The End of The Cursed
Chapter 4: An Interminable Journey

Theodore was regretting his decision to leave with his strange companions. Had he really been in enough danger to justify such an odd choice? It was possible that the townspeople would not have requested his death a second time. Even if they had, being burnt at the stake might be preferable to his current situation. Traveling with two bizarre half-human couples was intolerable. Frederick and his woman were disgustingly amorous, especially given that the woman was pregnant already. What kind of a man continued to be intimate with a woman who was carrying a child? It was unwholesome and unsavory. Given that he knew the woman to be afraid and suspicious of her preternatural lover, he blamed Frederick more than her. The frightened girl needed someone to protect her from the lecherous bear, but he was not the man to do it. He didn’t wish to be strangled again for trying to come between the blonde demon and a woman.

Freya and her lover seemed to be estranged, which made things easier. While he hated Frederick, he didn’t mind the sister. Her company was tolerable, although still unsettling. At least he didn’t have to watch her hanging all over the merchant she was inexplicably in love with. More inexplicably the merchant was in love with her…despite knowing what she was. Still, he was the odd man out. He had no one. Everyone else was related to one of their companions, or in love with them. He was neither.

He was feeling rather sorry for himself given his isolation and lack of anyone to talk to-but at this point, what could be done? He wished he knew what Gilda’s true situation was. Had her husband really left her? Had she truly summoned a demon to protect herself? Or was what the witch hunters thought was a demon, really her gigantic husband? Or worse yet, this dangerous Grandfather that the other two spoke of with so much concern. He wondered if he would still love her if she was truly a witch and could summon demons… Yes. He would. There was every chance that she was alone and unprotected.

Or was she really off with that horrible arrogant woodcutter, and not thinking of him at all? He rubbed his forehead. What was he going to do with his life? If Freya was what she said she was, then he was promised some sort of a trade when they arrived at her country. Did he want to live in her country? These were things he should have thought of before he had left with them. It wasn’t as if he had had a choice though. In actuality, he really didn’t want to be burned again. If only he knew that he was traveling toward Gilda, and not away from everything he had ever known. Why could he not shake the allure of this woman? She must really be a witch in order to have such an effect on him. No one should agree to travel to an unknown country in the company of bear-people. No one sane anyway.

The Queen of Twyle waited for her son to come to her. As he was twenty eight, and a man, he was now King. Given how succession worked, she was no longer Queen. This sad fact meant that she really ought to inform her son of her actions the past few months. She had been conscripting soldiers and building an army, in his name of course. He had been terribly preoccupied with his father’s death, and as a loving mother, she had not wanted to bother him. Such trivialities like war, famine, and bankruptcy were not things to bother a grieving son with. After all, she was capable of handling it on her own.

Unfortunately the men who ran her son’s army were no longer keen on taking orders from her. Her son held the keys to the nearly empty treasury, and they were no longer accepting her word that they would be getting paid. She would have to tell her son about what she had been doing. More importantly, she had get him to agree with her course of action.

Her son limped in. He was neither a strong man, nor a particularly well man. He had suffered a fever as a child which had partially crippled him, and left him weak afterwards. Rearden had never fully recovered. It was a pity, aside from his limp and the corresponding stoop, he was a very handsome and intelligent man. He should have been able to marry into a rich kingdom, were it not for his illness and fears about his ability to procreate. The outside world saw him as a broken man, unfit to rule. His crippled body was seen as the house of a crippled mind, and the bearer of defects that might translate to his heir. It was nonsense, his outward deformity did not slake the fire of the man within.

“Ah mother.” King Rearden paused as he leaned on the relatively unused bookshelf, loaded with volumes her husband thought were pretty, but had never read. He sighed with disappointment. “I’ve been informed that you have been quite busy.” The new King looked weary, but he stayed standing. The former Queen of Twyle nodded.

“I’m so sorry my dear, I would have told you sooner, but your grief was so fresh! I did not wish to burden you.” She set a cup of warm tea in front of her son with a pat on his hand. “Now that you know, of course, we can begin our plans together.” His mother said with emphasis. She should make him feel included, then he might come to think of all of this as his own idea.

