Chapter 1

A high wind frizzled the silent woods, a gentle rush through the tall branches. The sky was pale blue overhead, cloudless and cold as new winter, meeting the great purple and grey ranges far off into the distance. The pale garron tossed tousled its head and snorted, picking new scents from the wind bracing the land; Myrell ran her long fingers along his neck and he was silent. Beside her, a tall, fair haired man stood, thick woollen cloaks pulled close against his narrow frame, his steady gaze set across the low lands below.

“I hear of your brother Eludur’s return,” the fair-haired man spoke, “he has been long from home. Two years, has it been?”

Myrell smiled sadly, “I fear is has been longer, Castelleo. His son Matchu has grown much, and without a father. Eludur does not know what he has missed in his absence”

“Indeed,” Castelleo replied, “it is so startling how easily it is to disappear completely from someone’s life,” he smiled sadly "even when you are gone for what seems like a few seasons.”

“True, but a few seasons it was not.”

When the Northener looked up, noticed the sun was high on the mountains. “As I was saying, your Lord father is travelling to meet Lord Dyron at the Grey Hall; I suppose you have not heard?” Castelleo took her silence for a no; he studied her expression for a moment, the distant eyes, resolute mouth. He wondered briefly why they no longer spoke, her and her father. “There is also word your elder brother has not returned from Myrash,” he finished.

Myrell smiled faintly. She remembered her eldest brother Luthen before the March. She was but a child then, nine and naive, and he no older than fifteen. Once, he had been their father’s favourite son, before all this started, before the war had come and before the young began to die before the old. Many things had changed since, but one was sensible not to dwell on the past.

“Rumours are rumours, my friend,” Myrell smiled, though it was strained and short. “I’ll take you to the coast, if you like, you are heading there?” the woman offered after the talk was done, “it is not long out of my way.” But the blonde man declined, as Myrell knew he would. Neither two ever rode anything but abreast together. Myrell thought for a while before she left him, and dismounted. She was hardly an inch shorter than Castelleo, who was a tall Nethel from the North; her blonde hair hung free, a few strands in thin plats to the small of her back, tied with feathers that flew in the breeze as she rode.

“Come to the Pretoon with me on third day of autumn,” she said. “It would be good for Albany to see you again,” she smiled. Castelleo shook his head and sighed, a light smile on his lips. Albany was an old friend of theirs, once when they were younger they had travelled through Myrash, New Dekonia, and the six lands of the High Kingdoms. Six years ago, when Castelleo left for the Highlands and home, and Myrell on the ships to Whent, Albany had stayed behind and grown up.

“I cannot. Albany is somewhat different these days,” he replied.

“He is married it is true, with two daughters and a third child on the way, or perhaps a fourth… but he asks of you when I visit. His wife Rhyanne is not such a burden to him as you might think.”

“Yes, he has changed much, Albany,” the Northerner said absently, but then there was a pause and Myrell smiled for she knew she had him. Her garron stamped his hoof into the soil and the woman turned to him and laughed, running her hand along his flanks to quieten him.

“Brey grows impatient at simple wandering of us humans,” she smiled and calmed him with her hand on his neck. “He wants to be fed, don’t you boy?” She mounted easily, eyes scanning the flat grassy horizon, and then turned back to Castelleo. “I trust we will see you at Pretoon then, on the third day of autumn.”

Castelleo smiled, “Goodbye little crow,” he said after her, as she kicked her feet into the horses’ flanks and disappeared down into the grasslands below.

Castelleo folded his arms across his chest and set his hard grey eyes toward the sun, high and useless on a pale green sea. It was a bitter late summer, and an even colder winter to follow a cheerless autumn. Leaves did not ripen and fall in the south; they rotted on branches and were lost in the snow. There was no beauty in these autumns, not like back home, he thought.

The grasslands here were vast, but equally as imposing were the forests, which, far off to the East, stretched to the distant mountain pass, and, from there, all the way to the sea. New Dekonia was certainly a place of wanderlust, but it was also a lonely place, and not lonely in the ways the north was. Here, there was just emptiness, vast and proud. For miles and miles, nothing, not so much as a tree dotted the open grasslands. And inversely, in the forest, only the occasional river spared a traveller its dark depths. This was Myrell’s land, he thought, and she belonged to it. She was young, her people spirited and brazen as filly’s. Perhaps if she had been a villager, things would have been very different, but she was the only daughter of one of the High Kingdoms Lords, Lord Haylen; King in the saddle. She was strong as a child, Lord Haylen had taken care of that, and also taken care that she could ride, fight and travel as any man could, although such goes the custom in New Dekonia. There was more to the little crow, however, for one was rarely standing on the surface. As Castelleo walked, a long shadow fell across the grasses; he looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun, and whistled low and long.

* * *

Issen stood rigid as stone before the window, a large square cut into the parapet, his steady dark eyes scanning the flat desert expanse. It would be cold tonight, he thought. The nights changed the desert so severely, from the searing heat of midday where little could be done but sit and wait till dusk, to the terrible chills that accompanied darkness.

“Sir?”

Issen turned to face the girl, smiling, though his expression suggesting he was miles away.

