Date: Mon, 2 Jun 2003 14:53:14 -0700 (PDT)
From: Kris Gibbons <bookwyrm6@yahoo.com>
Subject: SongSpell-16

This story is a work of fiction. It contains references to violent behavior
between adults, death, expressions of physical affection between consenting
adult males, as well as some examples of both decent and self-gratifying
parental affection. If you find this type of story offensive, or if you are
underage and it is illegal for you to read it, please exit now. All
characters are fictional and in no way related to any persons living or
deceased. Any such similarity is purely coincidental.

This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any
form without the specific written consent of the author. It is assigned to
the Nifty Archives under the provisions of their submission guidelines but
it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the consent of
the author.

I can be contacted at Bookwyrm6@yahoo.com

Copyright 2003 Kristopher R. Gibbons  All rights reserved by the author.


                 16	And Less Than Kind

                 King: But now my cousin Hamlet, and my son -
                 Hamlet: A little more than kin, and less than kind.
                 King: How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
                 Hamlet: Not so, my lord. I am too much in the sun.
                                       Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2, Line 63 ff.

     As the Temple tolled the sixth bell of night, Kri-estaul slept the
sleep of the secure, gentled by the rhythm of Evendal's heartbeat and,
seemingly, eased by the understandably erratic cadence of his
walk. Bruddbana had vehemently protested Evendal's continued attendance in
the forest. No one, not Bruddbana, not Ierwbae, not even Brualta,
questioned the child's presence in the midst of their task. The King, not
willing to let the boy out of his sight, kept him on a sling in front of
him. Were it not for Kri's runt-like size and weight, the result of two
years of neglect, such an option would not have been possible.
     Evendal did not abide in the forest out of restlessness or any sense
of empathy for his Guard, but out of simple practicality: The power that
had been Surn-meddil was both less and more than human. Evendal's gut told
him it could be subject to odd lapses, mercurial swings in mood and
action. So, since the safety of the Royal bloodline seemed an obligation
Surn-meddil consistently recognized, the King remained.
     Around them, the Guard and the Cinqet assembled and dispersed. After a
brief discussion, Surn-meddil agreed to house the fruit of their efforts in
his Tower. He continued to look unhappy about the presumption; the tree
limbs near his phenomenon rustling and agitated. When two of the Guard
hoisted an iron-banded battering ram through the doorway and scraped its
stonework, roots from a nearby tree surged up from their burrowing and
rapped back against the ground.
     "Surn-meddil," Evendal whispered. "Do you... Can you see beyond your
chosen demesne? With the same thoroughness?"
     "Yes, distance is no objection, only will and desire. I have never
felt the need." He quoted an age-old reference to the Thronelands'
primacy. "'All hearts heed the Throne'. Anything that affects Osedys comes
to Osedys. Why?"
     "I cannot help wondering if this one camp is all, or if others are set
up in case of discovery. Also..." He hesitated, dreading the idea. "If her
mercenaries were successful, Onkira would want to be seen as a Saviour of
her people, so she might choose to be closer-by than Arkedda on the eve of
attack. Appearing on the stage at the perfect moment to keep the 'ravaging
horde' in check."
     "So, you wish me to peruse beyond my self-appointed confines?" The
dead man's look was simple amusement.
     "If you would be so gracious?"
     Surn-meddil laughed. "I had already thought on your suspicions,
youngling. And looked. She is not in our lands. But I will go searching
again, if only to relieve the frightened hearts of your helpers by seeming
to be absent."
     As comprehensive as Surn-meddil's mirth seemed, it disappeared in a
blink, replaced by a look, which - while not lacking in emotion - Evendal
could not decipher. With a bonelessness that a snake would envy,
Surn-meddil slid from his tree perch and strode up to the living ruler of
the Thronelands.
     "Forgive the familiarity, nephew." He whispered, then grabbed
Evendal's nose, clamping it shut. He kissed Evendal on the mouth, pushing
the King's lips apart with his tongue and inhaling. Surn-meddil waited as
his victim flailed about. Evendal could not get a grip on the dead man,
everything but the head and hand proved as incorporeal as mist. With no
alternative and no air, Evendal inhaled Surn-meddil's exhalation. His
senses confused him, Surn-meddil's breath tasted of the winds after a hard
rain. Two more inhalations, and Surn-meddil released him.
     Evendal stared in shock at the teary-eyed apparition. "I could not
protect my Ganil, before. You two, I can protect. Now, if your body is at
peril, I will know. And will be there before the next thought." And
Surn-meddil disappeared.
     Shaken to his foundation, Evendal sat on the damp ground and tried to
get his wits in order. He looked down into the wide eyes of his son. "How
is it with you, my boy? Did he scare you?"
     "No. He told me what he was about to do, before he moved."
     Evendal frowned. "How?"
     Kri-estaul shrugged. "I do not know. I thought I was
asleep. Dreaming. But, then he was there, and told me he was going to get
real close, and not to be surprised. At least that's what it seemed like,
but there was a lot more, too."
     "Like what?" Evendal had learned not to disregard his adopted son's
perceptions.
     "I don't know. It's all confused. But... He's scared, and
strong. And... You remember Soandrh?"
     It took Evendal a moment to rally his wits and recall the bitter,
grief-wrenched woman. "Yes,"
     "He felt like her. All jumbled up, hurting. I wanted to cry, to hold
him. I don't know why. How was his kiss?"
     Evendal gasped, thrown by Kri-estaul's asking. "Not something I
wanted." He prevaricated.
     The King could hear the sleepy mischief in his son's voice. "Papa,
that's not an answer."
     "Well, why do you want to know?"
     Kri looked away. Evendal chose to answer, nonetheless. "Strange. I
felt panicky, then... invigorated, then safe. I. Whatever his glamour
is..." He could not think to finish his sentence.
     Kri said nothing immediately, and Evendal knew Surn-meddil had a
friend in his son. The King returned to directing the Clan's efforts now
that he understood the terrain. Heamon's skulkers arrived and departed in
groups of three, leaving empty-handed and returning with bows, quivers,
maces, swords, helmets, shields, and greaves. Leather armour became the
most common item crowding the second floor of Hrioskunra Tower.
     During the third bell of their gleaning, Ierwbae approached the King
with a cluster of twenty gatherers, all holding small spherical clay
pots. "Your Majesty,"
     Evendal's smile of greeting died at his Guard's grim
countenance. "What is toward?"
     "Take a look at this, found in one corner of the Command tent."
     Evendal took the pot Ierwbae proffered. Some liquid sloshed in the
crockery, with a woven wick stoppered into the only opening. The wick gave
off an acrid scent. "Naphtha." The trees nearest rustled in reaction,
hard-rind seeds fell with spear-like branches. "Yes, not a wise weapon to
carry in this forest."
     "How goes the removal?"
     "These were the last items, my lord."
     "Are the Guard ready?"
     "Yes, Lord."
     "We accompany them."
     "No, good my lord."
     Evendal ignored Ierwbae, and walked about fifteen paces until he came
before two rows of Guard, unarmed, but determinedly immobile. A passive
barrier and deliberate symbol as the "arm of the King." After a moment, and
three deep breaths, he turned again to Ierwbae, his eyes serving as lamps.
"This is ridiculous! I will not be held captive by my own Guard."
     "You will not recklessly endanger yourself for a prideful gesture. You
are our lord, our guide, our adjudicator, and our hope. But your gifts make
you the most vulnerable in the midst of combat. We adjure you,
abide. Please, my lord and dearest brother."
     No one spoke, even Kri, before finally Evendal replied. "I will not be
held back, cossetted, when my people go into a fight. However one-sided we
may have made the skirmish."
     Ierwbae bowed, as if in concession, then sat on the ground and looked
at nothing in particular. Behind him, the clustered Guard likewise sat, to
a woman. Those Guard still in the clearing sat or settled where they were,
clearly refusing to move. Evendal's face burned.
     "You defy Us? For what? Is it not Our duty to be your battle-duke? Are
We not the same as you, wanting to protect the people we love? Why is it so
wrong for Us to be at your side in a fight where the peril is so miniscule?
You diminish Our authority, unmanning Us by overruling Our will."
     Ierwbae looked up. "We ensure that you are there to rule us tomorrow,
