Nanowrimo

A Tale of Moons By Stephanie Young THE CHARACTERS Sibri, Lady of Pala Givarin Daughter of the widowed Queen Lilya, Sibri is the King Tryist’s step daughter. A widower himself, he married Sibri’s widows mother when she was six years of age and so Sibri came to live at the castle, where she was named the Lady of Pala Givarin. Corzan Lover of Sibri, Corzan grew up among the Shetyi people where he learned his skills as a skilled warrior. Dark-haired and tanned, unlike the pale skinned people of his kind, he fell in love with Sibri at the age of 18 when he left his homeland to join the forces of Silvàrador where his allegiance lies. Jules Morin A noble and a valiant leader of the Circle of the Moon, the worthiest men in the guard, Jules Morin is a faithful follower of the King. He has always taken a fatherly interest in Corzan, for he had lost his own brother to the hands of the Shetyi and he has sword to defeat them ever since. Arlos Hated by Jules Morin, Arlos is the King’s assassin, or rather, his jack-of-all trades. His hair is dark, and fairly short, and his face a deathly pale. He is unnaturally skinny but lithe and swift when needed and the best dagger thrower in all the land. Yet, no one knows his past or his family. Is he really faithful to the King? Jesmaine Daughter of Tryist by birth, Jesmaine loathes Sibri with a passion born out of jealousy. Like her father, she has ruddy features, bright blue eyes, and golden hair. She’s constantly smiling and over all friendly. Perhaps almost unnaturally so. Prince Albin Jesmaine’s brother and Sibri’s half-brother, Albin is blond like his father but is pale in his looks. Loyal and though not a good fighter, a brave one. He has always been friendly and kind to Sibri, ever since she came to live at Pala Givarin. They had gotten especially close in their childhood, a fact Jesmaine did not like. King Tryist Tryist leads the people of Silvàrador with wisdom but yet does not have a relationship with any of his children, except perhaps Jesmaine. But she seems to control him, rather, with her manipulative.

This tale begins in a world called Illmarin, a world similar yet different to that which we call earth. Silvàrador is a chief country, one of the largest in the world and is renowned to be the center of culture and richness through-out the world. Pala Givarin, its capital city has been called the gem of the kings and all inhabitants of the land had been in peace and prosperity for

many an age—that is before in the south, the Shetyi people, led by the ruthless Morken Niron decided to begin a conquest of the land. The Shetyi people are pale and sallow, with dark hair and pale hands. They rule by cruelty and no nothing of right or wrong. The golden land of Silvàrador, ruled by the noble King Tryist is at its very borders and is constantly threatened with war. There have been many battles between these two rival kingdoms, one standing for justice and light, the other for power and darkness. But unknown to them is another struggle, yet far greater. The struggle between Life and Death and one man’s choice. The Shetyi are getting smarter, there men fiercer, their warriors stronger. They will not be driven back as easily as before and rumor has it that someone is leaking information to them, giving them the secrets of Silvàrador’s army. But the brave captain, Jules Morin, cannot accept this. The King has ordered him to carry out this surprise ambush without fear for their plans had been made in the greatest secrecy. The Shetyi would be defeated for at least time, it was almost certain. But yet. . .something was amiss. This then is where our story begins.

P

rologue

“Only two?! I’ve caught five already!” Gredon smirked as he cleaned his fish with Gordon’s knife. “Mum will be proud.” Gordon kicked the water with his boots, frowning slightly. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I thought it was my bait but I checked it. It was the same of yours.” His lower lip stuck out indignantly. “Guess some people just don’t have the knack.” Gredon teased.

B

eginnings

It was a dark night and the relentless rain poured down upon the stone of the castle walls. It did little to improve the already dank thoughts of Jules Morin. He paced, hands clasped behind bent back, brow creased with apprehension. The sound of his boots hitting the hard stone floor sounded ominous accompanied with the steady pitter patter of the rain. He continued pacing, his form tinged yellow from the light of the torches upon the walls. Thud thunk. Thud thunk. Thud thuHe stopped. He had planned well. He had done the best he could. There was nothing more to be done, nothing more to be said. Everything should be going quite smoothly tonight and in all probabilities it was… So why these nagging thoughts? Morin stood still, a noble form in the dim of the passage hand on whiskered face. The thud of the rain audible even through the stone walls. By the Saints, he hated weather as this. It felt so… foreboding. But Morin knew this: He had to be strong. He was their captain, their guide. He had lead them victorious through many a dire battle with the enemy. Unfounded fears as this were

foolish—even womanly. He would not allow them to play with his thoughts and fears. That would be madness. But try as he might…the foreboding feeling would not go away… “Sir!” The sharp voice of his lieutenant coming from the doorway broke through Jules Morin’s dire thoughts. Collecting himself with a faint sigh, he turned toward the young man. He hoped his voice would not betray his anxiety. “How fair things, Dornhal?” he said. Sharp green eyes surveyed his lieutenant’s features and Dornhal lowered his gaze almost guiltily. Morin noticed a dark red stain spreading at his side and only then realized that Dornhal was wounded. “Sir, we, erm…well, we were ambushed. They—“ Dornhal staggered and caught himself and it was then Morin realized it was blood. It trickeled to the floor, With a start, Morin reacted and grasped the younger man’s shoulder. “What is it?!” “Tell me?!” Dorhnal clutched at his side, breathing heavily. “Ambush. The Shetyi, they were too many. Surprised us in the dark.” “How could this have happened?” We had the highest security possible…we told no one…” His voiced faded to a pained whisper. “How many?” Dornhal gasped for breath and looked up. “I….don’t know..maybe five hundred. Hard to tell. Woods. Many injured…I tried too run, Corzan sent me-- ” His leg bolted from underneath him and he fell heavily to the floor, eyes closed. Blood soaked his side. And in a heartbeat, Captain Morin was down beside him, checking body with his hands. “Guards!” His voice rang, loud and sharp. “We have a wounded man!” With a steady hand, he checked his breathing and wounds, face not betraying the slightest emotion but eyes shining furiously as he saw the damage done. The Shetyi…they were getting smarter... But why? A traitor. The sinister voice sounded in his deepest of thoughts but he pushed it back with vehemence. He implicitly trusted everyone that had had part in the plan and wouldn’t stoop so low to think any of them a spy. They were all like brothers to him. But the nagging voice persisted. How else could they have found out?

“I do not think he is fatally wounded but take him to the healing places. And quickly.” He said , rising as the quickened pace of the guards approached. “Loose no time”. Dornhal was one of his best men. He had known him since he was but a child. But this was the price of war. He hated it. It had been death of his older brother had inspired him to fight for his country, the noble land Silvàrador. In a way, he valued his position of Captain as it allowed him to extract vengeance for his brother’s death at their hands. The hands of the Shetyi. They will pay dearly. And Morin clenched his fist. He had just set off at a fast pace through the corridors to alert the Lord and King when he caught the sound of lighter footprints and then without warning, the young Lady Sibri appeared in front of him. As always, she made a regal figure, face emotionless framed in shadow by dark locks. Sharp blue eyes caught the captain. Pausing midstep, thoughts clearly elsewhere, Morin instinctively bowed sharp and quick. “My lady” he said not meeting her gaze and continued his way down the hall. Sibri’s gaze lingered on his retreating form for a moment, a thin dark brow narrowed into a slight frown. “Is anything amiss, captain?” And with this query from his superior, Captain Morin stopped, clearly reluctant but he turned and his eyes met hers equally. The Lady Sibri’s presence made most feel in awe but that feeling had never quite rubbed off on him. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he had been there when the she had first came to live at the castle as a six-year old maiden but at any rate, nothing about her proved the least bit daunting for the Captain. He paused for a second, collecting his words, hesitant to speak in haste. “I must get to the King. One of my men has informed me the attack today didn’t go as well as we had wished”, he said at length, voice not betraying a hint of emotion. He shifted slightly, clearly in a hurry. But Sibri would not be put off so easily. A spasm of fear flitted across her features and when she spoke, her voice sounded almost hoarse. “My brother, and Corzan. They-- They are not gravely hurt, are they?”, her eyes searched his face, beseeching him for some reassurance, reassurance Morin wished he could give. “I don’t know…” His voice sounded hollow even to his own hears. Sibri rushed toward him, and jerked his hand, her cool demeanor forsaken. “Please, Captian.” Her voice was pleading. “Bring them to me safe. Please. You have never failed me…” He gently removed her pale fingers from his. “My lady, worry not. Corzan and Albin both are staunch fighters. Doubtless they will both be returned to you in time and I will do my best to see as such.” He stepped away with a slight bow. “Now I must have a word with a king” and with that he hasted down the hall.

Sibri watched him go, resting a trembling hand on the stone wall. Her heart ached for her dear brother and Corzan, the young man who had promised his love to her. They were not to be wed till after the war and day by day, Sibri watched from her tower, overlook the jewel of the kingdom, the city Pala Givarin. With each day, she hoped for the tidings that the Shetyi had been vanquished and all was once more at peace and she would be wedded. And at the same time, dread. Dreading that came with each footstep at her door, dreading that tidings would come of her warrior’s death. And of that of her precious and devoted younger brother, Albin. She feared for him even more so, he had never been a strong warrior and had always been sickly, even as a young boy with a sallow pale face and warm kind eyes. He had told her he was fighting in this war for her sake, and for the sake of their deceased parents. A diamond tear trickled down her pale face. It was too much to bear. The agony, the pain, it engulfed her as an overwhelming tide, drowning out the few joys in life she could call her own. If anything were to happen to them, would her life be worth living? Her life as the famed Lady of Pala Givarin she could not bear without her brother and lover by her side. It wasn’t worth it. Masking her emotions, Sibri drew herself to her full height. She would be strong, if only for their sakes. And with a ruffled swaying of her gown she retreated back down the corridor having forgotten why she was there in the first place. The large door opened with an ominous creaking as Captain Jules Morin hurriedly entered the King’s hall, hand clasped on the hilt of his sword. “My lord.” He jerked his head in a quick bow before continuing. “I’ve just received word from Dorhnal, my men were ambushed in the Woods of Seratheme as we carried out our planned attack on—‘ “I know.” The King Tryist had been standing, hands clasped studying a hanging on the stone wall before he turned to survey his captain. “Arlos has informed me.” A cloaked man with dark matted hair who had been standing unnoticed by Morin in the shadows stepped forward with a respectful incline of his head. “Captian.” he said “Arlos.” Morin replied shortly, with an inward growl. He had never liked or trusted Arlos whom he referred to privately as the King’s slinker. Stealthy and cunning, Tryist employed Arlos as a jack of all trades, mainly using him for the work of a spy and once, an assassination. Jules Morin had always preferred to deal with his enemy with a combat instead of a cowardly stab in the back and Morin had had more then one heated discussion with both the King and Arlos himself regarding this. Yes, Jules Morin and Arlos had their differences. But this was no time for that. The king walked to the table in the center of the room, voice emotionless and slow and eyes cast downward. “I wish now that I had listened to your reason and had sent you instead to lead instead of Lord Corzan. He is a skilled warrior but bold and doesn’t realize the wisdom of retreating in some cases.”

Tryist met Morin’s eyes and the Captain returned the Sovereign’s gaze unflinchingly. “We all make mistakes, my lord.” “Yes. But I can’t afford any more mistakes. Corzan shall remain Captain of the Silver Guard and you will replace Wallish as my first-in-command. Arlos has told me he has been gravely wounded, and you Morin are the kind of man I am in dire need for.” Morin blinked in surprise, and gave another bow. “My service is at your command, my king, to wherever you deem fittest.” And then, remembering the Lady Sibri, Morin voiced his dreaded question. “And the others, sire. How many are lost? The Lord Corzan and Prince Albin. Are they well?” He glanced at Arlos but the younger man’s face bore no emotion. There was a pause and for the first time, Morin realized the determination in his eyes stemmed from sorrow. “We do not yet know all of our losses but so far three score have been deemed dead. Corzan received merely an arm wound which shall be healed soon but Albin, Albin is no where to be found.” Morin took this news with a short nod. “Operations to find him will commence at once, sire.” The king grasped Morin’s right hand. “Lead it personally. Do not fail me. Please,” he added in a voice barely above a whisper. “You know what malice they are capable of. Bring my son home.” “Yes, my lord.” “Then go. Leave at dawn’s first light and take Arlos with you. Despite whatever differences you have, he may prove of great value.” “Yes, my lord.” Out of the corner of his eye, Morin thought he could sense a smirk flit across Arlos’s features but upon looking at him, found his face to be as expressionless as usual, though his emerald eyes seemed to have a strange expression. Morin didn’t like it. “You are dismissed then. Go for the glory of Salvador and the Tower of the Pale Moon.” And with that, the king dismissed them. The next day brought with it the coming of dawn and with it the hopes of a cheery day. But the gloom of the clouds persisted overhead and only fragment’s of pale sunbeams were able to get past the dark and shine but little light they must upon the dreary earth bellow. The rain had ceased for the moment but the air rang thick with water and it was only a matter of time before once again, the grey skies would cry their tears. Tears like those which graced the pale cheek of Sibri as she sat still as stone in her chambers. On the table beside her stood a plate of uneaten fruit and a half empty glass of cordial. News had spread fast and before the dawn, Sibri had learned about Albin’s disappearance from a maidservant and now all she could do was sit and think. When she had first come here long ago, daughter of the new wife of the king, she had been afraid and unsure of herself. Life was so much different as the Lady of Parth Galain, and her mother the King’s own Queen. But Albin had made her feel at home. They had spent countless days as children, either reading in the great and rich libraries of the palace or playing in the Gardens of Illinwed. He could never play long without and tired quickly but nevertheless, Sibri had learned to love Albin as a brother. He had been her one and only confident, and when her mother had died in the tragic accident, his had been the shoulder she had wept her tears upon. He had always been

gentle, kind and tender and a most devoted brother. But now he was gone and it was her own fault. Hers because she was the reason he had gone to fight, he had said. For her safety and for the glory of the king and his country. Her fault because though try as she might, she could not stay his resolve. She begged and pleaded but Albin would not be daunted and so he went off, sword in hand and that boyish grin Sibri loved so well. He had actually proven himself a though not great, a capable bowman and became the prince of the ranks of the archers. The first few battles against the Shetyi were easily one and Sibri could remember how he had come home, a jaunt in his step and a smile gleaming upon his face which had taken on a faint pink glow that differed from his usual pale one. “Sib!” he would say, and run to meet her. “I’ve missed you so!” And off he went telling her tales of his new soldier’s life, Corzan laughing in the background and arguing with fun for all Albin said. That is in the past, Corzan and Albin rarely even spoke two words to each other now and each treated the other with seeming contempt. Sibri had often wondered about exactly why but could find no explanation. Albin would not tell her though he said she would understand in time. But now, he was gone. For all she knew, Sibri mayn’t ever see his face again. Another tear made its way down her cheek. She had known it would come to this. It was unavoidable. And now he was gone and no one could do anything about it. As if to read her thoughts, a familiar voice sounded from behind where she sat at the window. “Sibri, dearest, worry not. Captain Jules Morin and Arlos, some of the best and most capable men in all of the country are out looking for him. They have never failed before. Albin will be returned to you.” A familiar hand was laid upon her shoulder. Sibri clasped it in her own and turned toward the voice of Corzan, the voice she loved so well. With a slight cry, she bolted and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh Corzan! I could never forgive myself. He has gone. Because of me.” He grimaced slightly under the fury of her sorrow and she stepped back. “Your arm! Oh love, forgive me!” Only now did she notice the bandages encasing his left arm and felt foolish with herself. “It is nothing, Sibri. Merely a wound, a warning to pay closer attention next time.” The faintest smile spread across his face and Corzan drew Sibri into his arms and laid a gently, almost brotherly kiss on her forehead. She laid her tear-stained face upon his shoulder, heaving with gentle sobs as they stood in the pale light streaming from the tower window, a sudden gust of wind through it, gently making Sibri’s long black hair sway and she stood in her lover’s arms. The moment lasted for a minute before she lifted her head, a new resolve in her face. “Corzan, promise me you’ll never forsake me.” Her eyes looked into his, searchingly and it seemed that Corzan’s eyes seemed to almost flinch for the faintest second before meeting her gaze. “You have my word, my lady.” She nodded. “Albin…oh, how I miss him! What if…?” and her voice trailed off. He clasped her hand in a firm grip. “I would be with Captain Morin if it wasn’t for my wound but I can assure you, he is a sure man. One of the best of our forces.” But something seemed odd about the way he said those words, and he no longer held her gaze and instead was looking down, apparently studying the pattern on the rug. Sibri knew he was perhaps simply trying to still what he thought were womanly fears.

Sibri nodded. “But even the best of men can make mistakes.” Silence sounded the chamber as both occupants were lost in thoughts. A low pitter-patter began from outside as the sky began it’s weeping once more and far away the crying of a hound sounded. And then suddenly, a knock sounded on the door, breaking the solemn silence. Corzan gave a slight jerk in surprise. “Lord Corzan, the King desires a word with you.” The guard’s voice spoke loud and rough even through the door. He kissed Sibri again, stroking her silk hair with his fingers “I will be back, Sibri, dearest. And no matter what happens, remember. I will always be yours. I will always love you. Remember that.” “I will Corzan. You have my love. Go in faith and thank you for your kind words this day.” He kissed her once more, his eyes downcast as if deep in thought and with a final parting glance, Corzan left the room. Corzan followed the guard down the stairs of Sibri’s tower, through the west-wing of the castle and came to the room of the archives, where last night the King had had his audience with both Jules Morin and Arlos. The whole castle seemed still and somber and even the young merry face of the usually merry page boy Lars wore an expression of stone as he passed. The king dismissed the guard with a wave of his hand as Corzan gave a respectful bow to both King Tryst and his daughter, the Princess Jesmaine. Jesmaine looked at him, blue eyes shining and full of a life, a slight teasing smile played about her mouth. She had been scanning one of the many scrolls found in the archives and even now, she clasped the weathered paper, gold hair fell loosely down her back. Like her father, she had ruddy features for unlike the pale Lady Sibri, she was the birth daughter of Tryist, born to him by the now deceased but fair Queen Firlandra. Corzan paid her no heed, his eyes downcast and solemn as he took the chair in front of the hearth. A dark scar ran ragged down his set jaw and the flames of the fire cast eerie patterns across his face. Jesmaine’s smile faded and her blue eyes turned cold and harsh. She took to her scroll once more with unnatural vengeance and pursed lips. “Jesmaine, daughter, leave us.” The King spoke not unkindly and then, slightly rigid thet princess walked out of the room without a backwards glance at her father or Corzan. Tryist watched her go with a slightly narrowed brow as if contemplating something but then, with a slight sigh turned his gaze upon the young pale man sitting at his side. “Corzan. I know that at one time you were a renowned leader of the Shetyi,” he began before suddenly, Corzan’s once emotionless eyes smoldered with a cold fury as he broke in. “Correct me if I’m wrong but I believe we have already discussed this aspect of my past life in detail.” There was no mistaking the bitterness behind his cool voice. The King ignored his comment and continued. “As I was saying, you are a Shetyi yourself by birth if not by choice and dwelt amid them for seventeen years. You know their ways and culture. You do not deny this.” Corzan shifted slightly unsettled. Tryst looked directly at him, cold clear blue eyes meeting faltering dark ones. “Tell me, the Shetyi. If they have Albin, would they…harm him?” There was a pause and the crackling of the fire was accentuated by the silence of the dark room. Corzan sat hunched low, staring at the fire as it hissed and crackled. They sat in silence, too shadows formed until after a moment, Corzan ran his hand over head and face and looked at the king searchingly. At last he spoke. “I don’t know.

If they had him, they might hurt him but wouldn’t kill him. They would somehow use him to their advantage, perhaps as a tool for bargaining.” An almost bitter look crept across his face as he spoke and as he looked down, his eyes seemed to burn once more. Tryist nodded. “I see. We don’t know yet if they do in fact have Albin. But if they did what would they be bargaining for, I wonder. I just live in silence, hoping that no harm comes to my son. Corzan did not comment. The room became silenced once more as both men were lost in their own thoughts, the King, a slight creasing in his fair and noble features and Corzan, hunched low staring vacantly. “We will just have to wait to the return of our commander Jules Morin and see what news he brings, whether good or ill.” The King’s voice sounded grave and he stood up, pacing with bent head. But then, a knock sounded at the large door, soft but frantic and then without waiting, the door was hastily fumbled open. A pale Princess Jesmaine stumbled into the room, blue eyes wide, trembling hands grasping the shoulder of a thin and sallow child. “He has something to tell you!” she gasped, disheveled gold hair across white face. Corzan blinked. “What is it, Jesmaine?” Tryist clasped her shaking hands but her eyes just stared at the pale boy’s face. The boy clutched at his dirty tunic with dirt-stained hands, trembling. There was a long pause before his grey eyes hesitantly met those of the King. “Sir, I was-we we were fishing, a day into the woods, my-my brother Gredon and myself and we heard hash voices. As silent as we could, we crept through the thick brush, curious for we thought we heard the name of our Lord Albin and wanted to know what was being said. “ The boy choked down a sob, before he continued, voice halting. Corzan remained still, seemingly not hearing the boy. “We saw th-three men pale men in dark robes, faces covered by hoods. They were arguing amid themselves over a man lying on the ground, a wound to his head. He was moaning, unconscious and seemed to be in pain.” Now tears streamed down the child’s sickly face, from eyes, hard and a serpent green. “He-my brother was indignant, knowing by the signs on their weapons that they were Shetyi. He thought the fallen man might be Prince Albin. I begged him nod too, but he had always been rash and so grabbed the dagger my father had given me to clean the fish and pushed me aside as I was clasping at him. He charged the men, but only managed to slash at the cloaks of one of them before he too-k an arrow in his side. But as he fell, he tripped one of them and the man’s hood fell off his face. He had a scar, and dark hair and…and I think it might have been Lord Corzan.” At this, Corzan jumped to his feet, eyes like daggers and when the boy saw him, the child’s eyes widened in fear. “Sir!” “You dare accuse me! Of treachery!” And Corzan raised his left hand, as if to strike the child but Jesmaine pulled the boy too her, hugging him close and the King grasped Corzan’s arm, jerking him back so he stumbled, wincing as he felt pain from his wounded arm. “Enough! You have proven yourself beyond treachery, Corzan. Be calm. Dark hair and pale face are common amid the people of your kind, the boy must be mistaken! Have sense!”

But Corzan glared in his fury, clasped his wounded arm to his breast and with a final scowl at the boy, yanked his arm free of the king and left the room. The child sobbed softly and Jesmaine strove to the comfort him. “Woe is upon these lands. My son, my son.” Tryst said in anguish and sank heavily onto a chair. “But sir!” the child spoke and his voice trembled. “I have not finished my tale. As I watched from the underbrush, the men flew carrying Prince Albin with them and when they had gone, I went and tended too my brother. When I knew he was dead, I lamented for near half an hour before I heard once more voices. These sounded more friendly and suddenly, through the brush appeared Captain Jules Morin and his men. I told them what had occurred and they set off at once, tracking them.” Tryist looked up and Jesmaine smiled through her tears. “When was this?” “Maybe twelve hours ago, Sir. I rushed here as fast as I could.” “This is good news! Hope may yet dwell in Sìlvarador while stout hearts remain. Thank you, dear lad. What is your name and where do you hail from?” “Gor-Gordon,” stuttered the sallow boy. “I live in the village of Riverten, with my mother, father, and with--with my brother.” He trembled at the mentioning of his dead sibling and Jesmaine patted his head. “Well done Gordon!” The King looked at him almost fatherly. “You are a brave lad indeed and your service to Silvàrador will never be forgotten. Now I will arrange for you to return home once more but not empty handed.” The boy offered a small smile through his tears. “Thank you, your highness. But my brother will never return again. That is what aches so.” He sobbed. Kneeling to his level, Tryist took his hand. “But if you serve Life, you will see him again one day in more glory then you can imagine. I know it is hard, dear Gordon. But that is why we must fight. That is why we are battling the Shetyi for they serve only power granted to them by the Lady Death, the enemy of Life.” He caressed the child’s dark head. “Now go with my blessing. But always remember that peace can sometimes only be achieved through war. It is a hard fact in life, but a fact that we are doomed to serve.” Gordon nodded, “Yes my lord. I understand. One day, I want to join you and fight. Fight for the death of my brother.” His tears had faded away replaced by a look of determination. “I want the Shetyi to pay for what they have done, the lives they have took. Gredon will be avenged by my hands someday.” In any other case, one might have smiled at the look of determination in such a young child’s face but this time it was oddly fitting. Tryist nodded. “You will make a grave fighter indeed, Gordon. It is in your blood.” He took out a small knife from his belt and handed it to the boy.

“Take this as a token of your promise to your brother. I received it when I was your own age.” It was small and sleek, and not heavily ornamented but to the poor boy it looked like pure gold. His eyes widened and Jesmaine smiled at his expression. “Oh thank you, my lord King! My father would be ever so proud!” the smile returned again, contrasting with his sad eyes. Gordon would make a good fighter indeed. After the boy had left, Tryist turned to his daughter and clasped her hands in his own. “Though I am without one of my children, at least I have my daughter, dear Jesmaine” and she smiled up at him, though her smile seemed half-hearted. “Yes, father.” She turned away, walking slowly to the sole window in the room and looked out at the grey of the sky. “But of Corzan. What does this mean?” She looked at him, almost curiously, her hands straightening her hair. “Pray, do not assume the worst of Corzan. He has proven his loyalty to us numerous times.” “But twelve hours ago…he was missing from the battle and only turned up later, claiming he had followed some of the Shetyi down into the forest.” “And maybe he was doing just that.” But Tryist’s words seemed hollow and stiff, as if he himself where not sure what to think and though his face was pleasant, his eyes carried a look of sorrow and disappointment. They could only wait for the return of Jules Morin and the hope—or woe—that he would bring. Castle and countrymen waited with bated breath for news of Jules Morin’s return, and with him news of their Prince Albin. But it was two days before they heard anything, two days in which the Lady Sibri seldom left her tower and Corzan kept out of sight, brooding in the shadows. The Princess Jesmaine, in her childish way seemed less affected than anyone else by Albin’s disappearance and could oftentimes be seen laughing merrily and thus, bringing a wane smile to the lips of those who knew her. A smile of hope. Whether that hope was in vain or in truth was not answered till the afternoon of the second day when trumpets announced the return of Jules Morin and his company. The people cheered at this site, but there cheers turned to looks of concern as they marked the downcast expression of their leader as he made his way to the King. “I tracked them far, but could not find their trail after reaching the River”. He announced to Tryist, head hanging low. He had failed. Albin was still lost and their country was without a Prince but his men reassured him he had done the best one could have and even Arlos agreed nothing more could be done. The King took this news in grave silence before replying in a tremulous voice. “Very well then. You have done well. I do not hold you accountable for Albin and know you to have done the very best you could have.”

