Politics - Chapter Two

Pic burst through the doorway like all the hounds of Hel were after him. He paused for half a heartbeat, looking wildly about the room. Then, seeing his goal within reach, literally dove beneath the table occupied by the two outlanders.

For a moment all was calm. Little Coch looked across the table at Pwyll, raising an eyebrow in question. Pwyll waved him off. Coch's answer came a moment later in the form of large broad-shouldered man crashing through the entrance to the tavern. The big man paused momentarily to scan the nearly empty room. Seeing the boy cowering beneath the table, he made straight for him with long quick strides.

The two outlanders rose as the man neared their table. As he made to shove Pwyll aside with one of his meaty hands, he felt the hand grasped and its thumb twist back sharply. This stopped the man's forward progress abruptly. He looked down in shock at the offending digit and noted that the angle at which it stood in relation to the rest of his hand was now far from natural. The sickening pop as the thumb finally left its socket, broke the sudden stillness of the room. The man sobbed as he sank to his knees cradling his injured hand.

"Hullo friend," Pwyll said, resuming his seat. "Can I help you with anything?"

The big man looked incredulously into the small tattooed face. "Why d-d-d-did you do that!"

"Well. It looked to me as though you were about to do murder to my boy here," Pwyll responded.

"Your b-b-boy?" the big asked in disbelief.

"Aye, mine," Pwyll said idly toying with something on the table surface. "You see Ula... It is Ula isn't it? Pic an' I have come to an understanding. He works for me now--he's under my care." Pwyll leaned a little closer to Ula. Speaking quietly and with menace in his voice he added, "If you so much as breath in his direction, or even show yer poxed face on this side of the King's road again, I'll personally cut yer prick off an' shove it down that shite hole you call a throat."

"You don' know who yer messin' with boy," Ula said, trying to put some threat into his words in spite of his pain.

"I don't Ula?" Pwyll replied moving closer still. "Tell Feagh that if he'd like to make this personal, it can be arranged."

Ula suddenly looked very unsure of himself. Furtively he cast an eye around the room and tried to calculate the actual weight of the outlander's threat. He could only see the two men at the table, the serving girls and the bard, but he couldn't guess at how many of the little people haunted the back rooms of the inn. Deciding that retreat was called for, he simply struggled to his feet and nodded at the little man who had risen with him.

As he made to leave, Pwyll motioned for him to stop. "Wait. I believe I have something of yours." Reaching back to the table, Pwyll picked up the object he had been toying with and thrust it into Ula's belt. "Next time you should think before you draw use it."

Ula shot a look of pure hatred at the outlander as he slowly backed out of the room into the dim overcast daylight--his formerly stolen dagger now back in his belt.

The steady clip-clop of a large horse moving over the packed-earth road was coming around the corner, with an accompanying, "THIS doesn't look the right way," in a masculine voice laden with a heavy Northern burr. "Och, Salvo, this is West. We want South....I think......" From around the corner came a big dapple charger, bearing a man of good height and breadth of shoulder, shaggy dark hair falling into his eyes. The sun caught the bronzed breastplate he wore over dark tunic and breeches. The man was frowning, but cheered up as he saw someone else AND a crossroads. "Hail and well met, man! Which way is it to the capitol, please ?" From the sword at his side, the gleaming breastplate, and the bundle of armour on the back of the big horse, there could be no doubt this was a knight, of twenty-and-five years. "I hite Jovis of Llydaw, Knight of Sapphire, this is my charger Salvo. We're lost." with an abashed shrug that suggested it was a common occurrence.

In front of him was a short man wearing an old brown tunic and the worse looking pair of boots he had ever seen. A broadsword could be found hanging lazily from his belt. While holding the reigns of a white horse with his left hand, the young man bowed nimbly toward the knight, his long nose dipping deeply in open sight, while the man looked directly at him, his eyes betraying something servile as he answered: "I offer my humble salutations. I am Lowys, a simple wanderer. Sir Jovis, I may, if you wish, provide you with assistance or guide you to the capital. My road will bring me to the left of this crossing and towards the king's grove. Then if it's the Mother's wish I will follow the road up to Alban, this realm's capital."

Lowys deeply hoped the knight would accept his company, but didn't want it to show. He was hanging by a thin tread to hide his irresistible curiosity, sparked by the idea of travelling with such a lonely knight, even one who was obviously lost.

The knight smiled at his frantic expression and answered: "Well then, show me the way my good man!" He seemed to be quite a rugged fella, tall, muscular and somewhat rough around the edges, but Lowys didn't mind. "Yes, Sir Jovis" Was Lowys short to answer. As a rule he was rather inclined to daydream and fall into introspection than really speak with people, especially his betters. A year alone on the road could do that to a man. Anyway, he thought, unworthy fools like him were not to address knights, even if they were dying to. So Lowys stayed silent, giving his new companion quick glances so he wouldn't notice his watching him.

Unfortunately, Sir Jovis seemed quite aware of it and decided to remedy it with conversation : "Oh, call me Jovis," said the Knight, with a casual shrug. There was nothing sloppy in his bearing though, his back straight and his posture good, but if anyone could be a knight and be laid back in temperament, it was Jovis. The Northern burr mellowed his voice even more. People were often able to forget that Jovis was noble. "So have you been to the big city before ? I have been plenty of times, but I never seem to go the same way twice." His horse snorted, as if in agreement at Jovis' miserable direction sense. "There is a tourney in a fortnight, and I never miss a joust. I usually show up late, but I never miss !" he grinned, patting his charger's thickly muscled neck. "There was a good tourney there two years ago, during that warm spring we had. You could fight all day, wench all night, and awake to sunshine and birdsong every day. We took home a golden helm off that one. Grand good time. Sir Roger of Barnsdale, the Green Knight, he gave me a run for the helm, fine fellow, very good with a lance. Had to beat ten layers of snot out of him in single foot to get my points back. Hope he's there, I owe him a round of ale !" Jovis grinned again; talking about jousting was easy for him.

Jovis had no retinue (he couldn't afford it) and he readily admitted the blue gem on his cloakpin was nothing but glass. "Have to put the money into the gear." he said. "Broke my good ash lance last tourney, and I'll need a replacement and a smithy to pin the lance-metalwork on. Smiths can charge what they like at tourneys, but what can you do ? And of course, I shall have to check in to see what the High House requires of me." he grinned yet again, meaning the Royal Family. "So, what does the city hold for you ?"

"Well..." Started Lowys, a little abashed by the knight's forthright manner. "The fact of the manner is that I'm on a personnal endeavour." He could feel envy for the knight, living the life of the travelling champion, yet he somehow felt knighthood couldn't be only about such pleasant things. "I've travelled here from Allrech via Evandler where a lumberjack gave me shelter." he said, his mind set on an imaginary duel with the knight ride at his side. Was he really as good as he boasted? A shame he couldn't verify his claim. "Well, after helping his family settle their eldest son, the man gave me a recommendation for a loan should I lack money, since I'm a stranger in Alban" He looked the knight in the eye, finally and said with a wry and pathetic smile: "Well sir knight, the fact of the matter is, I'm searching for a way to feed myself really." It was a half-truth, he was searching for far more. Fore knights first and for what knighthood meant, and for his own destiny under the watch of Nhemain. He looked at his companion with some hope he could provide him with some of that. Maybe Jovis was more than a soldier of fortune, his manner seemed kind enough. "I know a thing or two about jousting, Sir, if you would call on me for anything in that area, it would be an honour."

"A stubborn lad, I see." Jovis said. "I thought I told you to drop the title." He gave his younger companion a push with his right fist. "You won't go anywhere if don't learn to address people directly you know."

Lowys' face simply coloured in shades of red as an answer: "Sorry, it's a bad habit I picked up with time." Lowys didn't want to get on the subject of Baron Mordred and his upbringing so he changed the subject: "So you know Sir Roger, a fine jousted, but he tends to bend on his horse when tired."

"Och aye, but that arm of his never tires! Heard he was marrying, too." He shoved the lock of hair off his forehead again. "Won't catch me at the heels of a woman, like a lapdog begging. Win a contest, and you'll have your pick of 'em, willing all." He grinned again, wolfishly, and winked. "And plenty of knights there, who are looking for a squire." Jovis' easy, friendly manner seemed genuine, and apparently the knight was perceptive.

"Well, then maybe, it could be a good place to be, then." Lowys said. He turned his head towards Jovis, pointing his nose and his serious eyes on him with an accusatory wink, all the while smiling with a little irony: "But be wary, my good Sir, for I fear you greatly underestimate the powers of heartfelt love under the heavens." He thought of Allrech's princess, to be given away to any warrior for the sake of tradition and felt disgusted: women couldn't be prizes to be won, or the mother would be for sale, he thought.

"Well bred and a dreamer to boot...we might make a knight of you yet." Jovis laughed aloud and Lowys, realising he was only teasing laughed with him. The two of them had reached an understanding of sort. For them, the path towards Abertawe's capital would be a merry one.

Wolfhear had no sooner passed outside through the doors of his favourite drinking haunt, when a cloaked figure stepped out carefully from the darkness. "I have a proposal for ye," the person said, with the softness of a woman's voice.

Wolfhere, suprised that this stranger would just walk up and speak to an armed man, replied "Is that so? Well then lets hear it."

She pulled back the hood of her cloak, revealing a thin porceline face of refined elegance, framed by a long braid of rich, brown hair that rested over her left shoulder. Wolfhear thought he had never seen such beauty before in the court of Abertawe.

"I am Lady Lleucu. From Nethbo," she added, in a guarded tone. "I know who you are and I have heard of thy grievance with the King of Nethbo. I need your help, and in return thou may receive what has always been thy wish, good sir."

Wolfhere now very intrigued replied, "Sounds good so far lets go inside and speak of this over a drink." Noticing the inticing good looks of the young woman he smiled.

She returned the smile with a wry grin of her own. "If thou would hear what I say, I do not believe you would wish to partake of drink and other... merriment tonight." She sidled accross to the mercenary and stood an arm's breadth away. The faint smell of perfume was tantalising. "The King of Nethbo travels to the border, to quell the uprising the province now suffers in the wake of his disastrous leadership. There is an... opportunity for someone to put an end to his reign of darkness. Many nobles who oppose him are sympathetic to the people of Abertawe, and some even know of what happened to you and your family." Her voice suddenly took on a cold and sinister tone. "Dost thou wish to kill him?"

Wolfhere's smile quickly turned into a look of seriousness "He is going to be at the border... The fool. I dont just want to kill him I want him to feel the pain that he put me and my family through. He ruined me." A look of suspicion came into Wolfhere's eyes. "Why do you tell me these things?"

