high to be a ship?” The elf asked, rising to see better in the night. Perhaps it was good she had moved away. Dan had started to harden and it was something he didn’t wish Ana to see, or feel.  

“My guess is it’s coming from the East-Tower.”  

“East-Tower? I have never heard of the East-Tower. I thought Mistwall had only three towers.”  

“It’s the legendary fourth tower, also called as the Sea-Tower. It’s on a small island and was used as a prison once, for the runaways. It has been abandoned for decades, though,” Dan explained, also rising to have a better look. There was indeed light in the darkness, shining from the sea.  

There shouldn’t be any light coming from the Tower, he thought, slightly worried. It hasn’t been used since the days of Commander Merlow, and that was over eighty years ago. . .  

The wind blew colder now, making Dan shiver. It would start raining again soon; the clouds had started to gather over the fortress, making the night suddenly much darker. With the stars and the moon, the mysterious light disappeared as well.

 

ANA

The white haired elven moved restlessly on the bed, her legs tangled uncomfortably to the blanket. The mysterious light was still bothering her, making it hard to catch sleep. Someone snored loudly a couple of beds away. Ana wished she could have been on her place, dreaming peacefully about something insignificant.  

She had often wondered what the other students dreamed about, especially on sleepless nights like this. Most likely they dreamed of home or their loved ones: perhaps even becoming the Arch Mage. Some might have had nightmares about the Masters or failing the classes. . .  

Dan was probably snoring happily in his dorm; carefree from the mysterious light. He had laughed at her story about werewolves, but she would find him the book that told about their existence; then he would believe her. 

Ana allowed her thoughts to wander off to Greagon, of what he was doing at the moment. He’s probably asleep by now, or working, she decided. Greagon liked to work late, for some reason. Perhaps it was because he liked his job.  

Rain crushed heavily against the windows, making so loud noise it was a wonder no one woke up. The young blond girl moved a bit on the bed at her left, but didn’t wake. Good for her, Ana thought, turning to lie on her back. She would only get scared, like she does of everything.  

At nights, shadows seemed to live a life of their own in the fortress, making strange shapes and appearing in places they shouldn’t have. In every dark corner, a pair of eyes seemed to be watching, but as Ana turned to have a better look, there was nothing. It had been just a trick of her imagination, running wild in the dark.  

Someone walked along the corridor and a stripe of orange light passed in below the heavy oak door. The knights were changing shifts. It must have been midnight.  

It was foolish of them to have the same shifts year after year. In a couple of months, Ana had learned their schedule and knew how to avoid getting caught if she decided to venture out of her bed at night. Students were running around the fortress all the time after dark, and were caught only if someone was late or went early to his shift. Nightly adventures around the fortress weren’t always safe, though. Not all the knights were good and nice and made a report; some of them used the opportunity to catch a lone and helpless mage. Some of the mages could have defended themselves, at least somehow, but attacking knights with any magic was punishable by death. And even if they would have managed to cast a spell on them, they were too weak to cause nothing more serious, but slightly smoldering eyebrows.  

Another stripe of light passed in below the door. The knight on duty had walked the corridor from one end to the other and would now stand outside the door for a moment. Ana started to count. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. . .  When she made it to thousand, she heard footsteps leave the door and with them, so left the light.  

In a moment of temporary insanity she left the warmness of her bed, sneaking to the door. It wasn’t locked, just like she had assumed. Sometimes she thought the knights didn’t lock the doors on purpose, to catch sneakers. They wouldn’t catch her, though; she had plenty of time before the knight would come back to this end of the corridor, and the walk to Dan’s dorm wasn’t long. She would make it easily if she ran.  

The stone felt cool under her bare feet as she slipped out the door, closing it quietly. Thank gods the corridor was decorated with a thick light-green and yellow carpet which kept her toes from freezing.  

The door to the boys dorm wasn’t locked either, and so she didn’t waste any more time and slipped in. The room was almost dark, but Ana knew where Dan slept; he had had the same bed since the day she had arrived to the fortress. Perhaps even before that.  