and the day after. We honour a part of our pledge to safeguard you and
your's. Please, let us do our work?"
     Evendal fought for calm. "I, We, are going. We can orchestrate nothing
if We cannot see what passes. Accept it." He paused and looked pleadingly
at the Guard. "Ierwbae, I know I might become a liability in a skirmish,
but trust me that I would not, ever, endanger my son. Grant me a man's
dignity, and a citizen's rights."
     Ierwbae took his time digesting this perspective, then bowed
acquiescence. "Forgive me, good my lord. On a few conditions." Evendal
nodded, and Ierwbae addressed the Prince. "Your Highness, who are you
willing to have keep watch over you, in your father's absence?"
     Kri looked sullen, glaring at the obdurate Guard. After a brief
consideration, Kri-estaul grinned and answered. "You, Uncle 'Bae!" Then,
realising he teased a Guard, his pleasure turned. "No! I didn't mean it,
Master. Papa! Papa! I'm sorry! I'm sorry."
     The King stared, dumbfounded, at his panicked son. "Calm yourself,
Kri! You have nothing to apologise for. That was sly and clever."
     "Truly, Kri-estaul, how could I be angered at the chance to spend more
time with you?" Ierwbae whispered, his heart hurting at the quicksilver
change in the child.
     "Thunders, Ierwbae! Who could I relinquish him to that would not send
him into terror? We have nothing but Cinqet and Guard here. One of the
Cinqet? I would be bankrupting my privy thesaurus paying their ransom for
him."
     A breath across Evendal's face and suddenly a scattering of leaves and
dirt whorled an elf-lock in front of King and Prince, oddly visible in the
night. A voice spoke out of the dim whirlpool of detritus. "What of me,
little one? I would be a surer guardian than most."
     Kri-estaul looked up and stammered. "Would... Would you? That... That
would be fun!"
     "Surn-meddil? But we may need you near." Evendal protested.
     "Selfish boy! I am fully capable of serving both our mutual
concerns. Where would he be safer?"
     Evendal knew only one answer, and was too stubborn to give
it. Exchanging his Palace threads for a boiled leather vambrace and a
hunter green overtunic, the King followed Ierwbae and a collection of Guard
on a quiet trek to the militant camp.
     The crackling of booted feet on leaves, conifers and husks, along with
the noise of branches being thrust away or broken, seemed deafening to the
King. "These mercenaries would hear us from a league away!" Evendal hissed
at Ierwbae.
     "There is no help for it." Ierwbae replied. "That is why I ordered the
Guard to arrive at the camp perimeter in stages. We would not lose all our
Guard if discovered. We would still have enough for concealed hit-and-run
action. And if the first few roused the camp, but remained undiscovered,
any further disturbance might be disregarded. Or ascribed to the uncanny
forest."
     When they were what Ierwbae estimated as three minutes run from the
invaders, he bade Evendal halt and assigned three people to act as the
King's protectors and messengers. Once, Evendal came across a wiggling,
humming lumpy shadow: one of the mercenaries' watch, trussed and gagged.
     Oblivious to the hissing of his companions, Evendal stepped past the
last stand of foliage and onto the target clearing. A shallow but broad
concavity in the earth provided a natural border for the camp. Within that
stretch, row upon row of oiled fabric awnings blanketed over a third of the
grounds. Two tents centered this miniature valley. Eyes acclimated to the
night, the King knew the ensign draping one tent, the primrose of the
Dowager, with the etoile beneath it connoting her deputy.
     A clacking signal behind him alerted Evendal that all waited on him.
     "Allo the camp!"
     Like ants from a violated hill, men and women came pouring out from
under the awnings. They massed to the ensign-less tent, only to roil away,
shouting dismay and defiance. As the mob turned to scatter into the wood,
Evendal's Guard stepped out into visibility under the starshine.
     "You are surrounded," the King confirmed. "Your weapons
claimed. Yield, and live. Refuse, and die." Despite his glamour-touched
voice, Evendal had to repeat himself. Waxen gray visages, bereft of
character in the dimness and distance, whirled around senselessly,
struggling against each other, with no purpose but the hope of escape. Once
he felt certain the majority saw their disposition, Evendal continued.
     "Should you submit, in all verity, you will be treated
honourably. Those willing to tender their parole, sit or kneel where you
are, hands outstretched."
     Heedless of the King's largesse, many challenged the cordon,
brandishing fists or hoarded knives. The Guard, implacable, killed those
who attacked, pitiless at Evendal's relayed directive. With the first
death, m'Alismogh sat on the moss-draped root beneath him, and cradled his
head in shaking hands. He expected that some would not yield, regardless of
terms. He also knew that he could not let his dwomer-born vulnerability
dictate his presence or absence.
     After the tenth convulsion, Evendal tumbled to the dirt and vomited
forcefully. Vaguely aware of the Guard flanking him, the King gripped the
root and strove to breathe slowly and deeply, dispersing the vertigo that
threatened and momentarily ignoring the sharp demand to purge his
bowels. When his urge to gag turned into dry heaving, Evendal could no
longer ignore the imperatives of his abused body. He retreated back in
among the trees, with escort following, removed some of his protective
garb, and pulled out the cloths he had stored for Kri-estaul. He could not
tell how much time passed, how many spasms wracked him, before he no longer
heard the cries or saw the glare of camp-fire and starlight. He came to
himself when a blood-splattered Ierwbae found his King clutching his
stomach, a puddle of bile and feces close by. Not until the last
aggressor's mortal act of defiance shuddered through his own frame did
Evendal m'Alismogh dare to begin cleaning himself.
     "There are times," Evendal gasped. "When I feel like my body is
someone else's. Under someone else's control." He fought the urge to
giggle, the onset of hysteria. "Because it is! How many?"
     Ierwbae understood. "About two hundred killed. Fifteen Guard dead or
wounded. The rebels thought to overwhelm with their numbers, but they
didn't know how to fight, weaponless, in concert."
     "Did... Did any yield, at the beginning?"
     "Yes. Quite a few. Some even turned on their fellows, once our success
became obvious."
     Evendal grimaced a smirk. "No doubt." Red-faced, the King asked. "How
bad do I look?"
     "You look like you have run through the forest, willy-nilly. Rumpled
and hag-ridden. You still have some chyme on your face, lord."
     "That good?" Evendal wiped at his cheek and chin. "Well, might as well
put it to some advantage. Let's go intimidate the vanquished." He said
sourly.
     Ierwbae supporting, Evendal stumbled down to the carnage. Seeming
oblivious, he stepped over a severed head, and moved to where the
emblazoned tent still stood. About him, people sat or lay in pain and fear,
those who had not submitted initially. Using Ierwbae more and more as a
crutch, the King looked around. Less than half the mercenaries remained
among the breathing. Against their inclinations, the Guard secured the
living with leather cord, rope and shackle, rather than with their blades.
     "What to do with them..." Evendal pondered.
     "They deserve death, still." Ierwbae argued. "Regardless of their
appearance of submission."
     "They came to demolish Osedys. To claim the spoils of battle." The
King mused. "There is demolition to be accomplished."
     "My lord?"
     "The Wall. If they were so anxious for destruction, what better
gesture can a gentle ruler make than to grant them their wish?"
     "You are, indeed, gracious, my lord." Ierwbae answered, grinning
lightly. "But haven't you already enlisted the Stoners to that effort?
Won't that be placing too many enemies in close proximity?"
     "Anything I conceive of, other than death, mutilation, or lifetime
incarceration, would render them a further danger."
     Ierwbae had an answer, though. "These poor fools, most certainly, have
a past. In all likelihood, an invidious past. I doubt this is their first
criminal act, merely the first time they got caught in flagrante delicto."
     "So, you suspect other cruelties shadow them? Evoking the Left Hand?"
     Ierwbae nodded. "As you winnowed at our fealty, can you not do so
here?"
     Evendal thought for a moment, looking out at the faces now staring
back at him. Some glowered, sullen, angry at the thwarting of their
ambitions or their lust for battle: their moment of excitement. Some wept
for the loss of a comrade. Some wept or hid their faces out of fear for
themselves. Like a stranger, disconnected from the past hour, Evendal felt
only sadness; these people were just as vital, as complex, as interesting
and alive as the citizens they had unconcernedly planned to terrorize and
slaughter.
     "Ierwbae, I will need another Guard for when I am done." Ierwbae
sharply waved a woman over.

