Updated 7/22/24

Chapter 8

Parynna Caswell

Her muddy brown hair and gray eyes sat poorly in a round, flat face. Parynna was plain. One by one, as her sisters married, she began to fear that she’d end up an old maid. She always knew she would be last, if she ever married. Locke daughters were as numerous as pigeons, so she almost lost hope of it ever becoming a reality for her.

Uncle Gregory, the Duke of Lexandria, finally arranged the marriage between her and Drake, the youngest Caswell son, which took place a year ago, when Parynna was nineteen. Drake Caswell was a good prospect. The Caswell family was well respected. They were, by anyone other than a Locke’s standard, well off. Parynna had looked forward to the excitement and glamour that her sisters carried on about, after their marriages, after they were wed.

The oldest, Syrena, married a Melazera and lived in an extravagant mansion on the shores of the Sea of Glass. Her sisters, Veryca and Beryssa—both baronesses now—floated between High Keep and Farr Castle as part of the Royal Court.

Drake was thirty-seven, seventeen years older than she, but he was still noble and handsome and kind. Her sisters married barons, but she’d married the son of an earl. She had been elated when she’d heard that.

She wanted to be a lady in her own noble court, like her sisters. But after the wedding, which was wondrous, life in Caswell was uneventful, decidedly uneventful. There were no banquets, no festivals, no tournaments. With none of her friends nearby and nothing to do, she had been terribly homesick. It took a moon to get a letter back. Drake had tried his best to cheer her, but she had rebuffed and discouraged him.

The most recent letter from her sister, Veryca, made sense. She said, “He’s only a man, Parynna. He can’t make you happy. You have to do that for yourself.” So, after months of wallowing, she finally realized how childish she had been. She was determined to make something grand of her life. Drake was the daikon of his circle and she was his wife. It was time she acted like it.

***

On the first half-moon of spring, in the thirty-eighth year of the reign of King Edal. As they always did on the sabbath, Parynna and Drake arrived early to the meeting house nestled within the low outer walls of Caswell Castle. They walked arm in arm through fruit trees that lined the path. She glowed with satisfaction, as her husband gasped with admiration when they entered the chamber, now brightly lit with candles all around.

Before she had taken charge, the meeting place was a dull room marked only by rows of rough pine benches. When she asked Drake if she could decorate the meeting hall, he happily agreed and gave her a large budget. She’d let her imagination soar.

After careful negotiations, the weavers’ guild had created with luxurious tapestries for the walls, featuring stories from the Writings. The largest, and Drake’s favorite, depicted J’shua sharing his last meal, tearing bread, and offering it to his disciples. J’shua’s face radiated light, from pure gold threads woven in for that effect.

At the front was a simple table covered with a pressed white linen cloth. On it, an intricately carved bookstand made of mahogany held the Complete Writings of J’shua. Two large chandeliers, designed by her and donated by the local glassmakers’ guild, illuminated the simple space.

Parynna looked up with delight at the one small window, unreachable without scaffolding, that now glowed with a rainbow of stained glass.

Drake closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the fragrance of lilacs and roses emanating from vases at the ends of the carved oak benches. He pulled her close. “Parynna, this is lovely. I’m sure this pleases J’shua as much as it pleases me. I should have thought to let you do this long ago.”

Drake had told her it had been his calling to become a Knight of J’shua. Part scholar, part cleric, and—in his case—a very small part warrior. The last being a skill only required if the Faith was ever in peril. He had done his training at the Knights’ School and the required service abroad already and was now leading the circle of Caswell and the surrounding areas.

As people arrived for the service, he greeted each man as a brother and gave them his personal blessing. On the other side of the foyer, she winked at him as she hugged each of the women as they entered. She was determined to please her husband.

I will be the perfect exemplar of a virtuous woman.

When she finished greeting the last of the women, Parynna sat in the front row. Her long brown hair flowed over a perfectly pressed tunic and simple shift. Drake glowed with pride as their eyes met.

He started the service with the prayer of Mashiach, the people’s voices echoing in the lofty hall as they recited it with him. Then he gave the message he’d prepared. “He is like a man that built a house and dug deep, laying the foundation on a rock. When the flood arose, the water beat vehemently upon that house, but could not shake it.”

Drake smiled upon his favorites in the front row, and she could see them smile back. He gazed out over the congregation. “But he that hears and does not act, is like a man who built his house with no foundation, on shifting sand. When the storms raged, it fell into ruin.”

She heard some fidget in their seats under his astute gaze. After his teaching, he asked for prayers and signaled those he thought should speak. Three members stood and prayed, as Drake requested of them.

She prayed for all the members of their circle.

They adore him. My husband is the perfect daikon of the Faith.

At the correct time, Drake beckoned and the children ran to him as he sat on the steps of the dais. Smiling over their heads, he gathered them close. Then he pointed to puppeteers unveiling a wooden stage. A storm of flutes and drumming set the scene.

“Long ago, a stranger washed up on the shores of the Sea of Glass,” Drake narrated as the marionette of a bedraggled man tottered into view and collapsed.

The tittering children all wiggled into place, knowing the story that was coming.

“A child found him. Others came running.” More colorful puppets appeared on stage to enact the story of the First Knight and how the kingdom came to accept the words of J’shua and his Father.

“Many balked at the knight’s teachings.”

Then Drake’s voice boomed, “But Olde King Weisheit summoned him…”

Trumpets sounded.

“…and the king believed the beautiful words the First Knight conveyed from the God of Truth. King Weisheit confessed J’shua was his lord and that the God of Truth had raised him from the dead.

“So great did that monarch’s faith become that he gifted the knight land in the shadow of Shining Mountain and established a school to train Knights of J’shua. Later, King Weisheit prophesied: when darkness comes, and the people falter, they shall be renewed in the Word of J’shua by a knight.”

With joyous music, the puppets bowed and the curtain closed for the last time.

The children clapped. They always enjoyed hearing the story of the First Knight. She enjoyed it as well. It was the first thing she had paid attention to, once she began attending to please her husband. There were circles in Lexandria, but she had never attended one. It was mostly popular amongst the commoners.

At a nod from Drake, they ran back to their parents.

At the end of the service, he extended a hand to his wife, Parynna, indicating she should join him on the dais. “As many of you know, three ladies from our newly formed Orphans and Widows Charity are going to Farr Castle. They’ll bring back aid and a plan to help the least fortunate members of this circle and the town.”

***

That afternoon, Parynna and two ladies of the circle boarded a carriage and enjoyed the scenery of the countryside on the road to Farr. They were accompanied by servants and a wagon full of provisions. She’d planned stops along the way so they could take rest and refreshment during the five-day journey. A young orphan boy, who would be placed with a family in Farr, rode above with the coachman and his son. She’d sent servants to fetch one from the market. He was fed, bathed, and dressed plainly as per Lady Melazera’s instructions.

