Part IV: The Telling of Tales

XI

Ten Years Earlier

                Kirren struggled violently against his captors, lashing out with legs and arms until they were forced to tie him up and carry him, sack over his head, mouth gagged, hands and ankles bound. He screamed until his vocal chords physically snapped, forcing him into silence.

                The four men who had lugged him down the steps from the aviary thought they were escorting Kirren to his death. But the Crown Prince had no intention of dying today. This would not be his last day on earth. He had not watched his father die only to be slaughtered himself. He would avenge the deaths of his loved ones. No matter the cost.

                The castle still resonated with the random sounds of chaos. Kirren could not be sure of anything that was going on around him. The bag limited his sight to the shifting of light with the passing of burning torches. Without his feet touching the ground he couldn’t even determine which part of the palace they were in. They would have had to traverse the throne room, but after that they could have taken any number of paths to the outer wall.

                Kirren was immediately aware of when the motley crew exited the castle. The screams of terrified courtiers gave way to the soft noises of the night. The smell of grass and aroma of the wild rocket blooming on the edges of the road penetrated the sack over his head. He had long since gone limp, lulling his abductors into what he hoped was a false sense of security.

                After about fifteen minutes of trudging, the men were huffing and grumpy. One of them broke the tense silence. “Good Rhys, he’s heavy. How’s about we just kill him here? We could just bury him. Trillian won’t know the difference.” Kirren vaguely recognized the voice, but could not remember to whom it belonged. A few murmurs of ascent followed this proposition, but one voice stopped them.

                “No, we kill him at the river and dump his body in. Those were the orders.” Kirren recognized this voice instantly. It belonged to one of the palace captains, Maddock. He flashed back to a rainy day during his tenth year when Maddock had instructed him on how best to hold a dagger. His stomach twisted at the betrayal, his heart hardened against yet another bitter truth.

                The men sighed in disappointment and continued their trek into the forest. Kirren wondered if they had brought Gwirionedd with them. His dagger was back in the aviary, as was his dirk. He was weaponless, even if he did get the chance to fight back.

Would they have the courage to look him in the eye as they slit his throat? Or would they just stab him in the back and drop his faceless body into the Rhys?

                The sound of rushing water reached Kirren’s ears. Adrenaline coursed through him, as did panic. He was almost out of time and had no plan of action. His breath whooshed out of him suddenly as his body hit the ground. He found himself face down in the moist earth next to the River Rhys.

                It was said that the river followed the path of Rhys himself, coming down from the Viridian Mountains to rid the earth of the evil Anochel.

                The Cyrenian palace sat about three miles from the Hell of Anochel, near the southwestern corner where the river met the forest. If they dumped Kirren in the Rhys here, the current would carry his body downstream until finally laying him to rest in the Endless Sea, on the forest’s western edge. Kirren had never seen the Endless Sea. He’d never even been out of Cyro. He felt so small and insignificant while he lie with his ear against the ground, listening to the river roar by, contemplating his death, wondering if he would meet the man of legend in the afterlife.

                Suddenly a different sound separated itself from the pounding of the river.

                The pounding of hooves.               

                The newcomer leapt from his horse, rolling into a crouch beside Kirren’s motionless form. The element of surprise still with him, he cut the ties on Kirren’s wrists and ankles before taking a stance against the four traitors. Lacking the skills to take all of them on at once, he gave the Crown Prince a not-so-gentle nudge with his foot.

                For his part, Kirren reacted rather rapidly to the confusion that left him unbound. Pulling the sack from his head, he was immediately faced by two men, one of whom was Captain Maddock. Kirren recognized the other to be a common foot soldier whose name he could not remember. Was it Lark? Liken? Larkin. His name was Larkin. His was the voice that had suggested Kirren’s immediate death and burial. Unable to turn to identify his savior, Kirren quickly assessed the situation, discovering that the imbeciles had, in fact, brought Gwirionedd with them. His sword now lay a few feet from him, probably dropped in the ambush.

                But a few feet might as well be a few leagues with two soldiers between him and his only chance of survival. Kirren’s hand-to-hand fighting skills were fair, but never had he studied a defensive technique in which he had two opponents, both armed with swords. Both men gazed at him grimly. He wondered if Maddock felt any regret in what he was about to do.

                Maddock’s companion struck first. Kirren ducked as Larkin took a swipe at his face, but he didn’t move fast enough. The tip of the sword caught Kirren’s left eyebrow, slicing across his eye and nose as he stumbled backwards, crying out and dropping to one knee. Larkin took a step forward to finish him off when Kirren lashed out with his fist, landing a solid blow in Larkin’s gut and knocking the wind out of him. Larkin doubled over as Kirren lunged to his feet and kicked the foot soldier in the side of the head. He crumpled silently.

                Kirren was now blinded in one eye, whether permanently or by the blood gushing from the wound, he could not tell. Taking Larkin’s blade from the downed man, Kirren faced the soldier he had once considered a friend.

                “How long, Maddock?” Kirren’s voice, nearly destroyed by his frantic screams, came out gravelly and hoarse. His now asymmetrical silver gaze was leveled at the Cyrenian captain, blood streaming down his face. The Crown Prince was a gruesome sight, nightmarish with his black suit and bloody countenance, features set in anger and scarred by betrayal. “How long have you been plotting my family’s demise?”

*              *              *

                Catching a glimpse of his companion on his feet and facing down Trillian’s loyal captain, Kirren’s savior was struck by how powerful the Crown Prince looked. The pain evident in his bearing and face had nothing to do with his injuries. Nor did it weaken him. On the contrary, his pain was keeping him strong when he should have collapsed from despair. Zar could not fathom the depth of Kirren’s heart and soul that he could withstand so much and continue fighting so hard.

                At the sound of the prince’s husky accusation, Maddock lowered his sword with a sigh. “Kirren, I haven’t been plotting. I never wanted this.” His men stopped their advance as they looked at their captain. The two soldiers’ expressions said quite clearly that their commander was not the only one with regrets. Maddock sheathed his sword with force, anxiety making his actions jerky. “Trillian has my daughter under surveillance. If I do not obey him…”

                Zar’s shock exploded into speech. “Trillian shouldn’t even know Seeker exists! Nobody knew. His Majesty and I were the only souls you told.”