        Those who's hearts thrill to the song of another's pain,
        Who have known another's hurt as an avenue of joy,
        Those who have cared less for blessing than for bane,
        Who, wanting their ends, care not what means they employ,
        Those here whose pledge and troth means naught but a moment's
breath,
        Our judgment stands implacable: Let that breath choke them.
        Let their hearts become stone. We give them death."

     The King saw an expression of shock on a few of the captives, more a
quicksilver lack of expression, then the world went blacker than the night
around him.

     "Why doesn't he respond? He did before." Someone screamed in his
ear. "Papa! Wake up! Please!"
     Evendal's eyes flew open, only Kri called him that. Dim in the
starlight, the rounded scowling visage of his son gazed back at the
Songmaster. "Kri... I am here, beloved."
     "Stop doing that!" the child rasped. "You did this with that Commander
and that stupid girl... Siarwak!"
     "It is not an action over which I have much control." With the help of
Ierwbae and Brualta, the King sat up. He noted that he had been
moved. Hrioskunra hovered over him, its stones luminescing a delicate,
ephemeral, green.
     "My lord," Brualta interrupted. "Please say how you are recovered."
     "What is toward? Why?"
     Ierwbae explained. "She and most of the Guard got frightened out of
their old age, Lord. When you collapsed, we carried you to the vale. When
the prisoners saw you being carted, they assumed you were dead and began
hobbling as best they could anywhere and everywhere. Many of the Guard
thought the same, and were all for open slaughter. Into the mayhem, 'our
friend' appeared, bright as a full moon come down to earth. He picked you
up and shouted."
     Ierwbae stopped. After taking a series of breaths, the Guard
resumed. "Every conscious man and woman felt his rage, lord. Brualta can
confirm. My lips turned gray, she said. My veins writhed and emerged like
snakes trying to escape my skin. No one could breath but we felt our lungs
were burning. He shouted 'Fools, he lives still, with no thanks to your wit
or care! You know where to find us.' You both disappeared. Then we could
breathe again. Once the prisoners were recollected and marched off to the
Undergrounds, Brualta and I came here."
     "I am well, I think. Bone-weary, but well. How many?"
     "Eighty-five survive, my lord. Eight Guard dead, eight wounded."
     "Are your Guard totally without sense?" the voice of Surn-meddil
demanded out of the air. "What were you doing perched in the midst of
future manure? Why didn't they take you to safety?"
     "I commanded them to refrain. I will not let this questionable gift
dictate my actions. Can you imagine? 'Lord Evendal, commanded his Guard at
a safe distance from any conflict or battle, and left to others the
executing of the culpable.' 'We can rely on our king to be as far away from
any fighting as possible.' My reasons will not survive me, just my
actions."
     Surn-meddil made no retort; he knew the truth of Evendal's words even
better than the King.
     "Lord," Ierwbae piped up, hesitantly. "One of the dead Guard... He was
alive and hale, before you sang last."
     "What?" Evendal stared in disbelief, horrified. "But. But
they... Their pledge of fidelity should have winnowed them!"
     "No,... brother." Ierwbae replied gently. "What you asked for here
differed from what you asked for in our pledging. 'Those who gave their
wills over to "Mean and Ugly".' As opposed to those who enjoy inflicting
pain, or whose fidelity is ephemeral."
     After a moment to accept and consider, the King decided. "Find out, if
you can, if he indulged such yearnings. If your answer is no, then he died
in honour and his kin must know that. If he pandered to his impulses, then
they need not know, but let us - quietly - strike him from the lists of
honoured dead. If."
     Ierwbae nodded.
     Kri-estaul interrupted, surprising Evendal. "What am I supposed to do?
You keep scaring me like that. I keep wondering if you're...going to wake
up." Kri stumbled and mumbled over the last phrase; he kept darting looks
at the Guard around him.
     "Ierwbae, are we ready to leave?"
     The man nodded again. "Half of the Guard have left, the other half are
scouting the area."
     "Then let us join the first half. Start on ahead, Kri and I need a
moment."
     As Ierwbae moved away to assemble his honour-Guard, Evendal looked eye
to bowed forehead with his son. "What was it you keep wondering,
Kri-estaul? The truth, now."
     Evendal could feel the tremors become more pronounced, and see the
shaking crest and ebb through his son, even in night's dark. "Wondering
when you were going to die. And leave me alone. Again. You scared me! You
scare me!" And the child wept for shame and anxiety. For drawing
attention. For interrupting his Papa. For interrupting a Guard! For
expressing doubt in his Papa's immortality and invincibility.
     Heart hurting, Evendal wrapped the boy in his arms and stroked his
prickly hair.
     Assured, comforted by his father's gestures, Kri explained. "I need
you. I'm sorry, but... I waited for you. Two years! Every time someone
dies, I'm afraid you will too."
     "Oh, Kri," the King murmured. "I lived through battle, assassins, a
delusional foster-mother. My Songmastery awoke in the midst of an ocean of
combatants killing each other, and I survived their deaths. Understand?"
     "No." Kri replied mutinously.
     "I will not leave you. While I doubt that I am going to die in my
sleep of old age, I am most definitely not going to die from my own
glamour, nor the feeble plots of others." Evendal realised, as he could not
have before, that all his reassurances would never matter in this: From his
child's viewpoint, Evendal sacrificed Kri-estaul's only safety and security
every time he executed someone, defended their home, or countered an
attack. It could not be helped, of course. Neither could Kri-estaul's
reactions, to which the child had the most uncontested right. "There is a
reason you are not now in the royal apartment, why I did not have you taken
there at first threat. Do you know what you are?"
     "Your son."
     "And?"
     "Your friend."
     "And?"
     "Umm," Kri-estaul strove to recall other words used. "The Prince?"
     "Yes! So, as Prince you may be called upon to defend the City or
surrounding manourlands. How would you do it?"
     Kri stared at Evendal to see if the question was meant. After a moment
the child's gaze turned elsewhere. "It would depend on how many attacked,
Papa. But I would not use the Guard! And besides, the City would still need
them." Kri-estaul's trembling diminished.
     "Good. So you see one mistake I made."
     "No! I didn't mean that!"
     Evendal kissed Kri-estaul's nose. "I know. But it is true. What else?"
     After reassuring himself, as much as he could, that his father had not
taken umbrage, Kri continued. "I think I would ask for people from the
lands in the attacker's way. Lead them into battle. Make the enemy eat
dirt!"
     "Not bad. And how would you deal with the cohorts under your command?"
Evendal hoarded the moment, his son's involvement in his questions. The
King knew that their brief semblance of solitude in the darkness, of
freedom from the eyes of others, and Evendal's serious consideration, were
the agents loosening Kri-estaul's restraint. His son's constant silence was
unnatural, and Evendal had had enough of it.
     "I don't understand."
     "Why would these farmers, herders, and landed criminals allow you to
lead them? So, you call yourself Prince. So what?"
     Kri-estaul thought in silence while Evendal walked. "I could make the
Guard scare them into obeying, but they wouldn't like that, and would be
mad later. I guess I could ask them, showing them that they are going to be
killed if they don't help."
     "People are strange, Kri. They may tell you they know the enemy is
coming at them, and still not help. For all sorts of silly reasons. If they
don't like someone else who is helping. They may think they can convince
the attacker away. Or they may think they can stop the enemy all by
themselves. Then what?"
     "I don't know."
     "Well, one way is to bribe them. Promise them something they want in
return for co-operating. I don't like that way."
     "Nor do I. You help them enough by helping with their defense."
     "Another way is the one you have seen me use in the Council. I
basically play the dictator of terms. It is a method of fear and
force. This is not possible unless you know more or have more martial
support than the person you have to deal with. And I don't recommend it,
except in a situation like you saw: One man, wanting power simply for its
allure, not as a tool to heal or help. And no one was willing to render any
counsel that wasn't selfish. A situation where most of the people you deal
with would fight to gild the boat they are in, rather than fix its leaks."
     "Another way is a more subtle kind of forcing. Shaming. Without the
help of the Manourlords, the Guard and I just fought against a foe larger
than we were. Earlier, I asked Bruddbana to alert those in Council whom we
knew were allies. None showed, which would commonly be a cause for
foreclosure on their land-grants. This failure, in the face of our victory,
is a leverage point usable in the future. Of course, I suspect they did not
come because they knew this was more my fight than theirs."
     Kri-estaul looked confused, so Evendal elaborated. "I suspect they
knew Onkira would strike in some way. And chose to perceive this as a
'family squabble.' Since the fracas entailed nearly four hundred fighters,
and not some sub rosa assassin, that view is laughable. Another potential
avenue for shaming. By my showing any measure of magnanimity, they end up
in my debt. And they know that they become objects of popular ridicule,
should they fail my war-cry a second time."
     "This gives me a headache, Papa."
     Evendal smiled humourlessly. "I know, my son. So how would you
convince others to fight for you?"
     Kri-estaul smirked. "I wouldn't. I'd let you convince them. I don't
know."
     "There are two more methods I know of. One, offer some illusory reward
to their fighting. This may sound like the first way. It is not. Offer some
intangible that no one possesses, but which all think valuable. 'Honour,'
'Fame,' or 'Glory,' whatever those are. This attracts the very young and
very old more than anyone else. The other way is to present the fight as
morally necessary. That they fight 'for all that is good.' For that method
to succeed you have to portray the enemy as all that is horrid, loathed, or
frightening. It is one of the easiest ways."
     "It is?"
     Evendal looked down at his son. They were approaching the
Palace. "Yes, my beloved boy. The Beast used it very successfully on
you. He had you believing you were the most evil creature to draw breath."
     "Halt!" A voice called out from past the vanguard. "Declare
yourselves!"
     The King gaped in amazement. A line of figures stood
shoulder-to-shoulder between his entourage and the Palace, swords and pikes
held ready. Every tenth person bore a torch. Exuding solid determination,
Evendal felt certain this cordon encompassed the entire building.
     "The King returns!" Ierwbae replied, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.
     To Evendal's continued bemusement, three figures approached; three
women. Grim-faced, Pohul-halik, Drussilikh, and the Typika Sielre-han drew
near. Drussilikh and the Typika gave courtesie. Pohul-halik, cane in one
hand and sword in the other, bowed. Evendal gestured them up, and
stammered. "Where... Wherefore?"
     Frowning, Pohul-halek answered. "Did you think we would simply hold
our breaths? Abandon our home, and you, to some moon-driven hysteric?
Really, boy! I, at least, learned that lesson the first time. Drussilikh
has been busy tale-bearing, with heart-breaking honesty. While you two
foolishly endangered yourselves, we chose to secure your home, and the
waterways."
     Evendal felt a frisson of dread. "Thunders! The ocean! Onkira would
know all the reefs and shoals, the traps and safe-ways to our harbours! I
completely forgot!"
     "Drussilikh did not!" Pohul-halek declared, with an intentionally
comic hauteur. "Alekrond has been on the alert since yesterday. Among her
former guild-members' papers, Drussilikh found a reference to the Dowager
having moved onto her personal frigate since the weather changed up in
Arkedda. The Quill-master contacted the Maritime Counselour, knowing that
any winds Onkira might depend upon would change again fairly soon this time
of year. We chose to bring our personal arsenals out of hiding." In a
dazzling gesture of agility, Pohul-halik took a stance and whipped her
sword through an intricate and deadly exercise.
     "May I?" Evendal asked, gesturing to the thin-limbed woman's
sword. Once in his hands, the King realised the blade was of some
resin-hardened or laminated hardwood, with wafer-thin metal imbedded along
each edge.
     "My humbled thanks to you all, gracious ladies. Your care is a
delight, and your efforts are such an encouragement..." He handed the
sword, pommel first, back to the sharp-eyed Guild-mistress. "You can stand
down, for the moment. Out of four hundred ruffians, eighty-five
survive. Seven... No. Eight Guard died."
     "A small loss of life, then." Someone off to the side tendered.
     "There is no such thing!" Evendal m'Alismogh snapped back. He glared,
unerringly singling out the speaker. "Sixteen citizens wounded or killed,
defending their home from a woman who pledged, fourteen... twenty-five
years ago, to safeguard her adopted land and its people. Mark me. She will
come to us, for judgment."
     Whisper soft, Drussilikh spoke. "She already has, Your
Majesty. Alekrond captured her vessel three bells past. She awaits your
pleasure in the Under-grounds."