But Morin was little comforted by his Sovereign’s words, and went a way a depressed man. In his sight, he had failed both his king and his country and though the King had spoken words of forgiveness, he could never forgive himself and so busied himself glumly with his tasks at hand. He had offered to leave once more, perhaps to travel to the camps of the Shetyi himself but Tryist had forbade him, saying that the Shetyi would come to them and they needed all of their best men and leaders available at moments notice and on duty at the castle in Pala Gavarin. Morin took this command and obeyed it though his heart bade him do otherwise. The loss of the young Albin was sorely felt across Sìlvarador. Sibri took the news in a bitter silence, and the only sign of her emotion was in the shaking of her pale fingers. She refused to eat and instead fasted and would not be comforted by anyone. Her garments were grey as the clouds above and she saw no one in her tower. She saw even Corzan not for he could not be found in his usual dwelling and none can say where their young leader had gone. It was odd he was not coming to Sibri’s side and some questioned why but the King smothered any rumors of the loyalties of Corzan, refusing to allow anyone to question his allegiance. He trusted Corzan and made it clear and Sibri very much appreciated this. The news of Albin had been bad enough without the loyalties of her lover being questioned. This was in contrast to the Lady Jesmaine, who though felt sorrow at the news of her brother, her spirits only lowered slightly for she said that she knew that he would be back, though not when and when asked how so, she merely stated that she knew it had to be and that was all. It was the dawning of the third day and Arlos, having returned with Jules Morin, sat listlessly by himself near the gates of Pala Givarin, watching the coming and leaving of the inhabitants. He looked impatient, shifting his weight from time to time, and glancing at each face, as if he was looking for someone. To contrast with his dark mood, the sun shone today as it hadn’t in weeks and all the colors seemed crisp and bright but the people seemed somber and even the children seemed hesitant to laugh or be merry. One little pale-haired girl stood several yards off, clutching a handful of roses which she was trying to sell. When after she had been rejected several times, her mother came and they set off to another part of the city to try their luck. Arlos scowled with impatience and glared at the ever-rising sun. Time was passing swiftly and no one had showed up. He would be late with his audience with Tryist if this stranger did not show up soon and if he wanted to get the king on his side later, it would do not to be absent. Arlos read the note for the umpteenth time, looking for any error or sign that he should have caught. But it read the same as the other times and no new significance came to the hastily scratched words on the parchment. You have done well. Meet me at the tenth hour of the morning tomorrow by the front of the city, near the gates. You’ll receive payment and a new task. No signature. No emblem. No sign. Just words scratched in black ink as it had been always. Arlos had never seen the stranger who sent these notes to him, he merely followed their orders, and when he had accomplished them, he would always find a promised bag of gold somewhere in his dwelling. He was curious as to the identity of this person but though he tried with all of an assassin’s cunning, the tricks that might have fooled the best of men, he could not find out anymore about this stranger. It infuriated him. But this note was different, and he tucked it back into his cloak pocket carefully. The stranger had never promised to meet him before but had always sent notes and the few times he thought about

telling another of this, he received threats. This stranger knew who he was but Arlos did not know him. But as long as he received enough gold, he would do these tasks. The King paid him well but not nearly enough, he thought, for such an experienced person as himself and the thrill he found in these secret notes compensated for the agitation he felt at not knowing the author. But perhaps this would change today. If he ever showed up. Arlos swore under his breath. This was not good. He leaned against the wall idly, staring from under his hood at all who walked past. Most were common peasants, selling their wares and to relieve his hunger and boredom, Arlos, with a quick jerk of his hand, snatched an apple from the basket of an unsuspecting old man. He bit into the apple but after one bite, flung it aside with a look of disgust for though it looked sweet form the outside, it was bitter and wormy. “Cheat” he muttered, looking darkly at the unsuspecting man, rubbing his chin in disgust with the back of his forearm. Arlos waited for a quarter of an hour more before finally admitting defeat and with a low oath, resigned himself to the fact that apparently, the stranger had either gotten held up or forgotten him. “Something tells me the later.” He thought, striding through the city in an attempt to make it to the palace in time. He walked with a face pace, letting no one get in his way and shoving aside all who did. Arlos narrowly missed running into several people who would not move out of his way in time until finally, he tripped a young girl while trying to avoid a run-away cart. He gave a vicious scowl and she stumbled to her feet, and then he realized her to be the same child who had been peddling flowers earlier. She had sad brown eyes and matted gold hair and something about her seemed almost familiar. He stared at her blankly before her mother suddenly appeared, a woman with a hawk nose and matted hair who looked too old for years. The child and mother looked nothing alike but she also clasped in bony hands her handful of flowers. “Would you like to by a flower, sir, perhaps for a sweetheart?” she asked in a low, almost taunting voice as she thrust the wilting plants up to his face. They let out a curious odor, something that was intoxicating and vaguely familiar… He blinked. “Take your pitiful wares elsewhere, woman!” Arlos pushed them out of his face with a vicious swat of his arm but the odor remained and he suddenly felt-light headed and dizzy. He stumbled but caught himself, and than stumbled again, the face of the young girl swirling before his eyes. Arlos’s last thought as he fell to his knees and blacked out was that he had been drugged. Clever, he thought and knew no more and felt not the hands of men clad in the amour of the king picked him up roughly, and dragged him away. The old woman smiled toothily and grasped the arm of the young girl, whose sad eyes followed the men and their captive. She was the only one who seemed to notice as the peddlers continued voicing their wares and travelers made their way down their streets. If anyone did see the young man carted away by men in the king’s armor, they assumed he was merely in trouble with the law and thought no more of it. Clever, she thought, before she was pulled away by the old woman who was really no mother of hers.

When Arlos awoke, he could see nothing and for a moment thought he had gone blind before realizing that a blindfold had been tied about his head. He instinctively raised his hand to remove it before he found out that they too were bound, and he was lying on them. The rope cut into his hands and he winced, feeling extremely foolish to even be in a predicament like this. His forehead throbbed with vengeance, and when he tried to sit up, he felt strangely light headed. Very funny, Arlos. He thought, humorlessly. You’re supposed to be the best in the land and now you are a bound and drugged mutt, in all probabilities in the middle of no where. But he would in the least try to sit straight. With a grunt, he attempted to roll over, but binds about his feet made that difficult as did a booted foot that he felt suddenly press itself on his back. He moaned through an oily rag that served as a gag about his mouth as the foot’s owner pressed further and gave him a slight kick in the side. And then another vicious jab. His chest heaved as he gasped for air. Breathing brought pain to his side, and he winced. “Enough!” A strange voice cut in, and the jabbing stopped. Arlos mentally rejoiced. “Sorry sir. But he’s awake now.” “Good, very good.” Arlos could hear more footsteps now. They echoed strangely and suddenly he was hoisted up and roughly heaved over to a sitting position, leaning against a cold, stone wall. It was damp and in all probably moldy, but nevertheless he felt more at ease then lying like a bound dog upon the floor. He gasped again for air but the foul gag made breathing difficult and he coughed and coughed again. “Take his gag off”. The rough but hollow voice of who Arlos now assumed to be the leader here was heard again. “But what if he screams?” The hollow voiced laughed. “Who would hear him? And why would he? Arlos has proved himself to be a smart man. I have no reason to think he’d be fool enough to think his shouts would somehow help.” And with that, Arlos felt a rough hand wrench of the oily rag. He gagged and coughed as he breathed in the full air. He could now freely detect its mustiness, almost as if he was under ground. If only he could see. “I would appreciate it if you could remove the blind fold as well.” Arlos said in a matter of fact tone and once again the hollow voice chuckled. “Sorry friend but you’ll have to do with it. But now, if you’re comfortable enough, we’ll go to business. I assume you’ve gotten my note.” Arlos nodded. So much for his audience with the King.

“Yes. I have. But for one who needs my assistance, you would surely realize that taking an approach this rough would not exactly make me want to relinquish my services in great eagerness. Wouldn’t an invitation or would I say a more, kindly reception have helped you more.” It was evident that he had not forgotten his sores but yet his voice was sarcastic, almost bored for in fact, though it wasn’t every day he was knocked out by a dame with flowers, he couldn’t help but feeling his captor was somewhat of an amateur and not any real danger. He had been in many a worse situation but his curiosity was piqued by the fact other men looked up to him as a leader. Could it be a clue to his identity? But Arlos’s muses where interrupted once more. “I am sorry for your treatment here but rest assured, it was not in my attentions. However, bringing you here is the best course of action available to me. I could not in any way in danger the mission I am about to bestow on you. And as to making you eager to relinquish you’re services. I assure you that your reward will be great even if you fail if you make a valiant effort. If you succeed, it will be manifold. But if you refuse…well, I’m sure you get the idea”. The sounds of pacing boots filled whatever sort of room Arlos was captive in. Arlos stiffened and his head continued to throb. He understood. Perfectly. He was a captor here, and had two options: to accept or to be punished. He had never cared for threats. But something about the voice of his captor seemed almost familiar…as if he knew it but yet, the voice was distorted. “Your point, I assure you is crystal clear, whoever you maybe. But before I say…weigh my options, might I know what kind of request this in? People have said I am never one to dive into decisions, regardless of the rewards or…punishments.” He emphasized the last word in bitterness. “That, my friend Arlos, is what I appreciate most about you and is why you have been chosen for this task. It is crucial I had the right man and you were my first choice…” Arlos mentally rolled his eyes. Such tricks did not fool him. “In all due respect, cut the flattery and get to the point if you will.” “I will. Simply put, I need you for an erm, delicate procedure involving an assassination of someone in high authority. Needless to say, if found out you will be executed by the King’s hand if not tortured beyond recognition. So take heed and be watchful. You will not hold me accountable for anything that you do amiss.” “What a pleasant thought.” “It will be difficult…” replied the captor, ignoring the interruption, “But I sincerely believe you can do it, Arlos, my friend. You may complete the assassination in any way you deem best, as long as it is quiet and unnoticed and of course, not traceable. If you succeed, your reward will be four times any reward you have received from me before. If you try several times but do not succeed, you will be rewarded some for your attempts but I doubt you will fail. You did well in our last request, regarding certain information and though this is much more challenging, now I must ask you, do you accept?”

The question hung in the air as Arlos thought for a moment. “If I may voice an inquiry, who will I be murdering?” His captor chuckled. “I am sorry, but the risk of saying the name out loud is too great even here. That is the catch. You will find the name in another note which you will find in your cloak pocket. Destroy it as soon as you can. At first, you may be confused by the name of the victim but doubtless, all will be clear for you in a matter of days.” “Very well then, as I really never had much of a choice.” Arlos said, bitterly, rubbing his stillaching head. “Well of course you did not. And now, since our audience is over, I must drug you again. I am sorry, but it is necessary that you find out neither who I am nor where you are. May you succeed in your mission, my friend Arlos. And remember, breathe a word to anyone and you’ll forever wish you hadn’t. I do not like double-crossers.” “I almost wish he would just knock me out without the cursed drug.” Arlos muttered, as that all too familiar, sickly-sweet stench filled the air. Once ahead, he felt light-hearted as the drug suffocated him and his world faded and all went a deadly black.

When Arlos awoke, he was face down with a splitting head-ache in what felt like a pile of dry leaves. Further probing with his now-free hands proved the point and at last, with an effort, he raised his head and blinked, trying to focus his bearings. The bright light hurt his eyes and first but at length, he could see he was in some sort of pile of brush and with a few halting attempts, he managed to half stand half slump on a near by tree. It was then he realized his surroundings were familiar and that he was not at all far from his dwelling place. It was actually only maybe a hundred or so yards from this point and at that, his spirits rose the slightest. But then, suddenly, like a light bolt, what had occurred previously struck him full force at his already throbbing head. The stranger. The request. The note in his cloak. He fumbled and groped and at length, held the note in his hand, opening it with hands still shaking from the effects of the drug. The name that he saw, writing in dark ink made him blink slowly, trying to see if he had read right. He had. The name stood unfaltering, bold and black and slowly he let out a sigh. “Arlos, what in the blazes have you gotten yourself into?” And with that, he tucked the note back into his pocket and with faltering steps, made his shelter, there to perhaps find a bit of respite, and to destroy both notes in the fire. Though one name did not bear much, these were suspicious times and Arlos had no intention of being found out. But one thing he knew was certain. The gold was already his.

The wind howled that night as yet another storm swept the merry sun from the sky, replacing it with dark ominous clouds, booming thunder and crying bitter tears. They beat, loud and hard against the stone of the castle as Sibri lay sleepless in her bed chambers. The fire had burned low and the room was quite cool, but she had no desire to rise and strike the coals. She sat huddled in bed covers, thinking aimlessly at all that had befallen, of her past and present and what the future may bring. Albin was the most pressing of her thoughts and the most painful, for it brought to mind her suffering at the death of her mother only two years past. Her mother had been great, but kind and loving and her memory was sore about Sibri’s aching heart. She had died tragically, in a hunting accident. An arrow meant for a bore somehow pierced her instead and none of her father’s company admitted to doing the terrible deed though Corzan and Albin both, who had been there had sworn to slay whoever had done so, or even the whole company if none admitted the deed But the Queen’s request as she lay dying later that night, after a loosing but valiant struggle to survive had been to forgive whoever had done so as it was assuredly a an accident, though terrible, a mere accident. Everyone else hoped as much but a strange sense of foreboding told otherwise, and Sibri remembered weeping in Albin’s arms. Though Queen Lilya had not been Albin’s mother, she was the closest thing he had to one as his own had died when he was merely a small lad and Sibri had never known her. But from the grand portrait of the Queen Firnandris, one could tell he favored his mother in features, for he carried her piercing emerald eyes and rich brown hair. “Albin, where are you, dear brother.” Sibri murmured, clutching at a silver pendant that hung about her neck. Her mother had given it to her, long ago. Shaped simply like a crescent moon, the lesser side was rimmed in pale, sparkling stones. It was elegant, if not extremely beautiful and Sibri wore it always as a token of her mother’s love—and for the dreaded secret the stone bore. And where had Corzan got too? Sibri hadn’t seen him in several days, a fact that increasingly shadowed her. Corzan and Albin had recently been growing apart and had increasingly been seen mad at each other before the battle three days ago. Sibri had offered wondered why, because in the past, Albin had been hostile to Corzan for pledging his love to Sibri but when he found out Sibri loved Albin, perhaps moreso but as a brother and not a lover, he was once again his content, merry self. When she approached him recently and asked if this rift between Corzan and he was due to her, he answered that of course it wasn’t, it was merely a difference of opinion between them, and it was complicated and that she shouldn’t worry herself silly over them. So though reluctantly, Sibri ceased to push the point further. But now both were gone from her, and she, though Lady of the Jeweled City of the Moon, Pala Gaviarin itself, she had never been more alone. That night, she made up her mind. If Albin was not back by tomorrow, she would go looking for him, by herself even if Corzan didn’t appear. And with this resolution, Sibri drifted slowly into sleep, the sound of the harsh rain oddly comforted her. The sky cried it’s tears as she had cried hers.

Discovery As the night drew on, the clouds were blown away by the fierce wind and soon, shining stars were seen in the gaps between them until at last, the face of the pale moon could be seen, bright even though the clouds. Its beams cast a pale and eerie glow across the face of the land.

All were now asleep in the castle, save the nightly guards. Even the dogs seemed to refrain from their nightly baying. All that is, except a dim form, pressed with baited breathe against the furthermost of the castle’s outer walls. Corzan stood, silent as a cat and cloaked and hooded in black so he was nearly completely invisible to any one or creature who might be watching. But not to press his chances, he stood and waited, senses strained to their fullest extent as he listened for the retreating footsteps that would show the guard was changing. He knew their schedule perfectly, having lead the men themselves on numerous occasions and so knew that This was the perfect night for the mission. If only his arm wasn’t hurt. That may cause a problem and heavens new he needed things to run as smoothly as possible this night. The night was quiet, still and damp and water was ever heavy in the air. Its thickness was almost suffocating, though it was a cool night. An owl hooted somewhere towards his left but Corzan did not heed it. His sole focus was on those footsteps. He wished for them with baited breathe, hand clasped tightly on the hilt of his scared sword. If any had seen him, he would have made a nightmarish sight; dark eyes set like gleaming coals in his pale face, barely visible under shadowed hood and a wicked scar running down a set jaw. The gleam of the moon caught the hilt of his sword and it sparkled for a moment, like a gleaming diamond under the light of the stars. Corzan winced slightly as his arm throbbed once more. Since his injury, his rests had been few and futile and he knew he had not given it an equal chance to recover. But there was no time for it now. The guard would change at any moment and he must be ready for the sound of those footsteps. He must not hesitate in the slightest or all would be lost. And finally they came. Keen ears caught the guard as he bid a muffled goodnight to his comrade and then left, the sound of his clanking metal clearly audible in the silent night. Slowly, Corzan counted the paces. Now he was approaching, and then half-way to the spot were Corzan was concealed. He drew nearer, and nearer until at last, he unsuspectingly rounded the corner where Corzan stood in wait. Shocked, he gaped at suddenly seeing the black form in the dark and his eyes widened but due to good training, his groping hand immediately found the hilt of his blade. But before he could so much let out a cry or draw his weapon, Corzan had knocked him out with the hilt of his sword upon the guard’s head. He fell with a slight clang, hurt but not dead and Corzan stood tense, waiting to find out if someone had heard the noise. He did not feel like confronting anyone else tonight. When no one came, he breathed a quick prayer in thanks and finished with cladding himself in the stolen armor, wincing slightly as he adjusted the arm brace on his wounded arm. That blasted arm. He just had to go and get himself injured. “Sorry, old friend. But thanks.” He dressed quickly, trying not to make a noise and so in a matter of seconds was clothed in this guise, hooded cloak under his injured arm and hilt of sword grasped in hand. And then he was off in haste. There was no telling when the guard would awake and he wanted his mission to have long been completed. Corzan took a deep breathe as he approached the first guards. This was it. The guards however, did not hesitate for a second as he walked past, thinking him one of their comrades and so he was able to get into the second wall without any trouble and finally came to the last entrance where things fared as the first, though a soldier’s greeting startled him for a split second until Corzan was able to make a muttered reply and continued pacing forward. His disguise had worked

perfectly to his immense relief but he was in deep water now and there was no turning back. He must succeed. Upon entering the castle, he was struck with how curiously solemn it seemed, dark and somber in the dead of night. It was not often one was out at midnight in the corridors of Pala Gavarin’s palace The corridor he was in was lit by torches of fire, but even so, the flickering flames paled against the immense shadows and he felt a strange sense of foreboding. Suddenly, he had an intense urge to retreat, and go back. Corzan calmed himself, though he felt immensely strange, and maybe even light-headed. His wound must be getting to him. This was not good. But yet, he walked on, his heart beating nervously. He had been on many dangerous missions in his youth, most more dangerous than this. But not many had had stakes this high and for some reason, he felt…weak. He walked stealthily through the halls, breathing slowly and trying to calm his irrational fears. His arm throbbed with a dull ache and it proved to be a huge distraction. But finally, he found himself in the corridor from the Great Hall, and there breathed a sigh of both relief and satisfaction with himself. Corzan had made it to here at least. Now only a bit more to go. The easier part was accomplished, or so it seemed, and though his mission was not yet complete, he allowed himself to breathe easier. The air comforted him and his aching head. Head against wall, he closed his eyes and clasped his arm, calming his shaking form with gulps of air. So far so good. But just as Corzan readied to change back into his former clothes, he heard a gentle noise that sounded acutely like a footstep. He froze. Still as stone, he stood there and held his breath. His heart seemed to beat with a resounding thud and he almost knew that someone else could here it. With closed eyes, he winced from both his arm and his thoughts. He must not be caught. Not now. Not so far and with so much at stake. And then, the worst happened. His arm throbbing, he could bear it no more so he shifted his weight ever so slightly. But it resulted in a slight swooshing noise of the wall hanging he was standing near. Corzan mentally swore and listened again. There it was. Another footstep, heading in his direction from where he had come from. He stiffened slightly, and then realized that in only a few moments time, the stranger, creature, or whatever it was would round the slight bend in the corridor and see him standing here, half-clothed in soldier’s garb. Depending on who it was, he might be able to bluff his way out but Corzan doubted it. He would take no chances. Gathering his resolve, he dashed forward with pounding heart and straight into the great hall, ducking into a slight inclove in the wall. He froze with baited breathe, hear still pounding wildly and arm throbbing once more. He waiting for any cries or screams that showed he had been hear or found or discovered. A full five minutes passed before he dared to move once more, and that was only to shirt his weight slightly to peer out over the edge of his concealment. Corzan saw nothing and though he strained, his ears told the same tale. Nothing was there. Whoever it was must have turned back down the corridor, though that was exceedingly odd… But leastways, he knew this: he hadn’t been discovered and that brought a wry smile of satisfaction to his lips. Ever so slowly as to not make a sound, Corzan resumed dressing in his shadowy black robes and pulled the hood over his face. He felt safer, for some reason then he had before though it was

most likely do to the fact that dark was his element. It concealed with day and light revealed and his loved his shadows. They concealed him with there welcoming arms, pointing not as the light did which also brought to light things that would have better been forever forgotten. In the dark. Just as he had prepared to set out once more, Corzan once again hear a slight noise and stiffened. Not this again. Oh, please, not again. He felt something by his foot, and slowly looked down in shock and horror. But his shock was soon replaced by a half-amused half-annoyed smile. It was only the cat, Shar. It purred slightly about his feet, rubbing his dark tale at Corzan’s leg. He had wasted all of this fear and apprehension. Over a dumb animal. Corzan shook his leg in disgust at himself. So far, thing’s were not going as well as he hoped. He kicked the cat away before continuing across the great hall, careful to only make as little noise as humanly possible. In truth, because of the soft skin shoes he wore, he was barely audible and crept steadily forward like a dark shadow rather than a human. The hall itself was a somber as ever with it’s long windows and tapestries of unknown tongues and prophecies hanging upon the stone of it’s walls. Light from the pale moon, Onirion streamed in through the windows, bathing everything in ghostly light and pale shadow. Even the most innocent thing took a macabre look to it in such a still and ghostly room, and once again Corzan felt strangely light headed. What was wrong? To make matters worse, the black cat refused to be left behind and seemed to taken a liking to him, even following in his stead. It was undeterred in its purpose though he tried to shake it off in annoyance and even once aimed a vicious kick in it’s direction, mentally cursing cats and every purring cat ever spawned in Silvàrador. But his foot missed as the cat simply jumped to one side and meowed quietly, almost as if in amusement. Corzan scowled. Forget the cat. He tried to ignore it as he went on and ducked into the Room of Archives were he had met with the King so often before. He allowed himself a whisper of a smile in triumph. He had made it, here at least. From henceforth it was uphill, or so he thought as he made his way through the many shelves in the room. Now to find that scroll. “Hello Corzan. My, what a surprise to see you here..” A sneering voice sounded in the dark behind him and Corzan froze in horror, his hand, trembled still reaching upwards to grasp through a scroll. He grimaced and closed his eyes as he heard soft footsteps behind him. He had been caught. This could not have happened. His hand slowly and tremulously reached for his sword and clasped it’s hilt tightly as he turned around to face the stranger and blinked at what he saw. It was Jesmaine, a odd grin distorting her face and a lantern just lit in her arms. The cat that had been following him was at her feet, purring loudly with a swishing tail as if to taunt him. And then he remembered: Shar had always been her cat. But one thing Corzan did know, he had to act fast if he wanted to get out of this situation and act he would. “Why Jesmaine. How lovely to see you.” He returned her words with a slight sneer. “Up so late, are we?” he inclined his head slightly. “May I ask why you are here?” “I always thought you were smarter than this, Corzan,” was her reply, as she stepped closer. Her blonde hair looked pale and silver in the light, framing an unusually white face and her eyes shone with a sinister but triumphant gleam. The smile grew wider and it distorted her face until

for a moment, Corzan wondered how any had called her beautiful before for now, before him, she looked as some evil witch from a story long in the past. “I have caught you at last.” She crossed her arms. “Actually, I believe, I’ve caught you, if that’s how you want to put it. I doubt your father would like to hear that his daughter the Princess was wandering the grounds at night,” Corzan replied. Corzan raised his eyebrows, ever so slightly in mock amusement, yet he hid his trembling hands behind his back. So close. Yet…so far. He couldn’t let Jesmaine know what he wanted and longed for with an immense burning passion. For a moment, he was half-tempted to whip out his sword and slay her, right where she stood, grinning maliciously at him like a witch. But he kept his cool, and the hand that had found itself tensely grasping his sword hilt relaxed slowly. He would have to deal with this some other way. In some other method. There would be no murders tonight. Or so he hoped. “You dare accuse me of wandering in my own home, do you Lord Corzan? Show respect for your superiors.”’ She was right in front of him now and ran her hand gently over the fur of the black cat she now held in her arm. It purred with appreciation. “Or are you jealous? Tell me, do you even have a home, or family, or wife, or have you ever even been loved?” she said, her face contorted in rage. “I would have given you my love, but you were to proud, to vain, to haughty to ever except it. And instead fell for my beast of a sister, Sibri.” She pronounced the name in a mocking tone of voice and a sudden, white-hot rage grew in Corzan’s being. “Do not dare utter her name like that again, foul witch!” He raised a clenched hand, as if almost to strike her in the face but then, he caught himself let it fall again, heavily to his side where it remained in a fist. Corzan wanted anything to be away, to be gone from this wretch of a place. “Sibri will be mine and there is naught you can do about it now!” The words tore themselves from Corzan’s mouth as his cool mask desperate. Attempting to pick it up again would be in vain. Jesmaine had gone too far and she stepped back a half-step, as if she saw the smoldering flame in his eyes and she knew it. The cat squirmed uncomfortably in her arms and pawed at her sleeve, unnoticed by it’s mistress he held it with trembling pale hands. “Let’s cease foolish games, Jesmaine. Tell, what is it that you want?” “What I want you can never give me fool, save your misery!” She flung out her arm at him viciously, teeth almost bared, dropping her cat in the process. But he caught her in his firm grasp, wincing slightly as it strained his wounded arm. With a twist of his arm, her clinging fingers lost their grip and pushed her away from him. And then she stood, shaking in the pale light, hair strewn about pale face. Corzan looked at her in contempt. “Leave me.”

“Tell me what you are doing, out prying about the castle in the middle of the night or I will call the guards!” Her eyes flashed as she returned his gaze. Corzan hesitated. He had to formulate some simple excuse to satisfy her. If she called the guards, he could always bluff it to them, especially being that he had led them countless of times before. But this was dangerous territory. He hadn’t been seen around the castle in days. . . and now, to turn up suddenly at night. . . It was too much to bargain for. “Whatever gave you the idea I was prying, Jesmaine? Do you have to look at any simple act of mine and apply such a child imagination to it?” Corzan stepped back, pretending to ignore her and resumed rummaging through the scrolls, feigning looking for one. “Tell me!” “Well, if you must know,” he said looking up. “I came here early tonight, under cover for I did not want to be noticed by Sibri or the King. I’m doing my own private research on a tactic I think may work well in our next counter against the Shetyi and I wanted to check on these records of the Battle of the Breguind where a similar method was used.” His tone was quite dull and boring as he fingered the scrolls. “I’m sorry, dear Jesmaine, that not every deed of mine is full of mystery and suspicious attributes.” Jesmaine shook with rage a wrathful expression cross her face. She slowly pointed a finger in his direction. “I’ll find out what you are really up to, Corzan. Just watch. I know there is something amiss. If I or the guards ever find you sneaking about in the dead of night here, I will personally make sure you are sent away to the dungeons. Don’t worry, I keep my word.” She smirked. “So do not bother on coming back anytime soon, I shall talk to my father and have the night-watch and guard patrols doubled. And as for now, go, before I do call the guards and make sure you suffer your fate early.” Corzan gave a stiff bow. “Very well then, my princess.” His emphasize on the last word made could not have made it clearer that respect was the farthest from his mind. He stepped past her, inwardly seething. This was not good. He would have to get that scroll, somehow. And very soon. It was a must. Curse you Jesmaine he muttered under his breathe when he was out of hearing distance, marching once more through the moonlit corridors and finally, stepping out outside in the courtyard. He gave the guards there a courteous nod before at last passing the last gate and finally, he was out of the castle grounds. Corzan slapped himself in the face.

