1
An Omen

The grumble of not-so-distant thunder was now ominous. It had been a long ride to get this close to the city but Prime Herek had decided, despite the bleak weather, to push on to reach Tal before the Thirteenth Bell. Apart from the men’s desire to be back in the comfort of the castle quarters, he knew the King appreciated the decision made a few hours earlier to ride on through the night. Of them all, he seemed the most eager to get home. Lorys would never say anything to this effect, of course, but Herek understood the sovereign’s desire to be reunited with his young Queen. The forced separation of recent weeks due to official duties had fully tested his usually dependable good humour.

Lightning, still just far enough away not to startle the horses, suddenly lit the sky in warning. The column slowed to a walk.

‘What do you think?’ Lorys asked the Prime, knowing the certain blunt response would not be what he wanted to hear. Herek was a conservative man who would never put the Sovereign, nor the men beneath his command, under unnecessary threat. He had been trained well by the former prime, Kyt Cyrus.

‘The storm is coming towards us faster than I anticipated, your highness,’ the Prime admitted.

Lorys did not disguise his bitter disappointment. This would mean another night without his beloved Alyssa in his arms. Both men looked up gloomily towards the moon as it slid behind heavy, black clouds, plunging the way ahead into a murky and unwelcome darkness.

Herek knew his proposal would make for an unhappy King this night but it could not be helped; safety had to be his first consideration. ‘My lord, I believe we should set up camp now before the rain arrives. I would suggest that this offers more shelter than we would have ahead.’ He nodded towards the small ridge nearby which rose above a shallow and convenient gully.

The thunder rolled threateningly towards them again, much louder this time. When the sky blazed overhead, Lorys capitulated. ‘As you see fit, Prime,’ he said, disappointment knifing through him.

Herek held up his hand to halt the column of soldiers. Orders were given and dispatched through his captains; within moments the entire Company was busily unsaddling horses and setting up camp for the night.

Someone grabbed the reins of his stallion and led it away but Lorys was too preoccupied by his own grim thoughts to even thank the man. Normally he would unsaddle gladly, and wipe down, feed and water the horse himself—he was a King who led by example, far preferring physical prowess and the outdoor life to the paperwork and bureaucratic tasks involved in running his realm—but right now he allowed it all to happen around him as he finally accepted that Alyssa would not be fussing over him and warming his chilled bones tonight. And yet he so badly wanted to hold her again; so badly wanted to look Gyl in the eye and admit that he, King Lorys of Tallinor, was his father; so desperately wanted to roam the halls of his palace again.

It was not like Lorys to feel so insecure, but he had been in this pensive mood since an event earlier that afternoon. The Company had been passing a field where a small group of ravens had gathered, their calls loud and grating. It was not a common sight in Tallinor. The raven was considered the most intelligent species of bird, shrouded in ghoulish mystery and superstition, and the Tallinese tended to be wary of it. It was no surprise to Lorys that the entire party of soldiers had murmured a warding at the birds, invoking the Light to protect them, but even he had been vaguely alarmed when the large birds had suddenly lifted into the air as one, flown past the column and then wheeled back towards them. They had appeared to fly deliberately towards the men, and, being at the front, it was the King who had been in direct range. The birds had flown over and one had been low enough to swoop by the King’s head, raking his short hair as it squawked in its horrible voice, unsettling him from his horse.

No man in the Company had dared so much as chuckle at seeing him fall. Even the most simple-minded of men understood such an omen. A collective breath had been drawn by the soldiers and Herek had immediately leapt down beside the King, quick to dispel any superstitious nonsense. Lorys had said nothing in this regard, merely making some jest which had relieved the tension amongst the men. He had remounted and they were quickly on their way, the incident apparently forgotten.

Except it had not been forgotten by the King. He was a spiritual man and this attack by the black birds of evil was seen by him to be a marking —that his life was now haunted by a black shroud. He felt himself touched by death. He did not share this notion with his companions and tried to put it out of his mind, but it lingered, nibbling at his resolve during the long journey until he felt ragged by the weight of its portent.

‘King Lorys.’ It was the Prime back again, ever attentive.