                Kirren looked from Maddock to Zar, shock that the steward was here fading in the face of Maddock’s unknown child and the horrors she was facing. He slowly lowered his stolen weapon, his gut telling him that he was in no immediate danger.

                “He tracked down Seeker’s mother. Elspeth… did not survive the encounter.” Maddock turned away, voice choked with emotion.

                “Murdered?” Zar whispered. “But… they said it was an accident…”

                “They lied,” Maddock said without turning around.

One of Maddock’s men stepped forward, sword sheathed. He was young, maybe four years Kirren’s senior. His blue eyes were troubled beneath a thatch of sandy brown hair. “I am Celyn. I have been a soldier in service of my lord and land for only five months. Trillian has my sister. He promised that my loyalty would ensure her safety.” He glanced at his feet, then up at his prince. “I am sorry, Your Highness.”

                Kirren could only nod, wondering just how many of his fellow Cyrenians had been forced into treason by capture of their loved ones. His disgust with his uncle only deepened. He looked at the remaining man standing. Probably in his mid-twenties, his dark brown eyes regarded Kirren with sadness. “My name is Morgan, Your Highness. Trillian has my little brother,” he whispered, answering Kirren’s unspoken question. “Dillon’s only had fourteen summers on this earth. That is not nearly enough.”

                He gestured to the man that Kirren had overpowered. “Larkin is the only one of us truly loyal to Trillian. He was recruited specifically for the coup. He has no skill, but he’s a ruthless bastard.”

                The small group pondered the unconscious soldier on the ground, each slightly lost in his own thoughts. Zar looked to Kirren, whose face was empty of all emotion. “What happens now, Your Highness?”

                Kirren spoke, eyes never leaving Larkin’s motionless body. “Today, the entire royal family is dead. Including the Crown Prince.” As he said the words, Kirren felt empty. He knew he had no choice, but this path would not lead to revenge. This decision would lead only to a life of anonymity, where his loved ones never existed, where their deaths went unnoticed. He would not be their avenger, and he felt a heavy weight press down upon his heart.

                Maddock turned to Kirren in amazement. “You mean to do nothing? To allow your uncle to spin a tale of woe about his poor family, let him take your kingdom for his own? You can’t back down!”

                The prince did not flinch at Maddock’s outburst. “Maddock, all Trillian wants is power, and he will do absolutely anything to obtain it. So forgive me if I refuse to put any more lives in danger, including those of fourteen-year-old Dillon, and Celyn’s little sister, and Seeker. If I stay, if I fight back, all I do is wage a pointless war against my own kin. Only devastation will come of that. As of today, Trillian is the last surviving member of Kenrik’s line. Perhaps that will satisfy him.” As he spoke, the prince reached up and lifted the silver circlet from his brow. “Give this to your new king, as proof of my demise and of your loyalty.” He handed the priceless object to Maddock, who gazed helplessly down at the silver winking from his fingers.

                “You can’t give up,” Celyn said quietly.

                “Give up on what, exactly, Celyn? My family is dead, my best friend killed for no other reason than my love for her. My uncle holds half my country hostage.” Kirren anxiously ran his fingers through his red-brown hair. “There is nothing I can do! My survival would only cause more bloodshed. I will not stay here and be a danger to you and my people.”

                Silence greeted his words, each and every man looking at their prince with sadness, respect, and understanding.

                “Where will you go?” Morgan asked.

                Kirren wiped some of the blood from his face and turned to gaze into the forest, at the trees that had been the backdrop to his entire existence. He did not answer.

XII

Zar looked across the field at his companion. Kirren rode towards him at an easy canter, his little grey mare poetry in motion. If the last couple of years were any indication, Zar would get no more information about this latest excursion than he had about the ones before. In fact, Zar got very little out of Kirren these days. Not that they had much to talk about. Neither spoke about their pasts, or their reasons for leaving. Zar still didn’t know Kirren’s motives behind traveling for weeks along the Rhys until reaching the Viridian Mountains. It seemed perilously close to a country that neither man wanted to name.

At the time, Zar had thought they had no destination. Their only goal had been to leave Cyro behind as rapidly as they possibly could. They had rescued Kirren’s mare, Whisper, from the royal stables. They’d had to take Wyn’s black stallion as well, who had started to make quite a ruckus when his stall mate had been led away. They’d mounted up and left their country while the sun still slept.

While they couldn’t cross the Hell of Anochel, especially in the dead of winter when heat turned to ice and death claimed all who ventured more than a few miles in, going north seemed unnecessary when they could just follow the river into Illyria. But he had not questioned Kirren.

The indeterminate time in the mountains had been the worst. Zar quickly lost count of the days amidst the constant moving. Kirren never stayed in one place for more than a day. Not that he ever said as much. He’d make camp, eat, feed the horses, sleep, pack up camp in the morning and continue moving. All Zar ever did was follow and wonder how much of his companion would survive their journey. He watched as Kirren retreated into himself, as the prince’s eyes darkened from sparkling silver to a thunderous grey.

And then one day, as the snows made their glacial retreat back into the clouds and spring timidly showed its face across the land, they stopped. Having zigzagged across the mountains, the pair had finally descended into the foothills and then the grasslands of Viridia. It was here that they ceased their endless journey across the known world. No word of warning from Kirren preceded this halt, and no explanation followed it.

Zar guessed that about seven years had passed since then. Here, time was measured by the growing season. In order to make some semblance of a living, he and Kirren had created a small farm. The pumpkins grew shockingly large, often three feet in diameter at least. The grain tolerated the climate well enough to feed their small herd of cattle, which they had painstakingly acquired through bartering in the village. Zar invested most of his efforts in the vegetable patch. Steak was easy to come by, but tomatoes and carrots were a rare delicacy that he cultivated with great care.