“Fool!” he whispered. How foolish he had been. To get caught. If that scroll was found, it would incriminate him forever and he would no longer have Sibri’s or the King’s trust. And he needed all of the trust he could get. If this next plan were to work. He kicked a rock with his booted foot. How could this have happened this way? Jesmaine. . . he had always known her to be. . . different. But the way she had acted this night was beyond odd. He wondered to himself. . . Was the love for something she could not have driving her mad, perhaps? Well, it was a possibility. She had always been odd with her child-like fantasies and day dreaming tendencies. Even when she had been a young girl. But Corzan had never seen her as she was tonight, a witch with pale long hair in the moonlight, eyes glinting at daggers. And now, he knew, she was bent on his destruction because he had been the only one not to give into her childish whims as her parents and brother had done before so often. He would pay for what had happened to night. But he wouldn’t let Jesmaine get the chance. He would be smarter. He had to be. That scroll must be found before it came into the wrong hands. That would be bad. Very, very bad. And then, Corzan was off the path, like a shadow in the night. The woods were his friends and he made his way through them with calm. Right away, their dark and moody atmosphere brought piece to his weary body and aching arm. He relished the sad silence that damp night, under the shining moon and bright stars. An owl hooted in the distance, perhaps the same one that had been there earlier that night. He found the big tree where he had slept the night before, in the pile of leaves beneath it, and unrolled his cloak to make a makeshift bed. But just as he was about to retire, something conked him from behind and his world went dark.

Strange neither Arlos or Corzan were present at the King’s table yesterday,” remarked Jules Morin to his wife Arlise over breakfast the next morning. The sun was pale and watery, but the fresh green of the grass and the turning leaves brought a pleasant color to the valley of Pala Givarin. The air was damp from last night’s storm but it was not unpleasant and the melodies of the birds resounded through the morning, bring an atmosphere of peace. Tryist had sent Jules Morin home for a couple of days, to enjoy his family before resuming scouting tomorrow, and so, though pained in soul, Morin gladly left the solemn castle for a chance They had bitterly lost the last attack but with hope and much determination, they would not so fall prey to the Shetyi this time around. The soldiers of Silveràdor were some of the fiercest in all of Illmarin and they did not fall for the same mistake twice. “It was especially odd because they knew we would be discussing our next move regarding this never-ending war.” He gave a heavy sigh and Arlise gently touched his arm with a look of concern.

“Be not weary, Jules. No commander of the Shetyi could ever stand against you. Corzan, is only probably still scathing at being named a traitor but Arlos. I thought he wanted the King to post-pone a plan for a new attack. He should have been there if the King would ever consider listening.” Morin nodded thoughtfully, brow slightly creased. “True. Arlos probably had some business of his own to take care of. But to miss an important meeting…he has never done that before willingly. I wonder…” “Something about Arlos has been suspicious of late. I’ve never liked him and advised the King against using his so-called services. But Tryist took the council of Corzan instead and I still feel the same strange sense of ill-will surrounding him.” His voiced trailed off, and then his eyes met those of his wife’s. “Even in our search for Albin, he showed no emotion, no interest. I wonder at his past. He looks not five or so years older then or Geoffrey.” Arlise nodded. “Sad, isn’t it? The fates of those unfortunate children, raised wrong. I am thankful for our Geoffrey and Palmri, and of course, little Drake.” She caressed the head of a young child sitting wide eyed near her with a mother’s gentle pat. Drake did nothing in return, but stayed silent as always, playing with the hems of his frock with pudgy young hands. Jules Morin nodded his head in consent, before inviting young Drake into his lap and arms. But the child ignored him and with a slight smile, Morin gave up. Just then the door opened, and in stepped a lad of about nineteen followed by a girl who looked a few years younger. “Father!” she cried with a smile. “It is such a lovely day today. And Geoffrey has been helping me with my archery!” The lad in question nodded. “Pal has gotten rather good, if I may say so. Better then almost me.” His blue eyes twinkled merrily. “As if that’s even possible.” Palmri said, taking a seat at the table and reaching for the jam. “Thank you mother for letting me go out with Frey instead of making me sit here and help you. Especially with the horrid mending. Frey, whatever do you do to your clothes to get such horrid rents.” Geoffrey merely shrugged. “Hunting isn’t the cleanest and easiest thing in the world you know.” Morin laughed, for a time forgetting of the pressing issues at the castle. He loved living here in the woods with his family, far enough from the city to drown out the crowds and noise but close enough to get there with relative ease. Even now he could here the bubbling noise of the creek that ran by their simple house deep into the forest. It was a peaceful place, secluded, full of green grass and blue sky and the soft sound of the nearby creak.

But as Jules Morin sat there in silence, he knew it would not last forever: the laughing faces of his wife, his sons, his daughter. These were the faces he had vowed to protect. These were the inhabits of Silvardor and he knew, he just knew that it had always been his destiny to be a leader for them. He sighed. He must not think of war, or suffering, or sorrow now. His son looked up at him, concern in his curious eyes. He was not old enough to understand what Morin had been going through ever since the day when as a young man himself, he had joined the Guard and had vowed to defend the land. To keep innocence in the children and to defend the good in the world. The Shetyi were cruel and immoral, sacrificing children and killing their dying and wounded after battles were just some of the atrocities they committed ay by day. It made Jules Morin burn with rage, even here amid the comforts of his home. To think that it was even possible to commit such terrible deeds. He ran his hands through his hair thoughtfully, reaching across the table as he did so for another piece of the soft sugar bread his wife had prepared. Suddenly, he felt a warm hand on his and looked into the face of Palmri, his daughter. “Father, it’s okay.” She said, softly and planted a kiss on his forehead. “You know we’ll be here for you always. Mother, Frey and I. Don’t be worried. And besides, you’re one of the greatest leaders Silvàrador has ever known. No matter what, the Shetyi can’t win, not against you.” Morin grasped his daughters hand and pulled her close. “Thank you” was all he could say. She didn’t know. . . of the problems, of the fear he had that there was someone in his own circle of men who were leaking information to the Shetyi themselves. Pelmri knew nothing of betrayal, or suffering or death. And that was why he fought. To keep it that way. Suddenly, his thoughts were disturbed by a knock at the door. It was harsh noise breaking into the barriers of Jules Morin’s own calm and peaceful world. He wished it away but it would not go, and returned ever harsher. Bang, bang, bang. With a concerned look etched on her face, his wife got up, wiping her hands on her skirts. “I wonder who it could be.” She whispered, looking worriedly at Jules Morin. “I’m coming!” She reached the door and slowly turned the handle, as if like he she could sense something was not right. And then the door was roughly kicked open to reveal soldiers of the King’s Guard. “Jules Morin! The king wishes to see you! Right away. Regarding Lord Corzan.” Corzan.

The name brought a slight shudder through his limbs. What had Corzan done? Or what had happened to him? Was this why he hadn’t been seen around the castle these days? “Captain! We leave now!” “As you say”, returned Morin, with a slight sigh and a sad look across the table to his children. There eyes were wide and concerned. “It will be okay father.” Said Geoffrey, trying to give a slight smile for his father’s sake. But Morin could tell he was disappointed. Especially in the fact that once again, the land had come before his family as Jules Morin was called off for some purpose. But it had to be done. He kissed his wife and Pamry, patted little Drake on the head and gave a handshake to Geoffrey before following his guard off the premises, “Did the King inform you what has happened?” “Not the details, sir. No. He just sent us quickly to fetch you, saying he needed your council immediately.” Jules Morin gave a solemn nod. After mounting his horse, he followed the soldiers in a gallop to the palace, first through the green plain and woods, over the sutten creek, and then through city gates and the three circles that comprised Pala Givarin. It was a lovely day but Jules Morin could already feel a mar upon it’s beauty as he rode with heavy heart. When they finally reached the castle, he unmounted quickly, passing the gate. “Where can I find the King?” he beseeched them hurriedly, quite anxious to move on. “He’s in the room or archives.” Jules Morin gave a short nod and strode off. His first thought open entering the room was that someone had died. Sibri was weeping and he looked upon her in shock, for he hadn’t seen the Lady Sibri since the morning of the woeful battle. She looked paler than ever, and quite thin as well. Hallow bags showed under her blue eyes, giving her face a sallow, deranged aspect. She looked more odd than beautiful now and her robes seemed wrinkled. This was definitely not the regal figure Jules Morin was used to seeing so he rightly looked at her in shock as she wept with hysteria, clinging to King Tryist’s arms. Jesmaine stood in the corner, somber as stone. She did not smile as she would have in the past and her usually merry blue eyes seemed still and. . . dead. Other than that, she displaced no emotion, unless it was a hint of disgust as she coolly watched Sibri’s crying form. Her brows drew up in a slight look of contempt and she turned once more to look out the window. Tryist was like Jesmaine, somber and cold. But his solemnenity seemed to come from sadness for he looked upon both Sibri and Jesmaine with sad blue eyes, and his shoulders slightly hunched. He looked like a man who had aged ten years since Jules Morin had last seen him, not two days ago. And Arlos, he was also solemn but something seemed . . . different about him. Jules Morin couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps it might be because for the first time since Morin had

noticed him, Arlos seemed.. . perplexed. It barely showed of course. His pale and sallow frame still stood without emotion, in utter silence. But his eyes seemed slightly creased, a hint of furrow upon his brow as if behind his lifeless eyes, somewhere in the depths of his mind, he was perplexed. Morin was baffled. What could have happened to cause such a reaction amid everyone? But gathering his wits together, he bowed low to the King who up till now had seemed to fail to notice him. “Lord Tryist, sire, you called for me?” Jules Morin’s voice was as calm and steady as ever, in contrast to the others in the room. The King Tryist blinked slowly, as if coming back to the present from wearisome or lonesome thoughts. “Yes, I did. Thank you for coming, Morin. This is a bad day for us all.” He gave a slight groan. “My Lord . . . if I may ask, what has happened?” It was than Morin noticed that a person was absent from the room, a person who would usually be there in councils. The Lord Corzan. “Is it. . . Corzan?” At that name, Sibri let out an anguished cry and wept all the louder, Jesmaine gave him a cold look and Arlos remained still as stone though his eyes slowly revolved from where he had been staring vacantly to focus on the captain. “Yes. It is Corzan.” The King sighed slowly. “We have imprisoned him for treachery.” “Treachery?! How can this be?” Jules Morin took a step forward, the look across his face conveyed utter disbelief. He had been suspecting something tragic had happened to Corzan himself. . . but this . . .no. It couldn’t. Corzan had always been a brave and valiant leader. What had changed? “How so my Lord? How did this come about?” His voice quickly dropped to a lower tone, realizing that though he was shocked, he was still addressing the King. But it was not the King who answered. Jesmaine did, and Morin thought he could almost detect a look of triumph in her face though he did not understand why. “He was prying about the castle for something. Looking for a scroll in the archives he told me when I stumbled upon him in the dead of the night. Corzan looked guilty, all right and he told me some pathetic lie about he doing research for a new strategy in the war. But really, he was looking for this!” She clasped a scroll in her hand with a gaze of triumph upon her face. “And what is the significance of the scroll exactly, my lady.” He gave a respectful nod, as if motioning her to continue. Which was, of course what Jesmaine wanted.

“Oh nothing at all really. . .” She gave a lengthy, frivolous sigh, running a finger lightly upon the scroll’s worn edge. It crinkled softly. “That is…Unless of course that that in it contains what really happened that day years ago with the company and Queen Lilya and the alleged hunting accident.” Jesmaine emphasized the last syllables with a pointed look at Sibri, who moaning as she was with her face in pale, trembling hands, did not catch it. “Corzan. I don’t believe it. I can’t.” Her cries were muffled and soft, but her whole form shook with fierce sobs. Sibri lifted her face, tear-stained eyes silently begging Jesmaine. But to no avail. A ghost of a smile formed across Jesmaine’s lips and she began to read the scroll in a clear, sweet voice. Corzan— This is a very painful letter to write, my hands shake in anguish for you and I can barely hold the quill. . For I know something you don’t, something that I’ve carried with me for a year though it’s felt like a life time. I’ve waited. And waited. For you, Corzan, to admit your deed. For, you see, I know what you did. I saw. I was there that day, watching when you notched your arrow, aiming at the Queen and purposely shot. I was there to hear her screams and watched as her horse reared and she fell. As I’ve told you countless times before, you are a skilled bowsmen. You taught me all I know and have taught me well. What you did, you did on purpose. For what reason, I suspect but do not claim to know. Corzan, you’ve always been a brother to me and I’ll always love you as such. But I do not know what to do. Or think. Or say. You’ve broken the heart of the very girl who loves you with a fierce passion equal to that of the stars burning over our land. Sibri is equally dear to me and it pains me to see her in such a state. She’s taking her mother’s death very hard as am I but I know you know this. . . Or is your heart too hard to realize such? I will give you a chance to confess the deed yourself. I’ll give you a year if it takes that long. But you are brave, I know. Even when I was merely a child, your bravery here in Salvàrador was legendry. So please. Do this for me. You do not know the agony I feel, holding this burden. I’ve come near to telling Sibri many a time but I just could not. But you will be found out eventually even if I die tomorrow, your secret forever on my dead lips or if your own conscience doesn’t kill you first. But please Corzan. Think of Sibri and of her love. Of our love. Yours, Albin

As she read, the room was deathly still. No one dared to speak. Morin felt numbed and hardened. When Jesmaine at last stopped, Sibri gave a final anguished moan and then fell to the floor in a faint, exhausted by her pain and sorrow. She lay there, upon the stone, eyes closed with damp lashes and pale cheeks wet with tears. She looked as if one dead, like an ancient lover in a lost tale from years hence, black hair tangled about her face. Morin stooped and picked her up with care in his arms. Her white arm fell limp as he laid her upon a nearby sofa and the guards rushed to get water. Morin looked at her, tenderly, almost as a father would at a daughter. Sibri. Young and innocent . . . a bride waiting to be wed with her lover. A murderer. It was a hard thought to bear and Morin collapsed wearily onto a chair, rubbing his hands with his face. He really could not believe this. Somewhere, somehow, there must be some mistake. Corzan had fought by his side for years, carrying out orders dutifully, almost as a son to Morin. Even Geoffrey had felt a friend to Corzan the few times they had met before. He was a valiant man, if stern faced and sometimes given to dismal moods but he was fiercely loyal and fiercely loved. The whole country had rejoiced when he had announced his engagement to Sibri, the King gladly giving his consent and bestowing upon him his title, Lord of Citadel. The Corzan he knew had loved the Queen Lilya as any son would a mother. He had been the first to vow vengeance upon her death, yes, first even before Albin. He had been the shoulder Sibri wept upon when her mother died later that night, he had been strong, fighting the Shetyi and giving the soldier’s courage when they could find none for themselves. He was all a good warrior could be. What a bitter time was this for Silvàrador, its prince missing or perhaps even dead and it’s warrior and leader now found to be guilty of murder and treachery. The hand of Fate dealt cruelly. Arlos shifted uncomfortably and met Jesmaine’s eyes. They looked at each other for a moment as if passing word’s unseen. And in that moment, he seemed to slightly relax and returned his vacant stare to his boots. Morin looked up at the King. “This is woeful news indeed. It is too hard to believe. I do not think I can doubt Corzan. He’s proved himself a worthy leader and friend—more so then even other’s present here.” He finished with a pointed look at Arlos who shifted slightly but ignored Morin. Tryist nodded in agreement. “We all trust him, or trusted him. As for myself, I do not know. It would explain many things. . . but yet…” His voice trailed off and he gently clasped his daughter’s still form. “Sibri . . . how I wish I could have somehow spare you this pain? I do not know what to believe anymore. I was greatly suffered at the passing of my wife and as I vowed then, I still hold the person responsible accountable for his dreadful deed. But Corzan? Who was to wed by daughter and become my own flesh and blood? I cannot believe it.”

“My King. . . I do not say for myself I can trust him such as much as the King does. Corzan was after all a Shetyi himself. . .” Arlos said, speaking for the first time. “As we are all aware, Arlos.” Jules Morin interjected sternly. “But how did this scroll suddenly come to light?” “I found it on the floor this morning where Corzan had been in the Archives the Night before. He must have dropped it or mistakenly left it behind. Thank goodness for that. “But I must say, I agree with Arlos. Perhaps Corzan should have never been trusted in the first place.” Jesmaine eyed her father as if watching for a reaction but got nothing, for the King’s face was as set as ever. “Where is Corzan now?” Morin asked. “That is what we do not know.” Outside, the day was bright and beautiful, the sky, a deep blue and the birds sounded their joyous melodies to their mates. Silvàrador had not seen a fairer day in weeks. The flowers budded in all colours and the wind came in gentle, soothing breezes. But there, in the depths dark of the castle, dark persisted, untouched by light of sun. It was as if the sun chose to shine instead elsewhere, to spread its golden light some other place and left the palace of Silvàrador to it’s gloom and shadow. This then was how things were as all of a sudden, a frantic pounding sounded harsh upon the door. “It is I! Lieutenant Brek come from the southernmost post with important news for the King!” “Come in then!” Tryist looked anxious. “What is this news?” “Sire,” Brek panted slightly out of breath. “The Shetyi. They came under the white flag to ask for a truce. They say they will meet you a day’s south of here to discuss certain terms.” He hesitated, his breathing shallow and his face worn. “They claim. . . well, they make the claim that they have Prince Albin.” “He is not dead then!” And for the first time that day, an expression of joy crossed the King’s features, though for only a fleeting moment. “But it is as we feared. They will use him to bargain . . . perhaps for our very lives. But we shall answer. Brek! Command horses to be readied at once! I will only take twelve of my men, and then Jules Morin. We will depart as soon as we are able, perhaps tomorrow morning.” “Very well sir.” Drek bowed and left the room. At the break of the next day, a company could be seen riding through the Road of the Seratheme woods as fast as their mounts could bear them. Though weary, their horses could sense the agitation of their masters and pressed onward so they made good time, taking only short breaks until they reached the Southernmost Fortress of Gru. The Shetyi were there, at the borders of the

clearing in the woods, waiting silently on black horses. Jules Morin’s horse neighed uncomfortably at the site of the other horses. Animals were smart and seemed to sense something that was not right here. The King commanded his aid to raise the white standard of a truce as they rode forward slowly, and then came to a complete stop. The Shetyi leader unmounted from his horse, white flag in hand. Jules Morin studied him closely. It was rarely that he had had a chance to see for himself the Shetyi leader, Gorzn Moeru. Though he was known for his skill and renown in battles, he made less then an impressive figure. He was pale skinned as the rest of his people, with short dark hair flecked with grey. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks, hollow, but his eyes were black and shone with a strange light. His armor was silver mail and dark leather, it was not particularly sturdy looking but Morin had fought enough of the Shetyi to know that this provided easier to move, and so they were swift fighters in battle. Tryist made a noble form in contrast, his silver head noble and upright, eyes shone with a kingly light. His silver horse remained calm, only snorting his disapproval at the stranger’s mount. There was a thick silence through the underbrush and not even a bird seemed to sound. Finally the Gorzen spoke. “Hail, King Tryist of Silvàrador. We have come in peace.” His voice was low and guttural, fitting with a slightly stocky form. “As I’ve been told. I’ve also found heard you have my son. If you do so, please waste no time in showing me.” A cold sneer crossed the leader’s face. “Of course. Lieutenant, bring out the captive.” A bound figure was brought forth and tossed to the ground. He was a young man, blond hair clung in clumps to a feverishly damp forehead and he moaned and tossed upon the grass. Blood and sweat stained his weathered cloak and his body was pale and sickly. A gashing wound marred his head and several places in his garments were soaked in dried blood. “Albin!” The king whispered in horror. The Prince was barely recognizable as the noble happy lad who had gone off with a smile to fight. The site of him lying there, perhaps near death brought a sick feeling to Jules Morin and he looked down at his trembling hands, clasping the reigns of his horse. What had they done to him? He almost wished not to know. Arlos stood there on his dark mount and looked strangely like the Shetyyi themselves. He looked down at the Prince slowly, and then looked away. For the first time, Morin thought he caught a pained look but it quickly was replaced by his white emotionless mask. The Shetyi leader caught the shocked faces of the men and gave a slight sneer. “Here is your Prince, sorry he’s a little worse for wear, I’m afraid.” He gave a vicious kick, hitting Albin in the side and the young man groaned loudly and began to mutter incoherently in his unconsciousness. The King raised his hand. “Stop! You have done enough damage to the lad, can you not see he is near death? I do not want to make an agreement, only to find my son has died.”

“You speak in truth so here are the terms plain simply. Basically, you surrender unconditionally, your land, your people, and your daughter, Sibri, to my nephew as a wife. “If you do so. . .” he placed a booted foot on Albin. “You will have your son back, and I will do no harm to you, your family, your soldiers, or your people. But if you refuse . . .” He pulled out a rent blade and pointed it at the Albin’s neck. “Then I slay him. It is a simple choice really, but I am willing to give you four days’ time to consider your options. Or lack of them if you prefer.” Tryist winced as Albin’s cries increased. For a second, his gaze met Jules Morin’s. “Very well then. But if I accept, leave Sibri out of it—I beg you. She is far too young but would never marry any of your forsaken offspring with any forcing.” “Well, I am sorry to say but that condition stands. You see, my nephew here is quite taken with her.” He motioned to the young man Jules Morin had noticed earlier. The man shifted slightly, and looked down guiltily and it seemed to Jules Morin that he almost wished to disappear and was waiting tensely for his Lord’s command to do so. But to no avail. “Come forward Corzan.” And Corzan stepped forward, his head held up high. And only then, did Morin recognize him. It was a shock. Bitter and cruel, seeing Corzan as he truly was. But strangely, he did not look evil, but instead arrayed in his armour of his rank, with head held high, he appeared as he truly was: a prince among his people. He refused to meet either the King’s or Jules Morin’s gaze, or for that matter any of the men present, but stood and looked resolutely ahead. Tryist was speechless and Morin likewise. How did this happen? But the King of the Shetyi mere laughed at their surprise. “Yes, I know. It is a shock. Corzan has served me faithfully all of this time, even becoming a a lord in my own enemies land where he had the perfect opportunity to tell me everything, and even once to rid a King of his wife. . .” The King looked pale and stricken. This was too much. Albin lay moaning upon the ground and Corzan stood a traitor in front of him, unflinchingly. He did not say a word. “Go now, Corzan. Your duty is fulfilled here.” And with a slight bow of respect, Corzan retreated without a backwards glance.

Jules Morin watched him go, a sinking feeling in his heart. The merry day with his family had been but yesterday, yet, it felt like a lifetime ago. So much had changed and he felt a man ten years older. If he was feeling this bad, he could not imagine the terrible burden the King was feeling. Albin was his own son, and Corzan. . . the traitor was engaged to his own beloved daughter. “We will retreat now if you have shown us all you wish too.” Tryist said coldy, but the undertones of his harsh voice were trembling with rage and from his near distance, Jules Morin could see his teeth were clenched in a vicious snarl. “Very well then. We await your answer, Tryist.” The Shetyi gave a mock bow before retreating and sommuning his men to do this same. Tryist turned quickly. “Make haste! I must get back to Pala Gavarin and inform the people—and my daughters. Oh, what anguish is on my heart today! Jesmaine was indeed right, and Arlos, oh Arlos forgive me for forsaking your council. I should have never trusted Corzan. But yet. . .it seemed so unlikely. How could he do this? ” As they rode back to their camp, the King’s words were echoed in the mind of Jules Morin. Corzan. . . a traitor. He almost hoped there had been no mistake but the lad’s silence had spoken for him and told the truth. But yet. . . Who was he a traitor too? He had been faithful to his own people, the Shetyi. And if you looked at it from a different perspective, he was as brave and valiant as he had been known in Silvardor. The Shetyi That night, the clouds rolled in and blocked the light of the moon and the stars. Even the fire seemed forget its usual cheer but burned dully into ashes. In the highest tower of Pala Givarin, Sibri sat locked in her tower, pounding upon the door to no avail. “Release me! Please! I must go find them. . . Corzan. I believe you! Please!” Her wails went unheeded but still, she pound her white fist upon the door. “Let me out! I beg you! Albin and Corzan, they need me! My brother. . . where are you?” Blood flew freely from her scratched nails and she shook with furious sobs of rage and despair but still her fists banged as she used what little might a woman had. “Someone! Help me! I must go! I must!” Sibri shouted, choking on her own sobs. She knelt by the door exhausted, robes stained with tears and ripped with her own frantic tearing. Her black hair was tangled and wet, her face ashen and pale and her eyes shining with a fierce fury. Sibri looked half-mad and so, Arlos commanded she be locked up for he said she would bring damage to herself or others if she was allowed to roam in a worthless search for her brother and Corzan. But she would not desist and he had to carry her, kicking and screaming as he forced her up the tower with face of stone and so she had continued her rage, between upon the door and screaming down upon all who could hear from her tower. But Arlos ignored her cries and she grew fainter until now, her fist faltered and slid heavily to the floor beside her as she wept, now silently.

She had once been the Lady of Pala Givarin, renowned for her beauty and elegance but now. . . now, she was nothing more then a mad thing, driven by a fierce desire to find her loved ones. Corzan would never have left her. Where was he? Had the King Tryist caught him and was he even now somewhere in a cold cell beneath the dungeons? And Albin, where was he? Lost and dying in the wilderness? Or perhaps killed or slain his once merry face still and cold? Sibri sobbed. She had heard nothing of the King’s conference and Arlos simply ignored her cries and told her nothing so she was left to her own thoughts and imaginings. He had, however told her the King would be returning soon, so all that was allowed to her was to wait, and wait she did, hands clasped, heaving silent sobs in agony. “Corzan. . . “ her voice was low, barely a whisper. A gently knock sounded at her door but Sibri made no answer. She was too weak. They could do with her as they pleased, kill her even. She had ceased to care. “My lady. . .may I come in?” Arlos’ calm voice sounded through the door and when once again, she did not reply he entered quietly. “I am sorry to do this to you. But you must understand. It is for your own good. You would be little use to us, out in the wilderness searching aimlessly and without clue or sign for Corzan or your brother. Please, my Lady Sibri,. . . our country needs you, the King needs you, Corzan and Albin need you. To be safe and well when they return.” Arlos spoke unnaturally kind and a strange look of compassion stirred in his grey eyes. Something had changed. His words had seemed to fall on dead ears until now, slowly, Sibri turned a tear-stained face toward him. “I do not think I’m strong enough. I miss them dearly, Arlos. My world. . ., since my mother died has never been the same. Now Albin is missing, perhaps dead and Corzan is accused of a treachery I am sure he did not commit.” Her voice faltered, and she broke into more tears. “I do not know what you are going through. But I implore you to regain your former self. Be the strong leader Silvàrador needs while King Tryist, Corzan, and Albin are away.” He hesitated and then slowly laid a pale hand on her shoulder. Sibri stiffened slightly but then relaxed. “I will try, Arlos. But tell me. . ., do you know nothing? Of neither Corzan or Albin?” “The King has left to a peace treaty with the Shetyi. They said. . .” he paused and looked at Sibri as if seeing if she was well enough to bear his news. “Soldiers reported that the Shetyi say the have Albin as a captive and are using him to bargain with the King. So yes, he is alive. The Shetyi would not lie on matters such as this, I think.” For the first time, a gleam of hope lit her eyes. “Alive?” she said, slowly mouthing the word. “Albin is alive!” She suddenly threw her arms around Arlos, catching him softly off guard. He gently placed his hands upon hers as if to remove them, but then relaxed.

