Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


6


My love,

It has been only forty-nine days since our last congregation, forty-nine days since my lips kissed yours, and I miss you so. Each passing day is like torture as I lie alone, dreaming of your face, the sweep of your hair, the smell of your skin. My family surrounds me, oftentimes oppressively so, and yet I have never felt so alone.

I wish to see you. I need to see you. Not a moment goes by that I don’t wish to be in your bed once more. I long to hear your voice as you prattle of tariffs and trade laws and the courts. You have a way of brightening even the dreariest of subjects. I want to hear you speak of your battles with the Carstakian mobs, your hunts for the immense wolves of the northern hills. Life is dreadful here, all prayer circles and farming and preparing meals for the family. Surely we, as a people, were made for much more. And when I look at the life you live, it all seems so much more interesting, full of adventure and struggle, each day a new challenge. Yes, I know it’s sometimes daunting, and the thought of thieves roaming the night sends a chill up my spine, but I know that if you were by my side, I would always be safe.

I know our love is forbidden. I know our two worlds were meant to be kept separate. But I cannot bear another day without you. I need to see you. Tomorrow I leave for the delta with my brother. I do not know how long we will stay, but from the way my brother speaks of things, the visit may last for many months. I beg that you bid leave of the city you call home and meet me here. Please, come quickly. It will be difficult to evade the eyes of my brother, but if we must, we can meet at your sister’s cabin by the river bend as we did before. Perhaps this time we will make a son, and then neither of our families can deny our bond.

I love you entirely, my fearless warrior of the light.


Yours forever, in this world and the next,

Nessa


Crian Crestwell’s eyes traced back to the beginning of the note, taking in every looping letter written in Nessa DuTaureau’s whimsical penmanship, every i dotted with a circle, every g swooping low to invade the line below. He folded the curled parchment in half, then leaned back in his chair. The hawk perched on the windowsill crowed, and he tossed a hood over its head to silence it. His mind drifted back to the three days he and Nessa had spent at his exiled sister Moira’s secluded cabin by the river. It was then that they’d finally consummated their long-secret relationship, and now he could think of nothing but her. He felt a sort of lightness pervade his being.

Last month, his father had sent him to Brent, which bordered the Quellan forest, to assist his sister Avila in pushing back a group of brigands who had been poaching on elven lands. On his way back he’d tarried in Haven under the pretense of seeing Moira. It had been difficult to hide his meetings with Nessa then, and it would be even harder to see her now. As Left Hand of the Highest, it was his duty to keep Karak’s peace in the townships beyond the northern borders, where the regime’s authority was at its weakest. Both he and his brother Joseph, the Right Hand, served as de facto judge, jury, and executioner when outside the boundaries of Veldaren or Erznia. Only now, given Vulfram Mori’s ascension to Lord Commander, Crian’s responsibilities included acting as Captain of the City Watch in Veldaren. Finding a suitable excuse for traveling to the delta was a troublesome proposition. His place was in the city now, not trolling the outlying townships in search of poachers, bandits, blasphemers, and other such lawbreakers.

The other fly in the ointment was the volatile nature of Haven itself. When last he visited, the town had been an afterthought for both his father and his god. But the attack had changed everything, and Karak himself had just returned after four decades. Though he had never met the deity in person—Karak had left Neldar before his birth—he and his family were still beholden to the god above all else.

Yet Crian knew he would still try, for even with his duties to his god and his realm, Nessa DuTaureau was all he could think about. It had been that way since their first meeting, and those feelings had only grown over their twelve years of clandestine correspondence.

Crian sighed, and walked over to the fire that burned in his room’s hearth. He placed a kiss on the folded parchment, and then dropped the letter atop the coals. He watched as it was burned away into nothing, ensuring that their secret was kept for one more day.