Lleucu nodded. "You are wise to ask why." She looked about once again to see if anyone was watching them. Then she began to speak swiftly in a low murmur. "King Dafydd still holds the loyalty of three quarters of the nobles of Nethbo, many of whom share his desire for expansion into other provinces. There are no secrets anymore as to who opposes him, so getting close to the man is impossible, for anyone from Nethbo is recognised straight away." She placed the palm of her hand accross her chest. "The nobles I represent only require that Dafydd is removed from power. And I am sure you would not like to see Abertawe implicated in any assassination attempts. Thou art a mercenary, thou has no political affiliation, and history tells the tale upon where the King has done a great wrong upon thee. Should you attack and kill the man, then it could only be seen as a act of vengeance, as is your right for the loss of thy family." Her eyes glittered in the darkness with a cruel sympathy. "The blood shed from their body calls out for blood in return, sir. Are thee man enough to claim thy debt of revenge, against a man who would see many die for his own power?"

"I don't have enough people to mount a full scale assault. What are your nobles willing to give me?" He asked suspiciously. Trying to hold his emotions in. He really didn't care what they would give him or about how many people he had. He would attack them by himself if he had too.

"The King travels quickly sir, taking only the swiftest of his personal guard on horseback. No more than forty in total. And his travel plans are well enough known that if thou may match that number of men, and can leave before dawn breaks on the morrow, I can guide thee to a place of ambush just inside the border that Dafydd must pass through." Lleucu pulled the edges of her cloak back around herself to ward against the chill of the night air. "The advantage is all yours good sir, but I would not dally if thou wishes to use it."

"Aye I see, can you prove to me that this is not a trap?" He asked, careful not to jump into anything that would get his men killed.

"Nay. I cannot show thy eyes anything that would have thee believe no foul play would be involved. It is impossible what thou asks for. But I will travel with your company as a guide, and should trouble arise, I may be held as hostage." There was a slight smirk upon her face that made her eyes shine with amusement. "Thou seemst very cautious when the enemy is within reach, mercenary. I am also in a position to offer thee back the title and lands taken from your family by King Dafydd. Surely is not the reward more than worth the risk, if thou truly lives day by day in sufference of such a past?"

"Aye, sounds good to me. When shall we leave I can have my men ready to go by tomorrow." Wolfhere's eyes gleamed with promises of revenge and torture.

"The sooner the better, mercenary. I will be by the eastern gate at dawn." Lleucu covered up he features and began to slide away into the darkness. "Do not tarry long..." she repeated, before the night claimed her form.

As he was preparing to go and the messages had been sent to his men ho thought of a rumor he had heard in the alehouse. Another smaller band of mercanaries had entered the city. Maybee they would help he would seek them out.

The sudden downpour had transformed the castle training yard from a dry stretch of ground to a thick quagmire in a matter of heartbeats. Pwyll simply sat on the jousting rail as the rain came down, watching as the muddied waters slowly rose and surrounded a few small tufts of dried grass that hung on in spite of winter's gradual approach. Soon the small islands of grass were surrounded by oceans and seas of brown water. Occasionally one would disappear beneath the swirling flow, leaving only a few dry stems above the muddied flow to indicate that it had been there at all.

Pwyll's mood had darkened considerably over the course of the morning. Ithel's words from the previous evening had begun to eat at him. His people, the old tribes, were slowly being pushed aside by successive waves of Celts and Saxons. Ithel had said it was inevitable, but was it? Were they simply going to fade, simply surrendering themselves before the onslaught of the one god? Were they going to lash out at the newcomers, like the followers of Dunn? Or were they going to steer a middle course, retaining their heritage while integrating with the new tribes? It was a difficult question, and one which frayed the cloak of youthful arrogance that Pwyll wore.

So deep was Pwyll within his reveries, that he almost didn't hear the lone approach of Sir Amlyn. Without turning or looking behind, he greeted the knight, "Hullo, Grey man. Your squire's lessons, as you can see, do not progress well."

"Progress for some time they shall not," Amlyn answered, in a black temperament of his own. "My squire has chosen today, of all days, to seek a new path for herself. I am at a loss to explain why," he added. So much had changed in the space of a few hours. Not long ago he had been in the garden, conversing with Avalynn and tutoring Nia in the balmy warmth of a bright but humid day. But now, it seemed the world had never known anything else but dark skies and the oppressive deluge of rain. He placed a hand against the rail next to the outlander and tried to blink some of the water from his eyes. He had not bothered to raise the hood of his overcoat, for the coldness of the moisture that trickled down his face served to cool the temper that boiled within. It was then he noticed two long, oilskin-covered packages on the ground near Pwyll's feet. Shifting to look at him, the small man cloaked in faded black observed the direction of his gaze.

"Those are yours," said Pwyll nodding in the direction of the packages. "One contains something you will need. The other?... Something you might."

Amlyn raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He sloshed around the other side of the railing and bent down to pick up one of the packages. Resting it on top of the railing, he used his hand to peel back the layers of skin, to reveal a plain wooden training sword, slightly shortened. He frowned and glanced briefly at Pwyll, before leaning down again to grab the other package. Folds of oilskin fell away from the scabbard, revealing the familiar sight of Lady Melangell's crest of arms. It brought Amlyn to an abrupt pause, followed by reflective silence as he recognized what it meant. The rain fell insistently from the heavens, muffling the rumble of distant thunder.

"... This means a great deal to me outlander," he finally managed to murmur. "If there is -" His words cut short, the hilt of the sword had been revealed, the last layer of oilskin falling into the mud. Amlyn's eyes beheld a large inset emerald, and to Pwyll it seemed that the one-armed knight froze in place like a stone statue, staring at the sword.

"Before you ask. It was delivered to me by a courier. Of whom I have been able to learn nothing," Pwyll shrugged. It had bothered him that none of his sources had been able to reveal the identity of the shadowy Tyngyr. "I was paid a rather princely sum to see that you received it. Why? I have no idea. I've examined it closely and can see no sign that it's been altered in any way..." Pwyll let his voice trail off. As he looked at the expression on the face of the knight, Pwyll could see he was not listening.

The rich iridescence of the gemstone seemed to draw Amlyn's vision towards it. It was as if...

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

...the lurid scarlet hue held some sort of profound attraction to him. The blackness of the sword only served to highlight the effect, and Amlyn could do nothing but marvel at such beauty floating on a sea of malevolence.

"You see encouragement and inspiration fused together with such a weapon, yes?"

"I see a means to an end," Amlyn replied. "I see... an epigraph of terror and fear. Is that its purpose?"

"Appearance is important, but in other ways, irrelevant. The resolve of its wielder to give it life is what matters. Your opponent does not go out of their way to admire the elegance of your weapon. All they worry about is how you intend to use it. But in more tranquil times, it does not do one harm to intimidate those who may harbor counsel of bringing injury upon you. This sword will address both of these issues. This blade will serve you well, in ways you cannot even begin to imagine..."

Final words of promise tempted Amlyn to draw dark steel from its sheath. He held it firmly, feeling the swell of pride in his breast at the prospect of bringing butchery to those who resisted his will. "Many will fall under this," he exhaled, with a sense of euphoria. "I will not be distracted or dissuaded from what needs to be done."

"I would expect nothing less," came the reply. "Your King is losing the campaign, while your father mocks you from afar. It is the beginning of the end of the war for Llydaw. That is what everyone says. That is what everyone believes."

"Horseshit!" Amlyn barked. "I have not yet even begun to fight!" He paced about the stone floor the way a wild dog would stalk a lost and lonely child. Meanwhile his ranting continued unabated, the sword in his grasp now forgotten. "I can no longer follow the orders of simpletons! They are all so used to suffering defeat from their own folly and bungling that they no longer care for doing what is necessary! Honor and the proper etiquette of war be damned!" The yelling abruptly gave way to a menacing undertone. "Whatever it takes, whoever needs to die, I will make sure it's done, for by whatever gods rule this festering sore of a world, I shall have Guaire's bloody head by the hair before I'm buried in return!" Amlyn whisked about on his heel and strode with purpose towards the door, charcoal-colored chainmail chinking with its own cadence. He paused only to snatch up his shield, the freshly painted crimson tau cross clearly visible from across the room.

---"Sir Amlyn..."---

Full of fury, he spun around, vitriol clearly imbued into his expression.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

"Grey Man..." Pwyll tried again, raising his voice slightly.

Amlyn blinked as a droplet of water passed over the surface of his eye. Centering once again upon the emerald in his sword, he shivered. From either the chill, or from past recollections, he was unable to tell. That voice...

As Pwyll watched the range of emotions pass over the face of the shivering knight, he was reminded of an expression his people used--'Aeth at 'r 'n befr Byd' or 'Gone to the Bright World'. Wherever he was now, it was far from the muddy training grounds of the castle.

"Arawn!" Pwyll finally barked out.

Startled, Amlyn's head snapped up like the crack of a whip, bringing Pwyll into his sights. For but the briefest of moments he did not recognize who or where he was.

"Welcome back, Grey Man," Pwyll said to the now wakeful knight. "I think that today is perhaps not the best day to be teaching swordplay."

Amlyn nodded slowly. The gray mist seemed to shift somewhat, revealing the familiar figure of the inquisitive outlander. Familiar sensations, feelings he had not experienced for some time, began to recede with the murkiness. "Aye," he agreed. "Today is unfortunate. It shall not change what may happen on the morrow, however." Outwardly, he did not seem to even notice his lapse, but neither did he move to attach the blade around his waist. Instead, he stuffed it under his armpit, and leant over to retrieve the wooden training sword from the mud where it had fallen. "Perhaps the clouds may clear and we can begin then." As he rose up, Pwyll noticed the tremor in his hand.

"A sensible plan. However, tomorrow I have an engagement. If it is not too black the following day, perhaps we could meet then?" Pwyll could see that the sword had a more profound effect on the knight than he would care to acknowledge. Pwyll realized that the break would probably benefit both Amlyn's state of mind, and the quality of any lesson the knight might give.

"As you wish," said Amlyn. He did not really seem to hear the words but he bowed in rugged fashion nevertheless. "Farewell. And-... gramercy. For returning the blade." Without waiting for a reply Amlyn retreated back to the dryness of the castle, unknown thoughts swirling about in his head like eddies in a fast-flowing river.

--------

Generys gazed out the window of her quarters as if in a dream. The steady drumbeat of the rain against the castle walls and the heady warmth of the fire had combined to draw her far away. Idly she let the cards of her deck drop from one hand to the other, before reversing them and repeating the action. Each card falling from her fingers creating a counterpoint to the steady cascade of water from the building rooftop to the training yard below.