‘Yes?’ he replied, snapping himself out of his black thoughts.

‘Fires are lit, sire. Perhaps you care to warm yourself? Food is being prepared now.’

‘Thank you. Where’s Caerys?’

The page was at his side in a second. ‘Here, your majesty.’

‘I want a rider sent ahead to the palace.’

Lorys watched Herek grimace but knew the Prime would not challenge the King.

Caerys nodded. ‘I’ll fetch someone immediately. Will you be sending a written message, sire?’

The King blinked; he thought about it a moment. ‘No. I’ll brief him.’

‘At once, sire. I shall fetch a messenger,’ Caerys said, turning.

Lorys glanced at Herek again but the Prime’s face now betrayed nothing. The soldier stood to attention. ‘I’ll see to the men, my lord, if you are comfortable now?’

The King nodded. It was clear Herek did not approve of risking the man, or his horse, out in the blackness and the approaching storm just so Lorys could send a message of love back to the Queen. But Lorys needed to reach out to her. After the scene with the ravens, it would be reassuring to have some communication with Alyssa—even if, for the time being, it was one-sided.

The storm had moved in around them more quickly than any had imagined it could. Their only solace was the moon, which broke through the clouds momentarily to provide a watery glow through the drizzle. Now hunched beneath rough shelter, the soldiers worked hard at keeping the flames of their small fires fanned and alive. The horses were skittish and many of the men chose to stand by their precious mounts, stroking and talking to them whilst the worst of the storm raged.

Herek sat by his sovereign and encouraged him to eat. Lorys chewed on some dried meat out of habit more than hunger—there had not been enough time to warm any food. He was glad for the wine though, and drank thirstily to drown his sorrow. As he swallowed the last of his second cup a massive thunderclap sounded directly above. They all turned towards the animals, except the King, whose eyes were fixed absently on a distant single tree he could just pick out in the thin light, bending against the angry wind but still proudly standing atop a small hillock. He had been staring in its direction for a while, keeping his thoughts private and brooding, angry with himself now that he had risked a lone rider out in this weather. He regretted his decision bitterly.

The sudden mighty clap of thunder was accompanied by a bright, thick hand of lightning which illuminated the entire sky for a few moments as it reached a long finger towards the tree.

Only the King witnessed it. The tree was struck by all the fiery anger of the heavens, splitting in two and bursting into flame. The rain which had turned heavy subdued the fire immediately. To Lorys, it felt like his blood had become icy in that moment; clogged frozen in his veins as he watched the violence.

Herek turned back to the King. ‘That was close, sire.’ He saw Lorys, mouth slightly ajar, staring blankly ahead. The King was clearly shocked. The Prime followed the direction of the King’s stare, trying to discover a reason and his eyes locked onto what had his Sovereign’s attention. Ahead the tree which had stood so strong and proud, alone on the small hill, was a smashed, smouldering wreck.

He looked back at Lorys, a pit in his stomach. ‘Sire,’ he said, gently.

‘It’s the worst of all omens, Herek.’ The King’s voice was soft, filled with fear.

‘My lord…’ Herek hoped he could break the spell of the ruined tree, devastated by the fingers of the Host. It was true though: to witness the destruction of a tree by the gods was considered the bleakest of all warnings. He tried to think of something comforting to say and found himself without words.

In the end, the King came to his rescue. His voice sounded resigned. ‘The gods have spoken to me, Herek. They warned me earlier today with the ravens and now it seems they are reminding me.’

‘Please, your highness, I—’

Lorys interrupted whatever his Prime had intended to say. ‘It is a sign, Herek.’

Before the Prime could say anything further, the King stood and stepped out from the ridge’s shelter towards the blackened tree. He waved away a shocked Caerys who had immediately followed, making it clear his own dark thoughts were company enough. Herek could not allow this. He ran after his King. Lorys moved swiftly but as though in a stupor. He had eyes only for the still-smouldering tree. For some reason he felt he needed to make peace with it—as though it had taken the rebuke from the gods meant for him. Why did he feel like this? All his ghosts joined him on the hill. Was it Nyria’s untimely death? Was it marrying Alyssa so suddenly?…Or perhaps just the pure guilt of desiring and loving her so much?