“Arlos, thank you. Thank you! I will do as you say. Thank you for speaking truth that I needed so much.” She released him. “I have never talked to you much, Arlos. But your services, I am truly thankful for them.” He nodded but seemed not to have heard, he was so absorbed in looking into her blue eyes and the feel of her hands on his. The warmth of her breathe spoke to him and he was lost to thought for a second, but suddenly as if now aware of these sensations, he drew back suddenly but Sibri did not notice. “I will go now, I must speak with Jesmaine.” Arlos’ voice was now cold and harsh as always and he left without a second glance. Sibri watched him go and a sudden smile spread across her face. Arlos. She had never liked him until now, he had always been the pale sickly man in the background of her life, never doing or saying anything. Ever since he had worked for the king, he had always struck Sibri as being cold and reserved but every once in a while she would see a glimpse of delight in her eyes at the sight of a clear morning or a starry night. When he did not notice, she could some times catch him whispering a soft, mournful tune. He had a good side, it only took time to bring it out. Meanwhile, as Arlos walked down the stairs of Sibri’s tower, he was appalled at himself. He could not seriously love the Lady Sibri. He was the King’s assassin; it was his job, or actually his duty to be emotionless, loving . . . nothing. But still, he could not deny his feelings, how he felt when he watched her talking with Corzan or the feeling in the pit of his throat when he heard her musical voice or laughing. He scowled. This is the second time in a matter of things he had fallen into a trap of sorts. But he must let Sibri go. There was no other way. He had been paid as a murderer, to kill one she loved dearly. If she ever found out, she would hate him, he knew. Not even merely hate, Sibri would utterly loathe him. But yet, he had too for his own life. Arlos could not fail. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw his reflection mirrored into a brass shield hanging on the stone wall. He had not studied his appearance for some time. His long hair fell down to his shoulder, dark and unruly. There were bags under his eyes and his cheeks were sunken and sallow. And his skin, it was pale. Pale and almost white in contrast to the dark of clothes. He was not handsome, not bold or daring nor valiant. He did not have Albin’s merry smile and ruddy or charm or Corzan’s bold defiance and leadership. What he had was a dagger, hidden in his cloak and a past of hardship and cruelty towards others. He had never felt this way about anyone, he had used people merely to achieve his means, never stopping or caring but Sibri reminded him of the life he could have. Her light step and cold blue eyes brought to his mind a past life he had long ceased to know. Memories full of the sun and the sky and the stars and the wind upon his face. Memories of his family. . . A lone tear fell down his cheek. He was a deserter, a coward. He left them when they needed him most, his young sister who looked so much like Sibri, his pale and wizened mother and a cruel father. His sister needed him, but he had ignored her. Arlos still remembered that day, years long ago when he walked out of the shack he called his home for the last time. His sister’s cries and entireties still echoed to his mind in his darkest memory.

“Arlos! You deserve no love! You are no bold assassin, you are a coward and a thief and a robber.” He scowled at his reflection for a moment, cursing every aspect of his being. He almost thought it would be better to die then hurt Sibri…and one she loved. But he had too. The gold still called his name. The Arlos hardened to his emotion still existed, and he fought with it. Which was it. . . his own life or the risk of Sibri’s broken heart? Fate was cruel. The midday hour struck Pala Givarin when the watchers at the gates announced their sighting of the King and his company. They rode into the city with drawn faces and bent backs; even their horses, usually noble and proud steeds, held their heads low and resigned. King Tryist looked as if he had aged ten years and when he declared a public announcement to the towns people, they looked at each other with concerned faces. What had happened to their King? It could only be the worse. Rumours spread. Albin was dead. Corzan had killed him. Or they had found Albin’s body somewhere far away and Corzan had found him though it had been too late. The peasants hurried after their king, the children followed as well, whispering amid themselves, wondering what could have happened to make the adults and older siblings so very disheartened. Sibri stepped forward and she seemed a pale star in the midst of the black gloom, clad in robes of silver, the silver crescent stone hanging on a delicate circlet about her neck. She was once more a full lady of Silvàrador and as Tryist saw her, he was reminded of her mother—and the fact that though Albin was lost to him for a time, he had not only one but two children still left. Jules Morin riding by his side also noticed Sibri and felt a little joy at the fact that she was once again her regal and noble self. His eyes caught hers and he noticed something else in them. . .a look of bold determination that had not been there beforehand, before this morning where she had wept and moaned so much for her brother and lover. Would the King dare tell her of Corzan and his cruel betrayal?

Or of his ancestry? Jules Morin winced slightly. He could not bear to deliver this news to Sibri, the news that her lovers loyalties had not been to her but to the Shetyi or the news that her muchloved brother Albin had been cruelly treated and was perhaps even now at his last breathe. Sibri clasped the King’s hand and held it tightly. “Father. . . what is it? I need to know. I will be strong.” “Nothing, Sibri. They have Albin and will give him to us if we fulfill their. . .requirements,” he tried to look calm but she could sense the hesitance in his step, the look in his eyes that there was something he was not telling her. But yet, he was about to speak to the people of Pala Givarin and so this was not the time to press him. She raised her father’s hands to her mouth in a kiss of farewell and retreated slightly with her maidens as the King stepped forward to speak. He was worn and tired and she could see his hands were trembling from the weariness of riding for so long. But he held his head high and a hopeless but determined look shone from his eyes.

Jules Morin stood by, in front of the crowds and could see the same in his King. He silently wished him luck and then took a seat near Arlos who had just arrived. Jesmaine stood against a wall, behind the King and towards the left. She made a stunning and rosy picture, her robes were a light blue and two golden loops hung from slightly-pointed ears. She did not look sad, but instead in different and her gaze seemed fixated on Arlos, her eyes slightly narrowed but Morin could not say the reason. Arlos was as usual calm as ever but his eyes were slightly red. Almost as if. . .but it couldn’t be. . . were those traces of tears? Could that be what irked Jesmaine? Morin’s thoughts were interrupted however and Arlos turned aside, sensing his comrade’s sudden interest as Tryist began to speak. “Friends, people, I come before you today, not as your King but as a fellow man who is greatly troubled. The rumors you have heard are not founded in truth. Rather I have went to see the Shetyi who requested a treaty of us. They. . .” His voice wavered for a moment, his eyes looked down. It seemed as if he could not bear to look the awaiting crowd in the eyes and so for a moment, he faltered. But after collecting his bearings, Tryist went onward. “They, the Shetyi, have taken my son, your prince Albin and have held him hostage. It would be a lie for me to tell you they have treated him well and with respect for in truth, it is the very opposite. He was lying there before me, gravely wounded and perhaps at Death’s own door, but I could do naught but stand and watch my son, my dear and only son, suffer at their merciless hands. As a father to father’s, a beg you see things through my eyes. The horror at seeing our lord Albin in such a state. But I shall continue. The Shetyi told me they would only give Albin to us if we surrender to them.” The audience gave a low rumble of horror and dismay. Through the King’s speech, many of the women had gotten teary eyed and the young children, at the mention of Albin who many knew and loved look on in dismay, some clinging to the skirts of their mothers, other looking down with tear-stained eyes. But Tryist pressed on. “Listen today! Yes, my son’s life is at sake. But I have deliberated long. I will not have our entire county delivered into their hands. I love my son dearly but I am sure this is also his wish. “ The people gasped at the King’s sacrifice. “No! Sire! We cannot! We will fight for him if we must!” cried a voice in the back of the crowd. His words were soon murmured and reshouted However, I can not simple allow him to be tormented by his captors so I propose this!” he raised his fist, clasping a piece of parchment, written upon with new ink. “I propose we stand and fight! We will ride back tomorrow, not in haste to give them our own Prince, but to fight and try and do our best to reclaim him! Will you support me, daughter and son, mother and father, every last one of you? I cannot ever hope to complete this task without the assurance of my people!” There was a loud roar of approval and Jules Morin joined, Arlos merely raising his eyebrow coolly. “For Albin!” cried a voice and the shout was repeated again and again until finally the King raised his hands for silence.

“A king has never had the greater honor of serving peasants such as yourselves. May I ride in victor, for the Land of SIlvarodre and we shall claim our Prince back!” After the cheering died down, a small child spoke, his voice barely audible. “But sir, what of our leader Corzan? What has become of him?” Instantly, the King’s face fell. Sibri looked pale and clasped at the stone wall and Morin noticed Arlos looking down at his black boots. “Corzan. . .he. ..” “He has not fallen!?” a voice asked “No. . .much worse, he has been revealed to be a traitor. Perhaps responsible for the capture of Albin itself and is the most likely cause of death of our Queen two years hence. We have discovered he has been working with the Shetyi all this time, aiding in Albin’s capture and even. . .even being revealed to being the Shetyi’s leader own nephew.” Instantly, there was a silence. Not a soul stirred as if they were all knocked dumb by this revelation. And then finally, the young child looked up at his mother, clasping her skirts. “The King is wrong, right Mamma?” Where there had been a roar of approval, now there was a roar of disbelief at the denouncing of their loved and valiant warrior as a coward. “How can this be true? Do we have proof? Are you sure? But how do you know?” Sibri turned a shade paler and Morin, seeing her sway rushed to her side and caught her arm. She did not faint but regained her composure, lip and hands trembling and her face drawn and hard as he had never seen it before. Questions were asked and then the King raised his hand once more. “There has been found a scroll, detailing Corzan’s involvement with the death of our Queen and just now, I saw him at the Shetyi gathering and the leader of their foul race introduced me as his nephew and he denied it not but just stood as one. . .guilty.” The people were shocked. “It cannot be! This cannot be!” Voices rang through the crowd until at last, the King dismissed them. “Go to your homes and enjoy your families. This is a woeful day for us all but with hope, we shall regain many things.” And the King stepped back and clasped a sickened Sibri and lead her gently upon his horse and then to the castle. Arlos had vanished at the Princess Jesmaine was at the King’s side as well, whispering something to him. The peasants though dismissed, did not cry or scream but seemed almost deadly shocked, faces now frightened, now harsh. They silently made their way to their business, officials, maidservants, merchants, dukes, it was a hard fate for them all and Morin felt despair echo into every fiber of his being. He too, would go to his home, bearing this terrible news to his wife and children. He could not bear to see their faces when they found out the truth but with a sigh, he turned his horse and rode down the street wearied in both limb and heart. If only they had Corzan. . . .

After the King’s speech, Arlos slunk into the shadows, disappearing into an nearby in, the Flying Flagon. It was an overcast day and the wind whipped about his cloak and dark hair, giving him an eerie appearance as he entered into the warmth and fire of the tavern. His boots sounded harsh upon the wooden floorboards and his weather stained clothes were torn and unkempt. In whole, the Flying Flagon was an inn with a wholesome, welcoming feel about it. It was small, run by a stout landlord and his wife, a cook of excellent proportions and so Arlos had become a frequenter there whether to eat or simply sit in the corner and think. He was there so often that few ever noticed his entrance or silent presence anymore. Even now, the townspeople were talking and muttering amid themselves, a few laughed at their comrade’s tales but most had worn expressions on their faces, most likely thinking of Corzan and his treachery. But none so much as looked up at him. Arlos likewise ignored them, promptly summoning to the tender for a glass of ale before retreating to the darkest corner of the main room in silence. A few people’s gaze lingered on his dark form warily before they continued to their business, marking off mentally as merely a common stranger. He pulled off his hood as he swished the mead in his glass, studying its contents absentmindedly before taking a long draught. It burned down his throat but brought pleasant warmth to his body and he sat, spindly legs stretched out in front of him, head bent to his chest as if in a rest. But in reality, Arlos was deep in thought the prattling voices of the townspeople a fading background for his ponderings. Corzan. He had always hated him much but he would grudgingly admit to his renown as a skilled warrior. But really, he had never liked anyone much now that he thought of it as no one really seemed to care for him. Sibri ignored him for Corzan, Jules Morin would ignore him were it not for the King and the King only appreciated Arlos for what he could do to serve Tryist. But then, Arlos did not mind much at that. He preferred his way life. To be alone meant that no one could harm or double-cross him and that he was his own boss. Even now, with the threat of death leaning over his head if he failed his mission, he knew that. The name upon the parchment had been the name of the Prince Albin and now, he knew that if the King succeeded, it would be his job to make sure Albin remained quite dead. But that would break SIbri’s heart and that was the only thinking stopping him for riding into the Shetyi camp right this moment and driving his silver dagger into the back of the Prince. Sibri would be devastated and so, Arlos wished the King would fail and he would not have to carry out what he had been hired to do. But in the back of his mind, he heard that voice again, the hollow voice of the man who wanted Albin dead. It came to him at night and repeated itself in his thoughts unbidden as he strove to find out its identity. The voice.. .it had seemed. . .odd. Or different. Like a familiar voice under a false pretense. It could very well been a female voice disguised as that of a man’s but Arlos could not tell and it was driving him slowly mad. Who wanted Albin dead? And why? The answer would not come. Until. . . Corzan! It had to be him. The traitor of the Shetyi. He of all people wanted Albin dead. The person responsible for his conviction as the Queen’s murderer. It had been Albin’s scroll that had revealed him and he wanted Albin dead. It made sense. But as Arlos sat there in the shadow of the inn of the Flying Flagon, he grew doubtful.

Wouldn’t he had recognized the voice of Corzan? Assuredly he would. Arlos had worked with him numerous times. With a sigh, he let his head fall forward further on his breast, and his hood fell like a shade of shadow upon his pale face. Under his cloak, his hangs gently fingered the handle of his silver dagger, feeling into its familiar grooves. He hated Albin with a passion. Albin, the fair hared boy who had grown ever so close to Sibri. If it were not for Sibri’s sake, he might have killed Albin long ago, even it were only for his jealousy and anger. He clenched the dagger tight, eyes flashing. If he could slay Corzan and Albin both, he would, the presence of Sibri was his only chain. But even that was fading as he remembered the cruel taunts he had endured at their hands, how they had never seemed to trust him or treat him as an equal. So what he made a pitiful site compared to him, as he looked with his dull eyes of a lifeless grey, sallow skin and black unkempt curtains of hair? His eyes went cold. They would pay, if not with their lives then with something else. . but what? The one thing that came to his mind was the face of the only women he had ever felt for. Her face, her deep blue eyes, and the silver crescent about her neck. Sibri.. But he couldn’t. . . could he? A door opened into the Inn with the loud groan common to doors in badly need of an oil. Two men walked in, dressed in heavy traveling cloaks and wearing soiled boots. They were both young, one had a long narrow face with pointed chin and a stern expression, the other was younger with hair a dull red-brown and might be considered handsome. As they beckoned the bar tender, Arlos could hear their voices thick with a foreign accent and he grew slightly curious despite of himself. Their table happened to be near his, and he could catch their hurried whispers. They seemed to be discussing something in haste, with furtive glances at the Inn’s other occupants. Arlos feigned sleep, molding into the shadows in his black garments and so they ignored him, talking amid themselves. The younger man seemed agitated, his eyes were flashing and his fist was laid clenched on the table. His teeth were clenched into a snarl but the older man just responded in a stern, harsh voice. His tone was smooth and cool, but grey eyes glittered dangerously. He seemed to be telling the younger man something that the other man wished not to hear… The others in the tavern paid the two travelers no heed. That is, until the younger man pulled out his dagger with a quick thrust of his hand and lunged for the older man’s shoulder. Caught off guard, he managed to thwart the thrust but did so, just barely in time and then suddenly he too had a dagger clenched in pale fingers. He held it out tautly. “That’s enough, calm down or you will make a fool out of yourself. We do not want to spoil our task . . .” the last line was said in barely a whisper. The people who by this time were aware of the two men did not catch his last words. . .but Arlos did. And like a brilliant flash of lightning a thought struck him. That voice. . . The younger man gave a final scowl and slowly lowered his weapon and for a moment it seemed as if the fight had ended just as quickly as it began. But only for a moment. For then the older man lunged forward and his dagger plunged into the red-haired man’s shoulder. He swayed for a

moment, dazed, staring at his own blood which was slowly seeping across his jerkin, in a red warm stain. Then he fell. He hit the floor with a thud, not dead. Yet. Silence ensued. All eyes were turned at his body, sprawled across the floor boards, all eyes save two pairs. The pale-faced man had made to run out quickly, taking advantage of the diversion and would have succeeded and escape all together were it not for a dagger pressed against his neck. A dagger which happened to be held by Arlos. “Sit. Slowly.” The words were dangerously soft. The man tried to see who is captor was but wasn’t allowed the chance. The blade of a dagger was being pressed into his neck. He winced. “Very well. I’m sitting. . .” “Wait, second thought, walk out the door. Without screaming or saying a word. We will be noticed in here.” No answer. He pressed the blade just the slightest more. “Very well.” The place faced man’s words were strained but he did as asked. Arlos lead him out the door quietly, trying not to be noticed. But a few people glanced his way. He took it in stride, acting with the air of a man who stopped brawls and held there starters captive every day. The landlord was currently employed in calming everyone down, asking questions while at the same time checking to see if the re-headed man lived. But he would calm down soon, and when he did, the people would too. They didn’t need that. Finally, they stepped out the door and Arlos grasped the other man’s shoulder. “This way, if you will.” He whispered, a sadistic smile playing about his mouth. They walked a few paces until they reached the dark shadow of an alley way. Only then did Albin relax his grip. “I will spare your pathetic life and even let you go. If you answer a few questions and not run away. If you are foolish enough to run, just know that my dagger will find itself imbedded in your back before you’ve gone three paces. Don’t answer my questions, and it might be the same way. Understand?” The response was quick this time. “Yes. I do. But please remove your blade from my neck.” “First hand me your dagger.” He held out his hand expectantly until he felt the handle of the stranger’s knife and then commenced to tuck it into his belt. “Now can you remove this dagger?

“Certainly.” And Arlos did. The pale-faced man breathed relieved and turned around to get a look at his captor. When he did, he paled all the more and his eyes widened by a fraction of an inch. He recognized Arlos. Even in the dark of the alley. But even worse, he recognized that Arlos recognized him. “You know who I am. You know my name. But I don’t know yours and I will so like to.” Arlos said with a smile. “Do tell me please.” There was a pause as the other man surveyed Arlos with a quick glance as if sizing him up and seeing if there was anyway he could run. A defiant look spread across his face as he noted Arlos’ small stature and spindly form. Inwardly, Arlos gave a wry smile. He loved it when people underestimated him for his scrawny looks. People who made that mistake usually made their last. “I am called Jhazark.” “Jhazark. Nice name. Of Shetyi origin, right? So how long have you been working for Corzan?” Jhazark winced slightly and Arlos gave a malicious grin. His hunch at been right. As usual. “Well?” “Not long. Maybe five months.” Arlos nodded. Five months. That was about as long as he had been received the mysterious notes. Or not-so mysterious notes now leastways. He surveyed the man standing in front of him for a moment, as if daring him to move with his silence but when he didn’. “I see.” He drawled. “So who came up with the clever idea of knocking me out with drugged flowers?” “You know, if Corzan hears of mine telling you all this, I am a marked man.” “If you fail to answer my questions, then you are not a marked man but a dead one.” “Oh really? Jhazark’s voice dripped sarcasm. “A bit overconfident, are we Arlos? I would watch my footing if I were you.” And with that, he firmly planted a kick on Arlos’s shin. But Arlos had not been caught of guard. One of the tricks of his trade was watching his enemy’s eyes and he had seen the look in Jhazark’s eyes before it had come. Even still, he was slightly caught off guard and could not completely avoid the other man’s foot. Arlos grunted. Jhazark took off running but did not get far. A silver dagger flew like a gleam of light through the air and lodged itself deep into the Shetyi man’s back.

He died before he hit the ground. Arlos walked forward and pulled his knife out of the other man’s back, looking at the seeping blood with a slight disgust. “Sorry dear Jhazark.” He dragged the body deeper into the shadows and then rummaged through the man’s robes, retrieving another dagger, a pouch of coins, and a ring with a strange device made of silver. Pocketing them and putting the ring on his finger, he smiled. “Thank you, kind friend”. He said with a sneer and then left in longs strides towards his dwelling in the forest. The woods were dark and clouds gathering menacingly in the sky, drowning out the light of the pale sun. It was near dusk and harsh wind was picking up, whistling through the leaves of the trees. Corzan kicked his horse, urging it forward with a frantic cry. He had to get to Pala Givarin quickly and see Sibri. He had to see her again, even if it was but for a moments time. The woods past in a blur as he rode onwards, their dark shadowy forms eerie in the coming darkness. Waving trees reached across the path, their branches resembling gnarled, grasping hands. Several times, he had to duck quickly to avoid hitting his head against their limbs. Thunder rolled over head and Corzan cast an anxious look at the angry sky as if willing it not to rain. Being caught in the depths of the woods in a storm was not what he needed and he cursed his black luck. His horse seemed to sense his worry and so struggled to run as swift as it could in the dark, stumbling occasionally upon a tree root or stone. Soon it would be too dangerous to ride, even upon this path for it was overgrown and root-laden. But he rode onward, never looking back, the only thing on his mind was the woman he loved. Common sense told him to stop. His throbbing arm was making him light-hearted and any experienced wilds man would have began looking around for shelter from the approaching storm. Corzan brushed the dark hair out of his face and urged his already-spent horse. He panted. It had been ages since he had had a drop of water and if his wound was not what was causing his occasional dizziness, it was the lack of water. Suddenly, he heard a noise. It was an eerie wail, rising into a screech and then falling in the gathering gloom. His eyes widened in horror as he cast an anxious look behind, straining to see in through the trees and gloom. A cold chill spread down his spine. Then it sounded again. It sounded close by. Too close. Corzan halted his horse and looked around with eyes wide, his hand clasping the hilt of his sword as if he expected the very shadows to leap and attack. There was a noise of someone or something scrambling through the underbrush. His horse neighed and pawed the ground, nervous, eyes rolling in fear. He steadied it. “Who goes there? Show yourself!” his words sounded feeble even to his own ears. Corzan drew his sword and held it high with a bravery he did not feel but seeing its cold blade glinting in the darkness brought a faint comfort. “I said, who goes there!” This time, his voice was bolder, perhaps challenging. But his heart still pounded loudly in his chest and his horse neighed again. But nothing stirred. The forest was silence itself.

And then the rain began. It came down rapidly, turning the path to mud and drenching Corzan even as he pulled his cloak tighter about him. He would have to take shelter but he was loathe to leave this path which through dreary and dangerous was safer then any other way through the woods. But were those moans upon the wind? Or was it the wind itself playing cruel tricks upon his hearing? Corzan did not know who or what was making the noise but he did know this: he had scarcely ever been so afraid in his life and his core, he felt a fool for being so. He had lead many men into battle without fear and accomplished great things for both the Shetyi and the Silvàradorians. But that cry. . .he had never before heard something so strange. So utterly horrid and despairing. Moments past and still he sat, still as stone, soaked in the pouring rain water. Soon even his rapidly beating heart slowly stilled as no further noise was heard save the sound of the rain and the crash of thunder over head. He was about to nudge his horse onward, leaving the disturbing noise and his fear behind with it. And then it happened. A wail, so loud and horrid sounding that it shook every fiber of his being sounded to his immediate right and he turned quickly, falling off his horse and dropping his sword. Something in his side cracked Corzan lay upon the mud, breathing heavily. He could hear something, panting and scrambling in the brush, getting ever closer to him. His hands grasped wildly in the mud for the hilt of his sword until they grasped its familiar edge. He winced. Gasping with the pain, Corzan attempted to sit up, eyes straining in the dark. Holding the sword outwards in front of him, he stumbled to his feet in agony. He could not bare this pain much longer. Suddenly, a white form stumbled onto the path with another hear-wrenching cry of agony. Lighting streaked across the sky, casting everything in a bright light. What Corzan saw weakened his knees. Right before his eyes was the most appalling thing he had ever beheld. . . She was young girl, clothed in a simple pure white frock. But it was stained in crimson blood, a crimson which dripped steadily at her feet, the contrast of red and white looking horrid and macabre. Yet, almost enchanting. Her skin was a pale white, her wide eyes were pale and bloodshot and yet so. . .captivating.. But from those eyes trickled blood, like tears. They made there way slowly down her pale face and onto the ground below. Her hair was pale and virtually colorless. It fell down her back long and loose and from her form glittered a pale radiance for though it was dark, she could clearly be seen in the dark gloom. She was such a repulsive fusion of stark beauty and horrific qualities that Corzan was numbed. She was yet the most awful yet beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on and he did not know what to do. He could not think, or feel, or listen to the whir of unheeded thoughts flying about his head. Run! Run now! Cried one voice No, fool, stay! Said another. And then she looked at him and his world seemed to stop. The girl’s eyes were cold and bitter. They stared at Corzan, seemingly unseeing but yet he felt as if her gaze pierced him sharper then any sword and though it was painful, he felt then that one could stare into her gaze and be lost for all of eternity. Lost in vast orbs of. . .nothing. He felt as if she was seizing him up, seeing every flaw of his being, every motive behind ever deed, and he trembled under her gaze. He had never felt so powerless, so naïve, so foolish… But then she spoke.

“Corzan.” He loved the way she said his name. Her voice was solemn and eerily emotionless, but yet, the simple utterance of his name on her lips made him feel like he could succeed in conquering kingdoms, in conquering in worlds, in defeating everything and anything that stood in his way. It felt so horribly wrong and guilty. . .yet so good. Yet it did not occur to him who she knew him. “I have been looking for you.” She said. Corzan slowly lowered his sword and it dropped unheeded by his feet. Nothing mattered now. Nothing except for her. His pain, his anguish, even his love for Sibri…it was nothing compared to this fascinating creature before him now. World’s could come and go, the sun will fade into oblivion and the galaxies could come crashing down all around him. But it did not matter. She was here. “Who are you?” Corzan cursed himself as soon as he said it. His words were so unfit, so ill-spoken, so utterly horrid, degrading and wrong. But his curiosity overwhelming and the foolish question tumbled from his lips before he could contain it. “Who am I? Do you not know?” She spoke in an eerie way, pronouncing each syllable and her gaze still. “I have ruined many a great King and brought immeasurable riches to mere beggars. I have caused mountains to crumble, kingdom’s to fall, the stars to fade into nothing.” She raised her pale hand as looked up and the rain ceased yet the lightning remained. “Yes! If I bade the sun to die and the moon itself to fade, they would listen. For I alone am their ruin. But yet, I am also their utter glory!” Once again, she met his gaze. “And I can be yours. But before you speak,” she lifted her hand, as Corzan opened his mouth to tell her he would do anything for her to receive such splendor. “let me tell you my name. Many a mortal have rushed after me not only to realize I am there worst fear as well as their greatest pleasure”. She laid a hand with a bloody fingernails upon a tree. For a second, it seemed to shiver with either fear or pleasure or perhaps both. But then from where she had placed her hand came Black and it spread up the trunk and then to the limbs and finally to the very core of the tree. And then it was green no more. It was dead. Corzan at last understood. He paled with a sickening thread. “I am Death.” she said. He took a step back. Suddenly her horridness was revealed and he saw once more the blood in her pale garments, crimson dripping from those horrible vast orbs for eyes. Her laugh was harsh and bitter and sounded like ages of the cruel world all rolled into hostile sound and he remembered the sickening wails he had heard only moments before. And though he knew in his heart of hearts that it was futile, Corzan bent low and slowly lifted his sword. Its blade was dull compared to her light and ceased to bring any comfort.