Gradually she half-focussed on the two figures separating on the field below, and stopped the flow of cards in her hands. In so doing she created two half decks. Drawing a card from the upper half of the deck, she placed it upright on the cushion of her bench--Death. She drew a second card from the lower deck and placed it beneath the first --The Hanged Man. Finally, combining both decks into one she drew two cards and laid them first across and then between the two--Seven of wands and Ace of Swords.

Slowly drifting to full awareness, she glanced down at the configuration before her. Tapping the remaining deck idly against her chin, she puzzled at the significance of the two major cards, so alike yet so dissimilar. Placing a finger on the top card, she spoke aloud to the emptiness of the room, "Death--a transition. A man reborn, moving inexorably from one world into another. The senior of the two." Shifting her gaze to the lower card, she said, "The Hanged Man--a paradox. A man balanced between worlds. Old and new in precarious balance." The two additional cards held their own mystery. "They are crossed by the seven of wands--is it authority, or strife? And bound by the Ace of Swords--is it truth, or is it honor?" Generys made a small frown. She disliked ambiguity, but it was in the nature of the cards. "I guess we will have to see which path these two take," she said, looking down at the now retreating figures.

{OOC: This one's a tad gory, so if you have a weak stomach, you may wish to pass on this one}

A little more patience on the part of his assailant, and it would have been him lying in the narrow street surrounded by a pool of blood...

The evening had been a bleak one. The driving rain had only eased off in the past few hours, and had done little to lighten Pwyll's mood after his afternoon meeting with the one-armed knight. Even several hours of drink in a local whorehouse hadn't helped. Looking back, he suspected that it was more the brooding and less the drink that had prevented him from hearing his attacker until it was too late.

If the Saxon had waited until Pwyll had come fully alongside, then his first thrust would have driven the blade deep into Pwyll's exposed flank. Instead, the blade slid across the front of his torso, raking his rib cage painfully as it traveled, but not dealing the mortal wound it should have.

In spite of the drink, Pwyll's reactions were fast. He grabbed and pulled his opponent's thrusting arm with his left hand while drawing his dirk with the right. With a quick wrist movement, the blade of the dirk came up to meet the oncoming bulk of the Saxon just beneath the chin. He didn't even get the chance to scream. Not waiting, Pwyll pushed the weight of the dead man off his blade and jumped back. As he did, a second attacker emerged from the shadows. The tall Saxon, armed with a broad axe, swung it with a two-handed stroke down at Pwyll's exposed head. It was a poor choice of target. Even as the blow descended, Pwyll took a hands-breadth step back, and, as the stroke met the cobblestones of the street floor, stepped lightly forward and thrust the dirk beneath the man's breastplate. The tall man blinked twice with a surprised look on his face before he too slipped to the ground.

Quickly transferring the dirk into his left hand, Pwyll drew his sword and readied himself for a third attack. It didn't come. The fight had lasted but a few short breaths and not even a single light had appeared in the windows of the street.

Pwyll kicked the bleeding corpses onto their backs and gave them a quick search. From their weapons and arm tattoos the two looked to be mercenaries, though in whose pay was uncertain. What was certain however, was that these two were not interested in Pwyll's money. Between them they had ten shillings -- a sum well beyond what even a gifted mercenary would receive for a season's service. 'It appears Feagh has decided to make it personal,' thought Pwyll as he relieved the men first of their coins then their weapons. He briefly considered taking their heads, but had no desire to be linked to the dead men. 'Better to have them found in a midden heap than lying headless in the King's street,' he thought as he dragged the bodies into a garbage filled alley and covered them with the slops he found there.

It was only after he finished his grizzly task that he noticed the blood darkening his shirt was his own and not that of his enemies. 'Time to find a gentle lass to bind my wounds and relieve me of some of this ill got silver,' thought Pwyll as he pressed his homespun tunic against the bloody wound across his torso.

His black mood lifted as he strode off into the deepening night. It had occurred to him as the flush of battle left him, that whether the old tribes were fading or not, he still had a life to lead--and by the gods he meant to live it, and live it well!

Quarra stood watch through the late night. All was quiet as a mouse. Two hours into the new day she woke Gwilym as planned. Nothing had happened in the night up to this point. She was dead tired. So it was a good thing that she soon fell asleep in her bed. For she needed her rest.

Gwilym mumbled to himself when he was awoken. Not having stood a watch since the war, he was pleased at being able to sleep in. He hadn’t had to rise this early unless his bladder was thumping his chest from too much alcoholic consumption. He strapped his sword to his back and headed for the table. No real words were exchanged between he and Dame Quarra except that there were no problems and she was dead tired. Once at the table, he grabbed his goblet and filled it with some of the remaining juice. He swirled it around in his mouth for a moment then swallowed. Setting the goblet on the table he surveyed the room. Forty-one kids plus the priest. All looked well.

He paced the room for several hours when a little girl woke up from her slumber. Gwilym watched her as she looked around the room. Gwilym thought to himself ‘she must be confused from her settings’ after all, these children had slept in a different bed each night for the past few weeks. After a few seconds of looking around the room, the little girl got out of her cot and walked over to Gwilym. He knelt down as she spoke.

"Excuse me sir knight," she said in a sweet little voice. "Where do you keep the pot. I have to tinkle."

Gwilym smiled at the little girl as he stood up. "Follow me little one," and he led her to the door where they had placed a pot for the children to use the restroom. The girl ducked in the room for a moment and then returned. She saw Gwilym over at the table getting some punch and went to join him.

"May I have some of that, pplleeaassee!" Gwilym smiled at her again and got her some punch as well. "My name is Annest sir knight, what is yours?" she asked.

Gwilym loved the innocence that this little girl radiated. She had big brown eyes and the cutest dimples. Not to mention a rose colored mustache from the punch. "My name is Gwilym, Annest, and there is no need to say sir with me." Gwilym bowed to Annest. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Annest giggled at Gwilym "You’re funny." She sat down at the table. "Why do you watch over us, Gwilym. Father said we were coming here to get out of danger. Why must a knight stand watch over us if we’re supposed to be safe now that we’re here?"

Gwilym sat speechless for a second. This was a pretty bright child for such a young age. "Well, Annest, I am here to make everybody feel safe. You all are new in this country and don’t know anybody. You’re parents are a long way off and are very worried about you. By placing me as a guard then your parents will feel like you are protected and they’ll be happy. Also, you all will not have to worry about strangers while I’m around."

A short ways over a teen-age boy sat up. "Annest, you should be back in bed." It was more of an order not a request. He was talking to Annest but never once took his eyes off of Gwilym.

"That’s my brother Cynwal. He doesn’t really like any of you people here in Abertawe too much." Annest paused a second, "Thank you for the punch Gwilym. It was delicious" Annest got up and went back to bed.

Once Annest had laid back down, Cynwal took his eyes off of Gwiylm. ‘That one might be a problem’ Gwilym thought to himself as Cynwal lay back down as well. ‘I’ll have to speak to the priest about that one.’

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Morning brightened the room as the children sat down for breakfast. Father Niddian had finished serving and sat down at the table with Quarra and Gwilym for some breakfast as well.

"Then its settled, Quarra. I’ll go and get a few guards to help us, a potential means of travel, and get the necessary supplies for the three day journey to the estate the priest told us about. You watch over the children with the priest." Gwilym looked up at Father Niddian as he came to sit down. "Father, help me to understand these children a little bit. Early this morning I had a small confrontation with Annest and Cynwal. Annest is the cutest little girl but Cynwal was like ice. I could swear that if he had a weapon, he would have tried to kill me. What’s their story?"

Father Niddian frowned. "Many of the children have come from families who suffered heavily as a result of the war with Abertawe," he explained. "Children are often very impressionable when exposed to unpleasant words or emotions of hatred directed by their families at enemies they know little about." He tried to rub the sleep from his eyes, taking a seat in the process. "I regret that many of the children may not be quite as appreciative as I am, but I hope with a little time they may learn tolerance."

Dame Quarra nodded, "I myself know what it is like being impressionable. It is how I came to be a paladin of Laerme in the first place. I fear that we will have a hard road with some of them. Some things are better left untouched. This is not one of them. I will have to show by my actions that they can trust me. I hope they will watch and learn."

"I wholeheartedly agree," said the priest. "Through noble actions on their behalf, you shall do your cause great service."

"Well, Father, I’m not so sure how we are going to do it. Quarra, if you don’t mind, I’d rather leave that in your hands. Being the knight of Innocence, I am making an assumption that you might possibly have an affinity of sorts with these children. I’m going to see Master Alterian about the things we discussed." With that said, Gwilym got up and bowed to the two of them.

Quarra nodded, and turned to the priest, "I hope to do well in your eyes, sir. I am not a very well-instructed person. All I have is my paladin's training. And that will have to be enough for now."

"I am sure that it will only take a kind word and some patience, milady." They then began to discuss other things...

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Walking through the structure of the castle, Gwilym managed to find his way to Alterian's office. Peering through the open door, he could see Alterian sitting at his desk. Gwylim raised his hand and knocked on the door.

"Master Alterian," Gwylim bowed, "I'm sorry to interrupt you but it seems our Queen Mother has found a place, a few days from here, that she told Father Niddian we could use to watch the children. It is an estate from a knight who passed away during the battle with Nethbo. Apparently a few knights are using it as an outpost. I was wondering if we could have a few soldier, four would be plenty, to help escort the children there. We would like to leave at first light in the morning."

"Of course Sir Gwylim. In fact, I would consider a personal favor if you took Seth McCullen, before he gets his head seperated from his neck." Alterian answered. "Take anything else from the household you deem necessary. Lady Isa has made it clear that the children are to be well provided for."

Finding This McCullen guy proved to be a task. After several inquiries as to his where about, a guard, not currently on watch, named Marcus said he’d take me to him. As we approached, Marcus spoke up.

"Hey Seth, there’s a Knight here that …" Gwilym placed his hand upon Marcus’ shoulder. "That’ll be all son, thank you for your help. You’re dismissed." Gwilym turned to face Seth.

"Seth McCullen, I am Sir Gwilym ap Gavin. You have been placed under my charge by Alterian. You will be helping Dame Quarra and I watch over the refugee children. We leave at first light. I want you to get three other good soldiers and report back to me in three hours. We’ll be gone for some time so make sure everyone packs accordingly. I’ll be back with the children in the castle by then." Gwilym seemed in a hurry but waited for a response from the soldier.