Kirren reined Whisper in a few feet from where Zar sat amidst the growing plants. He dismounted smoothly, nodding to Zar. “How are you?”

Zar squinted up at him, slightly surprised by the question. “Tired and cranky,” he replied honestly. “Where have you been?”

Kirren started unsaddling Whisper. “Town,” he answered vaguely.

“You’re in town an awful lot lately.”

“I like the people.”

Zar’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. “The people,” he repeated.

“Yes.” Gently removing the bit from Whisper’s mouth, Kirren set her loose amongst the cows, where she trotted over to nuzzle Nox. He watched her for a moment, a look of sadness evident on his scarred face.

“A woman?” Zar’s query caught Kirren off guard, but all melancholy had vanished when he turned toward the older man, replaced by skepticism.

“Zar. No woman looks twice at a face like mine. Her first instinct is to duck her head and hope I’m not feeling violent today.”

Zar studied Kirren’s face. It was hard to believe that the man was barely into his twenties, so worn did he look. His brown hair was shaggy and unkempt. His face and body had long since lost any softness of youth, toned and hardened by the constant work on the farm as well as the mysterious errands. His jaw was always covered by the shadow of a beard, which distracted from the aristocratic angles of his brow and cheekbones. Under normal circumstances, the boy would’ve been heartbreakingly handsome, were it not for his left eye.

The injury sustained in the escape from their homeland had long since healed, leaving a jagged white line that stood out starkly against Kirren’s sun-darkened skin. His eye had been damaged by the blow. The pupil had clouded over, lost in the silver of the iris. The luminescence of his eyes had always made the boy’s gaze seem far deeper, sometimes more sinister, than that of normal people. The asymmetry now made him seem downright dangerous.

Then again, maybe that was because of the hand-and-a-half sword belted at his left hip. Or the dagger at his right. It was hard to tell.

“Well, if you weren’t chasing after some young lady, what is it you were doing in town?”

Kirren shrugged noncommittally.

“What do the people in town call you, exactly?”

Kirren mumbled something, which Zar had to lean in to hear. “Hawkeye.”

The steward’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Ironic,” he commented. “And fitting.”

Kirren graced him with another shrug.

Zar sighed. “Fine, if you’re going to be that way you might as well disarm yourself and help me with the garden.” He turned his attention back to the ground, where he was doing his best to weed around the delicate pepper plants that he had all but begged for in town.

Kirren half-smiled to himself. Zar did not see it, or he would’ve fallen over in surprise. There was something comforting about the simple task of weeding a garden or milking the cows or selling vegetables. But then, it was also monotonous and dull. The simplicity of it made Kirren itch, even as he tried to immerse himself in a somewhat normal existence.

                Two days later, the first raiding party came through.

                It was near dusk, and Kirren still hadn’t returned from his latest outing. Zar sat in their small house, making a rather appetizing meal of steak, carrots and potatoes. He’d been saving the potatoes, as they were having the hardest time growing in their grassy corner of the world. He hoped that he hadn’t wasted them on a dinner that he would be eating by himself. He was relieved when he heard the sound of hooves, and poked his head outside to greet his companion.

                Zar immediately ducked back inside, seeing not one but three horses galloping towards his home. He grabbed his sword, cursing himself for his naiveté in thinking he might never need it again. He also spared a moment to curse Kirren for his absence.

                He quietly drew his weapon and waited.

*              *              *

                “Easy, Malcolm. It’s not an axe. There’s no need to put that much force into a single swing. That’ll throw you off balance.” Hawkeye demonstrated a better swing, which the twelve-year-old boy did his best to copy.

                “Like this?” Malcolm’s little sister, Rhona, executed the swing with her wooden sword almost perfectly. She was a tiny thing, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Seeing a nine-year-old girl with a sword would have been rather comical if she hadn’t been so good at it. Her natural aptitude was astonishing.

                “Very good, Rhona. But can you recover from the swing quick enough to parry a jab?”

                Hawkeye’s class was composed of between ten and twenty students, depending on the day and the willingness of their parents to allow their children to participate. They spent nearly an hour just stretching, loosening their muscles and training them to a strength that would allow for swordplay. After that, Hawkeye led them through basic strokes and movements. He then paired them off and had them practice on each other.

                He wasn’t even sure how he ended up teaching swordsmanship to children. One day he’d been buying supplies in the village and Malcolm had run up to him and begged to see him use his sword. Malcolm’s mother had all but fainted for fear that Hawkeye would kill her son on the spot. He didn’t blame her. He could only imagine how fearsome he looked.

                He smiled kindly down at Malcolm, carefully drawing his sword and demonstrating a few strokes before gently handing it to the boy, then barely seven. Malcolm held it reverently, looking down on it with a mixture of fear and awe. Apparently, Malcolm had told his friends, and Hawkeye’s class gradually grew over the years. He now had a small following that met every day, two hours before dusk.

                Today’s class had taken a little bit longer than normal, and Hawkeye was eager to be headed back to the farm. He didn’t want Zar asking any more questions than normal. He wasn’t sure why he kept his lessons a secret from Zar. It was kind of his escape. It felt good to help arm such defenseless children against the horrors the world had to throw in their paths. It also felt wrong, to destroy their innocence at such a young age. But he knew that they would have lost it sooner rather than later in times such as these.

                He bid farewell to his students, many of whom did not hear in the midst of their mock battles. He smiled to himself and nudged Whisper into a canter. He rode in relative peace, enjoying the warmth of the setting sun on his face in a rare moment of happiness.

                Hawkeye knew that Zar believed him to have lost most of his empathy, if not his soul entirely. He hadn’t forgotten though. He locked everything away, to delay the inevitable breaking of his mind and body. But he had not forgotten. It had been six years, ten months and thirteen days since they fled Cyrene. Nearly seven years. He tried not to think about it. Remembering the time in between invariably led to the time before, and that time was dark and filled with death.