“Yes, Delora?” his voice was deep and soothing.

“Lord Galmod is here to see you, sir,” she replied, stepping from the doorway. Issen sighed, and turned briefly back to the window as he picked up his glass, and drained the remnants. He walked the distance of the balcony to the doorway to where the girl stood, the outline of her slim body visible through the thin white dress; he smiled at her, pausing.

“Thankyou, Delora,” his hand brushed her cheek lightly, and then he handed her the glass. The wench blushed, and followed through behind him.

Lord Galmod stood in the common room, his red beard catching the soft yellow lighting that bounced from the firegates off the walls. The room was large, with two long bearskin couches situated around a large hearth. The two men stood.

“It has been a long time, Galmod. You said he would be here by the seventh moon,” Issen’s voice remained calm and tensive, though a bridge had been crossed and the twinge of annoyance was just notable in his dark eyes.

“We are doing all we can, Issen. It is not the fault of the Order if some bastard child does not take the will of the council with seriousness”

“That bastard child, Joseph, is the heir to Memnorch,” Issen said quietly, “And it is the responsibility of the Order to ensure he reaches Grey Hall, as intended. There is no need for reprimand.”

“It cannot be done in a matter of weeks, Issen! Better we cut his head from his shoulders to cease his damned will,” the bearded man growled. Issen frowned.

“You shall do nothing of the sort. What is a king, after all, if he has no will? He is but another pawn. You, Joseph, know just as well as I, that a king with a hand up his arse is as much use to us as the last.”

“I’d rather the Order’s hand up his arse than that scallywag sitting on the throne himself!” Lord Galmod murmured in his bellowing voice “making ill judgement and fraternising all he wants. He’ll be the end of us, Issen.”

The other man did not answer, his soft, dark eyes straining to be resolute.

“Let us hope you are wrong, Galmod,” Issen said quietly.

* * *

Ylettin was the second eldest of Lord Haylen’s seven nieces, and by a measure the most headstrong; she stood on the open balconies of the Northward quarters, brown eyes set on the great distant mountainous ranges that lit the proud skies of New Dekonia. Her face was devoid of contours, she was but 16 winters, and her shoulders as straight and proud as any mans. Soft lilac satin fell from her bronze skin, skin as tanned as burned wheat, and her hair, her mother’s hair, dark and as long and fine as a silken mane. Her mother had been a Ymaran Islander, a tall, brown skinned beauty, with dark eyes like pools of rich wine. Ylettin’s skin was not quite as dark as her mother’s, but her mouth was full, and her limbs as long and slender as her mothers' people had been. In the courtyard below were her two youngest sisters, twins, playing dancing and swordplay with wooden sticks. They were four winters, both of them, both of them as golden and fair as their mother and father were. She was the natural born child of Lord Myles, the younger brother of Lord Haylen, King in the Saddle. His wife Lady Gladys had never taken a liking to the bronze-skinned beauty he had brought home with him fourteen years ago.

Ylettin felt a hand soft on her hips, and smiled softly as she felt Jauten’s lips brush against her neck.

“How is my songbird?”

“I have been waiting for you,” Ylettin smiled and turned to him, studying his handsome, perfectly chiselled face.

“I didn’t realise you had returned,” he pulled her towards him, pressing her hips to his front, he grinned.

“I see you still carry your dagger”

“How better to protect myself from groping hands?” she replied slyly, and in reply to this he grinned, pressing his lips hard against hers. As footsteps approached, Ylettin pulled away quickly as the tall, graceful form of her eldest sister, Terell, appeared. Terell smiled warmly upon her younger sister as she stepped outside.

“Caslen said you had returned, sister. Welcome home”

“I am glad to be back, dusty roads and dank inns do tire one so. I honestly don’t know how Myrell can stay away from home so long!” Ylettin smiled sweetly, shaking her head.

“I suspect she prefers dirt and squalor to soft beads and fur,” Terell replied, and the sisters laughed. Terell reached for Jauten’s hand then and smiled.

“Our daughter wants you to tell her one of your tales tonight, Jauten,” she curled a lock of his fair hair behind an ear, before kissing him lightly on the lips. Ylettin watched as her older sister whispered something in her husband’s ear and smiled.

“I will see you at supper, Ylettin” she said to her younger sister before turning back inside, her slender hips moving lightly beneath the thin white fabric of her gown. All of Lord Haylen’s nieces were extraordinarily fair to look upon, and Terell was certainly no exception. Jauten followed his wife inside, throwing one last mischievous smile back towards Ylettin, who returned it. Ylettin smiled to herself as she turned away. It is me he loves, not my sister, Ylettin thought to herself. She had been sharing her sister’s husband since their marriage three years ago. She had been only 14, but always seemed as though she was much, much older, and who was she to deny herself simple pleasures? Besides, she thought wickedly, we were always taught to share.

The last rays of afternoon sunlight spilled across the courtyard, and Ylettin had to shade her eyes as she stood on the cold stone terrace, her legs still sore from the saddle. She would need to shower and dress before she went into dinner, and then she would see the man her father had brought for her to marry.