“The Countess of Lorness has begun a child placement effort to deal with the orphan problem throughout Freislicht. She has found homes for many children. The boy will be raised by worthy parents and then trained in a skill or craft. He’ll be a token of our resolve to better the lives of the poor. We shall extend her virtuous efforts to as many as we can find. In the future, we’ll place many more unwanted children. We’ll see that they find apprenticeships and have godly, productive lives. We have a duty to help them.”

The ladies traveling with her murmured words of support.

One of them leaned forward, saying, “You seem to have passed your morning sickness.”

Parynna nodded and forced a smile. While thrilled to be carrying their first child, she feared how things would change. Her relationship with Drake had only recently improved. She berated herself for all the time she sulked like a spoiled child. They had been working well together lately, and a babe could change that. Her sisters all looked weary and low spirited when they visited after their children came.

There were also expectations amongst the circle’s women folk. She’d heard them talk about remaining in the back of the room with their infants. Would Drake treat her differently?

***

Arriving in Farr, their carriages approached the castle. Immediately inside the gate was a large white tent, black banners fluttered from the top of each pole. A long line of people inched into it. The letter she’d received from Lady Melazera said to go to the back of the tent to bypass the queue.

There, she and her companions, with the orphan boy trailing behind, found a majestic elderly man wearing all black, his silk tunic decorated only with gold edging on his collar and cuffs. The man smiled broadly, accepted her letter, and threw wide his hand, gesturing to the opening he held with the other.

Murmurings from the people on the other side of the partition filtered through the rough canvas. The confined space was warm and she felt at ease when the man motioned for her to sit in the chair before the table. Her ladies and the boy remained standing. He sat after her.

“Tell me your name, boy.”

“Timmus, milord,” he said in a whisper, staring at his feet.

The man in black wrote this down. “Do you have a surname?”

“What is a surname, milord?” The boy peeked up at him.

After many more questions, the man seemed convinced that he was in fact an orphan, and not merely a castoff from a large brood. He thanked Parynna for bringing the boy and indicated they could leave.

As they walked back to the carriages, Parynna glanced back to see the man walking the boy into the castle’s inner gate. She had done a good deed today. Just before she stepped into the carriage, a page, wearing a tunic bearing the green and gold Melazera dragon, handed her a folded paper.

“Oh, my,” she exclaimed, beaming as she read it. “Caileagh Melazera, the Countess of Lorness, wishes to meet with me. I am sure it will be brief, wait in the coach. I’ll be back shortly.”

Before they could even respond, the page was moving. “Follow me, my lady.”

The servant brought her to an intimate parlor, where the countess, already seated, motioned for Parynna to sit.

“I wanted to thank you personally for showing an interest in my endeavors to improve the conditions of the poor and fatherless in our land.”

“It is my pleasure, my lady. I can bring you more if you would like.”

“That would be delightful, may I call you Parynna?”

“Certainly my lady.”

“Please call me Caileagh. For we shall be working together now, yes?”

A thrill washed over, Parynna.

Caileagh wishes to work with me?

Caileagh told her all her hopes for the new program.

“Do you think you could bring me four next moon?”

“Oh, yes, my—” She caught herself, not wanting to be corrected, “Caileagh. I could bring many more. Whatever you ask, I will do. I am happy to help you …and learn from you.”

The smile on Caileagh’s face blossomed into something exquisite. It was as if she could see into Parynna’s soul, could see what was hidden there. “That is utterly delightful! But how remiss of me. I have asked nothing about you, only spoken of what we might achieve together.”

The words caused Parynna to stop breathing.

She wants to know about… me?

“Tell me something of yourself or, perhaps, of Caswell. I have heard it whispered that, thanks to you, the circle house there is no longer merely a drab hut, but a thing of beauty that is a credit to J’shua.”

“My husband, Drake, is devout but does not understand that appearances matter. It is all well and good for the common people to gird themselves on the inside, and not on the outside. But that ignores the realities of society. The use of a finer cloth, having clothes cut by a talented tailor, these might seem like simple things, but they separate the worthy from the everyday. It gives people something to strive for. Drake’s father and brothers know this. But my husband takes the words from an old book too literally.”

“I understand entirely,’ Caileagh agreed, laying her hand on Parynna’s.

She is touching my hand!

Leaning in closer, Parynna whispered, “I wish I knew better how to manage my husband. Caswell is so far from Lexandria, where I was born, that my relatives rarely visit. Nor is there even a proper track to it. Unlike you, I am not yet a countess. I feel like a country bumpkin.”

“We cannot have that,” Caileagh replied, squeezing Parynna’s hand. “Perhaps there is something I can do. When are you returning home?”

“I was about to leave when your servant found me.”

“That will never do. To come all this way, deliver a single boy and then return immediately? No, I insist on you remaining for at least one day, preferably two. I shall have a messenger sent, stating that I require more time with you to discuss the education of orphans.”

Parynna’s heart fluttered.

She… wants me to stay.

“I… of course, I am at your service.”

“Then, go tell those who are travelling with you that you will all be my guests for the next few days. Servants will look after your companions, but you must have dinner with me so that we can make plans. Do you have something suitable to… what am I saying? Due to your husband’s narrow view of the world, of course you do not. But that is no problem. I shall have something suitable delivered to your rooms and maids to assist you in dressing as a noblewoman should.”

Parynna nodded. She could not speak.

…as a noblewoman… should.

A short while later, Parynna returned to the carriage. She practically floated above the ground. Caileagh was the most important woman in the land.

And I am her partner.

“There has been a change of plans. The Countess of Lorness has asked me to stay and help make plans for our future joint ventures. Unpack everything. Go where directed. Do as you are told. Exactly as you are told, without fuss or comment. We must make a good impression if we are to put Caswell on the map.”

Chapter 9

Jonathan

Jonathan strode on the well-trodden dirt thoroughfare surrounded by travelers, endless shops and carts of wares constraining them on either side. He wove through the colorful river of people, all chattering in Tarin, which he barely understood. His skill with the language was only passable, receiving many sour looks when he spoke. He was relieved whenever someone offered to translate. J’shua, bring me a teacher for this language. So many words sound the same, but mean vastly different things.

The smell of pungent spices wafted over him as oxen grunted and lowed, pulling heavy carts toward the center of the capital city, Hampi. He skirted around the city center, remaining in the farmlands to avoid its crime. He merged onto a wider road, swelling with more noise and jabbering.

The people of Tarinland had a strict caste system. Everywhere he turned, peasants bowed to their betters. Arriving at the Delami Inn, he marveled at the colorful merchants, revered only moments before, who now lowered their heads to a magistrate who came out of the wide doorway.