“I do not wish to go to war with Gyllene.” He said setting his cane against the little mosaic topped table next to his personal chair. There was a little groove in the table’s scallop edged design that grew deeper by the year as he routinely rested his whale bone handled cane against it. His mother raised an eyebrow. So he was fully informed of the situation…hmmm…so much for breaking it to him gently.

“Why ever not? Surely you understand how very dire our situation is? Our lands have been emptied of ore – which was their only valuable resource. We do not have good farmland and the coal vein is at last coming to an end. How are we to keep our people alive if we do not gain resources?” She asked him. Her long black hair was plaited severely so that her eyebrows barely moved when she spoke. She thought the effect made her look wrinkle free and with a high white forehead, for which she had been praised in her youth. Instead it made her look unnatural, and as though everything she said was insincere.

“Have you not heard the rumors that the lost heirs are returning? It was for this precise reason that Father forbade me to marry, despite being his heir! If they are returning, we could have an alliance, rather than a war.” Prince Rearden assured his mother. She scoffed.

“Our situation is too tenuous to leave to the middling promises of rumors! They have heard rumors that we prepare for war, and so they have spread rumors that their long dead heirs are returning to the land.” Her voice with conviction. Even if they did return it wouldn’t matter. How could she tell her son that a Princess from a wealthy Kingdom would not accept the hand of a crippled King from a poor one? The engagement that had been made when their Kingdom had coal, and when their Prince was a healthy ruddy cheeked boy, would not be upheld now.

How could she explain the necessity of war without hurting the feelings of her favorite child? While her husband had filled the boy’s head with nonsensical hopes, she could not afford to do so. It did him no favors, and was a disservice to an intelligent person.

“Mother, I understand that you believe this is the only course of action available…but should we not at least wait until we see if they are returning? If the daughter returns, and is unwed, then we have a chance to avoid war. While it may save us, it might ultimately end us.” Prince Rearden protested. He was a passive man and killing hundreds of his people in a fruitless pursuit seemed so unjust. His mother sighed.

“There is very little time. At the moment we still have limited strength, if we wait until we are destitute, we will not be able to pay our armies. Even if the heirs do return, which is doubtful, the only female child would be married by now. It has been almost two decades since they were supposedly stolen away. We cannot delay Rearden. We must act now.” His mother assured him. Prince Rearden shook his head and then considered. What his mother said was true in some respects. If they were going to go to war, this would be their last chance to do so.

“I do not want to do this, but I do not want to betray my people either.” He rested his forehead on the handle of his cane. He was caught in a difficult position. It was wrong to go to war in order to steal someone else’s resources. Gyllene had done nothing to harm his country, but he saw the necessity of the invasion. “You are telling me that conquering an innocent country is the only way to preserve my people?” He asked, hoping for another option. He knew as well as she did that there wasn’t one. He trusted his mother, as she had never asked him to do anything that was not for the good of himself or his country in the past. She wouldn’t ask for such a dire solution if she had been able to think of another, and now that he was pressed…he could not either. The former Queen nodded.

“I’m sorry. I know that you are a peaceful man, but you have a duty to your people. Your responsibility was given to you by an accident of birth, but you cannot forsake it.” She reminded him. He looked more crumpled and crippled than usual. His body was twisted in on itself in his chair as though he wanted to disappear inside it. He sighed audibly as if the wheels in his head had stopped turning and a decision had been made.

“Very well.” He stood up slowly, spilling his tea onto the patterned and valuable rug as he rose. “How much longer until we can mobilize the army?”

“Another week or two and we will be ready. We are only waiting for an army of mercenaries that are headed here by sea. I used most of what was left of our wealth to hire them.” She paused at his stricken face, but he could not rage at her in front of the servant girl kneeling at his feet cleaning the broken cup. “We will not be able to conquer Gyllene with a few farmers armed with rakes.” She said with a glance out the window, luring him with her gaze to look beyond it. Their castle over-looked Twyle’s tiny inlet of the sea. Nature had been unkind to their kingdom in that regard too. High mountains, their own borders, and jagged underwater rocks limited their access to the sea to a small bay. While it was beautiful, it was utterly fished out. It taunted them by giving them a glimpse of the sea’s bounty, while withholding the sweetness. Like smelling a rich dessert and then removing it before you can take a bite. But. If they could capture Gyllene, they could enjoy the fruits of the sea as well.