                Not just the deaths of his family members. These specters haunted him day by day. But they were not the only spirits that whispered in his dreams. Five more sat on his conscience. Two had been guarding the door to the aviary. Three had attempted to subdue him as he struggled to save the life of his father. One man deserved to die as he did. That man would never stalk his dreams, for he held no regrets in ending that monster’s miserable existence. But the other five he knew not whether they truly wanted him dead or were merely following orders.

                To kill is not a noble thing, he thought miserably to himself.

                The sun had now sunk below the horizon, but light ahead perplexed him. His left eye could see almost perfectly in the light, but it was blind without. He closed it, hoping to settle the confusion that his mismatched eyes sent to his mind. As he neared the source, he realized it was their house, set ablaze against the darkening hills.

                Horrified, Hawkeye kicked Whisper into a gallop, drawing Gwirionedd and hoping against hope that Zar was not inside. The small wooden shack collapsed when he was about a hundred feet away. Out of the darkness to his left he heard the sounds of horses just as they came galloping across his path. Three mounted men brandished their weapons at him. Zar was nowhere to be seen.

                Rage filled him. Seven years he had been left in peace. Seven years to farm and buy supplies and live a quiet country life. And suddenly, his home was on fire, his friend nowhere to be found, and his life in immediate danger. The injustice of it all choked him with anger.

                “Leave now or die.” Hawkeye did not leave room for negotiations. The men chuckled darkly and slowly advanced on him. He looked at each of them in turn. “Have it your way.” It’d been a very long time since Hawkeye had fought from horseback, and it had only ever been practice, but Whisper knew exactly what to do. Adopting a light trot that kept her quick and agile, she wove in and out of the enemy horses, lashing out with teeth and hoof while Hawkeye jabbed and sliced at the riders.

                Hawkeye killed the first two with relative ease. He could practically feel his shoulders stoop with the weight of two more lives heavy upon his conscience. But they would have killed him, and he had no choice but to take their lives and that of their last companion. The man faced Hawkeye from atop his giant charger, a black stallion almost as tall as Nox. Shouting a battle cry, the raider made to attack when suddenly his horse dropped to its knees, screaming in agony and thrashing violently.

                Hawkeye watched in amazement as Zar appeared out of the darkness and wrenched the man from his saddle. Zar shoved him to the ground and ended his life with a quick thrust of his sword. He then turned to Hawkeye, a little breathless at the exertion.

                “Bastards destroyed my potatoes,” he said morosely.

XIII

                After the first encounter, Illyrian raiding parties became a regular threat. Most of the time, Hawkeye was able to deal with the attackers before they reached town. On rare occasion, he had to chase them down and confront them in the village itself, which did nothing to help the villagers’ impression of him as a ruthless killer.

                Zar did not speak to him for several days. He still held a grudge against Hawkeye for leaving him alone with three bandits. They worked silently at rebuilding their small house and erecting a large pen for the horses, having acquired three more from their murderous visitors. Hawkeye diligently splinted and wrapped the black’s right foreleg, which Zar had broken in the skirmish. He named the beast Cai, after his once beloved hawk.

                Cai and Nox should not have gotten along as well as they did, given that stallions are normally such combative creatures. But Hawkeye’s valiant grey mare was clearly in charge, not letting Nox take advantage of Cai’s injury nor allowing Cai to lash out in pain. Hawkeye watched their interactions with mild amusement. The other two horses meekly followed Whisper’s lead. Both geldings were a dull chestnut and reasonably well cared for. They did not seem to mind their change of ownership. Zar named them Gwyn and Hedwynn.

                Hawkeye continued educating the children of the village in the way of the sword. He watched with cautious pride as each child practiced dutifully, gaining skills beyond their tender youth that might ensure their survival in the years to come.

                One golden afternoon in the midst of their seventh autumn in Viridia, nearly eight years to the day since the end of their lives as they’d known them, Hawkeye turned from his instruction of Malcolm’s swing to see Zar hovering outside their class session. He didn’t say anything, just watched with muted amazement at the young girls and boys battling with makeshift swords, using skills that had been passed down through a long line of Cyrenian kings. Zar met Hawkeye’s mismatched gaze with respect and sorrow.

                The following spring, a certain messenger came to the village, bearing tidings of a pointless war and a grief-stricken king.

*              *              *

                Hawkeye was speaking before he had even entered the house. “Viridia is going to war.”

                Zar nearly dropped the knife he’d been chopping carrots with. “What do you mean?”

                “Trillian has declared war on Viridia.” He quickly summarized his conversation with Ewan before handing Zar the scroll. Zar contemplated the rolled parchment in his fingers for several long moments. When he finally looked up it was with sadness.

                “You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”

                Hawkeye gave him a small smile. “I need a purpose, Zar. Otherwise, my grief will be the death of me.” Tears sprang to Zar’s eyes as he was suddenly transported back to a very different afternoon that had culminated in the death of his king. Kirren looked so like his father, carrying the weight of the world upon his sturdy shoulders.

                Zar wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Will you present yourself to the Viridian queen?”

                “I’m not sure yet. I want to get a feel for the mood in the capital before I cause shockwaves with the news that the Cyrenian king murdered his own family. Especially given the fact that the rest of the modern world believes he has gone mad with grief.”

                “Trillian is sane. Well, he knows what it is he is doing,” Zar amended. “And I think more shock will come from the fact that you survived.”

                “We will see.” Hawkeye regarded Zar with a mix of sadness and affection. “What will you do?”

                Zar chuckled. “I did not put so many hours into that damn vegetable patch only to leave it in its prime. And those cows will not milk themselves.”

                Hawkeye smiled. “Perhaps one day I will return.”

                “Don’t come back until you’ve accomplished all you’ve set out to do, Your Majesty.”

                Hawkeye frowned at the use of a king’s address, but did not correct Zar. After a moment, he nodded and began gathering what few belongings he had accumulated over his eight years here. Mostly he just had tunics and breeches that he had purchased in the village, as well as a waterproofed cloak to keep off the rain. He owned only four items of value.