Or did it go deeper still? Was it siring the child, Gyl, now a superb young man and yet one he failed every day by not telling him who his father was. Or was it Gynt? Did the execution of Torkyn Gynt still haunt him after all these years? Could he ever atone for the darkest of all sins—allowing a madman like Goth to carry out his grisly work under royal proclamation? So many atrocities perpetrated on good, loyal citizens in his name.

And then he wondered with fresh despair whether a freak occurrence on a windswept, stormy night in Perswych could truly be an omen. He allowed all these thoughts to loose themselves upon him as he ran now towards the tree. He must touch it; feel its death, show his sorrow for its end and his regret for all his questionable decisions.

The King saw the skies lighten, heard the monstrous slam of thunder directly overhead and realised, with a sense of wonder as well as acceptance, that the old adage of lightning never striking twice in the same spot was indeed a fallacy. The hand of the gods reached across the sky, creating daylight in that terrifying second as Prime Herek watched the deathlight arc once again towards the land and murder his King in the early hours before dawn.

Queen Alyssa hugged a thick shawl about her. It was a very early hour before dawn and she had not slept, unlike her young visitors in comfortable lodgings not far from her own chambers. They were exhausted not only from the walk to Tal, but also by the emotion of the previous night. And why not? She herself was rocked by the revelations. She stood silently by the window watching the storm lash the moors. Alyssa hated storms; always craved their end when the heavy rains would finally break.

The man she had loved for most of her life moved behind her; without the disk of archalyt on her forehead she could sense his power shimmering around him as his arms slid about her waist.

‘What did the messenger say?’ he asked.

‘Poor fellow. I’m surprised they risked sending him out in this weather. Apart from a personal message from Lorys, he told us that the Company will not be returning as planned. The storm is too great. They are camped safely outside Perswych and will depart at first light.’

Tor said nothing immediately but she could feel his relief.

‘Then we have this night together,’ he whispered into her ear, risking a kiss in her hair.

‘What’s left of it,’ she replied just as softly, turning into his arms. ‘Tor, what are we going to do?’

He searched her face; her beautiful face…the one he had tried to forget but never quite managed to. ‘I must find our other son,’ he said firmly, staring deep into her eyes, refusing to allow her to look away.

‘And me?’

‘Alyssa, I will not make this difficult for you. I promise.’

He hugged her close, understanding her helplessness, feeling it himself too. She was only just recovering from the physical shock of learning a few hours earlier that she was a mother to two grown children. There was no mistaking them: Gidyon virtually identical to his father and his sister, Lauryn, so close in looks to herself that no one, not even the King, could have disputed who the parents were.

And then there was the shock of learning that her first love still lived…and she now married to the King. He felt her despair. No son had died in the Heartwood as she had been told by all those she loved. Instead this son, together with his newborn sister, were vanished away at birth to some other world, leaving her in ignorance to suffer years of pain over the boy’s death. And now fresh heartache at hearing that another son, weak—almost dead—was secreted away deep in the Forests of Tallinor. Alyssa shook her head with disbelief that any of this could be happening to her. She had two living husbands now—and she loved them both.

It was as though Tor had heard her thoughts and cut through all her confusion to clarify what had to be done. ‘Rubyn must be found, Alyssa. We must complete the Trinity.’

‘And then what!’ She did not mean to sound so churlish.

He shrugged. ‘I hope Lys might explain more.’

‘I hate that woman.’ She watched his discomfort at her words. ‘Oh, I know you trust her, Tor, but she brings nothing but sorrow to this life of mine…and to everyone she touches.’

‘She is as much a victim as we.’ He wished he could tell her more but he had given a promise.

‘No! Lys is just as bad as Merkhud and Sorrel, manipulating our lives and creating pain. How can you allow her to keep you as her puppet, dancing to her tune?’

‘I have no choice, Alyssa. Orlac is free. Our only hope is to face him and we need the Trinity to succeed.’

‘Tor, you don’t know anything—you only believe what she tells you!’

Alyssa suddenly felt sorry. He looked so beaten.

‘I have no one else to trust. Orlac is coming.’

