“I would have you think what makes Warlord Tharne prepare for war. He was never rash. Something stirs across the sea in Drogath, and I doubt it’s the gossip of a healer. You taught me long ago that wars seldom begin over what men claim.”
“Then what do you think stirs them, Tavish?”
“A death, perhaps. A crown passed too soon. A secret no one dares speak aloud.”
The king was silent for a long while. The fire popped, the storm moaned in the flue, and for the first time that night, the king’s shoulders seemed to carry the weight of more than his armor.
“She can change that,” the king said quietly. “No more men buried. No more blood in the fields. If she can keep death itself at bay, then Scotara will never kneel.”
Tavish’s reply came softly. “Or never rest.”
The king turned a sharp glare on Tavish. “Scotara rests because I don’t. I do more than is necessary to protect the kingdom even if it isn’t always well accepted or appreciated, or if all do not feel the benefits. Scotara isn’t a dreamland where all things are perfect. Life is harsh and a ruler often needs to make harsh decisions for the betterment and safety of the kingdom. Some suffer from it. Some benefit. But in the end, it is the kingdom that counts, for if it doesn’t survive then all will suffer.”
Tavish understood the wisdom of the king’s words. There was a time the Kingdom of Scotara suffered a great war. If it hadn’t been for the ruling king at the time, the present king’s grandfather, the kingdom would not be free. They would be an oppressed people with little freedom. Scotara’s kings since then have sworn never to allow such dark times to take hold again.
“Enough counsel for one night,” the king ordered. “Have the men double the watch. Tharne’s spy will not cross my gates unseen. And, Tavish, I have yet to hear from the spies we have in Drogath these many months. Make contact with them and see what can be learned. Promise them a hefty sum for remaining faithful and remind them what fate awaits if they choose otherwise… their heads on a spike.”
Tavish knew it was no false warning. He had seen such orders carried out, heads left on spikes until nothing was left of them, no more than memory and the fear those images left behind.
Tavish inclined his head. “As you wish, my king.”
The king’s expression hardened as he looked at the rain-smeared window, to the darkness beyond. “If the gods grant me no protection, then I will make my own.”
Tavish said nothing. He knew that look in his king’s eyes, a glint not of faith but of obsession, the kind that built kingdoms… and destroyed them.
Chapter Two
Village of Birkfell
Leighfeld Region
Home of the Healers
* * *
Elara woke with a start.
For a moment she lay still, her breath shallow, the wool blanket twisted around her legs. The room was dim, the hearth low, its embers pulsing a dull orange glow, painting the walls in uneven light. She listened, her heart quickening, her senses sharp, but heard nothing except the faint hiss of cooling ash.
Then, as she began to think she’d dreamt it, the sound came again.
Distant. Faint. A rhythmic pounding that might have been thunder, except it was too steady, too deliberate.
Drums.
She sat up, her pulse matching the beat as she murmured, “Nay, please. It cannot be.”
Then, as quickly as it came, the sound was gone, swallowed by silence so complete, it made the hairs at the back of her neck rise.
She drew a breath, steadying herself. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard, or dreamt, something that wasn’t there. And each time, what she’d heard had come to pass. A fever spreading through the village. A storm that flattened the western fields. A traveler found dead along the road. She’d spoken of it to no one. To be different was one thing but to be thought marked by the sins of Driochmor was another.
She pushed the thought aside and swung her legs from the bed, her feet touching the cold stone floor. The chill sent a shudder through her, though it helped clear her head.
She hurried on her boots and into her brown wool skirt and pale green, linen blouse, and fastened her leather belt around her waist, though not before attaching her collection pouch to it.
“Like a healer with her healing pouch, an herb-scribe never goes anywhere without her collection pouch.”
Elara smiled softly, recalling her words to the elderly Maelis when she first arrived at Birkfell.