                The first, the Ring of Rhys, sat in its usual place on his right middle finger. Gwirionedd, of course, was another, given to him by his father on his fourteenth birthday. Aside from the sword’s perfect craftsmanship, the hilt was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and topped with one perfectly cut, flawless diamond the size of a chicken egg. The blade was inscribed with a simple phrase:

Bydd y Gwirionedd yn gosod am ddim i chi

                “The truth will set you free.” This weapon had a story, Hawkeye was certain of it. After admiring it, he wrapped the hilt to disguise its opulence.

                The third object of value he wore around his neck. A gift from his mother, the silver filigree oak tree hung close to his heart. He could still see Fiona’s smile when she’d given it to him.

                He had looked up at his mother with wonder. “What is it?”

                “It’s a token from my homeland, where the mighty oak gives the country strength. My grandmother gave one to my cousin, and this one to me. May it bring strength to you, my son.” Fiona had fastened it around his neck, then leaned back to admire it. “Perfect. Not as perfect as Wyn’s ring, but still worthy of a prince,” his mother had said with a smile.

                He looked at the ring, his final possession of both monetary and sentimental value. He wore it on the third finger of his left hand, traditionally saved for the ring he would receive at his wedding. It was a thick silver band, inlaid with a vein of opal and set with a single emerald. Wyn had given it to him on his thirteenth birthday. Gazing into the green gem, he was reminded of Wyn’s steady gaze, as had surely been her intention when she’d had it made. He spared a moment of grief before pulling on his gloves to hide the ring.

                Hawkeye packed his belongings into a set of saddlebags and then made his way out to the horses. Whisper was the first to greet him, followed by Cai and Nox. As he stroked his loyal mare’s velveteen nose, he balked at the thought of leaving her behind. But he couldn’t take both Whisper and Nox, and he hadn’t the heart to separate them. So, with a heavy heart, he saddled Cai, all the while speaking to Whisper.

                “Zar will take wonderful care of you. And you and I both know you’d rather be here with Nox than riding all the way to the Viridian capital and then to Rhys-knows-where. Trust me, Whisper, it’s better this way.” She nosed his shoulder, and he took that as forgiveness.

                He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Zar standing helplessly by. Zar contemplated him a moment before saying, “Never forget who you are, Kirren. Whatever it takes.”

                Hawkeye pulled Zar into a quick hug, trying to convey just how much he was grateful for. He brushed away a single tear before mounting Cai and urging him into a canter.

                Zar watched him ride off into the gathering gloom of twilight. The rightful heir to the throne of Cyrene soon disappeared into the night, clothed as he was in dark dress and sitting astride a black horse. “Go safely, Kirren, son of Kynan, King of Cyrene.” His words were lost in the night, floating on the soft air like a prayer.

*              *              *

                Hawkeye rode well into the night, though it was risky with his eyesight. He had only ever seen vague maps of Viridia, and guessed that he had at about three days of riding between him and the capital. Cai could not keep up the pace all night, though he tried valiantly. Hawkeye gently pulled him to a stop when the constellation of the Fiery One sat low on the western horizon, around two o’clock in the morning.

                Hawkeye gazed skyward as he unsaddled Cai, admiring the stars that blanketed the heavens. They burned so much brighter out in the middle of the Viridian grasslands, with no castles or forests to obstruct their light. Until he and Zar had finally freed themselves of the mountains, he had never known that so many stars existed. He vowed that one day, when he had time, he would study the stars. For now, he was content to pick out the constellations he knew best.

                The Fiery One was his favorite, despite the fact that Rhys beamed brighter upon Cyrene. The name of the woman whose form was depicted by the orange and red stars had long since been lost to the ages, and so had her story, but it was believed that she had been one of the first queens of Viridia. Nobody that Hawkeye had known could answer why there were stars named after a nameless queen. Perhaps she was the reason why the Viridian monarchy followed the female line. Illyria’s succession had followed the male line, until Gryphon overthrew and slaughtered the monarchy. Cyrene’s succession was determined by the firstborn, regardless of gender.

                Hawkeye wondered if the old tales that he had grown up with were fact or fiction. Had there been a time when demons like Anochel actually prowled the earth? Did Rhys truly travel the world, creating a river to ensnare Anochel and save his people? The Fiery One’s story hadn’t even made it to legend. Had she even existed?

                He gazed at Cai, who had actually curled up on the ground like a wolfhound, almost lost in the dark of a moonless night. Putting ancient stories from his mind, Hawkeye untied his sleeping roll and laid it upon the ground. He watched the stars dance on the black sky before lying back upon the ground and falling asleep beneath the heavens.

XIV

                “The rest is history, as they say. I joined the Viridian army. After six months they appointed me captain of the Shadows, whom I’ve now led for nearly two years. And that brings us to three months ago, when I received orders to protect Torren at any cost. I returned to my old farm only to find Captain Maddock’s daughter holding the former king’s steward at knife-point.”

                He looked up at his small audience. Lorna, he had already told. Zar sat next to the queen, exuding a sense of quiet satisfaction. He had helped tell the tale from the very beginning, starting with his last interaction with Kirren’s father. Of the four original men who knew that the Crown Prince lived, three of them looked back at him. Ewan stared at his friend in astonishment. Eilis peered at her feet with shame.

                Kirren finally looked at Seeker. She would not meet his gaze. “Seeker…”

                She stood abruptly and swept out of the room.

                “Seeker!”

                “Let her go.”

                He turned to Eilis, surprised.

                “Give her some time. Your Majesty,” she added hastily.

                “Don’t let my newfound title curb your opinions, Eilis. I’m not sure what I would do if you refused to speak plainly with me.”

                Ewan grinned at his sister, who smiled sheepishly.

                “So, what is your next move, Kirren?” Lorna spoke briskly, changing topics.

                He tore his mind from Seeker. “The fact that Trillian has access to accurate information about the whereabouts of my unit bodes badly for us. I think the most reasonable course of action would be to leave immediately for Cyro.”

                “It’ll be rough going this time of year,” Ewan commented.