She felt the fight go out of her at his final words. He was right. They were all victims and they could choose to give in or to at least die fighting this god.

‘What do you want me to do?’ she finally asked of him, wishing his handsome head was not bowed by the same empty despair she felt.

‘Look after Gidyon and Lauryn. Keep them safe whilst I go in search of Rubyn. If and when I return with him, we will consider our next move.’

She nodded; said nothing.

Tor finally voiced the question he feared most to ask. ‘What about the King?’

‘Lorys will be given the truth. He will lay no hand on our children, you can be sure of this, Tor. They have my absolute protection.’

Tor shuddered. Similar words had been said to his parents many years ago by a silver-haired man who had also believed he had a royal authority of safety to offer. His thoughts drifted back to Jhon and Ailsa Gynt. He must see them.

‘When will you leave?’ she asked.

He glanced towards the window. ‘Before dawn…soon.’ He looked at her, sadness flitting across his face. ‘It’s best I’m not here when the King returns.’

‘How will he believe me if you are not here for him to see for himself?’

‘The children are enough proof,’ he said flatly.

‘I have never told him of our marriage.’

‘Keep him in ignorance,’ Tor said, bluntly. ‘He has enough distress headed his way.’

Alyssa turned back to the window at the sound of an almighty thunderclap. She looked out just in time to see the sky turn almost white as a massive strike of lightning arced menacingly across the land. She saw its jagged pattern disappear behind the moors and would not understand until later that morning the great wave of sadness she suddenly felt pass through her.

With these final theatrics the storm broke and the heavens opened, unleashing a hard and relentless rain which would last for several days, making a setting fit for the great sorrow of Tallinor at the death of its King.

Far away across the seas in the land of Cipres, itself being lashed by torrential rain, another woman looked out from a palace window and made a fearful decision. She was not a queen, but she protected one…a young one.

‘Why these dreams?’ she asked herself. Relentlessly invading her nights—which were sleepless anyway since the death of her beloved Queen Sylven—was a woman’s voice. It was a lovely voice which did not frighten her, and yet what she spoke of did.

Hela watched the downpour intensify, finally blanking out views over the manicured gardens and treetops. Why did this dreamspeaker implore her to smuggle the child away from her home? Surely Sarel was coping with enough? Here she was, barely dealing with her own intense grief following her mother’s murder, whilst the realm fell into crisis and dignitaries clamoured for the child’s immediate coronation; fierce competition was already erupting between the men who sensed they might control the nation as the new Queen’s regent until she came of age. Plus, there was a harem to consider for the future and begin assembling, as well as advisers to gather…people they could trust with the young mind.

No, it was all too fast.

Sarel was certainly of an age to assume her royal role but Hela knew she could only be a figurehead for a while yet. The young Queen was still too immature and unworldly to make decisions on State matters. Hela shook her head, imagining how Sarel’s idyllic childhood would be gone in a flash, replaced with weighty tasks which Sylven had not planned for her beautiful daughter so soon. Hela knew how the former queen had protected Sarel, even from the adoring public, and she had often heard Sylven proclaim privately in her chambers that she would not allow Sarel’s special years to be claimed by royal protocol as her own had.

But all of these protestations fell aside as Hela tried to understand the implications of this strange woman’s earnest words to flee with the young Queen.

Still more extraordinary, this woman told her to find Torkyn Gynt. He alone would cast the ring of protection around Sarel whilst he dealt with her usurpers. Usurpers? What did she mean? The Regent? Or was there something more sinister in this Dreamspeaker’s words.

Hela laid her hands and cheek against the cool of the window and made a pact with herself. If the dream woman spoke to her tonight, she would find the courage to reply rather than just cringe, terrified, hoping she would leave her alone.

The notion of seeing Torkyn Gynt again was enticing. She had admitted to herself many times that if Sylven had not fallen for him so hard, she herself would have made her own moves to win his attention. However, the thought of escaping with Sarel, smuggling her away from all things familiar and travelling into the Kingdom of Tallinor was petrifying.

Hela needed a reason—one she could fully appreciate—and she intended that this Dreamspeaker would provide it, or once and for all leave her alone.