‘Your Highness,’ she said, rising.Frog fluttered his wings slightly as she moved, his head flitting about, eyes alert.He felt her fear and searched the room while she could not.Owyn gazed down at her from his mourning throne, his eyes rimmed in red, his young face patched with stubble.‘Word of the tragedy that has befallen your people pained me greatly,’ she went on.‘More painful still was word that your father, the king, lost his life to this haunting.I have skill and magical art, and have had dealings with the needful dead.I offer my services, such as they may be useful to ridding your lands of this scourge.’
‘I thank you,’ the prince said.His eyes pierced her, searching, and he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.‘But tell me, why have you come?Why leave your lands and journey to our little corner of the world?’
‘I pursue knowledge of undeath for my own reasons, Your Highness,’ she answered, skirting as near the truth as she dared.‘The barriers and distinctions between life, death, and undeath have long been a source of fascination—’
‘Academic interest?’Owyn’s gaze flitted to Jon Kenn, then back to her.‘That is all?It seems a strange reason, to me, to make such a journey.In what lands does your Starlit Tower stand, again?Remind me.’
‘In the deserts of Kar, Your Highness, to the far south and east.’It was an invention used commonly by Citizens in the wider world; one of a number meant to keep their affiliation with the City secret from those who either disbelieved its existence or thought it a threat.
‘Word of our troubles travels quickly,’ the prince murmured.
‘To those with an ear alert to such troubles, yes,’ Fola said.‘I will admit, my intent is not only charitable.I study undeath, so that by better understanding it, such tragedies as this might be prevented.’
Not quite the truth, but near enough, and she hoped sufficiently believable.
Owyn leaned forward, searching Fola’s face.‘And what have you learned so far, in your study here?’
‘Too little, Your Highness.’She dipped her head in apology.‘I must learn more of the haunting itself, as well as this kingdom, before I can begin to draw any conclusions.’
‘And I wish you luck, Fola of the Starlit Tower.’The prince slumped in his seat.His gaze drifted away from her, back to Jon Kenn.‘The Old Stones know I will be grateful to whoever can rid the kingdom of this plague, and provide—’
A commotion erupted near the entryway.Courtiers made way for two men who strode into the room to a chorus of whispers.The first was tall, of middle years, with streaks of white in his fiery hair and beard.He wore a coat that bore the repeating device of a golden tower upon a lilac field, the colours muted to match the raincloud grey of the fabric.Behind him came a hollow-cheeked youth, of an age with the prince, with black curls and hazel eyes that shone out from the shadow beneath his furrowed brow.A sharp half-smile creased his face, as likely to unfold into rage as laughter.His pendant showed a silver stag on a field the green of drying lichen.
The herald hastened ahead of them.‘My Lords Eurion of Warryn’s House, Count of Afondir, and Ifan of Barwon’s House, Count of Glascoed,’ he announced, rushing through the honorifics as the two noblemen touched the hilts of their swords and knelt.Fola stepped back into the crowd, taking her place beside Colm.Fury had begun to burn in the prince’s eyes, and she had no desire to be caught in it.
‘Your Highness.’Afondir lifted his gaze to Owyn.‘Please forgive our absence these last few days.We were delayed upon the road by a matter of much interest to this court.’
The prince glared down, his hands clenched around the arms of his chair.
‘Afondir and Glascoed united?’Medrith said with wry amusement.‘Truly, it must have been a threat to the entire kingdom.’
‘Your jest holds the weight of truth, Your Majesty,’ Afondir said.Movement near the entryway drew the scholar Jon Kenn’s eye, and Fola followed his gaze.A few members of Afondir’s and Glascoed’s retinues were making their way into court, most dressed in the usual drab but finely cut clothes of the minor nobility—barons, knights and their ladies—save for an olive-skinned man in ankle-length white robes.He was flanked by a dark-complexioned pair dressed in chain mail: a man and a woman.All wore raw iron medallions around their necks.At this distance, Fola could not make out the device upon those medallions, but she would be astonished to find anything but three nested triangles.
‘Shit,’ she murmured, sparking a nervous peep from Frog and a sharp glance from Colm.His pointed stare quite clearly reminded her thathe’dsuggested they kill that surviving templar, and that it had beenheridea to let him go.
‘My Lord, what could be more pressing than the death of the king?’Medrith asked.
‘You know, of course, of the banditry that plagues the Greenwood, Your Majesty,’ Afondir said.‘An affront that the good Count of Glascoed has turned all of his attentions to combating.We have reason now to suspect no mere banditry, but organised rebellion.’
Owyn’s eyes cut from one count to the other and back.‘Organised?By who?’
‘That, we have yet to determine,’ Afondir went on.‘If Your Highness and Your Majesty will indulge us, we will relay all that we know, and the cause of our delay.’
The prince gestured for them to rise.Afondir launched into his account, which Fola only half-listened to.If a necromancer was responsible for the haunting, this rumoured rebellion might prove relevant to her mission.The rebels might be seizing upon the chaos, uncertainty and fear caused by the haunting to recruit and bolster support.
Whatever the truth of these notions of a rebellion or a necromancer, a more immediate concern had presented itself.She turned her mind to the presence of the Mortal Church.One follower was a servant of the royal court, and three more had arrived in the company of two high-ranking noblemen.How deeply had Parwys been infiltrated?She was beginning to think it might be best to cut her losses and chase some other rumour—perhaps to the far side of the continent.
‘We hope, Your Highness, that our late arrival can be understood, and, if Your Highness is generous, forgiven.’Afondir brought his tale to a close, once more dipping his head.
‘Of course, Afondir,’ Owyn said.‘Your friendship with my father in youth is well known.I’ve no doubt of your loyalty.I only wish your hunt had been more fruitful, yielding either the stolen iron or some useful information.’
‘As do we, Your Highness,’ Afondir said.
‘You have said little, Ifan of Glascoed,’ the prince continued, a forced formality in his voice.‘Have you anything to add to Afondir’s account?’
‘Only my shame, Your Highness,’ Ifan said.‘And my promise that I will hunt these bandits in the Greenwood until they are flushed from their burrows.’
‘One must wonder why you have not already done so, Glascoed.’A voice sounded from a thick-shouldered, bald-headed and yellow-bearded courtier dressed in the grey-blue of a winter sky.He wore no sigil, though he was the only courtier save the templars and the prince’s housecarls wearing any armour—heavy, unadorned gauntlets of raw iron.