    A moment of silence, but for the crickets, blanketed the
gathering. Kri-estaul, sleepy, only thought how stupid, to return after
creating such a mess. Ierwbae, equally tired, felt further wearied by the
prospect of the impending confrontations. Brualta looked aside to gauge her
ruler's countenance.
     Lord Evendal Bright-eyed, Songmaster, son of Menam and Wytthenroeg,
Ruler Absolute of the Thronelands(37), stood statue-still. As all awaited
his response, be it command or request, the torches seemed to dim. After
several breaths, the friends surrounding Evendal were reduced to
squinting. "So you palm her back on me?" he whispered. "This ball, I'd
rather you had not tossed my way."
     "Let us not keep the dear lady waiting," the King rumbled, a
muscle-aching rictus on his face. But rather than rush away, Evendal turned
to Drussilikh. "Matron, you have been such a support as anyone could hope
for. We would ask one further service."
     "Certainly, my lord."
     "Work with the Criers, to have the summary of Our true lineage posted,
Our honest antecedents, on every station."
     "But the repercussions..." the Typika began, halted by a moment's
reconsideration. "No, you would not fear the scandal. This would be a
scandal only if you felt diminished by its disclosure."
     "But, my lord," Drussilikh protested. "You are not the only one
affected by such a disclosure..."
     For a moment, the King stared at the Matron as at an exotic
animal. Then his eyes refocused, and Evendal bowed his head. "Thank you,
gracious lady. You are right. Wytthenroeg must be consulted first."
     "Summon Anlota, if she is not already keeping the Dowager company."
Not waiting for courtesies or replies, Evendal hurried with a suddenly
wide-eyed Kri-estaul to the Throne room. Just as he touched the Trident,
the King paused and backed away.
     "Kri, dear heart, I almost forgot."
     "Do you have to go down there?" Kri-estaul could not help but whine.
     "My foster-mother is such that I expect I will be singing before we
are done. I do not know how much more this Chamber could withstand. Would
you feel at ease with Ierwbae? Or Pohul-halik? Or..."
     "You," Kri replied. "It's just a place. As long as you... Please don't
let me go. I would stay with you."
     Troubled, Evendal sat on the hard Throne. "No, Kri. I don't know how
long I will be down there..."
     The Guard had caught up with them, making the child flinch. "I would
stay with you." Kri-estaul insisted.
     "You are all but sweating with fear. Why endure this?"
     The eight-year-old tried to calm himself, to still his shaking, and
failed miserably. "This is now my home, no? All of it. And you promised."
     Evendal's sigh mirrored Kri's smile. "Smart boy, I did. By the Five
Thunders! You are wiser than I. But I am your father. We are staying right
here. The Guard can bring her up from the Tullianum(38)."
     Not wanting to drag the moment out, Evendal directed Mulienhas: Down a
flight and past two doors, to a low-ceiling meeting hall. After the
refugees and corpses had been removed, the King had commandeered the
Stoners to cleanse the levels of the Under-grounds. Supervised, the former
Stoneworkers' Guild had revealed cubbies, and hidden passageways to two
un-chronicled multi-level warrens. According to Ierwbae and Bruddbana, the
Stoners showed more vigour, more zeal, near the end of their labour. Nine
of the twelve also, by the time the removal and restoration work ended,
volunteered to harbour or tend survivors of their past indifference.
     The King felt no surprise at seeing Anlota emerge with the
Dowager. After kneeling, Anlota waited. Onkira stood, making no further
move upon her surfacing. The Dowager looked the worse for her
travels. Brine had rendered her hair a corbie's nest. Dressed luxuriously
in an array of bleached linen, ermine accent and cloth-of-gold, she had
obviously planned her return as a grand processional. Every hand-span of
her attire sported mud, glistening saliva, or aromatic refuse. The
whitening of sea-salt had begun to dry over a similar faded patina, a
telltale that Onkira had been ship-bound for longer than a wind-aided trip
from Arkedda. The reddening of her skin around her forehead and temples and
the backs of her hands confirmed this conclusion.
     "Evendal," Onkira whispered, stunned. "Your eyes!"
     Ierwbae came up beside his lord, and then swiveled to leave on seeing
Anlota, hurt etched in his features. Wordless, Evendal gripped his
Guardsman's arm, halting his retreat. Face impassive, and movements
measured, the King kept his luminous gaze on the two women.
     "Wherefore do you visit here, Mother?" Brualta arrived at the royal
entry.
     With an audience, Onkira nier Menam stumbled verbally, giving every
appearance of distress and weariness. "I had heard that some Manourlord had
killed you. That bedeweri(39) were besieging you. You don't know what it
means to me to see you well! But, my dear child, what is toward with your
eyes?"
     "Mother of Midwives, We have asked you a question."
     Anlota's reply sounded clipped. "I came, my lord, to beg the Dowager
to release me from my pledge of silence."
     Evendal shook his head. "Hardly necessary, now, We would say. Not a
very credible answer, Mother."
     "Enough of this, Evendal!" Onkira snapped. "Don't plague the poor
woman."
     "Ierwbae, why is the Dowager unrestrained? She is not a guest here."
Ierwbae unable to respond, Mulienhas approached with shackles and linchpin
and cuffed the bedraggled woman. "Our thanks. Let no one mistake her
status."
     "How dare you! What kind of man are you?" Onkira quavered, all tears.
     The King looked down at his genuinely distressed child and ignored the
outburst. "Again, Mother. Why did we find you down there?"
     Anlota looked from Ierwbae, to Evendal, Kri-estaul, and
Onkira. Finding no quarter, she rocked backwards to sit on the floor, a
gesture of exhaustion. Evendal merely raised an eyebrow.
     "I went down there to provide Onkira with a bit of intelligence. Lord,
I tend to hold my own peace of mind above the wishes of my matrons and
patrons. And in a few instances... Thunders, this is hard! On a few
occasions I have deceived, cruelly, for the sake of the babes I have helped
into life."
     "Stop. Tender no apology on your secrecy toward Us!"
     "No, Lord. That I will give at your leisure." She waved away the
irrelevancy. "I went to offer the Dowager Onkira a questionable comfort:
she has living issue. A child she birthed did not die stillborn. A
daughter."
     The two persons unresponsive to Anlota's disclosure waited out the
indrawn breaths and looks of astonishment: Lord Evendal felt unmoved and
Onkira gave away no reaction. Kri-estaul felt a too-familiar
confusion. Precocious, the boy recalled the papers Siarwak had
hoarded. "Does this mean you have a sister?" Kri chirruped, latching onto
the disclosure for a distraction.
     "No," Evendal answered. "The daughter would be the whelp of the
Un-Wise Counselor and Onkira. The unfortunate is no generative relation to
me."
     Turning away, Onkira let out a mellifluous sob and hunched over. "How
did I raise such a son? What did I do, but love you?"
     Finally, the King acknowledged the Dowager. "Greetings and defiance,
Onkira. Be assured," he drawled. "Everyone here knows just how you loved
Us!"
     Onkira whirled back around, dry-eyed and hands clenched, mouth agape
in disbelief. "What... What kind of man are you?" she repeated.
     "Fortunately for all, not the kind you tried to fashion. Anlota,
whatever inspired you, We thank you for the intelligence. What must be done
is best begun here, and while it is right that you are present..."
     Onkira squinted against the glare of her foster-son's eyes. "What do
you mean by that?" she interrupted.
     "We see that you did not get the welcome back you anticipated. And you
have not the right to wear ermine, Onkira."
     "Mother Anlota," Evendal gestured Ierwbae to help the woman to her
feet. "If you wish, you have Our leave."
     "Your Majesty, however just your wrath, surely you would grant her the
solace of learning..."
     Evendal gestured for silence, then waved the Mother of Midwives away
from the circle of witnesses. "Look well, Mother." He whispered. "Grasp(40)
in that way we both know is your's... Your tidings mean nothing to her."
     Startled, the old woman squinted comically at their prisoner. Onkira's
pointed shaking might have stemmed from chill or passion, the occasional
wringing of her hands mere effect or unthinking reaction; her posture