Seth stood and asked, "Will we be back in time for the coronation ceremonies?" He asked noting that he did have some very important plans that could not be interrupted.

"I’m sorry, Seth, there is no telling how long we’ll be watching these children. It could be months from what the priest with them says. If things were to go well in Nethbo, we could only be weeks or days. Either way, the coronation is just around the corner. I’d not likely think that we will make it. I’m sorry if you have prior engagements. I’m only doing as Master Alterian instructed me. Again, I’ll need you and the men over in the children’s area in three hours fully packed and ready for a long stay.

Seth nodded and said, "You can count me in then. Thank you for this great honor. I won't let you down." Seth nodded to the man and left to get ready.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

As he walked back to the children, Gwilym felt pleased with the help Alterian had provided. Seth seemed like a young, strong lad and had a keen sense to him if one looked at his eyes. Along the cobble road, Gwilym noticed a young woman approaching him. She was a voluptuous woman and glided with a confident step. Seeing that she was on course to intercept him, Gwilym stopped and bowed, "My Lady, I am Sir Gwilym ap Gavin. Forgive me if I don't know you. I am new to Abertawe. I noticed you were coming my way so how may I be of service?"

The outlander held a smile through the lengthy introduction. "Do not apologize, Sir Gwilym," she said politely, "I wish to speak to you about the young refugees from Nethbo." Also managing something akin to a curtsy, it may have been made clear that she, too, was still new to Abertawe. "I am Avalynn ui Rylliach, but please, Ava will do." She had no intentions of getting used to the formal (and unfitting) title of Lady.

"Well Ava, I have been tasked with protecting them," Gwilym paused. "Exactly how can I help you?" He did not mean to sound rude. He had just entered the city the other day and now he was tasked to guard these refugee children from the people of Abertawe. A strange task it seemed until he had heard the whole story. Not really knowing the people in this city, Gwilym just wanted to be cautious. Embarrassment swept his face as he realized his mistake.

Avalynn gave him a long, thoughtful look. "I doubt you'd like to feed and take care of them and protect them all at once, Sir, which is why I've come to offer my services. I would like to help in whatever way I can," she explained in earnest.

Gwilym shook his head. He knew he had jumped too fast. "Ava, forgive me. Your help would be most appreciated. I have to tell you, though, we won’t be staying within this city. There is an estate used as an outpost for a few knights. The Queen Mother has given us leave to use it as we need. We are to leave first thing in the morning. I do not tell you this to discourage you from coming. With forty-one children to tend to, we’ll need all the help we can get. I just want you to be aware of everything going on. If you still wish to join us, I am on my way back to the children now. I would love it if you would accompany me."

"Of course." The outlander waited for the knight's lead before moving in step beside him. As they walked, she was quick to pose questions and showed much interest in the welfare of the innocent as well as the security of the plan. She asked for details regarding supplies as well as a description of the journey, and when all was said and done, Avalynn seemed confident in her choice to help.

Gwilym told her all she wished to know and was pleased at her enthusiasm to help these children. As they neared the children’s quarters, Gwilym spoke, "Ava it has been a pleasure talking with you and I’m glad you are anxious to help us. I look forward to our future conversations. I am curious, from one outsider to another, what has brought you to Abertawe. Maybe on the road to the estate in the morning, we could exchange the circumstances in our lives which has brought us together."

"That would be nice," she said as they arrived at the children’s quarters. "I will be ready to leave at the appointed time, Sir Gwilym,"

Gwilym bowed, "I look forward to our journey."

Somewhere a cock crowed.

Pwyll opened a bleary eye onto a disheveled room littered with the debris of an evening's debauchery. The sun, newly risen, shone brightly through an open window, and cast its hideous glow onto Pwyll's exposed cornea. He snapped the eye closed and prayed that he was only imagining daybreak. Opening it a second time, he found his fears confirmed--it was indeed morning. How long he had been asleep, he could only guess -- hours, minutes? He was totally unsure. A small groan to his right helped revive at least some of the night's memorie

He had had a falling out with some mercenaries over the course of the evening, and had come to this place looking for succor. At first the owner of this fine establishment had refused to help, but the glint of silver shillings had opened the door. After that it had been the royal treatment, and now next to him lay the lovely Rhosyn, a woman of no mean skill, who had bathed and bandaged the wounds, and administered much needed care and attention--several times--over the course of the evening. Now it was morning, and Pwyll needed to rise.

The act of swinging his legs over the edge of the bed stretched his still tender wounds menacingly, but it was the act of sitting up that nearly killed him. Not from the tightly bound wounds, but from the pain in his head. He cast a bloodshot look across the carpet of sin before him. The empty casks, torn clothes and food scraps gave the room a certain battlefield ambiance--all that was missing were a few ravens fighting over the bits of bread and cheese scattered about. He made a move to stand, and realized at once that he had made a terrible mistake. As he sagged back to the bed in pain, his eyes fell on the lovely red haired beauty lying beside him, and did the first smart thing since he had opened his eyes -- he lay back down and went back to sleep.

---------

It was well past midday before he awoke again. He checked quickly to see if the young woman was still next to him, and upon finding her sleeping form there he drew himself close to her body. She moaned softly before saying good afternoon. "Good afternoon Rhosyn." Pwyll replied. "It seems we've slept the day away my little red toad..."

She was quick enough to cuff him across the back of the head. "Toad indeed! That certainly wasn't what you were calling out last night."

"No... I was screaming for help to drag you off me." He teased. This earned him a second smack to the head. "Ach! Not only a toad, but a harridan!" He did not begrudge the pillow, which she began to beat repeatedly against him.

After a moment or two he grabbed her arms to defend himself, and they both fell back on the bed laughing.

"Ach! You’re a rare beauty in this wasteland they call a town." He was looking at her impish green eyes, full rich lips, and thick curly mane of red hair.

"Then buy my freedom and take me back to your clan. I'll make a good wife, and you're rich enough to afford the price."

"Oh that this thing were within reach of my meager pouch," Pwyll sighed. "Of the ten shillings I came with, only three remain -- and were it six times that and more I doubt this one would release you from your bond..." Pwyll was not fond of this system of servitude, but knew that even amongst his own people such arrangements existed. "...but I'll do my best to visit often and console you," he added with a roguish wink.

"You might do that, but they'll be know more talk of toads and harridans!" She responded with another attempt to knock him on the side of the head. She liked this wild man, one of her own people, and not just professionally.

The two disengaged after a quick kiss, and Pwyll got out of bed. This attempt was a roaring success compared to the first one of the day. Although the pain in his head was not totally gone, he could now stand without fainting. Once again he surveyed the mess of the room and out of guilt began to set things aright.

"This is wonderful," said Rhosyn propping herself up on a pillow. "Not only does my customer provide me with an evening of wine and song, but he also cleans my room. All my customers should be so gallant."

"Do you have many that can afford you services?" Pwyll asked as he righted an overturned table.

"Not too many. Just a few of the castle nobles and the odd knight, although the sassenachs usually prefer the tall blond lasses you passed over last night."

Pwyll ears pricked up at this. "A few nobles you say? I could use a name or two at court, for future reference."

"You're of the King's court!" She broke out laughing. "That paints the strangest picture."

His pride a little wounded, Pwyll thought in passing that maybe that Alterian was right about his clothes being a little too outlandish for court. Maybe he would do something about that when he purchased some new attire for the coronation. "I'm barely of the King's court, ...An' just shut it!" he said, as he picked up a relatively clean pillow and lobbed it in her direction.

As the giggles subsided, she said, "If you won't by my freedom, then you'll have to do without names--although I might be willing to hint at a name if the price was right."

"An' what price might that be imp?"

Tossing aside the blanket she beckoned with her index finger.

"This may come as no surprise lass, but that is one price I'm willing to pay..."

The Raven stood within the small farm house. The children cowered in the corner. Their parents hung from the high beam by their ankles. She walked around the hanging pair slowly, sprinkling the sacred ground stone. "Istha Moek Donn, Toeska Moek Donn, Creaese Moek Donn." The ritual words were the only sounds other then the sobbing of the children.

The pair had yet to awaken from their precarious position. The woman pushed her Long Blonde Braid back over her shoulder. She turned to the priestess beside her. "Take them to the keep for testing, they distract me."

The woman nodded and with the help of two of the guardsman, the children were taken kicking and screaming away. Only a young girl of thirteen stood her ground, cursing the witch in front of her as the guard wrestled to control her flying wrists and feet.

"Bring her hear." The Raven commanded, her black gown swaying as she turned.

The guard finally grabbed her by the hair and brought her kicking and screaming forward. The Raven grabbed the girl by the chin and forced her face up to look at her. The young girl spat in the witch's face.

"Spirit and potential, a dangerous combination. You want to kill me?" The woman breathed softly. She wiped the spittle off ehr face and down the girl's cheek.

"Aye, burn your heart out with a brand." the girl said, earning a jerk on her hair.

"Then go with your siblings and learn what you can, maybe one day you can do just that." The Raven answered with a grin. She motioned to the guard and he drug the lass out by her hair.

The couple before her began to stir and then soon, those outside heard their screams of terror and begging. The witch stepped out, dagger bloodied, the house then deathly still. She looked at her Captain. "It is not enough, Donn demands more. Scope out three more like it. Meanwhile, I have business afar. I want my sacrifices chosen by that time."

"Yes Mistress Raven." The guard said with a salute.

"Good, I will meet you in three weeks time." She turned her horse towards Alban. The guards left with the children towards the keep. Raven rode quietly. There was much to do, and so little time. The greatest treasure lay in the Archdruid's path. She must take it before he corrupted it with his goodly teachings and false ways.

"Yer sure this is it," said Coch as he set his small bundle down.

"Aye. It's where the Chamber-pot-man had said I could have some new clothes made," Pwyll replied. "You've brought some of the better pieces, haven't you?"

"Oh, aye. Some of the ermine and the black sable you wanted."

"Let's hope it's enough. I've no desire to part with my silver for the sake of a new pair of trews," Pwyll said. Based on the expensive glasswork of the shop's window, he reckoned that without the finer pelts in trade, a new set of clothes would indeed set him back a fair bit of coin.

Pwyll entered first, with Coch in tow. They were met almost at once by a small weasel-faced clerk who simply pointed back to the door and said, "Deliveries around back."

Pwyll and Coch exchanged slightly confused looks. After a moment Pwyll realized that the clerk thought they were porters. Pwyll turned to the clerk and said, "We're not here to deliver anything. We've come to..."

The clerk cut him off mid-sentence. "Then we don't want whatever it is you're selling. Good day!" With that the clerk made to return to the counter in the middle of the shop.