The farming villages welcomed him, but opportunities to spread the Writings had been few because he was still learning their language. But some, curious of his fair hair and piercing blue eyes, invited him into their homes. Once they’d fed him as hospitality demanded in Tarin culture, they listened intently as he introduced them to J’shua Ha Mashiach. For many moons, he had stayed in homes when invited and under the stars when not.

Jonathan discovered that no law prevented anyone from accepting the words of J’shua. However, circles could not include people from different castes. Therefore, to spread the Writings to the upper ranks of Tarin society, he would have to meet individuals of higher status. He prayed for that.

Jonathan noticed a few Tarin soldiers eyeing him. They separated and began walking toward him on either side of the street. Has word of the bounty on me spread here? He blew out a breath and prayed.

Relax.

J’shua had called him to Tarin. They are just drawn to my strange blonde hair and blue eyes.

The bounty on his head still concerned him greatly. He wished he knew who set it. Commandant Greysun could have, but how would he afford a personal vendetta on a soldier’s pay? The strange man in River Town that pretended to be a farmer might be in service to a rich man.

If he had offended anyone with the means, he was not aware of it. He would probably never know—a shiver ran down his spine—unless they caught him. He battled the worrisome thoughts for a long while and prayed in the spirit. No matter what lay ahead, he was not alone.

[Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked when it cometh.]

Despite recalling those words from the writings, Jonathan decided to get off the street. He entered the Delami Inn, seeking its dining hall. A woman draped in bright saffron-colored silk wound loosely about her, greeted him—the proprietor’s wife perhaps. After he handed her a damar, the smallest of their gold coins, she gave him a glazed ceramic bowl and pointed to the table of deep tureens and colorful dishes.

The crowded hall smelled of cinnamon and roasted spicy meats. Several tables had a dozen patrons already. He smiled at the laughing and hooting men to his right and the old man that announced his daughter’s engagement on his left.

Jonathan ladled a thick savory stew into the bowl, found a seat, and struck up a conversation with a Tarin merchant. As they spoke, he learned his new friend had traveled north through Esthlanis and south into the wildlands of the mountains selling silver wares. The man’s wiry frame and limbs moved with every word like a marionette, while explaining all he knew of this region.

The two soldiers entered, then spoke to the woman wearing the saffron dress. She bowed and waved them in. One stayed by the door while the other strolled to the back of the room.

Jonathan continued to pray, slowing his breathing.

[Pray without ceasing.]

“It would be too difficult for a Priest to accept J’shua,” the silver merchant drew swirls in the air with his fork as he spoke, “as they are trained from infancy to teach spiritual things. The man’s family would murder him.” His dark, bushy eyebrows rose. “Reaching the warrior and ruling castes might be possible. Even so, there would be great pressure on the family to kill them. The elite castes do not trust foreigners.” The man shook his head and took another forkful of pigeon.

“Tell me more,” Jonathan said, reclining slightly to keep an eye on both soldiers. The merchant didn’t seem to notice them.

“My caste, traders and merchants, is most open. To expand our routes and bring in goods from afar, we must deal with foreigners and their strange ideas. This makes us curious.” He took another bite. “I acquired a Book of J’shua with silver fasteners traveling through Esthlanis. I’ve shown it to customers as merely another product. I’ve not had an offer for it yet. What can I tell them about the book that might entice them? Perhaps an exotic story from it?”

“Ah, yes.” Jonathan’s mouth quirked and then turned serious. “Once, long ago, Daniel, a slave since his youth, had been elevated for his virtue. Now an old man, his enemies tricked the king who had become his ally and now he was entrapped by the king’s law which could not be changed. He did not despair but prayed. Even as they lowered him into a pit with a rope tied to his wrists, Daniel prayed. The—”

The merchant’s eyes narrowed. “This story will not sell well.”

Jonathan motioned to him. “A little patience. A dozen starving lions, whose shoulders were taller than your hips, snarled. Not fed for many days, they slowly circled the pit, eyes fixed on his warm flesh, their saliva dripping from the panting tongues that lay between their sharp teeth.”

“Oh, my! This is in your holy book?” the man asked with wide eyes.

Jonathan’s lips quirked. “As Daniel’s feet came to rest upon the muddy floor, he watched the circling beasts growling and baring their teeth. His captors rolled a large stone over the opening, so no one could save him. Daniel thought this was the end, but still, he refused to beg his captors and continued to pray.”

“This could have promise,” the merchant said.

Jonathan winked. “In the morning, they rolled away the stone. Instead of finding a bloody, broken corpse, Daniel stood in the center looking up at them, saying, ‘My God sent his angel and shut the mouths of the lions.’ All around him, the creatures were fast asleep on the floor, soothed by the God of Truth. Then the king commanded, and they brought those men which had accused Daniel, and they cast them into the den of lions, them, their children, and their wives; and the lions had the mastery of them.”

“I did not see that coming. Yes, that has merit. Are there other such stories of your god’s power?”

Jonathan spent the next two hours sharing more stories about the God of Truth and his son, J’shua Ha Mashiach. The soldiers never moved. He pushed down his growing anxiety.

The silver merchant emptied his mug. “Thank you, Jonathan. I have enjoyed this immensely.”

“I have likewise. I am glad to have met you. Can you tell me of other merchants that might wish to learn of J’shua?”

The Tarin smiled. “In the inner-city marketplace, there’s a bookseller. He’ll be interested in speaking with you and, perhaps, acquiring copies of the Book of J’shua. His family name, Padhyay, is above the shop’s entrance on the main road.”

“Thank you, sir. I will visit him. The Lord J’shua be with you. I will look for you this time next year.”

Jonathan forced himself to remain calm, following the merchant out. Hoping no one could hear his pounding heart or see him sweat, he did not look back. Nor did he run, even though every fiber in him wished to. He passed the soldier without making eye contact and headed deeper into Hampi.

***

Jonathan found Omari Padhyay, exactly where he had been instructed. He conversed with the man and perused his well-stocked bookshop. It was a relief that so many of the merchants in Tarinland spoke Freis. They quickly became friends.

The bell above the door tinkled as an older man entered dressed in traditional attire befitting a high status. Omari rushed to him and bowed low, his palms placed together. “The peace within me recognizes the peace within you, Thapa Raju. How can I help this fine day?”

Through the window, Jonathan noticed a palanquin and men to carry it. He understood the gist of the conversation, but he looked back to the book he held, not wanting to intrude.

“Thapa Raju, you are most learned and a wise truth seeker. You must meet my new friend, Sir Jonathan Otual from Freislicht. He is a Knight of J’shua.” Omari pointed his upturned hand toward Jonathan.