A commotion from the window summoned him over for a look. The heartless geometry of the cold, drab city beyond the castle walls simmered in a heat-wrought haze. Down below, inside those walls, a brigade of armored men marched through the portcullis and into the courtyard, followed by three figures on horseback. A fleet of supply wagons rolled in after them. Crian gasped as he recognized the polished dome of the Lord Commander and the shock of white atop the heads of his father and sister. He had not expected the party back for another two days at least.

Someone knocked on his door.

“Sir Crestwell,” shouted the voice of Leonard, his squire, “your father has returned.”

“I know,” Crian replied, his heart racing in panic.

“Do you wish me to help you dress?” the squire asked through the door.

“No…yes…just prepare my armor in the sacristy. I’ll be there in a moment.”

He heard Leonard’s steps quicken down the hall. Crian rushed to his mirror, a framed, foot-and-a-half square chunk of rare dragonglass, a gift from his father on his eighteenth birthday. It was his most prized possession, tangible proof that the man whose seed created him truly cared. Leaning forward, Crian examined his reflection. His jaw was rigid, his chin wide, his cheekbones sturdy. His eyes were hazel, imbued with emerald threads that shot from his pupils like starbursts. He was handsome and robust, resembling his mother more than his father. As the youngest of the Crestwell children, he had always looked upon his visage as a blessing, setting him apart from his brothers and sisters, who had all inherited their father’s silver hair and smooth, regal features.

But now that blessing had turned into a curse. A single strand of white pierced his flowing brown hair. It stuck out like a wolf in the middle of a herd of sheep, and he plucked it from his scalp, letting it drop to his feet while he anxiously searched for more. Thankfully, he found none. In a panic he dropped to his knees and searched for the rogue hair, dashing to the hearth once he found it. Onto the coals it went, to burn like Nessa’s letter. Then he went to his desk, jotted a quick note on a small scrap of parchment—I will try. Love, C—and fastened the message to the hawk’s leg. Afterward he opened a hidden compartment in his desk, removing a tiny swath of fabric from within. He cut free the wisp of birch bark that was tied below the hawk’s neck, replacing it with the fabric. Poking his head out the window to make sure his father and sister were no longer in the courtyard, he thrust his arm out the portal, the hawk perched atop his thick leather glove.

“Fly, Atria,” he said after removing the bird’s hood, and it took flight.

Atria was Nessa’s bird, trained over the last ten years specifically to act as courier for the messages between them. Fasten birch bark to the bird’s neck, and it would seek out Crian. Do the same with a small bit of cloth dashed with rosemary perfume, and it would seek out Nessa. The system had never failed them in the past. He prayed to Karak that it would remain that way.

“Leonard!” he shouted.

It took ten minutes for his squire to assist him in putting on his plate armor. It was a bothersome ensemble, cast from pounded iron dipped in liquid silver. The breastplate was ornamented with the sigil of House Crestwell, that of a snake wrapped around the torso of a seated lion, their noses touching. A forked tongue, painted red, flicked from the face guard. As a finishing touch, he slid Integrity, the jewel-encrusted, curved saber that had been forged for him when he accepted the title of Left Hand, into the scabbard at his waist. The entire suit was heavy and uncomfortable, but his father, the Highest, had a weakness for custom and required his Left and Right dress according to their station on entering Tower Honor.

Sometime later, he stepped through the arched portal and into the Tower Honor, sweat beading on his brow from descending seventeen floors while in full platemail. The Palace Guard formed a line on either side of the corridor, eyes trained distantly on nothing, expressions blank. Crian passed between them, his footsteps muted by the purple carpet that led the way to the huge doors of the throne room.

Crian’s father stood before those doors, Avila beside him, both dressed in their black leather riding attire. They appeared to be deep in conversation. Lord Commander Vulfram was nowhere to be seen. At the sound of his rattling movements, his father and sister looked up. The Highest offered Crian a dismayed look.

“You’re late,” Clovis said. “Tardiness is not an admirable trait for the Left Hand. In an altercation, the left strikes first. If the left hand is slow, the right will not be able to land the finishing blow.”