Pwyll's lips thinned. "We're here to have some clothes made," Pwyll said to the retreating back of the clerk in a slightly raised voice.

At that the clerk turned and examined the two outlanders more closely. Their kilted outfits they were at best worn and at worst probability quite dirty. Either their master was a very poor noble from one of the outlying manors, or they were the servants of some petty barbarian chieftain. In either case they could probably ill afford the services of a royal tailor. Still, the clerk considered that it might be wise not to offend them given the fact that they were probably armed. "Would your master care to make an appointment for a fitting?" he said to the one doing the speaking.

"The clothes aren't for my father. They're fer me." Pwyll responded.

The clerk smiled condescendingly. "You gentlemen do realize that the tailor works by appointment to the crown, and that he will see no new clients without recommendation?"

Pwyll smiled back at the clerk with a less than friendly grin of his own. "Yes. That's what Alterian, the King's Chamberlain, said when he directed me here." Pwyll's accent dropped away as he adopted the style of language used at court. "And he also said that I would have to deal with a officious little man before I would be directed to the tailor for a fitting." He reached into his belt and produced the letter of introduction Alterian had given him--knocking his hand deliberately against his heavy purse as he did so.

The clerk, visibly shaken at the mention of Alterian's name, blanched further as he read the letter.

'Dear Callum,

Please allow me to introduce his Excellency Pwyll ap Llywarch, an emissary from the Red Hills on our northeastern borders. His majesty wishes that he be appropriately attired for the upcoming coronation and attendant celebration. He will be responsible for the costs.

I would personally consider it a great favor if you could insist that he also be fitted for an appropriate outfit for regular attendance at court.

Sincerely,
Alterian

P.S. Please do your best not to upset him. While I've been trying to teach him some tact, he is easily offended and might just cut the ears off that obsequious clerk if he feels insulted.'

"Pardon your...Excellency. I'll get the tailor for you immediately." The clerk hurried off into the back of the shop.

"Your Excellency?" Coch snickered at Pwyll, who shot him an evil look in return.

"It's their bloody term ya twit, not mine!" Pwyll said, turning a little red in embarrassment. Alterian had informed Pwyll of the letter's contents at their last meeting, and in spite of Pwyll's protestations he had insisted that the term 'Excellency' be used. He had also warned him about the detestable little clerk that would have to be dealt with before he got a chance to see the tailor. Apparently the tailor, unlike his clerk, was a 'fine fellow' in Alterian's words and someone who could be counted on to be discrete.

After a few heartbeats a large man with a healthy stomach emerged from behind a heavy draped curtain. Looking at the two outlanders, he guessed that the more ornately tattooed one must be the ambassador. "Greetings your Excellency. My name is Callum. I understand you would like a suit of clothes for the coronation?"

"Yes. Alterian said you would be able to provide me with something... appropriate." Pwyll phrased it almost as a question.

"I hope I may serve you adequately," came the tailor's response. "Now. Would you like something formal, or something more traditional, such as what your wearing?"

Pwyll looked down at his threadbare woolen kilt, and thought about Rhosyn's comments about 'painting a strange picture' in the King's court. "Something formal... I guess."

"Let me show you a few designs you might be interested in." The tailor took Pwyll gently by the arm and directed him towards a series of framed woodcuts showing various styles of dress appropriate for nobles at formal functions. Pwyll looked intently at each before settling on the outfit that he thought would allow him the greatest freedom of movement. The tailor seemed pleased. "An excellent choice, m'lord. Now, did you have any particular type of material in mind?"

Here Pwyll was at a complete loss. He had seen and even touched a great many fine fabrics since arriving in the city, but had absolutely no idea what any of them were called. "I was... um... hoping that you might be able to recommend something," he said finally.

Callum looked at the little man and considered the options. Wool would probably be the most functional, but wouldn't suit his position as an ambassador. Silk would do nicely, but with winter fast approaching it would hardly be seasonal. Velvet would look stunning and provide warmth, but the price would probably ruin the little man. Callum tapped his bearded chin thoughtfully, weighing his choices. It didn't take long for the merchant inside him to decide. "It will simply have to be black velvet, m'lord--preferably with fur trim for the cuffs and hood of the cloak." He scrawled a few figures on slate. "All together it would be about 35 shillings for both the suit and cloak."

Pwyll almost gagged at the price, but outwardly remained very calm. "Fur you say? Do you have any ermine or black sable?"

"Alas no m'lord. All the ermine and most of the mink I had was long ago purchased or spoken for. Perhaps muskrat instead?" Callum was very pleased that the outlander hadn't balked at the mention of the price, but was a little distressed that he wouldn't be able to tack on the price of the rare furs that had just been requested.

"So this ermine and sable is quite desirable?"

"Oh yes m'lord. Exceedingly so. I've had a very difficult time procuring any since the spring."

"If you were to have it put on my suit, how much extra would it cost?" Pwyll asked innocently.

"I would suspect that it might well double the price m'lord."

At this Pwyll smiled widely. "Then perhaps we might be able to arrange a little trade?... and perhaps discuss a bit of business as well....."

----------

On the day of the coronation, Pwyll stood amongst the gathered dignitaries waiting patiently for the ceremony to begin. The traditional silver and gold torque denoting his familial status stood out strikingly against the quilted black velvet of his new outfit. Pwyll couldn't help but smile at the covetous looks he received from some of the better-dressed nobles. Even Alterian had smiled by way of acknowledgement as he passed.

Pwyll reflected that the trip to the royal tailor's had been an enriching one. In trade for the pelts he had received the formal outfit he now wore, two fine linen shirts, a serviceable "dress" kilt for court, and a dark woolen kilt for both Coch and himself. But more than that, the tailor had literally opened a wealth of business opportunities. The tailor would discretely receive a regular supply of pelts in exchange for coin and bolts of fine cloth from the south, which Pwyll would then trade for more pelts and coin from the outlanders in the north. As the cycle continued the profits would indeed be enriching.

As the final preparations were made for the coronation ceremony, Pwyll joked to himself, 'Maybe clothes really do make the man...'

Outside King Hawk's castle

Hawk was on his knees, he had been praying for half an hour now. He felt awkward in the ceremonial robes, and still a little bit unsure. But there was no turning back now, the country needed him, and he was not going to let his people down. Even if he had doubts privately, he would be their king.

Alterian cleared his throat gently. "Milord, the people invited are assembled in the grove and the stallion awaits below. If you are ready?" He did not want to rush the man at his prayers but there had seemed a change in posture. Perhaps he had accepted his course?

Hawk came to his feet, and smiled at the older man. "Yes, I am ready." He rose to his feet, and straightened, suddenly every inch the King. "Show me the way."

Alterian nodded and bobbed his head with respect. He then turned and led Hawk out to the front steps where guards in polished livery waited to help him into the saddle. Alterian turned and smiled at the young King then mounted his own steed. He led the way to the grove that was hushed and full. He dismounted and then took the King's horse's head. He would wait here while Hawk was in the circle.

Inside the circle, in a sacred grove near King Hawk's castle

Eruic motioned to Hawk where to stand on the dais in front of the altar, then turned his attention towards the people. Eruic lifted his arms upwards, "In the name of the gods, you have my blessings, blessed be!" He paused a moment and then continued in a loud voice, "You are all gathered here to bear witness to the crowning of a king!"

Nine white-robed druids entered, kneeling around the dais with arms raised towards the heavens.

Eruic looked up towards the sky, "We call upon the gods to bear witness to this ceremony!" He lowered his arms again and turned towards Hawk.

Hawk kneeled in front of the Arch-Druid, and bowed his head.

Eruic picked up the crown from the altar and held it up to the heavens while slowly turning in a full circle to look at those gathered, "Let this crown be a symbol of power! The power of compassion... the power of justice... the power of wisdom... the power of honor!"

Hawk watched in awe, he had seen the crown on his uncle's head at ceremonial occasions, but it was something else to have it placed on his own shortly.

The Arch-Druid held the crown above the kneeling Hawk, standing in front of him, looking down into his eyes, "Do you vow to rule with compassion?!"

"I do." The young man said with conviction. "Do you vow to rule with justice?!"

"I do." He intoned again

"Do you vow that you will always strive to add wisdom to your rule?!"

"Yes."

"Do you vow to rule with honor?!"

"Yes."

"Then I crown thee to rule, always remembering these vows!" Eruic lowered the crown onto Hawk's head to the cheers of the crowd.

Hawk Was overcome by emotions, but managed not to show. The crown was heavy on his head, now all the problems of the kingdom where his. There was no turning back anymore, he was king. And these where his people, he would look after them as best as he could for the rest of his life.

A dark and magnificent figure entered the grove.

Dwrn, unrecognizable for he was made up to look like the god Kernunnos, entered and stepped onto the dais to face the king.

The audience gasped in awe at the sight of him and a hush fell over the grove.

He had magnificent antlers on his head with long curling hair. He held an ancient spear and shield. The shield had images of a stag, ram, bull, and horned serpent painted on it and he was dressed in the garb of a hunter. He also had on a neck torque.

With a deep booming voice, Kernunnos addressed the king, "Hear me, young Gwalchmai ap Iorwerth, for I am Herne --- chosen among The Five to bring you this message:

We, the gods, will give you the land: but since our hands have fashioned it, we will not leave it utterly. We will be in the white mist that clings to the mountains; We will be the quiet that broods on the lakes; We will be the joy-shouts of the rivers; We will be the secret wisdom of the Forest. Long after your children have forgotten us, they will hear our music on sunny raths and see our great white horses lift their heads from the mountain-tarns, and shake the night-dew from their crested manes. In the end, they will know that all the beauty in the world comes back to us, And their battles are only echoes of ours..."

Kernunnos touched the spear to Hawk's shoulder, stepped down from the dais and left.

Eruic stepped forward and touched the top of Hawk's head, "Blessed be and rise, King Hawk!" He stamped his staff hard on the ground and stood next to the king as trumpets sounded and the crowd cheered. Several bouquets of flowers were thrown in the direction of the dais. Eruic turned to Hawk, "Go on!" he urged. "Make a first proclamation --- it's traditional!"

The young king looked at his people, who were still cheering and clapping for him, and he smiled. With a wave of his hand he motioned them to be silent. Then he began to talk.

"My good people, I will not bore you with many words this day, I know you long for the celebrations." There was laughter. "I have said it all in my vows, and I mean to keep them. Know that everybody will be safe in this kingdom. There will be justice for all, every race, religion, and gender. This kingdom will be a safe haven. And now join me at the festivity area for there is a lot of drink and food that has to be finished tonight."