Thapa raised his eyebrows, bowing the appropriate amount to an unknown foreigner of a religious sect. “The peace within me recognizes the peace within you, Sir Otual. I have heard of the Knights of J’shua. It is an honor to meet a visitor of such esteemed reputation. Welcome to our humble city. What brings you here?”

Jonathan smiled warmly as he approached, a bit worried his dusty cloak and broken Tarin might offend the old man. He prayed silently before he spoke in Tarin as best he could, “I see the peace, worthy Thapa Raju. Thank you for kind welcome. Please, sorry, bad talking. I travel from far want understand teachings and wisdom of this place. Want learn of Tarinland.

Thapa eyes raised, bemused. “I understand. Very good. Speaking well. What would you know?”

Jonathan bowed and pointed to himself. “I am truth seeker. Spiritual fulfilment all humans seek. I want catch ideas. Deep water share understanding of the Creator, the God of Truth.” Jonathan mimed pouring from one hand to his other.

Thapa nodded happily. “Good, very good, you speak Tarin well. Indeed, the pursuit of truth is a noble endeavor. Our writings speak of the eternal soul, the cycle of fate, and the path to liberation. Perhaps you have insights from your own traditions to share?”

Jonathan thought he understood the man, though some words confused him. “Yes, esteemed one, people of my sect cherish message of J’shua Ha Mashiach. He give words of love, compassion, and redemption. My quest similar. Want talk more with you. Is possible? Perhaps have translator?”

Omari and Thapa exchanged rapid words Jonathan could not understand, but hoped it was about arranging another meeting. The bookseller handed Thapa Raju a package and bowed deeply. Thapa responded with a lesser bow to Omari and Jonathan, then left.

Omari spoke in Freis, “You did well Sir Jonathan. He invites you to his home. He bids me to bring you tomorrow and translate. Can you be here at noon?”

“Yes, this is wonderful, Omari. God bless you, friend.”

“I will take you to the baths and bring you suitable clothes.”

Omari handed him an illustrated alphabet book.

Jonathan accepted the gift and bowed low. “You are very kind, Omari.”

Omari bowed. “I am curious how this will go tomorrow.”

***

The next day, Omari took Jonathan to the bath house. Soldiers milled about every few blocks. This might be normal. He couldn’t tell if they were watching him.

They approached a low building, surrounded by cisterns. Women came to draw water from one and bathed their children in another. Long lines of peasants waited their turn.

A servant standing by the entrance bowed as Omari showed him a wooden card engraved with Tarin letters. Jonathan recognized them from the alphabet book, but could not tell what they spelled. Inside the room, steps led down into a pool of steaming water. A light mist rose up from it. Servants stood all around the pool, ready to offer a brush or soap. Omari handed another servant the basket he brought and began removing his clothes, which the servant held.

Jonathan did the same, copying Omari. He glanced toward the entrance as a soldier entered the bath house and scanned the pool. Jonathan looked down at his fair skin, even more of a flag than his white-blond hair. Should he ask about the soldiers and tell Omari about the bounty? No, he wanted to allay his fear, but that was just his yearning for comfort. He would trust J’shua and let this play out. He may need to be arrested to encounter whoever J’shua intended him to meet.

The soldier had not moved, so Jonathan stepped in. Soothing warmth and the fragrance of roses comforted him as he slowly sank into the water. He accepted a loofah and scrubbed his body. Then Omari motioned to his back and Jon scrubbed the man’s back, Then Omari did his. It felt glorious. He was glad the fountain in the center of the pool kept the water moving or there might have been a cloud of dirt surrounding his pink body.

After they finished drying, the servant held out the basket and Omari helped Jonathan dress. Their dirty clothes went into the basket and Omari gave a boy a coin to run them home.

Thapa Raju had sent his palanquin to fetch them and they arrived at his sprawling estate swiftly. The soft, blue silk tunic and pants Omari had lent him flowed with every breeze.

Strange fragrances from flowering trees greeted them in his courtyard. Jonathan marveled at the three-story structure, a palace, not a stone fortress like the castles of Freislicht, but a sculpted citadel, covered in intricately placed ceramic tiles forming beautiful mosaics of strange animals and lush plants. He wondered what the inside would contain. As the grand entrance came into view, a servant swung the door wide, bowing and beckoning them to enter.

Jonathan froze. On either side of the door stood two more soldiers. Even though they kept their heads pointed forward, he was sure their eyes saw everything. He forced himself to maintain his calm exterior, though his skin prickled and his heart skipped several beats.

The servant led them to a room more opulent than any in High Keep with plush furniture, pedestals holding creatures carved of ivory, and lined with shelves holding books and scrolls. A large table in the center of the library contained ink and quills and fresh parchment. Servants brought in trays of exotic foods and flagons of wine.

Jonathan scanned the colorful leather book covers inscribed with gold titles in flowing lettering.

Thapa Raju entered from another doorway, smiling, motioning for Omari and Jonathan to sit.  He noticed Jonathan glance toward the soldiers. “Fear not, Sir Jonathan. Our spies have informed us of the bounty on your head. We have decided that since the man who wants you is our enemy, you are a friend. Our soldiers are here to protect you, in case you were followed by evildoers from your country.”

Bowing his head Jonathan replied. “Thank you kind sir.” His knees were weak. He sat, relief flooding through him. Their surveillance was remarkable. “Who is the man that hunts me?”

Thapa’s eyes grew large, then compressed into slits. “You don’t know?”

Jonathan shook his head. “There is a soldier that I embarrassed that would love to kill me, but he can’t afford this bounty.”

“It is the steward of your king, the Earl of Lorness.”

“Gaelib Melazera?” Jonathan pondered that, remaining silent, having no desire to complicate things with a dozen questions. Gaelib had certainly seen him as a rival when they were children.

Why seek my death now?

“Yes, we do not know why, but you will be safe as long as you are in Tarinland.” Let us begin our research,” Thapa said as he opened the scroll before him.

The spirited discussion that followed ranged over the impermanence of the material world, ideas of love, compassion, forgiveness, and the pursuit of spiritual understanding. Thapa smiled, frowned, and laughed periodically. Jonathan’s heart burned as he shared about the Creator of heaven and earth, that his heavenly host were referred to as sons of God, stars, and lesser gods in the Writings. He explained that they did not always obey their father, the Creator. Finally, he shared J’shua Ha Mashiach’s ultimate sacrifice that ransomed all who accepted him.

Omari interpreted as they exchanged ideas.

Jonathan had many pages of notes that he rolled up and slid in his tunic when Thapa bid them farewell. He bowed low, thanking his host for the gift of his time.

Looking toward the setting sun Jonathan asked Omari, “Do you think that went well?”