It was a phrase Crian had heard a thousand times before. Inwardly he rolled his eyes, but he kept his expression as firm as granite. His father was critical of all his children, expecting the absolute best of them at all times. In his own way, Crian guessed, it was how he showed he cared.


“I beg your pardon, Highest,” Crian said, dropping to one knee, taking his father’s hand, and kissing it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Avila smirk. “I was not expecting you back so soon.”

After he stood back up, his father fixed him with a sideways glance.

“And what were you doing?” he asked.

“I was getting some rest, Father.”

“But it is nearing noon. A little early to be tired, is it not? I have just ridden for a week, sleeping in a dingy tent each night, and I am as alert as ever.”

Crian tried to hold back an irritated sigh, but a slight puff of air escaped his lips.

“There was a riot in the financial district last night, Highest. A faction of disgruntled laborers set fire to the Brennan Depository in response to a supposed lowering of wages. It took most of the night to get the blaze under control and arrest the guilty parties. I did not return to the castle until dawn.”

His father shook his head. “Exhaustion is no excuse. You are a Crestwell, ageless and mighty. You have many years ahead of you in which to rest.”

“I’m sorry,” Crian said, bowing. “As always, you are right.”

A hand fell onto his plated shoulder. “Stand up, son. We must make our audience now.”

They opened the doors and stepped into the throne room. Inside was a madhouse. People were everywhere, commoners and high merchants alike, shouting at each other, seeking the ear of the king with some complaint or another. The Council of Twelve, a collection of eleven men and one woman from different points around the kingdom, chosen by their people as representatives, cowered against the walls at the back of the room. Interspersed throughout were members of the Sisters of the Cloth, wrapped head-to-toe in fabric so that only their eyes were revealed. The women were legal property of the merchants, and their job was to ensure that their owners were satisfied.

The noise was thick, the vitriol thicker. Ulric Mori, the Master at Arms, stood in the center of the mass, trying to adjudicate a heated argument between fat, bald Cleo Connington and the distinguished Matthew Brennan. Sentries from both houses were being held back by the Palace Guard. The atmosphere in the room was like dry kindling, needing only a single spark to set it ablaze.

Overseeing it all was a bored King Eldrich Vaelor the First. The king was a tall, willowy man of thirty-seven, his cheeks sunken and his hair sparse, with a beard that had grown in splotchy and incomplete. The crown resting atop his head was a plain gold band—simplicity for a simple job, as Eldrich’s father, the first king, had said. He sat on an ornate throne made from grooved ivory and positioned on a raised platform on the other side of the room. Grayhorn tusks, brought from the west by the earliest traders, formed a halo of curved spikes that encircled the king’s head and torso, exaggerating the carved lion that roared from the throne’s peak. Another set of tusks formed the armrests, and the king’s fingers tapped atop them, causing a barely perceptible twang to echo through the chamber. He had ascended to the throne eight years ago, after his father, Edwin, had died, succumbing to the red cough. Having been stationed outside the city for much of his life, Crian had rarely seen the king before assuming command of the City Watch. Since then, he had gotten to know the man quite well. The king’s style of leadership was haphazard and inconsistent, and half the time he seemed drunk with his illusionary might. But his true calling lay in his ability to consolidate power. Unlike his father, most of the high merchants were completely dedicated to him, which kept gold flowing into the realm.

King Vaelor pointed at Cleo Connington and beckoned him forward. The Highest led his children out of the throng, and stepped in front of the fat rich man, cutting him off. Clovis bowed before the king and swept his arm wide.

“King Vaelor,” he said, “we have returned from the delta, and are ready to disc—”

“What the f*ck,” the king bellowed, his voice unusually gruff for such a lithe man.

Clovis straightened, a look of shock on his face. Crian and Avila exchanged glances, just as stunned as their father was.

“How dare you interrupt me when my court is in session?” the king asked. He didn’t look bored any longer, and his eyes burned with rage. “Highest of Karak or not, you are still a servant of the throne, Clovis. I will not be disrespected.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the Highest replied. His voice seethed with resentment, and if a look could kill, all of the king’s insides would have liquefied in an instant.