Just like she had guessed, Dan was snoring, wrapped tightly in his blanket. His dark brown hair was messy and flowed to his face, just like it often did when he was awake. Looked from this angle, his face was actually quite pleasant, though Ana had never thought his looks as unpleasant. Gently, she poked his shoulder, getting a sleepy grunt in return. Heavy sleeper, no doubt. . .  

She poked him again, waiting. The others sounded to be asleep. All of them snored —and louder so, than the girls. But in a place like this, where walls had both eyes and ears; one could never be too careful. Dan pulled the blanked tighter around his body, mumbling something about winterberries.  

“Dan, wake up.”  

He did, but only after she had pushed him quite roughly. He rubbed his eyes, looking like he was going to fall back asleep, till he realized who she was.   

“Ana, what are you doing here?” His voice was silent, no louder than a whisper, yet he had certain sharpness in it.  

“I couldn’t sleep . . . that light we saw troubles me,” Ana confessed, kneeling down by the bed.  

Dan looked at her in the dark, shaking his head. “And you decided to sneak out of your bed in the middle of the night just to tell me that?”  

“No, I just came to check if your pillow was soft and puffy enough and talk you more about Morgonian werewolves,” she said, making Dan humph.  

“Well check the pillow and start talking, then,” he said, rising to lean on his elbow. At least he was awake now, despite his sour mood. 

“I want to go somewhere where we can talk, to the library, maybe? There are no guards at this hour, and if someone passes by, we can hide behind the corner shelf; they never look behind that one,” Ana suggested smiling, remembering one of their nightly adventures a couple of years back. Adrian had been with them as well, or actually she had gone adventuring with Adrian, and Dan had just followed, pleading she’d return to bed. A passing by knight had almost caught them. It had been exciting.  

“No, Ana —no!” Dan hissed, his tone rising a bit, but he lowered it as soon as he noticed. “We’re not children anymore, Ana . . . Besides; don’t you think that risk of getting caught has grown larger by the years? Even the new knights have probably learned to look behind every shelf and statue by now.”   

“It is not an adventure without the risk of getting caught,” Ana tried, but knew it pointless. Dan had grown even shyer past years and was willing to follow rules on everything. It was not unwise; she gave him that, but it was a bit boring.  

“I am not leaving my bed tonight,” the brown haired mage stated, getting caught off guard by the elf’s next words.  

“Fine, then, move over and we talk here, you don’t want me to freeze, do you?” she asked quietly, watching the young mage in the dark. He hesitated, but lifted the covers.  

“What if someone wakes up and sees us?” He asked, nervous. He had always been like that; worrying about everything . . . Worrying in advance did no credit; if something was meant to happen, it did. Sweating about it days before wasn’t going to change the future. Or so Ana firmly believed.  

“Then they’ll think you got lucky, I assume,” she whispered grinning, slipping between the warm covers. Dan shifted uncomfortably next to her, but calmed down soon, lying with his face towards the ceiling.  

“Have you ever seen the light before?” Ana finally asked when it became obvious Dan wasn’t going to start the conversation.  

“No, I have never seen it before, I hadn’t even gone up to that tower for years,” he spoke quietly and Ana was able to see a slight frown at his brow. Dan was nervous about the light as well, even though he didn’t like to admit it. It was never a good thing to see something in Mistwall that was somewhere where it shouldn’t have been.  

“Do you think we should tell someone about it, like father?”  

Dan considered his answer for a moment. “I . . . don’t know. The light was there only for a moment; perhaps it was a reflection of the moon, or some knights were inspecting the tower . . . Sailors looking shelter from the storm, perhaps? And to point out the obvious, we should never have been up there,” he added, turning to look at the elven beside him.  

“It was no moon, it was a living light we saw,” Ana said, knowing Dan had a point. They had been somewhere where they shouldn’t have been; it meant a punishment, if someone found out.  

“What if there were mages up in that tower? Is it possible to get there some other way than by a boat, across a secret tunnel, perhaps?”  

Someone coughed and they lay still for a moment, listening. No one seemed to have awoken. The knight walked past the room at the corridor, his steps slow and muffled.  