denoted the very shape of grief and agitation. But a febrile tension in the
Dowager's muscles bespoke differently, restless, indexing anyone
unresponsive to her show. The widow of Osedys' mimickry suddenly shouted
out its mendacity to the midwife. Anlota gasped audibly with the shift in
her perception.
     "I... I am oft blinded by my own occupations, Your Majesty. I see a
child and I think, 'Who would not be humbled and awestruck by such a
wonder? Who could not be changed?' But not everyone sees." Anlota's sigh
bore the weight of her world.
     "No. Before I met Kri, here, I would not have felt what you mean."
Evendal murmured. He rushed through the question that most plagued
him. "But you showed a harsher wisdom twenty or so years ago, one perhaps
best imitated now. Menam needed an heir, you could not countenance a
daughter raised to mirror Onkira's mentation. We suppose you deemed a son
to be made of sterner mettle?"
     "I exacted a pledge from Menam to keep a watch on you around her."
Anlota muttered, still amazed how she had deluded herself regarding Onkira.
     m'Alismogh's eyes, ablaze, highlighted the age in the midwife's
face. "You should have known, even then, how effective that would not
be. No, Anlota! No more pathetic, weak self-delusions. So, Menam got an
heir, Wytthenroeg sacrificed a son and a lover. And Onkira got a son and a
lover: Us."
     "My lord, I did as best I could."
     "No. You did what you did. Your motives still utterly escape Us."
     Anlota, clearly, had reached the limit of her deference and
discretion. "Think you that the Left Hand of the Unalterable wields the
only glamour? What I saw, with the emergence of Onkira's get, made Mausna
look idyllic. A vain, self-consumed, spoiled child ascending to the Throne
in the wake of a narcissistic, power-hungry, rapacious she-weasel of a
widow? I saw pathetic attempts at coups by the two of them motivate the
other provinces to devastate Osedys in retaliation and self-defense. It was
the most prolonged and dread nosotriel(41) I had ever suffered. Had you
such a prescient moment, what would you have baulked at?" Though spoken in
a hushed rasp, decades of anguish imbued her words.
     Anlota's speech stunned the King. "This you saw at the babe's birth?"
     "Yes, my King. It comes to me at odd moments during many a birth."
     "And at Our own?"
     Anlota visibly hesitated. "I saw something I did not understand, and
still do not. I saw a breathtakingly beautiful dragon, coiled... encircling
the Palace, sleeping."
     Impressed, the King nodded. "A symbol perhaps. A cipher."
     Anlota hesitated. "I would say not, my lord. I can usually sense when
an image carries the weight of more than one or two meanings."
     The King shrugged, and spoke in normal tones for all to hear. "Have
you any further disclosures, appropriate to the moment?"
     "No."
     Drussilikh and Pohul-halik had arrived in silence.
     "Then, again, Mother Anlota, you may leave and await Our good will
elsewhere, if you wish." The midwife nodded. "Ierwbae, escort her, if you
please. Then return."
     Anlota stared at the Dowager. "That woman makes me feel old!" With the
arrival of the two Guild-masters, Onkira had resumed her dramatic
gesticulations. The midwife snorted her opinion. "For all I have not done,
Evendal, all I have not seen, I beg your forbearance if not your
forgiveness. For the pain I have abetted and caused. Tell me..."
     The King briefly, lightly, laid a hand on the old woman's shoulder,
and nodded to Ierwbae. "Later, good Mother. Now is not the time. Go."
     When the sound of the door's closing echoed, Evendal took a deep
breath, hugged a sweating Kri-estaul to his breast, and glared once more on
Onkira. His son had endured much this day, in the name of his love for his
father. Too much. The sooner he began this farce, the sooner he would be
quit of it.
     "Shall We enumerate the perfidy you are responsible for? You keep
asking what you have done to deserve Our antagonism."
     Once again, the royal-entry opened and closed, and footsteps advanced
toward him. Without turning around, Evendal grinned slightly. "Greetings
and health, Aldul." The Kwo-edan's arrival lightened his heart.
     "Health and prosperity to you and yours, Your Majesty." Aldul replied
equably. "I see Alekrond was successful." He nodded his greetings to the
Matron and the Woodwife.
     "Yes, this fish has to be his biggest catch yet." Evendal took a slow
breath. "Let Us begin. This is all the peerage needed for our
motives. Onkira. Though exiled, you were, by marriage and oath, a citizen
of Osedys. In defiance of Our clemency, you return, rendering you t'bo. To
many, a grievous enough fate."
     "You cuckolded Our father. We have the documentation to prove that,
should We even need it. It matters not, at this late hour, which of you
first put horns on which. If it was Menam, then you hardly needed to
imitate him. Children may be the property of their parents, and, should the
parents die, property of their fostering parents. But both of Our parents
lived, when you took Us to your bed. When you made it clear, in that
cloying and indirect clue-dropping way of yours, what We had to do to
remain in your good graces."
     "What nonsense is this?" The Dowager protested. "Pohul-halik, have you
ever heard such sour sewage as this? Surely you do not credit these
ravings?"
     The Mistress of Oak, older than Onkira in more than years, kept
silence.
     "We were eight years old at the first, and your assaults continued
through Our thirteenth year. We were not your's to abuse. Menam may have
suspected, but if so, he deemed his tensionless co-existence with you not
worth sacrificing over a suspicion. So loving a family were we all!" The
King stopped, overcome with bitterness. Wordless, Kri-estaul wrapped his
bony arms as far around his father's chest as he could manage. The touch
steadied Evendal. Aldul gripped his shoulder.
     "In Our fourteenth year, as We recall, you snared your true love..."
the sneer dripped like tallow in his voice. "With Our help!"
     The Dowager, lightning swift, whipped her bound hands at the
King. Evendal, swifter, restrained her readily. "Yes, foster-mother, We
remember now. That which We could not remember while We felt We needed
you. Though We admit that every confusing, frightening, shame-scalding
moment is not utterly clear. It seems Time is more merciful than We are."
     "We will not name him!" Evendal cried, voice cracking. "That
corpulent, slime-filled, bag of self-serving platitudes! Constantly smiling
and smiling, as if everything his eyes alighted upon served as food for his
appetite. And you made certain he saw a lot of Us."
     As each word rolled out of m'Alismogh's mouth, his eyes grew brighter
and brighter, the walls of the Chamber held onto each tone in which every
word was spoken. The guild-mistresses winced with the dissonance and the
glare. More from empathy than wisdom, Kri-estaul reached up and tugged the
Songmaster's head toward him. "Papa. You're safe, now. I'm here. Please!"
     Evendal's mouth flapped open and closed; he drew in a deep,
stabilizing breath. A second long breath, and then a third, followed with
effort. The walls released their cacophony. Not quite able to smile, the
King settled on kissing Kri on the head.
     Onkira glanced at the bundle beside Evendal. "And who or what is this?
Is the palace become a nursery?"
     The King ignored her goading. "You flirted with each other, courted
each other, confided secrets. You simpered over his every breath. When you
learned how he lusted after young males more than women, you all but tied
Us to his bed. Without Ourselves as an additional lure, you feared you
would not net him. After We left for Mausna, We can only suppose, you were
right."
     It took Onkira a long, telling, moment to rally. "What delusions! Do
any of you here not see why I feared for him?" Onkira pleaded. "He attacks
me like a serpent. Me, his fosterer."
     Aldul interrupted. "The Temple stands ready to attest to the
accusations, Dowager Onkira. We know them as legitimate memories. Anlota
can confirm this, as well. Your predation is unveiled."
     Evendal continued, as if no one else had spoken. "Next. There are
enough menials still resident to sing the song of the hatred you and Menam
held each other in. The fence of deputized attendants with which he
surrounded you, in order to safeguard the health of any courtier to whom
you objected." Evendal lengthened sounds and shifted tones.