Prince Rearden followed his mother’s gaze to the window as she had intended. He retrieved his cane and walked in his hobbling gait, toward the view. He gripped the worn stone sill and looked out at the tiny patch of sparkling gray/blue water. It frothed and churned in frustration at being kept penned in by rocks and buffeted by wind. He felt very much like that little tortured piece of ocean. It was so grey and so cramped and so angry. Once his land had been prosperous. All that they did not have, they could readily buy with their wealth of ore and bounty of coal. Settlers came to farm their land and work the mines despite its harsh nature, because of the great wealth of the little Kingdom. Artisans journeyed to their kingdom to alter and enhance their metals and gems. Merchants traveled from far and wide to tempt the people with their exotic merchandise…

But those days were gone. He had never even known them. All he knew of prosperity came from the stories told by his father and grandfather. Even his father had mostly been retelling the stories Rearden’s grandfather and great grandfather had told him. Now the veins of ore were just chasms in the rock, and the mines were nearly empty and sparse with workers. Jagged rocks and windswept stone were what penned in the little inlet of angry water that yearned to boil over and sweep across the land, incurring new territories and becoming more important as it moved. He was held just as fast by his barren land which tightened around him like a noose, choking what little life was left in him…out. It was time for him to spill over and pour across new lands like water, embracing the freedom and bringing his land the fresh resources it needed. He turned to his mother.

“Then we have little time to finish readying the men on our end. We must be ready to use our hired corsairs to their greatest benefit…and to their detriment. They are paid, and they will not fight with the passion of men who fight for their country. They will form our first ranks. Our men must be taught how to position the professional fighters to allow them to exercise their strengths – their expendability. Once they fall, our men must be ready and schooled as to how to take over for them. This will be exceedingly ugly.” Rearden had genuine regret in his voice, but it was giving way to determination. His mother still looked at him with confidence. She could tell that the intelligent and calculating part of his brain had just blazoned to life, over-taking the more emotional part that had been recently inflamed by his father’s passing. She comforted herself that although she had just forced her son to go to war…his initial reluctance must be more due to heightened emotions and sentimentality. The time to grieve had passed. He was refocused.

While the fever had weakened her son’s body, it had not weakened his mind. Although, it had altered it. He was now prone to intense swings of mood and feeling. Bouts of depression and sentimentality were sometimes followed by periods of intense creativity or bursts of analytical intelligence. His financial mind was sometimes so acute that it was probably only his efforts which had kept them wealthy enough to be able to go to war, rather than being already destitute. He had left the window and was at the war table she had set up in the corner of the study. He leaned against it with his hip, moving little clay troops around on the map vigorously. She recognized the manic nature of his motions. It was the strange fevered energy that he had retained after his prolonged illness.

If only people were not so squeamish about physical deformity being linked to mental ineptitude. Her son had not remained unwed simply because his father had wished to keep him for the lost princess of Gyllene. No. He had made several overtures to other neighboring kingdoms and been refused. People seemed to assume that a crippled body was a crippled mind and like would produce like. No ruler wanted to espouse their daughter to a mental inferior who would give her crippled children. It did no good to explain that he had been born strong and healthy and that an outside illness had caused the limp and the slouched posture. Her husband’s hope had always been that the shame of the rumors that swirled around the Gyllene line were true. Not, of course, that they were demons…but that they suffered some sort of terrible albinism or skin condition which forced them to be seen only at night. In such a case, their very normal kingdom, and even their crippled son, would be an asset.

It would have been better if they could have offered Gyllene their eldest daughter to wed the crown prince. Their daughter was lovely enough, and suffered no medical problems what so ever. But when she reached the age of 24 and was still unwed, her husband had been forced to face reality and stop waiting for the heirs to return. Another year, and they wouldn’t be able to marry her off at all! They had married her with a lie about her age and all had been well. The next year they had married off the other daughter, with a similar lie in order to prevent them from being twins.

Even if those wretched heirs did come back, two of her children were married, and the one who was not – they most likely would not take. She watched him sorting and moving the pieces. Already the layout was far better than the one that the commanders had initially placed this morning. Things would be much smoother with her son in charge. Unlike his commanders, he might actually stand a good chance of winning.