“Do you think he’s tired?”  

“Probably,” Dan shrugged, “unlike me, thanks to you.” He was silent for a moment, considering. 

“What you said about the mages could be possible; there are underground tunnels that run below the sea. Someone could have found one and followed it to the tower.”  

“Or perhaps we have a secret group within our walls that goes there to practice forbidden arts, sacrificing other students and such. . .”  

“Thank you, now I probably won’t sleep at all. . .” 

“It was meant as a joke, no need to get nervous about it.” But it was too late for such talk. Dan was already nervous and slightly cranky, and it was possible it could take a while before he’d catch sleep again.  

“What would you do if you could go outside the walls?” Ana then asked, trying to get Dan’s mind off to more comfortable things.  

“I’d run right back in, before the knights would come and hunt me down.”  

“Without magic, I mean. You would be a completely normal person, without any magical gifts.” 

“I guess I’d go back to my hometown, since I don’t know where else to go. I could become a scholar or something. Perhaps I’d have a family . . . I would take you with me, if you liked,” he added, trying to hide the bitterness that shined through his voice.  

He knows he will never have that. He will never become a scholar and I won’t ever be free to travel. We’re prisoners here till we die; like dangerous animals in a cage. . . 

“That sounds like a nice dream,” Ana said softly, squeezing Dan’s hand under the blanket. He felt relaxed now and would fall asleep soon. They could talk more come the morrow. She wished him goodnight, pecking his temple softly before heading to the door. She waited for a moment, listening to which direction the steps were going. Away, towards the staircase that led to the upper floor. She would slip back into her dorm just as easily as she had slipped out.  

Ana glanced over her shoulder while hurrying her steps, seeing how the dim light moved further in the other end of the corridor along with its carrier. She ran silently to her door, only to find it locked.  

She panicked, pulling the ring shaped iron handle harder, praying the door had only jammed and she would get in before the knight had made his round. The door shouldn’t have been locked; she hadn’t heard a click while closing it. The steps were coming back, and so Ana did the first thing any sane mage would have done on her place; she hid.  

The three men tall statue of Magnifius the Dark offered enough shadow to hide in, but would it be enough when the knight passes her by with his lantern? And if she remained hidden, then what? The door was locked; she wouldn’t get back in her dorm before morning, unless she would give herself in and ask the knight to unlock the door. It was the second day of the seven, was it not? That meant Vederic’s shift. He was a good man, reasonable for a knight; the worst he would do was to take her to Greagon’s office, and the worst father would do was to put her clean up or work in the kitchens for a couple of days. It was a gentler treatment than others would have gotten.  

Greagon had once told her he couldn’t favor her, thus he didn’t favor anyone. Even though Ana was his daughter, a punishment would be certain if she broke the rules. Ana had learned it true and spent time scrubbing floors every now and then, after getting caught sneaking around with Adrian or stealing food from the kitchens. The punishment was always certain, but father had lied about the favoring. Some sneakers had been taken to the cellars for whipping, Ana had heard. 

The light was getting closer and the elf pressed tighter against the cold white statue, willing to see who had the shift. It was difficult to tell in this light who it was, especially when she only saw his back as he passed by, but the person had a darkish short hair. Not being sure whether it was red or brown, Ana didn’t wish to take any chances with the knight, and made an attempt to get back into the boys dormitory. She could share a bed with Dan and no questions would be asked. Bed sneakers were the most common sneakers, everyone knew that. 

Ana took a shot, almost letting out a scream when she ran straight into the arms of another knight, who had been walking in complete darkness from the other end of the corridor. The   door    had  been   just  a  few  feet  away. . .  

“A late hour to be out of your bed, little elf; your excuse is better be a good one,” the dark haired man spoke quietly, tightening his grip from her arm. Ana was swift to recognize him as Ser Gordon by his rugged looks, short oiled curls and short stubble at his sharp edged chin and jaw. He was also a fresh knight, arrived to Mistwall at the same time with Mark. The two of them were friends, of sorts, she had understood.  