        Tell Us, Onkira.
        What did you intend,
        How did you resolve
        For Menam to die?
        Cease your delusions.
        Refuse all masks.
        On battle's caprice,
        You'd hardly rely.

     Like grain through a mill, Onkira's answer grated through clenched
jowls. "Beru-homek was his name, serpent! Eager to accomplish my widowed
state, and wed me at its end, he thought to replace Menam's war-horse with
some that were tortured and shadow-shy. Neither he nor his horses survived
Mausna, you heartless, ungrateful whelp! Since you did survive, I had
thought to mix jimson-seed powder into your food or drink, if you did not
die in my... re-occupation." Faster than the others whom Evendal had
englamoured, Onkira recovered. "What did you just do to me? What kind of
revenant are you to afflict me into lies!"
     Standing through the benefits of adrenaline, indulging in the focus
which anxiety so often begets, the King resumed. "Fourth. The Thronelands
suffered nine years of your selfish indifference to it's ravaging, during
which time you simply waited for one weasel to destroy the other. After We
ended their rapine, you funded and directed your own mercenaries; human
flotsam eager for loot and of no mind to give up their prize into your
ignorant governance. All but eighty-five of them are now crow-food. You
instigated an assassination of Our birth-mother, to keep Our true lineage,
and the nature of your marriage, a secret."
     Matron Drussilikh piped up. "Your agents among the Scriveners left
evidence of their complicity and your written requests and instruction."
     "I am being persecuted here!" The look of injured innocence on the
Dowager's face battled, alternated, with fear. "You commissioned forgeries
to support this fancy!"
     "Not with your unique cere(42) and the primrose seal from the signet
still on your hand. The same ensign, rather stupidly, on one of the
mercenaries' tents. And not with your admission of patronage, just now,
before witnesses." Evendal refuted.
     "Onkira nier Menam, can you answer even one simple question honestly?"
     "Of course I can." she declared, cow-eyed. "I have been nothing but
honest with you, ever."
     Evendal knew naught would come of it, but for the sake of his
witnesses, he asked. "What did you think would result when your troops
invaded?"
     "I merely wanted to ensure your safety. You obviously came home so
distressed you haven't been in your right mind. I had no other option, with
you so immune to reason and common sense..."
     "Enough! None of that is an answer. Cease your posturing, your
apologia. You have already contradicted your own justification. We asked
what you thought would result from this invasion?"
     Apparently baffled, the Dowager sobered. "The people would see what I
have always tried to be: their guide, their mother, protective and
resolute. Once I was securely invested, I would seek the help of the
Archate toward your healing and restoration."
     "You imperil them in order to be seen as their rescuer? Your mind and
heart have more twists than an anthill. Why would your cohort, once they
had secured the City, give it over to you?"
     "What do you mean? I am the Dowager Onkira olm'Aguandit a Mulhassoir,
nier Menam. No one but you has ever refused me."
     "Somehow, Onkira, I doubt your lineage or personality would convince
mercenaries to give over a fought-for supply of women, children, food and
drink. And all three names you cited are long dead, of no help to you."
     Onkira listened to this with widening eyes, and sweat beading her
forehead. "Silly child, the Heir of Arkedda himself would defend my rights,
if it came to such a pass."
     Momentarily at ease, Evendal gestured to Aldul, who handed him a
parchment roll. "That is not what Murlesnad writes Us, dream-spinner. He
says he refuses to harbour you further, as you imperil the concord and
serenity of his Court. Cousin Murlesnad sent a few gifts of extraordinary
craftsmanship. We will, of course, respond in kind. He also gives over to
Us, unstinting, the sanction to deal with you as best suits the welfare of
Our common estate and our two realms." With a smile hovering on his lips,
the King added. "Arkedda likewise tells Us how you were banished within
fourteen days of your arrival! His missive was remarkably brief and direct
for a royal communication, as he feared you would head south, and he hoped
to warn Us in a timely manner. By the state of your self and your finery,
you have spent most of your absence from Us trapped aboard-ship."
     Evendal stopped and smirked at the Dowager. "What did you conspire to?
You were hardly there long enough to commission a modiste!"
     Onkira's slab-like face turned impassive.
     "No matter. As Our new ally, Murlesnad will no doubt provide
particulars later, in as much as We intervened in the Most Un-Wise
Counselor's assassination plot against him."
     The Dowager flinched.
     "Or was the plot his alone?" Evendal tendered. "Foster-mother, were
you ambitious beyond your intelligence? Did Arkedda learn of your role in
Ugly's plan? 'Ugly,' by-the-by, refers to the Most Un-Wise Counselor. Such
a coup-de-etat would strain even a cousin's affections, I suppose."
     Evendal reconsidered, and revised his conclusion. "No. You thought to
take up where the Un-wise Counselor failed!" Onkira's cheeks grew visibly
dark in the lamplight and Evendal's eyes. "Your waiting on an opportunity
for Menam's death had produced such ruinous results, you felt speed would
better serve with your dear cousin. You could hardly outlive him. And you
had no advantage to offer Murlesnad by marriage."
     "By the Five Thunders! Between you and Ugly, I would be surprised
Arkedda dares step outside the royal bedchamber!"
     Onkira, still flushed, warbled out. "Enough of this, Evendal. Either
let me go clean up, or let me sit down."
     The brow of the King plowed furrows in his forehead. The woman's
blithe obtuseness, and continued indifference, stunned him. "By all our
hopes! Do you not understand? You do not go from here into exile again! You
have no advocate here! Not even Ourselves! This is not a moment's gossip in
a tatting circle."
     Onkira turned a startlingly cool eye toward her foster-son. "I am well
aware that this... conclave, will be and do whatever Your Majesty
wills. That being so, what use for me to thunder and roar my innocence? Or
proclaim the love I bear you, still?"
     Evendal rolled his eyes.
     "None," he agreed. "You do not love Us... me. You do not know me. You
never even wondered who I was. While Menam lived, I was the means to thwart
and hurt him. On my return, I became an obstacle to your false
sovereignty. Yet I feel ill at ease voicing the cantrips your deeds and
nature call for: We could have you blinded, and let your body reflect the
state of your heart. But that would give a weapon of pity into your
hands. You would make yourself a rallying-point for those needing the
delusion of gallantry, the illusion of rescuing and avenging an
innocent. We cannot envision a restitution from you that befits the damage
you have accomplished."
     "Does anyone here refute or protest Our re-capitulation? Does everyone
concur?"
     Silence gave assent.
     "Your Majesty," a voice from the door sounded. All, except Evendal,
looked to see Ierwbae returned.
     "What is your matter?"
     "A proposal."
     Evendal nodded.
     "Make the Dowager's execution a public spectacle." Ierwbae demanded.
     The King frowned and twisted about, his lambent eyes wide in
disbelief. "Why?"
     The Guard sighed. "When the usurpers took the Thronelands, the people
waited, hoping the Dowager would speak out. They expected the widow of the
King, the King that they had honoured through the lives of their children,
to act. I can assure you that if she had shown herself anywhere on the city
streets, she would have been greeted and adored... during the first two