                “Perhaps, but Hawk- I mean, His Highness is right. We don’t have much of a choice,” said Eilis.

                “You may want to interrogate Larkin before you go, Highness,” put in Celyn.

                “It may be nothing,” Morgan said, “but he’s the one who received Trillian’s orders. It’s quite possible he knows Trillian’s source as well.”

                Kirren looked to Lorna. She waved her hand. “We’ll have him broken by morning. In the meantime, I suggest you ready your troops.”

                “Ewan, Eilis, please inform the unit of our impending departure. It could be as early as tomorrow morning,” Kirren warned. The twins stood, each bowing politely to both monarchs before exiting the throne room. “Morgan, Celyn?”

                “We’re going with you, of course.” Morgan’s voice was firm, and Celyn nodded emphatically.

                “Zar?” Kirren looked to his oldest friend, the only father he had left.

                The steward smiled. “I’m afraid I cannot take part in this journey, my lord. Do not leave without saying goodbye!” he ordered before herding Morgan and Celyn out the door and leaving Kirren alone with the queen. Kirren watched them go before turning to the queen. He hadn’t really expected Zar to return with him, but he had hoped.

                It was heartbreaking, really, how much Lorna looked like Fiona. Lorna was fifteen years’ Fiona’s senior, and she had a hardness about her that his mother never had, a command of everyone and everything around her. Still, the similarity was enough to twist Kirren’s heart.

                “So you went and fell in love with that girl, didn’t you?” The words were chiding, but her tone was soft and concerned.

                Kirren nodded miserably.

                “I imagine that she’s the first since Wyn. Am I correct?”

                “Wyn was my best friend when I was fifteen, Lorna. It was the love of a child.” He paused before adding, “And the grief of a man.”

                “Fiona always said that you would marry that girl one day.” Lorna sighed. “It seems Rhys was not kind when teaching you the ways of the world. Not all men kill their brothers, Kirren. Not all love ends in tragedy.”

                “I’d like to believe you. But I have a country to take back from my uncle and a young woman who hates me for lying to her.”

                Lorna treated him to a pitying look. “She does not hate you, Kirren. I’d listen to her side of the story before trying to interpret her emotions. Seeker is a strong, confident young woman. Much like her mother, there is more to her than meets the eye.” Kirren heard the grief in her voice. It must have been hard to listen to his account twice. In his horrible tale, Lorna lost both her daughter and a cousin that she loved like a sister to the same monster.

                “You have to tell her the truth, Lorna.”

                Lorna chuckled sadly. “Seeing her reaction to your truths, I’m not sure I can bear it.”

                “If you insist that she stay here, you have to tell her. Not that she’ll want to come now anyway,” he noted. He looked up at the queen. “She has to know that she has a family that cares. She thinks Maddock abandoned her, Lorna, and somehow, I get the feeling that you know what happened. You owe her an explanation, as he is not here to give it.” Kirren stood and turned to leave. Before he did, he walked up to the throne and put his arms around her. “It’s not so bad finding out you’re related to one of the greatest queens of the ages.”

*              *              *

                Seeker sat on the floor in the middle of her sitting room. The world had long since plunged into darkness, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t make herself feel anything. It occurred to her that Zar had described finding Kirren in an almost identical state on the day of the duchess’s wedding. This thought did not help.

                Hawkeye is a prince, she thought disinterestedly to herself. Then she corrected herself. No, he’s Kirren, the rightful king of Cyrene. Leave it to Seeker to fall hopelessly in love with the king of her realm. She tried to banish his silver gaze from her mind’s eye.

                Seeker had spent eleven years grieving the loss of her mother. Two years ago, she’d found out that her mother had been stolen from her to punish her absent father. Knowing that Elspeth had been murdered did not change the fact that she was gone. But as Seeker thought about it, it did change her perception of the state of Cyrene. Before, joining the rebellion had just seemed like the right thing to do. Now, Seeker felt it was her responsibility to aid in the downfall of an evil man, to prevent losses like her own. She wondered how many children in Cyrene had lost parents to Trillian.

                Kirren had lost both of his parents to Trillian.

                Emotion flooded through her.

*              *              *

                The night draped the room in shadow, muting the rich colors of the rugs and tapestries. Kirren sat in the window, face turned upwards toward the stars, despair chaining him to the earth. He whipped around when he thought he heard a sound, but silence again overtook the room, and he could not be sure that he’d heard anything.

                The gentle knock came again.

                Confusion and suspicion crept through him. He quickly belted on his dagger before easing the door open. Though his left eye made it difficult to see in the dark, he would have recognized that willowy figure and long braid anywhere. For a moment, he was certain that his imagination had conjured this apparition to taunt his shame. Until she spoke.

                “Kirren.”

                That was it. No adornment, no swooning, no declaration of undying love. His own name had never before sounded so sweet as it did in Seeker’s voice, in the middle of the night. He stepped aside and let her into his rooms, shutting the door behind her.

                “I wondered if I’d see you before I left.”

                “The queen informed me you’re taking the unit to Cyro without me. No, it isn’t your fault, don’t apologize,” she interrupted him as he opened his mouth to do just that. “Apparently, there’s something she needs to tell me. She said you know what it is.”

                “I –“

                “She also said you are under pain of death not to tell me.”

                Kirren hung his head. “I’m so sorry, Seeker. For everything.”

                “Everybody has secrets, Kirren.” She spoke matter-of-factly, emotionlessly. Kirren scrutinized her blue eyes, normally deep pools of fire and emotion. As he gazed into them now, their shallowness scared him. He wanted to reach out and shake her.

                “Seeker, why are you here?”

                She paused, as if she weren’t sure. “Because… I realized not too long ago that I’m not the only person who has lost someone to that king. Even though I can’t go with you, I understand your responsibility to your people. You have no reason to apologize to me for any deception necessary to save our country.” Her words were sincere, but still… Kirren felt sure that pain lurked behind Seeker’s blasé façade.