Once again the crowd cheered as they made way for the king to pass and then followed him away from the sacred grove.

"Let us hope that you are ready for what is to come, young Hawk," the Arch-Druid whispered as he watched the king leave, "Let us hope indeed." He then left the sacred circle, as well.

Once again the grove grew silent and peaceful.

The Keldar inn had a quaint air and a tranquil atmosphere that Lowys greatly appreciated. After two days with the knight Jovis, Low had to part ways with him. They had separated at the gates of the capital, Jovis seemingly had to go to the king's castle immediately and Low needed a wide birth. And so, Low had decided to take the few days before the joust to train and rest at the inn.

Abertawe's capital seemed quite a fair city to Lowys, not that the architecture of it all mattered to him, but he could feel an ancient force in the walls, something as deep as it was ancient. He probably was the only one to feel this way. The people weren't quite as fond as he of examining things and people, especially during a coronation, he thought. Their was much cheering for the new King which came of the house of Iowerth, the kingdom's greatest general.

As he indulged in what seemed to him to be a kingly supper, Lowys asked around about the local King and knights. Most of the customers of the inn were guild members who were in the city on business. "taxes are fair and soldiers aren't bullies!" was the best answer he had from them. Unfortunately, Lowys didn't seem to fit well in the guilders, group. Feeling rejected and unwanted, the short man left the room, saluting briefly the guilders on his way out.

The city outside was still bustling with activity. Entertainers were all about, juggling and playing the role of jester, knight and hero alike. People danced and laughed, each of them merry, each of them thankful for their place under Lugh and under the King. Unnoticed amongst them was Lowys, a small peculiar figure, neither man nor child, neither knight nor peasant... The festivities had a strange effect on him, as if he wasn't meant for them.

"Will you dance My Lord?" The question came as a surprise. Lowys looked around him to find himself in the middle of a group of young men and women of the city, all in their best looking clothes. In front of him was a quite young woman with brown hair and eyes looking at him with intensity.

"Well.. If you wish mistress...mistress?" he answered tensely while hoping she would refuse and spare him the plight of suffering laughter because his lacking dancing skills.

"Call me Cleyra..." She answered with a boyish and devilish smile while taking him to the dance area. Executing the dance with precision, Lowys tried to keep his cool. As in any physical exercise, he had no grace, but was a perfect technician. People looked at him with a smirk. "He moves likes a frozen raven..look at his beak!" An obviously drunken man stated while many laughed.

But Low wasn't listening. His mind was cleared of all thoughts as he was focusing on his technique and on executing the moves with precision. His weapons master had also been his dance teacher and seeing that dancing didn't inspire him, he had made a point of explaining that technique whether it was for dancing or for swordplay, was the first tool of any trained warrior. As he trained, Lowys had come to realise that by relying on technique, he could clear his mind of doubts and simply execute on instinct. As he danced or as he fought, he lost track of part of the world to concentrate solely on his opponent, in this case an unknown young woman.

As the dance ended, Lowys felt completely renewed, as if he had trained hard for an hour. He graciously bowed down to thank the young woman:"I thank you for this small bliss... I needed that..."

"It's nothing... You're going to the castle now are you?" She asked with curiosity.

"Well...not really in fact.... I'm a simple traveller on business Cleyra." He looked at her only to find her very disappointed, saddened beyond words. He couldn't bear to see it: "What is it exactly? Why do you wan't me to be a noble?" He asked.

"My brother is dying...and I thought, well, the King knows a great healer who could maybe save him.... We have no money and we don't know what to do...." She uttered, crying aloud. Lowys couldn't bear her crying, couldn't bear any crying at all since the days of his childhood. His course was set at the minute she had shed a tear: "I swear by Diancecht the healer and on my name to get inside the castle and get this healer." He looked at her with intensity to reassure her: "I will not fail!" As he said it he knew it wasn't certain at all. He felt nervous hoping he knew what he was doing, hoping he would not let this needing person down. Something in him was ready to sacrifice it all to save the young boy's life. A knight would do what it takes to protect this innocent, if not, I would, he thought to assert his decision once and for all.

He frowned as he added: "But first, you will need to describe the healer. Give me her name, a good idea of her place at court and give me the location of your house.... I will need it."

*** A few minutes later, Lowys ap Norfal entered the stables of the Keldar inn to meet with his partner. Robart was lying in his box, contemplating his solitude when his master entered: "I will need your hellp" he said with the simple, repspectful tone he used when he wasn't angry with him.

The horse got up as his master started to explain:"It's not something I order you to do, it's quite dangerous, we could be arrested and all, even the one I want to help thinks I'm crazy, but a life is at stake... What do you say....we get a firsthand view of the coronation ceremonies?"

The horse nodded, as if in agreement, which made the young man smile as he opened his box and explained his plan. "It seems will see true knights after all." He said to his anxious mount as he set forth to reach the king's castle.

Ciaran awoke on the morning of the duel to find a familiar looking face over him, fearing that Hawk would stoopto assassination he leapt from his bed and within seconds had a dagger to the mans throat. "Ciaran" the man whispered "Ciaran, the mayor sent me." Then calmcame over Ciaran and he recognised the face of runner from his village Falni. Then he knew this was important, and lowered the knife. The look of worry in the mans eyes drove all thoughts of duelling from his mind. He motioned to the wine.

"No Ciaran," came the reply, "you must leave immediately, I have other duties to perform within the castle. A small group of mercenaries has captured a farmstead at home" he paused to wipe away a tear "your fathers."

Ciaran said nothing but grabbed his cloak, his knives, his sword and his hammer and ran through the door, not stopping till he reached the stables, stealing the fastest horse he could find, a charger he recognized as belonging to Hawk, and rushing out the gate before the guards could reach him.

He did not stop until he reached the halfway point, but only to water the horse, people noticing a serious urgency that caused them to avoid him completely. Once the horse had caught its breath he mounted again, kicking it into a fast gallop. Within an hour he had reached Falni, could see Falni castle, where his sponsor lived, in the distance, and off to the west, Leafmane farm. He decided to avoid the square so as not to awaken anyone this early and so skirted westwards, straight for the farm.

Half a mile from the farm he dismounted and tied the horse to a tree. All thoughts of his glorious ambush strategies forgotten, he moved straight out into the open, onto the main farm path, and then had to turn away and throw up. In the trees lining the drive were the bodies of his parents, but his older brother was strangely absent. Ciaran was happy about this as he had absolutely no desire to see his brother's body hanging from a tree, as Ciaran was sure he would be elsewhere.

Ciaran regained his composure and drew his sword, cutting his parents down, and laying them on the ground away from prying eyes. He would get who was behind this.

Suddenly he heard a noise from the house, voices drawing nearer to him. Quickly he dived into a tree and climbed into its branches, using his stealth to hide among the leaves. As they past beneath him he leapt down onto one and brought his hammer onto another. He crushed them both and caved their heads. Then he tied them to the trees his parents had just vacated and waited for the next one to appear.

He didn't have to wait long, as a man spied out of the window and saw his two companions on the trees. He seemed to turn green, before turning and shouting to people inside Ciaran could not yet see. Then two more figures appeared at the window and his jaw dropped. There was his brother, Patrick, plain as day and unharmed, wearing the Nethbian colours on his shoulder. The three then left the window and within seconds the main door opened. Ciaran waited until they had all past his tree before silently climbing down outside their vision.

They all spun round when the first one fell to a knife in the neck. The second went down as a hammer smashed through his knee and almost took off his leg. This was the one who had showed unease at the bodies. When Ciaran moved to swing at his brother he found an empty space where the man had stood before. Ciaran cursed the stealth skills his brother possessed, superior even to those of Ciaran. But Ciaran could not pursue his revenge however, but had to take this one back to the castle to stand trial, so he hefted the man brutally before knocking him out with a swift blow to the head. He headed for his horse and the castle, determined to show how far the Nethbians had infiltrated Abertawe, and maybe, to apologise to Hawk, who would now be crowned King. Still, he would come back once this was done, to find, and if necessary, kill, his brother.

Little did he know as he walked away a pair of eyes in a nearby tree watched him, their owner thinking the exact same thing...

Gwilym arrived at the children's quarters. "I have found us a little bit of help. Lady Avalynn is going to accompany us to assist you father. she is an outsider who holds sympathy for these children. I believe she'll be a great addition. We also received the aid of four guards to help us on the journey. The head of these four is named Seth McCullen." Gwilym paused a moment for any possible question from the two.

Father Niddian was busy dressing one of the smaller boys, who still appeared half asleep. He looked up at Gwilyn and gave a tired nod. Clearly he was happy to leave such arrangements in the hands of others.

"All is ready for our departure in the morning. We have two horse and cart teams to place the children in. One guard will be handling the reigns of each cart. The other two guards, Quarra, and Myself will be riding our horses. I shouldn't expect any trouble but I still wish to be well prepared."

Quarra nodded, "Yes, sir Knight. I will try to endeavor to do well in the eyes of Laerme."

*-*-*-*-*-*

Gwilym was out front of the children’s quarters loading the carts. He pondered the coronation wondering what it would be like to see one. He also thought about his newest companion, Seth, who seemed to have prior engagements surrounding the coronation. He had overheard rumors of an affair of sorts between Seth and the princess. Gwilym remembered his 18th birthday and he smiled. He was knighted, wed to the most beautiful woman, Glenda, and became heir to the duke of Glenn Far. His thought went from pleasure to pain in seconds and his eyes began to swell. In one day, his world turned upside down. He was widowed and became the duke of a slaughtered city. Gwilym paused for a moment to recompose. Why could he not release this pain? Just then he saw soldiers entering the grounds.

Seth and three other guards walked up towards Gwilym. They each carried their soldier’s bag with camping gear.

“Hello Seth,” Gwilym said as he stepped out to meet them. “What are the names of these three you bring with you?” Gwilym stood like a commander over an army. He wanted to make it clear that though it was only children they were protecting, they were going to give their utmost attention on this assignment. With Lady Isa wanting the best for these children, Gwilym did not wish any mistakes.

Seth had a serious look on his face and said, "They are Michael, Justin, and Jerad. They are all god guards and ones that I have grown to trust. We will all guard these children with our lives." Seth was serious and the other men nodded in agreement.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Morning had arrived and breakfast was complete. Gwilym walked over to Seth, “Seth, Quarra and I will be out front for a moment if you need us.”

Seth nodded and said, "I believe I'll manage. Thanks for the heads up though." Seth was hoping to do more than just protect these kids, he was kind of a kid person in a way. He thought maybe they arrived so he could help arrange some entertainment. He would speak with Ava.