King Vaelor waved dismissively. “Wait in the vestibule. I’ll see you when I’m done.”

Without another word, Clovis led his children around the raised throne and through the door behind it. When the door slammed shut, the ruckus in the throne room dulled to a muted hum.

The vestibule was mostly empty, and it felt like a gray, stony cave. The table where the Council debated sat squatly on the far side of the room, thirteen chairs surrounding it. Behind that was a large briarwood cabinet stocked with an assortment of liquors. Avila approached the cabinet and poured herself a mug of wormwood extract. Crian leaned against the wall, as far from his sister as he could get, his armor creaking and badly in need of oil. Clovis stood in the center of the room, his normally ashen complexion red as a beet. The man ran both hands through his long white hair, and in an instant his normal coloring returned. Not that Crian was surprised. Clovis Crestwell was an expert at controlling his emotions.

The air in the vestibule was tense, but Crian refused to speak first. Thoughts of Nessa danced in his head, and he feared he would betray those feelings should he open his mouth. His father spared him the indignity of silence by strolling up to him as if nothing were wrong and asking after his brother, Joseph.

“He’s fine. Wonderful, as a matter of fact. He sent a bird four days ago; he says the Dezren elves are treating him nicely and feeding him wine by the bucket load while they await the tournament. I think his exact words were, “I never thought being a diplomat would be so damn enjoyable.”

The Highest cocked his head. “You do not sound pleased for Joseph.”

“No, I’m very pleased for him. He’ll represent us well.”

“But you wish you had been the one to go.”

“Hardly. He’s attending a betrothal. Not my idea of fun.”

Avila wandered closer.

“But the tournament is,” she said, her breath reeking of stale liquor.

Crian didn’t answer because he knew his expression gave him away. He did not possess the Crestwell impassivity.

“Son,” his father said, “there will be other tournaments.”

Crian slapped his gloved hand against his thigh plate. “You’re right, there will. But how many of them will both the Dezren and Quellan attend? I’m the best swordsman in all of Neldar—you know that, Father. Fencing is as natural to me as swimming is to a fish. It’s not the same for Joseph. What chance does he have against those elves? Their best warriors have been wielding weapons for hundreds of years. He’ll present himself well, but he won’t win.” He shook his head. “Not like I would have.”

His father’s expression didn’t change. “Your brother is there to strengthen Karak’s relationship with the elves. Winning is not the purpose. You are the son of the Highest. These things should be evident to you.”

“I know, Father. And they are. I’m sorry.”


“Jealousy is a shifty demon, Crian, and given your place as a son of a First Family, you must be increasingly wary against it. What are you, thirty-eight? And yet you think you can teach centuries-old elves how to wield a blade? You don’t know how far from true beauty your skills really are. I do. I have witnessed Karak, our true Father, wield a blade. Now that…that was a sight to remember, a dance like none I have ever seen. His greatsword sheared trees and cattle with ease, and it seemed as though the very earth trembled beneath his feet. You are so much like him, yet so far from him at the same time. If only you had been born prior to his departure. You are a great warrior, Crian, but he could have made you legendary.”

Crian felt his neck flush at the dressing down, but something tickled at the back of his mind through it all. With a sudden jolt, he realized it, and he stared at his father in surprise.

“You…you don’t know?”

His father frowned.

“Know what?”

“Karak. He returned nine days ago.”

Clovis crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes.

“Is that so?”

“It is. He visited Minister Mori and held audience in the streets for a time before retiring to his temple. He hasn’t been seen since, but the Minister assures us he is still in Veldaren.”

He watched as his father’s expression subtly changed. He didn’t look surprised, but his normally detached gaze shifted for a moment. What was that expression? It looked almost like concern. This baffled Crian, for why would Karak’s Highest not rejoice upon his return? He didn’t dare ask. Such a question was far beyond his standing, even as Clovis’s own son.