                Seeker nodded, as if something had been settled, and stepped past Kirren towards the door. He couldn’t bear to let her leave, not now that she was here and hurt and not telling him why. He reached out and grasped her hand. He heard her catch her breath, but she didn’t turn around.

                “Tell me what is bothering you,” he pleaded.

                She tugged gently against his grip. “Let me go, Kirren,” she whispered.

                His voice dropped. “Please don’t walk away from me. Not again.”

                Seeker spun around to face him, emotion blossoming across her face. “I told you once not to take life so seriously, that you put too much importance on your own actions and responsibilities.”

                “You couldn’t have possibly known –“

                She cut him off. “I stand by that, Kirren. Yes, you are the future king of Cyrene. You have responsibilities. But to think, even for a moment, that that fact changes who you are? And even worse, to believe that I would think less of you because of it?” Seeker shook her head. “There is a difference between who you are and what you are. Who you are doesn’t change because of some title.”

                He could only stare at her, this fiery, beautiful woman who constantly upset the balance in his life. “You truly believe that?”

                “I do,” she said without hesitation. She drew herself up, pointing a finger at his chest. “I also believe in you, whatever you are, whatever name you go by. Don’t forget that, Kirren.”

                Kirren suddenly realized that he was still holding her hand. He contemplated her fingers before saying, “I wish you could come with us. I need somebody around who’ll remind me of my own mortality every once in a while.”

                Seeker gently extracted her hand. “Perhaps it’s better that I’m staying here.”

                “What do you mean?”

                She gave him a small smile and said, “Distractions get mortal people killed.”

                “Distractions,” Kirren repeated. He didn’t ask her to clarify. He’d thought the same thing earlier that morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago, like so much had changed since then.

                Seeker turned to go, saying over her shoulder, “I will not be your weakness, Kirren, so don’t you dare fall in love with me.”

“It’s a little late for that, Seeker,” he whispered.
She lingered at the door, but opened it and slipped into the dark corridor without responding.

XV

                Seeker watched from the windows as the Shadows departed with her archers. Having gained no information from Larkin, the unit had decided to leave as soon as possible. She spotted Kirren easily at the head of the column, riding his white-grey mare with a grace that made her heart ache. Once, he glanced up at the castle. Though he couldn’t possibly see her, he seemed to stare into her soul for a moment before spinning Whisper around and spurring the mare forward, followed by the soldiers.

                She did not cry.

                As expected, a messenger arrived a short time later to summon her to the queen. Calder led her down to the throne room.

                Her Majesty greeted Seeker, saying, “Kirren was in quite the mood this morning. Did he leave without telling you he loved you?”

                Seeker could only stare, surprised that the queen knew about Kirren’s feelings, but then, what did she know about royals? They seemed to be in the habit of sharing secrets with each other.

                The queen gave her a knowing look. “I see. You let him leave without telling him how you feel.”

                “Your Majesty,” Seeker’s voice came out in an exasperated sigh, “you have something to tell me, and I fail to see what Kirren’s feelings for me or mine for him have anything to do with it.”

                Her Majesty chuckled. “Oh, my dear Seeker, you will.” She signaled to Calder, who sprang forward with a small bundle of paper, which he handed to the queen. Her Majesty, her smile faded into melancholy, handed them to Seeker. “Have a seat, dear, and read these. I’m afraid that this may be quite a shock to you.”

                Seeker looked at the bundle in her hands, determining that it was comprised of letters. She sat in the empty steward’s chair and opened the first one.

Addressed to Her Majesty, Lorna, daughter of Avalbane, Queen of Viridia

          Your Majesty, I have some unexpected news for you. Please bear with me as I write my story, as it will quickly become clear that it has everything to do with you. Two years ago, I joined the Cyrenian army. As you may be aware, our war with Illyria has shown no signs of coming to a close, and the king needed any and all able-bodied men and women to join in the fight.

          While training in the barracks outside of Cyro, I met the loveliest young woman I have ever laid eyes on. She is pure and kind, with the prettiest smile and hair like spun gold. We struck up a friendship and quickly fell in love. We were married last spring. Two months ago, my wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. Almost upon her birth, the girl’s eyes were open and seeing. We named her Seeker, which has proved to be very accurate, as she is constantly seeking out trouble.

          Three days ago, my wife revealed a secret to me, which I had been completely ignorant of until now. Elspeth told me that two years ago, she ran away from her home in Vale. She did not tell me why she left, only that her mother would be furious if she found her. When pressed, Elspeth revealed that she was, in fact, the princess of Viridia, gone missing two years before from her mother’s palace. She begged me to tell no one.

          Your Majesty, I apologize to the very utmost. I am but a lowly foot soldier, and you, no doubt, wished better for your only daughter. If it is any consolation, I love her more than life itself and would gladly lay my life down for her or Seeker any day.

          Despite Elspeth’s request to keep her secret, I felt compelled to write to you and inform you that your daughter is alive and well, except that she is married to a soldier in a country at war. I hope that you’ll forgive me for my ignorance, but if you cannot do that, at least forgive her for her disobedience. She wanted only to be free.

Respectfully yours,

Maddock, son of Broderick

                Seeker looked up at the queen in shock. Lorna’s eyes were filled with tears, and Seeker could only describe her expression as ashamed.

                “I’m afraid to say that I did not respond kindly to Maddock’s letter. I told him, in no uncertain terms, to get away from my daughter and send her home to me immediately. His honor was such that he complied with my demands, out of respect for a monarch and out of love for his wife. His subsequent letters informed me that he had told Elspeth of my request. She, of course, was devastated. She let him leave, knowing that he could not stay in good conscience. She sent me this letter.” The queen leaned over and plucked one from the stack.

                Seeker opened it and felt her eyes fill with tears as she recognized her mother’s handwriting. She ran her fingers over the page before beginning to read. It was not properly addressed, and Seeker could feel the hurt and indignation emanating from the written words.