“I think you gave him much to ponder. And I also.” Omari patted his shoulder reassuringly. “He seemed to enjoy your company.”

“Thank you for being my interpreter. That would have been impossible without you.”

“I am happy to have heard such a thorough explanation of the spiritual world. I would know more.”

“I will introduce you to others who study the words of J’shua and the God of Truth.”

After guiding Omari to the small circle in Hampi, Jonathan departed for

Chapter 10

Rebekah

Rebekah, dressed as Tommas Bekh, was riding north on the next leg of her circuit. The early thaw caused an unexpected demand for plows. She had taken deposits for six as she left Fairness Crossing for High Keep. A substantial amount of money, it was tucked away in the hidden compartment built into the base of her small wagon.

The sun was low in the sky and the clouds above were darkening. It might soon rain. Perhaps she should have stopped at the inn. Yet that would have delayed her trip northward by an entire day.

No, it was best to push on and trust in J’shua that all would be well.

A sentiment that was dampened by a sudden downpour not even half an hour later.

Water streamed off the brim of her hat like a waterfall. Her cloak kept her dry, but the temperature was dropping fast. Stopping at the inn increasingly looked like the better choice, but she couldn’t turn around and go back now. The trail was too narrow.

Then, the wagon lurched, stuck.

Rebekah urged the two horses forward, only to hear the straining of wood. Although, she could not be sure if it was the rear axle or the wheel. “Whoa!” she roared. The horses snorted.

She clucked at them to reverse, only to hear the same telltale groan.

With no way to light a torch, she got down to see what the problem was. In the shadows under the cart, it was next to impossible to make out anything. She was groping around, trying to identify the problem by touch, when a voice interrupted.

“Need some help?”

Ducking back out from under the wagon, she looked up to see a massive man looming over her. Her eyes darted to the casket on view in the cart’s rear. Her breath caught, trying to keep her voice steady as she replied. “It’s stuck.”

The stranger was dark skinned, very tall, and had a chest and torso like that of a blacksmith. His oiled leather cape had a deep hood and hung to his elbows. That, and thick leggings kept him mostly dry. Hopping down from his horse, he tied it to the cart. Two more horses, laden with provisions were connected to the man’s mare.

As Rebekah looked up at him, rain drenched her face. She touched her beard, worried it might come adrift. “Thank you for stopping, I’m sure it’s just…” Her hand located a tree root that had somehow lodged between the wheel’s spokes. “Blast! I wish I had more light.”

The man looked at the sky and smiled. “The rain will end soon. It was so sudden that it cannot last long. Then, the moon shall come out. For the moment, it is too dark to travel further safely. Mind if I wait with you?’

“Tommas Bekh,’ Rebekah stood, holding out her muddy hand.

“Daryl Andrews,” the other man shook without hesitation. ‘A little dirt and water never hurt anyone,” he added with a grin as he wiped his hand on his cape. “Have you found the problem?”

“It’s stuck on a tree root. Don’t know how I managed that.”

“Luck, good or bad. Or perhaps it was providence that we met. Someone might be guiding your steps.”

Rebekah took note of that comment and smiled, wiping the back of her hand across her dripping forehead, uselessly. The torrent continued to fall.

“Luck wuz surely guidin’ us,” a gruff voice announced as its owner appeared out of the rain. Dressed shabbily, it was probably the first water to touch his skin, or clothes, in weeks. Or, such was the tale the foul odors drifting off him told. His drawn sword suggested a less-than friendly individual.

Another man appeared beside him, barely more than a lad, but pointing a loaded crossbow at Rebekah and Daryl.

“Thiz dinna ’ave ta be un-plez-int,’ the first thief continued. “Jest ’and ova yooz baden. All uv et.”

“In the small casket,” Rebekah lied. There was a hundred of so baden there, plus something nasty for any thief. “I’ll get it for you.”

“Stoy rite ther,” the first commanded. “Rhaylth, ga geyt et.”

“You said my name again,” the second thief glared, his voice cracking, as if barely transitioned to adulthood.

“Shet et, Rhay. Gimme tha’ crossbow.”

Rhaylth dismounted, sloshed over to his partner, and held it up.

The first robber sneered at Rebekah and Daryl. ‘Doan tray anythin’, fuls.”

Reaching for the weapon, the leader’s eyes shifted away from his targets.

Rebekah dashed to the casket in the back of the cart and lifted a pair of loaded hand crossbows.

Daryl turned a shoulder towards Rebekah, his farthest hand thrust…

The leader’s horse shied, throwing him. His sword disappeared into the darkness.

Rhaylth jumped clear, but slipped and fell, the crossbow dropping into the mud with a splash.

Full-sized versions required more strength than she had. Before Rebekah could shoot, the leader’s horse was galloping past her, riderless.

And Daryl, sword in hand, had its point at the leader’s throat. “For the inconvenience, I shall keep the other horse and the crossbow. As I am a peaceful man at heart, I shall not kill you. Despite you surely intending to kill us. But I am also a practical man.’ His blade flicked twice, drawing blood from both men’s calves. “Those wounds will not kill unless you let them fester. But they will prevent you from following us. Go!” He pointed out into the night, in the direction the leader’s horse had run off.

The two men rose to their feet, hissed in pain, and snarled. But they said nothing as they supported each other and limped off into the darkness.

The rain weakened and the moon shared some light as Daryl walked to the trapped wheel and bent. After standing, he slashed once with his sword. “Your wheel is free. For both our safety, we should leave. Where are you headed?”

“High Keep,” Rebekah replied.

“Too far in this weather, and you’re way off the most traveled path north. We are only a mile or two from the Lion and Tiger Inn. There’s lodging there, plus hot food and a warming fire. The path widens just up ahead so you can turn around.”

“I…” Rebekah paused. It had stopped raining, the clouds dispersed and moonlight shone down. Accepting it as a sign from J’shua, she changed her mind. She had been going to reject the offer. “Will we be welcome this late at night? Won’t they think us fools to be traveling in such weather?”

“I cannot say what they’ll think of you, but they already know I’m a fool. Then again, they have to put up with me, since it’s my inn.”

The way he spoke and his handy sword put her at ease, but something niggled at her mind.

***

Rebekah shouldered her pack and followed Daryl inside the inn. Behind them, several boys appeared from nowhere and took charge of the horses and wagon. A sweet, savory aroma filled her first breath. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. She gasped. Ginger. She hadn’t had spice cookies since… The thought of making them with Sarah came to mind and she fought back tears. “Smells good in here.”

“You hungry? Missy, get my new friend here a bowl.”

A flash of green and gold flew out of another room, a girl with pale skin and red hair wearing an emerald dress. Could not be more than ten.

“This is my daughter, Missy…”

“Your daughter?”