“See, even now you cower before me, as all mortals do. You do not realize what I can show you, what I can give. If you only serve me.” She took a slow step forward, fingerteps outstretched towards him. . . “LEAVE ME! I will not have Death! I must not die!” Corzan cried with the voice of a mad man He stretched his blade out towards her, barely gripping the hilt in his cold, sweaty hands. “No, not yet. Not while Sibri and all I hold dear are at stake!”. Corzan screamed a cry of anguish. He knew not what spoke. He felt so bitter, so numb, so cold. But the words and the thought of Sibri waiting for him in her pale tower and the thought of life, which though harsh and cruel brought a sweet comfort to his soul. “Fool! You cling to Life but you do not know how utterly vain it is. The passing of the sun overhead, for days upon days, centuries upon centuries, and eons upon eons. War and pain and then peace like an endless cycle. Is this the Life you cling to? I have watched you Corzan. I know your loyalties. You are a brave and valiant man, do not through my chance away so foolishly and cling to the vanity of the dead Kings.” The tips of her fingers were nearly touching him now. He could not move, could not breathe, could not think. Before his eyes flashed dying stars, ruined civilizations, even the whimsical pale flowers of the spring. All destroyed by death. He knew he too would die. But inches form his face, she stopped and it seemed a bitter smile spread across her gaunt face. “Very well. I will come to you again. You will have your choice. But I know this, Life will come and try keep you from the glory you can have if you choose me. Aye, Life is a fool. I know you a smarter then that, Corzan, Heir of Might Kings.” And then she left, a long wail rising into the errie gloom and the rain began once more. Corzan trembled. His wound suddenly ached with a fury it had never known and he could bear it no more. What he had seen overwhelmed him but he knew that it was only a miniscule portion of the full greatness of what Death could hold. He stumbled reaching for his horse to steady him, but she had long flew her master. With a painful cry, he collapsed upon the mud, lightning flashing over heard. The rain fell down thick and harsh, beating his unconscious form. Corzan had met Death and yet lived. For now. Arlos walked onward, through the fierce rain, wishing now he had simply lodged at the Castle. Even though he hated being there the subject of the glances, the whispers, even thee lowly servants seemed to despise him. And he had to get a way, from the King, from Jesmaine, from Sibri. He abhorred it. Lightning struck overhead, illuminating for a split second the overgrown path. He stumbled upon a slick tree root, catching himself on a gnarled tree limb. Though it was dark and he could barely

see the rain and gloom, he had walked this area in the woods countless of times before and knew the general direction of where he could find the hidden cave he called his home. But something was different. He sensed something malicious, a presence bent on destruction. And those wails he had heard earlier…Arlos shuddered. He had never felt something like this before, and though he had rarely feared anything in his life, on this dark day he felt genuinely afraid. But he went onward. Slowing his pace and mentally cursing the rain and his own weak heart, he continued picking his way through the roots and rocks, straining to see beyond the few paces the rain allowed. And then, he tripped. Lying facedown in the mud, on top of something strangely soft, Arlos cursed his foul luck and spat out a mouthful of mud. His grime-stained hands helped him up and when he was finally once more upon his feet, he bent low to see what it was he had dripped upon. His hands searched and probed and with slight surprise, he realized it was a body. Perhaps, a dead one. He turned it on its back, laying his matted head upon the person’s chest and felt the forms breathing. So he wasn’t dead. Fine. Arlos really did not care. He was only irked that now his clothes were not only water-logged but soiled in mud and so gave the lying form a slight kick. He was about to continue on his way to his cave when a bolt of lightning streaked the sky overhead, and for a second everything was illuminated. Arlos was staring into the unconscious face of Corzan. He blinked. Now this was unusual. For starters, if Corzan was such the Shetyi traitor, why was he within five miles of Pala Givarin? And why was he lying here, perhaps almost dead at Arlos’s feet? A strange situation, yes. He would just leave him and go on. But then, an idea formed itself in his mind…But Arlos could use it to his advantage. With a grunt, he hoisted the bulky form of Corzan up, and half dragged half carried him down to where he knew the shelter was. It was hard to walk, Arlos’s small form heaving Corzan’s body. And the roots and stones were hidden under the torrent of the rain and made much slicker then before so that it was almost impossible. Many times Arlos would have stumbled and once he nearly dropped Corzan. But after about twenty minutes through the blinding rain, he at last reached the cave. Unceremoniously, he tossed Corzan on a bundle of skins in the corner and kindled a fire. It was but a flickering flame at first but after a few moments, it grew to a hearty roar, filling the cave with a comforting warmth. Arlos stripped of his outer clothing, laying them near the fire to dry and then bent to inspect Corzan. The young man’s face was damp and covered with a cold sweat. He constantly murmured and tossed in his sleep, muttering something about Sibri and dying, and cruelty. Arlos stiffened, hearing Sibri’s name. He could kill Corzan right here or now, or he could have just left him upon the forest path to die. But he didn’t. He was here, tending Corzan in his own shelter. He told himself it was not for Sibri, and that he should hate her as much of the rest of them. In truth, he was doing this for his own gain. Arlos would keep Corzan here for perhaps a night or too, making sure he would not die and then he would turn him in to the dungeons of Pala Givarin as a traitor.

And there Corzan would lie and rot and he could be troubled with his existence no more. Or wait for Arlos to kill him. It was a fool-proof plan and Arlos smiled with its sheer genius. He pulled over Corzan’s damp traveling cloak and tunic, revealing a dark ugly bruise on his side. Probing the wound with his fingers, Arlos discovered that at least one rib had been broken. The badge on Corzan’s arm was bloodied; covering a deep gash that looked like it had been re-opened several times. Arlos worked tending the wounds with a cold silence, and when finished, he through his own skin blanket over Corzan’s fevered body. Ignoring the other man’s mutterings, he laid damp rags on his forehead, wet with cool rain water and wet his parched mouth. Outside, the rain continued with vehemence and the skies sounded with a wrathful thunder as if to match Arlos’ present mood but all was warm in the small cave. When the captive was taken care of, Arlos changed into his dark leather over tunic, pulled his cloak over himself and after a bit of bread, rolled over into a wearied sleep. Corzan would not be escaping this night. Four hours past. The rain lessened to a mere sprinkle, and the stormy clouds were replaced by lifeless grey ones. A thick fog had sunk in when Corzan finally awoke to a searing pain in both side and shoulder. He moaned, then slowly opened his eyes. Where was he? What had happened? He struggled to remember. Was he captured? And oh, for water! He never never felt so thirsty in his life. Ever so slowly he turned his head and met the sight of smoldering embers and a form sleeping on the opposite side of the small cave. He made to raise himself but the pain was too great. He coughed hoarsely and coughed again. His rib burned like fire with every wheeze but he could not help it. Water. He needed water. “Whose there?” his voice was hoarse and raspy. He regretted calling out but whether the other person was friend or foe, he needed water badly. “Ah, finally. The valiant Corzan has awoken! ” The figure sat up but Corzan could not tell his features in the dark shadows. But the sarcastic tone of voice sounded very familiar. “Who are you? Where am I? How do you know my name?” He coughed again, and clenched his teeth. The pain, he had never known such pain… “Dear Corzan, I am Arlos, currently your captor. You are in my dwelling place until I turn you in to be imprisoned. For now though, this cave will do. Hopefully it is comfortable enough for the mighty leader of both the Shetyi and Silvàradorians.” He gave a mock bow. “My honors”. “Please. . .Arlos. I beg you. Water.” Arlos laughed. “Beg, do you? I was under the impression that anything your Greatness wanted would be given to you at the slightest command. But very well then, since you ask so…humbly.” He tossed his flask of water towards Corzan and it landed, right out of arms reach. Corzan struggled for it, but the searing pain was too much. The water was so close. “I beg you! You will get anything you want. Please…water….”

“I want a lot of things Corzan, nothing of which you can give me, you fool.” He scowled and rose, kicking the flask closer. “Here. Drink. Get healthy. And now I must go find some food.” “Thank you for your kindness, Arlos.” He forced the words out. He could never stand Arlos, his slinking ways, his horrid pale skin. . .pale skin. It reminded him of something strange, something horrid, but he could not think of it. Arlos paused and looked back, a strange glint in his eyes. “Kindness. Fine. If that is what you think of it though I must say you are quite disillusioned.” He turned to go. “Oh and please do not be fool enough to attempt to run. You would not get far in the fog in your condition. And though I would love to, do not give me the excuse of planting a dagger in your back.” He smirked. When he had left, Corzan drank the water greedily, though each gulp caused him immense pain. But this simple liquid had never tasted so sweet and he felt greatly relieved. Arlos was right. He would not dare to run. Simply moving cause him great pain and he had firsthand experience regarding Arlos and his dagger. But the question remained…why did Arlos hate him so much? What had he done to him? True, Corzan disliked Arlos but that was just because his presence made him feel uncomfortable, as if he knew things about Corzan that Corzan himself did not know. But still, Arlos had for some reason when out of his way to help Corzan. But what had happened? He struggled to remember. It had been raining. That much was clear. The path was slick and he had been riding to reach Pala Givarin to try and speak or at least see Sibri. But from there it blurred. He remembered a flash of lightning, his sword gleaming strangely in the dark, and he how fell and tasted mud. And a wail….a strange cry. But from what he could not remember and yet he felt it was strangely significant. And now he was lying here in a cave, the captive of Arlos. Any day he would be delivered to the dungeons. But he had to see Sibri, even if it were just one last time. She would understand. And with these thoughts, Corzan soon lapsed into a restless sleep once more. Sibri knocked gently on the door of Jesmaine’s dormitory. “Who is it?” Jesmaine’s voice sounded cheerful. Strange. “Jesmaine, it is I, Sibri. Please let me in. I must speak with you.” Sibri heard laughter and soft footsteps, and then the door was opened. Jesmaine stood in front of her, grinning. She wore flowers in her hair was dressed in a gown of red. She looked stunning and wore her usual cheery face but her eyes were hard as she looked on her half sister. “What is it, Sibri?”

“I must talk to you.” Sibri’s eyes met hers with a steady glare and Jesmaine seemed to flinch. “About what?” “You know what.” “I do?” “Of course you do. Corzan.” “Ah…of course, of course. Prithee, do come in…” She smiled sweetly and stepped back, allowing Sibri to enter. “Will you have a seat?” Jesmaine motioned to a chair. “No thank you. I will not be long.” “Good.” Sibri paced the floor several times and then drew herself to her full height. She looked at the younger girl steadily, dark brow slightly narrowed. “You know more then you tell me, Jesmaine. I know you do.” “I do?” “Enough of your games. I love Corzan dearly. I need to know.” “Know what?” “Anything and everything. What has he said to you?” “What gives you the idea he has said anything to me?” Jesmaine seemed absorbed in staring out the window and would not meet Sibri’s fierce gaze. “Jesmaine. I know you love him and so— “Love him! No, no, never! I loath him!” she said vehemently. “No, Sibri, he is a traitor to our land! Of course, loving a spy is oh, so romantic, is it not dear sister?” “Ah, but you did. You were jealous.” Sibri stepped forward, eyes flashing. “You have something to do with this, do you not? Did Albin tell you nothing of what he witnessed of my mother’s death? Nothing at all? He must have! Tell me!” But all Jesmaine did was laugh. “Fool, why would he? Everyone else knew he was closer to you than anyone. Including myself.” She laughed again but her laugh sounded bitter, like a complaining child. “I almost believe you set Corzan up that night. Perhaps planted the scroll.” This time Jesmaine looked up in anger. “I did no such thing!” Her cheeks flushed a bright pink “Cease your accusations! But oh, you are not the first. It seems as if everyone here hates me. Everyone. Albin tolerated me and was a sweet boy, but now he is gone. Perhaps for good.” And all of a sudden, Jesmaine sobbed. It was the first sign of emotion Sibri had seen and she looked on in surprise. This was a different side of her younger half sister, a side that was all

together new to her. She stepped forward slowly, and then placed a pale shaking hand on Jesmaine’s golden head. “I miss him too.” Jesmaine shoved it away, eyes flashing. “No you don’t you miserable fool! You selfish beast! Cease your lies! All you care about is yourself. I saw how you treated my brother Albin. He ever offered his love to you but no, you despised it. You threw it at his feet. How dare you?!” Sibri backed away as if bitten. For in truth the words cut into her very soul. Had she really flung Albin’s love away? She thought he would understand and he told her she did. But was in her love in Corzan even well-founded? What are these thoughts? Jesmaine is simply trying to annoy you, Sibri. Of course you love Corzan. Albin was fine with your choice, despite with Jesmaine says. She’s a bitter fool and you should pay her no heed. “Yes, I did. I do not deny it,” she said slowly, outloud He knew I loved Corzan. He knew it well for he was closer to me then any brother and I told him all my feelings. But I loved him dearly and he loved me, as a brother does a sister. He was fine with the way things were, when I told him I was Corzan’s, he was sad but knew it was right.” “What have you been telling Arlos?” Jesmaine started. “Arlos? Why do you ask?” “He seems to like you.” “He does not. He merely tolerates me. I find his stories fascinating and no one else will listen to him so I do. I assume he appreciates that. “You are hiding something. Both of you,” she snarled. “How dare you!” Jesmaine flushed again. “Jesmaine, it does not have to be this way. Put down your hate please. Just. . .tell me. I beg you. ” “Just go.” “Jesmaine, please.” “Go. Leave. Get out.” Jesmaine turned away sobbing. Sibri opened her mouth to say something, but paused. She sighed. “Jesmaine, I did not wish to hurt you.” With a final glance behind, she left the room. It was a quiet afternoon in Pala Givarin. The morning’s fog had all but gone and the sun managed to fight the clouds, bringing with it light and a little cheer upon the solemn faces of the people. Jules Morin led the preparations for the upcoming battle with the Shetyi to reclaim Prince Albin. His stone was strict, perhaps even harsh but it was a mask to hide that in his heart, he knew Albin was most likely dead. It was futile, utterly in vain and Morin could not drive his despair from his heart. There was a sound of footsteps down the hall and Lieutenant Brek appeared. “Commander, all goes well. When do we set off?” “As soon as the men are all sufficiently armored and prepared for, Lieutenant. Those are the King’s wishes.”

“Who will be leading the party to rescue the Prince Albin?” “That would be Arlos.” “Indeed sir. That is what I thought. But he has not been seen since yesterday.” Morin raised his eyes. “You are sure of this?” The Lieutenant nodded. “Yes sir. He is no where to be found in the castle our castle grounds, so my men tell me.” Arlos, sneaking off again. He still could not understand why the King trusted him. But it was not his duty to question his superiors. “Continue looking for him, Lieutenant Brek. Ask around with Lieutenant Moray. That is all I can say.” “Very well sir.” Brek turned to go, but looked back with a hesitant expression on his face. “Sir?” “Yes?” “My wife. She’s worried about myself and my son. Do you think. . .do you think we have a chance of succeeding?” “Man to man, I will be blunt with you, Brek. You are a good leader and I trust you. I saw Albin in his grievous condition and my own heart tells me he is already dead. However, I have been wrong on numerous occasions. Do not put your trust in the hearts of men despondent and overcome with grief.” Brek nodded. “Very well, my captian. But My all means, I hope your heart is gravely wrong and that Pila Givarin will se her prince again..” He hesitated, hand upon the door. “I did not know Albin well. But his bravery even in the midst of heartache brought much courage to the hearts of me and my men”. “Have good faith, Brek.” Morin rose and clasped his lieutenants’ arm. “Have faith. I if this goes well, our Prince Albin might be returned to us soon.” ‘Very well, Captain.” Brek turned to go. Silence pervaded the room till it was broken by the harsh clanging of the warning bell. Frantic voices ensued, follwed by the rush of foosteps and the cries of men. Morin threw open the door in alarm and Brek rushed out afterwards. “What has happened?” Morin asked, graphing the shoulders of a young boy. “Sir—I—the warning bells. The watchers say they see a lone rider approaching with the mark of Shetyi upon his amour.”

Corzan was the name that flashed through Morin’s mind. Nephew of the very Shetyi leader himself, who else could it be? But he would not be turning himself in. What was he doing? Morin hurried through the rest of the corridor with Drek following behind. Shouts sounded as they hurried boots took them up the stairs onto the tops of the garrison. The bright sun and the clear blue sky made them squint as they looked on the steadily approaching form of a horse and a rider. Morin squinted but the distance was still to great to make out of the rider’s features and the sun glinting off the strangers amour made him all the harder to see. Morin lifted his hand. The archers held poisoned, bows drawn taught with black arrows. “Wait. Do not attack till I give the command.” Drawing ever closer, the horse rosde on until the stranger upon his back sagged and fell upon the ground. A few men gasped in dismay as the horst continued, dragging his unconscious form across the grass. “Brek! Take two of your men and ride out to meet him! Friedn or foe, he seems gravely hurt and we can at least show him kindness. But be wary and keep your men out of bow shot from the lurking shadows of the woods.” “Yes, my captain.” Lieutenant Brek gave a sharp nod and signaled to several men. “Ashton, Liren, Drin, come.” They vanished down the barricade and after several minutes had past they could be seen riding out of the city gates, let by Drek. Their horses covered the two hundred yards or so until they reached the rider/ After halting the horse, the figure of Brek could be seen, kneeling down and examining the body.

Brek stayed with the unconscious form but his two men rode their horses back to the city and through the gates, where a crowd of gathering townspeople stood watching curiously. As they rode, the men waved their arms in an excited manner. “It’s our Lord Albin! He has returned! Make way!” The people jostled each other, trying to get a better look through the crowd as Brek rode onwards, holding Albin in front him with his arms. The Prince’s head lolled to onside, and blood matted his hair. Morin rushed to the gates as fast he could. Albin back. It was almost too hard to believe to be true. But then he saw the familiar though sickly pale gold head of his sovereign in the arms of Brek as they rode through the cobble streets to the healers, Morin felt an immense relief settle over his heart. Albin may yet leave in the Healer’s gentle hands and now at least he was free from the Shetyi. There was hope once more in Pala Givarin. The people, = shouted with joy and elation, pushing aside trying to get a glimpse of their Prince. Morin felt tears well up in his eyes as he surveyed the site. Albin had returned. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------“Will he be well?” Sibri looked up from Albin’s bedside at the wizened face of the healer Salmir.

Albin lay there, in a white tunic drenched with sweat, bandages upon his head and arms. He groaned softly and in his fevered sleep tore his hand from Sibri’s . His blond hair was tousled, yet clean and glinted in the light and his brow was pale and fevered. “It is hard to say, my Lady Sibri. But from what I have seen of his wounds so far, he should recover in time and with rest. However, their may be deeper damage then I can tell.” Sibri nodded slowly and turned back to her brother, for a true brother he was if not by blood then by heart. Her gentle hands brushed his hair away from his brow, and her lips met his cold skin in a warm kiss. He moaned her name in his sleep, tossing once more. The door was thrown open and Jesmaine stormed in, skirts swishing about her legs and her blonde hair askew. There was a wild, almost hunted look in her eyes and her lips pursed as she saw Sibri sitting by her brother’s side. “Albin!” she threw herself upon his chest, clasping his hands to her mouth. Albin groaned and she continued her weeping. “Oh my brother, my brother. What have they done to you?” She kissed his hands again till Salmir gently pulled her away. Sibri dropped Albin’s hand and stood coldly, face expressionless. “Dear Princess Jesmaine,” said Salmir his voice low and gentle. “he must rest and be allowed to recover. If the Princess and the Lady Sibri would depart for a while, I and my aids must tend to him.” He gave a consoling pat on her shoulder “Very well,” said Sibri and she knelt low and kissed his forehead once more. “Get well, dear brother. For me. For us. ” She left the room, her eyes meeting Jesmaine’s in a cold stare. Jesmaine looked on after her, a haughty frown upon her features before she gave Albin a final caress. “She claims she loves him, but she does not. Not to the passion I have always felt for my brother. Curse Sibri! She who only used him for her own gain, then threw his love aside, taking that scoundrel Corzan in his stead!” She gave a bitter sob, then kissed Albin with a fervent passion several times before leaving the room. Salmir looked on after her with a sigh before turning to Albin once more, his young helper Anika standing by his side. “Very well. Anika, hand me that water basin.” THE FATE OF CORZAN That night, under the dark stillness of the cave, Corzan dreamt. He was riding his horse once more, through the storm and rain. Lightning flashed, casting the forms of the trees in an eerie light. Crashing relentlessly, the rain poured down upon him, drenching him in freezing water.

And then she came. Death was suddenly in front of him, a shining figure walking through the trees and fog. Her feet were soft and he stood, staring dumbfounded until she turned her cold gaze on him. “Corzan. Remember your choice.” Her mouth did not move but the words formed themselves in his mind and he shuddered at the touch of her thoughts. “Life will try to take you from me. Do not listen! Life is a fool, a fool that should not be heeded. Remember Corzan, remember the riches you can have in me.” She was gone in a flash of light, and a searing pain spread through-out his body and he fell as one dead. But then it seemed the rain stilled, and as he blinked his eyes open, he saw he was know longer in the forest but lying on the sand of the Golden Shores of the Sea. The water roared, and the sun shone down upon him as he struggled upwards and looked around. It was a beautiful site. Clear blue sky and water with the white sands of the shore. The sun glinted off the froth of the waves and the droplets sparkled merrily. He closed his eyes, letting the spray of the waves sooth him, and the steady roar of the water upon the shore calm his aching ears. It was not hot, nor cold, but a balmy day and his heart, trembling from it’s touch with Death, was calmed. And then the scene changed. He was still by the see but there was a black, cloudless night with the stars shining as gems in the dark velvet of the vast night sky. The light of the moon bathed everything a soft silver and the music of the waves seemed enchantment, and Corzan knew know why all the songs and tales he had heard of the sea spoke of it as a great Enchantress, holding the hearts of men captive with her whimsical voice. Then more scenes flashed in a fury, he was a child again, fishing with his brother. He could hear the singing frogs, feel the soft mud squish between his toes. He laughed and splashed and laughed some more. Then he was older, a young man, and he was seeing Sibri for the first time. The shape of her neck, the silk blackness of her hair, and the way she held herself like a queen of the ancient legends awoke a passion in his heart he had never knew before. Her eyes met his, the shining sapphire orbs in the midst of pale porcelain skin. She smiled and a shiver of delight ran down his form. The rest of his life flashed before his eyes, the joyous moments, the moments he knew that made life worth living. And now he was standing on the top of a mountain peek, looking over the rolling hills. The setting sun painted the sky with red and gold and a faint pink. The few clouds were arrayed in rich purple and the dying rays of the sun suffused the world—the glorious peaks, the sapphire lakes, and the vastness of the green trees—in a brilliant color. Corzan blinked, spellbound. He had never seen something so pure, so vast, so overpowering. And it seemed that unbidden to him, tears welled up in his eyes and he cried out loud though he knew not why. He felt so alive, so brilliant, so awed. But it was so much more. He felt as if the whole world was in his grasp and he had but to reach and touch the diamond stars in the heavens or grasp the yellow disc of the sun, trod the world from the green plains to the sea with her foam hair and gems of corral. He knew he could accomplish everything, do anything, and his life as a valiant man, leader, and lover seemed to pale in comparison with the grandeur of the scene before his eyes. Corzan wept with sheer delight, knowing that for the moment he was completely free of any presence and was here alone with his thoughts. But he was not alone. As he wept, he felt a hand clasp his shoulder and a sound he had heard rarely in his life. The sound of laughter. And then, his sobs of joy turned to tears of laughter, and Corzan laughed along. He laughed great heaves of laughter and could not stop and the voice besides him did the same. It could have last for ages and maybe it did but Corzan could not tell.

Then finally, the peels stopped though the joy in his heart remained and he turned to the Stranger. It was then he met Life. Life was a boy with white hair, and though he looked young, his eyes seemed ageless, as if he had seen the very birth of he world and would see its very end. But what shocked him the most about Life was the way he looked so normal. . .other then his eyes, perhaps even plain. His garments were ragged and black and in some places, stained with old, dry blood. Two gaping old wounds scared Life’s wrist and all together he made a less than grand appearance. Corzan saw none of the awe and enchantment he had encountered with Death, but yet, the young man felt things in aspects he had never felt before, like joy and peace and a sense of right. Instead of grand, Death suddenly seemed cold and hollow and for a second, Corzan laughed at himself for thinking Death’s pale form and stone riches in any comparison to the richness of life. And as if he knew Corzan’s mind, Life nodded. “Death thinks herself mighty and grand. In truth, she would have been and can be if it were not for the fact that every breathe taken in all the universe destroys her existence. And even at the end of Life, though Death seems to prevail all turn to grey and ash, it is really Life that does. For Death was defeated, long ago. Yet, she will ensnare those who let her. Life looked at Corzan and for a moment his eyes seemed full of sorrow. “Though the price was high and the ransom unbearable, Death has been defeated.” Corzan did not know what to say. He was utterly speechless in the presence of such grandeur, of life itself. Life met his eyes and like the eyes of Death, Corzan felt as if those eyes could see into the very depths of his being. He lowered his gaze and shifted slightly, those searching eyes were too hard to bear. Silence ensued. The only noises heard were the soft sound of the cool breeze and the melodies of the birds below. A brook sounded its jubilant song near by, babbling it’s way down the mountain side as Corzan sat with lowered head. Then Life spoke once more. “Listen, Corzan. I know you. I know your bitterest deed and the longing of your heart.” Corzan looked up, weighing the words. “Trust me. Though Death seems to prevail, trust me. Never fear her lying tongue or show of glory for in reality, the only grandeur she does have is in the grey dull of her rags or the bitterness of cold ashes. She has lost to Life but it is for every individual to chose who alone they will follow: Death or Life. She will attempt to persuade you with promises of enternal glory but if you choose her Path, you will live your life in enternal Death. That is her will.” “And if I chose Life?” Corzan asked “Then Death will be but a swift entry into the most glorious aspect of Life you will ever know. Look at this!” Life stretched his hands over the glorious landscape and the song of brook, bird, and breeze seemed even sweeter. “Look at this and imagine it thousands of times over! Yes, it is impossible for a mere mortal’s mind…” here Corzan could have sworn he caught a twinkle in the eyes of Life “And even more impossible that humanity should ever glimpse it. But the impossible is made possible by the Sacrifice and all are invighted to partake. Including you, Corzan.”