Clothilde almost groaned out loud. Why was he still following her? He was the bear she had mistakenly fed like a stray cat, and now he wouldn’t leave. She was on her way to Gyllene now and couldn’t afford any delays. She had to replace out what was happening to Gilda and why her future had disappeared. Gilda was not the daughter she had borne, but she was the daughter she had raised. She could not endure being blind to the fate of her little creation. She looked up at the door, but it was not him coming in. Another grizzled peasant man was coming in, and letting the door swing shut behind him.

He was still outside, deciding if he was going to come in or not. She rather hoped he didn’t. He’d burned down the last Inn she had agreed to share with him, and she didn’t doubt now that he would try something so desperate again. Why did he not understand how pointless it was for him to strike out at her? She should know by now that the foolish man could not be taught. The evidence of his intractability was mounting. More than anyone he knew the price that harming her carried.

He slunk in through the door looking somehow furious and chagrinned at the same time. Dark circles framed his eyes, and gave him a tortured look. Other patrons slid out of his way instinctively. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, and spare, but there was an unwholesome gleam of violence to him that made them step back. His gaze slid across the poorly lit room toward hers. She nodded her assent with a sigh. He sat down across from her.

“How did you survive it? I set the fire from all four corners of the Inn. It should have gone up like a tinder box.” He asked, his eyes glowing a bit in the low light. He looked utterly manic. Clothilde shook her head.

“Oh it did, and it would have burned to ash, killing every person inside…had one of them not been a witch.” She said, her voice terse and angry. He raised an eyebrow.

“I thought burning was the preferred method of dealing with witches?” He asked. Clothilde’s eyes narrowed to slits in frustration.

“You really don’t listen when women talk do you? Witches are of the earth, it is where our power comes from. None of the five elements can harm us! They will all listen to my will if I have enough strength. I stopped the fire, and choked it out before it could harm a single person in that Inn. You added no more murders to your name, least of all mine.” She informed him, speaking over the increasing volume of the growling snapping sound in his throat. Several other patrons turned to look anyway. He ceased to make the sound with a sharp exhale. No need to alarm any more innocents at this juncture.

“I am glad you saved the peasants…I did regret their involvement. I am not particularly happy however, that you survived unscathed.” He said with vehemence. She smiled.

“Tsk Tsk.” Clothilde made an infuriating clucking noise with her tongue. “Tell me you wish me dead, and I just might not order any dinner for you.” She said as she waved over the girl by the bar. The young woman had her hair wound in a dirty rag but a flaxen tendril or two snuck out. It made Clothilde wince internally.

“I’d like the shepherd’s pie please…but nothing for my friend. He is not hungry.” Clothilde said as she slid a smooth pebble into the girl’s hand. She hoped this would work. Men usually saw money, would the woman? The girl closed her fist around it tightly with a furtive glance as if she had seen a lot of money…and feared who else might have seen her take the large shiny gold piece.

“Yes Ma’am. If you are sure you wouldn’t like anything else?” She looked again at the beautiful pure gold coin she held. “Will you be wanting change? Or is this for a room an breakfast as well?” She asked slowly. Would the older woman realize that she was being cheated? Such a coin could buy more than a room and breakfast! But Clothilde did not see what the girl saw, so she nodded slightly.

“Yes, a private room…wine, the shepherd’s pie, and breakfast.” She said, also slowly…watching the girl’s eyes. The girl with the yellow hair nodded happily and pocketed the ‘coin’. She’d give the innkeeper his portion from the other money she had made, and would keep this for herself. He’d never know she had had such a foolish and generous customer.

“You weren’t even giving her real money – you could have gotten something for me.” King Grigor said in a spiteful voice. The glamour only worked on the person it was aimed at, Grigor saw the stone for what it was, and if the girl tried to give the ‘coin’ to the innkeeper, he would as well.

“Don’t try to kill me tonight, and I might feed you tomorrow.” Clothilde teased with a slight smile. If she trained the stray, he might be useful. He gnashed his teeth.

“I won’t promise anything.” He said bitterly. His clenched jaw made it clear how much he hated being controlled by her. Conversely, she was almost enjoying it. Clothilde shook her head slowly.