Gwilym then walked over to Quarra, “I was wondering if you had a moment to speak with me outside.”

Quarra nodded, "Of course, sir Knight."

Gwilym and Quarra walked out front towards the carts. “Dame Quarra, I was thinking that it might smooth things over a bit if you got help from Cynwal in dividing the kids amongst the carts. There is not enough room for all of them in the carts, so work on a rotation with Cynwal. Place one of the older children in the front with the driver and any others to walk for a bit. It might easy their restlessness from being stuck in a cart all day. These children look up to Cynwal. He might be a bit easier with us if we show trust in him by giving him a little authority. Could you handle this, please?” He wanted it to sound like a question not an order. They were in this as equals … both in charge. Gwilym, not knowing children, assumed they would listen more easily to a woman. He thought the children would take it more as an order if it came from a man.

Quarra nodded solemnly, "I will do so, sir Knight. I think that I can handle this for you."

As Gwilym and his partner spoke of duty, Avalynn was approaching the small caravan. She was obviously well prepared for the journey. To ward off the nipping temperatures, she wore a heavy cloak of fur and a pair of sturdy travelers boots. Her dress was a dark, moss-green and made for comfort rather than fashion; there was a small bag of various necessities beneath her arm. Before she could reach the group of wagons, however, she was hailed from behind by a familiar voice. "Avalynn!" Came the shout. A few audible footsteps later, Reys was at her side, a look of stern care to his countenance. "Laera just told me of your plans. You weren't going to tell me you were leaving, I see."

"I thought you hadn't come to babysit me, Reys," said Avalynn simply, but her words still received a sharply angled brow from the dark-haired fellow. "Oh, well. Would you like to come, then? You'll have to speak with Gwilym," she pointed to the large, sturdy figure of a knight down the road. The outlander male nodded, and the pair strode toward the caravan.

"You know, Ava... that friend of yours has a big mouth," commented Reys as they walked. Avalynn smiled curiously. "I know," she said.

Gwilym heard the call for Ava and turned to see the two coming up the road. Ava seemed well prepared for the journey, but her counterpart, a bodyguard or something, wasn’t set for any form of travel except for maybe the local tavern. Gwilym tapped Quarra on the shoulder to turn her around and stepped out to meet them. “Hello Ava,” Gwilym bowed, “I see you are well prepared for travel.”

"Greetings, Gwilym. I am ready to depart at your notice," said Avalynn. "This gentleman here is called Reys, and he would like to assist the efforts by caring for the children... keeping them in order, feeding for them, whatever they require." The very corner of Ava's mouth twisted in a grin as she gestured to the traveler beside her. If Reys was disappointed, he certainly didn't show it.

"I'd be happy to do what I can," said Reys as he reached out to shake the knight's hand, a pleasant smile on his face. He hadn't time to prepare for the journey, but he was a travelling fellow and always wore provisions on his belt. Because of the morning chill, he was also equipped with a heavy cloak and a pair of warm boots. Reys shot a quick glance at Avalynn through a stray wisp of dark hair; the woman appeared to be pleased with herself.

Gwilym shook the man’s hand, “I am glad you wish to join us. Come, I’m sure the priest would like to meet the two of you.” Gwilym took a quick glance to examine Ava’s bodyguard. He appeared that he could handle his own if time called for it, though there were six already to protect children. If anything, he’d help keep track of the little tikes. Four children could make a mother’s hair gray within a year. We have forty-one children with only nine now to watch them. Gwilym imagined his hair being gray as he led the outlanders, who fell in step beside him, inside the complex.

Once inside, Gwilym spotted the priest and maneuvered his way amongst the children towards him. “Father Niddian, I’d like you to meet Lady Avalynn and her Associate, Reys. They are here to help you with the children in whatever way you need.”

Father Niddian seemed to smile with relief. "Ah! It is good to finally see someone without armour and weapons. Lady Avalynn, I think you will find many of the girls will go to you for help when I am not around. Is that fine with you?"

"Perfectly, Father. Reys and I are at your service," Ava smiled genuinely. "Don't hesitate to ask anything of us." The man at Avalynn's side gave a respectful nod in agreement.

"You may regret having said that," chuckled the priest in good humor. "But I sincerely hope we do not impose too great a burden upon you." Turning back to Gwilym, Father Niddian's expression turned into hopeful inquiry. "Are we ready to depart, Sir Gwilym? It will take but a moment to gather the children, and then we can be away..."

“Aye, Father Niddian, let’s get these munchkins in the carts. I am anxious to get this journey over with.” With that said, everyone scrambled to finish preparations. Within an hour, nine adults and forty-one children began their journey down the long road.

(The Sacred Grove)

Feirha was shown to his place by one of the attending druids. He felt somewhat shameful as he considered whether these druids, whether in fact most of the people here, would be made so welcome and feel so comfortable if they were to visit a church. This was one of the main reasons he had always chosen to follow his own path of faith, rather than subscribe to the 'official' church teachings. In fact, much of his own personal beliefs would probably win him little favour with the powers of his church. Moreover, much of what he had seen these past months bore little resemblance to the world portrayed in the doctrine. He shook his head sadly. Perhaps it was all a sham after all. At least here there was no need for blind faith - the trees and the grass and the birds were all real enough; they could be seen, felt, heard, smelled.

Lost in such spiralling meditations Feirha did not feel the passage of time until he was aroused by the announcement of Hawk's entrance. Rising to his feet along with everyone else he felt briefly out of place. Hawk had invited his old friend to the ceremony and Feirha was, of course, honoured and delighted to be here, but he could not help think of all those who had been serving him, and their kingdom, far longer who had not been invited and deserved the privilege more.

Feirha listened proudly to his friend's vows. Compassion, justice and wisdom. The whole concept of chivalry condensed into three words. Arrian had strove towards the same ideals as had Aeric before him. Feirha hoped Hawk's gods would be kinder to the young king. Given the right opportunities Feirha knew Hawk would make a fine king, and part of the ageing priest-knight's duty now was to help ensure those opportunities.

As the emotion of the occasion began to seep into the hearts of even the most hardened warrior present, the personification of Kernunnos entered the sacred grove. Feirha listened with rapt fascination to Herne's symbolic message and it touched thoughts and ideas he usually kept deep within himself.

When Dwrn spoke as Herne, he spoke of how the gods, or more literally evidence of the gods, would always be present in nature; "We will be in the white mist that clings to the mountains. hear out music on sunny raths." This described, almost exactly, Feirha own "theory".

He believed in One God, but he also acknowledged the ancient gods. Not as individual deities in their own right, but as mere aspects of the greater God. Just as how each man could be lover, killer, father, son, so the many faces of God could be represented by the countless Celtic gods. As the old saying goes, "you cannot see the forest for the trees." In ancient times people's lives were so hard that they did not have time to spare on such meditation, nor did they have the education or wisdom to interpret such things. They saw one small area of God's domain and chose to explain it on that small level alone. They never thought to link all their individual gods with their small, specific spheres of influence into one overall, all-encompassing power. That is how Feirha saw God. Not a new God; not a replacement of the old gods, but merely focusing on the larger view. The forest rather than the trees.

Feirha wondered if he should share these thoughts with the druids but his thoughts were interrupted by Hawk's proclamation. Following the short, yet genuine speech, the congregation began to file out of the grove, after their new king, and Feirha followed along behind, his decision postponed for the time being.

"You are special, Amlyn. You may not think so now, but believe me I know. My name is Nwython, and I will be your guide from now on. We will train together, eat together, pray together, and by the divine grace of the one god, you will become an avatar in the pursuit of his work. As I am. As you are now MY work. Rise, young knight."

All he could remember was the eagerness and anticipation he felt at the prospect of receiving what he had been promised. So long overlooked, so long one of the downtrodden, and for so long, weary of the struggle to fight and survive. It seemed fate had plucked him from the mire of existence, and finally delivered him to an island of hope. For Nwython had a burning charisma and appeal. He spoke all the right words in the right tones, soothing his ego, bolstering his confidence, filling him with encouraging words and compliments and feeding him hope of becoming something greater. Despite Amlyn's lack of faith in the words of the one god, Nwython was a supreme entity whom he came to worship as a master and teacher. He hung off his every word, did all that he asked, made the numerous sacrifices that he demanded, believing in the vision that Nwython had for him. Young, impressionable and naive, moulded and shaped into a monster of rage, recklessness and violence.

"You are a bastard son, my child. Your mother has abandoned you, and your father would gladly have you dead should he ever come to know of your existence. A life of comfort and respect, of peace and prosperity, of security and happiness. All this has been denied of you. There is no joy for any woman in a circumstance such as this. But your father... he cares not."

What a fool he had been. Duped and tricked by lies and deceit. Lathered into a fit of fury at a man who was never at fault to begin with. Llydaw struck first, just as Nethbo had attacked Abertawe without provocation. Dinodig defended it's own borders, and in the struggle that followed, justice was served in Llydaw's defeat. Amlyn had long ago come to that conclusion, but with the knowledge that he had been used, a sour taste remained in his throat, and an ache in the pit of his stomach.

"And why should he? He has everything you don't. Anything he does not have, he takes, while you scrape and claw your way about through the muck with everyone else of unimportance. He is the King of Dinodig, Guaire ap Namus. And you, Amlyn ap Guaire are nothing. But with your devotion, your strength and courage, and your passion, that may change. You must reclaim what is your right. And I am here to help you..."

He was the son of a squire. His mother had told him so, begged of him to believe her so that he might leave for good and start again - elsewhere. Yet still he pondered the lingering doubts at to whether or not she had lied to him, withholding the truth for his own supposed good. Which would mean... he didn't know what. Truth no longer held any significance for him. What a joke he was. The Knight of Truth, but with no clue as to who he even was.

Guests of the King each took it in turn to approach Hawk and bow before him, while an excited murmur ran through the gathered nobility as they waited for their own opportunity to greet the new King. Along the eastern wall of the hall, stood a number of associated dignitaries, men and women in various colours and styles of courtly attire. Being a relative stranger to Abertawe, Amlyn did not recognise any of them from their colors or coat-of-arms. But neither was he even interested in finding out. For he had eyes for only one person. And their eyes were watching him.

Blue-grey eyes of a middle-aged man with blond, bowl-cut hair and neatly-trimmed moustache and beard. While there was a long line of people along that wall, he seemed to occupy a space all of his own, apart but not isolated from the rest. A small gold cross on a chain sat neatly over the front of his overtunic, which bore a gold tau cross on a crimson ordinary. The anticipation in his smile was clear and unmasked.