Life turned once more towards him. “When Death and Darkness and Despair overtake you and it seems as if the very spark of hope as decayed into dust and ash, then remember Me. Remember this moment. Remember the Sacrifice. And remember that if you choose me you will not have glory in yourself but will have life everlasting in the glory of Life. That is the highest gift, the greatest joy you will ever be offered.” And Life laughed once more, a clear ringing laugh that bounded over hills and meadows and seemed to echo from the mountains and sprang from the babble of the brook. It then struck Corzan that the boy in front of him seemed not merely to be at home here but to be the Creation itself and then, with a start he realized he was. Life was the sweet breathe that flowed through his lungs. It was the beam of sunlight that allowed the flower to blossom into beauty. It was the joyous feeling of the mud between your toes, the swirling froth of the waves, the glinting stars in the vast fields of heaven. Life was good, it was the Light, it was eternal. And it even encompassed Death. With Life comes moments of despair and times when all hope seemed to fade into nothing. But yet. . .that despair lasts for only a time before once again Life would reign with a golden crown and scepter. The Night is divided by the Day and so Light defines the Dark. For Death herself was just another part of Life, a mere thread in a grand tapestry. Corzan realized this. The sensation overpowered him and he suddenly felt small and insignificant compared to the wideeyed child by his side. But of course, he was. What did his own small life matter? He could through himself into the utter most depths of the oceans and die. But it would matter not. How could it? “Your Life does matter, Corzan.” Life looked at Corzan almost pitingly, as a father would a small, foolish child he loves dearly. “But my Lord, I do not understand. Why?” “Because, I dearly love you. Because I loved you so much I saved you from Death’s cold grasp with my own red blood.” He held out his hand and once again Corzan noticed to the deep wounds there and winced. “Oh, I will only ever serve you, Life!” he cried and then fell upon his knees. “Please, Lord, I will serve you.” Life looked upon him again, with the same pity. “Aye, yes, You say that now. But when Death comes once more, showing you her foolish vanities, ensnaring you with her serpent’s tongue? What will you say then, dear Corzan, when Death seems so powerful and Life but a fading ember, doomed to die?” “How could I ever, my Lord?” Corzan said. “How could anyone ever forsake you for any so called glory of Deaths? Is it even possible?” ‘Alas, but it is. But remember Corzan, I will never forsake you. You will never be far from my grasp. Not even in the face of Death herself. But you will be tested between us in the near future, and whether you choose Death or Life then will be wholly up to you. In the meantime, sleep. Heal. And remember this dream when you awake. Never forget.” Corzan started. “Dream? All this is a mere dream? But it feels more real than anything I have ever experience before!” “Aye, though this takes place in a dream, your dream, it is more real than anything in the reality you call life. Your reality is only the faintest reflection of the Life I give and it could be say that

what you call life is in reality, only a dream. But now, you must go thought it will not really be a parting. I will always be with You. You may not always see me but I will always be there. Farewell Corzan, for a time.” And Corzan felt blackness overtake him, the scene blurring from his eyes, and suddenly he was staring into blackness. He blinked, adjusting his eyes, and realized that he was still lying in Arlos’ cave, staring at its room. He gasped. The pain. It was back. He had forgotten of his wounds in the presence of Life. They had seemed miniscule, but now in the dark it seemed as if the pain they caused define his existence, He moaned, rolling to his other side where he received a sharp kick in his side. The pain was unbearable and Corzan nearly cried out but Arlos just laughed and kicked again. “Good morning, I see. Though I speak in jest. This will neither be a good morning or a good day for you, dear Corzan. As a matter of fact, I’m half-tempted to knock you out of your brains just like you hired some scum to do me.” Corzan looked up and saw that though Arlos’ tone was light and humorous, his eyes were filled with a deadly hatred. A hatred such as he had never seen before. But how did he know. . .? “Arlos, I am truly sorry about that.” Corzan choked, trying to sit upright. “Sure you are. So said the man Jhazad before he attempted to double-cross me and I had to stick a dagger in his back. Quite fun it was.” His laugh was course and bitter and Corzan stiffened. That fool Jhazad. Curse him. “So you know then.” “How you are traitor enough to assassinate Prince Albin himself? Killing his sister’s mother and leaking secrets to the Shetyi was not enough fun for you, eh?” Another kick. “Dog! How dare you? Do you deny this now?” And with a glint of silver, Arlos pulled out a small dagger. “Do you deny it?” Corzan hesitated and when he spoke, his voice was sad and bitter. “No Arlos, I do not. I am quite pride of my deeds. Yes, I did kill the queen. I did pass information to the Shetyi. And yes, I did most assuredly I did order the death of Albin. Because I hate him and always will.” His voice grew deadly as he spoke and at the mention of Albin, his eyes gleamed with a sudden rage and he lifted his clenched hand as if to strike. But he did not. Corzan sighed, and clenched his teeth and Arlos said nothing but roughly passed him a bowl of a watery gruel. Half of it sloshed onto the floor. “Eat. I am taking you to the castle. I have had enough of your horrid presence disgracing my dwelling.” With a deft movement, he slid his dagger into his cloak. “I have every right to kill you, a traitor of the graces of the Lady Sibri and of course the noble land of Silvàrador.” His last words were spoken in a bitter sarcasm and he moved to the caves entrance. The light of the sun shone about his form so he made an almost impressive picture, standing there, hand clasping belt and a fiendish but strangely fitting gleam in his pale eyes. But then, he moved and

the image was gone and he was once again, pale and sickly, with murky green eyes. Yet they carried the same gleam and Corzan wondered how he had missed that gleam before. “But I will not. Instead I will hand you over to the dungeons were you will languish in agony till the end of your pathetic life. And when I tell how you tried to hire me to assassinate the Prince Albin himself…well, I will just say the fair Lady of Pala Givarin will not be too happy with you.” Corzan gave a sudden lurch upwards, reaching for the blade of his sword but his hand met nothing and he gave a gasp of pain. Arlos laughed again and it was then, Arlos first noticed he was wearing a sheath with an ornate silver sword hilt visible and silver markings upon the sheath’s side. His sheath. His sword. He snarled. “You will pay a bitter price for this, Arlos”. Corzan said, a fire burning in his eyes. But he could do nothing. The slightest effort caused him pain. And what was worse is that Arlos knew this. Arlos merely gave a mock expression of concern. “Oh, will I? Well we will just see about that, dear Corzan.” “Foolproof is it not? “ he continued, pacing the floor. “I, the hated assassin, the loathed, the despised, the wretched Arlos will get the credit for catching Corzan the dirty wretch of a traitor. If you were going to betray us all,” he said, sardonically. “You might as well have tried a bit harder, maybe attempting to cover your tracks. But of course, the mighty Lord Corzan always wins in his schemes. He has merely to raise a hand and he gets what he wants whereas other people have to toil for mere…acceptance.” Arlos paused. He had said too much, shown too much emotion and he realized it. But it was too late now. His mask had fallen and there was nothing he could do. Fool!” he snarled. “Did you really think you would win? I pity you.” And he was off.

ALBIN’S STORY A knock sounded on Sibri’s door. “Lady Sibri? I have some news about the Prince Albin.” The slight form of the healer girl stood at Sibri’s door. Immediately, the door was pulled ajar and Sibri stepped forward, pulling a scarf about her shoulders. “Yes? What is it? Nothing. . .wrong, I hope?” Her eyes searched the maiden’s expressionless face. “No my Lady, the Healer says he is doing quite alright and that he is awake and wants to see you. The King Tryist is with him.” “Oh!” Sibri cried, and her eyes shone with unshed tears. “That is joyous news! I shall come at once!” As swift as possible, she made her way to the tall spires of the Healing Places, near the castle itself. Her heart was racing. What would Albin say to her? Would he be well? Oh, those dreadful wounds. What had happened to him? But she remembered Arlos’ words and still her beating heart as she hurried with the healing girl following her frantic strides. She would be strong. Even if it was only for her sake. But Corzan. . .oh, how she missed him. What did Albin know about him? Was it true that it was Corzan who had taken a part in capturing him? Her heart ached. It could not be. It must not be. Things were already too heard to bear. But she pressed onwards.

The site that awaited her when she reached him brought the first true smile to her face in ages. Albin was sitting, clothed in his white garments, one bandage across his forehead askewn and a purple-rimmed eye. He was laughing and talking with Tryist but when he saw her, his laugher died on his lips and he met her eyes. “Sibri!” he said, and grinned. “Albin!” she could not restrain herself and through her arms about his neck. “Oh Albin. You are all right.” “I’ve been better though,” he returned with a slight grimace and Sibri pulled away, gently stroking his hand. Tryist nodded. “I will depart and leave you two alone. Perhaps Jesmaine will be up soon.” He added, and Sibri furrowed her brow slightly. After a quick farewell, Sibri returned to stroking Albin, brushing his blond hair from his face. “Oh, but you look, so pale,” she whispered. “Ah, but I’ve always been. No worries there.” A faint smile suffused Sibri’s pale face but it was returned with a look of sorrow and she bent her head upon her brother’s chest. He caressed her head, with a gentle hand. “What is it, dear Sibri? Is my coming back so terrible to you?” a teasing smile played about his mouth. But when she looked up, there was no merriment in her face. “Corzan. . .he. . .we…we found your epistle.” Albin groaned. “Oh no. You did.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I would have hoped he would have told you. But his treachery was too deep. He. . .” Albin hesitated, a pained expression on his face. “This will be hard for you, dear Sibri. But it is truth. He was the leader of the party of Shetyi that captured me. It was he who lead them. Corzan himself would have killed me if they had not restrained him. I have never seen him that way before in my life. He was vicious, and cruel. . .and just. . .just not the Corzan we all knew and loved. But this was his true self. The other part of him that you fell in love with, that I admired, it was a sham. I hate him now, Sibri. For what he did to you. And me.” He stroked her hair with shaking fingers, When Sibri looked up, she saw the hate in Albin’s eyes and drew back slightly. He had never worn that look before. But now…now, he looked so different. So older. His wounds and the life among the Shetyi had changed him and he did not look so young or care free. But graver, and wiser. She caressed his hands. Though changed, he was still her brother, gentle and sweet. He would understand if no one else did what a t “But I cannot hate him. I scarcely know what to do. I cannot believe these things about him. How can they be true? I do not understand!” she gave a fierce sob, and then met Albin’s eyes in a gaze of sorrow. “I am ashamed. If he is a traitor, then I do not know how I love him. But I do. And that is what hurts me most. He hurt you, or so it seems. Can there be no mistake?”

Albin sighed. “I wish I could tell you so Sibri. I wish I could. He was a brother to me and this causes much grief in my heart.” Tears unshed glimmered in his eyes and he moaned softly, still in pain from his wounds. Sibri kissed him. “But I saw him with my own two eyes. Poor Corzan. I hate him yes, but I pity him also. I am glad he has been revealed to be who he truly is. I could not bear to see you so blind to his true form and marry that…monster.” Sibri shuddered. “You should have told me sooner, Albin. I needed to know the truth.” Albin started. “No, no, a thousand times, no. I just could not. It would have broken you and I still placed my hope in his goodness. Surely he would tell her soon, I thought. He must confess before he takes her as a wife. But he did not…and I wrote him that letter. And then that battle, I was captured and wounded.” Albin winced at the memory. His voice that had been strong till now began to falter. “I had never felt so alone. So lost. The pain, it was nearly unbearable. I was sure I would die and become the victim of Death. But I lingered, in agony. And the Shetyi, they treated me with contempt. They bound my hands and feet and dragged me along with little respite or touch of food or drink. They refused to treat my festering wounds so I sickened and grew worse. And then, in the daze, I saw Corzan. Here I thought I had found a friend. But no, he did nothing, save give me a hateful stare. He spoke no word on my behalf and then I realized that he was one of them and had been a Shetyi all along, my heart sunk and the life that was left to me seemed bitter. I could have killed myself. But love stayed my hand, love for the family I had left in Pala Givarin. For you, Sibri. For Jesmaine, and for my father. Sibri wept. “Oh, Albin. How terrible. The Shetyi, they were so cruel to be capable of that? And Corzan? My heart aches as it has never before, even though my only brother is returned to me. But tell me, how did you come to escape?” “It all past in a blur. I was sick and dazed in a stupor, drugged or natural I did not know. But yet, there were lots of times were I was aware of my surroundings, more so then my captors realized. They took my condition for granted and some of my assigned guards would leave me alone while they went for drink or merriment and so I had opportunities to escape. I saved a bit of food, saved some water, and saved my strength for the right moment. I saw a rider less horse grazing a few yards from where I lay alone and so I took the chance. I rode onwards as much as I was able but I still do not know how I made it. During that ride, many times I would have passed out from weariness and my whole body ached with injury and fever. And then it went dark and I awoke to find myself here.” He grasped her hand, a smile suffusing his face and then Sibri realized that though he was changed, his boyish spirit still remained. The merry, insufferable spirit she had grown to love so well during her youth. He looked up at her. “But tell me, where is Corzan now? He had left the Shetyi before I did.” “He is…we do not know. I had assumed he was with the Shetyi. He would not dare to return, I think.” Albin nodded slowly, eyes carrying a vacant look as if deep in thought. “Sibri, thank you. Your words, your face. It has proved a greater balm to my wounds then any of the Healer’s concoctions, potent as they may be. But I am still so weak.” His eyes looked up at her once more, a pale clear blue. They hatred was gone, replaced by a look of yearning and of happiness and of perhaps, pain. Then they were closed and Albin laid his wearied head upon the

pillow. Sibri stroked his cheek. “Sleep, sleep dear brother. Get better.” She stooped and kissed his pale forehead and he smiled weakly, eyes hidden under bruised lids. “I will..” Jesmaine stood outside the door, where Albin and Sibri conversed. As she heard Sibri move to leave, she ran down the hall, pressing her back into a slight alcove in the wall. The retreating footsteps of Sibri echoed down the corridor and she breathed a sigh of relief. Her eyes gleamed hard as she made her way to Albin’s room and opened the door with a gentle hand, as not to disturb him. The healer girl was there, placing fresh bandages on his arm but he was already in a deep sleep, tousled hair in his eyes. His chest rose and fell with his breathe. “He is sleeping, my princess. If you wish to speak to him you will have to return later.” The healer girl looked up, binding the white cloth about Albin’s arm. He moaned and turned slightly in his sleep. “I will not disturb him,” said Jesmaine. “I merely wish to sit with him.” Jesmaine waited for the healer to leave before taking her seat at Albin’s bedside. She grasped his arm, stroking it and pressing it to her lips but in her eyes was a smoldering hatred. She had heard most of the conversation and wondered why Albin had not brought up her name, or asked about her. It was all about Sibri and Corzan and her heart grew jealous. She had been the one that had been there for Albin his whole life, she is older sister. Why did he not return her love? Sibri seemed to have a much higher place in her brother’s eye and for that, she grudged her. Why Sibri, she who was not even related to him by blood? Jesmaine eyes flashed. Her mother, the King’s first wife had died of an illness when Jesmaine had been but a child. A few years later, Tryist had come home wedded to a stranger with a pale-faced daughter, Sibri. From the start, they had never liked each other. Jesmaine was so jovial, and her father’s ruddy features and gold hair. But Sibri was pale, and dark-haired, seldom laughing or crying. And Albin who had been Jesmaine’s companion for many years through there childhood took a strange fascination to this new girl from the North lands. To make things worse, Sibri’s mother rarely had anything to do with Jesmaine. The Queen Firlandra merely regarded her with a cool stare, loving Albin as her own. But Jesmaine was not loved, nor did she much care at the time. Her father had loved her, had babied her, had given into her very whim. And Albin had too, before Sibri. Sibri. She hated her. Now it was Sibri who always got what she wanted, the love of both Albin and Corzan. And when she had turned Albin down for the sake of that dark-haired strange boy, Jesmaine was angry. Her brother’s love had been dashed to pieces before her eyes and it filled her with a loath for Sibri and everything that had anything to do with her. All this raced through Jesmaine’s mind as she sat at her brother’s bedside. She hoped he would wake soon, she had much to tell him. Wearied and anxious, she stroked the arm of the sleeping form till she too drifted into a doze where he father found her later, gold head upon her brother’s bed.

THE FATE OF CORZAN With a thud, Corzan fell to the floor, breathing heavily after Arlos had knocked him from behind. “It is time to leave, my Lord Corzan.” He said with a sardonic smile, grasping the man’s arms

and hauling him up. But he could not hoist him up and so dropped him on the floor. Arlos spat. “Very well then.” And he grasped Corzan again, dragging him out of the dark of the cave and into the sunlit woods where his horse was riding. Arlos generally did not like to ride, but when he had found Corzan’s horse wondering wildly through the trees the previous day, he knew he would need him. He struggled, but managed to right himself on the horses back, dragging Corzan up with him. And then they rode. It was difficult, through the trees until Arlos found the path he had been on before in the dark. It was a sunny day, whereas before the trees seemed dark and even forbidding, covering in gloom and shadow now they seemed full of light, their branches held high in a tone of welcome. But Arlos did not heed them, friendly or otherwise. He felt no sympathy for growing things, his mind had long ago decided it hated the forest for that was were he was forced to live. No one else would tolerate him and so his companions had been the birds and squirrels and the other wildlife. But all that would change. For now he had Corzan and with the wounded man on the horse besides him, he had his glory. He would no longer be the loathed assassin but perhaps rise to a high rank. Of course, Sibri would despise him with all of her fierce passion for Corzan but that would be the price. That was the only thing that caused him grief this fine day. Sibri. . .before she had tolerated him, even spoke to him from time to time. Always in a condescending manner of course but she spoke to him nonetheless. Corzan had never liked him, always giving him dirty looks from a distance. And Albin had merely ignored the fact he existed. Jesmaine however had been kind to him when none else would and for that, he gave her grudging respect. But he loved her not the way he loved Sibri. Sibri was the unattainable goal that could he could never reach and he was not fool enough to try and humiliated himself before others. Arlos merely watched her with longing from a safe distance, never approaching her, and ignoring her presence when they happened to be in the same room together. That is, until that night on the tower. He was still appalled himself for that, cursing his own foolishness and folly and he did so now, riding with Sibri’s lover wounded in front of him. He had been much too transparent, said too much, done what he should have never had. He, Arlos, he could not afford it. But it had happened nonetheless, in his deepest of hearts, he had enjoyed it. The warmth of her breathe, the feeling of her hand against his own. A smile stole unbidden across his face. Yes, he had enjoyed it. An hour later, clutching Corzan moaning in his arms, Arlos first sighted the towers of the gem city Pala Givarin through the branches of the trees. It was short work from there, and he rode through the city gates, ignoring the curious stares of the people. He had made sure Corzan’s hood had been pulled over Corzan’s face as he did his own. It would not due to cause a commotion and be recognized and so onwards they rode, up the streets, through the circles of the city until they reached the entrance to the palace and castle of Pala Givarin. Then, he was recognized by the men at the gates and allowed entrance with subdued but forced bows. Arlos smiled. That would change shortly. “Tell the King, or the Captain Jules Morin, or whoever you wish that I have someone of grave importance here with me. Oh, and please take him to the dungeons.” He motioned to Corzan’s limp form. “Who is he?” the Lieutenant Drek asked, eyeing Arlos with a look of mistrust. “Oh, the Lord Corzan of course, returned to Pala Givarin. Though a little worse for wear I am sorry.” Brek eyes widened. “Corzan? He is here?” He examined the face of the limp man, slowly. “Woe is Pala Givarin this day. Her prince is returned her, a traitor and in such a state.”

Arlos nodded, a mock expression of solemnity. “Aye, woe is us and dear Corzan.” He looked up, handing the reign’s of the horse to the stable boy. Brek looked down. “My heart aches for Sibri. She loved him much. But at least Albin has been restored to her.” Arlos lifted an eyebrow in cool surprise, but his languid eyes suddenly glinted. “Albin returned? How so?” Brek looked at him, as if reading his features. “You did not know this? Where have you been? It has been the talk of the city.” He said. “I have been absent. But till me, how did he come back?” “Oh, he escaped. We saw a figure approaching Pala Givarin on horse back and it turned out to be none other then our Lord Albin. Needless to say we were quite happily surprised and Sibri was glad.” “I see. Well…tell the King I will be here then. Give him my message.” “Very well, Arlos. I will go and deliver the message myself.” Brek left, saying nothing about rest or refreshment and so Arlos stood in his weather-stained cloak, tired and hungry, but strangely satisfied. All was going as planned but now for some food. And Arlos left. The first person Brek ran into was Jules Morin and so relayed him the message Arlos had given him. “My commander, Arlos has returned bearing ill tidings. He brought us the Lord Corzan, and he is here also, though in the dungeons, lying unconscious and gravely wounded I fear.” Morn looked up. “Corzan returned? This is news indeed. But alas, more news of woe. First the coming of Prince Albin, returned to us yes, but wounded and bearing ill news so says the King. And Corzan, once the pride of our people. Now…now nothing but a lowly traitor.” Jules Morin sighed, his face lined with worry and eyes carrying despair. All had changed in but a few months. Those few months had changed the course of history, bringing sorrow and despair to the people of the land. But there was naught they could do except fight. Fight for all they were worth. Fight the sorrow that threatened to consume them, to bind them, to stamp out the fading embers of hope. Silvàrador had seen better days, thought Morin. But none that have so tested its courage and the valor if it’s people who had long lived in peace. Perhaps that was why they were given a time such a this. It was a test. And if they passed, perhaps the children would live to see the rise of hope again. For that was why they were fighting. For the fair blooms in the spring, the pale caress of winter upon the earth, the clear of the fall sky, and the bright glow of the sun in rosy summer. As long as they remained, Morin knew Silvàrador would keep fighting. For it had no other choice. “You have returned”. Tryist said as Arlos entered the room. “We have missed you for several days. Pray, what have you been up to at a time when this country needs you most?” The King was agitated, his voice was harsh. Arlos chose his words extremely carefully, taking care to sound as respectful as possible.

“I am truly sorry, my lord. But I have been held up and so have found out some urgent news the King needs to here as well as bringing a person the King might wish to see.” “What news is this that you are so urgent to share?” The King looked up from a map he had been studying as Arlos bowed. “Pray, be quick. And take care it does not consist of tiring rumors like I have been hearing these last few days. “My lord, this regards Corzan. I am afraid to tell you he is more of a traitor then even we know now.” Arlos remained where he was, refraining from looking the King in the eye. “More of a traitor?! But we know he killed the Queen herself. My own wife and Sibri’s mother. How can one stoop more low then this?” Tryist’s eyes flashed bright. “My Lord…he lead an attempt to assassinate Prince Albin himself and was partially responsible for his imprisonment amid the Shetyi people.” Silence. The King just stared. Arlos finally raised his eyes and for the first time noticed that he was not alone with the King. Jules Morin was standing several yards away, eyes fixed on him. He was un-doubtly looking for any expression of Arlos that may be twisted to bode some malicious intent or make him a liar. Inwardly, the assassin chuckled. Morin would get none. In truth, Morin was suspicious but he could catch nothing amiss. Arlos’ face was as expressionless as ever, his, eyes dim and murky, could even be said to be lifeless. But that was the danger and the reason Morin had never liked Arlos. This emotionless was unnatural and made the captain feel ill at ease. And now this news about Corzan… “Where did you get this information! Tell me at once!” The King stepped forward, grabbing Arlos by his shoulder. But the young man didn’t so much flicker when confronted with Tryist’s anger. Not missing a beat he continued. “My Lord…I know because he attempted to hire me to commit the assassination. Using other men, he drugged me and took me to a place unknown to your servant where he was threatened until he accepted the offer. Later, I found the man who threatened your servant and he confessed to working for Corzan.” The King released him from his grip and Arlos was thrown slightly off-balance and stumbled. “I see. So not only does he kill my wife. He attempts to kill my own son. How did this malice ever go undetected?” He looked at Morin who lowered his eyes. “I wish I knew, sire.” “And where is he now, the wretched scum. Hiding no doubt. And to think he was to wed my own daughter—

“Sir! That is the other part of my news. Your servant has brought the traitor Corzan too you and even now he is locked in the deepest dungeons awaiting questioning.” Arlos lowered his eyes, in feigned humility. Morin’s brow creased. “How did you come by him?” Morin asked, his voice sounding not a bit skeptical. Arlos gave an inwards smirk. If only he knew… “He was wounded and I found him unconscious, on the road side. I took him into my dwelling for the night and cleaned his wounds, then brought him here as I knew the King would most assuredly want.” This was it. Arlos waited, expressionless as ever except for perhaps the smallest shaking of his hand. “You have done well, Arlos. Very well. I am proud that Silvàrador is still home to men as honorable as yourself,” said Tryist “I am glad you think so, my Lord. I am only ever at your command.” He gave a low bow, hiding a grin as he saw the scoffing look cross Morin’s face and then vanish. But not before he had caught it. Tryist continued. “I will proclaim you a great hero of Pala Givarin to the people but is there any reward I can give you for your great service?” Arlos hesitated for politesses sake but he knew exactly what he wanted. “Nothing my lord…save, perhaps one thing…” “Yes Arlos?” “That when Corzan is sentenced be executed, that I be his executor.” Morin looked aghast.” If you are so bent on his destruction, why did you not kill him when you had the chance in the forest?” he said, his voice carrying disgust. “Simply because it was not the right moment,” replied Arlos, evenly. “I want him to lie in the dungeons beneath of Pala Givarin for a time first, languishing in their tormenting darkness. I want him to see the look of anguish on Sibri’s face and hear her reject him. If any wretch deserves it, he does.” “If that is what you wish then it will be,” said Tryist at length, though he too looked startled at Arlos’ request. “And though I understand your reasons, is there nothing else more pleasant that you wish for? I would give you Lordship over Pala Givarin if you asked. Or perhaps even bags of gold, or even the hand of my daughter in marriage. Anything.” “But I did not. I am content being myself, your humble and the least-recognized of your servants. And perhaps the most disliked.” His eyes glittered strangely as Morin scowled.

“Not without reason,” the Captain said under his breath. But Arlos caught the words and he clenched his fist though his face remained blank. Morin would pay sometime soon. But for the moment, he had the death of Corzan in sight. That was enough. For now.

The dungeon’s of Pala Givarin were as dark as dank as the city was bright and full of light. Water dripped slowly, creating eerie echoes against the dark, molded stone. Rats festered in the corner, bright eyes glinting amid the dark shadows. There were few lanterns, and the only widows were barred, offering the faintest glimpse of the blue of the sky: just enough to remind the prisoner inside of what he could have. But didn’t. These then were the deep dungeons in Pala Givarin, reserved only for the worst crimes ever committed. And here lay Corzan, unconscious in the dark. His dark hair clung to his pale face, as he tossed in turned, succumbed to his nightmares… Corzan stood once more at the top of the mountain peak. But this time, it was different. Much different. Where there had been a sky of watercolors and clouds rimmed in purple, now dark storm clouds rolled, voicing their thunderous voices. There was no longer breeze, but a fierce, biting wind, chilling his bones to the marrow. It whistled about him, whipping his cloak wildly as he attempted to shield his face from the fury. But it was hopeless. Lightning streaked across the dark, mocking the sun’s radiance with its sudden beam of death. Corzan felt afraid. But yet, in awe. For this too was Life. This storm in front of him, the rain that had started pounding, drenching him while sounded it’s roar. But yet… As the dark clouds rolled over the sun, so did the dark upon his heart. Why did Life do this to him, treat him so cruelly? Leave him in anguish, wounded, defeated. And bitter. So ever bitter. Curse Albin and Arlos. Why should they deserve Life and it’s glory! Why did Life let them also enjoy the cool breezes, the glory of the sun, and the vast galaxies above? Was Life really just? Or pure? Or was it really even powerful? Could a mere shadow or cloud defeat its light like the clouds above shielded the Light of the sun? Because in truth, though great as the galaxies were…didn’t they too die? Did not even the life of the stars end and. . .die? And then suddenly, from behind him as he had before, he heard laughter. But as the scene before him changed, so was this laughter. It was cold and piercing, filled not with merriment or lightheartedness but with cruelty and great malice. He knew then who it was and shuddered… “I know your thoughts, Corzan.” And then she was in front of him, looking terrible in her glory. For in truth, he saw her in her element, a force more powerful then even that which he had witnesses that night in the woods. He stumbled and fell at her feet were the grass was withering, dying in the great presence of Death. “My lady.” He looked upwards, but could not meet her gaze. It pierced into his core and he felt once again as if he was being run through with the sharpest daggers. His wounds ached suddenly, but yet, the pain felt almost enjoyable.