Knowing she didn’t have any time to invent a lie, Ana chose to stick with the truth, partly, at least; Ser Gordon didn’t need to know she had visited the boys’ dormitory. 

“Forgive me, good Ser: I was going to see my friend, but the door was locked and now I can’t get back into my dorm, either. Would you be good and unlock the door for me?” she tried kindly, knowing better than to fight free from his grasp. She had seen a girl fight once: The knight had pressed her down to the floor, breaking her arm. She did not wish to experience it personally, though Gordon could still do the same, or worse. He was known to hate all mages, treat them violently and lay women against their will. If he tried to rape her, she wouldn’t surrender without a fight, though.  

Ser Gordon’s grip loosened, turning into a suggestive fondle that ran up and down her arm, soft as silk. “I will unlock the door, for a kiss.” He looked at her under his brow, waiting.  

Ana breathed out, considering her options. If it was only a kiss, a small peck on the lips, it would be reasonable and save her from the other knight, who could have been far worse. But there was always a chance Ser Gordon could get a bit more demanding with his kiss.  

“So . . . only a kiss, nothing more?” 

“Only a kiss,” he confirmed with a triumphant smirk. 

“You swear it?” 

“I swear it by all the gods, yours and mine: only a kiss and I’ll unlock a door for you.” 

There it was; the catch.  

“I don’t want you to unlock a door, I need you to unlock the door,” Ana said, trying to keep the sharpness out of her voice. She should have known from the beginning Gordon was dishonest in his bargain. He could have unlocked any door, then asking for something more than a kiss for letting her back in her dorm. Sneaky little bastard. . .  

Ser Gordon didn’t look pleased by her comment, and Ana couldn’t have been more thankful when the patrolling knight made his way to them. It seemed like she should have given herself in to him, after all. And she would have, unless his hair had looked so much darker in the light of the lantern.  

“Ana? What are you doing out of your dorm at this hour? It is not safe to wander around at nights,” the light haired man said with a frown, turning his eyes towards Gordon. “Early shift change?”  

“Replacement, Vederic’s in fever; cannot hold his sword with shaking hands. I shall take it from here,” the knight said, his grey eyes glinting in a way that made Ana wish she had stayed in bed.  

“You do that. I’ll see Miss Ana back to her dorm before withdrawing.” 

Ana followed Ser Mark more than willingly, toying with the idea of kissing him. He would probably have disapproved, or even gotten embarrassed by it, and so she abandoned the idea and chose to thank him with words instead.  

“It was kind of you to come for my help. Thank you.” 

“I was only doing my duty,” he breathed out tiredly. “I have sworn to protect all mages, including you, even though I have noted your need to leave your dorm at nights and get in trouble.” His words weren’t unkind. It even sounded like there was a hint of admiration in his voice, along with amusement.  

“Still, thank you. I am grateful to have a knight like you here, who actually cares for the mages and their wellbeing,” Ana said, stopping outside the door of her dormitory as Mark did.  

“Ana . . . promise me you won’t wander around at nights. Not all knights here are good; to tell the truth, you were lucky it was Gordon you ran into.” 

It was close she did not laugh aloud. “Lucky? With the reputation he has?”  

Ser Mark looked down at her, humphing silently. “Gordon does have his reputation, but he isn’t as bad as he’s said to be. He wouldn’t force himself on a woman, still,” he sighed, “there are others who would, so promise me you’ll be more careful from now on.”  

He lowered a mailed hand gently upon her shoulder, looking deep in her eyes. “I would hate to see you get hurt.” His thumb brushed her cheek as he pulled away; to confirm that every word he had just spoken were true.  

Ana nodded, deciding it would be best to take his advice and stay in bed for a couple of nights. She wished Ser Mark good night, slipping in as he unlocked the door for her.  

The sky had already started to lighten up behind the windows, as much as it did in Mistwall, to tell the time of day. She would get only a couple of hours of sleep before dawn.

 

DUNCAN

 

“A state led by a woman; it’s outrageous!”