Finally, his father said, “Praise be to Karak.”

“Praise be to Karak,” answered Avila.

Crian just nodded his head.

The door to the vestibule crashed open, interrupting their talk. All three turned to see King Vaelor step into the room. The leader of his personal guard followed, a brutish thug dressed in thick leather armor. The king was all smiles now, though his cheerfulness seemed forced, and he struggled to hold aside his heavy wool cape to allow his legs freedom of movement. He had the look of a child who’d done wrong and hoped his parents wouldn’t notice.

“Ah, Clovis,” he said with false cheer. “Good to see you. I apologize for my words earlier—busy day and all. How were the travels? How was Haven? Did you shed plenty of blasphemers’ blood—”

Without so much as a warning, Crian’s father lunged forward with the grace of a stalking cat. His fist struck the side of King Vaelor’s face, followed by a heavy crack. Vaelor’s neck snapped back, and his flesh rippled as he teetered on his feet. A glob of blood shot from his lips, smattering the wall behind him. The king fell over, landing hard on his elbow. His guard, Karl Dogon, took a step forward, reaching for the pommel of his sword, but one look from Clovis froze him in his tracks.

“Go outside,” said Crian’s father. “Do not come back in until I call for you.”

“Yes, Highest,” replied the large man, and he backed his way out the door.

The king stared up at Karak’s Highest with fear in his eyes. Clovis kicked the prone man, eliciting a womanly scream. Crian winced, knowing this would only goad his father into delivering a worse beating.

And beat the king his father did, mercilessly pummeling him with an endless barrage of kicks and punches. By the time he was finished, King Vaelor looked like a stuck pig ready for the spit. Blood ran down his frilly white shirt, dripped from his necklace of thick gold links, and stained the corners of his royal cape an even deeper black. The man whimpered and cried, tears falling from the creases in his now swollen eyes.

And never once, Crian realized, had his father uttered a word. When he was finished, Clovis removed his blood-soaked gloves and handed them to Avila.

“You will never disrespect me again, your highness,” he said, venom leaking out of every syllable. “You are but a man, destined to live out your days and die, whereas I am forever. Your rule is a sham. Everything you have is because of me. It was I who poisoned your father’s rival so that your father might win the Tourney of Rule. I—not Karak—named him king, just as I named you king after he died. And how do you repay me? By giving another the mantle of Lord Commander and treating me as a common beggar in front of the court. With but a word, I can take back all I have given you. Do you understand?”

The whimpering king nodded.

Clovis gave him one last kick in the ribs and called for his guard to reenter. “Get him cleaned up,” he demanded. “And have the court whores apply powder to hide the bruises. We don’t want anyone to know our king is a craven who cannot defend himself, now do we?”

“Of course not, Highest,” Dogon replied.

The bodyguard helped the dazed king to his feet and led him out the side door of the vestibule. Beyond was a staircase leading to the royal bedroom and the stable of whores that Clovis had allowed the man to keep. The Highest straightened his shirt, cracked his neck, and turned to his children. If not for the faint stains of blood on his clothes, there was nary a sign of the beating that had just taken place.

“Crian, you are to leave with your sister. I want you both in Omnmount with a faction of the new army.”

Thoughts of Nessa leapt to the forefront of Crian’s mind. He couldn’t believe his sudden good fortune. Omnmount was barely a few days ride from the delta. The timeliness of it, however, gave him pause.

“I will, Father, but may I ask why? And what of the City Watch?”

“There are dark days coming, son. Dark days for which we must prepare. You will command five hundred green soldiers and continue their training. Enlist the help of the township if you wish. You say you are the best at swordplay? Very well. Then let the best teach our men. Humanity is weak, from the east to the west. It is up to the children of gods, up to us, to guide them. We have seventy-eight days before Haven will get their reckoning, and I want our men to be prepared. As for the City Watch, I will have the king hand those duties over to Captain Gregorian. He is capable enough for a regular human.”

“What of Vulfram? Will he not come with us?”