Nwython.

Amlyn did not know how long he stood there looking at him accross the hall. Upon seeing him, he had suffered a sense of deja vu so strong it was almost as if he had stepped back into the past in a macabre melding of time and space. It was no dream, but a nightmare, and one he knew there would be no waking from. Half of him wanted to storm accross the room and cut him down. The other wanted to curl up and cry. Instead, he compromised and just stood there in stunned disbelief, replaying the words over and over again in his mind. Of promises and lies.

"Sir Amlyn?" said a distant voice from beside him. He just grunted as a means of acknowledgement, unable to unlock the gaze that passed between him and his old teacher. "I am Tyngyr, sir knight. Master Nwython would appreciate it greatly if you would accept his offer to converse." Smooth words, but they were enough as a trigger to launch him from his stiffness. Taking the first painful step forward, he began to weave his way through the throng, ignoring the escort that followed. He almost cut off the Knight of Innocence as she began her approach to meet the new king, but he did not even realise she was there. He rounded the table, his mind a blank, and Nwython turned to face him as he approached. The smile had not faded, but there was now a wariness in the place of earlier eagerness. He stopped from old habits, maintaining a distance that he had always been expected to keep with Nwython. But upon realising his actions, he took another, deliberate step forward, invading that space and narrowing his eyes at the older man in defiance. The temperature dropped, and Tyngyr moved away, uncomfortable and expecting trouble.

Nwython did not show any concern. His smile vanished however, replaced by a look of business and authority. When he opened his mouth to speak, the sounds his voice made slid easily into Amlyn's mind, as if they had never left his thoughts. "It has been a long time," he said. "You walked away from me, with your black shield and black sword and dark intentions, as if only moments ago. You have been through much from what I have seen, and you are stronger and... wiser for it."

"I shall never serve you again," stated Amlyn.

Nwython snorted with suppressed laughter, the transition rapid and almost startling. "You are a shadow of the past for my work, son of Guaire," he said. "I am on other duties here, and although you may be part of them I no longer expect you would participate from your own free will."

Amlyn glared at him and moved away.

"Nia is out of reach for you," Nwython said, as if reading his intentions. "She is sailing the currents of fate alone, as fate is what you choose to believe. But I would not wish to become a part of her fate." A hint of malice. "Your actions decide."

Amlyn stopped. After a pause, he turned back to Nwython. "Fate chooses those to act on its behalf. It would not surprise me that you would become a part of our fate. I cannot stop what is predetermined to happen."

"Then is it her fate to have me tutor her as I have tutored you?"

It was as harsh as a slap to the face. As far as Amlyn was concerned, Nia would be better off dead than becoming a apprentice under Nwython's instruction. Beaten, he moved to stand next to Nwython against the wall. "What do you want?" he said bluntly.

"Your patience, my son." He turned back to watch the unfolding celebrations, comfortable that his point had been made clear. "Do you enjoy the gift I had made for you? It is as formidable a weapon as the black sword you gave away. It was difficult to complete in the required time, but the result is indeed impressive." He tilted his head to glance at the unhappy expression on Amlyn's face. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill, a poor token of recognition for what you have suffered."

"You lied to me," Amlyn blurted, offended by the suggestion of how he had 'suffered'. "I spent years murdering souls to pursue a man who wasn't even..."

"Your mother lied to you," corrected Nwython, interupting him. "This may come as a surprise to you, Amlyn, but I have always told you the truth."

"Horseshit."

Nwython sighed. "Ignore it as you will. Ask Discord, next time he shows his face. Ah." He removed a goblet of warm, spiced mead from a tray offered by a servant. "Your new King is a very gracious host, Amlyn."

Refusing the mead with a shake of his head, Amlyn watched Hawk greet his visitors, for a moment seeing the King of Dinodig superimposed over his frame.

Despite Amlyn's sullen silence, Nwython decided to continue. Now was the perfect time to talk with Amlyn, for despite his rage, he would dare not seek to dishonour a King at his own coronation. "Your father had assigned me years ago to ready you, so that you could meet him and be killed by his hand."

Amlyn shot him a horrified look, Hawk all but forgotten. "What?!"

Nwython waved his hand about in a casual gesture after sipping the mead. "He did not directly request it, but I had my instructions from my own superior, and I followed them. You are too old to patronise any further Amlyn. You were to be trained, outfitted and ultimately sent to your death. Guaire does not like loose ends, and you are the last such loose end that he wanted taken care of. In his own, twisted way." He sipped again, relishing the warmth and heady scent of the liquid. "But ultimately, you chose your own fate," he said, smiling once again at the reference to destiny. "And I was not prepared to stop you. While Guaire is necessary, he is unstable and reckless, and the day may come when he needs to be replaced. Perhaps, by then," he said with some hope, "you might be ready."

"Go to hell," said Amlyn angrily. "IF what you say is true, then you have still manipulated and used me for your own ends anyhow. I'll see you a rotting corpse first before I allow that to continue."

"What would you have preferred? That I left you as one amongst many? You know as well as I do, that your path has always been predetermined. You were meant to be here, now, with me, that I may speak with you and start the next chain of events that you have no chance of avoiding." He plucked up the cross from around his neck and held it up for Amlyn. "This means nothing to you, my son. But to me, it means sacrifice for the good of others. And I know you well enough to understand that you value the concept of giving up your own life for the benefit of many. We are at least similar in that respect. And I have something to tell you that you may find fascinating."

Amlyn looked back at the King, wondering if he could indeed lay down his life for the crown.

Nwython continued. "There is a fortress some distance from here to the east, that holds the followers of the dark one, Donn. They are raiding farms and small villages, killing peasants and taking hostages for their own ceremonies. While I cannot tell you where to find them, I do believe a knight by the name of Bleys has holdings in that area which have been affected. He has already gone on ahead to investigate, but he does so alone and thus I suspect he goes to his death. Of course," he added quickly, "I do not expect you to do the same. Hence, you may also be interested to know that one of your countrymen from Llydaw, Sir Jovis Templeton, has arrived for the tourney. From what I have heard he did little fighting in the war, but he is a proficient jouster and a strong man, and would make a worthy ally. If you can find others to tolerate you on your cause, then that would be useful as well."

"Something tells me you aren't just here for the ceremony," said Amlyn. He had never heard of this knight called Jovis, but his arrival may be linked in some way to a bigger picture.

"A missionary's work, spreading the word of the one god to all reaches of the world, is a hard and thankless job, son of Guaire." As an afterthought, he looked at the goblet and made a mock frown. "I should say mostly thankless. But if an opportunity comes along to render assistance to common folk who are subjected to evil, heathen rituals, then it's well worth taking. And seeing as you are hardly popular at the moment, in either the eyes of the people OR the Lord, then it's a small step to achieving some... redemption."

"Spare me your favours," said Amlyn in disgust. "They are two-faced and always to someone's disadvantage."

Nwython shrugged. "Talk to the Archdruid, if you suspect I may be lying. In the meantime..." he placed the empty goblet onto a passing tray and rubbed his fingers together, "... I shall endeavour to circulate and talk with some of the guests. Should you ever have the burning desire to visit and recount old tales of battle and glory," he said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice, "Please do. Duke Morial is an excellent host." And then he was gone, moving away to corner one of the delegates from Dan-yr-Coed.

The closeness of the guests, the confined space of the room and the words in his head all suddenly became too much for Amlyn. Fighting back a malaise of queasiness, he staggered out of the hall, bumping into many on the way out but in too much distress to either notice or care. "Celebrating acquaintances..." Laera Irenich Jameson ap Lorewerth With all the confidence imaginable, Laera plucked a glass of wine from a passing silver tray and held it properly between her fingers. Indeed, her lessons in dining etiquette would not go unpracticed as she stood amongst a throng of noblemen and women, enjoying the celebration held for King Hawk. In her lovely gown of emerald and silver, she could have been any nobleman's daughter. Or wife.

"Lady Laera?" Came a gentleman's voice, laced with disbelief and wonder. And yet, Laera could not recall having recognized anyone upon entering the festivities. Genuinely surprised at having been addressed by name, Laera quickly spun around to face the speaker.

"Lord Jameson!" She exclaimed, nearly losing hold of her wine. A few drops splashed onto her fingers, and she instinctively lifted her hand to her lips to suck away the spilt drink. Immediately after doing so, however, she was flushed with embarrassment at her unorthodox actions. "Oh, I do apologize, my lord. I..."

"No, no, it's my fault, my lady," the gentleman said with a bit of a smile. He looked rather young with his clean-shaven face and short, bobbing golden curls. "Here, allow me." Jameson quickly produced a handkerchief of white silk and offered it to the abashed woman. Laera seemed hesitant to wipe the traces of wine with such a fine piece of cloth, but accepted the offer, nonetheless. As she wiped her hands, she attempted to draw the attention away from her foolishness.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Lord Jameson. Are you a member of the royal court?" But for all of her earlier confidence, Laera found it exceedingly hard to make eye contact.

Jameson merely chuckled. "I'm here with my father, actually. He's the noble with the curly white hair and stern disposition." Another servant passed, and Jameson plucked himself a goblet of crimson wine, his voice taking on a slightly more concerned tone. "How is your friend Lady Avalynn, by the way? She is well and walking, I hope."

Laera finally managed to lift her gaze, inwardly disappointed by the mention of Avalynn. The elder outlander always had a way of attracting more attention from the men. "Oh... Ava," she said quietly, "Ava is fine. She's off on some trip right now." Not sure of what else to say, Laera merely toyed with the handkerchief in her hand.

"Well, that's good," replied the young gentleman with a pleasant smile. In fact, he didn't seem interested in talk of Avalynn beyond the mention of her health. "Say, do you like to dance?"

Laera blinked. Dance? She hadn't yet taken dancing lessons...! Like a wildfire, the red rushed to the woman's cheeks, and she reluctantly admitted her lack of experience with the local dancing techniques. "Yes, but... I don't really know the dances here..."

"That's all right. I can tell you're not from Abertawe," Jameson chuckled, offering a velvet-sleeved arm. "I'll show you. It's easy."

Unable to protest, Laera demurely slipped her hand through Jameson's, an excited smile forcing its way over her wine-stained lips. As she was escorted toward the dancing area and the small, lively band that filled the air with melody, a thought suddenly occurred to her. "My lord," she said curiously, tilting her gaze to the gentleman's azure one, "How did you know my name?"

Obviously suppressing half of the grin, Jameson replied, "I have an old friend that works in the king's kitchen. He told me about a young and lovely dark-haired outlander that was seeking lessons of dining etiquette."

Laera only laughed.