years of the duumvirate. By the fourth year, attitudes changed. Rarely,
someone would voice excuses for her passivity, claiming her mindless with
grief. Most simply felt betrayed. You return and accomplish, in less than a
month, what she never considered in nine years. It is safe to say that she
is cordially hated, and has been for some time."
     "Don't be silly," Onkira interrupted hotly. "The good people of Osedys
know I had no recourse but to wait those brutes out." Her soiled and
besmeared attire belied her assertion.
     Of all the feelings Evendal anticipated from this confrontation,
amusement had not been one of them. "Foster-mother, how did you arrive in
such a state? Testing out your delusions on the cockroaches in the midden?"
He returned to Ierwbae's point. "So she would serve as another example? Why
is death what We invariably offer Our people?"
     In a waspish tone, Pohul-halik snapped. "Stop whining. If you don't
feel strong enough, I will be more than happy to gut the wench right
now. Or before an assembly. Enough of this vacillation and yapping!"
Drussilikh nodded, as did Ierwbae.
     Ierwbae interjected. "My Lord, when you first ordered Kernost's
remains exhibited, I feared for the temper of the populus. But when the
Militia Commander graced your father's icon, I saw the gruesome tokens
serving a purpose."
     "What purpose?"
     "The corpses supplied visible evidence of wrongs righted. Some folks
walked away with a smile, not of pleasure so much
as... satisfaction. Occasionally, some would tear up. I tasked one about
it. He said he had not believed he would survive to see justice done."
     Evendal considered. "Yes. Though we do not want to be remembered for
perpetuating the bloodiness of the interregnum. The citizens do see, in the
fate of these... parasites, the turning of Fortune's Wheel." He asked the
Dowager. "Do you recall the Militia General under Our father?"
     "Of course," Onkira replied.
     "He met the fate reserved for traitors to the realm. Having chosen to
walk his path, you could have partaken his doom."
     For a long, tense moment, Onkira held still. "I see. I would have
hoped something more... genteel for the woman who raised you. Poison. A
soporific. Aconite."
     "Tatorea?" Evendal suggested sharply, then shook his head. "Did you
think it was only for Our own peace of mind that We banished you? Exile was
as much benevolence as We could unearth. You vowed to love and safeguard
what Menam loved. And, however poorly he may have seemed to govern, he
loved Osedys and the Thronelands. You endangered the City for the sake of
vanity. That makes you a traitor."
     "Onkira nier Menam, as a traitor to your wardship, to your families,
and to the Thronelands, We would decree that the traditional penalty for
traitors be your fate. We do not care how you face your death. However. In
defiance of Our clemency, you return, rendering you t'bo. Were Our's the
only life you endangered, We would merely label you enkengre. However,
because you imperil the life and weal of both Arkedda and Osedys, We must
declare you ingegn'Hramal(43)."
     "Your witnesses shall be those who secure you to the coral, and those
who wish the solace or unhealthy pleasure of viewing your demise. Honoured
Matron?" Drussilikh looked from Onkira to Evendal. "Please meet with the
Criers to post this invitation for all the citizenry, the bill of
attainder, along with the word of Onkira's cuckoldry, hosting mercenaries
in offense of the City, employing an assassin against... an honoured and
honourable elder noblewoman. Onkira's execution to commence at the first
ebb two mornings hence."
    The Dowager merely raised her nose, the muscles in her jaw tight, tears
trailing down to her thinned lip. "What holds your admiration, may I ask,
that you cannot grace my last moments with the sun of your presence? That
you cannot attend this travesty of a sentence you pronounced against me?"
     "Well," Evendal m'Alismogh resumed his drawl. "Depending on her
health, most likely nuncheoning with my mother and my son."
     "That Altan whore is still breathing?" The Dowager shut her eyes
tightly, and then froze as all of Evendal's words registered. Her eyes
focused again on the attentive bundle at Evendal's side. "Your son? By
whom?"
     "No longer your concern."
     "Are you raising the child to grow up as heartless and blood-crazed as
you? How are you called, sweetling?"
     Kri-estaul looked up at his father, who nodded. "Kri-estaul,
Dowager..."
     "You look to have five years. Is that so?"
     Kri shook his head. "Eight."
     "What do you think of a King who executes blameless women, child?"
     Evendal exploded. "Manipulative bitch, do not..."
     "Let the Prince speak to me for himself," Onkira whispered. "Since, by
your will, he shall have no other chance."
     Kri-estaul stared long at the Dowager. "You are bad." His voice shook
like a poplar-tree. "You sent people here to die. You wanted others to
die. You did to my Papa what the Beast did to me. My Papa is not wrong
about you. When he is wrong, he admits it. Even to me. You can't."
     Pohul-halik laughed. "Succinct, direct and true. You have much to
learn from him, Your Majesty. Are we done here? My bones ache."
     "Mulienhas? Have Dowager Onkira lavishly accommodated in one of our
finer cells, below-stairs. She has an assignation soon."
     Evendal kissed Kri on the head. "Go to your death, Onkira, in the
comfort that my reign has a worthy successor. Until then, fare ye ill."
     Well aware of the stench he exuded, of chyme, and urine and grass,
Evendal gestured the four ladies and his entourage to retire, from an easy
distance. He huddled briefly with Ierwbae, offering private directives and
comfort, until Onkira and his supporters had all left the room.
     Once they were alone but for the Guard, the King sat back on the
Throne and breathed a sigh of release. "How is it with you, Kri?"
     When he got no answer, Evendal looked down. Kri-estaul had stuffed his
hand in his mouth to silence sobs. "No, Kri. Let it out. It is good that
you do so."
     The eight year old mumbled around his fist. "I am not a baby."
     "Of course not. But you are a boy. You yourself said so. Boys can
cry. As can men. You were prepared to go down to the Under-grounds! You
faced a huge fear. You helped me from getting lost in my own pain and
memory, just now. You confronted a very wily and nasty adult with some hard
truths. That is not the action of a baby, my son."
     Body heavy and every muscle in his face taut with restraint, the King
absently rubbed Kri's hair. Ten years had aged Onkira, ten years that did
not exist in his own reckoning. The mother he recalled, with fierce but
conflicting emotion, had transformed into a much... simpler woman. He
remembered, as yesterday, a woman of sharper tongue and wit. Had she always
been so transparent, Evendal mused, or had time demanded her natal cunning
as its wage? Suppressing the inclination to soften his judgment, the King
yet wished Onkira had heeded better impulses. If only the woman had shown
sense, or compassion, or simply admitted some measure of responsibility for
her actions.
     Evendal looked down on the haunted, watchful face of his charge, a boy
he had claimed for the sake of the child's survival. A boy, with legitimate
ties elsewhere, whom he ruthlessly commandeered for the sake of his own
survival. Gifts and geas aside, he was a man, and needed to love a
tangible, not merely the faceless assemblage of whims and quicksilver
loyalties that were his people.
     When the Guard returned from settling Onkira, Evendal got up from the
Throne and thanked them, releasing them to their common duties.
     "If I ever, ever, rant at you over things I want, or actions you
failed at, people you did not impress or ways in which you disappointed
me. If I ever command you, or expect you, to flirt, woo or marry someone