“Perhaps. For now, I have granted him leave, for being Soleh’s child, he is weak and requires time with his loved ones. We are a blessed few, we Crestwells. The world is young, and only the strong, the dedicated, will inherent the fruit when the vine ripens. We must endure the weaknesses of those who are useful to us, but we must never envy and never indulge. We are the snakes that dine with the lion. Karak is always with us, no matter how far away he might be.”

With that, Highest Crestwell pivoted on his heel and headed for the vestibule door. Crian watched him go, guilt stirring in his stomach. It was Avila who called out to their father before he exited the chamber.

“Highest, what will you do in our absence?” she asked.

He turned to his children, caught in the half-darkness between the covered doorway and the torchlight. The shadows slid over his face, concealing his upper half, making him look like a partially formed apparition.

“I will hold court with my god,” he said, and walked out the door.





The banner flapped on its pole, puffed out for all to see by a strong late summer breeze. Vulfram knelt before it, gazing up at the leaping doe that served as the sigil of House Mori. It was a welcome reminder of the warmth of home in an otherwise cold city of stone. When he was young he’d watched whole herds wander through the plains outside the Erzn forest. Those days he had hunted with a bow and gutted with a knife, killing for the evening meal and always showing respect to the beasts he slew.


Those days were long gone indeed.

He rose to his feet and entered the Tower Keep, the tall, ugly building that served as his family’s home away from home. There were only three of them living in the large structure: his mother, his father, and his sister, Adeline.

Entering the front gate, he trudged through the entrance hall, making sure to cut a wide swath between himself and the ingress to his father’s studio. He could never explain why, but he always experienced a sort of vertigo that made him feel ill beyond belief whenever he so much as approached his father’s workplace, the room originally meant to hold a throne, now adorned with the mystic painting of Karak, Ashhur, and Celestia.

His knees ached as he climbed the stairs. The walls were thick and rough, hewn from granite from the north, and he pressed his hand against them for support. Unlike the Castle of the Lion, which always felt cold, the Tower Keep seemed not only to retain heat, but also to magnify it. The huge sword on his back weighed him down, and the effort of his climb caused sweat to bead on his shaved head and gather in his thick eyebrows. His swaying beard left a crescent of moisture on his bare chest, and his horsehide breeches clung to his buttocks, chafing him between the legs. It was just past noon, but as far as he was concerned, the sun couldn’t set soon enough.

On the third level, the muted sound of two women speaking reached his ears. This was odd, as it was midweek, which meant his mother should be in the Tower Justice courtroom, doling out punishments and keeping an eye on his crazy sister. Something catastrophic must have happened for her to be here now. He cautiously approached the closed door to her chambers and rapped it lightly with his knuckles.

“Mother?” he asked.

“Come in,” replied his mother’s voice, sounding strange and conflicted.

Pushing open the door to her large room, he saw the eminent Soleh Mori sitting on the bed, her dark, wavy hair hanging to the middle of her waist, her soulful brown eyes wide and attentive. Her hand drew to her mouth at the sight of him and she gasped. Beside her was Lanike Crestwell, wife of the Highest, a small, mousy woman whose petite features spoke more of cutesiness than outright beauty. They both looked like schoolgirls, what with their perfect complexions and youthful veneers.

It took him a moment to realize that the lady of House Crestwell was in his mother’s room, and once that understanding hit him, he went to the corner of the bed, fell to one knee, and kissed each woman’s hand in turn.

“Stand up, son,” his mother said, sounding edgy even though she was obviously overjoyed to see him.

“Yes, Vulfram, stand,” said Lanike kindly.

“I would prefer to sit, if you don’t mind,” he replied, looping Darkfall’s scabbard over his head and setting it down before sitting cross-legged on a stone floor that seemed to pulse with warmth. His mother began to cry, happy tears now, and she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

“My son, my wonderful Vulfram, is home. Karak is good.”

“That he is, Mother. But why are you not at the castle?”