“You don’t see the resemblance?” His straight face broke into a chuckle. “She was an orphan brought to me six years ago. A friend saved her from apprehension by collectors in Lorness.” Daryl laughed. “He’d heard me complain I needed more help. Brought her to me. She was only four then and a great blessing. My own daughter is a quiet, thoughtful soul. But Missy…she’s a whirlwind and a sprite.”

Now that she could get a good look at him, Daryl was a presence. Outside, she’d guessed he was dark skinned, but in the light with his cloak off, she could see he was ebony black. His hair was black as well, like sheep’s wool, twisted into dreadlocks. Her own, meanwhile, was slicked against her scalp and dripping wet.

“May I set some of my things to drying by the fire?”

“Yes, yes. Charmaine, bring the drying rack!”

A demure, young lady, lighter skinned than her father, walked in carrying a bundle of sticks. She dropped them on the floor in front of the roaring fire. Her hands flew this way and that with sticks until a rack appeared with ten dowels on which to hang things.

“My, this will help immensely.” Rebekah smiled, dropping her pack to the floor. She rummaged about testing the dampness of each item. Pulling out all the wet things, she spread them over the dowels.

Rebekah took in the layout of the room. There were square tables scattered around the perimeter and two long ones in the back half of the room. It was by far the quietest inn she’d ever seen. There were at least twenty customers, but the conversations were soft. No one looked at her. She’d expected everyone inside would want to know about the wet rat Daryl had dragged in.

Tension slowly ebbed from her body. She felt safely anonymous. She sighed. How long had it been since she’d felt that?

Missy set a heaping bowl of stew on the table by the fire, and flashed a broad grin, eyes twinkling, then gave a cockeyed curtsey and ran out.

All the while, Daryl’s older daughter handed Rebekah a warm blanket and motioned to the chair.

Rebekah sat, melting into the soft leather and yawned.

Charmaine crossed her arms and looked Rebekah up and down. “I think you should stay the night, sir. Sleep is the best way to avoid the sickness after a drenching. Nothing heals better than sleep.” The girl’s hands rested on her hips like an army general.

“Perhaps, I could stay one night.” The place had a warm, peaceful presence about it. Surely, J’shua had angels lead her here. She turned to Daryl, who had been greeting other customers and had just turned to face her. “Are you sure you have room?”

“Oh my, yes. Most of these here folks work for me and live in their own homes nearby. I’ve plenty of rooms.” He turned to Charmaine. “Freshen up the King’s Room for our guest.”

“The king’s room?” Rebekah tilted her head.

Daryl chuckled. Every room is a noble room. We have the king’s, the queen’s, the dukes, the earl’s, and so on. Makes folks feel special.”

Rebekah laughed.

“Yes, Da.” Charmaine curtseyed proficiently and walked down a hall to stairs Rebekah hadn’t noticed before.

Unusual to have stairs in the front and in the back. “Your inn is bigger than it appears from the outside.”

“It’s a blessing from J’shua. No one bothers us. Robbers think we aren’t worth the trouble. And troops think we can’t handle very many.”

“So how do you get enough business?”

“Oh. J’shua provides.”

Rebekah’s clothes, though still wet, were warm now and she was feeling sleepy.

Daryl disappeared down the hallway. Next time she opened her eyes, he’d changed his clothes and was giving instructions to men on the other side of the room. She could not perceive their words, but they each gave him a nod and dispersed to their tasks.

As soon as she finished the stew, Missy brought her two spice cookies on a lacy napkin and a mug of warm goat’s milk. Missy felt each of the damp things on the rack. “This shirt is dry. Would you like me to show you to your room. You could change.”

“I think I’ll stay here until my night clothes are dry. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

She nibbled the spice cookies, while watching Daryl with his girls through half closed eyes, their laughter tinkling in her drowsy thoughts.

Daryl bumped her shoulder, whispering, “Your things are dry. To bed with ya.” He handed her a pile of clothes and led the way up the stairs to the King’s Room.

***

She woke with a start. Light streamed in the window. A piercing laugh brought her to her senses. Missy.

Now she remembered what had been bothering her since yesterday. Jonathan had told her a story about a black knight.

You were very adept with a sword last night. Are you a knight, Daryl?

She bolted upright and threw the bed covers aside. She hadn’t noticed the thick comforter, embroidered with wreaths of red roses and yellow daisies last night. Firewood and tinder was stacked neatly beside the fireplace. Water filled a pitcher. The matching bowl was painted with blue flowers.

Should I ask him?

Given the growing rumors about the knights, it might be an uneasy topic, even dangerous.

If she remembered the story correctly, Jonathan had camped in a glen by the Freis River. He had planned to fish some. It was a lazy river because it curved several times and was wide at that point.

He caught sight of a bobbing black head in the middle of the river. Jon halloed to the man and the black head threw up an arm in an energetic wave and started swimming toward the bank. All of a sudden he stood up in the shallows, naked as a trout. The man waddled out of the river. The pack tied around his waist was thrown down. His dripping skin, shimmered in the sun’s glorious light, he threw out his hand, Jon grasped it with one hand and tossed him a blanket with the other. They had become fast friends.

What was his name?

Rebekah begged the memory to return to her. “Miles. William Miles.”

She threw on her clothes and felt her beard. “Blast.” Definitely battered by the storm. She needed to reglue it. But she couldn’t wait. She had to know. If it was him, this was a divine appointment.

She scanned the room as she descended the stairs. Empty except for Daryl reading something at a table.

“Daryl,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure how to broach the topic subtly. He could be hiding if he was William Miles, and living so near the Province of Lorness. “Are you a knight of J’shua?”

Daryl turned his head abruptly, eyes wide. She startled. “Sorry, I was just remembering a story I heard.” She wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t want to reveal her identity. But if it was Miles, she could trust him. This could be an answer to prayer.

“Are you William Miles?”

“Shh, no one knows that name here.” His eyes darted all around.

“I’m sorry. I know Jonathan Otual.”

She leaned closer, whispering, “He told me about giving an orphan to Willam Miles.”

“Yes.” Daryl nodded.

She wanted to know everything. He was Jon’s best friend for years. Until he disappeared. Why was that? Jon had been worried that he’d died. They had prayed for him. To ask would reveal too much of her own story. But if he was Willam Miles, she could trust him.

He turned back to his work. “I haven’t used that name in many years.”

She stood up and checked the dryness of the clothes. She took a deep breath.

“My name is Rebekah Otual. I’m Jonathan’s wife. I need your help.”

Chapter 11

Quorin

Quorin signaled his young cousin, Rhaylth, who gave a nod from his perch in the tree as a coach rumbled around the bend. He backed into the brush, concealed. A meadow surrounded Caswell. They were a mile from the edge of it, in the forest.