you find no love for - I hereby grant you license to bite me in the arm, at
least hard enough to draw blood and scar. Failing that, have Ierwbae hit me
over the head with our Trident. And I will inform all our friends of this
privilege. Do you understand what I am talking about?"
     Kri-estaul nodded solemnly, then hesitated and shook his head. "I
don't. Understand." He trembled badly and began hiccoughing.
     Evendal replaced the Trident, then wrapped his arms around his light
burden. "I want you to be my son. If I ever do anything that makes you feel
weird, or scared, let me know. Or let Anlota or Ierwbae know. If you don't
want to become Osedys, so be it. The High Priestess can choose and invest
someone else. If you want to be my successor, so be it. You are my son. Not
a toy. Not my puppet. But my son."
     With that one noun, Kri-estaul gripped as much of his father as he
could and started shaking and huffing. He let his feelings out, now that
the crises had past.
     "Thank you, my boy. Thank you for helping me, just now. My greatest
fear was that I would act passive and obedient in front of her. Silly, no?"
     "No. I... She reminded me of Nisakh. W...w...would grab me. Or my bad
dreams were coming true!" Kri-estaul snuffled. "She scared
me. Looked... like she wanted to drink my blood!"
     "I think, now, she may have always been like that." Evendal
mused. "Hey, we are both tired and grubby. How about we both have a bath
and a nap."
     "I'm hungry, too!" Kri-estaul complained. "I'm sorry," he added
quickly on a hiccough.
     "Do not be, Kri. Thank you. Thank you for letting me know. At this
time of the morning, the Empress is sure to be up and cooking for the
Palace. I need to say a word to Great-aunt Anlota, first. Then, let's go
invade and do some pillaging ourselves."
     His son relaxed, and Evendal, with a gimlet-eyed nod to Mulienhas,
turned to confront the returned Mother of Midwives. "Mother Anlota."
     "Your Majesty," Anlota murmured. Her head remained bowed, along with
her shoulders. The woman's whole demeanor bespoke a deep sadness and
weariness. And though well capable of manipulation, the King knew
play-acting like Onkira's was not Anlota's way.
     "Rest easy, nathlil of us all. The decisions you shared in, so many
years ago, were the wisest anyone could make at that moment. We... Daily, I
strive to make little of my past torments, since they brought forth such
sweet rewards now. But a part of my griefs with you still abide."
     Evendal took a long steadying breath. "Could you not trust your own
knowledge of me, your awareness of my limits as the Left Hand, in addition
to my clear affection and favour toward you? You came to me, prepared to
fight for your life! And left, expecting some act of malice from me against
the man who stands in my regard second only to Aldul! What had I done to
make you distrust me so? What?"
     The plea was heart-riven, and Anlota drew in her own deep breath
against the force of it.
     "Not a single cause, Your Majesty. You have been all I have hoped
for. I... The folly I acted out before you had always been my first habit
of defense, when the Wise Counselor sought me out. In my anxiety and
the... the burden of fwyl-has(44) that I harboured, I panicked and abused
you." Without drama or trepidation, Anlota looked up into m'Alismogh's
bright eyes. "I knew and know you would not harm me, as I knew and know you
would never exercise your temper on my nephews. Ever since I saw what that
woman's fostering had done to you, your second day here, I have been slowly
coming to a realization of how much I had indeed failed you. Abysmally. I
did not know what she had been inflicting on you, all those years ago,
because I did not want to know. Accepting that, I felt guilty and acted out
of fear." Ierwbae, standing behind the midwife, showed no response to this
confession.
     Long Evendal pondered over Anlota's confession. "You felt, at the
outset, accountable to Us? So, you judged yourself, Mother?" Startled at
Evendal's odd assessment, Anlota realised its accuracy and nodded. "And
having arrived at a judgment, what restitution do you advise?"
     "Whatever seems good and right in your eyes."
     Did she realise what she had just done? What she just said? Looking at
Anlota's inquiring expression, the answer was plain. No. Abrogating
responsibility, after the chaos of crises had passed, had become a
habit. And Evendal, having suffered from it, was not about to let that
ignorance continue. "Oh, no, Anlota." He braced himself for what he was
about to initiate. "Tell Us, where abides Onkira's progeny?"
     "On Ddronthys."
     "And is she now a mother, or is she a maiden still?"
     Anlota paused, suddenly uneasy. "She is yet unwed, Your Majesty."
     "That is not what we asked."
     "She... is mother to a boy. The boy has two years and is healthy."
     "And is the young woman content?"
     "She seems, Your Majesty."
     "That is to change." Evendal declared. "We see no reason why the
daughter of that rabid bitch should know a serenity denied Us. Anlota, here
is our idea of amends: We announce to you here and now, that We will
rescind the bill of attainder on Onkira. You will recover the toddler from
the young lady and relinquish the babe into our foster-mother's care. You
shall go with the understanding that if the young mother protests, the
child would not survive her bringing grievance against Us. You shall go
with the understanding that if you palm off the child of another, in his
place, We can find the truth of a baby's lineage with but one melody; and
then both your life and the life of Onkira's get would be forfeit. We are
sure Alekrond will offer you safe and speedy passage there and back. Are
Our wishes clear?"
     "Crystalline, Your Majesty. Because you suffered, another innocent
should suffer as well."
     "There are no innocents, Anlota. You have shown Us that!" Evendal
snapped. "Having heard Our words, retrieve the grand-child of Onkira from
Ddronthys, and present him to Us here. By sunset. And now you have Our
leave."
     Clearly weary in body and mind, the Mother of Midwives shuffled out of
the Throne room, leaving a shocked Ierwbae and a contemplative Kri-estaul.
     "My lord..." The Guard could not credit the commission he had
witnessed. After a moment, Ierwbae rallied. "My lord. You did love us
once."
     "And still do." Evendal replied blithely. "Ierwbae." He called. The
man turned his gaze up from the ground, and bared a pain-filled countenance
to his King. "Do you yet trust me?"
     "My lord, I love you."
     Evendal waved that argument away. "In all hearts, love ebbs and crests
like a tide, good Ierwbae. Having given your pledge, do you yet trust me?"
     "I would trust you, lord." The Guard locked eyes with his liege. "I do
trust you, Evendal. I hope I am strong enough to always trust you."
     Evendal fought hard to keep his own counsel. "Then, exercise constancy
with Us and mayhap it will come easier for you with others as well." Saying
this he held Ierwbae's suddenly wild-eyed gaze.
     "Come. We would see about those helpless victims awaiting our
unhallowed appetites in the Cook's pantry." And Evendal suited action to
words.

--------------------------------------------

(37) Evendal m'Loema, m'Alismogh, ald'Menam a Wytthenroeg, sulen ureg
Asadah. 
(38) Tullianum: That part of a prison which was under ground. Supposed to
be so called from Servius Tullius, who built that part of the first prison
in Rome. 
(39) bedeweri - Those we now call banditti; profligate and excommunicated
persons. 
(40) Hramal idiosyncratic; "grasp with your eyes," "possess by seeing;"
comprehend. 
(41) Nosotriel (noss-O-tree-L) - Unveiling, revelation, an uncovering of a
truth. 
(42) Cere: a type of wax, often used to hide flaws in architecture; thus
the word 'sin-cere' - without cere. 
(43) Ingegn'Hramal - (in-geg-ne-romaul) Enemy of the Trusting
(44) Fwyl-has (fweel-hass)  - Can mean "what-ifs" and "If-onlys."