His mother grinned and cast a cautious glance at Lanike.

“There has been…news, my son. Both for good and ill. Because of that, Lady Crestwell gave me leave today. But I do not wish to speak of such things now. Can I simply bask in the knowledge that you are home?”

“Bask all you want, Mother, but please tell me the news.”

“Well,” his mother said, clearing her throat, “for the good, Karak has returned to us. He visited me in the Arena nine days ago. He is as strong and wise as ever, and he insists his return is permanent. I have visited him four times over that span, but he will not take any other visitors for the time being. I believe that he is tired from his journey.”

“I see,” said Vulfram. So that explained the differences he had noticed as he walked north from the Castle of the Lion to the Tower Keep. People were out in abundance, as was usual in the city, but their demeanor was different somehow. Lighter. He had even seen one of his old charges from the Watch, a surly sort, grinning at passersby as he manned the corner in front of Graymare’s Apothecary.

“You’re right, Mother,” he said. “This is a good thing.”

Soleh’s face soured, turning suddenly sad. “It is,” she agreed.

He reached for her, but she moved before he could touch her.

“Mother, what is it? What ills you?”

“I…it is just…”

“A letter came this morning from your manor in Erznia,” said Lanike Crestwell, taking Soleh’s hand. Her high-pitched voice matched her mousy features. “It seems your daughter Lyana has found herself in a rather…compromising position.”

Vulfram’s heart skipped a beat. “Lyana? What has she done this time?”

Lyana Mori was his second child and a bit of a wild soul. She was always getting into spats with the local farmers, one time even earning a high merchant’s ire by attempting to bed his thirteen-year-old son. She had been nine at the time. Now she was sixteen.

“The letter did not say,” said Lanike. “It was an official epistle sent by Magister Wentner, requesting the presence of a high official to sit in judgment of your daughter. We’ve been given no word of the charges. With Joseph in Dezerea, I thought to send Crian to settle the matter.”

“No other man will sit in judgment of my daughter,” said Vulfram. “I am Lord Commander of Karak’s Army. I will take care of this myself.”

The idea of him leaving seemed to break his mother, and she turned her face to hide her tears. Lanike gave him a hard look and said, “You have your responsibilities to the realm and its forces to consider.”

“Responsibilities from which your husband the Highest has granted me leave. I have a month to do as I please. This changes nothing, for I was already planning to return to my family. Come morning, I’ll ride. If the weather holds, I can make it there in less than two days.”

Lanike squeezed his hand, hard. “Remember, Lord Commander, that you are bound by Karak’s laws. As much as you love your daughter, it is your creator to whom you owe loyalty.”

He ripped his fingers away. “I realize this, Lady Crestwell. No one loves Karak more than I. And whatever Lyana has done, I will punish her as the law demands. Of that you have my word, not that you would need it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must gather my things from the castle and ready my horse.”

His mother stopped weeping into her pillow and leapt off the bed. She barreled into him, wrapping him tightly in her arms, wetting his chest with her tears. It never ceased to amaze him how different his mother was outside of a public setting; in court she was steel, unflinching, whereas behind closed doors, among her husband and children, she was like a ball of yarn that couldn’t keep itself together. It was something he admired about her, really. He wished he could be as open with his emotions as she was, even if only on occasion.

Soleh pulled him close, standing on her toes so that her lips might reach his ear.

“I love you, Vulfram, and I love my granddaughter,” she whispered. “Please, no matter what she has done, be kind to her. She has not known a father’s love for many years. Show her the mercy she deserves.”

“I will, Mother,” he whispered, and after placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, he exited her chamber. First the show of violence against Haven, followed by countless insufferable nights spent listening to Highest Crestwell’s endless proselytizing, and now his Lyana in trouble. An endless stream of tension that had tightened his chest and turned the hairs in his beard even grayer than before. His heart beat out of control, stealing away his breath.


I don’t want to be the first of my family to die, he thought, and went about preparing for the journey home. But by the gods, don’t let it be Lyana either.