“Rise Corzan and look upon my majesty, the glory and power of Death! For you are right. The Sun will burn out. The stars will die. The sky will fall. And Life…life and it’s pity and it’s foolish grandeur will be gone leaving behind the conqueror, Death.” Corzan suddenly felt foolish indeed, having trusted Life as he did. Life was a mere child, yet here before him was a woman, truly great and magnificent. Why had he ever been fool enough to so suddenly pledge his allegiance to Life? Why hadn’t he known that there was a far great power such as this of the might of storms and thunder. “Yes Corzan. Bitterness should not be cast aside so lightly. It should be clung to and used to find strength and power and greatness! Use your anger, your wrath, your hate…use it to become my strong and powerful servant! Why serve the fading Light? Why serve all that will soon whither and fall away or die and turn to ashes? Serve me. I will make you powerful. I will give you the strength to do what you must.” Corzan looked up, surprised. “But my lady, How do— “I know.” She interrupted. “I know of Arlos and Albin. I know what they have done, what you feel, keeping you from your beloved Sibri.” Her eyes gleamed bright but looking down, Corzan missed their hungry look. “But I will help you, Corzan. I will stand for you and ensure they get what is due to them. And you will live beyond your death, serving me and becoming mighty in turn.” Her words hypnotized him. All he could think of was Death…and her great and terrible beauty. A sudden longing sized him, a longing to serve her in every way. He was about to cry out, telling her that he would do anything to serve her…anything at all. That Life was a fool and that she was true greatness. But with a wave of her hand, she stilled the words on his lips. “Do not. You willingly pledge yourself to me just as willingly as you did Life. For once, hearken to his words. I do not want a servant merely caught up in the grandeur of the moment. But listen to my words. Soon, we will both come. Then you will have your choice of which one of us to serve.” Corzan lifted his head, meek and low. “I am sorry, my Lady. I am sorry to have been so foolish enough to forsake your greatness for what Life showed me. You speak truth, then, in front of the pittance he showed me, I was merely caught up in the moment.” He gave a bitter scowl. “But only now, I truly see what a fool I was...and I am much grieved.” Death laughed once more. “Dear Corzan. All of your race or mere fools without me. With me, you will become something more, something great. Life will merely show you the flowers and bid you be content. He does not speak of the grandeur and riches and gold and power which belong to me! He speaks of my death! Bah! ‘Tis lies. He did not defeat me. How can anything defeat Death? All must die in the end and I will reign supreme.” And then, the scene faded…and glimpses of cold and ice and power faded into a blur… Corzan bolted upright. Pain shot up his side and arm and he clenched his teeth, blinking in the dim light. In his waking daze and pain, he wondered whether he was still in the cave. It had the same atmosphere…gloomy, dank, wet. But the stone of the floor felt different and he saw no fire. Or light. Or Arlos. Not that the assassin’s bitter presence was sorely missed…

And then he heard it. A sound like the coming of footsteps. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes of sleep, and gaped. For at last he realized where he was. Arlos had acted on his promise and taken him to rot in the dungeons beneath Pala Givarin. Corzan swore. The filthy wretch…he would pay. Somehow. The footsteps approached closer and he heard the creak of a rusty door being opened and then there was light. It was but a torch, but to his eyes it was painfully bright and he grimaced. Figures swam before his eyes and he made an effort to sit up straighter, but the pain. It seared him and he could do nothing but lie upon the ground, dazed. For a moment, he heard nothing. Then a familiar voice, spoke in a sad, despairing voice. “Aye. It is him then.” It was Jules Morin. Corzan moaned, rolling to one side, and clutching his arm. A sudden anger overcame him, made worse by the throbbing pain coursing through his arm and side. “Yes, it is I, Corzan. Shocked, are we?” he bit the words through clenched teeth. In truth, Morin was. He was appalled at the sight of Corzan. He had known him but several weeks ago as a valiant man, strong with a healthy tanned pallor. But the man before his feet was nearly unrecognizable as the great man he knew. This man before him was a sickly pale, in worn clothes matted with dirt and blood and torn in many places. And upon his cheek, a scar that seemed as livid mark of death in the dark of the dungeon. But Morin masked his thoughts and spoke again with a steady voice. “The King Tryist wants to see you, Corzan. But not in your present state.You must see the Healer at his tower. Come.” He offered a hand. Corzan spat upon it, eyes smoldering. “Do not pity me, Morin. I am not worth it, fool.” He stumbled to his feet, still clutching his arm. “Why heal me when you can kill me as most of you very well wish to do so!” Morin scowled. “You can at least thank the King for his courtesy in having the murderer of his wife and attempted murderer of his son healed and cared for. Pray, watch your pride, Corzan. You, lowest among traitors deserve nothing!” “In that case, leave me here to die. I care not. But I see Arlos has already told you about me though I’m sure he failed to mention the identity of the one responsible for the outcome of the last battle with the Shetyi.” “I assumed that was you, Shetyi.” Morin replied icily. “Wrong. Arlos. I hired him to give the Shetyi our secret. It took a bit of gold but he did it in the end.” “Arlos! I knew it. I’ve never trusted him!” “As I am well aware of,” said Arlos, stepping into the light of the lantern where he had been standing in the shadows.

“What is this?!” Morin said, hand on sword hilt. “You stoop even to sneaking about the castle, do you?” “Not sneak. I merely followed behind you and your guards. They were as daft as you were I must say.” The two guards with Morin twitched slightly though their faces remained still. Arlos laughed, staring at Corzan who scowled back at him. “Corzan lies,” said Arlos. “I do not know who was responsible for the leaking of information, but it was not me. He merely seeks to poison you against me which knowing you, Captain Morin, does not take much.” Now Morin scowled. “I do not know who to believe out of the two of you but I am sure none of you mean well— At that moment, Corzan lunged at Arlos. He had no weapon of his own any more but his hand reached for the sword of the nearest guard and with a flash of his eyes, he swung the blade and Arlos. A strike the assassin was not prepared for. The blade struck his shoulder and he fell with a moan to the ground. Immediately, the guards restrained Corzan, knocking the sword from his hand and he collapsed onto the ground. Captian Jules Morin rushed to Arlos’ side. “He is badly wounded. Take him to the Healer at once. I will deal with Corzan.” His eyes flashed, cold and bitter and Corzan refused to look him in the eye. Stooping, the guards lifted Arlos’ unconscious form and led him out of the dungeons, his head lagging onto one side, eyes closed in his swoon. Morin watched them go and was struck with the thought of how different Arlos looked. He seemed almost…fragile rather then the bitter man he knew. “You lay further shame upon yourself, nearly killing one of our revered men!” Morin could have delt with Corzan then and there. The man before him was weaponless, and injured, and Morin felt a strange and fierce temptation to raise his blade and kill him, ending it all then and there. But he could not. “Fool!” he said, and Corzan looked up at him with burning eyes. “You do not know, Morin. You know nothing of the agony I face and the trials I have endured. You are the fool.” “So living like a King, the nephew of the Shetyi leader himself is hard is it?” Morin looked almost uncharacteristically vicious, jaw clenched and hand on sword hilt. Corzan did not reply but continued glaring at him, breathing heavily and clutching a red stain appearing on his upper arm. His wound had broken again. “Get up. Now. Arlos was for once right about something, right about you. You are nothing more than a traitor, a wretch, a dog and to think we held you in our highest trust. Corzan, I counted you as a friend! As a brother even! We led men together and fought, you were a valiant hero. When did it all end?”

Morin’s voice grew steadily softer, as if remembering old times. Corzan said nothing for a few moments. When he finally spoke, his voice was emotionless and even. “It never ended, Morin. It never was.” “But Sibri! You were to wed her, does that mean nothing to you?” Corzan’s vacant eyes returned to Morin’s face. “Do not speak of Sibri to me.” he said and he scowled. “Do not.” Morin was at once himself again. With the slightest movement, his sword was in his hands and he gave Corzan a deft knock on the head where he collapsed onto the ground, pale and dark-haired looking almost like Arlos did. “Get him up! Quickly.” The remaining guard did as he was instructed. “Hurry as fast as you can and get him to the Healing towers though he is not worth it. I would have never thought I would side with Arlos on any matter. But I have done so now.” They left the dungeon to it’s rats and darkness, climbing out the tall stairs into the bright of the world above. “What has happened? Tell me!” Sibri clutched at her father as he entered “You look so despairing, my lord. What else can go wrong this day?” Albin looked up from his bedside at his father and sister. “My Lord?” Tryist gently clasped his daughter. “Woe is me to bear you such sad news, my dear Sibri. But hopless and despairing are the days are land must face and so I will not hide from you.” He gave a sad sigh, looking down as if collecting his thoughts before turning to his daughter. She waiting. “This will not be easy…” he began, “but I have received word that Corzan has returned.” “Corzan?! Returned?! How can this be?! I thought he was a traitor!” A strange light flashed in Sibri’s eyes and the tips of her fingers trembled, “Arlos has found him and brought him to us, throughing him into the dungeons. I am sorry, SIbri but it appears that Corzan’s treachery extends further then even we know.” “How so?” And if it was possible, Sibri turned a shade paler. “We have found he has tried to get…he has tried to assassinate the Prince Albin himself and was responsible for his capture and torture in Shetyi hands,” he paused, letting his words sink in. “I am so sorry, Sibri. So sorry that I was fool enough to let you give your love to such a monster, will you ever forgive me?”

But she seemed not to have heard him. She stood, like a statue of stone, frozen with vacant eyes and pursed lips. Her fingers trembled all the more and her eyes looked past him, cold and unseeing. Albin remained silent. “And we know this for certain?” her even voiced disguised the fact it was about to break. “Yes. It was Arlos himself that Corzan decided to get to kill Albin.” He clasped her shoulder as a loving father, but she did not stir. At last, the Prince stirred as if awaken from memories. “Yes, I knew he was responsible for my capture. But paying Arlos to assassinate me…” He shuddered visibly and Sibri clutched at his arm. Then there was a knock at the door and Morin stood there, lined face graver then even it had been of late. “I am sorry to interrupt my lord,” he said, seeing Tryist and Sibri. “But I have more news to tell you. Corzan has injured Arlos and they are now both in the Healing towers, in wards near here.” There was a pause. Albin sat up straighter, and would have attempted to get out of bed altogether where it not for Sibri’s gentle restraining beds. He glared. “Corzan! Here! And even now in the dungeons…why, I ought to go and— “No! You will not!” The fierceness of Sibri’s voice startled all in the room and Albin looked up at her in surprise. “You do not still hold pity for this man, do you?” his voice bordered on being accusing. “Regardless of how I feel for Corzan, you must not do anything you will regret later. Especially now in your condition.” “Regret? How would I ever regret killing him who has caused you and I so much agony?” his voice was cold and bitter and he was a different man from the boy Sibri had known. But Tryist intervened. “Sibri is right, my son. Stay and mend. And besides, Arlos has requested permission to execute Corzan with his own hand.” Sibri looked startled and Albin looked up. “Arlos? Why him of all people?” “It is no secret Corzan and Arlos were never friends…” Morin interjected, looking at the King. Sibri nodded. “I have never thought much about Arlos myself. He was always in the shadows and thus I ignored him. But now, wounded by Corzan, I believe I pity him, as stern and haughty as he may be.” Albin relaxed slightly, and winced. His sudden gestures had made him ache. “I am sorry Sibri. You are right. I do not see why you still harbor such feelings for him as you do, or as you seem to do” he added as a sudden flash pervaded her eyes. “I am merely concerned, for father, for Jesmaine, and especially for you. I do not want Corzan to do,well, anything to you or injure you

in any other way. I prefer to see him dead and myself as well if he would but cause you any more heart ache.” He looked sad, his eyes low and somber and she brushed his gold hair aside and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I understand Arlos. But I do not believe I am in danger in anyway. I doubt Corzan would try and harm me.” She added in a soft voice. “Meanwhile, I will go and see Arlos. I do pity him, the fellow.” And as she left with a final caress of parting, a sad look stole once more across the Prince’s face and he looked vacant once more, lost to time and his own musings. Arlos woke up with a splitting pain. What had happened? Where was he? “You are in the Healing Towers” answered a gruff voice. “But why,” he murmured, “what happened?” he tried to sit and open his eyes, but blinked in the bright light. Curse this stupor. This was the second time he had awaken from a swoon in the past week. It simply would not do and he muttered under his breath, “Relax. Do not attempt to sit.” He felt a cool liquid being poured down his throat and he accepted it, greedy for more. “It is natural you do not remember. But back in the dungeons, Corzan struck you or so I am told. You will be able to leave in a day or so. He was injured and so the wound to your arm was not as deep as it could have been, fortunate for you.” At last, Arlos was able to see who he was talking to and found himself looking in the wizened face of the Healer. “I remember now. It’s all coming back. What a fool I was!” his voice was bitter as he felt the throbbing of his arm return with his consciences. Suddenly, the door opened and the Lady Sibri walked in. She looked cold but fresh, dressed in silken robes of grey, wearing the crescent necklace as always around her neck. Its jewels shimmered slightly in the light and the music of the rustling of her gowns was as music. Arlos started in surprise. Being wounded by Corzan was one thing, but lying here, in such a foolish state in the presence of Sibri herself... He muttered again. “Pull yourself together” he thought, and composed himself. Or so he hoped. Her footsteps carried her to his bedside and she knelt beside him near the healer, her features showing slight concern. “Are you feeling better, Arlos?” she asked and he felt something stir unbidden in his spirit. He mumbled something in reply. “I am afraid he is not quite ready for visitors, dear Lady Sibri,” the healer said. Arlos just willed him to shut up.

“I am well enough to take visitors as I like.” He returned voice now clear and harsh as usual. “Sick though I maybe, I will not be babied or treated like some sick child.” He scowled and Sibri’s sorrowed features lightened in a slight smile. “You are brave, Arlos. I know I rarely tell you but thank you for the service to our Kingdom. And for bringing Corzan to me.” He watched, intent on her face and saw the look of pain cross her features at the mention of Corzan’s name. He felt very bitter again. “No need to thank me but I appreciate your visit.” His tone was cool and even. Perhaps even harsh. But Sibri heeded him not. “Get well soon, Arlos.” And she was walking out the door. “Do you know where Corzan is now?’ Arlos asked before she had reached it. She was about to reply but the Healer answered for her. “Right over there,” he said and gestured to the figure lying covered in the bed across the room. Sibri suddenly paled and without a further word, she left, and her footsteps were heard carrying her swiftly down the door. Arlos could have killed the Healer on the spot. “Why am I in the same room as such a dog as he!?” he scowled, managing to sit up straighter. True his wound throbbed moreseo but he ignored it. “Because I do not have unlimited rooms in the tower, Arlos and we have many others here in need of aid. But do not worry, he will not escape. His wounds are still very serious indeed and there are guards posted outside this door.” “Very well then. However, I will tell you that I am not going to stay in this place in his presence.” And Arlos made a move as if to get up. The Healer attempted to restrain him but Arlos would not allow him. “Do not touch me!” he stumbled up, eyes flashing. His arm felt as if it was on fire but nevertheless, he refused to lie here, akin to a prisoner. Shoving aside the Healer, he stormed out of the room without a backward glance. That night was cloudless filled with glinting stars and a crescent moon, shining bright against the dark canopy of the sky. It was a peaceful and somber, beautiful yet grave. And in the tower, against the sky, Corzan lay in a half-sleeping state. All was quiet. Almost eerily so. For once in days, his arm had ceased to throb and his side had sunk into a dull and bearable pain. But the ache in his heart had only increased, and he thought, as he lay listening to the steady sound of his own breathing, that the burden he felt was harder to bear than any wound. His thoughts flew around his heard, mercilessly, whispers of doubt and taunts of failure. He strove for a while to cease there voices but they never seemed to relent. Even in his sleep, they cried out to him and so he gained little rest from his slumber. Just now as he was once again drifting into a restless doze, Corzan heard a soft creak and opened his eyes. The door began to open, seemingly by itself but then with soft footsteps, Sibri entered the room. It took him a moment to realize she was indeed, Sibri, and

not some translucent sprite as her pale robes made her seem in the light of the moon. She looked as beautiful and graceful as ever and his heart throbbed. Checking behind her to see that no one had followed, Sibri closed the door, taking care against it’s creek and made her way to him. His eyes were closed and she did not know he had awaked. “Corzan”, she murmured and he felt gentle fingertips at his forehead. “Sibri, ” he said and opened his eyes. She started visibly. “You are awake then! The Healer has done well”. “You should not be here, you should not have come. I am a condemned man.” “But I had to come!” she laid a gentle kiss on his forehead, clasping his hands in her own but he did not stir and refused to meet the gaze of her tearstained eyes. “They are planning on executing you, Corzan. Arlos wants to carry it out and the King has agreed. They will do so as soon as possible and I cannot bear that.” She kissed him again. “Come with me, Corzan. I have come to take you.” “Take me. . .but where?” “Elsewhere. I have to talk to you out of the castle. I need to know the Truth. Please, Corzan, come with me,” she clasped his hand in hers. “If your wounds are too painful, I will help you.” He eased himself up. “Sibri, I can not let you do this. You are breaking your father’s law. I am a criminal, a traitor to the rest of your people, you dare help me?” “Of course I do. Why should I believe them, unless I hear it from your own lips?” she gave a gentle chuckle. “I love Albin and trust him absolutely but he was dazed and confused. He was mistaken in saying you helped the Shetyi capture him. What a preposterous notion! And as for the rest of the allegations against you, I will hear your explanations from your own lips but now here and now. Come with me.” “Sibri, I— “Wait!” she pressed a finger to her lips. Soft footsteps were heard coming down the corridor. “Lie down! Quickly!” Corzan lay and Sibri sat next to him, clutching a candle. The door opened and the Healer’s young maid servant stepped in to fulfill her nightly duties for those injured. The tall forms of the guards were visible as she opened the door and light streamed into the room, falling on Corzan’s bed where he feigned sleep. The girl looked up in mild surprise at Sibri. “I am surprised to see you here, my lady”. Sibri gave her a cool look. “Cary on with your duties, I can visit the wards when I wish.” “Very well then, milady.” And the girl gave a slight bow. Sibri watched from the slightly open door as she felt his forehead, applying a damp cloth and checking his bandages by candle light. After some probing and refilling the nearby water jug, the girl was finally satisfied and left the room, closing the door behind her. They both listened as her footsteps echoed back down the corridor. “Come now, Corzan, quickly. I will not have you imprisoned for crimes you did not commit.” “But Sibri, it is too dangerous,”

“No, you have risked greater things for me. And it’s the least I could do; you have always been there for me, you and Albin both, though others have failed. But now, we must make haste,” “And I suppose you have forgotten the four men outside my door, guarding against something like this occurring?” asked Corzan, voice laden with sarcasm. “No, I have dismissed them saying you were taken to the dungeons. Which in fact, they had orders to do but I told them it had already been done.” “They will know, Sibri that you are to blame once my escape has been discovered.” “They would dare accuse the Lady of Pala Givarin of freeing a prisoner! I will say I saw Arlos free you, and the burden and punishment of your escape will be upon him.” Corzan sighed. “But Sibri—there is something I must tell you, I— She put a swift hand to his mouth. “Not know. The guards may come back in a moment or someone may stir. We must be off.” Clasping his hand in her own, she helped Corzan stumble to his feet, eyes looking concerned as he winced. “Your wounds! I had almost forgotten. Can you walk?” she asked, face lined with apprehension. “Yes, the pain has dulled considerably.” “Very well then, here, take these.” She tossed him the bundle she had been carrying underarm. “Your garments, put them on over your tunic.” Corzan felt immensely better in his own clothing and though his tunic was torn and bloodstained and his cloak like wise, they seemed to him as familiar and as comforting as his own skin. “Come!” They send off, hands clasped, she a white gleam amid the tower and Corzan, a brooding shadow. AT THE SUMMER HOUSE Sibri brought him out of the tower and through a short path in the woods to an old summer house they had discovered in their childhood years. “You hear what they have said about me. Do you so willingly give your love to such wretched men as me?” “I do not know what to believe. The evidence is there. But I simply cannot think you would do such. . .things.” “You do not?” “No!” her voice held a tone of bitterness. Yet, a stray look of fear crossed her face as Sibri caught the harsh look in his eye.

“But I did Sibri. I did. Yes, it was I who killed your mother. Simply because through my own error she found out I was indeed a Shetyi and a spy.” he said. “I tried to kill Albin for the same reason and will gladly do so once more,” his words were defiant, almost challenging. Sibri stiffened and she dropped her hand. “So you admit it then…freely…” her voice trailed off. “Freely yes, proudly even. My loyalties lie with my own people as they have always.” And Sibri at last understood. This was not the Corzan she had known, the young man she had laughed with and loved. That was a show, a false pretense. This, this dark-haired wretch before her was the real Corzan. His jaw was set, stubborn and defiant and his eyes were harsh and refused to meet her own. Corzan her lover was dead to her. Corzan, her mother’s murderer was before her. “So your love. It was all a convincing lie.” She had had enough. Albin. . .her mother. . .how had she ever managed to love this monster before her? What a fool she had been! She trembled in her fury but Corzan did not notice. “No. I have always loved you, Sibri. And I still do,” the words were right. But the tone of his voice. It was dead, uncaring. Almost mocking. But where those tears in his eyes? Tears of bitterness hatred against her now, against the land of Silvàrador. Her lip curled into a sneer. She had had enough. “Do not profess your love for me, Corzan! I no longer accept it. I trusted you, loved you and thought I always would. But you betray me, You lied to me and my country, kill my only living family member, my mother and try to slay the brother that has always ever been there for me! Do not profess your love for me any longer! I was reluctant to believe what they were saying, as I loved you Corzan. I could not simply hear slanderous words spread about my dear Corzan, whom I loved so well. But you are not that man. You are dead to me,” her eyes flashed and she jumped to her feet. “And If I could I would kill you.” “Sibri! I may have lied but no I have always ever loved you!” he grasped for her hand but she jerked away. “Let go! I do not wish to see you again. I hope when Arlos kills you it is as painful as how you stabbed my heart. I should not have thrown the love of Albin so lightly aside. Now that you are revealed, it was he that has always been there for me, my younger brother. And you have tried to take him from me! Why do you hate him so?!” “Sibri! And she was gone. And then darkness overtook him. Death was before him, pale and cold and as beautiful as ever, hands outstretched with eyes, harsh and cold. He was standing in a glade, in the dark. The stars glistened overhead, amid the slightly stirring branches of the tree limbs, but he could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing except her… “It is time,” she said and her words covered him as ice so all he could do was stand and stare. And then, a sound from behind him. A merry laughter. It was out of place in such a solemn, eerie setting and Corzan jerked his dark head quickly. And with a skip and a hop, Life bounded out of

the shadows and stood, ragged as ever but smiling a hearty smile, brown eyes glowing and filling Corzan with a seeming joy.But though merry and kind, there was a solemnity about his look and feel. And he looked at Corzan with piercing eyes, kind and compassionate. These were the two forces, the two powers and they stood before him, waiting. For his choice. For him. The thought made him quail and he suddenly wished he could be rid of all this. And as if he heard Corzan’s thoughts, Life spoke. “Dear Corzan. I will be with you always, you just have to call. I love you. I formed you with my very thought and know your life and your innermost feelings. I know them for I formed them, and breathed my Life into you. No where can you go and will not be there, whether to the glorious heights of the stars or the cold depths of the foamy sea. Not even Death can stop Life. She may stand before you in, looking worshipful and glorious. But this is a lie. She hates you, Corzan. Can you not feel the bitterness behind her every thought and action? The snake has been defeated but yet harbors a forked, poisonous tongue.” He grasped Corzan’s hand and once again, Corzan saw the deep scars embedded, read and raw upon his wrists and the blood stain at his side. “Look!” Life pointed and there were flowers upon the trees, the withered plants underneath the feet of Death suddenly blossomed and she looked furious. The stars seemed to sing in the sky, the breeze rustled his hair and cloak, bringing delightful fragrances of trees and blossoms. But then something wondrous happened. Corzan felt. . .loved. He had never felt this way before, never known what it was like not to be excepted to do anything except trust and believe. It was a glorious feeling, indescribable, and it left him breathless. And then he realized Who Life was. And then more laughter. The bitter laughter of Death and he turned, eyes wide to wear she stood. “Fool. You think he loves you! What have you done to deserve love! Your own lover hates you, despises your very existence. You are nothing but a dog of the Shetyi people, cursed to roam and ravage what you will. How can anyone love such a beast? Love is meaningless. It gives you nothing, accomplishes nothing, and is merely one of the playthings of Life. Do you remember Corzan? Do you remember what Life has done to you? The scene faded into a whirlwind of his life. He was a young boy, leaning over the dead body of his sister, stroking her pale face as an arrow with the mark of Silvàrador protruded from her back. Her hands were scarred and he felt them with rough fingertips, shaking as the sobs overcame his stone form. He remembered the feeling of her cold, dead lips against his as he kissed her, one last time before they wrenched her body away, black figures in his memory. Agony coursed down every vein, making his heart pound. He cried out. And then the memory changed. The blood of the battle field, the shining armor, the mutilated corpses, the foul stench and piercing cries of agony. The young lad in front of him, hacked down by glinting sword blade, falling, his eyes to the sky. Lifeless. Dead. Broken. In horror, Corzan looked at his own bloodied sword. Was this what he had become? Scene by scene his life flashed by, the moments of unerring despair. His separation from his brother that dark night, the beatings his father gave him and the foul voice of his mother, the haunting bitter look on Albin’s face, replacing his gold warm smile as he raised his fist, lying in a dark prison, devoid of light and of hope. And Sibri. . .her face, the crescent she wore, her harsh

gaze. . . no. It was too much. He could not bear it any longer and raised his hands in a gesture of utter hopelessness. “STOP!” his scream tore from his mouth and he tumbled to his knees, groveling in the dirt at the feet of Death. “Please, please, no more! I cannot bear it!,” He almost clutched at her white robes and stopped his trembling hand just before they touched. “Do you now See at last? Life bids you follow him, showing you the sky, the mountains, the sun. But was Life there in your bitterest thoughts and memories? Was he where your thoughts turned? Or rather, did you curse Life and all in it, praying to Me for Death! It is not Life that defeated Death, but rather Death that defeats Life. All must die in the end.” Corzan turned to Life. “Death speaks true. Where were you when I needed you most in the darkest moments of despair? Where were you when I fell down, when I was betrayed, when my life seemed not worth living for?” “I was always there, Corzan. I wanted to give you my Love, but you ignored it. All you had to do was ask. The trials you endured would have not been erased, but rather your heart would have been emptied of despair if you had clung to me.” “But that is what I do not understand. Who are you?” “I am known by many names, in different worlds and galaxies. But who I am does not change. I am. I am the Creator, The Problem, and the Solution. I give you breathe, and give the sun its light. The stars you see, I know them all by name. But above all, I am The Sacrifice. I poured my blood so the Death may die and all will have eternal Life, my Life.” “But Corzan.” Death said, looking him in the eye. “Is love enough? What do you truly wish for? Tell us,” an expression that vaguely resembled a smile crossed her face. What did he desire? Did he even know? “I do not know, my lady.” But as soon as he said the words, it hit him like a shock. “But you do. Tell me.” “I want Albin to die. He’s—he’s poisoned her against me! All she could do was speak his name before me, before she rejected my love. And now, I believe she does love him. The wretch.” “Very well then. You know what you must do. Kill Him. He does not deserve her love and you know it. Go, now and slit his throat in his sleep and that will be your first task in serving Me.” “But the guards—they will— “They will do nothing. I will take care of them.”