Once Quorin had picked the spot, he’d made Rhaylth fell a tree. Now it lay across the road on the final stretch south from Farr Castle to Caswell. Although not much of a road—barely a path—but the Earl of Caswell’s people used it more and more. And Caswell garrisoned few soldiers.

“Whoa!” the old driver on top roared at the six horses, pulling back on the reins. Leaning back, legs stretched, putting everything he had into it. The liveried lad beside him grabbed the reins as well.

The women inside screamed. The horses sensed danger, fighting each other, frantic to break free. Finally, the coach lurched to a stop, the old man and the boy turning their heads side to side, eyes wide, seeking a threat.

With the carriage stopped only a foot from the downed tree, Rhaylth swung on top, pricking the back of the driver’s neck with his sword.

No other coaches could be heard. If there were others, they’d have melted into the woods and been gone in the blink of an eye.

Quorin thought surely neither the driver nor the lad would be any trouble for Rhaylth.

But instead, the coachman turned and reached for his cousin.

Rhaylth opened the driver’s throat with a flick of his wrist. Then, pointed his blade at the boy, as the dead man’s blood dripped down the carriage.

“Owt! Geyt owt!” Quorin roared in one of his false voices, stepping from the bushes with a loaded crossbow in his hands. He pointed the weapon into the carriage, where the highborn passengers cowered. “Owt! Ay’ll neyt ask ag’in!”

Three trembling young women, dressed in colorful silks, climbed cautiously out of the carriage.

Only one wore bright jewels at her throat and on her fingers. She scowled at her ladies, silencing them. Glaring up at Rhaylth, she then turned her piercing gray eyes on Quorin.

She was confident. She was trouble.

Rhaylth’s attention strayed to the prettiest of the girls. Dark hair, fair skin, a trim waist, and intoxicating curves.

“Please don’t hurt us,” one sobbed.

Quorin scowled.

“Leave now and I promise none shall be sent to hunt you down. Take my jewelry if you must, but leave us be. For I am Parynna  Caswell, and should you place a finger on me or my ladies, your deaths are assured,” the gray-eyed lady ordered.

The driver’s lad launched himself at the distracted Rhaylth, who raised his sword again.

“Blast!” Quorin grimaced, then took a step back so he could cover the women better. A gurgling sound told him the driver’s assistant was a problem no more.

“Let’s see ’em, all ov ’em,” Rhaylth growled.

“Shet et, Rhaylth. We wuntz thar biden. Thet’z al.”

“Quorin, you drecksa!” the younger man’s accent dropped away. “I told you not to use my name.”

The noblewoman stepped forward, in front of the other ladies, closer to Quorin, who reacted, using the butt of his crossbow to knock her to the ground. Irritated, he kicked her in the head.

Rhaylth got down from the carriage’s roof, advancing on the two women. “Strip. We want the fancy clothes.”

Quorin rolled his eyes, “Geyt en weth et.”

Once practically naked, Rhaylth bound all three, while Quorin ransacked the coach and collected their valuables, ignoring their sobbing.

Both froze at the sound of more horses in the distance.

“Blast! Stop your rutting. Geyt they ‘orses,” Quorin shouted at Rhaylth.

The boy turned to the task with a scowl, his eyes lingering on the naked women.

Quorin pulled tight the string on the sack of booty. He tossed it to a pouting Rhaylth, as they ran away. Once hidden in the trees, they mounted two of the horses.

“Best if we leave Caswell. We’ll sell this in the next town and catch a few more travelers. Then we need to lie low.” Quorin glanced back and frowned. Rhaylth was trailing behind. “Keep up Rhay-Rhay!”

Once far from the trail, they rode north.

The idiot! Or should I be cursing myself? That was a lady of Caswell I injured and he had his way with. Perhaps I should have killed her. Killed all of them. At least that way, there’d be no witnesses.

Damn fool and his lust. If he’d kept his eyes on the carriage drivers, he wouldn’t have needed to kill them.

“Rhaylth, catch up! Those approaching will come upon the carriage at any moment. They’ll not treat us kindly if we’re caught. They could even…”

…send us to Melazera’s dungeons.

As they followed the Freis River north, they came to a village with a small market. A merchant bought the horses, another the jewels. Quorin pondered on the fate of his reckless cousin for days. Deep in the woods, he stopped, turned, and looked at the youth. He’d just decided Rhaylth would do better on his own, and so would he.

As they neared another village, Quorin surprised his cousin, knocked him out cold, and left him leaning against a tree. If the gods wished the lad to live, he’d do so.

Then he mounted one of the horses they’d kept and turned east. A short ways beyond, he’d stay at a black robe lair he’d been sent to once before. There he’d be safe. The Order protected its own.

I’m not yet done with the Order. They still have riches I can loot.

The Warrior

The room was dark, lit only by a few candles and a brazier that glowed red hot. The Warrior threw bits of flesh into it, offerings from the six local heathens. They bowed before an altar, seeking his blessing. He and the demon remained in the unseen realm.

The heathens chanted their repetitious prayers as one of them cut another small animal into chunks on the altar.

“Where have you been? I have been waiting for you for over an hour.” The Warrior touched the forehead of each of his worshippers. Each fell to the ground, lying in bliss. “Did you finish your tasks?”

“Yes, my Lord.” The demon cowered, hiding from the dark angel’s scowl. “Caileagh Melazera was late. However, I have relayed your wishes to her in visions and I checked on all my other hosts in Farr. Following the female that met with Caileagh, I came to Caswell. There I encouraged one of my black-robe hosts to rob her carriage, so Caileagh now has an excuse to  help her. She got roughed up quite bit, but should otherwise be fine. The driver and a boy were killed though. The man called Quorin blames his cousin for his rashness.”

Still scowling, the Warrior paced. “I suppose your tardiness was productive, so I’ll let it go unpunished this time. Return to Caileagh Melazera so that she remains focused on her tasks, but get her to Caswell to follow up on your new endeavor.”

The demon bobbed lower and lower as he backed away, then scurried out of sight as a lesser angel strode into the room. “Great one, we have another rite to attend. They gather in Fairness Crossing.”

“I know, Panther. My followers grow.” His rattlesnake smile spread wide. “Let’s see what treats they have brought me.”

Chapter 12

Gaelib

Gaelib Melazera nodded, his face impassive as he stood before the now empty throne. If he allowed the slightest expression, he would scream. Despite moons of planning, and the character assassination of a duke who’d refused to be bought, everything should still have fallen into place.

There had been contingency plans upon contingency plans. Royal courtiers had been swayed. Their wives and mistresses had been bribed with lands, baden, or gems. Nobles who opposed the plan had been delayed so they could not sway the arguments put forward with annoying, irrelevant things like facts. And even the draft legislation had been written in such a manner that, only if interpreted in a particular way, could it be seen as anything but benevolent.