The Meeting Hall was warm and smoky, making Duncan sweat on his seat. He could have gone further from the fire, but then something important might have slipped past his ears. He wasn’t young anymore; a man of sixty-five summers, grey and balding and his knees pained him daily. While his ability to walk had gone weaker, his eyes and ears had improved. It was a rare gift, for one so old.

“Perhaps so, but a woman in charge can be dangerous; you never know what may come next, since they change their mind so quickly,” one of the lords laughed. The others laughed with him.

Duncan had been a lord himself once, a long time ago, when he still walked well and had been able to wield his sword. Those days had cost him a thumb, his dignity and his position as one of the Nine.

“They fight with curved swords, curved swords!” Lord Eric Bilgar shouted, getting laughs from the men sitting around the table. He was a loud man, black bearded and blue eyed, with just a touch of gray on his long soft hair to tell his age of forty summers. Duncan had oft thought Lord Bilgar’s loudness was an ill contrast to his gentle, almost tranquil appearance.

“Aye, curved swords to match their curved cocks, I hear!” roared young copper haired Larius Negar, banging his cup to the table. The lords laughed even harder.

High Elves and their curved swords . . . it’s all about japing and drinking now. It had all been so different twenty years ago, and sometimes Duncan missed those times, when actual decisions were made for the best of the country.

Morgonia was an oligarchy, ruled by the nine lords, sometimes also called as Magisters, who sat at the Long Table.

Duncan might not have been a lord any longer, but he was allowed to take part in the meetings, and Lord Edgar Morgorf listened to his advice from time to time.

Lord Edgar was roughly twenty summers his younger, a strong man with strong opinions. Dark of hair, dark of beard and black eyed. Even though the other Magisters had objected, he had taken Duncan under his roof and in his service, of which he was ever thankful for. It was rare to leave the Table alive, and still have some respect.

While the lords kept japing about the High Elves, Duncan turned his attention to the other side of the room. He had sworn to keep an eye on Salvya, Lord Edgar’s daughter and only child. Lord Edgar had lost Salvya’s mother nine years ago and had never re-wed. Salvya was all Lord Edgar had now, and that was why he treasured the girl better than gold and gems. Spoiled her even, some said.

Salvya was a girl of fourteen summers, with straw colored, wildly curled hair and disturbingly intense pale-green eyes. In her early childhood she had suffered moonfever, which had made the color leave her eyes and taken away her ability to mother children. Besides a barren daughter, House Morgorf had had to suffer of whispers of the common folk. Salvya’s lady mother had angered the gods, they said, and brought death upon herself and ill-luck for the whole family. Duncan didn’t believe a word of it, but some of the servants might have —He had seen some of them to avoid the girl.

Salvya had always been a sweet girl with a kind heart, but lately she had grown difficult. Duncan believed it was because of her unhealthy interest towards Lord Walmard Wayne’s son. Even now her pale gaze was fixed on the boy, Macon, who sat at the other end of the room, leaning his back against the grayed log wall, toying with his fox-pin. Macon was actually a man over twenty summers, but they were all children to Duncan, in their youth and innocence. He often doubted Macon’s innocence, though.

Macon was a handsome lad, with chestnut brown hair and neatly trimmed stripe of beard at his chin. His smile was more than pleasant, and he always behaved with the best of manner. Yet, there was something about him, something that made Duncan reserved and uneasy.

“My Lords! I believe we have come here to discuss more pressing matters, than curved swords. . .”

The room fell silent and the laughter died off almost instantly. Lord Edgar was a man of few words, but when he spoke, the others listened with respect.

“I suggest we make some decisions tonight, and to make them, we need to hear what important knowledge you have,” Lord Edgar continued, fixing his eyes to the bald, black bearded man next to him. “Lord Warth, what is the word from your lands?”

The man coughed, fingering the golden ornate ring at his beard. “My son tells me by letter that the western wood-clans have grown restless; drums have sung constantly since the nights have started to grow lighter, and the rumor is that the clans are scouting for the elves.” Ulric Warth coughed again and Lord Edgar nodded his head stiffly. He had never had much respect for rumors.