He could see it as a picture, clear as day. Albin lying there, an smile upon his sleeping face, framed by tousled blond hair. Then Corzan opened the door, holding the dagger he had stolen from a guard. It glinted in the light of the moonbeams streaming into the room. A breeze blew the curtain slightly. Everything was silent. Innocent. He approached the bed, careful not to make the floorboards creek with his footsteps. He watched Albin’s chest, heaving as he breathed. So innocent. Corzan smiled bitterly. It would all be over soon. He lifted the knife in the air and for a moment, it glinted there, held above the prince’s chest as he slept. But then Albin opened his eyes. They flashed like blue gems and Corzan was startled. “Cor-!” But before he could finish, the deed was done. A red stain spread across his chest, now still and his blue eyes looked upwards, unseeing into the face of the murderer. His face was frozen in shock. “Sorry, Albin.” And Corzan was gone. Death looked at him. “Is this then your choice? Will you kill Albin?” “Gladly.” He said. Life looked at him in sorrow and Corzan felt strangely unsettled by his gaze. It haunted him, bringing to mind things he did not wish to think of. He felt a sudden wave of guilt but then, he looked towards Death and he felt justified. Pushing his nagging thoughts aside, he turned away from Life as he spoke. “There is another way. Murdering is never a solution, Corzan.” “What other solution can there be? He deserves it!” “Forgiveness.” At this, Corzan paled and turned in sudden rage. He felt confident as Death also turned to Life, yet it seemed that she too could not bear his gaze long without faltering. “Forgive Albin.” “You do not know what he has done.” Corzan bit back, still looking down. When he chanced to glance up, he did not meet a gaze of reprimand or scorn in the eyes of Life. Only sorrow. . . Corzan opened his eyes with a new sense of purpose. He knew now what he must do. Death had chosen him and he would answer. The moon beams that had spilled onto the floor of the old shed through the cracked window were now blocked by the clouds and so everything was cast in black shadow. He rose to his feet, feeling the dull jabs of his now healing wounds and made sure the dagger he had snatched from the guard was hidden under the darkness of his cloak. And then, Corzan was off like a shadow in the dark of the night, making his way as fast as he dared to the spiraling towers of Healing. It was a humid night and very dark but the woods were familiar to him and so he hasted onwards, through the tall forms of the trees. For the first time he

could remember, Corzan was glad for the Moon’s absence, happy she did not dare to show her face on this night. For today, Death had one and light would not be needed. He held in his possession a task and he would not fail. He couldn’t. He would kill Albin or die trying. Sibri ran through the woods, a pale white form against the dark trees. Her hair whipped about her as a shadow and her feet carried her, lithe and swift. A tear found it’s way down her set cheek but with a jerk of her h and she wiped it away, feeling shamed for her tears. So it had come down to this. Corzan had betrayed her, used her even, perhaps just to get closer to Albin so he could kill him. She choked back a sob. He meant to kill him. The words echoed through her thoughts in minds, repeating in their cruel, taunting voices. You trusted him. Yes, but why shouldn’t she have? He had always been there, and even Tryist said he had his absolute faith in Corzan, despite his origins amid the Shetyi. But still, a voice whispered, she should have known. It was all too get to be true. He was too noble, too carrying, too loving to be true. And yet she had led him out of the tower, a blind fool. Why had she had not seen his true self? Had love bound a blindfold about her eyes? But Albin was not fooled and she took small comfort in this. Corzan may have left her but Albin had returned, her younger half-brother that she had loved so well. She must get to him, apologize for not believing him and throwing aside his love for Corzan. For in truth, that is what she had done. Could she lover Albin as a lover? She had always thought him a brother and loved him such, but now she was weakened. Sibri needed someone like him, who knew exactly what to say at the right moments. Oh, why had she not believed him? And why had he not told her the truth sooner? But you were to blinded to believe the truth, even if it stared you in the face. For it did. In the words of Albin’s. The forms of the trees seemed a blur as she ran, sometimes stumbling over root or stone. But she knew this path well. It had been one of the haunts of the three of them: Sibri, Corzan, and Albin in the brighter days of bygone years. Before all of this had ever happened. But even then, he had been faking, hiding his heritage as a great Prince amid the Shetyi. Sibri choked down a sob once more, furious at herself for her weakness and foolishness. night air pressed in all around her and her breath was ragged, but soon she came to the entrance of the castle. He had to be caught. “Guards,” she said, out of breathe as they rushed towards her. “Corzan has escaped. Find him and kill him.”

Corzan pressed himself in a shadowed alcove with bated breath as two guards walked past him, conversing with each other in low voices. He clenched his teeth, willing them go on but it seemed that they had paused just to his left. Not until he heard their footsteps echo far down the corridor did he go on, hand clasping the dagger hidden under his cloak. He passed swiftly on through the dim hall, lit only by a scattering of torches upon the walls. Their flickers cast ominous shadows upon the wall, but now it seemed he could see in the dark without their help. The light made him feel watched and he passed through the few well-lit places as quick as he could to get back to the comfort and hiding the shadows providing. It could have taken ages or moments, Corzan knew not until he found himself, side aching, at the door of the ward. He had made it this far. There was only the one deed left and he gave a grim smile at the thought. He would be a happy man tonight. Happy after extracting his well-deserved vengeance. The rest seemed very much as the dream had. The door seemed to open for him of its own accord; he noticed not his trembling hand pushing neither it nor the slight creaking noise of its hinges. All in the room was an unearthly stillness and dark from want of the moon but Corzan could still make out the bed in the corner with a sleeping figure upon it. Albin. And then it seemed he was in a daze. His feet seemed to move without any effort of his own, carrying him across the floor boards so he stood directly above the pallet. With a tremulous hand, he pulled the dagger inch by inch out of the darkness of his cloak. It seemed to glow of its own accord with a light, wan in the dark. His hand felt cold and damp and a beat of sweat trickled down his brow as he raised the blade over the sleeping figure, handle feeling slick in his clammy hands. He stared, the only thing he could make out of Albin was the sound of his steady breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his breast. He trembled in excitement. Now or never. But then a myriad of raging memories flooded his mind. Of what Death and Life had showed him. Life’s voice promising love . . .and Death saying it was all purposeless. But was it? Was Life truly meaningless? He remembered that vision, upon the top of the mountains staring at the stars and then at the painted horizon of the dawn. The breeze against his face, the melodies of the birds and the singing of the brook as it rushed down into the valley, bringing it’s laughter and merriment wherever it was needed. There was always Night, but the Sun never ceased to come out. Dawn was always there, in the direst situations. The Night may bring woe and shame but there would still always be dawn. Was it the same with Life and Death? Had Life really defeated Death after all as the Sun blotted out the Dark of the Night each and every day? And the buds that preserved through the cold frost, dead for a time but re-awakening each spring..

But why did Life love him, dirty wretch that he was? He had mentioned something…about a sacrifice. But yet, as he stared at the dagger he clenched in his hand, he wondered if this was the way. Should he kill Albin? The raging storm inside said he should. But a voice, a tiny miniscule voice said that he had know right too. Corzan shook, a cold sweat upon his brow. Albin lay there, right before him, sleeping, eyes closed, blond hair glinting in the dark. He looked no older then a young boy. The knife in his hands fell to the floor with a loud clatter. It startled him out of his thoughts and he bent to fumble for it, looking at it’s keen edge as he stumbled to his feet. But he must. He was in the service of Death now. Did he even have a choice? Was even now this refraining simply him sinking into cowardice? It was all too much, too overwhelming. He sunk to the floor, head in face, silently moaning. The throb in his shoulder had started to throb once more but he did not heed its pain. Was there Hope for him? I will always be with you The words stole softly over his heart. He remembered. . .Life had said he was always there, his presence was everywhere. The thought his struggle was being witnessed brought a strange sense of comfort to his heart. But still… He was here about to kill a man. A man who deserved it but a human being nevertheless. Do it. Now. His bitterness welled up inside. He had gone so far only to be defeated by his own foolishness. Was that not what only a coward did? He moaned. It must be done. It simply had to be. He stood, trembling, his shoulder throbbing and the blade clenched in his hand, glistening with his own sweat. Albin still lay there and though he could not see him in the darkness, he heard moaning softly in his sleep and Corzan stood frozen, knife in hand for what seemed like ages. And then he dropped the dagger into Albin’s chest. Sibri slept little that night but wept no tears. She could not suffer herself to just lie in bed, hoping for sleep that would doubtless not come and so grabbing a night scarf and candle, she set off back down the stairs of her tower Many thoughts rushed through her mind and she cursed herself for not only trusting Corzan but letting him escape, leading him out of the castle even. But she had been blinded by her love.

Fool For fool she was and she hated herself for it. She had betrayed her dearest Albin, though unknowing, that was no excuse. She had betrayed him nonetheless. Why had she not listened to him? Soon, she realized that her feet were unbidden taking her to Albin’s ward. Sibri must talk to him, if only to beg an apology before him, tell him how sorry she was for refusing his love for Corzan’s. If only she could take what she had done back. Corzan would be in prison or dead or at least very far away amid his own people. She stepped outside under the night stars, and though she usually found great pleasure in their vastness they held no enjoyment for her. But she remembered the countless of times were she had stood and looked into their beauty with lighted eyes, Corzan standing at her side, usually his arm held lovingly older her shoulder, taking her hand in his and pointing out the various constellations with a solemn joy. He had looked like a noble prince from the ancient days, the light of the stars reflecting from his dark eyes, a small smile on his jaw. He rarely looked merry or happy, and his smiles had gotten increasingly few. But he would always smile. For her. Moments like that brought sudden tears to her eyes. Had it all be a lie? All of it? His tender glances and his gentle touch. . .how could it be? Had Corzan truly and genuinely loved her? A silver tear trickled down her ashen face. Why was life so miserable? So full of woe? She almost felt like it was not worth it any longer. Unbidden, her hand strayed to the necklace about her neck, and she felt the jeweled surface of its gems against her fingers, stroking them with gentle fingers. The last memory of her mother was embedded in those sapphire gems, and the touch of them soothed her. Her mother had been loving, and kind and had always known the right things to say. But yet, she was also stern with others but her own daughter, a regal looking woman with a firm gaze and Sibri’s dark hair until she was taken from her in that cruel murder. But she could not go there now, those thoughts pained her too much and she winced. Why did it have to happen this way? Lost in thought, she stared vacantly past her surroundings as she made her way through the courtyard to the Healer’s towers where she would find Albin. He would comfort her and tell her it would all be okay, just as he had when they were children. And she would tell him now she loved him and that he was right, and that she should have known better and heeded him. But Albin would not reprimand her or treat her harshly or with bitterness. He would simply hold her close, caressing her hands in his, and his blue eyes would twinkle with an inward mirth. And as always, she would stroke his misshapen mop of pale gold hair away from his eyes. “It’s okay Sibri.” He would say, and she would smile through her tears. “I have always loved you and always will.” And then she would sob in his arms. Her footsteps carried her up the stairs, and through the dim corridors where unknown to her, Corzan had passed earlier in his lust for blood. But then, as she drew near to Albin’s room, she heard voices raised in excitement and the frantic sounds of footsteps. She ducked into an alcove, for some reason not wanting to be seen.

“But how could this could have happened?!” It sounded like Tryist, and his voice usually calm was frantic. Sibri hiding in her shadows, felt a sense of guilt steal over her. They must have discovered Corzan’s absence. She left the alcove, and crept to the door of Albin’s room, peering through it’s slightly opened door. What she saw made her turn pale in horror. A white sheet covered a body lying on the bed. Albin’s bed. It could not be. . . “But why!?” Morin was saying. “How did Corzan get out! We knew he hated him! I should have never brought Corzan to the healing towers in the first place.” Sibri nearly fainted, and clasped the wall for support. Albin. . .no. . .it could not be. . . The King turned to the healer. “There is nothing you can do, you are sure he is dead then?” “I am afraid so, my lord. Stabbed through the chest and not longer ago it seems.” “Find him! Send my men and bring Corzan to me! He shall not escape this time!” And the King moved to the door. Sibri lept up and ran down the corrider as fast as she could, her heart numb. Albin. . .dead. Impossible. How could it be? First her lover, convicted of being a traitor and murdering her own mother. And now, her lover and half-brother, Albin murdered as he slept. And it was her fault. Her fault for not listening to him. Her fault for helping Corzan escape. She might as well have driven the dagger into his heart as Corzan did. But worse, she could see it in her minds eye. Corzan leaving the summer house after she left him, and then creeping to Albin’s room. It must have been dark. The clouds were moving across the sky, swiftly. Where there had been stars earlier now none were seen. Sibri could see him, face expressionless, wearing his dark cloak and tunic, bending over the sleeping form of her brother. And then the dagger fell and with it, Albin’s life. He had been so happy, almost childishly so. And it was her fault. Her very own. Sibri had never known such anguish. It felt as if all the dark of the world had been released upon her, in payment for the happiness she had felt just a while ago. Those were brighter days, with the shining sun and the silver stars. Cursed be the world that dared lived and breathed while she suffered so. But she would not weep any more. Her tears had left, and with them her heart had turned to ash and stone. Sorrow was gone, replaced by a burning hatred. Against one person. Corzan would pay. One could not betray and murder the loved ones of the Lady of Pala Givarin and accept to simply be allowed to live. For long.

It was now the third hour at night but this was lost to Sibri as she made her way out of the Halls of Treasure in Pala Givarin, clenching a small dagger in her hand. It was very small, and inlaid with sapphire, the sign of a crescent moon engrave on its small hilt. It had been her father’s possession, and her mother had taken it to Pala Givarin’s treasuries. Rumour had it that before he died he had used it to stab his murdered with his last breathe. And now, it was hers to wield. She gripped the blade as if it was born for her, and it seemed as if Sibri could feel a faint presence of her father’s hand. She pictured what he knew of him, tall and dark with deepest eyes shining like glinting emeralds, clasping his dagger in his own hands, preparing to kill a murdered like Sibri was doing likewise. It was strange she felt no emotion. Any other time, she would have collapsed in a sobbing mess with the death of Albin but now it had only served to reveal to her the path she must follow. The path fate had assigned her. As she stepped out the side door to the world of night, the sky was swiftly filling with clouds once more and a low rumble shook the earth. It would be raining soon. Perfect. She had always thought growing up if she had to kill someone, she would do it in the rain. It seemed so fitting, especially now. She would go to the summer house where doubtless, Corzan was still there, waiting for her so he could once again tell her he loved her, perhaps before running off like a coward back to his own people. The shadows of the path seemed to welcome her now, instead of waving their gnarled limbs at her in warning, the trees almost seemed welcoming her, inviting her to join in their dark secrets. The dark secrets the rest of the world harbored, fearing the light for fear it would reveal them for what they were. Liars. Hypocrites. Murderers. She would join them tonight. Sibri set her gaze straightforward, knuckles turning pale as she clenched the dagger with all of her might, fingernails biting into the palm of her hand. Blood soaked the handle. And then, lightning flashed in the dark sky overhead, and she felt a single raindrop land on her arm. The sky above was churning with clouds, threatening a downpour any moment. Sibri took off at a run, white robes whipping about her. She looked almost wraithlike, a white form streaking through the shadows of the forest, blood trickling from her hand and staining her gown a deep, crimson red. It all seemed to go by in a haze, and her feet carried her forward, one after another, heedless of any root or stone. The rain began falling, softly and first but then harder and harder till it came down like torrents, drenching her robes and making her black hair cling to her face. And then, when she could barely see much more then a few paces, the summer house was before her, white stone pale and bleak. Corzan would be inside. She stepped inside, for a moment an outlined silhouette in the doorstep by the lightning. Its flashed illuminated the dusty and ragged contents of the room. And the face of Corzan as he slept, head upon his chest, scar gleaming upon his cheek. Rain had fallen in from a broken window, and it created a clear puddle at his feet where he lay. Doubtless he had fallen asleep waiting for her. How very touching.

Her feet carried her softly across the floorboards, creaking under her light step until she stood directly over him, standing in the water of the rain. He looked so innocent before her, sleeping unawares, yet a bloodied dagger clenched in her hand. A dagger stained with Albin’s blood. Sibri’s eyes flashed a deadly blue and she raised her dagger, eyes wide and face pale and unmoving. But then, a loud peel of thunder shook the small cottage, and Corzan awoke. For a moment, he was in a daze and blinked the stupor out his eyes only to find himself staring into Sibri’s face. If it was that. He almost thought it was the very face of Death he was staring at, it was so cold and bitter. And then he saw the dagger and he froze. “Sibri.” His words were a hoarse whisper, pleading, begging. “Do not do this.” “I have suffered too much by you Corzan.” Her voice was unearthly, not like the Sibri he knew… “Please!” “Sorry, my love.” And she let the dagger fall. He tried to move to avoid its edge, but he was too late. It caught him in the neck, and his head lolled over to one side as he slipped down the wall, glassy eyes frozen forever in horror. His blood poured from the dagger wound mingling with the water at her feet and staining the hem of her robes. Albin was avenged. It was done. “Very nice indeed Sibri, very nice!” A voice sounded from behind her, and Sibri whipped around to face the intruder. “Who--?” but the question died upon her lips. It was the face of Albin she was staring at now. And he was clapping, for her. “What?” What was this? Albin? Here? How? But was it him? His blue eyes seemed frozen now, not warm, not friendly, not the brother she knew. “Yes, Sibri I know it is a surprise to find me here. Sorry for the shock, but have a seat.” He motioned casually off hand to a decrepit chair but she remained standing, a frozen statue. “Albin, what is the meaning of this?” He laughed. “It’s very simply really. You have killed Corzan for me, something I have not managed to do quite yet.” “But I thought you were dead!” “Really? Why so?” “A body—it was, it was in your room!” her brow furrowed. What was happening here? “Is this some cruel trick!” Sibri asked. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the truth is quite plain. Would you like to know?” “Tell me, Albin. Tell me everything. Most of all the truth.” “The truth you shall have then.” He answered, but he was not looking at her any longer but pacing slowly to where Corzan lay dead. He grinned, as he gently pulled out the dagger, wiping it on the hem of his tunic. It shone in his hand. “Lovely, Sibri and perfectly executed.” He tucked in his belt.

“Stop it, Albin! Tell me what is the meaning of this!” “It’s very simple. You must have seen Arlos’ body and thought it was me. I had killed him last night and stuffed him in my bed where Corzan came and promptly re-stabbed him, thinking it was me. Very clever, don’t you think?” “You killed Arlos to trick Corzan?” her eyes widened, horrified. “But Albin, why?” “Because I hated Corzan. And Arlos both. They were too clever for me and had to be tossed aside as is the order of things.” Sibri backed away slowly, seeing the mad light in his eyes. She suddenly felt afraid. “Albin, sit down, you are not feeling well.” “On the contrary, I am feeling quite well. Two enemies are dead, one killed by my own hand and one killed by yours.” “You are happy then for all of this death upon us?” “Yes, Corzan had to die. He knew too much,” he said simply. “What did he know that deserved death?” Sibri’s eyes flashed. “Sibri, are you blinded to me? I was the one who killed your mother. I was the one that was really the traitor to the Shetyi. Corzan knew this.” Sibri backed up the wall beside as he stepped closer to her. She felt sick. “You. . .all--all along. It’s been you.” “Yes.” “And Corzan? What did you do to keep him from telling anyone?” her voice was frantic now. ‘Tell me!” “I threatened to kill both of you if he did, you first,” he gave a malicious smile, running his finger along the edge of the dagger. “But I thought he was a Shetyi.” Her voice shook. “He was and used his lordship amid the people to find secrets for the sake of Silvàrador. I did not know and one day he discovered me amid the Shetyi. My capture was simply a planned hoax.” “But your wounds.. .” “I had gotten most of them in battle earlier. Does it make sense to you now, Sibri dearest. You have murdered a the very man who has been protecting you all along. He was responsible for my capture, and strove to keep me with the Shetyi for as long as he could to come back to you and tell you the truth.”

She felt her feet give way beneath her and sunk to the floor besides Corzan. This could not be happening. It must be a dream, it had to be. She had killed the very man who had tried to protect her. He did love her and always had. This was the explanation of his silence these last few years, his hatred for Albin, his silence towards her. He might have told her but she had killed him, or rather murdered him. Oh why had she ever doubted his love? He had still clung to hers. How painful it must have felt for him, seeing her angered and confessing to all of these terrible deeds for the sake of her life. Corzan had never stopped loving her. Sibri moaned and caressed Corzan, kissing his dead lips fingering his matted hair as she had so long ago. But he would never come back for her. “Why, Albin. Why did you do this to us? To me?” “Because I have always hated my father and this country. My father is weak. He refuses to become as powerful as he can be, and stoops for his people, letting them control him. Jesmaine has so willingly employed this. But as a boy, when I joined the Shetyi resistance in secret, I knew that here there was something more. Something that gave me a chance to prove myself beyond the weak boy who could do nothing. Something that would make me great and full of the glory that Death had showed me in my dreams. The power to control others, to do what I want, to be greatness itself. Sibri, this is the power that is worth something! All else will fade away. There is too little good in this world to save so why not join the side that will win? The Shetyi will become great. All who stand in their way will be destroyed. Corzan was a fool. He left the path of true greatness to instead serve here. He deserved to die.” “But to kill him!” Albin shrugged. “I had too.” “But Albin!” she rose to her feet and clutched his robes. “What me? What about the sanctity of Life, or good and evil of right and wrong? What about all the good the earth does have, the stars, the cool autumn nights that you and I spent here so long ago, it seems a different world even, a different universe. I beg you, see the good.” He laughed again. “Sibri, dear Sibri. Are you still lost? The stars will fail in the end, this world will fade away and it is Death that will reign over all. Only those that serve her will become truly great. Corzan chose the wrong path and Arlos did, likewise. And as for good and evil, perhaps what is really evil is that which destroys progress and glory for my Kingdom. Our kingdom. I hope to become King of Silvàrador one day and show them the error of their ways. Together, we can be great, Sibri. Will you join me in the conquest of a new life for our people, a better one free from beggars or slaves or poorness! Will you become my Queen?” Sibri stiffened, and stepped back. This was not the Albin she knew and had loved and had even considered wedding him. A passion distorted his features, into something she knew he was not. He looked almost beastly, a light burning from his eyes almost like that of a jealous animal, begging for a scrap of food. She could never accept this man now for a man he was no longer. Rather a monster, driven by lust for blood. He had used her, mislead her, to the point where she had killed the very person that had been faithful and had truly loved her to the point of giving his own life for Sibri’s safety. “Albin I—

“What is it, Sibri? This is a chance of a lifetime, to leave the ways of childhood behind and let the fools play their games. Join me! You will be well received to the Shetyi for it is known there that you are part Shetyi yourself.” She stood, stricken. “You knew?” her fingers found the jewel upon her silver chain and she clenched it, tightly in her hand. “Yes, I know. I know a good many more things then anyone gives me credit for, especially my fool of a father.” “But-- but how?” her eyes were wild now, like a frightened animal. “It is in the Shetyi records. It turns out your mother was a relative of his uncle, the Shetyi leader, Morken Niron. They shared the same grandparents. I found your mother’s name once and put to and together. The sign of the ancient house was a crescent moon, and it was said a jeweled necklace of great value and fierce beauty had been stolen from the old Shetyi queen herself.” She paled. “I did not know this. Mother had never told me, only that we were distantly related the Shetyi people and that that secret must at all costs be preserved.” With a quick movement, she jerked the necklace off her neck and threw it Albin’s feet. It landed with a quick glimmer in the dark. “Take it. Burn it. Destroy it. I never want to see it again!” she bit the words out from clenched teeth. Albin stooped and picked up the necklace, staring at the gem hanging from its silver chain. It glinted with a bitter light, the gems flashing like blue fire between his fingers. “The famed necklace of Tyati Crrusmar, said to have been lost for many ages. And all along it has been under my very fingers,” his whispered, eyes filled with awe. “Go now!” Sibri said again, clenching her fists at her sides. “You have wronged me, this kingdom, and all of my people. How dare you think I would ever so much consider you for a husband? All you want is fame and power and glory, does not the beauty of living things or the gift of the Light mean anything to you? What about my love, Albin. Is my love what you truly desire or is it just what you can get from me.” “But Sibri, think of what we could do together! Thing of what we can have!” he still clenched the necklace but now his hungry eyes were upon her face, face bent in a look of entreating passion, but the look did not reach his eyes and they remained harsh, with a dangerous light. “Do not beg like some dog, Albin. How can you think I would desert all of what I love for you and your so called glory? Do you think me a fool? I would not accept your hand, not if I was dying and you were the only one that could save me!” she scowled, black brows twisted into a dark frown. It was an eerie seen to behold, Corzan lying against the wall, neck lying at an unnatural angle, blood in his matted hair. Sibri standing in front of him, hands clenched into tight fists, eyes flashing, while wearing garments of white as if she were some ancient sprite. And Albin, his pale hale gleaming in the light. Outside, the thunder sounded its ferice roars, the lightning cracked and the rain poured down, some of it splashing into the room through the open window.

But all this was lost upon the occupants of the summer house. “Please, Sibri. Do not make me do this.” His voiced sent a chill down her side. She reached downwards for her dagger, but grasped emptiness. Only then did she remember that Albin had the dagger and even now, he was pulling it out of his belt. “Looking for this?” “Albin, no, please.” All haughtiness was gone, she dropped to her feet in the water besides Corzan’s dead body, “Do not do this.” He took a step forward. “I gave you a chance, several chances even. But you have chosen your path and are a road block on the way to the glory of the future Silverdaror.” “But Albin, think of our memories! Think of the time we spent together as children, even in this summer house! Remember, over there was where you gave me that bushel of daises and I got to wear them to the dance that evening. They matched with the satin gown I received, do you remember?” she spoke rushed, almost as if she was attempting to convince a small child with her words. But it was as if he had not even heard her words. Albin stood, motionless, staring at her with a hungry look upon his face. He almost looked as a monster, pale face, dressed in black, standing there before her. She did not know who he was, for this could not be Albin, her Albin. Had his love for her all been an act, much as she thought Corzan’s was? But how could it, when had he changed? Not two months ago he had told her he would always be there for her, and never forsake her. His eyes had shown then, merrily and he had walked with such a proud, almost childish strut. Sibri remembered she had smiled down at him, an older sister to her younger brother. Thought that was such a short time ago, it could have been ages. For that Albin must have died. Sibri was now numbed with horror. All she could see was the dagger he held in his hand, her dagger. It matched the crescent marking upon the necklace that he held in his other hand. And it was still stained from Corzan’s blood. He took another step forward. “I am sorry, Sibri. Truly, I am. I never thought it would turn out this way. I never wanted to harm you, only Corzan but I thought you would be like me and put off the foolishness of this place. I thought you could be my wife, and we could together strive for a better future, man and wife.” He sighed. “But you are still blinded and I care no longer. I will do what must be done.” Albin gave a weary sigh. “Do not attempt to run. It will only make things harder for you.”

And then he was upon her. Sibri screeched. She attempted to move out of the way, to hit him, anything to escape but he was too fast. For a moment, the dagger flashed like burning fire in his hands, and then the deed was done. Sibri looked at him, with sad eyes, almost pityingly before with one last breathe, her eyes were closed forever. Her dark head fell forward, onto the body of Corzan, her arm clutching his. They lay there, her blood pouring from his side and mixing with the water of the rain and the blood of her lover. And then it seemed as if the clouds had broken, just enough to let the moon shine into the dead ashes of the summer house. It caught the light of the crescent he yet clasped in his hands and it burned with a blue radiance. It looked so pure and vivid, like silver fire with sparks of blue and he felt as if it was scorching his hand. With a gasp of pain, and a look of horror, he let it drop to the floor where it splashed and laid in the blood and water at the feet of Sibri and Corzan. Their ashen faces stared up at him from the dark, accusing.