            You could not let me go, could you, Mother? You had to interfere, as you so often do, and all but ruin the life I have built for myself here. I love that man. Maddock is good and kind and his honor has forced him to leave me, as you so cruelly demanded. You had no right to tell him what to do, just as you had no right to tell me what to do. Did you honestly believe, even for a moment, that I would return simply because you ordered me to?  I left in the middle of the night to avoid a marriage that you arranged, that you demanded that I go through with. That duke treated me like a possession, Mother. I refuse to be under anyone’s control. Not his, not yours. Maddock loves me for who I am. And you drove him away from me. For that, I will never forgive you.

            I hope that you never meet your granddaughter, as she will surely be a disappointment to you. Already she is headstrong and independent, qualities that I fiercely hope she will retain into adulthood. I will not tell her of her relation to you. As far as I am concerned, there is none. Seeker is my heart, and she is nothing like you. If she ever discovers who she is, I hope that she will follow her heart, and not your demands.

            I am not coming back to Vale. Cyro is my home now, and there is nothing you can do to change that. I hope you can accept that, but knowing you, this will probably not be the case.

            I wish you all the best.

            Elspeth

                “Did she ever forgive you?”

                Lorna smiled sadly. “Will you?”

                Seeker had no answer to that. When she didn’t respond, the queen picked out another letter and handed it to her.

                “This is the only other correspondence I received from Elspeth.”

To Her Majesty, the Queen of Viridia

            Before I begin, I want you to know that a lot has changed since my last letter. While I do not condone your actions and I still believe them to be wrong and unjust, I do forgive you, as I now have some understanding of what you went through.

            My daughter is now eight years of age. It has not been easy, raising her alone, but I think that she is fairly content. She has only asked once about the whereabouts of her father, and though my answer seemed to satisfy her, I doubt her thirst for information has been slaked.

            As I once told you, she is headstrong and independent. I love her with all my heart, but, as I’m sure you understand, she is sometimes difficult to handle. She is confident almost to a fault, but I worry that it is but a front. She worries about her appearance as well as her worthiness. While I can tell that one day she will be the loveliest of creatures, I have not the power to convince her of her worth. I imagine it has something to do with the absence of her father.

            She returned from the market today all aglow. She babbled for quite some time about a soldier she met there, a brave strong captain who gifted her with a knife to protect herself. After many minutes of gushing, she revealed that the man she had met was, in fact, her father. It seems he recognized her in the market. How could he not? She has my features and his coloring. I haven’t seen Maddock in almost eight years, but I imagine that he and Seeker are quite obviously related. I do miss that man.

            Perhaps one day soon I will bring Seeker to Viridia to meet her grandmother. I cannot promise anything, as the war with Illyria seems to be heating up and crossing borders is dangerous these days, but I shall do my best.

            I love you, Mother. I hope all is well at home and that I shall see you soon.

            Elspeth

               

                Seeker wiped the tears from her cheeks. She was surprised when the queen reached out and took her hand, but she accepted it without question. She knew that the queen had never seen her daughter again, and it obviously still pained her.

                Lorna cleared her throat. “I did not receive news of Elspeth until a year later, when Maddock wrote to me to inform me of her death.”

                “Does my father know where I am?”

                “As far as Trillian knows, your entire battalion was destroyed at Torren. He believes you to be dead, and continues to threaten your father as if you are still alive. Your father, however, is well aware that you are safe with me. I imagine he is quite proud of you.”

                Seeker smiled. Then she began to realize the implications. “You have no other children.”

                “No, I do not.”

                “What does this mean for me?”

                Lorna sighed. “It doesn’t mean anything unless you decide it does.” The queen laughed when she saw Seeker’s suspicion. “Child, I have learned quite a bit in the last twenty years. I have no intention of making the same mistake with my granddaughter as I did with my daughter all those years ago. Though I doubt I need worry about you falling in love with a lowly foot soldier.”

                Seeker blushed. Another thought occurred to her. “Does Trillian know who I am?”

                “Not in the slightest. Oh, and before you even think about making a decision, there is a letter addressed to you. I assume it is from your father. I’ll have you know that, despite my incurable nosiness, I have not read it.”

                Unlike the others, this letter did not possess the tell-tale wrinkles of use. Seeker opened the seal with some trepidation. She had not seen or heard from her father since she’d joined the army.

My Dearest Seeker,

          There are so many things I want to say, so much I want to tell you. Unfortunately, I have little time and can only give you the promise that one day, hopefully soon, I can satisfy all of your questions.

          I have only met you a few times since your infancy, my daughter. But despite my absence, I have loved you your whole life. My reasons for leaving you and your mother had external influence, but they were good intentioned. I hoped that I could appease the queen. I hoped that Elspeth would return to her home, where she would be safe. As it was, she had no intentions of going anywhere, and her proximity made her a target. I am sorry for my part in your loss.

          That said, there are crucial matters that I must tell you about. You see, my lovely daughter, Cyrene is on the brink of destruction. But while the world knows this, no one, besides me, knows why. Should Trillian dispose of me, someone needs to know exactly what they are up against. I tell this secret, not to my daughter, but to the most reputable bounty hunter in the land. The Seeker is known for her ability to track down anything, and my dear, you have a very important task ahead of you.

          Lorna wrote that a mysterious young man by the name of Shadowhawk arrived at court with you. While I do not know for sure, I imagine that I know the boy well. However, he does not concern me, as I know him to be among the most skilled fighters I’ve ever met, not to mention how wholly and truly good he is. No, my interest, and yours, lies with the man who accompanied him. He will have the information you need.

          Tell him, “Rhys only knows what Trillian found in the depths of the Hell of Anochel.”

          If, out of concern for his own safety, he pretends not to understand your statement, kindly tell him that the Rhydians have not all been lost to the ages.

          It makes no sense now, I am aware. But it will, Seeker. It will.

          I wish I could do this for you, but I have not your skill, nor your strength, and for now, I am well-positioned to help in the efforts to end our realm’s agony. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Seeker. Do not ever forget that. No matter what happens, know that I love you and that there is nothing I would not do for you.

          Be safe, my daughter.

          Your loving father