“I wouldn’t care if you did. You’ve proven yourself to be particularly unskilled at the keeping of promises.” She drew a thin chain out of her shirt. On the chain hung a signet ring that had hung there for over 50 years. It was the engagement ring he had given her when she was just a stupid girl of 15. It hung between her breasts against her heart, reminding her every minute of why she burned with hatred. He looked at it with disgust.

“What do you want, Clothilde?” He demanded. He wished she would put the ring away. Whatever feeling it gave him was not pleasant…it wasn’t exactly shame, regret, anger, or…he just didn’t wish to feel it any longer. Clothilde slid the ring and chain back under her blouse.

“I want to protect Gilda and Freyr, and to see them safely returned home. I believe them to be in danger.” He looked at her in surprise.

“Home to the village? Or home to?” He asked. She nodded, and when she spoke, her voice was rising to a quaver.

“Home to Gyllene. I will be renting a horse tomorrow. I plan to get there as quickly as I can. Something terrible is happening.” He was unnerved. She was rarely rattled. The last time he had seen her visibly upset, he had been on the wrong end of a curse.

“How do you know that something is happening?” He asked. “You do not see visions of the future.” He was slightly curious. She put her face in her hands. Why was she telling him any of this? It was as if their hate bound them together more intimately than love.

“I don’t in general. But I did have one, about Gilda, and tangentially about Freyr. But it is gone now…not altered – completely gone as if she has no future. The future that I saw will now never be, and I must know why.” She said, unable to hide the sadness in her voice.

“But what is it that you want from me?” He asked. Clothilde raised an eyebrow. He was the one who was following her, why should he think she wanted anything from him?

“Only to be left alone. Unless you are going to give me what I have always desired from you?” She asked. She’d only ever wanted his admission of guilt, regret and apology. If he would just admit that it had all been HIS fault, if he admitted that HE was the monster…he most likely wouldn’t be anymore. Poor man. That was unfortunately something she knew he would never do. He furrowed his brow.

“Very well. I will give you something. It is not what you want, but perhaps it will change things. Even getting worse would be better than this intolerable limbo. It is agony to be a man and yet not be a man.” Clothilde met his eyes.

“What could you possibly give me that would change anything, if it is not the thing that I want?” She asked. He rubbed his forehead.

“The truth. The truth about one thing that I kept secret these last fifty three years.” He said slowly, hoping to see the spark of interest in her eyes. He didn’t.

“Well?” She demanded.

“Just…that your daughter, whom I told you was dead…is not.” He said quietly. He paused. “Fairlight is alive.” Her expression was blank, as if it had been carved from stone. His eyes searched for any hint of emotion or reaction, but he found none. Her fingers were the only things moving as they tore long gashes in the surface of the wooden table, she didn’t even blink as the splinters bit into her hands. He did not understand this strange display. He expected to be instantly turned into a worm, or something, anything…but she was as still and as unblinking as the dead. Out of the corners of his eyes he noticed something strange. All four walls of the Inn had simultaneously begun blackening. Smoke began to leak out of the corners. Oh dear God! They were burning from the inside out.

The King of Gyllene was sitting uncomfortably on his throne. He was feverish and so had asked for the pelts which usually covered the cold stone chair to be removed. Now he was sitting on a throne hewn from solid rock with no cushion, which was not ideal. He was stiff and sore from being there for most of the night. The King looked up as his sister came in through the arched stone doorway at the end of the hall. Her pale hair was dusted with the thick snow that fell outside. The color of it was so light that it was hard to discern what was hair and what was snowflakes. He smiled as she came toward him.

It was inconceivable to him that she had only been here a year. He felt such an inexplicably strong bond with her that he could almost imagine they had been raised together. He had been a desperately lonely person…and her lack of fear of him had helped. Everyone he had ever known, aside from his father, had been afraid of him. All of his wives, his mother, and to some extent his own children, had kept him at arm’s length. It was the kind of intolerable loneliness that festered in his chest like a black mold, and threatened to engulf his entire insides.

His sister did not shrink from him at all, not in either form. Her complete and total acceptance of his nature had created an indelible connection that could not be torn. He trusted her and her council completely. At this moment however, her appearance disturbed, rather than comforted him. She looked distressed. He gestured for her to sit beside him, on the Queen’s throne beneath the flying bird. He was already seated beneath a large golden wreath.