“Lord Salt, any news from the seas?”

The tanned man took a sip from his cup before answering. “I’ve been six months at sea, hearin’ and seein’ many things. . .”

Argonius Salt was no lord, or at least Duncan didn’t see him as one. He was a ruthless businessman, vile and possibly unreliable; everything an ex-pirate could be expected to be. The only reasons he had been named as a lord and taken as one of the Nine, were his ships and information, which he probably shared with anyone whose coin purse was fat enough.

“You will be paid for your information.”

The tanned black haired captain grinned, obviously pleased of what he had heard. “I have som’ disturbing news, My Lords,” he said. “The elves are buildin’ warships, it seems. . .”

The lords around the table changed looks. Elven armies had marched to middle-lands before, but they had always been driven back. They lacked the equipment to fight in a harsh and cold country, but attack from the sea was something Morgonia may not have been ready to face. Warships were something the elves hadn’t ever had, proper ones at least.

More nervous looks were changed, and some shifted uncomfortably at their high-backed seats of carved dark wood. Lord Edgar did nothing of the sort. He was too stern for it, so he gave another nod. Two younger golden haired lords, Tristen Trant and Harrold Kosvar, were having a silent but heated conversation at the far end of the table, but were silenced by the look Lord Edgar gave them. It was good to know the new lords still had some respect for the old ones.

“The news is disturbing and may demand actions; do My Lords have any suggestions?”

Even though Lord Edgar Morgorf was the chairman of the meetings and considered as the head of the Nine, he didn’t rule alone. Duncan thought it wise.

“I suggest we march north and kill that knife eared bitch-queen!”

Young Lord Cristopheus Murmalt, quick and sharp of tongue; slow of wit. . . The young and eager ones were always the first ones to die. Duncan had learned it during his long life.

“Empress.”

“What?”

“Vylein is ruled by an Empress, for all I know,” Macon said, leaning lazily back on his seat. He had removed his heavy fur cloak and was now spinning the ruby eyed fox-pin in his fingers.

“Who made you a Magister, Lord Fox, since you are allowed to speak?” The young raven haired lord spat, shooting a look of pure venom across the room. Macon seemed hardly to mind.

“No one, apparently . . . otherwise I would be sitting at the Table with you, perhaps even at your seat, but if I were a Magister –which I am not, thank the spirits– I would be more concerned about the Silent Brotherhood, than elves at the other side of the mountains.”

“What do you know about politics, Fox? You are not even a proper lord; otherwise you would have an actual family name, like the rest of us. I bet you are a bastard—”

“Enough! He is right, Topheus,” Lord Edgar said sharply, taking a sip from his cup. All Magisters had one, a handless silver cup, with large round pieces of onyx inlaid on all four sides.

“But the elves—”

“—Have stayed at the other side of the mountains for twenty years. The assassins are within our borders, killing our most trusted allies,” Lord Edgar finished, taking another sip of wine.

“The elves have an army; the Silent Brotherhood is a small group of second hand assassins,” Topheus laughed, finishing his wine. Lord Edgar didn’t look pleased. He had his reasons to hate the Brotherhood.

“We have reason to believe these ‘second hand assassins’ have silenced at least three of our late Magisters.”

Topheus did not look amused any longer. His face was growing redder and redder by his second humiliation and for a moment Duncan thought he would choke to his own anger. Then, he turned white as snow. He opened and closed his mouth, only the voice didn’t come out.

The boy coughed, blood spilling from his mouth to the dark wooden table. Duncan watched him, saw how he fought, but the Keeper had come for him; there was nothing he could do. The boy tried to stand with result of falling back with his chair. Wood met stone with a hollow loud noise that rang in the Hall unnaturally long. The boy was dead even before he fell.

The room was quiet besides the cozily cracking half burned fire. Its light cast shadows in the room, shining back from the glassed dark-blue eyes of the body, still wide from horror and disbelief.

Lord Edgar raised a hand to cover his eyes and everyone knew it true; young Lord Cristopheus had been silenced, forever and permanently.

--

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