King Edal had nodded where he should have. He’d frowned when a clause, inserted only so it could be struck off, was read aloud. He had then ordered each of those deleted. He had praised the work that had gone into constructing the new law.

And when the king had risen from his throne and strode forward to put his royal sigil on it, he had lifted the scroll so all could admire it… then tossed it into the fire.

“This is unnecessary, our current law covers these situations already,” King Edal said as he sat again on the throne.

Gaelib wanted to kill someone. Preferably very slowly, over many hours, savoring every whimper, moan, and syllable of muffled begging. He wanted to do so to someone special. Someone that could be missed. Someone who, if traced back to Gaelib, would ruin everything. Yes, he wanted that so badly he ached for it. He needed to demonstrate that, with the Warrior’s support, he was invincible.

Momentarily distracted by his violent fantasy, he did not hear King Edal’s question, only to be nudged by one of his underlings who eyes urgently motioned to the monarch. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, I was considering the implications on the nation’s finances as you have, so wisely, chosen not to implement the proposed law.”

“While We appreciate your grasp of such intricacies, Royal Steward, We require your attention remain in the here and now. Calculations are to be done when the Royal Court is not in session.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” Gaelib bowed low, hating every moment of pretense, but knowing that soon – very soon – he would sit on that throne. Then he – as king – would be the only person permitted to sit in that chamber.

“Rise,” King Edal instructed, “We asked you for the latest expenditures on the army and the breakdowns of the costs, fort by fort.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I have them right here.” He handed three scrolls to a herald who conveyed them to the monarch.

King Edal signaled the Senior Herald, who announced, “The Royal Court is in recess. Go now and do your best for king and country!”

Gaelib and his coterie of minions, scribes, and runners all bowed. As did the rest of the courtiers, nobles and others who had been permitted to attend. Even though his rank always placed him in front, he made it a point not to rise until all those within his peripheral vision had done so. Once they were standing, he was assured that King Edal had left. Apart from which, always being the last to rise had been commented upon many times, praising him for his devotion to the king.

If that was what the fools wanted to believe, so much the better.

After having scribbled a note to be delivered to one of his agents, a supposedly deaf man whom he had taken pity on, he and his entourage left the Great Hall. Again, and for the same reasons, he made sure to be the last to do so.

The walk back to his offices, which was more of a parade with Gaelib as its centerpiece, took a quarter of an hour. He had been offered rooms closer to the Great Hall, but refused saying they should be kept for visiting dignitaries. In truth, the further away the better. It reduced the number of people who dropped in unexpectedly. And it gave him ample warning of those who did.

Fifteen more minutes passed. Time Gaelib spent instructing scribes to order and duplicate notes, sending runners to obtain answers the king had requested, and ensuring that the original documents were handled with appropriate care. Only two scribes had had their fingers broken to set an example of what not to do. Neither had been particularly careless, but he needed to vent. And it was not as if the digits were broken so they could never write again. That punishment was only for truly outstanding misbehavior.

Once assured that things could run safely without him closely supervising them, Gaelib withdrew into his private office, locking the thick reinforced door behind him.

The ‘deaf’ man was already there.

“How did King Edal know?” Gaelib demanded. “What tipped him off?”

“If you will forgive me,” the man removed his wig and the fake ruined ears that caused ordinary people to give him a wide berth or ignore him entirely, “I did warn you there was a risk of King Edal spotting your intentions if you tried to get this passed as a single law.”

“I do not forgive.” The Royal Steward’s hand toyed with the dagger thrust through his belt. “And passing it in three parts could have taken two years or more. How else can this be done?”

“For it to be unassailable, short of the king repealing it? It cannot. Nor can we risk passing this in three parts as I suggested. No, we cannot go anywhere near this law for at least a year, perhaps three.”

“That is unacceptable! You forget who you are talking to. I am Gaelib Melazera, Lord of Lorness and Royal Steward. Nothing is beyond me.”

The deaf man stood. “I shall see myself out the backway. Or, do you want to lose the river of gold being diverted from the Lockes? Even you do not have enough baden, oh Lord of Lorness, to oust a king on your own. What is the matter with you? You are Lorness’ Earl. Why not call yourself that? Or, is it that your family is stinging from Locke’s elevation to Duke… three generations ago? Perhaps those I represent should find another puppet. You…” The man clutched at his throat as blood spurted through his fingers.

His legs gave out.

The gurgling sounds of him drowning in his own blood sent Gaelib’s spirit soaring.

Yes!

This was exactly what he needed! With the Warrior on his side, he did not require the petty assistance of men. Nor did he need their so-called rivers of gold.

The fool had no idea that Gaelib had already diverted royal funds into all sorts of charitable ventures and good works for the people. Efforts that did build some of the houses, roads, and warehouses it was intended to fund. But at enormously inflated prices.

If the matter was ever discovered, he had only to point to his ledgers. They had dispensed the coin as per the king’s command. It was not his job to see that the builders, carpenters, and thatchers did their jobs. However, he did have records of who the baden was given to. All of whom were people that Gaelib would never miss.

Better yet, under the Royal Rules covering such things, all their property could be seized by the Crown and sold off to recover what they could. That other agents of his would buy the land below market price was, again, not Gaelib’s fault.

No, the loss of some southern fools who had provided him baden was no loss at all.

However, the dying fool at his feet might have had a point. Without the laws he had been counting on, speeding up his preparations was out of the question. No, he would have to be patient for a while longer.

But not too much longer.

Of course, there was a bolder, more direct path to obtaining the throne. Prince Sagen was not yet fit to rule. Something King Edal had whispered to him late at night more than once.

What if…?

What if King Edal’s death was not due to old age? He was already of advanced years, but showed no sign of slowing yet. That the monarch had spotted the trap in the new law proved that.

Perhaps a slow acting poison? Caileagh had whispered of such things. Something to make the king’s health fail. It happened.

Even Gaelib’s own father’s death had been somewhat sudden. Pains that had consumed him, eaten him alive from within. It had been intoxicating to watch. Whether natural or induced, it was a better death than the ungrateful old man had deserved. And, it had delivered the Earldom of Lorness into Gaelib’s hands.

Or, what about something altogether more savage?

Walking over to the cabinet, he poured himself something strong, red, and sweet. Made for him by his loving wife, it gave him the most intense visions. Moving his chair so he could watch the last glimmer of life depart his former-ally’s body, he sipped.

What?

He stared off in the distance, swirling his wine. A sudden surge caused him to gasp and brought a word from the Warrior.

Send Caileagh to Caswell with an appropriate letter to your friend Drake.

The day was improving.

I do love a puzzle.