She came toward him silently, her clothes steaming in the warm air. No one questioned her ability to be outside with no winter coverings, everyone in his employ had long since learned that she was a witch. The rumors that the King of Gyllene once more kept a witch were all over the Kingdom, perhaps even the surrounding territories. She sat down on the covered throne and brushed the wet flakes off of her long cobalt blue dress. The flakes were like little white stars on a velvet night sky.

“Are you upset?” He asked with some concern. She nodded.

“I have had an unfortunate vision.” She said quietly. She did not want the servants to overhear.

“Of what?” He asked.

“Twyle is massing an army near your border. Ordinarily you would defeat them easily, but they have hired mercenaries to fight alongside them.” She said just as quietly. He sighed loudly, it was an inconvenience, but it was not too alarming.

“My armies can defeat Twyle, even with what little assistance they could afford to hire.” He said. She shook her head, biting her lip as if unwilling to let the words escape.

“In Spring, yes. But your armies will have great difficulty getting to the border in this winter weather. The troops that you currently have deployed to guard it, are insufficient. They would be defeated after much loss of life.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes looked sad. She had seen the masses of dead men, corpses piled upon corpses, blackened with fire-it would happen, all she could change was why. He chewed his lip.

“Surely the armies of Twyle would have an equally hard time getting across my lands in order to defeat me? If my own men cannot make it through the mountains in time to join the fight, then their armies will not be able to penetrate this far in order to take the Keep.” This was logical, and therefor accurate to his mind.

“That much is true, but they do not intend to come here. They intend to take your lands to the south while we struggle to get soldiers to them. They want the farms and the villages. Twyle has no intention of marching on the Keep until spring, but by then they will have controlled your southern lands for several months. They will enslave and conscript your own people from the Summerland, before they turn to march on the north.” She lowered her voice further as a servant approached them. “You will have to act before then. We do not have much time.” Fairlight murmured under her breath as she accepted a glass of warmed milk from the young man. The servant bowed deeply and backed away. The King had made no secret of what she was, and all of the household staff showed her both respect and fear.

“What are you suggesting that I do?” The King of Gyllene asked with a look toward his sister. She clearly had a plan, she was just not sharing it. That meant that it was something she did not think he would like.

“You have several options of course. One is peaceable, but will cause pain and is unlikely to work. The other is violent, but will not spill a drop of your people’s blood, and it has worked before. The third option of course is to hurry your armies through a completely snow entrenched pass, costing many of their lives, and then to meet the army head on while your soldiers are spent and frostbitten. Many on both sides will die, but that is not the main problem with the obvious choice.” She was still speaking in riddles. This was the most infuriating thing about women, and witches. They did not say what they meant. She must be concerned about witnesses to the discussion of witchcraft. He could think of no other reasons for her vague insinuations. He motioned for his servants to quit the room.

“Leave us at once.” He said as he rose from his throne. The assembled servants did not question his request, they turned and began to leave immediately. He walked to the center of the Hall. A large table in the center of the room had a map lacquered to its surface. A drawer underneath held a collection of carved wooden figures. He waited to open the drawer until all the servants had left. He did not want gossip about a war sweeping his kingdom. The last servant walked through the archway and shut the door behind him.

“When do they arrive at our borders?” He asked. She looked at the map on the board.

“They will leave their own land in one week, they will arrive at our border in two. Likely one of your scouts is already attempting to reach the castle to warn you, but they will be too late.” She laid a series of wooden discs on the map.

“Why do you suggest that we do not meet them in a fair fight?” He asked. Fairlight dumped a handful of discs onto the board to the left of Gyllene. Twyle was to their right. He sighed.

“Ahhh.” He said understanding. His country was always in a state of limbo, its wealth desired by everyone who framed it. But none of the surrounding Kingdoms were strong enough to overtake him on their own. There was also the smallest portion of residual fear surrounding what had happened to the last invading army. His armies would defeat Twyle, but at great cost to his own men. Once Twyle was defeated, and before he could regroup his men and return to full strength, the Kingdom of Vale would invade from the other side. They would be eager to take advantage of his weakened state.

