She opened her mouth to mount another argument.One he silenced with the edge of his blade.The silvery mist parted, then drifted on an unfelt wind as it burned away.
He was alone again, but for the howling of the wraiths.
* * *
A wave of nausea carried Fola back to her body.
She pitched forward and swallowed bile.
‘I take it things did not go well,’ Ifan said.
The hearth fire of his great hall crackled.Fola heaved herself to her feet, left the circle of her spell, and crossed to the flames, rubbing a chill from her arms.Everyone was there—Colm, Siwan, the troupers and the rebel leaders—watching and waiting for her to return with word of her parley’s outcome.
She wanted to let them hope a moment longer.Was that a kindness, or a cruelty?
Her own hope that this might all end without bloodshed had shattered.Madness had claimed Owyn, it seemed to her.Paranoia born of the haunting that made it impossible for him to hear reason.
Or perhaps madness was endemic to kings.She had read something to that effect, once, in one of the books Arno had given her before she left the City.
Fola looked to those waiting faces, hard and tense and eager for her answer.Her gaze fell on Siwan.She clutched Damon’s hand, her yellow and black eyes wide, balanced on the edge of fear and hope.Fola would not mention Owyn’s madness, she decided.Siwan carried enough burdens without laying that at her feet as well.
‘He won’t give up his crown,’ she said simply.‘It will be war.’
Decisions
YC 1189
The compass points towards truth,
The lantern burns away fear,
The archive guards against forgetting.
Motto of the Labyrinthine Library, original author unknown, codifiedYC328
Ifan’s reaction to her failure only deepened Fola’s confusion.He listened to her report without a word.When she had finished, he was quiet for a few moments—the only time he seemed to dedicate to any grief or reflection—and then began issuing orders to ready for battle.
‘I’m sorry, Ifan,’ Fola said while messengers departed with his orders.‘I had hoped that Prince Owyn would listen to reason.’
He laughed, then, without a hint of mirth.‘Reason?Is that what you call tearing down the institutions of our realm?’He shook his head, then scowled and stood.‘No, Fola.I am the mad one.Owyn only follows in the footsteps of our fathers, and their fathers before them.’
‘And will follow them right off the edge of a cliff,’ Fola muttered as he left the hall.She would never understand the thinking of nobles—even those who, seemingly by random chance, found themselves on the side of good.
‘Well?’Colm said when Ifan and the rebel leaders had gone.‘What next?’
‘Nothing good,’ Spil answered.‘From the sound of things, Glascoed hasn’t a fighting chance.’
Harwick shook his head.‘You would be surprised what a determined force can do from behind walls.It may be hopeless, but Glascoed will bleed them before the end.’
‘This is pure foolishness,’ Fola muttered.‘What will how much each side bleeds or who sits upon a throne matter once they’re all dead?’
‘Seems it matters to the dead,’ Siwan observed.
‘Doesn’t make it less stupid,’ Fola said.‘Ghosts are made from the memories of people.Of course they’d be just as irrational.’
‘Other wars have been fought for worse reasons.’Colm scratched at his stubble.‘At least here someone involved seems to be in the right.’
That was as may be, but none of Fola’s aims could be achieved in fighting for a losing cause, however noble.Parwys could not be saved from itself.And with that acceptance came another, more bitter realisation—if the only way to end the haunting was by spilling yet more blood, then she would let the wraiths do it themselves.Better to abandon the kingdom than become complicit in its horrors.