“If I send my armies to the south to defeat Twyle, I will succeed, but I will lose my Kingdom. They’re all just waiting for someone else to take the risk.” His hand tightened into a fist. “Finally one of them got a bit of courage, and the country that remains after I crush the first, will reap the benefit.” He looked at the discs that represented his army, spread from one end of his kingdom to the other, the speed of his breath increased with his anger. Fairlight nodded.

“Add your internal dissention, and your situation is tenuous at best.” She added red pegs to the Duchy of Aliksander. He looked at them.

“The Duke of Aliksander will betray me?” She nodded.

“He already has. When you announced that your heirs were returning, and asked that they be watched for and aided…he sent out his sons, but not to aid them. I do not know precisely why they were sent out, but they are looking for your children, and they are armed with pistols.” She replied. He smacked his hand down on the red pegs on the table, crushing them beneath his clenched fist. The Duke had five sons, and all of them were relatively skilled hunters. His actions had shaken the table, and the discs fell haphazardly off the edges and onto the floor.

“Then I will have them all hanged. They will be executed before the war begins. I cannot have traitors leading my front lines.” He rubbed his aching forehead with his fist. Aliksander was closest to the border that would be breached. The very Stronghold that his army would be defending was helmed by a traitor.

“What are you not telling me about your solutions for the border situation? What have you seen?” He asked. Fairlight sighed.

“They are cruel…which is why they are effective. You could send a small group of men on your most agile and sturdy horses to the border with a message for the King of Twyle. Offer him Freya’s hand in marriage. If he accepts, you will avoid war with one Kingdom. If he does not accept, then you will need to remind the world why you are called The Demon King.” She gave a glance to the white landscape outside the window. “I see a field covered in the bodies of men, they are all in the same uniform. I do not know if they are Vale’s, or Twyle’s, but they are dead, and without a scratch on them. A fire is set, ready to burn the bodies before the warmth of summer rots the corpses.” She looked at the floor. She did not wish to become her mother, but the future could not be changed, and she knew of no one else who could accomplish such a feat. Apparently, she was going to kill thousands of men. It was strange to look into your future and discover that you were a terrible human being. The King looked at her in surprise.

“Can you even do that? I thought your talents were only those of a Seer?” He asked. If it was an option, he was going to consider it. Fairlight set down her glass and sighed.

“It does not take very much talent in order to take life. It takes far more to create it or preserve it. I hope that I am wrong, but if it becomes necessary, I can do this for you.” She said honestly. He nodded briskly. So it would be then. The King took a page of costly vellum from inside the drawer, along with a quill and a bottle of rare red ink. It was the color used by his lineage. He wrote out a polite and diplomatic offer of marriage, complete with a beneficial alliance, and a costly dowry. He gave it to her.

“You think this will change the mind of the new King of Twyle?” He asked. He knew that Freya did not wish to marry the crippled King, but they had been engaged at her birth. It was not unreasonable to expect his daughter to perform this service for the good of her country. It was the sacrifice that all royalty made. Their lives were not their own and they should not expect it to be any different. This was no great transgression for a father to make, let alone for a King. Fairlight nodded.

“I believe so. I had a vision of Freya in a wedding dress, crying. I can only assume this was the reason.” She said, folding it for him and sealing it with red wax. He had not seen his daughter since she was a small child, and his welcome home gift to her would be killing her only friend and breaking her heart. Kingship was cruel. Still, it could not be denied that one person’s unhappiness was less important than many thousands of lives. This was the right thing to do. As a father he had been responsible for three lives, but he had neglected that duty many times over in order to do what was right for the thousands who called him King.

Fairlight looked at the light creeping up around the edge of the sky through the window.

“You should go to bed, you are still ill and require rest. I will get this to a messenger, and I will have an order of execution sent to the Duchy of the Aliksanders.” She turned him toward the door to the hallway leading to his chambers. He regretted the need to execute his former friends, especially without proof. He trusted his sister’s visions, but they were pictures only, and left so much to interpretation. However, in a time of turmoil and war, treason could not be punished with a slap on the wrist.

“Thank you Fairlight.” He said tightly as he stumbled toward his room. Having a Seer was like replaceing out you had been born blind, but upon being given the gift of sight, resenting it, and replaceing that you preferred the darkness.